"Luca, what do you think?"
"What do you think I think? Anyone who comes all the way out here just to hand out money is either an idiot or some psycho with an agenda."
"So what do we do?"
"What can we do? Report it. We only get so much money a month as it is—who's gonna risk their neck? Don't play hero, just call it in."
The two black-suited guards at the gate snapped out of their daze and exchanged a look. The jumpier one pulled out his phone and called upstairs.
At the gate, Roy patted Kastro on the shoulder to calm him, and, through 'En', picked up a familiar name from their thoughts—Chrollo.
A cool face with a cross tattoo on his forehead immediately surfaced in his mind.
"Chrollo, what do you think?"
West District, Street 3, Meteor City.
Unlike the other sectors piled high with trash, a corner here had actually been cleared and leveled. On that spot stood a neat little detached house, with a yard ringed by flowers and greenery, trying its hardest to stand apart from the surrounding garbage mountains.
From above, the house stuck out like a sore thumb—visibly declaring the owner's status:
One of the Elders of Meteor City—
The Tenth Elder, "Fake Saint" Berus Raymond.
Berus, now past fifty, had his hair slicked back and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He sat in his study going over this month's production reports from the scrap yards and paper mills he owned, and was already planning to open an injection molding plant using the city's mountain of plastic trash.
When his phone rang, he didn't shoo out the kids who worked around his house sweeping up in exchange for meals: Chrollo, Shalnark, Pakunoda, and the others.
He took the call with a smile and, after listening, turned and asked,
"What do you think, Chrollo?"
Shalnark paused mid-sweep. Pakunoda stopped wiping a vase and looked up.
Chrollo, crouched by the coffee table picking up magazines, straightened his back. He paused to think, then said:
"Boss always tells us—there's no such thing as a free lunch."
His bright eyes reflected Berus's encouraging gaze as he continued,
"If someone wants to come preach and 'give alms' for no reason, I don't believe for a second they're doing it out of pure kindness."
"Seems all that Clean-Up Squad didn't go to waste," Berus chuckled, pushing his glasses up and looking at Chrollo with clear approval. In the boy, it was like he saw his own younger self.
Faced with an extreme survival environment, the kid still stayed cool and thought things through instead of rolling over like livestock waiting for slaughter.
Berus went on,
"I remember there was an episode of Clean-Up Squad about a rapist who pretended to be a preacher. He tricked girls into becoming 'believers' and used 'God's blessing' as an excuse to rape them…"
He closed his ledger and let his gaze pass over Chrollo, Shalnark, and Pakunoda.
Noticing Pakunoda's brows tighten, he continued calmly,
"Here, all we've got are 'trash' and 'people.' If he's coming here to 'give alms,' he's obviously not short on money. That only leaves one thing—people."
"Ah, I get it. They're working with the traffickers!" Shalnark crouched down again, unable to stand the dust in the cracks of the floor, and scraped it out with his fingernail.
Next to him, Pakunoda wrinkled her straight nose and folded her arms, her chest already impressively prominent for a teenage girl—giving her a bit of an office-lady vibe despite her age.
She thought of something and said,
"Sister from the church warned us yesterday to cut back on going out unless we have to—and if we do, to go in groups. She said a few new trafficker crews came in recently."
She glanced at Chrollo, then at Berus.
"Maybe they're thinking the same thing?"
Berus didn't answer right away. Instead he looked at Chrollo again, this time with a hint of testing in his eyes.
Chrollo still had his hair in a childlike bowl cut instead of slicked back like Berus. He kept his face blank.
"Whether they are or not," he said, "we'll find out soon enough if we test them."
He looked up and met Berus's gaze.
"Didn't you say you were negotiating for land on Street 4 with Elder Illya?"
"Those guys are jealous of your 'legit' businesses and jacking up the price. But Street 4's got that abandoned church. If this guy wants to preach and give alms, we let him use it for free—as long as he can handle Bolton."
The Paired Destroyer—Bolton.
Leading a tiger to fight a wolf. Smart brat. Berus looked at Chrollo with growing approval, lit a cigarette and spoke into the phone on speaker.
"You heard all that. We'll do it his way."
Smoke curled up from the study. Berus leaned back in his chair and looked out the window.
Not far from the house was Street 4—"Flesh Street," where the organ-trading business was based.
To steal trade there from Illya and Bolton…
Berus's gaze grew quiet and cold.
"Go in whole," he muttered, "come out in little pieces."
"Yes, sir," said the man on the phone. The call ended.
Berus finished his cigarette and turned back to the kids.
"Extra meal today," he said.
Chrollo, Shalnark, and Pakunoda bowed together, then finished cleaning up and left in high spirits.
Left alone in the study, Berus stared out at the filthy "view" in silence and sighed.
"Still too weak…"
Whether it was him or the 'one behind him,' neither had anyone strong enough to truly stand up to Bolton.
Over the years he'd quietly tried to "invite" Nen users, even spent big to hire Hunters to hold the line. But compared to Bolton, those people didn't even qualify to be snacks. They were chewed up and spat out—far from being a match for him.
And every time Bolton killed, he seemed to get stronger.
Something twisted and brutal about him grew, and with it a crushing sense of despair.
It had cooled Berus's youthful ambition to change Meteor City through normal channels. In the end, he'd been forced to compromise—"renting" Bolton's cooperation for a share of the profits, just to keep his decades-long plan for reform limping along.
He knew full well that trusting men like Bolton and Illya was equivalent to laying his own skin on the chopping block. But what choice did he have?
He was born in Meteor City, with a weak foundation, shaky backing, and no true powerhouse to stand behind him.
Strength was backing. Force was justice. That was all the law you got in a jungle.
The cigarette butt flicked through the air and landed in the ashtray with a hiss.
The door creaked shut behind him.
Shalnark's eyes lit up.
"Should we go watch?" he whispered to Chrollo.
Whether the newcomers were traffickers or real preachers, just the idea of someone walking into Meteor City under the banner of "giving alms" and "spreading the word" was something he'd never heard of in his life. His curiosity was boiling over.
"You want to get yourself snatched and chopped up?" Pakunoda shot him a cold look.
Shalnark grinned and whipped out a pair of binoculars.
"I've got these!"
"Binoculars? Where'd you get those?"
"Duh—found them in the trash, of course!"
He lovingly wiped the lenses.
"Don't tell Uvogin. If he finds out, he'll want to play with them and break them."
"One lens is cracked," he added, "kinda annoying to look through, but you can still see fine."
He turned eagerly to Chrollo.
"So? Are we going?"
Pakunoda tugged Chrollo's sleeve.
The boy stood between them, silent for a few heartbeats. Then he looked through the courtyard toward Street 4 and took a deep breath.
"Sarasa's still looking for the rest of the tapes," he said. "If we don't widen our search, we'll never find them."
Clean-Up Squad was a long-running show: 10 episodes, 20, 30… dozens of volumes of tapes scattered who-knows-where.
Chrollo grabbed Shalnark with one hand and Pakunoda with the other, just like when they performed on the church stage.
"I want to finish performing Clean-Up Squad," he said, smiling. "I want to see everyone laugh."
"And like Boss Berus said… if we can, I want to take everyone outside someday."
"Put on shows, see the world. I want the whole world to know that Meteor City has an amazing troupe too."
Shalnark and Pakunoda both stared at him for a long moment.
Shalnark smiled.
"When we go out," he said, "we're definitely going to Gasland. They say it's the entertainment capital of the world—I've always wanted to see it."
"We'll get the chance," Chrollo said firmly. "We will."
"Then we're watching from here. No going to Street 4," Pakunoda said, pointing west.
There, a giant mountain of garbage loomed—their secret base and treasure-hunting spot. From that height, with Shalnark's binoculars, they could see the gate and the next street over just fine.
"Got it," Chrollo said.
The three of them left the house, heading west.
Back at the gate, having received Berus's orders, the two black-suited guards stepped aside and opened the iron gate.
"Head west and take the first turn," one said. "When you see a big '4', that's Street 4."
"There's an abandoned church there. If you're really up to preaching, go help yourself."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Master," Kastro whispered in Roy's ear, "they were muttering into the phone and waiting for orders. It's probably a setup."
His master had drilled it into him the moment he stepped out into the world: society is dangerous; always keep a spare layer of caution ready.
From Heaven's Arena to Zoldyck mountain, he'd taken that to heart.
And this was Meteor City. He'd already heard from Gotoh just what kind of place this was, and his nerves hadn't relaxed for a second.
"Good," Roy said, smoothing down his collar. "I have you, don't I?"
Warmth bloomed in Kastro's chest.
He thumped a fist against his chest.
"I won't let you down, Master. Unless I'm dead, no one lays a finger on you."
'Notice: Faithful "Kastro"—Loyalty +1'
Roy patted him on the shoulder, satisfied.
"Let's go."
"Yes, sir."
They stepped past the gate, and, in that instant, Kastro got his first real look at what it meant to be the world's trash heap.
Mountains of garbage on all sides, piled high enough to scrape the sky. A choking stench mixed with swarms of buzzing insects. Compared to Kukuroo Mountain, this place was a ring of hell.
"Master, a mask."
Kastro quickly pulled out a face mask and handed it over. Gotoh had packed plenty for them before they left, more than enough for a long stay.
Roy accepted it and let his gaze roam.
He saw yellow-skinned, stick-thin people, adults looking like kids, kids nothing but skin and bone.
Then his eyes drifted west, to a garbage mountain towering dozens of meters high.
Atop it, three small heads poked out, watching.
He put on the mask and turned away, walking slowly toward the Street 4 the guards had pointed them to.
On the pile, Chrollo muttered,
"Sharp," he said. "Very sharp."
Even at this distance of several hundred meters, that stranger had glanced straight at them.
Chrollo lowered the binoculars.
"What is it?" Pakunoda asked.
"I think he spotted us," Chrollo said quietly.
"Not 'think'—definitely," Shalnark said, looking through the binoculars again.
Through the cracked lens, he met Kastro's sharp gaze from across the piles of trash and flinched.
"Those two feel just like Bolton," he said.
He remembered sneaking to the edge of Street 4 once, scrounging for game consoles, and feeling Bolton's eyes land on him from hundreds of meters away. Only running fast had saved his life.
Shalnark lowered the binoculars, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Pakunoda, Chrollo—this is gonna be good," he said.
Chrollo said nothing. Pakunoda looked from him to the distant figures with a complicated expression.
Taking turns with the binoculars, they watched Roy and Kastro.
The pair approached a gray, spired church, long abandoned.
No sooner did they arrive at the front steps than black-suited men swarmed out, quickly encircling them.
Then, with a long creak, the weather-worn double doors swung inward.
Inside, the prayer hall stretched into shadow.
At the very back, in the center aisle, a handsome young man with a wicked smile was sawing into a piece of medium-rare steak.
"What do you want?" he asked casually.
"Rent a place. Give alms," Roy replied.
"Didn't catch that."
"Rent a building. Preach. Distribute aid."
"So you're loaded?"
"Praise the Sun," Roy said mildly. "I have some resources."
He smiled as he spoke.
On the trash pile, Shalnark nearly dropped the binoculars.
In the prayer hall, the handsome youth—Bolton—chewed noisily. On the backs of his hands, the sun and moon were branded in a mirrored pair.
He grinned slowly, narrowing his eyes to slits.
"So you're here to 'give,'" he said.
"If you can give things away, you must have a lot."
He leaned forward, interest gleaming.
"So, 'Reverend,'" he said softly, "how about you start by giving something… to me?"
A rifle bolt clicked. Blades and iron rods glinted as the men in black tightened their circle.
Bolton's expression hardened.
"Grab 'em," he snapped. "Cut the money out of 'em. Chop up the bodies and sell the parts."
"As for his brain—"
He curled his lip.
"Hell, anyone dumb enough to come to Meteor City to 'aid' this trash…"
"Probably didn't use it much anyway."
"Just toss it."
~~~
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