Disclaimer:

I don't own Dreaming of Sunshine, Naruto, or Bleach.

Index:

Introduction

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Lonely, so lonely, so desperately alone.

It, for souls have no gender, no need of such labels and limitations, calls out.

Calls out for...?

Something it can't remember but wants (needs), wants with terrible and aching fervor.

The call reaches, reaches, reaching across/through/over/past the strange and indescribable currents that only wiped souls and The Others can read, drifting there in that in-between zone, waiting to fall/cross/vanish/float to... to...

(It's different for everyone, or maybe it's the same and they all just have different perceptions, different memories, from different souls all wiped clean and ready.)

Perhaps it is a short moment or a very long time, but the call keeps reaching and reaching, for what do souls know of 'time'?

The one it is calling to does not hear, does not answer.

An Other does, instead.

That Other plucks up the call and feels the unwavering strength and character and determination of that calling soul for the soul which is not it's other half, but is close enough to count, anyway.

("You would face a god?"

"Yes. Give me back my sister.")

The Other chuckles, a rippling vague motion-thought-concept.

How amusing.

Feeling pity, or possibly mischief, The Other sets down the call and reaches itself, easily overriding the metaphysical protocols wrapped around the called soul through sheer power, and pushes it towards the calling soul.

The Other watches as the two souls touch and warp, instinctively entwining even then, before flickering out of the in-between zone.

Ah.

Content with the knowledge that the called soul still has many cycles to go, that the protocols will reassert themselves after that existence, that surely the called soul deserves a happy rest even if it is one the called soul will not remember through the protocols, The Other returns to whatever the hazily collected consciousness of Others do.

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Hunger, relentless hunger, this gnawing twisting writhing hollow feeling is constantly scraping within them, chipping away the fast-fading half-remembered sensation slivers of leaves and tawny soft fur and cold metal glinting and curls of ink that will take off heads with ease.

But that's okay, because they have the hunger and the one never-forgotten sensation of togetherness that just feels so right and certain that somehow it makes their unalive undead existence more right and certain as well.

The hunger drives them on, yes, (goodness knows a [-] needs motivation, laughter and glassy clinks and the pearly gleam of an earring's hoop), but it is the knowledge that they have each other and forever (for the given value of 'forever') will that lets them slow down and take in their situation.

After a couple (countless) dozen food-bone-blood-crunch-broken-masks devoured, the hunger still doesn't pass.

At least now they are conscious enough, self-aware enough, to think more or less clearly and even control the urge, somewhat.

They are two souls meshed in one container, which works out surprisingly well.

They complete each other.

(Also, they don't have quite enough consciousness and self-awareness yet to separate into independent beings, which probably helps, too.)

Something stirs within them, tells them they need to eat more, eat more, eat even even more before they can banish the annoyingly distracting hunger and properly think.

(your best asset is your brain and cunning, our best asset is teamwork, [-]'s best asset is their will of [?], hard thin slats go click-clack, click-clack)

That prospect is an attractive one.

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Soon the other kinda-conscious and semi-self-aware beasts (hollowed hollow Hollows?) strewn across the infinity of sand and blood and howling gritty winds begin murmuring about the oddly focused, oddly sane, oddly smart beast moving about.

They murmur about peculiar patience, about uncanny intelligence, about off-beat amiability.

They murmur about moments of peaceability and moments of coin-flip bloodlust, or, no, not exactly bloodlust, more like a very intense mission to devour as many Hollows as possible.

They murmur about careful binges, planned purges, laid-out purposeful ambushes that actually work.

They murmur about a solitary Gillian with a deer-like mask and script scrawled all over it, who shows no difficulty in staying in control over the Hollows it devours, and easily traps and kills Adjuchas all by itself.

Then the inevitable happens, and now they murmur louder and louder about a freakishly clever and ruthless Adjuchas that roams Hueco Mundo and single-handedly eats about half of the Adjuchas population.

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You can recognize it by it's slim, long-legged cervine form, entirely a bare, stark white, blending in perfectly with the sand of Hueco Mundo, save for the patterns of unreadable bastardized calligraphy that crawl over its rolling limbs in a motion that is hypnotic but dizzying to stare at for too long.

You can recognize it by it's blank, humanoid mask atop an all-fours body, blinking hugely liquid, doleful doe eyes under tar-colored strands from it's definite mane, conveying an endearingly pitiful expression at odds with it's wickedly sharp, gore-stained bone antlers, the tiny serrated fangs sticking out of it's closed mouth, and the claws sprouting out of what might have counted as hooves on a normal deer.

You can recognize it by it's swaying stalk, it's silent walk, and a dozen other identifying characteristics.

Explosions are it's visible mark, a warning and a calling-card; stealth is when the swift shadows slip out, unseen 'til it's too late, stabbing slicing slashing.

Of course, by the time you recognize it, it knows you're there, and in all likelihood allowed you to get that close on purpose.

90% of the time, it lets you get close to save the effort of chasing you down for a meal.

10% of the time, it lets you get close to hear the latest news, and then lets you leave, mournful cervine gaze staring thoughtfully at your back like it's deciding if it regrets letting you go or not.

(The lucky 10% leave hastily, and with, of all things, a name:

Nara.

They suppose that even the most frightening and strange Adjuchas wants to be known by a name.)

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Aran brings it up first, as they laid buried under the sands of Hueco Mundo, 'nesting' as they are wont to do, after discovering the trait of 'laziness.'

(Gender doesn't mean much to a Hollow, but as they slide into clearer and clearer control of themselves, for the sake of not receiving a headache from the two now sorta-independent consciousnesses, they separate into the more feminine consciousness of 'Aran' and the more masculine consciousness of 'Nara.')

"I like Hueco Mundo and all," she starts off, impressions of sand, warm and pure and blanketing, funneling down their shared connection.

Nara also gets an impression of blood-red hair and impassively roiling teal seas as well, of safety and this warmth inside, like a watered-down feeling of what they constantly exchanged between them.

But she already knows that, because what's his is hers, and vice versa, so she dismisses it.

"But have you ever-"

"-considered slipping into the human world the other Hollows talk about?" he finishes, fishing the forming question out of her mind.

They reflect on that prospect together, thoughts criss-crossing over their mindscape borders with a natural fluidity.

They have no lack of sustenance here, and honestly really should hurry up and go out to hunt more Hollows to speed up their progress to this practically mythical but certainly possible 'next evolution,' proved possible by the certified existence of Vasto Lordes in Hueco Mundo.

Yet...

Nara thinks of new napping places, ones that aren't just the same variety on hard branches and smothering dunes, of air that you don't have to struggle at first to breathe in, of actually sleeping at night and knowing when it's day.

Aran thinks of glorious entertainment, ones that aren't just mental bickering and sketching out new ideas for attacking plans that nobody but Nara can fully appreciate, of books flipping under fingers she no longer has, of seeing progress in a place that isn't stagnant.

They both think of sunshine and cerulean and whiskers for some reason, but they discard it for being irrelevant.

"Sure," they say together, and curl inwards the best they can in their otherwise-graceful beastly form.

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"This is the territory?"

"Yessir. The Vasto Lorde twins, sir."

"Hmm. Names, again?"

"Um... they call each other..."

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Aizen strides forward over the fine silt underfoot, eyes only for the lounging duo on the towering dune above him.

"Shika and Kako," he greets them confidently.

They are two near-mirror images, both the appearance of rather androgynous human teenagers dressed in flowing buckskin robes, strategic holes cut open for the bone antlers sprouting from their shoulders.

Corpse-pale, barefoot, ears a little too pointed, nails a little too clawed, tattoo-like sigils of moving script traversing their revealed skin in a language he doesn't recognize: all these are signs that they aren't rather androgynous human teenagers.

(He can't see their mask fragments which must be there; probably hidden under the robes, then, which brush their ankles and cuts off in ragged edges at the elbow.)

Shika's pitch-black hair is loose and shoulder-length, posture seemingly relaxed, body leanly muscled, watching him with boredom, and seems half-asleep on his shorter-by-five-inches twin's lap.

Kako is the exact same shape and build, just smaller, with a long, deathly-white braid slung over her shoulder, slender fingers threaded in her brother's inky strands, with a glint of something more motivated glimmering in her gaze.

They have the same eyes, too: hugely liquid cervine ones in all the shades of brown that, according to rumor, followed them through the Vasto Lorde ascension, and are the only splash of color in their appearance.

"I have an offer to make to you."

Reluctantly, Shika rises from his former position into a half-sitting one instead, drawing his hair up into a small, spiky ponytail with a white ribbon that Kako throws a teasingly affectionate look at.

The next moment, she's expressionless, staring deep at him with her head cocked and conveying a sense of acute fascination.

"We're listening," she tells him, still staring like he's a puzzle she can't wait to dig her claws into.

(It reminds him too much of himself.

[So it's a good thing he doesn't notice that Shika, despite his lidded eyes and unconcerned aura, is listening and watching just as intently.])

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"... We accept, then."