You. Damn You. Why did it have to be you? Of all the others, why you?

Why do you insist on being such an irritation, finding fights where you never triumph, that type of battle is utterly pointless. I see no sense in it, and yet you continue to seek me out for your constant defeat. Is it your search for inexhaustible power, or your eternal urge to prove it?

And why to me, of all the others? There are so many much stronger than you, than me. Why am I always the object of your violent intentions, what do I have in particular to soothe your reckless rage?

You're permanently a pesk, and yet I'm not bothered by you- in the same way that a beast isn't disturbed by a beatle. Becoming Pantera barely changes anything, pest. Perhaps you're not even worth being termed 'trash'. You are a tiresome creature, hardly a terrible threat enough to go to the trouble of battling you. Even so, for some reason we are always engaged in the exchange of blows and wrathful words. Obviously, none of your hits ever hurt.

Although, I am beginning to feel slightly sore...

"WHAT!THE!HELL! IS WRONG! WITH YOU!" you punctuate each word with a punch to my face.

What the hell is wrong with you? I wonder, as you sit there astride me, panting and head hung, countenance obscured in shadow, while mine is in bruises.

You're silent. How unusual.

You've gotten stronger though, enough to cause some mild internal bleeding. I barely wince when your claws dig into me, sharp and harsh, they rip through the cloth of my collar, but not my skin.

'Che! He's got one thick hide of a hierro, that's for sure,' Ulquiorra's aggressor thought grimly, but he had smugly noted his superior's slight flinch as he grabbed his shoulders. Their chests rise and fall simultaneously, though the oppressed individual steadies his breath first, calmly staring and waiting for Grimmjow's next attack.

He frowns, and sits back, adding substantial weight and pressure to the Cuatro's chest, barely eliciting a sharp intake of breath. Never for a moment does he relinquish his grip on him though. He's noticed the tiniest of gasps emitted by his fellow Espada.

"Please, Grimmjow…Please…"

Ulquiorra, begging him? Impossible.

"Stop…"

He can't believe this. He must be dreaming, but then it'd be a nightmare. Ulquiorra Schiffer, the Cuatro Espada pleading with the Sexta for mercy? For his life? Never. Never!

He'll never stop.

Because he'll never win, he's never undefeated.

Again and again, going against you- what's the point if either one of us gives up and gives in to the other now? Where's the sense in stopping? Who else would I go to in the hopes of challenge and with the aim to conquer? Why would you ask me this now? How could you?

How can I answer you? With your hand pressed against my face and your green eyes drawing me into your dangerous depths, or is it an abyss that actually awaits me? Are those emeralds hoarding emptiness instead?

I've never been afraid of losing my life, only my battles. After I left the real world, and came to in Hueco Mundo, right away I identified a complete lack of regret over my loss of life. If there was anything that I was remotely remorseful over, it was that I hadn't dragged whichever bastard that killed me down together. Then again, that was probably a positive thing in retrospect, since undoubtedly we would have continued trying to take each other's afterlife anyway. In this realm of death, permanently dead and so in a way, eternally alive. Any sense of loss was erased, the liability of life was taken away. Death had made me immortal.

I was a King.

In the time of ascending from the low life form of an Adjuchas to Arrancar, I had countless battles, hundreds of hearts to rip and thousands of throats to tear. The loss of any battle was equivalent to the loss of life, that was the law of Living. Those who broke the law were those with broken bones, either of their bodies or masks, such souls were subsequently broken by the law, having to succumb and submit to those stronger than them.

I've been feared, never fearful. A terror that didn't know terror. So this foreign feeling, this sense of unease as I sit here, upon you and yet under your hypnotic stare, weighing heavy on my shoulders as I grip yours, is this what it is? Your calm, cool gaze sends shivers down my spine, your warm palm heats my cheeks and yet I can't break away from this sight and your touch.

And...your...scent...

Your head droops forward slightly, dipping a little closer to my face-though both our expressions are just as unreadable. What's the matter, Sexta, are you losing control of what little senses you have? Or rather, have you lost yourself... to your senses?

You've never been one for logic, and I wonder if you've ever even had to use it before. I expect you just fought your way through everything with sheer...mere brute force. You cannot help it, it is what you are. Just a beast, nothing more, burdened by your brain-or lack thereof, more likely. I see it, your willfulness, your wildness, a boldness and a brashness that is so...becoming of you. I wonder sometimes, if you have a mind. More often... than I like to admit though, I wonder what goes through it...

What, or who's on your mind? The expressions are unreadable, as ever, as is typical. No surprise there-or on your same usual blank,bored facade etched upon your face, emerald eyes eternally betraying nothing-but your body does, your breath hitches. Cuatro, your countenance is constructed so carefully, never shifting, ever stoic; crafted perfect as porcelain. Your eyes are nothing more than ornaments, dead...but then, what did I expect? From souls like ours? Heh, what souls? We can hardly be considered alive, after all. We're dead, we're Death itself.

Brazenly, boldly we embody this aspect of being an Arrancar, this imminent immortality. Ironic then, isn't it? That throughout the eternity of our existence as Espada, we are more humanoid now than we have ever been as Hollow, and still we mock the mortals, scorning them even when we have scoffed their souls. Perhaps it's a kind of justice then, after all that ravaging, all that hunting of lesser Hollows and lesser still Humans, we've arrived as Arrancar that, apart from our broken masks and holes, look perfectly human, and we no longer need to consume them for survival, simply sport. But where's the fun in easy prey? A glorious game lies in killing each other, or trying to, that makes for a much bloodier, better battle. I get a kick out of it, often quite literally.

You have perfect...I mean perfectly human looks-but you wear another mask, a second one that seems impossible to shatter. There are no cracks in the Cuatro's countenance, this Espada's aura is edged with an emptiness of emotion. If I broke every bone in the lithe frame that is your body, if I rip open your chest, if I crack open your skull, would it...would you break?

But how can I tear away what isn't there, how do you annihilate the air? Something that I feel, that is tangible even without seeing it, that I can't live without?

How can I...touch nothingness?

Er-hemm, well that's the fifth chapter up and flying...or flagging/staggering as it may be. I really apologize about the long overdue update folks, but you know how it is with Holidays...plus the Inspirations&Ideas were just limping around inside my much distracted head, and that certainly didn't help. Oh yes, and there were a few lines that were 'exact quotes' from Ulquiorra's speech about the heart, or lack thereof. I put them in for obvious/obscure reasons, depending on how you look at it (; Anyway I hope it was an enjoyable read for most of you, do let me know if it was, as well as how I can make it good- and I hope you all have a great Christmas! C:

~Wriot