Time Lords of Gallifrey, Daleks of Skaro, I serve notice on you all. Too long I have stayed my hand. No more. Today you leave me no choice. Today, this war will end. No more. No more...
The Warrior secured the door of the barn behind him and set the burlap sack down on the dusty, hay-strewn ground. He untied it and pulled out the Moment.
It was beautifully crafted, for a weapon. It was a large cube, heavy, wooden on the edges, but its sides were made of shiny brass gears. Steampunk, one of his friends from Earth would've said.
He cautiously pushed on one of the large gears on top. It turned ten degrees, but didn't do anything other than that. "Now...how do you work?" he murmured, turning it over and over, to look on every side for some sort of distinguishing mark. "Why is there never a big red button?" he sighed.
Suddenly, the Warrior heard the pitter-patter of feet, running through the sand and dried grass outside. He left the box sitting in the middle of the floor to check the door. He peeked outside, but saw nothing but miles of desert.
"It's nothing," said a voice.
The Warrior whipped around.
There was a woman sitting on the Moment. "It's just a Wolf," she whispered in a lilting Scottish accent.
"Don't sit on that!" the Warrior exclaimed.
"Why not?" asked the woman childishly, blinking her big blue eyes at him as he pulled her to her feet.
"Because it's not a chair, it's the most dangerous weapon in the universe!" The Warrior pushed the woman outside, but when he turned back around, the woman had reappeared atop the box.
"Why can't it be both?" said the woman, smiling at him playfully.
The Warrior looked at the door of the barn, then back at the woman, spooked.
"Why did you park so far away?" the woman asked, crossing her legs. She was wearing ragged tan clothing, and had messy dark brown waves of hair cascading from her head to her shoulders and down her back. She leaned forward and asked, in a coy voice, "Didn't you want her to see it?"
"Want who to see?" the Warrior asked.
"The TAAAAARDIS," whispered the woman, wrinkling her triangular nose at him. "You walked for miles!" she chirped, hopping up from her seat. "And miles and miles and miles and miles-"
"I was thinking," the Warrior said defensively.
"I heard you," the woman whispered.
The Warrior blinked at her. "You heard me?"
The woman puckered her mouth, scrunched her brow, and said in a low gruff voice: "No more...no more!"
"No more," whispered the Warrior to himself.
"No more, no more!" the woman cried in escalatingly silly ways.
"Stop it!" the Warrior snapped.
"Nomore."
"Who are you?" the Warrior said suspiciously, but suddenly the box's outer workings began to croak to life. "It's activating. Get out of here," the Warrior said, taking a tentative step toward the Moment. He reached out to touch it and-
"Ow!" The Warrior jerked his hand away.
"What's wrong?" the mysterious woman asked.
"The interface is hot!"
"Well, I do my best," said the woman, batting her eyelashes.
"There's a power source inside..." Suddenly the Warrior turned and looked at her. "You're the interface?"
"They must have told you the Moment had a conscience." The woman waved in a cutesy manner. "Hello, Theta."
The Warrior blanched at that name.
"Oh, look at you. Stuck between a girl and a box." The Moment clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "Story of your life, eh, Doctor?"
"You know me?"
"I hear you," the Moment murmured, her blue eyes piercing right into his soul. "All of you, jangling around in that dusty old head of yours. I chose this face and form especially for you. It's from your past...or possibly your future. I always get those two mixed up."
"I don't have a future," the Warrior said gravely.
"I think I'm called...Sam Tyler. No, that's not the one. Harold Saxon? No, that's not it either. It's a different face...well, nevertheless. In this form, I'm called...Bad Wolf."
Suddenly the Moment's eyes glowed.
"Are you afraid of the big bad wolf, Doctor?" she said in a foreboding whisper.
"Stop calling me Doctor."
"That's the name in your head."
"It shouldn't be," the Warrior insisted. "I've been fighting this war for a long time. I've lost the right to be the Doctor."
The Moment sighed. "Then you're the one to save us all."
"Yes."
"If I ever develop an ego, you've got the job."
"If you have been inside my head, then you know what I've seen. The suffering. Every moment in time and space is burning. It must end, and I intend to end it the only way I can."
"And you're going to use me to end it by killing them all, Daleks and Time Lords alike," the Moment said. "I could, but there will be consequences for you."
"I have no desire to survive this," said the Warrior.
"Then that's your punishment," declared the Moment. "If you do this, if you kill them all, then that's the consequence. You live. Gallifrey. You're going to burn it, and all those Daleks with it, but all those children too. How many children on Gallifrey right now?"
"I don't know," the Warrior said wearily.
"One day you will count them. One terrible night." The Moment smiled impishly. "Do you want to see what that will turn you into?" She shook his arm gently. "Come on, aren't you curious?"
Suddenly a portal opened above them, spinning like a tiny cyclone.
"I'm opening windows on your future," the Moment said. "A tangle in time through the days to come, to the man today will make of you..."
Suddenly something dropped out of the portal and fell on the dusty ground—a small, cylindrical red hat made of felt. A fez.
"Okay...I wasn't expecting that," the Moment muttered.
"Hello, hello, Gallifrey High Command! This is the Doctor speaking," he shouted into the comms system.
"Hello! Also the Doctor, can you hear me?" asked his past incarnation.
"Also the Doctor," the Warrior chimed in gravely. "Standing ready."
"Dear God, three of them," said the General, groaning. "All my worst nightmares at once."
"General," said the tenth. "We have a plan."
"We should point at this moment, it is a fairly terrible plan," added the eleventh.
"And almost certainly won't work," added the tenth.
"I was happy with 'fairly terrible'," scowled the eleventh.
"Sorry, just...thinking out loud."
The eleventh continued. "We're flying our three TARDISes into your lower atmosphere."
"We're positioned at equidistant intervals around the globe," the tenth explained, then added to himself, "'Equidistant', so grown up."
"We're just about ready to do it," the warrior announced.
"Ready to do what?"
But before the General's question could be answered, their TARDISes all sounded off their cloister bells, signaling danger.
The eleventh checked his monitor. "Temporal collision! Incoming!"
"It must be another TARDIS," said the warrior. "Perhaps one of our other selves showing up early to the party?"
"Well that would sort of ruin the dramatic buildup," the eleventh muttered, rubbing his notable chin. "Not quite my style."
"No, no, this is different, something wrong," said the tenth, running diagnostics. "It's like the TARDIS has been inverted somehow-"
Another channel of communication opened, and a man with hazel eyes and light brown hair, in a black suit, appeared. He looked over the screen, then his eyes narrowed when they focused on the tenth Doctor. "What in the name of Omega does your infernal machine think it's doing, Doctor?" he spat.
The eleventh grew very quiet.
The tenth swallowed. "Sam?" he asked with weak hope.
The man laughed coldly. "Sorry to disappoint you, lover boy. But it's all me."
"Who is this man?" inquired the warrior.
"I could ask you the same thing, Gramps," scoffed the Master.
The warrior stood erect. "I am the Doctor."
"Oh great, another one." The Master looked at the eleventh. "And I suppose you are too? Which one are you? Bow tie, are you the second?"
He licked his lips. "Eleventh, actually."
"Oh, yes, that's right, your second was shorter. Three Stooges haircut. And you?" The Master turned back to the War Doctor. "Number twelve, I suppose."
"I'm number nine," answered the warrior.
"Whoa, hang about. Something's amiss here. Northern accent and leather jacket was number nine."
"Yeah, he's sort of an...in between, you might say. More of an 8.5," the tenth said, his voice wobbly.
"Oh, hold on. Wait a minute. Between Eight and Nine?" The Master slowly grinned. "Oh, that is rich. A secret Doctor. What's the matter, old friend, too ashamed of what you did, so you had to go and hide yourself away, oh, that is so typical of you, Doctor, brushing the blame away from yourself. Self-righteous bastard."
"Enough!" snapped the eleventh. "Look, we've enough to deal with here without you interfering. How did you even get here, anyway?"
The Master seemed puzzled. "Well I'd finished converting your—I'm not spoiling anything important, am I? Hate for future you to go ruining my excellent plan."
"Doesn't matter, already did," said the tenth Doctor impatiently. "He hijacked my TARDIS and converted it into a paradox machine. Which makes sense why he would show up here. The paradox machine sensed a major event it was directly involved in and came running to join its past and future selves. Reinforces the three of us being all together at the same point in time and protects the events from becoming undone."
"Wait a minute," said the Warrior. "What did you say that crackpot's done with my ship?!"
"Look, it's fine, he can help by being here. The more TARDISes, the better," said the Eleventh Doctor.
"Would someone please explain to me what this is all about?!" shouted the General.
"We're going to freeze Gallifrey," said the Eleventh.
The Master looked at him bewildered. "Say that again?"
"Using our TARDISes," explained the Tenth, "we're going to freeze Gallifrey in a single moment of time."
"You know, like those stasis cubes?" added the Warrior. "A single moment in time, held in a parallel pocket universe."
"Except we're going to do it to a whole planet," said the Eleventh.
"And all the people on it," finished the Tenth.
The Master stared from Doctor to Doctor. "I knew it," he said. "I knew someday it'd happen. You've finally gone madder than me."
"I hate to agree with the Master," said the General, "but even if that were possible, which it isn't...why would you do such a thing?"
"Because the alternative is burning," said the Eleventh.
"And I've seen that," said the Tenth.
"And I never want to see it again."
"We would be lost in another universe...frozen in a single moment. We'd have nothing," whispered the General.
"You would have hope!" said the Eleventh. "And right now that is exactly what you don't have!"
"It's delusional!" argued the General. "Why, the calculations alone would take...hundreds of years!"
"Oh, hundreds and hundreds!" agreed the Eleventh.
"But don't worry," said the Tenth. "I started a very long time ago."
Suddenly, a new voice broke in. "Warning the War Council of Gallifrey...this is the Doctor!" The voice was antique, but nonetheless familiar. A wizened old man with long white hair, in a TARDIS of his own, joined them onscreen.
The Master's mouth fell open. He'd know Theta's voice anywhere. "I don't believe it," he murmured.
The Eleventh Doctor grinned at his old acquaintance's surprise. "You might say I've been doing this all my lives!"
"Oh, oh, hang on!" The Master typed in something in the Doctor's TARDIS. "There!" he proclaimed.
The Tenth Doctor looked suspicious. "What did you just do?"
The Master grinned devilishly. "Called up my other selves, of course. What, you seriously thought I'd leave the fate of Gallifrey in your hands? Hardly."
Along with all the wooden blue boxes encircling the planet, a handsome red brick chimney whizzed forward. From inside, Koschei II, stroking his greying whiskers, mumbled, "I can't believe I'm doing this."
"Good luck," called the Second Doctor.
"Hardly need it, Doctor," the War Chief sneered teasingly.
"Stand by," said the Third Doctor.
"Just try not to get in my way," answered the Twelfth Master smugly, the one who smoked cigars and habitually wore Nehru suits.
"Ready?" asked the Fourth Doctor.
The charred, molting remains of the Thirteenth Master chuckled hoarsely. "As I'll ever be, old friend."
"Commencing calculations..." muttered the Eighth Doctor.
"Care sharing those figures, Doctor?" another Master scoffed. This one was bald, in a light grey morning suit.
"Soon be there!" exclaimed the Fifth Doctor optimistically.
"Across the boundaries that divide one universe from another!" said the Seventh Doctor, throwing switches.
The ginger Master wearing the (inexplicable) tie bearing the Union Jack rolled his eyes and tutted. "Always with the dramatics."
The Sixth Doctor was punching buttons frantically. "Just got to lock onto his coordinates..."
The Trakenite Master, dressed head to toe in black velvet, chuckled deeply at him. "Do try to keep up, Doctor, sometime this century if you don't mind," he teased.
The Ninth Doctor, grinning ear to big ear, pulled down a lever. "And for my next trick!..."
Every facet the Doctor and the Master had ever had made an appearance. The General watched the holo-screens in mock horror. "I didn't know when I was well off," he remarked to Androgar, his second-in-command. "All...twenty five of them!"
"No sir!" negated Androgar as yet another communique was established. "All twenty seven!"
On the screen, a pair of bulging blue eyes accompanied by a set of intense grey eyebrows had appeared, scowling fiercely.
On the opposite side of the orange planet—strangely enough—an umbrella stand had breezed onto the scene. Inside, dainty fingers, with long, carefully manicured dark red nails, caressed the controls. A pair of ruby lips smiled.
Back inside the War Room, the patrons had to hold on for dear life as the entire planet shook. "Sir!" exclaimed Androgar. "The Daleks know that something is happening. They're increasing their firepower!"
The lights flickered as the structure rumbled again. The General swallowed hard. This war was coming to a head. Gallifrey would be torn apart, and then—who could stop the Daleks then?
"Do it, Doctor," the General heard himself say. "Just do it...do it!"
The Eleventh Doctor nodded. "Okay. We're ready." He looked at the Master on the screen. "And Master...thank you."
The Master eyed him scathingly. "I still hate you, you know."
The Eleventh smiled at him, bittersweet. "No you don't."
Then he straightened his bowtie, pulled down the lever, and cried, "GERONIMO!"
"Allons-y!" shouted the Tenth, pulling up on a knob with a fancy flick of his wrist.
The Warrior rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake. Gallifrey stands!" He cranked a lever.
"For the future!" declared the Master, slamming his fist down on a button.
The TARDISes converged on the planet, there was a white flash, and Gallifrey was gone.
The Doctors watched the TARDIS of their past forgotten self dematerialize. The former Time Lord turned to the current one. "I won't remember either, so you might as well tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Where it is we're going that you don't want to talk about."
The eleventh took a deep breath. "I saw Trenzalore, where we're buried. We die in battle among millions."
"That's not how it's supposed to be," said the tenth.
"That's how the story ends," said the older Doctor. "Nothing we can do about it. Trenzalore is where you're going."
The tenth sighed. The Doctor could really begin to see his age wearing on him, even though the face he was looking at was younger than his current one. His younger self looked at him with sad brown eyes. "So, I don't suppose...I don't suppose we ever see him again."
The Doctor knew exactly who he meant. "Once," he said. "And then, never again."
The younger Doctor shrugged and put his hands in the deep pockets of his long coat. "Oh, never say never. Anyway, good to know my future is in safe hands." He turned to his future companion and grinned. "Keep a tight hold on it, Clara."
Clara laughed. "On it."
The tenth kissed her hand and ambled over to his TARDIS. "Trenzalore..." he muttered. "We need a new destination, because..." He stopped at the door of his blue box and looked at his future. "I'm not ready to go."
And so, the Tenth Doctor headed off to his final adventure. The one where he would meet his old friend all over again, witness the temporary return of his home planet and the Time Lords, defeat Rassilon, save the Master and be saved by him in return, and have one last goodbye with his love, Koschei.
"He will be," the Doctor said to Clara once he was gone.
"Need a moment alone with your painting?" Clara asked.
The Doctor smiled sadly. "How did you know?"
"Those big sad eyes."
"Ah."
Clara patted his arm. "I always know." She walked over to the last remaining TARDIS and said passively as she went inside, "Oh, by the way, there was an old man looking for you. I think it was the curator."
The door shut behind her. The Doctor chuckled to himself. That impossible girl.
He sat down on a stone bench in front of the Time Lord painting and looked at it.
"I could be a curator," he said to himself. "I'd be great at curating. I'd be 'the Great Curator'." He embellished this statement with a grand sweep of his hand. He laughed at himself for that. The War Doctor had been right, he really couldn't talk without flapping his hands about. "I could retire and do that," he said. "I could retire and be the curator of this place."
"You know, I really think you might."
The Doctor froze. He turned at the noise.
A man stood in the doorway of the room. He was elderly, leaning on a cane, with thin white curls, wide eyes, and just a hint of a mischievous smile.
The Doctor nearly burst out laughing. How many Doctors was he going to meet today? "I never forget a face," he said to this stranger who looked a hell of a lot like his fourth self, only much, much older, physically.
"I know you don't," said the Curator, grinning. "And in years to come, you might find yourself revisiting a few. But just the old favorites, eh?"
The Doctor winked.
The Curator hobbled up to the portrait before them. "You were curious about this painting, I think. I acquired it in remarkable circumstances. What do you make of the title?"
"Which title?" the Doctor asked, standing alongside him and staring at it. "There's two. No More, or Gallifrey Falls."
"Oh, you see, that's where everybody's wrong," said the Curator. "It's all one title: Gallifrey Falls No More." He smiled wryly at him. "Now, what would you think that means, eh?"
"That Gallifrey didn't fall," the Doctor said in amazement. "It worked. It's still out there."
"I'm only a humble curator. I'm sure I wouldn't know," said the old man.
"Then where is it?"
"Where is it indeed? Lost. Shh!" The Curator shushed suddenly, then added calmly, "Perhaps. Things do get lost, you know. And now you must excuse me. Oh..." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You have a lot to do."
"Do I?" asked the Doctor.
"Mmm." The Curator nodded.
"Is that what I'm supposed to do now?" said the Doctor excitedly. "Go looking for Gallifrey?"
"Oh, it's entirely up to you," the Curator answered. "Your choice, eh? I can only tell you what I would do, if I were you. Oh." He laughed, and so did the Doctor. "If I were you. Oh, perhaps I was you, of course. Or perhaps, you are me?" He shook the Doctor's hand. "Congratulations."
"Thank you very much," said the Doctor, grinning so hard, he thought his face might break.
"Or perhaps it doesn't matter either way," said the Curator. "Who knows, eh?" He put a finger to his nose and whispered, "Who knows?"
The Curator turned to leave. The Doctor happily watched him go. Then he looked up.
A man was waiting for the Curator.
He was elderly too, with snow white hair, and chubby cheeks. He was dressed in a familiar outfit, consisting of black trousers and shoes, a burgundy waistcoat and pocketwatch chain (though no fobwatch this time, thank goodness), a white dress shirt with wonderfully baggy sleeves, and a floppy black bow tie (the Doctor approved). A loving look in his eye, he fondly took the Curator's arm. Then he glanced over at the Doctor. He smiled knowingly and winked.
The Doctor's nonexistent eyebrows rose.
The two men, arm in arm, turned and sauntered away.
"Koschei," the Doctor whispered.