Trinity Blood/Bioshock crossover: Rapture
Nov. 9th, 2009 12:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
narcasseBecause ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blasphemiliar provided this wonderful piece of music and today I am of an age that isn’t twenty-five for the Nth time for a change.
1028 words. PG. AU.
Isaak & Dietrich on a mission in search of an underwater repository of Lost Technology.
Rapture
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others. Bioshock belongs to 2K Games and others.
++++++++++
The melody, if it can rightly even be called that, troubles Dietrich. Disturbs him in ways that he can’t describe, that he tries to argue stem from irritation more than anything else.
It’s the way the notes tumble over each other, the way that the high pitch of piano keys rattle his teeth. It’s the way that Isaak closes his eyes and sways as he plays this insane melody. The way that the music goes on and on, falls into itself, over itself like lapping waves, like tides that drag him down.
It’s the music that does it not the surroundings, not the broken and battered hulk of rock and metal just a few hundred miles out to sea. The ruins of a madman’s playground with its polished floors and angular columns. The chequered and broken tile, the far too well preserved grand piano, the almost intelligible scrawl on the walls that talks of endless possibility…
The discovery of a madman’s paradise is of little use to the Orden other than as a storage facility. The machinery is long rotted and useless and not even Dietrich’s skill can revive it. What is useful to them is very basic and nothing that is really worth the trouble to move. The whole expedition was a waste of time as far as Dietrich’s concerned.
In fact, Dietrich would much prefer it if they just left the haunting ruins alone. The walls are scribbled over with promises of a better future and stylized, faceless renderings of what can only be Methuselah. The entire atmosphere is enough to send chills down his spine even before Isaak starts playing that infernal melody again.
And of course Isaak is still playing. Still repeating that same terrible melody as if he were some ghastly automaton. This time Dietrich resolves to stop him, to demand silence in this broken wreck of someone else’s dreams. He gets so close that he can comfortably look over Isaak’s shoulders before he realises what exactly is wrong: that Isaak isn’t wearing his gloves and that the hands now bare are blackened and diseased.
Isaak’s hands aren’t a human colour anymore, mottled over with what looks to Dietrich’s untrained eye like gangrene. Yet they move with such a twisted grace that Dietrich cannot tear his eyes away. Hands like that should not move, should not even hold together as far as Dietrich’s concerned but perhaps the solution to that puzzle lies in the distinctive pinprick marks along Isaak’s wrists. Sore festering wounds they may be but whatever it is that Isaak is injecting must at least give him the use of his hands.
Abruptly the music stops and Dietrich sucks in his breath in apprehension. But Isaak does nothing more sinister than reach for his gloves and pull them on.
“Well, my dear, perhaps it’s time to return to the mainland.”
Dietrich stumbles backwards as Isaak stands up.
“What is it, dear? You seem… troubled.”
Behind him Dietrich can hear the sound of something heavy striking against the tiled floor, like slow, deformed footsteps. He begins to turn away from one terror to face another when suddenly he feels a chill race up his spine and everything dissolves into darkness.
When he wakes Dietrich finds himself lying in a bed aboard a steamship. Isaak is sitting beside the bed reading.
“Wha-“
“Ah, you’re awake.” Isaak sets the book aside and eyes Dietrich disinterestedly. “You’ve been unconscious for days. It’s been most inconvenient.”
“Unconscious?” Dietrich tries to sit up, leaning on his elbows. “How? We were there already.”
“Where?”
“There, that place.”
“Again I ask: where exactly?” Isaak seems genuinely oblivious and even a little annoyed at Dietrich’s insistence. “You’ve been unconscious for days, ever since the first night on this ship.”
“Why?” It’s a half snarl.
Isaak shrugs. “As if I’d concern myself with that. It was probably something you ate.”
After Isaak’s gone Dietrich lies back down, pressing the back of a hand to his forehead. The mission was a failure he’s been told, there was no underwater repository of Lost Technology at all. They couldn’t find a thing. But if that was the case then why is he so certain that he was there? Why is he convinced that they found it? Why can he describe the ruins in such detail, right down to the illustrations of faceless Methuselah? He was there, he is convinced. He’s seen that place in all its ruined splendour.
Yet even with that memory intact he cannot remember entirely what became of their mission. He remembers a chequered tile floor, a polished black grand piano, a man in a black suit playing the same melody over and over again. Who was that man? He can’t remember. All he knows is that he, if man he even was, was something terrifying.
Later, once he’s pulled himself together and has almost managed to convince himself that it was all a stupid dream Dietrich makes his way to the upper, public decks. There are crowds in ballrooms and lounges dotted all over the ship but right now the babbling of inane company doesn’t quite suit his mood.
He manages to find refuge from the cacophony in the form of a smaller, deserted lounge. In the emptiness and silence he will at least be able to gather his wits. But as he moves to push the lounge doors closed behind him suddenly he hears it again, that terrible melody from his dreams. That demented rhythm of piano keys that threatens to sweep him under, to drown him in the merciless tide.
There’s a silhouette outlined by the stage curtains, a figure sat at a piano playing that incessant theme. Dietrich swallows, and clenching his fists strides over to the stage to wrench the curtain back. The music doesn’t even falter but Isaak does look up, that horrible knowing smirk on his face.
“What is it, dear? You seem… troubled.”
Isaak continues playing until he has finished the piece and only then does he turn his attention to Dietrich’s crumpled form lying prone on the floor. He smiles dryly.
“Well, my dear, perhaps it’s time to return to the mainland.”
++++++++++
The stylized Methuselah illustrations are Dietrich’s interpretation of this sort of thing.
Dietrich also seems to have a trigger phrase much like Jack while Isaak may well be using plasmids.
blasphemiliar provided this wonderful piece of music and today I am of an age that isn’t twenty-five for the Nth time for a change.1028 words. PG. AU.
Isaak & Dietrich on a mission in search of an underwater repository of Lost Technology.
Rapture
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others. Bioshock belongs to 2K Games and others.
++++++++++
The melody, if it can rightly even be called that, troubles Dietrich. Disturbs him in ways that he can’t describe, that he tries to argue stem from irritation more than anything else.
It’s the way the notes tumble over each other, the way that the high pitch of piano keys rattle his teeth. It’s the way that Isaak closes his eyes and sways as he plays this insane melody. The way that the music goes on and on, falls into itself, over itself like lapping waves, like tides that drag him down.
It’s the music that does it not the surroundings, not the broken and battered hulk of rock and metal just a few hundred miles out to sea. The ruins of a madman’s playground with its polished floors and angular columns. The chequered and broken tile, the far too well preserved grand piano, the almost intelligible scrawl on the walls that talks of endless possibility…
The discovery of a madman’s paradise is of little use to the Orden other than as a storage facility. The machinery is long rotted and useless and not even Dietrich’s skill can revive it. What is useful to them is very basic and nothing that is really worth the trouble to move. The whole expedition was a waste of time as far as Dietrich’s concerned.
In fact, Dietrich would much prefer it if they just left the haunting ruins alone. The walls are scribbled over with promises of a better future and stylized, faceless renderings of what can only be Methuselah. The entire atmosphere is enough to send chills down his spine even before Isaak starts playing that infernal melody again.
And of course Isaak is still playing. Still repeating that same terrible melody as if he were some ghastly automaton. This time Dietrich resolves to stop him, to demand silence in this broken wreck of someone else’s dreams. He gets so close that he can comfortably look over Isaak’s shoulders before he realises what exactly is wrong: that Isaak isn’t wearing his gloves and that the hands now bare are blackened and diseased.
Isaak’s hands aren’t a human colour anymore, mottled over with what looks to Dietrich’s untrained eye like gangrene. Yet they move with such a twisted grace that Dietrich cannot tear his eyes away. Hands like that should not move, should not even hold together as far as Dietrich’s concerned but perhaps the solution to that puzzle lies in the distinctive pinprick marks along Isaak’s wrists. Sore festering wounds they may be but whatever it is that Isaak is injecting must at least give him the use of his hands.
Abruptly the music stops and Dietrich sucks in his breath in apprehension. But Isaak does nothing more sinister than reach for his gloves and pull them on.
“Well, my dear, perhaps it’s time to return to the mainland.”
Dietrich stumbles backwards as Isaak stands up.
“What is it, dear? You seem… troubled.”
Behind him Dietrich can hear the sound of something heavy striking against the tiled floor, like slow, deformed footsteps. He begins to turn away from one terror to face another when suddenly he feels a chill race up his spine and everything dissolves into darkness.
When he wakes Dietrich finds himself lying in a bed aboard a steamship. Isaak is sitting beside the bed reading.
“Wha-“
“Ah, you’re awake.” Isaak sets the book aside and eyes Dietrich disinterestedly. “You’ve been unconscious for days. It’s been most inconvenient.”
“Unconscious?” Dietrich tries to sit up, leaning on his elbows. “How? We were there already.”
“Where?”
“There, that place.”
“Again I ask: where exactly?” Isaak seems genuinely oblivious and even a little annoyed at Dietrich’s insistence. “You’ve been unconscious for days, ever since the first night on this ship.”
“Why?” It’s a half snarl.
Isaak shrugs. “As if I’d concern myself with that. It was probably something you ate.”
After Isaak’s gone Dietrich lies back down, pressing the back of a hand to his forehead. The mission was a failure he’s been told, there was no underwater repository of Lost Technology at all. They couldn’t find a thing. But if that was the case then why is he so certain that he was there? Why is he convinced that they found it? Why can he describe the ruins in such detail, right down to the illustrations of faceless Methuselah? He was there, he is convinced. He’s seen that place in all its ruined splendour.
Yet even with that memory intact he cannot remember entirely what became of their mission. He remembers a chequered tile floor, a polished black grand piano, a man in a black suit playing the same melody over and over again. Who was that man? He can’t remember. All he knows is that he, if man he even was, was something terrifying.
Later, once he’s pulled himself together and has almost managed to convince himself that it was all a stupid dream Dietrich makes his way to the upper, public decks. There are crowds in ballrooms and lounges dotted all over the ship but right now the babbling of inane company doesn’t quite suit his mood.
He manages to find refuge from the cacophony in the form of a smaller, deserted lounge. In the emptiness and silence he will at least be able to gather his wits. But as he moves to push the lounge doors closed behind him suddenly he hears it again, that terrible melody from his dreams. That demented rhythm of piano keys that threatens to sweep him under, to drown him in the merciless tide.
There’s a silhouette outlined by the stage curtains, a figure sat at a piano playing that incessant theme. Dietrich swallows, and clenching his fists strides over to the stage to wrench the curtain back. The music doesn’t even falter but Isaak does look up, that horrible knowing smirk on his face.
“What is it, dear? You seem… troubled.”
Isaak continues playing until he has finished the piece and only then does he turn his attention to Dietrich’s crumpled form lying prone on the floor. He smiles dryly.
“Well, my dear, perhaps it’s time to return to the mainland.”
++++++++++
The stylized Methuselah illustrations are Dietrich’s interpretation of this sort of thing.
Dietrich also seems to have a trigger phrase much like Jack while Isaak may well be using plasmids.
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Would you kindly...
Date: 2009-11-09 01:43 am (UTC)Re: Would you kindly...
Date: 2009-11-11 09:51 am (UTC)