Warnings: I use the Hunter's Guide spellings for characters' names (see my bio page for details). Also, this fic is rated for adult content.

Author's Notes: Knowledge of Hunter x Hunter is necessary. This fic is part of a series of short fics and is not related to my other my " x x " series or to Hunt for the Intangible.


Sketch One - Behind the Facade

He stopped living that horrific day five years ago.

The sun rose and set. Spring brought new life, and winter laid it to rest. People awoke in the morning, went about their business, and retired at night. Families dined together, lovers lay together.

The world continued to turn, oblivious to the decimation of an entire race of people.

There were no living Kuruta remaining, for the only one to physically survive the genocide was an empty shell of a human. He had stopped living long ago, existing only to avenge his murdered kin. There was no joy to living, no pleasure in existence, so he considered himself dead, the last casualty of the mass murder five years ago.

He avoided people when he could. He felt uneasy among them, for they were all vibrant and enthusiastic about living. They reminded him of how unlike them he was. Occasionally, though, one would pull him into the world of flesh and blood. He saw no reason to fight these adults who were driven by their hormones, though, for these were the only times that he remembered that he still had a physical vessel. Without the pain, he might forget that he was real, and that he had a mission to accomplish.

As time went on, he became deadened to the pain. And even his anger and hatred began to fade. But he couldn't let that happen. They were the only emotions he allowed himself, and if they left him, he would cease to exist.

So he stares at the enemy, now free of the chains but void of his nen and the right to see his subordinates. He stares at the infuriatingly calm face, at the bold tattoo, at the dark clothing. The man seems almost normal, and he has to wonder what would drive such a man to annihilate an entire race. He asks, then, not really expecting an answer. But the man does answer, responding that it was the only way to get the Eyes. And at the time, he wanted the Eyes.

It's a sickeningly straightforward answer. And it shows him that they are not that unalike. The man feels nothing, not hatred, not pity, not empathy for the ones he's killed. The man lacks real emotions. And so does he.

The man stares at him in return, comments on his appearance. He knows that he doesn't look like someone who could kill a man nearly twice his size. The man is impressed.

He also recognizes something else lurking in the man's gaze. And since he is feeling empty, thwarted, waiting to release his enemy in exchange for his few friends, he lets the man approach him. The man smiles, but there is no warmth behind it. And their contact creates warmth, but there is no reality to it. The only reality is the pain and the brief moment of pleasure that the man draws out of him.

The pleasure is a new sensation. Perhaps it is the partner, or his comparative physical maturity, or the surreal aura surrounding the whole situation. Still, it is a minor thing.

And when it is all over, there is still pain, for the man has been exceedingly violent and forceful, and he has also raked sharp nails down his stomach, perhaps in compensation for not being able to attack him with nen. The man stares clinically at the torn skin, prodding and drawing more blood. The man laughs and stands, saying that he is relieved. The man had almost convinced himself that he was a lifeless doll, not really made of flesh and blood.

He is struck by the irony of the statement, for he felt the same about the man. He brings his knees together and stands, too, and they regard each other expressionlessly. They dress in silence and maintain the silence until the airship finally lands.

He watches as the enemy escapes his grasps. His torn skin still throbs, but it reminds him that he still lives. He watches as his young friends approach, their freedom gained at a cost. It will take much out of him to renew his quest.

But he doesn't know if he still has it in him to continue the mission. The few emotions he has remaining are fading. And he is weary.

Yet, it is all strangely fitting, that even the anger and hatred within him should eventually die.

After all, he died on that horrific day five years ago.

And he knew of no way to bring back the dead.