It always starts the same and finishes the same.
"Okay, kiddo, you won't realise it but this is the ninth time in a row we've had this conversation," says the Doctor. "The ninth time I've asked you this question."
The man doesn't make sense. The boy ignores the bits that don't make sense.
"Okay, here goes," the Doctor takes a deep breath as though for the first time. "There's a man I know. He protects people, always has done, always will do. But he doesn't want to care about them anymore. Caring… it's become too painful. He just wants to get on with his job. How can he do it?"
The boy doesn't even hesitate, "He can't. It's not possible."
"But it must be…"
"No," says the boy. "You can't protect people and not care about them. It's not possible. You'd have to be a… a robot. Some kind of artificial…"
"But… a colleague of mine… he says he's already like that and-"
"Don't listen to him," said the boy, firmly. "He's lying."
The boy fixes the Doctor with a cold, hard stare. The Doctor shakes his head, "I… don't understand…"
"Well…" says the boy, "…it has been my experience that adults are notoriously slow."
The Doctor tries to fit what's in his head with what the boy is telling him.
"I've just watched a friend die," he says, eventually. "It's something I do a lot. There's a list of people as long as my arm who I've had to say goodbye to. Elsie, Rory, Amy – I keep saying never die last, but that's all I ever manage to do. They keep going and I'm still here, doing my duty…"
He scoffs the last word.
"You can't protect people if you don't care about them," the boy says again. "And if you don't care, then you can't protect. It's quite simple. Even for an adult."
Rain has started to fall, hard. Through the driving deluge, a pair of car headlights weaves into view. Somewhere behind the glare, the car itself pips its horn. The boy gets up.
"That's mother," he says, gathering his things. "I have to go. Are we… are we going to have this conversation again?"
"No…" says the Doctor into the rain, "No, I don't think so."
The boy nods and walks out into the rain. A few steps out, he stops and turns.
"Of course…" he says, haltingly, like something's just occurring to him, "…caring does mean feeling bad things from time to time. Anger. Fear. Revenge."
The Doctor looks up. This bit is new.
"But…" the boy says, "…I suppose you just have to deal with that the best you can."
He turns to go. His words have given the Doctor an answer. But no comfort."
"So long, kiddo," he says, "See you around."
The boy stops and turns one last time.
"I do have a name, you know," says the boy. "It's Bond. James Bond."
