Warnings, disclaimers, so on and so forth.
Ch. 2
The atrium is elegantly appointed, floors of imported Ihadan marble slippery under Kurapica's feet. The tea set is an antique, and no doubt costs more than the attending maid's life insurance. The tea itself is almost scaldingly hot, frothy from the Yamamoti-style preparation, and turns sour in Kurapica's mouth.
"You come highly recommended, Kurapica-san," his client murmurs, the wrinkles at the edges of her eyes crinkling with her motherly smile as she sips her tea. "The Nostrad family was most pleased with your dedication during your time with them."
Kurapica doesn't answer, accepting the praise as what it is: the opening volley of a test in conversation form. This elegant, polite woman isn't the owner of the ruby eyes Kurapica's stolen. Even though he's a Hunter, he's lowly hired help. He knows he won't be meeting the owner. But this woman, according to Kurapica's sources, is the bookkeeper. She hides the transactions that fill her client's gruesome collections.
He'd been brought to the atrium through halls with human pelts on the wall, preserved and framed with their former occupants' valuables: a Chalt shaman's dress, an Askrit wedding crown, a fragile old book with Ruske lettering, a battered little doll... None of it would be out of the law's hands had it not been for this woman he is pretending to enjoy tea with.
Kurapica has never been more thankful for his black contacts, or Senritsu's absence. His heartbeat would pain her yet again if she heard it.
"Nostrad was most effusive, in his own way of course, about a time when you located his missing daughter," the woman adds sweetly.
The Nostrads...
0-0-0-
Rain sputtered fitfully onto the darkening tile beneath Kurapica's feet, gusting into his face on puffs of wind from the west. Cold iron bit into his palms and against his waist as he leaned on the railing, face lifted to the scent of ozone and fresh greenery. The balcony was perhaps not the safest place to be, with black clouds scudding in from the horizon, but... well, he'd go in when he saw lightning.
Thunder rumbled, soft and far off.
... okay, so he probably wouldn't. But he could say he'd planned otherwise.
Behind Kurapica, the latch on the French doors clicked. Kurapica didn't turn. Even if he couldn't feel that familiar, faint aura, or hear the too-quick, too-soft footfalls of a dwarf, he knew the perimeter was secure... and that only one of the inhabitants of this house would seek him out in person.
Pale skin bobbed at the lower edge of his peripheral vision, before Senritsu -- bald-crowned, mutilated, gentle Senritsu -- stepped fully into view. She climbed onto the iron railing, clutching at the curved bars to peer over the top. She didn't speak as the wind strengthened, picking at their clothing and hair.
"Deep thoughts today, Kurapica," she eventually murmured. It wasn't a question.
Kurapica glanced at her. She met his eyes with a soft smile, lifted a finger, and conducted a few beats. Not that Kurapica needed the reminder of her nen-strengthened hearing, but the camaraderie in the gesture always lightened the rhythm of his heartbeat. Or so she claimed. Who was he to argue?
"Deep thoughts, indeed," he answered. "Do you remember when we spoke of our dreams?" As if she'd forget. The eyes of his clan, the song that had mutilated her; neither of them would have had anything to do with a Nostrad without such goals.
Kurapica drew out a chain -- his ring finger, the all-purpose ball -- and let it fall into the open air. "Leorio's biology textbook," he said. "Find."
To Gyo-enhanced eyes, the chain glowed pale red. Humming inaudibly, it twitched, links clanking. Then it slowly swung off to the right, the north, straining against Kurapica's hand.
Silence reigned under Senritsu's wide eyes. Kurapica needed to say nothing more. After a moment, he let the command go and flicked the chain back into his hand. It sat in his cupped palm, a gleam of steel hope.
Finally, she turned back to the storm, kindly not watching him. "May I come with you?"
A year ago, he would've refused. A year ago, he hadn't gone through the horrors of York Shin.
His reply surprised neither of them.
0-0-0-
In the sunny atrium, Kurapica sets down his empty teacup. "Before we begin, I would reiterate the restrictions upon this session." A pause, just long enough for the woman to refuse if she wishes. She doesn't, so Kurapica lifts a finger, careful to hold the back of his hand to the client; she's from a country where the palm out is a rude gesture. "First, the questions must be phrased for a 'yes' or 'no' answer, or a location. You may also write numbers or names down to be potential answers." Another finger lifts. "Second, I cannot predict the future." Third, he thinks to himself, he is under no obligation to request clarification. "Is this agreeable?"
"Certainly." The woman smiles, the polite expression of someone who'd actually read the fine print on the contract before signing.
"Then shall we begin?" Kurapica asks, flipping open his cell phone with an expectantly raised eyebrow.
"Of course," his client replies, signaling the maid to clear the table.
Kurapica hits 3 on his speed dial. "It's me." The words are more for the benefit of his client than anything else.
"The transaction was clocked just five minutes ago," Senritsu replies. "It should go to the next account automatically, let me refresh... ah. There it goes."
"Thank you," Kurapica murmurs automatically.
The dishes cleared, an intercom unit set next to the woman, Kurapica lifts his laptop to the table and boots it up, turning it so both he and his client can see the map in the internet window. "The first question."
"Where are the ruby eyes stolen from my client?"
Kurapica's chain rattles, swaying over the map. Slowly, sullenly, it edges off the screen and to a sticker above the keyboard. "Destroyed," Kurapica reads emotionlessly. "The second question."
The woman's voice has noticeably cooled. "Where is the leader of the thieves that took them?"
That took them from my people, the Kurata, Kurapica automatically rephrases in his mind. This time, the ball strains towards a point on the screen. "The west coast of Ajia," Kurapica murmurs, zooming in. "In the Anamand Isles... Dombai... the pier district... and," Kurapica's litany doesn't falter, though he can only hope that Kuroro Lucifer is the only nen user within that district at this moment, "he's blocking."
"Thank you," the woman all but purrs. "Did you get that?" she addresses the intercom unit. A man's voice crackles an affirmative.
Kurapica raises his own phone, courteously inquiring, "Did you wish to buy another question?"
"Actually..."
0-0-0-
"Any requests?" Senritsu asked, experimentally plucking soft, thrumming notes from a guitar... or something very much like it. The body was shaped like a figure eight, and the pegs at the end were entirely too long. Kurapica's studies had focused on languages and status markings, not music. He couldn't name more than one out of every ten instruments in this tiny Mashadstani shop, but Senritsu's face had lit up the instant they'd set foot over the threshold.
"No. No requests," Kurapica answered. Although she could probably translate any song he thought of to this strange instrument, whether a lullaby or the top Padokian thrash-music... he would rather see what she came up with.
"Then..." and the random notes shifted, rippling into sudden melody. The budding song resonated through the shop, echoing in the cramped confines and drifting into the street. Kurapica didn't understand music, but it seemed to speak of ancient stone and bas-reliefs, bright awnings and thick spices in cones of brown paper... of Mashadstan and its predecessors.
Instantly, Kurapica knew that Senritsu would never play another type of song on this instrument, no matter her capabilities. It wouldn't be right to hear thrash-music on these strings.
Senritsu's eyes were lowered, would have been closed had she been using her own instruments. She played another few measures, quieting the song... then... "This is a wonderful gift, Kurapica."
Alright, so he'd looked up the store on purpose. He hadn't really had any interest in concealing the fact, and she wouldn't have heard surprise when they'd reached the storefront even if he'd tried.
"But you needn't have gone to all the trouble," she continued. "I would have listened."
He felt his mouth flick upwards in a smile. She couldn't avoid listening. "I know."
"Thank you, though."
"You're welcome," Kurapica murmured. Now... it wouldn't be right to tell her now. But it wouldn't be right to tell her at any time. "We've been offered a contract." Not that this was unusual at all. But... "From Bureishin's people."
Senritsu looked up from her strings, the music shifting to a lower key. "That's... worrying." Bureishin had been their last theft, the one where Killua had been injured.
"It's a lot of money," Kurapica had to add. "It would seem very odd to refuse."
Senritsu's song had begun to thrum of dark times... a minor key? Kurapica couldn't be sure. "Saa... it would," she murmured.
"I..."
"It's all right. I know, we have to accept." Senritsu paused. "Necessity isn't a democracy, Kurapica. I follow you as a friend and fellow servant, not a subordinate. You know that," she marked out a beat, his heartbeat, "here. Don't apologize if necessity takes us down dark paths."
0-0-0-
The woman finishes her call to her employer, and returns to the table. "Would it cost me anything to ask if you can clarify something?"
"No."
"Then..." And she takes several papers from a folder. "What of these?"
Kurapica takes the top one from the stack, ignoring the client's intent stare. The paper is a photocopy of some form of picture card, which looks like it came from a roleplay deck. This particular card features a drawing of a man in vintage prisoner's garb, running down a hill in the dark, wearing broken manacles on his ankles and wrists. Escaped Man; +3 determination+4 desperation, -2 sanity.
Interesting. Kurapica takes another page from the stack: Cursed Enchantress, a masked, regal woman handling reams of bright nen. "These are...?"
"Profiles of the thieves," she informs him over steepled fingers, "given by a nen specialist yesterday."
"Ah." The third photocopy: Lightning Strikes, the bolts running jagged-white over clouds swirled vaguely like a face; +5 death+3 cunning, -1 predictability. "Would it be correct to assume that these don't describe the thieves' physical appearances?" Kurapica asks, twitching the image of the storm downwards for his client's eyes.
"It would," she replies simply.
So... the first card is Kurapica himself, who'd escaped from the massacre, but is still in danger for the crime of living with his valuable eyes. (And who probably does have dubious sanity, but not so much now that he's gotten away from the trap of bodyguarding in the mob.) The next is Senritsu, using the original, literal definition of 'enchantress' -- woman who chants/sings -- in the card's language. Then Killua, obvious with his electric nen and an upbringing as a killer from the shadows... the image even indicates the color and unruliness of his hair.
Kurapica lets his heart send up a silent prayer of thanks that all the cards have so far been misleading. Is Gon's...?
Yes. Wild Child, a suggestion of a human shape in the underbrush. 0 morality+3 playfulness+3 predictability.
But there's a fifth paper on the table, though there had only been four people in on the theft... and only three who'd invaded the house, come to think of it. Kurapica takes the paper, face remaining blank despite his confusion. The card shows an emaciated elven character, bony hands cupping light.
This one... isn't so misleading.
Thrifty Healing.
Leorio.
Kurapica sets the papers back on the table, lining them up to face his client. He barely hears his next words. "I can ascertain the accuracy of these cards, if you are interested in purchasing that information."
"I am."
0-0-0-
Kurapica had foregone his usual clothes today. His target was in the park, gods knew why; it was sunny, humid, and creeping up on the hottest part of the year. If he'd worn his usual garb, he would've roasted ten feet past the gates... not to mention that he really, really would've stood out in the crowd. He was the right age to fit in (if there were more than two people over thirty in the whole park, he'd eat his chains), but the local dress was almost religiously adhered to: denim or khaki shorts, fluttery skirts, cotton shirts with short or no sleeves, and sandals.
The target lay sprawled on his stomach on a picnic blanket, decked out in the same local garb, sandals kicked off in the thick grass. The man was using a thick book for a pillow, and -- Kurapica allowed himself a tiny smirk -- was snoring. Loudly.
Kurapica bent and jerked the book out from under the man's head.
Leorio's face hit the ground, and he woke with a snort. "OW! Who the-- what--"
"I can't believe you! Sleeping on your textbook? Just look, you drooled all over the pages!" Kurapica knew he was grinning, wide enough that once Leorio reoriented himself...
"I DI-- Kurapica!" Leorio flipped to a sitting position, adjusting his sunglasses and blinking up at Kurapica. "Hey!"
Zero situational awareness at all. Kurapica still couldn't hide his smile, and Leorio's fury vanished like it had never been.
"When did you show up? Why didn't you call? And," Leorio's eyes widened, flicking down and then back up to Kurapica's face, "what the hell are you wearing?"
"A couple of days ago," Kurapica answered, replying to the questions in order. "I had a job and wasn't sure how long it would take. And the locals tend to call them 'clothes'; you'll notice that you're wearing the same thing."
"Hope you've also got sunscreen. I bet half that skin's never seen daylight," Leorio muttered. "A job, huh? Let me guess, the Pelori kidnapping."
"Aren't you supposed to be busy studying for your exams?"
"Not so much that I don't pay attention to the local news," Leorio told him, scooting over just enough that it would've been rude for Kurapica not to sit. "Are you okay?"
"I just located the place. I didn't go on the raid."
"Are you okay in here?" Leorio clarified, poking him in the forehead. Kurapica swatted Leorio's hand away.
"... it's been a long year. But much better than before. It's hard work, reaching for your dreams, you know?"
Leorio's eyes slid to his textbook. "Aa. I know."
Quiet held for a long moment. It had really been ages since Kurapica took the time to enjoy the sun, aside from a few stolen instants in crowded lines. Nothing like a grassy park...
"So..." Leorio murmured reluctantly, "how long you here for?"
"Not long," Kurapica answered honestly.
"I knew that," Leorio grumbled, rough words poorly hiding a hint of wistfulness. "You never are. Let's have some numbers, here." He beckoned with his fingers as if asking for money rather than words.
Kurapica sighed, laying his head on his crossed arms. "Four more days, then Senritsu and I are heading south for the winter."
Leorio gave him a strange look over his sunglasses. "... it's summer."
"Not there," Kurapica answered simply.
Silence. Then... "Well, damn. If you'd just come two weeks later..." Leorio trailed off, a hand brushing against his abandoned textbook.
"I don't--" Kurapica stifled the automatic protest. He did have to visit; not out of obligation or duty, but because neither of them were free enough to meet as Gon and Killua could. "I've got four days," Kurapica said slowly, picking up the textbook. "I think I could help you study."
"It's Advanced Anatomy," Leorio reminded him, well aware of Kurapica's scholarly preferences, "not history."
Kurapica leafed through the back of the book, skimming over indexes and chapter outlines, finding test sections. "I don't have to know that much to check your answers against the book's, do I?"
"You really don't have to..."
"When did you pick up manners?" Kurapica murmured, folding himself into a comfortable position to hold the book propped up on his lap.
"I've always had manners!" Leorio protested.
"Your jokes are terrible, Leorio," Kurapica said, deadpan. He didn't give Leorio time to do more than bristle in indignation before he tossed out a random question. "Name the serous cavities of the body, and describe their location and the function of the serous membranes."
Leorio blinked, reeling. "Uh, well, there are three..."
0-0-0-
Kurapica requests a blank sheet of paper and a pen for his client; she writes the numbers from zero to a hundred at random over the page, without letting him see. As she does so, he redials Senritsu, informing her of five more transactions to go through. This one afternoon is being so profitable, maybe even enough to go after the next page of the concerto Senritsu's after... if only the money weren't coming at such a price!
He lifts the stack, paying attention to the photocopied images rather than the numbered paper.
Announcing the name of the card, Kurapica stipulates that the image is not to be factored into the calculation, and lets the ball hit where it may. His card: Ninety-seven percent.
Senritsu's card. Ninety-two percent.
Killua's. Ninety-nine percent.
Gon's. Ninety-eight percent.
Leorio's. Ninety percent.
The drop in accuracy is probably related to the fact that Senritsu didn't enter the mansion, and Leorio's profile shouldn't have turned up at all. But why has it...?
Kurapica can't inquire further without raising suspiscion. So he assures that the client has no more questions, that she has his number should she wish to consult him again in the future, and takes his leave of the mansion.
A half-hour later, back on the outskirts of town, he dials Gon's number. "I'm finished with my job," he tells the voicemail, falsely bright. "Shall we meet for that sundae I owe you?"
TBC
A/N's -
- the guitar Senritsu is playing is a taar, an Iranian relative of the guitar, which is played with a pick (plectrum) and is held in high regard. The picture showed a figure-eight body fronted with lambskin, and a long neck. I have no idea what it sounds like, but "thrumming" seems to work for stringed instruments.
