She tells him the story of the urban legend, of the missing child, of the clothing scattered in the compact snow. She talked of the villagers quiet mutters, of the silent shuffling of unease, of the couple living in the mountains who claimed to now have known anything.

Killua listens attentively against the countertop, fingers finding their way back to the hot cider. He doesn't drink, just uses copper receptacle to warm his hands. The once animated barkeep continues to pale as she recounts the story, as though it were a once forgotten memory that someone's dug up.

She speaks of the black birds, finally, about how they burst out of the forest, a murder covering the skies, obscuring the sun. The men ran out to defend their homes, the women hid the children, and everyone spoke of the end of the world. But the world didn't end. Instead, a black energy shot up from amongst the trees and split the skies, the birds that hid the sun descended upon the village.

"A black energy?" Killua asks, feeling as though the gaps are filling themselves in. Yet, he still does not have the whole picture. He waits patiently for a minute, but the barkeep trails off, eyes far away. Killua pushes the cider to her, which she downs half of in one large gulp, then proceeds to laugh nervously.

"Oh, this won't do," she tucks her bangs behind her ear with a shaky hand, "I'm gonna need something much stronger."

She pulls out two shot glasses from beneath the bar and tops them both with vodka. She shoots hers and pushes the second to Killua, but when the hunter refuses with a polite shake of his hand, the barkeep shrugs and downs that one too.

"So then what happens?" The barkeep shakes her head, prompting Killua to push himself further onto the counter. He squints to read her nametag. "Astoria, focus, tell me what happens next. What about this black energy?"

Killua watches as the woman, Astoria, breaths in, holds, then exhales. The gesture seems to steady her, and she continues,

"I don't remember much more, honestly. I was eleven or twelve at the time, so I didn't even understand the full extent of it when it was happening. But if you ask anyone close enough to feel that energy, it was like…like…" She struggles to find the word.

"A pressure?"

"Yes!" Astoria snaps her finger in recognition, "A pressure. It was sharp at first, and- and it hurt, and the it turned into these-these pins-and-needles feeling, almost like-" it's on the tip of her tongue, and she has it, it like-

"-walking naked in a snowstorm." Astoria and Killua finish together, both equally as surprised as the other to hear their own words echoed.

"You know this thing." Astoria leans down to be face-to-face with the younger boy, studying him. She can't decipher a thing, though, for Killua's face is smooth, and his eyes are already far away. Still, the silver-haired boy nods slowly, contemplatively. The pieces of the puzzle are all there, and he is so close to a picture.

Killua concentrates so hard that he misses it when Astoria begins to speak again,

"-every year on this day, we put out bread and fruits, some people even put out dried insects, so the black birds would come collect the offerings and spare the village." She holds the shot glass between her thumb and forefinger, swirling it on the countertop. "Of course, the black birds don't come down again – I mean, they do come pick at the food – but never in a swarm like that."

Killua hums an acknowledgement.

"…until yesterday." Astoria says with finality, and the twist in the story finally reaches the hunter's brain.

"Yesterday?"

Astoria nods gravely, mouth pressing into a thin line. Her hand stills around the shot glass.

"Well?" Killua could only be so patient. Not now. Not while he's teetering on the edge of revelation.

"The villagers saw it again, yesterday. It was one bird, and it was big – like the size of a human big. It was flying towards – around – the area where the couple lives. You know, the couple that swore they didn't see or hear anything about-"

"Yes, yes, the couple," Killua stands, pulling his scarf tight around his neck. "Show me where they live."

The barrel of the rifle forces Makoto backwards, and the snow crunches under her boots like brittle bones. The cut on her cheek bleeds now, a drop of red stark again the pristine white on the ground.

So this is her parents' resolve – destroying the evil they seem to have perceived in her since she was but a child. Because of a belief. It's hard to believe that something so silly, something that is nearly akin to make-believe has the power to convince parents to rid themselves of a child, simply because they couldn't – never even tried – to understand what made her different.

Someone had convinced them that Nen was inherently evil. One doesn't control its color or its shape. Just as Gon's Nen is influenced by the jungle, Makoto got hers from the birds who kept her company.

And she doesn't deserve to die at the hands of her father for it.

Another shot rings out and rebounds off her Nen wings. Honestly, Makoto thinks with a shake of her head, a brittle smile playing at the edge of her lips, Papa is such a bad shot. The man is no doubt aiming for center mass.

"What kind of man does this, Papa?" She knows her question falls on deaf ears, but something in her still can't fathom it. Even though they're completely and utterly batshit, even Killua's parents didn't want him dead. In their own sick and twisted way, they loved him. Wanted him. But not hers. Not Makoto's. "I'm your daughter."

Makoto looks over the man's shoulder at the woman who still clutches a knife to her chest, her hazel eyes still pleading, still hoping to appeal to the last ounce of humanity in them. "Mom, please."

The woman averts her gaze and the man smirks, ugly and crazed. "You stopped being our daughter the day you turned into that," he gestures with the barrel at the darkness that surrounds her. "I'm doing the world a favor. After all…" the smirk stretches into a cruel smile, and the huntress could feel the tendrils of bloodthirst seeping out of her father's aura. "no one would care if you're gone."

'You can disappear the fuck from my life, I don't give a shit.'

Makoto's step falters as the phrase rings in her ear. Because he's right.

Who would care?

As she takes another step back, her foot slips, and it's as if time has turned back, and she is there again, chased to the edge of the cliff. There is nowhere else to go, no one to turn to.

She is a little girl again. All alone. Hopeless.

Maybe she should've died back there the first time around; maybe she had overstayed her welcome on this earth long ago. She thinks about Yorkshin, thinks about her friends. Thinks about how much better they could get on without her. Kurapica wouldn't have to humor her selfish whims. Leorio wouldn't need to take time off at her beck and call. Gon wouldn't have her dead set against his goals. And Killua – well—Killua wouldn't have to deal with her. Everyone is better off.

Hazel eyes flutter shut and Makoto folds her wings, the black aura evaporating into thin air. "You're right, Papa."

Killua has always prided himself on his speed no matter the terrain, and the snow-ridden forest is no exception. With lightning drumming through his feet, the silver-haired hunter leaps up the mountain from branch to branch, wind and leaves ripping past his ears. Sounds are muffled now, and the blur of the trees start to make it a little hard to see, but even with the heavy parka and an over-packed emergency go-bag tucked against him, the ex-assassin does not falter.

Eventually, the forest opens up to him, and the recognition of his dear friend's aura pierces through his skin, temporarily suspending his very thoughts, rendering him nearly breathless for a second.

Makoto.

He's caught up. Finally – finally he's caught up. It's not too late, and-

And then he sees it, a figure on the edge of the cliff, looking down the barrel of a gun. The trigger twitches, and suddenly, Killua sees red. And the blur of the trees around him slows down.

Everything slows down.

She falls backwards…

"MAKOTO!"

Resignation worms heavily into her ribs, and Makoto feels the wary thing in her chest slow down as the final shot rings out. She's worked through her five stages of grief, and there is only acceptance now.

The bullet spins out, and look – Papa's finally done it. His shot lands center mass. The sensation of the bullet ripping through her skin creates a sort of wave, like th ose of a high-speed train passing by, but the huntress barely registers the pain. Some may say it's the adrenaline, while others might credit her steely acquiescence, but to Makoto, it's the fact that the pain of this physical wound pales in comparison to the heartbreak of being unwanted. The projectile slices through skin and fat, lodging firmly into her stomach, but it hardly matters, because she is falling backwards and if this doesn't kill her, the next 300m down will definitely do the trick.

Her eyes flutter shut as gravity takes her. And it's more than a little messed up when something like relief overtakes her – the anticipation that this would all go away soon. Not having to think, not having to fight…letting go. It all sounds deliciously wonderful.

Just as she tips over the edge though, a faint something reaches her ear. Something that sounds like a voice long forgotten, curling its finger at her in a beckoning gesture.

The smile that stretches across Makoto's lips then is a brittle thing. She shudders with an exhale at the wicked trick her mind plays – hallucination isn't usually her thing, but she is at least a little glad that the last thing she hears is the velvet tone of his voice that mercifully drowns her father's cruel laugh.

Makoto doesn't feel the pain of hitting the ground, but she thinks this must be what the other side looks like, because through her lashes, she thinks she sees Killua. There is no other way he could be here, even this version of him seems to be getting smaller by the second. His mouth is moving, but Makoto doesn't hear him.

Her eyelids are getting heavy.

And then – impact.

"MAKOTO!" Killua screams as he sweeps past the clearing, sliding onto his knees in one smooth motion to lean over the cliff. "YOUR WINGS MAKS, OPEN YOUR WINGS!"

He could see her eyes stare up at him, but there is no recognition in those hazel orbs.

"PLEASE MAKOTO!" The hoarse cry rips itself out of his throat, and Killua doesn't recognize it as his voice. Something prickles in his eye, and his ribcage feels like they're about to crack from the weight from the frantic inhales and exhales his lungs.

For one bloodcurdling moment, bile comes up his throat, and he sees a flash of a world without her. A world where her hands never touched his. A world where she never smiled her smile at him and make him feel less like a monster.

Warmth drains from his body and seemingly seems into the snow below. And then Killua's body is not his own and he is hurtling down the cliff.

Makoto's eyes shoot open despite herself as something collides into her body. She had expected that the weight that pummels into her would come from below, but she could have never anticipated this.

Silvery hair tickles her frostbitten cheeks as a pair of strong arms crushes her body against his. She is being turned over, she can feel the gravity lighten as a body shields her own against the air pressure. It takes her a good moment to register the scene. Killua. If this is a trick, then her mind is more messed up than she thought.

Her hands hover over his body, yearning to touch, stopped only by the hesitation emanating from her body. If she reaches out and her fingers go through .him, she will be devastated.

She closes her arms around him…

And gasped. Oh, this is not an illusion. This Killua is solid and warm, and…real. For the first time, she allows herself to take in his heartbeat, a chaotic rhythm pressed against her own steady ones. Only when Killua squeezes her close again does clarity suddenly hit the raven like a ton of bricks.

Killua is going to hit the ground first.

Any previous self-pity shrivels on the spot. In its place, instinctual protectiveness blooms from her chest, and black aura pours out, unfurling into the widest span of wings she had ever summoned. The sudden spanning catches the wind and throws the two bodies upwards, buying the huntress a few more precious seconds to maneuver the plummet down to earth. The Redwood catches them first, their sharp pines fight the gravity. Then the sequoias have them, breaking the hunters' fall, followed by the shrubbery. Then, Makoto is barreling into the ice, with Killua beneath her, absorbing the brunt of the crash.

But the pain is meaningless and Killua gets up first, body reeling but determined to reach the girl who had swiveled out of his arms upon impact. Her limp body is curled around a tree, contorted in all the different ways a body shouldn't be contorted. The gut shot wound has since stained through her coat, and Killua scrambles forward. "Maks! Wake up! Makoto!" He shakes, rolling his bag off his shoulder, tearing it open.

Makoto stirs as he rips her coat open, pushing her shirt up. He swallows shakily – the only thing that has prevented Makoto from bleeding out thus far was the sturdily lodged bullet. However, the crash has since dislodged it, and she is losing blood. Fast.

"Makoto, I need you to wake up!" He shouts thickly, blue eyes frantically darting from her face to his hand, now pressed heavily against her wound. If she falls asleep, she will go into shock, and she will die. "Wake the hell up, do you hear me!?"

Killua's voice…

Makoto groans inwardly. Something is wrong, she can feel it. Very wrong. Everything is black, but distantly, she keeps hearing the sound of his voice pressing against her skin. There is panic in that voice, the tell-tale tremor that makes that dulcet sound just a little breathier, a little higher pitched.

-koto

Is he calling me? What does he want with me? Hasn't he made it clear enough that-

And then he's not shouting anymore; he's screaming. He's begging and he's crying and he's screaming-

The thought of Killua being in pain forces Makoto conscious and she shoots up with a start, gasping, the sharp pain in her abdomen increasing tenfold as finger press into her wound. Killua falls back in surprise. Luckily, he pulls out with the bullet, and almost immediately, he is back to pressing both palms heavily onto the wound to stop the bleed. He is nearly delirious as he meets her eyes – they're a different color than he remembered – but she is conscious and alive and-

"Help me," he begs, blue eyes searching her face. "Help me stop the bleeding, please."

For one long moment, Makoto couldn't place the reason for the anguish and desperation in those blue orbs. She didn't know what could've caused him such pain, but she does as she's told if it means it would make him stop looking like that.

Killua's bloodied hands take hers and guide them to the wound, and only when a black aura starts swirling does he allow himself to free one limb to search into his bag. He fishes out the cotton gauze and presses it into her wound.

Minutes pass like hours and hours like minutes, but despite the darkness and the temperature drop, the former assassin consistently keeps one hand on the wound, fusing his Nen into it while Makoto focuses on healing herself. Her eyes fluttered shut half an hour ago, but Killua has been monitoring her breathing to make sure it is deep and steady. With his free hand, he pulls his scarf free and wraps it around Makoto instead. She doesn't acknowledge it, but seeing her lips redden with circulation is all the acknowledgement Killua needs.

T_T Writer's block + general life things. This one seems a little rushed but let me know ... next one coming soon!