By Yukitsu
Disclaimers: Hunter X Hunter is not mine, nor are its characters in any way my possessions. No profit, please don't sue, no money, no KuraPC.
Warning: It's CRACK. CRAAAACK. Well, okey, so it's not that bad of a crack, but it IS still cracky. Oh, and a lot of head-hopping/ POV-hopping happening here. I AM OMNIPOTENT! Cough. No, I'm not, but I did go wonky with the POVs here. Fixed it in the second chapter, though!
Notes: I should improve on my endings, really. But anyway, to cheat that weakness of mine, I'm making this multi-chaptered. That, and Lynlyn seems rather happy to have me write another multi-chap. o.o
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Chapter One:
A Little Extra.
When the Geneiryodan had raided a small – well, it was big enough – underground auction, they hadn't expected live displays. Apparently, the organizers had informed the greater, interested, but helplessly middle-classed population that they were selling off antiques. This same information had been what Shalnark had gotten, and so, with the belief that they would come back with priceless jars and the like, they were excusably shocked to find themselves facing living artifacts. Oh, there were jars all right, huge ones to house the their main attractions in.
The Geneiryodan wasn't really all that picky, but their leader, Kuroro, still made his displeasure clear against taking living treasures. They were too much to handle and dispose of, he said, and wouldn't be worth half as much dead.
They were even more surprised – though Kuroro hadn't even blinked, as he was wont to do – when on the highest, grandest pedestal sat the Chain Assassin himself, petrified yet glaring at them. He was dressed in the blue and orange tribal attire Kuroro had last seen him wear, and even without it, it was still obvious that he was a Kuruta because his eyes were wide and eerily glowing bright red.
This wasn't a common occurrence, even the ever-forgetful Shizuku was aware of that fact, and they were perplexed as to what to do. So when Kuroro stepped up – for they had gone on for a long time without him around and had gotten used to deliberating by themselves – they were all go for his plan; that was, to get all the non-living valuables and to get the hell out of there.
Given the pitiful amount of dead things they could take, and Kuroro's handy Inju-stolen Nen skill, they were out of the place in minutes. The rowdier members of the Ryodan hadn't even managed to reach their usual number of victims and the like, for the Ryodan had infiltrated in during the night, and there were minimal people. It was a very easy though disappointing raid.
Kuroro's stolen skill was so handy that he even managed to bring in excess baggage with him.
Kurapika hadn't been too happy when he had been put back to his normal size and found his still-petrified self gracelessly sprawled on the ground surrounded by the group he spent much of his life hunting.
"How the hell did you get caught by those bastards?" Nobunaga spat, looking at him down his nose (which was difficult indeed) in a moment of contempt. "I can't believe you managed to kill Ubo."
By this time, Kurapika, whose eyes had been poisoned to remain scarlet for a long time and allowed to blink only once every other minute, had started gathering his wits about him. Seeing how he couldn't blink let alone speak, the blond settled for intensifying his glare instead.
Now, his eyes – which were big enough to start with – had already been forced to widen by his former captors. You can only imagine how creepy and psychotic he must have looked.
Nobunaga burst out laughing.
"Let's just kill him."
There was a murmur of agreement from the other members.
"Wait. I'd like to have a moment with him," said Kuroro. Before they could protest, their Dancho had already swept the blond up and disappeared to another room.
And before Nobunaga could spout off curses capable of making one's ears bleed, Shizuku wisely mused that the Dancho must want Kurapika's Nen. The rest of them easily agreed, though Feitan and Phinx had a bet that it was for a quick screw.
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On the other side of the stereotypically abandoned building, Kuroro was settling the Kuruta down on a rickety chair that Kurapika would have doused with Lysol had he the chance. Meanwhile, Kurapika protested through all of this by yelling his head off – or in his mute case, making choked gurgling noises.
"You sound like a toddler," Kuroro commented, and Kurapika shut up.
"I'm interested to know how you got yourself in that situation."
Kurapika gave him a look bordering on mild incredulity, and Kuroro chuckled.
"I apologize. Let's see…" The Kuruta's eyes widened (even more) in alarm as the Skill Hunter materialized in front of him, and even though it was barely noticeable, nothing escaped the Spider's leader's eyes.
"Nen erasers are very useful allies." A flick of the hand and the poisonous Nen circulating in the blond's body disappeared. A flip of a page and another flick, and Kurapika had been forced into Zetsu even before he had processed what had happened.
"Why?" Kurapika all but croaked out as he picked himself up from the floor he had landed on when his body jerked out of his seat at the sudden freedom.
"How long were you under paralysis? One week? Your voice and body movement couldn't have been reduced to such with anything less than that."
"Two," the blond snapped as he eased down on the chair and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Apparently, standing up was the last thing his body wanted to do. "Why did you help me?"
"You are the last Kuruta," Kuroro said absently as he mused on the other's answer, "Two weeks. No wonder the Nen that paralyzed you had become so convoluted. It was starting to turn toxic, were you aware of that fact? I'm impressed you can even move right now."
"Why do you care if I'm the last Kuruta?" the said last Kuruta demanded, rising a little from his seat in outrage and ignoring the positive appraisal, "You're the reason why I'm the last one in the first place!"
"Precisely for that reason," Kuroro lightly shrugged, his smile thin even though his tone was conversational, "The Geneiryodan is known for being thorough – to have a survivor is unthinkable. Yet there is this child who did survive, and even managed to go as far as momentarily crippling us. It would be a pity if someone like you ended up as nothing but expensive entertainment for society's rich and whimsical."
Instead of being flattered by the compliment, though, it served only to further fuel Kurapika's anger. His Eyes flared up, and before his brain could start processing what he was doing, he had already lunged from his chair with his fist in the air, intending to sock the older man one on the face.
Two weeks of captivity and constant abuse of his Eyes had left its toll on his body however, and with his Nen once again sealed, Kuroro easily blocked his attack. The man slipped a hand around his pale wrist, yanked him around, and pinned him face-first against the wall. Kurapika was lucky he had managed to maneuver his head so he didn't end up kissing the dirty wall.
"I suggest you calm down and return your Eyes to their normal state, Kuruta. The paralysis aside, I'm sure the extended exposure of the Eyes must have drained you of your energy. Especially since you lack training."
"How would you know?" Kurapika spat furiously, even though his struggles were feeble against his captor. Kuroro smiled, and for the first time since they met, Kurapika's fear overrode his anger. He was reminded that, in this situation, he was on the helpless side of things. It was a wonder that he hadn't been left at the mercy of the man with the sword and pointy hair.
"I did do my research and observation before I let the Ryodan raid your village," the dark-haired man explained easily, shifting his hold on the wrists and pinning the other body with his own to be more comfortable.
"Observation!"
"I watched your clan for close to ten days," Kuroro clarified, dismissing the trembling he felt from the youth as rage. He was used to that kind of reaction from his less than friendly acquaintances; most people were afraid of death, after all.
"Now that I think about it, you must have been that child who spent a lot of time reading on the steps of a brown house with a blue door."
The trembling stopped as Kurapika went limp. Kuroro allowed his companion to slide to the floor, and then bent down slightly to peer at the crouched frame like one would a puppy in a pet store. The trembling graduated to shaking.
"I suggest you keep away from the Mafia from now on, as they are part of the organizing team that held you captive. They will be after you, unless you parade around as a female again. Whatever your plans are, postpone them for a moment. You should rest. We will be gone when you wake up."
"Not bloody likely," the blond mumbled half heartedly, depressed, outraged, and dismayed that the Ryodan – or at least Kuroro – had managed to spy around his home for ten days and none of the Kuruta, none of their elders, had noticed. If they had, maybe the raid wouldn't have happened, or at least the result wouldn't have been as devastating.
Maybe he wouldn't have had to run around trying to avoid getting mugged by random collectors, nor would he have to masquerade to keep track of the goings-on in the underground. He wouldn't be the Chain Assassin in the first place.
Here he was, the so-called avenger of his broken heritage, in front of his arch nemesis pondering on "what could have beens" and angsting. This was hardly the mortal enemy thing to do. Killua would laugh.
"You've grown up," was the idle comment that reached him through his haze and slightly surprised him. He didn't look up.
It had been two years since they last met; no matter how young Kuroro thought the Chain Assassin was before, he knew the youth was at least of legal age now. There was an otherworldly weariness surrounding the thin body like second skin, and under the classy make-up and feminine handsomeness, Kuroro could tell that the boy's skin had gone sallow. Now he looked too old for his age.
Not that he could be blamed. Two weeks of being paraded around with restricted movement would do that to anyone.
"You've also been catching unwanted attention to yourself. How did you end up there?"
"Unwanted attention, is right," Kurapika muttered darkly. He recalled how Zenji, of all people, had exposed him, and swore to smash the man's face in the next time they met, chains or no chains. It didn't even matter if it would be in the land of the living – as long as he'd be able to do it. Maybe if he died in the hands of the psychotic samurai somewhere in the building, his Nen would haunt Kuroro and Zenji forever.
"The starting price for you was two hundred billion jennies."
"That's about right. According to the Hunter site, I'm a C to B class bounty." Why were they having this conversation, Kurapika asked himself, shifting with difficulty to wrap his arms around his knees. His elbow refused to move properly.
"If you can improve your fighting skill, you can be an A class."
"So?"
"That means an A-class gang of criminals, like say, the Genieryodan, would prioritize your theft."
Red eyes flared up again, and this time, the blond couldn't help but snap his glare up at the man who was giving him the damnedest smile he had ever seen.
"You should go rest."
"Why do you keep on insisting on the matter?"
"Because you didn't even notice when I released your Nen. There is barely enough of it left for you to even perform Ten properly." The Skill Hunter had disappeared from his hands, just as the Kuruta's Nen had apparently done. "The poisonous Nen sustained itself by eating yours, and whatever it left behind, your Eyes burned away. I suppose the men who captured you had no idea what the consequences of their actions were."
He wasn't afraid that Kurapika would kill him in the night when his Nen returned just enough for him to materialize the Judgement Chain. Kuroro prided himself for being a good judge of character – he wouldn't have lived for as long as he had with his kind of profession without having accurate evaluations of the people he interacted with. It hadn't been difficult to tell that the last Kuruta wouldn't try to kill him, just as he failed to do so two years past.
To reinforce that idea, logic told him that Kurapika was a person of principles and strong morals – he would never hurt someone he owed his life to, even if that same someone was the cause for his misery.
Meanwhile, Kurapika swore his brain had stopped functioning at the less-than-subtle hint Kuroro had dropped about knowing a lot about the Kuruta and their Scarlet eyes. He didn't know what to do. He felt even more confused when, as he watched the leather-covered back walk away from him, he hardly felt any malicious inclinations of stabbing the man through the back.
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1:15 AM 7/22/2005