Author's Notes:
RELATIONSHIPS: Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight, Leorio Paladiknight/Original Female Character(s)
RATING: Mature
NOTE: This was written for the 2023 Hunter x Hunter Big Bang. Please be warned that this story may contain depictions of depression, addiction, alcohol abuse or alcoholism, recreational drug use, and implied sexual content.
appleciderdonut and amsterdarn provided illustrations for the first and third chapters, respectively. To view the images, check out the version on Archive of Our Own (AO3 username: lemonpika).
Chapter 1: Select Options in the Main Menu
In the pub closest to the Limeiro Medical Hub, Leorio is drinking alone. He's turning thirty years old at midnight. That's only a couple of hours away from now.
As he knocks back his beer, he dwells on everything he's achieved in the last decade of his life. Passing the medical board exams. Completing his internship and residency requirements. Garnering a reputation within the Hunter Association as a promising new Disease Hunter.
Here he is now in Greed Island's capital city, where he serves as one of the select few beta testers of the game's reboot. With a mixture of diligence and dumb luck, he's fulfilled almost all his dreams. Why, then, does he feel so lost and lonely these days?
No. He can't let himself spiral this way. He's done this before — surrendered to an existential crisis that made every new morning a burden — but where did that get him? Nowhere, that's where.
With a fingernail, he toys with the lip of his third bottle of beer, empty now. Goddamn it. Not even his favorite brand of pale ale could hit the spot. What he really needs is something hard. The more alcohol he has in his system, the blurrier his inner beasts tend to become.
He surveys the multicolored array of bottles behind the counter. At the end is a tempting bourbon that appears to be modestly-priced.
"Book," he calls out. A binder materializes from thin air. He flips to the page where he keeps his Jenny cards. Should he or should he not?
The slapping of a broad hand against his back jerks him from this internal debate.
Basho's voice booms, clear as can be amidst the good-natured hubbub of the pub. "There you are, Birthday Boy!"
Zepile sidles up next to Basho. "Yo, Leorio. We've been hunting for you everywhere."
"Where else would I be?" Leorio asks, rhetorically. "Now that you've found your quarry, sit down. Join me. I was just about to ditch this tame beer for some of the wilder stuff behind the counter."
Basho eyes Leorio's open binder. "Save your Jenny. Get up. We're transferring to another location."
Leorio makes his book vanish in a puff of smoke. "Where are we headed?"
"Basho and I put our heads together and came to an agreement. We see you, Leorio. You're working your ass off to make sure the Soufrabi pirates don't go overboard and permanently butcher themselves perfecting a line-up of athletic quests compliant with Razor's sky-high standards. But you know what they say — work hard, play harder. So we've decided to give you the birthday gift of a lifetime. The thing is, we can't show it to you here. So come along."
The nights in Limeiro City are freezing. Almost as soon as they exit the pub, Basho rubs his large hands together then extracts a blunt from an inner pocket of his blazer.
Basho lights up, takes a drag, then passes it toward Zepile. Zepile — being a lesser proponent of recreational drug use than the other two but by no means a wet blanket — takes a shallow puff before handing the blunt to Leorio.
Zepile's fingers are coarse when they brush against Leorio's. A craftsman's hands.
Leorio presses the tip of the blunt to his lips. He inhales. As smoke rushes into his lungs, he wonders what exactly his friends intend to give him.
Can the gift be one of Zepile's strangely-shaped sculptures? Is it too gigantic to fit through the pub's doors?
Zepile, though a Rookie Hunter still, is one of the only known Nen geniuses in the association. He scored the beta-testing gig before Leorio had even heard of it. In a workshop deep inside List's castle, Zepile designs in-game items and other assets, which he infuses with Nen so that they can more effectively retain the specialized magical properties of the local crafters from various cities.
Of course, the gift may not be one of Zepile's tangible artistic creations. It can instead be an experiential present spearheaded by Basho.
Out there, in the real world, Basho is an underboss of the Nostrade mafia family. In here, however, he utilizes his powers of poetic manifestation for more creative than destructive purposes. As a scripter for the beta, he assists with plotting and executing the side-quests specially requested by none other than List, Greed Island's Grandmaster and Ging's successor. Perhaps Basho will let Leorio embark on an all-new adventure full of mystery and intrigue and twists, ahead of the game's launch to the players at large.
Leorio is deep in contemplation as they arrive at what appears to be an abandoned warehouse in the seedy outskirts of the city. Basho, the latest in their blunt rotation, takes one last drag before stubbing out the smoke in a pocket ashtray. He yanks open the rusting door.
With zero hesitation, Basho and Zepile scurry into the dusty interior and descend a flight of steps.
For the first time since he followed his friends out the pub, Leorio begins to harbor doubts. Are they actually planning to murder him in this deserted location? Are they bestowing him with the gift of ceasing to exist? What is born must die, after all, so why not confine mankind's most inevitable milestones to a single day in the calendar?
Yes, he's as high as a kite, thanks to the potency of Basho's supply. Still, there's a chance the paranoid voice in his head is right, isn't there? But even as he silently parses out his fears, his feet plod onward. As with most other Hunters, his curiosity sometimes overrides his instinct of self-preservation. This is especially true when he's under the influence of some mild-altering substance.
At the landing is a heavy-looking door of steel. An ornate "W" is carved on the silver knob. What does that stand for? What manner of monsters are lurking behind this door? Once he twists the knob — and turns the "W" into an "M" — will it be capital-M Murder awaiting him beyond?
With his index finger, Zepile traces the "W" on the knob. A reddish substance is buried beneath his fingernail. Is that blood or simply the clay with which he sculpts? As Leorio speculates, Zepile starts to chant.
Warring, warring, warring. Or is warning the word he repeats ad infinitum?
Polishing his fogged-up sunglasses, Leorio leans toward Basho and speaks in a whisper. "What the hell is Zep doing?"
"He's saying the password," Basho whispers in return. "You have to say the word over and over while stroking the knob like so."
Stroking the knob? Despite the preposterousness of the situation, mirth bubbles in Leorio's chest. He almost blurts out a crude joke, but he stops himself just in time. He doesn't want his friends to get the wrong idea about him, does he?
The door creaks then swings open.
Through the doorway, the promises of a good time come pouring out. Soft golden illumination. The clinking of glasses. The tinkling of acid jazz on a piano. The spicy fragrance of clove cigarettes. Cheerful snatches of conversation and loopy bursts of laughter.
He's mystified. Why is a paradise like this hidden away in such a remote location?
Zepile is grinning as he glances back at Leorio. "Brace yourself, Birthday Boy."
Basho gives Leorio an encouraging clap to the shoulder. "Ready to have your mind blown? This place — Wildin — is going to change your life. Zep and I have only been visiting for a week or so, but I already know."
Leorio resets his sunnies over his nose before following his friends inside.
Wildin, did Basho call it? Well, Wildin turns out to be a shockingly fancy speakeasy.
Leorio's jaw drops. There are gorgeous women everywhere his eyes rove. White teeth, bountiful hair, luminous skin of every color, immaculately-manicured fingernails, endlessly long legs. Knockouts, all of them. Elevens out of ten. He's certain he's never come across any of these glamorous ladies in the course of his dull day-to-day routine of biking to the medical hub, to the pub for a couple of beers after work, then back to his spartan lodging in the apartment complex where he resides with his fellow beta testers.
Basho roars with laughter. "Look at this guy, Zep. His eyes are popping out of his head. He must think he's died and gone to heaven."
Zepile elbows Leorio. "See? What did I tell you? Best birthday gift in the world, right?"
His friends are watching him with expectant expressions. So Leorio grins and gives them two thumbs up. "Oh, yeah. I'm like a kid in a candy store right now. Since everything in sight looks so yummy, I don't know where to begin."
"You can look as much as you want, but you can't touch," Zepile informs him. "Not just yet. First, you have to speak to the bartender and sign up."
"Sign up for what?" Leorio asks.
Basho's eyes are the ones in danger of popping as they settle upon an especially leggy, leather-clad brunette. He waves a dismissive hand in Leorio's general direction. "Inundate the bartender with all your questions. She can explain everything to you a thousand times better than we can. Hit us up once you've been sorted out."
With trepidation, Leorio walks toward the bar. A silver-haired gentleman with a black handlebar mustache is wiping a glass with a towel. There's nobody else behind the counter.
Though puzzled, Leorio addresses the mustached man. "Uh, you're the bartender here, aren't you?"
The bartender bows his head. "So I am."
"You look like someone I know. Well, someone I met a long time ago. That must've been. . . ." Leorio pauses to calculate. "Over a decade ago now."
"Ah, yes. This may not be the last time you'll come across somebody in this speakeasy who wears a face from your less-trodden memory lanes. Or ones more frequently visited, whether in the land of sands or elsewhere. It depends. Be wary, though. More likely than not, the faces they don are not their own."
"Um. I'm not sure I get what's going on here."
"Color me unsurprised, for this is a spot that reveals all its secrets in increments. In the meantime. . . ." The bartender whips out a red tablet from underneath the counter and sets it before Leorio. "Read this contract carefully. If you're amenable to its terms, go ahead and sign on the dotted line."
Leorio squints at the small black text on the white screen. It's all legal mumbo jumbo. Yuck. "Look. You function as the tutorial guy in this area of the game, right? Can't you just give me the gist of what I'm supposed to know?"
"Gladly. By signing this contract, you're consenting to act as a beta tester for this specific game feature, which is currently under development. Moreover, you're binding yourself to keep everything you experience within the walls of this establishment absolutely confidential. You may only speak of this place to those who have likewise signed up."
"And what exactly is this game feature?" Leorio asks.
"In essence, this is a dating simulation minigame. Unlike the clichéd romance that serves as the mainstay of Aiai, the City of Love, the scenarios in this speakeasy boast all the blissful hallmarks of realism, except with fewer of the drawbacks."
Leorio is still struggling to understand, but he keeps listening as the bartender explains.
"The non-player characters — or NPCs — in this establishment are all attainable under certain circumstances. If you say or do the right thing with the NPC of your choice, you win a point. If you fail to do so, you lose a point. Lose enough points and you risk ending the interaction. Rack up enough points and you can choose to consummate your date. So what does consummation entail? It means you can spend the night with the NPC in one of the back rooms behind the bar. You can also book a stay in the brothel next door, with which the speakeasy has a partnership."
"Spend the night? I presume you mean. . . ." Leorio's sentence trails off.
"You presume correctly."
Leorio furrows his brows. "But these women aren't real, are they? Is consummation even possible? Is this minigame meant to be a hyperrealistic virtual experience?"
"You need not bother yourself with the mechanics. What matters is the array of sensations you may be feeling soon, if you elect to sign up. I assure you — the women's bodies retain a fleshly warmth. Their mouths are sweet, and their sweat is salty. Their perfume is as intoxicating as any bottle of liquor behind the bar. Thus far, the anecdotal feedback of my clientele has been overwhelmingly positive."
Leorio pulls out the stylus inserted into the side of the tablet. He poises it an inch above the glowing screen then pauses to think. It wouldn't hurt to feel a warm body beneath his own, it's true. It's been so long. The nights in Limeiro, which have always been cold, are plunging to even lower temperatures.
The bartender, seeming to notice Leorio's hesitation, slides a second tablet over the counter. This one's blue. "If you don't wish to sign the contract, lay your palm over the blue tablet. Then you may go."
"Can I come back tomorrow, after I've had more time to think?"
The bartender shakes his head. "It doesn't work that way. Once you've picked the blue tablet and exited the speakeasy, your memory of this place will begin to fade. By morning, it will be overwritten entirely with a false recollection. You'll forget that this place — and all the aesthetically-pleasing faces that come with it — ever existed."
Leorio casts a glance over his shoulder. His friends have claimed cozy couches in the corner of the room. The brunette whom Basho was ogling earlier is sitting with them. She has her legs draped over his muscular lap.
Zepile catches Leorio's eye and waggles his heavy eyebrows.
Leorio's grip on the stylus tightens. He bends over the red tablet and signs below the nondisclosure clause.
"Spit it out, Leorio. What's your type?"
With Zepile's question reverberating within his skull, Leorio lets his eyes roam around the speakeasy. Deep down, he knows the answer, but it's not something for his friends' ears. Or for anyone else's, for that matter. There are some secrets he's determined to take to the grave.
"Tough call," Leorio lies. "Everyone here is so beautiful. Honestly, I'd be happy to get any one of them alone."
"Anybody except the one I've already claimed," Basho chimes in. "In other words, the most beautiful woman in the room." He squeezes her leg. With the sheer breadth of his hand, his fingers can probably close all the way around her thigh if he tries.
"Oh, sweetie!" the brunette squeals. "Not in front of your friends!" She snatches Basho's hand as if to keep it away from her leg. Instead, she entwines his sausage-like fingers with her own spindly ones and lays their joined hands over her lap.
"I get that you're not picky," Zepile says to Leorio. "You haven't been with a woman since you arrived at Greed Island, have you? But you do have to single out somebody in this speakeasy. Unless you're planning to form a harem?"
Basho sniggers at this. "Oh, Zep. Don't give this guy any wild ideas. He's so perverted he might take you up on them. Haven't you heard the story about how he didn't hesitate to gamble away an astronomical amount and jeopardize his teammates' fates at the Hunter Exam, all so he could cop a feel from an incarcerated woman?"
Zepile joins in on the teasing. "I did hear about that one. I've got a funnier story, though. Apparently, this guy got up onstage to rant and rave about his womanizing ways and self-gratification habits in front of the entire Hunter Association. Can you imagine? The absolute balls of him."
"Oh, I was there. I saw it all happen. It was way more entertaining than any old blockbuster movie."
Leorio cringes as they both dissolve into laughter at his expense. "God. I'll never live down that time of my life, will I? If only I could whack your heads with the blue tablet and make you forget every embarrassing moment of mine you've seen or heard about."
"So?" Zepile pipes up once his laughter has subsided. "Have you selected your target?"
"Not yet."
"Here's a hint for you," Basho says. "If you can't decide, let that infamous thirst of yours guide you."
Come to think of it, Leorio is indeed thirsty. Parched, really. What wouldn't he give for a whiskey to wet his mouth? It's this type of thirst that drives him to jump up, desert his friends, and accost the very first NPC he comes across.
Feeling like a fool, Leorio waves at the woman, who's draped in silver silk. "Um! Hello there!"
She stares at his stricken expression and says nothing.
"I know we literally just met, but I'd like to get to know you more."
Once again, she doesn't reply. Her hair, a mass of chocolate curls, bounces as she cocks her head to the side.
Does her silence mean no? That would be understandable, considering that he ambushed her out of nowhere. But he decides to give it one more shot before moving on to another target. "Are you as thirsty as I am? If you are, I can buy us both some drinks."
She nods.
Progress! He hurries toward the nearest unoccupied table and pats its surface. "Here! If you save this space for us, I can run and get us some refreshments. Any special requests?"
She holds up her right hand and signs something to him.
"Oh!" He ensures that he enunciates his next words. "I can read some sign language since it's sometimes useful where I work. Would you mind repeating what you just said? More slowly, this time?"
She does as requested. D-A-I-Q-U-I-R-I, she signs.
"A daiquiri, huh? Coming right up!"
He races toward the bar.
At the far end of the counter, the bartender's busy conversing with a wiry-haired man. In a place like this, packed with perfectly plucked and polished beauties, the stranger's face is conspicuously unshaven and unwashed. His grimy fingernails tap against a can of beer, and an unlit cigarette pokes out from between his lips.
The stranger doesn't complain when the bartender excuses himself to take Leorio's order. He simply ignites his cigarette with a wonky matchstick then absent-mindedly scratches himself between the legs.
"Greetings, Mr. Paladiknight. What are you and your lady friend having tonight?"
Once Leorio places his orders, he doesn't have to wait long. In no time at all, the bartender is sliding a daiquiri and a whiskey on the rocks toward him. The bartender stops him when he attempts to pay.
"Everything this speakeasy serves is complimentary," the bartender tells him.
"They're right," says the stranger at the end of the counter. "So go wild and drink as much as you'd like. The developer of this minigame is already gaining valuable insights from you and your friends. Asking you to pay on top of it all would be overkill."
"Did you sign up to test this feature too?" Leorio asks. "Do we need to fill up a survey or something like that before the night's over?"
The stranger takes a slug from his beer before responding. "The speakeasy doesn't hand out surveys as a rule, no. Everything you say or do here is already being recorded and analyzed." He trains his eyes on a section of the wall behind the counter. Above the menu is a surveillance camera. "That said, I'm sure the developer would be happy to hear any feedback you have. Relay your thoughts to this bartender, and they'll pass them along."
"That works," the bartender agrees. "Now, Mr. Paladiknight, you'd better get back to your lady friend. You could be garnering points with her instead of wasting your time chatting with old men like us."
The stranger snickers. "Old man, eh? Interesting. Very interesting."
Leorio returns to the table where his chosen NPC awaits. She thanks him for the daiquiri.
After they toast, Leorio downs half his whiskey in a single gulp. Welcome warmth courses down his throat. Slowly, the nerves knotted inside him start to come unsnarled. He eases up for the first time since walking into the speakeasy.
How did he end up in such a strange place, anyway? Is it because his birthday is approaching? Is this some hitherto unknown rite of passage for all men entering their third decade of existence?
As he now tells his drinking companion, a year ago, he didn't even know Greed Island was being rebooted. He had no idea he'd be playing any role, however minor, in its development. He was simply spending his days in a jumbled haze of medical duties.
At the hospital where he worked, not one doctor or patient or nurse knew about Nen. They did revere him, however, for the miracles he could perform with his healer's hands. He could wade through a mire of overlapping symptoms and diagnose conditions with unerring accuracy. He could see through skin and sinew and bone, better than any X-ray machine ever could, and crush out cancers before they spread. His Nen abilities made him something like a superhero to them.
Perhaps he could have gone on this same way forever. Walking through the hospital's halls — back and forth, back and forth — even as the walls gradually closed in on him with every passing day. After all, who will diagnose a doctor when something imperceptible dies inside them?
Against all odds, a certain Music Hunter did just that for him.
"Hey, Melody. It's been so long since we last met, hasn't it?"
At his request, they were convening in a café around the corner from Nostrade's headquarters. Like Basho, Melody belonged to the upper echelons of the family's hierarchy. She was only second, in fact, to the current boss.
Leorio had burning questions to ask her about their mutual friend. But the words lodged in his throat. He stirred a sugar cube into his coffee instead, perhaps hoping that the sweetened stimulant would melt his resistance.
"What's troubling you, Leorio?"
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong."
"Now we both know that's not true."
He was already aware that Melody, with her superhuman hearing, had a talent for deciphering unspoken words from the discordant notes of heartbeats. But he couldn't have predicted that she'd get right to the root of the turbulence of his thoughts. He attempted at every juncture to evade her questions, but she was far too clever for him. She successfully extracted the truth — namely, that a pervasive emptiness was eating him up from inside.
"I have an idea," she said, "for how to help you regain a sense of purpose in your life. It sounds like you're in dire need of a new environment, new goals, new friends."
He was gazing beyond a wall of glass as she spoke. He'd spotted someone on the street who made his heart seize momentarily. But it wasn't who he feared it was. Just someone of an eerily similar stature. With the same small hands, slender fingers, golden hair.
"Leorio, I'm taking a leave from Nostrade. So is Basho. We'll both be away for at least a year, maybe longer."
This unexpected tidbit from Melody snapped his attention back to the conversation. "What's going on with Nostrade? Is everyone there okay?"
"We're all fine. Basho and I have the boss's blessing to accept an invitation to join the first cohort of beta testers for Greed Island's reboot. The Game Masters recruited me as a composer and sound designer for both the diegetic and nondiegetic soundscapes of the game. Apparently, most of the beta's features are already functional though occasionally buggy. If you want, I can ask List if he still needs volunteers for the role of medical technical advisor. This could be your chance to remind yourself of why you chose to become a doctor in the first place."
Leorio had his reservations about uprooting everything for an adventure into the unknown. After all, he'd already turned down an invitation to join the Zodiac Twelve, even after his viral speech at the chairman elections shot up his approval rating within the Hunter Association. More to the point, he'd also rejected Chairman Cheadle's proposal to embark with the association's contingent for the Dark Continent expedition. His doubts served him especially well in the latter case, as the fates of the passengers of the Black Whale remained a mystery. Perhaps the ship sank in a communication dead zone. Or maybe they all touched down at their destination then were promptly devoured by the Dark Continent's carnivorous landscape. Nobody knew the answers.
So Leorio was ready to say no when Melody uttered the magic word. Money. The Game Masters would handsomely compensate everybody who assisted with the reboot's development. List, like his vanished predecessor, made a point of richly rewarding all the associates to his projects.
With all the Jenny he would earn from his time as a beta tester, Leorio could finally strive toward his distant dream of building his own public hospital in the heart of the poverty-stricken area where he grew up. There, every patient could avail of free medical services from top-shelf practitioners. He might have lost his beloved friend Pietro long ago, but this way he could save others from suffering the same tragic ending.
With a new hope budding in his chest, he said yes to Melody's offer.
He almost went on to ask her the questions that had originally occasioned this meeting in the café. But like before his tongue transformed into lead right in his mouth. He couldn't bring himself to mention the one person he doggedly tried to keep out of his thoughts. Forget walking to the Nostrade headquarters just around the corner, taking an elevator to the penthouse, and knocking on that door with his own trembling fist.
The NPC placidly watches as Leorio relays to her what's essentially his entire life story. He slurs his words as he keeps going. Her eyes, while staying steady on his lips, have glazed over. She takes periodic sips from her rum-and-lime mix. A very summery drink. Perhaps she's picturing stretching out on a beach somewhere instead of putting up with his ceaseless chattering. She's obviously checked out from this conversation ages ago.
His intoxication strips him of any shame he might ordinarily have. He only pauses to toss back the rest of his whiskey. Without wasting time, the woman signs excuse me then strolls off. She doesn't explain where or why she's going. Does she have plans of coming back at all?
Then again, who cares? If he indulges in another glass of alcohol, he certainly won't.
He's alone, nursing his nth whiskey at the bar, when the clock behind the counter strikes twelve. "Happy birthday, Leorio," he murmurs to his swimmy reflection in the amber liquor.
That night, Leorio dreams he isn't lying alone in bed for once. There are neckties tangled around his bedposts. Clothes hastily discarded on the floor. Open foil packets of two different sizes littered alongside them. There's a warmth wrapped around his waist, breath fanning against his back, slender fingers twitching against his abdomen in the midst of a dream within a dream. Chains rustling.
Normally, he'd already be creeping around the dark room, silent as a shadow, to dress up and get the hell out. But he didn't escape back then. He definitely won't now. He just lies there, enveloped in the warmth he's always craved.
He already knows the outcome of this night. The one time he permitted himself to succumb to slumber rather than running away, his bedfellow didn't do the same. There would be no contact after that. No calls, no messages, nothing. From both ends. And he would simply try and fail to forget.
When he rouses from his dream, the first thing he does is flip over in bed and scrutinize his pillow. In his half-wakefulness, he searches for any golden strands his bedfellow might have left behind. Just one would suffice. Of course, there isn't any. Everything he sees is black.
The next evening, after his work at the medical center has wrapped up, Leorio stops by his apartment for a shower. He then bikes toward the warehouse. He might not have more luck today than he had yesterday, but at least this way he can smell of aloe vera shampoo and aftershave while striking out.
He parks at a bike rack in a more well-lit, populated area before going the rest of the way on foot.
He spots his two friends leaning against the outer wall of the warehouse. They might've headed here together straight from their jobs in the castle. As with last night, they're sharing a blunt.
Zepile hands the blunt to Leorio. It's about two-thirds of the way smoked, so Leorio burns through the rest of it with a single drag.
Basho whistles. "A man on a mission, if I ever saw one."
"Watching the two of you leave with women way beyond my league sure lit a fire under my ass. I'm making you both proud this time around. This is my redemption arc. It's my birthday, and I'm determined to get some." Leorio doesn't fully believe what he's saying, but he can fake it till he makes it, can't he?
Zepile shoves off the wall to get the door. "That's the spirit."
Basho, with his powerful voice, doesn't need to raise his volume to be heard over the echoing of their footsteps in the stairwell of the warehouse. "Listen, I overheard bits of your conversation with your target as I was heading to the bar for some sake. Here's a hint for you. Don't talk to ladies just about yourself. Ask them lots of questions. Pretend to be vitally interested in their fictional backstories."
"Right. I'll keep that in mind."
Leorio's friends stand back to let him perform the password ritual this time. Thankfully, he's facing the door, not them, so they can't watch the fruity color spreading over his cheeks. He can't believe he's doing this. Diddling a knob while his friends watch.
The awkwardness is over soon enough. The door cracks open, and Leorio pushes inside.
He scours the speakeasy for the NPC he turned off with his selfishness the night before. But she's nowhere to be found.
In fact, all the potential targets for today are different from yesterday's. Apart from the pianist's, not one of these women's faces strikes a familiar chord with him. He's sure of this, at least until one specific face makes him do a double-take. He freezes and stares from across the room. It's almost as if he's seeing a ghost.
Then the face flutters with an indecipherable emotion and drains what remains of a zombie in a tall glass.
No. This face doesn't belong to whom he believed it belonged, after all.
Basho suddenly smacks his back, which makes him gasp. "I recognize that expression. You've found her, huh? The one you want to win over?"
Not quite. Not at all. "Oh, yeah," Leorio says with a smile.
"Then go get her," Zepile urges.
With his friends' encouragement, Leorio procures a whiskey and a zombie from the bartender. He then heads toward his target. He's in her vicinity when he halts.
His game was nonexistent last night. Hell, he failed to even ask for a name. He needs to go about this carefully this time around. He might not have the highest IQ or the most well-built body in the room, but he still has his unique charms, right?
"Hey!" he says loudly to nobody in particular. "The bartender misheard what I said at first and mixed the wrong drink. Any takers?" He lets his eyes fall directly on his target now. "How does a zombie sound? It's got lime and grapefruit juices, cinnamon and grenadine syrups, and three kinds of rum. All the works."
His target gives him an icy look even as she relinquishes him of the cocktail he advertised.
Blond bob, brown eyes, nails neatly trimmed and decorated with nothing except a clear coat of varnish. Her body, while delicately formed by whatever mysterious programming made her, just barely conceals a tightly-wound ferocity. She looks more authentic than any girl he met at the parties back in uni. Then again, he was incredibly inebriated ninety-nine percent of the time back then so his judgment wasn't the best.
His first impression of this NPC is confirmed as she utters her first words to him. "I'm only marginally amused by your trick to capture my attention. I'll let you sit down, but one wrong move and I'm out of here, Mister."
Oh, boy. He sure knows how to pick 'em. It looks like he must utilize his full arsenal of pick-up artistry from his college days to crack someone as tough as this.
Does he dare take this challenge?
More Author's Notes:
To access an interactive/playable part of the story, check out the version posted on Archive of Our Own (AO3 username: lemonpika).