A/N: This is just a series of oneshots focusing mainly on my favorite characters, but I'll be chucking in some of the more...interesting characters when I get the chance. The writing's pretty heavy going, so please bare with it; I was trying my hand at exploring their personalities. If there's anything you don't quite get or if you have any questions about my weird way of portraying things, then don't hesitate to ask!!! Oh, and just so ya know, the strange poem-like thing is written by Kubo for each of the characters on the front covers of the manga. Just so you don't get confused.

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Disclaimer: Randomismyname owns nothing featured in this article...except maybe her warped style of writing...heh.

A Question of Character

There is no meaning to our world.

There is no meaning to those of us living there.

We meaningless beings ponder the world,

Though the realization of meaninglessness

itself means nothing.

(Tite Kubo)

Ulquiorra Cifer (Schiffer)

It was in his nature, so they said; not to feel. Not once had he ever been seen to smile. Not once had he ever frowned. He was void of all emotion, hardly a sentient being for all of the personality he exuded. A machine. A useful object created by its master to serve a singular purpose.

In his case: to kill.

This was easy enough to see in his every move; there was something predatory in his stance; threatening. The elegance with which he moved bore an air of tense patience, as if waiting, watching; always ready for attack.

He expected one.

He had never been seen to relax at any point in his existence, save for a characteristic habit of burying his hands in his pockets. As far as his comrades knew, he was what he appeared to be; cold, aloof and flat. This knowledge in itself was no great achievement; he had made no effort to get to know them, and they had returned the gesture with little regret. After all, despite their misgivings, they were not so different from him.

Perhaps, then, what they found so objectionable about him was his iron self-control: it unnerved them. If he were angry, he would not show it, if he were happy (something which seemed far too unlikely to be plausible) he would not seem it. The only indication of emotion that was ever shared among his peers was the occasional twitch of a hand, or a stiffness in the shoulders that indicated his yearning to kill; to put them down before they could enrage him further.

After all, they were only trash to him.

It was peculiar, to say the least, therefore, that he should have an expression that countered his personality so solidly. Although his features themselves remained permanently fixed in a blank, dead state, at first glance, it would appear as if he were weeping. From his empty, vivid green eyes there trailed an acidic line of a similar hue, running needle-sharp lines over his high cheek-bones and down to edge of his jaw, past his inky black upper lip. With his skin already such a drastically pale tone, it could almost be believed that the line had been carved into his face, the features themselves crafted from stone, and considering how little they moved, the belief would not be unfounded.

It was an interesting face; young, yet ageless, and could perhaps have been considered handsome in its own, atypical sort of way. The structure was pleasing enough; strong jaw, well-formed and not too heavy, straight nose and nicely-proportioned eyes and forehead. His hair hung softly around his face in thick black locks, the smooth texture forming a sharp contrast with the jagged tresses that fell past his neck, finishing at a point between his shoulder blades. Even the helmet-like mask that protected one side of his head contributed to this effect; the bone-like material creating a flexible armoured plating that adjusted to his every move, and the horn shaped like a moth's antenna protruding from the side, appearing far more delicate than it truly was.

However, of all his attributes, the eyes were the most captivating. They were long and narrow, framed by thick black lashes that shadowed, infinitesimally, the violent shade of emerald that made up his irises. The pupils were no more than slits, rarely changing their size even in the darkest of rooms, and the way in which he looked up at others, even if he were twice their height, gave him a baleful look, quite the opposite effect to what would be created had his alert nature been put on show in its stead. It was not the shape that caused this, although both it and the fiery colour contributed, but rather the alignment of his eyebrows; the black lines were thin and positioned so low over the green orbs that it appeared as if they didn't even exist. The way in which they sloped downwards almost made him seem anxious. Almost. They were only visible in a rare display of emotion; perhaps a brow being raised in cold incredulity…if that could even be called emotion.

Yet he was not without humour; his interactions with humans proved this well enough, and many would be surprised to learn of his insatiable curiosity, particularly when focused on the said species.

Being so devoid of them himself, he often found that he was intrigued by human emotions and by the peculiarities that resulted from them. In particular, what they called the heart. It had never made sense to him. Humans valued these things called 'feelings' so much, yet as far he could see, they did nothing but weaken the individual, leaving them open to foolishly easy attacks.

The Woman was a prime example of this.

He, on the other hand, could never be connected with such weakness. He had been designed, moulded and created for a purpose, his lesser sensations removed to leave only the indestructible force that was an Espada; the best of the best. He would serve his creator; his master, 'till his death, and he would be glad to do so. Having experienced life of such power, how could he ever think of returning to that fragile form he had left behind; pitiful; degrading.

Although pride was not something he would willingly admit to, having risen to such heights in the ranks of the Espada and with the knowledge that only he knew how powerful he truly was nipping at his thoughts, he could not help but feel it tweak at his consciousness on occasion, maybe even being followed by a slight twitch of the lips. This would then be smothered immediately; only scum took pride in their power over others, and despite his appearance of superiority, which was not unwarranted given his status, he had always hoped to rise above the need to flaunt his abilities in such a demeaning way.

But emotions…

The more he considered them, the more frustrated he became. Where did they originate from? Was it this so-called heart? What was so appealing about them? He would never expose himself to such trivialities, yet he could not deny his interest in the concept…to be able to feel another's closeness; the warmth of being in a comforting presence; the comprehension of another's pain, and the knowledge of how to remedy it…

Perhaps it was more than interest.

But it was not to be. A killer was not meant to feel, and a soldier did not have the right to think for himself. These…longings, he realized, would get him nowhere. Besides, he knew as well as any other that in his soul, the number of vices far outweighed the virtues, and one extra blessing was not going to tip the balance in his favour.

It was the Woman's fault. Definitely. Her and her wild emotions running riot whenever he entered her room, her behaviour becoming more and more erratic with each visit. It was exhausting and, at times, humiliating. The day that she had slapped him sprung forth in his memory all too often. She had been so cooperative before; he hadn't expected her to respond in such a way. He thought he had been helping her; showing her that there was no point in worrying for the other humans; that she should be humiliated by their thoughtlessness in chasing after her and forget that they ever existed. She, however, for some inexplicable reason, had hit him. He wasn't sure he had ever been so angry. But he obeyed orders as a rule, and knew that punishing her himself at that moment would fly too far from the original 'request' that she be kept unharmed. She seemed to have understood, though, how close it had come then to the snap. She hadn't attempted it again.

It had been that moment that the first sparks of curiosity were lit.

Patience, too, he found, was a much needed asset when it came to 'socializing' with that creature. Although mostly she had been quiet and submissive enough after that time to evoke his grudging respect, there were occasions, too many for him to be comfortable with, where she had pushed him almost to the limits of his self-control. He had never been one to suffer fools, and her incessant ramblings about food, decorations, friends and…killer robots…never failed to touch a nerve. Most notably the wrong one.

After a time, though, he found he could read her better. He knew that when she refused food she was lonely; that when she yawned loudly she was bored and that when she did it louder still, she expected him to do something about it.

He also knew that when she stood before his rapidly disintegrating body, harsh winds whipping at her hair as they stood in that barren wasteland, her hands clutched against her chest and eyebrows knitted together, that she was upset.

What he couldn't understand was why.

Why should she be sad at his death? He had taken her hostage. Hadn't she been longing for this all along? Hoping desperately that the human boy would save her?

The boy stood next to her now; apparently concerned, his fists shaking with the effort drawn from him in order to stay upright. He looked…disappointed.

Hmph. Foolishness. Hadn't the boy been trying to kill him from the start? Humans really were odd creatures.

He turned to the Woman again, his vibrant eyes, not even close to clouding over, met hers and he saw her sharp intake of breath, her shoulders rising swiftly as she fought to control whatever new sensation she was experiencing.

Without understanding fully why he was doing it, he raised his arm, lifting it towards her, his fingers stretching slightly. Her eyes not breaking contact with his for a moment, her arm did the same, the delicate, breakable skin of her hand appearing ghostly white in the light of the cold moon.

"Are you afraid of me, Woman?"

Her eyes narrowed somewhat, her mouth pulling up at the corners in a grimace. Pain…? Physical or something more…?

"No, I'm not afraid."

She stepped closer, her finger-tips now inches away from his own. He found himself irrationally hoping, yearning for her to touch him, to allow him to feel something in his last moments…

But then his own skin cracked, the tips of his fingers breaking off in asymmetric chunks before the wind swept them up and crushed them into dust. He watched calmly as the rest of his hand followed, a numb sensation creeping up his arm in warning as she attempted to move forward again, still trying to reach him. As the top of his shoulders started to vanish, though, she recognized that it was too late, her hand dropping to her side, limp and empty. He saw the blank look of loss in her eyes; saw himself reflected in them, and knew somehow that he didn't want it.

Raising the corners of his lips just slightly, he managed a smile.

The last image to embed itself in his memory before his world faded completely was of her face; hurt, yet most astonishingly, warm, as if there were something brighter to this dire picture after all. Truly strange…

Throughout his fight with the boy, he had chastised himself for being so weak, for not being fast enough; agile enough; strong enough. But when he had looked at that Woman's face, the threat of tears starting in the corners of her eyes, he had wished he had been able to know more; to understand what it was that drove her to cry on his behalf, and it almost saddened him to know that he would never find out.

Perhaps that had been his greatest weakness of all.

***

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