T I T L E : Cruelty and the Beast
C H A P T E R : Showtime
A U T H O R : ViviBell
R A T I N G : T - Mugen's poor language. Sorry for the potty-mouth.
S P O I L E R S : Yush. Takes place after the series has ended.
P A I R I N G S : MugenxFuu
S U M M A R Y : Its show time.
D I S C L A I M E R : Don't own Samurai Champloo or any of its characters. Pft. D'you think I'd be here if I owned Mugen? xD
They headed off straight after they were given the directions, much to Fuu's distress
They headed off straight after they were given the directions, much to Fuu's distress. She whined, she moaned and she stamped her foot like a little infant and even sat down in the middle of a busy street, but Mugen did not even grace her with any form of attention – he pretended like she did not even exist. His steel will was put to the test as the girl played all her irritating cards.
The directions were made easy by the mass flow of people heading towards one situate. The wealthy carrier owners fanned into the main road on their way; elegantly dressed for the occasion. Theatre had blossomed in this time and for the Satsuma residents, it was an event to celebrate. That was what Fuu had derived from the situation. Since she had grown up in a small town and had settled in another peaceful village, theatre was limited to a few street performances and a traveling crew once in a blue moon. Nonetheless, her lack of experience did not mean she did not feel the thrill of attending such a grand affair. Her fingers tingled with anticipation. The dread of her attending this prearranged event was minimized by the waves of excitement that gripped her limbs when she saw the hoards of animated crowds and the radiance of what looked like hundreds of lit lanterns glowing around the bend of the street.
"Mugen, this is so beautiful," she breathed, unwittingly growing closer to her companion until her delicate hands brushed against him, almost threading itself along side his own fingers. Mugen's indifference was rocked by the small gesture. His mask was fractured by the twitch of his eyebrow and the subtle sidelong glance he gave to Fuu. She was unperturbed and did not notice how her hands brushed against the bandit's. In an instance they were retracted; tiny hands which had flushed pink from excitement, coming up to pull the pair of chopsticks that held up her hair.
"I've got to look better," she told herself out loud, while fixing her sights on the groomed company they had found themselves in.
Mugen simply snorted in response to what he believed would be a futile to improve her appearance.
"Please, like it would do anything to help you."
If Mugen was not a stubborn person, he would have betted otherwise. If Mugen was not a stubborn person he would have conceded to defeat and admitted that when Fuu's hair bounced down from its restrains, that he glanced over in her direction. Had he thrown his pride out the window, Mugen would have told her she looked pretty. Nonetheless, he huffed and pushed forwards while Fuu fiddled with her chocolate hair.
"Stupid girl."
When the pair of them finally pushed into the opening of the theatre, even Mugen forgot his pride and apathetic opinion of the upper-class as they were engulfed by caliber of their surroundings. Crab and Satsuma's renowned fish-stock dishes littered the tables though there were noticeable patches where the guests had consumed the dishes. They were supposed to have arrived earlier to eat, nonetheless, the loss of food did not deter Mugen – he was more desperate than ever to gorge himself on the remains.
Fuu held her hands close to her lips and surveyed the scene. There were so many people in one area that she became nervous, no longer impressed by their jewelry or fancy clothing. She looked for a familiar face, though she knew she would never find one. In her mind she could only see the shape of the woman in the bar; those heavy robes and rouged lips burned into her thoughts.
"I don't think we should be here," she said quickly. "This could be a trap, or that person could want to hurt you in some way."
Turning around when she did not receive Mugen's reassuring – yet generally oppressive - response to her fears, her eyes caught his form buried within two pairs as he forced himself to a table, shoving handfuls of food into his mouth. The vagabond looked possess as he guzzled down the small portions of sake before ramming a few prawns and rice pads into his mouth with no interest of sampling the flavors on his tongue. The disappointed glowers he received from their affluent company was enough to force Fuu to draw herself close to Mugen and pull him by his fluffy black mane back to the center of the reception room, before promptly grabbing an ear for a better grip.
"What are you doing you, baka?" she growled into the ear she was holding, giving an extra hard squeeze on the bone. Mugen howled in distress.
"You flake!" was the only retort he could come to as he concentrated on the searing pain. It felt as if he had poured boiling hot water all over his face from the vice like grip the little minx held him by.
Regardless of his moaning, Fuu dragged her partner to the reception, angrily handing her tickets to the doorman before slipping inside to find their first class seats. She could hear the utterances of displeasure from other the gentry, but she silenced most of them with a heartfelt glare. With Mugen squirming in her grasp and the aristocrats snubbing them, Fuu was not a happy camper. On top of it all, there was the sinking sensation of dread weighing her down as she pressed onwards, shoving Mugen onto the seat with her following gracefully onto the chair next to him. In a flash, his hands were fighting to touch every inch of his abused ear. It throbbed and burned with a fury, yet it was a smoldering flame in comparison to the inferno of his rage from being torn from his meal by a silly little infant.
"You bitch!" Mugen growled, having to clench his earlobe in fear of letting go and ringing Fuu's skinny neck. She was unperturbed by the tone of his voice and fiddled with her hair, arranging each strand in accordance with her simple parting. "Why the hell do'you do that for?"
"You looked like a rabid pig, Mugen," Fuu replied with a twitch of her brows as she recalled the image of the urchin bent over the table grasping for food and drinks. "It is positively undignified. You were lucky that I stopped you before you got us thrown out!"
"They wouldn't have," Mugen began, ready to defend his point as always.
"And what if they did? Some job you'd have."
The reminder of his mission silenced Mugen in a heartbeat. He recoiled and dropped his hands from his wounded ear. It continued to burn, however, the pain neutralized the anger that simmered within him. He pouted, and folded his back into the plush chair.
"They wouldn't have dared…" Mugen grumbled dejectedly, distracted from his whining as the lantern lights glimmered and the room became dark. The show had begun.
Like a dog on the prowl, Mugen propped himself up; alert and enlivened as he stared down into the stage. The masses of people that filled the theater were dark specks gilded by the lights that seeped from the stage and the members that shared the upper floors with them, faded into the backdrop.
Cautiously, Mugen rolled his eyes to the side, watching Fuu.
She nibbled on her lips in excitement, and peered down expectantly over the waves of heads spread out beneath them. Her small arms propped her over the rail that contained them, while her legs fidgeted and shuffled beneath her small frame to find a comfortable position.
Mugen was careful not to allow a pronounced grin to slip onto her lips. The sight of Fuu enjoying herself was not something he should find pleasurable in any sense of the word.
"I cannot wait to see this," she murmured to Mugen. Her head was inclined towards him; nonetheless, she could not bear to tear her eyes from the scene that would unfold.
Women were easily distracted, Mugen decided. One moment Fuu was abusing him, the next, enveloped by her next fixation.
"It is about forty-seven warriors, Fuu: It's bloody, gory, and… bloody. I don't think you'll wan'na really see this."
"I don't care. I love the theater."
Mugen was sure that the girl had only been to the theater twice in her life and on both occasions he was present. However, he could not find it within him to point that out to her.
"You would much rather see some other romantic play with your boyfriend, ne?" Mugen reminded. Fuu gave no outward response. "I bet you would rather be somewhere other than the theater if you were with him-"
"Shush," Fuu said timidly, brushing her fingertips against his arm. Again, her eyes never left the stage and her fingers were placed back onto her lap. "The show is about to start."
It did not start for another ten minutes. But they didn't talk. They had no need to words or idle prattle.
The story was indeed gory within points. Stories that had death, violence and suicide within them were generally considered as such to the innocent Fuu. It was the sadness however, that got to her – the dedication of the forty-seven ronin samurai to their departed master that touched Fuu. The action was vivid; the moments tender, and Fuu understood why the tickets were so rare a find. Around her, she could hear the distant sobs of women as men were killed and order restored. Fuu was not among them. The death and destruction that ensued prevented her from bleeding tears like the rest of them.
Rather, she observed the show in perfect silence, even when the forty-seven ronin were made to kill themselves for the crime of honoring their master.
Mugen had been impressed by her strong stomach. There was brilliant fighting which had him tingling to pull out his sword purely to hear the slice of metal against its sheath; for the surge of power and adrenaline that pulsed through him whenever he held his weapon in his hand. Mugen was glad when the lights dimmed and the odd rustle could be heard from the stage. Being cooped up in one location for so long made him long for the outdoors, and coupled with the excitement of the fighting, he was determined to leave the theater and practice his swordplay. However, there was one last surprise in store.
On stage, the music started. The live performers were no longer bashing on o-daiko drums and playing frantic music from the heat of battle. A sweet melody lifted from the nokhan flutes and the shamisen. Mugen was surprised that he was engrossed by such a frail melody and that his conscience was tugged from searching the rows of people for his victim, to turning towards the stage. The lithe frame draped in the finest silks one could use for the kimono, swayed on stage like a bird. Its graceful arm gestures were in perfect sync with the playing degatari and Mugen from his place could not hear its clothes ruffle from its movements. He felt his breath caught in his chest as he remembered, but could not recall. He saw ideas, memories, which he could not be sure was real; which he could not accept were real without the comfort of him being asleep. Mugen threaded his hands through his hair and blocked it out (she is dancing again and he feels her rush into her arms in a fit of giggles, "I am leaving, Mugen.") and yet, he sees her when he opens his eyes, dancing on the stage before him. The melody is just like the one she hummed to her fragile movements; the dance she had always dreamed to perform on stage when she was still a girl.
He could feel Fuu's eyes burning holes into the side of his face, but there was nothing to say – nothing he could do in self-defense. It was all too sudden for him to mask his surprise.
"Mugen, are you okay?" Fuu was touching him again, tracing the lining of bone of his clenched fist tenderly. Her concern intensified when Mugen did nothing.
"Mugen… Mugen, what's wrong," she whispered with a tug on his finger. "You're scaring me, you dope…"
"That dancing girl…"
"Dancing boy," she reminded him gently. "Girls are not allowed to the theater."
He saw it now: the jaw that was too sharp; the nose that was too large. He oozed masculinity from his broad shoulders with no due compensation made for his breasts. The kimono was tight in all the wrong places, and yet, he continued to lean over the banister with his eyes flickering at every motion as if to capture it in memory. The heart sees what it wants to see – and he saw the scrawny little girl that abandoned him on the island.
The dance was finished before Mugen could appreciate it, and he sighed as he was deprived of the hypnotizing music and the complimenting dancer.
The lights of the lanterns were lit once more, and the theater was at last, drowned in the gentle glow of the candles. A gentleman was poised in the center of the stage, and his hands were raised in the direction of one of the private booths that ran adjacent to ones own. Mugen leaned forward to hear the softly-spoken man, though his eyes watched as the dancer slipped behind the reels of curtain to the backstage.
"To our honoured guest… om… we have dedicated… short piece… to… hu… work. From Nu theater… we… present our dance…"
"What did he say?" Mugen snapped at Fuu. His instincts were stimulated by the interval. For some reason, he felt this was it – this was what he was supposed to listen to; as if the announcement was dedicated to him instead. Nonetheless, everyone had their head turned away from Mugen into the booth picked by the presenter. He soon was attracted by the sudden movement of someone in one of the private seats. She rose, along with her handmaids behind her and bowed her head deeply – more than a woman of her caliber should. Her dark hair came tumbling in front of her face before she brought herself to full height. Her eyes were brimming with warmth and gratitude as she held the presenter's gaze, and her sincere smile was testament to the depth of appreciation she felt.
"Thank you, so very much," she said. Her voice was soft, but carried throughout the theater. "My husband would be most grateful for your tribute." The host bowed in response and with that, the audience began to shuffle and disperse from their seats. Only Mugen remained seated and Fuu beside him. Like a hawk, he followed the woman's movements as she turned from the stage, half her face buried in her hand while she stood. He noted how her face was streaked with moisture, and her eyes were red from tears which had been stopped for the short thank you. She was paralyzed to the spot though there was nothing in her way. Her handmaids were huddled before her, patiently.
"Nekomi-san, we must be going home. Your carrier is outside the backroom."
"Ah, yes, I must have forgotten myself, again," she said with a friendly smile. Composed next to the tears which had yet to fully dry from her eyes, she looked stronger than one could imagine. Her brave grin and welcoming demeanor erased the traces of concern from her handmaids' faces and they parted to the sides to allow their mistress to pass ahead of them.
Mugen rose toot-suit from his chair and pushed past Fuu blindly. She yelped in defense and yelled for Mugen's return, nonetheless, in the haze of his unconscious behavior he slipped through the entrance without a word. She lingered behind out of confusion, but soon sped after Mugen when the certainty of her being alone overcame her uncertainty over his behavior.
It was a difficult passing. Mugen made no apologies as he fought his way through the closing waves of people; pushing past men and women that walked together as if they were joined at the hip to reach the entrance of the theater. It was when the warm blast of air hit him as he stumbled into the street did Mugen stop to dwell on the situation. He reviewed what he saw – of a girl dancing, of a woman crying – and failed to distinguish between the two. In a rage he slammed the heel of his palm against his forehead and cursed. He knew somehow, somewhere, that it was stupid – that he should turn back, and yet, he was running into the dark alcoves of the alleyway in search for the back passage that he had heard mentioned in the conversation. His geta clicked angrily against an even path as he leapt over rubbish and unearthed stones in search for his prize; his memory. As he approached the light at the end of the alley he could hear girlish laughter and the resonance of excited speech. When the time came to round the corner the view of the small one-person carrier came into view; the two aforementioned handmaids flanking each side of the opening. Their mistress came elegantly down from the theater towards them, with her head bowed and her fingers intertwined in reels of her silken kimono. It was her. It had to be her. What drove him to run towards her, Mugen could not understand. He felt a desire to prove his illusions wrong; to erase the past from his present. It could be said that it was his motive; however, more than that, it was the thought of being incorrect that had him bounding towards the woman with his hands reaching for the luminous surface of her skin and the vibrant surface of her clothing.
Everything slowed except his mind. His motor functions were determined to touch her; to hurt, while his eyes absorbed the sight of her handmaids with their mouths open wide as saucers and the surprised look of their lady as her bright eyes held his in a cradling embrace. But it was over in seconds. There was a clunk, and the pair of jade hued eyes faded behind a sinking darkness that painted over his line of sight. Sound finally returned to him before his senses failed. The screams of pain droned in his mind, followed by the whisper of a gasp from the woman – from Nekomi; from the little girl. Then nothing.
Just nothing.
N O T E S : Wow! Exams are finished and I think I shall dedicate some more time to fulfill the requests of my reviews! Thank you all for your support and wow – 50 subscribers to the story and over 8700 hits! Damn! Thank you thank you thank you!
Now. Songs that inspired were all pretty mellow music – All I Need, Radiohead, and Blue, by A Perfect Circle were the most notable.
Well, coming up…
The story title: Nekomi. ; Lets keep it simple, aye?