Five

Beneath a striped parasol there was a table ladled with cakes and scones and tea. A young blonde man relaxed there, chatting quietly to a dark-haired woman. When the Doctor approached the woman stood up and gave him a quick nod before returning to the cricket pitch where she took her turn at bat.

There were only five people playing the game, and none wore cricketing whites. The Doctor recognised them all, but he wasn't interested in speaking to any of them. Anything he might have wanted to tell them would have been infinitely better expressed centuries ago by the man sitting under the parasol.

"They're serving tea at four," said the cricketer as the Doctor took the seat next to him. "If you're still here, you're more than welcome to join us."

"Thanks," said the Doctor awkwardly. Leaning back carefully in the seat, he tried to make himself comfortable. "I didn't realise there would be anyone else here."

"I always liked having people around. I never could enjoy being alone."

"That's subtle," said the Doctor with a nod at the game going on in front of him.

"You were very harsh with yourself."

"I'd hurt enough people."

"But that wasn't really you, was it?"

The Doctor shrugged, caught somewhere between anger and guilt. "I was the one who had to live with it."

The cricketer raised his eyebrows. "Was that an accusation?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Not at you."

"How very kind."

The Doctor hid a smile. It was then that he noticed the cricketer's hand, his left one, scarred and torn and a little bloody. It hung limply at his side, useless. The Doctor swallowed, his eyes widening slightly and he looked away quickly. It was too late, however.

"Ah, sorry about that," muttered the cricketer, a little embarrassed, but not enough to conceal the damaged limb.

"It's not your fault…" The Doctor paused, thinking quickly. "…is it?"

The cricketer turned his attention to the cricket match, and spoke as though the matter were trivial. "It seemed more sensible to have all the scars in one place."

"I thought that was what all this was for." He waved his arms vaguely.

"I wouldn't want to spoil the match," the cricketer told him. "It won't work forever, I know that. It's poisoned."

"That's one way to confront your monsters."

"But hardly the best."

"You don't seem very sure of yourself," said the Doctor.

"Oh, I'm not. You can't have all that invulnerability for ever, you know. Young people…" He smiled. "There were so many of them I was bound to pick something up. Just as my…qualities would create less empathy in the next."

"Less empathy? Is that what you call it?"

"Quite. Well, one is supposed to mellow with age. He probably did, and he'll remember at some point."

At that moment the batter was bowled out, and the cricketer sprang to his feet, applauding. "Well bowled!" he called, going across to offer a handshake.

Soundlessly, the Doctor slipped away.

It was a pleasant walk, though there was far too little noise for the Doctor's liking. It wasn't until he noticed the man standing by the lamppost (such a strange thing in a country lane) that he realised how the landscape had been quietly changing around him. Less like an ideal summer day, and more like a sombre autumn evening.

"I didn't expect to see you here," said the Doctor, finally recognising the figure.

"Oh, he's done very well," the Master told him. "Pushed me to the boundaries. In a few centuries he might succeed in exorcising me completely. But I'm still here." The Master paused. "He's very like you, though I doubt you'd see it. But he deals with his guilt quite differently."

"He killed you. I should buy him a drink."

"He'd never accept it." A smile appeared on his lips. "Careful, Doctor. You should know that you can't harm me here. Attack me and you imperil only yourself.. But then, you are already in a great deal of danger." He cocked his head slightly. "I could help you."

The Doctor folded his arms. "Oh? How?"

"You're alone here. Where you're going, your other selves can't help you. I, on the other hand, am more than willing to do so."

"And what can you do?"

"I can guide you. Protect you. Warn you about what's ahead."

"That's very thoughtful," said the Doctor. "What's in it for you?"

"I should have thought that were obvious," said the Master crisply. "I wish to exist. If I can not do so here, than I can do so in your realm."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows, chewed his lip and then folded his arms. "Thanks," he said. "But no thanks."

The Master said nothing as he walked away and the stifling silence returned.

When he saw the castle ahead of him, he took a look behind. The Master's silhouette was still visible against the darkening sky. He raised a hand in farewell, but the Doctor ignored it and walked on.

Six

The toy soldiers would have been comical if their heavy grip on the Doctor's shoulders didn't hurt so much. Despite his questioning of them, they said nothing, but forced him to move through the portcullis and up a narrow spiralled staircase. He came out on the balcony, and would have made a dash for it but he appeared to have found the soldiers' general. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the past, laid out before him like a patchwork quilt. The Doctor glanced over the battlements; the stairs must have been a lot longer than he had realised.

The soldiers released him and shoved him forwards, towards the brightly coloured general.

"Well, that's a nice welcome for you," snapped the Doctor, rubbing his shoulder. "Thanks a lot."

"We must be ever vigilant," said the general. "And guard against weakness. He's almost there…but not quite." He leaned over the battlements, and passed the Doctor his telescope.

The Doctor shoved it back to him. "Not interested. I just want to get on, thanks."

"More speed, less haste. You died quickly."

"So did you."

"It wasn't fair," muttered the general.

The Doctor was surprised. It was, after all, a very petty statement. "Since when was it ever fair?"

"I was so full of life," snapped the general. "And it was all snatched away from me so suddenly. There was so much more I could have done."

The toy soldiers jerked forward, raising their swords. The Doctor backed away from them as discretely as he could. He glanced at the general, and suddenly saw through the mask of anger. There was a deeper sadness there, a loneliness that the Doctor could not understand. It was one thing to be alone, the last of your kind; it was quite another to be alone in a crowd. The Doctor knew that the general had never quite found his place in the universe.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You'll be safe here, if you want to stay," said the general. "The walls are strong and the soldiers loyal. We can defend our position indefinitely."

"Defend against what?" asked the Doctor.

"He's out there," murmured the general. "The dark general with his own soldiers. He duplicates every move, every defence, every advance." He smashed his hand against the battlements. "It is an impossible war!"

"Yeah, alright, but who are you fighting?"

The general shot him an angry look, and then marched into the castle. With a threatening gesture from one of the toy soldiers, the Doctor followed. They passed a train set, a town of Lego and a room full of rocking horses. The general paused and whirled around, glaring at the toy soldier behind the Doctor.

"The stables are supposed to be on the ground floor," he snapped, before walking off again.

He finally stopped in a room dominated by a massive table-top map. Most of it was a landscape laid out in bright primary colours, but there were darkened areas at either end that were marked 'Cricket Pitch' and 'Ballroom' and 'Village.'

The two factions were clear enough, and it seemed that only that afternoon the teddy bears' picnic brigade had unsuccessfully engaged a phalanx of kites.

Enough was enough, decided the Doctor, musing over how kites would be able to attack anything. "This doesn't strike you as a little odd?" he said.

The general looked at him, and for a moment his harsh expression cleared. "You mean the toys? I suppose it is, but it's a lot nicer than seeing bits of people strewn about the place."

The Doctor nodded, understanding. "So who are you fighting?" he asked again.

The general gave a tight smile. "I think he's represented somewhere on the board. Ah, here we are." He picked up a dark figure and tossed it to the Doctor. It was a well-made model. Plastic, realised the Doctor with a shudder of distaste. He recognised it as the Valeyard, that strange future phantom that the general had faced at his trial. The memories forced themselves to the surface, and for an instant the Doctor felt the general's fear as he recalled how he had stopped fighting everything and everyone and become quieter, and so much more reflective after that encounter. He had spent a great deal of time thinking of the future, fearing it and what it could bring for him.

Odd how introspective he had once been, now that he did everything he could to avoid thinking about the past.

"Good likeness," he said and put the model back on the battlefield.

"I suppose it is. Though I don't like the eyes; I'd rather they were a little less realistic." The Doctor understood that, remembering the cold, calculating madness that he had seen lurking within them.

"You could stay here, for a while at least. You could help me. Together we can drive him back."

"I'd rather just keep walking, thanks."

The eyes clouded over, and the Doctor glanced at the exit, and shifted his weight, ready to move quickly.

"So," exclaimed the general. "The coward shows his true colours at last."

"Now, wait just a second," said the Doctor, taking a step back. The toy soldiers were no-where to be seen. He could run, but he wasn't sure of the direction. Straight through and out the other side of the castle, he imagined, but if these grotesque toys got a hold of him it would probably be quite painful. Staying, on the other hand, would mean, at best, a very loud speech.

He grinned. Then he ran.

Seven

The Doctor had left the battlements a long way behind him and walked now along a deserted street.

The wind hit his back, biting and harsh; it had scraped the paint off the houses that lined the cobbled road until they were a dull stone grey. All the windows and doors and shutters were closed and colourless. Paranoia gnawed at him as he walked further and further, for he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

But no matter how quickly he turned, or how subtly he peered at the dark window panes, the street remained unmoving, uninhabited.

He walked on, determined not to look back, no matter how many eyes he felt burning into his back.

There was a flicker of a shadow in his peripheral vision and then a sleek ginger feline jumped down onto the road in front of him. It looked at him for a moment, before it began to purr.

"You recognise me then?" said the Doctor to the cat. It gave a lazy yawn, turned around and began walking down the pavement. After a few metres it paused and turned back to the Doctor. "Well, if you insist," he muttered, and followed the cat.

He found Time's Champion in one of the side-streets, little more than an alleyway. He sat on a dilapidated chair, the covering torn and grey stuffing spilling out, with an unsteady wooden stall in front of him. Three upturned mugs lay on it. All were chipped and only one had its handle wholly intact.

"Guess which one the bean's under," the champion said. "Win the game."

"What's the prize?" asked the Doctor.

The champion shrugged. "I don't think there is one."

The cat leapt onto his lap and settled down, purring loudly. He stroked the animal's back absently, his attention absorbed by the mugs sitting in front of him.

"Do you know which one it's under?" asked the Doctor.

"I've forgotten. I used to be much better at this."

"Why don't you just look?" the Doctor asked.

The champion looked up, horrified. "I can't look! That's cheating! I can't cheat, I can't cheat…" He broke off, and when he looked up at the Doctor again his eyes were pleading. "Please, do you know which one it is?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Not a clue."

He waited a few minutes, but the champion continued to contemplate the mugs. "Why don't you just pick one?" asked the Doctor.

"That's what they're waiting for." The champion beckoned to the Doctor, indicated that he should crouch down, and then dropped his voice. "They're watching me."

"I think they're watching me too," said the Doctor.

It seemed to be the right thing to say, for the champion immediately relaxed, and there was perhaps, the hint of a smile.

"Then I'm not mad," he said with some relief. "I'm not mad at all."

"Do you know what they are? What they want?"

"Naturally," said the champion.

The cat stopped purring and leapt to the ground. Its hackles rose as it stared further down the alley, to where the buildings faded into shadow. The champion didn't bother to look up, instead he shuffled the mugs around and poked the middle one experimentally.

The Doctor stared further down the alley, and after a moment's consideration, walked towards the shadows.

"There's nothing you can do about it!" the champion called to him, but the Doctor ignored him. Curiosity was as much a part of him as any of the others.

The air stank, a putrid rotting smell, though all the rubbish bins were neatly stacked against the wall. He checked behind them, but there was nothing there, then took a quick look inside the bins but was unwilling to investigate them further. Nothing but the expected garbage, and no-where else to hide. He pushed against the blank wall that marked the end of the alley, but it was solid brick. Frowning slightly, he turned to go back, but a whisper of movement caught his eye.

There was something changing on the wall; the flutter of a shadow. The Doctor watched it for a moment and the shape changed until it was quite clearly a face, and it was smiling. Another movement. Another. The face was laughing.

"Hello," said the Doctor in a friendly voice. "I'm the Doctor."

The face stopped laughing. The shadow eyes narrowed and sharp canines appeared in the mouth.

"Now that's not very nice," the Doctor told the shadow.

And then it whispered at him.

It wasn't a real whisper. He couldn't hear anything, but it was inside his head, like pins being stuck into his brain and it was talking. "The game never ends," it said. Each syllable sent a sharp jolt of pain through his body.

He went back to the champion and found the cat curled up in his lap, peacefully sleeping, and so was the champion. His features were slack, but still the worry lines remained. He looked so much older now, and the Doctor guessed that it was not a peaceful sleep. He didn't have the heart to disturb him again, but before he left he looked under the mugs for the bean.

Naturally, there wasn't one to be found.

As he walked out of the town, he couldn't help but notice the shadows, and suddenly every one was a face, leering at him out of the walls. It could be his imagination, he thought, and even if it's not, they're just shadows. Just shadows.

At least the silence had stopped. It was faint, but there was a lilting melody in the air, and the Doctor used that to guide him onwards.

Eight

The music was soft and soothing, but the Doctor wasn't listening. He threw open the doors to the ballroom in what he hoped was a dramatic gesture, but the disturbance went unnoticed by the dancers within. They flew round the polished floor, great swirls of colour and movement and elegance. Nobody missed a step, and yet each couple was quite individual in their own way.

There was only one dancer that the Doctor was looking for and he stalked round the hall till he found him, sweeping a woman - one that he recognised very well - across the dance floor.

He took a deep breath and forgot any sort of courtesy, but before he could make a scene Life's Champion stepped away from his partner. He gave a gallant bow before taking the woman's hand and escorting her to where the Doctor was standing.

The Doctor swung at him, his fist connecting firmly with the dancer's jaw. The woman shot him a look of pure venom and knelt by the fallen man, checking his wound.

He brushed her off. "I'll be fine, Grace." He stood up and regarded the Doctor levelly. "I didn't expect you to be quite so direct."

"You bastard," spat the Doctor. "You sick, twisted, selfish bastard."

He was met by a look of infinite calm. "I live with the guilt too."

"You bloody well died with it! But you didn't even get that right. You got me instead."

"Well, now we have eternity to work it out," said the dancer. "That should occupy us for the first few centuries at least, and by then you'll probably have died again so we'll have someone new to talk to."

"You have any idea what you did to me? What I had to live with while you were busy swanning around here?"

"It isn't always like this."

"Looks pretty cushy to me," snapped the Doctor. "Nice orchestra, fancy clothes…that doctor you liked so much."

"We take comfort where we can."

"And they called me a coward."

"You don't understand," said the dancer. "Listen."

The intensity of the dancer's voice made him pause: the Doctor realised that he had been distracted by the effortless elegance, and his own burning anger. There was something else here, drifting on the air currents. The dancers knew too, their movements were faster, the beat of the music had quickened.

But that wasn't the beat of music, it was the chiming of a clock, a grandfather clock, and it shook the walls. The dance increased its pace again, a blur of colour circling the floor. The clock chimed again and again, each one drawn out into a long, rolling beat, but the Doctor didn't bother to count. The noise was in the walls, in his head, and it hurt.

"What is that?" he shouted, struggling to hear his own voice. Wind shrieked at the windows, and a chandelier shattered, shards of glass rained down on the dancers, but they did not stop. Glass was on the floor and in their shoes and hair and skin. Droplets of blood started to appear, then flow and flow, some wounds worse than others, and the floor was painted red.

They danced on.

The Doctor stared, horrified, but the dancer appeared unsurprised. The woman, Grace, was still standing by him and his hand slipped into hers.

"What's going on here?" demanded the Doctor, his expression stone and his eyes still fixed on the macabre celebration before him.

"This is mine," said the dancer. "You must leave now. They can't be allowed to escape, and they must not touch you. They must not." His voice held desperation, but he seemed in no hurry to do anything. Instead he watched the windows, and the Doctor, following his gaze, saw that they were humming, the glass was vibrating.

The Doctor whirled around, but there was no exit in any direction. He tried to remember how he had entered the ballroom, but his thoughts were slippery as silverfish.

"They'll have blocked the way back," said the dancer. "But they don't know you're here. You have to find the way out; the way forward."

"How?" asked the Doctor, unsure if he had spoke the word or merely thought it. The vibrations from the windows sang through the air.

The dancer shook his head. "I'm not sure!" he shouted. "There's something here though! Something different, you'll recognise it! Be drawn to it! You must hurry…"

The Doctor spun round, looking for anything familiar. He walked quickly round the dance floor, trying to keep away from the dancers and the blood.

Suddenly the chimes stopped. The air was silent. The windows smashed inwards, and the dancers began to scream. They shrieked and looked at each other, looked for the doors, tried to climb the walls, searching for any way out. Only the dancer and Grace were still, their eyes fixed on the grand chandelier swinging wildly on the ceiling.

As they started again, the Doctor counted the chimes.

…one, two…

There was a shriek of wind and mist flew into the room, dark and choking and stinging his eyes. It took a moment to realise that while he found it merely unpleasant, it was corrosive to the dancers. Their fine clothes and hair burned away. Their skin…

…three, four…

Blood and people, blood and people. Was there nothing else here? The clock, thought the Doctor, where is that clock?

…five, six…

It wasn't real, but then none of it was real, and perhaps he was the only one who could hear it.

…seven, eight…

The chandelier shattered, and crystal daggers reigned down on the dancers. Sharper and deadlier than before. Finally, they fell. Dead. Grace screamed. "Hurry, Doctor!" shouted the dancer. The corpses twitched, and began to rise.

…nine, ten…

He could see it! The grandfather clock! A shadow in the hall, a mere shadow, but he needed it, he believed it. He ran towards it.

…eleven, twelve…

Nine

The Doctor fled through the chiming clock, pulling the door shut as the thirteenth chime sounded. He closed his ears to the shrieks that he heard in the dance hall. Those were not people, he could not help them, he could not even help himself.

The air was still here, a long dark corridor. It was the portrait gallery, and each painting was lit with an unnatural light.

These were the dead, painted in oils. He looked at them, spent a few seconds contemplating each face as he past them by, the least he could do. Jabe's was beautiful, and he stood in front of her and told her how sorry he was, catching her smile as he turned away.

He did not stop again, just walked slowly glancing right then left, until the very final portrait, and the last death. Jack stared back at him, eyes bright and cocky grin.

"You were braver than I ever was," the Doctor admitted.

The threshold was here, the end of the journey.

He closed his eyes and took a step forwards…

The air rushed past him and embraced it, arms open. This was the end, this was where he belonged, his final resting place.

It was not as he had imagined.

The control room of Satellite Five was spread out in front of him in all its chaos. Panels sparked, and the smell of burnt-out wiring hung heavily in the air. There was another feeling, one the Doctor recognised only too well: the aura of recent death. The room stank of burnt flesh, but there were no bodies, no Daleks, no humans, no TARDIS…no Rose.

He cleared a space on the floor and sat down. Somewhere in the distance there was an electronic shriek, and he knew that they were coming.

He took the book out of his pocket and began to read.