Down in the Tropics [Safira, Yaksha]

"I follow."

A thief was a thief. A conqueror was a conqueror. A tyrant was a tyrant. A cheater was a cheater. Safira didn't get all caught up in how something sounded or trying to sugarcoat things, especially not when it related to other people who she cared so much less for compared to her own shining example of herself. Such was the arrogance of her and the prideful nature to put herself above those titles but still refer to others as such.

"The winner is the one that obtained the most, simply speaking a trophy is no more valuable than money. They are illusions of people and flaws which fester inside the mind, ultimately such a trophy is devoid of value unless you intend to melt it down and make it something more practical. The only people that gain something of value, that is to say--the winners are the ones who leave the stage with the most. The winner who only leaves with an inflated ego and the losers who leave knowing where to improve."

Safira was hypocritical to say this. It wasn't like she wasn't self-aware of her own pride and arrogance rather that she ought to keep it in mind as to not let it be a downfall of her's, however she would not accept second place in many of these situations. She would be the victor that took every lesson from other's failings so that she'd never fall for the same errors, while winning would appeal to her ego. The fool's who thought giving her something useless as a reward, were just as arrogant as she was.

There was something horrifyingly simple in Yaksha's reaction now, a sort of perverse delight that was amazing to see. It was easy to understand, too; though he had shifted gears in some strange way, his fundamental nature remained unchanged, and something about this conversation was stoking an innate flame within him, bringing him back to life, and satisfying a primal need, something so innate even he probably couldn't notice when it came.

He squatted down near Safira, his hands both resting on the concrete as he listened to her response, unmoving, not even bothering to acknowledge what she said. His feelings on that matter would be made clear enough very soon; for now, he simply let the arrancar feel as if her own insight and contribution carried merit. And when she finished speaking, the sound that he let out could've easily been confused for someone clearing their throat politely, as if getting attention, or clearing an obstruction. But for Safira, the reaction was as obvious as if it he had gone all the way.

He was laughing at her.

"Hmhm. You don't follow at all, Safira. That is why we get along so very well. I would never ask another person to follow me, as the kings of old, or the would-be saviors of the soul society. I simply ask you to let me do what I do best, nothing more. If it is to your benefit, all the better. If it leads to a poor result, then I can but ask for your forgiveness. But as you well know by now, I never settle for a single word when a double entendre can be found. You don't follow me, but you also don't follow the trail of breadcrumbs laid before you. Allow me to explain in a way you can understand, Safira."

He didn't wait for a reply before sinking into the water with her, dipping a hand in and beginning to swirl it in tiny circles, causing ripples to expand outwards. He had about him an air of utter, quiet confidence, something that he had never presented in their previous interactions, when he'd seemed so invested in her own well-being, and her feelings towards him. But something had changed, some essential switch inside him flipped, and it was hard to even tell if he could go back to the way he was.

"Illusions, yes. But that is the entirety of the performance, dear. What is there to be -gained-, from participating in the Olympics? Prestige, and little more; your name, spoken on the lips of millions. Recognition. What is there to be gained, from engaging in a race? You grow faster, certainly. What is there to be gained, from a beauty contest? A sense of self-worth, and perhaps a doting husband. And in all of these cases...there is nothing to be obtained that could not be obtained outside of these competitions. If you sought a husband, you could take it by force. If you wished your name to be on the tongues of all mankind, you can simply -do- it, as Mana has. And if you wish to grow faster, you hardly need someone else to be present. All of it is smoke and mirrors, Safira. And throughout it all, who stands to gain from this distraction?"

"Why...those who orchestrated the competition, of course. Women fawn over the judges, offering them money, nubile flesh, hollow words of praise. Olympic athletes scream themselves hoarse, or cry themselves to sleep, always saying the same thing. 'If only the referee had shown me favor'. In a gentleman's game, it is the man who holds the whistle that holds the power. From the moment mankind has agreed to enter the ring, they have agreed to arbitration; to the indisputable power and authority of the referee. The judge. He is omnipresent, and omniscient, in their minds; an obstacle greater than any other, for he is like unto a force of nature. They entreat, they plead, they cajole, and they threaten...all because they know that success and failure lies in the sole hand of the judge. The true winner of any competition is the one who is given the power to define success and defeat. And who, once they have entered into any competition, can ever claim that power?"

"I despise war, Safira, because there is no judge to be found. Lines are drawn and redrawn at a whim. Now Safira...do you follow? COULD you follow?"

He turned to her, head cocking ever so slightly to the side, something cunning beyond words, something ancient in the extreme, a primeval creature that had not walked the earth since the days of Anubis and Set, stared at her, silently imploring her in his own way, waiting for her to piece together the sentiment...and ultimately realize what was being said. What was being proposed.

And the very obvious merit to such a world, to anyone as arrogant as her.