Chapter Text
Crack.
Hands electrified in a steely blue light, dexterous and sharp, deliver another imperceptible punch to his chest. He stutters a warbled choke, attempting to raise his elbows defensively against his assailant. But the sparks of lightning are fast, faster than his reflexes, faster than his nerves will ever be, fast enough to disappear as they make contact with his billowing shirt—only to reappear seconds later against a new location on his body. His opponent is a flutter in the wind, a mere speck of blinding cerulean light here and there, a ghost of a human presence in the thick night.
Crackle.
A bolt of lightning resounds within the clouds, disrupting their forms into a chaotic whirlpool. He is only able to recognize the searing pain of the previous attack when electricity dives from the atmosphere and onto his body. Flames engulf his back. He shouts a flurry of curses, attempting to extinguish the tongues of fire threatening to breach the meager protection of his shirt by flailing desperate hands across the fabric.
But his opponent is, as he has been the entire fight, miles ahead of him. His hands shed their crackling coat of electricity; no more Nen is needed to leisurely push him onto the ground, subduing the flames with the wet, murky mud.
He coughs, then compensates for the lack of time in the fight to breathe properly by inhaling strong gusts of the cool, breezy air. It sends a shivering sensation down his spine, calming the last remnants of adrenaline still pulsing within his bloodstream, soothing the ringing in his ears. His entire body throbs with exhaustion, pain coursing through every joint and muscle. Squinting, he manages a dumbfounded stare at the boy in front of him. Sparks of lightning fizzle across his skin until eventually dying out.
His opponent collapses to his knees onto his body, straddling him to the ground. He cannot get up anymore.
He has been defeated.
Silver hair sparkles like gemstone dust underneath the moonlight. Its owner does not wear an expression of victory; instead, his eyes are morose, lips pressed into a fine line. He hasn't broken the slightest sweat. His tunic looks brand new, no hint of dirt or grime staining the fabric. Yet somehow, amidst his undeniably powerful win, his face wrenches in hurt—like he's the one that has lost.
"Two years," says his opponent, just the slightest breath, "is a lot of time to lose."
"I gained it back," he replies, panting. But his chest grows tight. He's afraid this conversation is predestined.
"But time didn't stop for anyone else. Not for your enemies, not for your friends...not for me." Blue eyes seem to glass over, then are quickly hidden under a curtain of soft white fringe. "I'm afraid we may never spar again."
"Don't say that," he grits out defensively. "I caught up with you before, and I'll do it again."
"I won't forgive myself," his opponent whispers, ignoring his words, "if it happens again. If I can't protect you, no matter how strong I am."
"Killua—"
"If we meet again," silver hair guards a wounded expression, "you have to be as strong as me. And we'll fight to test it."
His opponent pauses, waiting if he has anything to say. Anticipating. Praying. Silence stalks on. Eventually, the weight on his body releases. Silent footsteps fade into the night.
"Until then, our paths will not cross, Gon."
Four years later
Gon wakes up in a pool of blood.
His eyes flutter open, adjusting quickly to the blaring red sun above him. Narrowing his stare, Gon throws a hand over his forehead, finding the action slightly difficult to execute. The reason, he soon finds, is the large steel blade currently wedged into his shoulder.
Raising an eyebrow curiously, Gon wraps his fingers around the hilt of the lodged knife and pulls, gracefully releasing it from its hold in his skin. He doesn't reveal the slightest wince, only choosing to intensify the Ko around his injured shoulder. Though the precaution is unnecessary. Because as he turns to scan the oddly misshapen ground underneath him, he does not find an accumulation of his own blood; rather, there is a slimy, dark green pus that floods out of the mangled, flattened corpse of the monster under his body.
Events leading up to his current situation flood past the dull headache in his brain. Recent training activities have brought him to Meteor City, where a collection of scattered, malicious, and hungry monsters lurk, the remaining remnants of a successful mission in the Dark Continent a few years prior. Banished from their original homes at the hands of powerful starred hunters, they teem with unbridled and insatiable rage. Due to an evolutionary hiccup as a result of perfect environmental conditions—toxins, a heavy atmosphere, and tumultuous terrain—these monsters were born with their Nen unlocked, and they’ve spent their entire lives mastering the individual styles innate to their aura. The monster underneath Gon’s body was no exception. It was a remarkable Conjurer, able to continuously make and fire bullets out of thin air mere inches from Gon’s skin.
His foundational training had been empirical for at least a few years as Gon focused on regaining his Nen and fortifying his Hatsu . But holding Ren for days at a time and whittling the margin of error in his defensive/offensive Ko ratio to the thousandth percent can only get him so far. He was hungry. Hungry for real, unexpected, and adrenalizing combat. And he found his answer in the hideously grotesque monsters wreaking havoc on the already destroyed Meteor City.
Or rather, Ging did. And with his ass still in flames years after the Hunter Association discovered his deadbeat nature towards his only son, he sporadically pays his due diligence as a faux affectionate father by sending Gon to new ends of the world in hopes of assisting his training endeavors. Having been a front-runner in the Dark Continent expedition, Ging knew the sheer power of the native monsters firsthand.
But he also knew his son’s resolve. And, very expectedly, Gon has obliterated thirty-five of these monsters in one week.
Gon lifts himself off of the brutalized monster’s corpse with a low grunt, brushing dirt off his drawstring pants. Unfortunately, the garment is now stained with a rather unflattering chartreuse hue directly on his butt, but the pants have seen better days anyway. He has been in this ghost town for a while. Head still pounding, he brings a calloused hand to his temple, trying to connect the segmented images of fighting this monster to lying unconscious on its corpse.
“It hit you at a pressure point,” calls a voice from behind the hill in front of him, seemingly knowing the confusion racking Gon’s brain. He lets his hand fall back to his side. “You’d already punched a hole in its gut, but its last conjured bullet hit you right at above your lymph node. It wasn’t aiming there, and you were busy lodging your fist in its intestines to see it. It simply got lucky. You can never let your enemy get lucky like that.”
“What rank was that one, Bisky?” asks Gon, throwing another glance back at the monster. Indeed, its midsection is a nauseating glob of organs and bodily fluids, meshing together in an unappealing splatter. In total, the fight lasted only a minute or two. This enemy was far from a difficult one, predictable and unstable in all the ways Gon has been trained to anticipate. Yet his teacher is right. He was unlucky, and as a result he lost consciousness for a few seconds—a fatal mistake in a real battle.
“Well,” Bisky emerges from the dry hill, heat waves pulsating over her figure in the distance, “probably another B rank. I don’t think you’ll find anything higher than that here. Or, you’ve probably killed them all by now.” She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring down at her pupil. “It’s too damn hot here for me to waste energy lecturing you about that pathetic conclusion. You know what you need to work on.”
“Yeah,” Gon nods, suddenly aware of the thick coat of sweat on his face. Indeed, the temperature is oppressive out here. He’s training his endurance, too, so he also hasn’t had a lick of water in hours. “So are we done here, then?”
“Depends if you’re satisfied or not.”
“I’m not, but we are done,” he declares, finality in his voice. “These monsters…they’re fun, but they don’t compete.” He doesn’t miss the way Bisky’s shoulders tense at his words. “Maybe I need to go back to fighting Hunters. Starred ones. Bisky, can we duel again?”
It’s a half-joke, and he expects Bisky to hit him with a classic fist against the head. Instead, there’s a tense pause of silence. She makes her way down to the base of the hill where Gon stands, bloodied and dressed in whatever fabric left of his clothes survived during his week here. His expression is calm, curious—eyes aflame with a light that Bisky is now careful not to extinguish. He’s never stopped being a good kid, but he’s never stopped being dangerous, either.
The sight of him chills her to the bone.
“To be honest, Gon,” she finally says, a deep sigh emerging from her gut, “I’m not sure how much more I can teach you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still worlds ahead of me.”
“I don’t mean it in that way. But if your goal is still what it was when you came to me, then we’ve come to a point where I don’t know how to measure your proximity to it anymore.”
Gon’s expression doesn’t change. “Take a guess, then.”
His heart races. Bisky’s words have not come out of the blue. He’s been particularly perceptive to the deaccelerated pace his teacher has taken in the past few weeks, the way sparring feels more and more equalized, the morphed expression regarding his combat abilities from omniscient to uncertain. He knows his progression has been exponential, intensified by the mixture of relearning old knowledge with an unshakable determination. And he feels it. There’s a new caliber to his Nen—a quiet, contained fire of force and emotion.
Bisky furrows her brows, irritated. “I’m not a mind reader. I can only surmise he’s been training just as hard as you. And you had a catch up game to play.” Gon begins to deflate, but not before her tone hardens. “But what I can give you is my gut feeling.”
Gon holds his breath.
“I think you’re ready to look for him.”
Killua Zoldyck has been all but wiped from the face of the planet.
At least, that’s what it feels like. As Gon scrolls through the hundredth webpage, hunched over a desktop in a quaint internet cafe, he’s yet to find any substantial information about the man past the age of fourteen. He’s checked every channel—underground forums, the Hunter website, even manually phoning mutual figures from their past—but after eight hours of relentless searching, he is none the wiser.
Of course, Gon expected this. It’s not like he hasn’t had an infinitely more challenging chase with his own father—he’s a sucker for the thrill of it, anyway. He takes a sip of his umpteenth coffee for the night and stares at the gritty ceiling. When he was a naive teenager, unassuming of the monumental words Killua had spoken during their duel four years ago, Gon tried to phone him up, confident the spark would ignite right back. Not only did Killua very pointedly not respond, but the number didn’t exist anymore. Originally Gon imagined that he was the sole exclusion of Killua’s contact. And this hypothesis made sense. He still has no idea why Killua made such an ultimatum the last time they met, but it was a statement as final as ever. It didn’t seem that he had any intention to revisit Gon and their relationship any time soon.
But strangely, most of the world is shielded from any knowledge on the ex-assassin’s whereabouts or expeditions. There are only a select few figures in Killua’s circle who know even the most basic information about the elusive man. It would help in his search that Killua has a remarkably unique appearance. But Gon hasn’t seen him since they were sixteen years old, when his figure was electrified in a stunning cerulean light, silver hair sharpened to spikes and whipping above his head, expression unable to hide the turmoil in his mind. Who knows how much he’s changed since.
Their circles overlap, though, albeit very slightly. A few days prior, Gon rang Alluka, asking her where he could find her older brother. Her voice over the phone was an intensely mature, gentle tone, catching him off guard. It had been that many years, then. Such a prolonged amount of time had passed where the young, bubbly girl he met at the base of the World Tree had become a reserved, cautious woman.
“I’m sorry, Gon,” she said, her voice crackling over the speaker of his phone. “But I’m afraid my brother instructed me not to tell you about his whereabouts. I hope you will not take it personally. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call again.” The line was killed.
Despite the disappointing response, Alluka’s words only intensified Gon’s resolve. He knew Killua wouldn’t make this easy for him. The both of them always sought a challenge.
Still, there’s one other person who may be able to offer less inhibited information. As the sun slowly climbs above the horizon, signifying yet another night Gon has spent rotting away in the internet cafe, he takes note of the changes present in Yorknew City since he’s been there last, several years ago. A new coffee shop down the block, more rich people, and pavement cracking at the edges. He hasn’t necessarily missed it. Gon’s training has taken him across the globe to far more exciting, adventurous locations, but he isn’t the one who chose this location. Kurapika is.
Rubbing his eyes of lingering grogginess, Gon forces himself up on his half-asleep legs and makes his way out of the internet cafe to their designated meet-up spot: a timid breakfast shop a few blocks away. Every September, without fail, Kurapika shows up for the annual underground auction like clockwork. It’s one of the countless bases he keeps tab of just in case an indication of his clan’s eyes show up again.
This month is no exception. As Gon is halfway through his stack of pancakes, Kurapika all but collapses into the booth in front of him. Somehow, his disposition seems to always be more exhausted than the last, eyes bloodshot and skin pale. His blond hair is well past his shoulders by now and is tied into a loose ponytail that sits over his right shoulder. Though Kurapika is one of the hardest of his friends to keep tabs on, he’s also the one Gon never really has to. One look at the steely expression that stays planted in Kurapika’s worn face tells him that the Troupe is still his primary concern.
Though Kurapika seems to startle a bit in surprise when he lays his eyes on Gon. Indeed, he realizes, it’s been a while since he’s seen Kurapika too. With the intense training regime Bisky has all but mandated on him, he can imagine his physique is much different than it was when he was a teenager.
“Thanks for meeting me,” says Gon, pouring the other a cup of coffee. Kurapika takes it in his hands without a second thought. “How’s the auction going?”
“The usual,” Kurapika murmurs. “I apologize for making you come all the way to the city to talk with me. These days I just can’t afford to get off schedule.”
“Don’t stress about it. I’ve been bouncing around all over the place, anyway.” He pauses, lowering his voice. “I won’t waste your time. I’m trying to find Killua.”
“I thought that might be the case. Honestly, I was wondering what happened. You guys used to be attached at the hip.”
Gon furrows his brows. “Nothing happened. He just…” He isn’t exactly sure how to explain how this situation has arisen. Four years ago, Kurapika had also been at their reunion—a large congregation of their friends in a hotel in Swardani City. It would be the last time anyone in their circle saw Killua. He showed up three hours late, stayed for thirty minutes, and left silently into the night without a single person noticing.
All except Gon. He followed after the retreating boy, inquiring where he was headed—and Killua responded with the quietest utterance of two words. “ Let’s spar.”
Gon left the city the following morning with the ultimatum hanging over his head like a heavy cloud. Maybe it was a test. If they were to pair up again, tackle the conundrums the Association throws at starred hunters like themselves, Gon knew he’d have to train and regain the potential he once had. But it just didn’t make sense. The words were coated in hidden meanings that were undecipherable.
Now that Gon is stronger, he’ll just have to find Killua and decode them himself.
“I heard that Killua was recruited to finish the Dark Continent expedition,” continues Gon. Kurapika stops stirring his coffee. “And I know you were also on that mission. So I thought you might be a good place to find some intel on him.”
“Well,” Kurapika lets out a slow, level exhale, “we left the Continent two years ago. He could be anywhere by now.”
“Ging tells me otherwise.” No he doesn’t. But Kurapika doesn’t need to know that he’s bluffing through his teeth. He’s not leaving this diner without at least some lead.
“What does he tell you?”
“That the expedition didn’t end the way the Association says it did.”
Kurapika examines him for a moment, trying to find any indication of an emotion in his face. But Gon is relentless. He wears a casual, attentive expression as easily as a shirt. Eventually, Kurapika leans forward, dropping the volume of his voice, as well. “Well, it makes no difference to me if you’re lying or not. Eventually this will come out to the public. The expedition…hasn’t ended yet.”
Gon raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know all the details,” says Kurapika, “because I’ve found myself preoccupied with other developments recently. But it seems there are a few high-grade enemies who have made their way to human-occupied areas. They’re B or A ranked, undoubtedly—only the most reputable Double and Triple starred Hunters have been tasked with their extermination. I can only imagine Killua is one of them.”
“So he’s a Bounty Hunter, then?” Gon asks. Kurapika shakes his head in response.
“I don’t know what his motivations are in his involvement with the Dark Continent. I never worked alongside him while we were there. Originally, it was probably the money. Or maybe even just the thrill of the action. But now…I can’t imagine what has made him stick around.” He corrects himself. “ If he has stuck around.”
But Gon knows Kurapika’s intuition is incomparable. If his gut feeling is saying that Killua is still involved with the after effects of the Dark Continent expedition, it’s likely he really is. “So I just have to find the remaining enemies to find Killua.”
“I don’t think a reminder of how dangerous these ring-leaders are will permeate your brain,” says Kurapika, sighing. “But I know you, and you’ll find them no matter what. So I’ll save you some time. The last spotting of one was in Gordeau Desert, just a few days ago.”
Gon’s eyes widen. “That’s—”
“A door away from here, I know. You’re welcome.” Kurapika manages the smallest smile at the sheer upturn Gon’s face takes, a brilliant grin aimed in his direction. “If you hang out around here for a couple days, you might run into a Hunter tailing it.”
Gon wouldn’t be walking out of here with just a lead. He’d find Killua in a blink—the entire city was at his disposal. Before he’s able to get down on his hands and knees and shower Kurapika in gratitude, the elder holds up a hand and etches a scowl back onto his face. “That intel is sensitive. I just put my Hunter status at risk by telling it to you. So pay back the favor and give me some information in return.”
Gon shrugs. “...Okay, what do you need?” Unlike his peers, he hasn’t been doing much other than beating up some Continent weaklings and practicing his Nen. His goal is fine-tuned and focused, unwavering from when it was set four years ago.
“Why couldn’t you just call Killua yourself and ask him where he was?”
When Gon doesn’t respond, instead shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Kurapika crosses his arms. “So he’s not contacting you. When’s the last you heard from him?”
“...The reunion. Four years ago.”
“Why didn’t you start looking for him earlier?”
“He gave me a condition,” manages Gon, working his jaw. “That the next time we met, I’d have to be as strong as him. And now I am. Or, at least I think I am.”
Gon almost expects Kurapika to have some expert analysis of those words—tell him exactly what Killua meant, tell him that he gave the same condition to all of his friends. But he knows that’s a lie. He doesn’t even have to meet the distant, somber look in his gray eyes to know what he’s thinking.
“Do you think he wants to see you?”
“Of course he does,” says Gon. Because there’s no world he can bear to imagine where that wouldn’t be the case.
Nightfall comes for the third time in Yorknew City. Though the air is chilly, hints of autumn permeating the atmosphere, Gon pairs his restitched, sage green drawstring pants with a thin tank. A chase is bound to warm him up anyway.
His game of careful investigation has proven to be quite difficult due to the auction. The population in the city has nearly tripled, and the streets teem with civilians, auctioneers, mafia bosses, and Hunters at every hour. Neon lights pulsate from buildings and project into the clouds, casting a foggy bright cloak onto every block, making it impossible to scout from an aerial view. As a result, Gon is forced to conduct his search on the ground, slithering through the crowds with darting eyes and cautious footsteps. If he weren’t in Yorknew for the reasons he is, this would have been a fantastic weekend to spend here as a visitor—hopping high end clubs, sharing wines with experienced Hunters, digging through piles and piles of invaluable jewels and trinkets. But he knows those experiences are nothing compared to what he’s seeking.
Music blares through speakers at ear-shattering volumes, and he keeps bumping into hyper buyers roaming the night markets. Gon only has his sense of sight to rely on. Though even that is often obscured by the flashes of bulbs strung above his head and the smoke of cigars from passersby. A quiet, steady coating of Ten surrounds his body, hands clenching and unclenching, lips repeatedly licking his lips, chest slowly rising and falling in an almost predatory preparation.
His efforts are rewarded a quarter past one in the morning.
The cloaked figure almost passes him by. It’s a shabby garment, torn at the sleeves to reveal the slightest slivers of pale wrists, leading to hands that hang limply against his sides. He walks with his head tilted to the ground, hood almost obstructing any glimpse of the person it conceals. Almost . Because, no matter how much time has passed, Gon has that gait ingrained in his brain—those graceful, quick fingers committed to memory.
Their shoulders barely touch as they walk in opposition, the lightest hair's breadth of fabric rubbing against Gon’s bare skin. Time seems to slow down as the hooded figure tenses in the slightest capacity. A thousandth of a difference in his aura, undetectable to anyone but him in the crowd. Gon digs his heel in the dirt, entirely imperceptible, reveling in the way he is able to read his target down to the atoms in his movement. He stops walking.
The hood moves upwards the slightest inch. A hint of blue peeks out from the shadow it casts—a primal, alarmed iris of a hue that isn’t shared by anything else in the world. Gon’s lips curl into the beginnings of a smirk, heart pounding in his chest. That’s how he knows.
“ Found you.”