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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I still have one subject left to me, and despite his treachery, he chooses to observe the formalities. As for my home... it is lost to me for ever."

"Something the Doctor can empathize with," Weber said. They didn't have to look at each other, but some quiet communication crossed between them, the tapping of a finger, the slight curve of a smile. "We are many universes away from it now."

Something flickered across his expression when he heard that; a look of sympathy, perhaps? Another lost home... Though surely it can't have been lost in the same manner?

"Never mind what I can empathise with," he said, poking a finger in Weber's direction. He winced very slightly when it met the barrier a little too soon. He was quickly growing tired of Weber's knowledge about him when he had so very little about the two men himself. Certainly didn't like being on that side of the equation, and the first thing he'd done once this was all done was find that repository of knowledge and destroy it.

"You said your home was lost, but define what you mean by the word. Does that mean it was destroyed and the pair of you are the only survivors? Or were you exiled for one reason or another and, for better or worse, you were stuck together? Or was it simply plucked out of existence, right out from under your nose, and you woke up to find yourself in a void where your world once stood? Do feel free to stop me; I could go on for hours."

"I don't know," said Weber, looking at his king. "What do you think, your majesty? I find it a bit entertaining to watch him guess."

"You also have no desire to tell him what happened."

The liar paused. He smiled, shut his eyes, and slowly shook his head. "Quite right, my king. I wouldn't want to make a story of my own sins." He opened his eyes, arrogant again, and leant back in his chair. "But those aren't the questions you really need to be asking, are they?"

"Oh, you know how it is. A bit of chitchat before getting to business," he said casually, keeping the annoyance out of his voice. In an instant, his expression became serious before he continued.

"I would say that I'm here to put a stop to this entire mess, but you made it very clear that it's not possible." Not yet, he thought. "But the thing is, all things are possible. If you've read about me, if you think you know me so well, then you know I never give up, not even when I've exhausted all the possibilities--and there are still some to explore. Ohhh yes.

"So! Question one: What do you stand to gain from these deaths?"

"No, I didn't." The liar watched the Doctor carefully, apparently paying no mind to the movements of his moods. "I never said it was impossible."

A glint appeared in his eye as he listened to Weber's reply. "Oh? How very interesting. Do enlighten me, o'cravat wearer. And don't think I've forgotten about my question. I still expect an answer."

It was the king who replied. "If we could tell you, we would. I gain nothing from these games and would end them if only to—" He cut himself off, frowning.

Weber pinched the bridge of my nose. "Oh, my liege. You really must stop making such promises."

"I promised nothing."

"But you wanted to, I've no doubt. And I don't think that's true. You call me a liar, but you just lied to me. Remember, they have records here of everything."

The king folded his arms, clearly not pleased with the sudden direction of the conversation. "It was true when I said it."

"And yet you didn't spare her from her tears." And then the liar stopped. "I can see three moves ahead and I don't like where this round is going. End it?"

"Agreed," said the king. As one, both hosts returned attention to the Doctor. "These fights are our obligation, not our profit."

He heard what they said, processed it, but the first thing out of his mouth was, "No!" followed by him slapping both hands to the barrier. "Don't end it yet. Leave them be for now! Keep talking to me."

He spared them a glance, arching an eyebrow slightly at what appeared to be a picnic, before returning his attentions to the strange pair. "Let them enjoy their drink. You want to stop things as much as I do. Please!"

They hosts exchanged a bemused glance before looking back at the Doctor. The liar said, "That isn't what I meant."

"We do not interfere in the fights," said the king. "We are only hosts, not masters of puppets."

"Though we do both do very well given a marionette. Such fun, Italy 1693, do you recall? Anyway, Doctor, don't worry yourself over us interfering. We can't. They have whatever time the hourglass gives them."

"Then what did you mean by 'end it'? Or is that yet another question you're going to avoid?" he asked, frowning at them.

"A very different game," said the liar, "and surely not one you're interested in playing. Don't get distracted by our matches."

"Your true concern," said the king, "should be with the fights."

"My concern has always been with the fights!" he snapped, offended that his actions would ever be called into question like that.

"If you're the hosts of this game, then you must know the rules. Or perhaps you don't or are unwilling to share what those are directly. My other self--the one you just killed," he added rather angrily, "said you couldn't speak directly about things, Weber, so. How exactly do you propose I ask my questions and still receive my answers? I really don't have the time to waste asking questions that will just get me nowhere." And he pointed at the hourglass to emphasise his point.

The king looked at his liar for explanation, and the liar said, "They change their bodies when they experience fatal injury. So this man is the next body of the man you killed. Don't you ever do background research?"

"I was interrupted over breakfast with Famine."

"Don't tell me: chocolate pillow cookies."

Ignoring that, the king said, "Pestilence thought you needed help."

"Did he. He needs help with his origami frogs. Shall we answer in order?" The liar held up his hand.

"Agreed." The king took the liar's hand in his. A united effort. A united front. "We know the rules of the fights and are charged with seeing them followed."

"But there are rules we can't directly explain."

"My liar is near-incapable of being direct. It is his great illness."

"And aren't you clever enough to know the rules for questions and answers?"

"Yet these two will see death today. You haven't yet the strength to overcome us or the knowledge to stop us."

That little display did answer some things straight away--like how he should have taken his other self's words more seriously when it came to the indirect/direct business. Of course, he was never going to tell him this or else he'd never hear the end of it. Personal pride aside, he had wondered whether that remark about Death in Oliver's letter from Shay held any credence, and with the talk abut Famine and Pestilence, he was beginning to believe it was true in some way. But was it the one he had been familiar with earlier in his life? Were the other two going to accompany Death soon? He couldn't help noticing that in all the talk here, that War hadn't been mentioned. Hmmm.

"Oh, I'm clever enough," he said in a low voice, his arms folded over his chest. He knew he couldn't save those people, even if one was a vampire, and it took everything he had not to rein in his anger with that failure danced in front of his face yet again. "So clever even I surprise myself sometimes.

"I have a feeling about who has charged you with these fights, and I'm betting it isn't Death. I'm betting your Death, unlike the one I knew, just might put a stop to this if certain conditions were allowed and considering you're all such a tricky lot, I'm betting there is something in place--which leads me to suspect the fourth one in that bunch of horse-lovers is involved or is the head honcho. Who can resist battles such as these? Especially ones where innocents and pacifists die."

It was a wild observation, of course, but he couldn't readily dismiss that line of questioning either. If he could figure out who was behind it...

Weber couldn't hide the amusement. "You're shooting in the dark, dear. Still, you have a rough idea of your targets. But we must be offended on War's behalf. We both like her, and that's very rare for us."

"War," said the king, "is an honourable woman. Death is an appalling excuse for a living creature. If War were running these fights, none would be forced into battle against their will."

"Wouldn't happen to fancy the colour red, would she?" he asked. "I'll be sure to send her flowers for tarnishing her good name." Of course, he was just being sarcastic and would sooner send flowers to a Dalek. War was never honourable. Yet...he was on the right track, sort of. The question was...who else could be behind it? People possibly like the Eternals in nature, but not in boredom. They haven't spoken of using ephemerals yet and they liked to throw that terminology around like a hot potato.

"So someone who doesn't like to play fair, huh? That much was clear from the very first match," he said, keeping his voice in an even tone. "Now! From what I can understand, there is a barrier around this arena," and he threw a paperclip he had in his pocket at the arena just to illustrate what he meant. Good thing it bounced away, or it would've pegged the man in the arena in the back of the head. "And there is one right here." And he knocked a couple times on it just to be annoying.

"I'm betting if we had enough people, we could break the barrier, but it can't be that simple. You can remove and restore the barrier quick as can be. And simply breaking the barrier won't cease these proceedings, so there has to be something else. Some other thing we need to do..." And he trailed off for a moment, not caring that he'd been thinking out loud again. He was watching King Bob and Weber's expressions as he spoke, gauging their reactions. He was back to that same dilemma plaguing him since he'd received that letter from Shay. His eyes fell on the hourglass, the grains of sand still flowing downward.

"That hourglass..." he said softly, glancing at it. "The sand didn't begin to flow until you officially started the match, and you said to make sure it never stops flowing if the match is to continue. Will that hourglass only work in this Coliseum, or can it be removed once someone has it in their possession?"

Both Weber and his king were very good at poker, in no small part because they had on more than one occasion had played a game where whole worlds were riding on their ability to hide their emotions and to bluff. So they showed no response to the Doctor's open monologue.

Weber did, however, lean forward when the subject of the hourglass came up. "Don't touch the hourglass. Don't try to do anything with it."

"It could be entertaining," said the king.

"Yes," replied the liar. "It could be entertaining to see your reaction if they tried it while, say, Naminé was fighting? Or Callindora?"

The king and the liar looked at each other for a moment. Then the king accepted his loss. "Very well. The hourglass will only bring death. Leave it."

He'd rather hoped touching the hourglass would draw out the real person behind the fights. Oh well, when one door close, another opened. Never mind the king seemed to have favourite people. He only just now connected the chocolate strawberries to what Weber said about chocolate pillow cookies. Perhaps if he wanted to appease the king, he'd bring him something--a slice of Evelyn's cake perhaps? ...It still had to be good, hadn't it? Granted, it'd been in stasis for...a really long time.

No, he was letting his mind wander away on one too many stray tangents.

"What about life?" he asked, both eyebrows raised in question. "Surely there must be a counterpoint to the hourglass of death; something that can bring life. Or if not life exactly, something to balance it out."

A frown crossed his expression. Even if there was some device or object, it hadn't been of any use before now. "Another question for you. You're not in charge of this, and yet you're overseeing it and enforce the rules, like the one where combatants can't seek outside help during the match. I take it that extends to any strong action taken from an outside party while the match is taking place even if the combatants aren't actually seeking out such aid?"

Edited 2010-07-16 14:11 (UTC)

"Surely not, but nice try." Then the liar looked over at his king. "He didn't mention anything like that to me. Did he mention it to you, your majesty?"

"Not at all," said the king with a shrug.

The liar mirrored the gesture's sentiment with the look on his face. "If the one running this hasn't told us of ut, then it isn't an illegal move. Not unless we're told otherwise."

He was relieved to hear that, even if his face didn't show it. At least he knew those participating in the fight wouldn't die from their interference.

"Think the one running this thing will ever show himself? I'm far more used to talking to the big final boss in situations that I really don't like, not the middlemen. Not that the pair of you aren't entertaining to chat with, no, far from it," he said rather drily.

"Always the mid-dungeon battle, never the boss fight." Weber sighed theatrically. "Well. The level boss will turn up eventually. But this is more of a 4X than an RPG, you know."

The king's sigh was less theatrical and more genuine. "Which game?"

"Alpha Centauri. When will he ever learn: I will never lose a game to him?"

An eyebrow shot up when he heard the video game analogy. Considering everything he'd seen so far with the matches, conversation with this pair--and the one with Weber previously--it made sense. Add in what he'd learnt about the black hole and black blood from Oliver, it made damn good sense. Then again, plenty of things played out like it was one giant game. Only...where did they fit in? Not only his friends, but Weber and King Bob the Big'un. He didn't like being a pawn. Certainly not in any game where the rules were at the whim of ones who hadn't yet shown their faces.

Besides, pawns themselves were all too boring to play with, as well as in design, unless it was one of those speciality sets. Either way, he'd rather be the knight or bishop. "'He' being the level boss for these matches, I gather?" he asked, keeping to their terminology. He'd have to look up that game later and maybe--much, much later--introduce Harriet to his old friend...

"You know..." he began, scratching idly at a sideburn. "I've got to ask. If you gain nothing from these fights, then why are you here in the first place? Couldn't someone else run things and enforce the rules in your stead every now and then? You know, like calling in a mate to cover for your shift at work while you nip off to the local chip shop--or perhaps the nearest chocolatier?" he asked, his eyes falling on the king

"'He' being Elonen. He has a bit of a gaming addiction." The liar made it clear with his expression that he was more than happy to remind Shay which of them was the better gamer.

But then they became silent. It was a question they were forbidden from answering, but they wanted so much to be able to tell the truth.

Quiet, the liar said, "There are always rules. Things that must be done. Moves that are forbidden. Though sometimes the game is changed, and though we sometimes play smaller games in larger games, my King and I can never stop playing: that is our contract in the largest game of them all. Someone here has learned the rules currently in play. And we dare not lose or forfeit this game."

Unlike the liar, the king did not mask his fury with a smile. "So we are the most easily used pieces. We have the immortality to survive any opposition, and, foreign to the plans of those who covet this machine's power, we cannot be traced back to the one who would so ill-use us."

Used... That topic had come up in his original conversation with Weber. Funny, he'd denied it at the time, but--well, he'd never admit he was wrong, even if it annoyed and angered him to see evidence of it.

Interesting that they couldn't be traced, though he didn't fully believe that. There was always some way, no matter how small, to follow a trail.

"What about someone who doesn't covet such a power? One who'd rather hide it away and let it disappear into obscurity far, far away from those who'd ill use it? Could such a person follow the little bread crumbs left on the path to find the one pulling your strings?"

At the fairytale reference, the liar's smile became almost sincere. "In that story, the bread crumbs were eaten. It isn't exactly the most feasible of tracking plans."

"And Theseus and his string only sought the way to walk free once they had met Asterion." The king put a hand on the liar's arm, and the liar turned to face him. But their blocking was perfect, and each angled himself to give their audience, the Doctor, an ideal view.

"Why, my king of kings, I never knew you listened to the stories I told you."

"My teller of tales, a king should always listen to his jester. His truths, oblique though they may be, are those which would best advise any royalty on his rule."

Normally, it would be the perfect starting point for another of their arguments. But this time, they didn't launch into banter. The liar simply drew his arm away from the king and tilted his head to look at the Doctor. "Can you play by those rules?"

The Seventh Match

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)