This story is a dark 12th Doctor Doctor Who, insert before "The Pilot" Season 10, ep 1.
Please let me know what you think!
"Oh, come now, Doctor." The Victorian-clad woman crossed her thin legs in annoyance and sipped the china cup of tea she held in her hand, turning her angular face away from the light at the center of the room. "This - therapy – as you call it – is a complete waste of time, just so you know."
The grey-haired man across the table from her raised his eyebrows silently, sipping his own tea thoughtfully. "Whatever you say, Missy."
She gazed at him with an ill-concealed expression of interest. "You refuse to debate the subject any longer?"
He set down his empty cup with a grim but patient smile, resting his elbows upon the round table, his hands touching each other in a steeple formation, tapping his pointer fingers thoughtfully. For a moment he only gave her the pleasure of his considering silence. She tilted her head curiously as he did not give her an answer.
He finally sat back in his chair, crossing his arms and one eyebrow drooped mischievously. "Were we debating?"
She huffed and rolled her eyes, letting her gaze rest for a disgusted moment on the never- ending black ceiling above them. "Now you are being a child."
He nodded for a moment as if in agreement, then spoke calmly, "Am I?"
She pursed her lips in frustration and waved a long, dangerous hand his direction. "Never mind now, darling, I am tired and I wish to play the piano for a while before I attempt to get some sleep."
He nodded again, agreeably, although his expression was troubled. The familiar smirk was still upon her face as he moved toward the door. It was simply another day as cat and mouse with him trying painfully to be good and her not caring whether he tried or not. She was his weakness, his cross to carry, and she loved every moment of it.
He quietly took his leave of the impeccably neat assassin of the universe. It had been yet another day of stories and burning hatred from his charge, and aching sorrow for himself. What she said was true – it appeared that this – vigil – was simply a waste of time, and a clear indication that the Doctor - Time Lord from Gallifrey - had finally gone soft and lost his ancient mind. What intelligent creature makes a deal with the devil?
The sound of the vault locking behind him echoed in the still world beyond. A slight wince at the corner of his eye was the only indication that it bothered him at all, as the resulting metallic sound gave the impression of a harsh finality. He hoped he would never have to close that door for good. He knew he would before he could unleash her hatred upon the universe again. His eyes roamed over the Gallifreyan symbols along its metal surface, and he patted the door in a rare display of gentleness. Tucking his hands inside his jacket pockets against the chill of the dark basement, he carefully made his way up the winding staircase that would lead back to the life he had been living as a professor at St Luke's University in Bristol.
His mind wandered back to the promise he had once made to watch over Missy for a thousand years. It had barely been fifty and already he was emotionally tired. There wasn't even the slightest glimmer of hope that Missy had forsaken her evil ways or at least considered doing so. In fact, she seemed to delight in the faint shadow of disappointment that he would cast in her direction as she reveled in the stories of the lost, the dead, the screaming, and the dying ones that she had taken to their graves with her hands, both as her current Missy reincarnation, and as her past Master ones. It wasn't something he liked to hear, but he hoped that by listening - once she got it out of her system - then maybe she would move on to reality and she might recognize the ache of conscience that follows acknowledgement of one's sins. He ought to know. Twenty centuries was a lot of emotional baggage to carry – it did not simply drift away in a puff of wind.
He fished in his pockets for his office key, glancing at the large clock on the wall. Nearly midnight. What a waste of the last three hours that was. The Chinese they had shared for dinner sat heavily in his stomach, and the floral Darjeeling afterwards had done nothing to settle it. He needed something stronger. Pushing open the wooden door, he stepped into the warm, cozy office beyond. Immediately, he sensed he was not alone.
"Hello?" His voice cracked slightly as he peered cautiously into the shadows of the room, his mind replaying the last five minutes over and over, trying to make sure he actually remembered locking the vault when he left it. Yes, his mind confirmed that he had. It couldn't be Missy.
The raven peered back at him from its stoic seat upon his desk, and in the shimmering of the light from the window barely concealed by heavy curtains, he thought he saw the glare of its glass eye shift. Impossible.
He stepped further into the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. It closed with a final click, the noise echoing into the room beyond. The shadows danced in the glimmer of window light as he walked through them, stepping around his desk to turn on a light. The sudden glare ripped through the darkness of the room, illuminating a figure that sat on the floor of his office, gazing at him calmly with their back against the old blue TARDIS. He cast the wooden box a suspicious glance, and it returned his question telepathically.
No, the intruder has not gone inside the TARDIS.
"Hello." He spoke a little too quickly, a little too cheerfully. "I am the Doctor. May I ask why you are in my study? I do not give out retests, and I most certainly do not hedge over grades. Either you know the lesson, or you do not. If you are not able to succeed, study more then. It's not my problem."
"I didn't come for any of those things." The figure responded quietly, rising from their place in the shadows and stepping into the light cast from the lamp. "I came because something strange has happened to me."
For two seconds, the Doctor was convinced that his cover was blown. Somehow this student had discovered his alien identity and his years of self-sworn vigil would be cut short. Calm down, Doctor, the TARDIS directed impatiently. Listen to the girl.
So, it was a girl then. Two girls teaming up against the Doctor, now were they? He mentally scolded the TARDIS for allowing the intrusion so late in the night, but the old box refused to back down.
Shut up and listen Doctor.
"Why did you come to me?" the Doctor tried lamely, frowning in annoyance at the blue box then focusing his attention toward the intruder. "I am a professor of science, not - witchcraft. I don't do the – ghost – things. That's someone else's department."
She stepped closer to the light, laying her hands on the edge of his desk, the rest of her still safely outside the circle of light that the lamp cast. The body language – white knuckles, tremors running through the long fingers, shoulders hunched as if against a strong wind – it stirred something inside his protective nature – then it hit him. She was terribly, terribly afraid.
"It isn't a ghost, Doctor." She whispered, as if concerned someone else would hear. "I came to you because you know science and history better than anyone else that I know of here at St. Luke's. Something strange has happened to me and I need your help. I need someone's help, anyone's help."
His ancient grey eyes traveled further up the nervous shadow before him. Long dark hair framed a narrow, pale face. Wide green eyes glittered in the lamp glow and the shadows around them outside the lamplight dances on her angular features. But something more unusual caught his attention and his eyes narrowed in distrust. Flitting across her forehead, as if reflected from a projector, danced the word SCAPEGOAT.
"You see it too, then?" She spoke softly, her tone reconciled to the fact that his obvious acknowledgement of the strange phenomenon proved that this was no simple party trick. She had seen the look of shock in his face. He quickly tried to hide it, but that was fruitless at this point.
"See what?" he replied bluntly. His mind painfully slammed backward in time to another place where words on skin meant death to the wearer. He could not remember who had suffered because of this artificial branding, but he remembered something deeper – the pain of his own apparent sorrow at the sudden recollection. Whatever had happened way back then had been terrible. So terrible that he had forgotten. His brow furrowed in confusion. The night shadows flitted across the floor beneath the window, lending a surreal aura to the moment, and he could have sworn that he heard a raven scream.
"You don't have to be fake with me," she replied, sighing, and returning to stand beside the old box, leaning against it's frame. "It started this morning. I hid in my room for hours, scared senseless, trying to figure it out. Nothing would change its appearance. Soap, lighting, water, I tried a bunch of stuff. Then I sucked it up and went out into the hall and everyone else acted as if they simply could not see it. I asked people if they noticed anything different about me, and I got all kinds of responses from 'You cut your hair' to 'You lost weight!' but none of those are the truth."
"So - they either ignored it, like typical humans since they couldn't understand it, or - strange- no one else could see - it?" His head was starting to ache with the memory of what the repercussions for removing writing from someone's skin could mean. Was it the same circumstance that he has felt the memory of earlier? Was fate simply playing cruel tricks? This had to be his punishment for complaining about guarding the vault so soon after taking on the job. Fake? He wasn't being fake. He was being bloody confused. He glared at the raven, whose glass eye was dull and lifeless as it glittered in the lamplight. He could have sworn that it was alive when he had walked in earlier. He reached over and took it in one hand, tilting it upside down. Ceramic base, made in Taiwan written on a tiny gold sticker, hollow. Definitely was not alive. He was simply losing it. Finally the centuries and the running were getting the best of him.
"Doctor?"
He set the terrible raven down quickly, pulling himself from his nervous reverie. "It's not possible."
"I know." she replied, mirroring his blank tone. "I have told myself that almost a million times today, but it has not changed the facts. The word is still there. Why is it there?"
He gazed at her through narrowed eyes, breathing harshly, trying to calm his raveling nerves. Why, why, why...the question echoed around the spaces of his mind, as endless as the TARDIS tunnels, and he took a deep breath to pull himself together.
"Why...Not the right question." He whispered these words more to himself than the hapless student before him with the grey, haunting word still dancing on her skin. He held up a finger as if to check the strength of the wind, but in reality, to stem the flow of any response she may make. "Shut up, you, I'm thinking."
Her eyes grew wide again at his command, having had no intention of saying anything, as the strange teacher stepped from behind the desk and came to stand before her. She nearly held her breath as she looked up into the calculating grey eyes. She could see the glint of light in the old face, make out every stubble hair that prickled on his shaven chin. He was holding his breath too, as their eyes made contact, and his head tilted to the side as if listening for something no one could discern in the quiet room. Somewhere she could hear a clock ticking. He heard a raven scream. Apparently a revelation came to him in soundless words on the backside of the scream that she could not hear, because his face transformed into a warm, generous smile and he began to pace, his long jacket flaring out around him and giving the impression of a very mad scientist.
"No, no no! Dear – human girl!" He threw his hands in the air dramatically and whirled around to face her again, a mere five paces away. "Why is not the question. Wrong questions lead you down wrong paths. And wrong paths -" he moved quickly to crouch down before her, hands on his knees, on eye level with the wide, confused green eyes. "Wrong paths lead to wrong conclusions." He spoke this last bit as a harsh whisper, as if it were the secret to all life.
"Yes - sir?" She replied quietly, her voice clearly revealing her lack of comprehension of this seemingly amazing bit of information that he had conjured up. She was still not sure if he had solved her problem or not.
"Yes, sir?" He repeated her statement blankly, gazing at her in annoyance, his old face aghast with frustration. He swung away so quickly that she took a step back to avoid being slapped in the face by his coattails. "I tell her the most important part of this mystery and all she can say is 'yes sir!' I..." he whirled around again and lunged into her personal space, finger at her nose, "I am Not your SIR!"
"I- I'm sorry," she replied softly, crossing her arms in defeat. He really was just a mad professor, no one would be able to help her. If this strange old man was not her answer, then she may as well end it by jumping off the nearest cliff.
He had paused not a mere ten feet away, crossing his arms over his chest, one hand rubbing his chin in thought. He gazed harshly at her for a moment, unsure as to what to do next. Hang it all, there wasn't anything else around here to do except guard an unbending Missy for the next millennia, grade mountains of paper, and teach science to students that barely grasped the essentials of the knowledge that he threw at them. The eager hound dog in his blood was aching for some running, some mystery, some adventure.
You are losing her. The TARDIS spoke urgently, and he noted the look of failure on the strange girl's face. You know you want to figure this out.
He glanced in the direction of the old blue police box and smirked. Shut up.
"The right question," he spoke into the stillness, startling the student and gaining her attention again. Her eyes looked hopefully in his vicinity and he did not soften his query to save hurting her emotions. Frankly, he did not care about emotions. It felt good to detach from human feelings again and he shook his shoulders in freedom, buttoning his coat with a flourish, then straightened his cuffs. The hound dog was let loose and a wide smile crossed his eager face.
He stepped forward, his arrogant posture gazing down at the green eyes with the glint of a cat eyeing a mouse.
"The right question is – who ARE you?"