shifted_logs | The First Match

Entry tags:

The First Match

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.

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"Think it's a bit late for that, don't you?" He was already feeling the guilt intensely, for not being able to stop this. For failing Oliver again. "'Sides, you still owe me a cup of coffee."

Damon didn't recognise the language, but he placed a hand on Braxiatel's arm anyway. "Tea, Cardinal? I doubt Oliver would want us to stand here and brood over his passing."

"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."

Robespierre nodded, and stared coolly at Oliver. He began to speak another Psalm, but this one had power in it, showing quickly as a light purple aura surrounded Robespierre as he spoke evenly. It was a long passage. But despite the violence of the death itself, it was less cruel, really.

"Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or sit in the seat of scoffers;
but their delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law they meditate day and night.
They are like trees planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season,
and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.
The wicked are like chaff that the wind drives away.
Therefore the wicked will not stand in judgment,
nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous;
for the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,
but the way of the wicked will perish."

It was a Psalm that was deadly to another Poet, for it silenced them. Their magic did not work without the power of speech, after all. So if Oliver tried to speak as Robespierre started to send out his spells, no sound would come out. But as he continued, it would get increasingly more difficult to feel much of anything, for a numbness would spread quickly through his whole body. He did not turn his eyes as he spoke the last word, perish, absorbing the detail of the grotesque scene that followed.

Oliver's head exploded into a fine, red mist. Robespierre's expression stayed tight, but as the body fell, he took off his fine coat, laying it over the body. When the red mist had faded (and he could feel them on his skin), so did the field that obscured the view. He stayed kneeling by the body for a moment, murmuring a quiet prayer before the jacket fell straight to the ground. He was surprised by that, and picked up the coat, seeing the dust underneath.

At least there was that mercy to not see the body.

He set the coat over his arm, standing straight again. He glanced once more to the man in the emperor's box, but said nothing before he left the arena.

There really wasn't much to say.

Braxiatel didn't respond to the touch. He saw the shield fade, saw Robespierre kneeling by his own coat, a kindness to Oliver and his friends. Respect for the dead. And Braxiatel saw when there was nothing underneath. Was that Robespierre's gifts, or something from the Plane?

"No." He let out a soft breath. "No, I need to go home. And to do a very thorough search of my inventory for anything that might be of any use. At least we know something of the set up now."

"I thought I was the one promised coffee." The reply was effortlessly flirtatious, as if Weber had completely divorced his mind from the context in which he had found himself. "But I think this match is almost over. Will you step out of the box for a moment? I need to announce the next battle."

Damon nodded, understanding completely. "Is there anything I can do? Anything I can find for you on Gallifrey?" He hoped there was some small way he could contribute; if there wasn't, he would do some searching on his own anyway.

Oliver didn't notice when the spell stopped him from speaking. He was too busy listening, and feeling. He couldn't bring himself to look at what Robespierre was doing, but he wondered what it would be like--what it would do to him. What would it feel like to die?

When the numbness came over him, it was alarming in its unexpectedness. He would have cried out then, but no sound escaped him. He wished, for an instant, that he'd kept his eyes open, wanting, irrationally, to understand what was being done to him. Was the shield still hiding this? Did his friends know? Had he died already? It was too late now to find out. He hadn't wanted to show his fear, but it was beginning to consume him. He didn't want this. He didn't want to die! There were so many people--so many things--and he didn't know what was happening! He couldn't feel anything--didn't know when it would end or if it would hurt. It was terrifying, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted--

And then his thoughts, too, ended.

"Wouldn't want to get in the way of your announcements, would I?" the Doctor muttered, but he left the box anyway. He paced outside the forcefield, wondering who was doomed to die next.

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.

"Anything you can think of. Any scrap of information, any forgotten tool that could put an end to this." He looked at Damon briefly. "And if you've any way to find out more about how this is functioning, please do. They have the power to kill us all anyway. We must tread carefully. If we are to put an end to this, it can't be at the cost of everyone's lives."

"I...may have a way," Damon replied carefully. "The man who's announcing these events...we seem to have things in common. I might be able to convince him to help us more, if I get the opportunity to talk to him again. He does have a conscience, despite how it seems. But he would be destroyed if he disobeyed his superiors directly."

"Then that, I think, is a line of inquiry worth pursuing." Braxiatel's eyes flickered up to the Emperor's box, then down to the empty arena. Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant. "I don't think I'll stay to watch the next match. Did he say all that, by the way?"

"He did. Why?" Damon asked curiously. He didn't intend to watch the next match himself; one was more than enough.

"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.

The Doctor's frown deepened as he looked over the stadium.

"I hope he comes back. Well...he's got to come back. He's got to." That was more for the Doctor's own reassurance than anybody else's.

"He will," Mu said quietly. "Not even death can offer freedom from this place."

"Just curious." Brax finished off his champagne and set the glass down. "Keep me updated." And with one last look at the arena, where Oliver died, where others soon would pass, Braxiatel disappeared.

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.

The Doctor tilted his head slightly. "You talk as if it's bad. Granted, the death matches are bad and I didn't like it when those zombie things showed up, but it's not all that bad here. I got to talk to people who I would have never met back home."

"There are times I count this place among my greatest blessings, and times, like now, I wonder if it is not a curse instead."

Mu remained staring into the area, at the pile of ashes that once composed a man he would call a friend.

The Doctor shook his head.

"It's a double edged sword. It's good, but it bites you when you least expect it."

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!"

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.

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.

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The First Match

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