I'm Pickin' Up Good Vibrations [Closed/Erasmus/A.O]

For many nights now he had been searching. Every day after his daughter had lain her head down to rest he vanished into the abyss and emerged on the other side, clad in shining silver armor and passion swelling within his chest. "He will find her," his passion cries out from atop the skyline peaks "and he will hold her close, so that none may steal her again." But his passion cries two messages, the former one of a radiant bond and the determination to fulfill a promise made to a woman who, despite being absent, was slowly beginning to fill the more sensitive corners of his heart. The latter, the passion of hatred, calling out to the captor of the one he sought, the woman whom he knew from long long ago and announcing the countdown until he arrives on her doorstep. "He will find you," His passion spits out the words, as fiery as brimstone with the coldness of jagged hanging icicles. "and he will make you suffer."
 

His passion is what does it. Every night, every hour, every minute of every second that he fails to locate the woman that he had promised to walk with. Every loose thought that touches upon the notion of what she must be doing in the infernal captors grasp. Every worry for her safety. Every flash of her captors face. It all fuels the fire of rage that his passions ignite. He had been an undisciplined man once, barely able to hold on to such emotions, allowing them to fly free in a whirlwind of destruction the moment they reared themselves from their hidings placed. But not the man he was today. He could keep it inside, he could bottle it up and keep a cool head. But one thing that would never change; the higher the fire blazed, the heavier his presence became, his toll on the world grew greater. He could feel it as he placed his fingers upon the brick and concrete that kept the building beneath him standing.

It was subtle, barely noticeable by somebody who didn't know what to look for, but he could feel the increase in frequency, growing steadily higher. He couldn't control that aspect of himself, it was the whole reason for him donning the armor in the first place; not to protect himself, but to protect the world.... Or at least the people that he cared for. He could control the anger, herd it, but he couldn't make it disappear. He could, however, vent it. He leapt from building to building, pushing himself as hard as he could in an effort to channel his frustration through his muscles, but it was the least satisfying thing he could do, it was never any good without something to focus himself on.

The morning sun had long since risen in the sky and it would soon be time for him to return home to his daughter so that he may take her to hunt for her breakfast, but his pesquisa had placed something incredibly interesting on his radar. He stopped almost instantly to "smell" the strange sensation. A reiatsu signature that he hadn't been subjected to for a very very long time, he was surprised he could even remember what it felt like, especially since it had changed quite a bit since he'd last witnessed it. But the basic structure was still there, the smell, while changed, sparked nostalgia and familiarity within The Primera. It was a reiatsu that he had watched grow for a short period of time, from something weak and pathetic to something that may have been labelled as "Formidable." He peered his shiny metal head over the edge of the building, his eyes searching out and eventually focusing on a lone man sitting outside a generic cafe across the road. Somewhere deep down he was glad to see that it had grown further still, but his joy was not at all friendly. Erasmus couldn't go back to his daughter all wound up and frustrated. He needed to let off some steam.

The Primera clicked his fingers, the liquid in Ezekiel's cup rippling fiercely in response and continuing to quiver and shake as his voice was carried down through the vibrations. He spoke as clearly as if he were standing right beside the Shinigami, not even having to raise his voice.

"My how you've grown." He chuckled. "Sipping a latte while sitting on a delicately decorated cafe chair instead of guzzling whiskey on a dingy old stool. What changed Ezekiel? Did the lessons really have that big of an impact on you? Or is this just another pathetic phase you're going through and you've decided to replace one drug with another, slightly less potent, one?"

[Words: 793][GP: 15][Total GP: 15]

The tiny cup shook and frothed, ripples in the surface pulsing to a rhythm. Ezekiel tried to remain calm, glancing around inconspicuously to find the source. The most likely thing seemed for a Hollow to be nearby, but Ezekiel could not sense nor spot the beast for the life of him. The shaking seemed to increase for a moment, and then, stop. Still, the passersby did not seem to notice the disturbance that had occurred. Had the threat moved on? Passed through the area without stopping to feed or fight? Somehow, Ezekiel doubted that he could be quite that lucky.

And then, in the silence, the voice came. The reaper lept from his seat at the sudden proximity, throwing the metal chair backwards onto the ground noisily. A person or two looked at him in annoyance, but for the most part, he was ignored. No one else seemed to notice the new voice, or the lack of an entity to produce it. The source was identified easily enough. The surface of the cup rippled to a new sensation, pulsating in phase with the booming voice. The chuckling fool had Ezekiel’s attention, and the young soul frankly was not at all fond of what he was hearing.

This person knew him, or knew of him, at very least, and as he didn’t recognize the voice, that likely meant one thing: the Seireitei had pursued him, and they had found him. It had only been a month or two since he had left, and Hinote Funtai had been the only one that he known the specifics of his advent. Honestly, Ezekiel had begun to suspect that in the wake of the massacre, they had forgone even attempting to look for someone so insignificant. But now, it seemed like that was no longer the case. Someone or something had found him, and until it was proven to him otherwise, he would assume that it was the long arm of the law come to drag him back home.

But he simply couldn’t have that, now could he? He hadn’t finished his mission. His task was left undone. His sword was still silent to him, cold. Her cell was dark, and now… There were other entities that he had to deal with. Things had only become more complicated as of late, and he couldn’t afford to lose what precious little progress he had made.

“Well, I’m trying something new.” Ezekiel spoke quietly and sarcastically to the coffee cup, as absurd as it felt to do. “And what about you, Mrs. Cup? What brings a lovely girl like you to a place like this?” In his peripheral vision, Ezekiel was evaluating his surroundings. He couldn’t afford a high profile fight in a place like this. Too many eyes. Too many potential casualties, corpses just waiting to happen. Ezekiel needed to change the venue, but without knowing what or where his opponent was, there was no way that he would be able to. He didn’t even have a heading on this guy… yet.

Words: 504 (Total: 905)

GP: 10 (Total: 18)

Ezekiels reaction was a joy to watch, it amused The Primera to see him jump up so frightfully as the rest of the cafe patrons shot him daggered glances. So this was the student of Artix Von Creg? He was just as pitiful as his old master, how either of them ever managed to succeed in life Erasmus would never know, maybe they each shared some sort of kindred luck that had doubled upon meeting each other. It certainly wasn't due to their skill or good looks. Erasmus chuckled to himself, his little laugh also amplified down to the reaper. He wondered what was running through Ezekiels little mind... Perhaps he was wondering which one of his enemies had managed to find him. Maybe he was trying to think of anybody who might have had a grudge on him to interrupt his relaxation time with such a hostile action. Never in a million years would he ever guess that the ghost of his former master had arrived to torment him.

It took a while for the little reaper to find his voice, but when he did it came with a cool and collected head. Either that or he was struck mad with fear and his comical quips were meant to make Erasmus think otherwise. Erasmus clicked his fingers once more, a fraction of his consciousness travelling at the speed of sound along with the vibrations until they met the cup that Ezekiel had so childishly begun to talk to. No sooner had the click sounded than the cup had shattered into pieces, blasted apart by the force of Erasmus' vibrations. People screamed in shock at the sound of suddenly shattering glass, maybe one of the shrapnel shards had pierced somebody's skin. Either way Erasmus was interested to watch the show.

"Mrs. Cup went bye bye, guess it wasn't her talking to you after all." Erasmus didn't chuckle at his own joke this time. He merely allowed a brief moment of silence to hang in the air, a sort of bridge between jokes and seriousness before he spoke again.

​"You're still a smart-ass, boy. Despite all of the discipline, the grueling training and the insults, you're still a smart-ass." Erasmus tilted his head for a moment, as if studying something about Ezekiel that peaked his interest. "I have to say though, I've changed my mind about that facial hair." He muttered, reaching up beneath the helmet and rubbing the stubble on his own chin.

"It's not as dumb looking as I thought."

Metal clanked against metal as Erasmus hoisted his foot up onto the ledge of the building, stepping up and over and finally off, falling down rapidly and landing on the concrete of the sidewalk. The fall would have left a normal man seriously injured, the solid ground breaking a few of his bones. But since Erasmus was no normal man and his bones were more solid than concrete it was the ground that cracked and broke from the impact. No doubt Ezekiel would have heard it, he was after all only across the road. With a sinister hiss Erasmus retrieved his blade from the scabbard at his back. With the blade shining under the sunlight he held his arms out, as if welcoming Ezekiel.

"Turn around bright eye's."

He then began marching, his feet moving with a very ominous purpose straight towards Ezekiel. His expression was light-hearted and jovial beneath his helmet, but Zeke wouldn't be able to see that. All he would see would be a very intimidating suit of armor walking towards him with a very big sword.

[Words: 601][GP: 12][Total GP: 27]

The explosion of the cup seemed to change the tune of the patrons around him. No longer did they look at him as though he was mad, but fear seemed to grip them and several slid away and watched the man with frightened eyes. Ezekiel thought quickly. If he were going to distract them, or cause them to flee, then now was the time to do so, while all eyes were on him. The entity was still talking to him, but now with a familiarity that Ezekiel could simply not chalk up to things read inside of a file. He was not a simple Soul Reaper sent to retrieve Ezekiel. Even if that was why he was here, he was someone who knew him. Ezekiel wracked his brain to identify the voice, but it was difficult, despite a recognizable air. But the reaper could not allow himself much time to consider. He had other tasks to be mindful of.

In the silence as the assailant, unbeknownst to Ezekiel, climbed up onto the edge of a nearby building, the reaper made a split second decision. “Help!” He yelled while clutching at his chest, before sliding out of his gigai. The empty body fell to the ground, eyes rolled back in its head. It would keep its form for some time, until it was stored again. It was the quickest way to be able to move about without drawing suspicious attention. Ezekiel stepped back, allowing the few qualified to rush in and begin poking and prodding at the husk, taking a moment to acclimate to the change until… He heard a crash.

He turned around slowly to the sound of the noise, and the new source of the voice, no longer being projected from unknown angles. The concrete had been upheaved. Car alarms wailed. Somewhere amidst the chaotic noise he heard one of the men behind him yell “We’ve got to get him out of here! There’s been an explosion!” Ezekiel’s eyes however, were fixated on the man across the street, gilded entirely in armor. Judging by the lack of reaction to that specific thing, he was not a mortal, unless he had a way to become invisible as well. That left only two options, and a Soul Reaper was beginning to seem less and less likely to Ezekiel as the events unfolded.

He began to move towards Ezekiel, towards the crowd. Holding him back was important. Incidents such as these with a high number of civilian casualties would be investigated, and if someone was looking for Ezekiel, he didn’t want to leave any more breadcrumbs than was absolutely necessary. He launched forward, stopping a few meters away from the man in the street. His expression tightened. “I don’t know who you are or how you think you know me, but I’d love to talk about it. Problem is, my schedule’s a little booked right now. How about we do dinner sometime?” His hands began to raise slowly towards his chest defensively as the behemoth drew closer. “I’ll have my people call your people?”

Words: 512 (Total: 1,417)

GP: 10 (Total: 28)

Something at the back of The Primera's mind wailed, some abandoned, but not entirely left behind part of him continued to ask questions even after Erasmus had already answered them. It was like a phantom that wasn't fast enough to catch up to him, always just out of arms reach but never so far away that he was unaware of it's presence. As usual it asked him why. Why was he doing such things? Of course his answer was the same as before; he was bored and frustrated and needed to work out the kinks. But that was all that he needed to do, all that was required was for him to answer the phantom before his mind began to speculate. Were those the only reasons for his assault on Ezekiel? Mere frustration, bottled up and shelved was uncorked and became full-blown anger as Erasmus grew hot under the collar because of his own thoughts. He was delving into territory that he didn't want to explore, a place that he wanted to leave behind along with the phantom of his former self. 

The slow and rhythmic stepping of Erasmus' plated boots quickened as Ezekiel hopped in front of him, meeting him half way. The blonde haired man was a remnant, just like the phantom. Ancient evidence of the very turning point that sparked Erasmus' existence. Without this man there never would have been a good to the bad, there never would have been a realization that a difference could be made with a few kind, if rough, actions. Knowing this, Erasmus should have probably been thanking Ezekiel for his birth, for giving him the wiggle room he needed to split away from the main body and fester until the fated day when mask met face. But alas, Erasmus wanted that time to vanish.

Without meaning to he had answered the phantom's question, without even realizing it his own rage had given the assault meaning. Erasmus ignored it, stopped looking, listening, speaking to it. He made it vanish, crushed it into a tiny ball and dashed it against the wall and believed it to be gone for good. He had no reason to concern himself with the life of that man or what remained of it, the fact that his student was the one being made to suffer before his blade was pure coincidence!

The confused screams of the cattle surrounding him blared over even the alarms as Erasmus' walk turned into a jog and then suddenly he was sprinting the last meter. Sword gripped tightly in both hands. Poised at his side. A great roar escaped from his lips, tinted with a metallic echo as it was filtered through his helmet. With great force the blade, almost equal in height to it's wielder was swung sideways for the nonthreatening stance of his new adversary. It had been quite a while since he had decided to use his sword in combat, his preferred fighting style was to attack from a distance these days, but there was something homely in wielding his blade. A nostalgia.

Somewhere in the primal scream he managed to fling out a few words.

"My people would have no interest in talking, boy. Now cut me!" 

He barely even recognized the words before they had left his mouth. Old, moss covered words, spoken to this very same man so long ago. The fact that he hadn't caught himself in time to stop himself from saying them only made his hatred swell.

[Words: 583][GP: 11][Total GP: 38]

The monster did not relent, it did not slow, it did not even hesitate. Ezekiel supposed that cemented the notion that this was not, by any stretch of the imagination, someone who was sent to detain him and drag him home. Not that he had even suspected as much anymore, but what small annoying threads might have still held onto that idea were now gone. This was a beast, and as an invisible one, it was most likely of the Arrancar variety. ”His people” indeed were not typically a bunch to be reasoned with. For a fraction of a second, Ezekiel wondered if Rania might know this man. Did Arrancar associate and network as Shinigami did? Did they have structures and cities and the like? Somehow, Ezekiel doubted that all of them did, if any. Rania seemed to stick to the mortal plain like glue, and what reason would one possibly have for living with beings that they considered beneath them when they had a home?

The man was sprinting at this point, sword at his side, ready to swing. The move was being broadcast simply enough, a horizontal swing with a heavy blade. Ezekiel wasn’t the fastest, but neither was this fellow, it seemed. He had plenty of time –and  experience with stopping a blade –to shift into the formless stance, the fluid technique that he had been taught ages ago, to adjust his body to concern itself less with being able to take or avoid a hit, and focus more on stopping it before it ever happened. His hands met the cold steel in a powerful downward block, stopping the blade before it ever reached Ezekiel’s side, though the force did still cause him to slide on the thick black pavement. This creature was strong, and obviously skilled to a degree. It had to be of some intelligence. So why then did it attack him here, in broad daylight? Seemed suicidal for his kind.

“Not much for cutting, myself.” Ezekiel smirked, blade still in hand. Incantations ran though his mind in an instant, spells so familiar that he hardly even had to think them anymore. They were as much reflex as a punch or a kick. Lightning arced from the reaper’s fingertips to the blade, racing along its surface towards the Hollow. “Normally, I’d make a pun, but you don’t seem to be up for jokes.”

That was it then. The initial trade of blows that would allow them to gauge one another. Ezekiel knew the move had been simple enough to stop, but at the same time, there was a raw, unguided strength to it. He wasn’t trying. There was no technique. It was a warning shot. What was this beast capable of beyond that? Was he just a mad creature out looking for a fight? The “cut me” bit sure made it seem that way… And why had he-

Memories began to suddenly click inside of Ezekiel’s mind, memories of Artix Von Creg, his mentor, uttering those same words. A shiver ran up Ezekiel’s spine, but he quickly rationed such nonsense away. It was only a memory, nothing more, and a painful one at that. He didn’t have the time for this. He had already been away from the Seireitei for too long following leads. He couldn’t be fooling around with Hollows when he couldn’t even use his release. He was here for a reason.

“And what reason is that?” Someone asked from inside of Ezekiel’s head. The voice was familiar. Too familiar given his most recent musings. The sound of metal on metal echoed as a prison door slid open. “Perhaps I can help, boy.”

Words: 610 (Total: 2,027)

GP: 12 (Total: 40)

The reaper was using the tricks of the trade well, it would be hard to spot unless one knew exactly what to look for, but Erasmus could see it clear as day. The subtle motions of Ezekiels body as he thoughtlessly hunkered down, ingrained himself into the very earth in order to become as hard as the concrete below his feet. It was a technique that Eras- Artix, had showed him long ago and one that Erasmus had learned through the memories of his former self. At least the hulking oaf had been good for something. The ground growled as Ezekiel's feet slid along it's surface, the damage of Erasmus' attack prevented, but the force being something that the technique couldn't stop unless one were particularly well versed in it's use. The very next second saw a surge of electricity erupt from Ezekiels fingers, using The Primera's blade as a conduit and forcing itself along the edge  of The Primera's weapon. So, Ezekiel could use the technique well enough, Erasmus felt a surge of excitement at the thought of the reapers face when he realized that his opponent, far more familiar than he realized, had the exact same method of defense.

Just as Ezekiel had done, the first Espada slowed himself. Quicker than the lightning could flash he readied his mind, body and soul to stop -not take- but stop an attack that would have otherwise hurt him. The dazzling sparks were conducted by his armor, enveloping his entire body in what should have been a human shaped metal microwave. But the man in the suit of armor didn't flinch, he copied Ezekiel exactly and produced the same result. 

"You use it well, boy." He gave the reaper a genuine compliment, for their ability to command such a powerful technique was almost exactly equal. The popping and shrieking of the electricity began to die down as the spell burned up all of it's power and the glow surrounding Erasmus died with it, his blade still clutched within the hand of his opponent. "It's quite shocking." He smiled behind his visor, amused by his own quip.

Without warning the Arrancar relinquished his left hand from the handle of his blade, yanking the sword towards himself at the same time in the hopes that Ezekiel wouldn't be able to let go fast enough and would be pulled off balance. He drove the free fist right through the air and towards the blonde mans cheek, memories flashing before him. He had done this many times before, punched this very same man in this very same manner, but back then it had been for far less nefarious purposes. The memories. He hated them. He was not that man. Why did the memories affect him so?! He remembered a time when he would have given anything to have them back, but now that he had them he cursed their existence. They gave him access to abilities that he would not have had otherwise, that was their only function! He didn't want the feelings of regret and pain and anger that came with them. Their source needed to be destroyed!

[Words: 526][GP: 10][Total GP: 48]

His shift, his stance, his reordering of his strengths and weaknesses was… Borderline impossible, but sickly familiar. The lightning bolts were not stopped by a technique, they were stopped by what he had become in that instant. That was what caught Ezekiel’s attention. That was what was becoming hard to ignore. It was only a second, and it was only once, but it stuck with him, like a blow that had actually connected, like a wound to his psyche, like a key for a prisoner who was already free.

The malignant spirit inside of Ezekiel’s mind cooed cruel laughter. “Watch him now. You remember what comes next, don’t you, boy?” The voice was gritty, rough. Ezekiel had heard it before. Ezekiel had… Seen him before. Vaguely, as a smoky apparition. He had silenced him then, driven him back to his cell, but what was happening now? Things began to become shaky. His vision was off for a key second, his mind distracted between the material world and the prison block that made up his inner sanctum. And that moment of discrepancy proved detrimental.

Yanked off balance, Ezekiel was pulled directly into the line of another attack. No time to block. No time to shift stances via the skill set that this monster seemed to imitate in an almost mocking way. He bit down tightly, clenching his jaw and turning his head in the instants that the fist collided, softening it only in the most superficial ways. The impact rattled him, sent him tumbling away. For a moment, his vision and mind were sent reeling. He stood in an instinctual and automatic manner, rolling to his feet, brushing the asphalt from his robes and attempting to focus; but in the heat of the moment, memory was difficult to distinguish from perception. City was difficult to distinguish from training ground. Enemy was difficult to distinguish from master.

“Really, you should have seen that coming.” The voice quipped snidely, but Ezekiel tried not to listen. He had to focus on the battle at hand. The things inside of his head would have to wait. They could be dealt with later. They were only voices. Nothing more. He had to remember that. He could not let them get to him, no matter what forms they took, no matter who’s voice they stole.

Eyes and mind in focus, Ezekiel regained his footing, his offensive stance. This thing was stronger than he had first imagined. Or at least, was capable of doing more with his strength than Ezekiel had first imagined. His assault had to be precise. There was no time to waste on testing the waters. They were deep. That much was already too evident. More incantations races behind Ezekiel’s eyes. A single hand raised, fingertips pointed at a clear sky. Ezekiel had tuned the bystanders out, but surely if they were still around, this one would send them scampering for their concrete holes. Collateral damage was no longer a convenience that Ezekiel could be mindful of.

“Hadō #63, Raikōhō!” He bellowed, and as his arm swung downwards, a bolt followed it from the faintest whispers of clouds, pure electricity racing down at the man, ready to engulf. This would be the true trial. This was how Ezekiel would know for sure what he had seen before. He had to bring out the big guns. And if the armored giant could stop that, then what could he even do to stop him? And if he could do it using The Way of the Demon, then what did that mean for the technique’s heritage or Ezekiel’s bygone master?

Words: 602 (Total: 2,629)

GP: 12 (Total: 52)

Ezekiel was no stranger to being punched in the face, he had taken far more than his fair share of beatings so he new how to quite literally roll with the punches. There seemed to have been some sort of distraction however, it wasn't that he couldn't get out of the way in time, it was as if he hadn't even acknowledged the attack existed until it was too late. He could feel that Ezekiel was much weaker than he was, but he wasn't so weak that he would be blind to The Primera's attacks. So what had kept his mind so occupied that he'd let down his guard so haphazardly? Erasmus merely stared at the reaper as he stumbled away, his grip loosening from Erizo's edge as he fell and rolled, fighting to regain his footing before he once more stood to face his old mentor. He looked groggy, had the punch really loosened his mind so much? The Primera watched with narrowed eyes, observing his- Artix's... old students movements. 

He recovered, a fire in his eyes as he glared at his assailant, Erasmus staring right back with an amused grin on his face. So far it had been evident that while both of them could command The Way of The Demon, Erasmus was that much stronger. Ezekiel couldn't hurt Erasmus, but if Erasmus exerted himself he'd be able to tear Ezekiel to shreds. But, the techniques limitations were vast, it would be a little while before he'd have the strength to launch such an attack. It was one thing to shift into the state of mind required to become the definition of impenetrable, it was another to shift from that state of mind to the complete opposite. It required concentration. So he allowed Ezekiel his moment, watched as he rose his hand up high, no doubt preparing for another attack. Because what would be the point in moving? He wasn't fast enough to move out of the way and he was already prepared to stop whatever else the reaper could throw at him.

The hand came down with one swift motion and behind it followed a streak of lightning like a spear thrown by the great god Zeus himself. The spell wasn't designed for precision, it didn't need to hit Erasmus dead on, just strike close enough for the blast to reach him. A nearby car received the lightning bolt and the resulting explosion brought with it enough force to blow out the windows of a nearby building, kick up concrete, cement, dust and debris and swallow Erasmus whole in the destruction, all topped off with a deafening, ear ringing boom.

Explosions weren't a very common thing for the cattle, they were frightened because they didn't know what had set it off or why. They all fell to their knee's, curling up into balls and bleating their little heads off, just waiting to be finished off. Some of them, of course, had the sense to continue running, some to call for help. None of it useful in any way. Erasmus himself wasn't exactly sure what had hit him, it had struck so fast. He could never remember which spells had which names and numbers, he was pretty sure that number 63 was a huge fireball? He- Artix, had once been good with the theory surrounding kido, but ever since leaving the academy he had had no use for it and had promptly forgotten everything.

"Bah!" He scoffed from within the cloud of grey and brown. "Always hated Kido!" He waved his hand, as if it would cause the entire smog to dissipate as he walked forwards, trying to escape it's blinding confines. 

"Kind of disappointed that you'd use it against me too." His armor was intact and so was his body. The only signs of damage were scattered across his clothing, burn holes had appeared in the fabric, huge tears where shrapnel had hit him were present in the torso of his shirt, revealing patches of flesh, some colored peach, others colored a horrible void black where his number poked through, barely legible through the tiny holes.

"There's one spell that the academy doesn't teach you though." His tinny smile grew wider under the helmet as he lifted his blade with one hand, it's tip directed straight for Ezekiel. Erasmus condensed his power and focused it into the tip of his blade, a dazzlingly bright golden orb fluctuating violently at the point.

"Hado #1852; Go To Hell." He mocked the offensive arts of the Shinigami, unleashing a great golden pillar of power upon his opponent. It's strength was significantly weakened due to his lack of focus, Hell, Ezekiel could probably take it unscathed, but he laughed all the same. A cruel, slow and methodical laugh. 

[Words: 795][GP: 15][Total GP: 63]

“Shit…” Ezekiel breathed through an already open mouth. He was panting. He was tired. Fighting this war on two fronts was taking more out of him than the spells typically would. His head was beginning to pound, and it was like he could feel the presence standing over him, breathing down on his neck, testing his focus and concentration. He wanted to retreat into his inner sanctum to handle the threat, to send it scurrying back it its hole, but doing so would be suicide in the face of this brute, this armored deamon that was unscathed, unsigned, unaffected by one of the more powerful Kido in Ezekiel’s arsenal.

If pure, unfiltered lightning and eight gallons of eighty-seven octane gasoline weren’t enough to dent this guy’s tinfoil hat then what hope did Ezekiel have?  The enemy was strong, unbelievably so, and he was capable of manipulating that strength in an almost mocking reflection of Ezekiel’s former master. And what exactly did that mean for Artix Von Creg? After his disappearance did he rub shoulders with the darker denizens of the spiritual world? Or was he simply a liar? Was that skill never his to begin with? It seemed mostly irrelevant now, but the anger that boiled up inside of Ezekiel at the betrayal he had always felt for his teacher abandoning him kept bringing him back to that same thought.

But wherever he had gone, whatever he had done, he could not help Ezekiel now. No one could help Ezekiel now. That was why he had left the Soul Society. He had to do this on his own. He had to forge his own path, to discover what ailed his blade his own way. He had to be in control. Relying on others, as he had relied on Nara, as he had relied on Artix, or as he had relied on any number of people, would only result in pain, in disappointment. They could not be his pillars. They could not be his support. They would only ever crumble, and then he would fall. He had to learn to stand on his own, to support himself, and that started here, today, by ending the armored man.

The cretin mocked Ezekiel’s spells, he mocked that he would even consider using them. It cut deeply, to hate something so much, whether justified or not, and have it look in the face of your fury and sneer. The anger was misplaced, sure, pent up over a relatively short lifetime of abondonment and failure; made up, in truth, of self-loathing and self doubt. But that did not change its intensity. Ezekiel’s face had turned to a scowl. What will you do now?He thought to himself, ready to prove himself against this monster. This was Ezekiel’s questing beast. This was the challenge that, subconsciously, he had been waiting for all along. This was the target that would feel his pain, his frustration, and his fury.

He did not have to wait long for an answer, as golden energy erupted from the Arrancar’s being, breaching the gap between them at an incredible velocity. It was as though the sun had formed from this monster’s very soul, and now it was going to turn him into cinders. With his mind still firmly anchored into the offensive, his stance and thoughts honed to the idea of cutting this man down and nothing else, Ezekiel never even considered dodging the attack, or blocking it. His body worked automatically, his right hand extending like a spear, current racing from his very center, down the skeletal structure of his arm, and exploding from his fingertips at the moment his arm was extended fully. Lightning leapt from his outstretched fingers, meeting the beam and cutting a white swath into it just as it washed over Ezekiel. Sparks and plasma spattered him, the stench of ozone filled his nostrils, but he had the beam in check. He had stopped it, and strained harder to attempt even to push it back. But there was a sinking feeling in his gut, something that gnawed at him as the Arrancar laughed, and that was that this was nothing in comparison to what he could unleash.

Words: 700 (Total: 3,329)

GP: 14 (Total: 66)

It was as if a shield had been erected around Ezekiel, an impenetrable bubble that Erasmus' golden cero had met and simply washed over, it's spiritual composition splitting and flying off to hit the cafe that Ezekiel had been sitting at mere minutes before. Streams like bright golden ribbons veered off and pierced the neighboring buildings. Erasmus had wondered briefly what would happen after he unleashed the beam. Would Ezekiel take it to protect the environment? Would he protect himself? The result was something interesting, Erasmus couldn't tell if he had tried to defend only himself or if he had attempted to both keep himself and the surrounding population from being harmed. If it was the latter then he had failed miserably. Even more interesting was that Ezekiel was actually trying to push back. 
 
The cylinder of solid gold had been broken, it fluctuated violently as a raging storm, condensed into a beam of it's own, tore it apart. The Primera could feel his weapon being forced towards him, his shoulder almost jerking back as the sudden resistance slammed into him. He kept his sword raised, the golden light still erupting from it's tip as Erasmus allowed his spiritual energy to flow through it, it took him a moment to adjust, during which Ezekiel had gained ground and broken through enough of the cero to create one single line, half gold, half white. The roaring of both energies made it hard for Erasmus to think as he wondered where Ezekiel was summoning the strength necessary to hold off an Espada. As was mentioned before, he was by no means on par with Erasmus so he couldn't- Something gave way, something vital that had been holding everything as it was collapsed and Erasmus watched as the white light bursting over his retina's began to eat away at the gold until it was much larger.
 
The Arrancar narrowed his cold emerald eyes. A sigh was released from his lips as he reconfigured his focus. His body became lighter and his senses grew sharper, the skin keeping his meaty innards in place felt... fleshier. Then he felt a massive surge of power. He had finally been given the time he needed to shift focus, defense turned into offense. He was no longer impenetrable, for he no longer needed to take what Ezekiel dished out. 
 
He could simply swat it aside.
 
All at once the power supply that the cero had been feeding from in order to sustain itself was cut off. The last remnants of the cero managed to keep the arcing lightning in place for a second longer, just enough time for Erasmus to lower his blade and then there was nothing standing between Ezekiels spell and Erasmus' body. It rushed forwards, covering so much ground so quickly. Eager to ravage the body of the enemy before it. To singe flesh and electrocute synapses. To inflict pain that would be delivered directly to Erasmus' nerve endings, burning them white hot. Once it struck it would not release him, nothing he could do would free himself from the agony. 
 
A silver hand was raised, then swiftly struck down. The lighting had smashed directly into it, it's power nowhere near vast enough to needle it's way through the aura of strength that Erasmus emitted. It flew off, just as the strands of Erasmus' cero once had, hitting concrete and scattering in all directions, overloading, blowing up and short circuiting any electrical equipment it came into contact with until it became no more.
 
"If the extent of your ability lies within these flashy light shows that you keep using then, even if you use that technique, I'm afraid I've grown bored." He spoke, sighing in a fed up manner. The same fingers that had thwarted Ezekiels attack rose up to grasp the tight strap on the side of the helmet, unbuckling it so that The Primera could pull it off. It dropped to the floor with a rattling clank, Erasmus finally able to stare at Ezekiel unhampered and Ezekiel finally able to see the face of the man that had attacked him. The smirk gone.
 
"You were taught how to use it, boy. There was a certain inflection that he had used for the last word, as if it was something that Ezekiel should recognize. "But you were never taught how to handle a situation in which your opponent could also command it. Because why should you know when there are only two people in the world who could ever use it? Whatever you throw at me, I can match, whatever you hit me with, I can endure."

Once again Erasmus began marching.

The sword glinting wickedly as it was once again prepared.

"I'm giving you a golden opportunity." His smirk returned as he made another joke. "Forget the flashy crap, you know it won't work. Your only chance is to out maneuver me." Erasmus didn't want it to be quick or easy, he wanted to finish Ezekiel in a way that seemed fitting, in a way that would mock the memory of his training days with Artix, a way that would tarnish it in both of their minds forever.

"Cut me!" 

He lunged forwards, his blade swiping with precision as it tried to bite Ezekiel's shoulder, to render the arm useless.

[Words: 887][GP: 17][Total GP: 80]

“No…”

The word fell off Ezekiel’s lips before he could even begin to gather himself once more. It had been deflected as though it was nothing, blocked by a sheer wall of energy and strength. This Arrancar, this monster… He hadn’t been that strong only moments ago. He had been tenacious, able to tank whatever might be thrown at him, but to escalate his power to such a level as well, he would have had to have been nearly god-like. People didn’t survive to the “god-like” tier if they went around picking fights with strangers in broad-daylight. No. He had changed. There was no denying it. The monster was not bluffing. The skill he was using was the same as Ezekiel’s own.

The Way of the Demon, a method of meditation and style of fighting interwoven and ingrained so deeply into a spirit that its effects were borderline arcane. Though it had been explained to Ezekiel as something so simple as changing stances and mindsets, it went beyond that, and the both of them knew it. The shifts in capabilities rivaled on restructuring ones energies from the foundation, from the soul. One could not fake that sort of manipulation, one could not emulate it. The only way was to be taught unless… he was the creator.

“Only two of us, huh?” He tried to add a sarcastic inflection to the words, but his voice and his mind were quaking on the same frequency. Did that mean that Artix was dead? Suddenly, sickly, Ezekiel hoped that would be the case, but in the deepest parts of himself, he already had begun to accept that it wasn’t true, at least, not in the sense that mattered. But the gravity of the realization that this beast that stood before him, with a face that suddenly looked so familiar now that it was revealed, almost a younger version of the man who had once trained him, and a voice that dragged memories back from the darkest depths of Ezekiel’s mind, might actually be the man he had idolized and emulated for so long: it was nearly more than Ezekiel’s fragile mind could handle. And in that fragile, fractured mind, there were things that aimed to make themselves known. Through the widening cracks came the worst sort of whisper: harsh and gravely, but so very similar to the man who stood before Ezekiel, marching forward and bellowing his challenges.

“Only two of us…” The voice parroted and cooed.

It was back. Ezekiel could practically feel his presence around himself. The world shook again, vibrating out of phase for a moment as though he had a “toy” lodged in his skull. He fought it, brought everything back into focus, but it was a difficult control to maintain. The man was marching closer… Ezekiel kept thinking of him like that: “the man.” He was not his teacher. He was not Artix. He could not be.

“Better do something quick, boy. For both our sakes.” The voice had an edge despite its lackadaisical and demeaning qualities. Its intensity and seriousness grew as the Arrancar drew more near.

But Ezekiel could not move. He was too paralyzed by thought, by realization, and by fear. Not fear of his death; Ezekiel had long ago accepted that he would likely die as a result of this venture, but a fear of the truth, of things that he had not known suddenly becoming apparent, of everything that he had assumed becoming a lie.

Of this Hollow before him being Artix Von Creg.

The blade was already coming by the time Ezekiel noticed it, and in that moment, his faculties froze. He failed to act. Steel bit deep into his left shoulder. Muscle severed from sinew. As the blade connected with bone, Ezekiel was thrown onto his side where he caught himself, but only barely. He sat half-reclined on the ground, staring back up into the youthful face, searching a sign, any kind of sign that would disqualify this man from being what Ezekiel knew he was in his heart.

His eyes were wild, he clutched madly at his bleeding shoulder.

“Ask him the question, boy. So we can be done with this. Everyone here knows it’s on the tip of your tongue.”

“Artix?”

Words: 711 (Total: 4,040)

GP: 14 (Total: 80)

Erizo's edged needle sank deep into the meaty shoulder of the shinigami, one quick swipe creating a huge divide between one half and the other. He felt the small force of resistance that indicated that the blade had ever so slightly grazed the bone, raked itself across the smooth white substance that kept Ezekiel upright. Ever since he had uttered his little "golden" quip the Arrancar had been smirking, smirking because he could see the slow realization creep across Ezekiels face. He was putting two and two together at long last and Erasmus knew that it was only a matter of time. The blood, hot and sticky, burst forth with the momentum of the blade and as Ezekiel fell, so did his blood; down his arm it flowed and down Erasmus' sword. It collected beneath the reaper in a small puddle, warming Ezekiel's body from below like a shallow bath, he'd need it after he lost enough life liquid. 

Erasmus slowly closed the tiny gap that had resulted from Ezekiel been thrown to the ground. His footsteps falling heavy and mechanical, each one placed carefully and deliberately, so that Ezekiel could see the end getting closer, but never knowing when it would reach him. CLUNK. His foot fell. CLUNK. He stared down at Ezekiel. CLUNK. Saw the fear in the reapers eyes. CLUNK. Then stopped. CLUNK.

Erasmus wanted to think that with his cryptic wording he had helped Ezekiel realize that his old master had been taken from him, in one way or another. That the man before him had dragged him into the darkness and emerged without the corpse. Because that was exactly what he had done. He had murdered Artix Von Creg and had been born into his body from the stinking rib cage of the goliath's dead weight. There was no Artix, not any more. There was only Erasmus, and with Ezekiel lying at his feet, he had proved it.

So he waited for the question. That same query that had emerged from the lips of Tova Diablo, that last vestige of hope; the idea that if the question was asked then maybe, just maybe the answer would be different. He had enjoyed watching the expression on Tova's face when he heard the answer, it was by no means completely satisfying, but the Loss was obvious. Somewhere, somehow, Tova had lost something when Erasmus answered him, perhaps peace of mind, perhaps hope, something. 

Erasmus' smirk seemed almost mad, his eyes accenting the aesthetic as they peered down, wide and expecting. He wanted to say it so badly. It lay hidden within his throat, like a spider waiting to jump out of it's hole and drag it's prey back down with it.

When the question finally arrived, almost whimpered by Ezekiel, there was no mistaking it. Something about Erasmus' face made it very clear that this had become something of an obsession for the man, the way his smirk grew into a sickeningly pleased smile, toothy and creased. The manner in which his eyes folded at the corners and narrowed with joy that indicated the many long nights that he had spent tucked in on himself, telling himself that he was different when there was nobody else there to confirm it for him.

He opened his mouth and the spider jumped out.

"Not anymore!" He spat. "Artix, the man that was so very proud of you when you joined the academy, is dead!"

Erizo was raised once more. High over Erasmus' still smiling face. He took one last look at Ezekiel. The physical representation of the memories of those times. Then the blade swung down.

[Words: 609][GP: 12][Total GP: 92]

“No.”

The word came again, as though speaking it might somehow change the truth of what had happened, as though realty itself would reveal it all to be a ruse if he simply told it could not be. Just who he was talking to even he could not be sure. To himself –or at least, a piece of himself? To the Arrancar? To God? Perhaps he was speaking to nothing at all. Perhaps “no” was simply all that he could process in that time. This, in reality, was likely the closest thing to the truth, because as the words were spoken, Ezekiel did lose something. Tova might have lost his hope when he learned that Artix Von Creg was dead, but Ezekiel lost his mind.

NO!

Inside of his head, everything rattled apart. He pressed his eyes together tightly. “He doesn’t get to do this! He doesn’t get to take that hope away!” Cinderblocks cracked and crumbled slowly, one by one. Somewhere deep down, Ezekiel had clung to the notion that he would see his mentor again, that he would make him proud despite how angry he was for being abandoned. But now, he would never have that moment. He would never have the closure or peace of knowing that he had done well, that he had been something that someone had needed him to be. This beast had taken that from him.

What did he work for now. What did he cling to? Who was waiting for him at the end of this journey? No one? Nothing? Then what was the point?!

The bars of the prison cells rattled within the inner sanctum. Time had stretched to its breaking point within the spiritual realm. Outside, Erasmus’ cleaver was held high, poised to strike, but Ezekiel had become lost in a torrent of his own thought, his own doubt. He had lost control, and in that moment, something stepped forward out of the dust and the shadows, something fully materialized, carrying a form that Ezekiel has not seen in ages. If the man in the armor had looked somewhat like Artix, then this man had been his twin. Before Ezekiel could even begin to question what was happening, a powerful hand had gripped his throat.

“Shhh, now boy. I want to you keep both eyes open on this one.”

Whether this creature who had broken free from his cell, this second creature who wore his mentor’s skin, was suddenly stronger or Ezekiel himself was suddenly weak, he was not sure. All that Ezekiel did know was that with a sickening ease, the false Artix grabbed him and pulled him tight against his chest, turning his head toward the ceiling, still crushing his windpipe and preventing any sort of resistance, not that Ezekiel had the faculties for it anymore. From behind his back, the second strong arm reached around him, crossed his chest to his side. There was a panic in the warden’s veins. He was going for his sword.

 “Don’t fight this. I’   m here to help ya today, boy.” His mouth pressed into the reaper’s ear as his hand clutched the sword tightly.   “Does it make you feel like shit, knowing that you need me to help you feel like you’re worth something?”

Ezekiel’s veins ran ice cold. Doubt suddenly filled his mind. What was this thing, and how did it know-

“Just like before. Too cowardly to make right decision. I’ll just have to do it for you.”

There was a pull, the sword tore free of its scabbard. The roof of the prison disintegrated to reveal nothing but blue sky and cold steel rushing down towards him. His inner sanctum crumbled leaving him left with nothing but reality, but everything had stopped. The blade that was falling towards him, it had stopped. He… he had stopped it. He had felt the impact in his wrists and his arms and his whole body, despite not remembering to make the conscious action to stop the attack. His eyes wandered from Erasmus’ armored hands, clutching at the sword that would have ended him, up the blade to the point where his own sword met it.

But it wasn’t his sword… was it?

The blade was almost impossible to make out, wrapped in flames that roared and shook and consumed even his own hands. But instead of creating light, they drew it in. They were a black, unburning sort of thing. Ezekiel thought that he should be panicking, that this could be some sort of technique that the Arrancar was wielding, but somehow knew that this was his doing. He had created this somehow. What had the demon Artix done? What had he unleashed inside of his soul? And, most importantly, could it ever be undone?

Ezekiel’s head felt as though it were flooding. His movements, limited as they were, were fluid and distant to himself. He pushed the blade back, scrambling backward up onto his feet, and he stood. He stood before the man who had killed his mentor, holding in his right hand a sword that burned with that same man’s flames, crackling and popping and running up the right side of Ezekiel’s uniform. But they did not burn it. They did not burn him. They were warm. They felt like density and power. But they did not burn him. He did not question it further at the moment. For now, he simply had to survive, and if providence had chosen to take this form, then so be it.

Words: 919 (Total: 4,959)

GP: 18 (Total: 98)

The metallic clang of two swords smashing into each other was unmistakable, Erizo's needle had been stopped and Erasmus' face should have been the picture of surprise or frustration, perhaps some angry mixture of the two combined upon his almost maniacal features into a caricature of hostility. Instead his smile had melted, every ounce of pleasure that The Primera derived from Ezekiel's murder had been slapped clean from his face. Black fire, flames devoid of the comforting warm glow that was recognized and welcomed by every pair of eyes. Instead they sucked everything into themselves, burning things like warmth and pleasantness in a cold emptiness and even absorbing the very light itself, concealing everything around them in shadow. They blazed silently in the reflection of The Espada's wide and frightened eyeballs.They were horrid. Disgusting. 

His fear froze him in place, his blade suspended in time as Ezekiel took the opportunity to jump to his feet and launch himself out of harms way. Erasmus could only follow him with his head, his mouth agape in disbelief. He could barely even see the blonde haired man, the only image that he could make out was the vague outline of a man within the shadow and fire. A man who stood tall and strong, towering over him imposingly. 

"No." It was Erasmus' turn to deny reality. He recognized it perfectly. Memories flooding into his mind of those very same flames, only instead of looking at them from the perspective of an onlooker, in his memories, he was the one using them. Memories of the wolf engulfed in them, blessing him with their power. Memories of that cold and calculating voice in his head, guiding him, pushing him to make one mistake after another and disguising his intentions with concern and companionship. They too were horrid, almost equally so to the flames before him. But the flames won. They were so much more terrifying for one simple reason: they shouldn't exist.

"No!" He cried again, finally growing aware of his own statue-like body and almost falling backwards with the realization that he could move his limbs. Or maybe he was just fighting the urge to run. It was as if the phantom in his mind had been made manifest, something that was impossible standing right in front of him, proving him wrong just by being there. His face had slowly contorted itself, his fear growing with every passing second that he looked upon the body of his opponent. Had it grown? Had it become taller? Was there a haori hanging from it's shoulders? Had it's head somehow sprouted a long thin ponytail? Or had all of those things been there before and he just hadn't seen them?

"You're dead." He muttered gravely, shakily raising a finger to point at Ezekiel. "You shouldn't exist." 

Erasmus realized what he was saying.

"You don't exist!"

"I was there when you died. I took over when you were gone. You. Don't. Exist. Anymore!"

"You're dead, do you hear me?!" The Espada cried out, the madness spilling over. His voice was threatening, his blade was slashed out in a manner meant to intimidate. But his legs were shaking. His mouth felt like it was constructed with sand paper and it was hard for him to swallow the pill of horror that had lodged itself at the back of his throat. He didn't run, but he was too afraid to attack.

[Words: 576][GP: 11][Total GP: 103]

The beast had stumbled. The man who had taken from Ezekiel one of the original pillars of his life, the mad Arrancar who claimed to have killed Artix Von Creg –despite the objections of a newfound entity within Ezekiel’s mind –had been wounded, but not by anything that Ezekiel had done –at least not consciously. He was like a frightened animal, repelled by the sudden discovery of fire burning away the habitat that it had known.

Ezekiel was hardly better.

The words that the man began to babble were raising doubts within his mind. What did he mean by “took over?” Was it possible that this thing had once been his teacher? Was that something that a soul was even capable of? How would a Shinigami become an Arrancar?

“Are those really the questions you should be asking right now?”

No. I suppose not. Ezekiel responded, his voice echoing over the old intercom in his crumbling prison. Everything was coming undone, but at the same time, in the material plane, he felt strong. His body felt invigorated by the flames, and it was only then, in that tiny lull that seemed to last for a life-time, that Ezekiel remembered where he had seen them before. It was obvious, really; such a unique power in such a situation as he found himself in. The adrenaline and confusion, the blurring in his mind and vision, must have been all that kept him from realizing it sooner. This is… was your power, wasn’t it?

The echo inside of Ezekiel’s mind smiled peacefully. “My gift to you.” His gruff voice boomed. “In exchange for this.”

Ezekiel looked on to the Arrancar before him, still visibly shaken by all that was going on. The opportunity to strike was now, but he was still less powerful, no matter what new, unexplainable tricks this shade had pulled out of his pocket for him. What do I do now? He muttered inside of his head, still in a daze as the world shifted and slurred before his eyes, as his mind fell slowly apart and he tumbled headlong into madness.

“I should think that would be obvious, boy.”

Is it? He was dreary. Ideas came slowly out of the doldrums in his head.

“Just CUT.“

Thoughtlessly, the blade drug Ezekiel forward, the flames whipping and crackling along his entire arm as he moved drunkenly, recklessly in the direction of the beast. All he saw was the target. The haze and flow carried him there as reality decayed. He did not hear anything other than the echoes of the words spoken by the fragment inside of him. “Just cut.” A truth he had once understood, but that had become weaker on his tongue in recent months. His self-control had held him back, prevented him from giving himself fully to the concepts Artix had once taught him. There was no defense, no hesitation, no preservation. In the end, the moments after the fires had awakened; there wasn’t even resentment towards the Arrancar for killing someone that Ezekiel had once held dear. There were no questions as to the riddles of life and death and cycle. Those things were worthless in moments such as the one where Ezekiel found himself. In the end, there was only the monster and the sword, and Ezekiel, the blade’s willing medium. As his sanity and rational thought were slowly eroded like sand under the desert’s wind, the ability to comprehend anything else left him.

A feeble voice crackled over the loudspeaker in the ruins of the prison, begging for respite, pleading to end this madness, but it went unheard.

Words: 604 (Total: 5,553)

GP: 12 (Total: 110)

The nightmare didn't speak, didn't respond in any way, it just stood there and stared at him. Mocked him. Judged him. As if it knew everything about him, but it didn't, it couldn't possibly. Could it? How could he tell? The way it stared at him knowingly, with a heavy air of familiarity, a certain kinship. Erasmus in turn felt it, he in turn knew all about the figure before him. But, no! How could a dead man possibly know about Erasmus? The phantom wouldn't ever even know that Erasmus existed, much less understand what was going through his head! They were two completely different people, connected only by the circumstances of it's death and The Primera's birth. Nothing more! They were too different, Erasmus had succeeded where the phantom had failed! So then why was he still so frightened? He peered into the flames and knew that beneath their thick smog-like blackness there lay a blade identical to the one clutched in Erasmus' hand. He stared at the figure's face and knew that those eyes, those horrid hidden red eyes were once an identical shade to his own emerald green. Erasmus looked the shadowed thing up and down and knew that the few scars upon his own body had been leftovers from the almost countless collection of injuries upon it.

Though he could never admit it, the fact that Erasmus knew everything about the phantom to the smallest detail and shared in the pain and joy of his memories scared him to the very core of his persona. He tucked it deep down inside of himself, held on to any shred of originality that he could find and destroyed all evidence that he was simply living somebody else's life. Erasmus was his own man.

Wasn't he?

A sharp stab of icy terror took hold of him when the phantom moved, for a while he had been certain that they would stand there for all eternity, staring each other down. Erasmus had lost his focus though, too scared to shift his own mindset into a useful position. All he could when the nightmare raged towards him was react as quickly as he could, his sword almost acting for him as he swiped it upwards, pushing the attackers weapon up and into the air, a trick that he had seen Maki perform back in the Fifth Divis- He- That was to say, Artix, his former self had seen her perform it. If Maki had taught him well enough then it should have thrown the phantom off balance as it tried to keep his blade from flying off. It felt so natural and yet so strangely unfamiliar, the weight of the blade in his hand had never been a problem, it's shape never a hindrance, but somehow he felt like they had been, that something about himself had made them a detriment. He stumbled back, not wanting to be anywhere near those flames. He knew exactly what they could do to him and just the thought of it made him want to vomit. If those embers so much as licked his skin they'd hold him down, grab him tightly by the throat and smash him directly into the ground and he'd be helpless.

"I'm better than you!" He cried out, his voice betraying his own uncertainty. "I did everything that you couldn't!" 

He swung his arm around, out to the right and then sliced it back in towards the phantoms broad chest. Maki had chosen to barge her opponent with her shoulder, but Erasmus couldn't take that chance, not with the flames trying to reach their inhuman charcoal fingers towards him.

"I'm not you!"

[Words: 612][GP: 12][Total GP: 115]

“No… Please no…” The voice shook, barely a whisper beneath the powerful hand that clutched at his throat. But it was useless. The words were falling on deft ears. The prison was crumbling all around him, and yet prison bars still rattled. Black hands, unfamiliar shadows, gripped at the iron in deviant glee. Soon. They would be free, whatever they were. This man, this grim shade of the mentor that Ezekiel had once known, he was the first, but he was not the only. What were they, and what did they want? And most importantly, could he ever stop them now? The answer to that, he felt inside of his heart, was “no.” Never.

The black flame sword, Ezekiel’s Zanpakuto(?), was struck, knocked away by a powerful blow from the Arrancar, but he did not lose his grip on the blade. It was a part of him at that point, practically fused to his skin and his soul. He couldn’t have let go of it if he had tried, a hundred men couldn’t have pried it from his fingers, dead or alive. But the momentum did throw him off balance. His arm swung around his own torso, twisting his body and causing him to stumble. He slid onto the ground, but before his momentum had even finished dragging him along the splintered concrete, he had clawed his way back onto his feet. The Arrancar was incredibly strong. Ezekiel was incredibly focused.

No matter what happened within the inner world that held half of Ezekiel’s consciousness and focus, the pieces of him that remained there with the Arrancar saw only a target. He was nearly an animal, moving instinctually, focusing only on laying his blade on the man. That was what he had to do. He had to take this for himself. If this Arrancar had killed his master, then perhaps he had done him a service. He had taken away one of the supports, one of the useless, pitiful, supports that Ezekiel had weakly relied on. He had shown him why such a practice was madness. Everyone failed him in the end. Everyone went away. The only person that Ezekiel could rely on was himself. And if he failed, as he often did? Then maybe at least it would be the last time.

“I’m not sure who you are…” Ezekiel growled, his voice carrying an odd, doubled quality to it, as though it were being spoken over by someone else as he traded with the Hollow’s insane rambling. “But I’m going to need you to hold still.”

An icy sensation ran across Ezekiel’s chest, blood flowed out of the fresh wound, staining Ezekiel’s robes in thick crimson ribbons. The Arrancar’s strike had connected, severing muscle and sinew, raking across the young Soul Reaper’s ribs like a hellish xylophone. But he did not feel it. Pain was distant. Pain was different. Being cut was not the same as cutting. Without hesitating to avoid the strike, Ezekiel had placed himself into an ideal range for retaliation. The flames fell, swooping down from overhead towards the armored man’s young face.

“That’s better.”

Words: 521 (Total: 6,074)

GP: 10 (Total: 120)