Chapter 13

"Doctor, I have to say, I'm disappointed. I'd have thought you'd figure out how to unmask and reverse my broadcast much sooner," the voice continued, gently mocking.

The Doctor turned. A man stood there, right in the TARDIS, having materialised seemingly out of thin air. He was wearing what looked like an old-fashioned letterman's jacket, a white tee-shirt, very darkly-dyed blue jeans over Chuck Taylor trainers just like the Doctor's. His hair was coiffed-up in a spectacular Pompadour that would have put Elvis to shame.

"Oh, hello," the Doctor said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Vance Ray, I presume?"

"In the flesh," the DJ answered. "More or less. But actually, my real name is Vancheré. I am the..."

"The Bringer of Vengeance? Am I close?"

"Pretty close," said Vancheré. "I'm the Harbinger of Vengeance. It's a subtle difference."

"I must admit, you are more savvy than your siblings," the Doctor commented, leaning back on the console. "Your voice, your appearance... all of it is less attention-grabbing than the giant, oozing, talking sofa-pillow motif espoused by your kinfolk."

The DJ smirked. "Well, this look is a glamour, of course," he shrugged. "In reality I don't look much different from them. I've tried to convince them that it would be easier for them to wreak holy havoc if they would learn how to manipulate visual perception as well, but will they listen? Of course not. They're still stuck back in the Klongg Swergel Dynasty, if you ask me."

The Doctor crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "Bring Martha back to me."

"She's safe."

The Doctor squinted at the ceiling in mock-contemplation. "Er, I don't recall asking for an adjective. In fact, I don't recall asking for a verbal response at all. You know what you need to do, and talking about it will not get it done."

The alien laughed. "Oh, but Doctor, like you, I am a man of many words. I can talk all day! And, believe me when I tell you, you'll never see her again, but she is fine. She will not die, where she is. She is in no immediate danger. And, think about it. If I gave her back to you, could you really guarantee the same conditions? Would there be no death, nor immediate danger if she came back into your world? The world of the Time Lord who travels through the ages and saves planets and gets so easily kidnapped by reality-manipulating aliens?"

"Oh, well, how nice of you to keep her out of harm's way for me, that's extremely considerate, thanks," the Doctor quipped sarcastically. "Blimey, I don't know why I haven't given you a medal yet."

"It's the truth. Your life is dangerous, Doctor. Just look at today's events! Martha Jones would never have been in that kind of situational peril if you had never come into her life. Is that really fair?"

The Doctor sighed and said with boredom, "Of course, the moral ambiguity of dragging someone I care about into the line of fire is a conundrum that has never, ever crossed my mind, not in eight-hundred-odd years of travelling with companions. So, yeah, thanks for bringing that up. I'll make sure to torture myself chewing on that little gem."

"If you loved her, you would just let her remain where she is."

The Doctor's face remained flat. "Seriously? That is your tactic?"

Vancheré shrugged, and his face suggested that he had made his point, and he stood by it.

The Doctor took three steps forward. The two of them now were only inches apart, eye-to-eye. "Look, if you don't get her back for me, then I'll do it myself, and you won't like it," he threatened.

Vancheré's face twisted into a sarcastic sort of pity. "It's a tremendously convincing threat, Doctor, but the fact is that she out of your reach. Sorry."

"You underestimate me, Vancheré," the Doctor said, barely moving his lips. "Your family has always underestimated me. And Martha, for that matter. Are you really presuming to know what is out of my reach?"

Vancheré smirked again. "Well, I see that I have not underestimated your ability to grandstand. I'll tell you, I could almost believe this little performance!"

The Doctor quickly realised that this conversation was going nowhere. He disengaged from Vancheré, and began to pace. "And I'll tell you, Vancheré, you only think you're a man of many words. Just watch this, glamour-head."

The alien scoffed.

The Doctor continued. "You said a few minutes ago that you have tried to convince your brothers and sisters to learn to manipulate visual perception as well. So, as well as what? It's clear that your species can screw with reality and make it do what you want it to, at least on a localised basis, specific to certain individuals," the Doctor contemplated, rather quickly and loudly. "And you can cloak it from being perceived by bystanders, and you seem to have recently learned how to cloak it even from the victim, since Martha disappeared from right in front of me, and she never even reacted, am I right? But how are you doing it? What's the nature of the manipulation?"

Vancheré gave an artificial laugh, completely mirthless, and devoid of the whimsy that had characterised his demeanour thus far. "Heh, heh, heh. You're grasping at straws."

"I don't think so, because I can tell by your tone that you're getting nervous," the Doctor commented, matter-of-factly. "I don't blame you. What's the nature of the manipulation is a very good question, if I do say so myself. It's a question that will bring me to the heart of your power, isn't it? And I can't believe I haven't asked it before! The fourth bloody go-round with you and your pathetic little family, and this is the first time I've bothered to wonder what powers the magic, or whatever it is that you freaks wield. What makes it go?"

The alien in the letterman's jacket crossed his arms and frowned. "Careful, Doctor. Your words have power as well."

"What makes it go, what makes it go?" he continued to ask himself. "I mean, your brother Ramechac, his goal was nightmares, and S'Dromer, she was all about revelation. Essed'Iv just wanted us miserable, and you want vengeance and honour for your family... or something. The goal is different for each of you. But you, Ramechac and S'Dromer all used music and the incidental feelings that crop up with it, not to mention the ideas contained in the lyrics. Essed'Iv did not use music, but rather took our voices away, made it so that Martha and I couldn't speak to each other. So, different objectives, but the similarity has to do with sound."

"I am not above calling my siblings for help, Time Lord."

The Doctor flipped a switch on the console without looking, as he paced. "Good luck. I just blocked all telepathic signals into and out of the TARDIS, except, of course, for my own and the TARDIS'. Also, you'll probably find that you can't leave until I tell you, since the defences are up around the vessel now as well." Then he stopped for a moment and faced the alien squarely. "Honestly, why would you materialise inside my territory, and then try to tell me what I can and cannot do? And then warn me of what you're about to do? Are you that stupid?"

Vancheré was stunned, and the Doctor resumed pacing.

"I wonder if there are worlds of sound," the Doctor continued. "I know that there are pockets of the universe where worlds and planets are more manifestations of ideas than made of actual matter. There could be places where the environment is a manifestation of sound. What do you think?"

Once again, he stopped and looked at Vancheré, who returned an icy frown, but no words.

"I'll take that as, 'yes, you're absolutely right, Doctor, you're so clever!' And, since sound is intangible, then any being that comes from a world of sound, and has the ability to manipulate reality, would, of course, be able to press sound into reality, to take it and make it whole! Oh, yes, I think I'm on the right track here! Well, I suppose all along I've known this on some level, I'm just now bothering to think about it. And you know what? When I start thinking about stuff, hold onto your hat. Or your hairdo, or whatever."

Vancheré's frown grew deeper, his anger more and more apparent with every step the Doctor took across the metal TARDIS floor.

"Because, as you know, I'm a Time Lord, and if there was any trick the Time Lords had up their sleeves, it was thinking about stuff. Well, that, and sonic technology," he said. He pulled the sonic screwdriver from his breast pocket and tossed in the air, catching it coolly. "Hmm, interesting word, sonic. Having to do with sound. Interesting concept, really, a tool that affects both abstract and material things using sound waves. And... well, do you know what a sonic device must be really good at affecting?"

He walked toward the fuming Vancheré now, whose breathing had grown intense and laboured. The Doctor also noticed that his face had grown much wider, and his letterman's jacket seemed to be fraying, and fading in certain places. The Pompadour was falling down, and the alien's true feet were now showing, in place of where the trainers had been. The glamour was becoming more difficult to maintain, as Vancheré's focus unravelled into fury.

"Come on," the Doctor teased. "I'll bet you know. What can a sonic screwdriver fix better than anything else? Oh, rack your brain! Really think. Sonic... sound waves... No? Still can't work it out? Okay, I'll tell you. Sound! Ha-ha!"

The Doctor laughed with glee, and at that point, the alien's guise fell apart completely. Something that looked like a purple Jabba the Hut now stood where "Vance Ray" had been. Except, the creature had feet, and was more or less man-sized.

He also had what looked like two flaps on his head. They were ears. The Doctor made note of them, and the fact that the canals were closed off. Why would a creature from a world of sound have his ear canals shut?

The Doctor circled round the purple creature, looking him over. "Now, let's see," he muttered. "Judging by your siblings, and the fact that none of you ever have anything in your hands when you wield your weird little tricks, I'm going to assume that the manipulation is not rooted in an amulet or any kind of external power centre. So, I would think that it's your consciousness that keeps the fantasy going. Your mind is, in a manner of speaking, where these scenarios exist. Your mind, then, of course, has to be large... vast! Bigger on the inside!"

"You can keep speculating, Doctor, you will not get me to reveal my secrets," Vancheré commented. Surprisingly, his voice retained the same crisp, American DJ-like bravado it had had before, only now it seethed with anger.

"Well, I don't know what conversation you've been hearing, but in the one I'm having, it's not necessary for you to reveal anything. I'm learning all that I need to know, pretty much without your help." He shrugged, then continued talking. "So, what that means is that any victim of your sound manipulation is sort of inside your mind... it's one of the reasons why, when the victim realises they're in one of your scenarios, it's harder to hold onto them. And unconscious victim is easier to control, yeah? And some sort of mechanism within your brain takes the sound being played and makes it real for the victim. Another mechanism fills in the blanks in the story, like the thing with Teresa in Costa Brava, and Ana's father and servants and whatnot. But... hm..."

The Doctor paced for a few moments without saying anything.

"Losing your train of thought, Doctor?" asked the alien.

"Of course not," the Doctor answered. "I'm just thinking, in Ramechac's game, Martha said she was singing the songs, which means she could hear them. In S'Dromer's game, I could definitely hear the music. But this time round, in New Orleans, or the fishing beach, or in Costa Brava, I know we did not hear the music and lyrics driving the action. So... that must be why your ear canals are closed off. It either literally or symbolically cuts off the sound to your mind, so that the people inside don't know what's happening to them! Oh, well, then it's not hard to work out what to do next!"

Vancheré then made a foolish dash for the TARDIS' door, but was met with an invisible forcefield that bounced him back inside.

"I tried to warn you, you know," the Doctor reminded him. "You can't leave until I tell you. And... I normally don't like keeping prisoners, and I really don't like tying them down, but, you see, I'm desperate."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, all evidence suggests that you must be made of sound, yeah? So, I'm really very sorry to do this, but..."

With that, the Doctor aimed the sonic screwdriver at the being made of sound, and the alien cried out, "What have you done?"

"Just keeping you in place for a few minutes, nothing major. I'll let you go as soon as I get what I want from you, okay. Just relax." He aimed the sonic at the purple alien again, locking his ear-flaps open.

"Doctor, you'll never get away with this!"

"Maybe not. You could have eighty other siblings who are worse than you, for all I know," the Doctor reasoned. "But there's one thing you may have forgotten about me, Vancheré. Sure, you get that I'm a Time Lord, I travel, I think, I sonic, blah blah blah. But I'm also a man in love, and that makes me more dangerous than any guy who can see across the cosmos and the time vortex. So, you can make your threats and do your worst, but I will get Martha back, and the way I see it, at this very moment, there isn't a damn thing you can do to stop me. And if you try... well. We can toss you off that bridge when we come to it."

Over the course of this little monologue, the Doctor's tone had switched from that of perhaps a professor explaining quantum-physics to that of a passionate, angry man from whom something direly important had been stolen. A parallel transformation had taken place in the Doctor's brown eyes - everyday query had gone to fury. Vancheré could certainly feel the wrath of a Time Lord now.