Machi saw into Killua's past, his thoughts, his emotions and reflections. She saw his helicoptering parents and sadistic brothers. She saw Killua ingest every poisonous herb and toxic chemical, one by one, down an infernal checklist. She saw Killua spend days at time, hung and whipped and burned, progressing page by page through a torture textbook.
Was that the book Feitan published when he was in a rage? Machi snorted.
Machi saw horrid, manipulative–but most offensive of all–limiting acts done to Killua by his family.
But the more interesting findings that day were the experiences that Killua saw.
Killua saw into Machi's memories. He saw events, fights, faces, a mass of sounds and visions–years and years of experiences condensed into the present moments. But most frequently of all, Killua saw Chrollo.
Killua blanched.
It took all his effort to move his focus away from the fact that this was the Troupe leader Kurapika had so obsessively tried to kill, who'd given his friends so much trouble in retaliation. For now though, Chrollo was a memory whose only use was to educate.
Killua watched on.
When Machi and Chrollo met for the first time, they'd founded the Phantom Troupe together, along with Feitan, Nobunaga, Pakunoda, Franklin, Uvogin, Phinks, and Shalnark.
What Machi saw in Chrollo, though, strayed away from the qualities of the other Troupe members.
Evidently, Chrollo was a ruthless killer, like the rest of the Spiders. But as Machi noticed, his satisfaction did not come from the act of killing, itself.
It came from stealing and practicing new abilities—collecting a book of vast knowledge that he'd muse over on his own, and when it came time, launch out in battle.
Chrollo would enact these various abilities with a flourish and enjoy the notion that he understood every part of the ability: whom it was taken from, what their strengths and weaknesses were, in terms of Nen and in character, and who they were.
Chrollo used Neon's Lovely Ghostwriter to prevent foreseen demise for the Phantom Troupe. Her prophecies were vague and incentivizing, instead of set-in-stone, allowing a recipient to change their future–Neon was open-minded. It was because of her ability–not despite it–that she believed in the present moment's infinite choices.
Chrollo used Indoor Fish, stolen from a forgotten Nen user, on an assassin trying to thwart his requiem for Uvogin. Being eaten away piece by piece, the victim would only catch up with their pain and death when Chrollo opened a window in the room. Indoor Fish was a quality that forged a temporary complacency–an eerie, frozen moment of peace–before shattering the spell and letting death catch up. A cruel game, meant to taunt the victim with a grotesque peace, and inflict an immensely personal revenge in a final moment of despair.
Chrollo played his web of abilities like one played an orchestra. He'd conduct a symphony of varied, cutting-edge abilities, because through their complexity and variance, through the personal exploring that he took to understand the abilities, he found his life beautifully dynamic, like a drops of colored ink mixing in water, in contrast to the frozen block of ice that was his criminal life.
Neon's ability was a hopeful irony. Indoor Fish was an elegant torture. When Chrollo understood more abilities, he grew closer to the final, all-encompassing view of human nature that he so longed to see.
Chrollo's consideration of humanity as a whole contrasted with Machi's narrow, self-satisfying pursuit of personal desires and gains.
That was what fascinated her.
Machi's interest fell on individuals. She didn't care as much about the Troupe as a system, as much as she did the individual members.
Before entering the Yorknew auction battle, Machi had been prepared, a rare phenomenon in Troupe history, to face considerable peril. She could name three or four people, Chrollo and Pakunoda included, whom she'd fight to the death in order to defend, but that was it. If the Troupe threatened to fall apart, she'd let it.
Heck, she'd coolly watch as the entire human society disintegrated into disorder, as long as she herself remained powerful, and the few people she cared about remained present.
Machi and Chrollo had opposite perspectives, but they shared a common value: their disregard for standards. Through disregard, both conducted malicious, morally devastating acts, like the Kurta massacre as well as countless, day-to-day murders. They also achieved unthinkable feats of power and success, establishing themselves as renowned thieves in the Hunter society.
Machi opted to create her own standards and pierce through the masses of sickening, proselytizing, messages that society imposed: "act fairly," "killing is unforgivable," "the group is stronger than the individual," and so on.
That was why she used the Nen Stitch: a sharp, unyielding needle slicing through the air, held back by no one. A thread of Nen would trail in its wake as a reminder that it did not end with her needle's head. Machi would leave in her wake a trail of blood and tears—unflinching massacres, yet zealous loyalty.
Her free-flying stitches were a sliver of chaos amidst organized, patterned fabrics.
Chrollo, on the other hand, stole abilities from others, because his own ability was an open, uncolored identity. He was a conductor, a leader, an almost all-powerful overseer of the masses. Unlike Machi, he had no personal ties or biased, human desires. This allowed him to bypass meager standards of morality. What remained was an impartial sense of rulership without regard for his very subjects' wellbeing.
So he also killed, massacred, and decimated.
It was this difference yet connectedness that made Machi more fascinated with Chrollo and Chrollo more detached from her–along with every leg of the figurative spider.
It was one-sided, but Machi's intrigue fueled her desire to defend Chrollo's life so that he could remain an unattainable, spectacular contrast to herself.
People often spoke of finding their other halves. In Chrollo, Machi found exactly the impartial overseer who was everything that was absent from her fiercely attached, self-serving identity.
Yet they connected perfectly.
…
Machi's and Killua's Nen calmed, and each developed a newfound regard for the other.
Out of an instinct for self-preservation, Machi wouldn't reveal her past to anyone, much less a kid she was training. She believed the Transmutation Spectrum would allow the person with intent to understand the experiences and mindset of another, and expected to glimpse into what was preventing Killua from progressing in Transmutation.
Machi didn't expect that Killua would be able to reverse the act and see her background as well, making her feel uneasy.
However this debacle turned out, Machi would be done with it the next day. She wouldn't see Killua or his irritatingly wealthy brother again. They'd leave their pasts behind and move on with their lives.
Machi turned and left through the arena doors. "8 AM tomorrow, we have our last day of training."
Alone, Killua reviewed what his memory revealed to Machi. Zoldyck training procedures–they weren't secret knowledge, but revisiting those memories today, alongside Machi's, drew a series of ripples.
He saw something in Machi. An ideal, a way of living, that he wanted for himself. Something that was so out of reach, it elicited ripples of guilt and anticipation.
Perhaps Machi's freaky sixth sense was rubbing off on Killua. He had a feeling that it would all come together tomorrow in an epic flood. He'd make sense of this strange Transmutation Spectrum experience and the scattered memories it offered him–in his final fight against Machi.
