Forgotten Exiles
Chapter 1: Message from an Old Man
Author's Notes: This is a Bleach fanfiction, obviously. It will begin around where the anime is currently (episode 62, as of the writing of this). I have read the manga, and thus I know what has been going on in the manga and the story will follow the progression of the manga. There will be spoilers for those who have not been watching the fansubs and reading the scanlations, and if you are averse to that it is suggested that you not read this until you've read all of the scanlations or until the fansubbed anime has released a few more episodes.
The reason I am doing this is because I wish to begin with the betrayal (if you would call it that) of Aizen Sousuke, Ichimaru Gin, and Tousen Kaname and the emergence of the Arrancar.
This fanfiction will mainly revolve around my own characters, as it gives me the opportunity to use the rather intriguing world created by Tito Kube, and still give me my own creative license. The names of the Shinigami are Japanese names that I either remember or think I remember and will later be told aren't actually Japanese. The zanpakuto names are indeed Japanese, but are more than likely mangled beyond normal Japanese naming and sentence structure. I am also using the honorifics that the Japanese use to further convey the relationships each of the shinigami have with each other and those around them. If it is needed, I will post a guide to the honorifics and the basic meanings of the honorifics later. I am obviously no expert on Japanese language or culture, so any corrections are greatly appreciated, so long as they are earnest and not meant to be condescending or malicious.
As is probably obvious, I do not own Bleach, the concepts, or the characters from Bleach that will be appearing in this fanfiction. I do own the characters that I myself have created.
Rain fell upon the sleeping Japanese city of Karakura, drenching the streets and forming massive puddles all over the quiet town. The city was lightless save for the ever-present street lamps and a few cars moving carefully towards their destinations. Overhead a pale full moon shone down upon the city, barely illuminating it with its soft glow.
From the window of a small house built on top of a humble clinic, a middle-aged man with a thick build and a goatee stood at the window, watching the rain intently. His hair was slightly spiked, and he wore a garish floral-print shirt and gray slacks.
"It's quiet," he murmured to himself, gazing out into the darkness. In the distance, a roar pierced the night, a roar he knew that few in the city could even imagine, much less hear.
His eyes turned in the direction of the roar as he saw four figures moving swiftly around a large bestial being with a skeletal white mask. The beast was big, probably four stories tall, and it had a vaguely humanoid shape, with two legs and two arms attached to a bulky, black torso with a head. Both the arms and legs were covered with jagged, bony spikes, the ridges forming saw-like blades. On its back were two leathery wings that seemed unable to support its weight but also bore the jagged bony spikes that its arms and legs. It also had a black tail that was covered in protruding spines and ended in a club like knot of bone.
The beast roared in fury as several red flashes emerged from the four figures facing it, exploding on various points around its body. It lashed its tail and wings about as the figures scattered, the steel in their hands shining in the moonlight.
One of the figures jumped forward, smashing the beast's arm. The beast roared in pain as the bones snapped and the arm fell limply to its side, the joint twisted beyond any semblance of normalcy.
Roaring again with rage, the beast turned and swatted the figure that had just injured it with its claw, throwing it into a nearby lamppost. As it did this another figure rose into the air and raised its arms, before bringing them down hard on the beast's masked skull.
A flash of light moved down the beast before it split into two equal halves as it began rapidly dissolving, leaving nothing behind.
"It looks like I'll have some visitors tonight," the man said as he drew a curtain over the window and grabbed a white coat from a nearby rack.
Donning it with no particular hurry, he walked downstairs and leaned against the wall, waiting patiently.
He stood for several moments before opening the door, although there had been no sounds or other indications that anybody was approaching.
At the door stood four figures, two men and two women, dressed in black kimono and hakima. Each wore a white obi, where a katana was sheathed and belted.
One man wore a tattered white haori over his kimono. His hair was black and his face was calm and expressionless. There was no distinction to his face, it was smooth and unlined but completely ordinary in appearance, with an angular jaw, nose and eyes and high cheekbones. His eyes were dark brown, and he wore his hair in a topknot, as was tradition of the samurai of days past.
He and one of the women, a slim woman with a delicate sloping nose and full lips supported another, a bald man with a necklace of black prayer beads and a hardened yet gentle face. The man had several claw wounds in his chest, although the bleeding seemed to have been stopped, and his body was damaged from great impact, several of his bones appearing broken.
The woman who supported him, upon further inspection also wore a white band around her arm with a cracked and broken gold crest. Although it was clear that it had once borne a symbol, any evidence as to what that symbol had been was completely obliterated. Her hair was silver, and fell to her knees, although it had been bound with several white cloth strips into a large ponytail to keep it from getting in the way.
The woman behind them had reddish-gold hair and a thin, somewhat furtive face. Her hair fell just short of her shoulders, and her body was slim and lithe.
"Forgive us for bothering you at such a late hour, Kurosaki-dono," the man in the haori said respectfully. "But you've always been better at this than we are."
"It's no trouble at all, Ryusen-san," Kurosaki replied. He turned to the wounded man and smirked.
"See what I've been saying, Hoshi? You need to stop carrying around that weird zanpakuto of yours. It's only been getting you into trouble."
Hoshi laughed. "Where you see trouble, I instead see a steadfast companion that's seen me through many difficult times and preserved my life on any number of occasions. I would not part with him for the world."
Kurosaki gave a mock sigh and shook his head.
"Kids these days," he muttered. "Well, bring him on in. The girls are asleep, so do try not to wake them. Karin can probably see you by now, and I'd prefer she not find out about all this."
"Of course," Ryusen said as he and the woman carefully guided Hoshi into the clinic.
"You been keeping out of trouble, Tomoe?" Kurosaki called back to the woman who was following behind.
"Yes, Uncle Isshin," she said in a mocking tone. "I've not been out with a human boy once this week."
At this remark, Isshin seemed to tear up. "My dear little niece," he sniffed, his voice heavy with melodrama. "She's finally stopped her shameful and immoral behavior!"
"Stop that," the woman who was supporting Hoshi snapped, her eyes hard.
Isshin chuckled. "I see Tsuko-san still has yet to develop a sense of humor."
"There will be time for humor when my comrade is healed," Tsuko said flatly. "Right now you have a job to do."
"Of course, of course," Isshin said in mock surrender. "By the way, Ryusen-san, old Urahara's been looking for you."
Ryusen's eyes widened slightly, a ripple on an otherwise placid face.
"Since when?" he asked, a slight tinge of wariness in his voice.
"Oh, I don't know. A few days I think. You should go see him."
Ryusen nodded as he and Tsuko laid Hoshi on a table. He looked at her, his eyes filled with the question his lips did not give voice to.
Tsuko nodded. "You are needed, Captain Ryusen. I will make sure this old goat does what he has to."
Ryusen chuckled and seemed to vanish.
"Old goat?" Isshin asked with exaggerated rage, keeping his voice low enough to not wake his slumbering children.