CHROMATIC

|Pakunoda|
Hunter x Hunter

By:
o p i u m – c a t h a r s i s

[*]

She chose to wear green to represent what she has become. In the past, she was meaningless, erratic, and aimless. Then, green—muted and confident—she was in control of her world.

And then an array of multicolored palettes for her being. Because Pakunoda's life is chromatic: sharp and intangible.

Colorful and coppery to the tongue.

Certainty—cool and soothing—washed over her fear.

It was done: Pakunoda had broken the rule imposed on her. The rule that served as the fulcrum between the balance of her life and death. Now, the whole Genei Ryodan knows the situation of their Danchou. She trusted that the Ryodan will figure out what to do. She closed her eyes and let the critical moment pass quietly.

Call it loyalty, call it stupidity. It didn't matter anymore at that point—Pakunoda was going to die.

'Well, it was better than grasping in the dark.'

His cheeks were smooth. Even if she never touched his skin before, Pakunoda knew that his skin was smooth.

Kuroro was borne out of soot, just like most of them were. But he was different; she didn't know how, but the boy was entirely apart from the people in Meteor City.

Misery has many faces, and there was no other place that defined it as perfectly as Meteor City did. Its existence symbolized ill-being—concealed, but always present. The landscapes, the citizens: names neither lost nor forgotten. A sanctuary, a dumpsite, for lost causes; from defeated dictators to nameless vagabonds. Every where there was desolation and repugnance, the grime and feces which seemed to fuel the city's metal heart. Meteor City was misery.

So that must mean we are children of misery. The thought was too tragic to even think of. So Pakunoda chose to forget, to forget that the wastelands she thrived on reflected her soul. Smoke for oxygen and garbage for dinner—forget that there is nothing beyond this forsaken city.

"What's your name?"

"Kuroro Lucifer. Yours?"

"Pakunoda. No last name."

Pakunoda (secretly) loathed acquiring memories and pasts from people. Seeing and watching countless memoirs made her feel old, made her feel as if she had lived a hundred lifetimes. But she never felt remorse for doing it: she love-hated her ability and responsibility. Sometimes she enjoyed them, pulling out strands of confidential information from influential men—knowing the secret of secrets.

Sometimes, they just made her feel insecure.

She couldn't hear her own sobs when Miko died. Pakunoda watched the falling debris crash on her friend—saw how the dog scampered here and there to avoid the rocks.

Nobunaga pulled Pakunoda away, saying, "C'mon Paku. C'mon. It was weak anyway. It was weak."

Yes, she thought. It was weak.

…

Then she saw a cat. Then a family of cats. Then a whole lot of them.

Quiet, independent, poised, long-living. Much better than dogs, much better.

Once, Franklin told her a story; a legend of a prophet. It came as a slip of the tongue and once Pakunoda's curiosity was piqued, she pestered Franklin night and day until he relented.

"The prophet's story has no ending. It depends on you what to make of it."

It was said that the prophet saw both the future and the past, and she was worshipped for her ability. She led a lonely life, Franklin said. The one she loved was a criminal—a traitor of his blood—banished by society. They could never be together, but the oracle fought against all odds just to be with him. And soon, everything bent down to her will and their love conquered.

"Their triumphant love was brief, bittersweet."

Then, the oracle saw a heartbreaking prophecy. It was the very death of her lover. She did everything just to stop the portent from taking place, but all was futile.

That was where the story stopped.

"I think they will both die, just like Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare." Pakunoda mused, "If the ending is like that, then it wasn't as good as I thought it would be."

Kuroro held her hand and led the way through the mountains of trash.

He lived with his family there, he said. And he was going to introduce her. Make her a part of them.

Pakunoda's heart almost burst out in joy, elation, or whatever they called it.

The point was: she was going to have a family.

"We are not stealing—by their definition. We are merely taking treasures that shouldn't belong to men who do not deserve them." Proudly, almost exuberantly, the newest member proclaimed as he stole with the Ryodan.

"Then we sell those treasures to the black market, where worthier men will make a bid for them, no matter how much. If the trend commands it or we find another client, then we steal them back and find another owner."

He was killed after four months (by Feitan), and was replaced by a smarter, better boy. Shalnark.

"We steal just because." Shalnark said, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Because everyone hates justification of their wrongs—especially their way of living.

Sleep is sedated death, and before that shallow death, Pakunoda met the Oracle. Stories and histories were exchanged in between them (over a cup of tea in purgatory).

"You made an unreasonable sacrifice." The prophet whispered, almost kind and caring. "You could've done something better. You should have waited a little longer."

Pakunoda smiled, "We're in the same boat. You should've known that everyone dies. You should've let go."

The other smiled, too. "Ah, such fickle."

Nobunaga. Feitan. Machi. Franklin. Ubogin. Pakunoda. Kuroro. They were a family, a ménage, of inconsistencies. Each of them was volatile and combustible (radioactive, even). It was a feat, how Kuroro Lucifer held them together, how he knitted them in a perfect symbiotic pattern.

We must learn how to work together, evenly and efficiently. You are the limbs and I am the head. No one differed to Kuroro's ideals, to his morals. Although questionable, no one really argued with them. After all, with everything despicable in Meteor City, his ideology seemed right and justified. Pakunoda knew better, but she didn't dare say anything to her danchou. Maybe, she will be proved wrong—because Kuroro was always right in the end.

We will be called the Genei Ryodan.

"Are you with us, Pakunoda?"

He asked the question deliberately, his voice naturally measured and calm. Kuroro watched Pakunoda with the muted alacrity, the confident cunning he had. It was almost endearing, seeing him wait for her answer. He knew, just as the rest of the faction knew, Pakunoda needn't be asked.

Yes, I will go with you.

She would gladly follow Kuroro (even in hell).

"Has your fever gone down?"

"Yes, danchou."

. . .

"Take care of yourself, Paku."

Silence.

"Yes."

Years passed and the Ryodan grew.

Nobunaga. Feitan. Machi. Franklin. Ubogin. Shizuku. Coltopi. Bonolenov. Phinks. Hisoka. Shalnark. Pakunoda. Kuroro.

But as it grew—like a developing organism (disease) of the society, Ryodan lost its familial honor. It was replaced by something muggy, dull and thick. The Genei Ryodan's mutated glow was lost, and what was left was jus decay. Grimy and slippery to the touch.

No matter. It was better than nothing.

"Nice to meet you, Pakunoda no last name."

He smiled, charming and mysterious.

Pakunoda's body slumped on the cracked and grimy floor.