A HunterXHunter fanfic (Part III)
September 1st, Yorknew City 9:37PM
Don Marscapone was a busy man. After sending a few upper bosses from his personal circle to make his presence felt at the auction, he had been to an ultra-exclusive hairdresser, a top-dollar tailor, and a pricey Swedish massage parlor that could knead the prickles out of a cactus. He believed in being ready. But of course, nothing would ready him for the sight of Nijiiro's black figure-cutting floor-length number hugging the serpent tattoo all the way to her hip and an inch beyond. Her pale skin contrasted sharply with the tattoo's eerie photorealism, and now that the tension in his blood had boiled away at him for the past six months, he had decided he'd have her in every way he desired, or else.
Nijiiro strolled leisurely across the nearly empty tarmac toward the Don, smiling as sweetly as she ever had. The ribbons adorning her black lace veil, set like a stylish mask across her multicolored eyes, fluttered gently in the breeze created by the airship's propellers, and even through this veil she was forced to squint at the landing pad that was lit brighter than a Christmas tree. She did her best to look impressed. Of all her assets, Don Marscapone was the very hardest with whom to remain truthful. Well, her version of truthful. 'What a putz' she thought inwardly, 'all he's ever done is roll his money out in front of me, like a child parading his toys around, and he's not even pretending to care about his wife anymore. He thinks he's playing hardball, but in reality he's not even trying.' She sighed, but through her current facial expression it appeared quite doting.
“My esteemed Don Marscapone, of the Marscapone Family. I've waited for a night like this for such a long time, my eagerness got the better of me, and I left early. I'm surprised to be here second,” Nijiiro said, perhaps a little too coyly. But that was exactly what turned old Marscapone's gears, of course. He loved to play King. The man honestly believed he was at the pinnacle of existence, and thus needed to chase romantic affairs and wealth to stay in touch with his youth, despite being nearly eighty-two, thrice married, and obscenely wealthy. And what a chase she'd given him. While she played the part of the consummate love interest, he'd become so entrenched in her game, he'd nearly had his own brother killed and handed the keys to his financial records - all of his financial records - over to her with nary a thought to the danger of it. Nijiiro held him so deeply in pity, she wondered whether she should kill him where he stood, and get it over with now. She glanced at the tarmac. She wouldn't want to get blood on it, in case he'd left any ground-level security crew behind after takeoff. No, he would vanish into the sky tonight, just as she'd planned. An even more pliable puppet would take his throne at the Council of the Ten Dons tomorrow night.
“Count my enthusiasm that much greater than yours, Mon Cheresse*,” said the Don, returning her smile with interest. 'Let's get this over with' Nijiiro's inner monologue groaned. She took the arm he proffered gracefully, glad of her opera-length gloves between them. She hadn't offered her nineteen-year-old body to the old goat, nor would she ever stoop to such, but the Don was clearly unaware of that as he leered sideward to her decolletage. Superhuman vision able to read the barest hint of an expression on a man's face often presented Nijiiro's mind with ugly truths that others were spared, and tonight Don Marscapone's expression made her acutely aware of that fact. Of course, the Don's need for privacy only guaranteed that no other powerful associates of the Don would be present to muck things up. They mounted the steps to Marscapone's disgustingly opulent airship arm in arm, lost in idle chatter while bodyguards followed them nervously, walking backward up the staircase and searching for threats to the Don. In the exact wrong direction, as it soon turned out.
September 1st, 11:23PM
“There wasn't any merchandise?” inquired Chrollo mildly, holding his cell phone a few centimeters from his ear. Clearly, some one with higher authority than even the Community auctioneers had moved very quickly, and prioritized the safety of the guests at the Cemetery Building well below that of the treasure slated for the auction. Fascinating.
“No, the safe was empty,” grunted Uvogin over the receiver, already itching to punch something, “According to the auctioneer, the only one who was aware of the situation, everything in the safe had been moved a few hours before the auction was supposed to start. It's like they expected this to happen.”
“Oh?”
“Don't you think the timing is a little too perfect here?” Uvogin continued, his face darkening. “We have...a Judas among us.”
“So you're saying one of us is a traitor?” said Nobunaga, loudly enough that Chrollo could hear him on the other end of the call. Even without being present, Chrollo could sense the tension soar among the seven powerful albeit headstrong Nen users. Even if there was a traitor, which seemed unlikely, he could simply have Nijiiro sniff them out later. For now, it was time to re-direct the team.
“There are no traitors. And, in my opinion, Judas wasn't a traitor. It's said that Judas sold Jesus out for thirty pieces of silver. Supposing a 'traitor' had sold us out, what price would he ask of the Mafia? What would he stand to gain?...Money? Glory? Power? Can you honestly believe those things would be enough for any of us?” Hisoka, sitting in the window of the Spiders' temporary base across the room from Chrollo, fought to keep a neutral expression. Counting himself, there were at least two traitors, and neither were friends of the Mafia, not by a long shot. He turned to face out of the window and smiled at the full moon.
“...No. You're right. There is no traitor among us,” said Uvogin, almost embarrassed. The Boss had a way with words, all right.
“See?” said Chrollo, cool as the figurative cucumber. “Besides, something else here doesn't add up. Assuming there was a spy, their response was far too tepid. If they had information indicating that the Gennei Ryodan would appear at tonight's auction, they would have added much stronger security. The guests were all uninformed and unarmed. I believe some one provided information that wasn't explicit. And a leader of the Mafia Community believed it.”
“I don't get it...who told whom what? Whatever. What should we do now?”
“Did you ask the auctioneer where the merchandise was moved to?”
“Yeah, but he swore on his life he didn't know. Feitan tortured him, so we know he wasn't lying,” Uvogin replied, a disappointed tone detectable in his gruff voice.
“Did you get the names of anyone who might know?” pressed Chrollo, not one to waste cell data, much less his own breath.
“But of course. The auction is run by the Mafia Community heads, who lead gangs in each of the ten regions around the world. They're called the Ten Dons. This is the only time the all ten gather in one place, to discuss business and issue directives. Their directives are carried out by the Injiyuu, the Shadow Beasts, who represent the Dons' top combatants.”
“I see...and so, since the Injiyuu weren't guarding the auction house, the Mafia didn't know we were coming.”
“Makes sense.”
“And how did they move everything from the safe?”
“Here's where it gets complicated. The treasure was stored in a safe of about twenty-five meters squared, stacked floor to ceiling with goods. According to the auctioneers, a single member of the Injiyuu walked in, then walked out a moment later...empty handed. Yet the safe had been wiped clean. It may be a guy called 'The Owl'.”
“Ah. He may possess a Nen ability similar to Shizuku's,” Chrollo said, the barest hint of a smile forming on his face. Such an ability would be invaluable for future operations, and now it was as good as his.
“Yeah, probably.”
“Surely, after five hundred people disappeared from the auction hall into thin air, the Mafia has at least realized...that they're dealing with Nen users.”
“So...we can go wild?” Uvogin countered with the thought that was always at the forefront of his mind. They were sending the Injiyuu, chief among the Mafia's Nen users. There'd be a good fight, after all. He grinned.
“Of course. Put on a big show for the pursuers, that will draw them out.” Chrollo said. He thought about adding an instruction to leave the one called Owl alive after locating the treasure, but then again, he knew Machi would see to it without a word from him. She was...exceedingly loyal to him, and a shade smarter than the rest. He ended the call. Hisoka was still staring out of the window, fantasizing about breaking Chrollo, but also wondering if he should report any of this to Nijiiro. On the one hand, she loved information. On the other, she'd predicted Chrollo's phone call and subsequent decision so minutely, he had a strange feeling she already knew.
September 1st, 11:46PM
Nijiiro took the very daintiest sip of her second snifter of powerful apple brandy and watched Don Marscapone's face turn absolutely aghast as he took the call that informed him of the Gennei Ryodan's attack on the auction house and the hundreds of missing guests, including one his closest associates. For the last two hours, there had been a long exchange of coquettish wordplay, a chess game Nijiiro struggled greatly to lose, a boring, thinly-veiled discussion on the supposed merits of 'inter-generational discourse', a glass of brandy and the presentation of an absolutely stunning sapphire pendant the size of a hen's egg to Nijiiro, who blushingly accepted as though she hadn't seen the purchase on his bank statements eight days ago. Things might have become even more boring if not for the frantic ringing of all the phones of Marscapone's security team, followed by a stern hand-off of cell phones between his head-of-security and the Don himself. He nodded twice, and then grunted as he slowly comprehended the gravitas of the situation. Nijiiro made her face inscrutable and patiently waited for the Don to gird his loins, swallow his unspeakable egotism, and beg for her advice face-to-face for once. Right about now, there should be a hot air balloon with seven disgruntled Spiders drifting westward toward the Desert of Gordeau. Nijiiro ran back over the calculations she'd made yesterday evening. If she sped the airship to about one hundred eighty knots, changed course fifteen degrees Southwest and adjusted the altitude within fifty meters of the cloud cover, her eyes would have sufficient light to follow the balloon's trajectory without a chance of being spotted.
“Mon Sanctifié Bodhisattva...Your 'vision'...has become reality once again. My men, the ones I sent to the Community...They never stood a chance. The treasure alone is safe, thanks to you, but...”
“...But you wish to know what should happen now, given the hundreds of missing guests and the possibility of hostages?”
“Your power of inference never fails to amaze.”
“And what would you give for that information?”
“A thousand sapphires like this,” he said beckoning at the gem on her throat, “ and half of my soul.”
“Only half?” Nijiiro purred, knowing every second he waited was agony. Her inner sadist began counting down the seconds until she could safely slit his pretentious throat.
“I can give no more, as half belongs to you already, Bodhisattva. Tell me...please. Where are the hostages?”
“There are no hostages.”
“Then...where...?” Don Marscapone blinked.
“Nowhere. They have all been killed. Slaughtered. By the powerful thieves' guild known as the Gennei Ryodan.”
“What? Those murderous Spiders?!”
Nijiiro rose to her feet and smiled. She turned and swept the thick coif of silver hair off the back of her neck, revealing the original Gennei Ryodan spider tattoo. The ashen expression on the Don's wrinkled face intensified to a whiter shade of pale. She strode over to the gilded antique record player sitting conspicuously in the corner of the airship's luxurious drawing-room cabin and set a record on it. Flipping the switch on the turntable, she turned herself to face the trembling old man with a look of utter pity as 'Habanera' of Carmen fame drifted up from the golden speakers. The moment they'd all been waiting for, whether they knew it or not. Nijiiro had activated Passion, and her eyes gleamed a deep violet behind their tulle shroud. A veil and a cane do not a blind woman make.
“Oh, Marscapone. And you were so sure the Nostrade girl's fortune-telling would keep you safe tonight. But nothing is safe from my intervention. If I want a few hundred powerful Mafioso dead, it will be done. Be it by the Spiders you know...or the Spider you don't.” Of course, the security team would see their boss rise to his feet, shouting for his men to speed the aircraft up to one hundred eighty knots, steer it fifteen degrees southwest, and send the Injiyuu under his command to the Gordeau desert in pursuit of the bandits. And they would comply, barking their orders to one another and their associates on the phone, blissfully unaware that Nijiiro had ever risen from her seat, or that their boss was being lifted bodily from his chair by the woman they'd always tacitly assumed to be blind, his body numbed by drugged brandy. The illusion was beyond perfect, and she had left only the Don out of it, that he might make the very expression Nijiiro was now savoring. It was time to pay the price for mediocrity in the world of deadly criminals.
“You did this. No...My Bodhisattva. My Muse. No, why would you do this? How...?” Marscapone stuttered, and the shock on his face nearly made Nijiiro laugh out loud.
“This is my victory, mon Triste Faux-Empereur.” She brought him to the massive glass window on the port side of the airship by his finely hand-embroidered lapels as he struggled to gain control of his body well enough to stop her, and failed. Reaching into his waistband, she drew out his signature weapon, a custom bejeweled, engraved nine millimeter he'd allegedly used to kill his first enemy. Four strategic shots into the glass behind the Don, and the mounting air pressure from the ship's propellers blasted fragments of the massive glass panel into the cabin, the security team still oblivious as the shards spun past them, or even into the men themselves. As far as they were concerned, their boss was calmly smoking a cigar, still in his favorite armchair. The real Marscapone stumbled backward, his heel kicking a few glass shards over the edge of the hole in the side of his beloved airship. With her free hand, Nijiiro caught a handful of his Italian silk tie, and he dangled backward over the edge for a moment, his wide eyes reminding her strongly of a trapped animal's.
“Sergei! Sergei! For GOD'S SAKE, MAN, STOP HER!!” screamed Marscapone, struggling not to fall through the open window frame as the strength in his legs and back quickly gave way. The Sergei in question remained oblivious, carrying out his illusion-made boss' orders even as the air rushing in from the open window turned the room into a bottled hurricane, and every scrap of paper and fabric flew about in disarray with glass shards from the shattered window. Nijiiro breathed in deeply, enjoying the music, and calmly shot all ten security guards dead with the pistol in her left hand. Holding the now-empty handgun next to Marscapone's face, she let it go, and his eyes filled with horror as they watched it make its three-thousand-meter descent Earthward. “You lying cunt...you were the light of my life...You said, said we'd be together...to the end...” he gasped in desperation.
“I never lie, darling. And this is the end.” She let go. The music climaxed just as the great Don made his final bloody mark upon the world. “Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi, indeed,” Nijiiro agreed, switching off the record player. Nijiiro liked her men a little more down-to-Earth, anyhow. She removed her gloves and looked for another weapon among the bodies of the security crew, pleasantly shocked to find an authentic single-digit Benz knife. 'Finders keepers, Muchacho.' she thought, looking at its previous owner. Casually slitting the throat of one very surprised helmsman, who had been lost in a now terribly ironic track called “Pay Attention” ala Dilated Peoples, she took control of the airship, and set it to ascend to cloud-level. She'd be in visual range in less than five minutes, but to be close enough to read lips she would have have to be just a few hundred meters from the targets, which meant a steady, slow but inconspicuous cruising speed over the scene would be best. Unable to stop herself, she flipped through the cockpit's entertainment menu until she found Saint-Saëns' 'Le Carnaval des Animaux' and hit play. “Now let's see what these so-called Injiyuu are really made of...” she thought aloud, smiling. Best case scenario, all of the Ryodan's forward attackers were wiped out by the Injiyuu, and Shalnark and Shizuku were captured by the enemy. Worst case scenario, she would have to move to Plan 'B'.
Thirty-five kilometers away, the balloon bearing Uvogin and the others made landfall on a cliffside in the Gordeau Desert, and the stage was set. But to her eternal disappointment, the combined efforts of two hundred armed mafioso couldn't even touch the first of her Spiders. Not only that, but she watched droves of the idiots scramble about in a vain attempt to take on Uvogin, a master Enhancer, with guns and explosives, even though it was obviously futile from the beginning. They actually left the other six on the cliffside utterly unmolested, even though they had snipers at their disposal. Nothing but illogical actions by chimps in suits...it made her teeth grind. From the first useless, disorganized attack by the four - only four, for fuck's sake, against seven of the Ryodan - Injiyuu, she could see how hopelessly outclassed the mafia was. An organization of the world's most successful criminals, millions strong, with bottomless wealth, and this is what protected it? She wanted to scream. Picking up her cell phone, she made a call to her next asset, informing him of the new steps he was to take. Marscapone, Jr., being little more than putty as far as Nijiiro was concerned, obediently put out the call to the world's best hit men, assassins and hired mercenaries, at her behest. He had asked her for his father's throne, and now, she had given it to him. Not that he would likely enjoy it for very long, for if the assassination plan failed, his life was as good as forfeit, but that was none of her concern. Her next call was to a local underboss, a quirky bikini-wearing fellow named Toolie, wiring him twenty billion of the late Don's personal fortune to aid in rounding up the Spiders using any and all means, including the underground auction system. She used him for this kind of thing because Toolie had a motto of “never ask questions” which helped explain both his personal ethos and his wardrobe. She wired the rest as an investment to her fake holdings company, which would then spread the funds around to her various shell companies, which would convert them into secure bank accounts in Padokia, far from the reach of international law. 'Sorry, Junior. It looks like your old man's inheritance won't be reaching his oblivious prodigal son. Being clueless has a price, you know.' Just as she hung up, however, something caught her eye. Of the six Mafia henchmen who had bothered to hang back and observe Uvogin before charging in at him, one suddenly strode forward. He stopped for a moment, being halted by his comrades, but then straightened and resumed his path toward Uvo. '...Was that a goddamned flute!? Whatever. Maybe blondie's got a plan. This might be good.' thought Nijiiro, checking her watch. She turned the airship forty degrees westward, and watched carefully as they circled their vehicles around to behind the cliff where the rest of the Ryodan sat playing cards or watching Uvo disinterestedly. To her utter amazement, the blonde one actually managed to snag Uvo right out from under Shalnark's gaze, his Nen technique so smooth and unexpected that not even a single member of the Ryodan had time to intervene. 'Hmm...Must be using In'. It was hard to tell sometimes, as her eyes saw straight through In. She followed them all the way back to a Nostrade's storage facility, which, like most Nostrade properties, was situated in an industrial park on the western edge of Yorknew City. Was this blonde one, perhaps...the mysterious Kurta survivor turned pro Hunter? She certainly hoped so, because while he occupied the unlikely slot of Plan D, his fighting style seemed flexible enough to take on most of the Ryodan, with the notable exceptions of Bolonev, Machi, and Feitan. The total letdown of witnessing the Injiyuu beaten to pulp by the loud, easily-countered Nen abilities of Uvogin might as well have an upside, and if the Kurta could at least take out one Spider tonight, and give her a plausible excuse to intervene in this job directly, then...Her plans might get a little more complex, but one way or another, the destruction of the Spider was beginning at last. Realizing that the other six Injiyuu would be destroyed shortly, that single-digit addition would reveal Uvogin's captors to be rank-and-file mafia men, and that Shalnark would be able to find the facility with ease thanks to the information she'd uploaded to the pro Hunter website, Nijiiro decided to err on the side of caution. She quickly sent Hisoka an encoded text that simply read 'You're late for the meeting.' He'd understand. Hopefully the Nostrade bodyguards would manage to kill Uvo before Shalnark infiltrated their communications network and the storage facility, but knowing the Mafia, they'd try to torture him first. And knowing Uvogin, Nijiiro could sense they'd reach a dead end with that approach. She could only hope the Nostrade's personnel were smart enough to reach the correct conclusion before the Spiders descended on them in force, and wiped out yet another asset before it even became an asset. 'Ah, now what to do with this grandiloquent mess of a ship...' she thought, gazing around at the chaotic scene she'd created in the airship. She set the autopilot on a trajectory passing through the airspace directly above Beitacle Hotel and popped the flight recorder out of its hardened steel housing, using the Benz knife infused with a little of her own Nen. These knives always had a manner of ending up in the hands of the most talented killers, which she took as a compliment, given the circumstances. She lit a fragrant brown cigarette, and waited for the ship to get closer to the hotel, musing silently. If the Nostrade bodyguard lot made it out in time, or better yet, defeated Uvo's rescue crew, they'd undoubtedly re-group at the hotel. They were bodyguards, after all. And thanks to her timed uploads to the Hunter site, the body of she whom they were guarding would inevitably come under assault by none other than Chrollo Lucilfer. 'Chrollo never could resist a rare Nen ability. And this one's a gem to outshine them all.' She'd never acknowledge it, even to herself, but she was a tad jealous of the Nostrade girl's ability. Precognition would have come in handy on that day, in the secondhand bookstore in Meteor City... She avoided the thought for what could well have been the ten millionth time. Nostalgia could wait. Her machinations could not. And Chrollo wouldn't be keeping that ability, even if he managed to steal it, she'd make sure of that. It was an ability that had proven difficult to work around, even as she ascended the social ranks of Mafia beadledom. New predictions could be done over and over again – thus, even as she adapted her schemes, plans that were months, sometimes years in the making - her enemies could gain new information on a moment-to-moment basis. Now that Neon Nostrade had served her purpose in bringing the Kurta to Yorknew City, her ability was nothing more than a threat. Unfortunately for Miss Neon, and the ones in charge of her safety, that was an ability she couldn't allow to persist. Of course, she'd considered making the girl an asset, but then again, escaping from Chrollo didn't have room for cumbersome, fragile excess baggage, and she couldn't see herself putting in the time or work required to turn a person like Neon into anything else. She ground out her cigarette in the right eye of the helmsman's corpse and stood. 'It's high time for a catastrophic engine fire, isn't it?' Nijiiro set every corner of the place ablaze, ensuring the cabin and its gruesome contents would escape forensic analysis - for a few days at least - as the whole gilded disaster burned to a crisp and then sank into Yorknew Bay.
Nijiiro dropped quietly onto the roof of the luxurious Beitacle Hotel, her perfectly trained body thinking nothing of the fifty-meter fall. She stood for a few minutes to watch Marscapone's airship explode into a massive fireball as sirens wailed past the hotel en route to the Bay. The airship's current velocity meant it would crash into the water, missing most of the shipping lanes but still halting traffic out of the Bay until emergency response crews could drag the wreckage out of the way, which could take days, especially once they learned Marscapone, Sr., was introuvable. The Spiders were down one escape route. The Mafia's corrupt police force would only be spread that much thinner as officials devoted all of their time to finding out who had destroyed the great Don Marscapone's personal zeppelin. Two proverbial birds with one airship, not too shabby. The dress was still in good shape, too, but to be cocktail-ready she'd have to wash some pilot blood off her hands. 'It's a dirty job, but some one's gotta do it' she thought, and grinned to no one in particular. She activated Fortune, and her eyes glowed a deep bottle-glass green. She tapped four random digits into the digitally coded lock of the steel roof access door, and of course it opened on the first try. What luck, tee-hee. Nijiiro didn't mind paying for it in her own blood, but Fortune had a nasty habit of drawing more than it should, moreso at moments when she could least afford it. A power as fickle and cruel as random chance itself. At the moment, however, she was in no rush, nor was she incapable of opening the door with brute force, and so Fortune would likely draw a reasonable hundred-milliliter-or-so payment directly from her veins. She glided down the emergency stairs rapidly in spite of her rhinestone-encrusted stiletto heels, then took an elevator to the 38th floor jazz lounge and washed up thoroughly before ordering a whiskey sour. The 38th floor had a lovely wide balcony facing the bustling main thoroughfare to downtown, but more importantly, it held a clear view of the main entrance to the hotel lobby. Nijiiro wanted nothing more than to sip her drink, listen to a surprisingly good version of “Hard Hearted Hannah,” and stake out the front entrance until the Nostrade bodyguards – or what was left of them - made their return. But an outfit like hers, on a figure like hers, in a place like this, never went unnoticed for long. As if pulled by an invisible string, a confident, middle-aged Mafioso in custom Italian everything made his appearance, staggering a little under the weight of too much Dom Perignon. Nijiiro glanced him over; paunchy-but-not-too-fat, medium complexion tinted heavily with spray tan, outstanding mustache, authentic but oversized bejeweled gold rosary nestled in the salt-and-pepper chest hair sticking out of his conspicuously half-buttoned silk shirt. Enough cologne to overwhelm her on a breezy 38th floor balcony. Charming.
“Buona sera, mia bella signora,” he said, slurring his words a little. She had a good idea of who he was. And that she wouldn't be getting rid of him easily. For this was an upper Boss of the Monterrey Clan named Francisco the Teeth, famous for collecting and gold-plating the teeth of those he had curb-stomped and executed, and then wearing said teeth as fashion statements. Nijiiro rolled her eyes behind her veil. Mafia men never did anything new.
“Buona sera, signor Francisco. I hear your foray into the Lubo region was a resounding success,” Nijiiro said politely. Francisco leered at her in a drunken stupor and, apparently finding an invitation in her words, slid onto the opposing stool at the narrow two-seated table. Perhaps her blood was still up from massacring Marscapone and his men, but she was already itching to drop another Mafia big-shot from a tall place tonight.
“Mi sorprendi, bella. What does this lovely young girl like yourself, know of the Francisco's business, mmm? Tell Francisco. Sei solo stasera?” he slurred on, obviously unaware of who she was. So much the better. Despite being the global mafia's most powerful information broker, Nijiiro had a habit of cleaning up behind herself so well that no one recognized her work, much less her face. The phantom of the Phantom Troupe. The hidden Spider in a never-ending web of influence, whose work rarely even brought her outside Meteor City. It was said that her business card might as well be a blank slip of paper. If a blank slip of paper could make grown men piss themselves, that is.
“Non più, it would seem,” she sighed. Could she kill all of the mafioso that annoyed her? Probably. Would there be anything left to preside over afterwards? Probably not. Not that she fancied herself a ruler. Manipulating the might of the global mafia might seem like an excellent end goal, for anyone else, but in reality, Nijiiro's goals lay well beyond the boundaries of anything the mafia could touch. Literally.
“You look troubled, bella. Tell Francisco what troubles, eh? Anything you want, I can make happen.”
Nijiiro looked out at the street, then over to the bar, where Frankie's associates sat laughing and making rude hand gestures between glances at her table. Why not tell him? He could always accidentally fall off the balcony afterward.
“You really want to know?” Nijiiro said softly, taking a sip of whiskey. 'Last chance, Francisco.' she added silently in her head. Francisco chuckled.
“Sí, sí, of course.” He eyed her breasts as he answered, signing his own death warrant.
“I'm having trouble...with a man.”
“What this man has done to you, eh? Francisco can have him dealt with tonight. Tell me his name, poof! Scompare completamente! Then you spend the night with me instead, bella.”
“He has done all kinds of things to me, Francisco. Both great and terrible. Mostly the latter. But tell me something, have you read the Christian bible?”
“Sí,” he replied, lying through his teeth. Nijiiro looked at the gaudy cross trapped in his chest hairs and back to the hotel entrance below.
“And what do you think of the Christian God?”
“Dio è la nostra salvezza, is he not?” Francisco returned quizzically, clearly not prepared for prodigious philosophical discourse.
“Salvation...hmm...I think not. In fact, I believe, that if you read the Christian bible, really read it, you'll find that God is no more than the greatest enemy of all mankind.”
“And what does that make Satan, eh?” said Francisco, chuckling.
“Angry, I suppose. God betrayed them both, you see. For the same reason. For yearning...to be free. For seeking the truth in knowledge. For the crime of imagining that a self-appointed God could have an equal. I sought an equal in Chrollo, and he cast me down, betrayed me, just as God cast Lucifer, his favorite, his best, into eternal hell. I know what it is to be trapped in a hell of your own making, unloved by the one you worship, blamed by him whom you love most, and yet used for your brilliance, the brilliance what should make you his equal...He fashioned my love, my weakness for him into his own authority, casting me as a villain guilty of his own misdeeds. He took my comrades in arms, turned them into brainwashed thralls that would commit atrocities at a twitch of his fingers. I aided him in creating my family, the Gennei Ryodan, because I believed, truly believed, that together we could...upend the rules of society, the rules of the world, that said Meteor City and everyone in it were powerless trash...that if we just had enough power, we could have freedom from the irrational laws of an unjust, unequal world. I believed, as truly and piously as anyone can believe, that I could compel my comrades to help me conquer the unknown world in pursuit of that wonderful, impossible truth, a truth that lives in our very veins. Instead he declared himself my superior, destroyed the freedom I sought to give us all. I love him, and yet...I can't forgive him. Not until I show Chrollo...just how much that freedom means to me. Even if it means destroying everything I've wrought with my own two hands.” Nijiiro finished her drink and looked over at the drunken Francisco, who by then had some suspicion that she was not a random hotel bar pickup, and was sweating bullets with a very disturbed look on his orange face, his eyes tracing the rising twin dragons that wound their way up the entirety of Nijiiro's left arm. A lounge cover of “Sympathy for the Devil” made a timely entrance into the background. Francisco the Teeth moved, intending to leave. “Sit down, Francisco,” Nijiiro said, in a voice colder than pack ice. Francisco sat. “Now hand me your cell phone,”she said, holding her hand out. He quickly complied. The hooligans watching them from across the bar made yowling noises that would have embarrassed an alleycat, assuming Frankie had succeeded in scoring a phone number.
“Look, lady, I didn't know -”
“Nijiiro.”
“Eh?”
“My name is Nijiiro. Nijiiro Kosai.”
“Ni-Nijiiro, hey, look, I think, we get off on a wrong foot here, I didn't mean to upset. You uh, have struggles, Francisco understands. We can talk about, I will tell no one. Francisco have many struggles, too. We tell each other, we make some trust, and...”
“You see, Francisco? You can be civil, after all,” Nijiiro said, calmly rolling the ice ball around her empty glass.
“Sí, sí, Francisco is always trying best to be civil for beautiful ladies.”
“Oh? That was your best attempt?” Nijiiro lit a cigarette. Below, she watched four of the Nostrade bodyguards rush into the hotel lobby, all looking various shades of terrified. Blondie was not among them. 'So he was the Kurta, after all.' Nijiiro mused, smiling ever so slightly. The drunken Francisco misinterpreted the smile as a sign that his nervous backpedaling had worked. He reached under his sport-coat slowly in a furtive bid for his gun.
“Per favore, bel- Miss Nijiiro, tell Francisco how to make you satisfied. I do anything you ask, just say it,” he said, slapping a shit-eating grin onto his face in a vain attempt to mask his nervousness. Nijiiro tired of him. Deciding the price was worth it, she activated Dominance, and her eyes lit a feral orange. She looked him square in the eye, an important move concealed beneath her veil.
“Very well, Francisco. I'll tell you. As soon as I stand up, you will count to ten. And when you're done counting to ten, you will climb over the railing here, and jump off. And when you jump, I'll have finally rid the world of your vapid, puerile blathering, you meat-headed shit-pile.” She stood, watching his face contort in terror as he began to count aloud, entirely against his will. Perhaps it didn't seem very sporting of her to use Nen, but then again, she did leave him a full ten seconds to try and shoot her with his pistol before he died, and he didn't. Nijiiro let him count to five before she sauntered away toward the bar, letting the gasps and screams of the lounge patrons confirm what she already knew. Dominance left no room for disobedience. Of course, it came with its own terrible price, and after using not only Dominance, but Passion and Fortune in the same day, Nijiiro was beginning to feel the strain all the way to her bones. Between the cuts and bruises caused by Passion, the blood loss of Fortune and the feverish aches of Dominance, she would be in for a rough night unless she activated Serenity, and soon. Nijiiro stepped into the elevator just as her cell began to vibrate. It was Hisoka. She accepted the call, silently holding the phone to her ear.
“It's me.”
“What's the verdict?” Nijiiro asked, keeping her voice low. She decided to head for the clothing boutique on the fourth floor, pressing the appropriate button as the doors closed. Secret Spider or not, this outfit was far too flashy for a stakeout in mafia territory.
“Inconclusive.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Nijiiro frowned.
“He's demanded another meeting tomorrow night.”
“We don't have time to play the dating game, Hisoka.”
“There's more. Uvogin is on the hunt for your Kurta survivor. Apparently, he's out for blood.”
Nijiiro pressed her palm to her forehead and drew a deep breath. They hadn't even managed to kill Uvogin yet, the incompetent little cunts. She stepped out of the elevator, struggling to hold her temper. Letting Hisoka know just how nervous she was could cause him to lose faith in her plan, and loyal he was not.
“And the others?” she asked, knowing the answer but still compelled to confirm her suspicions.
“Safe and sound. The treasure has been located, as well.”
“...Lovely. Are the Scarlet Eyes among the treasures?”
“I don't believe so.”
“Is Chrollo still at the base?”
“Indeed he is.”
“Text me when he leaves. I have to go now.”
“Be careful out there, Niji-chan.”
“No promises.” She ended the call and sighed.
Nijiiro knew the strength of the Spiders better than anyone, but only now did it dawn on her just how hard it would be to kill them all...without getting her hands dirty, that is. To be fair, she despised the idea of having to kill them, directly or indirectly. Chrollo was her only real target, and she wasn't even resolved to kill him. The challenge she faced, however, was fundamentally the same as the one facing Hisoka: Chrollo held absolute sway over the other Ryodan, and they would enforce his will, even to the point of opposing Nijiiro herself. That obedience was one thing she could never really understand. What was the point of being a class-A outlaw if you were going to simply turn around and bow to another face of authority? Of course, all of the others simply took his orders. Only she had been broken like a wild mare, reined in and kept as his personal property. She had seen his best, his worst, his love, and his wrath, and now only she dared to defy him. The fragile peace that held them together had long since shattered, and now the only things compelling Nijiiro to remain Chrollo's captive varlet was her own psychological weakness, and his power base; that is, the Spiders.
Nijiiro slid the Benz knife through the deadbolt on the boutique door as if cutting through butter. She also ran the knife along the top of the door, slicing through the wires that ran to the silent alarm system. As soon as she opened the door, she sent the knife flying into the lens of the motion-activated closed-circuit camera in the corner. Within fractions of a second, she had defeated top-notch twentieth century security using nothing but an eighteenth century knife. Thievery was always fun, even when done out of necessity. She looked around at the clothes, finding them to be mostly of the frilly, brightly colored haute-couture variety, but near the back she found some more reasonable items, including a midriff-baring black sports top, a black zip-up hoodie with sort of urban design on the back, dark gray cargo pants and a pair of gray-and-white lace-up running sneakers. These she threw on quickly before pulling her hair out of its intricate coif and tousling it around her shoulders. In this ensemble, she could blend in pretty much anywhere in the city. The dress and heels were dumped unceremoniously in the trash can on her way out. She needed to rest before she collapsed under the backlash of her Nen abilities in enemy territory. Good thing she was in a very nice hotel. She strode down the hall and yanked on the fire alarm, sliding into the shadows as the alarm wailed its fallacious warning to the sleeping hotel patrons.
Concerned guests piled out into the hall, quickly revealing the unoccupied rooms by process of elimination, or rather, the only unoccupied room on the floor, since the YorkNew Dream Auction had half the city's hotels at maximum capacity. It seemed the Beitacle was no exception. Once the hall was emptied of those with the intention of complaining to the hotel staff in persona, Nijiiro slipped into the last available room to wash the day away and activate Serenity. The benefits of Serenity were remarkable, but the drawbacks included an unavoidable sort of drunkenness and a twenty-four-hour recharge time, that left her completely vulnerable to fatal wounds sustained before the twenty-four hours were up. Of course, only Chrollo was aware of that particular weakness. Nijiiro barricaded the door and ran a warm bath as she threw the contents of the mini bar down the sink; even she was leery of the bad decisions that could be made after using Serenity in these circumstances. She set her phone to ring an alarm after six hours, hopefully waking before hotel staff could begin doing rounds and discover her unwelcome occupancy, and left the phone itself to recharge on the nightstand. She slipped into a deep, foamy bathtub and activated Serenity, breathing a long sigh of relief as her powerful healing Nen stripped away the day's fatigue and stress, instantly healed her wounds, and flooded her veins with what she could only compare to designer morphine tablets from the NGL goons on the portside of YorkNew. 'Please...don't drown in a random bathtub in YorkNew, after all the work you've done this year, Nijiiro' she asked of herself politely, half serious but then laughing out loud at the thought of it. If a foolish and pedestrian death were even possible for her, it was all evidence to the contrary. But still she smiled.