"VAN GOGH!"

The shout echoed against the walls of the deep cavern, drops of gloo fell from the stalactite vibrating with the intensity of the voice, and he fell head first into the dusty ground covered in tiny rocks and that same, viscous substance that stuck to his skin.

He could vaguely hear the hurried cries of his classmates, the low rumble of the beast's claws hammering against the ground, the sound of all those guns firing at once, the blood rushing, pulsing in his ears. He could vaguely feel the thin sand under his palms, the warmth of the volcano's earth under his heaving chest, the trickle of green gloo that oozed from the cavern like poison and spat over his back. He couldn't see anything but the pitch black darkness of his eyelids. What he could definitely feel, however, was the excruciating pain radiating from the lacerated skin of his abdomen, the cool blood pooling from a wound he supposed was deep enough to have touched his spinal cord - or so the inability to move a single finger told him.

A pitiful whimper left his parted lips and he felt his body warm up, at the extremities first, then up his arms and legs, the heat nestling deep between the weak and irregular beating of his hearts. Regeneration. If his brain were receiving enough blood and if he weren't on the verge of passing out, he would have remembered everything he'd read about it in the Library. And even then, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. The warmth turned to burning, searing heat throughout his whole body, he could feel all the cells, the molecules in his body change, split, die and live again. It felt like millions of fire ants crawling up his dying physical envelop - he'd learnt about the fire ants a few years back, in a manual about Earth insects, and through the thick fog of his haze and confusion he believed that was the best way to describe it. Needles that pierced his skin, tweezers that pulled at the fibers of his muscles, clamps that tightened around his bones and shattered them to tiny pieces.

He should have been praying that his first regeneration would go smoothly - unlike some who had been unable to go through the whole process and had found a gruesome death. He should have been begging that the wound wasn't too serious or his body too weak to survive this torture. He should have been hoping this would all be over soon. But, as his fingers curled against rocks and his feet dragged slowly in the sand as beams of regeneration energy burst from his extremities, only one thought crawled its way to the front of his mind. Please, give me a body she will like. Please, give me a body she will like.

A scream tore its way out of his throat when his whole body was entirely swallowed by a yellowish light that shone brighter than Gallifrey's suns and burnt hotter than the ardent magma brewing in the pit of the volcano. He felt his muscles and his bones grow, pulled and stretched to accommodate the new height of his morphing body. He felt his tattered organs stitch batch together and all the connexions flare back to life when his spinal cord melded back into a fully functional one. It didn't help with the pain.

"Don't touch him!" he heard one of his friends warn in a loud cry, over his own, plaintive ones. "Let it happen, don't touch him!"

"The Drearian!" another screamed, more gunshots resonating against the cavern walls. "It's not dead yet! Aim for its head, for Rassilon's sake!"

And, all of the sudden, his arching back fell back to the ground with a dull thump that was imitated by the beast collapsing against a huge rock. He took in a ragged breath, as deep and long as his new set of lungs would allow him to, and tears filled his eyes when he realized he could still breathe. He was alive. His half-open eyes fell on the Drearian that had fallen limply to the ground, body covered in dozens gunshot wounds leaking blood. It was dead.

The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was his friend Tinker, proudly stepping a foot down on the beast's head with a smug smile.

He could hear the birds merrily chirping in the trees. His close eyelids were thin enough to let him know he was lying somewhere bright. Somewhere warm. A strong smell of flowers invaded his nostrils and tickled all the way down his throat. So different from the dust and the stifling heat he remembered inhaling and feeling moments before. Or was it longer than moments? The searing headache punching his skull and burning behind his eyes didn't help his sense of time pinpoint how much time had passed since the test. He tried to rub his nose but only then did he realize he was trapped. He couldn't move. His eyes shot open at the definite panic he felt bubbling in his stomach and he struggled to take a deep breath that turned into a rough string of coughs that brought tears to the corner of his eyes.

He took a few seconds to calm down and analyze the situation, like he usually did when faced with something he didn't understand - a rare occurrence that never failed to spark his anger and annoyance. He was in bed. A simple one, with a heavy duvet thrown over his body and an uncomfortable pillow tucked under his head. He threw a quick look around, with the odd feeling that his eyesight had grown weaker. A flower pot on a small bedside table, an ugly painting hanging on an otherwise naked wall, another bed, just like his, unoccupied. He recognized the infirmary of the Academy, but it required a long minute before everything clicked in place in his fuzzy brain. Oh yes, the last test. The Drearian. The claw that had bored through his abdomen. The regeneration.

He fumbled with the heavy cover and swung his feet to the side despite the remnants of pain pulling at his brand new muscles. His height made him second guess each of his steps, unused to walk with such long and wiry legs. He took notice of his knees and a soft breath of relief fled past his lips. These weren't crooked, and the joints rolled with such fluidity he believed he was walking on a fluffy cloud instead of an uneven path covered in potholes and clods of earth. But this wasn't important. All he could think about as he made his way to the full-length mirror standing in the corner of the room were the hair blond as ripe wheat, the round nose, the rosy cheeks, the full lips, and those deep whiskey eyes that had so often filled his dreams with comfort and passion for the past two centuries. And all he wanted was to see if his prayers had been heard. He wanted to have a nice face and a nice body. He needed to be what his soulmate would expect from the love of her life.

"What…" he whispered as he finally reached the mirror.

His hearts started to beat just a tad faster in the chest that felt both too big and too tiny. Something must have gone horribly wrong with the regeneration. Maybe it wasn't fully completed yet. Or so he hoped. The first thing that struck him was how assymetrical this whole face was. One of his deep chocolate eyes was just a bit bulgier than the other, just enough for his eyelid to droop a little and the round-shaped pleat to stand higher up. One of his eyebrows seemed to be out of his control, shooting up his forehead, bending into a frown or undulating like a tiny snake even though it had no reason to. One of his ear was wonky, its edge irregular as if the cartilage had suffered the same fate as a wood plank shaved too closely by a shaking hand. His nose would have looked fine enough, if it hadn't decided to deviate its course to the right towards the middle. It probably wanted to escape the decidedly weird composition of the left part of his face, he supposed. His upper lip remained invisible, except when he smiled. His lower lip was pouty, too pouty, and gave him the appearance of a sad puppy, except when he smiled. However, in that moment, he couldn't find any reason to smile. Well, the old-fashioned sideburns running down his cheeks and the crazy strands of brown hair that ridiculously stuck out like a hedgehog's spikes might have been one, if the only thing at stake was the first prize of that preposterous competition the Academy students committee held every other year - competition he considered to be a giant buffoonery to make contemptuous fun of those unlucky enough not to be blessed with the gifts a regeneration could bring.

"Is that what you understood when I told you something she'll like?" he spat at his reflection, rubbing his nose in a desperate attempt to straighten its slanted curve. "Bloody idiot."

Not only was his face far from what his most reasonable expectations had imagined, but his character seemed to have degenerated into a choleric and bitter temper. Definitely not something to be proud of, and definitely not the kind of personality that would appeal to that one human he already was in love with. It only stirred his anger into an even more raging wave of heat that coursed through his thin body - a body that he decided he hated. Unable to face the sight of his new appearance, he sent his tight fist into a powerful punch against the mirror that shattered under the impact and cut the skin of his gnarled joints.

"She's never going to like me," he murmured, staring at the drops of blood steadily rolling down his hand and splashing onto the pale green linoleum. "All of this… For nothing… I'm sorry, soulmate. I wish I could be more for you. I'm sorry."

He wiped the blood of his hand on the white robe he had been clad into, and when he realized the cuts wouldn't close, he also realized there was no more regeneration energy left in his body. It was over.

He tugged forcefully on the collar of his robe, the garment much too tight and too small for his current body - because, of course, the measurements had been taken before the regeneration, and with his stay at the infirmary he hadn't had the chance to have them taken again. He felt ridiculous in the ceremonial robe, like all those kids playing in the Citadel's boroughs, wrapped into their mother's shawls to pretend they were Time Lords. But in his case, with the heavy Kronos medal hanging around his neck, along with Calpurnia pin neatly attached to his breast and the ornamented headpiece encasing his face, this was not pretending. He was a Time Lord. Or so the parchment he held fiercely in his clammy palm told him. He had been the best. Not only the best of his promotion, but the best. Perfect results over more than four hundred years of intense and difficult study. Or so the headmaster had praised him during the neverending ceremony gathering the populace of Gallifrey stupid enough to attend one of the most boring celebration the planet ever organized, as well as every single professor, researcher and other unimportant personnel of the Academy.

But now that he had left the clamours and applauses behind him and found himself waiting to be introduced into the headmaster's office, he realized the piece of paper that read his name and his newly acquired nickname didn't necessarily mean he was worthy of the title. The ceremony might just have been a facade to keep the appearances intact. Everyone, from his classmates to the caretaker, believed he had pulled out of the four century long cursus with the best marks, the best appreciations, the best rank that had ever been achieved on Gallifrey. Denying that fact in front of them might have stirred too much incomprehension and ruined the whole joyful and light-hearted atmosphere.

He knew perfectly well why he hadn't succeeded in arising to perfection, and he was convinced this was what the headmaster wanted to talk to him about. He took a deep breath when the large wooden door engraved with an hourglass topped with a crown opened, and he was invited into the large office by the vice-headmaster. It was the first time he was allowed in this office, and, despite his anxiety, he could only look in awe at the thousands of books neatly displayed behind glass cases - rare books there was a time he would have sold his most precious possessions just to get a look at one of their pages.

"Congratulations, my boy," the headmaster sitting behind the enormous desk offered with a paternalistic smile. " I never thought I'd see this day. How does it feel to be the first student to graduate with a perfect score in each and every subjects this Academy teaches?"

"Perfect score, eh?" he shrugged, giving his newly acquired pin a flick of his finger. "Really?"

"Ah, I see what you are thinking about. The regeneration, is that right?"

"Minus fifty points," he nodded. "Can't get a perfect with a minus fifty points."

"Son, what happened during that last test shouldn't have happened. You must know, we don't send students on a mission of we're not positive nothing serious can happen. You were all trained more than sufficiently enough to defeat a Drearian."

"Why give us one regeneration, then?"

"Because, every once in a while, there's someone like you. The accident happened because you wanted to protect one of your friends."

"Poor judgment, that was."

"No, it wasn't. We need more people like you. Selfless, who's not scared to take a blow for others, who acts on instinct rather that calculated schemes. You, my boy, are the perfect balance between raw intelligence and measured emotions. Thus the perfect score. We couldn't penalize you for something that was obviously not an error of judgment as you put it."

"Right," he dismissed with wave of the hand. "So, why am I here, then? A pat on the back and a shake of hands?"

"Because we need to talk about your future."

He didn't miss the sudden serious tone of the headmaster's deep voice, and he had to swallow down a sharp retort that was hanging on the tip of his tongue. That didn't bode well.

"What about my future?" he asked past the lump in his throat. "I know what I want to do with my life, we don't need to talk about my future."

That was only half a lie. He knew he wanted to get off this planet and fly through the rest of the universe, more specifically to Earth, once he'd get the Tardis he had worked so hard to earn. He knew he wanted to stay on his own, away from any kind of company, and get rid of all the shackles the Academy had locked around his ankles. The only thing he wasn't so sure of any longer was the desire that had consumed him for centuries to meet his soulmate. With that ridiculous face and bitter temperament, he had had to operate a slight reevaluation regarding that particular plan. But that didn't weight much in the balance. He was sure he didn't want to stay on Gallifrey and die among piles of books about planets he'd never get the chance to see with his own eyes. And it seemed that was the exact same thing the Academy was about to steal away from him.

"We need you here, my boy," the headmaster said, bowing his head as if he didn't want to look into his eyes and see the rage inflame his cheeks. "We have other plans for you."

"I don't care about your plans," he seethed, knowing very well what would come next. "I'm a Time Lord, and I'm entitled to do things the way I want, just like all the others. And I want to go."

"You will not be given a Tardis. You possess invaluable potential we will not waste to the guts of the universe. You will stay here, and be trained to be the new Head of the Military. President's orders."

"You can't do that!" he roared, tearing the pin off his robe and slamming it down on the smooth surface of the desk. "Look at that, see that? Look at it and tell me I don't deserve my Tardis! Look at it!"

"I see it," the headmaster answered with every ounce of calm and control he could muster. "And that it precisely the reason why you will stay. We need your intelligence and the knowledge you've acquired over the years. This is final, my boy. You start your training tomorrow. You will now be taken you to your new quarters."

"What? What ?"

Before he could fill his lungs with fresh air to scream out the mountain of protests he wanted to crush the old scoundrel under, someone grabbed him forcefully by the arm and dragged him out of the office, all notions of ceremony forgotten.

"Keep quiet and follow me," a voice he recognized as belonging to his geography teacher instructed. "We have to be quick."

"What do you mean?" he growled, unsuccessful in prying his long fingers off his arms. "Where are you taking me? I'm telling you, I won't be part of that stupid army, I'm not a bloody soldier."

The professor eyed him with a smirk and kept pulling him like a vulgar child trotting in his steps - though the newly promoted Time Lord felt the fingers slacken their hold and the pace slow down a little.

"I'm taking you to your Tardis, Doctor ," the professor offered with connivance, finally releasing him when he was sure he wouldn't attempt to run away. "So you can fight your own battles."

"I don't have a Tardis," he answered with a grimace, thinking that bald teacher had gone a bit mad. "They won't give me one, they want me to stay here. Head of the Military, what a bunch of..."

"You've had a Tardis for two centuries, son."

It was only then that he realized they were headed towards a classroom. The Tardis flight lessons classroom, more precisely. With the Tardis in the shape of a blue box engraved with English letters he had borrowed after the half-term party. They walked into the empty room and there stood the ship, with his door already half-open as if she was waiting for her owner to enter. He was welcomed with a pleased hum that made his eardrums buzz with a comforting vibe and the thin hairs at the base of his neck rise in guilty satisfaction. He rubbed his temple when he felt the birth of a connection with the ship, like silver tendrils reaching out to his mind and wrapping it into an uncanny feeling of friendship and compassion. His Tardis.

He watched the professor walk to him after fetching two necklaces from a jewelry box and took the chains he was offered.

"Two keys," the professor explained, clasping his palm over his. "One for you, one for the one you're after. Go to Earth. Find them and don't come back. Live the life you've always wanted, boy."

"But," he started in a whisper, weighing the keys into his hand. "They'll come after me. I'm stealing a Tardis."

"It's not stealing if she's already yours," he winked as he led him to the door of the ship that started to wheeze with a bit more conviction. "She'll hide you. You won't ever be found. Just promise me you won't give up on your dreams."

"It's no use. My soulmate, she's not… I'm not what she wants," he lamented, the prospect of going to Earth and meet her suddenly much more terrifying now that it was just within reach.

"Then become what she wants. Or would you rather take up the President's offer and never meet her?"

"I… I don't know, she…"

"Oh, trust me, you know. Now go."

"But…"

"They're coming. Just go, for Rassilon's sake!"

He was shoved into the ship without any further warning and the wooden door slammed shut behind him, something of a thrilled laugh echoing through his ribcage. The time rotor began to whir, rise and fall like a well-oiled mechanic, and he was glad it was acting on his own because in that moment he would have been quite incapable of remembering anything about his flight lessons. All he remembered was the oath he had made centuries before. An oath that was making the circles on his forearm pulse with a soft blue light and his stomach heave in delight. That rubbish geography professor was right. He knew.

"I'll become what you want," he swore under his breath, staring at the intricate patterns glowing under the red sleeve of his robe. "My Hulis ."

He clung forcefully to the railing as the ship twirled in joy in the Time Vortex and he felt compelled to join her merry song with a loud laugh of his own. He was feeling something he hadn't felt in a long time. Hope.