Doctor
'Why do we survive?'
The Doctor sat on the floor, his leather clad arms encircling his knees as he stared into the distance. He did not seem to notice the cuffs that tied him to the wall, nor did he seem to notice the strange emptiness of the room in which he had found himself. Instead, his thoughts were focused inwards upon the question posed to him by the Dalek.
'Why do we survive?'
He wasn't sure that he knew anymore. A day before, even an hour before, he would have said that he survived because he had to. There was too much to see, too much to do, too much to show Rose before he died. A day before he knew his place in the universe. A day before he had Rose. He wasn't sure if he had that anymore.
'Why do we survive?'
There was no answer to that question. Perhaps there never was. Could he, the Doctor, be nothing more than a dream? How did that quote go..."Am I a man dreaming that I am a butterfly? Or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?" Something of that sort. He normally would never consider that he was nothing but a figment of someone's imagination, but he had a feeling that someone else was starting to believe that to be true.
"Rose," her name echoed strangely in the all too bare room, but even still he did not struggle against his bonds. Her name was a benediction, a prayer. He was suffering from a crisis of faith and he knew – as all Time Lords knew – that if he did not begin to believe again he would be gone.
No more Doctor. No more TARDIS. No more saying 'Fantastic!' with a manic grin and grabbing Rose by the hand as they ran for their lives. No more Rose.
Of all of those choices, it was the last that hurt the most. "Rose," he said again. The Doctor bowed his head and let the tears fall freely.
'Why do we survive?'
He did not know anymore.