Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Godspeed."

The word is spoken under the boy's breath. With an expulsion of youthful exuberance, he flings himself into a run, racing down Continental Street. Darting around startled pedestrians, chanting godspeed godspeed godspeed now at full volume, he runs until his thighs and lungs burn. 

Coming to an alleyway just north of the Cemetery Building, the boy abruptly ducks into the passage and comes to a stop. Panting, back pressed against the cool bricks of the crumbling wall, he closes his eyes briefly. Reaches into his pocket. Draws out a school worksheet, folded into a tiny square.

He unfolds the paper with almost comical grandiosity. Vianney Wolfberg. His mother's maiden name. "Zoldyck" being too great of a risk to use publicly in Saherta, and Wolfberg a common enough surname globally despite it also being the name of his equally infamous maternal clan. The inaccurate moniker, penned in the boy's definitive, confident handwriting, is accompanied by a circled A+ in red ink. 

Closing his eyes once more, the boy rips the worksheet swiftly into tiny pieces, throwing them into the air with a savagely controlled pitch. Dance of the serpent's bite. "From No. 4 to the head of the Phantom Troupe," he murmurs, curling his lip into a sneer--comically exaggerated on such a youthful face to a passer-by, but in the boy's mind a visage of terror. Watching the confetti fall like snow to the ground, he nods in satisfaction, then lifts his hands into claw position, ready to attack unseen foes. 

"Picking favorites?" The raspy voice echoes in the close space, bouncing eerily off the bricks. 

The boy's eyes snap wide, bright blue pools in a white face, topped by a shock of even whiter hair. The alley is shadowy; it is difficult to tell where the words are coming from. 

"Your father would be disappointed you didn't add his Hatsu to your playacting." A gnarled hand reaches out. Pinched between forefinger and thumb is a glimmering silver pin. 

The boy remains frozen, not reaching for the utensil. Opening his mouth, he draws in a shaky breath. "Why--" he manages to croak out. 

The hand comes closer; in a cheeky gesture threads the pin through the boy's school uniform polo, then ruffles the white hair affectionately. "Vianney, my boy. You're a fast mover, aren't you? I had to fire up this rusty En of mine beyond a level these old bones are comfortable with, in order to find you." 

The boy, suddenly, finds his voice. "Gee Gee," he gasps. 

A chuckle. Zeno Zoldyck, a wizened but still formidable figure dressed in unobtrusive, plain black gear, emerges completely out of the shadows. 

"Yes, Vee. It's your great-granddad. Before you ask what I'm doing here, I'm going to set down a few base rules, young man." 

"Gee Gee," the boy repeats, a trickle of sweat finding its way down his forehead. "Does Dad know you are here?"

"Base rule number one, Vee." Another slight laugh. "Respect your elders, and by way of that, don't question me. I'm going to be the one doing the talking, understand?"

"You haven't been in Saherta in--" begins the boy, but a firm palm lifted halts the statement. 

"Base rule number two," Zeno states, a bit sharper this time. "You don't disobey base rule one. Yes, I haven't been out of Padokea in some time, son. I decided to come out to this godforsaken nation for a very good reason, and that reason--as I'm sure you've realized by now; you're a sharp one--has to do with you."

"Is...is...Grandpa here too?" The boy knows he should not push against his great-grandfather's orders, but cannot help but sputter out the query.

"Grandpa Silva?" A snort. "He remains where he's been for some time now. Choosing the soft life. Your father talked him into retirement and he's evidently found it to his liking. He and your grandmother, gadding about on Kukuroo Mountain, as they've been doing for the past five years. No, Vee, your grandpa is not here." Catching sight of one of the fluttering shreds of paper on the ground, Zeno bends to pick it up. Examining the scrap, he grins, widely.  

"Vianney Wolfberg, eh?" The grin turns, subtly, dark. "How appropriate. How appropriate that you've been using that name." 

****

Good afternoon, Yorknew! Thank you for joining us in our ongoing exploration of the city's most significant architectural landmarks, as well as exclusive peeks into the finest residences in the zip code. Today, we'll be giving our viewers a rare treat: A glimpse into the stunning Industrial District penthouse owned by former SSF champion athlete Hisoka Morow...

"Trash." Illumi Zoldyck stifles a yawn. He reaches for the remote control, but Hisoka puts out a hand to stop him. 

"This is the premiere; I wasn't allowed to review the final cut." The volume is turned up, slightly. "I admit, I am curious to see how they handled it." 

"Why did you agree to let them film in the first place?" Illumi shakes his head. "I sometimes think you will never outgrow your penchant for the spotlight. It isn't enough that you've been tapped by the SSF Network to host the weekend commentating show?" He executes a wince that manages to be both delicate and pointed. 

"Shh." Hisoka holds a finger to his lips. "They're showing the rooftop garden."

Mr. Morow's stunning rooftop oasis offers an unparalleled view of the city, including that of the Yorknew River. The landscaping includes a variety of rare Padokean ornamental bushes, as well as orchid plants sourced from Peijin...

Illumi yawns again, then looks at his phone. Giving a start, he glances at Hisoka. "Look at the time. Are the children all home from school? I haven't heard a peep out of them; not even their usual circus in the kitchen looking for snacks. Have you--"

Hisoka presses the mute button, then gives Illumi a quizzical stare. "They're all in the den. I just looked in on them an hour ago. Sylvia was finishing homework, and the other three were watching a movie. I already put in the order for dinner; it should be here by the time this program is over." 

"Where is Vee?" Illumi's face has taken on the pinched, unattractive look he assumes when he is feeling stressed and attempting to hide it. 

"Probably in his room." Hisoka is mystified. "Why are you looking that way?"

Illumi, making a concerted effort, neutralizes his expression. "I suddenly felt...I don't know. Something odd. Almost like, when I used to employ my En, to look after Killua. And later, Kalluto, when he joined the Troupe...I had my radar up constantly for that."

"Kalluto is the head of the Troupe now." Hisoka cannot stifle a small chuckle. "And Killua is toting his scholarly journals halfway across the globe, trying to nail down that Hunter's star he's after. I would hope for your own sake that you've packed your En away, or you'd be going half-insane trying to keep tabs on everyone." 

Illumi's eyes have taken on a slightly haunted look. "No, Hisoka," he states. "You're right, I don't tend to use these abilities anymore--I have my hands full with my birds in the nest." He blinks. "But that's why I'm..." He pauses. "Concerned."

"You're feeling this has something to do with Vianney?" Hisoka turns the television off, causing the room to go abruptly still. "They'll replay this epsiode; I can watch it later." Throwing a leg over one thigh, he cups his chin in one hand and studies his partner. "What's going on, Illu?"

"Dad?" A high-pitched, girlish voice breaks into the silence. "Uncle Hiso? Is dinner soon? We're all really hungry."

"Did you finish your homework?" Illumi's question is automatic, despite his visible discomfiture.

"Everyone's done. Even Nelia. She always takes forever, but Syl helped her. And we finished the movie, too." 

Hisoka studies the young girl in the doorway. "Eyrrne," he says. "Is Vianney in the den, with all of you?"

"Vee?" The child rubs one sock-clad foot against a bare calf. 

"Yes." Illumi's voice, unnaturally sharp, interjects. 

Looking surprised--and a tiny bit afraid--Eyrrne frowns at her father's tone. 

"I haven't seen him all afternoon." 

Hisoka stands up. Keeping his delivery deliberately gentle, he says, "Will you go check his room, please, Rynnie?" 

The girl, slipping on the parquet flooring in her socks, scrambles down the hall. 

Illumi and Hisoka wait, in silence, for several minutes; Hisoka remaining in a standing position, one hand planted on his hip.

Eyrrne appears again. Pulling up her sock, staring at the floor, she mumbles in a hesitant, reluctant jumble. 

"He's...not there."  

Chapter Text

Kurkuroo Mountain 
Ten years ago

****

"There's no need." The dark shadows under Illumi's eyes stand out like coal smudges on his pale skin, but his posture is resolutely straight. "I've certainly dealt with far more onerous periods of sleep deprivation over my many years of training." The statement is delivered, involuntarily, with a wry edge. 

"No need to be saucy, Illumi." Zeno's reply is mild. "But since I've taken the trouble to haul my advanced age down to Wyvern Cottage, why not allow me to do what I've come for? Your mother wants to fuss over the baby. Let me take him back up to the manor; you go lie down and get some rest."

Illumi holds the swaddled bundle tighter to his chest, giving it an absentminded pat. "Grandfather," he states. "Vianney is too young for an overnight visit. He's barely a month old. He's still breastfeeding--"

Zeno snorts, rudely. "Occasionally. No need to ameliorate, Illumi. We all know that Tania only engages in that when she is feeling like it. As a matter of fact--" he taps his chin, thoughtfully. "Where is your darling wife? Could it be she is napping, again, while you are left in charge of the young ones?" 

Illumi's dark, opaque eyes glint with sudden heat. "Grandfather, I'll not have you talk about my wife in that manner." Covering the infant's head with one large hand, he turns resolutely toward the wall. 

"Oh, come on, Illumi." Zeno's voice goes soft, a bit wheedling. "Just a bit of humor, a bit of humor. I used to come down on Silva for the very same thing; indulging your mother. Goodness knows Kiki enjoyed the spoils of the Zoldyck waitstaff while she languished in bed with each one of you. I do find it admirable, son, that you are so dedicated to fatherly bonding. You could, you know, leave the baby care to Amane. That is what she is hired to do." 

Illumi does not turn around. "This is my first boy. I'm going to make certain I bring him up correctly, Grandfather. Under my schedule."

Zeno, knowing that his grandson cannot see, quirks a half-smile, lifting one eyebrow. "Admirable," he repeats. "You are certainly the steadiest of the Zoldycks, my child. Out of all of us." Reaching out a hand, he pats Illumi's shoulder. "Give me Vianney, little owl. Go take some time for yourself. Enjoy an evening with that pretty wife of yours."

A strangled cough. "Grandfather, I'm 29 years old. Don't you think I've outgrown that nickname by now?" Despite the irritation, Illumi's shoulders are beginning to relax, almost imperceptibly. 

"Daddy is an owl." The light, sweetly melodic words break into the conversation, without warning. 

"Ah," says Zeno, pleased. "And here is my inaugural great-grandchild, what a delight." Bending over without effort, he picks up the dark-haired little girl, who giggles and throws her arms around his neck. "How about it, Miss Sylvia? Want to come up to the manor too? I'm sure your Grandma Kikyo will be beside herself with delight." Placing the child down gently on her tip-toes, he takes the swaddled infant out of Illumi's arms in a firm, decisive movement. 

"Grandfather!" Illumi's back has gone rigid once more. Sylvia runs over to her father; embraces his legs. 

"Let's go, Syl-Syl," states Zeno, holding out a hand. To Illumi, he gives a wink. "Your mother will indeed be ecstatic. Both of her grandbabies to spoil, all evening. I'll have one of the staff drive them back down tomorrow afternoon."

"But--" Illumi, arms empty, throws out both palms in protest. His daughter gives an excited skip, looking up at Zeno with adoring eyes. 

"Be sensible, little owl. Amane could use a night off, herself. That girl works her fingers to the bone, keeping up with your wife's demands." 

****

The three figures, shadowy in the half-light coming from a single mounted lamp in the hallway, flank the enormous bed, examining the small creature sleeping peacefully in the center of the vast mattress.

"He has the physical characteristics." The tallest figure straightens up, runs a hand through a long mane of silver hair. "I said it once, I'll say it again. This one is a mirror image of Killua as a baby." 

"No need to keep touting the comparison, Silva." Zeno's face, briefly, is caught in the lamplight. "The hair and eye color in and of itself is sufficient. We just need to consider whether the child is going to trend in an emitter direction, or take on Killua's hop-out-of-kin and go the transmutation route." He rubs his chin, thoughtfully. "Always a rebel, our Killua."

"What if the boy takes after his father?" The third figure, an imposing, muscular shape at the head of the bed, makes a swooping gesture. "Manipulation is dominant in your family. Much like the dark hair." 

"My daughter-in-law," Zeno says, without rancor. "It is the Meteor City influence. Nothing wrong with it, of course, but--"

"That's enough," snaps Silva. Turning to the third figure, he says, "What of it, Yaroma? I believe we, as Zoldycks, are best poised to forecast what Illumi's child will become." Bending over the mattress, he carefully picks up the tiny bundle in his huge hands. 

"Take care not to wake him." The voice grows stern. "And I'll remind you, Silva, Vianney is as much a Wolfberg as he is a Zoldyck. Simple equation: He is 50% my daughter, as much as he is half your son." 

Zeno, unable to keep an edge of amusement at bay, nods. "True, true, Yar. That said, let's not lose sight of the fact that the Wolfbergs were rendered immune to Nen inheritance long ago. Most unfortunate, the uncanny theft of your father's Nen abilities, back when he was a youth. It's no wonder he was so easily ambushed by the likes of Chrollo Lucilfer--"

"Stop." A bellow. "We will not talk about that particular atrocity; it is buried in the past."

Silva, bouncing the baby--who has apparently roused, and is making soft sounds--in his arms, cannot control a slight smirk. "Where it will remain. No offense, Yar, but I have told Illumi it is not his place to avenge the Wolfberg name. Son-in-law or not. Your daughter is a Zoldyck now, and Zoldycks do not tangle with the riff-raff for mere revenge."

The light from the lamp falls upon the bed's headboard. The man standing there, facing the Zoldyck duo, is tall--almost the same height as Silva--with light brown hair and eyes of a strange, watery aquamarine shade.

"My grandson: Vianney Wolfberg Zoldyck," he states. Throwing a glance at the cooing swaddle in Silva's embrace, his face hardens slightly. "The Wolfbergs were stripped--not just singly, but generationally--of our Nen potential, indeed. Let's place that aside, shall we? The name of Yaroma Wolfberg--full stop, no special abilities attached--is still one of the most powerful in East Padokea." 

"Now, now," clucks Zeno. "No need to get grandiose; no grandstanding. How long have the Wolfbergs and Zoldycks had an alliance? The two top assassin dynasties in history." He walks over to Silva and pats the baby's murmuring head. "You know as well as I do, Yar, that we were absolutely delighted when our Illumi made a match with your Tania. A brilliant marriage."

"There is the chance," Yaroma says. "That this baby will inherit Tania's Nenless genes. Is there not? Simple Mendel's laws." He joins Zeno at Silva's side, peering at the tiny face in the blanket, topped with a shock of pale hair. 

Both Zeno and Silva shake their heads. "No, no, no," emphasizes Zeno. "There's no way the boy can escape his Zoldyck heritage. I believe Nen categorization is a dominant gene."

Yaroma's displeased expression does not change. "Do we have any proof of this? Or are you merely refusing to be objective?"

"So what if the child is, indeed, Nenless?" Silva's smirk is still present. "You have twin sons of your own. I must say, if you will excuse my candor, they are a bit on the old side to be trained up to full potential, but--"

A hiss. "You know as well as I do that Maks and Sasha are useless. Even at age 14, I can tell those boys are completely unsuited to the family business. It was a disappointment enough that my firstborn was a girl; there's no need to rub in the additional salt regarding my sons." 

Silva nods. "So, then." He hands over the baby to the other man's arms. "Understanding that your immediate family is coming to a full stop in terms of inheritance, save this lone grandchild. What is your hope for Vianney?" 

The pale eyes glitter. "Vengeance." 

Zeno sighs, in a bored fashion. "How predictable, Yaroma." 

"Shut up, Zeno." The arms close a bit too tightly around the infant, causing an involuntary squeal. "I will not rest until Chrollo Lucilfer is dead and in the ground."

"Vianney is a Zoldyck," Silva notes, pointedly. "Not a Wolfberg." 

"Mendel's laws. As I noted, he has a mother. He may inherit no Nen at all." A sarcastic laugh. 

Zeno taps one foot, in a light bounce, against the floor. "We can wager on this, if you like. Although I greatly do not care for the thought of gambling over a family member. Silva and I will continue to monitor Vianney's development and progress, and when the time comes--which it surely will--we will work in tandem with Illumi to create an appropriate training plan. One that will take full advantage of his potential." 

"Exactly," Silva asserts, firmly. "We waited far too long with both Milluki and Killua in terms of identifying and cultivating Nen development. If we had started Kil earlier, we very well may not have lost him to his whims of independence. Of course, we did our best with Alluka, but..."

"Enough," interrupts Zeno. "We learned our lesson; Kalluto was a model study. We created the perfect storm with him. All we have to do is wait for him to tire of his recruitment in that tribe of hooligans, which certainly will happen soon enough. However, we can't take chances. Vianney must be trained to assume Kalluto will never come back. To assume without doubt he will carry the family name." 

The tall, sandy-haired man exhales a sigh; almost imperceptible, a ghostlike breath made more eerie coming from one of his size and stature. Placing the baby back down on the mattress, he regards the child with unblinking eyes. 

"Let's get him into the crib. Settled for the night." Silva fumbles in one pocket for his transmitter, presses the top button. "I'll have Kikyo come now; she can rock him back to sleep. Put Sylvia down, as well, it's past her bedtime." 

As they are turning to exit through the stone-and-iron doors, Zeno looks over his shoulder. "Yar? I wouldn't linger. Our staff has chartered the private plane on the east airfield, for your flight back to the E.P." 

The man is kneeling before the bed. A whisper, too low for either Zoldyck elder to hear.

"You, my grandson. Whatever direction fate takes you. You, and you alone will avenge your great-grandfather." 

Chapter Text

Classified

Four years ago

****

The steady sunshine; that was the main difference to be had between Kukuroo Mountain and the boy's new home. 

On the slopes of the Zoldyck landmark, rain pattered, clouds settled, winds blew; a different scenario to be experienced each day. Here, just sunshine to be had. Consistent brightness seeping through the windowshades every morning, and a pervasive yet not oppressive warmth just outside the door. 

Vianney doesn't know the name of his new locale. "Where are we?" he'd asked his mother, after being escorted off the private airship by his uncle. Receiving no answer, he had turned, eyebrows raised in quizzical confusion, to the silent man holding his hand. 

"Uncle Kallu?"

The violet eyes had glittered, just briefly. "Classified, Vee. I explained this all to you on the flight over; you're old enough to understand." 

Uncle Kalluto had never been one for much discussion. Vianney had nodded, although he did not in fact understand, nor had he felt his uncle's explanation to be at all sufficient. His mother had taken him by the arm by that point anyway, leading him into a world he'd never seen, not even on TV. 

Now, he takes a stick, idly, from the ground, and doodles in the gold-tinted dunes that brush up to the doorsteps of the modest house he now lives in. "I shall call this Sand Mountain," he whispers, under his breath. Clutching the stick with purpose, he carefully draws out letters in the Dentoran alphabet. S-A-N-D. 

There is no one to play with. Indeed, Vianney has not seen a single soul in this strange wasteland of dunes and hot sun; nobody is here to talk to except his mother and his stepfather and--very occasionally--his uncle. Kalluto shows up with brief but indelible regularity at the end of each calendar month, and after a quick rumple of Vianney's hair, he is swept into the study by Vianney's stepfather for a long discussion. It ends with Vianney's mother serving Dentoran tea--in deference to the guest--and Kalluto, all too soon, striding off to the buzzing airship grounded just a mile up the way. A purring dirigible that Vianney sometimes pretends is a living beast, just in his head, just to ward off the empty space and isolation that permeates the place he now must call home. 

S-A-N-D. Bored, the boy throws the stick down. Noises from inside the house catch his attention. A strange expression creeping over his 6-year-old features, he stands up and silently tiptoes inside, taking care not to make any noise closing the door. 

His mother and stepfather are so loud. Vianney never heard such carrying on, back on Kukuroo Mountain, when his mother was properly married to his father. The master suite at Wyvern Cottage was always demurely closed off. Vianney knows that surely his parents must have engaged in this behavior--there are five Zoldyck children, after all--but all and any evidence was contained out of children's range and earshot. 

Despite the fact that he finds his mother and stepfather's actions to be unsophisticated--repellent, even--a strange attraction always draws the boy to spy on them. Watch them do crudely raw things which he finds astonishing behavior for his coolly elegant mother; things he can barely imagine his patrician father doing to her. 

Perhaps, indeed, there is a superlative way to do this; this animalistic action that all grown-ups must engage in, the action that results in babies and families. Vianney is certain there is. Certain his father would only engage in that methodology. A clean way of handling this. One that does not cause his mother to go into such a disgraceful display of abandon. 

Peering around the door, which is lightly cracked open, Vianney watches his stepfather devour his mother's neck, then kiss down her naked torso to land with savage intensity between her legs. She shrieks in response, clawing her manicured hands in his tangle of black hair, calling his name in an unhinged crescendo. The black spider tattoo stands out in stark relief on one bicep, tensing and loosening as he clutches roughly at her breasts. 

Vianney thinks of his father: Also with a spider tattoo. On the hip, though, and always covered up. Uncle Kalluto, too, has the mark of the Troupe; and like his older brother never allows anyone to see it. 

Another, weaker cry breaks into his mother's series of gasping pleas. Vianney, instinctively, stiffens, then backs away from the door. Moving swiftly, he lets himself into the door just steps down the hallway. 

The baby in the crib is snuffling, gearing up for full expression, but Vianney knows she will not rise much in volume. Unlike his other baby sister, Ianthe, Sarasa is a quiet and meek infant who often goes unheard. 

Despite his innate disdain for the baby--Sarasa Lucilfer, he always thinks, scornfully--he picks her up and holds her to his small chest, patting her on the back soothingly. 

"Don't cry, Sara," he whispers into the tiny ear. "I don't like it here, either." 

The baby quiets; finds her thumb, settles into a contented sucking rhythm with her cheek tucked against her half-brother's shoulder. 

"I'll take you when I go," Vianney continues. He strokes the tuft of soft red hair on Sarasa's crown, tangles it around his fingers. 

Was there a redhead in your family?

His mother's confused voice, slurred with the drugs she'd been given to mitigate the pain of delivery.

I don't know. I grew up in Meteor City.

His stepfather's tone, remote and icy, a distinct change from the gentle and affectionate manner he usually employs.

But surely you must know--

I don't, Tania. 

"You can come with me," Vianney says. "I'm going to go back home, Sara. Back home to Dentora. Home to be with Dad. He's not your dad, but he'll say it's okay. He likes babies." He gives Sarasa a little jiggle, causing her to remove her thumb and yawn. "Dad and Sylvia and Eyrrne and Nelia and Ianthe are all on the coast right now. In a house by the ocean." He sighs, a longing exhale. "We can go stay with them."

Allowing his mind to wander, the boy continues narrating, as if in a trance: "Dad takes us to Yorknew City for visits. All my uncles are there. My Aunt Alluka goes with us too." His voice cracks, slightly. "She lets me sit with her on the airship, and we look out the window. She always points out the murder philodendron when we fly over Dentora. It's so big, it turns a whole patch of ground purple. She wears the prettiest clothes, and is so tall..." A lone tear slips down one cheek. 

"We visit Kukuroo Mountain, too, all the time. Wyvern Cottage is still there, even though Dad moved out. You can meet Grandma and Grandpa; of course they will not really be your grandma and grandpa either, but it will be all right. You can meet Zebro. We used to have a dog named Mike..." 

"Vianney?" His stepfather, without warning, is in the doorway of the nursery. Adjusting the tie of a black velour bathrobe, he fixes the boy with a stare. Clear, guileless, bruised shadows underscoring. Vianney can see too much of what his stepfather is thinking, just by looking into those water-colored irises. So different from Dad's solidly comforting, opaque, emotionless gaze. 

Vianney, longing for his father so badly his young heart actually feels as if it is throbbing, hugs Sarasa a bit too tightly to his ribs. The baby gives a pitiful squeal.

A hand is extended. "Put your sister down in her crib, Vee. I'd like to have a talk with you. Man to man, just us, all right?" 

****

Chrollo is a very ordinary looking person in reality and stark daylight. Vianney has seen his stepfather on TV; that medium always taking the opportunity to create the illusion of him being outsized, overly sinister. The same effect applies to his uncle when televised, but Kalluto retains his general otherworldly air even in the flesh. 

"More cocoa?" The one vanity Chrollo indulges in, his gaudy eardrops, catches a ray of sun coming through the kitchen blinds. Vianney squints at the resultant blue-green glare and shakes his head. 

The former Troupe leader seats himself at the table, taking a sip of the coffee he's made for himself and placing down a plate heaped with slices of buttered toast. "I think," he states, without preamble, "it's time for you to get some understanding as to why your mother and I have kept you out here. Away from your other sisters, and your father."

And my aunt and uncles, thinks Vianney, a bit peevishly. And my grandparents. 

"You haven't spent much time with your mother's family, have you?" Chrollo takes a bite of toast. "That might be the best place to start."

Vianney, in a burst of childish exasperation, bangs the table with one fist. "I have," he says. "Mama's father is my Papa Yar. And I see Uncle Maks and Uncle Sasha in the summer. When we go to the Padokea coast."

Chrollo chews and swallows. Shakes his head. "You're not as close with them as you are to the Zoldyck side. That of course makes sense, though, since you were raised on Kukuroo Mountain."

"I am a Zoldyck." Tears, against the boy's will, prick his throat and cause his statement to come out slightly hoarse.

"Vianney." Chrollo leans forward. "Do you remember, not so long ago, how your father would give you chocolate milk? And you would become sick, and vomit?"

Vianney, hastily, pushes away his mug of cocoa. "Are you doing that to me now? It's happening, again?"

"No, no," Chrollo puts out a hand, reassuringly. "That is the whole reason you are out here, with your mother and me. I realize it's a bit isolatory. But we decided it was for your own good. Not just us, Vianney--your Uncle Kalluto was the one who put all of this into action."

The boy fights the rising hot lump in his throat. "Dad stopped poisoning me a while ago. He doesn't do it now, when I visit. Never." 

Chrollo puts his chin in his hand, contemplatively, and is silent for a few moments. "Do you recall your mother ever having...emotional spells?" 

"I don't know what you mean." Vianney gazes, fiercely, into his mug of cocoa, which by now has gone cold. 

"Crying," supplies Chrollo. "Seeming sad, without reason."

"No," Vianney snaps. He is lying: His mother often would take to her bed in Wyvern Cottage, always without explanation. Vianney's father would calmly smooth the children's questions over with his typical, familiar detatchment; leave them in Amane's care while he joined their mother for however long it took for the storm to pass. 

Chrollo nods, although his expression transmits doubt. "I'm going to tell you something, Vee." He pushes the plate of toast across the tabletop. "Have some breakfast, son."

Vianney shakes his head, a bit too savagely. His stomach is in knots. The sound of Sarasa, whimpering in the other room, floats in between the tense air dividing him and his stepfather. 

"A long time ago, I was the leader of the Phantom Troupe," Chrollo states. "The organization that your uncle is now heading up." 

"I know that." Vianney begins to stand. "Sara is crying."

Chrollo grasps the boy's arm and, firmly but not roughly, pulls him back down into the chair. "Back in those days, I did many things I regret. One of them involved your family."

"Dad isn't afraid of you." The words are half-spit, half-gasped. 

A slow blink. "He never was, and I never said he was. I have always had the highest regard for Illumi."

The usage of his father's name causes Vianney to unexpectedly startle. The mug almost topples, but Chrollo intercepts it neatly before it spills its contents. 

"Your mother's side of the family," the former Troupe leader clarifies. 

"I killed your Papa Yar's father. Your mother was there when it happened. Your grandfather has never forgotten."

Vianney cannot look Chrollo in the eye. Sarasa's cries grow slightly more demanding, although retaining their piteous pitch. 

"Your Papa wants to train you to be an assassin. To avenge the Wolfberg name." 

Chapter Text

"Live in 10," the lead cameraman gives his warning, glancing at the digital clock glowing red on the wall. The logo of the Sahertan Sports Network is emblazoned above it, stretching showily and fully from one corner to the opposite. 

Hisoka startles slightly. "Already?" Sitting in his commentator's chair, he smooths down the jacket of his suit, adjusting the mic fastened to his lapel. "I have time to refill my coffee?"

The show runner, consulting a clipboard, looks up. "We'll get it for you." Raising his hand, he snaps his fingers, then assumes an exasperated look. "Where did that new intern get to?"

"No, no," interjects Hisoka. "I'll get it myself; need to get the blood flowing, been sitting here too long for prep." Against the show runner's protests, he stands up, dusts off his thighs, and moves swiftly to the kitchenette adjacent to the filming room. 

"Hiso." The familiar voice cuts into Hisoka's routine motions of filling his coffee mug. He looks up, surprise creasing the carefully contoured base and concealer the network's makeup expert had taken 45 minutes to apply. 

"Illu," Hisoka says. "You know I'm going on air in 10 minutes. What's the matter?"

Illumi leans against the kitchenette cabinets, arms folded in the precise-fitting black business suit that Hisoka wryly dubbed "Billable Hours" when the ex-assassin first had it tailored. Despite the fact that his hair has now been clipped short for six months, Hisoka still cannot control a slight start at the sight of the stylishly conservative cut. Illumi had, in his typical fashion, not given any warning as to the drastic change; simply walked into the restaurant where Hisoka had booked a room for his birthday party with cropped hair and an impassive expression. 

"Dad," Silvia, the eldest, had squeaked. The other children simply stared. Killua and Milluki had elbowed each other and snickered. Kalluto, as usual, showed no reaction whatsoever. 

The new look suits Illumi, Hisoka has to admit; it adds a degree of severity that matches his overall reserve. Adding a small dash of cream to his cup, he takes a sip--gingerly, so as not to mar anything before showtime. "Time is money, darling," he states. "Tell me the issue that's brought you here directly before you know I'm scheduled on camera." 

"The school called," Illumi states, without preamble. 

"This is an emergency?" Hisoka frowns; takes another drink. 

"It's Vianney." Illumi's tone does not change. "He has been going missing, every afternoon, following recess. For a week now." 

Hisoka taps one shoe against the floor impatiently. "I thought you spoke to him about this. Just the other week, when he did not arrive home until early evening, and we were half crazed trying to track him down."

"There is something going on." Another baldly pronounced statement. "I have been able to track all my children, of course, just with simple utilization of En. I admit I've allowed that surveillance to lapse of late. I've never had much of a reason to expend that kind of energy since they've all been obedient. But of course, what with Vianney's intitial distance--under Chrollo and Tania's wing--and now his uncharacteristic disappearance the other week--" 

"Mr. Morow!" The intern's breathless voice breaks in to Illumi's monologue. "They sent me to find you, sir. We're about to go live in..."

"Yes, yes." Hisoka puts his coffee mug down and briskly turns to Illumi. "As you can see, I can't really discuss this now, darling. Why don't you stick around and we can--"

"I have a meeting," says Illumi. "In the area. I just came by to let you know this. I'm very alarmed."

Hisoka is halfway down the hall. He looks back over his shoulder. "So just use your En to find him." An eloquent shrug. 

"Two minutes, Mr. Morow!" 

Illumi's voice turns icy. "That's just it, Hisoka," he says. 

"Just what?" calls Hisoka. "Dammit, I can't talk now, Illumi."

"I cannot locate him with my En. You know what that means, Hisoka." 

The theme to Sahertan Sports World Now begins to blare, nearly drowning Illumi's frosty words.

"Someone has taught the child Zetsu." 

****

"Good afternoon, sports fans," Hisoka emotes, casually folding his hands on the desk while looking ingratiatingly into the camera. "We're here live from Yorknew for Thursday's edition of Sahertan Sports World Now. Today, I have a special guest joining us--doubtless all of you were stunned by the results of Sunday night's fight at the Morow Superdome, in which Mackenzie Mackernasey executed a stunning K.O. in the final five seconds. I have him here, and he's going to tell us all about his strategy." A gleaming smile. "Hey, there, Mackenzie." 

Illumi, who somehow manages to emit a sour aura despite being in the shadows of the set lighting, sends a glowering look, lingering in one corner barely visible in his dark suit. Hisoka, curious as to why his partner has decided to linger, throws an inadvertent glance in his direction. 

"Hisoka!" The show runner's silently mouthed admonishment is baldly apparent. Hisoka, automatically, directs his grin back to the guest sitting in the chair across from him. 

"Let's begin with what's on everyone's mind. Your uncle, the famed Morel Mackernasey, was spotted on camera in the audience, sitting in the general seating section. Are the rumors true that, training you as you grew up, he had you engage in actual Glam Gas street fights as part of your discipline..."

Hisoka, unable to control himself, looks out of the corner of his eye at Illumi once again. The show runner, in a burst of panicked exasperation, drums his pen against his clipboard with savage--silent--intensity. 

Illumi, with a final black glare and a graceful shrug, turns and leaves the studio. 

Hisoka blinks. Twice. Takes a theatrical sip of his coffee, then leans closer to the guest. "As a native of Glam Gas, I have to say," he says, in a confessional manner, "That's one hell of a strategy."

****

"That's right," Zeno's voice is pleasant. "It's just a simple exercise, son. Put your hands around the glass, and try to envision the heat from your hands going right into the water."

Vianney clutches the tumbler of water, a bit too hard. "It's no use, Gee Gee," he finally blurts out. "I don't know what you want me to do. Why am I..."

"Just keep trying." Zeno remains calm. 

"What is supposed to happen?" The boy, despite his obedient bent, sounds close to tears. "I'm supposed to be in math class right now, Gee Gee, I am going to lose my good grade in that..."

"Hush, shhh," soothes Zeno. He holds out a wrinkled hand, stroking the boy's fingers. "You're in no need of math; you're not going to end up a bean counter like your father."

Vianney's stressed face instantly darkens into a scowl. "Don't say that about Dad. He's--"

"Vianney." Zeno's voice goes hard. "May I remind you who you are talking to. I know your father has taught you better." Seeing the boy slacken slightly, he pats him once again. "Illumi is a very smart one, nobody is debating that. I'm merely saying that you are destined for something else." 

Vianney gives a long sigh, trembling slightly at the end. "I'm tired, Gee Gee," he confesses. "The exercise we've been doing for the past week, where you have me...masking my energy..."

"Zetsu," says Zeno, matter-of-factly. "You picked it up, admirably. Now we are on to the next step." He gestures toward the glass. "Now we are going to figure out which direction we should continue your training in. No more playacting at Godspeed, or Dance of the Serpents Bite, Vee. You're going to have your own special abilities. Isn't that exciting? No?" 

"Why..." Vianney's eyes are huge, pools of electric blue. "Why can't I talk about this with anyone? Dad? Uncle Hiso?" 

Zeno runs a contemplative finger over his wizened chin. "I'd like this to be a surprise for your father. He has a bit of a dim view of this sort of exercise at this point in his life, but I think he'll be most pleased once you have achieved the level we're working towards." He leans forward, gazing with purpose. "Wouldn't you like to give your dad this gift?"

When the child does not immediately answer, Zeno lifts an eyebrow. "Man to man, Vianney, I'll tell you this. Illumi will never accept this kind of gift knowingly. He'll say no, the minute he is aware it is going on. But I can tell you something with utmost confidence."

Vianney looks up, incomprehension clouding his expression. 

"I've known your father all his life. I know him better than your Grandpa Silva, even." A nod. "If you develop your abilities, independent of his blessing, free of any temptation to manipulate them..."

"Yes?" The word comes out hesitating. A little boy's high note. 

"You will be giving him the most important thing he's ever recieved in his life." 

The room goes silent; still. 

"Take your hands away from the glass, now." Zeno says it in a whisper. "I think I can predict it, Vee."

"Predict what?" The boy rubs his hands, moist with sweat, against the fabric of his school uniform shorts. 

"Taste the water. Take a sip."

Obediently--if in confusion--the glass is lifted to Vianney's lips. A surprised, involuntary look spreads across his face. 

Zeno does not restrain his cackle of glee. 

"It's Killua," he murmurs. "Our Killua, all over again. But this time..."

"Gee Gee!" The interjection is fearful. 

"Run along, now." The old man's demeanor suddenly goes crisp. "Dash back to school; I think you can make the last half of that math class of yours? Godspeed," he adds, with another chuckle. 

When the boy has left, Zeno sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other in a slightly stiff fashion. 

"Killua all over again," he repeats aloud, smiling crookedly, gazing at the ceiling. "Killua, once again. Except this time--"

A pause. The sound of the child's footsteps running on the pavement trickles in a rapidly fading clatter through the partially opened window.

"This time. I have full control." 

Chapter Text

Kukuroo Mountain

1977

****

The two-year-old is sure on his feet; the child was early with all his skills. Walking before a year old, making simple sentences by 15 months. 

"Smart boy," says Zeno, watching how steadily the youngster runs. Instead of a toddler's typical bouncing gait, a smooth and determined military cadence is employed. "You can stop now. You've been going for--" he consults his watch. "Fifteen minutes." 

The boy, immediately, comes to a halt. Beads of sweat trickle down his forehead, but he controls his panting breaths, modulating them with visible effort to lower the gasping volume. 

Zeno regards his grandson with an impartial eye. Illumi is certainly a homely child; Zeno had remarked upon this from the day of his birth, much to Kikyo's fury. A pale and overly serious face with disconcertingly large eyes that fight against his cheekbones. A pursed-up mouth--inherited from his mother, but without her vaguely seductive quirk. Ears that stick out--all of Illumi's features are either gawkishly large or stingily pinched. 

"He'll never be much in the looks department," Zeno had casually stated when the child was first born, watching in amusement as Kikyo's face flushed red with anger. 

"He's a good, strong boy," Silva, desperate to placate both his wife and his father, had offered. "He'll do the Zoldyck name proud." 

Indeed, thinks Zeno, still watching Illumi's stock-still pose in the middle of the trail. He thinks back, briefly, to two years ago, when unfortunate circumstances forced him to take control of the child's Nen categorization. 

****

"Master Zoldyck." The butler gives a slight bow. "If you please, I shall take the young master, feed him, get him prepared for his crib."

Zeno, holding his screaming grandson at arms length--a quizzical, calculating expression on his face--shakes his head. "No need," he states. "The child has been through a considerable amount. He'll quiet down once he realizes he's back home."

"He's so young that--" A slight protest. 

Zeno, glancing over, raises an eyebrow ominiously. 

"Yes, Master Zoldyck. I will leave you with him." A sputtered, hasty statement. Footsteps clatter down the stone-paved hallway. 

Zeno returns his attention to the squalling infant. "What is it, the name your father calls you?" he wonders aloud. "Ah, yes. The Little Owl. Owls are birds of prey, my Illumi."

Placing the baby into the crib, he ignores the piteous wails, choosing to think aloud at a volume in which he can hear himself over the baby's cries. 

"Such a ridiculous predicament," he muses. "Your father, tangling with the likes of Meteor City gangs; your mother getting caught in the cross-fire of a rivalry that should have never happened. We'll be lucky if that damned prosthetic the doctors are touting will allow her to ever see normally again. We're already lucky you're alive, child. They spared you, but if 'sparing' involves abandoning you under a bush while your mother screams in agony yards away..." Zeno pauses; shakes his head. 

The baby continues his series of rattling sobs. Zeno walks over to the crib, grasping the rails contemplatively. 

"I've been thinking,"  he offers, conversationally, as if the child could possibly understand him. "Your father, I'm certain, has his own plans for his firstborn son. But Silva has already proven that he has the judgement skills of an ant--first by tangling with Meteor City, second by marrying one of its daughters. As if we didn't already have a brilliant match set up for him, Illumi. And at all of 21 years old he comes home one day and informs us that he's decided upon this slip of a girl; this trash from the regional dregs." He shakes his head, a mournfully wry look upon his face. 

"With you, now, however, little owl." Zeno runs a finger over the infant's skull. "Here is my chance. You're already physically the picture of your--genetically inferior--mother. No hopes you'll trend toward the Zoldyck side in that department. 

"I'll allow that your mother, if flighty, does seem to have intelligence. She managed to somehow bewitch Silva, and it certainly could not be due to her remarkable appearance. Plus, she has--to her credit--learned the intricacies of the Zoldyck dynasty in a remarkably short period of time."

Reaching into an inner pocket of the draped cloak he is wearing, the older man fiddles with something within. "So, little owl. We'll assume you have a good set of brains. A solid head on your shoulders." He inclines his chin in thought. "You'll be needing a steady mind for what I am considering." 

"I would prefer to allow this to develop organically," he states, after a few moments. "I don't care to mess with Mother Nature in terms of Nen. However, your blood is a wild card, Illumi. With Silva, it was clear to see he would trend in the Emitter heritage. Your grandmother was a flawlessly selected match; the Zoldycks do not gamble with lineage." Zeno's face hardens briefly. "Silva has flaunted this tradition. I will not risk you being a loss as well." 

Picking the baby up once again with his free arm, he ignores the renewed wails, running a fingertip over the child's cheekbones, chin, forehead, and shoulders. "Ugly boy," he states, without rancor. "Unusual looking boy, you are. Your uniqueness--unpleasant as it is--will not serve you well as an assassin. It will make you altogether too recognizable." 

Another pause for thought. "I think, then," he continues. "We'll take you out of kin. Firstborn grandson, unideally suited to be the heir of the family...no need to keep you in Emission. No, little owl, you will be needing something stronger. For protection. For position. I am speaking very frankly about your shortcomings, my grandson, but this does not mean I don't love you. Want the best for you. And want the best you can provide to the Zoldyck name."

Drawing his hand out of his cloak, Zeno holds a glittering silver needle to the light. The baby stops crying momentarily, dazzled by the shine of the small implement. 

"Manipulation," states Zeno. "We haven't had a Manipulator in the Zoldyck clan in decades, but the one we did have, well--" He twirls the needle theatrically. "Suffice to say, mind control is a terrifying force to contend."

Staring intently at his grandson, a smile creeps over his face. "Your great-great uncle, little owl. Unlike you, he was handsome--fair, of course. Big eyes, like you, except his didn't fight against the angles of his face like wings against the bars of a cage."

Lifting the needle, he holds it above the baby's forehead. "So handsome, stunning, and cold," he croons. "And never even had to endure a speck of messy dirt on his hands. Just a flick of his fingers, a toss of those needles of his, and he'd have full agency over whatever came his way."

The silver pin moves closer to the child's head. "Like you, little owl, he had unique looks. He was as beauteous as you are homely. But that was another trick he had up his sleeve. One that you may be able to use one day." Zeno traces a circle on the baby's skull. "Just a few of his pins, placed in the correct positions, and he could make himself completely transformed. Completely unrecognizable. Not a soul would recognize the beautiful man who'd been catching transfixed glances just moments before." 

A sudden blur of movement; a piercing scream. 

"There," says Zeno, fondly. "That took just a moment, didn't it, my child?"

The baby, now silent, a trickle of blood dividing his tiny face, stares up at his grandfather with depthless, cold eyes.

Zeno chuckles. 

"Already the icy stare. Ah, my Illumi. You're going to make your grandpa very proud one day, aren't you?" 

****

Zeno, lost in his memories, does not hear the footsteps coming up behind him; however, his finely honed En is more than adequate to give a warning that someone is approaching. 

He turns around swiftly. "Ah, Silva," he says. "To think that my own son believes he can sneak up on me, eh?"

"I wasn't attempting to startle you." Silva, as always--and especially since the fated clash that injured Kikyo two years ago--is stoically emotionless. "I just came to see how you and Illumi are getting along." The little boy, remaining motionless, flicks his dark eyes over to examine his father without words. 

"He's a fine runner," reports Zeno. "Can hold immobility for a near perfect period, too. You were right about him, he's a good, strong boy."

Silva nods. Walking over to his son, he picks the toddler up. Illumi, obediently, puts his arms around his father's neck. 

"In fact," Zeno continues, nodding in approval at the boy's deference, "I have some very good news for you. Starting his training at 24 months, the traditional jump-off point..."

"Yes?" Silva's expression does not change, but he strokes his son's dark hair with a gentle hand. "It's been two months since he started. What news could you possibly have in eight mere weeks of training?"

Zeno assumes a pleased smile. "Very big news. Very big news, indeed. I think you will be most delighted when I inform you--"

Silva, suddenly, looks a bit wary. "Inform me of what?" He continues to pet his son's head, huge hand outsized against the youngster's small skull. 

"I have determined the boy's Nen categorization." 

Silva stiffens. Illumi, despite his rigid training, blinks reactively; mirrors his father's slight defensiveness. 

"No need to look so startled, Silva. This is a good thing." Zeno snaps his fingers. "As you probably expected, he's not going to be the heir to the Zoldyck empire. We already knew that just by looking at him, from birth. But--"

"Father," spits Silva, an edge to his tone. "We discussed this--"

"Stop, Silva." Zeno is calm. "The boy is not the heir. That is the final word. However, I have unearthed something within him that is rare and valuable to our purposes, indeed." 

Silva opens his mouth, then shuts it. Illumi, carefully, lowers his cheek to his father's shoulder, keeping one black eye on his grandfather. 

"Do you recall your great uncle? Maha's son?" Zeno cocks his head. "We lost him, unfortunately, before the age of 50. But he was the one who personified the Zoldyck name. Blond hair, such as yours. Such a physical specimen, he was. In fact, he looked somewhat like you, but--no offense, my son--you could not hold a candle to his degree of handsomeness." 

Silva remains silent for a moment. "I recall," he says, finally, without elaboration.

"He was the perfect Zoldyck, save one small detail. He himself did not take on the title of heir, simply because of one thing."

"He--" begins Silva, but Zeno waves this aside. 

"Let me finish. He wasn't an Emitter." A grin spreads across Zeno's face. "Nor is Illumi." 

"You're saying--" Silva, desperately, attempts to break in again. 

"I'm saying exactly what you are thinking. Illumi is not an Emitter. He is, however, like his great great-uncle, perhaps the most feared categorization of all." 

Illumi lifts his small face. The huge eyes, so unattractive, too outsized in the young, slender face, fix his grandfather with a cold, bottomless stare. 

"Illumi is a Manipulator."

"The world will fear him. He will control the world." 

Chapter Text

"It's inadvisable." Kalluto has always been one to conserve words, but since his advancement to head of the Phantom Troupe, he is less talkative than ever. Most of his statements are delivered as pronouncements, with a punctuating silence following. 

Hisoka, however, is not easily intimidated. After waiting several beats--a tacit sop to Kalluto's ego, whatever on earth it is composed of, Hisoka has never understood the youngest Zoldyck nor cared to--he nods. "Inadvisable, yes," he states. "However, I am coming to you to ask for the favor, personally." 

Kalluto's violet stare is unblinking. "Why isn't Illumi asking me, himself?" The question is, again, clipped in tone. 

Controlling an inadvertent burst of exasperation, Hisoka keeps his expression bland. "Don't be ridiculous, Kalluto. You know the answer to that. You were the one who engineered the entire custody arrangement for Vianney. Setting it up for the child to be taken away to God knows where..."

"My nephew is in a perfectly safe location," Kalluto interjects. "I don't usually engage in family discussions with those who are not family, Hisoka. I will say that it is a vast indulgence on my part to even entertain this meeting at all." Folding his arms across his chest, he inclines his chin slightly, an indication that the conversation is over. 

Hisoka fights an itching urge to flick the Phantom Troupe leader on his smooth, white throat; force him to look back up. "The child is going to be 8 years old. Illumi knows nothing of where his son is living. He is snatching bits of Vianney's life in piecemeal Yorknew visitations." 

When Kalluto's serene expression does not change, Hisoka allows heat to creep into his tone. "Do you think it is fair for the boy to be raised by his stepfather?"

"He has a mother," replies Kalluto. "Usually children are primarily in the care of their mothers."

"God damn it," curses Hisoka. "You're not concerned with that rule when it comes to your nieces."

Kalluto exhales lightly. "I already said, Hisoka. I don't care to discuss family matters with an outsider."

"I'm not an--" Hisoka forces himself to stop. Changing his tactic, he lowers his voice; swaps into a more honeyed delivery. "Kalluto. Your brother and your nieces are moving in with me. Into my Yorknew penthouse. Given this, you cannot reasonably call me an outsider, now, can you?"

Kalluto's gaze glitters, slightly. "So," he states, evenly. "My nieces will be raised by a stepfather, eh? As you seem to think is such a travesty for my nephew." 

"Kalluto." Hisoka stares the younger man directly in the eyes. "Let me talk directly to Chrollo Lucilfer."

When there is no answer to this, only silence, Hisoka states it again. 

"Let me discuss this with him personally. The two outsiders." Hisoka's face grows hard. "The two that do not have the Zoldyck last name." 

Kalluto picks up a restaurant flyer resting on the table. Reflexively, he bends the paper back, forth, back and forth, into a fan shape. The repetitive action is clearly a coping mechanism; Hisoka knows this much from his experience with the Zoldyck family. 

"Of course he does not have the Zoldyck name," is Kalluto's answer, after some few minutes. "Neither does Tania, anymore."

"But you still count her as a Zoldyck." 

Kalluto bends the fan into a compact half, then halves it again into a stiff square. "She bore Zoldycks. Can you say the same?" The question, obviously rhetorical, nevertheless contains a rough, ironically honest edge. 

"Arrange a face-to-face meeting." Hisoka, willing himself to remain calm, clasps his hands in a show of finality. 

Kalluto, again, waits. Hisoka does not move, either. 

When the silence grows so long that Hisoka wonders if his strategy could possibly smoke out the impatience of the family he's admired for years for its self-containment, Kalluto finally throws his paper bindle to the ground.

"All right." The words are pronounced carefully. "I will ask, and if he says yes, I will take you to him." The violet eyes darken, just imperceptably. "For my brother I grant this. Not for the welfare of my nephew, let me make this clear."

"Your nephew will be better off--" Hisoka says it, but the palm of the younger man is raised instantly. 

"For my brother."

****

The windows of the airship are blacked out. The artificial lighting within the cabin is tempered to a deliberately soft gold, but it still does not mitigate the claustrophobic effect of not being able to see outside. Kalluto, in his perpetual air of unconcern, pages through a thick and uninteresting-looking novel, taking measured sips from an iced drink served up by solicitous airstaff. 

Hisoka, not interested in distractions, drums his fingers against his armrest. "How long?" he snaps.

Kalluto does not look up from his book. "It will be a while."

"Where the fuck are we going." Hisoka usually does not drop curse words, does not drop dead-ended pronouncements in such a cold manner. But his nerves are--to a degree he will never audibly acknowledge--frayed. 

"Classified." Kalluto has the sweet, musical voice all the Zoldycks possess. Best put toward their native, tonal Dentoran dialect, but still pretty when pronouncing bald and flat Sahertan. 

****

The sand. Endless. The same shade as the light in the closed-off, buzzing blimp. 

Hisoka's white linens, immaculate, even after hours in a closed space, flutter in the warm wind. "The hell," he pronounces. "We have to walk, now, after what we've just been--"

Kalluto raises a finger to his lips. 

"I will say whatever I want," Hisoka says, trying to control a sputter. "This is pure insanity. There's no wonder Illumi wanted to pluck his son from this situation--"

A medium-sized, slightly built, shadowed figure abruptly rises above a sandbank. 

Hisoka squints; is unable to make out much. The--apparently, there is no actual gauge--afternoon sun is throwing the figure into stark silhouette. 

Kalluto drops his cloak of indifference, clasps both hands in a deferential gesture. 

The figure speaks. 

"Hisoka. We meet. Once more." 

Chapter Text

Classified 

Two Years Ago

****

"If you'd be so kind." The comment is directed, in the familiar soft, low-pitched voice, to Kalluto. "We'll be speaking privately for some time." A slight nod indicates the hallway. 

Hisoka, without shifting position, glances at the open door. Tania Zoldyck--Lucilfer--is hovering there. Not the same wraithlike beauty Hisoka recalls from his few brief encounters with her, pre-divorce from Illumi. She is still runway-model tall, of course--a good two or three inches than Chrollo. But her ascetic slenderness has softened into fuller curves, and the blond streaks Hisoka remembers have been replaced by unremarkable light brown locks, much the same as his own natural hair color. Only the odd, aquamarine eyes remain unchanged. 

"You can have tea with Tania." A smile is sent in his wife's direction. "I believe it is time for the children's lunch, isn't it, darling? Perhaps Kalluto would enjoy a bite to eat with his nephew, as well. I know Vee is always over the moon whenever his uncle comes to visit."

Kalluto rises from his chair, casts a wary glance at Hisoka. 

"No need for that expression." Hisoka puts a deliberate note of sarcasm into his drawl; leans heavier than usual on his West Sahertan accent. "You should know by know I'm completely out of practice. I hung up all my Nen skills upon joining the Sahertan Sports Federation. And then--" He gives a pointed cough. "I retired. So I'm hardly a threat--"

A chuckle interrupts this. 

"Danchou--" begins Kalluto, but Chrollo waves this away. 

"Am I not retired too?" 

The gray eyes, still shadowed with dark circles, still clear as a winter's river chilled with snowfall and jagged rocks, crinkle with humor. 

"We meet once more," Chrollo states. "This time, on the same playing field."

****

"Q."

The old nickname, long absent from Hisoka's lips, is breathed into the room. It was meant to come out playfully, to break the ice of a decades' worth of love and murderous intent. Instead, it is weaker than Hisoka can control.

Chrollo retains a faint smile. Examining the nails on one hand, he says, offhandedly, "You always persisted in using my old-country name. What appeals so much about it? Even my own wife prefers my Sahertan name." 

Hisoka, against his will, finds himself flashing back decades. Seeing an impish 16-year-old mocking him in a darkened Glam Gas strip club. What's my name? Figure it out? 

"Quwrof," is all he answers. Folding his hands under his chin, he waits for the former Troupe leader to establish the direction of their negotiation. 

The grin fades, replaced by a contemplative look. "So," Chrollo states. "You are here on behalf of Illumi, I understand? Funny how it shook out, isn't it."

Hisoka looks up. "What do you mean by that?"

Chrollo raises an eyebrow. A bandanna covers his forehead, but the gaudy eardrops are present, catching the light. "You won the prize," he says, simply. 

"The prize?" Hisoka's face hardens into a scowl. "For what contest are you talking about? I'd say I've won plenty of prizes over my career, Q. I was a professional prizefighter." 

"Illumi," states Chrollo, in a neutral tone. 

Hisoka blinks, in surprise. 

"Illumi was always the center of what we were all at contest over," Chrollo clarifies. "I bear no ill will over this anymore. I am surprised you did manage to capture his heart. Or so it seems you have. But, based on the information Kalluto has provided, Illumi has moved his children into your home. There is no greater proof of the seriousness of his feelings if he is allowing you to help raise his family."

"Why would you have ill will?" Hisoka, slowly, tightens his clasped hands in an effort to steady himself. "Your involvement with Illumi was nothing more than a fling on the Black Whale while he was still under your recruitment."

"Is that so." Chrollo's drawl, tinged with Meteor City flatness, is as pronounced as Hisoka's Sahertan inflections. "What would you know, anyway?" The question is deliberately, subtly mocking. 

Hisoka feels himself enmeshed in the cool, light tendrils of Chrollo's remembered aura. Gritting his teeth, placing his palms against thighs that are beginning to tremble, he struggles for control. "What do I know? I know that you never dallied with him again. Save to sucker-punch him one last time, for whatever nonsensical jollies you were seeking, by stealing his wife."

When Chrollo does not immediately answer, Hisoka throws a deeper barb. "His wife," he hisses. "Whom I doubt you even love, either. An acquisition, much as you felt Illumi was a jewel for your trophy case. Am I wrong?"

"Hisoka," Chrollo finally says, without rancor. "I want you to know something."

The aura is making Hisoka's head swim. Stirring in his blood, the desire to counteract with his own long-dormant En bubbles disconcertingly, but he controls the impulse. In a weaker voice than he'd like, he answers, "What?" 

Chrollo exhales, taking his time about it. "I asked Illumi to head the Phantom Troupe with me. Together. At my side." He inhales--again slowly--through his nose. "You know the implications of such a proposal."

Hisoka feels the pit of his stomach churn with nausea. Another memory -- of standing near a forest, the exorcist Abengane patiently waiting, and a choked declaration of love -- arrests his brain. "Q," he whispers, eyes closed. "Do you remember--" 

"I don't care to go back down Memory Lane." Chrollo clears his throat. "This was indulgent of me in the first place. I suppose I needed to discuss this first, however, to finally put an end to this chapter in my mind." He softens his tone, slightly. "I'd suggest you close your own book, as well. As I said to you before our final fight--"

Hisoka's eyes remain closed. Faraway recollections of a screaming Arena crowd fill his ears. "Your pursuit of me is becoming tiresome," he murmurs. 

"Open your eyes, Hisoka." The words are pronounced gently. "I know very well your feelings. It's good that we are here now, to put an end to these dreams that were never tied up, never resolved. I realize fully well how such things can burn. It was wrong of me," he clears his throat again. "To mock you with that 'prize' comment."

Hisoka opens his eyes, slowly. "Illumi is not a prize," is all he says. "Nor are you, Q. If my love for you felt objectifying, I suppose it is time for me to finally apologize for that as well. We have both moved on."

"We are both retired." A sudden, impromptu laugh bubbles out of the former Troupe leader's throat. "After all. Are we not?"

"Retired, indeed." The streams of aura fade imperceptibly into the background. Hisoka feels his mind grow clear, despite a nagging trickle of sweat crawling down the back of his neck. 

"You want to take the boy back to Yorknew." Chrollo has returned to a businesslike demeanor. "Is that all that you are here for? Or that you intended to come here for? Kalluto did not elaborate very much. He merely told me that you felt you'd be a more effective negotiator than his brother; Illumi is notoriously unable to keep a level head when family is involved. And--" A quick flashing grin. "After all, we are the two only outsiders in this clan. Are we not?"

"If I take the boy," Hisoka says. "What are the risks involved? From what I understand, there are concerns that the Wolfbergs will attempt to abduct him." 

Chrollo, contemplatively, touches one earring. "I believe we have mitigated that threat. Having the boy here for two years has pretty much taken care of any concern of mine that the child will be taken by his grandparents. On either side. Kalluto has assured me that his surveillance of Silva and Kikyo Zoldyck is perpetually intact, and that his parents have basically sunk into a retirement neither one seems in a hurry to abandon. Life on Kukuroo mountain for a rich retired couple, after all, you can't blame them--" 

"But the Wolfbergs." Hiskoa, impatient, breaks into this. "Who's to say that they aren't still--"

"Zero threat." Chrollo is calm. "Think, Hisoka. I'll let you figure out why." 

The sound of clinking dishes and children's laughter drifts through the closed door. Uncle Kallu, a young boy's high, light voice calls.

Minutes pass. Chrollo, finally, inhales again. 

"The child is a Zoldyck," he states. "Zoldycks are taught family loyalty above all."

You sit by me! Uncle Kallu is going to sit by me at the table! 

"Yes, and so?" Hisoka shakes his head. "I'm not following you, Q." 

"What purpose would the Wolfbergs have in taking over the child, making him into an assassin? He's already gone past the ideal age for beginning a training regime."

Hisoka shakes his head again. "No more games, Q. Just tell me."

Do you want to hold Sarasa, Uncle Kallu? She is getting so big, isn't she?

Chrollo's gray eyes are sweet; search Hisoka's face up and down. 

"The Wolfbergs have one main motivation for training Vianney. They want to avenge their patriarch's death. The man that--" A small grin. "Well, the man that I happened to kill. Years ago."

Hisoka, recognition suddenly growing, cocks his head, fixing his gaze directly into Chrollo's.

"I've had the boy for two years now." The grin grows wider. "I've won his heart with patience and kindness. With a stepfather's love."

Trilling laughter through the door. I love you, Uncle Kallu.

"Vianney is a Zoldyck. He will never, ever harm family. Not even in avengement for other family." 

Hisoka holds out a hand. Chrollo takes it. 

"To this end, he serves no purpose to the Wolfbergs. They will never train a killer who will refuse to execute their primary kill."

Hisoka stands. Chrollo follows suit. 

"Let's go get the boy," says Hisoka. "I'm ready to take him home." 

As they pass through the doorway, still holding hands, Hisoka gives the shorter man next to him one final, sweeping look. 

"Thank you," he says. "Chrollo." 

Chapter Text

East Padokea

Seven years ago

****

The Wolfberg estate, tucked into an exclusive pocket neighborhood several miles out from the center of town, offers beautiful views of its lush gardens through floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows. The distant silhouette of Heaven's Arena, East Padokea's unassailable signature landmark, peeks through the greenery and blossoms. 

"Do you think it is advisable," frets Kikyo Zoldyck, placing her cup of tea on its saucer. "For Tania to take the children to the Arena. Sightseeing, in her condition? Illumi mentioned that she was several months along--"

"Hush, dear." Silva Zoldyck waves a hand. "She's barely 'along,' as you put it. You've had five children yourself, you should know she's not exactly an invalid at this stage. Run along and get your coat and things, love. Enjoy the Arena tour. As I understand, they've done quite the remodel since that unfortunate disaster of a fight between--" 

Kikyo, twisting the handle of her handbag, cuts in hastily. "Can we not talk about that...spectacle...please?" The red light in the center of her visor flickers, in a jittery fashion. 

"Agreed, Kiki," drawls Zeno Zoldyck. "Disgusting show of ego." He shakes his head. "Luckily, we've trained the boys from day one to consider killing to be something only done for concrete reasons. A job. Not sport. Frivolous nonsense."

Illumi Zoldyck enters the dining room, accompanied by his father-in-law. "The car is waiting for you, Mother," he says. "Tania and the kids are ready to go."

"You're not going, Illumi?" Silva fixes his son with a raised eyebrow. "It's your vacation, too, little owl. Go see the sights. The new restaurant at the Arena is said to be five-star. You haven't been to the Arena in how many years, is it? As I recall, you blessedly weren't there for that obscene death match back in--"

A strange expression flickers across Illumi's face, which he instantly corrects. "I have some business in town," is all he answers. "We'll be going to the Reveille tonight for drinks, won't we? I'll be back in plenty of time for dinner." Without further comment, he exits the room. 

"Have a nice time, Kikyo," Yaroma Wolfberg says, pleasantly, seating himself at the table. When all have exited and it is solely the three men seated, the sandy-haired man speaks. 

"So." The aquamarine eyes glitter, without heat, but with a hard edge. "The boy. He's 4 years old. Creeping rapidly towards 5. What the hell is going on here, Silva?"

Silva draws in an exasperated-sounding breath, but Zeno cuts in before his son can answer. "We're all aware that Vianney's training is behind schedule. The child should have started two years ago. We did, however, grant Illumi some leeway, given Tania's grave condition following Nelia's birth. Your daughter could barely get out of bed for a couple of months. Illu had his hands absolutely full, what with worrying over her and trying to keep up a full slate of work missions." 

"We were at a crucial business point, too," Silva nods. "Rebuilding the Zoldyck name in the face of all that cheap competitor damage, and Illumi was the face of our rebrand."

"He had his hands absolutely full, all right," drawls Yaroma. "Full of something, that's for sure. Not to be crude, but despite my daughter's ailment, he managed to knock her up again in record speed." He coughs, pointedly. "And, I may add, against doctor's very pointed advisement. We're damned lucky she is handling this pregnancy without issue." A shake of the head. "And it will probably be yet another girl. As if we needed another useless girl child, pretty as my granddaughters may be." 

Silva flushes an angry red shade at this, but Zeno, again, speaks first. "Now, now," he says, placatingly. "We won't talk about my great-grandbabies like that. Every Zoldyck is treasure to us as family. Illumi's daughters will be high value matches for dynasty alliances, just as your Tania was."

"We are getting off topic." Yaroma folds his arms impatiently across his chest. "Why isn't the boy at least on his initial stages of training? He should be well past full-strength arsenic resistance and onto tetrodoxotin samples by now. If we keep delaying, he's going to be even less of assassin material than my own sons."

"Did you attempt to train them at age 2?" Silva's face is still pink with anger. 

"Of course," retorts Yaroma. "They proved immediately unsuitable; there was no sense in even wasting my precious time on them. You know the story by now, Silva. We sent the twins to academically rigorous programs immediately, as soon as we realized they would never make a kill in their lives. Our best hope now is that they contribute to the Wolfberg dynasty in terms of intelligence."

"Brains...and beauty," muses Zeno, a bit wryly. "Tania certainly made a small fortune as an international supermodel." 

A fist bangs on the table. "As I said," growls Yaroma. "We are continuing to stray off topic. It's time for the child to begin training. If you won't take the reins on this--I'll give you first right of refusal, as Illumi is a Zoldyck--I will take matters into my own hands. If I have to convince my son-in-law myself, I will." 

Zeno appears unruffled. "You have no Nen," he remarks, casually. "Who do you think you are?"

"I have other ways of making certain my requests are fulfilled." Yaroma frowns, causing his eyebrows to knit over the glittering aquamarine eyes. "I will remind you that the Wolfberg clan is as loyal as you Zoldycks. I have a daughter who understands filial piety. I feel certain she will align with my wishes, should I be forced into employing her help with this."

Silva straightens up, abruptly. "Nonsense," he hisses, ignoring Zeno's placating pat on his arm. "Your daughter was raised to be a wife. She will defer to her husband."

"I see." Fingers tap on the table. "I see, also, that I have hit a nerve. Have I not, Silva?" Yaroma's frown turns slowly into a faint grin. "Admit it. You're just as pissed off as I am. That Vianney is running around untrained like an overgrown bunny rabbit. It drives you nuts that you have no control over your son--"

"Stop." The command is issued in Zeno's--rarely used--most chilling tone. Both Silva and Yaroma freeze in surprise, turning their gazes to the older man. 

"I agree with both of you," Zeno states, modulating his voice back to a calm meter. "Yaroma, you are absolutely correct; the child needs to embark on training as soon as possible, it is disgraceful that he is still green at his age. However, there is no need to rankle with suggestions that we do not have control over Illumi. That boy is the steadiest arrow in the Zoldyck quiver. I don't blame Silva for coming close to losing his temper at your disrespectful insinuations." 

Yarema and Silva, warily, turn their gazes back upon each other. "So what are you going to do about it," snarls Yaroma. "Or should I say, 'We?' Vianney is mine as much as yours. He has responsibility to the Wolfberg name as well as Zoldyck." 

Silva, abruptly, sighs. "Not that again, Yar," he says, in a tired voice. "Your sole reasoning for the boy to begin training is for that damned vengeance. I'll remind you, we don't deal in that mindset in our family."

A muscle twitches in Yaroma's cheek, but he remains otherwise composed. "Vianney Wolfberg Zoldyck," he replies, simply. "Scion of East Padokea's deadliest and most powerful assassin family." 

"Point taken." Zeno's patient facade has begun to erode. "Silva, perhaps the best thing to do is actually for us to initiate matters. Skip the discussion with Illumi; he is, regrettably, still recovering from Nelia's birth and Tania's health scare. Once we get the ball rolling, he will likely be grateful we took the initial step with Vianney." 

A nod from across the table. "All of this arguing," states Yaroma. "And finally you speak sense."

Silva presses his lips together in a fine line. "Fine," he says. "I'll admit, I've felt a bit of helplessness in terms of all this. For one thing, Illumi has been so preoccupied lately with Tania's health, I haven't had much direct access to the boy. They've been remaining at Wyvern Cottage and have just recently resumed their Sunday visits to the Zoldyck manor for brunch."

"So, ambush them," Yaroma suggests, drily. "The next time the children are at the manor, give Vianney his first dose of poison. Once the shock wears off, you simply inform Illumi that you've initiated the program. What can he do at that point?"

"I don't much like the idea--" begins Silva, but falls silent.

Zeno cups his chin, cocking his head. "Give Silva a bit of time," he advises Yaroma. 

"I have." The frown returns, this time deeper than before.

"Let us think it over," soothes Zeno. "Tania is due in a few short months with the baby. Perhaps the arrival of another infant in the house will make it easier to slide Vianney into training. Illumi will be preoccupied. Tania--God forbid--may be incapacitated again. Either way, we can take over with a lot more ease. Just a few months." 

Yaroma's frown abates, slightly. "Time is flying," he notes. 

"The new arrival will be coming soon." Zeno brightens, suddenly. "And our darling Sylvia--my precious first great-grandbaby. She'll be turning 8 not too long after."

Silva turns to look at his father. "You don't mean?" His tone is weak, but incredulous. 

"We always have a birthday party for our babies, don't we?" Zeno's smile is, disingenuously, sweet.

"Perhaps with all the excitement, and the entire family about...that might be a good time to initiate our young man into his intended path." 

Chapter Text

Kukuroo Mountain

1988

****

"Be careful with him, Illumi." Kikyo's stomach is already turgidly poking out, although she is barely into her second trimester of pregnancy. The pinpoint of red in the center of her visor flashes rapidly as she pats her bump with a worried gesture.

"Yes, Mother." Fifteen-year-old Illumi, an impassive expression on his face, readjusts the infant in his arms to a slightly different angle. "He isn't complaining." 

"Alluka is such a sunshiny baby," Kikyo's fretting tone abruptly turns into a coo. "Never cries, do you darling? Not like this one, here." She reaches out to tousle the shock of white hair on the toddler who is tugging at her skirts. "Or big brother over there." 

The boy hunched in the corner of the room, nose buried in a comic book, wrinkles his expression unattractively. "Mama," he whines. "Leave me alone."

Silva walks into the room, trailed by Zeno. "Up with you," he commands, directing it to the corner. "Milluki, on your feet. No more time wasted on those comics. Be of some use. Take Killua outside, get him out of your mother's hair. Can't you have some respect for the condition she is in?"  

"Why can't Illumi do it." The boy's face is stubborn. "I don't want to go outside."

Zeno taps a foot. "Mil. Lazy boy. Listen to your father. I don't want to remind you of what happened the last time you disobeyed and talked back. We don't want a repeat of that, now, do we?"

The boy, reluctantly and heavily, gets to his feet. "Come on, Kil," he mutters. When the toddler refuses to let go of his mother's skirt, he roughly hauls him up. 

"Careful!" Silva cannot control his volume. "We cannot allow anything to--"

"I know, I know," spits the boy. "Do you have to remind me daily? He is the precious heir--and it's hardly my fault Mama keeps having babies--"

Zeno, threateningly, takes a step forward. Milluki, grabbing Killua's hand, scrambles off, dragging the younger child behind him.

Both men shake their heads. Illumi, face remaining stoic, gives Alluka another small jiggle, automatically glancing at the bottle to check how much the infant has consumed. 

"It's hard on him." Kikyo, stroking her midsection, offers this in a placating tone. "Always in the shadow of his brother." The visor lights up brightly in Illumi's direction. "How could he not feel inferior? And, intelligent as he is, he's still too young, he cannot possibly understand our reasoning behind the Triad--"

"Hush, Kikyo." Silva interjection is, uncharacteristically, stern. Zeno raises an eyebrow, then waves a hand. Illumi's gaze remains trained on his swaddled sibling. 

"Why don't you go rest, dear Kiki," the older man says. "Three pregnancies, back-to-back--necessary as they must be--have to take a toll. We need you to conserve your strength." He gives her an ingratiating smile. "Mother of the Triad. All of this would be, quite, impossible without you." He waves his hand again. "Off, off, my dear. We shall have Mitsuba bring you dinner in bed, on a tray. Anything you like."

Silva, upon his wife's exit from the room, allows his shoulders to slump. Looking over at Illumi, he remarks, "Son, speaking of Mitsuba. She can take Alluka. No need to waste your time baby-sitting him."

Illumi nods, but does not loosen his hold on the baby. "It's all right. He is calmer when family is holding him," he informs his father. "He's not like Killua. Killua never wanted to be held." 

Silva's face darkens, slightly. "Killua did not have a traumatic birth, that's why. When Alluka was born--"

Zeno cuts in. "No need, no need. We all recall the birth trauma. We overestimated on how much power we could infuse into Alluka in utero. Unfortunate. He is the exact opposite of Milluki; we went way too light on Mil. I think we were a bit too conservative on Killua as well, but there was the tricky matter of establishing the Triad, so we didn't want to destroy the premier component." 

Illumi's eyes are wide, but his face is blank. Alluka gives a slight, mewling coo. 

"Alluka, as I said--it is unfortunate," Zeno continues. "But the experimentation on him and the subsequent damage he sustained should be fruitful, at least. We figured out the precise tincture for our final member of the Triad. Our new son will be the perfect storm. We shall see when the child arrives."

"Father," says Silva. "Should we be discussing this in front of the teenager?" He throws another, harder, glance at the boy. "Illumi, how much of this do you actually understand?"

"He's 15," Zeno notes, mildly. "A sharp boy. Soon to be a man, before we know it. And by far the steadiest member of this clan. God knows we can use a level head, even if it belongs to a juvenile. Perhaps it's time to fully inform him of the responsibilities of his younger brothers." He nods in Illumi's direction. "Sit down, little owl. I'll explain." 

Illumi, obediently, finds a chair. Patting Alluka's back, he regards his grandfather silently. 

"I will call a butler to take Alluka," Zeno says. 

"He will get uncontrollable," Illumi answers. "He will stay much calmer with me, Grandfather--"

Zeno pushes a button. A suit-clad figure immediately appears. "Attend to the infant," Zeno commands. Shrill, thin wails echo and bounce against the stone walls as the butler carries Alluka away. 

"I thought Kiki said that child never cries," observes Zeno. "Ah, well. As I noted. Collateral damage. At least he does control himself somewhat when being held by family. Now, Illumi. Let's get into the explanation of all of this."

Silva has also found a chair. "Father," he states, a bit weakly. "I wish I'd been a bit more prepared to give this...this dissertation."

"Illumi is capable of handling it." Zeno folds his hands. "Let me do the talking, shall I? Illumi, the long and the short of it is this. When you were born, the Zoldyck dynasty was in search of an heir. A special child that would ensure the generational chain would continue in the vein that we have established for centuries. You were not that child. Your mother--"

"Father." Silva's voice, an octave higher than usual, carries a sharp edge.

"Your mother came from Meteor City and was not selected by the family, as is our wont," Zeno, unruffled by the outburst, continues. "Therefore, taking after her as you do physically, your characteristics were immediately unsuitable. Now, don't get me wrong, little owl. You have distinguished yourself most admirably as a model-perfect Manipulator despite being an inherent disappointment. We are very proud of you for that. The only other Manipulator preceding you, your distant uncle, was a dazzling specimen and your abilities already approach his, even at your young age."

Illumi does not blink. His entire expression remains eerily motionless. 

"But enough about you. We are pleased with your trajectory. Let's move on to Milluki. Your brother was born seven years after you--again, this was not ideal." Zeno casts a lidded stare at Silva. "Your father proved to be an unexpected rebel when it came to your mother and family planning. But I will allow a bit of leeway here. Your mother suffered a terrible tragedy when you were an infant, causing her to lose her eyes, and therefore had a long recovery period. The tragedy I mention also affected her mental state and she became quite fearful for your welfare. Reluctant to have another child; another one to worry about."

"That's not quite--" Silva tries again, but is waved off.

"Finally, by some grace, your father managed to talk your mother into having another son," Zeno taps his foot, lightly, against the chair legs. "This is somewhat difficult to explain without giving you full insight into our ministrations, but we attempted to stave off disappointment with Milluki by infusing him in utero with a particular form of Nen. Not the Nen that you are used to and currently developing, but...well..." He pauses in thought. "You are studying biology as part of your curriculum with your tutors? Chemistry, perhaps?"

Illumi gives a silent nod. 

"The best parallel I can give is, this infusion was something like a stem cell therapy. Does that make sense to you? We planted a seed to see what would grow. This is not something we'd ever tried before, nor needed to. But your father, as I noted, necessitated this due to his--" A cough. "Show of individuality that he insisted upon by marrying your mother." 

A strangled noise emerges from Silva's throat. Illumi's gaze bounces from his father, to his grandfather, and back again, as if watching a game of tennis. 

"We intended to create a lab-grown diamond, to make another metaphor." Zeno gives a slight chuckle. "As we all know by now, the experiment did not work. Mil has proven to fall even shorter of standards than you. So let me get to the point. During the five years before Killua was born, we embarked on a rigorous course of research and conducted considerable experiments in order to make sure we'd have the correct formula for the next pregnancy. Somewhere right around the time your mother conceived Killua, we also hit upon a curious phenomenon."

"The Triad." Silva says it in a hushed volume, sounding odd from a man of such large stature.

"The Triad," agrees Zeno. "Ancient Nen logic which somehow did not make it widely into modern times. Three sides of a triangle, each bolstering each other, with the correct amount of power concentrate applied to the structure..."

"The Zoldycks would be protected tenfold." Silva's voice remains low. "We are already a fierce dynasty. But this type of strength would provide a near-supernatural level of impenetrability."

"We created the heir." Zeno cannot keep a note of self-satisfaction out of this. "Killua has the necessary physical characteristics to assume that role. It was imperative your mother become pregnant as soon as possible in order to keep the energy chain moving at peak efficiency, so we then created the second side. Again, once Alluka was born, we made sure the third and final side of the Triad was conceived rapidly to close things out with minimal loss of power."

"But, Grandfather." Illumi finally speaks. "Alluka is not--"

"He's not fit. We know. His powers are benign. Anyone with half an eye can see that. He will never contribute to the family in any measurable sense, save to serve as an angle of the Triad. That is his sole reason for existence." A shrug. "Of course it would have been better had we not damaged him with too much infused power; we could have gotten use out of him. But the saving grace is, he is harmless." 

The teenager's eyes have turned haunted. "The new baby?"

"We believe we have finally accomplished a perfect balance with him. Killua will be the heir. But the last leg of the Triad will be our fiercest specimen, mark my words."

"What if--" Illumi opens, then closes his mouth. After a few seconds, he speaks again. "What if it's a girl?"

"Nonsense." Zeno is brusque. "Zoldycks do not have girl children." 

Illumi falls silent once again. Zeno nods, a faint smile on his face. Silva, looking resigned, cups his chin in one hand. 

"Grandfather?" The query is steady.

"Yes, little owl?"

Illumi waits another half-minute to ask his question. Finally, he says, "Did you perform experiments upon me?"

Zeno's slight grin widens. In the older man's mind swims the memory of a crib, an inconsolable infant, a needle piercing the tiny skull.

"Never, my boy." The lie is delivered smoothly. Zeno reaches out and pats the teen on the knee. 

"You are the only all-natural son."

Chapter Text

The sound of the shower in the master bathroom is usually a quiet, rainlike patter -- Hisoka, no longer perpetually sore from endless days in the fighting ring, prefers his luxury showerhead set at a sensually low and slow pressure. However, this evening, it has been markedly turned up and the spray is thunderously assaulting the tiles. 

Hisoka shifts lightly to one hip in bed, and puts the novel he is reading down. "Illumi," he snaps, loudly enough to be heard over the rushing water. "You've been in there for an hour. What gives?" The ex-assassin has never been one for lingering with ablutions; a lifetime of near-military precision training has resulted in a habit of getting in and out of the bathroom as efficiently as possible. 

The sound of the water cuts off with an abrupt and loud thunk. "Careful," calls Hisoka, wryly. "You don't need to break your hand turning it off, darling."

Illumi appears in the doorway to the bathroom, dressed in an old t-shirt of Hisoka's from his days working the casinos in Glam Gas, and a pair of worn-looking boxer shorts. "I was thinking," he says, by way of explanation. 

Hisoka gives his partner a lazy once-over. "Thinking about what, Billable Hours?" he drawls. "I must say, I'd love to see your clients' faces if they saw you dressed in a ratty tee with 'Get Lucky' printed on it." He snickers. 

Illumi waves a hand impatiently, then sits on the edge of the bed. "We didn't send out the laundry this week," he notes, a bit sourly, examining Hisoka's immaculate silk sleepwear set. "Unless you did. Just your own? Where did you get those pajamas?"

"I thought we'd decided that that was going to be one of your tasks," Hisoka replies. "You yourself said you wanted to try taking on some of the domestic chores; you said it was unfair for me to have all the to-do lists." He smooths the silky fabric draping his thighs. "And no, I didn't send out my laundry. These are new."

"Another endorsement freebie?" Illumi plumps up his stack of pillows and reclines, mouth still pursed. 

Hisoka cannot resist giving the dark hair a rumple -- he's still not used to it being short -- then chuckles as Illumi predictably swats him away. "Yes, love," he answers. "I am the new underwear and intimates model for a designer luxury brand -- still got the star power and the bod even in middle age--" 

"Stop, stop." Illumi reaches for the remote, switches on the TV. A recast of Sahertan Sports World Now fills up the screen, a televised Hisoka in a tan suit smiling ingratiatingly at the camera. "Okay, I goofed up. I've had a lot on my mind." 

"I'm happy to see you in my old t-shirt," Hisoka says. "It's quite a turn-on, especially set against that stockbroker haircut of yours. But what about the kids? Are they going to wear dirty school uniforms all week?" The televised version of Hisoka, in the background, places down a cup of coffee and makes an incredulous expression. 

Illumi clicks off the set. "Speaking of the kids. We need to discuss what is happening with Vianney. The truancy that the school reported."

"Is that what is on your mind? Why don't we just have another talk with him? You cannot be serious regarding your fears that someone or somebody is teaching him Zetsu."

"I told you." Illumi's jaw is set. "I have never been able to not locate my children utilizing my En. There is something serious going on. I'm not certain how --" He thinks for a moment, seemingly searching for the correct word -- "Nefarious the situation is. For all we know it could be some preteen prank. We are sending him to the most exclusive prep school in Yorknew; we'd be naive to think that there aren't children there with Nen abilities, even at their young age."

"Kids that can teach Zetsu?" Hisoka looks doubtful. "I mean, really, Illumi--"

"Kalluto knew it by the time he was 10," Illumi points out. "He had a more perfect Zetsu than you, if you'll recall, at that age. I have no idea exactly what age Killua picked it up; he told me some random instructor he and that little friend of his ran into at Heaven's Arena showed them the ropes, but he was also quite young."

"Did you speak to Vee's math teacher?" Hisoka, in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture, reaches out to pet the nape of Illumi's neck. "That's what he has been skipping, correct? After recess? Do you think he should be taken out of the accelerated program? Maybe it's too hard for him."

"Too hard--" It comes out as a sputter. "He's the son of a financial analyst." 

"And a supermodel," offers Hisoka, helpfully. "Your lovely blond ex, whom as I believe was never particularly revered for her brains? It was those twin brothers of hers with all the genius genes in the family." He cannot stem yet another chuckle. "How she and Chrollo find anything to talk about, I don't know." 

"That'll do." Illumi's tone is grim. 

"It's been some years, darling. Are you not over her yet?" The soothing caress on the neck drops to run one finger down the spine, suggestively. "I thought I took care of clearing your mind of all that by now. Shall I..."

"Of course I am over Tania," explodes Illumi. "I merely don't enjoy having to discuss her. Or her husband." He worms away from Hisoka, staring stiffly at the blank TV screen. "Vianney has always received straight As in everything and was previously doing fine in his accelerated math placement. Prior to this string of truancy. And actually," he adds, "he seems to be getting the assignments somehow and doing them independently. The teacher told me he is only missing quizzes and tests, but every worksheet is turned in."

"Well, then." Hisoka rolls onto his back and contemplates the ceiling. "There's only one thing to do. You have to have a talk with your son, himself."

"I already asked him. He is being evasive and rebellious, and told me that he has completed his assignments ahead of time and therefore should be able to do as he likes in the afternoon." Illumi, absently, scratches his stomach under the ragged t-shirt. "As you know, I am not interested in playing the heavy hand with any of my children. We all saw what happened with my father and grandfather's approach. So I am not going to corral Vee in any way. He will choose his own path and the best I can do is to guide him."

"Then what are you worried about? There's nothing you can do." Hisoka's words are practical. "Killua was halfway around the world at Vee's age, dragging Alluka with him."

A voice, suddenly, rings out from the master bedroom door. "Yes? You called me? I heard my name." The door opens, and Alluka is blinking at them, garbed in a flannel nightgown. 

"No, Alluka," says Illumi, sounding tired. "We don't need anything. Go on back to your room. Hisoka and I are just discussing the children."

"They're all in bed." Alluka's high, light voice is heavily accented. In an absentminded shift, she begins to speak rapidly in Dentoran, too fast for Hisoka to follow, but Illumi nods. 

"Yes, they're all in bed, I know. Vee included?" 

Alluka swaps back to Sahertan. "Yes, Vee too." 

"Did Kalluto come today?" 

Another nod. "He was here late afternoon and sat with Vee for a long time." 

Illumi turns to Hisoka. "I asked Kalluto to come over when he had a spare moment and analyze Vee. As we were just noting, he has complete mastery of Zetsu, probably the strongest in the family, so I thought perhaps he could spend a little time with his nephew and see what he can pick up in terms of what Vee is emitting."

Alluka looks slightly dumbfounded. "Analyze? They were just watching a movie, that's all," she says. "What is wrong with Vee, Aniki?"

"Good night, Allu." Illumi gives a final, dismissing gesture. When she has left the room, he sighs. "I never told you, did I, about Alluka? Why she has to live with us?"

Hisoka raises one eyebrow. "Of course. The supernatural--" 

"No." The word drops like a stone. "The supernatural phenomenon was a factor, but once Killua tamed that particular side, Alluka is the way she is because..."

Hisoka waits, but Illumi is absently scratching under the t-shirt again, eyes bleak. "She is like this because why?" Hisoka finally prompts. 

"I never told you any of this."

"Any of what?" Hisoka is mystified.

"Why Kalluto has the strongest grasp of Zetsu in our family. Why, in fact, he was able to rise to succeed Chrollo as the new leader of the Phantom Troupe. Nobody in the family, despite our considerable strengths, could have achieved a successful infiltration of the Troupe, let alone an eventual takeover. My grandfather... he used to say all the time... 'We created the perfect storm with this one...'" 

"And?" Hisoka does not want to let on that he is confused, but he is not following Illumi's train of thought. "And what about Alluka?"

Illumi makes a choking noise. "He is simple--he cannot live on his own--" 

"She," corrects Hisoka, quietly. 

"Yes," amends Illumi. "She. But for the purpose of my relating my family's history to you, she will be a he. You will see what I mean when I explain." 

"Illumi." Hisoka places a hand on his partner's knee. "What did your family do to Alluka? Aside from what I already know? She was certainly not given proper care, being put in solitary confinement for so many years, but as I understand it, she was quite dangerous and nobody could control her."

Illumi swallows. Hisoka, soothingly, pats his leg. "So naturally she lost out on normal development, which would affect her and probably cause her to appear simple, but I wouldn't say she is helpless. Nor do I understand what this has to do with Kalluto's strengths."

Illumi's gaze transmogrifies into a blank, visionless stare. "There are five Zoldyck brothers," he says, in a monotone. "The untouched eldest. The failed experiment of a second. The creation of the heir. And the final angles of..."

Hisoka, unexpectedly, feels a chill go down his back. Goosebumps mysteriously rise on his arms. "Angles?"

It comes out as a whisper. "The Triad."

"The what?" 

Illumi remains silent for a long time. "The Zoldyck dynasty," he finally says, still in a low tone. "The family's biggest secret."

"Alluka exists solely as an angle of energy. A manufactured angle to a phenomenal spell."

One shaking hand, balled into a fist, beats the mattress in a uncontrolled staccato.

"They infused Alluka with far too much Nen."

"Illumi--" begins Hisoka.

"Stop," Illumi cries out. "Listen to me." He places his face in his hands. "Alluka, thank God, found herself and her own identity early on, even with the damage inflicted upon her and the aberrant supernatural interference. But this is what I'm trying to tell you. The Zoldyck dynasty was built from the ground up, and we are the generation that is the ultimate pinnacle. The establishment of the Triad is the final step in assuring our familial destiny, which will theoretically stand for generations to come." 

Hisoka presses his lips together. Still chilled, he does not dare to move, lest he agitate Illumi further.

"The five brothers," repeats Illumi, in a thin, high voice. "The untouched eldest. The failed experiment. The heir. And..."

The room is entirely silent, save a slight patter from the bathroom. Residual drips from the showerhead. 

"The collateral damage." 

A tear is running down Illumi's face. 

"The perfect storm." 

Drip, drip, drip. The light noises are amplified in the stark atmosphere and the absence of any breath or noise from the stiff, dark-haired figure on the bed. 

"Hisoka," Illumi whispers. His haunted expression clashes eerily with the garishly cheerful casino logo on the t-shirt. "Help me. The Triad imploded. Killua has renounced his position as the heir. Alluka is no longer the fourth son. Kalluto has pledged himself body and soul to another organization. My father and mother, I believe, have come to accept the shattering of this dream and are resigned to the erosion of our family name in generations to come. But--"

Hisoka licks his lips, which have gone dry. "But, what, Illumi? Families die out. I am the only Morow in existence, to my knowledge. I don't even know if my actual last name is Morow. At least the Zoldycks will continue in some form for a good long while."

Illumi shakes his head. "It's not enough. My grandfather and great-grandfather spent decades working on the assurance that we would be the most impenetrable name in the history of the world, both now and to come. Grandfather will never rest on this. He will never forget his dream  has failed."

"So what?" Hisoka shrugs, helplessly, like a teenager who cannot articulate a better response. "He'll die eventually. He's how old, now?"

"So help me God," replies Illumi. A hard glitter replaces the wetness in his eyes. "I am terrified they are after my son. My grandfather. Tania's father--whose family name was halted by the fact their male heirs are completely unsuitable. He'll do whatever he can to aid Grandfather in order to reap whatever residual power he can from his only grandson."

Hisoka is silent.

"I've feared this for a very long time. It's why I allowed Vianney to stay with Chrollo for so long." A slight shudder. "I thought we could stem the tide, keep him safe here in Yorknew. I thought my former father-in-law was merely interested in avenging Tania's grandfather's death at Chrollo's hands. But I think now...."

A pause. Illumi draws in a rattling breath.

"My suspicions. They'll be after Vianney, Hisoka. For real. This time." 

Chapter Text

The red-haired child presses her nose to the window, looking out over the city's staggered rooftops. The apartment is on a top floor, at a height that would surely trigger panic in someone with acrophobia. The young girl does not have this disorder, but even she feels a bit of vertigo, staring down at the vast carpet of urban landscape. 

Her mother and father had moved the family from their former home, an arid and peaceful region marked by rolling hills of sand and a complete lack of neighborly presence, to the city several months ago. The girl, ordinarily leaning to the mute side of things, had piped up in this case to ask her mother why; why they were leaving the only home she'd ever known.

Her mother's eyes, an electric and pale aquamarine, had clouded slightly at the question. "To be closer to your brother," she replied. The extraordinarily beautiful face--framed professional photos and magazine covers have smiled down from the walls since the girl could remember--had tensed up while making the statement. 

Sarasa Lucilfer can barely remember her brother. Twisting a lock of her bright hair around one finger (red hair--not blondish like her mother, nor dark like her father, neither parent has any insight as to where her odd genetic quirk came from), she sounds his name out under her breath. Vi-An-Ney. 

Vee. A recollection of wide blue eyes, but not blue like Mama's. Blue of a deeper and richer shade. Strong arms for someone so small. Sarasa remembers, vaguely, being held. Cuddling into a kid-sized shoulder. A high and light voice. 

Don't cry, Sara. I don't like it here either. I'll take you when I go. 

By the time she was old enough to toddle, he'd disappeared.

Left her behind with just fuzzy and -- even at 5 years old, Sarasa suspects this -- not exactly reliable memories. 

Stepping away from the window, Sarasa listens carefully. Not hearing her mother, she narrows her eyes and ever so slightly clenches her fists. Allows It to run through her. She has no name for the transmit of energy that she can call up at will, only knows It is the way to identify if her father is in the vicinity. Daddy can hide his presence from her; from anyone, at that. He is special in that way, but Sarasa has figured out the secret to keeping tabs on her elusive, shadowy-eyed parent. 

Mama, for whatever reason, cannot do the things Daddy can do, and therefore it's simple to ascertain her whereabouts in the ordinary fashion. Sarasa guesses that Mama is napping, as there are no noises coming from the rooms down the hall. 

Sarasa allows herself to bathe in her mysterious wash of aura--It--for several minutes. She detects nothing of her father. 

"Daddy is on Continental Street," she whispers to herself. She doesn't understand what this means, but it's a common excuse her mother gives lately when Daddy is not in the apartment. Sarasa is uneasy when her father is not there. There is something about her mother's inability to share or produce It that makes Sarasa feel that she, a mere child, is solely responsible for guarding a naked and helpless soul. 

Still, despite the fact that she is nervous about her father's absence, the girl straightens her shoulders resolutely. Daddy being out of the apartment means that Sarasa can do something she's been engaging in of late, something she knows neither of her parents would approve of. 

Moving softly on tiptoe, Sarasa walks to the bookshelf, which is filled with her father's robust collection of tomes. There is one book she is never allowed to touch. She did, once, when she was smaller. Made that tremendous mistake; but she'd been attracted to it, felt a strange but magnetic radiance emitting from it. 

Daddy, usually unflappable in his calm and cool demeanor, had sprung forward, face black with anger -- or, Sarasa remembers reluctantly, a bit of fear? Rage, alien as it is to her father's typical presentation, is acceptable. But she doesn't like to think of him expressing any weakness such as being afraid. He is the sole adult in her life that she shares her odd ability -- It -- with. 

He is the superior parent; he is the guardian of everything in Sarasa's young mind. He is the buffer against having to shelter her own mother. Her vulnerable mother. A pitifully ordinary being, despite her past career designating her as one of the most recognizably lovely women in the world. 

Daddy, at the time, had physically struck Sarasa for handling the book. Slapped her hard, across the face. For the first and -- to date -- last time. 

"Chrollo," her mother had breathed, an expulsion soaked in her own terror at Daddy's sudden and swift violent response. 

"Never touch it again," Daddy, ignoring Mama, had hissed. "For your own good, Sarasa."

She didn't cry, although he left a handprint the shade of her hair on one cheek. He didn't have to remind her, nor tell her again.

Sarasa often wandered into the study to examine the book, a volume bound in red as crimson as her own hop-out-of-kin locks. But her hands remained clasped behind her back. 

The book is there, as always, today. And as always emitting its tempting waves of aura. But Sarasa does not bother to throw it even a glance. Instead, she pulls several thicker books from the shelves and piles them up to create a makeshift ladder. Scrambling inelegantly on top of the unstable stack, she reaches for something on a higher shelf. 

Wobbling unsteadily, she pulls the large album down and opens it up. 

Photos. Three girls with dark hair, dark wide eyes. A baby with matching dark hair, but a twinkling violet gaze. 

Sylvia and Eyrrne and Nelia and Ianthe are all on the coast right now. In a house by the ocean. She hears her brother's murmured words. 

And there is more. Pictures of a tall, arrestingly handsome, slim man with long hair, long enough to touch his hips. In some photos, the man poses with her mother, an arm gently wrapped around her slender and beautifully dressed waist. In the background, dark-haired children and one fair smile, with a sense of belonging, a clannish familiarity. 

Why am I not with them? The child, gingerly, traces the lines of the man with her finger. Then she touches her shock of red hair. An emptiness fills the pit of her stomach. 

I'm going to go back home, Sara. Back home to Dentora. Home to be with Dad.

He's not your dad. 

Sarasa, feeling a jolt of disloyalty, shakes her head as if the physical gesture will actually eliminate what she is thinking. She turns her mind to Daddy. The impenetrable calm. A face, Sarasa reminds herself, as handsome as the long-haired man in the photos, just in a different way. She closes her eyes, calls up It to the surface. Searches with her shared ability to find where her father is, what he is doing, why he took them away from their insular and beloved home among the sand dunes. 

"Chrollo?" Her mother's voice, slightly thick with sleep as if she's just woken up, rings through Sarasa's cloud of manufactured vibrations. "My love, are you home already?"

Her father. Deep and cool. "Done with business for the day." 

"Did you happen to see--" Sarasa catches an unexpected note of nervousness in her mother's tone. 

"Tania," says Daddy. "You know right now we aren't interfering with him or interacting with him. Just observing. I promise you, when I am certain all is clear, you can see him. And the others, too. Just be patient." 

Sarasa doesn't understand. She glances at the photo album once more. The dark, wide eyes of the beautiful man gaze back at her placidly. A sense of belonging. An arm around her own mother's waist, possessive. 

Sarasa, against her will, shudders. 

He's not your dad. 

Allowing the residual fingers of her aura to dissolve -- slowly and carefully, so Daddy doesn't pick up anything -- she replaces the album to the top shelf. Carefully replaces the heap of books she'd taken down to climb upon. 

"Sarasa?" Daddy never calls her Sara, or any affectionate diminutive. It is always her full name, and Sarasa suspects there is something important about her name, something that means a great deal to her father. 

"Yes, Daddy?" Books precisely replaced, the child wanders into the hallway. Her father is there, in his long fur-trimmed coat, hair tangled from the Yorknew wind. She walks to him and places her arms around his legs. Presses her cheek to his thigh. Tries in her young heart to tamp down the disloyalty she feels. 

Daddy's pale hand smooths her red hair. "Hello, sweetheart," he says. "Did you take good care of Mama while I was out on business?"

Why am I not with my family? 

Sarasa nods. "Yes, Daddy. You can count on me." 

Chapter Text

Classified
Four years ago

****

"Tania Lucilfer." His voice is teasing, lightly embroidered with an undercurrent of possession. "Happy anniversary, my beautiful angel. Are you used to your new name by now?" 

Tania shifts in bed. She has dug through her trunks of myriad designer offerings from her modeling career, a staggering collection of fashion that she helped to make famous before settling into her first marriage and her own, distinct personal style. Tonight she is wearing what can only be described as a wanton lingerie set -- a complex jumble of straps and leather and gleaming bits of metal. Years ago, she'd worn it with thigh-high boots and an ebony wig in one of East Padokea's most controversial runway shows. Captured on film by the world's top fine arts photographer at the time, her portrayal of a gorgeous futuristic whore became a legendary image, the original hanging framed in a Yorknew gallery. 

She couldn't resist feeling a grain of pride, swelling warm in her chest, the winter she and her first husband -- still barely newlyweds -- visited the gallery and stood in front of the iconic print, blown up to larger than life and covering half of an entire wall. 

"Do you want me to wear that for you?" She'd breathed in his ear. "I still have it. The designer gifted it--"

He had forced his gaze from the photo to look at her. She saw it then: A flicker of patrician disapproval. A slight repel, even, that his dark stare could not hide. Illumi, a Zoldyck to the core, despite his human and very carnal urges for her, could and would not appreciate such a display. Even in the guise of artistic expression. She knew that her parents shared the same secret and veiled glimmer of disgust, even as they framed her many magazine covers and hung them througout their estate. 

She never brought the famous portrait up again, nor the lushly sexual garment; switched to the demure, expensive and tastefully sensual silks and lace for the bedroom that Illumi preferred.

Tania still does not know why she chose to wear this for the night of her first wedding anniversary to her second husband. The outfit had all but left her mind completely, until upon musing how to freshly excite on a special occasion, it suddenly returned to her thoughts. 

Chrollo -- surprisingly, given his outwardly cool demeanor -- is instinctively, roughly, insatiably sexual with her; does things that her first husband--a satisfying but careful lover--never approached. A year later, and Tania is still surprised at his abandon in bed, exacerbated by a near-immediate return to his unflappable calm once the two have reached their respective climaxes. 

He is staring at her, propped on one elbow, now; despite his flushed face and disheveled hair is back to the quietly contemplative side he shows the public. Tania, herself, is still panting. He leans forward and kisses her, without tongue, a gentle and oddly professional-feeling coda. 

"You know," Tania finally says, between ragged breaths. "I was photographed in this. It hangs in the Yorknew Metropolitan." 

A faint smile quirks Chrollo's mouth. "I will buy it, then," he replies. "For my private collection." 

"You can't afford it." 

His smile grows deeper. "Who do you think you are talking to?" he says, pleasantly. 

"Illumi didn't like it." Tania blurts it out. She does not know why. Since taking vows, the couple have refrained from discussing her first husband outside of practical family custody matters. 

Chrollo shows no reaction. After a few moments, however, he cocks an eyebrow. "Perhaps he could not afford it?" he offers. His tone is deliberately light. 

Tania draws in a breath, attempts to calm her post-coital hearbeat. Ignoring the straps and buckles of her infamous outfit digging into her flesh, she curls into her husband's arms. Allows him to hold her and embrace her with a measured approach. Lightly again. Everything during sex with Chrollo is on the verge of too much; everything following is feathery. 

"Chro," Tania finally says, after she's managed to match her breathing to his even rhythm. "You know the baby has...abilities." 

Chrollo, in an orderly fashion, is drawing down the straps of her lingerie; working on its complicated tangle. "Why don't we get this off of you," he says. "I quite enjoyed it, but it doesn't appear to be very comfortable--"

"Chro!" She spits it harder, this time. "We need to talk about Sarasa. I need to tell you what happened earlier today. While you were out on your walk."

"You don't have to tell me about Sarasa," Chrollo answers. Removing the garment dexteriously, he continues in a businesslike fashion, speaking as if he is reading from a manual. "I know as well as you do that our child is already harboring natural Specialist tendencies. I knew when she came out of you, with that blazing red hair that neither of us could trace, that whatever Hatsu I'd been collecting over the decades had decided to make its conglomerate presence in our gene pool."

He pauses. "I also know, dear, of course, that your family has been generationally stripped of Nen abilities, so this lies upon me solely."

"We can't let--" Tania, involuntarily, chokes on her words. "We can't let my family ... use her."  

"Your family will never express interest in a girl child." Chrollo is succinct. "They'll also not have any concern for her at all for the sole reason that she is a Lucilfer. They're already single-mindedly working to any end possible to turn Vianney against me and have him avenge his great-grandfather's death. You know this as well as I do. Our marriage and union is complicated, Tania." 

"But, they could utilize Sarasa--"

"Utilize her for what?" Chrollo's gaze is steady. "Believe me, Tania. Sarasa is nothing more than garbage, an afterthought, to them. Have your parents even reached out to ask a single detail of your birth? Their sole interest lies in Vianney. Their aim is to take the boy from the Zoldycks and train him as they want him to bend." 

Tania realizes now, realizes why she decided to wear the over-the-top lingerie, realizes why she created an indirect way to bring up Illumi. The vision of Illumi's eyes--almost blank pools of darkness, unless one knows where to look for his tiny scraps of emotion--swims before her. The look of barest disgust at her portrait on the wall of the Yorknew Met.

The man who failed to protect their only son from his grandparents. 

A slight shudder. Tania recalls, that day: Balloons, a pony spray-painted rainbow colors. Her son, Vianney, writhing on the ground. Vomiting uncontrollably. Her husband--at the time--gathering the boy up and ushering the family out, but back immediately at the beck and call of his parents. Mixing up chocolate milk the very next day laced with arsenic. 

"Illumi has all of them, Chro," she whispers. "My daughters, my heart, every cell of it. He'll be back to demand Vianney. Mark my word. We can't keep Vee here in this ... desert. Illumi will find a way. And then--?"

"He will?" Chrollo executes a full body stretch. "My darling. Illumi lost you a long time ago. To me. Do you have a bit of faith that I can protect your children? I already have assured that your boy--the prize of both families, your family in particular who wants my head on a stake--cannot be found. Not by a Zoldyck, not by a Wolfberg." The gray eyes, suddenly glitter. "Not by money or blood. A nameless rat from the world's wasteland bested them, didn't he?"

Tania remains silent. Rubbing a finger under her nose, she gazes out the window. The darkness of the night blocks all of the view, but she knows it is nothing but dunes and dunes of sand. 

"The Zoldycks can't afford the portrait of you, much as they think they could with their generational wealth," states Chrollo. "Nor could your own kin. Your own family cannot obtain that picture. Yet, Tania, I assure you." His voice goes slightly smug. "I could walk out of the Met tomorrow with that world-renowned, priceless portrait. Only me." 

"What does that matter," Tania mutters. "I only brought up the picture for fun. To turn you on."

The glitter in her husband's eyes grows sharper, flinty. "And indeed, love, you achieved that." Reaching out with one hand, he caresses one of his wife's bare breasts. "Did you not think I knew what I was walking into, taking you from the Zoldycks, taking your son from the Zoldycks, bearing a child with my wild card of a genetic makeup?" 

Tania's eyes are filled with tears, but Chrollo continues his possessive, intimate touch. 

"Do you not know how much you turn me on? What I risk for you and will guard for you? Tania Lucilfer?" 

A slight, faint cry drifts down the hall. 

"Mama." Vianney's sleepy voice rises above it. "Sara is crying. Should I get her?"

Chrollo locks eyes with his wife. 

"We will do what we can to surpress Sarasa's abilities," he states, definitively. "Until she is old enough to know."

Tania casts a look toward the bedroom door. "Know what?" It comes out as a whisper.

"Know her place."

"Mama." Vianney repeats himself, a bit more pleading this time. 

"Her place?" Tania stiffens slightly. Bends to pick up the historic, artistically significant outfit that Chrollo removed from her and tossed to the ground. 

"She's indirectly part of the Zoldyck family." Chrollo says it mildly, but there is an edge to his words. "They'll never accept her. But maybe one day, when she's grown a bit and has the need to understand why they don't...well, her abilities may come in handy."

Tania's pale gaze has gone hollow. "How?"

"She is the daughter of an outlaw and a thief." Chrollo, naked, stands up and shrugs on a bathrobe. "She has Meteor City blood, as does the rest of your brood. They'll not accept her, but believe me, Tania, I'm certain they will try to exploit her." 

The weak cries grow slightly stronger. Chrollo nods toward the hall. 

"I'm coming, Vee," he says. "To get your sister." Looking over at Tania, his gaze grows hard again. 

"I know you--an East Padokean of privilege--will never understand," he says. "I love you, Tania Wolfberg. Tania Zoldyck. Tania Lucilfer. But as close as we are, my darling, we'll never meet in the middle on understanding, and that is why you must leave Sarasa's upbringing to me. Trust me." 

"What do you mean, Chrollo." Tania, involuntarily, shields her bare breasts with her forearms. 

Her husband pauses and waits. A full minute passes.

"I will find a way to satisfy the Zoldycks, particularly Illumi, in the matter of your son," he says. "I know we can't keep Vee here forever. I brought him out here primarily to gather my thoughts; map the best plan for how we will go forward with this complicated legacy."

Tania breathes out, slowly. "And Sarasa?"

Chrollo turns from the doorway. Smiles his faint grin, once again. "You will leave that to me, as well, Tania Lucilfer." 

"Chrollo." It comes out in a weak sigh. The soft crying down the hall continues. 

A hand on the doorknob. "You can leave whatever you want," Chrollo states. "But take nothing from us." 

"Sarasa is mine."

Chapter Text

Zeno shakes his head. His face is wizened with age, but his eyes remain bright as a youth's, and his gnarled hands do not shake as he places them with intention upon his great-grandson's wrists. 

"You simply aren't trying, Vee." The words are sharp, but Zeno manages to ameliorate them slightly with a tinge of affection. "We've been going over this technique for two weeks now."

The boy's expression is steeled, but he cannot hide a trace of childish petulance mixed with exhaustion. "Gee Gee," he says, clearly attempting to keep his tone even. "I'm doing my best." He pauses; then spits it out rebelliously: "I should be in math class." 

To Vianney's surprise, his great-grandfather does not respond angrily, merely places his hand on the boy's mop of white hair. "And, so, tell me," the older man says. "Let's take a break from this for a moment, Vianney. What have you been using for an excuse these afternoons? I know your father well enough to guess that he's already quizzed you on your whereabouts."

"I told him I already did the math ahead of time," mutters Vianney, staring at the ground. "And that I should get to do what I want if I finish my schoolwork." 

"Including ditching class." Zeno chuckles unexpectedly, low in his throat. "Again, my dear great-grandson, I know Illumi. Our Illumi has always ran to the hypervigilant side of things; I'm sure by now he's figured out that you have learned Zetsu and can block his En."

Vianney remains sullen. "Probably."

"Not even a question," corrects Zeno. "It drove him crazy when your uncle Kalluto mastered Zetsu. He couldn't track Kallu -- although, at age 9 there wasn't much tracking to do, we certainly weren't letting him off the mountain that young -- and I still remember to this day the look on his face. He'd wear that pinchy expression of his, all day long. Handsome boy, your father, but when he gets that look on his face...Your dad  has never been good about not being fully in control." 

"I know the look you're talking about." Vianney sighs. "Gee Gee, yes, Dad is not happy. And yes, I think he suspects something. Uncle Hiso does too. Dad hasn't confronted me again, but Uncle Hiso...He asked me the other day--"

Zeno's expression remains wry. "The magician, eh? Or should I say, the two-bit actor rambling on that nonsensical sports program. I understand your father has loyalty to a longtime alliance with that one, that goes back to his Hunter Exam days, and Illumi is nothing but loyal to a fault. But do me a favor and please do not call a Sahertan ex-boxer your 'uncle.'" 

"I just meant--" begins Vianney, miserably, but Zeno stops him with a brisk wave of the hand. 

"I think we'll retire for the day. You've had enough, my boy. This technique isn't going to sharpen itself at all, not when you're in this frame of mind." The old man taps one foot in dismissal. "Go, now. Get some rest." A faint smile. "Go catch the latest episode of Sahertan Sports World Now. Who is being interviewed today? Perhaps, God forbid, Chrollo Lucilfer? I heard a little bird whispering your mother's husband was back in town, child." 

"Uncle Chro?" The name comes out hesitantly. "He's in Yorknew?"

"He never perfected his Zetsu." Zeno yawns. "And please, dear Vee. For the love. Calling that one 'uncle' is even more of a travesty than the clown--" He stops to snicker, but Vianney has raced out the door without saying goodbye. 

Shaking his head, still amused, Zeno locks the door. Goes over to the phone mounted on the wall. Sits down in a vintage armchair; dials a number he apparently knows by heart. 

****

"I thought you were going to remain in Yorknew for a longer duration." Yaroma Wolfberg, sitting erectly stiff in a near-palpable cloak of disapproval, manages to simultaneously nod at the butler serving goblets of wine and scowl at the visitor seated across from him in his expansive East Padokea living room. 

Zeno accepts a goblet; takes a measured sip. "Lovely vintage, Yar, this is such a treat," he says. "And of course, if a Zoldyck compliments the wine, you know it is quite genuine approval." The corners of his mouth quirk up. "We drink it only for the taste; it's not as if it's going to affect us." 

"Yes, yes," grumbles Yaroma, impatiently. "No need to continually brag about the superiority of your family's toxicity regime. The Zoldycks far and away surpass anyone on the grounds of substance and poison resistance."

"The Wolfbergs have their own strengths," Zeno purrs, in a magnanimous tone. 

"Indeed." Yaroma places his goblet down on the arm of the chair. "Now, forgive me if I'm skipping past the pleasant small talk, Zeno. What brings you back to Padokea? And in particular, for a meeting with me? We'd agreed you'd take at least the year in Saherta to observe Vianney and attempt to instruct the boy in the finer arts of Nen. However his Nen may go. You did say you'd established his categorization, correct?"

"Correct." Zeno nurses his drink. "Vianney is a transmuter. That much we know. I am instructing him accordingly, you don't need to be worried there. However, I did want to call this meeting -- and in person -- because I have something I need to confidentially discuss regarding his training." 

Yaroma's eyes narrow. "So confidential that it cannot be simply discussed over the phone?"

"You know as well as I do that the Phantom Troupe still has a chokehold on Yorknew. Which includes, I'm sure, communications systems, however broad they may be."

"Isn't that gang headed up by your grandson?" Yaroma's epression remains sour. "A pity you'd thought the boy would grow out of that particular rebellion."

"He may still," Zeno, unruffled, shrugs. "Kalluto is, I remind you, barely in his 20s." A smirk plays on his face. "Are you sure you're not just pitying yourself, Yar? Those sons of yours aren't exactly setting anything on fire with the Wolfberg name, gangwise or otherwise."

"Enough. We are wasting time here, so speak up Zeno. What do you have to tell me about Vianney." Yar signals testily for more wine. 

Zeno holds his goblet out to the butler for a refill. Without haste, he sips and swills the liquid in his mouth. Finally, he says, "We've reached a plateau in the training. I'm finding it impossible to advance with him; it's a crucial step. And," he lifts his eybrows. "I have to admit that in all my years in this business, having brought up my own son by hand and five grandchildren, I'm stumped."

"Stumped?" Yaroma's disapproving visage goes nonplussed. "You? The kid is a Zoldyck, or so you always emphasize whenever we discuss his lineage. Feel free to crack jokes about my children as you will--I'm completely aware the Wolfberg generational Nenless curse has not been lifted--but I thought you at least had control of your own brood's powers."

Zeno swallows another mouthful of wine. "Control is a loaded word, Yar. Do I have a grasp on their potential? Yes. Can I control it completely? No. That's up to them. However." He sets his glass down. "My theory on Vianney's roadblock is that he is operating alone within his generation."

Yaroma gives an impatient sigh. "Explain, please. In plain terms. To your Nenless comrade."

"I don't want to bore you by getting too granular with my family's methodology. You will recall that my son and daughter-in-law had three children very close together, very close in age. We had a reason for this, and the very basic explanation is that we wanted to utilize a triangle model of power." Zeno nods, thoughtfully. "The idea being that siblings could stand stronger in individual abilities if bolstered by each other."

"You have five grandchildren," observes Yaroma, a dry note adding an edge of sarcasm to the obvious.

"The triangle is a far simpler structure than a pentagon. We felt that would be, ultimately, a stronger approach. Also--" Zeno nods once again-- "We waited too long with the oldest and the second. These things take time to finesse, you know."

"The point being?"

"Vianney could likely push past his plateau if he had a sibling who was also studying Nen training," says Zeno. 

"And he doesn't?" Yaroma leans forward, clasping his hands. A fierce glitter is sparking in his aquamarine eyes. "None of his sisters are learning that craft?"

Zeno shrugs, casually. "My great-granddaughters appear to have inherited their mother's Nenless genes. They won't be of any use here. Save my littlest girl. Ianthe, our baby, she seems to have a spark. She takes remarkably after our Kalluto, who as you know is our most dangerous Zoldyck to date. I wouldn't be surprised if she has a bit of it in her." 

"Use Ianthe." Yaroma's command is immediate and harsh. 

"Not a chance," replies Zeno. "We already had collateral damage with my fourth grandson due to Nen experimentation. It was necessary for our end goal, but Silva will never permit his youngest grandchild to possibly be damaged in a similar fashion. Vee is very strong, I will remind you. Very strong in his talent. And our Illumi, I will add, will not be able to control interference if he believes two of his children are being trained. He is barely keeping the lid on the pot with a single one."

"He knows you're training the boy?"

"He suspects." Zeno stretches, yawns. "And Zoldycks generally don't train girl children anyway. It's part of the reason we tend to have so many boys. Sheer will, my friend, you see, and lots of concentration; it does wonders for family planing. Anyway. That's what I came here for. To let you know that we may be at a dead end."

Yaroma is silent for a moment. "How bad was the collateral damage you speak of, to your fourth grandson? I know very little of Alluka. My daughter didn't reveal much, save to mention Alluka briefly here and there when necessary. Which was hardly ever." 

Zeno blinks, but does not otherwise show emotion. "It was extreme."

"You believe that if you train your youngest great-grandchild in the Nen tradition aside her brother, she will suffer as well?"

"I'm not certain," says Zeno. "Nothing is certain. We do what we can. For the most part it's turned out admirably well, but as I said, Silva and Illumi will not allow this to happen or any risk be extended towards Ianthe. They're very fond of her; she is the baby as I mentioned. Alluka sustained a considerable amount of the shared power's debilitating effects. We can't allow this to happen to another Zoldyck child; Ianthe particularly is too precious."

The gleam in Yaroma's eyes abruptly darkens. "So it just has to be a sibling then?"

"A relation, yes. In terms of our training, siblings are quite amenable to good results."

Yaroma Wolfberg falls silent, yet again. Zeno, unconcerned, sips his wine; waits for the taller man to say something. 

After several minutes pass, he finally does.

"I do think I have the solution to this problem." 

Chapter Text

East Padokea
Five years ago

****

Tania has armored herself for the forthcoming meeting in the best -- only -- way she knows how. Girded up in her finest clothing; the exclusive, severely cut garments that drape her very tall and very slender frame beautifully, but would make any other woman appear clownish and frumpy.

Her fingers are shaking, but she manages to adjust the lapels of her exquisitely designed jacket. Feels the smooth, cool, short-haired pelt under her touch. Recalls, briefly, the occasion on which she received it. 

I was in East Gorteau, my sweet girl. Illumi, no matter how busy, always took advantage of East Gorteau's renowned luxury fashion industry when on a mission in the region and selected her a garment nearly priceless in value. Of course I had to pick up a present for our anniversary. 

The fur on the jacket is from an endangered species, Tania knows this much. Quite very possibly one that has already gone extinct. She allows herself to remember Illumi draping the garment over her shoulders. Kissing her on the lips. Smiling as she promised to wear it to their anniversary dinner, as wildly out-of-place as it would be in humble Dentora's restaurant offerings. 

Removing her hand from the soft comfort of the fur, clearing her mind of Illumi's dark-eyed gaze, she resolutely rings the doorbell. A steel, imposing structure that almost no human in the world is allowed to approach.

The door swings open; she does have a key, but today is different. 

Expecting Jouni, the Wolfbergs' butler, to be on the other side, Tania cannot help but draw in a startled breath. 

Eyes the same aquamarine shade as her own glitter. Lock into a gaze in which Tania can read nothing but pure anger and disgust. 

"I should beat you within an inch of your life," Yaroma Wolfberg hisses. "But I will not lower myself to striking a girl. A Wolfberg does not raise his hand to a woman. Come in, Tania. We have much to talk about." 

****

She remembers the day as if it were yesterday.

An evening at the Reveille, the exclusive East Padokean club that her family has been members of for generations. Tania has been coming to this location since she was a child. Whispery drifts of servers placing down drinks and plates of the most exquisite food in the region. The piano, a hushed trickle of symphony under the hum of quiet conversations. 

"So, tell me, Tania." He is so full of life, even for a senior citizen. The blue eyes--which translate hard and icy in her father's face--are snapping, sparkling, framed with soft and pleasantly weathered smile lines. She knows it, knows that her grandfather is the ace of assassination, knows that his cheery demeanor with her is his "family" face. That he is actually one of the most feared men in the entire world, and his visage can turn terrifying at will. 

She loves him, so much, anyway. He is her "papa," the man who bounced his first grandchild on his knee, murmured words into her ear about what a beautiful, smart girl she would become. 

"How is my global sensation doing? Your parents barely allowed you out the door to Swardani City six months ago, and already you're on the cover of a magazine." The twinkling gaze rests on her fondly. 

"It all took off faster than I expected," Tania admits. She crosses one slender ankle over the other. "It's very exciting, though, Grandfather. The money..."

He puts a finger to his lips. "Hush, hush, we won't have any of that peasant talk." A chuckle belies his admonition. "I do understand it is quite a lucrative career, though, my sweetheart." Signaling for a waiter, he snaps his fingers several times. "The special of the evening, please? Will that be all right for you, dear?" He gives a solicitous nod to his granddaughter. 

"Fine, of course," replies Tania. "But Grandfather--I wanted to ask you--"

"What, dear?" He takes an appreciative, too-large sip of the wine that the server has poured. 

"I wanted to ask if you--" Tania pauses. "Approve. What I am doing isn't of any use to the Wolfberg name." She bends her head, slightly. Her grandfather has not allowed her any of the wine, regardless of her age. 

"Tania, my love. You are a girl. One day you will make a brilliant, advantageous match to a son of a family of our caliber." He smiles. "You are our jewel. Of course you are of use to the Wolfberg name."

Tania, to her surprise, feels a knot form in her chest. "No, Grandfather," she says, with difficulty. "I mean, what I am doing now. I am earning money, a lot of money, after all--"

Her grandfather stops the sentence with a wave of his hand. "Again, dear. We do not need to talk of such low class angles." His tone is mild. "Now, let's have a nice dinner. I'm enjoying having some time with you, sweetheart. You have become so busy of late. I had a delightful time with your brothers last weekend. Maks and Sasha are such clever boys. But I miss my girl when she is all over the world for weeks on end..."

Still struggling to contain the emotion that is overtaking her unexpectedly, Tania pushes her chair back. "Yes, Papa," she says. "Please excuse me for a moment? I need to visit the washroom."

While in the restroom, Tania pauses in front of the ornate mirror over the sink. Stares at herself blankly; the beautiful face looking back at her in the glass. Without thinking, she fishes in her jeweled minaudière; extracts a lipstick, applies the cosmetic automatically. Pushing back the thoughts that are crowding her mind.

The door of the restroom is heavy oak, but she still hears it when it happens. 

The screams. What sounds like hundreds of screams.

In a panic, Tania drops her tiny purse, pushes open the door, and reflexively runs to the table where she and her grandfather are dining. 

"Papa." Her lips mouth the word, but no sound comes out. 

Her grandfather is slumped over the table, crimson spreading across the snowy linen cloth. The screams. All around her, the screams.

Lucilfer. The only word she can discern among the unhinged, panicked howling. 

Moving as if in a dream, in slow motion, Tania bends to kiss her bludgeoned grandfather's cheek.

It is then she notices: The shock of the moment, ironically, blurs the larger picture of the unimaginable horror before her and allows her to--almost dreamily--focus on a tiny detail.

The ring. The wedding ring that he wears day and night, the symbol of loyalty to her grandmother. 

It has been removed from his finger. 

****

"Useless girl." Yaroma Wolfberg's voice has settled into a normal register, but the underlying hiss of disgust remains. "So it has come to this, has it? You've decided to marry the number one most-wanted target of your entire dynasty?"

"Father," pleads Tania, although she knows that her words will likely have no effect. "I realize this is something you can never accept nor forgive. I am resigned to being disowned from the family."

"You're damned right about that," snaps Yaroma. "I would say you are lucky that I am not going to slay you in cold blood. Daughter of mine or not--which you no longer are, I'll just say now--you deserve to die. I am sparing you solely, Tania, for the sake of my grandchildren."

"That is why I came to talk to you." Tania's tone takes on an edge of desperation. "The children. Father, the girls will be fine in the Zoldycks' care. None of my daughters have any inclination towards Nen abilities. But Vianney--"

"Do not call me 'father.'" The words fall from Yaroma's lips coldly. 

Tania cannot control an involuntary flinch. Gathering herself, she tries again. "But Vianney. He does have Nen abilities. I'll be straight with you, fa--" she stops. "With you. I'm not worried about Illumi, nor Silva, but I am worried about Zeno's intentions--"

"Shut up, Tania." Yaroma's face has turned murderous. "Do you realize, you idiot, that the entire Wolfberg family--for generation after generation--has been stripped of all Nen abilities, for all time? That godforsaken waste of a criminal who murdered your grandfather stole all of our collective abilities by one simple maneuver. And you are now married to him? The Zoldycks were and are our sole hope for carrying on anything of value to the Wolfberg name. I do not give a shit what you think of Zeno or the plans Zeno may have for Vianney."

"Father." Tania cannot help using the word. "Please. I am your child; you must understand the fear I have for my children."

Yaroma does not bother to correct her this time, merely fixes her with a hard glance. "Perhaps you should have thought about this before your disgraceful infidelity to your husband, your tarnishing of the Zoldyck name, and your even more insane decision to take up with Chrollo Lucilfer." He shakes his head. "Again, Tania, I should have you done away with for this, but your children do need a mother, pitiful as you are."

Tania opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She swallows, painfully. 

"Do you realize," Yaroma repeats, an icy calm settling into his tone. "The children are far safer with the Zoldycks than anywhere near your new--" he grimaces. "Spouse? I will not interfere with anything the Zoldycks decide to do with Vianney. Or any of the others. Ianthe is still quite young, there is a slight chance she may have Nen capabilities. At any rate, she--like her sisters--will be of value as you were of value. To make strategic and powerful matches with sons of our strongest allies." 

Tania still cannot answer. Lifting her gaze, aquamarine eyes meet aquamarine as her father stares at her unblinkingly. 

"Go now," Yaroma says, pointing to the door. "I'm not going to allow you to see your mother. She is upset enough about all of this. Consider yourself officially disowned, Tania, and stay away from East Padokea. Illumi will bring the children to us for visits. I will allow you and him to create your own plan for co-parenting."

"Father." It comes out in a choked sob. "Please. I have one question."

"What could it possibly be?" Yaroma taps his foot impatiently. "We have nothing more to say to each other at this point."

"It is about Grandfather's death." 

Yaroma's face turns furious again. "Ask your husband for details on that, Tania." 

"No, please. Just one thing." Tania draws a shuddering breath. "What did Chrollo--steal-- from him to gain such complete control of the Wolfberg Nen?"

Her father looks her over steadily for several minutes, as if deciding whether or not to grant an answer. "Something you won't understand," he says finally. "But I'll tell you. The bastard stole the symbol of fidelity, family and truth. Your grandfather stored his Nen capabilities in his wedding ring."

"I--" Tania stutters, overcome. "I thought it happened when he was young. That he lost the family Nen when he was young. You always said it happened when he was--"

"We didn't tell you the truth, Tania." Yaroma lifts his chin. "If you must know, we were severely embarrassed by your brothers' lack of talent and suitability to enter the Wolfberg family business. As such, we blamed it on a generational curse. The truth of the matter is," he pauses, for effect, "Your grandfather had Nen ability up to the moment of his death. So did I. So, probably did you, but you are a woman."

Tania, unable to answer, gives a short nod. 

"Go," says Yaroma. "Thank your son of a bitch husband for this, Tania."

She follows his instructions, walking the familiar hallways of her childhood home, where she knows she will never return. Stroking the soft pelt of the priceless coat Illumi purchased for her, she feels her stomach, where the slightest indication of a swelling bump is rising. 

As she walks out into the clear air of East Padokea, she recalls another recent time in the Wolfberg manor. 

Sitting with her ex-husband. Holding out her hand, showing him a ring in the center of her palm. 

It’s my grandfather’s wedding ring. His and my grandmother’s initials are engraved inside. He said he’d saved it, not knowing why, but after considerable reflection came to the conclusion that he needed to make amends to me personally for the murder. He found the ring in his private storage, and decided to return it to me.

Chapter Text

The one thing that Hisoka did not anticipate when merging his life with Illumi's was, plain and simple, the fact of the children. 

He'd known, of course, that they would be part of his daily life; he knew that there would be no way to avoid sharing his space and attention. At the time that Hisoka had made the final decision to allow Illumi to live with him permanently, however, he'd been overcome with the monumental impact of it all -- too much so to really ponder the full implications of choosing a partner with five children. 

To give up his former life for a more still and calm future: Hisoka had been consumed with the meaning behind that, which blurred all other practicalities out of his mind. There was plenty of money; Illumi's steady personality was known, loved, trusted, and unlikely to change. Therefore, all that stood in the way of a new life was Hisoka himself and his ability to come to terms with that direction.

He can recall the moment that he felt settled into the choice. The words coming from Two-Star Hunter Gon Freecss' laughing mouth on the television screen. Going to bed in the earliest of dawn hours, Illumi slumbering quietly by his side, Hisoka let himself feel it all and feel it deeply. Immersed himself mentally in his past -- an exercise he'd always considered a pointless waste of time and always refused to indulge in. 

Gon danced through his mind, of course. Hisoka, if pressed for the truth, could not fail to admit that the rakish young man who'd made such an impact on his midlife trajectory would remain embedded in his memories forever. But no longer as a fascinating draw. No, Gon had turned into a valuable recollection, a surprisingly wise catalyst, and one that Hisoka accepts he will likely never engage with again.  

He'd tossed and turned over Chrollo. Also of course. Even after pledging himself to a Zoldyck. Hisoka wrestled the worst with this one; the slender, gray-eyed enigma who'd managed to intrigue him since his teen years. Cursed and screamed and punched holes into walls over this one. The obsession of his life. The obsession who was, ultimately, not meant for him and not anything that would fit into his future plans. The obsession of his life who ended up with his own partner's ex, and therefore still orbiting on the outskirts of Hisoka's life, still maddeningly always out of reach. 

Chrollo, Chrollo, Chrollo. Quwrof. Oh, Q. Nights upon nights, Hisoka struggled persistently with his resilient and unfulfilled burning feelings for the Spider, which refused to abate. To kill him, to fuck him. To get under his skin and inside him, somehow. The vision of Chrollo, cloaked in that ridiculous fur coat, shuffling in the East Padokean misty lamplight and cursing the region's foul-tasting cigarettes, drifted every night through Hisoka's head. So vivid -- the unhurried gait, the shadows of hovering Spiders, always, just a jump away -- that Hisoka tore holes in his pillowcase in rage. 

However: Hisoka forced himself to come to terms with the fact that he was no longer an impetuous youth. He did the personal work, and bid the necessary time, and accepted that this would be a lonesome and painful mental road that nobody could walk for him. And, as time never fails to smooth edges, the most intense of his emotions regarding Chrollo eventually went away.

After reluctantly taking on the difficult work of self-discovery and self-realization, he came to the correct conclusion: He belonged with Illumi Zoldyck. 

He'd done the work. He'd settled into a life with Illumi, the one who'd stood by him and understood him and accepted him without condition. Not the love of his life, but the love he was meant for. The love he'd never have to question on any level for the rest of his days. As Gon Freecss had pointed out to him, some time ago, there was no excitement left in being a lonely man, chasing the addiction of something that remained just out of reach. 

All of that was easy to accept, once over the hurdle. 

That said, it remained. The matter of Illumi's children. 

Hisoka didn't mind instantly having five youngsters in his sphere, mostly. As challenging as it is for someone who has no familial anchors or personal model of family life to suddenly be thrust into a family structure; as ludicrous as Hisoka himself acknowledges the idea of himself as any form of a stepfather--he has (and this includes the unwelcome but not deal-breaking necessity to look after Alluka) adapted. Found the children -- if not Alluka -- interesting in their budding and robust personalities. 

Of course, at this point in his life, Hisoka has stalled on nascent talent as a route to excite himself, so the children merely serve as diversions, like TV programs or a good book. He enjoys hearing about their days; assisting them with their mundane bits and pieces that require solving. None of Illumi's children have proved to be on a rebellious bent, not until now. 

Sitting alone at the kitchen table in his expansive penthouse on a gray Monday morning -- Illumi is at a client meeting, the children at school, Alluka dispatched to the Bull Market to do the weekly shopping -- Hisoka finds himself pondering the children. Not certain why he has them so strongly on the mind, aside from the fact that Vianney's absences from school are causing considerable stress to Illumi, he decides to analyze each one of the young Zoldycks that have infiltrated his life. Illumi himself has told Hisoka very little about his offspring, only answering Hisoka's infrequent questions about them in a short, efficient manner. Nearly all of what Hisoka knows of the children, he's learned by personal observation. 

Sipping at the mug of hot tea he's prepared -- a mellow Sahertan blend he buys for himself, not the odd Dentoran brew the Zoldycks favor --he finds a pad of paper and a pencil and begins to idly doodle as he thinks. He's tempted to start with Vianney, but forces himself to go in order. 

Underneath an elaborately scrolled heart, he pencils the eldest's name. Sylvia. 

There isn't much to consider regarding Sylvia. The child, namesake and favorite of Silva Zoldyck, retains the typical qualities of an oldest child: Obedient, a bit bossy and a bit on the perfectionist side. Unsurprisingly, Sylvia has been taking on more and more of the responsibility of watching over the younger children -- and, her aunt, who is growing more mentally instable with age. Hisoka, thoughtfully, chews the end of the pencil; considers whether he should have allowed Alluka to go out to the market alone. Generally on Monday afternoons Sylvia accompanies her aunt for the shopping. 

Sylvia's responsible manner is of little interest to Hisoka except for the fact it reminds him amusingly of Illumi; the girl is also the spitting image of her father physically. Drawing a rather bored check mark next to Sylvia's name, Hisoka continues on to the next. 

Vianney? Hisoka pencils a large question mark, almost automatically. The image of Illumi's pinched, unattractive expression -- his typical mask of stress -- fills his mind. They'll be after Vianney, Hisoka. For real. This time. 

Hisoka isn't entirely certain that the boy's fate is stamped as Illumi fears, but he also is not naive to the fact that something is going on with the kid. The math assignments continue to be turned in, receiving perfect scores, but the reports from school still pour in with concern for his mysterious absences. 

Deciding to place his thoughts about Vianney aside for the moment, Hisoka ponders Illumi's second daughter, Eyrrne. 

The first one of Illumi's children he'd laid eyes on. Another one that looked as if she fell out of her father's eye. 

A long time ago, seeking a place to hide from Chrollo Lucilfer, he'd sought shelter on Kukuroo Mountain -- utilizing his strength and near-perfect Zetsu to broach the Zoldyck's considerable security, and figuring correctly that the Spider would not be able to find him. 

While meandering in a field far flung from the Zoldyck mansion, stretching his cramped legs sore from sleeping under a tree, Hisoka recalls the enchanting sight of a little black-haired girl prancing in his direction. 

"Hello. You must definitely be a Zoldyck, my dear." 

The girl's chin goes up proudly. "I am." 

Hisoka, lost in marveling at how much the child resembles Illumi, smiles pleasantly, missing the sudden narrowing of the child's gaze. 

"Who are you? You're not supposed to be here."

Hisoka, snapping to attention promptly but without alarm, reaches in his hip pocket. Offers the girl a brightly colored card. "Farewell, sweet little Zoldyck," he calls over his shoulder. 

Shaking his head to clear the images, Hisoka recalls, too, that this particular daughter is the sole one to have ties to his hometown. Illumi had muttered once, in a rare show of impatience after an even rarer episode of sass from Eyrrne, that the child had been conceived in Sin City. 

Drawing a playing card next to Eyrrne's name, he scrawls the third daughter's moniker in script. 

Nelia. This one, Hisoka barely has any bead on. The girl is quiet, always with a slightly fearful expression on her face, and has a disconcerting habit of clinging to Illumi -- a habit Hisoka thinks she is far too old by now to indulge in. The behavior doesn't faze Illumi, who allows the shadowing and anxious touches with matter-of-fact pats on the shoulder. 

"Little Gittarackur," he calls her, always fondly, always with a slight grin. It's clear this one is his favorite -- although Illumi's favoritism is extremely controlled. This is a mystery to Hisoka, both Illumi's tenderness toward a child whose redeeming qualities are not  particularly apparent, as well as his choice of the fiercest nickname for such a meek mouse. 

Frowning, Hisoka doodles a face with ball-headed pins sticking out of it, then resolutely writes "Ianthe." The final. 

Hisoka's first recollection of the violet-eyed baby was, like her older sister Eyrrne, on Kukuroo Mountain. Illumi had shown up at the pond on site where Hisoka was attempting to catch fish, cloaked in near-palpable defensiveness and with an infant carrier strapped like a shield to his chest. 

Hisoka chuckles, recalling the scene. This one, now, however. He chews the pencil again, thinking. Not only unquestionably the most beautiful of the Zoldycks -- her uncle Kalluto previously holding that distinction -- Ianthe glimmers interestingly with bits and bobs of promise. Hisoka, an expert at honing in on budding talent, has not taken the same fascination with the little girl as he had with other members of the Zoldyck family (Kalluto, as well as a young, snarling Killua). But, it's undeniable even under a bored stepparent's not overly invested gaze that the child has some spark that might be cultivated. 

"Hello, Hisoka." It is said in Dentoran. Hisoka, wrested abruptly out of his thoughts, looks up. Alluka has entered the kitchen and is carrying several grocery bags in an awkward fashion. Jumping up before she spills the contents everywhere, Hisoka relieves her of two bags and begins to unpack the items and place them on the counter. 

Alluka has a moderately irritating habit of refusing to speak Sahertan, although she is conversationally fluent in it. Instead, she chatters rapidly in the heavily accented Dentoran dialect the Zoldycks use, which Hisoka can follow to some degree but never fully understand. Illumi had mentioned his ex-wife, an East Padokean, struggled with Alluka in this respect as well over the years. 

She is babbling away now, something about Milluki and his family coming by for dinner on Tuesday -- Illumi's second brother has two young daughters. Hisoka lets the stream of Dentoran largely wash over his head as he places groceries away, but for some reason, a thought occurs to him out of nowhere. 

"What are your nieces' names?" he inquires, in Sahertan. "Milluki's daughters, I mean. I always forget." 

Alluka, in full bilingual comprehension, nods brightly. "Kiki and Anya," she supplies.

"Ah, yes. Kiki after your mother, right?"

Alluka nods again. "Anya is my sister-in-law's mother's name. They named the girls after the grandmothers." She trills lightly in a little giggle. "Mil wasn't very creative." 

Hisoka, hefting a grapefruit in one hand, the refrigerator door held open with the other, freezes in place for a moment. The thought that had been nagging at him at the back of his mind has crystallized. "That's it," he says, without preamble. 

"That's what?" Alluka, for a change, swaps into Sahertan. She takes the grapefruit from Hisoka's hand. "I will finish putting away everything." 

"Your brother Milluki," says Hisoka. "He didn't use the Zoldyck naming structure that your parents introduced and Illumi followed."

Alluka wrinkles her brow. "I don't know what you mean." She places the fruit into the fridge. 

Walking back to the kitchen table, Hisoka sits down and picks up the pad of paper again. 

Sylvia
Vianney
Eyrnne
Nelia
Ianthe

Each name begins with the last letters of the previous. Just like Illumi and his siblings. 

Illumi
Milluki
Killua
Alluka
Kalluto

Writing them down, Hisoka suddenly realizes something. 

Alluka is not in proper form. Her name uses only one of the last letters of Killua's name, whereas the others use two of the previous son's. 

He glances over at Alluka, who is now merrily singing some Dentoran ditty as she continues to arrange fruit on the fridge shelves. 

Could there be any effect to this? Hisoka stares blankly at the pad. Illumi's words come rushing back to him: The angle of the Triad. The collateral damage. 

Hisoka examines Alluka more closely. Alluka, unaware she is being observed, continues her rather mindless warbling. 

The Zoldycks never do anything mistakenly. 

Alluka was not named in the proper cadence. 

Looking at the list of Illumi's children's names, Hisoka feels the hairs on the back of his neck rising with a lightning-bolt revelation. 

Vianney.

Vianney uses three letters of the previous name. His name should start with "I-A," like his youngest sister, not "V-I-A."

The Zoldycks never do anything mistakenly. 

Feeling a bit queasy, he puts the pencil down. Alluka turns, gives a smile. 

Could they have deliberately given this angle of the Triad just a single initial, a deliberate hop out of order, as a conduit to -- Hisoka shakes his head. I'm going too far, aren't I? This is just crazy thought patterns. 

But the significance of it will not leave his mind. One letter instead of two. They infused him with too much Nen. Collateral damage. 

A weakness given at birth to the fourth son, in order to have the ability to infuse him so intensely? Hisoka clenches his teeth. 

A vision of all of Illumi's children, playing on the shores of the Padokea coast, flashes through his mind. Four little black-haired heads, one with a shock of tousled blond. 

Vianney has three letters. 

Vianney, the last hope of the Zoldyck dynasty. 

The Triad is lost, but Vianney has three letters. 

Three instead of two. 

The Zoldycks never do anything mistakenly. 

Alluka, finishing her task, comes over to the table and collects Hisoka's now-empty cup of tea. "Illumi will be home soon?" she asks, swapping back to her rapid Dentoran. 

Hisoka, not in the mood for idle chatter, nods. 

Folding the piece of paper in which he has listed his spouses' family names, he goes up to the rooftop garden to think. 

Chapter Text

Sarasa knows to hold on to her mother's hand tightly as they traverse the streets of Yorknew City. Mama wears a straw hat with a wide brim and sunglasses. Daddy doesn't approve of these outings. 

"Don't be stupid, Tania," he says, upon discovering that his wife and daughter have been taking to the streets daily. Daddy's tone is never poisonous or dramatic, always level and practical, even when he is saying words that are wounding or unpleasant. "You--both you and I--are among the most recognizable people in the world. We don't want anyone getting a bead on where we are at in the city."

Still, Sarasa's mother is restless; begins pacing the apartment as soon as Daddy leaves to do his particular business -- Sarasa surmises he, with all his abilities, has a method of going under the radar. Her defenseless mother, however, cannot hide except under hats, scarves, and eyewear. 

"Daddy doesn't like us going out," she points out, needlessly, this morning. "We really shouldn't, Mama."

"We need to get fresh air, Sara," replies Mama. "Fresh air and exercise --it is very important for a growing girl. Your father has not raised children; it's not a surprise he doesn't understand some things." 

Sarasa falls silent, as she cannot argue with the fact that she is the sixth child under Mama's care, and Daddy does not have any children that she knows of besides herself. 

Her mother's wandering around the city streets is seemingly aimless. Usually they walk to a nearby park, where Mama will allow Sarasa a carefully timed half-hour to climb the playground equipment, then buy them both a popsicle from a street vendor before walking back to their apartment. 

Sometimes--cautiously--Mama will allow a visit to the Bull Market. Sarasa particularly likes these days; likes to see all the goods and wares out for sale, even though it is tiring to keep herself in a constant state of It in order to make sure her father isn't anywhere in the vicinity. 

Today, to her slight disappointment, Mama does not turn down the familiar corner leading to the market. It is the playground again. Mama lets her tight grip on Sarasa's hand go. "Run and play, little one," she says. 

Sarasa watches as her mother settles down on a park bench, opening a book to read through her dark glasses. She almost appears ordinary, except for the precise manner in which she plays at being ordinary. Even Sarasa knows Mama is anything but ordinary. 

Obediently--Sarasa always does as she is told--the little girl begins to climb the apparatus which is the centerpiece of the park. Upon reaching the top, she throws a quick look at her mother, who is continuing to read, or at least act as if she is reading. 

A sudden burst of rebellion bubbles up in Sarasa's chest. She hasn't been counting the weeks, not exactly, but her family's tenure in the insular apartment has been starting to wear on her nerves. Daddy gets out every day, she thinks to herself, almost immediately replacing the thought with a humbled But he has business to attend to. 

Still, the child percolates in an alien, exciting bit of rage. I am free. She knows she really is not, but she feels It taking over her body almost against her will. Slightly alarmed -- she has never lost control of this unique ability, strong as it may be -- she still gives in to its urging. Drops herself over the side of the apparatus, where she knows her mother will not be able to see her. 

From here, drunk with unexpected freedom, Sarasa makes several fast calculations. Thirty minutes on the playground equipment before Mama will arise, walk with (too much for the occasion) grace to the popsicle vendor, then locate Sarasa and hand her a treat. 

Sarasa estimates that about 10 minutes has passed. Twenty more minutes of pure freedom. She decides to go as far as she can -- to the outer perimeter of the park. Casting one last furtive glance at her mother, she crouches down, then runs as fast as possible in the hunched-over position. 

Not watching carefully where she is going, as her head is ducked down, she trips over a rock about a quarter of the way into her flee. Does an inelegant somersault; lands flat on her back. Panting and in a slight amount of pain and shock, she lies perfectly still, staring at the sky, which is spiraling as a result of the shock of the unexpected tumble. 

A chuckle, from above. 

Sarasa starts, involuntarily. 

A wizened face is looking down at her. A very old man. In a burst of panic, the little girl freezes, then reflexively exerts every degree of It that she can emit from her pores.  

"You're not going to repel me with that, my dear." The voice is humorous; oddly enough has a familiar note to the child's ears. "I don't think you know who I am, do you?"

Unable still to speak, Sarasa can only stare. Her skirt is hiked to an awkward length due to her unexpected fall, revealing grass and dirt-stained knees, but she cannot seem to move to adjust it. The old man has reciprocated It with some alien force of his own; something Sarasa can tell is far stronger than her own ability. 

The man reaches out and, kindly and very properly, pulls her skirt hem over her knees. "See now," he says. "As I said, there's no use in trying to put up a defense in that manner. I will remove my Nen application, my dear, but you need to cooperate."

The force stops, without fanfare. Stunned, Sarasa finds herself sitting up. She brushes leaves out of her clothes, then smooths her tangle of red hair. 

"You really do not look like anyone that I know of," remarks the old man, apropos of nothing but in a conversational, pleasant manner. "I heard that Lucilfer's child had been glimpsed on the streets, and that she did not bear a grain of resemblance to him. Quite remarkable you have such a grasp on your ability. Of course, you look nothing like Tania, either, but none of my great-grandchildren do. The Wolfberg genes clearly are recessive."

"How--" gasps Sarasa, still frantically trying to arrange her snarled hair. "How do you know my mother's--" She suddenly clamps her lips shut, realizing that this all may be a trap.

A prolonged chuckle. "How do I know your mother's name? Dear girl. Tania was married to my eldest grandson for over a decade. I have kept more company with your lovely mother than your father himself. Do you not know your half-brother and sisters? Lucilfer has kept you away from the Zoldycks, eh?" 

For whatever reason--Sarasa cannot make sense of it--the man seems to find this all highly amusing. "I--" she begins again, but is cut off. 

"What about the Wolfbergs? Are you allowed contact with them? Something tells me that Yaroma desires no relationship with you. Not your fault, poor little thing. You didn't ask to be Lucilfer's spawn." 

All of this is proving to be a confusing jumble in Sarasa's young mind. "Who are you?" she finally says, not able to make any coherent connections out of all the things he is saying. 

"I'm Zeno Zoldyck," says the man, simply. Seeing that the girl still looks blank, he softens his tone a bit. "Do you not know anything about your family?"

The photographs in the album, high up on Daddy's office shelves. Sarasa sees the images of four dark-haired girls, and a handsome dark-haired man who is not Daddy, swim before her eyes. 

"You must remember Vee," supplies Zeno. "Your brother. I believe he was living with you during your earliest years."

The blond boy. Don't cry, Sara. I don't like it here either. I'll take you when I go. 

Against her will--she does not want to give this stranger any information--Sarasa finds herself nodding, slightly.

"I'm glad you remember Vee. I'm actually here to meet him this afternoon," says Zeno. "I am playing a special game with him. Would you like to join in the game too?"

"I don't know," mutters Sarasa. In a flurried, renewed panic, she realizes her mother is likely already over at the popsicle cart by now. Buying the treats. About to realize that Sarasa has gone afar. "I have to go find my mother."

"Ah, Tania is here? Of course," muses Zeno. "You're far too young to be out alone. Oh well." He claps his hands decisively. "It wouldn't be a good idea to spring you on Vee without warning, anyway. The shock may set his training back." 

"Training?" Sarasa is on her feet. Ready to run as fast as she can, to intercept her mother's popsicle before Mama comes to look for her. See her talking to this man--this old man who apparently knows Mama, too. 

"Run along, now," says Zeno, noticing Sarasa's air of anxiety. "I will tell you about this later. There will be a later, dear, don't worry. But let us make a plan. Do you come to this park most afternoons?"

Sarasa does not know why she answers truthfully. "Most days," she mumbles. "Except for the days we go to the Market."

"Excellent. As I said, now, run along. The next time I see you, I will bring your brother." Zeno turns his back to the child, but not maliciously. "I am very glad to have found you, little red-haired mouse. Vee and I need you to join our special game." He looks over his shoulder; grins. "You are a very strong thing, for a little mouse."

Sarasa watches as the slight, aged figure begins to shuffle off. A little mouse? Unused to nicknames of this sort, she rolls it around on her tongue. 

"Sarasa." The call is hushed, but carries through the air. Sarasa jumps, startles back to reality. Her mother of course cannot scream her name. Daddy would be infuriated.

Taking off with almost lightning speed -- Godspeed, she heard her father once term her preternaturally rapid running skills -- Sarasa locates her mother. 

Reaches out, takes the lime popsicle. 

"Where were you." Mama's voice is low and controlled, but Sarasa can hear the anger underneath. "You know you aren't supposed to run off like that." She draws a shaky breath. "I have half a mind to not take you to the park anymore, Sarasa. Do you know how dangerous...No more park."

Sarasa, involuntarily, throws a glance in the direction where she came. Where she can still see the figure of the old man, walking at a steady pace. She thinks, again, of the fair-haired boy. The almost-forgotten little shoulder she used to cuddle against, the high and light voice singing to her in Dentoran.

"No Mama," she says, slowly. "I'll be good. I promise. Please take me to the park again tomorrow." 

Chapter Text

Tania rolls, languidly, in the oversized bed. The suite's French doors are opened to the slightly chilly air, the sheets and blankets have been thrown aside in a crumpled heap. 

The familiar voice, murmuring in her ear: Little East Padokean whore. Who let you in this house. You want me, don't you. Admit it, slutty girl. Sexy girl. 

Lean, long muscles, definitively carved. The curtain of hair--longer than her own--falls in  sheets that both blend in with the darkness and simultaneously catch the moonlight. She feels it against her most private place; the hardness, his length. The savagely exciting whiffs of death and violence. The shadow above her who kills for money; shows no expression after carnage. 

Yes, yes, yes, she breathes. 

He is slow, cautious but without timidity. Touches her with practiced finesse. This is not someone who fumbles when touching a woman.

Where did you learn? Tania's words are a low moan. 

Learn? The fingers probe. I could have anyone I want, little girl. You're fortunate I'm doing this to you. 

Tania throws her head back. The shadowy figure keeps his voice at a rough whisper. 

Do you like it?

Do you like it?

Do you like it?

Her eyes are closed. He is entering her, long smooth strokes, each drag playing her up onto exquisite peaks of sensation. Her body involuntarily bucks to meet his. The night breeze, smelling of crisp mountain greenery, whistles lightly through the suite. 

Yes.

Opening her eyes, her glance falls upon his hip. 

Sees the spider inked there, an obscene blot against pale, moonlight-glowing skin. 

Involuntarily, her body stiffens and her lips part in a scream. 

****

Tania bolts up in bed. Gasping, she clutches the covers to her chest, trying to control her breathing so as not to wake the man in bed with her. Knowing as she does, that it is a futile exercise. She is married to the former lead of the deadliest gang on earth. Not a feather falls to the ground in their immediate space without his knowledge. 

Indeed, Chrollo is already sitting up, his hands soothing and gentle against her shoulders, neck, hair. "Another nightmare?" 

His words are remarkably unruffled and articulately delivered for someone pulled unceremoniously out of a deep sleep. But does Chrollo sleep deeply? Tania does not want to consider what directs her husband's mind processes--conscious or subconscious. 

Slumping slightly, Tania allows Chrollo to bolster her; put his arms around her waist. "Yes, I'm sorry," she says. "Did I scream? Sarasa--"

"Sarasa is fine," Chrollo replies. "She is fast asleep. You did not scream. It's all right, my love. Let's get back to sleep, ourselves." 

Do you sleep? Tania allows the words to float through her brain. Recalls the man she just was dreaming about. Another who executed complete control over what would ordinarily be autonomic bodily processes. She does not ask the question. 

"Sleep," repeats Chrollo, softly. He begins to hum a song, under his breath, while simultaneously petting Tania's back. His touch and deep voice are almost hypnotically comforting, but Tania's dream persists in swirling through her mind. 

She deliberately keeps thoughts of her first husband and their complicated history at a distance, not because she is unfond of the man with whom she spent a decade in union. Nor does she fear she is still in love with him--she is confident in the validity of her feelings for Chrollo. No, the problem with thoughts--let alone visions--of Illumi is the fact that her mind then turns logically to the next point. 

The children. 

Tania has not seen her older daughters in some time. Although she misses them, she feels secure that Illumi is taking good care of them. A consummate rule-follower, her ex-husband would certainly be sure to enforce teeth-brushing and homework, see that they are well-dressed. There is nothing to worry about with her girls. Indeed, Illumi--whom she generally communicates with sparsely and in text form--delivers a regular and rather dull report of their uniformly excellent health and behavior. 

Her boy, however. The image of Vianney--impish grin, shock of pale hair--swims behind her eyelids. Illumi has been eerily silent of late regarding any news of Vee. 

The jarring experience of dreaming of her ex's seasoned and skillful caresses, his familiar game of dirty, debasing talk--Illumi's sexual experimentation had always been rooted in what boundaries he could cross with words, rather than actions--shifting to thoughts of her innocent son puts Tania's teeth abruptly on edge. Chrollo, sensing her tenseness, pauses his humming and gives her a questioning look. 

"Darling," Tania says, in a low tone, cautious of waking her sixth child, just down the hall. "I feel too awake. The dream I just had was quite...vivid." 

Chrollo's eyes are silver, even in the darkness. "Was it about your grandfather?" The words are delivered slowly. This is usually the source of Tania's nightmares, and to his credit, Chrollo never flinches or tries to circumvent that fact. 

"No," Tania replies. "I don't know what it was about. It was just vividly frightening, that's all." She pushes the covers away. "I am going to go read in the other room for a bit, maybe that will help." When Chollo shifts his weight and swings his legs over the side of the bed indicating he will follow her, she pats him hastily. "No need, my love. Get your rest. I want to listen to some music on my headphones, too." She picks up the old-fashioned, noise-cancelling set on her nightstand. 

Chrollo, looking a bit as if he wants to protest, apparently decides to let the matter go. "Good night, sweet," he says. "You are safe here with me." Laying his head back down on the pillow, he pulls up the blankets and closes his eyes. 

Tania gives him a lingering look; takes in how still her husband holds himself. Then she pads quietly into the apartment's living room. 

Sitting on the sofa, she does not reach for the book on the coffee table, nor place her headphones over her ears. Instead, with a furtive glance around, she pulls out her phone. 

Illumi.

The text response is immediate, even though the hour is very late. Tania pictures her ex, sitting up reflexively at the chime of his device, as is his wont. Is something wrong? Are you okay?

I am okay. I need to talk to you. 

The reply, although simply bald words on a screen, somehow carries the blunt haughtiness of the man she'd known so well, so closely, for so many years. I'm right here, Tania. 

Tania sighs noiselessly. Thinks again of her dream; imagines Illumi's crude, unfettered pillow talk of days past. I need to discuss something with you in person. 

Why? Simple, direct.

Tania closes her eyes momentarily. Illumi lives now, she knows, with the Sahertan fighter, the storm of bluster that Chrollo famously took down years ago at Heaven's Arena. She tries to imagine the two in bed together; the thought of her ex-husband whispering degrading teases into Hisoka Morow's ear cannot materialize. She has never allowed herself to dwell on what the two of them do together, how they love each other. Whenever Illumi deviated from his smoothly confident lovemaking with her into rare untamed physicality, she understands now that it had to do with this man. Giving Illumi something that she herself could not; scrambling his fantasies into unchecked action. 

She only once has allowed herself to wonder if Chrollo had had the same effect on him. 

Pushing aside the thought of the Sahertan doubtlessly lying next to Illumi right at this moment, lying next to him as she texts in tenseness and hesitation, she resolutely answers his question. 

There are things we need to discuss.

****

"We are going to the park today, Mama?" 

Tania grips Sarasa's hand a bit firmer than usual as they cross the street. "We are," she answers. "Even though you were naughty and ran away from me the other day." She glances at her youngest child over the tops of her dark glasses. "I have something important to ask of you today, Sarasa." 

The red-haired little girl appears surprised at Tania's grave tone, but remains silent, her quizzical expression her only response.

"I have to go on a short errand," Tania pronounces. "I'm going to leave you at the playground, briefly, while I do this. Will you be a good girl and promise me you will stay at the apparatus? You can climb and play while I'm busy. Just do not go off." She makes her gaze stern. "I need you to promise, Sarasa."

Sarasa looks slightly afraid. "Where are you going?"

"Not far." Tania makes her voice light and crisp. "Just stay at the playground. Don't speak to anyone, and just remain there until I get back. We will get our popsicles as soon as I'm done." 

The child nods. Tania leads her to the jungle gym, then drops her tight grasp. 

"Goodbye, Mama," says Sarasa. 

Walking briskly, Tania exits the park, making her way to an alley two streets east. Ducking into the unassuming corridor, she locates a half-hidden door. She rings the bell.

Granted entrance, Tania walks into a dimly lit establishment. Several figures are sitting at high-backed booths, apparently conversing quietly over steaming bowls. Disoriented, she looks around a bit blindly. 

"Tania." It is called out in a normal tone of voice, but at a timbre designed to carry. One of the figures stands up; beckons to her. 

"You cut your hair." It is the only thing that springs to Tania's tongue. 

Illumi does not address this. "I ordered lunch for you." He gestures gracefully to the booth. "I trust your tastes have not changed?"

Tania sits. Still taking in her ex-husband's startling new look, her mind goes to the previous night's dream. The feeling of Illumi above her, his sheets of silken hair tickling her skin, an integral sensual aspect of their intimacy over the decade they were together. She finds herself involuntarily lifting a hand, seeking to touch the cropped new style. Blushing furiously--and grateful for the dim light--she forces the hand down. 

Illumi spoons up a mouthful from his bowl. "The ramen is very good here," he notes. 

Tania ignores the bowl in front of her. "Illumi," she begins, then stops. 

Her ex finishes his mouthful of noodles without haste. "What is so important that you needed to call a face-to-face meeting?" The words are hard, but his expression is relaxed. In control. 

"Vee." Tania expells the single syllable as if it were an entire sentence. 

"Vee?" The innate haughtiness is present. Tania struggles to not let it put her on the defense. Reminds herself that she--no more, but once!--was a Zoldyck. Was a Wolfberg, prior to that. 

"Illumi." She speaks his name again, then lets it out in a rush. "There is something going on with Vianney. I know our current arrangement does not call for me to have visitation with the children, due to your concerns about the security of Chrollo back in the city after our period of seclusion. However--"

"Your period of seclusion." Illumi gives an uncharacteristic chuckle. "Your disappearance from the world, you mean? Taking my son with you and keeping him from me for years? I will say, Tania"--he wipes his mouth delicately. "You have no idea what is going on with Vianney except that he is back with me, his father. And that I am making it my mission to protect him. Right now that includes not allowing any contact with you due to the fact that you and Chrollo have--against both Zoldyck and Wolfberg advice--decided to return to Yorknew." He places his chopsticks down. "I don't have to inform you that your husband has a bounty on his head that spans the entire United States of Saherta, if not the globe."

Tania is stiff with tension. "Of course I have the same concerns for Vee's safety."

"Then perhaps you should have encouraged your spouse to remain wherever it was you came from." The mildness in Illumi's statement ironically gives it more of a poisonous edge than a heated tone would achieve. 

"Illumi. Please listen." Again speaking in a rapid tumble, she grips the hem of her coat. "Chrollo has abilities. As you know. One of them including a remarkable sense of En. I have asked him to--"

Illumi's face goes expressionless. "What are you having him do?" This time, the carefully pronounced words do carry fire. 

"I just asked him to keep tabs on Vee." Tania feels her nails tear the fabric of her expensive garment. "Don't worry, I had him not bother with the girls. I know they are fine. But, Illumi, Chrollo can't--"

"You're damned right he can't." A growl. "Damn you, Tania, you're not to be tracking Vianney. Do you understand me? I made it very clear that my son was not going to have the influence of Chrollo Lu--"

"He can't track him," bursts out Tania, desperately. "He can't find his aura. Illumi," she begs. "What is going on? Where is our boy?"

Illumi's expression remains blank. "Are you saying I am hiding him?" 

"Someone must have taught him Zetsu." 

The ex-assassin's face does work, slightly, at this. "I assure you, Tania. There is nothing amiss with Vianney. I will give you a copy of his school report, if you wish. Please do not go yourself to the school, however, or try to approach him there. I will have to take very strong measures, which I don't want to do, if you choose to circumvent my wishes." He stands up. 

"Illumi--" It comes out, choked. "What is going on with our son?"

"My son," says Illumi, "Is fine. The girls send their love." With that, he walks resolutely, without haste, out of the restaurant. 

Tania, mutely, stares at the unfamiliar short-haired silhouette. Pushes aside, once again, a vision of the erotic dream of the night before. Sighing deeply once he is out of view, she exits the booth, rubbing absently at the hole torn in her coat. 

Mind occupied, she walks the several blocks back to the playground. Feels in her pocket for spare jenny. "Sarasa," she calls, in a controlled voice. "Shall we get our ice pops now?" 

There is no reply. 

"Sarasa," says Tania, again. "I know you did not run off after my warning." She begins a steady, slow walk around the playground apparatus, ignoring the laughter and cries of the other children racing about and playing. 

The red-haired girl is nowhere to be seen.

Tania makes the loop around the park once again. A third time. 

"Sarasa." Tania, feeling dizzy, drops the currency she is holding. A mischievous little boy runs up, grabs it, and dashes off, but Tania pays him no heed. 

There is no sign of her youngest child, anywhere. 

Chapter Text

"Dad." The address is called out in stereo, all the young voices speaking at the same time. Illumi, sitting at the kitchen table with Hisoka, cannot tamp down a smile at the call of his children in unison. 

"Can we start the movie now?" Sylvia, as usual, is the ringleader. "It's Friday night, we can stay up late. I went to the market with Aunt Allu. We're going to bake cookies."

"And we can order pizza?" Eyrnne pipes up, hopefully. Illumi has a tendency to frown upon food delivery--particularly pizza, even though Yorknew's pizza offerings are famed in the U.S.S.--stating that homemade meals are healthier. This evening, however, the smile remains on his face and he gives a rare affirmative nod. 

Ianthe, cheerful as always, dances about her older sisters in delight before hugging her father impulsively, spurring Illumi to murmur, "Now, now, little bit," and rumple his youngest's hair playfully. 

Nelia, in her usual manner, runs over to Illumi and climbs up into his lap, although she is growing too old and too big for such behavior. "Thank you, Daddy," she says quietly. Reflexively--although, again, this is a longtime comfort from her younger years--she reaches for a piece of his hair, rubbing it between her fingers. 

Illumi, without verbally answering, wraps his arms around his favorite; lays his lips upon her dark head in a silent kiss. 

"Who is ordering the pizza?" It's a slight tease from Hisoka, who is observing the scene with amusement. "And where's your brother?"

"I'm here." Vianney walks into the kitchen. "You heard me. I want pizza too."

"Where have you been, young man? All afternoon? Again?" Illumi, dropping his embrace and letting Nelia slip timidly off his legs, pronounces this coldly in Dentoran. His regional accent is unusually sharp; enough to make Alluka raise her eyebrows questioningly. 

Hisoka, in a placating gesture, pulls out his phone. "I'll order. All of you, off to the media room. Alluka, you get them set up with the movie, please." When even Nelia--shooting her father a backwards, worried glance--scatters to the other room, Hisoka gives his partner a look. 

"What is going on?"

"What do you mean?" Illumi is keeping his expression neutral, but this is not a deterrent to Hisoka. Tapping at his phone with a slight squint, Hisoka peers over the screen at Illumi. 

"You know what I mean," states Hisoka. He changes his tone, slightly. "Yes, hi. Could I please order four of your large supreme pies, deep dish--yes, all the toppings please--plus your family-size kale and apple salad? Extra dressing on the side. And a liter of--" 

"No soda," hisses Illumi.

"Soda," finishes Hisoka. He clicks off his phone and raises his chin a bit triumphantly. "It's Friday, as the kids pointed out."

"Sugar," says Illumi, deliberately expressionless. His eyes drop to Hisoka's midsection. 

"Oh, don't try to pull that on me," snorts Hisoka. "I'm not getting a gut yet, despite my rapidly advancing age. And, furthermore, I also intend to eat one or two of those cookies Sylvia was talking about making. I am no longer 30 years old and busting my ass for the Sahertan Sports Federation half-naked in boxing shorts." Giving his flat stomach a pat and tossing his phone down, he resumes his intense stare. "Now, back to what I was saying. What is going on?"

"Nothing that wasn't going on five minutes ago." Illumi tries, and fails, to hold Hisoka's gaze. Looking up at the ceiling, he maintains his blank-faced presentation. 

"Wrong," says Hisoka. "The school is still calling daily with reports of Vianney's afternoon absences. That alone is nothing new. I'm not sure why you haven't been able by now to identify what your boy is up to when he should be in math class. And, honestly, Illumi--" Hisoka clears his throat. "I don't care much. This is your territory. However--"

Illumi's eyes drop from the ceiling. "What?" It's delivered a tad icily. 

"You came home today and it's extremely obvious--even to someone of my base character--" Hisoka lifts an eyebrow to indicate that he is attempting levity. "You are highly disturbed about something. And furthermore--"

"I had a difficult client today." Illumi's interjection holds a note of finality. 

"You always have difficult clients. And," Hisoka pronounces, "I'll add, stupid ones. My dear. I have been with you long enough to know you do not lose your patience or composure due to dealing with those below the competency waterline." 

Illumi, glancing at the door to make certain the children are out of earshot, gives a reluctant sigh. "All right," he states. "I met with Tania this afternoon."

"Tania?" Hisoka, despite his effort to remain characteristically wry, cannot hide his surprise. "You mean, here? In the city? Actually meeting with her?"

"Yes."

"When did your custody arrangement change to require in-person meetings with her again?"

"She texted me out of nowhere late last night." Illumi runs a hand through his short hair, causing it to stand on end; a comical dishevelment save the fact that his face is working with emotion. "It was so unusual a request, I was alarmed. And said I'd meet her." 

"Illumi." Hisoka tries, and fails, to keep a note of exasperation out of his voice. "We discussed this at the very start, when I met with Chrollo and he allowed us to retain custody of Vianney. The way you choose to coparent with Tania is none of my business, except--well--when it involves the fact that Chrollo has mysteriously popped up in Yorknew City. As if you don't already know this, but I will reiterate-- Chrollo and I have declared a truce, but that doesn't mean half the continent doesn't want to kill him. He has a long checkered history."

"I do know this." Illumi makes a face. "That is why--"

"Why, what?" Hisoka does not even try to hide his ire now. "So you realize you are putting yourself in grave danger every time you go anywhere near Tania? I happen to care if you die, Illumi," he states, adding tersely, "You fool." 

"That is why," repeats Illumi stubbornly. "I found out something."

"Dad!" Several voices cry at once. "When is the pizza coming? Uncle Hiso, did you order yet?"

"I did," calls out Hisoka, managing to glide momentarily into a soothing sing-song. "We'll be in to watch with you in a minute, dears." Shifting his gaze back to Illumi with a set jaw, he asks, "Found out what?"

"Chrollo is keeping tabs on Vianney." The hollows under Illumi's eyes are violet with exhaustion. His hair, rakishly still on end like an advanced case of bedhead, provides a rather ghastly contrast to the serious expression. "He is probably the one responsible for Vee's absences. Hisoka--" A note of desperation. "I don't want to tangle with Chrollo, but I need to stop him from whatever he's doing with my son."

Hisoka is silent for a moment. The doorbell rings, shattering the tense air momentarily. 

"Pizza!" The happy shriek carries all the way from the media room. 

Opening the door, Hisoka accepts the delivery, then begins to set the food out on the table. Taking down several glasses from the cabinet, he pours soda into each, then drains one with a deliberate series of swallows before putting it back down with a slight bit more force than necessary. 

"Sugar," mutters Illumi. He smooths at his hair. 

"Sugar," agrees Hisoka. "You're forgetting one thing, sugar." He holds out a slice of pizza. "You better eat, because clearly low blood sugar is affecting your brain. You're not using your mind, here, darling."

Illumi sighs, then takes one of the soda glasses for himself and sips at it. "What do you mean." 

"Think, Illumi. Let's think about what Chrollo can do. With his abilities." 

"He can do a fucking million things." Illumi takes a bigger gulp. "He's a fucking specialist." 

"Think." Hisoka narrows his eyes. "Think about Heavens Arena." He flexes his hand and fingers. "What happened in that match between us?"

"He beat you." Illumi's expression twists even more unattractively. "Why are you making me revisit this, even just in mind--the nightmares I continue to have about that fight, years still later, Hisoka--" 

"Is the pizza here?" A scattering of footsteps begins to patter down the hall. "Dad? Dad!" 

"Think!" Hisoka hisses it, this time. Right as the children are about to enter the kitchen, he supplies the answer, again in a downplayed hiss. 

"Chrollo can create clones, Illumi. Don't you think, sugar, that if he is actually doing something underhanded with Vee as a vehicle--which it sounds as if Tania didn't actually admit to--he would have simply made a clone of Vianney? Sent that carbon copy to math class? If he were seeking to use your son in any manner, wouldn't he simply have fallen back on one of his most famed techniques, in order to keep suspicion at bay?"

"Soda!" Vianney is the first to reach the kitchen, immediately running for the lined-up row of filled glasses. "Wow, this is really a landmark Friday." Flashing a huge grin at Illumi, he clinks glasses in a toast with Nelia, who is also shooting her father a toothy, adoring smile. "Thank you, Dad."

"Let's go watch the movie, eh?" Hisoka has filled a plate with several slices of pizza. Casting a glance at his partner, he repeats under his breath, "You control minds, Illumi. Now learn how to use one!" 

****

"Think," says Zeno, pleasantly. "Who could it possibly be, that I brought you here to meet? I already gave you a hint that it's someone you haven't seen in quite some time." 

"Maybe...Grandma?" The blond boy's voice is hesitant. "Grandpa? I haven't seen them for a few months...are they here from Kukuroo? Do you want me to show them my new...abilities you're teaching me?" 

"Nay, nay," chuckles Zeno. "I'm afraid your grandparents are enjoying their leisure far too much to make yet another trip out to the U.S.S. They were just out to see Milluki's new little one, your cousin, remember?" He taps his chin, musingly. "Kikyo is getting crankier and crankier with age, too. Traveling is hard on her. Always complaining about the airship schedules and how the service has gone downhill, and how she can't get a decent cup of coffee in Yorknew, and--"

"Gee Gee," pleads Vianney. "I am skipping math yet again. I have a test today, too. Who am I here to see? I don't want to play any more guessing games."

"Mmm," says Zeno in an approving tone. "Let's get you back to math class, then, in time to race through your exam. Bright boy, I'm sure you can do it in a quarter of the time it takes the other pupils. I'll bring out the special guest. Without further ado." He walks over to the door leading to the small quarter's bedroom and opens it. 

A small figure walks out, blinking in confusion. Vianney, initially silent with confusion, stiffens in shocked recognition after a minute passes. 

"Yes," says Zeno. "I caught a little mouse." He chuckles, yet again, then falls completely silent. The small figure, crowned with a mop of bright crimson locks, is as rigidly stiff as the boy standing across from her. 

A tiny voice finally breaks the stillness. "Bro...brother?" A hand reaches out, hesitantly. "V-vee?" 

"Sara." Vianney cannot raise his volume above a hushed breath. "I haven't seen you since--"

"Yes," interjects Zeno. "The little mouse, although still little, has grown up, hasn't she? I'd say she is nearly the same height as our Ianthe, no?"

"Gee Gee." Vianney can hardly get the words out. "Why? Why is Sara here with you? I would understand if she was with Papa Yar...but..." he chokes slightly, giving the girl an apologetic look. "She's not yours."

Zeno smirks at this. "Not a Zoldyck," the boy clarifies, again giving Sarasa a guilty glance. 

"Indeed, not a Zoldyck." Zeno speaks crisply. "But, she is related to you and therefore--with Papa Yar's permission, of course, I have already talked to him about this--she is going to assist you with your Nen studies."

"How?" Vianney's eyes are huge. A bit afraid. Sarasa also looks intimidated, her hand still reaching out automatically toward her half-brother. 

"I'll explain later. I just wanted to make the initial introduction today for a surprise, dear boy." Zeno pats Vianney on the shoulder. "Now, why don't you give your sister a hug? Then run off to math class so you can do your exam."

Vianney remains frozen to the spot. "But Gee Gee," he stutters.

"Look at the clock, child," chides Zeno. He puts a hand on Sarasa's shoulder. "There will be plenty of time to get caught up with our little mouse, here, later."

"Gee Gee!" Vianney, unable to control himself, shouts it. "I don't care if Papa Yar said it was okay. What about--"

"What about?" Zeno appears confused. "Your grandfather has given his blessing for Sarasa to train with you."

"What about my mother?" Vianney, still hollering, stamps his foot. "What about Uncle Chrollo? Where are they?"

"They're here," says Zeno, simply. "In Yorknew for a visit." 

"And--" Vianney gives Sarasa a befuddled, desperate look. "They're okay with this? They've kept me away from her for so long--from all of us, my sisters too--"

Zeno shakes his head. "No," he states. "I don't actually know if they are okay with this, Vee. But it doesn't matter. Sarasa is going to train with you. As siblings, the two of you will be able to spark past your respective natural abilities to something far more powerful."

"Mama and Uncle Chro don't know..." Vianney, suddenly, again looks fearful. 

"Don't worry." Another pat on the boy's shoulder, combined with a gentle squeeze on the little red haired girl's neck. "I've taken care of it all. They won't even need to know." 

"How." No longer shouting, the boy pronounces the word as a whole sentence. 

"Your stepfather is famed for a very unique ability. One that he, no doubt, stole." Zeno's smile is wry. "He used it many years ago to great effect. Chrollo," he clarifies, "is able to create clones. Luckily that wasn't a very difficult ability to learn on my part, although I'm sure he has it far more finessed than I do."

Vianney's fearful look intensifies. "You mean?"

"Your mother and stepfather will never know Sarasa is missing." Zeno whistles a sweet little tune. "Now run along, and catch the last bits of class, my boy." 

Chapter Text

East Padokea
1991

****

"Tania?" The call is immediate, coming from the east wing living room when the chime alarm of the private family entrance door rings out into the hall. 

Tania is surprised. Her mother is almost always busy out on the patio having tea at this time of day -- either with Tania's father, grandparents, or any number of a variety of fellow business-wife friends. Shifting her schoolbooks to one arm, she replies, "Yes, Mom, it's me."

"Come here, dear." The voice sounds pleasant. Tania exhales, trying to forecast what sort of important event might dictate a meeting in the formal living room, which is rarely used. 

Yaroma and Lavinia Wolfberg are seated in the ornately decorated space, sipping liquor from highball glasses and smiling. Tania is again surprised. Her parents usually do not imbibe this early in the afternoon. "Is something special happening?" she asks. 

"That there is," replies her father. "I have managed to recruit a very promising apprentice to ally with our business interests." He takes another sip of his drink. 

"Okay?" Tania is unimpressed. Her father is one of the most powerful men in the underground; he is constantly making and breaking strategic connections. "This must be some apprentice to warrant a cocktail party at three in the afternoon."

"No need to be saucy," her mother says, mildly. "This young man has been literally re-assembling the entire network across the globe, for lack of a better way to put it, dear. He's a very important budding talent. Your father is quite excited that he's chosen to work with our family." 

"Have a drink with us, Tania," her father states, in a companionable tone. "I'm going to need your help with this new recruit."

"My help?" Tania accepts a glass, but she is confused. "Since when do you allow me to have anything to do with the business?"

"You're correct, it still stands that Wolfbergs do not involve their women in business." Yaroma still has a faint smile on his face. "In this case though, I could use your assistance, my dear." He glances at Tania's armful of schoolbooks. "How are your classes going?"

Tania blinks at the sudden change of subject. "Fine. School is fine."

"You're not overwhelmed with the condensed schedule?" her mother frets. "I know you're eager to graduate ahead of time so you can travel off to Yorknew, but I do worry you've overextended yourself." 

"She'll be fine, won't you, my beauty?" Yaroma cuts in. "As it is, though, I'm going to ask you to put your books aside for a couple of days."

"What for?" Tania is finding this unusual conversation confusing to follow. She is unable to hazard what on earth her father might want of her. 

"The apprentice is coming to East Padokea tomorrow. He's unfamiliar with the region and I'd like to get him up to speed. Naturally, we'll be hosting him while he's here." Yaroma smiles, again. "I'll be showing him the business side of things, but I thought maybe you could entertain him with some sightseeing in the evenings."

"Me?" This is totally unexpected. Tania's father has never asked her to socialize in any form with his associates. 

"Yes, you." Yaroma gives her a fond look. "The apprentice is a young man. He's probably only a couple years older than you. I suspect he'd much prefer to see the sights with someone his own age, rather than some old man such as myself, no? And I'm sure he'd have no objection if that someone happened to be a very pretty young lady." He gives a chuckle. "We just want to make a good impression on him. He really is quite a pivotal and important figure right now." 

"You don't have to do anything special, dear," her mother cuts in. "This is his first time in East Padokea, so he'll enjoy a tour of the usual touristy spots. You can take him to the VIP areas of Heaven's Arena, show him the rare art collections there--things like that. Maybe you can take him to the Reveille for dinner and dancing."

Tania nods, although she is still a bit surprised by all of this. "All right," she says. "I don't have anything pressing going on the next few days. I can take him to the Arena and the club." She gives a sudden, slightly petulant sigh.

"What's wrong?" queries her father.

"He's not one of those dreadful bores...full of himself like most of the mafia sons?" Tania cannot keep a slight note of disgust at bay. 

"Now, Tania," says her mother. "Those boys all come from impeccable bloodlines. You'll be making a nice match with one of them, eventually."

"You've set me up on so many incredibly dull dates," states Tania. "And they're all ugly. The only one I might possibly find attractive is the Zoldycks' son, and that's the one you refuse to let me go out with."

"We're not refusing," says Yaroma. "We'd love nothing more than for you to go on a date with the Zoldyck boy. Silva Zoldyck is the one who refuses to let his sons socialize. He says they don't have time for that sort of thing. The Zoldyck boys are not going on any dates, with anyone, dear." 

Tania exhales through her nose in exasperation. "Well, all right," she mutters. "This new apprentice, though. I hope he's not like the others." 

"Actually," replies her father. "I think you will like him. He's a very bright and interesting young man. Lots of plans for shaking up the status quo. I wouldn't call him full of himself at all--more like full of ideas."

"He's also quite a handsome boy, I must say, from what I've seen," says Tania's mother, with a wry grin. "Don't worry, Tania. It won't be as onerous as you think." 

Tania mulls this over for a moment. "What's his name?" 

"Quwrof. He's got one hell of a last name--kid's from Meteor City, and it's one of those old-world names...I can't even pronounce it. Don't worry. He speaks flawless Sahertan and even has some facility with our East Padokean dialect."

"He will be arriving tomorrow," says Lavinia, with finality. "I'll call the Arena to make sure the VIP areas are all open for you. I'm sure he will love to see the newest collection by that Peijinese artist, the one that just debuted. Pick out one of your prettiest dresses, dear. Perhaps the red silk? Red is so beautiful with your hair and eyes."

****

"Hello."

Tania is, despite herself, a bit taken aback by the visitor who--true to her mother's word--is nothing like the puffed-up, unattractively conceited mafia sons she is used to fielding off. He is slim, good-looking, and indeed quite young--no more than perhaps 20 or 21. He offers a disarmingly open smile, which offsets a pair of shadowy, bruised-looking eyes that appear too old for his face. 

Holding out a hand, he gives Tania a firm shake, which she returns with appreciation. Most young men she meets are smarmy; do performative things she dislikes such as bow and kiss her knuckles. 

"This is our Tania," booms Yaroma, heartily. "I'm sure you're ready for something a little more entertaining than all the data and warehouse tours we did this morning, eh?"

"Tania will take you over to Heaven's Arena," Lavinia says, in a smooth tone. "She is very familiar with the art collections housed in the VIP areas."

"Art collections?" The visitor lifts his eyebrows slightly. "I thought the Arena was where the fighting matches took place." 

"Yes, of course, but there's a lot more to the Arena than just the fighting ring," Tania finds herself saying. "There's entire wings that aren't open to the public, and there's quite a lot of artwork on display. We could watch a fight, if you'd rather, but not many people get to visit the VIP areas. They showcase a lot of work from up-and-coming artists, as well."

The visitor forms his guileless smile once again. He is impeccably dressed and groomed, save his hair--which is slightly shaggy and a bit unruly, dipping over his forehead and into his eyes. "What a nice treat." He nods to the Wolfbergs. "Thank you so much for the opportunity. I'm sure very few people get access."

"Our pleasure. Have a good time," says Yaroma. "Tania, sweetheart, the car is out front. Take the usual precautions and enjoy yourselves. Mother and I will not wait up for you. Have Jouni show Quwrof to his suite when you return." 

Jouni, the butler, bows deferentially, and holds open the door to the porte cochere. Tania nods in thanks, then walks out to the car. 

She can feel the visitor's gaze--those shadowed, bruised eyes--examining her from behind. 

****

"You can call me Chrollo." That smile again, accompanied by a raised glass of fine champagne poured out by the Arena's VIP staff. 

"Chrollo?" Tania sips her own champagne. "I don't mind calling you by your actual name."

"Quwrof is a mouthful for most people. I adopted a Sahertan name when I moved to Yorknew. I'm actually more used to it by now, and it feels a little odd when someone uses 'Quwrof." Almost like I'm in trouble with the teacher at school, or something." He gives a charming laugh. "I met your father under my real name for security purposes."

"All right, then. Chrollo." Tania has found herself put consistently, slightly off-balance all evening by his effortless social skills. Chrollo carries himself with a maturity far beyond his years, engages her in reciprocal and interesting discussion; could not be further away from the dullards her parents have made her date in the past. He speaks in accent-free Sahertan, occasionally slipping in a well-timed East Padokean phrase. She is not sure how someone so polished at such a young age could possibly come from a wasteland like Meteor City. "Did you like the Peijinese artist's collection?"

"Very unique," agrees Chrollo. "I had no idea, honestly, that the Arena had such extensive art reserves. This city is full of surprises." His tone changes abruptly. "If I may be so bold, Tania, you look lovely this evening." 

Tania smooths the folds of the red silk dress her mother had suggested she wear. The compliment is neither original nor unexpected, but something in the way he says it makes her shiver, just slightly. 

I don't mind this one. He's not bad. Not bad at all. 

"Red looks very nice on you," Chrollo says, simply. 

Tania wets her lips, which are dry under her expensive lip stain. "Would you--like to go do dinner, now?"

****

The Reveille is, as always, sternly guarded by a regime of security. Tania is, of course, instantly recognized and immediately escorted in.

"Pretty exclusive," says Chrollo, wryly, helping her off with her coat and handing it to the cloakroom attendant. 

Tania finds herself wondering again how someone from Meteor City, someone this young, has managed to attain such impeccable manners. The boys her parents set her up with were all well-versed in proper decorum, but they'd all certainly been trained in it since childhood. Tania suspects even the reclusive Zoldyck sons have been put through deportment education as a necessary assassin skill. To have this rogue from an essential penal colony effortlessly remove her coat--as if he does such things daily--again sets Tania off-kilter. 

"Well," is all that she can think to answer. "It's a dangerous lifestyle," she adds, a bit inanely. 

Chrollo winks. "So I'm finding out. How do you manage to go to school? Are you constantly under surveillance?"

"I attend a very exclusive and very small school," Tania explains. "I just use a different driver every day and alternate a few routes to get there. It averts suspicion. My family obviously has a lot of enemies, but they aren't really interested in me or my brothers. It's just all out of precaution." 

A formally dressed headwaiter approaches. "Miss Wolfberg," he says warmly. "Welcome. It will be just you and your guest, for dinner?"

Tania nods. Chrollo, again with complete confidence, takes her arm, as they are led toward the private Wolfberg dining room. Tania, out of the corner of her eye, watches him. His gaze darts back and forth, appearing to automatically categorize the layout of the club. 

The two are handed velvet-bound menus. Chrollo scans the menu briefly, then says, "Shall I order for both of us? Is there anything you don't like?" 

Tania shakes her head, curious to see if he can execute this flawlessly as well. "Everything here is good." 

Chrollo signals for the server, then in perfect East Padokean, orders a bottle of wine--with apparent literacy--and a pair of entrees. 

"Where did you learn to speak the East Padokean dialect, if you've never been here?" Tania is impressed, in spite of herself. 

"I don't know it that well, honestly. I picked up enough to do easy things like order dinner." He makes an expansive gesture. "It's all written on the menu, after all."

Tania cannot control a laugh from escaping. "You have a point," she admits. "But your pronunciation and accent are perfect."

Chrollo accepts a splash of wine from the server, tastes it and nods approval. Drinking from his filled glass, he gives a slight shrug. "It's not hard to pick up languages. I've stuck to just a couple that serve me well."

"What are you doing for my father?" Tania tastes her own glass of wine. He's selected a good one. 

The shadowy eyes turn a bit keen over the rim of his glass. "How much do you know about your father's business, exactly?"

Tania instinctively turns protective. "Not very much."

The food arrives, and they eat in silence for a few minutes. 

"The music is nice," says Chrollo. 

There is a pianist--likely from the East Padokean Philharmonic--tinkling out an etude of rich, minor-key exercises. 

They dance together. Tania kicks off her heels; she is taller than him. He holds her close, hands drifting along the sides of her body, expertly controlled at this as he is everything else he's displayed this evening. 

Tania feels as if she is drowning. The feeling of fighting against the water, fighting against the lack of air, and then suddenly sinking into a cloud of blissful abandon. 

****

"All right, if you really want to..." Chrollo's words are slightly choked, Tania's lace thong clutched in one hand. "I'll tell you how."

Tania is ablaze with lust and the somewhat spurring knowledge that she's never done this, never done it before, and therefore the playing field is wide open. "Tell me," she says. He has already put his hand up her dress, and played with her to a degree that she never knew mere fingers could do. Certainly not her own, and absolutely not those of any of the boys she's dated and politely slapped off when they attempted the same. 

"You don't always have to get on your knees. If we had a more... opportune place to do this, you could be more comfortable--"

"I'm fine on my knees." The red silk dress snags on the Reveille's balcony floor. 

Chrollo says it in a whisper, drawing his hand down to his pants and unfastening what needs to be loosed. "Take it out."

She does. He is fully hard; she's never seen one up close. His skin is silky, and several degrees warmer than the rest of his body. Even his lips, which she'd been frantically kissing to a swollen mess just minutes before, were not as heated as this. 

"You...get it wet," mutters Chrollo. "Just spit on it, or lick, or--or fuck--just put it in your mouth." 

Tania obeys, with curiosity. She pets him first, feeling him twitch involuntarily under her prettily manicured hand. 

"Fuck," says Chrollo. "Oh my God. You put it in your mouth. That's how you do it. That's all."

She opens her mouth and closes it several times to gather saliva. When feeling sufficiently armed, she envelops the head between her lips, letting her spittle ooze all over him. 

He is silent, but she looks up at him. His bruised eyes are closed, and his face is tilted to the moonlit sky. 

When he speaks again, it's once more in a whisper. "Use your hand as well." 

It's a mess, and smells unpleasantly of the wine she's been drinking, but she does as he says. Somehow, her entire focus in life is conquering this too-bright, too-sharp boy, making him excited, making him soften and moan. 

"Tania," he says. "Oh, sweet girl. You are so smart, and so sweet."

He doesn't let her bring him to orgasm. He says not yet. 

Not this time. Maybe another time, later. 

"When is later?" Tania asks it, without undue concern. Of course there will be a later. His face was so pure. Her father admires him. He poured her wine and spoke in her language and touched her effortlessly in places she'd previously guarded carefully. 

This is the one. She wants to cry out in delight at the words that come to her mind. 

She almost misses, as he is zipping up his trousers, how his silvery gray gaze coolly takes in everything about the club, once more. Every pathway, entrance, exit, and corridor. 

****

The car pulls into the back entry of the Wolfberg estate. Tania and Chrollo are silent, holding hands, hers still tacky with what she has experimented with. 

Jouni meets them as they enter. "Sir? I'm happy to take you to your suite." 

Tania finds herself abruptly alone in the east wing hallway. She pauses for a moment, gathering her thoughts on what has just happened. 

A sudden sound startles her. She spins around. 

It is her grandfather. He is visiting for the weekend. Dressed in a comfortable robe, his gold wedding ring catches the moonlight streaming in from the hall windows. 

"Hello, my darling," he says. "I am up a bit late tonight. Did you enjoy your date?" 

Chapter Text

Yorknew City

Modeling Days

****

Tania is in her apartment in Yorknew City, taking the opportunity of a Sunday off to laze in the sheets. 

Her fellow model and colleague, Yairow, is caressing her breasts, kissing down her sternum. "Honey," he says. "Want to get dressed, go down to the farmer's market over at the Bull? We can walk around, get some coffee."

Tania examines the man in bed with her. He is blond, tanned, her age, from some godforsaken place in the middle of the country where they grow crops and farm livestock. He's quite beautiful, physically, and is consistently booked by the best of the best in the circuit for his glowingly Sahertan aesthetic. Tania likes the way he looks, but also likes that he has a keen sense for bullshit; that he keeps a protective circle around his grounded upbringing and subsequent level-headed views on life. 

She doesn't allow herself to dwell on it, but she also likes how Yairow--and the little haven they've created in Yorknew--is a complete break from her immediate past.

Following the murder of her grandfather, Tania had sunk into years of traumatic autopilot, working obsessively and taking any assignment that came her way in order to exhaust the demons in her mind. The fresh-faced blond model, with dimples, clear bright eyes, and a charming drawl, came into her life as a soothing balm--looking and acting like absolutely nothing from her upbringing, and therefore serving as a welcome escape. 

They've been involved for a couple of years now, in a comfortable arrangement switching back and forth between each others' places in the city. Tania's already told him the truth: That she can't have anything long-term with him. That her parents are already choosing whom she's supposed to be matched with. 

Yairow finds it fascinating; Sahertan nobody that he is. "You just have to drop everything and be with this person they decide for you?"

Tania fights against the involuntary exasperation pumping at her ribs. This bubbles up at times; particularly when Yairow gets that disingenuous look on his face that she understands is masking contempt for the way she was raised. At this moment, she understands to some degree, her parents' mindset. "Yes, I do," she says. "I can't just be with anyone. It's not...safe."

"I see," he answers. And, as he always does when he senses Tania is on edge, he neatly changes the subject. The new restaurant that just opened around the block. The spring collections. The party his agent is throwing that weekend.

Tania does actually think she loves the man in bed with her. He's flush with ready cash, same as she is, due to their consistent bookings. He likes to go to restaurants and clubs, and has sunk some of his earnings into a nice apartment and car, but the remainder of his salary is duly deposited into an investment account or sent home to his parents in that middle Sahertan nowhereland. He adores his family. He is playful and generous in bed, and attentive out on the town. 

He tells Tania he loves her. He does. God, does he love her. He'd do anything. 

"What kind of husband are they going to choose for you?" He asks it, curiously, knowing that he's handing over the girl he worships, and knowing he can't do a thing to stop it. He's already asked Tania to run away with him, and was hit with an icy refusal. His practical nature told him to leave, but his heart--and other things--made him stay; made him see how long this game could extend. 

Tania's own heart sinks a bit at the question; it's one she's been refusing to ask herself. Her parents have left her to her own devices since she went out on her own, but she remembers all too well the soulless dates they fixed her up on previously. She's told Yairow a bit about these dates, deliberately narrating them as amusing anecdotes. 

"I don't know," she answers Yairow. Waits for him to bring up something innocuous. When he doesn't, she forces a smile and says, "Are you looking forward to the Sahertan Sports Awards in Glam Gas next week? Of course they are expecting us to show up at all the parties..."

"Isn't there one that you actually liked, from all those dates you went on?" Yairow's usually sunny gaze is, for once, shrewd. "I mean, if they are going to fix you up with someone, you might as well throw out a request."

Tania, against her will, remembers the night at the Reveille. The heat of his skin, the taste of him, the whispers of praise, the shadows under his eyes. 

Just as suddenly, it is replaced with an involuntary and extreme wave of panic and nausea. She jumps up, runs to the bathroom.

"Tania!" 

She cannot control her retching. The hatred that consumes her soul. 

Not just hatred of him. Hatred of herself, for the infatuation she blindly carried and lost herself in.

****

Tania's phone rings in the middle of her morning at-home workout. Yairow is at a photo shoot. Placing her set of hand weights down on her yoga mat, she reaches for it, checking to see who is calling. It is her mother. 

"Mom?" She wipes a bit of sweat off her forehead and hits the speaker button. "I was just finishing up my weights. What's going on?"

Lavinia Wolfberg's familiar, smooth voice pours out. "I wanted to catch you before you ran out the door. It's still quite early there, isn't it?"

"Yes." Tania wonders what her mother is calling about. Lavinia usually lets Tania initiate calls--"Your schedule is so busy, dear"--and Tania had dutifully already planned to ring home on Friday afternoon for a weekly check-in. 

"Can you catch a flight home as soon as possible? This afternoon--perhaps with the Wolfberg private fleet?" 

Tania feels terror seize her stomach. "Mother--" she manages to get out.

"No, no, love." Lavinia instantly makes her voice soothing. "There's nothing wrong."

"Maks and Sasha?" She feels her throat choke up; her breathing labored, at the thought of her beloved twin brothers.

"The boys are fine."

"Father--?" It comes out as a gasp.

"Dad is fine, sweetheart. Please, dear, calm down. We have very good news for you. Gather yourself together, and get over to the private airport out by the desert. Can you be there in a couple hours? We'll arrange for the airship in that time."

Tania is silent for a moment, trying to control the pangs shooting through her body like electric jolts. For years, she's been in violent combat with these phantom shocks, along with hallucinations out of the corners of her eyes. Yairow is used to them and has developed a routine to assuage the attacks: Back rub, cup of Sahertan-brand hot tea, a gentle few verses of a Sahertan lullaby in her ear. 

"I'll--be there," she manages to get out. To calm herself, she hums the lullaby under her breath. Yairow said his mother used to sing it to him and his brothers when they were little and afraid of the dark, although Tania has a hard time imagining the perpetually upbeat Yairow being afraid of anything. 

"Do you have any bookings today?"

"I do, but I can cancel them. It's not an important client." Tania knows her mother does not actually care; her parents tolerate her modeling career, but this does not extend to respect for it. 

"We'll see you then in the evening. Check your phone for the flight information when you arrive at the airport."

Tania nods, although her mother cannot see her.

Sighing--the jolts still ricocheting inside her--she ends the call, then dials Yairow to let him know she will be gone for a day or two. 

****

It is the east wing formal living room again. Tania had just enough time to splash her face with water after her long flight; give her brothers a hug, change into one of her stylish evening dresses. 

"Tania." Her father sounds grave, but there is a smile on his face. "I'm sorry if your mother alarmed you this morning. We know you--ah--struggle with unexpected calls. But we wanted to have you here in person, to mark this occasion." 

"Occasion?" Tania gratefully accepts a glass of wine from Jouni, taking a calming gulp. 

Yaroma and Lavinia exchange glances. "Yes," says her mother. "Dear, sweet girl. You're going to be married!" The excitement in her voice is high; it's clear she was unable to restrain herself from delivering a buildup-free announcement. 

Tania freezes momentarily. She knows she should have been expecting this. She is 26 years old--on the older side to be still unmatched in a marital contract. But years of tamping down any detailed speculation regarding it have taken a numbing toll, and she is--despite herself--shocked. She grasps the stem of her wineglass, praying that the hallucinations and jolts do not overcome her; not here in her parents' living room. 

After a few minutes of silence, Yaroma finally says, "Well, aren't you going to ask who it is?"

"Who is it?" Tania, unable to come up with anything more articulate, mutters it. 

Her parents look at each other again, this time in pure satisfaction. "The Zoldyck boy," her mother says. 

Tania is shocked, yet again. "Which one?" she manages to get out.

"Why, the oldest one, of course." Her mother's bubbly tone turns businesslike. "He's just your age."

"Illumi," confirms her father. "Fine young man. Hell of an assassin. They say he's even better than Silva Zoldyck...or at least on his way to be. Silva may have been a bit too strict on those kids, but I have to admit the results are impressive."

Tania feels a crawling sensation of dread. She recalls the tabloid photos she's seen of the Zoldyck son, captured here and there by the paparazzi on his missions in Yorknew. He has retained the cool handsomeness that Tania found attractive as a teenager. She knows very little about him, which in the assassination world is actually an admirably positive trait. Many of the underground mafia sons are ostentatious, love to be seen at all the A-list parties. Illumi never shows up at any of these. On the rare occasion he is spoken of by anyone in Tania's Yorknew circle, it is to marvel at his extreme dedication to business. 

But--"Mother, my God," Tania spits out. "You can't be serious. I can't marry him. He--"

"Yes," Lavinia cuts in hastily. "We know. We know. The Zoldycks assured us that his involvement with the Phantom Troupe was temporary and performative. The youngest boy persists in staying part of the gang, but all of that is over for Illumi. He only joined to keep tabs on his brother in the first place."

Tania feels nausea rise in her gut. "He has the tattoo. He must." Her memory, against her will, flashes back to the balcony of the Reveille. 

Let me see it? Please?

Long, slim fingers unbuttoning a dress shirt, shrugging out a bare shoulder to display a spider with a 0 in the middle.

See? 

"Of course he does." Yaroma has turned a bit stern. "Let's not be ridiculous, Tania. It's been years since your grandfather--"

"Can't I marry the second son?" Tania interjects desperately, tears choking her throat and nearly closing it. 

"It's an option," her father replies. "But he's seven years younger than you, and the Zoldycks would like to marry Illumi off first. They prefer an orderly system."

"The second boy isn't half as good-looking as Illumi," Lavinia says, placatingly. "I know, dear, that you appreciate your handsome men. All those models you carry on with out there in Yorknew..." 

A vision of Yairow's flashing, dimpled grin -- guileless, fearless, friendly, safe -- drifts into Tania's mind. She pushes it away. Speaking dully, she addresses her father. 

"I suppose this has already been decided, and the contract already written."

A nod. "Yes, my dear. Please try to see the advantages of this arrangement. We are over the moon that you will be cementing our alliance with the Zoldyck family. To be frank, we did not expect the Zoldycks to step forward and ask for you."

Tania looks up at this. "Illumi asked for me?" 

"No," says her father. "He may be aware of you, of course--what with your visibility as a model--but as far as I know, he's been involved with that disastrous Kakin expedition and not having any time to consider whom he might want to marry. Just between us, Silva and Kikyo are concerned about him at the moment. He came back in very bad shape and they're working to regain his health."

"I believe they decided it would be best to turn his mind immediately to a fresh page," Lavinia says. "Poor boy. He nearly worked himself to death. Getting on with things, settling down with a pretty new wife...it'll be just the thing for him."

Tania looks at the floor. She is silent, not knowing what to say. The familiar shocks are beginning to ping internally. 

"We're invited to Kukuroo Mountain this weekend," states Yaroma. "Did you pack enough clothes? It's a little cold in Dentora right now." 

Tania nods. Clenches her fists to try and ward off the jolts.

"Why don't you go get some rest, sweetheart," her mother soothes. "It's been a big day. You'll have to get up early to call and rearrange your bookings for next week."

"She'll be leaving all that behind when she's married." Yaroma takes a sip of his drink. 

Tania nods, yet again. 

Walks out of the living room. 

Singing Yairow's sweetly melodic Sahertan lullaby to herself, under her breath. 

Chapter Text

Tania is frantic. Throat hoarse, crying out for her daughter repeatedly, then gagging herself voluntarily with intense effort. She is Tania Wolfberg/Zoldyck/Lucilfer. She cannot scream in public. She cannot. 

After a half-hour desperately circling the park with no sign of Sarasa anywhere, she realizes there is nothing she can do. She will have to simply go back to the apartment and tell Chrollo what has happened. 

Biting her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, she forces herself to walk back to the secured high-rise. Chrollo had situated them at the top, the penthouse, and paid handsomely for a private elevator. 

As Tania, stumbling against her will, enters the apartment--filled with the phantom hallucinations dancing about from decades ago, ones she'd thought she'd finally quelled--a tinkling voice tickles her ears. 

"The day will rise with you..." the voice is sweet and high-pitched, singing a little tune. The Meteor City lullaby that Chrollo had hummed over the crib; that Illumi had whispered nightly over each tousled head of their children.  

"Sarasa!" 

The red-haired child comes out into the entry hall. "Mama? What's wrong? What happened to you?"

"Sarasa!" It comes out as a scream, once again. "Why did you leave? After what I'd said to you? I told you to stay in the park!"

Chrollo, instantaneously, appears. "Tania. Calm down. I happened to be going by the park and I saw Sarasa playing. She told me that you left her there for a brief errand." The gray eyes harden, slightly. "I don't approve of you doing that. But let's pass over that for right now. I took Sarasa back here. She was hungry for lunch." 

Tania throws a shaky glance at her youngest child. Sarasa appears placid. "Daddy and I walked home," she says. "We stopped for ramen and then got some ice cream. It's all in the kitchen. Do you want some?"

Tania recalls, wildly, the uneaten bowl of ramen Illumi had ordered for her just an hour ago. "No," she says, unable to form anything of more substance. She turns her gaze to her husband, who is leaning against the wall and eyeing her with his familiar, cool categorical assessment. 

"We finished ours already," Chrollo says. He is dressed in what Tania thinks of as his undercover clothes; a T-shirt with a punk band logo and a pair of loose black sweatpants that make him appear far younger than his age. Tania is familiar with the mild disguise -- her former brother-in-law Kalluto wore similar garb when wanting to traverse around the city unnoticed -- but Chrollo rarely bothers to deviate from his usual garb.   

"Where were you today?" she blurts out. "Why are you dressed in that outfit?"

Chrollo lifts an eyebrow. Addressing Sarasa, he says, "Run and watch your shows, sweetheart. I need to talk to your mother." To Tania, he says, "I had a sense that something was...off today."

Tania licks her lips, which are dry from her previous panic attack. "What do you mean by 'off'?" 

"You know very well that I maintain a near constant state of En while we are here in the city. It's exhausting, but I can't let my guard down." Chrollo exhales sharply. "You're defenseless and Sarasa...she doesn't know how to use her powers properly. Yet. Anyway, I felt a disruption which alarmed me considerably, so I got dressed and went out."

"A disruption?" 

"Not a major one. But even a ripple--which is pretty much the level it was--needs to be investigated." Chrollo runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "I was relieved to find Sarasa right away at the park, but of course was beyond concerned about you. Sarasa told me you were on some errand." His eyes grow stern again. "What were you doing that prevented you from bringing her along?"

Tania realizes that she has no excuse readily planned. "I--met with Illumi," she says, not knowing what else to offer up but the truth. 

Chrollo's face instantly darkens. "What? Can you repeat that, please?" His voice is pure ice. 

"Illumi," mutters Tania. She stares at the floor. "I had to discuss something with him about the kids."

"Weren't we all on the same page that your coparenting issues would be handled via text?" Chrollo's tone is nearly murderous. "I can't believe Illumi even agreed to this. Do you realize the grave danger involved in meeting him out in public?"

"It was...about Vee," pleads Tania. "Chrollo, please--it's very difficult, this whole situation where I'm not allowed to see any of my children."

Chrollo shakes his head. "So seeing your ex in person puts salve on that wound? No wonder I felt a disruption. Christ, Tania. As if I didn't have enough to worry about." In an exasperated gesture, he pulls off the punk-rock T-shirt and throws it over one shoulder. "I'm going to take a shower."

Tania watches him stride down the hall. Ordinarily after an argument such as this, she would follow, slip into the shower with him and coax a lovemaking session. Chrollo almost always cools down following such treatment. 

However, today, she lets him go, choosing instead to enter the living room and sit with her daughter. Sarasa is watching some sort of teen pop drama show, with a cast of brightly dressed pretty girls dancing on stage. 

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," Tania says to the child. 

Sarasa takes her gaze away from the screen and fixes Tania with a wide-eyed look. "It's okay, Mama." 

Tania kisses the girl on the top of her red head, but something is unsettled in the pit of her stomach. "I'm going to go see what Daddy's doing."

"Okay," repeats Sarasa. She turns her attention back to the program, smiling at the characters' peppy routine. 

Tania walks into the master bathroom. Chrollo is in the shower, visible through the steamy glass door, his face turned up to the hot spray. 

"Love," Tania says, making a move to unbutton the dress she is wearing. "I'm going to come in--"

"Not now, Tania." The words land like sharp stones. "I want to be alone." 

Feeling bereft at his rebuttal, Tania adjusts her dress and wanders out. Not particularly wanting to watch TV with Sarasa, she aimlessly meanders into the library. Pulls open a cabinet door. 

The familiar velvet jewelry box is, as it always is, sitting on the shelf. When Chrollo presented her with her engagement ring--which never leaves her finger--she kept the little purple case it came in, using it to store a different and equally important piece. 

Opening it now, she gazes upon her grandfather's gold ring. 

Your grandfather stored his Nen capabilities in his wedding ring. Her estranged father's voice echoes in her head. 

She'd only asked Chrollo about the parameters of this briefly, not wanting or caring to probe deeply into the trauma once again. Chrollo had answered with a matter-of-fact explanation that he wasn't sure if the Nen was still active. 

I'm guessing there was a shelf life on it, probably some sort of clause built in to protect against--well, protect against exactly what I did. Once out of the family, the capabilities likely diminished rapidly. 

What did you--do with it, in the first place? Immediately after his...death? 

Capitalized on the moment. I was contracted and paid handsomely to do so. I put it away after that, and never had any use for it again. 

Tania removes the ring from its velvet perch, and rubs it between her thumb and forefinger--a self-soothing gesture she's indulged in frequently since Chrollo returned the item to her some time ago. 

Suddenly, she freezes. Nearly drops the ring. 

It's vibrating. 

Buzzing just slighty...

"Mama?" The call from the living room is sweet. "Come watch the show with me?

Chapter Text

East Padokea
1991

****

After Jouni has shown Chrollo to one of the Wolfberg guest suites following the interlude at the Reveille, Tania percolates for about a half an hour in her own room. 

She has stripped off the red silk dress--tattered now above the hem from scraping it on the club's balcony. Changed into a thin white tank top and a pair of pajama pants she's lifted off Maks. Or maybe Sasha? Tania's younger twin brothers aren't territorial over their clothing. 

She fingers the cloth, thinking for a minute. It's very important to her--has always been--to differentiate between the twins; recognize them as individuals. The soft flannel pants are a blue shade. Maks is the one who prefers blue. 

Maks. She lets herself think over her brother, to ground herself. He is, of course, almost identical to Sasha, but she mentally calls up everything unique to him. The freckle above his lip on the left side. His half-inch taller frame. The suite of things that Maks likes and she knows he favors--strawberry-flavored desserts, jazz music, off-color jokes. 

Feeling settled by the concrete exercise of categorizing one of her loved ones, she decides she is going to assert herself. 

The guest suites are on the west wing of the Wolfberg estate. Tania knows Jouni will be watching and mentally recording what happens. It is part of his job to assess security, even if it's just a family member walking around the house at night. He will know where she is going and he will doubtlessly deduce what she plans to do. She pushes this embarrassing reality aside. 

Padding down the silent halls, she makes her best guess at which out of several suites in her family's expansive manor her parents have designated for the visitor. She knocks. If nobody answers--well--only one person is visiting, and she can go to the next. 

There's no need for the mental gymnastics. Chrollo opens the door immediately.

"I wanted to--" says Tania. 

"I see," says Chrollo. He takes in her appearance, her small breasts poking out in the semi-sheer tank, with a quick visual sweep but no further comment. He himself is still in his evening clothes--dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, jacket put aside. 

"Can I come in?" Tania has nothing more articulate to say.

Chrollo appears to think it over. "Yes," he says, after a minute. 

****

They are rolling in the sheets of the guest bed. Chrollo has taken off his clothes entirely and is busy playing with Tania's insufficient nightwear. 

"Pretty, pretty," he breathes, lifting up the tank and sucking her nipples to oversensitive peaks, then kissing the flat planes of her stomach, pushing down Maks' blue drawstring pants. "Such a pretty girl."

Tania, for her own part, wants to touch him every place he was careful about at the Reveille. Shirtless now, she can freely stroke his armpits, kiss his ribcage. He's hard. She loves the feel of it, loves caressing his erection. It feels irrevocably male and alien and exciting.

Chrollo has shifted positions, has his face in between her legs. Is licking her down there, kissing, parting her folds and finding the spot that is near about to make her scream aloud. 

"You're so pretty," murmurs Chrollo. "I'm going to make you come."  

Tania can feel how outsized her lower region seems, due to an oversaturation of sensation she is wholly unused to. It's too much and not enough, at the same time. "What is it like?" she begs.

"Like?" Chrollo lifts his head.

"What is it like down there?"

Chrollo laughs. Shakes his head. "Little girl. You taste good." he says. "Let me..."

Tania feels a bit desperate. She wants him to use words, the ones she's read in novels. "Talk dirty," she pleads. 

Chrollo answers this with another short laugh. Repositions himself so he can come up and kiss her on her throat. "Hush," he whispers in her ear. 

"Please?" She doesn't know exactly what she wants him to say, but she feels she wants him to say something. Something to appropriately mark and set this scene. 

"I don't like doing that," replies Chrollo. "Shh, sweet girl. Let me finish this." 

"Have you done this before?" She knows he has--like his social graces and fluency with foreign phrases, he is flawlessly facile here, too-- but still wants to ask the question. 

"Of course," is his simple answer. 

Tania doesn't want to wait anymore, and finds she also does not want to consider who else he's been with to learn these skills so well. With surprising strength, she reaches down and grasps him. 

Draws him inside of her, even as he attempts to hesitate and hold back. 

It hurts. A little. But she's satisfied. His mysterious shyness about dirty talk is offset neatly by the abandon in which he thrusts into her once that barrier has been crossed.

"Oh, Tania," Chrollo sighs in a controlled hiss, when he climaxes, pulling out in a rush to erupt on her stomach. "Oh fuck, oh God. Oh, sweet, sweet girl."

She doesn't have an orgasm. But she is certain he will have her turn later.

They sleep in a pile of rumpled blankets, her head on his bare chest, stroking his warm skin with her fingertips. He had reached for his shirt, presumably to wipe her off, but Tania refuses. She wants to feel the evidence of him. Drying on her skin. 

This is the one. 

****

Tania awakens with a start. It takes a moment or two to remember where she is. She gazes at the familiar guest suite walls--painted with her mother's soothing selection of an indefinite hue and decorated with artistic renditions of Heaven's Arena and family portraits. A gauzy framed image of herself, at a younger age, picking flowers with her toddler twin brothers, takes up a particularly prominent spot. 

She recalls what happened and why she is in the guest room bed. Feeling in the sheets, she finds Maks' pajama pants in a crumpled ball, and slides them back on over her slender hips. 

Chrollo is standing by the wardrobe, with its full-length mirror, buttoning up a clean shirt. He appears freshly showered and shaved, damp hair combed back. He turns to give her a look as she sits up.  

"Quwrof," Tania says. She is unable to keep a wry note out of the address. 

"You are one of the few non-natives who can pronounce it relatively correctly," replies Chrollo, in a calm tone. He selects a tie from his suitcase and begins to arrange it around his neck. 

"I wanted to--" Tania begins, examining his presentation. His clothes are daytime business-appropriate. He is shrugging on a tailored blazer. 

"Wanted to what?" Chrollo straightens his tie; gives himself a slight, critical once-over in the mirror. 

"I wanted to look at you." Tania doesn't really have the words for this. 

Chrollo allows a faint grin. "You wanted to look at me?"

"I didn't really get a chance to..." Tania flushes slightly. "Last night. We were kind of--" 

He walks to the bed. "Yes, we were, rather, kind-of." The tone is mocking, but his eyes appear soft. "You really want to look?"

Tania feels her breath leave her. "Yes," she says. 

Chrollo nods, then without fanfare, takes off his jacket, shirt, tie, and pants, laying them neatly aside. He hasn't put shoes on yet. "Go ahead and look," he says. 

Tania finds now that he is almost naked in front of her that she actually does not have the capacity to absorb this, not in broad daylight. She turns on her side, facing away from him. 

"You don't like what you see?" His voice is gentle and does not carry any particular weight. His hands are demurely clasped in his lap. 

"Are you going out with my father again today?" Tania mutters it, not sure what else to say to him. 

"Yes. How much do you know of your father's business?"

Tania stiffens in a reflexive, protective response. "Not much," she says. 

"That's what you said last night." Chrollo stands up and begins to dress, once again. "I'm afraid I need to leave. I'm supposed to be at breakfast right now with him, and then we're doing field work again for the rest of the day. He might allow a little leeway since we were out late last night, but--"

"No, no," Tania waves a hand. "Go now. He hates when people are late."

Chrollo pauses putting on his shoes. Leaning forward, he gives her a whisper-light kiss on the lips. "You categorize details, don't you, sweet girl?"

Tania fights an urge to throw her arms around him; drag him back into bed with her. "So do you."

"Yes, I do," agrees Chrollo. "Have a good day, sweet girl. I'm back on an airship to Yorknew tonight."

With that, he leaves the guest suite. An undramatic exit. Tania listens to his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Tania lets herself lie in the sheets in a solitary bubble of contemplation. She allows her mind to languidly roll over the details of last night, the slight soreness she feels, the pale shade of his naked skin in the morning light. The smell of soap--no cologne. The more heated recollections of his size and dimensions, and his hesitancy with base language, save the sole interjection of a single generic curse word. 

She feels under the pajama pants, where the proof lies. A slight crustiness disintegrates under her fingertips. 

Feeling wild, unfulfilled, consumed with an alien excitement she has no idea how to diffuse, she lowers her fingers between her legs. Relishing in the tenderness and ache from last night. The pain being a gift from him, which she irrationally wishes will not subside. 

She strokes herself until she brings herself over the edge, with her family portraits observing wordlessly from the walls. 

Chapter Text

Sarasa knows what the old man, Zeno, is doing is very wrong. 

Young and naive as she is, pleasant as the room he's set up for her is, gentle and kind as he himself is -- Sarasa knows fully well that keeping her here, in this city-perimeter townhouse, away from Mama and Daddy, is criminal. 

She spends most of her free time exuding It, as hard as she can, hoping that Daddy will intercept the aura and find her. But Zeno has placed some sort of restriction on this, as well. She feels--for lack of a better way to put it--like a showerhead with three-quarters of its pores clogged. The trails of It that manage to trickle out are fearfully weak, and the exertion exhausts her completely within minutes. 

Still, she gamely continues to re-gather her strength and try. 

"It's not like screaming and pounding at the window, little mouse." Zeno has walked into the room. "You're going to do nothing but tire yourself out. What are you trying to achieve?"

Sarasa stares at him. "I want Mama," she whispers. A vision of her mother's beautiful face, tense with fear and worry, brings tears to her eyes. "I want my Daddy. When my Daddy finds out what you have done..." her voice goes up fiercely, abruptly, and she fires a sudden reserve of her aura at the old man. 

"Sarasa," says Zeno. "I know you're not happy about this. But I'm going to reassure you. Your mother and father are fine. I have made a few little simple adjustments, and I assure you that they are not aware of your absence. They're going on with life as normal, while you and I and Vee do our important work that we have to do."

When the child does not answer him, Zeno gives her a kind pat on the shoulder. "Very important work, Sarasa. Your Papa Yar is very proud of you."

"Papa Yar..." Sarasa's eyes fill with tears. "I don't think Papa Yar said this was okay."

"He did. He's the one who suggested we do this." Zeno says it crisply. 

Sarasa lets her mind drift to thoughts of her grandfather. Papa Yar has never been warm to her. There is an unspoken feud between him and Mama, and Sarasa has never been allowed much time with her maternal grandparents. Her grandmother, Lavinia, has been allowed brief regular visits, which Sarasa dreads as Grandma cries the entire time. 

She pushes her grandmother's sad face out of her mind, allowing a tiny puff of It to swirl in the air, her whole small heart and body longing for her father. For Daddy to come and get her out of here. Her father's familiar arms picking her up; his calm, cool, steady demeanor chasing away all of these terrible, fearful unknowns.

"I want my Daddy," Sarasa whispers, a tear coursing down her cheek. 

"Gee Gee?" The young voice is hesitant, coming from the entryway. 

"Shhh, child," says Zeno to Sarasa. "Look--your brother's here. Let's go see Vee, now."

****

"We're going to do something different today." Zeno has put out a tray of cookies and milk, which Vianney readily helps himself to, but Sarasa feels too unnerved to touch. 

"Like what?" Vee says it with his mouth full, then--apparently remembering his manners--swallowing the cookie near whole. "You've already pretty much fine-tuned my transmutation ability. You just said you had to figure out the right Hatsu." He shoots a look at Sarasa. "What's her categorization?"

Zeno nods, sagely. "Sarasa is a Specialist. As expected. Like her father. Your mother has no Nen."

"You say it so confidently," retorts Vianney. He helps himself to another cookie. "Dad's a Manipulator, but I'm not. So why do you assume Sara's going to take after Chrollo?"

"Oh, you refer to him as just 'Chrollo' now?" Zeno quirks a eyebrow, amused. "I thought he was 'Uncle Chro.'"

Vianney's face hardens slightly. "I don't want to call him that anymore. He's not related to me."

"What about your Uncle Magician, or whatever he is?" Zeno's tone is still full of mirth. "You're related to that one?"

"Don't compare him to Chrollo." Vianney scowls. "Dad doesn't like Chrollo, and that means I don't either." 

"Illumi has suddenly developed an aversion to your stepfather?" Zeno taps a finger to his chin. "He's always kept such a cool head about that entire affair. What's gotten under his skin?"

"He doesn't like him anymore." Vianney crosses his arms over his chest. "Neither do I. I heard Dad talking to Uncle Hiso, and he said that Chrollo was--"

"Stop," Sarasa cannot control her interjection. "Just stop!" 

Both look at her in surprise. Sarasa, unable to stem her emotion, begins to cry, shamefully trying to wipe away the tears with a paper napkin as fast as they fall. "I want Daddy," she mutters by way of explanation, at a loss to say anything more articulate. 

Zeno clicks his tongue thoughtfully. "All right then," he says. "Let's stop all this unnecessary drama. Sarasa, I'll take you to see your father after today's lesson. Vianney, speaking of fathers, I thought Illumi instilled better deportation in you. Making a little girl cry like that. Shame. We'll not discuss Chrollo further, out of respect for your sister. Am I clear?" 

Vianney, face flushed with embarrassment and a bit of anger, nods. He tosses his half-eaten cookie down on the table. 

"All right," states Zeno. "We are moving on to something important today. We're not going to perform any physical exercises. No, today we're going to take a more academic route. I want you to listen to me carefully, Vianney; think of this like a lecture in school. Sarasa--you likely won't understand most of this, but you're a sharp little mouse. Absorb what you can."

When Vianney, subdued, nods, Zeno folds his hands and begins. 

"I am quite certain that Illumi has never told you of the Zoldyck Triad. Your father has taken a dim view of this family experiment, so--"

"Family experiment?" Vianney breaks in, but Zeno silences him with a raised finger. 

"Your father was an only child for quite some time. Your Uncle Milluki was assumed at the time to be your grandparents' second and last child. However, after some years, your grandpa and I came across a very old and almost forgotten ritual in our family lore. I'll put it very simply: It established the promise of unmitigated power via a triangulation between three siblings. Do you understand? I've used a few big words here."

Vianney looks confused. "I understand your vocabulary. But I don't get what this all means." Sarasa's sobs have fallen silent, her eyes still glimmering with tears, but wide and questioning. 

"It means we tried to build a kind of force using Nen with Killua, Alluka, and Kalluto," continues Zeno. "The three of them are all just one year apart each, and we aimed to establish a triangle of Nen ability amongst them. I'll keep it short. Killua and Kalluto were successfully established in their roles. Alluka...well, there was a problem. So the Triad didn't work as planned. But we still have hopes to experiment with the ritual in a modified way."

Vianney's face abruptly goes pale. "Are you telling me that you're wanting to try this...this weird shit with me?" The curse word drops from his young mouth in a heated, unattractive manner. 

"Vianney. Again. Manners." Zeno's tone goes cold. "This weird shit, as you put it, is invaluable and nearly vanished lore. You being part of it should be considered an honor, young man. Do you remember your playacting at Nen? Running around, tossing paper and yelling out 'Dance of the Serpent's Bite'? Admiring your Uncle Kalluto's powers? This is the real thing, child. Are you going to playact at being a Zoldyck all your life, or live up to the family name like the man you are destined to become?" 

The boy remains silent. Sarasa, involuntarily, gives a shiver. 

After a few moments, Vianney takes a breath. Pointing at Sarasa, he says, "If what you say is ... dependent on siblings. Why am I doing this with Sarasa, and not Nelia and Ianthe? She's only my half-sister. And she's not a Zoldyck."

"A good question," replies Zeno. "I'm going to answer it as succinctly as I can. When you were born, Vianney, your grandfather Silva and I made it very clear that you were going to uphold the Zoldyck name as the first son. Your grandfather Yaroma, unfortunately, had it in his head that you were simply going to be some asinine tool for vengeance--and he still carries this notion in his head. Let's get it out of the way now: Grandpa Yar is only a player in our scenario here in order to give us permission to work with Sarasa. Am I clear?"

Sarasa gives Vianney a surreptitious, terrified look. Zeno continues: "We are not working with Nelia or Ianthe because Grandpa Silva will not allow any more potential family sacrifices. Your uncle Alluka was severely damaged by our experimentations with the Triad, and it is an utter tragedy that none of us have gotten over. Grandpa Silva knows there's no circumventing your participation, as you are his only grandson. But he won't greenlight any further than that."

"So you're going to use Sarasa--like a laboratory animal?" Vianney's face has gone slightly gray. "Gee Gee, I can't believe that Papa Yar would agree to--"

"Quiet." Zeno holds up a palm. "Papa Yar can, and did."

"But Sarasa isn't a Zoldyck," pleads Vianney, turning his head to stare at his red-headed sister. "Gee Gee, let her go home. This can't work."

"The importance of the Triad power doesn't lie in the Zoldyck name. It lies in sibling relationships. And since you are comparing your sister to a lab animal, I'll give you a similar if unsavory metaphor. Purebred animals have rare qualities, but are far more fragile than mutts." Zeno sweeps Sarasa with a look, up and down. "This one, with her father's swirl of stolen abilities--his background from a veritable penal colony of God knows what kind of genetics...well, she's a strong little mutt. I feel quite certain she will be able to take whatever powers we can infuse her with." 

"Infuse--?" Vianney's voice begins to shake. 

"Infuse," confirms Zeno. "But don't worry, Vee. We have this figured out. When Alluka was born, we deliberately hopped out of the Zoldyck naming structure, giving him just a single letter from the end of Killua's name, instead of two. We thought that would open a channel in which we could more efficiently filter Nen into his body. You know the outcome; it failed spectacularly." 

Zeno pauses, then leans forward. "You have three letters from the end of Sylvia's name. V-I-A. This was also done deliberately. Just as one letter failed to buffer Alluka sufficiently from harm, we believe three letters will add the right amount of extra protection. It took some time to puzzle this riddle out. But, Vianney, you were named very deliberately."

"Dad agreed to naming me this way?" Vianney's expression has gone ghastly. 

"Yes, but not expressly. We merely told him 'Vianney' was the name of a long-lost relative. He and your mother found the name poetic and charming. And Illumi, despite his outward efforts, deep down does not mind a little harmless hop out of tradition, which is what we posed it as."

Vianney looks again at Sarasa, who is facing him with a blank, shocked stare. "Gee Gee," he says. "There's just one thing."

"What's that, my dear?" Zeno pours the boy another glass of milk. 

"You say it's a triad." The tremor returns to Vianney's voice. "Where is the third?"

Zeno smiles. 

"Your name starts with a V, son. Just as we learned that the family name is not the key--rather just the sibling power--we have learned through our research that the concept of an angle is actually the catalyst. Any combination of angles, or just a single angle in and of itself, contains exactly what we need."

A pause.

"As I told you, we chose your name very deliberately."

****

The afternoon sun is almost about to dip into dusk. Zeno clutches Sarasa's hand firmly, leading her to the park. A figure in a long, dark coat is walking around the perimeter of the playground. 

"Go on," urges Zeno, releasing the child's hand. 

Sarasa needs no further invitation. Running, running as fast as her small legs will go, she catches up to the dark-clad figure, throwing her arms around him and gasping with relief. 

"Sweetheart." Chrollo's voice is fond. He lifts her up, cuddles her to his shoulder. Sarasa, overcome with love and relief at finally being in her father's sturdy embrace, cries a flood of hot tears into the fur collar trimming his cloak. 

Chrollo doesn't question the tide of emotional release, just strokes the child's tangle of red curls, humming the familiar Meteor City lullaby Sarasa knows so well. She buries her face in her father's neck, smelling his familiar scent, allowing him to rock her in his arms. 

"Daddy, Daddy," she sobs, over and over. "Daddy, I want to go home." 

Her father continues to hum, kissing her on the top of her head. 

"You're getting a little big for this, aren't you, my sweetheart?" The words are teasing and gentle. He puts her down on the ground.

The affectionate expression he wears abruptly transmogrifies into the thoughtful, hard, businesslike visage Sarasa recognizes as the face he shows the public at large. He begins to walk away, without looking back. 

Before Sarasa can open her mouth to protest, gather her breath to run after him, Zeno is there. 

Taking her hand again, firmly. 

"Let's go back now, little mouse."