It's been months since i've written anything, wow.. it's been very hard for me to get into the spirit, i still want to finish my last story but this idea cam into my head and i really want to explore it and see what everyone else thinks about it.

Barragan told us all the nature of the Espada - they're repesentations of death. Well, i got to wondering what was so special about each one that'd earn them that illustrious title. Their power makes them an Espada, but where'd that power come from? If a hollow is made from the negative emotions of a plus upon death, and each Espada is both powerful and repesentative of one particular aspect of death, then it follows (at least to me) that each one died a particularly nasty death related to their aspect. I thought it would be very interesting to chronicle each one's last moments in life and/or first moments in death, to see just what could have given them the push toward their place in the Espada. That having been said, let's begin the countdown, shall we? Enjoy!

We all know how a hollow is made…

And we know of the Espada, the most feared of them all…


What makes an Espada?

Let's once again turn the pendulum back…

Rage: décima-cero Espada – Yammy Rialgo

El Punto de Bebida was always lively, especially on weekends. It was a simply named little bar in a little Mexican villa half a day's ride out of Mexico City, the type of place where simple names were best because the locals were anything but complicated. The only bar in down, El Punto drew the best of the worst to it – local drunkards, moonshiners at the shadowy corner tables looking to undercut the proprietor, traders stopping over on their way north, and of course, traveling vagabonds.

Like Yammy.

The others in the establishment gave the huge man sitting at the bar wary gazes, and no one sat within two stools of him. Between his bald head (excepting a ratty ponytail and thin sideburns) and enormous arms, he gave the impression of a human-gorilla hybrid. He hadn't said anything yet aside from ordering several plates of food, which he was stuffing down his face at a rather alarming rate.

'Always feel better when I eat,' Yammy thought to himself as he jammed another quesadilla into his mouth. 'I feel so much stronger… Don't understand it, but why should I give a shit?' This was the fourth bar he'd stopped in this week, and if he was lucky it'd be the fourth that he got thrown out of for drinking, fighting, and generally causing havoc. That was his lifestyle after all; he traveled from town to town, robbing the weaklings he came across on the road, then blowing it all on food and drink before ending the night in a good brawl. He couldn't complain though, he had a good thing going. He grinned to himself as someone bumped into his back. Looks like the festivities were just beginning.

Yammy spun his upper body and stuck the unsuspecting man with a vicious backhand, hard enough to lift him off his feet and send him unconscious to the floor.

"Why don'cha watch where yer going, you asshole?!" he screamed at the barely conscious man, standing up to his full height and facing the room in general. Glaring around, he saw a dozen angry glares as a group of men stood up in the back of the room. Yammy staggered a little, a sharp pain exploding from the back of his head. Turning, he saw another of the man's friends holding what was left of a pool cue in his hand as the broken end clattered to the floor. Yammy growled and threw a punch straight into the man's face, shattering his jaw and dropping him.

The edges of his vision began to turn red as he saw the group approach him. It always happened this way; Yammy would lose himself in the fight, it seemed like the angrier he got the harder he fought, and the less he remembered. The fight began and within a few seconds all he could remember was red.


The room he awoke in was dark and musty and wet, and smelled like piss. Yammy grunted and shook his head to try and clear his headache, moving to sit up from his slouched position against the wall. A jingling noise drew his attention to his wrists, both of which were shackled by heavy chains to the wall.

"Well, this is new," he grumbled to himself, shaking his head some more to try and clear the cobwebs. He pulled again uselessly, glaring at the offending restraint before jerking hard.

"'Ey! How about you lemme out of here?!" the large man yelled out through the bars of his musty cell.

No response.

"HEY! LET ME OUT, DAMMIT!" he screamed, straining hard to pull the chains out of the wall. His vision reddened and he yelled out loudly, pulling again and again and cursing the unseen guards who left him here to rot.

No one came for hours.

By the time a guard's head finally appeared in the barred window of his door, his wrists were bloody from straining and his screams were unintelligible bursts of rage. The guard said nothing; he simply unlocked the door and silenced the prisoner with a rifle butt to the side of the head.


The first man was foolish enough to punch Yammy directly in the chest; he may as well have struck a wall. The enormous man snarled at his shock and grabbed his face, bodily shoving him into his companions and knocking several to the ground. Wading forward into the crowd of lesser man, he drew back and struck the first thing he saw with his giant fist, cracking his opponent's skull and crumpling him like a rag doll. From the corner of his eye he saw something brown swinging at him, and he turned in a move surprisingly agile for a man his size to intercept the descending barstool. Scowling in fury, he lifted the man up and glared at him for a moment.

"SUERTE!" he screamed as he headbutted his opponent, taking the stool from his limp hand and hurling it with all his might at someone behind him, splintering the wood and nearly killing the victim instantly.

The next fighters were a bit more coordinated, attempting to jump him as a group of three. Yammy did not need strategy, however. Each blow against him seemed to fuel his anger, and like a raging bull he lashed out wildly, striking all those around him in his fury. Suddenly the doors of the bar burst open and Yammy turned to face the intruders, a look of wild bloodlust on his face. At least ten soldiers stood in the doorway, advancing slowly with rifles leveled. He didn't care though; they were just more targets, more worms for him to crush. Yammy had never battled the army though, not out on the desert roads where he was king. He glared around as he was quickly surrounded, rifles in his face as something was shouted. He bellowed in rage and made to swing at the man in front of him; everything swam for a moment and black spots danced in his vision. His head felt funny. He made to charge again; he clearly felt the sharp pain this time and his vision blurred and dimmed. The third rifle strike to the back of his head was too much even for him, and he fell to his knees as his red vision was quickly replaced with black.


The courtroom was full of locals eager to see "la bestia," as he was coming to be known. And the way he was paraded out by a full fifteen guards in chains heavy enough to make a normal man collapse, most people thought the name was fitting. Yammy was restrained in a corner of the room while charges were read against him – fighting, assault, and murder were among the first, but these were followed by even more charges brought forth by those whom he robbed and attacked on the road. By the end, the whole room was muttering and staring with unrestrained loathing, a few people shameless pointing at the prisoner in the corner. What started as a low growl in the back of Yammy's throat was slowly intensifying as the din in the courtroom continued to grow, the officials attempting to quiet the room. Yammy refused to be treated like an animal… He'd kill them all if he had to… His vision clouded over, the room slowly bleeding red as he began to struggle and scream.

"What're you pointin' at..." he growled out once. "I SAID… WHAT'RE YOU POINTIN' AT?!" he raged, lunging forward before being mercilessly jerked back by the restraints. "I'LL KILL YA ALL, YOU HEAR ME?! I'LL RIP YER BONES OUT, I'LL TEAR YOUR FUCKIN' FACES OFF!! DON'T YOU DARE POINT AT ME, YOU PIECES OF SHIT!!"

The crowd went deathly silent, staring in unrepressed shock at what they were seeing as the man (was he even a man, even human?) struggled and fought to be released. His screams degenerated to mindless, incomprehensible shouts and growls of rage for a full five minutes, but slowly Yammy quieted, panting and staring wildly around the room. Then, the unthinkable happened.

Someone laughed.

It was a quiet laugh, barely more than a snicker. But it was a sneeze in the mountains that started the avalanche. Another little giggle was heard, followed by a condescending chuckle. The first open laughter followed, then more and more until the whole court was laughing and pointing without restraint. Yammy's eyes widened, his whole body shaking with rage.

"Shut up," he whispered, his veins sticking out as he tensed his muscles.

No one could hear him speak, the room was just too loud.

"Shut up…"

More laughter.

"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" The giant man positively flew at the crowd, screaming so loud that spittle flew from his mouth, his eyes wide in wild animalistic fury. His whole body jerked sickeningly as he reached the end of the chains, his skin bruising in several places and splitting wide open in others. Yammy didn't notice as blood leaked along the chains and dripped on the floor. He tried again, the chains biting deeper but refusing to yield to his great strength. He couldn't even see anymore, everything was red and his only thought was the promise of death to any he could reach.

His mindless screams of rage could be heard from every corner of the town.


Yammy stood chained hand, foot, and several other points of his body to a wooden post as thick as a small tree. His face was bruised and bloodied, and he probably had a few ribs broken as well. The guards hadn't taken too well to his outrage in court; to his credit though they only moved in to beat him once he had tired himself out, and only in overwhelming numbers at that.

'Little pussies,' he thought to himself with a growl as he looked at the two lines of men with rifles standing a dozen paces away. 'Little maggots, I'd tear their arms off, one by one, and they couldn't stop me…'

The front five men kneeled at the nearby officer's command, and all ten raised their rifles, taking aim. Yammy was given no chance for last words; animals didn't need them.

'I'll kill 'em all,' he thought to himself as the command was given. He didn't flinch as the rifle shots riddled his body, just growled as his vision grayed and his legs lost their strength.

"I don't care what it takes," he ground out, spitting up a mouthful of blood as his great strength fled him, "I'll kill you all… Every… Last… One…"

The guards shivered as they watched the beast die. Its eyes were still open, glaring at them with unrestrained hatred and fury, even in death. They would bury it outside the fort in an unmarked grave. No one cared, and everyone soon forgot the location entirely.

It was just an animal, after all.