Archive of Our Own

He boards the ship with the other civilians of Kakin, wearing a borrowed face and thrifted clothes, with a forged identity card and a suitcase lined with lead to trick the scanners at the top of the gangplank. The day is crisp and cool, the clouds hanging on the periphery of the horizon anything but ominous, and the people surrounding him—his height reduced, his chest broader, his hair short and neat—are joyous and with an energy that speaks of both optimism and vacancy. They have nothing he values, the people in this group, so he does not bother looking for familiar faces or things to steal.

He is, after all, a thief now.

He hadn't thought much of it, when Kalluto had joined the group a few months prior. Children are reckless, and prone to doing things even in their own disinterest. All signs of a lapse in training, or education. But Kalluto was the closest among his siblings to his great-great-grandfather Maha, who had spoken to him in confidence. A prior voyage to the Dark Continent had included a Zoldyck. There was history there, and precedent. These are things he values—and then when Hisoka had suggested he join, and the Ryodan's enigmatic leader had confirmed his appointment, it had been an easy matter to go along.

His baggage is scanned—its more suspicious contents protected by the lead-lined compartments, the rest containing a variety of disguises and sundry items that would be easily overlooked by the already sparse staff. As he was boarding, by standard ferry, he got a good look at the tents set up by the docks for the royals and their retinue to wait for the helicopters that will take them right to the top of the ship. More workers are serving champagne to those destined for the top decks than are ushering civilians onboard.

Once inside he follows a line towards the section of the deck earmarked for cabins. The hallways are lit with bright lights, the carpeting patterned with gold crisscrosses. If not for the narrowness of the corridor and the absence of windows, it could resemble an economy hotel.

He easily finds a single room crammed into the forward starboard, just past the swell of a massive staircase, itself already full of people shouting and carousing on their way to one of the common sections for the middle class. At least the cabin is quiet, the molded walls thick and spotless. The ceiling is stepped in places, the bed wedged into a corner with barely enough room above it to sit up. Illumi drops his baggage, and finds it homey.

That is one task complete. He had been given three, to start, the troupe leader had told him, over the phone. The first was to board the Black Whale and secure both space and a reasonable identity on the third Tier. The second, to make his way between decks to the fourth Tier, to prove that his disguises could pass muster and that the security systems protecting such passage could be cracked. Once there, his final task was to locate Kuroro himself, wherever he had managed to hide. Or not hide, as the case may be. While boarding, he had kept a strict Zetsu, but throughout his journey he has been able to sense the low simmer of the aura of others around the ship. It was most concentrated around where the royals and their numerous bodyguards had been, but there are a few signatures coming from the social space above. Perhaps officers of Kakin, there to keep the divide between the levels.

He checks his reflection in a mirror bolted to the back of the door, round like a porthole. Adjusts a few pins. Removes a jacket from his bag and shakes it out to get rid of the worst of the wrinkles before sliding it on. Another pin, lodged securely against the door, serves as a more certain lock before he heads back outside and towards where the noise is thickest.

He finds himself in a large, rectangular room at the end of the winding cabin-lined hallway, its entrance framed with columns carved in serpentine spirals, the ceiling arched. The walls are bedecked with molding and painted almost garishly, in an effort that at a brief glance would look extravagant. It serves as a lounge, of sorts, already nearly full to overflowing with people celebrating the start of their voyage.

Many, to his surprise, are dressed in layers of what must be their finest clothes, and he adopts a well-practiced expression of similar raucous excitement across his borrowed features as he crosses the threshold and makes his way through the staggering crowds. Someone pushes a cup into his hands; when he brings it to his nose it smells almost like varnish, the alcohol is so strong and so unrefined. He sniffs again. Possibly made from potatoes. Not grain, like wheat or barley. A memory comes, unbidden, of a crowded bar on the continent, full of sound and smoke and similar company. He remembers how straight Hisoka's shoulders had been as he walked away, even though they were covered with scrapes. Illumi hadn't asked where they came from. He learned the next day, when he got Kalluto's call.
A cheer rises from one of the adjacent tables, and Illumi raises the cup as he walks past, conscious of the guards patrolling not too far away. He spots three, making separate rounds, and two more far away on the other side of the expansive mess hall, at the base of a staircase covered in red carpeting that seems to disappear upwards into the guts of the ship with all the ceremony of this morning's royal processional. Matching corbels covered in scrollwork in the Kakin style bookend the opening like they had in the hallway. Illumi studies the face of a guard as they pass, and takes the opportunity while everyone is distracted by a lengthy toast to duck against a rack of unwashed trays and slide two spare pins against the base of his head, below the ears. One at a sharp angle, one shallow, and his face contorts and expands, until he has matched the guard's blue eyes, wide jaw, and cropped hair to an inscrutable facsimile. Then, he whips off his jacket and turns it around, sliding his arms back through the sleeves, the pattern now visible a perfect match for the uniform the guards wear. In a matter of seconds, he has assumed a completely new identity, and when he crosses the space between Tiers, moving a level down, none of the others stop or question him.

It has been difficult to find information about the physical structure of the ship. Deck plans, crew spaces, and the necessary systems and equipment built into the Black Whale for their eventual destination of the Dark Continent have been shrouded in layers of secrecy that even his Hunter license could not penetrate. The most he could get were raw numbers—the amount of staff allocated to each section of the ship, or each member of the royal family—and the suppliers involved in construction—knowing the factory responsible for sewing the uniforms allowed him to recover several samples to better blend in amongst a variety of social strata. He believes, however, that it would make sense for these decks to be constructed similarly, and expects to find a similar lounge either in the same place replicated above, or at the total opposite end to better preserve any separation. Despite the initial celebration, he knows the atmosphere will change significantly as the days progress and the power structure reasserts itself. Like sediment in a tank, some will sink, and some will rise to the top. Today, while things are still so undefined, the regalia on his jacket is enough to get the results he wants.

The difference in his surroundings is immediate. He walks right past a group of identically uniformed guards, who do not speak to him, and into a hallway beyond with simple, unadorned fixtures. As he walks, he does not see many others. Only a few civilians, escorted by crewmembers bearing their luggage, tucked into rooms spaced a little closer together than the ones a Tier above. It occurs to him, remembering the earlier proceedings, that most of the people on this level have likely already boarded. It will be in a social lounge, then, that he is most likely to find his quarry, and he takes additional staircases down three more levels, signage marking them as lodging-only.

In a nook beside a reinforced door marked 'crew only' Illumi switches his jacket around again and once more adjusts his pins, shrinking his hair and shifting his cheekbones. Satisfied, he continues onward; the hallway curves, as if following the round shape of the vessel. A strange flash of instinct borne from years of experience propels him to light his eyes with Gyo, and he spots a mark against the wall, an approximation of the twelve-legged spider. Feeling satisfied, he walks faster, and after passing nearly a hundred closed cabin doors a separate hallway branches inward, revealing an open section flanked by over-stylized storefronts—a quick-service cafe, a cheap-looking gambling joint with blinking machines and a few crowded card tables, and an open lounge with a long wooden bar running the length of the wall. Another spider marking is placed on its open doors, like the smudge of a handprint against glass. At one end of the lounge, the familiar face of Kuroro Lucifer sits alone at an oblong sofa, a drink on the table in front of him, his entire demeanor placidly composed.

Illumi takes the seat opposite his, saying nothing.

Kuroro takes in the borrowed face, eyes sweeping expertly to where the pins are hidden across the back of his head and neck, down to the places at his shoulders and torso he'd marked earlier. His eyes linger for only a moment before moving on to the next one, like tacks set against a map to mark the stops on a journey. Even without a hint of Gyo, even through his clothes, he can gauge what Illumi's Nen has done.

“Ah. The new Number Eleven.”

“Kuroro.” He nods his head in greeting, then reaches up with both hands to pull at the uppermost pins, withdrawing them to reset his face to one the other man recognizes. After a moment, his features settle, his long hair and dark eyes restored.

He pauses. “Danchou,” he says, tasting the title with a subtle frown. “Would you like me to call you that, now, too?”

Kuroro presses the back of one hand against his mouth to hide his reaction. From the way his cheeks pinch, it could be a smile. He's been patched up, somewhat, but it's clear enough by the visible bruises across his face and the marks under his eyes that he's still feeling the effects of his recent exhibition match.

“Call me whatever you like,” he says. “I am not the leader out of ambition for the title.”

Kuroro takes a moment to finish his drink. The lounge is sparsely populated; most, he believes, have taken to the largest public spaces to celebrate the Black Whale's imminent departure. Illumi's eyes seek out the row of large abstract paintings covering the wall, framed out under glass to resemble windows. A familiar figure—one he recognizes from his brief time impersonating Hisoka while in York New—shifts awkwardly against the bar, his arms encased in snowy white bandages.

“Where are the others?” Illumi asks. “Shouldn't they be with you?”

“We boarded separately,” Kuroro tells him. “We were curious who would be Hisoka's primary target, after he went after two of us so openly. We've made preparations as per our own wishes, if an attack should come. If not, we will search the various areas of the ship we have access to, and meet up later after the ship sets sail.”

“You're meeting here?”

“No, at the lowest level,” Kuroro replies. “Most of our number are there, and while there are many like you who could conceivably gain access, we had Kalluto watching the embarkation process there, searching for Hisoka. He didn't find him, but it's possible he could have slipped through the cracks.”

“And where is my brother?” Illumi asks.

“With Machi and Nobunaga.”

Illumi is unsatisfied, but decides not to press. While Kuroro has been surprisingly forthcoming with information, none of what he's said has been particularly clarifying or new. When Kuroro hired him in the past, he was prompt and overeager with all instructions, unlike any other client. Now, he is the picture of tranquility and maddeningly reticent. “So you don't know where Hisoka is?”

He watches for Illumi's reaction. “Do you?”

Illumi tilts his head. “The different Tiers will make moving around too broadly very difficult, although I can't imagine where he is right now. I wonder why, then, you would have me board with a different Tier if you intended for us to stay elsewhere in the end?”

“Ah.” For a moment, Kuroro looks embarrassed. “I had to know if you could be trusted. I expected an ambush, considering your history. He did ask you to join, after all, not me. I was surprised to receive your call.”

Illumi cannot put an exact name to the source of his irritation. His mouth twists in displeasure. “I am a professional.”

“I'm aware of that.” Kuroro ducks his head. “And I apologize for any insult. One can never be too careful.”

On closer inspection, the artwork above their heads are not paintings at all, but cheap prints. Again, Illumi feels a surge of unwarranted annoyance.

“And the markings? I would think you're not being careful at all.”

“Those were not my idea.” Kuroro shrugs, broadly, then fishes around in his pocket for an identification card. Hisoka's own name is listed on it, next to an unflattering photograph that cuts above Kuroro's face at the forehead. “But this was. He did use my name on Greed Island, after all. I wanted to leave a false paper trail here, so if Hisoka comes looking, we can better pin him down.”

Illumi frowns. “He's not that stupid. Reckless, maybe, but not stupid.”

Kuroro's voice is even when he speaks. “You would know him best.”

“Hisoka wanted me to join you so that I could kill him. Our arrangement is contracted. But you are not here for that, I assume. You're going to steal something. What is it?”

For the first time, the enthusiasm Kuroro had so easily held back is on full display. “I will tell you, later. We will have time before we meet with the others. You'll like it.”

Illumi balances the loose pins between his knuckles. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“It is something only you can do.” Kuroro rewards him with a smile. “There is something I cannot reach without the help of someone like you.”

From the bar, Bonolenov wanders over. The watch at his wrist is beeping. Then, the entire room seems to shift a bit, the floor rumbling beneath their feet, and Illumi knows the boat is starting to move, to leave Kakin and set off into the blue unknown.

“Danchou. It's time to move. We should return.” His voice wheezes, muffled by the bandages wrapped around his face.

“You're coming with us, of course,” Kuroro is quick to add, with a nod to Illumi. “I'll take him, Bono. You can keep watch, report if anything changes.”

At this, Illumi's face drags down in a frown. “I left all of my things on Tier Three. And I liked my room.”

“Well.” This time, Kuroro doesn't hide his amusement, and laughs openly. “We'll see to that. You will have anything you need.”

The room Kuroro takes them to is buried in the middle of the ship, two decks down, and shaped like an L, with stacked bunks against one wall and a sink and a single chair opposite it. There is no other furniture, and Illumi takes the chair and crosses his legs at the ankle. He removes the other pins dotting his shoulders and sides, and relaxes with a sigh as his flesh distorts and settles once again. Kuroro watches the entire procedure, fascinated.

“You know, I greatly admire your ability, but I never wanted to steal it for myself. I don't think I would be comfortable doing that every time I wanted to change my appearance.” He laughed again, the sound high and clear like a bell. “But I couldn't stop thinking about how useful it would be. So I sought out someone with a similar ability, and took it for myself.”

“That's nice.” At Kuroro's despondent expression, he adds, “I'm not exactly flattered.”

“Did you watch the match? At Heaven's Arena?”

“What? No.” Illumi makes a show of stowing his pins away, then realizes he has nothing left to occupy his hands. “Why do you ask?”

“I used it, the ability I stole. To its fullest potential, I should think. And I'll have to use it again, to do what I have planned for us.”

“You're being unusually cryptic.” The boat rocks, as if pitched by a wave—possibly more engines, kicking in, if the Black Whale is far enough away from the coastline that it can increase its speed. “What is this plan of yours?”

“What do you know about the Kakin royal family?”

Illumi pauses. He doesn't know what kind of answer Kuroro is expecting. “There are...a lot of them. All are onboard this ship. One will eventually become King. What does it matter?”

“They are in possession of a number of rare and valuable items.” Kuroro crosses the room to sit on the lowest bunk, sitting cross-legged. He adjusts his jacket, shifting until he is comfortable. “One in particular has caught my attention.”

“What is it?” Illumi asks.

“It's difficult to say for sure.” A rueful look crosses his face. “The artifact itself is on the Top Deck, likely in possession of the King himself. But there are records of it, kept by the King's half-brother Onior Longbao, from the last time it was used, decades ago. Photographs of it in use. I don't think this man even knows the significance of what he has.”

“And why do you want it?”

“When I see it, I'll know for sure.” He clasps his fingers together over one knee, and brings his full attention now to Illumi. “It's kept in his family's offices. Their headquarters are seven floors below us, exactly.”

“And you want me to disguise myself, to gain access to this place,” Illumi says.

“Yes,” Kuroro agrees. “It's quite simple.”

“You sound optimistic.” It makes Illumi feel a little like the way the boat still rocks underneath their feet, like he is not sure of where his next step will land. “It's unexpected. After what you've lost.”
“Do I? I assure you, I am not. But there is really nothing else for me to be. My grief has nowhere to go. Do you understand?”

Illumi thinks the boat pitches again. “Is understanding required?”

Kuroro's shoulders relax. “I didn't think you would. But the rulers of Kakin certainly do. I have had some time, to read about their customs, their history. One of the princes, several generations back, kept a diary, and I've been enjoying a translation of it, to pass the time. I could read from it to you, if you like.”

The frame of the seat is digging uncomfortably into Illumi's back. “I've never liked those kinds of books. They're very sentimental.”

“No? Then let me summarize. There are some things you know what to do with, and some things you don't. Like war, or death. Grief. Kindness. There is a war, brewing on the upper levels of this boat. The Hunters are trying to prepare for it, and it will keep them distracted for a while. I am launching another, against the one who took my valued limbs, and with them, their abilities. It is impossible, for both him and I to remain alive.”

Illumi makes a subtle noise of admission, in the back of his throat.

“You do not find it interesting? There are fourteen of them, and thirteen of us. We are very similar, in a way.” A far-off look comes over his eyes. “I do not know what the Princes of Kakin will do. I can only speak for myself.”

A moment passes in silence; Illumi could almost pretend that he could hear the ocean, if he listens intently. An unceasing wave, something unstoppable. That is very much like Kuroro, he thinks. He imagines next trying to hold a wave in his hands, Kuroro's words washing over him like a refrain. There are some things he knows what to do with—an order, a record—and things he doesn't. It is not something he could hold in his hands for long, even if he ridged his flesh with pins. It would make no difference, in the end.

“Are you in?” Kuroro is watching him with an intense curiosity. “You do not have to accept just because I've asked. You are free to do as you wish.”

“You said that Kalluto is with several others in your group.” Illumi speaks slowly, trying his best to reorder his thoughts. “You also had another member with you earlier.”

Kuroro inclines his head, and Illumi continues. “You work with a partner.”

Understanding fills his eyes. “Then you will remain my partner,” Kuroro says. “And my responsibility.”

“Come.” Kuroro stands, and Illumi follows suit out of habit. “Let me show you what I've been able to gather.”

A map is rolled out on a low table made of white-painted plywood. The margins are already covered with scribbles, a few places marked in different colors. Illumi recognizes the gate that he passed through to get from one level to the next, circled in red.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“Oh, Bonolenov stole it for me,” Kuroro answers with a shrug. “I don't know where, or how. But this is the important part, look.”

He points out a niche in the side of one of the levels, thick and blocky. “The offices weren't given much definition. Their construction didn't require as much precision as the staterooms, for example. However, it's still critical information. We know exactly where the files are being kept, and exactly what levels of protection we can expect to find.”

“And what are those?” Illumi asks, thinking of the layers of theatrical, pointless security to boarding the vessel and the simple stations protecting the lower levels.

“People, mostly.” Kuroro tugs on a stray piece of hair. It's grown longer since the last time they met, and the way it hangs over his collar and gets in his eyes appears to have generated a whole host of unconscious habits. He tosses his head to clear it.

“People with Nen?” He sounds skeptical. “The guards above did not have it.”

“But there we may with certainty encounter those who do. Personal guards, Royal guardians. Hunters, maybe. If they can spare a moment away from their rapture and study of the forces awaiting them at our voyage's end.”

Illumi's mouth slants. “I'm a Hunter too, remember.”

“Of course,” Kuroro says. “I'm well acquainted with what it is you are. Shalnark often kept me informed of your organization's affairs. And is that not what we are doing? Hunting?”

His attitude has been relatively subdued, but at the last word his voice turns darker, as if laced with venom. Illumi knows what the Ryodan leader is imagining, what he really wishes to hunt. As if on some level he wants desperately to speak about the people who have been taken from him, and on another can hardly bear to say their names.

“The forward bulkhead,” Illumi says, changing the subject and tapping the space on the map where the Xi-Yu offices abut the front of the ship. “They will have the security of both the reinforced walls there and several consecutive floors under their power. We cannot likely gain access from below, or from the outside. What did you have planned? A direct assault?”

The tension in Kuroro's shoulders abates slightly. “Ah, no. We will leave out the front door—changing our faces to cast suspicion elsewhere. But I have an ability that I would like to show you, that will make the first step far easier.”

“But we don't know where these files of yours are located inside the offices.”

“No.” Kuroro's shoulders drop further, and it strikes Illumi suddenly that in the face of such loss, perhaps the other man really is trying to find the most impossible fate to throw himself towards. He will seek a prize unachievable by any other, thief or not—and maybe even his earlier jab against the Hunters that sought the mysteries of the Dark Continent was really a mask for what he himself thought to try to steal. Either he will succeed, and gain something monumental, or fail and at last be consumed by the end that so many of his teammates had already met.

“Would you steal Hisoka's abilities?” He is unable to stop himself from asking. The calm he had so readily drawn Kuroro towards shifts, like cracks in a mirror.

“No. I think it should die with him,” is the simple answer.

“I think that's wise. I know I wouldn't want to die without my own abilities, if I had the choice.” Illumi taps his chin, missing the strange look that flits across Kuroro's dark eyes.

“And will Bonolenov or any of the others be joining us?” Illumi continues.

“Ah. No,” Kuroro says. “We are the only ones who can shift our appearances at will. And the other ability I mentioned has limitations as well. As I have said, you will be my partner. No one else will be involved.”

“And when do we leave?” Illumi asks.

“Later. There are celebrations, the higher the deck the more elaborate. We can use them as cover to get closer. I will need to find a suitable face to borrow. As will you, I imagine.”

“Mine are not bound by the constraints of realism,” he retorts immediately. “I can mold each bone or muscle individually. In fact, I prefer to do so instead of taking on a specific shape. Of course, I understand your need, but I have no such limitations.”

In fact, he was looking forward to burying the pins in his skin again. The slight movement of the ship was an uncomfortable constant, as were the slight vibrations coursing through the exposed metal of the room's rounded ceiling. Changing his shape often brought with it a sense of calmness; it was often said that waves were soothing, but the rocking of the ship was having the opposite effect on him.

“I can't wait to show you the ability I mentioned,” Kuroro was saying. “You'll like it.”

“Hmm?” Illumi looks up, sweeping his hair back over one shoulder. “What?”

“I'm reminded of a passage from my book...ah, but I don't want to bore you.” Kuroro stands, then, and rolls the map back up after one last, thorough study. “I'm going to rest, until it's time to leave. You're welcome to do the same, or have a meal, or get some air...” He drops his head, muffling a laugh. “Well, on second thought, you can't do that. But if there's anything you need, Bonolenov can fetch it for you, if it's not among my supplies. You're welcome to look.”

“I'm fine.” His voice is curt, and he watches as Kuroro folds himself into the bottom bunk with a grateful sigh, still wrapped up in his oversized coat. He doesn't even remove his boots. The mattress is too short for his long legs, and his feet stick into the lowest shelf of a storage niche built into the end of the bunks. A moment later, he is asleep, breathing softly, and Illumi shifts in his chair.

He does not currently require sleep, needs no weapons but what is already a part of his own body, and despite the invitation, has little interest in snooping through Kuroro's things. He can feel the vibrations through the floor, and the longer he remains idle the stronger they seem in his mind. In a sudden impulse, he reaches forward, towards the stack of Kuroro's bags piled at the corner by his bed. His hands come away clutching a book, leather-wrapped and battered, the pages torn in places. He opens it, uncertain what he'll find, but realizes quickly this must be the book Kuroro mentioned, the diary of a past Kakin Royal.

He glances at Kuroro, still sleeping softly. A bit of his long bangs are back in his face. Unconsciously, it brings an almost fond smile to Illumi's face.

Kuroro's breathing deepens. The book holds value to him, Illumi realizes; the Ryodan leader often kept the things he stole in this way. They were precious, used almost constantly, then sold once the utility was gone. But until then, he holds them in great esteem. Illumi recalls a story Kuroro had told him, long ago, about a set of crown jewels he had taken, and worn almost daily until he had found a buyer. Knowing Kuroro, Illumi doubts he's thought about them since.

He opens the book, trying to make sense of the handwriting. It appears to have been the property of a young girl, and he reads with a strange sort of detachment. The story begins, describing her upbringing, housed in a grand palace, the expectations of generations heaped upon her shoulders. He shifts again.

When Kuroro wakes, some hours later, he has made it barely into whatever ritual had occurred to begin the strange pageantry of their country's royal succession. One of their number has just vanished, the author describing strange sights that could only be the result of Nen, and as he closes the book, it is with a small pang of regret.

Kuroro watches him as he sits up, and stretches out a hand. His fingers twitch, and Illumi can almost see the way Skill Hunter would fit against his palm. Instead, he sets the book into Kuroro's waiting hand. It disappears a moment later into one of the many pockets of his jacket, and if the Ryodan leader notices how keenly Illumi feels its loss, he doesn't let on.

“Right on time,” Kuroro says, yawning into one elbow. “We might even be able to enjoy some of the festivities, if you require additional diversion.”

“It's a job,” Illumi says, watching as Kuroro rifles through the top of one of his bags, following the book with a knife and a small device Illumi recognizes as a compact flash grenade. He then stands, holding his hand out towards Illumi with a smile.

“First things first, we have to get to the very front of the ship, right under the waterline. Are you ready to go?”

Illumi takes his stowed pins and, sliding them with purpose, begins the process of transforming his face into that of a bland Kakin citizen. More pins sit against the sides of his throat to change his voice, and even more shrink his posture. Kuroro waits, dispassionately observing, the offered hand falling slightly the more his form changes. Illumi stands on his own, the rocking of the ship forgotten, following Kuroro out of the cabin without another word. The lines in the most recent entry replay in his head, the last thing he had a chance to read.

“My family-! The creature that attacked, it looked so familiar, but how could that be? It's eyes were blue, and then black, and now I cannot even be sure what it is that I remember, what it is they ever were at all. We are divided now, all attempts at such a careful peace discarded. Is there no hope? Where is he? Where is my youngest brother?”

Illumi leads the way, his shifted form providing a neat shield for Kuroro, as they move down five floors, taking a meandering path. The ship seems to have been designed to discourage such travel, attempting to sequester each grouping of cabins with everything they would need, from cafeterias to bars and recreation, and the staircases within the levels are separate and seem to follow entropy rather than structure. Kuroro had been specific, that they would access the offices a different way, that he had something remarkable to show him, the ability that he assured Illumi he would like.
They do not speak, not after Illumi had asked him, in a gravelly voice wholly unlike his own, if he expected them to encounter any trouble on the way, to which he only answered, “If we are not careful,” with an expression of disconcerted amusement.

It is only when they reach the farthest end of a small hallway, its closets and chambers designated for maintenance and crew storage, that Kuroro straightens his shoulders and turns to Illumi with zeal.
“Are you prepared?” he asks.

“For what?” his voice responds like rocks in a tumbler.

That is all the warning he gets before Kuroro has manifested his Skill Hunter, flipping the pages with a practiced ease and settling definitively on one, the contents foreign to Illumi even as he tries to peer around Kuroro's shoulder to read more.

Then, he vanishes, the gray-painted hallway melting at the edges of his vision, and suddenly it is replaced with tall white cabinets and shelves overflowing with ballistics. A moment later, Kuroro joins him, in a corner that was empty only a moment before. Illumi blinks through borrowed eyes, unsure what to think. Kuroro closes his book and it, too, disappears.

“That is impressive,” he says at last, already cataloguing all of the ways such an ability could be used.

He recognizes their location from the map, but their surroundings are unfamiliar to him, and as he glances past one slim bookcase full instead of boxed handgun magazines, he sees only identical shelves placed at haphazard intervals, without a soul in sight.

Kuroro casts the assembled paraphernalia with an unimpressed glance. The next rack is covered with timers, gauges, and cords. “You should lead. I will need to borrow a face, which presents the problem of maintaining Zetsu, so I would prefer to make ourselves known as late as possible. Yours is much easier in that regard—I can barely sense your Nen. You're really quite talented.”

The flattery has no effect on him. “I did feel it when you activated your ability just now. What a dilemma.”

“If there are others with Nen around, we might be spotted. But if we pick good faces, that will help.”

“Do you have photographs?” Illumi asks.

Kuroro is apologetic. “No. I couldn't find anything within the past decade, of any of the family's leadership. We will just have to hope for luck.”

“There is nothing here but weapons,” Illumi says. “That is not what we are looking for.”

“No. This is for the use of the mafia members. We are looking for the oldest storage—something inaccessible to those with only a basic clearance. Historical artifacts, family mementos, personal effects.”
He drops something, catching it before it can clatter to the ground. He lifts a similar charge to the flash grenade in his pocket, tossing it between his hands and smiling to himself. He spends another minute looking underneath a table, and when Illumi is just about to wonder what exactly he’s doing Kuroro resurfaces.

Illumi stills, trying to concentrate as Kuroro searches a few adjacent shelves just in case. This close to the front of the ship, right above the waterline, the movement of the Black Whale is even more acutely felt. And with pins sunk close to his ears, his focus is not the same, the warped flesh not as reliable as it would be in his normal state. The difference may be slight, but it might as well be as big as the world considering the smallest fluctuation could make the difference between success and failure.

“None of these drawers are even locked,” Kuroro tells him, breaking into a childish smile.

They are at the top section of what Illumi remembers from their map spans several floors stacked together. He tells Kuroro that their prize either awaits in the middle, as the most secured location, or at the very front of the ship, against the bulkhead wall.

Kuroro pulls a single shotgun bullet from an open box and tucks it inside his pocket. “I agree. We must move quickly—this is the height of the departure celebrations, and I have timed us so we entered right at midnight. If there is a change of guards, it will be soon.”

Midnight, already? The admission stuns Illumi, who glances around at the solid white walls bordering each visible partition. There are no windows on the ship, not on these levels, he knew that, but now that the option to look outside and confirm the hour for himself has been removed, he can scarcely believe he has not noticed how much time has passed. Measuring time should be like gravity, a constant, and yet—he suddenly realizes how strong of an effect its absence is having on him.

“What is happening to you?” Kuroro is by his side in an instant, a hand against his elbow, and Illumi is aware in a distant sense of how hard he is breathing, how elevated his pulse is. He can slow the latter with pins, and is almost about to reach for the ones adjacent to his throat when Kuroro catches his hand.

“I do not know what has come over you, but you need to breathe,” he says. Kuroro's hand is warm and dry; his is clammy.

“The boat,” is all he can make out, a stutter catching in his borrowed voice, and understanding alights in Kuroro's eyes.

“Are you feeling claustrophobic?” he asks.

Illumi barely understands the question. “What?”

“Being in confined spaces does this, to some people. It's a very common reaction. The easiest cure is more space, which I cannot provide. But I can teleport you away, to the above floor if you do not wish to continue.”

“No.” Ilumi grasps onto Kuroro, his teeth gritted. That cannot possibly be what is wrong with him. There must be another reason, and he will not be a disappointment on his first mission for the Genei Ryodan. He will not fail at the first task set to him, at the first sign of distress.

“Then we carry on. I see a railing up ahead—there may be stairs, or some kind of conveyance to ferry supplies.” Kuroro pauses, then returns the tight grip on Illumi's hand before releasing it. “You can depend on me, you know. You are one of us now, so I will take care of you, if you let me.”

The railing borders an industrial staircase leading to an open series of meeting rooms and a bank of phones, presently unstaffed. A photograph, framed high on the wall, depicts a group in black suits crowded together around a man in a white jacket with sleek, blond hair. Illumi stares at it for a handful of seconds before pulling the pins from his neck and changing the angle, driving them much higher to lift his cheekbones and straighten his nose. A second set at the base of his skull is similarly adjusted to bring his hair from black to a pale white-blond, cascading in a gentle wave over one shoulder. His eyes are angular, more pins changed to approximate his height by studying the others in the photograph. The caption below reads, Hinrigh Biganduffno leads expansion efforts.

“I am very curious about something,” Kuroro says beside him, familiar curiosity inflamed. “Perhaps I could use my ability to replicate your face, instead of finding another. This way we can circumvent the requirements of my ability.”

“And what does yours do?” A deep, mellow voice speaks for him this time, a product of the way his throat and neck has changed to match the picture. He does not know if it will stand up to scrutiny.
“I need to touch someone to take on their likeness,” Kuroro says. “A difficult thing to do when avoiding detection. Will you let me try?”

Illumi nods, and Kuroro brightens, once more conjuring the book and flipping through the pages to one towards the end. A mark appears on his left hand, a solid black circle enclosing an arrow that points towards his wrist. His right, clutching the book, is not visible.

Kuroro reaches towards him, left hand outstretched, and presses his fingertips very lightly to Illumi's borrowed face. A moment later, Illumi stares at a carbon copy of his own efforts, sleek curls and patrician face a mirror to his own.

“Perfect,” Kuroro says, and for once Illumi is faced with the reaction others have to his own ability.

“How strange,” he says. Standing in front of him, Kuroro smiles, the effect uncanny.

“Try to adjust your face again. I want to see if it will affect what I've done.”

Illumi does as instructed, withdrawing the pins in the back of his neck to change his hair from blond to black. Kuroro watches, his enthusiasm undampened.

“Don't we make quite the team,” Kuroro says, the open book tucked against one side.

Illumi shifts the rest of his appearance, taking on the visage of one of the mafia underlings from the photograph. “I agree.”

“I can't wait to see what else we'll accomplish.” He strides forward, his focus drawn so quickly back to the task at hand, and whatever lies at the end of their search.

Illumi unclenches and then closes his fists. They are empty, and when he casts a final glance around this section of the chamber there is nothing in sight that he would ever wish to steal. He has no need for the weapons that other people put their trust in, and little wish for the information and records they seek so diligently beyond the fact that it is something that Kuroro wants, and Illumi wants him to have it. If there were jewels, or relics, or newly-minted coins, he would not seize one even if they were set out for him to take. Even a bowl of apples would be more welcome than that. His stomach rumbles.

“Illumi.”

He looks up at the sound of his name being called; even though the voice is mellifluous and deep, by the tone and candor there is no question it is Kuroro speaking.

He approaches the railing, to stand beside Kuroro. The staircase sweeps down in tight oval curves, and as he ducks his head over briefly he sees three floors down to the floor. The sound of distant voices filters up, and Kuroro places one finger against his lips before taking a measured step down. Illumi follows, keeping his footsteps light, and together they make their way into the second story, which opens onto a kind of waiting room, with leather sectionals stuffed against each wall. Somewhere below, there is a peal of laughter, then the voices wane, like they are moving away.

Kuroro inhales, and Illumi follows his attention to a solid door crowned with elaborate molding and a security grid poised above the door handle. He approaches it and sets both palms to the door, as if completing some internal calculations from a lifetime of prior thefts. Seemingly satisfied, he draws back.

“Shall I teleport you, first?” he asks under his breath.

“Your book—” Illumi begins, but Kuroro only raises it, spinning the pages, and places what looks like an elaborately stamped bookmark alongside his thumb. A moment later, that familiar vertigo sensation tugs at his spine and he is standing with the reverse side of the door a few feet from his back, staring at the interior of an immaculately detailed office.

He had become familiar with Kakin design just from being on the ship a day, and this was that and more—black and red layered against the walls, columns gilded with gold separating lacquered cabinets, the mirrors throughout making the space look so much larger, replicating the painting of a stem of oversize red roses displayed prominently on one wall like it existed in triplicate. A desk in the center of the room was the lone modern piece of furniture; it was made of metal, thick and resilient with a bevy of locked drawers. It is the mirror that catches his attention, and his reflection in it—the borrowed face, slanted shoulders, and jagged edges to his hair—but the wide eyes are very much his own. It is a vulnerable feeling, in a way—they would never have been so open had he been wearing his own face, he knows, but somehow, like this, it is easier to allow such fragile emotions to take root in him and spring into a full, disconcerted bloom.

As he watches the glass, he gets to see Kuroro materialize, book in hand, in a space where previously there was nothing. In the triplicate of the mirror, it is like he appears first in one, then the others. It is a treat he savors; because of this scrutiny, it does not escape his notice that Kuroro's breathing is labored.

“Your ability...” His voice trails off.

Kuroro finishes his thought. “Yes, it takes a toll on me to use—the longer the distance, or the number of uses, the number of targets—it drains my energy. Every ability has a cost, you know. A limitation of some sort. Some are more obvious than others,” he adds, with a wan smile, “but I find that they are all worth it in the end.”

When Illumi tilts his head, one of the pins in his neck sticks painfully against one vertebrae. He thought of his time, as a youth, sticking pins at various angles into one arm and watching the flesh balloon or twist until he achieved the results he wanted. It had taken years of trial and error until he could change a feature at will to his exact specifications. Even longer until he could manage a perfect copy from a photograph with only a handful of well-placed pins. He assumed that had been the cost—the knowledge of what to do and the experience of repetition—but Kuroro watches him with a strange expression on his face that Illumi believes, with sudden veracity, he could never recapture, despite his efforts. It is something that came from the inside, some wellspring of emotion that Illumi cannot presently access, if he ever could at all.

Kuroro reaches a hand for him, and Illumi almost takes it, before the thief notices the desk and bounds towards it, beaming like the force of the sun.

“Look at this! The most secure vault in these offices, and I can tell just by looking that each drawer is opened with a different key.” He does not look up when he speaks, lecturing as though he believes his audience to be enraptured. “It is likely these belong to the head of the Xi-Yu family himself, although my sources tell me he also has chambers on the very top of the ship, for his daily living.”

At this he laughs, leaning closer to the desk, and Illumi cannot see past his body as Kuroro continues to fiddle with the mechanisms, and a moment later the drawer slides open with a bang.

“That's one down!” His manner is so immediately cheerful, a smile thrown Illumi's way, and then he looks back down to the remaining drawers, a piece of wire twisting in his fingers. llumi finds he has nothing to do, and rocks back on his feet, digging his toes into the soles of his shoes.

“And a second...and...and...” Kuroro mutters as he works, as though he is used to such exchanges amongst partners on such heists. As though he's never had to do any of this alone.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Illumi asks, after a pause.

“No,” Kuroro says, and then the last drawer is pulled free with a click. Illumi holds his tongue.

“Ah!” Kuroro exclaims; the last drawer is full of folders, organized with letters like dashes in the Kakin language. Kuroro seems to know what he is looking for, and after a moment he plucks something from within with elaborate gusto.

“The files from the last Succession Crisis,” he says, reading the heading scrawled across the top of the folder. Although it is in excellent condition, it looks like no one has touched it in years.

He flips through it, and Illumi does not move, preferring to stay rooted and watch over Kuroro's shoulder. He can only see a few visible corners, a title here, a name there. About half-way through, Kuroro stops, a page open with a grainy photograph in black and white.

“Ah,” he breathes again, with the kind of expectant adulation that he shows to all his trophies. The photograph is lifted with reverence out of the folder, and held between two steady hands. The margins and back are covered with a wary scrawl—dates and notations that he cannot see clearly. But the image is preserved well enough. An urn, grandiose, something that would not look out of place at one of Yorubia's grand museums. There is a smudge on the photograph, he thinks, until he realizes that it is a part of the urn, that there is something staining the rim. In the monochrome reproduction, he cannot tell what it is.

“They feed it their blood,” Kuroro says, slowly, reading something from the next page, answering his unspoken question. “And it grants them magical powers.”

“What?”

“It says it right here. Strange and unusual abilities.” Kuroro laughs, his voice so patently calm that Illumi believes his feelings are quite the opposite. “I had gotten it wrong. I thought it would give anyone who used it the gifts of Nen. But it seems it can only be used by those with royal blood.”

“Ah.” Now it is Illumi's turn to say it. “That is not what you wanted to hear. You thought you could...use it in tandem with your book? Circumvent the requirements of your ability,” he says, echoing Kuroro's own words from earlier. He has always been one to find every loophole, exploit every opportunity. Illumi remembers being hired to kill the same men in Yorkshin who had hired his own family to kill Kuroro.

“I thought I could generate something extremely worthwhile,” he admits at last. “Something to give me the edge over not just Hisoka, but anyone else.”

The mention of Hisoka, for the first time in so long, sours what had been an already joyless discovery. Illumi looks away. Contemplating once more the paintings of the roses, red in their stems.

“If you cannot use it, is it no longer valuable to you?” Illumi asks, after a pause. Kuroro considers the picture before stashing it inside one pocket, some of the scribbled reports following.

“It can still be of use.” He shrugs, replacing the folder and closing the drawers, one after the other. “I know exactly what it does, and what it looks like. I know that it will grant abilities like ours to the Princes of Kakin. I only need to wait for them to use it, and plan my next move.”

Illumi blinks. “You wish to replace the abilities you've lost?”

“No. I only wish to take from others.”

He supposes, if there was any obvious way to steal power, like Kuroro was trying to do, he would seize it. That is what this object represents for him—power, and growth. Something without end. This urn can give powers to others who use it. He can only steal. It does not bother Illumi, who has been paid to do any number of tasks for his employers, but for someone so used to ascribing a jenni to every action, Kuroro's system of value still manages to surprise him.

“Come on, Illumi. We've spent enough time here, adrift in our thoughts. We are not done yet, not until we have returned to the safety of our chambers. And not even then, when there might be a new threat around every corner.”

He hefts the book, his thumb still stuck between two pages, when Illumi shakes his head.

“Save your strength,” he says, reaching for the door. On this side, there are no consoles or locks to bar their exit, and they return to the central chamber, their search concluded.

They stand together, just breathing, and Illumi is about to suggest they ascend the stairs once more when he stiffens suddenly and draws back.

The clacking of wheels against the tiled floor draws both their attention. The person who approaches them looks barely out of adolescence, dragging an IV pole behind them affixed with a series of bags connected by a lead to one arm. They take a moment to adjust the mess of light-colored hair sweeping back in lazy curls around their ears.

“Hinrigh...” They trail off in a yawn, their oval eyes scrunching tightly. They seem to be paying Illumi no consideration, and he takes advantage of this to move a few steps away, to get a better sense of the company they might soon face. At first there is no further noise he can detect from the open stairwell beyond; a moment later, a phone rings, off in the distance.

“Yes?” Kuroro prompts, with his borrowed voice, his shoulders tight.

“...I thought I heard someone up here,” they say, finishing their thought. They cast their gaze towards the ceiling, as if concentrating deeply to remember something important. “It's late, isn't it?”

Kuroro tilts his head, using the advantage of his height to look down at them. The IV pole clatters again as it is pulled further across the floor. “Not too late for you to be here, either.”

They spin the pole to the side to straighten the tubing. “I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow?”

“Plans change,” he answers smoothly. “My orders were not to be shared with others. You should not ask me about them.”

They nod, seemingly accepting Kuroro's answer with a relaxed attitude that Illumi hopes continues to work in their favor. Kuroro remains still, watching carefully, when suddenly they pause, their nose sniffing at the air like a bloodhound.

“Hinrigh, you smell weird,” they complain, their mouth pulling harshly downward.

Kuroro replies smoothly, “In what way?”

“You showed me a bottle of that cologne you wear, once. What did you call it? Ah, I remember. The Grasse de Mai—made from some certain type of vetiver that only ten perfumers on earth can use. I couldn't believe it when you told me the price.”

Illumi tenses. Kuroro inclines his head, and they continue speaking.

“Well, I could never forget the way it smelled. Deep and bright, all at once. You can walk through an office and go—ah! Hinrigh was here earlier!” Their voice whines, like the vibration of a string pulled tight. “But you don't smell like that now.”

Kuroro's face remains impassive, that easy charm he'd radiated earlier hanging thin. “I bathed, and haven't had time to reapply it.”

“No, that's not it.” They sniff, twice, then step closer and do it again. “You smell like something different.”

Kuroro's mouth opens, and Illumi knows it is only a matter of time before they notice the book, but before he can act there is a loud boom from upstairs and their surroundings shake. A thick cloud of white smoke pours over the railing of the third floor, and Kuroro steps back, throwing an arm over his face in mock surprise.

“What is that?” They look up, the IV pole clutched tight in one pale hand. “Did one of the charges go off again? I told them to stop storing things like that so close together!”

“You!” Kuroro points towards them. “Return to your business. I will see to this.”

“Yes, sir,” they say, and for the first time seem to notice Illumi, head bowed respectfully. They stare, perhaps for a moment too long, and then they pull the IV pole with them as they retreat back to where they came, down the corridor. After a moment, Kuroro reaches for Illumi, his jaw clenched.

“How far can you take us?” Illumi asks, concerned.

“Far enough,” is the answer. He flips the book open, searching the pages. “Hold on.”

Air rushes past his ears, and for a split-second Illumi feels once again both weightless and constricted, like he is being poured into a vessel much too small for his shape, and then his feet touch down upon soft gold carpet and he is breathing again, stable and at ease.

Kuroro appears at his side a moment later, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He grits his teeth, grasping at the spine of Skill Hunter, and the book vanishes with a frisson in the air.

Kuroro's appearance returns to normal, his already weary appearance magnified tenfold now that it is without insulation. Illumi stands straight, tugging at the pins in his head and neck to restore his own appearance, removing any last connection to the identities they had stolen to infiltrate the Xi-Yu offices.

Sweeping his hair over one shoulder, he examines the foreign hallway, one conclusion clear in his mind. “This is not Tier Four.”

“No?” Kuroro's voice comes out as a groan. “I was aiming for up, and didn't really think about the specifics.”

“I'd wager you got that right.” The carpeting—gold and luxurious—is only the first sign that they have moved even higher. The hallways are wider, the walls panelled with thicker and more detailed molding, and the lights recessed into the ceiling are softer and edged with crystals. “I recognize this. We’ve made it all the way to Tier Three.”

“Is that so?” He leans against one wall, and when Illumi glances down either side of the hallway he can see no others approaching. There is a curve in the wall, a ways ahead, and there are voices beyond that, laughter and shouting and what sounds like music.

“You need to rest,” Illumi says. “You cannot do that here. Come on, let's find somewhere more protected.”

Kuroro stumbles on the first step, and he does not protest when Illumi takes his arm and slings it across his shoulders. He has no idea how close or far they might be from his quarters. For the lateness of the hour, they would appear as no more than revelers enjoying the partying a little too much, and Illumi encourages the illusion by matching his staggered pace and responding in kind when another group of partiers joins them at the next turn, raising their glasses and toasting to their good fortunes ahead on this new land. All of the hallways feed into a much larger avenue, styled with lighted panels set into the walls and shopping galleries dotting the perimeter like confections on a cake. The path becomes much more crowded, and a man traveling in the other direction bumps into him as they walk.

When Kuroro speaks it is only to say, “Sahertan vetiver. I would never have guessed.”

The source of the music becomes clear as a large, glass-fronted pavilion becomes visible up ahead. A band is playing beyond it, and strings of glittering lights illuminate a kind of amusement deck beyond. Open-facing bars packed with stylish patrons alternate with loungers arranged by fountains and clusters of flowering plants. An arcade, busy even at this hour, opens on the right, matched by a carousel on the left.

But it is none of this that has caught Illumi's eye.

Beyond the glass wall he can see clouds of palest navy against a slowly lightening sky. The deck is outdoors, and the people walking between the open doors seem to have full appreciation of the fact. He had not been aware such a place even existed on the ship, and now that he knows he cannot help but catalogue every visible detail of the sky, even through the ripple of glass.

He does not realize he has come to a full stop until Kuroro tugs him forward, sliding his arm free as they descend a small staircase to reach the pavilion's gates. A few more steps, and they are outside.
Illumi tilts his chin up, allowing Kuroro now to lead him forward and to some part of the deck further from the dance music and the heaviest crowds. At the very front of the ship, its movement is even more pronounced, but as the floor pitches under their feet it is an easy thing to match it to the movement of the clouds and the slight tinge to the horizon. Many of the stars, Illumi now realizes, he had mistaken for lights, acutely bright this far from the mainland and the splendor of a cosmopolitan city. The sky reminds him of the highest altitudes of Kukuroo Mountain, where the colors of distant galaxies open up like the work of a master painter.

They come to a stop at the side of a bar, closed for the night, near the far railing. Kuroro sinks into a chair while Illumi remains standing. Considering their destination, and the conditions ahead, he knows why there are not more observation decks like these on the Black Whale, but he cannot help the brief sting pleasure that as a resident of this Tier he can access it whenever he likes; it is possibly the one place on this ship where he can feel the wind against his skin.

They are silent for a few minutes as Illumi watches the sky. When he breathes, it does not catch on a pin in his throat, and the breeze, when it comes, does not settle uncomfortably against a bared neck or borrowed face.

“I never got to finish your book,” Illumi tells him, for something to say. “You could tell me how it ends, if you like.”

“It didn't,” Kuroro says, and it takes him a moment to understand the answer. “It had no ending. It simply stopped, right in the middle of an entry, as if something had happened to render it so. The diarist never got to finish their tale, although history has certainly kept accounts of what followed.”

“They died,” Illumi concludes, dispassionately.

“They were killed by a prince who was killed by another, and so on.” Kuroro waves one hand. “The order does not matter. What matters is the ending, in this case.”

Illumi thinks of the man who has sworn to kill the troupe, one after the next, and Kuroro's own earlier assessment of their connection. How weak these princes were. He remembers Kalluto, somewhere in the decks below; there is nothing anyone could do that would make him kill a member of his family. He is less certain, after a moment, that they would have the same sense of restraint for him, if the prize was worth the cost. Then, with a heavy sigh, Kuroro gets to his feet and staggers over to stand beside Illumi at the railing.

“The view was blocked,” he says by way of explanation, shrugging as he rests his arms along the balustrade. “I couldn't see clearly.”

Gradually, with nothing to stand in its way the first strings of light emerge from the horizon. Kuroro's hand brushes against his arm as he adjusts his stance. Later, they will return to Illumi’s cabin, but for now, he is content to remain here. Beyond, as the music tapers off and the last revelers drift off to their cabins, the steady beat is replaced instead by the sound of water crashing against the hull of the ship.

“Tomorrow, I will introduce you properly to the others,” Kuroro is saying, and when the troupe leader continues to talk, to expand upon new plans and make grand exclamations, Illumi turns from the growing sunrise and refocuses his attention back where it belongs. The orange light plays across his cheekbones and illuminates his dark eyes as he begins to tell him more, his words laced with allusions to another old book of his esteem and his pledges so ardent that doubt has nowhere to grow.

The boat pitches again. This time, Illumi barely notices. His feet are steady.