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“I’m the head, you’re the legs,” Chrollo looked at each of his followers in turn, “I would like 13 in total. We’ll need much more than just us.”
“Huh??” Uvogin interrupted in his usual chesty bellow, “We’re more than enough!”
“I believe we are strong,” Chrollo held up a hand, “But, there is power behind this number and I will tell you why, Uvo.”
Uvogin scoffed, but he kept quiet and nodded for Chrollo to continue.
“I chose this number for two reasons. One, any string of numbers higher than nine becomes difficult for the human mind to remember. Granted, our greatest enemies will not be effected by this fluke of psychology, but it will do us good for scrambling information by the mundane minded.”
“So people like Uvo,” Shalnark giggled. Uvo snarled at him, “Oi!”
“Perhaps,” Chrollo didn’t smile, “But, the number holds significance as well. Most will call it an unlucky number, but that’s not where its origins lie. It is the home of all evil and the symbol of rebirth. A number befitting of Meteor City, isn’t it?”
“Jeez, getting religious on us?” Nobunaga chuckled, “Great speech and all, Chrollo. I’m down.”
“I didn’t get any of that, but what Nobunaga said,” Uvo scratched his ear, “The more the merrier!”
“Good with me,” Shalnark shrugged. The rest nodded along.
“I’m glad you agree,” Chrollo nodded, “Thirteen it shall be then. To test us, lead us to suffering and even death. It will renew us and bring us on a path of a higher existence. We’re well on our way down that path, thanks to Machi and Nobunaga.”
Machi huffed, turning her head away.
Pakunoda raised her voice, “So then. We need four more members for this Troupe to be complete. What would our hierarchy be?”
“Original members rank higher,” Feitan said, “Don’t trust outsiders.”
“They may not end up being outsiders,” Chrollo said simply, “I intend to scour Meteor city for the worthy, and if worst comes to worst, I’ll look further.”
“Can we recommend people?” Franklin asked, “I know a few guys who would be more than willing to kill some kidnappers.”
“Of course, but I will get the final say.”
“Gotcha.”
“As for hierarchy,” Chrollo gestured to Pakunoda, “I intend for all members to be equal in value. No one troupe member's goals or opinions will be higher than the other. That way, we work based on efficiency, not whim. The Spider cannot move if its legs do not agree to walk in unison.”
“Not know who is strongest,” Feitan said darkly, “No numbers, no order. No pride.”
“Pride is irrelevant. Any victory a member has, is shared with the rest of the group,” Chrollo gave him a look. Feitan had changed a lot over three years, it was an unnerving but welcome sight, “I understand the need for a ranking system, but if we do, it would have to be something more arbitrary, like a game where only a single skill prevails.”
“. . . . fine,” Feitan grumbled. Pakunoda nodded and folded her arms, “Understood.”
“That being said,” Chrollo mused, looking down at the floor, “I do like the idea of numbers. Assigning numbers is . . could be useful.”
“So we do want numbers, but we assign them not based on skill or prowess,” Machi raised an eyebrow, “I like it.”
“Me too!” Shalnark chipped in, “It’ll be like to keep tabs of how many we have and who we’re missing!”
“The order would have to be chosen randomly then,” Chrollo mused, “I’d rather not though . .”
“We could go alphabetically?” Shalnark stroked his chin. Chrollo shook his head, “That is a method of order. And we won’t be able to fit new members into that pattern.”
“Hmm, what about casting order?” Uvo suggested. Chrollo paused, slowly raising his head, “Casting order?”
“Y’know, like the order we were cast in the original troupe,” Uvo raised his eyebrows, “We go in order of character! It’ll be in an order that we all know, but no one else will! Like an inside joke kind of!”
Chrollo thought about it, looking down at the cracked floor, “Mm . .”
He conjured up the memories of the acting troupe as best he could. The memories were buried deep, forced into a corner of his mind that he rarely had the luxury to visit. He recalled his first day writing the script, handing it to Paku and the girls. It was such a happy day, that day.
From there though, he recalled his first performance, having to shoulder all of the male voices at once. But then his friends- all of them, even his enemies- came to him in a massive flock, each asking for roles of their own. He remembered, it lifted such a heavy weight off of his shoulders; brightened his life in a way he had never imagined it ever could.
He closed his eyes, sealing the longing in his eyes behind heavy eyelids. He wasn’t in his memories to reminisce. That could be done when all of this was over. He recalled what his friends called out to him- or more specifically, who called out first.
“Uvo, that would make you number one then.”
“Eh? Me?” Uvo blinked in surprise, “Why me?”
“The cast had no order,” Chrollo explained, “There was no hierarchy in main or side characters since each character had their own time in the limelight. Even in the credits, it placed whoever had the most speaking lines as first in the roster. So . . . I’m going to propose we assign numbers based on the order of which we assigned roles.”
“Me though?” Uvo curled his lip and scratched the back of his neck, “Didn’t you and Paku and Shiela get roles first? Shouldn’t that make you be number one?”
“I will be taking number thirteen,” Chrollo said simply, “Or zero, perhaps, since I do not belong with the twelve legs.”
“Twelve . . . oh right-”
“I, as the head, should be the outlier, which leaves you with . . a good point,” He looked over at Paku. She merely shook her head, “I was assigned my role. If we’re going in calling order, then it would be Uvogin who approached you first.”
“Still, seems wrong to have Agar-Garbage be placed in the front,” Uvogin shook his head. Chrollo smiled slightly, even after all these years, Uvo still took his role very seriously. Uvo jerked a thumb at Franklin, “I think we should let the main cast take the first seven numbers, then me and Franklin can be eleven and twelve since we played the villains.”
“Fair,” Chrollo hummed. Franklin shrugged, “Hm.”
“Yeah, so I’ll be eleven, Franklin can be twelve,” Uvo folded his arms, “I’m good with that!”
Chrollo’s eye lingered on Franklin, who seemed dissatisfied. The first seven numbers . . . “So, that would make Nobunaga number one, since he was the first to claim a main cast member.”
Nobunaga shrugged, “Fine by me.”
“Then Feitan, as number two.”
Feitan seemed satisfied. Chrollo paused, “As for number three . . .”
“Would be Phinks,” Machi spoke up, “Who’s late, as usual.”
Three. Chrollo dropped his eyes as he lost himself in thought again. Chrollo was superstitious, at least for now he was. He believed there was power in choices like these and meaning behind numbers. That was why he chose thirteen, after all.
“Actually,” Chrollo said slowly, “I would like to reserve the number three.”
“Huh? Why?”
“In the faith, the number three is highly regarded,” Chrollo explained, “It is the number of angels, a representation of purity, or good luck.”
“. . . sooooo,” Uvo thought out loud, “You want to save the number three? Move Phinks up to number four?”
“If we’re going to be superstitious,” Machi cut in, tone icy. Chrollo lifted his chin, amused. It took a lot to get Machi to break that monotone drawl, so she must be getting annoyed by now. Understandable, Chrollo had done quite a lot of talking for something so arbitrary.
“Then four should be reserved as well. It isn’t any belief held in Meteor City, but in Kirimori Valley and most of the Azian nations, four is the number of death.”
“Really,” Chrollo had never heard of this idea before, “Explain.”
“In the language, the word for four and the word for death are eerily similar,” Machi rolled her eyes, “I don’t usually believe in superstition, but if that’s what we’re going with, then I want to omit the number four, if at all possible.”
“Or we can give it to the guy we hate the most,” Shalnark snickered. Machi raised an eyebrow at him, “. . . or that.”
“I can agree to that,” Chrollo said, “In that case then, I want Machi to be number three.”
“Huh?” Machi blinked in surprise. Maybe Chrollo did that just to get her reaction; it was so funny to see her caught off guard. But no, he did have a reason, “I intended, when I explored the meaning behind the number three, to give it to either you or Pakunoda.”
The men in the group all chuckled, Nobunaga even wolf whistled at him, raising an eyebrow. Machi silenced them all with a stone cold glare.
“I mean this when I say, I believe the two of you had an equal part in making this group what it is today,” Chrollo said simply. He addressed Pakunoda first, “You inspired me to continue with the restoration project, and you brought the additional members we needed to fill out the roster without me having to ask. For that, I believe you deserve such a number.”
Then he turned to Machi, “Equally, I believe you are the source of what we are today. By what Renko called a miracle, you were able to earn the right to study Nen. You didn’t have to bring it back to us, in fact if I recall, you were forbade from teaching us at all.”
Machi sighed heavily, closing her eyes. So, Chrollo continued, “But you did, and even though we’re still learning, Nen will be integral to our success in the future.”
He paused, letting the group think about his statements. He believed every word he said, and he could see the group agreed. The boys, who had been laughing at his choices for such an important number, had stopped laughing. He could see genuine recognition in their faces, respect for the two women that he shared in full.
“So then why me,” Machi asked, leveling her gaze with Chrollo. He sensed no malice behind it now, just curiosity and maybe just the tiniest hint of gratitude.
“Because, if I am going to have a guardian against death, I prefer she look something like you,” Chrollo said simply. His lips curved upwards just a little bit, “And, maybe, because I feel bad. You never did get a role in our play, did you?”
“Shut up,” Machi put her hands on her hips, “I told you I never wanted one. But fine, I’ll be your number three.”
“Good,” Chrollo dropped his gaze back to the boys, “Then Phinks will be number five.”
“And that would round out the main cast, aside from the original three girls and red, which you kept,” Shalnark said happily, “If it’s okay with you, I’d like the number six! Since I called my character next.”
Six, that was another important number. Chrollo held his tongue though, since Shalnark looked way too happy to be reasoned with. Why, though? Shalnark had always been a happy kid, even after the tragedy and the grueling work that followed. Even now, his smile was unwavering in a room full of tired eyes and mild scowls.
“Six holds significance in superstition,” Chrollo said, “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure!” Shalnark grinned.
“It’s the number of the beast, meaning deception or imperfection.”
“But! It also means good luck!” Shalnark countered, “It’s a shared number in many beliefs, and I choose to believe the gambler’s six of luck.”
Oh. Chrollo hummed in approval, “. . . is that all?”
“Well it is the order we called characters, and I remember I said who I wanted right after Phinks!” Shalnark shrugged, “That, and we stopped dubbing at episode six! Which was right before my character got his big arc! So I’m sticking with it.”
All good reasoning. There was still a lingering feeling of unease, but Chrollo should learn from this: not all things had to revolve around what he sees. He nodded, “Alright then, Shalnark will be number six.”
“That would make me the last one in the order we established,” Franklin grunted, “And I’d like to be number seven.”
Uvo gasped, “Franklin-!”
“Sorry, Uvo, but this feels right to me,” Franklin sat back, folding his arms over his chest, “It keeps with the order.”
“Hm,” Chrollo looked up at Uvo, “You’re still okay with being number eleven, then?”
“Bah, yeah I’m good with it,” Uvo huffed, “No point in going back. Eleven’s a good number anyway!”
“Okay then,” Chrollo looked up at Pakunoda, “Then, that leaves you.”
“And Sheila,” Paku drummed her fingers on her arm, “I’ll let her take number eight when she returns, and I suppose that leaves me with number nine.”
“Oh, you don’t know,” Chrollo’s eyes widened a bit. Paku went deathly quiet. She stared him down, completely still like a statue, “. . . don’t know what.”
“Sheila disappeared. No one has heard from her in three years. She’s impossible to track down and she left no traces. No note,” Chrollo said, sympathetically. It hurt, when he found out. He had gone looking for her a week after Sarasa’s discovery. She wasn’t there at the funeral and Chrollo had gone looking.
Instead, they found three more bodies, but no sign of Sheila. He remembered taking Uvo and Feitan to the hamlet and asking what happened, but the wet nurses only said her room had been stripped clean for about three days now.
She was gone. Completely gone.
“She’s not dead, as far as we know,” Chrollo said quietly, “But she has left Meteor City and we have no means of finding her.”
“I see,” Paku murmured. She dropped her gaze, “. . . I will keep number nine. Just if- . . . if we find her.”
“Understood,” Chrollo nodded. So, that left four spots open. Number Four, Number Eight, Number Ten and Number Twelve. Four for the most evil, Eight for a lost friend, Ten for an outsider, Twelve for someone new. Yes, Chrollo could work with this.
He clasped his hands behind his back and stood up straight, just as Father Lisores taught him, “Alright then. We’ll find more members as we go. For now, this is what we are: The Spider.”
The twelve legged spider, with Chrollo as their head.
The Phantom Troupe is what they were called. They had two names now, and two markings to show they were what they claimed. The Phantom Troupe, or The Spider. The numbered tattoo, or the coin.
Their ranks filled out nicely within the next year. Eight was given to a wayward soul. A member of Meteor City who had watched them from afar and chose to lend them a hand. They owed the troupe no loyalty, not yet at least. For their generosity, they were given this number.
Ten was given to an exiled warrior. They found him wandering the desert outside the city, singing without moving his lips. He was considered their enemy, until he performed for them. For his beauty, he was given this number.
Twelve was given to a child. Another young resident of Meteor City, desperate and hungry. A thief, skilled enough to escape the spider’s web and live. They grew up under the Spider’s wing, exploring their potential until they became a worthy conjuror, the only one pure in their class. For their devotion, they were given this number.
As for four, they left that number empty for a long time.
It wasn’t until they left Meteor City that they found someone. He was sinister. He was powerful. He couldn’t be trusted. For his death, he was given this number.
The spider of twelve legs was born that day.
Eight years before the Massacre.