HERE IT IS: THE GREAT CONFRONTATION SCENE. I'M AFRAID IT LEAVES SOMETHING TO BE DESIRED. IN MY DEFENSE, TWO OF THE GREATEST MINDS OF FICTION ARE COMING TO A HEAD HERE, AND I AM NOWHERE NEAR AS CLEVER AS EITHER ONE OF THEM! I'VE WORKED ON THIS AND WORKED ON THIS... AND THIS IS MY PRODUCT. PLEASE ENJOY!


ROYAL BLUE

"Hello," the Doctor said as the stranger worked to get himself to his feet. "Welcome to the TARDIS. Time and relative dimension in space. It is my travel vessel. Labyrinthine, bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. And now that we've got that out of the way, who the hell are you and what are you doing on my ship?"

"You know the answer to both of those questions, Doctor," the cloaked man said, in nearly-perfect English. Only a tinge of a French accent came through.

"Well now, that's an unfair advantage. Since you've been skulking about in my home, you know my name. If we're going to be shipmates, I think I ought to know yours, don't you?"

"I do not know your name, only your title."

Martha chimed in. "I thought that too, but his name is the Doctor – that's all anyone ever calls him."

"In that case," the stranger said, bowing properly. "My name is Erik. I apologise for not introducing myself sooner, but I am not normally one for forward interactions."

"I can see that," the Doctor said. "Why the mask?"

"You couldn't handle the truth of this, Doctor."

"Oh, why don't you try me? You have brought out some rather interesting truths from us, the least we can do is return the favour."

"I never remove my mask."

The Doctor grew deadly serious once more. "I never negotiate with a man whom I cannot look in the eyes. And when I stop negotiating, people tend to wind up exiled in mirrors and collapsed in dwarf stars."

Erik scoffed. "Threats do not work on me, Doctor. And I'm afraid that I am not the only one in this room who is masked at the moment."

"All right, enough with the head games. I'm really bloody sick of having you in here," the Doctor spat, pointing to his head. "Just tell me what you're doing here."

"I could ask the same question of you. I would never have wandered into your TARDIS if it had not suddenly appeared in the cellars of my Opéra. I was merely investigating what I perceived as an encroachment upon my territory. Much as you are doing now. So I believe that puts us at an impasse."

"Wrong. You didn't just wander around in my home, you trespassed in our brains."

Erik's face seemed to change beneath the mask. The Doctor interpreted it as a smirk. "Your brains were closed off. You were in need of a bit of a probe."

Martha spoke again. "Excuse me? What does that mean?"

He turned toward Martha to address her. "I'm sorry, young lady. I found evidence of the Doctor's name throughout this TARDIS," he said, seeming to sample the word TARDIS to examine whether he approved of the taste. "But I found only this room to indicate your presence. I do not know your name. Would you tell it to me?"

"It's Martha," she said.

"Martha," Erik said, bowing slightly. "It's lovely to see you. You are indeed a beautiful woman. Where do you hail from?"

"Er, can we just keep our eyes on the ball?" the Doctor asked. "I believe she asked you what you meant when you said our brains were closed off and we needed probing. Can't just leave that one hanging there."

Erik sighed. "I've been alive a long time, Doctor."

"Really?" asked the Doctor sceptically.

"My entire existence, I have been unique. I've been special. I've been a monster, a master, a prodigy, a killer, even a ghost. But it's a lonely lot. I can't be close to anyone because they are not clever enough or fast enough or good enough, and they cannot be close to me because I am damaged and hideous. It is a paradox, and so I live alone."

"I can appreciate that," the Doctor said, looking sideways at Erik.

"Yes, I think you can," Erik said. "I came across this room, Martha. I apologise for intruding, but take comfort in knowing that I did not enter. I simply looked, and surmised that a young woman sleeps and lives here. And then I saw your quarters, Doctor. I saw where you sleep, where you choose to spend your most private moments. I found that it was the bedroom of a man who devours knowledge and covers himself with information."

The Doctor did not respond, he simply bore holes with his eyes into Erik's mask.

A pregnant pause ensued, and Erik admitted, "I can relate. I have lived in very much the same way for most of my life. I could never be loved, I could never touch, and so I chose to make love to my studies and my music. I found that it was better than the trying and failing. When I realised the same of you, and that a young woman made her bed so near to you, I decided to use my gift to help you. The fewer people there are in the world who are like me, the better."

"That's not your decision," the Doctor admonished harshly. "What you did was a violation. Everything that was ours, you made yours – our bodies, our minds. We are not puppets."

Erik looked from one to the other. "Did you not enjoy yourselves? I'm told lovemaking is quite pleasurable."

"That's not the point," the Doctor insisted.

"I might have been excessive," admitted Erik. "But my voice, it's the one and only beautiful thing I've ever had, and been able to hold onto, and I use it as a gift and a curse. The trying and the failing, Doctor. When you try and fail so many times, you grasp at what you have. You must know this, my friend, the lonely sage."

"It's not for the trying and the failing," the Doctor said. "I am special as well, Erik. I don't think you can understand how special. I too live a lonely existence, but you and I are different, I'm afraid."

"I believe you. But I can see in your eyes that we have much in common as well. I see obsession and fresh scars. You travel in this vessel, I don't know where, but to have so many belongings, such accommodation to travel with you, you must be rootless. I am the same. I came here, I got lost here, I chose not to find my way out again because I am escaping."

"From yourself, from your own uniqueness. Can't be done, not even by me... and believe me, I've come close."

A heavy sigh came from Erik then. "I am escaping from loss, Doctor. I am running from something that was taken from me. I loved her..." He fell gently against the wall behind him, and rested his head. "She was beautiful, brilliant, a voice like none other, and a sweetness like... oh, she was sweet. She was compassionate – she could have learned to love me, and we could have been together forever. She said she would stay, and then fate intervened and forced me to give her up. The love of my life, and now she is gone." He seemed to stare off into space.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor told him.

Erik gulped down a sob, and his hand went to his heart, grasping as though it hurt. "I cannot get round it, past it or over it. It is on my mind incessantly, like a fresh wound. I keep thinking of her – what is she doing now? Is she being taken care of? Will she remember me? How would she feel if she knew I died? Questions like that drive me mad, and there is no way for me to know. She went away and she is never coming back... not ever, until I am gone. I shall never see her again, not in this world."

Erik took several breaths in quick succession, and seemed to swoon a bit.

"Sit down," Martha advised. "You're hyperventilating."

He sat, and the Doctor sat down next to him. He calmed a bit. "I've never told this story to anyone," Erik said soberly. "A Persian friend of mine attempted to tell it to the press, but no one believed him. They called him a griot, a spinner of tales. Idiots, the lot of them."

"How many people have you spoken to since then?" asked the Doctor.

"Only my friend, the Daroga," he answered. "The Persian."

"How many times have you left your chambers below the Opéra?"

"Not many – I have been unwell."

The Doctor said to him, "Of course you have. Erik, this loss seems to be driving your life, your entire existence. You were strong and confident until two minutes ago, now you're a collapsed husk, talking about her. Do you think that's healthy?"

"No," Erik replied. "But passion is passion. Loss is loss. It's like a cancer. I don't know if I'll ever be whole again, Doctor." He buried his head in his hands and heaved with a great pain.

"You will be. You just need to heal. Reach out, let something else in."

With that, Erik inhaled noisily, grasped at the Doctor, and then fell suddenly backwards onto the bed.


"How is he?" asked the Doctor, sliding round the console.

Martha was relieved to see him back in his pinstripes, and even more relieved to be back fully clothed, in her own clothes. She walked slowly towards him and perched on the navigator's chair. She was carrying a backpack, and she dropped it beside her. "He'll be fine," she answered. "I think it's just been a bit too much excitement. He's asleep."

"Did you lock him in?" he asked her.

"Oh, yes," she said tossing the sonic screwdriver back to him. "I told him to use the tannoy when he wakes, but I think he'll be out for a while."

"And the singing?"

"He's promised not to use it for evil."

"Good. How long do you think we should keep him?"

"Don't know. A few days, maybe. I think he had a small stroke," she said. "And based on the facial distortion, I'd say it's not the first."

"He let you see his face?"

"I didn't give him a choice. He was lying there, lost the use of his right arm momentarily, so I took it off."

"It's because you're you, do you see?" He smiled broadly.

"No, it's because I'm pushy. He told me the last woman who did that was nearly killed. By him. Anyway, he's probably had a mild form of neurofibromatosis all of his life, which is probably why he's always worn the mask – there's some swelling and tumour formation in the forehead and around the nose. His nose is almost sunken at this point – it's very interesting. But when he speaks, the right side of his face doesn't move at all, which has nothing to do with the deformity – more likely a series of strokes. Also, I'm pretty sure he's an opium addict."

"Yeah," the Doctor said. "Absinthe and opium – all the great geniuses, of the era I'm afraid. Especially your friend VanGogh."

"Maybe we'll need to keep him for a bit longer to detox after he recovers from the strokes. Have you got any gurney straps?"

"Somewhere, yes. Did you remember to bring your own pyjamas?" he asked with a bit of a smile. He glanced pointedly at her backpack.

"Yes, and earplugs," she told him. "You know, Doctor, there have got to be a million other bedrooms on this ship. I don't need to stay in yours."

"There used to be sixteen bedrooms, but now we're down to two. I turned all the others into storage, or what have you. Besides," he said. "My bedroom has been a haven of knowledge for long enough."

He came around the console and stopped in front of her, leaning back against the lip of the controls, and crossing his arms. He looked at her earnestly for a few seconds, and then suddenly his face crinkled. "Blimey, is that what I sound like?" he asked her.

"You mean the hopelessness and pining?"

"Yeah," he said, still crinkled.

She hesitated. "Sort of."

"Ugh, how tedious is that?" he groaned, pulling his hand down his face.

She didn't answer. Instead, she said, "The hearts want what they want, Doctor."

"Indeed."