shifted_logs | The Second Match

Entry tags:

The Second Match

Characters: Roxas, Axel, Spectators
Location: The Coliseum.
Time: Two days after Weber's announcement.
Summary: The second of the death matches.
Warnings: Character death warning.

When the arena cleared, the man rose from his seat to again address the Coliseum. His smile was untouched, undisturbed by what it had seen. He made no apologies. "For a fairer fight, friendship. Axel," a twist of irony in the smile at the name, "in the red corner. Roxas in, oh, the yellow? Or it will all be fire, and this will be red and gold."

The sand drained up through the hourglass as he spoke. When it had all slipped through to the top, it held its place, waiting patiently for the start, still defying gravity.

"Good luck."

But gravity won out, and the sand began its descent.

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"They're good fighters," Weber said. It was half under his breath, impressed but not willing to shout about it, not in this context. Not for a battle to the death. He offered the Doctor a careless smile. "Oh, I love gold. I never wear any other metal." It was true enough. The plain gold rings, the gold cuff links hidden under his jacket, the single gold parallelogram of an earring hanging from his left earlobe. His neck was too much shielded by the collar of his shirt to tell if a gold necklace completed the picture. "And a traveller must have his emergency supplies. Not a concern of yours, I know, dear, but you travel with everything you need. If you remember that much."

The Doctor scowled at that. "They're too young to be fighting to the death. Oliver was too young." The thought gave him an idea, though...maybe he could save one person, at least, if he volunteered himself.

He fished around in his pockets for a moment, before his fingers curled around an intricate gold chain. He couldn't recall when he found it, or where, but it didn't really matter. "Put me in a match. If you can't stop them, let me take someone's place." The Doctor drew the necklace out of his pocket, offering it to Weber.

"Put that away. You're offending me, and you're making yourself look a fool in the process." For the first time, the twist of Weber's smile showed a flash of teeth. It was the first hint of violence he had offered anyone, the first suggestion of true anger. The Doctor would have better luck giving his gold to Cybermen. "And I've no idea what the lists say. Perhaps you're set to fight four days hence. Even if I were for sale, I could do nothing for you."

The chain went back in his pocket, and the Doctor simply looked lost. "My TARDIS told me I help people. Save everyone. But I can't remember how."

"Context, Doctor. You have to think about the story you're in. Your universe is an epic and you are a hero, but this..." Weber's hand indicated the stadium with a careless, sweeping gesture. "This is not an epic or a legend. It's not even a tragedy. By my measure, we're acting out a farce."

"Might be a farce, but it's a farce with consequences. I'm a bit fuzzy on the details of my own death, but I remember what happened when I came back. And this lot shouldn't have to suffer that."

He paused, considering a few things. "Still, is something happening somewhere else? Something bigger I ought to be focusing on?" It would make sense; what better way to distract everyone than to make them all fight each other?

"The tea isn't that bad," Weber replied. He released his wrist, straightened out his sleeve, gave meticulous care to the proportions of visible fabric. There was propriety to be observed. His gold bracelets vanished under the cloth, and idly, he thought of picking up sunglasses. "Of course there is, and of course there is nothing more important than what is happening right before you."

"Wasn't talking about the tea. I meant the bit where I can't sense my own people as well as I ought to, and I thought I was hallucinating for a long -- hang on a mo', what d'you mean?" the Doctor asked, eyes on the death match again.

"What do I mean about what?" He crossed one leg over the other, leant back in his chair, and rested his chin in his hand, steeling himself for the conversation ahead. The problem with being only capable of indirect honesty was that it made communication a great task.

"There's something bigger going on, and the most important thing is what's happening right before me," the Doctor repeated.

"What's happening right before me is the two of them fighting for their lives. But that's not everything, is it? 'Cause here I am standing in an Emperor's box with no Emperor in it." He glanced at the throne again. "Where's he gone?"

There was nothing in Weber's expression to confirm or deny if the Doctor had understood correctly what he had tried to say. "Maybe he's not invited. Royalty inspires no love in me. Like warmongering Presidents and decadent Generals, they're so often the worst that a people has to offer."

"Maybe he's the one I ought to be speaking to, then. Think I've got a shot at getting his attention?" Not that he wouldn't try anyway.

Something like a hand tightened around Weber's throat, but even that could not stop him smiling. He spoke lightly, lilting, as if he didn't mean what he said. But he was being more sincere than the Doctor could know. "If he ever shows up, you should run and not stop until he can no longer see you. Run and never come back."

The Doctor smiled too, but it was more of a smirk. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks." He had no intention of heeding Weber's warning, no matter how sincere it was. "I'm good at running, me."

"You're also good at stupidity. You don't understand the situation, and if you walk in with your blind assumptions..." He made a gun of his hand and pointed it at his head. "Bang bang. If you're lucky." But Weber had warned the Doctor, and that was all he could do.

"If I'm lucky, I'll come back," the Doctor pointed out, before simply leaving the Emperor's box. Weber's insistence that this was a bad idea only convinced him further that it was the right one.

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The Second Match

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