Chapter XLV
"You said we were getting out of here."
"I being uncharacteristically positive."
"Well… It didn't work."
"…I tried."
"Not hard enough though."
After their initial capture at the field, their captors stuffed them in a glass box and released a paralytic gas and muscle relaxants to render them both soft and almost limping. Given their injured states, they had no other choice but to be taken, knocked out, and stuffed into god-knows-what. In any normal circumstance, Feitan could have gotten out just as easily as they were captured, but his bullet wounds are still bleeding through the yellow prison jumpsuits forced upon them.
They wake up hours later being wheeled in wheelchairs in a prison.
Feitan and Valtiel are wounding their way through the stark white hallways. Guards in all black suits with assault rifles and all other manners of weaponries escort them towards their cells. Iron handcuffs bound them around the wrist, ankles, and neck, all three rings connected with one long iron cord.
The sensation of being restrained is painfully familiar to Valtiel, though at least she is not suffering in another straitjacket and electroshock collar. Her eyes dart back and forth across the hallway, desperate to get hints as to where they are. She has slept the entire journey, and knows nothing else but the fact that she and Feitan are in a middle of nowhere with the other Troupe members so far from them.
She glances at Feitan. His face is dark and his expression is nowhere near the word "amused". A dark red stains the right side of his jumpsuit, while the thief tries to conceal a cough and instead bleeds through the mouth.
She looks up at the guard on Feitan's left side. "He's bleeding very badly. Someone should take him to the infirmary for treatment before you throw us into prison."
The guard sneers down on her. "What? Why?"
"Because he's bleeding to death, you ninny."
A rifle's butt to the face answers her request.
Her head is turned to the side, as she feels the brunt of the pain blooming in her left temple. Another bleeding wound to add in her growing collection. She glares at the guard and spits blood on the floor.
The guard raises his rifle again for that disrespect.
Suddenly, Feitan thrashes against his bonds and bares bloodstained teeth at the guard. "You touch her, I kill you first. I take time ripping your nails and scalp."
He thrashes in his wheelchair, upending it to its side and his face slamming against the floor. His skull throbs from the pain as a pair of guards hoists him up again. The first guard takes his rifle and slowly presses his weapon to Feitan's wounds, oozing more blood from his chest and more fits of coughing.
Valtiel snarls like a caged beast and rounds on her wheelchair, two feet flat on the ground and ramming backwards to the guard. She looks over her shoulder and the guard grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her upwards and way above the restraints of her bonds. She hisses through gritted teeth.
"Feisty," the guard commends.
"Let her go," another guard interrupts. "Warden wants them in the cells as soon as possible." He looks at the two prisoners with unmasked disgust. "And mind where your hands go," he adds, eyeing the dark glare of the young woman. "These are Phantom Troupe members."
"Her?" the second guard hums. His hands trace Valtiel's yellow jumpsuit from nape to her back.
She keeps her face hard and her jaw clenched as the guard rips her jumpsuit open at the back, revealing pale skin to the guards. In her peripheral vision, Feitan is seething viciously.
The guard clicks his tongue. "No Spider tattoo," he whistles. "Not a Phantom Troupe member."
"Leave her alone," says another guard behind Feitan.
"You can have them." The first one lets go of Valtiel's hair, none too gently, and steps back.
Feitan and Valtiel glance at each other as the guards continue wheeling them towards their supposed cells.
From what both of them could discern after their little time of consciousness, the prison is a massive complex enclosure with metal ceilings, iron beams and columns, and extremely bright lights that it makes everything appear white. Metal bridges crisscross in the main complex, overlapping one another and leading to different corridors, to different aisles of prison cells. The guards are leading them somewhere beneath these crisscrossing bridges, perhaps to the lowest part of the prison.
As a thief, this is Feitan's first time inside a prison. Not that he is complaining. This is a new venture, almost interesting if he is not restrained in a creaky wheelchair and stuck with the Danchou's lapdog.
He purses his lips at that. He supposes she is no longer just a lapdog. As she once mentioned, she is more than that now. She is right, he has to admit. One look at her constant sneer somewhat gives him relief. He doesn't want her all soft and weepy. He wants her as a fighter—a bloodthirsty, battle-hungry fighter. Well, she might not fit the first two qualities, but he can let that pass.
Better that than weepy, really.
At the lowest floor, the guards lead them through a long tunnel with five different locking mechanisms. Feitan glances at his unlikely companion again, knowing that she, too, is noting every little thing they could use for escape. The littlest seam, windows, cracks. The weakest hinge, the quickest route, the easiest targets. The moment the muscle relaxants completely wear off, they are out of here.
They enter a room at the end of the corridor: a large room with seven cells lined up in a semi-circular manner. The prisoners inside stir and look out of their metal bars. Instead of jeering at the newest additions as Valtiel has expected, no one so much as smiles. Their eyes are droopy and blank, leached out of life.
Feitan is dumped into one cell, Valtiel into another. Both their cells face each other.
Just then, a tall, imposing older man strides from behind the company of guards. He has grey, receding hairline, a very muscular physique, and wears a standard military uniform of blue-grey top and pants, with golden epaulets and buttons. He smiles at the seven cells, now all occupied.
A complete set.
"Evening," the warden greets, and Valtiel perks up.
So, it is evening—but exactly what time is it in the evening?
"Welcome to my humble abode," continues the warden. He stands at the center of the room, eyes particularly glued to his two latest prisoners. He has to smile at this extreme triumph. "I am especially honored to have Phantom Troupe members with me. You don't know how much that means to this fifty-year-old man. It's like a childhood dream come true."
The warden puts his hands behind his back and peers into Valtiel's cell. "I hope we become good friends."
She rushes towards the bars and extends her fingers at his smug face.
He smiles back, studying her blunt nails, and nods to one of the guards. "Watch over this one," he says, jerking his head back to her. "This one's a headache."
Then he crosses the room and does the same to Feitan, peering between the bars. Unlike his companion, Feitan is seated on his bed and cradles his still-bleeding chest. Blood pumps between his fingers and puddles on the floor. When the warden grins, the thief bares his equally bloodstained teeth and snarls.
The warden withdraws from the cells and beckons to one of the guards. "Do me a favor and keep them in, would you?" He claps the younger man on his shoulder and leans close to his ear.
"And don't press your luck with these fellows." He smiles one last time. "Dinner will be here soon."
He sweeps away with the rest of his entourage.
Valtiel presses her cheek against the metal bars and watches as the doors hiss open, and then close again with a loud clang. She only catches a glimpse of the antechamber, a small room littered with technical equipment and a series of television screens. She commits every room to memory.
Five chambers with different locks from the bridge. The antechamber. The semi-circular prison.
She curls her fingers around the bars and feels for her strength, but it does not come. Instead, it feels as if she has dipped her hands into ice-cold waters and could barely feel sensation in her fingertips. Muscle relaxants, indeed.
She looks around her little cell. It has adequate space to move. It has a single bed, a small desk with few books and no pens. She has a spare yellow jumpsuit to compensate for her torn one. There is a curtain in the farthest corner, intended for the toilet and sink. Looking around the space reminds her of the little room back in the lighthouse, though this one is more comfortable.
Once more, she rounds towards the sole entrance and exit point. No one guards inside the room. Everyone is in the antechamber, possibly watching them from the two-way mirrors. She cranes her neck and counts several security cameras, all pointed to the prisoners and at the center.
She glares at the camera pointed at her, no doubt being watched by the guards. She sneers and slams a fist on the bars, swallowing back a wince. Her muscles feel too soft, too useless.
"Hey there." A hand extends from the right side of her cell. "Welcome to the Leviathan."
She stares at the hand, glowering.
Whoever is in the cell next to her wiggles his hand in impatience. "Don't worry, I washed it."
Her cheeks flare at the implication, finally shaking hands with him. "I haven't said anything yet."
"But you were thinking about it." The prisoner withdraws his hand and slumps back on the left wall of his cell, face pressed close against the bars. "Name's Castile, but you can call me Cas."
"Mine's Valtiel." Her eyes trail to Feitan, who glares back at her. "But you can call me Val."
"So, Phantom Troupe members, huh?" Cas whistles. "What's that?"
"You don't know?" She blinks.
And here she is thinking that the Troupe is world-famous. She searches for Feitan again and sees the dark, sullen face of disapproval. She shakes her head at him. If they want a chance at escape, they have to exhaust all resources they could get—including human resources. Knowing Feitan, he would not be pleased making small talk. That leaves her.
"Guess not." Cas chuckles. "What got you and your friend here in the first place?"
"Uh, we stole some treasures, engaged Hunters in a fight, killed some of them."
"Sounds fun."
Another prisoner thrashes inside his cell.
Valtiel presses against the bars again, angling her face towards the middlemost cell, numbered 'Four'. Inside, a big-bellied hulk of a man slams his fists on the bars, clanging them in their sockets. His face is crisscrossed with thick, ugly scars, while his right ear has been cut in half and his left ear completely torn off.
He bares yellow teeth at her and Cas. "Shut your trap, Castile."
Cas snorts and ignores the burly man. "Calls himself Wolf, you know, like a canine."
"Because his breath stinks?" she wonders.
"I don't know. Probably."
"Oh. Creative." She studies Wolf's appearance and decides that he looks more like a badger than a dangerous wolverine. But she holds her tongue—sarcasm would cut her lifespan short with these people in possibly a half. She still has plans to return to the Troupe in one piece.
She tears her attention from Wolf and speaks to her neighbor. "So, Cas, what are you here for?"
He lets out a dry chuckle. "Over twenty first-degree murders, first degree arson, train bombings. I think I have about more than sixty life sentences plus ninety years without parole."
He sighs dreamily. "I've been stuck here for eight years, so forgive me if I haven't heard of the Phantom Troupe. Wolf over there—" He cackles this time—"Raped and killed several women, most of them prostitutes. I heard the numbers are around forty-five, but Wolf here boasts a world-record of more than seventy."
Valtiel shudders being in the same room and breathing the same air with a rapist and murderer. Then again, it does not make her any better, being in the company of thieves and murderers, sleeping in the same bed with a thief with Class-A bounty. She could hardly start acting the innocent.
She leans on the wall and slowly sinks to the floor. "Can you tell me about this place?"
"Sure. See those vents on the floor?"
"Yes. I count about fourteen of them."
"See the white smoke coming out of them?"
"Muscle relaxants." Her jaw tightens. Small wonder she still feels so weak and boneless.
"Yeah." Cas nods. "Works like a charm. You can forget about thinking of an escape plan. Many people before you and your friend have tried over the years. Not one of them could get as far as the end tunnel. The guards always get to you. If you're wondering, then no, I never tried and never will. I won't try to get myself killed for that kind of stunt."
"Pity." She turns for Feitan, who seems to be eavesdropping as well.
He nods back to her, acknowledging the little bits of information and gives his assent to let her continue. A little pride swells in her. Finally, Feitan is recognizing her efforts.
"What about this Leviathan? What exactly is it?"
Cas lets out a half-snort, half-laughter. "You mean you never guessed yet?"
"Guess what yet?"
"Look around you, missy. Metal all over. Iron beams. Thick walls and doors. No windows. A compressed atmosphere and dense feeling. The name Leviathan."
She rises from the floor and observes her cell again. She lays her hand flat on the wall, smoothing her palm over the hard, cold surface. She feels the whir of engines beneath her skin, the pulse of electricity. Next, she presses her ear flat on the wall and hears something rumbling. Not like an engine, but something similar. Something she could not place. With her feet on the floor, she tries to feel as well, and then comes into a realization.
Cas sounds very amused. "Sink into you yet?"
She rushes back to the bars and turns fearful, glazed eyes at Feitan.
He blinks at her, confused at her expression.
She frowns at him. We're in a submarine.
For dinnertime, the guards emerge from the antechamber and push in a wheeled table. Others carry plastic chairs, the plated food and spoons. With one click, the cell doors open in unison and the prisoners file out, weak and limping from their hours of inactivity.
Valtiel takes her time observing the others. Most of them are old men, serving years upon years of life sentences without parole. She is particularly wary of Wolf, him being a seventy-time rapist and her being the only woman in the chamber. She could feel his lecherous stares as he sinks into his chair, also numbered four as everything else in this little room.
As for her and Feitan, the thief is numbered one and she is seven. Cas is six, a surprisingly young man with wild black hair falling to his shoulders, and sports a thick beard. His eyes are green and his body lean and supple. Like everyone else, he wears a yellow jumpsuit, bringing out the cheerful color of his eyes.
The prisoners are arranged at the table according to their numbers. Feitan sits at the right end, Wolf at the head of the table, with Cas and Valtiel on the right side. She directly faces Feitan, and looks with disgust at his bloodstained shirt.
She takes a delicate sniff. The vents keep whizzing white gas, like a smoke machine. The gas hangs low on the floor, but strong enough to weaken everyone. The guards wear gas masks as they stand around the table, watching the prisoners eat their dinner, rifles pointed at the back of their heads.
Feitan barely touches his food. They dine on plain chicken, pale fish meat, and some boiled potatoes and steamed vegetables. His eyes flit back and forth, from the other prisoners, to Cas, to the guard behind him, and finally, to Valtiel. He catches her eyes, made more golden by the combination of blonde hair and bright yellow jumpsuit. In his eyes, she glows in this place. It makes him sick in the stomach.
He glares down on his plate. Aside from the bland food, there is no fork. Just a spoon. He has in mind to shove it up the ass of the nearest guard, or perhaps to that hulking man at the table's head, who keeps his beady eyes trained on Valtiel, licking his lips whenever she brings her spoon to her mouth.
The pit of his stomach rolls with anger and disgust. On any normal day, Feitan could rip that man's scalp, gouge his eyes out, take his tongue, and stuff it into his sockets. He would have fun tearing him apart, limb by limb. When Wolf catches him glaring, Feitan knows the Danchou would want to do the same.
"Keep your sneers to yourself please," says a small voice from across him. He snorts and picks at his food with the spoon.
Valtiel studies her own spoon, thinking of perhaps scooping Wolf's eyes with this. A gruesome thought, but somehow comforting. She has had enough with restraints and prisons and handcuffs. Cameras and guards, their watchful eyes forever calculating her movements.
She sets her spoon down. "We have to get out of here."
He sniffs at the fish meat. "No shit."
"We are in a submarine," she says bluntly, having the pleasure to see Feitan's dark eyes widen at the realization. Her eyes flash at the guards surrounding them, cautious. "We could be anywhere in the world right now and who knows how long our backup would take."
"So kill everyone," he suggests. "Escape. Go back to Troupe."
"I don't think you've taken the gas into account." She opens and closes her fingers, still very weak. She could barely feel the sensation of her claws, unable to get them out.
"We find a way," he says.
"Cas—" She turns to her right, to the black-haired young man. "What else should we know about the Leviathan? Like, when does it resurface, floorplans, special rooms, an armory maybe?"
The guard behind Feitan steps forward. His finger strays to the trigger, the assault rifle heavy in his hands. Valtiel fixes him with a bold stare, looking up at him with all the bravery she could muster. She cannot have second thoughts on this one. Like the time she was captured by mercenaries, she must endeavor to save her life, no matter how many others she could sacrifice along the way. A selfish thought at best, but she also has Feitan's life into account now.
And she would never go back to Chrollo without Feitan.
The guard snaps his fingers and another one enters through the door. He carries a silver tray, and then sets a small platter of caramel pudding to the latest prisoners.
Valtiel wrinkles her nose. No chocolate. At best, the Danchou would be grateful for the pudding. She pushes her platter away, and so does Feitan.
"A courtesy from the warden," says the server. "For being Phantom Troupe members."
"Do we get to have special treatments then?" she asks, mustering her most innocent voice. It usually works with the Danchou, whenever she wanted to go outside and he did not, during their Scarlet Eyes transactions. It still has its effects now, one way or another.
"The warden wants you both comfortable before we prosecute you in front of the court."
"Oh, there is due process going on here?"
"Given your kinds of crimes, appearance at court is probably just a formality."
"Then you will throw us back here?" She smiles up at him. "If this is the most secure prison the warden deems, then everyone should be confident enough to hold back two members of the Phantom Troupe."
Feitan watches her negotiate. She plays whatever card she could get a hold to—to distract or to confuse—and he weighs their options. If they are planning to get them to court, then they could go wild en route. The moment they are out of the submarine, they could go all out and decimate everyone. Supposing he and Valtiel would be conscious during the journey. The last time they made a journey, both were unconscious and bound in chains.
The young woman keeps the guard's attention on her. "Would you tell the warden next time to serve anything chocolate?" she asks, her voice sweetly persuasive. Feitan fights another urge to snort, only to stop himself from breaking her rhythm.
To his surprise—and disgust, the server actually nods. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You're very kind," she says, and the server disappears to the antechamber, the metal doors hissing shut behind him. At once, her sweet smile drops with a downward twitch. Her eyes go to his face. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Where you learn that?" Feitan wants to know. Out of curiosity. Out of boredom. "Talk like that?"
"When you spend most of your time with Danchou, you get some of his suave tactics." She laughs at the thought of Danchou with his charming smiles and intense smolders. "Rubbed off on me."
"Ah. Good. Use that." When she blinks, he smirks. "Guards here like you."
"Can't see why." She shudders again, ignoring Wolf's leers. She has suffered them with Hisoka and she lets him, but coming from a proud rapist? Very daunting.
Oh, but Feitan can see. These are men of all ages, cooped up in this submarine for who knows how long, scarcely seeing the sunlight and breathing fresh air. Now, with some chance of luck, they have a pretty young woman in their midst, and she does nothing to help their case. Her smiles are sweet and provocative, every sideways flick of her eyes could stir lust in the men.
"Are you going to eat your dessert?" Cas interrupts as he devours his food.
"You can have it," Valtiel says idly, pushing the platter to him.
As he reaches out for the caramel pudding, she snatches it out of his reach and leans forward, her face inches from his own.
"But first, you will tell me about the Leviathan. Everything you know—how many guards, prisoners, the control chambers." She nods to where Feitan still sulks in his seat. "You can have his dessert, too."
"You're making it sound too easy," Cas remarks, smiling beneath his thick beard.
Despite the many guards circling them, no one else tries to interrupt this interrogation. Either this is high confidence or the very makings of a foolish, lax leadership on the warden's part.
She shakes her head, dauntless of his warning. "Try us."
Cas takes her platter and munches down on the pudding. "Well, for starters, the Leviathan houses over a thousand guards and even more thousands of prisoners. The most common prisoners are in the upper halls. You must have seen the bridges, yeah?"
The crisscrossing bridges, one overlapping another. She nods.
"Each bridge leads to a long hall of cells," Cas continues. "There are so many prisoners I'd say the ratio is about one guard to fifty prisoners. And that's only the main ones. We also have cooks here, janitors, people who do the laundry. Then there are the engineers, technicians, captains and first-mates." He grins. "That's an entire army for the two of you, Phantom Troupe or not."
"You never seen us go all out," Feitan warns, very haughty.
"And never underestimate the Troupe," Valtiel adds, herself not a Troupe member. Oh, well.
"Fine, but that doesn't mean you can get out of here on your own," Cas says.
"Dinner time's over," the lead guard barks at them.
On cue, the prisoners rise from the table, the two newcomers following their lead. They stand and wait until another guard wheels the entire table, plates and all, out of the prison. Another takes the folding plastic chairs and disappears to the antechamber. Two extra guards flank the prisoners and lead them into their cells. With another click, the cells close in unison.
The fifteen guards stand in a row by the door.
"Light's out!" the captain says, and the entire room dims. Floor lights come into life, surrounding the semi-circular room and illuminating the vents.
Valtiel watches the lights and the smoke mingle together, and then watches the captain lead the others out of the prison. The two-way mirrors bang as the doors shut again. She scoffs and turns for the camera outside her cell, just above the bars. A small red dot blinks intermittently.
"Must be infrared cameras," she murmurs.
"What's that?" Cas asks, yawning.
"It's a type of camera that reads thermal signatures—never mind."
She is not in the mood to immerse a fellow prisoner into the basics of electromagnetic spectrum, which she knows nothing except for what she peeks from one of Danchou's science-y books. She should really start reading what he reads, exactly for situations like this. Infrared cameras, submarines, and even socio-legal studies. Or maybe even listen to Shalnark's ramblings about the latest technologies.
She sighs in the darkness of the room, and, for the first time since she arrived, sinks on the bed. It is soft and cold, the pillow and blanket feeling like a treat after suffering that creaky bed at the lighthouse. Still, she would choose that bed over this one.
Well, a woman can certainly dream.
Moaning in exhaustion and tired limbs, she lays on the soft mattress and stares at the white ceiling. The room is cold and the atmosphere quite fresh despite being miles underwater. The submarine moves smoothly not to cause any form of discomfort. She focuses on the sensation and tries to curl her fist in her sides. Once more, she has not enough firm grip to even close her fist tightly. Not for a punch. Her leg muscles would not be enough for a kick.
It is useless to lie like this without doing anything. Out of habit, she lapses into Ten. Her aura bursts into a soft, almost lazy, wave. Surprised that Nen works, she shoots out of bed and produces a stronger aura.
She hates Ren, but boy is she glad to be doing Ren now.
She tries for her fist and punches the wall. The metal just clangs and the impact bounces back to her. She hisses, sucking the sting out of her fingers. Even with Ren, the gas still does its duty to weaken the body. A useful bit of information, but annoying.
Across her cell, Feitan has also lapsed into Ren, only to fortify his body against the constant bleeding. He senses the aura in Valtiel and nods in appreciation for her progress. She came a long way—but not enough.
In the morning, the guards wake them with a shout from the captain and the sudden blaze of the bright fluorescent lights. The prisoners rise from bed as usual, wait for the robotic opening of their cell doors, watch the breakfast table wheeled in, and sit at their respective seats.
Despite her sleepiness, Valtiel glares down on her plate. Chicken, fish meat, boiled potatoes and steamed vegetables. She looks over to Cas and watches him gobble down his food.
"What's this?"
"Breakfast," he answers. "And lunch, and dinner."
"This is what you've been eating for years?" she asks, aghast.
"Sometimes we get desserts, too."
Like last night, Feitan doesn't eat his food, merely pushing it away from him with a sniff. Valtiel narrows her eyes at him, communicating through their locked gaze, but it seems that tactic does not work on Feitan. She has to remember that she's not dealing with Chrollo.
They eat their food in silence, until the server from last night arrives with Valtiel's requested chocolate. Actually surprised, she smiles at her chocolate cake and thanks the server. He nods, his face devoid of emotions, and goes out again.
"Are you going to eat that?" Cas asks, already reaching out for the platter.
"It's mine." Valtiel shields her cake from him.
Cas pouts and returns to munching his boiled potatoes.
Feitan rolls his on his plate. "I sense something last night," he whispers in a low voice. Valtiel inches closer while sensing any hostilities from the guards. "Gas weakens some time in the night," he continues. "Not know when, but it weakens for about half hour. We use that as advantage to escape. Less gas can mean resting the system, or Nen restriction, if this is Nen ability at all."
She mulls over his words, and then: "We have to find out the exact time. When we know, we can start our calculations from there."
"Yes, so find time for us."
"Very well, then." She rounds to the guard behind her and purses her lips at him. "Excuse me, sir, but what time is it?"
Feitan could almost slap his forehead at the bluntness.
She ignores him and continues, "As you can see, my friend here has extreme anger issues and his doctor prescribed him some medication to cope with the anger. I am afraid it has been hours since he last took it." Then she drops her voice into a teasing tone. "I really wouldn't want him getting cranky."
The guard raises his eyebrow at her, but says nothing.
She pouts, childish, something she has seen Hisoka often do. "Please, good sir?"
He glances down at his wristwatch. "It's 7:24 in the morning," he grumbles.
At once, her mental clock starts working. Prisoners should wake at seven o'clock and finish their meals within thirty minutes, probably. She turns back to the table and counts the seconds and the minutes as they pass by, ignoring her food and passing her chocolate cake to Cas. Quite an unbelievable thought—to waste scrumptious sweets like that—but she has other pressing matters to attend to.
One minute. Four minutes. Fifty-seven seconds.
The captain of the guards then barks, "Breakfast's over."
The tedious robotic process starts all over: rise, have table and food taken away, file back into cells, lock the doors, do whatever you want until next mealtime. Valtiel and Feitan exchange glances before sinking onto their beds. She snatches a book from the desk and makes scratches on the paper to mark the passing hour.
She uses Ren to pass the minutes in between, opening and closing her fist and feeling for the warmth of her aura within the cold room. Her golden aura surrounds her like a blanket. Whenever she opens her fist, the aura pulses and is ready to be unleashed. She is not sure if her ability would work in this small prison, but she would not dare to try.
At lunchtime, she has to mark the book again. 12 noon. How fitting.
Again, the prisoners take their seats, gobble their food in silence. Valtiel frowns at her chicken, fish, and boiled potatoes and steamed vegetables. She has a chocolate pudding in her dessert platter, but not even the sight of chocolate energizes her now. Across her, Feitan nibbles on the chicken, but leaves everything else untouched.
To break the awkward silence, she murmurs, "So, do you have any plans?"
"We go wild on the way to court," Feitan answers easily.
"Go wild? Is that a Phantom Troupe term that's supposed to mean something?"
"You don't know? I thought you spend much time with Danchou?" He smirks.
"I do, but not during his killing sprees with the Troupe." Thinking about it makes her frown.
"We kill anyone who interferes, that's what."
"Begging your pardon—" One of the older prisoners coughs. Number Three, directly seated to Wolf's right side at the table. He is an ancient man with baldhead and spotted skin, a receding chin with loose skin that dangles. His hand shakes whenever he lifts his spoon.
Valtiel and Feitan blink at him. The old man grins his toothless mouth.
"The court," he says in a wheezing voice. Valtiel already feels sorry for him. This man looks like he could choke on his potatoes and die right at the table. "The court… I've seen the court… Not from outside, but inside. The Leviathan provides for everything. There's no way out…"
"The court is inside the submarine?" she echoes, and then turns to her friend for an answer.
Feitan curses under his breath. He tightens his hold on his spoon and looks as if would shove that spoon to the poor old man's splotchy skin. Instead of doing just that, he glares at Valtiel.
"New plan, damn it."
Author's Notes: Welcome back to another update! To be frank, I've been so busy and away from this story that I have to spend hours reading through the drafts and studying everyone's character development and arcs, especially Chrollo and Valtiel. I have several drafts on the ready, but most of them were from three years ago. Not gonna lie, my writing style then made me cringe now. LOL. So I'm gonna spend my free time revising everything that I have and hopefully, update as soon as I can. This is one of the chapters that took so long to revise, but finally, it's here!
Thank you all for your unending patience and support! As always, your kind comments and reviews lift up my spirits. The continuous reviews that I receive, even months after the last update, actually inspired me and motivated me to go through the drafts and update. So, thank you very much from the bottom of my heart!
I'm excited to bring you this little "story arc" that focuses on Valtiel and Feitan. Feitan is one of my favorite Troupe members, even as a child, and I'm so happy to finally rite about this little sadist and explore his character deeper. That is what I like in writing fanfics—to study your own OC along with the canon characters.
Again, thank you all! I hope you enjoy your week. Stay safe!