The Doctor sighed, allowing the controller to slide out of his hands. The controller, which could have passed for a games console pad, fell to the floor with a clunk.
Its purpose was far deadlier: this controller was wired up to a detonator. The plain old button on it had just been pressed, killing millions of Daleks – and Time Lords.
The Doctor rubbed his tired eyes, and it was a moment before he noticed that he was no longer alone.
"Step away from the controls," the wavering voice ordered.
The Doctor turned around, his hearts aching.
There was a young soldier standing in the doorway, his wiry frame silhouetted by a raging fire in the corridor beyond. He was pointing a staser pistol at him.
His eyes were wide. The gun was shaking.
"It's you!" the soldier uttered in disbelief, tightening his grip on the weapon.
He studied the Doctor, glancing him up and down with fearful eyes.
"You're unarmed." The observation was made with barely a whisper. The young soldiers heard tales of the Doctor's actions during the Last Great Time War; how he destroyed millions of Daleks single-handedly.
"Yes, I am," the Doctor agreed.
The Doctor stood calmly, his arms by his side, waiting for the soldier to come to a decision.
"And yet…"
The Time Lord stared at the viewscreen behind the Doctor; at the carnage raging in space around them. Fractured remains of Dalek vessels and splintered time capsules.
The Doctor didn't move, continuing to observe the soldier's horrified reaction.
"There were Time Lord ships among them."
"I know," the Doctor said. "The catalyst wouldn't have worked without them."
The young Time Lord's brows furled into a frown, appalled.
"One does not walk away from a war like this unscathed," the Doctor muttered.
The soldier shook his head. "I should…"
He glanced down at his staser pistol, squared on the Doctor.
"This will kill you."
Usually, this went without explanation. The Doctor was aware that the weapon was set with a powerful ray, which would destroy his regenerative capabilities. It would kill him.
"I'm not scared," the Doctor said, truthfully.
He waited patiently. But the soldier was clearly reluctant to shoot him.
"But how could a mind even come up with that? How can you even imagine…?" he stammered. "What kind of monster are you?"
The Doctor locked eyes with the soldier for a moment. He wasn't arguing.
His mouth curled into a grimace, and he bore down upon the soldier, taking advantage of his fear.
"Congratulations! Think of the stories you can tell your grandchildren."
The soldier flinched, and backed away.
"Not only did you survive a battle against the Daleks. You survived me!" the Doctor roared.
The soldier paled, dropped his weapon, turned, and ran.
The Doctor fumed, watching him as he fled.
When the soldier was gone, he kicked the weapon with such force, it smashed against the wall.
He roared again.
It was a futile gesture. It made no difference. It didn't change anything. It didn't change the things he'd done.
He sank to the floor.
"Maybe this is it," he muttered. "Maybe this is my way out."
He stared blankly at the wrecked machinery around him.
"I'm old. Even for a Time Lord."
The Doctor couldn't be sure exactly how old he was. He had lived so many lives, and he couldn't possibly count the years. He didn't dare to look back.
"I've lived too long…"
He'd been here before, fighting against the inevitable. Delaying his death. Fighting to survive. Was it really worth it?
The Doctor had been running away his whole life. Perhaps it was time to stop.
"Why don't I just stop now?" he muttered aloud. He wasn't sure if there was anyone listening.
"Why don't I just choose to die now?" the Doctor considered.
"Maybe I'm scared of dying."
He frowned. "Everyone's scared of dying. Who isn't afraid of the darkness? The void of non-existence?"
"Maybe it's not that. Maybe I just don't want to."
He closed his eyes, and rested his head back against the wall.
"Doctor… oh, Doctor. I'm tired… I want to sleep…"
He opened his eyes again, but he was still dreaming. Still trapped in this recurring nightmare from the darkest days of the Time War.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he pleaded.
He waited for an answer, but there wasn't one coming.
No-one can ever answer those questions. The ones that really matter.
He felt a pang of despair, as he thought of all the lives that had been lost because of him. Was he really doing the right thing?
For once, he couldn't hold his emotions back, and a tear escaped him.
"Stop. Stop it. Stop crying," he growled, bitterly.
He frowned. A wave of light-headedness blanketing him.
The thought was there, in his mind, but it wasn't his. There was only one place that could have come from.
"Charlie?"
Was Charlie still fighting to save him, even now?
Why didn't the boy just stop? What was he fighting for?
The Doctor closed his eyes, and stepped inside his mind.
There were swirling dark shapes all around him.
Sure, he could change the colour scheme if he wanted. But introspection generally involved a certain amount of brooding. So the mood lighting had to be right.
The Doctor descended through his thoughts, until he found the ones that didn't belong to him.
These were Charlie's thoughts and memories; his hopes and fears. He was in here, too.
He approached the bubble of thoughts.
Well, it looked like a bubble, except it wasn't a bubble. But you can think of it as a bubble if you want.
It was fairly self-contained; Charlie's human mind was so much smaller than his, like a marble floating in an ocean. It was a wonder that he'd been able to find it.
Those dark shapes were swirling all around it, nuzzling the bubble inquisitively.
The Doctor wasn't sure what they were. Were they his own dark thoughts and suspicions? Was it his own self-hatred?
The shapes darted away like a shoal of frightened fish as soon as the Doctor approached it.
He pressed his fingertips against the bubble. Arcs of electricity leapt out from the space inside the bubble to meet them.
He connected with these neural pathways, and glimpsed inside.
In his mind, Charlie's memories were projected onto the surface of the bubble; snapshots of his life: his childhood, his schooldays, holidays and Christmases.
It was a wonderfully ordinary life – one the Doctor sometimes wished he could have lived.
There were more recent memories, of course, featuring the Doctor, which weren't so ordinary.
The further back he went, the more obscure the images were. Some of the memories were blurry, shrouded in fog. They were human memories after all. Things had been forgotten. Things were being kept secret – even from him.
The Doctor pressed further, trying to unravel the mysteries that were concealed from his vision.
He had to be careful – the mind was a fragile thing. Too much pressure and it could crack like an egg.
"There's something you don't want me to know, isn't there?" the Doctor mused.
There was a furious spark, and the Doctor leapt back. It was as though the mind had lashed out at him, frazzling his fingertips.
He shook his burnt hand, trying to cool his fingers.
He'd just been forced out of Charlie's mind, which confirmed his assumption. He had already guessed that – he didn't need to look inside the boy's thoughts just to know that he was hiding something.
He had called someone, when they were on the moon. And judging by Charlie's reaction, it hadn't gone well.
He kept mentioning a name, when he fell asleep in the TARDIS. It happened another time when Charlie had been knocked out by a Vinvocci criminal.
Logic dictated this was the same person. But who were they? And why were they significant?
And there was something else. Something highly unusual about him – perhaps Charlie himself wasn't even aware of it.
There was something odd about the Arachnid Queen's interest in him. And the Wraith – it didn't make sense.
"How can you just lock me out like that?" the Doctor thought aloud. "How are you this strong?"
Determined not to waste this opportunity to find out, the Doctor pulled out a stethoscope, and pressed it against the surface of the sphere.
