A/N Hello! So here's a fun story: I've been interviewing for jobs recently (PSA: Don't graduate. Stay in school forever if you can. The real world is a scary, scary place) which is why I haven't been able to update in a while, and for some reason…I may have let slip…during in interview…that I write fanfiction…for fun. To a possible employer. Who then asked me what my current story was about…

"Well, sir, it's about torture, slavery, and death, with just a little bit of non-con for seasoning. Good wholesome family fun. Please hire me for this very serious marketing position at your very serious company. Thank you and good day."

SO, basically, I was too mortified to write for a while…but for some reason I still got the job! Let's celebrate by beating up the Doctor some more!

Chapter 54:

When the Doctor woke again, it was night time. He was lying on his back on the rocky ground, staring up at the cloudless starry sky. It was as if the storm had never happened. He couldn't even hear the roar of the river that had so nearly been his grave. Instead there was just the soothing sound of night creatures chirping away into the evening and the steady rustle of wind through the nearby trees. Maybe it was true. Maybe nothing had happened.

The constant ache throughout his body told him otherwise. His head still pounded – though considerably less than before – and his right leg, from ankle to hip, was a horrible bruised mess. Sharp zaps of pain shot up his spine as he tried to move, but the Doctor could still feel his toes move when he willed them to, so at least there was no significant nerve damage. Quite a large miracle. He would have to celebrate later.

The stars stared down on him and the Doctor stared back. It had been hours since he'd fallen into the healing coma. Hours of horrifying vulnerability…and no one had found him. No snatchers, no Seven, no Eight. And no Six. Friend or foe, the Doctor couldn't help but feel a rush of startled relief. At least now he wouldn't have to worry about whether or not to end Six on his own terms while they were still allies. No matter how many times he'd told himself it had to be done, the Doctor didn't think he would have been able to perform that level of treachery, not after everything Six had done for him and vice versa.

Forcing those morbid thoughts from his head, the Doctor slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. The world spun and reeled dangerously and for a moment the Doctor thought he would be sick again. With nothing to throw up, his stomach finally settled long enough for the planet to stop tipping on its axis. Taking several deep breathes, the Doctor prepared himself for the inevitable wave of agony and forced himself to his knees. As expected, blinding pain washed over him, but his leg would hold his weight, which was good enough for him. He allowed himself another moment to revel in the pain before using one of the nearby boulders to pull himself back onto his feet.

No snarky words of encouragement came to mind as the Doctor breathed slowly in and out through his nose. No cheeky jabs at the monsters who put him in this situation teetered on his tongue as the he bent down to grab the discarded branch he'd use to reset his hip earlier that day. Nothing except 'You need to move. You need to go. You need to walk.' played through his brainas he clutched one end of the branch in both hands, dug the other into the ground about a foot in front of him, and took his first cautious, stumbling step. The muscles of his right leg didn't feel like responding, instead screaming in resistance, but eventually they shuddered into movement. The pain was horrible, but not bad enough to make him stop. He was too vulnerable under the starlit sky. The Doctor couldn't believe he had allowed himself to fall into a coma in such an exposed area – not that he'd had much choice in the matter. But now he did and he had to keep moving.

He threw one last glance towards the water and felt a shudder run through him that had nothing to do with pain. The river was quite now, running lazily beneath the light of the three moons above, but the Doctor could still hear it, could still feel the pressure of it in his ears, feel it barraging his body, taste it sliding down this throat and –

The Doctor flinched. He had to get moving.

One foot in front of the other. Left foot, then the stick, then lurch forward with the right. Left foot, then the stick, then lurch forward with the right. It was slow going, but eventually the Doctor made it to the tree line. No stopping now. The Doctor wasn't sure he'd be able to get going again if he did. Left foot, then the stick, then lurch forward with the right.

You need to move. Left foot, then the stick, then lurch forward with the right.

You need to go. Left foot, then the stick, then lurch forward with the right.

You need to walk. Left foot, then the stick, then lurch forward with the right.

He kept the mantra going as the trees became thicker and the canopy above heavier. Something inherent told him he was going the wrong direction, but it didn't matter at the moment. He could get his bearings in the morning when the sun was out and his body had a few more hours to recover. For now he needed to find shelter. He scanned the underbrush for a suitable place to hide as he walked. Climbing a tree and getting off the ground was definitely out of the question, so he had no other choice than to find something on the forest floor.

Half an hour passed. Sweat had formed along the Doctor brow from the effort of simply moving, damping his shirt once more. It was somehow stiff and sticky all at the same time.

An hour passed and the Doctor suddenly realized he'd stopped looking for a place to hide. His vision had tunneled, making the edges blurry and dark. The Doctor hadn't even noticed the clearing he'd stumbled into. The mantra had become deafening in his own mind until it was all he could think about. Spotting a fallen log off to the north side of the glade, the Doctor made his way over to it and collapsed, letting exhaustion pull his body down. The stick fell limply from his shaking hands.

"Well…this sucks."

It was the most obvious statement he'd ever made, and for some reason that caused the Doctor to start laughing. The chuckling hurt the ribs healing in his chest, but somehow the action made him feel lighter, almost giddy. Not pain-free, but as if the pain belonged to someone else – someone distantly connected to him, but someone else nonetheless. He leaned forward so he could rest his elbows on his knees, creating an uncomfortable angle through his bruised torso, but the near silent laughter that gripped him now was nearly too much and almost caused him to over balance off the back of the log.

It was all just so….stupid. The trials, the slavery, the fighting for his worthless life, the fact that this whole debacle started because the Doctor just had to make a comment about some overly-sensitive native Drepheshie's ridiculous hat. If the Doctor had just been able to keep his trap shut once, he and Rose would be back safely in the TARDIS, gallivanting off to who knew where next, laughing at the absurdity of their actions together. But now Rose wasn't here to laugh with him. In fact, she'd probably be mortified if she was watching him now, and for some reason that only made the Doctor laugh even harder. Now at last she could see him for the Time Lord he truly was – cowardly, idealistic, insane.

It was…it was almost a relief. No more lying, no more pretending to be something he wasn't, distracting everyone with cheeky one-liners and technological gibberish even he knew didn't make any sense. Now Rose could realize it on her own, and therefore his death wouldn't mean as much to her anymore. Which was a huge comfort since, considering the Doctor had been being followed for the last fifteen minutes, his death sure seemed pretty imminent.

"You can come out, you know." The Doctor managed to call out over his giggles. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to play with your food?"

The Doctor didn't even see her coming. No sooner had the words left his lips then he felt a hand clamp down around his throat, a body pressed close against his back. He took an involuntary gasp of air, hearts leaping at the sudden touch, and was amazed to realize he had the energy to be surprised after all.

"Oh, what this?" A horrible, silky voice cooed into his ear. "Have you grown tired of our game so soon, little mouse?"

"The cat and mouse analogy? Really? Rassilon, if you're going to kill me you could at least be creative with the foreplay –" The Doctor cut himself off as sharp nails raked against his vulnerable neck. Instinctively, the Doctor tilted his head away from the pressure, trying to alleviate the threat but only succeeding in presenting his throat even more to Eight's vile teeth.

"Kill you! Now whatever gave you that idea?"

The Doctor couldn't help it – he started laughing again. "I don't know…might have been the hand around my throat. Or the razor sharp teeth hovering just above my vein. Or the fact that I overheard you torturing Eleven while trying to hunt me down. Pretty incriminating if you ask me."

"Well, you can rest assured that I don't want to kill you." As if to counter her own words, Eight gently pressed her teeth against his neck, not hard enough to break skin but enough to send a shudder through the Doctor's shattered body. "I just want to hurt you a lot." She said it almost soothingly, voice sultry like a lover trying to entice her mate. "Taste you on my lips. I just want to make you bleed. Make you break."

"Yeah, well, you're a bit too late for that last one, so you might as well get it over with." The Doctor was stunned by the lack of emotion in his own voice. It was as if it didn't matter to him at all – it really didn't – whether he lived or died right then and there, sitting on a log in the middle of some foreign forest, alone and defeated. The last Time Lord, beaten by an overused Hollywood stereotype.

Eight made a disappointed sound. "But that's no fun." Grabbing the Doctor by the collar of his shirt, Eight threw him bodily away from her. The Doctor fell into the dirt, a cry of pain escaping him. He'd landed on his right side.

Eight stalked towards him from around the log, a ravenous glint in her eyes, impossibly sharp teeth glistening in the moonlight as she smiled. The Doctor forced himself not to scamper backwards, crushing the instinct to get as far away as he possibly could from a threat. "I want you to put up a fight." Eight spoke beseechingly. "I promised my master you'd have a slow, agonizing last night in this universe, but you have to help me out, pretty boy."

"Why does everyone keep calling me 'pretty boy'?" The Doctor sneered. "No, wait, more importantly: why does you master want me dead?"

Eight groaned loudly as she towered over his prone form. "Aren't you listening? I thought you were supposed to be clever. Master doesn't want you dead, he wants you in agony." She swung a kick at his side, but even as worn out as he was the Doctor was still fast. He rolled out of the way, propelling himself back towards the log while ignoring the fiery blasts even the tiniest bit of movement sent shooting through his body.

"But why?" The Doctor found himself asking again. How easy it was to fall into familiar patterns, trying to get the enemy talking instead of acting. What was the point of it? He was already in pain, what was a little more? "Who's your master? Why does he want me in agony?"

"You think I ask those types of questions? I was trained at Eyal, too, you know. Questioning your master – not really the company's policy, is it?" Eight grabbed the Doctor once again by the lapels of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. "Now fight me." She practically purred. "I want to see if you taste as sweet as that silly little cat."

Eight shoved him backward. The back of the Doctor's calves stuck the log hard enough to bruise and he felt his body reel dangerously off balance. With footwork faster than he thought himself capable of the Doctor managed to leap over the fallen trunk, barely managing to keep his stability.

"You killed Six."

"You're awfully fascinated with death." Eight chuckled. "No, I didn't kill her either. I just helped the little kitty along her way. You always want your prey alive when you're feeding, after all. Keep it twitching until the last second. Makes the taste stronger, richer – all that blood pulsing rapid-fire through panicked veins. Mmm…" Eight licked her lips obscenely, tongue running along the edge of her barbed teeth. "Delicious."

The Doctor's face twisted with horror. "That's disgusting."

Eight's face twisted with mirth. "That's your future."

Suddenly, laying down and accepting his fate didn't sound so appealing. Defiance sung through his bones, an achingly familiar tune that churned like fire in his gut. "No." The Doctor growled as he slowly skirted around the log towards the edge of the clearing. Eight mirrored his steps, black eyes flickering with excitement as her prey finally began to play along. The Doctor's toe caught on the edge of his walking stick and he froze. "No, it's no. I may not be able to see the future, but I can feel it. It's spinning just as surely as this planet, one thread at a time, and though I might not be able to tell whether I'm part of that web or not, I can tell you one thing for damnsure: The future is my realm. Time is my playground. And you do not get to tell me what my future holds."

"Passionate speech." Eight jibed back. "Is your plan of attack to monologue me to death?"

"No. That was just the distraction."

The Doctor jerked his foot up, sending the walking stick flying into the air. He caught it with ease and lunged forward, driving the blunt end of the staff forcefully into Eight's chest. Eight stumbled backwards with a surprised "ooof!" and clutched at her chest. The Doctor leapt closer and spun around fast as a top, swinging the stick for momentum before sticking out towards the alien's side. Eight dropped into a roll, narrowly avoiding the hit, and the Doctor surged after her, aiming a blow straight for her head while she was still prone on the floor. Eight caught the end of the stick at the last minute and jerked hard. Unwilling to release his only weapon, the Doctor careened forward, driven by the impossibly strong strength of the pull. He did a somersault over Eight's body and used the propulsion as leverage to wrench the stick out from between Eight's strong grasp.

Everything was going perfectly until the Doctor's back hit the ground. Pain exploded through his body, ricocheting through every nerve and causing him to cry out in anguish. His right leg was bent awkwardly beneath him and all oxygen seemed to simply vanish from his lungs with the force of the fall. Knowing he needed to keep moving – Keep going. Keep walking. – the Time Lord pushing himself onto one knee just in time to block a slash of deadly nails aimed for his throat. So much for no killing. He swung the stick over his head and felt it collide with something behind him. Something heavy and rock hard that had definitely not been there before.

The knowledge had barely even registered before that something clamped down on his neck. Cold, unyielding stone wrapped around his throat and lifted him off the ground, immediately cutting off all air. Panic gripped the Doctor. He knew it wasn't real, but he could feel water sliding down his throat, filling his lungs and setting them on fire. Suffocating was far too similar to drowning.

"Oh, come one now, the fun was just getting started!" Eight whined like a loomling. "I had him entirely."

"What, and let you take all the joy?" An earthquake responded against the Doctor's back. He could feel the vibrations of the words echo through his body. He'd forgotten about Number Seven. How could he be so stupid?

The stick fell to the ground with a thud as the Doctor's fingers desperately tried to pry the hand off his throat. It was like trying to dislodge a boulder with a twig. The attempt was so pathetic even Rocky started laughing. What a horrible, horrible sound.

"You…..cheated." The Doctor barely managed to wheeze.

Eight only shrugged. "Oh well, what's done is done. You're a lousy fight anyway. If I may?" She motioned towards Rocky, who instantly moved his hand away from the Doctor's throat to hold him by the shoulders. The Doctor gasped for breath, air rattling back into his abused lungs, but he didn't get to enjoy it long. Looking far too excited, Eight grabbed him by the chin, forcibly tipping his head to the side, and plunged her teeth into the Doctor's neck.

"AHHHHHHHHH!"

It BURNED! Like fire racing through his veins, more painful than anything he'd ever felt before. It set his very nerves aflame, eating through him like acid, carried through his body by the terrified pounding of his hearts. He felt Eight slurping away at the blood bubbling up along his neck, heard her hum with joy as she drank his life force and replaced it with agony beyond compare. The Doctor was sure he was thrashing violently within the two aliens' grasps, body desperate to escape the torment, but he couldn't feel anything beyond the fire and sucking and dying.

Dying. Surely he was dying. What else could this be? Eight had lied. The Doctor was going to die, and it didn't have any of the appeal he thought it would. It was hell. Eternal. Merciless. He just wanted it to stop.

And by some miracle…it did. The agony slowly ebbed away, moving from his neck down his arms and torso, through his legs, all the way to the tips of his toes and the top of his head. He felt…nothing. Nothing internal, nothing of himself. He couldn't even feel his own hearts, couldn't hear his own breathing although he gasped and cried with misery. His leg still ached, his ribs still seared, his throat still throbbed around the gaping wound – but apart from the pain that had already been present he felt nothing.

He could feel Rocky release him as Eight stepped away, wiping red-orange blood from her simpering mouth. The Doctor quickly tried to get his feet beneath him, but it was as if his legs wouldn't comply. They remained limp, dead and useless, oblivious to his commands as the Doctor fell to the ground. He collapsed face first into the dirt, arms also refusing to move to block his fall. Nothing would move. He was frozen, paralyzed.

"Mmmmmm!" He could hear Eight moaning happily above him but could not turn to see. "Oh, you taste exquisite. Mmmmm, I could suck you dry right here and now. But not yet." Something in her voice changed suddenly. It was hard, cold, no longer playful. "Take his shirt. Tie him to that tree branch."

Hands grabbed his shoulders and flipped him over. "No…" The Doctor groaned, barely able to make his tongue form sounds. It was the most resistance he could muster as Rocky yanked his shirt off over his head. He was like a rag doll, completely at his enemies' mercy. Mercy he knew they didn't have.

"Wha…what…How….?"

"I said we keep our prey alive," Eight explained condescendingly. "I never said we keep them functional."

Shirt gone, Rocky grabbed him by the hair and dragged him across the clearing towards the tree Eight had indicated. Even though he couldn't move, the Doctor still felt everything. He felt the hairs parting from his scalp, felt his broken body grazing against hard stones, felt his blood still pulsing from his neck.

"N-no….s-s-stop." The Doctor now knew why Eleven had been stuttering, why her contrachromation had been so on the fritz. He had no control of his own body – he could only watch and feel as he was lifted up and heaved against the tree's strong trunk. Rocky took all of the Doctor's weight as he lifted one of his hand and then the other, looping them over a sturdy branch above and wrapping his wrists in what was left of the Doctor's shirt. The knot was loose and sloppy, but it hardly mattered – the Doctor wasn't going anywhere. It was only to keep him upright as Eight crept up to him, still licking his blood off her chin.

"Oooh, you are skinny. And so beautifully bruised. Where should I begin?"

"W-wh-why?" The Doctor whimpered, desperate to know the reason he deserved this hell. If he was going to die, he wanted to know why. "What…wh-what did I…do?"

Eight looked surprised at that. "What did you do?" She laughed horribly. "Nothing! You didn't do anything. You were just bought by the wrong man. My master has been searching for a way to declare war on your whorehound of a master for ages. And now that the Ligtech emperor has fallen…all hail the new king." She giggled as she sliced her nails through the sensitive skin of the Doctor's underarm. Feeling each rip of flesh, the Doctor cried out, unable to stop the sound.

"At least, that's what I heard." Eight amended casually as if she wasn't sucking the Doctor's torn skin out from beneath her nails. "Like I said, I don't ask many questions. Now be a good boy, do as your trainer taught you, and hush. Mummy's busy making art."

Eight slashed and split and sliced, nails carving bleeding trails of agony across the Doctor's chest and torso. She raked her fingers from elbow to shoulder, laughing as the Doctor screamed. It hurt so, so, so much more than it should have. The Time Lord lost himself in the pain, desperately trying to convulse his way out of her reach but entirely unable to move a single muscle besides his voice. He couldn't even close his eyes. He was forced to watch as Eight signaled for Rocky to come forward, the giant mountain of an alien grinning like a horrible gorge. He was forced to watch as Rocky plowed one boulder-like fist into his sides at a time, shattering his already fragile ribs and threatening to turn his insides into mulch. He was forced to watch as Eight slithered back up to him, jagged nails digging into his already gaping injuries, as she nipped and bit at his shoulders and collar bone, sending smaller yet equally painful bolts of liquid torture through his veins.

Tears leaked unbidden down his face, throat raw from screaming, vision tunneling as all he saw was Eight laughing at him, lapping at his blood, and Rocky cracking his knuckles like a schoolyard bully. And all the while the Doctor knew this isn't my fault. For what felt like the first time in his long, tormented life, the Doctor knew he hadn't done anything to deserve this. He hadn't made some stupid comment about some overly-sensitive native Drepheshie's hat, he hadn't sparked a war with just his words, he hadn't annihilated two entire species in a desperate, impulsive act to reach unattainable peace. He hadn't done anything!

"P-p-p-please." The Doctor sobbed. Eight's nails felt like they were laced with the same venom as her teeth, searing into his skin and eating away at everything that was him. "P-please stop-p-p."

When they grew bored of his front – or maybe uninspired by the lack of unmarred skin – they twisted him painfully around in his bonds and started over on his back, Eight eagerly suggesting new patterns so the red of her gashes could merge more beautifully with the black of Rocky's bruises. The Doctor's forehead fell limply against the tree trunk.

"N-no…please…stop –"

They didn't. They continued to beat him within an inch of his life and the Doctor couldn't help but reach out desperately for that illusive respite. How quickly he'd gone from courting death to desperately evading it to begging for it once again. If his voice could be used for anything besides screaming, he would have asked. Would have pleaded for it. Only death could make this better. Only death could save him now.

It was hours, ages, centuries before some other noise besides his shrieking and Eight's laughing and Rocky's grumbling suddenly broke the air. A heavy, repetitive pounding split the sudden silence of the clearing. Blinding lights flooded the Doctor's eyes – thank Rassilon he was still facing the trunk of the tree, unable to close his eyes against the horrific onslaught. Eight hissed, pulling her teeth out of the Doctor's spine between his shoulder blades in surprise.

"Klovk!" Rocky cursed loudly. "Snatchers! We have to go!" The Doctor heard Eight whine and felt her sink her teeth more desperately into his shoulder. The Doctor couldn't scream anymore. "LEAVE HIM! Get out!"

Eight's teeth suddenly ripped out of his skin more forcefully than ever before. "Don't touch me!" Eight roared. "He's almost done."

The thudding, whirling noise was even louder, the light even brighter. "They'll finish him, you've done your job! I'm not getting snatched over this pathetic excuse for a player!"

"Fine." Eight sneered. She leaned against the Doctor's mutilated back, teeth snapping at the broken Time Lord's ear in a final farewell. "It has been a pleasure, pretty boy. My master's sends his regards."

And with that they were gone. The Doctor could dimly hear the snatcher ship getting closer even as a horribly familiar rushing sound filled his ears. It was water gushing over stones. It was air leaving his lungs. He smiled as the noise became too deafening, as the snatcher's propellers silenced and the thud of machinery striking soil reverberated through the clearing. He could barely hear the shouting in his ear, could hardly feel the hands – painless, careful hands – clutching at his ruined arms. The Doctor couldn't bring himself to be concerned, knowing there was nothing he could do to harm anyone else anymore. Praying Jancon would stay true to his word, activate the virus in his chip, and end it all.

TBC