HunterxHunter: Welcome to the Torture Chamber

Author's note: This is not mine. I wonder how many times I have to write that? I wish the Spider was mine though. What I really want is to see where they have their tattoos. Yup, even Bonorenof. :smile: anyways, this fic is about just that. The Geneiryodan's little Torture Chamber, who is mercifully male although some others say otherwise. There is no apparent pairing. Just the ramblings on of a man who knew death too well. I love probing Feitan's mind and trying to guess what he would do and feel under which circumstance. I admit that I'm in a bad mood when I wrote this. I need madness to shield me from the world of harsh reality. I'm sorry.

Part 1: The Web

Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young,

John Webster

Consciousness pierced the haze of sleep and drove it away from my tired eyes. It was another day. Just another day. I sighed and struggled to sit up, holding my head with a frail hand.

Frail. Of course I looked frail, blessed as I was with the diminutive height of perhaps a kid not even thirteen, coupled with a slight frame and slender limbs creating the illusion of helplessness, of seeming weakness that those who know a small part of me think I don't possess. My delicate features and somewhat feminine voice gives one the impression of effeminacy. All in all, I looked beautiful, I knew it to be so. A twenty eight year old man who looks like a girl, and moves with the grace of the wind as it plays with the dead leaves at autumn.

Beautiful without a doubt. Would I have gone through what I had otherwise?

It didn't matter to me, really. Beauty had no place in my world. In fact, it even made things complicated. I was dragged into this whole damned life because of this face. But that is not the point.

The thing of the matter was, beauty is never given singly. No perfect person can exist, and because of that, a truly beautiful person cannot be without flaws. I had mine, as well. In fact, it encompassed the delicacy of the face, the slightness of the build, the gentle caress of the low, drawling voice. Was it the coldness of the pale hazel eyes, cat eyes, which had seen too many deaths caused by the slender hands; eyes half covered by lowered eyelids, looking sleepy, cold, dead? The eternally pained expression on the face when not one muscle even moves?

It was evil that was there. The romance with death that was caused by myself had disfigured the face so that one would look and find it more frightening than beautiful. It was beautiful. And deadly. Just like the mythical vampire of old. Although death would have been less messier then.

But who is to know about weaknesses, really?

I stood up slowly. I could hear the springs of the bed creak as the weight shifted. Discordant noise amidst the soothing monotonity of the summer rain. I pulled at the dark curtains to look outside, squinting through the small drops that landed with the softest of thuds against the window panes and trailing down to form a silvery thread towards the sill, to the world outside, distorted as it was with the fine drizzle that seemed to fall down like so many needles.

The panes felt cool to my warm skin when I leaned slightly so that my forehead could touch its smooth surface. Somewhat cool and comforting. Though what I needed comfort from I cannot possibly know. Perhaps it was the calming sound of the rain against the roof. I do not know. But it was as if I have been alive for so long.

And yet, why did I feel so empty?

My hand fell against the nearby table, brushing past the book I have been reading the night before. It felt damp, and had swollen slightly because of the weather. But it doesn't matter really. If the summons come, I would have to leave it all anyway. The empty room save for a rickety chair, the bed and the table. Books lying crookedly on the mantle, some falling apart, some but memories heaped as ashes in the hearth; burned when no wood was to be got. A room for existing. Not living, surely. And I certainly was no monk, forced to live in poverty and simplicity for the glory of God. Small cliché of the evil thinking of philosophy: if He does exist, then why does He suffer me to exist? Can evil really coexist with good?

But the thought of leaving failed to lift me from the present lethargy that I was feeling. Something nagged at my mind, sinking me deeper into stupor.

If the summons come.

I ran a hand through my hair wearily. The morning felt empty. Senseless. Life was a hollow punishment not meant for the weak. And as for those who think they are strong… for what purpose was that victory? Of course there has to be an end to it, or there will be endless monotonous days spent in the cold embrace of the shadows. The end is when your every deed catches up with you and you realize that no matter what satisfaction it gave you at first, in the end, it doesn't make sense. It doesn't matter.

Nothing actually matters, if you think about it. Survival is nothing, because we all have to die in the end. Perseverance is nothing. For man can never be satisfied.

And with that realization, you die. Or choose not to live. One is not better than the other. But somehow, to be able to think that one can die when one chooses, was it a chance many would risk it all for? Not many would. Sometimes, one can pity God for being in charge of so may lives, to lie in blame for every seemingly senseless mistake He makes. But does it matter?

Life is futile. Life takes you nowhere.

But come, Feitan, you enjoy life don't you? You enjoy life like no one else can, because only you can wallow in it and take it away like it was something precious. Life and life romancing death. That is beautiful, is it not? As beautiful as the crimson blood trickling down the palest of white skin, glittering with slowly ebbing life. Once shining eyes dimming, losing its sight; and then the serenity. As beautiful, even, as you are.

The question now is, was life enough to wake me from the sleepy lethargy of pending death? Would anything ever be enough?

Something caught my eye as I looked down the street with only half my senses awakened, jarring me into attention. A slight figure, running across the alley clumsily, all but slipping as it clung to the large trash bins scattered around, smelly, full of forgotten refuse. A flash of pale flesh, dark clothes, skirt flapping wildly as she ran. But all that was unimportant.

The girl was splattered with fine droplets of blood.

The hunter in me snapped into attention, stance rigid, eyes glowing even as dark eyelashes covered them halfway in a graceful sweep. Beautiful girl. Let Merciful Death perfect you forever in his preserving embrace. Running a hand through my hair for the last time, I went out.

Maybe life had its sordid meaning after all.



She was afraid.

It was not a foreign emotion for her. For nineteen years of her life she had always experienced fright. Sometimes, the feeling was so slight, like color diluted in water that it seemed a partly remembered dream. Unreal. Only, when she snaps into attention, when memories rush back through her mind like a scary animated movie that at first glance was harmless, even childish, only to disturb; when her senses escape from the thick enfogging mesh she had woven around herself, only then would her fright escalate into proportions brushing past the margin between sensibility and madness.

What she felt now…

… was just fright. But why was she afraid?

There was only hollowness where something should have been. Memories? Guilt? It all seemed unreal, even the stains on her hands, on her face. Most of the blood had been washed away by the gentle rain. But not enough so that she could fool herself into thinking that nothing had really happened. Something had happened. But what it was, she couldn't really know. She was clutching her handkerchief tightly in one hand. The left one, which wasn't so stained with blood. She thought she wanted to cry. But there was no time. And she was tired. So tired.

Her knees hit the muddy asphalt with a sharp thud, and she winced in pain as the sensation spread itself throughout her body, her brain registering that it was indeed pain that she was feeling. Closing her eyes, wishing for death. It felt as if her heart was going to die out, so hard was the thundering at the regions of her chest. Her throat closed down involuntarily as her breakfast tried to part with her. Tired. Tired.

She hadn't even felt the tears streaming down her cheeks until she heard the voice.

" Why are you crying, little girl?"

She looked up slowly, not daring to open her eyes as yet, when she felt cool fingers touch her shin gently. Strong fingers, even as they were smooth and slender, like a woman's.

Delicate flesh opening before her eyes, revealing their dark luster behind her glasses. Even more beautiful than I expected. Was it luck? Or fate that I have to see her today? I leaned over, slowly. The smile was slow, and yet it was there before I had realized it, one corner of my lips slightly higher than the other, so that it looked not like a normal smile at all. Someone said I had a frightening way of smiling. But I knew, from those who had danced with death through me, that my smile awoke within them a certain desire… I could tell by the way their eyes darkened with passion, even as their body felt the excruciating pain that was as exquisite as any sexual fulfillment.

" I… I don't remember." She muttered. Cheeks flushed with pink as the blood rushed to her pale face. She refused to meet my gaze however. But that was fine with me.

" What are you doing here?" I asked, slowly, it didn't matter if she answered or not, any way. The main thing was to distract her.

" I don't know." She was stammering now. I had taken her fingers one by one inside my mouth and liked away the blood that stained the white flesh. I could feel her trembling. Her eyes unfocused, grip on the handkerchief slackening.

" Help me." It was a mere explosion of breath, almost inaudible, more silent it seemed, than the low thunder of the rain itself.

I looked at her. " Are you sure you want that?"

" Yes." She was all but unconscious with shock. Delicate being. Too delicate to have done what she had just done. Or did I mistake it? After all, I cannot see traces of the memory… the blood the only thing left of her deed. But my senses were not mistaken. I could feel it in her.

" Death?" I realized I couldn't give it her, anyway. My fingers ached to close around her slender neck. I could see the pulse there fluttering wildly. Too see her blood running out from her…but that was something I would have to see another time. Or perhaps even never.

I took the handkerchief from her limp hand and she slumped against me in a faint, her breathing hurried; the weight was comfortable, the warmth of her body mingling with the coldness of mine.

The cloth was more stained with crimson than her hands, as I had suspected. I tucked it inside my pocket gingerly. Time for you to think, Feitan. Do you kill her now, because I know you want to. She was too delicate to pass. Too young, too beautiful. And too useful. You will need her. And she certainly needs you now.

" Onii san." She muttered.

" Do you have a name?"

" I don't…"

" Remember?" I finished for her. Complete memory loss. All because of shock. But that was a point in my favor. Let her believe now that you are related. Let her for now traverse a road she had created of her own blank mind. That would be fixed in time. If not, then it does not matter. So many things in life don't. Why should this one? " Then let me call you Shizuku."

" Shizuku?" her small voice repeated the word tentatively.

" Because when I first saw you, the sky was crying, washing away the drops of blood staining your cheeks."



She slept with him on the creaky bed. Looking at the thin cracks on the rooting ceiling, although everything was in an uncomfortable blur without her glasses, she wondered why she was not afraid of him. She could feel the warmth of his body from her corner on the bed, could hear his soft sighs and steady breathing, could smell the citrus scent of his soap even. And it all seemed like she had been sleeping like this forever. His very presence comforted her, planted her feet firmly on the treacherous ground of reality instead of traversing the safer roads of madness. He was holding her hands when she fell, and she trusted him implicitly.

She shifted her position to look at him, still enthralled with his elfin features. He was so beautiful it was scary. She was in awe of him, his seemingly cold manner and his strange aura seemed to throw danger signals to the observer. He was someone you didn't approach when you are lost or asking for the time. Someone, rather, whom you see in the most detailed of nightmares. Or gracing the pages of an intricate fantasy novel.

But why wasn't she scared of him?

" Shizuku?"

His soft voice startled her even as she faced his unnerving hazel eyes. " Onii san?" she answered, just as softly.

" Is something wrong?" his tone implied more than what he had said. Partially raised eyebrows asking her why she had been looking so intently at him right now. She thought about telling him how pretty she found him. But the thought flustered her.

" Why did you take me in, ani ue?" she asked him, instead. She didn't know why she calls him brother. But it was so comforting to believe that he was bound to her. Would protect her. Would be with her no matter what. She wanted someone who could kill her if she really breaks down.

" Because." He said, vaguely. He had shut his eyes again and she thought he had fallen asleep again when he asked " Why aren't you afraid of me, Shizuku?"

She had to tell him the truth. And she felt that he would prefer it that way. " I don't know. It seemed the right thing to me." She wanted to curl up and sleep, like he did. But there was something bothering her. Like something she had forgotten, that was important.

He gave her another of his slow smiles. " Then I could very well say as well can I?"

" It answers nothing." She pointed out.

" No it doesn't," he agreed, turning his back to her slowly. She felt that she had been somehow rejected. " who told you I was there for answering your questions, anyway?"

" But I trust you." She answered, huffily. " You helped me out before." These were childish arguments, she knew. But it was worth a try. And she wasn't that afraid of him that she couldn't risk his anger.

" Let's just say I find you useful. Are you satisfied?" he was treating her like a little kid and she didn't like it. But he was past caring. He was sleepy.

" Hm, maybe." She turned her back to him as well. " What useful?"

" Why don't you just sleep now? Keep it until tomorrow, at least. You should be tired and shocked, what with what happened earlier." His voice was muffled by the pillow he covered his face with, but there was still audible strains of impatience that she could trace.

" I like the blood. I like its deep red color… what did happen earlier, ani?" Shizuku was persistent. Perhaps this incident that he referred to was what she was trying hard to remember. Or maybe it'll trigger some memories. The fear she had felt before seemed inconsequential now. What mattered was…

… what was it that mattered now?

Shizuku has never met anyone who was evil before. Oh, there were some pretty bad individuals around her old community that she could vaguely remember, but that was desperate badness, petty crimes. Man's survival instincts getting the better of his morality. But this was different. She knew that Feitan was evil. Something about his cold hazel eyes, that glittered malevolently in the distant light from the streetlamps, the eyes of someone who was above human weakness, and below mortal conscience. His were the devil's eyes.

And she found them more beautiful than anything she had ever coveted from the pawn shop window.

Perhaps it was the evil that drew her in to him. It was new to her, and she felt that she had somehow… come home.

" That's it. Good night, Shizuku."

