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There was a bird, alone and tangled up in wire in the trash of Meteor City.
It was not an unusual sight. It was not even a memorable sight, completely irrelevant and forgettable save for the circumstances that followed it. The fat pigeon shrieked and beat it wings upon seeing Franklin, forgetting that it was trapped in its desperation to fly away from the human.
The trap it had been caught in was ingenious, completely indiscernible from the garbage around it. The wire that had snagged the bird’s foot was clever and simple, tightening the more the bird struggled to free itself.
It was not Franklin’s trap just as this was not his territory; but this was now his bird. Meteor City ran on a set of rules as fluid and messy as blood, but no one would contend with Franklin’s claim. He supposed he was in the last stretch of his childhood yet already had the dark eyes and clenched fists of a much older individual. Children did not stay children for long, not in Meteor.
A scrawny boy, likely his age but half Franklin’s size, scurried toward the bird. The only part of him that looked to be clean was his eyes, shining blue and fixated on the pigeon with a glee normally reserved for toddler’s on Christmas morning. He was so focused on the prey that he never even noticed Franklin until his shadow fell across him.
His blue eyes did not have time to even register the mistake when Franklin’s fist sent him flying over the mounds of garbage. The orphan left a dent and a smear of blood on the side of a dilapidated refrigerator, though he barely checked himself for wounds before he ran off. Franklin shook his head at himself; not out of regret for hurting another child just as hungry as he himself was, but for using too much force. One day, he would exhaust himself and then what would be left?
The pigeon was even more terrified now. Its eyes were wide and so reflective that he could see twin versions of himself, tiny and upside-down in the bird’s eyes. He sighed to himself and reached to put the bird out of its misery.
His hand caught the edge of the wire trap and tore through it easily. Unfortunately, it tore at his skin just as effortlessly, leaving a ragged tear down the side of his hand. He raised his hand to inspect the wound better and that was when he saw it.
It was almost unnoticeable. There, at the base of his thumb was curving line of script. It was written sloppily and childishly, as if Franklin had been practicing writing on himself. It was common and something that nearly all children did.
However, Franklin did not write. He could not read, he had no access to any sort of pen that would leave that type of smooth line, and he most certainly did not write those words.
He was so shocked and captivated by the unfamiliar lines on his hand that he completely forgot about the pigeon. It landed on the ground in an undignified heap before taking to the air again, leaving behind the reeking city and Franklin both.
Franklin did not see it go. He had eyes only for the words he could not understand.
~
It was something he never would have anticipated.
Some people had soulmates; that was an undeniable fact that even the most isolated child in Meteor City knew. It was bittersweet, a nasty joke on the children living in the slums, dreaming of their soulmates while their bodies wasted to nothing. The soulmarks were nothing but the most distracting of blemishes, more suited to the skin of wealthy, privileged individuals than to the scarred bodies of Meteor City natives.
Franklin kept his soulmarks secret. He filched a pair of worn, leather gloves from a trader’s stall at the Meteor City market. They were tight and torn, but they covered his skin and that’s all he needed. He could only pray that his soulmate, whoever they were, kept their scrawlings to their arms and hands.
He deliberated on finding someone to read the words for him. Though he was curious, that curiosity was far less compelling than his privacy. He did not like the idea of someone else reading his soulmates words before he did.
It was Uvogin who noticed first. Uvo, just as fierce and large as Franklin with half the caution. He himself had soulmarks, though he cared less for the romanticism of the marks and more for the annoyance they could create. He was prone to draw all over himself, profane and offensive little doodles and words solely to irritate whoever else they would appear on. Uvogin was nothing if not easily amused.
He barreled over to Franklin as soon as he noticed the gloves. A stupid smirk spread across his face, displaying nearly every tooth in his mouth. He was unfairly fast for someone so large and reached him long before anyone else did.
Uvogin was the largest of their gang, just as he was also the loudest and most ridiculous. He grabbed the glove and tore it off Franklin’s hand with glee.
He roared with delight, “Nobu, guess what this means!”
“Franklin has a soul?” Nobunaga snorted. He had never received any soulmarks, though Franklin had always suspected that he was secretly pleased about it. Franklin had, until recently, been in the same boat.
Franklin snatched the glove away from him, pulling it back over his hand and the marks curving around it. Little flowers had been drawn around the words, though he pulled the glove on before he could inspect it more.
He did not respond to either of the idiots, shoving past them both to take his spot on an overturned couch. Silence was always his response of choice, mostly because it was the only reaction that Uvogin and Nobunaga never knew how to respond to.
The boys were identically impatient and lively, though their appearances could not be any more dissimilar. Uvogin was tall and dark, with a messy head of hair and wild eyes. He towered over his friend, already as muscular as a grown man. Nobunaga was wiry and lean, with long black hair he consistently kept tied back. His long features were twisted in laughter at something that Uvogin had said, cackling so hard he had doubled over onto the ground.
Gangs of children survived far better than did individuals, but sometimes the energy of the others nearly provoked Franklin into striking off on his own. So what if he did not eat or sleep enough… at least he didn’t have to listen to Nobu’s braying or Uvo’s shouts.
He glared down to his hands just in time to see a new line curve down his wrist. He folded his arms quickly.
An almost unnoticeable movement from the other side of the caught his eye. Chrollo smiled at him, closing the book in his lap to focus on Franklin. Chrollo’s fine features would have been more suited to the aristocracy rather than to Meteor City, with black hair and storm-gray eyes. Chrollo kept his finger in the book to keep his place and tilted his head at Franklin, “Do you feel any different?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, congratulations.” Chrollo had never confided whether or not he himself had a soulmate. His face revealed nothing. “Was it anything interesting?”
Franklin rolled his shoulders in a disinterested shrug.
“It was probably ‘God, I hope you’re not a overgrown, grumpy monster-looking asshole’.”
Franklin grabbed a crumpled can next to him and hurled it overhand at Nobunaga.
Uvogin pulled his shirt up to show his back to Franklin. There, drawn in ink that had likely been scavenged from a nearby hill of garbage, was a almost incomprehensible depiction of some sort of animal. “It’s a bird” Uvo said proudly.
“Why is that drawn there?”
“Nobunaga helped me to make a picture for my soulmate.”
“Why?”
“In case they like birds.” The great brute said as though it was common sense.
Within moments, Uvogin and Nobunaga were bickering about the bird. Franklin used the moment to walk over to Chrollo unnoticed. The dark-haired boy had reopened his book and it took a moment for him to notice Franklin standing over him.
“Erm, Chrollo….”
“Yes, Franklin?”
“Could you teach me how to read?”
~
It was a year before he made any progress.
It was less that he was a slow learner and more that he was a perfectionist. He waited until he was positive that he could understand and write out the basics, not wanting to embarass himself to whoever would receive his messages. He continued to wear his gloves, even while he slept. In that way, he was like Machi.
Private and reserved, the pink-haired girl was extremely tight-lipped about whoever her own soulmarks, nearly as secretive as Franklin himself. She was one of the few who never prodded or pried into his life.
Ironically, that was why he went to her first to discuss the first words he had shared with his soulmate.
“Hello?” The girl snorted, amusement breaking through the steely grip she had on her features. “That’s what you chose to be your first words?”
“It seemed appropriate. It’s a greeting, after all.” Franklin fought the urge to blush, something he had not done since he was nearly a baby. Ridiculous. “What do you think I should have done?
“Written something slightly more interesting.”
“Oh? And what was your first message?”
Predictably, that silenced her.
He looked back down at his hand. His handwriting was painstakingly practiced but he was still unhappy with the results. The letters were blocky and unevenly written across his palm.
Hello?
He did not expect an instant reply. That would have been far more surprising than a non-answer, actually. Franklin himself had been careful not to leave any ink or paint on his skin since he had received the first soulmark.
He turned his hand away from him as if he were hiding from the letters. A long white scar crossed the back of his hand while smaller cuts and bruises nicked the area around it. A brute’s hand, perfect for crimes. He clenched his fist.
He had almost given up on a response when a question appeared in a thin, pale ink on his wrist.
Who is this?
Not the most auspicious start, Franklin could recognize that. Before he could formulate a response, a new message appeared.
Oh, I get it. You’re my soulmate.
If he were Nobunaga or Feitan, that would have elicited a snarky comeback. Were he Chrollo, he likely would have responded with something enigmatic or clever. Uvogin would write back with glee, Pakunoda with patience, Machi with im patience, but Franklin? Blunt honesty was familiar to him, comforting even in this odd situation.
Yes, I am.
Another response, this one curving up his arm. Machi shot him a look, raising an eyebrow as he began to write up his arm to answer.
I didn’t know I had a soulmate. What’s your name?
Franklin.
He waited for nearly twenty minutes, too proud to admit he was invested in the answer. At half an hour, he forced himself to look away. Embarassing to get this caught up over someone he would likely never see.
“No response?” Machi asked quietly. At first, Franklin tensed, expecting her to smirk or laugh. Instead, she seemed nearly understanding.
“My name was too much, I suppose.”
Machi shrugged at that. It was raining and the two were crouched underneath the wreckage of an old plane. Franklin remembered the day it had hit. There were rumors that whoever owned the plane was too lazy to dispose of it properly and simply hired someone to run it to the ground. It had made an awful noise and completely destroyed the surrounding area, but it made a nice niche to escape the weather in.
“Soulmarks are distracting.”
Franklin was not usually the sort to intrude in the personal lives of others, but he was also desperate for any distraction from his own soulmate. “I suppose Pakunoda finds them distracting too?”
He would not have suspected it to be possible, but the pink haired girl’s features grew even colder and sharper than usual. He supposed that was her way of blushing. “How would I know that?”
Franklin rolled his shoulders, peeking at his arms once more as he did so. Still no answer.
Machi turned away, crossing her arms with agitation. A thread had come undone at the end of her sleeve; restlessly, she pulled and twined the loose string around her finger. She sighed. “What gave it away?”
“You’re softer when she’s around.” Franklin said simply. He was an observer and it had become second nature to him to notice details that completely passed others by. “If it makes you feel any better, I doubt Uvo and Nobu have noticed yet.”
“Yet?”
“Personal lives don’t stay personal here.”
Machi nodded, allowing that. “The idea of being fated for someone… it’s complicated. Acknowledging a soulmate is acknowledging a living weakness… It’s like declaring to the world what you care about most and just waiting for something to take it away.”
“Uvo is under the impression that a soulmate is just someone guaranteed to worship him.”
That won a laugh from her. Franklin smiled as well, though underneath the humor was a fear that had been successfully stoked. Machi was right, completely and utterly right. A soulmate was a vulnerability. As long as they were distant, they were nameless and faceless and harmless. Once he met them, however… that’s when they would become real and intriguing. They would burrow through his exterior and when they left or died or whatever else the world would do to take them away… he would be left alone again.
Did he want that at all?
He had just about made up his mind, just about decided that the pain of losing a soulmate far outweighed any potential joy when new words crossed the back of his hand.
Sorry, I had lost the pen. My name is Shizuku.
Franklin’s decision was gone before it ever really came into being.
~
It was years later when Chrollo called them all to his clearing.
The clearing belonged to him in a way that it had never belonged to any of the other denizens of Meteor. Chrollo simply claimed it, daring any to try and take it from him in his serene, calm way. He did not burst with anger or hate, he never indulged in anything sadistic or twisted… nonetheless, he could be terrifying.
“I am the head and you are the legs.” He said, in a confident voice unlike anything Meteor City had heard before.
Did I tell you I had a meeting today?
Franklin fought the urge to sigh, scrawling back to Shizuku quickly before Chrollo could notice his distraction. No, I have the meeting today.
Are you sure?
Franklin shook his head to himself, focusing his attention back on Chrollo’s words. A brigade of the most intimidating, powerful thieves in the world, all born from Meteor? It was unreal and unthinkable… and yet….
Feitan sat below him, eyes focused on Chrollo in an unblinking, unnerving way. Though small and slender, he was among the deadliest of Meteor City’s youth. There was something… cold about Feitan, something not quite right. He was like some weapon that no one fully understood, one too quick and sharp to evade entirely. Yes, he could see the danger in that creature.
Pakunoda was standing on his other side, dressed as professionally as the mafia men who traveled the city and searched for recruits. She held herself elegantly and confidently, as though she were a queen instead of an orphan girl atop trash. Paku had a potential for kindness about her that Meteor usually stamped out, often wasting her food on the stray animals that would inevitably follow her around. She was also perceptive in the extreme and her judgement was almost never wrong.
The others were fanned around him, all watching Chrollo with an attention that would have looked more natural on soldiers. Each was deadly on their own, but together? If what Chrollo was implying could be done… god, they would be a force no one would be ready for.
What is Meteor like?
If one word could be used to describe his correspondence with Shizuku, it would be unpredictable . The girl could forget anything, but every now and then she remembered a detail, sometimes randomly and entirely on her own. He had only mentioned his home city once and that had been nearly a year ago. Fitting that she would remember at a time like this.
It’s exactly how you would imagine.
He pulled his sleeves down over his hands, unwilling to let himself become distracted again. The Troupe… the Troupe consumed his mind the way religion does a fresh convert. What Chrollo was offering them was more than anything Franklin had ever expected… freedom.
He leaned forward onto his hands, eyes fixed on Chrollo. Freedom, power, excitement, escape… he could leave Meteor.
Do you want to leave?
The thought thrilled him, though at the same time terror leaked down his spine like a frigid tear. Outside was freedom, yes… but also outside was Shizuku, a fact that delighted him as much as it horrified him. She was a guaranteed weakness, a chink in the armor he had spent his life cultivating. From what he could tell of the absent-minded girl, she was no fighter.
That flaw was not part of any plan.
“The Spider is the first priority, always.”
~
Their first heist was, admittedly, a bit of a mess.
There were a lot of reasons for this. Uvogin went wild as soon as the first gun went off, jumping headfirst against a street full of armed police. And since Nobunaga was never far behind, the samurai leapt into battle after him. The two disappeared into a hail of bullets, their shouts and laughter mingling into the gunfire.
What had originally been planned as a simple theft quickly turned into a street fight- no, war. Uvogin had ended up injured for what was likely the first time in years, and Feitan collapsed against a wall with laughter at the sight. A brawl then broke out between Feitan, Nobunaga, and a limping Uvo.
“What the-” A police officer watched the three turn against each other, so confused by the sight that he did not notice Franklin ambling behind him. The man’s eyes were wide as he watched the trio, huge with disbelief. “They’re kids! They’re goddamn-”
He never finished the sentence. Franklin’s control over his strength had improved and the blow merely dropped the man to the ground.
He massaged the knuckles of his right hand with his left, wincing at the soreness. The stitches had long since faded and the wounds had been healed entirely, but the ache still lingered. Machi had assured him that the pain was purely mental, but he was not yet convinced.
The three other Spiders (interesting how it took Franklin hardly any time at all to begin thinking of the others as such) eventually stopped fighting and began walking to the door of the target museum. Franklin walked after them, unsurprised to see Chrollo already inside. Pakunoda stood next to him, just as untouched by blood or smoke. Her eyes missed nothing, always alert and protective as Chrollo gazed around himself with the obliviousness of a child.
The museum was a building he would not have been able to picture if he was still trapped in Meteor City. Smooth and cold marble columns held up the ceiling, which as far as he could tell consisted of nothing but glass mosaics. The dim city lights filtered through the colored glass faintly and shone down on them in a wave. He watched the blue and green light settle across his arm, nearly drowning out the list that Shizuku had written to remind herself of her upcoming obligations. Some made sense, others… well, Franklin had learned not to always expect sense from Shizuku.
Chrollo leaned against the welcoming desk, his hands tracing over the mahogany with a near arrogant possessiveness. A large map of the museum hung on the wall behind the desk, woven of some material that Franklin would not have been able to guess at. Chrollo gracefully leapt over the desk and surveyed the map with a lazy satisfaction, “Go where you all would like, but meet back here by the end of the hour.”
“A time limit?” Nobunaga asked incredulously.
Feitan snorted, “Did you think we would stay forever here?” Of them all, he seemed the least affected by the grandeur of their surroundings. He leaned against one of the pillars in disdain, a small dark shadow against the pure white stone.
Nobu glared but said nothing. Uvogin tore off, purposefully bumping against Nobunaga as he did so. The two ran in the direction of what Franklin strongly suspected was the cafeteria… of course. Franklin decided to follow Chrollo, entirely overwhelmed by the map. Machi and Paku walked with the boss as well. Though Franklin never would have voiced so aloud, he suspected that they too felt intimidated by the ornate perfection of the building around them. Never before had any of them been in such a place of beauty and wealth. Feitan did not move from his position by the door, hungrily watching for anyone approaching.
The four passed rooms filled with distractingly lovely paintings and sculptures and halls populated by aged shards of pottery and weaponry. Pakunoda trailed her hand across some of the pieces, though from the light frustration on her face Franklin knew that any memories attached to such items had long since vanished.
Franklin slowed to a stop next to a canvas that had been rather violently slashed with jagged streaks of red and black. It was a painting of such violence and loneliness that it distracted him entirely and he reached his hand to the glass that protected the piece from harm. The scars on his hand seemed particularly brutal in such a pristine setting and he winced.
Pakunoda walked to his side, a single eyebrow raised in refined concern. “Are your hands still bothering you?”
He turned from the painting and shoved his hands into his pockets. Paku walked with him, matching her long strides to his. Her heels tapped on the floor professionally, interrupting the silence of the deserted (abandoned) museum. “Why are you still in pain? Everything was mended perfectly.” Franklin fought a smile, noticing the pride in her voice. Machi had healed his hand almost effortlessly, it was true.
“The pain was necessary.” He remembered the flash of the blades and the hot bursts of pain all too well. They were wounds unlike any he had suffered before. “There’s a part of me that is afraid to let that go, I suppose.”
“You think that losing the pain would weaken your Nen? I doubt it works like that.”
Nen... The newest revelation in his life. He had learned how to wield his body’s energy in ways that he would never before have even imagined. He was an Emitter and immediately began to envision ways of weaponizing his aura, methods of casting his own energy and ways of intensifying those methods. Chrollo had designed his own Nen techniques first (of course) and was willing and able to teach the others.
To Franklin, power had first been revealed to him in the barrel of a gun. He had learned as a child that it did not matter how big you were or how many fights you had previously won… if the other fighter had a gun aimed at you, you were going to lose. Bullets, those tiny and inconsequential bits of metal, were the truest gods of Meteor.
“Bullets.” He had said to Chrollo then. “I want to use my aura as bullets.”
“Simple. Effective.” The Boss had smiled. “I like it.”
Those words described his first attempts at nen perfectly. The bullets he cast out were just as deadly as any regular bullets… but there was nothing remarkable about them. He had spent many afternoons contemplating ways of turning them from lethal to devastating before pulling Machi aside from her own training.
Machi had crossed her arms at him impatiently, restless to get back to her threads. He had the satisfaction of watching genuine surprise cross her face once he explained his plan to her.
“Nen works in a series of constraints, Machi.” He said, trying to convince her. “Just training is not enough. Not for me, not for this.”
“But are you sure?” Once again, she was as controlled and professional as ever. “This self-mutilation might just backfire on you.”
“It won’t.”
The event itself was not one he cared to reflect on. There was nothing really to remember, except for the pain. His only reservation was a slightly embarrassing one, one he repressed almost immediately- what would Shizuku think of his monstrous hands? It was a weak thought.
Afterwards, his Nen improved dramatically. No longer did bullets surge from his palms in neat and orderly lines. After paring his fingers off with a knife, all he need do was release the nen holding them in place (originally healed by Machi and her threads) and hundreds of the shots would fly from his hands, reducing the area around him to bullet-torn rubble. The pain was a sacrifice, one that yielded up power in a way nothing else could.
Franklin shrugged at Pakunoda, careful to avoid brushing against the slender blonde. Though she was not one of the Troupe’s prized fighters, her ability to pluck memories from others was one more terrifying that Franklin was comfortable with. “Right now, I’m grateful for the pain. It reminds me of the power I got in exchange.”
She laughed, the sound drawing Machi’s attention from the other side of the gallery. “I suppose that’s fair.” Paku had been the one most concerned about his “sacrifice”, worried that he was risking the use of his hands for a nen exchange none of them fully understood. Uvogin and Nobunaga had both teased her about her soft heartedness- she had responded by emptying a full cartridge of bullets in their direction, successfully silencing the comments.
Before Machi could reach them, Chrollo gasped from the next room. In an instant, the three were practically flying across the floor to reach their Boss, so unfamiliar with the sound of delight that they instinctively reacted as if it were one of fear.
The room Chrollo was standing in was undoubtedly the weaponry exhibit. Blades and guns from every age hung on the walls and were proudly displayed in glass boxes throughout the room, each a testimony to that bloodthirsty nature that humanity always displayed. Some seemed deadly enough to have caught even Feitan’s attention.
The knife that Chrollo held was pronged and gleamed as though coated in oil. He had already soundlessly removed the glass around the display and the spun the blade in his hand as though he had owned it his entire life. “A Ben’s Knife. I like this.”
Franklin was unimpressed and suspected Machi was as well (though to be fair, she usually did look unimpressed). The knife was thin and shone in a way more akin to jewelry; it was pretty to look at, but he doubted its efficiency at killing.
Chrollo smiled at him as though he could hear his thoughts. A mischievous smirk lit his face and he casually strode to one of the marble pillars within the hall. Then, with a move quicker than Franklin could trace, he slashed across the stone. The blade barely sparked, yet a thin gash as deep as the Ben’s Knife was long was carved through the marble.
“Hmm.” Was all Franklin would say, unwilling to show his admiration. He never would have guessed that such a place would have been home to such exquisite, brutal weapons…. “How did you find out about this museum?”
Chrollo spun the blade in his hands, “A friend who is gifted with computers. I had a feeling he would be of help today and he was.”
Franklin recognized the expression on the Boss’s face; there was no use trying to pull information from him.
Before he could attempt to get more information, a crash rocked the room. The four immediately flew to separate corners, each trying to spot potential danger. Chrollo raised his hand to motion for stillness and slowly moved to the door. After a moment, he waved for them to follow.
They moved through the museum too fast to note any more exhibits. Adrenaline pounded through Franklin’s body and he felt himself begin to smile. The battle outside had been enough for him to truly become addicted to such fighting… he was ready to test himself once again.
Feitan stood in the center of the entrance, his arms wide as though welcoming the incoming police officers. Nobunaga and Uvogin stood slightly behind him, both bouncing on their heels as though fighting the instinct to run into the fray with every cell in their bodies. Feitan did not turn from the flashing lights to address Chrollo, “Someone else is involved. Not police.”
“Who?”
Uvo leaned forward, preparing himself to run, “Some other rival gang, maybe. They’re taking on the police and soon they’ll want into the museum.” His lips pulled back form his teeth in a savage parody of a smile. “Can’t wait.”
“No.” Chrollo ordered. “We’re leaving.”
“What?” Nobu spun around, already enraged. “That will make us look like cowards who run from danger. Is that what you want the Troupe to look like?”
Chrollo merely raised an eyebrow, his expression shaming Nobunaga into standing down. “The longer we stay here and fight, the more likely it is more and more opponents will show up. The more time we spend fighting, the less successful this heist becomes.”
“So we run?”
“Yes. But first....” A small smile graced his face. “Feitan, Pakunoda, I want you both to come with me. Though this museum is filled with the usual old artifacts, there are a few rarities in collection. We’ll take those. Machi and Franklin, rig up the entrances. I want no one else to be able to so much as set foot within this museum until we leave. Nobu and Uvo, when I give the word I want you to turn this museum into a ruin.”
Franklin was impressed. The act would make those outside look like children fighting over a toy, while the Troupe would seem ruthless, quick, clever, and above all, unpredictable.
They divided up quickly. While Nobunaga and Uvogin were happy to knock down walls and bust piping on the lower levels, Machi spun her strings across the doors. Her threads were invisible and razor thin, so sharp that to brush up against one was to draw blood. Franklin stood behind her, shooting wildly if anyone got close. Soon the marble steps outside the museum were as bullet torn and ravaged as any site in Meteor.
A flare of pure power drew their attention. From the opposite side of the museum, Chrollo released his Nen for a brief moment; his aura was unmistakable and they each immediately understood that to be the signal and ran as fast as they could from the building. The museum seemed to shudder in response, then erupted into flame.
Whatever Uvo and Nobu had managed to do, Franklin was impressed. The floors caved and collapsed, the walls fell in like paper, and a huge fire devoured absolutely everything it touched. The fire system did not so much as beep… the two must have torn out some type of wiring essential to it.
Machi shook her head, a small smile appearing on her face, “In a way, those two are brilliant.”
“In a way.” Franklin allowed.
The crowds outside were completely shocked by the destruction. The buffets of heat radiating from the museum were enough to keep everyone backed away from the site, but Franklin could already hear the screech of firetrucks in the distance.
The scene already involved so much chaos that no one noticed figures darting from the museum. No one could move that fast, after all, and if they did see something it was more likely to just be smoke. No eyes could be spared to watch for any escapees, anyway… everyone was far too busy gaping at the wreckage.
At their hideout mere minutes later, Franklin started to laugh. He could not remember the last time that he had laughed so genuinely and so hard that his knees felt weak and he doubled over. Uvogin followed suit and his booming laugh was so contagious that everyone else joined in.
It was as Franklin was lifting himself from the ground that he noticed a new question wrapping his hand.
Have you ever killed anyone?
Franklin’s blood ran cold and any hint of mirth drained from him. The words were as casually written as any other that Shizuku had sent him, but darker than any of her previous messages by far. He pictured Shizuku, innocently curious and round-eyed (she had large eyes, of that he was absolutely certain), wondering what manner of a person her soulmate was. Was this a question that she had been sitting on a while, one she meant nearly as a test? Or was this one of her odd attempts at humor?
He did not know how he would have responded. Years later, he would find himself wondering what words he would have chosen, what approach he may have attempted to address such a topic. Fortunately, he did not have to. Shizuku’s next words were more surprising and unpredictable than he could have ever prepared himself for.
I have.
~
Time passed.
Heists were planned, brawls instigated and brutally finished, towns protected (or destroyed, depending on their moods), members joined and died off… nothing could be guaranteed within the Troupe except blood.
He was back in Meteor, sitting on the skeleton of an old car. The structure had creaked ominously when he sat down, but was stubbornly holding up his weight despite its rusted exterior. The jagged edges of the metal were still sharp enough to tear skin, but Franklin’s body was Nen-strengthened and remained uncut. It had been a long time since something like that would have been enough to hurt him.
The Troupe was on one of its lulls. Chrollo did not have anything in mind that would have required the entirety of the Spider, so he gave his permission for them all to travel as they wished. The Boss was intending on searching for a new recruit and preferred to get to meet each potential new member on his own. Franklin had no idea where any of the others were and no inkling of how he would be contacted once the next target had been decided. It was not his concern.
Only the newer Spiders tended to act with worry upon realizing that there was no sure way to contact the leader of the Troupe. Phinks, a blond, blustering fighter, had reacted as though personally offended. He felt slighted, as though he alone was being isolated from the group. Franklin decided he was an idiot, but similar to Nobunaga, he was a loyal idiot.
“So this is it? We wait until you track all of us down and get all of us to meet in one area?” His hands twitched. He had not yet developed his deep respect for the Boss.
It was the other new member who had answered him. Shalnark had sweet, delicate features that encouraged others to trust and confide in him… in fact, he seemed so harmless that Franklin had doubted he would survive an hour within the Troupe. However, it soon became obvious that Shal had an extremely cold and cunning mind, his intelligence far outstripping Franklin’s own. He had laughed in response to Phinks’ implied threat, his laughter nearly childlike, “Have a little faith in Danchou, hm?”
Shalnark was full of surprises, that largest likely being that anything written on his skin tended to appear on Uvo’s. The moments during a soulmate’s discovery was supposed to be romantic and unforgettable… Shal and Uvo’s had consisted of a very loud, very long argument in which Shalnark demanded to know why Uvogin had spent so much of his time drawing offensive and objectionable marks across their skin.
Franklin could not deny that he felt jealousy at their newfound closeness. Uvo’s soulmate not only knew and approved of his life within the Troupe, but was also dangerous enough on his own that he did not need protection. He fit into their lives like a puzzle piece, one that already seemed irreplaceable. He was a Spider, just as the rest of them were.
Shizuku, contrary to her confession after the museum theft, did not seem to be any sort of fighter. She had claimed that she had defended herself against a mobster that had lived in her neighborhood. Franklin was not sure that he believed it or at least was positive it must have been some sort of accident. She was too honest to be a thief, too innocent to be a killer, and too trusting to be let within miles of Meteor.
Curiously, she thought roughly the same about him. You’re too patient to be a fighter, she had told him many times before. Too blunt and too honest.
He let his Nen flare and released the hold on his hands, allowing the tips of his fingers to hang from his knuckles on chains, revealing dark tunnels as empty as the barrel of a gun. More scars crossed his hands and stretched up his arms, his neck, and carved even his face. His body was a graveyard to the scars of battles he had won through sheer strength, a testimony to his power… but it was not a gentle body. Not a testimony of any sort of goodness.
He wondered if he would scare Shizuku.
Somehow, the idea of scaring her was worse than the idea of never even getting to see her. He was not a lovestruck fool… but he did not want her fear. Or her disgust.
Uvogin had been extremely lucky. His soulmate had not flinched from the darker side of his life. He had not been frightened or disappointed or shocked to see the blood in Uvogin’s life. Shalnark had merely smiled and dove right in.
He had asked Shizuku once what she thought of fighting. She had tapped her pen on the side of her wrist in thought (he could see the little points where she left ink behind) and then written back, Messy.
What sort of life could she hope to live in Meteor? What sort of life could he live anywhere but Meteor?
A trio of children ran past him. They were each underfed, clothed in rags, and running barefoot through the garbage, yet each was also smiling hugely. They laughed as they leapt over bits of metal and filth and screamed with delight when they nearly slipped off a mound of trash. Their skin was flecked with scratches and sunburns, but they were too busy to notice them.
One of the children stopped to check something on their wrist. With a whoop of delight, he rubbed at his hand to make sure that the ink he was viewing was not something that had accidentally stained him. He shouted again once he saw that the words were unchanged; a definite soulmark.
Franklin almost smiled to see such childish delight. Innocence was not long-lived in Meteor, but that did not mean it was not valued. Almost in reaction to the child’s excitement, he checked his own hands.
A half-written shopping list, a scribble of an attempt at cursive, and a smudged reminder to attend a “very important!” meeting. He shook his head in amusement.
The children darted away, each shouting to be heard over the others. The one who had received his first soulmark was yelling the loudest, thrilled with his discovery. “I’m gonna find them! I’m gonna leave Meteor and I’m gonna find them!”
“And then? Then what?” Franklin thought.
~
It was not long before the Boss collected them again.
Pakunoda had traveled to Meteor to tell Franklin the news. Chrollo had chosen Yorknew as their next location, though Paku hinted that it was only a meeting place. Franklin did not press her. He knew there was no point trying to get her to reveal any of the Boss’s secrets. Their journey past mostly in silence. Not because they did not want to talk to each other; they were both comfortable with silence and respected each other too much to ruin that quiet with meaningless talk.
They walked through the streets of Yorknew together quickly. Paku checked her wrist as if to check her watch for the time, reading the quick, neat notes from Machi that appeared on her skin. “We’ll be the last ones there.”
“Even Hisoka is already there?” The trickster tended to be as late as possible, to just toe the line at rebellion to provoke the others.
Paku’s mouth twisted with amusement as she read over Machi’s words again, “Yes, he is definitely there. Chrollo is introducing his newest recruit to those of us in the area. The Boss will obviously be there, as will Machi, Kortopi, Phinks, Feitan, and Hisoka.Uvo and Nobu are off somewhere causing trouble and Shalnark is taking the Hunter exam.”
And he would pass, Franklin had no doubt. Why Shalnark wanted access to the limitless source of revenue that the Hunter Association provided was beyond him; if Shal wanted something, all he had to do was steal it. This fascination with money was something Franklin never truly understood.
Chrollo had chosen an abandoned library as their meeting place. The building seemed so fragile that Franklin was afraid to brush up against a wall for fearing of knocking the whole structure down, but Paku strode inside without hesitation. The library stank of mildew and rot, the wallpaper had peeled and long since crumbled, and the sky could be spotted through the ceiling, but Franklin could see its appeal. The overall design of the building must have been a modern in the past and some vestiges of its former glory still remained. A large marble staircase still stood, largely undamaged, and Franklin followed Paku up the steps.
All that remained of the upstairs was a collection of old bookshelves holding water-logged, dustridden books and old wooden chairs for readers to sit in. Chrollo was seated in one himself, paging through a text he must have brought himself. Kortopi was curled up in one of the shelves, peering at Franklin and Pakunoda with bright eyes. He was another Meteor native and the only child in the Troupe, a small Conjurer as intimidating as a mouse. Phinks and Feitan stood behind the Boss, their presence as intimidating and professional as if they were his bodyguards. Phinks glared at the two, offended as he always was by tardiness.
Machi sat near the Boss, inspecting her threads. She was very obviously furious about something and the clear source of her anger was not far. Hisoka stood alone in the shadows, idly tossing and catching a card in the air. Upsetting Machi was one of his favorite pastimes, one he enjoyed as much as he did bending whatever rules Chrollo gave him. He smiled at Franklin, light reflecting off his teeth whitely.
Chrollo did not look up from his book when he introduced the last person, though a small smirk did cross his face. “This is our newest recruit, the latest number ‘eight’. She is a Conjurer and her Nen ability is one I believe we have needed for quite a long time.”
Franklin knew. Even if Franklin had not caught Chrollo’s look of self-satisfaction and the quiet excitement on Pakunoda’s face, he would have known.
She was small and slight, with chin-length black hair and large, round rimmed glasses. She stood with her arms held behind her back, keeping herself looking professional even as her eyes gazed through the room absentmindedly. She was delicate and unthreatening, her eyes as huge and innocent as Franklin had predicted.
“Hello.” He tried to speak quietly and gently, but his voice was too deep and rough to be anything but intimidating.
She merely gazed back at him, no fear or apprehension on her face at all. “Who are you?” She asked tactlessly… then her eyes impossibly widened.
“Oh, I get it. You’re my soulmate.”