Work Text:
Killua had been designed to be perfect.
Well, not designed, per se, although he personally felt that his parents basically tailoring him into the perfect assassin would count. After all, who wanted to have their entire life planned out for them?
But Killua had been moulded to be the best of the best, and, honestly? he didn't mind. It was exciting, and being at the top of the food chain was a perfect place, a predator in every sense of the word.
For, at that point, Killua realised he was more monster than human.
There was no denying that Killua was no mere mortal; he was practically omnipotent as he took on the role of a wildcat playfully stalking their prey, enjoying their discomfort.
Killua was more animal than human; his predatory eyes scanned each room with a killer's gaze, coolly assessing everyone, their weaknesses, their strengths, the hidden corners of the buildings and its creaky rafters, his eyes storing more and more information with every flick of his eyes. He was perceptive in a distinctly cool way- he was detached, almost, from everything, he didn't see humans, he saw targets, he saw threats, he saw the blood in their necks that would gush out the moment his claws grazed it, he saw the way they would flinch and writhe the moment he dragged his claws into their skin, tearing out chunks of it, saw how the blood would dye his hands and leave streaks across his face, a canvas in a twisted abstract painting. He heard their screams, felt their blood stick to his skin as it dried, leaving scarlet blemishes on his eerily pale skin.
And after that cursory glance, he began assessing everything else: how their psyche worked, how they'd escape and how fun it would be to hunt them down and see the fear multiply as their last gasp of air gets cut off, figuring out the most effective way to make his job a little more entertaining and a lot less messy, using sharper claws, quicker steps, always more, always a few meters ahead, taunting them with their failures.
Although assassins were meant to be professional and not-so-malicious, he lived for the rush of the kill, lived for that greed only satisfied by his power over victims, and loved moulding himself into shadow before boldly stepping up with his feline-like agility and one swift movement.
Game over.
No rematch, no apologies, nothing.
A swift chop, a quick kick, a reach into the canyon that was one's chest and it's all over.
But it gets boring sometimes, when he can't channel his electricity or use the techniques he was forced to learn, so he picks a challenge; not minding how his mouth fills with the sticky, metallic taste of blood that he spits out, as his eyes glow with a deadly strength and that fear and adrenaline pumps through the prey's audible heartbeat. He enjoys feeling that stinging whip of electricity lashing against his skin because he can ignore it, what with the adrenaline, that sharp instinct kicking him into overdrive, sharpening him into the perfect blade.
And he can't stop that feeling from happening, he hates that he enjoys playing the predator, groomed to be used to it by Illumi.
"Kil, listen here-"
"You're an assassin, Kil. Your feelings are redundant."
"Come here, Kil."
"Can't you see you're being unreasonable, Kil?"
"Kil, here's your targets, think you can handle them?"
"Kil, I thought I told you to stop it- "
"Kil, please-"
"No, Kil-"
"Stop it, Kil-"
"Kill them, Kil-"
"Why, you've grown up now, little Kil-"
Kil, Kil, Kil, come here, Kil, listen, Kil, Kil, don't be childish, Kil, Kil-
Kill .
Killua's hand twitches, itching to unleash their claws, the mere thought of the order triggering a reaction.
It's not… okay.
It's not okay to hunt for the sport, or use innocent lives as mere toys, but people's lives were his dollhouse, and that he could do whatever he well pleased with them.
He could, but he shouldn't.
But how could he not enjoy it, holding the heart of a dying man above him, or pressing one's face into the dirt in a mocking manner, or going in for a killing strike with his claws?
It sickened him, how his reflection painted the numerous blood splatters back onto his skin, the bruises that have ought to have faded long ago, the scars left by torture training, things that he'll see in the shower and frantically try to scrub away, before his hands find his hair and clamp there, his mouth opened in a silent scream, a prayer for help as unimaginable, nightmarish scenes appeared behind his eyes.
Illumi.
The name always got stuck in his throat when he inspected a certain scars- his body was a scrapbook made out of actual scrap. Those were from Milluki, but these dents were from Illumi's death grip. That was from Illumi strapping him to a table and burning him. The lighter parts around his ankles and wrists were from him being chained up so frequently. The pinpricks on his neck was where Illumi's needle had pierced him when he refused to shut up. And the lashes… they were everywhere, an infinity's worth of them; each time the whip had been held by a different brother.
It was fine though- Killua could bear the pain, it didn't hurt him.
What did hurt him was the fact he could never fight back with Illumi.
He hated the fact that he was always the prey with Illumi; a single word, or even a glance from his elder brother and he froze instantly, be it for a second, a minute or several minutes, there was always that frightened instinct to just stay still.
Still. Quiet. Compliant.
Always, always , holding back the screams that latched onto the edges of his throat, and his shaking body that forced him to be paralysed under Illumi's razor sharp glare. Still, as Illumi's hand caressed his cheek, rubbing his thumb in what ought to have been a calming motion. Quiet, as Illumi's warning glare caused him to clam up quickly, always taking a step back and ducking his head. Compliant, as Illumi ordered him to kill off some innocents as practice, and Killua blindly followed, a doll used by a puppeteer.
The thought of disobeying never crossed his mind during those instances; only afterwards did the words and hatred bubble up, only afterwards did he blankly stare at his bloody hands as a solitary tear fell down his face, only afterwards did Killua feel like he could move again, away from Illumi's piercing glare and deceivingly gentle words.
It was the one battle he could never win.
So instead he finds a random tree to perch on, acting nonchalant as he bites into an apple, even if he doesn't even like them that much, but it distracts him from the illusion of blood caked between his fingers, sticking onto odd places on his arm, onto his face- more than once, he rubbed on it, trying to rid himself of the nonexistent blood.
But Killua had been designed to be perfect, so he simply locks everything back up once more, even without Illumi's influence, and hops down from his tree, shaking back a few strands of silver hair, and slips back into his hyper-alert state, his eyes flicking everywhere calmly, confidently walking away with that cautious spring in his step and tense muscles ready to lash out at anyone.
Killua swallows down the bile and iron that ricochets up as he thinks about his next target, and tries not to think too much about how he would break them just yet, tries not to think about how he'd draw out the terror in their eyes and futile pleadings and how the blood would drip ever so slowly from their wounds, slower than the tears that sprung unceremoniously from their eyes.
Because Killua had been designed to be perfect, and he hated it.