Futilitarian
Onesmartcookie
Summary: The crepuscule of my old life lay before me, I knew, as I stared at myself sleeping peacefully in the only bedroom that would ever be truly mine. I had two choices: strap the ever-so-troublesome malfunctioning Vortex Manipulator to my own wrist, thus validating everything that had occurred within the past few years; or walk away and hope that, by not creating my own future, by not keeping up my own timeline, I would cease to exist in this hellish world, and return back to the girl who could sleep in that bed, unaware.
Disclaimer: I don't own, nor will I probably ever own, Doctor Who.
tourbillon (n.): "whirlwind"; a watch component which increases accuracy
We follow Amelia into her room. Under normal circumstances, I'd be concerned about two adults, one of whom (and, despite recent developments to the contrary, I don't mean me), is clearly off their rocker, being alone in a room with a little girl who isn't even marginally familiar with them. Talk about a case for Child Services. But that worry dissipates cleanly the moment I see the glowing crack bisecting the wall next to Amelia's bed. A shiver traces its way down my spine at the sight; there's something wrong, something very deeply wrong going on here.
The crack arcs like a lightning bolt, bright white light shining out of it. It's roughly three or four feet in length and it terrifies me.
The Doctor whistles, low and slow. "You've had some cowboys in here," he says as he examines it. Then, he amends, "Not actual cowboys, though that can happen."
I have the urge to giggle; hysterical giggles that I'm here, that this is happening, that something straight out of a science fiction show is taking place right before my eyes. This is crazy. I'm crazy. Instead, I roll my eyes at him. "Cowboys?" I ask in a drawl when I've managed to get a hold of myself. "Talk about catering to your audience. Did you come up with that just because I'm American?"
Amelia doesn't seem bogged down by the semantics of his metaphor. As I look at her, I realize she's holding another apple. She hands it to the Doctor for our perusal, and I see that it has a smiley face carved into it. When she'd had the time to do this, I have no idea, but the Doctor simply takes it from her, unconcerned that a small child had evidently been using a knife unsupervised.
"I'll save it for later," he says, pocketing it. "So, here's the thing about this crack." He takes out the cylindrical object from earlier. It whirrs as he points it at the jagged mark which spans the length of the bed. "The wall is solid, so where's the draught coming from?" The Doctor examines the thing in his hand (is he checking for some sort of reading?) and hums to himself. "Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey," he says nonsensically. I must make a face, for he hastily continues, "You know what this crack is? It's a crack. But I'll tell you something funny: if you knocked down this wall, the crack would stay put, because the crack isn't in the wall."
It's Amelia's turn to make a face. "Where is it, then?"
But my mind is racing. "Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey," I repeat, eyes wide. "It's a crack in time itself?"
The Doctor points at me in utter elation. "Exactly, Morgan, you absolutely brilliant girl!" he exclaims, wrapping an arm tightly about my shoulders before kissing me fiercely atop the head. I shove him away, but he continues, unbothered, "It's a split in the skin of the world. Two parts of space and time that never should have touched, pressed together right here in the wall of your bedroom."
And, boy, does he sound excited about it. I have half a mind to smack him again, because if that's the case, if there's a crack in time and space itself, isn't Amelia in danger?
Fuck. I don't have the mental capacity to deal with this bullshit right now.
"Do you ever hear anything?" the Doctor asks Amelia.
She nods. "Yeah. A voice."
The Doctor's eyes narrow and, all the sudden, there's a low rumbling sound. The Doctor reaches for the glass of water at Amelia's bedside and promptly dumps its contents onto the floor.
"Doctor!" I hiss, staring at the mess. I start to ask Amelia where I can find a towel to clean it up (at least one of us has to be a responsible adult) but the Doctor pays me no mind.
"Clean up later, this is important," he says. He fits the glass against the crack and, after a moment, his brows furrow. "Prisoner Zero?" he asks.
Prisoner? I don't like the sound of that.
"Prisoner Zero has escaped, that's what I heard!" Amelia exclaims. "What does it mean?"
I can hazard a guess. "On the other side of the wall, there's a prison," I say, a shiver raking its way down my spine. I don't like this at all. "And they lost a prisoner."
I'm struck, all at once, with how dangerous this all is. A crack in space and time itself? An interdimensional prisoner on the loose? I need to get out of here. I need to find a way back home, and fast. It may have seemed like a dream at first, but things are getting too real: I'd been injured, I'd been kissed, and I'd remembered everything. Who remembers the entirety of their dream? Who can feel pain while they're asleep? This was getting all too real. And then, I remember the thing strapped to my left wrist. I chance a glance at it—what had the Doctor called it? A gortec manicure? Something like that, at any rate. Maybe I can—
"You know what that means?" the Doctor asks rhetorically.
I hold my left hand up until it's at eye level. There are a few different buttons, none of which are labeled. The one that stands out the most is larger than the others by a few fractions of an inch. It's the only button positioned to the very right of the blank screen, and something tells me that it's the only button that actually functions on this thing.
"Morgan, don't—"
My world explodes in pain as I disappear.
"—an."
Five more minutes, mom.
"—organ!"
I blink, but my world is off kilter, like I've just taken six shots in a row and tried to stand. Everything is blurry and hazy and when I close my eyes again, it feels like I'm at sea, the boat rocking in roiling water. And I'm nauseous. So very nauseous.
"MORGAN!"
I lurch to the side and promptly empty the contents of my stomach. A hand pulls my long hair away from my face as I continue to retch.
"Is she okay?" comes another voice, female this time.
I press my hands into my eyes. Everything is too bright, the world is still spinning, and there's a dull ache forming behind my nose and eyes.
"She must have hit the button. Probably just came out of a dangerous situation," says the other voice, male, much closer to me. I recognize that voice.
"This is a dangerous situation!" the girl says. "Morgan! Morgan!"
I groan. It feels like my head is about to split open.
"Well, yelling at her isn't going to fix anything," the Doctor says matter-of-factly, but it's not the voice of the floppy-haired man from earlier, nor the man in the pinstripe suit. It's the voice of the Doctor from last night, the same voice I'd heard filtered through the TV screen, with Jaye, Mary, and Grace sat beside me. His accent is distinctly Northern, but rather than being charming, it instead makes my head hurt even more.
"Mummy? Please, mummy? Mummy?"
There's a child here, too?
I blink harshly, still feeling like I've been hit by all the king's horses and men—and their wives and children as well.
It strikes me, as I try to take in my surroundings, that it hadn't worked. I'm still in the Doctor Who-universe (the Who-niverse? Is that what the kids call it?) and if the panic in the girl's voice is anything to go by, then this situation is even more dangerous than Prisoner Zero. Just my luck.
"Doctor, we kinda need you to focus," says another male voice.
I turn my gaze towards the sound and, despite my bleary, distorted vision, can see a blob of bright blonde hair next to a taller head of dark hair, shorn short. It's the girl the Doctor travels with in the first season. Posey, right? Some sort of flower name, at any rate. I don't know, it's hard to think right now.
"Mummy?"
The Doctor snaps to attention, hoisting me to my feet. I wobble with all the uncertainty of a newborn foal, and in return he hauls me against his side, arm firm around my waist. I groan at the sudden movement, feeling the world tilting on its axis again, and then I'm leaning against something soft, smooth, and cold. I inhale deeply in an attempt to quell the panic quickly taking root inside me. I can practically taste leather and warmth and a hint of orange. He smells like mulling spices.
I remember many a Christmas with my mom spent over the stove, whisking away a mixture of cinnamon sticks and anise and red wine and orange juice until it was burn-your-tongue-off hot. She'd let me have the littlest sip from her mug as a child, and then one of my own when I had turned sixteen.
My mom.
Christ, I miss her, and it hasn't even been a day.
"I'm here. Can't you see me?"
The arm around me stiffens, as if he's been reminded that we are, in fact, in danger. "Morgan," he says directly into my ear, voice low and tinged with gruff concern. "Need you up and at 'em."
"Doctor, what's that noise?"
"Morgan," his voice is sterner now. He jostles me in his arms roughly, on purpose this time, and I hiss as pain lances through my head, traveling down my wrist, or up from my wrist to my head? I'm not sure anymore.
"Doctor?"
"Tape ran out thirty seconds ago," he grunts, voice a rumble in his chest. "Morgan, if you can't get up, I'm going to have to do something you're really not going to like."
"I'm here now! Can't you see me?"
"Doctor, what's wrong?"
"This is its room. I sent it to its room." He shakes me again, more urgently this time, but my eyes are rolling back into my head, the weakness in my limbs even more pronounced as I give into it. Futile. Everything here is futile. "MORGAN!" he shouts.
I try to reply, try to tell him to leave me here, try to insist that my death means nothing in the grand scheme of the universe, for we are but tiny specks alighting this transient planet, ephemerally doomed to lead a life of insignificance. But all that comes out is "Hnng."
He sighs softly. Sadly. "I know. I'm sorry." He cradles my left arm gently. "But you left me with no choice."
And with that, I feel him push the button again.
I wake up some unspecified amount of time later to a piercing pain twisting in my gut. It feels like my insides have found their way outside my body and the ache in my head has tripled in intensity. Even the slightest shift of my body causes me to twitch in agony.
Jesus fucking Christ. Talk about having some cowboys in here.
Distantly, I hear laughter. It sounds so very far away, like I'm underwater. I suck in a harsh breath, feeling my lungs protest in response. The laughter fades into sharp footsteps lacking any sort of refinement as they rush towards me.
Am I dying?
"Morgan!" a voice calls, sounding panicked. It's a familiar voice, one that I've heard before but can't quite place. "Morgan, can you hear me?"
A finger prods at the pulse in my neck and my body spasms in response.
Ow. Fuck.
I moan, distressed.
"Oi, spaceman, stop crowding her!" comes another voice, higher in pitch. "Morgan," the woman says, "how many fingers am I holding up?"
I try to open my eyes, but even the dim lighting is blinding. "Fuck," I manage to spit out.
The woman laughs. "I think she'll be alright."
A hand gently brushes my hair from my face. "Let's get you to the Med-Bay," says the man—the Doctor.
And, as soon as he reaches for me, lifting me up in his arms, I pass out.
Awareness comes and goes.
I'm vaguely cognizant of my surroundings. There's harsh white light, white walls and flooring. Am I in a hospital? Am I dying?
"—be okay—"
I blink hazily, but my vision refuses to focus.
I fall back asleep.
"—up soon?"
I groan.
"Morgan!"
Arms are thrown around me and I almost suffocate on a face full of breasts. I blink slowly and things are clear for once. A red-headed woman is clinging to me tightly. When she pulls back, I'm met with the visage of a kind-looking woman, her eyes concerned.
"See, I told you she'd be alright!" the woman exclaims.
A man in a blue suit, hair sticking up in all directions—the Doctor—chuckles. "You did," he says. He takes a step towards me, then another, all hesitation. "I remember this outfit," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."
And with that, he embraces me.
I want to sink into it, want to accept the comfort, want to be close to someone because I almost just died and I miss my mom and I miss when things were normal, but something tells me they'll never be normal again, but instead I shove him away. "Who are you?" I address the red-haired woman.
Her smile falters, disappointment clear. "Donna?"
"Is that a question?" I ask.
They both ignore my sass.
"Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey," the Doctor says. "This must be her first time meeting you."
I don't bother confirming as much. After all, it must be pretty obvious from the way I'm staring at her. "Where am I?" I finally settle on.
"Med-Bay in the TARDIS," the Doctor replies. "You must have used the vortex manipulator too much." He gestures to the device strapped to my wrist.
I hold it up to eye-level, examining it once more. There are several buttons to the left of the blank screen, though something tells me that none of them are functional. To the right is a slightly larger button, slightly discolored and worn as though it's been pressed frequently. But that's not what disturbs me about device; no, what disturbs me is that it appears to be fused to my skin.
"What the fuck?" I shout, shaking out my hand as though that will magically make the thing disappear, or else detach it from my limb.
The Doctor winces. "You must be young," he says, and I feel something brush against my head, and a wave of comfort washes over me. At first, I think he must have run his fingers through my hair, like my mom used to do when I was upset, but when I finally look up, both of his hands are at his sides.
What the—?
"Sorry, habit," he says apologetically, noticing my alarmed expression.
Donna coughs. "So, this is your first time seeing me?" she interjects. "Well, I'm Donna Noble." She gestures over to the Doctor. "And this oaf is the Doctor." The Doctor makes to object, likely to being called an oaf, but Donna bulldozes along, "And I'm your best friend."
Considering how sarcastic she's been within the first five minutes of me meeting her, I don't doubt that claim. "I know who he is," I say, propping myself up on the pillows behind me. "What I don't know is what the hell is going on."
The Doctor launches into an explanation in which he says "wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey" no less than five times, and it's all I can do to follow along. It's just like the other Doctor told me; this thing on my wrist—a vortex manipulator—is malfunctioning and causes me to jump throughout his timeline, meaning we're constantly crossing nonlinear paths. I have so many questions that I can't settle on just one; my mind is positively racing and all that comes out is: "Huh?"
The Doctor makes to reply, but just as he's opening his mouth, he frowns. He digs around in his pockets for a few moments until he produces a piece of paper. I can just make out some words scrawled across the page, but they don't register. He clears his throat. "I know it's a lot to take in," he says gently, "but we have to go now. Why don't you go get dressed?"
"With what clothes?" I ask incredulously.
The Doctor just smiles.
Donna ends up taking me to my room. Written in my own handwriting is "Ava Morgan" and, underneath that, a series of circles. I reach for them, tracing my fingers over the symbols and wondering what they mean. Maybe it's my name in an alien language? I'm not sure.
"Here you are," says Donna. "Do you want me to wait?"
I shake my head. "No," I say, "it's just a hallway, it can't be that difficult to find my way to the console room, right?"
Donna laughs. And keeps laughing. And laughing.
"What?" I ask.
She continues to laugh. "Right," she says, wiping away an imaginary tear. "I'll see you in a few, yeah?"
And with that, she walks away. I watch her retreating figure for a few moments before entering "my" room. I say "my" because it feels wrong. The only room that's ever truly belonged to me is in my mom's apartment in London, and that's the way it'll always be. Except, when I enter, it's an exact replica, down to the hole in the ceiling where I'd accidentally banged a chair into the drywall and the bits of tape stuck on the wall from my boyband phase. The similarity is eerie, and I resolve immediately to hate this room with all my undying passion.
In fact, the only difference between this room and my real room is that, where there should be a dresser, there's a door instead. I enter the room fully, closing the door behind me, and make for the other door. When I open it, it's to find a massive walk-in closet that might as well be another dimension in and of itself. It's full to the brim with clothing, from period dresses to 2020 Tik-Tok-girl fashion, to more avant-garde pieces that I imagine people would wear on different planets… or in the future…or in the future on different planets.
I'm not sure what to make of this. I've never been concerned about my appearance—well, that's a lie. I love to do makeup for fun. But clothes? Let's just say, I've never been the most fashionable. After browsing for a few minutes, I determine that, if I want to be smart, I should wear pants and sneakers. I decide on a plain gray V-neck, some black joggers, and sneakers with better arch support than any I've ever owned previously. In case it's cold, I grab a zip-up hoodie.
I strip myself of my pajamas and slippers, only to hear a dull, metallic thump as I drop my pants, though how I'd managed to miss the weight of it in my pocket is beyond me.
Is it my cellphone? First the slippers and now this?
I definitely hadn't fallen asleep with it in my pocket.
I hastily reach for the article of clothing and dig through the right and then the left pocket until I find something round.
What the—
My fingers hover over the button that I know will open the device, and yet something tells me that its broken, the same way I know that the only button that works on the vortex manipulator is the one on the right.
Still…
I turn the thing over in my hands. It's warm to the touch, practically radiating heat. Well, it was in my pocket, after all. I rub my thumb over the care-worn front of it, almost as if I've done this a thousand times. If I look closely enough, there are faint, circular etchings carved into it. My finger hovers over the button as something deep inside me aches. As if in a trance, I run over the etchings once more. And then, I blink, and the spell is broken.
"Fucking piece of garbage," I mutter to myself, and chuck the offending object into the trash bin beside my bed.
"So, where are we going?" Donna is asking the Doctor when I walk into the console room almost an hour later.
Despite my confidence in my ability to find the room all by myself, the corridors had been confusing. No matter which door I had opened, no matter how many hallways I had turned down and rooms I'd passed, I'd somehow kept opening the same unmarked door. Inside the room was a bed that looked like it was seldom used, and a desk piled high with various doodads, including what looked to be a disassembled blender and a coil of copper wire. Curiously, there was a second desk to the left of the bed, this one stacked with books. I couldn't make out any of the titles from my position by the door, and I was loath to intrude upon the space, so every time I happened upon this room, I promptly closed the door, growing more and more irritated.
After my fifth time finding the room, I had grown so frustrated that I felt like crying. It had been a long fucking day and if Donna hadn't been expecting me to make an appearance in the console room, I would have curled up in bed and tried to sleep away this nightmare. I'd just resolved myself to searching for my room again, stricken with self-pity and loathing, when I'd gotten the urge to turn right down the hall. And, lo and behold, there was the console room.
"Change of plans," the Doctor says presently, sounding relaxed, but there's a sort of tension in the air, and especially in the way he's holding his shoulders. Instead of elaborating, he throws a switch. There's a strange noise and then I'm thrown to the ground as the whole room shakes. As soon as it had started, it's over. "The Library!" the Doctor says, opening the door. "So big it doesn't need a name. Just a great big The."
Donna steps out first. "It's like a city!" she says in amazement.
I exit next, unable to pass up the temptation a massive library provides. God, I'm a fucking nerd. I stare around myself in amazement. It's not like a city at all, it's more like— "A planet," I breathe. "It's an entire planet isn't it?"
The Doctor beams, and some of the rigidity leaves his shoulders. "Right you are, Morgan. The whole core of the planet is the index computer. Biggest hard drive ever. We're near the equator, so this must be biographies. I love biographies."
Donna snorts. "Yeah, very you. Always a death at the end."
The Doctor shrugs. "You need a good death. Without death, there'd only be comedies."
He has a point. "'For without pain, there can be no pleasure. Without sadness, there can be no happiness. Without misery, there can be no beauty. And without these, life is endless, hopeless, doomed, and damned,'" I quote.
The Doctor turns to me in surprise that softens to affection. "Harlan Ellison," he attributes quietly.
Donna snorts again. "And you said she was young."
I make a face. "What does that even mean?"
The Doctor ignores my question in favor of swatting the book out of Donna's hand. "Whoa, spoilers!"
"What?" Donna and I exclaim at the same time, Donna in reply to the Doctor and me in indignation at his treatment of the book.
I quickly pick it off the floor, running a hand over the cover. "He didn't hurt you, did he, bb?"
The Doctor plucks the book neatly from my hands. "These books are from your future. You don't want to read ahead and spoil all the surprises. It'd be like peeking at the end."
I shrug. "I have no patience; I do that all the time."
He looks offended. "Morgan!"
I shrug again. "It's a character flaw in my otherwise flawless character, what can I say?"
He rolls his eyes. "At any rate," he says, "I try and keep you away from major plot developments. Which, to be honest, I seem to be very bad at, because you know what? This is—"
"Where is everyone?" I interrupt with a frown. "I would have thought we would've bumped into someone at this point."
The Doctor points at me. "Yes, precisely, Morgan. It's completely silent."
"It's a library," Donna deadpans.
"The planet," the Doctor elaborates. "The whole planet."
"Maybe it's a Sunday?" Donna offers, as if that makes a world of difference.
The Doctor and I exchange a look and then stare at Donna.
"What?" she asks. "I hate it when you two do this, look at me like I've asked the dumbest question in existence." She sighs. "Fine. Tell me why I'm stupid."
"You're not stupid," I reassure her.
The Doctor, meanwhile, isn't concerned with such niceties. Instead, he stalks over to the monitor near us, typing frantically at it for a few minutes. I wonder how he knows what to type, how he knows what to look for. "See," he says, turning to look at us over his shoulder, "I did a scan looking for basic humanoids and, apart from us, I get nothing. Zippo. Nada. See?" He gestures to the screen for our perusal. "Nobody home," he continues. "But if I widen the parameters to any kind of life—" He takes a step back and shows us the screen again. "A million, million. Caps at maximum record, gives up after that." He pauses, staring at the screen himself. "A million, million," he repeats.
"But there's nothing here. There's no one here." Donna says quizzically. "There's just books. I mean, it's not the books, is it?"
My eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. "It's definitely not the books," I say. Donna raises a brow in question. "It just can't be!" I defend myself.
The Doctor pays us no mind. "A million, million life forms and not a sound," says the Doctor, warm brown eyes meeting my gaze. I feel a strong wave of discomfort, almost palpable in its intensity, wash over the three of us as he concludes, "A million, million life forms… and silence in the library."
