Chapter One:

He stared at his reflection, and an unfamiliar face stared back. Icy blue eyes, short hair... he turned his head. Big ears. Unfamiliar and new, he moved his jaw, and scrunched his face. Different. He knew from experience that he'd get used to it, he always did, but it would be strange for a while. To be completely different, a new man, it was a peculiar thing. Looking closer in the mirror, he could see the burden the war had caused, his eyes old and scarred in this new, blemish free body. Suddenly, he felt sick, and he pushed away from the mirror in distaste. Why should he be alive, why should he have no scars, nothing to show for the pain he had gone through, to show the horrors he had committed. Nothing to warn others what he was capable of.

Others.

Of course, it didn't matter now. There were no others. He was alone. Truly, desperately alone for the first time in his life. He could feel the emptiness, the hole in his mind where his people once sang... a light in the dark, or at times, darkness in the light...

...and it was his fault. He did it. He'd stopped the war. It'd only taken his people. His home. Countless lives. He was a monster.

He bit back a broken sob. No. He'd done what he had to, to keep the universe safe. That was his burden. He could get through this. He would get through this, if it was the last thing he did. He had to, as the last Time Lord. Who else would keep order? With the Time Lords gone, who knew what would happen.

Rubbing his eyes, he walked over to the shower, turned it on, and jumped in, not bothering to take off his shredded and burnt clothes. The water was hot, and stuck the clothes to him, turning the bits of skin he could see through the numerous rips red. It made him feel, feel something other than the numbness he felt slowly consuming him. Time Lords were naturally cool in temperature, well, cooler than most humanoid species, and the water was painfully raising his body temperature. The clothes became soaked, and weighed him down, dragging his shoulders, the water turning red as blood washed out of them. He felt trapped. Confined. It made his skin crawl.

Soon, his fingers began clawing at his clothes, ripping them apart and tearing them off. His shirt was last, and when it clung to his skin, they became panicked. He couldn't breathe, and it felt like the material was suffocating him. His nails dug in, and pulling hard, the shirt tore off over his head, and he threw it out of the shower, knowing that it wouldn't be there when he got out. He could breathe.

Leaning against the tiled wall, he slid down, his head on his knees, and let the spray wash over him, cleansing his skin of the no longer present blood stained clothes. There, under the water, he couldn't help it, and try as he might, tears leaked out of his eyes, and he closed them, trying desperately to stem the flow. It failed, and they tracked down his skin, joining the steaming water. A small noise left his throat, and he shuddered, his shoulders shaking. He would allow this. This one moment, but after that... He felt the TARDIS' hum in his mind, and it was soft, gentle, vainly trying to fill the vast void his people left. He wasn't alone. Not entirely. So long as she was with him, two relics from his- their lost home.

It was there, in the shower, under the water, that he broke down, the sound of rushing water doing little to mask his grief. Only once, he told himself, curled on the tiled floor. Only once

Sometime later, he stood in his wardrobe room, rack upon rack of clothing surrounding him. He looked around, sometimes taking something off the rack and considering it, before putting it back. Suits didn't work, he'd done that before. People noticed suits, they attracted attention, attention he didn't want. Yet, he couldn't be too casual. People noticed that too. Walking around, feeling fabrics, he'd come to the conclusion that this body didn't like some materials anyway. Suits felt itchy and wrong on his new skin. Jeans were too tight, and from his past experience when they were first invented, not easy to run in.

Fingers running through the clothes as he walked past, he stopped when he felt leather. Pulling it out, he looked at the item more closely. Worn and weathered, tough to provide some protection ( from what he had no idea, but he felt the need) and was black, a perfect, non attention drawing colour. He smiled for the first time in what felt like, and probably was, years. He liked this jacket. Grabbing a dark shirt from a nearby rack, he pulled it on, not caring what it looked like. It felt soft, and it soothed his raw skin. Next he grabbed pants, long and slightly professional looking, just enough to add a bit of authority to his figure. He supposed the hair helped too.

Slipping on the jacket felt right, the leather seeming like armour, making him feel secure. He could handle this. Glancing in the mirror, he looked whole. Nothing like the empty mess he was inside. Still, he could do this. He was a new man, and if he pretended long enough, acted long enough, one day he would be better.

You'll never be better. You don't deserve it.

He turned away from the mirror, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him, locking the thought inside, back with the mirror. He made his way to the console room, eyeing his bare feet as the peeked out from under his pants. He'd forgotten shoes, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't be leaving the TARDIS for a long time. Not if he could help it. Besides, the TARDIS had suffered damage in the war. Damage he had never had time to fix. Now he had all the time in the world.

He felt restless. It had been a few weeks since his regeneration, and in that time, he had done some much needed maintenance around his ship... repeatedly. He needed to go outside, get some air. He was made to run, made to travel, and staying inside the TARDIS was starting to get to him, as vast as it was. But the thought of going out there, seeing the pain and suffering him and his people had inflicted upon countless planets... it was unbearable. Worse, the thought of seeing people happy and carefree, with their families, their people... it hurt. As wrong as it was to feel pain at others happiness, he couldn't help it. He'd done everything to try and get rid of the feeling, even slept once. But that hadn't ended well. Despite their absence, his people still managed to haunt him, and it bled into his dreams. Thankfully Time Lords needed little sleep, once a week or so. Three weeks without sleep wasn't so hard, even though his eyes tried to close on occasion. Four weeks inside... he had to get out.

Setting the coordinates for a random market place ( he had loved shopping once hadn't he?), he made his way to his wardrobe to get shoes. After choosing a pair of sturdy looking black shoes, he walked back. In what felt like the blink of an eye, he was in front of the door. He reached for the handle, and hesitated. Did he really want to do this? Go out there, into the real world. With noise, and people, and happiness...

...and distraction.

Distraction. That was exactly what he needed. Something he'd run out of on the TARDIS. Besides, he needed some more parts for the TARDIS, and hopefully, this market would have them.

Making his decision, he opened the door, and slipped outside, his eyes automatically squinting as the sunlight burned his eyes. Sunlight. It had been so long. Feeling the warmth on his face, he stepped away from the door, and closed it behind him, locking the door in the process. It was so warm, it felt so nice, to feel the natural light on his skin.

Looking around, he took in his surroundings. The TARDIS had materialised at the back of an alleyway, the sun bright above them. It must've been early in the day. He could hear the hustle and bustle of a market nearby, and he moved towards it, taking in the fresh air. He entered the street, and was momentarily stunned by the colour that greeted him.

Hues of red and white, blues and greens and every colour imaginable. Shops with clothes, merchants selling art, children's toys, exotic food, and everything one could possibly need seemed to stretch out before him. People of all kinds of species wandered from shop to shop, children running around. Laughter and speech filled his ears, and the combination was overwhelming.

His breathing became difficult. Didn't he used to enjoy this? Love seeing the people living their lives? A loud bang came from something, a toy or other, he couldn't tell, and he jumped back, flinching. It was so loud. So crowded.

A screech of childish joy pierced the air, and his breathing worsened. Images of war and death, voices crying, pleading for mercy, begging for life, screams filling his head. He had to get out of there. He had to run, get back to the TARDIS...but his lungs were straining to get the air they needed, and he was feeling faint. What was wrong with him? He needed to leave, needed to get out.

He went to turn and-

" Are you okay sir?" A hand touched his shoulder, and on instinct, he reached around, and in an instant, snapped the man's neck.

He watched in horror as his mind cleared, as though the haze had travelled to the man, the man who's eyes were now cloudy, as the body fell to the ground.

He ran, back to the alley, back to the TARDIS, the image of the man he had killed, the innocent man, seared into his memory. Clawing the door open, he fell inside, leaning against the door, gasping for air. What had he done? What was wrong with him? Killing an innocent man who was only trying to help him? He'd never done that before. Never dreamed he would... but now, now he had... he felt better.

He bolted upright. No. He didn't. He didn't feel better. He felt like a monster, now even more so than before. Everything was the same, everything but...

The restless feeling was gone.

The thought hit him like a train, and his stomach flipped. He did feel better. The feeling he'd had for about two weeks now had vanished, and even as his hands trembled, he felt steady. More steady than he had since his regeneration. The feel of the man's neck as it snapped, the sharp twist of his hands... it felt natural. Right...but that meant...

He liked it.

He threw up, the vile liquid burning his throat and nose, and he knew he would have to clean the mess up later, but he didn't care.

What was wrong with him?

Authors note: Hope you liked it. Please Review.