Incarnadine
Written By intoxicatedasphyxiation
.02
"Nostrad, huh?" asked the man before him, his head bent over a series of documents as he scanned over them for the umpteenth time. To the modest observer, he might've looked like a stereotypical street punk well past the average age – black leather jacket and piercings across his lips, nose, and eyebrows to match his highlighted hair, but to the well-informed Hunter, he was a man that provided access, means, and job opportunities. Kurapika only knew him by the alias Marco and nothing more, for the man gave nothing away – at least, not without a fee. Over the past few months, he had provided Kurapika with most of his clients, or rather employers, considering the types of businesses Kurapika seemed to be interested in – bodyguard work, for the most part, as well as anything in the 'collection' industry. At Kurapika's request, Marco had been on the lookout for 'odd' job requests – particularly in regards to body parts or biological, hereditary interest. There had been a few over the past year, though the market wasn't big – but interest in gruesome paraphernalia wasn't unheard of either. At times, Marco wondered if the kid before him had a fetish for such things too, despite his straight-laced, matter-of-fact exterior – it wasn't common for a person for his age to dabble in such things, but then again, it wasn't common to find Hunters his age either. Kurapika also had a habit of returning, too – despite the high mortality rate in the businesses he dabbled in, and Marco secretly mused if he was becoming fond of the kid. He shrugged the thought aside as he eyed the kid's reaction to his question – not a nod, not a sound, but no denial either. He had come to learn the boy's manner of cold communication over their brief interactions from time to time; a lack of denial usually meant 'yes' when Kurapika was involved.
"Dangerous to be dealing with the Nostrad Clan this time round," Marco continued, stamping and matching various documents while the boy across the table folded his arms indifferently across his chest, "there've been rumors that the Nostrad girl lost her fortune-telling ability, and her father was never popular amongst the various mafia clans anyway. Lots of enemies are starting to fall back into the picture, and if the rumors are true – the clan's as good as dead this time next year."
"They're not completely powerless if they can still get me through customs," Kurapika replied slowly, "and that's what I was counting on."
"And how did you manage that?" Marco asked, curious – half the documents on the table before him now were almost impossible to attain without some form of higher clearance, and yet, the boy had nonchalantly waltzed in with them and asked him to start the visa approval process and passport documentation, "There are few things a person can hold as leverage with a mafia clan. What did you do, blackmail the daughter? If I recall correctly, she's into body parts too… just like you."
A spike of hostility seemed to cloud the room and Marco glanced up, eyebrow raised as the feeling instantly shelved itself away. A chuckle dwindled on his lips – the kid was a bit of a complexity, sometimes.
"I got a lead on something both Neon Nostrad and I have an interest in, and so I convinced them to contract me," Kurapika replied, pausing to select his words carefully – he didn't like discussing his personal endeavors with others; even if he and Marco had a healthy business relationship, they weren't exactly what Kurapika would call friends, "part of their deal is to get me access into the eastern continent, without hindrances of any sort – legal or illegal, and in return… Nostrad's daughter gets to keep the object once I acquire it."
"Doesn't sound like a fair trade to me… or to you." Marco mused. He had been eyeing Kurapika's body language and the boy had tensed slightly at the mention of Neon Nostrad getting to keep the… object, whatever it was.
"It was the only way," he replied, looking away, as though worried that eye contact would give him away, "Plus, I've worked with them before – I know how to find them, in the event that anything should change." Marco noted the temporary chill in the boy's voice; it was as though something darker resided beneath the kid's pale skin.
But then again, Marco was never one to give anything away. "Be warned, though," he said coolly, "considering their state of affairs, they might drop the contract with you halfway."
"Just as long as they can get me in," Kurapika replied, eyes cast downward as he spoke, "nothing else matters."
"Whatever you say, kid." Marco shrugged, adjusting a webcam attached to his computer, "Now sit up straight and smile. You don't want an ugly passport picture."
"So, did you find anything useful?" Phinx asked as Franklin dropped an unconscious form onto the ground before their feet. The body was draped in a beige-brown garment – a seemingly native outfit, for it seemed to match the colour of the sand that drenched across the desert floor and swept across like air whenever a breeze fell in tow.
"Just this guy," Franklin replied, "Judging by the entourage he was travelling with, he's an ambassador or minister of sorts – on his way to negotiate terms and such with the leader of the Hidden Sand Village, or so he claims."
"Pencil pushers are usually easy to break." Feitan remarked, as Phinx nudged the body with his foot. The form moaned groggily as Phinx nudged him again.
"Oh, wake up already –" Karuto announced, annoyed, before stepping down onto the man's hand. A notable crunch could be heard as the man jolted awake, a scream on his tongue as he took in the sight before him.
They were strangers; all eight of them. He recognized four of them from the vicious attack on his entourage. His entourage…
"Where are they?" he demanded, "What did you do to them?"
"Who?" Feitan asked, a shrug on his shoulders.
"Oh," Bonolenov replied, "He probably means his bodyguards and all – it was quite a sizable group."
"Does he even have to ask?" Phinx asked, flabbergasted.
"Well, the non-combative types tend to be more oblivious," Shalnark added, "They usually can't tell the strong from the weak. Plus, we probably don't look like much of a threat to him – I've noticed that only those with headbands seem to be taken seriously around here."
"They're dead." Franklin assured the man, "We slaughtered them through and through."
"And you will be too if you don't tell us what we want to know." Feitan elaborated, a sliver of nen excitedly embalming his hand.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" the man demanded, "Both the Daimyo of the Land of Wind and the Kazekage will not stand for this!"
"Who the fuck are they?" Phinx asked, glancing at Feitan, who equally shrugged. The man stared at them incredulously.
"Once the Kazekage learns that my entourage was compromised, all of you will be hunted down!" he shouted, as though to emphasize his point. The Ryodan merely stared at him, unfazed.
"Like we care." Feitan replied, stepping forward to grasp the man's shoulder tightly between his nen-infused fingers. A large snap could be heard, followed by another paralytic scream. "What?" Feitan eyed the tearing man coldly, who had rolled over in a fit of hysteria and pain, "It was just a clavicle."
"So who are these people he's talking about, anyway?" Coltopi asked, as Shizuku bent down to poke the injured man. Further screams could be heard as she nudged his shoulder, as well as the back of his hand. Karuto merely chuckled in turn.
"The Kazekage, I believe, is the leader of the Hidden Sand Village – which serves as the main military force of this nation." Shalnark replied, pleased to share his acquired knowledge – he had questioned a few individuals upon their arrival to the continent, and was pleased to know that the structures worked uniformly across the various nations. Easy logic could be more easily applied and patching such pieces together was what he was good at. "Basically, each of the five largest nations in this continent has two leaders each – one is the country's overall leader, the Daimyo, while the other is known as a Kage, who is in charge of the Hidden Village of their nation. In most cases, both leaders have equal power – though they usually operate separately, according to their own systems." He glanced at their prisoner for confirmation. The man merely moaned.
"Well, whoever they are," Phinx assured the man with a grin, "you can be sure that if they send anyone after us, we'll just kill them." He inched closer to the man, who shivered where he lay, broken as the hot sand burned against his skin.
"Now tell us what we want to know." Feitan smiled mercilessly, feeling the nen jolting smoothly through his fingers once more.
Kurapika fingered the documents in his possession, eyeing the paramount of text, followed by a series of stamps and signatures, each one by a different office – a different level of approval. He eyed the notary affixed to his newly acquired passport too – a series of stamps, followed by a barcode and another image of himself. This one was the visa. The feeling of such tedious documents between his fingers was almost foreign in itself – Kurapika had grown too used to the free, easy access granted by his Hunter's license, as well as the various luxuries they provided. The need for travel documents and approval was almost daunting, as the ship loomed onwards towards the eastern continent.
"I'd hang on tight to those if I were you," said a voice, and Kurapika looked up to see a man at least two decades older standing before him. There was a large machete tucked into his belt, and an overgrown beard covered most of his lower face. Kurapika folded the documents and tucked them safely away into his overcoat, just under his left breast.
"First time travelling to the east?" he asked, and Kurapika nodded curtly.
"I'm surprised someone as young as you got access; you're probably one of the youngest I've seen. Save for some refugees. You know, from East Goruto and such. Damn dictatorships." He paused, "But you don't strike me as a refugee."
Kurapika expelled the air from his lungs. He didn't like the prying, but he felt that the man wasn't going to let up too easily either. His eyes wandered to the machete on the man's belt once more.
"Contract," he replied, "I'm a Hunter."
The man merely whistled. "Would've loved to try out that exam if I could, but the job calls me away. Guess it wouldn't matter much anyway – being a Hunter or not means nothing once you've reached the eastern alliances."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, over there – those shinobi and whatnot, they don't really care what that card is, or what it means. Heck, most of them haven't even heard of the western alliances. I guess you could say the same for most people back in the west, but these people here? Even if they do know, they don't care to know – I've never heard of a single one of them bothering to travel, not to Zaban, not to anywhere. It's like they're happy in this private world of their own."
"Well, isn't ignorance bliss for some?"
"It's just close-mindedness, to me." The man shrugged, "But who am I to judge them, eh? I'm just a man who profits from this choice of theirs."
It took a shout from the deck to break the silence wavering between them; it was an announcement that the eastern continent was only half a day's journey away. Kurapika let out another sigh and glanced down at the waves that rushed against the hull of the ship.
So close, but yet so far. And the days were only getting longer.
"We've been through two countries, and this is all we get?" Phinx asked, annoyed, "And if I recall correctly, that Earth country we came from was just as barren as this desert here."
"Well, couldn't we just raid these Hidden Villages?" Shizuku asked, as Deme-chan sucked up the remains of their prisoner – blood, detached appendages, clothes, and hair.
"Not until we can confirm an affirmative source," Franklin responded, "otherwise it might prove hectic – we don't want thousands of these ninja folk on our backs, and we don't know how close some of these villages are to each other. If they have allies from other countries, we'd have more than one military we'd have to deal with. These people are more organized than the mafia community – and we're the ones on unfamiliar territory here."
"Plus," Bonolenov added, "they use something different from nen. Though they don't seem to know what nen is either, we still can't afford to delve into things we know so little about."
"That –" Karuto spoke, gesturing where their late prisoner died only moments before, "didn't seem very useful with that topic, either."
"Pencil pushers." Feitan scoffed, "I propose we catch ourselves one of those ninja folk. We can just ask, then."
"We'll just have to wait then," Franklin replied, "If we take into account the possibility that the pencil pusher wasn't lying about how important he was –"
"Oh, he wasn't lying." Feitan interrupted, "I questioned the body, not the spirit."
"Taking that to be true, then." Franklin continued, "It means that they'll send someone, or some team after us. If they're any good, they'll find us."
"Let's find a town first," Phinx proposed, "I need a damn drink and this climate is pissing me off. If they show up then, we'll just pluck them off, one by one."
Next Chapter: Kurapika arrives; the new continent is foreboding. Hunter licenses mean nothing in a land segregated from the west. The Ryodan members are both intrigued and annoyed; their usual take-all-and-give-nothing-back modus operandi is falling faulty to the impeccable loyalties of honour-bound shinobi. As always, the new challenge is welcomed with open arms and broken collarbones.
