Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You live in a world of endless night.

You are a monster born out of a legend. When a mortal dies with a soul weighted down by regret and earthly passions, her ghost lingers on as a tormented creature. Eventually, grief consumes this soul, and it becomes a monster. Plagued by a hunger for the souls of others, these Hollows may eventually turn on each other; and from their great interdevouring are born the greater horrors of the dead, which flee the abhorrent sun into a world of their own making.

In a world of endless silver sands, under a starless night and a laughing moon, the greater dead eke out a life of eternal hunger, ever feasting upon each other. For centuries, all you knew was this hunger and the howling of the thousand souls within you. To even remain a single person - to keep your identity, your sense of self - took all your effort and resolve. It took more than this. It took consuming the souls of others just as powerful and tormented as you were; you sew together the cracks in your being with the spiritual energies of countless others.

If ever you failed, if ever you faltered in your feast, you would fall back; your sense of self would be torn apart by the howling storm of souls within you. You had to kill. You had to live.

And then… A man came to you, a man of a kind that should have by all rights killed you. He saw in you a glimmer of potential, however dim, and showed you how to break free of your chains. For ages you had worn a mask to hide your pain and self-loathing; but he showed you how to break that mask and reveal to the world a face full of certainty and purpose.

And when he told you of his quest to claim the throne of God in the skies, you bent the knee and swore loyalty to him.

The hunger was gone. And without it...

...what was left of you?

 ***


The Hollow World, like its inhabitants, has an endless hunger. It gnaws at those who wander its sands and sleep under its sky. In a desert where nothing ever changes, it's so easy to get lost.

At least the sand doesn't cling to your pants.

You clutch your compass tighter. As long as you have it, you can always make it back to Las Noches. To something in this nothing.

For now, you scout. It's a pointless duty, and one you were never commanded to do, but it's better than lazing about. Even if it's hardly less boring, it feels right.

You stop and look around, brown eyes wide behind your mask. The moon is only half-full. It's evening. There's hardly a breeze.

Was it nothing?

You draw Polilla. You could have sworn-

Sand tumbles down the dunes, and this time you're sure. Something's moving. Underground.

You take to the sky and stand there instead. You're not going to let yourself be food.

One of the dunes moves. A white horn bursts through the side, followed by one grey leg. Then another. And another.

That's... a lot of legs, you think, as the beast shakes off the sand that had covered it. Now that it isn't masquerading as a dune, you can see it fully. It looks like a horned spider. With, somehow, too many limbs, and a hollow hole punched horizontally through its abdomen.

It's weak, you decide. Just a regular hollow, not so hungry as to need more than the air and sand of Hueco Mundo.

You ready Polilla and prepare to dive.

"Hello!" it rumbles, and you pause.

Hello?

"I have slept long. What are you?"

You are Nemo Elcorbuzier, Arrancar #48 in service to Sosuke Aizen.

The beast hums contemplatively. It sounds like an earthquake.

"Never heard of him," it shouts up at you.

You don't sputter, but it's a close thing. Aizen's ruled Las Noches for... well you're not sure, really, but quite a while.

"A ruler? Now that's a rare thing," the spider replies. "Come down here, we can hardly have a conversation shouting at each other."

You descend cautiously.

"You are a small morsel, aren't you?" it asks. "Surely you can't be that fast with legs that short."

You're not sure if you want to be offended or wary of the implication. You're faster than it, you're sure.

"Pah, maybe in a sprint," it scoffs. "But over a journey I think my legs will hold up better. I can rest some while others walk, and you cannot, biped."

You're skeptical.

"A proof then. Let me carry you to this lord of yours, and see if the leaving was faster than the return."

And why should you trust it?

"We are both Hollow, you and I, and yet it is not our bellies that are empty," it answers. "Now will you let me aid you on your journey and see this Las Noches?"

...Fine.

You climb into the abdomen of the beast. Now that you're here, you can see what look like seats carved into the dark chitin of the hole. Little more that divots, filled with white sand, but they are reassuring and you settle down into one.

And it is well that you did, because the beast is not gentle as it moves. However, despite the bruising your backside has suffered, you begin to see the pillars of Las Noches pass by far sooner than you'd expected.

The spider stops before the great gates. They're unmanned, as usual. No threats exist to Las Noches in Hueco Mundo. You're alone.

You disembark from the beast. It should hide, under the dunes. Another arrancar might think it good prey. You should give it that much advice, as thanks.

"Thank you, small thing," it rumbles. "It is good to be of use once again."

***

You are Nemo Elcorbuzier, Arrancar of Las Noches, servant of Lord Aizen, and you are reaching the end of a journey.

Your feet hit the silvery sands of the Hueco Mundo, and you feel yielding under you. A familiar sensation so absent in the sun-lit world. You turn and wave your hand as a goodbye, but already the great spider that carried you so far is scurrying away, somewhere away from the ever-present threat radiated by the walls of the fortress.

Las Noches stands before you, its walls so tall as to swallow the sky. It is a construct so vast it never registered to you as a building; rather it is a feature of the landscape, a mountain made by hand. Hands like yours.

You pass the great gates and flinch behind your mask. The sudden shift from endless night to endless day is jarring; you see blue skies above your heads, clouds even, and you know they are false but your body believes their lie. You are not fond of the day.

They say the dome of Las Noches has its very own sky because the sun is Lord Aizen’s eye; that wherever fall its rays Aizen can see. It is always day in Las Noches because there is no respite from his gaze.

Or perhaps it’s just Aaroniero messing with the underlings’ minds.

The fortress is far too vast for convenience - far bigger than warrants the number of personnel in Aizen’s army. It takes you hours to reach your destination, at which point you really wish you could have invited the spider Hollow into the walls. Eventually you arrive at a wide cylindrical building of grey-white stone, windows pierced at seemingly random intervals through its walls by some demented architect.

Enough with walking. You pause below the wall, assessing the height to the window you want to reach; it has a scarlet scarf blowing lightly in the wind, put there by you weeks ago as a reminder. You crouch, tensing your body, and kick the ground.

You don’t fly - but you jump good. You hit the walls a dozen yards or so up, and immediately start running. Your cloak billows behind you, parting in two like great moth wings. You start losing your footing and falling back. You push yourself harder in response, a swift kick letting you cross another ten yards in one moment. To any onlooker you would appear to have simply teleported from one spot to the next.

You paddle a little on the last few yards, starting to lose your ground, but you reach the window in time. Your hand darts out and you grab the ledge, then pull yourself up. You land in the room a little less gracefully than you’d hoped, and give a quick and nervous look around to check that nobody saw it.

You’re alone in the room, of course - this is Las Noches, density one Arrancar per square mile at best. Your improvised bedroom-apartment is all yours with no one to contest it, but by the same token there is no one else to help you put it together. You had to grab items where you found them… sometimes with a little sleight of hand. But you’re happy enough with your little nest. The bed is made up of layers and layers of silk stolen from the nest of some kind of caterpillar-Hollow, and the furniture varies between pleasantly-shaped rocks found in the desert and the odd colored squares typical of Las Noches’ architecture. Your curtains, you stole from the human world in one of your rare ventures out.

You take off your wing-cloak and hang it on a nail you hammered by hand into the wall. Then you sit on a rock that’s more a suggestion of chair than anything, and brush the silver sand from your uniform.

In fact there is entirely too much of the damned stuff. Your feet whisper faintly with every motion. Sighing, you pull off your boots and shake them, letting the silvery grains fall out onto the ground until they’re empty.

Aw, now there’s sand on your floor. How will you ever get it out? You don’t have a broom. You’re not sure anyone has a broom in the entirety of Las Noches; it seems a bit too mundane for the grand designs of the Espada.

You hear a faint giggle, and your head snaps in the direction of the sound.

“Oops, I’ve been made,” says a feminine voice, and the intruder steps out from behind a curtain. It's Esmeralda, a slender Arrancar with short, dark hair and a tired look, her mask covering half her face. How long was she here?

“Oh, I saw your brave attempt at climbing.”

You let your head droop, crestfallen, and she giggles again.

“Don’t worry. I certainly wouldn’t have managed to even reach the window if I'd tried that, so you're already doing better than I am. You’ll get the knack of it in time, I’m sure.”

You sigh again. You appreciate her reassurance, but you’ve always been terrible at the raw physical aspect of being an Arrancar. Your Sonido in human form is just shameful.

But really, that’s besides the point. She’s just trying to distract you from the obvious question, that being what she was doing in your room when you weren’t there! You give her a suspicious look, frowning.

“Oh, don’t be silly. You know how long it takes to get there from the gates. Someone spotted you and told me, and I knew you’d come here, so I came to wait for you.”

Well, it’s not like you don’t appreciate the company after all these days in the desert. The loneliness is rather consuming. You give her a fond smile, stand up from your rock and take off the scabbard at your waist, laying it on a table… Is that a table? You don’t remember if you decided it would be a table, a nightstand or a chair.

Look, it’s a featureless white square frame. It could be anything. You have to use your imagination.

“I wouldn’t get settled back in so soon, actually,” Esmeralda says with a contrite look. “I didn’t come here just to say hello - I actually have orders.”

Oh, goodie. You can’t even catch some rest, it seems.

“Look, you know how it is. Ever since Lord Aizen came back it’s been hectic. Well, he hasn’t been, obviously, he’s just always so… stoic and calm, like he isn’t really doing anything. But around him everything is in a rush. I think the Espada are running out of Arrancars that are, uh…”

Disposable. You’d bet they still have their own Fraccion longing about not doing anything much, but they “can’t spare them.” So the work gets foisted on the unbound like you.

“Don’t be like that. We all do what we can for Lord Aizen and the Hollows as a whole.”

You shrug noncommittally. Your thoughts on the matter are complicated.

“Be that as it may, we have several orders from various Espadas, and they’re all very insistent that I grab the first Arrancar to step through the gates and throw their task at them as a priority over the rest.”

And here you thought she liked you.

“Don’t look so glum, it also was nice to chat! Anyway, Granz wants to talk to someone about catching a deserter who ran off into the desert with, I quote, ‘valuable scientific data.’ Aaroniero wants someone to… go hunt a Hollow? I can’t see why we’d do that anymore, but whatever. Oh, and…” She swallows nervously. “...King Barragan needs a scout to check on some rumors he’s heard? And they all assure me that this is very important business, but apparently not important enough to send one of their Fraccions. Well, that’s not fair, Aaroniero has no Fraccion.” She leans conspiratorially towards you. “I think he ate the last ones they gave him.”

You breath sharply, something like a laugh that died on takeoff. Esmeralda shakes her head.

“Honestly, I think they’re just bored and like seeing us scurry around at their beck and call. Anyway, seeing as you can’t be in three places at once, you should go see one of them and when the others complain I’ll say that the other had already snatched you before I could tell you about their so-much-more-important business.”

Sounds like a plan to you. You’ll go meet...

[ ]Szayelaporro Granz, the mad scientist, who wants you to find a deserter with stolen scientific data.
[ ]Aaroniero Arruruerie, the cannibal Gillian, who wants you to hunt down a Hollow of particular interest to him.
[X]Barragan Luisenbarn, the deposed king, who wants you to investigate rumors concerning a lost item.

Chapter Text

II. The Lost Crown

It would be unwise to ignore the requests of a king, you know this. You pick your sword again and hook it at your waist, resigning yourself to further service.

“It’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Esmeralda says encouragingly. “It can’t be that important if he isn’t sending his Fraccion, and if it’s not that important it can’t be too dangerous.”

You smile weakly and give her a nod, although you’re not sure how accurate her reassurance is. You pick up your coat again and walk up to the window, looking down at the sand below…

...you’ll try this some other day. You wisely opt to take the stairs, waving a goodbye to Esmeralda which she returns.

“Stay safe!”

Barragan’s hall is built to inspire awe.

It harkens to the night of Hueco Mundo, lost when the invaders ordered a dome built over Las Noches. Great walls of black stone rise around you, so far apart as to make every corridor seem like a hall of its own. In the ceiling, diamond-shaped holes stream in faint sunlight, creating the illusion of stars.

Your steps reverberate across the stone corridor, and are met with echoing sounds. From the dark ahead comes a tall and slender man, blond hair flowing past his shoulders. Almost his entire face is covered by his mask, even his eyes featureless yellow glows; only his mouth and cheeks show. In this perhaps you could feel kinship; Arrancars with almost-intact masks are often seen as incomplete, imperfect, and this is something you both share.

But he is Findor, and nobody likes Findor.

“The King will see you now,” he says with a curt nod, then turns his back and motions for you to follow him.

The closer you get to the center of the building, the faster your heart beats. Your shoulders tremble slightly as you feel the waxing tide of a godlike reiatsu, one of the strongest you’ve ever felt.

Findor pushes open two great doors and you enter the room that could have been called a throne room, if Barragan still ruled. The pressure is most intense here, a grasping sensation on your bones, a push on your shoulders, whispering to you - 'Kneel.' At the far wall stands a stone chair, blocky and featureless, and in that chair an old man, brown skin weathered by the pretense of age, thick white moustache and eyebrows dominating his sharp-angled face. The man rests on his elbow, a picture of ennui, and as you come in he barely grants you a look.

Findor kneels in front of his master, and you quickly do the same.

“Majesty, you ordered for the first Arrancar to come back to Las Noches to be brought before you. She is here to await your orders.”

Barragan furrows his eyebrows, looking you over, and you feel the pressure of his power intensifies as he gauges you - and then recede as he deems you of too little note to bother cowing.

“Such a trifle you are,” he says, his voice old and deep. “A moth? More like a mayfly. I do not remember ever seeing you before.”

He has, several times in fact, but you think it careful not to mention this aloud.

“Did you ever come to Las Noches? Before this, I mean, when the skies were my roof?”

You did, a few times. You never enjoyed it much; the presence of the King of Hueco Mundo was overbearing, his intent malignant, his servants fanatical. You didn't long. These were days of captivity in freedom: you had the sky to yourself, then, you were great and fast, a weightless winged thing of shadows and carapace, but a prisoner to your own hunger, to the fear of falling back. When you came to Barragan’s court and mingled with his servants, you feared what you saw, and feared what you might become if you stayed too long.

“You saw its glory, then,” the old man pursues. “But this is not the Las Noches of old, and there is a lord above me now. Aizen may rule over Hollows, but he is a shinigami at heart. He believes a palace should have a roof, and a sky a sun. For all his power there are things he does not comprehend. About our world, about our nature. He is a conquering king, a stranger in his new realm.”

You shudder slightly to hear such talk. You are well-familiar with the fears of the low-ranking Arrancars, who believe that lord Aizen hears and sees everything within his fortress; that to talk ill of him in his absence is foolishness or suicide. But an Arrancar of Barragan’s power has little care for such fears.

“And if you came to Las Noches when it still deserved this name, you must have seen me then. The power and glory of my natural form.”

The crowned skull; the black regalia; the ruler of time, all names for one terrible being. Your hands clutch, fingers grasping at the stone ground beneath you. Memories of a Hollow’s punishment, of the weight of millenia passing in a blink, of flesh turned to dust...

“You will perform a task for me, mayfly,” Barragan says, straightening his posture. Besides you Findor tenses, his posture tinged with anger. “I had a crown in those days. Not the gracile thing that adorns my brow when I assume my full power today; not a part of me, but a work of art, a tall golden headpiece offered by a faithful servant. When Aizen conquered Las Noches it was lost; some treacherous inferior saw it fall from my head, and absconded with it.”

“The crown is a… Memory,” Barragan says, measuring his words. “It holds no power, and it is no longer a symbol of kingship, for Aizen rules and he desires no crown. Yet it is valuable to me. Over the years I have heard word of it appearing in some place or another, traded or stolen, and sent my Fraccions to investigate each time, but it was always gone again by the time they arrived. I have grown tired of sending my best servants only to fail again and again, and besides most of them are tending to more urgent tasks anyway.”

The yellow glow of Findor’s eyes brightens, for one heartbeat, so brief you wonder if you had not imagined it.

“I now hear the crown has appeared again, and I still desire it, but it is a task more deserving of a mayfly like you. Findor will tell you where to go; you will do everything in your power to retrieve my crown. Failure will be met with punishment. Do you understand?”

You swallow nervously and bow your head lower.

“Good. Now begone, mayfly.”

You stand up, shaking slightly, and bow again before departing from the room. Findor follows you; you envy the ease with which he moves through his master’s aura, the pressure making the air thick as molasses to you. Can a mere Fraccion truly be that much stronger than you, or is it simply force of habit that allows him to endure this power unflinchingly?

You’ve heard rumors among other low-ranking Arrancars that the constant proximity to the immense reiatsu of the Espada changes a Hollow, coaxes out their own power, and that this makes Fraccions stronger than Numeros. You doubt it. It seems more likely to you that the Espada simply pick powerful Arrancars as Fraccions in the first place.

“There is a village five days to the northeast,” Findor says, locking steps with you. “Sitting by a small oasis, not far from a leafless grove. It was wiped out a few days ago. A few survivors came wandering here, hoping for safety in Las Noches. They were weak, and were cast out. It was only afterwards that we Royal Fraccions heard what they’d said: that the Hollows that had come as an army to raze their settlement were led by a Menos with a golden crown, tall and four-sided. We brought news to our king, but as you heard, it is not the first time this happens, and he has grown tired of failure. He sends you because you’re unimportant, and if you fail, as you will, may be punished without losing a valuable subordinate.”

The bluntness of the speech halts your steps. Findor eyes you, his mask making it impossible to read his features.

“We are the Fraccions of King Barragan. Where everyone else has forgotten his rightful title, we remember. We stand by his throne. We carry his axe. Do not think that an outsider like yourself, a weak opportunist, may rise to our ranks for a service rendered. There is no loyalty in your heart.”

Or perhaps they are just holding on to bygone titles of an era when they still had relevance. Barragan is no longer the King of Hollows, and they seem a little foolish holding onto that claim. You don’t tell Findor that, though.

“I have given you directions, and the King has given you orders. I am not required to assist you any further. Go, look for clues of the crown’s whereabouts in the ashes of a ruined village, fail as we did before, come back and meet your fate. Goodbye,” he says, and turns sharply on his heels, not giving you time for a question or a retort.

You look away from him, at the sunlit sands of Las Noches. You scratch one horn, thinking.

There isn’t much to delay you in the fortress, when you think of it.


[ ]Make a detour by Esmeralda’s “office” before setting out. She always has her hands on some interesting supplies, and could provide you with useful items for your trip.
[X]Hurry back to the gate, where if you’re quick enough you can catch the spider-hollow before it gets too far. Riding it, you’ll get to your destination much faster (and hopefully back faster as well).


It’s a long trek to the destroyed village. You’ll have time to think about your meeting with Barragan and the situation of Aizen’s army. In particular, you will consider your thoughts on the rulership of Hueco Mundo. What are you? Feel free to write in a more elaborate take on any of these, or your own.

[X]Indifferent. The powerful of this world are more akin to passing storms than persons. Whoever rules, rules, and small fries like you simply have to try and make a living under them. The personal character of different rulers do not make them better or worse, but simply different flavors of hurricanes.
[ ]Faithful. Aizen freed you from the hunger, and for this you will forever be grateful. Not only do you owe him loyalty, he’s also proven himself to be infinitely resourceful and clever, and the best chance for Hollows like you is under his direction.
[ ]Callous. Might makes right in a dog-eat-dog world. The Espada and Aizen got where they are by being stronger, and even if you can’t match them, it’s up to you to get as strong as you can be to survive and lord over others.
[ ]Bitter. All your life, you feared to set foot in the mortal world where the shinigami roamed. They have killed your kind for millennia, and now one of them rules over your world. You might not have been devoted to Barragan’s rule, but there is something deeply wrong with a shinigami commanding Hollows.


To say that there is bad blood between you and Barragan Luisenbarn would be inaccurate for the simple reason that the gulf of power and authority between you precludes any kind of relationship. You are an ant to him. But ants are known for their stinging bite, and you hold a grudge against the deposed king. Why?

[X]You had a friend once, a rarity among Menos. Someone you trusted not to try and eat you and who returned that trust. Then one day, he crossed the wrong line. He offended Barragan somehow, and you saw him aged to dust before your eyes.
[ ]You did in fact serve under Barragan. For years you were a scout in his army. You left because you feared the devotion of the others. You never expected him to think well of you, but he doesn’t even remember your name or your mask, and that stings.
[ ]You were once part of an organized settlement, Hollows foolish enough to think the desert was large enough for them to live independently. One day Barragan heard of you, and the next his armies were swarming your village. You’ve been a nomad ever since.
[ ]Write-in.

Chapter Text

You catch the spider-hollow still near the walls of Barragan’s hall. Good- you had worried, for a moment, that the spider had travelled too far, and you would not be able to catch up. It is hard for two legs to match the speed of eleven… or fourteen- it is hard for two legs to match a multitude.

It looks up at you from where it had stopped, atop the remains of a Hollow. Your pace slows for a moment as you sense something from it- hunger, a ravenous hunger- but it’s swallowed in an instant, and it acknowledges you with a hearty, “Hello!”

You acknowledge the greeting with one of your own. Then you look down at the corpse beneath it. A fresh meal?

“Indeed.” It smiles as pleasantly as a spider can. “Are you hungry?”

No. The denial is instant. You are not hungry, but you are thankful for the offer. You have not eaten in some time, and you can feel the faint stirrings of hunger in your gut, but you decline to share that with the spider; and besides, it is not a hunger that can compel you, now.

It dips its head in acknowledgement of your thanks anyway. “So why have you sought me out again, little hollow?”

You need a ride again. You have a long distance to walk, and you’re not sure how long it will take.

“And why should I let you?” It folds its legs in four places so it can bring itself closer to your height. The smell of Hollow-flesh flows over you as it talks, stirring the faint flames of hunger in your stomach until you fight them down once again.

You can help it. You cast around desperately for a moment, thinking. Then you see the sand still sliding from its back. You- You have cloth! A shawl, to keep it clear of sand! Your curtains, of course, but you do not tell it that either.

"A question, pray tell," the spider asks, eight eyes focusing on you at once, deathly serious. "What use have I for a shawl to cover me from the sand, when it is known that I live beneath the sand?"

You pause. It is a good question, you admit with a wry twist to your mouth. You are not a clever girl.

The spider chitters gleefully, and you realize you’ve been had. "Still, my thanks for the thought! Keep your shawl, young girl. I ask for nothing but conversation to pass the time, and that you not eat me when we reach our journey's end."

A fair trade. You have no desire to eat it, anyway. It is friendly and it talks well. You pull yourself up on the spider’s back, settling once again into one of the uncomfortable almost-seats in its abdomen.

There is a pause, and then the spider chitters once more, its voice echoing within its cavernous interior. “Many powers I have, but mind-reading is not amongst them! You must tell me where you wish to go if you wish us to arrive within the century, my girl!”

Nemo. Your name is Nemo.

“Nemo, then. Still, you must tell me which direction we travel in, unless you wish me to walk as I will and simply hope we arrive at your destination!”

Fair. You lean out of the carriage and provide him with the directions Barragan gave you earlier.

It gives you moments to settle in and find your position before it begins to speak again. “I must say, I had not expected such a place of power when I offered to bear you to your destination. Such power you hide behind that mask of yours, little one!”

You snort mirthlessly. It is not your power; it is that of Barragan. The words are short in your mouth, almost resentful.

“Alas, then,” it replies, although no regret lies within its tone. “Perhaps one day you, too, shall command such power!” It chitters again, pleased with the idea, or perhaps amused by it.

Perhaps. Such power is not for you to aspire to. Power such as that, power wielded effortlessly, to crush any and all that stand in your path, like Barragan and his ilk- hunger rises in your heart at the thought, even as revulsion worms in your stomach. The power to crush any in your way, deserving or undeserving.

It is in the nature of a Hollow to seek power. Perhaps you may achieve that power, one day. Perhaps not.

“If that is what you hunger for, you just might,” your spider-friend says in turn, as its long legs carry you with ease through the shifting grains of Hueco Mundo. 

 ***

“You take me to the most interesting places,” the spider comments as it comes to a halt.

Water is rare in Hueco Mundo, but it does exist. You are standing on a dune, overlooking a glittering pool of water. Small, but beautiful, the moon rippling across it waters. And besides it is a village - or was, once.

It’s nothing but ashes and burnt foundations now. You feel sorry about taking your new friend to such ominous places, but it only chuckles (it’s a disturbing sound, full of clicking mandibles).

“Don’t worry about it. It’s only par for the course in this desert. Will you be needing a ride back?”

Yes, and perhaps a little further before that. This is only the raided village; if your search bears fruit, you will likely have to follow a trail elsewhere, to wherever that mysterious army came from. If it does not… Well, perhaps it would be better to keep riding forward, away from Las Noches, than coming back empty-handed.

“If you need to go further it will have to be alone, I’m afraid. We ran for days, and I am quite hungry. I will be hunting in these dunes for a while. When your business is done, come back, and I will be happy to take you back.”

You’re grateful.

You’re also afraid. The last time you bonded with another Hollow… No, this was ages ago, and besides this spider could not be said to be a friend yet. It does not deserve thinking about for now.

Even if you are running an errand for the very man who killed him.

You hop off the spider and wave to it. It answers with another clicking of mandibles, and then is gone in a spray of sand, its agility belying its size.

You tighten your cloak around your shoulders, feeling an eerie chill on your skin, and set off towards the village.

There’s a part of you, a distant and detached part, that wishes it could actually have seen the village itself for the sole reason of seeing a change from Las Noches’s sterile, gigantic, overbearing architecture. Alas there is very little to see here - square patterns of stone, broken beams of quartz cut from the white stone-trees of the desert, heaps of collapsed rubble. Cinders, here and there, and charred marks on the broken stone.

There is no wood in Hueco Mundo; buildings are made of stone. A village cannot simply be set on fire. This was the work of a Cero. A Menos was here.

And there is blood. No flesh, no bones, but blood on the stones. You pass your finger through it - it is days old now, but the feeling of faint spiritual potency lingers. Hollow blood, then. And there is a lot of it now that you know to look, staining many of the ruins. But no body.

Whatever horde came to this settlement must have devoured the inhabitants on the spot. An orgy of hunger leaving not one scrap of flesh, but messily staining the feasting hall. You’ve seen it before.

Such a number of Hollows would have left a trail, but it’s been too long; wind has covered the wake of the marching spirits. You pace the village, time seeming to lose meaning as you explore ruined hovel after crumbling house, street after outskirt, and find not one footstep to follow.

Ah, but in the end you do find something, although it takes you a long time. At the north end of the village, you spot a little thing sticking out of the sand. You bend over to pick it up and find it heavier than you thought - you brush off the sand and pull out of a dune a piece of bone-like material, slightly curved, with a hole in the shape of an eye. A Hollow mask - not always an easy thing to digest, especially on the move.

It’s outside the village, so perhaps it was someone attempting to escape who was run down and eaten on the spot. If that’s the case then you don’t have any lead. It could be, however, that it was dropped by a Hollow of the army as they marched away from the village, their assault ended. It’s worth a shot. You set off towards the northeast, walking slowly and scanning the ground.

There, a white quartz-tree has lost a branch, broken by the passing of some lumbering form. You have a better sense of their direction now.

It takes a very long time. Hours? A day? More? You are no mortal, bound by hunger or the need for sleep. You are no Fraccion, consumed by her self-importance, convinced that there is better for her to do elsewhere. You are patient, cautious. You walk, back and forth across sand, examining rocks and trees, picking pieces of Hollow bodies, bits of torn fabric out of the sand. You trace the path one step at a time.

Eventually you see it. There is a rock in the distance, a blue-white protrusion jutting out of the sands. A mountain, although perhaps smaller than one. The army marched in this direction, and you feel confident that this was their destination. You stop tracking and start running; you dash across the sand, cloak floating on the wind, seeming to disappear for a half-second every time your feet touch the ground. The rock looms ever larger as you approach.

When you begin to see the shape of creatures you slow your run. Inertia carries you forward, sliding across the sand; it scatters over you as you take an angle and come to hide behind a dune. Your fingers twitch nervously, hoping you haven’t been spotted from afar; you lie down in the sand and crawl on your hands and knees.

The horns of your mask poke from the dune, and beneath them your eyes. You don’t feel very comfortable with this. You’re a stealthy kind, certainly, but Hueco Mundo is all open terrain, terrible for the likes of yours.

There is an opening in the rock. It is very tall, and very rough; a jagged knife wound in the mountain, such that you are not sure whether it is natural or Hollow-made. What was certainly made by hand is the sigil above that opening; a crude image of a four-sided crown hovering over a butcher’s cleaver. Around the gash - the door, you suppose - a handful of Hollows idle. They are no Menos, although their forms are particularly twisted; a snake-like creature whose arms are twisting lampreys rebelling against its will, a rolling slug with a dozen of hands as rounded and soft as a babes, a great masked tiger who would be awe-inspiring if its legs were not all of slightly different sizes, making his steps crooked, and more besides, sometimes coming out of the gate, sometimes going in. You think they’re supposed to stand watch, although they do not excel at it; two of them are engaged in some kind of game in the sand, tracing lines, throwing sticks, counting points. One of them is obviously hunting for food without daring to go too far from his position, and meeting little success.

A small Hollow lizard scurries its way up the dune, staring at the rock with you. What a simple existence for this mindless creature - feeding on ambient reiatsu, hiding from taller and bigger things, never knowing age, guilt, or true hunger.

You snatch him from the sand and chew off its head in one bite. You might not need to feed upon spirits anymore, but it still tastes good. The rest of it goes down in two separate gulps, and your tension relaxes somewhat. 

A handful of guards do not make an army. Likely inside this rock is some troglodytic palace where dwells their Menos lord and most of its cohort. You need an approach.

[ ]Approach openly. You of all people know that raiding villages and murdering dozens does not mean one cannot be a polite and organized ruler who receives envoys gladly.
-[ ]Present yourself as an emissary of lord Aizen, ruler of Las Noches.
-[ ]Present yourself as a wandering Arrancar, looking for shelter and perhaps a powerful master.
[ ]Attack immediately. This number of Hollows are no match for you, and if you dispatch them quickly you can break into the rock before any defenders can muster up a response.
[X]Infiltrate covertly. Use stealth and misdirection to get inside the rock undetected, and do your best to remain unnoticed as you make your way inside.

Chapter Text

You grasp for a stone, clutching it in hand as you look for any kind of hard surface near the Hollows; you find one, the remains of a pillar, long ago worn away by the wind and the sand, yet still standing; perhaps as a testament to some great civilization of Hollows, that once ruled over the land? Regardless of your musings, you throw the stone at the ruined pillar, waiting for the clack of stone upon stone that will distract the Hollows that guard your target.

At the moment that they look towards a singular direction, you identify the closest nearby dune in the opposite direction, feeling the air in your cloak as you dash towards it faster than any normal Hollow could perceive; the sound of the sonido muffled by distance and your cloak. Sneaking closer to the entrance, you quickly dance inside the darkness; instantly feeling more safe as you slink along the walls like a shadow.

The snake-like Hollow slithers towards the pillar, but the others are already losing interest, going back to their idle occupations. You were fast enough, however; your hands grasp the wall of stone, and the Hollows are looking outwards now, for threats or opportunities from the desert. You are behind them. You slide along the wall towards the great gash that is its excuse for a door, and when your probing hand finds no purchase you dash forward, into the unknown.

The first thing that surprises you is that there is light inside the hallway, although it is a pale, flickering blue thing. You look up, and find orbs of odd and varying shapes suspended from the walls; what could they be? Before you can study them you hear footfall and look frantically around you for a hiding spot, but find nothing; you see a leg turn a corner and in a flash of insight, jump…

The Hollow passes below you, never thinking to look up, a lumbering ape-thing with crimson fur. You squat on the light orb, keeping your breathing slow and quiet until he’s gone, into the outside. When you’re alone you look down at the light and find out that it uses no combustible; but tiny Hollow creatures with glowing thoraxes - you would call them fireflies, but they are too big, and fireflies do not have pincers - swarm, trapped in a prison of quartz. Ingenuous.

You leap from lamp to lamp, until one of them creaks and bends slightly under your weight, and you consider that they are not meant for such acrobatics. You pause to assess your surroundings; you are in a very high corridor, much higher than it is wide, roughly hewn from stone by some titanic might. It splits ahead of you, branching into three, and when you look straight ahead you can see the path widening into what you think is a great room. You focus on your senses, and there it is - the beat of a potent reiatsu, like a distant heart, in the heart of the caverns. This would be the Menos, then.

You could send out a Pesquisas and assess exactly how many Hollows there are, and their power, as well as know the location of the Menos; but it would almost certainly sense you in turn, and recognize the probe as a threat. For now you wait as a group of three Hollows move from one of the three corridors ahead to another, then hop down from your lamp.

Ahead is not only the Menos you seek, but a number of Hollows. Not only can you get a vague sense of a general, spread out spiritual pressure, but you can see them in the widening room (are these banners hanging from the walls?) and you would almost certainly be found if you entered there. Instead you take the path to your left, where you feel the least pressure.

Here too the path widens, but in turn the ceiling caves in, lower and lower until it feels like the height of a normal corridor. In the walls you begin to see hollows and alcoves - and over your silent footsteps you hear the muffled breathing of sleeping creatures. Curtains have been thrown onto some of these alcoves, ragged thing perhaps brought back from the living world or woven from some other Hollow. You hurry through this space as quietly as you can, but the deeper you get the more alcoves they are, and the deeper into the walls they are dug; some Hollows sit in them, an array of trifles at the side, the little entertainments of Hueco Mundo. A lizard trapped in a cage of quartz, a series of painted rocks, the frayed and torn garment of a human brought here as a memory.

Skipping along the walls here is too risky. Instead you take a scarf you’ve tied at your belt, which you normally use when facing sandstorms in the desert, and tie it over your mouth; then you puff out your split cloak, hunch your shoulders and advance at a crooked space. You are the picture of a Hollow, with nothing to show the broken part of your mask, and as long as you move in shadows your cloak seems part of you, useless trailing wings of leather. A few Hollows raise their head as you pass, bored, but quickly go back to their own self-absorbed interests.

You exit the living quarters and the tunnel narrows and curves upwards. You pass a series of entrances to smaller, more private spaces dug in the rock, in which dwell other Hollows. One makes you pause. There is a small room, with a round stone table at its center, and there is an insectile Hollow sitting on one side; she has three gracile legs and a split body, but her upper body is that of a woman wearing the mask of an ant. Before her are five Hollows from the same mould, disturbingly similar. How could such a thing happen? Did she make them in her image, an illusory company, or could they have all died as humans in such a way as to bind them like this?

On the table is a platter of undetermined metal, and on it is a mound of cooked flesh.

“Now dears,” the ant-like Hollow says, “you must not complain. It is great generosity of the Butcher King to feed us, who do not dare to hunt; and yes, it is not much, but we must make do. At least here, we are safe.”

The ‘children’ respond in a series of confusing, wordless clicks; you wonder if they are truly sentient. You walk away, deeper into the rock, closer to the reiatsu; but soon the tunnel starts to slope too high, you can sense the Menos being lower. You look around in confusion for a moment, then spot a branching path in what you thought was the entrance to a room; you go there and start to climb down. You hear footsteps again, a Hollow comes up. Not wanting to test your disguise under close inspection, you dash into an empty room and let a crawling many-armed thing move past you.

You descend, closer to the Menos, but also to the throng of Hollows near him. You find your way to a wide room which is not lit by the pale flicker of the fireflies, but instead by red heat… There is a pungent smell around you, a smell of blood and cooking meat.

There are many Hollows ahead of you, you can tell from the sounds. You hug a wall and turn an eye past the corner, into the room.

A dozen of more human-like Hollows, ones with hands dextrous enough to hold tools, are busying themselves around great stone table and great stone ovens and waving around great iron knives. They take pieces of meat and put them on the slabs, cut them apart, cook them in the ovens, and others take platters of the meat and disappear into the rest of the caverns. There are even two Arrancars here - the weak, natural kind, their bodies deformed, their masks ripped off without much guidance -, managing the fires with their feeble but agile hands.

Someone is coming, but not from the kitchen, from the path you just took. In a panic, you look around and see an open door inside the kitchen - you kick the ground and disappear, crossing the distance to it in the blink of an eye. In the noise of the cooking, no one hears you.

You stop to catch your breath. You are in a small room lit by a single firefly-lamp, and around you are wide stone jars and things like coat-racks suspended between the walls, and hanging from them-

Hollows. Dead Hollows, suspended from hooks, a stain of blood where it pierced the skin - but not much blood; they were dead before they were hanged. They are of a weaker sort, roughly-shaped animal creatures, their bodies lacking the definition that comes with strong power and will. There are maybe a dozen of them, and…

The mask of one of them catches your eyes. It is broken in a specific way, a way which you struggle to remember…

Ah, yes. It fits the piece of mask that was your first clue at the ruined village.

“I’m sorry, do you work with us?” comes a voice, and you start. You look at the far side of the room, where a Hollow with long, slender limbs and golden fur, wearing a mask sporting a frozen rictus, steps between two suspended bodies. He doesn’t seem alarmed yet - there are many people in these caverns, he cannot know them all, but you don’t know enough about the place to put together a convincing lie.

So you thrust your hand forward, and a grey wisp which seems for one moment to take the shape of a face crosses the distance between you faster than you can blink, hitting the long-limbed Hollow square in its mask. It stumbles backwards, to stunned to scream, and you dash forward - your hand falls upon Polilla’s scabbard and you thrust the sheathed blade pommel-first, hitting the Hollow in the temple with its hilt. It slumps to the ground, unconscious.

You dearly hope the noise wasn’t enough to be heard from the kitchen. You approach one of the stone jars and slide its heavy lid aside - then wrinkle your nose at what’s inside. It seems like these are the marinated remained of Hollows whose bodies were too damaged to hang from the hooks. Or perhaps they were cut into bits intentionally, as part of some kind of recipe.

Either way, it’s of use to you know. You take the unconscious Hollow, lift it on your shoulders (it is heavier than a human body, but you are strong enough by far to lift it casually), and drop it inside the vat. You make sure its head is upwards, not sinking, then put the lid back on and scramble back towards the door.

No one seems to have noticed you.

“These cuts are far too thin,” a Hollow grumbles in a guttural tone. “This isn’t even a full meal.”

“It’s what we have to work with,” says another in an indifferent voice. “We have to feed everyone, and that means stretching things out.”

“If we didn’t have to feed the weak ones who couldn’t hunt on their own, we’d have more,” a third one grumbles. “People who contribute, get contributed to. That’s what I say.”

“But then he wouldn’t be the Butcher King, would he?” The second one answers again. “That’s the whole point of this. We feed our own. We give a stipend of food to all who are within our walls, without discriminating on strength. That is the point. That is why we are Butchers, and that is why we bow to a King, who can make all of this happen.”

The third Hollow snorts, but goes back to his work. They keep talking, but move back to practical matters, questions of inventory and supply.

But then you hear one thing of interest.

“Is the King’s meal ready?” a new Hollow asks, bursting into the room. “The hour’s coming.”

“Yes,” another answers, “first vat on the left. but that Gillian we killed is wearing thin. We will need to venture into the Forest again soon.”

You look at the vat on your left. The King’s meal, carved out of a hunted Gillian, preserved for food.

You’re mildly admirative. You’ve rarely met Hollows who could manage to keep supplies of their meat, or who bothered to cook anything. Such a thing as this kitchen is miles above anything you’ve seen outside of Las Noches - old or new.

That said, you have to get to the Butcher King.

[ ]Lure one of the cooking Arrancars into the storage room, and steal their uniform. Then grab a platter and head for the King’s chamber with purpose, as if you belonged here. Of course, once there you won’t exactly be hidden when comes the moment to act...
[X]Hide yourself in the vat containing the King’s meal. It is literally heading into the wolf’s den while dressed as dinner, but you will certainly have the advantage of surprise.
[ ]The walls of the caverns are roughly carved and you should be able to climb them. Follow the King’s meal to him by sneaking above. Just hope no one looks up…
[ ]Something else?

Chapter Text

This is not the worst idea you’ve ever had.

The Hollow is coming; you don’t have much time to think. You slide the heavy stone lid of the vat and jump inside, landing with a wet splash, and curl up; then you pry at the lid from below and awkwardly push it back into place from beneath.

When you’re done, you hear footsteps coming in the storage room, and you feel the vat trembling around you; you sense that you are being moved. You curl up tighter and try to be as quiet and as weightless as possible.

You’re sitting chest-deep in meat rubbing against you as the vat is shaken. There’s a thin layer of fluid at the bottom, but you’re not sitting in liquid; rather the meat has been slathered in a thick gravy, smelling sickly-sweet. You are aware, all too keenly, that these square cuts pressing against you were carved out of another Hollow. The smell is pungent, reminiscent of distant memories to you, but the cooking and seasoning changed it enough that it does not make you truly hungry.

...where did they find seasoning in Hueco Mundo?

Even through the closed stone of the vat you can hear sounds outside. You must be moving through main corridors, with Hollows talking and walking around you. Just how many people live in this butcher kingdom?

Voices rise, enough that you can hear them, disturbingly childish.

“Snatch away a lone Hollow,
Put him on a hook;
Flay him while he’s raw,
Then give him to the cook!”

Did they just rhyme ‘hollow’ and ‘raw’? Well, you’re not surprised. It’s not the first Hollow nursery rhyme you hear, and they always have something in common - they’re created by mad, heartless monsters with no books to read, almost nothing in the way of culture, and only other mad heartless monsters for audience. The results are… Predictable.

“The Butcher King has a great big mouth,
The Butcher King has a great big knife,
The Butcher King has two great big hands;
The third one catches you,
The second one slices you,
The first one devours you!
Last one standing is a fine king’s meal!”

Other voices rise further, dissolving the rhymes in the inchoate hum of a crowd; the vat is shaking harder, taking turns, likely to avoid people on its path.

You hear… Music. Percussion sounds, rhythmic and visceral, pounding beats that reach your thorax even through the vat. There is clapping too, hands and paws slamming the ground heavily. And then it stops, all of a sudden, and the voices go quiet.

“And in mere moments, before you, come from afar to display their skill and grace to a true king, the Dancers of the Salar de Luna! But first, a new course, a meal fit for a king. Hunted in the Forest of Menos by our bravest warriors, the fierce, mindless Gillian, seasoned with nectar of the Seven-Hollowed Ant!”

Eeeew.

Suddenly you feel your motion angle upward rather than forward; the vat is being lifted in the air… And then put onto an elevated place, trembling with the shock of its weight. Voices rise again, people chatting, and you tense. This is it; this is the moment. You clutch Polilla’s hilt, bracing yourself for action…

The stone lid slides heavily, falling to the side of the vat, and you freeze. An enormous mask, easily your own size in height, stares at you with beady eyes; it is bone-white and shaped in the form of a vicious oni, fangs curving at angles out of its mouth, a long and sharp nose stabbing out of its face like a blade.

And atop that mask is the four-sided golden crown of Barragan.

“AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, LITTLE MORSEL?,” the giant speaks, its voice the rumbling of an avalanche. “ARE YOU SO EAGER TO FEED YOUR KING, YOU CHOSE TO BE PART OF ITS FOOD?”

You blink twice rapidly and panic.

The energy comes like a surge, forming in your chest with a breath; it travels upwards, rising from the lungs, mixing in the trachea, and then splitting again in the horns of your mask. It gathers at the tips, between the two antennae-like protrusions, a pale grey orb twisting with unseen faces. Before the Butcher King has time to react, it erupts in a surge of energy, a translucent beam that frays at the edges like mist in the morning or the clothes of a ghost.

The Cero catches him square-on, engulfing the mask, and the King rears back with a howl of pain. The laments dissolve, the weeping fades in the distance. You blink again, mind catching up to your actions, but by then it’s too late to do anything but commit. You catch the vat’s lid, hurl yourself onto it, and kick - blinking out of sight with the bang of a Sonido and hitting the smoking mask of the Menos, catching its nose to stabilize yourself. You push on it, kick yourself up, land on top of its head…

The feasting hall is far, far below, the crowd of Hollows looking up at you dumbstruck. You see great stone tables arrayed before a cohort of monsters, and the same knife-wound in the rock that is the main gate of the cavern ahead of you. Great black cloth flows beneath you and the mask like a torrent of night.

It’s a Gillian; the Butcher King is a Gillian. It would actually have been much worse if it had been smaller (and thus an Adjucha), but the sheer size of his mask while standing above you in a marinade of Hollow meat just made you panic. You kick yourself internally. But at least you’re standing on his head while he is stunned, the crown at hand; from up close you realize that it is far taller and wider than you’d imagined, too small for a Gillian’s head but too large for your own. But if you can take it and bolt out of here, the mission will be accomplished before anyone has time to react. You grab the crown and pull…

...it doesn’t come. You pull harder, and something groans, the crown moves, but is still stuck. You look down.

With its head too wide to put on the crown without it slipping, the Butcher King had it hammered into the upper side of its mask. It’s embedded there, small cracks running from the point where it was beaten in. 

Before you have time to reassess you approach the great body moves beneath you, and giant hands rise together. You duck to the side before they can slam on you, but when they meet the strength of the impact is such that you are knocked straight down from the Gillian’s body; you fall, fall, and hit the ground hard, pain lancing your shoulder.

“Defend the king! Kill the intruder! Eat her alive!” Come rallying shouts from all around the room. You rise up, shoulder bruised, to see a half dozen bestial Hollows leap over their tables and dishes to come at you. They are weak compared to you, but large, numerous, and with a master ready to seize any advantage they can get by ganging up on you…

You breathe in, channel the power from your lungs, the orb is born between your horns again. Then you stare down at the ground and fire the Cero Fantasma; energy flows out and spreads around you, twisting in a whirlwind of mist-like fire, unseen faces crying within. The Cero spreads around you like a dome and swallows the contenders. They are blasted at the far ends of the room, and you stand alone for one moment.

“IS IT THIS RELIC THAT YOU WANT, CROWN-SEEKER?” The King says, reaching behind him. From against the far wall of the cavern he raises a butcher’s cleaver, terrible in size. “THE ROOT OF MY POWER. THE ABANDONED LEGACY OF OLD BARRAGAN, THE FOOL WHO KNELT.”

The King’s clawed foot kicks at the stone table in front of him, and it flies off towards you, heavy and too wide to dodge, but you make a jabbing motion and fire off a Bala. It hits the table, cracks the stone, and deflects its course; it smashes beside you on the rocky ground, Hollows running from the impact. His path free the Butcher King steps forward and brings down his terrible cleaver, immensely strong but slow, too slow. You roll to the side and the blade cuts into the earth, shaking the ground, its impact sending a gust of wind that feels like a blow to the stomach. But you draw Polilla in one smooth motion, and while the Gillian is pulling his blade out of the rock you slash at his wrist, cutting the dark fabric of his great cloak; blood sprays on the ground and he howls, pulling back in a haste.

Two Hollows, too devoted for their own safety, jump towards you before you can take advantage of the opening. The first one is lion-like, a quadruped, and you thrust your free hand over your shoulder, sending him rolling away with a Bala. The second one is the great crimson ape you saw before; he roars and barrels down on you, fists like hammer. Polilla deflects the first punch, your speed lets you dodge the second, and before he can guard himself you swipe up, slashing his mask in two. He falls down and you are alone.

Somewhere, amidst the shouts, the running, the commotion, there is laughter and singing.

“Kitchens churn, bodies burn,
Stars are shining bright.
It’s your turn, now you learn,
How our King feasts tonight!”

You turn on your heels to face the King before he can compose himself, but it is too late. The cleaver is coming down on you, a curtain of steel falling down, and it’s all you can do to raise Polilla in an horizontal guard above your head. The blade falls with terrible strength, but your zanpakuto is beyond any mortal blade; it does not break.

Instead it is your strength that is wanting. The sheer impact of the blade caves in your arms; you fall to one knees, your guard brought down, and the cleaver bites into your shoulder. With all your strength you push back, keeping it from slicing you in two, and finally it relents, withdrawn by the King’s hand. He steps towards you, long black coat sweeping the ground - from so close you can see the patterns of faded red running down the length of his body, testimony to his countless meals.

“NO CHALLENGE, THEN? NO TAUNTS, NO INSULTS, NO WARNINGS? WHO DO YOU SERVE, TO COME ALONE IN MY WALLS? NO VOICE, NO ALLIES, NO KINGDOM - YOU ARE NO CROWN-SEEKER. YOU’RE ONLY A GHOST.”

Blood drips to the floor. Your wound is wide and long, a bloody gash that tore through your cloak and uniform, bleeding now on your chest and back. You flex your left hand, and it responds - perks of the abstract biology of spirits - but the shoulder itself is weak, and you’re bleeding. You find your breathing ragged, and sweat pearls on your brow. But the cleaver is heavy, unskilled; you’re confident you can dodge the next blow, and in the opening-

“FIND A BETTER PURPOSE IN DEATH THEN, MORCEL.”

The Butcher King opens its bloody mouth, and spiritual pressure rushes over the room, intensifying in an instant. Scarlet light gathers between the curved fangs, a pulsing orb of power, and the King breathes: a Cero far too wide to dodge bursts out to swallow you.

You answer in kind. From between your horns surges wisp-like light, rushing to meet the red tide. Your Cero is far smaller in width - but at the end of the day it is as powerful as the King’s own, merely focused instead of spread out too widely. Grey and red slam against each other but your Cero pierces through his, the red light scattering into a deflagration between you two, at the center of the room, but your own Cero pushes back that tide, and when the shockwave shakes the entire cavern the brunt of it is towards the King. Stone tables are knocked back by the impact, dust rains from the ceiling. Hollows scream out, running away.

You take one moment to catch your breath as the King stumbles backwards, dazed for the count.

Seize the moment. 

[X]Defeat the Butcher King. Even if you claimed the advantage this will be easier said than done; but the other Hollows will be too terrified to intervene, and if you engage and slay the King one-on-one they will surely run rather than cause you any more trouble. You can take the crown from his body.

[ ]Take the crown and run. You don’t have to risk yourself facing this opponent. Now that you know the crown is stuck in his mask, you can strike where it’s embedded and make off with it. That means getting out of the fortress and away with the Menos and his army at your back, but it’s better than a chancey duel.

Chapter Text

You have never been proud.

A fragile, speedy creature with flight as her gift, you were never the kind to seek battle’s for battle’s own sake. You sought only to survive in a hostile world, to protect a friend, to escape the notice of the mighty and terrible. When you challenged others, time and again until that very word was buried into your being and became a sword, it was not an arrogant shout for them to prove themselves. It was merely you, standing up, and defying the world that would take your life. Your challenge was never - “you can’t beat me.” It was rather, “I will survive this.”

But now you stand here, weak, obsolete, cast out of mind by those who conquered your world. Still serving them because it is your only path forward, but consigned to obscurity.

You’ve never been proud. But you’re so tired of being trampled upon.

The Butcher King reels back from the explosion of Ceros, and you seize this opportunity to dash in. You aim straight for the great black cloak and lash out with Polilla, tearing the black fabric; passing between your giant opponent’s leg you slash to the right, cutting deep into the ankle, then pivot on your heel and bring the momentum of your rush into a second cut to the left ankle. Then you bolt out from underneath him as the King begins losing its balance. He tries to turn to catch you, but his wounded feet betray him; he falls to his knees with a thunderous crack, hitting the ground where you stood an instant before.

Good. Now that he’s closer to the ground, his mask is in range of-

The cleaver comes down, but not at you, and for a moment you don’t understand. It hits wide, at a sharp angle from the ground. But then the Butcher King, both hands on the handle, sweeps it towards you and you understand. The blade comes for you as a moving wall of steel, raking the rock and scattering a spray of dust. You run away in a panic as a great screeching sound of sliced stone pursues you, but it is closing in faster and faster. You’re too close to the walls, you can’t run out of the blade’s range…

You stop, boots screeching on the ground, and turn sharply. The wall of steel closes in, and you brace yourself. Then you jump.

You leap through the air, the cleaver’s spine rushing to meet you, and twist your body in the air like a gymnast, legs reaching to the sky. The blade catches a strand of hair as it passes beneath your head… And then it’s gone. You land on your feet with a gasp. The Butcher King’s giant mask looks at you, his arm too extended, but you don’t have the momentum to close in while he’s open.

You thrust your free hand forward, once, twice, three times, grey wisps streaking out and hitting his face with a deafening impact each time. Cracks run down the Gillian’s mask as he is momentarily blinded.

No good. Your wounded shoulders prevented you from putting your full strength in these Balas. You were hoping to capitalize on this moment with a final Cero, but he’s already recovering.

“DO YOU NOT EVEN HAVE A NAME, CROWN-SEEKER?” The King growls as he sweeps the ground blindly with one hand, forcing you to duck back. Black blood drips from the cracks in his mask, but then… Stops. High-Speed Regeneration. You don’t have much time left to win. “YOU WHO COME CHALLENGE A KING WITHIN HIS OWN HOME, WILL YOU NOT HAVE THE DECENCY TO INTRODUCE YOURSELF? DISGRACEFUL…”

You have a name, and you are not a cold-blooded assassin. Indeed, your blood is anything but cold; panic and sheer tension excite every nerve of your body, making you twitch at every motion. You couldn’t pause to tell him your name if you wanted to; all you feel is fear and the rush. A few Hollows remain but none move against you, sticking to the walls of the feasting hall in fearful terror.

The King stands up, rising his cleaver, and for a moment you think your attack on his legs was for nothing; but then he falls back heavily to one knee, and with his wounded wrist must take the cleaver in both hands…

No, he’s not taking the handle. He’s putting his other hand on the the back of the cleaver and holding it horizontally… You step backward in an awkward stumble as he brings down the blade, slamming it into the ground with such strength as to split the stone, but he missed you by a foot, and now you’re in the clear-

The blade rises again and falls again, faster, and you fall back on your behind as you push yourself to avoid it. It rises again, and again, and again as the Butcher King works himself into a frenzy. You scramble on your back, then on your knees as the blade falls closer and closer, you manage to push yourself up and run, run, but he is faster than you, his great knees moving him forward and the cleaver falling and falling… Then it rises higher than before, you hear a colossal breath, and you know the worst is to come; in a mad dash you hurl yourself forward, roll to the ground, and the blade strikes down with such strength as to shake the entire cavern.

It missed you by an inch. You are panting, sprawled to the ground, but the cleaver does not rise again. You don’t have time to think, a second attack like that will kill you. You push yourself up, whole body screaming with ache, and jump up as high as you can; your free hand catches the cleaver’s back for support - your shoulder wound lances through you like a Cero of its own and for a moment you think you’ll let go - but you pull yourself up, rest your feet on the blade, and stare the Butcher King in the face. His mask’s cracks are already healing, his beady eyes burn with anger, he is slowly trying to get up; but you’re faster. You jump forward, grabbing Polilla in both hands, and rise above him. He looks up…

Strength and gravity and momentum combine and you fall on him ramming your sword to the hilt in his mask, cracks spreading from the point of impact. The Butcher King howls, reeling and almost buckling you off him, but you hold fast. You put your hand in one of the cracks for support, pull out your blade, and stab again and again at the top of his head, where the crown was hammered into his mask; the King falls onto his back, his hands try to catch you but pain makes his motions spastic.

The crown comes loose. You thrust your sword in the mask one last time for support, release your free hand and grab the golden edge of the ornament, and pull. It bursts free from the bleeding mask.

You don’t think. Every nerve in your body is acting on instinct. You wrench the crown back behind you, you grip the hilt of Polilla, and you let the power come. Staring down at the King, you fire your third Cero of the night, point blank. So close to his head and the ground the energy scatters along the surface, the deflagration spreading out in a wave, coming back towards you and singing the edges of your cloak and uniform. The Gillian’s mask shatters.

Then it ends, and all is silent. You stand atop a broken body for a few moment, breathing haltingly. Your shoulders and legs are still trembling slightly from sheer tension and exertion.

You have the crown in hand. Golden and tall, almost a strange hat. You hop off the Butcher King’s head and slowly, painfully, start walking towards the exit.

A great mass shifts behind you, scratching the ground.

No. No, he cannot possibly…

“COME BACK,” the Butcher King’s voice says, still as deep but now with a hoarse edge and a pitifu,l pleading tone. “COME BACK. GIVE ME BACK THE CROWN. I AM NOTHING WITHOUT IT.”

That’s not true. He’s alive, and he’s powerful. In Hueco Mundo that is worth more than all the thrones in the world.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. THE SYMBOL… THE LEGACY… IT HOLDS THEM TOGETHER… IT MAKES THEM COME TO ME… IT MAKES US WHOLE.”

The great body moves, barely. Struggling on its hands and knees. Its face-

You wish you could forget his face behind the shattered mask, but you never will. Sometimes you still dream of it.

“I HAVE TO BE KING… SOMEONE HAS TO… AFTER HE FAILED, AFTER HE GAVE IN TO THE REAPERS…”

That’s not your problem. That’s never been your problem. You’re small fry, and like all small fries, you abide and eke out a life beneath the powerful. Trying to be king only gave this Gillian torment. His kingdom preyed on all around it, a Hollow writ large, and in the end someone stronger wanted something from him and that was the end of it.

He should just survive, that’s plenty enough.

“I CAN’T ACCEPT THIS. I CAN’T ACCEPT OUR KING IN LAS NOCHES BENDING THE KNEE. SOMEONE… SOMEONE HAS TO STEP IN…”

You have the crown. It could end here. There’s nothing more to be gained in this.

“GIVE IT BACK!”

A mouth, a horrible, broken mouth, black with tainted blood and yellow with broken twisted teeth, a tongueless abyss of a mouth, opens; and before that mouth an orb of red light, and it surges…

You grit your teeth, and throw the crown in the air with all your strength, out of the way of the beam. That leaves you no time for your own Cero. So you grip Polilla in both hands and dash forward into the crimson light, and raise your thin, dull grey blade before the beam. But your sword is a zanpakutou, a soul cutter, a sword to part away spirits themselves, and so the Cero parts before it; you move into the beam, its power scattering before you but still intense to erode your being as you move. Your split cloak is torn from your shoulders and burns to cinders in the torrent; your uniform is scorched, the flesh of your face and wrists is burned, and still you move.

You scream; it’s been so long since you last did. It is a wordless shout, a cry of anger, of desperation, a challenge to the world. It says you will survive. It says also that the Butcher King could have lived, could have endured, and your anger that he chose not to.

You reach the heart of the Cero, beyond which is only the mangled face of a fallen ruler.

You thrust your blade.

***

 You were perched up in the spindly branches of one of Hueco Mundo's strangest features - the subterranean forest. Hunger gnawed at you, as it always did, and your fear of dissolution sharpened it into a potent goad. This made your finding this place fortunate; forests were often full of the tall, mindless hollows.

Speak of the devil. One had appeared, ambling mindlessly through the vast rocky trunks below, mouth open and nose sniffing the air. It hadn't seemed to have noticed you.

You blasted it with a dusky Cero that took the form of a screaming soul, and then flitted to another tree before the smoke cleared. With luck, it had been crippled or mortally wounded, and you could eat it at your leisure. But you're generally not that lucky. If it turned into a fight, at least it couldn't simply aim for where you had been.

You tensed as a tall shape burst through the smoke and- was it running?

It was. Your meal was running away, honking in distress.

You stared for a moment, then gave chase, dashing from trunk to trunk, trying to get a clear shot on the stupid, stupid- !!!

It was luck, more than anything, that saved your life in that moment. Your immaterial flitting certainly hadn't been deliberately timed for when the mess of spikes and threads collapsed upon the space between the trees, turning your target into mincemeat.

You stayed perfectly still and tried to blend into the deep shadows of the subterrain and calm yourself. You had been... very close to being diced yourself, you realize.

"That was amazing!" called a voice from behind you.

From behind you.

You turned around slowly, ready blast at the slightest hint of danger. There, on the ground, stood a small, white hollow which resembled a mantis, if mantises were covered in spikes. Were they? You weren't sure.

It was still staring at you. It didn't... look dangerous.

A chunk of meat slides down your tree.

"Most people don't survive that," it added, as if that would be a comfort to you. "Do you, uh, want to split it?"

Split it? You were suspicious and hungry in equal measure.

It - he? - began to stammer, claws fiddling at nothing. "I mean, you did half of the work, right? I can't really, uh, most of the time, that is to say-"

His stomach growled.

"I can't exactly make anything go into my traps, right? It's a lot of waiting."

And?

"And, I was wondering if you might help me with that? Bait- or herd, whatever, maybe you don't want to be bait - the tall ones into traps, and we can split the meal," he ended hopefully.

You would like to say you considered the matter thoughtfully, but you were hungry. You'd accept any offer that promised more meals than simply hunting yourself.

"Huh? You will?" he perked up. "That's great!"

An awkward pause.

He coughed, gesturing vaguely at the mass of hollow-meat. "So uh, you first? Friend?"

You were already eating.

And so it went, for quite a while. Two hollows, hunting in the forests hidden beneath the sands. One to set the trap, and the other to bait it. The mantis proved to have a rare passion, for a hollow, and would invent ever more elaborate trap sequences for you to lead the menos into. It was dangerous, pointless work, flitting through mazes of collapsing wires and hurled darts when a basic tripwire and noose would do, but you indulged him. It broke the monotony, at least.

But tools and traps could be tracked. Could be used to hunt a poacher down, even if the hunting grounds had never been marked as property. Could be shrugged off by a Hollow of sufficient power and boredom, who would take such an intense interest in such a petty crime, to chase the criminal across the endless sands and subterrains, far beyond the pillars of his palace. Could be used as evidence in a pageantry of a trial, and tossed on to a grave after an execution.

Hollows don't age, truly. But they can starve, go mad, and eat themselves when a thousand years pass in the blink of an eye. Breaking your mask freed you from those waking fears, if not their dreaming echoes.

You put the crown on the ground, and kneel.

Barragan straightens in his seat, and frowns; for the briefest moment you see surprise in his eyes, but then you are nothing again.

“I trust the thieves were dealt with.”

Of course. All who stood in your way perished. That is how the king would have wished it.

“Can’t have been too hard,” says one of his Fraccions. The long-haired, shirtless one with too many tattoos - Abirama? He scoffs. “She’s not even injured.”

You don’t answer; you’re not meant to. You tighten your new cloak to hide the spot where you had to sew the cut in your uniform’s shoulder - a large, black cloak, heavy on your shoulders, cut from the habit of a foe whose name you will not be asked.

Barragan motions with his hand, and Findor steps forward quickly, taking the crown. As he nears you his eyes slide on you and you feel the tension in his body, the anger in the twist of his lip. He takes the crown to his king, who takes it in his hand; Findor bows and moves quickly aside as Barragan examines the item.

“Do you know,” he asks, and you understand that the question is not meant for you (but you haven’t been dismissed, and you’re afraid to move before you are), “why I valued this simple object?”

“Beauty, your majesty?” Charlotte answers, a tall, broad-shouldered and muscular Arrancar with lustrous hair. “It is quite fetching an ornament.”

Barragan scoffs, and Charlotte looks down with a flush.

“It’s a gift, majesty.” Findor says confidently. “ A servant put great work into it and offered it as a proof of fealty. It belongs to you and no other should hold it.”

“Ah! I have received countless gifts in my years as king, and none mattered. Many I aged to dust in front of the gifter, just to show them how meaningless trifles are in the face of kingship.”

“Of course,” Findor says, bowing. “Forgive my presumption.”

“It’s got a cool power, eh?” Abirama says with a knowing grin, rubbing his chin. “You told no one ‘cuz you didn’t want word to get out and there being even more thieves, but it has a secret.”

Barragan looks at him, narrowing his eyes, and Abirama’s cocky demeanor fades away into visible concern.

“You think I care about thieves enough to bother lying to such specks as yourselves?”

“N-no, majesty, I… I’m sorry.”

Barragan pays him no further attention, going back to his examination of the crown.

“All things in this world die. Mortals age, cities crumble to ruin, mountains erode down to dirt, even ghosts and spirits wither away.”

As he speaks you feel his spiritual pressure rising and your breath catches in your throat. You swallow nervously as it grows in intensity, and his Fraccions begin looking uncomfortable. You see a strange shimmer around the crown, faint images of pale blue fire flicker in and out of sight, and a haze surrounds the headpiece.

“But some things cannot die. All kings perish in time - save for I - and the crown changes heads, but kingship is eternal. It can take a hundred forms and names, it can masquerade itself as something else, but at the end of the day someone will rule, until the stars go out.”

The haze intensifies and you begin feeling even more uncomfortable than Barragan’s sheer pressure warrants. There’s something in the tip of your fingers, a wave licking at your skin, wrinkling your fingertips… And the crown is changing, slowly, its shine fading little by little.

“This is a crown of gold, and gold does not rust, does not corrode, does not erode in the wind. It is a useless trifle but it is a symbol of something greater. The crown does not age. Kingship does not die. It simply changes hands. And the crown cannot sit on the head of one who is not king, even if it is itself without value.”

Your eyes widen in fright as before them the stone chair of Barragan begins eroding. Thin dust blows from the arms and back, and in moments the entire thing dissolves and Barragan stands, still holding the crown in his hands, which shivers, twists, whose golden sides cave in slightly. You can’t breathe; you feel your body, so distant from the center of effect, still changing inside you. As if every second stretched forever - or no, as if every second contained a thousand other seconds you experience in a blink.

Barragan stands, his throne a thin layer of dirt on the ground, and tosses the crown to the ground. It falls between you. It looks odd now; wrinkled, its luster faded, dent marks in a few spots, but still a crown. Weathered but not destroyed. The wave passes and you exhale sharply, your shoulders shaking.

Then Barragan seems to notice you again, having previously forgotten your presence. He narrows his eyes, staring down at you.

“Tell me, mayfly. What would you do with this crown?”

You really wish this weren’t happening right now.

You don’t care. You don’t care about a useless piece of gold. You don’t care who rules. You don’t care about Barragan’s musings on kingship.

But in one respect his words speak to you. He is right: “kingship,” or however you want to call it, endures. There’s always someone more powerful making themselves top dog of the world. And people like you just learn in what ways the new boss is bad and in what ways he’s indifferent, adapt and live with it.

And right now someone far more powerful is expecting you to have drunk the wisdom of his words and to spit it back out, so that’s what you’re going to do, because even a bad answer is better than no answer at all.

[ ]You would give it to Lord Aizen. He is the ruler of Hueco Mundo now, although he does not call himself king. Kingship changes hands, but there is always a king.
[ ]You would keep it to yourself. Barragan is the King of Hollows, now as he was then, even if he answers to someone else. The crown is a crown for Hollows, a title for Hueco Mundo.
[X]You would bury it in the sands. The crown is only a symbol, it does not matter in itself. Kingship remains and changes hands regardless of who holds the crown. Bury it that other pretenders do not steal it and play at ruling, then let it be forgotten.

Chapter Text

It’s not your place to say, but an answer you’re asked, and so an answer you give. You motion behind you, to the place beyond Las Noches, to the sands. That is where you would take it; and you would bury it, so that no other fool ever comes to take it and play pretend, and invade disaster upon himself. So that you don’t have to kill them over a meaningless icon. Kingship, such as it is, does not need a crown to anchor it. All know who to look up to. All acknowledge power.

Barragan chuckles mirthlessly, and waves his hand towards the crown.

“Take that bauble. Carry it into the desert beyond Las Noches and bury it.”

You swallow nervously. There is no need for him to warn you against stealing it. No need for him to give the task to one of his known and trustworthy servants. It is a menial duty unfit for even them, and if you are led astray in conducting it you will die, and he will get the crown back eventually. All that is understood without needing to be said.

You take the crown, quickly, as if you were afraid that it would take flight and leave you to be punished for failing to catch it. You bow deeply and walk out of the room, trying your best not to break into a run; Barragan gives you no regard, but the Fraccions’ gaze is heavy on you - one curious, one dismissive, one irritated. You clutch the crown tightly against your chest, too big to simply hold it in your hand; you have to wrap your arm around it.

You leave Barragan’s hall and walk across the sands for hours until you reach the walls of Las Noches, and pass from them into the cold night outside. Then you walk for hours more amidst featureless white sands.

You feel strange. The crown is too heavy in your hands; at times the distance seems to stretch, a single steps takes you a minute, a few yards several hours. But at the same time you don’t feel quite like it’s true; your body is at odds with your mind, and as you instinctively try to reconcile this contradiction your head starts to ache and throb.

There is a chittering some distance from you, and you wrap your black cloak around the crown, looking in that direction.

It is the spider, of course, coming out of the sand and staring you in the face.

“Hello again, little moth,” it says.

You’re happy to see it, but you’re confused how you seem to stumble into it whenever you leave Las Noches.

“Oh, this time was no accident. Your spiritual pressure is weak, but in this empty desert, it is easy to sense and recognize. So I came to say hi; I was surprised you’d leave again so soon after I brought you here.”

You puff your cheeks. Your spiritual pressure could be very strong if you wanted to, you’re just not fighting right now, so it’s quiet. Right, that’s the word: quiet, not weak.

The spider laughs. “Of course, of course. A lowly Hollow such as myself would not compare my spiritual strength to that of an Arrancar, anyway.”

It’s totally being sarcastic right now, but you’ll take the point anyway. You lift your chin with magnanimous haughtiness.

“So anyway, do you need a lift somewhere? I am warning you - my services will eventually start to cost you!”

It’s teasing you - it wouldn’t have hounded you across the sands upon sensing your presence if it hadn’t liked the idea of company. Unfortunately you must decline. Barragan would not like you letting another Hollow see where you buried the crown.

“Oh, secret missions for the powerful? You must be moving up in the world.”

You smile weakly. Chores and errands, really.

“Well, be that as it may. I will leave you to it, and promise you not to pry. And if you ever need me again… Well, just wish upon a star, and maybe it’ll happen.”

You frown. You’re about to protest that there are no stars in Hueco Mundo, but it’s already burying in the sands, and then is gone. Maybe next time.

You look up at the starless sky, and miss the tiny things.

You walk on. With every mile the crown becomes heavier and your steps feel slower. At times it seems like you are a single grain of sand in the desert, and must walk past each other grain one step at a time. Your heart beats very, very slowly.

Eventually, you stop. Las Noches still feels just as close as it was when you set out, its size defying the imagination, but you know it is far away in truth. You bend down to dig - but then you realize you don’t have to work in such a crude way. You look around you first, ensuring that no one is there; then just to be sure you close your eyes, put your hand to the ground, and send out a pulse - a wave of spiritual energy flows across the landscape and down into the ground, revealing to your senses all spiritual presences. But all you get are a few tiny, mindless autotrophs in the miles around you. Standing up, you breathe in, raise your hand in a claw-like motion, then strike down again and again, Balas cause the sand to erupt high in the sky as you dig further and further; eventually you stand in front of a hole at least a hundred of meters deep, erupted sand already trickling slowly down into it.

You take the crown, holding it before you, and spare for it one last look. It is still a crown even so weathered; battered, wrinkled, shineless, but golden and forged by hand. A creation of someone’s art and desire now discarded.

You wouldn’t steal it. You’re not so foolish. But as you examine it you feel a strange sensation under your thumb; as you examine that point of the crown, you see a faint tear in it. You run your finger and it plays under the gesture, moving under pressure. It must have been damaged during the battle with the king - or perhaps before that, when it was forcefully planted in his mask.

As you play with it it comes loose. It sits in your hand now, a small triangle of gold, shaped like a tooth.

It’s stupid. You know this. But you’re a moth: you slip through the window into the homes of those far greater and more powerful than you, and there you are drawn to their light. You’re a thief, is this not what Barragan employed you for? Thief of curtains, thief of crowns. You bite your lip, rolling the gold tooth in your hand.

You toss the crown into the hole. Then, with more Balas - enough that in the end you are panting, winded, your spiritual energies weak - you push the mounds of sand back into the pit. When you are done there is no indication that anything was ever there, only a dune of white sand.

You turn back towards Las Noches.

In your hand you hold a tooth of gold.

When you reach the inside of your apartment you are prepared to inspect everywhere for hidden intrudars, but Esmeralda is openly and brazenly sitting on your “chair,” smiling widely.

“You’re back! And you don’t even look hurt. Although you have a new coat? I’m sorry, I know how much you liked the old one. But I’m glad you’re unharmed.”

Nonono. You put a finger to your lips, narrowing your eyes. You are very much not back. In fact, you’re somewhere far away in the sands, still on the way home from Barragan’s mission.

“Really? You think that’ll fly?” Esmeralda asks with a chuckle.

Oh, it will. You were very careful on your way back to walk stealthily, to not be in view of the most used windows, you even used Sonido a few time to move between buildings, but mostly kept your spiritual pressure as low as you could… There’s only her, because of course there’s her, somehow always knowing you’re back before you’re even home.

She beams.

“Well then, I guess that can be our little secret… But you shouldn’t take too long. The bosses are always looking for someone wanting to run an errand, and they keep assigning the job to me. I guess because we don’t get into a lot of fights at the moment they feel they can spare a medic, but since I’m just a Hollow I can’t do the jobs they want. So they just have me go around fetching people for them…” She sighs. “It can’t be helped, I suppose.”

You give her a dubious look. At least she just has to fetch people, not do the work herself. Your sympathy is limited. That just makes her chuckle.

“You’re so cruel! That’s because you don’t need me, isn’t it?” She says with a mischievous look. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. They send you out to do all sorts of things, and you’re only a Numero, but you never come back hurt. Sometimes your clothes are, but not you. I never get to sew you back up and poke at you with needles…” Her expression is full of exaggerated regret. “What’s your secret?”

You raise an eyebrow. You don’t see why you’d tell her anything, when she’s keeping secrets of her own. Last time you came by she was waiting for you in your own apartment and that was a first, but she had pulled that kind of stunt before, always being right at the corner you turned waiting for you. And after your sneaky approach of today you don’t buy her stories of ‘someone spotted you and I heard about it’ anymore. So if she’s not going to tell you how she keeps knowing where you are and where you’re going, you’re not going to tell her how come you’ve never ended on her operating table.

“Fair enough, fair enough!” She says grinning again. She does this entirely too much, it’s… Distracting. “I guess we’ll both have our little secrets to each other.”

She claps her hands. “A promise is a promise! I’ll leave you to your rest now. But don’t be late tomorrow, I really need to foist these orders on someone.”

You nod, then wave your hand to shoo her away. Esmeralda leaves, followed by her giggling.

Once alone you sigh deeply and look at your room. You’re just… Okay, you’re exhausted. You can go days without sleep but you don’t actually know if you don’t need sleep, because eventually sheer psychological tension leads you to lie down and embrace a few hours of nothingness anyway. And nothingness sounds real good right about now.

You remove your uniform, then throw yourself on your back in the heap of Hollow-silk sheets that make up your bed, wrap a few layers around you, and close your eyes. Sleep comes quickly, but it comes… Fitfully. You dream - or you’re not sure you dream. Your body twitches, spasms. You feel as if the strange stretching of time you experienced after coming into contact with Barragan’s influence and carrying his crown is retracting now; as if hours are collapsing into seconds, as if your body changes, your muscles quivering with days of marching in the span of moments. But throughout all this you sleep; a fevered sleep, with chaotic, senseless dreams, a sleep that will not let you be sure if any of these strange distortions of time actually happened to you… But sleep still. It is a kind of rest.

In a hollow in the wall, hidden under a rock, the tooth of gold glimmers in the dark.

You have carried one item back from the Butcher King’s fortress with which to decorate your room. Which is it?
[ ]Half of his mask, split length-wise, which you will hang on the wall as a strange kind of sculpture. What fearsome fangs.
[X]New curtains, made out of his black cloak, plus a few accessories besides your coat (scarf, overcoat?). Fetching, but lacking in color.
[ ]His great cleaver knife, the blade broken halfway (it would never have fit otherwise). You planted it in the ground and leave it there, occupying space. Don’t cut yourself.

Tomorrow you’re getting a new assignment, but this time it’s nothing so lofty as working for the Espada. Or, in a sense it is… Except the old Espada, the Privaron. Those made obsolete just like you.
[ ]Dordoni wants something done off the book, and needs someone stealthy to do it. You’ll have to slip under the notice of Las Noches’s shinigami.
[X]Cirucci is dissatisfied with her uniform and got into a spat with Las Noches’s tailor. She needs you to act as a go-between.
[ ]Gantenbainne wants a sparring partner. He promises to go soft and that you could pick up a few tricks from him, but no Numero is touching this with a ten-foot pole.

Chapter Text

You blink open your bleary eyes, your body feeling sluggish and your mind downright muddy.

You wince as you try to get up, head aching, muscles hurting like after a day of intense effort.

No, not quite a day of intense effort… More like months of doing nothing, and a single moment of sudden intense action. A body reawakening. It feels disturbing, and more than this, out of place. You’ve done plenty of effort lately.

You look at your skin and there is something about it that you don’t recognize. Is it… Harder? You flex your hand and it sends a throb of pain in your shoulder, which isn’t normal. Not only were you not injured when you went to bed last “night” (insofar as there is such a thing in Aizen’s fortress), even if you had been you would be healed by now.

You feel strange. Standing up, you walk to the middle of your room and start a simple workout routine, the kind you do every so often despite other Numeros telling you it’s useless in a spirit body. You feel… Well, not stronger. But your innate power is answering differently. It’s been months since you were in that Arrancar body and you’ve been progressively learning how to control your reiatsu, but this…

You pause and understanding dawns on you. As an Arrancar, you’ve always had the same spiritual power as you did as an Adjucha. But this new body, fresh and untested, couldn’t properly handle that energy; much of it was wasted when you expended it, leaving you to feel as if you’d grown weaker overall. But now you feel more control over your latent power, as if several more months had passed and you’d slowly grown accustomed to this new form.

But that didn’t happen. So what could have caused it..?

You don’t have time to ponder these questions right now. Work is awaiting and it’s not like a Numero can call in sick. You get your uniform and cloak.

Of course, few people ever want to meet the Pillar Princess.

The Thunder Witch? You’re not sure which of her nicknames is more in vogue right now. It could be a problem if you use the wrong one.

You do get the Pillar one, though, more than the Thunder one (does she even have lightning powers? You’re not eager to find out). You’re currently walking in her “domain,” one of the forts at the edge of Las Noches, in a vast empty room with orange walls, filled with red pillars of varying size.

That’s the thing with the Privaron. They may be disgraced, granted a special number marking their obsolete status then sent to occupy some useful but inglorious position at the outskirts of Aizen’s domain, but they were still Espada once: when they claim a place and say “this is mine,” small fries like you just nod and say "yes ma’am."

Now where could she possibly…

“Hey, you!” You start, very visibly - it’s a bit shameful, really - and look left and right before remembering where you are and looking up - and there she is, standing on a pillar, arms folded and looking down with a sour look: Cirucci the Thunder Witch/Pillar Princess/Yo-Yo Waltzer (she really doesn’t like this one anymore). A short Arrancar but still taller than you, her black hair falling straight on her shoulders, wearing the simple white uniform of your small army, a conservative white robe going down to her feet.

“What are you doing in my kingdom? Don’t you know I eat little Numeros for breakfast?”

You’re pretty sure this is a joke. Preeeeettyyyy sure. Mostly.

In any case, she’s the one who ordered you to come here. You cough to clear your throat.

“Oh my, are you the one they sent to deal with my problem? What a sorry little thing you are.”

Cirucci clicks her tongue and hops down from her pillar, a dubious look on her face, and you have to keep yourself from instinctively stepping back. Her spiritual pressure this up close is terrible, a kind of prideful, spiteful power, and you tense instinctively, straight as a plank. The Privaron looks you up and down, checking your sword critically, then steps back. You allow yourself to breathe.

“Would you believe that I don’t even have my own Fraccion to handle these things anymore? Shameful, just shameful.” There’s an angry twist to her lips as she takes a few steps back, whirling in the midst of her pillar forest. The dress looks off on her. “I’m ten times the Arrancar this lumbering oaf is, whatever his spiritual pressure is. And he doesn’t even have a Fraccion, just a… Dog. Or whatever. He’s powerful but he’s not regal.”

The turn of the conversation is making you antsy. You were just looking for simple orders, not gossip about people who could kill you in one blow if you mocked them the tiniest bit.

“You’re like a wooden stick, girl,” Cirucci tells you with a frown. “It’s making me uneasy.”

You bow apologetically and try to relax your posture. You succeed only moderately.

“In any case this won’t do. I may no longer be an Espada, but I am still of their kin. We’re nobility and I won’t be treated like some kind of rank-and-file. You understand that, right?”

You’re not sure you can, but you nonetheless nod as enthusiastically as you can.

“Good! Now off you go,” Cirucci says, waving her hand in a gesture of dismissal. She then leaps up several yards in the air and gracefully falls sitting on one of the lower pillars - her dress once again folding badly and damaging the effect.

After a few seconds she looks down and sees you, and gives a puzzled frown.

“What are you doing still here?”

She didn’t actually tell you what your mission was. You stumble around that fact, trying to express it as politely as you can, but then she cuts you off.

“That’s just like my staff, to forget that kind of details. What am I supposed to do, explain myself again to the help? Pah!”

She hops from the pillar again - you swallow nervously at the renewed pressure - and makes a flowing motion of her hands that encompasses her dress from the top on down.

“This is bad. Right? I look like a nun.” She chuckles at her own joke, then pauses. “Did they still have nuns when you died? I didn’t keep up.”

You’re pretty sure they did, although all that is a bit blurry now.

“Anyway, I’ve been trying to get a proper dress out of this idiot for weeks now, but apparently I’m a secondary concern now. Because clearly it takes a month to carve out that living asparagus’s moon-collar. Is it a moon? I first I thought it was like, a saintly halo or something, but he’s clearly no saint.”

Is she trash-talking Nnoitra Gilger? You would like to be somewhere else right now.

“Anyway, you don’t look like you have much fashion sense. No offense, darling, but full Hollow mask on an Arrancar is just tacky. So I won’t bore you with the details; I gave that damned talior all the indications. You just have to go to him and tell him that he needs to hurry himself up. There’s a princess waiting.”

...does she think you got to choose how much of your Hollow mask you kept when you transformed? No, never mind that, it’s not important. You nod rapidly, give her a bow and anxiously look at the exit.

“When you come back I’ll teach you how to do a proper curtsey,” Cirucci says offhandedly. “This isn’t cutting it. Now go!” She adds with the same quick, wavy hand gesture. You are all too happy to comply.

“I can’t believe you don’t know where to find the tailor of Las Noches. How did you even get your current uniform?”

You don’t answer that. You take a hurt expression, but Esmeralda can’t see your face behind your mask, so it loses some of its effect. She laughs.

“Of course I remember! I went and fetched it for you! Well, that’s what you get for not doing things your own self. Now stop complaining and follow along.”

You weren’t even complaining. Not loudly, anyway. And you were already following her, although you’re not sure she’s not stringing you along; you’re in the underside of Las Noches, descending a long flight of stairs in a grey stone underground.

“Where’d you get that new cape, anyway?” Esmeralda asks. “I remembered you liking grey better than black. It looks a lot like…” She pauses, her eyes widening a bit. “Did you..?”

It’s a cloak, not a cape, which she knows and is teasing you about. And you don’t like to talk about it. Esmeralda shakes her head.

“Suit yourself. We’re almost there anyway…”

As she speaks, you turn a final corner of the stairs and come into a wide room, all heavy grey stone lit by odd round stone that seem to perfectly imitate the color of the sun.

And it is full of clothes. That’s the first thing you notice: glass display cases all along the walls, coat-hangers, sewing tables, all filled with uniforms. Some are stored and displayed like prized possessions (you think you recognize the rather striking cut of Aizen’s shinigami-inspired kimono-and-jacket combo), others are heaped upon a table in a disarray of models all subtly different from each other (ten different takes on the same bare-bellied, high-collared jacket).

There is a sound of cutting, sewing, and humming, and a strong spiritual pressure in the room; you hesitate to enter, but Esmeralda smiles defiantly and steps forward. You’re not sure how she does it; she’s definitely not a combat-type, and her own spiritual pressure is rather weak (weaker than your own, you think, although you wouldn’t bluntly tell her that), but she never seems bothered by the proximity of powerful Arrancars. You follow after her, trying to shrug off the disquieting sense of pressure in the room and looking around you for that “tailor.”

As you take a few steps inside, the sounds of working stop, sending a shiver down your back. Esmeralda stops, and motions for you to do the same; but then your eye catches something. A beautiful split coat, its two folds patterned like wings, like your old one but put together by a professional. You reach out to it…

“What are you doing in my workshop? Hey, don’t touch that!”

You start and back away, looking frantically around you until your eyes rest on a man with long, unruly brown hair, staring at you suspiciously. He is tall and slender, wearing something like a patchwork made out of a dozen discarded attempts at the standard Arrancar uniform sewn together, and what remains of his Hollow mask forms a kind of circle around his left eye, like a monocle without its glass. He steps from behind a display case, and you see that he is carrying a zanpakuto - in the form of a great pair of scissors strapped to his back.

“What do you little ones want?” He asks a bit more politely now that you aren’t threatening to touch what is undoubtedly his creation. But before either of you can answer his eyes stop on you and he stares aghast.

“My god, you’re a disaster. What’s that cloak? Did you cut it yourself? With your own sword, I bet.”

You look dejected. You thought your cloak was pretty nice. Sure, it’s not wing-like, but it’s a trophy, and-

“Stop fidgeting. Look at me.” And he’s upon you, one finger raising your chin to stare him in the eye. Up close the spiritual pressure is intoxicating, and you clutch your fists to stop your hands from shaking. “The fabric is good. You took it from a Gillian, didn’t you? And not one of the mindless ones we used for food, either. A sentient, powerful one. The cloth is still infused with his reiatsu.”

He steps back and you inhale sharply. Behind you, Esmeralda bites her lip, a look you can’t quite decipher on her face. The tailor pushes your cloak aside, letting it fall over your shoulder, and sees…

“What’s that. Did you get my beautiful uniform cut? Is this why you’re here, to ask for a spare? That isn’t worth my time! Not for a Numero!”

You shake your head frantically. You’d never bother a powerful, important Arrancar for that kind of personal business.

“Aaah, so it is the cloak. Nice thinking. Yes, with such a gift I could put together a nifty little ensemble… Better if you had more, of course…”

Esmeralda steps forward, smiling. “Alphonse, she’s here for one of the Privaron.”

“That little brat?” The tailor exclaims, eyes wide. “Do you have any idea how hard she’s been working me?” Without saying anything further he turns suddenly and walks off. You give Esmeralda a puzzled look and she points to him with her chin, so you follow awkwardly.

“First she tells me, ‘I need it puffier.’ So I make this!” He says, waving to his right at what looks like an intricate dress, fitting of a noblewoman of centuries ago, and now thrown haphazardly onto a table. “She sends it back, saying ‘no, shorter.’ So I make this!” He points to a white knee-length skirt of a kind you’ve never seen but would believe was likely very fashionable once. “But then she says, ‘where are the stockings? Where is the lace? I need it sexier!’”

The tailor snaps around, staring you in the face with his wide eyes, and you freeze.

“What’s ‘sexy?’ I don’t even know the word! I ask for more details. She tells me, ‘it’s a gothic style.’ So obviously I think, ‘ah! I have it!’ and produce this!” He says, dramatically showing a simple tunic held with a geometric golden brooch and covered in a cape. “She tells me, ‘not that kind of goth!’ So obviously, keeping my complaints of historical accuracy to myself, I deliver!” At this point he shows you a thick, multilayered robe, decorated with fleur-de-lys patterns and a long scarf wrapped around the space where the head would be to cover hair and neck.

“And still she complains! She accuses me of not keeping up with the times! What times? Does she have any idea how long I’ve been in Hueco Mundo? I used to be in the employ of Barragan himself! I-follow-Hollow-fashion,” Alphonse says, thumping his chest with a thumb. “And she wants make up! And something that can make her hair curl! I’m a tailor, not a make-up artist!”

You try very hard not to wince - you’re pretty sure he would feel it even under the mask - and instead just nod rapidly along with whatever he says, trying to keep prepared for whenever his outburst will put you in danger and you’ll have to run; but instead Alphonse stops, visibly spent, and closes and opens his hands reflexively.

When there’s been a few moments of silence, you swallow and open your mouth. Then you close it. You raise a hand and the tailor stares at you blankly.

“Right. Your mission. Well, did she give you a comprehensive, detailed description of the exact kind of uniform she wants?”

Not exactly as such, no. Of course, a very reasonable, very professional, very unconcerned-with-their-own-life Numero would have asked for that, but by the end you were getting somewhat worried that if you stayed any longer you would start hearing some kind of criticism of the bathroom habits of the shinigami, or the obsession of Number 6 with keeping his chest bare, and then you would be struck dead out of nowhere on your way to the tailor.

“Well, it’s no use then.” Alphonse makes a gesture like flicking dust off the air. “You’re gonna have to go into the living world and bring me back enough data that I know what the hell a ‘gothic lolita’ is. ”

You blink.

“It’ll be completely illegal, of course. I can’t very well tell lord Aizen, 'I need to break confinement so that one of the pariah can get the exact clothes she wants.' We’ll have to keep it to ourselves. But it’s that or you go back and get me what I haven’t been able to get all this time.

Well then.

[X]Illegally go into the living world to steal clothes.
[ ]Go back to Cirucci and risk her wrath to get an exact description of the style of clothes she wants.

Chapter Text

“A wise decision,” Alphonse says with a nod. “I have been informed of a place within the living world which should hold the key to Cirucci’s desires, a center of fashion. I have no doubt that style has only grown more refined in the decades since I last set foot there.”

“Okay, back up a bit,” Esmeralda intervenes. “How are you going to send her to the living world without anyone noticing? I mean, I’ve seen her Descorrer. No offense, Nemo, but it’s a bit… Loud. And slow.”

“A fair point. Although given her lack of hesitation, I would wager this isn’t the first time our friend does this sort of thing, is it?”

You have the good manner of looking down and blushing.

“Well, be that as it may. I have just the trick,” Alphonse adds, drawing the pair of giant scissors from his back. “Now I just need the right measurements…” He frowns, touching the air with one hand, then licks his finger and passes it through the air as if brushing the outline of a door. “Yes, perfect.”

The tailor takes a step back and opens his scissors, and with a sudden motion you can barely follow starts cutting at nothing, the great blades clicking madly as he draws an oval outline… And when he stops, the air in front of you falls back, like a piece of cardboard cutout, and you are staring at an ominous, buzzing blackness.


“Take this.” Alphonse tosses you an object, which you catch in the air; it is a tiny bell. “Ring it when you need to come back, and I’ll cut you a way. Oh, and this too!” He adds, grabbing a pile of paper sheets and a pencil and pushing them in your hands. “For the notes.”

You stare dubiously at the menacing hole in the world, only to feel a sudden push as someone kicks your behind. You turn on your heels outraged, and Esmeralda is grinning at you - but there’s an edge to it, the smile isn’t quite sincere.

“You should be glad you get to abscond in the living world when I get stuck here! Now go, and don’t let yourself be caught by some shinigami or something, all right?” She folds her arms. “Or else I’ll have to look for someone else to do that job!”

You sigh, turn back and step towards the opening, Alphonse nodding encouragingly. You cross the threshold, feeling the air go cold on your skin...

“Be safe!” Esmeralda calls out, and you turn to wave a goodbye, but the hole is already snapping close.

Well. No way to go but forward.

You walk in darkness, a thin shroud of your own spiritual energy protecting you from the dangerous influence of the void between worlds. You take cautious steps, focusing your energy to form a thin platform of light beneath your feet, and you walk there one step at a time. Darkness surrounds you but it is not empty; it swirls, buzzes, hums and moans. You are not quite sure of the nature of this place, and frankly you don’t wish to find out more. You keep your head down, tighten your cloak, and quicken your step, until there is light ahead of you, and then…

...the last time you came into the living world, it was at night.

You had forgotten what a crowd was.

It overwhelms you at first, almost completely. Before you can even see the street or the building you see a moving mass, a shapeless cohort, and you hear it and smell it too, a dizzying overload of the senses.

You step back - and for a moment you’re about to fall back into the hole in the world, but it snaps shut behind you and you just stumble backwards until you hit a wall. Putting both hands on the concrete for support, you breathe slowly in and out.

No one can see you. No one can see you. You hang on to that fact as you pull yourself together.

This isn’t a shapeless cohort, you realize now. These are individual people, which is in its own way even more maddening. Clothes, faces, speech, manner of walking all different, all moving towards their own destination. Groups of young girls chatting lively. Men and women in suits walking at a fast pace towards their place of work. Young men taunting and boasting as they walk slowly, the stroll itself more important than wherever they’re going. Women in strange costumes advertising stranger establishments. Couples admiring things trapped behind glass but moving on without buying them. It’s all too much. Your world is smaller than a hundred people. You can’t integrate all these individualities into it.

You close your eyes, breathe in and out, and open them again.

You see a shapeless cohort distinguished largely by details of clothes and colors. You relax. You’re standing on a streetwalk, leaning against a wall, people passing before you. When you look up you see bright, colorful signs in Japanese, decorated arches in garish colors, and as your eyes scan the crowd you think you spot the place of which Alphonse was talking; a wide street, even more crowded than the one on which you’re on, filled to saturation with signs and pictures and illustrations, hundreds of young people pressing in-between the buildings on each side. You understand the words you’re reading, but lack any context for them, and so you look down from the signs before they overload you again.

You take in a sharp breath and step into the street. At first you worry that the crowd will push and shove you heedless of your presence, but you pass through them without trouble. You relax a little more.

A lot of the people around you are dressed… You suppose it’s “normally,” although you’re not up to date with the dress code of the living world; but they are simple, practical clothing in simple colors. But a lot of them are instead wearing strange, colorful habits; their hair are dyed bright in blues or pinks or reds that match the colors of their skirts or boots or stockings. Others are dressed more somberly, but seem anachronistic; you see at least one young man in a top hat and long black coat and… You’re getting overwhelmed again.

This is proving a more difficult mission than you thought. But you are one of lord Aizen’s Arrancars, and you will power through.

You draw your eye away from the people and towards the windows of the many, many shops in this street. Most of them are full of clothes put on dazzling displays, but you’re not sure what you are looking for. You pass by those which look ordinary (although you occasionally take awkward, standing-up-and-writing-on-paper-in-the-street notes when you find something you like, even though chances are it won’t be much use to you).

You might or might not have dashed through a window to grab a nifty little scarf. No one can prove anything.

After a while you start specifically following those groups of girls which have colorful clothes that could be described as all of “puffy,” “short,” and featuring “lace” and “stockings,” going from Alphonse’s rundown. This eventually leads you to a shop in which an oppressive number of such girls are browsing through aisles of blouses and puffy skirts and lacy shirts and jackets with many shiny buttons, but this one is too colorful to really match what you understand of Cirucci; you jot down a few quick notes and leave.

...then you go back and take a really nice tie you spotted inside, then leave again.

Your meandering steps eventually lead you to a different shop. Smaller, with a more.. Rustic atmosphere, with deliberately dimmer lighting and darker styles of clothes. You look around and there it is, written amidst a thousand other descriptors you don’t really get; “gothic lolita.” You think you’ve hit the jackpot. You sit down on top of a pile of clothes and quickly start scribbling sketches of what you’re seeing everywhere, complementing them with written notes describing texture and fabric and common ensembles.

Then you decide that the notes just won’t do. You hop off your promontory and start roaming through the aisles, finger brushing the clothes, and here and there you stop, take an article and put it on your arm. You take a pair of gloves, a pair of stockings, a dress you like - no, which you think Cirucci will like - and then a nice pair of boots with platform-like soles that you definitely wouldn’t wear but which seems to compliment the style she wants. All around you people are moving, mostly girls, admiring and taking things in turn, talking to each other, but you don’t really listen to them; the moment you grab something off the shelves it becomes as invisible as you are, and your larceny goes unnoticed.

“Look at that one,” whispers a voice. “The mask is a little bit overdoing it, don’t you think? Even in a place like this… Although the horns are a bit cute.”

There was more, wasn’t it? You were supposed to grab things other than clothes. She wanted something to curl her hair, but you don’t know how to do that; there seems to be some kind of unholy burning contraption designed for it but it seems to use a power source native to the living world so you don’t know if it’s worth taking. There’s make-up, though; she’ll probably like the violet tones… You’re not sure what any of this is for, though. “Mascara”? Going by the advertising it’s something for the eye, probably hell to put behind your mask and no one would see it anyway, unless they’re staring into your eyes...

“Shukuro! Shukuro, I think she’s not a patron! Look, she’s just grabbing lipstick and putting it on and no one is reacting! I think she’s invisible!”

“How perspicacious of you.”

Cirucci will want that dark violet or that black, you think. And you’re definitely not here to steal things for yourself, absolutely not. But if you were, you would think that this silvery grey would look really nice on you, or perhaps that dark blue. You should take it, just so you have a reference point when you have the opportunity to legitimately acquire makeup.

“Shukuro, I think she’s a ghost. With a mask? Does that make her a Hollow? But Hollows don’t look human…”

You freeze, the words finally reaching your brain. You put down the lipstick. You put one hand over your gigantic heap of clothes and makeup implements. You slowly turn.

You are staring at a young girl with two long, magenta pigtails, a white hat and a black-and-white dress that is a more subdued variant of the very same style you are currently browsing for. Next to her stands a tall, slender man with wavy black hair, a bored look on his face and a book in his hand, closed with a bookmark at whatever page the girl interrupted him to draw his attention.

Neither of them are shinigami. Both of them are staring straight at you.

You blink.

The girl blinks.

The man stares indifferently.

“I think she’s cute,” the girl says.

[X]Hahahaha hello earth mediums I am of course a normal earth spirit, not a monster at all, this mask is just a harmless fashion statement
[ ]FEAR ME PUNY HUMANS FOR I AM THE MIGHTY HOLLOW 
[ ]RUN
-[ ]Don’t drop the fashionable clothes and notes and makeup, whatever you do, by god don’t drop them
-[ ]ALL IS LOST, THE SHIP IS SUNK, JUST THROW THE CLOTHES EVERYWHERE AS A DISTRACTION
--[ ]Take to the rooftops! If they can follow you you won’t have much cover but you’ll be able to just dash at full speed.
--[ ]Take to the streets! Lose them in the crowd and in the bending alleys!

Chapter Text

Every instinct screams at you to flee, to drop whatever you can't sling over your shoulder and make a break for it. Only the lights and sounds of your unfamiliar surroundings slow this immediate flight response, as you freeze with indecision. Then your situation sinks in. You're not in Las Noches, a small fish in a big pond. You're not even in the wilds of Hueco Mundo, where a swarm of gillian or ornery adjuchas could bring you down if you're not careful. You're in the land of the living. These two humans may be able to see you, but they're certainly no threat.

...she just called you cute?

Well, that's a good sign, you decide, preening ever so slightly. After all, you came to the land of the living to learn how to be cute! More or less.

"Aw, that's super sweet!" The girl's probably young for a human, though she's still notably taller than you. "Is that, like, your last wish as a ghost or something? Well, you came to the right place, cutiebug. Riruka Dokugamine is the expert on cute!" She tosses back one magenta ponytail and points with a shiny jade fingernail, grinning. It's only years of surviving as a Hollow which let you notice something distinctly... predatory, about the expression.

Before you can take that into account, with speed like a sonido, she's upon you.

“The first thing we gotta do,” she says, her grip an iron vice on your arm, “is get you out of this formless white thing. Who dressed you up, a military tailor?”

Before you have time to fully reconsider the choices that led you on this path, Riruka drags you into the backroom of the store and shoves you past a curtain into a fitting both before stepping in with you. Ripping the heap of clothes out of your hands, she tosses them through the booth, her eyes scanning them with the disturbing intensity of a hunting cat.

“You’re going too hard too fast, cutiebug,” she says shaking her head and clicking her tongue. “All this frills-and-lace stuff is great but you need to pace yourself when learning the ways of adorableness! You just stay there while I go fetch a few things,” she adds dashing out of the booth.

You blink, your mind slowly processing what just happened. This girl is actually pretty scary - you could just step through the wall and go find safety and solitude somewhere else… But you can’t take the clothes with you so! You can’t fail in your mission.

Also, she did promise to teach you how to be cute. You bite your lip in deep thinking, but before you can come to a satisfactory decision the curtain is blowing up and Riruka is stepping back in, shoving clothes into your hands.

“Okay, try this blue one,” she says, and you start rummaging through what she gave you - there are at least three blue garments in there - “The dress, silly!” Right, there is something resembling a dress among them, which you take and hold up in front of you. You’re at a pain to describe it, although it looks pretty. Narrow? Is narrow a word in fashion?

“Okay, I’m stepping out now, you call me when you’re done.” Riruka whips the curtain behind her and, dreading her wrath, you hurry to remove your uniform and put on the dress, feeling very awkward at the sensation - or lack of sensation - of having nothing covering your legs. Then you reach out of the booth to wave your hand and Riruka steps back in.

She eyes you up and down, a green fingernail on her chin and a critical look on her face.

“Nah. It doesn’t go with your hair color and your white mask. Can you remove that?”

You shake your head frantically. That would be a bad idea. It’s, uh, something about your face. It’s not like it’s part of you or anything, hahaha, that’d be silly, but you have, uh, disfigurements.

“Aaaw, that’s so sad,” Riruka says with a genuinely pained look on her face. “But that also means the red one won’t fit either.” Looking down, you don’t see anything in what she gave you that would be recognizable as ‘red.’ Pink, maybe? You’re not sure by which arcane rules Riruka’s mind abides.

“So the color scheme on your outfit was the right one, it was just the cut that was awful. Okay, okay, I can work with that. Be-err-bee!” She says, the curtain already fluttering in her wake.

...what are you supposed to do with all the other clothes she gave you but isn’t paying attention to anymore..?

Maybe you could try them on yourself. You’ve never worn gloves before, but in your own selection meant for Cirucci there are some very long ones that go all the way across the upper arm. You like things that cover your skin (and you’re not too keen on exploring why that is), so you pull one over your right hand and flex your fingers… Yes, this is nice.

The curtain whips aside and Riruka is back, this time her eyes wide and gleaming with a greed not unlike that of a fairy tale dragon.

“I found you a haaaaaat!” She says, her voice positively buzzing with excitement. “Okay, hold still, come here.” She pulls your arms, sets your shoulders, taps your back until you straighten up and finally produces a little grey bonnet that she sets at the back of your head, placed just so as to not catch on your horns. Then before you can probe at the bizarre thing on your head, she whips something around your left horn, and… is that a ribbon?

“You are tote adorbz,” Riruka says, grinning to her ears. “Okay, okay, I got distracted, and… Oh, did you try one of the gloves? I think it fits you. We should go for that look. Maybe a sleeveless outfit to enhance them..?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re walking out of that store.

An hour later, you’re walking out of the next store. Your arms are filled with bags full of clothes (and your precious notes), and Riruka pats you on the back.

“You’re so strong, lifting all this by yourself!”

You are also wearing the strangest outfit you’ve ever worn - but then again you had never worn anything other than Arrancar clothes before today. The sleeveless, dark blue dress with its white fold and tassels and frilled white hem is something you will likely never be allowed to wear in Las Noches, but you know you will prize it in private; and the gloves and stockings that go with it allow you to feel covered enough to be safe.

“You know,” says the tall, silent man that has been accompanying you all this time, “I thought we were going to buy you clothes, Riruka.”

“Never mind that, I can always do it some other day! It’s not often that you meet a spirit looking to be cute!”

“And you’re lucky there is someone else to pay for all this.”

“Blah blah blah, is all I hear you say. Okay, now that you have a cute outfit, you need the next step.”

The next… step? What’s there beyond clothes?

“Cute food! I need to pose you in front of an ice cream milkshake and… Here, come here,” Riruka says dragging you by the arm again and authoritatively forcing you into a seat. “Riiight back,” she says flowing away.

You put your hands in your lap and very carefully don’t move. You seem to be outside some kind of restaurant. It’s a… Terrasse? You think?

Your eyes wander over to the man, still plunged in his book, who eventually relents and takes a seat at the same table and puts down his thick volume.

“So. What are you?” He asks, a faint smile on his lips.

You’re not sure what to answer; you’re just a spirit. You were going to steal clothes, which yes, was maybe a bit bad, but ghosts don’t really have money, so…

“Plusses don’t have masks,” he says in a neutral tone. Flicking the pages of his book, he draws out a bookmark and puts it on the cover.

You tense and a shiver runs down your back.

'Plus' is a Soul Society term, you're pretty sure. Mortal mediums aren’t supposed to use it, you’ve been told they think of souls as “ghosts” or “spirits” or “shades” or confuse them for gods or a dozen things besides. But no, he’s not a shinigami, the word must have just seeped into a wider population somehow, right?

The man brushes his bookmark - isn’t he going to lose his page, having removed it from the book? - and you feel a pressure slowly rising. A reiatsu emanating from him…

“And it’s not just that. You have a sword. A very odd-looking one.”

You blink, the very expression of surprise. What’s he talking about?

“When we saw you you were carrying the clothes in a way that hid it from view. Then when Riruka dragged you into the fitting booth, you took it out, and presumably hid it in that stack of clothes… Then later, in these very bags at your feet. I only caught a glance of it, and was nearly fooled as Riruka was.”

Aaaah… So he’s noticed that. That’s kind of awkward. You scratch your hair, trying on a cool, ain’t-no-big-deal smile. The man - Shukuro, the girl called him? - smiles right back, his hands on the bookmark.

“You know, it’s all right if you don’t want to answer. I can get these answers myself… Indeed, it won’t be violent or even hurtful. You’ll be glad you told me.”

His reiatsu is rising. Your hand reflexively inches towards the bag in which you hid your sword, but it’s wrapped in a dress. You’ll have to grab the bag, take off with Sonido, pull the sword while on the move, fire off a Bala if he tries to pursue…

“What are you two chatting about?” Riruka asks, putting two very tall and beautiful glasses on the table. They are filled with some kind of incredible blending of creams and biscuits you don’t even know assembled in an edifice of stunning craftsmanship, and your guard relaxes for a second while Shukuro reclines in his chair, tapping the edge of his book with his bookmark.

“And I don’t warrant a treat?” he asks, prompting Riruka to scoff derisively.

“You don’t deserve cute food. Okay, cutiebug, you just stand there… No, put your hands on the table, hold the glass, yes that’s right, now put your mouth on the straw, okay, look at me, no, wider, perfect!” She snaps out some kind of electronic device and, grinning, looks at you through it and presses a button.

Then she looks outraged, swears loudly and tosses the device to the ground.

“Forgot you couldn’t take picture of ghosts?” the man asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“Shaddap!” Riruka said, falling into her chair with crossed arms and a sulking look. You glance at the broken device - it seems valuable, and she destroyed it just out of a small frustration? But before you can say anything she looks at it, snaps her fingers, and the thing puts itself back together before flying into her hand. She pockets it and makes an odd shape with her mouth; the cream and milk of the confection slowly flow upwards into her mouth.

That’s not a medium power.

“Anyway, I had Kougo on the phone while I was waiting. He told us we were late. I told him about meeting our new friend.”

“And what did he say?”

“That we weren’t supposed to mess with spirits. That it might draw attention to us. That we should keep our activities mundane until we do the Thing.”

Shukuro shrugs and opens his book again, sliding the bookmark back between the pages. Soon he is absorbed in his reading again.

“It’s too bad,” Riruka sighs, “I wish I could have taken you to our bar and shown you my Dollhouse. But it can’t be helped. Will you be fine on your own with all these clothes?”

You nod enthusiastically.

“Where do you live, actually? Can’t be too far from here.”

You wave your hand evasively. Here and there.

“Are you homeless?!” Riruka says, slamming her hands on the table and leaning over with wide eyes. “I can’t allow that!”

No, no, you’re not homeless! You hurry to explain that you just don’t have one particular place. You have a squat, though, a nice abandoned building you’ve decorated with, hm, things.

“You’ll have to show me someday,” Riruka says with a nod approving of her own proposition.

You definitely will, except you won’t, because she would certainly die, but you don’t tell her that.

“If you ever feel too lonely though, or you have a problem with your squat, you can come to me!” She proudly points her thumb at her own chest. “I’ll get you set up in a nice comfortable home full of cute things!”

“I’m impressed at how simultaneously accurate yet misleading that statement is,” her friend says turning a page of his book.

“Hush you. Well, Kougo sounded pretty annoyed, so I suppose we have to get back now,” she says with irritation. Grabbing her spoon, she starts digging into her ice cream with relentless voracity.

“We should have started getting back the moment you had a call. We were already late then.” Despite his words, Shukuro doesn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry, and is indeed still reading.

“If we were late then, it doesn’t matter how soon we leave, we’ll still be late. That’s basic logic! Anyway, enjoy your ice cream, cutiebug, we have to bolt off!” She adds, standing up in front of an empty glass and tossing some money into a little cup. “Seeya!”

You wave your hand back at her, and soon she’s gone, leaving you alone with the milkshake.

Delicious delicious milkshake.

It takes you a lot longer than the girl to finish it, but when you do, you feel deeply, deeply satisfied with your life. But for you too it is time to get back. You fetch the bell in your pocket, hold it with an extended arm, and ring it several times. After a few seconds the air in front of you shimmers… And falls forward like a cardboard cutout, again.

Sighing with resignation at the prospect of crossing between worlds, you grab your many bags and step into the darkness. The less said of the trip back the better; but at least the comfort of ice cream, biscuits and milkshake in your belly helps fend off the unpleasantness of the trip.

Finally you step back into Alphonse’s workshop, blinking your eyes at the dim lights compared to the bright day of the living world.

Two people are looking straight at you, whose faces you progressively resolve into that of Alphonse and Esmeralda, staring with an odd expression..?

“oh my god she’s adorable,” Esmeralda whispers. You flush noticeably.

“I was going to say something about direct orders and not using mission time for personal gratification and punishment but Heavens be damned this is a good look,” Alphonse mutters.

“Who put this together for you? Don’t lie to me, you’ve never dressed up before, I know this someone else!”

You shuffle your feet awkwardly. It’s probably not a good idea to tell them about the humans, you’re not supposed to let anyone see you; even if at the end of the day they didn’t know what you were…

Struck by sudden cleverness you thrust one of your shopping bags in Alphonse’s hands.

“Don’t try to distract us! Who’s your new friend-” Esmeralda says huffily, but Alphonse is busy opening the bag and taking the clothes inside.

“Oh. Oooh. So that’s what she meant. How is this ‘gothic’? Never mind. I know what I’m doing now.”

Alphonse puts down the clothes and steps back from it; behind him you see Esmeralda’s eyes widen, and she shoos you with her hand; you take the hint and step back…

“Snip and sew, Alta Costura.”

The rush of reiatsu is blinding. Indoors there is no dust to be raised by the shockwave of spiritual pressure, and so you see that light unobstructed, the wave billowing your clothes and pressing harsh on your limbs.

Alphonse, or the thing that was Alphonse, stands before you transformed. A large, slender, insectile creature, half-spider and half-wasp, shimmering wings draped over his abdomen like a bride’s coiffe, ten legs of which only four support his body while six jut forward, ending in fingers with too many joints, scissor blades and needles and measuring implements, all disturbingly organic; only his chest and head remain the same.

He moves forward in a blur of motion, pulling long pieces of white and black cloth of a dozen different matters and sizes, and with dizzying speed his six arms tear it apart and put it back together, sounds of slicing filling the room, scraps of fabric spilling from the rush of limbs like confetti, until finally he stops.

In his many hands he holds a dress that is at once recognizable as an Arrancar uniform, and a lolita-styled dress with lace and puffiness and stockings and great platformed boots and long white gloves. Two strange, puffy flaps protrude from the back, like stunted wings.

“Yes,” Alphonse says to himself, “this will be perfect.”

He delicately lays down the completed outfit on a table,

and turns towards you.

“Now. Your black Gillian cloak. Where is it?”

Your legs are shaking. You step back against the walls, eyes wide, Alphonse’s spiritual pressure crushing your lungs and keeping you from saying a sound. Your back touches the stone and with one shaking hand you point to the shopping bag in which you folded the black fabric of your cloak and the piece you were going to use as a scarf…

“Hold still,” Alphone says, his eyes gleaming terrible, his body stepping closer to you and squishing you against the stone without even touching you. “I need to fit it precisely for this to work.”

And then the arms are upon you.

Alphonse is not the most personable of tailors, but he’s skilled at his job. Once this ordeal is done, you’ll find yourself with a nice new article made out of the cloak of a Gillian, which is less a piece of fabric so much as it is a part of their own selves. This will grant you a neat little benefit; pick your choice.

[ ]The Shedding Cloak. Infused with reiatsu, the cloak reflexively expands that energy outwards when another form of spiritual energy strikes it. This allows it to act as “ablative armor” against an energy attack, fraying its own fabric to reduce their damage. The cloak taps into your own reiryoku to reweave itself over the course of a few hours.

[X]The King’s Veil. Designed as a frame which captures reiryoku and gives it the texture and feeling of Gillian reiatsu, this scarf can be pulled up to cover the face and allow its wearer to mask their energy as being that of a Gillian, either strong or weak and mindless. This allows them to pass among them unharmed, as well as to order them with the authority of a sentient Gillian. May also let one pass as weaker among very powerful beings.

[ ]The Butcher’s Gullet. An overcoat made out of subtly-layered clothes, its capacity is on par with the full robe of a Menos Grande. Though the fabric looks smooth, it’s enough to pinch it to reveal seemingly endless pockets in which items disappear without a trace - although their size is limited by that of the opening.

[ ]The Belt of Lashing Tongues. A belt made out of many strands of woven black fabric, it can be rolled down into an elegant black skirt. More importantly, its strands can part as great black ribbons which can extend several yards to act at a distance, snatching and holding items or pushing objects. They lack the strength to grapple powerful opponents.

[ ]The Cook’s Shroud. A great cape which preserves anything that is fully wrapped in it, preventing from deteriorating or decaying. A great asset to a butcher wanting to preserve his food - or to a healer wanting to keep a dying person alive until they get to the operating table. Has very little use as a worn outfit, however, although if you wrapped yourself in it you could pass for dead.

Chapter Text

You spend a few seconds paralyzed in dread as blades and needles race over your skin, threatening to cut you at a moment’s notice. Then Alphonse steps back, looking at you critically, and nods. Your hands touch your neck, where a rich black cloth is now folded elegantly around your neck, one side falling across your chest.

“A scarf, yes. I had to collapse much of the material together and drain some of the lingering energy to increase flavor over intensity. Now you could pass as a Gillian.”

You blink. You’re not sure why you would want to pass as a Gillian, but you appreciate the gesture, you suppose..?

“Well, I did it more for the challenge than for practical applications, to tell the truth,” Alphonse says shrugging with three shoulders at once. “But I’m sure it’ll find use. To make them ignore you, or to appear stronger than you actually are and intimidate an enemy…”

You scratch your head, not sure if it’s a good idea to push the topic.

“She killed a Gillian under Barragan’s orders,” Esmeralda says behind Alphonse. Her eyes are narrowed in thought, her posture a little standoffish. “So you must be an Adjucha, aren’t you?”

You nod slowly. You’re not sure why this seems to be making Esmeralda upset. You were getting along well so far.

“Oh, is that right? Such a tiny thing, I’d never have thought…” Alphone probes you with a scissor-hand, and you give under the push, stepping back. “You might be an Adjucha but you behave like a base Hollow, girl.”

You look at him sullenly; his spiritual pressure is still like a swarm of spiders crawling upon your skin. You act like a base Hollow because, compared to the lords of Las Noches, you might as well be. There’s no point comparing power-levels among bottom-feeders like yourselves just to satisfy empty pride.

“That’s a distinctly less adorable outlook than your outfit warrants,” Alphonse says with a sigh. His massive body steps away from the center of the room, and he motions to Cirucci’s new outfit with one hand, the door with another, and you with another one. “Go now, fulfill your mission. And if you have more of this Gillian fabric, bring them to me. I’ll make something for the Espada with them, and I’m sure you’ll be rewarded for that service.”

You very much don’t think you will, but you still nod politely, take the new uniform and put it in one of your bags, then head for the stairs. Esmeralda follows in your footsteps, looking grim, which in turn makes your throat tight and your shoulders heavy.

You wouldn’t call her a “friend.” You’re afraid of using that word after what happened with… What happened the last time. But she’s never been mean to you, only playful at worst, and she’s company. Company you enjoy.

Halfway up the stairs Esmeralda stops, and not hearing her footsteps anymore you stop in turn and look at her. She’s chewing her lip, one arm folded over her chest.

“It was true, then? You killed an awakened Gillian all by yourself? You’re… You’re an Adjucha?”

You nod, not sure what this is about. Didn’t she know that already? You’ve never really exerted your powers in front of her but she must still have sensed your reiatsu.

“I can’t,” she says.

Well, that’s a blow. You knew your reiatsu was weak, but…

“I don’t mean I can’t sense your reiatsu. I mean I can’t sense any reiatsu, period.”

You blink, not sure what to say to that.

Esmeralda flicks a lock of hair over her ear, frowning, not looking straight at you.

“When Lord Aizen decided he needed a medic, he didn’t have any powerful Menos Grande with special skills around to suit that role, so he just decided that a normal Hollow with the right skills would do the job. But such a Hollow would be crushed by the powerful reiatsu of the Espada, which they would be liable to release unwittingly if they were in pain, even while being operated upon; this could kill the medic while she… While they were working. So, ah, Lord Aizen took a Hollow, and modified the Arrancarization process to… customize them."

She scratches the skin of her folded arm, and you think you can see it shake. Her eyes stare obstinately at the dull grey walls.

"That is, he removed their reikaku, their ability to sense reiatsu. Even the most simple human has the faintest ability to sense spiritual energy, but this Arrancar would be utterly blind in her mind’s eye. With the power drawn from removing such an important ability, Lord Aizen fashioned a spiritual carapace that would protect that Arrancar from the physical effects of otherly potent pressure. And so… Such an Arrancar, once the process was perfected…" Her voice is slowing a bit, as if the words were hard to put together. "...she could not feel the terror and awe of the Espada when looking at them, and her body would be shielded against all but the most terrible of spiritual pressures. This allowed her to become Las Noches’s medic, with the cost only being her ability to ever again feel the light of the spirit in her mind, to ever see anything beyond the walls of her fortress... And since she could talk to and be in the presence of the Espada without issue, and there was not a daily need of her medical skills, they ended up making her an… Informal manager of sorts, taking their orders and carrying them to the right Numeros.”

You look at Esmeralda, unsure what to say. She smiles feebly, her eyes looking in your general direction - but still not at you.

“I guess I always thought we were alike. I could never sense your energy, but I could see you kept to yourself, you were shy and discreet, so I thought we were both the same, simple Hollows made into errand girls. But… You’re an Adjucha. You’re far, far more powerful than I’ll ever be. Which I guess makes me pretty stupid to have thought that.”

You are in no way prepared for this right now. You shuffle your feet, trying to find something to say, but you’re not even sure what you want to express. You’ve never thought of your interactions with Esmeralda as you being above her because of your power - she always carried the word of the Espada; this made her your superior, if anything. But when you, yourself, dread those who are more powerful than you and bend to accommodate them and preserve your life, it would be quite hypocritical to say that Esmeralda shouldn’t care that you’re stronger than her.

“God, forget I said anything,” she says shaking her head. “What even was that? You don’t care about my sob story. I’m sorry. Look, I have work to do. I’m sure you’ll find your way home just fine.” And just like that she’s gone, passing you as she climbs up the stairway, her quick walk turning into a run as she disappears behind a corner.

You feel sad and you’re not sure why.

“Okay, okay,” Cirucci says, flicking her hand while sitting daintily on her stone pillar. “Show me now.”

You bow again and unfold the uniform Alphonse designed for her. White as all Arrancar uniforms, but with subtle touch of dark violet; lacy frills at the short skirt, puffy shoulders, and these strange flaps at the back…

“It has winglets,” Cirucci says, her expression one of awe. “I didn’t even ask about that!” She claps her hands quickly, grinning.

“Okay, help me put it on.”

You blink. Is it okay for you to help a Privaron dress?

“What do you think, that’s I’m going to do it myself? Come here, help me remove this ridiculous thing first.”

You step forward to help Cirucci, feeling very awkward all the while. She twitches and fidgets and swats your hand whenever you aren't pulling something "properly." But when you’re done the Thunder Witch hops to her feet, standing on her high-heeled shoes and humming to herself; she clicks her heels, shuffles her feet, makes a few dancing steps, stretches her arms and spins around, hops and watches the ‘winglets’ at her back flutter… And then she turns to face you, grinning.

“Finally! I don’t know how you managed to get that damned tailor to follow my instructions correctly, but you acquitted yourself very well! I can finally wear something I actually like and which is fitting of my position.” She nods proudly to herself, then thrusts an intimidating finger towards you. You do your best not to reflexively back away. “Now! Didn’t I promise you a reward?”

Actually you don’t remember any talk of reward, but you’ll appreciate the Privaron’s generosity-

“So, in order to make a proper curtsey, you can’t just bow your head, or even your head and your chest. Too many people think that it’s just about getting your forehead as low as you can, but that’s stupid. You actually need to bend the knees in a specific way…”

Oh. Okay then.

“...and that is the proper title of address for Lord Aizen’s shinigami assistants, who sit outside the formal structure of the Espada,” Cirucci concludes fifteen minutes later. “Any questions?”

Your head swimming with about two dozen different honorifics and speech patterns and variants on the simple action of “bowing” to show proper respect to all of Las Noches’s powerful, the best you can do is a feeble nod.

“Good! Then you can go back to your business. And don’t hesitate to come back if forget anything I taught you. Now say goodbye…” Cirucci says with narrowed eyes.

You take a step back, bend the knees and bow your head in a perfect curtsey. Cirucci giggles and claps her hands rapidly.

“Perfect! You can go now,” she says, and you are quick to depart the pillar room.

Once out of her sight you sigh, much of what she’s explained to you already slipping from your mind. You’re pretty sure in most circumstances any kind of deep bow and respectful tone would be better to placate the Arrancars, but at least she meant well and gave you what you thought was a meaningful reward, instead of just dismissing you like Barragan. It’s a comforting thought.

The walk back to your home is slow; you are still carrying shopping bags full of clothes acquired for yourself and you’re not sure they would endure repeated high-speed dashes. Tomorrow you will have to go back to your Arrancar uniform, but for now you enjoy the pleasure of walking in clothes of your own, in something you feel makes you like pretty and which you acquired yourself… With some help, of course.

As you walk the steps to your room you wonder if you could become friends with that girl Riruka. It would be difficult, given that she is a human and you’re not supposed to wander into her world; and at times when you were with her she felt… Dangerous. Predatory. And her male friend was very displeasing and actively threatened you. To build any kind of relationship with her you would have to lie about your true nature and always be on your guard that she ambush you in some way, but…

...well, that’s just life as a Hollow. You aren’t particularly bothered by that idea.

Really the true danger is in exposing them to the attention of Aizen’s army. If you were to make friends with someone but your superiors realized it and killed them to “tie off loose ends…” Well, that too would just be life as a Hollow. But you’ve paid that price before and you’re not eager to do it again.

Perhaps the question of friendship with Riruka is at the fore of your mind because of Esmeralda’s breakdown earlier. You’d thought - foolishly, perhaps - that you two could be friends, although you feared friendship for how it had hurt you before. But seeing her run away from you hurt you.

You shouldn’t have thought about that, now it’s souring your mood. You push open the door of your apartment as you reach it, feeling the familiar smell of it, the sickly-sweet cocoon-web of your bedding, the faint coppery trace of blood on the King’s curtains. You close the door behind you and put down the bags, relieved to finally be granted some manner of darkness. In a world of endless day, your new curtains can hold back the sun, and you feel more at ease here than anywhere else inside the walls of Las Noches.

You were gone for a while giving Cirucci her outfit. As you look around the room you entertain the thought that Esmeralda might again be waiting for you in your own home, ready to leap from behind a curtain and react to your irritation with playful disregard. But that’s just silly.

That mission was shorter than the previous one; you don’t feel like sleeping right now. You walk over to a great rectangular piece of stone-like furniture, wondering how you could convert it into a kind of wardrobe for your new clothes.

Then you hear a footstep behind you and a curtain being pulled back. You freeze, and your silly daydream being answered puts a grin on your ears. You turn to greet Esmeralda…

Findor’s reiatsu slams in you like a tidal wave. You step back, short of breath, and the man does not even look at you. His expressionless eyes examine one of the beautiful curtains you stole from the living world, and he brushes his hand across it - slicing it in two with his wrist-mounted blade. Half of the curtain falls to the ground.

“These black curtains are made from a Gillian’s robe, aren’t they? You hung them like trophies. As if killing the lowest order of Menos was a deed worthy of celebrating. These curtains are an advertisement of your own weakness.”

You stumble back and find yourself cornered, the bed on your left and the wall on your right. You breathe in haltingly, pushing back with your own reiatsu to release yourself from his grip.

Findor finally looks at you, his lip twisting in contempt.

“Life is a series of difficult questions. Those who answer them get to live. For you, right now, there is only one question that matters: how do I survive today? The answer, ironically, lies in two other questions - the ones that brought me here. Answer them, and you may live. Fail, and you will die.”

He raises his hand, the wrist-blade pointing at you like an accusatory finger.

“The crown was a poisonous burden. You should have died carrying it into the sands. The lingering touch of my king should have withered you the more every moment you touched it, such that once your mission accomplished you would have fallen and disappeared where you had buried it, and no witness would remain of its disposal. Yet you’re alive. Not only this, but I sense the reiatsu of my king in your wake - the faintest of echo, too small to detect for anyone who hasn’t spent as much time as I in his company. I suspect you haven’t sensed it yourself. But I know what it is: you carried with you a part of the object he touched.”

Your hands reach for your cloak to pull over yourself and cover you, but you don’t have a cloak anymore, Alphonse turned it into a scarf. It would be a useless gesture anyway, you know it, but you’re afraid, so afraid, and you want to cover yourself and curl up and forget this is happening.

Findor is oblivious to your dread, or else considers it normal. He flicks imaginary dust off his uniform, and as another casual reminder of his strength he picks up one of the beautiful colored rocks you found in the sands and which you’d arranged in a relaxing pattern - and cracks it in his hand, letting it fall in three parts.

“The two questions that may save your life, then, are these: how did you survive my King’s Senescencia, and where did you hide the fragment of his crown?”

The expressionless masks stares into you, yellow eyes glowing. Findor’s right hand is resting on his sword. He stands next to the closest window, most of the room behind him. Your door is to your left, not guarded by him but infinitely distant at this instant. You feel your heart beat a drumming sound set against the distant drone of his reiatsu.

A faint wind blows in through your glassless window, making the black curtains gently dance. Shadows flicker and flow across the room.

In a hollow in the wall, only a couple feet from you, the golden tooth sits wrapped in a faint echo of an Espada’s power.


[ ]Give Findor the fragment of the crown and try to come up with an explanation for your survival. 
[ ]Take the fragment and make a run for it.
[X]This is your lair. Stand up and fight.

Chapter Text

You back up slowly, your heart beating a mad rhythm.

Can you even trust that Findor is saying the truth? That he will spare you if you answer?

He’s in your home. In your little piece of sanctuary. The one safe place you have carved in Las Noches, filled with little things that bring you comfort - and casually destroying them.

Your hands are shaking, your throat is dry. You blink, rapidly, eyes bleary. No, it's just a feeling. You feel like a cornered beast but you're an Arrancar. Your sword is heavy at your side.

Your hands flutter, you shake your head in denial, you point at yourself, obfuscating gestures of panic. You don’t know what Findor is talking about, you just took the crown into the sands. You didn’t wither or age, and you certainly didn’t break it, only a fool would do that. The crown is only a symbol, right? It’s what Barragan said. You listened to the king’s order and carried it unseen into the sands of Hueco Mundo, there was no-

Your right hand falls on the hilt of your sword, your mouth forms a word.

Findor’s Bala hits you square in the chest, and you hit the wall behind you, body twisting under the shock. Your hand falls from your hilt and the breath with which you would speak is knocked out of you. Pain radiates across your back and dust falls on your shoulders.

He’s upon you, drawing his own blade, too fast, too fast…

Findor’s saber slices the air and you duck to the ground, almost losing your head - the point of the saber stings your cheek and something warm gushes down your face. You roll away and push yourself up, feet beating the ground without rhythm, erratic steps- your hand reaches for the hilt but you don’t have time to draw. He’s already upon you, sword falling. You raise your sheathed blade to take the blow. The shock buckles your elbows. Blood drips on your chin, warm and salt-laden.

“Incorrect,” he says. “Do you really think I can’t sense every motion of your reiatsu, the surge of what little power you have? Do you think you can fool me?”

You barely have time to stand before he is upon you again. You intercept the first blow with your scabbard, but not the glint of his wrist-dagger. He thrusts at your chest and you can’t stop the blade cutting into your flank. He closes in, rapid blows putting more pressure on you. His casual one-handed style concealing his off-handed strikes. You take one step back. He grazes your shoulder, drawing more blood. You take another. Little dots of pain are all across your skin now. But none are deep. You barely catch another hidden strike, but now your guard is open…

There is a sound like thunder and you are behind him. You wrench Polilla out of its scabbard and cuts into his open back, slicing the uniform, spilling blood.

Not deep enough! Before you can put distance between yourselves he pivots on his heels locks blades with you, matching strength with strength.

“Good answer! You’re faster than I imagined,” he says with a grin. “It would appear that you warrant-”

Your off-hand grasps your blade and gives you the force to swat his blade aside. You try to follow up, strike in the opening but he steps back and raises his dagger…

His dagger hits his own face, shattering a piece of his mask. Bone-white fragments fall to the ground and one expressionless yellow eye becomes an all-too human one, adorned with paint.

“...one third of my power,” Findor grins. His blade strikes and you raise Polilla to parry it, but his strength is far more than it was an instant before. He shatters your guard and thrusts one hand to your chest, a dark blue bolt of energy slamming into you. You slide along the ground through your room, coming to a rest amidst your senseless furniture. Your hand grasps a curtain, not a thinking gesture, a reflexive grasp for something you know. You push yourself up on a warped rock, dragged from the desert weeks ago, standing up on shaking legs.

Your Resurreccion. You need your Resurreccion but you need more time. He will sense your surging power and close in before you can complete it. Blood drips from shallow cuts all over your body. Not enough to kill you. Just enough to hurt like hell.

“Here’s another problem for you to solve: why do you think you can’t win this fight?”

Because he’s more powerful than you, obviously. You hold your blade in both hands but his strength is too great for you to properly defend. You need to put distance between him and you, but he’s too fast-

“Wrong!” He announces cheerfully, and in a blink he is upon you. Your sword strikes his in a shower of sparks and a ring like a bell, steel biting steel, but his one arm pushes against your two and your defense caves. The cut your arm suffers isn’t shallow like the others, and it burns.

“Or half-wrong, at least.” His wrist-dagger thrusts but you’re waiting for it, and this one at least you can dodge, hopping back over an upturned black table. “Half of why you can’t win is because true power is something you are born with, not something you achieve. Nobility is in the blood. But the other half is that you’re not fighting for anything. You’re just a thief and an unbound Arrancar.”

All you need is one moment to charge your Cero and hit him full-on, then he’ll be stunned long enough for you to release Polilla. But you don’t know how to get that moment. He moves in on you again and you give up parrying in favour of bobbing and weaving between his strikes. It gives you no openings but at least only nets you shallow cuts. You step back again and again, the tattered remains of your curtains snapping in the wind of your rising spiritual pressures.

“Me, I fight for the honor of my king. I fight for my fellow royal Fraccions. I fight for pride and loyalty. You just fight to survive. You have no drive. No will. No sense of self-sacrifice.”

You breathe haltingly, the leather grip slick with fear. You try to adjust and it almost slides out of your grasp. You’re not heavily wounded. You’re not even exhausted. You’re just terrified.

He’s right. God, he is right. You panicked because he cornered you in your owne safe place. You have no plan beyond living through the next moment. Your spirit is faltering, cowed by fear. But what else would you do? What’s the point of finding resolve in fighting for something when you’re only going to die regardless?

So you’ll be the rabbit in her den clawing at the wolf’s maw.

He moves on you and this time you give ground without being forced, sliding back before he can overpower you. He follows in with a second cut and you duck low, one hand on your sword and the other reaching to your right. His blade follows you but his momentum is expended enough that his blow doesn’t break your guard.

You rip the curtains off the wall and throw them in his face.

Findor bites back a curse, the fabric blinding him. His two blades slice it apart in an instant, and he strikes where he thinks you are - but you’re on the floor, cutting at his ankle. The skin is hard, supple; like leather as strong as steel. Still you draw blood. Findor jumps back, grunting, and you get up. You’re covered in dust. You take a beautiful rock from a nearby table and hurl it in his face, accelerating it with a bala. The Fraccion swats it aside with his wrist-blade, shattering the rock in the air, but it was not your real strike.. Your real Bala hits him in the face, cracking his mask. He takes one step back and you follow with your free hand, punching the air, grey bolts slamming into Findor’s chest and head, moaning with each impact. The room soon sounds like a funeral wake, distant mourners fading as your attack ends.

He roars in anger and flashes forward but half-blinded as he is you can match him. His blow goes wide, and your hand grasps the rough stone you always thought of as a cupboard.

You’d planned to find something to store inside it so that it would deserve that name.

With all your strength you push it down over Findor’s head. The cupboard-to-be crumbles against his sword.

You only needed the one moment to charge your Cero. As Findor steps out of the dust and rubble your horns shine and whisper, and then scream as you unleash your power on him. Grey light flattens the shadows of your room, scours the floor beneath him, shreds what remains of your curtains, destroys the small square box that you used as a chair. But Findor burns.

You suppose it’s a worthwhile trade.

Dust blows out of the window and you realize you have carved a hole in the wall of your room. The sun shines down on the Fraccion.

Slowly he stands up, his uniform torn to tatters. You swallow sharply, your hands wet and nerveless. You should release now, but he’s too close, you thought it would stun him more…

“Why are you this strong?” The arrancar spits, standing up. Now, you’ve wounded him, you’re sure of it. His breathing is ragged. He’ll be slowed down enough. You open your mouth-

“TWO THIRDS!” He screams, and his dagger slices through the mask and across his face, revealing his brow. His reiatsu floods the room, and you can’t speak under the weight of it. He shouts again, wordlessly this time, and thrusts his blades towards you, crossed, and blue light fills the space between you - Cero?

It’s not a Cero, and you don’t have time to dodge. The air is thick with Balas, a rapid-fire deluge that hits every square inch of your body, knocking you down against your own wall - and then as the pressure intensifies, through it. You are thrown on your back into a dark and empty room, dust and rubble scattered all around you. You curl up on the ground, trembling, your whole body a wound. The floor itself feels like gravel raking your skin. The air is thick in your throat, hard to breathe, the cracked walls groan around you.

“You gave me a good work-out,” Findor says as he steps into the opening, backlit by the sun. His smile is almost manic, entirely too joyful for this. “But all your answers are half-correct at best! You go through life with only a little understanding. Too much to stay in your place, too little to climb any higher.”

He walks over to you and you crawl on the ground, inch by inch, covering your head. He snorts and kicks your flank, hard, shaking your body.

“A moment ago your power was truly that of an Adjucha. But you burned all you had in that one attack, didn’t you? Thinking it would take me down… How foolish. Now you’re an empty husk, back on the ground where you belong…”

He kicks you, again, harder. You clutches at your sword, pathetically. Findor raises his saber, and his foot rests against your head, lifting you by the chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“...a mere Gillian.”

You look into his eyes.

The King’s Veil drops from your face and you let your reiatsu slam into him. It’s one moment of surprise, a single instant, a half-second’s opening, and it’s enough. You push yourself off of the bloody floor with all you can muster and slam into his chest. Polilla is like a lance, a crude and pointed blade, but your strength isn’t enough; it pierces the skin, draws blood, but his Hierro is too strong, it does not reach the muscle…

You let go of the handle and hammer Polilla deeper in with a Bala. The shockwave is deafening this close, and Findor slams into the wall, the blade forced inches into his chest, past the bone. He coughs up blood. You flash-step up to him and rip it out of his chest, slamming a second Bala into the wound. This time he goes through the wall like you did an instant before. Prone. For now.

One moment. You have one moment. Your whole body is bleeding, you have cracked bones, ruptured veins. If he releases his zanpakuto, if he shatters the rest of his mask-

No time. You’re running on instinct now.

You pounce onto him, one fist pushing him against the stone. Your blade hits his forearm, doesn’t go through it but interrupts his attempt at raising his sword. You blast a third Bala into his head, cracking the stone beneath him. You daze him for one second, and it is the second you need.

You rear up, a lion roaring, a moth breaking out of its cocoon and offering its wings for the sun to dry, an ant flicking her antennae to take in the world around her. Motes of grey light gather between your horns, illuminating the room in your colors, shades of grey and forlorn voices. They mourn. You’re never sure for whom.

You snap your head down and fire the Cero into Findor’s face. Even now he is too strong, too fast. He brings up his dagger-hand against his face, shielding himself from part of the blast.

You were never aiming for him. Under him the ground shatters under your beam. Findor falls, hurled downwards by your Cero, and the floor beneath him shatters, and the one below that. You rear up, raising all the power you have, not letting your body cool down. You snap down and blast another Cero, and more stone crumbles.

Findor falls into the darkness below, the empty rooms unused in forever.

You fall to your knees, barely able to move. Your body feels like a great piece of cloth tearing apart at all its seams. Your own power is burning you from within, too many Balas and Ceros in quick succession.

And he’s still alive.

[X]Grab anything valuable you still own, and run. Where are you going?
-[ ]Esmeralda’s infirmary.
-[X]Cirucci’s fort.
-[ ]The white desert beyond Las Noches.
-[ ]Barragan’s court, hoping you can get protection against Findor from his own lord.
-[ ]Open a Garganta into the living world.
[ ]Chase Findor down into the depths. See this through to the bitter, bitter end.

Chapter Text

You look down into the darkness a moment longer, paralyzed. The last echoes of your Cero fade away, a dying moan that seems to trail into the abyss of dust and shadow below.

It's the touch of silence that starts you into action, and you rush about your room, a frantic blur snatching at anything and everything. The tooth first, then the clothes most obviously taken from the Living World. No sense leaving evidence behind. Then smaller objects, easier to carry, and practical ones, with more than sentiment behind them. You're moving without thought, driven by instinct and elimination like a startled insect, limbs operating while your mind rocks slowly back and forth. They bounce onto your sheets, and you wrap the silk into a bundle with one smooth motion.

Autopilot's easy. This isn't the first time you've run.

Findor was right. You don't live for anything, not for anything greater than living. You fight to survive, nothing more. It's a comfort to you. A strength, if you ever thought of yourself in that way. Findor lives for his king, so there are things he can't do, fights he can't afford to lose. Barragan lives for his kingship, and it's just as much of a chain. You, you have nothing. You are nothing. So you're free. Silly to think otherwise.

"I guess I always thought we were alike."

You're out the window, makeshift knapsack bobbing on one shoulder.

"You'll get the knack of it in time, I'm sure."
"You acquitted yourself very well!"
"You are totes adorbz."

You angle toward the empty desert. With your veil, even the endless Exequias won't find you. Back to the forest, nipping at the heels of idiot giants. Alone, like you should be.

"I'm sure you'll find your way home just fine."
"Are you homeless? I can't allow that!"
"What are you doing in my kingdom?"

...you really hurt him, didn't you? Just for that one moment. If you'd been a little stronger, a little faster. If he hadn't had the drop on you. You could have taken him. You could have stayed here.

"I thought we were both the same."
"If you ever feel too lonely though, you can come to me!"
"Don't hesitate to come back if you forget anything I taught you."

Behind you, a new shriek rises, high-pitched Spanish cursing bouncing off stupidly high ceilings and featureless white walls as the fallen Fracción audibly claws his way out of the pit. You need to go.

"NO VOICE, NO ALLIES, NO KINGDOM - YOU ARE NO CROWN-SEEKER. YOU’RE ONLY-"

You kick off into a Sonido, and move.

When Findor finally catches up to you, he's a mess. A lopsided lobster-man with chunks of a half-visor concealing his furious glare, hair caked with dust and tangled with dry blood. His wounds are gone - a gift of unleashing his Resurrección - and his spirit crashes against yours like a wave, clawing at you until you're sure you'll drown.

You stay where you are. For the first time in so long, you stand your ground.

You're not an idiot, so you're standing your ground behind one of Cirucci's pillars, back pressed against the cool stone, your spirit dampened as much as you can manage. Findor moves wildly, furiously spinning to seek you out as though his mind's eye was a dog's nose, scraping his oversized pincer against the nearby pillars.

"You pathetic little vagabond!" he shrieks. "You think to humiliate me with this? To tarnish my standing in the eyes of his majesty? Have you learned nothing? My loyalty is worth more than gold! It will not be degraded by an ant such as-"

He pauses, cut off as a spiritual pressure greater than his own suddenly appears, practically on top of you both. It's as though the shadow of some great bird of prey has fallen on the room, without warning or sound, and you wildly wonder if this is why the Thunderwitch has turned her holding into such a labyrinth.

Then a heel clicks neatly down atop one pillar, and Cirucci stares down at you both, imperious as a princess. You shudder, feeling like an insect watched by a bird, and wrap your arms around yourself. Why did you ever think this was a good idea? An idea at all?! This gamble, just throwing yourself against a wall instead of fleeing around it, and for what, to prove-

Cirucci sees you. She sees your new clothes, ripped and dusty and speckled with blood. The cut across your cheek, the bruises along your shivering, sleeveless limbs. Her amethyst eyes rest on your tiny form for a moment. You don't think they show an ounce of compassion. Then they turn to Findor, already composing a smarmy half-apology half-demand, and sharpen. Her lip curls, and she cuts off his wheedlings with a whip-crack that echoes around the pillared hall like-

Oh, like thunder, you think. That's where the name comes from.

"How dare you." She hisses. "How dare you invade my quarters. Privaron or no, I am Espada, and a lady at that. Do you mean for me to take this as a challenge, Número Veinticuatro? Or have you simply learned nothing of manners in all the time you spend playing at being a courtier?"

Findor chokes, and you imagine his face twisting in anger. He begins to say a number of things, and discards them each time. He cannot leave, but to stay is the wrong choice. He cannot make excuses, but to stay silent condemns him.

"Ah", Cirucci finally breaks the silence. "I understand now. I suppose it was inevitable that some lowly arrancar would eventually find their lusts outstripping their grasp. No doubt you've heard of my darling new outfit, and simply had to take a peek?" True to her words, you peer up at her. Her pose is provocative but mocking, saying more than it shows. Its faux-demureness rather falls apart from this angle, and you look away from the flash of purple lace. "My, my", she continues, "Las Noches is so starved of gossip. What a scandal! That the Thermidor Knight is nothing more than a skirt-flipping pervert! Roaring into my bedroom-" Holy Mother, is this her bedroom? This whole thing? Does she just camp out here or something? "-with his claw ready to snip away at my lace and frills, desperate to catch a peek at two ladies en flagrante-"

The diatribe continues until Findor finally flees, disengaging his Resurrección to find somewhere he can clean up and devise a suitably innocuous story, one that his "king" won't care about enough to question. You don't look up as silence falls over the hall, nor as Cirucci glides to the ground like a falling umbrella, nor as her heels click over to you in perfect pendulum time. Then a hand with purple talons - acrylic nails, Riruka called them - cups your chin and forces you to look up.

"You owe me for this", she says, voice neutral and without pretensions. "That creature is a conceited brute with delusions of elegance, but I won't be used as a shield."

You nod. You'd expected as much. You'd expected worse. You just... you hadn't wanted to leave.

Not for him.

She considers you for a moment longer, and then smiles, purple lips revealing sharp canines as she examines you in all your beaten-to-a-pulp glory.

"As it happens, I already have an appropriate service in mind. You see, there's a terrible pest that needs taking care of. A cockroach, or crab, or something with grubby little claws, anyway. One that didn't think twice about invading my domain, even in pursuit of a highly dangerous criminal." Her voice deepens for a moment, in mockery. "I don't want to get my new boots dirty squashing it, but... that's the role of a Fracción." A hint of wistfulness enters her voice. She's also stroking her whip, so you take it with a touch of salt. "Of course, I am not permitted to command a Fracción any longer. That doesn't mean I'm willing to put up with sloppiness in my staff. You will clean up this little mess, and I will ensure-"

She cracks the whip, and grins, curling one purple lip. The desert and its forest of endless gillians beckon to you once more, offering a life consisting of constant fights for your survival. You know, more peaceful.

"-that you do so with suitable elegance."

Chapter Text

You’re dreaming.

You don’t dream often these days. You find it unpleasant. You work yourself to exhaustion until you can fall down and sink into blissful darkness.

You’re running in a vast forest of calcified trees. Though you could fly, you do not, your wings only fluttering to make you jump higher as you leap from trunk to trunk. Down on the ground a peculiar creature, a great spiked mantis, runs along with you.

Your bellies are full and you are laughing, daring each other to outrace the other. There is a lake somewhere, and it is where you run; to find water and remember the beauty of the moon shimmering on its surface.

But when you find the lake there is no water. All there is darkness, seething and boiling; great black smoke filling the hole where the lake should be. You land on the ground, disappointed.

“I suppose it’s no use,” the mantis says with a sigh. “I did promise I would bathe.”

You turn to him to tell him that it’s all right, that there is no need, that a promise isn’t what matters when a life is at stake, but he just turns to you and smiles, and then dives into the seething dark.

As he swims down his spikes come apart, turning to dust; and then his carapace, and his flesh, and all of his bones, until all that is left is his mask, which stares at you and smiles one last time before rotting away.

***

You wake up with the mother of all headaches.

You’re… Uh, actually not in a room full of pillars. That’s a nice surprise. You’re even on something resembling a bed, or at least a mattress, but without frame. You have bedsheets at least. A simple bed on the floor, in a small ochre-painted room, a high narrow window letting in the sun. The ceiling is too high for anything resembling a human being, but the room is too small for a giant. Maybe they built it for a living tree.

Rubbing your hair and your eyes, you sit up. You’re not wearing… Anything?

No, no, you remember now. After Cirucci saved you from Findor the stress of the fight and the sheer exhaustion of using so much energy slammed in you and she led you to a side room. You got undressed and… Pretty much fell over.

You shake your head, trying to shrug off the drowsiness. You lean to the side - there’s your bag, full of all the things you shoved into it. Painted rock and clockwork bug and a folded painting and your precious human clothes and one spare Arrancar uniform and… There. The golden tooth. You clutch it in your hands, admiring its… Well, lack of shine, you suppose. Its wrinkled faded glory. The touch numbs your fingers and hands.

You put it back into the bag and put on your uniform, probably the safest thing to wear right now. You hop on over to the door and push it open as slowly and quietly as you can, bobbing your head left and right to see around it. There is no one, and so you open it just enough to pass through, then close it silently.

This is the pillar room, then. Sunlight streams from on high but the peculiar stones cast shadows everywhere. You hear muffled voices, and so you suppress your reiatsu as best you can before moving towards them.

“...wasn’t wise. What will you do if he runs back to Barragan?”

“Please. If he’d been here on Barragan’s orders, acting with his authority, he’d have said so. He knows I’d cave in. I’m not fool enough to challenge the Segunda. But he didn’t. He was here after his own personal gratification, whatever form that would take.”

“I agree. Challenging a Fraccion isn’t challenging their Espada. Barragan doesn’t care. This was a righteous act.”

“I didn’t do it because it was righteous, I did it because this guy gets on my nerves.”

You hop between pillars, barefoot, as silent as you can be. Finally turning an angle you can see the three people talking: a tall man with olive skin and a thin moustache, another with dark skin wearing his hair in an orange-colored… ball shape, and a woman who has finally managed to find a way to curl her hair (the one part of your last mission you didn’t accomplish). You recognize them all, of course. You’ve answered their orders and you’ve seen them fall. They’re Dordonnii, Gantenbainne and Cirucci, the Privaron Espada.

“Tell me,” Cirucci says, folding her arms. “Do you intend to stay where you are forever? A has-been who never will be again?”

“Of course not,” Dordonni says, frowning. “I will do anything to climb back up. To sit at the peak again. You know this. But antagonizing Fraccions isn’t going to help you do that.”

“It’s not about antagonizing someone,” Cirucci says with irritation. “To be nobility again we should act like it. We can’t just focus on power. Even Starrk has a Fraccion.”

“I don’t think they’re quite the same thing,” Gantenbainne chimes in.

“Whatever!” she snaps. “The point is we can’t do anything alone and exiled in all but name. Can’t get stronger. Can’t assert our status. She’s just a tiny Numero but she cut made Findorr bleed. Actually made him angry, forced him into his Resurreccion. I can make something out of her.”

“‘Finding competent minions’ isn’t any kind of plan, Cirucci,” Dordonni says.

“It’s not about that, you dolt! It’s not just about ‘having a minion.’ It’s about the ability to act beyond these forts at the outskirts. To hear, and see, what goes on in Las Noches. To have representatives. And to act on what we learn.”

“I’m not sure that’s worth much of anything,” Gantenbainne shrugs. “End of the day, we want back in, Lord Aizen puts up in front of an Espada. We win, we’re back in. We lose, we’re not. No amount of ‘information’ and ‘representation’ is gonna help with it.”

“Well then, you just go and do whatever you do. I’m sticking with my idea.”

“I still think if we found the former Tres, we could gather as a group, a faction in our own right. We could train together...”

“Nel is dead, Gantenbainne. Someone shanked her in the night. Probably that bastard Gilder, although god knows where he found the strength.”

“I don’t think she is,” Gantenbainne says. “I think she ran away.”

“Then she might as well be dead, because if she did, and we found her and brought her back, the Exequias would take her and she’d never be found again. Oh, that’s something you haven’t thought about, have you? How any plan to get back into the Espada is going to have Ruddborne after us because he wants the spot too?”

“Enough!” Dordonnii says, and a sudden pressure silences the two. The moustached man clicks his tongue, his face a mask of irritation. “You’re forgetting the bigger issue. You’re treating this as if we can have an alliance. But for that to happen we would have to stand a chance to all get back into the Espada, and that won’t happen. One of us, managing to defeat one out of all ten? Certainly, I hope that can happen. All three, liberating three seats at their table? No. Unlikely. And yet all of us would do anything to stand at the top. That puts us all in competition. Gantenbainne can’t be your ally, because you stand above him and you’ll have a better chance to take the one spot. I can’t be your ally, because you’re too close to my own power, and you could surpass me and take that spot. We can’t work together.”

“And that’s why we’re going to fail,” Gantenbainne says, his face dark. Then he shrugs and steps away, turning towards the exit. Cirucci stares daggers at his back, then faces Dordonnii.

“Sorry, Niña. It can’t be helped.”

“Don’t you “niña” me, you coward. Just go.”

Dordonnii shakes his head, a gesture of reprobation one would have over a petulant child, but instead of scolding her just turns and leaves too.

Cirucci stands alone, arms akimbo, visibly seething. Finally she turns, and her head snaps in your direction; you stare back reflexively, eyes wide.

“I couldn’t sense your presence with the others here, but you’ve got a long way to go if you want to ever sneak up on someone like me when I’m alone. How long have you been listening?”

Longer than she’d like, you’re pretty sure. You clear your throat nervously. As Cirucci looks at you, her eyes narrow in something like surprise or suspicion. She paces over too you, faster than you’d expected, and you back up a little out of fright. She grabs your arm and pulls your sleeve up, looking at the unmarred skin of your forearm.

“Where are your wounds?” She asks accusingly. “You should still be unconscious. Unconscious and temporarily crippled by bruises and cuts and internal bleeding.”

You begin formulating some kind of excuse, but all your attempts at misdirection fade away the moment you look up and stare into Cirucci’s piercing eyes. Your heart beats too fast for lies.

High-Speed Regeneration. You kept it through your transformation. You don’t talk about it because everyone thinks it’s a stupid decision, and one that can’t be taken back. Others already think you're weak enough without knowing that.

Cirucci blinks and lets go of your arm.

“You kept your healing factor..? No one does that. No, wait. You kept your healing ability, and yet you still managed to put Findorr in such a frenzy? What happened to you?”

You stare at her, not sure what she means by ‘happened.’ It’s not like she has a baseline to compare you to. That just makes Cirucci chuckle.

“What, you think I don’t know who you are? Come on. There’s less than a hundred Arrancar in all of Las Noches, and a lot of these are new. I used to be an Espada. I remember you, sulking around in the corners, one of the latest bunch before we were…” She looks down, an angry twist to her mouth. “Demoted. You were staff, and not my personal staff, so there was never any reason for me to talk to you. But I still know who you are. A Numero. A particularly weak Numero constantly given menial tasks… Who forced Findorr into his Resurreccion without using her own. What. Happened. To you?”

You shake your head, not sure what to say. You have a thousand explanations and none. You fought a powerful Gillian and learned things from it… You’ve been taking on harder jobs lately… You’ve just slowly grown into powers you hadn’t yet learned to use previously… But in the end the golden tooth shines in your mind, and you know it’s the answer, or part to the answer, linked to it. But you can’t talk to her about it, can’t admit that Findorr had at least some part of a point, so in the end you say the only thing that can encompass what happened to you:

You flew just close enough to the sun.

Cirucci mulls this over for a moment, her hand on her chin in a dainty pose. Then she nods.

“I’m your sun now. You’re flying close to me. I am going to train you, and you should not thank me for it, because I’m not doing it for your sake. Now…”

Her eyes narrow in thought and you shudder at the dark thoughts broiling behind her brow. What torment has she in mind for you? You tense…

“Fetch me my tea service.”

Oh. Oh, that’s nice. Starting off easy is good. You smile feebly and nod, then streak off in a random direction…

Then come back to actually ask where Cirucci’s tea service is.

You notice at this point how ferocious her smile is.

***

“FASTER! NO, NOT THAT FAST, YOU’RE SPILLING EVERYTHING!”

You hop and run and duck and lean and stumble and bam goes the teapot. You’re now soaked in boiling hot tea, although on your Hierro all this does is make your skin blow out pretty smoke. You grit your teeth and there it comes - the crack of the whip, striking your shoulder. Pain radiates in your arm but you don’t let it show.

“Not good enough!” Cirucci says shaking her head. “Make more, then come back at the start.”

You repress a sigh - above all things the Thunder Witch hates expressions of sufferance or annoyance rather than stoic bearing - and pick up the metal teapot, wipe the tea with the sponge you’re now wearing at your belt for convenience, and go back to the other extremity of the pillar room.

You have a moment to breathe while the granite bowl heats up over the glowing stone that warms the water inside it (how does Las Noches’s technology even work?), and you kneel down and rub your bruised shoulder, flank and knee. The ‘training’ started an hour or two ago, and the two bruises at your waist and lower back, the earliest and most painful ones, have by now already faded. You steal quick glances at Cirucci, who is sitting high atop her pillars and eating some kind of confection, and your belly growls; but she’d hate you asking if you can interrupt the session for food as well, so you bear it for now.

The water is boiling; you pour it with the tea into the pot, close it, and then raise it above your head, your hands ignoring the metal’s scalding heat.

Then you start running towards the pillar, holding the teapot above your head without your hands. Cirucci sees you approach and grins; she reaches for the whip and lashes - a distracting shot, meant only to start you. Then the real attack begins, whip striking at the ground around you, and you must dodge every attack without letting the teapot fall.

Drop the teapot, get the whip. It’s a simple rule. If you dropped the teapot because the hip already hit you, well, a second hit will double the learning. That’s Cirucci’s philosophy.

You’re just not sure why she insists on that particular form of training.

“Grace, you molusk! Grace is all that matters! I’m not teaching you to be faster or more agile, I’m teaching you to be graceful in all things! You’ll carry tea while under attack, you’ll serve tea while under attack, you’ll drink tea while under attack, eventually you’ll prepare it while under attack, defending the boiling pot with your own body! Eventually you will perform the serving of tea with the flawless elegance of a lady at court even as blows rain on you from the sky! Then we’ll move on to dancing. You think it’s impossible to dodge attacks when you have to perform the exact steps of a bourrée and so your enemy knows exactly how you’re going to move? You’re absolutely right! It will be your duty to break that conundrum and dodge anyway!”

The whip cracks all around you, but you’re dodging it this time, your steps madly pushing you above it, learning the rhythm of its motions and adapting unconsciously. Your shoulders buck and bend to balance the teapot on your head, your arms stretching to keep your balance.

Then that’s it, you’re out of the forest of pillars, ahead of you are the two dainty porcelain cups set on embroidered napkins; you push forward knowing that Cirucci’s whip gets slower the further from it you are. You are upon the cups and reach for the teapot…

A detonation roars in the air and suddenly it’s gone, rolling onto the ground and spilling its content. You freeze.

You slowly turn to see Cirucci blow imaginary smoke off her finger, her whip passed over her shoulder.

“The enemy won’t keep himself to one tactic, you know. You got so obsessed with my whip you forgot the other weapons I had. I could have fired a Bala and knocked it off your head at any time, but… I figured the point would be driven further home if I waited until the very last moment.”

Your shoulders sag and, this time, you can’t keep from a sigh of frustration and disappointment.

“What’s that I hear? Backtalk? Drop and give me twenty! Actually, don’t do that,” Cirucci says, one manicured finger pushing up her chin. “All that talk of tea made me thirsty. Go back and make me a pot. No whipping this time.

You nod, pick up the teapot and head back all the way across the room.

Somewhere, a distant part of you wishes you’d have just been killed by Findor. Or ran away into the desert. But it is a silly part, and you do not listen to it.

Because when Cirucci isn’t berating you, when she isn’t ordering you around, when she isn’t laughing maniacally as she lashes you, when she isn’t gleefully announcing all the terrible and painful training programs she has in mind for you… When she pauses, and is silent, and looks at you; you see something in her eyes you’ve only ever seen once before in the eyes of one who so outclassed you. Something that lured you into taking a devil’s bargain to be free of your hunger.

You see interest.

***

Congratulations! You have reached the end of Arc 2 Vote on your next “assignment.” This time, though, you’re not choosing: Cirucci is choosing. You owe her, and while you aren’t indebted to her forever, for now you must abide by her whims.

[X]Cirucci wants you to gather useful information on one of the lower-ranked Espada.
-[X]Yammy should be the weakest Espada and challenged by others for the spot, yet he seems to be coddled too much, to be far too “safe.” Observe him and find out what his deal is.
-[ ]Aaroniero is getting “deliveries” that kick a lot through their package, and that are never seen again. Spy him eating and find out why he does it.
-[ ]Zommari. What’s up with this guy? He lectures other Arrancars sometimes; you should attend.
[ ]Cirucci wants you to secure an advantage for her, and deal someone a blow without their knowing who did it.
-[ ]Szayellapuerro is getting a shipment of some kind of “product” that is of interest to his experiments, perhaps some kind of weapon. Steal a sample while it’s delivered to him.
-[ ]Tier Harribel has used her “Caja Negacion” to discipline a lower-ranked Arrancar, destroying it in the process. The Caja is a symbol of Espada status, and a new one is being constructed for her; steal it before it reaches her hands.
[ ]There are ruins in Hueco Mundo, of civilizations gone before. Cirucci was once a princess in her tower. She can’t go back there without being accused of desertion, but she can send you. Go back to where she once lived and find souvenirs for her, and perhaps more.

Chapter Text

Your muscles ache as you walk through the halls of Las Noches. Even with your enhanced regeneration, you’re having trouble moving without experiencing twinges of pain. Cirucci’s training might be effective- although, you are not sure of that; you have only been training with her for a day, after all- but it is putting a lot of stress on your body.

In your hands, you bear a small and elegant chest carved of some dark wood, the surface of which is covered in intricate whirls and whorls. Within the chest are some small items- scraps of cloth, and a small wooden figurine, a stolen scarf; the few items you managed to collect from the ruins of what had once been your den.

There was not much else left. Evidently, between your arrival at Cirucci’s and your return tonight, somebody had seen fit to lay waste to the wreckage of your former room. Your hands clutch tightly at the chest. Only some small mementoes had been left intact. Briefly, you congratulate your foresight in taking what you had before you had fled. Should you have waited until your return, you would have precious little to your name now.

You turn a corner, your pace quickening. It’s unlikely that Findor will find you out here, away from the protection of a former Espada, but you are not skilled at hiding your reiatsu, and should he sense you from wherever he is, you would prefer to be as close to her room as possible. Although- no, you shut down that line of thought as soon as it occurs.

By the time you return to Cirucci’s room, your breath is coming heavily, and your pace could more accurately be described as running than walking. You feel ridiculous for the thought, but you do not feel safe in the halls of Las Noches now- even moreso than usual, at that.

Your pace slows as you wander around the pillars that make up most of the room, heading toward the room she has decreed as yours. You do not need to run, here. If Cirucci wants to kill you, running is hardly going to help; and nobody is going to try and murder you while you claim sanctuary here- save perhaps one of the other Espada (no- one of the Espada; Cirucci can claim the title no longer), but you do not think you have offended any of them.

Only once you are safe within your little room do you relax somewhat. Not because of any feelings of safety, but merely because the room is closed off, private; the illusion of sanctuary helps ease the tension from your frame.

Still, your movements are quick and efficient. There is little storage space in the room; Cirucci has granted you leave to use the chest, but it is not half large enough to contain all your belongings, and it would be a mess should you try anyway. Instead, you open the bag in which you had taken what you could with you, and begin withdrawing everything inside.

It is hard to decorate a room when you have so little furniture, but you make your best effort. Your clothes, you fold neatly and place upon a scrap of cloth at the foot of your mattress. The painted rock, and the clockwork bug, and the wooden figurine are all placed neatly atop the chest, placed beside your mattress, far enough that you should not disturb it were you to have a fitful dream. The painting proves more difficult; lacking a frame or any way to hang it, you are forced to fold it once again, placing it carefully within the chest.

You are no sooner done with that than there is a loud knock on the door, three in quick succession; rap-rap-rap. You hurriedly stand to your feet and brush your uniform off before moving to the door, hand held warily to your blade’s hilt. You should be safe here, but, well. You should be safe in all of Las Noches.

It is almost a relief to open the door and find Cirucci standing there, arching her brow at you. “I see you returned safely,” she says neutrally.

Yes, you were not accosted in the halls. You almost nod, before catching yourself. No, the proper response is a curtsy, is it not? You dip down into a brief curtsy, then straighten and look towards her to see if you have remembered your lessons correctly. She nods slightly. Yes, then.

“Good.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Come, then. I desire tea and supper.”

Certainly. You step through the door, closing it gently behind you. You begin to walk towards the small tea kit, only to come to a stop no more than three feet later when you realise she is not following you.

When you turn back to look at her, she is giving you a distinctly unimpressed look. You hesitate. Did you forget something? You don’t think you did. The tea kit is not located here, it is located in the small kitchenette. But you do not say that to her face, and instead continue to search your thoughts, trying to remember what you have forgotten, until finally she rolls her eyes and turns to your door, sliding a small bolt you had not seen before across to a similarly hidden latch. “It is no wonder you were attacked in your own domain, if you don’t even remember to lock your door,” she says tartly. “While you are within my domain, I expect you to do so. I will not have my possessions stolen.”

You dither for a moment, looking between her and the door. You want to protest, but you glance at Cirucci once again, and the words die. Instead, you just give her a tremulous smile.

She rolls her eyes again. Each time she does so, it feels a little less mean. “Did I not tell you to prepare my tea?” she reminds you, gesturing you on further into the room of pillars.

You are moving forwards before you can consciously decide to, moving instinctively at her words.

But as you look back at her, fearing reprisal, you see her adjusting the lock on your door one more time before moving to follow you, and one small knot of worry in your stomach disappears.

You may be hunted by a Fraccion, and sheltering beneath the wings of an unpredictable Arrancar with ambitions beyond her station; you may be friendless and favourless; but at least you have somewhere of your own to rest your head again. And Cirucci may be dangerous, and definitely does not have your best intentions in mind; but she has given you this, and for that, you are thankful.

Chapter Text

High-Speed Regeneration has healed your physical wounds, but others are still raw.

For example, your precious dress from the living world. You hadn't had the chance to change out of it before Findor barged into your room, and your unmarked skin is still visible beneath ripped cloth and open slash marks. You hold it up, despondent, and idly wiggle one figure through a hole. It was such a nice dress, too.

"Well, we can't have that." Cirucci's voice makes you jump, ripping the hole a little wider. It's a good thing your mask hides so much of your face; you don't know what kind of expression you're showing as she leans over your shoulder to pluck the mistreated garment from your hands. "No subordinate of mine is going to wander around in rags." She sweeps her sharp purple eyes up and down your frame, and you tug on your scarf as though trying to hide from her gaze. You really need to get a new cloak or robe or something. "And that uniform won't do, either. Not if you're to be standing next to my darling new outfit. Hmmm. No!" She jabs at you with a perilously-taloned finger. "I know precisely how to solve this. That slothful little spider may need to be prodded every five minutes to get something done, but I won't stand for it. No, a lady of my standing requires a Sastre."

You don't know what that is.

"A personal tailor! Someone to update my wardrobe at a moment's notice. Or at the very least handle its upkeep in the face of all the exhausting wear and tear a lady must endure."

You have a sinking feeling that you know what this has to do with you.

As you scuttle back toward the tailor's workshop, senses honed for the slightest indication of a particular murderous Fracción approaching, you focus on the one upside of your latest mission: it doesn't involve being covered in scalding hot tea. You rather doubt Alphonse would appreciate a soggy Numero showing up to trail teadrops over his creations.
In fact, you rather doubt he'll appreciate you showing up at all.

To your surprise, his face brightens when he sees you. The lingering actinic taste of spiritual energy in the air suggests he's just left his Resurrección, which likely explains the long, flowing white coat before him.

"Ah, come in, little one!" He wipes some invisible trace of sweat from his brow with his patchwork sleeve. "Are you here to pick up another uniform? I didn't realise Arrururie had picked up a new Fracción. You're moving up in the world!"

Glancing at the coat, you notice the tall ruffles around the collar. They're obviously intended to suit the 9th Espada's tall mask, and you think you can see a touch of Cirucci's goth loli influence, there.

"Yes, your samples have lit the spark of inspiration! The living world does tend to be so much more... dynamic than our own. More alive, I suppose. Or maybe they just have more time for thinking about clothes instead of hunting." He looks wistful for a moment, then frowns. "But don't try to distract me. You're still working for that fussy princess? Surely she doesn't have any more complaints!"

You rustle around in your bag and retrieve your dress, ground-in dust and all. Alphonse looks somewhat appalled to see the state of it, so soon after you emerged from his Garganta, but it's not as though it's your fault. You were... accosted. You might never be able to act as Cirucci's own tailor, as she's asked, but it would certainly be useful to patch up your own dresses. It's not like you can pop back into the living world for more.

"Oh?" He rubs his chin with one long arm, considering you. "I've never had an apprentice before. I suppose it'll be worth it to ease the pressure your new mistress keeps putting on my workload. Yes, a load off my mind. Very well, then, little one! I'll school you in the fine art of la Maraña!" He pauses. "Besides, you might be better off sticking with sedentary work, if you're going to be getting into scuffles around Las Noches."

You decide to keep quiet about the fight. You're no good with politics, but Cirucci explained it to you easily enough. The longer Findor can keep it quiet that he failed to kill you, the longer he'll be willing to wait before coming after you again. Instead, you allow yourself to be led over to a wall lined with bolts of white cloth and a dizzying array of tools.

"Maraña is the practice of binding spiritual power within an object, preserving it against evaporation. Such tools and garments gain a potency of their own, whether something elaborate like your scarf, or simple toughness to match a Hierro. Don't look surprised! My work is so much more than simply cutting and sewing, though obviously that aspect is not to be neglected."

He guides you through a variety of materials: the coarse black cloth of a Gillian's caul, fine white silk from Hollows arachnid and worm, a curiously rubbery grey material made from Hueco Mundo's unliving fungus, furred and scaled leathers from bestial Hollows, more complex bolts stolen from the Sunlit World, and more.

"No, mine is an ancient art, older even than the demasking rituals of the Arrancar. I worked out the rudiments for myself as a weak little spider, hiding out in the Forest of Menos and sewing Gillian-cloth with silk as camouflage, and learned the rest at the feet of... ah, memories. Well, soon enough I struck back out on my own, and my work caught the eye of His Maj- of Espada Segunda Louisenbairn." He coughs.

"I made his robe, you know. It was the work of a mortal lifetime to develop the purple dye in Hueco Mundo, much less attune the cloth so closely to him that his own powers wouldn't destroy it, but I did it. My masterpiece."

Tracing your fingers over needles and scissors as he points out each of their functions, you can hardly imagine what Barragan must have looked like before the robe. Just a naked skeleton? Not a thought you want to have when you're already in hot water with one of his Fracción. Even now, bound as he is within a shape of flesh and white cloth, you have trouble remembering Barragan as anything but a skull leering down at the world out of a mass of royal cloth and black furs.

"Ah, well, the robe itself is... still around." Alphonse smiles, mistaking your subdued manner for fascination. "A rather clever trick, if I do say so myself. Let's hope neither of us ever have cause to see it."

He hands you stranger reagants - bones, old masks, fragments of stone, things in jars - and you're reminded of your own collection of oddities. He instructs you to use your crude Pesquisa - as slowly and "quietly" as possible - to study each of their spiritual structures, and you're reminded of something else. The specimen jars in Syazel's private laboratories, glimpsed in a moment of terror on some errand you barely remember.

"Still, I've learned much in my new role. The forms of Arrancar are much easier to work with, uniforms have been an entirely fresh challenge, and of course... gothic lolita. If anyone asks, it was inspiración divina, okay?" He chuckles. "It was actually Lord Aizen himself who introduced me to the principles of uniforming. A great privilege. He was impressed with my work! Apparently they have Maraña in Soul Society too, which I suppose isn't surprising. The Shinigami have always relied on tools more than Hollows. And there's that fellow in the Forest... I actually have a Shihakusho hung up in the back." He stumbles over the unfamiliar word. You wonder what it means. "I'll admit it, they're fine clothes. And speaking of finery..."

He pulls out your own dress and lays it on a tabletop, selecting a roll of near-invisible thread and showing you how to thread it through a fine needle. The repairs are slow and faltering as he unpicks your failures and leads you once more through. You stiffen every time he reaches out to guide your hands, feeling uncomfortably like a fly tangled in the threads of spirit energy that permeate the workshop, but he seems to be enjoying the chance to talk and show off the intricacies of his work.

Eventually you even enjoy yourself, a little.

Your dress still has visible cuts and coarse stitches when you return to Cirucci, and she bluntly refuses to let you work on her garb until you improve. Still, there's a visible progression from your first, shaky stitches to your final, seamless repairs. That's something to be proud of.

You heft a small bag of supplies into your new living corner. You'll take some time to pick apart and improve your early work. And maybe you can even make something new! Cirucci wouldn't accept any amateur work, but maybe Esmeralda... Well, you still have a long way to go before then. And it is interesting to think that you're a Hollow, now starting to learn one of the founding arts of Soul Society. Pioneered by one of their own Royal Guard, even. What did Alphonse say they called it?

Reiraku.

The next time you see Esmeralda, you're leaning over a spare desk in Alphonse's workshop, small and worn. You already marked it with dotted lines using a small pot of charcoal, and now you're carefully slicing into the cloth with a pair of viciously sharp scissors. Alphonse is examining designs scratched onto a sheet of paper, and in the quiet you can hear the slight tick tick tick of each fiber part beneath the pressure of your blades. You've little time to yourself, with Cirucci putting you through your paces at her pace, but this workshop has become something of a haven. It's quiet, Findorr's unlikely to wander down here, and Alphonse himself just nods at you, unless you make a particularly obvious mistake.

"Ah, little one!" His voice croaks out, and you look up, wondering what he could have possibly spotted. Then you realise he's not talking to you, and your eyes widen behind your mask. "You've come to check on the new uniform for the Espada Tercera?"

Esmeralda stares back at you from the doorway, just as frozen. The silence stretches until even Alphonse catches on, scratching his shaggy hair. He shuffles off, and you both start in surprise as he deposits a pile of folded white-and-black cloth onto his counter. Shaken free, you find your feet stepping around the desktop and toward the administrative Arrancar.

"Now, this is the outfit, but I should let you kn-"

Esmeralda lets out an incoherent yelp, flinching away from your advance and grabbing the stacked outfits to her chest. Then she's gone. You're not sure if she can actually use Sonido, as a hybrid born from a basic Hollow, but you don't know how else to explain the speed with which she vanishes out the door, away from your upraised hand.

"-ow, it's not finished."

There's an astonished pause before you and Alphonse look at each other. He babbles, panicked. "I hadn't finished that! There's not even enough cloth there for a full outfit! Lady Harribel insisted that her subordinates receive their uniforms first, and there was so much work to do on those! Cincuenta y Seis wanted long hanging sleeves for her zanpakutou, and there's a reason almost no-one else has a one-piece outfit! Cincuenta y Cuatro was easy enough, of course, I just slimmed down one of Grimmjow's spare outfits, don't ever repeat that, but then dear Franceska asked for something fierce yet feminine, and I struck upon a lady lucha look, but I ended up spending so much time researching the Amazonian influences that I barely got past the collar and sleeves for-"

The spidery Arrancar slams both hands down on your shoulders, eyes wild. "You simply must stop her! A late project, I can handle, but an unfinished one?! Go, go!"

You go. You may not be the fastest Arrancar around, and the long empty halls may hold a special terror for you now, but even you can't fail to outrun Esmeralda. You'll catch her, return the clothes, and maybe... maybe then you can talk. A lot has changed, and you've never felt like you had the chance. Perhaps you thought going to see her would just paint a target on her for Findorr. It hardly matters. Now you have orders, an excuse. You pick up the pace.

Unfortunately, what neither you nor Alphonse had taken into account is the fact that Esmeralda is categorically impossible to simply track through her spiritual signature. Even a brief, nervous Pesquisa does nothing to reveal her trail. And what Alphonse couldn't have guessed is that you have no idea where the Espada Tercera herself lives. You've heard rumours that she dwells with her Fracción, that they knew each other and share some kind of artificial hot springs constructed in a corner of Las Noches, but... you've no idea of the specifics. You didn't get out much even before you won a grudge from a bloodthirsty Fracción.

Ordinarily, you'd just ask Esmeralda.

Alphonse sinks into silent terror and fury when you return to report failure, and you beat a quiet retreat back to Cirucci's fortress while he cools down. Fortunately, he doesn't blame you, apparently too overwrought to make the connection between your presence and Esmeralda's hasty departure. You spend the next few days in dreadful anticipation, awaiting a literal tidal wave of displeasure crashing down upon Alphonse, yourself, or Las Noches as a whole. But... nothing.

Finally, you break down and confess everything to Cirucci. She listens with irritation that slowly changes to amusement, and by the end her purple lips are split into an outright grin. You think giggling is a very inappopriate response, but perhaps she finds your impending death more amusing than you expected.

"Oh, dear." Cirucci smirks. "Not at all. No, I think our dear Tercera is quite content with her new outfit. Why, I spotted her on the way to a conference just the other day. At the time I thought her choices bold, even scandalously so, but now it seems she simply places too much trust in the expertise of others. How very passive. I would have kicked up a fuss regardless of whether or not I liked it. That's the only way to get results."

She's actually wearing it, whatever half-finished collection of clothes Esmeralda delivered to her territory? How long can that last, before someone points out the mistake, the lie behind the Shark Empress' New Clothes?

Your patron's smile fades, becoming almost contemplative, if not bitter. "...no, I shouldn't think so. That would require anyone to notice a mistake. To think she looked ridiculous. The Tercera has rather too much... presence, for that. Poise, charisma, authority. A wardrobe is a fine pedestal, but what's the point if it doesn't display a work of art?"

She looks down at you, again, intently.

You still your trembling.

Her fingers trace the handle of her whip, and you enter a #14 Stance, intended to display polite interest in the conversation of a superior.

Her gaze become less hard.

"You see, my dear? The simple truth, and one I will continue to impart upon you, is this: It's not the clothes. It's how you wear them."

Chapter Text

You have been under Cirucci’s “protection” for three days now.

No, the sarcasm is unfair. She does protect you. It’s just that while you are here in her fort, sheltered by her, she is training you. And that training is harsh and painful, and hurts just as much as any combat with an Arrancar.

But the threat of death isn’t there. You know that if you fail, if you falter, she will not strike you down. And that makes all the difference in the world. It allows you to tolerate whatever pain her teaching brings, because you will not die from it.

You are serving cakes. Cirucci is sitting at a table, fanning her face with a bored look, and you are displaying the biscuits and brownies (which you baked yourself!) before her, an elegant structure of pastries. When you are done you bow, and Cirucci gives you a nod.

“Sit, then.” You do so. She takes a bite from one of the biscuits and smiles. “Not bad. You’re improving.” You try hard not to blush. She waves her hand towards a plate, which you take as authorization to partake. You take a small square brownie and bite into it.

Salt. You forgot to add a pinch of salt. You mentally kick yourself over it, you always forget salt in sweet confections.

Cirucci doesn’t seem to be too bothered, however, and eats cakes with small, dainty bites.

“I have a mission for you,” she casually drops. You tense instinctively. “Oh, don’t be like that. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

She finishes up her cake and takes an embroidered napkin out of her clothes to wipe her mouth.

“You know Yammy Ryialgo, yes?”

Of course you do. The tenth Espada. Supposedly the weakest of the lot, although a godlike monster by your standards.

“Well, something isn’t right. I’m not the only one who misses her spot in the Espada. Dordonni is stronger than me, and Ruddborne of the Exequias craves Aizen’s recognition. Plus, there are other Arrancars weaker than I with less good sense who would still throw themselves in a doomed battle for a spot among the Ten. Yet, Yammy is almost never challenged. That does not fit.”

You listen quietly, not making a peep. What she says is sensible enough from the point of view of someone powerful, but from where you stand Yammy is just as much of an unscalable mountain as any other Espada.

“So I want you to study him and learn why he is not being challenged. Spy on him, spend time with him, whatever works.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Yammy Ryialgo is not the kindest of people, not by a long shot…

Cirucci taps the table with her knuckles, frowning.

“I know you can play the meek. He will not kill you for no reason, will he? Or do you refuse that request and wish for another?”

You shake your head. You will do as she asks; you owe her your life, after all. Cirucci smiles.

“Good. Now let’s finish these cakes.”

You walk the dark corridors of Las Noches, stone upon stone upon stone around you. You walk slowly, deliberately so, wanting to delay this as much as you can, but you still walk, and you can only delay it, not avoid it.

A young Numero comes up the stairs ahead of you, panting. He is young - or rather his human appearance looks young. The remnant of his mask is a ridge of bone going through the center of his bald, dark-skinned scalp. When he sees you he tenses up a little.

You ask him if this is where Espada #10 dwells, and he nods an affirmative. You didn’t need to ask. In truth you can sense the reiatsu down these stairs, a golden shape of light in your mind.

“He’s terrifying,” the young Numero says in confidence. “He sent me to fetch drinks, but I’m afraid to go back.”

Is he Yammy’s Fraccion? The idea makes him laugh, although it’s a bitter laugh.

“No, never. I’m too weak. I’m just a Numero who didn’t have important work elsewhere, so he roped me into serving him.”

That makes you consider. Would he care if it were someone else doing that job? The Numero looks at you curiously, then shrugs.

“I don’t think so. As long as they’re someone to do his whims, it doesn’t matter who that is.”

You nod thoughtfully, then give him an encouraging smile. You’re willing to take over for him if he wants to. That surprises him.

“Are you serious? I mean, yeah, I’d jump on that chance. But you might regret it.”

You shrug just as he did. It’s not skin off your nose. You were going to be doing something reckless anyway.

The Numero rubs his nose, then nods quickly, looking as if he’s afraid this one opportunity might leave if he doesn’t seize it quickly enough.

“I’m Eduardo, by the way. Thank you for this.”

You smile feebly and return the greeting, but he doesn’t linger to chat. He’s gone as soon as he can.

You bite your lip, suddenly unsure you’ve made a good decision; but you have to commit to it nonetheless. Where can you get drinks..?

Yammy Ryialgo is a mountain of a man.

As you think this sentence you understand it on a multitude of levels at once. It is not just that he is tall, though he is; it is not just that he is heavily built, thickly-muscled, though he is; it is also that his presence, his reiatsu fills the room around him. His power is a mountain towering over you. He lacks the discipline other Espadas have that lets them keep their power in check; his might transpires with his every motion and breath.

The mountain is sitting on the floor in a darkened basement, a heap of bones and scraps of meat around him. He does not look at you as you enter, instead focusing on the leg of some beast he is tearing into with fingers and teeth. He is not wearing his sword; there is a rack on the far wall where it sits, and you have the distinct feeling that part of the reiatsu flooding this room radiates from that blade, not just Yammy himself.

You bow, although he does not see it, and lay the plate next to him; a jug of some powerful alcohol, another of water, and a handful of stone cups. Then you step back, keeping very quiet. A small animal - a dog-like creature bearing a Hollow mask, the number “35” crudely painted onto its fur - comes sniffing your leg, looking at you suspiciously.

Although Yammy has not looked at you yet, he reaches with one ham-like hand to take the alcohol jug and pours himself a cup; he downs it in one gulp, then lets his belly rumble audibly. He slaps his stomach with one hand, then finally turns to give you a glance.

“You’re not the one who served me the other cups,” he notes neutrally, indifferent.

Eduardo was taken elsewhere, he had orders and needed to leave, but he found you to fill in for him and-

Yammy raises one hand, shaking his head.

“Boring. Long as someone’s here to pour me another it’s fine by me.”

You nod rapidly. The spiritual pressure in the room is intense, deafening almost, but he does not seem to realize it. He waves a meaty hand towards you.

“Come here. Have a drink with me!”

You hesitate for one second, not sure if you’re supposed to do that, and that draws you an angry look from him, his thick eyebrows furrowing in irritation. You immediately abandon all other concerns and hurry to sit in front of him.

Yammy takes the jug and pours you a glass, then practically shoves it in your hands before pouring another for himself. You bring the stone cup to your lips; it smells foul, but you do not want to upset the Espada so you drink it. It burns your mouth, throat and stomach all the way down. Like every time you drink, there is that feeling when it should be going through your Hollow hole, spilling between organs, but instead it… Doesn’t, it just disappears and then reappears still pouring down your body. You hate that feeling.

“It’s good, innit? Ain’t nothing like booze to forget the dullness of this place.”

The dog barks enthusiastically, which you suppose is some sign of approval. Yammy gives him an irritated look.

“Pet him,” he says. You blink. “Pet him!” He says louder; you quickly put one hand on the Hollow-dog, rubbing the fur of its back.

Yammy belches loudly, pouring himself another glass.

“Dumb thing’s too small for my hands. I can’t pet him properly. My finger’s the size of his head!” he adds with laughter. “Scratch him. He loves it but I can’t do it.”

You reach under the fur, scratching at the dog’s skin, and it stops fidgeting; instead it vibrates faintly, its head held low, as you go over its back and up to its neck. You scratch the spot where his fur ends and his mask begins and he lies down, transfixed.

“Did you know that in the living world they have magic boxes that let you push a button and have any kind of story you want?” Yammy says, staring at the blank wall in front of him. “I’d love one of these things. I should go snatch one.”

You’re not sure a television would work in Hueco Mundo; there is no electricity grid here, let alone TV stations broadcasting anything.

Yammy’s mouth twists, his brow furrowing. “That’s dumb. We should have that ‘grid’ thing. Then I wouldn’t be so bored all day.” He tosses the gnawed-out bone he was holding into a corner of the room, and pours you another cup. You hadn’t realized you had finished the first; you’re actually starting to feel kind of funny… But Yammy thrusts it in your free hand and you have to take it and drink, while still petting the dog with the other.

“The other guy was dull. I don’t know you but I’m giving you a chance to show you’re not dull. Give me an idea of something to do today.”

You blink, three times, your throat on fire. You delicately put down the half-finished cup, clear your throat… You let out a hiccup and Yammy snorts. He looks at you, a side-eyed glance from his towering height, and you feel the pressure intensify, your hands and feet shaking slightly under it.

“C’mon. Gimme an idea or I’ll start getting ones myself.”

You’re almost certain that would be bad. Your head is swimming a little now, though, and it’s hard to catch a grasp on any real idea.

Chapter Text

It's hard to think with the Espada's reiatsu pressing down on you. Ideas flit through your head, but they're gone before you can grasp them. You wet your lips for a moment, hands trembling. The Espada is waiting, and you can see his growing impatience- you don't have time to wait for him to calm down.

A memory floats through your head, vague and half-forgotten; rumours whistling through the leaves of the Forest of Menos, of a warrior who stalks through the trees, hunting your kind and preying upon you in kind. A Shinigami, lost to the Hollow world.

Quickly, you blurt out the idea. An Espada such as Yammy would surely be capable of hunting many Hollows, but how often has he pursued a Shinigami through the toxic reiatsu of Hueco Mundo? Such a hunt would surely be an exciting opportunity; and not one you suspect the others to be aware of.

Words remain unspoken, of course. Setting the might of the Arrancar against a Shinigami will surely reveal to you the breadth of his powers, if not his strength; there is even a chance that such a hunt would result in the Arrancar's death. You will have to inform Cirucci before you leave, of course- you shiver briefly as you consider the thought of facing her wrath if you were to return without informing her of your plan- but surely she will approve.

And, you think as you shift awkwardly and feel the loose threads of your cloak rub against you, you need a new cloak anyway; and the cloak of a Shinigami sounds fine indeed.


The colossal man narrows his eyes in consideration. He rubs his chin with a hand still stained with bits of meat and blood, and finally lets out a joyful: “Ah!”

“Yes, I like that idea! Hunting normal Hollows is so boring. But a lost shinigami? Now that’s interesting! You’d better not mistaken, though. If I go trapsing in that forest and find nothing I’ll be pissed, got it?”

You nod quickly, already regretting that idea. With the Espada’s obvious lack of discretion, the masked hunter would be able to sense his approach and hide, perhaps indefinitely… This could turn out to be a terrible idea, but it’s the best you have right now.

“All right,” Yammy says standing up, dusting the remains of his lunch off his uniform. “We’re going!”

He can’t possibly mean right now. You’ll have to warn your mistress, and surely he needs Lord Aizen’s authorisation first-

“Naaah, none of that sounds fun. We’ll just go now. Anyone wanna stop me, they can come tell it to my face.”

The dog barks between your hands, and Yammy grabs a bone and tosses towards him; you dart your hand to avoid the throw and the dog grabs it out of the air, then cheerfully gnaws at it.

“You stay here, stupid dog. You’re too small and too slow and I’m not waiting for you.”

That said, Yammy takes in a deep breathe and walks up to the wall from which his sword is hanging. He draws it and ties it to his belt, then heads for the stairs. As he does this your breathing becomes harsher, your head throbs - as if his reiatsu had increased the moment he touched his sword. You tense up, hesitant, but he turns around and gives you an unamused look. You hurry to your feet and follow after him. 

“Grab the jug first! I’ll need some booze to keep me company while we’re walking.”

As you hurry back to pick it up, you ponder that this is going to be a long walk.

The black pit beckons silently.

It is a hole in the surface of Hueco Mundo, wide and disturbingly circular. It is hidden between the dunes, and under the low wind a faint trickle of white grains pearls off from its rim into the depths.

An entrance into the underground; but not an exit, not unless you can fly.

Yammy scratches his cheek, looking down.

“I’m gonna jump. You follow after me.”

You’re not sure that’s such a good idea. Who knows what could be waiting for you down-

Aaaand he’s jumping. And falling. And disappearing into the darkness… You lean over the opening and you think you can hear the soft sound of an impact far below.

Well, you’re an Arrancar. It’s not like the fall is going to kill you. You wince, then hop off the rim of the pit.

You fall down, down, down into the darkness, the sun growing into a distant light around you. Then you see - not true light below, but some dim glow; you brace yourself and hit the ground feet-first, one hand supporting you. You raise a puff of white sand around you as you land; a small heap accumulated from what has fallen from above.

Around you is the Forest of Menos. An immense underground complex underneath Hueco Mundo, where stand immense petrified trees, grey and thick as granite, reaching far, far above to the surface; the only light coming from… You’re not sure, actually. The blue glow is almost hypnotic, but you’re having trouble focusing your eyes to follow its source, and looking too hard at it makes you drowsy. There is no sky above you, only a vault of rock and earth above which the white sands of the desert. But the darkness of this underground has a different quality to it than that of Hueco Mundo's sky. It is less empty, less vast, less open.

Immense as it is it still feels smothering.

You clutch your tiny fists as hard as you can to push down the flow of memories. You can't be distracted.

You hadn't quite realized that you'd been avoiding this place for a long time. You shake your head and slide down the heap of sand and at its foot Yammy is waiting, staring around him.

“Been a while I’ve been here. Takes me back.”

Oh. You hadn’t thought about it before, but it’s natural that he too would have dwelled here back then, as an Adjucha.

“Ah! Damn right I did! I was a terror of the forest. I didn’t need no fancy traps or sneaky ambushes. I just barreled through, eating whatever was in my way! The more I ate, the stronger I got! There was no end to it!”

You look appropriately admirative, and Yammy puffs up his chest, walking onwards into the forest.

Reiatsu is thick in the air. Even your now-weaker senses can still feel the dim shadows of Gillians at the edges of your perception. You pull the scarf up over your mouth, letting your spiritual pressure bleed into it. You don’t think Yammy will notice, or care about, the change.

“You don’t talk much, do ya?”

You shake your head apologetically. You don’t want to bother the powerful Espada.

“Fine by me. I hate all these others guys always talking themselves up. ‘Oh, Yammy, you’re only the Ten!’ ‘Oh, Yammy, I have such cool powers, you just hit things!’ ‘Oh, Yammy, you don’t do anything all day, I spend my days doing weird stuff that helps Lord Aizen!’”

That doesn’t sound much like any Arrancar you know, but you don’t comment.

“Truth is, I’m the strongest around, and they all know it! They have to do these funky tricks to justify their position. I just have to hit things hard enough and all problems solve themselves.”

That sounds like a fine philosophy for someone as strong as he is. You are all too keenly aware that sheer power is a quality all of its own. Your mind flashes back to your fight with Findorr - you doubt even your more esoteric abilities would have made up for his sheer power. Your bones sting at the memory of breaking, and you rub your arms. That wasn’t a good moment.

Even so, you’re sure someone as powerful as an Espada must have some tricks under his sleeves.

“Tricks are for suckers. I have power, and it’s all that counts.”

That’s what bothers you. Power is how the Espada are ranked. If Aizen had tried to sort them based on which of them would defeat which of the others, the testing itself would have killed some of his precious warriors. So he simply ranked them according to their sheer reiatsu (although he never seemed to be bothered that some of them would go on to fight amongst themselves anyway). Which means it doesn’t make sense for the lowest-ranked of the Espada to claim that while all the others have “tricks,” he stands above any of them in raw power.

“Las Noches is so dull. But then every other place is dull! I’ve been to the living world before, ya know. The air is tasteless. Human souls bland and weak. Like water. There ain’t much to do there… But there ain’t much in the desert either. I wish I could just go to Soul Society, see how the shinigami live it up in their white towers.”

Human souls… Does he eat humans?

You shudder, a memory flashing back into your mind. That wasn’t the same thing. You killed her accidentally, and it would have been… Wasteful. To let her soul dissolve into nothingness. You don’t eat human souls for fun.

It seems wrong somehow, although you’re not sure why. It’s not like you haven’t eaten your share of Hollows before.

Powerful energies move around you, but all some distance away. The Forest of Menos is nominally under Aizen’s orders; a number of Adjuchas here answer to him and enact his will, but it’s not like he can maintain much oversight in this place. Mostly it’s just endless hunting grounds, and those that can feel Yammy’s reiatsu know to stay clear of it.


Gillians, though, dumb and slow, still linger in your vicinity. You can see one from where you are, walking amidst the trees, paying you no mind. As far as it can feel, you are of its kin. Your eyes wander between the trees, distantly noting the points where he would have hooked the tripping wires, a nook in a stone trunk from which he would have hung a noose...

“So how do we find this shinigami dude, anyway? You said you could take me to him, uh?”

You didn’t exactly say that… But it’s no matter. Rather than take Yammy to him, he will come to Yammy. He is a hunter of Hollows, and will be drawn to such powerful prey.

At least you hope. Even though you were a hunter before, you’re not sure you can play this game with the least subtle of Espadas standing next to you like a beacon. If Yammy scares the Masked Hunter away, there isn’t much you can do.

“Eh, if you say he’ll come, I’ll just walk around until that happens or I get too bored,” Yammy says picking his ear.

You have the feeling you don’t want to be anywhere close to Yammy should he get “too bored.”


[ ]Suggest that an open display of strength might draw the shinigami to you; Yammy should fight some of the local Menos.
[ ]Probe Yammy with questions about his powers and ranking in the Espada, trying your best not to sound too curious or insulting.
[ ]Stay quiet. Keep your eyes peeled and hope something happens before too long.
-[ ]If you see something, will you actually warn Yammy or just stay clear of danger and let it play out?

[X] Write-in:  Seek out the Guardian of the Forest.

Chapter Text

If you were with most any other Arrancar, that might work.

... Unfortunately, Yammy is not any other Arrancar. He is much stronger than any of the other Hollows in the forest. If the Shinigami is a coward, as many Shinigami are, he is not going to want to come out and fight someone as strong as Yammy.

You leave it unsaid that the Shinigami might not be a coward. If the Shinigami wants to attack while the two of you are wandering through the Forest, you are quite happy to allow them a sneak attack against the powerful Arrancar next to you. It's a dangerous plan, but nothing about this plan isn't dangerous. You will simply have to remain on your toes, so that you can flee from danger if the Shinigami engages Yammy.

The Arrancar scowls down at you, his expression thunderous. "I didn't come all the way down here just to be bored," he says. His reiatsu flexes, and your knees almost buckle.

Th-That doesn't mean you won't be able to find him! You could be bait to draw him out, or, or- a memory flashes through again, muddled and half-forgotten, but you seize upon it anyway. There's another Hollow in here, you think. The... Guardian of the Forest, you think you've heard him called. You generally tried to stay away from the other Hollows when you weren't hunting, but you remember other Hollows talking about the Hollows that had died in the Guardian's vendetta against the Shinigami.

And you can lead Yammy to him, you think. The Gillian here will listen to you. They must- you have your cloak; but even without it, you were an Adjuchas-class Hollow, and now you are an Arrancar. If nothing else, they will lead you to him so that Yammy might spare their lives.

You're not sure what kind of plan the Guardian will come up with- although with the thunderous scowl Yammy is still aiming at you, you are fairly certain you are not going to get away with standing on the sidelines. But- but that's fine. If you stood on the sidelines, you wouldn't be able to witness Yammy's power anyway. You'll just have to be even more careful than usual.

And besides- and you most definitely do not say this aloud- by pushing responsibility for the location of the Shinigami to the Guardian, Yammy's temper will most likely fall on him if the plan fails, not on you.


“Fair ‘nuff,” Yummy says finally, his great shoulders shrugging. “Show me the way.”

Of course, you don’t exactly know the way… It’s not like you actively sought out the Guardian. But, hm, you can find it! You could use your scarf to try and pry the information out of some mindless Gillian, who likely avoid the Guardian as he would hunt them. But you’re not sure you want to reveal that ability to Yammy.

You have to go ahead a little bit, scout out to know in which part of the Forest you are, is what you end up explaining. He should wait here - or, you quickly correct as his eyes narrow, go ahead in this direction, you had pointing vaguely to what you think is north. You’ll be back very quickly anyway.

Yammy doesn’t answer, and you feel that he’s starting to doubt you led him to any kind of fun at all. Before he can change his mind though, you are hurrying along into the depths of the forest, your eyes fixed on one of the tall black-robed figures slowly roaming the place.

Are they here because they want to? Do they even know the way out, or that there is a way out? You don’t know, and you don’t think it too wise to ponder the condition of the Gillians.

You hop along the trunk of a great petrified tree, leaping from the stump of a branch to a knot twice the size of your body, and come to a rest. Before you a Gillian stands, staring at the ceiling, perfectly still save for the billowing of his cloak. He smells of old wood and growing mushrooms. You tighten the scarf around your neck and flare your reiatsu. You can feel the energy passing in the strands of the fabric, changing in texture, in flavor.

You ask the Gillian the location of the Guardian of the Forest. It turns slowly to face you, pinpoint-eyes staring dully from within its puppet mask. It does not say, or do, anything else.

It’s a beast, you remind yourself. It has no use for names.

There is a thing in the forest, a thing that hunts, but not out of wrath; only out of hunger. It is a thing that is great, and powerful, and which has a hole where its heard should be. You must find that thing.

The Gillian stares at you for a moment longer, then looks up - and stares in one specific direction across the forest. In that look you feel far more than a gesture; your scarf whispers to you, images and landmarks, a broken tree and the bones of an ancient Hollow.

You thank the Gillian, although you know this serves no purpose. You hop down from the tree and scamper back to Yammy, who is thankfully walking not too far astray from the right path; you humbly point him in the correct direction, and he grunts, but does nothing to harm you.

You walk.

The first thing you see is a tree larger than any you’ve seen so far, whose trunk stretching far above twists into sharp angles and protrusions like it attempted to grow blades. There is a hole in that tree, a cave almost, its edge jagged like a screaming mouth. Before it lie the remnants of bones and shattered masks, and a handful of Adjuchas who see you arrive and scamper into the dark.

There is no need to announce Yammy. He cares little for introductions and simply walks into the cave, sparing bored glances at the Hollows that step back from his path, hugging the walls, fear in their eyes. There are whispers ahead, tones of fear and warning, until you get too close and they fall silent. Only one Adjucha looks unconcerned: taller than Yammy himself, his body disturbingly human-like save for its dark grey skin, but not an Arrancar. His mask is whole, smiling disturbingly, and there is some kind of bone plate or shield on his back.

He sits on a pile of shattered masks, and bows when Yammy approaches.

“The great and powerful Espada grace us with their presence,” he says loudly, but his tone is full of sarcasm. “We stand at Aizen’s orders, powerful Diez.”

“I don’t much like your tone,” Yammy says, frowning. You look anxiously around yourself; that’s a lot of Adjuchas if a fight breaks out.

“Please, please,” the tall Hollow says with his perpetual grin. “I live to serve. It is simply unusual for you, who rule above, in a fortress lit by a sun, to come grace your humble servants in the dark underground. We have lost our manners.”

“I don’t know if you got beef with Aizen, or the Espada or something, but I don’t much care,” Yammy says. He cracks one of his shoulders, although you’re not sure it’s deliberate - the man seems to have threatening body language as his unconscious, base mode of functioning. “I came here to ask something. But if you’re a bother, I can fight you first, that could already be a bit of fun.”

The Guardian of the Forest smiles, not answering. You feel a shudder on your back, and regret that you chose to come here.

“So anyway,” Yammy says with a shrug, “there’s that dude here? Shinigami lost in the forest? Kills Hollows? I wanna fight him. Sounds like fun. ‘cepting I don’t want to wander around the forest for days hoping he sneaks up on me, so I need you to tell me how to drag him out in the open.”

The Guardian looks at Yammy for a few silent moment. You see his eyes blink - but not the way a person would. Translucent membranes, moving from the corners in, like a snake.

Then he chuckles. It’s not a pleasing sound. Yammy steps forward, his reiatsu intensifying, and you feel you’re about to get the fight you came here for, but the Guardian raises a hand in a gesture of appeasement. He picks a mask from the heap underneath him and tosses it to the Espada, who catches it and looks uncomprehendingly at it.

“Lord Aizen appointed me master of this forest a century ago. Since that day I have surveyed the dead stone trees, the mushrooms glowing and hypnotic, the shape and pattern of the wandering Gillian packs, the birth and death of countless Adjuchas. I live and breathe this dead, forsaken forest. But when I came to that position the Masked Hunter was already here; he was already killing; he was already undefeated. The Forest of Menos has no history, save for him. There has not been a night of my stewardship in which he was not already killing the Menos of the forest. There has not been a day in which I was not trying to trap him, to hunt him, to slay him. And yet still he lives. These are the masks of my henchmen that he took - those we could retrieve, anyway.”

“I don’t see what that’s gotta do with me,” Yammy says, closing his fist. The mask shatters in his hand, bone-dust crumbling to the ground. “You’re a weakling. I’m Espada. This’ll be a fun afternoon and then done - I just need to find him first.”

The Guardian stares, silent, smiling still. Then he shifts on his bed of masks, like a snake uncoiling.

“I have no plan for you, O powerful Espada. No cunning strategy. But I have directions. There is a place in the forest where we do not go; a place filled with his traps and snares. It is a sanctuary of sorts for him, and if you intrude he will come.”

Yammy raises an eyebrow. “You tellin’ me that after a century fightin’ this guy, and knowing where he lives, you still haven’t got him?”

“It is not his first sanctuary. If I send too few Hollows, they are never seen again. If I send too many, he is alerted well in advance, and flees; and I still lose some to the traps. Then a few months or years after, he builds a new sanctuary. It’s pointless. The only strategy is to get him when he comes out of that place, to hunt us.”

“Hasn’t worked out so well for you.”

The Guardian stares, then tilts his head very far on one side, grinning. “Indeed. But with you it could be different. If you go into his protected place he will not feel you are too much of a threat. Weather a few of the traps, fall into one… He’ll come for you. Then you have him close, where your Espada power will crush him like a bug. Good plan, no? Simple.”

“Sounds good to me,” Yammy shrugs. “Give us a pointer and we’re off.”

The Guardian nods slowly, and beckons another Adjucha to him, a crawling centipede thing. He whispers in his ear and the beast nods, then heads for the exit. Yammy turns to follow him, the cavern dismissed from his attention, already boring to him. You hurry along after the Diez, but as you do you turn to look at the Guardian, still, always smiling.

“We will not go retrieve your bodies,” he says as his goodbye.

“Can you believe this guy?” Yammy says laughing. The centipede-Hollow has already left you, having given you the indications you needed to find the path; the two of you walk alone in a place where the trees grow denser, the blue glow more distant.

“He thinks he’s hot shit. I should probably smack ‘im when we get back. Show him his place, yaknow? It’s a shi-ni-ga-mi, God’s sake. I know they’re weaklings but they should recognize the strength of an Espada when one shows up on their turf, at least.”

You nod enthusiastically, trying to conceal your worried glances around yourself. You are not Espada, and you are definitely not confident that this ‘masked hunter’ presents no threat to you.

No, you are confident he does present a threat. It’s not like you’ve seen him in person, but…

...have you?

You rub your head, wincing. Something isn’t quite right but you’re not sure what.

“These guys - this shinigami, this Guardian - they’re the same. They both have their heads stuck so far up their own asses, playing mind games and setting traps and whatnot, that they’ve gone blind. They don’t see how the world actually works anymore. They don’t respect power. It’s prolly why Aizen consigned him to some underground nowhere where he can do some useful work without getting in the way.”

You hear a snap. Somewhere not far a distant weight falls. Yammy pauses, surprised, and looks down; a slack string lies over his foot.

The great branch of the calcified tree comes down with a great swooshing sound, and you hurl yourself to the ground…

Yammy raises his hand, a red-orange light bursting from it, and the branch shatters in the middle, coming apart as it passes him. He has not looked up from his foot.

He picks up the string idly, looks at it, then shrugs and puts it in his pocket. Meanwhile you stand up, your eyes blinking reflexively, staring at the colossal pieces of stone broken around him.

“See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. No sense of realities,” he says, moving further into the forest. You hurry along, but this time you put some distance between yourselves - it doesn’t seem like Yammy cares much about watching his step.

This proves to be a good idea a few minutes later, when you notice the ground under Yammy’s feet starting to look different - but before you can warn him, said ground gives way, and the Espada falls into a great hall. You hurry to its edge and look down… Yammy lies on the top of a series of spikes, carved from Hollow bones and planted into the ground.

They shattered under him. He seems unarmed, although irritated. Eyeing the distance upwards, he stands up, dusts off his uniform, crouches - then jumps back to you in one leap, forcing you to stumble back to avoid him hitting you.

“We’re probably getting closer. This would have hurt a Hollow, I suppose; although it couldn’t do jack against my Hierro.”

You pull your scarf tighter to your neck, throwing worried glances around you. You still can’t sense the shinigami… Although given that you’re here to find him, maybe you could send out a Pesquias?

“Ah, that’s a good idea. If I did it it might reveal my power to him, but you’re tiny. He won’t worry. Do it!” Yammy says approvingly.

You take a moment to focus your senses and close your eyes. Leaning close to the ground, you move your head up and down, left and right, slowly…

The horns on your mask quiver slightly. Dented marks in them shudder. You feel them - you feel through them - you feel as if they were part of your own body, as they once were. Your horns take in the scent of the forest around you, and pulsate once, sending out a vibe, then feeling its echo.

There are a few Adjucha-class Menos in this area, which is odd if it’s supposed to be so dangerous. No Gillians, however, but a few ordinary Hollows, the kind who usually fall into the Forest of Menos and spend the rest of their short existence hiding, not knowing how to get out, until they are eaten.

No shinigami.

“Pah. He’ll come eventually,” Yammy says, frowning and hastening his steps.

Ten, fifteen minutes pass without any other incident. At one point you spot another wire and Yammy steps above it. At another point you hear something move above you, but it is gone before you can get a good look at it.

More time.

Then, you miss a tripwire. Yammy steps right into it, triggering it, and you hear a swooshing sound again, different from before. Yammy snaps his head and raises an arm to defend it, firing off a Bala which shatters the trap-

This wasn’t a branch, though. Some sort of container made out of a paper-like material, like a giant wasp’s nest, explode under the shock. It sprays some slimy yellowish fluid all around the point where it exploded, a quantity prepared to douse an Adjucha; Yammy, who is merely a man bigger than any man ought to be, is completely covered in the slime. Some of it spills on you and you step back, wincing.

“What the hell…”

He steps forward, his foot slowed down slightly by the stickiness, although not by much. You move closer to him but have to stay clear of the fluid. Is he all right? You hear a sizzling sound… Is your arm burning? You look at it, and there, where a few drops of slime have touched you, your uniform is being eaten through. You quickly crouch and rub it on the ground, trying to get rid of it.

“Yeah, yeah… I think it’s some kind of acid?” Yammy stares dubiously at his own arm; the sleeve of his uniform is beginning to dissolve. “Damn, it stings. I think that’s it. It doesn’t hurt me much but on a Hollow it’d shut down their High-Speed Regeneration. Burn the flesh as its heal. Clever.” He chuckles. “Too bad I don’t have High-Speed Regeneration.”

“Good to know.”

Both of you freeze. You snap your head up - a man on a grey branch, or a thing like a man, a black robe and a thick coat of fur, hunched and covered in masks… Covered in Hollow masks, in the remains of your kind.

You only see him for an instant, your eyes drawn instinctively to the object he’s throwing, some ramshackle contraption lit with a fuse, burning, arcing down towards Yammy. You’re the only one to dodge it, the terrified little moth who was the only one really watching out for a threat.

It explodes, of course. More importantly it explodes and the fire sets the entire puddle of yellow slime, and Yammy who is covered in it, on fire. It spreads in one instant, going from nothing to roaring red fire, and Yammy screams. The Espada pats at himself, rubs his own skin to smother the flame, but it’s doing nothing, his hands sticking to his own body…

The slime is dense, an adhesive, you understand. The point isn’t just to burn, it’s to burn for long, and to burn in a way that can’t be easily doused. But Yammy is still an Espada, and no fire will kill him. Even if he has to wait until it all burns out he will only be wounded…

He’s moving in the forest, in the cover of the trees, jumping around you from branch to branch, out of your sight.

Chanting.

“Weeping mother, tired worker,
There is no one home for you
The beds are without children
The table is without supper
The heart is without lover.
Start a fire in your hearth,
Stoke it 'til it roars,
Put your feet in the flame,
And forget.
Hado #38: Stoke the Pyre.”

You feel the sudden rush of pressure, something much akin to the warning sign of a Cero about to be fire. Not too powerful a Cero - one of your own level, not anything like Yammy’s - but that power does not resolve into a beam of energy. You feel instead the power rush around the burning slime and the Espada still busy rolling in the dirt to put out the fire, and you feel it engulfing that space, rushing into the flames.

Stoking them. It’s sudden and brutal, the surge of reiatsu knocking you back onto the ground, the flames roaring and fusing into a single pillar of fire that is no longer orange-red but beautiful, shining blue.

Yammy’s scream, which was mostly anger, is now one of actual pain.

A spell designed to compensate for the weakness of its raw power by feeding into a pre-existing source of damage and intensifying it. You’d admire it if it hadn’t come this close to killing you.

This shinigami could be of any skill or power. He could be your equal, or even weaker than you. But here, in his forest, Yammy may be his match - but you certainly aren’t.

But if he hasn’t struck you yet it may be that he considers you a second priority. You could have an opportunity.


[ ]This battlefield doesn’t have to only be the shinigami’s. Fire a Cero Triste and engage him under its cover. If Yammy sees you fight for him perhaps he will reward you.
[X]This isn’t your fight, and you can always justify running away later. Back away on the path you used to get here, where the traps are already spotted or exhausted.
-[X]Once you’re sure they think you’re gone, come back and spy on the fight.
-[ ]Fetch some Gillians. Lead them to the fight where they can help Yammy. It’ll reveal one of your secret tricks, but it’ll definitely have his attention and help him.
-[ ]Fetch some Gillians. Lead them to the fight where they can attack Yammy. He never has to know it was you, and the harder the fight is for him the better the chance of forcing him to reveal his strengths and weaknesses.

Chapter Text

This is not your fight.

Or rather, in a way it is - but you are here to observe it, not take part in it.

You run. Circling past the pillar of blue fire from which Yammy’s form is slowly emerging, you race back on the path that took you here. You jump over the tripwires you saw on your way, you leap over the pit of spears, hop past the broken stone of the first trap.

In the distance you hear roaring and the clash of destruction. You see the light of a Cero flying into the absent sky.

You stop. Breathing heavily, you focus inwards. You abandon the Veil’s disguise, instead suppressing your reiatsu as best you can.

It’s not perfect, but Yammy has poor spiritual senses and the Hunter will be focused on his opponent. It will be enough, you hope. You take a moment to calm your breathing.

Then you veer off the path, running through the trees, circling back to the sounds of the fighting. Your eyes scan your surroundings to dodge the traps - it is not too difficult for you; they were meant for Gillians and the odd Adjucha, not creatures as small and nimble as you.

It’s not difficult finding your way back. Really, your only difficulty is in staying away.

“Bastard! You think traps can take me down?!”

Something flutters in the trees, a brown-and-white shape darting away. Yammy is leaping, easily going the height of a building and landing on the branch the Hunter just left. It shatters under his weight and strength, but before he can fall he punches the air, a shockwave of condensation widening from where his fist hurled a Bala towards the ground. There is a spray of heart and dust and a volcanic boom, but he missed and is falling to the ground now.

His uniform is parched, his skin covered in scorch marks. There are vivid marks of burned flesh where you can see his skin, painfully raw, and one of his eyebrows is gone.

He pauses for a moment, visibly straining, his eyes scanning left and right. You sense a moving spiritual pressure - and so does Yammy, a moment after you. He charges like a racing horse, spraying dust in his wake, but without using Sonido.

The first tripwire is another falling branch, and Yammy simply runs too fast for it to reach him. The second he sees in time and steps over. The third is not a tripwire but some kind of pedal - the ground depresses slightly as he steps, and you hear three explosions. From around him a spray of fangs, claws and spikes, cutting and piercing implements torn from the hide of dead Hollows, closes in without opening. They hit him in a rain of blows, cutting the skin but failing to reach deep past his Hierro. Yammy grunts and charges on.

“I know how to get past your dumb tricks,” he spits, and hunches over; his jump cracks the forest floor and takes him dozens of yards ahead towards the moving signature. You have to use Sonido to catch up, hoping no one will feel the burst of energy.

The Masked Hunter is crouching, his body like that of a cat about to pounce. Yammy stands up before him, eyeing the distance between them.

He opens his mouth, inhaling deeply, and an orb of red power sparks between his teeth. You feel the Hunter tense, as if surprised, and reach for his back; Yammy fires a red Cero that screams like a banshee as it reaches its target… But the Hunter presents before him a ‘shield’ that is only the great lion-like mask of a dead Hollow. The Cero hits it, pushes the shinigami back by several yards, his feet digging deep furrows in the ground; but instead of scattering past the shield or knocking it aside the beam changes course. Angling the mask, the shinigami is deflecting it, the spear of energy streaking towards a tree, zigzagging across its trunk until its force is spent.

It was more than a lucky defense. In the moment that follows the cracked trunk collapses. The tree’s root are deep in the ground of the forest, and its branches pierce into the surface of Hueco Mundo; but its midsection has been cut apart, and falls down like the hundred tons of stone they are. The nimble Hunter darts away while Yammy, stunned that his attack was so deflected, only has time to look up before it falls on him.

You are a distance away from the point of impact, but your survival instinct still kicks in and makes you run as far from it as you can. The ground shakes under your feet and the cloud of dust from the impact engulfs you and makes you choke. You pull the scarf up again to protect your mouth. Your legs are shaking, your hands shivering, and you’re tasting blood on your tongue. You must have bit yourself when the tree fell. This is combat on a whole other level than you are used to, even if you’re not taking part in it.

You expect Yammy to erupt from the block of stone at any point now, but… It’s taking time. You’ve lost track of the Hunter now, so you move cautiously, watching your step. There is whispering or chanting above you, another spell? You feel Yammy’s reiatsu surging but still can’t quite see him…

The ground twitches ahead of the broken stone; earth rises as if something were digging under it, then erupts outright - and Yammy pushes himself out of the hole.

Oh. The branch hammered him into the ground like a nail, and he had to dig his way out.

You have to put your hand on your mouth to keep yourself from laughing.

“Where are you?! Where! Are! You!” Yammy screams, his spiritual pressure rising and cutting off any urge to laugh.

You see the glint of a blade, and the Shinigami jumps on a branch, drawing his sword in an arc.

“Hado #32, Oukasen.”

The arc of his sword elongates, a blade of yellow light streaking forward. Yammy sees it coming in time and raises his hands as the surge engulfs him. The shinigami does not linger to see the effect of his attack and is quickly gone, but so quickly after such an attack his reiatsu is like a shining beacon. Yammy erupts from the last shreds of the spell, a bloody gash on his forehead and two solid burn marks on his wrist, and he roars as his hands punch the air again and again. A deluge of Balas like Findorr's own, but far stronger – petrified bark explodes into stone shrapnel and you cover your head, running away as the forest shattered around you. A stray projectile hits your shoulder, a grazing blow that still sends you tumbling. You whimper, your hand clutching your shoulder – bruised, blood seeping from the cracked skin, your arm numb. You see a shadow play ahead of you, silhouettes dancing in profile among the trees, the giant and the hare. You get up, bite your leep and grit your teeth to ignore the pain and move alongside them. You try to keep up, feet dancing lightly on grassless ground, your hands and ankles brushing traps you only dodge at the last second, but they’re moving like beasts, hunter and prey, frantic both.

You’re not sure which one is the hunter and which one the prey.

The shinigami’s left off-hand thrusts to his left and right as he runs and you hear him shout. “Shu! Shu! Shu!” Surges of spiritual pressure, loose and low in power, hit things on both sides of the path. They knock over or destroy simple clay jars, spilling some kind of oil on the path…

Yammy steps blithely on the open path ahead of him. He walks three steps - which with his size are almost enough to catch up to the Hunter - before his sandaled foot slips on the oil. Upturned, he falls on his back, tries to push himself up and only slips further, almost gliding on the slick ground. The shinigami is still running, but slows down just enough toss another projectile behind him, another fuse - there is a detonation and the entire trail of oil is on fire and Yammy with it.

The light of the fire might give you away. Shadows dancing across your pale uniform, you back up into the shadow of the trees and move further in, suppressing your reiatsu as best you can.

All to your own stealth you only notice the other spiritual pressure at the last moment. You start, backing up against a tree, and look at its origin - some kind of hole in the ground, long metal bars closing it into a cage. Something powerful is pacing within it, clawing at the walls. You slip behind the tree to hide yourself from it.

Yammy is on fire, the ground around him is on fire, and to boot it's still too slick to move properly. So he gathers power into his hand and slams a Bala in his own chest. The shockwave blows out the fire and the burning oil, leaving him smoking and breathing heavily.

"You're all the same. Noveno, Octavo, Septa, all of them shinigami... You don't have power, so you imagine the world works different than it does. You think bein' clever and full of tricks will do the job. But here's truth for ya: all tricks do is let trash catch up with slightly more powerful trash. Power doesn't care about tricks. Power tramples through them. That's what all the six and above get, and that's why they rule."

There's footfall heading towards you, and you curl up tighter against your tree. You clutch your only wound to keep your arm from shaking. The sound stops on the other side, near the cage, and you sense two reiatsu, the strong trapped one and a weaker one, also that of a Hollow... Curiosity gets the better of you and you lean to look.

This is the closest look to the Masked Hunter you ever got. You can see his tanned, weathered hands, all too human. His sandals, made from something that definitely isn't straw, on human feet. His tattered black kimono, the uniform of the shinigami. But above it only the cloak, coarse brown fur running down his back and over his arms, and adorned with Hollow masks, so many of them, small and big, the biggest on his back – the shield he used to deflect that Cero – and the second-biggest on his face, a horned antelope-like face.


You're walking in the woods, far from the more powerful Menos, safe in the cover of darkness. Your friend is chuckling, clicking his mandibles and pincers in a fourfold sounds that you first found disturbing but which has grown endearing to you. This is uncharted territory, you know it. Food will be more scarce here, but you will also be safer; few other Adjuchas venture this far, and so you will be able to hunt Gillians without risk from them. The mantis is already pointing its arms at places where he thinks he can set up good traps, and you follow along, nodding at his explanations even though they're a bit too technical for you.

You never notice the string. One of your hindlegs butts against it and it snaps, coiling around your foot and pulling you up into the air. You shout in panic, unable to escape as you sway between the trees.

"Hold still!" Your friend calls out. He skitters up the trunk and reaches the string, his pincer slicing it like great scissors. You fall heavily to the ground, wrapped in your own wings, the only real bruise to your ego. You scold him for not remembering where he put his own snares.

"But I do remember," your friend says with worry. "I've never been here, never set a trap here before."

You're about to ask for an explanation and then the shadow falls upon you. All you see in the dark is a white antelope mask staring lifelessly at you; before either of you can react it speaks words you don't understand and the air buzzes with power. Ropes of light coil around you, trapping your wings. You can't move.

Your friend acts without thought, hurling himself at the masked figure before it can take advantage of your helplessness. His pincers clash with something you don't see – a blade? – and blood spills on the ground. The thing falls back, overpowered, and the chains finally give way, your wings opening widely in freedom. In the darkness the reiatsu of a Hollow is running away – then fading.

The mantis limps back to you, its face cracking into what you've come to recognize as a smile, but there's blood from a deep cut on one of its legs.

"Got him good, I did. I don't think he expected two Adjuchas."

You nod, thanking him, but your congratulation is tinged with worry. This is hostile territory.

"Yeah. I don't know who that guy is, but I don't want to fight him for his turf. It's not worth the risk."

You agree. And so the two of you turn your backs and move away, back towards Barragan's hunting grounds.

It's better than the alternative, and you've been safe there so far. 


You hold your hands close to your chest to keep yourself from shaking. Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit. This is not the time to reminisce. This is not the time to-

"You're hiding now? Fleeing back to whatever hole you came from? That's no use. You've pissed me off and now I'll kill ya if I have to tear down this whole forest to get ya!"

The Masked Hunter is working close to the ground, pulling bolts and slicing locks with his swords. Finally he steps back, racing into the dark, and something emerges from the cage he had dug in the ground... Lean, panther-like with segmented skin like the plates of an armadillo, but its soft chest narrow and showing its ribs. It stares around itself with two blind eyes, the eyesockets of his mask cracked and caked with blood.

An adjucha, starved to the point of madness, blinded so it could only sense reiatsu. It tilts its head, jaws already foaming, and looks blindly where the Diez Espada is walking the forest grounds.

It bolts beneath the trees, crazed with hunger, towards the most potent source of reiatsu in its vicinity. No thoughts given to hunting down the man who trapped and crippled it. Only a beast now.

It pounces on Yammy, snarling, and the Espada is surprised; the beast knocks him to the ground, biting and clawing at its face. He laughs as the beast pins him to the ground, wrestling it; finally one ham-like hand grabs its neck and pulls it away from his own. The beast's reiatsu rises and it breathes out a yellow-tinged Cero straight into Yammy's head, shaking the ground. But when it is spent Yammy is still holding it and smashes it into the ground. His hand glows as he fires a point blank Bala into its head, dazing it, then raises his fist and punches down once, twice, three times. Finally he stands up, lifting the Adjucha, and takes its head in one hand and its shoulder in the other – then tears one from the other in a spray of blood.

"Now you're getting it! This is actually fun! You should have started with that: strength against strength! Got another one lying around?"

"Yep, and it's a doozy."

Yammy snaps in the direction of the voice, and as he does six rectangles of white light form around him and slam into him, and he can't move.

"What the hell do you think that's going to-"

As he speaks his shoulders are straining to shatter the spell, and you don't think it can hold – but before he has time to something lunges from the trees. A spider-like Adjucha, blinded and missing two legs but each of the remaining one a terrible blade, falls onto Yammy and knocks him onto his back. It screeches horridly, its legs stabbing and cutting with sewing-like motions, spraying blood on the ground. Yammy could tear it apart – he could shatter the spell easily – but being torn apart while bound he struggles to focus and deal with either threat.

Not for long, though. It's as he said – power is what he has, and he tramples through tricks.

With one flex of his arm Yammy shatters the binding. Still half-restrained he seizes the spider-like Hollow with his free hand and headbutts it so hard its mask crack, and the sheer impact finishes breaking the spell. Holding the Adjucha by its head he hurls it into a tree and fires off a Bala, and the creature slumps to the ground, broken in half.

Yammy stands up, brushing dust off his tattered uniform, but he can't do much about the blood. His flanks are cut in many places, his breathing is slow, and the entire left side of his body is now covered in burns of some severity or another. These strange protrusions on his scalp are... Cut? Dented? You're not sure what the right word is; but one of them is broken, bleeding over his face, a wound from the collapsed tree. Even his reiatsu has gotten lower.

He's hurt. Actually, legitimately hurt. It's the first time you've ever seen an Espada like that-

Well. Except for those which quickly became no longer Espada.

"Congratulations!" The giant shouts to the treetops. "You've finally managed to hurt me! And it's only taken every-fucking-thing you had! What's next, uh? How many starved Adjuchas can you have left in store? One? Two? If I traipse over every fucking trap in this entire godforsaken 'sanctuary' of yours, do you think that'll take me down? Do ya?"

There is no answer. You close your eyes, trying to sense the Hollow signature of the shinigami through your lancing pain. You think you have it, but it's gotten lower. These spells must have taken a chunk of his stamina. You hop towards it, still staying your distance, nursing your wound.

"I'm not a dumbass. I heard what that Guardian asshole told me. 'If we send too many, he lets the traps slow us down and escapes,' uh? That what you're going to do? You've seen you couldn't take me down so now you'll escape?"

He pauses to catch his breath. Again, no answer. You can see the Masked Hunter now. He’s walking slowly, hunched over, far from Yammy. It stops for one moment and lifts the antelope mask over its face - you see him as he truly is. Unruly red hair falls in wavy locks over his shoulders. His eyes are blue, intense, but he is breathing harshly. His sword is steady but his off-hand is shaking. He closes his eyes, one knee in the dirt.

You think he’s going to run. It's what you would do.

"Well, boo-hoo-ha-ha, too fucking bad. Didn't I tell ya I'd tear this forest to the ground before I let ya escape?"

It comes like a wave, and you fall to your knees. Your wide eyes can't blink, your open mouth can't breathe, your heart can't beat.The wound in your shoulder seems to spread like a wild fire, taking your entire body. The sheer potency of Yammy's Reiatsu is something you have never experienced, something that should not exist, something that cannot be ascribed anything like a measly number, ten least of all-

"Destroy, Ira."

Yammy explodes.

No, his sword explodes. His sword bursts into flames and the flames swallow him. The stone trees around him take fire as if they were simple wood. The ground bucks and caves in. You taste ashes, and blood, and you smell charcoal fire and cooking flesh.

He is tall. He is so tall.

He is not human. He is not Hollow. Nothing like this could share even a shred of kinship with you.

His countless legs are the pillars that hold up the sky; his body is the celestial vault; his breath is the hurricane; his eyes are two tiny, red, smoldering suns of hatred.

On his shoulder is a number, written in black paint taller than you are.

It reads "4."

[ ]Run. Run, it doesn't matter where, it doesn't matter the traps, just run.
[ ]Curl up in a ball and cry.
[X]Come and see.

Chapter Text

You look up and cannot blink.

Something is warm on your face. You raise your hand to touch your cheek- Oh. Tears.

The shinigami stares too, dumbstruck. But perhaps his survival instinct is more well-honed than yours. He forces himself to move, legs slow and straining with each step.

A serpentine tail as tall as these trees slithers with a hissing sound. Above you the many-legged beast extends one colossal arm, swiping through the air. Petrified trunks shatter. A rain of stone falls upon you.

Your body jolts into motion, dodging a falling mass. Pebbles erupt from the impact, ricocheting against your skin. Simple bruises.

You should run. You can’t.

You have to witness. The terrible creature is walking amongst the trees, shattering them at its passing, and the Masked Hunter is running ahead of it, a tiny dot in the shadows. You’re just sitting there on your knees, crying.

“You’re unlucky,” comes a voice like a raging storm. “If I’d been at my full power, all of this would have been over in an instant. As it is, you might just live long enough to suffer.”

It’s the voice that saves your life. A reminder that behind all this terrible power, for all the mythical proportions of the creature above you, for all that its reiatsu feels like that of a god... the will behind it is Yammy’s. A stubborn, headstrong man, but not a force of nature.

Your hands are shaking. You blink and wipe the tears from your eyes, then you stand up feebly. You have to see. You have to pay your debt to Cirucci.

You move besides the two creatures, your eyes flickering between Yammy and the Hunter. Can the Espada even see his prey, when he is so tall?

He does not need to, of course.

Yammy takes in a breath so deep you feel the wind inverting for a second, and then he is opening his mouth and a red-orange light fills the sky like a new sun. Your body almost freezes in shock, but you push yourself forward, dive behind a tree - the Cero sweeps the scenery like a tidal wave. This is nothing like the directed beams of other Arrancars, targeted attacks aiming at one point. This is an indiscriminate wave of destruction. The sound of it is like the world coming apart. You curl up as tight as you can and the wave reaches you, blowing most of the tree to cinders, scorching the edges of your arms and legs - but then it’s gone, leaving only dull, throbbing pain and silence.

A droning buzz fills your ears. You stand up but you don’t hear the sound of your own steps.

Before you is a trail of devastation. The forest scoured to black, ash-stained stumps. Nowhere to hide.

Yet the shinigami is alive. A slumped mass covered under his brown fur cloak, the remains of his largest shield-mask shattered at his feet, but he’s moving… Slowly he stands up, the antelope mask dislodged from his face, blue eyes haggard, sword held low to the ground.

Yammy walks towards him, unhurried, each footstep a small earthquake.

“Come on. Try something. What, no traps for someone as big as me? Don’t you hunt Gillians? Oh, wait, I’m sorry. I just blew ‘em all up, didn’t I? Kind of insensitive for me to point it out. So, whatcha got left?”

You get closer. Too close, you know this, but you can’t help it. You have trouble breathing and blinking, the Espada’s reiatsu commanding awe, commanding attention.

The shinigami pulls his cloak tighter and wipes a drop of blood off his mouth. He holds his blade in one hand, staring up at the beast above him. What is he thinking? Is he afraid? Resigned? Angry?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you’re close enough to hear.

“Harvest, Denki-Monogatari.”

The Hunter turns his own blade against himself and for a moment you think he is about to commit suicide - but instead he pierces a bird-like mask on his cloak, and the sword disappears in a flash of light, melding into the mask. The light swallows him, a great shadow forms within it, his shape changes…

Out of the light comes something like an Adjucha, a great bird-like Menos with scaled blue wings and talons dripping venom. But its form is incomplete, its skin translucent, the shinigami’s hair and eyes still showing through its mask. Yammy’s eyes widen in surprise and the fire of a blue Cero strikes his face, making him recoil. The bird charges his head, venomous claws slicing across his nose and forehead before flying away. Circling around the giant’s head its beak charges another Cero…

Yammy’s hand comes up from behind it and swats it to the ground like a bug. The Adjucha-thing hits the ground with a crater, and whatever power held its form together scatters into motes of light. The shinigami lies broken.

“Now ain’t that a nifty trick! I was wondering why you carried around all these masks. But stealing people’s faces so you can use magic to turn into them? That’s cold, man! Ice cold! Almost Hollow-like, really - it’s a trick and I hate tricks, but I can respect that.”

He’s standing up.

Why won’t he stay down? Why won’t he just hope his opponent thinks he’s dead and ignore him? Why won’t he create a distraction, why didn’t he use the wake of the Cero to make Yammy believe he’d been disintegrated, why won’t he…

He’s standing up. Blood stains his cloak and his left arm hangs limply beneath the furs, broken. His right hand still holds his sword, though, and his eyes have regained focus. 

The shinigami turns around and runs, stumbling with each step. Good. That’s the sane thing to do. It may be hopeless against Yammy, but trying - to the last - that’s what matters. You jump after him, recklessly leaping behind stony stumps. You pull the King’s Veil off your neck, wrapping it around your left arm where the burn and bruises sting the most.

You must know how this ends.

In the heart of the forest, past all the shinigami’s traps, is his sanctuary. It is a small thing. A mattress made out of blue feathers, likely from the same Hollow as the mask he used before. A cooking pot carved out of petrified wood. A handful of masks hanging from the branches.

And the tombs. Simple things: upturned earth and sticks planted on them. No names. No epitaphs.

Didn’t the Guardian say the Hunter’s sanctuary had changed several times over the years? Or perhaps he comes back here again and again, hiding the tombs in his absence…

The shinigami stumbles, his forces spent, falling on his knees.

He looks at the tombs and weeps. Behind him you slide along the ground, stepping softly in the ash, hunched and hiding. Behind you - behind you is the beast, mighty shoulders shattering the few remaining trees as it passes.

The shinigami does not hurry to some final preparation or last-hope effort. He simply cries.

“Is that all, then?” Yammy says, the last trees falling around him, his slow walk halting.

The Hunter does not answer at first. Then he tries to stand up - and falls. His good hand clutches at his sword; his back still turned to Yammy and looking at the graves, he holds it straight, point to the ground, and then lets it fall.

“Reminisce, Denki-Monogatari.”

The sword fades into the ground, shedding light as if from a pool. The shinigami’s reiatsu, a tiny candle in the ocean of Yammy’s own, surges one last time.

Out of each of the grave forms the phantom of a man, a warrior in a simple black uniform carrying a simple sword.

They smile. Their lips articulate wordless sentences, greetings or jokes. They walk ahead, towards the shinigami, then past him. Only one of them with well-groomed black hair stops, and kneels with him; and embraces him, translucent arms flickering as they wrap around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” the shinigami says again, and you cannot hear an answer. His tears glimmer as they pass through the phantom’s body. Behind him, all the others raise their swords, smiling defiantly at Yammy.

The colossus looks down for a silent moment, frowning.

“Not bad,” he says at last, and opens his mouth.

No. You’re too close. Far too close. All thoughts of stealth forgotten you get up and run, run as fast as you can, away from them, away-

The sun is born again, and its light engulfs you. You can’t hear your own scream over the roar of the light, but you can smell your own cooking flesh. Then all is dark.

You don’t stay unconscious for long. Minutes, maybe.

You’re not in pain when you wake up - your whole body is numb, senseless. You try to move an arm and it does not respond. Your mind is hazy. You can feel your neck, though, and you turn your head to the fading power somewhere in the distance.

Pieces of steel-like hide fall from the sky and dissolve among grey snow. No, not snow, ash. Yammy’s Resurreccion is gone, its last remains shed in the wind. He’s still a big man, but no longer a giant, and he stands in the ruins of the devastated forest.

Smaller than when you first saw him today, you think distantly.

He breathes heavily, but all the wounds from the fight are gone save one, a gash on his nose and forehead. The only wound he suffered in his revealed form, still lingering. He raises his hand to touch it, frowning at the sight of a few drops of blood.

Then he chuckles.

“That was bracing! I’m glad I came here today,” he says to no one in particular. His dead opponent, perhaps. Then he groans. “Ulquiorra will be on my ass for it, though… And I have to check on that girl… Hope she ran away at the start. If I have to kill her I’ll never find my way out of this hole.”

He shrugs, and turns away, and is gone.

You don’t know how long you spend lying on the ground. Eventually the numbness fades and trickling dots of pain light one by one as your nerve endings regenerate. You know it’s only the start, and you dread what’s to follow. You twitch your fingers and toes and the dots become lances piercing your flesh.

You hear soft footsteps in the ash, great figures moving about. A shadow is cast over you but you can’t turn your head enough to see what it is.

“Can you move, or can I eat you?” Says the Guardian’s voice.

You grit your teeth and push hard on your limbs. Your legs answer at last and there is the real pain, the burning muscles screaming in agony, but you manage to bring them under you and sit up.

Your body is not the pink of burnt flesh, it is the black and red of cooked meat. The burning spreads all through your limbs and chest but you shake your head. You’re fine, you lie. You’ll be up and about soon.

The Guardian of the Forest shrugs and steps past you, looking at the desolation ahead. Nothing remains of the shinigami’s sanctuary - save a few broken mask and tattered shreds of his fur mantle, hanging off a shattered tree stump.

“A century I’ve hunted him,” he says in this cool, disaffected voice of this. “A century we’ve danced, playing off each other, knowing eventually one of us would perish, hoping it would be the other. Then one of your Espada comes around looking for an afternoon’s entertainment, and it’s all over.”

The Adjucha pokes at the ashes, his followers some respectful distance behind him, watching on. He picks up a mask - the antelope one, the one with which the shinigami hid his face; broken in half, stained with soot.

“I had a plan. It was a cunning one, but like all good plans in the Forest, it was also simple. You would go, and I would wait. If you died, setting off most of his traps and weakening him, I would lead a hunting party and finally bring him down. If you succeeded - or failed - but either way came back, wounded, I would make you an offer. Take me to Aizen so that after a century in his service he at last make me an Arrancar, or be devoured alive.”

He tosses the mask to the centipede-like Adjucha, who takes it and quickly scurries away. Then the Guardian turns to face you, his yellow eyes blinking sideways, for the first time not smiling.

“But I don’t want that anymore. Setting aside that this giant of yours is not even wounded, I don’t want to be an Arrancar. I don’t want to dwell in your sunlit city amongst your capricious gods who can wipe out a quarter of my world in a few minutes of passion. The Forest is old, and cold, and ruthless, but above all it is patient and slow, and all it has is hunger. That’s a world I can understand.”

You’re not sure why he’s telling you this. You’re only a lowly Numero that came here because Yammy needed a guide. You don’t have such power, and you couldn’t show the Guardian how to break his mask if he wanted to.

“I say this because I’m not a fool,” the Guardian says leaning closer. “Your monster had never set foot in the Forest before. He had never cared about us or our masked hunter. But you, tiny moth - I am old and cold and patient too. I remember you. You fled, and found another life on the surface… And then one day you came back, coy and quiet, but at the side of a giant who suddenly had interest in this place. You told him the story. You showed him the way. You suggested the fight.”

You don’t answer.

“There is nothing about the Espada I can do, but you I can eat. Don’t come here again. Don’t bring gods into my garden. Or you won’t be leaving again.”

He does not wait for an answer. He simply turns his back on you and leaves, his underlings falling behind him, a few sparing a hungry glance at you.

You cough up a black-stained cloud, and try to stand. Every inch of your body is shaking. Blackened flesh falls to the ground, replaced by soft, pink muscle. Skin crawls on you like ivy. Every nerve of your body screams but it’s nothing new to you.

Inch by inch you walk, until your hand grasps a rag from the shinigami’s cloak, and until you can lean and pick up a fragment of one of his masks.

Trophies. They’re just trophies. Bits and pieces you steal to remember that you survived today.

But you stare at this one for a surprisingly long time.

You have acquired some pretty extensive knowledge of Yammy’s strengths and weaknesses. But was it worth the price? Pick a scar you retain from beholding the power of an Espada from too close:

[ ]Nightmares. Some nights you wake up in sweat, visions of the sun-like Cero turning you to ash. The vision of Yammy’s Resurreccion and his smothering spiritual pressure haunts you.
[X]Remorse. In the end the shinigami died because of you, because it furthered your goals and spared you Yammy’s anger. This isn’t so different from what happened to your friend.
[ ]Fear. Any of the hunter’s traps and ambushes could have killed you. You are uncomfortable in all unfamiliar environments, and downright paranoid when in a place belonging to an enemy.

Chapter Text

You'd stopped in the halls the first time you'd seen little Nemo.

She was so small, so timid, twitching from shadow to shadow in the long corridors even without Sonido. You didn't remember giving her a checkup after her demasking, and thought maybe no-one had bothered to tell her about it. She glanced around nervously, flinching away from your gaze when she finally noticed you.

Lord Tousen was blind, and had honed his other senses to compensate. Your mind's eye had been put out, and you thought the same thing might have happened, in a way. You couldn't sense a Hollow's power, but you could tell their status at a glance, written in the posture and tone that no-one else paid attention to. This little Arrancar had none of the thoughtless confidence of the Espada, who'd swagger into your infirmary like they owned it, you, and all of Las Noches. She didn't have the inherited, badge-wearing pride of a Fraccion, or even the determined, predatory fierceness of the masterless former Adjuchas that made up the Numeros.

She was a tiny bundle of nerves and terror. You actually pitied her, a little. At least you didn't have to feel the monsters surrounding you. At least you had a poker face worth a damn.

She even had a mask like yours, sort of. A full half-mask, just broken horizontally, not vertically. It's folklore among Hollows that the more mask is removed by the transformation, the more power the newborn Arrancar will display. You don't think that can be true; Lord Jaegerjacques has a giant half-jaw on full display, and you saw beneath Lady Harribel's collar in her first and only checkup. Still, it was something you two had in common. Maybe, without thinking it over, you'd taken it as another piece of evidence toward you and she being the same.

And she didn't push you away.

So you'd decided all by yourself that you were right, that she was just like you. You'd walked with her in the corridors (she'd tried to escape). Told her your name (she'd replied reluctantly). Shown her the infirmary (she'd never come). Chatted with her when you saw her (sometimes it was like talking to an empty corner). Made sure to give her a choice of assignments (always thinking she might never come back). Learned about her (little by very little).

And she didn't push you away. But you did, when the truth came out. You just ran, embarrassed, ashamed, confused, practically the moment you'd left Sir Alphonse's tailoring shop.

Now she was out there, slaying Gillians and braving the mortal world. You'd gone to her cosy little cubbyhole, to try to make amends, and found it empty. Holes blasted in the walls and floor, all her clothes and odd little gewgaws missing. You'd feared the worst, until the grapevine had reached you. Di-Roy Rinker, needing the bandages on his eye replaced, rambling about the little moth Numero who'd shacked up with the Princess of Pillars. Matching outfits, even. You'd pulled the cloth too tight when his speculation turned... scandalous, and had to apologize. You're sure it was just his dirty little fantasies. Certain.

Especially considering how she'd flushed the last time you'd waxed lyrical about patching up Lord Jaegerjacques. A loudmouthed thug, with amazing abs. Sometimes you'd wondered if there was something more behind his arguments with the pale prettiness of Lord Cipher, a secret fuel for his passion, a hidden motive to their sweaty grapples for power. She'd flustered at you, angrily and quietly, until you burst out laughing. You only talked about such things when she was around. She'd have stopped you if anyone was nearby, after all.

Really, Nemo's probably better off where she is. Standing beneath the umbrella of a powerful Arrancar like the Thunderwitch. A former Espada, even. More suitable company for an ex-Adjuchas like her, and at least... at least it'd make sure she never had to go anywhere near the real monsters in the Espada. The thoughtless brutes like Yammy.

You were made with a purpose: to be alone. To never feel the touch of another's soul, and to never be noticed in the mind's eye. You know that, it's a simple fact. No existential angst for you, no sir. And when you reached out to someone, a Hollow you thought was even a little like you... she wasn't. You were blind to the obvious, just like you were meant to be. And she didn't reach back.

...but she didn't push you away, either.

You can't let it end like this.

You pump your fist, confidence building, resolve firming. The next time you see her, then. The next time you see her, you'll talk to her. It might take a while, sure. You've never known her to be injured. Perhaps that should have been a giveaway. But... absolutely, positively, the next time you see her. When she comes to you. You're looking forward to it. Heck, you can't wait! You know exactly what you're going to say. She won't know what hit her! You've got this on-

You realise you've been muttering out loud when there's an ugly cough from behind you, and you spin with a barely-suppressed squeak of surprise. Then you see who it is, and panic completely.

She's never injured. Why is she here?!

Chapter Text

It does not take you long to find Yammy. His reiatsu still beckons, although far weaker than when you came here.

It does take you ages to reach him. Your walk is slow, every step painful. Your uniform is in tatters - only a shred of the King’s Veil remains, but you can already sense it feeding on your energy, reweaving itself. You take your time walking; no use revealing to Yammy the extent of your injuries, or the fact that they heal.

You cough up black dust again. Your lungs lance painfully, making it hard to breathe at times.

The tenth (or is he the fourth? or can he go even beyond that?) is sitting on a tree stump next to a dead Hollow, eating its legs with animal bites. As you see him your body shivers, a flash of terror, a reminiscence of his true form. You push it back. No use thinking of this now.

For the briefest moment you feel something disturbing. Fear you know; fear you are used to. You have always walked in the shadow of your greaters. But here and now you feel something different.

You led that monster here. You unleashed him. You never controlled him, but you still directed his steps. Is this power? In a sense you destroyed that forest.

No, that’s silly. His eye was upon you, he wanted entertainment. He could have destroyed you in an instant. You merely deflected him to somewhere else, to someone else. Killing them to save yourself, sure as if you had struck the blow with your own hands.

You can’t afford to think about that now. It will paralyze you. Instead you walk up to Yammy and stop when he notices you, lowering your head. Avoiding his gaze.

“Hey! I was wondering if you’d died. What happened to your outfit?”

You explain that you got caught in the first trap, the shinigami’s pillar of fire. You were out of it for a while. It’s an easy lie.

“So you didn’t see me fight? What a shame.”

You’re very sorry. If it’s any help, you are sure it was an amazing sight to behold, and that he triumphed in the end.

“Ah! Damn right. Freaking trickster types, thinking their traps can handle someone like me. I got him good. It was fun!”

You nod enthusiastically, glad the Espada enjoyed himself.

“Anyway,” he says, tossing aside a bit of bone studded with chewed meat. “Let’s get a move on, uh? Show the way. I don’t know how to get out of this place.”

You’re all too happy to oblige.

You are walking amidst endless white sands, hours away from Las Noches, when the Garganta opens.

It is much like a mouth, a thin line spreading to its left and right, then widening with teeth-like shapes, opening on a pit of darkness. Out of that emptiness steps a man, youthful in visage, his green eyes cold and empty. The trails of green paint that run down from them across his cheeks look like tears, but he is not a man who could ever cry.

“You left Las Noches without supervision,” he says calmly to Yammy, never sparing you a glance.

You swallow nervously, looking down at the ground. You’ve never been this close to the Quatro Espada before - his reiatsu is smothering this close. Any other day your knees would buckle under the weight of it, but today you witnessed an apocalypse. You endure it.

“Yeah, I was bored,” Yammy says with a shrug. “So I went into the Forest and picked up a fight with a shinigami they had somewhere.”

The green-eyed man stares blankly at Yammy, then nods once.

“Your reiatsu is weaker. Did you-” Then he seems to notice you for the first time, looking down at you. You hunch your shoulders slightly out of pure reflex. “Never mind. You should warn me when you leave the fortress.”

“Eh, sure,” Yammy says with another shrug. “It wasn’t like I was in danger though.”

“Be that as it may. We’re going back now,” the green-eyed man says, his tone a statement of fact. He turns back to the Garganta and walks in, and Yammy follows.

“Won’t see me turning down a quicker ride,” he says with a low chuckle.

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to follow them. You take one step towards the black opening - the Fourth looks back, staring at you. For a moment you feel dissected alive, and the pain in your lungs grows. You cough painfully, a few spots of blood landing on your lips. Then he dismisses you from his attention, turning back to the portal. You quickly hurry after them.

You step out of the cloying darkness into the sunlit sands of Las Noches. The two Espadas pay you no mind, walking away towards Yammy’s lair. The boisterous tenth talks loudly of his prowess today while the fourth stays silent, and soon both are gone.

You need to hurry to Cirucci. The information you have for her is as invaluable as it is terrifying. Obtaining it risked your life, and even though your wounds are healed-

You cough again, harsher this time. You hold your head in front of your mouth and it’s stained red with blood - and black with charred flesh. You blink in dazed surprise and another fit wracks your chest.

You’re not healing. In fact, you’re getting worse.

There’s only one person that can help you.


When you enter Esmeralda’s office, you do so stumbling. The pain coming from your lungs is radiating in your whole body, your shortness of breath is making you weaker. Your palms are sweaty.

Esmeralda has her back turned to you, but she hears your steps. She turns and starts at the sight of you, then freezes. Her mouth opens to form a sentence, then closes. She looks at you.

You cough up more blood. You need her help. You stare at her, eyes pleading.

“What happened to you? You’ve never come here before,” she says, and it’s a relief to hear her voice. You hadn’t realized you’d missed it. “Sit down, sit down-” she hurries to you, pulls you by the arm, leads you to an operating table. You sit, breathing haltingly.

Something in her switches. She is not Esmeralda the girl who ran from you, she is Esmeralda the healer. She pulls the jacket of your uniform off of you, unties the scarf from your neck, touches your skin, your chest. The pain fades for a moment, replaced by an odd feeling.

“You hurt your lungs?” She asks, frowning. You nod and cough again - she picks up a black mote off your lips, stares at it. “God, you must have inhaled fire. How did this happen? You have no other injuries.”

High-Speed Regeneration.

She stares at you, surprised. You look sheepish. You never meant to hide things from her, you just didn’t have any reason to tell. It’s like your being an Adjucha. You hadn’t realized it would hurt her, or you would have told her.

“What are you talking about? This isn’t the issue right now!” She seems almost angry now; she pushes you, making you lie down on the table. “High Speed Regeneration can’t heal vital organs. If your lungs were too severely damaged…” She turns, taking a number of implements from a nearby counter, putting some back, a frustrated twitch to her lips.

“I can help you, of course. But I have to operate, you understand? I’ll have to open your chest to work directly on the lungs. Of course, given that you have regeneration, this shouldn’t leave any sequels…”

You nod feebly, repressing another fit. Esmeralda turns to face you, planting a syringe in a glass bottle of unidentified liquid.

“I don’t have anaesthetics strong enough to put an Adjucha under. I can only numb the pain, but you’ll be conscious.”

Your only answer is to hold out your arm. Esmeralda stares at you for a moment, her expression unreadable, then plants the syringe into the inside of your elbow. The anaesthetic comes like a fuzziness across your arm, then your chest, and your head feels wobbly all of a sudden.

“I must tie you down in case the pain makes you spasm,” she says. “And then I’ll start cutting. Do you trust me?”

You look up into her eyes, and nod again.

Esmeralda bites her lip, then shakes her head. She brings up the restraints tied to the table, hard leather straps ending on metal rings, and affixes them to each of your limbs. In moments you are fully restrained, a feeling that would make you distinctly uncomfortable if not for the drowsiness imparted by the drug and the more immediate concern that you feel your lungs about to burst out of your mouth.

Esmeralda leaves your side for a moment, and comes back holding a scalpel and other tools you can’t identify, all seemingly bladed or pointed, and a glass jar she puts besides you. She snaps plastic gloves on her hands, her eyes hard, and picks up the scalpel. You look at her, your vision hazy, unsure what to say; she is not looking straight at your face. Finally she inhales deeply, and places the blade against your chest.

Even through the blur of the drug you can feel the pain when she slices through your skin. Your Hollow instincts revulse at the idea of deliberately exposing yourself to such pain; you feel a rush of blind panic and twist on the bed, but the restraints hold you in place. You must actively concentrate not to let yourself harden your Hierro in response; Esmeralda pauses for a moment, waiting for the fit to pass, and at last you relax, blood seeping from the wound in your chest.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have any other way to help you,” she says, and resumes cutting. You grit your teeth, a searing blade of pain running down your chest. The cut in your chest is only the start, and the most familiar sensation of the operation; when Esmeralda begins pulling the skin back to reveal your ribcage the feeling of it is less painful than it is deeply disturbing. You feel yourself bleeding until she clamps your open veins - you can’t look. You let your head rest, staring at the floor as your ribs are being proded, pushed out of the way… Then she starts poking at one of your lungs and your whole body goes into a spasm, bucking against the restraints.

“Please bear it for a little longer,” Esmeralda says, her brow furrowed in concentration. She is tearing things out of your chest… Burnt lung matter, tossed into a bowl. “How did you get hurt like this?”

Your mouth feels thick, incapable of forming words, and you can’t breathe properly. You open your left hand, showing five fingers, then close it and do it again.

“...you were with an Espada? My god, Nemo, what were you thinking?” Her probes become harsher; she takes things from the glass jar - things that look like pieces of flesh - and thrusts them into your open chest, each contact sending a dull wave of pain. She takes another syringe, injects something else in your lung. Then she starts working on the other. 

It feels like an eternity, days spent bound to this table being operated upon. But eventually it ends. Esmeralda lays down her tools, adjusts your ribs, and closes the flaps of your skin. For a moment she stares, and it takes you a moment to realize what she’s looking at.

Slowly the cut is closing up, your skin binding itself back together.

“Amazing…”

You smile feebly. Your lungs are already feeling better, your breathing smoother.

“So you could have been even more powerful, if you’d given it up like the others.”

You shrug. You’re not sure ‘even more’ is the right term; you don’t feel particularly powerful at all as it is. And it’s the reason you’re alive right now. Without your regeneration…

“What are you getting yourself into, Nemo? I’ve seen your house. It was almost completely destroyed, and you never went back there. And I hear you serve under Cirucci now? Even though she can’t have Fraccions? And Findorr… I had Findorr on my table. Are you the one…” Her voice trails off, too many questions rushing to her lips at once.

“I’m sorry I ran from you the other day,” she finally says. “I was scared. Hollows like me… We can only survive by avoiding notice or making ourselves useful. I didn’t… I didn’t want to think about you this way. I didn’t want to fear you. To have to worry about… Appeasing you. I wanted to just be myself around you. How can you be friends with someone who could kill you if you made them upset?”

You look up at her, hesitant.

You’ve thought the same thing many times before. There is no friendship between the weak and the mighty. At best, you can have what Cirucci gives you - benevolent servitude.

You’ve thought the same thing many times before, but today…


[X]She’s right. Stay quiet.
[ ]She’s wrong. She is your friend, and she can trust you never to harm her.

Chapter Text

You don’t have an answer.

You’d like to have one. You’d like to tell her that you’ll never hurt her. You are certain - you don’t believe you would raise a hand on Esmeralda. You have never been one for such gestures of angers towards the weak.

But there are many ways to hurt someone. And if your life were on the line are you sure you wouldn’t throw her into the fire to save yourself? You want to believe you wouldn’t. You just can’t bring yourself to promise it. And if something out of your power happened - if she were close to you and someone like Findorr hurt her because of that proximity -

You don’t have an answer. You lower your head, watching your skin stitch itself back. Esmeralda turns away from you, putting her tools away.

“At least you’re honest,” she says.

There’s a silence. You pick up the tattered remains of your uniform and arrange them as best as you can to cover your chest. The drugs are already starting to fade, leaving you with a nascent headache.

“I didn’t mean to accuse you,” Esmeralda says finally, turning to face you. She leans on the counter where her tools are disposed. Several feet from you, cutting implements ready at hand. You don’t take it personally; she probably does it as a reflex. “I just don’t often get to… Talk like this.”

You nod. You understand.

“Which, haha,” she says with a mirthless chuckle, “probably says a lot? I’m all like ‘we can’t be friends,’ but I would never speak that way with anyone else, so…” She shrugs. “Anyway, your lungs should be fine in a few hours. I’ve gone a bit… Experimental, here, but unless I’m wrong your High Speed Regeneration should be able to take root on the grafts I put there and eventually remake them into your normal lungs. It just needed a kickstart.”

You give her a thankful smile. You truly appreciate it. Without her, you don’t know what would have happened.

“Think nothing of it. It’s my job.”

You’re still thankful. You hop off the table, your legs still a bit wobbly, and grasp the metal rim from support. Esmeralda has a half-motion, as if going to support you, but then stops. You inhale deeply, and this time there is no black coughing.

“Come back if… If you need anything,” Esmeralda says, a forced smile on her lips.

You search for the right thing to say and don’t find it. It seems you never do. So you return the same kind of smile, wave her goodbye, and walk away.

You need sleep. You’ve healed so much of your body - twice over - that you can feel every part of it ache not with wounds, but with exhaustion. You’ve burned too much energy and stood awake for too long even without getting into a proper fight.

But you can’t sleep without delivering the news.

It is not that Cirucci’s composure fades as she hears it. She is always dignified… For her own value of “dignified,” anyway (you blush at the memory of the time you came to her). But her exaggerated princessly demeanor is replaced by blank surprise and growing concern. Finally you finish your report, and she takes some time to stomach it.

“All right,” she says finally. “So, the good parts are that he’s an idiot who charges into traps, who doesn’t use his sword or Sonido and instead just punches things and throws Balas.”

You give your protector a dubious look.

“Yes, of course I realize I’m missing the forest for the trees! An evolving rank? A second Quatro? None of that makes sense!” Now her composure is breaking. Her lips twist in an angry curl and she hops off her pillar, pacing around the room, her hand lashing nervously at the air - a motion reminiscent of her whip strikes, but the weapon at least is safely at her waist.

“All right, so he’s not the Diez, or the Quatro, or anything like that. Depending on when I fight him he could be anything. Below the power of an Espada. Above it. There’s no way to know except to observe him and know when he last expended his power. I can deal with this. I can…”

She stops in her steps, her heel clacking the ground.

“I should have known. He’s an artificial Arrancar, you know? All of them are… Twisted in some way. They’re not like us. They didn’t just break their mask. Mutilating ourselves for…” She grasps at empty air, as if trying to catch something that escaped her. “Freedom. Control. They’re different. So many of them are like… Science projects. Lord Aizen took them apart and put them back together and they were different. Customized. Some things taken from them to give them others.”

Your hands clutch at your sleeves. Some things taken from them indeed.

“And to top it off, he’s monitored by Ulquiorra and apparently kills those who have seen his Resurreccion. I can’t tackle such a threat on my own. So what’s next? If I can’t take on the Tenth, do I have to move to the Ninth? Except he’s not even really a fighter - he just has too many tricks somehow and I would have to study him in advance too… And above him is Eight, whom I will never be able to defeat in a proper battle when he spends all that time in his laboratory, probably full of traps! And it’s not like I can hope to beat the Seventh in raw power! He’s one step below Grimmjow and that’s a mountain I’m not climbing.”

Cirucci snarls, her hand blurs - the whip finally lashes out, the heavy golden disc at its tip slamming into a pillar, too close for comfort. You back down, eyes wide and shuddering. Cirucci’s eyes narrow as they descend from her yo-yo to you, and she pulls back the disc with a smooth gesture of the end. She walks towards you, slowly.

“You’ll never have to fear me hurting you for being the bearer of bad news. Only worthless masters punish their help for doing its job.”

You’ve grown used to Cirucci’s reiatsu, but she is usually not angry, and not this close. Your breath catches in your throat as static runs along your arms, a drone fills your ears. The Thunderwitch stops inches before you, eyeing you down.

“Your uniform got ruined again. How does this keep happening to you? You get hurt, your body heals, your clothes don't... We should fix that." Her index finger touches your chest, where the Y-shaped scar of Esmeralda’s surgery is still vivid, still a dull pain. You flinch. “But this scar is new. Not healed yet."

It’s nothing. You got too close to the fire and got burned. Las Noches’s medic helped you.

“That slip of a girl?” Cirucci says with low chuckle, her finger tracing the scar. “Crude work, but effective. No, never mind. First, I can’t keep having you ruin your uniform, it will reflect badly on me. I’ll have Alphonse prepare you something more… suitable. Second…”

She twirls around, stepping away, and you finally breathe.

“I can’t just recoil from Yammy like that. I knew something was not right with him. I know something isn’t right with all the lower-ranked Espada - it’s the only explanation for their never being challenged. You’ve given me valuable information, a window of opportunity by getting him to expend his power, and you got yourself hurt doing it. It would be in poor taste for me to discard all that and send you risk your life on another errand which will probably have the same consequences. No…”

A thin, predatory smile paints its way up Cirucci’s lip, and she cracks the whip again, the sound making you shiver.

“I will kill Yammy. I’m just not quite ready yet.”

You toss and turn in your bed, chaotic dreams filling your mind. When you wake up, you do not remember them, like an emptiness at the back of your mind. You’re sure it’s better this way.

Seeking reassurance, you raise your mattress and dig the golden fragment from under it. You grasp it in your palm and sit down, roll it between your fingers. Its touch shifts your perception of time, seconds stretching or contracting; your skin is numb where the tooth touches it. It’s been your companion for days now - weeks? You don’t know how long you’ve been with Cirucci. Its presence feels like a simple comfort.

It’ll be gone soon, you think. Whatever lingering energy is imbued into that piece of the crown fades slowly. Days, maybe a couple more weeks… It’ll be fine. It’ll still remain a token, a talisman, something for good luck. You’re not even sure what it did, anyway.

You put it back under the bed and go to dress yourself - then remember that your uniform is a wreck. And of course, you don’t have a spare. Cirucci said she would have Alphonse make you a new one, but… Given that you’re her only aide, she’s likely to give the job to you anyway.

Well, for now this leaves you with only the clothes you bought in the living world.

Some people would call this a problem, you’re sure. As for you, you repress a smile as you dig through the half-forgotten shopping bags that have been sitting there for so long. You come out of a chaos of clothes wearing a black knee-length skirt and a black-and-white blouse, a half-cape on your shoulders and a beret desperately trying to hang on to your masked head before falling off. You sigh - truly perfection is unachievable in this world - and toss it back into the bags before scampering out of your room.

Cirucci is sitting at a small table halfway through the maze of pillars, sipping tea. She must have made it herself - this is highly unusual, as it is typically your role. She does not turn as you approach, and you slow your steps. When you pass her she gives you a glance and lifts a critical eyebrow - then accepts your outfit. No further words need to be said; you bow in greeting.

“I have been thinking,” Cirucci says. “I must act quickly if I am to take advantage of Yammy’s relative weakness following your venture outside. This means my training, while fruitful, is not going fast enough. I have… Plans, which I am going to be working on shortly.”

You nod respectfully, awaiting an order.

“You have the day off,” Cirucci says, and you blink in surprise. She clicks her tongue, eyes narrowed. “I am not helpless, and you are not yet privy to all that I do. There are things I must attend to myself. Don’t take this as a punishment; just enjoy your 24 hours. Who knows what the future hold.”

You bow again and thank the Princess profusely, prompting her to roll her eyes. She agitates her cup towards you, shooing you out, and you hurry to the exit.

Well. That was as nice as it was unexpected.

...too bad you have no idea what to do, you consider as you step out into the sunlit sands of Las Noches. Part of you would like to go see Esmeralda, but… No, not just yet. You would have no idea what to tell her anyway. And besides, you have plenty of friends with whom to spend a fun day!

Like… That dog-headed skeleton whose name you don’t even know… Or… Your boss at what’s effectively a part-time job… Or… That spider you keep using as a taxi.

Hmm.

Goddammit.


[X]Go see Alphonse. You can show off your new skills and create something nice with him.
[ ]Go meet Spider. For once instead of using him as transport, you could just ask him if he knows somewhere nice in the desert he’d like to visit with you.
[ ]Go in the Living World. Spend the day with Riruka!
[ ]Write in: Insert a canon character that hasn’t been previously featured and whom you’d like Nemo to interact with. There is no guarantee of this last one being a light breather. 

Chapter Text

struck mute

Sometimes, you wonder if Cirucci is mocking you with these tasks.

Most, you can understand. Being sent to Alphonse in search of new clothing makes sense; presentation is important, after all, and it is the kind of duty that even you could easily handle. Similarly, preparing tea and snacks makes sense; they are skills you could use to entertain others, and Cirucci obviously does not wish to concern herself with it.

But other times, the tasks she gives you are seemingly pointless. For instance, no matter how hard you think about it, you cannot see a point in being ordered to retrieve a single box of “liqueurs”. What even is a liqueur? It sounds vaguely medicinal, so perhaps she is planning to train you in the healing arts - but if that were the case, why would she procure only a single box? Surely she does not have that much faith in your skills, considering the ineptitude you have displayed so far.

You shake your head. No, there is no use in thinking about it. You have been ordered to retrieve it, so retrieve it you shall.

Still, you quicken your pace as you meander through the halls. You dislike being out here. It is too… open, too easy for you to be found. You have been learning to obscure the presence of your reiatsu from others, but it is slow going, and until you are confident in your ability to mask your movements, you would prefer not to be away from Cirucci any longer than you have to be.

For now, you simply take a very circuitous path through the halls, staying well away from any rooms and corridors you have known Barragan’s men to frequent. Perhaps it will not do much, but anything that mitigates the risks of finding Findor will help.

Considering your winding path, it comes as little surprise to you when you find yourself hopelessly and utterly lost after merely ten minutes of wandering. You are forced to let out an aggrieved sigh. This happens every time.

You tilt your head up, looking around. You are… on the bottom floor of Las Noches, you believe, or somewhere thereabouts. You do not recall climbing further, at least, although it would not surprise you if you had done so without even noticing. There are several doors within the hall around you, only one of which is open. And- ah! Someone stands before it!

Still, you hesitate to approach them. They are… kind of scary.

They look as though someone had taken a skeleton - a human skeleton, you think, although some of the bones are quite oddly proportioned - and affixed it to the skull of a large animal. A dog, perhaps? It looks similar to the skull of a jackal, but you are no expert on jackals, so perhaps not. It is not entirely skeletal - you can see eyes within the eye-sockets, peering out at you, and when it opens its mouth you can see wet drool on its teeth - but it is certainly skeletal enough to unnerve you.

You dither for a moment, trying to steel up the nerve to walk up to it. The thing looks scary.
Eventually, you do manage to work up the courage, and greet it with a small wave. It looks scary, but the alternative is scarier. You could be lost in these halls for hours if you get unlucky, and that’s almost definitely enough time for Findor to find you.

It just greets you with a little one-handed wave. Its other hand is busy holding a long, wicked-looking spear. Its zanpakuto? But zanpakuto that don’t look like swords are rare - the only other one you have seen is Barragan’s - so maybe not.

It greets your query with another shake of its head, and lifts the spear upright, offering its handle to you. Taking it gingerly, you run your hands along the surface. And, yes- it is definitely not a zanpakuto, lacking the odd almost-echo of the spiritual weapons. You wonder if it could even hurt you, as mundane as it feels.

The jackal holds out its hand once again, and you return the spear. He demonstrates the effectiveness of the weapon with a gentle, cautious movement, poking you in the arm with the tip of the spearhead. It pushes against your skin, although not with enough force to break through your admittedly weak Hierro. Most likely not an entirely mundane weapon, then.

You nod, drawing Polilla after a moment’s hesitation and offering it to the jackal. It gives you an inquisitive look, as though asking for permission. You nod, offering a small smile, and it reverentially takes your sword, allowing its spear to clatter forgotten to the ground as it does so. There is an expression of what you can only call awe on its skeletal face. It is clearly not an Arrancar, then, if it has not felt the presence of a zanpakuto before.

Absently, it shakes its head, running fingers of bone across your blade’s surface. You move forward instinctively, as though to stop it from cutting itself on Polilla’s edge, but it is careful to keep its limbs far away from any part of the blade that could damage it, simply gripping the sword’s hilt with its other hand. Still, you shake with worry for a moment, before finally steeling yourself.

It continues marvelling at your blade, with a reverential expression plastered across its face the whole time, for a good three and a half minutes before it finally, almost reluctantly, hands your weapon back to you. Then, as you’re sheathing it, it looks at you with an inquisitive tilt, glancing back and forth up the hallway as though to ask what you are doing here.

You simply shrug, gesturing vaguely around you. You got lost. It happens all the time. You can’t fight the glum expression that steals over your face at that thought. It’s- It’s not your fault that you get lost easily! Las Noches is a confusing place!

You’re pretty sure that the jackal grins at that, although you try not to look at it when it does. There’s something viscerally terrifying about a skeleton trying to grin. It gestures loopily for a moment, watching to see if you understand. When it sees that you don’t, its shoulders droop for a moment, before it adopts a quizzical expression again. You give it a curious look; it looks thoughtfully into the air for a moment, then shrugs its shoulders and points to you.

You suppose it wonders why you were out here anyway. The jackal nods enthusiastically at your response, so you let out another aggrieved sigh. Thinking for a moment, you struggle to come up with a way to explain that doesn’t come off like you’re complaining about Cirucci.

You were… sent out here to collect an item, but you got lost because you’re trying to avoid a man you’ve had bad experiences with.

For a moment, you think the message didn’t get across, but then the jackal pats you sympathetically on the shoulder. Then it steps back, tapping first its own chest, then the door, before rolling its eyes.

… Oh, it was sent to guard the door? Curiosity sparks in you at the thought, quickly tempered down. No, you don’t need to know what’s behind the door. That will only lead to trouble.

The jackal nods, apparently in agreement with your thoughts. It’s none of your business, and - as it leans down and picks its spear up off the ground - if you tried to find out, you’re pretty sure that the jackal would get in a lot of trouble.

And that would be mean. The jackal echoes agreement with its own attempt at a skeletal frown.

A scowl hangs heavy on Dordonni’s face as he stalks towards his personal quarters. A crumpled invitation rests in his hand, the only remnant of Cirucci’s invitation to join her on another luncheon. Soon, the woman would learn that he has no interest in joining her mad schemes to take down an Espada.

As he turns another corner, he comes to a sudden halt. Cirucci’s odd faux-Fraccion is standing in front of him, although thankfully her back is turned. If he beat a hasty retreat now, he could get away without offending his former friend.

But… He looks closer. She’s interacting with the skeletal Hollow that guards the pantry that holds food for the shinigami that accompanied Lord Aizen. He would say speaking, but so far as he can tell, they’re not.

It’s the oddest conversation he has ever seen. An entirely non-verbal exchange comprised of shrugs, gestures, and unseen expressions.

He shakes his head and turns to move silently away. He could deal with a lot of the weirdness in Las Noches, but this- this is a step too far, even for him.

***

sweets

It is a quiet day, for once, when the jackal arrives. Cirucci has made use of you several times, but she has left you to your own devices for a good three hours now, and seems inclined to leave you be for several more. If you’re being honest, you’re left at a little bit of a loss; you can’t leave to visit Alphonse when Cirucci might need you at a moment’s notice, but you don’t really have anything to do apart from practicing your stitching.

You really need a second hobby. It’s almost to the point that you’re thinking of going back to Cirucci and asking for more training.

You poke at the scrap of cloth in your hands with a sad frown. You want to try and make something proper, but Alphonse won’t let you yet- he keeps claiming that you need to work on your stitching. It’s not your fault! Stitching is just hard! It’s really difficult to keep thread going in a straight line when you have to keep dipping in and out and you can barely even see where the thread is going!

But you do have to admit that you’re getting better at it, slowly. You have to actually look closely before you can see how uneven your stitching is, now- to an unpracticed eye, it would most likely look even at first glance.

Maybe you should take a break. You pout down at the cloth, trying not to sulk. Yeah, a break sounds good. Cirucci probably won’t mind you using her tea kit for yourself- she hasn’t minded you making yourself a cup when you make her some, when you’ve done that previously, although maybe that’s because you always sit with her as you do, and she can keep an eye on you to make sure you don’t break her cups.

You consider it for a moment. Actually, maybe it would be better if you didn’t use her tea kit. She would be pretty disappointed with you if you broke one of her cups, and-

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. You scramble to your feet, your morose frown falling from your face. And, indeed, your door swings open, revealing Cirucci standing there, a smirk hanging from her face.

You look at her quizzically when she doesn’t respond after a moment. What does she want from you? Doesn’t she have a task for you to do?

She shakes her head slowly, her smirk only growing wider. “Oh, no,” she says, her voice almost sing-song. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt you when you have a visitor, after all.”

Before you can do more than make a confused look, she steps aside, and you can’t help the shock that spreads through you; because behind her stands someone you had not expected to talk to again- the jackal-headed skeleton-Hollow you had talked to some days prior.

And while you had not expected to talk to the jackal again, you most definitely had not expected to see him approaching you in your private sanctum… with a cake in his hands.

You give him a cautious wave, which he returns with the hand not currently holding the cake. Cirucci’s smirk grows almost vulpine, as though she is drawing some terrible amusement out of this; in response, you can only muster a weak smile as you wave for the two of them to come in.

Thankfully, Cirucci declines with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I am afraid I have other duties to attend to,” she says, a note of what you are fairly sure is false regret in her tone. It seems almost to become more genuine when her eyes fall on the cake, and a fond look enters her eyes. “Have fun with your meeting. I will see you afterwards.”

Her voice brooks no argument. All you can do is nod.

The jackal did not hesitate as Cirucci did, and steps within the sanctum of your room. He looks out of place in here, the hallow white of his bones and the wicked sharpness of his teeth an odd contrast to the tranquillity of your bedroom. The cake in his arms, however, fits perfectly, so you do not feel at all odd in giving him a smile and a welcoming wave.

Behind him, Cirucci slips away, closing the door with a quiet schnick. You watch her go, the pleasant feelings the cake had aroused in you slipping away.

Once she’s gone, you turn back to the jackal, gesturing for him to come in. You don’t have a table and chair in here- actually, you still don’t have any furniture beyond your mattress; you should ask Cirucci if you can see to that, soon- but you do have a quite comfortable rug you have stitched together out of a set of scraps of cloth Alphonse had discarded while making a new set of clothing for Barragan’s Fraccion.

You’re not sure whether the rug is actually any more comfortable for the jackal than the stone floor, but either way, it doesn’t seem to concern him. He sits cross-legged, a contrast to your own uncomfortable position seated on your own legs, and places the cake between the two of you.

… You don’t actually have a knife. You’ll have to go get one from the kitchen if he expects you to cut it, because you are certainly not using your zanpakuto to slice cake.

He nods, seeming to have expected that, and withdraws from within his chest cavity- a motion that disturbs you on some deep level- a sharpened knife. You take it as he offers it to you hilt-first, clearly not bothered by the sharp metal digging into his skeletal fingers. Does- does he not risk cutting himself on that? Are his limbs truly skeletal, or is his skin merely much stronger than you had assumed?

Either way, it matters not. You take the knife, careful not to drag the blade across his fingers, then proceed to cut the cake.

It is actually quite a large cake, most probably bigger than your own head (a small, naughty part of you notes that it might well be bigger than even Findor’s head, despite how large it has inflated through the actions of his ego). You cut it carefully into a dozen slices, allowing yourself to breathe in the rich aroma of the cake as you do.

The cake is still warm. It is marbled through pink and brown- strawberry and chocolate, some small part of you notices- and is decorated quite nicely with small white chocolate chips and frosted icing atop it. It smells of cream and strawberry and other light and fluffy things. You salivate, briefly, before catching yourself.

You look curiously up at the jackal, then back down at the cake. You wonder, briefly, if he had made this, because it looks quite delicious.

The jackal smiles as bashfully as the skeletal head of a jackal can. He nods, then gestures at the cake and itself, tapping repeatedly at his wrist.

He… has cooked cakes repeatedly before, you hazard? Or, at least, desserts and sweets. If he made the cake, there is no way this is a first effort- it looks far too nice to have come of anything but hard work and dedication.

His smile turns, if anything, only more bashful. If he were a human, he would be blushing now. He nods again, looking shyly down at the floor. It must have been a long time since he has been praised for his baking- a thought he confirms with a nod.

Well, that is a shame, really. You feel sorry for anyone who doesn’t get to taste his delicious cake.

And it really is delicious, you find when you start eating it. The cake is rich and sweet, but there is a savouriness to it that prevents the sweetness from overpowering the rest of it. The cake is moist and fresh, and it is all you can do to refrain from eating three slices in a single sitting.

Okay, so you don’t refrain. The jackal doesn’t judge. He ate three too.

The two of you make polite conversation as you eat, and afterwards, too. It seems that not many in Las Noches have made the effort to talk to him, before. You imagine it has been a lonely existence, although the jackal does not seem to think so; though that may be in part because the jackal does not seem to recall how old he is, merely that he can remember standing guard in front of the door three weeks prior, and nothing before.

He is an interesting conversational partner, at least, insofar as the two of you can hold a conversation. You have been here for much longer than he, but you have typically confined yourself to ignoring those above you except when they have need of you. He has not; nobody pays attention to him as they pass, so they do not modulate themselves around him.

You find yourself almost feeling sad when he has to leave. Not merely because of his gossip- although, you must admit, you find yourself intrigued when the jackal draws you a picture of charcoal depicting Ulquiorra staring at Grimmjow’s abs, a story he insists is only exaggerated, not completely false- but because you have missed this; have missed having the presence of others around you, not because they need something of you, but because they enjoy your presence.

You follow him out, ignoring the plate of cake as you go. There are still five pieces- you may or may not have guiltily eaten another slice while the jackal was talking- but the jackal does not seem concerned. You justify it to yourself by noting that if the jackal wished, he could easily bake himself another cake.

Still, you can’t help but feel a little less excited when the jackal is gone- at least, until you remember that Cirucci had asked you to find her once he has left. Then the faint shimmer in your gut re-ignites, and you hurry off to your room to retrieve the cake.

(She loves the cake. You feel warm.)

Chapter Text

"Quite acceptable."

It's high praise, coming from Cirucci, and you feel a rare flush of satisfaction as she reels her zanpakutou back in with a flick of the wrist. She looks down on you standing before her, panting, and you resist the urge to keel over or even rest your hands on your knees. That would be inelegant. Unworthy of her, and therefore worthy of punishment... in the form of another training session. It's a lesson you've had to learn over and over, in the last few weeks.

She nods after a moment, acknowledging your efforts to avoid the trap, and you bring your breathing under control. For now, you've earned your rest.

"Tell me", she says, minutes later, when you've daubed away your traces of sweat (lighter than they would have been, once, and Arrancar hardly sweat to begin with) and laid out the tea set. "What are your plans, when Luisenbarn's Fraccion is disposed of?"

She briefly glances over the tea set as she sits, and you suppress a smile. You've come a long way from the days when she had to walk you through the placement of each and every utensil. Now you can meet her standards without a thought. Then her question registers.

You honestly hadn't given much thought to life after the short-term. Your new life, as far as you're concerned, consists of hiding from Findor behind your patron until he just... goes away, somehow. If he were to actually be vanquished, you'd only have new problems. It's been a bare few weeks, and you already have trouble imagining how you'd make a life outside of Cirucci's fortress.

Cirucci quirks an eyebrow with a mixture of emotions you can't quite discern.

"Well, I admit I've become... accustomed to you. And you seem to have a natural talent for service." She glances pointedly at the tea set, and you straighten your back at the acknowledgement. "But cowardice serves no-one. First and foremost, we're Hollows. If we aren't slaves to our desires, we're masters of nothing. You will strive for victory, not settle for this... half-life."

Cirucci's self-assurance is like a weapon in itself. It's not infectious, it bludgeons you into agreement. You'd just nodded and kept your head down (doing both at once is a specialty technique) when Cirucci first told you she intended to return to the Espada. Now you're all but convinced she can manage it, somehow. Still, it's hard to believe she can have this much confidence in you.

"You're growing, my dear. Training can polish the talents of even the weakest Arrancar, but... even as nobility, I doubt I can take all the credit." She sips at her tea, seeming pained by the admission. "For whatever reason, your true potential was hidden in the demasking. Now it's being revealed. I wouldn't be surprised if you had the power of a true Fraccion locked away in your little heart."

You stare, disbelieving, at her assessment. You'd noticed the burgeoning power of your Cero, the growing ease with which you flicked away from your tutor's casual blows, but... that's the training. She wouldn't be satisfied with you if you hadn't improved. Surely this is normal for anyone being trained by someone like Cirucci? You'd know if you had some... secret power unlocked by Lord Aizen. Or he'd know? Has Cirucci really found something hidden deep inside you?

She laughs.

"You don't trust my assessment?" You stutter, frantic to reassure her, and she dismisses your apologies with a wave. "I'd faced diminishing returns in my training for years. Worked my fingers to the bone for the least little improvement. And yet, now that I have you... I can feel my abilities growing again. Day by day."

She leans forward and cups your face with one delicate hand, nails not quite digging in.

"I can't tell you why. Perhaps I'm learning more, as a teacher. Maybe I simply needed to remember what it meant to take charge, to command and be obeyed. It could even be some... special quality of yours."

You try not to squirm. She smiles, not unkindly, and releases you.

"I will return to my place among the Espada."

You nod, knowing that agreement is all she'll accept.

"And when I do, I will need a Fraccion."

Not all the Espada bother with Fraccion, but you can hardly expect Cirucci to forgo the chance to exert authority over her pick of the deserving Numeros.

"It'll be tiring to train new Arrancar to satisfy my needs."

Cirucci's standards are exacting. It's become a point of quiet pride that you can meet them, these days... though you suspect she's going to raise her expectations in response. It's nice to face a challenge that won't kill you for once.

Your sense of your patron's moods has been honed by long days of exposure to her every whim, so you see the pout coming before her lips so much as twitch. Your mind plays back her last few statements, racing like a tiny Arrancar fleeing the destructive arc of a giant yo-yo. Oh. Oh. She's really asking you...?

"Hm." She conceals a satisfied smile with one hand, then shrugs it off, leaning back and rolling her shoulders. You wonder if sitting atop a pillar for hours on end has left her stiff. "Well, you'll need to survive first. That's just the way of Las Noches."

Isn't it just?

***

It's an odd feeling, to reach the end of Cirucci's assault course without a mark on your body. You kick off a pillar into the final leap, twisting in mid-air to avoid one last lackadaisical swing of the wheel on its cord, and turn the descent into a clumsy aerial pirouette for the sake of aesthetic. Then you land, transferring the force through your knees and desperately holding yourself upright.

Cirucci watches you for a long moment, reeling her Zanpakutou back in, and then conspicuously looks away, permitting you a few moments of weakness in which to collapse and gasp for air. You like to think you saw a smirk of pleasure dance over her lips, though at this distance that's probably just wishful thinking. Still, the thought fills you with a warmth quite apart from the burning heat of exhaustion.

The pain in your limbs fades after a few moments, the sluggish balm of High Speed Regeneration kicking in, and you compose yourself again, flushing when you see Cirucci watching you out of the corner of her eyes.

Assured that you've regained your composure, she vanishes from her pillar, reappearing before you with the signature boom of a Sonido. You curtsy in thanks for the training session, a quick bob that sends a well-earned ache pulsing up your rear leg.

"So", she says at last, having finished sweeping her eyes over your body for injuries she surely knows aren't there. "It seems you've improved a touch, hm?"

There's no way she was exerting even a third of her power in these sessions. It's not as though you could seriously avoid her strikes.

"No? Well, perhaps, but it's a improvement nonetheless. Don't put yourself down, darling. You'll leave me without any way to spend my time."

You duck down in on yourself in embarrassment, and she hardly bothers hiding her amusement, purple lips curving upwards into a smile. Well, if she thinks you've improved so much... what's next? It doesn't cross your mind for a moment that Cirucci might simply be content with your current performance. If the weeks you've spent with her have taught you anything (other than a sense of poise), it's that she's seldom satisfied with anything less than perfection.

Maybe she'll just up the ante? She raises an eyebrow with a ladylike cough.

"You're a little more graceful, but your Hierro is like paper. Even with your talent for regeneration, I'm not going to maim you just to make a point. No, this calls for a more... creative approach."

She leans in, one hand reaching out to stroke your collar, and you audibly gulp.

~~~

Whatever you were expecting, you reflect, it wasn't this.

Your black Gillian scarf is pulled tight against your eyes, an improvised blindfold knotted at the back of your head. You think Cirucci tied it into a bow. Its potent, spirit-laced threads block the light perfectly, and even muffle your mind's eye against the touch of other souls. You can still feel Cirucci, of course - how could you not - but not as closely and clearly as you normally do.

Instead you hear her voice, ringing out across the hall of pillars.

"Pay attention, darling. It's not enough to dodge my blows at peak condition. You'll need to keep to my standards with nothing but your other senses. You'll hone them until you can dance around my blade even blindfolded."

Well, if she says so. You guess it worked for Lord Tousen.

There's a whip-crack of thunder at your feet, and you dart forward in panic, rushing blindly away. The floor vanishes beneath you, and you control your fall into an elegant landing. The explosive impact of her Zanpakutou whips out again, showering you with shrapnel from the pillar you just fell from, and you set off again, fleeing into a half-remembered forest of invisible pillars.

With no sight, no soul, no strength... all you have is her voice. You strain your eyes for it, desperate to soak in every scrap of sound you can. The click of a heel touching down on a pillar, the familiar rustle of her skirts, the swish of her whip-like cord. And, of course, her voice, offering warnings, instructions, guidance. You sidestep an unseen blow that rips through the air to your left, following Cirucci's order, and realise that you're safe. Even blind and sparring, she's keeping you from harm. So long as you follow her voice, hang on to her words... nothing can go wrong.

You could imagine the world falling away around you, leaving only a black void, empty of anything but your soul and her voice leading you through it. It's a curious trance, an almost hypnotic sensation of absolute dependence, and you rush through a hail of blows like a leaf flowing blindly on the wind.

Then you run straight into a pillar, and she bursts out laughing.

Chapter Text

You look back behind you, at the fort guarding the entrance of the fortress. Maybe in the desert…

But no, you don’t feel very confident going outside alone right now. You nod to yourself. There are nice people here in Las Noches; you remember the taste of the skeleton’s cake on your tongue. That was one of a few simple pleasures you found in this world.

You decide to visit Alphonse and show off how much you’ve improved since he started training you. Maybe for once he will let you put your touch on his work! With renewed confidence you walk off into the sands towards his atelier.

For all your facade of self-assurance your steps slow down as you reach the bottom of the gray stone stairs and you begin to feel a bit nervous. It’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it? He’s important and powerful and every time you come to visit you’re afraid he’ll get angry that you’d bother him. You clear your throat, steel your spine and push open the door.

Alphonse is humming as he works, putting together another modified version of an Arrancar uniform, a short white jacket with a black inner side. His atelier is much as it has been the last few times you came through - still the same confusing arrangement of display cases and hanging clothes treated with great care and these heaps of discarded projects cluttering the working space. This time, however, the lights are brighter, the open space less busy, more room having been made by finally discarding some long-forsaken projects. The Tailor of Las Noches stands at one of his various desks (does he actually need this many?), shoulders and elbows moving fluidly. You approach with caution and he throws you a glance - then his eyes light up.

“Nemo! What a nice surprise. And I see you are well-dressed today. Are these clothes you found on your…” He leans over with a conspiratory tone, “venture into strange waters.”

You nod enthusiastically. The man lifts an eyebrow and, knowing what he expects, you twirl on your feet, letting the black skirt billow slightly and coming to an elegant rest which ends in a curtsey.

“My, my, but your stance and bearing have much improved since the first time I saw you. Almost as good as your choice of dress. Is someone teaching you?”

You rub your hair a bit awkwardly, not sure if you can say. It’s obviously no secret to those who pay attention (but few would pay attention to you) that you’ve been spending your time with Cirucci, and Alphonse knows it as well. But openly admitting that she’s also training you would make it sound too much like you’re a Fraccion… Which you obviously can’t be, even if it is a better word than either “ward” or “servant.”

“Say no more,” Alphonse says with this quick handwave of his, “I understand. As the turn of phrase goes…” He smirks, putting a finger to his fragment of mask - you think he’s imitating the gesture of someone setting his glasses - “...’it’s complicated.’”

You frown, not sure you understand or like what he’s saying; it seems full of implications that are flying over your head. That only makes Alphonse laugh.

“Don’t fret. Come here and help me,” he says authoritatively, and you scamper over to him. picking up the measuring tools he hands you. “I am actively engaged in the slaughter of my pride,” he adds with a dramatic, mournful look.

You blink, not sure what to say to that.

“Oh, it’s the Sexta. A handsome man, boastful, and who used to have a good sense of style, but… He saw the Unmentionable. And as I feared it consumed his mind.”

Understanding, you give a regretful nod, putting down the measurements Alphonse needs as he gets back to his work. The Unmentionable is Harribel’s outfit, the fruit of the dreadful incident of a few weeks ago. Not only did it sully Alphonse’s pride as a tailor, but he had to keep this wound to himself for the sake of the Espada’s own honor - as long as she thinks it is her intended outfit she will wear it and own it like no other could, while knowing it was the fruit of a misunderstanding would bring the whole edifice crumbling down. But how would that affect Grimmjow?

“He likes it. He thinks it’s ‘in’ to wear things too short in the belly. He wants a new jacket that is deliberately cut short in length and in the middle, so that it always looks casually half-open and shows off his… Impressive assets.”

Your mind can’t help but construct the image Alphonse is describing, and you find yourself blushing slightly.

“Well, I suppose it’ll look good on him. To be quite honest I am partial in my craft - I prefer to add than to remove, but what the patron wants… Here, hold this. Okay, a little to the left. Good.” With a last flowing motion of his needle he puts the finishing touch to the jacket. Taking it by the shoulders he makes a sharp motion, straightening the outfit. Then he nods to himself and puts it aside. “Good. I think we’re done with this. Thank you for your help.

It was nothing. You’re glad to be of use to someone in a way that isn’t… Well, either simply serving tea or risking your life getting too close to an Espada. This dichotomy has been a bit of an issue for you of late.

“So tell me,” Alphonse says with a look, “why the Sunday best? Are we celebrating something?”

You cough. Hm. Not exactly.

“You didn’t,” he frowns. “Another uniform? How do you get through these at such pace?”

It’s not your fault, you explain. You were out on a mission again, there were Adjuchas, a Cero… It was all quite calamitous.

“I’ll say. No, no, this can’t do,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t just keep handing you uniform after uniform and let you ruin them like this! We’re going to need to solve that problem once and for all.”

Your eyes widen and you back up a little. You’re never too fond of anything being dealt “once and for all,” and especially not when that thing involves you.

“We’re going to need… La Maraña,” Alphonse says with a smile. You relax. Is he finally going to let you use his lessons in practice? You’ve been hoping, but never daring to ask. The Tailor walks over to a great cupboard of blue-painted wood, with many drawers and doors, and opens a few looking for something.

“Not this… Not this… Not this one either… Ah!” Triumphantly he holds a handful of glowing, blue-green fibers. Cyan, maybe? Alphonse has been teaching you more precise words for the nuances of colors needed in his work. You think this one is cyan.

“All right, little young lady, we’re going to cut you a most special kind of uniform - one tied to your reiatsu, much like that scarf you always wear.” You instinctively raise your hand to the black article tied loosely around your neck. “I’m always glad to see my work appreciated, and it goes well with what you’re wearing. In any case, yes, by using these fibers in a standard Arrancar uniform, it should weave itself back when it is damaged…” He gives you a wink. “Too bad us Arrancars haven’t kept the same ability, hm?”

Haha, yes, too bad… You give a false chuckle and politely avert your eyes. Paying this no mind, Alphonse quickly draws a whole assortment of fabric, thread and tools, putting the handful of glowing fibers prominently on the table.

“Well,” he says with a smile, and gives you the scissors. You take it uncomprehendingly. “Where do we start?”

Oh… Oh, he expects you to do it. You swallow nervously, looking at the things displayed before you, the many cutting and measuring and threading implements, the table itself, the different clothes. You can do this… You can do this. First, you need, of course, a pattern. You know your measurements pretty well by now, so you start drawing, Alphonse looking on approvingly.

“You know, it reminds me of my youth…” He says with a wistful sigh. “It seemed such an ascetic pursuit at the time. Who would have thought I would end up spending my days working, with so many patrons?”

You look up, curious. Did he not work as much before Aizen ruled Las Noches?

“Hollows with clothes?” He laughs as if the very thought was absurd. “I mean, there were a few… But I wasn’t exactly swamped for work.”

You nod, going back to your work.

[X]Ask Alphonse about his history and his learning of La Maraña.
[ ]Gossip about other residents of Las Noches.
-[ ]Name two.

Chapter Text

You’re actually pretty happy with how your sewing pattern is shaping up! Unable to refrain a smile, you put it in sight and begin working on the materials. It is slow, thoughtful, measured work - which suits you well. It is almost meditative in a way, absorbing yourself in the design. Only Alphonse’s careful and critical eye keeps you from fully immersing into it - and so as a way of disarming this fearsome attention, you question him on how he learned sewing too.

“Oh,” he says with a self-effacing wave, “it was not on my own merits at all, in truth. I told you already, didn’t I, that I began as a simple spider?”

You nod. You remember that story, told in a very similar context. Alphonse gets chatty when you’re both working.

“The truth is, my skills were very mundane in that time. I saw the glimmer of power in Gillian cloaks and tried to bring it out - I succeeded, to an extent, but only just enough that I realized how much I was missin. Still, it was enough that a few Hollows who liked to have such items brought me food in exchange. Not much; just enough to live by. And… Well, you know how Menos get when they are free of the hunger.”

You nod as you cut the shape of a hakama. When a Menos does not have to worry about food, ennui sets in, slowly seeping through their being like a deadly poison. It drives them to apathy, and then starvation - or else to recklessness in the pursuit of something, whether that be thrill of purpose.

“So, I had to find something. And that ended up being the mystery bound in these clothes. That level of my art that eluded me. I wandered Hueco Mundo far and wide, following a trail of rumors and hearsay, until one day I found… Her.”

Alphonse unfolds his arms, and walks a few steps off. He stops in front of a display case to which you had not paid any particular attention before; he stands before a cape, or a mantle… You’re not sure. It is evanescent, translucent, shimmering with many colors each time your eyes move.

“She sat in a leafless grove by a shimmering pool. This was far away, where the white sands give way to volcanic black pebbles, with which she ground her pigments. Spider-webs hung like walls from the trees, making her grove a palace. And there she worked. Some said she was a Vasto Lorde; others whispered her mask was a disguise, and that in truth she was a soul reaper in exile. To me this never mattered, and I never knew the truth. She held knowledge in her palm, and this what what I sought. But when I knelt before her and pleaded for her guidance, she laughed and cast me out.”

You wince in sympathy, but Alphonse is not looking at you. Your work is progressing quickly, and… You realize you have no idea how to integrate these glowing fibers he took out into your work. You glance at him but he is all to his story, and you understand it is your task to figure it out. Taking one fiber at a time, you weave them with your thinnest threads and start sewing the fabric together with them.

“So I went out of her grove, and I despaired for a while, until I found my courage. And when I did - I tore off my own wings. And with them I fashioned a gown, and I came back to her, and I presented it before her. She looked and… Well, for a moment, she looked impressed, although she had done many greater things herself. But then she chuckled and my heart sunk… Until she told me that she liked my resolve. And she took me as her pupil. She taught me much, for a very long time. Coaxing out the power of these Gillian fabrics was only the start. We forged armors out of an insect’s shell… Took the silken fur of a great fly’s legs and made it into a beautiful whig to adorn the head of a prince… Together we slew a boar and from his tusks made earrings…”

Alphonse is more wistful than you’d ever seen him before. His hand rests on the display case, and there is a smile on his lips, a wetness to his eyes, although no true tears. You are embarrassed a little - not on his behalf, but of being so close to someone more important expressing so much. It is not your place. You focus on your work, putting the outfit together; the cyan fibers seem to meld into the fabric, to spread through them like veins.

“Yet one day she stopped me in my work, and looked at me. In her eyes I saw something I feared. She told me… ‘You can no longer learn from me.’ I protested. I had not learned close to even half of what she knew - that made her laugh. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But there is only so much one may learn in one place.’ She told me I had reached a plateau, and my work was not improving anymore. I was in despair. She told me to leave - to wander the world, to learn from many places and people, and to come back to her wiser. Only then could she continue her teaching. And… I hate to admit…. I was young then. I did not believe it. I feared being alone. I refused, pleaded, begged. So she cast me out, violently.”

You bow your head, making sure you’re not looking directly at him. You feel he’s talking more for his own sake than yours now, so you focus on your work and try to be as innocuous as possible. There is a sadness in his look… But then he smiles again.

“I wandered for a time, aimless. But I had to feed myself, and I was still weak, so I found others and sold my craft to them. And eventually my name reached the right ears, and I was summoned. A man came to me… A lopsided thing, banded carapace and great pincers… In the name of his King.”

You remember this. He’d told you before that he’d made Barragan’s robes. But this only makes Alphonse smile, and he pushes himself off the case, drifting through the room like some strange dust-devil.

“You can’t fully understand if you haven’t seen it yourself. Barragan wanted to rule, but he could not. Not because others would resist him… God no. But because they did not understand that there was something to submit to in the first place. Do you imagine Barragan without his robes as a naked skeleton? That is what he was, I won’t deny it! It is hard to imagine such a small, naked thing as terrible - but he was. To see him was terror, to resist him was death. No other Hollow wound understand. When he advanced before them there was no hope for surrender or service. One moment of anger, one single failing, and the mightiest would be turned to dust. There could be no kingdom under such a lord. That is why he needed me: to give him the robes of a king, to bind his power, so that he could sit on his throne and a stray thought would not annihilate his servants.”

You freeze in your work, but not out of your own will. Your hands are shaking and your shoulders shivering, memories flooding your mind.

If Alphonse bound the King’s power, he might have wished to bind it a little tighter.

“So I sewed his robes, using the art she had taught me. His heavy black robes were tied to his reiatsu, they bound his power. A trick I didn’t think possible at first… But in the end he stood before me and looked like a king: a skeleton in great black robes, his power bound within his clothes, unable to reach out unless he forced it out. And that is how he became the King of Hueco Mundo.”

There is a moment of silence. Not knowing what to say, you focus on your work.

“Some other rulers might have killed me to erase all traces of how they came to be what they were. But he instead granted me a stipend. His servants brought me food, and I would never go hungry - but I still had nothing left to do. I worked for other Menos, granting them useful tricks; but I feared to leave Barragan’s domain, and so my learning stalled. Until one day, he came to us…” Alphonse smiles, but you are not sure what kind of smile it is; of satisfaction, of mourning, of indifference… “He brought down the King of Hueco Mundo. He made him his servant, and ascended to the throne. And he looked around and found… Little old me. Weak, but useful. He asked me, ‘do you want to make the uniforms of my army?’ And I agreed, of course. Anything to learn. And so I became his Tailor. He reshaped my body so that my many legs and arms became tools for sewing, and I became one with my art.”

You pause in your work, unsure what to take from this. Is Alphonse saying that he is willing to abandon Las Noches once he has learned what he wants to? That seems almost traitorous. But he only laughs at the suggestion.

“Aizen is only one powerful being,” he says. “At his side I may learn much - but eventually I shall have to leave. There is only so much to be learned from one place, from one master. My only purpose is to come back to my teacher having learned enough that she finds me worthy of teaching me her last secrets.”

That is bold, you think. You’ve never known of an Arrancar who defined themselves fully outside of Lord Aizen’s influence. Whether they resented their exile because they believed they could serve him best or whether they dreaded to be dismissed from his attention for their lacking power, all wished to be among his favored.

“Here, I have purpose,” Alphonse says, his tone thoughtful. “There are the Espada, who call upon my services time and again. I give them my all, even though they don’t see it. It is a constant challenge that I welcome gladly. But eventually, it will not be enough. I will feel my training stall… And then I will either leave for some other place in Hueco Mundo, or decide my skills are enough and come back to my teacher.”

You pause in your work - the jacket and hakama are finished, only some additional pieces are needed. You look at Alphonse, and he nods approvingly - so you let your work be for the moment and consider him. Is his true purpose really something beyond these walls? You're not sure why this bothers you. 

“It’s all right, Nemo,” he says kindly. “I understand that it is strange. You found refuge here, and there is little for you to seek beyond these walls. But for some of us… Well, we had a life once, before the Lord of Las Noches trampled it in the sake of his conquest. That life still waits for us out there, in the sands of the Hollow World.”

You say nothing. Instead you put the final touches on your uniform and step back from your sewing table, letting your master approach. He studies your work, nodding his head, and turns to you.

“You’ve done well. It seems that you have fully mastered the first principles of La Maraña.” Alphonse gives you a sincere smile. “I am glad I could pass my teachings on to someone else. But this uniform - useful as it is - is only the beginning. If you had any reagents, I could make something much greater for you.”

You bite your lip, a shudder of uncertainty going down your back. You don’t like exposing yourself to your superiors - but Alphonse seems nice; certainly he is far more open to you than most other Arrancars in Las Noches, willingly talking about his past and future goals. You chew on this for a moment.

From your deep pockets you produce the fragment of a cloak you obtained from the fallen shinigami, and the fragment of Hollow mask he used as a shield. Alphonse studies them, frowning.

“I suppose one could use that piece of fur to make a cloak which would disguise you as a Hollow… But you already have a Gillian scarf, so this seems like a waste. It is imbued with shinigami power to an extent, perhaps I could bring that out.”

You bite your lip. The truth is, you’re not sure you want to give up one of your trophies, one of these fews prizes you would hang up in your room as a reminder of your survival. But if it can grant you an edge…


[ ]Have Alphonse create a Hollow-disguise cloak from Ashido’s cloak, and offer it to Cirucci (having the King’s Veil, you do not need this cloak yourself.)
[ ]Have Alphonse use the fragment of Ashido’s mask to create a fragile Cero-deflecting shield (this will only work once, but to great effect.)
[X]Have Alphonse use Ashido’s cloak to create an object of unknown utility that taps into its shinigami’s lingering power.
[ ]Show him the King’s Tooth. Its power is fading, but if someone like him could use it in his work, who knows what benefits it would bring you?
[ ]Your trophies are yours. Elude the topic entirely.

Chapter Text

For a moment you think… But no, it’s silly. Alphonse is teaching you his skills, but that doesn’t make him someone you can entrust with such a secret. It’s not even only about trust, really - knowing you stole something from Barragan is a burden, and it is not fair to inflict it upon him. So you say nothing of the tooth.

But a shinigami’s powers intrigue you. You are not sure in which ways they differ from yours, and curiosity drives you as much as the prospect of gain. You hand the piece of fur cloak to Alphonse, nodding. Whatever he brings out of it, you will be interested.

“Aaah, I see you’re already developing the curiosity for the art. This is perhaps the most valuable skill in our craft. To look at something strange or innocuous or novel and to think: what can I make out of this? You will help me, of course.”

You gulp. The uniform was taxing enough, the weaving of energies requiring constant attention and focus. But if Alphonse has confidence in your skills, so must you.

“The right outlook! Now, there is shinigami reiryoku bound within this cloth, and that is what we will be working on. But that alone is little - we will need to go deeper. I sense in this piece… Sorrow, regret, a feeling of loss. Memories brought back… Where did you find such a thing, I wonder?”

You avert your eyes. It’s a long story.

“Ah, pay no mind to my natural curiosity. Let’s get to work! We will need to refine the item for it to be of any use, which will cut down on the amount of material we have available.”

It’s a complex process, one which you only half-understand as Alphonse guides you through your part of the work. It involves liquids of fascinating colors with which the cloth is treated, shearing the strands of fur that cover it and binding them into thread, stretching and drying the hide, cutting the leather and binding in the fur-woven fabric. In the end you are presented with a single glove of brown leather, its joints soft black fabric.

“Try it on for size,” Alphonse says jokingly, “and don’t mind the kick.”

You’re not sure what he means by that, but you take the glove and hesitantly put it on your left hand. It fits… well, like a glove, you think with a chuckle. The leather seems to tighten around your hand when it is fully set, and as you flex your fingers you feel something reaching to you, a connection being made…


...when will it end? Not tonight, that’s for sure. The dead Hollow besides you is testament to that. As you bite into its uncooked flesh - too close to a nest to risk a fire - you hate every swallow, bitter and mushy under the tongue. You thought you’d get used to it. The human mind can get used to anything - but you’re not human anymore, are you?

Not tonight. But someday, eventually. In your moments of rest and hope you think of the day you will finally stumble upon a Hollow going into the living world, and you will follow after him and find your way home, but you know this idle fantasy. It hasn’t happened in a century and it won’t happen in a century more. It is not a matter of luck, you understand that. Perhaps you are in the wrong place. Perhaps these are the wrong monsters. So scared of the world they could come here, to this desert of their kin, where there are no souls to consume but their own, no heart to sate their grief. None of them would come back.

They are more the fools for it. They left the sun behind and in this forest they found you. If your life must end here so will theirs. For the next one you find, and the next, and the next, and the next…

...until it ends.


You reel back as if from a blow, but the source of the shock is from your hand. By the time you gather enough awareness to try and rip it off your arm the vision has passed, and you stand there panting, your hand on the glove. Its strange energy flows within your arm, bitter as the taste of the Hollow meat on his tongue.

“Sorry,” Alphonse says with a contrite smile. “In my defense, I did warn you.”

You shake your head. You’re fine. This is fine. It just surprised you. Alphonse nods, but nonetheless moves in besides you and makes some adjustments to the glove, pulling on a string, loosening the wrist a little.

“I felt this would happen. The cloak had something of… Reminiscence about it. It should call upon memories in things you touch. Not as strongly from now on. Care to try it again?

You’re not sure, but you nod anyway. Alphonse looks around his room, finger tapping his chin, and finally shows you a simple pair of scissors. You reach out with the glove… Nothing happens. Frowning, you try to focus on the connection between it and you, and feel it somewhere distant; you draw upon it…


...it’s not your place to give the Espada this kind of lesson, of course, but still it bothers you. Oh, you don’t doubt others have mocked him - them - for their face before. Two small masks floating in some kind of… Tank? You’re not sure how that even came to be; Hollows tend to be far more organic in appearance, not to manifest convenient glass furniture. Still, not your place; but you feel they should own their appearance, not hide it. That always only sets you up for more offense later. You even think of how you could design the right collar, perhaps a partial covering for the tank, something that still leaves them looking like they do but enhances the appearance, makes them imposing instead of grotesque…

...still, still, not your place. You sigh and get back to work on the basket-like mask.


You blink, feeling no sudden shock this time, and you look to Alphonse. You’re not sure what you just saw… Heard… Felt… Thought. If nothing else, it was a full sensory package.

“It’s not always going to work - sometimes the right trace isn’t there,” Alphonse says. “And to be honest I am not sure what you will do with it. But you’re clever, and creative. I am sure you’ll find applications I’d never think of.”

You blush under the compliment.

“Now the real question is, of course… Should you be going with me wearing your delightful little ensemble, or your new uniform? The former would be more elegant, the latter more formal…”

You blink. Going with him?

“To bring his new jacket to the Sexta, of course! What, you think I would let you languish in obscurity? You helped me, and so should get due credit.”

Your eyes go wide. You would like to think that you didn’t flail your arms in mild panic, but that would be a lie. Alphonse laughs at your obvious distress.

“Oh, you needn’t worry at all. As long as you are here with me, as my apprentice, no one will even think to hurt you! On the contrary - well, I would expect them all to be impressed, but let’s not mince words here: everyone in here is a ruffian, present company excepted. And I suppose I will make an allowance for your mistress as well.”

That word… You hadn’t heard that word from anyone else before and it feels strange. “Mistress.”

Well, you do serve her. It’s more accurate than any other.

It feels… Nice, you think? To have someone who can protect you? Who can teach you? Even if on many occasions you long for the comfort of solitude again, for the absence of expectations.

You smile a little. Yes, everyone in this world is ruffians, save for your mistress, your mentor, and you suppose yourself.

And Esmeralda, well, she can be taught.

You will be wearing your uniform. It is only proper.

Grimmjow’s apartments are rather nice.

They do not possess the oppressive, austere grandeur of Barragan’s hall. Instead they are… Intricate. Angular spiral patterns adorn the floor, black on green, and stairs wind up into hidden chambers above. It would be difficult making your way alone, but Alphonse has been there before and is confident in the path. The large room at the center of that tower is adorned by stairs also, but lower ones - not like a stairway but an amphitheatre, each stair serving as benches and opening on doors, some onto the above floors, some onto the sunlit sky of Las Noches.

You do not see Grimmjow, but his Fraccions are gathered there. Their names are known to you - part of Cirucci’s teaching was making sure you wouldn’t do her injustice by not knowing how to address the servants of those she hopes to one day rejoin. Eduardo - not that Eduardo; the heavy giant of a man with the glass-like Stigmata - smirks as you enter, although you’re not sure why. The creepy one with the disturbing teeth gives you a look and his face darkens (have you offended him somehow? You would remember, you’re sure) and then slinks some distance away. The others do not look much at you, but Alphonse raises their interest. You curtsey as Cirucci taught you, number #38: “saluting someone of similar station but higher effective rank.” That makes the tall blond one, Ilforte, lift an amused eyebrow and return you a lesser bow. You shift your posture a little. You’re not used to people acknowledging Cirucci’s complex etiquette, which seems to exist largely in her mind.

And you don’t like his attention. Tall, svelte with long blond hair, he reminds you too much of Findorr. Only his eyes are different, in that you can see them at all. It makes him more human. Still, it makes you feel more sensitive to the spiritual pressure in the room - no given one would be overwhelming, but they’re coming from many directions at once, mixing together in a way you’ve rarely seen before. Is this how it feels to be next to a group tied together by ages of cooperation?

“What’s that you’re bringing?” Eduardo asks, waving his chin at the package under Alphonse’s arm. The tailor bows theatrically and produces the jacket with a dramatic gesture and a smacking sound (you’re still not sure how he does that), and Eduardo whistles. Ilforte straightens up and approaches with a critical look on his face. His own outfit is of elegant make, and has something of the new jacket’s touch to it - slightly open to reveal the outline of his chest and the hole in his solar plexus.

“Our boss’s newest outfit?” He asks, studying the fabric.

“Indeed,” Alphonse says with a smile of false modesty. Ilforte pinches the fabric, frowning.

“It’s as I feared - this may be too good.” Ilforte clicks his tongue.

“Would you dare to imply that I would put anything less than my all in working for an Espada?” Alphonse answers with mock offense.

“No indeed - and that is why you must perish,” Ilforte says, dramatically tossing his hair behind his shoulder. “I cannot allow you to outshine the work you’ve already done for me! Alas, I must now kill you and burn the outfit, that none ever see it adorn our beloved lord’s chest.”

“Ah, but Ilforte,” Alphonse says with a teasing smile, “with every piece I produce I only improve my craft! If you slay me now, how will I produce for you something even better than this?”

“I suppose ‘tis true…” Ilforte says, then sighs and walks away. “You will live for today, tailor! But do not forget the debt you owe me.”

“Never on my life,” Alphonse answers with exaggerated solemnity.

“It’s too short,” speaks a man from the upper stairs. You look up at him, the stocky one with the heavy, rounded frame, Nakeem. “Why’s it so short?” 

“Because while our boss and the Tercera have different… Attributes,” Eduardo says with a grin, “they both like to show ‘em off.”

“And the people thank them for it!” Ilforte says cheerfully. This prompts a sigh from the slender Arrancar on one of the middle steps, Shawlong, who seems to find this entire conversation above his dignity.

Nakeem frowns, deep in thought. “If you like the boss’s attributes so much, why don’t you…” His voice trails off, and his brow furrows in concentration. The whole room looks at him, his fellow Fraccions holding their breath in anticipation of a punchline from a source they’d never expected.

“Nah, I got nothing,” Nakeem says with a shrug. The others laugh, even sharp-toothed Di-Roy in the shadows above.

Alphonse, ever the image of propriety, allows himself a second’s smirk, then turns to you.

“You can come with me to present his jacket to the Sexta. But I’ll understand if you don’t relish the thought of getting too close to an Espada. You can wait for me here if you’d like.”

You look around you, hesitant, at the five Fraccions. None of them look hostile, although none of them look particularly interested either. Certainly they won’t murder you in the time it takes for Alphonse to come back, they have no reason to, but you’d still be alone with them… On the other hand you remember the feeling of an Espada’s spiritual power too close, and how terrible even a look of indifference felt from them, let alone actual attention.


[X]Go meet Grimmjow with Alphonse.
[ ]Stay here with the Fraccions.

Chapter Text

“Come along then,” Alphonse says, wrapping the jacket around his arm and heading up the stairs. You give a nervous bow to the other Fraccions and follow after him.

“And here I thought we’d have a new companion!” Ilforte says with a sigh. “Come back sooon!”

You’re uncomfortable with this.

“Pay them no mind,” Alphonse says amused, “it’s not always someone wanders into Grimmjow’s apartments. Usually they have to prowl Las Noches for people to pester.”

You frown. That seems a bit petty for a group so established and powerful. But after all, it is not like there is much to do in Las Noches, a place so large and yet so sparsely populated.

“We all have to find our own way to pass the time,” Alphonse nods.

You come up the stairs and into the open sky, a rectangular balcony overlooking the sands and in the distance the looming structure of Barragan’s hall. You feel Grimmjow’s reiatsu before you can see him - but you were braced for it and have spent much time in the vicinity of such power recently, and so it does not overwhelm you, even if your heart skips a bit. The pressure of it is thick, hot, you’d even say humid, with a scent of musk; it feels like the air of the jungle, where beasts might surround you.

Grimmjow sits on the parapet, looking out to the desert. A tall and muscular man with bright blue hair, rising in spikes from his sharp, angular face. When you come up he does not react at first, and Alphonse stops. It’s the privilege of the Espada that others must wait for their attention rather being allowed to expect it, and you know this to be reminder. After a few silent moments Grimmjow turns to look at the tailor, and you both bow in salutation.

“Done already? Lemme look at it,” the Sexta says, descending from the parapet and walking over to you. Alphonse stands up, so do you after a second as etiquette dictates - and when Grimmjow sees your face he pauses, looking at you.

You know what to expect: the same as from Barragan, Ulquiorra and Yammy. Indifference except insofar as you are of immediate use to them. The Espada have no attention to spare for the Numeros scrambling under their feet, and to be honest this is far preferable to their personal attention.

But that is not what happens. Grimmjow’s eyes stop on you and he frowns, and you see on his face this distinct expression of someone who is putting pieces together in his mind.

“The hell’s she doing here?” He asks, and you feel your throat tighten and a cold feeling in your stomach. You keep as careful and blank an expression as Cirucci could taught you, trying to repress a shaking in your hands.

“You could say that young Nemo here is my protégé,” Alphonse says with a hint of pride. “I have been tutoring her in the arts of La Maraña, and she has proven a skillful student. She lent me her assistance on sewing your new jacket.”

“‘zzatso?” Grimmjow says, and you know he isn’t satisfied. But for the moment he lets the matter drop. His current uniform includes a jacket with a high, open collar and pulled-back sleeves. He doffs it with a shrug, tossing it carelessly onto the balcony, revealing a torso that might as well have been chiseled out of marble and arms that are almost disturbing in their lean, wiry hardness. He holds his arms out and Alphonse steps forward, opening the jacket to put it onto its new owner. The scene makes you feel slightly embarrassed - you’re not sure if that is because of the subservient attitude of someone who has now become your teacher, or because of the almost intimate nature of the exchange, hands brushing over skin as they pat and straighten the fabric. The last time you were this physically close to someone, they literally gutted you open - even if that was for your own good. You feel yourself blush a little when Alphonse steps back with a smile of satisfied, professional pride.

Grimmjow takes a step aside and flexes his arms, the open jacket a rather flattering fit.

“Yeah, I like it. Good work, tailor.”

“It always is,” Alphonse says smugly.

“Now tell me,” Grimmjow adds, his gaze returning to you with disturbing intensity. You only barely keep from flinching. “Since when are you picking up strays?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” Alphonse says with a puzzled tone.

“Don’t play coy with me. This is Cirucci’s new toy, isn’t it?”

You don’t like that word, or that tone, or the neutral person referring to you. Not that you would show it; you are the picture of fearful respect.

“If the Pillar Princess has needs for a personal servant, that is none of my business. As you can see from her work with me, it is not keeping her from fulfilling her other duties in Las Noches.”

“‘Duties’ my ass.” The Sexta approaches you, and you look up hesitantly; his head leans in a predatory look, examining you, before he steps back.

“You went on that hike with Yammy, didn’t you?”

You blink, not sure what to answer.

“Ain’t much to do in Las Noches. People look. Rumors go around. That rumor says Ulquiorra had to open a door to who the fuck knows where to retrieve Yammy who had wandered off against orders. Also, there was a girl with him. Nobody cares about that last part. But it was you, wasn’t it?”

You’re not sure you could lie under such a gaze, and you’re not sure if you should. You nod.

“I don’t give a shit what happens to you, girl, but I like my new jacket and you worked on it, so I’m gonna drop some wisdom on you. You’re walking a dangerous fucking path.”

You don’t know what he means. You’re just a Numero doing what people want from her-

“I know exactly how you think. You’ve seen your own sort die before. Simple servants butchered because someone was having a bad day. Alone, there’s no one to stand up for you. But you’re too weak to become a Fraccion. So instead you throw your lot with someone who is powerful enough to protect you, but not enough to have much choice in underlings. Of course, that one person isn’t quite enough, precisely because they’re weak. So you also start working with someone who isn’t powerful, but does useful work and can say you’re his pupil and no one should touch you. And in case that’s not enough, you also start making buddy-buddy with one of the Espada when the opportunity presents itself. You’re drinking at a lot of ponds, girl.”

“Not powerful? That’s mean, Sexta,” Alphonse says rolling his eyes. “Just because I’m not a fighter-”

“Shut it. I’m talking to her.”

You feebly defend yourself. It’s not like it’s your choice, not really. You’re not trying to cultivate loyalties, you’d never presume so much from the powerful. You just give your best work and if people like it well, that’s good? It’s not some kind of scheme…

“No, of course it’s not,” Grimmjow says with a mean, hungry smile. “You’re just a kitten. A kitten in a forest full of tigers. You find one and if it doesn’t swat you aside you fall in with him and act like you’re a cub. You hope they’ll take you in, let you eat their prey, show you the good waters, sleep around you at night. Part of you deep down thinks if you just hang around with them long enough, you’ll learn how to be a tiger too. You’ll stop being a kitten and you’ll be a cub and you’ll grow big and strong like them. But kittens are just kittens. They only grow so far. And when tigers get hungry a cat next to their paw’s as good as a deer three miles over.”

You swallow nervously, trying to come up with a retort, but his attention is oppressive, crushing, and you’re not even sure how far he’ll allow you to talk back to him before taking offense. You look down at the ground, and Grimmjow steps back.

“Do you know my Fraccions’ numbers?”

Of course. Shawlong is Number 11, and it goes on down to Di-Roy, Number 16.

“Yes. Which means what?”

That they were the first of Aizen’s Arrancars. The thought gives you pause. You’d known that already, of course, it just hadn’t been relevant to any part of your life. You’re not sure what he’s getting at.

“I’ve seen it all, girl. Shawlong was the first, volunteering so we could be sure it wasn’t a trap. Then I was the second. Everything that has happened in these walls since, I have seen. Your story is not new. It is not different. It is not special. Here’s truth for you: Hollows dread their equals as threats, but can only really connect with them. You can’t be friends with someone above or beneath you. Barragan, Harribel, me; we’re all kings and queens. We’ve gathered Arrancars under us who would tear each other to pieces if they did not find bonds and trust in serving us above everything. But us? We don’t have friends. We have servants. Scratch that word - we’re beasts at heart. We have packs. And every one you scamper around looking for favor, they’re alone. You think because of that you can find a place at their side, but ask yourself: why don’t they already have people, if they’re so powerful? Is it really just because only an Espada can have Fraccions?”

You’re shuddering now, but his words spark some outrage in you. You’ve seen Cirucci. She was a princess once. She would have servants, a whole castle if she were allowed. She’s not some kind of solitary monster who devours those under her, you know that. You’re - you’re sure of it. Confident.

“You’ve gone on a walk with Yammy. You’ve seen how he is. I doubt you’ll take a second serving. But what happens when that tailor sends you off to fetch some magical fucking piece of cloth and it gets you killed? He’ll mourn a day, he’ll feel very sad, and then he’ll find a new apprentice,” Grimmjow says with a snap of his fingers, “quick as that.”

“Are you quite done bullying my student?” Alphonse says, stepping forward. There’s anger in his eyes, although it doesn’t reach his voice - he is too wise to snap at an Espada.

“Not nearly.”

And then he’s up close again, his eyes widening, bright bright blue irises and pinpoint-thin pupils staring into your own, and his spiritual pressure is the forest itself, you can hear the rustling of the wind in the trees, the scent of flowers and rotting meat, feel the branches crack under your feet and hear the beast snarling in the distance. You can’t breathe.

“Tell me, girl. When your Princess feels sees her life in danger and asks that her little maid die to to save her - when her scheming falls apart around her again and someone needs to take the fall, when she needs to make a gambit and sacrifice someone to gain an advantage - will you? Will you die for some spoiled fucking brat with delusions of grandeur?”

Your brain feels like it’s in slow motion. Grimmjow's pressure beckons truth unbidden. You couldn't think of a lie if you wanted to.

[ ] You will. You owe her your life and the strength you have now, and if that is what it takes, that is the price you will pay.
[ ] You won’t. You are a Hollow, and only survival matters.
[X] (Style) Steel yourself, shut your mouth. This answer is not for him to demand.

Chapter Text

This isn’t a fair question to ask you.

Of course you don’t want to be someone else’s sacrificial pawn. But you believe - you want to believe - that Cirucci would not treat you like this, would not just discard you for some brief advantage. She’s protected and helped you, and you have helped her in return. You’re… Tied, you suppose.

You don’t have an answer for him, and more than that he can’t ask you to come up with one. You answer to her, not to him, whether he likes it or not.

You remember your lessons. You straighten your back and fold your hands before your lap, and you muster the strength to look away from his terrible eyes. Your lips feel dry. You look down, demure, but you do not shudder or flinch.

It’s not his question to ask.

Grimmjow steps back, and the feeling of his pressure abates. He grunts.

“I suppose that’s the kind of answer she’d teach you, ain’t it? I half-expected you to say ‘please, mister Sexta, you’re right, won’t you take me with you instead?’” He adds with a mock feminine voice.

You look up and muster all the simple pride you can. You’re not that desperate you would abandon her for a few rude words vaguely shaped like advice.

“There’s a little more steel in you than I gave you credit for,” Grimmjow says with a toothy grin. “I don’t got beef with you, girl. If you think that brat can stand up for you the way I have to stand up for these assholes downstairs, more power to you. You’ll probably get burned, but this is Las Noches. Who doesn’t?”

You’re not sure how to react to that, so you default to a posture of neutral subservience, a servant waiting to be dismissed. Alphonse clears his throat.

“That was an interesting little chat, but you know how busy I get. So much work to do! Will that be all, Sexta?”

Grimmjow shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “Don’t let me stand in the way of you figuring out how to remove more fabric from Harribel’s outfit.”

Alphonse makes a pinched smile, and bows. So do you after a second, and you follow in his footsteps as he leaves. Grimmjow does not look at you leaving, instead sitting back on his balcony and looking out to the sands. You’re not sure what he sees in there.

It seems at times that Las Noches is but sands and endless corridors. You have never seen any maps of its buildings, but its architecture feels deranged, and many of its hallways seem carved into sheer blocks of stone without rooms on either side. One time you climbed a set of stairs only to find a naked wall at the top, and another you found a room the size of a building containing nothing but a small table for two with two chairs and an empty vase, just slightly off its center. The corridors now are those of the building leading to Alphonse’s workshop, and at times you hear noise through the walls, working sound and humming voices - but you are not aware of anyone else in this building.

Perhaps it just carries the echoes of Alphonse’s atelier and repeats them endlessly.

You’re not far from your destination when a figure outlines itself in the shadows at the other end of the corridor. You walk slightly closer to Alphonse, squinting to make out the shape, and-

Findorr.

You freeze in your steps, eyes wide, and Alphonse stops a moment after, looking curiously at him, then at you. He doesn’t know, then.

The blond-haired Arrancar smiles faintly as he walks up closer and your hand falls close to Polilla’s hilt. Your body aches where you remember his storm of Balas hitting, but it’s not real pain. If he wants a fight-

“I want to talk to the girl, tailor,” Findorr says with a smooth voice faintly accentuated by his natural arrogance.

“Nemo?” Alphonse says, looking at you. You blink; he wants to know if you’re all right with that, and the thought warms you a little, makes you feel a little less tense.

“I wouldn’t do any harm to the servant of such a… valued Arrancar while she’s attending to her duties. You don’t have to leave her out of your sight.”

Alphonse doesn’t look at him, only at you, and you breathe in and out, your eyes narrowing in focus. Then you nod. It’s all right. Alphonse gives you an encouraging smile and walks off a few yard, leaning against the wall as Findorr approaches.

His mask is whole - you didn’t even know Arrancars’ masks could grow back. Of course, Findorr seems to be a special case. You’re pretty sure if you broke your own mask you wouldn’t increase your power, you would just hurt yourself very badly.

You’d never paid attention to his uniform before, but Alphonse has trained your eyes and you can’t help but notice the puffed shoulders, the knee-high boots and how he’s pulled his akama inside them rather than over them. His uniform must have been a custom order from Alphonse too. You’re not sure why that makes you feel better, but it does. You look him in the eye as you approach - even if you have to wrench your neck a little for that.

“Five hours of walk to the northeast of Las Noches, there is a palace half-buried in the sands, older than this fortress.”

The seat of the Ten Masked Kings. You’ve heard of it, of course - you’ve been there briefly, although their rule was long before your time. It has been an empty wind-scoured ruin for ages now. You’re not sure what Findorr is getting at.

“You and I have a… difference,” he whispers as he stops before you. You shudder. You have no desire to fight him if you can avoid it; his obsession is on his own head. “Don’t be like that. Forget your mission for my king - it’s past now. What matters is this: you are an embarrassment to me. Word has been going around, God knows how. I can’t have people - my fellow Royal Fraccions, my king! - know that I was… Offended in such a way by someone so low. And you, well. I wager you’d rather live your life without having to always look over your shoulder for me.”

You swallow nervously. His voice is soft and polite, but his smile is predatory. His reiatsu no longer feels so oppressive as it once did, and you wonder at that - but you also know that he is far below his full power now. Your eyes scan his blank mask of a face, brief flick of your pupils. They betray anxiety, which you resent.

“I hear you serve Cirucci now. I suppose it is fitting, after I saw you run into her skirts for dear life. Cirucci’s no nobility, not anymore. She only fancies herself such. Yet still, I will extend to you a shred of the recognition you would deserve if she were. I will wait for you at the seat of the Ten Masked Kings for a day. I will bring a second, who will not intervene; you can do the same. If you come, we can settle our disagreement one last time, face to face, as honor dictates. If you don’t…” His dagger-hand brushes his long hair off his face, flicking it behind his mask, and his smile grows wider. “...well, next time I won’t give you a warning.”

You clutch your hands into tiny fists, and Findorr walks past you - his hand taps your shoulder as it does and this time you do flinch, almost darting away with Sonido. Then he’s gone. You shudder, straighten your shoulders and go back to Alphonse.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

You shrug. Life in Las Noches. For every person who acts kindly to you there is another liable to kill you.

“You know,” the tailor says, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning on, “I’m glad I have you as a student.”

You blink. He is?

“You’ve seen my more… Advanced work. I could do far more for the Espada than just creating outfits. I could empower them in many strange and complex ways, but… None of them understands La Maraña, so they don’t grasp what I have to give, and have no request. Further, even when I tried, they find it difficult to attune their reiatsu to the articles I craft. I think their Caja Negacion already acts a sort of… Tap. They would have to study the principles of my craft to learn how to split their focus into several items, and none of them care. But you… You understand. You see the beauty in our art, and you give me materials, reagents, ideas, and an opportunity to make something someone can use.”

You blush a little, your lips twitching into a smile. Uncertain, but happy. You like what he does - and you like learning how to do it. His craft has saved your life once before, when you tricked Findorr with the scarf. It was hard not to be invested into it after that.

“Well, in any case, thank you for coming to me today. If you don’t mind, I have more chores to inflict on you… But it builds character, isn’t that what they say?”

You chuckle. It’s not usually the ones doing the chores who say that.

“Ah! A clever point, my young student. And still, not an excuse to shy from work!”

He walks off towards his atelier, and you smile again as you follow after him.

It is a pleasant enough afternoon. Well. In your head it’s the afternoon. To others it might be evening or morning. You help Alphonse with his work for an hour or two, a surprisingly intense activity despite its lack of physical exertion - you are always on the lookout for a small but irreparable mistake. It is a bit tiring mentally, but also gratifying. When the two of you are done you sit down and relax around a cup of tea, chatting about life in Las Noches and beyond - the loneliness of the sands, the heat of the sun, the strange people you’ve met. (You still don’t know where he gets his tea; he doesn’t seem like the type to wander off into the living world, else he wouldn’t be so behind modern human fashion.)

Eventually, perhaps inevitably, the conversation drifts to a topic he’d avoided at first.

“So, what might Findorr want with you?” He asks kindly.

You avert your eyes briefly then look back to him. It’s… complicated.

“I wouldn’t want to pry in your personal life. But he has Barragan’s ear… Inasmuch as anyone does, which is little. Still, I worry.”

You understand. He wouldn’t want someone to draw the wrong attention to his workshop and put him in danger.

Alphonse laughs at that. “God, no, don’t worry about that. I too have the ears of the powerful. Not that I would expect it to save me from Barragan’s wrath, but it’s not little old Findorr who is going to rouse him against me either. No, it’s you. Your work. I wouldn’t want to have my student too distracted in her practice, or God forbid, to… Lose her?” He says quizzically.

You don’t have a good answer. That’s starting to be a familiar feeling.

You and Findorr have a… Disagreement. You can’t put it off forever. If Cirucci had more prestige, perhaps he could be cowed into doing nothing, but… You’d still be afraid he’d try anyway.

Alphonse’s look is thoughtful, and a little bit sad.

“I would never advise you to risk your life over some arrogant Fraccion’s offense. If you can talk him out of this… Feud, or whatever it is, that would be best. But whether by word or deed you should resolve it soon. Or else it will become a black hole that swallows your life.”

You nod. You understand his advice, although you perhaps do not accept it. Running from things has been a tried-and-true strategy for you many times before.

Alphonse chuckles and raises the teapot - then looks into it and sighs.

“We’re out of tea, it seems.”

You understand what he means. He likes his work, and would like to get back to it. You stand up and give him a graceful curtsey, and he returns a bow. Then you’re on your way.

The Pillar Room is silent. For a moment you assume that Cirucci is in her own private apartments, and as she taught you you knock on one of the pillars and make your step a little louder to signal that you are back. (“When your training is perfected, you should know when I need you and appear at my shoulder,” she told you. “But for now, it is better to signal your return than to clumsily search the fort for me.”) But there is no answer, so you do clumsily search the fort - nothing.

Well, she did give you a full day off, and it isn’t done yet.

Sno ow you’re alone in the fortress of the Thunder Witch. You’re not sure what to do in that case. You still have some hours ahead of you, perhaps you could go try and patch things with Esmeralda, or take a stroll for leisure. Maybe see if that Eduardo guy survived Yammy’s attention…

Your thoughts slow to a halt, and you sigh. You’re distracting yourself from the real prospect facing you. You sit in the shadows of one of the pillars, looking at your hands. Polilla feels heavy at your waist.

He is waiting for you, out in the desert. If you do not take that chance, one of you will have to come after the other like a hunter on its prey. And it might be you - if you find in yourself the will to be so cold-blooded - or it might be him, and he might kill you or take something dear from you.

He is waiting.

[X]Answer Findorr’s challenge.
-[ ]Go alone.
-[X]Take someone you know as a second. (Who?)

--[X] Cirucci. 
[ ]Don’t go.

Chapter Text

You’re afraid. That’s the truth. You’re afraid of what Findorr might have prepared you, of his confidence and his arrogance, of fighting him on a terrain of his own choosing.

But you are more afraid of spending your life looking over your shoulder for him.

Cirucci can help you. Not… Not fight your battle for you, of course. You know she wouldn’t accept. But she can prepare you. Advise you.

You’ll just have to ask her.

You’ll just…

Cirucci finds you asleep against the pillar. The clicking of her high heels rouses you from your slumber, and you straighten up in a hurry, eyes bleary and mind hazy. You try to adopt a proper elegant posture, but you’re still half-asleep and she gives you a nonplussed look.

“What’s this, then? I give you a day off and you’re already back? Are you so eager to serve, my dear?” She says lifting an eyebrow.

You shake your head. It’s not - you’re of course happy to be of service, but you did intend to take full advantage of that free day. But something happened. Her eyebrow lifts higher (you don’t know how she does this).

You may be absent for longer than a day, you explain averting your eyes.

“Oh. So now we’re taking my generosity for granted? I offer a finger, and now you want the arm? I have not been idle while you were gone, you know. I have set my own plan in motion, and I must attend to it - and I need you with me when I do. ”

You understand this, of course. And if she demands you be there, you will. But it is just that you must attend to a very important business that may take you slightly over the length of today...

That, or forever.

Cirucci’s brow furrows. “Explain,” she demands.

Findorr has found you, and challenged you. A final meeting to settle his feud against you.

Cirucci tilts her head, frowning. “And you’ve decided to accept? That sounds reckless.”

You look up at her, biting your lip. Perhaps it is reckless. But this must be resolved, one way or another. You cannot live your life in fear. You cannot be worthy of your patron, worthy of an Espada, should she become one, if you simply run and hide. Perhaps you are not ready; but you will not always be ready for whatever comes your way. You will have to win anyway.

Cirucci’s eyes narrow, and she steps forward. Her hand catches your chin and delicately lifts it, staring into your eyes.

“Of course you’re not ready,” she says authoritatively. Your heart sinks. If even she doesn’t believe in you - “Which is why you must overcome, and win, and come back to me, so that your training may be complete. I have not spent weeks training the perfect Fraccion only to lose her on the cusp of my ascension. You will crush him. There is no ‘or else.’”

You blink in surprise, and then you feel something warm in your chest, a heat in your spine. You swallow, and straighten; she lets go off your chin and steps back, and you find that your hands are steady and full of strength.

Yes. You will win, and come back.

“Now, was there anything else, or did you just spend hours waiting only to tell me you would be hours late?”

You were hoping… It seems a bit impudent. But, you were hoping for her advice. Findorr has challenged you at the seat of the Ten Masked Kings. You visited it long ago, but only briefly. Could the area advantage him in some way?

“I doubt it, unless it has something to do with his Resurreccion, with which I am not familiar,” your patron says with a dismissive handwave. “Likely he has chosen it for its symbolic value.”

You’re not sure what she means by that.

“There have been many rulers in Hueco Mundo, many epochs and cultures, but there never was a true ruler of all of the Hollow World until Barragan. The Ten Masked Kings claimed to be so, but they were a confederation of Hollows who each ruled their own domain, which only extended to the Salar de Luna. An oligarchy who ruled above their station. They perished, eventually. They were ancient history by the time the Segunda came to power. This is Findorr’s message: that he serves the true king, before whom all previous rulers are mere pretenders, before whose palace all castles are as hutts in the mud. The Ten had a palace: Barragan had the sky of Hueco Mundo and all that is underneath it.”

You nod. You suppose that is reassuring.

“Of course, he will use it against you. Findorr believes you to be weak, and prone to running away. The pillars and shattered walls will deny you escape as he hounds and corners you relentlessly.”

Oh. That does sound like an advantage. You wish she had started with that. You are, after all, quite prone to running away. But, perhaps you might be able to make that environment your own advantage?

“If you have weaknesses, you must compensate them with cunning.”

You shuffle nervously, full of doubts.

“What else, then?”

You recall his words. He said he would bring a second. You are honestly not sure what that means - he spoke of it as someone watching the fight, but not intervening? You don’t trust him on that.

“Oh, darling, we’re Hollows. Of course you should not trust him. That is why you need to bring your own second. That way both assistants can look each other in the eye threateningly and not make a move while the others fight.”

You nod. Yes, of course. You try to think of who you could bring along. Alphonse might agree, although he’s technically a neutral Arrancar and your hierarchical superior, so that would be kind of weird; he probably does not want to be involved in feuds with Fraccions. Esmeralda… It seems like asking her to follow you into that battle would be exactly the kind of thing she spoke about being afraid of in being friends with an Adjucha. Maybe that nice jackal-headed boy? You don’t know a lot of…

Cirucci’s frown turns into a downright scowl, and the heat of her gaze halts your thoughts. You stare, blinking several times, then cough awkwardly.

Would… Would the Thunder Witch honor you in being your second in that duel?

“My dear,” she says with a wide smile, “the honor is all mine.”

You run for a long time, footsteps light as feathers on the white sands of the desert. Las Noches sits behind you, its profile cast against the night, so vast as to seem never to grow small with the distance. Cirucci is ahead of you, and her reiatsu is like a wind pulling you forward, making every step a little less effort. You run and on in the vast nothing, until the remnants appear around you, pillars jutting out of the sand, statues whose faces were long eroded by the wind, broken pieces of buildings that have long lost any meaning.

At last you stop. Before you stands what was once a palace. Grey walls thick with eroded engravures, the arches adorned with recurves and patterns, far richer in design than the blank walls of Las Noches. But it is far smaller, a dwarf next to this giant, a single building - no, less than that; it could be placed in Barragan’s hall and forgotten as a small aisle.

Cirucci pauses before the great arching portal, whose gate was long taken out by opportunistic Hollows who made it into buildings of their own. Ten great silhouettes are engraved above it, their masked faces weathered to blanks. Between the ten, words cut into the stone. You pause to read them, then frown. It’s gibberish - the letters you recognize, the same as the ones in which the language of Hollows is written if slightly different in shape. But they are assembled in nonsensical ways, the syllables recognizable but jumbled together.

You open your mouth, shaping your lips to the sounds without uttering them. Cirucci clicks her tongue and taps your arm, and sounds it out.

“Esclave, contemple tremblant l’oeuvre de tes maîtres.
Il n’est d’oreille qui n’ouisse nos noms,
Il n’est de bouche qui ne dise nos prières,
Il n’est d’âme qui ne craigne nos masques;
Nous sommes à jamais les maîtres de ce monde.”


Well, it certainly sounds pretty, but you still have no idea what it means.

“Nobody does,” Cirucci says with a shrug. “Any Adjucha is old, but on the scale of Hueco Mundo’s existence you are still the blink of an eye. As Hollows come from the living world they bring their languages but also learn that of those who came before. Our language evolves slowly, century after century, millennia after millennia, like the layers of white sand on the endless desert.”

It makes your eyes hurt to look at, and Cirucci laughs.

“Come. Let us not leave our friend waiting.”

You walk across a great hall, two sets of winding stairs disappearing in a floor now gone, the stairs themselves cracked in the middle by the fall of the roof. You pass between them through a gate into a corridor full of thick, heavy stone, cut in squares put one atop another instead of the smooth single blocks you are used to. Reliefs depict processions of Hollows walking from all the way to the Salar de Luna to the “heart of Hueco Mundo,” bearing gifts on their back, and bending the knee before ten thrones to offer their presents.

“I can sense them,” Cirucci says with a scowl, and you hastily sharpen your senses, trying to follow her example. You can feel a vague sense of reiatsu from ahead of you, from two sources not bothering to hide themselves.

Your throat tightens and your heartbeat quickens. Your right hand clutches the scabbard of your sword, and your right hand opens and closes reflexively, the power of a Bala at your fingertips. Cirucci gives you a frown.

“Stop that. Be dignified. You don’t want to bolster the enemy’s confidence, and you especially don’t want to reflect badly on me.”

You shudder, but give a nod and straighten yourself, repressing your nervousness as best you can.

You walk through the great arched opening where would have once been gates, and you behold the throne room of the Ten Masked Kings. Great pillars of grey stone, pocked and weathered by time, rise to hold a ceiling that has largely collapsed. Great slabs of rock lean against the floor where it fell, opening onto the eternal night, moonlight bathing the room in faint shadows. Benches line the walls where a court might have sat, and the stone under your feet is a faded crimson, as if to imitate some great carpet. At the end of the room is a dais, and on it are ten thrones of stone, all standing at the same height, yet all of different shapes and sizes - the seats of Hollow-kings, many-formed and terrible to behold. All gone now; the seats are cracked and chipped by the accidents of time.

Findorr stands on the dais. He waits for you, hands folded behind his back, a thin smile on his lips, his sword at his waist.

Above him, above all of you, is a thin and wiry Arrancar of androgynous features sitting upon the jagged edge of a wall. His face is adorned with a tiger’s skull, and his eyes are thin and predatory as he scrutinizes you both.

“I see you’ve answered my challenge,” Findorr says. “I did not expect as much from you. But all is explained when one looks at your second, I suppose.” His expressionless eyes rest on Cirucci, and she scoffs.

“Afraid of me, Fraccion?” She says flicking a lock of her wavy hair. “You shouldn’t. I am, after all, only here as second. As long as everyone plays by the rules, there is no reason to show you just how far below me you still are.”

You’re still not sure what rules these are, to be honest. You understand the concept of a duel, obviously, but are there supposed to be limitations or..?

“Oh, it’s simple, dear. Findorr and you are about to try and kill each other as thoroughly as you can. I expect you to triumph. That’s all the rules there are. But it’s only the two of you, and me and that creepy boy above will stand back and watch.”

The tiger-skulled man (the boy? He seems so young) on the broken wall chuckles darkly. Ggio Vega, you remember. A savage sort, but thankfully one you have never crossed before.

Findorr steps down from the dais, stopping a few yards from you. He examines you with cold yellow eyes, his lips turning into a frown.

Then he smiles again, wider than before, and slashes the air to his right, his long hair billowing in the night.

“Nemo Elcorbuzier, Numero Cuarenta y Ocho! In the course of your duties to my king, you have betrayed his trust and stolen from him! When confronted with your crime, you reached for your blade! Escaping from your fate, you found refuge at the side of a pariah and an exile! For your crimes, and your cowardice, I have today come to demand reparation. Step forward, and let neither stop until only one is left.”

Your heart is like a pounding drum.

Chapter Text

Polilla slides out of her sheat, dull grey steel without shine under the moonlight. You take a step, your face a careful mask.

“No retort, then?” Findorr says with a grin. “No speech or accusation, just straight to the point?”

You don’t answer to him. If he challenges you, then so be it. But you don’t owe him explanations or excuses. Not anymore.

“Nemo!” Cirucci shouts from behind you, her arms folded, her face imperious. “As my servant you carry my pride with you! Crush this wretched sycophant in my name!”

Your posture straightens and you bring the blade before you, eyes narrowed in focus. Findorr scoffs and draws his saber, a beautiful curved blade, elegant and vain. Then you feel a pulse, a wave from his body blowing across the room. Your reiatsu feels like it stirs.

“You’ve grown stronger, I see. I suppose the tutelage of a Privaron does have some benefits. The last time we fought, you could barely stand up to one third of my power. In honor of your improvements…”

The wrist-dagger slices across his mask, and the white bone falls to the ground, revealing his handsome face and one painted eye.

“...I will open with two thirds of my strength.”

You catch your breath, your hand tightening on Polilla’s leather grip. You tense in anticipation - he will come at you hard, but you know how you’re going to fight-

“Don’t blink.”

He’s upon you.

You raise your blade to parry and steel clashes against steel, but his strength far exceeds yours. Polilla is pushed down and his saber draws a line of fire on your chest, blood staining his immaculate gloves. You let out an inarticulate scream and step back, and his off-hand thrusts at your face. You lift Polilla again, barely deflecting the blow. The dagger slashes your cheek and Findorr steps in raising his sword again.

Your left hand thrusts under your own blade and your Bala slips through Findorr’s open guard. The shockwave is like thunder and dust rains from the ceiling of the ancient palace; your opponent briefly looks surprised before he tumbles head over heels several yards from you.

Blood pumps in your limbs, your face itching with adrenaline. You do not take the time to think. Your hands beat the air, releasing a deluge of grey projectiles which moan as they rain down onto the pillars and the ground. Most of them go wide from Findorr, hitting the pillars and half-collapsed fragments of roof, but they deny him escape; you hear him scream in anger and pain as a few hit home.

He dashes out of the smoke, no human shape but a bolt of light and anger. You kick the ground and he slashes the air where you stood a moment before with a strength that would have cleaved you in twain, but you are above, your feet touching the top of an ancient pillar. Before you can fall you throw another Bala, the recoil keeping you in place. Findorr’s head snaps towards you but he can’t block it in time, the missile hitting him in his unmasked face and knocking him back.

You hurl a second Bala but you are pushing your luck. Reeling from the first blow Findorr nonetheless parries it with his dagger, the projectile exploding as the blade slices through it. Then his body lurches forward, his power surges, and blue Balas streak like lightning. Your footing is no good, your left flank is numb with pain, you push yourself off the stone to dodge but one hits you in your bleeding wound, sending you tumbling. Above you the pillar groans and shudders under the other impacts.

You hit the ground hard, a dull blow to the shoulder. You roll and push yourself up, grit burning your skin, and run as fast as you can without looking back. One bolt after the other follows after you, scattering dust where they shatter stone, and one of them hits you in your left shoulder, drawing another scream. Your breathing is harsh, reiryoku scouring your muscles as you call upon more and more of it.

There is a cracking sound and Findorr closes the gap, laughing like a madman. Sword clashes against sword once, twice, three times, each with a shallow cut. Your left side responds too slowly, every motion feeling like the jab of a knife. You thrust your empty hand for another close-range Bala but Findorr’s offhand swats your wrist aside and the projectile fires past his shoulder, hitting the ceiling. His sword slashes in the open space, a wavy motion like a brush stroke, and you seed the red of your blood before you feel the cut. You can’t bring up your guard quick enough: his hand closes in on your collar, lifting you off the ground, and his saber braces for the killing stroke.

Then the pillar collapses.

Dozens of tons of stone worn away by the ages and cracked by blows of pure energy finally come undone upon you, and Findorr looks up in surprise, his grip weakening. You kick his shin with your leg, bending his knee, and push off his hand with your free arm. You dart away as the rocks fall.

Findorr is too fast. He dodges to the side, stone hitting the ground with a terrible roar. But if he dodges the stone, he cannot dodge the Bala you hurl at him, and it sends him reeling amidst the rubble.

You hit left and right, more Balas hitting the pillars around you, and the seat of the Ten Masked Kings begins to collapse around you. Your face is drenched in sweat, your chest is wracked by pulses of pain, your reserves of power straining.

“You little rat!” The blond man leaps on top of the broken stones, dashing for you. “Is destroying everything around you the only way you know how to fight?!”

Your eyes narrow, and you afford yourself a smile as you retreat, back hunched and blade trailing after your steps. He came to you in your own home and saw how you fought. He really should have seen this coming.

Findorr hounds you through a rain of stone, dodging the heaviest stones, swatting the others aside with his blade. You duck and weave low to the ground, small enough to avoid most of the fall. Half an entire pillar falls between you, giving you a moment’s room. You hop onto the stone dais and turn, the empty thrones behind you. Stone dust rains over them. Findorr jumps over the fallen pillar and you’re waiting for him with a moaning wisp, slamming the Fraccion against the stone.

It doesn’t stop him. He’s a machine, a hurricane. His flash-step takes him right up to you and he slashes the air-

But you’ve already stepped back and he cuts nothing. His eyes widen in surprise. He comes at you again, you turn and run, and he cannot catch up. You twist your wrist and fire a blind Bala behind your back, and you hear his grunt of pain. You circle the dais, the great thrones towering above you, and Findorr is lagging behind you. Yet your lungs are burning, you can’t keep this up forever. You stop, turn and face him, sword in hand.

Findorr has stopped too. He is panting, and there is a strange grey light over his body, a silk-like wreathing around his limbs.

“Why… Am I slower? What have you done to me?"

You don’t tell him the name of Bala Envolver. You don’t tell him how many times you’ve hit him - four times already. You don’t tell him that every hit will make him even slower than this.

You just raise your blade defiantly.

“Do you still understand nothing? I don’t need to reach you to hurt you,” he says, and his angry scowl turns to a manic smile.

He clasps his offhand over his sword and holds him before it, and a deluge of blue Balas races for you. But you have seen that technique before, and your own Balas are superior, you know this. You open your hand, rouse all of your power, and your own barrage answers his. Vibrant detonations fill the air with mourning wails as the Balas counter each other.

Your arms feel like you are pulling stone weights behind them as the exchange ends in a cloud of smoke, exhaustion aching and making your mind hazy, but you can’t afford to stop. You’ve slowed him down. He has his back to the pillar and you are in front of him. This is your moment. You circle around the smoke to change your angle and flank him, you leap onto one of the central throne, hunching over its cracked back, stained black with ancient blood where its king perished.

You inhale and rear your head and your horns howl with a pitch that rises higher and higher. Then you exhale and the flood of power comes out of your mask, a wave of pale grey smoke and eerie lights. It passes over the dais like a hurricane. Findorr senses it in time but he is now too slow and with no easy path of escape. His eyes widen in panic and he slashes the air to parry the attack.

Your Cero Triste engulfs him and shatters the pillar, carving a great groove in the floor.

The power of it lingers, filling the air thick as incense. Smoke dances close to the ground, the air rises in wave-like shapes. The ruined palace echoes with mourning voices. Fleeting images trace themselves in the contours of your Cero’s smoke. Where it rises to the head of the hall, the white shadows of the Ten Masked Kings stand up from their thrones and wander the room, weeping at the sight of their forgotten hall.

Your everything is sore. Findorr must be heavily wounded, stunned, but you can’t rush in to finish him off. You need a moment to gather your strength before you so much as manage a strike of your sword. You push your reiatsu down, call shadows to you, and swallow the sound of your own footsteps. Then you retreat into the smoke and the cohort of phantoms, just another shadow in mourning.

The phantoms grow faint before you, your eyes piercing through them. You see the enemy sprawled on the ground, his hair in disarray. But his shoulders strain, and he stands up, breathing as heavily as you are. The left half of his uniform is scorched away, his skin is burnt and bruised, his left arm hangs limply to his side. Blood stains his lips, and his one visible eye is unfocused, flicking left and right. You move back, your hand gripping your sword harder, gathering your power. His wounds are terrible, and if you can strike before he can-

Findorr screams and his reiatsu erupts, shaking the walls. He brandishes his blade to the sky, and light engulfs him.

“Carve upon the surface of the water, Pinzaguda!”

You smell seawater and taste salt on your tongue. Pressure like a rising tide washes over you.

Barragan’s Fraccion stands tall, his bruises gone, his body encased in a lopsided armor, his arms pincers - the left a short one, the right one longer than his sword and far heavier. His eyes scan the room for you, and you swallow in fear.

Your wounds are no longer bleeding, but they are far from healed. The left side of your body is weak, and you have spent much of your reiryoku. But Findorr has not yet released his full power, and your Resurreccion will give away your position. You are not confident you will match him.

But if you can hurt him now, in his released state, you could secure enough advantage for your Resurreccion to overwhelm even his full power.

And then... 

You do not like to think about you who will be unleashed. 

Chapter Text

You retreat into moaning shadows, circling your opponent with fearful eyes. He can’t see you, you’re sure of this; but when his eyes scan the ruins and rubble around him your body still tenses in fright. His power is great, as great as you had expected, and while his shape is strange you do not know what power it holds.

“Hiding from me? That’s just like you. Ggio!” He shouts to the rooftop. “Where is she?”

“I can’t see her,” says the tiger, his voice a growl.

Then you hear a thunder-crack you know all too well, and look to Cirucci as her whip comes back to her hand, having fired a warning shot.

“You wanted these rules, Findorr, and you will abide by them.”

Your take a sharp breath and flare power in your fingertips. Part of your strength is returned and you can’t let him make the first move.

The Fraccion scoffs, and his grin returns. “Of course I will. Why would I need-”

The shape of a great lion-shadow scatters into mist as your Bala streaks through it. Findorr senses it and turns to counter, but he’s not quite fast enough. It hits his arm, pushes him a feet across the stone. But it’s his feet sliding along, he is not knocked down, his posture is not broken.

You run away as fast as you can. Behind you you hear the clap of Sonido and feel the weight of the great pincer slashing the air, a blow that might have killed you. You don’t pause, you run into the cover of the shadows, suppressing your strength. Stone shatters under terrible blows as Findorr lashes blindly, and your heart seems to be jumping up your throat.

You put as much distance between you as you can, and he doesn’t pursue, he can’t sense you. This is good. You hoist yourself on top of a piece of collapsed roof, its stone eroded to slickness by centuries of sand, and you fire another Bala.

Again he moves in the split second before it reaches him to parry, and again he only partially succeeds, the Bala bouncing off his elbow. You immediately hop down on the other side of the rubble and start running, hoping to use it as an obstacle to delay him.

Findorr’s Cero is blue as the sea of the living world. It punches through the stone with ease, and that feeble cover gives you only time for a shocked realization and a desperate dodge. The ray catches your right sleeve and burns the outer skin, but you avoided the worst. You scramble onto the cover of the great bench galleries on each side of the room, where the roof is still partly intact.

Esmeralda only healed your lungs a day ago. The clouds of dust bring the injury back to mind, choking you as you breathe in it. You have to put a hand to your mouth to keep from coughing and revealing your position.

“Is this the servant that ‘carries your pride with her,’ Cirucci?” Findorr says chuckling, slowly walking out the dust of his own attack, eyes lazily glancing around the room. “A tiny, terrified girl running for her life? She’s as unworthy of being a Fraccion as you are of returning to the Espada.”

“Your release is making you far too cocky, crab,” Cirucci says with scorn. “I would tell you that I’ll demand reparation in exactly the fashion you do now, but I am quite sure you won’t be alive tomorrow.”

His Cero was… Weaker than yours, you’re pretty sure. His Resurreccion must not have enhanced his ranged attacks. But then why is he just slowly walking rather than scouring the room for you? Is he trying to bait you?

You have to take that bait. His senses are too keen, and the longer you delay, the more you risk him finding you in the mist.

You fire a whimpering Bala and this time he reacts fast enough, his smaller pincer striking it and blowing it out of the air. But your second Bala he was not prepared for; this one screams its mourning as it hits him in the face, answered with a shout of anger and pain. You dart away and his Sonido crosses the distance between you, but you have hit him with three Envolver. He is just slow enough for you to dodge, barely, and you roll to the floor then get up scrambling for space. Behind you the great pincer smashes a pillar where you stood, and the floor above the gallery begins to cave in. Stones groan their deathrattle, Findorr’s attacks a sharp, clear cutting sound in contrast. Your legs skitter madly to get you away as stone upon stone falls around Findorr and on him.

You pause, blinking your eyes that burn with dust, catching your breath. You can’t see him behind the rocks, but he will destroy them and come after you. All you have to do in that time is charge a Cero while he still doesn’t know you’re there, hit him as he comes out. You breathe in, forcing your sluggish reiryoku to gather for you.

The pulse hits you and you skip a heartbeat.

He used the cover of the rocks to use Pesquisa.

Your gathered energy scatters and you dash away, but it is too late. The rocks ahead of you part like torn paper and a gleaming blade comes surging out, too fast to dodge. You raise your sword to block it-

The pain comes second. First, your arm falls to your side, the sword clattering to the ground. Then your hand open and you cannot close it, or move it, or do anything with the arm. Then your eyes widen at the sight of the cleanly-sliced flesh, all the way through your shoulder, bone parted as if by some great cleaver.

The pain comes second, and then you scream.

Your left hand stumbles to grab Polilla’s hilt. Findorr pushes the broken rocks out of the way, his grinning face staring straight at you. Your flash-step carries you into the air, your feet hit the top of a pillar, a second step has you back on the ground, in the mist.

Shimmering blue waves slice the ground and floor behind you, collapse the column, destroy the rubble already fallen. Your Sonido is giving you away, your reiatsu is unsuppressed, your blood is a trail behind each footsteps. Every heartbeat makes your wound feel like it’s tearing you apart. You can’t think, can’t plan your next move.

He’s already there, standing on a piece of the collapsed roof. Envolver slows him down too much to catch up but he has your mark now and he only seeks a vantage point. The phantom-kings moan as they point accusingly to him, and he laughs. Blades come after you, cutting them down - the ground is wet wherever they strike, are they water? You dash away, legs pumping lead, and a glancing blow takes out the tendons of your right heel. Your Sonido goes awry and you slide along the ground, your head hitting stone at the end of your path.

You hear the clap of his own step and he is above you. You are slower than he is now. His kick hits you in the rib and the strength of it takes your breath away. Your speck of a body flies off and hits another pillar. The pain in your back would be terrible if it were not drowned out by the all-consuming cut in your shoulder. Pebbles fall upon you like a painful hail, your skin is stained with grit.

“Always so quiet but for the screams,” Findorr says, another step crossing the distance between you in a blink. “Do you think your silence gives you dignity in the face of your betters? That it makes it your quiet resistance noble? It only makes you look more insignificant. Come; give me your last words, that I might throw them before your mistress.”

You can’t stand up, your wounded leg collapses under you. So you scramble on all four as if that meant a thing. You can’t release with him so close, he’ll sense it and cut you down, but you can’t get away-

The great pincer opens ahead of you and in its depth you see the gleaming water that will wash away everything you are.

You don’t think. Acting on instinct you let Polilla fall out of your left hand and reach to the pincer.

Your glove touches it and shines.



The black sea is endless.

You have been swimming for eons at these edges of the Hollow World, hunting your lessers. Its waters are the refuge of the weak, the clumsy, the sick. In its embrace they forget who they are.

You have forgotten too. In the sands of Hueco Mundo you were a misshapen thing, crawling upon the earth. But here you are mighty and swift and silent. You lie on the seafloor as the weak swim above you, and you catch them with one lunge of your claw. You devour them. Then still hungry, you go out to hunt. You see through the black waters, you sense the pale flickering light of their existence. 

You had a name once. In the sea you forgot everything: pain, grief, passion, the things left behind. You are only hunger and the thrill of the hunt. 

But one day you come to the sea shores, looking for the Hollows which sometimes hide in its sands. You dwell in the shallow waters, waiting for something to move, when the wave comes. Power like a sun shines in your mind’s eye, and you behold in terror as the sea recedes around you. The waters dry in an instant, and you are left lying on a bed of ancient salt.

He stands before you, so small, so pale, so thin. Bones in the shape of a man, shrouded in moving shadows. He must be a Hollow, you know this, but Hollows have masks, and he only has a skull. There is no face beneath this mirthless grin, only emptiness and the shadow’s writhing.

You do not see the moon of Hueco Mundo anymore. This black sun eclipsed it. He reaches out with his bony hand, pointing to desert that was sea.

“i sought
to drink.
but the sea
fled me.”

The shadows reach out, dancing along the salt pan, probing at it like a child’s curious fingers. You bring your pincers under you and cower, but you cannot avert your eyes. The eyeless sockets look down at you with their unchanging smile.

“i am
all.
will you
serve?”

You stare at him for a silent moment, and then you close your eyes, and your cowering becomes a bow.

There is no meaning to existence but to serve under such power.



Findorr steps back, grunting, his lesser claw touching his face.

“What did you do?!”

You blink, and you see the moment before you, a fraction of a second to live. You raise your one good hand and form the strongest Bala you can and you punch the air ahead of you. It is the wail of a friend dying to the King’s breath. The palace reverberates with the shockwave, waves of condensation forming at the point of impact, and Findorr flies off, his back hitting the stone.

Come; give me your last words.

Your throat would be dry were it not for the warm wetness of your own blood. You haven’t spoken the words in so long. You try to articulate them and all you do is gargle, spitting bloody phlegm on the floor.

Ch…

Your sword. You let it fall out of your grasp. But it calls to you and you need not look to find it in your left hand, pulling it to your side. You try to push yourself up and fall to your knees. Tears are streaming down your mask and you blink them away. You take in a raspy breath and your mouth shapes out the words soundlessly. You take in another breath.

“Cha…”

Stones erupt. The tide-like reiatsu licks your skin. The silken wrapping of Bala Envolver wreaths Findorr like a cloak, but above it the fire of his power burns blue and bright. His eye is twisted in mad, laughing anger, in the knowledge that the one who offended him is about to die like a dog. He blinks across space and is before you, raising his arm.

“Challenge, Polilla."

Your consciousness is wrenched out of your body, out of the pain and fatigue and fear. You watch with dispassionate eyes as the girl below you opens her mouth in a silent scream and her eyes grow wide; cracks run down from them like tears and then over her skin until her tortured visage is frozen like a porcelain doll. Then harsh, painful light comes out of these cracks and Findorr shields his face. Your mind’s hand reaches into that castoff shell and you pull out the core of your power. The girl’s back shatters with a sickening crunch and turns to so much black dust, falling and drowning the front of her body, the wounds and the frozen scream, until all that is left is shadow, shadow and your white mask.

You tilt your head to look at Findorr and the movement comes staggered a fraction of a second after. The painted eye blinks.

“What the hell is this..?”

You have no sword. Your hands are but flickers of the shadows that are your self.

You take one step and the world goes blank. You move across a gallery of shadow and swipe your hand to the left, drawing upon the memory of Polilla. Her shadow is your arm, her blade is your hand. Your step and the world resumes into shattered ruins and thick dust choking your throat.

Behind you Findorr’s shoulder opens in a spray of blood. A mirror of your previous wound, if lesser in harm. His face turns to you, eyes wide in surprise.

“Stop screwing around, you idiot!” His second shouts from the roof. “You’re a Royal Fraccion! Wipe this fucking palace off the map and be done with it!”

Surprise turns to anger, anger to wrath. Findorr flash-steps forward and so do you. The world is whiteness and two moving shadows crossing each other.

You pass through him and cut. Your step ends and his flank is stained with his own blood. You feel you should smell the blood, but all you smell is a crisp nothing, bitter on the tongue.

You step back, Sonido as easy as breathing, and move through a wall of collapsed stone leaving Findorr alone on the other side.

The tide comes next, wave after wave of cutting pressure slicing the stone to bits. You dash to the side, one of the blades going through you without harm.

You would laugh, were you to feel any joy. It is gone along with the pain and the fear and the anger. The world is shapes and objects and some of these shapes bleed when you poke them. You suppose that is funny, in a way.

Findorr blinks behind you and his blue Bala howls as it reaches you. The impact is stunning, blue light exploding in your mantle of shadows, sending it astir and knocking you back. He opens his claw and the flurry of water-blades comes rushing for you, to wide to dodge, too many to parry, a death sentence.

You dodge forward. Dashing into the blank, you feel the water blades brush against your insubstantial flesh. Your step ends before Findorr, past his pincer, into his open guard. You slice across his chest with almost gentle care, and the shadows cut his carapace.

You’ve underestimated his speed. His shocked expression turns into a smile and his lesser arm grabs you, pincer grasping soft shadow-flesh. Then he hurls you against the stone, a wall cracking against your back, and for a moment you are too stunned to react. His great pincer swipes down, and you realize it cuts as much as any blade.

Behind the dark mantle the porcelain-flesh shatters. You bleed shadow and dust. Without fear you think you are going to die.

You dash back into the stone and past it. You dash again behind a broken wall. You dash again into the shadow of the gallery, under a half-fallen pillar held at an angle. Your blood is a trail, black and thick as tar.

You crouch and touch the floor with your hand. You are dying.

You ask the shadows not to let you, and their voice is kind. They flow into you like a river running upstream. They bleed into your veins and your veins bleed no more. You weave a cloak of dust out of the dark’s embrace.

Findorr leaps onto the rubble ahead of you, panting. He is bleeding in three places now, but the cuts are not deep enough to kill. His visage is transfixed in anger, then surprise as he sees you stand up, uninjured.

“How dare you,” he says, his voice quivering. “HOW DARE YOU TAKE THE IMAGE OF MY KING!”

What-

His left hand slices at his own face, graceless, spilling his own blood. The mask shatters. You can see both his eyes now, and they burn, they glow, his reiatsu is the sea in a storm, the rage and lightning and screams of drowning men.

You think distantly that you are forgetting something…

Findorr roars and opens his claw, the blue light of his Cero filling your entire vision. You dash forward with an angle, passing through its burning energy and emerging to the side. You rush the enemy, the blade only a thought away.

You strike.

He’s gone.

Behind you the pincer tears into your flesh. You are not rooted to the ground and the impact sends you flying, Findorr stepping lightly after you. Wing-like motes trail behind you, uncontrolled.

“Thief of crowns, shadow and a white mask. I will rip your tiny head off your neck and offer it to my king.”

Bala Envolver. You forgot to keep pressure on him so the effect is unravelling even as his fully-broken mask unlocks his full power. Stupid mistake. And you’re dying again.

Something inside you screams. It wants to fear, it wants to panic, it wants to feel all the things that living things feel before death. You don’t let it. All you feel is the agony of reitasu clashing against one another, the storm and the sea. You dash upwards in a spray of your own blood, Findorr close on your heels.

You hit the uppermost level of the broken floor and Ggio Vega, having sat there since the beginning of the battle, stares at you with blank surprise. You turn around and hurl a screaming black bolt, punching Findorr out of the air. You dash away, the wind of the aftershock drawing a yelp from Ggio, and you strike mid-air, your blade slicing into Findorr’s flesh. Your hand forms around another Bala.

Then you remember you’re dying. The energy scatters from your fingertips and you fall to the ground like a stone, Findorr a few feet from you, his spiritual pressure thick as a tide of blood. You cough up black blood, your vision darkening, and you crawl into the cover of the shadows.

They come again. They have never abandoned you. Not like that idiot and his traps, making you feel like you still had a heart only to rip it out of you. Why did you think you ought to care? It’s so obvious. Mantis was weak, a burden, and died. Esmeralda is weak, she’ll become a burden eventually. What if Findorr had captured her to bait you into a trap? You’d be dead now! You can only trust the shadows. You can only rely on the night.

You stand and you are whole again.

You can never die as long as you stand alone.

The sea is coming, you can feel it through the stone. It erodes them to dust and it is here, pretending to be a man. You are not fooled. It is as fast as you are now and far, far stronger. Its endless depths pretend to be Hierro, and your blade is not long enough to reach through, even with your shadow-cuts.

The sea sends a wave and you dodge through it, but do not call your blade. The man-shape blinks out of sight and is behind you, hoping to take advantage of your overextended guard, but you knew it would do that, and so did not open yourself. You take a step back and go into the blank, passing through the shape, and the world resolves with you behind it, its back open to you.

You cut into the soft flesh of the neck. Who would have known a sea contained so much blood? Perhaps it’s the little fish, you think and giggle.

It clasps its claw on its throat with a look of fear and surprise. You know if it has even one moment to recover it will destroy you. It is too fast, too strong, too resilient. You are a tiny hut on the shore and it will take you in the flood.

You slam a bolt of shadow into its chest and it goes flying against a pillar. You dash after him, slam another bolt that cracks the stone behind him, slam another one that makes him go through. You dash again as the entire gallery comes undone, an entire side of the palace falling on your heads. You blink to its left flank, fire another bolt, he goes flying out of the collapsing wall. You dash after him and as he hits the ground you fire the last bolt from above him. The Bala laughs like a widower driven mad by grief, then it punches a crater into the floor beneath the enemy.

You come fluttering down on your pretend-wings.

He lies there, a broken carapace, a shattered pincer, blood all over his neck and shoulder, all over his chest, dripping from his brow onto his closed eyes. It really is a lot of red. You can smell it now, bitter as copper, and it makes you hungry.

Is this really the sea? You were probably wrong. It must be a man after all. An Arr-an-car. You’re not sure why you and Mantis never hunt them, they’re usually weaker than the Menos you have to snare. He says they look too much like people and it bothers him.

Says? Said?

Mantis is dead, right?

Your head is hurting and you put your hand to it, cringing with porcelain teeths. You’ve burned through so much your energy. You breathe hard even though you don’t remember needing to breathe. It seems like all it does is get more dust in your throat.

Mantis doesn’t want to eat the Arr-an-cars, but he’s not there, and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.


[ ]Feed.
[X]Something is wrong. This is not how things are supposed to be. Pull yourself together.

Chapter Text

It’s so easy, you think crouching down. Your hand brushes the soft flesh. You wonder why you haven’t eaten in so long.

Cracks show along the pincers and armor, and they break open, revealing the soft creature within. Then they dissolve into foam, leaving him defenseless. You’re salivating.

You hear something stirring to your left, and you look. There’s another creature, more powerful than you, you think. Has she come to take your meal? The strong and lazy do this sometimes, waiting for weaker Adjuchas to exhaust themselves taking down a meal, then shooing them away so they can eat. Your mantle shimmers and your intent eyes fix on her, hands grasping like claws, ready to draw the blade.

But no. You don’t think she wants to steal your catch. She’s watching you with something like… Interest? Disgust? Fear? She can’t fear you, not with her strength.

You think you remember her name…

You feel the headache come back, stronger, feeling like it’ll split your head. You cringe.

Mantis told you he didn’t want to eat the Arrancars, because they look too much like people. He told you he didn’t mind if you did, as long as you did it away from him. But you understood the implications behind the words. Even when you were alone, you did not hunt them. It seemed disrespectful.

Mantis is dead now, you know this. But you were wrong earlier. He brought you a sense of direction and purpose. You remember the face of a girl with a skull mask split lengthwise and you want to remember her name. You don’t think she would like it if you ate an Arrancar. And that one, on the side, looking at you with the whip at her waist…

This isn’t who you are. This isn’t the Forest. This isn’t even the sands.

Your name is Nemo Elcorbuzier and you, too, look like people. If he had killed you the lobster-man would not have eaten you.

You grit your teeth and take in shallow breaths through your nose. You stand up on wobbly legs. Your hands are shaking.

Cirucci, Esmeralda, Findorr. These are names. You focus on them.

The pain and fear and desperation and anger all come crashing back and you teeter, stepping back. Your body is no longer flesh and blood but shadow and something beautiful and fragile and it disturbs you. You can’t feel your heartbeat or the twitchiness of adrenaline.

You curl in upon yourself. The shadows moan and fold back into the hollow of your porcelain back, and then they reform the shell over them until they are all hidden, nothing but a few black motes seeping through the cracks and your mouth. Then the cracks fade away and the porcelain becomes touched by the warmth of life. You touch your arm and it is soft.

You breathe harshly, your body unmarred but your insides burning with rapid energy consumption. The shadows of the fallen kings let out a sigh of relief as they are released, smoke fading from the ruins.

There is no palace left now. Only rubble. The white sands of Hueco Mundo gently blow in. In time they will reclaim it all.

You step back from the crater, holding your aching head. Cirucci moves besides you. Ggio Vega jumps off his rooftop, landing on the edge of the crater. His eyes scan you warily.

“You’ve won,” he says reluctantly. “Congratulations. I’ll take him back now.”

Cirucci laughs, all her contempt and derision in that sound. “Wasn’t this a duel to the death? Are you telling me Findorr would have spared my protégée if the situation had been reversed?”

Ggio grits his teeth, but says nothing. He looks down at Findorr’s broken shape, then at you. Then so does Cirucci.

“The finishing blow, my dear?” She says with a smirk.

Polilla is in her sheath. You are not sure when she reappeared. The memory glove aches on your left hand, too tight. You remember the black sea and the shape of the king before his robes were made.

Killing Findorr is the smart thing to do. He is an enemy who has shown you nothing but spite and a willingness to ambush you. He challenged you to a duel to the death, the terms of which were clear. You have nothing to expect from sparing his life. And you’re not, nor have ever been, interested in proving that you were better than him, whether it be in behavior or power. You just wanted to live.

But it’s not about him. It’s about you. It’s about the memory of that cold, dispassionate anger, of forgetting who your friends were. You picture yourself drawing your blade and putting it through his heart, and all you see is the masked shadow tearing pieces of him and stuffing them down her throat.

Your stomach lurches, and you take a few steps away, bending over at the waist as you retch. It’s not pretty.

You look at the three of them, haggard, and shake your head. It’s not about right or wrong or smart or dumb. It’s just about disgust. Something passes in Ggio’s eyes, maybe surprise, maybe relief.

Cirucci scoffs, and touches her whip. “It’s all right, dear. I can do it for you.”

“No, you can’t,” Ggio says scornfully. “It was their duel. It’s not a second’s place to deal the killing blow if one of the contestants can’t manage it.”

“I find that rule… Debatable,” Cirucci says with a dangerous smile, her hand on the leather grip. “Besides, it’s a mercy. Do you think if you took him to Barragan, he would welcome him back? He’ll either execute him or cast him out of Las Noches.”

“I won’t,” Ggio says, his body tensing a little. He looks down at Findorr and what you see in his eyes isn’t affection or friendship, but it’s not like he doesn’t care. You’re not sure you understand it. Then he looks up at you. “I will take him out into the sands, far from here, patch his wounds so he doesn’t die, and leave him. He will not come back.”

You’re too exhausted to think straight. You take a moment to compose yourself, then nod.

“The Royal Fraccions will…” He grits his teeth, his eyes twisting in anger for a second, then shakes his head. “...owe you. This idiot sought this fight of his own will and lost according to his own terms, but our own are still are own, and we appreciate this. You don’t have to fear us coming at you.”

You nod again. You know on some distant level that this is important, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now.

Ggio crouches and takes Findorr’s body in his arm. Then his Sonido takes him away, and he’s gone. Cirucci watches wistfully in what is presumably the direction they left - you couldn’t follow his speed with your eyes. You’re glad you didn’t have to fight him.

Cirucci turns to you and tilts her head, examining you with curiosity.

“Mercy. Such a rare quality among the Arrancars. And usually a worthless one.”

It wasn’t mercy. You wish you could have ended this.

She steps closer to you, her hand taking your chin and raising it up to face her. Then the imperious gesture turns into a brush of her hand on your cheek.

“You’re so strong. Stronger than I ever thought you’d be. Certainly stronger than he thought you were. I thought you would need traps, ambushes and deceit to visit revenge upon him. And that was only fair, after he had tried the same. When you came to me today I thought you were reckless, but I still put my confidence and pride in you. Now here you stand in the shattered arena where you met him one on one, and triumphed. My pride was not misplaced.”

You flinch. Ordinarily such words would warm your heart, but not now.

“You’re afraid of your own strength, aren’t you?”

You don’t think you are. You’re weak, but the battlefield was to your advantage and…

No. You’re not afraid of your own strength. You’re afraid of the way it makes you think. It is a way of thinking that could kill those you care about as surely as it killed the Masked Hunter. 

Cirucci releases you and turns her back, stopping a few feet away.

“There are many valid reasons why Arrancars hold back their Resurreccion in battle. Many good, tactical reasons. But talking about preserving your reiryoku, securing an early advantage, keeping your ability to heal in store… All of that is only part of the truth. The other part is simply that many don’t want to.”

She looks up at the skies through the broken roof, the starless night and its white moon.

“When I release my blade I am reminded of what I once was. I am no longer bound to this tiny edifice of flesh, my feet are no longer anchored to the earth. I am great and terrible and the skies are my domain. And this makes the end of it all the more bitter. Others are different. They hate their monstrous shape, crave to only be human. They fear the thrill, the rush of emotion that overtakes their mind. We’re all different. I won’t presume to know what you felt, but I can see the anxiety in your eyes.”

Then she turns back, and her lips twitch in a rare genuine smile, for one second.

“If I wanted porcelain dolls I would have them brought to my fort, and if I wanted creeping shadows and white bone I would serve Barragan. I like you flesh and blood.”

This time you blush, and not sure how to answer, you default to a curtsey. That makes her laugh.

“Come on,” she says, setting off towards the exit of the palace. “We’re going home. I have much to do tomorrow.”

You nod and hurry along after her, ignoring the ache of fatigue in your body.

Behind you lie shattered ruins and ten empty thrones, reaching upwards into starless skies.

Chapter Text

"Coming through" A pair of adjuchas enter her room, dragging a slight humanoid form between them. The man - rather, the arrancar - has been roughed up extensively, with his stained grey robe torn in many places and blood on his face. So weak, to be beaten up by two lesser beings like that.

Cirucci narrows her eyes. She recognises him. Ren Ensuenoloco. A pathetic specimen - far older than her, or nearly anyone else. As far as she was aware, he lives somewhere outside the city, squatting in the endless wastes of the place of Hollows. He never comes near the city - and from his escort, he doesn't want to be here.

And she's been looking for him. Looking for, and failing to find him. She doesn't recognise these adjuchas, either. How on earth did they manage to track him down?

"Oh my. Where did you find him?" Cirucci says, leaning back and idly admiring her nails.

The ape-like adjucha on the right clears its throat, entirely congnisent of the mercurial temper of Cirucci. "Uh... well, milady, he was living under a bridge. Built himself himself, out of old stone stuff what was covered in markings."

"I was building a path to enlightenment!" her new guest snaps, trying to twist away from the firm grip on his arms. "Don't you fools see... no, of course, no, no, you don't see, of course you don't see, you've still got your masks on! How could you see? By building myself a bridge out of stones I'd carved learning into, the bridge would lead me to wisdom! I was busy! And I don't know what you want with me, but you can just go f-"

Circucci raises her eyebrows. Most people do not speak like that in front of her.

"Uh, uh, uh," she says, looking over. "So naughty." She considers her options, and decides that this is best kept concealed. "Leave me," she says, making shooing motions with her hands. "I need to make sure he's no danger to the city. There are standing orders that strangers to the city be interrogated, and I will see to that." She's lying there, but she needs to get him alone for this.

"But we got orders to..."

She strokes her whip. "Are you questioning me? Or do you need a little instruction in manners? I will keep this city safe, do you understand?"

They seemingly care less about their orders than avoiding the lash of her tongue - or her whip. The pair of adjuchas back out, facing her until they leave through the main door and close it behind them. She rises, looking down her nose at the snivelling waste of skin before her.

Ren Ensuenoloco looks old and too-thin. He is too tall and his arms and legs are too long, but they're skeletally thin. His grey hair is matted and shaggy, reaching the small of his back, and his beard is long enough that he's wrapped it around his waist and it serves as a belt to keep his robe closed. He's curled up down there, cradling his broken hand. The remnants of his mask forms a pair of spectacle-like markings around his mis-matched eyes; one red, the other a pale green. His Hollow hole is in the centre of his forehead, and looks almost like a third eye.

In truth, he is a pathetic example of a naturally formed arrancar. Perhaps he was once more fearsome, but as it stands he seems half gone. Cirucci smiles to herself. Little Nemo could smash his face into the ground. But then again, that's not the reason she is curious about him.

She takes one step down the stairs, her heel clicking loudly in the empty space.

"Ren Ensuenoloco," she says. "You now serve me."

Looking up, he snivels, wiping his nose. "Who are you?" he asks, blinking with his one eye. "I'm not exactly up to date with the current state of affairs. Not something I care about! Ha! Can't find wisdom in the present, no, no, that's not where the secrets lie. Got to chase down the forgotten things, in this forgotten world. Plenty of jumped up arrancar. There always are. Always will be. It's the eternal doom of our kind. The hunger doesn't go away, no, no, no; we just turn it to other things. And on each other."

Inwardly, Cirucci sighs. This will be... trying. There may be no saving his manners. She caresses her whip, wondering if he needs a reminder that she is the one in charge here. "I have heard rumour that you know many things about the past - and of hidden things within Hueco Mundo."

"That's what I do! Feed the mind, yes, got to feed the mind, seek out knowledge, become enlightened, fill the hollowness of the mind with wisdom, yes," Ren says. He scowls. "Your dogs broke my bridge! I was going to... ow!"

Her whip kisses his cheek, leaving a red line. "You will not speak in that way to me," she informs him, glad that he doesn't know that those weren't her servants. "Is that clear?"

He flinches. "I'll... I'll try," he says, weakly. "But the thoughts, the thoughts they j-just come out without wanting to and m-my mouth moves on its own and... and..." he trails off. "I'll be quiet."

Thank goodness, she couldn't help but think. He truly was a pathetic figure. Leaning forwards, she looked him in the singular eye. "You are now my court scholar and historian, do you understand? When I have questions, you will answer them. When my other servants find lost and forgotten lore, you will translate it and tell me how it can be of use to me." Yes, he's too mad to know the truth. As far as everyone else is concerned, she interrogated him - did he die there, too weak to survive her questioning? Maybe he just escaped her - though that would shame her. Thoughtless, thoughtless.

Perhaps she was a trifle rash here - but this was a one-off chance to get her hands on this old man. She couldn't pass it up.

Something stirs in his eye - a brighter hint, perhaps. "Ah. Ah. Wouldn't be the first arrancar I've done this for. Someone always tracks me down. Never can build my bridge. What do you want now? Because I'll do it. Do you have any interesting relics? Any translations? Any strange buildings you're going to send me into to tell you the story of - not that I want to get away from your beautiful presence, of course, because that's the last thing I want to do... I'd just rather admire it from a distance. And not have you whip me. I'm not into that."

It will, perhaps, have to do. "The first task I have for you is for you to catalogue my collection." Her collection of confiscated contraband, things she found or which she took from people trying to smuggle them into the city, but still her collection.

"Y-your... no, I won't ask that question, you'll probably just whip me, you'll tell me in your own time..."

She flexes her wrist, just to see him squirm, turning the movement into an adjustment of her hair. Then she steps down the rest of the stairs, and leads him to a room tucked away in the side of her rooms. The stone here is grey and unpainted, and there's nothing soft or gentle in this windowless space. It is fortified and hardened - both against spies and also against peeps.

Here, on carven plinths, rests an assortment of things. Some of them are treasures. Others, seemingly trash. Cirucci looks over her collection. Others might mock her as a magpie, a stealer of trifles and vanities if they knew about this - which is why she keeps the unsorted collection hidden. When she knows what all of these things are - why, then they might be pleasantries and conversation pieces to display in places of pride. Or things that might bring her power. There are plenty of things hidden in the world with a certain mystical potency. As it stands, though, it is the uncertainty which nags at her. Which leads her to keep these things secret. Hence why she had been looking for the madman Ren, to keep as her new pet to identify things that pass into her hands.

She glance sideways at the man, who is staring around with wide eyes.

"Oh wow.," he says. "W-wow. This is a thing. This is certainly a... a thing. Some of this is trash, of course, of course - well, can't have treasure without trash, actually I tell a lie you can, but it's really, really hard and sometimes things which look like trash can be treasure and things that look like treasure can be trash and I suppose it all depends on who's looking because a stupid person might think a worthless thing is valuable and a valuable thing is worthless - no, focus, Ren, focus." He bites his lip, and rushes forwards, to the nearest plinth, picking up the broken stone carving there.

"You like it?"

"Like it? Like it? Do you know what this is? The Dorbais Mask! Oh, you probably don't even know who that is... not that I'm insulting you! Of course I'm not! You clearly know who she is! But... just so I jog your memory, how about I go over a few things we clearly both already know and because of that you don't whip me again?"

Cirucci smiles quietly. "My dear, that would be agreeable."

"S-so. Here's how it goes. Now, hundreds of years back, there was this great disease going around in the mortal world. Lots of people dying. Dying in really not-fun ways, too - horrible black swellings, their blood turning rotten, dropping dead in the streets. Nasty way to go. Really nasty way to go. Lots of Hollows being formed by that, because when everyone died there were lots of things left behind. Lots of things not done, I mean. And then they remain there, their hearts become full of grief, Hollow out, yadda yadda. Point is, okay, lots of baby Hollows, dumb as fuck, also weak. Followin' me?

"Good. Good. So Dorbais was just an arrancar at that point, and a weak one too - but she was a cold customer. She worked for a king, making statues of his ugly mug. Funny thing is, we don't know his name. She destroyed all records of his existence when she took over which is sort of funny really, except, no, getting ahead of myself again. Right. Right. So Dorbais did stuff with stone. Only somehow she'd learned to do things with spirit, too - or maybe she could treat spirit as stone. Anyway, she started hunting down the new Hollows and grinding down their masks into dust. And from them, she made these things. Like that. The broken Dorbais mask you have. Used to hold power. A lot of power. 'Cause it was a mask made out of masks. A meta-mask. And the hunger of all those Hollows she'd killed lived on in those masks, so they ate any kind of energy thrown at them. Got it? Any kind? Cero 'em? Nothing. Scream at her? Didn't hear a thing. Tales say that when she put on the mask, you couldn't see her at all!"

Cirucci blinks, looking with wide eyes at the broken stone mask. "How is that possible?"

"I don't know! Do I look like I'd be me if I knew how to make masks like that? Probably best I don't, anyway. 'Cause the thing is, the tales say that the mask was her downfall! You can't control that kind of hunger, even if you're an arrancar. She went mad. Ate her servants. Ate all the Hollows she could find. And these Hollows still had some of the sickness that had killed them, right, so it got into her body and she swelled up and started turning black. And then when she was a big oozing thing, as big as a Gillain, she was so big and so hungry that in the end she curled into a ball and ate her legs and then her arms and finally she ate her mouth. No, I don't know how. Might be a metaphor. Might just be freaky shit. But in the end, all that was left of her was that mask. So, for the love of everything that is sacred and some things that aren't, don't have anyone put that mask on. It's broken and it's probably been long enough that it's eaten even its own hunger, but I do not want to risk it and there's no way I want some crazy hungry monster running around here!

"You know. More than usual."

"Is that actually true?" Cirucci asks, eyes narrow.

"Might be. Might be. I'm not making it up, but my sources, my sources might be wrong. This place, it washes away history. Things are all convoluted here. Most Hollows don't care about the past, so things don't get written down and the ones who do, they just lie." He blinks at her, his one eye twitching. "But still, even if I'm wrong, don't put the mask on hoping that it'll make you powerful. Way I see it, you'll either be consumed by hunger and go mad, or you'll just look like a fool. So better not to risk it."

"Hmm." Cirucci straightens up, face enigmatic. "Well, I will leave you to your cataloguing. Do tell me if you find anything else interesting in here." For the politeness, it doesn't leave any room for negotiation, and from the way he twitches, he knows it.

Her heels echo against the stone floor as she leaves. Ren's muttering as he begins his work is the only sound left when she is gone.

Chapter Text

Ever since the fight at the old palace, you've found yourself leaving Cirucci's fort more often. Out on errands, wandering to meet Esmeralda, lessons with Alphonse... In a way, you suppose that's to be expected. Wherever Findorr is, he's not your problem anymore. Why wouldn't you leave the safety of the nest, now you don't have to creep from corridor to corridor, ears pricked for the click-clack of jackboots? You've ripped that chain from your neck. You're free, now. Free to go wherever you want.

You're on your way back from Esmeralda - who would not stop talking about the way that Ulquiorra came to all his routine check ups on time despite being able to regenerate - when you hear a voice like thunder. Low, distant, rumbling through walls syllable after syllable. You freeze for a moment, eyes flickering to the shadows for a place to dart into hiding, then relax. It came from pretty far off, and you didn't sense any anger in it. Your first thought was Yammy, or someone similarly huge, but on second thought, it didn't quite fit. They weren't just huge - the speaker's deliberate, calm voice carrying with an orator's effort.

Pure curiosity drives you to listen more closely, and you wander through the endless halls of Las Noches, seeking out the source. The Palace of the Night has downright baffling acoustics, but after a few dead ends and a room full of pendulums, you can clearly hear the words booming toward you, moving inexorably from each syllable to the next without breath or hesitation. A marathon speech.

You listen for a moment at a doorway, waiting for a suitable pause to duck your head inside and see what's going on. It never comes. It's just one long unbroken sentence, moving from topic to topic. It's really quite hypnotic.

Eventually you break the spell, take a deep breath, and dart inside like you're diving underwater. The room inside is some kind of gladiatorial stadium, a central stage surrounded by seats directly moulded into the sloping white stone of the walls. No-one's fighting, though, and the spectators aren't yelling or cheering or throwing things. They're just... sat there. Watching. Arrancar and Hollows alike. You shuffle in a little deeper, and sit down next to a hulking figure hunched over its own knees, tusked and painted mask staring impassively at the stage. Across from you, a slender crane-like Arrancar is scribbling notes.

It's all a bit surreal.

You turn your attention back to the stage, where the flow of speech has not been interrupted in the least by your entry.

"-Then, Is The Greatest Force In The Cosmos? Not Mere Strength, For Strength Can Be Resisted With Greater Strength, Can Create Further Opposition Even As It Is Exerted. Not Pure Energy, For Energy Is Limited, Only Changing And Never Growing, Lost To Entropy And Inefficiency. Not Blind Fate, For Fate Is Retrospective And Moot, An Excuse For Decisions We Wish Not To Acknowledge. Not Simple Context, For As We Have Seen Context Is The Territory Not The Hand That Shapes It And To Think Otherwise Is To Blind Ourselves And Stumble Through The Dark. There Can Only Be One Candidate For This Great Force, One Element That Is Both Verb And Noun, Mover Without Moving, Known While Unknown. What Else Can There Be Which Causes All Things To Move In Harmony, To Submit To The Proper Order Without Complaint Or Quarrel Even Of The Mind? The Moon Moves And The Seas Follow Its Beauty. The Wind Blows And The Sands Dance For Its Caress. The Word Of God Is Spoken And The Heart Leaps To Its Pleasure. What Force Underlies These Reactions?"

There's a pause, the first since you've entered, and your eyes unglaze. Those around you seem just as surprised, as though waking from a spell. There are some hushed whispers of discussion.

The man on the stage below has stopped his steady, metronomic pacing and stands impassive, arms folded. It takes a moment, but without the distraction of his booming whirlpool voice, you recognize him. It's Zommari LeRoux, the Espada Septima, a imposing figure in the long baggy white garb of a monk.

You run his words through your mind. What makes you do the things you do? Fear, you suppose. The need to survive. But that's just you reacting, and he's already dismissed strength. You suppose it's easy for an Espada to ignore strength as a problem.

Well, that's not totally true. If it was just fear that drove you forward, you'd have fled into the desert and dug a hidey hole long ago. Fear's a short-term thing, maybe, a necessity, but it's not the end-all of your life. Circucci taught you that. Cirucci, and Esmeralda, and even Alphonse, and all the way back at the start, a mantis mask grinning down at you in the desert. You were afraid to get close to any of them, but you overcame that fear, so fear can't be the strongest. Is that what Zommari's talking about? What drove you to do that? Some kind of need pulling you toward them, a special force driving you onward?

Trust? Respect? Friendship? You guess if you had to give it a name... it'd be love.

"Indeed!"

oh god he's there

The Septima is standing in front of you without a moment's warning, the boom of Sonido following belately in his wake. Wasn't he just down on the stage?! He's so much bigger up close - taller and broader than Grimmjow or Ulquiorra, and somehow more imposing than Yammy - at least, unreleased. The Diez is massive, but he's like a huge beast or walking wall, too far beyond normal proportions for you to really appreciate the way he looms. No-one that big should be that fast. It's not fair.

And he's smiling down at you, eyes like poisoned gold crinkling beneath great cavernous brows. You wonder, light-headedly, if his piercings are artificial piercings or part of his mask. He places one ruddy hand on your shoulder, enveloping it entirely, and turns to the rest of the crowd.

"Indeed, The Strongest Chain Is Not The One That Cannot Be Broken, For This Binds Only The Arms, But Rather The One That The Subject Would Do Anything To Preserve, For This Binds The Mind, The Heart, The Soul. God, Therefore, Is Love, And To Rebel Against True Love Is Impossible. How Apropos That Our Lord Aizen, Who Has Reached The Next Level Of Enlightenment, Binds The Senses To His Will. Though Not Yet God, He Approaches The Feet Of The Empty Throne. To Expand-"

Everyone's eyes are on Zommari, but every so often they flicker to you, and the hand that keeps you gently pressed into your seat. You continue to shrink into your seat, willing yourself to manifest some new ability to sink into the shadows and escape. Unfortunately, nothing is forthcoming.

Finally he wraps up his speech, after what must be an hour. You listened, of course. You didn't really have a choice, but Zommari's voice has an all-encompassing property, echoing in the bones. And even beyond his sheer presence, his words rang true.

As the others file out, he keeps you pressed into the seat. His fingers are like an hot iron clamp, power unexpressed but clearly present.

"Excuse me for asking", his voice is still a grinding rumble, but it doesn't have the same booming, carrying quality as during his speech. "But I believe this is your first time at one of my sermons. May I ask what attracted a fresh face to this lecture?"

He noticed? Well, you suppose you'd caught his attention somehow, but still. You'd assumed most Espada just saw everyone outside their Fraccion as an interchangeable mass. Barragan probably doesn't even pay that much attention to his actual Fraccion. You wonder if he's noticed Findorr's absence. You wouldn't have wandered in here if you'd known an Espada would notice you.

"Ah, a pilgrim of chance?" He rumbles, amused. "Well, it is a pleasure, regardless. So many listen, but so few truly understand. Even the other Espada are too often blinded by their own strength to grasp the nature of power. Humility escapes most of my peers, they are unable to embrace the greater forces that drive and bind them."

It'd be pretty difficult not to acknowledge Cirucci. Her ideas of "drive and bind" are a bit more literal than Zommari's probably thinking of.

"Well, whatever the practices of your teacher, I hope to see you at future lectures. In the meantime..." He presents you with a small book, white as the sands. You recognize the material of the pages - Alphonse has used the same silky material on occasion, for rough repairs. You wonder who bound it - surely not Zommari himself? "...perhaps you might like to further your education independently, ahead of our next meeting? I share many of these books, and talent deserves polish."

You get the feeling that it's a genuine suggestion, rather than a command phrased with incredible politness for an Espada. You make to refuse, instinctively, so you can head back to Cirucci as quickly as possible.

Then you hesitate.

You're free to go anywhere you like, now. Yet every time, you come straight back to Cirucci. She's aiming for the Espada, on a collision course with one of the most terrifying creatures in the world, but the idea of leaving makes your lungs tighten into your stomach.

In the end you accept Zommari's literature and stuff it somewhere in your room. He's right, after all.

The strongest chains are those you don't want to remove.

Chapter Text

The first test of your fledgling relationship comes scant weeks after you first met the mantis. You have been hunting together, killing together, feeding together; but not yet anything else.

You have caught another Hollow together; a pitiful thing, almost weasel-like, if weasels had teeth larger than the mantis’s claws and stood head and shoulders above you. Despite its size, it is slow and stupid, easy to herd into the nets prepared hours before.

While it is slow, it is not weak; the nets alone were not enough to kill it, although you can smell something like blood as faint traces of spiritual energy leak from it. Hunger stirs in your stomach, sharp and eager, forcing you to step backwards so as to not simply kill and eat it.

The mantis arrives moments later, ragged and bleeding. You give him a curious look. What happened? You had thought him safe hiding atop a tree.

He gives you what you assume is a confident smile, lips peeling back to reveal jagged rows of teeth. “Our, ah, friend here-” he stabs the weasel-creature sharply, just once, for emphasis, drawing from it a howl of pain- “knocked over my tree as he ran. Don’t worry, they aren’t- they look worse than they feel.”

Despite his words and his failed attempts at a reassuring smile, you can see him favouring one leg. He is clearly injured. You try not to give away any signs that you have noticed, and instead give him your best facsimile of a nod. As long as he is not in any danger, you are not concerned. You turn back to your prey, just in time to notice it attempting to lift the net over itself.

The weasel sags immediately once it notices you looking, but the damage is done. Irritated, you move towards it, but the mantis intercepts you before you can, holding one bladed arm before you.

At your frustrated glare, he shrugs. “Some Hollows can be poisonous,” he says. “I’d keep away for now. Just to be safe.”

The weasel-Hollow lets out a roar of frustration. “No!” it bellows. “You will not eat me!” Then it pauses, sniffing the air, before letting out another enraged roar.

You tilt your head at that, before noticing the long scratch along the Hollow’s eyes. It’s been blinded.

The weasel is still shouting. “Why?! Why would you eat me, when there is prey beside you?! It is injured and bloodied! Yes, yes, and so delicious! Delicious-”

You tune it out, turning your head to glance towards the mantis. He is injured, it is true; you would not find it very much effort to stamp him out. And he is stronger than the weasel. He has been alive for years, at least, and has fed well recently. He would make a fine meal, much finer than the weasel. Hunger rises in you at the thought, beastial and demanding.

“Ha!” The mantis lets out a sound of derision. “Why would my friend kill me, when we have a big meal in front of us already?” But you can see his shoulders tense, and the wary glance he gives you from the corner of his eyes. He does not trust you.

The weasel roars again, baring fangs towards you once again. “Friend? Friend?! She would kill you as soon as look at you! Look at her! Can’t you see the hunger on her face? Why would you help her?!”

And it is true, you cannot disguise the hunger on your face, not for long. No Hollow can. It is your nature; you are hungry, and so you feed. It is what you do. You kill; you feed; you grow stronger; and your hunger grows ever more voracious, and so you must kill, and feed, and kill, and feed, and kill, and feed. Endlessly.

You hold your hand high, a dusky Cero forming and screaming forwards fast enough that none present can see the shape it takes. The weasel screams once, a short sound, a sharp sound; then it falls eternally silent, leaving behind only a corpse.

Only then do you turn to the mantis, who attempts to bury his nervousness as he sees you look towards him. He’s not quite fast enough. But it is irrelevant. Half is his; half is yours. You see him nod, and that is all you wait for before you step forwards, towards the corpse of the weasel, and begin tearing sections of it off.

Once you have had your fill, you nod towards the mantis, waiting for him to nod in acknowledgement before you turn and flit up a tree.

Far above, you rest upon a branch, looking towards the skies. Hunger stirs in your stomach still, sated temporarily, but ever-present. It is your baser nature. It demands, even now, that you climb back down the tree; that you descend upon the mantis, and consume him, and take his power for your own.

Instead, you move forwards, walking steadily upon a thinning branch, until you come to a stop. The branch lies thinner than your fingers here, but you pay little attention to it, and instead bend down and beginning to untie a thread wrapped around a branch- a secondary trap, installed in case the weasel had been quick enough to avoid the first. It had not been, and so you might reuse the second.

You could kill him. Your thoughts keep circling back to that. Even were you to wait, you know that you could kill him. At full strength, he is neither fast enough, nor strong enough, nor smart enough to avoid you. All it would take is one Cero, and he would fall. You could consume him, and with his power, you could hunt through the forests. Few would be strong enough to oppose you, and those few would be simple to avoid.

You could kill him. But you don’t want to.

You have seen the Gillian- those great, mindless beasts that stalk the plains of Hueco Mundo, ravenous and hungry and searching eternally for creatures to eat. Killing, eating. Killing, eating. Killing, eating. Endlessly, pointlessly.

You could kill the mantis, take his powers for yourself, stalk the forests of Hueco Mundo and sate your hunger for a time. But what would be the point? You would sate your hunger, for a time. Grow more powerful. But it would return. You would need to kill again, to eat again. And the cycle would begin anew. You would be right back where you were before you met him; near consumed by hunger, all but drowned in ennui, with nothing to do but eat, and eat again. No better than a Gillian.

Friendship with another Hollow might be madness to some, but as you consider it, you can feel your doubts sliding away. It might be silly, and pointless, and contrary to your nature; but at least you are doing something with him. It… helps.

And so you flit to another tree, and begin the careful process of walking along another branch to untie another rope, careful and methodical.

Why would the mantis help you? The answer comes to you unbidden; because he feels the same. The emptiness threatens you both, threatens every Hollow in this world. But with him, at least, you are doing something. Your… friendship, such as it is, provides you with something more. Direction. Something you have craved for- decades, it seems.

Perhaps it won’t last; perhaps you will eventually grow bored with him. If you do, you can consume him then. But as you consider the idea, you already find yourself set against it.

You will stay with him, with your newfound friend.

Maybe together, the two of you will find something more filling than flesh.

Chapter Text

They had walked for a long, long time.

Alone, he would never have dared to undertake that journey. Not strong enough, he’d have said. Alone, she would never have thought of a journey in the first place. No point, she’d have said.

But now they walked.

They’d gone hungry, for a while. When they had rested in marble ruins, they’d been keenly aware of each other’s warmth, of each other’s flesh, of how one could have been so easily sated by consuming the other.

But it had been an awareness and nothing more. They had never thought to act upon it. They had huddled closer in the cold, and her great wings had covered them both like a drape.

Then they’d walked. Eventually a great antlion had hoped to make them its meal and collapsed the sands under their feet, and they fought with the strength that comes from fear and hunger and desperation. They had won, and feasted. For a while they were no longer hungry.

In the last days they had come to a thicket of bones. Leafless trees white like ivory had grown so close to each other one could not see the horizon. They had walked on, and he had broken branches off the trees and made toys and contraptions out of them, with which he tried to entertain her. At first she rebuffed him, annoyed at the distraction - what danger could lurk in these woods? They had to be on guard. But as he made a man-shape out of the sticks and had it dance in his palm she laughed, just a little, and the sound emboldened him; and soon she rebuffed him no longer. They had no clothes nor bags so when he was done with a toy he hung it from another branch, an offering to those travelers who might come after them.

On the third day of crossing the woods she strayed for a while, to look for food. Hunger crawled its way back through their bellies, patient and resolute. He stayed behind to gather dried wood and make a fire, for the nights were cold so close to their goal.

The wasp hurled itself from the trees with startling speed, and its stinger struck him, once, twice, three times. He tried to crawl away, but his legs would not respond; so he stood as straight as he could, remembering how defiant she could look, and thrust his claws at the enemy. It darted in and out, stinger like a rapier, and he landed only shallow cuts. He could not seize its fluid form. Thrust by thrust, he felt himself dying.

She came not out of the woods but over them, a great shadow that occluded the moon, her wings trailing darkness. She fell on the wasp’s back before it could react, and they rolled into the dirt, white bone-trees shattering at their passing. She bit, and she clawed, but the wasp gave as good as it got. Fear gripping his chest, he crawled his way to the heap of toys he’d made, and he wound one up a bit too hard, a bit too fast, until it shook in his hands; and when the wasp reared its head with slavering mandibles, he threw the toy at it, and it unwound and exploded into many shards of stone-like wood, blinding it. His friend pulled herself away while the foe thrashed blindly, and lashed at its thorax with all her claws; and the wasp fell.

She ignored the food. She walked up to him, her great round eyes staring at him, and he felt ashamed; he joined his pincers and bowed his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been paid more attention to my surroundings.”

She nodded, slowly; she reached out with one limb and brushed his wounded leg, and he flinched.

“It’s not healing,” he said with confusion. “I think its stinger had some kind of venom…”

She nodded, again, more slowly this time, and went back to the wasp; she carved its carapace and ripped out a piece of flesh, and shoved it into her mouth. Then she took another piece and walked back to him, and thrust the meat into his pincers; he grabbed it like an eager child, and swallowed it in a few bites.

After some time, they stood up. Neither had slept; neither needed to, for now. He tried to move his legs, but only one responded, and that with pain; the other three just shuddered a little. The wounds seeped some green ichor. They felt better than a few hours ago, but he still couldn’t move. She walked up to him again, her great fern-like antenna dancing slowly in the air above him.

“I can’t walk,” he said with a forced chuckle. “I can’t believe I got you to take me all the way here only to fall in the last stretch. I’m really useless.”

She said nothing; she just looked at him with these strange wide eyes. Then she stood up on only four of her limbs, and the front two she slid under his body; she lifted him up with only a sigh of effort, and she turned to where they had been headed.

“I…” he began, but words failed him. He looked at her, and then he huddled against her chest.

In time the trees gave way to the sands again,but these where no desert sands. They walked down the gentle slope of the white dune, and before their eyes stretched out the Black Sea, endless in its depths, its darkness, its quiet.

She put him down gently on the beach, where the faint slow waves of the sea came to lick the sand endlessly. He used his arms to push his useless legs underneath his body and straighten up; he stared at the expanse as she sat beside him.

There was the moon, so bright in the sky, so much bigger than anywhere else. There was the whispering forest behind them, so thick with history. There were the jagged curves of the beach on each side of them. In the distance there was the place where dwelt the Horizon Prince, rising like a tower amid the midst; but even this colossal thing was nothing before the vastness of the sea.

They sat, and watched, for a long time.

They had come a long way for this.

Eventually, he felt embarrassed. It was such a simple and silly thing. There was nothing to do but watch an unchanging sea. It could not be of much interest to her.

He wriggled his legs, and they answered.

“I think I’m healed,” he said, and stood up; he opened his mouth to offer to walk back.

She put her claw on his shoulder, and she pushed him down; he sat again without a word. She unfolded her wings, and wrapped one around the both of them.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and she said nothing.

And they watched the sea.

Chapter Text

You dream of the endless black sea, and the pitiful creatures writhing within it.

You dream of the man of bones, wreathed in shadows, his voice toneless and broken.

You dream of Findorr shattered upon the ground, of a body left in the sands without guidance or help.

When you wake up you feel strange. Lighter. As if a burden or a shadow had been lifted off you. You had not realized how much the threat of Findorr had weighed upon you - you felt confined in this fort out of fear that he might find you outside. But now you’re free of that fear.

Your muscles are still sore from the exertion of so much reiryoku, and you are slow to get up and dress yourself, but when you stand up in your pristine uniform you feel better than you have in days. You smile to yourself and walk out of your room with a jump in your step.

Cirucci is not outside. Your senses have grown so attuned to her reiatsu that you can feel exactly where she is, in her room lying down. You hasten to prepare her tea and biscuits for breakfast, and as you do you feel her stir.

There is no night in Las Noches, and the sun does not move. Hours and days are abstractions, crudely inferred by Arrancars from lesser signs of passing time around them - the shifting of the winds, the rhythm of others’ lives. In your first days with Cirucci your sleep schedule was a messy thing which needed to adapt itself to your patron’s so that she would not find herself waiting for hours for someone to come serve her. Now more and more you find that your hours of rest, activity and hunger align. You are not sure which of you adapted herself to the other. Perhaps you met halfway.

When Cirucci comes out of her bedroom, stretching and yawning but otherwise the picture of elegance upon waking up, you are pouring tea into her cup. She has a satisfied smile at this and sits down, then motions to the chair in front of her. You sit as well, and pour yourself a cup, as you are supposed to do when she gives you leave to sit with her - Cirucci does not like you fidgeting or doing nothing while she’s having a meal.

“I have made arrangements while you were gone yesterday,” she says unprompted. You look at her, waiting for more. “I have improved much in the past weeks. More than I thought I could. And, well, I should thank you. You gave me the impetus to try and improve. But although you’ve grown strong, my dear, there is only so far I can get with you.”

You frown, unsure what this means. A dismissal?

“I don’t know how long it will take for Yammy to regain his power,” she continues. “But if it were less than a week, I don’t think the Cuatro would have bothered to seek him out when he used it unwisely. It must be a longer time, long enough that he is supposed to stay in his quarters building up his strength. Therefore, I have allowed myself one week to finish my preparations - one week to do or die,” she adds with a ferocious smile. “So I went to one of the other Privarons and asked for his help.”

Your mind flashes back to her two kindred. Dordonni’s genial attitude could not conceal his distrust - he saw himself as a rival for the same position as Cirucci, and she warned you of his ruthlessness. This leaves the other…

“Gentenbainne is weaker than I am, but not by much. Or… He was, but now that I have grown stronger the gap between us has grown.” Cirucci taps the table with her finger, a motion of irritation, which she quickly hides by picking up her cup and sipping the steaming-hot brew. “But Dordonni is too dangerous. I need someone closer to my level than you are, who will force me to push myself to my limit. It’s not quite what I got - but it’ll have to suffice.”

You find her confidence intimidating. Can she truly have grown that strong that there would be such a gap between two who were so close not long ago? You idly think that you have never seen Cirucci truly fight since you came to her. You wonder what it must be, the release of a Privaron who has improved even beyond her previous level. It can’t possibly be as terrifying as Yammy’s power, can it?

These thoughts are a distraction, through which you try to convince yourself that you’re not hurt, that it is simply normal that Cirucci could only get so far with you and that she would need someone on her level eventually. You are almost successful. You straighten your posture and make yourself into a perfect picture of quiet, unmindful dedication. You drink your own tea quietly. All you wonder is how she got Gentenbainne to agree to help a rival.

Cirucci’s lips twist into a forced smile.

“There had to be sacrifices. I had to share with him my plan, what you learned of Yammy’s strengths and weaknesses. Training with Gentenbainne will allow him to grow stronger as much as it helps me. If I fail, it will be easy for him to challenge and defeat a weakened Diez in the wake of my defeat. And there was… Something else. A favor. I would rather not talk about it.”

You nod again, considering. She told him what you learned of Yammy. This is not a simple matter of trust. You’ve seen her interact with the other Privarons: careful brushes against each other, playful words and gestures, never daring to commit to some meaningful alliance, let alone friendship. All of them are rivals for the title of Espada. That she shared what you told her with one of them is not trust, it is quite simply a gamble. If Gantenbainne shared this knowledge with anyone else, Cirucci could be destroyed, and you with her.

But she made that choice. You nod respectfully, not asking anything.

“Good. You’re learning well. This is my plan, then: six days of the most intense training, each of us pushing as hard as we can against each other. One day of complete rest. After seven days, I will attack Yammy.”

What of you, then? You feel an irrational fear that your purpose is now done and she has no further need of you, that you will be discarded or kept only as a prop. But it’s silly. Cirucci has spent too much time training you. Even so, if she did discard you, that would be… Freedom, wouldn’t it? Your debt repaid, your feud with Findorr ended, you should be wanting to get out of her shadow and live on your own again.

But you don’t like that thought, in truth. You don’t like it at all.

And it reminds you that she has another servant now, as much as you try to put him away from your thoughts. That odd Arrancar toiling in her vault. The thought of his presence gnaws at you and you are not sure why.

“In a perfect world we would train together and develop a synchronized strategy.” Cirucci snaps one half of a cinnammon biscuit with a sour look. “But if I fear Gentenbainne might not push me to my limits one on one, the two of us would be entirely too much. That was what I was going to ask of you after your day off - to train with me - but now I’m forced to reconsider the situation, and the best use to make of you.” She puts down her empty cup and she refills it.

Cirucci studies you attentively.

“If you have suggestions, I will take them.”

Oh. You’re not used to that. You almost spill some tea out of the cup and nervously put the teapot down. This is your chance to show initiative - not something you’ve been used to of late. So many of your actions have been reactive, orders from your superior, a challenge from someone. You think.

You could still train with Cirucci. The benefits would not be as great against someone weaker than her, but to you it would be a good crash course in handling a more powerful opponent. If… You shudder at the thought… If you have to fight alongside her against Yammy, it may give you a chance of survival.

On the other hand, a week is a long time. Maybe in that span of time Yammy might regain too much of his power - you remember him and how he needed to eat so much. If eating massive amounts of food is what he needs to regain his strength, perhaps you can undermine him there. It’s not like Las Noches’s food stores are plentiful or well-protected.

You also remember Esmeralda’s surgery. The trust you put in her when she used her tranquilizers under you - drugs powerful enough to affect an Arrancar. She may have others, and perhaps other things besides - poisons? Stimulants for your patron? Maybe you could acquire some useful substances, and use them.

And, of course, there are the fragments of Findorr’s mask. Five chunks of bone, shattered as he unlocked more of his power. Cirucci has grown too strong for someone like Gentenbainne to push her to her limits, but if you use the skills Alphonse taught you, perhaps you could use those fragments to create a power limiter of sorts… If Cirucci had such a tool, she could spar with someone weaker while still fighting with all her strength.

Or, perhaps, you could go see that strange antiquarian in the basement. He has many tales of the long-gone powers of Hueco Mundo, their strange tools and relics. Perhaps he could guide to find one such item, and you could offer it to her as the edge she might need when comes the day of the fight.

On the one hand, you have a week. On the other hand, you only have a week.


Choose two of the following options. Votes will be by pair, not counting individual choices, so keep that in mind.

[ ]Train with Cirucci and Gentenbainne.
[ ]Sabotage the food stores of Las Noches.
[ ]Go ask Esmeralda for some potent drugs that could affect Yammy or aid Cirucci.
[X]Go see Ren, the historian, and pursue a lead on some item of power that could help Cirucci.
[X] [Marana] Create a power limiter from Findorr’s mask.

Chapter Text

You have an idea.

You’re not very confident it will work, though - and it will be your first attempt at doing something like this entirely alone. You look up hesitantly at Cirucci, and she tilts her head.

“I am not very fond of surprises,” she says haughtily, “but if you believe it will help me, then I trust your judgement.”

You nod quickly. Trust. A word which fills you with gratification as much as anxiety. If you fail, you’ll have let her down. You quickly turn on your heels and run back to your room under her puzzled stare.

Rummaging around in your belongings, you find a small leather purse and upend it over your bed. Five fragments of bone fall down and you sit before them, taking a deep breath.

Findorr’s shattered mask. The key to his ability to seal his power. You shift them around, trying to fit the fragments back into the shape of his mask, and there it is staring at you, sending a shiver down your spine. The white mask, webbed with cracks, only its right eye missing. As you focus on it the too-tall walls of your room seem to stretch up as the room narrows, and you suddenly feel very small. You swallow nervously, and brush it with your hand.


The pillars of Las Noches stretch up into the starless sky, the roof of your king’s palace. They are all gathered before him, the broken and the vanquished, the faithful and the opportunistic. You bow with them and your heart is filled with glee. The white skull grins mirthlessly at the kingdom arrayed before him, his great black robe and jewelry testament to true kingship, more regal than ever was the shadow-shrouded skeleton who came to you in the sea - you alone could see the king in its writhing darkness.


You jolt back, pinpricks in your hands, and look accusingly at your glove. Isn’t it only supposed to work when you’re actively using it? You think for a moment to remove it so that you may work without distraction, but as you start pulling on a leather finger you pause. Maybe… Maybe understanding Findorr better might let you do a better job with the fragments of his mask.

You leave it on, and take a few tools disposed next to your mattress. You wish you could say you’d sorted them but really they lie in disarray on the stone floor, and you have to dig up a bit to find the right kind of chisel, the polishing stone, the shaving tool…

You should get a nightstand. Among many other things.

You examine each of the fragments in turn, trying to figure out which one to start with. They’re smooth and too heavy for their size, as if their weight was not due to their substance alone. You remember the fragment of Hollow mask you found in the destroyed village, the one that led you to the Butcher King; it was not as heavy, nor did it feel as infused with strange energies. A picture is forming in your head, of a hairpiece adorning your patron’s head. White to go with her uniform, with a clasp to hold onto her hair. You bite your lip and take the jawbone fragment. It has the length you need for the clasp…


“I am Findorr Callius, Duke of Dark Currents. In the name of my king, I rule over all the waters of Hueco Mundo.”

The whirlwind laughs, its two snake-like heads coiling and uncoiling with each other.

“Then your domain must be very small indeed, niño. Look at the sands around you!”

You smile, legs clicking under you as you scamper up the rock, your massive pincer raking the sands. 

“You have never dwelled in the black sea, old man. In it you would forget everything you are. But I was found, and reborn from its waters to serve the one true king. Now I rule over thirst. You, too, can be reborn.”

The twin snakes intertwine and the wind howls louder than ever before, a spray of sand becoming storm around it. You back down a step, your smaller pincer clapping nervously. Their twisted faces grin and the thing at the heart of the storm chuckles. You have only a moment’s warning to dart away and the rock over which you stood shatters under the wind-serpent’s bite.

“Reborn? Little thing, I was baron before you were hatched out of whatever Gillian birthed you. There may well be waters in Hueco Mundo, but the winds fly over every dune. Run home to your king, and tell him that if he wants Dordonii to bend the knee, he must send something hardier than you.”


You cut the jaw-piece and shave it to a better size, then twist some metal wire into the joint of the clasp. You understand every step you must take but you have never taken them before - Alphonse only had you work on outfits, and even if sewing is in its own way unforgiving, it is a more subtle material, and one that can be repaired. Not so with this. You’re not sure why but you feel Cirucci would like the look of a butterfly - one of the ones with dark hues and complex wings. You find them annoying yourself (why does a bug need to be that fancy, huh?) but you could make a stylized shape reminiscent of their wings.

You begin cutting one of the bigger fragments, and your hand slips. You take out too big a chunk, and bite your lip in frustration. You quickly grab a smaller piece and break it in two, then bind it with the damaged one. Instead of two wings made out of two fragments, you will make the wings in two parts, from four fragments - it will still work just as well, but it will be less elegant.

As you work you feel a strange sensation, as if something within you was reaching out. You’ve felt it before when working with Alphonse, but now it is stronger. It is almost as if you could feel threads within the fragment of mask, and threads within you, and you could connect the two. As you snap off pieces of the bone and shave it to a more round, polished shape you feel these threads unravel, but before they can fray you quickly reweave them into another shape. Power pulsates within the fragments of mask on which you work, and when you bring them together, connecting them, the clusters of thread weave into each other and the pulse becomes stronger.

The impossible has come to pass. King Barragan is bending the knee. 

The outsider smirks, and your heart sinks. The sword at his hand is sign of his nature, but that a shinigami now stands in Las Noches is of no matter. The only thing that matters is that the lord of time, the god of decay, has bowed before him, a long crack running down his skull where the blade bit into him.

And so you bow as well. There is nothing else to be done. 

When the shinigami beckons you your body trembles with fear and anger. You would strike him, uncaring of his strength. You would die in a last gesture of spite for his offense. But your will does not matter: you exist only to serve your king, and you will serve until your last breath, not throw your own life away.

So at the reaper’s command you rip your mask from your own face and scream in agony. Then you stand amidst the broken shards of your carapace, all pale, slender, fragile flesh, your now-agile hands robbed of their terrible strength.

You know you will never swim again. 


It’s intense work, absorbing, and you soon lose the notion of time. The visions don’t help, filling your mind without affecting your body. Even as you follow Findorr’s thoughts your hands work on their own, mindless yet precise. You feel as if you could lose yourself in that work. You feel as if you could let the vision take your hand and reforge Findorr’s mask. Perhaps if you did, they would take you entirely, and you would become him.

You force your mind to pull back from these thoughts. They’re dangerous and distracting. You find yourself taking shallow breaths, your mind straining under the task. Your work is sucking at your energy, drawing it in voraciously. You must complete it so that it can be controlled.

And then it’s done. The hairpiece is complete, two sides flaring slightly and trailing down like a swallowtail’s wings. You stare at it for a long time, a strange feeling in your gut. You feel its power, invisible threads woven into a spiral. Like your scarf it feels like a sucking maw, pulling in power at a touch, but unlike it it does not change and release it; it is a lock, not a door. You shift it in your hands.

You hear faint words as your glove shimmers in your mind’s eye. Squabbling, laughing. Friends drinking, rivals taunting each other. Footsteps in Barragan’s hall. The blurred faces of the other Royal Fraccions, and feelings - fellowship, spite, a sense of shared disappointment. They are strange to you, foreign.

You take it in your hands and stand up, and immediately feel pins and needles in your legs. How long have you been sitting down? You should get a way to keep track of time… You never thought to steal a watch from the living world, but - no, distractions. It doesn’t matter how long you stayed.

You walk out of your room and hear slashing sounds in the air. Cirucci is exercising, leaping between the top of her pillars, her whip lashing out left and right. The first times you saw her do so you hunched your shoulder and shuddered every time it came near. Now your body instinctively knows the rhythm and range of it, and you walk comfortably amidst the cutting motions until you reach the center of the room. The sounds stop, and a moment after Cirucci hops down in front of you, standing tall on her heels.

You open your hand and offer the hairpiece.

“What’s this, then?” She asks with a frown.

You try to explain. You carved it out of Findorr’s mask, and it serves to limit someone’s power like he did - not with the same finesse, though, you think it will only work in binary fashion, either on or off. She picks it out of your hands and turns it around carelessly.

“A trap of some kind? A weapon? Difficult to put it on someone.”

No, no, it’s not meant to be used on an enemy - the person whose power is sealed must deliberately attune to it, so it would only work on someone willing. You made it for her.

“Why would I want to limit my…” She pauses, holding it in her hands, and understanding dawns on her face. “I never would have thought of this. That is… Quite clever.”

You blush and bow your head, hands folded in your lap. You picked up the skill from Alphonse, and it’s only right that you would use it to benefit your protector.

“...’picked up’?” Cirucci says doubtfully. “How long have you been working with him?”

Here and there, you shrug. On and off since she first took you in.

“And you already know how to craft such a thing? Fascinating.”

She smiles to herself and clips the hairpiece on the left side of her head. It doesn’t quite match her own fragment of her Hollow mask, but it doesn’t look too bad, you think. You were right, the butterfly motif does suit her - as she tilts her head this way and that to test its fit and its weight, you smile to yourself. Yes. It looks good.

Then the air seems to grow thinner, and you find it easier to breathe. You blink. Cirucci’s spiritual pressure had grown so familiar that you no longer noticed it, but now it’s abating, fading in an instant. Still there, but weaker - closer to your own. You feel at once as if a weight had been lifted off your shoulder that you didn’t know was there, and as if a familiar presence had grown distant.

“It’s fetching enough - God, this feels strange.” She holds out her hands palms up, furrowing her brow. Then she punches the air - you flinch, that is not a gesture you are used to - and then she’s gone in a blink, Sonido carrying her onto one of the pillars, and then back in a blink.

“Slower… Weaker… My reflexes are shot. But it doesn’t feel like being wounded or tired. Yes, I think this will help make my training much more worthwhile.”

You try on a feeble smile, and she looks at you again. You see something odd in her eyes, that you don’t quite recognize, and she opens her mouth to say something.

Then you feel a pressure rising and so does she. You both turn to the room’s entrance, and Gantenbainne steps in.

“I didn’t know you had your own little modista,” he says. You can’t read his face: his eyes are occluded by his fragment of mask, a toothy visor adorned by a blue star. He’s tall - but then so is most everyone to you. More striking is his muscular body, his uniform straining with every little motion, continental plates shifting into each other. His flared collar makes him seem more peculiar than threatening, though, as does his orange hair forming a sphere around his head.

“A lady must have her retinue,” Cirucci says with a smirk, cocking one hand on her hip. “Hello, Mosqueda.”

“Hell to you, Thunder Witch. You seem... Smaller than when you last met.”

She frowns, not sure how to take that.

“I would expect you to employ such services to make you stronger, not weaker,” he adds.

“Gantenbainne…” Cirucci’s voice drips with false cheer. “You misunderstand. It is only a tool to put myself at to your level.”

You tense slightly at the insult, fearing retaliation, but Gantenbainne simply laughs.

“Touché. I see our solitude at the outskirts of Las Noches has not in any way diminished your biting tongue.”

“My little modista has given me much chance to practice.” She turns to you, lifting an eyebrow. “Will you be staying to watch how your patron fares in her sparring? You may learn things from watching me that you didn’t simply running from my whip.”

You hesitate. You’re worried - with this seal, Cirucci may well be weaker than Gantenbainne. For the first time you fear for her safety, It is, a strange new feeling.

But you won’t help simply by watching. Even patching her wounds will not be half the help you could.

There is this old Arrancar, this madman she found who-knows-where, putting down an inventory of her vault…

“What, that nobody? That storyteller? What would you want to do with him?”

It seems silly to say that you hope he can guide you to something, some item of power, born in Hueco Mundo’s blood-strewn history and lost to it, that could be of help to her, so you don’t say that. You stammer out a justification, something about perhaps finding something useful in her items, but she cuts you off with a wave of her hand.

“I have to get to sparring. If you think it will help, I trust you’re not wasting my time or my judgement. Be on your way.”

There’s that word again. Trust. You nod, masking your doubts. Cirucci turns from you to face Gantenbainne.


[X]Say nothing, and be on your way.
[ ]Tell Cirucci to be safe. She doesn’t have to break herself pushing too hard.
[ ]Tell Cirucci you trust her strength. Her training will bear fruit.
[ ]Tell Gantenbainne to take care of your mistress.

Chapter Text

You think of something to say. An encouragement, perhaps? A hope of good fortune in her training?


It all sounds silly in your head. She’s so much stronger than you, and she is so focused now. You have given her the best you could, a tool for her training, and you shouldn’t distract her any further. You shake your head at yourself - then you look at Cirucci one last time.

Her eyes are held straight, fixed on her opponent. Gantenbainne spares you a glance, but you can’t read his expression behind this opaque visor of his. He gives you a nod, though, a slight one - and then he’s gone too, his eyes trained on Cirucci. You feel the rising tension, the bubbling of spiritual pressure, simmering water, soon to boil.

You step away as they begin circling each other. The last thing you see is Cirucci adjusting the headpiece you gave her, and smiling faintly, hungrily. Then you turn your back on them and head to the lopsided doorway leading into the dark below.

You hear the scratching of the quill on paper before you see the Arrancar, and when you do see him he seems at first gigantic. But it’s only the great shadow cast by his dim lamp, an orb of glass in which futter three fireflies. The man himself is small, hunched over, his shoulders shaking slightly. You lean in the doorway and watch him for a while before you finally step in; he does not acknowledge you as you do, his eyes flicking between the eclectic array of items carelessly put on the ground before him and his papers, black with ink. His writing is like the foot-trail of a colony of ants, tight lines crawling in and out of each other, probably unreadable to all but him.

“I can’t believe she doesn’t come to see me herself,” he finally says, his voice a grumble that’s only slightly too high-pitched to sound menacing. “You’d think after she press-ganged me into work, she’d at least check up on me her own damn self.”

You frown, not liking his tone. You’ve seen Ren before; you’re not surprised or taken aback any longer. You fold your arms, eyes narrowed, and wait. Finally he sighs and puts down the quill to turn towards you. He makes a gesture of his hand as if to adjust his glasses, but they are no true spectacles, just the remnants of his mask; as firmly set in place as any bone of his body.

You wonder if perhaps this is a human gesture, lingering after death and death and transcendence and transcendence again.

“I know your type,” he says with a voice all whispers and insinuations. “Playing at the head servant, lording it over your lessers like it makes you special in your mistress’s eyes.”

You scoff. Many snide comments and accusation have found a mark on you before, have hit home when they shouldn’t have. This one doesn’t. It’s a blind shot. He doesn’t know anything about you.

“No? Perhaps I don’t.” He shakes his hand dismissively. “Come, if you’re here there must be a reason. What did your mistress ask for? I am not nearly done. Not even halfway! She keeps too much trash.” He picks up a necklace from the ground, a thing glittering like diamonds - and tosses it away into a growing pile in the far corner. “Clutter, all of that. Wasting my time.”

Your mistress didn’t ask for anything, you pointedly remark. You’re here to help her of your own volition.

That makes him pause, and he brushes his long, shaggy beard. His eyes furrow behind his spectacles-mask.

“Yes? Interesting, interesting. Well, out with it then. Don’t waste my time.”

Explaining is frustrating. You want to make what you seek clear, but you’re not sure if what you seek exists, and you don’t want to sound stupid or naive, so you struggle through the right phrasing to say that you’re looking for artifacts of power but realize how rare those would be but they would be very helpful to Cirucci and-

Ren waves his hand sharply, cuts you off.

“Yes, yes, relics of power. I know plenty of those. Half of them will kill you, other half will make you wish they did. Fools seek power in toys instead of in themselves.”

You frown, a snipe coming to your mind, but you bite your tongue. You think, and smirk.

It’s no wonder he wouldn’t know of any item that meets your need. He’s an old, frail scholar, one who wouldn’t dare to wander too far from safety. It’s so much more convenient to say all relics of power are useless, rather than admit he just didn’t find any he could use himself…

That makes him rear up, his eyes gleaming red, his faint spiritual pressure rising unconsciously - it smells of torn paper and spilled ink and old dust being shaken by a new wind.

“Of course I know of such things! Who do you take me for? They’re just far beyond your grade, child.”

You remind him with the most polite of smiles that you are not doing this research for your own benefit, but for that of your mistress, who is far more powerful than either of you.

You’ve cornered him, and his eyes throw dagger at you as he ponders his next response. Finally he sighs and spreads out some of his paper sheets before him.

“Three,” he says after a minute. “Three is a good number. Two is just flipping a coin, four overwhelms with choices. I know more but I’ll give you three. And keep in mind that fully half of what I tell you is liable to be exaggerations and myths and distortions, so don’t trust any of it. Just trust this one thing: there is power at the end of each story. Even if it might not be the kind of power you want.”

You nod. You’re used to things coming in three. Chalk it up to the strangeness of a spirit world.

“First is the Salar de Luna. D’ya know what this one means?”

You nod. ‘Salt pan of the moon.’

“No!” He exclaims, raising a finger like a whipping cane. “Salt pan of Luna. So the question is then, who’s Luna?”

You blink. You’ve only heard that name maybe twice, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to know.

“Legend has it Luna was a powerful Hollow, a moon-queen, a white blank mask full of craters. She ruled over a garden of ponds, water where swam fishes and stranger things, and beautiful silver trees, not these old crispy quartz things we’ve got today. And legend has it, she could turn any who offended her to salt with a look, no Hollow would be safe. Angry, bam, pillar of salt. But one day she’s walking along her domain, and her eyes wander over to her pond - and she looks into it, and sees her reflection; but by some trick o’ the waves, some shimmer of the water, the reflection looks more beautiful and young than she does herself. So great is her outrage, she strikes down the pond, and with it her whole domain - all the water and trees, turned to salt. Within moments she’s standing alone among an immense plain of salt and nothin’ but salt. When she realizes what she’s done, she falls to her knees and weeps, and she screams at herself, hates herself for what she did - and so, says the story, the last offender she turned to salt was herself.”

You look at the old Arrancar, frowning. That story sounds a little too pat to be true, and whoever heard of such power in a Hollow? Well, aside from the Espada, who certainly could accomplish such feats…

“Yeah, and perhaps our lady Luna would be one of these Espadas today if she hadn’t had a bad case of the vanities and turned herself to salt. Point is, a Hollow’s mask endures much. Venture at the heart of the Salar de Luna, and perhaps you’ll find her statue, and perhaps you’ll find her mask; and perhaps if you bring it back, might be some shred of her power in it, power enough to calcify an Espada - just a little, maybe just the skin, maybe just the legs… But enough.”

You bite your lip, thinking. It’s a lead, if nothing else. But you’re not sure you trust it. You look at Ren intently and he rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“Ain’t no getting you excited with a first story so you leave me to run around after it, uh? Guess you ain’t that much of a child. Okay, next: I hear you did a ruckus at the Seat of Nine Kings. Eleven. Ten Masked Kings, whichever.”

Memories flash in your head, of the fight, of your Resurreccion, and you curl your arms tighter around yourself. Oddly as you push these thoughts from your head the last one that lingers is a sense of guilt at how much of an ancient place you destroyed - it survived centuries in the sands, until you came along.

Well, not like it was your fault.

“Those Kings, they ruled for a while. They held many things in their grasp. Many passed from that grasp. But the one that’s of matter here…” He frowns, scratches at his grey hair. “What was it again? Not the Claw, not the Swords - oh right, of course. Story says, when they stopped just being a bunch of feuding bastards with a dozen Hollows following them each, they gathered and made a proof of kinship - they each broke a sliver of their mask. Not enough to make them Arrancars, just enough that they’d each bear a scar, a crack in their masks, a brand that united them. And the ten slivers, they put together, and hammered and soldered them until they made one mask. And when they held court, they would pass it to each other; and whoever held the mask had the right to speak, so they would never bicker aloud with each other. And when one of them would have to leave to set right some wayward domain, he or she would bear the mask, and with it the power of the kings.”

Ren spits something black and thick, and you straighten to tell him not to sully your mistress’s fort - but you see there is a bowl next to him, and that is where he is spitting; it is already full of black drops that squirm against each other like fat worms. You look away and shudder.

“But the mask was a mish-mash, not made to hold for long. When one of ‘em called on its power, it would break soon, and they’d have to put it back together. Now, legend says, when their kingdom fell they never got to use that mask at all; so it should sit somewhere, unbroken. I could give you pointers - but keep in mind, if you do find it, once it breaks up again there won’t be no putting it back together with the Kings gone.”

You shrug. The point isn’t to give Cirucci some kind of superweapon she can use forever. You’re not stupid enough to not hear the implied warning in all of Ren’s stories - hanging on to these powers for too long tends to destroy their users.

“You’re not half-dumb,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Only a quarter dumb. More dangerous, that. Half-dumb folk miss things entirely. Quarter-dumb folk, they think they’re smart enough to handle what they can’t. Burns them in the end.”

In your mind’s eye shines a small triangle of gold, the size of a tooth, weathered by time but shimmering with power.

You don’t answer him. He’s right and you know it, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve never had time to pause and think about the terrible things tomorrow might bring; tomorrow won’t matter if you can’t survive today.

“So far I’ve been talkin’ about dead things, things long buried, stories and legend. Now I’m gonna tell you about something alive, as alive as anything in Hueco Mundo. Here’s the story: there’s no forest compares to the Forest of Menos, to its arch-trees and petrified soil. But there are groves and copses and lost woods on the surface of the sands, leafless to a one, lifeless nigh on all. Quartz trees that got so close they got entangled, vines creeping out the carcass o’ dead Hollows, such things and more. And in one of these lost woods there’s a weaver; an arachne; a big ol’ spider all fat and yet hungry. And she makes great, fine, intricate webs; and you can take one of these webs, and make of it a net, and catch anything with it. Anything.”

There’s a catch, you think. Always a catch.

“Of course there’s a catch! Would I bother tellin’ you if it were easy? Catch is simple: you either have to sneak into the wood, avoid all of her webs until you find one that’s right for the critter you want to catch, and cut it off the trees and fold it into a net and take it away without her ever seein’ you; or you must go openly to her, and pay whatever price she asks, else she takes you as her price, and goes sated one more day. That’s the catch. Sneak of pay or die.”

You bite your lip, unfold your arms, pace around the dimly-lit vault with your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. The collector leers at you, a smug look to his face. He knows the thoughts clashing in your head; He didn’t tell you three stories for nothing; you know he finds perverse enjoyment in watching you try to tell which one is most likely to work, least likely to kill you. You want to tell him off, but he’s helped you, in his own crooked way. You have three leads where you had none.

You pivot on your heels, straighten your back, and steel your mind. Ren stares at you, trying to gauge your thought process.

Above you you hear the muffled sound of thunder, the ringing echo of flash-steps, the pounding of fists on stone.

Your mistress is at work.

A week. You have a week, but you only have a week.

You know what you must do.

[X]Venture into the Salar de Luna in search of the mask that destroyed its beauty.
[ ]Go to the domain of the Ten Masked Kings in search of the mask that held their collective power.
[ ]Seek out the Weaver’s Grove where dwells one who can make nets that catch titans.

Chapter Text

You're tempted, at first, by the story of the Weaver. How could you not be, after all you've learned from Alphonse? Even besides the chance to tangle Yammy in an unbreakable net, you can hardly imagine what you might be able to make from thread like that. What if the Weaver is itself an artist of threads? Ultimately, cowardice rears its head. No, not cowardice; concern. If you're... indisposed by the Weaver - trapped or worse - then Cirucci will face Yammy alone, never knowing why you abandoned her.

The thought makes you vaguely ill, and you toss that option aside.

The Ten Kings seem more plausible. Certainly, they're relatively recent history... but then, so is your- is Findorr's destruction of their palace. Ren doesn't seem to know about the havoc your duel wrought - would likely be appalled - but for all you know, the crown is buried under tonnes of rubble, or outright destroyed by an errant cero.

Salar de Luna... Cirucci's mentioned it before, hasn't she? A distant place, but not an imaginary one. And there's something fitting about recovering the moon's mask for your mistress. Luna was beautiful, after all. So without flaw it destroyed a chunk of Hueco Mundo. Offering what remains of her visage as a gift to Cirucci could be taken to mean...

You flush. That's an idle and inappropriate thought. Your main focus has to be the mask, and the fact that it might let her bypass Yammy's hierro, even in his released state. That's vital, and you need all the time you can get. Unfortunately, the geography doesn't favour a swift journey. Fortunately, you know just the guy to get you across the desert in record time.

“You’re young,” Ren scoffs. “You’ll learn in time the value of a danger that stares you in the face, and the safety of wasting your time in a fruitless search. Better than venturing into the unknown wastes, where you might actually find something.”

You’ve done it before, you think sullenly, and turn your back on him. The collector has no further advice or warning, and turns back to his work as you climb the stairs.

In the room of pillars monsters do battle. A blur of white lace and black frills dances in the sky, a shockwave every time she steps onto the red monoliths. Below an avalanche of flesh ravages the ground in its wake, fists pounding like a great piston engine.

Your eyes can almost follow them. But spying on your masters feels almost like heresy, and so you turn your face away, and slink along the walls of the fort. As you leave the room you hear Cirucci’s laugh, the clap of her whip, and you feel a pressure of manic joy and determination. You smile to yourself, and head out into the sands. The hollowed moon hangs lower than is usual, swallowing a quarter of the horizon; the sands glitter under your feet, and they look like silver tonight.

It is not long before the spider answers your silent call, as if it could hear your thoughts from afar. It emerges from the sands, half a squid hanging from its mouth, and stares with amusement as his many legs dig into the dune for support.

“Where are you going tonight, little one?” He asks cheerfully, before rearing up his head and swallowing the squid in a gulp.

You’re not sure if he knows what the Salar de Luna is, so you try to explain it as best you can, the vast expanse of salt, the old legends, but he interrupts you as you begin. There is a moment of silence as he finishes swallowing.

“I know it, of course. I haven’t been there in a while, but it’s a good place to hunt for ones such as me - few predators, so prey comes to find some safety. You just need to pack enough water for the trip.”

You reflexively pat the bags hanging from your waist, in which hardened clay jars hold enough to last you several days. 

“If I travel quickly,” the spider adds after a moment’s thought, “I can get you there in a week.”

You freeze, and a pang of anxiety grips your stomach. A week is all the time you have to get there and back - you can’t afford any longer.

“Ah, that’s going to be a problem.” The spider’s mandibles click together, a flurry of movement like threatening hands. “I can do faster, of course. If I didn’t have to hunt for food on the march I could easily cut two days. No rest, another day. Hurrying at my greatest speed all the while, this might only take two days. But it would exhaust me greatly. Leave me vulnerable. I love to take you places, little moth, but you would be asking much.”

You think as fast as you can. You have food enough for him, you think. No rest - perhaps you could give him some of your own reishi. But the effort required of him… You would owe him, you know this; you would owe him a lot. Especially considering you would ask the same on the return.

“You are very dedicated,” he says, a statement that is half a question. You incline your head. Your need is great. “I will not count our debts,” he says with a motion of his foreleg, “I offered to take you places myself. I will not keep a ledger between us. But you will help me when I am in need, will you not?”

Yes. You would not ask for such a favor without being prepared to return it.

The spider leans over you, and its mandibles make a shape like a smile.

“Hop onto my back, then, and hope your supplies are enough.”

You nod quickly and leap onto the Hollow’s back, settling yourself into the cavity of his back. You clutch your supplies and take a breath, anticipating the rush of wind as he takes off.

It’s nothing like you’ve felt before. Before, the spider was fast - but now he is the wind. His feet are a blur, so fast they barely move the sand beneath them. A caress and they are gone. The dunes meld into a singular wave, ebbing and flowing like the sea. You are thrown back into your seat, a great pressure on your chest and shoulders, and find it hard to breathe. The quartz trees are like shooting stars - a glittering drop against a dark background, streaking beside you as you pass them.

“I am hungry,” the spider says eventually, his voice hoarse with effort. It starts you out of your revery, and you rummage through your bags, pulling out a slice of cooked meat. You lean over and dangle it in front of the spider’s face, and he snatches it, swallowing it a few quick bites. His pace picks up again, the moon shifting slowly in the sky as he crosses the land with hungry strides, crossing dunes without seeming to touch the ground.

You look back, and for the first time in forever Las Noches seems distant, its overbearing walls no longer swallowing half the sky.

“Meat, please,” the spider says again. How long has he been running? Three hours? Five? Time seems to lose meaning to you, your references dissolving in the blur of speed. You take out a roasted thigh and tosses it in his raised mouth; with a disturbing crunch he chews it all up, meat and bone alike.

You take a draught out of your jar. The spider shakes his shoulders, and you understand the message; you lean down and pour the water into his mouth. That’s one bottle gone.

You see Hollows, sometimes. A great pack of Gillians pauses in their wandering, their empty eyes watching you as you pass. They are so tall, even at this speed you can see them clearly, towers standing still, emotionless masks sending a chill down your spine. Most others simply dart off from your path, tiny creatures afraid of being trampled or eaten in the spider’s wake.

His speed starts to slow down after a while. The feet stop brushing the ground, instead striking it like a great rain, sending a great trail of sand in his wake. Hunger is not what is causing it; here in the hollow of its back you can feel its heart beating madly, a disharmonious rhythm. You put your hand on his shell of chitin, and try to infuse your energy into him, but it’s harder than you thought. You’ve seen others do it before, but even here, with no battle around you and all the time you need to focus, it’s proving difficult. Your reiatsu ebbs and flows, foam-like reishi spilling out, wasted. But you give him what you can, and then you collapse in your seat, finding it hard to keep your eyes open.

You start awake as your transport shudders.

“Hun.. gry…” He mutters, and you reach into your bags. You’ve forgotten how many times you’ve fed him, and fed yourself, but they’re almost empty; you toss slices of jerky at him, and he snatches them out of the air, before bending his shoulders and rushing forward again.

A terrible creature crests a dune nearby; it is like a wolf with incredibly long legs, a mane that cascades and rejoins its tail and seems like spike, its Stigamata one hole in its forehead like a third eye. It stares at you, and the spider changes course, angling far away from it. The dunes are flattening now, and there is a scent on the air, like brine and sorrow.

“More,” the spider says, and you touch your bags - but they are empty of food. Your supplies have run out. You take one of the jars and pour all its water into the spider’s mouth, and he laps it greedily; but when you are done his steps are still staggered, his body shuddering.

“More,” he says again. and you look around you desperate. How long would it take you to stop, and hunt? If you left his back you would never catch up with him; if he stopped in his race, even for a moment, he would collapse from exhaustion, you know it. But if he is not fed he will stop, and all this will go to waste.

You look down at your waist, and Polilla shines a dull, grey glow in the moonlight. Its blade has always looked blunt, rough, as if you had taken the sword from the forge before it was complete, before it was polished, sharpened, and fitted with a hilt. But it has always cut as well as any sword.

It cuts your flesh just as well as that of your enemies. You toss the scrap of your arm at the spider, bloody and raw, and his steps become more assured than they ever were, his speed picks up as never before. The sands are naught but a thin line - white below, dark above. The moon seems to tilt in its axis, and its crescent looks like a smile.

You must feed the spider once more before you reach your goal.

When he stops, the motion is sudden, breathtaking. You are thrown out of your seat againt the edge of his hole, your head dizzy with the whiplash. You take a few moments to compose yourself, shake your head, and finally push hop down, legs wobbly as they hit the sand.

The spider looms over you, his eyes gleaming.

“I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been. All my joints are screaming with ache. I want to sleep for a month. Yet at the same time, I’ve never felt such strength within me. What strange meat did you feed me?”

Your left hand clutches your right arm, an instinctive gesture. Your Gillian scarf is wrapped over your forearm, from elbow to wrist, tied with a hasty knot. A few drops of blood have seeped onto your fingers. There was pain at first, but now there is only numbness. The pain will come back in time. You look up at the spider and say nothing. He is silent too, for a while.

“I wish I could understand the depths of your dedication,” he says finally. “I wish I could feel it myself. Good luck, little moth; for now I shall bury myself within the sands, and sleep for as long as you let me. When you come back, take care to have more food. It pains me to see you hurt yourself.”

You nod slowly, and the spider inclines his head. It seems to you a gesture of respect, and that makes you feel strange; you are not used to such displays. But before you can react he rears his body and digs into the sand, and in a white spray he is gone, buried within the soil of Hueco Mundo.

You turn to face the Salar de Luna.

The sands… Stop. That is a rare enough sight to make your heart skip a beat.

It seems like it stretches to infinity, this flat expanse of nothing, this bright whiteness, this utter desolation. In the far distance you can see the dunes of Hueco Mundo resolving against the sky, dim, faraway shadows, but how long would it take to reach them?

Salt.

Cracks run along the surface of the salt pan, giving it its only features. They shape hexagons out of the crystallized mineral, white geometric patterns interlocking with each other. You can see no feature to them, no accidents of shape, no sense of presence.

It is nothingness embodied.

You strain your eyes to look further, and see… Strange things. You see the shore of some great sea, but know it is not real, a trick of the eye in the haze above the Salar. You smell brine, even though there is no water. You see distant dots, moving across the horizon, sliding on this endless perfection. Even here, then, there are Hollows.

The moon’s reflection shines in the bed of salt. Silver-white and blinding-bright, scattered across the emptiness like ripples in a lake.

If you could fly, you think wistfully, you would only have to take off and race in the skies above it, seeing all of it revealed to your eyes. It would be easy to find the mask, then.

You cannot fly.

If the spider can take you home as fast as it brought you here, that leaves you three days to find the mask. You are not sure you could cross the salt pan in three days even walking in a straight line. You need a plan of approach.

[ ]Use your Sonido to criss-cross the Salar, looking out for any structure of formation standing out the emptiness.
[ ]Use Sonido and Pesquisa to probe the salt pan, crossing distance then sending a wave over and over until you detect some spiritual signature.
[X]Make contact with the distant Hollows crossing the salt pan. They may know something of use.

Chapter Text

You take your first step on the Salar de Luna.

It is firm beneath your food, and yet not fully solid; countless crystals held together into something that feels half like sand and half like stone to walk upon.

You squint your eyes, scanning the horizon for the moving dots. Small, black figures, moving gracefully in the distance.

You start running. The wind stroking your face is warm, salt-scented, a faint fragrance of reiatsu giving it an almost metallic taste. Your feet beat the ground faster than any mortal could walk, and without fatigue. You run and soon the dunes melt away behind you, white against white.

You look around yourself and see nothing. White and white and white is your world. It would be easy to lose yourself here. You look for the dots again, and focus sharply on them, pushing harder on your legs. At first the figures grow closer, and change from dots to faint silhouettes, narrow and formless. But soon their lazy motions take them further from you, and they begin to disappear.

You frown in annoyance, but this will not stop you. You hunch your shoulders, sharpen your breath, and focus your energy, a turmoil of shadows inside your chest. Then you kick the ground, salt erupting behind you, and fly over the salt bed, hundreds of yards crossed in an instant. You hit the ground lightly, kick again, and your Sonido carries you forward at breakneck speed again and again. The shapes are growing closer now; their dance is again taking them away from you, but you are much faster. You swallow the gap between you, and the wind brings the echo of reiatsu, spreading far on this empty plain. It sounds like music from a harp and feels like beating drums.

Then you land a little too hard at the end of your flash-step, and the ground shatters beneath you. Sheer surprise doesn’t leave you time to react and you sink into thick, oppressive darkness. Under your Gillian scarf the still-healing wound feels pricked by a thousand needles. You flail for a few second, grasping at nothing, and your throat tastes bitter salt and you start to choke.

You push down the panic and focus yourself. You do not need to breathe. You have nothing to fear from water. Tensing your legs and arm, you kick yourself upwards, then paddle your arms until your head emerges from the brine. Your hands reach around you blindly until they grope the edge of the broken salt, then you pull yourself up, coughing water out of your lungs. Your left arm stings awfully.

You stand up, shaking your head, and try vainly to dry your hair. You smell of pungent salt. You blink more water out of your hurting eyes, rub them, then turn around at the hole you broke through the salt pan.

Quagmires. It’s unlikely the entire Salar rests on such waters, but there must be others like it. Remnants of Luna’s ponds? It would make a certain sense. You’ll have to be more careful.

You look at the horizon again and - the dots have changed their course, angling against the edge of the horizon. Farther away still. Did they see you? Are they trying to escape you?

You lick your lips to wipe the salt from them. Your throat is on fire; you reluctantly take one of your water jars and drink half of it, until the foul taste is passed. Then you wipe your mouth on your sleeve - which only makes the taste of salt come back; a brief flash of anger makes you stomp the ground, thankfully too lightly to cause another crack. You take another sip of your jar.

You feel disgusting. Your uniform is clinging to your skin, constraining your movements and making you feel heavy and slow. You smell like old saltwater, trapped underground for generations. What would Alphonse say if he saw you now, having once again ruined one of his gifts? What would Esmeralda think, if she had to help you nurse a stupid wound you’d had to inflict on yourself because you hadn’t prepared enough food for the journey?

What would Cirucci think, if she saw you like this, a soaked rat? You don’t generally care about the state of your hair, but even you can recognize it’s a mess, knotted and water-clogged. Anger shakes your limbs, and you hone it to a sharp edge.

You won’t let some accidents of geography and elusive Hollows thwart your mission.

You dart forward again, but your Sonido steps are now more measured, less far-reaching, but lighter on the ground. Every time you’re about to hit salt you pull back slightly, cloak billowing in the wind of your own motion, and touch ground gently. Then you make another lightning-step, pushing against your heavy, smothering clothes.

There is no doubt about it now, the figures are trying to escape you. As you get closer you can see their soft, sliding motions, all curves, but deceptively fast; they look like skaters on the ice. They try to lose you against the emptiness, to blur your sense of where you are. In this, they have succeeded: the edges of the Salar have blurred out into meaninglessness, and you have no idea where you entered it, of where the spider sleeps waiting for you.

You don’t know how long they take you on this chase. Hours, probably. The moon hangs still in the sky, mocking you.

But you do not lose track of them. They are simply not fast enough. The repeated banging of your Sonido is like a rolling thunderstorm, and by now they must hear it too. You can see arms and legs now, inhuman shapes contorting in the sway of their waltz.

When you can finally discern their colors, you lose patience. Your reiatsu bursts out of you, blowing stray salt off the surface of the plain, pulling it around you in a whirlwind of crystal. You forget about light steps and caution and rush as fast as your body will allow, a speed that outpaces even your own sense of vision; the world goes blank between each crack of sound, and your clothes leave behind them a trail of condensation in the air. The figures grow closer frame-by-frame, like pictures on these human devices, frozen seconds between each step.

When you stop it is with a thunderclap. For a second your feet don’t touch the ground, momentum carrying you into the air, your uniform bristling, your eyes dancing with light. Then you rest your feet and stare at the Hollows you’ve reached, frozen like deers in headlight, their eyes struck wide.

They are slender things, their forms disparate; the tallest among them is mammalian in its grace, some great upright gazelle with horns curving above her flower-patterned mask; she steps back, raising a long-fingered hand before her. Another has six arms, thin as reeds, but her lower body is a single tail slithering across the ground. Another is lion-like, but without fur, ribcage showing through its taut skin. They are no more than six in total, their spiritual pressure as clear and sharp as a crystal bell, but low, very low - mere Hollows, not Menos.

“Here she comes,” says one, “cloaked in brine, eyes like fire.”

“Destroyer,” the lion says.

“Kingslayer,” another whispers.

“I see doom trailing in her wake,” the many-armed serpent says, sliding behind her companions. “Shadow and a white mask.”

You blink, and for a moment your petty anger at falling in water and having to chase them is gone, replaced by incomprehension.

“We have no king for you to kill, Thief of Crowns,” the gazelle says, head looking left and right at the white nothing. The others take a step back and - bow. They lay their hands flat on the salt ground and bend the knee. “Is your wrath so thorough you would hunt down the last of the Butcher’s servant to the ends of Hueco Mundo?”

It’s you who take a step back now, a flutter of confusion in your chest.

“Do you not recognize us?” Says the lion, and look into its gaunt and hungry face, and you remember.

It was no more than an instant. He charged at you from the crowd, and you broke him. Then you forgot him, and went back to fight a king.

The others, too, you recognize dimly, faces in the crowd. In the Butcher King’s feasting hall. Packed together around a great table. There were more of them then.

“We are the Dancers of the Salar de Luna,” the gazelle-like Hollow says, her voice at once smooth and hissing, longing and bitter. “You brought our world down in our moment of grace, before we danced for a king. And you do not even know us.”

“We are not the dancers,” the serpent says softly. “We’re only a memory torn from them.”

“The others stayed,” a shapeless thing sing-songs, mouth bristling with tendrils. “They stayed, to try and hold it all together, to share the food and protect the stores from those outside. We are the ones who fled.”

“Cowards one and all,” the lion says with a gleam in his eyes. “Cowards but alive.”

The gazelle steps forward and even though she is so much weaker than you are, so much weaker than you ever remember being now, you take another step back as she looms over you, the moon’s crescent wrapped around her horns.

“Tell me, Thief of Crowns. Was it worth it?”

Your heart is beating so loud you can hear it in your chest, and you don’t even know why. You understand who they are, you understand what you did to them, but it’s not like you had a choice. You never meant to harm them, you didn’t care about them. There was a crown to take and that was all. Just a trinket, meaningless.

It’s just like -

It’s not like the Shinigami. It’s not like what happened to Mantis. You never used them for your own gain, for your own survival. You passed through their fortress, you took the crown, you fought the Butcher King, and he chose to die even though he could have lived.

You’re not responsible. Are you?

Cold sweat drips down your shoulders and your throat feels sore. More than ever you’re conscious of the weight of your drenched clothes and taste the brine on your tongue. The Dancers look at you, the serpent slithers at the periphery of your vision, but the gazelle commands attention.

When she speaks again her voice is a hiss of bitter anger.

“Why have you come? What more can you take from us?”

And the worst thing is, you have an answer.


[X]Try to assuage them. You never meant to harm them. You only want their help finding the mask. Plead for it.
[ ]As much as they are angry, they are afraid. Steel yourself. Order them to help you find the mask, or else.
[ ]You don’t know how to handle this, and you know how to ask for their help even less. Run away. You'll find the mask on your own.

Chapter Text

Cirucci has trained you for many things.

She has not trained you for this.

Hours upon hours of lessons about how to behave towards your betters have been drilled into your head. How to please them, how to avoid their anger, how to curry their favor. More hours yet were spent teaching you how to act towards your peers, how to show respect without weakness.

But she has never taught you how to act towards the weak, because there was none in her world weaker than you.

This gives you pause.

You try to think of how she’d act in these circumstances. You hear the clack of her whip in your mind’s ear, seen her standing, back to you, imperious and mighty, commanding obedience out of these base Hollows.

And it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like you. You are not Cirucci.

Esmeralda’s words echo in your ear. Her footsteps as she rushes up Alphonse’s stairs, away from you. Her scorn at the thought that the weak and the mighty may trust each other.

How could these Hollows trust any plea from you, any apology? Esmeralda at least you knew, enough to think you could be friends. They are no one to you and you are no one to them. They’re only chaff standing in the way.

And that’s why it’s so important to extend the same hand to them you want to extend to Esmeralda.

You clench your fists, then relax them. You look pleadingly into the gazelle’s eyes, and you try to find the words.

You’re… Sorry? You never meant them any harm. You’d have let the Butcher King live, if he’d let you. You were only a servant, given orders by someone far more powerful than you. This, they must understand. Were they not going to dance for a King? So did you, in your own way. Yet you understand if the reasons don’t matter to them. You still did what you did. And you are sorry for the harm you caused them.

You are sorry to come again, as well, sorry to seek something else from them. But you have a mistress, and you must protect her. You wouldn’t know what to do if she…

There is a mask in the Salar de Luna, and you need their help to find it. You fold your hands and lower your head, a gesture of prayer, of supplication.

There is a moment of surprised silence. You do not look up. Your shoulder tremble slightly with the anxiety of it all, the cold fear in your chest that it won’t work, that there is no way they could be convinced by you, not like this.

You feel a shadow moving to your side, and in the corner of your eyes see the lean lion circling you, his feet not disturbing the salt bed.

“How can you be so strong,” he says, “and yet so weak?”

You swallow nervously, straighten yourself, look at the Dancers. No longer bowing, some still, the lion and the shapeless thing moving around you.

“Our friends, our comrades, our packmates died because of you,” the thing says in its singing voice. “Not by your hand, true, but because of you. And now you come, and ask for more, with a pretty please and a bow on top.”

“You’re a thief,” the gazelle says, “of crowns, of masks, it’s no matter. But at least you had the decency to wrench the Butcher’s crown from his head. Now you come to ask for our one precious thing, and all you have to offer are words, not for us, but for yourself. World to soothe your own guilt. In the end you’ll still with the thing you wanted, and will have paid no price for it.”

Their one precious thing. So they really do have the mask. They know where it is. You need them to tell you, at whatever cost...

Your back tenses. The lion’s eyes scrutinize you, spiteful and hungry. The gazelle takes a step back, thin hands tracing the air in gestures you don’t recognize.

You have something to offer them, you think quickly. They are dancers, yes? They were going to perform for the Butcher King. You can offer them far more than that - you can offer them the audience of a Princess of Las Noches. If they will only come with you, if they are the ones to offer the mask, they will be rewarded beyond their dreams. They can dance in the courts of the Kings of all Hueco Mundo, not mere pretenders -

The serpent-thing laughs, a crystalline giggle that breaks your train of thought.

“In the court of the one-eyed the blind are jesters,” she says with a smile. You’re confused.

“You’re so precious,” the gazelle says. “The Butcher King was a Gillian, the only one in his domain. In his court we Hollows would have been the best of them all, the greatest of his hunters and warriors, graceful and quick, strong and precise, clever and bold, second only to him in power. In Las Noches we will be nothing. A joke told by Menos to each other. Pets, kept for the amusement of gods until they grow bored with us. And so far away from our home, too - the scent of salt fading off us and our gifts with it.”

That’s not true, you try to argue. There is a place for Hollows even at the Espada’s side. There are others like them, serving in Las Noches, safe behind its walls, like Esmeralda, like-

The medic, staring at you with betrayal. You’re just like all the others, she thinks. You could crush me in an instant if you wanted. I’ve only survived so long because I’m useful.

The collector in his dark vault, endlessly peering over a Princess’s collection of refuse. He never chose to be there, but you would never ask about it. You both know his opinion was never of importance.

The little jackal-faced skeleton, mute and guarding the most remote of doors created for the sole purpose of this one task. Nobody asked him what he’d wanted to do in his life. Not a person; a prop cast out of sight.

The spider, your friend, who carried you all this way, for whom you shed your own blood and flesh. Who would never, ever set foot inside the walls of Las Noches, because he knows what awaits within.

The young boy scurrying away from Yammy’s room, fear and anxiety in his features. His happiness at being relieved of his duty. The terror he must have felt when he had to go back.

You jolt back, feeling a punch to the gut. You never finish what you were saying. Your eyes flick around you; the lion grows less afraid and more angry with each second, the shapeless one hums a tune you remember from the Butcher’s Rock, something about bodies in the pyre…

The gazelle steps forward, looking down at you, looking down on you. Your whole body tenses, reishi surging, your reiatsu beginning to trickle into your surroundings, the wave ready to surge and hammer them back, yet even though you have every advantage you feel terrified.

“Get out,” she spits, “or kill us all, but you’ll have nothing from us.”

“No.”

You blink. The gazelle blinks. For a moment, the tension is broken.

Behind her, the many-armed serpent slides her way across the white salt, undulating, a smile on her face. One too-long hand brushes the other Hollow’s shoulder, her tail uncoils to raise her further into the air, cast green and gold against the black sky.

“Show her the mask,” the serpent says.

The other looks at her with outrage; the rest of the Dancers observe them carefully, a flicker of uncertainty in their eyes. The serpent leans down, her tongue flickering out of her mask, and you start, take an involuntary step back. Sweat pools in your palms. You hadn’t realized your fists were clenched.

“Her guilt is pain. I want to hurt her more. Show her the mask.”

There is a moment of silence where they both look at each other, emotions warring in their eyes. Anger, incomprehension in the gazelle’s. Something darker in the snake’s, like hungry joy or madness.

The gazelle breaks sight first, and looks at you again.

“Come,” she says simply, and with a light kick she is gone, sliding effortlessly across the salt surface. The others follow after an instant, just as quick and graceful.

You follow in turn. You don’t slide. You just run.

They are only Hollows; it should be easy for you to keep up with them. But their speed is tireless, smooth, as if they were simply gliding. You remember the one you think is their leader talking about blessings. Maybe this is one. You strain yourself, just a little - not Sonido, there is no need for it, but you must run hard nonetheless.

“We’ve killed others of your kind, you know,” one who hasn’t spoken before says - tall, with forelimbs longer than his hind limbs and wings folded on his back. “Menos who stepped into the Salar bold and conquering, thinking they would find the mask of legends. Not many of late - the legend had been mostly forgotten, until you.”

“We would have done it still,” the lion rumbles. “If we were still the Dancers. If most of us hadn’t died already.”

“They would come in and we would lead them on an endless chase,” the first one adds. “Mislead and lose them in the trackless white. They would grow thirsty, and hungry, and exhaust themselves running. We would lead them into the quagmires. We would move the mask around. When exhaustion had softened them, we would fall in, many more of us than they could handle. And then we would feast for days.”

“There are bones beneath your feet." The serpent smirks. “Armies and wanderers alike, sunken in the salt. Our offering to Luna.”

“Some of us would always die,” the shapeless thing sighs.

“More still would join us,” the lion answers.

You have nothing to say to that. Silence falls again, and you just run.

Your thirst is the only means of tracking time you have left. You take a gulp when your throat starts burning; you do this three times, and find that your water is running low. You press on behind them. The Dancers never seem to drink. Indeed, they carry no water with them.

The Salar is not as featureless as you first thought; at times you pass some kind of formation sticking out of the white. Rocks, mostly. A broken pillar, once. You shudder at the thought of trying to do this alone - turning up every small piece of landscape in the vain hope that it holds what you seek.

And then it’s there. You know it without a doubt before any of them makes a sign. A circle of marble columns, and the tiles that bound them into an arch, half-broken. A great tree, branches thick with leaves - all calcified, white as bone.

You see the statue as you approach and the Dancers slow down. It sits in the middle of the half-circle of columns, frozen on her knees, hands covering her face. Weeping forever.

Salt, like everything else.

The Dancers are walking now, and so are you. Your heart is beating madly in your chest. It’s there, what you sought after. So easily - guided to it by its very guardians. Your hands itch with flushing blood.

The statue was beautiful, once. A great robe flows to the floor, trailing around her, a shroud now. She had no hair, but two narrow horns curved at the back of her head, one point raising to the sky, the other broken off. Her slender limbs have eroded with time - the fingers of her hands, once clutched on her weeping eyes, have broken too and revealed the mask.

It is damaged too. A pale disc, broken in a curve at the bottom, the hint of a mouth between the two hands. Depressions like craters and thin cracks are its only features - it does not even have eye slits.

It is not salt. It is a Hollow’s mask, true as any other, and from so close you can feel the aura of its power like a dryness on your skin, a weight on your heart.

The Dancers have all stopped, and are looking at you. You swallow again, your eyes peering at each one of them but always looking back at the mask immediately. You take a step, and its aura grows stronger. You take shallow breaths.

“It is the reason we exist,” the gazelle says softly. “We pray to it. We bathe in its power. We touch it only with reverence, and make offerings of our prey. And it blesses us.”

“Within the Salar de Luna we know no thirst and little hunger,” the singing thing says. “We see in our minds all of the paths and distances, all of the treacherous quagmires, we sense any who enters our domain.”

“It makes us faster, stronger, more skillful,” the lion says. “Only a little, but enough. We do not tire crossing the emptiness. And so we can hunt far and wide - venturing out in the sands and retreating safe from harm.”

“It can do more, if one of us is willing to pay the price of bearing it,” the gazelle says. “For a few moment, we can embrace its power, before it consumes us.”

“Without it,” the long-legged one says, “we will wither away. We will know thirst and hunger, we will tire out. The salt pan will no longer be home to us; it will reject us. We shall have to go into the sands one last time, where will be nothing more than ordinary Hollows. And there we will die, one by one.”

“It is not a fate written in stone,” the gazelle adds. “Given time, others would come to us, drawn by the myth, drawn by our fame. We would rebuild our group, little by little. We would be dancers again.”

“But now you’re here,” the serpent says, grinning. She slithers across the fallen temple, coiling around the statue, brushing its arms with her long hands. “And you will take the mask, and we will all perish.”

You don’t know why she’s smiling. You don’t know why they led you here, rather than giving you nothing and leaving you to waste away in the emptiness. Your hands shake nervously.

You realize you have come closer to the statue without meaning to. The serpent uncoils and slinks away, leaving it alone, undefended.

“And the best thing is, you get to feel like it wasn’t your fault,” the gazelle says, her voice low, insidious. “It is as it was with the King: you needed something, so you took it, and you never hurt anyone who didn’t stand in your way. That they all died afterwards - well, that was not your fault. You never meant to do it. You didn’t strike the blow with your own hands.”

“Guiltless.” The serpent grins.

Under your scarf, an old wound bites at your flesh. Your arm is long healed by now, but the scars linger for a while. They ache like a bad dream half-remembered.

You paid in flesh to find this place. Cirucci depends upon you.

If they would only come with you, serve her alongside you-

They won’t. You can see it in their faces. All they see in Las Noches is death. All they see in standing up to you is death. All they see in letting you take the mask is death.

They’re already dead. All of them. They know this.

The mask beckons.

[ ]Take it.
[ ]Make it right.
-[ ]What price are you willing to pay?

[X] Write-in: Turn back. It's not worth it.

Chapter Text

The mask beckons.

How long did Luna weep, before she destroyed herself? How long did she stare at everything she’d loved and lost in one moment of envy?

Cirucci waits for you. You want her to win. You need her to win. You don’t know what you will do if you find yourself alone again, without a protector in Las Noches, without the one person who has sheltered and trained you, made you better.

She never asked for this. You did it of your own will, to give her a chance. Because you were afraid she wouldn’t make it on her own. You’ve seen Yammy’s terrible strength, and it scarred you.

But you can’t take the mask without dooming others. Monsters, yes - like everyone else in Hueco Mundo. Yet another moment of careless disregard bringing others to their doom so you can save yourself.

Esmeralda’s words come back to haunt you. You knew she was right when she told you you could never be friends, that the strong would always trample over the weak, and so you stayed silent.

But… Was she truly right? Can’t you be different? Can’t you refuse to walk that path?

You could give up something of yours in return. The one choice they would not expect. Cripple yourself to give them the power to survive, and leave with the mask. It scares you, of course - like all Hollows you want to survive. But it would be worth it. Your sacrifice would empower your mistress, and she would be safe, and so you would be safe too. Safe under her. You know… You trust, that she would not give you up as used goods. That she would cherish the price you’ve paid.

You reach out towards the mask.

You pause. You blink.

How long have you been thinking yourself as weak, as insignificant? Even after slaying the Butcher King, after defeating Findorr, after being taken in by Cirucci who saw potential in you.

You remember the first time he looked at you. Lord Aizen, master of Las Noches, ruler of Hueco Mundo. He saw something in you that you did not see yourself, and as little as that was, it was enough for him to welcome you and break your mask.

Cirucci isn’t weak enough that she so badly needs this one prize.

And you. You aren’t weak enough that it’s worth crippling yourself for this power. And you aren’t weak enough that you would have to break all your ideals to claim a shred of power.

The realization comes as a warmth in your chest, a surge of wonder. It baffles you, the surprise of it, something you’ve never felt before. You lower your hand, and look at your arms; they tremble slightly, power coursing through them. You remember the final look of shock and incomprehension on Findorr’s face before you struck him down.

You are not strong, in the grand scheme of things. A tiny creature scurrying along the floors of Las Noches. But you are strong enough that you and Cirucci have more to lose in your crippling than to gain from one mask. And you are strong enough that you don’t have to trample you nascent ideals for a moment’s power.

You are strong enough.

You look at the face of Luna one last time. You feel a pang of sadness at her fate, and you brush her cheek with your ungloved hands - her memories for her to keep secret, not for you to pry into. Then you make a sad smile and turn away.

The Dancers stare at you in confusion. At first, they do not speak. But as you walk away from the ruined temple, one step after another, the diffuse pressure of the mask fading from your back, they start slowly moving.

“What are you doing?” The gazelle asks.

You don’t stop walking, even as they follow you, flanking you on each side. You explain that you’re sorry you caused the death of their friends, and that you acknowledge your responsibility; but there is nothing you can do to repair that wrong. No gift on your part will bring back the twice-dead. The only thing you can do is leave the mask with them. You won’t spread word of its existence or its power. It’s not much; but it’s all you have.

“You had power at your fingertips,” the lion growls, “and you are giving it up? Out of guilt?”

“A handful of words, piercing your heart like knives. So vulnerable,” the serpent says.

You stop. You turn to face them, your fists clenched tight, but not in anger; in painful remembrance of sorrows past. You look at them, at all of them, the ones who taunt you ceaselessly and the silent ones behind them.

You know - God, you know - how hard it is to lose one’s world. To have everything you’ve had shatter around you. You know the aimlessness, the loss that comes with it, unmoored from the world. You know how impossible it feels to rebuild the edifice of your life. You know how tempting it is, in these moments, to seek an ending. To throw yourself on enemy fangs, to starve yourself in the wilds, to shout one last challenge at the sky and die on your terms. You know. And you’re sorry.

But you can’t give them that.

They have the mask, and they have the Salar de Luna, and they have each other, few as remain of their group. You hope they can rebuild. You hope that new Dancers will come, and that they will grow again. You hope the wounds of present loss will fade into the scars of pains past. It did for you, and for this reason you believe they too can make it through.

But you won’t give them an ending.

There is silence, for a long while. The Dancers have stopped, staring at you intently, as if trying to see through your mask and into your thoughts. You don’t flinch or look away; you stare back. Eventually, the serpent inclines her head. Then the gazelle extends her arm, one finger pointing at the horizon.

“You came from there,” she says simply.

You give her a nod of thanks, and you are gone.

The spider’s heavy frame shudders out of the sand, its back shaking off mounds of white sand. His fragmented eyes stare blearily at the world until they found you, and then his mandibles twitch in a motion you’ve come to recognize as a smile.

You’re looking down at him from atop a mound of roasted flesh, taller than you both, seared by the light of your Cero. You’re munching on a piece of this meat, still slick with blood; it sates your thirst and hunger both.

“Did you hunt a Gillian for me, little moth?” He asks with pleased surprise.

You nod. It took you a few hours, but there was a pack not far from the salt pan. Easy pickings. You couldn’t carry the whole body, though; by the time you left a pack of weak Hollows, scavengers rather than hunters, were tearing it to pieces.

“I have never tasted Gillian before… I hope you won’t find it unseemly if I indulge.”

You give him a faint smile, and hop off the fleshly mound. The spider rushes forward, his arms digging into the meat, carving out pieces and tossing them into his maw.

“And it’s cooked! Little thing, you are a wonderful friend.”

You’re not sure about that, but you take the compliment graciously. As towering as your friend is, he is smaller than your prize, and it takes him long minutes to finally stop, moaning in satisfaction; half of the meat is gone.

“It’s so strange,” he says puzzled. “There is something about this meat that is like… Yours.” You wince, and he makes an apologetic face. “Sorry to bring up a painful memory. But it’s so dense with spiritual strength, it feels like I partake of it with every bite.”

You nod. It’s not something you’d heard before, but it isn’t surprising. As an Adjuchas, you always found deeper satisfaction and renewed strength in the meat of another Adjuchas, more than in that of a Gillian, and far more than in that of a Hollow. But it makes sense that a base Hollow would never have eaten the meat of a Menos Grande in the first place, and so never experienced that rush of power.

“I feel well, little one. Do you want me to take you home?”

You look at the surrounding sands, measure the direction of the wind, the tilt of the moon on the horizon, the warmth in the air. You’ve spent a little over two days in the Salar. Most of it spent running after the Dancers, and then back - and a few more hunting to feed your steed. You’re not running out of time, but you should still hurry. You have nothing to bring home with you, so the least you could do is be there on time.

“Are you alright?” The spider says, with some concern. “You came a long way here, but you do not seem to have brought anything back with you. Was your search fruitful?”

You start to shake your head, a resigned negation, and then you stop. You look back to the white horizon, the infinite expanse of salt, and you think. About the Dancers and their bitter sorrow, about the mask and all the pain calcified within, about your own path.

Then you smile and nod. Yes. Yes it was.

“I am glad, then,” he says cheerfully. “But more and more I think I will never quite understand you.”

You draw Polilla and her dull grey arc crosses the air once, twice, five times; square pieces of cooked flesh fall off the Gillian’s remains, and you pick them up and toss them into the spider’s hole. Then you give him a sharp nod and hop into the seat in his back, delicious scent of cooked flesh surrounding you; you have to bring your knees together for lack of place.

The spider takes off in a burst of speed even greater than before, the square blocks of meat rustling in place and your teeth shaking under the sudden burst. He laughs at the night sky, at the sands around him, and he seems briefly to fly, his feet barely touching the ground.

The horizon blurs ahead of you, and you relax into peaceful slumber. In time, the spider brings you home. Swift as the wind, smooth as a river, swallowing your chunks of Gillian meat with easy bites.

He looks happy, you think as you reach your destination. He looks... Purposeful.

You hop down from his back, and give him a smile and a friendly wave. His mandibles chitter in something like a chuckle, and he is gone - not hungry, not exhausted, but somehow exalted. 
You smile as you watch him go. It is good to know your misfortunes at least helped a friend.

The Pillar Room has been devastated.

You freeze on the threshold, eyes wide with shock. The great red columns which adorned Cirucci’s main room have been thoroughly destroyed, some cut in half in the middle, others turned to rubble by terrible impacts, some still standing as ragged trees of stone slashed on all sides. The room is still thick with dust, even though you hear no sound of battle.

You take a few steps inside, your eyes scanning the smoke for a sign of your mistress, but the architecture of the room has changed so thoroughly you are now lost. After a few moments you stop looking, close your eyes, and focus on your inner senses.

You feel her reiatsu before she comes into view from behind the corner of a fallen pillar; you straighten yourself, fold your hands against your lap, and as soon as she appears you bow graciously. Cirucci smiles briefly, then narrow her eyes in a scolding look. She crosses the distance between you, and you notice how she has changed - her precious uniform is damaged, full of tears, cuts and dirt stains, her left cheek is marred by a purple bruise, there is a scar on her right eyebrow (you wonder if it will fade, and hope for her sake it will), but there is more to it than that. Her posture has changed, more self-assured, her frame seems more solid, more firm. And her yo-yo-like zanpakutou feels… Different. A little wider, a little thicker at the core, a golden tinge when it looked liked simple bronze before. Even her reiatsu…

You can hear the distant sound of thunder, even though there are no storms in Hueco Mundo.

“Nemo,” she says, and you start a little; you are not used to her calling you by your name rather than ‘dear’ or ‘darling.’ “You’ve been gone a long time. So long, in fact, I finished my training with Gentenbainne. Care to explain yourself?"

You bite your lip, trying to find the most forgivable explanation, but in the end you give up. You look up into her eyes and explain the truth. You went out to search for a legend, an item of power that could ensure her victory, and in the end it was not worth it. You had to walk away with nothing.

You’re sorry.

Cirucci frowns. Her hand brushes the handle of her zanpakutou, a reflexive gesture - you’ve been with her so long you no longer flinch at it.

“So you’ve wasted most of a week on a goose chase. I expected better from you.”

You straighten your shoulders and a harsh glint comes over your eyes as you prepare to defend yourself. But then you sigh, and the fight drains out of you. Yes, it was a goose hunt. There is no point in disguising it. You wasted your time and brought her no aid. You apologize for your failing.

Cirucci takes one step closer to you, towering over you - so close the bruise and scar are painful to look at, and her new posture makes her feel so much more commanding; it’s only her training that keeps you from backing away. She makes a strange expression, a look you can’t decypher. Then after a moment’s silence she touches the hairpiece you forged out of Findorr’s mask.

“At least your time was not completely wasted. This bauble proved invaluable in my training with Gentenbainne.” It feels as if there is more she wants to say, but does not. She licks her lips - parched with exhaustion - and looks away from you, stepping back. Still so close.

You feel a tension between you, something you have never felt before with her. You’re not sure what to say.

“Tomorrow I fight Yammy. You came in just in time. We’ll have a night’s rest, and then we can see what my training has achieved. I will do or die.”

Words, meaningless. Hiding her true concerns. You bite your lip again, your back tensing with anxiety. Then to your own surprise, you step forward, closing the distance she put between you. You say nothing, but she looks back at you, surprised.

“You told me you were going to fetch some kind of artifact, yes?” She asks cautiously. “Some legend Ren told you about?”

You nod slowly. You didn’t get it in the end.

Cirucci lets out a low hiss, and her right hand clutches into a fist. She looks at you and you’re not sure if what you see in her eyes is anger, disappointment or fear.

“Why?” She asks, and her voice cracks with the turmoil of her emotions. In that moment you see: every lesson of propriety she taught you she had to learn in the first place, and her feelings are a whirlwind under a facade of composure, only now breaking.

It scares you. You step back, eyes wide, your mind a confusion of feelings and contradictory commands, all resolving into a blank.

“You could have stayed here,” she says scornfully. “You could have trained with me. We could have made… Something… Together. Made each other better. But instead you went off to find some relic, some item of power, something to give me what… What I had not.” She looks away, and then back at you, eyes full of pain. “Do you think I am not strong enough? Don’t you trust me? Trust that I can beat him, with only my own strength?”

You didn’t expect that blow, even though you had the same thought on the salt pan, staring at Luna’s mask. It wrenches your gut, makes you feel like you’ve betrayed her.

And you reach out, your hand gently catching her wrist. The first time you’re touching her, rather than her touching you. You pull her hands towards you, looking at her, and she looks back in surprise.

“Don’t you believe in me?” She asks again, her voice cracking at the edges.

And you…


[X]You believe in her, and you’re sorry you ever doubted her. Tomorrow you will watch as she defeats Yammy and reclaims her rank among the Espada, of this you have no doubt.
[ ]No. You beheld the juggernaut, and burned in the furnace of his resurrection. The fire of it haunts your nightmares; nothing can stand before it. It is not too late to walk away.
[ ]Say nothing. You don’t know. Only she can make this judgement, but whatever she chooses, you will stand by her.

Chapter Text

You are still for a moment, unsure what to answer. Emotions war within you, a panicked desire to reassure her, the sting of her words, a fear for her life, and deep down an animal’s fear that wants you to leave, to abandon all this madness and just survive.

You push these thoughts out of your mind, hard as it is. You clear your head, your hand reflexively tightening on Cirucci’s wrist. She looks at you, her eyes a storm of doubt and hurt, and it pains you to see.

Then your mind is clear again. You steel yourself, and look into her eyes without flinching.

And you tell her that you do believe. That you know she will triumph. That you are sorry you ever doubted her, that it was your mistake to venture out into the wilds rather than stay at her side as she trained.

You are surprised that you believe every word of it.

Cirucci blinks in brief surprise. Then she smiles - for a second a genuine, heartfelt smile, and then her temperament reasserts itself and it becomes a confident smirk, her eyes gleaming.

“Good. I would hate to have to throw you out on the day before my ascension. You’ve been… Most valuable, darling.”

You’re not really listening, though. Something has caught your attention and distracted you. You frown, eyes darting away from your patron’s.

Yes, you believe she can do it, but not… Not like this.

“What do you mean, ‘not like this?’” Cirucci says, eyes furrowed, voice outraged. “I trained, and with every day that passes Yammy’s power-”

That has nothing to do with anything. You cluck your tongue, your hand releasing her wrist and grasping the front of her blouse (she gasps). You shake your head.

You simply can’t let her go do battle to reclaim her rank of Espada with such tattered clothes.

Cirucci stares at you for a few silent, confused seconds. Then she bursts out laughing.

“I can’t believe it! To think that I’d be the one so engrossed in thoughts of the fight as to forget proper dress, and that you would be the one to remind me... That’s too precious,” she ends chuckling.

“You’re right, of course. I can’t meet my ascension dressed like this. I trust your work will be done by tomorrow,” she says with a smirk. She gently pushes your hand away from her dress, turns her back to you, and… Her uniform slips to the ground.

You’re not sure how she did that. It has no obvious clasps or a zipper or…

You blush mightily, averting your eyes from the black-and-white of lace on skin, and hear her chuckle. Her footsteps are a soft patter on the ground. When she’s gone, you lean down and take the ruined dress, full of scorch marks and tears. In a way it reflects the state of Cirucci’s precious fort, its pillars shattered, a thin coating of red dust everywhere on the ground.

This is not something any ordinary tailor could fix without making it a horrible mess of patches and visible threads. But then again, you are no ordinary tailor.

You slink away to your bedroom, the dress clutched tight in your hands.

You are long working on Cirucci’s uniform that “night.” Needle and thread beat a simple dance, weaving in and out, your reiryoku flowing with them and harmonizing the work, blending materials together.

You were only going to repair it at first, but the work is intoxicating. You feel you can understand why Alphonse does what he does. It feels so easy - take a few strands off your Gillian cloth, weave them in to make the material just a little more coarse but a lot more resilient. Tear out two of your own hair and make a seam of them, making the fabric lighter, imbuing it with a shred of your own energy. The rest is tricks of the trade, a twist and turn in the way you shape the power imbued into the cloth - you don’t understand what you’re doing, not on an intellectual level, but you know the gestures to make and you know what they will accomplish.

When your work is done you look at Cirucci’s new dress. It is almost identical in look but for the fetching black-and-grey thread giving it a wavy pattern. It is armor of a kind - not strong enough that Cirucci will notice it in pitched battle, not enough to make the difference between victory and defeat; but a slight advantage nonetheless.

Exhaustion only catches up with you then, when you are done. You sigh deeply, folding the fabric and leaving your room to deposit it carefully at Cirucci’s door. Then you come back and collapse into your bed.

No sound wakes you up; Cirucci never call out loud for you anymore. It is a vague but certain feeling, an awareness of a presence, reiatsu brushing your skin and mind, that rouses you. You blink and rub your eyes, sitting up in bed, and there she is looking at you.

Wearing the uniform you made for her. You feel a pang of pride, which you do not show as you look up at her.

“It’s time,” she says simply, her face firm and resolved. No smirk, no self-aware arrogance, her affectations are gone to leave only focus on the task ahead of her. It’s a sobering sight, and you hop out of bed, grabbing your own uniform. She turns away and you follow hurriedly.

Tilted pillars, halfway-broken and standing at an angle, form an arch over you as you walk across the room. You try not to think of it as an ill omen, but the thought still haunts you.

Ren is there, outside the crypt for once. Clutching some book against his chest, he watches warily as Cirucci approaches. Your patron stops, hand on her hip, her imperious composure restored for a moment.

“Today I challenge one of the Espada,” she tells him confidently. “If I am not back within a day, consider your obligations towards me fulfilled. Go wherever you wish; no one in Las Noches will care enough to stop you. But if I am back within a day and see that you have run away…” Her eyes smolder with threat. “...Nemo will find you, and destroy you. She is quite proficient at it.”

You blink, surprised. Then you hastily put on a mask of stern loyalty, just before Ren eyes you over dubiously. Finally, he nods, and goes to turn before stopping halfway.

“...Good luck, mistress,” he says over his shoulder, and disappears down the stairs.

Cirucci smiles smugly. You wonder - sarcasm was thick in the word ‘mistress,’ but not in his wish of good luck. You are not sure what this man is about.

“Come,” Cirucci says, her high heels clicking on the stone floor, raising puffs of red dust. You hurry after her, and soon you are both gone.


It takes you some time to realize that you are not heading towards Yammy’s dwelling. White columns rise from the sand in the distance, two rows like the ribcage of some dead giant. You’re not sure what is happening, but dare not ask for now. You simply follow.

A great oval groove has been carved into the sand, beaten by millions of steps into something like a road, hundreds of yards in length, dozens across. It circles around one row of white pillars, square white stones marking an edge around them. On one side are the other columns you saw in the distance, taller than those at the center, with more space between them; on the other side are stands - rows of stone benches rising all along one side of the trail, half-covered in sand blown over them for years.

“Welcome to the Racing Grounds of the Forgotten Tercera,” Cirucci says, putting her hands on her hips and looking at the vast, yet oddly simple place.

You swallow nervously. The Forgotten. Not Tier Harribel, not even Dordonni - the other, the one who disappeared.

“She got just as bored as any of us,” Cirucci says wistfully, “but she wasn’t one for picking needless fights. So she raced. Against no one but herself, day after day. There was no trail when she began; she hammered it into shape with her endless course. Always chasing after… Something. We never understood what. Her Fraccion built the stands, even though there were never enough Arrancars in Las Noches to fill them, and even though no one would come watch a race with only one competitor.”

Her eyes narrow and she clucks her tongue.

“I never got them. Any of them. And now I suppose I never will.”

You step closer to her, watching the grounds ahead, then look up. You don’t have to ask.

“My fighting style - it relies so much on mobility. I need an environment that impairs my opponent while providing me with cover and platforms to attack from above. But even if my Pillar Room hadn’t been ravaged in my training, Yammy’s true form is taller than my roofs - than any of my pillars.”

You nod. This place makes sense - it has pillars taller than his Resurreccion, and these stands. But you’re not sure they’ll withstand the fighting for long.

“It’s better than nothing,” she shrugs… Then looks at you with a dangerous grin. “And now… I need my faithful second to bring him here.”

You freeze.

“I can’t very well drag Yammy onto my battlefield if I show up and challenge him myself, can I? He’ll just try to punch me there and then. And it would be grossly uncouth. No, no,” she says shaking her head, “I’m afraid you must go and bear the word.”

You look at her, eyes narrowing behind your mask, and Cirucci has the good manner to appear contrite.

“Oh, come now. If he went off into that forest to hunt a shinigami he’ll only be delighted to fight me. Or if he fears he may hurt the messenger, feel free to come up with some excuse. All that matters is that he gets here. Then I can tell him exactly why we’re here.”

You sigh and don’t answer. With one kick you’re off running away from the Racing Ground, Cirucci watching you as you go.


You slow down as the approach of the square building in which Yammy spends his time. Now that you’ve gotten a taste of it, you are keen to the particular flavor of his reiatsu; even from outside you can smell the scorched wood and flesh, a hint on the breeze, and hear the beating of his terrible steps.

You don’t want to go there.

You have to.

You walk slowly in the dark, climbing the stairs down to the dark basement. The pungent smell of Cero-cooked meat fills the air - a true smell now, not an echo of reiatsu. He must have feasted recently.

You hear voices, becoming clearer as you descend; you slow your steps. You’ve always been an eavesdropper at heart.

“...you mean, ‘you can’t heal it’? Isn’t it your job?” You recognize Yammy’s voice immediately.

“I’m sorry, but it’s too late! This scar is already a week old!”

“A week ago I thought it would fade on its own!”

“Y-yes, but, you sustained that wound in your released state, so it won’t heal from your Resurreccion. A-and Arrancars don’t have High-Speed Regeneration, so-”

“You’re a shit medic, you know that?” Yammy says, his voice rising.

Before you’ve realized it, you’ve turned the corner of the stairs and your hand has knocked on the wall to announce your presence. You feel you throat tighten as you realized that you interrupted an Espada’s conversation.

You had to interrupt it. You feel it in the air, the fire of his anger, rousing bit by bit. And you know who he is talking to.

They both look up at your entrance. Yammy frowns, no recollection on his face; his face is disfigured by broken stitches across the large scar covering his eye and cheek - the Masked Hunter’s last deed, to brand one of the Espadas forever. 

Esmeralda blinks in surprise, frozen for a moment with her hands on the wound. Her mouth silently shapes your name, a question.

You clear your throat, unsure when to announce yourself, and that’s when Yammy’s eyes gleam. He gives you a toothy grin, shoving Esmeralda aside so he can stand up.

“Forest girl! God, you’re as scrawny as the last time we met. Here, have at it,” he says cheerfully; from a nearby table he produces a haunch of seared meat and tosses it across the room - the thing weighs at least three pounds and would have easily knocked you over, but you have taken lessons with a harsh mistress. Your hand whips out of your cloak, catching the meat by the clean part of the bone, and you follow up with a gracious bow.

“Why you here? Got some other hunt for me? Ulquiorra still says I can’t go to the mortal world to get one of their picture-boxes, can you believe that? I’ve been making lizards fight for fun, but what’s the fun in a fight between things that can’t punch?”

Esmeralda stares at you with wide eyes, making wild but silent hand gestures from behind Yammy. It’s distracting, and she’s not very good at it - you don’t really know what she’s trying to say, except some vague sense of a warning. You tilt your head towards her and flash what you hope is a reassuring smile. She sighs.

Then you look at Yammy again as he tears into a piece of meat of his own, his small dog at his feet barking loudly for scraps. Your throat tightens. The haunch feels heavier than Polilla in your hand.

It doesn’t matter that he seems to like you. He’d crush you quick as breathing if he got bored with you. And Esmeralda, his anger rising before you entered the room and distracted him… And Cirucci, who will take his place, and will be a better Espada than he could ever be.

You see the forest again, the shattered trees, the scorched earth. You remember grasping at the shinigami’s cloak, half-burned in his Cero. Your fault.

[X] Challenge him for Cirucci’s sake.
[ ] Challenge him for the sake of your regrets.
[ ] Challenge him to get him away from Esmeralda.

Chapter Text

She is waiting for you.

All of this is for her sake.

You stare up at Yammy’s face, his looming frame taking up so much of your vision, his reiatsu intoxicating, smoke from a distant fire edging closer every second. You raise your hand, and point to him.

Cirucci Thunderwitch challenges him in single combat for his title of Tenth Espada. Even now she is waiting for him at the Racing Grounds of Nel Tu Oberschwank.

Yammy stares at you in silent surprise for a few seconds. Then he bursts out laughing.

“Cirucci? That stuck-up brat? Her last defeat didn’t show her how bad an idea that was?”

You repress a shiver and lower your hand, but you look at him still, eyes firm, not looking away.

“Know what happened when she lost her seat?” He says with a grin. “Lord Aizen was watching and ordered she was spared. There was still ‘use for her,’ he said. But if she’s dumb enough to come looking for another fight on her own? Ain’t no Aizen’s favor gonna save her this time. She’s dead.”

You still don’t look away. His eyes narrow, peering into yours, and he scoffs.

“You were fun. I can’t believe you’d throw in with that idiot. What a waste.”

You don’t look away.

“Fine,” he bursts out. “I’ll fight her! It’ll liven up my afternoon. Show me those ‘racing grounds!’” But before leaving you time to react he swaggers out of the room, his elbow thoughtlessly pushing you aside as he heads up the stairs.

Esmeralda is standing very still and very quiet, eyes wide as she stares at you. You look back, try the smile again. It falters.

“What are you thinking?” she whispers. “A Privaron against an Espada? He’s going to murder her! And you’ll be collateral!”

You shake your head. You believe in her. Esmeralda hasn’t seen how she’s changed, she hasn’t seen what you’ve seen. You know she can do it.

“Nemo, listen to me,” she says with pleading eyes. “I’m, I’m sorry for what I told you before. But this will be the death of you. Let her fight and die if she’s set on it, but you, you can… You can run. You can leave Las Noches. I don’t want to see you…”

She pauses, and her mouth moves, as if to say something else, but no words come out, and she just looks at you, terrible sadness in her eyes. But there is a gulf between you two, between her fear and your faith.

You know what she almost said. Perhaps, in the infinity of possible worlds, there is one in which you have not messed things up so badly. A world in which she would have finished her sentence and told you that she would run with you, away from this world of madness where your lives could only last as long as your masters’ whims.

But she didn’t say it. You smile, and this time it’s not a false attempt at reassurance. It is a sad, but genuine smile. Her hand twitches, almost reaches to hold you back from following Yammy.

You step closer and embrace her in your arms. She catches her breath in surprise.

You will be fine, you promise. Everything will be fine.

Esmeralda holds you tighter, and you feel something wet on your shoulder. You don’t say anything. You hold her for a moment.

Then the pressure of impatience and anger becomes overbearing, and you know Yammy will come to grab you bodily if you don’t hurry. You release Esmeralda, and step away.

She looks at you with watery eyes, but says nothing more, makes no other gesture. You turn away, and climb the stairs to the fire above.

You don’t see Yammy anymore. You see the shape within his skin, the giant twitching in such a small vessel, begging to burst out.

You step past him, and make a gesture of your hand. Telling him to follow you.

He smiles, and his teeth are as white as the pillars of Las Noches and the gravestones of the Hunter’s sanctum.

The pillars make her look so small. A lone woman in a frilly dress adorned with pretend-wings. Walking so close to Yammy the sands feel burning-hot - you forgot to put on your boots again. But your expression doesn’t change.

You halt your steps when you can see the white of her eyes, the glimmer of defiance in them. You step aside, leaving them to face each other.

“Thunder Witch,” Yammy says cheerfully. “How nice to sacrifice yourself for my fun’s sake.”

“Rialgo,” she answers with the same mirth. “How kind to sacrifice yourself to become the stepping stone of my ascension.”

Yammy bursts out laughing. “You really think you can do this? Shit, I thought you’d just got tired of life, of having your uselessness rubbed in your face every day being a bouncer for a fortress no one even wants to get into. But no. You’re dumb enough to think you can beat me.”

“When you were a mindless beast wandering the wild,” Cirucci says, cocking her hip, “people already called me Princess.”

“And what you’re about to learn today, ‘Princess,’ is that fancy titles and nobility and the respect of weaklings means jack shit in front of the one thing that matters: power.”

“Then by all means,” Cirucci says with a mock curtsey, “show me.”

Yammy’s smile widens. You take a step back without thinking. His arms bulge, muscles tensing, writhing beneath his too-tight uniform, his reiatsu spills out, a paralyzing presence, a power that freezes your body, squeezes your lungs, takes your breath away.

“You first,” he says, and his voice rumbles like the storm.

“My pleasure,” she answers, and in the far distance of the blindingly blue sky you hear a hurricane forming.

Her hand moves in a blur. The whip lashes out from her waist, a snake uncoiling in one dazzling burst of speed, the golden disc spinning so fast it drags in sand and forms a whirlwind, so fast you only have a fraction of a second to see it cross the space between her and Yammy. Such a blow would cleave you in half.

Yammy raises one giant hand and the disc smashes into it with a noise like a meteor. Sand blows out on every side and you must raise your arm to avoid being blinded as it reaches you.

The spinning stops instantly. Yammy is holding the zanpakutou in a vice-like grip, a shallow cut on his palm where it hit him dead-on but nothing else, his arm unbent, unbroken. His smiling teeth are like the gravestones of…

She’s gone in a flash. Yammy’s eyes widen, scanning the sands for her. Only you, who have spent so much time training with her, can follow the motion, the blur of light as it passes him and reappears behind him. The bang of her Sonido only comes a second later, sound slower than her step.

Yammy is still holding the spinning disc. That’s to her advantage. She pulls on the wire, his grip holding the disc and giving leverage, and before he can turn she’s wrapped the steel wire around his neck and pulls it taut. It crushes his throat, sounding like a chainsaw on a steel plate; his mouth opens in a silent scream and no sound comes out. She kicks the inside of his leg with one high-heeled boot and he falls to his knees. The disc falls from his twitching hands, but the noose is firm. She pulls tighter. He gasps for air.

His hand thrusts behind his back, a blind shot, but she is too close to dodge. You hear the roar a moment after the Bala hits her square in the chest, hurling her backwards.

She doesn’t let go of the whip. He’s dragged after her, his back sliding across the sands, clutching at the wire. Cirucci stands up, blood on her lips, her eyes a picture of rage. Yammy rolls on his back, firing blindly, but in a moment he’ll stand up in front of her, able to aim. His Balas are too strong, too wide to dodge. But Cirucci has been burnt once. You know she won’t let the same attack hit her twice.

She dodges upwards, leaping up onto the massive pillar closest to them, still pulling on the wire. Her feet hit the stone like drills, each footstep punching a hole in the pristine stone, and still she runs, up and up and up. She never lets go of the whip, she never lets the noose slack; she drags Yammy after her, his massive body no inconvenience to her strength, and he rakes the stone in a trail of dust and strangled screams. The knife-on-chalkboard sound of him being dragged is far louder than his voice.

You try to follow them but they are so fast. You peel your eyes, focus on Cirucci’s reiatsu which you know so well, and you see only a black-and-white rush racing up the pillar and a giant shrouded in dust following after her…

Yammy throws Bala after Bala with one hand, each impact shaking the column and making your ears ring like a bell, each one missing Cirucci by a hair’s breadth. His other hand clutches at the wire, trying to pull it off his neck and failing. Then he stops - instead he catches the wire connecting him to Cirucci, and he pulls on it with his terrible strength. Cirucci misses a step, almost falls before catching herself, punching a hole in the pillar with her free hand and using it as a hold. She can’t hold on, he’s too strong, fighting her too hard, one hand already pulling the wire away from his neck, finding air at last…

Cirucci screams fury and might and lashes out with her whip, hurling Yammy away from the pillar like he weighs nothing. The noose unravels from his neck and he flies through the air, smashing into another pillar with such strength as to carve a hole into it. For a moment he sits in rubble, dazed for the count, and Cirucci breathes in relief. There is silence, all too brief.

She doesn’t have time. Yammy’s eyes glow like a burning fire and his hand pulls from the debris, firing a new Bala. The impact is terrible, you must cover your ears as you wince from the shockwave, and the pillar Cirucci stood on is decapitated.

But Cirucci herself is flying. She kicked herself off the pillar in the moment he was firing, and now she whirls gracefully in the air, pulling her whip back to her, then lashing down. At long last it hits home with full force, the golden disk shining in the false sun in one instant before it bites into Yammy’s shoulder and sprays blood. His scream is like the sound of her victory.

A distant part of you feels like you are watching a setting sun, the disc painted red and gold, colors you haven’t seen in so long. You remember sitting on a beach in the living world, watching the sun sink behind the horizon…

The only way for Cirucci to dodge the Bala while moving close enough to strike Yammy was to jump towards the very pillar into which he crashed. Hands and feet punch into stone to form handles, and there she is ten feet above him. He looks up, and even from this far you feel her dread.

She darts up, each step raising a cloud of dust as she runs. He follows, graceless but strong, like some great ape climbing up a tree. With each step they go faster both, two blurs of speed you can hardly follow, forming a spiral of dust around the pillar as they chase after each other. The pillar groans in final agony before it starts breaking apart, debris falling to the ground in a thunderous rain. He is almost on her, but she is running still, running to the top…

The pillar has sustained too many fractures and finally shatters. In its last moments Yammy pushes himself to the top, but Cirucci was there one second before him and jumped to the sky; he reaches out with one hand, tries to grab her, but his hand only brushes the hem of her robe, and he begins to fall…

She smiles white and wide and flicks her hand, and the spinning disc above her comes crashing down. You hear it now, the sound you have come to recognize as the reason for her title, the crack of thunder. The bloodied disc comes striking down like a lightning bolt and smites Yammy out of the sky, sending him crashing straight down through the rock of the falling pillar. He falls like a meteor, stone exploding in his path, all the way down, down, down until he hits the sand in a conflagration. The impact shakes the ground so hard you have trouble standing up, and then the wave of sand comes rushing at you - you pull your scarf up to cover your mouth and eyes and only your spiritual senses let you feel the rocks coming ahead. You duck to the ground as titanic shrapnel from the fallen pillar hit the sand all around you.

You pull the scarf down, desperate to see the fight, to make sure she is all right. In the sky Cirucci whirls gracefully, and you see her eyes fall on you, her mouth smile, her hand make a gesture of false modesty. She lands on the stone stands, her perfect composure marred only by a single Bala. Her reiatsu is laughter and whirlwinds and the sound of the storm.

She can do it. Gods, she can do this. It’s terrible to behold, and yet you can see, her every step is perfect, rehearsed over days of fighting with someone on her own level, her skills honed far beyond what they had once been...

There is a scream, so terrible as to make you cringe and step back, your back hitting cold fallen stone. The rubble from the pillar explodes and Yammy emerges, bloodied and bruised and wounded, charging towards the stands. Cirucci smirks and darts away - he is only running; she is using Sonido. She puts her free hand on the wire of her whip, pulls on the other, and with a flick of her wrist she sends the disc spinning. It circles around her free hand, a mad blood-gold circle only two feet behind her. Yammy runs like a mad beast, using hands and feet both to hurl himself across the stands. He gets close, so close, but the whirring disc cuts across his chest and face and arms again and again and he screams in pain. Cirucci races ahead, always faster, slowing down just enough that he can feel he might catch up to her, just enough that he puts himself in the range of this whirring pain, cut and cut and cut again…

And then his hand snaps and catches the wire. No skill, just the simple chance that comes with trying again and again.

Cirucci’s eyes widen in shock, and his in joy. His fist clutches on her zanpakutou. She can’t let go of it, and she has only a fraction of a second to react. It’s not enough. He pulls on the wire and she comes to him like a deer frozen in headlights, hurled across the air.

He meets her flight with a fist, smashing her down into the stands. She screams in pain. You feel your threads unravel, the power you built into her uniform strain under the blow.

He punches down again, a Bala stronger than any physical blow, and she hurtles through the stone, without breath to scream now. He raises his hand again, his power waxes like a firestorm in the wind. He strikes down, the stands erupting in dust, their base broken, falling apart. Stone benches become so much debris, and fear grips your heart, tight as a hanging knot.

There is quiet, and it brings you no relief. Yammy exhales heavily, then spits a bloody phlegm. His entire body is patterned with bloody cuts and harsh bruises, but he still stands. He reaches down into the stoney debris, and pulls out your protector. You try to feel the thread, and they are there, still holding, but so thin…

He holds Cirucci by her neck, in one hand, her face level with his. He grins.

Her uniform is tattered. The blouse tore around the chest, where all his blows hit. Four strikes only where she landed a dozen - but there is no justice in this; each of his blows was worth three of hers, and her skin is black with bruising and broken bone. Cirucci gasps for air, tries to form a word, and his hand clutches her throat, squeezes the breath out of her.

“You know what?” He says, a manic edge to his voice. “I think you're not fun to fight. You’re one of these quick-like bastards, ducking around, harassing me with too many attacks and crumbling the moment I lay a hand on you. That’s so fucking annoying.”

You’re running. You hadn’t realized you were, but now you’re racing across the Grounds, between the debris of the broken pillars, towards the stands. Your heart is beating madly, and you’re - you’re crying. Your eyes are filling with tears.

“I think this fight would be even more annoying if it went on a little longer, you know? So how about I don’t let you release your sword,” Yammy says, his voice full of joyful spite. “How about I crush your throat here and now and we call this a done deal?”

His hand squeezes Cirucci’s throat. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Her eyes are half-closed, hazy with pain and tears. Her hands hang limp at her side.

You stop in your tracks, standing down in the sand, looking up at the shattered stands where he stands. And you feel his power, but it ignores you, his reiatsu burning with wrath around Cirucci. He has not one glance or thought to spare for you - all his attention to her, and to her last moments.

You are terrified.


[ ]Despair. You were wrong, so wrong. She could never make it, she could never defeat an Espada. And now it all comes crashing down...
[X][Style] Cirucci asked if you believed in her and you said yes. And you meant it to your bones. Call out to Cirucci, and remind her of her promise of victory. You can’t watch her fail, and you know in your heart that she will not.
[ ][Marana] Catch the thread that connects you to Cirucci’s dress. Pour your power into it, weave an armor for her, no matter how much it exhausts you. Even without fighting her battle you can give her your power.
[ ][Thief] Cirucci can’t possibly win this, not alone. You have to save her. Yammy is ignoring you - suppress your presence, move in closer, hit him as hard as you can when his defense is down, and give Cirucci a respite.

Chapter Text

No. This cannot happen.

And you know it in your heart, that this is not a cry of pain and rebellion, but a shout of certainty. You know in your bones - she cannot fail like this.

You let that certainty spill out of your mind and into the world. You let that faith fly on the wind of your reiatsu. Your power burns like a candle in the night, the sand hissing as it is blown away from you. You clench your fists and feel the shadow within your sword writhe and stretch out its wings. Your cloak billows at your back and it is no cloak, it is these wings, tattered memories of your strength.

They feel it. Yammy’s hand stops squeezing and his head turns towards you, the muscles of his neck bulging, motion like a continental drift, eyes like wildfire. In his hand Cirucci gasps for breath.

You feel no fear. You stare into him, past the fire of his eyes at the shackled giant, and you stand straight and firm, fists clutched at your sides. Tears stream down your cheeks, but they are tears of anger, not sorrow. Your eyes narrow, your expression one of spite.

You open your parched mouth, breathe in sand and scorch, cough once. That makes him chuckle and tighten his grip. You breathe in harshly, a hissing sound like a wound.

And you say,

“I believe in you.”

Cirucci’s eyes open. Her voice comes out in a wheezing laugh, pained and yet sincere. Yammy snaps his head towards her, brows furrowing heavily.

“What’s so funny?” He spits.

“I’m… Sorry…” Cirucci says, her strangled voice coming out in fragments. “Sorry that… My pride… Caused you worry.”

His hand tightens, and she yelps, an animal sound, pained and fearful.

“Fuck do you think you are?” He growls, lifting her higher in the air, his aura smothering her own, so dense now it seems like the air around them is glowing red. “Talking like you got a way out of this…”

Her free hand twitches, then reaches up, to the lace of her blouse. Yammy does not notice, or does not care. This hand holds no weapon, and has no strength. He only squeezes tighter, and her breath goes out with a rasp.

She reaches into her uniform, and pulls out something which shines white in the sun of Las Noches. Then her arm falls limp, and it slips out of her hand.

The white butterfly you forged from Findor’s mask falls onto the rubble.

The hurricane laughs and laughs and laughs as it swallows them both. Her reiatsu is joyful madness, manic freedom, and it bursts from every pore of her body. She glows a dark purple and Yammy’s eyes widen, uncomprehending. He crushes her throat, but her skin is like stone, it does not give. She breathes in deeply, sighs with relief. Yammy raises his other hand to put it on her neck, but she raises her own free hand in turn and catches his fingers, wrenching them. He screams in pain, his grip around her releases; Cirucci falls on her feet still holding his hand. She flicks her right hand and the whip surges out of the stones where it fell, behind Yammy, and bites his leg as it comes back to her. He falls to his knees.

She lets go of his hand, braces her arm and clenches her free hand into one small, frail fist. When it hits him in the jaw it is like a hammer on an anvil, and the anvil gives. He’s hurled back across the stands, and she darts up, each step crossing a flight of stairs; she lashes down at him as he tries to stand up, golden disc drawing blood three times. He tries to catch it out of the air, but it is so fast, too fast, he only flails around like a maddened child.

He leaps once, crossing the space between them, falling down on her like an avalanche. He punches with earth-shaking force - and his fist hits the air, her flash-step sending her in the air above him. He hits only stone, cracking the stands, and before he can turn her whip uncoils and opens his back in a spray of red. Broken by his own strikes, the stands crumble underneath him, sending him toppling down. She strikes as he falls, pushing him further down, painting the stone red. Yammy moans like an angry bull. A Bala streaks out from the dust, but she’s already gone, dancing lightly on the sands.

Yammy comes barrelling out of the heap of stone, sending debris flying everywhere. She’s standing her ground now, not running; her disc streaks forward in a straight-on blow, like her first attack, and just like the first he reaches to catch it out of the air. His hand hits the disc - but this time it is too fast and too strong, the spinning slashes at his palm, his fingers have no grip. He pulls his arm back, screaming incoherent pain. She flicks her wrist up, brings it down - the disc smashes down on Yammy’s head, and he falls.

She steps closer to him, raises one high-heeled boot and brings it down onto his neck. He yelps in surprised pain. She coils the whip in her hand and smiles, digging her heel into his throat. Her uniform is in tatters, her skin is bruised black and blue, and yet she moves easily, her face shows no pain. Only now do you realize that you caught your breath in the moment her power surged, and you breathe again at last.

“You’re nothing without your Resurreccion,” she spits. “Your power isn’t worthy of an Espada. I thought I could beat it with half my power - and yes, I was wrong, pride had the better of me. But against my full strength? This is nothing. Show me. Show me your true power!”

Yammy gasps, his hand strikes out of the sand, a blood-red bala whose shockwave makes you step back and wince, but Cirucci ducks aside and it misses her by a foot.

“SHOW ME!” She screams, and Yammy’s eyes open. You feel it now, the burning anger, the wrath of an exploding sun.

“Destroy, Ira!”

Fire swallows them both. Fire engulfs the sands. Fire turns the stone rubble around them to so much glass. Fire rises in the air like an erupting volcano. You run away, covering your face with one arm as shards of glass hit your skin like hailstones.

The fire roars, its voice both pain and the joy of release. It takes the shape of a man, molds itself into something that should not be. It burns everything around it and in burning finds meaning. Molten lava coalesces into arms and legs, pyroclastic smoke hardens into one face deformed by anger.

The number of the beast is 8.

It is there again, that power that makes your whole body scream to run and hide and yet which paralyzes you utterly. You can only stand and watch with wide eyes as he forms out of the flame, four great legs (but he had so many more before) stomping the ground around him, two fists as great as the pillars of Las Noches clutching at the air around him.

It’s the barking that breaks your trance, the tiny voice shouting wordless approval. You look down, and sitting next to you on the sand is the Hollow dog with the painted number on his back. Yammy’s companion looks up fearlessly, encouraging his master.

You answer defiantly, flaring your power as a beacon, a sign to Cirucci that you are still looking, still rooting for her.

The purple light leaps out of the fire, and Yammy’s fist comes down on it. She is faster than he is but he is so vast it does not seem to matter, the impact of his fist on the ground quakes the earth. A wave of sand catches her and sends her tumbling.

His legs move like a great machine, a pile hammer driving on. They too are slow, but just as his hands they are so big it doesn’t matter, a single step swallows a hundred yards. Cirucci is running ahead, her whip lashing left and right, striking the Racing Grounds’ pillars. They come tumbling down, crumble against the giant’s skin, and he roars in laughter. They bruise him yet do not slow him in the least. He marches on, one mountain-hand swiping ahead to send a pillar crashing away before she can use it against him.

You wrench your body into motion as stone begins to rain around you. Eyes peeled on the fight, unable to look away, you force yourself into a sluggish run, reiatsu crushing your limbs, your whole body aching. You lean down to catch the dog, ignoring its angry barking and its tiny teeth raking against your Hierro. A house-sized piece of stone falls where you both stood a moment before. You dodge and run and follow the two warriors as they move, getting far too close, but you could not even think of getting away.

Crimson power gathers around Yammy’s fist, a whirlwind that almost sucks you in before you dig your feet in the sands. He raises his hand to the heavens like some demented lighthouse then brings it down. His titanic Bala hits the ground like a thousand bombs, the sand erupting in a cloud hundreds of yards high, and the shockwave knocks you on you back. Three pillars come down at once, broken at the base.

You see her come out of the conflagration, eyes gleaming madly, one broken arm hanging limply at her side. She is racing on the falling stones, flash-steps taking her up faster than they can fall until one last kick sends her face to face with Yammy, and her whip lashes out, an ant’s bite. But it strikes him in the eye and he recoils in pain, blood and vitreous humor spilling down.

With every beat your heart pounds harder and louder, filling your ears enough to drown the battle itself. Your eyes have gone dry from not daring to blink. You stare and you see the purple glow and beyond, you feel the power growing, surging, you know what’s coming.

One eye closed and bloodied, Yammy opens his mouth, an orb of red light forming in front of it, a single sweeping Cero which will incinerate Cirucci and the entire Racing Grounds with her. She is falling out of the air, she has no footing or support from which to launch away. The disc comes back to her hand and she opens her arm as if in invite.

“Rip, Golondrina.”

Yammy’s Cero engulfs the Grounds, and it is only sheer luck that saves you, luck that had you slightly behind him. Everything ahead of him is swallowed by a setting sun, pillars turned to dust. The ground’s quaking is incessant now, your feet slip on loose sand. You reach out to the rubble around you for support, and the dog slips out of your grasp, running ahead and barking angrily. Ahead of him is only the red inferno.

And she soars above it all, far, far above the pyre, spreading her wings at last.

You weep. You have waited so long for this. You stare up at the skies, and your cheeks are wet with tears, you smile, without thinking you reach up with your hand, as if to grasp her out of the sky, as if to hold her hand. But she is so far away…

She flies on wings of steel, every feather a blade, her arms long and ending in terrible claws, a collar of fur around her neck. The storm was shackled before, you now realize; now it is unbound, her reiatsu thunder and lightning and raging seas. She rushes down, and Yammy brings up his fist, another gigantic Bala forming around it. He hurls it like an athlete would a ball.

Cirucci folds her wings before her. The explosion is greater than your Cero could ever be, and for a moment she’s gone. The air is filled with a bitter, acrid smell, burning copper and hair.

She emerges out of the smoke and motes of light, cackling. She flaps one wing and its feathers fly out, blade-feathers howling as they cross the air. They hit Yammy’s chest and face and he stumbles back, four legs struggling to maintain their footing. He swats at her with one hand but he is blind and she is so fast. She flies over his outstretched arm, reaches his head, and her other wing slices across his face, as big as the Butcher’s cleaver. His nose caves in, broken. Blood gushes out in a torrent, turning the sands at his feet to red mud, the smell overpowering. She’s already flying away, the blades hurtling back to her, sliding back onto her empty wing like swords on a rack.

“First Waltz: Ala Cortadola.”

“You bitch!” The titan screams. He breathes in, his lungs bellows that pull in all the air around him, causing whirlwinds to emerge on the ground, sucking in the sand. His mouth glows like a red-hot iron and he exhales, a Cero aimed at the sky. The skies go dark, the false sun of Las Noches is eclipsed by this brightness; the red stream swallows the sky, shaking you to the bone.

When it is gone you see nothing. You scan the world in a panic, focusing on your senses, and there it is - a faint trace of power. Fear grips your heart and makes your stomach churn.

Then you realize this trace is not faint because it’s grown weak; it is faint because it is so far away. Your eyes catch up to your spiritual senses, and you see a dot in the sky, racing away.

“You think you can run now?” Yammy screams, his bloodied face contorted in an expression of pure rage. “You think I’ll let you?” His four legs beat the ground, trampling the devastated racing grounds, trying to catch up.

The dot is moving faster with every second, leaving him no hope of catching her. But you know she is not running away. Cirucci’s distant figure draws an arc across the sky, still accelerating. Waves of condensation explode around her as she becomes faster than sound, and again, and again. She circles back around and towards Yammy, and the sound of shockwaves hit you moments after seeing them. Your eyes widen. You can barely make out her wings, folded back like a falcon on the dive. Yammy reaches out with one hand, a wall of flesh for her to break upon.

She comes as a lightning bolt, purple thunder. She slips past his outstretched fingers and hits his arm at the shoulder. The sound comes a fraction of a moment after, deafening, your teeth shaking with its force. The dog ahead of you whimpers, knocked to the ground.

She flies straight through him, opening her wings. Yammy’s shoulder and arm come apart in a bloody tide, one arm as tall as the pillars it broke falling to the ground. Its hand pierces the ground, and it sticks out to the sky, a monument to your mistress.

You stand in awe.

It takes you one moment to realize that her own speed and strength were too far beyond her resilience. Her own attack leaves her stunned, fluttering in the air like a confused butterfly. Yammy’s chest shifts - he is so big you can hear the creaking of his bones and the moaning of straining muscles - blood from his stump sprays over Cirucci - and his one intact arm smites her out of the air. Her purple glow is a falling star.

“You think you can look down on me like the others? That I’m some dumb brute who can be whipped into obedience? You think losing an arm will stop me? You think pain will make me pause? I am anger! I am wrath! Every blow I take only makes me stronger! I will break you like I would break any of the others, all of them! I’ll show you! I’ll show them all!”

His muscles are bulging, his skin pulled taut against them, too tight for the shape within. He is growing taller, you realize - and his skin takes on a reddish tinge, the ridges of his brow groan and stretch and become horns, blood ceases to flow from his wound. The number on his chest twists like a mad snake, reshaping itself into the number 7. His one arm hits the ground, digging a hundred feet down, Cirucci’s pressure fading for a heartbeat.

He raises his fist for the final blow. You can no longer see Cirucci, buried in the sand. Your breath is caught in your throat, dry and painful, your eyes hurt from staring without daring to blink.

He falters. Just one moment, his eyes close halfway, his four legs shudder, and he does not strike. Blood still runs down from his stump, and blood from his nose cakes his lips, blind his eyes.

The dog shouts encouragement, barks as loud as it possibly can, calls out to him to stand and win.

You realize in that moment that Yammy cannot hear him. His power is rage, and his rage blinds him to all but the one he hates. He will never hear a voice calling out for him to live, to win, to come back home. He never could - too vast for anyone to reach him. Only powerful because the world spurns him so he can spurn it back. Your throat tightens.

Then you feel it. The caress of her reiatsu on your skin, a peaceful wind only for you, a breeze in the midst of the storm. You can almost feel her presence, her shape behind your back, her hand on your shoulder; but you know if you look there will be nothing. You clasp your hands, and breathe at least, and surrender yourself to that vision, to that ethereal embrace.

You will believe to the end.

They come before Yammy can strike his final blow. Shed when she was too far for him to see, five of her blades have raced across the battlefield, picking up more and more speed. Now they gather all at once and come from behind him, humming like frenzied wasps. He never sees them coming; they hit him in the back of the head, each one sending a cloud of dust and blood and broken Hierro, and he is sent reeling, bowing his head. Screaming again.

“Second Waltz: Alta Cortadola Dispersion.”

She comes flying out of the earth, bloodied, one clawed arm broken, grinning. He tries to catch her and she flies away, grazing his arm as if to mock him. Her wings whistle through the air. She’s soaring once more, the blades flying away from Yammy’s head and sliding back into place.

“I am the Thunder Witch,” she says with joyful spite. “The Pillar Princess, the Mistress of the Red Chamber. The storm wastes were my hunting grounds before Barragan held his throne and Aizen was even born. Today I become Espada Decima, Cirucci-”

Yammy breathes fire, his reiatsu seeps into the land. Fire bursts from the sand, vitrifying them. Smoke darkens the sky. His eyes are two tiny, smoldering suns of hatred, and he opens his mouth, a Cero like a dying sun…

She launches into it, bringing her bladed wings before her like shields. The light takes her. You can’t see a thing but you can feel her reiatsu breaking down, wings shattering under the pressure, and her still pushing forward. You remember the Butcher King, his last desperate blow; you remember throwing yourself in the same way, that moment of fate when you didn’t know if you would live or die…

She comes out of the fire like you did that time. Her clawed hand strikes Yammy’s brow, digs into his face, pushes her strained body upwards. She digs her feet into his skull, between the horns, and her feathers fly away into the sky.

“...death by love.”

The blades come down spiraling, trailing wind behind them. The smoke-choked sky opens up with a tear, a thunder like a deathrattle. You can’t see the blades, a hurricane has swallowed them as it swallows Yammy’s head; a tornado of black and purple light coming down like a bolt from god.

And then it ends. Cirucci stands on top of Yammy’s head, her arms open, fingers twitching, her breath ragged. The blades come back to her, but her wings falter, falling limp behind her like a gown of steel. She closes her eyes.

“Third Waltz. Sobre las Olas.”

Yammy’s face is carved with furrows of blood, grooves as far as the bone. His eyes roll into his skull, blank. He opens his mouth to breathe, but no breath comes.

And yet even now, he tries to grasp her, his hands slowly reaching up to his head, his lips muttering silent imprecations...

“I won’t…” His voice is broken, blood spills from his lips with every word. “I am… The strongest… Must be… Only thing I…”

His hands never close on her. With a sound like tearing skin his Resurreccion dissolves into a sea of blood. The tide drowns the sand and the rubble, and though you hastily pull your cloak over your head it drenches you as well.

Then, at last, silence.

You pull down the cloak, and look.

Cirucci is standing, breathing heavily, covered in blood - most of it not hers - a foot away from Yammy’s prone body. Her hand lets go of her whip, letting it fall gracelessly to the ground.

Then she looks at you. She does not even need to search for you across the waste. She smiles, and opens her mouth to say something - then exhaustion hits her all at once, and she falls to the ground.

You’re running before you can realize it. You reach her in a blink, leaning down, putting your hand on her arm, a silent plea in your eyes.

She sits up on the blood-wet sand and smiles at you. Yammy lies still behind her - but you can still feel a shred of his spiritual energy, holding on to life. Not yet dead. The dog whimpers as it approaches him, its muzzle prodding the giant, its paw tapping its flank, and receiving no answer.

“I did it, Nemo,” Cirucci says quietly. “I beat him. I can’t believe... “ She doesn’t finish her sentence, coughing up bloody phlegm. Her head tilts, and you know it’s swimming, dizziness from wounds and fatigue. She needs help. You stand up, ready to fetch it, to carry her if need be.

“Nemo…” She says, and her hand reaches out, catching your hand, pulling it closer. Your heart skips a beat. “Thank you. For believing in me when… When I even I didn’t. When I was putting up a facade, you knew, you knew I could…”

You clasp her fingers in yours, hold her hand tight.

“Nemo, I-”

She never finishes her sentence. You feel it both at the same time, the new reiatsu surging behind you, announcing itself with quiet arrogance. Her eyes widen, looking over your shoulder, and cold sweat runs down your back as your turn.

Then you see him.

Ulquiorra.

Chapter Text

The hole in the world slides shut like a great black maw.

The one who stepped out is just the same, a black sucking void in the shape of a man. It sucks in all feeling and emotion - joy at Cirucci’s victory, relief at her safety, even your fear at this one’s appearance, all of it gone, drained away, replaced by nothing. Emptiness.

Green eyes burrow into your skin. The darkness gnaws at your limbs.

“You.”

Your heart is not beating. Your eyes are not blinking. Your lungs are not breathing.

Then the eyes are gone, and Ulquiorra Cifer is staring at your mistress. She is shaking.

“This was your ploy all along, wasn’t it?” His voice is toneless, flat, unconcerned. “You’re the one who sent her to take Yammy to the forest and weaken him.”

The skies are a washed-out blue, colorless. Cirucci swallows harshly, tears at the corner of her eyes.

“Y-yes,” she utters painfully.

The void grows, making your limbs numb, your mind slow. Yet you find the strength to push yourself, to step between the two of them, legs shaking. You raise your hand, trying to draw his attention, to tell him that it wasn’t her idea, that the forest was your own initiative-

“Move,” Ulquiorra says, and your body answers without the consent of your mind. You can do nothing but step away. He walks past you, past Cirucci too, towards Yammy’s prone body. The dog lifts its little masked head, whimpering.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I beat him,” Cirucci spits out, each word a struggle. “I challenged him for his seat on the Espada, as… As another did me before. I fought him one o-on one, and I won.”

“You broke him,” Ulquiorra says, frowning down at the unconscious Tenth. “You tricked him into using his power before, then beat him before he could recover.”

“He-he had only strength. I made a p-plan. I was cunning, and, and resourceful, and strong on top of that. It’s worth m-more than all his raw power. I will be ten times the Espada he was.”

Ulquiorra’s eyes slide back to her. There is no anger in them, no emotion, not even contempt.

“He had a purpose. A role to fulfill. He was built for it. You’ll just be more meat for the frontline.”

“He was only-”

“Silence,” Ulquiorra says, his voice flat. Cirucci’s breath is caught in her throat, her eyes widening.

He leans down and rips shreds of Yammy’s uniform. His gestures are almost gentle as he cuts them into bandages, then wraps them around Yammy’s head and his bleeding stump of an arm. The dog lies by his master, still somehow alive in Ulquiorra’s presence, its tiny furred body shuddering as if in a deadly fever.

You see Cirucci struggle, her body tensing, twitching, and finally her mouth opens again.

“You’re not taking him! I defeated him, I have a right to deal the finishing blow!”

Ulquiorra pauses in his task and looks at her again, cold and dispassionate.

“You have whatever rights I deign to allow you.”

“I won’t let him survive so he can come back-”

His eyes narrow, and she is silenced again.

“Was this your grand design?” He says, and finally there is something beyond cold flatness to his voice, an edge of sarcasm. “To take his place while he was at his weakest then kill him because you knew that in truth, you never had the power to hold your seat, not if he came back, even at half of his full power.”

“I don’t care,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “I will grow even stronger. When he comes I will-”

“Quiet,” he says again, and his voice grips your stomach like an iron vice. The sky is colorless, the sands grey around you. You want to step forward, to say something, but you are far away, a nerveless body drifting in an uncaring void, watching them, impotent. You hear a sound like a drum in your ears and think it’s your heart - but it is not. It is Cirucci’s heartbeat, her face pale as death.

“He won’t come for you,” Ulquiorra says, and she looks surprised, uncomprehending. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

You remember Ggio Vega standing over Findorr’s broken body, but no, it can’t be like this. There is no place for Yammy in the sands, abandoned to live on his own. Anger is all that he is. He would break down the walls of Las Noches to get back at the one who hurt him.

“There is a war coming,” Ulquiorra says, standing up, eyes gazing beyond the sand, to the walls beyond the horizon. “He was to be a secret weapon, a battering ram, one who could crack open the Seireitei like the rotten egg it is. To do this he had to build his strength for months, and there is no time. In days, weeks, one month at most, it will all come down. And he will not be ready.“

He looks down to the body splayed at his feet. Yammy’s breath is ragged, unsteady, but his reiatsu is no longer fading. It holds still, a tiny red ember in the infinite darkness that has engulfed you all.

“But there can still be use for him. This body, forged like a fine sword, polished, tempered in the waters of the Hogyokou. I will take it back, and Lord Aizen will find a use for it.”

“His… Body?” Cirucci manages to say, a confused, angry question.

“I suppose he will give him to the Octava,” he says calmly. “Szayel can make use of this template. Work from it, turning him into something Aizen can use when the war comes.” He turns again to Cirucci - she stares back, you can’t read her expression. “Whatever Szayel does to him, there will be no Yammy to come back and take revenge on you. Not really.”

He leans down and passes one arm around Yammy’s remaining one, hefts him up. The giant seems to weigh nothing to him, but he is so tall that even propped up his knees drag on the ground. Yammy’s dog stands up on its legs, and manages a bark of protest. Ulquiorra does not deign to look down.

Cirucci manages to stand at least. Her body trembling she stands before Ulquiorra, panting, eyes unfocused, struggling to speak.

“Ulquiorra, you were… His… Handler. If in all the time… You watched over him… Even a single ounce of your soul came to c-care for him, you will let me kill him. Or you will k-kill him yourself. Anything, anything rather than… This.”

He looks back, and for a moment there is silence. His deep green eyes look at her and you cannot read anything in them, no expression, no emotion. You cannot tell how he feels.

Maybe he feels nothing.

“What I care about is irrelevant. I have orders. I cannot allow Yammy to die. I will bring him to Lord Aizen, who will do with him as he sees best and find a new use for him.”

Silence. In Cirucci’s eyes you see all the words she would speak, none of them passing her throat. Her shoulders are hunched, crushed in his presence.

“Here is my mercy,” says the Quattro. “My orders say I must kill any who saw Yammy’s Resurreccion and survived. But there is no point anymore, is there? He is broken. He will never be Yammy Rialogo again. The secret is worthless, and enforcing it would cost us…” His eyes look her up and down, like a butcher a calf, and there at last is the contempt. “...our new Espada. Such as she is.”

Cirucci clenches her fist, anger flashing on her face, but says nothing.

“You’ve no cause for anger,” he says. “You’ve won. You’ve taken his seat. Lord Aizen will call you to his room, and make you one of us. You will do your best to fill in for our battering ram. Everything you ever wanted, it is yours now. So…”

His eyes furrow, dark green, his reiatsu ebbs in boiling waves. He waves one hand, and the world splits open, a mouth of darkness to welcome him.

“Congratulations."

And he’s gone.

The absence of his reiatsu is a slow, sickening rush of feelings, confused emotions felt over minutes of conversation blending into and clashing against one another. You almost topple, your stomach lurching, but you repress the nausea, shake your head, rub your bleary eyes.

You step closer to Cirucci, put your hand on her wrist. She is still looking at the empty space where the Garganta closed - then she looks at you, her eyes a storm of conflicted feelings.

“Let’s go,” she says in a low voice.

You look down at her left arm, the one whose claw broke in Yammy’s Cero; black-and-purple bruises crawl up on it to the elbow. Your eyes wander on her, her cuts and burns and bruises. She needs help, you should bring her to Esmeralda, see to her wounds.

She clasps your arm, a trembling in her voice.

“I don’t care. Nemo, let’s go home.”

You nod.

You are not a medic, and what you’ve gathered from watching Esmeralda at work is at best scraps of understanding. But you are a tailor, and you do have these scraps, and so with these two things you try your best.

Cirucci is sitting on an iron chair painted white, her back reclining against the seat, her tired eyes staring at the ceiling. All around you are the broken pillars of her fort. Some distance away, a tiny, frail body lies on the ground, breathing in and out.

You couldn’t just leave the dog in the sand. He could hardly move, burned out by Ulquiorra’s reiatsu. So you picked him up and took him with you, saw him collapse immediately. He hasn’t awakened since.

When he does he will probably hate you. That’s fair.

You wrap cloth tightly on Cirucci’s wounded arm. Your mind reaches out to the armor you made out of her dress, useless now that she is not fighting; you pull the threads and weave them into the brace, hoping they will help her heal. You take a needle and pick at the cuts and lacerations she suffered from Yammy’s blow and her impacts against the stones of the Racing Grounds. You drive threads through them, and she shakes, gritting her teeth to not show her pain. You weave power into these threads, pull more from the uniform, and the skin folds smoothly in, pinkish brands where there should have been seeping wounds.

“Back there,” she says after long minutes of silence, “before the Quattro showed up, I wanted to say-”

You put a finger to her lips, and she falls quiet. There is a burn at the corner of her mouth; you take a sponge from the bucket of water you put near her chair, rub it on the patch of reddened skin. She winces; you frown at her and she looks sheepish. On the table next to you, where should be tea and biscuits, is a simple clay bowl, a gift from Esmeralda you’d long forgotten until today.

You remember her scolding you for not staying in her infirmary for a couple of days. It seems like a lifetime ago; some stupid mission, sending you to fetch supplies, tribute from natural Arrancars who wanted to be overlooked by the lords of Las Noches. Things had gone wrong, and you’d been burnt. That was back when simple Hollows could threaten your life. Esmeralda had patched you up, but you’d refused to stay, as you always did: the infirmary was her domain, and you’d never feel safe anywhere but in your curtained lair.

So she’d given you the paste, to rub on your burns. Now you apply it to Cirucci’s skin, her own burns turning a faded pink. She reclines her head, closes her eyes. Her breathing becomes slow, steady, distant.

You dip the sponge in water and press it to her hair, washing the blood and sand out of them until they are once again their beautiful dark purple, only missing their curls. You wash her face, her arms. You take the boots off her feet, and wash them too.

It is a slow, patient work. Meditative. You think of nothing as you do it. When you are done, and Cirucci is still sitting still with her eyes closed, you go fetch a brush, dry her hair, work the curls back into them - it’s only a twist of the hand, a push of mind, locks coiling gently around your fingers of their own will.

You put the brush down when you are done, and wait. After a minute, Cirucci’s eyes flutter, blinking rapidly, and open. She rubs one hand on her forehead, against the stitches of a shallow cut. She turns to look at you, and you can’t read what’s in her eyes.

“I did it, didn’t I?” She asks, a faint smile on her tired lips. “I became an Espada.”

You nod slowly.

“And you,” she says hastily, “you are my Fraccion. Virgin knows you’ve deserved that title for a long time.”

You incline your head. Something burns in your chest and you are not sure what, her words sweet and bitter at the same time.

“Unless, unless that is-” She hesitates, stands up from her chair. She looks down at you, short yet still taller than you are, her hand brushing a coil of hair. “You have more than repaid your debt. I sheltered you against Findor, but you helped me become an Espada. If you want your freedom, if you want to leave- That is all right.”

You look up at her face, and you have no answer. She chuckles.

“I’m sorry you’ve seen me like this. A Princess should always be a beacon to those who follow her, proud and noble. How can you respect me when I’ve let myself-”

You take her hand. No respect was lost. You’re proud of what she did, proud of her bravery in attempting it, and glad to have helped her, as much as you could with what little means you had.

She smiles.

“Tomorrow I will be strong again. I will take my place among them. Tomorrow, I… Tomorrow.”

She raises one hand, fingers lightly touching your cheek. Her violet eyes now seem as deep as the Quattro’s, but there is no emptiness within them, only a wind-swept sky, a storm that could swallow you.

You clasp your hand on hers. If she must be strong, she should rest. Her wounds pain you to see.

The corner of her mouth twitches, a smile, a frown, you are not sure. But she lets go off your cheek, and she turns. She walks under the tipped red pillars, not telling you good night, not saying a word.

She pushes the door of her bedroom, and you are still standing here, watching her leave. She turns back, her face profiled in the door, one eye masked by it, the other on you. Her hand brushes the stone door, she slinks away, she is gone.

The door is still open.

There is a war coming. Armies honing their spears. Lords smiling as they move soldiers like pawns. And you will be her soldier, her servant, the one she forged into what you are now, the one who helped her on the path to her ascension, the one she can always trust.

Or maybe…

The door is still open.

You follow Cirucci into her bedroom, and close the door behind you.

Chapter Text

The six of them dance eternally across the salt pan. They revel in being alive for one night longer. They praise their salt mistress for a successful hunt. They find comfort in each other’s company.

Then they feel him coming from the horizon. A lone Hollow, starving and lost, heading through their domain. He is a thing of rags and bones, eyes like coals, and he limps like a wounded horse. Their dance shifts and they slide towards him, six trails in the salt.

When they reach him he rears up in fear. He knows what happens to weak, lone Hollows beset by a pack of their peers. He expected it, but he still intends to fight.

Instead the gazelle-like leader steps out of the pack and tosses something at him. Meat, cured in salt, suffused with power, taken from some powerful Hollow. He looks up at them, not understanding, and the gazelle nods. So he takes it and starts eating voraciously.

As he does, they begin telling the stories in motion. The serpent speaks, and the others perform the dance, taking turns as heroes and martyrs. Tales of the lunar mistress who once ruled this plain, whose memory they honor with each hunt. Tales of their hunts, of their grand battles, of their past leaders. The tale of the Butcher King and their fall. Tales that are promises.

When they are done, and he is too, looking at them expectantly, the serpent pauses to think.

Then she tells a story she has never told before, and will always tell from now on. She tells the story of the pale moth, and the mercy of monsters.

The spider races across the sand, content. Every step feels like a jolt of mirth. He feels stronger than he ever has before, changed. His carapace is mighty steel, his legs swifter than a horse’s. The world seems a little less scary than it was before.

He hears the call across the infinite empty. He turns his steps, head towards the tilting moon.

The village is built in the face of a cliff, each house a small cavern dug by sheer force of arms and patience. The Arrancars that dwell there are tiny things, weaker by far than the spider’s friend; they fear even him, some retreating into their homes at his approach. He is not offended; it is wise caution on their part.

Their chieftain makes an apologetic smile as she comes out of her own home, the lowest in the cliff. Two Arrancars follow behind her, dragging the bag of supplies. They exchange words, the spider teasing them about her people’s shyness, her quipping about how he’s so big and strong he looks almost like a Menos. They chat about the times, the fall of the Butcher King, the sound and fury that destroyed an ancient palace; they share rumors of war in a low voice.

When the two Arrancars are done loading the supplies into the hole in the spider’s back, the chieftain produces a small pouch, full of blue-glowing powders; the spider chitters happily, and she hangs the fragrant mushroom perfume on one of his mandibles, a token of thanks for his work.

He waves them goodbye, and is gone again, racing under the moon. There is another village, somewhere in the distance, who needs what is in his back. Hollows cannot not trade, not when the desert is so vast and perilous.

But the desert is his playground. He runs, a sweet perfume his reward.

He sits next to the fire, tormented by his thoughts.

It’s hard to be tormented in such company. It takes some willful effort. The other four - the giant worm, the two masked ones, and the Arrancar child - are running around the dunes, giggling and jumping around as they try to tag each other. At times he looks up from the fire, watching them. He said he was standing guard for Hollows that might sneak up on them, but the truth is that he doesn’t understand what they’re doing.

He can’t remember ever playing such games in the halls of his king.

In the fire he sees things he’s lost, like shadow play, flicking in and out of his vision.

Once, he looks up from the flames, and the others are gone. He stands up, worried, afraid they left him alone. But even now, with this deformed mask of his, with his power stunted, his senses are as keen as they ever were. He can feel them, buried in the sands. He does not understand. Perhaps they were sucked into quicksand pits. He stumbles - at times his weakened self still surprises him. He heads for the closest light, the child’s, and kneels down into the sand, digging with his bare hands. He sees a head of green hair emerge…

She jumps at his face, laughing joyfully. He doesn’t understand, asks for an explanation.

He doesn’t know what this ‘hide and seek’ is. She sighs, and patiently explains it to him. They thought he just didn’t like running, so they figured a different game than tag, one he could play with them.

He stares at her, for a moment, holding the thought in his mind, admiring it like a strange and foreign object.

Then he stands up, smiling a little, and walks around the dunes loudly saying he’s looking for the other three, pretending he can’t feel them. The girl points him to places where they are not, giggling, trying to lead him astray.

It is all fair play.

The scientist looks at the giant, tapping his chin. Thoughtful. Smiling.

The chains only serve to prop him up; the beast could easily break through if he was awake and had his power. The tubes and cables piercing his skin keep him docile.

The scientist thinks of how he might reinject his body with a healing factor, heighten it so that every wound is healed too far, turning to scales and hardened skin and spurs of bone. He thinks of how he might refill this living energy tank, forcefully pouring reishi into him. He thinks of how it might change his body, how it could damage his mind.

Secondary concerns.

He looks down at his notes, motions to one of his mindless assistants to bring him refreshments. He’s always drawing new patterns, calculating doses and rates of injection, reiatsu measurement, mutability factors, anaesthetic values.

Uncousciously he starts whistling. He’s been quite bored lately. This is good work, and no small entertainment.

Yes, he will make the giant into something... New.

The healer is sitting in her office, looking at her shelves full of bottles and jars of medications. None of them will help the sickness that ails her - for she is sick only with worry.

She wishes she could feel the fight that must be tearing up Las Noches, and is glad she cannot. She doesn’t want to know.

And there is no work to occupy her mind. No one to heal, no errands to run, no Numero to fetch for an Espada’s whim.

She sighs, and her eyes rest on something on her shelves.

Well. Perhaps there is a medication against worry. She reaches for the bottle of spirits and pours herself a drink.

Soon, she is no longer worried. She knows her friend - and she is her friend, she knows this deep down - will survive whatever comes. She starts drawing plans to talk to her, make things better between them, find some activity, if that stuck-up boss of hers leaves her time. She’s forgotten that boss is probably dead.

When someone else finally walks into her office, her eyes widen and she tosses the cup under a table. It’s the shark-faced boy, who got into a scrap with one of the Tercera’s girls; he’s full of cuts and bruises. She sits him down - forcefully - and starts poking at his skin with needle and thread, perhaps a bit strongly.

The questions spill from her mouth, asking about the fight she heard might take place, about its outcome. He stares at her baffled, then finally tells her of the clash of titans, of the giant’s defeat.

She listens, stunned, then laughs.

Everything will be all right.

The moth lies awake in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

It is not her bed.

There is a hand wrapped around her chest, and a soft, sleeping breath next to her ear. These are unfamiliar things to her. New things. She dares not look down from the empty ceiling, lest it all slips away, revealed to be a dream.

There is no night in Las Noches, so they pulled the black curtains, filling the room with shadows. She feels at ease there. The thing she was when she became shadow is there, in every corner of this room, but it is not a threat. She belongs in this moment, private and quiet.

She looks down at last. She sees pale skin hard as marble under the touch. She sees violet hair and closed eyes. She sees stitches and burns. She sees something strong, and beautiful, and fragile.

She smiles, and brushes a lock of violet hair.

If she says something in the dark, there is no one awake to hear it.