Neither the comic, nor the surprisingly developed fictional band that give this fic its title are very well known. You may read this as an attempt to remedy that.
"Hey girl, you are the one
That's all I have to say
My love burns like the sun
I'll blow your world away!"
.
"Wake up, Smith."
Oh dear God, please. Please, five more minutes.
"Wake up, Smith. Wake up, Smith."
"…'m awake…I'm awake!" Stupid mechanical voice.
Please don't be Monday. If I wish hard enough maybe it won't be.
Of course, it still is. Damn. (Rent due, write it down, or you'll forget). "Time stoops to no man's lure", like the poet says.
(Oh, what does he know? Pessimistic, decadent killjoy. And don't get me started on his silly opinions about love; or his worldview. Besides, something's wrong with it. Something's wrong with tim-)
Nothing's wrong. You just have to plan a bit better, stick to the routine, and you'll manage. It has worked so far, hasn't it?
Shabby, dark corridor, broken lift. It's alright, take the stairs. There, see? You won't be late, not even five minutes.
(I said five minutes. I promised. What happened to her? What happened to Amel-)
It's not your fault anyway; those slow buses… And well, maybe nobody would notice even if you were late – not that you'd risk it. The clock here's always five minutes slow.
And that gets under my skin for some reason. Why? The cold rain, the constant anxiety might do that. Why the clock?
The Department of Commonality feels secure though, safe. Well, it's dry for one. But the orderly rows of desks with their neat folders and typewriters inspire that too. It might seem boring, but your place is there, waiting for you. Stability, belonging somewhere, it's nice.
(Oh, come on, look at this. Blimey, what happened? Did I watch 1984 last night? Brazil? The Matrix? God help us- Equilibrium?)
Funny nickname for our unit, "The Common Men". Matching tweed blazers, bow ties (cool), maybe that's why. Is it a pun? What was that bloke's name who came up with it?
(Aren't they fabulous?
Who?
It's John Smith and the Common Men. They've gone from nineteen to two.
Well, their music has improved quite a bit, Susan, I'll give them that.)
.
"Morning, John".
What? Oh, Harry.
"Have a good day off?"
"Not bad, thanks."
"Get up to any mischief?"
Your heart misses a beat. Why? Calm down, you did nothing wrong.
"Course not! I stayed home and listened to the info-mouth. What are you suggesting?"
Harry apologises, backs down, but any hope that he'll drop the subject vanishes when he leans over slightly, his voice lowering to a whisper.
"I say, did you hear about the protest in the square? I heard there were over 5,000 people there!"
Harry talks too much –and about things he mustn't talk, too- and you know what, we have a job to do here. And he goes blabbing on about lawless troublemakers, his sister's boyfriend and illegal personal cameras, for goodness' sake.
(HARRY SULLIVAN IS AN IMBECILE!)
(He still is. Bless.)
"No need to get upset, John…"
"Just shut up, will you?"
Stop trembling, you'll get noticed. Forget about it and you'll survive.
.
He tries forcing himself to concentrate, and he forgets about it a bit too well. His mind blanks for a few minutes and when his typewriter jams at some point, he catches himself stupidly waving around his pen above the keys, like that's supposed to do something.
"Beneath this skin
There is another me
Just let me in
And you'll be sure to see
How much you mean to me.
Hey girl, I swear,
I'll be forever true-"
"Smith?"
What? Oh, I was focused, I really was. Okay, it was just a moment. Tuesday. Clock still five minutes slow. Otherwise everything seems to be going well. If I'm lucky, I'll finish this report before lunch break.
"Mr. Waites wants to see you right away."
No. Oh, no. What did I do? This can't be good.
And yet he doesn't seem angry. Close the door, sit down and please stop with the fidgeting and the stuttering, will you?
"We have something important to discuss. Your future, John. Let's talk about your future!"
(People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint-)
"I'm very impressed with your record. No sick days, excellent time-keeping, immaculate accounts. You're a credit to the team! I'll get straight to the point, John. I think you deserve a promotion."
"Oh, sir, that isn't necessary…"
"Nonsense! This is just what you need!"
And on he goes with that smile that's like a grimace plastered on his face, and oh, how you wish he had been angry after all. Assistant Mediator. Working directly with the public. If you could see your face, you'd swear someone was reading you your death sentence.
Still. You are good at lying, aren't you?
"Yes, sir. Very excited."
.
Sleep? Impossible. Can't be done.
"Oh, won't you please love me?
Girl, I'm begging you please.
Oh, won't you please love me?
I'm down upon my knees."
What's love got to do with it? Were you ever in love?
(-tell her something from me.)
(Well, I'm sure she knows.)
Why can't you remember?
(That's nice, but I'm married.)
No, you're not. That's absurd. Laughable. It's just tomorrow making you anxious, that's all. Just tomorrow.
.
He wakes up again with a groan and just stares with despair at the ceiling until sunrise.
.
Next day is Hell. No, he expected Hell. It's worse.
Face them. Talk to them. Look into their eyes.
He'd swear he could put names to the endless line of miserable, tired faces, other names than those they give him, truer ones, but they just slip away.
"I'm sorry."
(I'm so, so sorry…)
Out of my hands. Above my authority. I can't help you.
(I work in a shop now. Here to help. Look, they gave me a badge with my name on in case I forget who I am. Very thoughtful, as that does happen.)
Something snaps for a moment. He thought he'd never see them again. And now they are here and he can't do anything for them, he's not supposed to, they'll fire him, and you should have seen your daughter, I'm sorry I didn't come, I tried, I came too late, the nurse told me-
No, he doesn't know these people.
(Please, do you remember me? Look, I'm still wearing a bow tie, Jam-)
Then why does it hurt so much to say "no"? It's his job.
(Ace, it wasn't real, but I had to. This isn't either. Please, forgive me. Come on, give me a smile. Or blow up something, I'm going crazy here)
"Well, who is that man?
The man who has a plan
Seen the things within his eyes
He'll press your soul away
Don't listen to his lies
Or he'll send your night to day-"
…well, anyone would feel bad. Anyone, that's why. How can you just sit here, shake your head, while they are pleading? Who cares if they're strangers? You're a coward, you are not a monster. Yet.
And still, he'd swear it is too much. He shouldn't feel like this; how can he go on if he does? The hopelessness he spreads makes him want to be sick.
But he's afraid. He's so afraid. One wrong move and he could be in their place. This side of the desk is cruel; but the world out there is crueler, and it's not his job to change it.
(I can be brave for you.)
(Alone? There's no one to be brave for.)
He's sitting, head down, fumbling with his papers, trying in vain to ignore the suffocating misery when she shows up.
"Hello? I don't know if I'm in the right place…but I really need some help. I've been working as a nanny for the last six months".
Common job, that. Even…familiar?
"And if you let me, I'll show you the stars-"
"…He was down the pub one night and he said some stuff about the government… He lost his job and he wasn't eligible for benefits. So they had to let me go. I've been trying to find something else, I swear I have, but it's so hard – everywhere I look the queues are round the block…"
"You don't have any family of your own?"
"There was just me and my mum. She died last year. She was all I had". Oh God, she's crying. Clara-
You can't afford pity, John. Turn her away. It's you or them.
How can you say that?
"I'm sorry, but there's really-"
"Listen! Please, listen!" The (impossible) girl grabs his wrist so hard it hurts. Her words hurt more. Shame overwhelms him and he bows his head even lower as she speaks, avoiding her desperate, accusing gaze. "Please, help me!"
She lets go of his hand.
"There's…There's really…." he stammers, not looking at her. "I'm sorry". He's glad his fringe is hiding his eyes.
She simply turns, tears still drying on her cheeks, and walks away.
(We don't walk away.)
We?...
He doesn't even listen to Mr. Waites' words. Something about not worrying for the girl. Instead he just looks at her leaving until she's out of sight.
.
"You'll know it's me, just count to three
To one, to two, to three
You'll know it's me, just count to three
To one, to two, to three"
(No, no, that's not right; that can't be right. It's four beats. Always four.)
(There's no one left. Why do you expect to hear them?)
There's me. Isn't there?
(Not anymore)
But the music dies away, and when he puts two fingers at the side of his throat, he feels nothing and there's only silence.
(Will fall. Must fall).
Not like this. Not like this.
There's a heavy, oppressive feeling in his chest and his ears are ringing with hostile, angry voices he can't recognise. Ghostly, half-rotten claws are clutching him, digging their way into his flesh. His hand drops uselessly to his side and really, he should lie down, it'd be more comfortable. And you shouldn't be standing when you're dead anyway, it's bad form. He's so cold. Everything is cold.
("There's a sliver of ice in his heart")
But isn't he supposed to have two?
Every limb is heavy, dragging him to a floor he can't see. Desperately, he tries his wrist for a pulse as his vision clouds over, his breath a death rattle; neither of them is beating.
.
He wakes from the nightmare with a start, drenched in sweat, and he spends several seconds blindly fighting with the sheet he's tangled in like a wild animal. Finally, he throws it off and gazes at the first rays of sunlight coming through the blinds. Thursday morning.
That was the third nightmare. The third in one night.
He can't. He can't keep doing this.
.
Both lifts are still broken and the clock is still five minutes slow. But of course he still arrives on time.
"Mr. Waites, I'd like to go back to Records, please. I'm sorry, sir, but Mediation isn't for me."
"Rubbish, John. It's early days! Give it a few months and we'll see then…"
Months! Months of this!
"No! Please, Mr. Waites, I- I need to stop. I can't do it!"
"Well…You're putting me in an awkward position, John. I can't just move people around willy-nilly. Looks bad, you know".
That smile promises nothing good either.
"Perhaps if you could demonstrate some additional value to the department?" He casually balances a pen between two index fingers. "Is there anything you could offer?..."
(Well. This society needs a good clean-up, and that's that.)
John looks away, closes his eyes. What did he expect? This is how the world works. So why does he feel shame, anger, self-contempt soaking him to the bone?
Don't do it.
Months. Nightmares. Hell. Do it.
Oh, so you'll sleep just fine after this, won't you?
Come on. "No". Just one word; you are good at lying. Who are you to be blackmailed like this, who are you to offer or accept such a bribe?
(It's waiting for me now. I believe that you can assist me in defeating it.
I'm not interested in money… How much?
Five thousand pounds to rid me of the evil brute.
Now, that's what I call Victorian value! But I'm still not interested in money.)
You are selfish, you are a coward; you'll accept any bargain. That's who you are.
He's a friend, a co-worker. And it's not just him that you'll ruin.
So what? Do you want out of that torture or not?
John. Please, don't.
Do it.
He takes a breath.
"Harry…He says his sister's boyfriend has a camera".
.
Back at his desk, he keeps his head down during the arrest. But he can still hear it's a violent one.
"When the time comes to be true
When the time comes, just be you-"
He can hear other things too, and he presses his hands to his temples hoping it will stop, that everything will stop.
There's a hand on his shoulder but he doesn't look up.
"Well done, John. I'd say, 'You'll go far', but you don't really want to, do you? You just want to stay here. Forever."
His face remains expressionless. What does he want? He doesn't know, he wants out.
"You say, 'Who are you?'
I'm the man from up above-"
Nothing will stop. Nothing of this, not the constant, paralysing fear, not this wretched life, not for one day. Not ever.
He jumps to his feet, shaking; but this time it's with fury.
"Mr. Waites, that clock is five minutes slow. Why hasn't it been fixed?"
"The clock is fine, John. No need to worry about that".
"But it's slow."
"The clock is absolutely fine, John."
(No, it bloody isn't. I'm a Time Lord, I know these things. Stop talking. Stop-)
"It has to be fixed!"
He shoves everyone out of the way, almost throws himself at the window, ignoring cries, warnings, threats. He opens it, climbs out, balances himself precariously on the narrow ledge and starts walking. The clock isn't far off.
"You're in serious trouble, Smith, I mean it!"
He ignores him and inches his way closer to the corner of the building, to the clock. Of course he's in trouble. Heaps of it.
(We're always in trouble! Isn't this extraordinary - it follows us everywhere!)
And why are you suddenly okay with that exactly? Have you gone mad?
(There's something you better understand about me, 'cause it's important and one day your life may depend on it. I am definitely-)
You could die out here.
I know. It's a bit amazing, isn't it?
An image invades, flashing through his mind. Broken, black-white-brown form on the pavement. Crimson everywhere. Empty, dark green eyes staring at nothing. An invisible electrocardiogram flatlining in a persistent beep.
Ouch. Bad thought. Go away, thought; shoo. Everything's gonna be alright –starting with Mr. Annoying and Useless Time Keeper here.
He grits his teeth, shifts his grip on the wall and he doesn't look down, he's almost there.
One slip, John, just one; and that's it for you.
(There is no indignity in being afraid to die, but there is a terrible shame in being afraid to live.)
Whereas on the other hand, if I keep sitting on that desk, getting bored and hating my own guts –what a life, eh?- a possibly existing Supreme Being, the universe, or whatever, will just allow me to go on for all eternity.
No? Yeah, though so. And someone has to fix this damn thing before it drives me insane.
"Smith! Are you listening to me?"
Frankly, no. He wants to laugh. And he's there. He grasps the big hand and pulls it down with all his strength to the correct time.
"Oh shut up, Mr. Waites. I'm just doing my job. You said it yourself." He groans from the effort but it's moving. "My time-keeping is excellent!"
Lame joke, really. But the metal hand he's clutching, almost dangling from, is finally showing the time it should and he laughs out loud, real joy lighting up his face. How long has it been since the last time he felt happy?
.
He suddenly feels a change, and he can't understand what it is. Something shifts, and every second seems to slow down, becoming an eternity. His ears can barely register the peculiar sound and his balance is inexplicably tipping over.
He looks stupidly at the long, thin, pointy strip of metal he's holding. Just that. Oh.
The hand breaks off the clock with a snap. Everything speeds up again, gravity taking hold.
For a dizzying instant, it feels like he's suspended in the air, flying backwards, down-
"Never fear, I'll fly to you-"
No, this is falling.
It's like a tunnel of buildings leading to the ground, the pavement rushing up to meet him. People are shouting from below. Why? There's a funny feeling of déjà vu.
(Predictable as ever, Doctor.)
He's still clinging to the cable -no, no, it's the clock of the hand- as if it's somehow going to break his fall-
(On the fields of Trenzalore, at the fall of the Eleventh…)
Nothing is going to break his fall this time, not even glass –and that hadn't been very pleasant in any case; although that time he had jumped, hadn't he?
Why isn't he scared?
(Height, strength of the local gravity, wind resistance, mass, acceleration. Impact velocity: terminal.)
He's going to die.
He should be afraid; he has always been afraid, he has dreamed of this, pictured death so many times, terror keeping him up nights.
(I've been dead before).
But it doesn't seem so bad after all.
His back is towards the ground now, he's staring up at the sky and it really is like he's flying (he has a weird, sudden idea that he has done so before), he can't stop looking at the light colour above him, there are so few clouds today-
"Any time from out the blue-"
(No, no. Wrong shade, wrong.)
He remembers something fleetingly, something extraordinary, and he blindly grasps at the memory, but he's falling so fast now he can hardly breathe, can't even think, down, down, faster-
(Something old, something new, something borrowed-)
He doesn't really care. He's not afraid anymore; just waiting. Any time now.
But no, not so bad at all.
He closes his eyes, keeping all the flying-falling sky colour inside him. Calm. A faint smile traces his lips.
(Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely.)
Time for the next adventure.
(And if something can be remembered, it can come back.)
.
.
There is a blinding flash of white, a deafening sound, the light splitting into all the colours of the spectrum.
"Wake up, Smith!"
The voice is living, not mechanical, coming out of his own lips. He jolts up, awake, and tumbles to the brightly coloured floor, floundering majestically in his purple frock coat.
That's not my name.
Can you be both furious and utterly overjoyed at the same time? Apparently you can.
"Impossible! No one can reject the Hellscape! How did you do it?"
He gets up. Weird, rainbow-coloured room, people on metal beds, wire-like tentacles everywhere, giant blue head in the middle, right behind him. Right, then. Back to business.
Oh, seems just like a big bloated mind parasite. Dull. And here was poor me thinking it'd be something new this time. And it had to ruin one of my favourite bands in the process. What's next? I mean, snow, chess, amusement parks, music… Still, let's not be rude, shall we?
"Hello, 'Mr. Waites'! My, you're a big boy, aren't you?" He straightens his bow tie. "You know, as bosses go, I've had better ones –actually, that's a lie, I've never had a boss in my life- but let's not split hairs, you were rubbish! So who are you really? Dying to know!"
Oh come on, that was funny. Little bit. But it's still gonna be the same "I'm so mighty, you are so puny, blah, blah, blah"; you've heard one evil megalomaniac, you've heard them all.
"I am the Eternal Ordeal. The Guardian of Sorrow. I am the God of the Worst Days".
Score one for the Time Lord. Vanity, thy name is boredom. For everyone else, that is. If I had a penny for every oppressive, insane idiot who claimed he was A GOD!, I'd buy a different fez for every day of the year.
He resists the urge to roll his eyes, pacing up and down along the white beds, and tells the creature exactly what he thinks of its title, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Keep the anger in check. Clara must be here somewhere.
"So, you hook folk up to your big old head and feed them false realities…"
"No." The grimace-like smile is back. "They feed me the reality. You built that world, Doctor."
So I did.
"And oh, in such detail. The worst thing you could ever imagine… A coward's life."
Well, you certainly helped, didn't you?
But it has a point. With your mind, your subconscious… How often do you sleep, Doctor?
Not now.
He glares up at it. He's not the only one in here. He is familiar with nightmares, parasite-induced or not, and yes, some worse than others. What about them?
I should throw you in a black hole -and it'd be too good for you.
"The Hellscape crushes everyone in the end. You're just a stupid fluke…"
Just then a familiar, startled yell pierces the air, and joy banishes hate from his mind.
"Yes! Let's hear it for the Impossible Girl!" Everyone, huh?
.
He rushes to her as she's gazing around disoriented, terrified, and hugs her reassuringly.
"It wasn't real, Clara. Hang on to that. Whatever you saw – not real". But humans are made of sterner stuff than he sometimes gives them credit for, and terror gives quickly way to fury. A quite righteous one, too.
"Who did that? What kind of sick, twisted monster could do something like that?!"
"The kind of sick, twisted monster over there. Quick, help me get the tendrils off the others! Wake them all up!"
"Just watch me!" And she gets to work.
He smiles. Missed you.
Of course, "Mr. Waites" has an objection to that and two wire-like tendrils wrap themselves around his arms.
"Do you really think it'll be so easy, Doctor? I'm going to send you back. I'm going to pull you so deep you'll never find your way out…"
The worst thing you could ever imagine.
He's half-dragged, half-walking his way towards the thing. A plan.
"Your pain is delicious and you carry so much of it".
Pain. Loss. Heartbreak. Fear.
He glares at the face grimly and takes another step. More tentacles. "A coward's life?" Oh, does it really think he's not scared at this moment?
Courage isn't just a matter of not being frightened, you know. It's being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway.
He grabs two of the tendrils with his rapidly numbing hands, a pained cry escaping his lips. Don't let go.
(Because didn't anybody ever tell you? Fear is a superpower. Fear can make you faster and cleverer and stronger. If you're very wise and very strong, fear doesn't have to make you cruel or cowardly.)
And he can always feel pain, always will feel it; so much more of it than this monster can imagine or inflict. But he doesn't have to fear it.
"Yes, I do. But pain's only a part of me. I don't let it drag me down".
This is not gonna work.
(You're always going to be afraid, even if you learn to hide it. Fear is like a companion. A constant companion, always there.)
He spares a glance at Clara. Several people are free already, and she's bent over a white, metal bed with a man convulsing in it, pulling the tendrils off, her face strained with effort, her eyes aflame. She calls to the others for help, to wake up, to get away from the parasite. Her determination is contagious.
Fear makes companions of us all.
Now or never.
"You've been enjoying people's private horrors for a long time, Waitesy… Let's see how you like your own!"
He dives forward, freeing himself, ignores the panicked cry of the monster, and shoves the two tentacles he's holding onto the giant face.
And the world explodes.
.
It's a quite spectacular explosion, really; even by his standards.
He's thrown away, eyes firmly shut against fire, wind, dust and alien debris, and violently slammed onto a hard surface, fearing he's now completely deaf by the noise and that he's probably shattered every bone in his body. It feels like a very fast tidal wave of lava rushes over him, and he could never get up even if he wanted to.
Silence.
I am so very, tremendously, completely dead.
"That was… very cool!" Clara. He lifts his head up from the floor.
"You mean it worked?" She lends a hand and he stands up slowly. Bruises everywhere, coat ruined, bow tie ruined, hair a mess; but alive.
All the people are freed by now. Clara asks whether they are going to be okay and he reassures her, putting an arm over her shoulder. She playfully runs a hand through his hair, suppressing a laugh. He tries to look dignifiedly annoyed, but truth be told, his hair is not supposed to be so sticky-uppy. Or flying in all directions and singed for that matter.
"Well done for breaking out of Waites's nightmare. I expect it's because you've lived so many lives, on so many worlds –you couldn't be fooled by a false one."
"Oh, that wasn't it." The entrance to the parasite's lair, a cave, is visible now, daylight streaming through, and they head towards it.
Honestly, what was I thinking? Come on, Clara, it'll be amazing. It's full of bats and demons, bottomless pits, cross cavemen, and deadly mind parasites, let's have a picnic in there.
"You want to know how I knew it wasn't real? You weren't in it."
It takes him a second to process this idea as they walk. Then he smiles warmly at her, waves a hand around, and awkwardly opens and closes his mouth trying to say something. Finally, he looks away, touched.
Oh, Clara. I never would have thought of it.
They walk to the opening, towards the light, shadows and nightmares withering behind them as they reach it. Or maybe it's the impossible, and yet still just wonderful, ordinary human by his side again, her hand on his back, her voice bringing joy to the lost, her presence hope to the fearful.
"What kind of a world doesn't have the Doctor?"
.
.
-The End-
Now, what would you call this? An adaptation? An expansion? A novelisation? A metamodernist twist on an established fictional work with a perspective flip, intertextuality and character introspection? Because "fanfic"...no. It's not really a fanfic, it's not just a fanfic, I don't know.
I hope you enjoyed it in any case.
Now go read the comic too, it's awesome; very cool concept, and brilliantly drawn. It's basically a clever exercise in drawing Matt Smith with this expression of complete, total, utter hopeless misery in his usually carefree and cheerful face; so when he does finally smile in the end, even the most cynical bastard can't help but go "awww!" Also, quite funny in a meta way, since the Doctor is constantly referred to as just "Smith" throughout it.
Putting aside the comic and all the indirect references, this fanfic also includes quotes from (deep breath): The Eleventh Hour, An Unearthly Child, Revenge of the Cybermen, Blink, the Asylum of the Daleks Prequel, Closing Time, Let's Kill Hitler, The Rings of Akhaten, Hide, Ghost Light, Marco Polo, The Daleks, Logopolis, The Wedding of River Song, Death Comes to Time, The Pandorica Opens, The Big Bang, Planet of the Daleks, Listen, and the songs "Oh, Won't You Please Love Me?", "Who Is That Man", and "Just Count to Three" as included in the audio story 1963: Fanfare for the Common Men (collapses).