Date written: 25/06/12 – 23/08/12

Posted on FanFiction: 24/08/12

A/N: You know, the earlier draft of this chapter—dating back to last year, around the time I had been released from my prison-like OJT—consisted of more daring events and suspense like Ichigo's soul reacting to Orihime's reiatsu as the barrier shielding her presence from the rest of the pocket dimension was shattered, or the one where Orihime recalled another vision of her parents, or the one where Urahara had to tend to Yoruichi as the stab she received from Emi-possessed Orihime was laced with a poison made from Emi's undiluted, malicious reiryoku. In the end, these ideas were removed from the final product, not because I didn't see potential in their being fleshed out, but because they were on the very complex side and the last time I did that to a certain Naruto story, I experienced writer's block with a side of procrastination. I had to think of future chapters and their connection with the previous, and trying to keep hold of all those events without straying from the direction I was heading to—sometimes they stray very far that I had to revise certain future events. It was better to keep things simple, then, and keep the writing flow from there.

This was another reason why I left the previous chapter short and as un-action-esque as the chapter before it. My old writing style trying to clash with my current one had also factored into it, but mostly it's because of the alien feel of the chapter's direction. I wanted to start anew and set everything straight. No more lollygagging and prolonged monologues that lead to possibly nowhere. Write the fight, the end, the call of the curtains as this act comes to a close.

–– CHAPTER 32 ––

emihirO mA I

Short of breath and feeling like she had gone through a harsh karate lesson from Tatsuki eighty times over, the first sense of consciousness her mind had registered was touch, which accentuated the fact that her body felt weak and past its stress limit, followed by sight, which one half processed darkness and the other a blurry image of a flat, barren plain turned on its side.

I . . . can't move.

Though she regained the feeling in her body, it was probably better that it hadn't because the pain made her wish sleep came back to her. It hurt to move, too.

She groaned.

The best her nerves could endure without resorting to an encore of searing pain coursing through her battered body was twitches on her fingers and the slow movements of her lips, which were dry and chapped. Sometimes it was hard to breathe and her mind still tried to comprehend how exactly she ended up like this.

The last thing she remembered was fighting Emi inside her mindscape, a battle she knew she was slowly losing as Emi began to take a foothold in the momentum of their fight, putting the advantage to her, swiping away whatever turnaround she could put up at the spurn of the moment. When Emi disappeared after her cheap shot, everything went hazy from there, washed away from her memory bank like ink being doused in water.

I need to get up.

Her determination might still be burning strong, but it helped little with motor movements. Every forced command on her nerves was like a myriad of daggers stabbing into her body, violently suggesting to her mind to stay still and rot away. It would've been merciful if she could just lie here without feeling a thing, no longer caring about honor and life and promises, thought centering only at the light at the end of the tunnel where pain was non-existent. Yes, it would've been merciful, indeed, but only if Orihime were a lesser woman.

She had gone through her fair share of personal tragedies, of pain insurmountable ever since she seriously took up the way of the sword, of hardships she could say made her more world-weary but also more independent. This paralysis and this hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves were just two things she could add in the ever-growing list that recorded her life. They wouldn't kill her, so they would no doubt make her stronger. She wasn't backing down, not now, not ever.

But still, the bond between desire and action was weak, yet with sheer determination she rotated her neck so she could let her head lie on its side and the most her throat could produce was a dry groan. It was difficult looking at the wasteland—the Playground, she remembered Urahara-san calling it—from the corner of her one good eye. With her turned head, it was more discernable and less straining for her eye, although she didn't think she'd find any salvation from staring at a vast endless wasteland all day.

The Playground . . . under the candy shop . . .

She needed another second to connect the obvious.

Urahara-san! Yoruichi-san!

Surely they'd be here. They'd come to her unmoving body, to help her out of this situation, and these thoughts were able to calm some of the anxiety that ran rampant in her system.

And there was Yoruichi, inching closer to where she lay, but the brown-skinned woman's steps were slow and cautious, as if she were assessing whether or not Orihime's prone form was still a threat. That sounded quite ludicrous even to Orihime, yet there had to be a reason for the catwoman's hesitance.

She tried to voice out these questions, but her throat was too dry to emit audible sound. The best sound it could do was the cough of a mute. She wanted water. Bad. Still, she tried again when Yoruichi was close enough to hear her.

"Yoruichi . . . –san?"

A smile formed on the older woman's lips. "Orihime," she said. Affectionate, heartwarming, gentle. "Good job."

She wanted to smile back, but Yoruichi wouldn't see. Not with the awkward position her head was in, as well as the thing obstructing most of her face. It was hard to tell what exactly this thing attached to her face was, but she could see it was firmly stuck to her skin as if it were cemented with super glue. Still, she had to give a reply to her teacher, try to convey that she was in sheer pain and couldn't move without the use of her mouth. With her pathetic state, maybe it wouldn't be that hard to—

DarkneSS in her soul.

Hungry.

Rising.

Writhing.

No. No. No. No, no, no, no, no no no no nononononononononononono—

Yoruichi-san, get away!

Too late.

Before she knew it, her body moved without her will and the sword she cherished and trusted turned into an instrument of betrayal as it lunged towards Yoruichi's stomach.

She woke up lying somewhere, gasping for breath, coughing out spit, and then ending the episode with bland-colored vomit gushing out from her mouth. She didn't think about what and when was the last time she ate. The pale orange color of a syrupy substance was all that had come forth from her stomach and sparked no recognition from her. But thinking about the unfinished work of her stomach acids was the least on her mind.

If anything, her mind was reeling back to what occurred in the outside world before she realized she had returned to the barren field of what was once had been a graveyard of swords. She had lost all control of her body and something had moved it for her. Something with murderous intent as Amaterasu turned into Yoruichi's cause of death. The surprised look on her face as she reacted too late to dodge the incoming blow, the slight feel of resistance when the tip of her blade pierced Yoruichi's abdomen . . .

She shook her head incessantly and spat out a mouthful of spit and residual vomit. The taste was as bland as the vomit's color, Orihime noted, to which she was thankful. The thought of having bad breath along with a dirty aftertaste did not sit well for her, though for the life of her, she couldn't understand why she'd have to worry about superficial stuff at a time like this.

Would it be better if it were your blood, then?

She grimaced, rolled on her side, stood up, and walked away from the puddle of puke. She didn't dare herself to look back; it might trigger an encore of retching. There was one thing she needed to do and if she took a moment to rest, to think it over, hesitation would begin to settle in, and that must not happen at all cost. Her hands were empty, but a quick thought of Amaterasu's presence was enough to materialize the zanpakutou into the mindscape and in her hand again.

"Emi!" she shouted, gripping Amaterasu with both hands, the tip of the sword resting on the dirt. "I know you can hear me." She looked to her left, right, behind, in front, and above. She was alone yet not so alone; she could feel her enemy's stare coming from somewhere remote, like a surveillance camera watching her every move. "Come out."

Silence greeted her, but inside that silence she could already tell there was laughter.

Orihime steeled herself, from the compassion in her mind to the soft tone of her voice dropping to accentuate her method of intimidation with the words, "I won't ask again. Come out. Now."

Emi had taken that as a challenge as she appeared fifty yards to Orihime's left in a flash of utter darkness. It was not a form of theatrics—if it was, she would've appeared in front of Orihime—but a form of travel between their domains. This place was neutral grounds. They were not in the forest park filled with sakura petals dancing to a steady flow of wind; it was Amaterasu's homeground and beyond the orange sky from which this world was basked in. They were also not in the world of darkness, Emi's personal little home inside Orihime's head.

Orihime doubted she'd be able to rid of Emi completely; the raven-haired doppelganger was as much of a part of her as Amaterasu, an extension of her very soul. This did not mean she had to like it. Tolerate, maybe. And right now, she had to show just who was boss and that the game was over. No more interruptions. No more turning back.

It was now or never. A battle for who holds the throne that governs their identity.

Before anymore innocents get caught in the crossfire. For a fleeting moment, an image of Ichigo came into her thoughts and she pushed it back. She steeled herself for what she was about to do.

Emi was smiling as she sauntered closer to Orihime. There was no trace of worry or nervousness in her face, but it was hard to tell when the only expression Orihime had seen of her was that smile and its many variations. Maybe that was how she dealt with other emotions, smile when feeling sad, smile when feeling angry, smile when feeling bloodlust, the utter need to cut things up and see the blood gush like a broken pipe.

It would remain a mystery to Orihime.

Both women readied their weapons, their eyes clear of distractions, of unneeded thoughts. The first attack was an essential starter in getting the upper hand over your foe, as long as the attack connected. If it were countered, then the advantage was lost and the attacker would have to nurse a wound as the battle raged on whether or not she wanted a moment of respite.

The grip on Orihime's sword tightened as she assessed her battle plan. In this barren wasteland, there were no obstructions, no loose rocks or holes, and no hiding places. Plenty of running ground if she wanted to distance herself, but the same could be said for Emi. Should she take this slow, go on the defense while finding a proper opening for her to exploit? Should she take this lightning quick, hoping for the first attack to succeed and follow it up with a barrage of lethal blows which would end this fight?

Was there even a third option?

While both had good merits, Orihime's instinct—the one that kept her alive whenever there was a fight—was responding negatively. It seemed to say that these two options were inadequate for the current foe, because she was her and the other way around. Emi would no doubt have expected whatever Orihime came with, so . . . so what now?

Come on, think. Think!

She didn't have time to do so; Emi opted to take the initiative and deliver the first attack of the fight, a slow swipe towards Orihime's shoulder. A part of her already thought of the move suspicious. It was too slow, too constrained, but the rest of Orihime believed it to be Emi's unorthodox sword-style, her unpredictability quasi-personified.

She never saw the feint for what it was.

The swing was blocked, a distinct clash of metal that reverberated to the ends of the wasteland. Orihime believed she'd be all right as long as she anticipated Emi's next move, but fortune did not smile on her right now.

Emi, always thinking on the fly, although this feat seemed more predated and thought out than spontaneity, made use of the block to her attack. In Newton's Third Law of Motion, it states that with every action there is an equal, opposite reaction. The force and velocity exerted between the two warriors were beyond the level of humans, and though this was the mindscape, a place where reality itself could be bent to the whims of the dreamer, it still acted on a general understanding of the outside world, at least as much as what Orihime had learned for all her life. The block pushed Emi's sword back, but instead of resisting the remnants of the opposite force, she used it as a starting momentum to spin and swing at Orihime's other, unguarded side.

Orihime never saw it coming. But her instinct did.

She, like Emi, did not resist the momentum as it pushed her back. Something in her told her to roll backwards, to go with the flow of the push, and not once had she questioned these urges. It would be more accurate to say that she didn't have time to think of every little thing over, for one moment wasted on needless thoughts was a moment she could've used to keep herself alive.

As the adrenaline rushed in her system, her heart beating like the continuous burst of a machinegun, time began to march in an almost frame-by-frame motion. It was not as if she had experienced episodes like this before; the survival instincts of her body going on overdrive as it accelerated everything about her, including her mind, to give time to counteract whatever it was that was endangering her. It only came when it wanted, and once it did, Orihime took every opportunity to exploit it.

Here was Emi on her second swing, the dark glint of her shadowed nodachi made her think of how bloodstains would not be seen on its blade. And here was Orihime mimicking Neo, saved from severe laceration as the course of her enemy's weapon plowed through where her torso had been, only the slight tear of the fabric against her breasts the evidence of her brush with a lethal attack. The motions hastened, like a snail trying to run, and Orihime continued with the momentum of her backward roll. The dragged out sound of Emi's blade echoed in her ears as it sliced through the sound barrier. There was even an uncomfortable piece of rock prodding against her right shoulder blade. Minute sensations felt with enhanced senses, ones that would stay until the end of this bullet time event.

And so, time picked up speed, with Emi slicing air and Orihime out of harm's way, finishing her roll with little flourish and readying Amaterasu to a neutral stance that could be either offensive or defensive.

Emi's smile looked crooked for a second and she smoothed it out. Their determined eyes locked on each other and then to a few fluttering strands of orange hair between them, dropping to the floor soundless and calm yet its message brought something more malicious.

No one said it, but they took that as a successful, if mainly superficial, first attack.

They closed the gap between them again, neither going for defense; no time for it. Charge forward. Never look back. Each blow thrown was received and deflected, yet as the battle continued, the more readable the signs of wear and exhaustion were on Orihime's face. It did not matter if she had a higher chance of winning this duel than Emi; for all her advantages and plain instinctual swordplay, she had been through a rough fight with Amaterasu. The wound on her palm, which she had gotten from grasping Amaterasu's sword to play out the finale, had healed but the mental tire remained. It stalled her, dulled her, slowed her down.

And in a moment of slipping awareness, Emi dashed in and kicked her knee.

Pain sprung from the spot like an exploding firework, blinding and bright. Orihime lost grip of her concentration as she knelt, without realizing, to grab ahold of her knee. Her mouth articulated only a fraction of the scream; Emi did not let up with her attack, swiping her free hand onto Orihime's throat.

There was weightlessness as well as pain. Seconds which felt like minutes, maybe hours, the sense of zero gravity doing wonders with her confusion. At some point, she had lost her sword but it did not occur to her how defenseless she'd be without it. Her mind was preoccupied with processing the shock of events coming in too fast for it to take a foothold.

Yet when gravity returned, she had wished that the pain would lessen, if not disappear altogether. Newer pain—strong, acute, discombobulating—shot out to her head, like a boxer delivering a swift haymaker directly to her face. She was bleeding—it felt like it, anyway—and was having trouble figuring out where was up and where was down. It took a few more seconds for her to fully comprehend that her face had been bashed onto the ground.

"You disappoint me, princess."

Orihime palmed the ground and lifted her torso, but her elbows buckled and she again slammed, forehead-first, to the uneven ground where debris from the crater the first impact left behind had scattered and done wonders in making her sharply 'comfortable.'

Where . . . did I go wrong?

No answer was forthcoming, no revelations or disembodied voices to give her a pep talk so she could rise up from despair and take on whoever. In the end, she was on her own, her lifelines for help had all been wasted because of her weakness.

Footsteps somewhere, echoing closer. This was undoubtedly the end. No one to save her, nothing to give her a boost of confidence. She was weak, wracked with pain, and unmoving, like a trapped animal that had expended all of its energy to try and escape. And as Emi's footsteps grew louder and more profound—there was also a whipping sound from the wind, like the swipe from a tennis racket, followed by suppressed giggles that Orihime knew was filled with overflowing glee—she thought of her last seconds in this existence. Was she okay with how things went in her life? Was she satisfied to have things end this way? Was she willing to just lie here and die when there were still many things she wanted to do in her life?

Will she let things go like this before she even had the chance to redeem herself for what she had done to Rukia?

Kurosaki-kun, she thought, what should I do? Tell me . . . Kurosaki-kun.

"Well," Emi said, skidding her sandals next to Orihime, her voice nonchalant and happy at the same time, "this is not how I really envisioned our fight to end . . . but hey!" A sound of rustling clothes and the muffled clings and clangs of shifting metal—even in the darkness born from eyes she couldn't open even when she wanted them to, she only needed these simple sounds to realize Emi had shrugged. "I tend to imagine very elaborate things. Just like you, right?"

They were giggles no more. Emi was milking the glee for all its worth, breaking Orihime's slowly as her continued laughter blasted in her ears, a painful reminder of how much she had failed everyone—Rukia, Urahara-san, Yoruichi-san, Tatsuki, even Sado and Ishida. But most of all, she felt ashamed about letting Ichigo down.

I guess . . . you'll have to rescue Kuchiki-san on your own, Kurosaki-kun. Her hands clenched into fists. She fought the urge to cry; to show more weakness to Emi would just prove more of her superiority. At least she wanted to leave this world with some of her dignity left intact.

Her time was numbered by the seconds, she knew that well, and she couldn't think of anything better to spend it than thinking of the memories she had made with Ichigo no matter how small, no matter how limited. When they first met when her brother, Sora, was admitted into the Kurosaki clinic, even though Ichigo had probably forgotten and she almost had, too. When they became classmates in high school, never really conversing with each other but that was more of her shyness and troubles of even uttering more than five words to him. When she participated in his shinigami duties, willing to share the workload as long as Ichigo didn't treat her like fragile glass.

She saw the many expressions of Ichigo Kurosaki within those months, faces when he was sad, happy, angry, bewildered, and many more. Before her whole world turned upside down, she never would've dreamed of getting to know Ichigo this much. She still wanted to learn more about him. She wanted to talk more openly with him, work alongside him, enjoy a life with him there by her side, even if such a thought was but a mere pipe dream. She wanted more.

Kurosaki-kun . . .

She wanted to live.

Vibrations came to her skin. Their origin was from the ground itself, subtle, quick, and soft. The first wave didn't register to Orihime—or maybe they did, but she thought nothing of it, probably an aftershock from the full body smackdown Emi gave her. After the second and third wave, she realized that these tremors were too strong to be done by Emi stomping, which was her first theory, and she drew a blank for any other explanation other than it being a normal earthquake. But why would an earthquake occur inside her mindscape?

Cold steel touched her neck.

"Are you ready, princess?"

No . . .

The cold feeling stopped, but Orihime instinctually knew that in a few more seconds, Emi would be using her last attack on her. There were no escape routes, no retaliations, no counterattacks. Helpless against an impending fatal strike was what Orihime was now.

No . . . I don't want to die . . .

Something in the air distorted, and the ear-catching sound of something akin to a whipping registered in her head. And within the last moment, Orihime shouted out her desire, her intent, her will to live.

I DON'T WANT TO DIE!

And in answer, the world willed it so.

The mindscape is more than a home for a shinigami's zanpakuto spirit. If you were to question different shinigami, you'd hear different responses to the same question: What does your mindscape look like?

There are no two zanpakuto having the same properties. There are cases of some sharing the same element, but either how it was used or how the sword looked made the difference. And just as zanpakuto are as unique as people's fingerprints, the place in which their spirits reside, the mindscape, should also reflect that. The mindscape itself is an extension of a zanpakuto, thus making it, too, an extension of the zanpakuto's wielder.

Each mindscape was forged through individuality. A shinigami's thoughts, experiences, beliefs, personality, they all played their part in forming that inner world. The structures, the sky, the ground . . . all were made from what made the shinigami who she was. In short, it is the projection of a shinigami's own mind.

When Orihime commanded to live, albeit unconsciously, the mindscape resonated. A bright light shined from where she lay and a powerful unrelenting force pushed Emi away as her black sword came inches from severing Orihime's head. This light encompassed the whole field, like an atomic bomb detonating and taking no prisoners. Even after being pushed away and then regaining her bearings, Emi felt the intense heat coming from the approaching light. Hotter than fire, faster than lightning, brighter than anything she had come across. Its presence instilled a feeling in her she never thought she'd feel. This feeling made her shake, made her hesitate, made her take a step back. They were instinctual responses, and since she was completely assimilated to these instincts, she didn't realize her symptoms until her heel stepped on a sharp rock while backtracking.

She stopped, looked down at the stone that broke her from her unconscious retreat, and snarled. Not completely undignifying since she managed to reel it back and somehow morph it into teeth-gritting. But all she managed was to save face. On the inside, there was a looming beast breaking out of its cage. The fight had been in her favor right from the start, yet she had been pushed back like some harmless fly, unthreatening, merely there to annoy the princess. It was infuriating to even think about and she was willing to rectify this embarrassment at all costs. The princess might've taken her by surprise, but she still had the upper hand. A month of swordplay—even with the aid of that old hag—paled in comparison to what power she was holding back.

Emi switched her stance, this time using both hands to grab onto the hilt, and dove inside the fading light. She thought it would be a simple hit and run: get close to the target, slash her up, and then grow some distance.

She thought wrong.

Blindness was her undoing. The light might've been enough to blind her temporarily, but she was prepared for that. What really undid her was dust. A whole cloud of it flooded the air and her face. Her eyes prickled, her nose itched, and above all her resolve wavered but that was enough for a counter.

Within the thick layer of dust, Orihime lunged, spearing her nodachi into Emi's shoulder. She had been aiming for her heart, but even she was not fully protected from the dust particles, despite using it to her advantage earlier.

Orihime heard her opponent grunt before pushing her away. In one swift movement, reminiscent of shounen action manga, Emi dissipated the dust cloud through some unfathomable air manipulation. Whatever the technique was, it destroyed Orihime's hiding place. But not her advantage.

Emi's rapid regeneration began mending the damage on her shoulder, but that was all right. Orihime didn't expect to do anything permanent, not now and especially not here. Something about this place she did not want to taint with death. An odd thought, considering her past experience with this barren land that was crowded with a graveyard of swords spanning for as far as her eyes can see, like an endless plain for all the fallen and dead, either known or unknown to history. But was that all there was to it, a mere graveyard with no rhyme or reason for its existence inside her head?

No. Something doesn't seem right. Something is . . . missing.

But much as she wished to try to understand the meaning behind the swords, there was no actual need for it. Almost like a theological revelation, the answers she sought came from some otherworldly power. It could've been Amaterasu, it could've been this wasteland responding once again to her will, she was still unsure. What was clear, however, was the purpose of this part of the mindscape.

It was not neutral ground as she, or Emi, had wanted to believe. Amaterasu resided in a forest of blooming sakura trees, pink petals flowing and falling along an ever-present breeze. Emi, almost contrasting to her shining yet malevolent smile, resided in pure darkness. It should've been obvious that this was her personal residence of the mindscape, but at the same time it wasn't.

She might possess the power to bend a few universal rules here, but it was limited to her intent and emotions. She might tip the scale more to her favor in this fight, but it probably wouldn't be enough. Miracles do not come in groups.

Disconnection. Isolation. It is not really mine.

The truth still stood before her, like a neon sign flashing brightly right in her face: She had had no need for a mindscape until now. For the past 15 years living life as a normal human—a spiritually aware human, to be sure, but still human—mindscapes had been nothing more than figments of the imagination, if maybe not an exaggeration born from manga culture. As imaginative as Orihime was, her mind at the time was still bounded by human limitation, thus why she never had the chance to realize and nurture her inner world. Untended and unneeded, it served no purpose, waiting for the day that it would be called upon.

Because this world was her corner of the vast mindscape, Orihime was god. Her will was absolute, if only she had a proper grasp of her influence, which she did not, and that hindered her from success. Miracles, after all, do not come in groups.

Readying her sword, wounds on her person healing much more rapidly than her enemy, Orihime set her eyes on the target, steeled and determined. "Please dodge this."

Emi only had a second to react at both her words and the screams of her danger instincts. Rolling to the left, willing everything in her body to move faster than her fastest, she managed to escape a vertical slash that decimated 500 yards of barren earth, leaving behind a deep crevice that widened gradually from the starting point. If Emi had been a yard or two farther from the shinigami, she might not have been so lucky with her evasion. She got out of the thick of it, if barely. The wound on her shoulder, still healing, was forced open due to her quick movement. Offense was currently impossible with her disabled dominant arm. Orihime was radiating power unlike anything she had sensed from her before; her instincts were even telling her to exercise caution.

Dust flew in the air, but fortunately there was no light this time. Whatever that attack was, it was the same kind of air distortion Emi had used to dismiss the dust cloud earlier. She did so again for the current one and entered a stance once she caught sight of Orihime.

The sharp edge of her blade facing the abused ground, unmoving from when she finished her slash to the current time, Orihime's eyes were serene, as if she had found a transcendent, unbreakable peace within herself. Emi didn't like those eyes one bit. They weren't fearful, weren't hesitant, weren't human. As if the princess was above feeling any emotion, as if breathing and fighting for one singular purpose.

The thought alone tightened her grip on her zanpakuto.

Orihime stood straight, Amaterasu resting on her side. She assumed no stance and stayed like that. Her guard might be abysmal and her chance of initiating an attack before Emi notices was improbable, but her eyes glowed with fierce determination.

"What are you planning?" Emi asked, but it came as a whisper.

Not knowing that Orihime still picked up her question. "To win," she replied simply, as if it was expected of her. "I'm sorry."

Emi took those last two words as an omen and trusted her instincts to pull her away from harm. Danger would come from her right—the movements of the orange-head supported this—and she maneuvered her body in both speed and delicacy. Her reopened wound was sore and halfway from done, and while such a wound was inconsequential given the fact she couldn't actually die in this place, she was already at a disadvantage from having one arm disabled. Neither was pulling her punches anymore, and there was a large likelihood that she'd fall in this battle. That must not happen. Her freedom was on the line here.

She braced her legs for a swift jump. A moment of weightlessness, her senses almost as hyper as Orihime's as the surge of slow motion brought unfortunate clarity to her situation. She trusted her instincts and went with what it advised, but such advice was useless when speed was not enough.

Emi managed to dodge the projectile slash attack, that was true. However, she did not react fast enough to how the slash changed directions and honed in on her new location. Like leading a mouse to cheese, the slash found what it was looking eight feet to the right from where Orihime had launched the sharp distortion of air pressure which wasn't air pressure at all.

"What the hell was that?" Emi now bore a second wound of shame, a diagonal gash coursing through chest area that went deep enough for her to worry about her breasts having to dangle on mere skin until her healing factor repaired the damages. "I dodged your attack. I know I did."

"You did dodge," Orihime informed, retracing her movements to her initial relaxed standing position. She walked slowly to the woman nursing her wound. "And if it were an ordinary wind slash, it would've swept passed you and imprinted the ground with another crevice."

"Then how . . . how?!"

"My attack"—she lifted her sword with one hand—"did not utilize air."

The sword came down. Emi braced her uninjured hand, which still held onto her zanpakuto like a tightly screwed vise, and clashed their blades together. The attack was blocked . . . but Emi still got slashed.

And, almost like an afterthought, Orihime murmured, "It uses light."

Light. Tangible but relatively harmless. Yet . . .

"I see," Emi muttered, searing heat showering her back like a bucket of lava. "You manifested the light in this place, intensifying its properties to something sharp and deadly."

"Light manipulation. That is my shikai."

Emi's knees buckled. She could not find the strength to rise back up. But despite knowing what was to come, the end to her plans for assuming direct control over the physical vessel, she managed to smile. "Who are you and what have you done to princess?"

Orihime didn't smile. If anything, she felt sick, especially knowing what had to be done. "She," she said before pausing and swallowing the lump in her throat, "her hand was forced. This was the only path."

"Do you really believe that?"

Orihime said nothing.

"Just do it already, princess. That look in your face is making me puke."

Orihime blacked out after that. She was unsure of what happened between her and Emi, but she was certain that the fight for dominance would continue. Her alter-ego was merely incapacitated, if a word actually existed for an entity like her. Maybe incapacitated wasn't a proper word for her state. Dormant, she guessed. Or even comatose. Either way, for the moment Orihime was in complete control of herself.

As her consciousness rouse from its comfortable slumber, her senses realized she was lying on something soft and warm, and the quiet permeating around her released more of tranquility than confusion. Her eyes fluttered open and she recognized the ceiling. She tried to speak out but her voice came out dry and raspy, barely audible. And though she just woke up with no idea of how long she had been out, she felt exhausted and wanted to sleep again.

She changed her position for something more comfortable. Before she closed her eyes, a whole head of orange hair, which was more vibrant and lighter than her own, came to view.

Kurosaki-kun . . .

He was lying in a futon, fast asleep. The ever-present scowl on his face was gone; she couldn't help noting that his face was more serene and content without it. She watched him, the rise and fall of his chest. She listened to his light snores, rhythmic and alive, almost soothing. She reached out for him, wanting to wish and believe that this was no dream, that she had succeeded in her ordeal and was recuperating inside the Urahara Shouten next to the person that meant the world to her. That she was not weak, that she really could be of help to Ichigo.

The gap between their respective futon was too long. All she wanted was to touch him for reassurance. Exhaustion took a backseat as she willed her sore limbs to scoot closer to the sleeping man. She felt the edges of her futon, then the edges of Ichigo's, and she still kept moving. Rationality had somehow taken a backseat as well, because it seemed Orihime was no longer content with reassurance alone. A single touch would not help ease all the fears and worries that built up in her heart.

Her mind flashed to a time when she did something like this before, to a time when everything was simpler than now and the only worries she had were her grades and the occasional bullying. There was her Onii-chan, smiling gently at her, even after waking his sleep because she had a nightmare. "Come here," he had said, lifting his blanket and scooting to the opposite end of the bed so she could have space to lie with him. She remembered him singing a beautiful lullaby, despite Sora being tone-deaf, and she instantly was out like a light.

She remembered that feeling, remembered that warmth as she snuggled closer to him, remembered that no nightmares came whenever she slept close to him.

And when she snuggled her body next to Ichigo like an embrace from a lover, albeit semiconsciously, it was the same as when she was with her brother. No worries, no fears, no nightmares.

Even when the sandman had already pulled her to the land of dreams, her lips formed a joyful smile.

Chapter Afterword:

I will admit, the climax of this chapter felt like a deus ex machina. I couldn't help it, though. That was just how I envisioned things would go, and at least it stuck to the same old Bleach formula: Be outmatched, be given some kind of revelation/epiphany alongside an incredible power-up, be the top dog because you can now kick the living shit out of your enemies. My excuse? I'm being a little too loyal to the standards of Bleach, although the latest arc in the manga pales in comparison to when Aizen was the antagonist. But at least this final arc has a Deathly Hallows feel to it—the stakes are at their highest and anyone can die here. Plot Armor is no longer a universal effect for all the good guys.