My Last Song

#2 – Power

The new polish smells different, like pine needles mingled with dishwasher soap. It tickles the back of Rip's through when she leans down to breathe in the scent, eyes lightly closed over pale blue eyes. Beneath the polish, she can still smell gunpowder and another muskier scent, a masculine scent that always seemed to inhabit the weapon. She didn't dislike it, certainly; at times, it reminded her of Zorin Blitz, a gritty stench that's neither repulsive nor alluring. But it has an elegance worthy of the Captain and a powerful twang to it like Major.

She oft associates the weapon with her comrades; it almost seemed like a comrade to her as well. The magical bullets hummed with a power she could only hear, and she loves it, loves the sweet weapon, the protector, her companion. When all the others were gone, when she was alone and away from the Major and the others, the gun was at her side, a constant reminder of them. Of him.

She remembers when Major had given her the musket as if it were yesterday. He had presented it to her in a cherry wood case with a soft, scarlet interior made of velvet. She had taken the musket from the case with trembling hands, the weight of it so perfect, so comforting in her arms. It had smelled so fresh, a scent of polish and metal, a newborn instrument of destruction.

He hadn't made a move to help her when she aimed for the first time, trying to determine the proper way to hold it. He had simply told her how to do it a smooth, almost cooing tone. It was like she was an infant, a small child, and he was teaching her how to walk. When she held it, the bunt of the weapon against her shoulder, her eyes looking down the long barrel of the warhead.

The first shot hadn't been a success, not in any measure. The force, the reverberating shock of the loud noise caused her to stumble back, flailing desperately to maintain her balance. But she hadn't managed to stay afoot, and had fallen to the ground in a tangled heap. She was used to pistols, which only snapped back against the palm, controllable weapons that barely jolted her arm. But even then, pistols had been difficult at first, but something that she had easily become accustomed to.

But the musket was different. It was a raw power that she doubted she could ever control, a weapon that pressed over her heart, over her fragile chest. She knew, from that single shot, that this weapon was utterly beyond her abilities.

Rip had sat on the ground, near tears and trembling, the long barrel of the warhead drawn up to her chest. She embraced it tightly, face tucked against the polished wood, trying to stifle wet, mournful sniffles. The Major hadn't laughed at her, hadn't mocked her for her show of weakness. His hand had warmly laid on her shoulder, a consoling gesture that seemed strange to Rip. But she didn't mind it, the strange way her chest tightened and he heart pounded harder.

'Would you like to be strong enough to handle that weapon, girl?'

She had agreed wholeheartedly, agreed to do whatever necessary to be able to appreciate, the only gift that had ever truly mattered. The agony of the transformation, the unpredictability was something like wandering through a dark room with no walls, with no sense of direction, nor balance. It was not until after the virus had taken affect on her that she truly understood immortality.

Schrödinger is sitting in the Major's chair again, slender legs drawn to his chest and full lips curled into a feline smile. His hands are gesturing slowly in ways Rip does not understand, a sign language to the Captain that only Schrödinger would ever indulge in.

Certainly, others in the room knew sign language; Doc probably did. But Captain would only ever respond to Schrödinger, a few graceful gestures of his hands to the feline that would make Schrödinger laugh with delight, and always made Rip wonder if the Captain had a quiet sense of humor somewhere deep in his impassive eyes.

Schrödinger seems to be the only one who can make Captain take a second glance, the only true communicator. The boy never picked up a book, never cared too, and yet he picks up languages of any form with the quickest ease. Books have always bored the cat boy; he knows he should read them, but Rip knows he doesn't. The pile of books on his desk is that same as it's always been, albeit dustier with each passing day. Sometimes the Doc tries to make him sit down, but Schrödinger would rather be roaming the base, rather be showing off his immunity to any and all kinds of punishment.

So he sits in Major's chair, and he talks to the Captain through sign language that Rip knows they do not need, showing his spoiled position as the family pet.

Rip likes him anyway, just as any girl would love – and hate – a pet. At the best of times, he was a sweet boy who loved to play games. At the worst, he was a show off, testing his limits of how much he could possibly get away with.

The Captain moves his hand, a graceful movement that responds to whatever endless train of thought Schrödinger is making. The feline lights up and smiles, ears perking up at the response. Any response from Captain, even a silent one, was a rare gift, and Rip supposes that no one appreciates it more than Schrödinger.

Rip loves watching it, watching them. The boy has always felt some sort of obsessive interest in the Captain. Every month, on the night of the full moon, Schrödinger dashes through the base and cries 'he transformed! He transformed!' with such excitement and glee Hitler himself might have very well come back from the dead. And then Schrödinger would wait, sitting on the window sill with his ears perked up high, listening for the distant cry of howls in the wind.

Rip turns her gaze to the illusionist sitting at the steps leading up to the Major's chair, scythe resting against her shoulder even though she has no use for it, auburn hair still as messy and short as it ever was, dark blue eyes filled with amusement as they always were, as if she's silently laughing at some joke that no one else can understand.

And maybe she is. The war is finally at hand, and she can feel the secrets and silent missions already hidden in the hierarchy of the Millennium. Everyone has a mission, and every mission is, for the most part, completely confidential to the person.

'Kaspar,' says Major, startling her from her daze. She stands quickly, looking at him with devotion, love. That name is what he calls her, and she feels special, blessed by it. He christened her with the name long ago when he had first given her magical bullets, and he had never ceased to call her by it. 'Sing a song for me.'

He's smiling, and it makes her feel warm. She sings for him, a war song she knows he loves. The others don't pay attention; the simpleminded fools could never possibly understand music, not like she and the Major can. She'll sing for him until the end of the world, until she cannot sing any longer. It is the one thing only she can give him, the only talent that makes her unique amongst the other warriors beside her.

Their time is short now; she'll have to leave soon. She wishes that she could stay by his side through this, but that wouldn't bring him happiness. He wants to see her fulfill her mission, and she knows that whatever is in store for her, she will endure it for him.

After her song, he presents her with seven special bullets, and the single instruction not to use them until Samiel is before her. She doesn't understand him now, but she takes them anyway and promises that she will do as he asks. These bullets are as special as the first he presented to her, the magical bullets that connected to her will, her mind.

She takes each of the seven bullets out of the case they're in, studying them, tracing them with her fingers. A loving caress, an imprint on these seven special bullets, given to her by the man she loves. They are the purest form of power she has ever known, a little sliver of Major's power given to her.

Rip replaces the bullets into their case afterwards, holding the precious gift close to her heart. Major grins approvingly, and they part for the last time. She has many things she wishes to say, but she leaves it for another time, when things are different. For now, she will simply be his huntress, sharing in a small part of his power by being at his side.