Short fic fot Hunter x Prompt "And the dread crept in..."
Warning content : gore, body horror, torture, blood, emetophobia, death.
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Feitan had appeared at Meteor City without a luggage, without parents, without a name, without past, without project, and covered with blood. Not his, obviously. Feitan never bled. After a few months learning the harsh life of Meteor, he got involved in many accidents and fights, and reaped many bruises, scratches, and broken bones, but no knife seems to be able to cut into his skin. Probably because none of his opponents ever had the time. Feitan couldn't handle pain. He always looked stupefied when he took a punch, as if he wasn't supposed to experience this specific sensation. He would always lose his mind at this point, raged against his opponent, and won. He always won, barely winded, looking at his fists dripped with blood, as he was wondering what happened.
Everything surprised him. Everything looked new, even the obvious facts. When he started to make some friends, they asked him how old he was. He looked at the other kids around, looked at his hands, his height, and muttered :"…twelve?". He had no idea. He didn't know his birthday. He had no memory. All he knew was that life used to be a confusion of drab and dull sensations, muffled echoes, colorless lights, earthy smells, with no consistency or coherence, until he found himself covered with someone else's blood, nearby the dead corpse of his father. Or master. Or someone important. He had heard the birds singing for the first time, had felt the heat of the sunlight, saw the amazing details in the petals of the cherry blossom, brushing the surface of the blood source flowing from the man's open chest. He had found it so beautiful. He have never had found anything beautiful before.
He needed years to realize that, no matter how life felt so tasty and shimmering, the other kids always lived on a higher level. When he smiled, they laughed; when he was afraid, they were panicked; when he was tired, they were exhausted. They always showed so many facial expressions, even when they were sleeping. On the contrary, he always looked just pissed. He was constantly dealing with unpleasant sensations, like fear or coldness or sore, while younger kids seemed to be totally used to them. They knew a secret he ignored. He had to discover it.
The secret lied in the blood. It was a certainty. Blood had brought him to life, it would bring him the secret. He started with rats. With a sharped sheet of metal, he rummaged in their belly for the secret of life. He kept them alive as long as he could. But the rats were so small ; even if he found out the place where the life pulsed from, he probably couldn't see it. So he pursued with seagulls. Then dogs.
He came to humans quite naturally. They had something animals lacked. They screamed. There were a quality in these screams, a solitude, a desertion, such a brutal, raw and pure expression. He liked the moistness on their skin, the heat of their short breath, the texture of their flesh under his teeth, the appetizing aroma when he burnt them long enough. He enjoyed their panic and disgust as they were staring at their own guts flowing by their open stomach, smelling their own stench, learning their own dirty secret they weren't aware they were holding. But he couldn't found out the one he was looking for. They passed away so quickly. He was never able to see the point of swaying between life and death.
He asked Chrollo. They were so clever. They told him to check his guinea pig's pulse regularly. When it was slowing down and fading, it was time to be careful and bring them back. They showed him how to do, they put his hand on their neck, their wrist, their chest. Feitan was in awe. Chrollo was so impressive.
He would impress them too. He picked up a new victim the very day, a young woman always cheerful and vivacious. She would had a very bright secret of life. He would find it.
He left her an eye so she could see the rest of the process. He had noticed they would react more intensely than blinded. He was distractedly chewing one of her ear as he looked for his sharpest knife. Her pretty nails were aligned on his working table. Her pleas weakened. Her "why" became more rare and tiny. It was the time.
He placed his hand on her neck. Her pulse seemed slow and weak, but Feitan had forgotten to check it before and couldn't remember Chrollo's one to compare. Maybe it was a normal pace.
Feitan put two fighters on his neck. Then his wrist. Then placed his hand on his chest. Then his neck again, and the dread crept in. He couldn't find any pulse. His heart had no beat.
He took this sharpest knife, thrusted it in his forearm, and cut along. The pain was uncanny, but no blood dropped out. He spreaded the edges of the wound. His flesh was pale, dry and mat, the same color of his skin. He bite, teared a piece of flesh off, chewed. He tasted insipid, with a gelatinous texture, thinning down in his mouth with no resistance.
He felt on all four, spited out the disgusting substance, shaken by nausea, even if he had nothing to vomit. He hadn't eaten for days and wasn't feeling hungry. His body never felt hungry. This body never reclaimed anything. This body never grew up, leaving him with the appearance of a twelve years-old child, since this day, since the day he found dead his father, or master, or…
"…maker…"
He heard a crackling sound. It was his own laughter. He had never heard it before.
He remembered now. This dead man was a Conjurer.
"Nen that become stronger after death…"
His voice seemed to awake the girl from her torpor. She looked at him, her only valid eye filled with tears.
"Why…"
He laughed even harder. He stood up, took his sharp knife from his forearm, walked to her, snickering hysterically.
"Why? You ask WHY?"
He took her by her hair, threw her head back, put the knife against her throat.
"Because I'm not even human."