Tears In Rain
Ruffling his hair to dislodge the snow that had fallen, the Tenth Doctor heard the TARDIS door slam closed behind him⏤ 'triumphantly', he told himself, and ignored the TARDIS tolling out the cloister bell in… 'scolding' he told himself.
'Not a warning, it's just a scolding, from an old, nagging machine.'
Rushing up to the console, The Doctor danced around the console, slamming levers, pushing buttons, flicking switches, full of a wild energy, almost giddy⏤ if he had recently taken a fatal blow, he would have sworn to you he was riding the highest of highs brought on by regeneration sickness.
But far from dying, he felt so alive.
So free, so… unchained.
'For a long time now, I thought I was just a survivor, but I'm not. I'm the winner. That's who I am. The Time Lord Victorious.'
'And there's no one to stop you?'
'No.'
The Doctor bared his teeth in what he would claim was a smile, and others would call a snarl, delighted, and oh so self-assured.
'Is there nothing you can't do?'
'Not anymore.'
And that was a promise he intended to keep.
Slamming down the last lever, the Doctor stared at the console expectantly.
The TARDIS tolled in objection.
"What are you waiting for!?" The Doctor burst out, slamming his hands on the console to glare at the time rotor, where it was stubbornly held still, refusing to budge. "Let's go!" He urged.
The Cloister Bell started to toll again⏤
"Oh, shut up already!" He shouted, grabbing the mallet that was tied to the center support strut and slamming it down on the console, silencing the bell mid-toll, so that it echoed eerily around the suddenly silent console room. Even the lights had dimmed, throwing sharp shadows across the Doctor's face.
The Doctor let the silence stretch on for a long 6 seconds, glaring at the console and daring the TARDIS to make another peep.
"We. Are. Going." He commanded, slowly enunciate each word so there was no mistaking his intention. "Don't make me force you," He threatened in a low voice, no longer shouting, now quiet, deadly, "Because if I have to cut out your neural matrix, I will." He promised, "Don't test me."
Slowly raising the mallet once more, the Doctor stared at the console in challenge. With his free hand, he reached forward and placed his hand on the lever, resetting it back to its original position.
He waited 7.5 seconds… then flipped the switch again.
Juddering, groaning in anxiety as sparks began to fly from the console, the TARDIS reluctantly took flight, every support strut rattling as she fought against the winds of Time, struggling against a current that was never meant to be fought.
One of the nodules in the outer wall exploded inwards, sending shrapnel flying across the console room, the rigged up jump seat caught on fire as smoke and sparks poured from the console⏤
But the Doctor just grinned, ecstatic through the destruction, even as the console room filled with flames and the lights flickered as the old Type-40 strained⏤
"The Time Lord Victorious!" The Doctor proclaimed, throwing back his head and shouting, laughing. They were going back, they were breaking through the Time Lock, they were breaking Time itself.
They were going back to the Time War, to stop the Time Lords from ever dying.
They were going back, to change History, to change the entire universe itself.
"And no one can stop me!" The Doctor vowed, shrugging off his burning coat and tossing it to the side. He had a bloody cut on his face, but he paid it no mind, wiping the blood away idly, only noticing when his hand was already painted with the macabre orange hue.
He stared at his hands, colored with the blood of the Time Lords, and thought of Adelaide's grandaughter Susie, and he thought of his own grandaughter, Susan.
He clenched his first, and watched as the blood dripped between his fingers and onto the burning floor, thinking of his grandaughter dying in the neverending, neverbegining flames of the Last Great Time War.
But no more.
He would save her.
He would save all of them.
No longer would the blood of the Time Lords be on his hands.
And with the Time Lords back in the equation, with the Doctor leading the charge?
There would be nothing stopping him from tearing down the walls of reality. He would have Rose back, he would save Donna…
Never again would he have to say goodbye.
The TARDIS jumped violently beneath his feet, and then slammed into the ground hard enough he would have fallen into the burning jump chair if he didn't grab hold of the console, leaving a bloody handprint behind.
He ignored the stain and checked the scanner, a bloody grin stretching his face when he saw they had landed at their destination.
Leaning away from the console, the Doctor stalked towards the stairs that lead into the depths of the ship, where the stairs spiraled down into infinite rooms and corridors. "Stop being dramatic!" He barked as he stepped on his smoldering coat, "Turn on the fire suppressors, you're going to spoil my entrance."
Special occasions called for special attire, and what better motif than to wear the uniform of those he was about to save?
The Doctor stalked through the darkened hallways, listening as the TARDIS slowly, reluctantly sealed the door behind him and sucked all the oxygen out of the console room.
He reached the first Wardrobe room, and walked into its depths and… kept on going. Through the second, and third, and fifth deepest rooms, each successive doorway revealing a space older and significantly dustier than the one before.
Finally he found it, tucked away in an ancient cupboard, the only reason it wasn't buried in a mountain of dust was because no matter how hard he had tried in the past, the fabric by its very nature completely repelled all particles that could mar its flawless appearance⏤ only the rending of time itself could damage it.
He'd hated that before, but now he appreciated it⏤ no need to rush to a dry cleaners first.
He might have broken Time to get here⏤ but once he started his work, that would no longer be the case; he was here to rewrite Time, to fix Time, to weave his own Web of Time how he saw fit.
The Doctor donned the cloak and collar befitting of his station, feeling the weight of it heavy on his shoulders where his coat had been so light: it was a reminder of what he was here to do, who he was here to save:
Everyone.
He was tired of losing.
From now on, he was going to win.
From now on and forevermore, he would be Victorious.
