NOTE: Right now this is in the middle of a re-writing / editing process. Suggestions very welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jin, Mugen, Fuu, Enshirou, Yuki, or any other Samurai Champloo character. But I do own Satsu, Tsutami, Maro, Ringo, Suoh, Haruko, Michi, Kiosai, Kiokame, Kiochiri, Kura, Hana, Kami, Kumi, Rini, Shenji, Saiyu, Koto, Shamisen, Kohachiro, Sho, the fruit vendor, the fish vendor, the owner of the teahouse, the owner of the brothel, the guy who sees Jin naked while he's fighting with Kura and Fuu, and the funny donkey in the hat, to list a few.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay! My first fanfic! It's very long and takes a while to get started; the real action doesn't pick up until probably the third or fourth chapter. The first few chapters are "throw-aways," where I just build up momentum and foreshadow a wee bit. By the way, I don't watch the magic box (television) very much and I've only seen less than half of the Champloo episodes. (Yes, I live in a cave.) Apologies for any huge discrepancies. If you see an error, please point it out and I'll correct it. Tried my hardest to keep it accurate but obviously I had to invent a lot about Jin's past.
WARNING: I hate to give hints about what'll happen but sigh I have to. There's a lot of swearing (from Mugen, who else?) and some graphic sexual violence. Oh, and Mugen and Jin have a rather "Victorian" relationship. No, there's no slash, unless you count one paragraph where Mugen gets curious about his sexuality and kisses Jin, but for the most part it's innocent fluff. I think that covers it… if you don't like it, leave now! Save yourself!
PROLOGUE
The breeze picked up suddenly, setting all the wind chimes of the village in motion and fluttering the hair against the nape of Jin's neck. His ponytail was the only indication that he was not carved from stone; he had been standing under the awning, stationary, for over an hour. His eyes were fixed on the tables within, long, low, wooden tables, remarkable only because they were laden with food. Every screen in the restaurant was folded back and every window shutter thrown open, giving Jin a very clear view of all he could not have. The most popular dish was the chilled soup; above his head, the chimes had rung only four times, and the heat made Jin's kimono stick to his back. His mouth felt like cotton, parched, and his tongue as heavy and cumbersome as the sword by his side. Behind him, people shuffled miserably along, their feet raising clouds of clay-colored dust, dust the same color as the sky, sickly yellow. The only creatures which seemed impervious to the suffocating heat were the flies and the merchants. The merchants darted from person to person, trying with vain eagerness to sell their wares. They had enough sense not to approach Jin, his face steeled against them; but the flies lacked such instincts and bothered him mercilessly. He did not brush them away, realizing the futility of this gesture, but let them crawl over his face, hands, and feet, hurrying over his skin in short bursts of energy and then pausing to rub their hands together, as if they too were perspiring.
Maro was a merchant reviled by the flies and his fellows alike. He was not aesthetically pleasing, nor particularly witty, and perpetuated the bad name of merchantry as a trade, through his lack of subtly, his terrier-like persistence, and his general attitude of sleaziness. He stood in the dust square surveying the few who meandered past with their heads bowed down, the tradesmen sitting in the doorways of their shops, and the other merchants who stood fanning themselves with their wares clustered around their feet, not really caring if they were stolen. (It was unlikely that anyone would be able to run in the heat, let alone while lugging a huge bag of stolen goods.)
Maro's eyes slid past the two occupants of the square (already being swamped with half-hearted offers from the merchants) and landed on Jin, standing alone with his back to the crossroads, overlooked by all the street venders. He could not understand why no one was trying to pawn off their merchandise on him. He looked like a samurai, and samurai always had money on them; he was wearing a relatively clean blue kimono and black hakama. He probably had money.
Maro crossed the square and experienced only a moment of hesitation upon seeing Jin's sword before he announced his presence: "Hot enough for you?"
Jin did not move. The only piece of him not firmly rooted to the ground was his hair, so loose that it threatened at any moment to break free from its top-knot and drop around Jin's face in a solid black veil. Maro wondered if Jin had even heard him at all. He must have, he reasoned, because he had not jumped or twitched when Maro spoke, indicating that he had heard him approaching and was expecting him to speak.
Getting right to the point, Maro asked, "Can I interest you in anything? Fine wares, luxurious silk, some new sandals?"
Still, Jin did not move or speak.
"Perhaps something else? You look like a learned man, maybe you're in need of some books. I have some lovely, beautiful old books for sale."
Slowly, Jin turned around and faced Maro, examining Maro's beaming face and missing teeth with undisguised disdain. "I have no money," he said simply. This was not quite true; he had two momne hidden carefully away in the folds of his kimono. But he was not about to tell Maro that, any more than he was planning to tell anyone else. Though the coins were of no use here, perhaps they would be in another place, another time.
"Ah, come now, I have some very gorgeous antiques… priceless, really…"
"I have no money," repeated Jin calmly.
"…ink, baskets, salt…"
"What would I possibly do with salt?" demanded Jin, still in his flat, even voice.
"Flavor your food?" guessed Maro.
"I don't have food, because I don't have money. Do you think a man with money would be standing outside a restaurant staring into it?"
"Well," said Maro, not flustered in the slightest, "I'm a very negotiable man. I'm willing to trade. Your glasses—"
"Aren't for sale," said Jin firmly. Maro looked disappointed. The glasses, he thought, he could probably sell for a good price; they were small, delicate, very finely wrought. Not a scratch on them.
He knew enough not to attempt to barter with Jin's swords; he looked over Jin carefully. "Surely you must have something—"
"No. I don't."
"But, you, a samurai—your lord must pay—"
"I have no lord," said Jin, sounding for the first time like he might loose his temper. Maro looked over his kimono. It had a crest on it, a four-diamond Takeda mon. He'd seen it before; people who bore it were normally very wealthy, not to mention proud. But he wasn't about to contradict Jin, a potential customer.
"I meant no disrespect," said Maro quickly. "I just thought you must have—"
"I serve no one." Jin sounded like Maro had somehow implied that being a ronin was a disgraceful profession. He hastened to correct himself.
"No, no, of course not! You know, some of the best samurai are ronins, their skills far surpassing that of—"
"Please, leave me alone." Jin sounded chemically sedated once more, flat and calm and without emotion.
"But you haven't even looked at these fine, fine goods yet!" exclaimed Maro, thrusting a basket of assorted knickknacks under Jin's nose.
"I don't want anything!"
"Please, just take a look!"
A few other merchants in the square turned to watch. They all wondered if the samurai would lop off Maro's head. (More than half were hoping.)
"They say wealth of knowledge is a wealth unsurpassed…" Maro was saying, loading Jin's arms with books.
"I don't have any money!" snapped Jin, shoving them back.
"Please, I have a wife and four children to feed!" begged Maro, reverting to another tactic.
"No," said Jin firmly, and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Maro looked down, saw it, and with a subdued manner retreated. Jin turned back to watching the restaurant. The other merchants chuckled.
With a sigh, Maro sat against the wooden wall of a store, dust rising when he sat.
Across the square, another merchant called out to him. "Hey, Maro! No luck, huh?"
Maro ignored him.
"Maro and his samurai in glasses!" chuckled another.
"They're all the same, aren't they? Poor Maro!"
Jin glanced over and seemed to fight an internal battle. With a sigh he left his post outside the restaurant and crossed the road. The other merchants perked up with interest.
"What are they calling to you for?" he demanded.
"Isn't it obvious?" said Maro plainitively, still sitting on the ground with his legs spread out in front of him
Jin seemed to consider. "You've approached other samurai," he concluded slowly.
"Yes," said Maro.
"Is there any place within twenty miles to get a meal for two momne?"
Maro laughed himself senseless before he answered. "If you could find a place that cheap, you'd be hallucinating. You can't get anything for any less than twenty-five." Realization dawned on Maro and he sprang to his feet with the agility of a much younger man. "Of course, I have things for under ten! Very good things! Very negotiable!"
"Hm," considered Jin. He picked up a book from Maro's basket and flipped through it without much interest. "This book is blank."
"Oh—is it? Well, it's supposed to be!"
"What knowledge could a blank book hold?" asked Jin.
Maro considered this. "Well," he said, very slowly, "it's for… ideas. You could write in it. I'm sure someone as intelligent as you have tons of ideas just floating around in your head…" he added, picking up steam.
"I don't need a book to organize my thoughts. My brain is quite capable of that already," said Jin coldly. He squinted angrily at Maro. "Tell me about the other samurai."
"Sorry. I only help customers," said Maro, equally cold.
"Fine." With a sigh, Jin rustled around inside his kimono and handed over the money, tucking the book into his kimono. "Now talk."
Maro shrugged. "A few weeks ago another samurai with glasses passed through. Tried to get him to buy something, but he wouldn't. That's it."
"What did he look like?" growled Jin, muscles tensing like he was about to spring on Maro.
"I don't know. He had glasses and was dressed like you," said Maro helplessly. "What more do you want?"
"Where was he going?"
Maro scratched his head. He closed one eye thoughtfully and poked his tongue through a gap in his teeth, then finally pointed west. "That way. He was coming home from some… thing… I can't remember."
Jin opened his mouth, but before he could, a female voice rang over the square: "Jin! Jin?"
He tucked the book into his kimono and walked away. The merchants watched him go, both awed and repulsed that Maro had had success where they all had failed.
"Jin? Jin, there you are!" A teenage girl in a bright orange kimono and a pink butterfly obi sash dashed down the road. A few people cocked eyebrows; from what they'd seen, this was not the company the samurai would choose to keep. "I've been looking everywhere for you," she exclaimed, taking his arm and giving it a tug.
"I found a place to eat," said Jin.
"REALLY!" she cried, so loudly that a bird lighted from a nearby rooftop. "That we can AFFORD?"
"No, not that we can afford," said Jin.
The girl's face fell and she yelled, "Well, why did you even say that!"
"I'm making polite conversation," said Jin, a laugh hidden behind his subdued voice. It was the closest to joking he ever came. The girl, in annoyance, grabbed his arm again and dragged him away. The merchants shook their heads.
"The foreigners just get weirder and weirder every year…" mumbled one.
"And then he said, 'not that we can afford,' and I said, 'why did you bother telling me, then?' and he said, 'oh, I'm just making conversation,' but he was obviously doing it just to annoy me and—stop laughing!"
"I'm not laughing," said Mugen, who had a hyena-like grin on his face even as he spoke. It was late sunset; half the sky was already deep blue and sprinkled with stars. They—specifically, Jin and Mugen—had built a campfire on the edge of town. Although trees blocked the view of the town itself, it was less than an hour down the road, and they could see smoke rising in the east.
Jin had excused himself from the camp after dumping an armload of firewood down, leaving Fuu and Mugen alone. The entire quest was Fuu's idea—some sketchy search for a samurai who "smelled like sunflowers." Neither Jin nor Mugen entirely understood what this meant, but as Fuu had helped them out of tight spots before, they felt bound to serve her. And, aside from that, they had tried ditching her before and never been successful.
It wasn't that they disliked Fuu. It was just that she was much younger than both of them and at times a bit ditzy. She talked endlessly, berating them and giggling and throwing tantrums, and both felt she was beneath them.
They also felt the other was beneath them. Mugen disliked Jin for his traditional style—it was boring and outdated. Jin disliked Mugen because he completely disregarded all the traditional rules—he was crude and boorish. Yet neither one had yet defeated the other, and they tried daily to kill each other, so it can be said with some reliability that their skills were evenly matched.
"It's not funny!" shrieked Fuu, while Mugen snorted and shook with the effort of not laughing.
When Fuu got indignant, she looked even younger than fifteen—her bright clothes, rosy cheeks, and girlish little hair style all contributed to her overall childish and not-too-bright appearance.
Mugen, on the other hand, always looked older than he was. He had an arrogant smirk carved permanently into his face, framed with his short, spiky hair that stuck out uncontrollably in every direction. He did not wear a traditional kimono, but had shorts and a deep red overshirt. His undershirt might have, at one time, been white, but was now gray and sewn together so loosely it looked ready to fall apart at any moment. His sword was slung carelessly over his back, the strap over his chest tied with a bit of string halfway down, and his ears were pierced. He looked like someone who would have no qualms about throwing down an old woman and stealing her money (he wouldn't).
When together, the three looked bizarre—each dealt with it in a different way. Fuu, annoyed with the constant fighting between Jin and Mugen, coped by chatting endlessly and being giggly and cheerful. Mugen coped with it by being loud and aggressive. Jin coped by retreating within himself and detaching himself completely from the outside world.
"It's not! Stop it! Stop laughing right now!"
"Who knew someone as lame as Jin could crack a joke?" asked Mugen, as tears of laughter rolled down his face. "That's great—"
"It wasn't great! It wasn't funny! He really got my hopes up! STOP LAUGHING!"
Mugen crossed his arms over his stomach and rocked by the fire laughing hysterically. Fuu crossed her arms as well (her colorful kimono made a soft "fump") and pouted.
"How come the only time you two ever agree if when you're against me?"
Mugen was giggling too hard to answer.
"Where is he anyways?"
"Doing his stupid kata routine," said Mugen, gaining control of himself long enough to answer. He took a few deep breaths between snickers. "Always practicing. Because he knows if he ever lets his guard down, I'll kick his—"
"What was that about letting one's guard down?"
Mugen jumped. Jin emerged from the trees and sat crossed-legged on the ground, as far away from Fuu and Mugen as he could get. Fuu glared at him, but the effect was lost; prettiness and furiousness never work too well together. Fuu glanced at Mugen, who gave Jin a perfect glare for her.
"I heard you," said Mugen defensively. "I just didn't think you were worth getting worked up over."
"Okay," said Jin neutrally, laying his sword over his lap and running his sleeve over the blade to polish it.
"Really!" insisted Mugen.
"I believe you," said Jin, implying in his voice that he didn't believe Mugen at all.
"Instead of arguing over who saw who maybe we can focus on the problem of getting food even though we have no money," snapped Fuu. Mugen and Jin rolled their eyes. "Sure, go ahead, roll your eyes, act like you know all the answers! I'm the only one who ever thinks about this stuff, you two think you're so smart, but it's always me bailing us out, isn't it, and always me finding food and money and deciding where to go and—" While Fuu ranted, Jin continued to polish his sword, and Mugen plucked a piece of grass and began chewing on the end. Fuu might as well not have been there at all, but their apathy didn't stop her; she rambled on while Mugen chewed his grass and Jin polished his sword.
"—totally lazy and irresponsible and acting like a couple of kids." Fuu paused to take a breath. Jin jumped in.
"Why do we need to buy food? Mugen seems content to eat grass," he said passively.
Mugen glared at him but didn't spit out the blade he was chewing on. "I don't need to be touching my sword all the time to feel like a big man. I have enough talent not to need that. Some people, on the other hand…"
"There you go again!" shouted Fuu. "See? You're always bickering! We'd get a lot more accomplished if you'd just—"
"What do you have?" blurted Mugen
Everyone looked surprised. Fuu looked surprised at being interrupted; Jin looked surprised that he was being spoken to. Even Mugen looked shocked at his voice.
"What?" asked Fuu, slightly confused.
"I asked Jin what he has. He just touched something. In his kimono."
"I don't have anything," said Jin.
"No, I saw you," insisted Mugen, crouching on his heels as if he was ready to spring on Jin. "You moved your hand up and your fingers brushed something in your kimono." His eyes narrowed. "You've been holding out on us!"
"No I haven't. You just imagined it."
"Jin, do you have anything?" asked Fuu suspiciously. It was not that she distrusted Jin, but she'd learned never to doubt Mugen's street smarts.
"No, I don't," he said.
Fuu and Mugen looked at each other. "I saw it," insisted Mugen. He stood, reached behind his back, and pulled out his sword. His blade gleamed in the firelight. Jin didn't move; he continued to sit with his own sword in his lap. "Give it to us," demanded Mugen.
Jin's eyes narrowed very, very slightly. "I don't have anything," he said, in a very soft, low voice.
"You wanna do it the hard way, bad-boy? Huh? I don't have a problem with that."
"Wait!" cried Fuu. She sprang in front of Mugen. "Let me," she begged him. She gave him the cutest look she could muster, then walked over to Jin. He stood, holding his sword loosely like he didn't intend to use it. "You wouldn't hit a girl, would you?" she asked.
"I would in self-defense," said Jin flatly, tightening his grip a little on his sword.
"Jin, do you have any money?"
"I have no more than you or Mugen has," he answered, which was true. He was almost certain both of them were hoarding away their own money.
"Okay," she said simply, turning away.
"WHAT! You BELIEVE him? I can't believe—" Mugen began shouting. But he never finished, because Fuu whipped around and tackled Jin. Of course, Jin was a samurai, and Fuu was not; and he had been expecting it; but all the same, he could not hurt her. He jumped back and twisted, in an attempt to get out of her reach. Once he was, he could easily avoid her; but in the few crucial seconds he had to dart away, she grabbed his hair, and he was not expecting that. No one had ever grabbed his hair in a battle; it was unheard of.
Fuu didn't just grab his ponytail, either. She pushed his fingers down onto his scalp, tangling herself in him and making it impossible to pull her off. She felt his hands on her wrists and the weight of body pressing down on her, and realized he was enfolding her into an embrace so that she could not touch him. She gave him a sharp kick in the shin that didn't seem to register.
Meanwhile, Mugen had jumped into the fray. He danced around them, not wanting to hurt Fuu but starting to think it might be unavoidable. But then Jin wrapped his arms around her and he jumped in, managing to deliver a harsh blow with the flat of his blade against Jin's neck. Jin let out a small cry, let go of Fuu, whipped around to face Mugen, and had Fuu grab him around the neck. Mugen hit him across the knees and then the face; he crashed to the ground, inelegantly, in a billowy cloud of cloth.
Fuu sat on his legs while Mugen straddled his back, gripping his wrists with one hand.
"Now, let's see what you have," said Mugen conversationally.
"Get off me," commanded Jin coldly, as if they were facing each other instead of one sitting on the other.
"I've finally beat you, huh?"
"You haven't beat me. Fuu interfered."
"Yeah, right," scoffed Mugen. "Like Fuu is such a great asset."
"Hey!" cried Fuu indignantly. "You never would have been able to touch him if I wasn't there!"
"Whatever," said Mugen dismissively. He leaned forward and plunged a hand into Jin's kimono.
"Let go of me!" exclaimed Jin, squirming slightly with discomfort.
Mugen pulled the book from his kimono and tossed it aside without looking at it. Fuu made a small "hm" noise and reached for it, lying in the dust, face-down.
"Ah-ha! I knew it!" said Mugen triumphantly, pulling a momne from Jin's clothes. "You were holding out on us, you greedy bastard!"
"It's only one!" replied Jin indignantly. "How many are you hiding, Mugen?"
Mugen grabbed the back of Jin's hair and shoved his face in the dirt. "You know, Jin…" began Mugen, as if Jin weren't suffocating in the dust, "you're a lot smarter than I thought, keeping money from us like that. Well, I guess you'd have to be smarter than you look…" He let go of Jin's hair for a moment to examine his nails. Jin sputtered and gasped for air. Mugen finished admiring his nails and shoved Jin's head back down. "Guess you're not as noble and honest as we thought, huh?"
"Mugen, let him go," said Fuu sharply. She was flipping through the book idly.
"What's that? Your diary or something?" He plucked it from Fuu's hands and thumbed through the pages. "Dude, this is completely blank… HEY!" He shoved it back into Fuu's hands and pushed Jin's face down even more violently before. "It's new isn't it? You bought it didn't you? You had more money, you little prick!"
"Mugen! I said let him go!" shouted Fuu.
Mugen complied with a look of vehemence. Jin raised his head and shook it, coughing.
"You feel really powerful, don't you, Mugen? Being able to torture me while I'm helpless?" sneered Jin. "You're a coward. A low-life, scummy coward."
"I'm not the one eating dirt," sneered Mugen back.
"Both of you, stop it!" snapped Fuu. "Jin, Mugen's right, you shouldn't have been lying to us. Mugen, Jin's right, we've all been holding out."
"I have not!" cried Mugen in a voice that implied he couldn't think of a more unjust accusation.
"Oh yeah? Turn out your pockets," challenged Fuu.
Mugen and Fuu looked at each other for a long, long time. The only movement was Mugen's hand shaking as he restrained Jin's (Jin was straining with all his might to get loose).
Slowly, Mugen reached down with his free hand and turned out both his pockets. He had four momne.
"See? You had four, and Jin only had one."
"Well, yeah, he has one now. Who knows how much he had before he went on his little shopping spree—"
"You have no evidence he just bought it, just because it's never been written in—"
"What, so he stole it or something?"
"You're such a jerk, Mugen…"
"LET ME GO!" barked Jin over their arguing.
The two realized with a start that they were still sitting on Jin's back, as if he were a rather low couch in the middle of the woods.
"We'll get off you if you promise not to retaliate against us once we do," said Fuu. Mugen nodded in approval, even though Jin couldn't see him.
"I give you my word," said Jin after a moment, sounding disgusted with himself.
Mugen grabbed his hair and gave his face one more shove before he and Fuu climbed off him. Jin stood, as expressionless as if nothing had happened, and began brushing the dust from the front of his clothes. He picked up his sword and sheathed it (of course, it was dusty, and all his polishing had gone to waste) and then paused with a glance around.
"Here." Fuu held out the journal. He took it and tucked it inside his kimono. Without a word, he retreated to the far side of the campfire and propped his back against a tree, putting his chin on his chest and closing his eyes. Mugen and Fuu picked out their own corners around the fire. Mugen glared at Fuu, who had taken his four momne along with Jin's, but eventually gave up because she was ignoring him, and slouched down into sleep.
Fuu sat up with her legs curled under her, watching the fire pop and send small sparks into the sky, that fireflies chased and moths followed to their untimely deaths.
"You're not really asleep, are you?" she asked the moon, after a long, long time.
"No," answered Jin to his chest, eyes still closed.
"Where did you get that journal, Jin?"
He took so long to answer that she began to wonder if he'd gone to sleep.
"A friend," he said finally, as if there was no long silence at all.
Fuu didn't need to say any more; she watched the stars, and Jin went to sleep.