Fourteen Days Ago.
A pile of shredded, raggedy, cloth hits the ground. Appearing a dark brown, the dried blood and deep stains of mud obscure the fabric’s original shade of white. Utterly in shambles, it is unlikely these rags would even be used as shop towels, and yet until this very moment they had somehow served as clothing. Discarded onto the dirt below, the rags would land before another curious sight. Laying on the ground next to the people-less clothes, was a clothesless person. A naked body, spread out face first on the dirt. Certainly not the owner of the shredded rags, the corpse of this man had been equally thrown onto the dirt after being completely stripped naked. Ass-out, robbed, and discarded, the body sits exposed and vulnerable for all to see. From behind, it looks as though a naked man has fallen unconscious upon the road, his form so perfectly preserved. However, hidden beneath the hair of the corpse, is a single bloodless stab wound, more visible from the front. Pierced through by a blade of immense accuracy and speed, whoever this body once belonged to most assuredly did not register their death coming. The corpse still holds a smile, its cocky expression forever frozen in time, betrayed only by a single droplet of coagulated blood that leaks from the surgical wound in its forehead.
Twelve Days Ago.
A rough hand, more callous than flesh, finds itself digging into the pockets of the softest silk in the world: a freshly found
Shihakusho (lit. "
Garment of Dead Souls"). Thrifted and recycled, rescued even, from the gutters of a road somewhere, this Black Shinigami Cloth was perhaps the most sought after fabric in all of the Rukongai’s districts. Woven by a Guardian God, the black fabric of the Shinigami Uniform was as soft as spider’s web and yet as durable as the thickest rope. It does not easily tear or dirty itself, and thus can survive for generations out in the harsh conditions of the outer districts. Radiating wealth and power, the Garment of Dead Souls was a sign of prosperous success and good fortune, as they could only ever be obtained from the much-guarded fortress of the Seireitei. As such, wearing one meant one of three things. First, you are a Shinigami, and have the might of the Gotei Thirteen at your back. Second, you were gifted this clothing by a Shinigami, and therefore have a powerful friend protecting you. Then there is the final option, one far more concerning than the first two: that you took this uniform from a Shinigami, and therefore are both powerful and fearless enough to not be threatened by the Gotei Thirteen.
A rough hand, more callous than flesh, finds itself digging into the pockets of the softest silk in the world. What it finds there is a crumpled and rolled up strip of paper, which it quickly wraps around and removes from the pocket. Without hesitation, this single hand rips a strip off the edge. A green herb falls upon this paper, before it is rolled between the hand’s pinched fingers. Finally, a flame appears at the paper’s edge, slowly fading into a steady ember of a burn, as the bright orange consumes the paper’s flesh and burns that which it holds.
Exhaling a puff of smoke, the burning paper illuminates the ever present darkness of the midnight air. Enthralled by such illumination, a crimson red eye shifts down to the remainder of the torn paper held within the calloused hand. There, in the darkness of a new moon, beneath a dying tree, the words are said:
“The Kenpachi games huh? Well I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
Before the burning ember dies out, the last of the joint now nothing but memory and ash. Cold black slithers back in, as the red eye shuts. Sleep and smoke on a soundless night.
Eight Days Ago.
A puddle of drool forms upon the wooden bar of a local tavern, beneath the snoring-head of one snow-haired old man. Lost in dream and drink, he is blissfully drowning himself in saliva and booze. His snores pick up volume with each increasing breath until they are finally cut short, overpowered be an even louder:
“YOU KNOW DAMN WELL I’LL WIN!”
A shout, from the other end of the bar, followed by the crashing of clay on wood, the breaking of a table and set of tankards that had just been thrown across the room. As though in response, the snoring stops, the unconscious old man fading into the background.
“Killing farmers and merchants aint the same as killing Shinigami you fool.”
Another man responds, a companion to the first. At the mention of killing Shinigami, the old man’s crusty eye slowly cracks open. A crimson red eye.
“Shinigami aint so tough!”
“These aren’t just any Shinigami you idiot, these are Captains.”
The argument between the two brutes in the corner falls not on deaf ears, but a distracted man. The old man, coming to his senses, raises his head from the bar as well as the glass in his hand. Holding it upside down above his head, his tongue desperately licks in the air in a futile attempt to catch the non-existent droplets of booze.
“HA! So? Fuck the Captains. You know what I hear? I hear they found one dead just a couple days ago.”
“Yep…time to go”
The old man mumbles to himself, though whether in response to his glass being empty, or to the mention of a dead captain is unclear. In an attempt to act cool and play it smooth, he accidentally slides his glass off the bartop, causing it to shatter on the ground below. Startled by the loud sound, he stumbles out of his stool, barely catching himself on the bar as his wooden seat also crashes loudly against the ground. Though he can feel the eyes of the two arguing brutes now on him, and hear their silence as they stare at him, the old drunk man does not turn to look at them. Instead, he uses his arms to support his weight, crawling as he drags his wobbly legs towards the exit of the tavern.
“HEY! OLD MAN! What do you think?! Do I look tough enough to kill a Captain?!”
The loud one yells once again, stepping over the table and broken glass that he had thrown to march towards the old man. Coming within one foot of the stumbling drunk, the six-foot-six brute looks down upon the short five-foot-ten old man. The shadow of the towering brute imposes itself upon the helpless drunk, eclipsing him in silhouette. A smile spreads across the brute’s face, nearly from ear to ear, the glowing white of his teeth complimenting the red glare of his eyes.
“Say. Ain’t those Shinigami robes?”
“S’cuse me gotta piss.”
Is all the old man mumbles, barely registering the brute as he clumsily pushes past him. Shocked at this response, the Brute allows him to get a few steps ahead before the rage of being dismissed catches up to him. Suddenly, the brute’s arm lashes out, attempting to grab the black collar of the old man’s robe. However, contact would never be made. Instead, the Brute would see only a brief puff of red mist fill the air. Confused, he’d watch the old drunk stumble out the bar door harmlessly. Then he looks down at his arm. Where once there were fingers, a hand, a forearm, now there is only a bloody stub at the elbow. Without a voice, without breath, the blood curdling horror of his shock boils within him, silence expelling from his gaping maw, until finally his chest heaves, and he finds the courage to scream.
Three Days Ago.
“Hey, Mister, look out!”
A splash of water crashes against the Drunkard’s sleeping face. A violent wave of wet caused by a wagon’s wheel speeding through a puddle. In truth however, it is the sound of cheering and music that causes his crimson eye to open and take in his surroundings. First, what he sees is the laughing of three little children, who point at the man and chordle with all their might. It would appear that the Drunkard had fallen unconscious in the gutter on the side of a road, not unlike the body he had left behind a little over a week ago.
“You alright Mister?! We thought you were dead.”
One of the boys says, dressed in peculiar colors, bright green and blue, with a strange flower assortment on his chest. It is definitely too fancy for a poor Rukongai boy to be wearing, and yet here were three of them in matching outfits. The Drunkard attempts to rise to his feet and question the children, but instead plops backwards to sit on the ground. What he sees is a caravan of colors, flowers, music, and celebration. In droves, people of prestige wear their Clan’s traditional colors and symbols, bringing out the fine embroidery in an expression of festivities. Wagons pulled by servants escort royals, bands, and dancers, alike as they drift down the dirt road. For a second, the Drunkard believes he has died again and this was his death march into a new, better, heaven. Only when he feels the creeping of wet mud onto his bare skin, from the puddle he has been sitting in, does he realize the truth.
“A Parade?”
”That’s right mister! We’re on our way to see our Aunts and Uncles compete in the Kenpachi games!”
The outfits, the lavish parade, the splendor of the music and colors. This is certainly a gathering of all the minor clans of the Rukongai, or rather most of them, well, most of them from the west anyway. There’s definitely a lot of green, silver, and blue, so what’s that even, the Hoshi? The Oki? These thoughts and more race through the Drunkards brain, but the only one that warrants a question is:
“You’re rich?”
The kids begin to laugh and point at the silly old drunk sitting in the mud on the side of the road.
“Bahaha! My Daddy’s the richest in all of District Twenty Three!” “Nuhuh! My Family’s the richest!” “Well my Aunty has more money than your entire district Combined!”
As the children argue amongst themselves, they fail to notice the Drunkard rise to his feet, or rather, they are unable to process it. The sudden shock of seeing the man apparently instantaneously manifest from sitting to standing, is enough to silence their bickering and catch their attention. It is only now that they see the shining black blade resting at the man’s side, an item of such fine quality that it likely puts any of their relative’s fortunes to shame. Swallowing their fear, they look up to meet the man’s gaze, but his head is silhouetted by the sun that shines at his back. Instead, all they see is a hollow gourd outstretched in the man’s rough hands, cap uncorked, and completely empty.
“So you got booze?”
Last Night.
For three days, and two nights, the white-haired stranger partied with the Clan Caravan. Drinking them out of booze, smoking them out herbs, this Stranger brought the celebration from a Caravan to a full fledged Carnival. Every night was a rager, and every day a bender, the music and the dance and the libations ever increasing, especially as they drew closer to their destination. Of course, there were the Noble Elders who rode with their families, who chose not to partake in such debauchery. Some even considered excommunicating the stranger from their caravan. However, he had made such a great impression, and brought such life to their celebration, that none seemed to question exactly who he was or how he ended up in that ditch in the first place. To the noble families, he was a charity case they brought in that quickly turned into the central attraction.
All of that ended the night before they arrived at the games.
In the midst of telling some grand and almost guaranteed to be made up story, the stranger felt a blade pressed to his throat. Releasing the two women in his arms, he hears a voice whisper to him.
“Green and Gold tent, last one in the caravan. Go there. Now.”
Then, just as quickly as the voice had arrived, it disappears once more. The blade, once at the Stranger’s throat, is now twirling between his calloused fingers. While the voice whispered in his ear, the Stranger took the opportunity to steal the knife, as well as shift through his pockets. Twirling the knife into the air, before absentmindedly flicking it into a tent post twenty feet away, the Stranger looks into his other hand to see the spoils of his pick-pocketing. What meager treasure he has acquired is a measly two kan, and a piece of expensive looking paper gilded in gold.
“Well, I’m sure that’s nothing I have to worry about.”
It wasn’t hard to mistake the tent, Green and Gold, just like the stranger was told, just like the card he’d stolen from his messenger’s pockets. The tent is the most luxurious and lavish of all the clan tents in this entourage, undoubtedly belonging to the most rich and respected clan, and most certainly the head of the caravan Suiyo was freeloading from. The expensive green fabric was even emblazoned with the same golden tree as the paper tag, the famous ensignia of the one and only Oki Clan, not that the Stranger could really place it.
Stumbling inside, the white-haired stranger expects to see some over-the top display of wealth, some hoard of treasure that reflected torchlight and gleamed a glowing gold. To his relief however, the stranger only saw darkness. The entire interior of the extravagant tent was barren and black, without even a single candle to light its way. Instead, the light of the full moon shone down through the hole in the Tent’s peak, like a spotlight in the edge of the room. Kneeled there, as though praying to the moon, was not some powerful clan figurehead, some wealthy nobleman, nor an ambush of angry husbands. Rather, what the Stranger sees is a feeble old woman, looking at the sky with tears in her eyes. Despite her ancient age and despairing state, the Stranger can feel that this woman is not as delicate as she lets on. Though her body has failed her long ago, though her heart has hardened with years of life, there is a power within her that is unbreaking, a power that is directed towards the Stranger in this very moment.
“I know who you are.”
Her voice carries through the distance between her and the Stranger, holding in it a power and anger that betrays the heartbreak she feels. A pair of amber eyes lock upon a single crimson one, a familiarity hidden behind their cunning. With this, the Stranger immediately shifts on his heels, pulling a full 180 as he turns to leave the tent, without a word.
“Hakushi.”
Stopping in his tracks, Hakushi (白死,
lit. “
The White Death”), hesitates upon hearing his former title. It has been many centuries since such a name has been uttered, and the words feel heavy in the air, as though carrying the weight of a thousand dead legacies. Once dedicated towards leaving, slouched over and incoherent, now Hakushi stands up straight and still within the tent’s exit.
“Did you think you could hide behind this foolish act? Do you believe the lives you’ve taken could be drowned in the bottle? That’s cowardice, not redemption. However, what I offer you, is.”
The woman turns now to fully face Hakushi, the wood of her cane tapping against the floor as she approaches him.
“There is another like you, a killer. One who does not hide in shame, but openly slaughters my people in the name of ‘duty’. He is the very reason I dare travel in my current state. You see, my own Granddaughter is competing in these so-called Kenpachi Games, as is this man. She is a failure to the Oki, but I cannot lose her as I have lost all others. Therefore, tomorrow morning you will be sent with the others to enroll in the tournament. Please, avenge my family. Protect what is left of it.”
She now stands just two feet from Hakushi’s back, looking up to him while he looks away.
“Kill Kyomu Mukuro.”
With her request finally revealed, Hakushi’s head turns to look over his shoulder. The orange of the Oki Matriarch's eyes locks intensely with the single red of his. For a moment, not even wind would dare break the silence between the two.
Like a blade through grass, Hakushi's response swiftly severs the tension.
“Sorry lady.”
“You got the wrong guy.”
Earlier Today.
A mob of ruffians crowd together beneath a large white tent. Having journeyed across the vast landscape known as the Rukongai, these souls come from every walk of life, from the inner-most districts to the furthest reaches of the lawless lands. Their murmurs and occasional uproarious boasting center around a single subject: The Kenpachi Games. Each of these Rukongai citizens have answered the call of the Gotei Thirteen, to prove their superiority in combat above the Shinigami that oppress them. Now, they stand cramped within a single tent, easily a hundred in number. Naturally, each soul believes themselves the strongest in the Soul Society, and the fact that they survived their journey to this place shows that they each have at least a modicum of talent. Yet among these brothers in ambition, there is one who stands out, one who not only lacks their shared ambition, but also fails to recall what he’s doing here in the first place.
Sitting, not standing, in the middle of this crowd, is a red-eyed bum, attempting to recall just how he got here. There was something about some ancient old hag last night, but that’s a blur compared to the rager he found himself in at the Hoshi tent. Completely belligerent, he did not recall getting swept up and carried by a crowd, nor being violently thrown into this mob of self-aggrandizing fools. From his position on the ground he cannot see over the heads of the crowd, nor through their legs given the density of people they’ve crammed in here.However, he can hear the mass of murderers begin to shuffle and quiet themselves, as well as the footsteps of wooden sandals. If he hadn’t placed it before, the drunken bum can tell for certain that he’s within one of the inner-most districts, as sandals, or any footwear really, are a luxury rarely seen in the Rukongai.
“Alright you Rukongai Scu-Citizens, listen up!”
A Shinigami, likely from the Ninth Division given his status as an event coordinator, shouts above the crowd, gathering the attention of the Rukongai’s Kenpachi-hopefuls. The bum however, does not bother to look. Instead, he removes from his pocket an ornate pipe that he stole from a noble the night before. Still packed with a half-burnt bowl, the ashes, though black, were not quite grey, and therefore are completely salvageable. Suddenly, at the end of this pipe, a spark manifests from thin air. Like a faerie's wisp or a magician’s trick, the spark of light disappears just as quickly as it had appeared, while the remaining herbs in the pipe have been ignited into a smoldering ember.
“I’m sure each of you thinks you got what it takes to seize the title of Kenpachi. Fact is, most of you don’t. If we let everyone in that thinks they’re hot-shit we’d have half the Rukongai at our door.”
The smoking Bum’s eye goes wide, though not from the Shinigami’s announcement. With only a single drag from his pipe, half of the bowl’s herbs had burnt into fine ash. If the Bum is going to make this morning smoke session last, he’s going to have to drag it out a bit. Luckily, or perhaps, unluckily, he had been in this situation countless times. On the road, with nothing to smoke, the Bum still gets his cravings, it is a habit after all. At times when he seeks to smoke but can’t find a substance to inhale, he will instead mime the act of smoking by exhaling and inhaling his own alcoholic reiatsu stream.
“As such, the Ninth Division has been tasked with filtering out the weaklings. “
Channeling his reiatsu through the pipe, and infusing the bowl of herbs with his reiryoku, the Bum takes a second inhale. With this, the potency of the herbal product burning at the end is exponentially increased, and he can now enjoy a decent morning smoke. With an exhale, a clear white steam rises from the man’s mouth in place of smoke, lifting into the air above him, before dispersing into fine particles at head level to those around him. Almost immediately upon breathing in these fine air particles, the three Rukongai contestants closest to the bum drop to the floor. Rendered completely unconscious, as though blacked out from drunkenness, they drool helplessly on the dirt. Yet, neither the Shinigami nor the other Rukongai Contestants appear to notice, both being so focused on the announcement.
“Each of you is to engage in a preliminary combat proficiency test.”
One by one, the contestants surrounding the Bum lose their support, their knees becoming weak as they struggle to stand. Wobbling, their vision becomes blurry, followed by their thoughts, until all they can do is fall helplessly drunk to the floor. The Bum however, does not appear to notice, so enthralled by the pleasure of smoking from a good pipe. He does however, feel more comfortable, as though he were given more room to think. Another exhale escapes his nostrils, a content closed-lipped and droopy-eyed smile on his face.
“There…you’llbe…liminated...based on…”
THUD THUD THUD
As now even the announcer’s thoughts become incoherent, he watches through blurry vision as the room spins around him. Exposed to the Bum’s reiatsu, every single person caught within the hot-boxed tent now succumbs to second-hand inebriation. Centering outward from the Bum who sits in the back, each individual within this tent falls unconscious to the floor, knocked out by the potency of the Bum’s alcoholic presence. The announcer is the last to witness this, as the front row of the crowd passes out in a drooling mess, he chooses to go for his zanpakuto, before his vision turns black, and he too falls to the floor.
The Bum remains the last one standing, or in this case sitting, within the tent, taking another drag of his successfully drawn out and yet scarce bowl of herb. He watches as the black ash burns a vibrant orange, as though the inhalation of his breath has infused the ember with life. When the destructive orange consumes the remaining black and renders it a fine grey, the Bum finally exhales, releasing a breath of smoke through puckered lips. A gassius ring forms in the air like a hovering halo, causing the Bum to observe its flight, and finally notice his surroundings.
“Ah shit.”
He says, rising to his feet, a hand scratching his head in embarrassment. Opting to use this opportunity to sneak away, the Bum attempts to escape out of the tent. However, upon his exit, he is met with a Ninth Division Shinigami holding a clipboard and camera, who is accompanied by an entourage of Seventh Division Shinigami Security. Before the Bum can offer an explanation, his picture is immediately taken.
”Congratulations on passing Preliminaries! What is your name Sir?”
Though the young shinigami in front of him is chipper and friendly enough, his escorts are clearly the violent sort, who look upon the Bum with an intense grimace and disdain.
“Can’t recall.”
The Bum says, removing a gourd from his sleeve, and taking a sip of its contents. Choosing to play along rather than cause further trouble, he hopes to entertain these Shinigami just long enough to distract them from looking into the tent.
”Surely you’ve got to have something you go by.”
Insistent, the camera operator's full attention is on the guilty Bum, unfortunately so are his guards. One of which, a particularly large and judgmental Shinigmai, can’t help but chime in.
“Ignore him Otsukai, he’s just some drunk bastard.”
The Seventh Division Shinigami goes to push the white-haired bum out of Otsukai’s way, but is shocked to find that the Bum is already at his side.
“Yeah, that’ll do.”
He says, his breath smelling of pure sake, as he pats the Seventh Shinigami’s shoulder with his free hand and glides effortlessly past him. Pipe in his mouth, drinking gourd in his hand, the Bum doesn’t bother to look back at the Shinigami entourage. Instead, he walks casually towards the crowd, and disappears, leaving them to watch his passing in confusion.
All except for Otsukai, who writes down on his Clipboard:
Name: Suiyo Kusotare ( 酔余 糞っ垂れ, “
Drunken Bastard”)
Division: ???
Rank: ???
Birthday: ???
Height: ???
He ponders for a moment, tapping the pencil to his chin, before writing down:
Likes: Alcohol
Now.
“The Kenpachi Games have arrived!”
An enthusiastic voice shouts above a crowd of thousands to an audience of millions. All over the Rukongai, screens appear with an image of Captain Yugure spread across them, sunglasses on and microphone in hand. Below, at the festival surrounding the event, the crowd looks up into the sky to see the big announcement, the moment they had all been waiting for.
“Cute hair.”
One such soul, Suiyo Kusotare, pays attention only for a split second, just enough to form a first impression and then immediately dismiss it. His focus at this Kenpachi Festival is not the Kenpachi part, but the Festival. Since his strange encounter with Shinigami this morning, Suiyo has been wandering around the festival grounds living up every celebration he possibly could. Feasting, Drinking, Dancing, Smoking, he has spent the last few hours delighting in debauchery and hedonism. Currently stumbling his way through the crowd, drinking gourd full, lips dripping with red wine, the man has completely forgotten why he is here, as well as what has led him to this point. This is living, as far as he is concerned. This is how the afterlife should be twenty-four seven. He doesn’t remember dying, but he likes to think that when he was alive this is what he dreamt death would be like. Not the violent and impoverished world that he actually found himself in. Why couldn’t the Soul Society always be like this? Who needs a Kenpachi when you got a Festival?
As a child passes by with some pork on a stick, they would suddenly burst into tears, their delicious snack nowhere to be found. Suiyo however, already ten paces ahead, blissfully munches on his newly acquired treat. Drinking and eating at the same time, he drowns the half-chewed pork in a wave of wine, before swallowing the mouthful in its entirety. Munching on his upteenth meal this day, he absentmindedly tears at the pork stick when something catches his attention above the roaring crowd.
“Come one come all and place your bets for the Kenpachi Games!”
“Eh? Gambling? Heheheh..”
He says to himself with a sinister chuckle, not hearing a single word the dark Shinigami had said, spare the word “Bets”. A rough hand, more callous than flesh, finds itself digging into the pockets of the softest silk in the world. From this it removes two bronze Kan and tosses them onto the betting table, along with a cork from an old drinking gourd. The total amount is roughly two cents and a piece of garbage, and yet is discarded onto the betting table as if it were meant to be impressive.
“Put it all on black.”
Suiyo mumbles with a single breath, not even looking at the Shinigami Lieutenant. Instead he just continues to walk past the table, placing his gourd to his lips as he chugs the remainder of the drink, walking blindly into the crowd once again. Holding out his tongue to catch the last droplets of wine pouring from his gourd, Suiyo then shakes the thing, and smacks it a couple times, as though to produce more droplets. Discovering that his second-dozenth drink today has now run dry, he suddenly snaps alert, his crimson eye darting around the crowd. Quickly, he sees a stall selling sake, and just as quickly, the Stall’s stock runs dry. Instead, the sake the vendor once had is now full within Suiyo’s gourd. However, after taking a sip of his stolen goods, Suiyo sighs in disappointment.
“Stuffs weak. Come-on, I know you Shininummies are hiding the good stuff. Where are ya, where ya at…”
It is only now that Suiyo’s instinctive senses are being paid any attention. Reaching out through the crowd of thousands, Suiyo closes his eye and feels instead with his mind. What he senses is the presence of a gathering of incredibly powerful individuals. With so much spiritual energy in one place, there is no doubt that this is where they’d be hiding the good stuff. After all, the Strongest Spirits must drink the strongest spirits, right?
Manifesting from thin air, Suiyo appears at the entrance to the main tent.
“Scuse’me, Scuse’me.”
He pushes his way past the crowd out front, and stumbles his way into the tent’s entrance. Tripping over his own feet, he falls face first into the dirt, causing his drinking gourd to go rolling across the ground until it collides with a certain Shinigami’s sandal. Looking up from his angle on the ground, Suiyo would see a tall Shinigami, dressed in a White Haori, with Pink hair and tan skin.
“You look familiar.”
Unsure of where he has seen her before and unable to really place her in his memories, Suiyo would opt instead to simply smile up at the woman from the ground.
“Cute hair.”
It is only upon seeing the Camera, that Suiyo’s form blurs. Even Captain Yugure is hard pressed to see Suiyo’s position change from prone to standing, while the camera itself would not have the proper frame rate to capture this. Suiyo, having never seen such a device, looks at it with an energy and curiosity that he has not shown in years.
The audiences at home would be given an up close and personal view of Suiyo, seeing only the man's nostrils and single eye, as he looks into the camera mere inches away from the lens, drinking sake from the gourd nobody saw him retrieve.
“Has anyone influenced you to participate in the games?”
“What a neat thing. It’s got an eye? It must capture light waves and convert them into an image. S’probably gotta do that a shit ton to make it move though. Thats gotta be how it’s broadcasted right?”
“If you gain the title, will you try for Captaincy?”
With this, Suiyo steps away from the camera, now looking at the Pink haired woman.
“Eh? The hell’re you talking about?”
It is only now that Suiyo really pays attention to his surroundings. The Camera, the Audience, the Tent, this inquisitive stranger. What was she talking about? What were they all here for? What was this festival about in the first place?
“Outside of yourself, who do you think has the ability to become Kenpachi?”
Kenpachi. That was it. The Kenpachi
games. The Kenpachi
festival. Kenpachi, whats that again? Like a Captain right? A tough guy? Yeah that sounds right, who will be the next toughest guy?
“Er, Idunno, somebody probably. Maybe one of these guys.”
He says as he points to the roster of competitors. He does not seem to be paying much attention to the cards that are on display, as he fails to notice himself, or recognize the names Mukuro and Oki, from the night before. Nor does he seem to register Omoni Hageshi, certainly not in the way she appeared to register him. In fact, it’s clear that it has not dawned on Suiyo who these people are, why they are here, or that he is even counted among them.
“Do you have high hopes that your competition will put up a good fight?”
“Hell, I hope not.”
Now Suiyo fails to pay attention to the Captain’s words, though his full focus is on her. He takes notes of her person, in particular, her clothes. The white Haori is familiar, and it definitely means
something about her, but Suiyo can’t seem to place what. Underneath this she wears the same black silk as him, albeit cleaner and more pristine. Her top is incredibly tight, showing off her midriff, while her pants are incredibly loose, exposing her groin and thighs.
“Do you have any words to share before you step into the field?”
He leans in towards Yasu’s ear, obscuring his mouth from the camera with his hand. The smell of smoke and booze radiates from his breath, as he whispers to her.
“Don’t look now, but I think your pants are falling down.”
His last words to her are a courtesy in his mind, to spare her the embarrassment on camera. After all, Suiyo would not want himself to be broadcasted with his fly down, lest he look like a fool to the rest of the Rukongai.
In turn, her last words to him fall upon deaf ears, as upon finishing his warning, Suiyo walks belligerently past Yasu, and into the area where the other contestants were waiting. The contestants would see a stranger arrive, where so far only Shinigami have entered. Though he would be adorned in Shinigami robes, theirs are pristine, made of the finest silk that does not tear nor dirty. Each of them wears their uniform in pride, and represents the height of Shinigami power. Suiyo’s own robes however, would be tattered, torn, and filthy. Soaked in mud and caked in blood, stained to be as much red and brown as they are black. The once regal attire, forged by a literal Deity, is now rendered into nothing but rags and scraps barely clinging onto his body. Yet despite this ragged appearance, a blade of the finest quality any of them had ever seen sits upon the man’s hip. From the Mukuro Assassins, to the Oda Swordsmen, to the Oki craftsmen, even the highest noble clans, those most skilled in bladed combat, would grow green with envy at the treasure this apparent bum possesses.
Scanning the room for “The Good Stuff”, Suiyo is disappointed at the lack of booze, drugs, and overall libations. In fact, the ambience in this place is a total buzz kill, with each of these powerful souls seeming to be so serious and forlorn. They are obviously anticipating something, and so Suiyo assumes they are waiting for the party to start. Preferring to wait here with the tough guys rather than go back and answer a bunch of prodding questions again, Suiyo assess where to sit.
The first person he sees is a tall muscular woman, with a scarred body and beautiful face, and large, exciting hair. Something about her is familiar to Suiyo, who can’t seem to shake the feeling that they have met before. Excited by the prospect of a missed connection, he steps towards her, before immediately stopping in his tracks. There are just too many coincidences, not only is the beautiful warrior woman familiar, but she is accompanied by a white-haired swordsman with a keen killing intent, who is younger than Suiyo and has never met the man.
“Probably best to keep it that way…”
Assuming that Omoni was a past fling, and Nibui his bastard offspring, Suiyo instead elects to take a position towards the back. So far every experience he has had with a white-coat wearing stranger has been a buzzkill, and so Suiyo elects to stand next to the only other soul in the room not wearing a haori and not next to his potential Ex and bastard kid. That is to say, he stands next to Honoka, her elegance heavily juxtaposed against his filthiness. He fails to note any similarities between this woman and the old lady he had met before, and thus doubly fails to recognize her as the granddaughter the old hag sought to protect. All Suiyo sees, as he drinks from his gourd, is another beautiful and tall woman. Savoring the taste of the rice-wine on his lips, he looks at her with a smile. Obviously she is accustomed to a high class, and therefore she undoubtedly has the hook up on the top shelf goods.
“Come here often?”
