"You've, ah, an acumen for autarchy," Mukuro murmurs with a maternalistic affectation, "Don't you, little skylark?"
"What do you want."
"That's not what matters, " Mukuro's voice is light and frothy like discord echoing against the metal walls of Hibari's heart, "I don't exist. You do."
"Still that acrimonious tone. And here I thought your affixation was something more, with my perpetual residence in your mind."
Hibari looks out the window and down at the specks of swirling mist of the Earth's sky. There is no rain, no storm, no lightning; from this far above, Hibari only sees white clouds pushed by invisible winds of unsurpassable strength.
"Hmm? Hibari," Mukuro laughs, "Isn't the Earth delicious? As though it's a pulsing concoction, handed on a plate for your taking. All it takes is a command from your, ah, family. Will you do it? You have the power: a mindless army of machines; now why hadn't I thought of that?"
"Because I bit you," Hibari hisses, "To death. Go away."
"Don't lie," Mukuro admonishes, "I'm only here because you're a petulant child who won't forget."
Hibari shuts the ironclad doors to his mind and the world shields its eyes in consternation, but specters know no material impediments.