Death was waiting for the Doctor. His 13th death to be precise. He'd been aware of it for some time, ever since he visited the planet Arcturo-Septiva 2 relative weeks ago. It was a nice enough planet with lower gravity than Earth, so he'd enjoyed the ludicrously high jumps he'd achieved. The locals were an interesting bunch as well. Three and a half thumbs each, all on the same hand. They'd also developed an ability to perceive the future telepathically due to a rift opening in their atmosphere. Only temporary, as it turned out, but it hadn't stopped the locals looking at him in a weird way. It was remarkably cold though, so he'd set up a fire for himself using his sonic screwdriver
The Septivans weren't accustomed to alien visitors, especially not ones who magically conjure up fire from nowhere, so he'd been tied up, tortured (lightly) and it was then that he had his death foretold to him by their chief witchfinder. He'd told him that he would burn in his own hell. That he would burn brilliantly for mere minutes before falling into the darkness.
The Doctor had been sceptical; especially once the warlock had tried to carry out the prophecy himself with the sonic screwdriver. What the warlock hadn't realised was the screwdriver was set to skeleton key. He'd accidentally undone the Doctor's chains and allowed him to get back to the TARDIS –albeit without his trusty tool.
It was here where he started debating his purpose in life. He was, without doubt, the most influential being in existence, barring Gods. Is that what he was, now? After all, he'd met quite a few Gods, he'd slain the devil for crying out loud. He'd lived for millennia and seen sights many never dreamed of. In fact, he'd seen nearly everything. What else was there for him to see –a constantly expanding universe for surprisingly small, he realised, as he perused his TARDIS' console. The TARDIS, hmm, actually, there's a thought. With the entirety of time and space outside his front door, he'd never had a thorough look round the twisting corridors of the dimensionally transcendental time machine he called home.
The cloister bell sounded –that tour would have to wait- he rushed to the monitor. Oh, that wasn't good. That wasn't good at all. Time corridor technology- only a few fractions of a light year away; he hadn't seen that since… since…
Oh Gods. Oh me. That could only mean one thing. Actually, maybe two things. Was that an osmic sustenance field to stabilise the corridor? Those were two technologies exclusive to two of the most hated races in the cosmos. Really it didn't bear thinking about; were they working together? No…no…nonononono.
The Sontarans and the Daleks? It made sense. Wherever the daleks went there would be war, and the sontarans would go wherever there was war, just on the off chance of joining in. One killed for the sake of supremacy, the other for fun, united by their love of death. And now death was raining over the planet Carcerin. Dalek saucers crowded the skies and sontaran footsoldiers swarmed the planet's surface. Someone had to stop it. Someone will, he thought.
And so, with the pull of a few levers and the pushing of a few buttons, as well as a generous supply of kicking, the Doctor piloted his TARDIS through the time vortex with gusto. Daleks had caused him more than enough trouble for a lifetime; more than enough trouble for thirteen lifetimes.