Exposition! This is part 1 to a continuing series of horror/violence/'what I think would be slightly more realistic given that the Doctor finds himself in the clutches of blood-thirsty monstrosities every other day' stories. Rated M for violence/torture/adult themes/slight (or maybe not so slight, we shall see) smut/other nasty goodies that are not for children. Stories will include, at this point: 11, Amy, Clara, significant presence of an OC.

Update: Part 1 is here! And holy poop did it take a looooooooong time. A month for one chapter...not so good _ Well anyway, some stuff to think of: this is the first fanfiction I have ever written. It was alot of fun, the only problem I have is that, as much fun as it is, I cant write for more than an hour without getting bored or seriously distracted, even though 99% of this was written after midnight. But part 1 is done, hopefully peeps enjoy. Have fun!

Standard disclaimer guff: I own nothing relating to, in reference to, sanctioned by, or displayed by the Doctor Who name, its creators or the BBC. Dont sue me, I have cats to feed.

The universe, at least the universe we know, did not always exist. Some theorise that it was formed on the whim of a God, others say it is simply the byproduct of cosmic forces our small minds cannot hope to comprehend. But regardless of its origins, our universe is ruled by one, undeniable, unstoppable constant, and that is the drive for chaos. Scientists call it ebtropy, a word and concept used to define the infinite chaos that is the interactions of matter, the drive that spreads energy and mass and heat through the expanse of space, until finally all chaotic motion will cease, and our lovely corner of dimensional space will cease to be.

However, throughout time, there have been select events, catalysts, for the continuing chaos. A star explodes, a galaxy is formed and collides with another, races of beings wage wars that tear the fabric of time and space like they were paper. But amongst all this, there was a single chaotic catalyst that outshone even the brightest of supernovas. A singular being, known throughout existence, met with love, adolation, and the most ultimate of fear. At his word or action worlds, races, even Gods was destroyed, universes reshaped, time altered, chaos continued. He was the universes greatest protector, yet also its worst oppressor. He ruled us all in a way, all the while running forward, for fear of ever looking back at the great love, and burning destruction left in his wake. Throughout his lives, he created many tales. Some of them joyous, yet many of them tainted with horrors. Chronicles here are some of the latter: these are the stories that this one individual, the Raggedy Man, the Oncoming Storm, The Doctor, never wanted told. But it must be remembered that The Doctor was very rarely alone. These are the stories of his companions too, and the price that is too often payed for such a privilege. The Doctor is the sun, and if we stand too close, we will be burned. Sweet reader, you are hereby warned. The Doctor and his companions have had many happy adventures throughtout time and space. But you will not find these tales here. No sweet reader, these are indeed, the 'The Trials of a Time Lord'…

Chapter 1: They always come back…

There was almost no light in the chamber. A small line of illumination ran along the floor, running from a door; large, arched and made of some form of metal, to the feet of a man. Well, not quite to his feet, and indeed nor were they truly the feet of a man; these feet had been elevated from the ground, just high enough so that the toes could graze the cold steel of the ground, but do nothing to relieve the stress and tearing pain within the not-quite a man's arms. His arms was bound together behind his back, then, via a chain of undiscernible length and make, was suspended from a ceiling far above, shrouded in inky blackness. The pain has torturous; the not-quite a man's entire weight pushed up against his shoulders, whilst that same weight forced him to hunch forward, further contorting his limbs in ways that even he was not meant to bend. He fought to control his lower limbs; his feet scrambled for traction, but he is just slightly too high. If he had been a normal man, the pain and trauma would have ceased his life. But this not-quite a mam was special: he was a Time Lord. Two hearts, 11 lives and 900 years of existence had taught him a thing or two about torture, and what one must do to survive it.

'174, 175, 176….' The Lord counted aloud to the darkness. He knew what was coming, he had counted this period before, but he needed to be sure.

'177, 178, 179…..' He tensed in preparation, made ready himself to hold in the screams.

'180!' He yelled to the darkness. And just as expected, it came:

Pain, in the form of a sluggish contraction throughout his body was all the doctor could perceive. It flowed from his wrists, bound and bloody from his restraint, up his arms, into his chest, his two hearts struggling to overcome the contractile impulse. The pain worked through his abdomen, constricting and releasing every sphincter and fold of intestine. The stench of incontinent waste filled the room. The doctor felt his small toes break, the sound of which was almost as sickening as the intense contractions that caused it.

And suddenly, as quickly as it started, the pain stopped. True, his chest was on the verge of collapsing, his broken toes put more pressure upon his upper body, and he was having incredible difficulty remaining conscious, but the contraction was gone, just as it had always done.

180 seconds. Every three minutes, the contractive pain would return. Like clockwork, it would appear, torture the captive, and disappear. No doubt designed to break the minds and will of men, such a tactic was proving quite effective on even The Doctor. There was not enough time for him to think, to formulate, to act. He could simply count, and, in the more childish, hopeful corners of his dark and very old mind, hope that maybe, just maybe, the cycle would not start again...

The Doctor figured that some form of current or pulse was being passed through the chains that bound him, but his mind was in a daze: his brain begged him for relief, begged to black out from reality. Every moment The Doctor forced his eyes to stay open. He fought the nausea and dizziness that followed every cycle of pain. However, it would pass, and this time, the Doctor had a plan.

As the pain subsided, the Doctor looked to his right. The darkness prevented him from seeing anything, but if he could, the sight would have been sickening: Hands bound together, attached similarly to the unseen room via lengths of chain, stripped of all clothing, and bleeding from her mouth and a gash in her left breast, Amy Pond hung, quietly weeping.

"Amy? Amy!"

Amelia Pond, his most lovely of companions, had been tortured too. Mercifully, she had been spared the contractile cycles. However, she hung beside her raggedy man, listening to him scream and cry every three minutes. In the beginning, she had screamed and shouted in protest to the darkness. As the Doctor writhed in pain, she would curse and promise the type of retribution only a Scottish lass could. But with each cycle, her fury lessened, until, after an admirably long time, her shouts of protest became sobs of sympathy and fear. For the last few cycles, she had simply hung in silence. Her current state of disrobe was the work of their captors; no doubt it was meant to exploit the shame and need for dignity that human beings do so require.

A sniffle from the darkness was the only response he received.

'Amelia', he said softly, 'please, can you hear me?'

In a weak voice, Amy replied 'I can't Doctor…'

'Amy, you can hear me. I need you to listen, I have a plan!'

This was greeted by sobs. The Doctor could not see it in the darkness, but large tear drops poured down Amelia Ponds face as she shook her head. Again she replied 'I can't Doctor… I can't hear you anymore. I don't want to hear you anymore.' With that, she broke down, crying loudly and openly.

The Doctor let her cry, for his plan required only his own action.

'43…44…45…' he counted in his head. He would have to wait until the very last second of the cycle to act. The doctor felt at his binding, going over his plan once more: with each cycle, the coil the bound his hands together would expand slightly, presumably due to the current that was passed through them. This made sense to the Doctor: if the coil was to pass along the current or pulse, it would be forced to react in some way to it. By expanding instead of contracting, the coil was at no risk of damaging those restrained, possibly shortening their captivity through death. With each cycle, the Doctor had rotated his hands as much as possible, which was almost nothing, yet enough to lower his wrists ever so slightly into his restraints. What was to come would take all of his physical strength, an excruciating amount of pain, and possibly permanent physical harm, but it had to be done.

'108…109…110…' The Doctor prepared himself. He looked over into the darkness where Amelia hung and whispered: 'My precious Pond, I swear that I will get you home. Even if it is to boring little Ledworth and not-the-attractive-one Rory. I will get you home Pond. I will get you home.' He emphasised each word of his last sentence.

From the darkness came a sniff, a strange, short giggle, and then counting '173…174…175…' The Doctor smiled as he counted down aloud: '3…2…1!'

The Doctor felt the coils expand and worked his hands down with all the force he could. But before he knew if he had made any difference, the pain began anew. The Doctor groaned and clenched his teeth together as his back arched unnaturally, the shock of his torture straining his every muscle. And then, as with every cycle, it was over.

The Doctor recovered as fast as he could, and then tested his plan. He leant forward as much as he could, which was difficult given his limited traction on the ground. He bent his wrists up, feeling for the …'Ha! Take that you mysterious jailors!' the Doctor shouted to the black. He could now reach up the cable that suspended him from the roof.

With his signature swagger, he called to Amelia 'Keep a count Pond, this is going to be just a little bit tricky'.

The Doctor began to move in ways reminiscant of a circus act. By being able to grab the suspension cable, the Doctor had the leverage required to manipulate his entire body: first, he engaged his core and tensed all the muscles in his legs, forcing them to stay straight; then, he lifted his legs from the ground, backwards, in an arc, whilst lowering his upper torso. This caused the doctor to rotate in a circular motion, until he was entirely upside down, his head inches from the floor and his feet clasping themselves to the suspension cable ABOVE where it bound his hands.

The Doctor wrapped one leg around the cable, and planted the opposing foot against it. Then, he bent his knees, bringing his torso upwards. By doing so, and by also using his hands to force his back to arc further, The Doctor bound hands were now ABOVE his feet. His entire weight was being supported by the cable where it wrapped around his leg, with the length of cable between there and his hands hanging in a limp arch. The Doctor felt his body weakening: he had spent many hours, perhaps even days being tortured, with no sleep, food or water. He smelt of incontinence, and he now found himself in the middle of what could only be described as an aerial acrobatics display. He needed to move quickly. The Doctor grasped the cable above his feet, once again taken his weight with his arms. He unbound his legs and shifted them to the left of the cable, letting then pass and lower in the space between cable and arms. Where his legs went, the rest of his body followed; he slowly lowered his legs until finally, mercifully they touch solid ground once again.

The Doctors hands were still bound, and because of the angle of his bindings, his hands were forced to face backwards, but by completing his act, the Doctor had essentially gained his arm's length in height, allowing him to easily touch the ground once more.

'Well, not bad if I do say so myself! Now, with any luck, that may just have gotten our captors attention'. Said the Doctor to the darkness.

'Amelia, I need your bravery now. Whatever comes through that door, whatever torture's they may devise, just remember that I will get you home, Pond.' Said the Doctor, in a voice of force and assurance.

Once again, his only response from the dark was a strange giggle, for before Amelia could respond further, the room exploded with light.

Roughly twenty metres from the captives, at the end of the strip of small floor lights, the doorway had burst open, disengaging from its seating in the floor and flying up, hidden within a reses above. The Doctor and Amelia forced their eyes shut to shield their vision, which had become accustomed to the dark.

Slowly, they opened their eyes, blinking furiously through the stinging and tears that followed. As they became acclimatised to the brightness, a small figure began to form before them. It was short, the height of a child, and it was walking towards them.

What appeared to be a child was simply that, a child: female, dressed in a ruffed skirt and red long-sleeved top, with a large pink bow tied around her middle, she had long blond hair with a single pink streak down the left side which formed a side-swept fringe that covered her forehead and left eye. The Doctor observed her, and noticed, above everything else, that this child was strange: beyond the strangeness of a child being in room with a tortured man and a naked women, this child lacked something: emotion. She walked toward the two captives at an entirely even and controlled pace, with her eyes transfixed on the Doctor, paying no heed to Amelia. There was no emotion on her face, simply a blank stare.

She stopped a few metres from the Doctor, and spoke, in the voice of a child, yet again, with no inflection. 'You are the Doctor'.

Still stunned, the Doctor stayed silent.

The child repeated: 'You are the Doctor, of Gallifray, the only surviving Time Lord'.

This time, the Doctor replied: 'And what is your name sweetie? And why are you here instead of a grownup?' He stared into her eyes and continued: 'You obviously look like a child, yet I don't think you are…So come on then, out with it! Some kind of body-snatcher? Goodness knows I've upset a few of those in my time. Or are you a robot, designed by someone who needed a play-mate?'

The young child stood silent, returning the stare of the Doctor.

'ANSWER ME! You have tortured me here, you have tortured my friend, and for that there will be no forgiveness.' The Doctor raised his voice again. 'Tell me who you are, and if you beg, and I mean really beg, I might be able to find some mercy!' By the end of his sentence, the Doctor was yelling.

Yet still the child did not react. She stood there, as still as a board, without blinking, never breaking eye-contact with the Doctor.

Just as the Doctor was about to start yelling again, a voice spoke BEHIND him, a voice that made his blood freeze, and his heart to stop and accelerate at the same time.

'Mercy, Doctor.' Came the electric voice. 'Mercy is an emotion that is begotten by fear.' The whirring sound on repulser pads moving an object along the floor. The Doctor could not bear to turn and face the source: he already knew what it was.

'Fear is a weakness, Doctor. Fear is what limits you, what limits humans, what limits the entire sentient universe. Fear is an emotion, Doctor.' The source came into view. It was tall, the size of a man. Its metallic body was covered in spheres, its round dome-shaped head rotated so that it's singular eye, protruding on a stalk was always transfixed on The Doctor. The source of the chilling electronic voice swivelled and stopped next to the child.

The Doctor hung his head. Only one thought came to mind: 'They always come back.'

The creature moved forward, slowly, menacingly, until the end of its eye stalk was an inch from the Doctor's face.

'Fear is a weakness Doctor. Fear is an emotion.'

The Doctor raised his head as the being met his glare, and said:

'We are the Daleks, Doctor, and we have neither.'

End of Part 1