Author's Note: The amount of fanfics about the RTC is not too damn high! This irritates me!
I needed to write this, to get it out of my system. So...
Juju no own Hellsing. Juju only own small change and Iphone 5.
o-o-o-o July 1928 o-o-o-o
"Oi!" A boy called to a group of children heading down the hill towards London, waving his cap in the air. They turned around, watching with a newfound curiosity. Everyone knew that Hugh Irons, at the ripe age of 13, was the neighborhood "go-to" guy. He knew everything about the interesting events that happened at the fabulous houses that lined the street; houses that belonged to Government workers of all kinds, that were fabulously wealthy and had summer homes and the like, whose children were wealthy by association and therefore found it ideal to socialize among their fellow peers in the streets, away from poorling's children in a caste all their own.
"Shabby Shelby's going to fight Arthur Hellsing in the lot!" he yelled down the hillside, and all the children from toddling age to budding teenagers turned and began to run back up the way they'd come, eager to see this new spectacle. After all, London summers were fulfilling, but oftentimes boring. And it wasn't every day the handsomest, most dashing boy on the street was challenged to a fight by the neighborhood weakling.
As they made their way to the concrete lot between the last house on the block and the brick wall that served as a fence around the neighborhood park, they began to place bets. Most of the girls and quite a few boys immediately put their pocket money on Arthur, picking the easy win. For a nine-year-old Arthur was stout and strong, with lean arms, a lanky frame, and a fierce temper to match his quick fists.
His opponent was a pasty-faced, overweight child who'd rather stay in his front yard with a book than play sports with the other boys. Even worse, he never seemed bitter that he was the ostracized one; no matter how much they teased, he would only give them a sad frown and silently bury his nose in whatever he happened to be reading. Even when they ganged up and pushed him around, he wouldn't fight back, only cower and wait for the beating to be over. Eventually even that grew boring, and they just left him alone.
But now, according to Hugh, he'd challenged Arthur Hellsing to a duel. While taking everyone's bets, he told them how Shabby Shelby had insulted Arthur's family name, and a fight had been declared between the two. The boys jeered, the girls gasped in self-contained horror; both parties were thrumming with excitement.
Finally the lot was in sight and the kids pushed their way through the already-heavy crowd of children. News apparently had spread fast; even some of the city children were here, with their dirty bare feet, making a circle around the concrete clearing. The wealthier children joined their friends on the brick wall, the elder siblings lifting up their younger kin to sit on the edge and let their feet dangle off. All of them talked excitedly, jabbering with each other and continuing to place bets with Irons.
Arthur and Shelby were already in the center of the circle, facing each other. Arthur had his arms crossed with a scowl, his perpetually-mussed hair hanging in his face and hiding his cerulean eyes. Shelby was wringing his hands, looking at the crowd growing with an expression of complete terror and anxiety, biting his lower lip. Finally Hugh, ever the ringleader, walked into the center of the circle between the two boys and raised his hands for silence.
When the noise abated, the thirteen-year-old looked over the children with a practiced eye, milking the tension before his voice rang out clearly in the echoing lot.
"Welcome to the lot, mates," he began. "Today we'll be seeing a fight to remember, when Shabby Shelby takes his own against Arthur Hellsing. There's still time to make a bet; let Walsh have your money, and he'll make sure I get it." There was a fierce scrambling as newcomers forked their change over to a gangly boy with solemn eyes. Hugh waited until all was quiet before turning to the boys.
"Men, as custom of the "ritual of the lot", you have a few moments to state your reasons for fighting, and declare your arrangements as to dueling terms, any discrepancies then being settled by Walsh and myself, being the two oldest." A girl stuck her hand up, not bothering to be called upon before speaking out.
"Speak for yourself, Hugh Irons! You know good and well that I'm two months younger than you; you just don't want a girl telling you what to do!" Her two cents said amidst cheers and calls of affirmation from the females of the area, she nodded once, brown curls bouncing all over her head.
"Oh," Hugh retaliated, his jaw working in an effort to find words. "Just… just sod off, Marjorie! Nobody asked your opinion in the first place!" The girl huffed and tossed her curls, smiling smugly when the girls around her let out boos at the injustice before their eyes. "Oh come off it- Walsh and I've been running this show for years; we don't need any women mucking up our system." He spun on his heel, pale eyes flashing with anger. "Come on then," he barked at the two boys, who jumped and glared at him simultaneously. "Out with your statements, now!"
"This git insulted my family!" Arthur said furiously, pointing at the now-trembling boy across the circle. "He called us a bunch of looneys!" Shelby Penwood looked around, but seeing no help he cleared his throat and made his rebuttal.
"Anyone who voluntarily chases after vampires and the like is a looney," he replied shakily, but decisively. "My papa says so." Arthur puffed up and glanced sideways to a little boy standing amidst the poorlings, tears in his eyes.
"Don't worry Richard, we're not looney," he whispered gently before turning back to his opponent. "Your papa doesn't know anything, 'cause he's a shabby old git and you are too!"
"He ain't!" Shelby shouted, his foot stomping the ground and hands fisting at his sides.
"He is so!"
"Boys, boys!" Hugh stepped in, trying to regain his previous persona. "We can stand all day arguing about who is and who isn't, but we don't come to the lot to see that. We come to see a fight." Arthur stared stonily at the older boy before looking at his younger brother again.
"First blood," he grumbled, clearly going easy just for the child's sake.
"Agreed," Shelby said after a moment. "Erm, no weapons," he said, eyeing the boards stacked near their makeshift circle warily. Arthur looked as though he may argue, but bowed his head in a quick nod after contemplating the possible consequences.
"Agreed," he answered. "I'm well." Shelby looked one last time at Hugh as if the elder boy might save him, but only got an impatient frown in return. He licked his lips, swallowed, and sighed heavily.
"I'm well," he conceded, thus finishing the pre-fight ritual. Hugh jumped back, and the children made their circle tighter, but wider as the two boys began to circle each other. Little Richard was pulled back to relative safety by Marjorie, who was watching apprehensively, her loud mouth quiet for once.
Then, three things happened.
Arthur, who had a bad habit of keeping his trousers too long instead of rolling them up like the rest of the neighborhood boys, stepped forward to deliver the first punch and promptly tripped over his own pants leg. Shelby, who had threw up his fists in a desperate attempt to shield himself, also stepped forward with the intent on running by Arthur to throw the other boy off guard and slipped on a piece of litter that frequently blew in the lot, trapped in an eternal circle by the cross breeze blowing between the high walls.
The slip up of the two was missed by all the children except the two involved, and their expressions were both of shock as they collided with a resounding crack. The children cheered, happy to see a fight at last. The previous lot fight had happened so long ago, only kids as old as Hugh Irons and Marjorie Bakersfield were able to really remember with clarity all that had gone on.
But then little Marie Abernathy, who had been standing on the brick wall to get a better look at Rob Walsh— the boy she was convinced she'd marry someday— saw a movement up the street. She placed a hand on her forehead to block the sun and then gasped. She turned to the crowd and screamed a single sentence; it was more than enough to send the children into spasms of horror.
If she'd said "It's the Germans!" or "It's the French!" or even something as cruel as "It's Shabby Shelby's mummy, come back from the dead!" the children would have scrambled up the brick wall and out into the streets, looking for the source of her excitement. But when she shouted those three horrible, awful syllables above the din of the lot, the entire community of children became as still as gazelles before a lioness's gaze.
"It's Helsing!"
"Helsing" was the colloquial term for Arthur's grandfather, and the mere mention of the name evoked nightmares in the younger children and shivers from the elder. He was mean, stern, loud, strong, and German above all things, something the children just couldn't overlook, although they didn't hold it against Arthur in the slightest. The strict, God-fearing old codger was at constant odds with the children, who took great pride in their daring escapes from his lawn after one of their many pranks.
The poorlings scattered immediately, running back to their safe alleys and flats as fast as their bare feet could take them. The wealthier jumped off the brick wall, tots vaulting into their sibling's waiting arms as they all made mad dashes for their respective homes.
Hugh Irons paled and he took off with Walsh, stuffing the bet money down their sleeves. If they were caught teaching the other children about gambling, the old man would tell their mothers, and they would be in for a fierce punishment when they got home. Marjorie grabbed Richard Hellsing and ran, dropping him off safely on the Hellsing lawn before tearing off her clunky shoes and sprinting for her own house.
Arthur and Shelby were still fumbling on the ground, trying to help each other up before the old man made it to the lot. Their dispute forgotten, they were now fighting for the common goal of making themselves scarce. Grandfather or not Arthur had just as much at stake, for he'd been brawling and that was a forbidden thing in the Hellsing household. They'd barely made it two steps before strong hands gripped their collars and lifted them off the ground. They were temporarily choked before being sat on their feet before a tall pair of riding boots.
"Well, well," the soft accent lilted over them, anger turning it into a steel weapon. Shelby and Arthur looked at each other, wincing. It was clear that Shelby'd won; even if he hadn't meant too, his fist had smashed into Arthur's eye and left a long, shallow cut that was bleeding, along with the beginnings of a beautiful shiner. "What have we here?"
"Grandfather," Arthur mumbled, casting his eyes to the ground. He knew what was coming. There was no stopping the storm now. He and Shelby both were sent home with sore bottoms, only to get round two from their fathers. They'd been unable to sit for a week, and had been confined to the house for nearly as long, missing a full six days of summer sun and children's gossip.
As it turned out, word had spread like wildfire that Shabby Shelby had given Arthur Hellsing a black eye, and the rumors abounded. Shelby had stood up to old Helsing; he'd been taken to his house kicking and screaming, he'd threatened the entire family and had to be locked in his room, etcetera etcetera. By the time the two boys found themselves free again, Arthur's eye looked better and "Shabby Shelby" was now more of a nickname than an insult, as he'd gained a small set of fans for his supposed performance (although he fiercely denied all of the wonderful claims, insisting that he'd not dared even breathe in Helsing's direction the entire trip home).
Arthur never fessed about tripping; Shelby never fessed about slipping. Both only had to look into the other's eyes to know that they knew. It was a secret shared between them, and both were too prideful to say it aloud to the others. And so, in keeping that special confidence, the wild boy with the too-long pants and the shy coward with a love of books became the best of friends in the strangely endearing way that children do.