|Erin Ptah (ptahrrific) wrote,|
@ 2006-10-10 06:28 am UTC
|Entry tags:||for a claim, genre: horror, pairing: rip/dandy, series: hellsing|
Genre: Futuristic dystopia
Rating: PG for creepiness
Warnings: Not funny.
Disclaimer: Hellsing is the creation of Kōta Hirano. Characters used without permission - but with love (and, more importantly from a legal standpoint, without profit).
Notes: For my DandyxHuntress claim at hellsing_drops. Scanned the themes list to see if one would jump out at me. One did. Theme #86: Dying Sun.
Five Billion Years Later...
Rip Van Winkle doesn't have a sense of space anymore.
She used to be a physical presence, twirling on her heels while Wagnerian rhythms thundered in the background. She misses having heels. The skinny arms, not so much. The freckles, nah. But she really thinks she'd like to have heels again.
All she has left is a vague sense of crowding, what would be described as shoulder to shoulder if any of the people involved had shoulders.
Rip was over a hundred years old when she was absorbed into Legion. Her body, for all its skinny arms and freckles, had been hers for decades, and she thought she was used to it. Now she can barely remember what she was like. On the other hand, now she truly understands what it means to get "used to" something.
She isn't quite sure how fast time is passing, or if she sleeps. One time she started repeating every song she knew; she got through 8536 repetitions before she messed something up and lost count.
She's also invented songs of her own. She composed a full-length opera maybe a million years ago. Or rather, she composed several operas, but this one, had it been performed, would easily have been the definitive masterpiece of the genre. Not that any of its other masterpieces survive except here, in what's left of her soul.
Rip tried reaching out to the souls around her; she found them all degraded, rotting, insane. And why not? They had been here for centuries when she showed up. She's almost certainly gone a little insane herself by this point. It's hard to tell.
She tries to remember her definitive masterpiece, and gets stuck in the fourth movement. After going over it a few times and being stymied by the same chord, she goes baack to scales. The basic structure gives her something to lean on, to stabalize herself.
Do re mi fa sol la ti do...
Do re mi fa sol la ti do...
The structure is abruptly counterpointed by another rhythm. Rip feels its syncopation with her own.
Ace two three four five six seven eight nine ten jack queen king...
She harmonizes, in C to his E, hearts to his spades: Ace two three four five six seven eight nine ten jack queen king...
They continue like that for a few hours. Or maybe it's decades.
Then she starts into the scales again. For some minutes - or it could be a Millennium - she's alone again.
But eventually Tubalcain Alhambra gets the pattern.
Somewhere in a cave on what had been the ocean floor at the North Pole, back before the oceans and all the other water evaporated, Alucard and his coffin sat glumly. Alucard had been sleeping for a good million years, and was just getting to a really interesting bit of his dream when he was awoken by what felt like an alarm clock ringing deep within his bowels.
So he got blearily up and poked his head outside to check the weather. (This process took about a month. He'd gotten slow in his old age. Fortunately, he was in no hurry.)
The sun was still a huge pulsating orb of unbearable angry red, but he thought it looked a little less angry than last time.