Faultline
Genres: Drama, Adventure
Warnings: canon-typical violence
A/N: The story takes place about ~9 years pre-canon, about two months after Ging leaves Gon at Whale Island. The story connects loosely to Team Effort and Perihelion, but can be read independently. I hope you enjoy!
Faultline
Ging presses both palms against the piece of sheer gray rock as he crawls through the crevasse into the half-excavated tomb of the Red Queen. Well—what was believed to be the gravesite of the ancient Lurka queen, as they hadn't found her exact resting place yet, but all of the signs were pointing in that direction. The red handprints against the wall, and what few inscriptions they'd been able to decipher spoke of royalty, and what pieces of jewelry they'd been able to recover from their dislodged settings dated to the correct time. And now they were finding bodies of lower officials, their remains coated in the distinctive and unmissable cinnabar paint the civilization was known for.
Next, he thinks about other kinds of paint—how to mix it to create different colors; the exact shade of the scrubby flowers on the sandy hillside just outside the cave system; how the whitewashed side of his hotel was faded and weathered on the sides that caught the sun.
He often finds his mind following similar tangents as he makes the regular crossing through the horizontal crevasse; the feeling of rock pressing against both his back and his palms brings with it an almost inescapable sense of claustrophobia, and more than once one of the accompanying workers had frozen in the middle of the crossing, and Ging had to talk them down from panic and pull them to safety either towards the tomb or the main cave, whichever was closer. They were always amazed that he seemed so calm.
He didn't want to say that he believed that even if the shelf were to collapse, his Nen was probably strong enough to hold it in place while the rest of his colleagues fled to safety. He wasn't sure if that would give him enough time—maybe, if he could separate enough Nen to act as a cushion against such immense weight—but it was the sort of thing that wasn't worth thinking about as long as the rock remained stable.
Massive geological movements in the Alizarin faultline had become more common in the past few years, changing the topography and altering an otherwise inconsequential mountain range. He'd been told the mountains were mostly uninhabited, but the faultline centered on the capital city of Truhilo.
The new caves that had opened up had all needed to be explored, and it was a stroke of luck that an aquaintance of Ging's had been among one of the earliest teams and discovered one of the initial sites. They had called Ging—who had pulled nearly every string he had as an Archaeological Hunter to gain control of the site and make the lengthy journey from Whale Island to the Umbran peninsula, an entire continent to the south.
They'd been at the site for almost a month, searching the cave system and cataloguing all the artifacts they'd discovered. The entrance to the tomb was well-hidden, to the degree that one working theory was that they were actually excavating a decoy meant to mask the location of the true Red Queen's tomb, miles away—but Ging believed it was there, right underneath their feet. Finding a crack in the bedrock was a second stroke of luck, and while it led into a burial chamber they still had yet to find a connection back out to the main cave system. Only antechambers leading into more antechambers, all needing to be explored and documented before they could move on to the next. Ging was lucky that his crew of excavators didn't seem to mind the delays, or the confined quarters, much.
Sliding between the sections of rocks, he watches the crisscrossing beams of light from the headlamps of the site crew up ahead to guide his path.
"Ging!" one shouts. "Did your sash get stuck again?"
"No!" he calls, just a little too defensively. He finally crawls through the last section of rock, and then drops into the clearing on the other side.
He is met by x Cordovan, a retired member of Truhilo's legislative administration. Full of enthusiasm despite his age, Cordovan has become one of Ging's chief supporters throughout the excavation process, helping secure permits and hire crew from the modest universities across the region.
"If it wasn't the sash, it must have been your hat," Cordovan jokes, turning the bright beam of his headlamp onto Ging's scowling face.
"I can work even slower, you know." He reaches the rest of their group, dispersing brushes, picks, and other implements to clear away the dust and broken rock from the surrounding tombs and painted inscriptions. Ging picks up a brush and gets to work, right where he'd left off the previous day, cleaning the walls and hoping to find some kind of hidden door or herald to the Queen's chambers.
"It is the one thing I believe archaeology and government work has in common," Cordovan continues. "You can never rush your work."
At this, a smile tugs at Ging's mouth, unbidden. "It's impossible to rush bureaucracy, I've noticed. Even if you want to, it's impossible!"
"What moves fastest, eh?" Cordovan likes to ask him such things, open-ended philosophical questions. Ging doesn't have to think about the answer for very long. He knows what will get the loudest laugh.
"Money?"
Several of the others, listening in, laugh along with them.
Cordovan shakes his head. "And even sometimes that is not enough! Do you know how long it took us to get the surveyors approved? Ah, sometimes I'd rather work with the dead."
"And where are they?" he asks, tilting his head up so the headlamp strapped tight to his forehead shines light on a series of red-painted pictographs. "The surveyors, I mean."
"They were supposed to return to Truhilo yesterday. But, as you've noticed, things run a little slowly around here. I wouldn't worry about it. They'll get your data. Maybe it'll even tell you exactly what you've been looking for. Hey, I've got a meeting tonight with one of the ministers and a foreign diplomat friend of his. I'll ask after them for you."
Only one section of wall has been damaged by the recent geological movement, but the rest is beautifully preserved—the air is nearly as dry as the ground, which hasn't seen another living soul in close to a thousand years, not since the Lurkan civilization was at its peak. Ging works with quiet efficiency well into the afternoon, until the others all agree to call it early and finish up in the main cave. There's just something about the cramped tombs, buried deep under so many layers of rock, that has the power to leave one unsettled. Ging would argue it has the power to awe in equal measure.
The main cave houses the bulk of their equipment—battered radios and sonar, charts and diagrams mapping about a mile of cave networks, food and drink in coolers, trash kept neatly collected. A tent is set up right outside, its entrance currently unzipped, and Ging spends a few minutes comparing the notes he's made for the day with the benefit of sunlight.
"Hey, Ging!" A member of the site crew interrupts him, sweeping back the folded canvas to step inside. "There's a car, stopped at the bottom of the ridge. A nice one!"
Grabbing a pair of binoculars, Ging leaves the tent. Outside, the rest of the crew has gathered at the top of the hillside to watch. Ging joins them and brings the binoculars to his eyes.
Softly reddish rocks, coated with a thin layer of sand, cover the horizon. Then, a figure coalesces into view. Walking with a sedate pace, they are dressed like a visitor to one of the surrounding tourist meccas—linen suit in a soft shade of blue, hat and glasses to protect from the sun. They look clean, more than anything, and as Ging adjusts the binoculars itias that detail that gives him the most pause. It is hard work, in this environment, and something most give up almost immediately. But the man in his lenses doesn't look bothered by anything as banal as sweat or heat. He swivels the binoculars again. It's a shame Cordovan is blocking a clearer view.
Well, Ging doesn't know Cordovan to trouble with anyone who isn't a government official, bureaucrat, or affiliated with money. Since he himself is financing the bulk of the operation, and all of their paperwork is current and staggeringly comprehensive, he wonders what could have brought them here with such pomp and circumstance.
Dropping the binoculars, Ging turns to help the others shed some of their gear and discuss plans for stabilizing more of the crevasse. It won't do any good if they find what they are looking for, but then have no way of removing it from the tomb. A few pinions will help with making sure any secondary tremors don't collapse what they've worked so hard to uncover.
He's sorting more of their equipment when, according to the gossip he can overhear from the ridge, a second figure has emerged from the car, and both are heading their way. He tries to ignore it—they're not the surveyors, and clearly not fellow archaeologists, and he has no patience for rubberneckers or sightseers, not when their crew is already stretched so thin.
It is Cordovan's loud reception that finally prompts him to stick his head back out of the tent and join the others. The crew parts for him, forming a wide circle around the two newcomers. Cordovan immediately starts making introductions.
"This is Minister Mindaro." Cordovan gestures to a stocky, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped light-colored hair in a dark gray suit. Next, he turns to the second man, much taller, blonder, and alarmingly familiar.
"Pariston Hill." Ging takes a step forward. "What are you doing at my site?"
"Me?" Pariston regards him and the open cave at his back with mild curiosity, then turns his head to the side.
"Ging, how truly presumptuous," he says, his voice as clear and untroubled as water in a stream. "No, for once, I am not here for you."
"You know one another?" Mindaro speaks up, glancing between both Ging and Pariston, his eyebrow raised. Ging looks away.
"We're both Hunters," Ging says, by way of explanation.
"I was supposed to meet with a diplomatic contingent tonight," Cordovan continues. "I guess that's you."
Ging takes in more details of Pariston's outfit. The subtle pinstripes, the white leather briefcase, the contrast stitching on the matching oxfords. A sound that's more stress than sigh escapes him.
"It is." Pariston offers a beaming smile and extends his hand, which Cordovan accepts.
"We were supposed to meet at the capital building."
"Well, I decided to come to you." Another gleam of teeth. Ging imagines sand getting stuck between his molars.
"We have a lot to discuss. Is there somewhere private we could talk?" Pariston asks. Ging's heard him talk like that before, usually when he's in the middle of wheedling something out of someone. And under his attention, his usually reticent crew turns agreeable and accommodating. Ging's never known him to fail at this. He's almost envious of how well it works.
"No one's using the tent, right? We can talk in there," Cordovan says, and the three of them shuffle inside. Where Ging left all of his notes and supplies.
He both wants to eavesdrop and leave—the others who are able pile into the few vehicles parked at the base of the hill, once their work is finished, leaving the single beat-up Geep and the two remaining crewmen who carpool with Ging and Cordovan each day. As the minutes tick by, Ging wears a path in the dirt and watches the clouds form disparate shapes far to the west, as the mountains get steeper and the color of the stone gets nearly as red as the setting sun.
Finally, they exit. Pariston is last to leave; Ging gets a single glimpse at the way he looks at the boxes of foam blocks for storing artifacts, or the charts pinned to the tent walls, marked with chalk. Then, a mask drops back over his face, and he addresses them all with that plastic smile.
Mindaro seems to be waiting for something. It's as if the other site crew are completely beneath his notice. When Pariston hands him the briefcase, he inclines his head towards him, and begins heading back towards the ridge. Ging waits for Pariston to follow him.
"You aren't going with him?" He cannot help but ask.
"Oh, I'm not heading back to the city," Mindaro explains. "It's why we had to move the meeting earlier, and came all this way."
"I hope it was worth the trip." Ging addresses Pariston, instead. He's not curious about it. Not at all. Not when he has so many other things presently vying for his attention.
"I would say that." Pariston remains rooted in place, even when Mindaro returns to his white sedan and drives away, into the wilderness.
Cordovan joins them, shaking a pair of keys.
"You're lucky there's room in the Geep, but you'll have to ride in the back." He offers a thumb to the vehicle, a model over a decade old with a crack in the right mirror.
"Oh, I would never complain about the surroundings." Pariston gives Ging a subtle glance. "I like to make a good first impression."
"Well, you certainly do that," Cordovan says as he leads the way down the steep walking path worn into the hillside. A moment later, Pariston enthusiastically follows.
He doesn't make it ten steps before he's stumbling over a bit of loose rock. There's a flash of gold at his wrist, and Ging nearly puts his palm against his forehead.
"Are you trying to get robbed? You're dressed like an easy mark," he says.
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
"You don't look surprised to see me here," Ging says. "You know, when I want to talk to someone, I do so."
Pariston's tone is light. "And do you want to talk to me?"
"I've been busy."
"Oh, I read all the press releases for your little game. Congratulations, by the way."
The lid on his suspicion finally bubbles over. "Why are you really here?"
"Oh, it's just as Cordovan says, if he's bothered to tell you. I've been hired to act as a go-between with a global security contractor and the local governor. They're having trouble gaining a placement, and I thought I could grease the wheel, so to speak."
"And my operating an archaeological site in the area is just, what, a coincidence?"
"Unfortunately." He sighs, looking forlorn. "It was all arranged rather last-minute. I didn't even have time to return to Swaldani City between engagements. I was in Wienna just last week for a summit at the Elvedere Palace. It was so kind of Teradein to find me a ticket."
Ging knows Pariston is just avoiding a string of bad publicity back home—the recent Hunter Exam went spectacularly badly, if one of his sources is to be believed, and there's a lot of talk going around about who's to blame—and he supposes Pariston's solution to this is to go cause even bigger scandals by being seen with a number of the most controversial political figures Yorubia has to offer. He doesn't want to believe this is just bad luck, and even worse, Pariston is still talking.
"They're putting me up in the city center."
Ging wants to say more about coincidences, but the last thing he wants to do is give Pariston even more information. He knows the other Hunter isn't here for no reason.
"And here you came to the desert to go fishing," Ging finally says.
Pariston adopts a clueless expression. "Now, I've heard that all the great deserts used to be oceans, but that's a little thin. Perhaps a saying where you're from? It's Turtle Island, right?"
Another scowl etches itself into Ging's face.
"I want to hear all about your project," Pariston continues. "Ah, if only I had the time. I'm sure I'll read all about it in Archaeologica or the Swaldani Chronicler, sometime."
Ging wants to tell him he mispronounced the name of the magazine, but holds his tongue.
"We're all ready for you!" Cordovan calls over by the truck. It's just his luck that when they get there, the others have already climbed inside, leaving the only two seats open in the back row, squashed together next to a large industrial cooler. Refusing to sit in the middle, Ging holds the door open for Pariston, who climbs inside with congenial cheer. Once Ging joins him and closes the door, he has only seconds to grab at his seatbelt before Cordovan puts the Geep In reverse and starts backing away from the site.
The ride is blessedly quiet. The wind whips through the canvas cover above their heads, all of the windows open, and the breeze is a welcome addition to their journey.
Pariston's knees are bunched together over the middle of the seat, and every time he adjusts his clothing or the car goes over a particularly rough patch of ground, he seems to spread out into even more of Ging's space than before.
Ging has plenty of time to think about all of the disparate puzzle pieces Pariston has given him. It's obvious there's something he wants Ging to figure out, and after some thought Ging realizes that while he knows a great deal about the ancient history of this place—probably more than most, his working knowledge of the contemporary goings-on of Truhilo remain largely a mystery to him. Pariston, on the other hand, probably couldn't tell him more than the obvious about the Red Queen, but was sharply capable about modern politics. If there was one thing Pariston could claim in spades, it was that he was very well-connected.
They finally reach the main road and turn left, off of the dirt and back onto pavement. Truhilo springs up in pieces; first low, newly-built dwellings with farms for aloe or olives and the occasional roadside bar, and then more density as the main city approaches. The architectural styles get more ornamental, with the occasional beautifully-maintained historical building like a rose in a garden. The roads get steeper as the city rises against the cliffs, and Cordovan turns the Geep down one of the sharper roads to weave towards the district of Ging's hotel.
They eventually come to a three-story building with glossy black shutters and a large, hand-carved wooden door painted to resemble a nearby oasis. The doors are open, and square terra-cotta tiles lead into the lobby beyond. Ging pauses before he gets out of the car.
Pariston stops for only a moment, his hand resting against the top of the car door. The realization seems to please him tremendously.
"Ah. This is also...?"
"All the Hunters stay here, apparently." Ging tries to sound flippant as he closes the door and the Geep begins slowly inching back down the steep incline. "They've only seen one other, but it's a popular choice."
"Ah. An archaeologist like you?" Pariston seems genuinely curious, so Ging answers.
"No, he had built some kind of craft for...extreme windsurfing? He was one of the original airship engineers, if you can believe it. Figured out the physics behind inter-continental flight. This was half a century ago, of course."
"Fascinating." Pariston's attention seems to fix onto the stylized oasis, and the tiny dirigibles floating in the painted sky above it.
"Do you have luggage?"
"I had it sent on ahead."
Ging realizes he's still standing in the middle of the street, and begins shuffling inside. "I'm sure we'll both be busy with our work," he says, still unable to believe what is happening. He thinks about pinching the inside of his arm. "It's not like you'll have any reason to go back to the site."
"And it's not like you'll have any interest in my affairs, either." Pariston adjusts his sleeves, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. "I know it doesn't tempt you at all."
"Naturally." Now, his mood has downshifted straight into anger. He had been having such a good week; ever since they'd uncovered that first chamber it had seemed like only good news lay ahead. Now, he was starkly reminded of everything he'd left behind in Whale Island, of the world that existed on the other side of being a Hunter, and the responsibilities that came with it. The very responsibilities that Ging detested seemed to come so naturally to Pariston, and as Ging glanced down at the dirt still caked into his knuckles, his shoulders bowed in silent laughter. Despite their differences, he would never say that Pariston was unwilling to get his hands dirty.
When Pariston enters the lobby, he greets the staff with a cheery wave and wanders off down a hallway to the right. Ging stops, as he always does, to admire the white plaster arch of the ceiling, and the impressive wrought-iron railings to the curved staircases branching off on either side of an expansive tiled palazzo. Doors further inward open onto a terrace, flush with miniature palms and curling vines, impeccably cared for. Ging climbs the staircase on the right with short, measured steps, still rankled. It doesn't bother him that he has no idea what Pariston is really doing here. It doesn't.
Inside his modest room on the second floor—compact, with just a few pieces of carved furniture and the thickly woven rugs common to the area, its one luxury a wide veranda looking onto the terrace below. He walks outside and takes it in for a moment, trying to relax. He is not used to ignoring his instincts, and while every fiber of his being is telling him there is more to this than what he has seen, he wants nothing that will distract him from the work at hand.
Perhaps it's just bias speaking. If Pariston were really trying to reach him, Ging knew, he would use different strategies than if it was anyone else, considering their history.
He spends some time cleaning up, makes a coffee, and takes it out on the balcony to enjoy the now-fading sunlight. He still finds himself sitting out there an hour later, the drink long cold, unable to settle his mind.
Really, this is an ideal setting to be alone with his thoughts. The stars are coming out, little pinpricks of light surrounding a nearly full moon, the inky sky cloudless and infinite. The grounds are covered with fragrant jasmine flowers, and the air is silent and still. It could almost be considered romantic.
Then, a figure passes below the edge of his balcony. Ging only sees the shadow, cast from the light of the main hall, and straightens in his seat. He realizes immediately who it is. He would recognize Pariston's stride anywhere.
He heads deeper into the gardens, pausing every so often at a noise from someone on a higher level throwing open their shutters. It is growing too dark for Ging to make out any detail at the back of the grounds—he remembers seeing a gate set into a wall of overgrown hedges, on one of his earlier excursions into the city—and creates a quick map in his head of the surrounding blocks.
He thought Pariston would want to rest after what must have been a long day of travel, but no. The man was clearly heading out into the city, slinking along the perimeter of the garden like he had something to hide. He disappears out the gate, and Ging makes the decision immediately. He settles both palms against the stone railing of his balcony. A second later, he lands silently onto the ground below, and employs Zetsu to hide any trance of his Nen.
Following Pariston's path turns out to be surprisingly easy. Ging keeps to the shadows, even as the streets get more dense and the city center unfolds in brilliant splendor. Many of the buildings he thought looked drab in daylight are actually set to their best advantage in the shine of lamplight and the cover of night. The cafes are lively and Ging pauses as Pariston does, outside first one and then another, scanning the background as if looking for something.
A large group crosses the street to avoid a delivery truck pulled up on the curb on the other side, and Ging momentarily loses sight of Pariston. He picks up his pace, and by the time he's moved around the obstruction the rest of the street is empty.
His pulse picks up at the thought of a more interesting hunt. Decades of instinct lead him to turn his head to the right, and he catches a flash of blonde hair entering one of the more formal restaurants at the very end of the block.
Ging follows, ambling past the front door, a frown on his face. The windows are made of rippled glass, backed by sheer white curtains, the door another massive piece of carved oak. He stops at just the right time; the door opens, a couple exits, arm-in-arm, and Ging sees the edge of a well-stocked bar.
He crosses the street and walks inside, ignoring the maître d to find a spot along the bar. Immediately, the difference between himself and the others enjoying the night is obvious—the crowd skews older, well-dressed. Ging hears at least three different languages. Many of the men have their hair cut in the style required by government or military officials, and a second glance out at what little he can see of the restaurant reveals private booths flanked by patterned screens. Ging suddenly feels like he has made a misstep.
"Sir?" The host that approaches him speaks in the local dialect, and Ging worries he is about to be thrown out. "Your table is this way."
"What?" The response sticks in his mouth. Aiming higher for eloquence, he continues. "I believe you are mistaken."
"Not at all. We've been expecting you." He extends an arm, and Ging finds himself following along, as a sea of linen suits and black cocktail dresses parts and Ging is shown across worn parquet floors towards a private room at the very back of the restaurant. The sliding screens are opened, and inside he can see a table with Pariston Hill and four other unfamiliar faces. One seat is empty.
Pariston stands immediately, coming to Ging's side, taking his hand, and shaking it with all the fervor of a man getting the last laugh. He even pulls out Ging's chair for him, and doesn't that sting, and almost misses Pariston's full-throated introduction.
"-Ging Freecs, the legendary Hunter!"
One of them asks something about the stars, and it takes Ging a moment to place the connection.
"Oh, no, he is without stars yet. Your budget did not allow for any Double or even Single-Starred Hunters! Rest assured, however, this young man and I are more than up for the task!"
Ging has the sudden, childish urge to kick Pariston beneath the table. "I'd like an expl—"
"An appetizer!" Pariston finishes, raising his hand. "Of course! We've been waiting for you before we started eating, of course! Let's bring out the dishes!"
Ging searches the tableware for a knife, and realizes there is none. His place setting is surrounded by a series of small angled spoons—possibly for ceviche? What has Pariston ordered?—and a moment later waiters enter with small porcelain bowls of fish covered with aji. Courses keep coming; almost as soon as they've finished one another appears.
Every time he tries to speak, Pariston interrupts with a gently patronizing, "Now Ging, you know how rude it is to talk before we've all finished our meals."
This does not seem to apply to the others at the table, who converse freely about the latest office drama and some political scandal in a city to the north. Ging struggles to listen. He's beginning to wonder if this is punishment for something he's done.
To be continued...