It only took a single second. Whoosh, he might've heard—had he been around to hear—but he now found himself in a dark and damp… cave? He looked around, a few stalagmites poking out. It was quite hard to see, but his eyes were quickly adapting to the new, light-less surroundings.
He would've taken his screwdriver out, but he knew that it would barely change a thing. Pupils enlarged, he could already see immensely well. It wasn't a cave. Not really—it was more like a …bubble. A bubble of empty space in a hunk of stone. There was no passageway, he had absolutely nowhere to go.
He put his hands against the cold wall, stabilising his breath. Stupid technology. What was this, a prison? It was supposed to be random coordinates, so why did it put him here? At least he wasn't half suffocating in some rock somewhere. But he had no idea if he was deep underground or not. For all he knew, he could be in a mountain. He had to dig sideways if that was the case, but for all he knew, he was thousands of kilometres underground, and had to go up.
Not that he could dig, anyways. At least if there was some kind of door, the sonic could've been useful. No secret doors either, he noted. The lining was perfect everywhere, down to the atom. No one had come here, it was untainted.
He took a deep breath. OK. No obvious way to go, but he was the king of Getting Out Of Tight Spots. He had a good record, it'd be fine. He tapped the wall. It barely resounded at all, but there was a slight echo around the room. There wasn't a lot of oxygen, but he'd be good for about 18 hours. Yet, based on the sound, there was a massive amount of, well, mass, behind the wall. It was very thick; much like himself, he supposed.
The sonic would take many centuries to calculate the atomic structure of this stone—it wasn't one he had any interest in, before, so there'd be no starting point.
This didn't look very good. He sat down. Okay, think, think, think… Use that gigantic brain of yours… There had to be a way out. There just had to be. He had lived too long and too many to just suffocate in some cave in the middle of nowhere on some NOWHERE planet for some DUMB, technical error that didn't even involve him—just to get to see that stupid light festival that he didn't even enjoy—
He took a deep breath. OK, that wasn't going to help. There was no reason to get angry, it wasn't going to help.
Not that that stopped him. His anger hadn't dissipated in the slightest. He didn't even want to be here. He just didn't want to be still, on the TARDIS, with her being all temperamental like he had done something wrong—even if he did, it didn't matter—what was she getting all—
He stopped himself. Again, wasn't gonna help.
Surprisingly, he shivered. He only just turned to notice that the room was immensely cold, and that he was freezing. He took a deep breath. The freezing wouldn't do him in for a long while, superior physiology and all that, and the oxygen gave him plenty of time. He had escaped worse with less. Even if those times were in the middle of a high-tech civilization, while here there was nothing in sight…
Then another thought hit him. Were he to die here, he couldn't regenerate. Not that a regeneration would fix this; even if he were to use the regen energy on the stone, it'd never cut through this big an amount. It wouldn't come to that, he vowed. He'd get out of there.
Now, to get on with that idea, he looked around the cave, looking for anything that was even but slightly out of place. He sonicked the nudges that looked suspicious. Yet, nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was just some deserted cave that likely no one had ever seen. He was stuck.
And there wasn't much he could do. He rumbled around in his pockets, trying to remember if he had anything in there that could potentially be useful. A small bomb, a drill, perhaps? But no, he had nothing. Except some banana that he took the time to eat before realising it was quite a bad idea considering the smell it'd make in a while. He put it back in his pocket. He'd worry about that later. Either he was due to die soon, or he'd get out of here, back to the TARDIS, and then his pockets smelling like bananas would pale in comparison to regaining freedom.
He slouched against the wall. What a lame way to die, he thought. He'd done so much with this stupidly long life of his, and here he was. Not going out in some blaze of glory, not sacrificing himself heroically. Dying in some cold cave because he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ironic. That stupid Hebatov better be looking for him. Stupid guy just teleported him as he ran away because he looked 'suspicious'. He wasn't prone to call people racist, but considering he was the only off-worlder… bunch of stuck up jerks. That's what they were. They don't even know what they've done. They've ended a thousand year war by providing him with this death sentence. Last of the Time Lords, dying in some random cave. He thought it was fitting. He didn't deserve anything more than this.
On one hand, being alone was quickly going to push his sanity. On the other, he was glad that there wouldn't be anyone here to die an agonisingly slow death with him. He would never wish that on someone he cared about. They'd die quicker, too. He tried not to imagine what it would have been like to have to stay here for hours with a dead body, helpless.
All things considered, the loneliness was worth it.
He slid down. The ground was uncomfortable beneath him, but he didn't want to keep standing for hours. Hours… he still had hours left.
What now? What to do for literal hours? He couldn't stay still on the TARDIS, how was this any different?
Then it hit him. He was stuck. Completely—and he'd be here, doing nothing for the next few hours while his body was fighting a losing battle. This was it, this was the end of it. Of it all. The War, the Time Lords, the TARDIS—everything. He would never see another sky. He'd never walk on some other planet, ready to give his all to defend it. Never fight another battle, never meet anyone else. It was over.
Well, was it worth it?
He laughed at that. Being with himself for the next few hours was going to be the worst of all. He was, all things considered, insufferable. He'd know. The worst part is when he lost the fight with his own head and memories started flooding in.
This is not what he wanted. He didn't want to remember anyone, or anything. Couldn't his mind just be quiet for the few hours he had left? Was that really too much to ask?!
He tried his best to not dignify anything with a response. Maybe if he ignored it, it'd go away. That's usually how he dealt with his problems, and so far, it had worked… to varying degrees. He tried to focus on the coldness of the room instead of all the faces he saw. It didn't really work. Being a genius and all, he could focus on multiple things at once.
OK, he was going to die anyway. Was there anything he could do to speed up the process?
The fact that no one was there to chastise the thought was even more worrying than the thought itself.
Then again… was it really such a bad idea? It's not as if anyone was waiting on him. Why'd he have to suffer even more just to die pathetically in a few hours? It was already over, anyway. He looked around the room once more. Not that he could do anything. There'd be no way to get a small piece of rock from here, and even if, what could he do? Bash his own head in? That'd still take an excruciating amount of effort. And it'd hurt. A lot.
He sighed. And sighed again. This was immensely boring. At this point, he might as well start counting sheep. But if he did fall asleep, his body would use less oxygen, meaning his already agonisingly long death would take even longer. Waiting it out it was.
He ticked his fingers against his pants for a while. Then he moved on to his head. Unsatisfied with that sound, he moved to the ground. Nothing was really making a pleasing sound, but at this point, he'd rather not take the silence any longer.
"Oh," he said, after quite a while. "I'm an idiot. I could just talk out loud."
Now tapping his finger against his chin, he asked to himself, "Talk about what, though? I don't really have much to say." He grinned. "Good thing I know the dictionary by heart, then!"
A was quite a boring and unoriginal letter to start, so he decided P should do the trick. After getting to the word 'psoriasis', he realised that this might not have been as good an idea as he originally thought. "For one, this is kinda hurting my throat." Second, this was taking the oxygen a lot more quickly. "But, maybe that's not actually a problem. Since that's what I'm going for."
But his throat really started hurting. Some milk would be nice, but the only thing he had close to that was some spoiled thing from the 67th Century, and that was not a risk he was willing to take. No more talking, then.
Again, in silence, he sat. The solitude was almost as bad as how boring it all was. He couldn't even feel the TARDIS, strangely. He had wanted to say something to her, perhaps apologise, but now that was taken from him, too. He considered writing a letter, but no one would find his body.
He hoped no one would find his body. Even a single cell would be enough to revolutionise some planets—that, in the hands of the wrong person? At least he wouldn't have to burn himself. A slight comfort amid the situation. Burning to death was not particularly something he had on his bucket list.
He briefly considered banging his head against the wall, but quickly decided against it. Knocking himself out also wouldn't do anyone any favours. Maybe later. Groaning loudly, he straightened up his back.
He hummed 'Rhapsody in Blue' quietly. Then 'In the Mood'. When he heard some rumbling from outside himself, he stopped. Thinking he imagined it, he picked back up singing, but then he heard it again. Rumbling, coming from outside the walls.
He barely had any time to stand up before he was knocked out as the wall blew out. Chunks fell close, the roof almost caving down on him. When the dust cleared, he felt even worse as he saw a gigantic spider in the tunnel. A huge, mountain eating spider, that was looking at him like he was dinner.
OK, being eaten to death was somehow even worse than his previous predicament. He swallowed thoroughly before making a dash for it. Yet he was unable to slip through the enormous legs that were hindering his path, as his clothes stuck to them as he passed.
He flashed a dashing smile to the spider as it stared at him. He had seduced spiders before, so it wasn't completely impossible for him. But he would rather not. He just… didn't really feel like it. So when the spider made no attempt to gulp him down, he was quite pleasantly surprised. In fact, it just turned around and… sat down? It purred, and then the Doctor decided that it really didn't matter what he did in the world. It was too absurd to care about the why and how. He tentatively climbed the spider and sat down. He held tightly to it as it started moving, running back through the tunnel it had dug.
When it abruptly stopped and light blinded him, he was more than happy to breathe new air again. The spider stilled, waiting until he got down. The night sky looked more gorgeous than he had remembered. No dying today. At least, no asphyxiation. That's something he could be satisfied with.