Chapter Text
Rain struck the patio, heavier than necessary, like it was trying to destroy more than nourish the earth beneath it. Its curtain covered the distance in such a way that Kurapika couldn’t see much further than the edge of the yard where laid the security fence. The electric barbed wire was surely shut off in these weather conditions.
Kurapika tentatively lay his hand on the window. He felt like he was looking out into the bottomless ocean, holding his breath in case anything moved. Everything felt enormously lonely. He could only compare it to looking out at mountains or seeing a whale travel alone, crying out for anyone to hear its song.
“Mr. Kurapika,” Neon said, “You look so gloomy.”
Kurapika felt his hand clench in front of him, a fist to the window which he slowly loosened so it didn’t look rageful, intentional. It had been a month since York New City, and every second since then felt cold. He wondered if he would ever feel tethered back to earth, his head swimming with loss, sickness, violence. He had hand buried a man who he struck through the heart, he had looked in the eyes of the killers who took his entire life apart.
“Mr. Kurapika?” Neon said.
He didn’t know what to say, it wasn’t his job to reveal his emotions or cater to hers. Eventually he forced out, “I’m fine.”
Being in the same room as the eyes, set on display for her to play with, was scratching away at his health. He didn’t understand how he was going to push through another few years of searching when the first pair of eyes felt like an amputation.
“Do you want to read me a magazine?” Neon said. “I have so many I need to catch up on, and you seem like you’re a big reader.”
He felt bile rise in his throat when he realized sitting on the bed would mean being nearer to his brethren’s eyes. Neon watched his motions curiously, offering him a magazine with weight loss ideas on the cover.
“You look like how daddy does when he needs a drink,” Neon chirped. “Or like the driver did when he hit someone with his car.”
“Miss Neon,” Kurapika said haltingly. He had to ask, “About the eyes on your dresser. What do they represent to you?” How can you look at them?
She tilted her head and gazed off at the scarlet pieces set right next to her crystal swan knick-knack and lamp, “What do you mean?”
“They used to be a person,” Kurapika said.
“Yeah, but the person isn’t alive. They’re not using them,” Neon said.
Kurapika felt like he was floating in the trauma of it.
“Besides, someone’s going to own them,” Neon said, “And where better than a flesh museum? We have a whole collection of the pretty and the bizarre. They fit right in.”
Kurapika focused on his nen, trying the best he could to do anything to make the pain stop, “They died, brutally,” he said, “And never got a proper funeral. They didn’t give their eyes to be sold, they were murdered,” he said.
Neon pursed her lips, “It’s not like we killed them. Doesn’t everyone want to be admired? We’re totally admiring them after they died. It’s like, post-mortem celebrity.”
“Would you want this?” Kurapika said, “To happen to you?”
“I’m not cool enough to be put in a jar,” she said, “My hair isn’t even expensive enough for a wig.”
“Miss Neon,” Kurapika said painfully, “Don’t joke about these things.”
“I’m not!” Neon insisted. “Flesh collecting is beautiful! Like taxidermy and bone gathering, piano making!”
Kurapika swore he heard thunder as she spoke. It felt correct to think the weather was responsive to these cursed words.
“I want nice things,” Neon said, “Don’t you think I deserve them?” The cutesy way she brought her hands together as if to pray did not endear him. He hid his hollowness by looking away to the magazine in his lap, opening it near the beginning.
“Oh, it’s that handsome guy from that movie!” Neon said, gathering herself to Kurapika’s side with a teddy bear under her arm.
Kurapika barely looked at the image, searching instead for the name. He’d never been wordly enough to know.
“You know,” Neon said, “If I could have him, I would give all of my museum away.”
That was not a comfortable thought. Kurapika felt the chill that followed the possibility of losing everything on Neon’s childish whim. The words soft power hammered in his ears. “He isn’t… that impressive,” Kurapika managed. He didn’t find looking at an image of someone compelling, not without knowing them personally, and even then, the idea of considering anyone at all in his life that way was unthinkable.
“Hm,” Neon said, “He’s wearing a lot of makeup, and his face does look altered,” not that Neon minded. “But there’s a charm to him, like he knows something I want to know, but he won’t tell me.”
Kurapika didn’t quite see it. The actor looked more like he was feigning broodiness for a camera.
“What about you?” Neon said, “Do you think he’s handsome?”
“I’ve hardly thought of it,” Kurapika said carefully.
“Come on! Tell the truth!” Neon said.
“He looks like a rascal,” Kurapika said finally, “I’ve met criminals with better facades.”
Neon giggled into her hand, the bell light laughter so different from how he felt sitting there.
“You know who’s really a rascal?” Neon whispered.
“Who?”
“The man who hit me in the head in York New,” Neon said, laughing when Kurapika’s eyes rounded.
“You don’t mean…”
“Mhm, he was all so dreamy,” Neon said, “It’s a shame he’s after the mob.”
“Miss Neon,” Kurapika said, barely holding back a grimace, “That man is the one who killed the person who owned those eyes,” he pointed to the Kurta eye jars. “He’s far worse than—”
“He did?” Neon said, she yawned cutely into her hand, “I thought that was the fakers.”
“I beg your pardon?” Kurapika said.
Neon shrugged, “Wasn’t the whole Kurta massacre thing by second-track fakers?”
Kurapika swallowed drily and resisted taking her hands in his, a gesture which was far too informal towards an employer, “Neon, who are these second track fakers you speak of?”
“They’re the name of the Nasubi Hui Guo Rou’s illegitimate kids.”
“The King of the Kakin empire?” Kurapika said.
“Yeah, they’re in charge of the mob stuff. You know, human trafficking and the flesh collecting trade,” Neon said. “See, Nasubi Hui Guo Rou has a lot of wives and lots of legitimate princes, but he also has a ton of illegitimate kids because he’s kind of a major whore,” she doted her fingers, “He lets them have his money as long as they do all the black-market stuff for him.”
“Yet there was a note, left at the scene of the Kurta massacre,” Kurapika said, “One that said ‘We'll accept anything you leave here, but don't ever take anything away from us.’ It’s the Meteor City motto.”
Neon’s brow crinkled, “I mean, Meteor City is in the Kakin empire, right? It’s where they dump all their garbage?”
Kurapika’s heart felt like it was going to explode, “So, the Spiders…”
“The Phantom Troupe might have left the city motto, but do you remember them leaving it at the scene of any other crime? Like, they didn’t leave anything in York New.”
“No, but…” Kurapika scratched at the wool of his suit, “Don’t they?”
“If someone left a meteor city motto, it probably means they want people to know that you can’t track the person who did it, because no one goes to Meteor City. There’s a lot of people there, sometimes daddy can hire some through the fakers.”
“And the spiders, the Phantom Troupe, do they…”
“I thought they hated the fakers,” Neon said conspiratorially.
“They don’t work together?” Kurapika said.
“I don’t know,” Neon said, “Don’t the Phantom Troupe hate the mob, you know for like dumping garbage everywhere and selling people? I thought they did. They killed all the top guys in York New to ‘send a message’ or whatever.”
Kurapika’s jaw clenched, scenes of violence dawning on him. The Phantom Troupe remembered the eyes, but not one single members remembered doing the massacre. They knew of the massacre.
Uvogin’s comments rattled in his ears. He said the Kurta were pretty strong, they fought back. He said the boss wanted the eyes, but they were thieves, it made sense that they would want to take what sold well on the market, especially if they were expensive items which the mob held in high value.
He remembered looking into Chrollo’s tepid gaze, the strong smell of substances hanging off his coat. When Kurapika addressed the murder of his entire clan, Chrollo had been non-pulsed, disinterested in saying why he did it or if, Kurapika realized. All he wanted was to know were his friend’s very last words.
After what felt like an eternity of swimming in his thoughts, Kurapika turned to Neon, “Since York New I’ve had a,” he swallowed, “Special interest in the Phantom Troupe. When they hurt you, I knew I needed to better understand the risks they pose. Do you think you could help me with my research?”
Neon nodded brightly.