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| Eighth Doctor, Tenth Doctor | |
Praxis by Versaphile [Reviews - 148]  Chapter or Story | |
Somewhere, Jack is screaming. Or refusing to scream or too dead to scream. Somewhere on Valiant, Jack is being tortured because of him.
He had to get out of bed when he was told it was time to get out of bed. He had to bathe and eat breakfast. But as soon as they left, as soon as he was alone, he went back to his room and curled up in the dark.
Every time he thinks he's found some new low of despair, he's driven deeper still. It's just as well he's not allowed to leave the suite because he doesn't think he could bear to face anyone. Not with the guilt heavy in his hearts.
Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry.
If only they hadn't fought. If only he hadn't said in a fit of pique that he didn't want to see Jack again. It's all his fault. The most terrible part of it all is that Jack has no choice but to survive it all, and that means as long as the Doctor survives he'll have to face Jack at the end of it, and he thinks this is worse than leaving Jack on the Gamestation.
Useless. Trapped. Stuck in a child's body, stuck in this suite, unable to so much as refuse a meal without having his tiny remaining freedoms whittled away, without someone's life being threatened to keep him in line. Maybe he would be better off dead. Maybe the world would be better off without him. Jack has more chance of stopping the Master than he does now, without even the ability to connect to Archangel. Jack has all the time he could ever need, all the way to the end of the universe. Even the Master can't live that long, and all it would take would be one chance to slip into the TARDIS and all of this would be undone.
And if the Doctor's body isn't anywhere near the TARDIS when the paradox reverses, all of this would be undone for him, too. It would never have happened. Back to kneeling on the conference room floor, or wherever his timeline snapped him back to. He wishes the thought wasn't as tempting as it is.
If there was just one thing he could cling to, one little piece of freedom, of hope, he might not feel like he was suffocating. Like he hadn't already failed. But if there is, he can't see it.
If he truly was alone, if he even had that sliver of privacy, he could stay this way and wallow. But the cameras watch his every move. If he doesn't go and eat lunch, the Master will know. Even his own body is no longer his own.
He forces himself out of bed, over to the kitchen. He wonders if this small body has the strength to break through the thick windows. That's what the Master said, after all. That he could always jump. He's fallen before, but he's never really thought of jumping. Not until the War, at least. But it wasn't until he ended the War that he gave it any serious consideration. There wasn't anyone left to fight for after he'd killed them all.
He doesn't try to kill himself. He has a sandwich instead, and some juice.
He's sitting at the table, slumped over an empty plate, when Lucy returns.
She only has to look at him to know what he's thinking. She sits in the chair beside him and pulls him into her arms. "Shh, it's all right," she says. "It's all right. I'm here."
The Doctor's eyes suddenly well with tears. And then he's crying, sobbing in Lucy's arms. He can't make it stop, and even the gentle understanding she gives him only makes it worse. He cries and cries until there's nothing left, until he's empty and tired and hollow.
She picks him up and carries him into main bedroom and lays him down on the bed, lays beside him and holds him again. The Doctor has nothing left but sniffles, little hiccups of grief.
"I know you want to make it stop," Lucy says, as she wipes away his tears. "I know it hurts. I wish I could make it easier for you."
"I want my TARDIS," the Doctor says, plaintively. The TARDIS means home, means safety. It means making everything bad stop. If he can only get to his TARDIS, he can make it all stop. It hurts so badly that he can't.
"You can't have it, darling. But I'm here for you. We both are. I know Harry is strict with you, but it's for your own good."
"No," the Doctor whimpers.
"It is. I know it is. You're my perfect little boy. We'll be so happy once you accept that. It's only fighting it that makes it hurt."
"That's not true," he protests.
"Wasn't it so much better that first day? We were all happy. You had ice cream. It can be like that again."
The Doctor can only shake his head. It's all wrong, it's so wrong. He's not a child, he's not supposed to be doing this, he's supposed to be fighting. What Lucy's saying is madness. So why is it that all he wants to do is believe her?
If he could fight, he would pull himself from her arms and escape this prison of a suite. If he could fight, he would stop the Master, stop the Toclafane. He would save the world. Why can't he save the world? He's done it so many times before.
"I want my TARDIS," he says, weakly. He wants someone to save him. A glowing Rose, a determined Martha, anyone. He can't save the world if no one will save him.
But no one is coming.
When it's time for his hour with Tish, he has to force himself to go to see her. It's not that he doesn't want to, but that he's so ashamed of himself. He's also afraid that he's going to give the Master cause to hurt her the way he's hurting Jack. The Master has been away for three days now, and the longer he's gone the more the Doctor's imagination makes him shudder.
But he needs to get out of the suite. He needs to spend time with someone who isn't mad because he knows he's losing his own grip on reality. They're dragging him down with them and he doesn't want to go.
Tish is already there when they reach the suite. As soon as the guards are gone she hurries over and kneels down. Hesitates and then pulls him into a hug.
"We've been so worried," she says, and pulls back to look at him. "The way he dragged you off, god. And that poor little girl. Are you all right?"
No, the Doctor thinks. But he can't manage to admit it aloud. "I suppose," he says. "I'm so sorry about what happened."
"Don't say that. It's not your fault," she says. "Come on, let's sit down." She guides him over to the same set of chairs he and Jack used. "You know, if I hadn't seen it myself, I never would have believed it. He turned you into a kid! That's so weird."
"That sounds like something Martha would say," the Doctor says, with wry fondness and no small amount of longing.
"He said she's dead. Harold Saxon or the Master or whatever he's calling himself. Is it true?" She looks at him expectantly.
"I don't believe so," the Doctor says, wishing he could give her more than that. Wishing he could feel more certain. "She's safer down there than up here," he says, an edge of rawness in his voice.
"Maybe," Tish says, looking away. Then, after a pause: "Jack's gone. They took him away."
"Yes," the Doctor says, quietly. The reminder brings a fresh wave of despair and guilt, and he can't say any more because he knows he'll only start crying again and he's supposed to be stronger than this. He's supposed to be the one who keeps his head, who finds the answers when everyone around him is panicking. But he's not himself anymore. The Master took that away.
"I can't believe I helped him," Tish says, angrily. "I can't believe I voted for him."
"It's not your fault," he tells her, finding it easier to comfort her than himself. "Really, I'm all right."
"Even I can tell that's a lie," she says, not unkindly. "But I guess... at least you're not old anymore. Or some kind of giant monster." She shudders. "Now that would suck."
The Doctor finds himself smiling at that. "Yes, you have a point."
"Mum's been so pissed. I've never seen her so angry. She'll rip his throat out if he gives her the chance. At least she and Dad stopped fighting."
"Oh? That's good."
"Yeah, but now they're bonding or something. It's weird. I'm used to them fighting. They're not supposed to get along."
The Doctor refrains from saying that that reminds him of himself and the Master. He's fairly sure it wouldn't be appropriate.
"Stressful situations can bring people together," he offers. "Pretty drastic for marital therapy but..."
"If it means no more Annalise, they can bond all they want," Tish says, crossing her arms and leaning back. "He's got camera's in here, yeah? He's listening in."
The Doctor nods and points to the ones he found last time.
"God, he's creepy," Tish says. "Let him listen, I don't care." She gives a defiant glare at the room in general.
Her expression and posture remind him so much of Martha on New New Earth, demanding that he talk to her. Tish isn't Martha. She wouldn't understand the way Martha did, even if he wanted to talk. But somehow her presence makes him feel like Martha is here, if only in spirit. He knows what she would say if she was here now.
You're still you, right? Just because you're young doesn't change that.
He's the water and the river. The self and the body. He's had drastic regenerations before, going wrong more often than not and switching from one end of the scale to the other. The instability of his regeneration from spectrox poisoning. His amnesia after being dead for too long in a San Francisco morgue. Even after his biochemistry stabilizes there's still the whole battery of realizations as his new body's tastes, dislikes, and personality give him the universe anew. All those new neurons and nerves, firing like gangbusters, telling him that no, this is the way it is now, and you don't like broccoli or purple anymore. You don't want to wear those ugly old clothes, you want something with a ridiculously long scarf or pinstripes and a tie, and you don't know why except that it's true. The river bends and the water obeys.
But now the river is dammed up, trickled to a stream. He's the same as he was but not all of him can fit into this small body and immature brain. Everything's out of balance, the wrong chemistries, the missing neural networks, even the scale of things. What if without the backup of the Matrix he loses everything this body can't hold? What if he forgets?
That's why he needs the TARDIS more than anything right now. She's the only backup he has. If it all goes wrong, he needs her to save him. To restore him.
He thinks of John Smith, of Martha pleading with him to open the watch. He'd lost himself entirely, then, been a perfectly average human. John Smith didn't want to fight, he just wanted Joan Redfern to marry him. Such a small ambition from a mind smaller than even this child's mind. But even in his terror of death John Smith still found the courage to do what had to be done.
And right then, he decides that he will, too.
That evening, he finds it easier to bear the unrelenting narrowness of his life in the suite. He's still thinking about survival, yes, but not tinged with the desperation that made his moods so intolerable. He can't think about Jack without guilt, but he can think about Martha, who he believes -- no, knows is still alive. She never let him give up hope before, and he's not going to let her down now.
That's what he needs them for. His friends. So when he's down in that bottomless pit, he can believe in Rose. So when the power of a sun is burning him up inside, he can believe in Martha. They're his strength and his hope, and he doesn't need to be grown-up to know that.
Outwardly, he remains the same. As far as the Master knows, he's still trapped by his threats, still helpless. As far as Lucy knows, he's still vulnerable and in need of comfort. And it's not that any of that has changed. The truth is, he still feels all of that and more. But it doesn't matter how much he suffers if he can be there when it counts, and the only way he can do that is to endure.
After a few more long days of absolutely nothing and agonizing strictness, the Doctor is woken by a very excited Lucy.
"What is it?" he asks, groggily.
"Something wonderful," Lucy says, with a breathless grin. "You're coming down with us. To Earth."
The Doctor gapes at her. "What?"
"Harry needs to spend time in Japan because of the factories there. We discussed it last night, and since you've been so very good Harry's decided you can come along. That way we won't be apart at all. Now, I've brought you a fresh pair of pyjamas, so as soon as you've washed and had your breakfast we'll be flying down."
Hope wells in the Doctor's chest. Earth. Off this blasted ship and on the ground again. He can't believe his luck.
"That's wonderful, Lucy," he says, his smile genuine. "Thank you."
"My darling boy," Lucy says, and kisses him on the forehead. She gives him a hug. "Now hurry up. We need to leave in an hour."
The Doctor practically runs through his morning routine. Earth. Japan. Even though the planet is no less swarming with Toclafane, down there he actually has a chance at escaping. The Master can't keep him boxed in on all sides forever, and surely he wouldn't bring him down there only to lock him in another set of rooms.
He realizes almost immediately that this is his best shot. Today, during the transfer. Yes, the Master will have even more security for the trip. Yes, it's short notice. In fact, he'd wager it's such short notice because the Master didn't want to give him time to work out an escape plan. But the Doctor doesn't need time. He's not like the Master, planning endlessly in advance trying to anticipate every variable. He is the variable. He can improvise his way out of almost any situation. And for the first time, he sees his small body as an asset and not a prison.
Little legs run fast. They can weave and skip and most of all squeeze through tight places and hide. Tight places that big, tall grown-ups wouldn't even think about, wouldn't even notice, even one as detail-obsessed as the Master. It's a simple matter of perspective.
But he's not going to get his chance if he blows it now. He forces himself back to composure, back to the slump of defeat and the averted eyes. That's what the Master and Lucy expect of him, that he feels trapped and helpless. As long as they see that, their expectations are the only cover he needs. The rest he can do himself.
The flight is uneventful, and the Doctor passes the time keeping any sign of his growing excitement from being seen. The Master seems convinced by his performance, and Lucy is so happy that they're going down as a family that she takes his weak smiles at face value.
He recognizes the landscape as they come down through the cloud cover. The Kanto region, Tokyo, and then a slow circle around the Imperial Palace. The last time he was there was sometime in the 2200s... or was it the late 1800s... Either way, it won't be quite the same structures, since it was rebuilt and then rebuilt again between his visits.
What's really different is the skyline. The famous towers of the city are a shadow of their former selves. The tallest have been burnt or razed, whole sections levelled to build the Master's factories. The surrounding buildings have become tenements, and now that they're close enough to see the streets he can see few cars and none of the blinding neon that once coated the city. It's not a city at all anymore, just one massive slave quarters.
I'll make it better, he promises, silently. I'll put it all back. He thinks of the citizens of New New York's lower levels, living out their lives in their cars, singing hymns to keep up their spirits. It had angered him because it felt like they'd given up, but now he realizes that they were just holding on. They were surviving, enduring. He understands them better now, and he hopes those below have their hymns, too. But far better would be for them not to need them at all, and that's up to him, just like on New Earth.
Touchdown.
What once must have been a busy, broad highway has been converted to the Master's personal landing strip. As the jet rolls to a stop, he realizes with faint shock that the statue of Kusunoki Masashige has been knocked down and replaced with one of the Master. Oh, he's just dying to say something bitingly sarcastic about that, but this really isn't the time.
They disembark, and the Doctor tastes fresh air for the first time in over two months. It's delicious, invigorating. He breathes deep, almost giddy from it.
The Imperial Palace Plaza. And ahead, Nijubashi bridge. There are people around, which he hadn't quite expected, cordoned off from the runway but ah, now he sees the layout. Nijubashi for those paying homage to their Master, but Sakashita gate for the Master and his entourage.
As escape situations go, it's not ideal. Too much flat ground, too wide an area. There aren't a lot of escape points, and the best cover is the park full of trees. But he can't afford to be choosy. His best bet is to do what he does best, which is use the Master's ego against him and hide among the humans.
As soon as he escapes, he'll cobble together a perception filter. Track down Martha. Just because he's stuck as a child doesn't mean he's useless. He can still help, still plan. They can work out a new plan that doesn't depend on the psychic abilities his body is no longer mature enough for. The Master might even delay the destruction of Earth as long as the Doctor is somewhere on it, out of his grasp. For all that the Master has done to him, he still believes the Master wants him alive.
Which means the Toclafane won't try to stop him with their lasers. As far as he's seen, they only shoot to kill. He feels a thrill of hope. His hearts are beating fast.
They walk across the plaza, past the long row of squat concrete seats that form a loose fence. There are people all along it, watching them, a few even cheering, probably in hope that their Master will be generous. The sad truth is they'll probably die first.
One of them runs out and falls to his knees, pleading for the Master to spare his family. That's all the distraction the Doctor needs. He turns on a dime and runs back the way they came, full out.
"Don't you dare!" he hears the Master shout. "Stop it at once! Get back here!"
The Doctor doesn't listen. He's laughing as he runs, the wind in his hair, the pounding of feet behind him in hot pursuit. He's free and no one can stop him!
He weaves through the crowd, ducking around and between legs, leaving the guards in his dust as they struggle with the crowd. When they're trapped in the middle, the Doctor takes off in a new direction, out into the clear. He's looking back and grinning to himself at the sight of them yelling after him when turns towards Sakurada gate and slams into someone, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The Doctor frantically stumbles back to his feet, but just as he's apologizing and taking his first step back to his escape, he stops. Stares. Looks up at the frightened, determined face of a teenaged boy with enough plastic explosives under his coat to kill everyone on the Plaza.
"Don't do it," he gasps, horrified. "Please, it's not worth it. No!"
The teenager runs towards the crowd, a dead man's switch in his hand. If he dies, all those people are going to get caught in the blast. The Master! Oh god, no! If it's bad enough, he won't even regenerate!
The Doctor turns and runs back, screaming for them not to kill the teenager. "Don't shoot him! He's got a bomb! Don't shoot! Don't--"
A Toclafane fires. The teenager freezes, falls. The Doctor turns and runs the other way, because he's too close and no--
He sees the explosion a nanosecond before he hears it, and then it's lifting him up, a blast of hot air forcing him forward, his feet leaving the ground because he's so small and light. Heat and force and pain and then the snap of bones as he smacks down hard onto the concrete.
No, he thinks, weakly. So close. He was so close to freedom. He groans in frustration and whimpers in agony.
He clings to consciousness. He hears the pounding of feet, the barking of orders. Someone's over him, checking his body. He's turned onto his back and chokes in pain.
"Doctor," the Master says, voice full of fear. "Don't you dare die on me. Don't you dare!"
"An' I thought--" the Doctor coughs wetly, "--you didn't care." He coughs again, eyes tearing from the pain of his broken ribs.
"You don't get to die unless I kill you," the Master says, half-sneering and half-desperate with worry.
"Sorry," the Doctor mumbles, as his vision starts to fade. He's failed, he might even be dying for real, but it's nice to know that the Master really does need him. He hopes Martha can forgive him.
"Don't you dare!" the Master yells. "Doctor!"
The last thing the Doctor knows is the Master's arms scooping him up off the ground. One last spike of pain in his chest, and everything stops.
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