Title: Carbon
Authors: WMR & Gillian Taylor
Rating: PG
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose Tyler, & lots of familiar faces
Summary: He had to prepare her for the future. Prepare her to become his champion, his saviour. But how could he prepare her when he was broken? A Companion Story to Padawanpooh's 'Facets' through the Ninth Doctor's eyes.
Spoilers: Gallifrey Go Boom, all of Series One
Disclaimer: Don't own them. We just like playing with them...a lot.
Archive: Sure, just let us know.

A/N: Many thanks to Padawanpooh for very generously allowing us to play in her universe and to NNWest for beta-reading. Facets can be found at the following URL (remove the spaces and add an equal sign between the 'sid' and '4402') www. whofic. com / viewstory.php ? sid 4402.

Carbon
A Companion story to Padawanpooh's Facets - Nine's story
by Wendy Richards and Gillian Taylor

Prologue: Everything Dies

No time.

The words played again within his mind - a mantra as he dashed around the console, frantically flipping switches and turning knobs.

No time.

The fleet of Dalek ships was amassed before him. Ten million ships obscured the view of thousands of stars and the other planets of the solar system projected overhead.

No time.

There were two things that he could do. Only two. One was to let the Dalek fleet attack and claim Gallifrey and the all-important Eye of Harmony for themselves. Two was to destroy his homeworld.

No time.

The fleet moved closer, the faint glow at the edge of one of the vanguards indicating its preparation to fire. He had to do something. If he let the Daleks take control of the Eye, they would have the power of reliable Time Travel. If he let them claim his home, they would have access to the vast resources of the Time Lords - including the Matrix. If he let them win, the history of the universe would unravel – rewritten into whatever image the Dalek Emperor saw fit.

No time.

"Now or never," he told himself grimly. What choice did he have? The safety of the universe versus the safety of Gallifrey. No choice. None whatsoever.

No time.

Of all the Time Lords on Gallifrey, Romana had chosen him for this task. It had been the Doctor, the rebel, that Romana had asked to choose. Daleks or Gallifrey. The universe or his home. Doomsday was upon them and he had no time to consider his options. There were no options. No choice. Nothing that he could do.

No time.

No more meteor showers. No more silver trees. No more Lungbarrow and his silly cousins. No more Panopticon. No more Citadel. No more Romana. No more Time Lords. No more Gallifrey. And his finger was upon the button.

No time.

The last battle of the Time War was upon them. The galactic tournament of chess had reached its endgame. The pieces were in place. The kings, queens, bishops, and knights were in position. What little was left of the Time Lords' defences squared off against the Dalek fleet. Fire blazed across the Gallifreyan solar system as the bombardment began. There was no time. He had to choose.

No time.

The last of the Bowships exploded in a blaze of multi-hued light, leaving behind a single Black Hole-Carrier and an N-form.

No time.

He was the last defence. No choice. Nothing to be done.

He pressed the button.

Time stopped.

The universe caught its breath, poised upon the brink of destruction. A moment. A second. A breath. Overload.

Time exploded.

The massive power source of the Time Lords had once had another purpose. That purpose was restored. The Eye of Harmony broke free of its restraints.

Time slowed.

Those lucky, or perhaps unlucky, Time Lords who were within the Panopticon had no warning. They were gone, destroyed, crushed to their component materials, in under a second by the massive gravitational forces of the black hole. The planet surface was laced with blazing cracks, revealing the fiery core. Nothing could withstand the power of the Eye.

Not even Gallifrey.

In the silence of space, the planet imploded leaving behind an afterimage of fire that slowly disappeared into the seething mass of the Eye. Its gravitational forces pulled ship after ship, planet after planet, and even the sun itself into its thrall. Energy and matter began a deadly spiral into the Eye's embrace. Explosions rippled through the fleet as millions upon millions of vessels were destroyed.

Gallifreyan and Dalek ships burned.

None were spared from the fire.

Not even the Type 40 TARDIS permanently disguised as a Police Public Call box.

Not even the Doctor.

There comes a time that a choice must be made. To live, or to die. To choose what others cannot. To weigh a choice against the survival of the universe. He made that choice. To save Time, to save the universe, he chose. Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps he was right. But he made that choice and he would have to live with his decision for the rest of his lives.

Gallifrey and the Dalek fleet burned.

All because of him. He had reached the only decision that he could, even though he knew what it would mean. The Doctor, the destroyer of worlds, the Oncoming Storm, had gained a new title.

The Last Time Lord.

His breath caught upon a pain-wracked sob as he crawled toward the console. He had to change the coordinates, he had to get somewhere, anywhere, other than here. There was only one place in the universe that could possibly help. He had destroyed his world, and now he had to learn how to deal with that fact. However, that would be a task for his next life. He spared a brief thought for his future self, for he knew that his ninth life was destined to be short. Rose, though she had not specifically said, had all but implied as such. Not even alive, yet already condemned to death. What would that do to him?

"Guess I'll find out," he murmured through cracked lips.

Golden light rippled down his burnt and bloodied flesh to disappear beneath the cracked and charred velvet of his coat, and he smiled grimly. Death would not smile upon him today. Time had yet to lose her champion.

The pulses of light increased in tempo, and he could practically hear the accompanying drums. A twist of the switch, and the bass drum began to beat. A turn of the knob, and the snare drum picked up the beat. The golden pulse was increasing in strength, and he could practically feel as every cell in his body died. The drums reached their crescendo.

So ends the Eighth Doctor.

In flames.

This was how his ninth universe began: with fire. The acrid stench of burnt circuitry assaulted his new senses. The high-pitched whine of the ship, his ship, his poor damaged ship, hurt his ears. It was wrong. All of it. Nothing was right. His new senses, his new body, everything was wrong.

This was how his ninth universe fractured: he became aware of an aching blackness within his soul - the piece of him that had been aware of his people, his planet. Now, there was nothing. He was alone. The Doctor, the coward, the destroyer of worlds, survived.

He staggered, catching his almost-fall with a strangely long-boned hand against the console. No one was there. No one was alive, except for him. Anger burned deep within him - anger at himself, though he had done the right thing. Anger at the universe, his people, and the Daleks for forcing that choice upon him. But, most of all, it was anger at Death. So many times, so many places, he had danced with her. Yet each time she pushed him away. Oh, he knew he had things to do. Most Time Lords did. Well, Time Lord now.

He had to meet Rose.

Rose.

This was it. This was the regeneration that she would lose. Barely started this life, yet already doomed to 'death'. Or, rather, death as his people knew it.

"Fantastic."

This was the part of regeneration that he hated the most. The newness of everything. New teeth. New skin. New hair, or rather not much hair. Strange, that. After the long and curly hair of his previous incarnation, having little hair seemed rather ironic. New ears. New toes. New fingers. Taller, too. The charred velvet of his coat sleeve barely reached past his elbows and he shrugged it off in disgust. New everything. And yet not-so-new memories. The haze of regeneration could not cover the pain in his soul or the knowledge that he was the last of his kind.

The rumble of the TARDIS died, signalling their arrival at whatever point his previous self had decided was safe. He couldn't remember. He didn't want to remember. The pain was too fresh. Too new. Just like him.

He stumbled toward the doors, unconsciousness lurking at the edges of his mind. Haunting him. Daring him to give in. Maybe in sleep the emptiness would go away. Maybe in unconsciousness he could find peace. Yet he resisted. There were things to do. He had work to do. He had...

Nothing.

The doors opened with an audible creak, revealing a scorched exterior panel. What? He considered the burnt and peeling blue "paint" with a stunned expression. That shouldn't happen. The exterior of the TARDIS was impregnable, impossible to breach or damage. However, the truth lay before his eyes. War could damage her. Just as it had damaged him.

"Doctor!"

He registered the voice on the edge of his senses. He was known here. Wherever here was.

"My God, man, what happened?" The concerned gaze of Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart swam into focus.

He blinked blearily. "Brigadier?" Before he could hear Alistair's response, the Doctor slumped bonelessly to the ground. The darkness rushed in and he knew no more.

Darkness.

He was surrounded by it. Cocooned by it. Soothed by it. Here, nothing could hurt him. Here, he could forget. Here, he was safe - safe from his memories, safe from the demands of the universe, safe from the demands of Time.

He drifted through the darkness. Voices sometimes called to him through the dark, but he ignored them. It was better here.

He floated.

However, even the desires of the mind could not fight back the needs of the flesh. Sensation began to return in spurts. One moment, he could feel someone's touch. The next, he could hear a word. 'Doctor?' And then the soothing darkness would return. He was safe. No more war. No more Doctor.

Where was death?

He felt something cool touch his brow and murmured words that made little sense to his damaged mind. He resisted his return. Unconsciousness was better. At least in the darkness he could forget the pain.

"You can't stay unconscious forever, Doctor." The gentle words reached him, cocooned in the darkness.

Yes, he could.

'No, you can't.' The voice of one of his previous selves came to the forefront of his mind. 'Yes, Gallifrey is gone.'

No. He would not listen.

'Yes, I pushed the button. Yes, it hurts. But this is not helping.'

Wasn't it?

'You can't hide forever. You have to wake up. Because without you out there the universe is going to end.'

All things die.

'But not now. This isn't how it's supposed to go.'

He should have died.

'But you didn't. And in that, there's hope.'

No. There was no hope. Not any more. Without him...

'Rose.'

Ah, there it was. The truth of his existence defined by a human girl. If he remained unconscious, he would never meet her. If he remained unconscious, the universe would end. Just like Gallifrey, he had to choose. Life or death.

He chose.

And opened his eyes.

He stared mournfully into the cup of tea. His body ached both from emotional and physical trauma, and yet he could not stop himself from thinking. He could not stop himself from reliving every moment, every action, every thought that had rumbled through his mind as he reached his fatal decision.

Everything that he had loved, everything that he had known, was gone. Burnt to a cinder. Destroyed. No more Gallifrey. No more Time Lords. No more... anything. For so long, he had wanted to be free. He had wanted to go through his lives without knowing they were leaning over his shoulder, silently condemning his every action. And so, in the end, the rebel survives. Now all he wanted was to be able to go back to the way things were.

"Doctor?"

He lifted his head to meet the Brigadier's concerned gaze. He had not talked much over the past day and a half since he had woken up. He preferred sitting in the gardens, staring blankly into the distance, alone with his thoughts. Alone with his pain. Alone with his memories. This regeneration, he decided, seemed to be doomed to depression. How could he help Rose, whenever he met her, become the woman she was meant to be like this? He could barely help himself.

"Want to talk about it?"

No. Not really. How did one go about talking about how they had destroyed their homeworld? How did one describe pressing the button, saving the universe, and condemning himself in return? How did one describe the aching blackness in his soul – the piece of him that would be forever lost along with Gallifrey? "I..." The word was scratchy, itching at the back of his throat. Seemed he had a trace of a Northern accent this time around. Interesting. "I'm not sure."

"Hmm," Alistair replied, regarding his drink with a thoughtful expression. "It does help."

He shrugged. Maybe it did. Maybe it did not. But he had no desire to talk about it. No desire to remember. Not now. Not when the wound was still raw. Not when he could feel the gaping nothingness in his mind. Not when he was the last of his kind.

"Doctor." He knew that tone. The Brigadier voice.

"What?"

"This isn't healthy. Keeping it all in. You're going to have to talk about it sometime."

No, he didn't. He covered his response in the act of taking a sip of tea. Not now. Maybe in a few centuries. But not now.

The Brigadier shook his head. "You're still too stubborn for your own good, Doctor."

He wanted to snort. He wanted to bark out a bitter laugh. Too stubborn? Not by half. If he was too stubborn, he would have found another way. He would have been able to save the universe, save his people, defeat the Daleks, and still get home in time for tea. He would still be his eighth self and this conversation-that-was-anything-but would never have happened. Stubborn? No. Coward? Yes.

The other man seemed to give up on him. He stood and regarded the Doctor through slightly hooded eyes. "I'm still here, Doctor. And so are you. You're still alive. Don't forget that, no matter how much it hurts." The Brigadier rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze before he began to leave.

No. He couldn't let him leave like this. "Alistair? It's too soon. I can't... not yet."

"Not yet? Doctor, 'not yet' is another term for never. Don't let it fester for too long. The wounds may never heal." In the Brigadier's eyes, for but a moment, he saw a kindred spirit. Similar ails, similar pains. Then the glimpse into Alistair's soul disappeared.

Now he understood why his previous self had chosen to come here. Who best to understand the wounds of war than a soldier? Who better than Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart? However, his previous self had expected too much of him. He could not speak. Not now. "Maybe not," he agreed. It might be better that way.

Alistair smiled faintly. "It's not easy being a survivor. But brooding about what happened doesn't help you to forget. Instead, it only makes things worse. Take it from someone who knows. You may not want to hear it, but you're going to have to go back out there. Go back to being you. Saving the universe, or a planet, or a single person. Because that's the only way you're going to be able to live again."

How did these silly apes do it? How could they gain such insight into life in such a short breadth of time? How could the Brigadier have such a window into his own soul? He had spent too much time around humans. They were starting to rub off. But living was not an easy proposition. Then again, it never was. The Brigadier was right. Enough of this moping. There was work to be done.

Something of his thoughts must have been obvious to his old friend, for Alistair's smile deepened. "Doctor, when you're ready to talk, I'm here."

"I'll take you up on that some day, Alistair." It was about time that he returned to the TARDIS, checked over her controls, and went back to living.

"I'll hold you to that." The Brigadier nodded and held out a hand.

The Doctor grasped it within both of his hands, trying to convey through the gesture just what his old friend's actions meant to him. "Thanks."

"That's what friends are for."

Nothing had changed.

He would still save the universe. Still save planets and people every other day. Still right wrongs, champion the oppressed, and defeat megalomaniacs on a semi-daily basis. It would still be the Doctor and his trusty TARDIS, travelling through time and space. Alone. Until, of course, he encountered his destiny in the shape of Rose.

However, the Doctor knew he was deluding himself.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had. Every mention of the Time Lords, Gallifrey, and the Time War had become myths and legends. Across the galaxy, nothing was known of them. They were nothing. They were gone. And only the Doctor remained.

Some day he would be ready to talk about it. However, that day would be a long time coming. In being himself, in being the Doctor, he would manage to keep that pain at bay. But only sometimes.

For now, he had work to do.

To be continued...