Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach; genius Kubo Tite does.

A/N: The lines in bold font are Ulquiorra's dialogs, meaning he's saying them aloud. Curses everywhere, so minors, stay away. ;)

It's quite a wonder how far I rise above everything else that exists here in this barren wasteland. I pass along these halls which are too decayed for my presence as the beings with whom I coexist relapse to silence upon the sight of me. I am a wonder. I am a star beyond the scope of their visions. I maybe am a god. Now I hear a voice assault my quiet stroll. I reckon—

"Calling on all the Espada. Please proceed to the Convention Hall."

I embark myself to where I am currently needed, but when I slither my way inside an estranged silence greets me. We, the Espada, are limited to one form of existence only; we live for Aizen-sama's purposes. However close together we stand our hearts are all far adrift from one another. Of course, this simply means we are balanced in separation. Indeed, we are—

"Welcome, Espada. I called you here today to announce the expansion of our family. From here on, Wonderwice Margera shall dine with us, convene with us, and interact with us." Aizen-sama announces.

I glance at the faces all around me, whereupon I find that some of them are harboring what appears to be a deep loathing towards the new family member. For instance, here are Jiruga and Jaggerjack. There lifts from them some sort of a murderous hatred which, for me, is not in any way applicable to the situation. If reason were involved—

"Now, I ask all of you to maintain a warm attitude toward him and be civil." Aizen-sama resumes his talk.

Civility. Frankly, he's used the word more loosely than he realizes. But then Aizen-sama barely has the time to mull over shallow matters. What he always does is relay his messages/requests/orders to us and leave us to our own devices. Having said that, among the ten Espada I strongly believe I'm the only one—

"Now that it's been said and done, and I surmise you've all agreed with the matter at hand, I'd like to give the honor of speech to Grimmjow Jaggerjack here who's quite having a concern about something. Grimmjow, please speak of it now." Aizen-sama is really merciful.

Sexta Espada, for his part, stands up in an almost barbaric abruptness. Looking at him, I can sense the innate incongruity of his manners against natural order. For one thing,he has this fiery—

"I'm filing a complaint against Cuatro Espada."

Going back to his attributes, the only thing that can be said in his favor is…come again? Did I just hear that right? Well, perhaps I was imagining—

"What seems to be the problem?" Aizen-sama inquires.

"Sexual harassment, that's what. I'm NOT shutting my trap till I get justice. This bitch has to go down."

Excuse me? Why is he pointing an accusing finger at me? Why is he glaring at me menacingly as though I've done a mighty offense against him? More importantly, what was he trying to imply when he mentioned sexual—

"I see. Well, then, Ulquiorra Scheiffer, would you like to say anything in your defense or would you confirm Sexta Espada's accusation?" Lieutenant Tousen asks me.

As things are, some unknown weight fastens around my tongue. To be sure, I'm quite accustomed to other Arrancar rising in opposition against my favorable disposition in Aizen-sama's eyes. However, this whole affair now is entirely foreign to my experience. And so among my wide range of vocabulary and my overreaching intellect, I can only grope for one word that suits my sentiments very precisely—


That's not exactly what I have in mind. I could've produced something more eloquent and fashionable like 'preposterous' or 'absurd'. Well, I guess there's always—

"Bullshit my ass. You fucking ripped my Hakama and jacket to ashes last night to get a shot at me. Deny it and I'll fucking blast your ass right here right now."

Why, Grimmjow must have acquired some terminal brain damage from his habitual propensity of immersing himself in activities of infamous descriptions. To clarify matters, what really happened last night was—

"Ulquiorra Scheiffer, would you like to expound your previous statement?" Tousen asks again.

"Grimmjow Jaggerjack is clearly deranged."

"You know what, Ulquiorra Scheifucker? Please die. Your fucking horsing-around's are killing me! You had me on a fucking Cero-point last night, and for that reason alone I couldn't fucking push you away—"

"—Grimmjow, please calm down. This is not the proper manner of resolving this matter. Please know that this whole thing will have to undergo a thorough investigation, so I will now ask you to be patient as we assemble the necessary considerations." Tousen explains.

"Grimmjow Jaggerjack is in dire need of medical assistance, specifically a psychiatric treatment, and immediate recovery."

Grimmjow is now panting heavily in succession for no apparent reason. Personally speaking, he really has to do something about that temper of his—

"Fuck you! Grimmjow Jaggerjack has been defenselessly ravaged, helplessly molested, and abjectly cornered by a Sexta Espada-raping son of a gun whose name is Ulquiorra Scheiffer!" Sexta Espada screams at me.

"That's wishful thinking, Grimmjow."

He subdues. Contrary to what he has been doing for the last five minutes, he is at the moment staring at me with that indecipherable expression of his. I, on the other hand, can only conjure vague conjectures of what he's fuming about—

"Why. Would. I. Fucking. Wish. You. Were. Harassing. Me? You're one twisted fucker of a pervert in need of imprisonment—aaaargh!—you lying son of a gun—why the fuck am I still alive?—"

"—we do not tolerate that kind of language under this roof, Grimmjow."

It's Aizen-sama. To be completely honest here, it's taken him quite a time to intervene. But I'll express my gratitude nonetheless should I be permitted—

"Ulquiorra Scheiffer, Grimmjow Jaggerjack, we will be conducting a hearing tomorrow morning, and by that time I expect both of you to have a lawyer each. You may choose among your Espada brothers. For now, you are dismissed." Tousen duly informs us.

Sexta Espada is furious. It would've been an understatement to assume that his inclination to ruthlessness was not in any way expanding or growing more prominent as we scoot away from the hall, away from the Disciplinarians' detection. Naturally, I keep my wary distance in case—

"Sexta-chan, would you like me to be your attorney? I'll make you win. And then we can invent punishments for Cuatro-chan!" Octava Espada tells Grimmjow. I can't imagine what greatness of imagination he's currently employing, much less detect where this childish excitement over a candid impossibility is rooting from. Perhaps Szayel has yet to realize—

"Piss off. Stark ain't gonna look at you even if you make the best damn attorney in the universe." answers the petulant Grimmjow.

"But who would you rather have for a prosecutor? Halibel is too busy, you hate Zomart Le Roux, Noveno Espada hates you, Stark-chan is so hard to push, Yammy is ugly, Bargan is uglier, Quinto-chan is as dumb as you—"

"—what did you fucking say, you fucking aspiring bitch?"

"I'm THE catch. I'm available, I work hard for the money and I'll make you win. And then we can split the punishment decision among us two. What do you say?" Szayel suggests brightly.

"Fucking fine. But if you're just doing this to show-off to Stark I ma blast your Octava ass to oblivion."

"See you tomorrow at the Justicia Hall!"

I turn to a corner as I hear Sexta and Octava's footsteps die away to distant echoes. Oddly enough, the hallways are engulfed in infinite darkness, a darkness that plunges into my mind... I realize I DON'T have an attorney. I can ask around but, surely, that would cost me quite an amount of dignity—

I bump into something—someone.

"Watch it."

I recognize Stark's deep voice.

"Pardon me." I answer. Conjuring a tiny Cero from my hand to serve as light, I resume my departure. It now dawns on me that my deep musings are ALWAYS interrupted by insignificant proclamations of the creatures with whom I share the—

"Please be my attorney, Stark."

I've just said the unthinkable. I stand there, unnerved by the thought of asking anyone's assistance. To top it off, this person is not just anyone; he's Stark, a top-ranking Espada, for crying out loud. Additionally, he barely shows enthusiasm over ANYTHING; not that I'm one to talk, but I guess—I guess desperation is catching up on—

"Why should I? Everyone knows your current obsession is to gain access inside Grimmjow's pants."

What an infantile behavior. I can only guess what took ascendency in this fellow Espada's mind to hurl such inflammatory invectives at me. Now perhaps is the time to start pitying the deluded public and their poisoned thoughts.

"If you consent I'll have Szayel's private chamber transferred to the East wing tower; that's more than a hundred hallways from yours."

Hah! For starters, the power of persuasion lies in one's cunningness. I happen to be Resident Inspector here in Las Noches, which basically means I control room assignments.

"Whatever. Don't wake me up too early tomorrow."

"I am indebted to you."

He wheels around and descends on a flight of stairs to his basement chamber. Taking a hint, I take my ascent to the West Wing Tower, where my room is. AMong other things, I'm sure to have a good sleep tonight.