Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who
Modern Crusaders
Chapter 2
"For millions of years, In millions of homes
A man loved a woman, A child then was born
It learned how to hurt and it learned how to cry
Like Humans Do
I'm breathing in
I'm breathing out
I work and I sleep and I dance and I'm dead
The rain is pouring' in on a woman and a man
I'm aching
I'm shaking
I'm breaking
Like Humans Do"
David Byrne- Like Humans Do
Tap tap tap tap.
He drummed his fingers against the wall, holding his breath as he listened for a reply.
None came.
Tap tap tap tap. He tried again.
Nothing.
Tap tap tap tap.
Silence.
In the dark of the London alleyways, a man was smiling to himself. So honest, so pure was the smile, so filled with delight, that no wandering eyes would have ever guessed who it was that owned it.
He sunk to his knees, cold rain lashing down upon his face. Slowly, almost as if in prayer, he extended his arms to the sky, poised and outstretched. A small laugh escaped his throat, soon turning into joyous, choked sobs; overwhelmed with joy.
They were gone.
The drums were gone.
He was free.
"EX-TER-MI-NATE!!!"
The Dalek fired.
But the Doctor was too quick for it; he had spent far too many centuries dealing with these creatures not to know how to fight back. Grabbing hold of one of the corpses, he mustered up all his strength, and hauled it in the path of the oncoming laser.
The Dalek slid back a little, trying to work out what had just happened. "HOS-TILE-ACTION-DETECTED!!! YOU-WILL-BE-EXTERMINATED!!!"
The Doctor sighed to himself "Yeah, not today, mate." He mumbled in his best Donna Noble impression.
With the Dalek temporarily distracted, he took this opportunity to slide down the mountain of corpses, and bolt into a mad run. He wanted to die, oh yes, but he'd be damned if it was not by his own doing. There was still just enough fight in him yet, and he would not let them have the last laugh.
Panting, he made his way down the dark alleyways, sensing the Dalek close in pursuit. His single heart was pounding in his chest, and he could feel his legs growing weak. His whole body was weak! But he kept on running.
Left, right, sideways, down the stairs; left again. Subconsciously, he had already calculated a total of 43 places he could hide, but found his feet carrying him onwards, further through the wet maze. A growing pile of corpses met him in an alley way, and he had to make an effort not to trip over them, nor his untied shoe laces.
Something was calling him, he could hear it.
Thump.
Something so close, and yet so far away. Where was it?
Thump.
What was it?
Thump.
He was sure it was close! If he just kept on searching…
He turned a corner, the Dalek hot on his trail, firing shots at him. "EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINAAAATE!" The war cry pounded in his ears, in perfect renaissance with the gunfire.
He dodged, frantic that any second now, he would get hit, and it would all be over.
Thump.
And then he saw it, at the pinnacle of four beats. A ripple. Not a rift, not a vortex, not even a wormhole.
Just a ripple. A gap. A tiny, precious little gap, distorting this blasted reality just enough, that he....
He didn't know how, or why, or where it came from, or where it would lead to, but it was all he needed.
Knowing it would probably kill him, and not caring either way, he leapt through it.
"EXTERMINATE!!!"
But the Dalek was firing at thin air. It hovered there for a moment, then it's eye piece drooped, almost resembling something like shame.
"BUGGER. I'VE-LOST-HIM."
And with that, the Dalek initiated self destruct. A lone, metal creature; bathed in the bodies of those it had enslaved. With time the bodies would decompose, until nothing but their bones remained. In time, even those would whither away. But the Dalek would stay there, its armor rusting, day after day, but never decaying. It would be there centuries later, fossilized in its glory. Indomitable.
The Master marched down the streets of London, waving happily at the humans that passed him by. In his stride was a light-hearted skip, arms dangling comfortably at his sides. As he walked he whistled a fine tune; some old Gallifreyan lullaby, though the exact lyrics escaped his memory.
"Hello!" He said cheerfully to a passing woman, who was pushing an infant in some sort of primitive carriage; all the while trying to lug around three large grocery bags. "Need a hand, love?"
She chanced a quick glance at him, eyeing him up and down, and then turned her attention back to the road. "No thanks mate, got it covered."
He smiled after her as she walked away, then looked down at his clothes. A black hoodie with complimentary black pants, his red long johns protruding from all ends.
They were filthy.
He took a fistful of the fabric in his hand, and raised it to his nose.
And smelly...
…He smiled to himself.
It was time he found some new clothes.
The Doctor coughed, wet sunlight hitting his face. His eyes were sealed shut, his face scrunched up into an uncomfortable frown.
His head was pounding.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
He opened his eyes, and the sound became quieter; retreating further and further away with each beat, until finally, it stopped.
With a grateful sigh, he took it upon himself to observe his new surroundings. He was in an alleyway. The same alleyway he had previously been in, but with one massive difference.
There were no bodies.
He sat up with a jolt. Had it really worked…?
He looked behind him, anxious that the Dalek may have followed him through the ripple, but alas, there was nothing. The opening had vanished from sight.
He smiled, and somehow he knew, he was home.
Human transport was so overrated.
The Master sat huddled, uncomfortably squeezed between an old man and a gangly young school girl, his face buried in a magazine. Upon the cover read some internet slang that he remembered, had taken him four weeks to properly understand. "Kittens FTW!" in bold white letters. Licking his thumb, he turned the page, only to be greeted with more pictures of the feline frenzies.
It had not taken him long to steal some money (a hefty amount, at that) but as the double decker bus raddled on, he was beginning to wonder if he should not have simply walked the long distance that it would take to get to a proper fashion depot.
Across from him, a middle-aged woman eyed him suspiciously. Her hair was red and mousy, her skin rusted and wrinkly; adorned in far too much make up. Upon her lips, smothered in red, a large frown slept, wrapped in fine creases. Her eyes were an astonishing blue, and they glared at him with a fierceness that would make any human's skin crawl.
But he was not human.
"Got a problem, Love?" He lifted his eyes from the magazine, and flashed a pearly white grin at her.
In turn, she uttered a loud snort, and turned her attention to the world outside her window.
Well, obviously, he smelled.
He looked around, to find that she had only been one of many pairs of glaring eyes; though these ones quickly found other interests as soon as they met his own. Even the driver's nose had found its way into a disgusted wrinkle.
Humans had no manners.
Beside him, the school girl seemed to be the only one unaffected by his musty odor, as she scribbled furiously at what he presumed could only be her homework; highly doubting she worked out algebraic equations as a pastime hobby. Didn't look the type, even with her greasy hair and thick rimmed glasses.
He watched with mild interest as she scribbled out another equation, visibly frustrated as she uttered a low curse under her breath. The page was stained with black ink, each equation failing to produce the proper answer. She was dumb, this one.
"Twenty-three." He said simply.
She looked up at him, annoyance poorly hid on her emaciated features. "What?"
"Twenty-three." He repeated, and flashed her the same grin he had given to the old hag.
This received a furious blush on her end, and she muttered a quiet "oh…" rather than a "thank you" and copied in the correct answer.
With that he turned his attention back to his magazine, ignoring her as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. Perhaps she had a cold, though the Master speculated she had finally caught whiff of his stench.
He was cold.
The Doctor coughed; strings of yellow flem escaping from his mouth onto his sleeve.
He was sick.
With a pained sigh, he leaned against the moist-brick wall, sliding down it in defeat. His clothes were soaked with rain, with large gauds of mud to compliment. Closing his eyes, he drew his knees up to his chest, a pitiful whimper escaping his throat. He rocked back and forth, head buried in his knees.
It wasn't fair.
He thought it would be different, somehow. He thought that, by coming home, it would somehow make things right again; make them better.
But they weren't.
He was still cold, and still hungry. Still shaken, and broken, and sick with death. He had no shelter, no warmth and no comfort from the storm. But none of it mattered, because the worst thing…
Was that he was alone.
Truly alone, this time. In a world where he was surrounded by his former companions, he should have been able to go to any one of them.
But he couldn't.
Because he wasn't The Doctor. He didn't belong to them, just as he didn't belong to the false world. Just as he didn't belong to Rose, much as they had both tried to convince themselves otherwise. And they tried, they tried so hard, but he saw the way she looked at him, and it wasn't the same. The way she said his name, it wasn't the same. None of it was. He wasn't hers.
He let out a chocked sob, clutching his stringy hair in his fists. Rassilon, what could he do…? Who did he have, now that everyone he loved, was no longer his? Everything he had done over the centuries, every life he had saved, or taken, or broken or changed, was no longer his to bear. Who would help him now?
"Help!"
Yes, help. He needed help. He didn't want to die, he wanted help. Why would no one help him?
"Somebody, help!"
Somebody help him. Anyone.
"Let go of me, no! Oh god, help me!"
He looked up, startled. The voice wasn't his. Where was it coming from?
He looked around, eyes searching frantically for the source, until they landed on the dark alleyway to his right. There were no street lamps, not even any stars to guide his way, but he could vaguely make out, someone was in danger.
The figure of a woman, wrestling the foreboding shape of a man, who was threatening her in a hushed voice. The Doctor couldn't make out his words, and before he knew it, he was moving closer.
The woman spotted him.
"Help!" She repeated. "Help me!" She was hysterical, the man holding a pistol to her head with one hand, restraining her with the other. She struggled against him, a useless effort in her close fitting skirt and high boots.
He rushed towards her, but then saw the shape of the man advance on him. His face was masked, but The Doctor could see his eyes, and he felt fear work it's way into his bones. This was an honest man. This man would kill him, without a second thought.
Suddenly, The Doctor was frozen in his spot, nervous sweat trickling down his face.
The gun was now pointing at him.
"Now, just…" The Doctor stammered, holding up his index finger "Just listen…"
The man fired the gun, and the Doctor barely had enough time to turn tail and run. He ran as fast as his human legs would allow him, but in his head a little voice rang louder than any of the gun shots now following him.
Coward.
He ran faster.
She'll die because of you.
He shook his head in denial, screaming at the voice to shut up. She would have died anyway, it wasn't his fault. What could he do? He couldn't save her, he couldn't even save Rose! Why should he risk his life for some stranger that didn't even have the brains to stay away from some dark alley way at three in the morning? It wasn't his fault, it didn't concern him!
It is never a good idea to run with your eyes closed, and soon The Doctor found himself face to face with a clangy trash can, having tripped over a stray cat.
The cat hissed at him, slashing at his face until it felt sure that the strange man would not attack it, whereas it receded into the shadows of the four surrounding alleys.
Now sobbing in unconditional strides, The Doctor slammed his fists into the mud, the taste of it mixed with his own mucus. He cried, and heaved, and choked, and he couldn't take it. He hated being human. He was so weak.
Oi, Space-man!
"SHUT UP, DONNA!" He screamed at the stars. The cat hissed at him from its spot atop an old bed frame.
Oi! I don't know what kind of control you have over mister dramatics over here, but you're not telling me to shut up! What the hell are you doing? Go BACK there and SAVE HER!
"I can't…" He cried to himself. "Please, leave me be…"
No!
"GO AWAY!"
Blissful silence.
He ushered a final, raspy sob, and then, with all his strength, pulled himself to his feet. Oh, why him? Why was it that he, who had no one, should be savior to every bloody ape he came into contact with. It wasn't fair.
But she was right. He couldn't just leave her.
With great effort, he slowly turned in the direction he had come, and began to run. He did not know how far he had come, or how much time had passed, but he knew he was running out of it.
He could not remember what turns to make, and found himself guided only by the woman's increasing screams, which were mercifully growing closer.
Finally, he spotted them. And though he was weak, and felt as though he would collapse at any second, he charged at the man.
Down to the ground they wrestled, fighting for control over the gun. The Doctor kicked and pushed and pulled and yanked, all the while being fought off with much more strength from the apposing man, but he had the upper hand. Using what he could remember of Venusian Aikido, though not as well as his third incarnation might have done, he wrenched the gun from the culprit's hands, just as it was fired into the air.
He used the rear of it to knock him down, and then turned swiftly around to check on the woman.
But the sight that met him was one of horror, and the gun slipped through his fingers, hitting the grass with impossible noise. Time seemed to stop, something The Doctor had once been able to control, and he stared wide eyed, as blood poured from the woman's chest, onto the pavement. Her eyes were glued open, her face forever frozen in a terrified, silent scream.
She was dead.
He had killed her.
Author's Notes: 'Venusian Aikido" was a form of martial arts used by the third Doctor. Cats and Time Lords have a reoccurring history in Doctor Who (it has even been joked/mentioned that Time Lords evolved from cats rather than monkeys) so I figured I'd give them a little mention, both with the Doctor and the Master (who was turned part-cat himself in the classic who episode "Survival")
The Dalek saying "Bugger, I've lost him" was a reference to the classic who episode "The Five Doctors" Blooper, where a Dalek was chasing the First Doctor and his granddaughter (Susan) down a corridor and said "Bugger, I've lost 'em"