The Acrobat awoke, and for a split second, he was enveloped in the pleasant amnesia that sleep provides.
But without fail, memory and sensation flooded back in, like a sewer canal that had swollen past its banks.
He was cold, so cold. The wounds in his body felt like they cut to his core with thin blades of ice.
He tried to wrap his arms around his body, but stopped short, hissing in pain. His muscle fibres were slashed open, knitting together all wrong.
He managed to crane his neck to look up, and saw the ruins of his rig, his silks. They were marred, lopsided, like a pair of limbs, one amputated violently.
Everything seemed grey, the light, the dust, even the paintings. He had taken care of them for years. Why did they not the care of him? The eyes of the people looked out on him, cold and objective. They had seemed so alive before.
A sob began to claw its way up his throat. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair at all. This was all he'd ever known, all his life had ever been. Why did it have to be torn away, all in one short night, with no hope of recovery? There was no way he could get back up. He'd never even stood on this ground.
Slowly, shudderingly, he began to cry. Tears flowed, hot and saline, from his eyes. He shook, racked with bitter cold and great, shuddering sobs. He cried for what he lost. He cried because he didn't understand. He cried, because he didn't know what else to do. He lay there, caked in dried blood and dust and tears, helpless and unwilling to move.
Suddenly, a noise echoed throughout the junction, a curious screeching and groaning. He tried to draw himself up, his brows drawing together. His heart quickened. Something was appearing by the old platform benches, kicking up dust like a desert sandstorm. He managed to shield his eyes, choking on dust.
When he lowered his arm, the noise had stopped. A worn blue box, about three metres tall, stood in the corner. If it weren't for the spray of dust cleared by it, it looked as if it could easily have always been there. There were signs around the top, proclaiming it to be a "Police Box".
The Acrobat's expression turned again to desperate confusion. What if it was someone else, come to hurt him? It wasn't an unreasonable conclusion.
And, right on cue, the door opened, and out stepped a man. He was plain enough in appearance, with dark pants and a dark jacket over a plum shirt, pale-ish skin with close-cropped dark hair. He had a prominent bone structure, with a gaunt jaw and strong nose. But his gait betrayed his strangeness. He moved quickly, deliberately, with an odd grace.
The Acrobat watched him with bated breath, as he caught sight of him. The strange man's eyes lit up with curious concern, and he jogged towards the Acrobat.
"Did she hurt you?", he asked, pulling a strange metal rod from within his jacket.
"The one called Zai hurt me," breathed the Acrobat by way of response.
"It looks like you've been attacked by a very vicious enemy. They're called the Kon-Falra. Particularly nasty, especially if you're got loads of iron in your blood, metabolised just the way they like. Try not to move," said the man, passing the metal rod over him. It emitted a blue light, and a strange whirring noise.
"I cannot move, in any case."
"Why not? You've got legs. Perfectly good legs, give or take the wounds,", he said, looking up from his device.
"I... have never walked. Or even stood." He pointed to the ruins of his rig with a shaking hand. "There. I lived there. All my life." He began to cry again.
"Hey," murmured the man, his tone softening. "Hey, don't cry. Don't cry. Doesn't get much done, crying."
"What can I do but cry?", said the Acrobat, swallowing past the painful lump in his throat.
"I'll tell you what you can do, yeah? Sit up," he said, guiding his hands under his back. The Acrobat began to sit up, with the help of the strange man's hands, solid and supporting under him. He put a hand out on the dust-covered ground to prop himself up.
"There," said the strange man. "That wasn't so bad." Gulping, the Acrobat nodded. "What's your name? Er, I'm the Doctor, by the way," he said, placing a hand on his chest.
"I am the Acrobat," he said plainly.
A smile, a genuine one, made its way across the Doctor's face. "The Doctor and the Acrobat. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think. The Doctor and the Acrobat..." He trailed off, his point of focus having drifted somewhere near the ceiling. "Fantastic."
He jerked his focus back down to earth. "Well, Acrobat, I hope you feel in the mood for a change of scenery," he said, his eyes brightening.
"It has already changed quite a bit," said the Acrobat, mustering what might have passed as a sarcastic smile in someone's book.
The Doctor, gently as he could, slipped an arm under the Acrobat's shoulder. "Alright. Three, two, one, hup!" He drew in a sharp intake of breath, feeling every lancing pain as it shot through his limbs.
"Easy, easy," assured the Doctor. "One foot in front of another. Think you can manage?" Swallowing hard, the Acrobat nodded.
Supported by the Doctor, he began to walk, as if on a tightrope. One foot followed another, followed another, followed another.
A strained, yet almost beatific smile stretched across the Acrobat's face, making slitted dimples. "I am walking!", he exclaimed, glancing sporadically over at the Doctor.
"Yeah! Yeah, you are! Congratulations," he affirmed, smiling back.
They stepped over the threshold of the TARDIS together, two broken men on their way to heal.
