Disclaimer: I do not own Hunter x Hunter; only my plot and my original characters belong to me.
Summary: No one else wanted the job, so she took it. Nothing else was amusing to him, so he tested her. Neither of them fully realized the gravity of their choices, but only one of them would survive.
Author's Note: I am so excited to get to start on this story. I haven't written any stories with an OC character for a very, very long time—like eight plus years! For those of you who don't know me, I am a ten-year veteran of fanfiction, and I like to use writing as a tool to explore characters I find confusing or interesting. I was trying to imagine what it would be like just to sit down and talk to Hisoka about himself, and this story evolved from that. I hope you enjoy.
SOFTLY, DARKLY
Chapter One: Just Breathe
Remember to breathe.
The young woman watched intently as a mass of strange, intimidating, and diverse characters strolled casually about her. Her eyes fluttered from one person to the next, trying to make sense of the hustle and bustle, but failing. Finally, she took another deep, anxious breath and looked down, watching the pale, faintly scarred skin on her knuckles whiten slowly as she clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
Everything will be all right. You can do this.
She was waiting in the common area of the 200th floor of the legendary Heaven's Arena skyscraper—a place where legendary warriors battled for fame and fortune, where business magnates bet their life's savings on the outcomes of the matches, and where the general population could share in the gore and the glory for the price of just one ticket. It was a spectacular place to find herself, but as the brightly-costumed bodies noisily shuffled past her small table in the corner of the room, she felt increasingly out of place. She took another deep breath and glanced down at the brand new press pass hanging around her neck for reassurance.
A large, stocky man with a brightly-colored Mohawk, massive belly, and wild-looking spandex costume brushed past her table a little too swiftly, nearly knocking over the cup of coffee she'd just poured. Perturbed, the novice reporter threw him a look.
"Excuse me," she muttered, her tone slightly annoyed.
The man swiveled his head around to face her, pinning her down with a scrutinizing glare. She immediately felt smaller than she already was, but she fought to hold his gaze as he looked on—probably noting her shabby, thrift-store skirt and jacket, mass of mousy, messily-braided hair, and round, determined eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the man grunted dismissively and plodded away. The young woman sighed in relief, but she still felt the sharp knife of anxiety twisting painfully in her stomach.
Just breathe, she repeated in her head. You can do this. You must.
She felt momentarily calmer, but then she made the mistake of glancing at the folder laid out neatly across her side of the table. On the cover was the name and picture of the man she was waiting to interview. So far, he was already five minutes late and counting. As she looked again at the photograph, the nervous ache in her gut intensified.
The man had eye-catching red hair, pale skin, and slanted, amber eyes. The severity and sharpness of his features made it seem as if they'd been carved deliberately by a blade. On his cheeks he'd carefully painted a star and a teardrop. In her opinion, he looked a bit like a crazed jester or a circus clown.
But his reputation far outweighed his outlandish appearance. According to his file, he'd rocketed to the 200th floor of Heaven's Arena in less than two months' time, and he hadn't hesitated to kill opponents. The bloody record and the erratic, bizarre behavior he displayed inside the ring only added to his intrigue, but no one knew anything about him or his past. It was as if he'd materialized from nothingness.
The woman's eyes flicked back up for a moment. She scanned the room for anyone who looked like the picture, but saw nothing but a colorful mish-mash of figures and forms. She glanced down again, examining the photo more closely this time.
The man looked wicked and dangerous. She could see the tautness of the muscle in his face and neck, as if his entire body was tightly coiled and tense, like a serpent readying to strike.
Even his name sounded like the hissing of a venomous snake.
Hisoka.
The young woman felt her heart begin to pound more painfully against her ribcage the longer she spoke his name in her head and looked at the photo, so she tore her eyes away and glanced back down at her white-knuckled, scarred hands. She felt her tendons constrict as her thin, pale fingers tightly grasped the frayed edges of her skirt, and reaffirmed silently the reason why she was here in the first place.
You must do this, she thought once again. You have no other choice.
A burly, dark-haired man nonchalantly smoked his cigarette and grasped her flimsy, pitiful resume in his fleshy hands, while she stared at him expectantly. He said nothing for a long time, but grazed his eyes over her, cocking an eyebrow skeptically at her plain appearance. She waited eagerly for him to speak, trying in vain to mask her desperation.
"So…" he finally murmured, sounding extremely bored. "What's your name again?"
It's on the top of the page you're holding, she wanted to say. But that would have been rude, unwanted, and would most likely result in her being paraded out of here with a heavy dose of shame and no job.
"It's Rhea, sir," she answered obediently. "Rhea Satto."
The man raised a bushy, black eyebrow, and then his eyes floated back down to her resume. She exhaled a small, silent sigh of relief. This pressure was almost too much for her to take, but she was willing to endure it if it meant getting a job. She'd been searching for a steady, reliable position as a journalist for—what was it? Three years now? Still, it wasn't every day a person was interviewed by the chief editor of a major news corporation. The etched name plate sitting neatly atop his desk was a small testament to his importance, and she was having trouble believing that she was sitting in front of him.
This was Derks Beck: Editor-in-Chief of the Republic Daily News. It was the largest news media corporation in Padokea, and he was the company's brains and brawn. Rhea only hoped that he'd be impressed with what she presented.
"Well," Mr. Beck finally grunted, dropping the papers in his hand to the desk and throwing inattentive, false smile her way. "I'll be honest with you, Miss Satto: You're persistent. I hear that this is the third time you've applied to the Republic Daily. But your experience is minimal and your resume is nothing to scream about. Why exactly should I hire you?"
Rhea felt her thumping heart begin to rapidly sink into her stomach. He wasn't impressed. She'd have to salvage this somehow—it was undoubtedly her last chance to make an impression before she was shown the door and all of her future attempts to secure a position would be ignored.
"Sir," she began very slowly, "I believe you pegged me exactly right—I'm extremely stubborn. I want to work here very badly, and I don't intend to stop applying until I'm hired."
The Editor-in-Chief cocked his head, seemingly interested. Rhea continued more quickly now, worried that her impromptu speech might outlast his attention.
"Mr. Beck, I want you to know that I conduct myself in much the same way when I'm reporting," she said, her confidence growing as each word dropped from her lips. "I do not give up until I've found the truth. That's what I believe in, so that's what I search for. You won't find a more willing, honest, and diligent employee."
The man across the desk blinked slowly, and she felt her sudden confidence take an even more sudden nosedive. He looked as though he was resisting rolling his eyes. Finally, after a long pause, Mr. Beck opened his mouth again.
"It's not like I don't admire your determination, Miss Satto," he replied grumpily. "But what I'd really like to find is a reporter with the necessary qualifications, which you unfortunately don't have."
Rhea felt her sinking heart skip a beat. No—not again. She could not—would not—be turned away from her dream job for a third time. She was about to launch into a passionate argument when the man finished his sentiment.
"…however, you're all I've got right now."
Rhea stared disbelievingly at Mr. Beck. She could hear her pulse pounding rhythmically in her ears. "I—I don't know what you mean. No one else applied for the job?"
The Editor-in-Chief leaned back in his leather chair and slung his arms behind his head. "Oh, no," he said, waving a hand in the air. "Plenty have applied. But no one stays in this position for very long."
Rhea stared at the man uncertainly. "Why?"
Her interviewer's already intense expression took on a new, sharper edge. He leaned across the desk towards her and spoke in a hot, heated whisper. "Have you ever heard of Heaven's Arena, Miss Satto?"
"Of course, sir," she answered and nodded her head, but then paused. "Although…I don't know much about it, other than people go there to watch competitors fight one another."
"Then you don't know that the reporters at Republic Daily are contracted with Heaven's Arena to publish monthly interviews with those competitors?"
"No, but that sounds very lucrative."
"It certainly is, Miss Satto. The contract idea was my brainchild," Mr. Beck boasted proudly. "It drums up more consistent revenue for the Tower; gives the fighters a chance to promote themselves regularly, and most importantly, it sells our papers. It's a fantastic partnership. And ninety-nine percent of the time, it goes on without a hitch."
He glanced across the desk at her, pausing in his pitch. Rhea swallowed, feeling the inside of her throat slowly turning to sandpaper.
"And the other one percent?" she asked.
Mr. Beck sighed heavily, a loud, wheezing sound that echoed off the bare walls of his office. "Once in a while we have an in-demand fighter who is doesn't like to be interviewed. Usually we can negotiate with them and come up with some kind of a deal. But a new competitor showed up at the tower a few months ago, and he's different. Extremely different."
Suddenly, Rhea felt like she didn't like where this conversation was going. Her heart began to slide downward towards her stomach again, but she decided to say nothing about her growing fear.
"Let me be clear, Miss Satto," Mr. Beck said sternly. "I would not hire you if I didn't think I had no other choice. I don't think you're right for this job. I'm not sure if anyone is. You'll be the fourth person to hold this position in two months. The first two people I hired quit after the first day. And we're talking veteran journalists here-people who have seen war and death."
"And the third person?" Rhea asked curiously.
Beck's furry black eyebrows drooped, his gaze dropped to his desk, and his expression became grim.
"He's dead, Miss Satto."
Rhea's eyes widened. "What—what happened?"
"It's my belief that the competitor he was supposed to interview killed him," the Editor-in-Chief said solemnly. "But the police have no proof, so the guy walks, and my contract with Heaven's Arena is still binding. I have to find another person to interview him. No one will take the job…unless you do."
Mr. Beck glanced back up towards his interviewee. His expression was not welcoming. Rhea felt the cold chill of blood draining from her face, the pinch of her fingernails digging into her legs through the fabric of her skirt, and the heavy weight of reality settling down upon her.
"Mr. Beck, please," she began, adopting a pleading tone. "Aren't there any other positions you might consider me for? I need this job."
The man shook his head. "No, Miss Satto. Until you're more qualified, it's this job or nothing. That's all I can offer you."
Rhea gaped at the man in disbelief. Was this the choice he was offering her? Risk her life by attempting an interview with an alleged murderer, or walk away with yet another failure under her belt? Her pulse was deafening in her ears, her heart had all but disappeared into the pit of her stomach, and she could feel the cold prickles of goose bumps beginning to crawl up her spine. She had to remind herself to inhale. Finally, she realized that she had no options at all—except one.
"I'll take it," she breathed.
Rhea sighed as she reminisced, when another person knocked against the back of her chair and sent her jolting forward and out of her daydream. This time she suppressed the urge to open her mouth to say something to the offender. Instead, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and glanced at her watch.
She frowned unpleasantly. It was already half-past two o'clock. Her interviewee was supposed to have met her here thirty minutes ago. She felt an icy finger of panic worm its way into her insides and slapped her hands onto the table, leaning over the file and scrutinizing the schedule she'd been given. The piece of paper confirmed her worst fears: This was the correct place, at the correct time. But Hisoka was nowhere to be found.
What if he didn't show? Rhea wasn't sure if she'd be relieved or not. On one hand, she'd never have to meet the suspected killer of her predecessor. On the other hand, her new boss had made it clear that if she didn't secure an interview with Hisoka and come away with some usable material within a week of her initial hiring, she'd be fired.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. "Where is he?"
Rhea scanned the room again, bobbing her foot under the table impatiently. She'd drunk too much coffee while waiting, and now her nerves felt as if they were being plucked and played like a harp. She sucked in air in panicked, shallow gasps and her heartbeat fluttered about in her chest like a dying butterfly. Wave after wave of worry and trepidation crashed down upon her. As her anxiety grew to a peak, the young woman felt as if she could stand up on the top of the table and scream…but instead she balled up her fist, slipped a knuckle between her lips, and bit it.
It was an odd behavior—a remnant of a childhood habit—but she didn't care who saw her. No one seemed to pay any attention to the tiny girl in the corner anyway.
Rhea wasn't surprised. Her entire life had been like that.
The feeling of flesh pinching between her teeth and the rough skin dragging across her lips was slightly calming. She breathed in through her nose slowly and was careful not to bite so hard as to cause bleeding. The skin on her hands was unusually thin and fragile, stretched taut like damp paper, and crisscrossed with pale scars. This too was a remnant of her past: A piece of her that she didn't like to remember, but that she couldn't separate from the rest. Flashes of vague memories circled Rhea's thoughts as she felt the edges of her teeth sink slowly into the meat of her finger.
Mom used to hate it when I did this.
The rookie journalist sighed and reluctantly removed her knuckle from her mouth, folding her hands in her lap and resigning herself to wait—however impatiently—for her interviewee to appear. But before Hisoka showed—or didn't show—she had to find some way to stave off her anxiousness. She closed her eyes, sucking the air between her lips and out her nose, in another effort to calm the biting nervousness that was twisting her up inside.
Remember to breathe, Rhea told herself. Just breathe.
This simple meditation was something she'd been practicing since she was a little girl, ever since her mother taught her that controlled, steady breathing was a much better way of suppressing the urge to scream, cry, or run than biting into her own fingers. Anxiety had always been something of a problem for her. She sucked in a breath, feeling the tension in her body as her ribs expanded, and then let it all go along with her worries in a massive exhale.
After a few more minutes of this ritual, she began to feel just a little bit better.
That should be good for now, she decided.
Rhea slowly opened her eyes. When she did, she was no longer sitting alone at the table.
Sitting in front of her with his elbows propped up on the tabletop, resting his chin casually on the backs of his hands, was the man in the photograph: Wild hair, golden eyes, long nails, clown-like make-up and all. He was right in front of her.
Hisoka.
She nearly jumped out of her seat to see him appear so suddenly. In return, he granted her a sly, serpentine smile.
"So sorry," he hissed, and the sound of his voice made Rhea's hair stand on end. "I do believe I'm late for my interview."
Author's Additional Notes: Huzzah! A brand-spanking new story is in the works! Don't worry, there will be much more Hisoka-y goodness in the next chapter! Thanks for your readership and leave me a note below!