Orihime stood at the edge of the Forest of Menos, knees shaking, hair whipping into her open mouth, sand stinging her cheeks and burning her eyes. A black shroud billowed in the wind ahead of her, and her eyes went up, and up, and up, before she caught sight of the white mask at the top of the swaying tower. It was a massive Hollow, a Menos, and it had taken less than three days outside of Las Noches to run afoul of one.

Grimmjow was, of course, unimpressed. She turned to look at him just as he settled down to recline against a sand dune to one side. She spread her hands desperately, but only managed a squeak of dismay.

"You've got this, right?" he asked, hands tucked behind his head. He took a moment as she stared at him in disbelief to sweep some sand out from under the half-mask against his right cheek.

"What?" Orihime croaked.

"Don't be such a crybaby. Just flip your hair at it, or whatever it is you do. I'm going to have a nap."

The son of a bitch actually leaned back and closed his eyes, and the Menos loomed closer.

Three days earlier, when Aizen had decided that Ulquiorra wasn't doing quite a good enough job of scaring her or whatever, Grimmjow had been summoned. It was the first time she'd seen him since she'd rematerialized his left arm and then watched as he immediately went to town on the other "Ex-Number Six," who hadn't stayed alive long enough for her to even learn his name.

"Hey, mom," he'd said, smirking, as he slouched into the room. Aizen never seemed to take much issue with anything his Espada did, including splattering each other across his throne room, but his mouth quirked with irritation at this. Grimmjow must have noticed, because he shaped up at once, greeting Aizen with the appropriate deference, though he didn't go quite so far as to take his hands out of his pockets as he bowed. Orihime mostly kept her eyes on the ground around the Espada, afraid to provoke them in any way, but something about Grimmjow's manner felt familiar. Or at least the fear she felt toward him was a familiar kind of fear.

She watched closely as Aizen informed Grimmjow of a new project he would be undertaking: an extended tour of Hueco Mundo, starting with the Forest of Menos, with Orihime in tow.

"What?!" she and Grimmjow said together. This time, Aizen was the one who smirked. Orihime lapsed into horrified silence, but Grimmjow bellowed in outrage.

"What the hell?" he asked, but watched his tone after Aizen cut him a look. "Why?"

"Miss Inoue requires training," Aizen said simply.

"Get Ulquiorra to do it, then."

"Ulquiorra has things to be about, and I suspect you have some free time on your hands now that Luppi is dead."

So that was the ex-Number Six's name, Orihime thought.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you get lazy without someone to compete against." Grimmjow snorted, as if to indicate Luppi had never been competition, but Aizen continued. "Then again, if you'd like to make hay of it, I could always have Miss Inoue resurrect Luppi from the bits and pieces Grantz has been keeping on ice in his lab."

"Like you'd bother with that hack." Grimmjow grinned as he cracked the knuckles of one hand, preening a little. "Not after he went down so easy."

"You ought to be asking yourself why I'd bother with someone who would defy a direct order, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow's jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed between Aizen and Orihime. She got that this was only partially about her: she couldn't have said whether Grimmjow was on thin ice with Aizen, but it was becoming more and more evident that some kind of power struggle was in the works between them.

"As you wish, Lord Aizen," Grimmjow growled, and walked straight at Orihime. She knew at once that he wasn't going to be like Ulquiorra, and sure enough he grabbed her roughly by the wrist and tugged her toward the door. "Let's get after it, Princess."

The memo must have been quick to make the rounds, because by the time Grimmjow had towed her to the palace exit, Ulquiorra appeared with a thick, dun-colored cloak and a satchel over one arm. Without a word, he handed these to Orihime, who took them numbly and put them on. Next he drew a piece of paper from one pocket and held it out to Grimmjow, who snatched it irritably out of his hand. He scanned it briefly, then rolled his eyes and tore it to shreds.

"Gimme a fucking break," he said. The paper bits drifted down onto the smooth stone underfoot.

"Not negotiable," Ulquiorra said, unprovoked.

"Yeah, I got it." Grimmjow grabbed Orihime by the wrist again, but—did she imagine it?—a little gentler this time. Ulquiorra followed them as far as the main gate, almost as if he had more to say, but he never spoke, and Grimmjow never slowed. His skin was hard, like Ulquiorra's, but where Ulquiorr'as was cold, Grimmjow's was raging hot: it felt like a frying pan had tipped off the stove and onto her arm. Finally, when she couldn't take it anymore, Orihime spoke.

"You can let go of me," she said, breath rasping as she tripped along behind him. "I'm not going to run. Please," she added.

Grimmjow glanced back irritably, but didn't let go.

"Do it," Ulquiorra commanded. At first, Orihime thought he was talking to her.

"Piss off, Four," Grimmjow scowled. "Thought you had shit to be about. If you've got time to micromanage, you may as well be the one to babysit—"

A sharp green beam of light—a miniature Cero, by the look of it—glanced across Grimmjow's hand. Where the light hit, a three inch band of skin immediately blackened and crisped.

"Shit!" Grimmjow screamed, and dropped Orihime's wrist. He pressed his hand to his chest and turned, snarling, to Ulquiorra, but Ulquiorra had already turned away.

"Not negotiable," Ulquiorra repeated over his shoulder as he walked back the way they'd come. "I'd hate to think what Lord Aizen might do if you mismanaged another asset, and whether this woman would go to the trouble of helping you a second time." He tapped his temple meaningfully, then both hands were back in his pockets as he turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

Grimmjow, thoroughly chastised, silently led her down the huge, empty roads between high, empty buildings, toward the massive gate at the edge of the Las Noches grounds. He never stopped clutching his burned wrist. They passed no one else, which Orihime was thankful for. She got the distinct impression that Grimmjow was sulking, and that if any of the other Espada turned up to deliver snarky comments (which sometimes seemed like all any of them were good for), chances were good that she'd get caught in the middle of a pretty major brawl.

An hour's silent walk brought them to the edge of Las Noches. With no one monitoring the gate, Orihime wondered if it was mostly for show. There was no smaller side entry that she could see, and she ended up just dashing under the grate when Grimmjow heaved it upward, one-handed, before letting it fall closed behind them with a deafening crash.

Entering the wider world of Hueco Mundo should have been like passing into the countryside, but it was essentially the same landscape as the mostly-empty city, just without the buildings. Sand kicked up around Orihime's ankles in heavy drifts as she trudged along behind Grimmjow. In the distance, she could see an endless black stripe along the horizon—presumably what Aizen had called the Forest of Menos. Closer by, silver dunes rose on either side, shifting slowly but inexorably in the constant wind. Ahead of her, Grimmjow's footprints disappeared before she could even tread over them. The motion was soothing, almost hypnotic, after all those days in her lonely little room/cell, and the wind sang a low, melancholy tune as it passed. The air felt clean and wild here, and her steps slowed to take in the scene.

"Hurry up," Grimmjow barked. "Unless you want to make camp in ant lion territory tonight."

Orihime didn't know exactly what that meant, but she picked up the pace and jogged to close the gap. Not because she was afraid of Grimmjow, she realized, but because she automatically trusted his judgement. She caught herself sneaking peeks at his profile anytime he scanned the horizon. Between the skull-like grin and the bright blue hair, she couldn't think who he reminded her of, but as time passed, she became bolder about asking questions about the landscape and the small, lizard-like Hollows that skittered out of their path. According to Grimmjow, whom she pestered until he practically vibrated with irritation, they were native species like she would have seen on any trip to the country in the World of the Living…just a little more ghostly than she was used to, given the setting. A lot of them were oddly cute, though Grimmjow kicked sand at them when they came too close.

When the wind became so harsh that even Grimmjow scowled and scraped at his eyes, Orihime summoned a shield to act as a wind-break while they walked. Grimmjow scoffed when he saw it, and made jibes at Orihime for the first half-hour after it appeared. There was a bit of a trick getting it to move along at a constant pace. It kept lagging and then jerking ahead, but sure enough, even before she got it down, she noticed Grimmjow discretely adjusting his pace to keep himself on the shield's leeward side.

Orihime smiled. He was like a grumpy delinquent, she thought, too proud and busy being a badass to even make things easier on himself. Not that she was really one to judge on that score, but she figured she came to the same problem from the opposite direction: acting like nothing bothered her so that she wouldn't inconvenience anyone else. She'd thought that was the only way to justify her presence in the world, the only way she had to be strong. It was how she'd lived her whole life up to now…but lately she couldn't have said for sure whether it had ever been worth the effort.

That night they made camp shortly after Grimmjow announced that they were out of ant-lion territory, whatever that was. By that point, Orihime was too exhausted to ask. She checked the bag Ulquiorra had given her earlier that day, but there was no tent to be found, only some basic dried foods, a coarse blanket, and a water-bottle that she drained three times over before she realized it was spontaeneously refilling itself. Grimmjow refused her offer to share with a sniff.

"What should we do for shelter?" Orihime asked, pawing through the contents of her bag one last time, just in case she'd missed a little puptent or tarp.

"Who's we, human?" Grimmjow growled, and rolled over on his side with his back to her. "Figure it out for yourself."

Orihime wasn't particularly stung by this. She didn't know why his hostility struck her as so manageable, when she was terrified down to the bones when confronted by demonstrably calmer and apparently well-meaning personalities like Aizen or Ulquiorra. It couldn't be just that he was a few steps down on the Espada power-scale—relative to her, the difference wasn't even worth measuring.

In the end, Orihime simply cocooned herself in the thick blanket and lay down a few feet from Grimmjow. Gradually, the chill receeded with the howl of the wind, and she fell into a deep, black sleep.

Aizen was standing over her, holding her chin between his thumb and index finger.

Heart pounding, body paralyzed, Orihime averted her eyes—and saw the big, airy room where she'd stood at the fireplace weeks before. It was like a still-life: everything was even clearer than she could have remembered it. There was a small bright pile of fruit on the table nearby, shining like a miniature dragon's hoard, which she hadn't consciously marked during that meeting, and when she turned her head against Aizen's hand she could see Ulquiorra's straight, butlerish posture frozen mid-step beyond the open door. Not even the flames in the fireplace moved. Time was still.

Oh, thank god, she thought. Just a dream.

As her heart slowed to a normal pace, she wondered why now, of all times, she'd be dreaming. She couldn't recall having had any dreams at all since she'd come to Hueco Mundo.

Well, whatever. If it wasn't real, there was no point getting worked up. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. A mild almond scent in the air tickled her senses. That was another thing there wasn't much of in this world, she realized. Only humans and human food apparently emanated scents here. It was nice and fresh, like soap. She couldn't move much—she was part of the still-life—but she leaned toward the scent, and into the soft heat of Aizen's hand on her face. It wasn't something she'd considered doing at the time this little scene had actually taken place, but it felt different now. She was essentially alone with her memories—why not explore them?

And besides, the sensations felt vibrant and intoxicating after so many weeks out of the World of the Living, as if parts of her brain had fallen asleep in the sensory vacuum of Hueco Mundo and were now waking up. It felt good—it was a relief to feel at all.

She opened her eyes and did what she hadn't dared to do the first time this had happened. She looked directly into Aizen's eyes—not between them, or with her own eyes unfocused or blurred by tears. She simply stood studied his face.

At the time, she had thought he'd been leering and dominant, relishing her agony. There was power there, certainly, and an unnerving intensity, but when she looked at him without fear, it was like seeing a different person standing in front of her. He was alive, for the first time, real—but there was a deep, aching need in his face, as well. Something ancient and haunted, and hidden.

What had he been saying here? Orihime strained her memory. He had tilted her chin up as he alluded to needing her help with something, and had taken care to mention that she was being given a choice to be his enemy or his ally. I intend to find out which one you want to be.

And that had been the end of the meeting—she'd started to cry in earnest, she remembered, and Ulquiorra had returned and led her back to her room. At the time, she'd been utterly overwhelmed by finding out that, if she'd had any training, she might have been able to save the hundreds of people killed by Yammy at the crater. She hadn't been able to think past that point for days afterward, in fact. Even now, she felt the hesitance and self-loathing of her waking self seeping into her dream. She would wake up soon, she could feel it, and no doubt she'd feel all kinds of confusion and misgiving when she did.

But for now, there was a growing pressure in her chest as she watched Aizen's immobile face. In her mind, she heard Aizen asking her over and over what she wanted, daring her to make up her mind. The pressure turned out to be words, and she broke the absolute stillness as she spoke.

"You can't just say you want an ally, Aizen," she said, frustrated without knowing why. "You have to give me something to go on."

Just then, the fire behind her crackled. The low hum and snap of the burning wood began abruptly, and the shadows on Aizen's face shifted in the suddenly-alive firelight.

Now Orihime froze, hyper-conscious of Aizen's warm hand on her face, and the short distance between him and her. The faint almond scent grew swelled without warning, and the sensory rush made her knees give out. Without thinking, she put one hand on his chest to steady herself, and wound her fingers in the cloth of his white topcoat. She got her legs back under her—they were numb and tingly as if she'd been standing with her knees locked this whole time—but spent the next long, silent moment staring at her traitorous hand where it hung from Aizen's robes. She'd been spooked by the sudden shift, but at least he hadn't moved yet.

Orihime was about to release him and back away when a big hand covered hers and gripped it tight. Orihime's eyes went wide as she looked back up to Aizen's face, where a slight quirk of the eyebrows showed her the unthinkable: true surprise. It wasn't an expression she'd ever expected to see on his face. And he was smiling—it was the small, uncertain smile of a kid who hadn't expected any birthday presents finding out that he just might get one afterall.

"I knew it," Aizen breathed, and a hint of the familiar smugness returned. "I knew there was more to you than just tears and good intentions."

His right hand shifted against her cheek, and Orihime felt his thumb graze her bottom lip.

Electric heat shot down her spine as he leaned closer, and this time her chin rose on its own. The tips of his fingers were rough and calloused. Not what she'd expected.

"Just ask," Aizen whispered, breath warm on her cheek. Her heart was racing, and she could feel his beating hard where her hand was pressed against his chest. "Tell me what you want, Ori, and I'll give you anything."

No one had ever called her Ori before. She'd never even considered it as a possible nickname. It somehow made the dream—and Aizen—feel far too real, and she stepped back. Her heel hit the low wall of the fireplace and she almost fell bodily into the flames, but Aizen's arm wrapped around her waist to hold her up. Smoke billowed up around her—strange pale fumes that stung her eyes and closed her lungs.

"Even if it's just something to go on."

Orihime gripped the front of Aizen's robes with both hands now, struggling desperately as the smoke wrapped around her like a living thing. The arm around her waist had become hot and hard as iron—she was burning, being crushed—she couldn't breathe—

"Wake the hell up, woman!"

Orihime's eyes snapped open, but the darkness remained. She tried to breathe—and couldn't. Something was pulling her roughly upward, but what felt like a thousand pounds lay on top of her, holding her down. It felt like the time she'd tripped in her apartment and racked her spine against the edge of her low dining table, but so much worse. The air was being crushed out of her lungs—the hard thing from her dream was still around her waist, and sand was in her eyes and mouth.

"Goddammit, woman, do the—the thing!" someone was screaming, more angry than scared. "I'm not dying for this shit!"

She couldn't speak, but the chant formed spontaeneously in her mind, and the bright gold of her Santen Kesshun formed a shield between her and whatever was crushing her. Instantly the pressure lessened, though whoever had been shouting at her grunted as they were flung away.

Light streaked past her nose, followed by a spray of sand and slashed cloth. A voice she recognized as Tsubaki's grumbled, "idiot," before the light winked out. With some feeble wriggling and gasping, Orihime was able to sit up at last, and shucked the remains of her ruined blanket.

Grimmjow lay panting several feet away, fists clenched and covered in a thin sheen of crystaline sand. They were both at the bottom of a small, smoking crater. Little rivulets of silver sand ran down the sides here and there where the wind touched the walls.

It wasn't immediately clear what had happened, but at a guess, the dune she and Grimmjow had camped beside had grown too tall during the night and had toppled, burying them in an instant beneath several feet of sand. What was less clear was how they had survived. Or, rather, how Orihime had survived.

"I was trying to fish you out," Grimmjow snapped when she finally got him to talk to her again. "Nice job almost cutting me in half with that shield, by the way."

So it was his arm that had been around her waist—no wonder she'd felt like she was burning up in the dream.

The dream…that was another mystery, she supposed, and one she'd examine some other time. Her face blazed as she recalled the sensation of Aizen's fingers on her skin.

"Anyway, you sleep like the damn dead," Grimmjow grumbled. "What, were you having a wet dream or something?"

Completely without her consent, her right arm scooped up a handful of sand and flung it directly into Grimmjow's face. He went rigid for an instant, which gave her just enough time to form some vague notions of regret before he burst into laughter.

"That's a yes, then," he crowed, teeth glinting in the low light. "Be real, it was Uli, wasn't it?"

"Uli?" For a moment, Orihime almost thought he was referring to Ishida.

"Number Four in the Espada, but Number One in Hime's heart?"

"What?" Orihime didn't have to fake her surprise. "Why on earth—"

"No wonder he's so precious about you—like that stupid list earlier—but I guess it makes sense." He shrugged. "It's only natural to want to play with Daddy's toys."

"I can assure you," Orihime said, waving her hands frantically, "there has been no playing. He barely even speaks to me!"

Grimmjow hummed slyly at her protests, obviously intending to bait her further, but Orihime's focus shifted too quickly, and she blurted out the obvious question:

"And why would you jump straight to Ulquiorra?"

She hadn't meant to strike a nerve, but it was immediately apparent that she did. Grimmjow stopped laughing, jaw tight, and scoffed. "Pssh, like I even have to use my imagination. Humans fall in love with whoever hangs around them the most." Why did he sound like he was making excuses?

"Whatever," he said, absently scratching at the burn Ulquiorra's Cero had left on his hand. "If you're finally awake, we should get moving. With all the fuss, there'll be hungry Hollows gathering around here soon, and I don't feel much like doing you any favors at the moment."

Now they were standing at the edge of the Forest of Menos, a day later, and evidently Grimmjow still didn't feel like doing her any favors.

"You're supposed to be training, aren't you?" he asked as he adjusted his wide-open waistcoat. The desert cold didn't seem to bother him. He flung his hand at the advancing Menos. "So train. It doesn't get much more training-wheels than one of these. Why do you think Aizen told us to start here?"

Orihime still remembered the day the Menos had come to Karakura. She hadn't been able to see it then, but she'd felt it: the terrifying pressure of its reiatsu—

But she'd faced worse since then, hadn't she? She'd faced Hollows with a keen sense of strategy, no to mention real humans, whose motives were even less easy to divine. If nothing else, this creature's spiritual pressure was just a drop in the bucket compared to Ulquiorra's. Her first experience with a Menos may have stayed a terrifying memory, but the reality was that Grimmjow was right, and she could feel it.

"Alright," she said, and licked her lips. "Would you like me to shield you while you nap?"

"Screw you."

Orihime laughed. How long had it been since she'd really laughed? She put her hands to her temples and summoned the Santen Kesshun. Tsubaki was the first to appear, still griping, but she shushed him.

"That's plenty of that," she said. "Let's practice."