Battle Royale (13th Doctor and OC. Series)

The Doctor was running. Naked, save for a pair of combat boots, the blonde-haired Time Lady dashed across the mud of the darkened industrial area. Every night, it was the same. by Pimari Entertainment, and to participate in one of their depraved leisure simulations, this one based off the early-21st Century Earth entertainment, Battle Royale.

One hundred of them, dropped into the same few miles of dilapidated factories, bombed-out buildings, and wasteland, and told to kill. The more kills you made, the longer you survived in the match, the more "points" you earned. Points could buy your freedom, provided you made it to the last man standing stage of the contest. Of course, they could also buy other amenities, comforts, in the Hub, a sort of nested simulation the captives were returned to when not taking part in a match. Many of the others in her simulation had been there much longer than the Doctor had, and entertained no fantasies of leaving. Why would they? With fame and comfort in their days, a chance to indulge in blood sport and live to tell every night.

The sick gladiatorial games (of which the Doctor's "instance" was but one) were beamed across the entire Galaxy. Millions watched, betted, rewarded combatants for outré feats of blood and carnal lust.

The Doctor was resolved to escape, and at last bring Pimari Entertainment, of whom she had run afoul of in a previous body, to justice. But she wouldn't play their game. Simulation or not, she wasn't a killer, she didn't so much as defend herself in the matches.

...Of course, certain of the other 99 had picked up on that.

With eleven deaths, zero kills and a whopping total of 153 points, the Time Lady was nowhere near to buying her freedom, anyway.

Remaining determined, the Doctor continued trudging through the mud. After a moment or two she found a wrecked military vehicle.

The dead soldier in the front wasn't a combatant, just an environmental detail. Every night, they found the area in the same snapshot of war, same crashed vehicles, same bodies, same fires.

The Doctor surged forwards, hoping to find something that might help her survive a little longer. The simulation was littered with stashes, fallen weapons, vehicles and armour. A couple of nights ago, she had even found a Jeep in good working order. Of course, "good working order" didn't exactly apply to the Doctor's own driving skills. After decades since driving Bessie, she was presumably a little rusty, and had bled out wrapping the car into a wall. Not all of her deaths in this simulation had been at the hands of others, she blanched.

"No." The Doctor said primly, her hands passing over a perfectly functional nine-millimetre pistol. She instead managed to find a torch on the driver. She idly entertained stripping off his combat fatigues, but they were bloody, too big for her, and it would take far too much time. At this point, every spectator of the simulation had had eleven nights to see her fat Gallifreyan arse out in the open, anyway.

Just as the Doctor was rummaging in the glove compartment, she heard movement somewhere behind her.

"Oh, bloody hell!" the Doctor cursed, turning round to spot the oncoming aggressor , thinking of her next move.