HATSU
Wusai

Author's Notes: I'm wondering exactly how AU I can write a fic and still have it follow along the canon. Anyways, these parts were all written at different times, so there's style changes. Also, this first chapter might be revised later – I'm trying to get people's opinions on the fic first.

Also, please note that this is an A/U fic.

Concerning Feedback: I'm not well-acquainted with the characters of Killua, Kurapika, Leorio, Biscuit, Kikyou, Silva . . . - what I mean to say is, I can't quite fit into the brains of anyone who isn't Feitan and Phinx (probably because they're underdeveloped characters anyways). So, any notes and criticism of my portrayal of the characters will be greatly appreciated. Heck, criticism in general would be great. If you like something about my fic, please don't just say "I like it;" tell me why; same goes for the opposite. Thanks.

Edit 1.0: trim - I changed some of the things you pointed out; however, I kept the 'unpleasant room' part because, to me at least, mansions hint at being a bit too large for comfort and the like. I also didn't want to put more emphasis on what Killua was doing rather than what he was wearing. I kept the 'marigold-yellow' because just 'marigold' sounds a bit awkward to me. Thanks for pointing it out, though!

I, THE FIRST

In a large, towering mansion, there was a room.

It wasn't an altogether unpleasant room; on the contrary, it would make legions of boys squeal with delight if they stepped in, even if that was against their code of Boyishness and Coolness. The room was large, with shelves filled with books and toys, games and little trinkets; the closet was squeezed to the limit with the latest, most stylish clothes, and the occasional tuxedo. In one corner there was a plush sofa in a safe and reasonable distance away from the flat-screen, plasma, high-definition TV and shiny Joystation; in the other was a master bed, so soft and comfortable that one would literally sink into it if he lay in it.

But if the observer looked a little closer, he'd notice a thin layer of dust on the shelves, and the room made up too neatly for the boy of sixteen, who had rejected his lush bed and had opted for instead lying on the soft white carpet as he stared up at the ceiling, making patterns and images out of the dimples. He lay like that for a while, immobile, until a voice crackled, like someone crinkling mint wrappers, over the intercom next to his double-doors:

"Killua dear, get dressed and come down. We're going to the Nostrad's big party, remember? Sweetie, I know you're in there. Answer me with at least an 'okay.'"

He remained silent.

"Don't make me send Illumi up there, Killua . . . "

"Fine, Mum." He pushed himself up and stood before the closet, regarding the tuxedos and suits with disgust. Here he was, a sixteen-year-old boy, in a pompous and elegant world spun for old geezers from centuries past. Here was the room his mother expected him to enjoy and love – "no personal phone line; we can't have dear Killua making prank calls, though I doubt he would, but if he did, that'd ruin our reputation" – not understanding that, just once, he'd like the pleasure of a challenge in getting something.

He held the shirt sleeve of an ironed dinner jacket.

He wanted out of this delicate world of manners gilded with 'pleasant chit-chat,' this glass world that he wanted to smash with all his might.

He pulled the jacket off its coathanger and, with a delighted smile on his face, heard it fall softly to the ground with. He'd figured out a plan for a two-in-one escape, something so simple he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it earlier. He changed from his 'lazy' clothes to his 'going-outdoors-skateboarding' clothes (his mother, through pursed lips, did at least pay for a skateboard, which was the only thing out of his treasure hoard that he truly cherished), slipped his wallet clipped to a chain leading to his belt buckle into his back pocket, then, with his skateboard under his arm, thundered down the stairs in front of his bewildered mother.

"Killua dear, the party is in half an hour. What are you doing?"

He smiled. "I'm not going."

There was a tense silence before realization dawned upon his mother's face like honey oozing down the side of a beehive, and she said the word she thought would never enter her vocabulary, but which made him grin when it fell past her lips:

"No."

He slipped on his casual shoes and repeated, "I'm not going."

"Oh yes you are!" she screeched. A few motes of dust danced off the ceiling and sprinkled onto Killua's mother's marigold-yellow dress. Silva came in from the other room, brushing dust off from his tuxedo.

"What's going on?"

Killua turned to him and said cheerfully, "Hiya Dad! Mum here says that I can't not go to the Nostrad's party."

Silva raised a bushy eyebrow. "Why not, Kikyou?"

"After all I've done for himall I've bought to make him happy, he won't at least return the favor by coming to the party? Do you realize what everyone else will think? They'll think we have some wild child on our hands who won't even listen to his parents; what do you think that will do to our reputation?" She clenched her fists as color bled into her usually pale face, veins emerging and pulsing.

Both of Silva's eyebrows were raised. He said calmly, "I don't see why we can't let him miss one party."

"No! He's going! If we let him slip away once, he'll think he can do it again!"

Killua watched the match as if it were a tennis match, head swiveling from his mom to his dad and back to his mom. "Actually, Mum, I don't fancy going myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, the skating park closes at nine, and I want plenty of time to have some fun."

His mom replied in a calmer, quieter, but all the more threatening voice, "Then come to the party. You'll have plenty of fun there."

"When I'm not even old enough to drink champagne?" Killua said, astonished, covering his mouth with his hand in a mock gasp. "I'm appalled! I'll be going now, and thanks, but not thanks." He turned to leave, but his mother grabbed his arm, perfectly manicured and painted nails digging through the fabric and into his flesh. He felt a sudden surge anger bubbling up from inside. Who was this woman, thinking that she could control his life and what he wanted to do? He spun around, bearing down at her, then, in a spontaneous act, punched her in the gut with his free hand, with all his might. She clutched her stomach, winded; her grip slacked, and Killua pulled his arm away and opened the door. He ran out, switching to his skateboard once he'd reached the sidewalk.

"Silva," Kikyou gasped, "did you see that? Why aren't you going after him? Why are you just standing there? Won't you do something?"

He shook his head and pulled on his dinner jacket. "There's no need."

"What are you talking about? I'm going to call the bank and credit card companies right this instant and have them alert me when he withdraws money or uses his card. Or, even better, I'll block – no, close – both of his accounts. When that young man gets back home, he will be – grounded!"

She spun on her heel, but Silva grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "As I said before – there's no need. Let him go. He'll be back once he realizes that he needs us; he'll be back once he realizes that the world outside isn't the same as the bubble he lives in. Just – be – patient."

Kikyou glared at him, but he smirked and repeated:

"He'll be back."

Chapter: 10/11/2004 – 11/13/2004
Fic: 07/18/2004 –