Author's Note: The various speculations I've received from readers as to the identity of the villain have been vastly entertaining. :D

Doctor Quote of the Day:

The Doctor: "Therefore, if I've guessed correctly about the nature of helix energy, I should be able to drain it off."
Sarah Jane: "But what if you've guessed wrong?"
The Doctor: "When did I ever guess wrong about anything?"
Sarah Jane: "Lots of times." --The 4th Doctor and Sarah Jane, Masque of Mandragora

Firefly Quote of the Day:

Mal: Sure, it's humiliating. Having to lie there while the better man refuses to spill your blood. Mercy is the mark of a great man. [pokes his downed opponent in the stomach with his sword Guess I'm just a good man. [pokes him again, harder Well, I'm all right. --"Shindig"

"Oh, well, the night is long; the beads of Time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow.
The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath..."
–Led Zeppelin "The Battle of Evermore"

Mal watched all the color drain from the Doctor's face. "No." The Doctor's voice was a whisper. He reached out as though to touch the floating, shifting symbol. "No, it can't be."

"What is it?" Inara demanded, glancing toward the door. Mal, too, looked over his shoulder. Nothing yet, but he had an uneasiness in his gut that said they were running right out of time.

The Doctor did not seem to hear. "It couldn't possibly..."

"Doc," Mal growled. "Unpack."

The Doctor blinked at them, then straightened abruptly. "Right, sorry," he said, though he was unable to tear his eyes from the intricate design that hung suspended before them. "Only that's a Mokshar sigil, and no Moksha would ever...Oh, God," he breathed. "That explains the bit in the psionic matrix, linking into the emotions...oh, nononono, I can't believe–" He looked sick, both hands reaching up to fist in his hair.

Mal clenched his teeth. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and guess that these Mokshar ain't human?"

"No," said the Doctor absently. He lowered his hands, leaving his hair standing nearly straight up. It should have made him look ridiculous, comical–but the grave horror in his eyes stole all amusement from the scene. "They're an ancient race. One of the oldest in the universe, in fact, even older than mine. Bit avian in looks–skinny, feathery, kinda pointy. Empaths and healers of incredible power."

"Older than 'your people,' huh?" said Mal in a flat voice.

"They were probably the closest thing you could find in this universe to pure good," the Doctor continued, oblivious to Mal's remark. "I just can't accept that one of them would be involved in–in this." His voice dripped with disgust as he gestured at the lab around them.

"Mal?" Inara's voice was worried. She was watching his face, not the Doctor's. "What's wrong?"

"He ain't human," said Mal. "Wuo duh tien ah, he's the gorram alien."

"I dropped you enough clues," said the Doctor coolly, still busy staring at the glowing sigil. "You've only just now realized? Oh dear. Sometimes I forget how slow humans can be. Can't be helped, I suppose, it's the way your brains are wired."

Mal clenched his fists, but fought down the urge to throttle the man. "Ain't exactly in my world view," he said, deadly dry.

"Sorry, that was a bit rude of me, I guess. I suppose it isn't your fault." The Doctor finally looked up at the both of them, and shoved his glasses back up his nose with a finger. "For reasons I can't fathom, the other races out there have left this little corner of Creation almost entirely alone. Have to look into that, when I go; I'm sure there's a fascinating reason. What's funny, though, is that Earth had made extraterrestrial contact long before your ancestors left the planet. So why have you lot forgotten?"

"He's not human." Inara raised an eyebrow at him that said clearly Mal, you're nuts.

"I'm not," said the Doctor, before Mal could answer. "I look human, but I'm not."

"Then...what are you?"

The Doctor hesitated. "...Let's call me a wanderer for the moment, shall we? No, don't get your knickers in a knot–it's not because I don't want to tell you. It's that I'm not sure it's safe to say, right here and now." He gestured to the symbol. "This tells me a Moksha is about, doing all this. But I know the Mokshar, and they wouldn't do this." His hands carved the air in vague gestures, like he was trying to capture alien ideas to show them. "Their whole belief system was such an integral part of their being–it was literally woven into their biology–and they believed utterly in preserving life and free will, in using their abilities to help and heal and teach the ways of peace, and only turning to war when there was no other way. They hadn't fought a war for millions of years, before...Maybe billions. This," he waved again at the lab, "is the antithesis of everything they believed. No Moksha would do this," he repeated. "Not in a million, billion years."

"Times change," said a voice, deep and bell-like. "As I am sure you well know, Time Lord."

All three of them spun around, and Mal felt his jaw sag. Calling the Doctor an alien and hearing him admit it was one thing, but he still looked human. This...It's a real gorram alien.

It was very tall, more than eight feet, bipedal and slender, with a graceful, angular head–almost birdlike–set atop an impossibly long neck. A crest of feathers rose from the crown of its skull to spill over narrow shoulders. Both its skin and its feathers were iridescent shades of blue, gold and brown, seeming to glow under the lights of the laboratory. It was wearing some kind of robe, though how exactly it fit over the strange body shape Mal wasn't rightly sure.

Mal heard the Doctor suck in a sharp breath. "V-Vharaj?" A shaking hand pulled the spectacles off his face, and he moved around to stand between Mal and Inara, squinting up at the thing as though he couldn't believe his eyes. "Vharaj, is that you? You're–you're alive!"

The alien creature tilted its head to the side, strengthening Mal's impression of bird. "You know me, Time Lord?"

"I–yes, yes I do. Of course I do. We were...at Arcadia together. I thought you died when it fell. Your ship...I tried to get to it, but so many ships burned that day, and the fleet advancing..." A shudder ran down the man's long body, a reaction Mal knew far too well.

The being gave a little sigh of recognition. "Ah. Doctor. I did not recognize your face; you have regenerated since last we met." The feathers of the crest rippled. "I had heard the rumors, that a single Time Lord survived Gallifrey's destruction. I might have known it would be you."

The Doctor flinched. "Not by choice," he whispered. "Never by..." His hand tightened convulsively on his spectacles, the frames bending perilously under the pressure. His voice was husky when he spoke. "Vharaj–what are you doing here? Are you a prisoner? Are–are you being forced to assist in this–this atrocity?"

Vharaj tilted its–his?–head to the other side. "Come now, Doctor," he said. "You know perfectly well there isn't a power left in this universe that could force a Moksha to its will. This is my work," he continued, gesturing gracefully with a long, slender (and, Mal noticed with a certain sense of urgency, claw tipped) hand. "It's really quite brilliant, if I do say so myself." At his gesture, the banks of cylinders closest to Mal became transparent, and Mal, seeing what was in them, jerked back with a stifled curse.

The cylinders were full of Reavers, hanging frozen like statues of unspeakable horror. Mal stared in horror, remembering that there were about a hundred of the things in the room. Inara's face, he saw, had gone still and pale.

"No," said the Doctor softly. "You're not a prisoner. But I had hoped. Vharaj, this is wrong. Mind control? Setting monsters on innocents? Why? This violates everything your people believe, everything you are."

"Were, Doctor," snapped Vharaj, his resonant voice turning harsh. "Everything my people were. But they no longer exist, do they, Doctor? Not beyond a handful of refugees scattered across the galaxies. The great, benevolent Mokshar people, reduced to nothing. Your Time War saw to that." Alien or not, Mal was sure he didn't imagine the bitterness in the creature's words.

The Doctor's lips tightened into a thin line. "The Mokshar willingly offered their aid against the Daleks, Vharaj. My people didn't even ask. And you served willingly by my side when I commanded the forces at Arcadia."

"And we all know how well that ended, don't we, Doctor?" snarled Vharaj. "Ten thousand ships burning, and the key to the Cruciform's defense falling into Dalek hands. The great and famous Doctor, defeated at last. I had supposed your people wiser than to make you commander of that defense."

The Doctor's eyes turned black with fury, but he made a visible effort to control himself. "What's done is done, Vharaj," he said in a harsh voice. "The War's over, more or less. Time to move on. Which I see you've done. The Daleks weren't enough for you, Vharaj, that you feel a need to make more monsters to unleash on the universe?"

"I believe in justice, Doctor!" The feathers flared in obvious agitation. "And since I cannot have it for my people, then I will seek it on behalf of others. That is the purpose of my work here, Doctor. Justice. It's the only thing I have left. Mercy and sacrifice brought my people nothing but destruction."

"But Vharaj, this is evil!" cried the Doctor. The anger was gone from his voice, replaced by grief, pleading. "The Mokshar are healers, teachers! Not dictators. And not gone. They're still out there. They...still exist."

The alien being's great, glowing eyes narrowed. "Unlike the Time Lords?" he asked softly. "Tell me, Doctor, how does it feel, to be the very last one?"

The Doctor went white. "Don't, Vharaj," he pleaded. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think I do. Tell me, Doctor, who was it who came up with the idea of destroying Gallifrey and the Time Lords to destroy the Daleks? Who made that decision?"

The Doctor's head bowed. "We all made the decision," he whispered. "But the plan was mine."

"And you survived. How...convenient."

The Doctor shut his eyes, and a tear tracked down his cheek. Mal recognized the look on the man's face; he'd seen it before, staring back at him from a mirror, after Serenity Valley. "That's enough," he snapped, moving forward, stepping between the Doctor and the alien. "I don't know what the hell you're talkin' about, but I know cruel when I see it. Seems to me, alien, you're less interested in justice than you are in pokin' other people's wounds open. And maybe you can explain to me just how settin' Reavers on folk is justice."

The alien's features arranged themselves into an expression that might have been a smile. Mal couldn't be sure; reading alien expressions was a whole new area for him. Or, at least, reading alien expressions other than the Doctor's... "Ah, Doctor. I see that, as always, you have managed to collect loyal companions to serve you."

"I ain't servin' anyone," Mal said curtly. "Man's a passenger on my ship, and that makes him crew, temporary-like. And if you want a go at my crew, you answer to me."

"And just who are you, then?"

There was no mistaking the patronizing tone in Vharaj's voice. Mal hated that. "Malcolm Reynolds," he growled. "And in another minute, I'll introduce you to my gun."

The alien's eyes widened. "Malcolm Reynolds? Really? What an amazing thing."

Mal had a sudden, bad feeling. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason. But I should think that you, of all people, would realize the purpose here."

"I see an arrogant huen dahn playin' God with people's minds, forcin' 'em to his will. And even God don't do that." And somewhere, Mal thought, the Shepherd is spinnin' in his grave to hear me say that. But he meant every word. Maybe he and God weren't on speaking terms these days, but that weren't anything to do with stuff like this.

"Reavers aren't exactly people, Malcolm Reynolds," said Vharaj.

"Maybe they ain't now, but they used to be. And had their minds and souls stole from them by the Alliance. And now you're doin' the same thing all over again, and not just to Reavers." He nodded his head toward the monitors. "Or isn't that a model of an ordinary human's brain chemistry?"

"You are a quick one," purred Vharaj, just as the Doctor had earlier. Mal decided he preferred the Doctor's maddening, elusive arrogance to this–this thing's condescension.

"I generally don't associate willingly with idiots," snapped the Doctor. He was still white as death, but anger had again chased away the pain and sorrow. "And I believe you owe the man a proper explanation. Just what is this great 'work' of yours?"

The alien chuckled. "Oh, Doctor. My old friend. Still galumphing about Time and Space seething with righteous indignation. I know the stories, Doctor. I know your reputation of old." His voice grew cold. "So if you imagine that I'm going to stand here and tell you my plans so you can work out a way to stop me, then you're sorely mistaken."

"Oh, Vharaj." The Doctor's voice was almost pitying now. "You don't know me at all. I don't need you to tell me your plans to stop you. That's just a bonus, makes my life a bit easier, is all. But I will give you a chance, Vharaj. Just one. Stop this. Whatever your reasons for doing this, however just you think the cause might be, stop it now. Let me help you find another solution, another way. But if you don't end this evil, I will end it for you." In his voice came a trace of the deep, terrifying rage Mal had glimpsed before.

"You always have been arrogant," remarked Vharaj. His voice was steady, but Mal thought he saw a flash of apprehension in the alien's eyes. They were expressive eyes, inhuman or not. "But no matter. Security has already been alerted to your presence and will be here shortly. And just to make certain you aren't going to try anything foolish..." He raised his hand. There were only three fingers on it, Mal noticed, and they seemed ridiculously long and frail against the heavy, gleaming shape of the military grade pistol the alien held.

The Doctor's lip curled contemptuously. "A gun, Vharaj? Really, how disappointing."

"Oh, it isn't for you," said Vharaj coolly. "Bullets wouldn't be much more than an inconvenience to you, and you are more than capable of sacrificing yourself so that others might escape. But as I recall, you are fiercely protective of your companions. And particularly old-fashioned when it comes to females." The barrel of the gun moved to point straight at Inara. "And you won't leave one of them behind." Mal thought he saw fear and horror in the alien's eyes, but alongside it was a steely resolve he did not like.

Terror and fury clogged Mal's throat, but even as he moved he knew he wouldn't be able to get there in time. The Doctor was in the way. He watched Vharaj's finger–long, inhuman, impossible–tighten on the trigger.

"No!" shouted the Doctor, and dove forward.

The shot echoed through the huge room, thundered in Mal's ears, seemed to shake the very floor. He saw Inara stagger, and for an awful moment felt his world bend and begin to break. Then he realized she was stumbling under the Doctor's weight as he fell heavily against her, his hand clutched tight to his left shoulder, blood welling between his fingers. But he was conscious, and soon regained his balance. His eyes blazed, his face dead white now with pain and shock, even paler than it had been earlier. "That was unnecessary!" he snarled.

Time seemed to slow. Mal's own pistol, hidden beneath his coat, was in his hand now. He raised it, a low growl of rage lifting from his throat.

"No, don't–" the Doctor began.

Mal was a damn good shot, a fact that, while not necessarily proud of, he'd always found reliable. He aimed for Vharaj's head. A quick, clean skull shot and it was all over. He squeezed the trigger...

But Vharaj, with impossible speed, moved out of the line of fire. Swearing, Mal moved forward, fired again. Again, he missed as the alien dove out of the bullet's path.

A bloody hand closed around his arm. "Don't bother," said the Doctor. "It isn't worth it; he's too fast. And we haven't the time." Hissing in pain, he pulled his other hand–the wounded one–from his coat pocket. In his palm three small spheres glittered.

Mal stared at them, uncomprehending. Then memory flicked a card. "Are those...Christmas ornaments?" Absurdly, he recalled that he hadn't seen a real Christmas ornament in...well, not in a long time.

The Doctor's answering grin was savage and not at all friendly. "Oh yes, but these do much more than sparkle nicely on your Christmas tree."

Vharaj was back on his feet and advancing, keening horribly, clawed fingers outstretched. He'd dropped the gun, though. "You cannot escape, Doctor!"

"I can't begin to tell you how often I've heard that line over the centuries," said the Doctor. "And d'you know something? I always do. Catch!" And he tossed the shiny red baubles at the alien. Vharaj dodged instinctively, and the ornaments struck the floor and rolled away among the machines. "Now, Inara!" shouted the Doctor.

Inara raised her hand. In it was the Doctor's strange little screwdriver, emitting its blue glow and earsplitting whine. Mal, with a sudden suspicion as to what came next, braced himself. Sure enough, a heartbeat later three separate explosions rocked the room with a deafening roar. Mal staggered under the concussion, but remained upright. Vharaj, not so lucky, was knocked right off his feet and vanished behind a cloud of dust and debris. The explosives were not terribly powerful, but in the relatively confined space of the lab the mess was downright astonishing.

Mal was moving before the flash had even died away. Neither Inara or the Doctor had kept their balance when the explosives went, but were struggling upright. Mal hauled Inara to her feet, trying hard not to give in to the urge to clutch her close and gibber in relief that she was unhurt. Instead, he reached down for the Doctor, and heard the man's sharp gasp of pain. "Your shoulder–" began Mal.

"Is well enough for the moment. I won't bleed to death, I promise." Despite his assurances, blood still seeped between his fingers, and the sleeve of his coat was already dark and wet most the length of his arm. The Doctor eyed it in annoyance. "This coat had better not be ruined. Janis Joplin gave me this coat, you know." He sucked his breath in between his teeth and set his jaw. "Just...let's get out of here, and fast, all right? I want to faint somewhere I'm not going to get locked up."

Alarms were shrieking all around them now–and Vharaj had said security was already on their way down. Mal reached out to haul the Doctor's good arm over his shoulders and found Inara already there.

"You need your hands free," she said, "for shooting, if it comes to that. I've got him." Her flawless face, smudged with soot and sweat, was set, full of courage.

Mal didn't trust himself to do more than nod. If he opened his mouth, he was sure to say something he oughtn't. He made sure Inara would be all right supporting the much-taller Doctor's weight, then turned to lead the way out of the ruined laboratory. If they were very, very lucky, they could slip out a fire exit with all the other panicking folk.

Of course, they weren't lucky. That would have been against some cosmic rule, that a frantic escape attempt would go smooth. They didn't dare go back by way of the elevator, so Mal was forced to turn off into one of the side corridors they'd passed earlier. But everywhere they turned in the bewildering maze, shouts from the gorram security teams forced them in another direction. The Doctor was no help; he'd lapsed into semi-consciousness. Inara was doing her best to keep one hand pressed hard against his shoulder to staunch the bleeding; they had no time to stop for a makeshift bandage. Mal noted that the blood staining the Doctor's hands–and now Inara's–was the wrong color: too pale, more orange red than deep crimson. It was a bit of a shock–it was one thing to guess that the man was an alien and have him say it was so. It was something else entirely to see proof that an otherwise human-looking man wasn't any such thing.

They rounded a corner and Mal spotted with relief an 'Exit' sign glowing serenely over a flight of stairs twenty yards down the hall. Just beyond lay another door–and from beyond that Mal could hear the sounds of yet another security squad. From behind them came the shouts of another team, drawing ever closer.

Mal swore. They'd just run out of options he liked. Maybe a minute before both squads arrived, and without a delay there would be no escape for anyone. "Okay, here's the new plan: 'Nara, you get the Doctor out of here and to Simon, quick as you can. Get yourselves clear. Take Serenity offworld if you have to."

"Mal, no!"

"Got no choice left, Inara," Mal said with an unhappy smile. "'Sides, I'm countin' on you to come and rescue me."

"I'm very good at rescues," said the Doctor, weakly. "My specialty."

Inara's eyes blazed. "Malcolm Reynolds, I won't–"

It was a terrible thing to do, and Mal knew it. But the shock would stop her arguing and get her moving–and if he was lucky, he wouldn't live to deal with the consequences. Reaching out, he seized Inara's chin and kissed her, hard. "I love you," he growled. "Now go!"

For once, it actually worked. Never could tell, with Inara–she was unpredictable as hell. But as he'd hoped, she was too stunned to resist as he gave her a shove toward the stairs, or to stop him as he ran toward the door at the other end of the hall and the security team beyond.

As he ran, Mal realized that he was laughing.

Chinese Translations:

Wuo duh tien ah: Oh my God

Additional Author's Note: Of course, I can't deny I wasn't tempted to use a "traditional" Doctor Who villain--but the fact is, I believe in sticking with canon as much as possible. I felt it would be easier, therefore, to use an original species. Besides, I'm far more interested in exploring the consequences of the Time War than setting up the Daleks or the Cybermen for yet another run. For one thing, there aren't any Cybers left in this Universe--they're all in the parallel one, so far as I or anyone else knows. The Master is, er, not available at this time and until I'm given evidence to the contrary, the Rani is as dead as the rest of the Time Lords. As for the Daleks...well, the Cult of Skaro is awfully busy overseeing the construction of the Empire State Building and were not, alas, available for this engagement. :D I imagine that, somewhere deep in their horrible little souls, they were rather pleased to find that the Art Deco movement suits their look so very well...