"WHAT?" the yell echoed through the halls of the Panopticon.
The Doctor was having a really, really bad day. He was currently in his Eighth Incarnation, young (well, middle age-ish, if he was being honest with himself, and the thought made him slightly sad for a reason he didn't understand), dashing, and ever so slightly Edwardian. And he had been told several bad things at once.
For one thing, he had just learned that the time lords had started a war with the Daleks, or that the Daleks had started a war with the Time Lords (depending on which side you listened to). Five relative years ago, give or take a couple of months, although now the whole thing was apparently going to be timelocked until the end.
For another, he was now being told that the Cruciform, the greatest weapon the Time Lords had ever built, had fallen, and the Daleks were heading for Arcadia, the great Time Lord outpost, intending to destroy it with the Cruciform.
And he was only being told all of these things now.
"The reasons we didn't tell you at first," explained Romana, his former companion and currently president of the Time Lords, "were because we didn't think we needed to, and we didn't think it'd be worth the bother of getting you here. The Daleks were never much of a threat to us, even if they were to the lesser races."
"So why do you need me now?" asked the Doctor, mystified. "I mean, if they aren't a threat…"
"Because they are a threat," stated Romana bluntly. "We were wrong. They have ten million ships, and the Cruciform, and we can't stop them. I've enacted a Time Lock to keep the war from affecting history."
The Doctor stared at her for a moment, shocked by the very idea of the Cruciform in Dalek hands… plungers… whatever.
"A time lock can't be escaped," he said at last. "You think it's gotten that bad?"
"We've had problems with most of our equipment," Romana said, "but we've employed the services of the Visionary – and from what she says, it's… bad."
"How bad?" the Doctor asked.
"Last Contact bad," Romana said. The Doctor's eyes widened. Last Contact was the foretold event that said Gallifrey would fall. The fact that the Daleks were now powerful enough to instigate a last contact situation scared the hell out of him.
"And I can help you, how, exactly?" he asked at last.
"You know more about the Daleks than anyone else," replied Romana imploringly, "so you can help stop them. They fear you, remember?"
"Yes, yes, 'the Oncoming Storm', but what good can I do?" countered the Doctor. "I'm one man, remember!"
"One man who has stopped the Daleks wherever he has gone," countered Romana. "One man who the Daleks fear more than any other. Gallifrey is counting on you, now, Doctor, you can't just abandon us. You know what happens if the Daleks win."
The Doctor stared at her for a long moment, then realised that he had no choice.
"How long has the war been going on since you summoned me?" he asked.
"From where we are, days," Romana said. "But this is the start of the war, in events terms. The middle of the war has already begun, and millions are dying. More will, soon. And more."
"The Visionary has told you this?"
"Yes," Romana said. "And she foretells worse."
The Visionary. The Doctor didn't like thinking about her. Like the Master, it was rumoured her ceremony had gone wrong when she was Eight. Unlike him, the madness had not manifested as drums, or any other noises, but as visions. Of past, of future. Visions that were never wrong. Oh, they might never come to pass, but they could have done.
"Right," the Doctor said. "Well, I'd better get going then."
The Doctor stood in his TARDIS, sighing at fate and what it had brought him.
After a rather unfortunate incident with a grenade and the old console room, the Doctor's TARDIS had switched to this. Coral theme was one thing, this was something quite different. He had a vague memory of being his Fifth self, standing in this very same console room. The memory, however, was quite dim…
"What's this then? Coral? It's worse than leopard skin…"
"All my love to long ago…"
He couldn't remember the face. Various regenerations and more than one incident of amnesia had driven it from him. But he remembered the voice. The enthusiasm. One day, he thought to himself, I'm going to be that man. It was an interesting thought.
He flicked a switch, and set the course Romana had given He was off to destroy the Cruciform, and any Daleks that happened to be on it. Sounded so simple on paper, but he knew that it wouldn't be like that. He had studied the blueprints for the machine, and was rather… upset by what he had discovered. The destruction of the craft would be difficult to achieve. Still, if anyone could do it, he could.
Ostensibly.
He spared a glance for his companions. General Vared, commander of the Capitol Guard, and thirty of his best troops, had been ordered to assist him, and they were standing around, looking nervously at the interior.
'Of course,' the Doctor thought to himself, 'none of them have ever been in any TARDIS other than classic theme TARDIS's.'
"How long until we're there?" asked Vared, looking impatiently at the destination screen – a dell laptop top, if the Doctor remembered rightly.
"Not too long, I don't think," replied the Doctor airily.
"Good," the military man said. "I hate waiting."
A blood curdling scream ripped through the corridors of the Cruciform, which, if anything other than a Dalek had heard it, would have destroyed their minds in moments. It came from a room, in which two Daleks stood. One was standing back, in a corner, and the other was holding a small red device to a humanoid figure. A Grandfather Clock stood in the corner.
"Cease," came an inhuman voice.
The Dalek pulled back from the weak, dishevelled figure on the torture rack.
"Divulge the secrets of the Time Lords, and you will be tortured no more!" said the voice of the Dalek Emperor.
The man looked at the Emperor. He was in his travel armour, which was rare for him. The man tried to sneer, but he couldn't quite make his face work.
"You have no loyalty to the Time Lords! You owe them nothing!" the Emperor continued, pressing his position.
"I don't resist you out of loyalty to them," said the man. "I resist them out of memory. I do not forget, Emperor."
The Master raised his head, the blue eyes burning.
"You ordered my execution. You shot me personally," he spat, contempt laced throughout his voice, as he gave up almost the last of his strength to say his piece. He had a sudden burst of inspiration. "And I would rather die a hundred deaths, or be tortured for eternity, then ever... help... you!"
The Dalek Emperor, sat in its battle casing, stood silent for a moment, digesting the Master's words.
"Nothing to say?" sneered the Master, his customary arrogance shining now. "I thought not. I'm not finished, anyway."
"Continue," said the Emperor carefully. It hoped that the Master would let something slip during his rants, something vital.
"If you think I'm the worst the Time Lords will send after you, you're sadly mistaken," the Master muttered evilly. "They'll send him. He'll come, and every Dalek that exists, will die."
He grinned, showing yellow teeth.
"You don't stand a chance," he finished. "I only regret that I will not be here to watch."
Before the Emperor could speak, the Master jumped off the rack, the manacles opening under a solid lock pick that he had found under his skin. The Time Lords had provided everything. He rolled under their laser fire and went straight for his TARDIS, disguised as a grandfather clock as always.
He entered, closed the door, and went straight to the controls. The noise of screaming Daleks was instantly shut off.
Pain surged through his body - the Daleks were quite good at torture, and he knew his days were numbered in this form. He smiled, and thought words that he never thought he would.
'Thank the stars for the Time Lords...'
And then the light came. Bright as a star, burning his old self away, his face changing, becoming younger, cleaner, his hair shortening, his teeth whitening... and he screamed. He had forgotten how painful regenerating was, and in this new form, he doubted he would ever get used to it.
And there stood a new man. Blue eyes, a short nose, short silver hair. The new man spoke his first words, testing them out.
"I... am... the Master..."
He smiled, his eyes lighting up in pure joy. This event was a dream; a dream he had dreamt for decades, centuries millennia, he had lost track through pain and death...
Because he had regenerated. He was reborn.
"IT WORKED!" he yelled, dancing around the room. "I did it! I regenerated! Oh YES!"
He stopped. Fear laced across his features, worry through his mind.
'What if the Daleks find me?' he thought, suddenly. 'They're winning, and they hold grudges almost as much as me...'
It was a disturbing thought. And of course, he couldn't just go home having failed because the Time Lords would decide to send him off on another suicide mission. Suicide missions were unpleasant, and he liked being able to regenerate.
There was another, more disturbing thought whenever the Master thought of the Daleks with the cruciform. A vague sense of… unease?
Fear…?
He shuddered. Afraid? Yes, definitely.
Staying?
No chance in all the hells.
'I have no choice...' he thought. He glanced up to the ceiling of his black TARDIS console room, then he pressed a button on the console, and the chameleon arch sprang down...
The Doctor's TARDIS materialised in a small corridor of the Cruciform, blank metal and walls. Inside, Vared and co un-shouldered their weaponry, and looked around. The Doctor checked the scanner.
"Is this the place?" asked Vared.
"Only one way to find out," replied the Doctor. He thought it was, but he was never too careful.
They went outside the doors. The TARDIS had landed next to a viewport. Visible in the window was a beautiful planet, pinkish clouds swirling over a pale purple sea, and green land...
The Doctor looked out at it. The planet wasn't so much as interesting as the things above it.
Dalek ships flew everywhere, dog fighting against little diamond shaped ships, firing down on the surface...
"Arcadia..." said Vared, horror evident in his voice. "The Cruciform has reached Arcadia…"
"Not any more," the Doctor said grimly. "This is the Fall of Arcadia. We were too late."
Staring at the death of a world, the Doctor vowed that this was the end. The Daleks would pay for this.
"Come on, Vared," he said softly. "We have work to do."
The Visionary. A woman who had raw time flowing through her veins, a time-sensitive who knew what was to be and what was never to be, what might be, what was, what could have been, and all the various variations.
In short, quite valuable in a war of Paradoxes.
"Falling, burning, dying," she muttered. She could sense everything that was to come. Everything. She didn't want Gallifrey to fall, but she knew there was little hope of its salvation, even if the Time Lords gave up their noble ideals (which she thought they might as well, since the noble ideals were all well and good when you were the top of the heap, but when you were edging towards extermination - literally - you might as well sink a little to win and worry about consequences later).
No hope. Not really.
Unless…
Things hit her, one after the other, after the other. Images, thoughts, feelings… and then she knew. A name, one all Time Lords knew.
"Rassilon," she began murmuring. "Rassilon. Rassilon."
The murmur grew louder, until it was a chant. The chant grew louder, until it was a mantra. Then a call.
Then, it was a scream.