Disclaimer: Not mine.
Okay, so, yes, I'm rewriting this. No, I'm not officially taking it off hiatus because I really, really doubt I'll be updating regularly. This version should be longer, hopefully better written, and have considerably more morally-questionable Percy.
Chapter 1 - Three Psychos And A Child Walk Into McDonalds
Apollo made me write this, in his bubbly, impossible way. Any events that occur as a result of reading this, (up to and including massive property destruction, the beginning of several wars and/or death) is in no way my fault and I will not be held responsible.
Personally, I would have been happy to let my blood-soaked history fade into obscurity, the details lost to time till all that remains is a few vague memories. Unfortunately Apollo put his foot down and demanded (as my therapist, something I never wanted but didn't have a choice in, since Zeus forced me to listen to him on pain of being banned from the Greek world. Not so bad, really, except that would result in boredom for me and bad things for everyone else) that I write down the story of my life as coherently as I can as a way of dealing with my borderline insanity and my many, many issues.
Where does my story begin? What event can I point to and say, this, this is where it all began? In truth, I don't think it's possible to attribute all my deeds, good and bad, to one singular event. So many things led me to who I am today; my mother knowing the truth of my father's power, a chance meeting with a man who ran across the universe in a Police Telephone Box, getting stranded in the Time War and meeting then destroying the Nightmare King and his army of Meanwhiles.
Sometimes I wonder if things would've been better if I had died on one of those tiny, long-forgotten burned out moons during the Time War, or if the Doctor had failed to save me after a well-placed bullet tore a whole through my chest. I'm pretty sure that he wonders the same, actually; he knows well how many millions of lives I've taken, and were it not for my proven insanity and his own actions on the Last Day, he would no doubt hate me for my bloodied hands. Hate me because he made me; I am as much the Doctor's son as I am Poseidon's.
The Time War: those simple words do nothing to describe the screaming, dying lives at the heart of the conflict, or the desperate scrambling between the Time Lords and the Daleks to manipulate time against the enemy without ripping a whole in the fabric of reality, or the pleading of the lesser planets for peace before they became cannon fodder, tools for Time Lords and Daleks alike to use as chess pieces until they burned.
No, Time War does not adequately express the depth and breadth and enormity of what occurred, but then no mere words truly can. If you've lived through it then you know the sheer rending agony of time burning as I do. If you haven't, then you cannot possibly imagine it.
(And Apollo expects me to write down such a convoluted mess clearly and concisely? The Time War is anything but, and insanity even more so. Not to mention that the Time War operated on all twelve dimensions, which make it impossible to describe in the language of apes who only exist in four.)
Nevertheless, write this I must. I suppose, if I had to pick a convenient beginning, I would start ...
Here.
The Doctor and I are similar in many ways, and different in many more; while he was and is someone I respect, I cannot help but resent him for the hardship he brought into my life uninvited, as petty as that may be. Likewise, he cannot help but see the lives I have taken when he looks at me, the lives that would never have been taken if he had let me die, all those centuries ago.
It is for those reasons, among others, that the Doctor and I rarely talk, preferring to avoid each other where possible and politely ignore each other if our meeting is unavoidable. As a result, we only tend to communicate when a crisis that requires both of us occurs. Such as the Doctor discovering fixed points in time on Earth that require my participation.
(I'd like to clarify at this point of the story that I didn't stop the universe from self destructing because the Doctor asked me to, I did it because I'd be bored if every living thing in the universe never existed. Also, children dying/ceasing to exist/not being able to live their lives? Bad. That is one self-imposed rule that I do my best not to break.)
The long and short of it (which is a ridiculous thing to say, I'm never using that again) was that there happened to be a series of fixed points in time based on the human life I would've lived, starting from age twelve and progressing from there.
I spent a couple of months travelling from time to time, tracking down the supplies I would need (or might need) during the next few years, (As well as toppling a dictatorship that banned the exports of certain explosives.) including the technology required to build a chameleon arch into my TARDIS console and a rather large assortment of weapons packed into various bigger-on-the-inside backpacks, pockets, suitcases, briefcases and one very memorable necklace.
Building my chameleon arch was difficult for three reasons; one, because TARDIS's are usually grown over the course of billions of years rather than built, I didn't have time to allow the new technology to assimilate naturally. This meant I had to integrate the technology into the console without affecting the TARDIS matrix. Two, the first fixed point takes place when I'm twelve, so rather than a direct genetic overwrite from Time Lord to human I also had to reset myself to childhood. Three, rather than turning myself into a human, I used a genetic imprint from the human tenth doctor to attempt to keep all of my time lord memories without burning up.
It isn't technically necessary for me to keep my memories when I'm living my human life, but knowing my luck I'll get in a fight within the week; and I like to win my fights. Bit hard to do that when you're no different from every other child on the planet. Besides, I didn't want to risk dying and never recovering my memories, which would suck, in a universe-ending kind of way.
I parked my TARDIS on the corner of a New York street, not two blocks from where I lived as a child. It seemed fitting to pick up where I left off, even if I would never be the person I was. For Rassilon's sake, I wasn't even the same species anymore.
It was the work of a moment to seal the chameleon arch over my forehead, having already packed everything I would need. Bracing myself, I flipped the switch that activated the chameleon arch, screaming in agony as my mind was torn open and my everything that defined me was ripped away.
I stepped out onto the busy street, skin still tingling from the not-so-fun process of having every cell in my body re-written. I felt too big for my body, in more ways than one; not only was I now twelve, but my human mind biologically lacked some of the abilities of a time-lord, the most noticeable of which is telepathy.
Even with the gaping, silent hole in my mind where I should have felt the minds of every other time-lord in the universe, telepathy was something I had grown accustomed to having, over the years. Watching the minds around me, some burning with the light of a thousand suns only to go out as all lights must, others shining with the gentle strength of eternity, or as good as. Walking around without that innate insight into other people was disturbing, to say the least. I felt half-blind, and I didn't like it; it made me vulnerable, which I try to avoid at all costs.
On the other hand, it was so far, so good where my experiment was concerned. I hadn't spontaneously combusted or died a horrible death so far at least, and there weren't any gaping holes in my memory that would indicate the transfer of my Time Lord consciousness was incomplete as far as I could tell - though, with eight hundred years of travelling the universe plus one Time War and all shit that comes with crossing your own time-stream (like days and even years that never happened except in my head) crammed into my poor human skull, it was entirely possible that I'd miss something. Me was right; it was difficult to keep track of everything, and until now I hadn't appreciated how difficult.
I wandered through the darkened streets with my head tilted back, looking up at the yellowish streetlights and beyond, like I could see the stars even through the pollution. I couldn't, of course, not even with Time Lord senses, but I didn't need to see to remember.
I'd forgotten what it felt like to have only one heart pumping blood through my veins. I'd forgotten how it felt to be fragile, permanently one step from death the way humans always are. I'd forgotten how alive they are, their senses always open and receiving, constantly feeding their brains information. Most of which they promptly ignored, but still, it was impressive. Time Lords had control over their senses and could increase or decrease how much they saw, heard, tasted, smelt and felt at any given time, but they couldn't open any sense to this degree - that required loss of control, and no Time Lord would willingly give up control. Not even the Doctor, though I'm fairly sure that is because he is afraid of what he would do. The Doctor could make entire armies turn and run at the mere mention of his name, but the enemy he feared most was himself.
Some things about my human life remained clear, however. I looked at the street around me, the storefronts lit and doors open, people bustling to and fro. It was about three in the morning and it showed in the way people interacted; quietly, whispering if they needed to speak, stepping softly as if afraid to break the quiet of night (regardless of the roar of traffic - some things, you learned to ignore). It was not so very different from the street I had run down as a child, running as if my life depended on it - and perhaps it had.
It might even have been the same street, though I couldn't be sure - I hadn't been truly aware of where I was running to even then, let alone now when the intervening years have dulled my memory. Still, it didn't really matter. A street was a street was a street, memories or no.
I strolled into a mostly empty (the teenager manning the counter looked to be the only one around, and he was half-asleep) McDonalds, not really hungry but aware that the human body needed sustenance, especially if I was going to carry on wandering around aimlessly without any sleep. I ordered a large fries - even McDonalds couldn't contaminate fries too badly, right? - and seated myself in a corner so I could watch the glass wall and door, the counter, the stairs, and the door leading to the back and the toilets without having to swivel around too much.
No, it wasn't paranoia - though I had that, too - but foreknowledge.
I have no way of knowing where and when I would need to be (or would have been) for the fixed points to occur, and without turning myself into a seven-year-old and waiting for five years for things to start happening - yeah, not gonna happen - I have no way to find out. But in my (vast and valid) experience, history wants fixed points to happen; time changes in little ways to lead us to where we need to be. I was hoping that that would happen here, too; it would certainly save me some time. About five years, in fact.
A teenager walked in and interrupted my thoughts, the little electronic buzzer at the door giving a little 'beep' as he entered. I glanced at him disinterestedly before looking back down at my half-demolished fries - I am going to have to learn to recognise the sensation of being hungry, if I can be this starved and not even notice - before hiding the sudden tensing of my frame as I realised there was a few things off about the newcomer. I glanced up at him surreptitiously while he was occupied with ordering. He didn't seem very familiar with the menu, which struck a note with me - McDonalds menus didn't tend to vary much. Where was he from that he wasn't familiar with them? Unless he did live somewhere with access to McDonalds, but simply never went in one until now, which was still suspicious. It could all be coincidence, but the universe is rarely so lazy and anyway, that wasn't what drew my attention to him the first place.
It was the way he scanned the room, first; I caught it when I glanced at him when he entered. Scanning, calculating; those eyes (sea green, not a particularly common colour) were noticing things. The doors, the tables and chairs, the people. He looked at the room the way a soldier would - like if a firefight broke out, he knew exactly where he wanted to be, how many civvies he'd have to pull out of the line of fire, and the easiest way to kill off the bad guys.
Then it was the way he moved. Fluidly, easily, but with care. He gave me the impression that he knew how to use his body in a fight; always careful of his center of balance, each foot placed at exact angles on the floor so he could throw anyone who tried to rush him, right hand never moving further than a foot away from his pocket. I wondered what kind of weapon he'd hidden there; my first instinct was to say gun, but he didn't move right for that. He moved like he knew martial arts, like he fought close-up. I was tempted to say some kind of pocket-knife, though it could also be brass knuckles.
I didn't think it was brass knuckles, though. There's something about them - or equivalents to them - that says, petty violence, small-time criminal, not a threat if you know how to handle it. Somehow, I doubted this teenager was any of the three.
He didn't move with that special brand of contained violence that you tend to pick up from thugs, for one thing. Oh, he could move with violence, but he seemed more like he could spring into wild, chaotic motion at any second than like he was waiting for an excuse to punch your face in. So petty violence was out. As for small-time criminal, no. No way. The guy walks with his shoulders squared and chin up. Not arrogance, not quite, just confidence and certainty. I'd say he was more likely to be a noble than a criminal - I'd seen him for all of thirty seconds and he struck me as a I-have-a-purpose knight-in-shining-armour sort of guy.
None of that meant he wasn't dangerous. Not at all. In fact, nothing is more dangerous than someone who has a purpose. They'll rarely admit they're wrong.
He eventually ordered onion rings, and seated himself against the window, back to the wall but keeping an eye on both outside, the room and me. It was curious behaviour; if he was trying to kill me, he'd have put himself between me and the door so I wouldn't be able to escape. Instead, he was keeping a steady eye outside like he was expecting company, and that company wasn't friendly. I'd say it was almost like trying to protect me, though obviously without my knowledge because a normal bodyguard would have my back.
The next question was why the hell did he want to protect me? Most of the universe wants me dead, having someone try to save me is kind of a new thing.
We were there for maybe ten minutes - I got up and ordered a second portion of fries while I was waiting for something to happen - before another person walked in, this time a fat man in a really unattractive black tracksuit. Now here was a thug - he might have looked fat, but he moved like muscle, all lumbering strength and brute force. I wonder who is giving him orders? Whoever it is isn't paying him very well, because he didn't bother to order anything, just sat in the table next to the door and watched me. The thug was after me, obviously, but he wasn't that talented or he would have noticed the teenager in the corner who was now watching the thug like he was deciding when would be a good time to attack. You could see the brains in the way the teenager was looking at him, like he was thinking through the best way to achieve his goal, and I moved him a few pegs up the intelligence ladder. He didn't just follow orders, did that one.
The thug was still staring at me, presumably because he was under orders not to let me get away, and I stared back evenly. He didn't look away, so he can't be that bothered about me knowing that he's out to kidnap and or kill me. Did he think I was too stupid to run, or was he just overconfident? Possibly both, but perhaps he was sure that he'd be able to find me again. If so, running wouldn't do me much good in the long run.
That's fine by me. Running is more the Doctor's style, anyway.
I finished the last of my fries and stood, dumping the cardboard packet in the bin and walking to the door. I saw muscles ripple unnaturally under his skin as if he was preparing to grab me and I turned my head away, gaze darting back to peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He flickered for just a spilt second, and I hid my triumph as I turned my head back to face the door and continued walking. He was hiding underneath a perception filter.
Adjusting my plans a little, I walked straight towards him instead of the door. I stopped just out of his arm's reach - or rather, just out of arm's reach of the image he projected - and smiled a polite smile that I knew didn't reach my eyes.
"You want something, brat?" He snarled, and I filed away the slightly animalistic growl in his voice for future reference - a perception filter only alters sight and touch, so his voice was one of the only clues I had as to what he really is.
"What's your problem?" I asked, carefully keeping my voice free of any of the usual aggression that goes hand-in-hand with a question like that. It was almost polite, and worlds nicer than I usually am, but I figured it was worth it to stay out of a police cell, or have some interfering authority try to ship me off to foster care. Besides, short of torture it's usually easier to get information out of people if you're nice - or pretend to be.
He blinked bemusedly, his entire posture radiating discomfort as if he didn't know how to handle someone not being blatantly aggressive towards him. I was right about not being aggressive, it would seem; if he'd thought for a second that I was looking for a fight he'd have attacked me, no doubt about it. "Huh?" He looked confused enough that I almost felt bad for him. What did they teach him in bodyguard 101? Not much, if he could be put this far off balance by a polite tone of voice.
"I said, what's your problem?" I was still talking in a nonthreatening manner, which was a lot easier in the body of a twelve-year-old. When he still failed to react, I resisted the urge to sigh impatiently - he might get offended and attack me before I've got the answers I want - and said calmly, "You were staring at me."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the teenager who seemed to want to protect me tense, and he flickered briefly. So he was under a perception filter too, surprise, surprise.
The fat man - or what appeared to be a fat man - lumbered to his feet. I took one quick step back and three steps sideways, so that the table was between us and I could still keep an eye on the teenager. If he really was hanging around to protect me, then it wouldn't hurt to make sure that he had a good opening to attack, especially if it meant that I wasn't leaving him at my back. Just in case.
"You're coming with me." He growled, more noticeably than before. Deliberate, or the result of anger? It was hard to tell.
"Why am I coming with you?" I asked as neutrally as I could, trying not to let my amusement show. That settled it; whoever was after me clearly had no idea what they were dealing with, or they wouldn't have sent only one muscle-man. Even my bitterest enemies knew better than to do something so stupid; they might hate me, but they would never underestimate me. If anything, they had a tendency to believe that I could do anything, sort of like God - though honestly, the Devil would be a more apt description.
He must have caught my amused disdain, though, because he actually growled, rather than try to form words. He lumbered forward, but the table was still between us and like all tables in fast food restaurants, it was bolted down. He paused for a second before giving it a shake with his meaty fists, but it didn't budge. I made use of his distraction and pulled out a gun. Made in the forty-second Earth century, it was one of the best (humans don't have the monopoly on warfare, but they're very inventive when necessary) especially for the size. Most of the guns I'd been fond of before were too big for my hands now that I was back to being child-sized.
The fat man heard the snap of the metal as I double-checked that it was loaded and turned the safety off, and looked at me with a sneer. "Put it down, boy. You will be taken to Lord Zeus to answer for your crimes, like it or not."
I snorted, fed up with being polite already. "You going to take me in by force, is that it?" I didn't bother hiding the derision in my voice - I wasn't going to be taken anywhere by a fat pig like him.
"Yeah, that's it." He grinned nastily at me and started moving around the table. I levelled the gun at him and fired three times in one fluid motion. The bullets pushed him back a step, blood blooming in three patches, as he was hit twice in the chest and once in the head. He hissed in pain, and I was pleased to see that the wounds did at least hurt him, even if he didn't seem to be going down.
He looked at me, keeping eye contact despite the blood dripping in his eye from the hole in his forehead as he pushed his fingers into one of the wounds in his chest and pulled out the bullet. It made that brief clinking sound that you get when you drop misshapen bits of metal on the floor and I knew without looking that the bullet I'd fired was no longer in the shape of a bullet.
The thing that looked like a fat man grinned at me nastily again. "Mortal toys won't kill me, child."
Several things happened at once; the fat man moved forward like he was going to attack me again, the teenager finally stepped forward like he was about to intercede, I took aim again (this time at the fat man's kneecap, because not being able to die is not the same thing as not being able to walk) and the window smashed in as a hag-like creature with huge bat wings swept in and slammed into the fat man sending both of them halfway across the room.
Huh. Didn't see that coming.
This should be better than before. I think. Let me know.
Enjoy, Shib. :)