I know it's been a while, but I was typing my first multiple-chapter Doctor Who story. It's called "Room Service", if anyone out there is interested, and it will be updated every Saturday. :)
Thanks to you new reviewers and/or followers!
This chapter has been prompted by ThatBigBlueBox.
UPDATE: YES, I WILL TAKE PROMPTS FROM PEOPLE. It could be a sentence, a scenario, one word…I'm not too particular. However, I may or may not do one depending on what the prompt is about. I will not do anything above K+, and if I end up not doing yours, sorry. I'm sort of nick-picky when it comes to shippings/content/language/ect. I will try to explain why I didn't choose one. Even if I reject one of yours, you can always ask me about a new one.
Anyhoo, onto the one-shot!
Writing Prompt #65: Monster for a Day
Characters: War Doctor, 9th Doctor
Genre: hurt/angst
Rating: K+, perhaps mild T (more serious theme, mentioning the Time War)
Prompted by: ThatBigBlueBox
The Moment is coming…I am the Moment…the Moment is here…
There was gold light; he could remember that much.
Are you sure?...I was sure when I came here…
Pain. There was a lot of pain, too.
It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame…
Well, you did ask for a big red button.
Memories (maybe?), thoughts spinning and swirling, vanishing in a haze of light and regeneration energy.
I have no intention of surviving this.
Was he regenerating? Why…
Why was he regenerating?
That's your punishment.
It was explosive, this regeneration. It was so much more powerful than the ones before. A huge flash, raw energy coursing through his body as his dying cells were replaced by new ones. Then it was over.
He teetered on unsteady legs, flexing arms, wiggling fingers. The TARDIS hummed loudly, reaching out to his new (not new; changed) mind, trying to establish a connection.
Why was he on the TARDIS?
Legs like jelly, he stumbled blindly to the wooden doors. His hands shook as he rattled the handles (they were younger-looking hands, strong and without wrinkles). With a fierce strength that only came with the first few hours of post-regeneration, he flung the doors wide open. Gripping the flimsy doorframe, he leaned out, panting with the effort, perspiration standing out on his face.
He was staring into an empty patch of space. Stars around him, pin-pricks of light a quadrillion miles away were exploding and dying and glowing and singing. He gasped for air, golden mist flowing from his open mouth and vanishing in the cold darkness.
Arcadia has fallen!
I'm going to need your gun…
His mind pounded and reeled. He knew what it was telling him, but he didn't want it to be true. According to every particle of his being, every nerve, his brilliant, clever mind that could sense the turn of the universe under his feet…everything he was told him was his heart was refusing to accept. That in that patch of space, there should be a planet. A spinning planet of red and gold, with children laughing and playing, people fighting and dying, surrounded by a fortress of strength and ingenuity, unsurpassed by any species before or after.
But what his mind screamed, his eyes saw, his hearts denied.
No more Daleks…no more Time Lords…I could do that, you know.
There was nothing but a patch of dark, cold, lifeless space. Rubble from the Dalek ships floated among the dying stars. Nothing...nothing could have survived The Moment.
Wasn't that what he wanted?
No more…no more…no more…
He had a sudden urge to fling himself out. To finish the job he had started; end the war. But as he stood, leaning his whole upper body over the edge of the universe, he knew he wouldn't. Coward. That's what he was.
And now for my next trick!
You know the sound the TARDIS makes?
This time…you don't have to do it –
Hello! I'm looking for…
Pain shot through him; he stumbled backwards, clutching his head. It throbbed, memories flashing past him, time writing, undoing, re-writing itself.
The Time War ends….
NO MORE!
As suddenly as it had come, the pain stopped. He straightened up slowly. Whatever his mind had trouble processing was gone. No more.
He eased himself into the chair next to the TARDIS consul (the chair was new; the TARDIS had changed herself for this new Doctor), staring at the glowing cylinder. He felt numb, like everything that had just happened was a dream and he would wake up soon. Or like watching an event from the sidelines, instead of being directly involved in any of it. But the cold would thaw. The momentary lull would give way to such a storm that the world would be torn in its wake.
With a fierce determination, he flung himself from the couch. Buttons wacked, dials spun; the TARDIS engine wheezed to life. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to run. Run and never look back. Run away from the storm that was coming; run from the emotions that were welling within him, forcing their way through his cold facts.
The Time War was over.
The Daleks were dead.
His people were dead.
He was the last.
With the storm came the fury. Tearing at him was the anger, frustration, rage, despair, and hopelessness. And with the storm came sleep; sleep that ended with blood and darkness and dying stars and Daleks falling from the sky like hail. And with the waking came only dread. How many times did he repeat this cycle before a small thought came to mind? Before the faint memories of a tiny planet nagged his subconscious, bringing with it fond voices and laughter? But these were memories of the Doctor, not the monster who brooded in his small box; all that was left of his people.
But when he touched the controls again, they were gentle caresses. Instead of scratchy yells from a voice hoarse from screaming, he crooned and whispered to his ship. The TARDIS hummed softly in response, sounding more like a song than the droning of an insect. He pulled down on the levers, directing his blue box towards Earth. A young body with old eyes. The light and life he had before were gone, but he longed to see a face. Something that was familiar to him.
And when he stepped out, he was in London. Springy green grass underfoot, a blue sky overhead. Children were laughing and playing, people doing ordinary things and living beautifully ordinary lives. Dressed in black, he moved among them, looking hungrily at the world he had entered. This was the Doctor's world, a world he couldn't touch.
But he was content with looking for now. Maybe a small skirmish to end, a crisis to avert. Then back to stars. For now, though, he could move silently, unseen through this little world. When people didn't know him, how could they possibly tell that he was a monster?
This was a bit longer than I intended it to be originally, but stuff kept coming to my mind, and this is what happened. Anyhoo, I hope you guys enjoyed it (especially ThatBigBlueBox)!