It was sometimes, the Doctor thought with a moment of self-pity, very difficult to be him. Especially lately. Everyone –even Time Lords– has that little voice nestled into your brain, subtly nudging you about right and wrong; and he'd always thought that in over a thousand years, he'd gotten rather good at tuning it out when he chose… but lately, after the Ponds and especially after Darillium, those innermost thoughts were sometimes too loud, too pointed at reflecting commentary about his faults and impetuous behaviour back at him.
And today, they were agreeing quite emphatically with Cleo; and not with the rest of him at all.
"I've known you all my life," she said to the Doctor, "and I've always thought that you were a fair man. That you helped those who needed it."
"I try," he answered. "I do. But the truth is…" He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face.
"I was back here five years ago in your timeline," he admitted. "I don't know when exactly it was for me. A long time ago, and I came to see… well, it doesn't matter what I came here for. The statues in your memorial park don't like a thing like the Founders by the way; they got the hair all wrong.
"But I saw then what was happening. How your society was changing. I'd always said that it was likely to happen that way; but there were those who disagreed with me. Who thought that what you were trying to do would one day prove fruitful, a stepping-stone for the future if you will. They saw it as a duty to help create your colony; no matter what I said."
Cleo was silent, drumming her fingers against the edges of the computer keyboard, and the Doctor tried desperately to think of what else he could say.
"Sometimes," he spread his hands out appealingly, "I can fix things or change things or nudge them onto different possibilities or timelines. But I think what's happened here… it was always meant to. A fixed point."
No.
The Doctor closed his eyes tight for a moment, trying to drown that traitorous voice of his conscience.
Stop lying, Doctor; to her and to yourself! This is no fixed point; or you'd be able to feel those little threads of fate and destiny and time weave together into a Gordion's knot. This - this is a kink in the wires that was not intended. This is the possibility that was not meant to be; and you could fix it if you weren't being so ridiculously stubborn.
"There's nothing I can do…" he whispered. "And I wish you wouldn't ask for something I can't fix."
Cleo sighed, her eyes full of suppressed sadness. "So then you're telling me, Doctor, that you felt no responsibility five years ago -and none now- to help the legacy that River Song created here?"
His face tightened at the mention of that name; the one he was so careful to never, ever say for fear that the collection of memories he ran from would overwhelm him.
Are you going to tell her the truth? It's not that you feel no responsibility. It's that just being here is difficult enough for you, too many memories. And if you help, you're afraid it could make you think too much of-
"Because," Cleo's voice was sharp, piercing through that damnable whisper in his brain, "she always believed in what we would accomplish here."
"She did. And she was wrong."
Oh, was she now? His conscience sounded like it was smirking. Awful things, consciences. Too noisy, and at completely inappropriate times.
"I had hoped," Cleo continued, "that she would be there when you received my message-"
"Stop it." The Doctor spoke softly, each word feeling like it cost him piece of his hearts. He wasn't sure if he was talking to Cleo, or to himself.
"Clearly she wasn't. But if you were to contact her now, ask her opinion..."
The Doctor whimpered suddenly, eyes squeezing shut.
"She's gone," he whispered. "Died, a long time ago. I can't ask her, and I can't know what she'd want. It's not as though she's my conscience… like I'd hear her voice urging me to help you."
Don't you ever get tired of Rule #1? Lies upon lies upon lies. You know that if I'd gotten that message, what I'd do.
He did. He knew that River would be in the front of the line, leading the rebels with guns blazing and a cheeky smile. He could hear her voice in his head, almost like she was standing next to him.
There has always been potential in the foundations of this society to lead the way to tomorrow. I know what they're supposed to become; we have even visited the races in the future that will depend on them! And you're being a fool, Doctor, if you walk away. Don't you owe it to them, to me, to help if you can?
"I can't," he mumbled. "I don't think I can give you what you need, here. Any of you." He opened his eyes, looking straight into Cleo's reproachful face.
"I thought you were the Doctor," she said softly. "A man who made things better. A very good man, River said, who would always be there if he was called."
"Maybe I'm not that man anymore." It hadn't been so very long ago that he'd been in Victorian London, hiding on a cloudbank after Darillium and wondering what he'd be without her.
True. And maybe the good man that River Song chose to save again and again and again is just hiding underneath the selfish one trying to avoid pain, hmm?
"Stop it!" he grumbled. Cleo looked at him. Her eyes narrowed, and as she opened her mouth –doubtlessly to ask what was wrong- the door flew open with a sharp bang, and Clara stepped inside. The Doctor didn't think he'd ever been so happy to see anyone in his entire life.
"Clara!" He was across the room in moments, pulling her into a quick hug. He buried his face into her hair, squeezing around her middle –tight, tighter- until she wriggled free, gasping for air.
"What did they do to you in here?" she asked, still breathless. He grinned at her.
"Oh, the usual. Bit of a chat, inspected their computer system, caught up with old friends." He gestured to Cleo, who had by this point stood up and walked over toward them. "Have you two met? No, of course not. Clara Oswald, this is the Governor Emeritus of Shonslebn, Cleopatra Riedl."
Clara's eyes went wide. "Cleopatra-"
"I call her Cleo," the Doctor said in a loud stage whisper.
"Thanks for the clarification," Clara whispered back. "So… Cleo Riedl. Is that a very common name around here?"
"I doubt," Cleo said dryly, "that it's a very common name anywhere. Pleased to meet you, Clara. May I ask how you managed to get into the Hall of Justice?"
Clara's cheeks turned slightly pinker than usual. "I had some help. Made some friends who managed to get me in, when I found out the Doctor was still here."
"Langbein," Cleo said with a decisive nod. "Good man. Helpful to have some members of the Erste in the police."
"You know about them?" Clara's eyes were wide. "But… you're the government! And they told me that you lot didn't approve…"
"Some don't." Cleo shrugged. "But I think that if the leaders of the Erste were to come out of hiding, stop with their cloak-and-dagger rescues and whispers underground, they might find they have more friends than they realise."
The Doctor was looking between the two of them, his eyebrows raised questioningly. He hated it when everyone else around him seemed to know more than he did. He was the Doctor, after all; and it was really unthinkable for him to be confused about what was going on.
"Have you," he asked, turning to his companion, "gotten yourself all mixed up in this?"
"No. Maybe a little, Doctor. I didn't mean to; it just… happened?" She was twisting her fingers together, looking up at him with large, appealing eyes. "The people I met were the rebels, and when we were waiting to find out where you were they told me about the culture of Shonslebn."
She hesitated. "Do you know what they do here? When you're seven, they figure out what you'll be good at, and plan your life accordingly for you. And if you don't fit in," she swallowed, "they kill you. I thought we were in the future, and your friend helped develop this colony? What sort of place is this?"
"It's a world," the Doctor said absently, almost like he wasn't even listening to her. His head was tilted to the side, eyes avoiding hers. "One like any other; that despite the good intentions they began with seems to have gotten twisted and turned into a society determined to enact the oldest story in the Universe. Distrust of anyone who isn't like you. Persecution and death to the people perceived as traitors to the correct order.
"Now a question for both of you. Who are the Erste? You've both mentioned them; to each other, not to me, I might add. Very rude to hide things. Especially if you want my help in fixing this."
"The rebels," Clara said promptly. "The ones who don't fit in."
"Were you at their headquarters?" Cleo asked intently. "Did you see the leader?"
Clara nodded. "Nice guy. Matthieu brought me to Boese Wolf for hot chocolate with the rebels."
Boese Wolf. His conscience was active again. You don't need a translation, do you? Isn't it funny how Bad Wolf continues to follow you… how many more signs do you need to tell you that you're meant to do something here?
"Doctor," Clara said, waving her hand in front of his face to get his attention, "I never said I wanted you to fix this."
"No," the Doctor admitted. "You didn't. Everyone else thinks I should." His eyes flickered from Cleo over to the computer monitor, and back again.
"What do you think, then?" His gaze on Clara was deep, searching. "You think I should help? Because," he whispered, dropping his voice low and leaning in to her, "we don't have to stay here and be part of their war. We can just leave. Right now."
Clara squinted at him suddenly. He sounded rather like he was pleading with her. Like he wanted her to justify some decision he'd already made, but thought would sound too bad to say for himself.
"Somehow," she stammered, "I had the feeling that's not exactly your thing, is it? Walking away if someone needs help? We didn't back on Akhaten; so why here, why now? Is it," she faltered, "because these are humans that you wouldn't want to save them?"
He scoffed. "Clara, I save humans all the time. Five hundred and thirty-eight times already, I've saved the human race."
Thirty-nine. You do lose count, Doctor. Once more and you'll put it back in even numbers…
The Doctor gritted his teeth, deliberately turning his back to the corner of the room where the computer was.
"This place has gone wrong," he said slowly. "This isn't what… yes, I do know that this isn't what Doctor Song intended. But there's nothing that says I have to be the one to fix things. Left on their own, they could figure it out for themselves."
Perhaps.
"Eventually," the Doctor continued. "But I'm asking what you think, Clara. You don't live here. We don't ever have to come back; and when you're back at home with your family and responsibilities and your life… would it really matter to you that in one small planet in one small corner of the universe, there are people who are unhappy?"
Clara's eyes widened in surprise. She opened her mouth, intending to say something, and closed it again.
"That sounds so…" She stared at him. "How could you ask me something like…" She was having trouble finishing her sentence.
It was funny; earlier that day she'd wondered about the level of his humanity when he'd seemed so calm about the crowd jeering at Matthieu. But then, he'd helped him.
And now… she looked deeply into his eyes, seeing a stranger looking back out at her. No empathy in there. Sorrow. Loss. Sadness. Fear. Selfishness.
"You are an alien, aren't you?" she blurted out, "if you think of it like that! Why would I care that there are people I'll never see again who are happy? What sort of person are you, if you don't?"
"Because you should always help those who need it," she stated, aware that she had turned from reluctantly seeing the rebels' point of view to vehemently championing their cause. Mind, she wasn't quite sure how that happened… but maybe it was because in the face of the Doctor seeming so inhuman, it was up to her to do the opposite. "Because sometimes the people who need help the most are the ones who don't ask for it; or don't even think they need it… but who or what are you, not to even try?"
He wasn't meeting her eyes. Just staring into the corner of the room, with a pout on his lips, forehead a mass of creases.
"What are your people like?" Clara persisted. "What sort of alien are you? Because what did your world believe in? Taking away people's choices? Everyone should do what they're told to, when they're seven."
"In Gallifrey," the Doctor mumbled so low she could barely hear him, "it was eight."
"So then you agree?"
"I didn't say that."
"But," Clara pressed, "in not saying that, you're implying you think this world is right. That people shouldn't have choices? Is that what makes the best world, Doctor? Your friend, the one who organized this colony…is that what Doctor Song would've wanted to happen here?"
Will you answer her the same way you answered Cleo? That sometimes the world goes wrong, but what's it to do with you?
"I thought you said we don't walk away!"
No, you don't. Sometimes you run.
"Stop it," the Doctor whispered. "Clara… all of you. Just…" He rubbed his hand against his eyes.
"Clara, it's complicated here. We don't walk away. We help…when we can. If we can. If it's the right decision..."
"But who decides when it's right? You?"
He ducked his head. "Once, my race was responsible for policing the universe."
"Once, but not now? Now, you're choosing not to?"
"Why," the Doctor asked bitterly, "does this make so much of a difference to you, Clara?"
She paused, taken aback at the defeated tone in his voice. "I – I don't know. I guess that… I think everyone should be able to make their own choices if something is right. With me; you know, I made the choice to stay with the Maitlands when their Mum died. It was really sudden; and I knew the kids were upset and," she paused reflectively, "I knew what that felt like, when someone disappears from your life. How much it hurts, and how much you want to forget them and the pain; but at the same time, you're afraid to because if you forget the bad then you might forget the good too, and that means they're really gone…"
The Doctor had turned to face her. Still frowning, but with his eyes suspiciously bright.
"I know," was the only thing he said. "I know you made a choice to stay with them. I know how strong you must be to do that." There was something in his expression that Clara filed away in her brain to think about later. That lost look in his eyes; the hint of grief that permeated his entire being. She wasn't sure who he'd lost (did aliens have parents?) but it was obviously someone close.
"I'm not saying what I did is the same thing at all as what's going on here, or that my decisions are close to what the Shonslebns are facing. But I understand Matthieu, now. If you're in the position to be stronger –physically, mentally, emotionally– than other people who are lost… then isn't there the slightest responsibility on your shoulders to make a choice and try to help?"
"You think," the Doctor said slowly, "that everyone deserves to make their own choices about what is right for them. Who to save…"
Clara nodded.
He could feel their eyes on him. Cleo and Clara both, watching him with bitten lips and bated breath.
And in the corner, by the computer. He could almost see River there, with that expression on her face that he loved. It wasn't her usual sly smirk, but her smile…the one that she gave him when he was particularly clever or brave, when she was especially proud of him.
Well done, sweetie. He could almost hear her whisper, the laughter in her voice.
I like this one. She'll keep you honest.
"Oh…" he breathed, "stop looking so worried, all of you! Of course I'll help. That's what I do, right?"
I'd hoped so.
"Well." He turned to Cleo, clapping his hands. "Take me to your leader... Ooh. I've always wanted to say that. Even though I suppose this isn't a leader, is it? It's a computer system that I'll have to reconfigure, add another field for the uncategorized..."
"Wait... You'll help?" Clara stared at him, feeling confused by his sudden about-face.
"Course I will. Can't leave this world wrong. And anyway, my-" he ducked his head down, fingers flying over the computer keyboard and his words emerging muffled "-thought like you."
"Your what?" she asked. The Doctor made a grunt of impatience.
"Doctor Song said that…something like that. It's all about the choices you make. Who you save when you think it's right."