A/N: Hey everybody. Looks like the Hunger Games fever has mingled with my Bleach obsession and product of the two? This. I would like to say that this fanfic will not follow the plotline of The Hunger Games directly, although there will be some influences. My main goal is to capture fright and suspense of the fighting in the arena with rugged, wary Hiyori - not copy Suzanne Collins' masterpiece and substitute in Bleach characters. That's why I'm not really marking this as a crossover. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, guys!

Chapter One – Consequences of Rebellion

I try to yank myself free of the Peacekeepers' grips, but the two burly men hold on tight, absolutely ignoring my resistance. The cold touch of metal nips my wrists as they snap on a pair of handcuffs and kick me to the dusty ground. My eyes are watering from my dust allergies.

"Look what we've got here, boss," the taller but skinnier Peacekeeper huffs, brushing his hands off. At least I made him break a sweat. "A little rebel. A kid by the looks of it."

The fatter and squatter Peacekeeper nods in agreement. "Aye, a little rebel out in the woods, stuffin' shit in 'er pockets like a little thief!"

"I ain't stuffin' shit in my pockets, ya dumbasses!" I manage, spewing forth gravel lodged in my teeth during our scuffle. "I was jus –"

The fatass barbarously kicks me in the ass, forcing me back to the ground. "Shaddap! Not another word from you, ya little bitch!"

I find myself staring at a pair of shined shoes. They are made of leather, the sort that must come from our district's livestock ranches, which are shipped to District Eight textile factories. The processed leather then goes to District One, which specializes in luxury items – like designer leather shoes – and finally makes the last meters of its journey to the luscious Seireitei, the center of our nation, which is abound with riches and opulence. Nonetheless, I hate those shoes; jeering and smirking, they seem to be the only thing I can look at when I have to face him.

"What do we have here?" he demands. It's that frivolous, hoity-toity Seireitei accent with the over-enunciated vowels and the irritating lifts and sinks of the tone. It's like singing a song – but annoying. The Head Peacekeeper. The big boss whom all these hooligans report to. He is a slicked-back man, tall and imperious, who walks around with sharp ash-blonde hair, clacking down the dusty road in those shiny, mean shoes. He comes from Seireitei – obviously – and claims he only grovels in this "dump-hole of a district" to earn his due. We all hate him.

"It's that kid again," the taller Peacekeeper drawls, jabbing me with his cattle prod. I snarl in response. "She's out stealin' food again and sellin' it off on the black market or somethin'."

The Head lifts my chin from the ground with the tip of his leather shoe. I can smell the production of District One and its envious luxury. Those guys like him, the Seireitei inhabitants, live the dream life, overindulging in heavenly pastries like apple strudel and blueberry pies, sitting around watching television drama all day, and strolling the streets, completely bored out of their minds. And us? The humble people of District Ten? Stuck in the hot, sweltering fields, tending to the cows that feed those uppity little pimps in One.

The shoe shakes me off in disgust. My head bonks back onto the dirty floor, and I cough up dust.

"Repulsive," the Head sniffs in his bumptious Seireitei accent. "Simply repulsive." He circles me like vulture, his hands stationed smartly behind his back, his neck hunched forward in scrutiny. His voice is a scratchy rasp, "Now what was this little scrap stealing?"

I don't answer. By doing so, I'd only get myself about twenty lashes – but by not doing so, I get kicked in the nose. So I dig out a squished and crumpled blackberries.

"Remind me again?" the Head inquires in false innocence. "What is her name again?"

"Sarugaki Hi –" the fatass begins, but the Head Peacekeeper shakes his towhead, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

"No, no, no. Allow her to answer for herself." He kicks me, as I had anticipated, in the nose. There's a sickening crack; I try not to cry out in pain, so I chomp down on my lower lip. As a result, I taste the metallic flavor of fresh, scarlet blood flooding my mouth like a river

He kicks me again. "Well? What is it, you ingrate? Your name?"

"S-Sarugaki . . . Hiyori," I cough.

"Ah, Hiyori again!" the Head exclaims, horribly feigning surprise. "It seems we have you here – once again. Now on what terms? Thievery, did I hear? Now that is punishable by incarceration, girl, or worse: death."

"Do. Not. Talk. To. Me. Like. That." I grit out through my bloodied mouth.

The two dumbass Peacekeepers looming over me suck in their breaths. The birds in the distance seem to have ceased their singing. A humid wind drifts between the Head and me, dancing idyllically until abruptly collapsing into an unceremonious heap.

"Excuse me?" the Head says, his voice dangerously low. "Could you repeat yourself, ingrate?"

"I ain't a kid," I respond, equally low. "Quit talkin' to me like I'ma fuckin' five-year old."

"Excuse me?" The Head swings his leg back and surges it back forward with full force, coming into contact with my collarbone with a destructive impact. I scream in pain. A burning agony rips throughout my upper torso like a wildfire, spreading through my arms and to the small of my back.

Don't cry. Don't you dare cry, Sarugaki Hiyori, I goad myself mentally. Don't show them that you're a fucking weakling because you sure as hell are not!

I blink away several tears before clenching my teeth together and diverting my mind from its dead focus on the excruciating pain. I think about my friends back home, sitting anxiously at the dinner table, trying to shovel our meager rations as quickly as they can into their mouths, distressed about getting dressed for the Reaping this evening.

Shit. The Reaping. How could I have almost forgotten about that? The pain in my shoulder seems to disappear because a much greater peril has kicked it out of its place.

Every year, two tributes – one male and one female – between the ages of twelve and eighteen are chosen from each district by lottery to compete in a competition called, the Rukongai Games. They are brought together in an enormous, ever-changing arena where they are forced to kill each other on live television until there is one remaining victor. That victor brings riches and a year's worth of rations like oil and sugar to his or her district and gets the opportunity to live the high life in the prestigious victors' mansions located in the richest part of their district, a place I can only dream of. It's sickening, but I always watch the Games – every year since I was eight – in the case that the odds are not in my favor.

And the ceremonial event in which the tributes are chosen is known as, the Reaping – which is tonight at seven sharp. We are supposed to dress in our Sunday best, looking all punctual and tidy, hoping to form a good impression on TV. After all, the other tributes watch your Reaping; if you look like a wuss, you're first to go.

But me? Bruised, battered, and bloodied. The complete opposite of a punctual and tidy female tribute. Judging by the position of the waning sun on the horizon, I'd say it's about 6:30. Thirty minutes to brush myself up and hightail to the Central Square.

The Head seems to have read my mind. "If I recall, we seem to have a special event this evening. The Reaping, is it?"

I don't answer. He kicks me again. I grit my teeth and nod yes.

"I really could put you on execution for stealing the district's fruit," the Head muses. "But, with the Reaping coming up, I have a better idea. How many times are you in that jar, Sarugaki?"

Before his leather shoe can injure me anymore, I blurt out, "Eighty-four."

"Eighty-four, is it? That's rather high, child. And you are . . . only twelve? Thirteen? You're name should only be in there once or twice, if I am correct?"

"Yes," I say. "You are correct."

"Are you thatdependent on tesserae, child?" the Head sneers. "For what? The last plague already wiped out whatever family you've had left."

Normally, children of larger families sign up for the tesserae program, in which the district distributes portions of grain and oil in exchange of a potential tribute having his or her name drawn into the bowl a couple of more times. Being the Tenth, we are a poor district, barely hanging onto the stench of our livestock industry, toiling on the ranches and stockyards, leading the idle cattle and buffalo to their very deaths, day after day. About half of us potential tributes are grudgingly enlisted in the program.

I am an orphan, though. I was abandoned at birth with my uncle. He was a thin, sickly man, very contrasting in comparison to the brawny ranchers of our district. But all in all, he was a good-natured man and where he lacked strength, he excelled in wisdom. He was knowledgeable of the entire terrain of the Tenth District, of both the lush forests of its backwoods and the rolling, grassy prairies of the land where the cattle roam. In charge of rounding up strays or runaways, my uncle would often take me into the uninhabited woods and while keeping a lookout for a feisty heifer, distinguish the different types of mushrooms and herbs of the deciduous ecosystem. And when we returned back to the village, we would cross the golden plains and my uncle would identify each species of hawk and which type of prairie grass needed the least water in order to thrive.

My uncle possessed the skills of a high-class genetic engineer who works in a clean, air-conditioned lab and lives in a nice suburb home, but his social status and he alth deficiencies set him on the base of pyramid as a lesser round-up captain. No one had any respect to the rickety, stick-thin man due to his perpetual cough.

But last year, a rampant pandemic of some kind flu blazed through our district coming from our neighbor, District Eleven, and infected the mass majority of our people. Seireitei decided not to distribute its much-needed antibiotic, claiming it needed it for its own citizens. The flu killed off a third of its victims, and my uncle was unfortunately in that boat.

I was left me without any family. I was alone; I didn't have anyone.

My uncle's last gift to me was knife he had saved from a lumbering expedition years before I was born. It was the cleanest-cutting knife I have ever seen with a sturdy steel blade that shone brightly under the sun. Its hand-carved handle fit perfectly in my hand, as if it were custom-made for me. He made me promise to always keep this hidden and never to let the authorities find it.

I kept that promise until half a year ago. I was walking back from work, covered in sweat and the stinking of the fetid smell of cattle shit. I lived in a small "orphanage" house, a dilapidated farm house with paint peeling off its walls and windows broken clean off their frames, with my friends, Shinji and Lisa. We met each other by fate, found we all had similarities, and thereupon, we stuck together like three peas in a pod. Anyway, I was about to turn into the Central Square when a dark throng accosted me, armed with clubs and horsewhips.

"Kid," their leader, muscular, bald man grunted, shoving me roughly into a wall. I recoiled at the sight of his sheer imperiousness. He squinted at me. "Give us the blade, kid."

The blade? How could he have known? I had not once shown it to anyone, not even Shinji or Lisa. I kept it sheathed in my boot, where it fit perfectly, and I've never had to withdraw it.

Then the truth hit me like a lightning bolt. Yesterday at work.

A bull was stuck to some kind of rope snare and was desperately screaming for mercy. I had left the herd to Lisa and full out sprinted to the scene. There seemed to be no way to free the bull with my bare hands with the danger of the animal thrashing out at me, for one. Plus, the knot was downright preposterous. It wasn't anything I have every seen before; maybe it was a special District Four fishing knot one of us picked up somehow.

I had then remembered my knife, hidden in my boot, sleeping like a hibernating bear. I was reluctant to take it out, the words of my uncle reverberating through my head like a premonition of doom, but I couldn't just leave this bull here. The Head Peacekeeper would flay Lisa and me alive. I hastily scanned the terrain, and once I was confident enough, I whipped out my knife and sliced the bull free from the snare.

There was no way someone could have seen me.

"The blade?" I squeaked as the man stepped forward menacingly. "W-what blade?"

"Don't give me that shit. You know exactly what I mean. That handcrafted teak-titanium dagger. Ain't just an ordinary steel knife, girlie. Smuggled from District Two's armories by our most elite forces. How did you get a hold on it?"

Teak? Titanium? These were first-rate materials we could only dream of. I trembled, not answering the bald man's question.

"Hold up, Madarame," another man whispered, messy ash-blonde hair and eyes hidden under shadow of his dark hood. "Look at who you are speaking to."

The two men shifted their gazes onto me. I cringed.

"Is this . . . the Sarugaki girl?" the bald man inquired.

"Hell yeah, I am!" I spat but cowered again when the bald man prodded me with his club.

The hooded man stepped forward. "Why don't we make you a deal? Since your uncle stole that knife from us, you can pay it back for him."

"He stole – what?"

"Never mind the details. Just sign up for two round of tesserae each month, give us the rations, and you get to keep the knife. Deal?"

As a result, I am forced to have my name put into the bowl seven extra times each month. And during each month, I find that ash-blonde man in the alleyways, waiting for his barrels of grain and oil. He tries to be friendly and converse with me, but once I do my job, I get out of there as fast as I can.

The Head Peacekeeper often questions why I need so much tesserae – this is the one question I will never answer. Besides, he wouldn't care. I'm sure he's more than happy to see me marching off to the Rukongai Games and getting killed by some steroid-pumped Career or a pack of muttations.

The Head kicks me one last time. I wheeze out blood nearby his designer shoes, coughing and choking on the metallic-tasting fluid. Wincing in disgust, he backs off. "That is revolting, as I said before. Leave now. You will receive your punishment tonight, girl, during the ceremony. Be grateful that I have spared you from execution – execution in the Central Square in front of your so-called friends. Now get cleaned up and prepare for the Reaping."

I drag myself to my feet and escape from the guffawing Peacekeepers, almost on the brink of tears. There is no time to get ready – the Reaping starts in ten goddamned minutes! I pelt into the "orphanage," running right into Shinji who is dressed in his nicest shirt and slacks.

"Whoa there, dumbass! Watch where yer go—" He pauses midsentence as I wrench out our homemade shampoo from the cupboard and a fairly clean towel from the drawers. Before I can storm outside and swiftly scrub myself clean in the pond, he puts a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, you look like shit. What happened?"

Lisa enters from the bedroom with her hair tied into a single braid down her back. She is dressed in the navy dress she had snitched from an unsuspecting Seireitei tourist; she made sure she picked the most modest-looking one, so the authorities wouldn't suspect anything too strange, but it was still elegant all the same.

"Hey." She nods to me. "No time to get washed up. Just throw on a dress and let's go."

I lob the shampoo bottle in frustration at Shinji who nimbly dodges. I can't believe myself. I look, like Shinji stated, a piece of shit. Dirt in my tangled, rat's nest hair. Bruises on my shoulder and face. Scratches, welts, and cuts. A healing black eye. Totally not a good image for a television program broadcasted across Rukongai.

"Watch it!" Shinji picks up the shampoo and sets it back into place in the cupboard. "This shit's expensive to make, so be careful! Now we better hurry before the Peacekeepers raid our house and shoot us down!"

Resentfully, I stalk into the bedroom and pull on a clean white dress, nothing too fancy unlike Lisa's Seireitei dress. I try comb out the knots in my hair with my fingers, but it's all in vain, so I slap my blonde mess into two decent pigtails. I head back into the kitchen, where Lisa checks Shinji's tie, and together, we set out for the Central Square.

I just can't shrug off the thought of the Head's punishment for me tonight.

A/N: How did you guys like it? Feel free to leave a comment or some constructive criticism. That would make my day. Thanks so much!