Category: Bleach
Author: Kurohane Ookami
Title: The Masked Games
Pairing(s): Unknown for sure at this time. Might be light Grimm/Ichi, Tia/Starrk, and Sado/Isane.
Genre: Angst/Adventure
Rating: M - Violence, Torture, and Severe Language.
A/N: So, I really shouldn't be starting yet another Fanfiction...But I've been planning this out for a few months now, and with all the excitement about the Hunger Games being released in a couple of months, along with the beautiful soundtracks for the movie, I've been inspired to begin writing my Bleach/Hunger Games Crossover.
Update: Yeah. I've re-written this thing so many times that I've kinda missed out on all the excitement, but hey, I'm still stoked on writing.
I am telling you now that if you have read the Hunger Games, you'll probably see some similarities to the books. If you haven't, I hope you enjoy.
Amazingly enough, Ichigo will not be the main character in this fic. (As in Point of View. He'll still be doing his superhero stuff, just not as much.) We'll be following the story from (surprisingly) Grimmjow's POV. I've always been curious as to how the story would work out if told from another persons perspective. Thus, Grimmjow was handed the position. (Can't you tell I've been planning this out?)
As a final note, all I can say is that you will be shocked. You will be angry. You might even cry.
May the odds be ever in your favor.
Let the Games..begin.
o-o-o-o
"We were the ones who weren't afraid
We were the broken hearted
We were the scars that wouldn't fade away."
-Red
o-o-o-o
Chapter One
Rio de Janeiro
Province Six, Kasai District
Also known as the Sexta District
He was not having a good day.
In fact, he was having a goddamned awful day.
Some asshole next door had decided it would be a good idea to go and start a fucking neighborhood brawl in the wee hours of the morning and launch themselves through his window in an attempt to wrangle him into it.
It hadn't worked, of course. He was the Sexta. No one messed with him unless they had a death wish.
Then again, the blood definitely wouldn't be coming out of the carpet this time...
So here he was, two hours later, wandering the District as he saw fit, snapping at a few of the younger arrancar who didn't quite understand who he was and tried to pickpocket him. Not that he had anything of value to steal, anyway. His only actual belonging that he considered precious was his sword, Pantera. But no one was ignorant or stupid enough to try and take that from him. No, the only way his sword would leave him would be pried from his cold, lifeless fingers, and the odds of that weren't too high in the Sexta District.
Of course, there was still the Draw coming up in a few more hours as well. When all the fucking higher ups of the world decided to draw names of countries in the world, and then draw again until they had a city, and then draw a poor fuckers name from the remainder of that list. Something like that, anyway. He didn't particularly care how the system worked, only that they only aired the results. Who the 'lucky tribute and country are'.
Yeah, right.
If you could call being sentenced to an early grave lucky.
Drawing a slightly damp cigarette from his only intact jacket, he flicked a match against the nearest stone wall before lighting it and inhaling.
The sun wasn't quite decided if it wanted to hide behind cloud cover or shine brightly as he walked the still quiet streets of Rio.
Ah, Rio. The place where you killed, or were killed. Apparently, at one point, it had been a cultural hotspot, but now, it was just a crime ridden, arrancar run city that no one really cared or knew about. His District and name came from his reputation. He'd clawed his way to the top, unwilling to be killed like so many others. Needless to say, if he was Drawn, he wouldn't give a damn. Not like he had any family to begin with. Hell, he knew a couple of people who would practically sacrifice him just to become the Sexta.
Not that he cared.
He lived a pretty peaceful life, actually. No one really picked a fight with him because of his strength and cunning, so he was almost like a god here. He could go wherever the hell he wanted and there wasn't a lot that anyone could do about it. At one point they'd even nicknamed him Pantera, after his deadly blade. Of course, she hadn't been too amused with that development, so he'd squashed down anyone who insisted on calling him by the name. He could remember the confusion as he did so.
Fame just wasn't really his style. He was a roamer, a nomad at heart, so it was rare for anyone to actually sit down and have a heart-to-heart with the vicious teal haired man. Not that they would anyway.
"Got a fucking death wish? Get lost." he snarled at a passing arrancar who kept sending him death glares. The other arrancar was definitely smaller than him, not as well built. His blade wasn't exactly much to look at either, but he knew better than to judge someone just by their stature or their blade. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, many years ago.
Pantera nearly hummed as his hand went to the sheathed katana, and in a swift motion drew Pantera and lunged.
He had to credit this weakling: not many would be standing after the first strike. But still, his skills were minscule compared to his own honed instincts. He'd been fighting his entire life. Something like this was barely even a warm up.
They traded blows, Grimmjow lazily blocking and dodging, toying with his newest opponent. But, all games had to end eventually, and he threw himself forward, putting all of his weight behind the attack.
The other arrancar didn't stand a chance against brute force and a katana being shoved through his throat. With a gurgle, he collapsed, blood staining the cobbled street and gleaming like rubies in the morning light.
"I warned you." Grimmjow sneered, flicking more of the liquid off of Pantera before resheathing the blade and continuing on like nothing had happened.
o-o-o-o
One of the mandatory items one needed in every city or town, everywhere in the world, no matter how shitty it was, was a television. In Rio de Janeiro's central square, a six story high screen took residence, fired up only once a year for the Draw. By now, it was worn, but mostly clean. They couldn't do much about the flocks of birds that used it as a perch.
Grimmjow took a drag of his cigarette as he watched the huge screen blinked to life, the black and white background not even close to preparing him to the colourful freak that popped up on screen, a cordless mic held up to his face.
"Hello to you all and welcome to the Two Hundred and Thirteenth annual Masked Games!" he crowed, dual orange eyes sparkling. "I'm Akira Otorino, coming at you live from our government's HQ!"
Yeah, right. Grimmjow snorted in his thoughts, leaning farther against the wall at the edges of the crowd, slightly put off by the man's odd appearance. He had orange eyes, for starters, and neon yellow hair that stuck up in all directions. Then there was the vibrant pink and purple makeup plastered all over his face, giving him the vague appearance of a really, really ugly prostitute. On top of that, he was wearing a dark green suit with an ugly shade of yellow tie to go with it.
Grimmjow shuddered. Yeah, this one was fucking creepy.
"And now, the moments you've all been waiting for!" Akira beamed from on screen. "The final Draw will now begin!"
Grimmjow wasn't stupid. He knew that the Draw had already happened and now they were just airing it in every city or town in the world. The screen flashed over to a large table filled with people from all over the world.
"The final countries," an older man stood, a short graying beard moving with his words as he spoke, "are: Spain. Costa Rica. Australia. China. Mexico. Italy. Greenland. Brazil. Egypt. Russia. Scotland. Greece. Ireland. Norway. England. Afghanistan. Canada. Mongolia. And France."
Grimmjow's brow raised. Only nineteen? Usually there was at least twenty, if not more.
Now the screen flashed over to a raining background, a woman that eerily resembled their current host drawing out a name from a gigantic ornate bowl.
"Representing Spain.." she cleared her throat before reading out the name clearly, "is Coyote Starrk."
Again, the screen flashed, changing places. The names of the tributes were announced one by one.
"From Costa Rica..."
"Australia..."
"Representing China..."
The countries went on, a list of tributes compiling steadily.
"And from Brazil..."
The entirety of Rio de Janeiro froze.
"Tia Harribel and Grimmjow Jeagerjaques."
Grimmjow stopped dead, feeling the eyes of the people boring holes into his head, feeling as though he'd suddenly been cut off from the rest of the world. Of all the fucking luck in the world, of all of the millions of people there could have been, it just had to be his name that was Drawn.
Plastering a scowl on his features, his teal eyes spitting fire at anyone who dared keep their eyes on him, he held himself high as he ground the stub of his cigarette into the ground, feeling grim satisfaction as the stone cracked beneath his foot.
"Fuck this." he snarled. His mood had officially taken a nosedive. His nonchalant attitude towards getting Drawn was now retracted. He was full on, raging pissed. He'd managed to go this long without getting picked, and today, when his day was shitty as fuck, (and had he ever had a few of those) he just happened to get Drawn.
What a fucking peachy day this is turning out to be, he seethed. Some fucker I killed is pulling some fucked up shit on me in revenge, I know it.
Needless to say, Rio de Janeiro went through a bit of unplanned destruction, teal reiatsu rocketing into the sky and alerting anyone who didn't feel like dying to evacuate the area.
o-o-o-o
They came for him a couple days later, and Grimmjow found himself on one of the private jets that belonged to the Heads of the Masked Games. It was strangely subdued, other than the other tribute he was sharing his flight with.
Tia Harribel gave off a subtle 'Don't fuck with me' vibe as she stared out the window, her arms crossed under her large bust and face oddly blank. Grimmjow studied her carefully as he lit a cigarette, leaning back in his plush seating and blowing the smoke towards the ceiling.
"It would be greatly appreciated if you would refrain from smoking in here."
He flicked his gaze to Harribel, raising a brow in question. "Oh?"
She stared him down levelly, her features revealing nothing. "It is a common courtesy. I suggest that you follow it."
As she spoke the last word, her tone turned hard, a glint of something dangerous surfacing for a moment in her eyes. To be honest, Grimmjow felt a chill wash over him for a moment.
"Che." he snorted, closing his eyes but putting out the cigarette nonetheless.
Damn women and their hormones.
o-o-o-o
Thankfully, due to the technology that the Capitol City possessed, their flight wasn't as long as they'd anticipated. Ten hours later, and they touched down on a private runway, where they were met by bright, colourful people who had absolutely no regard for personal space. Harribel looked about as irritated as Grimmjow felt, and he was a little startled at the fact that she wasn't all about a facade.
Then again, he could understand why. He was scowling for all he was worth, very sorely tempted to draw Pantera and cleave a few of the bumbling freaks in half to get the point across. He did not like being crowded. In any way, shape, or form.
So basically, this was his worst nightmare. Technically.
o-o-o-o
After he and Harribel had been rescued by a couple of the mentors, (they were uncertain as to who they would be mentoring) they had been escorted to their rooms, as it was late.
Grimmjow declined the offer of food, locking the door of his room before prowling through it, pawing through the stocked drawers of clothing, sniffing at the scents they held, pulling back the thin white curtains to reveal the night lit city, the height of his room making it seem as though he were God.
Pulling out another cigarette, he was annoyed as he realized that there were only three left. Sighing in irritation, he flicked a match and lit it, taking a long drag and staring out at the city blankly, the lights illuminating his sunkissed skin and teal eyes, setting them on fire.
He was far too restless to get any sleep. Instead, he left the thin curtains open, sitting in a semi-fetal position against the window with his cigarette, thinking on the events in the last twelve hours.
It was already so far behind him, and he hadn't even gone into the Arena yet. His life as the Sexta meant nothing here. It was just a name, a title of what he was. No one would understand his rank, the power behind it.
The only proof of who he was now was his sword. Wearily, he reached for said katana, palming the smooth sheath, the hilt that fit perfectly in his calloused and blood-stained hands.
He snorted, vague amusement in the sound. Did he ever sound like a whiny bitch, pining after a lost love. What was done was done. He would just have to win the Masked Games. It was as simple as that. He would fight until the death, if need be. There was no better way to go than in battle, against a worthy foe.
Now he did laugh, low and menacing, and full of dry humor.
"Let the fucking Games begin, bitches."
