Title: Shatterpoint
Word Count: 9,803 words
Pairing: Ging x Pariston, minor Ging x Cheadle & Ging/Pariston/Cheadle
Summary: When Ging Freecs's partner is injured in battle, Ging is recalled to the Shatterdome. His jaeger rebuilt, he is partnered once more with the man he abandoned years before--Pariston Hill. Their history is both a liability and the very thing that makes them such a formidable combination, but Ging is wary about letting anyone else inside his head. As Magical Beasts crawl from the oceans to crush everything in their path, Ging hides a secret. What does he know about the Dark Continent?
A/N: Written for the Hunter x Hunter Big Bang Challenge 2021. This is a Pacific Rim AU with lots of giant robot fights and drift angst. Huge thanks to the artists and everyone involved with the event! I hope you enjoy! [Ao3]
Title: rollvection
Word Count: 10,778 words
Pairing: Illumi x Kuroro
Summary: Illumi boards the Black Whale as the newest member of the Genei Ryodan. Unsure of where he stands, a meeting with Kuroro leads to a mission to uncover the truth behind one of Kakin's most esoteric magical relics.
A/N: Written for the inaugural HxH Rare Pair Big Bang! I have been partnered with the very talented princessoftrance who has drawn some accompanying art for this pairing. The story takes place at the very beginning of the Dark Continent Arc, roughly concurrent with Ch 358. I hope you enjoy! [Ao3]
Title: Apparent Radiant
Word Count: 23,532 words
Pairing: Silva x Kikyou
Summary: PROMPT/AUTHOR #37: A disastrous assignment ends with a fatal loss. While the family is left to recover, the target escapes to the one place they think a Zoldyck cannot follow them - the wastes of Meteor City. Silva Zoldyck's only thought is one of revenge, but what he finds there will change his life, and his future, forever. / A Silva x Kikyou origin story
A/N: Written for the Hunter x Hunter Big Bang Challenge 2020. I’m thrilled to be participating in the event for the 5th year in a row! The story takes place ~20 years pre-canon. Huge thanks to bimblesunn who has drawn some beautiful art for this story! I hope you enjoy! [FF.net] [Ao3]
Title: License to Kill
Word Count: 12,677 words
Pairing: Illumi x Hisoka x Kuroro
Summary: MISC 7: There are certain things only a Hunter can do. Kill without consequence, enter the world’s most exclusive locations, and earn access to the world’s most secure and exhaustive information bank tops the list, but for someone like Illumi, his money and his name can buy most of those easily. For his clients, however, his license has become quite a valuable privilege. Illumi Zoldyck acquires his Hunter License for a job that takes him to an exclusive resort community to target a reclusive collector and eccentric during a grand exhibition.
Unbeknownst to him, several members of the Ryodan are planning to hit the resort in a sting operation. By the nature of each of their targets and the safeguards protecting them, both must work together to ensure they all get what they want and get out in time.
Hisoka tags along.
A/N: Written for the Hunter x Hunter Big Bang Challenge 2019. Takes place post-Hunter Exam arc, pre-Heaven's Arena arc. I hope you enjoy the story! [FF.net] [Ao3]
"I had no idea...I'd find you here, taking the exam. I'm here to get a license for a job that's coming up." - Illumi Zoldyck, Chapter 36
License to Kill
He can hear the sounds of footsteps, uneven and growing louder with each passing moment, cheap soled shoes slapping against pitted concrete and the crash of a toppled trash bin filled with glass bottles. He isn't even hearing the path from the report of one of his needlemen—the mission is not strenuous, or critical, or even risky—and he has not bothered to enlist the help of any creations of his Nen, not when he has all the strength he needs at his fingertips or in his body. The primary instructions he has been given call for speed and discretion, and while Illumi does not typically care for rush jobs he sees the value in indulging one of his most frequent employers.
He raises the knife, waiting. Below, his position hidden by the high walls and unevenly pitched rooftops of the surrounding buildings, Illumi's target darts forward, glancing over his right shoulder. He matches the description he's been given perfectly—sharply parted dark hair, small rectangular glasses, favoring one leg from an injury when he'd left the facility earlier with his prize.
The small satchel tucked under one arm matches the description, too, and as Illumi lets the knife tumble through the air, his breath held, his precision perfect, he is sure to time it so that when the man falls, he falls backwards. The stolen files are not to be damaged.
A glance to his left finds the space empty. A glance down to the ground finds the knife hitting brick and mortar, the target instead falling from the force of a sharp-nailed hand clawing his neck sharply to the side, broken so swiftly and suddenly that Illumi doesn't even have time to frown. Then the knife is grabbed out of the wall almost on a whim, and dashed across the front of the man's body. It catches in a vein on his neck, and blood sprays out in a wide arc, drenching the red shutters to his right.
Illumi jumps down, his first thought for the satchel. He scoops it off the ground before any blood can touch it, and opens it to rifle through the papers inside. Hard copies only, signed contracts, blueprints, and other confidential data stolen by a thief only hours before. He's lucky he had been in the area when he got the call.
A glance to the left, where Hisoka is stepping around a rapidly growing puddle of blood.
Perhaps not so lucky he had not been alone at the time.
"We had an agreement," Illumi says. "You were not to interfere."
"I couldn't help myself," is the answer, voice light and colored with spades. "Besides, I wanted to put that piece of plastic to the test, now that it's legal." A pout. "Doesn't feel any different."
"Why would it?" Assured that everything is intact and in order, Illumi steps away, heading back in the direction they'd came. The street is currently empty, but that could change in a moment, and he hates unnecessary complications. "I was instructed to leave the target alive. Apparently, he also owed them quite a bit of money."
Hisoka fishes his Hunter license out of a pocket. "Speaking of money, this can do that too. Not that I've been wanting, or anything."
"There are other things more important." Their pace is unhurried, and Illumi takes out his phone to text his client. A moment later, and a few texts back-and-forth, and he puts it away, satisfied.
"Like what?" Hisoka asks, curious.
"Professional reputation." His voice is deadpan, and Hisoka raises a hand to his mouth as if to stifle a laugh.
"Only you would take a job on your way to another job. You really know what to do with boredom, don't you? Mine, not yours." The plastic card vanishes—he'd been playing with it the same way he liked to play with his cards, and now his fingers itch and flex as if the phantom sensation persists.
"I had no doubts." None about his ability to complete the assignment, none about the likelihood of passing the Hunter Exam at all, and none about the upcoming job, the one his newest client had been so insistent about. He considers Hisoka, who had so easily upset his layers of plans.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Hisoka says.
Illumi's face remains as impassive as stone. "Like what?"
"That."
Illumi is familiar with the tone, and picks up the pace to provide an outlet for Hisoka's moods that doesn't involve any further indulgence on his part. His client had arranged a drop point, at the private terminal of an airfield several miles outside of town, and a man in a suit and sunglasses receives the satchel from the jetway of a tiny prop plane. The pay has already been deposited into his account, and the two newly-minted Hunters stand together at the very end of the airfield as the plane takes off once more into the sky.
"You still haven't mentioned," Hisoka says, after a pause, "where this next job of yours is located."
Illumi takes in the details far more than he usually would. An otherwise empty expanse of cloudless sky, the small but well-maintained building that served as check-in and security for any others accessing the airfield, the outparcel beyond that for plane repairs, the modest fence at their backs. The small runway, now empty, and a larger one across a field, serving traffic from the much larger public terminal in soaring glass and steel.
"I hadn't wanted to tell you. You'd want to tag along even more, and you've been enough trouble."
Hisoka's lips pull downward, the makeup on his cheeks still immaculately defined. "Me?"
"It's in Σiami Island." The words are out of his mouth before he can rethink the consequences of saying them, and Hisoka's expression turns delighted. "Ah. You know it."
"It's a beach," he says. Illumi acknowledges the understatement. "Let me come with you, please? I'll owe you one."
A pause, and a frown. "Promise me you won't involve yourself like you did today. You stay out of my business, and you follow my orders."
"Of course." The tone of his voice is full of hearts, now, and Illumi feels his own mood shift an inch at Hisoka's obvious enthusiasm. "Are we taking an airship? A private plane? We're VIPs now, right?"
Illumi thinks about his Hunter's License, and fishes it out from a secure pocket inside his shirt. It should be simple to arrange transportation—whether to hire an airship of their own or reserve seats on an outgoing flight later that same day—his plans require a fair amount of subtlety, but he knows that where they're going, such a thing will be difficult to maintain. Besides, he finds himself curious about the power his new title holds.
"I think we'll see what else this thing can do."
He has an image in his head. Of perhaps the two of them, driving over the three bridges that spanned the gaps between Σiami Island and the mainland, in a red convertible. One of the stylish, foreign ones, with the engine in the back and the trunk in the front, with fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror and the headrests low enough that he could sling the back of his arm across them. He's not particularly accustomed to luxury, but he is to frivolity, and the daydream is a pleasant way to pass the time.
Illumi pokes him in the side of the head.
"Do you mind?" Hisoka rolls over, the first-class seats wide enough to accommodate even his broad shoulders.
"We're about to land." Next to him, Illumi adjusts the window shade, lifting it higher to scrutinize the view below. He can see it, the three islands that make up the most exclusive residential enclave in the world, each linked by an architectural marvel of a bridge bordered by small fortresses of security checkpoints. And beyond, just barely out of view, are the tall buildings and gleaming white beaches of his eventual destination.
There are certain things only a Hunter can do. Kill without consequence, enter the world's most exclusive locations, and earn access to the world's most secure and exhaustive information bank top the list, but for someone like Illumi, his money and his name can buy most of those easily.
For his clients, however, his license has become quite a valuable privilege.
"Ah, Illumi, can we take this one?" Hisoka points to a bright red sportscar in the airport rental lot.
"No." He doesn't even look up from the printed receipt in his hand. Their car should be a few rows up, on the left.
"Is that one ours?" Hisoka leans over the doors of a convertible, reaching for the steering wheel, patterned in white and yellow like the ones on a racecar.
"This one's mine." It's a black sedan of classic, if unremarkable styling, and he unlocks it and slides into the driver's seat.
Hisoka makes a noise of disapproval, but settles himself into the passenger seat, flipping up the sun visor and tucking a playing card underneath.
"You shouldn't complain," Illumi says. "You didn't have to come."
"I couldn't pass up a free trip to Σiami Beach, now could I?"
Σiami Beach, the last island in the group of three off the Yorubian continent accessible only by that single sloping bridge and a membership program with an entry-level price tag in the tens of millions, is a haven for the wealthy and privileged—and even with that there's enough of a waitlist that membership can take years, or even decades, without the proper connections.
The streets are well-kept and lined with boutique shops and tall white-paneled street lamps and neat green hedges. His car is one of many on the road, but the only one to take the most direct path, and after a few minutes of leisurely driving they arrive at the first gate to the broad smiles of at least three well-armed guards dressed in matching white regalia.
Illumi flashes his Hunter license at the checkpoints, and is waved in without any further delay than a polite query if he needs assistance with directions or accommodations.
He stares back with blank eyes after swiveling the skyline. "We'll be at that one. The tallest. Please call and let them know we will be arriving."
"A very good choice, sir," the attendant replies, even as Illumi rolls up the car window. "The hotel is in the very center of town, and has some of the best beachfront."
Hisoka perks up, flipping a single card between the fingers of his left hand. "The best beach? Will you come tanning with me, Illumi? It might be fun."
"I am here on business, Hisoka."
"And you've been awfully secretive on the details." There's a note of spades in his voice—sharp, but breathy.
"That's because it's my contract, not yours." There's the barest inflection of irritation. "You do remember what happened this morning?"
The second checkpoint progresses much the same as the first, although this time they have to wait a few minutes behind a glossy white convertible, taking it's time.
"If the island is so exclusive, why have hotels at all? Since you have to buy your way in and all." Hisoka doesn't sound interested, but Illumi can tell when he is fishing, and delivers a summary of his own research with a dry, continuous clip.
"Hotel is a bit of a misnomer—there is one building in the middle, with the casino and the event center, and there are rooms there for visiting family and dignitaries and those such as ourselves. The rest of the buildings are high-rise condominiums, although there is a second lodging alternative of bungalows on the farthest end of the island, for those who want a little more privacy. They say the Princess of Anholm was married there, many years ago, before the country's revolution. The towers suit our purpose much more, though."
"Which is?"
"I have been hired to assassinate a gentleman who has primary ownership of a rival corporation to my client. He wishes to overtake the company and take control of the industry, and with this man out of the way, he will be."
The car makes a turn, onto the main street, and they ease their way through the traffic towards their chosen resort. The crosswalks are wide and full of men and women of all ages, tanned and tall and healthy. Many clutch shopping bags or walk small dogs with jeweled collars. The number of guardsmen standing attentive at each corner does not escape their attention.
"An odd setting," is Hisoka's only comment.
"He is a recluse," Illumi adds, as if that explains everything. Hisoka raises an eyebrow.
"He never leaves his house. Like my brother. It has been over a decade since he's been seen in public, preferring to conduct all business and correspondence digitally or through proxies. However, the island is hosting a gallery of works drawn from his private collection, including some phenomenally rare artifacts. He is scheduled to make an appearance at the opening ceremony. Then, and only then, is my chance."
"You must have been preparing for this for quite some time, then." The car stops at another red light, and above them they can see the soaring face of a white plaster building, edged in balconies and faceted cantilevered windows like jewels. The building is connected on each side by glassed-in walkways, and wider windows on the level below place the event space Illumi had mentioned. It is lively and effortless, and absolutely none of it is to Hisoka's taste.
"I accepted the contract almost six months ago, although of course I could not have known I would have passed the Hunter Exam until a few days ago," Illumi answers. "I had no doubts. You spoke of it to me, after your failed attempt."
Hisoka frowns. "How unkind."
"The security systems here are state of the art and absolutely unlike those found anywhere else. Consider a venue like the Southernpeace Auction House—they hire hundreds of guards a year, and rely mostly on human effort to move and contain threats. Even my own family estate prefers more traditional means of security. Those here are more like window dressing—while there are staff present as both guards and attendants, the security is mostly entirely automated. Everything on the island runs on computer systems, which will make accessing the target more difficult."
"I haven't seen any cameras," he notes, craning his neck up at the next intersection and blinking through the harsh sunlight. "Are they hidden?"
"There aren't any. The residents here demand their privacy. That's why there are so many guards, and why the systems otherwise are so redundant. There are even laws against it—the public spaces have no cameras, but the belowground tunnels and vaults are full of them."
They pull into a long driveway and around a curved portico where Illumi hands off the car keys to a valet. A small black duffle bag, stored in the backseat, is his only form of luggage.
He eyes Hisoka, who has none at all. "I hope you're not going to wear that the entire time you're here."
Hisoka gives him an impudent smile, before saying, "I was thinking I might find some entertainment in going shopping. Can I charge everything to your room?"
Inside, they already have all the necessary paperwork ready and waiting for Illumi, who signs after showing his Hunter license again. When Hisoka walks towards the pool deck, Illumi heads in the opposite direction.
"You know where to find me, when you're ready," Hisoka says.
Illumi spends the better part of several hours casing the public spaces of the central buildings as well as he can, ducking inside a restroom in one of the shopping pavilions to change his appearance, jamming needles into the sides of his neck and head to adjust his hair to something short and blonde and give his face a blocky, square jaw and wide mouth. He changes into clothes from the duffle—reversible windbreaker and brightly colored shirt to more easily blend into the crowds here, styles that are adaptable and androgynous enough that they will not be out of place if he continues to adjust the pins—and uses the opportunity to study his surroundings. It is one thing to look at the blueprints on a map, and quite another to see it in person.
He is unable to access the gallery proper, preparing for the event the following day, but loiters around the lobby in two separate disguises, interacting with whatever attendants and maintenance staff he can find, asking questions about the history of the building—extremely new, although built to resemble older buildings in a style popular over seventy years ago, constructed by a famed, aged architect who died tragically a year later—and the exhibit, which the staff are far more willing to speak to him about.
The star of the gallery is not artwork, as Illumi had thought, but a rare gemstone, a blue diamond cut into elaborately notched peaks at each end, like a sunburst, elongated and faceted on the sides.
"They call it the Sorrow Diamond. It was said that the first time he saw it, when it caught the light, it sparkled so intensely that Mr. Vyse cried. It's one of the most exemplary examples of its kind," the guard says, a woman with braided hair and oversized eyeglasses. "The hardness and size of the material makes it difficult to cut, and this one is as long as your arm! It's never been on display before."
"Have you seen it yet?" Illumi, dressed this time in a short black bobbed hairstyle, windbreaker flipped around, asks.
"On the monitor, yes. But none of us will see it until the exhibit opens tomorrow. We're just as excited as you are!"
Illumi is not one to act or play the part, but he smiles broadly and thanks the woman in a voice pitched high from the needles in his neck. He catalogues what buildings and passageways he can see—they are accurate to the diagrams he has been provided, which is convenient—and from his estimations not one other individual here possesses the ability to use Nen.
Even the doors are automated, sliding in an arc to admit only one at a time. The windows are pressurized glass, bulletproof and shockproof against threat of hurricane or earthquake, and when he enters an elevator in the gallery lobby he takes note of the two doors, and the two sets of buttons—one to the ground floor, which he presses, and the others labeled by letters, not numbers, and accessible only through a keylock that he obviously doesn't have. Fire safety controls above are accessed by a separate but similar lock, and when Illumi steps out of the elevator again it is to duck into the public changing area by the beach and remove his pins to restore his former appearance.
It is the height of the afternoon, and the pool deck is crowded, the pools themselves built in crescent arcs over three different stepped platforms, with fountains that feed into one another and wide angled sundecks with recliners and cabanas covered with gold fabric. Many of the chairs are grouped for conversation or shaded beneath umbrellas or overhanging palm fronds, but Illumi spots a section of chairs in a prime patch of sunshine, all unoccupied except for one.
Hisoka stands at the foot of one chair, a towel in hand, his hair damp and his makeup smudged from swimming. Illumi approaches, dropping his bag on the adjoining chair and stopping to regard him.
He manages to look completely dignified, standing with his bare feet and his wide shoulders, even as his aura and the look in his eyes is enough to send the few people walking the deck nearby to take a wide path around them.
"Aren't you worried about getting a sunburn?" Illumi asks. Hisoka beams with open delight, his voice a swirl of hearts.
"Illumi, my Bungee Gum has the properties of both rubber and gum." He hooks a thumb in the waistband of his swimsuit and pulls it to the side, just enough to display the lack of tan lines, even after hours in the sunlight. When Illumi enhances his eyes with Gyo, he can see the light wash of aura around Hisoka's entire body.
"Switch to Zetsu," Illumi tells him, disparaging. "There are none to sense us here, but you can never be too cautious."
After a pause, the aura vanishes around Hisoka's body, and those walking across the far sundecks still give them puzzled looks, as if they can't tell what exactly has happened but they still know that something has changed.
"I've been enjoying myself," Hisoka says. "How about you?"
"I still have more work to do, but I wanted to see how you were settling in." It is hard not to stare at Hisoka's body as he turns, and Ilumi copies his behavior as Hisoka sits on one of the deck chairs, leaning back on his arms.
"I'm quite at ease." There's clubs in Hisoka's voice now, and he frowns at whatever he sees in Illumi's face. "I might even like to accompany you."
"That won't be necessary," he says. If anything, Hisoka's eyes turn even more appraising, his analysis piercing even deeper. "I'll be returning to the room to prepare. You should know not to expect me later."
"Ah, Illumi. The island really is quite something. I've never seen it before, and I had thought that it would be enough to hold my attentions—and yet. I find that you're still the most interesting thing here, even surrounded by all of this."
It is as if he expects some kind of grand reaction to his speech. Illumi leans forward; his nose wrinkles. "You probably didn't try very hard."
He can already feel himself perspiring underneath his layers, with his hair down around his neck. Beyond the pools and the courtyard and the palm trees, a set of wide stone steps lead down to a stripe of white sandy beach, with an endless expanse of ocean beyond that. He thinks he understands, how the view and the surroundings that so easily captivate others have no effect at all on him. But then he looks at Hisoka again, at his steady, unblinking appreciation, and cannot imagine his own face ever looking like that.
A muscle in his cheek twitches, the same way it would when he shoves a pin in deep against the bone to warp and distort the flesh. Only this time, there is no pin, and no excuse.
"I must go."
Hisoka leans backwards. "If you must. I'll see you later."
Another strange expression crosses Illumi's face, but he collects his things and leaves, passing families at the pool's entrance and couples at one of the cabanas, surrounded by a group of uniformed attendants. Illumi looks at their faces, trying to memorize each in turn, and when he crosses the threshold of the door, automated like the rest, his fingers tighten around the strap of his bag.
He can't remember the last time he turned down a contract. It's his policy never to do so, unless there is a direct conflict—he cannot make an airship move faster, cannot re-route the continents to put them closer together, and he recalls going out of his way to deliver his promised cargo, even when he should have been heading straight from the Exam to Σiami Beach.
Inside the hotel room, he spots a series of bags and packages, clearly Hisoka's doing. A few have been opened, tags for swimwear left beside receipts with a number that raises his eyebrows. He rifles through one of the bags, and finds a few shirts and a pair of couture red-and-black pants in his size. How thoughtful of Hisoka.
His duffle finds a place beside the shopping bags, and out of it he removes a white shirt, jacket, and pants, the customary uniform of the staff across Σiami Beach. It had been difficult for his client to obtain, moreso than any of the other files and information, and as he lays them out he notes the too-long sleeves and the too-wide body of the jacket. He will have to use his pins, to add more muscle and lengthen his arms.
He dresses, leaving his old clothes folded next to the new ones, rolling his sleeves up and leaving the collar open to stand before the mirror, silver pins clutched tightly in each hand. They must be symmetrical, and perfect to his discerning eyes—creating a duplicate of an existing face is always so much more difficult than creating something new or merely something different, like playing a game of opposites. He sweeps his hair over his shoulder before inserting the pins into the side of his neck, slanted upwards, to change the bone structure and give him a flatter, wider face, with blue eyes and a more prominent nose. A second set of pins above the ears at an angle gives him blond hair to his chin, and a third set lower in the throat gives his voice a deeper, gravely quality. More pins take their places along his arms and body, changing his form just enough to be indistinguishable from his own by sight and comparable to the dozens of others that will be standing with him on the gallery floor.
When he stands back and looks in the mirror again, the shirt buttoned up and the jacket lying smooth across his adjusted body, he is satisfied with a job well done.
Blades are hidden on his person—plastic, not metal, and when he exits the room he takes a different path to the event space, down hallways of diamond-patterned beige carpeting and embossed wallpaper in golds and blues. He shares an elevator with another guard in the same white uniform, and gets off on a lower floor than they do, the second door in the back of the elevator sliding open into the staff-only sections of the building.
There are others, mostly catering staff, preparing what they can to set up for the exhibit opening the next day—tables and chairs, consulting lists and checking supplies. A man in a white button-up and black vest assembles rolls of silverware at a table against the back wall in a maddeningly slow cycle. Others move faster—some are adjusting the curtains over the rows of windows to best let in the light, and a few crowd around the display boxes that will soon hold the artifacts for display.
The diamond is set to arrive in a few moments, accompanied by the man himself, Mr. Vyse. This would be Illumi's best chance, when the gallery is uncrowded and the avenues of escape are so open. He pauses, creeping closer, his attention focused on the door that leads to the secure holding space where they would have gone to retrieve the diamond. A few men and women clutter around it, some holding radio communicators, some holding film cameras. A woman arranges a beautiful flower arrangement on a table in the middle of the room, spiky palm fronds sticking straight into his field of vision. A few doors open and close, his pulse drawn tight as a string.
The door opens, led by two uniformed guards, likely security for the diamond more-so than the man. Illumi steps around the flowers, his hand tugging free one of the knives secured inside his sleeve. He sees him, Vyse, in a blue patterned suit clutching a box of riveted gunmetal gray.
His files had included information about his target. Everything that could be collected had been included, and yet it had been so little that it filled only a few papers, printed on both sides, and all data ceased the year he had entered seclusion on this island. The only photograph available was taken several decades prior, and features an older man, tall, with blue eyes and thick dark hair, just barely silver at the temples. The figure in front of him matches the photo, but he looks startlingly older, as if it's been more than twice the time since it was taken. And he stares as if off into the distance, unfocused on anything or anyone, his steps slow and breathing slower.
The box is placed atop a table, three different locks are disengaged, and the lid flipped open to reveal a glittering chunk of blue diamond nestled in gray foam. There are too many people surrounding his target, all clapping him on the back or angling for a better view.
At that same instant, Illumi notices the silverware man has moved, to stand with the rest, his arm outstretched, his aura pulsing. He is reaching for the diamond.
It is as if time has slowed. Illumi's eyes shift left, faster than the rest of his body can move, to see someone else darting forward, Hisoka's sharp-nailed hand pointed towards the silverware man's heart. His arm falls and he dodges, falling to the side, Hisoka tumbling after him, dressed in more resort clothes Illumi recognizes, and then everything else catches up as the box lid slams shut and everyone turns to stare.
In less than a breath, less than a heartbeat, all this has happened.
Illumi recovers first and surges forward, picking Hisoka up by the arm. The other man is quick to climb to his feet and addresses the crowd in a loud, pleasant voice.
"This man is clearly drunk," he says. "Look at him, stumbling around like this! I'll see him outside, no need to worry."
Guards are whispering to one another, following protocol—will his target be ushered back downstairs? Will his opportunity be taken from him yet again?
Illumi sinks his fingers into the meat of Hisoka's arm, dragging with all of the strength in his own enhanced muscles. The other man follows, and they crowd together as best they can out of the gallery, out of the lobby, and onto an outdoor veranda.
"Ah, Illumi, I almost didn't recognize you," Hisoka says first, and tries to draw his arm away without success.
Sometimes, with his pins altering his features, he finds it is easier to let his face twist and flex into something normal and expected—a smile, a grimace, a sneer. Illumi's expression now is ugly and poisonous.
"What could possibly be important enough for—" Illumi is cut off by the easy smile of the other man, who reaches up and begins to unwind the bandage tied below his bangs. He rakes a hand through his hair, squinting into the sun, and Illumi thinks, once again, that he understands.
"Kuroro Lucifer." Illumi turns, to regard Hisoka, who still wears the same murderous, delirious expression. "I see."
"Do I know you?" Kuroro is apologetic and surprisingly easygoing, considering Hisoka has just made a very real attempt on his life. He appears completely relaxed, and Illumi remembers the diamond, and the opening gala the very next day, and how he had reached, with so much clarity and intention, towards what he wanted.
Illumi reaches up, and adjusts one of the pins at his neck. His appearance flickers, like a mirage, and for a moment it is as if both faces are superimposed onto one another. Kuroro's eyes widen in recognition.
"Illumi Zoldyck. How good to see you again."
His manners occur to him, briefly. It hasn't been all that long since Silva got back from his contract. "I regret the loss of your Spider. I hope you don't hold it against me."
"A job is a job." Kuroro's posture is still for a moment, and his eyes flick back and forth between Illumi and the gallery windows at the other end of the veranda, curtains drawn.
Illumi releases his pins, his appearance stabilized. "And what is this for you? Business?"
"I'm afraid not. I saw my chance, same as you. This is the first time the Sorrow Diamond has been aboveground in over a decade. I will not let it go so easily."
"You left the room quick enough." For the first time, Hisoka speaks. His voice is pointed like spades.
"I was not alone." The easygoing nature returns. "I always travel with two legs of the Spider. I was not alone in that room, and I am not alone now."
In an instant, Illumi catalogues everyone he has seen, but he can not place the members of the Genei Ryodan as easily as others can. It is Hisoka who answers, full of disdain.
"The woman, the blonde one." He next scans the courtyard, looking for whoever the last would be. His eyes settle on what looks like a young boy in streetwear, his gray hair covering his entire face, hidden behind a palm tree, single visible eye fixed on them.
"Pakunoda and Coltopi," Kuroro confirms. "I had planned to steal the item today, but it looks like that won't be so easily done. You see? Just as you won't get your chance while I'm in pursuit of the diamond, I will have a much harder time of things if you target yours. The elusive Mr. Vyse, I'm guessing?"
"What do you know about the security of the vaults?" he asks.
"My research is not exhaustive," he admits easily. "But I know enough that we would not want to pursue our prizes below. Each subsection, opened by timers, operated entirely by automated processes. Chambers that open upon chambers, with different keycards and passwords known only to their specific holder. Redundancies on top of redundancies. Not one person can make it from one end to the other on their own."
"So you did not prepare for this? You seem unbothered by failure." Illumi's borrowed voice is harsher than he intends.
Kuroro taps the side of his head, above an earpiece in his right ear. "I am in contact with Pakunoda. The diamond and its owner have retreated below, only a few minutes after we left. We have lost our chance for the moment. But I believe we can work together, tomorrow, to ensure we both achieve what we want."
"You're being generous," Illumi says. To the side, Hisoka pouts at being ignored.
"It's as you say." He turns, at last, to Hisoka. "And I would prefer we not repeat this situation. Promise me you won't attack me again while we are here. You'll get your chance, my new number four."
Illumi's surprise is short-lived; to his mind, to his muscles, he is still in the middle of a job and must be ready to move, to attack or defend, at any moment. He doubts he would have believed it from Hisoka, but from Kuroro's mouth it is undeniable.
"You joined the Spider? Why?"
Hisoka shrugs artfully, his eyes still fixed on Kuroro. "I wanted to fight him. I still do. But I agree to your terms. Help Illumi finish his mission—give him the aid of your Spiders, and I will not harm a hair on your head."
"You can leave the particulars to me. Pakunoda is getting all of the information we need. All you have to do is show up tomorrow—in another disguise or not, it doesn't matter—and we take them together."
Then, together, they both turn towards Illumi.
He stands with uncertainty, not sure how to accept whatever agreement the two of them had bartered over his head. "I can do it by myself," he finds himself saying. "I do not need your help. Either of you."
"You are unused to having a team," Kuroro says. "I depend on mine to accomplish my goals. We are old friends. You should know you can depend on me."
Illumi nods, the gesture easier in a face that isn't his. "Then I accept."
"We'll see you tomorrow. I'll be in touch."
The glint of the sunlight reflecting off the windows of the tower blind him for a moment, and when his eyes clear Kuroro is gone. The other Spider is gone, too, and Illumi feels something inside his stomach twist at how easily things have fallen out of his control. He cannot recall ever taking a mission that has given him trouble—he plans every detail, leaves nothing to chance. And he remembers meeting the Ryodan leader, years ago, when he attended to some unfinished business of his mother's and several of their staff from Meteor City. He never made it that far, but Kuroro had interceded on his behalf, taken care of things for him then. Illumi had admired him, for his strength and the way he so easily drew others to him. Illumi has always found it difficult to display his passions so openly.
"Let's go back," Hisoka says, and they do.
"When were you going to tell me you had joined the Spiders?" Illumi asks, seconds after they enter their room. He crosses to the mirror, focusing on his appearance for only the brief time it takes to grasp the pins by their heads and pull them free. Like a balloon deflating, his skin shifts and changes before returning to normal.
"I'm not sure," Hisoka says, with delicacy. He examines his nails. "I was waiting for the right time."
"He said you were number four? Did you kill your predecessor, I wonder?"
"I did," Hisoka answers.
He remembers what he'd said, about Silva. "You didn't apologize for it."
"I did not." He crosses the room, watches as Illumi stores the pins on his person, watches him discard the white jacket and kick off his shoes. "They value strength. And Omokage was weak."
Illumi hesitates. He knows the moment that Hisoka sees it, too. "Show me."
Hisoka obliges, tugging away the layer of red floral-printed fabric to reveal smooth skin. And on his back is a tattoo, dark and stretching across his spine. Illumi doesn't know how he missed it, earlier.
There's an expression of private amusement on Hisoka's face, but he obliges further as Illumi reaches out, to set fingertips against the number in the center. His skin is warm, and just slightly damp with sweat.
"I don't think my pins can mimic tattoos," he says, almost idly. "I've never tried."
The impulse becomes very strong, to grab one of his pins—the small ones, for smaller details—and try to make black marks bloom over his skin. He used to try, when he was young, weaving patterns over his body with pins set at different angles to mix with his unique Manipulation Nen to practice and experiment. He would see what each could do.
The longer pins changed the bones, adjusted his features. At an acute angle, sometimes shallow, he could change smaller details—eye color, hair growth, freckles. Mostly, he was successful. He only ever got it wrong once before he learned what needed to be changed.
"Is there anything they can't do?" Hisoka regards him openly, props a hand on his hip and watches the way Illumi's eyes trace the motion. "Can you replicate a pre-existing person? What about a photograph?"
Ilumi blinks. "I tried to, today. I copied one of the guards I'd seen, while I was out. Why? Did something look off?"
A frustrated look crosses Hisoka's face. "Not really."
"It's not something I make a habit of." He's talking more to himself than to Hisoka, wandering the space, walking past the sofa and table littered with bags. The blinds are closed, and the room is darker for it, with only a few lights by the door and above the mirror to illuminate the space.
"I suppose it helps to examine your subject closer. To know them better."
"It's not about feeling," Illumi says, as Hisoka steps closer. "It's about detail."
There's a playing card in his hands. He brings it up—a joker—and when he brings it towards the seams at Illumi's shoulder as if it were a knife Illumi fixes him with a look. "I need this shirt. You can't rip it."
The card disappears with a flick of the wrist, and then Hisoka is leaning back on the bed, watching him as Illumi removes his shirt and folds it with mechanical efficiency.
Without an outlet for their earlier energy, and Hisoka's bloodlust, they find themselves tangled together, Hisoka paying particular attention to his neck and shoulders. His pins do not leave any marks, but Hisoka's mouth seems determined to find any, and if not, create them. It's not unusual that Hisoka is so forward, so attentive, and he continues to move his hands up Illumi's sides, pushing away Illumi's arms when he tries to reciprocate, to pull him closer.
He presses a kiss to the center of Illumi's chest. His breathing is elevated, his eyes dark.
Hisoka walks his fingers in a line up Illumi's body. "I have an idea."
It's phrased as a question, and it takes Illumi a few seconds to even register, his attention fixed elsewhere. "What?"
"I want you to do something for me."
Illumi leans up on his arms, watching Hisoka. He grins, confident.
"What is it?" Illumi asks.
"Use your pins. Change your face. Turn yourself...into Kuroro." He spends his time, savoring each word, watching for Illumi's shifting reactions.
Illumi stares at him for a long moment. Then, he reaches over, long hair swaying, and plucks a pin from his pile of belongings. A second follows, held between two knuckles of his right hand. He studies them, considering, and pulls his hair away from his face.
He looks at Hisoka again. His desire is almost tangible.
His hands are steady as he angles the pins, sliding them into his face above his ears to mimic Kuroro's high cheekbones and wide eyes, to shorten his hair and elongate his nose. He feels his face swell and flex, then contract, and when he blinks to clear his eyes he is left with Hisoka's open appreciation.
Hisoka turns his head to press his mouth against Illumi's sternum. "Your ability truly is spectacular."
"I'm glad you think so."
Hisoka's expression flatlines at the sound of Illumi's monotone voice coming out of Kuroro's mouth.
"Y-you didn't change..."
"I'll need a second set of pins to change the throat. These only change my face." He blinks, the expression owlish. "Should I get more?"
Hisoka recovers, his voice flush with diamonds. "Please? But I wouldn't object if you felt differently."
A second set of pins follows, inserted at a shallow angle at the very back of his throat. When he breathes, as if testing the air again, his voice catches. "It's difficult to get an exact match. It's why I don't like making copies."
The voice isn't Kuroro's, not exactly, but it's close enough, higher and sweeter, like a sigh.
Illumi reaches down to tug on Hisoka's arms, but gets a handful of red hair instead. He tugs anyway.
"Then you should get in some more practice," Hisoka says. "I'll do what I can to help."
Illumi has nothing to say to that.
The party is about to begin and Illumi can feel the barest of nerves fluttering like butterflies in his stomach. He attributes it to the face and form he wears, a different copy of a guard he'd seen while out shopping that morning, and he's made sure to pack extra weapons, study the maps and diagrams extra closely, and consult, however briefly, with their two new team members in what little time they had to work with earlier in the day. Kuroro's easygoing cheerfulness is alternatively irritating and reassuring, and when they meet at the gala, standing shoulder to shoulder, it is sour and burns in his mouth like an apple bunny coated in cinnamon.
Kuroro wears a suit, no tie, the top button undone. On his other side is Hisoka, in what might be called formal resortwear, something expensive and no doubt on Illumi's bill. He has forgone his usual facepaint at Illumi's request, and they watch the crowd together. The artwork in the exhibit hall is modern and colorful, mostly paintings, but a few sculptures in twisted metal or glass stand out, beside the cases of faceted minerals and gemstones.
Kuroro inclines his head. "Jenni for your thoughts?"
"Your associate is late."
Both the woman and the diminutive silver-haired man are missing, working on acquiring some things with a conspicuous and irritating lack of details. Their abilities, he'd been assured, had something to do with both the secrecy and their confidence, but it's not enough, for him.
"We do this all the time," Kuroro says. "The three of us. This is the third such heist we've engineered just this month."
Hisoka reacts to that, leaning in as if to listen better.
"And all successful," Kuroro continues. "You will see. We work very well together, the three of us."
It doesn't escape his attention that the Ryodan Leader talks not about the three of them here, but about himself and his two subordinates. Illumi doesn't have much faith in others, but he does tend to take a man at his word.
Hisoka holds out his arms, turning his palms up, as if to placate them both that he isn't holding a playing card or two. Illumi knows where he keeps his decks; he'd watched Hisoka dress, after he'd made a climbing tower on the coffee table and another on the countertop by the sink. Pointless habits.
Koltopi returns, moving quickly and with purpose. He stays barely long enough to slip a stack of cards into Kuroro's hands, then vanishes again into the crowd. Kuroro studies one for a moment, then hands it to Illumi.
"For you. Security clearance—the best we could obtain, at such short notice. Are you ready? I think your man is about to make a speech."
He switches the card to his left hand, flicking a pin between the fingers of his right. One of the longer ones, meant to serve more as a weapon than a tool.
"I'm going to find a better vantage point." Kuroro steps down, towards a railing, past a cluster of people clutching champagne flutes and laughing loudly. Hisoka takes the opportunity to move into the space he just vacated.
"If I had finished my contract yesterday, I'd be home by now," Illumi says, more to himself than to the others. Still, Hisoka answers.
"And miss out on the beach? The sunbathing?" He clucks his tongue in disapproval. "What is there for you, Illumi? Another contract, the demands of your family? What is it that you want? You have your license now—if you wanted, there is nowhere you could not go or nothing you could not do."
He stills. "I had not thought of it like that."
"Of course you hadn't. Did it ever occur to you why I got mine?"
"You were bored," Illumi answers quickly. "And you were bitter that they kicked you out last year, for killing that examiner."
"Yes, but—"
"And you wanted legal protections against murder." Illumi taps his chin with one finger. "And—"
"Besides all that." He speaks with an effusion of clubs. "Freedom, Illumi. It is so troublesome, to keep track of contracts and appointments, to be at the beck and call of another. The Ryodan send me on missions, keep me busy, string me along. But I anticipate things will be so much better now than they have been before. You'll see. It will be the same for you, too."
Illumi stares at Hisoka, then at the gold curtains behind him and crystal chandeliers above him, in mod, geometric shapes, and the tailored cut of Kuroro's tuxedo coat as it frames his shoulders as he stands before the crowd as if it were a sea. More crystals, hanging from the ceiling, more gold, more company, more smiles.
Next, he looks where Kuroro looks, at a podium before the doors to the gallery hall. It is empty, but enough guards in white jackets stand at attention beside it that he knows his time is close. He rotates the pin in his hands, a habit he'd thought he'd long outgrown.
Surrounded by a cadre of guards, the same man appears, Vyse, tall and slight with white hair and a suit of dove gray linen. He steps up to the podium, clasps his hands together, and begins to speak.
"Welcome, everyone—"
Illumi throws the pin, quicker than anyone can blink, angling it just so that it bounces off a column on the man's right to strike him in the neck, so when anyone looks for the source they are pointed in the wrong direction.
The man moves.
He twists his head, masking the gesture as if making an even deeper appeal to the crowd before him, and the pin sinks harmlessly into the wall at his back. Then, his head rises, seeking a face in the crowd.
Illumi is still, frozen on the spot, and Vyse's eyes sweep right over him, past them all, and if a small frown appears on his face as he continues to speak, it can only be because he has found no one at fault.
He had been told nothing to indicate that this man knew anything at all of Nen. Nothing in his research, nothing in his personal or professional relationships, but here is something he has not anticipated or accounted for. There is a second pin, easily freed from its place in the cuff of his jacket. He prepares to throw again, from a different direction.
The pin bounces off one of the crystal baubles in the ceiling, and again Vyse dodges with the barest of motions, so subtly interwoven in the gestures of his speech that Illumi has to wonder yet again if he noticed at all.
But then he looks down, at the pin bolted to the top of the podium. He traces it with a finger, and for a moment his eyes are much sharper, and so much brighter. Even bluer than Silva's.
Illumi turns, not to Hisoka, but to Kuroro, who is by his side in a similar act of orchestrated composure.
"Easy now," he says, taking Illumi's elbow, and leaning to the side to hide his mouth. "Keep your Zetsu. This is most unexpected. What do you suggest we do?"
Undeterred, Vyse acts as if the threat is over, and swings into the meat of his speech, thanking donors and offering a brief history of the diamond and some of the rarer artworks.
"I suggest," Illumi says, "we target someone instead who can't as easily defend against our attacks. Protocol will dictate they all return to the underground vaults, and follow a strict series of orders. We were already planning on stealing the diamond from there. They will move exactly as we want them to." His eyes glint, dark. "They will have no choice."
Kuroro nods, still facing away. With a flick of the wrist, Illumi sends a pin not towards Vyse, but the senior donor he has just recognized. The pin embeds itself into his throat, and he collapses instantly and without even so much as a cry.
By the time the guards reach him, a thin stream of blood has begun to coat his neck and the front of his clothes. Someone in the crowd screams, and then there is panic. The guards rush forward in a line, to better assist in the evacuation, and only a few are left to escort Vyse, through a side door and into the maze of staff corridors beyond.
Immediately, Illumi and Kuroro move. Hisoka is slower to catch on, but Illumi grabs him by the arm, tugging him through the gallery doors and onto the exhibit floor. It is empty, but they can still hear the voices and shouts from the other room. Koltopi joins them as if a shadow. They approach the diamond.
"The glass is unbreakable," Kuroro reminds them. "Although very sensitive to heat."
He extends his right hand, and in the instant it takes Illumi to engage his eyes with Gyo Kuroro is holding a book. He flips the pages, settling on one, and after a moment of concentration a small flame blazes between his thumb and index finger. He brings his hand down, the effort blatant, as if such an ability is more suited towards creating a far mightier blaze and containing it at all is a far more difficult task.
On contact with the glass, a series of sensors in the corners of the case start to blink red, and then the entire section of floor begins to descend. It is barely enough for the four of them to stand around, each placed on one side of the case like the points on a compass, and as they drop it picks up speed, falling some ten stories at least before they come to a stop in the middle of a vault of gray concrete and the ceiling closes over their heads. A clicking noise, and the case begins to retract on its own, carried away somewhere even deeper underground.
Kuroro fishes around in the pocket of his clothes before removing the same earpiece he'd worn the previous day.
"Paku has been at the surveillance consoles for hours now," Koltopi says in a harsh, chiding voice. He taps the side of his head, beneath a curtain of hair, where Illumi can only assume is a second, matching device. "She has a lot to say about what we're doing."
"Which is?" The look of disdain on Hisoka's face is soon swallowed up by curiosity as they examine their new surroundings.
"Vyse is with three men, moving west. We've got to move fast if we want to intercept him," Kuroro says. "However, each chamber is set to open on timed locks. The idea is that guards would have time to assemble and get in position before exposed to any threat. And any thief would need multiple rounds of clearance just to get through one chamber."
He shrugs, and the book disappears. "Luckily, we have Koltopi."
"It's nothing." He holds up another card, this one different from the others. "I've copied the security clearance badges of a number of employees, just as Paku was able to get inside their heads to learn their passcodes and their secrets."
A pause, while Hisoka's face contorts into a grimace. "We all have our uses."
Koltopi turns to him. "So what is it your ability does again?"
"My Bungee Gum—"
Kuroro is already by the door, swiping his own keycard. It opens, and Illumi is behind him a moment later.
Koltopi reaches out. "Ah, wait—"
The door closes, followed by a mechanical whirring noise. His visible eye blinks furiously, his head downturned as he listens to the earpiece. "Ah, yes. We can take the second door. They will only open one at a time, so we'll have to take a different path. They will meet up eventually, though. If you were worried about such a thing."
Hisoka's gloom is expansive and all-consuming. "...rubber and gum."
The room they find themselves in is constructed similarly to the first, in the exact same dimensions, with walls and a roof of steel beams interspersed with smooth gray concrete. He turns, expecting to see Hisoka, but instead a door of metal separates them from the others.
"They're not usually so slow," Kuroro says, studying the shelves built into the walls, empty. It looks like they might be used as a staging point, to hold things in transit from the more secure vaults to the gallery floor.
"They do not care as much about our goal as we do." Illumi holds up the card he was given. It feels like plastic, looks like the real thing, but knowing it is created by Nen makes him distrust it, if only in the vaguest sense.
"After you," Kuroro says, pointing towards one door, set against the far wall. A series of lights above it blink in alternating yellow flashes. "Once the timer clears, we'll be able to leave. There's nothing to do until then."
Illumi suggests, "We could play a game of shiritori, to pass the time?"
Koltopi flips through the stack of cards in his hands, finally selecting one and swiping it. The door opens, and he is through it in an instant.
"I wouldn't linger," he says, to the empty space Hisoka has already vacated. "If you fall behind, you won't be able to keep up."
"I'm aware." It's accompanied by a frown as he pulls out a deck of playing cards, shuffling them and selecting one with the same flourish as Koltopi finding the proper clearance keycards. "At least this room seems to have some entertainment."
The door closes behind them, the new room revealing a vast array of equipment and bric-a-brac. Most of it seems to service the building around them—there are no fewer than three extra podiums of different styles, folding presentation screens and stacks of chairs, shoved against the back wall. A few projection monitors, still in their boxes.
There are three other doors to choose from, and after a moment of deliberation with Pakunoda in his earpiece Koltopi points towards the door on the left.
"This one will not reconnect us with the others but it will get us to one that can." He glances over, to where Hisoka is tucking a joker against the lucite top of a podium desk. "At least the targets cannot move any faster than we do."
"Nothing you can do about that?" Koltopi isn't even looking at him, despite the way Hisoka looks at him down the length of his nose, with visible dismay.
"No." He goes to stand by the door.
Hisoka digs into a box, finds a remote for one of the projectors, tosses it aside. "I wonder what the others are doing right now."
"Interaction."
"Onerous."
"Usually."
"Lying."
"Ingrained."
"Educate."
"Terminal."
"Aldehyde."
"Destroy."
"Oyster."
"Error."
"Ordinance."
"Answer."
Kuroro scratches at his chin. "Is that a valid response? It matches the sound, but not the spelling."
"Ideally, it should be both. But we never specified the exact ruleset." Illumi sits cross-legged, an arm's length away, his posture beginning to slouch.
"You're very quick at this game." The lights still blink yellow as the minutes tick on. "Shouldn't be too much longer now."
"I like it a lot," he says. "Shall we continue?"
"Very well. Ermine."
"Nesting."
"Ingot."
The lights switch to green.
"Ah!" Kuroro is on his feet in an instant, moving to the door. "Swipe your card, Illumi. I want to get to the diamond first."
Illumi is sullen, moreso than he expects, at the suspended game. "You don't play games like this, do you?"
"Not really," Kuroro answers readily, as Illumi swipes his card and the two move into a new room. "And not often. But I am enjoying myself, this time. Are you?"
Illumi could say that he has been, and then he was not, and now is unsure. When he speaks, it is after carefully considering his words.
"I think I will, once this is over. When the job is complete."
Kuroro's face falls a bit, but he recovers quickly. "You win, by the way. I concede."
It does not work like that, but he says nothing. It does not feel like a victory, and he wants to say in that moment that he knows what that feels like. But then, without knowing about defeat to compare it to, can he really be sure?
"Ah, the others will like this room," Kuroro says, and for the first time Illumi notices its contents. Kuroro's eyes gleam, as if the prior conversation is already forgotten; as if a simple loss meant nothing at all.
Even the possibility is much harder for Illumi to let go of.
When Hisoka and Koltopi enter the vault, they see Kuroro and Illumi bickering in front of a bright red sports car, one meant for racing with a fluid, sculpted roof and angled doors. Illumi has his hands on his hips, staring, as Kuroro touches one of the side mirrors.
"It's almost as beautiful as the diamond," he says, with both appreciation and regret. "But infinitely harder to smuggle out of here. This is one of the nicer models, too."
Almost on a whim, Koltopi stretches out a hand, and with a glow of Nen suddenly there is a second car beside the first.
"I can hotwire it, if I can get inside," Kuroro says. He looks younger like this, the lines on his face smoothed away by excitement. "I'd rather not break the door if I can help it."
"How do you even know if it'll run? Maybe it just copied the framework, but not the gas." Hisoka tries to peer inside the darkened glass.
Koltopi sounds insulted. "It copies everything perfectly. If I copied a body, there would still be blood inside it, right?"
Illumi stares at the car, and his reflection in the mirrored shine of the paint. "You say that like you know from experience."
"Of course."
"The vault door is going to open, soon." This one is wider, meant to store and convey vehicles like the one before them—and others, from golf carts to black unremarkable shuttles to a similar racing car in a bright, unfashionable purple, set at angles from each other in the hangar as if on display. "We should be ready."
"I hope there's more than just the one," Hisoka says. "It's been so long since I've had a good fight."
Kuroro pauses. "Weren't you supposed to be at Heaven's Arena right now? I thought I saw your name on the match schedule."
Hisoka makes a pretense of bashfulness. "Oh, was I? I forget."
There's the sound of twisting, grinding metal and then Kuroro pries the door of the conjured car open, the hinges broken and useless. Inside, he pulls wires free and studies them.
"Do we really have time for this?" Illumi asks.
Kuroro's head peeks out from behind the wheel, smile winsome. "We had time for a game."
He is still working on the wires when the light changes from blinking yellow to solid green, and Koltopi leaves them to fuss with the door and his stack of cards. When the door opens, a group of figures come into view—the white-jacketed guards, standing at a perimeter, and the gray-suited figure of Vyse, standing in front of a machine set into the center of the floor. From within it rises a box of glass, itself containing within it the gossamer-blue Sorrow Diamond.
Illumi feels as though his perspective has been tilted, like the borrowed face and eyes are having an even stronger effect on his mind and his nerves. But he steps forward, past the others, and lets the field of his Nen expand.
This is when Hisoka chooses to throw the detached car door over their heads and into the path of the guards. It takes down at least two, and then he is charging towards the rest.
Illumi keeps his distance, coming no closer to Vyse than he had in the gallery lobby. He throws a pin, and as if rehearsed, the man dodges with a confounding ease.
"I used to stare at my artifacts," he says, gesturing towards the wall at his left—a wall, that Illumi can now see, is peppered with similar cases full of various trinkets and oddities. "None were as precious to me as this gem. But there were others—and I would stare, and stare, wishing each hour was longer in the day so that I would have more time to devote to its contemplation."
The man blinks, and when Illumi focuses with Gyo he can see the lightest wash of aura surrounding him, and, even stranger, many of the objects on the shelves around him.
"You know Nen?" he all but shouts. To see it confirmed provokes feelings he can not quite describe.
"What is Nen?" His voice is placid, and he moves like lightning, dodging each subsequent attack as Ilumi gets closer.
"A Nen genius," Illumi says, more to himself than to Vyse, "of perhaps...Enhancement Nen, it would seem. You enhance your senses—your eyes, your ears, your body—to be able to move much faster than the average person. But that is not it, is it? We all must look so slow to you."
"You do. You all do." His entire body shifts, out of the way of a playing card thrown at a guard attempting to cover him. Vyse turns his head, thick white hair shaking. His eyes are pinpricks, moving in patterns like a swarm. "Everyone was slow. Business was fast, for awhile. But not enough. Not until..."
Illumi takes the chance to dive closer, a group of pins clutched in his hands, held between the knuckles. He swipes, and Vyse moves again, quicker than Illumi can follow, his breathing and motions unhurried even as guards fall all around them, some to cards, others to a segmented knife in Kuroro's hands, and others still to conjured copies of their own weapons.
Vyse strikes, for the first time, and although there is less strength behind the attack than a traditional Enhancer he bats the pins out of Illumi's hands, and Illumi lets them fall out of shock, still to some level full of disbelief that all of his research has been flawed, his expectations reversed, and even with his target standing right in front of him he cannot seem to deal the final blow.
Illumi reaches for another pin and finds his sleeve empty. He reaches for the other one and finds it empty too.
He stands still for a moment, his own perception heightened as he imagines it is for Vyse, and reaches up to pull the pins from his face free. As his skin shifts, his eyes clear, returned to his normal form, and as he raises the pins like weapons he wonders what reaction Vyse will have to such a clear presentation of the reality of Nen.
Vyse isn't even looking at him at all.
His attention is caught then, by the artifacts on the shelves, some glistening with artificial light, and then he is turned towards the diamond, his movements just as quick and efficient as they'd been dodging his attacks, and he breathes as if with reverence, as if he has completely forgotten all other constraints and he has all the time in the world.
The diamond named Sorrow glows blue with aura and some kind of sediment or geological impurity, and Illumi sees it reflected in Vyse's eyes for the moment before he brings the pins down, impacting solidly into the back of his head and sliding without resistance into his brain. The moment he falls, Illumi is crushed by relief.
Kuroro's steps are measured and heavy as he approaches the case, lifting one of Vyse's limp hands and using his fingerprints to open the mechanisms on the case. He removes the diamond, studying it for a moment with a similar care and appreciation, before he covers it with a small black sack and stows it on his person.
"I will see it in the light," he says to Illumi, as if to explain the lack of ceremony. "Not like this. This is...nothing."
Illumi nods, and Koltopi is beside him in an instant, discarding spent gun clips. The room is remarkably silent.
"We can leave by this path," he says, and points towards one of the hangar doors on the farthest side of the room. "The boat I copied still has another five hours on it. Plenty of time to get to the mainland."
"And us?" Hisoka approaches, discarding a pair of aces covered in blood. "I hadn't wanted to leave so quickly."
A moment passes, while Kuroro listens to the earpiece. "Pakunoda will cover your involvement, and your escape. I think it's best if we part ways here, but I will see if I can find you another card."
Illumi approaches the prone body of a guard he recognizes, the most senior of their number, and after a quick search he removes an elevator key from his pocket and holds it up. "I don't think we'll be needing it."
"We worked well together," Hisoka says. "I hope it won't be too long before we see one another again."
"Perhaps I will hire you." Kuroro laughs as the idea comes to him, and holds out a hand. Illumi grasps it, and Hisoka reaches out to place one of his hands atop their closed fists. "Would you like a job?"
Illumi thinks of his schedule; it is not as clear as he would like, and not as clear as it will be. "Of course. I'll keep my calendar open for you."
"Perhaps this September, in York New City. I have several plans that are all starting to come together."
"September," Hisoka echoes.
"I'll enjoy working with you again," Illumi says. They drop their hands, and then as one they turn, heading in separate directions. Illumi does not glance back, and as Hisoka falls into step beside him he notes that Hisoka's aura has receded into something subdued and simmering.
"I haven't booked flights," Illumi says, and when that is met with silence he expands. "I thought we could stay here a little longer."
"Oh, Illumi," Hisoka says with a smile, his voice full of hearts. "You have the best ideas."
The deck chair on Illumi's right is empty. He glances to his left, at Hisoka, wearing a matching button-up beach shirt to Illumi's own and a pair of designer sunglasses, his head propped on one raised arm.
Even through the dark lenses, he knows he's watching him.
"It suits you," Hisoka says. His own is unbuttoned. "I knew you'd end up needing one."
"I got blood on my other shirt," he says, as if he requires no further explanation or excuse.
"This place has a few lovely restaurants. I've made a reservation at one. Is seven good for you?"
A pause. "I have no more plans," he says. He'd already sent confirmation of the kill to his client, and his salary has already been deposited into his bank account.
Hisoka beams. "Good, good!"
He continues to talk, about the casino this hotel shares with the adjacent one, and how maybe they could visit it, after dinner and drinks of course. Illumi thinks about the type of missions he usually takes—easy, quick ones, with the salary the only deciding factor. Any job Hisoka pursued would be a challenging one, something that pitted his strength and resources against those of others. Any monetary reward was inconsequential, especially when other rewards were worth so much more.
"Perhaps, Illumi," Hisoka says, and Illumi sits up to look at him more clearly, "you can plan to take a job this winter? Maybe at a ski resort?"
End.
Notes:
1. Sticking to Hunter World naming conventions, Σiami Beach is pretty obviously inspired by Miami Beach. In canon, we know that Illumi got his license because of a job, and out of all the tenets of what a Hunter license can be used for (killing, which he can already do as a literal assassin; financial credit, which he doesn't really need more of; access to facilities/locations typically restricted for general population, etc), I figured 'access to exclusive locations' was the reason his client would have had him get one. Everything else about the setting and characters was fictionalized, although there is precedence for items housing some subtle Nen the way the Benz knife and Zepile's creations do. While this story stands independently of the others I have written in my personal canon it takes place between OBELUS and TRILLIUM and contains an oblique reference to DESIDERATUM in the flame ability from Kuroro's book.
2. If this setting sounds at all familiar, this story was expanded upon a gift for hxhsecretsanta here I wrote about four years ago. Back then, I didn't have the time to write more than a few hundred words, but I'm so happy now to have the chance to do it to my satisfaction.
3. The 'red and black couture pants' are a reference to Illumi's flame pants from the Chairman Election Arc, AKA my favorite outfit of his ever. I wanted to give them an origin story lol. Apple bunnies are Illumi's canonical favorite food. Shiritori is a game of matching words from their ending sounds; the Zoldyck siblings names all progress according to shiritori. The Sorrow Diamond was inspired by the Hope Diamond. As far as the antagonist in the story goes, you might say his name was inspired by...Miami Vice /ba dum shh
4. Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews/reblogs/etc.
Title: ORCHiDELiRiUM
Word Count: 14,390 words
Pairing: Cluck x Kanzai
Summary: ORCHiDELiRiUM: the name given to a period of time where the acquisition and discovery of rare orchid plants reached a fever pitch among the collectors and enthusiasts of the wealthy and titled. None were prized more highly than the rare Black Orchid, native to a small republic whose only access point was severed by a tremendous rockslide during the plant’s last cyclic bloom nearly seven years ago. Professional Botanical Hunter Cluck is contracted to not only recover a specimen of the rare flower, but protect it from any and all intruders. She is more than up for the first task, but for the second, she enlists the help of her colleague Kanzai, and the two find themselves battling mafia legions, the strangely misanthropic people of the once-isolated nation, and a living forest in pursuit of their prize.
A/N: Written for the Hunter x Hunter Big Bang 2018 Challenge. Takes place an indeterminate amount of time pre-canon. Huge thanks to awitchyghost who will be doing some lovely art for this story! I hope you enjoy! [FF.net] [Ao3]
ORCHiDELiRiUM
Cluck stares across the flat, nearly empty surface of her desk. Not at her own, impeccably-ordered files and the thin stack of leaflets one of the secretaries had dropped off earlier with the latest updates from the various committees for her to review before she left Swaldani City for any personal business. Her desk forms a co-working space with those of three of the other members of the Zodiac Twelve, and her gaze is affixed firmly towards Saiyuu's desk.
And the plastic, purple plant that rests in an almost equally insulting ceramic vase. It has two ugly, perfectly uniform leaves, and a dusting of uneven white paint along the tip of the clustered petals.
Behind her, along the wall, the printer beeps as it continues to slowly churn out papers for her. She taps manicured fingernails along to its rhythm, before groaning and swiveling in circles in her desk chair.
Across the room, Kanzai walks in. He gives a half-hearted wave, before jerking one thumb back towards the hallway.
“The office up front just got a power stapler,” he says, moving to the cubbies on the far wall and grabbing the safety-cone-colored knapsack from inside. “Piyon and I have been seeing how far we can make it fly.”
“Stop terrorizing the secretaries,” she answers automatically before turning back to her papers.
“We're not! It's a competition.”
He sounds defensive, and she looks up, watching him as the printer makes an ungodly series of electronic screeches. “You're Pro Hunters, and you're losing?”
“What? No!”
“Just you then. Better redeem yourself by lunchtime.” Cluck reaches out to poke one plastic petal with a pen. If it was real, a petal would have fallen, or a leaf. It would grow or shrivel and die. And it's insulting her personally.
“Round Two will see a weather change,” he says, and makes a few punches in the air for emphasis.
“Don't lose more of your money,” she cautions. “You know you'll get taken for every cent you wager.”
“See you at the meeting.” He's gone, and he leaves the door cracked open, too. The worst.
The printer screeches again, and on the next three sheets the ink is increasingly transparent. She shouts after him, “Don't be late!”
He's late, by a good five minutes, but Pariston is late by ten and gets the full force of the room's blame. There's a variety of things on the docket today, mostly involving minor adjustments, financial proposals, and seasonal updates from some of the more significant committees. The Exam Committee's scouting for representatives, and after volunteering to coordinate one of the phases once , years ago, now when they want involvement among the Zodiacs they look at her. She makes sure to be looking at her phone during the entire report, first scrolling idly and then looking for something more serious among her apps and news sites to make the distraction useful.
So she happens to be checking her email in the middle of one of Beans's presentations. Cheadle is giving her a glare strong enough to melt a glacier, but if there's someone who more accurately embodies all bark, no bite it's the Dog of the Zodiac Twelve. In her professional account are a slew of unread contract proposals—one asking her to give a concert of L'equivoco , like she'd come out of retirement for some new money heir's birthday party—and a second wanting her aide in tracking a series of near-endangered swanbill sighted outside their Yorubian nature preserve. She purses her lips. Probably collectors, from the extremely high numbers quoted in the proposal. The third is from the Razing Society of Arboreal Enrichment , and reads like an amateur academic's exercise in garrulousness.
Surely our esteemed organization needs no introduction, as you may recall both our winning contribution to the Southern Continental's horticulture competition some years ago, upsetting the Federation of Ochima's five-year winning streak, and our meeting at the same event—
Cluck doesn't remember this.
— As you well know, the many prides of the Republic of Razing include its Endeløs Forest, which has provided its citizens with medicinal herbs, flowers, and gourmet fungi of the highest quality and provenance. With the completion of the tunnel restoration project, access to the city center has been reestablished as of this year. The limited resources of the Razing Department of Public Safety have left a void of preparedness in our anticipation of the Black Orchid's returning bloom cycle. We expect a wave of visitors who will want to experience this legendary event, and while we do of course encourage education of the masses we wish to restrict access to both the Forest and the plants to professionals. As one of the foremost Botanical Hunters, you will be able to recover a specimen for our study and ensure its protection in the wild. The city has already seen an increase in numbers and lodging is thin. We can ensure you a place to stay while you work and access to transportation and the best of our equipment and research staff if you require it, although we are sure someone of your caliber and experience would hardly deign to accept our organization's principium. Anyone would leap at the chance to view this once-in-a-lifetime event, and even without our offer you have most likely already made plans to visit our republic and view the Black Orchid for yourself. We await your response. Our office is open Mondays only from 3-5pm.
Cluck's eyes begin to water. She reads the message a second time, and still can't quite figure out what it is these people actually want her to do.
Then she's called on for her opinions on their current debate, and Cluck forgets about any of her contracts—and Pariston gets to repeat his speech on the profits from the Association's current real estate holdings, to his delight.
After the votes are in and they are all dismissed, she dawdles in the office once more, staring at a folder of everything one of the secretaries had been able to acquire on the status of the Republic of Razing. There are very few countries that have had no Hunters to represent them, and this is one of those.
She also wracks her memories for a trade show held across the various states of the Southern Continent, and recalls that the Republic of Ochima has won it every year except one where they were unable to attend—due to catastrophic weather, and a tiny unacknowledged nation had taken the top prize. This was years ago, at least seven, and would have been when she was in deep pursuit of a Star for her license and throwing herself into every bit of study and experimentation. Such shows were a great way to network and hear lectures from top researchers and university professors. And they were useful for reconnecting with old colleagues, and for providing free meals and free drinks to celebrity guests. Huh. Maybe there was a reason she didn't remember much.
The Republic was, in a word, isolated. Located in the exact middle of a ringlike group of mountains, the city-state had a small population and wasn't known for anything in particular beyond the peculiar circumstances of their existence. There was one tunnel, bored through the mountains, for access, and it had been destroyed in an accident—she checks her notes—about the same time ago. They'd used helicopters and had air-drops for supplies they couldn't grow or manufacture themselves, but overwhelmingly the entire country had been separated from the outside world for all that time.
She's still in the office hours later, her interest growing, reading through more research and investigating the mysterious Black Orchid the Society representative had mentioned. There are sketches of it, drawn by the late, famed naturalist Laudubon, and as a Botanical Hunter Cluck is well-versed in the history of orchid collecting and exhibition. It had hit a craze, when the world was beginning to be connected by airship and media and many new species had been discovered all at once, each more intricate and uncommon than the last. There had been the honey orchid, peacock orchid, and the strangely-gimmicky disco orchid, named for its apparent propensity to glitter under any movement or light. But the rarest, and the one that had fetched the highest prices, came from a forest in the very same mountain range of this country, the Black Orchid. In the sketch, the orchid's petals are a deep and glossy black, and of such perfect symmetry and balance, without flaw or blemish. The perfect curl to the edges, the perfect drape of the filaments. She can feel her very soul being drawn into the flowers.
And that was only a portrait. What must the real thing be like?
She understands the desire those individuals must have felt, bidding at auctions in the hundreds of thousands of jenni, for the chance to own those flowers. Airship travel to the region is largely inexpensive, and she hovers over the website with tickets in her cart. She has no major obligations for the next few weeks. It's been relatively uneventful around Swaldani City and the Hunter Association, almost to the point of suspicion.
She glances up to see Kanzai peering over her shoulder, nose scrunched up.
“What are you looking to travel all the way out there for?”
She jumps, spinning around in her chair and reaching out to smack him on instinct. “Kanzai! You shouldn't sneak up on people!”
“I wasn't sneaking. I didn't even use Zetsu .” He drops his shoulders in apology, and rubs his arm as if her punch had done anything at all. He moves to Saiyuu's desk and sinks into a chair. “You're just distracted. Don't tell me another Hunter went missing?”
“No. I'm looking into something for work.” Not that she's officially accepted the contract yet, and not that this Society even seems to want to admit they need her help at all. “How about you? Got anything coming up?”
“Assignment fell through,” he says, kicking his feet up on the edge of his desk. Cluck eyes his sneakers with distaste. “Still, they paid my fee. Can't argue with that.”
She gets an idea, a bright spot in a sea of monotony and solitude. The thought that she could share the brilliance of that sketch in reality with her closest friend. “So you're free. To come work with me, travel a bit. If you wanted.”
“If I wanted to travel to the boondocks with you? But I don't want that.” The edge of his mouth lifts into a scowl, and it twists the tattoos across his upper cheeks. “How much are they paying?”
Her face twists as she remembers the line of the contract that detailed her fee. It was in line with what she believed the country could afford, but hardly in keeping with her level of experience. “The work is its own reward, or something.”
“That's even worse .” He watches as she adjusts her purchase to include a second ticket. “I'm a bodyguard , not a—” And he waves his hand in her direction, as if to encompass everything in Cluck's varied portfolio. Musician, Scientist, Birdkeeper. “I won't be much help to you, unless what you're doing is really that dangerous.”
“I think it could be. Have you ever guarded an object?” she asks.
“Once I was hired to transport a painting. The convoy was attacked. Too bad for the thieves.”
“Which painting?”
“Don't know. I didn't look.”
“You didn't look? ” The strangled croak in her throat grows louder when she remembers with vivid clarity what that assignment had been. It was rare that the Southernpeace Auction even got such masterpieces, and those who could afford them could also afford the best protection detail. “That was a Nonet , Kanzai! A Nonet! His last completed work!”
He gnashes his pointed teeth. “I have no idea who that is!”
“Well, do you want a job or not?” She shouts back, matching his pitch. “I could use the help. I have a lot of ground to cover.” She laughs to herself at the unintentional joke, her mood shifting in an instant.
He sighs, glancing away. “I want to keep you safe. Well, what are you Hunting? Don't keep me in suspense. You know how much I love a good surprise.”
“I'm Hunting a plant,” she says.
A pause. “You've got to be kidding me.”
“I'm not,” she says. “And we're not going to the boondocks. We're going to the mountains .”
–
Despite the elevation, the climate is mild, but the skies are thick with clouds and a light rain begins to fall the moment they leave the airfield. Anticipating fieldwork, she's retired her typical outfit for a strapless romper in the same blue shades and a matching jacket with a thick line of white fur trimming the hood and sleeves. The airship could only take them so far, to a city on the other side of the mountains, where the single road would take them into Razing and towards her mission. So it was that Cluck and Kanzai were seated shoulder to shoulder in the front of a retrofitted utility vehicle being driven by one of the country's native sons.
“So,” Cluck says, staring out the window at rows upon rows of identical-looking trees, leading to an eerily uniform bank of mountainside. “Do you want to put on any music?”
“No.” The driver doesn't even acknowledge her, and she spends a few moments studying his face—brown hair, a thin mustache but otherwise clean shaven, and dark, plain clothes. Young, too—younger than she is, and he would be boring if he wasn't so interesting.
She tries again. “So, what do you like to do around here for fun?”
“I go driving,” he says. Beside her, Kanzai muffles a snort into one arm.
“Yeah? Well let's open this thing up, see what it can do,” Cluck suggests. The vehicle continues on at a safe, respectable fifty-five.
“No.”
She breathes in, counts to five. She is a professional, and while she has no problem being blunt around her colleagues, belligerence around strangers would probably not be very well received.
Cluck eyes the driver again. Probably.
“Is there anything you'd recommend we do, you know, as tourists? Anywhere we should go? Anything we shouldn't do? We want to blend in.”
The driver inclines his head for a moment, to look at her. “That is impossible.”
Cluck's vision goes red for a moment. “ Okay, first off— ”
“We have not had any tourists in almost a decade. Therefore there would not be anything to publicize, as those of us who live here have already seen it all,” he says, and Cluck deflates.
“And how do you feel about that?” It's Kanzai, speaking for the first time since their drive started. He'd been quiet for the majority of their trip, but Cluck is able to read his moods after spending so much time together. When he complains, it is more performative than purposeful, and he has remained by her side, handling whatever details come up regarding security and their equipment with deep consideration. He hasn't cared about how to use the scientific instruments and collection vials and components in her bags, but he handles them with a delicacy she finds heartwarming.
The driver takes a moment to consider the question. “It is better this way.”
And like that, her mood sours again. They pass through the tunnel—it spans a distance of ten miles, and is in itself a marvel of architecture. It would probably have seen more media coverage, Cluck thinks, if the people connected to it were the least bit sociable.
The driver leaves them at their hotel, a government-owned building that used to host international diplomats before being repurposed in-part into a storage facility. The rooms are small and bleak and the décor looks like it came from a period film set more than thirty years ago.
“I'm starving,” Cluck tells Kanzai. “Let's go for a walk, see if we can find something.”
They take a street at random. Only a few blocks outside the city center the buildings change dramatically, from older brick structures set close together to dated-looking strip malls with a wild assortment of tenants, from fashion marts to hardware stores and individual stores for bakeries and butchers instead of one combined grocer. Each intersection is so unremarkable that Cluck has to remind herself, yet again, that this place has been essentially frozen in time.
Cluck squints to read the signs of the stores in one such center. “I think that one's a restaurant? No, never mind. Cheese store.”
“What about that one?”
Cluck follows Kanzai's outstretched hand to a storefront with more than a dozen cars parked out front. “Liquor store. Maybe later.”
The next block sees another strip center, set even further back from the street. Weeds sprout through the cracks in the pavement of the parking lot and as they make their way closer Cluck can see a tiny restaurant tucked in the very far corner.
“There!” She points, before grabbing Kanzai's shoulders and turning him towards the flickering neon sign. “Food!”
The parking lot is mostly empty—there are no cars in front of the restaurant or the laundromat next door, but the lights are on inside and Cluck can see movement past the vertical blinds behind the front window. The door had a placard matching the neon sign that read Jordel's Restaurant .
Cluck opens the deceptively heavy door and slips inside, not even waiting for assistance before grabbing a menu off the hostess stand. She flips through it—it's in the local language, but she can recognize a few words after spending the airship flight with a language primer, and decides that at this point she's too hungry to care whether everything is boiled or covered in unidentifiable gravy, and tries to wave over a server. There's only one visible, a man currently pouring water for one of the other tables.
“Hey, this place must be pretty good,” Cluck says, her eyes sweeping the restaurant. “Look how many tables are full.”
While the tables in the front, sized for couples, are empty, the tables in the back have been shoved together and are full of men in suits, eating quietly. The restaurant itself is plain, with a few framed photographs on the white walls and dated brass fixtures. Finally, the server makes their way over to the front, and Cluck waves her hands at one of the empty tables.
“Hey, can we have that one?” she asks, gesturing with the menu. “And can you show me where the drinks are in this thing?”
The nervous-looking server leads them over to a table and Cluck makes a show of throwing her jacket over the back of her chair before sitting down. With the server's help she picks out a red wine and a bunch of dishes for them to share, and tries a number of different ways to cross her legs to get comfortable in the narrow wooden chairs.
“Hey, relax a little,” she tells Kanzai. “There's no reason we can't enjoy ourselves a little bit while we're here. If that's possible.”
He's quiet, and Cluck drops her chin into her palm. “I know you don't like the rain—”
“It's not that,” he says quickly. “Maybe just keep your voice down.”
“Why?” The drinks arrive, along with a loaf of soft bread, and Cluck busies herself with tearing it into small pieces before eating. “We've got to go over our plans. I was gonna call the people at the Arboreal Society, tell them we've arrived, and arrange transportation to the forests.”
Kanzai makes a pained face, the markings on his face curving more the deeper his grimace. “Cluck—”
“I'm hoping they can give us some maps. I feel lost here already.” She takes a deep drag from her drink. “Not having a car of our own sucks.”
“ Cluck .”
“If we can find a few bulbs it'll be even better. I'd hate to have to transport a fully-bloomed orchid. They're so delicate, and I imagine this one'll be even more so.” She speaks around a mouthful of bread, the words muffled.
“I've been studying the weather and what I can find from the last time the Black Orchid bloomed,” she continues, gesturing with a piece of bread. “There aren't many resources. No one documented this, it was essentially a free-for-all. My research shows that the bloom is actually going to come early. So it's lucky we're here now, before anyone else gets involved.”
Kanzai tries to shush her again, but before he can say anything more the waiter returns, carrying platters of vegetables, lamb, and crispy whole fishes. Cluck pokes one of them with her fork before digging in.
“Hey, this is actually really good.” She chews thoughtfully. “Hey, Kanzai, you're still bristling. Eat up.”
“I am not bristling .” His shoulders are raised and his hair is spiky from the rain, and Cluck narrows her eyes and points her fork at him.
“Eat your fish,” she says.
“ You eat your fish,” he grumbles, before snagging one and beginning to saw into it with his knife. Cluck looks up to see a few of the men in suits watching them, and gives a little wave in return.
“ Cluck , don't,” Kanzai repeats. A bit of fish falls off his fork. One of the men at the farthest table stands up and begins to walk over. He can see the server start to clear everyone's plates.
“My friends!” The man has a deep accent, same as their driver. “I can't help but notice you must be new here. Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“The food's great.” Cluck is all smiles, still chewing. Kanzai casts a serious look down at their plates.
“I couldn't help but overhear something. You are interested in the forests surrounding this city, yes? You are...scientists, perhaps? Not tourists?”
“We're Hunters,” Cluck answers proudly, and Kanzai's palm makes contact with his forehead.
“ Hunters , really.” He turns and says something to one of the others in their native language, and the other shouts back a few words. The man's expression never changes, as implacable as the black suit stretched across his shoulders.
“There is someone here I think you should meet—”
“—Thanks,” Kanzai interrupts. “Now if you don't mind, we really need to get back to our meal—”
“Nonsense. We have a great deal in common, you and I,” he says. “We also have interest in this orkidé you mentioned. We would be delighted to hear more of what you have to say.”
Cluck opens and then closes her mouth. Kanzai can almost see the wheels turning as she begins to put together the pieces. Then, she speaks.
“Sorry,” she says. “I don't work with others.”
Kanzai feels a twitch in-between his eyebrows. Cluck has never sounded less convincing.
“Then who is this?” The man asks. “Your housecat?”
Kanzai stands, abruptly, and at once every suited man pulls a weapon from inside their jackets. The implacable one merely claps a hand onto Kanzai's shoulder—an intimidation tactic, meant to bully him into compliance, as the man is nearly a foot taller than Kanzai—and begins to push him further into the restaurant.
“Cluck, just say the word,” he says.
“No, I want to hear what they have to say.” She stands as well, and collects her jacket, draping it over one arm and shaking it to get crumbs off the sleeves. “Maybe they know something we don't.”
“Come, come.” The man gestures again. “There is a room in the back where our boss is eating. He would very much like to meet you. Nikolaus will take you.”
“And you are?” Kanzai still glowers, even after the man steps back, putting his body squarely in front of the door. As he moves Kanzai can see the holster hidden under his jacket.
“I am Mikkel,” he answers.
A young, timid looking man approaches in a too-large suit, and leads them towards a doorway in the back covered by a curtain of patterned orange polyester. He keeps his distance, and when Kanzai cracks a muscle in his neck for fun the man jumps back even further.
Beyond the curtain is a large space much more ornately designed than the main dining room—which still isn't much of a compliment, considering the overly stylized molding on the tops of the walls and baseboards, and the sprawling wooden chairs and tables, inlaid to excess with lighter wood. The wallpaper is gold and striped, and Kanzai looks down at his own shirt and feels a little put-off by the comparison.
“Malk, these are the Hunters here to see you,” Nikolaus says.
The large, older man at the head of the table rises and adjusts the glasses perched on the edge of his nose. He extends a hand covered in rings towards Cluck and Kanzai. Neither make any immediate motion to shake it; Cluck glances down at the oversized jacket in her hands and makes a show of trying to adjust it to free a hand. After a moment, the man straightens his back and drops his hand, all pretense of politeness disappearing.
“Hunters. How curious. You may call me Mr. Content. I am the leader of the mafia here in Razing. You will tell me what I need to know.” He says the word Hunters slowly, and with a reverence and distance that makes Cluck for a moment wonder if he even knows what that means.
Then she holds up a hand. “Wait a second. Is your name really Malk Content?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
She drops her shoulders in an articulated shrug. “Well, that just seems lazy.”
He slams one giant fist into the tabletop. “Tell me what you learned about the Black Orchid !” His pronunciation is slightly different, using the words in his native language, and when he snarls to the men at his left and right it becomes impossible for Kanzai to understand further.
“We're not tellin' you squat,” he says, and watches the man's face grow red.
Kanzai turns towards her. “Hey, Cluck, I don't think they know anything.”
“And here I was hoping they had access to some kind of mapping software, satellites, something that would better pinpoint their location. They only grow in soil with a specific acidity, you know.” Cluck shrugs again.
“And how do you know that?” Mr. Content says, pulling a knife from inside his jacket.
Cluck could have gone into detail about how the sketches of the flower had all shown the same deeply red soil, and how first-person accounts had shown that specimens stored with soil from the area lasted twice as long as those that had been replanted, and although all remnants of flowers from the last bloom cycle are long dead and disappeared, examples of the soil are still around and Cluck was able to contact a lab outside of Yorkshin for the detailed summary of the soil composition. She doesn't say this, however.
“Cause I'm a Hunter! And we know everything!” She jabs a finger forward, before sweeping it around the room, turning to each gunman in turn. “And we're bulletproof! So you better put those things away!”
About half of the gunmen draw back, visibly unsure. She decides to roll with it, and points instead at Kanzai. “And this one's crazy! ”
He turns towards her, his face drawn up, his eyebrows twitching. “What the hell's your problem?”
Mr. Content steps back, behind the others, adjusting his knife in a stance meant more for protection than offense. “Gentlemen, by your leave. Best not to have them getting in our way in the forests. Take them into secure custody.”
The first man clicks off his safety, and Cluck is running backwards, aura rushing to hands as she grabs the gigantic wooden table and flips it forward, onto its edge. Gunshots ring out, piercing the wood but not passing through. Kanzai ducks in beside her; he does not even need to crouch to get full cover.
Cluck's astonishment grows as more gunshots ring out. There's the curtained entrance back to the main dining room, and a separate closed door she recalled behind where their leader was standing. No windows, and she doesn't much relish the thought of having to work their way through an entire roomfull of guards, no matter which way they go.
There's a moment of silence before they can hear the clicking sounds of the guards reloading. Kanzai elbows her in the side. “Hey, what's with that face? You got a plan?”
“What? No! I didn't think they had any ammo. With the tunnel closed, how would they have gotten any resupplies? I thought they were just carrying around those guns, you know, for tradition. For the look.”
His scowl deepens. “So no plan, then.”
“We could roll the table. Use it for cover.” Cluck gives it an experimental roll, hanging on to the cross-bars at the table's base. It's more oval than round, and nearly topples from the effort. “Or maybe not. Batter up?”
Cluck watches Kanzai rolls one shoulder back, the aura coalescing in her eyes with Gyo as he conjures a baseball bat into his hands. This one is different than she remembers—it looks longer and lighter, and has a giant letter F in the middle of the grained wood. She makes a face.
“It's a practice bat,” he explains, noticing her staring. “Like I'd treat any of these suckers to Ash or Maple.”
“I'll be right behind you.” As they run out, the gunmen resume shooting, and Kanzai angles the bat in a wide arc, ricocheting the bullets like he's returning a four-seam fastball. Cluck keeps her body shrouded in aura in case any stray bullets get past Kanzai's batting stance—unlikely—but as they run back into the main dining room they are greeted with another dozen suits with a variety of weapons from antique-looking revolvers and modern pistols to curved knives and wooden truncheons pointed straight at them.
“Hey, I think that guy has a tazer,” Cluck says. Kanzai looks to her, then at her empty hands.
“You didn't bring a weapon ?” he shouts, and they are under fire again, switching sides and letting him take point as he sweeps away the bullets, sending them harmlessly into the far wall. “Well, find something!”
Cluck begins searching the tables for something to throw, but they've been cleared of all plates, all cutlery, and all glassware. There isn't even a spare wine bottle to use as a club. “See? I told you this was a good restaurant.”
“What?” Distracted, a bullet whizzes past, slicing the sleeve of his uniform. “Cluck, we've gotta go!”
Without any better options, Cluck grabs the white tablecloth off of the largest table, whipping it into a circle and throwing it over the heads of the advancing mafia gunmen. Then they run, out the door—and there's a bell over it, chiming their escape, and isn't that great—before they find themselves once more in the nearly-empty parking lot, running across the pavement and down the street as fast as their Nen -powered legs can take them.
“Got a plan now?” Kanzai shouts, holding the bat to his chest as he runs.
“Working on it!” Cluck casts a glance back—they aren't being followed, for now, and she's about to ask whether they're even running the right way or not when a car pulls up beside them with a screech.
“Quick! Get in!”
Kanzai swivels in place, bat raised to swing, when the driver instinctively lets out a scream.
“Hey,” Cluck says, “You're that kid that was with them. You brought us to the boss.” She snaps her fingers, trying to remember his name.
“It's Nikolaus. And quick, get in before they see us.” He unlocks the doors, and begins winding up the front window—Cluck can already feel her lip curling at that, as the car is one of those models she'd thought gone out of style with bell sleeves and the bubonic plague—but she pulls open the back door and turns to Kanzai.
“I think we can trust him. As nervous as he looked earlier, he looks downright terrified of us.”
“And we don't have any other options,” Kanzai finishes. Cluck shrugs in agreement, before sliding inside.
The moment the door closes, Nikolaus speeds away. The inside of the car is nicer than Cluck expects, and she props her feet up on the middle console.
“Hey, I bet you're a driver for the Mafia, aren't you?” she asks. “Is this even your car?”
“No, and don't do that!” He tries to brush her away, but Cluck only shifts to catch his eye in the rearview mirror. Beside her, squashed against the door, Kanzai sighs; the moment he removes his hands from the bat, it disappears.
The car nearly swerves of the road. “How did you do that?”
“Hey! Focus!” Cluck points forward, grabbing onto Kanzai with her other hand for support. The car rights itself, all passengers grumbling, and Kanzai reaches for the seatbelt.
“Kanzai, how did you know they were Mafia? You could've told me.” Cluck pouts, leaning back. The feathers in her hair are getting in his face.
“It was obvious. You're just dense,” he says. “At least the food wasn't poisoned. I can tell these things.”
“I know. You have an extremely sensitive palate.”
“Don't insult me!”
“Hey, hey!” Cluck shouts at Nikolaus, who's continued to hold the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grasp. “Where are you taking us, anyway?”
“Your hotel isn't safe. I thought we could lay low at one of the safehouses I know. No one would be looking for you there,” Nikolaus says.
With every twist and turn of the car, taking them further away from the city center, Kanzai does his best to keep a close guide on their path, just in case. “And why are you helping us?”
They come to a stop at a red light, and Nikolaus turns around to look at them. “Well, you're Hunters, right? They're the greatest of the great! They're like superheroes! Surely you're more powerful than the mafia here. They've kept the country under their thumb ever since the collapse of the tunnel—and it wasn't just the roads that broke. It was the media cables, the water lines, power lines—they said they could get them working again, and they did. But it came with a cost. They own everything around here. They're in control. There's no options for me. And I'd really like to get out of this place.”
“The light is green,” Kanzai says.
“So you help us, and we help you.” Cluck taps her fingers against her chin. “We can do that.”
“What?” Kanzai swivels between the two, the caution in his expression even further exaggerated. “We don't need help!”
Cluck rolls her eyes. “I asked you for help, didn't I?”
“That's different! You needed a bodyguard! What is it that this guy can do for us that your contacts can't?”
“At the Arboreal Society?” Cluck pulls out her phone, scrolling to find their number. “I tried calling when we landed, but got an answering machine.”
“Oh,” Nikolaus says, “they're probably Mafia, too. Maybe they wanted to get a professional here to help them recover a specimen of the orchid—they've been searching all this time, for any sign of it, to no effect. We've been combing the forests for weeks.”
“ Weeks !”
“Hey,” Cluck interjects, “do you have access to a map of the forests? Of the surrounding areas? Because of the mountains, I couldn't get any kind of satellite imaging of this place. Something about the geography or the minerals in the ground throws off most electronics.”
Kanzai continues spluttering. “It's a plant !”
“And I can't wait for you to see it!” Cluck snaps. “I want you to see it! I want to share this part of my life with you! You...ungrateful cretin!”
In the rearview mirror, Nikolaus looks away quickly. At the next light, the thick silence in the car is cut by the loud, foreign hip-hop music blaring from the car stopped beside theirs.
“Yeah, I should be able to get you a map,” Nikolaus says after another minute. Cluck maintains a frosty silence, crossing her arms and pulling up the edges of her fur-trimmed jacket. Still, she doesn't move, doesn't give Kanzai any more space in the backseat. She stares out the window, at the mid-rise apartment complexes and mini-marts they pass by. Every time the car stops, or turns to the right, her shoulder bumps against his.
Nikolaus still won't meet either of their eyes in the rearview mirror. “Malk...Mr. Content already has a buyer lined up. I overheard the conversation, as his driver. The price is higher than any number I've ever heard. And I'd rather help people who appreciate it. And any profits will go a lot farther split three ways.”
“Well, you can take the man out of the Mafia but you can't take the Mafia out of the man,” Kanzai says. “Don't worry, if it's money you want consider yourself officially on our payroll.”
“That's not...exactly what I had in mind...” Nikolaus coughs, his earlier blustery confidence fading away in the face of Kanzai's impudency. “How did you...do that thing earlier? With the bat? Are you like a magician?”
Kanzai glares at him, his lip curled. “Do I look like a magician?”
“It disappeared! I saw it!”
“Listen, kid,” Kanzai says. “You wouldn't understand it even if we told you. So just do your driving, and leave the rest to us, get it?”
Nikolaus is quiet for a moment. Then: “Maybe you can't do it again. Maybe it was a one-time thing. A fluke.”
“ What you sayin'?” Suddenly, the bat appears in Kanzai's hand again, the same fungo bat as before. The driver screams again.
“Yeah? Look at that!” The bat disappears and reappears again, filling the rearview mirror. “Is that a fluke to you?”
“Kanzai, cut it out,” Cluck says. The bat disappears immediately. “He's crying.”
“No I'm not.” There's a very distinctive sniffle in Nikolaus's voice. “We're here.”
The apartment complex they pull into is set back from the road and comprised of several smaller buildings instead of one tall one. The corridors are set outside, facing an exterior staircase of white-painted wooden panels, and there are enough cars in the parking lot that theirs won't stick out as much as Kanzai had worried it might.
“It's on the first floor,” Nikolaus continues. “I picked this one because I've got a key...some of the newer ones have a keypad access, and they might be able to track if someone's accessed it remotely. This one's mainly used for recovery, you know. A place to lie low if you've been hurt or if you need to avoid somebody.”
“Sounds perfect,” Kanzai says. “Been planning this for awhile, have you?”
“Leaving? Yes,” he admits, parking the car in a lot in the back and climbing out. “I've just been looking for the right moment. You still don't trust me, but you can.”
“Is there food?” Cluck asks. “I'm hungry again.”
“Non perishables. But there should be something.”
Her excitement plummets, and she follows Kanzai and Nikolaus—the former's aura spiking, his En reaching out for any sign of hostiles, even though there's nothing to be found—as they enter the apartment.
It's every bit as plain as the restaurant had been—there's a large leather couch and a table and chairs for furniture, one of those dated television sets that's deeper than it is wide, with dials instead of buttons, and a fan with a patterned glass shade that turns on when Nikolaus flips the lights. Cluck takes a perfunctory tour of the place, just to make sure there's no one else crashing there—there are no signs of anyone, no belongings, just an empty bedroom and the most tiny, dingy bathroom and kitchen. Nikolaus comes up beside her and starts opening cabinets.
“See? There's canned sardines! And some soup!” He sounds proud.
“You didn't also cook for the Mafia, did you?” she asks.
“No, that was his aunt, Dis.”
Cluck pauses for a moment, then turns and walks away. “Just give me the map when you find it.”
Five minutes later and they've found not only a series of maps, but a compass, set of radios for communication, and a first aid kit to clean the cut on Kanzai's arm. She's got the map spread out over the dining room table—the sardine cans are anchoring the corners, as she doesn't trust them anywhere near a plate—and she's doing notations in a notepad, trying to map out the curve of the mountainside with regards to what she's read about where the flower is likely to grow.
“This doesn't make any sense!” She drops the pencil on the table to keep from throwing it, grinding her teeth and fuming. “My calculations aren't off, but the math doesn't match up!”
“How so, Miss Cluck?” In the iterim, they'd finally gotten around to introductions, and Nikolaus has not stopped using it, and adding unnecessary formalities.
“It's Doctor Cluck, technically!” She picks up the pencil and goes back to scribbling, re-checking the measurements she's taken with her divider caliper and tugging on her hair in frustration. Unrolling a second map with Nikolaus's assistance, her summations are no clearer.
“And there's supposedly a river that runs through here , but where it's marked in this map doesn't match the other one! And there are these four groves of taller trees, marked here”—she shows Kanzai, even though he isn't looking—“but they're on the total opposite side on this other map! And you say you've been searching for weeks, right? So which is it!”
“Miss Cluck, keep your voice down,” Nikolaus says.
“That's Doctor Professional Hunter Cluck , four-time winner of the Golden Stage award to you!”
“So, why would the maps be inaccurate?” Kanzai asks, curled up on the couch with a thick plaid blanket. “Isn't that their entire purpose?”
“It's been...notoriously difficult to get an accurate reading of the ground in the Endeløs Forest,” Nikolaus admits. “It's thought to be because the ground is weak and always shifting—people go in and get lost, or think they're near one entrance but come out somewhere totally different. The tree cover is so thick, you can't easily see the sky, once you're in the center.”
“But you've been? This was your experience too?” Cluck asks.
“Yes. I spent three days in there, with a team, trying to find our way out after we got lost. What I saw...it was like the forest changed around me every time I turned around. I could not understand it.”
“Huh.” Cluck considers the map again, moving to the other side of the table to look at it from a different angle. “It could be like the Numere Wetlands, in the Kukan'ryu Kingdom.”
“I'm not familiar with that,” Nikolaus says at the same moment Kanzai asks, “What's that?”
“The Exam Committee's been trying to get a permit to use the site for ages. It's a swamp—there's a thick mist, it obscures the view of the ground and the local flora and fauna have evolved to use this to trap prey and take advantage of the disorientation.”
Nikolaus shakes his head. “There was no mist. I could see every step I took, I just didn't know where I was.”
“It's probably a you thing,” Kanzai says, agreeing with Cluck's unspoken sentiments. “We're professionals.”
“And I've lived here my whole life! I'm telling you, people don't go in that forest unless they have to. People say it's haunted. That the ground and the trees will eat you.”
“That's what the bat is for.” Kanzai's words are muffled into the edge of the blanket. Cluck can only see the fringes of black and yellow hair, visible over the top of the couch. “I'm taking a nap.”
“We've been traveling all day. It's probably best to get some rest before we go, and then get to the forest bright and early.” Cluck spends some more time working on the maps, before tossing her calipers aside in a huff. More work is only going to tell her what she already knows—that the forest is impossible to map, and probably for a reason.
Beside her, Nikolaus's nervousness is at a noticeable high. “Can you do that too?” He pantomimes what Kanzai does when he uses his technique.
“Can I make a baseball bat disappear and reappear in my hands? No.” Cluck checks her fingernails, looking for any chips in the polish. Still perfect, and even after all that business at the restaurant. She supposes when she has to dig them into the soil tomorrow that this will change.
“I can do something different. Something better ,” she continues. “But don't tell him that. Not that you'll see it. You'll be in the car. I don't want to have to worry about more than just myself and him.”
“What do you call it?”
“It's called Nen . But don't concern yourself about that. Your job is to drive us and keep us informed. My job is to retrieve a specimen of the Black Orchid.” Not for the Arboreal Society, not anymore, but for herself and for her team and for the world. “And his job is to take down anything that gets in our way.”
She concludes her little speech with a yawn, and makes her way towards the bedroom, shrugging out of her jacket.
“Miss Cluck? Where am I going to sleep?”
She all but shuts the door in his face. “Not my problem.”
The next day sees them awake and unhappy about it, sharing a pot of the strongest coffee Cluck's ever had in her life from among the supplies Nikolaus found in the cabinets. It will take hours, he says, to drive to the Northern-most entrance of the Endeløs Forest, where according to him there will be fewer Mafia grunts around, as the Southern side is more easily accessible, both for cars and for equipment. They've even tried to bring off-road vehicles into the forest, he tells them, with limited success, and gigantic spotlights and sensing machines. Everything gets lost, or breaks, and between them they have no weapons beyond what Kanzai can conjure, a limited amount of flares, and a plant transport container Cluck improvises from the empty, washed can of coffee grounds and a plastic bag from the mini-mart down the street where she buys some donuts.
She gets a few more hours of sleep in the car, leaning against Kanzai's shoulder with her legs tucked into the empty space at her right. As the crow flies, the distance from the safehouse to the edge of the forest isn't far at all, but the elevation changes drastically and the only roads are narrow and zigzag in such a way that it takes them much longer to make their way to their destination. They see no other cars on the road, due to the hour and the remoteness of their location, and as they drive the vegetation changes, from spindly, leafy trees set farther from the road to a wide variety of plants and mosses, curving over the railings and bridges their dark sedan traverses as they climb even higher into the mountainside. Cluck finds herself rambling, now wide awake and her attention fixed firmly on the hunt ahead of her.
“You know how in mountain ranges, the airflow means that one side is rainy and the other is mostly dry? The forests here are a rare result of the geography and weather patterns aligning to produce an area with rampant isochronism and a really diverse ecosystem. Plants rapidly grow and die, and they're replaced by even wilder, more niche species. Then the process repeats itself. And the animal life there must have evolved to live alongside these cycles. I can't wait to see it.”
Kanzai makes a face. “Isohedral?”
“Isochronic. Events occurring at regular time intervals. The Black Orchid blooms only once every seven years. It's probable that it's parasitic on whatever comes before it, a plant or fungi. Myco-heterotropic orchids are uncommon, but not unheard of. Maybe everything there is parasitic in some way—maybe that's even the reason the region is unmappable, if it's literally changing too fast to record. Maybe the maps we have would have been accurate at one point, but now we've moved past it in the cycle.”
“Cluck.” Kanzai speaks slowly, as if to a child. “The river moved between maps. You can't blame that on science .” He puts air quotes around the word with his fingers.
“Kanzai.” Her voice is even slower, with even more affectation. “ Everything is because of science.”
He pokes her in the shoulder. “What about Nen ?”
There's a long, measured silence. “That's...”
Then, she scowls, sitting up in her seat and jabbing her fingers against his sternum. “ That is totally unfair! You know how impossible Nen is to quantify! There aren't instruments that can measure aura beyond the trained eye and the variety in techniques doesn't even seem to be bound to our imaginations, considering how some people have abilities they don't even understand themselves! How can I possibly argue against that!”
Her teeth are gritted, her eyes narrowed, the feathers in her hair drooping. Kanzai matches her expression, growling, “Well, some people can't seem to create abilities that make sense —”
“ Mine makes perfect sense! ”
“It's like a princess in a fairy tale movie for children!” His scowl deepens. “Or like the protagonist in some low-budget animated series from twenty years ago.”
“How dare . My Pied Piper is unflawed. You're just jealous that as an Enhancer-type with a Conjuration ability, you don't have any delicacy with your skills,” she says. “Your strategy is always to just hit whatever you come up against with a bat and hope it dies.”
His head tilts to the side, stretching the marks across his cheeks. “If it ain't broke.”
“If you're done squabbling...” From the driver's seat, Nikolaus raises a hand, and both Cluck and Kanzai swivel their heads around to face him, sporting identical glares. “We've arrived.”
The forest's entry is marked only by the road's end into a cleared area of dirt and gravel, and a few signs and fences that appear to have not been replaced or cleaned in years. Ahead, they can see the slope of the forest curve upward, and the tree canopy growing even thicker the further they look.
Cluck affixes her coffee can to her back with a formless sack they'd found in the safehouse—it had been full of athletic equipment, and now it houses what few supplies they have. One of their two-way radios is left with Nikolaus, who will remain at the car, hidden as best they can behind a grove of bushes, and the other is clipped to Kanzai's belt.
Cluck pulls her phone out of her pocket; it's the newest model, the Beatle-05, and even though they'd had great service in the city center the screen flickers with connection problems. It had even worked in the airship, so she supposes the problem is deeper than the elevation or the isolation.
“We won't be able to contact you if there's a problem,” she tells Nikolaus. “Just be ready for our return. No matter how long that takes. Even if it's days, don't go anywhere. And if others from the Mafia show up here, hide or use your best judgment to confront or take them out. As long as you're ready, I don't care how you pass the time.”
“T-that's fine...” Nikolaus's nervousness is making Cluck nervous, so she steps away and moves towards Kanzai, who is doing calisthenics in the middle of the clearing, doing lunges and stretching out his legs and arms. Nikolaus glances towards the passenger seat, where a few silver cans are nestled next to the spare blankets. “At least I've still got the soup...”
“You good to go?” She does a few quick stretches herself, focusing on her arms and making sure her jacket is zipped to her chin and her pockets are fastened securely. She remembers an early mission, ruefully, where she'd been sent flying by an assailant and every candy wrapper and jenni coin in her pockets had come tumbling out. This had been in a protected wildlife preserve, where every contaminant was carefully detailed and collected and after dispatching the poachers who'd attacked her she'd had to scale a ravine just to get them back. The last thing she wants is to repeat the experience, especially when she worries that the ecosystem is too delicate to support even the most minor interference, not to mention whatever the Mafia had been doing in there for weeks in their search of the orchid.
“Ready when you are,” is his response. A moment later, and a wave back to Nikolaus from Cluck, and the two begin making their way into the forest. There is no path, but Cluck has memorized the maps, and begins traveling South as best she can, making her way between the largest gaps in the trees. In a minute, they completely lose sight of the clearing, and another minute later the trees have grown so much larger, and the tree cover so much thicker, that the light begins to thin and what sky is visible through the treetops looks darkened as if from a storm. Although there is no rain, the air is heavy with moisture and a little warmer than she expects.
“You're looking for something,” Kanzai says. “What is it?”
“Something different.” Cluck scans the forest, taking in the uneven pitch to the soil, and the meager understory above the forest floor. Every so often she stops, to listen for any sign of other intruders or to put her head to the ground to listen for running water. Once they find the river, Cluck is sure the path to the orchid will present itself to them. It will be easier to read the extent of the forest—right now, it looks not much different than any other forest in this part of the world.
She pauses again to listen, Kanzai right beside her. “It's strange,” she says. “I haven't seen a single animal since we've been here. No birds, no squirrels, nothing.”
“Your ability won't work without it, right?”
She makes a hmph in response, straightening and wiping the sweat from her forehead. “There's no berries, no flowers, either...it's springtime, so I'd expect to see some of that. But if there's nothing for the birds to eat, then of course there would be no birds. Unless the Mafia intrusion has chased them away.”
“Of course,” Kanzai echoes. “So, how do you explain that?”
She follows his outstretched hand towards a tree about fifteen feet away, unremarkable except for the faded X drawn on it in white chalk. Cluck bounds towards it in an instant, studying the mark and the ground around the tree. None others in the area are marked that they can see, but a few yards away she finds the remnants of wheel marks in the soft dirt.
“Something was brought through here,” she says. “Good eye.”
He makes a hmph at that, too, shrugging his shoulders and glancing back the way they'd came. “I'm hoping you know the way back. I'm not about to climb one of those to figure it out.”
They travel another few minutes in silence. Occasionally one of them will spot a tree marked with chalk—sometimes the marks are fresh, sometimes they look half worn away, and there seems to be no rhyme or reason to their organization.
“I wonder why they call it the Endeløs Forest,” Cluck muses.
“Probably should've asked Nikolaus that.” Kanzai alights onto a boulder with an unfair amount of grace, scrambling up and over a rift in the ground that Cluck ducks around instead. She can tell, he would be moving faster if he could, but he sticks to her pace, acting both as scout and support. They pass another tree with a faded X, and continue down the slope of the mountainside.
“This is so much fun,” Kanzai continues. “We should really work together more often.”
“Shut up!” The constant running, the loud sounds of her breathing in her ears, and the growing humidity is making it hard for her to think. “We're missing something! It'll be obvious once we get to the river, I know it!”
“And you know that how? Because none of the Mafia are here?” Kanzai kicks a pebble off into the distance, watching it clatter against the base of a tree, covered in dark mosses. “I think we've been running in circles.”
“I think you should shut up!” She stops running to spin, turning towards Kanzai when the ground slips underneath her feet and she goes tumbling, sliding down what she thought at the time was a gradual incline in the ground. Instead, there is a nearly vertical drop, hidden by boulders and covered by leaves, and Cluck finds herself plummeting down into a hollow of crumbling leaves and dark loam.
At the last moment she covers her body with Nen , landing and rolling to absorb the impact without injury. Sitting on the ground, she takes a moment to recover her dignity before glancing around. Vines crawl up the rocky surface surrounding her, and her excitement at finding something different is short-lived as she sees Kanzai's face peek over the top of the ledge. She climbs to her feet to study the vines—they're grafted to the spindly tree climbing up the rocks, parasitic in nature just as she'd thought, and she almost misses Kanzai jump off the ledge and manage a perfect, noiseless landing in the soft dirt beside her.
“There should be more growing here,” she says, digging her hands into the ground to feel the earth. “This is some really good soil.”
“You have something on your face,” Kanzai says in response, gesturing with his thumb at a spot at the base of his right cheek. When Cluck brushes a dirt-covered hand across the same spot on her own face, it does nothing. “No, there. There . No, never mind.”
Even further down, the sky is that much darker, but when Cluck listens closely she can hear the far-off sound of running water.
“Come on. It's this way.”
They continue running, and still there are no sign of creatures—no snakes, no mammals, not even any insects, which worries her most. The only way that could be explained is if everything in this forest was nocturnal, which...
She stops in her tracks, stroking her chin in thought. Could it be possible...?
“I think we made a mistake coming here during the daytime,” she says. “It's not that there's nothing to see, it's that everything won't come out until nightfall! The plants are nocturnal!”
Kanzai glances around, at the plain, unassuming trees, branches, and leaves, as if expecting them to suddenly sprout heads and join the conversation. “What? What's wrong with them?”
“They're nocturnal,” she repeats. At Kanzai's blank expression, she continues, “Nocturnal creatures are active at night and at rest during the day. Like owls, and rodents, and some...cats. For plants, it's more common in arid biomes, where the heat of the sun would wither anything that blooms during the day, so native species adapted so that the flowers would only open at night.”
He tips his head up, looking past the rocky curve at their backs to the tree canopy now so much higher up above. “I dunno, it seems pretty dark in here to me.”
Cluck freezes again, before her mouth stretches into a wide grin. “That's exactly it, isn't it? The closer we get to the middle, the darker it's getting...and we've been traveling for what, an hour? A little more? Do you have the time?”
Kanzai rolls up his sleeve, studying the face of his watch. “No...we've been in here for over four hours.”
“What?” She pauses, the sweat on the back of her neck cooling with the realization. She was hungry, her muscles were tired, and as she looked up at the tiny slices of sky visible through the tree canopy she felt the smallest bit of vertigo.
“It's like he said, isn't it,” Kanzai continues. “The same thing happened to the Mafia members. Time slips away from them—what feels like hours turns into days. I thought, since we were Hunters, it wouldn't apply to us the same way, but guess not. It's a little humbling.”
“You don't like it.” Cluck's smile turns soft at his sullen attitude. “Neither do I. Let's keep going.”
The pace they set now is more measured; considering it's been hours since they've had any nourishment, and with as much as they're sweating they're going to have to replace the moisture they've lost somehow, Cluck doesn't want to risk overexertion or fainting. She's not a medic, and she wouldn't trust Kanzai to put on a bandage correctly, let alone monitor for hypoglycemia.
“I'm gonna steal so much food from the Mafia,” she says, panting, as they stop for another break by a tree with a freshly-marked X. “That restaurant was so good!”
“ Shh .” Kanzai lifts a hand, then begins pointing with a series of hand signals Cluck has no idea how to interpret. At her blank stare, he regards her with open disappointment. “Can't you hear it? Voices, up ahead. Be quiet.”
She can, now that she takes a moment to listen. Voices, and the strange sound of machinery cranking, like a fan belt or belay device. They creep closer, and while the voices become clearer, they're indiscernible—the speech is in the native language, and interspersed with laughter. Peering around the edge of a tall boulder, they are finally able to see the full extent of the Mafia's camp.
The first thing she sees is an oversized generator, whirring loudly and connected with cords to a variety of other equipment. There's some kind of rappelling device, as she'd thought—something large and heavy, with a kind of affixed frame to transport both multiple people and supplies. Luckily for them, the framework is at the top, but four Mafia gunmen sit around it, talking and eating. They're ribbing each other; every so often, one will laugh, or make a joke. None of them Cluck recognizes from the restaurant, but she does recognize the food they're eating, which fills her with understandable envy.
Tents are set up haphazardly in the cleared spaces between trees—and not all the clearings are natural, as she can see hatchets and log clearing machines, discarded and unattended beside jagged tree stumps. Tall, electric powered lights have been drilled into some of the trees about fifteen feet up in a perimeter, washing the area in a bright, artificial light, and beyond that, the ground dips in a brutally familiar way. Just like when she'd fallen into the cavern earlier, a second ledge leads down into an even deeper cave. At a glance, the edges seem to be fringed with a series of strange leafed bushes, but on deeper consideration they appear to be the tops of even taller trees. And below, the sound of rushing water of what could only be the river. Her anticipation grows, her hands shaking. The thought of a hunt—and she hasn't hunted anything in so long—is thrilling beyond all expectation.
“How deep do you think it goes?” Kanzai whispers. “Deep enough they need an elevator.”
“That's not what it is...oh, whatever.” Cluck returns her attention to the gunmen. “How do you want to proceed?”
When she glances back at Kanzai, he's holding a bat; this one is lighter in color, with extremely visible graining and a large letter A emblazoned on the side. He taps the bat into the palm of one hand and raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, fine, but make it quick. I don't want the whole forest knowing we're coming.”
Five minutes later, Kanzai's knocked out all four men before they even have the chance to blink, and tied them up with rope to one of the smaller trees. Cluck sits in their place, leaning against the generator, chewing on a sandwich. Of the thermos bottles around the campsite, only one has water; the others have coffee and vodka, which is worse than useless when combating dehydration, but the river below is promising and after they spend a few minutes burrowing through the tents they come up with even more food—energy bars and protein drinks and similar things she remembers from late nights as a student.
“Cluck.” Kanzai repeats her name twice, standing to the side with arms crossed as Cluck continues to sort all the trash she can find, stuffing the empty food containers into a plastic bag she'd found and retrieving the litter the gunmen had left around their campsite. “ Cluck .”
“Nature preservation is important!” She throws a wrapper into the bag and follows it with an empty soda can. “Who knows what damage they're doing down there!”
“I really think someone so interested in making money isn't going to risk ruining the very thing he's trying to sell with his efforts.” Kanzai tilts his head to the side as he watches Cluck hurl a full pack of cigarettes into the trash.
“ Still .” She stands, straightening her back and dusting off her hands. “I don't feel quite so bad about beating up all these strangers anymore.”
“Did you ever?” They make their way to the rappelling machine, studying it and climbing into the open cage.
“I mean, they don't even know Nen .” She grips one of the metal bars with one hand before leaning over the side, bracing with her toes and tilting her body straight down to get the best view over the crevasse. “It's not exactly fair.”
Below, the first thing that catches her eye are the bright, jewel-pink and orange flowers nestled in the tops of the some of the highest-level trees. The leaves are wide and spiky like a palm tree, the trunk thick and striated, and the flowers look more tropical than anything else. She cannot see any other people on the ground, only a metal surround for the rest of the lift platform to secure it after it descends. Kanzai handles the control levers, and the platform begins to slowly move down the side of the cliff.
As they descend, the air grows even warmer, and Cluck discards her jacket, balling it up and stuffing it inside her knapsack. And as they fall, the view crystallizes into unbelievable, astonishing focus.
Flowers, of every bright color nature could provide, scattered like sequins across the fabric of the forest. Vines crawling with beetles with shells patterned like amber, plants growing out of the rock with spiny protrusions and speckled leaves, everything in the full bloom of life. The darkness grows even deeper, but their descent is slow enough their vision adjusts as they go. Still, she cannot see all the way across this second level of the forest, only a few bright spots of unmoving color before it is swallowed up by blackness and silence.
At the base, they step off the platform—there are no others, or any signs of other Mafia gunmen. She breathes deeply, taking in the spiky grasses growing off to the side of a makeshift path, the rows of vividly-colored mushrooms along the edge of the cliff, the almost glowing mosses lining the roof of the cavern. Where the treetops brush the rocks, the air is heavy with mist and the branches seem to shake as if from some wind current she cannot feel all the way at the ground.
Even standing still, her feet seem to sink slightly into the loam, the dirt as soft as if it was freshly-tilled.
“Ok, you're up,” Kanzai says. He doesn't look fazed at all, but he does sound impressed, and she'll just have to take it. “I'll admit, this is a lot nicer.”
“You haven't seen nothing yet.” Cluck cracks her knuckles, the gesture reminding her suddenly of something Kanzai would do. She smiles, and begins leading a path straight into the forest.
The sound of rushing water grows even stronger—the river must be underground, or at least partially so, and as they approach Cluck can see water trickling down the rocks in places. A waterfall, maybe, or some rapids, depending on the strength of the currents. Bright mosses grow along the rocks, but here there are no insects, nothing else of note.
“Don't touch anything,” she tells Kanzai. “The brighter it is, the more dangerous, probably.”
Movement, up ahead. A few small birds, with bright flocks of color across their backs, resembling the same patterns of the bright leaves of a few smaller trees she remembers seeing around the mouth of the cavern. It's not enough—they're not close enough, and there's not enough of them to risk trying to use her ability. She will only have one shot at this, and she's determined to get it right.
She asks Kanzai for the time again—it's been another couple hours, longer than either of them thinks, and as they continue they see every type of fern, grass, and flower conceivable, except for the orchid she seeks. There are spiders, frogs with spots the color of jewels, and birds with sharp, hooked beaks drifting too far overhead to reach. Where the plants are oversized, almost large enough to be comical, the animal life is diminutive in size, and almost entirely useless to her. What does this say, that the plants are the predators here?
There are more chalk marks on the trees, and boulders jutting out of areas of soft, tilled dirt, and behind one such boulder the ground drops out and Cluck can see the river exposed, rushing over the visible roots of a gnarled tree and disappearing just as suddenly over another small drop in the ground. Narrow silver fish, like the kind they'd eaten at the restaurant, swim with the current, and when Cluck drops down against the ground, holding her palm above the water, she hesitates. The fish are there, perfect in numbers, but still not ideal for her needs. They could not travel with her, could not leave the cover of water.
And beyond, they hear voices. Shouting.
“I told you it was there!” The voice is frantic, half-sob and half-scream. “I saw something move!”
“You saw nothing!” She recognizes the loud, flat voice of Mikkel, and as they creep around a boulder they can see about a dozen Mafia gunmen with their backs to the river; all look dazed, their faces dripping with sweat and their eyes glassy. They clearly spent the night searching, and how many nights before that?
“If you cannot find the orkidé , then you cannot find excuses!” he yells. “When you find it you can rest!”
“I saw...” One of them staggers, trying to find the words. “I saw something! Where did it go?”
The next moment, Kanzai leaps out of the darkness, not even waiting for her cue, baseball bat in hand, swinging. He gets out two before the rest have the sense to draw their guns, and then he adopts a defensive pose, returning each shot as it comes and moving even further forward.
Cluck glances between them all, before looking down at her own feet. She's standing beside the boulder, out in the open, her every instinct telling her to keep moving, to dodge, to go on ahead. The gunmen must be right, they must be close; it is as if she can sense it.
Kanzai volleys another round of bullets, his posture wide, and when the others reload he grasps the bat in both hands and slams it into the ground, sending a shockwave that almost knocks them all off their feet.
What is he doing? He's taking all the fire, drawing it away from her. His mouth moves, although she cannot hear the words. Is he talking to her?
He is, though. He's been shouting to her for some time now. Why are her legs moving so slowly?
She glances up. They all do, at the sudden shadow that falls over them like a blanket. She squints into the darkness, uncertain, before her eyes widen and she staggers back as a branch whips through the air, catching one of the gunmen around the middle and launching them in mid-air back into the dark.
Adrenaline supplies her feet with motion and her mind with clarity, and she leaps out of the way of a second branch, sweeping across the clearing at knee-level. Most of the gunmen clear it, but a few are knocked to the ground, and Kanzai lands beside her, his bat held high and his eyes full of incredulity.
“What the hell is that?!” He holds out the end of the bat, gesturing with it as a gigantic tree, its trunk marked with a faded chalkmark, comes marching out of the shadows on large, disparate roots. It strikes, again, and this time the gunmen turn their weapons on the tree, emptying an entire clip each into its trunk with little effect.
“A tree, obviously.” Cluck has to crane her neck up to even see it all, and when the roots contract, sliding it backwards through the dirt and out of sight, she remembers the maps and their previously-unexplainable inconsistencies.
“You laughed when I told you we were going to be hunting a plant,” she reminds him.
It strikes again, and this time the branch lunges forward, striking the man on Mikkel's right and plunging straight through his chest. It retracts, dragging the body with it, and Mikkel and the others turn to canisters placed haphazardly around the rocks.
“Get the flares!” he shouts. “Burn them down! Use the liquid nitrogen!”
Cluck starts, reaching out for the other to try and knock the equipment out of their hands. “Don't!”
Kanzai instead reaches for her, yanking Cluck out of the way as the tree rushes forward again, two branches whipping out to try and snag any additional prey and missing all targets. It lingers, the branches poised, waiting for any movement.
A second tree, its branches tipped with coiled pink flowers, slinks through the darkness behind the first.
“How many do you think there are?” Kanzai asks. “Do you think they all move like that?”
“I think the entire forest is alive,” she answers, and watches as Mikkel raises a flare gun and blasts it straight up into the canopy of the main tree. It bursts into life, sending flames and red smoke across the treetop—the new light source illuminates the top of the cavern and with it they can see the writhing movement of dozens of other trees, coming closer.
“Retreat!” Mikkel shouts, sweeping out his arm and trying to push his men behind the cover of boulders. “Get back!”
Several of them run, others raising guns to fruitlessly cover their progress, their gait still uneven and their faces still disoriented and eyes glazed. She doesn't know if they're even running in the right direction.
On a whim, she lights up her eyes with Gyo .
It is as though she can see in the darkness as far as her En can go. She sees every rock, every blade of grass, every movement of the gunmen as they blip out of her radar and every minutiae of the tree before her. She glances to Kanzai, and sees that at her approach, he too washes his eyes with Gyo .
“I can't believe we didn't think to use our auras earlier.” Her En stretching out, she's able to track the one tree moving counterclockwise with an ease that completely eluded her earlier. “We're such idiots.”
There's screaming, from the Mafia men ahead of them. The second tree, trapping the others. Kanzai rests the baseball bat against his shoulder.
The next time the tree sends a branch forward, Kanzai is ready, and whips the bat forward, cloaked in aura, and splinters the branch with the force of his swing. The tree staggers back, and Cluck surges forward, spiking her aura and sending a Nen -infused punch straight at the center of the trunk. It splits the tree in two, and she feels the moment it flickers and dies, falling backward with a resounding crash that shakes the already pliant ground. The forest is silent, the other trees creeping backwards, and a moment later everything is still.
She stares into the darkness, her Nen receding. The pitch blackness of the forest reminds her of the black ink of the sketch, and her only thought once again is for the orchid. She finds herself turning, staggering on shaky legs over to the river and dropping to her knees beside it. Silvery fish dart through the water, seemingly unaware or unaffected by the fight that just occurred.
“Cluck.”
She barely hears Kanzai call her name, her hand outstretched towards the fish, her desire so profound to find the orchid that if it was anyone else, she doubts she would have paused at all. But it's Kanzai, and she does.
“Cluck, look at yourself.”
She does, glancing back into the river and meeting her reflection. Glassy, dull eyes stare back at her. A pallid complexion, wisps of hair clinging to the sides of her face from sweat. She looks like the gunmen, like whatever had trapped them here is now affecting her. And she remembers reading about the Black Orchid, about how just the sketch alone moved her to action, and how anyone who caught so much as a glance was bidden to offer every cent they had for the opportunity to own it.
And her mind clarifies, this time, she believes, for good.
She coughs into one shoulder, aware now of how her vision swims, what that means, and what to do when it happens.
“What happened to you?” She's never heard Kanzai sound concerned about her, but this almost seems close. He grips her shoulder tightly with his free hand.
“Spores, maybe. Or some kind of effect from a psychotropic fungus or flower. I wasn't expecting that. I'll be better soon.”
“Why didn't it affect me?”
She considers the options, not wanting to suggest aloud that it could be due to his height, or the fact that his high collar and long sleeves cover more of his skin than her outfit with its exposed arms and legs. It could even be that it merely amplifies whatever natural desires exist in a person, and a Botanical Hunter would already be predisposed towards wanting to enter the forest and unearth its mysteries.
“Maybe it did. Or maybe there's nothing to affect.” She means it lightly, but he takes offense, scowling and curling his lip over pointed teeth.
“Well, excuse me for caring.” He steps back, crossing his arms. As she studies him, he doesn't look like the gunmen—his eyes are focused, his posture is even, and he doesn't seem distracted by anything around him, despite how remarkable it all is. Instead, even as he feigns disinterest, she can feel through his aura the bulk of his attention is still exclusively centered on her.
“Come on,” she says. “We've come this far. Let's find that orchid.”
They walk together; she keeps her aura flexed, and every time they come into range of one of the larger trees, she feels it shrink backwards.
Beneath the lacerated leaves of a fern she finally finds what she is looking for. A cluster of small rodents, with large pointed ears and bushy tails sit together chewing on some kind of large, flat tubers. She holds out a hand, concentrating her Nen , and her Pied Piper flares to life.
The rodents stop, their eyes swiveling to focus on her. She can only use Pied Piper once per day, and once she establishes contact with it she cannot switch it to a new set of targets. Her ability grants her total control over any number of the same kind of animal, with the conditions that she must not have caused them harm, can only give them one command at a time, and cannot give them a new command until they finish the old one.
“Help me find the Black Orchid,” she tells them. “Please.”
The rodents turn and scurry across a rock, glancing back as if to tell her to follow them. And she does, leaping around boulders and under fallen logs, leaving the area by the river and making their way back up a steady slope of the cave floor. And she can feel the forest try to shift around them as they move, but the rodents know the forest well, and are able to correct course and take them straight to where she hopes the orchid is.
In an area blocked by a curtain of moss, the rodents sit and wait, chittering together and staring up at Cluck with black eyes. The air is brighter here, and tinged with something sweet and unfamiliar.
Kanzai uses his bat to sweep aside the curtain. “After you,” he says.
Cluck steps through first, her feet once again sinking into the soft dirt. There are cracks in the rocks above, letting in just enough light that slices of it hit the forest floor at frequent enough angles for her to see the first of the flowers.
She had thought she would only find one specimen, and maybe not even one in full bloom.
Instead, an entire grove of them spreads out before her, as far as she can see. Each flower is equidistant from the rest, open in perfect bloom, the black petals as flawless and beautiful as every documented example.
Kanzai steps into place beside her. She hears his breath catch in his throat, and feels him reach for her hand. But they both cannot look at anything other than the field of orchids in front of them.
Then, he turns to look at her. “Is it everything you wanted?”
She can barely make out the word. “Yes.”
“Great.” He stands beside her for another minute. He doesn't even comment on the tears drying on her cheeks, or the dirt smudged onto her hands and face. But he does still open his mouth to say, “How are we getting out of here again?”
“The rodents,” she says. “the rodents.”
“...And we're going to have to deal with a bureaucratic nightmare to package some of these up and transport them. Plus dealing with all of the dead Mafia. You got a plan for that too?”
She pauses, considering. She'll have to arrange a visa for Nikolaus, agriculture entry permits, and fast-track some laboratory assistance with negating any negative effects of the orchid's spores. Then, her mouth stretches into a grin. “I'll have to call in a favor. But that does give me an idea...”
–
Pariston Hill stands before the press briefing, wearing a black suit patterned with begonias. And gold aviator sunglasses.
To his right, Cluck is silent, arms clasped behind her back as Pariston reads off the teleprompter, some fluff explanation he'd scripted himself after Cluck called in the favor he'd offered her for voting in his interests in some real estate proposal some months ago.
“The Black Orchid will be preserved and cultivated, studied in labs across the continents and, of course, available for display at the museums here in Swaldani City and in Yorkshin!” He spreads his arms wide, a beaming smile gracing his face. It's hard to imagine him in a setting like Razing, covered in dirt and grime, but she manages. She's got to keep herself occupied somehow during this boring briefing.
“And now, my colleague Cluck will say a few words,” he continues, and Cluck startles. She certainly wasn't expecting this—it hadn't been in any part of their discussion. In fact, he'd seemed pleased to be in full control of the media dissemination, but now with little choice she steps up to the podium in his place and reads from the teleprompter.
“Charting the Endeløs Forest will provide us with a wealth of information and will lead to new discoveries in medicine and bioscience. And of course, none of it would be possible without the tireless work of my good friend, Pariston Hill...” She pauses, gritting her teeth. “Who is one of the most generous and selfless men I know.”
Pariston beams, and the crew of media reporters applaud briefly as she steps back.
“Thank you for your time!” He waves, beckoning her back behind the doors into the Association headquarters.
“Now,” he tells her, once the noise from the crowd of reporters outside has died down, “I still have some calls to make. And I was hoping you would be there for the opening of the exhibit here. It's tonight, and the guest list has already been decided, but I'm sure I can get you in.”
How generous indeed. “I can't, I'm afraid. I've got plans.”
“Really?” He tilts his head, his every microexpression a study in curiosity. “What might those be? I've thought your social calendar was a little thin as of late.”
“Shut up!” If she didn't want him to ruin her good mood, the first step should have been not to let him know about it in the first place. Or, she could always rub her happiness in his face. “Actually, I've got a hot date.”
His expression falls immediately, disgust marring the otherwise immaculate features. “You don't need to share every detail.”
“I wasn't. It's none of your business. Have fun at the museum! Bye!!” With reporters blocking the entrance and Pariston standing in front of the lobby corridor leading to the main bank of elevators, she doesn't have many viable avenues of escape. Still, she knows about a back door leading to the parking garage, so she takes it and slips out.
She has a few more hours to kill until Kanzai takes her to dinner. Somewhere nice. A surprise, he'd said.
At the end, he gives her flowers. Real ones. Purple orchids, for her desk.
[fanfiction] Hunter x Hunter - Motion in the Ocean
Title: Motion in the Ocean
Word Count: 11,114 words
Pairing: List x Elena, Dwun x Eeta
Summary: After the events of Greed Island, List and Dwun take Elena and Eeta on the most epically disastrous double date in history.
A/N: Written for the Hunter x Hunter Big Bang 2017 Challenge. Takes place immediately post-GI arc. Huge thanks to rouvere, gonprohunter, and amalaleteia who will be doing some lovely art for this story! I hope you enjoy! [FF.net] [Ao3]
He's not going to comment on how, no matter what, all Dwun seems to be able to talk about is Greed Island or its creator. List doesn't expect him to get over it—after all, they all have their own coping mechanisms. For the twins, it's a spur-of-the-moment road trip across the continent—for him, it's that ever-present emptiness and inescapable boredom—and for Dwun, it's an inability to let go, to place the blame on the one in the center and lash out at everyone around him. After living with friends for so long, living alone is a hard thing to adapt to.
Motion in the Ocean
After three days, he still hasn't gotten used to waking up in his old bed, facing a different window, in the apartment on the Ligorian coast he'd left behind when he'd agreed to join the team and live and work on Greed Island. It's like a jolt, unexpected and sudden, and then he spends the next few minutes staring out at the slice of blue water visible through the curtains of his bedroom window and making plans to purchase and install a set of blinds.
This he could get used to; he had a similar experience moving to the island, at first, and living in that expansive castle in Limeiro. No, what strikes him the strangest about the entire ordeal is that, after three days, he has yet to hear from any of the others. They departed, separately, through a set of cards remaining to them as Game Masters, and while Ging's silence is a matter of course, he expected to hear from one of the others. Dwun is even something of a neighbor to him—he lives an hour or so away, in a similar apartment complex that suits a Hunter like them—close to the airport, in a gated community, and private enough that one could leave without notice for days, months, or years at a time with no issue.
He buys the blinds and spends the afternoon installing them—the absolute mundane act of driving to the hardware store and standing in line with a box of blinds under one arm and a toolkit in the other is, to his utter disappointment, the most exciting thing he's experienced since his return. And he calls Dwun. He doesn't answer. List tries again, and once more it rings three times before going to Dwun's voicemail.
So, List hops in the car and decides to drive over. It's either that, or keep waiting for news of some kind, or go out to the Hunter Association seeking another job. The last two suggestions make him wrinkle his nose and turn the volume up on whatever pop-lite channel he'd set the radio to the last time he'd driven the vehicle. Years and years ago.
So, naturally, he gets lost. Twice. It's getting late into the afternoon, and by the time he finally gets to Dwun's doorstep he's ready for a drink and some peace. So, when he knocks, repeatedly, without answer, the scale of his ire starts to tip a little further south.
He tries the knob. It's locked, with some kind of rudimentary system—Dwun was constantly misplacing his keys, List remembers—and with a sigh, he starts to work on picking it with his tie clip. It's a skill Dwun himself taught him, so List figures his friend won't mind. Much.
A few minutes later, List closes and re-locks the door behind him. The lights are off, and a thick stack of mail on the inside of the doorway gives him pause, but what draws his attention immediately is the loud music coming from the descending staircase.
It's a strange, cinematic if clearly electronic soundtrack, punctuated by yelling and cheers. Coming downstairs, List sees Dwun, seated cross-legged on the dated blue carpeting, a game console in his hands and the gigantic television before him playing some kind of first-person shooter. His health's in the red, and surrounding Dwun rests a number of empty paper plates, soda cans, and flat cardboard boxes.
"Dwun!" List calls out, and a moment later Dwun pauses the game and glances over his shoulder.
"Oh! List!" His eyes are bloodshot, and on a second inspection List notices not one, but three different game cases open around the base of the television. "You're here early. Or is it late?"
He pauses. "You don't know?"
"It's definitely either one or the other." Dwun turns back to the game, clicks a button on his console, and it restarts in a flurry of chatter and ammunition.
List flicks open the lid of one of the boxes with his foot. Inside are the greasy crusts of a cold pizza. Slowly, he crosses the room, to the windows, covered in thick, blackout curtains—and what a much better idea those would have been—and rips them open.
Like any apartment on the Ligorian coast worth its salt, all windows face the ocean, and the now-brilliantly setting sun. Piercing orange light fills the room, and Dwun ducks to the side, throwing his arms over his eyes.
"List! How could you!" On the screen, Dwun's video game character dies, and Dwun howls again. "You were like a brother to me! How could you hurt me in this way?"
He rolls around on the floor, knocking over a soda can, and after a moment List puts him out of his misery and swings half of the curtains closed.
"Well, it's evening," he says. "As you can see. Have you really spent the last three days doing nothing but playing video games?"
"It's been years," Dwun gripes, sitting up and staring despondently at the television. "A lot of good games have come out since then! Surely you've got a backlog of new books you've been waiting to read?"
List shrugs. "No."
"I forget. You only like the classics." He reaches over, snags one of the pizza crusts, and pops it in his mouth. "And did you say three days?"
Now he wonders why he ever thought that something important or hazardous had been keeping Dwun—or any of the others—away. And although it's hard to imagine the twins playing a game like this, he's curious if the others are dealing with their newfound freedom like List with his ennui, or more like Dwun with his...puerility.
List pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales.
Without looking back, Dwun pats the empty space next to him. "There's a two-player mode," he offers.
Without saying a word, List drops down beside him and lets Dwun slap another console into his empty hands.
Two Days Later
They'd made it through Crash Lawson 5 and Zombie World Reckoning before List couldn't take any more. The plots were thin and the character development was nearly nonexistant! Who was developing these games? List had half a mind to write them a letter.
Dwun had been understanding—and caught him up to date on Crash Lawson one through four—and told him that, after Greed Island, it wasn't like any other game could really hope to compare, in the same ways.
At least he'd put his foot down at any kind of take-out. Limits were important.
List nurses a soda can on Dwun's couch while Dwun plays some sort of adventure game. He already wants another nap. "Your energy astounds me."
"It's a good game." He sounds defensive—this one, according to Dwun, is an indie, so the budget was thin and it shows in the graphics—and according to what he'd gleaned from the plot, the player character is taking a treasure map to a mystical temple high in the mountains to be decoded, and facing minor perils in the form of crevasses and jungle fauna and nearsighted enemies along the way.
"And besides, it's only the first act. Give it time," he continues.
List scratches at the stubble growing in under his chin. "We're Hunters. We could go out and experience this sort of thing for real, if we ever wanted to."
There's silence from Dwun, and for a moment something bubbles in List's stomach. "You don't...actually want to go out and experience something like this, do you?"
More silence, before he's jarred from his focus and the question seems to register in his mind.
"Nah. What I'm really itching for is the mundane."
"The mundane?" List echoes.
Dwun crosses his legs; his day-of-the-week socks read Friday. "Let's go do something completely normal. We'll invite Eeta and Elena, and go sightseeing...you know, as a celebration."
List isn't really following his leaps of logic; didn't they already celebrate on the island? And the concept of sightseeing, like a tourist, fills him with distaste.
"Where would we go? There's not much in the area to see."
"How about Wave City?" Dwun suggests.
List's nose wrinkles. "That tacky place?"
"And you've never been, so it's perfect. They've got good seafood, at least. And a boardwalk, and some nice arcades..."
List mulls the idea over while Dwun continues to extol the virtues of this generously-labeled seaside resort town. Something about Dwun's hopeful face gives him pause.
"Wait a minute...this has nothing to do with celebration. This is all about Eeta! What did she say to you?"
"But you told me you were going to tell her about your feelings the night before the game ended! What did you do, you coward?" He gestures wildly with his soda can.
"I thought I would see her at the party. I told her I'd meet her...and then it never happened. I got so caught up in celebrating Gon's victory...I wonder how that all went?"
"Don't change the subject!" List shouts. Behind them, the dramatic music from the game's pause screen blares through Dwun's magnificent speaker system.
Dwun sighs, his shoulders slumped. "What else can I do?"
"Just call her. You know, like a normal person."
"You know she never goes anywhere without her sister. And if you're there, you can help psych me up. Give me advice."
"Advice? Don't ask me."
"Then who?" Dwun asks.
"You should ask Ging." It's worth it, to see the scandalized look on Dwun's face, and List does his best to control his laughter. "I'm sure he's got lots of stories. He can give you a little guidance."
"You're a horrible person."
By now, List is clutching his stomach with laughter. "You need all the help you can get!"
Dwun jabs a finger in his direction. "You're just trying to distract me from the issue at hand!"
In-between giggles, List nods sagely. "Like you're trying to distract yourself with these games?"
"You don't have to put it like that. These have been a very fun five days. Six? Six days?"
List, after a moment, realizes he can't remember either. "Definitely six."
They sit in silence for another few minutes—the game soundtrack continues to play the same, now inapropos, music in the background. List takes a sip of his grape soda.
"Hey. How about this. If you put everything together, I'll go out with you, Eeta, and Elena. It'll be fun."
"Fun," Dwun echoes, with all the joy of a funeral dirge.
"A nice, normal, mundane outing," List says. "That's just what you want. What could go wrong?"
Another scandalized gasp from Dwun. "Never ask that. And I thought you were the genre-savvy one?"
List keeps his voice carefully monotone. "Now it's going to rain."
One Week Later
They agree to meet at Wave City, an ocean resort town just up the coast. Its hallmark is a mile-long boardwalk along the water, populated by seafood shacks and shops selling beachwear and souvenirs. It's old and weathered and, considering the season, absolutely swarming with tourists and almost uncomfortably warm.
Of course, he is the first to arrive. The sky is bright and the sun is shining and List is convined his nose is going to be sunburned before the hour is up. And he's still wearing a dress shirt, tie, and long pants, looking entirely out of place amongst the rest in their coverups and flip-flops.
And then Dwun shows up, waving an arm, in cutoffs and a rust-orange sleeveless shirt. List waves back, only to hear laughter from behind him. He turns, and sees the twins walking up; Eeta has one arm up and is waving enthusiastically back. Suddenly sheepish, the redness on his face has nothing to do with the sun. He slings his arm behind his neck, pretending he meant to do that.
"Eeta! Good to see you!" He calls to the waving twin, wearing a bright combination of pink and mint-green ruffles on her shoulders and miniskirt.
"It's Elena," she says flatly back, pulling her sunglasses down her nose to stare at him over them. Beside her, her sister stifles a laugh and they exchange a look.
"So," Eeta says, glancing around, and for all the dilapidated whitewashed buildings and neon signs she seems impressed by it all. "What's the deal with this place?"
"It's old, like eighty years old." Dwun fills in the blanks as they walk, gesturing as they make their way down the boardwalk. "The fishing was really good back then. It's sort of died down now, though. The boats have to go out to sea now, but people used to fish all along the pier. Now it's just a good place to go and spend some time."
The boardwalk is broad, but it's still awkward for the four of them to walk in a line together, and after a few minutes List falls behind, to wait with Elena as she stops to take a picture of the pier.
"So, what have you and Eeta been up to since we left Greed Island?" he asks.
"Sleeping," she answers, again in that same flat inflection. "I have a lot to catch up on."
He winces; her job had been a lot more hands-on than his, and he's not sure what kind of answer he expected. "Surely you have plans?"
"Yeah. Rest and relaxation." They walk a few paces behind Dwun and Eeta. The latter is babbling about all the new cafes that had moved into their hometown since they've been gone, and Dwun is talking just as excitedly about the reputation of the crabcakes at the restaurant they're going to at the other end of the boardwalk.
"Spas and beaches," Elena continues. "We're gonna take a tour of the entire coast. It'll be so nice to have a beach with a current that won't kill you if you go out too far."
List winces again. The island had a manufactured hot spring, he remembers, and while the twins and Razor had been huge proponents of it, List had preferred the manufactured physical spaces—the cities, libraries, kitchens and restaurants.
"So what about you?"
"I put up blinds." List decides to just keep his face in that perpetual state of contortion. "And played video games with Dwun."
"Oh, which ones?" They spend a few minutes discussing the finer points of the Crash Lawson series—there aren't many, so it doesn't take all that long, and afterwards the smile starts to fade from Elena's face.
"Eeta doesn't really like games anymore," she says, softly. "After GI. She won't play with me. I can't even make games out of silly things. Any kind of competition, she won't participate."
"I get that." A group in rollerblades rush in front of them, laughing and bumping against the railing at their right. They look only a little younger than List. "How quickly the luster fades." He has nothing to complain about; the money was great, he got to work with friends, and the game had been the ultimate outlet for his creativity.
"I kind of resent him a little for it." Elena doesn't have to say a name. "But I don't want to resent Eeta for anything. I always knew it was going to be a little strange, adjusting. I keep dreaming I'm there."
List can't really remember most of his dreams, such as they are. He thinks they're probably simple and ordinary, full of mundane plots and characters, like the boardwalk around them. He's of the opinion that those with simple lives have extraordinary dreams, and his life, dull as it might be in recent example, has never been simple.
"Do you want to hear a story?" he asks. It's a game, one they used to play when all the founders were together, around a table littered with papers and beers with Nen crackling at their fingers.
"Sure," she says, falling into the routine.
"There was a man..." He casts his eyes around, alighting on the side of a building and its loudly-painted mural. "Who was green. Bright green."
Elena stifles a snort, but goes along with it, nodding. "This green man...did he come from space?"
"Yes. He was stuck. The spaceship crashed, and he needed a special component to repair it. Something that was unspeakably precious on his planet. It was a..."
He looks around again, spotting a woman with a huge, garish flower in her hair. "A geranium."
"A geranium?"
"They press the flowers, and make an oil from it that powers the spaceship. So he went out into the world, trying to find one. Unfortunately, the day he crashed..."
This time, they walk past a couple in an embrace, oblivious to all else around them. "It was a holiday. One celebrating love. People give flowers to those they care about, as gifts. The man couldn't find any flowers in the shops, not for any price. Not that he expected them to, after all, being so precious on his home planet. So he starts asking everyone he sees with flowers, if they will give them to him."
"And does this go well for him?"
"Well, that depends on your point of view," List says, his voice playful. "His unusual looks make him quite striking. The people he asks for flowers think he's really asking them for love—since it's a holiday, after all. So he gains a swarm of admirers—"
A group of joggers cut him them off, darting around the couple and running past Dwun and Eeta, still a few paces ahead. "And they run after him, with an armful of flowers. It's impossible not to notice."
Elena stops to lean against the railing, studying the beach below. "And how does the story end?"
He closes the game and stands beside her, draping his arms across the rough wood. "You tell me."
She takes a moment, tapping the side of her chin. "He makes it back, and repairs the ship. Unfortunately, unaware to him, there are a number of stowaways—those who thought he was seeking their love. With the added weight, the ship crashes again. The man tells them he cannot love them. And seeing one another, those spurned turn green with envy."
List claps his hands. "Bravo. If a little heavy-handed at the end."
Even through the praise, Elena pouts. "You didn't give me much to work with!"
He spreads his hands out, towards their surroundings. "I work with what I've got."
"Is that why so many of your old stories featured pandas? And strange machines, and red bell peppers."
"There was a perfectly normal amount of pandas."
"Keep up, you too!" Eeta shouts back. "We're almost there!"
"For what it's worth," Elena says as they keep walking, "I thought it was funny, what you did with Ai-Ai."
List's face turns immediately beet-red. "That wasn't me! I wrote everything else, but that was entirely Dwun and Ging. I was barely involved!"
"Mhmm. Sure." She agrees in impassive tones while List continues to splutter. "You're the worst liar."
"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Romance is a perfectly acceptable literary genre, List. For your first try, it wasn't bad. You could do a lot better in the future, though."
A beat. "I will hear your concerns and pass them along to the appropriate parties."
The restaurant Dwun leads them to is called Romeo at Dip and is perched right on the waterfront; the boardwalk curves in the opposite direction to accommodate it, and ends just a short ways up in a round pavilion lined with benches and posts dripping with lights. The front entry is covered with maritime signal flags, and there's already a thick crowd and a lot of noise coming from inside. Dwun takes the lead, stepping inside and up to the reception podium. He dangles his Hunter license over the top and smiles broadly at the receptionist.
"I have a reservation."
She glances at the license, smiles back, and begins typing into her computer. A moment later, her smile falters. "We don't have anyone in our system under this name. I'm sorry, sir."
Dwun pauses, then says through clenched teeth. "Try it under D-W-U-N."
More typing, and her face lights up. "Yes, here you are! Just one moment while we get your table ready."
Dwun steps back towards the others. "I'm going to murder Ging Freecs," he says cheerfully.
List makes some space for him in the crowded entryway. "You're not over it by now?"
"How awful for you, having other people get your name wrong all the time," one of the twins says, deadpan. "That must be so hard."
List ducks his head. "Sorry, Elena."
"It's Eeta," Dwun corrects, immediately.
"Sorry, Eeta." List looks between them again, once more cataloguing the differences. Eeta's wearing tiered ruffles on her skirt, and Elena's wearing ruffles on her sleeves; one has her hair in four buns, the other in two. Then he sighs and shakes his head—what a reduction of their characters. As a writer, he's almost ashamed. Elena is louder, but Eeta's sense of humor is more pointed. Eeta is much more disciplined, while Elena is a bit more laggard.
Their table ready, the group is led through the restaurant to a booth not by the window but close enough that they can see out to the water. List slides in first, taking a seat by the wall and handing off the awkwardness of deciding the rest of the seating arrangements to the others. Eeta slides in on the other side, opposite him, and a moment later Elena takes the seat beside her sister.
Looking minutely dejected, Dwun takes the last seat beside List, and they all spend a few minutes staring at their menus. List doesn't even like seafood, so his work is done after perusing the tiny section devoted to salads and chicken. He then takes to studying the restaurant itself—the walls are covered with fishing paraphernalia and old black-and-white photographs, and he has to crane his neck up to read the small print on one hanging above their table. In it, five men pose around the carcass of a gigantic lobster, with an older but still clearly recognizable Romeo at Dip in the background.
"What does it say?" Eeta asks, eyebrow arched, peeking at him over the top of her menu.
"A giant crustacean washed up on shore exactly fifty years ago," he paraphrases, his neck beginning to ache from the strain, "and began attacking the fishermen, but they managed to kill it. This picture was taken right before the, ah, potluck dinner."
"Yum," Elena murmurs, her eyes still focused on the menu. "That sounds delicious. Let's all get lobster."
"I didn't know they got to be that big," Eeta says. "But I suppose anything is possible. Morau and Gracchan see giant squids and stuff all the time, right? But they're Sea Hunters. What do I know?"
"Maybe the fishermen were Sea Hunters, too," Dwun jokes. "Maybe they got their stars for discovering and defeating a rare magical beast."
At this, Elena perks up. "Did you hear that we all might get stars for running that game? I heard Ickshonpay's putting it in his application. If his goes through, we'll all be eligible."
"He's already got one. So greedy." List tears his eyes away from the photograph with a frown. "Where did you hear that, anyway?"
"From Ging, the last time we spoke."
This, more than anything else, is the most shocking revelation to the rest of the group. Even Eeta looks surprised.
She jabs a finger towards her sister. "You talked to Ging? When?"
"After the game ended? He wanted to know how it went, and how things shook out with the cards. He told me to keep him updated, so I did. He was responsible for organizing Razor's parole, too, so he had that to deal with after GI ended."
List looks back between the slack-jawed stares of the others at the table to Elena, who instead wears an expression of supreme disinterest. He turns to Elena with awe and says, "The Ging whisperer."
She scowls, then says flippantly, "A thankless vocation."
They order drinks and some kind of lobster roll appetizer at Elena's request. It doesn't taste very good, but List doesn't give his opinion on it much merit.
"You said you wanted to travel up the coast," he says, to both the twins. "Where were you thinking of going?"
Elena, who has part of a lobster roll in her mouth, tries to elbow her sister to answer in her stead. Eeta ducks the jab and scowls at Elena.
"We're heading south. There's a few other beach towns—Cape Vert is on our list, and there's some cool bridges to see near that area. We're going to end the trip in Karta—"
Dwun's face immediately twists in a grimace.
"You've been?" It's Elena, chewing on her lobster roll.
"Oh yeah, for business. They have some of the best tech suppliers on the continent. It's where I oversaw the production of the game cartridges, all those years ago. What Ging wants, Ging gets, right? And the requests never end. He once asked me to make him a Nen-infused cassette tape player! Who even uses cassettes anymore?"
Elena raises an eyebrow, and List pretends to be incredibly distracted by the gigantic resin marlin hanging from the ceiling above the stretch of tables by the wall.
"It's just, not a place I'd go on vacation," he finishes with a shrug.
"Well, we're not you," Elena says. "Maybe we love neoteric tech and humid weather."
They each independently pick up their drinks and take a sip; List tries not to be the first to set his glass down, but after a moment it's clear they're all trying to out-wait the others and his drink is almost empty. He sets it back down with an over-exaggerated sigh, and once more the awkwardness returns as the conversation stalls.
"It's a shame that since we had to work on the island, we could never participate as examiners in the Hunter's Exam," Dwun says. "The last one just ended, didn't it? Is that something you'd be interested in doing, in the future?"
List would've put his head in his hands if he wasn't still so focused on that plastic marlin. Eeta slides out of the booth, waving a hand and calling out, "I'm going to go powder my nose."
"I'll come too." Elena follows a moment later, and List cranes his neck around to watch them disappear around the side of the corridor just past their booth.
A pause, while List finishes his drink. "Do you think they're going to leave?" Dwun asks, his face falling. "I'd probably leave."
He's not going to comment on how, no matter what, all Dwun seems to be able to talk about is Greed Island or its creator. List doesn't expect him to get over it—after all, they all have their own coping mechanisms. For the twins, it's a spur-of-the-moment road trip across the continent—for him, it's that ever-present emptiness and inescapable boredom—and for Dwun, it's an inability to let go, to place the blame on the one in the center and lash out at everyone around him. After living with friends for so long, living alone is a hard thing to adapt to.
So instead, he says, "You couldn't have known, but the Hunter Exam is a bit of a sore spot for them."
Dwun grabs one of the last lobster rolls and gestures with it. "Then how do you know?"
"You know how you and I met because of this team? Well, I knew Elena and Eeta before Greed Island. We met during the Hunter Exam. It was my second time taking the Exam and their first. I passed that year, they didn't." He swirls the ice cubes around in his empty glass and watches them clink together. "It went really badly."
"I can't imagine. They're both so good with Nen. What could have happened?"
"Well, you see, it was a dark and stormy night..."
Dwun throws up his hands, shaking them back and forth. "No, no, no, don't use that ability on me—"
"...And the fifth stage of the 273rd Hunter Exam was just announced..."
And Dwun's vision goes dark, replaced a moment later by the landscape of the rolling hills of the Karpatian mountains, made dark by the hour and filled with dozens of bodies climbing out of open-air vehicles and running off into the night...
They had been placed into teams by Netero, and left to their own devices to plan their strategy on the long drive to the Karpatian mountains. Each team was given a bright yellow flag, that they had to hide somewhere and protect for the entirety of the challenge. Their second task was to find the location of the opposite team's flag and steal it before the time was up. They would have roughly twelve hours—from sundown to sunset. If the sun hit their encampment before either team had stolen the other's flag, both teams would be disqualified, and none of them would become Hunters. The winners, according to Netero, would become Hunters themselves.
"Oh. One more thing," Netero says, balancing on one foot. "You cannot destroy or otherwise alter your flag."
One of the other members of List's team, a tall, muscled woman named Marta, speaks up. "What about injuring the other team? Is anything fair game?"
This seems to amuse the old man, and he laughs, rolling back and forth on his one balanced foot. "Anything else is fair game! You can consider your flag more valuable than your own lives at this point. We will be monitoring you, still, but all your actions will be your own choices. We will not even give you the time. You must budget time for yourselves, and decide which is more important—protecting your own flag, or going after your opponent's?"
As they drive, four to a vehicle, List's filled with others whose names he doesn't know and who have much lower numbers on their badges than him, driven by an Exam aide who is unhelpful to the point of admiration. He dodges every one of List's questions about this stage of the Exam and resists his every attempt to remove pieces of the vehicle to take with them as weapons—like the seatbelts, or the spare tank of gasoline, or the mirrors. List himself has very little on him that could be helpful, and this more than anything is what gives him pause as he and the others in their vehicle talk strategy. They, more than him, have made an effort to identify and catalogue the others on the opposing team.
And the more they talk about the fifteen-or-so men and women waiting to burgle them when they reach the mountains, the more List begins to feel that the teams are decidedly unbalanced.
There's a few who deal with chemical reagents and poisons, and several trackers and soldiers who would certainly be advantaged on a terrain like this. Marta, he knows, is a soldier, and even over the roar of the engines he can hear chatter from the vehicle beside theirs, housing her and a few others, one holding the bright yellow square of coated canvas in tightly clenched fists. They will be the leaders, List thinks, and while his brain is uniquely suited to parsing information and predicting outcomes from compiled data, he has quite a few ideas of his own on how they should proceed.
Which is likely part of the challenge. They have to not only work to complete their objectives, but maintain unity within their own groups. Any split in their harmony could be exploited by their opposition, and the blame at any missteps would undermine any attempt at leadership.
The wildcards, according to the one seated beside him, were the twins.
Two girls, their first time taking the Exam, placed auspiciously on the same team for this final challenge. And it was clear from the very stage that there was something very wrong with them.
They were always in one another's company, but they kept one another at a distance. Any time they got within an arm's reach of the other, something strange would happen. The air would vibrate, or the ground would shake, and once their arms touched and everyone in twenty feet was knocked to the floor by some kind of energy blast, the examiners included. That kind of power was something List had never seen before, and he had no idea what to do about it. They seemed just as fearful of their strange powers as the others were of them. List doesn't know if it can be harnessed by them, or if they tried, what would happen—to them, or to anyone unsuspecting enough to be caught in the effect.
At the mountains, the sun finally drops below the horizon and they climb out of their vehicles. Their group forms an odd semi-circle, and List takes another moment to stare at the two teams. He isn't a betting man, but at the moment he thinks his odds are abundantly low. Then, looking at the way the other group is considering them—and the wide berth they are giving to the twins—he has to wonder if they were just as intimidated as he was.
The vehicles pull away, leaving a sizeable gap between Netero chuckles and shouts, "May the best group win!"
Instantly, Marta and two of the others—badge numbers 101 and 77—form a barrier around one of the others, and they begin backing towards the cover of the mountains. Several of the others on the opposing team pull out weapons—mostly knives, but one has a concealed pistol, good Lord, and they begin to edge closer as the man Marta is protecting turns and starts to run.
"Come on!" she yells. "After him! Let's go!"
"Wait," one of the twins says, so suddenly that it takes List a moment to register. "Did we ever see that he had the flag? I don't think Marta would have let it out of her possession. I think it's a ruse."
The entire group freezes, and then Marta turns and sprints towards the others, already fleeing.
"We'll cover your escape!" someone shouts, and one of the others in List's car grabs his arm and starts to drag him after Marta.
"—Let me try to get a shot—"
"No!" It's the other twin, throwing out an arm. "We shouldn't have to resort to violence! If we win that way it won't matter!"
The group begins to squabble, each taking sides on whether or not the one with the pistol should be able to try and take them out. In the meantime, List turns and runs as fast as his legs can carry him. The mountains stretch before them, the incline of the ground growing steadily more severe, and they have to jump and swerve to avoid the many boulders blocking their path upwards.
"We'll take the high ground!" One of the others—badge 101—says. "It's all part of our plan! We'll be able to see anyone else coming!"
List's calves are starting to burn. He's not really cut out for the physical aspects of being a Hunter, not yet, and he suggests they pause for a moment to be sure they aren't being followed before they reach their destination.
"It won't do any good if they follow us right up. I'd rather not lead them right up to the best spot, if there is one," he says.
"Samuel is from this country," badge 101 says, pointing to the other, number 77. "This place is something of a national landmark, apparently. The west side of the mountain flattens out. Should be easily defendable. We can come up with a strategy to get their flag once we're settled."
The mountain on one side does indeed flatten towards the top—the peak stretches above on their left, which will block their view of the sun, but the cliff face is sheer, and he doesn't think anyone on the other team would be able to scale it to reach them, even if they had the equipment.
They take an inventory of their resources—someone has a lighter, and cigarettes, which they pass around, and between the fifteen of them they have six knives and one sandwich, which its owner promptly eats. They have three watches between them, one on List's wrist, and he considers himself lucky that he has a jacket—many of them aren't equipped for the weather or the elevation, and the temperature will only get colder throughout the night.
Marta indeed has the flag, which she pulls out from inside one boot.
"I think we should bury it." It's someone List has barely interacted with, a girl with mousy brown hair and a wide, square hat. "They can't find it if we're not even holding it."
"Does that qualify as damaging it? If we put it below one of these rocks, it would be safe, but we could risk disqualifying ourselves."
"If we split the team too thin, there won't be as many to guard the flag. Perhaps we bring it with us and we all go to try and claim the other one?"
"..."
"I know a guy who's a Hunter. He would totally try to wait out the others, and when they attack, we take them out. Threaten the other team—we'll kill them if they don't give up their flag!"
"Sure you know a Hunter. I'm surprised you don't know twenty."
"Hey! What are you saying about me?"
"I'm saying you know a liar."
"Like anyone's gonna sacrifice themselves to try and get that flag. Did you see that other group?"
For the first time, List speaks up."If we all become Hunters by clearing this stage, then we should aim for all of us to make it through."
"I don't think we should let it out of our sight," Marta says, with the air of one declaring finality. "I would like to stay with it, and protect it."
No one wants to argue with that, especially after they'd all seen the way she handled the previous Exam stages with a sense of order and calm that brought her instant respect.
"I think we should form a team to gather information about the opposing team. To report back, or strike if they see an opening. It's dangerous, so I won't force anyone to go."
There's a moment of silence, and then List raises a hand. "I'll volunteer for that."
Four of the others volunteer too, and the group of five departs a few minutes later. While they're gone, Marta, Samuel, and the others will solidify their position on the mountain and come up with both a strategy for combating any attack and a plan for what to do if the night passes and there's no movement from the other group. On Marta's order, they're not to stay any longer than two hours without reporting back.
List and the others—101 among them, who he can at least trust to have some measure of competence about this—pick their way across the ground. List pulls his dark jacket tight across his body to try and blend in to the surrounding rock better, and one of the others takes a moment to re-tie their running shoes. They make such an odd, mis-matched group, and they proceed in silence—what would they even talk about? The Exam? What they would do once they became Hunters?
List himself remembers last year's Exam with shame. He'd been eliminated during the second round, and had barely gotten a glimpse behind the curtain of what the world of a Hunter was like before it was gone from him. He barely paid attention to the faces around him then, and even now he doesn't know who in their group has the most experience or the most strength. To him, more than both of those, the worth of a Hunter is determined by their adaptability.
List isn't feeling very adaptable right now, with the wind in his hair and his breath cold on his face.
"Stop," Running Shoes says, and List crouches down to see over the edge of a boulder to a furrow in the ground a couple hundred yards away, where a few other applicants sit around a fire.
"A trap?" List asks.
"Yeah. Let's wait and see if anyone else shows up." 101 takes a place on List's other side, and after a few minutes of watching he points out the places in the rocks above where a few others wait, concealed. The place they've chosen to make camp seems a little precarious, the rocks stacked in such a precarious way that List thinks it's likely the result of a past rockslide.
"Do you see the flag?" one of the others asks.
"If only we had binoculars! Or been able to plan at all!" 101 grouses. List can relate. He's thinking about how useful a few of those car mirrors would've been, for signaling the others across a large distance or attempting to blind someone of the opposing group. He can't see any flash of the yellow flag, and the longer they wait the more List thinks they're missing something. He can't see the twins, or the one with the pistol—and he's irritated that he hasn't paid enough attention to his fellow applicants to be able to identify them beyond the most shallow descriptors.
An hour passes, then another. 101 turns to Running Shoes. "You should head back. Report what we've seen—help Samuel create some kind of map of this place. We'll keep watch. Make sure you aren't followed."
He nods, and departs. List keeps a sharp eye on the ground around them, and when he sees a flash of movement from the rocks above, he points it out to 101. "I think it's pretty obvious this is a decoy group. The fire and all."
"I agree," he says.
"What would you do, if you were them? Where would you keep the flag?"
"With one of the twins," 101 answers immediately. "In the dark, it'd be especially easy to do a fake-out. Give the flag to one, then switch her out with the other if we all give chase."
"But they don't trust the twins. They're volatile."
"The man with the pistol. There are a few other Exam veterans on their team. I've noticed that's how they've balanced the teams. There's about an equal amount of vets versus rookies."
That's good to know, List thinks.
"It's the rest of their rookies below. Those four haven't done much, yet. Just squeaked by the last phase. I bet the team is thinking they're a necessary sacrifice. It's pretty mercenary thinking."
"Should we move? I want to see from above, if we can. I think that's where the others are. It's really the only place with a good vantage point of the whole valley, except this rock." He pauses. "Do you think they can see us from up there?"
"If we can't see them, they can't see us. The angle's too sharp. They've probably blocked off any entrances or exits to that burrow up there. It won't matter if we see one another if we can't get through, or if only one of us can get through at a time. Then the one with the pistol can pick us off."
He shrugs, and moves to make himself a little more comfortable. "I think this phase is really designed for none of us to pass. It'll be an anti-climactic end. Sun will come up and it'll still be a standstill. No one's ready to make a move."
One of the others, badge number 25, taps 101 on the shoulder and points up to the cliff. Now that List thinks about it, he can't remember 25 ever talking at all.
"Yeah, he doesn't talk," 101 says at List's questioning glance. "He was my roommate, earlier. Considering how much some of the others talk, it's a blessing."
List raises an eyebrow at 101. "Some of the others, yeah."
With the time, the shifting moonlight now illuminates the whole cliff face. There's a glint, caught in the moonlight and amplified to their eyes below. It moves, occasionally, and after a few minutes of study List finally realizes that it's the metal hair ornaments the twins wear. The moonlight reveals more movement—at least three additional distinct shapes.
"They climbed the boulders," List says. "At least one of the twins. Probably a bunch of the others are up there, too. It's smart. Secure. How are we to get up there?"
"We get them down." It's 101, who cracks his knuckles and motions towards their fourth companion, a taciturn older man who'd been equally silent. "Tell the others that we've got eyes on almost their entire group. Have the others come up with some kind of projectile, with any twigs or kindling they can find. Samuel can use his lighter to set it on fire once we're assembled, and we can throw them into the clearing and above the boulders. I know he's got a flask on him he's hiding, that should help."
List hides his smile, and the three of them continue to wait while the fourth man—List didn't catch his number, but he's pretty sure it's higher than his own, which makes him feel just a little better—races back to the rest of the group.
"We'll wait as long as it takes," 101 says to 25. "We can't risk their position changing without our knowledge."
List checks his watch; it's been close to five hours since the phase officially started, and he's beginning to feel the first stages of exhaustion set in.
"It's better this way," 101 says; he's been mumbling to the others almost the entire time, his focus admirable if his habits a little excessive, "if we don't know where the flag is. If I was Marta, I'd make some kind of identical container for everyone, so no one knows who really has it, but everyone thinks it's them. That is, if we had supplies of any kind."
It's a bit of a sore spot for him, List can tell. The moonlight continues to shift, above, and while it illuminates their movement more than he's sure they would like, he knows there's only a matter of time until it shifts enough that it exposes their position—or makes it impossible for them to move without being seen. He doesn't know which would be worse.
It's another hour before anyone else shows up. Running Shoes is leading the group—and List is surprised to see that it's just about everyone, all carrying bundles of sticks tied with string. Marta is following close behind, and they gather behind the large boulder to plot their next move.
"They're up there," 101 says, while 25 points out the spots where they've seen movement, both in the valley and above on the boulders.
"They've got a fire," Marta says. "Nice. I'll aim for that, try and cause as much distraction as I can."
"You won't take the lead?" List asks with surprise.
"No. Cy was a minor league pitcher. He'll take that."
List looks back to the group, where Running Shoes is rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Once more, List is amazed at both the sheer breadth of the talents among the Exam applicants and just how little he knows about them at all.
"This is probably the only chance we're going to get, so give it your all. If we get separated, stay away from the camp. We don't want anyone leading them back to it. Go to the other side of the mountain and try to hide. All we have to do is get a hold of that flag—we don't have to hold it until dawn. Just one slip is all we need."
"What's the time?" Cy asks.
List gives it. "Two-thirty. Three and a half hours left, roughly. I'm not sure when exactly sunrise will hit."
They prepare the projectiles—Marta does indeed have a flask, possibly taken from the conspicuously absent Samuel—and they use a single stick to light the now-damp bundles. The moment the kindling catches, Marta rears back and throws it with pinpoint accuracy directly into the fire pit below.
It crashes and explodes, billowing out the flames and causing the half-dozen people around to shout and leap aside for cover. The next shot by Cy hits the top of the boulder, where the movement is thickest, and they hear a scream. Someone falls from the top of the boulder, their shoulder singed, and the next projectile finds another mark.
More movement, as someone leaps from the top of the boulder. It's the man with the pistol, who points it with a shaking, bloodied arm as Marta, Cy, List, and 101 pour into the clearing. She rushes the few who've staggered to their feet in the wake of the flames, pushing one over and starting to search them.
A shot rings out against the rock, missing Cy by what might as well be a mile as he lobs their last projectile up at the visible faces at the top of the boulder. The pistol swings around again; Cy ducks behind Marta, who takes the shots to the abdomen without flinching, her clothing armored.
101 rushes him and attempts to knock the pistol from his hand. Suddenly, there's more movement as one of the twins slides down the side of the massive boulder. Did she jump? Was she knocked down by the last blast?
25 is busy searching the others by the fire, and while List advances towards 101 to offer whatever help he can, the twin pulls open the jacket at her neck. There's a flash of bright yellow fabric.
"She's got it!" It's Marta, who shoves the man she's searching out of the way. Then, the twin turns on her heel and runs, past the clearing and disappearing around the side of the giant boulder.
List follows, stunned as he is, and there's more movement as two more slide down the boulder from above. There's the slightest disruption of pebbles against the ground, and he barely registers the man with the pistol shoving 101 to the ground. He turns, attempting to fire at List, and hits the edge of the rock instead.
Suddenly, the flow of pebbles and sand increases rapidly. "It's coming down!" Someone shouts, fleeing their precarious perch on the boulder, and in that same moment List remembers what he's seen of the twins before. One of them was wearing a shirt in that same bright yellow color during a prior stage of the Exam, and his heart sinks.
"It's not her!" he shouts back, but there's no time. Not as larger rocks start to fall from the cliff above, right in the path of the one twin.
"Elena!" Someone shouts, and he can just barely make out the horrified face of the twin in the distance—not at the rocks hurtling towards her head, but at her sister, diving to push her out of the way.
Their fingers connect, and there's an explosion of pressure and energy that knocks them all off their feet. List is blown backwards, nearly all the way across the clearing, and he watches limply as the boulders rain down to bury half the members of the opposing team under the rubble.
Marta is able to wrench the flag from where the pistol man had tied it around his upper arm. Samuel, having scaled the cliff at the mountain's peak as high as he could go, had their own flag safely preserved. List has a concussion and can barely make out 101's words as he repeats to himself with slow and stilted words. "We're Hunters. We're Hunters!"
The sun comes up.
Dwun coughs and sags, his eyes clenched tightly shut and his fingers shaking. "Ugh, you know I hate that ability of yours! Your Montage is the worst! Especially the longer memories. I get so nauseous!"
"Sorry." He gives the apology the barest of weight; to him, it's only been a handful of seconds, but the memory he gave Dwun to see lasted hours—the effects were more severe the longer the memory, but he felt it was important for Dwun to understand just where this all started and how much Elena and Eeta have had to overcome.
"But they were okay, right?" Dwun continues. "Well, obviously. But what happened next?"
"We became Hunters." He shrugs. "The Association had to dig them out of the rubble. I didn't know what it was at the time, but they were something of a genius with Nen. They just lacked the control—any control, really. Their powers get more intense the closer they are to one another, physically. It's why they're able to do what they do with Greed Island. They manipulate systems—manipulate energy."
They continue to wait for the twins. A minute passes, then five. Dwun cranes his neck to look back at where they disappeared. "Do you suppose we should...?"
There's a slight vibration, all through the restaurant. Then another. The salt shaker on their table tips over, and Dwun glances over at List. "Do you suppose that was...?"
List makes a face at him. "That wasn't the twins. I've felt the difference."
The rattling gets stronger, and a few people in the restaurant move closer to the windows and railings to look over into the water.
"It appears it's coming from the ocean?" Dwun's glass is still mostly full, and he studies it, watching the way the vibrations cause ripples in the surface. It's rhythmic. Kinda like footprints.
A moment later, there's a loud roar and the rush of a huge displacement of water. The windows shatter, and the few people who are closest to the blast shriek and fall back as the water sweeps inside the restaurant, over broken wood and toppled chairs. The wave makes it far enough in to coat the tops of the tables, including theirs.
"My lobster roll!"
List glances over to where the twins have rushed over; instead of the wreckage or the potentially injured and rapidly fleeing civilians, Elena's attention is focused solely on their sodden tabletop.
Eeta pulls her away. "Come on, let's see what's happened."
The group makes their way to the outside deck—or what remains of it—and surveys the damage. Loose floorboards jut out at odd angles, and the rough, swirling spray is mixed with broken china and pieces of maritime memorabilia that were swept off the walls and ceiling in the tumult. The current draws back, and with it goes an old buoy and a large fabric tabletop umbrella.
"Guys," Dwun says, pointing down the shore. "Look over there."
The restaurant sits on the very edge of the boardwalk, with only a small curve of sand lying beyond between the land and the water. And rising out of the water is a gigantic red lobster, one claw curled over the edge of a battered wooden sign proclaiming Wave City, est—
The claw slices through the sign, cutting the rest off. It falls into the surf below, agitated further as the creature crawls across the sand, legs twitching and stabbing into the wet sand.
"You guys are seeing this, right?" Dwun asks.
"Yeah." List stares up at the lobster as it continues to stab at the sign with his claw. He reaches up to loosen the knotted tie at his neck and begins rolling up his sleeves. His shirt is wet, and he scowls at the offending fabric.
Even in the limited stable space, the twins still keep a wide berth of one another. "Do we...do we leave it? Is this a job for the beach patrol? Do we help them?"
"I don't think there are any lifeguards who can handle this..." List pauses. "Elena."
She looks back at him with a smile. "Good job! There's hope for you yet!"
The creature seems to swipe out with a giant, sharpened claw at any movement on the beach. There are more screams, and Dwun begins to climb over the disjointed railing.
"Come on! We're Hunters, aren't we? Let's deal with this the only way we know how." He promptly gets the hem of his pants stuck along the splintered wood and has to yank them free.
Elena continues to watch the lobster. "Well, we're here. We might as well see this through to the end."
"Do we have a plan? Try and drive it back into the ocean?" List asks.
"Yeah. That sounds good." Dwun hops down into the water, and his ankles are immediately swallowed by rolling surf. Eeta and Elena follow, and after a moment List swings himself over the railing and joins them. A wave of salty ocean water slaps his legs, and as they creep closer to the lobster it swings around to stare at them, beady eyes twitching.
Dwun takes a tiny step back. "You know, it's a lot bigger from up close."
"We could just leave," Eeta says. "No one would know."
Suddenly, the claw comes down between them; List and Eeta jump to one side to avoid it and Dwun and Elena are pushed higher up the beach. The claw rakes across the sand again, and the lobster makes this strange screeching noise as it charges towards them.
"I've got this!" List jumps towards the creature's side, kicking out with one wingtip shoe. He strikes the side of the shiny shell and glances off, landing on the wet sand and staring down the creature's stampeding legs. "I've still got this!"
Elena attacks the creature from the other side. "You know, you're still the worst liar."
The carapace is too thick for any of their physical attacks to work; even when they cloak their fists or legs in Nen it still barely makes an impact on the tough shells, and seems to make the creature angrier over any other result. At least the beach is mostly otherwise empty—a few fishermen have gathered to watch, and there's a couple uniformed security officers ushering people away. They haven't had much luck harming the creature, and any attempts to drive it closer to the water merely cause it to lash out at whoever gets closer.
Eeta turns to Dwun with a grin. "What would Ging do?"
He shrugs and dodges another sweep of the claws. "Probably try and talk to it, I dunno. I bet he already knows a bunch of creatures like this. They take fishing trips together every year."
She frowns. "Lobsters eat fish?"
"Lobsters are omnivores," List says. "So, yes. Among other things."
The next swipe catches List in the side and sends him sprawling into the surf. Dwun helps him to his feet and he staggers as another wave washes over them.
He glares at the sand and brushes his wet hair out of his face. "Am I the only one who didn't dress for this?"
Suddenly, the creature makes another screeching noise and starts to scrabble up the sand, towards the encampment of the boardwalk. Eeta and Elena glance at one another as they stand in its way.
"I think I've had about enough of this," Elena says, stretching out one hand towards her sister.
"I agree," Eeta says. "Shall we?" The lobster bares down upon them, and as their hands touch there is a loud bang and a bright flash of light. The ground shakes, even stronger than before, when the creature had first climbed out of the water, and in the wake the creature is thrown onto its back onto the sand, legs twitching and body charred. Eeta rushes up, and delivers a Nen-infused punch to the underside of the carapace, at the juncture of its back. There is a crack, and then the lobster falls still and silent.
They all take a moment to catch their breath, and then the twins stagger over towards the others, leaning on one another for support. The beach is flooded a moment later by the fishermen and other spectators, rushing up to the creature and beginning to study it, poking it with fishing poles and tugging on the cracked parts of the shell.
The receding water tugs at List's ankles, and he takes first one step and then another away from the surf. He's breathing heavily, and a glance at Dwun confirms that he looks even worse, with dirt streaked across his face and rips in his clothing from the initial damage to the premises and the lobster's claws. As they catch up with the twins Eeta reaches out to help support Dwun, and List lets Elena reach for him as well. She ruffles his wet hair and he scowls.
One of the fishermen rushes up to them, speaking quickly and asking for help in butchering the creature. Their knives can't pierce the body, and even with the underside exposed they're having trouble ripping the meat from its shell. Eeta agrees, and joins the fishermen around the creature's body, punching at the places where they direct and waving when they start to cheer.
She rejoins them a few minutes later, and lets Elena link their arms again.
"You know," Elena says, "we didn't get to eat our dinner."
"It seems there's going to be a cookout," Eeta tells them. "We've been invited, of course. For tomorrow night."
There's a moment of silence, as the twins ponder the offer. "I think we could make time," Eeta says, finally. "I suppose we could stay another day."
"It'll be the freshest seafood we've ever had," Dwun says.
"Living the dream," List murmurs. He glances between them; even though they all look weary, there's a contented smile gracing each of their faces. His dream had been Greed Island, in a way, for so long, and even though that's over he still has the others at his side. He thinks about the rest of the team, about Ging, and despite how he tries he cannot picture Ging as anything but alone. His dreams don't include anyone who can't keep up with him.
He's thinking of a story. A new one, that includes good company and good times.
He could get used to that.
Notes:
1) The title is from The B-52's iconic song Rock Lobster
2) Romeo at Dip is used for resupplying ships at sea, when the Romeo flag (red +yellow) is located ¾ of the way up toward the point of the hoist. It basically means, "I'm prepared to receive you" which I thought was apt for a restaurant xD
3) The Ligorian coast was inspired by the Ligurian coast of Italy, and the Karpatian mountains are meant to resemble the Carpathian mountains of Europe, although the names are used outside of their original geographic context. The 273rd Hunter Exam would be the Exam six years after Ging passed. The video game names are made up and not meant to resemble any existing franchise.
4) It's unknown exactly what contributions the Greed Island crew made towards the game, but I like to think that Dwun was responsible for the hardware components of the game, and that List contributed to the writing and scripts for the NPCs/cards/etc. Limeiro was the name of the city where List and Dwun lived in Greed Island. It's unconfirmed in canon but it is also my belief that Ickshonpay was a member of the Greed Island team.
5) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your comments. Please also support the other stories and art from the HxHBB!
22. Favorite story you’ve ever written: I always like to say that my favorite is the one I’m currently working on, or the one I’ve just finished. Of course I have “favorites” but it’s like so many stories are my favorites for different reasons? I could give you a list of like a dozen, easily xD I think a lot of that is because I pretty exclusively write oneshots, so my investment in each fic is about the same, and they’ve all gotten about the same amount of audience attention. If I had written anything that was outside the curve in length or popularity it might sway my answer, lol. I’m still super pleased with Desideratum, even if canon has taken a lot of it out of the realm of possibility.
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Also ahhh thank you to everyone who sent in messages!! :D That really helped to brighten my day.
7. Early influences on your writing: Oh, what a good question. Thanks for that trip down memory lane :) Quite a few things come to mind (short stories: The Necklace, The Yellow Wallpaper, A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings; plays: Arcadia; poetry: Prufrock). I loved Orwell and Chaucer. Reading nonfiction really helped improve my writing, too. I remember really liking Susan Orlean’s writing.
13. Hardest character to write: Right now writing Hisoka from HxH is a little difficult. I think pulling back from his character is the most successful approach for me. And focusing on his mannerisms and body language instead of dialogue, lol. But it’s fun to imagine which card suites he would use for his words.
26, 30. Already done!
38. Do you reread your own stories? ALL THE TIME. My stories are the best. And in some cases it’s been so long I’ve forgotten some of the finer details, so it’s like I get to rediscover them all over again! xD; Like I re-read Perihelion the other day and I was just so impressed. A few Contest fics kinda get lost in my memory too and I’m always so pleasantly surprised by how good they are. They really hold up.
47. Already done! Although I do have a vague idea for the newest ygodrabble. I’m not sure if it’s still on or not but if it is back and I have the time I’d probably try to write something for it?
