Warnings: ... no more than were on the series itself, I suspect. How very odd.

Disclaimers: HunterxHunter is owned by Yoshihiro Togashi, and whatever publishing, animation, and merchandising companies he leased it to. I'm not affiliated with any of these, unless one counts "buying the merchandise", in which case all us anime fans are co-owners. Ha, as if.

Timeline: Set after the anime. Anime-only, because I ran out of manga. So takes place after the Greed Island arc and ignores all later manga canon events.

A/N's -

- the Yorubian continent is the one that resembles North America, in the bottom left of Togashi's world map. The Republic of Padokia is where the Zoldyck's mountain is. Most of the other place names are made up.

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Occam's Razor

(The simplest solution is often the best.)

Ch. 1

The wind whistles bleakly over the night-darkened mountains, snow piling in drifts and falling more heavily by the minute. Tonight's forecast had claimed a storm would arrive by dawn; it seems to be arriving early.

Kurapica can't see his breath steaming in the gusting wind, thanks to the thick ski mask over his head, but he can all too easily see the fortress-like walls of the lodge this rich man keeps here in the frozen south isles of the world. The walls all but glow with someone's nen.

At this level, the nen-user should know how to see with Gyo, and how to mask from Gyo. Kurapica breathes, the single word whipping away before it reached his ears. It doesn't matter; he's not the one meant to hear it. "Senritsu..."

A pause, nearly a minute without response, then a small figure slides under the snowy bush where Kurapica's crouched. "Only the inner part of the wall's marked with nen," Senritsu murmurs. "The perimeter's three feet closer than we can see. And I can hear electricity humming another ten feet out, under the ground."

"Motion detectors," Kurapica deduces.

The dwarfed woman nods, the movement brushing at Kurapica's cloth-covered ear. "Three people per corner, two more on each gate. Between six and eight inside."

That indicated their information was accurate. "Tell Gon and Killua," Kurapica says. "Front gate. Radios on: we move on my signal."

"Agreed."

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The towns of the world tended to blur together after enough travel, all the cheap chain hotels and sleeper trains and airship cabins poured from mass-production molds. Sometimes the hotels and travel compartments were higher-class, the results of using a Hunter license as a passport for certain nations, but these occasions were few and far between.

Mostly, Kurapica and Senritsu wandered, crossing the globe back and forth based only on the whims of the rich men and women who owned red eyes or pages of a monstrous concerto, and the highest-paying Hunter jobs they could get with their skills. Mostly, they lived in a bland mass of public terminals, library cubicles, and heartlessly trendy internet cafes.

This particular cafe was a dark little pub off the wet streets of Randon, and the wind had all but blown them into it, the hoods of their raincoats pulled low over their heads.

Senritsu looked up at the cafe menu, considering the options. "The crab salad, I think," she murmured, voice as gentle as always. "And a cup of oolong. If you would, please, Kurapica."

Kurapica nodded, letting her take the laptop case from him. As had become almost habitual, he waited in line to make their order, while she picked a booth and clambered (with some difficulty) into it to set up the computer.

By the time Kurapica reached the table, tea and sandwiches on a tray, Senritsu had logged onto Mapquik...

"Email from the kids," she told him as he doled out the food.

... and, apparently, her email. Kurapica sat and turned the laptop to face himself. Minimized on the toolbar was an icon for said mail; a map of the world filled the screen. Kurapica pulled up the letter first, starting in on his sandwich while he read the cheerful, only partially coherent email from Gon and Killua. (It seemed they'd been sharing the keyboard again. Most of the paragraphs ended abruptly, sometimes mid-word, more often with a mash of letters, then switched to the other's writing style for a few sentences. "Sharing" for the two teenagers tended to go more along the lines of "pull the keyboard right out from under the other's hands to argue a point". Kurapica hoped they'd never grow up.)

The email said little of any relevance, simply telling about where the pair were now (the Republic of Padokia, again), what they were doing (more training, apparently a lot of eating, and something involving a singularly ugly painting and a museum), and their current woes about having to buy everything in Gon's name (Zoldyck being entirely too infamous a family in their homeland).

That done, Kurapica set aside his sandwich and returned to the map. Down to business. The links of Kurapica's ring-finger chain clinked faintly against each other, underlaid by the almost inaudible hum of active nen. The ball strained towards the screen, swinging wildly and unaffected by gravity, as Kurapica focused on the name of a distant cousin of his clan. The cousin's remains were in the Kurata homeland, so he dismissed that location, and the chain steadied.

"The far south of Espen," he told Senritsu, listing an island south of the Yorubian continent, almost in the Antartic. He zoomed in, the ball shifting to point at a different part of the screen. "Elzga province... Zhuno city." Thank all the Kurata gods that the filthy rich tended to keep houses near major cities, for both business necessity and entertainment options. It was so much harder to go unnoticed in a small town.

Senritsu had finished her lunch by this time, so Kurapica relinquished the computer to her to make flight reservations, and went back to his own meal.

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Senritsu's music nen has only improved with the years. Though she still prefers the flute, she uses a palm-sized harp if she might have to run. The smallest string is for sonar and animals, the pitch too high for humans (except Senritsu herself) to hear. The lowest four have been marked with the nen of her friends, Kurapica's trusted team, to keep the songs from affecting them, though she only needs three strings for tonight's nocturne.

She plays for the radio tonight, her figure too easily identified to allow for security videos and eyewitnesses. All three boys wear two-way transmitters under their clothes; their heartbeats keep the rhythm for her, the fight plays counterpoint to her encumbering melody.

Senritsu's eyes fall closed, sound painting a more vivid picture than sight ever can.

Bullets ping against metal, tinkling to the ground in a flick of masked chain. Leather soles twist and squeak against wood parquet. Killua's nearly-inaudible footsteps, heavier than they'd been at thirteen, syncopate with the soft grunts and meaty thumps of men -- no, that one was a woman -- falling unconscious. Rubber-soled boots stomp out a beat, varying between the tap of the floor and the muffled smacks of flesh.

Gon's nen explosions only add fanfare to her song.

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Some of the cheapest and least-protected information available on the Hunter website was about the defenses of the ridiculously rich. Kurapica wasn't surprised when his license had the clearance to open the files, nor when the difficulty ranking was a low F.

Twenty-four hours. That was how old the information was. It could be obsolete... but then again, even money couldn't truly speed up technological innovation. The rich could have the best security money could buy, but Kurapica had something better. One of them was the woman at his side. The other...

The phone rang once, twice, and picked up. "Killua-kun," Kurapica murmured in greeting.

"Hey, Kurapica," Killua said, the words underscored by traffic in the background, followed by something unintelligible. "Gon says hi. What's up?"

"I need an electrician."

"Mou, again already? It'll cost you." Almost-understandable shouting sounded in the background on Killua's end. Something about not being fair, if Kurapica was hearing right...

Kurapica almost chuckled. "Name your price."

"Us and you, sundaes on Yost Isle." The shouting in the background paused, then switched to cheering. "And not one of those dinky single-scoop things like you get. We're going for the Party Hearty, you got that?"

"Got it," Kurapica said. "And it's a deal. We'll meet you in Espen."

A horrified squawk came out of the phone. "Espen!" A mumble, then Killua's voice went faint, as if he'd tilted the phone away. "...t's cold, that's what..." he replied to Gon. Another muffled question. "Do I look like a popsicle? Wait, don't answer that. ... Gon? Hey, cut that ou... OW!"

Kurapica held the phone away from his ear, as if somehow the commotion now coming out of the earpiece would make more sense if he stared at it instead of listened.

"Ne, Kurapica?" Gon's voice this time, made tinny by the distance. "Kurapica! You didn't hang up, did you?"

Kurapica pulled the phone back. "I didn't."

"Oh good! Killua got all weird... you'd think he didn't like snow or something. Anyway! When are we meeting?"

"Will..." Kurapica glanced at Senritsu, who held up her fingers. Ten, eight, wobble of the hand; two, ten, four. "... three weeks do?"

Gon hummed thoughtfully. "It's like a week from Padokia to Espen, right? Week and a half?"

"Depends on the wind and the route, but yes."

"Okay, Killua says we're almost wrapped up here anyway."

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"Which way?" Gon shouts, stomping off a guard's head.

Kurapica ducks a flare of gunfire, fourth chain whipping down several bullets before they hit Killua, then flicks the invisible metal out to check. The ball strains towards the left. "Up and back, the north wing!"

Gon aims a thumb's-up over his shoulder, grinning as his free hand begins to glow with faintly-blue nen. "Right!"

"No, left!" Kurapica snaps back. Gon shifts his shot to the correct wall, and the three leap through the new archway into a ballroom.

Up the sweeping, open staircase; the balcony is packed with more guards than Senritsu's heard. Another clone-nen user, Kurapica realizes, as a veritable horde of bladesmen come boiling down the stairs.

Some prime example of a teenage idiot goes down after inexplicably trying to leap onto the chandelier. His gun goes off on impact --

Killua grunts and falls to one knee.

Gon skids to a halt. "Ki--!"

"GO!" Killua rips off a swath of his overshirt, tying it tightly around his thigh. "Grab the wall panel and bullet!" Gon punches a guard into several others, obeying. They can't afford to leave blood.

Kurapica ducks under a shoulder, scooping Killua to his feet. His eyes are glowing red under the black contacts -- he loops the healing thumb-chain around Killua's leg. Killua's makeshift bandage should be enough to catch whatever's flowed out already.

"Now that's a useful trick," Killua mutters. The two of them dart back towards the target door in unison. "Why didn't you mention it before?"

"And have you two ignoring injuries worse than you already do?"

"Like you're any better."

They've arrived at the north wing's door. "It's got separate security," Kurapica hisses, changing the subject.

Killua's gloved fingers weave lightning through the systems.

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"Flight 730, now arriving from Altana, pad 4. Flight 730, now arriving from Altana, pad 4."

Kurapica and Senritsu manuvered through the crowds in the airport, pushing past hordes of winter sports enthusiasts loaded down with gear, and entire families bearing gifts. Kurapica had almost forgotten the holiday, certainly hadn't taken into account the sheer mass of humanity filling the terminal; he'd only bothered to check whether or not a particular rich man would hold festivities at his chateau in the nearby countryside. He wasn't, and the crowds would cover their arrival nicely.

But, Kurapica thought, as another wave of people almost separated him from Senritsu, a crowded airport terminal was really a horrible place. At least Senritsu...

The woman smiled up at him. "They're walking through the door now."

... could find Gon and Killua in this mess. And Kurapica as well, if they got separated.

Kurapica stood on tiptoe to peer over the crowd. Sure enough, a familiar head of messy white hair was visible, just this side of the gate and approaching quickly.

The boys had grown in the few months since Kurapica had seen them last. Killua was getting tall enough to be seen in a crowd, though Gon would still be invisible if his bristly hair didn't stand a good five inches straight up. Both boys were broader -- Gon desperately needed a new coat, his green one was straining at the shoulders -- than Kurapica had been at fifteen... wait, no, Killua had just had a birthday. Sixteen, then.

"Kurapica!" Killua called out, waving a black-gloved hand. Kurapica waved back, grinning as Gon looped an arm over Killua's shoulders and pulled himself up off the ground to see. They pushed through the crowds, Gon dangling from Killua like a shoulderbag. Both kids had their usual backpacks, and Killua carried a single large suitcase.

Kurapica eyed the suitcase dubiously -- since when had either of those two carried enough to warrant luggage? -- but politely reached out and took it from Killua's hand. Then he paused, staring at the gloved hand still gripping the handle. (Gon took the opportunity to drop from Killua's back, dropping to his knees to enthusiastically hug Senritsu.)

Killua's gloves weren't winter outerwear. The thin leather would let the chill right through, and decorative diamonds cut into the back offered no protection against wind or water. "That's new," Kurapica said.

"These? Yeah." Killua lifted a hand, twisting it back and forth for display. The black caught the light faintly, throwing subtle texturing into sharp relief. "There was a psychometric consultant with that museum we were at. Got a bead on the thief when he touched the case she'd smashed. Kinda creeped me out, you know?"

After the Ryodan woman in York Shin those years ago, it probably would. Kurapica found himself disliking the idea as well, and he hadn't been raised with the paranoia of an assassin.

"So I got his info off the Hunter site," Killua added, "and picked these up in Zhangong. Nice, aren't they? They'd muck up his readings a ton."

"Will they?"

"Yeah, with this much between me and something I touch, he can't get more than a profile. Male Padokian, between thirteen and twenty, electric nen." It went without saying that, as a Hunter, the last item was the one thing that wouldn't exist in the Hunter database. Nobody could find a Hunter by nen style. "I figure better to have them now than later. Somebody'll hire one of his type eventually."

Kurapica went cold.

Killua shrugged the topic aside with a flick of his fingers, smirking at Kurapica. "But that's not now. And it's a good investment. See, Gon loves these things." Wait, was that a smirk or a leer? Could never quite tell with Killua, though it was getting easier as he aged. "He really, really wants a pair of his own," Killua added, "but he'd rip right through them in about half a second. I would've never thought I could lord it over him with clothes."

... okay, maybe it was both smirk and leer.

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Gon meets them in the small hallway leading to a steel-shuttered side door, a chunk of drywall and several thick wood pylons in his arms. His gaze flicks to Killua's leg, ignoring the scarlet eyes peeping lopsidedly from their canisters in Kurapica's arms.

"Were those load-bearing?" Killua asks, as he hurtles through three-inch-thick steel like it was paper.

"No idea," Gon answers, a grin faltering under his mask at the sudden howls of dogs loosed from the front of the house. The three of them dash through the thick snow towards the outer walls, not bothering to hide their tracks. The dogs would follow anyway, and more snow is filling the prints even as they run.

Gon and Killua learned how to leap twenty feet in the air back on Greed Island. Kurapica's never mastered the skill, but his chains are better than any rope. He pulls himself running up the rough stone, kicking over the barbed wire hidden at the top. Gon and Killua simply bound over the wall in his wake.

As they approach the gully where Senritsu's been hiding with their snowmobiles, Killua lags behind, digging a bag of chemical powder from his pocket. The snow under an outcropping is relatively protected and thin; they all instinctively leap it. Killua twists, holding his breath and bursting the bag. Fine white powder coats the snow. Killua dodges the settling dust with the ease of old habit.

The powder's yet another leftover from his assassin childhood. The chemical will damage the dogs' sense of smell for weeks, if not permanently. But against his training, they still don't bother hiding their tracks, not with the snow.

It's easy enough to outdistance the pursuit now, without the threat of dogs.

Senritsu's been holding the engines ready, when they reach her. "They're getting their snowmobiles ready," she warns, as Kurapica slides into place behind her. Killua takes the handles of the other 'mobile, Gon jumping on behind him.

"Let's make tracks, then," Killua answers. "How far to the nearest trail?"

"South. But..." Senritsu cocks her head, gaze going distant. "North's in use."

Killua glances at Kurapica. The blond's face is drawn, hands clutching at the canisters with their morbid contents. "North it is. We'll lose them in the crowd."

Senritsu nods, guns the engine, and they race deeper into the forest.

TBC