Author's Note: So this is my first published story! I've been kicking around a couple of Nine/Rose ideas and somehow came up with this instead. Comments and critiques greatly welcomed.
Disclaimer: I do not own or have any affiliation with Doctor Who, these characters, the BBC, etc.
The Doctor waved the Ponds into their new flat, a pleased expression on his face. His smile slid a bit as both blue doors swung shut. Long legs made short work of the distance to the console, where his hands hovered over the controls. He had no destination ready in mind to direct his fingers. Cheeks sucked in slightly, he flipped a few switches with extra flair, sending his TARDIS into the Vortex. The Doctor rubbed the edge of the console idly, casting his mind around for something to distract himself from the loss of his dear Ponds. He shuddered slightly, feeling a mixture of residual fear for this companions well being and relief for their newly established security. A rumble of his stomach sent his mind first to custard, then to soufflés.
Soufflé Girl. Who could she be? Who could possibly survive inside the mind of a Dalek, control the Daleks…erase all knowledge of The Doctor? Had she really done that? The Doctor reached for the monitor, the image of thousands of Daleks surrounding him with passive confusion fresh in mind. The glorious amusement he had felt in that moment gave way to something that weighed heavily on his impressive mind. Long fingers typed deftly, but The Doctor could not locate any indication of Dalek record noting his existence.
He should feel triumphant, but The Doctor was uncharacteristically sedate. His greatest enemy had no knowledge of him. Should he go after them, they would not know to fear. They would not remember his every triumph. All of his accomplishments, lost. Part of him wanted to mourn the loss, to regret the lost power he once held over the depraved pepper pots which drove him to destroy his own people. And yet he chose the name Doctor, not Fighter. He had never wanted to be a killer. What had he become? Who? The Doctor gave a slight snort. Who indeed?
He turned and strode towards the library. Dalek data may not retain knowledge of him, but his books had not been erased. Somewhere, perhaps, in those many pages a clue to his identity would appear. Collecting several large volumes, The Doctor shrugged off his jacket and flopped down on a narrow sofa in a mass of limbs and chintz. Centuries of conflict leapt off yellowed pages, awakening memories long since locked away in the back of the Time Lord's mind. His own recollections began to flow as if pouring out of a vial tipped over on a shelf, mingling with the faded print in a muddled swirl. As the distinction between record and memory blurred, The Doctor became lost in that stage between waking and sleeping, his surroundings falling away under the onslaught of countless scenes long since played out. Sleep came unbidden yet unbarred.
You don't remember me, he thought as he stepped into the intensive care unit of the Dalek Asylum. I am the Oncoming Storm. And you, you are tiny. Sneering. As he passed each cell the Daleks seemed to disintegrate, as if their very atoms were torn away from one another. He reached the end of the hall and stepped into the final isolation chamber. As the outer shell of the last Dalek began to disappear, chains falling to the floor with nothing left to restrain, The Doctor waited for a figure to be revealed. A yet indistinct female would step out of the empty chains, Soufflé Girl freed from her prison. His eyes narrowed as the top of a figure became visible, hair seemingly obscured by lingering bits of armor.
Dalekanium gone, The Doctor took an involuntary step back. Haughtiness vanished like the Daleks had moments before, leaving a gaping sense of vulnerability. Those bits of lingering armor were revealed to be pieces of metal arranged in a cage-like form around the prisoner's head, small sparks shooting out of the many thin arms reaching for the girl's pale cheeks. The restrained red head was not Soufflé Girl. Amy Pond was not supposed to be inside a Dalek. He had saved her from becoming a Dalek, Rory saved her, sent her home. But the eyes that snapped open in the new light could belong to no other.
"No! I will not!" Her Scottish accent came out clearly, yelling forcefully. "I am not a Dalek! I am a human. Doctor!"
The Doctor came closer, arms held up awkwardly as if he wanted to reach out to her, but an invisible barrier prevented him from trying. "No, no, no. No, Amy." Thoroughly stunned and frightened, he had not the force to yell. Barely able to catch a breath he could do nothing but hover uselessly, watching minute burns mingle with Amy's freckles as her yells turned to screams.
"Ahh! I am not a Dalek, I am not a Dalek! Aahhhh!" He wavered, unable to decide whether he should run for help or remain on hand. The feisty glint in her eye, impatient, which had commanded he do something, was giving way to trepidation.
"`Scuse me ." A small, calm voice from somewhere near his elbow caused The Doctor to start spectacularly, nearly tangling his arms around himself. Amy's screams did not fade, despite the calm presence of Amelia Pond mere yards away.
"It's ok, Doctor." The girl said, wellies squeaking on the tile floor. "You always knew how to get me out, even if I had to wait." Amelia did not smile at her Raggedy Doctor, but stared at him with a composed expression while tugging vaguely at the neckline of her red cardigan. No, it was more of a capelet, fastened with a toggle at the base of her throat. It only looked like a cardigan at first glance. The Doctor stared back, fiddling his fingers a bit in confusion. He could not formulate a clear thought, much less articulate it to the impossible child standing in apparent disregard for her screaming adult self. There were suddenly too many impossible girls. How could they all be impossible? Impossible, but real, staring at him, waiting. What then could be possible?
The screams, which for a moment had existed in a distant background, suddenly changed. The Doctor's head snapped up, eyes widening in terror. His temperamental ginger had morphed into something that tore through the remains of his trembling hearts. "Doctaaahhh!" That accent would reach him in any form, no matter the universe.
Desperate hazel eyes met his. "I am not a Dalek!" The Doctor blinked, and for a moment was looking at a cctv monitor, unable to reach the corridor where his pink and yellow girl was cornered by the last of his greatest enemy. A bit of the Dalek began to glow, a handprint clearly illuminated on its dull metal shell. Rose Tyler had given a bit of herself to the Daleks. He blinked again, ice blue eyes becoming brown as they returned to the scene before him, and he realized they were taking her back.
Her shrieks suddenly became gravelly. "I am not a—Dalek! Dalek! Aahhh I am-I am-I-am-a-Dalek!" The declaration was punctuated by a horrible gasping intake of breath, as if Rose had just surfaced after being held under water for nearly too long. Faint strains of her vocal chords hung in the air, fleeting evidence that the conversion had not been completed. The Doctor felt as though everything around him was constricting, the tightness around his hearts matched by a closing sensation in his throat and an inability to reach out for Rose. His Rose. Whose cries of pain and fear were beginning to sound strangled. His horror grew as her syllables morphed into the most hideous sound.
"Aaahh! Ah! Ah! Aeeehhha! Ehhha! Ehhaa, Ehhhsa, Exxhha! Exxttrrr….Exxtrrrmm…Exterminate. Exterminaaate!"
The Doctor gaped, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Her eyes still rolled with fright, she was still in there, he could still save her if he could just move. Her head lolled to the side, dangerously close to the spidery arms of the Dalek machinery, succumbing to exhaustion. With a deep breath, The Doctor seized control of his body and set his horror-struck features as sternly as possible. He stepped forward, mere inches out of reach.
The blonde head snapped upright. Large eyes found his face and held his gaze for a moment, her breath steadying. A peak of her tongue emerged from behind her trademark smile, causing his braced arm to relax a few inches. Her next word came clearly in her own voice.
"Exterminate."
The Doctor shot up from his reclined position on the couch, arms, legs, and hair flying about uncontrollably, eyes stretched wider than should have been possible. He scrabbled at his throat as his breath came in erratically, fumbling before yanking away his favorite bowtie and dashing it to the ground. He jumped again as a stack of heavy volumes was sent thudding to the floor by his wayward foot. Leaping up he paced around the couch, hands skimming nervously around his chest and shoulders as if seeking proof of his existence. Fingers crept over his prominent chin and into his unruly hair, seeming to pull himself back down onto to the edge of his seat.
Slowly his breath steadied and his hearbeats found their way back into synchronicity. His hands fell to his knees as he took another deep, carefully measured breath. Straightening his back, The Doctor made for the library's door, collecting his jacket and fishing out the sonic as he went. He knew who he was supposed to be. The Doctor, damaged, flawed, alone. And he had promises to keep.