Okay, giving you guys just a brief explanation as to what the hell is going on here.
Alex Blake is The Professor – a Time Lady who is close friends with the Doctor for as long as either of them could remember. When the Time War broke out, she was in a vulnerable position, so The Doctor placed her in a pocket universe where time runs slower. In his tenth version, he attempts to remove her from the pocket universe, only to fail and leave her behind in another universe.
This is her post-regeneration, and basically, this is a prologue to a series of stories that circle around her story.
This will also be published in Tumblr (my url is @tarciau if anyone asks) since a lot of my audience is from there lol.
Hope you enjoy!
The Professor hates it here.
Hates the cobblestone pavement stretching anywhere, the brick buildings lined up on each side, the yellow light shining hotly bright in the lampposts, the people walking around busying themselves through conversations with each other.
It's plain rubbish. Everything about this place is just...off. Just major offs and such.
She just regenerated, true, and everything has a new feel with this new body, also true. Something is off, though, she just hasn't placed the pieces together because of this damned regeneration hangover.
Should she call it a regeneration hangover? Too 21st Century, the Doctor would say.
The Doctor. Oh, how she misses that man. Something had stopped them from meeting, yet she still can't figure out what. She's trudging through the frigid air blowing past her and it distracts her from thinking. She remembers this place not being this cold just a couple hours earlier.
This new body hasn't gotten its thermal system properly renewed, or maybe that's just how her body works now.
Curses.
Then it snows. It starts as small flurries landing on her new brunette mane – wow, it also feels amazing, so soft and fluffy(!) – and just moments after, it's a stormy blizzard that almost flings her off the ground. Even the weather here is ridiculous, how'd her previous self manage to handle that?
Plodding through the bitter winds and chunks of snowfall, she makes it to a nearby Inn, where a crowd of others caught by the storm rest to warm up. The Professor imagines this being the Inn's jackpot. No one really uses the Inn around here; it's a small town that hardly gets any visitors. The ones that do are passerby – just asking a nearby local for instructions to the main city before they go on.
Goddamn. She doesn't know where her TARDIS is and she's stuck down in this meagre place with a sea of smelly, meagre people. At least her oversized coat still fits her the way her last face did. She really likes this coat – it's loose, black wool and fluffier on the inside. It would've been more awkward if she was taller this time.
She manages a small room for the night with the change in one of her pockets – it's surprising she even has money. She remembers that most of the people here are of poverty and cannot afford anything. But really, it's just the Inn's workers being greedy little shits and lusting after paper currency. It truly fascinates her that people can be so obsessed and invest so much on the tiniest things.
She doesn't have much for food now, so she's praying intensely for her goddamn TARDIS to come and rescue her from this goddamn mediocre place. If the internet existed at this period of time, she would've given it an immediate 2 out of 10. Doesn't matter who the fuck the employees are; their employers and bosses didn't discipline them enough.
Walking up to her assigned room, she's fancying a bath. A thorough, soothing bath. As thorough and soothing as late 19th century baths can get, at least.
It's her first bath in a while. In her new body, too. She could see what that's like. This new form feels more weathered yet fit enough to run a couple of kilometres without tire.
The bathroom is above average, she could say. The wooden flooring is handled decently, the toilet isn't as nasty as usual, a moderate odour hasn't bothered her much, and the porcelain bathtub is clean to an extent.
Least the owner running this place has an adequate sense of personal hygiene.
She shrugs off her oversized coat, slips up her shirt, and tugs her trousers off. Unclasping the beige bra hugging her chest reveals an ample set of breasts tipped with large areoles. She grabs hold of them, feeling a shot of delight under her own touch.
Yeah, her body is good. Great, even. She sees her muscular arms and thick legs, and then the formed abs lying on her stomach region.
The bath feels superb. After slipping in the tub when the water levels felt right, rapture travels through every nerve of her body. She's basking in the warm water and forming soap bubbles. Oh, she dreads leaving this.
She has to, and she does. She has no spare change of clothes, but her sonic screwdriver could fix her up some holographic clothes to cover up. The only problem is that snow doesn't melt quickly and the cold weather won't dissipate soon. She could worry about that problem tomorrow though.
Sleep is a wonderful idea for once. She doesn't want to converse with anyone down on the main hall, and she's feeling exhausted too. Her lungs and hearts haven't completely reorganised themselves and they're working too hard for her now. Everything is aching even if she tries to ignore it. This is only her second time going through this damned cycle, though it'll probably get more miserable with age.
She ponders more about The Doctor. She has seen him regenerate twice. Both would've been excruciatingly painful if it had been her. She wonders how he's doing, knowing he's survived the Time War.
When he attempted to bring her back to the right universe, he had a look on his face. This depressing, gloomy look that haunts her everyday. He was in his tenth reincarnation from what she remembers. It was years after the Time War as well. She does not want to know what really happened, but knowing that would be inevitable when one is with the Doctor.
But she isn't. Not at this moment. This is a world in which the Doctor – running through galaxies, solar systems, and time just to travel – doesn't even exist. He's nothing here, and she feels miserable again.
The Doctor and The Professor sundered by the strings of the universes tightening their hold and trapping them.
She cries. Alone in this universe, with no companion beside her. No Doctor to have banters with. No space creatures to run from or have a stern talking-to. Nothing in this universe could compare to the greatness of her home.
"Nothing, nothing, nothing," she softly whimpers to herself, repeating the word to let her fall in a sleeping trance. Her tensed shoulders relax and she lets her tears fall wherever.
The nearby clock strikes midnight, and she's deep in her sleep.
o o o
When she wakes up, she could tell again that something's wrong.
The bed is soft. Well, the inn's bed was soft, not too shite, but this is above that. The mattress is practically hugging her as opposed to the bed she slept in the night before.
Is it even the night before? Her sense of time still needs to readjust due to her recent regeneration. If it even is recent, that is.
Rugs were also not in the room last time she checked. Then again, someone could've placed it on the ground while she was sleeping. That wouldn't explain the soft bed though.
Eventually, she would get out of this very plushy bed. She definitely isn't complaining with this type of change. She could lay here for ages and not be bothered at all.
Her skepticism pulls her out of the bed's clutches. This is certainly not the inn room she slept in. However, she does find her clothes discarded on a chair and her sonic screwdriver lay amongst the pile.
She grabs the screwdriver and does a double-take on it. It's a new design – it has leather wrapping around a length of the device for a handle, a tiny switch, a gold casing, and the emitter takes form as an amber crystalline with black metal rings rimming around it.
This could also be someone else's, but who would just run around and leave behind time lord technology as if it's just a simple tool like a hammer?
Oh, what the hell. She uses it anyway to scan the room – immediately, she recognises the exact similarities of the software to her own screwdriver. Could there be another incarnation of herself nearby?
Once she's done, she checks the info gathered by the device. None of the Doctor's previous companions could understand how they could get info by "waving that blasted wand around" (as stated by a former companion of hers).
There's waves that the sonic produces that inform them, by the way. It's that simple – if you're a Time Lord/Lady.
"No, that shouldn't be possible," she says afterwards. Her new voice still sounds weird, though she does like the rich, delicate timbre.
She swings the door open and gasps at the scenery. It's a cylindrical Victorian-style library with multiple indoor balcony floors. Books filled the shelf walls and rococo furniture spread throughout. There's a dispersed fragrance of polish, paper, and spruce wood for a realistic feel.
What's out of place, as she looks with her own eyes, is the control console in the centre.
It's her TARDIS.
"You redecorated yourself?" Exasperation and shock are evident in the Professor's tone.
"Yes, I changed clothes." The Time Lady twirls around to see a petite brunette clad in vintage, steampunk clothing – a white bell shirt over a brown leather tailcoat, leather trousers, and matching boots. "Thought you'd like it instead of doing it yourself just after regenerating. You really haven't slept in a long time, by the way."
Damn TARDIS materialised as her again.
"Steampunk and Victorian-era?" She shoves her previous thought in the back of her mind. She could deal with it for another time.
"It's the trend!" The TARDIS sounds like a 21st century elder woman trying to get with the times.
The Professor sighs – she couldn't complain with the sentient time machine now. She misses the feeling of having a companion by her side, especially the Doctor. The company could do her good. Besides, she's been with her TARDIS for more than a a thousand years now, yet she still can't set down a time to have chat with the old girl.
Can't set down a time to have chat...? She's a damn Time Lady, for crying out loud!
"Where should we go for now then?" she inquires, and the TARDIS' projected human form grins. Oh, she misses that grin. If only she were here now.
The TARDIS makes her whooshing sound, despite the Professor's irritation of it, but she doesn't mind this time.
All she needs is hope, and that sound is definitely the kind of hope she needs right now.