The Seventh Match

[realitymods]

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.

Comments

[madamemoiselle.livejournal.com]

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."

[bit_impossible]

He'd been avoiding the matches for some time; call him mad, but watching people he knew and haven't met yet die for no reason other than to satisfy some sick game just wasn't his cup of tea. Not when he knew there was nothing he could do to immediately stop everything. He couldn't stop Oliver from dying, after all. Between his initial conversation with Weber and the letter from Shay, he couldn't help this feeling that things just weren't lining up. There had to be something he'd overlooked so far, but what?

That was how he turned up today, of all days. He didn't know the two combatants, though one instantly set off a latent warning bell in his mind, one that said, "That's a vampire; do your duty, Time Lord," but since he was always the obstinate type when it came to such things, he simply chose to ignore it and continued on his way to the Emperor's box. Neither of them had to die today.

But it seemed he'd been beaten there. His ninth self was there with coffee of all things, but he decided, that he'd leave things in the hands of the other Doctor. After all, he was still far away enough from the Emperor's box that perhaps he'd stay there and observe the exchange for a bit.

The last thing he expected was to see what he saw next. It was very surreal to watch his previous self run through like that. He had been that man not too long ago--well, not exactly the same one, no, not from their varied travels during that particular incarnation--and couldn't help gasping when the sword went in. A hand involuntarily flew to his chest before he realised he was just being ridiculous and removed it.

He was on his feet stalking over to the box before he even realised it, and knew there was no turning back. He knew that any time he faced down his enemies, and he didn't know where he stood with Weber--the other man, at least, was easier. Anger coursed through his system, but he'd seen what happened and knew not to make the same mistake, so he kept his expression neutral, forced it to be. He had to stay calm.

And so, he finally arrived at the box, hands out of his pockets, no devices visible in his grasp. Just him and his masked fury. No doubt his approach had been noticed, but just in case, he gave a single knock and waited.

[seriousmarauder]

Sirius had little patience for picnics, or conversations with kings. Diva was quickly becoming a friend, and Sirius had no intention of letting her die.

Unfortunately, he was essentially helpless -- he had no wand, and wandless magic was difficult enough even at full strength. So he paced outside the forcefield, wondering if there was some other way he could break through it.

"Hurry up, Doctor," he growled, hoping the man outside the Emperor's box was having better luck.