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.