Archive of Our Own

A beehive.

Nothing less, nothing more; the precinct was overwhelmed with lives and thoughts and busy men shouting across the rooms, turning on the television box in black and white and grey shades, arguing on every and each subject their mind created.

It was busy, so busy, Melody feared it would never stop, assailing her with headaches over headaches, each hour, day after day. It was hard; of course, it was. But Melody was only a secretary, writing down reports and statement, and she didn't, couldn't, want to bother them, being a police officer was tough work. Even if she did, they wouldn't listen to her – they already didn't, and maybe it was better like this, the less she spoke to them, the better.

It was the reason why she stood so far from her desk, patiently, the way she had been for the past twenty minutes, carefully observing Miss Canary.

Miss Canary was a secretary, just like her. She was from a wealthy family and joined the precinct a few months ago, and Melody had yet to see the day she would ever be rude to her. Unlike many others, she never spoke of her accident when they first met, of the way Melody was bald and covered in burned scars, instead she smiled at her, said she admired her and even praised her, for she claimed Melody's hat fitted her perfectly, a brown, little hat whose she was quite proud of. It seemed Melody never bothered her, that Miss Canary truly appreciated her company, and Melody certainly did as well.

One day, Miss Canary told her about them. About two children she used to be the bodyguard of before their mother fired her. They were too friendly with the staff, had she said. Canary thought it was exactly what they needed. But then she was fired and had to find another job, and now she was here, with Melody, in what she thought to be a small, quiet place, but clearly mistaken. Since she joined them, there had been calls, strange calls who never lasted, and even stranger visitors, two children registered as runaways, again and again. Melody learnt they were the ones Miss Canary told her about, and from this day, if Melody saw their files on her desk, she would walk, fast, in a hurry, until she found Miss Canary's desk, and wait until she finished the report she would be working on; just the way she was at this moment.

So, when Miss Canary put down her pen and closed the file, Melody ran – she feared if she walked, someone would be quicker, she had quite short legs, until she was close enough to put her hands on the desk and called, with a quiet voice,

“Miss Canary?”

She looked at her and Melody couldn’t help but thought Miss Canary truly was a beautiful woman. She had clear, amber eyes, deep brown skin and a gentle heart, so gentle Melody could have been happy-as-a-lark all day only for the bright smile she gave her.

"Melody, hello! You're so elegant today, as always!" She beamed with a blissful look and it pleased Melody, so much her ears turned red, and thought, maybe she should add a second feather to her hat since she received so many compliments about it.

“It’s about the runaways.” Melody handed her the file, carefully, she did not want it to fall open in the inkpot. Miss Canary took it just as cautiously. She read over the names and jumped on her feet, holding the file close to her heart, walked around the desk quickly, in her small heels, leaned forward and left a red kiss on Melody’s cheek, with all the world’s joy in her young voice.

“Thank you so much Melody!”

And as she walked away, Melody broke into a smile. She would need to wipe it off, but for now she preferred to cover it with her hand, away from prying eyes.

Desk one, code 273-A, 10-15.

Child neglect, Canary thought. Prisoner in custody. She silenced a sigh, they weren’t prisoners, how could they? They ran away from their home. But they were clever, so clever, every time they walked inside the precinct, they found the closest agent they could find and proclaimed,

“I am a danger for myself and others.”

Canary smiled. Of course, they knew what they were doing. The agent would be forced to trust them, and the runaways would be held here for at least twenty-four hours, and their parents, no matter how influenceable they were, couldn’t prevent it.

She reached the desk and kneeled; in front of her were two children not older than fourteen, a brother and sister cadet, whom he held close, refusing to let her go. The oldest was stronger. He was already a teen, with white, decolored hairs, while his sister bore rich black hairs, held by multicolored barrettes, whose, she was certain, his brother put in her hairs, just like every morning. They both had thin, narrow eyes, two adorable children Canary could never imagine laying a finger on. She wondered where their mother found the strength to.

“Killua, Alluka. Need a place far from home?”

They nodded, and Canary took pride in their smile. For a few hours, their home would be an old leather couch, blankets and barely warm ordered burgers. And it was enough.

Melody walked through the precinct, humming quietly. She did a good deed, she was certain of it. Those children couldn't have been better than in Canary's hands. As she settled down on her little desk, she remarked a suitcase on the adjacent one. It was a fine, leather suitcase, one she had seen too many times not to grow fond of seeing.

Melody jumped on her feet. It could only mean one thing, Kurapika was finally here.

She knew where to find him, every single time. On mornings, he was outside the building, a cigarette in hands. Of the two of them, Kurapika was the one who woke up the earliest, but Melody was always the first at the precinct. He said it was to watch the sunrise, and kept repeating what a shame it was, that it couldn’t be seen from the city; he was right, even if high in the sky, the buildings were higher, projecting their shadows, those giants, on the busy streets and passersby with such intensity, that, even at the zenith, the town was trapped in a never-ending night. Melody always wondered why he joined this precinct precisely if the sun couldn't be seen, but she never asked, never dared.

She pushed the front door, holding her coat tighter around her. Days were cooling off, it wouldn’t surprise her to see white snow on the buildings the next morning, never in the streets, for it turned in a cold, brown mud as soon as it touched the ground.

Kurapika was outside, just as usual. It took her some time to find him, usually he sat down on the steps, however, today, she found him against the wall. It didn't come to her mind the steps could be frostbitten, with patches of ice here and there, but it didn't surprise her, it was bone-splittingly cold.

“Kurapika,” She bounced with a smile, warming her gloveless hands with warm breaths. “Lovely day once again, don’t you think?”

Kurapika heard her before he saw her, and even though the sedan’s horn covered her voice, he knew exactly what she told him, for a year now, she had welcomed him with the same sentence; only her could find wonder in everyday things. As soon as he saw her, Kurapika put out his cigarette, he knew she couldn’t stand the smell of it, and meticulously put it in the outside bin.

“Melody,” He straightened up, pleased to leave the brick wall, it was no less cold than the steps. “Lovely day indeed.”

She stood beside him, watching the crowd growing, with a content look on her face. He said nothing, loved the silence. Some could say it was an awkward situation, to them it wasn’t.

"How is Leorio?" She asked, with honest concern. She did not see him much lately.

“I still wait for the phone call announcing he passed away from caffeine excess.” They chuckled, the both of them, and it warmed Melody’s heart to see Kurapika like this. “I’ll tell him you’re concerned about it, it might get him to listen to reason.”

Before any of them could add anything, the front door opened suddenly, revealing a shadowy figure, Kite, barely clothed, blue beret and long, grey coat. Maybe it was what he wore it all year round, Kurapika never saw him without it. He was probably right.

But it was before Kite’s voice resonated, like a loud rumble, who did not bode well for any of them.

“Boss wants to see us in the office. All of us.”

He disappeared a second after, as if he was never here.

Now they were inside the building, in Nostrade's office, Kurapika could see Kite more clearly. Back there, he looked like a mortician, but Nostrade's office was brighter than daylight, and Kurapika wondered if those lamps were supposed to make up for his unreliability and lack of self-esteem or to satisfy his vanity.

A little bit of both, certainly.

Kite was his elder, which could have been enough to grant him Kurapika’s respect; but above all, he was one of the few detectives who were still lawful and honest, and, without a doubt, the only thing Nostrade could never be. They had been coworkers for months, but it seemed Kurapika realized only now, just how aged he seemed. His long, grey hairs looked like they hadn’t been properly washed for days, and more than anything, his dark, ringed eyes, hollowed cheeks and humpbacked nose made him look far older than he truly was.

Melody told him stories about him, about old times where a smile always adorned his face, day or night, or how his eyes were livelier than the mightier fire.

But it was years ago, his partner was still alive, and since, Kite had never been the same, as if, by dying, Ging took with him everything good in Kite.

It was what Melody claimed. That he lost a part of him, this day. Kurapika didn’t believe her, couldn’t, he knew too well of the turmoil who consumed Kite, of the way he could never find sleep nor peace, because he too lived with a burning hole in his chest, gnawing him from the inside, but his soul, Kurapika didn’t lose a single part of it, he was certain of it; his soul screamed and cried and begged in every inch of his body, it never let him rest, and only a soul in its entirety could achieve such a misfortune.

She said they were burning the candle at both ends. Maybe she was right, maybe they were. But in the end, wouldn't it make the fire more charming, more delightful to see?

They waited half an hour before Nostrade deigned to honor them with his presence. The door closed harshly behind him, quivering in its hinges, as if, by it, he tried to distract Kurapika from thinking about such an ill fate, but it was too late, and Kurapika had lived too long not to let those thoughts craft his every day.

But neither Kite nor he has ever been good listeners, nor better talkers, so Kurapika forgot. Tried. Kite refused to be pitied, he could at least offer him this.

“Unbelievable!”

Nostrade shouted, again, because he never learned to address people other than by barking. Maybe if he didn’t, people wouldn’t respect him. Not that they already didn’t, but a dog was always scarier when it growled.

So, it wasn't a surprise when his big, swollen fist hit the desk, knuckles red and purple and puffed up. It could have easily been compared to his face, choking with rage, bright blue veins running on his temples and sweat on his balding forehead, with the violent, authoritarian voice he used to make walls and mind tremble alike.

“We worked on this operation for months! Months! We put an end to Yunju’s human treat and how do they thank us? What did we get for all this hard work? I’ll tell you! Nothing! Not even an interview! Not an acknowledgment! We could have been scum on the sidewalk the mayor wouldn’t have treated us differently!”

Nostrade only talked in banknotes and paychecks, public gratitudes to stroke his ego. It didn’t occur to him he had only been doing his job, the way he had been since the day he swore to protect every and any citizen of York New City, thirty years ago. He talked as if he had been risking his life every day, and not sitting comfortably in his leather chair, making phones calls and planning poker parties with his oh, so distinguished friends. As if he was the one who took a bullet and saw teammates laying on a hospital bed.

Nostrade sat back in his chair, to sooth his old bones and worried heart, burdened by decades spent dedicating his life to the police forces.

“They only have one name in their mouth! The Phantom Troupe! Or whatever it’s called.” He stopped talking, for a moment only. He couldn’t breathe correctly, there was a hand against his raging heart, anther furiously loosening his tie.

When he spoke again, it was to snarl at them, shouting orders, one after another.

“So, each of you better listen if you don't want to be fired!” He pointed each of them with his trembling finger, from wrath or dread, it was impossible to tell.

“I want to see this Phantom Troupe rooting in jail for all their miserable life. I don't care if you arrest them or blow their brain out, just do it and do it fast!” And for once, if not for the first and only time, Kurapika agreed with him, couldn’t have done any different, the anger burning in him was too familiar to be ignored.

“All ongoing cases are in standby until you all prove me you're not just a bunch of wimp.”

They all stayed silent, for a time, watching Nostrade filling reports. Kurapika studied him, noted the glass of iceless whiskey even though it wasn’t even noon yet. Nostrade exuded alcohol. Maybe it was his breath, maybe it was the brown, sticky stain on his shirt. It wasn’t a wonder he wasn’t allowed on the field anymore – he drank too much, and his hands were shaking more than Kurapika’s in the coldest winter. Nostrade would have been killed before nightfall, a godsent target.

But then Nostrade looked up, frowned, muttered something about incompetent people and chased them away.

“Why are you still here? Out! Everyone out!”

None complained.

Kurapika, least of them.

When night fell, Kurapika took it as a blessing. It was dark, it was silent, and Nostrade left hours ago. So, Kurapika did overtime, the way he did every day for the past year. The night was a solace, a relief made of pure calm, interrupted by the soft clinking of typewriters and untroubled chatters.

He loved the night, but the night, she never loved him. Once lights were out and stillness composed, she let her shadows crawl to him, crowd his mind with pictures he refused to see, views he pushed back in the deeps of his mind. She whispered to his ear, convinced him to let himself go, to indulge himself in those memories, and he tried, he held back, he swore he did, but it didn’t prevent her from strangling him with every thought, meddling in his dreams and staining them with blood and distorted faces, deadening his cries, his pleas for help.

It didn’t protect him from the guilt who trapped him every time Leorio woke up because of him, from the conviction that, with every night, Leorio distanced himself from him.

But still, every night, Leorio was here.

So, when he came home this night, expecting to see the lights off and shadows bending his home but found nothing of it, replaced by the smell of homemade meal, he closed the door and thought, maybe, maybe Leorio did love him a little more every night.

“Leorio?”

Someone answered from the kitchen, but he couldn’t hear it over the fuss he made, plates clattering together and used shoes squeaking against the tiles.

Kurapika made his way in the apartment. There was a fire burning in the hearth, one they only lit up for holidays because they couldn't afford to take care of it all year round, and candles on the shelves. Kurapika froze. He thought and thought and thought but couldn't wrap his head around it. They already celebrated everything who needed to be, nor had they planned anything for the night.

“Leorio, what’s going on?”

There were a sigh and a light chuckle.

“See, it’s a fun story,”

It didn’t seem fun at all.

“I wanted to make us dinner, but I used the oven and the pressure cooker at the same time an–”

“Leorio–”

“There was a power cut. I’m sorry.”

Kurapika stood here, mouth wide and mind blank, because he told him a thousand times not to, but he did it anyway.

Leorio was covered in soot, and his clothes certainly needed a good wash by now. It only came to him now that he must have cleaned the fireplace all by himself, so they wouldn’t be cold tonight, with the heating down. Leorio took care of everything and even made them dinner, even though Kurapika swore he could do it.

So, instead, Kurapika laughed, laughed too much and had to hold his ribs, so he didn’t choke, because there was nothing else he could do, he couldn’t bring himself to argue with Leorio like this, he looked like a miner – there must have been black stains all over the house and, on top of it, nothing to eat.

Ridiculous.

It was ridiculous.

“This isn’t funny Kurapika!” Leorio scolded him. “The meat’s raw and the vegetable are half cooked, it’s a disaster!”

 “Trust me, it is funny.” He bit his lips, so he didn’t laugh anymore. “It’s fine. I’ll order something.” Kurapika reassured him, took his hand and tied his fingers with his, a little wonder in his eyes. They were fairer, a little less brown, a warm, tawny, lovely beige.

"Thank God." Leorio sighed, calmed down, and Kurapika couldn't even imagine for how long he has been trying to fix this.

 “God doesn’t do home delivery, Leorio.” He mocked, just a little, as usual.

Leorio grumbled, upset, and Kurapika almost apologized. But he didn’t, and then he was in Leorio’s arms, a hand on his neck and an arm around his waist, and all was well. It felt right.

It felt like home.

The next day, Kurapika barely had the time to cross the station’s door; in no time he was pulled away, a hand was on his.

Melody.

She looked at him with worry, holding her little hat against her head strongly. It wasn’t the first time she had this look in her eyes, the world was too harsh for her to live in it. Yet, Kurapika never saw her in such a state, shaking like a leaf, mumbling incoherently and crushing his hand in hers. She was nothing like the one he knew. Kurapika frowned, concerned, put another hand on hers and held it with all his might.

“Melody, what happened?”

“Please don’t be mad.” She asked, timidly, scared, because she knew what his heart was made off. “We received a letter.”

“It’s from the Phantom Troupe.”

Kurapika stayed still, for a moment. He thought he misheard, but he didn’t. They had the nerve to provoke them after what they dared to do to his people, and Kurapika refused to let them walk away unpunished. So, Kurapika ran, barely thanked Melody with a glare and pushed the door of Nostrade’s office, so hard it could have flown out of its handle, but it was the least of his concerns.

“Where?”

Nostrade looked up to him and cursed under his breath but didn’t deny it to him. He opened a drawer, from which he took an envelope and threw it on his desk carelessly. Kurapika picked it up instantly.

It was a well-crafted envelope, with a thick layer and a red seal in its center, shaped like a spider. There was no addressee, no sender, without surprise. Kurapika opened it, slowly, although his hands were trembling, and the seal was lifted with ease. Inside, a card, similar to the envelope, with perfectly spelled words,

September 2 ^nd , during the exposition of the kurta eyes. We will take what is rightly ours.

Sincerely,

Chrollo Lucilfer.

“Is this a joke?” He scoffed, looked into Nostrade’s eyes.

“No.”

Kurapika turned around, frowned. Kite was there as well, though he didn't notice him before – it wasn't surprising, Kite could hide from anyone, anytime, and it startled Kurapika more than once. He was sitting on one of those leather chairs as old as time, brows tied in a thoughtful knit, but even then, he could see how much it touched him, his shaking hands held the armchair so stubbornly his knuckles turned white. Sometimes, he forgot they killed Ging as well.

“It’s war.”

“It’s insane. He won’t help us.”

"He will." It's what she said. In the shadows of their shared room, naked body under the silky sheets, lovely hands traveling on Machi's curves. But it seemed absurd, the silence, the way she talked, and Machi stood, sat up, bare chest lit by night's lights. She needed to look at her, to make sure she wasn't lying, that she believed in ever tale he could tell her. Pakunoda always believed in Chrollo, in everything he said and did. Sometimes it was frightening, others, bewitching, the pure, stainless devotion who heated Machi's blood with absolute indignation.

“We killed his people.” She snapped.

Pakunoda sat up too. Maybe she wished to witness the moment rebellion would birth in Machi’s eyes, maybe it was the exact contrary, maybe she wished to silence her before poisoned words could fall from her mouth and make a target out of her. Secrets were not to be shared, and a leader, to be followed.

“We have to trust Chrollo.”

Machi bit her tongue but said nothing, put her hands against Pakunoda’s cheeks, fondled it gently, left kissed on her forehead, eyelid, lips.

“If he killed you I would have hunted him down.”

“Earlier today, the organization known as the Phantom Troupe publicly announced they intended to steal Sir Shau's private collection next week. It is still unclear whether the police will take measures against them, or even intends to. However–”

Nostrade refused to hear another word from those pressmen and turned off the television. Not a tongue wasn't talking about them, not a single soul in the city didn't know about it, didn't mock him. He was furious, every part of him was raging, screaming, and he wouldn't, couldn't bear it anymore, he needed this to end, to stop torturing him–

A glass flew across the room, shattered against the window, leaving Nostrade breathless, panting, cursing.

They would pay.

He swore it.

It was insane. The whole precinct was busy with shouting and rage, the detectives he knew so well were lost in never-ending talks on the phone, with generals, politicians, even panicked civilians. Kurapika couldn't elude it either, his phone has been ringing all morning. He was tempted to unplug it, just as Melody did, but he didn't. The only relief who could sooth Kurapika was the knowledge Nostrade would be the one dealing with the chief.

Kurapika knew about them. The Phantom Troupe. He knew them, too well, and maybe it was his mistake. Their invitation could be a be a trap. It certainly was, and it wouldn’t surprise him. Maybe it was a diversion to distract them, maybe they gave a false address, so they could go on with their thievery unnoticed, undisturbed. Or maybe it wasn’t. They were prideful, so prideful, they would never miss an opportunity to make fools of the police forces. Kurapika tried to reason with Nostrade about it, but he refused to even talk about it.

His phone rang again, Kurapika cursed himself. He could feel the shadow of a headache forming at the back of his head, but he pushed those thought out of his mind and picked up the receiver. He was here to work, and answering calls were part of it.

“Agent Kurta, how can I help you?”

Detective.

Kurapika straightened on his chair, like a marble statue whose voice had been stolen.

Did you get our letter?

He stood up abruptly, slamming a hand on his desk, with rage and anger and every murderous feeling he kept deep inside him.

Sit down detective, we wouldn’t want anyone else hearing us, would we?

Kurapika ditched away the fact the Troupe was observing him, venomous in every word.

“Where are you?”

We want your help.

Kurapika thought he misheard. He must have. It was unbelievable. Truly, simply, unbelievable. But he didn’t, and he laughed, too much, too hard, massaged his forehead and tried to hide his laugh but it was useless. He looked around, but no one remarked. He always hated how indifferent his colleagues were to him, but for once, it was a blessing.

“And you think I will help you?”

Of course.

He didn’t even doubt himself.

“No. Goodbye.”

Kurapika was about to hang on, but the moment he moved the receiver away from his ear, a fine, thinly veiled threat escaped the handset.

How is your fiancé?

Kurapika opened his mouth to talk, but he couldn’t, as if all air had been taken off his lungs. It only made his anger grow, and he clenched his fist, restrained himself from hitting the desk once again.

“What do you want?”

“Leorio?”

Kurapika walked in the living room carefully, his shoes in hand. Leorio was here, asleep, on the couch by the fireplace where a roaring fire burned. Kurapika sat by his side, as silently as he could. He watched him, studied every each of his features as if he could print them in his mind; his hairs who never fell in the right place and always gave him a bed look, how long his eyelashes were, how square his jaw was and even the scar on his right cheekbone, the one he got after a fight with a clown.

The first time Leorio told him this story, it seemed like a stupid joke he made up when they met, in this bar – Kurapika never went to bars, but he did this day, and even if it was so long ago, he could still remember every part of it.

It was a Monday, the worse day to decide to crowd a bar if you asked anyone with a sane mind. It was empty, obviously, excepted few here and there. Kurapika was about to leave, this day, when he heard someone, Leorio, laughing so loudly, so clearly it echoed like a bell, and Kurapika couldn’t leave anymore.

They talked for hours but Kurapika never grew bored of it. And when Leorio walked him home in the cold of December without asking anything from him, Kurapika decided bars weren’t so bad after all, even on Mondays.

Leorio moved, mumbled and opened his eyes groggy from sleep. Kurapika put a hand on Leorio’s cheek, stroking it gently.

"Hey," Leorio said, with a sore voice.

 “Did I wake you up?”

“It’s fine.”

Leorio sat up straight, his back screamed from the hours spent uncomfortably against the couch’s armchair. Kurapika was sorry for waking him up, he knew how exhausting his work was, but he needed it. He needed to see him, to make sure he was alright, alive and well.

Make sure he was safe.

Kurapika let his hand fall on Leorio’s neck, rubbing it fondly before he passed his arms around his waist and curled up around him. He sighed with ease when he felt a gentle hand on his back and a kiss on the top of his head. Kurapika lifted his head and kissed Leorio back.

 “I love you, you know that?”

“M. Shau, please, understand–”

“I mustn’t do anything.” Shaiapouf looked down to the young woman who dared to stand in his way. “This gala is the result of years of works, if I want it to happen today, then it will happen.”

Canary abhorred him. He was a wealthy, influential man, just like Killua and Alluka’s parents, and Canary worked too hard to see her efforts wiped off the map over a fit of anger.

But then Nostrade stood, laughed as if all of this was just a joke, talked behind her back as if she wasn’t here, with them, mocked her as if she was mindless, and it enraged her, it made her blood boil and fury rise, but if a joke or two about her incompetence could sooth Shau’s wounded ego, she would smile once more and apologize. Again.

She left the room. They could always shout and cry nothing on earth would make her come back. She sat at her desk loudly, dusted off her clothes angrily, cursed under her breath. She loathed him.

“If you keep going down this road I might have to stop you.”

Canary looked up, was about to snap back at the one who thought it was a great idea to bother her, but this person chuckled, sat by her and handed her a coffee, so, for now, she might hold her tongue.

“He’s my boss. I’m Amane.”

“Canary.” She stammered, flushing cheeks and every breath trapped at the back of her throat.

She held a hand Canary shook, and how surprisingly easy it was to talk to her. She was kind and compassionate, honest and beautiful in ways Canary couldn’t have imagined; she forgot about Shau in a heartbeat.

Maybe, maybe, Canary could get used seeing Sir Shau around.

Especially if Amane was here as well.

Kurapika tied – tried to tie, his bow tie once again, moved the fabric to the right side, across the other part, brought it under and up through the neck loop, folded it towards the right, and then towards the left at the joint, and then–

It all undid itself.

He gave up.

Kurapika raged, took it off and threw it to the ground, sat back on the edge of his desk while someone was laughing behind him, too loud to be ignored.

“Fine.” Kurapika turned around, watched him pick up the bow tie. “Leorio, I need your help.”

Leorio smiled, proudly, of course, he would. In no time he was in front of him, lifting his collar and tying the bow, whispering something about him needing to learn how to do it correctly.

“I didn't know the police forces were so elegant.” He commented. Kurapika thought it was just a usual suit.

He rolled his eyes.

“You know it’s for the gala.” Leorio nodded.

 “Here. Done.”

Kurapika looked in the mirror, said something silly about it falling on the left – it wasn’t, and the Leorio was smiling against his lips, clumsily, as if they were fifteen again and just had their first kiss. Kurapika held him closer and Leorio held onto his neck, his fingers tickling against Kurapika’s hairs. They parted, and Leorio rested his forehead against his.

“I wish I could go with you. It's been ages since we went out together.”

Kurapika bit his lips, remembered. Sooner or later, he would have to make a choice, and neither of the outcomes was better than the other.

“Trust me, it's the last thing you want.”

They were all here, Machi, Hisoka, Chrollo and Feitan, Shalnark and Pakunoda. They were all here and standing at the ready in the deepest shadows, under the ballroom.

There was a sound.

A bullet, falling.

A gun, ready.

“Show them who we are.”

Kurapika looked around him, tried to ignore the jazzy song playing behind him. There were Basho and Ivlenkov, Eliza and Dalzollene, Canary and Miss Amane, as well as a tenth of agents undercover. Everything was perfectly handled, and yet, Kurapika couldn't ease his mind, nor Melody's, whose hands were so tightly draped around her tiny, little green hat he feared she would tear it apart. Crowds never suited her, with so many people, so many noises for her petite ears.

Kurapika took off each of her fingers from it, carefully, until he could hold her hand in his and squeezed it, harder and harder, a little gesture between them every time the world was too much to bear.

“It will be fine.” He whispered, his thumb slowly rubbing her knuckles.

June to September, I'm in.

Signal lost.

Shalnark turned off the radio and grind, witnessed his work. A true work of art, broken toys piled up one of another, bloody stains in their heart and brains. He carefully walked over them and cursed their souls when he walked into their blood. Even dead, they were a bother, spreading their blood everywhere like this. He wiped his sole on their smoking.

And there it was, in front of him, the server room. Hundreds of cables waiting to be cut, thousands of code lines waiting to be rewritten.

Who was he to make them wait?

“Where are they? It's almost midnight.” Basho noted, after looking at his watch for the tenth time, railing against the Troupe. He played piano against his crossed arms, looked around frantically, as if he had never been on the field before.

“Don't be impatient.” He told him, glowering at him.  

Basho didn’t stop. He was nervous, understandably, let out a loud sigh every now and then, gazed at his watch, again.

“They're playing with us.”

Kurapika looked up at him and nodded. It lasted a second, and his eyes were back on the crowd.

“I know.”

February to June, March and April took flight.

Signal lost.

“What are you doing here?”

She asked, a martini hanging onto her red, crimson lips, with, he was certain, too much vodka for a lady – he could tell from the worried look the bartender gave her, but few bills after it wasn't a problem anymore; they were alone, and very much pleased to be, at least Hisoka was. Machi thought she could use some company. Hisoka took the closest whiskey bottle, poured a glass and drank half, dry, while Machi kept a close eye on Sir Shaiapouf Shau, their goose with golden eggs.

“I can be professional.”

Hisoka joined her, following their little detective as he ran around; the clock ticked, hours passed, with so, so little time until showtime. Then on his left, Feitan, February, should he say, disguised as a waiter, a fine waiter, indeed. But it bored him, like everything, and Machi was a far more interesting thief.

A shame her love was carved for women.

Hisoka couldn’t seduce his targets the way she did. He did not have the dedication, the patience to wait for his target to fall into an elaborated trap. No, he was too straightforward in what he wanted and expected, and there wasn't a more delightful feeling than to see the same vices live in his prey’s eyes.

But Machi was different, so different. She knew how to charm anyone, with pleasant touches and delightful laughs, with her teasing Russian accent and bold dresses. Hisoka couldn't wait to see how their target would deal with her low cut, tight black gown, sharp heels and charming lips, how he would follow the golden details embracing her from the top down and fall in her web, beautifully, willingly.

Machi was lascivious, sensuous, beautifully crafted and everything they needed.

She wasn’t vulgar, of course.

But she was far from prude.

“Talking about professionalism,” He whispered, while his glass hit the counter softly, just like the sweet nothings he sowed in her ears.

“You're ravishing.”

Machi frowned, and he held a hand in front of her, he was not finished yet.

“Still, too noticeable.”

She smirked.

"Says the one in a fancy suit."

And Hisoka smiled, the way he always did, like a trickster, like a murderous liar, and if Machi wasn’t used to it she could, could have broken down in cold sweats. But she didn't, and it was her pride.

From head to toes he was in pure, stainless white and the only fly in the ointment was his shirt, black as night underneath his, oh so white, tie, and Machi thought it suited him. He could use of every and any respectable allure, but they both knew this piece of darkness inside him would never leave.

“My job is to distract Shau until Pakunoda and Shalnark are done, I don't need to be subtle. I need him to never look away from me.”

Hisoka chuckled.

“A shame he isn't a woman, isn't it?”

Machi tensed, murdering him in the silence of her mind, from the corner of her eyes. She stood a little more upright, body pressed against his, with a smile on her lips who did not dwell anything good for him. But then she kissed him, red lipstick against his pale cheek, with daggers in her eyes and words in his ear sharper than any blade.

“If the operation fails,” She put a seductive, gloved hand on his arm, but a murderous heel sunk deep in his foot, and every groan from him was a radiant victory.

“I’ll kill you.”

Hisoka's eyes lingered on her face, on every feature, and so did she, with bloody promises of future fights.

“Of course, you will.”

She grinned, took his glass and drank it until nothing remained, the alcohol burned her throat and warmed her chest, fueled the fire in her eyes.

And Hisoka did nothing, he watched her, simply, like one observes a work of art, a sublime decoy.

“What a wonderful night.”

Machi put a hand on his arm and Shaiapouf turned around. His eyes grew wide as he observed her, with her enchanting indigo hairs and heavenly face, she was a woman many would start wars for. Quickly he dismissed his comrades, intimacy was called for. She gave him tempting smiles as she bit her lips, bright teeth against cherry lips, and Shaiapouf wished he would be the one ruining her lipstick. She held out a gloved hand he kissed without hesitation, his eyes never leaving hers, with half disguised lust and sparks of madness.

“Machi. It's a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Maybe he held onto her hand for too long. Maybe she liked it.

Machi mindlessly twirled a strand of hairs while she chuckled, a lovely hand back on him, moving along his arm up his shoulder, embracing his neck with sweet touches.

“Really?”

Shaiapouf studied her and all he saw was a sinner. When he felt caresses on his hips he did not move, when she tightened her fingers against his neck he did not move, and when she whispered inches away from him, he held her even closer.

“I thought we could share.”

February to June, butterfly's in the web.

June to March, copy that.

September to March, copy that.

Signal lost.

Everything went to black.

It was the signal, he knew it. He could remember Chrollo’s voice explaining it to him. It took him some time until his eyes adapted to the dark. But then, he saw him, crimson hairs and an impish smile on his lips.

Hisoka. The Phantom Troupe. They were here, just as promised.

Hisoka's smile widened. He raised a finger, pointing the ceiling above their head, and Kurapika followed it. And then, struck by truth, it all made sense.

“The roof! They’re on the roof!”

Kurapika ordered Basho to stay in position as he ran toward the stairs. It was his only chance, he could take them down, let them root in jail, even take their lives. He could destroy the threat before it was even formed, he could finally, finally take revenge. Kurapika always promised he would, for the sake of his fallen people. He always promised, no matter the consequences, that he would avenge them. Even if it meant giving up something just as precious.

The stairs transformed into floors, one after another. The clock was ticking, time was running, and if he didn’t make it–

The roof door opened. He walked outside, witnessed the chaos. The whole town was plunged into dark. The wasn’t a single streetlight, the house windows usually bathed by light were turned into darkness mirrors. Death itself descended to earth, covered the world with a black shroud.

The blackout.

There was a sound, piercing, deafening, continuously repeating itself, propellers beating the wind at a hellish pace, sending gusts of wind in his way, tearing his eyes, whipping up his clothes. Kurapika blinked, almost closed his eyes, drew his gun and started walking, slowly, carefully, toward this steel giant, the helicopter.

A bullet flew to his side, touched the ground next to him. In the cabin stood a woman, with blue, indigo hairs and a rifle in hand. She dared him to come any closer.

Kurapika took a step.

There was a man, in front of him. He wasn’t with his crew, not now, not yet, and Kurapika could have recognized him from thousands, with those two, deep blue earrings. Chrollo Lucilfer. Kurapika took aim at him, closed the distance. If he was to shoot, he refused to miss him. Not again.

 He laughed.

Of all things, with the cold barrel against his head, Chrollo laughed.

“Time to choose, detective, but think carefully. Wouldn’t want to see another sweetheart of yours killed, would we?”

Chrollo’s voice was just like the one he remembered, cold, cruel, tempting. Kurapika removed the safety catch. He could remember everything, the massacre of his people, Pairo’s dead body, the flames, the blood on his hands, everything and anything he refused to see again, what he swore, above all, not to let happen to Leorio.

Leorio.

Kurapika took a step back. He clenched his teeth, remembered a thousand different memories, the way Leorio laughed and clasped his hands and smiled with dimples cutting his face because this world was full of delightful things to see, how he always cared about him, days and night, the hundreds hours they spent with sweet nothings or thoughtful talks, how, every time Kurapika walked through the apartment's door he could put down his bag and let his demons outside.

Kurapika lowered the gun. His hands were trembling, his body was shaking.

He couldn't do it, he couldn’t win.

Not without Leorio.