There's a tense silence. Kokoriko (and she's still not sure what to think of that – she's never needed a name before, no Pouf told her that she never required one) finds her eyes flicking between the people around her, their shadows spilling out into forms a lot less rigid and uncluttered than the deliberate stillness that surrounds her. She can't see, above the curtain-like drape of darkness that touches their feet, if their muscles are coiled, ready to strain and push them forwards into each other; but she can feel her own tense in response, despite the fact that there's no visual clue for her to grab onto. Because she's not a fighter, has never been trained to be one. And perhaps that's Pouf's mistake.

She can see him now, straining into her vision from the corner of her eye. But the rock that holds him doesn't so much as let out a crack.

'Are you a betting man?' Morel asks Hisoka conversationally. It's difficult to make out, but perhaps the fingers at his side stir, a trail of grey sneaking out alongside the end of his pipe to join them. 'How much do you usually gamble?'

'I'm prepared to accept certain risks,' replies Hisoka evenly. He pauses and then tuts. 'You're making a series of very bad choices, little-ant,' he says softly and with a start Kokoriko realises that he is talking to her. 'You could have been great. Or rather; you could have made someone great. But now you will let them rip out everything that makes you glorious.'

She chews her lip, anger climbing up within her. It makes her want to clamber up a mountain and conquer the world, makes her want to be strong, strong enough to be worthy of this deceptive feeling that builds up inside her.

'It wasn't any part of me that you thought was glorious,' she says, biting out each word with a coolness that surprises her – it feels totally alien from the rush of heat that brushes against her insides. 'Just the possibility. And playing gungi taught me that possibility is a heady thing. It makes you take risks and sees paths that you become too anxious to protect. It clouds the vision.'

She hesitates. Would her mother be proud of her for learning this?

'Shia-Pouf,' she says carefully, trying not to let too much fondness seep into her tone. 'Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me your feelings are nothing like Hisoka's. That you weren't...that you weren't just waiting for me to become an incubator.'

He lowers his head, jaw grinding as he battles with the urge to spill out something, anything, that will sound like salvation. In her better moments, years from now, Kokoriko will wonder if it was maybe the truth holding him back, if maybe he was wondering if there was anything left for him to lose and whether he could, somehow, still save it.

But as his mouth opens and Kokoriko waits, breathlessly, for the words to come and offer her some sort of deliverance...his head slumps to one side. And instead of words, out comes a gurgle. Kokoriko's eyes sweep down, disbelieving, to the trickle of blood that sprouts out below the playing card, now wedged firmly into his throat.

She screams. And then there are colours rebounding around her, motions to her side. Someone forces her to the ground, or at least a powerful hand does. But the fingers splayed on her spine don't matter; only Shia-pouf, the one thing filling her vision, does. She finds herself crawling towards him, handful by handful, stretching across the floor and yanking herself forwards in a series of jerkish dragging motion, feeling like a pebble caught inside the spin of an ocean wave, one that has yet to crash against the shore. And it all cumulates in a smash of tears against her face, salt-water merging into the line of her lip as she reaches his feet and stares up into his blank eyes. But there is no disappointment there, no pride. No Shia-pouf.

She is dimly aware that her nose is running and her hands reach up to flinch against her face, remembering how much he hated that, how he could not abide the snot, no matter the form, drifting down her face.

She looks at him again, touches his shoe. Nen flies over her, flares out, brushing against her pores as Gon slams his fist down against skin. She feels warm, as something similar to light touches her, swirling over her skin with traces of warmth. She has no way to understand that this is her life-force.

And she looks up at Pouf, sees him suddenly as a canvas, veins and muscle covering up his bones as surely as paint strikes the paper. She feels for the light, the warmth surrounding her and pushes it up, against his shoes, through his clothes. Directly into his skin. He is like a gungi board, his body made up of pieces that need to be moved together and against each other in strategic manoeuvres, one usually directed by the brain.

She has only read a few medical texts. But still, she begins to push and pull, trying to remember the words and letting the lingering warmth of his own body direct her.

This should go together, it tells her, not in words, but with barely-remembered sensation, memories of unblemished lines and the chippings of dead skin uncurling from new. There shouldn't be an ugly gash where purple blood can spill forth. Carefully, Kokoriko patches his throat together, twining blood vessels like threads, pushing muscles over and against each other like slabs of concrete. Then she hesitates. She doesn't know how to reach his brain, how to tell it to heal, to make it work. To make it think, like there's still a soul trapped inside.

'I'm sorry.' There's a voice and a hand at her shoulder. It shakes her gently. 'I'm sorry, but you can't save him.'

She doesn't look back, not once.

The voice, the hand, they pull her away and shoves Palm beneath her fingers. Without thinking, she lets the light swirl beneath her, lets it reach out and settle into skin that is not Shia-Pouf's. She doesn't even think to cry.

She doesn't even notice when the warmth of Youpi's large hand settles onto her back, landing as lightly as an insect on a flower. For if he presses down, lets his muscles loosen, enough for the weight of his fingers to smear themselves across her shoulders, perhaps there would be a flicker in her eyes.

But Youpi does not press. He hovers.

Even if he ends up dead later on, he thinks, their hands will waver when they lift them against the queen. They will feel doubt, now that she is helping one of their own.

Kokoriko does not move, does not flutter into Youpi's arms when she is done. Instead he picks her up and she presses the side of her face into his neck, feeling the tendons loosen beneath his skin, and hearing his breath catch as she presses down more firmly, carving out a small cavern for her head to rest. That's when his pulse forces itself upon her, beating inside her ears and reverberating like the dizzying rush of a stream. She lets the sound surround her, lets it take her away as they move, becoming lost for hours. And then, magically, she is found.

'Your majesty.' Youpi shakes her, gently, and she blinks. Your majesty, please wake up.'

'Call me Kokoriko,' she says, feeling oddly proud at the way her voice refuses to shake. But the feeling flees soon enough, as she remembers how part of her world has fallen away. She chooses instead to look around, at the room they are now in, a grand room, the sort she has only ever seen in storybooks, all red and gold and, oddly enough, pink.

Youpi sets her down on a nearby settee and she stares, blankly, at the people she is introduced to, people called Colt and Alluka. Alluka, at least, is very nice. She laughs and stares curiously at her feathered hair, reaching out to yank at it with a gentle tug before asking if she can brush it with shinning eyes.

Kokoriko says yes.

Alluka runs away into the swirl of pink cushions and red velvet armchairs to find a hairbrush that she swears she hasn't dropped down the back of a sofa. Rolling his eyes, Killua follows her. And then casually, almost too casually, his fingers reach out and ram their way into a crease between two cushions, his hand emerging almost instantaneously, as the missing hairbrush dangles from his grasp in a sorry mixture of horse-hair and flattened oak, one that curves out its sides into the cartoonish flare of a whale shape.

Alluka rushes over, relief in her eyes. 'You're so smart, brother,' she says, clapping her hands with such glee, that Kokoriko is almost halfway sure it is an act. Shia-pouf would know, she thinks. In fact, he would be sure of it.

Such exuberance, he would sneer. And with a smile to go along with it. Such a thing is a decoration that humans faces use to deceive you. Remember that.

But you were a deceiver too, Shia-pouf, she thinks. How am I supposed to mourn you when you weren't quick enough to tell me how much of you was a lie?

Colt, she notices, isn't anything like Shia-pouf. He does not bow to her and only lowers his head so that he can look her in the eye. He holds himself in a stately manner, one different to Pouf's. He is not as flexible, for one thing. His wings weigh him down, heavier and blacker than Shia-pouf's ever were, folded, instead of merely lowered, when he sits. He offers her a biscuit.

She stares at it. She's not sure whether she's allowed to ask for meat.

Luckily Palm solves this dilemma by shoving a chicken leg into her hand. Kokoriko stares at her, at the bruises that litter the woman's arms, the ones she couldn't brush away entirely, not to sweep them back into her skin tone. And then Palm, wonder of wonders, smiles.

'I can cook you something later,' she says. 'a proper meal. Would you like that?'

Kokoriko thinks about this. 'It's good to try new things, right?'

Palm's smile fades, though Kokoriko isn't sure exactly, why.

'Yes.'

And then Alluka flounces down next to her, her skirt puffing up in a rush of colour. Kokoriko looks from it, to the beaming smile on Alluka face and then at the brush the other girl waves in front of her face.

'Can I? Can I?'

Kokoriko nods and then turns her head. She doesn't have the energy to refuse.

Alluka's hands are firm but gentle as she handles the hairbrush. There's no hesitation in her gestures when she puts it against Kokoriko's head and starts to pull it through the soft spikes that are not quite, and never will be, strands. The bristles feels scratchy, raw against the hard bone-like filament wedged in the centre of each feather, but Kokoriko simply pulls a face and bears with it. Gungi has taught her patience as well, after all.

'It's so pretty,' exclaims Alluka marvelling. 'when the light catches it just right, it shines! It's like you've got jewellery growing out of your head!'

From her distant left, Killua chokes. Kokoriko thinks he's laughing, or trying not to. Her suspicions are proven right when she feels Alluka turn to stare at him.

'Brother, don't laugh at a girl's hair! It's rude.'

Gon smiles at them both. 'She's right Killua. It's rude to laugh at someone's hair – and their words. Especially if those words are meant nicely.'

Killua abruptly shuts up.

Wow, thinks Kokoriko. I wish I had had that kind of power over Shia-pouf.

'What happened to Hisoka?' she asks suddenly, not caring if her words have the power to break the peaceful atmosphere that's settled over them all. To her, it simply feels numb and wrong, like a shock blanket that stifles the very air inside the room. To her surprise, she actually receives an answer.

'He ran away.' Killua folds his arms behind his head as he scoffs, though his eyes look deceptively calm. 'He's not an idiot. He's good and if it had just been me and Gon, we would have had a difficult time; probably lost. But we had Morel as well and Palm had worn him out a bit. And those two have a lot more experience than us. He would have been an idiot to actually try and win with those odds.'

It feels wrong to voice it, now that Shia-pouf is dead, dead and not with her, but her mouth opens and she hears a voice that she still thinks is hers ask, 'what now? What will you do with me?'

There's silence this time. But though she doesn't speak, Palm rises from her place on a nearby sofa and steps forward confidently. And it's stupid, but there's a feeling of safety and home that engulfs Kokoriko when she sees the liquid warmth in the other woman's eyes.

Palm leans down into a half-kneeling crouch, one that is not quite a bow and her hands came to rest against Kokoriko's, fingers leaning onto fingers and thumbs stroking against thumbs. Kokoriko stares down at the slender elegance of the skin against her own, at the sleekness of those powerful muscles and the way they dwalf her own despite how small they seem against someone like Morel. She's not sure what it is exactly that keeps her from moving away. Perhaps it's instinct, this quaint surge of familiarity that tells her deep inside that Palm is one of hers. Or at the very least, an ant like her.

Then why does she feel nothing similar when she looks at Colt? She risks a glance at him and sees the adoration in his eyes as he looks over at a small red-haired girl, one who has been watching her with a gaze that feels deceptively passive. It makes her feel both small and incredibly young and she turns away in a huff.

That girl doesn't feel like an ant. She feels like something sly and intelligent wearing the skin of one.

'You have to make a choice.'

Kokoriko turns back with a start, realising that Palm has started to talk. The woman's hands press down a little firmer, shifting their weight into something that actually falls against Kokoriko's skin, just to ensure she has her attention.

'We can't let you go if you're just going to create another problem for us further down the line. A lot of people died the last time, because we failed to reach the last queen before she gave birth to your father.'

Colt's wings quiver slightly and there's a displeased tilt to his mouth, like he wants to interject, like something about the way Palm's phrased this has struck him the wrong way. But a quelling glance from the little red-head seems to make him shift back into his seat.

'I-I...' Kokoriko pauses, licks her lips, then starts again. 'I already said I didn't want to start having a mill-million babies.'

'Ten thousand, actually,' mutters Killua, though he holds up his hands and looks away when both Alluka and Gon glare at him.

'But...'Palm looks at Kokoriko all the more keenly. 'We have to ensure that doesn't happen. No matter what. And that either means we have to kill you. Or we have to render you infertile.'

Kokoriko's brows draw together. 'Like...like an operation. Do you...even know how I work?'

'That's not the only way.'

Everyone looks over at Alluka the unusual gravity of her voice pulling them in. Beside her, Killua tenses, his fingers curling neatly into his palms with a feline grace. Only the way his skin flares into an even sharper white gives away how rocky and quick-cut the motion truly is.

Alluka stares at them all, her gaze unusually somber.

'She could make a wish.'

People stare at each other, confused, while Killua tenses even more.

'Hmm? What's the little girl saying?' Morel twists a finger into his ear, giving it a good rub before squeezing it out. Then he favours Killua with a heavy stare. 'This isn't going to be a repeat of the last time at the hospital, right? I don't know if I can cover that up again.'

'Why not?' Gon blinks and looks round. 'At least this way, no one will get hurt, not really.'

Killua grits his teeth together. 'Alluka,' he says firmly. 'You won't be healing her, you'll be taking something away. There will be requests involved.'

Alluka gives him a blank stare. 'There are always requests involved. Besides what we'll be doing is the opposite of healing. We'll be stealing. The requests after...will just be more giving.'

Killua gives her a very level stare and she almost flinches. Almost.

'Please,' she says finally. 'Just trust me.' She looks round at them all, her bottom lip wobbling out into the beginning of a childish pout. 'Please, ' she says again, this time more firmly. 'She's like me. And I want to talk to her alone.' She takes a breath. ' I'll chase you all out of here, if I have too!' she declares, looking fierce suddenly, like a kitten with it's claws out, hands twisted into pudgy fists and eyes tight and narrow beneath her frown.

Maybe it's the timbre of her voice that does it. But surprisingly, they allow Alluka her request; Kokoriko's not sure if it's because they trust Alluka herself, or if they trust Killua's judgement.

'My sister knows what do in situations like this, better than I do,' he says firmly and ushers Gon out of the room with a firm prod to the small of his back. That won't of course, thinks Kokoriko wryily, prevent anyone else from listening in though, will it?

'I want Youpi here,' she says firmly. 'He's the only one properly on my side, right Youpi?'

She looks at him and he smiles at her, reaching out to the small hand she offers him and curling his fingers round almost as though he is trying to form a fist around her wrist. And then, sharply, she tilts her head to the side.

'If I had asked, about my mother, would you have told me?'

Her voice sounds like a whip; it comes down hard and flat, with the same quick streak of motion. Hard enough, by far, to make Palm hesitate on her way out of the room.

Youpi's eyes widen slightly, but he does not hesitate to speak. 'I do not know,' he says calmly. 'I would have no real reason to hide it from you...but if Pouf had said something, given me a reason to think that knowing might have hurt you somehow, I would have said nothing.'

She nods. She can accept that. If she had thought to ask about her mother before, if he had lied to her then...perhaps she might have tugged her hand away. But instead she squeezes the hand wrapped around her own with as much strength as she can muster.

It is only then that the door manages to close with a firm 'bang' and Alluka leans against it, panting heavily. Then she straightens, and with a huge grin and an equally huge whirl of her skirts, she rushes back to Kokoriko and beams up into her frowning face.

'Let me finish brushing your hair.'

It's not even phrased as a question, instead stuck somewhere between a request and a demand. Kokoriko frowns even more at this, but she's got no real reason to say 'no', and finds herself patting Youpi on the hand to release her – which he does, reluctantly. Then she stands and walks over to the hairbrush, plucking it artfully from the sofa cushions before it can slump away further into the realm of the lost. She side-eyes Alluka.

'How often do you misplace this thing?'

Alluka pouts and stretches out a hand.

Sighing, Kokoriko drops it into her palm with a slight smack.

Alluka makes a face at the careless motion but seconds later, she is humming cheerfully to herself as she begins to tug the brush against the cluttered feathers that line Kokoriko's scalp.

'Do you seriously want me to wish for my own...mutilation?'

Alluka pauses.

'No. I want you to wish for you.' She smiles and taps on Kokoriko's hands carefully. 'You know...the other me, the one who grants these wishes, is very good at healing, like you. But, I've asked her and she says it works differently for you. We don't push any part of my nen into other's. It's more like...Nanika says she threads the universe through the missing patches in other people, like sewing. She doesn't see or feel time the way I do, so she can re-work what used to be there, by plucking stuff out of the moments before. She says you feed off memories, the ones so small and everyday, that people don't really see them as memories and they lie there, almost forgotten. You have to build up a picture first, of what you're trying to fix.'

Kokoriko blinks at how grown-up Alluka sounds all of a sudden, before she focuses on the words spilling out. She remembers how she had failed to clear away Palm's bruises, back when she was lost in her own shock, and for a moment, understanding eclipses her mind. But then it's driven away with a scowl as she tries to take in the rest of what Alluka's saying.

'Other me?'

Alluka laughs. 'Yep! Her name's Nanika!'

She says it like there's no room for debate, like it's a perfectly healthy thing to say. But maybe, in this strange new world of nen and what it can do for others, it is.

Kokoriko sinks into her thoughts. The hairbrush against her hair takes up Alluka's favoured paths against her scalp and the repetitive motion feel soothing somehow, like a long-lost surge of feeling. For Kokoriko has never been to the ocean, has never heard the whish-whoosh of waves against the shore or seen the curl of their waves come undone as they sink into sand, and yet she imagines that hearing them might feel a little like what she is experiencing now.

'C-ca-an I have a-a-any wish?'

'Any wish.'

'I want...'

It's not gonna be a huge wish guys. Don't worry, nobody's gonna die. Maybe.

Also, in response to a query by a reviewer, the character in my avatar is Togame, from the series Katanagatari.