#gingparicheadle

[cheadle-yorkshire]

Zodiac Week 2022 Memes (5/?)

Ging x Pariston x Cheadle

[cheadle-yorkshire]

[fanfiction] Hunter x Hunter - This Year Of Mine

Title: This Year Of Mine Pairing: Ging x Pariston, Ging x Pariston x Cheadle, slight Ging x Cheadle Word Count: 2551 Summary: It is the Year of the Rat. Each year, when it is their turn, it is customary to allow the members of the Zodiac Twelve the chance to indulge in some personal manner. The occasion means something different to each of them, and not all of them celebrate in the same way. Pariston has some ideas about the tradition. A/N: I'm back, and with something new! :D I've missed the Zodiac Twelve so much. It's been so long since I've written for them!! But I've always wanted to write something for the Zodiacs to celebrate the Lunar New Year, and since it's the Year of the Rat, there's no better time! Takes place post-Should You Choose To Accept It. I hope you enjoy! [Ao3]

This Year Of Mine

It's early in the morning, rain misting over listless gray clouds, the weather unusually tepid. What traffic fills the streets of Swaldani City is sluggish as if to match. Meetings have been called for all of the members of the Zodiac Twelve to appear, and those that are early congregate in the halls with cups of coffee or stale donuts left over from the previous day.

For once, they don't have to chase down Ging Freecs. The boar of the Zodiac is seated in his chair, head bowed, likely in the middle of a nap. The others do not bother him, but from the doorway Cheadle regards him with an uncharacteristically doleful expression. The energy in the Hunter Association headquarters is an odd combination of elements—some lifeless, some peculiarly energetic. It's almost enough for everyone to forget that it is actually something of a holiday. Not all of them celebrate the occasion, and not all in the same way—but for each of the Zodiacs, when it is their turn, it is customary to allow them to indulge in some personal way. Piyon, more than any of them, takes the opportunity to fill the space with conversation.

“I have lots of weekend plans,” she is saying to the others around her. “I'm going to a concert, and I have dinner reservations at this new place opening downtown by some of the embassies. Lots of Gourmet Hunters are going, and I got an invite through them.”

“Some of us like to eat, too.” Saiyuu looks up from his phone for the few seconds it takes to speak, then cants his neck back down to keep scrolling. He's leaning, his posture horribly slumped, against the wall outside the main conference room. “You shouldn't say things like that if you're not going to invite everyone.”

“—And I was thinking about catching a movie. The weather's dreadful for being outside,” Piyon continues, undeterred. “What about you?”

Beside her, Cluck balances a stack of folders under one arm, the other clutching a paper plate rimmed with overdrawn flowers against a blue plaid backdrop. The donut she selected is square and plain-looking, the top folded in a style popular from the countries to the north.

“Several years ago, I attended some cultural festivals held around this time. I remember it was fun,” Cluck says. “I might go again. I haven't decided.”

She takes a large bite. Saiyuu's face creases, as if remembering something unpleasant.

“That's right,” he says, more to himself than the others. “I threw a lunch, when it was my year.” The corners of his mouth pull down even further. “Didn't I get in trouble for that?”

“You expensed a lunch,” Piyon reminds him cheerfully. “From that awful Eastern Yorubian place you like so much.”

“I put the leftovers in the fridge.” He scratches at his chin. “I ate well for a week.”

“The communal fridge,” Piyon adds, with a far more sour tone. “When it's my turn, I think I'll do something different. But I do like the idea of a party.”

Cluck takes a few more smaller bite of her donut before coming to a consensus.

“I hate the jelly kind,” she says to Piyon, who has a sugar-encrusted donut stuffed in a napkin to keep from getting powder on her fingers or clothes. “It's too sweet. I'm really not feeling it today, either.”

From the doorway, Cheadle's ears twitch.

“Did Ging do anything last year to celebrate the Lunar New Year?” Piyon asks. “I can't remember.”

“No.” Saiyuu coughs into one elbow, then clears his throat. Cluck wrinkles her nose.

“Ging's boring,” she agrees. “He doesn't celebrate anything. Birthdays, holidays. It's a miracle he's here at all, really. I expected we'd have to drag him in by that unwashed scarf of his.”

“It was an ordinary day,” Saiyuu says, exhaling loudly. “There are so many of those.”

Cheadle's ears twitch again. She adjusts her posture to let Botobai and Geru pass by as they enter the conference room.

“There's an expectation you do something,” Cluck continues. “It's your animal, after all.”

“He doesn't dress up. He hasn't changed his face. It's no surprise he wouldn't celebrate the year of the boar.” Piyon shrugs before taking delicate bites of her donut.

“I remember—this was before you were a member, Piyon—when it was Botobai's turn, he threw a massive party at his family's compound, outside Swaldani. It was a picnic—even his great-grandchildren were there! We all spent the time eating together and having fun. There was no talk of business, or meetings, or boring politics. And don't give me that look, Saiyuu! All politics are boring! And at least I put up some decorations, my year. It's been awhile since we've had something truly memorable, is all. I know we've been holding our breath waiting to see what the Rat will do, but I think we deserve a little celebrating, once in a while. We work so hard.”

Cluck ends her speech by folding her arms across her chest and looking satisfied. A bit of crumbs fall off of her jostled plate and onto the floor.

Piyon suddenly tilts her head, the ears on her headband swinging. “Speaking of,” she says. “Has anyone seen Pariston?”

“Uhh...”

“I wasn't looking.” Saiyuu clears his throat again and shrugs.

Cluck dusts more crumbs from the bands that cover her forearms. “We can't start without him, as much as we'd like to.”

“I'll go looking for him.” Cheadle's voice calls out, but before she can take a step Ging is there, his hand at her elbow.

“Let me.” He adopts an easy smile, but his eyes are hard as he glances at each of them in turn. He's never been one for gossip, they know, and while he doesn't care to judge them for it, it becomes very clear he had been listening to every word.

“I'll find our Vice-Chairman,” he says, and begins to amble down the hallway. “It's not like him to be late to anything.”

The path to Pariston Hill's office—the obvious first place to start—takes him up several floors and down another long hallway. Here, the walls and doors are covered with extensive layers of molding, painted white, and the carpeting is patterned and bordered like that of an ostentatious area rug. He comes to a set of double doors, thrown wide open. Inside, a figure stands facing the windows, bedecked in extravagant layers. He turns upon sensing movement, and bestows upon Ging a wide, beaming smile.

Ging takes it all in. “I expected nothing less from you.”

“Really?” Pariston holds his arms out, his thin wrists poised above oversized sleeves. “Do you like it?”

“You're bright as ever, Paris,” Ging says.

“Now, Ging.” Pariston's eyes are dark. “You sound like you mean that.”

“You're keeping everyone waiting.” Ging continues idly, as if Pariston's words had no effect on him. As if they hadn't yet even reached his ears. “You shouldn't.”

“And why is that? I wanted to make an entrance. It is the Year of the Rat, after all. Mine doesn't come around but once every twelve years. It is something to celebrate, is it not?”

“Some of us have things to do.” Ging steps further into the office, adjusting the drape of his tabard across his shoulders. “Places to be.”

“Something that could hold even your fickle attention?” Pariston asks. “Now what would that be?”

Ging's mouth ticks up, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat as he ducks his head. The gesture is something automatic, instead of an attempt to hide the expression that overcomes him as he seems to remember something with great fondness.

“The migration of the Giant Lachian Elk. I thought I'd go and hunt them.” At Pariston's cluelessness, he continues. “The creatures live deep in the forest. They're almost impossible to find on their own. But once in their lifetime, the entire adult population will journey as one across the Lachian mountain range for natal philopatry, to reach the flank vent of a volcano. You can't hunt them there, either—the air is too caustic for humans to breathe. I think it will make quite a challenge.”

“Giant elk?”

“They're easily twice as tall as you are,” he says. “Dense, and horned. Not what one would expect. The last migration took place over a decade ago.”

“I see.” Pariston once more adjusts his voluminous sleeves. “You really do things your own way, don't you?”

“I always have.” Ging seems affronted for a moment, but relaxes again as Pariston softens his approach. “I see no reason to do it any other way.”

He pauses, and his eyes catch on something beyond Ging's shoulders. “Some would call that selfish.”

Ging only shrugs. Then, he straightens, turning, just quick enough to catch the last few footsteps before Cheadle Yorkshire enters the office. He has a front-row seat to the way her face drops upon catching sight of Pariston's attire.

He is dressed in a haori of impossibly golden fabric, draped perfectly across his body and belted with cloth in a slightly darker, but no less resplendent color. The nagajuban underneath the haori is a matte, almost bloody red, worn higher on the neck than is typical. Her eyes drop to his throat, then rise back up to take in the full ensemble again.

It could almost match his hair, but then he moves and Cheadle catches sight of the metallic thread woven into the fabric. Her forehead twitches.

“You're late,” she says, and her voice comes out strangled. “...Rat.”

Pariston bestows a sunny smile upon Cheadle, and steps more fully around the side of the desk so that she can see him better.

“But of course! Fashionably late, I hope.”

“You're wearing...that...to the meeting?” The desk behind him holds rows of red bags patterned with wishes for the New Years. Cheadle counts eleven among them.

She points an accusing finger at him, then sweeps it towards the bags. “What are those?”

“I know many of us have adopted only the most passing of customs related to this holiday, but I wanted to take the opportunity to celebrate in the traditional way. These are gifts, of course, for the rest of the Zodiacs! They are typically given to more junior members of a family or business, and as I am the Vice-Chairman, you all are my juniors, are you not?”

Pariston laughs, something overly orchestrated, and turns towards Ging. “There is one for you as well, Ging! I had hoped some of you would track me down, so you can help me with carrying them to the office. I could always ask some of the assistants to help, though. I've given the rest of the building's staff their presents already, of course.”

Cheadle is still trying to stifle a scowl as Pariston continues with his speech.

“Envelopes are traditionally used, but my presents were a little bigger than what one could hold! I hope you like them—I picked things out with you all in mind. The envelopes would be kept under your pillow and slept on for seven nights before opening, supposedly to promote good luck and good fortune. I could try to insist everyone sleeps on these, but knowing my coworkers, I don't think anyone would actually do it.”

He pouts, and then brightens. “On the seventh day, everyone grows one year older! Isn't that something?”

“I thought you didn't like this sort of thing,” Ging says to her, shifting on his feet at the sudden attention focused on him, and the affective way Cheadle reacts. “You seem upset.”

“You weren't there, Ging, but our dear Cheadle elected not to celebrate the Year of the Dog, two years ago.”

He seems surprised. “You did nothing?”

“No. I did not.” Her hands are fists at her sides. “Ging.”

“But you wanted to?” His voice is steady, and he tries to catch her gaze, even as her own wavers.

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asks.

“I felt, at the time, that there was pressure to maintain—I mean to say, to keep such frivolous pursuits from interfering with our work. It is easier for you, Pariston—no one expects you to take things so seriously. It was different for me. So I let it pass by.”

She exhales through clenched teeth, and for a moment there is silence. Cheadle collects herself, her face reddening, as if suddenly aware of just what she has said and who she has said it to. Then, she takes another breath, as if emboldened by conviction.

“The passage of time,” Cheadle says at last, “is something to be celebrated. And yet, it feels like loss, sometimes, doesn't it?”

“Sometimes,” Ging echoes.

Cheadle sets her jaw more firmly. “I don't like celebrating that loss.”

Pariston has another placid, fathomless expression on his face, but he turns to his desk and plucks one of the bags from its surface. Characters are drawn on them as if with brushstrokes, but they are otherwise unlabeled, and he draws it into the air with gusto and places it into Cheadle's hands.

“For you. With all of my blessings for the future.” He waits until she takes it to let go.

“Thank you.” She stumbles over the words, as if they taste sour. “Rat.”

He beams at that, and reaches for a second bag to hand to Ging. The other man has already headed towards the doors, both hands shoved in his pockets. “Come on, Cheadle. The Vice-Chairman can surely manage all of those on his own, don't you think?”

“What?” Pariston is despondent, and holds up an armful of bags as they depart; Cheadle feels the beginnings of a laugh forming in her throat.

“Friends! Come back! My grand entrance-! I had plans—”

As they walk, side by side, Ging glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “You know,” he says, after a pause. “You don't need any of these things for good fortune. Traditions provide structure. But friends, and family, and purpose, above all else, do the rest of the work. Do you see that?”

“I'm starting to.” She folds her arms around the bag, its contents shifting. The shape is awkward, and she tries several different ways to carry it before finally hefting it higher in her arms.

“Good luck with your hunt,” she says to him, adding her customary salutation. “Ging.”

“And you as well,” he says.

“What? I'm not hunting anything right now.”

“Then you must. And your fortune will change. That'd be my wish for you, at least.”

This time, the words come much more easily. “Thank you.”

Despite the gloomy weather, and the melancholy she once felt at the arrival of another year, there is instead a feeling of anticipation—an urge to astonish, like Pariston, and a desire to do things her own way, like Ging. She does not like things that are uncertain, and if there is one thing more unknowable than all else, it is the future. But for now, there is a feeling of excitement for what the future will bring, and a sudden warmth in her heart from her surroundings and the encouragement, however offbeat and unexpected, from her friends.

----------------------

Notes:

1) Lachian is a reference to the Lachin Corridor, a mountain range in Azerbaijan. Natal philopatry is the practice of creatures like salmons and loggerhead turtles to return to the place of their birth to breed. There's no recorded evidence of larger animals doing this, but for the Hunter World it'd hardly be the strangest thing out there, lol. Everything else was made up.

2) My knowledge of traditions related to the Lunar New Year is nowhere near exhaustive and here they're meant to be more analogous to a Hunter World counterpart and not a real-life equivalent. According to the order of the Zodiac Twelve, the four years prior to the Year of the Rat would've been Ging, Cheadle, Cluck, and Saiyuu. Post-Pariston would be Mizaistom, Kanzai, and then Piyon, which is why I chose the characters I did to converse in the beginning.

3) The story was inspired by this HxH mobage game picture of Pariston:

4) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your comments.

[cheadle-yorkshire]

[fanfiction] Hunter x Hunter - First Ascent

Title: First Ascent Word Count: 12,824 words Pairing: Cheadle x Pariston x Ging Summary:  It will be much easier to find someone who has just gone missing than to find the edges of a trail long gone cold. And it will be even easier still to uncover Pariston's deceit traveling alongside him. Cheadle, Pariston, and Ging team up to recover a Lost Hunter. A/N: This takes place roughly ~2 years pre-canon, a few months after Pariston's appointment as Vice-Chairman. I've always wanted to write a Jungle Opera, and I hope you enjoy the story! | Also posted [here] at FF.net if you’d rather read it there.

First Ascent

Cheadle types two words into the search bar of the Hunter Association website.

Pariston Hill.

The cursor blinks at her for a moment before the screen is replaced by a few short lines of text, mostly things she already knows. The year he obtained his license. The date, later that same year, that he came to work for the Association, as well as a few links to the files for the few cases he'd worked as a Contract Hunter. A few addresses are listed around Swaldani City, including the fancy penthouse he'd moved into shortly after becoming Vice-Chair. There is a whole subsection on airship tickets and the like purchased under his name going back nearly a decade, but nothing incriminating. Nothing personal, beyond the most superficial levels. As a doctor, she's privy to a few pieces of information missing from these digital archives—like his blood type, and the fact that he has no allergies. All still unhelpful. The most important and final line, titled last known location, lists Swaldani City.

She'd looked herself up one day out of curiosity, and was overwhelmed by just how extensive her listing was—understandable, since her medical and legal accreditation and the numerous other associations she belongs to are readily available through other sources. She wonders if Pariston paid Ickshonpay to remove all traces from his past, or perhaps he'd adjusted the clearance levels immediately after his appointment as Vice-Chair. Maybe he'd just sprung up, fully formed, from the earth one day and devoted himself to wreaking havoc.

She thinks back to the harried message they'd received the day prior from a waystation in the middle of nowhere on the eastern side of the Yorubian continent. A Hunter by the name of Gracchan had gone into the jungle in search of something or other, and he'd left instructions to send for aid if he hadn't reported back in two weeks.

Cheadle knows enough about the area—it is home to a startling majority of the medicinal herbs and plants used in modern medicine, and is every bit as inhospitable as it is remote, although several indigenous populations live on the fringes of the jungle, and the area has become something of a popular tourist attraction for people with an adventurous side and more money than sense. It isn't uncommon to hear about disappearances or airship crashes in the area—because the terrain changes so quickly from savannah to jungle to mountain, the weather is harsh and unpredictable, and telecommunications is limited to the landlines around the perimeter of the deepest rainforest.

She next types Gracchan's name into the search bar. His information actually costs more than Pariston's—she makes a disbelieving and irritated scoff at the discovery—and confirms and compiles everything she's learned into a new file. He'd left Yorknew and traveled east by airship, finally stopping at a city called Nanaus. From there he'd apparently rented an off-road vehicle and traveled the distance to a market town on the edge of the river. Then the information gets a little muddled, as each of the different countries in the area have a different name for the various rivers and mountain ranges that cross between them. Still, she's able to follow his trail into the Mazon jungle, comparing the various points to a map on a different webpage. The last point of contact would be the waystation further up the river, where he'd failed to return.

Cheadle collects the information, printed up neatly on a single piece of paper, and exits the large, currently empty office she shares with the other Hunter Association committee chairs. Gracchan's picture features prominently on the paper, and she recalls the few times they'd interacted, all at various social functions for the Association. She doesn't know if he's ever met Pariston Hill, appointed to the position of Vice Chairman only several months prior. With the Chairman away, viewing matches at Heaven's Arena, Pariston had been nearly insufferable in lording his authority over the others who worked in the building, and an unsurprising number of her colleagues had taken sudden vacation days. Cheadle expects she will have no competition for Pariston's time.

She cannot think of a reason Pariston would have for contriving this man's disappearance. The few others, whose entries in the Hunter Association website read last known location: unknown, have some vague connection to Pariston. It started with the sudden and unsolved disappearance of the prior Vice Chairman, who had seemingly vanished without a trace, a convenient ten days before his three-year term was set to expire.

It's nothing personal to Cheadle—not the targets, or the reasons for their disappearance. She has no attachment to any of the missing or any inclination to play the detective and solve the case. She's already convinced Pariston is behind it all; his motives, to her, are largely inconsequential. Justice will be served regardless of the reasons for his actions.

The door to his office is open and she strolls in, watching how although he does not turn to acknowledge her—her footsteps should have been loud enough, and the feel of her aura would have clued him in regardless—his back stiffens, his fingers pause above his keyboard, and when he finally does turn and lift his head, it is to bestow upon Cheadle his sunniest smile.

"My dear Cheadle! What can I do for you?" His smile widens, and if anything it becomes even more unpleasant. "Or is this a social call?"

She steps closer, trying to see what he had been working on, but a screensaver is already pulled up, and he closes an open folder on the otherwise empty surface of his desk. She sets the paper on top of it, and he leans over to read it more clearly.

"Another Hunter's gone missing. You can find all the details here. As..." she pauses, holding back a grimace, "acting Chairman, I figured you'd want to know right away. Rat."

"Not a social call, then." He sighs, as if disappointed. "I'll get on it right away."

She's reminded of his many offers during meetings of the Zodiac Twelve to fetch her tea between breaks, seated much too closely beside her, and the many pens he's asked to borrow from her that he never returns. She thinks she recognizes a few in the cup beside his elbow. At first she tried to withdraw—and later, the more she digs into his life and his past, the more focused his attentions seemed to be.

It has occurred to her, many times, that there is a high possibility that she will eventually become one of the missing.

"Surely the Association will be giving his recovery top priority?" Cheadle feels like it's already lost his interest, and aims for a new tactic. "In addition, we could benefit greatly from recovering certain plant specimens only found inside the jungle. I can provide you with a list."

"I'll take care of all the arrangements. A team will be sent as soon as possible," he says, looking back down at the file.

"I would expect, given how such a disappearance, on top of the others, could reflect badly on the Association, that you would want to see to this...personally. Rat."

Pariston reads the paper again, speaking slowly. "The Mazon jungle...how interesting." He looks up at Cheadle. "I think we may already have someone in the area."

Cheadle frowns, caught off guard. "...We do?" She files the thought away that he can place one of the Hunter Association's five-hundred-plus membership at the drop of a hat. Then she remembers that this is Pariston she's talking about, and that it wouldn't be just anyone he finds important enough to keep tabs on. She almost feels sorry for this person. She can't even think of anyone who would be be crazy enough to hang out in the Mazon Basin. A Beast Hunter? A Sea Hunter like Gracchan?

"Of course," Pariston continues. "I would think, too, that given the likelihood that it is a serious injury which prevents"—he consults the file again briefly—"Gracchan from returning, that a medic should accompany us as well."

She feels the trap closing in tighter and grimaces. This certainly isn't how she imagined this conversation going, and the outcome certainly isn't ideal, but she can work with it. It will be much easier to find someone who has just gone missing than to find the edges of a trail long gone cold. And it will be even easier still to uncover Pariston's deceit traveling alongside him.

"Well?" Pariston asks. "Will you accept the offer?"

She nods. "I accept."

"Good. I hope you don't get jetlag, Cheadle. Or seasickness."

She feels her stomach sinking. "If you do, I have medicines for such things."

He laughs. "Pack your things. And all the medical supplies you think you'll need. Our contact will provide the rest."

"Our...contact?" She cannot help but lift an eyebrow. Whoever Pariston mentioned could not possibly know of their mission already. Why is he so certain that this person would accept?

He gives her an indulgent smile. "What, are you telling me you haven't figured it out already?"

Her first glimpse of Nanaus from the oversized windows of the private airship Pariston chartered is of tall buildings by the harbor, in a classical, colorful style, surrounded on all other sides by a seemingly endless expanse of tall grass. A series of modern-looking bridges span the river at its widest point, and ships of all size wait in the brackish water past its mouth. From this high altitude she can see the edges of a mountain far off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds, and the dark blue line of the river as it makes its way down from its source deep in the jungle. She doesn't think she's ever seen a brighter green in her life.

The airship must still land in the commercial airport, and Pariston leaves instructions for them to hold the airship for their return. Inside, although lines stretch from every counter and the crowds are thicker than foliage, she never loses sight of Pariston as he makes his way, shoulders straight, to the passenger arrival lane. What awaits them is an off-road vehicle with both front doors thrown open, its backseat heaped high with boxes and a familiar figure leaning against the scuffed silver-painted side, tapping his feet and looking completely uncomfortable among the families and tourists bustling across the intersection.

"Ging Freecs!" Cheadle cannot contain her surprise. "I should have known. What are you doing here?"

"Helping you two, apparently," he says.

"Helping a missing Hunter," she corrects.

"Well, get in. Let's not waste time. I want to get to the lodge by sunset."

Cheadle slides into the middle seat as Ging takes her bags from her and hands them to Pariston instead, gesturing towards the open trunk door.

"What will happen if we don't?" Cheadle asks, while Pariston calls back, "What lodge?"

Ging takes the driver's seat and starts the vehicle, which rumbles to life in a worrisome way. He answers Cheadle's question first, awkwardly shrugging his shoulders against the seat restraints. "We'll miss dinner."

He continues as Pariston climbs inside the empty seat to Cheadle's right and closes the door. "We're going to a hunting lodge. A friend there has the rest of our supplies. We'll spend the night, and head towards the market the next morning."

Fifteen minutes sees them outside the city, following a dirt road on an angle off into the savannah.

"I did a little digging," Ging starts, and Cheadle is grateful for his attempt at diffusing the awkwardness. "This Gracchan is a Sea Hunter. It's likely he was heading for lake Tiqa—it's the highest lake in the world, and the water there is said to have strange properties. There's an island there, where only certain very rare plants grow. All speculation, of course. I don't know anyone who's actually found it."

"If the lake is connected to the river, it can't be that hard to find. You just have to follow the river upstream, right?" Cheadle asks. She wants to discount Ging's speculation with her logic—plants floating downstream could be found and collected, and the documented health of people using the river as their water supply could help to confirm the first rumor.

"Oh, everyone knows where it is, and that it exists. But to get there you have to take a boat past gorges and rough water, surrounded by animals who see humans as nothing more than interlopers and prey, and tree cover so thick you can't see the stars. The humidity destroys electronic devices, and five times as many plants are poisonous than medicinal." Ging expertly guides the vehicle around a few sharp dips in the road.

"If it's so dangerous," Pariston says slowly, as if it's no concern of his, "then why has the area not been declared off-limits to all but Hunters? Anywhere else with those kind of credentials would be."

"The Association tried, back when it was proposing laws that affected similarly dangerous locations, but those were all mostly unpopulated, and the countries' governments were willing. This one was not." Ging shrugs. "Doesn't help that they make so much money from selectively harvesting medicinal plants, too."

Ging begins to regale them with stories about insects whose buzzing, in swarms, can disorient humans to the point of madness, and giant lizards in neon colors, and the oil from the nuts of a certain tree that, in a solution with a single drop can block pain, but in any greater concentration can prove fatal.

Cheadle is interested in those stories best. Some of the names of the plants Ging provides she's never heard of, and for his part he asks her a few brief, pointed questions about her medical qualifications. He knows how capable she is in her chosen discipline, just as she knows how capable he is in his, but seeing it firsthand is something completely different and much more impressive.

"It's customary for a medic to accompany a team on dangerous missions," Ging says to her. "Have you ever been in the field before?"

She looks between the two seated on either side of her; Ging looks perfectly at ease behind the wheel, the breeze from the open roof ruffling the edges of his hair. Pariston, on the other hand, could not look more out of place, dressed in a khaki safari outfit. His pastel scarf is his only concession to his usual fashion. Cheadle thinks that Ging should really be asking him that question.

"Not that I'm expecting it to be anything we can't handle," Ging adds quickly, "but you never know. Might as well be prepared for all eventualities, right?"

"I've been a field medic before," she says. Although he does not move, Pariston's eyes dart towards her, and she knows she has his full attention. "During the civil war, in Anholm. I joined a team that assisted in the evacuation of the refugees. I healed whoever I could. But this..." And Cheadle looks out the window, at the seemingly infinite expanse of empty, rolling hills covered in tall grasses and far-off mountains, jagged like pencil smudges against the bright sky. "I've never done anything quite like this."

"You're in capable hands," Pariston says, and he turns to look down at her, an amused smile on his face. At first she thinks he's talking about himself, and is prepared to tell him off for it, when she glances at his hands, spread open on his knees. He has no calluses, no marks or dirt of any kind she can see, and his nails are perfectly buffed and rounded.

Inside her gloves, her own hands are perspiring.

Beside her, Ging laughs, loudly. The sound comes from his throat. "Thank you. But we're finding a place that I've never seen, and we don't have much time to work with. I'll get us there, though. You can count on it." He turns the wheel, and the car begins to head left, past a few scrub trees. How he can even see the path at all is beyond Cheadle; every clump of dirt and blade of grass looks the same to her.

"Hey, hey," Pariston whines. "What am I here for, then? Come now, we've gone over both of your talents, shouldn't it be my turn?"

For the first time, Ging takes his eyes off the savannah and regards Pariston. When he speaks, it's accompanied by a smile brighter than the sun.

"Well, we need someone to carry our bags, don't we?"

The off-road vehicle arrives at a large, sprawling two-story building made out of dark wood with a deeply slanted roof. A fence made of the same wood surrounds the lodge; Ging unlocks its gate before driving right up to the front door. The trees are taller here than most of the ones they'd seen on their journey, and more plentiful.

The sun is still low on the horizon and just as Ging said, they are offered food—local fish and produce, cooked simply, with strong, bitter coffee and unfamiliar, sharply sweet canned sodas to drink. The owners of the lodge come to greet Ging personally, embracing him and asking after him first in English, and then in their native language. He speaks with a brusque, heavy voice, accented by self-consciousness, and Cheadle catches Pariston's eye before looking away, both caught trying to listen in on something that they don't even understand.

When Ging rejoins them at the long, otherwise empty table, he shoves a piece of bread in his mouth and, after a moment chewing, begins to speak. "Our camping gear is ready. Marco will load it all into the car and have it refueled for us tomorrow. We'll have to sell or trade the car at the market to get a boat."

Pariston sounds despondent. "Sell it?"

"Will you miss it?" Cheadle watches as a strange, nearly mischievous expression crosses Ging's face. "If we leave it behind, it'll get stolen for sure. Might as well get something out of it."

When Pariston laughs, it is dark and low, unlike anything she's heard from him before. "Who would steal from a Hunter?"

"Maybe on the nature preserves or the government facilities your license has some weight, but in the river markets it means nothing. You're still an outsider to them." He grabs another piece of bread from the basket and tosses it from hand to hand as he speaks. Pariston's eyes follow the movement while Ging's own take in the dirt coating Pariston's once-pristine safari outfit. "And I wouldn't contest that description."

Cheadle feels like she's watching their conversation from afar; she never thought they would interact like this with each other. It's too casual, too carelessly intimate, as though they don't care or have forgotten that she is seated across from them, observing their every motion and learning more about them with every breath. She wonders how Ging, especially, can tease Pariston so openly, can invite his attention while knowing what tends to happen to the people who do. She had thought that this trip would answer her questions about him, not open up even more.

Suddenly, Ging directs his focus to Cheadle. "Are you finished eating? There's something I'd like to show you."

When she stands, her chair scrapes across the floor. "After you. Ging."

The main floor of the lodge is constructed in straight lines, like a giant box. Above their heads the beams that support the roof arch on either side of a pair of wrought-iron chandeliers, and a wooden staircase climbs awkwardly against the side of the wall towards the rooms on the second floor. Directly opposite the front door is another that opens onto a much larger yard, and Cheadle follows Ging outside to a grouping of chairs around a fire pit. This, however is not what Ging has brought her to see.

"Look up," he says.

She does, and is met with a glorious canopy of stars. She smiles, despite herself.

"By the lake the night sky would be even clearer, due to the elevation," Ging tells her. "But I doubt we'll be there long enough for that. Still, the sky is much clearer here than in Swaldani City, or Yorknew. There will be no time to appreciate what you see later. So, if there's one thing I would want to show someone before we head deeper into the jungle, it'd be this."

"That's very thoughtful of you." She cranes her neck back to see it better, and her vision blurs when her glasses slip over her nose. Even indistinct, the contrast in the brightness of the stars against the inky blackness of the sky looks more like a painting or photograph than reality. "It's amazing."

Her curiosity grows stronger, and she turns to face Ging again. "What were you doing in this part of the world?"

"There are mountains to the north of here. I was flying over them when I got Pariston's call."

She remembers the complete ease with which Pariston had informed her of his contact's location, and files his side of the story away for later examination.

She hesitates for only a moment. "Do you think Pariston had anything to do with Gracchan's disappearance?"

Ging's reaction is an undisguised snort. "Not his style. Not his kind of target, either."

"You would know?" It occurs to her that Ging could be keeping the Rat under the same kind of surveillance the other has on him, or that the information was freely exchanged. They appear to be closer than the few times over the years she's seen them both at the same meetings.

"He's made more enemies than he has allies." Ging brushes away a fly that tries to land on his shoulder before shoving his hands into his pockets. "You're not either, so you don't have anything to worry about."

She supposes that makes sense, in the twisted way that Pariston seems to operate. The fire crackles as it spits more smoke into the air, and for a moment her view of the sky is clouded.

"Why do you even care? No one else does, not really. I'm not sympathetic towards a Hunter that gets themselves caught in one of his traps." Ging's voice sounds a little rough, and Cheadle blinks through the stars and smoke in her eyes. "And he won't slip up. He's too good for that."

"It's—there's rules-! And it's not right!" She splutters through a series of futile-sounding explanations, trying to put a name to the creeping, unpleasant feeling in her stomach when she thinks of it. "There's no justice in any of it!"

A drawn-out sigh is punctuated by a few clicks of his tongue. "No. You only have a problem with it because you want to understand it, and you can't. Because you're not like him—"

"—Or you?" She cannot help but interject, feeling petty.

"And thank goodness you're not. The world may not survive it." Sighing again, he continues. "Your sense of justice comes from your law books. That's your world. But it's not his, or mine, or this world here."

She thinks the words "so what does that mean" escape her mouth.

"It means you need to broaden your horizons." Ging turns to leave. "Stay out as long as you like, but we need to be up and moving with the sun."

She settles into one of the chairs and looks once more up at the sky. "Five more minutes."

She stays out for another fifteen.

Inside, the lights have been turned down and the entire lower floor of the lodge is bathed in shadows and the soft, orange glow from the older style of lightbulbs. As she ascends the narrow, winding staircase, she can hear voices from the second-floor landing. It's Ging's voice she hears first, pitched low to be quieter. Her ears twitch, straining to hear.

The right thing to do would be to announce her presence, to stomp up the stairs and give them their privacy, but something holds her back. The guilt, so soon after her stand for justice towards Ging, does not sting as badly as she thought it would. If she leans forward a little, she can see the edge of their faces through the wooden railings.

"Did you bring what I asked?"

"Of course." There's a musical, lilting quality to the way Pariston says it. "One hundred and fifty, as requested. The best money can buy."

A pause. "Your money?"

"Not the Association's, if that's what you're asking," Pariston confirms. "But I'll give you an invoice, when this is done. I can send it to you, or you can pick it up in person, if you'd rather."

Pariston leans closer and whispers something in Ging's ear. She can't hear any more of the conversation, and when she leans back on her feet, the floorboard creaks.

Ging jerks back at the noise; Pariston barely moves. Cheadle presses back against the wall, hidden from view, and waits.

When the silence has continued for a whole five minutes, Cheadle climbs the stairs; the hallway is empty, with a line of doors facing the railing to the lower floor. Only one of the doors is open, and she enters it to see her bags stacked at the foot of the bed.

From the window she can see the remains of the fire through a veil of tree branches. She closes her ears to it as soon as she hears the first strains of conversation resume beyond the walls of her room.

Cheadle rubs her eyes against the dawn, staggering through her morning routine and picking out clothes that are much more suitable for this land—her hair tied neatly back, pants tucked into tall, waterproof boots, her gloves the last things she pulls on—and double-checks her medicine bag. It's soothing, making sure everything is in its proper place, sealed and labeled and ready at a moment's notice.

Their breakfast comes from a bowl of fruit left for them on the oversized table; she recognizes none of them, and hovers over the bowl, trying to decide between a round, purple fruit with mottled skin or one that's smaller and orange with a pinched top. She hears footsteps on the creaking stair, deliberately loud, and turns in time to see Pariston enter the room, dressed impeccably in another safari suit, with sharp creases on his pants, a patterned handkerchief folded in a square sticking out of one chest pocket, and a pith helmet set like a crown above his bangs. He stops beside her, standing too close, and picks up the orange fruit and places it into her gloved hands.

"Try this one," he says. "I think you'll like it."

She takes a bite, grimacing at the sour taste. The juice runs down her chin, and she catches it on the back of her wrist. He chuckles, and picks up the purple fruit.

"This one isn't you at all." He takes a bite and chews, thoughtfully. "It's far too sweet."

Scowling and red-faced, Cheadle turns away and finishes her sour breakfast in silence.

Ging appears suddenly behind him in the doorway; Cheadle had not heard his footsteps. Her ears twitch. Pariston reaches around her to grab another fruit from the basket, lingering too long with his arm brushing hers before he chooses—a spiny one, meant to be peeled?—and tosses it to Ging.

He makes a sound of disapproval before beginning to peel the fruit. "I've never liked this one."

A pause. Cheadle can practically feel Pariston's amusement. "And how should I have known that?"

Underneath the peel, the flesh is a deep red. "The juice stains." He flicks his fingers at Pariston's back.

Outside, the off-road vehicle is similarly packed up, and Cheadle recognizes the camping equipment—tents, sleeping bags, and mess kits—in sets of three, neatly packed together and stacked in the backseat next to her personal bags. With a resigned sigh, she climbs back into the middle seat in the front.

Once again they are off through the grasses, Ging taking the dirt roads with a comforting degree of confidence. There are no signs to follow, and they do not see any others on their journey, although Cheadle notices a few trails of smoke that could be from other campsites set into the hills. They have yet to pass the river, but at one point when the terrain changes—the ground becomes harder and rockier, and the trees taller still and draped with thin, stringy moss—they can hear the roar of the water from off in the distance. There are waterfalls, she knows, along the river's journey from the lake to the ocean, and these might be the biggest.

As if reading her mind, Ging speaks up. "Imagine how much stronger it is during the rainy season."

It sounds almost deafening to her sensitive ears, as the noise echoes around the valley they find themselves driving through. It does not surprise her to learn that there is yet another degree to this place beyond what lies in front of them. "I don't have to. It floods, doesn't it? This whole area would be flooded then, am I right?"

"You are." There's a tiny amount of pride in Ging's voice; she almost doesn't recognize it at first. "That's why the market isn't really considered a real town, since it disbands for half of the year and tends to move around the riverbank depending on the conditions of the river."

She's sure the image she has of the market in her head is nothing like the real thing, but she thinks with some relative certainty that, while they will certainly stick out, they won't be the strangest thing there by a mile.

"We're in the height of what passes for the dry season," Ging continues. "Gracchan would have known this, and planned accordingly. It's much easier to traverse the river now than it would have been a month ago, or a month from now."

"And we'll be some of the first to see it." Pariston has been uncharacteristically silent for most of the trip, and the tired gleam in his eyes has sharpened over the hours spent in the car. "I must admit that is a very appealing prospect."

"Among the first humans, maybe," Cheadle says. "There are probably plenty of animals that have seen it. Birds. Fishes."

"Fishes," Pariston echoes, and her face reddens again.

"And insects," Ging adds helpfully. "But you should feel very special, Paris."

Cheadle stifles a laugh, and cannot resist adding, "What excellent company."

The silence that follows is as companionable as it has been, interrupted only when one of them asks a question or Ging points out a particularly notable flora or fauna. They take a quick break for lunch, and then are on their way again. With excellent time, they make the market within the hour.

The market town is vast and overcrowded and appears to operate under no conceivable form of organization. The only exception seems to be the small harbor, where a few boats wait beside rickety docks—some are empty, but most are in the process of either loading or unloading crates and boxes. It's nearly as crowded as the airport had been, even though Cheadle would guess that the market is larger. The alleys crisscross underneath tents and awnings, covering stands loaded with fruits and vegetables, clothing, or smaller tabletops filled with unmarked bottles and packets.

The car is the first to go, traded as collateral for the use of a boat. That will take them nearly all the way to the lake, but as they don't quite know what to expect as the elevation increases and the river changes, going upstream the entire way may be unfeasable. So, as they transfer their camping supplies from the off-road vehicle to the slim, low-to-the-water boat, he tells them to be on the lookout for climbing gear.

"How exactly are we going to buy anything," Cheadle calls, studying the simple engine at the back of the boat, "if they don't take money?"

Ging slings a deep box about a palm's width wide under one arm. "Leave that to me."

Together, they walk up the main avenue of the market, looking over the shops on either side. They've barely made it halfway down the street before a man comes out from behind one of the stalls—one of the questionable ones, with an awning made of fabric to hide and protect the goods for sale—and approaches Ging with a wide smile and a clap on the back. What follows is a quick conversation in the native language—she hears Gracchan's name mentioned once, but Ging's name is spoken more, and deduces that this person is probably berating him for his long absence, from the cheerful if scolding tone to their voice—and when the man waves over a few others from neighboring stalls and introduces them to Ging, he begins to look embarrassed at the attention.

He makes no move to introduce Cheadle or Pariston, and they remain awkwardly off to the side, standing close but making no attempt to converse or even acknowledge the other. The fruit stand beside her has an entire box of the sour orange fruits for sale.

When Ging returns to them, shifting the box to his other arm—the side facing Pariston—he tells them that Gracchan had passed through just as they'd thought, and that a friend of his friend might have the supplies they're looking for. They continue walking; Cheadle lingers a few paces behind to look over the rest of the fruit stand.

"A friend," Pariston echoes, and there's an appraising quality to the way he says the word. "You seem to have a great many friends in this area, even though you haven't set foot here in years. How close must you have been, to remain in their memories so long after only knowing them so briefly?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," Ging says.

She thinks she hears Pariston say, "I want to destroy them for it."

"You don't act that way when Cheadle is near me."

She hears her name, and looks up, falling into step beside Pariston.

He almost appears to be shining from the way the sun catches the sweat on his face and the glimmer of teeth from his wide smile. "Cheadle is an exception."

"Cheadle is right here," she says flatly. "Rat."

The stand they eventually come to is staffed by a short, overweight man with large hands and thinning hair. Ging sets the box on the table before him, and confers in hushed tones while showing him the hundred-plus cigars stacked in neat rows behind wooden dividers. She focuses on the pinpricks of red that dot the back of Pariston's shoulders.

"So," Cheadle muses, more to herself than the others, "that's what they were talking about."

Pariston turns towards her. He does not comment on the tacit confession of her eavesdropping. "Importing these is highly illegal. I didn't think you'd approve."

"I approve of stealing less," she says. "And besides, we're Hunters. We could do just about anything and be beyond legal prosecution. And would whatever passes for law enforcement around here"—and she stretches her gloved hands out wide, gesturing towards the various market stalls and blankets where people are selling goods of far more dubious provenance and use—"really want to deal with us?"

"Perhaps not," Pariston says, giving her an unkind smile, "but our pilot could certainly be convicted. As could the customs officer who approved our plane. And should we refuse to play by the rules of this place, it's not likely we'd get a boat or supplies at all, and then we would never know what became of that lost Hunter."

Her expression falls, and even though she mutters her agreement she still doesn't like it.

The cigars are traded for food—tins and nuts and dried meats that'll keep in the heat—and bottles of water. Drinkable water, here, is worth its weight in gold. The climbing equipment follows, and in the end they each have a large parcel to carry back to their boat.

The supplies are stacked in the middle of the boat to keep it evenly weighted, with the front serving for navigation and the back for the engine. A thin metal roof covers the back half of the boat, with hooks for hammocks and lines to hang laundry or mosquito netting. The entire boat is open to the air, and as Ging drives the boat away from the dock and up the river, the trio watches as the market and the bright colors of its awnings slowly disappear from sight.

"And now," Ging says, "the hunt begins."

Gracchan's trail had ended north of here, a few day's journey to a waystation just off the river, at one of the few places telecommunications were accessible. Cheadle takes to scanning the riverbank with binoculars to search for wildlife or recognizable plant species—they can hear monkeys howling from within the jungle, but none come close enough to be visible—but with her glasses, seeing much of anything with the binoculars is difficult, so she passes them off to Pariston, who takes great delight in narrating everything he sees, even if it is only to tell them the most basic of information.

After awhile, the sound of the jungle becomes almost comforting. And above them, at night, the stars stretch out in an endless glittering expanse, even though she falls asleep to the rusted metal of the boat's roof and the gentle rocking of the water.

Twice the boat gets stuck, in curves in the river where the water is shallower, and it takes them a few hours each time to set it free; Cheadle mans the engine while Ging stands in the water, enhancing his arms and legs with Nen to push the boat back on its path. They have paddles too, with long handles to help push against the riverbank if the engine should fail or if they needed to travel quietly, but going upriver requires a bit more effort.

Ging shows them the places a boat would have grounded previously—scrapes of paint against a few fallen trees sticking out of the water, indentations against the since-hardened mud of the riverbank where someone would have pushed the boat aside with a pole—confirming their belief that Gracchan had traveled alone, in a smaller, personal boat, likely with a deeper hull than their shallow one, meant for rougher water.

Still, they eat well, consuming the most weighty of the food supplies—the fruit, the cans of soup, the bottle of cheap wine Ging's friend had snuck inside one of the crates—to make their packs easier to carry once they make the transition to traveling on land.

The third time the boat grounds, it is Pariston who offers to dislodge it, and Cheadle watches with mild disbelief as he jumps over the side of the boat, splashing through the shallow water and completely destroying his carefully preserved image. The hem and sleeves of his jacket are covered in mud and nearly soaked through with water, but she cannot watch him for long. After a moment Ging calls her to the front of the boat, and she helps him push a few branches out of the way with the paddles. She nearly loses her balance when Pariston begins to push the boat back into the current. Where Ging maneuvered the boat with finesse, Pariston's approach is rougher and more direct. She takes the few steps to the back of the boat to offer him a hand back over the side; he takes her gloved hand with his bare one. She doesn't even care that the gloves are ruined, she has others.

With everyone on board, they can restart the engine, and are moving back up the river a minute later, determined to make up their lost time.

Pariston peels his jacket off of his arms, which are specked with mud. He gives the edge of one sleeve a mournful look before lossing the jacket aside. His hair is limp from the humidity and water, and his bangs hang much lower on his face than she ever remembers them being.

She takes a few samples of river water at different points on the journey, determined to test the theory of the water at the river's source. Interesting-looking flowers and berries are collected in empty specimen jars for Cluck to study, and packed away in her bags next to the water samples and a pair of prescription goggles.

It is only later, when they sit around the kettle grill they use to re-heat their food, when Ging looks over to the bench beside him, built into the side of the boat. It is empty.

"My bag was here," he says, and stands, scouring the length of the boat. "My camping gear was all packed up, right here. Did either of you move it?"

Of course Cheadle hasn't, and Pariston has a similar answer, and thoughtfully offers a few places to search for it; it is nowhere to be found.

"It must have fallen overboard," Pariston says, looking so despondent that her suspicions are instantly raised. He only ever sounds like that when he's done something he's trying to blame someone else for. "Maybe when we hit the riverbank that last time."

Ging gives a drawn-out sigh, while Pariston continues, oblivious. "We'll have to share. I don't mind, Ging. It'll only be for a few days."

Another, longer sigh.

They see no other boats—it is not the season for tourists, as Ging had explained—that comes at the end of the rainy season, when the river swells and wildlife is plentiful. The only ones who would be out at this time are people like Gracchan or themselves. People looking for something. Hunters.

It is in the morning of their third day on the river that they finally spot the waystation where Gracchan had last been seen. It is staffed by a woman in her mid-sixties, her black hair shot through with gray. She speaks with Ging about Gracchan, detailing the apparent path he took into the jungle and the supplies he took with him, from the brand and color of his camping gear to the food he packed. Any detail, no matter how small, could be useful. They tie the boat up to the dock, and Ging dismisses Pariston's concerns that the boat would not be safe.

"Gracchan was kind to her," he says. "She will keep the boat for us. If he is injured, we'll need to move quickly back down the river."

It will be easier, Cheadle thinks, with the current to assist them. It would take one day to cross what it took them three to travel upstream.

They shoulder their packs—Ging has the food, Cheadle the medicines, and Pariston the climbing gear, in addition to any other items they've chosen to bring with them and their personal camping gear. Cheadle leaves the samples she'd already gathered and all but one extra set of clothing; Ging and Pariston, on the contrary, appear to be leaving nothing behind.

They are lucky it has not rained, and Gracchan's bootprints are easy enough to pick out in the mud leading away from the small house. They follow them, and when the prints disappear—a number of animal prints replace his, and it appears he had climbed the trees and jumped from branch to branch instead—they decide to follow his trail from the ground.

The jungle here is much more dense than what could be seen from the boat. It reminds her of the view from the airship as it circled Nanaus, just an endless expanse of all different shades of green. Above them, trees stretch like hands towards the sky, tipped by giant leaves; they step over a few that have fallen to the forest floor, each as large as she is tall, and everything is soft underfoot, from the carpet of grass and leaves and mud, to the air that's perfumed with the scent from a dozen different visible types of flowers.

Pariston jokes at first that Cheadle blends into the surroundings too much, when she first wanders a few steps aside to study the flaking bark of a particular kind of tree. She can use this, it's medicinal, and begins to take samples, unaware that Ging and Pariston have continued on without her and only notice her absence after a minute of walking. It is easy to use their En to relocate her, and she falls into step behind them again, guilty but unapologetic, clutching her sample bag of a bark that when ground into a powder and inhaled can relieve seizures instantly and without ill effect. Any discoveries here, any specimens obtained that can advance the medical community, is worth any consequence in her book, but Cheadle is sure to announce her intentions before wandering off, and heeds all of Ging's warnings about the dangers of specific plants. Typical of the jungle, the brighter in color something is, the more dangerous.

She stares at Pariston's back, the khaki fabric stretched tight across his shoulders, and thinks that it couldn't be more true.

They keep a steady, brisk pace, and when Cheadle yawns into the back of one hand she is struck by the strangest scent from a plant to the side of their makeshift trail, growing out of the side of a gnarled tree. It's magnificent—the air even seems brighter by it—with its stiff green fronds, not unlike a fern, and Cheadle thinks she hasn't seen anything like it before.

"Hey." Her voice comes out weaker than she intends, and she doesn't glance away from the plant. "I want to look at that plant. Both of you." She stumbles over her customary salutation, already taking a few wobbly steps towards the plant. She wants to touch it so badly; her skin feels like it's burning. Suddenly, Pariston is pulling her back by the arm, and clamps his other hand over her nose and mouth.

When she struggles, he holds her tighter. "Don't you see it?"

She blinks through the fog of her glasses at where the fronds have parted, as if reaching towards her. The inside of the plant is a shocking, vibrant red. It reminds her of the inside of a person's organs.

She relaxes, but claps her own gloved hands over her mouth when Pariston releases her.

"It's carnivorous," Ging says, maintaining the same distance, watching as the plant curls back in on itself with its prey gone. "And its scent is highly toxic—with your nose, you must be more affected by it than us."

"I can help with that." Pariston reaches back in his bag and pulls out the scarf he'd worn that first day on the road. It seems so long ago now to Cheadle, who accepts it gratefully, tying it around her nose and mouth to keep from breathing in the scent that even now, at a growing distance, still tries to lure her in.

She focuses on the scent of Pariston's cologne instead, still present in the fabric, and breathes. The rest of the day, she makes no further attempts to collect samples.

They find Gracchan's camping site from the fruit cores on the ground and gouges in the surrounding trees where he had hooked his tent—a type of enclosed sling off the ground, made to be used in case of rain and snow—and entirely different to the style that Cheadle and Ging have packed, which unfold into a dome and rest against the ground.

"We should keep watch," Ging says, and offers to take the first one. To Cheadle, "I'll wake you when it's your time."

She nods, and zips herself into her tent after a dinner of jerky and the last of the fruit, tossing the cores next to the ones Gracchan had left.

It is Ging who wakes her up impossibly early the next morning, looking disheveled and wearing only a sleeveless shirt instead of the series of layers she'd last seen him in.

The sky, when she pokes her head out of the tent, is tinged with pink. "Wake us up in three hours," he says.

"Try and get some sleep," Cheadle tells him. "You look like you need it."

He stiffens, and makes some derisive remark that she can't hear clearly, but the tone of his voice is enough.

She sits in the open mouth of the tent, watching the jungle wake up—the birds are first, noisy and ceaseless once they begin squawking, and over the next hour the sky lightens from its blue-pink, to pink-yellow, and finally to a soft, filtered yellow-green from the giant leaves overhead. Ging had called it a fan tree, and she begins to sketch one in a small notebook she'd brought for that purpose for something to do, following it up with a brief depiction of the carnivorous plant. The other pages are filled with pressed leaves and flowers, and notations on the climate and their path through the jungle, approximated as best as she is able. The field journal will make filing a report much easier when they return to Swaldani City. She wants to be thorough.

When three hours have passed, she wakes Ging and Pariston, bundled on opposite sides of the tent, although Pariston's feet are stretched out over Ging's for lack of room for his long legs. The image is almost comical, and as she steps back out she's glad that's one thing she doesn't have to share.

They drink water sparingly—there must be enough for the return trip—and have their things packed up minutes later. Ging shrugs into his outer robe, leaving the neck gaping wide where he would normally wear a scarf.

"It's too hot for this," he grumbles by way of explanation—she supposes that accounts for his bad mood, too. Pariston, however, is almost inappropriately cheerful, whistling as he packs up the tent.

Unlike the prior days, the air is thick and hot, with no breezes from the water or hills to cool them as they continue on through the jungle. The plants around them seem to change, too, in subtle ways—the understory is sparser, with more climbing vines and low, leafy bushes than she remembers seeing before, and there are more birds and animals climbing among the lower branches of the highest trees. On the forest floor, the plants are darker in color and the deep, earthy smell of decomposition clings to everything. Cheadle is thankful for her scarf, and keeps it tight around her nose and mouth, even though the danger of poison seems to have passed.

At one point, they stop, and Cheadle thinks they've caught another bit of Gracchan's trail.

"Not at all," Ging says, gesturing towards a particular, rough leaf with jagged edges attached to a deep purple twig. "This looks like a fossil I've seen before, in a ruined temple far to the west of here, over the mountains. There were paintings, on the walls, with this color." He points to the purple. "From the way it was venerated, it's probably something worth studying."

Cheadle agrees, and suggests they find the source of the plant. After a moment of searching, she looks up. There are flashes of purple near the top of one of the visible trees, and as she cranes her neck she uses one hand to shade her eyes from the sun. Even this weak, the light still cast a glare on her glasses.

"It's up there," she says. "It's a shame I can't get a specimen. I'd like to study it."

"I'll get you one," Pariston offers, moving to grasp the lowest branches of the tree with his hands. "At that height, I'll be able to see the mountains, too. I can confirm our heading."

Ging makes a noise, as if there should be no doubt in his navigational skills, but a minute later Pariston has disappeared through the canopy of leaves and they can no longer see or hear him, save for the faint scrabbling of his shoes against the bark.

"I would have thought it endangered," Ging speaks up, pulling at the neck of his robe. He's eschewed his hat today, too, and his hair sticks up on the sides, spiked from perspiration.

"I wonder what purpose it had for that tribe. They weren't a death cult," he adds—Cheadle had not thought that was something she had to worry about, but now that the possibility is there, she finds herself scowling at Ging—"that was another, warring kingdom. But they venerated animals, not plants. I'd guess it'd be something medicinal or psychotropic."

"That's pleasant," she murmurs.

Then, she realizes what seems so off about Ging's appearance. "You're wearing Pariston's shirt," she says. It was the exact style that he'd worn beneath his safari jackets, and now Ging was wearing it instead of the black-tipped shirts he typically wore. He looks down, as if surprised by her declaration, and tugs at the top of the shirt. When he looks up he doesn't meet her eyes. Suddenly, something clicks in her head.

"Are you sleeping with him?" She regrets the words almost as soon as they are out of her mouth, and Ging cringes, rubbing his eyes and exhaling sharply. When he opens his eyes, it's as if he expects to be anywhere else but here, looking at anyone else but her.

"Not that it's any of my business," she continues quickly, "it's just that I'm a doctor. I want you to know if you need anything—"

"Cheadle." Ging's ears are burning, and Cheadle doesn't know whether to laugh or not.

She settles for saying, "This may be the single worst conversation I've ever had in my life."

"Tell me about it."

Pariston picks that moment to shout something unintelligible from the canopy, and a moment later he emerges through the highest layers of the fan tree, climbing down.

He presents her with an entire bouquet of gathered leaves and stems, and describes for her the exact nature of the plant—it grew attached to the tree, at a high enough level that it could receive direct sunlight, and in healthy specimens, as these were, the underside of the leaves were a dull yellow-green. One single stem bore a white flower, and Cheadle carefully sealed the stems inside a glass tube.

When Pariston turns towards Ging, she watches the two of them with heightened attention.

"Our heading is perfect," he says. "The river curves back around that way"—and he gestures with one hand—"and things are going to get much rockier, very fast."

He looks pleased with himself for the joke, and retrieves his pack from where he'd left it propped against the tree. Cheadle wonders, perversely, if Pariston is wearing Ging's shirt on accident, beneath yet another clean jacket that day, and banishes the thought just as quickly.

The terrain becomes steeper very quickly, and they jump around the pointed boulders sticking out of the ground, covered on one side with moss. The sound of an animal's roar echoes deep around them, reverberating too much to be able to easily pinpoint its location. A higher, shrieking noise follows, brutally loud, before cutting off into silence just as quickly.

A thick curtain of swinging vines is swept aside to reveal the soaring, sheer edge of a cliff face. Ging points out, further down the cliff, where a series of deep chinks in the rock would have held Gracchan's camming devices, used to support a climber's weight.

At the higher altitude, the sun will rise earlier and set later. That combined with the potential threat of animal attack makes the decision easy—they will climb without delay, and make their camp at the top of the rock.

Ging takes the lead, followed by Cheadle—they all wear harnesses, hooked together, and Ging uses a combination of camming devices and free climbing to ascend the rock face.

It isn't jagged, but the deep gray rock seems to ripple as it juts out of the side of the mountain, carved and smoothed by the wind and the rain that would pour over the side during floods. They strengthen their hands with Nen, easily climbing up the rocky cliffs and following each other's handholds.

The sun is still dropping fast, and they make it to a broad ledge, cut into the rock just shy of the top, and decide to spend the night there as Gracchan had, tacking the tents to the rock in the same places Gracchan clearly had, zipping them both together to help ward out the wind and cold.

The rock seems to leech the heat from her body, even through the floor of the tent. Pariston drops one of his jackets around her shoulders, and all of Ging's complaints about the heat have disappeared into ones about the cold. They sit together, shoulder-to-shoulder like they had in the off-road vehicle, around a battery-operated lantern as they eat what little they can ration for their dinner.

She glances up at the fabric roof of the tent, its dome irregular from being zipped together with its double. They cannot even see the stars; the view that should have been tremendous is instead blue canvas, dappled with shadow.

Cheadle falls asleep with her back against the rock wall. She is not sure whose shoulder she ends up leaning against.

The top of the cliff is flat and extends for nearly a half-mile before the trees begin to appear, almost too thick to walk between. Here, the air smells almost sweet, and where before the humidity had been heavy, now in the morning sun the air is cool and fresh and clouded with mist.

Pariston had insisted she keep his jacket, and she buttons it up to her chin, the scarf tied underneath it to keep her neck warm. A few camming devices are wedged into the rock at the very edge of the cliff, to be able to rappel quickly down, once they recover Gracchan.

"Have you ever been this far?" Cheadle asks Ging, who walks with much more hesitant steps over the rockier soil.

"No." There is no further clarification, and he simply adjusts his pack over his shoulder and continues walking, staring at some point far off into the distance. She blinks through her glasses; the mist hovers below the treetops and makes the trees look like they stretch to infinity.

There is something not quite right, but Cheadle cannot quite put her finger on what it is. She knows they must be close—this feeling of apprehension, of suspense, is known to all Hunters. She's hunted enough things over the years, took on tough legal cases, healed patients in critical conditions and created cures for several notable diseases. When the end is in sight, the feeling emerges. The first time she felt it, entering the final stage of the Hunter Exam on her first try, the adrenaline filling her veins like a drug, she decided that there was no better feeling. She flexes her fingers, her arms held tight at her sides.

"The sounds," Cheadle says. "They've stopped."

"You're right." The others both look up to the canopy of trees, where there are no birds in sight. No insects flit through the air. The absence of the noise of the jungle is so startling that she wonders how she'd missed it. Even the wind seems to have stopped rustling; the only sounds she can hear are their breathing and the crunch of their boots over the ground.

Beside her, Ging tenses. "We should move faster."

That is all the warning they receive before he darts off. Cheadle and Pariston follow in his wake, keeping a tight hand on their bags, the pace grueling after the changeless clip they'd maintained over the prior days.

She expects danger to come out of nowhere—a bird of prey, or a deep gorge in the ground—and stretches out her En, letting her aura wash over the ground around them, projecting it ahead and on either side as far as she can reach.

Both Pariston's and Ging's auras respond to hers, and she senses a degree of appreciation from each. Her En is extensive, she knows this, as she uses it often to keep track of hundreds of patients at once in the hospitals she works at. If Gracchan is out there, she will sense him, and if danger approaches, it will be warned off by the sheer strength she is projecting, or if the very jungle around them should oppose her, she will be able to see it before it even becomes a threat. She never takes her eyes from the path.

Pariston's En joins hers, as if to confirm her conclusions, but withdraws. He trusts her in this, and that gives her a buoyancy that completely reduces the strain on her body to zero.

Suddenly, Ging throws out a hand, and Cheadle skids to a stop. She does the same for Pariston, her hand catching on the edge of his jacket—this one wrinkled and stained and appearing so much more lived-in—and looks back up. Her eyes widen.

Before them stretches a perfectly round circle of chalky blue water, as flat and unblemished as a mirror.

In the exact middle of the lake, they can see an island, coated with short trees with limp, plentiful branches. A bright spot of orange sticks out close to the shore, and Cheadle recognizes it as a sleeping bag.

"He's out there!"

She takes a step forward and stops herself, remembering the carnivorous plant. "Slowly," she breathes, and together they step down the rocky edge to stand before the water. There is no shoreline—no waves, no sand, only rocks and pebbles and then water.

Cheadle tests the water's pH first, taking a second sample for herself with surprisingly steady fingers. The glass vial is cold to the touch; the temperature no different than the last sample she had collected, and it is clear without any kind of visible particulates.

"The water's fine," she says slowly, having expected the opposite. "It's perfectly normal."

She almost doesn't believe it, but the test does not lie. She could do it again, over and over, but she is jarred from her concentration when Ging sinks to crouch at the water's edge, cupping one hand and dipping it below the water. He brings his palm up, sniffing at the water before tossing it aside to splatter against the dry pebbles around his feet.

"We'll have to swim." He tosses his bag up to the highest rock, and holds out his hand for Cheadle's.

"I'll carry yours," he says. "We need to keep the medicine dry. I'll hold it above my head."

They strip off their jackets, balling them up and holding them above their heads, following Ging into the water. It's cold, but not deep. "We're lucky," Ging comments, wading; at its deepest point, the water appears no higher than his waist. "It is the dry season, after all."

The reason for the water's heavy feeling becomes obvious after awhile; there's a type of flat lily just under the water all around them, its roots sunk deep into the soil and spread out to tangle around their feet and legs. The ripples from their movement spread out across the water in all directions, and Cheadle watches them to see where the lilies are hiding just beneath the surface.

When they stagger out of the water onto the island, they move instantly to the bright splash of color situated between two of the low-hanging trees. A figure lies on top of the coated fabric, breathing shallowly.

She recognizes him from his picture, although they've never met in person.

"Gracchan!" Cheadle drops down beside him, checking his pulse—heartbeat is steady—although he doesn't wake when she shakes his shoulders. Instead, he starts to tremble, mumbling monosyllables and contorting his face as if in pain. His mouth falls open; the inside is stained a light, sickly blue.

She shouts his name again, and reaches for her medical bag when his eyes snap open. He does not look at them, staring straight ahead at the umbrella of catkin over their heads, drooping from the tree's branches. His pupils are pinpoints, and when she checks the rest of his body for injuries, she's stunned at the deep, partially-healed gashes in his shoulders and sides, as if inflicted by hooked claws.

"These should not be as healed as they are," Cheadle says. "He's also incredibly malnourished...I would guess that he lost part of his food supply, or it got damaged somehow, and then he got injured. Too close to quit, but too far to head back with his injuries, he would have come here. Something must have healed him. I doubt that is his Nen ability..."

He's showing symptoms of an overdose—whatever it was he ingested, whether the water or a plant, out of necessity and hunger, had accelerated the healing process and blocked the pain at the cost of his consciousness, muscle control, and shortness of breath. She does not know how long he would have had without them there.

She opens her medical bag and begins to pull out the remaining empty vials and bags, pressing them into Pariston's hands. "Explore the island," she tells him, turning towards Ging. "The both of you. Take samples ofeverything. I want to know what caused this. Hurry."

The uncharacteristic urgency in her voice sends them stumbling off, for which she casts a rueful grimace at their backs.

She rolls her sleeves up to the elbow, tugging off her gloves and pressing her bare hands to Gracchan's exposed stomach. She doesn't want anyone else around for this.

A quick breath, and she begins to channel her Nen into her hands.

She helps Gracchan sit up—still dazed, but the worst of his accidental overdose is over, and the slashes to his skin have been stabilized as best she can. If she had been there when it occurred, she could have prevented scarring, but as it stands he will carry that memento of this trip on his skin for the rest of his life.

His voice, when he speaks, is weak. "I don't remember anything. After the attack, everything is a blur."

"You were attacked here?" Her eyes widen.

"The cliff. Further down. There's a bird's nest..."

Ah. She finds a protein bar from her pack, and hands it to him along with a bottle of water. "Slowly, now."

The samples Ging and Pariston collected are labeled and arranged in a neat row in one pocket of her medicine bag. As she gazes out onto the flat, glassy surface of the lake, something twists in her stomach. What had once looked so beautiful is now repellant to her. She cannot wait to be far away from it.

"Can you two help him?" she asks.

Pariston has packed up Gracchan's meager supplies without being asked, and added them to his own pack. She wades into the water first.

A lily catches on her arm. She shakes it free.

They arrive at the hunting lodge late in the evening, after piloting the boat and driving the recovered off-road vehicle—they'd put Gracchan in the back, and Pariston had propped his feet up on the dashboard for the journey—nearly without stopping. The owner of the lodge, Marco, would be driving Gracchan to the airport in their stead, while the other Hunters caught a few hours of much-needed rest.

Cheadle lingers in the kitchen, absolutely thrilled to be eating something that isn't packaged and tasteless. The fire was burning once again in the pit outside, the crackle of the flames doing little to disguise the voices drifting through the open door.

"This mission had a high ranking," Pariston says, "so the salary is quite extensive."

A noise of derision. "You set the pay yourself."

A pause, and then his voice returns, smooth as silk. "Would you like me to send it to you?"

"I'll pick it up in person."

"Of course," he says. "I look forward to it."

She shivers from where she stands in the cold, dark kitchen. After the elevation and the cold lake, the warmth of the jungle had been welcome. She thinks she is almost used to it now.

So she stamps her foot before storming through the kitchen and around the huge, empty table to the grounds outside. She nearly stumbles into Pariston in the doorway as he walks inside; he slips past her without a word. In contrast, Ging stands some distance from the fire pit, facing away from the flames, but when Cheadle emerges into the courtyard he turns back, dragging his feet the few steps to the side so he doesn't have to shout to speak to her.

"You did well," Ging tells her. The words seem strange, coming from him, and he falters in saying them. She doesn't think he's used to giving praise.

"Thank you." She, however, is used to receiving it, and replies with the same crisp professionalism she gives to the patients and clients she typically finds herself working beside.

"You're leaving," she says. She expects it from him, and is surprised he's waited this long.

"Yeah." He still stares out into the darkness, somewhere far off into the forest. She does not know what lies in that direction, beyond the horizon. A quick glance upward confirms that the stars are still where she'd left them. "I don't like crowds."

She frowns at his reference to the call they'd put in from the waystation to the Hunter Association—the airship would be waiting for them, with state-of-the-art medical equipment for Gracchan in case he needed it, and the medical suite at the Association headquarters would be ready as well. A few reporters were covering the rescue, and several other Hunters had passed along messages as well—apparently Gracchan was well-liked among his colleagues.

"Well," Cheadle says, "don't let me keep you."

It's not a goodbye, and the edge of his mouth lifts up in a smile for it. And then, without looking back, he takes one step forward, then two, walking off into the forest and disappearing behind the tall grass.

She has gone through all of the samples with Cluck, and the results have been both spectacular and completely underwhelming. The star of the bunch is the purple-bark plant Pariston had recovered for her from the treetops, and they have replanted sections of it that are growing quite well. It has a variety of properties—the bark, in tests, treats inflammation, and the leaves can work as an anesthetic—and combined with other, synthesized compounds, the effects could be truly remarkable.

But then she turns to the samples collected from other parts of the trip—the water samples are all but useless, hardly any different from what she would find from the tap in the lab—and the oddly-shaped flowers and stems from the trees on the lake's island have nothing to recommend them beyond their natural evolution to survive in high elevation and the extensive root system to connect to the lake. Whatever Gracchan consumed, it was not either of these.

Her field report sits finished on her desk. It's a single page—she is reminded of the mission parameters she'd first written, seemingly so long ago—listing the approximate path they'd taken, what they'd seen and removed from the jungle. She leaves the expenses line blank, unsure if throughout the process they'd even spent a jenni. She recommends, in the final line, that future expeditions not be undertaken beyond the initial ring of the jungle, and then only to collect pre-determined plant specimens by professional Hunters.

She looks up Gracchan's name again in the system, gratified to see the location listing changed to Swaldani City.

When she turns in the report—to Pariston, as Netero is still absent—she returns his jacket and scarf as well, neatly folded together in a dry cleaning bag. He gives her a bright smile and accepts both.

"I had a fun time on our mission," Pariston says. "What do you know? Maybe we'll get the chance to work together again."

Cheadle thinks of the database, and what it had taken for them to work together just that one time. She doesn't want to give him any more chances, or let him create any. She remembers the path they traveled in the jungle—she had not strayed from it, and had emerged victorious. He is a different path, and she knows where it leads.

"Not outside this building," she says. "Rat."

Notes:

1. First Ascent refers to the first successful, documented attainment of the top of a mountain, or the first to follow a particular climbing route (Wikipedia).

2. In looking at the Hunter World map, it was tricky to see exactly where a jungle-type setting would even be, since there's no equator and nothing like it in canon (except isolated locations like Swindler's Swamp or parts of Greed Island), so I went for a mash-up approach with combining bits and pieces of the Amazon, Africa, and the Shangri-La settings common in Jungle Operas. Mazon is meant to be the Amazon, and Nanaus is inspired by the Amazonian city Manaus. Lake Tiqa is inspired by Lake Titicaca (Titiqaqa in Quechua), considered the highest navigable lake in the world.

3. Gracchan is Morau's Sea Hunter friend mentioned in the Chimera Ant arc. He's one of my favorite minor characters, so I take any chance I get to sneak him into a story!

4. Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews or comments.