Drabble
After being invited for the first round of deathmatches, Oliver hatches a plan.
When he first arrived back home from the Plane, Oliver checked the entire flat before he did anything else. He knew everything should be just as he’d left it last time, but he had to make sure he was alone. It didn’t take long to check that Anna wasn’t home, and they were still out of bread and milk, so she must still be at the store. She’d only just left before he’d returned to the Plane last time, after all.
He sighed, not entirely sure whether to feel relieved or resigned. In any case, it wouldn’t take Anna long at the store, so if he was going to do this, he needed to do it now.
He opened a drawer in the kitchen, fumbling with the contents of it. He felt foolish putting plastic wrap over his hands, but he didn’t own any gloves, and it was the best he could think of. He couldn’t risk getting Anna into trouble, after all. Once his hands were covered, he made his way to their bedroom, walking straight to Anna’s chest of drawers and opening the top one. He dug through the clothing carefully, revealing the item he knew she kept there. He paused, looking down at the open drawer before him, and debated once again if he should really be doing this. But what other choice did he have?
As his mind went to what was waiting for him on the Plane, he couldn’t help but think that it might be a good idea to catch Anna at the store as soon as he’d finished here. It would be good to see her one more time, and it wasn’t like the item would be missed that quickly. He could pop in, talk to her, and pop out to the Plane, and time would freeze anyway.
But he knew that thought was foolish--not in the least because of what he’d have with him--and he firmly reminded himself, for probably the hundredth time already, that death on the Plane was only temporary. He wasn’t really going to die. He’d see Anna again soon enough, and she’d never even have to know that any of this had happened.
Taking a deep breath, he picked up the gun with his covered hands, staring down at it in some degree of awe and horror. He’d never carried a gun before. Guns made it too easy to kill people, and even in all his travels with the Doctor, to so many new and dangerous places, that had never been his intention.
No, that wasn’t quite true. It had been--but only once. And he’d been told time and again by plenty of people afterwards that it hadn’t been his decision--nor his desire--at all. Still, those memories only solidified his resolve. If he had to participate in a deathmatch on the Plane, then he would at least go prepared. But he couldn’t ask anyone on the Plane for a weapon--he didn’t want anyone to know what he was planning--so Anna’s gun would have to be it. It was the only real weapon he had access to on Gondovan.
He didn’t want to imagine how Anna would react if she had even an inkling of what he was up to right now, but he reminded himself yet again that his death would be temporary, and then he could just pop back in and replace the gun. Anna would be at the store, and no one would be the wiser. Simple. Easy. It was supposed to be, at least.
With another deep breath, he slid the gun into the bag he was carrying, checking to make sure the safety was on before he did so. It would do him no good to get himself killed before this began, after all. He doubted the authorities on the Plane would give his opponent a reprieve even if that happened.
He closed the drawer again, about to turn and leave, but a photo on top of the chest caught his eye. He picked it up, looking down for a moment at the rotating images of himself and Anna. She was always so happy when he was happy--truly happy, anyway; she could read him like a book when he was faking. It was like his happiness made her own troubles irrelevant. What would she think if she knew what he was preparing to do? No, he knew the answer to that. But maybe the question he should be asking was what she would think if she knew the choice he had been given...
He fingered the picture, touching Anna’s face. He was making the right choice. He knew he was. And as upset as his friends would be with it, he knew there was nothing else he could do. He wasn’t going to kill someone else just because the Plane wished it, and he certainly didn’t plan to let them both die. No, Oliver knew exactly what he had to do. He was either going to let his opponent kill him, or he was going to kill himself. There was no real choice here. He wasn’t the Puppeteer, and he never would be again.
And if that meant he had to die in this match, then being himself to the end, without giving up on his caring of people or his refusal to hurt them, was something worth dying for.
Oliver set the picture back down, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He felt the bag, checking for the weight that he knew was in it. Then, with one more deep breath for courage, he sent himself back to the Plane. It would all be over soon.
When he first arrived back home from the Plane, Oliver checked the entire flat before he did anything else. He knew everything should be just as he’d left it last time, but he had to make sure he was alone. It didn’t take long to check that Anna wasn’t home, and they were still out of bread and milk, so she must still be at the store. She’d only just left before he’d returned to the Plane last time, after all.
He sighed, not entirely sure whether to feel relieved or resigned. In any case, it wouldn’t take Anna long at the store, so if he was going to do this, he needed to do it now.
He opened a drawer in the kitchen, fumbling with the contents of it. He felt foolish putting plastic wrap over his hands, but he didn’t own any gloves, and it was the best he could think of. He couldn’t risk getting Anna into trouble, after all. Once his hands were covered, he made his way to their bedroom, walking straight to Anna’s chest of drawers and opening the top one. He dug through the clothing carefully, revealing the item he knew she kept there. He paused, looking down at the open drawer before him, and debated once again if he should really be doing this. But what other choice did he have?
As his mind went to what was waiting for him on the Plane, he couldn’t help but think that it might be a good idea to catch Anna at the store as soon as he’d finished here. It would be good to see her one more time, and it wasn’t like the item would be missed that quickly. He could pop in, talk to her, and pop out to the Plane, and time would freeze anyway.
But he knew that thought was foolish--not in the least because of what he’d have with him--and he firmly reminded himself, for probably the hundredth time already, that death on the Plane was only temporary. He wasn’t really going to die. He’d see Anna again soon enough, and she’d never even have to know that any of this had happened.
Taking a deep breath, he picked up the gun with his covered hands, staring down at it in some degree of awe and horror. He’d never carried a gun before. Guns made it too easy to kill people, and even in all his travels with the Doctor, to so many new and dangerous places, that had never been his intention.
No, that wasn’t quite true. It had been--but only once. And he’d been told time and again by plenty of people afterwards that it hadn’t been his decision--nor his desire--at all. Still, those memories only solidified his resolve. If he had to participate in a deathmatch on the Plane, then he would at least go prepared. But he couldn’t ask anyone on the Plane for a weapon--he didn’t want anyone to know what he was planning--so Anna’s gun would have to be it. It was the only real weapon he had access to on Gondovan.
He didn’t want to imagine how Anna would react if she had even an inkling of what he was up to right now, but he reminded himself yet again that his death would be temporary, and then he could just pop back in and replace the gun. Anna would be at the store, and no one would be the wiser. Simple. Easy. It was supposed to be, at least.
With another deep breath, he slid the gun into the bag he was carrying, checking to make sure the safety was on before he did so. It would do him no good to get himself killed before this began, after all. He doubted the authorities on the Plane would give his opponent a reprieve even if that happened.
He closed the drawer again, about to turn and leave, but a photo on top of the chest caught his eye. He picked it up, looking down for a moment at the rotating images of himself and Anna. She was always so happy when he was happy--truly happy, anyway; she could read him like a book when he was faking. It was like his happiness made her own troubles irrelevant. What would she think if she knew what he was preparing to do? No, he knew the answer to that. But maybe the question he should be asking was what she would think if she knew the choice he had been given...
He fingered the picture, touching Anna’s face. He was making the right choice. He knew he was. And as upset as his friends would be with it, he knew there was nothing else he could do. He wasn’t going to kill someone else just because the Plane wished it, and he certainly didn’t plan to let them both die. No, Oliver knew exactly what he had to do. He was either going to let his opponent kill him, or he was going to kill himself. There was no real choice here. He wasn’t the Puppeteer, and he never would be again.
And if that meant he had to die in this match, then being himself to the end, without giving up on his caring of people or his refusal to hurt them, was something worth dying for.
Oliver set the picture back down, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He felt the bag, checking for the weight that he knew was in it. Then, with one more deep breath for courage, he sent himself back to the Plane. It would all be over soon.