Title: Round Like a Record

Fandom: Rocky Horror Picture Show

Characters: Riff, Columbia, Magenta

Prompt: 072. Fixed.

Rating: G

Disclaimer: Ritz and Fox own all.

"Magenta…" Riff called down the hall of the castle as he made his way toward the kitchen, "Would you mind telling Columbia that I've managed to fix her record player?" He didn't add that the task had been tediously difficult, knowing that Magenta had something of a soft spot for the shrill girl.

He immediately regretted speaking, for suddenly there was a floury hand on his shoulder, and his sister stood facing him, one hand on her hip. "Yes, Riff, I would mind." she snapped, "She's just down the hall…Honestly, I don't understand what you have against speaking to her."

Riff shifted impatiently from foot to foot; his sister's tirades were growing less and less bearable as his own moods rose and fell along with the Master's. "She could be with that boy, for all I know, and I don't want to walk in on them…" he trailed off, and Magenta sighed gustily, snatched the turntable from his arms, and stormed down the hall toward Columbia's bedroom.

He followed her dutifully, sorry now that he had brought her into this. Now that he thought about it, he had been using his sister as a bridge to Columbia for as long as the girl had been at the castle, and she hadn't really objected until now.

Magenta's soft, throaty voice drifted through the doorway, and he heard his name. He scowled. If she was going to talk about him, she should really do it when he wasn't standing within a hundred feet. He strode over brusquely and proceeded through the doorway, pretty sure he knew what she had been saying and wanting to stop it while he still could. The last thing he needed was the two of them allied against him.

"So," he began, casually coming into the room, "Does your record player work again?" For some reason, Columbia was giggling, and he whirled on her. Quite suddenly, it dawned on him that there was another sound in the room. A droning litany of the same words chanted over and over, coming from the turntable, "Paul is dead…Paul is dead…Paul is dead…"

"You fixed it, all right," Columbia began, her eyes laughing, "Backwards."