Summary: They are no one. They are the Spiders. (Or, how the Phantom Troupe came to be.)
A/N: I've had this story idea for the longest time. This takes place before the series starts, with Chrollo gathering members to join his group. I'll try to keep this as close to canon as possible, but there isn't all that much information on the early days of the Phantom Troupe. Anyway, I'd say that everyone is probably in their teens here, ages ranging from 14-18. Something like that.
The main focus will be on the founding members: Phinks, Feitan, Machi, Nobunaga, Shalnark, Franklin, Pakunoda, Chrollo. Actually, they're going to be the only focus. Members that joined later won't even be mentioned.
This was originally going to be a one-shot but I broke it up into chapters because, I don't know, why not? So it's not going to be very long, but hopefully it'll still be enjoyable!
Out of the Rubble
Chapter 1: Phinks and Feitan
There aren't many things that can get by Phinks unnoticed.
A few meters above him, his ears register the faint sounds of a rat scurrying along the ledge of a rooftop, the critter's feet rushing by in a flurry of quick movements. In the shadows of the alleyway to his left, his eyes pick up the silhouettes of a group of young kids, all skin and bone, starved and waiting for someone weak to prey on.
It's survivor's instinct. Heightened senses used to adapt to living in a place as miserable as Meteor City.
Phinks lifts the half-rotten apple in his hand, a rare luxury in this garbage dump and his first meal in days, and opens his mouth to take a bite. Where he expects to sink his teeth into the crunchy outer layer, he swallows a mouthful of air instead.
He looks down and the apple is gone. In his peripheral vision, he catches sight of a dark figure running barefoot to the other side of the street.
Fucking thief.
His stomach growls in anger and without skipping a beat, he sprints after his target. He'll make anyone who dares to steal from him regret it.
.
In the middle of Meteor City: a ring formed by residents in tattered shirts and ripped jeans. They huddle together as a crowd of muddy hair and foul breaths and dirtied fingernails. Some of them whisper to each other, exchanging a pair of broken shoes for a piece of stale bread or a ripped up blanket for a dysfunctional umbrella—placing bets.
At the center of the ring: two boys.
Phinks stands tall, confident, blond hair sleeked back and the outlines of well-developed muscles evident underneath his thin T-shirt. His black eyes stare intensely at his opponent as he cranks up his arm, preparing for a fistfight against someone who looks half his weight.
The no-name in front of him is a scrawny kid with messy brown hair and bony hands that clench tightly to the bag strapped around his shoulder. Inside the bag is an apple that belongs to Phinks, among other scraps of food, no doubt also stolen from various other people.
The air around the makeshift arena is silent. Without warning, Phinks kneels down and leaps forward, drawing his arm back to go for the first hit. He's fast; when the brown-haired boy blinks, Phinks has already crossed the distance between them and his fist is just inches away from the thief's face. But his attack never hits and he feels no contact.
A blur of black invades his vision. Not a minute later, his victim's head is rolling on the floor.
Everyone in the crowd gasps in unison, taking a step back and expanding the circle. Phinks whirls around to see another kid, shorter this time, and he can't decide what's worse—the fact that his target is dead by someone else's hand or that this newcomer is dressed solely in black, all shady and emo.
"Hey, you!" He yells out, eyes narrowed. "That was my opponent! Mind your own business!"
The younger boy seems unfazed as he shakes his victim's blood off his weapon, a dark red umbrella with the image of a skull embedded onto it. Phinks watches him heave the umbrella over his shoulder in a nonchalant manner that gets his blood boiling. "He steal from me first," a deep, rough voice replies in monotone, speaking in broken Japanese. "I kill."
And then, in a flash similar to how he appeared, the dark-haired boy vanishes upon the completion of his task.
The other citizens also disperse soon after, murmuring whispers of what they just witnessed, leaving Phinks in the middle of the street with no one to direct his anger towards. He had been stolen from twice today. It's truly unforgivable.
Eerily calm, he makes his way over to a nearby house made of bricks that are already beginning to fall apart. He swings his arm back once, twice, and punches the walls with a loud cry.
The bricks crumple down and Phinks walks away, hand throbbing just the slightest.
.
Feitan had been careless. The anger had made him act rashly, pushing his way through a large crowd of people just to reach the brown-haired boy who had taken his food from him. The boy was already dead either way, about to be defeated by the blond standing in front of him, but Feitan had wanted the kill. It was the least he could do to repay the petty little thief for robbing him of his hard-earned meal.
Now, there is blood on his clothes. How annoying. Once it dries and hardens, permanently staining the cloth, there will be no way to wash it off. Which means he'll have to get a new sweater soon. Again. The second one this month.
He really needs to perform cleaner kills.
There is a stir of movement beside a small mountain of garbage that has piled up on the side of the street. Feitan makes quick work of his feet and easily captures a lone, grey pigeon with his bare hands. He holds up the squirming bird, examining it for a moment and simply watching its futile struggle for freedom from his grasp. In a sick manner, he begins to pluck the pigeon's feathers off one by one, until one of its wings is entirely bare and it's screeching in pain.
The sight brings a cruel grin to his face. But when he realizes that he still needs new clothing and shouldn't be wasting time here, he shifts the pigeon into one hand and squeezes. Hard, harder, until the poor animal's eyes are bulging, feet thrashing wildly, beak pecking weakly at Feitan's skin.
One, two, three seconds and then—silence. The bird goes still. Dead.
Feitan stuffs the pigeon into his pocket and thinks about how good its meat would taste, the feeling of biting into it with his bare teeth. Maybe he could roast it over a fire and steal some spices from the makeshift marketplace a few blocks down from where he lives. The thought alone is enough to make his stomach growl, but no—clothes come first.
He makes a quick trip back to his house and grabs a few other things he happened to collect over the months. They're all worthless to him but he's learned that other people will take interest in the weirdest stuff.
Finally ready, he sets off for the east side of Meteor City. There's supposedly a small shop run by two people and he's heard rumours of a pink-haired girl who sews clothing for customers in exchange for, well, anything they deem worthy. Feitan is hoping they'll accept a dead pigeon. If not, he has some other things to bargain with as backup.
The walk to the other side of town feels torturously long under the burning heat of the afternoon sun. His shirt has become stiff now that the blood from earlier has dried, making it even harder for him to move around freely. Scowling, he prays that this shop is the real thing and not just a scam because he just wants clean clothing for once. While stealing shirts off dead bodies on the streets is the easier option, it's never pleasant.
Upon arriving, he almost completely walks past the building. There isn't any sign indicating that this is the place, but considering that it's the only one with a few pieces of clothing on display on the other side of the window, Feitan figures this is probably what he's been looking for.
Inside, the house is just as worn down as any regular building in Meteor City. Other than the large cloths hanging from the walls as improvised curtains, which is still better than what most people have, nothing else really stands out.
That's alright, though, because Feitan isn't here to inspect the architecture. He walks over to where a girl, indeed with pink hair just like he's heard, calls out and greets him. She doesn't sound particularly thrilled to talk him, but neither of them are here to make casual conversation, anyway.
Wasting no time, Feitan dumps everything he brought with him onto the counter: the pigeon, a few batteries, a broken fan, and other miscellaneous items he happened to have in his room. He pushes the them toward the girl in offering.
She tucks a strand of short hair behind her ear and accepts the payment. "Thanks," she says, taking out her sewing materials from a drawer and laying out the different types of cloth on display. "What would you like?"
Feitan lifts up the sleeve of his sweater, gesturing toward it and replies, "Sweater. With pockets." He emphasizes his need for pockets because he needs a place to store his collection of knives that he likes to keep on his body, just in case.
"Colour?"
"Black."
"Alright," she confirms. "It'll take about half an hour for me to make a sweater for you, but feel free to wait over there if you'd like." She points to the right where a couple of chairs are placed.
Feitan sits down quietly and examines the articles of clothing laid out beside him. Honestly, he's impressed by the quality of the things here. He didn't think quality was something that even existed in Meteor City.
When the girl is done and holds up the new sweater for him to see, Feitan nods, satisfied. The fabric feels nice under his fingertips and he thinks he might even come back some time in the future if he needs to. He takes it from her and walks out the door; no exchange of words of gratification or farewells because those are pointless. Their interaction is one based purely on doing business, payment given for a service in return, and personal things like addressing each other by name is unnecessary.
Because they are simply one of the many outcasts living in this junkyard city, existences unknown to the rest of the world. It's easy to understand, really, and Feitan thinks of it like this:
They are no one.
And he likes it that way. Likes the freedom.
But most of all, he likes his new sweater, completely free of blood stains.
A/N: Pigeon scene was my to write favourite, by far. And Meteor City is one of my favourite locations in the HxH world because no one really knows much about it other than the fact that it's not a particularly good place to live. This is both good and bad because I can do almost anything I want but I also don't have much to go off of.
~Madin456.
