A trillion tries at life

As people struggle with feelings, duty and desire, a man watches from his seat on the highest floor of the tallest building around and smiles. He knows their life is better somewhere.

Rated T (rating will go up later when things get... physical). For now it contains language, blood, murder and dismemberment, nothing worse than what we've seen in the original work. Which brings me to the
Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach. If I did I'd get paid for trolling you, but I don't, so if I ever want to troll you I'll have to do it for free. Alas!

1 · Overtime

Six sets of footsteps were quickly approaching. Half a dozen very loud sets of footsteps. The apparent lack of stealth could mean two things: either it wasn't their priority, in other words, for some reason they were confident they'd get him this time (the sad fuckers), or maybe they were stupid enough not to realise that wearing tap shoes to an urban chase scene didn't really play in their favour.

No, not "or", more like "and". The level of stupidity needed to make one of the statements true would surely make the other one a given... ah, whatever, he didn't care. The point was that he'd been dragged out of bed at two in the morning just to take care of a couple faceless mooks, and that made him mad.

There they were, in all their not-so-menacing glory, the six of them wearing identical cheap pinstripe suits and sporting identical irritating grins on their faces. He'd led them to a dead end street, figuring the fight would be a bit more interesting if the goons believed they had the upper hand - he was just trying to spice things up a bit, no harm in that, was there? Cutting up people who'd rather run back home crying to mama just wasn't worth his time. And lo and behold, they'd taken the bait again. Seeing him slouching, hands in his pockets, cornered between them and the brick wall covered with neon green graffiti, their slightly defensive stances were replaced by a poorly coordinated attack.

Like in a B movie, the guy in the middle (which incidentally was the biggest one of the low-ranked thugs) took out a switchblade and charged directly towards him, his movements so predictable it took only minimal effort to dodge the thrust and the following punch. Bastard was wearing a ring on each finger, so tight they made them look like swollen sausages. Snickering at the thought, he grabbed one of Sausage Fingers's arms and kneed him on the chin. Being freakishly tall had its pluses.

"What's so funny, you sonuvabitch?"

"Fucker, you gonna pay for that!"

Lame threats. Half-assed punches.

Stupid and annoying and, above all, weak. He had no reason to cherish their lives; he had, however, a couple reasons to off them.

First, that was his job.

Second, chopping things into pieces was a pretty good stress relief method. Even better than popping bubble wrap.

That's why Nnoitra Gilga didn't think twice before letting the carnage begin.

He smiled, his teeth a flash of perfect white danger, and time paused around him as a waxing crescent that rivaled his expanding grin rose from under his coat. He flicked his wrist slightly upwards, light reflected off the curved blade momentarily blinding the increasingly frightened audience.

"Calm down, I'm not the Grim Reaper." He paused, if only for dramatic effect. "Just fillin' in for him."

The next two minutes were a whirl of flying limbs, a couple of them detached from their respective bodies and obviously not his. He took some blows – it was six against one, after all – but the damage didn't exceed the expected minimum. Soon three of the thugs were lying on the ground, either dead or dying, and he'd just knocked out the fourth one with a well-aimed kick to the temple. Alright, maybe dress shoes weren't so bad, as long as they were pointy enough to hurt.

Only two to go. Sausage Fingers was somehow still standing, albeit staggering a bit. He had to give him credit, the fucker was more durable than he'd first thought. Must be one of the advantages of having a thick skull. But nevermind, his drowsy movements made him an extremely easy target, and playing with easy targets was no fun, so he decided to get over with it and stabbed him right in the heart. And suddenly,

"Hey, wait! What do you think you're doing?" a male voice called out from behind him.

Reinforcements...? The light squeaking of a pair of trainers told him otherwise. Had the newcomer belonged to the same group, he'd have been wearing equally noisy shoes, so he would have heard him coming from a mile away. It was probably a random passerby who wanted to play the hero, and he didn't feel like entertaining a wannabe hero. Groaning, he dislodged his double-edged sickle from Sausage Fingers's chest and swung it backwards, then his frown disappeared when the sharp metal made contact with flesh again. He turned his head to see the Hero for the first time: a sandy-haired youth was kneeling on the concrete pavement, a deep cut across his right cheek. The cut was bleeding quite a bit, but it didn't look life-threatening. Unfortunately.

"Aw shit, I missed—"

He didn't even get to finish his sentence before he was jumped. So much for wishing the new guy would just scram. He wasn't surprised, however, that he didn't try to hurt him at all, choosing instead to attempt to immobilize him while wrestling his weapon away. Pacifist heroes were a particularly common (and nasty) breed. It took some extra effort, but in the end he managed to pry the young man off him and elbowed him hard in the solar plexus. Hopefully that'd give him enough time to wrap up his job.

After making sure the kid wouldn't interfere for a while, he turned his attention to the last one of the goons. The last guy (his face was paper white and his nose was swollen and covered in fresh blood. Nnoitra figured he'd call that one Ronald McDonald), obviously cowering, took a step backwards and tripped over a motionless piece of meat that used to be his colleague. He would have fallen on his ass if the graffitied wall hadn't been right behind him.

A choked shriek came out of Ronald's mouth as the tall figure hovered over him. He took out a handgun. His whole body was trembling, his fingers shaking so violently he almost dropped it twice, but after struggling with it for a while he somehow managed to pull the trigger.

He also managed to miss at point-blank range (a loud yelp was heard from somewhere behind. Ah, right, Mr. Hero was still there...). Nnoitra had a hard time trying not to burst into a cascade of laughter. That wasn't the time to admire the performance, the little clown man might have better luck the second time and he didn't want to risk being hit. He quickly seized him by the wrist; the constant trembling vaguely reminded him of an electric back massager.

"If you had one of these, why the fuck didn't you use it right from the beginning? Seriously."

The man almost didn't put up any resistance when he twisted his arm so that he was pointing the gun at himself instead.

"Weren't sure how it worked?"

His eyes widened and his pupils became tiny teeny black dots despite the lack of light. Aha, so the gun was still loaded. Fear did wonders to the human body.

"'Kaaay then, I'll teach ya."

He closed his hands upon dear Ronald's and slid a finger inside the trigger guard.

"Please... Please I beg you I beg you I—"

He slipped the barrel past his lips, it made a really ugly screeching sound when he pushed it through the teeth.

"Sorry man, I get paid per finished piece, not by the hour." And he fired.

Neon green and maroon looked pretty good together, he mused.

Only one minor detail left before he could call it a night. The defeated hero was still there, propped against the wall, all bloodied and scared and miserable looking. The clown's stray bullet had landed half a metre away from him, and he was still recovering from the near-death experience. His gaze switched back and forth between the mark the bullet had left on the brick wall and Nnoitra, though it settled on the latter when the author of the slaughter walked up to him.

"Yo, intruder." He grabbed him by the collar of his polyester jacket and lazily pointed towards the pile of bodies. "You're with them?"

"Wha—no, I just..."

"Smart answer. Though a smart person would've just hauled ass and pretended they saw nothing."

He was pleased to find out that the young man's fair hair was just long enough for him to grab and jerk his head back.

"So either you are fucking stupid, or you wanted to be a good little ally of justice and come to their aid."

"They didn't deserve to die," he muttered. So courageous, so gallant, so cheeky. Did that guy have no sense of self-preservation? Most people would be quick to beg for forgiveness when faced with imminent death, provided they had the chance to do so. Poor Ronald had just beautifully illustrated the point.

"Well, you won't save the world this time, Heeeeerooo." He felt his Adam's apple going up and down with an audible gulp. "You've encountered a mid-boss while at level 1, so it's game over for ya." It was fun watching his eyes lit up in terror as he mentioned the 'game over' part. He decided he'd take his time breaking that one, it could be fun... and it wasn't like he was getting any sleep that night anyways.

He let his fingers trace over the young man's face, slowly, painfully slowly, making sure to stop at the gash across his cheek so that it would sting. The delicious hiss he let out made Nnoitra wish he'd brought some alcohol. He lifted his chin with bloody fingers and paused to look him in the eyes. They were rather dark, some shade of brown, and were returning his scrutiny with a hint of defiance. He liked them, in a way.

"Wanna know why I use a sickle?" He lifted the weapon with his free hand. "It's impractical, but I love its shape. I love the way it curves. Because," he whispered, pressing the blade against the youth's throat, "see? It fits like a glove."

The blood of the previous victims drew a grotesque choker on his skin. His breath hitched, his body jolted, still he didn't break eye contact.

"This is the perfect tool for slicing heads off. It gets real messy when you do though, blood keeps squirting and squirting when you go deep enough. And blood stains are a real pain in the ass to get out, ya know?"

It was refreshing to find someone that could hold his gaze for so long. Nnoitra knew he wasn't handsome by any standard, his features were reptilian at best, he was missing an eye, his voice was unpleasant and his smile powerful enough to make children cry. He was bad news and looked like bad news. People didn't really like looking evil in the eye, literally speaking. For that reason, being closely watched made him feel... oddly satisfied. He wondered, could that kid see his budding smile in the dim light of that cliché-looking blind alley? Probably not, when he was the one casting a shadow over him. They were mere centimetres apart by then. He could feel each one of his shallow breaths on his cheek, warm moisture against the cold winter air (it was freezing, he unwittingly got closer to the heat source and could have sworn he heard a whimper at that time), and they were becoming quicker and desperate and even more shallow. The pressure on his throat wasn't diminishing, one wrong move and it would actually be game over. Fright was doing him in.

Keep looking at me like that and you might live a little longer, he wanted to tell him.

His eyes were hazy. Was he going to give up?

Let's make a deal: I'll let you go if you hold out for thirty more seconds. Nah, fifteen is enough. ...Wasn't planing on killing you anyway, just wanted to scare ya! Shoulda seen your face!

He released him. The young man's arms shot up to clutch at his throat between frantic gasps.

What in the name of FUCK did I just do?

For a moment he just stood there, feeling stupid. He should just kill the guy and go home. Kill him off and go home. Go home and not kill him. Whatever.

"Their pals will be here in no time," he finally said with a quick nod towards the corpses. "Run the hell away, or stay here and send 'em my regards, I don't give two shits."

He heard some more running footsteps. Indeed they were coming, perfect timing. That was his cue to clear out.

"Nice knowin' ya, Hero."

That night Tesla Lindocruz learnt many things he didn't wish to learn, one of them that he could get turned on by death threats and the feeling of cold hands and a sharp blade against his throat.

A/N: Chapter alternately named "The one where Nnoitra steals Ichigo's job title", and which doesn't have that much to do with the general plot of the story. It's like one of those Hollywood flicks that have an unrelated opening scene whose only point is to show off the shiny special effects, but without said special effects.
Hello everyone, this is the first piece of fanfiction I ever post here, and I'm awfully scared. I hope this was mildly entertaining! English isn't my first language, so I'm sure there are mistakes. Any comments or corrections will be greatly appreciated! :D