Author Note: This is first in reply to . Thanks for reviewing for one, and now let me address some of the points you brought up, since an eventual Seige of the Sereitei is indeed in my long term plans. You are right that the Sereitei is bordered by the wall and the field that are immune to normal Kidou type attacks, and in essence form an invisible force field around the entire city that is VERY difficult for Soul type beings to get through in one piece (though clearly Garganta's and Negacion beams can pierce right through, as was demonstrated at the end of the Rescue Arc). Seige weapons would indeed be necessary to getting through this outer defense system. The Crusader Delegation however doesn't know this and is additionally making their defensive prepaations on the off chance that their own HOSTS might attack them, as that is still far from impossible at this point in time. And when the time comes for the actual seige of the Sereitei, I can assure you, the investing forces will be VERY well equipped with catapults, trebuchet's, seige towers, battering rams and all other manner of seige devices pioneered in western warfare. Getting through the walls won't be their biggest hurdle. And while the interior layout of the Sereitei would be confusing to an invading army, you should really bear in mind the difference in numbers between the two sides. Young Duke Fane commands the Order Squadron, and that has 25,000 soldiers under arms. That's more than twice the number of all the Shinigami in the Soul Society, in a SINGLE DIVISION of the Imperial army. No seige is ever easy, and the Sereitei least of all. But I don't think the Imperials would regard it as an impossible or even overly difficult operation either, coming as they do from a culture where seiges are if not common then at least normal.

That said, I've done plenty of plot development, some romance, some humor... its time to round things out with some of the stuff I do best. Combat. Some talking and plot development too of course, but I promise, the highlight of the chapter is going to be the combat. And screw the Bleach fight music, the theme songs for this big fight are "You're Going Down", by the Sick Puppies, "Sin with a Grin" by Shinedown, and "Let's Kill Tonight" by Panic at the Disco.

xxxx

Soul Society, Sereitei, en route to the 11th Division compound, January 14th, midafternoon

He was simultaneously excited and exasperated as he carefully limped along the boulvards of this immense fortess-city, drawing a few strange looks from those he passed, no doubt to to his haggard, dirty and bloody appearance, but it seemed that he'd chosen his disguise with his usual amount of good fortune, because no one stopped him, and few even looked twice. Apparently it wasn't entirely uncommon for members of this "11th Division" to be walking the streets after having plainly been in a losing fight, or in his case, looking like he'd just been trampled by a herd of warhorses with razors stapped to their hooves. Then again, these people didn't seem to have warhorses, so perhaps that was a bad analogy. Vandire shrugged and smirked for a moment, before remembering himself and adopting a determined but somewhat pained expression on his borrowed features, as he imagined the original owner of this shape might have had were he as apparently injured as he was. He had to be Kyo Fukada, one of several tenth seat officers of the 11th Division, not Zacharis Vandire, Duke of Vengeance and so much more besides.

Kyo's memories felt like a mass of sticky gore slathered across his brain, much like this body's head was slathered in crusty dried blood from an apparent heavy blow to the back of the skull. Most of the personal details were murky and obscured, things like the people who had been close to him or the names of family members, these things he had trouble accessing. Other things, things Kyo knew but never really thought about, such as speaking Japanese or navigating his way around this Sereitei place, or the name and location of his Division, these were more easily accessed, but even so, this was at best a shoddy diguise, more complete physically than it ever would be mentally. Thus the apparent serious head wound... all he had to do was pretend to be concussed and even delirious, and most all forms of strange behavior would be excused. As would be the slurring of his voice and the way he stumbled with some of his pronounciation as he aped the vocal patterns of Kyo. The other gashes, cuts, abrasions and gouges spread liberally across the surface of the body were just window dressing, to help support the impression that he had been in one hell of a fight and just barely managed to escape with his life.

Even so, this method would have never worked back home in the Imperium, not in any major city anyway, where there would have been eagle-eyed guards posted at each major gateway watching for walking wounded exactly like he was pretending to be. There were whole genuses of Daemons with doppleganger and shapeshifting capabilities, and after millenia of conflict, the Imperium had learned the hard way many times over that a wounded soldier was not necessarily as harmless or pitiful as they might seem. Because of this, most wounded soldiers wouldn't leave the battle line, no matter how badly injured they became, because most city and fortress guards would prefer to stab a wounded comrade through the chest than accidentally admit a Daemon into the heart of a civilian population or the inner precincts of a fortress. But apparently such things did not exist here in the Far East, or if they did, they were incredibly uncommon, as few even bothered to glance at him, much less challenge him. These people trusted their eyes too much...

He wasn't the only one taking advantage of these bumpkins and their overly trusting ways either, from the looks of things, judging by the number of eye-wateringly multicolored goats he had seen wandering around various precincts of the city. Vandire knew Fey when he saw them, as did most officers of the Imperium, regardless of the form they happened to be in at the tim. He'd even looked into recruiting them for his own goals at one point in time, thinking that such darkly tainted souls would be just perfect for his minions, but alas, Duke Elkiran had gotten to them first and thus cheated him of a loyal cadre of minions. He'd been resentful at first, but in the grand scheme of things, all minions regardless of loyalty were ultimately expendable anyways. His corruption of Duchess Lorensol had given him plenty of additional power, and his thoughts of the Fey had rapidly faded away. All the same, he did his best to avoid them now, just in case any of them managed to catch his scent, which was not at all that of Kyo, though it was masked by the stench of Kyo's blood and sweat to the point where no human would be able to tell the difference.

A cruel smirk etched its way across his face, like acid eating into raw meat, as Vandire thought about the Duchess Lorensol and his own precious Mouseling, formerly his keeper and now just his plaything. Yes, in the greater scope of things, perhaps being denied the Fey was actually a good thing. Tainted by their ancient bloodline as they were, corrupting them to his cause would have been, if anything, too easy for it to be any fun. The same could not be said for the high minded and good hearted officer of Order, Lilia Derraster, now his Mouseling, or the venerated and awesomely powerful Duchess of the Hospitaler Squadron, Claudia Lorensol! Corrupting two such paragons of justice and kindness and bending to his will and his plans? Now that was an achievement to be proud of! Not only that, but they were both endlessly entertaining as they struggled in the invisible webs of deceit and half truths he had spun about them both. Regardless of their power or moral convictions, they were both somewhat insecure women at heart, not that this weakness particularly differentiated them from any other member of their sex, or from most men for that matter. Humans were by nature creatures of rampant self doubt and insecurity after all.

It was merely a matter of discerning which things played upon a person's individual doubts and insecurities, and once you knew how to get under their skin, how to play upon their secret fears, desires and foibles, well, then they were all but yours to do with as you saw fit. The Mouseling's key was actually her greatest strength as well... her commitment to the ideal called "Freedom", in all its forms. Freedom to express oneself, freedom to make one's own choices about life, freedom to live in peace without fear of being enslaved or conscripted against one's will. As an agent of the Order Squadron, she had felt it was her duty to protect the freedoms of the people, Crusader and serf both, both from the menance of the Daemon and the subtler threat of tyranny and despotism from within the Imperium itself. It was no complicated manner to tun her focus to the injustices of necessity that were often perpetuated upon the serving classes in the name of the war effort, blowing them out of proportion, denying her the proper perspective to understand that suffering was the natural state of the serving classes in the name of greater survival of the Imperium as a whole. The difference between an outspoken officer of the law and a radical rebel against society? One little prearranged massacre of some peacefully protesting serfs.

If anything, courrpting the Duchess Lorensol had been even easier. The Mouseling had been his parole officer after all, the agent of Order in charge of determining whether his discharge from the Sanitorum was entirely legitimate and warranted, and that he was mentally fit for frontline duty as a Crusader once more. It had been her job to be distrustful and suspicious of him, and it had taken years of slow seduction and sickeningly good behavior to overcome that barrier between them, before she began to accept his own words as gospel and disbelieve the edicts of her own longtime superiors. Though no doubt aware of his past... imbalances... Claudia had nonetheless accepted him as a peer, if a junior one, as soon as he was accorded the rank of Sanctus Dominus, her trust in the Rex Divinia's personal judgement quashing all personal suspicions she might have had. To her, the idea of the Rex Divinia making such a blatant misjudgement of character was completely unthinkable. She was not alone in this opinion, in fact most of his "peers" had likewise believed so. He'd probably done them all a great favor actually, by teaching them that the "unthinkable" was merely another term for "has not yet occured but inevitably must"!

Though Duchess Lorensol was one of the longest serving military leaders in the Imperium, and the oldest and longest serving Sancta Domina period, all of her personal power and experience actually proved to be her weakness rather than her strength. Her Squadron, the Hospitalers, were the battlefield healers and logisticians of the Imperial armed forces, responsible for pathcing up their wounded comrades and making sure that sufficient supplies, both medical and military, were distributed to various battlefronts and other Squadrons. It was vital work, but it was not glamorous, and it was rare for a Hospitaler to be feted by local commanders for bravery in battle or other exceptional accomplishments. In fact, most Hospitalers were considered by front line fighters to be "second class" Crusaders, obviously too weak or inept to risk their lives in hand to hand combat with the Daemon hordes. This was a gross disservice to the Hospitalers, many of whom regularly risked their lives rescuing badly wounded comrades out from beneath the very claws of Daemons, but nevertheless, the prejudice was a prevailing opinion, and many Hospitalers were mocked, taunted, teased and even abused by other Crusaders who were disdainful or even jealous of their "cushy job".

After spending century upon century tending to countless battlefield injuries, saving millions of lives and receiving only scorn and mockery for her trouble, Claudia had had enough. She had petitioned to the Rex Divinia himself for leave to take command of a front line unit of Hospitalers, to prove once and for all that they were far from second class Crusaders, and that in fact many of the Hospitaler's most skilled battlefield surgeons and medics were incredible fighters, able to turn their knowledge of healing to destructive methods that would shock even the most battle hardened Battle Squadron or Vengeance Squadron trooper. Her request was flatly denied, the Rex Divinia declaring that her abilities of healing were far more critical to the war effort than any amount of combat power she could display. "Leave the fighting to the fighters, and the healing to the healers, Duchess. Each have their own jobs, their own purpose in our great Imperium. Be proud that you can serve as you do. To envy your peers for their own duties is beneath you. Be not arrogant, Duchess... your place is among the wounded and debilitated. That is where your war is best fought." Had been the Rex Divinia's words. True words perhaps, and wise in their way, but also incredibly insensitive to Claudia's intent in asking for such leave to fight.

Disenchanted and even embittered by being basically told to put her sword away in favor of wielding bandages and surgical needles, despite possessing a level of experience and combat power in excess of almost anyone but the Royal family themselves, Claudia had been wide open to his displays of sympathy. All it took was revealing his own "dissatisfaction" at the prejudice he was experiencing, even though he was Duke of Vengeance, because of his prior mental instability. The Vengeance Squadron was traditionally the heavy shock infantry force of the Imperium, but ever since he had taken command, they had only ever taken the field under the direct command of one of the Royal family, Vandire's role reduced from overall commander to merely assistant adjunct, as if they did not trust him for some reason, despite his years of honorable service. Of course they DIDN'T trust him, and they were right not to, but this common denominator of "unjust discrimination" was enough for Claudia to regard him as a kindred spirit. Making his way from her audience chambers to her bed chambers had only taken a few months from that point, and it was Vandire's experience that the quickest way to a powerful and confident woman's heart was between her legs.

No matter how strong and cold a woman might be on the battlefield, when it came to matters of the heart, most secretly yearned for softness and understanding, for reassurance from a confident and charismatic partner, and had a tendency to lower their emotional guard with their trusted bedmates. It started with listening to her complain about the injustice of it all, then commiserating, and then finally reinforcing her concerns, pointing out more injustices, making it all into a great conspiracy, keeping her from getting the glory and respect she deserved merely because she was a woman, something she had always privately suspected, that she was being held back to "protect" her because of her sex. It wasn't true... unlike the living world, there was little to no sexual bias in the Imperium, sex did not in any way determine spiritual powers after all, but it felt true to her, and that was all that was important. Soon it was she that was suggesting that they needed to take more direct measures to "correct this deficiency in the Imperial policies" rather than just sit by and complain to each other. From there, her fall into darkness was all but assured, and had she had yet to stop sliding down that oh so slippery slope...

Lost in his considerations, his smirk growing as his thoughts turned ribald while considering whether he could find a way to bed both the Mouseling and the Duchess at the same time, to see whether their adoration for him would be able to overcome their petty jealousy for each other... making them rivals for his attention was a perfect way of keeping both of them focused upon serving him, rather than thinking for themselves... Vandire found himself soon standing in front of the imposing wooden gates leading to the 11th Division's compound. Kyo's memories informed him that the lack of sentries or guards was perfectly normal for this lackadasial regiment, that they didn't care who happened to come trespassing because they were confident in their ability to outfight and out last any opponent. Very much like the Battle Squadron actually, the parallels with Morieth's ragtag mob were amusing. Pushing open the gates, Kyo-Vandire did a few convincing stumbles as if at the very end of his endurance, as he followed his ears towards the sound of combat, which Kyo's memories dictated would be where the majority of 11th Division would be.

Laying the act on thick, shortly after reaching the central practice field that was set up in front of the Divisional officers and officer's quarters, which were crowded with Shinigami standing in groups, some of them gambling, many of them drinking, and plenty of them sparring, including one bald headed man with his sword in one hand and sheath in the other fighting an even half dozen subordinates all at once, Vandire waited for people to notice his ragged condition, and then collapsed to his hands and knees as if he could go no further. Love of battle or not, the 11th Division wasn't QUITE so hard hearted that they would ignore an obviously wounded seated officer, especially one who was supposed to be out on patrol in the 60's Districts of the Rukongai right now with a ten strong squad of 11th Division candidate trainees. It wasn't entirely uncommon for some of these candidate trainees to not come back from these training patrols, as the 60+ Districts of the Rukongai could be a feral and dangerous place, but it was unheard of for the patrol commander alone to return, and torn to bits to boot!

Vandire allowed himself to be hoisted back to his feet, his arms thrown around the shoulders of shouting subordinates who half dragged and half carried him forward as the sounds of practice battle slowly faded, more and more Shinigami crowding around as they jabbered questions and demanded answers of him, wondering what had happened to him, what had happened to the trainees, and what the hell his problem was, getting so fucked up all by himself? If anything, some of them sounded jealous that he'd apparently found a kick ass battle and they hadn't been there. These people were lunatics... but they were definitely his KIND of lunatics! The hubbub died down a little bit as someone with authority shoved his way through the crowd, literally picking up and throwing aside some Shinigami that didn't get out of his way fast enough, and soon Vandire found himself face to shiny bald pate with none other than Madarame Ikkaku, third seat and second strongest man of the 11th Division, and as close to a day to day adminstrator as the 11th Division had... its Captain and Vice-Captain not being in any way inclined towards organization or administration in the slightest.

"What the FUCK, Fukada?" Ikkaku snarled irritably, displeased that his sparring session had been broken up just as he was getting into the spirit of thing. "How dare you come crawling back all kicked to shit like this? Where's your fucking pride as a seated officer of the 11th Division? I oughta kick your ass right now..."

"Fuck you, 'kaku!" Vandire retorted, feeling that direct confrontation would be more appropriate than any cringing or apologizing. These were not apologetic people, strength was the only thing that matter. "You sho' see the odder bastid..." Vandire twisted his guise's lips into a feral smile that said more than any words ever could as to the supposed state of Kyo's assailants. For a second, he though Ikkaku was gonna slug him in the jaw for this show of disrespect, but instead the 3rd seat just clapped him heartily on the back, hard enough to stagger most men and leave a bruise, were he not really clad in his Ornatus Sancti beneath the half real disguise.

"THAT'S WHAT I'M FUCKIN TALKING ABOUT! NOW THAT IS 11TH DIVISION TO THE BONE! You better pay attention to this man, you lot of pansies!" Ikkaku declared, any doubts about his junior's conduct having been comprehensively dispelled by the tough reply. Maybe Fukada was kicked to shit, but he clearly wasn't in any way beaten or broken if he had the gall to be that mouthy right to Ikkaku's own face. Something occured to him then, and he cast a sideways glance at the battered 10th seat. "What about the trainees?"

"They weren't tough eno' to be 11th." Vandire replied with a blood soaked grimace.

"Them's the breaks." Ikkaku shrugged, not happy to be short 10 new recruits, but if they weren't tough enough to survive whatever the hell Fukada had encountered... probably a Hollow of some sort... then the 11th was probably better without them. This wasn't a fucking daycare center after all, if you couldn't take care of yourself, you weren't welcome. That said, there was nothing wrong with seeking out some medical care when you were fucked up and victorious, and a quick stop at 4th Division wouldn't delay them so long that Ikkaku wouldn't be able to take the 10th seat out on the town for some drinks to learn what the fuck had gone down out there. "Right then, you assholes, I don't recall saying you could fucking stop fighting, did I? Get back to work before the Captain wonders what sort of girly ass patti-cake games you're playing! And you, Fukada... get your ass over to 4th Division and get yerself cleaned up. Drinks are on me tonight, but first you gotta get that head looked at."

" Fuc' tha', I'm fine..." Vandire protested, playing the role to the hilt, shaking off the supporting arms of the other Shinigami and standing on his own two feet once more. "These are just flesh wounds."

"Man, I can totally feel where you're coming from, but, no bullshit, the back half of your skull looks ready to fall off, and you look like you've been going for a roll in the hay with a whore wearing a garter belt studded with razorblades." Ikkaku pointed out with a smile.

"Like I sai', fles' wounds." Vandire insisted with a lopsided grin, hoping the 3rd seat would just freaking drop it. NOW he shows concern for Fukada's well being? "Jus' need a shower and so' new clothes, be fin'..."

"Maybe you can't hear yourself, Fukada, but you don't SOUND fine... to be blunt, you sound fucked up." Ikkaku replied, his grin slowly fading, his limited store of patience quickly running out. Machismo aside, head injuries weren't something you wanted to screw around with, you could get permanently fucked up that way, in a way not even Captain Unohana herself could fix. "Consider it a fucking order if you have to, but go get yourself looked at by the docs. A tough guy like you can't be afraid of some needles or stitches, right? You either go on your own two feet or I'll fucking lay you out right here and now and drag yer ass there myself."

Damn it. The smart thing to do is say "yes sir", turn around and go do as he says. But any medical examination of this body will reveal that I'm not Kyo Fukada. And somehow I get the feeling that Kyo Fukada was not, even at the best of times, a man who did "smart things" when given a choice. How annoying. I seem to have talked myself into a corner. Vandire scowled with irritation. Oh well. If this goon wants to pick a fight with me, I guess I can afford to play with him a little bit. Maybe if I kick his ass, he'll leave me the hell alone. "Go fuck yousel', 'kaku. I'm fine. Looks worse than it is. I feel better already. Now stop being such an old lady, geez what are you, my mom?" Vandire sneered, reaching out a hand and shoving Ikkaku on the shoulder, knocking him a half step aside. The look on the bald officer's face was simply priceless... the last thing he'd expected was his 10th seat to pick a fight with him.

"You musta been hit in the head a LOT harder than I fuckin thought, if you think you can just push past me and tell me to fuck off, Fukada. I hate fighting wounded guys, it ain't no fun, but if you're gonna be an asshole, I'm going treat you like an asshole, and kick the shit outta ya! Sun ain't yet dawned on the day where you can backtalk me without reprecussions. Draw yer fuckin sword and prepare to defend yourself!" Ikkaku challenged, brushing off his robe and whipping out his own blade, sword in right hand, sheath held like a club in the left, his eyebrow twitching in annoyance. For once he really didn't want to fight, not a member of his own division who was plainly doing all he could just to stand upright, but he couldn't let a blatant challenge like that pass, or else he'd totally lose his hardass rep.

"Don' need no sword for a wuss like you, 'kaku." Vandire replied, confidently crossing his arms across his chest, as other Shinigami began scattering in self preservation, knowing that Ikkaku could get pretty wild when he was worked up. None of them could believe that Fukada, Kyo Fukada, 10th seat, was deliberately picking a fight with Ikkaku, as even on his best day Fukada would have been able to do little more than bleed on the other officer a few times, and he was clearly not at his best. Vandire didn't want to kill the guy, not yet certainly, as that would no doubt compromise his infiltration, and Falx Mortis was not the sort of Arma to hold back from a deathblow when one presented itself, so drawing his sword wasn't an option. Snarling with irritation, Ikkaku sprang forward, feinting with his sword before sweeping his weighted sheath around, aiming at the juncture of Fukada's neck and shoulder, where a solid blow would stun and perhaps even disable a man with choking and pain.

Ikkaku didn't put anywhere near full force into the blow, not wanting to break Fukada's neck before he could get him drunk and beat the shit out of him a few times for fun, but even so, he was shocked when Fukada simply raised one arm and casually blocked the swinging sheath with his forearm, a solid "THUNK" of impact making the sheath shiver a bit, though Fukada did not seem overly distressed with a blow that could have easily fractured his forearm. And then Fukada's other arm lashed out, Ikkaku saw the beginnings of the punch form, but it wasn't until the blow actually landed that Ikkaku realized he really should have put some effort into blocking it or dodging it. He had a long, painful second of backwards flight time as his body hurtled through the air, all the way across the courtyard, before slamming into and halfway through an outbuilding, to consider the fact that Fukada might have actually been holding back on him for the past few years, the asshole! Clambering to his feet, spitting out a wad of blood garnished with a few tooth chips, working his nearly dislocated jawbone back into place, Ikkaku smiled broadly. "Not bad, Fukada! But if that's all you got, you got a date with a hospital bed here real soon!" Ikkaku roared joyfully, as he leapt out of the half wrecked storeroom and barreled back across the courtyard towards his subordinate.

This time he led with the sheath and brought the sword around second, a strike aimed to gash rather than eviscerate, but just by looking at him, it was plain that Fukada couldn't stand to lose very much more blood before he'd pass out. However, once again, Fukada proved to have resevoirs of power that he'd never even hinted at possessing before, as he blocked the sheath with his forearm again, and then actually reached out and grabbed Ikkaku's sword wrist before the blade could land, halting the strike dead, just as Captain Zaraki was sometimes wont to do when facing a weak opponent. Fingers like steel clamps closed on Ikkau's right wrist, grinding the bones together, and then Fukada snapped his entire upper torso and head forward and headbutted Ikkaku right on the bridge of the nose. Cartilege snapped loudly and blood spurted from Ikkaku's nostrils as they smeared against his cheeks, stars swirling in his thoughts as he staggered backwards and sat down hard, blinking and shaking his head, wondering when the HELL Fukada had replaced his entire skull with fucking steel implants?

5th seat Aysegawa, Ikkaku's best friend and definitely the weirdest man in all of the 11th Division and perhaps all the Sereitei... though he perferred the term "most beautiful man"... watched with both puzzlement and some small, carefully hidden concern from the sidelines. Where the HELL was Fukada, never really an exceptional Shinigami by any measure, who barely even knew the name of his Zanpakuto, getting the power to stand up to Madarame this way? Sure, Madarame wasn't taking it seriously, or not very seriously anyway, since Fukada was half dead even before the fight started, but he was actually taking hits and actually taking some small damage, and as yet hadn't even managed to lay a finger on the 10th seat. Something was wrong here. The 11th Division was not famed for its spiritual sensitivity, but Aysegawa was an exception to this rule, though he kept it a careful secret from everyone, because he didn't want to be teased about it. Narrowing his eyes, he focused on Fukada, searching his aura for any hint of a Negative influence, some sort of Hollow infection or even a Vizard condition, perhaps. However, he didn't detect much of anything from the 10th seat, and what he did detect was definitely a Plus soul. Was Fukada supressing his energy? When he even learned to do such a thing?

"Okay, wiseguy, you've been holding back on us all, ain't ya been?" Ikkaku grumbled, wiping his eyes clear and plugging his gushing nostrils with salve from the secret compartment on his sword hilt. "I wanted to go easy on ya, considering yer wounds, but if you wanna play hardball, I can play hardball. Grow, Hozukimaru!" Ikkaku commanded, slamming the hilt of his sword into the opening of his sheath as he called forth his Shikai, sword disappearing and reforming as a long wooden spear, which Ikkaku twirled expertly around himself before pointing at the 10th seat. "You'd better fuckin pull your sword out now, or I won't be responsible for what happens to you!" Ikkaku pointed out. Fukada just yawned, and Ikkaku bristled at the disrespectful gesture. "Fine. Have it your way, asshole... this one's on you..."

So that's his Ascension power. How odd these people are. I never would have expected a spear, given that he wears a sword. Does he not realize that his skill is compromised when he must learn two entirely different weapon disciplines to be able to fight effectively? It would be one thing if he was like Elkiran, and was doing it to be deliberately deceptive about his true fighting talents, but this man doesn't have a subtle bone in his body. Vandire thought to himself, as he analyzed the Zanpakuto now leveled at him. Crazy he might be, bloodthirsty he certainly was, but he was no fool either, and only a fool didn't use his mind in combat. Madarame Ikkaku was undeniably a fool, in Vandire's book. And he could never be defeated by a fool. The spear flashed for his eyes, but it was a feint, as the spear shaft itself seperated into three seperate pieces linked by chains. Well, maybe a little subtle after all... Vandire allowed, as he drifted backwards, out of the path of the sword turned spear turned flail.

Gripping the central section of Hozukimaru's shaft in both hands, Ikkaku spun the spear and butt-end sections until they became wooden and steel tipped blurs, lashing out with one end or the other as he probed Fukada's defenses, finding them to be uncommonly complete, despite the ungainly fashion in which Fukada was moving, his joints clearly stiff for some reason. Spotting his opening, Ikkaku slammed the three section staff back into spear form and jabbed upwads, aiming for Fukada's head, a kill stroke, but one he expected to be dodged as he pulled it at the last moment, even as Fukada twisted his head away. Ikkaku smirked as he felt the spearhead connect with a graze, but hopefully Fukada would realize that Ikkaku had just been playing with him, and he'd surrender rather than risk a second strike. However, Fukada did no such thing, and Ikkaku was forced to block with the shaft of the spear as Fukada lashed out with another punch, striking with such force that Hozukimaru's shaft trembled for a second and Ikkaku found his sandals skidding sideways almost a foot as he absorbed the force of the blow.

His confident smirk faltered somewhat when he glanced at his speartip and found the razor edged entirely free of blood, despite having clearly felt the jar of impact against Fukada's cheekbone. What, had Fukada learned how to use an Arrancar's Hiero in the last week or something? Ikkaku was slowly learning to use his own spiritual pressure in that way, emulating Captain Zaraki, but he was still a LONG way from blocking a Shikai strike unharmed with his bare skin! Spinning his spear around his body to build up momentum, Ikkaku launched a furious flurry of jabs with both speartip and butt-end, striking sof ast his weapon was little more than a blur of brown and silver and red feather tuft, striking from a dozen directions at once, sacrificing power for speed. He felt several blows slip through Fukada's defenses, but none of them drew blood, and Ikkaku was forced to acknowledge that his 10th seat had some sort of protection that he couldn't see. That was really FUCKING ANNOYING! Ikkaku stabbed again, irritation lending more strength than speed to the strike, and Fukada's hands moved in a blur, sweeping forward to grab hold of the spear just behind the head, jarring the strike to a halt several inches short of his breastbone.

For just a second, as Ikkaku stared into the face of the man who was holding back his Shikai like he was waving a child's baton, it didn't feel at all like it was Fukada that he was fighting, bot someone both darker and infinitely more powerful, but Ikkaku didn't have long to ponder the sensation, as Fukada launched a punt-kick that sank into Ikkaku's gut so far he could swear he felt Fukada's toes tickle his backbone, doubling the third seat over as saliva and blood vomited from his jaws, every bone in his body suddenly feeling like they were made of gelatin as his stomach tried to climb out his throat to get away from the foot in his gut. Ikkaku staggered and sagged, kept upright more by Fukada's grip on Hozukimaru's shaft than any effort on his own part, and coughed thickly, dazed and winded by the power of the kick. He felt Fukada grab him by the collar, but he was still clearing his head when the 10th seat hoisted him up into the air and then hurled him away like a sack of garbage, sailing across the courtyard one more time, and completing the demolition of the storage shed he had half collapsed earlier.

Kicking his way free of the wreckage, spitting blood and bile from his mouth, Ikkaku's hands went white knuckled on Hozukimaru's shaft as he stumbled into a trot, and then a run, howling with wordless fury as he threw himself back into the fray, towards the smirking Fukada, who STILL hadn't drawn or released his sword! All but lost to battle fury, Ikkaku almost took a swing at the person that suddenly appeared, interposing himself between the two fighting officers, before his wild eyes took in the black AND the white coats the interloper wore, and he skidded to a halt, turning his charge into a bow of respect. "Captain Zaraki, sir!"

"What the hell you playin' at, Madarame? You're getting your butt kicked." Kenpachi observed dryly, glancing between 3rd and 10th seat. Something was strange here, he knew his 3rd seat was as tough or tougher than many Vice-Captains in other squads, which was why he was proud to have him as his 3rd seat. And Fukada had never been more than a middling fighter, well suited to roughing trainees perhaps, but he shouldn't have been going toe to toe with Madarame like this, especially when already wounded. Kenpachi Zaraki really didn't give a shit what most of his soldiers did on a day by day basis, but the one thing he couldn't stand was being lied to, especially when it came to how strong you were. He was willing though, to grant some grace to exceptional performers, such as turning a blind eye to Madarame's Bankai, or playing dumb about the true nature of Aysegawa's Zanpakuto... as if he'd ever ditch his 5th seat just because he broke an "unspoken rule". Who gave a shit about rules? Now, if he lost a fight, that was a different story. All he cared about was strength and winning, and it didn't matter if that strength came in physical or magical form. Strength was strength, winning was winning. Well, whatever.

"And you... Fukada... what the fuck do you think yer doin', hiding all this power from me? You know we don't keep our power secret here in the 11th. You wanna strut about "hiding your true power" all the damn time, I'm sure I could transfer you to the 6th or the 10th or one of those other kiddie divisions." Zaraki eyed the 10th seat balefully, hiding his grin at the briefly twisted expressions on Ikkaku and Aysegawa's faces as a leer of distaste. "Well, whatever. I'm cutting in here. You'd better not be thinking you can hold back against me, Fukada. I'll cut your ass in half with my first blow, if you don't fight me for real." Kenpachi let his leer grow, as he drew his jagged edged sword. Well, he had been kinda bored anyway, and was still pissed off from not getting to fight Pimp-Suit, maybe this was just what he needed to take his mind off things...

Oh, how excellent... Vandire thought sarcastically to himsef. At literally any other time he would have relished the chance to face up against a Shinigami captain... cracking open this tough shell in front of him to find the gooey, steamy, melty bits inside would be ever so much fun, but he wasn't here to fight, he was just getting a lay of the land. And it was plain that this Zaraki person was possessed of significantly greater power than Ikkaku... he was telling the truth when he said he could cut Fukada's body in half if he tried to go toe to toe with him without his Arma Sancti. But to draw it, much less release it into Ascension, would show that it was no sword at all, but a scythe, and that would be that, as it was said. "Listen, Captain, there's no need for..."

"Shut up and fight, or I'll cut you down anyway." Zaraki snapped back, a feral light glowing in his visible eye as he began to draw back his sword. Vandire was just about to cut his losses and flee... what did he care about pride at the moment, inhabiting a dead man's guise as he was, when salvation from an unexpected source came into the equation.

"Ken-chan, Ken-chan, we got visitors!" A young female voice called exuberantly, as a hyperactive ball of black and pink zoomed into the courtyard, kicking up a huge dust trail as the tiny, childlike Vice-Captain of the 11th all but pounced onto the back of her adopted father and gleefully hugged his neck.

"Tell em I'm busy right now..." Kenpachi told Yachiru. "And get off me, I'm about to do some fightin..."

"Against Scaggle-hair?" Yachiru asked curiously, utilizing one of her many nicknames for people, the one she had assigned to Fukada, because of his somewhat sparse but long black hair. "That doesn't seem like it would be much fun, Ken-chan..."

"Tell that to Madarame." Kenpachi hooked a finger over his shoulder irritably.

"Oooohhh... Baldy's bleeding!" Yachiru noted the obvious, following the indicating pointer to look down on the 3rd seat. "Did Ken-chan step in to save you, Baldy?"

"NO!"

"Like I would fucking do that..." Kenpachi growled, echoing Ikkaku's angry denial. He turned his head and gave his adopted daughter and vice-captain a stern look. "Now get down. I'm busy, like I said."

"Wellll... oookaaayyy... buuuutttt..." Yachiru replied with cheerful insolence. "Ken-chan might wanna look over that way before he gets too busy with Scraggle-hair." Yachiru gestured off towards the main gate of the Divisional compound, which was just swinging shut as Kenpachi twisted his head around. He didn't listen to very many people, not even the people that he really ought to listen to, like the Old Fart, but he'd never turn down a bit of advice from Yachiru, no matter how annoying she might sometimes get. She was all the family he had after all. And as it turned out, this time, Yachiru was completely and totally right, as he felt a very predatory grin stretch widely across his face.

"Well, I'll be damned..." Kenpachi muttered, as he watched the person he had last expected to see and most wished to see, come sauntering down the path towards the 11th division main courtyard like he owned the place, resplendent in his pimp-suit of blue and crimson with the huge black hat, leading a group of similarly dressed followers... every man and woman of them smirking and bristling with weapons. It was like a dream come true.

"Yes, may you be damned..." Vandire agreed, mostly to himself, as he edged away from the 11th Division Captain, whose attention now seemed entirely focused up the approaching Duke Morieth, like a star crossed lover watching their partner ride out of the sunset. Talk about an unlikely source of salvation, but he wasn't about to look this gift horse in the mouth! And with any luck, Morieth and Zaraki would kill each other and maybe even others, as neither was the sort of man to back down from a challenge or accept anything other than total victory or death! He watched Morieth out of the corners of his eyes, not wanting to stand out too much, as the Duke of Battle was no fool, despite his buffoonish tendencies. He was disappointed to see that the man seemed fully in control of himself, and was only manifesting the very first phases of his Asmodian transformation. And after he'd gone to all that trouble to release the man's Inner Daemon too. Well, give it time, it wasn't like there was any cure or way to go back...

xxxx

Vladimo ambled up towards the gathered Shinigami, an easy grin plastered on his face, but the light of battle-fury shining in his eyes as they bored into the one eye of the Fruitcake. Maybe they couldn't understand a fucking word they were saying to each other, but actions spoke louder and clearer than any words could, and swords spoke even louder than other types of actions. He knew he was gonna catch hell from the Princess for doing this, but he just couldn't let sleeping dogs lie. Ever since they'd been interrupted at the North Gate, he hadn't been able to think of much else besides putting the fucking Fruitcake down good and hard, and judging from the look in the Fruitcake's eye, the feeling had been mutual. That's what happens when two alpha wolves meet in the forest. They can't help but try and kill each other for dominance. It was just hardwired instinct.

"All right, people, you know the drill. I don't give a fuck how many fights you pick, as long as you win. Anyone who gets their ass kicked by a robe-wearing nancy has to foot the bill when we go out drinking tonight. Its our first real night off back in a semblance of civilization, and I promise you, I am going to fucking break your bank if you give me the chance." Vladimo let his grin grow as he heard the raucous and high spirited chorus of replies. "Oh yeah, and also, don't kill anyone. Sucks, I know, but the Princess would have my balls for breakfast if we make a bunch of corpses. Even robe-wearing nancy corpses." He added as an afterthought, to a more subdued response.

Sauntering up to the crowd of black robed Shinigami, Vladimo let his aura of deadly intent push the small fry aside, many of them trying to be brave but then paling and stepping back real quick like once they got a good taste of the threat he was putting off. Sometimes it was such a burden, being the biggest badass around. Made it hard to talk to other people. Buncha weaklings. He always felt like he was walking on eggshells around them, afraid to reach out and touch them for fear of breaking them apart accidentally. Well, at least the Fruitcake seemed tough enough not to wilt like a daisy in the summer sun, though it was REAL tough to take him seriously while he was wearing that little pink haired tyke on his shoulder, especially as she was waving at him so cheerfully. "Yo, Fruitcake. Ditch the kid. I wanna kick your ass, and I don't hit kids." Vladimo said conversationally, well aware that they couldn't understand him, but he had to say SOMETHING, didn't he?

Aysegawa took it upon himself to step forward and attempt to mediate things, it being plain that the Crusaders were here looking for trouble, and equally plain that giving it to them would only upset literally every other person in the Sereitei. He held out a hand to stop the oncoming Duke, who looked down at him like he was some form of roach or other unpleasant insect. "You touch me with that hand, featherface, and your stump will pull back a stump." Vladimo commented, baring his teeth in what some might have thought was a smile. However, when your teeth were jagged, dagger-like fangs, baring them became less friendly and more threatening. The grin grew yet further, as Aysegawa got the hint and slowly stepped aside. "That's what I thought. Prancy ninny thought he could naysay me? Not in this universe or any contiguous one!" Continuing to march forward imperiously, Vladimo only stopped when he was all but chest to chest with the bell haired Fruitcake, very much in the man's personal space, glaring into each other's eyes from barely the distance of their combined nose lengths.

The pink haired kid had finally gotten down, still smiling that cheerful, simpleton grin of hers, and Vladimo could not help but admire someone who was so completely and totally unafraid of him, despite being well within his aura. Especially since she was just a little kid. The training wheels on her short sword's sheath had to be the most adorable thing he'd ever seen in his entire multiple century long life! For his part, Kenpachi was still trying to decide whether or not he was having a good dream or really awake. Who would have ever expected Pimp-Suit to come casually strolling into Zaraki's very own yard, spoiling for a fight with that smarmy grin plastered on his face? He wasn't just asking for a fight, he was BEGGING for it! And with Yachiru now out of the way... Kenpachi let his grin expand to match that of the Crusader getting in his face. "Ok then, lets have some fun, huh, Pimp-Suit? Here, you have first shot. Its on me..." Kenpachi declared, pulling aside his haori and robes to bare his chest invitingly. "Try and at least give me a scratch, kay? I don't want this to be boring." Kenpachi added, to cheers and jeers from his Division.

"Point to you, Fruitcake, point to you." Vladimo smiled as he slowly pulled Zobens from his sheath at his hip, the broadsword all but quivering with the same excitement as his master. "Look at this clown, ladies and gentlemen. He's actually giving me the first shot. How "honorable" of him." Vladimo sneered the word "honorable", as if it were the most disgusting of curses. "Hate to break this to ya, Fruitcake, but I am the furthest thing from an honorable man. This ain't gonna be no duel. You wanna bare your chest to me? Points for bravado, but that ain't gonna stop me from carving you like a christmas ham!" That said, Vladimo had no further use for words. The gauntlet had been cast, the challenge accepted, and the only thing left to do was the bleeding.

Holding Zobens in his left hand, Vladimo raised the blade and then slashed it forward, targeting the Fruitcake's sternum, even as he stepped forward, putting his full bodyweight into the blow, he also lashed out with an uppercut with his right hand, aimed at the Fruitcake's chin. Hot red blood splattered thickly onto the dusty stones of the courtyard as the broadsword bit into the bared skin on display, even as Captain Zaraki was knocked a full step backwards, lips bloodying against his teeth, by the punch to his chin. Vladimo frowned and then smiled, his stroke held to little more than a long, half inch deep gash, barely more than a flesh wound, held at bay by the roiling spiritual force of his opponent. For his part, Kenpachi actually started to laugh with pleasure, spitting out a chipped tooth and a mouthful of bloody spit, as he glanced down at the several foot long incision on his chest, which was already scabbing over. "Not too bad, Pimp-Suit. Not too bad at all... MY TURN!" Zaraki howled, lifting his Zanpakuto, spiritual pressure flaring, yellow light pouring across his body as the very air grew denser around him. He brought his blade down in a simple vertical cut, aimed at ripping the Crusader right in half from crown to crotch.

Steel screamed as Vladimo brought Zobens up in a casual parry, and then hurriedly added his right hand to brace the blade as Zaraki's blow pressured him, his boots cracking the stone pavement as his legs shivered under the impact, blue and orange sparks flying like comets from where the two swords met. With both hands locked into holding back the sword strike, Vladimo had no way to block the backhanded punch Kenpachi leveled into his own jaw, twisting the Duke back and to the side, his luxurious black hat fluttering to the dusty ground, trickles of blood dribbling down his chin from his own split lips. Stumbling a half step backwards, Vladimo brought a gloved hand up to his chin and whiped the blood and spittle away, his grin never faltering for a moment. "HELL YES, THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, FRUITCAKE! But let's stop pussyfooting around! Slice the foe, Zobens!" Vladimo commanded joyfully, releasing his Ascension powers.

Many Arma Sancti granted their wielders access to bursts of flame or bolts of lightning or gusts of freezing wind, or changed the nature of their weapons, or allowed them to teleport or fly or any of a near infinite variety of special abilities. Zobens didn't do anything flashy like that. Just like his name, which "Sword", Zobens was a simple and direct Arma, much like his wielder. His Ascension form was that of a five foot long, several inch wide doubled edge, pointed blade, made of dark grey-black metal, both light and incredibly sharp and strong, with a two handed grip that allowed Vladimo to put his full strength and speed behind every blow and movement. He was faster, stronger and cuttier than before, and that was all the power he'd ever needed! He rushed at Kenpachi, shouting a howling war cry of equal parts pleasure and excitement.

Long, straight Arma met jagged toothed Zanpakuto a half a dozen times in the next three seconds, each blow sending out gusts of crashing wind and ringing sound, curtains of blue and orange sparks falling to melt tiny pits in the dust covered stone flags that made up the courtyard. Both men were of near equal size and mass, and as far as bloodthirst was concerned, well, that was anyone's guess. Catching the Zobens on his blade edge, Kenpachi shoved the blade to the side and punched out with his free hand, bruising Vladimo's left side, only to have the Crusader burrow in close, lifting his hilt up through Zaraki's guard and counterpunched him in the chin again with doubled fists backed by the hilt of the sword, like a double brass knuckle punch. Pinkish spittle flew from his lips, followed shortly thereafter by more blood as Vladimo twirled his blade around like a willow switch and laid open the top part of Kenpachi's left shoulder, just baely missing his head as the blade deflected off shouler bone. Instinctively lashing out with his sword hand, Kenpachi slit open Vladimo's tunic six inches above his waist, a thin line of hot blood spilling down the Crusader's pectorals to pool at his beltline, neither man stopping for even an instant to consider that one of them had almost been decapitated and the other nearly eviscerated in the same moment. They were both having too much fun for the thought of potential death to intrude.

Setting their feet, the two nigh berserkers went after each other like blacksmiths hammering iron, neither willing to flinch back, giving their all to offense, rips and gashes opening up in their clothing and skin as the skirl of steel on steel rang throughout the courtyard until it felt like a circular saw blade was biting into the skulls of everyone around them, such was the unceasing intensity of the sound. Even those in seated positions on both sides of the conflict could hardly follow the blurred exchange of blows, accentuated only by a shout or a uproarious chuckle from one combatant or the other as they landed a particularly hard blow, or found a particularly well struck strike deflected harmlessly. Blood, red and red, sprinkled the ground around the combatants, some droplets flying as far as twenty feet before striking the pavement, propelled by upward swings or piercing thrusts at near supersonic speeds.

Spotting an opening... not that such were uncommon in this fight, as both men focused on offense to the exclusion of almost everything else... Vladimo took one hand off his sword and swung for Kenpachi's waist and thighs, even as Kenpachi swung from the opposite side at Vladimo's neck and shoulders. Both men reacted in a flash, and with near simultaneous and identical movements, reaching out with their free hands and fearlessly grabbing hold of their opponent's sword blade, disregarding the welling blood from their laid open fingers and palms, they held each other's strikes at bay with pure willpower and brute strength, pushing forward until they were all but face to face, sneering and spitting at each other like a pair of wildcats, before slamming their heads together as if by mutual consent, both of them staggered and dazed by the skull on skull collision, their scalps bursting open at the point of contact, hot blood sheeting down both of their faces, causing them to take a step back and blink and swipe the blood from their eyes.

Kenpachi blinked in surprise as he cleared the blood from not only one eye, but both of them, his special eyepatch having been knocked loose by the impact of his head on the Duke's. "Aww, goddamnit, I didn't want it to end so soon..." He grumbled regretfully, making a not to kick Freak-face's ass until the 12th's Captain made a sturdier sling for his eyepatch... getting it accidentally knocked off all the time was fucking annoying! But now that the energy eating creatures were gone, there was no way for him to really control his spiritual energy, and it exploded from his body in all directions, a volcanic expression of pure strength, a towering column of yellow that stretched into the sky, marking him out to the whole Sereitei, as a lambent, ethereal, cackling skull took form immediately around him, gnashing and gnawing its teeth in excited warlust. "Shit, we're gonna have to rush this a little bit... spoilsports on the way..."

"Well, that tears it..." Vladimo muttered in reply, shielding his eyes from the explosion of spirit energy that the Fruitcake was emitting, now that his eyepatch, which must have been some sort of seal, had come off. The courtyard was empty around them now, their subordinates blown bodily away by the release of power. "Guess there's no point in drawing things out any more. The Princess is gonna be PISSED! Oh well, I might as well go all out then. Shit, I was having fun too..." Vladimo took his right hand off Zoben's released form and took a deep breath as he brought forth the Crusader's ultimate expression of military power, the Transcendence release. "Zobens, Dice all who oppose me!"

Again, Zobens was not a complicated or showy Arma, not even when released to the fullest extent. Besides just increasing his strength, speed and stamina by several more orders of magnitude, the only real change to the Arma was the fact that second, identical in every aspect to the first, sword appeared in Vladimo's right hand, so that he was now dual wielding Zobens. Blurring into motion, Vladimo shifted behind Kenpachi, bringing both swords around from the same direction, a double strike that slammed the parrying Shinigami backwards almost fifty feet, his feet not giving way, but the dirt and stone beneath them not quite so doughty. Blurring forward again, Vladimo launched an all out blitz, each sword constantly in motion, hammering and slicing and looping at Zaraki from seemingly six to eight directions at once. More bloody gashes, deeper and more freely bleeding than before, began opening up all over Kenpachi's body, the fact of his single sword making it impossible for him to parry all the attacks from a guy with two swords.

Suddenly throwing his arm out wide, Kenpachi deliberately stepped forward into one thrust, allowing the blade to slice cleanly through his entire lower abdomen, just above his left hip, clamping down on the blade where it entered his flesh with his free hand, as he knocked Vladimo's other blade away with a swipe of his sword and then brought the jagged blade down on through, cutting deeply into the shoulder of the Crusader, all but cutting him in half... or so it appeared, until the afterimage faded away and revealed the real Duke of Battle standing a few dozen feet away, one hand clamped to his mauled shoulder, which was cut, but not nearly severed. Kenpachi yanked the sword impaling his guts out of his body and hurled it back to his foe, who took his blood soaked glove away from his shoulder injury to catch it. Though they had barely been fighting for five minutes by this point in time, they were both breathing a bit heavily, each having been holding little if nothing back the entire time, such games not being in their nature.

Squaring off against each other once more, they both smirked, ignoring the blood flowing thickly down their bodies, the ache in their joints from parrying blows that could have cut a small mountain in half, the brief spell of lightheadedness that comes from losing so much blood so quickly... none of it mattered. Only winning mattered. Only being the last man standing mattered in the slightest. Flipping his swords around in his hands, so that the hilts were protruding from the top of his fists, and the long blades laying flat back along his forearms, Vladimo crossed his arms behind his back, one of his signature moves, allowing him to strike from both sides with bullwhip cracks of his arms, swinging so hard he usually dislocating at least one arm at shoulder or elbow in the process, but putting the maximum amount of cutting power into both swings. Across from him, Kenpachi grabbed the hilt of his sword with his second hand and lifted the sword carefully over his head. Time for the last attack...

There was no preamble, no prelude, no agreed upon signal... one moment all was stillness as each side measured the other for their ultimate offensive technique, the next, both men were in motion, footsteps churning up the shattered and brokens flagstones like they were wading through mud puddles, rather than solid ground. Dust and blood droplets alike seemed to freeze in midair, the entire Seretiei tensing up and holding its breath as the two opposing juggernauts of wanton conflict bore down upon each other with the combined power to crack open entire islands. Reached the half way point, Vladimo began to spin, his entire body and limbs rotating into the attack as he switched from swinging at either side to a double right side strike with the power to cut down a hundred Daemons in a single swing, just from the flying air pressure alone. This unstoppable force met the downswing of Kenpachi's impossibly strong two handed vertical swing, which had cleaved apart the Espada with the toughest Heiro like he was made of soft sand. The blades met with a screeching detonation of force that collapsed the entire frontal section of every building bordering the coutyard, a ten foot deep and hundred foot wide crater punching itself into the ground around and beneath them.

Both men had their arms go instantly numb under the force of the stymied attacks, three swords jarring right out of blood slicked hands and whirling across the courtyard in three different directions. Eyes widening with surprise, neither man let their shock at being deflected stop them from lifting fists in preparation for taking the fight to hand to hand. Both of them heard some tinny sounds in the distance, but with the blood pounding in their ears as it was, it was impossible to make out what it was exactly as they buried their fists into each other's chests, ribs popping and snapping on both sides as the grinned at each other through fleshy fright masks of blooded skin and chipped teeth. They began trading punches just as they'd traded sword blows, pounding each other relentless, both hurting, neither caring, equally determined to be the last man standing no matter what! This was no longer a battle, it had become a two way massacre, and the only thing that would determine the winner was who could take more pain!

Kicking Kenpachi in the ankle, Vladimo knocked the man off balance long enough to grab him by his belled hair, slamming his opponent's face down into a rising knee, feeling cheekbone crunch inwards with a satisfying SNAP of parting bone and cracking teeth. FALL, DAMN YOU! FALL! FALL! FALL DOWN! I WON'T LOSE TO YOU SO FUCKING FALL ALREADY! Vladimo chanted in his mind, as he brought back his knee for another pounding strike, prepared to crush the Shingami's face into the back of his skull if he had to! However, the second knee strike was blocked, his leg yanked out from under him as Zaraki took the fight to the ground, half pinning Vladimo beneath him as he thundered punch after punch into his shoulder injury, each shivering strike threatening to not only dislocate the limb, but pulverize it entirely!

This has got to be the most fun I've had since Ichigo... Kenpachi thought to himself. Maybe even better than IchiHOOOOG! His train of thought was derailed as Vladimo brought a knee up into Kenpachi's groin, unabashedly targeting the balls and striking with enough force to splinter a solid oak doorway. Kenpachi Zaraki was about as tough as tough got, but even he couldn't entirely shrug off a knee to the balls from a Captain class Soul who'd been slugging it out with him toe to toe from swing one! He was distracted long enough for the black haired, green eyed Crusader to wriggle loose from beneath his pin, and then dived forward before he was even fully upright again, knocking them both to the ground once more, but this time with Zaraki on the bottom. Another headbutt dazed them both, as Vladimo began windmilling his fists into Kenpachi's battered face, all technique and training thrown to the wayside, only brutal instinct and mad fury fuelling them both now. They both heard those tinny voices again, somewhat clearer this time, but nothing of consequence surely...

Ignoring the punches that were rocking his head from side to side, Kenpachi reached up and laced his hands around Vladimo's throat, choking off the Crusader's air and simultaneously bucking upwards with his upper body, now caked with blood and dust from both of them, unseating the Duke as Kenpachi chokeslamed him onto his side in the bottom of the crater they'd made. Staggering upright, he lifted the Duke again, and chokeslammed him once more. Third time wasn't the charm though, as Vladimo made him eat another knee to the chin, splitting both knee and chin open in the impact and almost dislocating Kenpachi's jaw, forcing him to release the half strangled Duke in order to pop his facial bones back into their proper place. They smiled at each other, their clothes torn to shreds, theirs weapons lost in the distance, their blood more on the ground than in their veins, their bones as often fractured as not... they smiled at each other and began to chuckle. It wasn't often that either of them came across a truly kindred spirit, and in that moment, regardless of language barriers, both men fully understood the other. It was no harder that looking at themselves in the mirror, with a few cosmetic changes. Well, maybe more than a few, but in all important aspects, they might as well have been brothers.

Not that such a moment of kinship would at all stop them from continuing to tear each other apart until one or the other was nothing more than a quivering pile of unconscious meat. Utilizing a saved up burst of speed, Vladimo shifted behind Kenpachi and grabbed him by his hair once more, ripping an entire bell tipped spike right off the Shinigami's head as he pulled the other man backwards by the hair, kicking him in the back of his knees to steal his balance as he threw the man fifteen feet end over end, just narrowly missing striking another figure wearing a nearly immaculately clean white haori over black robes as she stood glaring at them, her long braid of hair whipping in the breeze of Zaraki's passing body. However, it wasn't this sight that brought even a half blood-drunk Vladimo to a halt, but rather the slighter, comelier woman that stood nearby the one with the braid, dressed in a gold and crimson and blue robe, instantly recognizable because of her impossibly long drapes of crimson red hair.

"Princess..." Vladimo acknowledged through split lips, broken teeth and enough blood to drown a kitten, which he then hawked and spat to the side.

"Aww, fuck, its you..." Kenpachi groused, as he climbed to his feet and found Captain Unohana of the 4th Division blocking his way back into the fight. Though he had never actually managed to pick a fight with Retsu, despite many years of trying, Kenpachi also knew that perhaps this wasn't entirely a bad thing. What was that thing about still waters running deeply? Well, no water in all the Soul Society was as still as Retsu Unohana could be, though at the moment she looked dangerously close to losing her much vaunted cool, her eyes all but alight with annoyance and reproach.

"Words escape me, Duke Morieth. Entirely escape me. In almost two millenia, I have NEVER, EVER beheld such... such... such MORONIC, WILLFUL STUPIDITY as I am right now! Did I not specifically... SPECIFICALLY... decree that we were not to get into fights with these Shinigami? Were those not my EXACT WORDS? And yet, what do I find you doing, in such a manner that you have disrupted events throughout this ENTIRE CITY?" Lacus was trying to be calm, she really was, but with Mal letting loose the Fey-Goats and now this, she was really, dangerously close to completely losing her temper for the first time in more than a decade! She didn't like to make a big deal of her position and authority, but she DID expect her few decrees to be respected, when she bothered to make them. "I really should have you stripped of your rank and sent back to the Imperium in chains and disgrace, you know this, right, Duke Morieth?"

"I expected better of you, Kenpachi." Retsu said simply, letting tone of voice and past experiences speak more eloquently than any shouted tirade, which she knew would just roll off his shoudlers like a bucket of cold water. "We took a man out of Zaraki... but apparently we haven't yet been able to take the Zaraki out of the man. Brawling with one of our honored guests like a bloodthirsty thug." Retsu shook her head in quiet despair. "I don't care who started it, I took you to have common sense, if not exactly restraint. Are you that fond of conflict that you want to start a war involving everyone, not just the 11th Division? Is that what you want, Captain Zaraki?"

"Then do it, your Highness. You know better than to expect me to apologize. For what its worth, I don't think he's gonna be pressing charges against me. These shinigami aren't nearly as much of pushovers as I thought they were. They might even make good allies, if the Fruitcake is any example of their officers." Vladimo replied, with a hint of truculence in his tone. Yes, he had disobeyed what amounted to a direct order, but he wasn't exactly known for his law abiding nature, and it wasn't like he'd killed anyone. He traded a glance with Kenpachi, both men rolling their eyes at the unwanted and unneeded interruption.

"You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Retsu." Kenpachi groused, whiping a fresh tide of blood from his laid open scalp out of his eyes. "We were just havin some fun with each other... it's not like he's gonna go crying to his momma or anything. For smarmy bastard, Pimp-Suit ain't such a bad guy after all. If all their Dukes are half as tough as he is, the last thing I would want to do would be start a war with them. I'm bloodthirsty, not stupid."

"Were we back home, were we not in pursuit of an extremely critical mission against an extremely powerful and dangerous foe, you would be dismissed and disgraced, Morieth! Make no mistake of that. And I will be bringing this insubordination up to my Father when we return home, do not doubt that. It pains me to do so, especially given your "condition" and the likely assumptions that will be drawn. I will likely be signing your very death warrant, as my Father is certainly not in the mood to forgive further infractions of rebellion against the Royal Family, no matter how slight. But you have brought this on yourself. I hope this brawl was worth it to you..." Lacus turned around and began stalking away, grinding her teeth loudly enough to be heard, her hair bearing attendants scrambling after her, eyes wide and postures hunched as if in fear of deflected wrath. "And for God's sake, clean yourself up! You're a disgrace to every Crusader here, looking like that."

"That remains to be decided. Captain-General Yamamoto is LIVID, Kenpachi. Absolutely livid. If you try, once I fix your twice broken nose, you might even be able to smell the smoke from the rafters of 1st division that he unintentionally ignited with his reiatsu upon discovering what you were doing here. You'll be lucky if they don't send you to the Maggot's Nest. He might even press the Central 46 to have you banished or executed. It would be within his rights to ask for such things. I don't believe you truly understand how serious your situation is right now." Retsu continued her lecture, even as her hands began glowing with the light green energy of healing Kidou.

"As you say, your Highness..." Vladimo replied with a stiff bow that ahd more to do with his physical state than his emotional contrition. Was the brawl worth it? Of course it was! I haven't had that much fun in ages! I can't wait to do this again...

"Yeah, yeah... I'll deal with the old man somehow..." Kenpachi shrugged, trading another glance with the green eyed Crusader Duke. Until next time, Pimp-Suit. And I won't go easy on you again either...