Title: Tutu from Hell
Author: Pixie
Fandom: GetBackers
Summary: Akabane dons an...unusual costume.
Notes: I was tired of waiting for the crack to be brought to me, so I'm bringing the crack. If this wasn't GetBackers and/or Akabane, I'm sure it would be beyond crack and straight into – what is after crack? Overdose? Brain damage? Rehab? Pure drug-induced madness? But it is GB, and it is Akabane, so as it stands it is merely crack.
On a completely different note, this is my first time writing GB (anime-verse, by the way) so please forgive me.
Ban felt as if he had walked into a very strange, very bad dream, and vaguely he hoped that in sixty seconds exactly the whole illusion would shatter, that he had accidentally put the Jagan on himself while adjusting the rear view mirror or something. Even the horrid traffic accident that would result from that had to be better than this being reality.
This being, at least for the moment, Jackal in the Honky Tonk, dressed in full-on lavender ballet getup. At least, Ban assumed it was full-on – Jackal didn't do things by half-measures, and he'd look pretty stupid without it – but at the moment, his attention was arrested by The Tutu.
The thing certainly deserved the definite article as well as both the capital letters. A giant mass of frothy violet tulle adorned the Doctor's narrow waist, the top graced with a web of shimmering lilac sequins and detailed in elaborate silver embroidery. The stiffened layers of mesh were fully eight inches tall altogether, and the edges were enhanced by those same sequins. There were also feathers. Feathers dyed varying hues of purple.
With some effort, Ban dragged his eyes away from the train wreck of a – clothing article? accessory? fashion statement? Not tutu, Ban was sure it was a crowning glory of tutus, but he finally went with 'horrific sight' – he dragged his eyes away from the horrific sight, finally, and up to Jackal's face. Which was surprisingly clear of the hair that normally obscured it, said hair being currently tied away by the tight bun adorning the top of the transporter's head. Ban blinked, not exactly surprised, so to speak, but surprised he wasn't more surprised. He supposed he was still in shock from the monstrosity.
Well, he might as well get an explanation out of Jackal while he was still cushioned behind a barrier of trauma-reaction. The reason behind all this was likely almost as bad as the outfit.
"Jackal?" Ban asked slowly, since no one else in the now-silent room seemed inclined to. "Why, exactly, are you decked out like a Swan Lake refugee?"
The other man smiled in that implacable way of his, granting as answer the graceful folding of his hands – still white-gloved, Ban noticed absently – on top of the layers of fabric protruding from his waist. What was disturbing was it held them up.
It was left to Himiko, standing silent and unnoticed behind her sometimes-partner, to offer up the first verbal explanation. "He's getting too good at what he does."
Ban transferred his dubious eye to Himiko. "And the Tutu from Hell helps him how?" he asked, skepticism heavy in his tone.
Himiko snorted. "You have obviously never danced en pointe," she told him. But it was Akabane who clarified, as if now that the gates had been breached it was acceptable.
"It tests my balance and coordination, not to mention endurance, to remain, as Lady Poison puts it, en pointe for the entirety of my little duels. It teaches new strengths to different muscle groups. See?" And he lifted one shapely leg elegantly coated in sheer nylon (tinged mauve, Ban noticed with a detached sort of horror) to reveal the toe box. He put the foot back down and effortlessly leaped into pointe position, walking around as if he did this every day.
"And, of course, I cannot have shoes without an outfit to match, as Miss Himiko so kindly said," the man continued, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. To Jackal, it probably was. "Unfortunately, all the roles for pointe dancers are female, so I had to wear this. It's quite charming after a while, isn't it?"
As the transporter bourrée-d over to Ginji – (who'd reverted to chibi out of reflex, but was still as any doll out of bewilderment) Ban sidled over to Himiko and hissed into her ear. "This was your idea?"
Himiko frowned. "It was supposed to be a joke! I thought he'd do it for a few hours, a day or two at most, just to see. You should have seen him when we ran into that gang outside the store, though. First step he took he fell flat. Still slaughtered them all. You should have seen his face. I swear he doesn't even take those damn shoes off to sleep."
With dawning horror, Ban asked, "You mean he goes around like this? In public?" When Himiko nodded, he asked desperately, "How long?"
Himiko shrugged. "A few weeks now? I think he's going on a month."
Ban growled in despair and turned resolutely toward the bar. That meant that not only did their mission involve Akabane, it involved Akabane. Clad like that. All the time.
God, Ban needed a shot.
As if the deity was listening, lo and behold, something alcoholic was pushed in front of his face. "On the house," Paul said, face slightly pale and eyes wide behind his glasses. Ban gratefully drank it down.
"Weeks, Himiko says," he told the owner. "Almost a month, maybe."
Quickly, Paul scooped away the shot glass and pressed the bottle into his hands instead. "For the road."
A parting scary thought: The Tutu from Hell (the one Akabane wears, not the ficlet itself) is based on one my babysitter had when I was about seven. I thought it was the height of - whatever the word is for something like that. Extravagance? Bourgeois? No, actually. My dancer friend informs me that she's seen worse.