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Kalluto is one of the top assassins in the world.
The sky does not care. They are very wet anyway.
The door to the shack the Troupe is staying in squeals gratingly as they push it open, leaving the rain behind. The dryness is refreshing as they enter. They had not expected it to rain.
“Kalluto,” Chrollo greets them from a sea of candles once they shut the door. There’s no electricity here. “What have you discovered?” The rest of the Troupe lounges around the shack.
“The Family Head is there,” Kalluto says.
There’s a ripple among the other Spiders.
“This’ll be fun, then,” Phinks says.
“He’s in the estate?” Chrollo clarifies.
Kalluto nods. They don’t specify the details of their Hatsu or how they know. Some of the Troupe including Chrollo know of their tracking ability, but even among friends, Nen abilities are extremely personal. The other legs make sure to give them their privacy, so Kalluto knows they won’t be pressed.
They were able to find the mafia head using their Nen. They would have tried to put a confetti bug to listen in on him if it weren’t for the rain. Paper doesn’t hold up to water that well.
“That’s all the information I have for now,” Kalluto apologizes.
“You did well,” Chrollo says simply, and Kalluto knows they’re dismissed.
“There’s food,” Machi says, tossing a wooden bowl and a loaf of bread to Kalluto. They catch both, as Machi of course knew they would. She points to a pot of stew hanging over the fire. It smells good.
It’s nice to be around people who you know aren’t tricking you when they offer you food, Kalluto thinks absently as they ladle stew into the wooden bowl.
They sit on the rough wooden floor with the others, shivering involuntarily. The fire radiates heat but the cold clings to the shack like bloodstains do in carpet. They sip the soup, savoring the warmth.
“Man, you look soaked,” Phinks comments to Kalluto. “You good?”
“Yes,” Kalluto assures him. They’ve survived worse.
“You’re shivering,” Shizuku comments. “Do you have a change of clothes?”
Kalluto shakes their head. The sky had been clear earlier, and they try to travel light, so they didn’t come prepared.
Phinks sighs and mutters something to himself, then sheds his white linen robe. Underneath, he’s wearing a tracksuit. “Take this,” he says, holding it out.
“I’m fine. Water dries,” Kalluto insists.
“And takes all your heat with you. You’re small and that’s a fact, for now at least. Take it.”
They hesitate.
“Kalluto,” Chrollo intervenes. “I don’t want my number four to suffer from hypothermia. Take advantage of the resources you have.”
“Understood,” Kalluto says. Oddly, what they feel is relief. They allow Phinks to push the robe into their hands. The material isn’t soft, exactly, but it’s pleasant under their fingers and still warm from Phinks wearing it.
They rise, leaving their half-full bowl of soup on the wooden floor, and go to a corner to change.
They strip while the others respectfully keep their eyes on their soup or whatever they’ve found to distract themself while they wait for the day of the heist. Kalluto’s sodden, wet clothes put up a fight in being removed.
Their skin is still damp but they pull on Phinks’s robe anyway. As expected, it’s much too large for them. They’ve switched from drowning in rain to drowning in fabric.
Since there’s no way they could move in this, they roll up the sleeves and fold up the hem of the garment between their legs, forming makeshift pants which they secure with a thin ribbon from their furisode.
The result is terribly ugly, but much warmer.
They hang their clothes near the fire and return to their soup.
“Wow, Kalluto, you manage to pull that thing off better than Phinks,” Shalnark jokes. “Then again, the bar is pretty low.”
“Hey!” Phinks says. Feitan, sitting beside him, giggles.
“Hmm, I didn’t know you were so sensitive to comments about fashion, Phinks,” Shalnark adds. He smiles merrily. “Don’t tell me you were planning on wearing that on a date sometime?”
“Bastard!” Phinks shouts, and pushes Shalnark to the ground. Shalnark yelps in surprise, and they tumble around on the floor for a minute. Kalluto watches, spooning soup into their mouth. The two friends aren’t really fighting– that’s prohibited. If there was any intent to harm, Phinks could have ended it immediately. He’s taller, physically stronger, and more suited to close range fighting.
After a few moments of mock wrestling, Shalnark taps out. “I give up, I give up,” he pants. “You’ve always been better at stuff like this.”
The Boss has watched the whole altercation with amusement in his eyes, but he evidently doesn’t feel the need to jump in.
“It’s a traditional robe,” Phinks grumbles, but he backs off and returns to his soup.
“I concede the point,” Shalnark says.
Kalluto finishes their soup and stifles a yawn. “Do we have to save rations?” they ask Machi.
She shakes her head. “No, we’ve got more stuff if needed. Eat your fill.”
Kalluto nods and ladles more soup into their bowl.
After scraping the bottom clean, they place it where the others have placed their bowls– by the door, to be washed in the stream when the rain lets up.
“Hey, Phinks,” Shalnark says. “I got some info recently on a collection of old hieroglyphic tablets. Interested?”
“Really? Yeah, that sounds sick,” Phinks says. “Hey, Fei,” he nudges his friend. “Wanna steal ‘em with me?”
“Tch. Nothing better to do, after mission.”
“Awesome, man. Let’s do it,” Phinks says excitedly.
“I’m going to sleep,” Machi says, sprawling on the floorboards. “Don’t wake me unless it’s important.”
Shizuku’s eyes are drooping. “Me too,” she says.
Franklin’s already sleeping, by the sound of his breathing.
“Let’s all get some rest,” Chrollo says, snuffing out the candles one by one. “Tomorrow, we’re going to have a lot of loot to sort through.”
“Hell yeah,” Phinks mumbles. He relaxes back on the floor not too far from Feitan.
Kalluto unties the ribbon keeping the robe around their legs, letting its length cover their feet with room to spare, almost like a sleeping bag. They lay on the floor, using their arms as a pillow. They’re much better off with Phinks’s robe than they’d be with their own sodden clothes, but the floor is damp and cold. They shiver.
The Boss continues on his rounds, extinguishing the candles until the fire is the only source of light. To Kalluto’s surprise, he stops beside them on his way back to where he’d been sitting. He sheds his coat, the one he tends to wear on missions– calf-length with white fur trim and St. Peter’s Cross on the back– revealing a long-sleeve shirt underneath. Kalluto doesn’t understand until he lays the coat over them, tucking it over their shoulders.
“Boss, it’s your coat,” they protest. It’s practically the emblem of the Head of the Spider, but they’re just a leg, it’s not–
“My decision is final,” he says, then rises and returns to his spot on the floor.
The Boss’s coat is heavy and warm. The fur trim tickles their face. As their surprise fades, they feel comfortable. They won’t question the Boss.
They move a bit so half the coat is underneath them, insulating them from the cold floor and wrapping themself in it like a blanket.
Sleep beckons them into its hazy embrace. Their clothing smells like their friends– the people they trust most in the world, over their own family. Kalluto finds themself surprisingly comfortable. They have the exits of the shack mapped and memorized in case of danger, but they also know they’re surrounded by ten of the most capable Nen users in the world who would respond instantly in case of an attack. Ten people who trust them, too, and want them to rest, and who they know won’t test them or trick them as they sleep. So, as they drift off, listening to the slow breathing of their fellow Spiders, they feel perhaps the most safe they’ve ever felt.