shifted_logs | The Seventh Match

Entry tags:

The Seventh Match

Characters: Gene, Diva, Spectators
Location: The Coliseum.
Time: Two days after the last fights.
Summary: The seventh of the death matches.
Warnings: Character death warning.

Today, Weber had let in a visitor early. With his coffee cup balanced on the seat between them, he was all smooth smiles, a performance designed for one.

The Doctor wasn't happy with Weber, but his conversation with Ten reminded him that he still owed the man a cup of coffee. So he brought him one, and got right down to business. "Tried to find the Emperor, but he never showed up. Any tips? Or are you gonna point a revolver at my head for interfering?"

Weber startled. He almost dropped his cup. Then he drew his revolver, not to point it at the Doctor, but to aim for the head of the man in sable robes who had appeared behind the Doctor, the one known to Naminé merely as the king. Weber got to his feet. “My liege.”

The king returned the smile. “My liar.”

Weber’s gun hand was severed from his wrist in the flash of the king’s sword. Silver blood fell from the wound, but Weber didn’t hesitate. He was forward in a moment, his other hand swinging up for the king's face, but the king caught that and twisted, forcing Weber to the ground.

“Oh, your most glorious majesty.” There was no stopping Weber’s smile, even as he cradled his injured arm to his chest. “How the sight of you brings me to my knees.”

“Were it that you would learn your place there.” With Weber now held down, the king offered the Doctor a brief flicker of his attention. “Another victim, my liar?”

The Doctor rose from his seat—no, the Oncoming Storm rose from his seat. "Let him go. I'm nobody's victim, and neither is he." He stepped forward, placing a hand on Weber's shoulder. "This ends now, your Majesty. I gave you a chance, and you've lost it."

“Doctor, don’t—”

Weber’s shout was pointless. In a gesture too easy and too familiar, the king shoved his sword through the Doctor’s chest and twisted.

The Doctor gasped, both in surprise and pain. His jumper was stained with blood as he collapsed to the ground, and he knew he was dying again. "Time to be a real boy, Pinocchio," he whispered, only for Weber to hear.

The two immortals watched the Doctor die. Then the king drew a card from his robes. As the Doctor's body dissolved into nothing, so too did a gold bracelet on the king's wrist. He drew out another card. One of his gold rings thinned, almost imperceptible to anyone at a distance. The king released Weber and offered him his hand.

And Weber, with his now-regrown hand, took it, sweeping his fallen hat up from the floor and putting it back on his head. “The fight, my liege?”

“Of course.” The king took the Emperor's throne with the arrogance of born royalty. Obedient, the man in the silver-stained cravat sat at his king's side. They were decadence and dissonance, gold jewellery and black fabrics, one's clothing from the West, the other from the East. They had held thrones like these so many times before, and each fell easily into the familiar parts.

The king waved a callous hand. “Gene Hunt.”

Weber gave a sad smile. “Diva.”

The king said, “Get on with it.”

The sand in the hourglass fell, unable to reach the black and silver blood lingering beneath its frame.

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She had spent hours preparing for this event. It wasn't the kind of preparation you would expect, though. But it was perfectly fitting for Diva. Every dress and gown had been inspected until she picked one that she thought was fitting. It was a little bit of Nathan left with her. Even walking into a death match, it was just another role to play, and required an impeccable costume to go with it. So she had chosen one of the costumes for her performance that ended on its premiere. The black and somber dress looked much better without the bat motifs. She had packed a basket full of things, too, just so that she would be ready. So when she left for the arena, she looked dressed for the opera.

But Diva covered her mouth and nose with a hand as she entered the arena. She could smell the blood of two people, but she knew who one of them was. She wouldn't let herself look up there, because she didn't want to cry. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't cry today, since there wasn't anything at all to cry about. But Diva couldn't stop her eyes turning a brighter blue at the smell that might as well been right in front of her.

The basket in her hand felt a bit more pointless as her teeth ached, though. What was inside weighted heavily, so she withdrew her hand from her mouth, using it to carry the basket with both hands. She looked up to Gene, hoping that her bright eyes wouldn't bother him. Well, they probably would, since it was Gene. But it would be fine.

She walked closer, setting the basket between them. Diva crouched beside it carefully because of her dress, and started to rummage through it.

"Ne, Gene, I hope you don't mind what I brought," she murmured softly, "but I didn't really know what to bring. It's not like we've spent time together."

Diva pulled out a Party Four tin and a tablecloth, smiling up at Gene. "This is the one you like, right? I didn't have an actual...blanket that I wanted to use, but this could be fine to just sit down on."

Gene entered the arena in a flurry of angry motion, quite at odds with Diva's more calculated and calm approach. In his hand he held the mobile Sam had given him. He hadn't figured out how to return Diva's call, and it was pointless to wave about when the broad was right here, but Gene was anything if not theatrical.

"Really, luv?" he called, tossing the sodding device at her feet. It hit her in the ankle, coming to rest next to the basket out of which she was pulling a Party Four. Gene just stared. "And Party Seven, or haven't you been paying attention? The bloody hell you think you're doing?"

Maybe that was why they were matched up to "fight" each other; both of them had quite the flair for the dramatic. That including Diva pouting and setting her hands on her hips.

"Ow, hey! Watch where you're throwing things! I'm trying to do something nice, and of course all you do is complain," she said sourly. Diva considered throwing the Party Four at Gene, but she figured that would probably hurt more than the cell phone and it was best not to.

Diva set the Party Four on top of the basket and stood, whipping out the tablecloth and setting it in the dirt. She took the tin and faced Gene, frowning even more. "You didn't call me back, so I thought I would at least do something nice. And I know it's Party Seven, but it's really hard to find on short notice! Besides, this should be plenty. Don't be so picky!"

The Guv stared at her, openly incredulous. "Do you have any idea what's going on, or were you too busy picking out your clothes to notice we're in a bloody arena?" Gene was used to obliviousness to an extent, but Diva took it to ridiculous levels. "We aren't exactly out to picnic in the countryside, now are we?"

As for the phone, Gene wasn't about to admit that he didn't understand the call back functions, so he fell back on blaming her. It was always the easiest solution. "And I'd have rung back but someone didn't leave a number." A beat. "And what do you mean, Party Four is plenty?"

"...No," she admitted quietly, "but that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I can't kill Gene, and Gene can't kill me. Not that I'm insulting you or anything, I promise, but...it'd take more to really kill me than you'd be able to do."

Diva held out the tin for Gene. "So I thought that instead of being sad, we should just...Well, I can't say be happy, but it's already pretty normal, since the first thing that happens is that we argue. And you're definitely not allowed to do something stupid like kill yourself to save me. I won't forgive you if you do that to me."

It was so childish, but considering it was them, again, it was no surprise.

"And I don't want to explain about the size. I thought that would have been obvious, but I guess not."

Her answer wasn't exactly expected and Gene drew up short, the faintest hint of a frown creasing his brow. Ignoring the fact that he really couldn't kill Diva (though he'd put in a good show of it the last time he tried), hearing her so nonchalantly discuss their predicament was off-putting. Gene didn't really want to think about it. Too many had all ready died on his watch, had been killed when he vowed no one would die. Now it was down to this?

"Why should I care if you forgive me?" Easier to keep up the banter and the argument than consider the outcome of the day. Besides, if it would save one person from this hell-hole, Gene figured suicide might not be a bad idea. Hell, he'd even get under the vampire's skin by doing so. He couldn't think of a better win-win scenario that didn't involve punching Weber repeatedly in the face.

"You obviously don't know me very well," he continued, reaching for the tin. "Bring anything to crack it open, or are we just going to admire how pretty it is?"

"I did! I almost didn't, but when I was leaving the shop, the man told me that I would need something to open it. So we should thank him or else we couldn't have any." Diva was smiling a little again, feeling like she had won the argument enough to at least just get him interested in the beer instead of what was going on.

Even though death wasn't the same for Diva as it was Gene, she was worried, too. When time ran out, what would happen? Would they just suddenly drop dead? Or would it be slow and painful? She could only hope that when time ran out, it would be peaceful for both of them.

Diva let Gene take the tin and knelt on the tablecloth as she dug through the basket. She pulled out the necessary tools, holding them up for Gene to see, but nodded to the tablecloth.

"Well, let's sit, then. And you should care because we're friends, of course. Ne, you might not think so, but I think Gene is my friend."

"Wonderful. We're about to be murdered, and you want to be buddy-buddy." Still, the Guv took a seat on the tablecloth, cracking open the tin with the tools Diva had taken out of the basket. He gave her a look that said 'cups?' before setting the Party Four down again and sighing.

"This what you want, then?"

Diva dug into the basket again and handed Gene one cup while keeping the other for herself. She also took out a small carton of strawberries, but they were for herself. The idea of Gene eating strawberries with her was almost humorous, so she smiled more.

"It is. If you want to be so blunt, then yes, I do. You sat down with me, so you don't mind that much, obviously. Do you think it's really murder, though? I mean, I don't think anyone has just let time run out before, so...No, I guess it is."

Diva shook her head. "Ne, I used to love the Plane so much, but I don't really know how to feel anymore."

Gene snorted, taking the glass and pouring himself a drought before passing the tin back to Diva. The fact they were sitting here, on a picnic blanket, chatting and drinking when a timer was counting down their living moments wasn't missed. The whole bloody thing was ludicrous, but what was he going to do? Kill Diva? Even if he'd been able to, he couldn't do it. Gene Hunt was no murderer, and he'd be damned if some poofter managed to get him to off one of CID. He'd shoot himself, first.

Which was still an option. At least saving Diva would mean Gene had done something rather than sit back and let that Weber bastard have his way with the Plane-goers.

"Hate the place myself," he grunted, glancing toward the stands, none too happy to see some other bloke up there with the sodding prick. "Place is nothing more than a headache."

She poured her own, smiling down at the glass. Diva didn't really care for beer, since she drank for the taste of liquor rather than how buzzed it got her. But she still sipped from it politely, fitting the unfitting idyllic scene of their picnic awaiting death.

"Ne, it's not that bad. I mean, without the Plane, I would be--Well, I guess I would be dead, since it's been so long since Nathan killed me. But what I was going to say was that I would still be Amshel's. I'd still be that person that Gene definitely hated."

It was said with fondness. Despite her past year, she still was more grateful to the Plane than any other because of the new life it had brought her.

"But then again," she added on, teasing, "I don't know if it's true anymore, but you did hate me for a really long time. So I was probably just a part of that headache! It's not my fault that Sam is charming, in his way. Goodness, you really were protective of him. Like when I took him to that fancy party and he didn't tell you? I thought you were going to hit him right in front of me!"

The thought of Diva still taking orders from Amshel was a sour one and Gene made a face, burying what he was about to say in a drink. No, she was certainly better off without the div, even if it meant she was under his skin all the bloody time. But she had changed, and even if he wouldn't admit it, Gene was proud of her.

"What makes you think I still don't?" he challenged, though there was a hint of amusement threading through his voice. "And I'll give him a good clock to the chin when this is all over for doing it, too. Thanks for reminding me."

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