Title: Blood and Circuses
Fandom: Being Human
Spoilers: General for series 4.
Warnings: Violence; oc death; dog fighting.
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Series title taken from Tom Waits.
Summary: The revolution is being televised. Cutler's set up a channel on YouTube, and everything. (AU – canon divergence.)
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They call it the royal box, even though Hal has never bothered to have himself crowned. He's still Lord Hal, not King Henry IX, but no one is in any doubt where the power lies – even though today he's giving up his throne, conceding the limelight. And the limelight, if Cutler does say so himself, is very nicely done: bright enough to make them visible to the entire stadium – not difficult, given the way that Mr Snow's skin glares under artificial light – dark enough to give them some privacy. Not much, though, and Cutler is on his best behaviour, even back here in the second row. The second row where Fergus normally has to sit. It gives Cutler a perfect view of the stiff line of Hal's shoulders, of his frowning half profile.
"Did it really have to be a human?" Hal asks, as the presenter steps back up onto the stage.
"Unless you've found a way to make a vampire visible on TV," Cutler snaps, because they've been over this, or he'd thought they had, only apparently Hal hadn't been listening. "He's a big name. Used to host one of those talent shows."
"Talent?" Hal sneers. "The only talent they have is for dying."
"Well, he's popular, and we could use a little popularity right now." Which is a really stupid thing to say in front of Mr Snow, as Cutler realises the moment the words are out of his mouth.
Hal jerks round in his seat and Cutler tries not to flinch, but there's that little jut of Hal's jaw that always promises danger. For an old-fashioned man, Hal has come up with some inventive new punishments lately; he even put the Olympic flame to good use on one occasion, and nobody is going to forget that in a hurry. No matter how much they might try. But Hal wouldn't go that far, not with him, not even to impress Mr Snow – Cutler's certain of that. Fairly certain. Anyway, Hal would choose something more private for him, something far more personal.
Mr Snow waves a hand vaguely, dismissively, towards the big screen where the results of the audience vote are starting to come through. "I'm still not sure that I see the point of all this." And never mind that Cutler's the one who organised this evening's entertainment, that he's the one trying to drag this sport – literally kicking and screaming – into the twenty-first century. It's Hal that Mr Snow turns to for an answer.
"I have it on good authority," Hal tells him, "that this is dog-fighting for the X-Factor generation."
So Hal had been listening, after all. Enough to set Cutler up for this, for Snow turning his head in Cutler's direction – and those narrowed eyes study him so coldly that Cutler wishes he could go back to being part of the furniture. He fiddles with his tie, acutely aware of how Mr Snow might react if he doesn't approve of what Cutler's done here tonight. Then the music blares, the bass thumping and quivering in the pit of Cutler's stomach, and a row of faces appears on the screen: tear-stained, frowning, or slack with shock; some of them glare at each other with suspicion, with envy. All of them wait to hear the verdict, to see which of them will end up in the cage. Mr Snow considers them, amused and bemused. He hasn't walked out; he's still watching, but perhaps that's just because he himself is being watched. But Mr Snow is a fossil; the future's out there, in the crowd. So many new recruits, and most of them have never seen this before – and they're loving every minute of it: shouting and clapping, a surging tide of excitement, anticipation, as the final result is announced.
"And tonight's unlucky loser is …"
A close-up of a blotchy, glistening face – the cameraman has done some nice work tonight: he has a talent for conveying the terror – but the man doesn't shout, doesn't struggle as they march him to the cage. Maybe they should have given him something to liven him up a bit. Dog fights are short enough as it is, and it hasn't been easy filling the whole of the time slot. The man presses his back to the bars, body rigid and eyes wide, even though all he's faced with at the moment is a woman, and a small one at that. Maybe it was a mistake to give the wolf such a build-up. Maybe they had too many guards, made too much of a show of wrestling her into the arena – although it wasn't all an act. There's not long to go, now, and the moon is dragging the monster closer and closer to the surface. Still, they might need to tone that down a bit next time. If there is a next time. For him.
A clock appears in the corner of the screen: five minutes and counting. Hal shifts, and settles a little lower in his chair. One minute to go. Mr Snow seems determined not to relax, sitting bolt upright and looking for all the world like he's got a poker shoved up his arse. Thirty seconds, and the crowd are shouting along with the countdown. A howl tears its way out of misshapen vocal cords and now, finally, the man does something – panics, runs, hurls himself against unyielding steel – but Cutler isn't interested in the fight. Never was much interested, and tonight there are far more important things going on in here. Mr Snow is subjecting him to a masterclass in studied indifference, and Cutler's glad that he's got something else lined up in the hospitality lounge. Boys, girls, women and men – a few of each – because he has no idea which way Snow's tastes run, and it's not really the sort of thing you can ask the most feared man on the planet.
It's Hal who's really worrying Cutler, though; Hal, the connoisseur of dog fighting. Hal, who has the same cultivated boredom on his face – and Cutler can almost feel the hand closing around his throat, the hiss and burn of holy water. Or maybe it will be him in the cage next month, and wouldn't that just appeal to Hal's warped aesthetic? But for all that Hal is lounging in his seat, there's an unmistakeable tension in his body, the sort of violent stillness that comes just before a kill. Hal's eyes are chasing the action around the cage, and his knuckles are whitening where his hand grips the armrest. Wet tearing, a gurgling shriek, and Hal twitches forwards – a tiny, stifled movement, but it's enough. The crowd surge to their feet and their approval echoes around the stadium. And Mr Snow had better be listening – Snow and his, "Remind me of your name" – because that's the sound of all Cutler's work, all his ideas, paying off. That's the sound of success.
"Maybe I can find a use for you, after all," Mr Snow murmurs. "This format could work for the South American audience." He's actually smiling at Cutler now, and that might just be the scariest thing he's had to face all evening. "Have you ever been to Brazil?"