Particle 02: Tradition. Matchmaker. Vodka.
"Itsssss -- bloody cold no daaaaa…."
Alucard looked up from examining his gun for the countless-teenth time that evening and looked at Chichiri out of the corner of his eyes. "Cast some sort of a warmth barrier."
Chichiri was shaking uncontrollably underneath his cloak, which more and more was beginning to prove itself too thin for sub-arctic winters. The sun had set an hour ago. The hour was feeling plural.
Chichiri shrugged the mantle off of his right shoulder with several vibrating jerks and shakily reached for his staff, which was now covered in a layer of ice and frozen solid to the roof. He withdrew his hand back into his cloak, carefully scooted around so that he was facing the staff, and began to kick at it. He wished feverously that he did not wear Chinese slippers without socks. The cold was utterly torturous on his ankle and the top of his foot.
Not to mention that the slippers themselves were made of thin cloth, along with the rest of his clothes.
Chichiri glanced at Alucard's long, carmine coat enviously and continued to kick doggedly at his staff. If it came dislodged he might have a chance at warming himself in some sort of a bubble, and then getting some sleep. His body was demanding rest.
Why didn't I think of this earlier, no da? he mentally hissed. Chichiri, baka na no da. Learn to think with your head in reality for once no da.
Tasuki would be useful at a time like this. Not only did he keep his tessen around, but he always had plenty of sake or whatever local alcoholic drink in his hip flask. Though Chichiri tried to avoid alcohol, it had its warming qualities.
"Alcohol doesn't warm you at all, Monk. It places you under that delusion while making your body temperature drop."
Chichiri glared at Alucard out of the corner of his eyes and continued kicking. His breath was sending dense, pearly clouds into the frosty air.
Damn vampire with damn telepathy no da.
The staff wasn't budging. Chichiri's leg had all of the strength of a rubber glove at the moment. Even when he was trying to hold it still, it shook uncontrollably, racking the knee. He quickly withdrew his leg back into his cloak and hugged himself as tightly as he could without bruising any internal organs.
"Um… Alucard…"
The Casull fired. Chichiri winced into his cloak, half expecting to feel his own head detach at the base of his neck. It didn't.
Chichiri cautiously looked over the rim of his cloak. There was a neat furrow through the ice on top of his staff, breaking it into gritty chunks. Alucard was once again concentrating on his gun.
"Thanks no da."
Chichiri reached out of his cloak, shuddering at the touch of the frigid air on his wrist and hand, and snatched the staff to himself. Bits of ice scattered down his shirt. He winced and frantically brushed it off.
"Thanks. I'm going to make a warmth bubble, if that's all right with you no da. Do you need in?"
"I don't feel cold." Alucard looked down the barrel of the Casull. "Why didn't you do this earlier, Monk?"
Shut up. "Good night no da."
Chichiri awkwardly manipulated his staff with numbed hands so that the butt touched the frozen ground between his legs. He tapped the ground once. A warm, orange bubble crackled into being around him and glowed softly.
Aaaaaah, this is good no da. The bubble was blissfully warm. Chichiri shrugged off his cloak and winced as blood began to flow back into the extremities of his limbs. The pain would follow shortly. He laid his staff across his crossed legs and looked at the refracted image of the outside world through the orange haze.
"Arctic stars are beautiful no da."
"Hm."
Chichiri sighed and curled up on his side in the bubble. The staff fell off his folded legs and rolled beside him, stopping on the axis of the head ornament and falling back flat. The ice was going to melt soon, he knew, and he would wake up in a puddle. He picked up the staff and tapped a one-way drainage hole on the downward slope of the roof. The water would escape. Heat would not.
"Night no da."
Alucard did not respond. Chichiri sighed and pulled his mantle over his shoulders. He fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
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The exhausted are often blessed with dreamless sleep. Such was Chichiri's case. Such was a good case, for dreams in NeXus were often more exhausting than being awake.
The first thing that Chichiri heard since his own voice bidding Alucard good night the previous evening, therefore, startled him and alerted him beyond any doubt that he was no longer in the blissful void of Morpheus. There were times when he could have sworn that the void whispered that there was no spoon, but it was not one of those nights.
Something clanked onto the side of the roof. There was the slight pressure of somebody climbing up a ladder, then the momentary release, then somebody stepping lightly onto the surface.
Chichiri opened his eyes. He was lying side down on the damp thatch, still in his bubble of warmth. He sat up, grabbed his staff, and pulled his crumpled cloak back around his shoulders.
Through the orange haze of the bubble he could make out the figure of a tall, slim boy carrying a violin – was it a violin? He couldn't tell – in his hand, bow threaded through his fingers and sticking out at an angle from the instrument. The boy looked surprised.
Well, no shit no da, he walks onto a roof and there's a vampire and a man in a glowing bubble no da. I'm surprised the kid isn't pulling a shotgun out of nowhere to blow our heads off already no da.
Chichiri waved his hand. The bubble collapsed around him, allowing the gust of icy air that had been waiting patiently for him to remerge so as to commence its attack. Chichiri cursed at it under his breath.
"Um… Mazeltov no da."
--------------
And who the hell is this kid? Alucard looked up at the newcomer through the clear space between the top of his sunglasses and the brim of his hat. The kid looked vaguely familiar, obviously a CLAMP issue, and appeared vaguely lost. There was a look about him that suggested a good brainwashing and implanting into odd clothes. Alucard suspected that the fiddle had been shoved into the kid's hands while he was still out of it.
Fiddle -- waitaminute FIDDLE?!
"Um… Mazeltov no da," Chichiri said weakly behind him.
The kid nodded. Alucard cursed vehemently under his breath. Fiddle. Russia. Fiddle. Russia. Goddamit.
"Monk, do you watch many musicals?"
"Um… not many no da."
The fiddler nodded sagely to the pair, smiled, and lifted his instrument to his shoulder. He began to play a torturously familiar song. The notes carried clearly across the air.
There was a moment of silence.
Chichiri, it appeared, was still wondering why the kid was not asking any questions about the mysterious trespassers or the disappearing bubble of warmth. He stared at the kid for a moment, then began to work his mouth as if trying to form his words around an idea.
"What, Monk?" Alucard snapped. This blows this blows oh man…
Chichiri swallowed his words into formation. "…it's Kinomoto Touya from CCS no da. One of my seiyuu buddies no da!"
"C-C-what?"
"Cardcaptor Sakura. Sorry no da."
"Oh, yes, that," Alucard said dryly. He looked over the tops of his sunglasses at Chichiri. "Do you know exactly what sort of shit we've gotten ourselves into?"
"That one was also on the tip of my tongue no da."
"Familiar with a musical entitled Fiddler on the Roof?"
The Fiddler continued to play the slow, almost mournful tune. Chichiri thought for a moment.
"Oh yeah. I had a feeling that was what this was no da."
"And I suppose you liked it, did you?"
"I thought it was sweet. I cried my eyes out no da."
"What a surprise." Alucard glared at the Fiddler's back. Almost anything that made emotional Mr. Monk cry was something that would make Alucard retch.
"So this kid's not the Fiddler, is he?"
"Apparently, he is now, no da."
"But I mean as you know him."
"No, no da."
"I see." Alucard thought for a moment. There was one person he knew insane and annoying enough to pull this sort of stunt out of nowhere--with the power to do so--, and he did not want to deal with him at the moment. He had been wary of the psycho ever since he had asked Alucard to 'say something dirty' into a high-end Dictaphone.
They're going to start singing soon. I think I will blow my eardrums out with Jackal.
The Fiddler was still playing, seemingly oblivious to the increasingly irritated Nosferatu with two very large handguns at his feet. Alucard glared up at the Fiddler before returning to his brooding.
"This would be a lovely time to get the fuck out of here, Monk."
"The ban's still up no da."
Alucard opened his mouth to hiss something incoherent but roughly translating to 'You will get me the HELL out of here, MONK MAN, or I will make your innards come out your mouth.'
He was cut off before the implication of 'HELL' escaped.
"A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, nah?" a deep voice said below on the frozen ground.
Alucard twitched and pulled his hat low over his eyes.
"It's Jet! Hey, it's Jet no da! Jet's Tevye no da!"
"Good for Jet," Alucard said acidly. He leaned back against the chimney, crossed one leg over his knee, and pulled his hat lower. Quite frankly, this was beginning to give him the creeps.
"Faye! Oh, Faye no da! Faye must be Golde! …."
-------------
There was a rousing rendition of "Tradition" involving a full cast of assorted characters.
There was some dialogue that Alucard missed and Chichiri followed with rapt attention.
Chichiri and Alucard were still sitting on the roof waiting for something to happen. Chichiri knew that if this followed the play, the girls would sing "Matchmaker" soon. He wanted to see which girl played which character, and so match up which males played their love interests.
Alucard didn't give a damn and just wanted to leave.
"You are absolutely no fun no da," Chichiri said, pacing and spinning around the roof as if performing "Tradition". From Alucard's viewpoint, the small, thin, Chinese monk looked utterly ridiculous dancing like a Jewish Russian man.
"This pisses me off."
"Oh, me too no da." Chichiri stopped with his arms up in the air. He had been attempting the drunk Tevye dance. "The, ahem, Creator of this little crossover is using absolutely no originality whatsoever. He or she is just sticking random characters into the roles of the play and making them recite lines no da. But I like the play no da."
"That is just what pisses me off. I think I know who's doing this, and he is notorious for fucking things up even worse than one could possibly imagine. This is far too tame."
Faye Valentine, wearing a Russian peasant dress, walked into the house and slammed the screen door. Chichiri continued to watch Alucard.
"Maybe it'll get worse no da."
"I hope so. Anything is better than this shit."
"Where is your sense of adventure no da?"
Alucard frowned and clenched the handles of his guns. Oh, it would be lovely to sate his bloodlust on the miserable people of this town and end all of the damn singing, but a feeling deep in his gut told him that it would not be wise to do so.
At the moment, only his own influence, and not even Integral, could make him stop from ripping the larynx of every goddamned performer--
The door slammed again. Faye marched out to the fields in a huff.
"OH! OH! MATCHMAKER!" Chichiri walked over to the edge of the roof with his staff tucked under his arm. He stepped into space and swung as if on a fulcrum to hang upside down and look into a window, suspended by his magic.
Alucard grunted. It was better than watching Jet Black sing "If I Were a Rich Man" and flail his arms like a drunk Russian man. The very thought made him want to weep for the integrity of fanfiction at large.
He also didn't want to hear Faye and Jet sing "Do You Love Me"…
The girls below began to sing. Their voices were beautiful, Alucard had to admit, but the song was too damn annoying to bear. He pulled a CD player out of an interspace pocket, pulled the headphones apart to place them on his ears and behind his neck, and pressed play.
The monophonic blasting of Cradle of Filth drowned out the innocent lament for marriage.
"Shhhh no da."
Alucard flicked Chichiri off. Chichiri did not see him.
"Ooh, I think Kanzaki Hitomi is Tzeitel no da."
"Excellent. Her dumbass boyfriend will be Motel. I need to pick some bones with him anyway."
Alucard continued to half-listen to Chichiri, and Chichiri only, through telepathy. The monk happily hummed to himself with the music, swaying back and forth in midair like a low-key pendulum attached at the hip. He was genuinely enjoying himself.
Alucard began to wonder just how closely monkhood and masochism were interlinked.
"Oh, OH!"
"Having an orgasm down there, Monk?"
"Himemiya Anthy is Hodel no da!"
Alucard thought for a moment. Anthy, if he recalled correctly, was a very weak-willed and soft-spoken girl. Hodel, from what he remembered from the musical, was very strong-willed and outspoken.
Either the bastard is going to pull an OOC, or there are going to be adaptations…
"All right, Monk. Before you start screaming and alerting the entire damn town, who's the third girl wasshername?"
"Chava. It's Nekoi Yuzuriha, no da."
Alucard almost choked on his own saliva. Yuzuriha, the ultimate airhead, was not much of a bookworm, and if this was canon paring based that hulking, tree-hugging pacifist would be the Russian soldier guy.
He also remembered that the Russians had to dance in the bar scene. He pulled his hat even lower. The brim was now touching the bridge of his nose.
"Oh, so Fyedka is going to be one of your seiyuu buddies no da!"
"Seiyuu complexes, only movie version, and the TV/manga version of himself annoys me. Damn tree-hugging hippie."
"You are in a sour mood today no da."
Alucard grunted. Chichiri listened for a while longer, tapping his foot in midair so that his toe kept flashing over the side of the roof.
"Is it over?" Alucard called over his blasting earphones.
"Um… hold on … yes, now it is no da."
Chichiri swung back up onto the roof as if rotating on a wheel attached to the soles of his shoes, still facing outward. He took one backwards step onto the thatch before pivoting theatrically.
Alucard groaned to himself. This was just too damn much.
"Can we leave, please?" he growled quietly.
"Nope! Sorry no da!"
"Look, it looks like this is just going to be the musical with characters as actors. Can't you just project that mentally or something?"
"We can't leave, remember no da?"
"Oh, yes, I forgot." Alucard huddled into his coat lapels, which were sticking up. "You spineless cur," he muttered.
-------------
The man wants my milk cow so badly that he buys me drinks.
Jet, or Tevye as he now mentally referred to himself, warily watched Lazar Wolf pour vodka into his wooden flagon. They were sitting at a small side table at Mordcha's inn, an out-of-the-way corner even darker than the rest of the bar. The rest of the town's men were sitting at the bar or talking to one another. Their drunk exclamations and babble were getting loud.
"Tevye? Do you listen to me, friend?"
Jet returned his attention to the man in front of him. Lazar was famous for having a smooth, soothing voice and a beautiful face, far too beautiful for a butcher to have. It was a wonder that his long hair did not catch fire daily.
"I hear you. I know what you want, and I say no."
"…" Lazar took a sip of his drink. "But you have not even heard my proposition."
"I don't need to hear it. I know what you want."
"But you have five, Tevye. You cannot keep them all to yourself."
As if you care, Al--Al? Tevye blinked. Why do I want to call this man Allen? Tis Lazar Wolf, the butcher! Gods, man, you've had too many drinks. I've never heard the name Allen. Tis't even kosher.
…gods? Gods? I swear as a pagan? What is wrong with me?
Jet mentally begged forgiveness from God and took a deep drink of vodka. The alcohol ran down his chin and shirt, collecting in his beard. He set the flagon back on the table and pointed at Lazar with his living hand.
"Look, you. The answer is no. I know your type." –for a split second, Jet numbly noticed two oddly dressed strangers at the bar, a tall, lithe man in red and a shorter man dressed like one of those Orientals. Who are those men? –"First you will want one, then two."
"Two?" Alle—LAZAR LAZAR LAZAR started to laugh. "Tevye, what sort of a man do you take me for?"
Jet shook his head and took a deep drink.
"…we are talking about the same thing, aren't we?"
"Yes." Jet looked up at Lazar and pointed, this time with his prosthetic hook. It was a breach of educate he would never violate under normal circumstances. "You want to buy my milk cow."
Lazar stared at Jet for a moment. Jet allowed his arm to drop heavily and returned to his flagon. Now let the man leave me in peace.
Lazar started laughing.
Jet looked up angrily. What was this man's problem?
"No, Tevye, Tevye, it's your daughter, Tzeitel. I want to marry her."
"…marry?" Jet repeated blankly.
"I'm a very lonely man," Lazar continued, pouring Jet more vodka. Jet watched the liquid splash into the flagon hollowly.
"…marry, my daughter Tzeitel."
"SHE LOVES VA--MOTEL NO DA!"
Both Lazar and Jet looked up sharply at the bar. The tall man in red was covering the Chinese man's mouth forcefully and hissing in his ear. Mordcha (or Shinbo Hiroshi), who was tending the bar at the time, watched them with interest while swilling a flagon with a rag that looked as though it would do a better job dirtying the mug than cleaning it.
Sumomo, sitting on Shinbo's shoulder and dressed in a heavy skirt and a head kerchief, tilted her head and watched the newcomers with interest.
"…odd, we never have outsiders in Anatevka."
"I do not like the look of them, myself." Lazar placed his hands on his hips and twisted his waist for a better view. "They are definitely gentile, rough looking. If they come with trouble from the Czar, I will have a word with them myself."
"It does not bode well to mess with the Czar's army." Jet took another deep drink. "Keep your nose out of trouble and trouble will keep its nose… I forgot the saying." Jet waved his arms down sharply to end the point. "Don't go biting off more than you can chew.
Something fundamental rooted in their most instinctive guts told them that their entire lives, their entire existences, they both had been poking their noses into trouble or having trouble chase them. Jet furrowed his eyebrows and noted a confused expression on Lazar's face, as if he was trying to remember something long past.
That is not right. We live quiet lives here in Anatevka, kosher lives. We do not chase trouble. Tradition, man! Tradition!
"…I say yes," Jet said in attempt to break the tension. He numbly realized that he had just committed his daughter to a man and determined the course of the rest of her life.
Lazar blinked out of his daze and grinned.
"You truly mean it, Tevye?"
"I mean it! We shall be related!" Jet numbly clanked flagons with Lazar and took a deep, confirmative drink. He needed to drown his wits. Badly.
A deep, pressing part of Jet's mind was trying to conflict with his closed, tradition-orientated mentality. The force was far more cynical, worldly, and harsh. Secular, as well, which scared him.
The voice was sending a telegraph to his gut that roughly translated to: This is wrong. This is not right. This is not you, man. Get out of it.
Jet drank the rest of his vodka in one gulp and stood up. "TO LIFE!" he roared, trying his hardest to silence his inner voice, or at least until he could drown it out.
"To life!" Lazar responded, standing to clank flagons with Jet.
Jet knew that he was going to sing, perfectly and fluently as if he were talking. He felt the inner voice turn its back, shake its head, and hide its eyes in utter shame.
"More vodka!" he yelled. He wanted the voice GONE.
But it wouldn't leave. Jet Black wanted to kill Tevye as badly as Tevye wanted to kill Jet Black.
------------------------------
In a similar situation, Constable Wolfwood was wondering just why the hell his gut was telling him that he was about to make a dire, dire mistake.
The gut was also telling him to cut line and run away from this town and his unit, now, and that he looked utterly ridiculous in a fur cap.
Wolfwood and his unit of four soldiers were waiting in the most secluded corner of the bar, being served fearfully by Mordcha and avoided by the Jews. It was a normal situation that gave the soldiers the chance to make their jokes and talk as crudely as they wished. Much of their language would curdle the ears of the Jews, they said, but Wolfwood had a feeling that any humans of any denomination short of saints would have their own fair usage of crude language.
Fyedka, as usual, was buried in one of his books. He made an odd picture. Physically, he was one of the largest men Wolfwood had ever seen, battle scared and muscle-bound, but he always had a book with him as if he were some pale-faced student from the cities.
He is such a gentle soul, Wolfwood thought into his flagon. The flagon usually provided wonderful insight, but it was not responding this evening. I wonder once again why he joined our ranks.
Because he's damn tough and a hardass when he needs to be, he answered himself. Calm yourself and stop thinking so much. You have a job to do.
Wolfwood took a deep drink. The vodka was weak this evening.
Sasha, as usual, was leading the unit in crude jokes. Wolfwood watched him with mild distaste. For reasons he did not know, his gut kept wanting to attach the name 'Saionji Kyouichi' to Sasha when he knew damn well that he had never met a man by that name.
It was the same situation with the other soldiers. Fyedka kept getting the odd name Kusanagi Shiyuu. Kojirou… Kojirou rocket-related something. Monou Fuuma.
Wolfwood shook his head to clear it. He also wanted to call himself some nonsense such as Nicholas D. Wolfwood, which sounded like Northern European gibberish to his ear.
"Sasha, this vodka taste funny to you?" he asked.
Sasha looked toward Wolfwood from telling his joke to his comrades and took a small sip of the wine. "Weak as piss, sir. Other than that, fine."
"Wine talking to you, sir?" Kojirou asked.
He's not Kojirou, his mind rebelled. He took a small sip. "Maybe."
"Well, a hardened soldier like yourself shouldn't respond bad to this ditchwater. Maybe you're getting a fever."
"Or the Jews stuck some mushrooms in here."
"Sasha, that will do," Wolfwood snapped. He turned to Kojirou. "I am not ill, soldier. Your concern is appreciated."
"SHE LOVES VA--MOTEL NO DA!"
The soldiers looked up at the bar. One of the strangers – the Chinese man – was being forcefully silenced by the man in red. The Jews were staring.
"Newcomers are making the Jews nervous," Fyedka muttered into his book.
"I do not like their presence," Wolfwood said quietly. "Something about them bothers me. Nobody ever visits Anatevka unless on the Czar's business, and even then…"
"Why not, sir?"
"Think, man!" Sasha hit Kojirou across the head. "Why would anybody visit this little godforsaken strip of land unless they had to! Hell, if I had the chance I'd be marchin' out of here this very second, and never look back!"
Wolfwood furrowed his eyebrows and took a deep drink. For reasons he could not explain, he was more inclined to trust the strangers than his own men. There was a familiarity he could not explain. The Constable did not believe in reincarnation, as it was not astern Orthodox by any means, but there was the possibility of, say, amnesia…
Wolfwood took a deeper drink. Voices were more tolerable when one was drunk. One at least knew that they probably weren't real.
"TO LIFE!" somebody roared.
Wolfwood looked across the bar out of the corners of his eyes. A scruffy, one-armed man – the dairyman, if he remembered correctly – had stood up with his flagon raised. Drunk as a post.
Lazar Wolf stood up and joined him. The Jews looked up in interest.
"Oh, here it goes."
"Sasha, silence." Wolfwood stood up. "I am going to have a word with the strangers and see if their travel papers are all in order. Be prepared to back me up if I signal."
Fyedka did not respond behind his book, but Wolfwood knew that he was always listening. Sasha waved his hand impatiently, watching the drunks with the other two soldiers.
Wolfwood sighed, took the last drink of his flagon to steady himself, and stood up.
-------------
"Ano… Alucard… that soldier guy is coming no da…"
Alucard looked up from nearly strangling Chichiri with the monk's own prayer beads. He grinned.
"Well, the Catholic gunman priest…"
