The First Match

[realitymods]

Characters: Robespierre, Oliver Day, Spectators
Location: The Coliseum.
Time: Two days after Weber's announcement.
Summary: The first of the death matches.
Warnings: Character death warning.

Dressed as before, the man in the cravat stepped up to the edge of the Emperor's box. He held his smile, eyes scanning the audience and the combatants below him.

"Welcome to the first of too many fights. To start us off, Maximilien Robespierre and Oliver Day will engage in mortal combat, without the health bars. They have until the hourglass runs out to kill each other."

The man picked up the hourglass and turned it over so the sand was at the top. It held perfectly still despite gravity, waiting for its cue.

"It isn't a fair fight, but I think you've all realized by now: we don't fight fair." The man clasped his hands together. "Let the fights begin."

And the first grain of sand fell.

Comments

[le-traitre.livejournal.com]

"Blessed is the man
who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked
or stand in the way of sinners
or sit in the seat of mockers."

Robespierre closed the Bible in his hands quietly. The Psalms were words of power in the hands of a Poet, but they were just as equally words of prayer. His faith in God had wavered with Lia's death and the revelations of his country, but his faith was still his own. He knew the irony in the Psalm he had chosen to read as a prayer, but he was not the one sitting in the Emperor's box. Royalty did delight in murder throughout history, didn't they?

As the man began to speak, Robespierre deposited the Bible in the inner pocket of his jacket, setting a hand instead on the sword at his side. He wished that the opponent he would face would not make him draw his sword. The Psalms themselves were all together more swift and merciful with the death they caused. He stepped into the arena, glancing without a word to the hourglass and the man in the box.

His expression told nothing, passing no judgment. And the silent stare soon fell upon his opponent, instead. Robespierre said nothing, waiting first for his opponent to speak.

[oliverplus]

Oliver stepped into the arena just in time to hear Weber's intro. He had a bag tied at his waist, the weight of Anna's gun heavy in it, but it was closed and not easily accessible. He was, for all appearances, unarmed. He wondered idly if that was why Weber had said this wasn't a fair fight. Or did he really know as much about them as he was implying? From their earlier conversation, he had a feeling that he did.

But he knew that was neither here nor there at the moment. Weber wasn't going to do anything to stop this fight, and as Oliver saw the hourglass start to run, he quickly turned his attention away from him. He couldn't waste time. If that hourglass ran out, everything would be lost.

Oliver took a deep breath, focusing on his opponent. He tried to block out the sounds he could hear from the stands. Mu had been right; he did wish that the circumstances of this fight could at least be different. He didn't want to think about the people watching. He had friends up there, and the idea of them having to watch him die was even worse than the thought of dying. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

For a moment, he wondered if Robespierre would act right away--if it would just be over, maybe in a flash of magic. But when it became clear that his opponent wasn't going to make the first move, he opened his mouth to say something. Unfortunately, he found it had gone completely dry. Swallowing hard, he tried again. "Robespierre...what do you want to do?"

[le-traitre.livejournal.com]

He did indeed have the luck to have such a peaceful opponent. Robespierre took his hand off of his sword. His expression only changed slightly--the lightest lift of his eyebrows. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and cool. It would be hard to imagine that he was as committed to this murder as he was, or especially the legacy of murder that would be so attached to his name.

"I cannot die, yet. It is not my time," he knew it better than most, after all, "So if it sates our hosts, it is your blood that I must shed."

Robespierre paused, looking to the stands. He lingered on it for a moment, evaluating just who was there. But when his eyes fell on one of the few familiar faces in the crowd, he turned back to the matter at hand. "The Psalms will carry you to God, and deliver a swift and quiet death."

[oliverplus]

At Robespierre's words, Oliver sighed in a mixture of relief and resignation. He was grateful that he wouldn't have to do the deed himself, but he realised that he had still been holding onto some bit of hope, however tiny, that there might be another solution. But he was sure now that there wasn't.

He nodded to Robespierre, taking a deep breath and straightening. Weber had said the only choice he had here was how to face his death. He didn't want to look afraid. And he reminded himself that it wasn't really his death anyway. He'd be back soon. It was just something he had to live thro--to experience before he could move on. And his death would protect Robespierre's life. Not only that, but if he died here, it would mean he didn't hurt someone else, even when his own life was at stake. And regardless of how futile his friends might find the sentiment, to him, that would be a victory against the Puppeteer. It was worth dying to protect Robespierre and fight the darkness inside him. Even if he hadn't admitted it to Braxiatel, this was, in some ways, atonement.

He was relieved when Robespierre said he was planning on a swift and quiet death for Oliver, although he didn't understand exactly what he had in mind. He could only guess it had to do with the magic he'd seen in the labyrinth. He almost asked, but he couldn't help thinking that maybe it was better not to know exactly what was coming. Maybe it'd be easier not to remember it that way.

When the other man's eyes went to the stands, so did Oliver's. "C-can I..." He paused, swallowing hard and trying to stop his voice from shaking. He refused to be afraid! "Can I ask you something? I...I have friends out there. If there was a way they wouldn't have to see..." He hesitated again, not quite able to finish the thought. He licked dry lips. "I just don't want this to be worse for them than it has to be."

[le-traitre.livejournal.com]

The mask of coldness slipped, for just a moment. His eyes were cast downward, and just faintly in his expression, there was a distant, but deep sadness. He had tried to push the memory far away, but it was things like this that reminded him. He could hear Lia telling him, "don't go," as she died. Lia had received no mercy in her death. It was all he could do to offer it to other innocent people.

The momentary grief slipped away, and Robespierre once again focused on Oliver as he drew his sword.

"I can," he said simply. Robespierre held the sword out before him, the tip seemingly pointed at Oliver, but he did not step forward to use it. He moved the sword quickly, with the trained expertise of a (former) knight of France, but words made of light appeared as he wrote them.



The words hovered in the air for a moment before simply falling to the ground. Robespierre sheathed his sword as he stepped forward. He gave a final glance to the small number of people gathered there before the words on the ground suddenly ran together, making a ring that turned black in the dirt. And suddenly, there was nothing to see beyond that circle. It was just a black void, infinite and silent. For the spectators, it was quite similar.

"I am sorry," he said with emotion and sincerity that was rare to him, "but when you are ready, Monsieur."

[oliverplus]

Oliver saw that slip in Robespierre's expression. He straightened again, feeling more confident for it. Despite what the Doctor had said, he knew he was making the right choice. Whatever he might know about the historical Robespierre didn't mean he should want this man to die. He deserved to live to make his own choices, and Oliver would protect that.

When Robespierre drew his sword, Oliver was afraid for an instant that, despite his words, he was going to end things just like that. But then he realised that the man was casting a spell. Tense, Oliver watched as the words gathered on the ground, wondering what the spell would do. Was it an answer to his request, or was Robespierre about to...? When the area around them turned black, he relaxed, looking at it in wonder. He even smiled. Now, whatever Robespierre did, his friends wouldn't have to know. It was even more comforting than he'd expected it to be. "Thank you."

He took one more deep breath, trying not to think of how alone he was, or how scared, or how many questions he still had inside, or how many things he still wanted to do. He wasn't really going to die, he reminded himself. He'd be back soon, and he'd have all the opportunities in the world. This was just a life experience. That was all. Oliver closed his eyes, steeling himself as best he could for whatever was about to come. Even if Robespierre was going to be the only one to see him, he still refused to look afraid. He swallowed, clearing his throat and willing his voice to cooperate for him one last time.

"I'm ready."

[collector]

Braxiatel took a seat in the stands, close to the forcefield, and tapped against the barrier. No one would pass, that seemed likely enough. He looked down at Oliver. The boy didn't deserve this. Robespierre might feel no guilt for the blood of it, but Oliver would feel the effects of dying. No one came back from death unchanged.

Quietly, his right hand a fist, he said, "Barbaric spectacle."

For those who knew Braxiatel's mother tongue, the word for barbaric might bring pause. It was a heavy slur against the stupidity of the lesser species, their primitive idiocy so unworthy of even the dirt at his feet. It was not an insult often used by the man who so often avidly endorsed the panoply of the universe, who sang the praises of all the younger species. Far more often would it be found on the lips of a xenophobe.

Poor Oliver Day.

[doctorsfanboy.livejournal.com]

Damon sat next to Braxiatel, though he was also watching the man in the cravat. "It is terribly primitive," he agreed softly. "I only wish there was something we could do to stop it, but it's too late now."

[collector]

"Damon. You shouldn't be watching something like this." The Doctor, Omega, or even Romana would be able to endure this sight, but Damon was younger and less bloodstained than them all.

Incidentally, Braxiatel's disgust at the match hadn't stopping him from getting himself a glass of champagne.

[doctorsfanboy.livejournal.com]

"Cardinal Braxiatel, with the things I've witnessed here, the things I've learned..." Damon glanced at Oliver sadly.

"This isn't the worst I've experienced."

[collector]

"Then there's no need for you to be exposed more of it." It came out rather sharper than Braxiatel had intended, and he paused, looking away from Damon. "My apologies. It's simply not a situation I like to see anyone exposed to."

Gladiatorial matches and public executions, all the sport and madness of disgusting primitivism. For all that Braxiatel derided the Interventionists, at least they had the decency to be discrete.

excuse my fail, the heat is eating my brain

[charmandsmiles.livejournal.com]

The Doctor, meanwhile, made his way toward the Emperor's box. He wasn't watching the match -- he couldn't watch Oliver die. Instead, his eyes were intently focused on the man in the cravat. His expression read Not Pleased as he knocked three times on the forcefield.

Heat, augh.

[realitymods]

Without pomp or ceremony, the forcefield opened for the Doctor. Weber was seated to the left of the Emperor's throne rather than in it, hat tilted to throw shadow over his face. He didn't look up as the Doctor was allowed in. He was watching the battle in front of him, his smile fixed in place, his fingers idly moving back and forth across the arm of the Emperor's throne.

"Hello, Doctor."

with no AC ;;

[charmandsmiles.livejournal.com]

"Enjoying the show?" the Doctor asked as he sat right in the Emperor's throne, not really caring if he upset anyone. That was sort of the point.

[realitymods]

Weber drew away from the Emperor's throne immediately, sliding over to the far side of his own seat. He rested his head in his head, not looking away from the fight. "I've known enough bloodsport not to be entertained by violence or depravity."

[charmandsmiles.livejournal.com]

"But you're still watching," the Doctor pointed out. "Still doing nothing, 'cause you're just a mouthpiece. A stupid little puppet who's got a brain, but can't be bothered to use it."

Perhaps his words were a bit harsh, but he felt the situation warranted them. "Time to be a real boy, Pinocchio. Or I'm giving up on you."

[lamb_of_gold]

Mu stood very much on his own, gazing down at the spectacle below. Though he'd come, initially, to speak to the man in the cravat, seeing Oliver off seemed far more important. There would be other opportunities to talk. This was likely to be once in a lifetime.

Mu's right hand was pressed against the forcefield as though willing it to dissipate, but knowing it would not. He was enraged that he could do nothing, and enraged to know that getting mad would also do nothing.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head on the field as well, and his mouth began to move, silently reciting a Tibetan prayer for the dying.

His hand balled into a white-knuckled fist.

[shutupk9.livejournal.com]

The Doctor walked over to Mu, frown on his face. His eyes kept straying downwards to the match. Despite his brief conversation and travels with Oliver, he felt like this was his fault. Surely there was something, anything that he could have done to stop this. There had to be. He was the Doctor.

Looking at Mu, he paused, looking at his fist. "I wish I could be of help as well," he responded, gazing out to the arena. His eyes lingered on Oliver for a moment, before turning back to Mu. "It's awful."

[lamb_of_gold]

"Oliver doesn't even plan to put up a fight," Mu said, blunt as ever. "He brought a gun, in case his opponent could not kill him."

He paused, then, the combatants disappearing. He didn't seem at all surprised.

"But that doesn't seem to be the case."

[shutupk9.livejournal.com]

The Doctor winced as the combatants disappeared. Instantly, his guilt started creeping back.

"You're right. Why wouldn't Oliver fight, though? The stigma of being a killer, perhaps? Though, I personally would rather take being alive and being a killer over being dead. At least, I have before. I don't know what I would do in this case." He sighed.

[lamb_of_gold]

"Because he seeks to protect the life of his opponent. Oliver, I think, it far too gentle a soul to be able to bear having killed someone."

Mu continued to watch, impassively, until only the blond man reappeared. Mu sighed and sat down then, a deep exhale the closest to an emotional outburst that he would allow himself.

[brigadiertardis.livejournal.com]

Everything had to die. The TARDIS knew that. By her relative time line, Oliver had long since turned to dust. But it was different seeing it happen in front of her, watching the black barrier fall away with only Robespierre in sight and the ship stood silent and still among the stands, staring down on the dust that had once been her Doctor's companion.

Mortality, ethics, right and wrong ... they meant little to her. She just didn't care about such concepts most of the time. But Oliver was one of the few she liked, one of the few she remembered fondly, and seeing what was hers come to harm was enough to send her into a rage. An ineffectual rage, as she couldn't do anything, but a rage nonetheless.

So she stood and watched and shook from the violence of her anger, hands pressed to the barrier and eyes on Robespierre as he disappeared from the arena.

[forever-noble.livejournal.com]

A row or two behind the TARDIS sat a sickened Donna Noble, a hand over her mouth. Of course, she had no idea it was the TARDIS at all, nor was she really acknowledging anyone around her. Her eyes were fixed on the area where the barrier had been and gone. Two people she'd sort of become friends with--or at least she thought she could be friends with in Robespierre's case--and they were forced to fight? Just like that? What sort of place was the Plane becoming?

"He's...he's just gone?" she asked softly out loud, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. "But there's no..." she trailed off, unable to say 'blood'. Her stomach churned at the thought. "He can't be. He can't!"

[brigadiertardis.livejournal.com]

The woman's cries brought the TARDIS out of her thoughts and she turned to see Donna Noble. It had been some time since she'd last seen the woman on the Plane -- far too long, truly -- and she turned to face the Doctor's future companion, expression still drawn, eyes burning with dark anger.

"Denying the truth of it will not bring him back, Donna Noble," the ship said cooly, glancing back at the now-empty arena. Nothing moved; she hadn't thought anything would, but even then, the tiniest part of her mind had somehow expected the impossible to occur. "It would seem there was truth in our host's words after all."

A truth she fully expected to exact retribution for.

[bodilesswarrior.livejournal.com]

Barbara arrives in the midst of their battle, if a battle it could be called. She barely glances at the spectacle - a spectacle, made of murder, it turns her stomach - as she approaches the dome, a safe distance from other spectators.

That's when she starts throwing batarangs. They're large than usual, and made to explode on impact.

They do not, of course, do any good at all, but she keeps trying anyway, long after it no longer matters.