This is the dumbest thing I've ever written, ever. It was written for my little brother, and, yes, I know this is pretty impossible. Whatever. The Doctor, post-Angels Take Manhattan and pre-The Snowmen, regenerates, once again, still raw from the loss of the Ponds. He regenerates into a Dalek. Yes, it's impossible. This is just stupid. You know what, don't even read it. This is disgusting. Here it is. Read it at your own risk; you might lose a few brain cells.
The TARDIS shook violently, throwing the Doctor against the handrails. The lights blinked off. It rattled around ceaselessly, thrashing the Doctor about the console room. He was glad he was alone this time, as he felt the transformation beginning. He didn't want Amy to lose him. Well, she wouldn't, really, he reminded himself. But he was her Doctor, the Raggedy Doctor she'd waited fourteen years for. The moment it all ended, well, he'd be someone else. He'd be the Doctor, still, but not the same. A brand new face, and a completely different personality to match. And maybe, he thought, changing his personality might help him past the loss of the Ponds. And to top it all off, it didn't matter, because she was dead. But still, once again, as the orange flames engulfed him, he didn't want to go. The flames shot around him, swallowing him. And then, it was over. He was anew. The lights flickered back on. Frantically, he tried to check himself over. Legs… wait, no legs! Arms… no arms! Frantically, the newly regenerated Doctor searched for something reflective, anything. He felt himself scuttling, gliding, almost. That was weird. Finally, he found himself peering in horror at his reflection. He was a Dalek.
"No." he cried, gasping at the eerily familiar monotone voice. "No. I. Am. Not. A. Dalek." Panicked, his mind raced to find a solution, and only one occurred to him – suicide. He'd have to kill himself so he'd regenerate. "I. Am. Not. Dalek." He insisted, ramming himself into a wall. He pulled back, pushed forward again, slamming into the wall. Again. Pull back, scurry forward, smash into wall, repeat. "I. Am. The. Doctor."
But it didn't work. No matter how many times he slammed into a wall, he was just a Dalek, in a bowtie and a tweed jacket and a fez. And he couldn't have that. So he'd have to think of something else. His Dalek brain told him to roll off a cliff or something. So he instructed the TARDIS to land him somewhere with big cliffs. He opened the door and slid right onto the face of Mt. Everest. He sailed off the mountain at his first opportunity. Everything went black.
He awoke in an oversized and, frankly, goofy outfit. He checked his legs and was pleased to find them present, though numb from the cold. His hands were small, but they were there, and that was all that mattered to him. Finally he reached up, clutched a fistful of hair, and paused.
"Yes!" he cried into the frozen tundra. His voice was too high for his liking, but he laughed as he pulled his ginger hair into view. He felt the rest of his face, and that's when it hit him – why was he so small? He looked down at himself, and panicked. He was short, too. "I'm… I'm a child!?" he half-gasped, half-asked. Another look down at himself and a feel of his face confirmed this. Frustrated, he started to consider not only how he'd get back to the TARDIS, but how he'd deal with being a thirteen-year-old. "I liked it better as a Dalek," he grumbled.
Fin.
I warned you! I'm sorry about that. Why did I write it even?