"Shteyt a bocher, shteyt un tracht,
tracht un tracht a gantze nacht.
Vemen tsu nemen un nit far shemen,
vemen tsu nemen un nit far shemen?"
Three sang and hummed to himself lightly as he strolled through the streets, a slight bounce in his step that reared itself in time to the tune on his lips. As irregular as this sort of work might have been, if nothing else, it was a new start of sorts, a great change from the norm. Three found it difficult to recall a time when he'd worked with a group of people all united by a single purpose. The work of a Preacher was rather lonely by nature, perpetually working for, but rarely working with. To work with someone, required the most basic sort of equality, the understanding that you fulfilled a need and were needed in turn. Three found such a concept reassuring, the thought of it appealing to the basic sense of rightness at his core. Even as Three continued to hum his little song, his mind churned onward on a number of other simultaneous tangents. Seven Steps in Seven Valleys, Sab'ah, as his colleagues called it, holding multiple threads of thought at once, processing data on multiple levels without pause, a useful mental trick for those who eschewed the typical neural hardware. Within one heartbeat, Three savored the words of the tune on his lips, at times hummed, at times sung, sometimes in common tongue, sometimes in the maternal perversion of the First Tongue. He found the contradiction implicit in such a song amusing. The words were youthful, silly things, lamenting at the pain of puppy love. Yet at the same time, the words were ancient things, born on a world humanity barely remembered.
" Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika,
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika!
tumbalalaika, play Balalaika,
tumbalalaika - let us be merry!"
Yes, a lovely contradiction indeed, not unlike the sort Three was likely to find among this latest batch of compatriots. Bounty hunting was a strange sort of profession. There was a nobility in it of sorts, in this day and age at least, but pursuing the life of a bounty hunter for morality's sake alone smacked of an almost childish naivete, clinging on to a world of stark black and whites when grey was the only reliable shade. Of course, the world weary, bitter cynics were hardly any more mature than the starry-eyed dreamers. Such cynics claimed they were only trying to make a living, but in all the great and vasty verse, there were a number of ways to make a great deal of credits without running the risk of a premature stay in a casket. Someone who hunted for credits alone either wasn't terribly bright, or was more enamored with the adolescent thrills of the life style than he cared to let on. Three looked forward to this initial meeting in particular, a grand opportunity to meet veterans and rookies alike. Three would enjoy making his little observations, though he suspected he'd be keeping most of them to himself. After all, if you couldn't say anything nice, best to say nothing at all, sound advice that needed no scripture to back it.
" Meydl, meydl, ch'vel bay dir fregen,
Vos kan vaksn, vaksn on regn?
Vos kon brenen un nit oyfhern?
Vos kon benken, veynen on treren?
Maiden, maiden tell me again
What can grow, grow without rain?
What can burn for many years,
What can long and cry without tears?"
Three hummed on, closing what little distance remained between himself and the Red Giant Cafe in his almost dancing gait. He drew close to the odd bar's entrance, only to sidestep a cluster of young hooligans dragging their wailing, overly muscled friend between them. The ditty on Three's lips fell into an even lower register. Well well, now that sort of crying certainly had plenty of tears to share its company. The twin pools of black the preacher called eyes, flickered over the scene once. Observation: Subject heavily augmented, able to afford extensive synthetic muscle grafts, presence of cybernetic neural wetware likely. In immense pain, no signs of physical trauma, no visual or olfactory indicators of internal trauma via chemical or biological agent. Hands clutching ears, covering eyes, associates display no such indicators. Deduction: Most Probable. Localized sensory overload caused by disruption of neural software. My, my, had things dissolved into mischief already? That didn't recommend the discipline of these Blackheart hopefuls, but Three supposed that some concessions must be made, some behavior excused, beginnings were delicate times after all.
The universe was filled with wonders beyond counting, and in a lifetime of service to the Caliphate, Preacher Three had seen many of them, even killed a few. Yet even with a well of memory that ran deeper than most, Three was hard pressed to recall if he'd ever seen a menagerie quite like this.... The preacher paused at the Cafe's entrance for a long moment, eyes flickering over the assembled recruits, a warm if somewhat bemused smile lingering on his features. The gaze never lingered long, and perhaps that was for the best. Men didn't suffer well under eyes made empty all the better to drink in ones secrets. Three saw vixens, vipers, men dressed like hunters, men who looked little better than the beasts they hunted, and one man doing something very nearly obscene to a platter of raw meat. So... these were the ones he must minister to? These were the ones he must call brothers-in-arms for as long as the Blackhearts retained his contract? Excellent! There was definite need here, and Three did so hope to be needed. The moment passed, Three kept on humming, and stepped sprightly over to the bar.
"Narisher bocher, vos darfstu fregn?
A shteyn ken vaksn, vaksn on regn.
Libeh ken brenen un nit oyfhern.
A harts kon benkn, veynen on treren!
Silly young lad, why ask again?
It's a stone that can grow, grow without rain,
It's love that can burn for many long years,
A heart that can yearn and cry without tears!"
"Could I trouble you for a glass of ice water, good barkeep?" Three's voice was a gentle, lilting thing, easily ignored in the hustle and bustle of an establishment with so many unexpected patrons. Truth be told, the bartender would've ignored him entirely if the preacher's gaze hadn't pinned him to the wall. The man poured Three's drink with quick, nervous movements, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he laid the glass in front of the odd humming man.
"No trouble at all, Father, and no charge," Three smiled at the man. This one was not one of the Faithful, as that was not the proper form of address, but at least he was polite. The preacher nodded slightly and looked away from the man, breaking the gaze. It was perhaps the greatest kindness he could offer in this particular moment. Three swiveled about in his seat, leaning back against the bar casually and settling in to watch the workings of this queer little carnival unfold. All the while the soft humming persisted, a low, barely audible thing, Three's foot tapping along in time. Oh yes, this could prove a wonderful beginning indeed.
"Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika,
Tumbala, tumbala, tumbalalaika
tumbalalaika, shpiel balalaika
tumbalalaika - freylach zol zayn!"
