Gon awoke not with a start, but with a groan, which in hindsight, likely sounded fairly pathetic. All in all, he was just glad nobody had been around to hear it. His surroundings were unfamiliar, with walls and floor made of the same cold, coarse concrete that he had heard was used so often in the city. A little light streamed through a small slit in the door, barely low enough for him to reach and wide enough to push his fingers through but no more. Then came the questions, one rushing over the other, that one over the next, and it occurred to him that he might break his brain irreparably if he let them all come at once. No, better to get them in a line.
First: where was he? There was a tempting answer for this question. Concrete like this came from the big cities, where a building's purpose was just to hold things. People, sometimes, maybe like him. Did they ever break out? Can concrete even be broken? No, if concrete could, in fact, be smashed through, he wouldn't be the one to do it. He was far too small for that; better to let some big tough guy do the smashing for now. He would need to be tricky instead if he wanted to escape.
Be tricky. With a start, he realized that was nearly the same as asking him to be smart. Gon let out another groan at his situation, and buried his face in his hands. Which was a bad idea: they were speckled with twigs and gravel and scored with thin scrapes, so now gravel particles were in his eye. He winced and blinked out the dirt. Is there water here? His eye caught on a sink in the corner, one handle missing and the other rusted, but when he turned the remaining handle, water ran in a thin trickle.
Many years ago, back in Whale Island, Mito-san had told him about sicknesses that live in the water. They wait a long time for something to drink them, she said, and they start growing in you and make you throw up and have a terrible stomachache, or often worse. "So always be careful with water. Don't drink when you don't know where it's been." He remembered this with a start, and jerked his face back from the water. He was certain there were other lessons too, but the memories flitted away whenever he tried to grasp them, so he gave up.
"Forgive my bluntness, but you look horrible," a man said through the slit in the door. His voice was standardly pleasant, with the distant sort of graciousness of an airline attendant. As though he were on a plane, instead of locked in some creep's cellar. "I suppose that's my fault. I am pleased to meet you, although I really must apologize for the circumstances of our meeting."
"Meeting?" Gon cried. "You call this a meeting? I don't even know who you are, or where I am, or anything else really!"
"Now, now, I understand your concerns; I really do," the man said. "Unfortunately, I can't answer either of those questions just yet. Until I can, please have patience."
Gon slumped back in defeat; there were no answers for him now. The man's voice had the gentle unresponsiveness that adults got sometimes, the kind that said there would be no arguments, that they had already won and there was nothing to gain for them by fighting now.
"Don't look so gloomy now. You aren't going to be here for long, and I wouldn't dream of leaving you with nothing to do." The man opened the door a crack, as if to ask if he could come in—like it mattered what Gon would have to say about it—and taking Gon's lack of response as a yes, opened it further.
But the man was careless. As he entered, he stepped too far into Gon's cell, away from the door. Leaving Gon with an opportunity. He seized it. He tensed and sprang across the cell for the ever-so-slightly open door, for his chance to escape, maybe his only chance. The man reached at him with a startled yelp, but Gon wriggled through his grasp and out into the hall.
As he ran, Gon gasped at the new air in the hall. In his cell, he could not smell anything, but outside his cell, the air was soaked with oil and acrid fumes that burned his throat. He'd only smelled it when the ships came to port, groaning with effort and belching plumes of thick smoke that lingered for days after. It really was the city, then.
He rounded a corner at the end of the hallway, one with a door at the end where bright white light struggled its way in through the cracks. He was almost there, just a few meters to the outside, tantalizingly close.
And then, he collided. Something completely solid but entirely transparent stood between him and the door at the end of the hall. If he had been allotted a little time to think about his circumstances, he might have asked things like "How?" or "Why?" But there was no time to think. Pain rocketed through his face and a spurt of blood gushed from his nose. But he threw himself at the barrier again, shoulder-first, then again and again until his arms shook and protested the notion of lifting himself up again.
"Look what you've done to yourself now!" the captor clucked indignantly, rounding the corner now. "I go to all the trouble to keep you unharmed, and you go and do the job yourself!"
He spat out an insult that came out garbled.
"Never mind that then. We'll have you fixed up shortly. Our healers are very professional"—perhaps the most genuine thing he'd said since Gon met him; there seemed to be a real pride that leaked through in his voice, no matter how he tried to drape it in condescension—"and we have one coming to check on you anyway.
"In the meantime, I believe I can tell you some things about myself. Nothing too identifiable, mind you, so don't get too excited." Gon sent him a glare promising (wishing, maybe) a slow and painful death, but did nothing to object. "I am a Hunter, but that isn't really what I like doing. I prefer people; maybe you could say that's my real job." He laughed brightly, like he'd just told an incredibly clever joke. "And I think you're absolutely fascinating, so we should get along well enough."
"Not even," Gon said through the pain, "in your dreams."
The Hunter drew back, and his gaze became cooler. "A shame, then. Friends keep us sane. You'll want one, someday."
"I have friends," said Gon. "They'll be here in no time, and Killua will chop your head off with his cool assassin powers!"
"Ah, I certainly hope he will! I do love a good assassination," he exclaimed. He did not elaborate on this notion, only leaned over Gon and lifted him gingerly. His grip tightened slightly when Gon struggled. It did not hurt yet, but something in the way the man held onto him hinted that he would have no reservations about doing so. Gon went limp, bearing his full weight onto the man in hopes that he would lose his grip, but his effort was in vain.
The man set him back in his cell with a great deal of care. He moved to close the door, but thought the better of it and turned back to Gon. "Please take care of yourself, Gon. You may not believe me, but I truly don't wish for any harm to befall you."
A new burst of fury spilled out of Gon. "You expect me to believe that? You must be beyond insane."
"I didn't expect you would. Now, get some rest. Your Hunter training will begin tomorrow."
Gon opened his mouth again to let loose a litany of insults, but was interrupted when the man heaved the door closed. Now left with nothing better to do, Gon threw himself back onto his cot—another mistake on his part; the mattress was barely an inch thick and compacted with use, so he landed far harder than intended, and now his spine ached as well. His encounter with his captor impressed on him the sheer hopelessness of his situation. If Kurapika were here, Gon might have a chance; Kurapika would already have thought of a genius escape plan for the two of them. But such masterful plans were woefully nonexistent at the moment. Even worse, Gon hadn't smelled the man. In most cases, scents told stories, far more than most would ever want revealed about themselves. They broadcasted pheromones and emotions far more reliably than any other measure. His friends all smelled a little bit angry all the time, although their types of anger were very different, and Hisoka just smelled unnatural, simultaneously sweet and chemical. From his captor, however, the scent Gon could gather was barely detectable, and what little there was told him nothing.
So here he was, thrown in a cell by a man far cleverer than him, with no information except that he was in some city. The thought of it made Gon want to throw up his hands in despair, or go back in time to punch Hisoka in the face for doing this to him. He kicked his feet against the wall in an irregular rhythm. Soon enough, the thudding against the wall grew lighter as Gon grew tired, and finally let himself fall into fitful sleep.