Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. That however is not my greatest regret. It's the fact that I'm in love with a fifteen year old boy, who is a cartoon. I think there are laws against that.

This is my first attempt at a Bleach fic. I hope that you enjoy it. Let me know what you think!

Hollow

Blue sky with wispy clouds float by the constructs of metal and glass. The emptiness and complexity of the mind is both stunning and amusing.

My amusement is not real. It's sarcasm overlapping cynicism coupled with apathy. I feel…nothing. At the moment I am nothing more than a doll, waiting to be animated, waiting for something, anything to fill me.

Perhaps the dull tingle that I feel in the back of my brain is longing. The residual memory of what was and what could be. But was memory really a feeling?

I sit and I watch, waiting for a glimpse of something besides emptiness. On rare occasions visions appear, of places and faces that I have never been or met, but I know them by name---by heart.

Inoue brings feelings of protectiveness, and the faintest stirring of lust.

Sado, Chad is the embodiment of camaraderie. The one person I can trust to stand with me, no matter what.

Ishida, the Quincy that hates Death Gods. The man who hates me, but all I feel for him is grudging respect.

And Rukia. Her face I see most often. Her hard seriousness during the day, the glimmering of her smile at night. The feelings for her are the most complex. Friendship, protectiveness, lust and the confused awkwardness of a teenage boy who has the thoughts of a man.

But none of these feelings are mine. They are his. The Other's. They are remnants, forgotten memories of the past that may not even be mine. The faces come and go, taking their useless emotions with them, leaving me behind in the emptiness.

The Old Man stands to the side, perched upon his sword. His black robes ripple in a non-existent wind, their very darkness sucking up all the light around him, casting him in shadow.

He is waiting too. Waiting for a different reason. He waits for life. For the time that he can be called out into battle to protect the lives of his wielder's friends. For the time that he must preserve the boy-man's life.

I wait for chance. For the one moment that the world cracks apart and there is an opening. I wait for death.

I feel heat in my blood as it starts to sing. My body tenses, my gut clenches.

Battle.

I can feel it. Moving inside me like a living thing. Slipping through my innards and coiling in my guts. Thoughts and feelings swamp me, nearly drowning me with their intensity.

With those feelings comes the hunger. The hunger for power, for life, for the rich ripeness of a holy soul. It rips through me, a living monster that wants to tear me apart, rendering me a useless puppet to its will. It takes my body, filling the barren void, urging me to madness.

I focus on the rage that comes through clearly from the Other. It is something that I can understand, something that I remember from before. I use it to control the hunger, to mold it into a weapon of my choosing. But it is not my rage, it is his, and my ability to wield it is hampered by his other emotions. The need to protect that comes hand and hand with the desire to win.

That I don't understand.

Winning should be paramount to all things. It should be the only thing that matters. No cost was too high. But for the boy, failure to protect was defeat in battle.

The sky above me streaks with red. I stand, reveling in the emotions whipping through me. For a moment I finally feel alive, happy even. Are these emotions constructs that I create or is it just residual effects? An echo of his?

The Old Man turns his face to the sky, his face emotionless, his demeanor calm. But I know he is tense and expectant beneath his black robes. Like me is his waiting to strike. To reach out and grasp freedom.

The world shakes and the glass cracks. I smile as visions of blood and battle flash across the sky like wicked lightning.

The time is approaching. I can feel it in the depths of my bones and the coldness of my skin.

The world cracks and the glass shatters. I gather myself, leaping with all my strength towards the gross, gouging rip in the sky. It was a gaping wound, red and angry, hemorrhaging atmosphere, sucking pain.

Something bullets by me, black silk whips across my eyes. I shake it away in time to see the Old Man slip through the crack, disappearing from sight.

I pump my legs, desperate to reach the slit, but it is already sealing. I reach out, slamming into nothingness seconds too late.

Roaring in defeat and despair I hurdle back toward the ground, landing with as much force as I can muster. The glass does not break, it doesn't even creak. Already the world is stabilizing, already he is regaining control.

The red in the sky leaks away giving way to blue. The hunger inside me lessons, fading to a dull ache. Eventually everything seeps away---the protectiveness, the battle hunger, even my own defeat. Nothing is left behind, not even tatters of false memories.

Something tingles in the back of my mind, and I think that it must be longing. Desperate I reach for it, wanting something to keep me company while I wait, but it is as elusive as my meaningless dreams.

The clouds wisp by, emptiness swallowed by eternity. Inside there is nothing.

I am forsaken. I am barren.

I am…Hollow.