A real update?!

What?!

yes I know, keep the jaws up. First a few notes:

1. Anonymous readers who want to know whose who, YOU MUST LEAVE ME CONTACT INFORMATION! I'm happy to tell you but I don't want to spoil for people who don't want to know. So leave me a way to contact you.

2. Voting is underway at the dotmoon ufo awards. You don't have to be a member. VOTE FOR THE STORY. Its under in progress fics.

In case it is not painfully obvious, the past week or so has been filled with the immature antics of thirteen year old fans who probably got swept away in the Nick Simmons warpath. So let me just say this once and for all: I don't want to deal with the stupid dramatics of this fandom! Seriously i don't. I am here to write. I get involved if and when I feel that things are getting out of hand but the fact that I've had to deal with this overly dramatic crap TWICE this week just makes me want to tell all the immature, dramatic fangirls to grow the fuck up and log off the computer.

Now back to the story.


"I must not have been here for very long."

From his position next to her on the porch, Urahara looked over at the young woman. After Ulquiorra's fever had lowered, they had moved him from the bath to the bed. Despite his faint protests, he had gone to bed and fell asleep almost faster than he could say "I am not sick". As if the sickness he felt overwhelmed even his desire to deny the fact. Sick was, sick was probably the wrong word for what Ulquiorra was. he was transforming, changing and his sickness was not actual sickness it was his Spiritual Power changing. The fact that neither he nor Orihime seemed to truly understand that was a major warning sign, one that only he seemed to be aware of. Uahara turned the pipe in his hand over in his fingers, looking at the brass of the pipe. Strange, really, to think that of the three of them he was the one who had the best grasp of what was going on. But, then again, to a certain degree that had always been the case.

So was the burden of genius.

Maintaing his silence, Urahara packed and lit the pipe, taking a deep breath of the stuff. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Orihime make a face, as if the idea of smoking was somehow foul to her. When she realized his gaze was on her, she blushed and ducked her head, mumbling an apology like a guest who had offended their host. Urahara felt a smile tug at his lips. He knew he should not have found joy at the situation. At the fact that even as he sat next to the woman, the person that he had known was so far away she was now real and truly unreachable. Strange, to think that he had been the one who had helped tweak the technology further to make it do to her what it had. Taking another long drag off the pipe, he let the burning of his lungs rise up until the comforting warmth of the drug had filled him to the very brim. Exhaling the smoke, he leaned his head back and looked at the darkness. There were no answers here, no more than there were anywhere else in the god forsaken place that he found himself in. The place that he had chosen to come to.

"Does the smoke bother you?" he asked, ignoring her question entirely.

"Not really," she said, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them. He raised an eyebrow, "no more than anything else around here," she corrected herself, "you can smoke if you want. This is your home."

"I never did used to smoke," Urahara said, blowing out a stream of the smoke to contradict what he had said, "I always hated it," he shrugged, "my father--adopted father actually--he smoked."

"Well maybe that's why you do it," Orihime said, "maybe its comforting to you. Did you like him? Your adoptive father, I mean."

"I liked him well enough," Urahara said, "where I come from, if you're born into poverty like I was, our military is really the only chance at a--" he smiled widely, "at a life. I was a weak kid, the kind that got beat up a lot. I liked him because he, quite literally, saved me from the life I was in."

"Wow," Orihime said, "he sounds--"

"He was a man who knew what he wanted," Urahara said, "and he knew how to get it," he exhaled more smoke, "its surprising how rarely those two actually come together."

Orihime smiled at the no nonsense way he said it.

"So do you find it comforting?" she asked again.

"I suppose I do," Urahara said looking at the ornate pipe, amusement showing on his face.

His adoptive father had always smoked and drank in excess when he had accomplished something. Urahara supposed that if he truly was trying in some way to emulate the man then he should not only be under the influence of the smoke, he should be very drunk as well. After all, he had just accomplished something well and truly great. And to think he almost hadn't because he had been intent on his invention not falling into the 'wrong' hands. But beyond those walls was real and tangible proof that power was neither good nor evil, it was a tool. A tool to be wielded and wielded it had been. By his hand, by Aizen's and the Commander Generals--hell maybe if there was a God, he'd had a hand in it to. Because what lay beyond the walls of the structure he had been calling home was something unlike anything that walked the earth. A laugh bubbled from his lips. And to think, all of that was born out of a Vasto Lorde and a bet he'd made with the Goddess of the Flash herself fueled by both their egos. Even he could appreciate the irony of the situation at hand.

But what lay beyond those walls was something truly special.

He had spent his life trying to bend the fabric of what could and could not be done. He had thought that he'd be remembered by his inventions and what they could do. If he had been asked a day ago--was it a day? hard to tell down here--he would have said the 'untraceable gigai' was his legacy, that deceptively simple yet infinitely powerful tool that allowed wanted criminals to escape and saved lives. He had always thought that his inventions were all about what he could do with his hands, his incredible hands that were able to make wonders. He had never considered that the real key to miracles was something he could not explain, something he could not define. That his legacy was not a gigai he had created, that it was not as simple as an experiment done in a lab with an end result. No, this was something truly incredible. An experiment done over hundreds of years with so many people that Urahara had a feeling the lab report would look like something out of a nightmare. Smiling he breathed in the smoke and looked over at the young woman sitting next to him before turning his gaze once more to the small house that housed not only his legacy but that of so many others. That was what Aizen had been after, the powers of a God. And where had they fallen? Right into Urhara's lap.

"You seem very happy," Orihime said and Urahara realized he was grinning like an idiot.

"What happened to Ulquiorra is incredible," he said before he could stop himself, "truly it is. When others find out about this the ramifications--"

"What did happen to him?" Orihime asked timidly.

"You did," Urahara said, too excited to choose his words carefully, "he was made thanks to an experiment I did, one that was abused by another, but neither of us could have possibly realized that the missing ingredient was, well, was you," her eyes widened impossibly and he realized how crazed that must have sounded, "I mean," he shook his head, "not what you can do with the gold light--though I imagine that is a part of it--I well and truly mean you. You were always the missing piece of the puzzle. But," he laughed outright, "to think that it was Ulquiorra who reaped the benefits. That is an irony even I can appreciate."

"Benefits?!" Orihime cried, "he's--he's a--" she fumbled for the right word, "well whatever he is, he's going to be in a lot of trouble when the others find out. Isn't this place at war?"

"Yes it is. And what Ulquiorra can do, when his Spiritual Power finishes converting, that is going to change the face of the entire battlefield," he said, "what he will be able to do--" he shook his head, "it is going to be unlike anything the others are ready for."

As she looked at him, Orihime could not help but wonder if that was really a good thing.

Inside the house, Ulquiorra woke to the flickering lights in Urahara's house.

He felt light.

That was the only way to describe it really. Light in the head but light in his body as well, He had never thought of his hierro had weighed him down but now he felt as if he could float away. Even though he was laying flat on his back, he felt as if he could float away. He did not dare lift his head. He had a feeling that if he tried to sit up, he could very well vomit--despite not having anything in his stomach. His body ached as well and his head felt as though it was trying to escape. He could hardly blame it, he wanted to be anywhere else as well. Worse though was the feeling of being afraid. He had not seen any mirrors in Urahara's house and he was not sure he wanted to but he did know that if he lifted his hand or turned his wrist over, he would be able to see the skin that was now exposed. Rationally he had known that the hierro was toughened skin, hardened by the Spiritual Pressure that existed in the area. But he had not thought that there was skin underneath it--and perhaps there was not for the other Hollows.

Hollows he was no longer like.

Everything still felt hypersensitive and he was beginning to think that that would be the case for a while. He would wonder if this was what it was like to come alive but the thought was ridiculous in itself. You could not create life from death. Hollows, Shinigami--even the Vizards all blurred the line. They were not alive but nothing was ever truly dead. They could be hurt, they could be killed, all to enter an endless cycle. Was what was happening to him just another part of that cycle? Was he simply moving from one place to another? He remembered, vaguely, the early days of being a Hollow, when he had been ruled by panic and fear. His memories had been there. He remembered his life, he remembered his family, his friends, a life he had desperately clung to even as claws dug into his flesh and dragged him to the place he had resided in ever since. The memories had faded, as memories tended to do, lost to the seemingly never ending tide of blood and survival. Survival that pulsed through him like a living, beating heart. Kill or be killed. The strongest survived and became Vasto Lordes, consuming other Souls but not being taken over by them.

Would he remember more now?

Orihime's memories, however disjointed and sporadic, certainly seemed to indicate as much. Ulquiorra did not like the idea. He had spent a great deal of time and effort to make himself cold. To push down and away any emotion. It was impossible to be emotional when you dragged away your prey, screaming and wailing prey that prayed and begged for their families and their God. And one did not serve Aizen by giving into emotional whims. Control, that was what it was a matter of. Control and sacrifice. He had sacrificed and he had his control but that control--that control had been fractured before by the sunset haired woman sitting just outside of the house. The way she had stared at him, her eyes so wide and so full of fear, it was seared into him. And her words echoed constantly in his head. How she did not want to remember if she remembered him as he was. As the Arrancar that had kidnapped and imprisoned her. Who threatened her with IV's and torture if she did not eat. She would remember him, all that he had been, but if she continued to do so in the way she was--then he had a feeling she was not going to like him very much.

He did not know why the idea bothered him.

Taking a deep breath, Ulquiorra slowly moved his hand under the sheets. The fabric was rough, scratchy even across the sensitive skin. The back of his hand, it was sensitive now. Moving his hand further, he slid it around under the fabric, slowly withdrawing it from the sheet and moving it upwards. The air hit his skin, feeling oddly cold and sharp at the same time. Fighting the urge to inhale quickly, Ulquiorra twisted his writ first one way, then the other. His muscles were sore. How long had been since he had been sore? A very long time. Slowly he brought his hand forward, until it was in his range of vision. The skin was bathed by the candlelight, the flickering lights playing across the skin. The dust could no longer provide its feeble illusion, it had been lost to the water of the bath. There was nothing to hide the nauseatingly pale and soft skin that stretched over his bones and tendons and muscles. Nothing to offer the semblance of the lie that he was powerful and strong and capable of defending both himself and the people he had been ordered. When he flexed his fingers he could see the tendons move. If he cut himself he would bleed. Everything he was, everything he had been so sure of was gone.

It was enough to send him into waves of nausea all over again.

He pressed his hand to his forehead, his fingers pressing into his eyeballs. If he ripped one out now, would he be able to replay memories? Or would he be blind? Laying there he wasn't sure there was much of a difference. Sliding his hand across his cheek, he pulled it back and looked at his fingers and palm. There was no blue there, no bright color that had once been on his cheek. But he knew that even as he touched the skin and his hand came away clean, the blue lines were long since gone. Washed away with the rest of the creature he had been before. Still stubbornly he felt as if he was that creature. Somewhere inside he had become accustom to being an Arrancar, to being a Hollow, to maintaining the illusion of being cold, emotionless. A part of him had been sure that if he was cold for long enough, if he exerted enough control, one day he truly would stop feeling. He imagined that at some point he had been close, but that could just have been the vanity of hindsight. Dropping his hand to the bed, he felt his wrist hit the scratchy fabric once more, his skin protesting the feeling of the thing even as his mind desperately fought to silence the thoughts that tumbled through his head.

"You look terrible."

Ulquiorra fought back a wave of nausea. Just the voice, that accented, lilting, grammar butchering voice was enough to make him feel sick. A part of him argued that this was not real, that it could not be real. But just as he thought that, another part of him argued that if there was a man, nay, a being capable of tricking the entirety of Soul Society, it was the man who spoke to him now. Even as he kept his eyes closed he heard the familiar whisper of fabric, accented by the crack of joints. He did not need to open his eyes to see the figure who stood there, to know the smile that played across his features and the slit of his eyes. He did not need to open his eyes and yet he did so anyway.

He regretted the decision immediately.

The first thing he was aware of was the cloths. He still wore white, perfect, unblemished white. Ulquiorra was fairly certain that they were not the clothes he had worn in the battle but, then again, he knew it was entirely possible that they were. The next thing he became aware of was the expression on the face. The grin was still there but Ulquiorra would have been shocked if it was not. His eyes were still slitted, hair still long enough to get in his features as he grinned at Ulquiorra. When he had first met the man, Ulquiorra had been sure that much escaped his eyes. But it had quickly became clear that not only did he see exceptionally well, he saw in a way that most people did not. Despite the flickering of the candles and the covering of the blanket, Ulquirora had no doubt that the man in front of him not only knew what was going on but was very very amused by it as well. As if to confirm his suspicion, the grin widened almost to impossibility as the man turned around to fully face Ulquiorra.

"Oh don't get up on my behalf," he said clasping his hands together in front of him and Ulquiorra realized he had been positioning his hands to do just that," after all, its not as though you had any to begin with."

"W--"

"Why am I here?" there was no sound to accompany the movement. One moment he was halfway across the room and the next he was in front of him, one foot pressing onto the bed as he leaned one forearm across his knee and pressed his elbow into his upper thigh, resting his head on his chin, "isn't that obvious by now?" he leaned forward, "I am liking this new look of yours," he said, "makes you seem very manly."

"Go away," was all Ulquiorra could manage.

"Hmm," he appeared thoughtful for a moment, "perhaps, after I pay a visit to our sunset Princess?"

The adrenaline that hit him was enough to override the spinning of his head and the weakness in his limbs. He sat up faster than he would have thought, faster probably than the man with the knee on his bed would have as well. One of his hands streaked out but between the fatigue, illness and adrenaline it missed its target. The man was gone in a flash, appearing instantly once more. This time he was on the windowsill, feet pressed into the bedding. Uqluiorra felt it dent under his weight as he pressed his hands to the sill on either side of his body. Ulquiorra turned towards him, his hand falling to his side as he pressed his other palm to the sheet, forcing himself to remain upright. He felt hot and cold at the same time and it took him a moment to realize that in addition to his breathing being labored and his heart racing, now sweat was stark on his brow and back. Despite his anger, a dull thud of horror went through him. He was sweating.

"You're sweating," the man vanished and reappeared on the bed, so close that Ulquiorra could see the lashes on his slitted eyelids, "and you're burning up. Whatever you're becoming you're becoming it fast."

Cat like, the man cocked his head to the side, his smile slipping as he opened his eyes fully to look at Ulquiorra. They were the color of rubies and fresh blood--blood that he had spilled so easily. Blood that Ulquiorra remembered he too had been so good at spilling once upon a very long time ago. He had no doubt that the silver haired, ruby eyed man who crouched across from him was capable of ripping him to shreds. What he was not sure of was if he would be able to do anything to fight him--or even if he wanted to. If he could not fulfill his orders, his purpose, then what good was there in existing at all? The way that Urahara had looked at him, as though he was the answer to some long posed question, like he was the resolution to an impossible riddle, it made him think that the best he could look forward to was that he would be the reason a blond scientist undeserving of redemption was given it. If that was his life, what point was there in living at all--if living was in fact the right way to describe what he was doing. His feelings must have shown on his face because instantly the grin and slitted eyes were back.

"Don't look so blue," the man taunted happily, "that caring ain't very nihilistic of you."

The man vanished and reappeared at his earlier position with one foot on the bed, knee bent and arms folded on top of it.

"Don'tcha just love those good and helpful people. Always stickin their noses where they shouldn't. Always caring, always trying to save even if they ain't asked," he shook his head, features shadowed for a moment in memory before his head rose and locked with Ulquiorra, "just look at your girl. Brought you back, made that deal and where'd it get you? You're turning into something you sure as hell ain't supposed to be turning into and she wouldn't know me if I slapped her cross the face," he leaned forward with apparent interest, "so does she still freak if you mention something bad? Cause I heard that the Kido they worked on her is a piece of art."

Ulquiorra's eyes narrowed. The man in front of him had, at some point, been a member of Soul Society. Even if his loyalty was probably not for them he had still been with them. And given Urahara's inclination for secrets and his for riddles, Ulquiorra had a feeling that there was a way to use the situation to his advantage.

"She reacts," Ulquiorra admitted finally, "physically--"

"Nope," he said with a grin, "not physically. Powerly."

"That is not a word."

"its her powers!" he said, "they obviously bound them and made it so whatever would trigger her to remember how to use them would make her pass out before that happened," he leered forward, "unless, of course, you were in trouble and she did it on instinct alone, then she'd be fine."

"I did not think the news would reach you so soon," Ulquiorra said.

"Everything reaches me," he said, "and I reach it," he shook his head with mock sadness, "its a vicious cycle."

"But why would they bind her powers?" he asked.

"Because of what she did with them," came the reply, "bringing you back--like you are now--they probably saw her as a threat," he grinned wider, "and you know how those self righteous little fucks are now all about the preventative measures."

"Preventative measures?" Ulquiorra repeated, dumbfounded, "she did nothing wrong."

"She brought an Arrancar back to life--she brought an Espada back to life," he said resting his hand on his chin, "remember you were sworn enemies back then--and maybe you still are. What are you two exactly?" he pressed his hands together, "is it complicated?"

"I--"

"Ehh whatever," he said with a shrug, "with you two it always was complicated. Told him that from the moment he put you two together. He always believed that emotionless 'they're all trash' bullshit you spewed," he grinned and shrugged offhandedly, "course I never did. you can't bullshit someone who does it better than you."

Ulquiorra glared at the man who crouched on his bed. He looked at him with a smile. He had never thought that Aizen 'bought' what he said, not that it had been in the forefront of his mind. Aizen had never struck him as a man that particularly cared about what people thought or how they felt. What he cared about was how they acted. The arrangement had suited Ulquiorra perfectly. He could and did feel, think--sometimes without any sort of control. Even though he fought as hard as he could to have control. But his actions had always been perfect. Perfect and predicable and everything that Aizen had expected and valued in his Espada, in his followers.

"My feelings were and are irrelevant," Ulquiorra said cooly.

"Saw that already and, spoiler alert, it ends with you freaking out and unleashing all that emotional drama on someone else," he took a step back, "glad it won't be me," he grinned, "see ya round, Ullquiorr--"

"Ulquiorra?"

Panic stabbed through him at the almost tentative call of his name. The man's smile widened as he turned to the door. All the former Espada could think was that she was going to come in, come in and see the man here and he would trigger something that would have her on the ground once more. He did not think, not logically, not coldly as his body reacted on pure instinct. In retrospect he would never know why Urahara had felt the need to put Murcielago so close to him, whether it had been because of the fragile bond thanks to his fluctuating powers or because he knew that they would get visitors like the one he had. But his hand easily closed around the smooth surface, fingers finding a grip as if it had always been the weapons he wielded. Instantly he was out of bed and on his feet, his hand drawing back as he brought the weapon forward and around as the doors slid open.

He hit something.

He felt the sensitive skin of his hands protest sharply at the feeling of impact. But while he felt that way, the next instant after the moment of impact the staff swung wildly in its arc as the impact he was exerting met nothing but air. He barely managed to stop the arc of the staff before it hit his shoulder. But the brief moment of impact, that brief jar of his staff on his skin was enough to confirm that he had, in fact, hit something. His balance was thrown off, his hand ached but by the time the door slid fully open and allowed her to come inside, the only things that looked out of place were the fact that he was standing and the fact that he was holding a weapon. But still when she came into the room, her eyes widened as she quickly crossed the space between them, questions tumbling from her lips.

"Why are you out of bed?!" she asked, "and you're all flushed and sweaty--what happened to you? Why are you holding a weapon?!"

"I--" Ulquiorra began before realizing that he had no good explanation for what was happening, "there is nothing going on."

Orihime opened her mouth, probably to tell him she was not buying that for one second. But the emotions in Ulquiorra were too great. He tried to push them aside, push them down, to tell himself that her ignorance was just that. But the words, the taunts, they echoed in his head. His standing there, as he was, everything that had happened was her fault. She had done this, as surely as if she had been the one who pushed the orb through his chest. in the throne room back then. Not just her power but her words had done it as well. They'd made the deals that brought them to where they stood. It was because of her, because of their connection--a connection that was one no-one understood. Bitterness filled him at the thought. He felt like a chess piece being played by someone who knew the game--a game he did not understand. The experiment that he had been a part of, all the things that they had done to make sure--he had thought it had all ended with Aizen's defeat. He had been sure that all the experiments that had been cut short had ended with him.

He was an idiot.

Eyes widening, Ulquiorra brushed past her as he walked out of the room. Adrenaline pounded through him, erasing any semblance of weariness or soreness. He crossed the narrow room and pushed open the doors that led to the balcony. Urahara was still sitting there, pipe in hand, as he looked out at the darkness. He did not even turn as Ulquiorra strode out onto the balcony, fixing the scientist with his gaze.

"I know who brought her here."

Okay first off since its obvious who the red eyed, silver haired man is, i'll tell you right now I am part of the school of thought that believes the character has red eyes not blue-green. Because lets face it, red eyes are badass.

So was he really there? Or was it a figment of Ulquiorra's imagination? And now you've got a bit more of an idea for why Ulquiorra's like this but we'll get more into that later.

Remember if you want to know who the new wonderland/hm characters are then PLEASE make it clear in your review and/or PM. Anonymous people, remember to give me contact info please!

Next time Ulquihime goes on the road!

Please PLEASE review! You review, i update (with real chapters mind you)!

So please review!