The city of Troy burned, ravaged by Grecian saboteurs welcomed through a false gift. Hector was dead, Achilles had fallen, and Priam lay dying. As Aeneas struggled to help his father stand, the curtains of the theatre closed, and the audience clapped and leapt to their feet, astounded by the performance. Applause rolled through the amphitheater as the actors bowed in turn; the stunning Helen receiving the loudest cheers.
Rose stood on tiptoe for a moment to get a better look: the actress was pale green, at least two feet taller than any of her co-stars, and as the applause roared, her feathered crest rose in response to the crowd's admiration. Rose leaned to her right and raised her voice so as to be heard over the audience. "Looks a bit peaky to me," she said over the noise.
"She's stunning by Borvanian beauty standards," the Doctor shouted back. "See that black band on her dorsal ridge?" he nodded towards the stage. "Very rare. Very beautiful. And there's no mottling on her feathers, it's no wonder they cast her as Helen."
Rose nodded, humoring him. "Yeah, I get it. Head-crest that launched a thousand… whatever they've got instead of ships."
"Borvanic sky-skippers. And they use a base 6 system, so it's four thousand, three hundred, and forty-four."
"Head-crest that launched—"
"'Lofted', they say here," the Doctor interrupted.
"So, 'the head-crest that lofted four thousand, three hundred, and forty-four Borvanic sky-skippers'? Not got much ring to it, has it?"
"Poetic," he beamed, "Rolls right off the tongue! Well done on the delivery, we should get you an audition for next season."
"Thanks." Rose wasn't sure if he was being serious. "So they've got tongues, then?" she asked.
"Well… no, not exactly. You see—"
The crowd filed out of the amphitheater, long-legged white and green bodies streaming through silver arches that spelled 'exit here' in thirteen languages. The TARDIS translation circuit presented all of them in English (though each was in a slightly different font), making it look to Rose as though the doors were particularly insistent of their use.
She smiled to herself as the Doctor continued to prattle about bizarre Borvanian biology. 'Bizarre Borvanian biology', Rose repeated to herself. Wonder if he could say that five times fast? she thought, looking over at the Doctor's animated explanation. Bet he could, she decided. Getting him to stop'd be tricky, though.
The Doctor continued to describe the local alien race as the two of them bypassed the exit doors. The last few stragglers of the audience gave them concerned looks. They detouring down behind the orchestra pit where they'd parked the TARDIS, and the Doctor continued on, "—so that when the air is forced through the resonance chamber, it functions as a voice box, which is why they've all got those tiny satchels strapped to them somewhere. Holds a miniature air pump."
Rose nodded, half following along, half thinking back on the performance they'd just witnessed. While she had passing familiarity with Homer from her last few years of school, Rose had been certain it would turn out differently this time. That seeress in the play couldn't have been telling the truth. Every time she spoke, her words were immediately disregarded as ridiculous. Not just in the context of the story – for the entire audience as well. They'd laughed in scorn when predictions had been made, all of which turned out to be true.
"The princess was the best of the whole lot," Rose interjected as they stepped over dusty props hidden below the stage. "I've read that story, and I knew the city would fall, but I still didn't believe her. Hell of an acting job."
The Doctor paused with his TARDIS key in midair, not quite having reached the lock. "Yes, actually, I was wondering about that. In the original Cassandra myth, she was cursed by Apollo to always tell the truth but never be believed. Can you imagine?" He finally managed to insert his key, turned it, and held the door open as Rose entered. "In all actuality, she was infected with an alien virus brought by some early Lammasteenian scouts. It's easily transferable and quite harmless really, but she happened to be the only one susceptible, poor girl. You know, her beef stew really was a work of art." He proceeded up the stairs to the console. "We had dinner once in—Rose?"
Rose stood at the bottom of the entrance ramp, one hand on the door frame for support. Her face held a look of worried expectancy.
"Are—" the Doctor tried to gauge her expression. "Are you going to sneeze?"
Rose looked to one side, then up at him. "I don't know. It feels like… something."
"O…kay. Specifics?" He walked down the ramp, pulling a stethoscope out of his pocket.
Rose twitched her nose. "The truth is, I thought I'd hate that play," she blurted out
The Doctor froze midway down the ramp. "But you love Greek mythology."
The hurt expression on his face tugged at Rose's heartstrings. "Yeah, I do. I don't know why I said that." She shook her head. "I mean, I loved it, but I didn't think I would." She walked further up the ramp, touching the Doctor's arm in apology. "That weird feeling's gone, though, so I think it's alright." When he didn't respond, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Doctor?" He rushed down the ramp to barrel through the TARDIS doors, and Rose huffed. "Apology not accepted, apparently."
As Rose exited the TARDIS, she caught a glimpse of the Doctor running back up the stairs, pulling his sonic out of his pocket. She heard it activate, and the device trilled in short bursts that repeated at intervals around the theatre. When she reached the auditorium proper, she spied the Doctor scanning the last few exits. His look of growing concern was evident as he turned to face her.
"Something wrong?" she asked, though they were in no obvious danger.
"The truth is," the Doctor took a huge breath, preparing for an undoubtedly long-winded explanation, "we've been infected with an alien disease that transfers from one person to another through a true but unbelievable statement, which the theater uses to accentuate the plight of Cassandra giving them undoubtedly good reviews on her performance, and which we now have no way of curing because everyone else has left and they've turned off the immunization on the exits." He gasped for air.
"Wait, what?"
"Cassandra, you remember," the Doctor waved his hand in encouragement.
"Yeah, no one believed her, but she was right all along."
"Exactly! But you knew the story and you still didn't believe her," he pointed at Rose.
"Well, that was strange." An odd prickle was growing in the back of Rose's mind, almost like a mental need to cough.
"They infect the audience with a… a sort of disbelieving disease, just like the real Cassandra had, then they cure them when they walk through the exits."
The strange feeling was growing, and Rose felt an uncontrollable need to talk. She managed to repress it, only nodding in confirmation.
"But we didn't go through the exits, so now we're stuck with it, passing it back and forth with unbelievable truths, until we can hand it off to someone else." The Doctor grabbed at his hair in frustration, and it stuck up at odd angles. "We can't go back in time to go through the exits properly, we may run into ourselves. And any other performance might use a different strain." He spied Rose, struggling with her need to speak. "Are you alright?"
"The truth is—" Rose bit her lip, struggling not to say something she'd regret. It didn't work. "Next time your hair looks like that, I want it to be my fault."
The Doctor gaped at her. "Well, we'll schedule an appointment. Feeling better?"
Rose took a deep breath, ignoring the color rising in her cheeks. "Yeah, it's gone now. Guess it'll go for you in a few minutes?"
"Mm," the Doctor agreed. "Looks like 'the truth is' is the key phrase for transfer." He reached out a hand for hers. "If we can make it back to Earth, we can get rid of it. Most of your species is immune; it's just bad luck you're a carrier."
They rushed back into the TARDIS, and the Doctor set course for Earth in record time. His discomfort at holding in his Truth becoming evident. "We'll head for a press conference. The truth is, if anyone on your planet can catch this bug, that would be the most interesting place to find out."
Rose wouldn't have believed him if a look of relief hadn't immediately crossed his face. Sometimes she forgot he wasn't actually up on the highest pedestal of morality. "Why can't we just use things like 'the sky is blue' or 'I'm wearing trainers'?" she asked, now prepared for that nagging feeling that crept along her neck with the transfer of the bug.
"They're subjective, first off," the Doctor said, flipping a few final switches to speed their journey toward 21st century Earth. "And I'm fairly certain it has to be something that would be automatically dismissed as false under other circumstances. Your turn, what have you got for me?" He looked up at Rose, who was seated on the floor of the console room, her back against the railing and her eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, come on, let it out, you'll feel better."
Rose was having trouble selecting her Truth. A few she passed up – there were some things she was worried the Doctor would believe, and she didn't want to give them up that easily, especially if it wouldn't relieve the pressure building in the back of her mind. She chose a secret she'd never told anyone. "I hate tea."
The Doctor snorted.
"I mean it! I can't tell anyone, especially not Mum. I'd be deported to America or hanged as a traitor, and Mum would dig me up and chop me to bits and make me into tea if she found out." She thumped the back of her head against the railing behind her, her mind clearing. She gave the Doctor her most serious look "And don't you dare tell anyone."
He held his hands up in surrender. "My word as a Time Lord," he promised.
Rose's eyebrows knit as she remembered the few times the Doctor had spoken of his race. "Weren't they all cheats and politicians, though?"
"Yes, well, nobody's perfect," he said, half to himself.
The Doctor rolled his neck from side to side, and Rose recognized his attempt to repress the insistent words fighting to be heard.
She smiled. "Oh, come on, it can't be that bad. Go on, give us the truth."
"The truth is—" the Doctor growled in frustration, banging his palms on the TARDIS console and running his hands through his hair again. He pressed his hands to his face, covering his eyes and distorting his speech as he made his admittance. It came out as an indecipherable mumble.
"What was that?" Rose asked.
"I said…" he sighed in resignation. "I said I think your mother's lovely."
"What?" she laughed. "All that posturing about 'overbearing' and 'loud' and 'too kissy', and you think she's lovely."
"Yes!" the Doctor insisted. "I mean she's not perfect, but I can't imagine a better sort of mother to raise you properly. Christmas dinner was an absolute treat."
"You're putting on," Rose insisted. The TARDIS thumped a landing, and she used the railing to pull herself up. With any luck, they'd get rid of this ridiculous disease before she was forced to admit anything else.
"I'm very well not, Miss Tyler, and I'd like your word not to mention it."
"Oh yeah?" Rose teased as they walked down the ramp, exiting into a shadowed hallway that led to a large beige conference room. "What happens if I let it slip?"
"I tell you mother in confidence how much you love her tea, and make sure she sends aboard gallons and gallons every time we stop off."
Rose's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't," she said with a glare.
They stood in the wide opening to the conference room, and Rose exhaled, feeling the tingle in the back of her mind ebb away into the crowd.
The man behind the podium didn't look like a politician to Rose. His short goatee and arrogant stance seemed out of place, and his bored expression didn't warrant the flashing cameras and note-taking reporters who took shorthand of his monotone speech: "That would be outlandish and," was it Rose's imagination, or had his facial expression changed? "fantastic," he concluded. "The truth is—"
"Well, there we go!" the Doctor said brightly, "Might make Earth politics interesting for a while, but with this many people, even with most of the population resistant, it'll die off pretty soon and none the worse for wear." They turned to leave, and the Doctor waved over a nearby man in a black suit. "Oh hi, Phil! How've you been?"
"Never better," the man called Phil said. "We've finally secured—"
A declaration resounded through the building, as the man behind the podium spoke his Truth.
"I am Iron Man."