Every big decision has a flashpoint. Sure, hundreds of little reasons can contribute to a massive choice being made...but I think I'm right in saying that every big decision has one major factor which finally tips the balance. Somebody might, for example, have been thinking about moving house for a few years...it's played on their minds all that time, you know what I mean? Any number of little things might add weight to the argument in favour of moving...maybe it's the poor broadband. Maybe it's the dodgy heating. Maybe it's the busy main road just outside, with the cars rushing to and fro all day long, mere yards from the front door. And yet...and yet, it's never quite enough, is it? In spite of all the little issues, you like your current house! You think you should probably move but...well, you just don't want to, frankly.

Until the pig ignorant new neighbours arrive. Every Friday night, their acne-coated teenage oik of a son invites his mates round for "a few drinks", which actually means a full blown rave, lasting until two or three in the morning. And that, my friends, is what tips the balance. Finally, something happens which is big enough and bad enough to make you finally choose to move. The flashpoint. The thing that, when combined with all the little reasons, finally drives that choice home. And that's when you'll finally give up and move to a new house.

That process is basically what happened to the Doctor. That's how she was finally driven into retirement. There had been loads of little reasons over the years. The Tardis was knackered. She couldn't hear. Her and Tricky didn't get on very well. Her little meeting with John Taylor, add that to the list as well - she'd once considered UNIT friends, and the fact they clearly weren't any longer hurt her. So yeah...lot's of little factors which were making her consider retiring. But guess what? It wasn't enough. She just didn't want to.

Her flashpoint was Bart Platter. UNIT's very own "prisons officer." What he did to her, and what she did to him in response - that was what finally drove that decision home. He made her retire.

Some background - Bart Platter was the self-proclaimed "prisons officer" in UNIT of 2063. He was a big shot within UNIT, Bart Platter was. But he wasn't a soldier. He wasn't even a British citizen, actually - he'd stumbled into the British division of UNIT entirely due to John Taylor's ever deteriorating stability. Nobody in their right mind would ever have taken him on. Bart Platter was a Canadian, a massive tall guy, forty-something, with grey-brown mullet hair (balding on top) and a handlebar mustache. He was, or rather had been, a hit-man. A hired gun. The Doctor never got the chance to ask him about his life (which she ended), and frankly she wouldn't have done if there had been time. She didn't want to hear it. He'd been, for some length of time, the most wanted man in Canada. Involved with drugs. Murders. Sexual assaults. Explosions and assassinations...every crime under the sun, he'd committed.

When it finally looked as if the authorities were closing in on him, he'd fled south, into the United States. And there, he started all over again. The same setup. The same crimes. The same blood-money. He just started the whole thing over again...

And then, when the law was closing in, he fled again. To Mexico. His grandfather had been Mexican, and he had family there. He went a little quieter in Mexico...no big criminal organization, the likes of which he'd run before...but that's not to say he left crime behind. Oh no. You see, he went to the town of Tijuana. That's where his family lived, and that's where they sheltered him (they had no idea of the extent of his crimes, so don't blame them). There's one thing I do know, however - as soon as he arrived (literally the very night) people started getting attacked. He would force himself on people. Young women and young men, walking home alone late at night - sometimes they'd be pulled off the street. Into some horrible back alley. He'd assault them, he'd rob them...and sometimes he'd kill them. He was a deviant, with a fetish list as long as your arm. The things he did to people were horrific.

His name floated around on the police radar a few times, but there was never any evidence. Guess what though? As soon as he left, the attacks stopped. You see, he had to flee yet again - the FBI were well onto him. They knew he'd gone to Mexico, and they were determined to have him extradited. Executed, too. But no. As always, he was one step ahead of them. He fled.

To Britain.

He mightn't have been a soldier, but he was good with guns. Good with martial arts. He had the skills of soldier, though he wasn't one. He could even pilot aircraft - in his youth, he'd wanted to be in the air force, but was disqualified due to his mental instability. His skills, though acquired through and used for only bad deeds, were why Taylor wanted him. The Doctor never had time to ask exactly how they met...or why, in the name of all things sane, John Taylor invited him to join UNIT. All she knew was that he was there. The "prisons officer", in charge of looking after the detained aliens whom UNIT occasionally had to capture. Tell me now - how do you think he treated them?

Yeah. It doesn't bear thinking about. Truth be told, the Doctor got off fairly lightly. She escaped. He forced himself on her, too. Not in...that way (though certainly he would have, had the Doctor not escaped). But she told him to stop and he ignored her...he carried right on, fulfilling the disgusting little fantasy he was so utterly unable to control. She wasn't hurt. He didn't harm a hair on her head. But he humiliated her. And he would have harmed her, had she not gotten away. It made her angry. So, so angry. Angrier than she'd felt for thousands of years.

And she killed him for it. Sort of...more like, he died and she did nothing to help. She watched him suffer with a smile on her face.

That was her flashpoint. Here's what really happened...


UNIT Safehouse MX9 (The Cesspit), 2063


"Well," Commander Taylor said, joining the Doctor in front of the barred holding cell, "we got it."

The Doctor ignored him. She didn't bother reading his lips, didn't so much as look at him. She had nothing to say to him on this, the second meeting between the two of them. Not after last time, when she'd discovered him torturing one of his own subordinates.

"Doctor? Doctor?" She could see, from the corner of her eye, his lips forming that familiar word. Finally, she looked up, her bright blue eyes meeting his cold ones.

"What?"

The Doctor watched his reply carefully. It was long winded, but she got the gist of it. Basically, he was telling her that Tricky would be fine.

Good. Tricky had been knocked out by the creature in the cell. It was a massive great creature made of wood - actual wood. A tree creature, with razor sharp claws and glowing red eyes. It had a vaguely humanoid form, though it was seven feet high. It had been a nightmare to catch - it had only gone and hidden itself in the Peak District. For hours, she, Tricky and a handful of UNIT officers had traipsed over hill and field looking for it. Finally, they found it. Bullets didn't work - it was wood all the way through, hard solid wood. Bullets only grazed it. So Taylor had given them his ice gun. That worked. The creature was mega-strong, but a strong blast from the ice gun would immobilize it long enough to capture.

It worked. But they'd had to get in close for the full effect. In doing so, one of it's huge tree-trunk arms had caught Tricky round the head. She'd slumped to the soggy ground at once, and had been out cold for the entire helicopter ride back to London. They'd rushed her straight to the medical bay (an old maths classroom in the Cesspit).

"So then," Taylor said, speaking very clearly, "what do we do with it? Kill it, right?"

The Doctor read his lips and shook her head, "No! I'll take it to Febreton."

"You what?"

"Febreton. This is a Guardian of Febreton."

"Oh." Taylor said something else. A very long winded reply, which the Doctor simply couldn't make sense of, despite her amazing lip-reading skills. She shrugged and pointed to her ear, making sure she continued to look at Taylor with all the contempt he deserved.

Taylor sighed and plucked a pen from the breast pocket of his green uniform. The Doctor watched him fumbling around in all his other pockets, looking for a notepad. It was only when he'd finally checked the last one, she'd smirked and said, "want a notepad?" She gave him one of the six she had in her large (on the inside) pockets.

Taylor was many things, but he wasn't stupid. He knew her game. Glaring, he snatched it and scribbled the words furiously. They read; go talk to Bart Platter, in charge of the prisoners. He'll help you move it to the Tardis. Second floor, room 116. He's a huge fan of your's, read all the stories and everything.

"Right," the Doctor said, brushing past Taylor without another word. Taylor watched her go, a little smirk on his face. Oh yeah - Platter was a fan all right. A very big fan. He'd wipe the smile off that smug little idiot's face...

"Good luck, Doc." He said aloud. "Happen you'll need it."

He knew, of course. He knew exactly what Platter was like - he knew also that he wouldn't kill the Doctor. But take her down a peg or two, he just might. You know what? He was comfortable with that. She'd humiliated him in the past. As far as he was concerned, he had it coming.

That's how unhinged he was, during the events which unfolded in 2063. He wasn't so far gone as to kill the Doctor...he saw no wrong, however, in allowing Platter to get his hands on her. No wrong at all...

The Doctor rapped on the door of Platter's upstairs office (situated in a converted ICT suite) and waited a couple of seconds before going in. She opened the door to a large, airy room, with a work desk, a sofa and coffee table, and a large bed in the corner. Evidently Platter, whomever he was, was based in the cesspit full time at present.

The man himself arose from the sofa as soon as the Doctor entered. He was tall, gaunt and balding, wearing an off-white shirt and beige cargo pants. He had a strange, dreamy look in his grey-blue eyes, as though he was sleepwalking. He shook the Doctor's hand without speaking, and pulled his hub from his pocket (2063's version of a smartphone) and typed. He passed it to the Doctor. It was a black square thing, with no manual buttons at all. All done by touch-screen and voice.

Well, hello! I've been looking forward to meeting you.

The hub was set to a blank white screen, and the Doctor tapped her finger beneath Platter's sentence, typing out her reply.

Good, yeah. Your in charge of the prisoners, right? She handed it back.

That's me. Come sit down, here.

Platter took the Doctor gently by the elbow and led her to the sofa in a very gentleman-like manner. She smiled faintly and allowed herself to be sat down. He strolled over to his work desk and opened a drawer, taking a bottle of white wine from it. He waved it at the Doctor, smiling. Offering her some.

She shook her head. "Need your help." She mumbled, stumbling on the "h" in help - that happened sometimes.

Platter grinned. "Ah! Well how might I help?" He came back over and sat on the sofa next to her. Rather too close to her. He passed her back the hub and she typed out what she needed from him - I've offered to escort a new prisoner back home in the Tardis...Taylor said I could come to you, and you'd help me get him safely inside etc.

Platter nodded, typing his reply. There was a very peculiar look in his eye. The Doctor couldn't place it...it was like he was living in a dream, working on autopilot. He gave the hub back to the Doctor. I'll do that. Sure. When?

ASAP, really. While he's still pretty weak. The Doctor replied.

Oh, ok. Platter replied. He handed it back to the Doctor and let her read it, but then changed his mind and held his hand out for it again. The Doctor passed it back, assuming that they'd go straight down and sort it out...but no. Platter kept on typing, and without letting go of the hub, showed the Doctor what he'd written.

It's really such an honor to meet you Doc. And your so beautiful. He spelled honour without the "u".

The Doctor grinned. "Thanks."

Platter nodded. The Doctor rolled her eyes as he typed something else. This was all very flattering, but there was work to do! Finally, he showed her his next comment.

Say...let me do a little something.

The Doctor read it, and looked up at him, her face screwed up with confusion. "What?"

Platter grinned, that weird, vacant look in his eyes stronger than ever. It was almost like he was looking through her. Just a little something. It's nice. I think you'll enjoy it. Shoes off.

The Doctor read it, and looked up at him incredulously.

He nodded enthusiastically. "It'll be nice!" He insisted, smiling without showing any teeth. His lips were moist and he seemed to be shaking slightly.

"Um..." The Doctor began...then she understood. She actually laughed, then. The last time she laughed for a long time. "Massage?"

"Yeah!" Platter said, continuing to smile his wet, toothless smile. His tongue poked a little out of his mouth.

The Doctor shook her head. "Work to do!" She exclaimed. Truth be told, she wasn't adverse to a spot of pampering. She and Tricky had spent a week at a health-spa built into an asteroid not long ago. But not here. Not Bart Platter. He'd creeped her out from the moment she'd entered. She might be laughing and smiling, but she felt a cold sense of panic rising in her chest. This wasn't normal. Not at all.

She attempted to stand up, but Platter reached forward and grabbed her firmly by the arm. "Just a little," he said, and before she could stop him, he grabbed her legs and swung them round, so that she was lying down on the couch.

"No!" She protested, trying to tug her legs away, but he held them firmly - using one arm. He was a big man, she was a small woman. His left arm wrapped comfortably around her legs like a bear hug.

"Just a little!" Platter insisted, easily holding her in place, keeping his lip-movements clear. Though the Doctor couldn't hear him, his voice was soft and calm, almost loving. With his free right hand he slowly and carefully removed her curly green jester's shoes, letting them drop to the floor. The Thirtieth Doctor didn't wear socks. She was a little phobic of them, truth be told. Nasty, bacteria ridden things. She attributed this little phobia to her previous life. Her predecessor's socks had been in a league of their own - they were foul. Upon regenerating, the Thirtieth Doctor had burnt the lot.

Bart Platter had no such phobias. Quite the contrary. "No socks?" He said to the Doctor, who was sprawled helplessly over the sofa.

"Let go of me!" She screamed.

Platter shook his head. "In a bit," he replied. Ignoring the Doctor's protests, he gently tickled the soles of her bare feet. She squirmed and gave an involuntary giggle. Platter ignored her. He was stroking her feet now, that nightmarish, vacant expression intensifying on his face. It was like...like he was experiencing more pleasure than he was able to take in. With a thrill of horror, the Doctor realized, too late, what that feeling was - arousal. Arousal, the likes of which he simply couldn't (or wouldn't) control. He started rubbing her feet gently, alternating foot to foot with his free hand.

Truth be told, it wasn't unpleasant...but she wanted him to stop! She'd told him to! Why wouldn't he?

"Get off me!" The Doctor screamed, her deaf and stilted scream roaring through the cesspit. People heard. Many of the soldiers. Taylor. Even the wood-creature in the cell. Not one of them came to help. When Bart Platter had a guest, they never helped. Never.

Platter ignored her again, not even flinching at the volume of her scream. His eyes were glazed over and empty, his mouth hanging open. A bead of saliva was hanging from his lip. And on he went, totally blanking the Doctor. Rubbing her feet, gently at first, but harder and faster as time went on. He rubbed underneath her toes, grunting with pleasure.

Then, with a strange martial arts move, he dropped her legs and grabbed her bare feet, one in each hand. He held them tightly - so tightly that she still couldn't pull them away. His fingers dug painfully into them. "Can I put them in mouth?" He asked. His voice was dry and husky.

The Doctor read the words on his lips and let out a sob of terror.

"I will...just for a bit. And then, more fun..." Suddenly, he released her left foot, his free hand travelling up her leg...too far up. But before she could take advantage of his letting her go, he'd grabbed her tightly again.

The Doctor snapped. He wasn't going to let her go. He was going to put her toes in his mouth, and that was only the start...except no. He wasn't. Suddenly, the Doctor was angry. How dare he? How dare he treat her like this? As the Doctor watched her bound foot travelling up towards his face, she didn't feel scared any more. Pure rage had taken over...how dare he? How dare he?

No part of her body was going anywhere near his mouth. The Doctor couldn't pull her legs away. He was too strong. She couldn't pull backwards. But she could kick forwards. He wasn't expecting that. Quick as a flash, she kicked forwards, the toenail on her left big toe driving into his eye. He screamed, but continued to clutch her right foot - psychopaths have an astonishingly high pain threshold. The Doctor couldn't pull it away...but she could kick forwards with it. He wouldn't expect that. Her right foot hit home right in his neck. She felt the cartilage and gristle inside his neck underneath her sole, and felt even sicker. But it did the trick. Platter coughed and gagged, letting her go and clutching his neck. Heaving, he fell to the floor. All the Doctor's anger had been in those kicks.

And she didn't wait for him to recover. She leapt up, grabbed her jester's shoes from the floor, and ran.

The Doctor didn't stop running. She raced to the Tardis as fast as she could, her feet bare and her shoes in her hand. Several UNIT soldiers threw her wistful, knowing looks as she ran, so fast that she felt she was flying. She staggered from the cesspit and saw that wonderful blue shape just ahead, parked in front of the old tennis courts. Grabbing the key from her pocket, she fumbled with it, finally getting it into the lock and practically falling through the doors.

Inside, she calmed down at once. She wiped the dirt from her bare soles, feeling entirely calm and clear-minded. She popped her shoes back on. Tricky wasn't here, so she couldn't leave yet. She sat down on the seat by the console and stared into space. Then she burst into tears. She sobbed openly, clutching her damp, miserable face in her hands, weeping more than she'd wept in years. It wasn't so much what he had done that terrified her. It had been unpleasant, humiliating and scary. But that wasn't what made her cry. She'd seen it in his eyes, as that clammy hand of his had started creeping up her leg. It's not what he had done, but what she knew he would have done to her...

What had happened? It had just been a normal day! She just walked in, and he'd done that! Why? How dare he? How could he? He knew all that she'd done for this planet! All the times she'd saved it! It was only due to her that he lived at all! The world would have ended long ago, but for her...and yet he saw fit to...

She sobbed into her hands uncontrollably. But by that evening, when Tricky finally returned, the Doctor was dry eyed. She didn't tell her what had happened - she couldn't. Tricky sensed something was wrong of course. She did ask, but received no reply. She left it at that - she knew the Doctor wouldn't tell her what it was. So she went off to her room, and the Doctor simply stayed put, standing alone in the console room. She was working on autopilot. Her mind was going over the events of that afternoon. It was on a loop in her mind. Over and over again, the events played out in her brain. She wondered where Platter was now? Probably still at the base. Maybe in some pain, what with his damaged neck and eye. Angry, probably. Bitter, definetley. Ashamed? No. Not one bit. She knew that. Right now, he'd be talking and laughing as though nothing had happened.

And worst of all, she had to work with him...no way could she leave the Guardian of Febreton with him. The knowledge sent a wave of pain through her mind. How could she ever go near that guy again? But she had to! She owed it to his prisoner. The Guardian might technically have been enemy, but she wasn't leaving it there with him. Never. She couldn't have that on her conscience...she had to work with Platter to get the Guardian home securely.

Unless...no. No, she couldn't do that...that wasn't who she was. That wasn't in the name of the Doctor...


The next day, her and Tricky trundled back into the cesspit. The Doctor's hearts were thumping, and she felt sick. Tricky knew something was terribly wrong. She asked again, but received no response again. The base was fairly quiet - there was some sort of overnight mission, and half the soldiers had been deployed. Nothing the Doctor needed to be involved in. Thank goodness. She'd had enough. Enough of this era of UNIT. Enough of the 2060's...

Just as she and Tricky were approaching the cells, Tricky grabbed the Doctor by the arm. Voices, she transmitted. In the cell block. Taylor and someone else.

That someone else, the Doctor reckoned, was Platter...suddenly, she couldn't. She couldn't do it. No chance...Tricky could deal with the Guardian...she couldn't face that animal again. She was just about to say as much, but then Tricky transmitted another thought, they're really arguing in there!

Let's listen, the Doctor replied at once. Suppose, just suppose, something was said...something she could use against Platter...just suppose? It was worth a listen. So, using their little spy-setup, the Doctor peeped through the door of the cellblock. Her stomach churned as she saw Bart Platter in there, dressed exactly as he had been yesterday. John Taylor was with him. Two mad men, one stocky, one skinny, having a full blown row. She could see who was speaking, and Tricky could hear it, and transmit what was said to the Doctor. So, just like when she'd caught Taylor hurting that young soldier a while back, the Doctor got the full conversation.

"I've said sorry, Bart!" Taylor was shouting, "And I am, right? But I gotta turn you in...I just gotta."

Platter said something very upsetting, spitting on the floor at Taylor's feet. "You knew! You knew about my past, Johnny boy! You chose me. You turn me in, you'll go down with me."

"But I won't Bart. It's that simple...I'll just say I didn't know...you can't prove otherwise."

"You're name will still be mud," Bart said furiously, "for the fact ya took me on at all...look - I understand I can't stay, right? They've found me. I gotta go, I know that. You'll do better to let me run."

"I can't," Taylor said angrily in response. "If you get away, I'm done...out of UNIT, out of a career. Don't you get that?"

"And don't you get that they'll kill me?"

"I know...and I've said I'm sorry. But you can't leave. My orders were clear - hold you here. If I let you go, I'm finished."

Then, to the Doctor's surprise, Platter smiled. It was that same wet, toothless smile that he'd had yesterday. She shuddered.

"Sorry, then." Bart Platter said, "it's come to this - you stop me running, and I'll tell 'em about your little collection..."

Taylor stiffened up, his eyes darkening. "What?"

"Well you heard. What? You think I didn't know? Yeah...go on then, detain me. Lock me up in one of these cells. I won't stop ya. But you do that, I'll die and you'll be sent to jail. Ooooooorrrr... you just let me outta this room. I'll run. You won't see me again. Even if you did lose your job...it's better than your freedom, what? Pick. One of us dead, the other in jail...or simply both of us out of a job? Which is better?"

Taylor said nothing. He simply stood there, still as a statue. Then, his fist shot out, catching Platter directly in the mouth. Platter spun to the ground, and spat a mouthful of his blood out. But then he stood back up, smiling as though nothing had happened. His eyes were cloudy and distant.

"But then...I might not tell if you were very nice to me..." To the Doctor's disgust, Platter grabbed his own crotch with both hands, a contorted, animalistic look on his face. "Not if you were very, very nice to me...what say you? You want to hand me over? That'll buy my silence if so..."

Taylor hit him again, grabbing him by the shoulders and pressing him against the wall, holding his arms behind his back. Platter didn't fight back.

"Just get lost..." he said weakly, "get away from this place, and never come back."

"A wise choice," Platter said, grinning broadly. "Get you gone, Johnny boy - to your office. By the time you leave it next, I'll be well away. I might try the east...China, maybe? Or Singapore? What d'you think?"

Taylor didn't reply. He swept from the room, walking quickly. Too quickly. He opened the door on the Doctor and Tricky before they had the chance to hide. He jumped as he opened the door on the pair of them. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. They were always spying on him! How much had they heard this time? Well...nothing that endangered him. Thankfully, Platter hadn't elaborated further about his "little collection."

"What the blazes do you want?" He snapped.

"The Guardian of Febreton," Tricky snapped in reply, "we're taking it home. Get it saddled up."

"Ask him to do it," Taylor said, pointing back into the jail cells. With that, he walked away down the corridor. The Doctor thought she saw a tear in his eye...but she wasn't sure.

Tricky went straight down into the cell - she had no idea what Platter had done yesterday. She knew the Doctor was upset...but she had no idea it was down to what he did (and what he nearly did).

"Oi," she said, "fugitive guy...before you run for it, wanna get that thing safely in the Tardis?"

The Doctor walked in behind Trickly, feeling lightheaded and jumpy. There was Platter...standing mere yards from her. His eyes met her's. She saw it - contempt. Not a single shred of remorse. Only smug, satisfied contempt.

"Hello, ladies!" He said brightly, pulling a lighter from his pocket and lighting up. "Here for that?" He nodded towards the cell containing the Guardian of Febreton. There it was - a massive, grand giant made of wood. It's claws were like swords, it's wooden muscles bulging. It looked at Platter's lit cigarette, fear etched on it's face.

"Yeah," the Doctor muttered, staring at the space behind Platter's head.

"Well, little miss twinkle-toes..." he smirked. "I'm afraid I'm off. As I think you overheard...or rather, as I think your buddy overheard...I'm in a spot of bother. The Feds - Americans, I mean...they're onto me. Found me, so they have. I'm off."

"Yeah, first things first, can't you just help us?" Tricky said, signing as well, "I'm sure the Doc would offer you a lift if you do...gives you a better chance of getting away."

"No," the Doctor said, "never."

Platter burst into laughter, and shrugged. "I don't blame you," he said, his cigarette hanging from his lips, "and even if you would have, I'd say no. I think my way is best. Look." He reached into his pocket and brought out a small glass bottle of some white liquid...there was some sort of fabric fuse stuffed into the top of the bottle. A firebomb.

"Keep it with me at all times," he said softly. "Always prepared. I'm leaving, see. But I don't want witnesses...oh, but...if only I had some sort of big thing on which to start the fire...something large...something that burns well..."

He rounded on the Guardian of Febreton, which sat helpless in it's cell. It whimpered in terror.

"But you can't..." Tricky said, "you heard Taylor! He's letting you go!"

"And he hit me," Platter said. "Trust me ladies, this place will burn up well. Lot's of flammables, especially upstairs in the science labs...you'll have time. Leave with me. But Taylor sure won't get out. Do you care?"

The Doctor watched Tricky's translation, and stepped forwards, looking up at the monster - Platter. Not the Guardian.

"Your not," she mumbled, "I'll stop you." The anger from yesterday was building up inside of her...

"Will you? Who knows? Another round like yesterday, and I might reconsider?"

Enough. Enough. The Doctor's little fantasy from yesterday suddenly wasn't just a fantasy. It was the only course of action left. She pulled the sonic screwdriver from her pocket and, ignoring Tricky's scream of horror, opened the Guardian of Febreton's cage.

"What are you doing?" Platter screamed, losing his cool and fumbling for his lighter. But the Guardian of Febreton was too quick. It crashed from it's open cage. Tricky grabbed the Doctor and pulled her away from it. But it had zero interest in the Doctor. It grabbed Platter and lifted him bodily from the floor, one arm wrapped round his neck, the other around his waist, hemming his arms tightly by his side.

"No!" Platter screamed. "Get it off! I'm sorry...I'll go! Just get it off me!"

The Guardian rounded on the two tiny women, standing far, far below it. "You've freed me. I won't kill you. Just take me home, and I'll spare this," it said, in a deep, harsh voice. It hadn't said a word until now. That was tradition among the Guardians of Febreton. Total silence when captured, whatever the cost.

The anger that the Doctor had felt since yesterday was burning through her. Pure, fiery rage, scorching through her veins, boiling inside her brain...she thought of what he'd done to her. She thought of what he was about to do just now...she thought of those lifeless, dreamy eyes. That wet smile that showed no teeth...she thought of his clammy, grey hands, wrapped tightly around her feet whilst she screamed at him to let her go. She thought of herself crying, along in her Tardis. Her! He'd done it to her!

This anger, this uncontrollable, sheer rage, is what made her sign these words; we're taking you home regardless. You might as well kill him. Do it. If you want."

Tricky stared at her. "Doctor..." she said in disbelief.

"Tell him," the Doctor said firmly.

Tricky rounded on the Guardian and Platter. Not looking Platter in the eye, she murmured, "she says she'll take you home whatever you do. She doesn't care."

"No!" Platter cried, as the Guardian of Febreton chuckled softly, "your the Doctor! You wouldn't let it! You wouldn't!"

Tricky translated Platter's last words, and the Doctor shrugged. "You didn't treat me like the Doctor." She said simply. "So for you, I'm not."

The Guardian of Febreton plunged one of it's claws into Platter's leg. Right through it. It burst out the other end. Platter screamed. "No! You can't! You can't watch someone die! You ain't capable..." Platter screamed again, as the Guardian cut a huge gash in his torso, blood seeping into his dirty t-shirt.

"Correct," the Doctor said. She couldn't bear to see or hear someone dying in agony, no matter what they'd done.

So she turned around. She couldn't see Platter die. And she couldn't hear it either.

Tricky could. She turned around too, but grimaced as she heard the sound of Platter's leg being cleanly ripped off. She heard it fall to the floor. She heard a hideous ripping noise as he was pulled apart, limb from limb. Just like the butterflies that Platter himself used to pull apart as a young boy.

Platter took a long time. The Guardian was enjoying itself - the man had threatened to burn him. He had it coming. Five minutes later, and in sheer agony, the ruined mass of butchered flesh took it's last breath as the head came off the torso. "For Febreton." It growled.

It's done, Tricky transmitted to the Doctor. Oh, how she despised the Thirtieth Doctor right now! Making her listen to that.

Tell it to follow. The Doctor said. And without looking round, she marched from the cellblock, Tricky close behind. The Guardian of Febreton lumbered after them.

Platter was right about one thing - he said he'd be gone by the time Taylor looked again. All that Taylor found that evening was a pile of mangled, scarlet human debris.


Did he deserve it? Did he not? Was the Doctor right? Was she wrong? No doubt everyone has their own opinions there.

But the Doctor calmed down eventually. And when she did, those questions began to haunt her.

They're still haunting her now, long after the emotional turmoil finally proved too much, and drove her into retirement. She just couldn't carry on. Nothing she saw was wonderful anymore. Nothing amazed or inspired her. It was all Bart Platter. Everywhere she went, everything she did, he was there on her mind. What he'd done, and whether or not she was right to allow his torture and death...

It's still haunting her now, long after retirement. Why do you think she's passing the fate of Thomasina Wrench into Clara's hands? Because she can't make that choice again. It will ruin her if she has to.