The Prodigal Daughter

The Prodigal Daughter
PROLOGUE
It begins as a low hum, something like background noise, something that might have
always been there – so stop worrying about it.
But it tugs at her with every pulse; every drawn, minute oscillation drawing its grip
tighter. A calling. Come home. Soon it’s an insect against her ear; a shrill, sharp buzzing.
Phantom breaths upon her neck, their eyes burning holes into her back – hands reaching
across the universe.
…
It started when she picked up the phone, housed in the boxed compartment inlaid beside
the TARDIS doors. It’s always a gamble, answering that phone. She doesn’t give her
number out to just anybody. It could be a threat, a cry for help, an old acquaintance. This
time, it was all three.
She dropped the phone before the receiver reached her ear, swiping her hand back as if
the plastic had scorched her skin. The phone swung, black cord dangling, the thrum of
noise from the speaker vibrating against blue wood. A pendulum, hypnotising. A captured,
closely held moment of shuddering breaths, slowing hearts. With a shaking hand, she
reached out and wrapped her fingers around the phone, jamming it back into the
compartment with a click and a satisfying ding. Too late. The words were already tattooed
behind her eyes; circular spirals folding in upon her vision, making her head spin. She felt
time press in upon her like a vice, and with it, a voice; a threat, a plea, an order: come home.
The buzz of the mobile resting on her desk seems to shake the entire room. So much for
silent.
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Yasmin Khan leverages herself up onto her elbows and blinks away the bleary dark,
reaching a languid arm over to the phone still juddering on the plastic-painted-wood
surface of her bedroom desk. Who could be calling her at this time of night? That time
being – the digital red of her alarm clock tells her – one o’clock. She’s not on call tonight
for the station, which has awoken her on some occasions – usually just someone sleeping
rough somewhere they shouldn’t, a group of drunken teenagers, or a party running too late
and too loud into the night. She doesn’t exactly have any friends apart from Ryan, Graham,
and the Doctor. Ryan’s got better friends to call, Graham sleeps more than any person
she’s ever met, and the Doctor, well – the Doctor doesn’t call. No, the Doctor shows up
when you least expect it – unannounced, but always anticipated. Always adored. The
Doctor materialises in the middle of Yaz’ bedroom and starts raving about an alien
marketplace with the most extensive range of biscuits in the universe. She pulls Yaz by the
hand, out of the dark, into the soft, euphonic glow of her time-ship – and makes Yaz late
for work.
Yaz taps her phone screen awake and squints at the familiar, too-bright light. She goes
to examine the number, only, there is no number. She figures it’s some new UI update –
did it even show the number before? No one can be sure of such things at this time of day, one
foot still dipped into the pool of unconsciousness. She taps the green call icon, and the
speaker unleashes a stream of faint, garbled static. Yaz jumps, nearly dropping the device,
body now wound tight with adrenaline; exhaustion forgotten. Apprehensively, she presses
the speaker up to her ear, rolling herself up onto her hips, back cold and bent against the
headboard. The static continues, with spikes in the signal like bones pressing up under the
skin. They sound like that, too – like bright bruises and the sharp flash of colour in the eye
that accompanies pain. It sets her mind racing towards something she’ll never reach. Her
thoughts run on a hamster wheel, speeding up, unravelling – but she can’t stop listening.
The pulses become voices, warping themselves, ungainly, into some semblance of human
form.
“Hello?” she chokes. It sounds like the start of a horror movie (Hello? Hello, is there
anyone there?)
“Lord President –“ it wavers – an amalgam of voices converging to one, like it’s trying to
get the sound right. “Lord President, your presence is required on homeworld.” A flash of static
stabs at Yaz’s eardrum.
“Who is this?” she says, a little louder, clearer. Calm wrapped around her fear.
“Comply,” it echoes, warped, “or we will be forced to –“ it stutters out into drilling noise,
droning on into silence.
“Hello?” she mumbles. Finally, feebly. (Hello? Hello, is there anyone there?). The screen goes
dark against the side of her face, and the sudden lack of light makes her start. Her phone
battery is drained, completely.
Her first thought is aliens – which, as a self-proclaimed practical-sort, is an idea that
would have made the Yaz of a few months ago balk. She would call the Doctor, except
she’s never given them her number. There’s never danger here in Sheffield – discounting
the killer tooth fairy and the giant spiders, which might seem like quite a lot to discount to
anyone else – the danger is always out there; out in the wide universe where they seek it.
The Doctor drops by on the weekend (barring a few exceptions), takes them out for an
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adventure or two, and drops them back into the middle of mundanity. Two lives. They
aren’t supposed to intersect.
Yaz half expects to hear the grating wheeze of the TARDIS materialising in the room,
for the Doctor to jump out and grab her by the shoulders, exclaiming with an almost
inappropriate amount of glee that there are aliens attacking the telephone network or
something. Instead – as her conscious mind begins to shed the sheer terror of those noises,
the not-voices, burying what it cannot comprehend – she begins to settle amicably upon
the idea that it was just a prank call. A reasonable logical leap, she thinks, as exhaustion
overtakes her with a sinister swiftness. Just a prank call (just the wind/trick of the light/someone
playing a joke/a very convincing mask). Horror logic.
Yaz sleeps fitfully.
Ryan hears the message in the pub. The night is still young, but he can already feel a
premonition of the headache he’ll be swimming in during his shift at the warehouse
tomorrow. With any luck, he’ll be able to catch a few winks afterwards before the Doctor
drops by. It would be very unwise to climb aboard the TARDIS with an aching head and a
lack of sleep.
His mate Ian is buying the next round. The rest of the crowd are shoved into a booth in
the back corner surrounded by tall glasses in various stages of emptiness (or fullness, as his
Nan would’ve said, because a little optimism never hurt anyone – and he thinks the Doctor
would say that too). There’s a small flat-screen TV mounted on the wood-slatted cornice, a
rerun of an old footy match. The commentator’s voice and the crowings of the crowd
waver dully in the background, an echo of the past. He finds his heartbeat quickening when
the players draw closer to either goal, letting out stifled noises of indignation at a nasty
tackle or an obvious foul. The game has already happened, of course. He could look up the
final score on his phone right now – every detail of the game, in fact. The notion never
mattered to him before – but having access to a time machine tends to have an impact on
one’s linear perspective.
He could be there in the crowd right now. Then, he would always have been in that
crowd, despite the fact that whenever it was actually played, he was here in Sheffield doing
something entirely different.
He has a habit of doing this, thinking in circles. It isn’t doing him any favours at work,
or in getting his life together. Travelling with the Doctor feels a bit like living in circles, and
that makes it all harder still. Lately they’ve been restricted to singular weekly outings, like a
treat for getting through another dull segment of regular life. She used to take them on
month-long escapades, family road-trips across the cosmos. Their lives, then, were as
brilliant as they were relentless, and as much as he misses his great swathes of time spent
aboard the TARDIS, he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to lie to his friends anymore. He’s a
pretty terrible liar; but, then again, so is the Doctor. Something’s bothering her, something
that’s making her reluctant to strike out on any new adventures. It’s all been easy places –
resorts and wildlife parks. Tourist attractions. Canned fun. Easy fun. Pushing them back
towards mundanity, maybe – trying to soften the blow when she…
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He doesn’t want to say ‘abandons,’ because it’s happened far too many times, so he
contents himself with a gulp of beer, feels the foam slide up his lip like a silencer. He
swallows it quick, and as the fizzing settles in his gut, it stops him wanting to think about
much at all. That’s when the TV shuts off. A few scattered, half-hearted cries of
indignation. It was just a rerun, after all.
An explosion of pixels bursts across the screen, scattering crackling static – and not the
usual kind. It seems to push itself from the screen, to undulate in waves with just a hinted
sheen of colour. The once-muted stereo sound is suddenly very loud, and, about ten blocks
away, Yasmin Khan answers a call.
“Lord President–“ the static spews the words in a garbled mess that only seems to knit
itself together into tangibility after the fact, as if reality is trying to make sense of itself, to
reorder things. He definitely isn’t drunk enough for this. He doesn’t think that anyone has
ever been drunk enough for this. “Lord President, your presence is required –“ He looks around
at his mates, tearing his eyes away from the cacophonic display with morbid difficulty. It’s
like looking down at a sprawling cityscape from a great height, relishing in the fear that
laces tight in your gut as the mind flashing a warning, a simulated sensation of falling.
Around him, his friends are still talking, laughing, drinking.
“You okay Ryan?”
“– take desperate action.” the static spikes, and the clangour of it sounds like his feet on the
rungs of a ladder, and the ringing sound through hollow metal as you slip…
“Hey, mate, you feelin’ alright?” He can’t tell which face it’s coming from. He can’t even
tell them apart; dollops of clay, murmurs of a strange language lost in the noise.
“Your weakness is known. It will be exploited.” He feels his eyes cross and his joints wobble.
If he was standing, he would have crumpled to the floor. Instead, he feels a sharp pang as
his head hits the table, and cold creep sticky across his neck where his drink has sloshed
over.
He jerks up with a start. Someone is holding his shoulder steady. He looks up, and the
TV is blank.
“Are you gonna pass out of something? You’ve only had a few drinks.” It says. He can’t
quite recall the names.
“Nah, m’alright.” Ryan grumbles, holding a hand against his temple. “Just had a long
day or something.”
“We were gonna go down the park. Reckon it’d do you some good, yeah? Fresh air, you
know?” Another one speaking now.
“Yeah,” he grumbles in reply. Anything to get him out of this pub, away from…
something alien, probably. Only, no one else had seen it, and that was never a good sign,
especially when he had a few drinks in him already. Maybe he had just had a long day.
Excuses are easy to spin, and the colours are already slipping from his mind. Washed away;
only a stain left behind.
Next up; drunken loitering. Yaz would be furious.
Graham doesn’t hear anything at all. He’s a heavy sleeper, and he likes to savour every
second of it thank you very much.
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(“If I’m gonna be larkin’ about on some alien world,” he’d defended, when Ryan had
ridiculed his perfectly respectable bedtime of 8pm, “I’m gonna need ten hours at least. It’s
all very well for you to run off of four hours and a couple’o’cans of those energy drinks –
which, by the way, your Nan’d have a fit if she seen you drinkin’ – but I need my shut-eye.”
And it’s better than sittin’ like we used to, he’d thought, in front of the telly or reading in those
big armchairs that seemed to envelop your whole body, because he’d look up with a grin
on his face and a lark on his lips, and she wouldn’t be there. At least in the dark he could
almost pretend. Sometimes he could almost feel her breath on his back.)
When Graham O’Brien gets a call at one o’clock, he doesn’t answer. It rings out in the
kitchen while he sleeps on – but he dreams of a woman wrapped in knitted shawls and a
warm, wide smile; and she’s telling him that the President is coming home.
5
I.
The Promise
Pity, and things were just starting to get good. In retrospect, a little too good.
She’d been thrown out of her TARDIS and hurled through six inches of solid metal,
crashing right into a band of wide-eyed, brilliant humans who’d been all too enthusiastic to
play along. Humans. The good ones gravitate towards the weird like ions to a gravity belt,
buzzing around the strange like flies; anything to pull them away from the collectively self-
enforced misery of the day-to-day. You get the odd few – like Karl – who are more than
content to meander through time, always a little lost, always holding the truth back a
fraction so as to keep the fear at bay – not her new best friends. In a way, she had them
trapped from the start, even if she hadn’t meant to do it.
Maybe she always means to do it, a little bit, deep down.
All of time and space, what d’you say? – reluctance, because they all have little lives to be
getting on with, and little people that rely upon the unceasing perpetuation of those lives. A
web; a beautiful pattern, and just as sticky.
By the way, did I mention, it also travels in time? – splendour, because it’s just a bit too close
to magic. They hardly ever say no. Even when she tries to steer them away, to curb their
wonder, impress upon them the danger of a life spent running across the stars, it only
serves to make them bristle with a blinding sense of wondrous pride; ephemerally dashed
across the canvas of her. New face, new colour. New life, more death. The only one this
life was meant to kill was him; the old Doctor. Belligerent and bone-tired, yet kind by the
end. A sense of self-grandeur eroded over eons. It would have made a fitting end to her,
she thinks – but she’s always hated goodbyes.
To be fair, she had wholly intended to die, all noble and peaceful-like. All staring out
over a brief armistice on a battlefield, lamenting the guttural woes of immortality.
Eyebrows always enjoyed a good lament, where all her lamenting went on behind a smile
and a brightened glare – fidgeting hands and bouncing feet. She likes the way she moves
now, all limber and sporadic. The youth of it. It feels like old times.
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Eyebrows made a promise to the next one along; a few rules to hold close to her hearts.
Laugh hard, run fast, be kind. She plays the part rather well, and so do they play theirs; her
three wonderful humans. Nowadays, they don’t even bother to ask their questions. She’s
done well; their adventures have been light-hearted, controlled little escapades. Low stakes,
relatively speaking – but more than enough them, who haven’t yet glimpsed the enormity
of the cosmos, not the enormity of her place within it. Madman with a box, and nothing
more. Just a traveller. This is who she wanted herself to be, wasn’t it? This was the
promise. Somewhere along the way, she thinks it’s all gone rather wrong. Words twisted in
the back of her mind into something he never meant at all, but she can’t stop. It’s so easy.
It’s too easy.
Like this – with her new rules, her new distance – she can almost pretend that she really
is just a traveller, can act the benefactor while she watches their wide eyes take in the sights.
She can almost pretend that there’s no past reaching out from the end of the universe,
gripping her neck, ready to twist her back towards home, to yank its grip with velocity
enough to produce a sickening crack as she snaps.
Their influence is spreading beyond their secluded corner at the end of the universe.
Maybe, in the immediate aftermath of the war, they were humbled by their decimation;
promising to patch over their tyranny and lead a civilisation of malevolent indifference at
the end of time. Memories of the war still haunting the global subconscious, weapons
locked away, gathering dust. Indifference never lasts forever. Curiosity and hunger prevail,
scars whiten to a faded groove – even hers. As her species reaches out, tugging at time,
twisting it around her like bonds, it is accompanied with an implacable longing for red
fields under an orange sky – for a barn in the desert. She wonders if the grass has grown
back yet – if it’s struggled up through the arid, fallow soil. She wonders how many survived
the war. How many hate her? How many idolise her? Which faction holds power now,
after Rassilon’s usurpation? Do they call her a monster, a renegade, a prodigal daughter –
or do they hold her up as some sort of cosmic hero, some sort of god? She isn’t sure which
is worse. For so long she tried to leave Gallifrey behind, contented herself upon the reality
that it was safe, and healing – and, in turn – that the universe was safe from it. But she had
a home them, and someone from home, too. Someone who betrayed her, after a lifetime
spent healing. Now she has no one – and not even three humans are enough to fill that
void. Three humans that she has to protect from the race clawing their way back from the
end, because they’re right; she does have a weakness – though she has always preferred to
call compassion a strength.
The message hangs in the back of her mind, a psychic backdrop, a drone: Lord President,
your presence is required on homeworld. Comply, or we will be forced to take action. Your weakness is
known. It will be exploited. Kind regards. Always polite at least, the aristocracy.
Of course, she’s not going to do what they tell her. She’s been disobeying the wishes of
the high council for over two thousand years – she isn’t about to stop now. Running is
what she’s good at, and running was part of the promise. Still, she can feel them rifling
through her head, sifting through her time like fingers in a pool of sand; searching for
something old, something powerful. It’s something she hasn’t thought about since before
the war, when she was starting to get a little too cocky and the universe thought it best to
bring her down a peg or two – or all of them. Whether her negligence to dwell upon that
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something is a question of hasn’t or can’t is another matter altogether. There’s something

older in her bones, deeper; something that’s been running for even longer than she has.
She doesn’t want them to find it.
The TARDIS lands; rougher than usual. She hopes she hasn’t broken any more chairs.
The Doctor takes a moment to catch up with herself, pushing that spiralling message down
as deep as it will go (but it still hums, always singing). She feels displaced, and their grip is
only growing tighter, pulling time up over her eyes like a murky veil. It tastes rich and
metallic in her mouth.
A knock at the door scatters the symbols, the impact of it throbbing in her ears.
“Hey Doc!” it’s Graham. She quite likes that nickname, it suits her. Hip and – what was
it that Eyebrows had said? – down with the kids. “Gave me a bit of a turn there, I almost
dropped m’tea!”
She tries to shake the grogginess from her head and plasters on a smile, hair balled
around her face like fuzz. “Tea!” she exclaims, shrill, hurtling out through the TARDIS
doors in front of a startled and exasperated-looking Graham. “I’d love me some tea, thanks
very much Graham.”
“Well alright then, I’ll put the kettle on shall I?” he says with a chuckle. He sets his own
half-full mug down on the dining table and calls up the narrow staircase. “Oi, Ryan! The
Doc’s here, get down or you’ll miss out til next Sat’day.” Picture frames line the walkway.
Pictures of Graham and Grace as the Doctor knew her, and older ones; a young, rosy
woman with braided hair smiling that same, motherly smile. That smile drags a razor edge
across her hearts: the first face this face saw. Among them are portraits of a young boy that
must be Ryan, stifled in too-high school shirt collars and gazing off-centre, out into his
own thoughts. “He’s havin’ an afternoon nap,” Graham informs the Doctor with a fond,
knowing smirk. “Went out with his mates down the pub last night and came back in a right
state. I don’t know how he does it.”
“Oh, to be young,” the Doctor muses, only half in jest. Graham barks a short laugh,
because he doesn’t see her – none of them do. She’s just fine with that. Oh, to be young; it
makes the running so much easier.
“Yaz should be ‘round in a bit. She had some family lunch, extended and all. Makes me
jealous just thinkin’ about that food. Do they’ave Pakistani food in space?”
The Doctor is grateful for the invitation for anecdote. “Oh yeah, plenty of em’!
Especially in the 31st century when you lot really start branchin’ out. There’s one in the
Taureen System just off the Braken Nebula – excellent Karahi. I’ll take you sometime, shall
I?” Fast words, wide grin, teeth bared against that incessant noise thrumming against her
skull. All of a sudden she feels sorry for the Master – though she always feels sorry for
them. It’s one of the reasons they hate her so much.
“That sounds great Doc,” a flash of concern. That isn’t good. He must have noticed her
expression; a minute twinge of pain laced under a smile. “I’ll get that tea on. Make yourself
at home.” He bustles out as Ryan traipses down the stairs, one careful foot in front of the
other. Climbing down a British suburban staircase with a hangover and dyspraxia is a feat
of unimaginable skill, and he almost makes it look easy.
“Mornin’ Ryan,” she calls, plastering on her grin again.
He winces. “Hey, Doctor.”
“Big night?”
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“Yeah.” He sighs, blinking rapidly as if the action might jerk him awake. “Long shift at
work too. I’m down for an adventure, just no more space warehouses, yeah?”
“Well, guess I’ll have to cancel my plans for our space warehouse extravaganza then.”
She rolls her eyes in mock-frustration. “Honestly Ryan, you keep me on my toes.”
The doorbell rings, causing Ryan to wince again, and hold his head. “Shall I answer the
intruder alert?” she chimes, trying for a joke. It’s an old one, overused, maybe – but her
head hurts far more than Ryan’s does and the joke-making centre of her brain is seeped
through with Time Lord threats, viscous as tar.
“That’ll be Yaz,” Ryan mumbles, “I’ll get it.” He wanders along the landing, the Doctor
following absently, not really sure what to do with herself. When Ryan opens the door, it’s
to find Yaz’s face almost covered by a tower of Tupperware balanced precariously in her
arms.
“Hey Ryan, Doctor,” she beams. “Could you grab a couple of these, otherwise I’m
gonna collapse under a pile of Nani’s cooking.” Ryan obediently scoops the top-most lot
of containers from Yaz’s tower. The smell is overpowering, and steam fogs up against the
plastic, softening it. The Doctor takes the next lot with a hurried grin at Yaz and carries
them to the kitchen. Best not to look at her too long; Yaz is good at noticing faces and
what’s going on behind them.
“Oh Yaz, you’re a gem, you are,” Graham exclaims as he waves through the parade of
leftovers.
“Well, I wasn’t about to leave you out, was I?” she says, shunting the sparse contents of
the O’Brien/Sinclair fridge to make room for her contribution. “How about we have
second lunch when we get back. Just make it a long one, okay Doctor, because I am full to
burstin’.”
“Ooh, lunch with the fam,” The Doctor cries, a little too loudly to be passed off as
merely enthusiastic. The truth is she’s having trouble hearing her own thoughts, let alone
her voice. It’s like her head is being pushed underwater; deeper, deeper, to where the light
doesn’t shine and the creatures are strange.
There’s a shared sheepish smile from the rest of them. Sometimes all of their faces knit
together into one. Predictable. All humans look a little bit the same. She can see their time
stretching out in front of them, see where it snaps off abruptly; no confetti. A straight line.
A grey line. Their youth hangs about them like something tangible, and there’s so little
substance to them that they’re often nothing more than pinpricks in the dark. You have to
squint. The other Time Lords don’t see them at all. That simple fact is what scares her the
most, given what’s coming for them all.
“You all good Doctor? You’re sorta just… starin’,” Ryan asks, brows knotted together
in concern. The other two wear the same expression. Identical. Pinpricks in the dark.
“Hmm?” she uses the sound to give her more time, to process his words. They take a
while to filter through. Her voice is like tin; thin, rattling. “Me? Very all good, thanks Ryan.
Always good, that’s me.” (Am I a good man?) She buries the question. It has a habit of
cropping up at inopportune moments.
“Okay then,” Yaz claps her hands together, dispelling the tension. She’s good at that,
but it’s double-edged. Yaz notices everything, and the Doctor knows that later she’ll be
taken aside and bombarded with a line of interrogation from PC Khan. Astute, assertive,
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and hopelessly curious. She prides herself on attracting that sort. “What have you got
planned for us today, Doctor?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I think I have some idea.” As far away from the Time Lords
as possible. What sort of leisure activities could one take one’s humans to at the beginning of
the universe? “It’s a surprise, though,” she blurts, when she realises that she’s been silent
for too long. The sound of it is sharp, and it stabs up through the din pressing down on
her (Lord President). Involuntarily, her hand rushes to her head; a wince, her feet slide and
stumble beneath her as if she’s standing on a sheet of weeping ice.
“You sure it weren’t you that drank too much last night?” Ryan smiles, half concern,
half content. They have no idea what they’re dealing with. She aims to keep it that way.
“Phew, yeah I am, thanks Ryan,” she wipes her brow with the back of her hand. Mock
exhaustion; the sort they understand. The tiredness she’s feeling now doesn’t culminate to
a sheen of murky sweat on the brow – it’s deeper. It grips every nerve-ending and twists
like a knife in the gut, slowly spinning in. “Had a bit of a rough landing. I’ll be right with a
cuppa tea in me.” She puts her hands on her hips, steadying herself. “Speakin’ of, wonder
how Graham’s getting on.” It’s a forced sort of exit. Obvious. Her head hurts too much
for subtlety. She wanders off towards the kitchen, past two humans with mouths open in
exclamations of concern and protest held at bay. Pinpricks.
“Do you think she’s alright?” Ryan asks, when the Doctor is out of earshot. Alien ears,
though, Yaz thinks to herself – maybe she can always hear them. She doesn’t linger on the
thought.
“Probably, she did look a bit wobbly. Nothing she can’t handle though, right?” she
grins. It’s transparent; for herself as much as for him. “She’s an alien, could have an alien
cold or something.”
“Do you reckon humans can catch alien colds?”
“Dunno.”
Small talk is difficult. She had quite enough of it that morning surrounded by her
extended family all crammed into their little apartment. It’s always the same questions
delivered at varying levels of disdain coated in sweetness. Questions like; have you thought
about going to university? Do you have a boyfriend yet?, and then; you’re so beautiful Yasmin, you would
have no trouble finding a good man. Her mother had cast the odd look her way, a knowing smile,
encouragement in her eyes. She’s always been supportive of Yaz, but sometimes she
wonders whether that’s only because she still has a chance of ending up with a man, if the
right one happens to come along. She doesn’t want to believe that – her mum’s great, really
– but love can be conditional like that. Needless to say, she’s looking forwards to a bit of
escapism, craving a bit of danger. A chase, a monster, a plot to foil.
Talking to Ryan is different – always has been. She’d been surprised at the relative ease
with which they’d slotted back together. Primary school was a minefield, especially for a
kid with dyspraxia and a tendency to wander off into his own head. The teachers didn’t
understand, they thought he was just careless, and every bump and bruise was met with an
exasperated cry of ‘Ryan!’ She helped him out, because even then she was a bit of a
teacher’s pet. Even then she was a bit of an outcast. High school came with a promise to
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keep in touch, but all of a sudden there was a new place in which to be an outcast. New
eyes to feel pressing upon her back, gleeful in their cruelty. All of a sudden, Ryan Sinclair
was a far-off thing, who probably had better things to do, better friends to see. Now, once
again, he’s the only real friend her age she’s got. Life is circular like that.
“So, you were down the pub last night?” Yaz asks. Small talk.
“Yeah, me and a few mates. Nothin’ big though, had work today.”
“Your ‘nothin’ big’ and my ‘nothin’ big’ are totally different things,” she smiles. “Tell
me you didn’t end up in the park again.” That was part of the night shift, clearing out
drunks from the local park when the residents complained about the noise. It wasn’t the
picture of dishing out justice she’d been imagining when she’d gone for the job – just
people being stupid. They did that a lot, she was coming to realise.
“What were you doin’ last night, then?”
“Sleepin’, like a responsible adult,” she grins.
“You should come out with us sometime. The gang wouldn’t mind, it’d be a good time.
You don’t have to drink or nothin’, I know you don’t do that,” he adds, at the sight of her
reproach. Although she’s sure Ryan wouldn’t press her, she figures his friends might be a
little more forceful. One does not simply walk into a bar in Yorkshire and not have a pint
or two.
“Thanks for the offer Ryan, I might take you up on that,” she probably won’t, just
trying to be polite. “Just don’t expect me to go staggerin’ through the park after and listen
to your god-awful rap music.”
“That stuff’s mint, Yaz. You’ll come ‘round to my way of thinkin’ someday.”
She scoffs, “will not.”
“How’s the family then?”
“Oh, they’re alright. Didn’t have my phone though, so I couldn’t even escape with that.
Sonya did, though – for the whole meal.” Another eye roll, a gesture her sister often
inspired in her. Even if Sonya does have a boyfriend, Yaz is definitely the family favourite.
She quite likes being the favourite. It’s an easy thing to do; she can say the right things,
smile the right smiles. It works on teachers, family members, even superior officers to a
point. It also, most crucially, works on the Doctor. “I had my phone all charged up, but I
got this weird call last night that drained all the battery. Probably some foreign scam or
somethin’.” But it wasn’t, she knows it wasn’t. She can still hear the bruised voices in her
ears.
“But still, it was okay. They’re pushy, but you know how families are.” She presses her
lips together, and looks at him apologetically, because she remembers that, of course, Ryan
doesn’t know how families are, not really. Not big families, anyway, and not since his mum
died.
He must know what she’s thinking because he says “don’t worry ‘bout it. Besides, I
think I’m about to. Graham’s tryna get me to go to a Christmas do with his family. I’ve
managed to avoid it for the past few years since he married me Nan, but now he really isn’t
lettin’ it go.”
“That could be nice, couldn’t it?”
“And have a bunch of stuck-up old white people I don’t know say how sorry they are
about me Nan? Don’t think so.” Silence again. Yaz doesn’t know grief the way Ryan does.
11
She hopes she never has to. Ryan winces, bowing his head against the headache Yaz knows
is still plaguing him.
“I swear to you, I didn’t even drink that much last night. It hit me proper good though,
I totally spaced out in the pub, look,” he points to a spot in the middle of his forehead. It’s
hard to see against the darkness of his skin, but definitely there. A bruise. “I fainted or
somethin’ and banged my head right into the table. Felt like I got concussed ‘cause I got all
spacey for a bit.”
“And you just went on with the night?” she asks, hand cupped at her brow in a gesture
of incredulous frustration.
“What? Nothin’s wrong with me. I did see some proper weird stuff though. Colours on
the TV, and this weird grating noise – you ever heard anything like that?”
“Probably not askin’ the right person, mate,” she says, eyebrows raised. She doesn’t
even want to know the sort of stuff he and his mates are taking, police officer or not. “You
sure no one slipped anythin’ in your drink?” She’s heard horror stories about that sort of
thing, mostly from Sonya and her mates. They’re all underage, but that never stops them.
Yaz is convinced her sister continuously breaks the law just to spite her. Still, it’s always a
laugh to see how wary her sister’s friends are of Yaz the fed.
“Dunno. Nan would’ve been able to explain it, I’m sure. Plenty of people coming
through A&E on a Friday night.” He pauses, just a moment, a memory, a flood of grief. “It
was real weird though – not to sound like a total nutter – but I heard a voice and all this
static. Somethin’ about –“
“A President.” Yaz finishes, gazing at Ryan, mind kicking into gear.
“Err… yeah, actually. How’d you know that.”
“That’s what they said on the call.” The more she thinks about it, the more she can feel
the presence of it; the memory. There’s a hole where her mind has plastered over the
event. It’s thin and, with trembling fingers, she starts to peel the plaster back. “It was this
horrible noise, like static, you know?”
“Are you sayin’ we had the same hallucination.”
“Startin’ to think it weren’t a hallucination, actually.” She pauses for a moment, and so
does he – both of them trying to pull back the plaster and see what’s behind the wall. No
substance, just absence – but the scars left behind paint the picture well enough. Clarity
found in the inverted image.
“Coincidence?” he offers, clearly not believing it himself.
“I don’t really believe in those.” After everything she’s seen, she doesn’t think she’ll ever
believe in coincidences again.
“You reckon it’s alien?”
She almost wishes it is. She could use a bit of a thrill right about now. “Should we ask
the Doctor?”
“Wait, you don’t reckon her weirdness has got to do with this weirdness?” Ryan says,
wide eyes. Connect the dots.
“Like I said, don’t believe in coincidences.” And just as she says it, cementing it, the
universe goes and proves her right. The phone rings.
12
The Doctor doesn’t hear the tone. She doesn’t hear much of anything, actually, because her
ears are pounding with the sound of time twisting, space warping, cries scraping across it
like – what was that human saying? – nails on a chalkboard. It’s only going to get worse,
she knows. Even if she were to rush to the other end of the universe, it would follow her.
Maybe slowly at first, but it would come for her – and it would never, ever stop.
She grasps the edge of the kitchen counter for balance. Good old furniture – nice and
sturdy.
“Doc?” Doc, doc, doc; it echoes out and mixes in with the noise. Someone used to call her
that. The sound is something to hold onto.
“Yep, yep I’m here,” she groans, speaking underwater again. He’s not even a pinprick
now, just an absence. She claws herself back.
“You sure you’re okay, Doc?” he’s holding a tray laden with teacups, and those little
things she likes – biscuits.
“Oh good, thanks Graham,” she murmurs, reaching a trembling hand out to the tray.
She grabs a handful of biscuits and shoves them into her mouth.
“Woah there, watch the tea!” he cries, as the tray jostles, sending ripples out across the
surface of four brimming mugs. “You hungry, then? I can fix you somethin’ proper.”
When she doesn’t answer his face folds into an inquisitive line. His face is all full of lines, it
reminds her of Eyebrows. She misses those lines, sometimes. Drawn together, they formed
a mask to hide behind, the grooves pressed with vitriol and imposing anger. Sharp, icy eyes.
This new face is all smooth; wide and doe-eyed, nothing to pull back and hide behind. She
thinks it’s hard for people to take it seriously; the wonder, the youth, the gold. She found
that out in Bilehurst Cragg, and in a thousand other little ways. Pity, that change was the
largest. Nobody pities angry old men. “I was just tryin’ to say your phone’s ringin’, that’s
all. Want to go get it?” Graham again. She can almost see him now – a speck on the
horizon.
“Phone,” she mumbles through the mass of cakey biscuits in her mouth, “p h o n e,”
she tries the sound, pushing it around her teeth with her tongue, swallowing. The sugar
isn’t helping much – her tongue still tastes like blood.
“Err, yeah,” he mutters. “Listen Doc, if you ain’t well we can give it a miss this week.
Or, you could rest for a bit and pop back – wonders of time travel and all that,” he laughs;
forced, drawn out. He’s expecting an answering chuckle and quip – something bubbling
and bumbling to put his mind at ease. It’s one of her talents, usually.
“They’re tryin’ to undo me,” she whispers.
“What?” Graham mutters, proper concern, edging towards panic. “Doc please, give me
somethin’ to work with here.”
“We should get out of here. We should really, really get out of here.” Urgency keeps her
sharp; all gasping words, repeating. Fear is a superpower.
“Oi, what about the tea?” Graham cries after her as she darts from the kitchen, coattails
flying.
“Forget the tea, Graham!” There are worse things to worry about than tea getting cold.
She leaves him standing in the kitchen, tray still clasped steadily in his arms. He’s poured
himself another mug – ever the addict– and four clouds of steam waft up into his face,
lines pulled up into an expression of surprise.
13
Yaz can’t help it. She’s always been a little too curious for her own good.
(Hello? Hello is anyone there?). The TARDIS phone continues to chime, muffled behind
the wooden panel housing it. She prises the compartment open before Ryan can utter a
noise of reprimand. The sleek black phone rattles, and the ringing is replaced with
something else. It grows, warping around the tone. It’s like static. Her stomach drops as a
memory stirs. The hole behind the wall is flooded all at once; sweet bruises, bones
grinding, and a song that could almost be beautiful, the sound just a bit too far from what a
human throat could produce.
(Lord President).
The lights begin to flicker. A dark shape rushes out from the hallway – the Doctor,
bright to shadow by the millisecond as the lights crackle overhead. “What happened?” she
asks. Snappy, and – but she couldn’t be – scared.
“I – I didn’t do anything,” Yaz defends, a pleading look cast over to Ryan. “I didn’t
even answer it, it just –“
“Never mind that,” she interrupts, “we need to go. Right now.”
“Doctor,” Ryan says, “what’s goin’ on?”
“I’d like to know that too, funnily enough,” Graham says; tray abandoned, out of
breath.
The TV blares on abruptly; curdled colour reaching out from the surface. The noise
follows it, and the patterns on the screen swirl into something that could be mistaken for a
face. It hurts to look at it.
The Doctor cries out, doubling over and clutching her side. “We need,” she gasps, face
contorted with pain, “into the TARDIS, now –“ she groans as Ryan’s phone buzzes in his
back pocket. He pulls it out with apprehension. It burns hot, phone case melting at the
corners. He drops it in alarm.
Yaz is the first one to act, though it’s difficult to think anything at all, let alone move.
Each flash of the lights illuminates the scene, the next frame in a stop motion film. Her
feet feel rooted, connected to something deep in the ground. She pulls them out of the rut
and dashes to the Doctor’s side.
“Hey Doc, what’s that –“ Graham’s voice trails off as he blinks, pressing his eyelids
together, furrowing those handy lines of his. “Lord President,” his voice sounds like his own,
almost. There are more voices towing it along, some racing ahead, some lagging behind.
Layered. “Your presence is required –“ he’s shaking, like his skin can’t keep up with whatever’s
raging inside it. Blood trails from his nostril in a clear dark line.
“Graham!” Ryan shouts, rushing over to him and grabbing his shoulders.
“Comply, or we will be forced to take action –“ It’s coming from everywhere; without, within,
propagating from each one of them like a beacon.
“Doctor!” Yaz cries, still supporting her friend as she crumples towards the floor. “We
need to get everyone inside!”
“Yaz!” Ryan shouts, “I can feel it, I can –“ his eyes glaze, arms hang limp. There’s a hint
of a smile on a face that, half a moment ago, was contorted in fear. “Kind regards.”
14
The Doctor’s face screws up into a darkened grimace, head pushing up against the tide
raining down, veins in her neck bulging. Yaz can see a hint of that old anger – the thing she
doesn’t yet know is there; the lines. The Doctor’s voice comes out like a growl; “leave them
alone!” Again, she doubles over, head hanging. A whimper escapes her as her knees buckle,
spasming legs forcing her to the floor. She goes still, eyes pressed shut, quivering under
that pall-like, pale coat. “I’ll come, I’ll come. I will,” she pleads. Yaz doesn’t think she’s
ever heard so much fear – the Doctor’s voice is dripping with it. “Let them go, I’ll come…
I’ll come.”
(Lord President).
“Just SHUT UP!” she screams, protest tearing through her throat.
“Doctor, please, we need to go,” Yaz can’t keep the tremor from her voice. She’s been
trained to deal with stressful situations – but this is beyond stressful. She feels like she’s
decomposing. “We need to go, somethin’s coming,” because the beat is getting louder and
her heart throbs in her throat. The song is rising up like bile into her mouth, filling it with
words. The world becomes a haze, and she feels nothing at all.
The voice at her shoulder starts up the tune, just another receiver, amplifying the noise.
Yaz’s voice. The Doctor sinks, chest pressed down to the carpet. She grasps the stuff in
tufts between her fingers, clawing at it like she claws at reality, at texture. They’re still
searching, rifling through her mind for the thing that’s stirring there. The thing she saw in
the untempered schism.
“Your weakness is known. It will be exploited,” they chorus, dissonant. They know – of
course they know – her pleading promises are empty. She won’t go willingly. She’s always
been terrible at being psychic, and truths held so close are hard to disguise. She wonders
how long her new friends will last before the signal burns them up.
Trembling fingers grasp at her sonic, feeling the familiar sheen of Sheffield steel,
reminding herself of who she is now. Just a traveller. No past; just her and some mates,
larkin’ about. Calculations rattle through her head, fighting against the tide of the message;
the spirals, the bloodied taste. She’s good in a crisis.
The Doctor raises her sonic as high as the spasming muscles in her arms will allow and
fires it off. A beacon of golden light, a familiar buzz, like honey against the bitterness, the
strobing black and white. It flares, a brief respite. The lights fizzle out and leaves the room
in darkness, the faint glow of a dying bulb overhead. There’s no time to wonder how many
seconds she’s got. The weight pressing down on her, stones in a river, lift so suddenly that
she feels as if she could float. Mind clear as a summer sky, no tar. She smiles something
wicked. Outsmarted again.
Her friends stagger, and she shouts, trying to break through their disorientation. “Let’s
go team, into the TARDIS, right now!” They sway, fraught with confusion. Predictable –
but the pinpricks begin to swell to sprawling tapestries behind her eyes. A welcome sight.
“Now!” she emphasises, grabbing Yaz by the arm and frantically beckoning the other two.
Thankfully, they don’t ask questions. She has a feeling they’re about to, and she’s not at all
looking forward to it.
15
Just as she half pushes Graham inside the TARDIS doors, she feels the beginnings of
the hum again. A nibble at the back of her mind. She doesn’t wait for it to start gnawing.
She pushes past her dazed friends and half dives onto the dematerialisation lever, not even
bothering to set a destination. Run circles around them, she thinks, you’re good at that. It will
follow her, a parasite burrowing under the skin, something she can’t shake. If she stops,
even for a second… Well, one thing at a time. This new life likes to live in the moment.
That was part of the promise.
16
THE UNTEMPERED SCHISM

(and what Theta saw there)
The boy trudged through a field of red sand, a black and fathomless night above – twin
suns long since set. He was afraid. All of them were, he could taste it all around him,
emanating from every child and amalgamating into a palpable mass. Theta kept his head
down – something that the universe wouldn’t stop telling him to do for as long as he lived.
It didn’t suit him, the quiet. He twisted his hands together as he walked, flanked by
eloquently armoured Time Lords. Stoic. Indifferent. Non-interference. The children
walked sandwiched in-between them in a line. They walked towards their greatest test; their
greatest fear and greatest wonder. The untempered schism.
It was said that a child who looked upon the raw, unending power of the time vortex
had one of three reactions:
First; you were inspired. This was the one you wanted. This was the one that got you
into the academy. It was said that a great Time Lord would stare into the depths of creation
and come away with a spark of it in their eye, a star that would guide toward greatness. It
granted knowledge that unfurled over time into a scorching, wonderous nebula. It guided
them to benevolence and wisdom – superiority over all the creatures of the wide universe,
for all time.
Second; you ran. This was for the cowards, the ones who weren’t strong enough to be a
Time Lord. It was terrifying, gazing into eternity – worse than the tallest cliff, the deepest
darkness. Some couldn’t bear it. They turned away and streaked off through the sand after
a mere instant. The Time Lords wouldn’t stop you – or so the stories said. Non-
interference. Theta had heard stories – exchanged in the darkened dormitory halls of his
house in thin, gasping whispers – of children that kept on running forever and ever.
Clambering through sand and grass and snow, until the soles of their shoes wore to thread
and their hearts stopped with the strain of it. Some didn’t run right away though, and they
were the dangerous ones. They seemed alright on the surface, and maybe they made it to
the academy, but they never lasted long. There would be a pain set into their hearts the day
they gazed upon the breadth of time that would never stop growing. One day, the pulse of
it would be too much, and they would run. They would take any escape they could.
17
Theta had heard tell, from the lips of one wonder-filled, terrified child to the next, that
some of them escaped Gallifrey altogether. It was impossible – because no one could
escape Gallifrey – but the impossible stories were always his favourite. When these
shrouded, taboo figures were brought up among the children, it was met with incredulity
and mystified scorn – because who would want to escape Gallifrey, the seat of all power in
the universe, of time itself – their birthright?
More whispers in the dark betrayed the nature of the schism itself – enforced by
haunting folk tales passed from the lips of shrewd Guardians, or muttered by the cave-
dwellers and hermits on the fringe of the world. It was said that to stare into the vortex was
to watch your birth and your death, and onwards; the scattering of your atoms to the
farthest corners of the universe. It was to watch as they were pressed together by the
fundamental forces and catalysed into new life, new fire, over and over again. It was to
watch the perpetuation of life in a sick, beautiful cycle pressed into an instant – a single slit
in the fabric of all worlds. It was to see it all from the eye of some cosmic bird and be
pressed down upon by the true existential reality.
Of course, it was bound to be a little scary. It was bound to dredge up memories of so
many nights spent crying alone in the dark, terrified of something he couldn’t quite name,
but could feel, like a shadow cast over his soul – but someone had once told Theta that
fear is a superpower. He wasn’t going to run.
Third; you went mad. This one was the worst of all. You didn’t just fail to become a
Time Lord. You didn’t just traipse back to your House, to the impending shame, and
prepare for life as some lesser thing, some servant of the empire. You lost yourself. When
you stared into the vortex, so he’d heard, you became detached from yourself. You saw
yourself as just one pinprick in the vastness, deconstructed to a subatomic scale. Some
children couldn’t put themselves back together again, couldn’t find all the pieces of
themselves scattered in that vast emptiness – and they never did. They were lost forever.
Maybe you lost it all at once, and the Time Lords had to pull you away once your minute
was up, otherwise there you would stand, catatonic, until your skin wound tight around
your bones and your body spun down into the sand in fragments of matter. No will even
to regenerate. Theta doesn’t know what they do with those ones, but he thinks a quick
death would be a kind thing for a creature like that. Sometimes, as the children whispered
and the hermits warned, the madness would take its time, eating you piece by piece like a
parasite until there was nothing left of you at all. Just a big empty house where madness
lived, alone. It could take centuries – whole regeneration cycles – for the madness to rear
its head. But, if its seed was sown, it would take you, someday. Theta wasn’t too worried
about that. He was good in a crisis.
So, inspired it was – Academy it was. And yes, maybe he was only from Lungbarrow,
but Lungbarrow had been a Great House once, hadn’t it? It could be great again. Brax had
made it, the first in their house to make it into the academy for ages. He would be the
second. He’d make them all see. Even now, his mind flickered to an unthinkable scenario
in which he didn’t go through with it. In which he saw whatever terrible thing lurked
beyond the veil and bolted. When they took him back home it would be to an old house
seeped in a fulfilled promise of shame, because none of them thought he could do it
anyway. They would comfort him with a knowing look in their eyes, because of course, he
18
hadn’t really thought he could become a Time Lord, had he? Stop your stories Theta. Go back to
the barn and cry about it. And, regrettably, he probably would.
Didn’t he say the prospect was unthinkable? His thoughts had a habit of spiralling away
from him. Maybe that’s why Brax always said he was terrible at being psychic.
The line was beginning to thin. One minute each, just one minute of staring at a patch
of dark and he’d be through. He suspected that they made the children wait in line just to
scare them; to watch the line slowly shrink away until it was just you facing the great seal of
Rassilon emblazoned on the bronze back of a window into everything. The desert wind
was cold and sharp, whipping at his mop of straw-coloured hair. He could feel the dust
swiping at his ankles like pins, black robes hanging heavy on his slight frame. He couldn’t
stand waiting – always impatient, always moving.
Not long now.
Eventually, it was just him. A row of restless, terrified children behind him as he stared
Rassilon’s seal right in its big, black eye. There was a small huddle of children standing off
to one side, staring blankly. The wind tore at them, and not a single shiver wracked their
bodies. They barely seemed to breathe at all. They were empty. Theta shuddered.
One minute.
A pair of silent guards fell into step either side of him, looming over like sentinel towers.
Their expressions betrayed no sign of emotion, no substance behind their faces folded into
indifference. They must be strong, Theta thought, to glimpse the schism so many times
and not have it tear them open. He exhaled, letting go of doubt – that unthinkable scenario
– and followed them.
…
It was like a slice gouged out of the sky – somehow dark and pure light all at once. His feet
wanted to stay exactly where they were, stiff as trunks, but the guards led him by the arms.
He didn’t resist. He would not run. Theta edged forwards a few steps and opened his eyes
as wide as they could go. He was going to soak it in, savour it, get a piece of that star in his
eye.
He stared, and the universe stared back. There it was, spread out like a buffet – all of
creation. Birth to death and beyond – rebirth, re-death, and all over again. Universe upon
universe, pressing up, parallel; blooming and dying like the flowers of the red fields.
Dimension folded upon dimension, iterative, infinite. Beautiful. Was this what inspiration
felt like? Was this what superiority felt like? Something was spreading him thin, a knife in
jam, pushing every part of him out towards the stars. There were so many, in so many
universes; he wanted to reach out and touch them all. Was this what madness felt like?
Letting yourself float away and touch all those stars? It was almost tempting. It was almost
terrifying – terrifying enough to snap him from his stupor, turn his heel, and run until he
withered. How long was sixty seconds? They rushed past him, they hung stagnant, they ran
past again, backwards, eternally. How many seconds in eternity?
There was something else there; from within, not without. The vortex was just a
catalyst, acid burning black, bringing it forth. There shouldn’t have been anything there –
they were empty initiates, receptacles for time’s great wisdom. There wasn’t supposed to be
anything inside of them. But there it was; deep beneath his bones, and older, too – wiser. It
had always been there. He’d had nightmares about it as he cried into the straw in an old
19
barn in the desert. They were the sort of nightmares you never remembered when you
woke up – but when you did, there were sticky tear tracks left behind like scars of its
existence. You could recreate the terror from the hole it left behind.
Now he was face to face with it, only it didn’t have a face at all. It didn’t even have a
name. A presence; dark, unknowable, dancing between his ribs and around his hearts,
buried. He wanted to reach in and tear it out. This new terror kept his mind off the schism,
it kept the pieces of him together. It stopped him from running. How could he run when
the thing was inside him?
Theta made it through the minute. Eternity passed, somehow, and he felt the harsh grip
of the Time Lords steer him away. The stories were wrong, all of them. The schism was
nothing, nothing compared to whatever that thing was. He could still feel it; walking with
his feet, breathing his breaths. It was fading, as if he were waking up from a nightmare,
memories slipping away. Not all of it, though, because now he knew it was there. It wasn’t
madness eating him up, wasn’t an incessant pain driving him to run, it was something else.
It was something other.
20
II.
The Truth Comes in Pieces
It takes a while for Yaz to catch her breath. Something hot trickles onto her lip, and her
finger comes away red. The golden light and crystalline pillars of the TARDIS swim into
view, her vision spotted with mottled blue. She remembers flashing lights, screaming, a
song. On the central platform, the Doctor careens about, bundled in her coat cast in
shades of pale yellow and sky blue. She’s never seen the Doctor move so fast; flipping
levers, pushing dials, fingers sprawling over the controls with a chaotic familiarity.
“Yaz! Are you alright, love?” It’s Graham. He lays a supportive grip around her arm,
steadying her.
“Yeah, yeah I’m okay,” she mutters, still watching the Doctor. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t know, think we all passed out.”
“Where are we going?”
“Don’t know that either,” Ryan chimes in. A sudden jolt shakes the TARDIS around
them – more than their usual amount of turbulence – and he grasps one of the pillars for
support. Yaz can feel the sickening yet gratifying feeling of the vortex outside, spurring
them along. It’s a thrill, a chase – it’s what she wanted, in a way. “I tried to ask the Doctor
just now but she seems… busy.” As if on cue, she dashes past again, breath coming in fast
pants.
“She said we had to get aboard to get away from… whatever that was,” Yaz trails off.
Dream in waking. The details are difficult to hold onto.
“We’re here now though, don’t that mean we’re safe?” Graham asks, half pleading.
They knew the risks. That’s what Yaz likes to tell herself when they get into real danger.
This is what we signed up for.
21
Another lurch, and the three of them scramble to find their footing. All the while the
Doctor takes it in her stride, shifting her weight. It seems impossible, like dancing on an
earthquake.
“Should we ask her again?” Yaz broaches. She isn’t sure she wants to – the Doctor
seems rather preoccupied. She’s fizzing with energy, and not the usual kind. It’s not bubbly
and warm; a soft light. It’s more like fire; harsh, scorching, spitting deadly embers.
“Should do, I think we got a right to know what’s happenin’” – Ryan says, nodding to
her – “‘cause there was something really weird going on back there. There was something
inside me, you know?”
“For the last time, aliens ‘ad better stop puttin’ alien things inside me!” Graham
exclaims.
“I’m gonna ask her,” Yaz swallows, and wonders why she feels so apprehensive about
it. It’s only the Doctor. Except, there is a sort of guilt that comes with questioning her, like
they don’t quite have the right. After everything that the Doctor has done for them, every
impossible situation she’s gotten then out of, even the smallest form of protest feels like a
betrayal.
Yaz fights against the feeling. “Doctor!” She calls, stumbling on legs like liquid as she
moves towards the console.
“Hmm? Bit busy, sorry Yaz,” she mutters absently, not looking up from her scurrying
fingers. “Oh!” She cries, suddenly alert. “Yaz! You’re alright – good,” she whispers now,
under her breath, “that’s very good.” The Doctor spins to look at Yaz; face alive with
panicked vigour. “How are you feelin’? Any lastin’ damage?” The console sparks behind
her, making her start. She’s on edge, Yaz can tell, she’s dangling right off it.
“I’m okay, I think,” Yaz replies, slow. She turns back to the others for reassurance. At
their nods of encouragement, she whips back around, just in time to see the Doctor’s flat
expression pressed with worry before it quivers back into a grin. “Can’t you tell us what’s
goin’ on? What happened there back at Graham’s? What was that noise?” – now that she’s
getting into the swing of the interrogation, the questions don’t stop coming – “Why did we
have to run away?”
“Yeah,” Ryan adds, “and where are we goin’?”
“And why was there some alien inside our heads?” Graham asks.
The Doctor utters something between a groan and a sigh. Her face crumples and she
runs splayed, shaking fingers over her face, bringing them up to rake through her tousled
hair. By the time they reach the top of her head, she’s smiling. It’s strained; weak like milky
tea.
“Great questions, fam! All really excellent questions – which, I will have the answers to
in just a moment – but first!” She exclaims, jittery, “we have a date with the beginning of
the universe!” The aim, Yaz thinks, was to appear bombastic, but the Doctor’s motion as
she slams down the dematerialisation lever looks more like a clumsy, desperate act. Yaz
stares at her with ill-disguised frustration. Desperation. Impatience. It’s not fair.
“Why though?” Ryan asks, stepping forwards. “What’s that got to do with the aliens?”
...
22
The not me ones, the asking-questions ones. It’s her fault, she brought three of them. She
should’ve known her limits. She can feel good ’ol Eyebrows and his anger boiling up.
Harsh lines drawing up, making a mask they won’t dare to question. She isn’t quite used to
not having that face. She could snap – so uncharacteristic, in such sheer juxtaposition
against the self she has created – that would stop their questions. Alas, be kind. That was
the most important promise of all. Thinking of that face, she stays calm. She stays bright.
Always try to be nice.
“Nothin’ to do with that, come on Ryan,” she waves him away with a nervous chuckle.
“It’s Saturday, remember? We’re goin’ on an adventure. Everyone’s gotta see the beginning
of the universe – well, as close as we can get to it without getting caught in the crossfire
anyway.” She turns away and fiddles with the controls some more. It gives her something
to do other than wring her hands of that nervous energy, to twist it from her hair, knead it
from her coat. She keeps on rambling. She’s been told that it’s one of her known character
traits; spoutin’ nonsense to sap the fear away. “No time before the Big Bang so we can’t
exactly go there in a time machine – which is really quite interestin’ now I mention it
because there’s a –”
“Doctor!” Ryan cuts across her, seeming surprised by his own bluntness. They’re new,
she reflects, they haven’t learnt to test her yet. All they have is that incessant, hammering
suspicion as the limerence of awe fades – a suspicion of fallibility. She can’t keep the
illusion up forever. “We’re not totally stupid, okay.” He looks pointedly at Graham and
Yaz, who nod their agreement, staring the Doctor down with expectant and bold looks –
as if they’re all ready to argue; three against one. Identical. Predictable. They’re shrinking
again.
“We can handle whatever it is,” says Yaz. Panic in her dark eyes, glazed with her officer
calm. “What’s going on?” She separates the last three words, emphasising them. Not a lie,
not a tangent, not an evasion, her tone says. Not what you usually say. Not what every instinct inside is
screaming for you to say. The Doctor can hear her voice inside her head, the girl’s thoughts
screaming as loud as her expression; bold, but peeling away to a desperate plea.
She’d enjoyed it while it lasted; being a traveller. Just a traveller.
“Right, ok,” she nods, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry.” Another hand scraping through
her hair, kicking up static. “You were right, it is alien. Big, bad, very powerful aliens
broadcastin’ a message to Earth. Using the phone network, the internet, the psychic
subspace – anything they can to get the message across to the right person.”
(What are the aliens/Why is it targeting us/How did it take over our ‘eads, though/Why’s it looking
for the president?) All of their voices merge together into the noise, the hum. Pinpricks to
particles; fading, fading. And the parasite is following her, its grip reaching, closing.
“Ok, will you all just shhhhh,” she draws out the sound, giving herself time to think.
Fractured, sharp. “Just shh. Quiet. One second.” She takes another slow, deliberate breath.
Testing her patience. “Ok,” she claps, slotting back into a role outlined in an old promise,
wearing thin. “Quick fire round; one at a time. Don’t hold back.”
“Who sent the message?” Yaz blurts out, always eager, always ready.
“Like I said; big, scary aliens. Very powerful, very serious. Just a regular day out for you
lot, though. No big fuss. Quick trip ‘round the place to throw them off the scent.” Even as
she lies through gritted, grating teeth, she feels the sound of them growing. Swelling up and
absorbing her thoughts.
23
“That did not feel very regular, Doc,” Graham says, accusing, because they know what
she’s doing. They aren’t stupid, they never are. She always picks the good ones.
“Is this got to do with why you were actin’ so weird today?” Ryan asks.
“Well, makes sense doesn’t it?” she offers with a shrug. “I’m a bit psychic, I pick up on
these things.”
“But it’s targetin’ you, and us – but you most of all,” Yaz says. Ryan and Graham look
at her in surprise. Yaz looks a little surprised herself. The Doctor sighs. She was hoping the
shock of the situation would have made Yaz’s memories a little hazy, but no such luck.
“Right before I blacked out you were saying you’d come, you’d do what they said… but
that means…” The Doctor can see the girl’s mind working through it, sifting through
tainted memories. Humans aren’t meant to perceive that sort of signal, and the Time Lords
have done a shoddy job of translating it into something digestible to human minds. The
way these memories work, ones that have been shoved back and buried deep, they strike –
not like a tidal wave – but like a crescendo. A symphony building to a deafening amplitude.
She knows the feeling perhaps better than anyone. It comes with regeneration, with a kiss
on the cheek and the sight of a girl erased – and from the memories of the thing inside her,
that now sit just below the surface, ready to rear up when called. A recurring nightmare.
“But that means…” Yaz whispers. Her eyes come to rest on the Doctor’s; dark and
incredulous. She braces for impact. “You’re the President.” And the penny drops. “You’re the
one they’re looking for.”
When the Doctor doesn’t deny it, both Ryan and Graham stare with dropped jaws,
questions sitting on their lips. Identical.
“You’re the President – President of what?” Ryan asks.
“Of the Earth – pretty sure I told you that already.” That was too easy, she thinks. Let’s
keep it to the President of Earth. Earth is something they understand, and it doesn’t invite any
uncomfortable questions.
“Earth don’t have a President!” Graham exclaims, throwing his hands up theatrically.
“Does so,” she says, indignant, “it’s emergency protocol.” And the truth is scratching to
get out. But it’s not a lie.
“Why were we targeted though?” Ryan puzzles, brow furrowed. “Coz Yaz and me both
heard that message last night and we were in completely different places.”
“I dreamt about it too!” Graham cries, as if only just placing the memory. “How did
aliens get into my dreams?” he seems outraged by the sheer audacity of it.
“Really?” She asks, eyebrow quirked. It would have looked a lot more impressive on her
last face. “Right,” she mutters, quickly processing the new information. “They were
probably just trackin’ residual artron energy on Earth. They’d have a pretty narrow search
radius; 21st century, Britain – probably should have moved around a bit more, not my fault
you Brits are the best.” She flashes them a grin and is met with impatient, expectant looks.
“Right,” she mutters, “distractin’ myself.” She begins to pace, getting into the swing of
digging through someone else’s head, their plans, their logic. The hum keeps on growing.
“Then, as soon as we were all together – as soon as the TARDIS landed – it was all
concentrated in one place.” She claps her hands together, “they could focus the signal
entirely.”
“But who are they?” Yaz again. Persistent.
Another sigh. Surely she’s reached her quota by now. “They’re called Time Lords.”
24
Graham scoffs. “Bit up themselves, are they?”

The Doctor smirks. “Oh, extremely. You have no idea. It’s just a title, though, they
don’t actually control anything.”
“And they want you for… what, exactly?” One of them. They’re swimming in and out
of focus. The noise is getting louder, the vice closing.
“Probably nothing good. That’s my working theory, anyway. We’ve got what you might
call a tumultuous history, me and the Time Lords.”
“I suppose they don’t like you larkin’ about in a time machine when they’re meant to be
lords or somethin’?” Graham chuckles. It’s a fairly good summary, actually.
“Got it in one,” she clicks a pair of finger guns his way. A wink. “Ten points to
Graham.”
“But you’re helpin’ people, ain’t that good?”
“Not to them it’s not. Non-interference – that’s their policy.” How they love to preach
that term, while enveloping all the known universe and its neighbours into an endless,
fathomless war for superiority. “And, maybe at this point you’re wonderin’ why I brought
you all on board the TARDIS if they’re looking for me.” They’re too polite to say it, but
she’s knows what they’re thinking. She may be a rubbish psychic but she’s not that rubbish.
“I sort of was, actually,” Rory says. No, that’s not it, but with her head in its present
state, it’s close enough.
“Didn’t want to be presumptuous, but yeah, it ain’t like you.” Older, shorter. Lines.
“Was sort of hopin’ that you trusted us, you know, because we’re your mates and you
knew we’d want to stand by you, that we could help you,” dark eyes says. Alittle cutting, a
little sarcastic.
“Aww, Lucie, sorry but that’s not it.” Lucie opens her mouth in confusion, but
ultimately remains silent. “It’s about the second part of the message, and I won’t lie to
you,” not about this, anyway. “I’m sorry, but they’re comin’ after you as well, not just me. If I
don’t ‘comply’ – as they so politely put it – they’re goin’ to come after you. I don’t know
what they’ll do, seein’ as they’re all about non-interference, but I wouldn’t put torture past
them. Killin’ too, depending on who’s runnin’ things nowadays.” Reaching, reaching; the
other end of creation has given her less time than she’d hoped. Their message, their cry,
their threat; streaking across eons in a matter of minutes. A signal dancing across time,
dodging, skirting, cinching, releasing. It makes her mind cry out; in pain and for home.
“So you’re sayin’,” Graham ventures, slowly coming to the conclusion, “that weakness
they were goin’ on about – that’s us?”
Her lips quirk into an easy, subdued smile. All eyes. “Bang on again, Graham, you’re on a
roll today.” Never saying it outright – that’s something that she and her predecessor have
in common – most of them, in fact. Always assuming that people already know how much
she cares, even when it’s the saying it that really matters. They could never comprehend
just how much she cares for them – always underestimating her capacity to love because
of… what? Age? Coldness? Ruthlessness? But she is that tiny. She is that sentimental.
“Well what else was it going to be, really?” she grins, “I got no other weaknesses, I’m
really quite brilliant.” Arrogance is the greatest defence against pity, against sentimentality.
There’s a half-amused smile from each of them. They acknowledge her effort, which
she’s thankful for. For the first time today, it isn’t difficult to tell them apart. Ryan wears an
expression of bemused disbelief, Graham looks half touched, half uncomfortable – as he
25
often does when they skirt close to the subject of her age, her otherness, because he still
doesn’t really see her – and Yaz (and it occurs to her that she can remember their names
again), Yaz has tears in her eyes, and a smile that cuts right through her in the warmest
way.
She looks at each of them, undisguised, savouring the looks of their faces, their
tapestries, their time stretched out and looping around in a way that’s so utterly inhuman.
Touched by her. “You scared?” She isn’t gloating, not in the slightest.
It surprises her that Ryan – ever stoic – is the first to confirm it. “Yeah, I guess.” The
others murmur their agreement.
“Good, you should be scared.” Because I’m scared, more than you could possibly imagine –
because it’s stirring, it’s coming (oh, it’s’a coming). And I don’t know how much of it is me and how much
of it is something worse. “You should be very, very scared. Scared is good.” She’s goes a tad
Scottish for a moment there. It’s not her fault, she tends to go Scottish when she’s cross, or
serious. This one isn’t good at being serious.
One precious moment, and it’s gone. The humming is drowning her again. She spins
around and anchors herself with the familiarity of the controls. Even when the TARDIS
redecorates – regenerates, if you will – everything’s right where the Doctor expects it to be,
rearranging in the blink of an eye. Unless the ship’s in a huff, then nothing’s where she
expects. The TARDIS understands the urgency, though, and the Doctor can feel the ship’s
fear running like a river through the back of her thoughts. It’s not the panicking sort of
fear, but the fast kind. The good kind.
The Doctor changes course, sporadic – flipping through random coordinates that their
pursuers won’t be able to predict. Hopefully. “Hang tight fam, just gotta shake ‘em off.
Shouldn’t be too long, make y’selves at home,” she smiles through the scared. Just another
Saturday.
None of them stray far from the control room. Sure, there are beds, and sure, they’re
starting to get tired – Ryan especially – but they stay. They won’t let the Doctor go through
this alone. The enigma herself rarely breaks from her position at the console, whether
because she’s constantly busy changing course or because she wants to avoid any prying
conversation, they’re not sure. Maybe it’s a bit of both.
Yaz asks to help at one point, but the Doctor dismisses her with a patient smile, and a
kindly way of saying that she’s better off doing it alone. Yaz tries not to feel hurt – she’s
only human, after all – but she likes to be liked, and she hates doing nothing. They sit
against the honeycombed walls, growing hazy beneath red and blue.
Graham’s hankering for Yaz’s leftovers in the fridge.
She can feel them there, sitting behind her. She can feel the way their time bends –
folding, fluxing – as she steers; is steered. She does this to humans – knots them all up into
things they aren’t supposed to be. Loops and folds in their timelines, tangled up, unruly.
They’re beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way, with their colour and their endlessness.
26
They’re also wrong, so completely wrong that it can hurt to look if she stares right at them.
Humans aren’t meant for that – their time isn’t built that way. They don’t have the colours
for it – only grey – and the Time Lords can sense it. The vibrant vortex energy all tangled
up with their grey atoms, to grey molecules, to grey compounds. They’re tainted, or
flavoured – depending on how you want to spin it.
She doesn’t know how long she can keep up the facade. They know that she knows that
they know. It’s all a circle of pretending.
Running in a circle, wasting her breath, as the real threat keeps on gaining.
...
They hit a particularly rocky space of dimensionally-transcendental media, and Yaz jolts
from her half-doze from the shock of it. The lights flicker, and the TARDIS grumbles a
series of jarring hums and whirrs. In the centre of it all, the Doctor teeters on her platform,
keeping balance on quick feet. Always moving; too fast, too stilted. Jarring. A series of
sparks fly from the console.
“Err, should we be worried about that?” Graham ventures, struggling to his feet. In an
instant, the environment answers his question.
Something beneath the console shudders, rattling the grating as if fighting to get out.
They feel space itself swell around them, stretching them out, thin like strings of rubber.
They feel loose, wide, tangled – unsure of where one mind ends and the next one begins.
Walls, coming down. All of it stuffed into an instant.
The Doctor cries out – and Yaz can imagine what she’s going to say next. Some
rambling complaint to keep her head busy, to keep herself focused – plenty of
technobabble and hurried, stumbling apologies. Except, she doesn’t. Instead, when the
Doctor opens her mouth, no sound comes out at all – not out of her, anyway. The sound
seems to come from everywhere else, from within. It’s worse than the static, because this
time there’s no filter of human technology to render the noise. There’s no barrier, no
semblance of something that their ears are supposed to register. There’s no mistaking the
similarities, but it’s a thousand times worse – a thousand times stranger – in the flesh.
It really does sound like pain – and it’s different for each of them. It’s not malicious, just
an attempt to speak, but their minds are struck by the queasy sensation of the sound
reaching in, reaching past flimsy psychic barriers unused to the feeling of being broken.
It feels like bruises; like soft colour, like tissue all churned up into a slurry. There’s a hint
of laughter, too, the kind that cuts; harsh, high-pitched, cackling. It feels like the cold
shoulder, a snigger, a whip of hair as someone turns away. It feels like loneliness, and Yaz
staggers beneath the weight of it.
...
It feels like watching her fall. Rooted to the spot, watching in slow motion. Powerless.
It’s like the sound of her back cracking against the earth. Nausea stirring his stomach,
emptiness hollowing out the space between his bones. Cancer like acid through his body;
burning, fraying, breeding. Sitting in wait, never gone. Always threatening a rematch.
27
...
It feels like falling, like screwing up your face in concentration and watching as your
fingers flail despite the effort. Frustration bubbling up. Laughter, but the nervous kind. The
patient kind; pitying. It feels like wearing black, and empty words, and being alone. Left;
voluntarily or not.
Ryan grips the wall, searching fingers digging into solidity – and vomits the feeling right
up.
And something else, beneath it all. An ancient voice; take my hand, and run.
...
Another flurry of sparks, and space begins to settle, to smooth out; elastic springingback
to rest.
“Aw come on Ryan!” the Doctor cries, exasperated. Her voice is a voice again. Just
sound, and no grating glass, no scrape. “We’ve been in worse turbulence than that! Or is
your big night finally catching up to you?” she grins, teasing.
He pants, hands on his thighs, bent over, chest heaving. His voice comes in strangled
rasps. “What – the hell – was that?”
“Space turbulence,” she says, more serious, more concerned. Her eyes are round and
apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t think it was that bad. Maybe I’m just used to it.” A nervous
chuckle, a darting look to the others. Her face falls when she recognises their horror, their
thoughts slowly wrapping themselves around perception. “Why’re you all lookin’ at me like
that?” she mutters, flat.
“‘Cause of that noise – you were makin’ a noise, Doc.”
“It was like the signal, or the message, or whatever it was.” says Yaz, catching her
breath. She moves over to Ryan and places a splayed, comforting hand on his back. “It was
weirder though,” she shivers.
“Right. Okay.” the Doctor mutters, steeling herself. “Thought that might’ve happened –
was really hopin’ it hadn’t.” She stays turns away, pulling back parts of the control board,
inspecting inlaid screens with eyes pressed far too close to be practical. “Translator must’ve
shorted out. Ohhh, and the spatial regulator, that’s not good – ugh, this signals messin’
with my TARDIS! That’s just rude – I’ve got visitors!”
“Err, excuse me?” Ryan gasps, still clutching his stomach.
“Translator?” Asks Graham, that same indignant outrage in his voice. Yaz really hopes
that this doesn’t mean what she thinks it does. It will only serve to remove the Doctor one
level further from what they are, what they know. Maybe she should be used to the feeling
by now.
“Well yeah, I’m alien – why would I be speakin’ English?”
He gapes, mouth quivering for a moment before he speaks. “I don’t know, maybe you
learnt it?”
28
“Sure, I’ve learnt it,” she placates, defensive. “Don’t mean I like it. It makes my tongue
all tingly. I mean it’s all just sounds! It’s ridiculous – there’s not even any base level
telepathy!”
“Base level –“ Graham stammers. “You know what – I’m not even gonna ask.” He,
too, sidles over to Ryan, fatherly hand resting on his shoulder. “Whatever it was, just fix it
up, because I do not want to be hearin’ any of that again – no offense.” He adds, eyes
flicking over to the Doctor, still fiddling with the controls.
“And none taken, Graham. I listen to your awful yabberin’ all day so it’s no trouble.”
Distracting them with jabs, with jokes. Always distracting; with ridiculous clothes and
words and stupid little sayings. Distracting from the real questions.
Before memory can patch itself over, Yaz recognises the truth.
“You’re one of ‘em, aren’t you? Those Time Lords. You were speakin’ the same… you
know, that noise.” She can’t, in earnest, call it a language. More like a terror, something that
streaks through the nerves quick as instinct.
“Gold star for Yaz,” the Doctor mutters, so quietly that the others barely hear it. It’s
reproachful, sulking. Frustrated – the same way her mum gets frustrated when Yaz and
Sonya won’t stop pestering her. Unruly kids.
“Hang on,” Graham exclaims, and the Doctor’s shoulders hunch as she lets out a sigh,
“you’re the same species as them aliens?”
“More of a profession than a species, but yeah. At least I was – technically I deserted.”
She sounds resigned. Hesitant, bracing. Yaz would feel sorry for her if she wasn’t so busy
being annoyed. The Doctor’s always going on about danger, brooding behind an easy grin.
It’s transparent. Tiring. Isn’t she tired too, of maintaining it?
“That sorta seems like a vital bit of information,” Graham snaps, maybe a little sharper
than intended by the look of his softening gaze.
“Not really,” she grumbles, indignant. Her turn to be the petulant child. “Doesn’t make
any difference. They’re still comin’ after us, they’re still gainin’” she spits under a darkling
glare, “and we’ve still got no chance of escapin’.” A hurried, guilty look. “Did I say that out
loud?” She smiles wanly, “sorry,” bashful. “No need to worry, stress is just gettin’ to me. I
will get you home.” Suddenly composed, suddenly herself. Disingenuous – which stings
worse than the hopelessness, because it’s a lie. “I promise. Everythin’s gonna be back to
normal in no time.”
“It’s not that, Doctor. Why didn’t you tell us?” Asks Yaz, frustration creeping in.
“Because,” another sigh, another hunch. Yaz doesn’t think her spine will let her sink
much further. “Because I’m ashamed of it.” Quiet at first, because the truth always is, when
it’s been kept in too long. Yaz can see her struggling, trying to frame it as a cheerful
anecdote. Play it off; she’s good at that. “I mean sure, it’s a convenient fact to throw
around now and again. It gets people listening, you know; two hearts, four-dimensional
perspective, stupidly long life, oldest humanoid species in the known universe… But
they’ve garnered a reputation over the years,” her face darkens, and her eyes go back. A
haze, into the past, into herself. “People realise they’re talkin’ to a Time Lord, first thing
they say is ‘they’re a myth’, a nightmare, like the boogeyman or the solitract. Second thing
they do is start pleadin’ for their lives, or runnin’, or tryin’ to kill you. Maybe that gives you
an idea of why I don’t like associatin’ myself with them.”
29
Silence, for a moment, because this is the most that they’ve ever heard her say. Always
talking, never really saying anything. It’s a talent, that’s for sure.
Ryan is the first to speak. All encouragement, no anger. He wrinkles his nose at the
smell of sick swimming around his shoes. “We’re your mates.” His voice is dry as he states
the obvious. “And sure, you’re an alien but you’re still our mate. We just want to get to
know you better.”
“Humans aren’t exactly the best of the universe either, to be fair,” Graham points out
with a wide, pressed grin.
Yaz searches her face, and reluctantly, the Time Lord meets her eyes. “Are they really
that bad?”
The Doctor nods; expression pinched, lips pulled into a grimace. “And they don’t take
kindly to passengers. No regard for…” her gaze meets the floor, quirking an eyebrow
“lower lifeforms.”
Graham scoffs. “Well, at least you’re a little more open-minded.”
“Their words, I assure you. Though, there was a time when I couldn’t stand you lot.
Thought you were right idiots.”
“Fair’s fair, I suppose. I thought you were a total nutter when I first met you,” Graham
laughs.
She smiles a silent laugh that never leaves her lips. It subsides. “I will get you home,
though. You know that, right? Whatever happens.”
“I know,” Yaz nods, “we trust you.”
“And you will too – get home, I mean,” Ryan says, straightening up from his braced
position and shaking supportive hands from his back. “Your real home, not your alien
home full of stuck-up… aliens.”
Another smile, vacant. Disturbed. “Thanks, Jamie.”
“What?”
The trap closes. Another barrage of sparks, the TARDIS crying its alarm. The room
shakes, and space is in flux again. Ryan is bent over, prepared. He clutches his knees and
pushing his eyes shut in preparation for the worst.
“I can’t change course!” The Doctor cries; somehow rooted in reality despite the way
space twists playful knots around her. “They’re predictin’ it, every move before I make it,
they’ve locked onto the helmic regulator and –“ she clutches her head and yells, stumbling.
“Doctor!” One of them cries – though Yaz can’t be sure if it’s her mouth forming the
words or one of the others.
They can’t hear whatever it is that has the Doctor cowering beneath the console, just an
impression. A footprint on the sand after impact, quickly swept away in the soft. It’s all
above them, on another plane.
Another shuddering quake sends Yaz tumbling into the console. The edge cuts dull and
blunt into her spine. Bone pressing up under skin – the ancestor of a bruise. Memories and
premonitions.
The lights flicker. Great amber pillars fading out… she tries to keep track of their
forms in the dark: the Doctor; sinking to the floor, further, further – as if the cold and the
hard of it will keep her on this side of the abyss. A shudder, and there’s a guttural howl
from deep below. Yaz feels something shoot through her, fizzing through nerves, snapping
30
between synapses like electrons through a wire. It burns for a moment, and then it’s gone.
Fizzles out. As it does, the lights cease their flickering, and go dead altogether.
For a moment, the only sound is that of the Doctor still pressed against the floor,
heaving, close to retching. Slowly, she staggers to her knees, looking around wild-eyed
from beneath tangles of blonde muddied by the dark.
“Err, what’s happened?” Ryan asks. Yaz begins to discern his outline in the gloom, eyes
adjusting like a dial clicking around.
“Oh no,” the Doctor whispers. “No, no, no,” she mumbles it like a mantra, scrambling
to her feet and reaching her hands towards the console. “No, no, no!” She’s cranking
levers, spinning dials, jamming down buttons with increasing erracity. She’s breathing so
fast that Yaz wouldn’t be surprised if she keeled over.
“Doctor what is it? What’s wrong?” Yaz takes a strained, hesitant step to her side. Hand
reaching out, held back.
The Doctor reaches a trembling hand to one of the overhanging pillars. She strokes deft
fingers against ridges of hardened amber, gone dark. Her touch grazes over the surface,
familiar, purposeful, searching for a pulse of life. “There’s nothing, she’s dead. She’s
completely dead.” Her voice has gone quiet, whispering inwards, hands reaching up to the
sides of her head in something almost parodic of alarm. “They’ve drained her out…” she
shivers, mouth agape, disbelieving. Yaz shares a glance with the other two, panic in their
eyes going unvoiced. The Doctor wrenches up a section of the console, beneath the grating
which once swam with honeyed light, now sits only blackness. Something like flesh is
stretched out in the dark; veined and unmoving. Yaz is overcome by the somewhat
terrifying notion that the sentience of the ship is something beyond psychic – that there is
some biological creature down there, encased in metal. The Doctor reaches down and
touches the fleshy substance, squeezing her eyes shut. “Come on, come on,” she whispers,
little more than breath, “please, give me something… please,” and Yaz can hear the pure
ache in her voice. Eyes shut again, as if she’s willing herself to wake up.
It’s grief beyond a despair for their situation, Yaz realises, beyond, even, despair for her
friends. The Doctor has lost someone, possibly the only other creature in the universe that
understands her. It’s always been easy for Yaz to pretend that she didn’t feel the
consciousness of the place screaming out across a multi-dimensional language barrier, but
its absence is nauseating. Utterly wrong, like a missed step in the dark.
When she speaks, the Doctor’s voice sounds like swallowing back a lump in your throat.
Choked, swollen, heavy. Quiet to others but deafening to your own senses. “Her soul,
she’s… we’re dead in the water – or the vortex – or… technicalities” she hisses kicking hard
against the base of the console. The clang knells through the empty chamber, and, for
once, the ship utters no response.
Graham is the first one to break the shocked silence. “So, we’re stuck are we, Doc?” It’s
not the slightest bit accusatory or angry – on the contrary – his voice seeps with kindness.
She nods slowly. “Sorry, everyone,” muttering, avoiding their gaze. “Really, very sorry,
but it’s worse than that.” She takes a deep breath, in and out. “Judgin’ by the fact that the
translator’s still workin’ there’s another TARDIS nearby, which means they’ve found us,
and I don’t know what they’re gonna do.”
“It’s okay. We’re with you.” Ryan nods. The group is closely knit, moving together.
Eyes glinting defiant against the dark.
31
“They’re coming.” The Doctor murmurs, but even the others can hear it. A presence in
the vortex, breaking the silence.
“We know,” Yaz smiles in the dark, and reaches for her hand. “It’s ok.” She’s terrified.
32
III.
Otherstide
Four sharp raps against wood. Someone knocking from the doorstep leading out into
the time vortex – never a good sign. Never a dull encounter, either. The Doctor puts
herself between her friends and the door; wide stance, squared shoulders, chin up. Ryan,
Graham, and Yaz share an apprehensive look.
“Password?” she calls cheerily. Yaz is impressed at how quickly the Doctor is able to
cast grief aside. To tuck it away, save it for later like a sadistic treat.
A muffled voice beyond the door. It’s not quite human, there’s an edge to it like
shattered glass. “We can break through these doors on a whim, Doctor. The knocking is a
mere nicety.”
“Well, thank goodness for niceties then,” she rolls her eyes and casts a comical look to
her friends. They smile thinly at her attempt. She shrugs, “come in, I suppose, if you’re
going to anyway.”
Dead doors swing open to three figures silhouetted impressively against a golden
backlight. Yaz squints – from the sudden light or from something else, something innate,
she isn’t sure. The centre-most figure is draped in intricate robes of pure black – purer than
any blackness that Yaz has ever seen. It seems bottomless. A headpiece, curved above the
head like an oversized metal collar, curved again either side into shoulder pads. Proper alien
fashion. Either side are what Yaz presumes to be guards – given the stoic expressions and
more practical uniforms. Black as well; plated in metal and plastic.
“Ooh, what’s with the wardrobe change?” the Doctor asks. “You lot goin’ through a bit
of an emo phase?” Ryan sniggers from behind her, causing the Doctor’s smile to widen
further. “Sorry,” she tilts her head playfully – not sorry at all, “inside joke.”
“Lord President,” the central figure inclines their head. A man, contempt laced in every
syllable. “I am Cardinal Atral of the High Council. If you and your… passengers,” he mulls
over the word, as if it causes him great discomfort, “would follow me please.”
33
It’s funny; she’s never really considered what the Doctor’s home planet, her people,
would be like. The Doctor seems like a being of her own – separate from any custom or
creed; a singular, chaotic force. The Doctor and the TARDIS; not hailing from anywhere
in particular – just there. Maybe, if she’d been asked to, Yaz would have imagined the
Doctor’s planet to be Earth-like. Some sort of imagined futuristic utopia of the human
race; all shining chrome skyscrapers and hover cars. The planet would be full of forward-
thinkers and bright ideas – people like the Doctor. But these people are old and stoic and
rooted. There’s a glint to them that marks them out; like reflections on water, they ripple.
Warped – an image knitting itself together from sparse constituents; like a low resolution
photograph, your mind fills in the blanks so rapidly that the result is never quite convincing
when you concentrate upon it. In these so called ‘Time Lords’ that wrongness is easy to
spot. Maybe the Doctor adapted, chameleon-like, to appear closer to a human, shave off a
bit of that terrifying edge, but leave just enough mystery – enough wonder – to pull the
curious ones in.
“Right, of course, just one question first Cardinal,” the Doctor smiles. “Seein’ as I’m
President, can’t I just order you to let us go? I mean, that is how being President works,
right? I outrank everyone.” Cardinal Atral grimaces, raising a hand in slow elegance. The
guards either side of him spring to life and make to cross the threshold of the TARDIS.
“Alright, alright,” the Doctor placates, taking a step back, “no need for that. I’ll come
along.” She huffs, takes a step forwards, and then stops again, defiant. The Cardinal presses
his eyes shut in frustration. If his patience is already wearing thin, Yaz thinks, then he’s in
for a rough time. “Actually, I lied, I’ve got another thing. Bit of a favour, you know, for
your favourite President,” she smiles; falsely sweet, bared teeth. “I’ll come quietly, I
promise you that, if you take my friends here back to Earth.”
“Excuse me?” the Cardinal raises an eyebrow beneath the triangular fabric pulled tight
against his forehead.
“My friends, right here – Ryan, Graham, Yaz,” she points to each of them in turn and
flashes them a wink. “Send ‘em back to Earth. Sheffield, 21st century – and don’t worry
guys,” she turns to address them, “their tech is a little less… finicky, you know – reliable-
like,” back to the Cardinal, face suddenly stern (and her two sides have never been clearer)
“– drop them back, no harm done, and I’ll play your little game.” A dangerous grin,
glinting, dark eyes. Does the Cardinal look unsettled? Afraid, even? It’s hard to tell beneath
the stolid mask.
“They will be,” he says; blank-faced, steely, “but not yet.”
“No, no of course not,” the Doctor takes a step forwards, all swinging motion, coattail
stark white as it whips out behind her stride. “No, you’re going to press a gun to their
heads to make sure I play nicely.” She whispers the words, wasp-like, dripping with malice.
“So much for superiority,” she edges closer to the Cardinal with every word. The guards
still stand just outside the door, as if afraid to cross into the dark, into her domain. “So
much for powerful,” she sneers as the guards edge back, regarding her with wide, alert eyes.
Fearful eyes. “You’re pathetic,” she smiles, hands clasped behind her back. She rocks on
her heels, waiting, winding. ”You’ve got to hold level five sentient lifeforms at gunpoint
just to give yourselves the illusion of security – because make no mistake, Cardinal, it is an
illusion.”
34
“You don’t scare me,” he drawls, drawing himself up to his full height. He towers over
the Doctor, who now stands mere inches from him at the edge of the TARDIS floor.
“Oh,” she sneers, neck craning up, yet looming over all the same, “but I do.”
Cardinal Atral scoffs, taking a step back and turning his back to her. “Escort her, will
you,” he says, and the guards spring to reluctant action. Each grip one of the Doctor’s
arms and pull her from the ship. She doesn’t resist, even as they pull her arms behind her
and cuff her wrists together. The cuffs seem like overkill; inches thick, running from mid
forearm to palm.
“Oi, I’ll be needin’ my hands to do President stuff!” When they say nothing, she turns
to look at Yaz and the others over her shoulder with a smile. “Follow along gang! Don’t
worry, I’ve got a plan!”
Yaz grins right back, hiding nerves. “You so don’t.”
“I will in a mo, and that’s what counts,” she winks, and Yaz almost feels alright.
The pair of guards flanking the Doctor march her out – the Cardinal heading up the
procession. Ryan, Graham, and Yaz slink out from the darkness of the TARDIS, and are
met with a row of identically dressed guards lining the path ahead like pillars. Yaz eyes
them, scrutinising them as she walks past. Nowhere to go but forwards.
They’ve landed in an expansive hall; tall ceilings, golden light, something like marble spread
and swirled with warm colour beneath their echoing footsteps. Black banners are draped at
regular intervals along the walls – interleaved by soaring stone pillars that reach up into the
near-infinite fathoms of the ceiling. The Doctor continues her idle, cheerful conversation
ahead of them, peering around at her surroundings with polite curiosity.
“This is quite nice, isn’t it?” she chirps. “Quite nice, isn’t it, team?” she calls, shrill. The
Cardinal flinches up ahead, and Yaz can sense the scowl twisting his thin, shrewd lips.
“Very nice, yeah,” Graham answers, a little hesitant.
“I don’t have a room like this in my TARDIS. At least, I don’t think I do.” She’s trying
to keep their morale up, or maybe she’s doing it more for her own benefit, or out of habit.
It’s difficult to tell. Always is, when it comes to the Doctor. “Could do with some colour,
though, I’m not vibin’ with all the black – is that right Ryan, did I say it right; vibin’?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” he answers, bemused.
“Brilliant,” her grin is audible. “I love all these 21st century colloquialisms – would you
like to hear some, Cardinal, they’re really very nice. It’s just that you aren’t one for
conversation, and a President should really get to know her underlings.” Yaz chuckles to
herself, casting a sideways look at Ryan. She tries not to think about the way the Doctor
was acting back on the ship. The hopelessness. She tries not to think about that fact that
the Doctor is the unwitting President of an all-powerful alien planet – her home planet –
and that she never told them a thing about any of it.
“Actually, I was rather hoping you’d be quiet,” the Cardinal snaps.
“Can’t, sorry. Guess it’s just my leadership style.”
At the end of the hall stands a set of double doors; imposing and metallic. A pair of
guards bow their heads, and the panels shudder open onto a sheer white light. Beyond, a
control room, but nothing like the Doctor’s. It’s pure white – no amber crystals, no blues
and reds and honeycomb walls. There are no misshapen levers or smatterings of screens.
No biscuit dispensers – which is just boring, really. It’s much closer to what Yaz might
35
have expected an alien spaceship to look like if you’d asked her a few months earlier. The
Doctor turns to look at them and mimes throwing up.
“We have, by order of the council, landed outside the capital,” the Cardinal explains as
he approaches the exit. No old-fashioned hatched windows, just a boring metal panel. Four
more guards bring up the rear, leaving the rest of the welcome party behind.
“Why, did they want to tire me out or somethin’?” the Doctor mutters.
“They didn’t want to give you direct access, in case there were… difficulties, in your
apprehension.”
“Ooh, you expected difficulties, then? Good call. You should keep expectin’ them,” the
edge creeps back into her voice, “because they’re coming.”
“I expect they are.” Yaz can hear the smirk in his voice as the metal door slides open.
Red. That’s the first thing Yaz sees. Pillows of red sand stretching out in every direction,
under a sky crammed with the stifling light of the twin suns above. An orange haze hangs
overhead, casting a warm ambience that magnifies the ruddish planes to an unnatural hue.
Ahead, a city encased in burnished glass. Like a snow-globe, a captured moment; gilded
towers thrusting up to the suns like sword-points. The air around the glass shimmers and
folds, like oil on water.
Graham whistles from beside her, “now that’s what I call an alien city.” He meets her
eyes with a calm, fatherly smile. Putting on a brave face. “How are you holdin’ up, love?”
“I’m alright,” she says, unconvincing, gulping beneath the shadow of the great dome
ahead. She drags her feet across the harsh, dusky landscape. It’s difficult to imagine the
Doctor coming from anywhere so harsh, so monotonous, so sheer and jagged as a cliff’s
edge – not when she’s all forest greens and sky blues and striped motifs of vibrant colour.
She strikes a jarring contrast against the landscape, and the black-shrouded, silent populace.
“Well, you’re doin’ better than me then,” Graham chuckles. “Let’s just say this is not
how I was picturin’ today’s adventure.”
Yaz answers him with a smile and a ghost of a laugh. She can’t muster up the energy to
pretend hard enough to dredge it to life.
“Yaz, what the hell is she?” he mutters, a hissed whisper, “I mean, that sound…”
“I know.” The bruise on her back rubs daggers against her jacket.
“All this time an’ I didn’t even question it, you know, novelty of an alien pal and all
that.” He chuckles again, reluctant to continue, afraid he’s crossing a line. The Doctor was
wonderful, that much was plain from the moment they all met her, but she carried
something else as well. Something like an undercurrent, a steady ostinato buried beneath
that double heart-beat. It told you to run now, ask questions later – only the running never
stopped, and so the asking never happened. Your mind didn’t even have time to form the
questions, because there was never any silence, never any stillness. Always talking, saying
impossible things, moving impossibly quick; impossibly wide grin beneath impossibly
bright eyes. It was enough of a show for Ryan and Graham to stuff their grief aside and
climb aboard, enough to fuel Yaz’s borderline self-destructive need for adventure. They
were all reliant on that brightness, that circle of pretending, in different ways. Even the
Doctor – perhaps her most of all. That’s why doubting her always felt like betrayal. “All
that stuff sort of slipped out,” Graham continued, and Yaz’s mind is still screaming it.
36
Betrayal. “Stuff about sisters and grannies and bein’ a white-haired scots-man. Could never
be sure what was truth and what was just her messin’ about.”
“Yeah,” Yaz murmurs absently.
“And how about you then?” Graham asks, turning around, accepting Yaz’s brooding
absence. “How’s things over in Ryan city?”
“Err, fine,” he mutters, “I suppose.” He’s eyeing the pair of guards walking either side
of them with apprehension. “We’re not going to just go, are we? I mean, they said they’d
take us home if the Doctor does what they say, but we’re not just gonna let that happen,
right? We’re not gonna leave her here.”
“‘Course not,” Graham assures him. “We’re her mates, like you said, son. We’re leavin’
here together or not at all.” A thin smile, and Ryan nods, unconvinced.
The guards don’t seem to mind them talking, in fact, they don’t really seem to pay them
any notice at all. Their attention is trained solely on the figure ahead a few paces, skipping
along, kicking up sand with battered boots over striped novelty socks. “Why do you reckon
they’re so scared of her?” Yaz asks.
A moment of stewing silence. “Don’t know, Yaz, and to be perfectly honest I don’t
really want to think about it just now.” Graham mutters. “Let’s concentrate on getting
home – leave the, err, clarifications ‘til later, yeah?”
“Okay,” she gives him a reassuring smile.
“Can’t ‘ave been bad, though. She hates guns and violence and all that.” Ryan reasons.
Yaz keeps the thought to herself, but allows herself to wonder why the Doctor developed
such a hard stance on war to begin with – at least when it came to her friends. For her, it
seemed that the rules were more flexible.
Coming upon the city walls, the Cardinal stops for a moment, standing beneath the
shadow of the looming edifice. An enormous metallic wall surrounds the circumference of
the city. Above – resting on great metal girders and casting its shadow across the undercity
– sits the dome, and within, its gleaming towers. Ryan, Graham, Yaz, and their entourage
of black-clad guards catch up to the others. The Doctor stares up at the structure, and Yaz
wonders what might be running through that lightning-quick head of hers. Fear? Nostalgia,
maybe? A sinking feeling, perhaps, a mixture of memories flooding back, like stepping into
your old high school.
“Seriously, though,” the Doctor asks, “what’s with all the black?” Yaz can see why she’s
reiterating the question. The city flies those bottomless banners as well, the fabric draping
from every jagged scalene window.
“It’s Otherstide,” the Cardinal answers. The great bronze wall shudders apart from
seemingly invisible seams, dragging across the sand. Beyond, a street of cobbled brown,
metal buildings crammed together, choking, reaching for the sky.
“Well then,” the Doctor mutters, with a twisted grin, “happy birthday to me,” and
follows the Cardinal through, into the city.
They don’t take her to the council chambers – no, of course not – they want to make a
show of it. Instead, the old courtroom, where she once stood trial in an even more
37
ridiculous outfit. Today, the room is draped in black, the robes of the council members
matching the decor. Funny, she can’t remember Otherstide ever being such a big deal – at
least, no one ever used to wear black robes. The notion doesn’t sit well with her, and
below, the creature stirs.
Her honour guard escort her to a central bench and position themselves either side of
her. She glances behind as her friends are ushered in to sit on the bench behind. They look
afraid, but smile when they see her looking. She really doesn’t deserve them. The
surrounding feathered benches rise around the circumference of the room, already filled
with black-robed bodies beneath golden-winged heads. Expectant faces, scared, awestruck.
Boring.
Cardinal Atral takes his place at the second-most tier of the audience, leaving the seat of
President vacant. How polite of him. The Doctor knocks her head back and stares up
through the glass, domed ceiling. There is, she’ll admit, something nice about that hazy
orange hue, the right amount of suns in the sky. There’s something comforting about
hearing her own language, being among her own people – even if she’d hoped never to
come across any of them again, for her own sake. The telepathic background drone of an
entire civilisation – even a dying one, is a loudness she has almost missed. She’s glad
they’ve kept their TARDIS’ translation circuits on, though, for the sake of her friends.
She whistles to herself, kicking back, just to spite them with her playful indifference.
The Cardinal claps his hands together, the sound reverberating through the silent chamber.
A rumble, as hundreds of impractically dressed aristocrats seat themselves down to watch
the show.
“Lord President,” the Cardinal booms, his voice noticeably deeper. “You stand before
the council of Time Lords.”
“Yes!” she chirrups, looking back at the Cardinal. “Hello, lovely to meet you all – and
please, call me the Doctor.”
“Very well, Doctor,” he sneers, “I trust you received our summons.”
She lets out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, you could say that. Have you lot ever heard of
Snapchat? It’s a whole lot more convenient than beamin’ your collective consciousness
across the universe and trying to unravel my psychic barriers – and more fun, too! They
have face filters and everythin’!” A few of the council members exchange incredulous
glances. It occurs to the Doctor that she isn’t exactly sure how long it’s been for them since
she banished Rassilon and the rest of the high council. Who knows how the story of her
has grown, distorted. Long lives might prevent the worst of the rippling effect of retelling –
but memories can be just as unreliable, and even Time Lords don’t live forever.
“This current regeneration is not yet on record – but you have a documented history of
wearing out your bodies rather quickly.”
“You’re right, this one’s still pretty new, so don’t go inducin’ anything – I’d like to keep
it a while longer, thanks.”
“Quite,” Atral smirks. A moment of heavy silence.
“This is a little awkward, isn’t it? – is it awkward, gang?” she turns around to face her
friends. Ryan shrugs, eyes lost up in the recesses of the ceiling. Yaz gives her a reassuring
smile.
“Little bit, yeah,” Graham says, cheerfully, “all him though, you’ve got nothin’ to do
with it.”
38
“Thought so,” she nods, and turns her attention back to the Cardinal. Outrage is writ
across his face. It seems he’s used to being listened to. “Atral, buddy – can I call you
Atral?” she doesn’t wait for an answer, “you’ve gotta pick the conversation up a bit, mate.
You’ve got a big audience to impress. Let’s get on with it. You lot want me to resume my
role as President, correct?” She’s already turned the tide of the room; gone from subject to
interrogator. (With all due respect, sir, get off his planet).
His lip curls. “Correct.”
“Righto – except I don’t want to, I’m afraid. It’s not you though, it’s me,” she sighs,
“bureaucracy gives me indigestion.”
“You will take this seriously, Doctor, or face the consequences!” He’s going red, all
flushed colour stuffed under that ridiculous headpiece.
“You’re right, sorry. It’s not me at all, it’s all you.”
He begins to open and close his mouth like a fish in robes, searching for words. “You
will comply!’ he blusters, “or –”
“Or you’ll kill my friends, yes, ok, I get it. I’ve got a question for you Atral.” Her voice
is cold again, steel trap set, waiting. “I banished Rassilon himself – the most powerful and
feared Time Lord in all the universe – and I didn’t even have to say a word. I had his
council stripped of their ranks and shipped off to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. I had
his supporters scrambling for the shadows – do you really think I couldn’t do the same to
you.”
A pause, and the Cardinal bristles – or is it a shiver. She hopes it’s a shiver. “We are not
like any previous council. You may find us,” he smiles thinly, “more agreeable, than
Rassilon.”
The Doctor scoffs. “Same software, different case. Forgive me if I’m reluctant to seal
off on any dealings with the Time Lords” – she stands, and the bench scrapes against the
floor with a deafening groan – “after you tortured me,” a breath, bracing, “for FOUR
AND A HALF BILLION YEARS!” Her chest heaves in the ringing silence that her shout
leaves behind.
The Cardinal tries to hide his flinch, composing himself. “Under Rassilon’s orders,
you’ll recall. He broke his own rules to set that trap. He was afraid of you.”
The Doctor tilts her head up to stare at him, quiet. “Oh, but you’re not?” Disbelieving;
teasing.
He avoids the question. “And you went through all of that just to save a human woman.
You’ve acquired some more, I see,” he indicates Ryan, Graham, and Yaz, who press a little
closer together on their bench. “You will go to any lengths to protect them, that fact is well
known.”
It crosses her mind to bluff, to pretend that she couldn’t care less about them. It would
be easy; a tut, a low, cruel laugh. Oh Atral, you really think I care that much about a few humans.
Kill, maim, torture – whatever you feel like. It makes no difference to me. They’re irrelevant.
She couldn’t do it, though. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself from turning around to
look at them. Not only would the act give her away as a liar, but she would see their faces –
disbelieving, hurt, (identical, predictable). But her fam wouldn’t believe that, would they?
They must know she cares for them – though, right now, she can’t be sure. The sight of
the Time Lord’s shining city, their indifference, the mingled concoction of fear and
39
reverence they all hold for her… it might be enough to stir up doubt, even in them.
Instead, she only sighs. “Well, you got me there. What are you going to do to them, just out
of curiosity.”
“Clean shot to the head,” he shrugs. “Gone in an instant – strange how these lower
lifeforms work, isn’t it? Though I hear you find them fascinating.”
“For the record, I find them beautiful, not just fascinating – and that plan of yours goes
against your whole non-interference policy, wouldn’t you say?”
“They are of no consequence,” he says; airy, a wave of his hand to punctate his
carelessness. “The universe will heal around their loss without fracture.”
The Doctor scowls, but stops herself from correcting him. The families torn apart, the
friends, even the casual acquaintances. All the other little lives that stop going ‘round when
a cog is snatched away from the great machine, haphazardly slapped together out of scrap,
blundering along despite the chaos. “You really want me to be President that badly? Badly
enough that you’d make an enemy of your civilisation’s greatest hero – your words, by the
way, not mine – I stay humble,” she shoots to her friends behind her. Back to the council,
and the smile is gone. “You seem to be doing just fine on your own, why do you need me
to step in and run your planet for you?”
“It’s not you that we want – at least – not entirely.” He’s enjoying it, the suspense, the
knowing when she doesn’t. His sort always do; spewing out evil plans because the
temptation to gloat is too much for them to stomach.
“I see,” she resigns, feeling the buried thing writhe. “And I was really hopin’ my hunch
was wrong.” For the first time, she removes her gaze from Atral and stares around at the
rest of them. Some of them blanche when she catches their eye – and she won’t pretend
not to enjoy the feeling. The white spreading across their face like a virus sends bells
a’tolling in her bones. “It won’t work, you know. I’m just an ordinary Time Lord, and
technically not even a Time Lord, seein’ as I exiled myself.”
“But you are no ordinary Time Lord,” he regales, smiling something sinister. “You’ve
gone beyond that now – you’ve broken the regeneration limit, a rule imposed to safeguard
our kind from the taint of immortality.”
Her expression darkens further. She wonders how much deeper it can go, how much
more a brow can furrow, how much firmer a scowl can set. She hasn’t had the chance to
get to know this face yet – this body hasn’t known true anger. “I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t
want that. That was all you lot, I had nothin’ to do with it. I was supposed to die on
Trenzalore.” And only a crack in the universe and the might of the Time Lords had
stopped it from being so. A thousand years… she would have gladly died where she stood.
The beast.
“And yet, you live.”
“I do,” she admits, “because you gave me the option. No healthy living thing will
choose death over life without cause, it’s hardwired. And besides, someone’s gotta be
around to stop you lot from destroyin’ the universe.”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why Rassilon granted you such a plethora regenerations?”
Again, that teasing smile. That patronising glare. She gets it enough on Earth these days,
and though now it’s for a different reason, she doesn’t hate it any less.
40
“Five-foot-two and crying, he didn’t stand a chance.” And so sad when she watched
him go, change. Eventually, she saw him. Clara. Saw him like her current friends cannot,
because she won’t let them.
“If you’re insinuating that the High Council felt pity for your human girl, you’re gravely
mistaken.”
“Oh, but I can hope, can’t I?” Another sigh, and she sits back down onto her allocated
bench, resolute. She’d cross her arms if she wasn’t cuffed. “I suppose he wanted me for
something, thought I would help him.”
“He wanted the council of his old mentor,” he raises an eyebrow, like he’s giving her a
tantalising hint, wanting her to guess.
She scoffs. “And you think it would have played along?” Idiots, all of them. Messing
with forces they don’t understand. “And, what, now you’re going to finish what he
started?” What he never got the chance to pursue, seeing as she threw him off his own
planet. The memory brings a twisted smile to her lips.
“Rassilon is no more. A new age of Time Lord society awaits – guided by the hand that
once built it.” She supposes he must have practised the speech in the mirror, knowing all
his little friends were going to be here watching. The whole spiel is dreadfully generic, but
the Doctor amuses herself in imagining the man scribbling it out, crossing over the words
that didn’t fit, trying to get it all just right, wanting to impress the creature he’s elevated to
an idol.
“It won’t help you.” The creature mutters something too high up for her to hear.
“We are its disciples. We await its command.” No doubt about it anymore, about the
power that now held Gallifrey. It was the old power – superstitions, a borderline theocracy.
So it’s Godhood, not criminality, that she’s facing. The emphasis on Otherstide suddenly
makes a whole lot more sense. An awful sense.
She takes a moment to laugh, to really laugh. That’s another thing she hasn’t done in
this body yet – a good and proper cackle. “You’re morons!” she cries, wiping a fake tear
from her eye, driving home the point of their hilarity. “In your hour of darkness, you turn
to legends – to fairy-tales – to save you, to bring you some semblance of the glory and the
power you once held.” She lets the words ring out to quiet resonance, lets the crowd
contemplate them. Under their gaze, her expression calcifies, stern. “It won’t work.”
“We will reign again, Doctor,” Atral spits, and the crowd (identical, predictable,
microscopic) murmur their agreement, nodding heavy heads. “We will sit atop the throne
of creation – we will be mighty once more!” The mob is good and riled up; smattered with
mutterings of assent. A murder of crows. “You know nothing of its will – you are merely a
vessel for its power.”
Head tilts. Neck cracks, bringing forth a sallow smile. “I know a lot more than you
think. Symbiosis isn’t so simple.”
“What say you, Doctor?” Atral raises both hands and signals to the guards standing
behind the bench where her three humans are sitting. A scrape of metal, a mechanical click;
familiar, sickening. Guns being loaded. She hears one of them gasp as the cold of the barrel
presses against the back of their head. The Doctor presses her eyes shut, quelling anger,
reasoning with herself. The creature reassures her. “Will you take your place as President?”
“Oh, I suppose,” she says. Softly, clearly. “Now put the guns down.”
41
“So you will –”

“I SAID PUT THEM DOWN!” she shouts, scraping, again, to her feet. At either side,
the guards straighten up, though they seem reluctant to take action against her. Atral sighs
heavily and signals to the guards again, who, obediently, unanimously, sheath their stasers.
He signals again to the guards beside the Doctor, who take her by the arms. “Now,” she
tuts, “that’s hardly polite – I just agreed to your terms.”
“Doctor, no, you can’t!” Ryan yells, standing up – imbued with confidence now that he
doesn’t have a gun pressed to his skull. Atral raises a bemused eyebrow at the gesture,
clearly finding his resistance amusing. “We’re not leavin’ you here!”
“You have to, Ryan, I’m sorry,” she can’t even turn around and look him in the eyes,
their grips are too tight. Maybe it’s better this way, better to part early when they still have a
life to go back to on Earth, before she swallows them up altogether, tangles them
irreparably. Things really were getting a little too good. Too easy.
“And so, the deal stands,” Atral smirks. “Drop the humans back on Earth. Back to
where they were – and use the neuro-blockers. Make sure to fix up any… discrepancies.”
The Doctor’s face twists again; bared teeth, calm tone. “There’s no need for that. What
are they goin’ to do? There’s no harm in lettin’ them remember!”
“Remember... “ Yaz says, clearly trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “Doctor,
what do you mean?” Forced steady over a trembling tone.
“It’s okay Yaz, it’ll make everything easier, in a way.” Does she really believe that? She
did, once, but maybe not anymore.
“They’re gonna make us forget all this?” Graham asks, quiet, bracing, hoping for that to
be all.
“The Doctor should never have interfered with your lives,” Atral says. “For her reckless
and selfish behaviour, on behalf of the Time Lords, I apologise. We will correct your
timelines – and any in your immediate timestream that were affected – erasing all memory
of the Doctor and any other experiences that would not have otherwise transpired due to
her interference.”
“Now just hold on a minute,” Graham says, ready to lecture a millenia-old being.
“You can’t do that!” Ryan exclaims.
It’s all coming back; the ones to which the memory of her is a danger, an illness. So
many people forgetting, and worse, now, because she knows how it feels to lose something
that important.
“Doctor, please!” Yaz now, and her voice is harder to ignore. There’s no indignance left
in her, because she knows they can’t change it. There’s only pleading; only sadness.
“I’ll come back for you,” she says. She promises. (Someday I’ll come back. Oh yes, I will come
back).
“How are you gonna do that if we don’t even remember, Doc?”
Her lips tremble, jaw set. “I’ll fix it.”
“How?” Ryan asks, panic in his voice. “How are you goin’ to get out of this alone?”
“Please,” she feigns smugness, confidence. It’s whisper thin. “I do this all the time.”
“That’s enough, now,” Atral crows. He seems to enjoy the heartache of it all. Behind
her, she hears a struggle as the guards wrangle ahold of her friends.
42
“No! What are you gonna do to her?” Yaz shouts, trying to push past one of the guards.
It almost works, police training and all, but not well enough. “Doctor!”
This time, she shoves one of the brutes off of her with a sudden burst of movement, of
strength, and turns around to face her friends. “Hey, it’s ok Yaz, big smiles,” and she
plasters on her own weak attempt. “I’m gonna escape, it’s all gonna be fine, just watch
me.” They’re already being pulled apart. She can’t even reach out and touch her one last
time. Before she knows it, the guards have hold of her again. “Brave heart, fam!” she calls,
as they’re dragged away.
She won’t forget. Maybe it’s silly of her to believe that, seeing as she’s facing off against the
most advanced technology in the universe, but she believes it all the same. She will not
forget the Doctor.
They’re walking single file, walled by guards. She’s not struggling anymore, none of
them are. The fruitlessness of the effort having sunken in, they walk; resolute, holding tight
to memories that will soon be gone. Yaz tries to remember what her life was like before
she met the Doctor. She’d been miserable. Maybe she hadn’t realised it at the time –
because the misery was more of an undercurrent, an unceasing backing track to her life that
she didn’t notice was playing until it finally stopped. Suddenly she hadn’t felt so helpless, so
lonely, so ordinary. Life wasn’t just a span of seconds into hours into years, stretching out
in front of her in a grey mass of drudgering mundanity. That’s what’s awaiting her, that
mundanity track – as soon as they drop her back it will go on playing as if it had never
stopped. Maybe she should feel guilty for feeling like she deserves more, that she deserves
the Doctor. Right place, right time, she reminds herself. Right city, right train carriage. She
just happened to be there when the Doctor arrived, human-shaped holes in her hearts and
all.
She feels Graham’s hand slink forward from behind her and grasp her own. He
squeezes it reassuringly. With the skin pressed tight against her bones, she can feel her
pulse thrumming in her palm.
Identical guards in identical uniforms. Identical gilded hallways with long windows out
to identical views. Golden towers, a twisting labyrinth of metal spiralling down into the
recesses of the city below. Beyond, endless red plains. She tries to imagine the Doctor, or
any child, growing up in a place like this. She wonders where all her hope came from, all
the quirks and the energy, the fondness for humanity.
Eventually, a room. A clean metal slab sliding across to reveal an endless white. Surgical
equipment, spotless sheets draped over spindly metal tables. More uniformed Time Lords;
draped in simple white robes, but just as expressionless. They hold headsets; metal
electrodes and polished wires tangling up into a crown. The three humans stand in a line,
ushered there by the guards, and stare into the white. Graham is still holding her hand
when a guard reaches forwards, and forces a gloved hand between them, severing their
touch.
“It’ll be ok,” Ryan says, breaking their long-held silence. “She’ll escape, she always does.
Remember when we thought she’d drowned in a lake?”
43
Key word; remember. Yaz savours the feeling; the flutter of panic, the sink of dread, the
resurgence of hope. That’s what it felt like to know the Doctor; adrenaline, despair, and
hope, its remedy. “And when she got trapped in a mirror,” she adds.
“She’s gotten out of worse, that’s for sure,” Graham smiles. A white-uniformed person
– Doctors, she guesses – stands before each of them, raising a device onto each of their
heads. Yaz stares the woman in front of her right in the eyes. She looks young, not much
older than Yaz, but there’s still that horrible edge, like Yaz can’t quite see all of her. It
crosses her mind to try reasoning with her – she’s a decent negotiator – she’d even try
pleading. For the Doctor, she’d try anything. But these people aren’t like the Doctor – it’s
like they don’t even see her at all.
“You’re doing well,” the woman says, monotone. “In a moment, everything will be
alright.”
“Drop dead,” Yaz spits; chin up, eyes dark. When the woman isn’t fazed by her, Yaz
continues. “She’s gonna find us, you know. She’s gonna stop you from doin’ whatever it is
you’re gonna do to her. I know you’re afraid of her – all of you,” she raises her voice,
craning for a better view of the rest of them. “You won’t get away with this.” But why, why
are they so afraid?
Cold metal discs are placed against her skin. She could kick, scream, struggle, but she
doesn’t. Even now, there’s a gun pressed against her back – muzzle resting right up against
the bruise she’d sustained from her bash against the TARDIS console, churning up pain
like yellow fire. Energy kicks up from somewhere deep in the wires wrapped around her
skull. It’s rushing through her, and somewhere far away, someone’s counting down from
five.
Up until the last moment, she’s expecting it; expecting to feel the Doctor’s hand grasp
her own and pull her into a sprint. A smirk, a breath on her neck. A whisper to run.
Instead, a light fills her head, and her legs give way beneath her.
Maybe it is better this way – the forgetting. They won’t be waiting for her, won’t put
their lives on hold because of her. They won’t be expecting to hear the sound of the blue
box wheezing in to drag them out. No harm done, not even a blip; like she was never
there.
The Doctor tries to keep her head up, but she’s getting tired. Months of running, of
putting on a show, it can really take it out of you. Running since that first night in Sheffield,
cells burning, memories flaring out like a spring bloom. All those new people, new threats;
she was in her element, her being thrived off it. To see Tim Shaw underestimate her, to rip
that false security right out from under him with a grin, a glinting stare. It was a different
sort of feeling to when they already knew what she was, and she saw the realisation
dawning, unfurling into dread. That night, she was caught up in the thrill of it. Standing on
top of a crane, night air whipping new hair and old, battered clothes. I’m The Doctor.
She knew that it was going to be a difficult thing to give up.
Then Grace, and she was reminded why she had promised she wasn’t going to do this
anymore. The days that came after where harder. Lurking in the shadows, a jagged
silhouette of tattered black and frayed sleeves hanging of her new figure – slight, drowning
44
in fabric, in grief. Slowly, all the pieces of her knitted back together, and old memories of
grief weighed upon the fresher stuff, and mingled with the rotting, pungent taste. When
those new humans looked at her, she tried not to see the accusations behind their eyes; all
those burning questions. It was hard, especially when their feelings were so loud. Even a
lousy psychic like her was overwhelmed by it.
But, that’s what happens. To touch the Doctor is to brush against death, to inch slowly
closer and closer, until you’re friendly enough to hold its hand and walk with it. Maybe, for
a time, death plays along, but sooner or later, it takes you away. The Doctor used to think
she lived that too – just one misstep away from obliteration – until Trenzalore. Now
infinity stretches out; inviting, intoxicating. Dangerous. Maybe it’s better that her new best
friends are getting out of that pact with the reaper before it’s too late.
Firm grips on her arms, digging in, feet almost dragging. Carted off towards a place
where they’ll try, again, to break her. Between her bones, the creature rears, preparing,
uncoiling. Waking.
...
Yaz stands in the living room – Ryan’s house, she remembers. She feels a little dizzy,
and it takes a moment for her thoughts to catch up with her senses. Mustard carpet. Smart
coffee table set with a newspaper and a half-empty cup of tea. There used to be another
chair in the corner, but it was broken. She can’t remember how.
“Do you think Graham’s got that tea ready yet, my headache’s right awful,” Ryan
grumbles from beside her, kneading at his temples.
“Wanna check on him, then? You’re welcome to any of the leftovers too.” That’s right,
she’d been to lunch, and she’d come by Ryan’s to drop off some leftovers. As if on cue,
Graham – Ryan’s grandad – shuffles out of the kitchen holding a tray laden with tea and
biscuits. He’s lovely, Graham is, and Yaz is so glad she got to know him better after that
horrible incident with Grace. They’re all sort of friends now, which might seem a little
weird from the outside, but they’ve made a tradition of it now. Every Saturday, they have
tea.
“Here we are then you two,” he smiles. “Thanks to Yaz, we’re all set for dinner as well.”
Graham sets the tray down on the dining table, then stands up, frowning.
“Think you’re gettin’ a bit old there, gramps,” Ryan chuckles. “You’ve made four cups
of tea.”
45
A BARN IN THE DESERT

(and what was lurking in the dark)
Even before his march to the untempered schism, Theta still had the dreams.
Sometimes they made him cry out, or whisper things, so he tried to sneak out of the house
as often as he could, and sleep alone. Theta liked it in the barn. There, the air was wrought
with dust and old wood. He didn’t have to listen to the dreaming of his cousins, their late
night thinking tapping incessantly on the flimsy walls of his mind. He wasn’t good at
blocking it out. Lousy psychic. In the barn, the stars felt closer, and the roughness of the
hay reminded him that he had skin, and a body – not just a void inside. Not like he felt in
the dreams.
The usual dreams of a child are chaotic; a pinch of one memory, a dash of another. A
fear constructed into tangibility, a face seen in passing. A nonsensical, self-prescribed
narrative. Theta’s dreams were different. In them, he knew things that he shouldn’t have
known, things that he didn’t remember when he woke; what it felt like to be almost as old
as the universe, to see things from a plane or two higher than his waking mind. How it felt
to have your atoms scattered and churning around in a prime distributor for ten million
years.
In the dreams, he was a creature stuffed into the shell of a man. The creature didn’t
have a name, so the stories called it the Other. People could be very unimaginative. The
creature’s story unfolded in fragments; staggered, disordered. So disordered that, at first, it
didn’t seem to be a story at all. There was a time before, when the creature was something
greater – or lesser, depending on how you defined such things. It was without a body or a
mind that saw things in three dimensions, with a certain affinity for the fourth. There
would be a time after, as well, when the creature grew, or devolved, into that greater, lesser
thing once more. Its life was like an hourglass, repeating; wide to narrow to wide again; a
sine curve. These times – the peaks and troughs of the cycle – recalling or pre-empting
them felt like concentrating when your mind is falling asleep, trying to grasp thoughts as
46
they fizzle away through your fingers. Sand; tighten your grip and it only endeavours to
flow faster.
The smaller parts, the curve of the glass – the waist – were easier to grasp. A man, or a
man-shaped thing, saw potential in a new form of life, barely waking. The lifeforms walked
on two legs on a red planet with an orange sky. The universe was new – at least, in its
present incarnation – and the Other saw potential there, in the minds of those lifeforms – a
beauty to which its compatriots were blinded. Cycles.
It contrived to walk among them, because chaos was getting rather boring, really, and It
thought that time and its relative dimensions needed a change of clothes. There were things
It knew that others did not, and could not. That was just an advantage of being eternal, you
picked things up along the way. It never told them outright, because that wasn’t fun. It
played a part, hid behind a title, obscured Its past. Cycles.
It guided their path through the universe – the new creatures. A whisper in the ear, an
offhand comment that would lead their thoughts on a tirade; a suggestion, a sleight-of-
hand; never taking all the credit, letting them test the waters, leave the nest. A couple of
them in particular took Its fancy. Brilliant, ambitious, curious. Companions, of a sort.
Cycles.
These companions imagined a universe unbridled by uncertainty and chaos and magic.
A universe with one world at the centre – one race, as a guiding hand. Guiding the thread
of time; predicting it, mastering it. It was a tricky balance; brilliance and corruption. Good
and evil – that’s what it always came down to. Good and evil, and choosing which was
which. Cycles.
Its secrets included, among other things, harnessing the power of a supernova as a fuel
source, and using the potential energy of a star on the brink of collapse to tear back the
fabric of reality and traverse it. Time travel, to put it simply. Cross-dimensional travel
seemed a bit much, so It held back a little. Too much at a time and they would be
overwhelmed.
It all started off rather well. Its companions – Rassilon and Omega – reacted just as
brilliantly, and predictably, as It had expected. Pinpricks in the dark. That light in their eyes,
a piece of star, pushing them forward, burning brilliantly. It led them to greatness; the star
and the entity alike – burning up entire star systems just to pull back the veil of time a mere
fraction. They, and their people, amassing, were intoxicated by it. They grew accustomed to
it, the infinite stratum of time, the burgeoning dark – they took a piece of it into
themselves, and learned to see across time as one might gaze out upon the horizon and spy
the grey, muffled shadows of ships. Vast, but distant; shapes hazy and indiscernible. Their
minds could only take so much.
It was beautiful, and, It confessed, sad, to watch those stars burn into blackness. It felt
twinge of regret, perhaps, deep down, as Its protegees encased Its brothers and sisters in
bonds of iron and dimensional resonance; shells built around them, copied, used as time
ships; dragged into the new universe emerging in its physicality and its laws. A universe in
which they were displaced, gasping for air that didn’t exist, decaying into rudimentary
machines. It was a universe emerging into an age of order, culminating in the crowning
event of Its proteges; the anchoring of the thread. A transformation of the universe into
something known and structured, with his companions’ homeworld (Gallifrey, they
christened it) at the centre. The archstone.
47
But it wasn’t enough. That was something It began to learn about the new life It had
cultivated; it was never satisfied. Its companions wanted more. More power, more order,
more control over the cosmos. Superiority. Immortality. From the well of blinding,
maddening light from which It hailed – the vortex, the pure energy of life itself – they
drew, and distilled that lifeforce into a biological fact. A limit was imposed to their lives (all
the better to control the masses, his proteges proclaimed, and It was forced to agree for a
different reason altogether; a curse, not a gift).
Slowly, their empire turned sour, from a civilization of great wonder, pursuing
knowledge, to a tyrannical order concerned only with self-preservation and rule through
fear. The natural course for all things. Perhaps It had been foolish to challenge the notion,
to yearn for more from Its cyclic existence, observing. Non-interference. Cycles.
The old races long driven out, challenging forces wiped from reality, the Time Lords
stood victorious, and would – It realised – until something equally as black and hungry
stood against it, and the universe burned away in their battle path. It didn’t want to see
that. It didn’t want to have any part in that, not even a suggestion, not even a whisper. Its
companions had long since turned against one another through jealousy and suspicion,
only one left on this plane; Rassilon. He grew suspicious of It as well, Its origins and Its
intentions.
Tired of being the puppet-master, the architect, it contrived to become a pawn. A thing
like that could be considered suicide, depending on how you defined such things. Hurtling
down a few planes of existence; was is not the same as a lower life-form returning to the
dirt upon death?
Two things plagued its mind. The first was guilt; at what it had done, what it had helped
create. The second; pure, morbid curiosity. What was it like to live in the universe – to
breathe the air, walk upon the earth, think like a creature with instincts and irrationality?
What was it like to be boxed down to so few dimensions? To be born and to die and to
know nothing of before or after? Fear was another word for Its curiosity. A natural
response to fear was to run, and so it did. It ran right into the loom’s prime distributor and
scattered Its atoms and Its consciousness to the infinite stratum of cosmic energy. The
golden thread that the central, oldest civilisation used to stitch children together from
beams of light. It was a prison, but also a promise. The universe was no place for a being
like It, not anymore – not after what It had done to it. A prison, to keep It in, but also to
keep them out. A promise, because someday It would be marred into that golden thread
and woven into a new being; something small, something new. A pinprick in the dark.
They went down in history; Rassilon, Omega, and It. The Other. The Stranger. The one
that the history books could never quite place; where It came from, what It wanted, even
precisely what It was.
All of it, the story, the feeling, the guilt, the curiosity, the urge to run – it leaked in over
time. A face in the boy’s dreams, a star exploding in the ancient past, the feeling of being
torn apart. One piece at a time, and never remembered. It was why he was always so afraid.
It was why he always came running to the barn, why the inconceivable leaked from his
body in streams of tears, expelling the impossible, shedding the insurmountably sublime.
He felt it stirring in those in-between moments; dreams to waking and back again. The
creature.
48
There was another face that often permeated his nightmares; a woman. Her face was old
and inscrutable, a harsh expression with sharp, dark eyes. She wore red robes and a faint,
wicked smile – and sometimes, she spoke. She told him that he had a destiny to fulfil. Her
name was Ohila of the Sisterhood of Karn, and she saw right into him, right down to the
creature that resided there.
Eight years spent ignoring it, wishing it away, pushing it down to the depths of his
subconscious... Until he saw it staring back at him from the untempered schism, and he
knew that he could ignore it no longer. He knew what he truly was. He knew, deep at that
subconscious level, that he was woven from the Other.
49
IV
Drilling
Her new home is certainly a change of scenery. A little too cosy, though. If there’s a
feedback form, she’ll be writing that one down in the cons column for sure; that, and the
constant torture. It’s definitely going to be a one-star review from her on the Tripadvisor
page. If the Citadel’s secret laboratory doesn’t have a page already, then she will definitely
be making one – just as soon as she can get herself out of here.
Always distracting herself, even when there’s no one around to listen. If their incessant
experimentation hadn’t disrupted her ability to speak then she’s sure she would still be
talking even now. This body likes talking.
She thinks it’s killing her, whatever it is they’re doing to her, which is alarming, though
maybe not as much as it should be. On the other hand, the experiment itself isn’t working
at all, which gives her a certain sense of satisfaction, enough to keep her going. Enough to
keep her spiteful. It’s no way to treat a president; strung up in a laboratory, all but stripped
off (they’d let her keep her underwear, which was considerate given everything else). This
new council – which, she’s decided, she doesn’t prefer to Rassilon’s regime in the slightest
– are trying to coax the creature out of her. They seem to think that it will guide them as it
once guided Rassilon and Omega to found Time Lord society and anchor the universe to
their will.
Her’s is a dying race, a dying society. The thought brings up a mingled sensation of grief
and satisfaction. Then again, is she really one of them? Has she ever really been one of
them? The creature answers, but she still can’t understand. Once again Gallifrey turns to
her in their hour of need. Their greatest hero, and Rassilon’s greatest fear, ever since he
began to suspect what she was. Echoes of It behind the eyes; standing under a smashed
50
dome ceiling, blood on his face, tears in his eyes, gun in his hand. Silent, standing behind a
line drawn in the sand; wearing black and staring daggers.
This new council is lost, sucked into the power vacuum she left in her wake after
banishing Rassilon and the rest of the high council. They’re fanatics. At the end of the
universe, the future holds nothing, as Atral says, now their only choice is to look to the
past. Their greatest power, the closest thing that Gallifrey has to a God – though that
particular word was never used. The true legend of the Other was buried by Rassilon to
paint himself as the great benefactor of Time Lord society, but stories are ever so
persistent, especially when they’re forbidden. The new council have declared themselves
enemies of Rassilon, of the previous regime, and allied themselves with an opposing force,
a greater force; The Other. The final option. The first legend. Atral so enjoys little talks like
this, rattling off poetic sentiments while he watches her wither. He certainly is the regular
villain type, extravagant speeches and all. She thinks she might kill him for what he’s done
to her, when she escapes. (If she escapes). The thought of her friends might have stopped her,
but he’s taken them away too. No one to stop her. No one to keep promises to except
herself – and she’s never been very good at that.
Around her, the lab is dim. She’s encased in glass, like a proper specimen. A great metal
brace is anchored at the bottom of the glass container like a great trunk, snaking up and
snagging her on beams splitting to wires. Tubes among them, flashes of colour that run
phosphorescent colours, all manner of chemicals feeding into her. Great, ridged tubes
fastened, bolted to her skin, feeding blood, crushing tissue, widening. Shining particles
dance inside the glass like fireflies, a golden snow-globe. Regeneration energy; constantly
emanating from her as her body tries to heal itself, skin struggling to stretch and smooth
over wounds held open. She isn’t sure how much room there is left inside her for blood
and bone and organ – it’s all been hollowed out and tangled up in metal and plastic. She
isn’t sure where the flesh ends and the machine begins as it burrows, searching. Mining. It’s
psychic too, and she’s never been the best at warding off that sort of attack – she’s too
emotional. It’s a constant droning, digging in, toiling at the surface of her mind like it’s dirt,
churned up and spat out in great dusty piles. They’re trying to piece the creature back
together from its constituents. It scattered itself across the stratum of her, a flake of it here
and there, gone when observed like a quantum state, encrypted. She knows it won’t work,
this machine that they’ve made of her, she told them, for goodness’ sake.
She pictures herself explaining it to her new friends, but not friends, not anymore. They don’t
even know you exist. The voice is only in her head, because her throat is all torn through and
full of gold light trying to weave the frayed and raw flesh back together.
Ok team, imagine you’ve got a great big drill, one of those drills they use for minin’. Now, you’re
lookin’ for somethin’ buried down really, really deep under the surface, and you think you’re lookin’ for a
great big mineral or a crystal or somethin’. Think somethin’ real shiny. Real precious. But really, this thing
you’re lookin’ for is more like water.
Water? What do you mean, Doctor? In her head they’re very well behaved. They ask the
perfect questions to segway into the next stage of her explanation – and they never press
her for more.
I mean this isn’t some big rock you can just pluck out of the ground, it’s all soaked up into the dirt. It’s
everywhere. You’re drillin’ and drillin’ and churning up the earth and the water’s all mixed in with it.
You’re thinkin’ ‘where in the world is this big rock?’ so you keep on drillin’. You keep on right until you
51
hit the stuff that’s too hard and too hot to dig through, and you realise there’s no crystal after all. It’s too
late, though, because you’ve emptied out the whole mine and there’s nothin’ left to dig. It’s all just sitting up
there in a pile all mixed up in a heap and even if you put it back it won’t be in the same way you left it,
not entirely. It’s all been upheaved and cast aside and hollowed through. The water’s still there, though,
somewhere in the pile, and someday the sun will drag it back up through the atmosphere – but snatchin’ at
it then is impossible. Can’t grab water vapour with your bare hands. It’ll be gone forever.
This all seems a tad contrived, Doc. Maybe not perfectly behaved, they have to be at least a
little authentic.
Of course it’s contrived, Graham! I’m trying to explain a multi-dimensional psychic extraction technique
that’s been honed over millennia of technological superiority using a mining metaphor. It’s not like that at
all really, but I thought a simple mental picture might help. In her mind he rolls his eyes at that.
He’s used to grandfatherin’, not being patronised. And imagine the water can – in her head her
hands are moving, flailing about as she struggles for words – imagine it can move. Imagine it’s
sentient.
Ok, you’ve definitely lost me there.
Ok, maybe I’m mixin’ my metaphors, but stick with it fam. The water can knit itself back together
from its constituent parts scattered around the soil. It can decrypt itself, but only it has the function, the key.
It’s like elastic pulling itself back into shape. Point is, only it can decide to do it. You and your drill are
just gonna have to be patient.
And what does this have to do with anything? Ryan asks.
Is the drill like this big machine, the one they’ve hooked you up to?
Excellent work! 10 points to Yaz. That’s right, the drill is the machine, and the Time Lords are the
stupid miners who think they’re lookin’ for a crystal when really, they’re actually lookin’ for a big ball of
water that can override its molecular structure and defy the laws of physics and… well, like I said, it got
away from me. But, the dirt, that’s me. My mind and body, it’s all gettin’ torn apart and I don’t think I’m
ever goin’ to be able to put myself back together again.
Sounds rough mate, Ryan offers, a sympathetic shrug. Can’t we help you?
Sorry, Ryan, nothin’ you can do because, actually, you’re not really here at all.
Ok, now you’ve lost me a second time, Doc. I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m even more lost.
I mean that I’m going insane, at least, more insane than usual. The water’s down there, though, I can
feel it sloshin’ about. I can’t tell if it’s laughin’ or if it feels sorry for me. Probably a bit of both, because I’m
feelin’ exactly the same.
It’s starting up again – the drilling, as she’s come to call it. How many days since they
dragged her in here? She’s lost count. The scientists come in shifts. Time Lords might not
need to sleep every night, but they still get time off. Every day they come, white robes
reminding her of the lab-coats they wear on Earth. They try not to look her in the eye,
because most of them are terrified. They think they’re coaxing out a God that could
emerge at any moment. Not only that, but they’re torturing the Doctor; the hero of the
Time War, usurper of Rassilon, the Oncoming Storm, the Beast of Trenzalore – the whole
shebang. Of course, they don’t think of it as torturing, despite the way her mind’s crying
out to them every moment with the pain of it. You’d think that telepathy would make the
Time Lords more empathetic, instead, background suffering becomes just as tolerable as
background radiation. Always there, a bane on the public consciousness but generally
ignored. Generally harmless.
52
They think of it as a ritual, a necessary operation. It’s a ghastly intersection of religious

fervour and scientific brilliance that grates on her nerves. It’s all in the story; the Doctor is
so formidable because she harbours the Other. The Other will return Gallifrey to its once
glorious power. It’s simple; the Other’s consciousness must be unearthed and brought to
the forefront. Stories are lovely and simple like that. They’re easy to follow, to use as a
means of control. She knows, better than most, the power that stories hold.
The scientists bustle about doing a great manner of pointless things. Consulting charts,
analysing data, turning knobs and dials and taking readings and being generally useless. If
she were in charge – which, she reminds herself, as President, she technically is – she’d
have them all fired for being idle layabouts. Their invention isn’t working, unless they’re
trying to slowly kill her, in which case it’s working wonderfully. Time Lords are supposed
to be brilliant, but these are only shadows, leftovers from a great feast; from the Time War,
and the usurpation. A civilisation frozen in a moment, toiling away into disrepair, then
tucked away at the end of the universe under the rusting iron fist of a has-been dictator.
Shadows, scrambling in the dark. She almost feels sorry for them.
It hurts too much to feel sorry for them.
In between the buzzing in her head and the light spotting her eyes, she sees him.
Cardinal Atral, her best mate. He visits every once and a while to see that everything’s
running smoothly, which it never is. He comes to gloat a little, goggle, maybe, if it’s her
lucky day. He likes the feeling of power. She’s convinced that he feeds on it like a leech
feeds on blood. He’s the perfect sort to lead a people who are lost and frightened; they’re
easy for him to control. The black robes were just for Otherstide, when he visits, it’s in the
traditional red and gold. This body really prefers blue – red isn’t her colour. Just another
reason that she really, really doesn’t want to be President.
Atral chats a bit to his useless scientists, casting her a hungry look every so often. She
would squirm, if she could move. After a while, he does what he always does, and initiates
contact. In the beginning, she let him in because she thought she could talk some sense
into him, convince him to shut down his failure of an experiment. Now, she only lets him
in because she’s not strong enough to resist.
He moves up to the glass, tantalisingly slow. The Doctor watches through half-lidded
eyes, lazy pupils blown wide by the drugs they’re pumping into her, following his figure.
His smile is stiff and grim. The Cardinal comes to rest a few paces from the glass, looking
up at where she’s encased. Surely he must be getting tired of this by now – the routine. He
knows he’s failing, that bitter edge is clear enough in his mind that even she can taste it in
her current state. He won’t relent, though, he isn’t the sort. He’s in a difficult position; he
could continue the way he’s going, and destroy what has been built up over the years as his
planet’s final hope, or he could listen to her, let her go. Not only is he stubborn, he’s
scared. He’s tortured the Doctor. If he stops the experiment now, tries a different
approach, she might run away again, or worse – she might enact some sort of twisted
revenge. Another upheaval of power in the citadel, another round of banishment. Gallifrey
wouldn’t survive that; and both of them know it.
Atral reaches out – or snatches at her, rather, because she doesn’t really have a choice –
and enters her mind. So, he wants to talk back today rather than just gloating from a
distance. How nice of him.
53
She stands in white. There was a time when she had a little more control over the
appearance of her mind, but her strength is fading. Just white, now. Empty. In here, she’s
wearing the outfit she picked out with Ryan and Yaz at the charity shop in Sheffield. The
memory fills her with joy, which sours to resentment, because they don’t even remember
going. She tugs her coat around her a little tighter, watching the way it swishes around her
calves as she swings about. She’s missed it – that flow of movement; the youth. She doesn’t
have any wounds here; she’s all flesh and whole. It’s easy to retreat here, but also easy to
lose herself in the recreated sensation of being alive.
“Doctor,” a drawling voice crawls into her ear. She scowls, using every muscle in her
face to paint the expression. She’s missed doing that; scrunching everything up, arranging
her features with a meticulous sort of chaos. “How are we feeling?”
“I was just thinking about that, actually. It’s a bit tight for my liking,” she shrugs, voice
bright.
“Tight?” he has his fingers pressed over his brow in pre-emptive exasperation. He’s
learnt to expect this now, hoping each time that she might be cooperative, that he might
have worn her down. Not likely.
“Yes, cosy-like. I’m all full of metal and inside a glass chamber. It’s all too tight. Need
space to stretch out, or, I don’t know…” she ponders, mockingly, “maybe the ability to
move at all – just a thought, Atral m’pal. It’s goin’ down as a one-star review as of now, just
sayin’.”
“Quite,” he mutters. He’s dressed in his full Time Lord getup, even in the void; his thin
eyebrows pulled up into an elaborate knot of contempt. They remind her of Eyebrows –
except his were a lot nicer. “So, no progress at all?”
“Like I’ve said a kajillion times, Atral, this isn’t going to work. Just face it mate; all
you’re succeedin’ in doin’ is killin’ the only person who can actually help you.”
“The Other exists within you,” he repeats. All these circular conversations – he’s almost
as stubborn as her. “You were loomed from its remnants scattered within the distributor.
You harbour its consciousness, the one who created our society. The Other birthed our
race and so It shall be our rebirth.”
“Oh you and your simplistic, beautiful, simplistic tales.” How many times does she have
to tell him? “It. Does not. Work like that. You blithering idiot!”
“We must free the Other. It’s the only way to restore Time Lord society, it’s the only
hope we have.” His voice is monotone, but his eyes betray something more. Something
scared. She latches onto it.
“Listen, Atral, I know what it’s like to feel lost like that,” she softens her tone from
sarcastic to something kinder, blunting the bite. Pushing down her anger. “I know what it’s
like to be left in the ashes after everything has been torn down, and to walk alone. I know
what it’s like to be burdened with power, to have so much hope riding on your back. Let
me help you,” she pleads. “Let me out.”
“You can’t save us. Never mind that, you won’t save us. You’ll fly off in another stolen
TARDIS and leave your people in the dust. Only the Other has the power, and the will, to
save us.” It’s no wonder he doesn’t trust her. She has a history. There’s that, and the fact
that she’s lying through her teeth. Despite the love she once had for this planet, the
homesickness twisting up her gut, she won’t help them. These people can rot in the dust
54
for all she cares. Heartless, maybe, but she’s been feeling a little heartless these days. Be
kind, his voice echoes, but this isn’t her responsibility anymore. She’s just a traveller.
She takes a deep breath, abating frustration. “I am the Other and the Other is me, we’re
not two separable things. We are, fundamentally, one being. Some of the memory is buried,
sure – obscured – but it isn’t something you can unearth with a big psychic drill! It is, I am,
something far older and stranger than you can imagine, and far more powerful, and the
only way you’re going to get that part of me out is if I decide to do it. If it decides to.”
“I thought as much,” he nodded, drawing in those brows again. Deep in thought. “I
have been… hypothesising.”
“Oh, so you do listen to me!” she cries, “it just takes a while to penetrate that
impossibly thick skull of yours.” It’s hard to keep the bite out, especially when her neck
and wrists ache dully with the disguised feeling of tubes and wires stemming into her
veins.
“This isn’t a mere task of technological might, it’s a mind game. We just have to
persuade you to unearth what’s hidden.”
“What, no, that’s not what I meant. At all,” she holds her hands up in a placating
manner. “The point is that it won’t make a difference. It – me – whatever we’re going to
call it – won’t help you regain power!” It’s patient, and it’s cunning, and it’s ashamed of
what it built. All the suffering it caused...
“You doubt the legend, Doctor? The tale of our very creation? The Other is the father
of our civilisation, it would not abandon its children.” His tone makes it perfectly clear that
he harbours no doubts whatsoever. Power of a story. Some of it’s true, but he doesn’t
know all of it.
“I am the legend, Atral, if you’ll forgive me for bein’ dramatic.” She sighs, stuffing her
hands into her pockets and rocking on her heels. Old, idle gestures. “So, it’s not workin’,
but you’ve been ‘hypothesisin’,’ as you call it. What does that mean for me?”
“It means,” he smiles; a thin, hard line, “that we’re going to be changing tact.”
“Somethin’ a little nicer?” she offers, brightly. She isn’t counting on it.
“During your stay,” he begins, turning on the spot and beginning to pace around in the
whiteness. Great. Villain monologue incoming. “We’ve been collecting all sorts of data –”
“With your big psychic drill, yeah. I can feel my mind disintegratin’.”
He doesn’t like to be interrupted. The Cardinal resumes his pacing. “Physical data, but
more than that – psychic waveforms, memories, emotional states. We haven’t been able to
penetrate any further into your,” he pauses, contemplating the notion, “previous life.”
“Locked away,” she taps the side of her head with a grin. “Told ya.”
“But that is no matter, Doctor, because we have everything we need to persuade you to
let down your barriers. If this relationship is truly symbiotic, as you say, then persuading
you will persuade It. It responds to you.”
She opens her mouth to speak, where it hangs for a moment, uncertain. “Well that’s not
fair, you’re usin’ my words against me.”
A sly smile. Oh, how she hates him. “I’m clever, Doctor, that’s all.”
“No, no,” she mutters absently, “no, you’re still an idiot, I’ve just had half my brain
ground to dust, sayin’ things I shouldn’t. Don’t flatter yourself.”
55
Smile to a scowl; how quickly it turns. “Time will be the judge of that. I’ve been
working –”
“Oh, really, you work? I would never have known, Atral I figured you just ponced about
in your chambers makin’ up stupid speeches in front of the mirror.”
He doesn’t deign that with a response. Instead, he rubs his temples as if a headache is
forming there. “Working,” he reiterates, louder, “on a matrix simulation that will use your
memories to force you to reveal what you’re hiding.”
“This isn’t a ruddy interrogation, Atral, I can’t just ‘oops’” she mimes tripping over,
theatrical movements, “let it slip,” she hisses.
“Precisely. That’s why it’s designed to put you under immense stress in a simulated
environment. It will go to any lengths necessary to force you to release the Other.”
Her eyes darken; pinched lips, pale. “You know, Atral m’pal, that sounds a whole lot
like a confession dial – which, I’ll remind you,” she takes a threatening step towards him.
“Did. Not. Work.”
Again, no answer, just a smile.
“Atral,” she snarls, taking another step, “all this is going to do is make me angry, you
don’t want that, you really don’t want that.”
His smile only widens as he fades away.
“Atral!” she shouts, mouth wide, jaw lodged open, savouring the feeling of the scream
in her throat. As awful as it feels, her tone turns to pleading anger. “Don’t do this! It won’t
work! I don’t want to do that again, I can’t go back there, I can’t –”
The first thing he notices is the smell of chips. Fantastic invention, the hot chip. A
potato drenched in oil, fried to a golden crisp and positively drowned in salt to the point
where the potato itself is unrecognisable. He feels a bit like a chip right now (shall I compare
thee to a hot chip). He’s been through the fryer all right; big ol’fryer, the biggest war the
universe has ever known. Out the other side scorched and worn and withered;
unrecognisable. Not nearly as tasty though.
It’s loud here. All bustling people crammed into a London shopfront sitting around
tables covered in red and white chequered plastic tablecloths.
“Got ‘em,” someone cries out, a smile in her voice. “Didn’t know how hungry you were
so I just got a large.” Rose clambers into view, dodging the crowd and shaking a huge
paper bag of hot chips in his direction. “I thought maybe aliens need to eat a lot or
somethin.’” she grins. He already loves her smile. She does it all with her teeth; split grin,
wide brown eyes squished up and beaming above it. Maybe he can do this again, maybe he
can really do it; travel. After the war he’d been ready to curl up in his little box and die, but
now…
“You alright, Doctor?” she asks, and for a moment the smile is gone. She’s already sat
down opposite, surveying him with concern.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, “I’m always alright.” He helps himself to some chips to prove
the point.
“Are you gonna stay?” she asks, and there’s a pleading sort of look in her eyes. They’re
young, and kind, and wondrous.
56
“What, stay here? On boring Earth, 21st century,” he quips, staring around, eyebrows
raised, “in a chip shop?”
“I just meant,” she pauses for a moment, looking down at the tacky tablecloth. “With
me, are you gonna stay with me. Can I –” he sees her swallow something back. Fear?
Doubt? “Can I come with you?” She’d passed the test, that’s for sure. End of the Earth
and back and she was still chipper and eager to see more.
“‘Course you can, Rose – you’re my plus one,” he smiles. So does she, and he’s
delighted to see it again, that smile. It reminds him of all the reasons he should stay alive.
“Look, I don’t wanna pry or nothin’,” she twists a lock of platinum blonde hair between
her fingers, frowning slightly. “It’s just, what you said back there, about being the last of
your kind…” There it is, rushing back to meet him; memories, guilt – so much of it. “You
said you could feel the Earth turnin’, said you could see time shiftin’ and stuff… Were all
of them like that?”
Oh, to explain the intricacies of four-dimensional perception to a human teenager. He
smiles despite himself, because her words feel a bit like flattery. “Sort of,” he shrugs, “well,
I’m a bit of a special case.”
She leans forwards a little over the bag of chips. “Special how?” and takes a delicate sip
from her ornate wine glass, gazing at him over the rim.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, fiddling with his bowtie absent-mindedly. “Just special.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you are, sweetie,” River simpers.
“Not like that,” he suppresses a blush and goes to pick up his own glass. It’s full of
chocolate milk. “I’m not being cute, I actually am different to other Time Lords.”
“I’ve heard a rumour that you’re part human,” she offers, conversationally.
“Human! Ha!” He snorts so abruptly that a trickle of milk dribbles out a nostril. River
rolls her eyes comically and hands him a napkin. “Err, thanks,” he mumbles. “Ok, no, to
be fair I did say that,” he recalls, “but I was off my face on regeneration energy and,
frankly, a tad insane so,” he shrugs, as if this settles the matter.
“I must say, your table etiquette is not improving,” she remarks, gazing at him with a
quirked eyebrow as he blows his nose rather loudly to dislodge the rest of the milk.
“That’s because we’re meeting in reverse order, dear, I think you’d find that I’m
improving quite a bit if you observed things from a linear perspective.”
River smiles, and so does he. Her smile is another matter altogether; always looking
hungry with her tall grin and bright, pale gaze. They lock eyes, just for a moment, and he
tries not to remember watching her die.
“This place is nice, I suppose,” she surveys the establishment with a turned up chin. It
was more than nice, in his opinion. Little, ornately carved circular tables with white
tablecloths and far too many different types of cutlery. “It’s got nothing on Darrilium, or
so I hear.” A hint of contempt.
“I told you, the reservation got all muddled up, it’s not my fault. And this place is nice,
look, they’ve got all green on the walls,” he points to a wall crawling with green vines
interleaved with small purple flowers.
“The reservation got muddled up last time too. Why don’t you just let me sort it out?”
“Because,” he begins, strong with indignation, faltering, “because, err, because it’s not
traditional.”
57
“Bit old fashioned, aren’t you,” she smirks, taking another sip of her horrid grape corpse
juice. “I sort of like it.”
“You sort of like everything about me,” he smirks. The smile sits smarmy on his face.
It’s the youngest one he’s had, and he’s still getting used to it.
“I wish I knew more, though,” she leans in even further. “Why are you different, if
you’re not just being cute?”
“Well I’m sort of… it’s complicated,” he finishes lamely.
“Everything about us is complicated, dear, and I love a good story.”
“There was this other thing, called the Other, actually, because people are boring. It was
this being, this cosmic being and it…” he cuts himself short, unsure of whether he should
continue. He’s never told anyone about this before. He loves River, but there are certain
things he has always kept close to his chest, and perhaps always should. It’s not as if she’s
all that open with him either; he has no idea who she is, but every question he asks elicits
an intoxicating smirk and a whisper of ‘spoilers.’ She has an excuse, though, being from his
future. She nods for him to continue, and he can’t resist her inquisitive gaze. “When I was
born, or created – or whatever you want to call it because Time Lords are sort of… strange
– this thing was there too. It was dormant, and it sort of got all lumped in with me.”
“So, this being, it’s a part of you?”
“Err, yeah, I suppose. And I’m a part of it.”
“You didn’t tell me I was sharing, sweetie,” she grins, brushing a lock of golden curls
over her shoulder.
“It’s not like that,” but he can’t suppress an answering smirk. “I have this whole history
that’s buried. It comes out sometimes, in dreams. Fragments of it when I’m under stress,
over time just unravelling around me. There was a time when almost all of it was above the
surface, but before the war it…” he clears his throat, staring down at the white of the
tablecloth, the too-many sets of knives glinting dully silver in the dim light. “I thought it
would be best if it was buried again, just a little.”
“How’d you mean, buried?” Clara asks, wide-eyed with curiosity.
“Just, pushed down a bit, it doesn’t matter,” he dismisses, folding his hands around his
coffee mug. He studies them; old hands. The fingers are all long and knobbly, all full of
lines. He hasn’t been this old since before the war – a long time before the war, in fact.
Unless you counted the soldier – which he didn’t. Besides, the soldier grew old, this one is
starting out there. It would all be alright, as long as Clara stayed. He’s grateful to his
previous self for having the foresight to call.
“Don’t brush me off,” Clara quips; quick, sharp. Staying. “I mean, you just keep on
surprising me,” she sits up straighter in her chair. It’s a nice little place; cosy corner shop,
old wooden chairs and walls plastered with upcoming theatre shows. All very hip, a bit
odd. Very Clara. “First you change your face when you were meant to be on your last life,
apparently, and now you’re telling me that you used to be some sort of cosmic being.”
“Well, err, not really. Bit more complicated than that.” He’s a bit snappier. Less fumbly
with his words – definitely more stylish. He won’t be wearing anymore tweed for a while,
that’s for sure.
“Complicated how?” She’s persistent. He’s good at picking that sort.
“As in beyond your understanding – are you going to finish that?” he rapidly switches
subjects, indicating her near-full mug of coffee.
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“Don’t patronise me, Doctor, and don’t dodge the question,” she huffs. “God – you
really are the same man, you know.”
“Yes,” he smiles, eyebrows raised; those ridiculous, magnificent eyebrows. “I do.”
“Shut up,” she smirks, taking a sip from her mug.
“The Other was there before me and it will continue on long after me. I’m sort of just
stuck in the middle of it – like a weird goth phase in its early teenage years.”
She raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Why goth?”
“Because I’m a mortal, physical lifeform. We’re all so full of angst.” He raises his hands,
and flourishes those long, knobbly fingers, grinning a wicked smile.
“Fair enough,” she shrugs, flashing him a smile of her own. Dark eyes.
“Anyway, all of its memories exist in me. I’m not trapping it, and it’s not possessing me,
both of which are common misconceptions among… theorists.”
“Theorists, you mean people who want to try to wake it up, unbury it or something?”
Was the leap in logic a little too far? Clara’s sharp, maybe that’s all it is.
“Precisely. What they don’t understand is that I control the process. I’m not just some
big flesh container for the great Other.”
“Of course not,” she grins and, leaning forward across the table, surveying him with her
too-wide eyes and her too-round face, “but how do you activate it?”
“Don’t know exactly, never really tried too hard to bring it all out. Things didn’t go so
well the last time.”
“How do you mean?” She’s answering so rapidly after he finishes each statement that
the words have barely escaped his lips before she jumps in with the next question. She
seems to be forgetting to blink.
“I mean,” he sighs, looking down again at those lines on his hands, “I got a little bit
cruel. It’s not it’s fault though –” he adds, hastily, “– it’s just old, not used to paying
attention to the little things.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of?” Clara cocks her head to one side. “You’re afraid of
hurting someone?” Yaz finishes. Same expression. Same dark eyes staring through.
“In a way,” she admits, gripping her cup of tea so tightly that it warms her hands to
temperature a fair bit above what could be considered pleasant.
“Well, you don’t need to worry about us, Doc,” Graham smiles. “We’re all safe here in
Sheffield, and you’re all the way on Galli-whatever.”
“Gallifrey,” Ryan corrects him. “And Grandad’s right, you won’t hurt us all the way
from there.”
“It’s not you lot I’m worried about,” she says, voice growing colder by the second,
expression settling down deeper; delving into the past. It’s Saturday, and they’re all seated
around Graham and Ryan’s dining table, a warm mug of tea each – courtesy of Graham.
There’s also a plate of custard creams, courtesy of the TARDIS, because let it not be said
that she is an ungracious guest.
“Then what are you worried about, Doctor?” Yaz implores, with that kind, kind smile
of hers.
“They’re gonna keep hurting you if you don’t give them what they want,” Ryan warns.
59
“That’s what they don’t understand,” she cries, exasperated. “I’m not doin’ it to be
difficult, I’m not afraid of it. I’m not doin’ it because I hate the Time Lords – I’m doin’ it
to protect them.”
“You think it will hurt the Time Lords?” Yaz asks, visibly – almost parodically –
confused. “Why would it do that, didn’t it create them?”
“Yeah, sort of, except it’s ashamed of them. Somethin’ went wrong. The whole reason it
was reborn was…” she trails off, staring around at them all. “Well, it doesn’t really matter
why, because it isn’t going to happen.
“But don’t you want to get out? They’re hurtin’ you Doctor!” Ryan exclaims.
“Don’t you want to see us again?” Yaz asks, looking hurt. “It has power that you don’t,
the buried parts. You could give our memories back. You could escape and we could go
travellin’ together again.”
“Just think of it Doc,” Graham smiles whimsically, “larkin’ about on an alien planet. We
could go for space Karahi like you said.” She did promise, didn’t she? The running and the
keeping secrets – the being just a traveller and the space Karahi – they were all part of the
promise.
“Don’t you want that?” Ryan asks. Confused, hurt. Predictable. Beautiful. Tapestries
again; great, sprawling tapestries. (I think you’re like giants).
“I do,” she nods, smiling sadly. She wants it more than anything.
“We’re your mates,” Ryan grins, clapping her on the shoulder gently so she hunches
further over her cup of tea, a begrudging smile spreading across her face.
“Your family,” Graham adds; warm, grandfatherin’.
“We’ll see you soon,” a grin spreads across Yaz’s face, bright and colourful like a rose.
How quickly they’re able to change her mind, and how quick she is to latch onto them;
drowning hands grasping for a lifeboat. They’d asked to travel with her, that night back in
Sheffield, after the spiders and government conspiracies, and in her mind she’d been saying
‘no, not again, never again,’ but her hearts had been soaring. The same feeling plagues her
now; because she doesn’t want to be that again; that aware, awake, powerful. It doesn’t
want to either. (No, not again, never again).
“Ok,” she whispers, voice thin as gossamer., tears behind her eyes.
Pulling back the barrier; she’s done it before, but never so fast. Never all at once. It was
a gradual degradation back then. Parts of it would peek through from behind the corner,
forcing itself out in her darkest moments… but the past isn’t part of the promise. She owes
nothing to her past – not to her own or the Other’s, but she owes them a future. Her new
best friends.
Funny, she was expecting torture. She’d been braced for some hellish nightmare; like a
never-ending labyrinthine castle stalked by a swollen corpse covered in flies. She’d been
braced for dragging herself up the stars as her body withered and died, frying her brain out
with a teleporter circuit, breaking her knuckles against a wall of diamond. Still haunting,
always haunting – but even four and a half billion years is nothing to the creature. She feels
its indifference rising up like an old sickness, a relapse– but she knows it’s the only way.
Unbury it, filter out the water; evaporate, solidify. Instead of torture, they raked through
her memories and found her true weakness. (Your weakness is known. It will be exploited). Her
friends, her companions; their incessant, annoying questions and their beautiful smiles and
curious eyes. She won’t lose them. She needs them more than the ancient dregs of this
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dying civilisation, even if it is her own – or, was she ever really a Time Lord to begin with?
Regardless of what she was, now; she’s just a traveller.
Let them see what they really pray to. Let the hollows they carved into her flesh ring
with the sound of it. Take the veil, and tear it down. Tear it all down.
61
V
The Mundanity Track
Something’s wrong with her. It feels good, admitting that to herself. It’s not just burnout –
like her mum says – and not a symptom of being a friendless loser, like Sonya says. It’s
something deeply, primally wrong. She rubs a bruise on her back, despite the pain, through
the neon fabric of her police vest. She still can’t remember where she got the bruise, but
it’s swirled through all the colours from purple to green to a faint splash of yellow.
Touching it has become a comfort of sorts, a reminder of something she can’t quite place.
The curdling curse of pain rings through her like an alarm; something’s wrong with me.
The rational part of her – which, up until fairly recently, she would have said took up
most of her anyway – tells her that she was bruised on the job. There’s plenty of chances
for a thing like that to happen. Somehow, she knows that’s a lie.
Yasmin Khan has an early shift this morning, and she leaves her apartment suited up;
hair tight and tucked into her hat; vest fastened, boots laced. Proper. She holds a thermos
full of hot coffee in one hand, sensible black shoulder bag resting beneath the other. The
morning is her favourite time of day; no one around, sky caught in between day and night
in a hazy midnight blue. It was raining last night; torrents splashing down in the dark. Now
the asphalt is speckled with puddles reflecting waning moonlight like glassy rockpools. She
imagines a tropical beach as the sun rises – a little piece of that scene trapped and
crystallised in grey ubrania – it almost feels like a memory (of silver sand and violet oceans, and
creatures that weren’t quite…)
The streetlights are still on; dim in the rising light, casting spots of gold onto settling
rain. They remind her of the lights in her dreams. Golden pillars, blue flares, and
something dark hurtling around in the centre. A storm.
It’s Friday, and Ryan has invited her to a night down the pub. She might even take him
up on it, just to stop herself from laying awake in the dark like she has been these past few
nights.
She takes the steps down two at a time. She isn’t late, just springing with energy. Yaz has
only ever been late for work once, only she doesn’t remember why. She isn’t the sort of
person who sleeps in.
62
On her way to the carpark, something catches her eye. Every instinct tells her to keep
walking, to ignore it. Most people would listen to that instinctual advice, not her. Too
curious for her own good. She turns. In the alleyway behind the carpark, between one grey
building and the next, there’s a shock of blue. Yaz makes towards it, an insect to a beacon
(ions to a gravity belt), clutching her thermos so tightly that the heat of it singes her palm.
Tucked away behind piles of black garbage bags and sodden cardboard – all mulched and
amalgamated into a sludge – there’s a police box. It reminds her of the one in town – blue,
though, and taller. More distinct is the fact that it was never there before. There’s a cracked
lightbulb on the roof, and the navy blue wood sparkles with droplets of rain. Yaz reaches
out a tentative hand and rests it against the surface. The drops burst and congeal over her
hand in a cold paste. She feels something shoot up her spine, yellow. She tries the door –
push to open – but it’s jammed shut. It’s almost like the doors are painted on.
She sighs – though she hadn’t realised that she was holding her breath, anticipating
something. What was she waiting for? A square metre of musty, hollowed wood? She
shakes her head, because that seems like a rational thing to do, to shake herself out of it.
Horror movie, again. (Oh, silly me. There’s nothing here after all). Just the wind.
She turns and leaves the alley without a backwards glance.
“Yaz, good to see you, man! I wasn’t sure you’d be comin’.” Ryan waves at her
enthusiastically, beckoning her over to his corner of the pub. The whole place is musty,
smelling of carpets soaked in liquor; chalk dust, cigarette smoke, salted nuts. A footy match
blares dully from the corner, almost drowned in the overarching hoots and cheers of ruddy
voices. She’s still apprehensive, not sure if she should’ve come.
“Hey Ryan,” she beams, probably too quiet to reach him. Ryan lumbers over from his
corner booth, stopping a few paces from her.
“You wanna come sit with us? I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
“Umm, okay,” she’s suddenly nervous, suddenly quiet. The door is looking very inviting
with its fresh air, open skies, and clear smells. The absence of eyes and voices – not that
she minds the limelight, just not this sort. A nervous chuckle as they stand facing one
another. Ryan disguises an attempted handshake thought better of with a quick rake
through his cropped hair. He moves off towards his booth, and she follows him.
He introduces her, but she isn’t really listening. She’s usually good with all that; faces
and names and keeping track of pairs of them. Lately she’s been feeling spacey, like
something’s coiling up her attention span like a spring, compressing it. Her mind keeps
wandering back to the alley and the blue box. She plays the part well enough, despite her
disquiet. Big smile; a little wave here and there, moving her eyes to whoever’s talking,
feigning interest.
“So,” one of them says. Ian, she thinks. A ringleader of sorts – she’s good at picking out
the type, the troublemakers. “Ryan tells us you’re a fed,” he smirks.
“Err, yeah,” she says, jogging to catch up with what she’s hearing. “We don’t really like
bein’ called that, though.”
“’Course not,” he smiles. A bit too pointed, too penetrating. “D’ya like it?”
63
“Yeah, it’s okay.” A standard response; small talk. The truth is, work has been getting
harder by the day. She can’t concentrate like she used to, and it all feels like a performance.
A rehearsal, even, in preparation for the main show – but the show never starts. It’s just
back again the next day, with the golden lights in her dreams in between. Her back is
arched over, spine pressing back into her leather jacket and the wooden slats behind. She
shifts her position to pressure the bruise. A comforting ache. Yellow. “It’s a bit annoyin’
havin’ to chase guys like you through the park because some old lady’s complained about
your awful music.”
“Clearly they don’t have good taste in music, then. We’re just exposin’ them to the good
stuff.”
“Yeah, sure you are,” she grins. It’s only a little bit forced. It’s false, because behind it,
her mind is wandering – all the way back to a grey alleyway and a shock of blue wood…
“You don’t drink, is that right?” One of them asks. Yaz didn’t notice her when she first
walked over, otherwise she probably would have made an effort to pay attention to the
proceedings. She’s very pretty, is all. Someone from Ryan’s high school, if she’s
remembering correctly. She can’t recall her name, but she seems familiar.
“Nah, totally dry, that’s me,” she grins sheepishly.
“Wow,” Ian whistles, eyes wide, head tossed back in a way he doubtless thinks is
charming. “That’s some proper self-restraint.’
“Oh, s’not too bad, really. It’s not like I get lots of opportunities – I, err, don’t get out
much.”
“She’s very responsible and all that,” Ryan nods, winking at her.
“Let’s face it Ryan, I’m a bit of a loser,” she smiles.
“If you say so,” he shrugs.
“You’re not exactly takin’ a step in the right direction, hangin’ out with us,” the girl
laughs. The sound of it is wide and sweet. It’s like summer.
“I’d be happy to buy somethin’ for you, though, if you want a round,” Ian offers, again
with those eyes. At Yaz’s clear reproach, he adds; “or, you know, just a soft drink or
somethin’.” She can’t think of an excuse not to agree to that.
“Sure, thanks,” she nods, giving him a half smile. She quickly looks away, tucking a
braid behind her ear so her hands have something to do. She has a feeling she knows what
he’s thinking.
Ian casts her a look on his way up, but she only catches it in her peripheral. Her eyes are
on the girl. Same age as Yaz, by the look of her, but she reminds her of someone older.
Short blonde hair and kind eyes, prominent collar bones working under the strain of that
smile. The girl looks right back.
The soft drink is too sweet – as always, which is why she tends to stay away from the
stuff. She sips it slow, hands cold against the condensation on the glass. She would have
been quite content to stay silent – just immerse herself in the group’s conversation, feel
sociable without having to make an effort. Ian is persistent, though, keen to rope her into
his little gang.
64
“So, what’s the deal with you and Ryan anyway?” he asks, trying to sound casual. His
eyes wander over to the TV, green pitch reflected in his eyes. Ryan’s over at the pool table
now, messing around with a few of his mates. There’s Ben, Harry, and another girl called
Zoe – Yaz has picked up the names by now. They all went to the same high school, except
Ben, who works with Ryan at the warehouse. They’re nice enough, welcoming – but Yaz
doesn’t feel they share much in common with her. None of them are wound quite as tight.
“I used to go to primary school with him,” she shrugs, dodging Ian’s more obvious
question of whether they’re together or not. “We lost contact but I met up with him again
a few months back, sort of a funny story, actually, we –” she breaks off, because as she
tries to remember the circumstances of their reunion, she’s met with memories trying to
knit themselves together on the fly. Threads crossing, stitching over, but not fast enough.
Ian raises his eyebrows and nods, spurring her on. “Err, well, he called into the station
about, well they thought it was a prank at first, and so did I, because, err…” A pod in the
woods. It hadn’t been a prank though, because then there’d been that power outage on the
train. “There was this weird pod thing in the woods that someone had painted to look alien
or somethin’.”
“And Ryan called it in? Seriously?” Ian laughs. “Actually, no, I’m not even surprised.”
She smiles, a bit colder this time. Ryan isn’t stupid, and the pod had been pretty
convincing. She continues, wondering if him baggin’ Ryan is some sort of tactic. “Then
Ryan gets a call from his Nan because somethin’ freaky’s happenin’ on the train, so I drive
him over.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Some sort of crash, wasn’t it?” Ian interjects. “Didn’t the
driver get killed.”
“Yeah, yeah she did,” Yaz murmurs absently. “Anyway, we ended up gettin’ all roped
into this night-time escapade across Sheffield.”
“’Cause of the train crash?”
“’Cause of what caused the train crash. There was somethin’ on the train, and –” silent
again, because what was it? Something blue and biting, and something crashing through the
roof… “Someone, I mean,” she steadies herself in reality. Cold fading from the empty cup
in her hand, wood against her back, pressing against the bruise. “Someone caused the crash
by messin’ with the electricity or somethin’, so we were lookin’ for them.”
“Ryan never told us about this!” the girl pipes up, the blonde one. Joan, she’s gleaned
from all the talking. “So, it was just you two, then, investigatin’?” She’s sitting quite close.
Yaz can smell the alcohol on her breath.
That was a strange detail, now that she thinks about it. Why hadn’t she just called it in?
By the book – that’s the sort of officer she is. Not that night. “Us and his grandparents,
yeah.”
“What, Graham?” Ian laughs. “Old grandad Graham was chasin’ after a criminal?”
He’s right, Yaz reasons, Graham doesn’t seem the type. “This,” Joan grins, “is the
weirdest story ever.” She nudges Yaz playfully, smirking. “You sure you aren’t havin’ us
on?”
“I know it’s weird,” she chuckles. “Promise it’s true, though.” Inwardly, she considers
the notion. It is pretty ridiculous. “Well we tracked down the culprit to a buildin’ site, and
then he was climbin’ a crane.”
“Why the hell would he do that?” Ian asks, eyebrows raised.
65
“Dunno, only there was this worker up there – Karl, and the culprit was tryin’ to throw
Karl off the crane.”
“What,” Joan sprays a little of her drink. “So he’s goin’ for murder too? What a nutter.
So many nutters in the world.”
“That wasn’t the only one either. Remember that story about Pete Langfield? Got his
face half torn off walkin’ home from the pub that same night – and another, in a
warehouse in the city limits.”
“They was all connected?” Ian’s eyes bulge. “How come it weren’t on the news!”
“Guess they wanted to cover it up,” she offers.
“You feds,” Joan shakes her head with a smirk, “you’re the worst.”
“Ok, so, Karl’s on the crane,” Ian prompts.
“Right, and we manage to get the killer off the crane.” The story’s unfolding before her
eyes, details she thought she already had crystal clear flexing and fluxing around new
contradictions. It’s like there’s a big hole in the middle of it all – something that, if she
could just pin it down, would knit the whole thing back together. It eludes her, like the
dreams of golden lights elude her memory when she wakes. “I think he fell, or Karl
managed to push him. Only, Karl was still stuck up there. I think he was slipping.”
Something else, something writhing and blue and spitting sparks. “Grace – that’s Ryan’s
Nan – she tried to save him by climbin’ up, but…”
“Oh shit, yeah,” Ian gasps, “is that how she died?” he drops his voice to a whisper.
“Ryan never talks about it, so I figured it was some kinda illness; you know, heart attack or
an aneurysm or somethin’ sudden.” Like his mum, he doesn’t add. It’s implied, in the
silence.
“No, err, yeah she fell. Probably that’s why Ryan hasn’t told you about it.” Or because its
locked behind a wall, like it was for me. The memory of it wouldn’t come out without a little
digging. “Karl was okay, though.”
“And the killer?” Ian asks, voice whisper thin.
“Come on Ian,” Joan mutters, “Yaz don’t wanna talk about that – that’s just morbid.”
“No, it’s alright,” Yaz insists. Although, that memory is particularly difficult to pin
down. “He survived the fall, but he was hurt. He got away but we caught up to him later,
the police, I mean.” That part was totally made up, she couldn’t remember the police
finding him at all. He was never brought into the station, the incident was never even filed.
Why hadn’t she filed it? All she does remember is a figure crouched in the dark, giving off
cold and hatred, but that wasn’t in Sheffield, it was somewhere impossibly far...
“Well that’s good then, that he’s not at large or nothin’” Joan reasons, breaking Yaz’s
train of thought. “Still, would’ve thought that the media would’ve latched onto that one.
Didn’t see anythin’ about it anywhere.”
“Suppose we’re just good at our jobs. Got heaps of trainin’ to keep the media away
from major incidents.” No training is that good – five deaths in one night, and there’d been
nothing. Bruise against the backboard. There’s someone lurking in the corner of her eye,
dressed in black rags, energy radiating. Yellow.
“’Yeah, suppose,” Ian shrugs.
“Hey, are you okay?” Joan asks. The urgency, the compassion of it; it tugs at her. It
stretches out over the chasmic maw of her broken past, feeding it. Something hot trickles
down onto Yaz’s lip. She reaches up to the red.
66
“Ooh, you’re bleedin’, let me get that.” Joan grabs a napkin and reaches up to dab it
against Yaz’s face. She’s gentle about it, but when she pulls away, another stream readily
replaces the first in a persistent course downwards towards her chin. “Here, let’s get you
cleaned up in the bathroom, yeah?” she smiles, handing Yaz the napkin and grabbing hold
of her wrist. (A smirk, a breath on her neck. A whisper to run). “It’s this bloody radiator,” Joan
gripes, pulling Yaz to her feet. “They crank it up so hot.”
“Yeah,” Yaz reasons, flashing Joan a red smile, obscured under a wad of napkins.
“See ya in a minute, Yaz,” Ian calls, “I’ll get you another drink if you’ve got any more
excitin’ police stories to tell me.” He winks, and it’s awfully obvious. Next to her, and out
of Ian’s view, Joan rolls her eyes.
The bathroom smells, like in most pubs, a little of sick. It’s enough to make her face
pale and her stomach twist around the fizzing liquid still stagnating in her gut. Joan
positions her bodily in front of one of the sinks and wets some paper towel. She bats Yaz’s
hand and its bloodied napkins away from her nose and holds the paper there, cold against
her lip.
“Sorry about Ian,” she ventures. “He’s a bit tactless – but you’re not interested, right?”
“Err, no,” she admits, “not really.” It might have made for a more exciting night if she
had been. She could always force herself to be interested. Ian seems nice enough,
handsome enough. It’s what you’re supposed to do when you go out for drinks, if Sonya’s
example is anything to go by.
“Fair enough, he’s a bit of a prat.” Joan pulls away to admire her handiwork. She’s
surprisingly dexterous given the number of drinks that Yaz has seen her put away so far.
Joan’s taller, just a little, and Yaz gazes up slightly when she meets her brown, smiling eyes.
“Is he botherin’ you, Yaz?” It feels nice to hear her call her that. Yaz, to my friends (‘cause
we’re friends now).
“No, it’s okay, it’s no bother.”
Joan cocks her head to one side, coaxing truth. “It’s ok if he is, he’ll stop right and
proper if I tell him off. D’ya want me to?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” she shrugs. Joan edges a step closer and grabs Yaz’s upper arms,
on the pretence of inspecting her nose – at least, Yaz thinks it’s pretence. She doesn’t mind
if it is.
“You look familiar,” she offers. Keeping up the conversation because she’s a little afraid
of what might happen if she stops. “Did you go to Redlands Primary?”
“No, I didn’t move here ‘til Year 10. Don’t think we’ve met before. I’d remember you,
if I’d seen you before,” she says, smiling. Joan steps back, seeming unsure. Both of them,
unsure. It’s hard to know what someone else wants.
“You just remind me of someone, that’s all.”
“Really?” she raises an eyebrow; playful. “Someone good?”
“Someone really good.” It’s half a whisper. She doesn’t know how she knows it –
doesn’t know where the fact comes from – but she knows it’s true. “Really, really good.”
She’s feeling bold, and she can’t exactly blame it on a glass of fizz. She leans in a little, then
Joan, then her; an awkward little partner’s dance. She keeps her eyes open until the last
second, looking for a sign of reproach. Then, she keeps them closed, and savours the
feeling of it. Something in the corner of her eye again – no, behind her eye. Yellow. For a
67
moment, there’s silence. Deeper than the usual silence, because something that’s always
there is now missing. Silent. The mundanity track has stopped.
Nothing else comes of it – not that night, at least – but Joan does give Yaz her number.
Ian must catch on, at least a little, because he doesn’t ask Yaz for any more ‘interestin’
police stories.’ Yaz parts with them as they exit the pub and make their way towards the
park, no doubt to ruin some probationary officer’s night. Not her’s, though, which is a nice
change.
All in all, it was a pleasant time. She might even go back next week. She catches an uber
back home, even though it’s not a long walk – you can never be too careful. The driver
drops her off in the carpark outside the Park Hill estate. She hands him a fiver and makes
her way home.
Don’t look, she thinks, don’t look, and you can pretend like it’s not there. Of course, she does
look, and it is there; a flash of blue, a shadow looming over asphalt of the alleyway. She
reaches back and presses the bruise against the warmth of her clothes. Swirling colour in
her eyes; golden lights. She drops her arm, her gaze, and walks a little faster.
She dreams of the golden lights again, but there’s something more to it this time. The
dark, bundled shape roiling around in the centre, a tornado crashing around, raw with
energy – it seems a little clearer. The shadow it casts almost looks alive. Something old.
The shadow has eyes that flash different shades; black to brown to blue. They settle to a
dusky gold, a tinge of forest green, and mud beneath the undergrowth; a creature,
prowling. Something new.
The shadow is holding something; long, gnarled hands grasped around the Earth.
Cradling it, clutching it. She feels a hand close around her heart. Something borrowed.
And she’s walking down the aisle of a train. The lights are out and the train has stopped
– moonlight through the murky windows in streaks of cold colour. There’s a jagged figure
etched into the scene, scraggly black chalk strokes. Her hair is a shock of dampened blonde
and it makes her think of Joan, and of someone good (really, really good). In her memory of
the train, the figure isn’t there, it’s just her and Ryan and his grandparents – but the jagged
figure with its crooked shape fits perfectly into the empty parts of her memory, and all the
Saturdays that came after. Something is pulsating in the dark, spitting sparks, a tangle of
wires and colour. Something blue.
Like blue wood ridged and wet against the skin of her hand. The touch feels like coming
home.
…
She sleeps in, for the first time in a long time. It’s not the typical wake up from a
twenty-something’s Friday night out, at least, not the way Ryan’s describes it. No parched
throat, no pounding headache, no ringing ears. She traipses out of bed and pulls on a grey
sweatshirt that hangs loose down to the tops of her thighs. Her mother is in the kitchen.
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“Look who slept in,” Najia remarks with a smile. She’s got her laptop set up on the
dining table and is sipping from a cup of coffee just a shade shy of pure black.
“It’s only ten,” she replies, a bit defensive.
“Come on Yaz,” she teases, looking up from her work. “When was the last time you got
up after the sun did?” Yasmin gives her a small, tired smile, and takes a seat at the table.
White light hangs over the room in a haze; grey morning sky outside straining the sunlight
through a murky filter. “Big night, love?” her mum asks, all sweetness. She’s never like this
with Sonya when she sleeps in after a night out. Speaking of, Yaz is fairly sure her sister
isn’t even home yet. Supposedly, her sister doesn’t drink either – but whether that’s entirely
true is contentious, to say the least.
“No,” she’s quick to appear spritely – rub the sleep from her eyes, pull her shoulders
back. Her head doesn’t exactly feel right, but it’s got nothing to do with overexertion. “Had
a can of soft drink, so maybe that’s ‘big’ for me,” she smiles. “I was home at, like, one.”
“You’re almost too responsible, you know that?” She does. Always called mature,
wound up, coiled tight.
“I know,” she returns a warm smile and runs a hand through runaway black hair,
spilling out over her shoulders in unruly curls.
“Meet anyone nice?” Najia raises an eyebrow in a way she knows will get Yaz on the
defensive.
“What, no!” she says, a little too loudly, and a little too fast. Her mum leans back on her
chair and studies her with a pointed look. “It was just a gath with some mates.”
“No nice boys?” she asks, continuing to push it. “Or girls?” she adds, with a half-wink.
Yaz rolls her eyes. “Just mates, like I said. Why do you have to be goin’ after my love
life all the time?”
“Because you’re a beautiful young woman, Yasmin –”
“Oh my god,” she snorts, pushing her chair out and making to stand.
“Hey, wait, wait a second – I mean it,” she reaches across the table and grabs her
daughter gently by the wrist. Yaz looks back reluctantly, but her mum’s expression is soft
and loving. “I think it’s great that you’re gettin’ out there.”
“Ok,” she sighs; uncomfortable, looking away. Yaz wriggles out of her mother’s grasp
and heads back to her bedroom.
“Don’t go skulkin’ off now, love,” Najia calls after her.
“Not skulkin,’ she retorts, skulking.
She can’t get it out of her mind. The forest, the train, the warehouse, the rooftop, the
construction site. All these places, these moments – but she can’t see the connections. No
matter which way she rearranges the scenes, down to the second, they don’t make sense. In
the centre of all of them, there’s a stain; a stain like the shape of a grin and a gasp of
energy. She needs to get the facts straight. She needs evidence.
Back in her bedroom, she wrenches open her wardrobe. From its place on the hanger,
her uniform teases her; the authority of it. She needs to go over the case files herself, find
out what really happened that night here in Sheffield. The mystery clamours out a familiar
chord, a sound that’s like adrenaline, following a trail. Yellow.
And so, not for the first time, Yaz heads down to the Hallamshire police station on her
day off.
…
69
Since it’s Saturday, her usual crowd isn’t about. That’s good; fewer people around to
recognise her. Being close to noon, many of her colleagues are out patrolling the
motorways for speeding drivers on their day off, or roaming the crammed city streets for
illegal or overstaying parkers. Her superior officer, Sunders, isn’t in the office today, he’s
out training a new batch of cadets. Yaz is hoping they can take over from her menial
backlog of parking tickets and petty disputes. She’s lucky Sunders isn’t here, because she
can almost see the smug expression on his face he’d wear at the sight of her, the
exasperated shake of his head. (Again, Yaz? Come on, it’s Saturday. Don’t you have something
better to do?).
The full-time receptionist doesn’t come in on Saturdays either – just a temp. That’s
lucky, too, because the usual receptionist would be sure to give Yaz a roll of her eyes as she
waved her through. That, and she’d be sure to tell Sunders. Instead, the temp; all blonde
curls and fake grin, smiles a vacant greeting with a quick verifying glance at her uniform.
Yaz makes her way into the office. It’s sparse in there today, just a skeleton crew of coffee
addled pencil-pushers – the sort of person she never wants to become. The main office –
the whole building, in fact – hasn’t had a makeover in a few decades. It’s like stepping into
an 80s office sitcom; all beiges and browns and sad excuses for potted fauna.
It’s not her fault she likes it here – not her fault she likes it better than home, because
she’s never been one to twiddle her thumbs, to whittle the hours away. She doesn’t have a
hobby, not exactly. She has a feeling that there was something she used to do, something
that took the edge off, that ate through her adrenaline and pumped it out of her like
exhaust fumes. Something she used to do, but she can’t think of what, because nothing’s
changed (but it has, because now there’s something wrong with me).
Yaz tries to keep her head down and her hat tipped as she walks around the outskirts of
the office proper. It’s not that she isn’t allowed to be here, she’s well within her rights as an
employee – only this sort of behaviour, this sort of enthusiasm, it isn’t expected from a
probationary officer. If she were anyone else they might be suspicious, but PC Khan is just
overeager; bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, (annoying, some of them thought, and they didn’t try
too hard to hide it).
She sits down at a desk where she’ll be least visible from all angles. She isn’t doing
anything wrong, but she feels like she is. Somehow, all of this feels like a mystery that she
isn’t supposed to know the answer to. There’s that, and the fact that it’ll be difficult to
explain what she’s doing if she gets caught.
The whole facility is stuck in the past – even the software is an old legacy system from
the 90s. Any officer with a system login can access most minor cases, but the classified
stuff – the good stuff – is locked behind an additional password. Fortunately, she can
remember a string of six characters easily enough. She hasn’t been explicitly told the
password, as such, but one picks things up when they’re curious, and looking where they
shouldn’t be.
She searches for the date and finds the cases listed. Most nights in Sheffield, you’ll get a
few drunk and disorderly – maybe they’re driving, too, so that’s got to be taken down.
There’s often some minor speeding, or parking gone awry, but not that night. Five deaths.
It’s the kind of case that sets her heart jumping with morbid excitement. It’s something
real, something more.
70
There are the two men she was telling Joan and Ian about the previous night; the man in
the warehouse and the one walking home from the pub. There are pictures attached, and
they aren’t pretty. Frozen to the core, bloodied to the bone. There’s another, put down to
an electrical accident in the operation booth of the local construction site, and another; the
driver of the train that broke down. There’s a number of injuries listed from the crash as
well; falling debris, trampled in the rush from the train, some treated for shock by
paramedics on the scene. The fifth and final death is Grace. The autopsy report is attached;
electrocution coupled with head trauma from the fall. Another photograph; the kindly old
woman, the one who used to pick Yaz up from school and bake her sweetcakes, dead and
cold. There’s more; heavy-duty jumper cables are tangled at the foot of a crane, leading
back into a shed housing the control station. They’re catalogued as three separate incidents;
the train, the murders, and the construction site mishap. Last night, she’d been so sure that
they were connected. Yaz had been at all three,; the train and the warehouse and the site.
They have to be connected, because she doesn’t believe in coincidences. From the centre of
it all, the shadow teases her, an aching sliver of sense in this madness – one she can’t pin
down.
She checks the officers related to the incident by name – no Yasmin Khan. She didn’t
call it in, even though she was there at all three incidents. None of the cases have been
solved, but none of them are active, either. All three reports have a final entry made just a
day after their occurrence; authority transferred to higher body. The field reads; Unified Intelligence
Taskforce.
There it is. It would have been so much easier if she’d found all three cases to be
conclusively solved, if she’d found some rational explanation for her involvement that
night. Rational feels good, it feels like her. This – the uncertainty, the near mystical
confusion – it’s not like her at all. She smiles despite herself; there’s a case here, something
wrapped up in red tape so tight not even Sunders can keep it from her. It’s beyond him,
beyond everyone here who thinks she’s too desperate and bossy and annoying.
Logging out of the system, she practically rushes out the door.
Back in her car, she shrugs off her police vest and puts on a denim jacket. She tugs at
the hasty bun she’d tied in her hair – nothing to her usual, intricate dos – letting it hang
loose. She’ll do well to pretend she’s been at home all morning when she visits Ryan and
Graham. They’re always telling her she works too much. They all are.
Before she leaves, she pulls out her phone and Googles the mysterious investigators
themselves – but the term ‘Unified Intelligence Taskforce’ brings up no relevant results –
just similarly named forces from overseas. The organisation doesn’t exist.
...
“Are you doin’ alright, love?” Graham asks. Yaz is sitting across from him at his dining
table with a steaming mug of tea clasped in her hands. Ryan is getting them lunch – pizza
takeout, because none of them feel much like cooking. Their past meetings, the quasi-
religious Saturday lunches/afternoon teas, are faded in her mind. She can’t quite remember
what they ever talked about. There’s just work and home and work again. Mundanity.
“Yeah m’okay,” she sighs, not even trying to appear okay. The slump of her shoulders,
her unkempt hair – all of her slanting towards the ground in a downwards slope, an almost
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comical parody of melancholy. She feels good when she knows what she’s doing, when she
has the situation under control – or when it’s out of control, she can at the very least busy
herself with the adrenaline rush that comes with doing something about it. Here, she’s hit a
dead end.
“Don’t you go lyin’ to me now, Yaz,” his thin lips turn up into a warm smile. “I see
right through all that.”
“I know you do,” she betrays a smile, staring down into her cup of tea. The steam is
warm against her face.
“What’s on your mind?”
“It’s just…” where to begin? Last week, when golden lights started creeping into her
vision? Last night, when she discovered a great gaping hole in her memories? “Graham, do
you remember that night when we were chasin’ down Tim Shaw?”
“That murderer, ‘course I do. I…” he presses his eyes closed, concentrating. Face
reddening with the effort of keeping it in; the grief. “I don’t think I could ever forget it.”
“You remember it but…” she looks up at him now, locking eyes, looking for the
smallest sign of an inner struggle. A battle between memory and reason. “What really
happened, give me a play-by-play, because the more I think about it the more it doesn’t
make sense.”
“What’s brought this on?” he sighs, leaning back into his seat, staring up at the light
fixture overhead until the fluorescence shines in his eyes. Yellow. “I don’t particularly want
to relive it, if that’s okay love. It was a, err, difficult night.”
“’Course, I know that. I’m sorry to bring it up and I wouldn’t if it weren’t important,
but please,” she gazes at him with those wide, dark eyes. They’re the eyes that win people
over, get her that favourite status. “Just run it through in your head and tell me if it all
makes sense.”
“I mean, it was a weird night, if that’s what you’re getting’ at,” he chuckles. The sound
grates against her seriousness, and the sound fades in his throat. “What do you want me to
say, Yaz?”
“It just feels like there’s gaps, yeah? Parts of the story that don’t quite fit.” He looks lost,
giving a hasty shake of his head, so she jumps right in. “Why didn’t I call in the incident as
soon as it happened? On the train there was a death and people runnin’ for the hills – but I
didn’t call it in. I just went home, why would I do that?”
Her intensity seems to take him aback. “I dunno, you’re the police officer, not me.” He
frowns, considering it. “You did call for backup though, you were takin’ names down and
everythin’, I remember.” There’s an itching in the back of her mind, like a worm trying to
wriggle in through her skull. She remembers making that call; this is PC Khan there’s been an
incident on the Sheffield line. One confirmed death. Please send backup immediately. But that didn’t
happen – at least, it hadn’t done a second ago.
“No. I didn’t call. All our calls are logged at the station and that call was never made.
First officer on the scene wasn’t me, it was a whole other response team, all the evidence is
filed under their names.” Even as she says it a new memory slots in to contradict her,
running parallel. There isn’t enough space for them both, and her head twinges.
“Well, I’m pretty sure I remember you callin’, but it was a pretty hectic time, could be
misrememberin’ I suppose,” he shrugs, humouring her.
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“We all went home, ‘cept I came back ‘round to yours. Why did I do that? I’d never met
you before and I hadn’t seen Grace or Ryan since primary school.”
“Look, I ain’t you, Yaz, I can’t see inside your head,” another nervous laugh, because he
really doesn’t see. His face hasn’t shown a single sign of confusion, of truth. It’s all glazed
over, all sugar sweet, pressing his face flat. It’s like his memory’s writing over faster than he
can recognise it. “We’d all just had a traumatic experience, all the lights went out in that
crash, and you and Ryan went out front and there was the driver – dead. You said she
smashed right through the windshield.” He shakes his head, closing his eyes. Respectful-
like. He doesn’t see.
She shakes her head stubbornly. “No, there was another reason.” (And it was yellow –
teeming with energy that sprawled through the air in its wake). Graham’s expression is strained, and
it’s obvious that he really doesn’t want to be having this conversation. “Why did we go
back out again? We were all fine at home, but we went out to a warehouse.”
“We were trackin’ the killer, remember?”
“Why would I do that on my own? Why did we wait? Why did we even go to that
warehouse? How did we track the killer? Besides” – the words keep on tumbling out, and
the more she thinks about it the more nonsensical it becomes – “it weren’t even a killer, it
was just the guy that crashed the train. How did he do it? How did we know that he did it?
Admit it Graham, it makes no sense at all!”
“Now, now, hold on a minute. What are you gettin’ at?”
“Something’s wrong with my memories,” she says, begging him to understand. “It’s not
just that night, either – what about that time at the mansion with all those giant spiders?”
“Oh yeah, that place was infested alright,” he shudders. “It was all that waste under the
manor, and mutant spiders – that was really weird.”
“It was the size of the entire lobby,” she cries, remembering the scene with horror.
She’d gone there because her mum worked there, she’d lost her job and Yaz had gone to
pick her up – but that didn’t explain why Ryan and Graham turned up too – and there was
someone else, someone knitting it all together. Yellow.
Graham chuckles. “Yeah it was a big’un alright. No need to exaggerate, love, we all saw
it.” Even as her face falls in frustration she feels the memory shift, the spider shrinking.
“Wait!” she practically shouts, desperate to cling to her reality. “What about that
bodyguard, Kevin?”
“Who?” he thinks for a moment, shocked by her intensity. “Oh, right, poor bloke. Died,
didn’t he? Poisoned by all that waste down there. Toxic fumes or somethin’.”
Time is fraying – because she’s remembering two things at once. A bathtub; broken and
whole. A spider; enormous and tiny. A neighbour that’s wrapped in webs and a neighbour
that’s just missing – presumed international getaway. She must wince, because Graham
reaches out a comforting hand and places it over her wrist.
“You sure you’re alright, love? Drink up your tea, that’s it now.”
She does as he says only for the moment it affords her to clear her thoughts. “Look, the
spiders, they’re not important.” (But it was giant and it was dying and there was a shadow with a
machine on its back and rage in its eyes). “Just think about it, though. That night when we went
to the warehouse, do you remember the man that was there, his corpse?” She could see it
behind her eyes clear as day; jaw ripped open to a stringy stretch of gums, splayed teeth–
and bloodied hole where one had been ripped out.
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“I saw it on the news, yeah,” he nods, that glaze again covering his eyes. “Some guy got
his face ripped off – same thing happened in town too – just round the corner by the pub.
Shockin’ stuff.” He takes a sombre sip of tea. The image of the corpse swims before her
eyes in a haze of red, fading. She was at home. She was just watching TV. There was no
warehouse. The next morning, she saw the story aired on the news with Sonya and her
parents while they were making breakfast. (Bet you wish you were on the night shift now, Yaz. Her
sister’s voice had been mocking, bitter. Then you could’ve done something useful on the job for once).
But there had also been a light on her collarbone, and a shadow jutting black against the
moonlight. Both versions of events happened, and the pressure of it is cold and stinging
like ice-cream pain.
“But, we were there – why were we there?” She’s holding her head, and she can feel
warmth swimming up her sinuses, red and viscous.
“What, at the pub? Yaz are you sure you’re alright?”
“In the… in the warehouse…” But there was no warehouse.
“They’re workin’ you too hard down at that station, love, I’ve always said so, haven’t I?”
He smiles, warm with concern. Glazed. His eyes are so hazy white he looks blind.
“We went to a construction site,” she mutters. She keeps her eyes wide because behind
them is that white, that glaze. Behind them is the little contradictions that swell and swell
until they blot out the sun above and obscure the shadow with the black edges and the
yellow hair. (Something old). The memory of blue wood under her fingers anchors her to the
Earth. “We were chasin’ the killer.”
“Because he was tryin’ to get that guy up on the crane – Karl, weren’t it?” The fog
clears, just a little.
“Yes, yes!” She jolts up with such intensity that the table shudders, spilling a splash of
tea over the side of her mug. “Why did we go there? How did we know that was where the
killer was?” And how did I get there if I was at home watching TV?
“And, well…” Graham trails off, ignoring her questions, looking down. His gaze is
swimming in the small puddle of tea in front of Yaz. “Well, we both remember what
happened next.” He snaps to attention, looking at her with that penetrating, blue gaze,
trying to see through her, trying to care. “Yaz, can you please tell me what this is about?
I’m startin’ to worry.”
She nods, ignoring his question. “Grace climbed up –”
“Now, come on love, we don’t need to talk about that –”
She cuts him off, maybe a bit too brutal. “But why? Why did she climb up?”
“She was tryin’ to stop it,” Graham doesn’t raise his voice, not yet, but she thinks it’s
coming. She can hear it cutting back the calm like a knife slashing through vines, breaking
through.
Yaz leans forwards, a satisfied smile curling her lips, despite his panic. “Stop what.”
“Stop the –” he begins, and there’s the glaze. It’s like the sweet-buns Ryan’s Nan used
to bake when they were at Redlands. “Stop the killer, he was up on the crane.”
“That doesn’t explain why she climbed up, Graham.” She keeps her voice steady,
patient. She doesn’t want him to close off, to give in to emotion. She wants him to think.
“Well, she did. Saying she shouldn’t have done it don’t change nothin’.” Looking down
again, resolute, resentful. She can’t see his eyes.
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“She was holding electric cables, she hooked them around the frame. Why did she do
that?”
“I don’t know, Yaz, okay!” a hint of anger is creeping into his voice, slightly raised.
Exasperated. Frustrated. His body is hunched in on itself and every muscle screams out
‘why is she doing this now?’ “She saw someone who needed savin’ and she took the lead.
That’s just the sort of person she was.” The phrase makes Yaz think of someone else,
another voice. (When people need help, I never refuse). In her mind, the details are editing
themselves over. There were no cables, there was no blue light coiling around the crane.
Grace climbed, and she fell. Nothing more. Even her memory of the autopsy report swims
before her; head trauma, no electrocution. Nothing in her hands.
“Tell me you understand, tell me you can see the gaps. There’s something we’re
missing!” (Something old, something new). “The next few days after that night, they’re all full of
holes too.” She grasping now, grasping for anything that will make him see, even the
smallest inconsistency. Forgetting something that happened months ago is normal enough,
but this is more than that. The missing pieces, the holes, they stick out amongst the texture
of her consciousness like spots of mould, of rot. They spoil the entire history of her.
“What are you tryin’ to say?” his patience has almost run out; sand in an hourglass,
down to the grain.
“There’s something wrong with me.” It feels good, admitting that to someone else. She
whispers it, like a secret in the dark.
“What do you mean, Yaz?” It’s coming up; the confusion and indignance and
frustration because nobody else can see. It’s coming up like blood to her head, filling her with
heat. It trickles out, and she feels her spinning head loll. “Yaz!” Graham cries, scraping his
chair back along the linoleum and shuddering to his feet on stiff knees. In a moment, he’s
by her side with a handkerchief, pushing the soft fabric into her hands. “You’re not well,
love. Do I need to call you an ambulance?”
“No, no, no,” she only means to say it once, but there’s a delay, and – like a queue – the
words all line up and tumble out of the buffer. She takes the handkerchief and dabs away
the blood. Already, it’s ceasing. It’s so easy to accept the new memories that write over her
old ones. Trying to hold onto the truth is like swimming against the tide; so much easier to
lay back and float with it out to sea, into the rough. She thinks she might drown there.
“Don’t you remember…” she begins, but it’s getting dark here at the seafloor, and she’s
running out of air.
“What’s on your mind?” Graham smiles. He’s sitting across from her again with that
kind, patient smile (full hourglass). Her nose has stopped bleeding, but there’s still spots of
it on the handkerchief in her hand. He must notice her fixating on it because he says, “gave
me a bit of a scare with that nose of yours,” light, because in his mind nothing is wrong.
Nothing’s wrong with her either; it’s all glazed over. “I keep it too warm in here, I know,
but it’s freezing out there and I’m an old man. There’s only so many blankets I can pile on
before I become a danger to meself and others,” he chuckles genially. She doesn’t answer,
but her confusion is fading, editing over the conversation that never was. It’s starting up
again, in the absence of hope; The mundanity track.
“Oh, just tired, I think,” she humours him with the obvious answer – something that’s
tangible and understandable and expected. “Had a lot of tricky shifts at the station this
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week, plus last night out with Ryan and his mates. Don’t think I’m used to it, is all.” (And
have you ever dreamed about a little blue box, Graham? It’s full of golden lights and big black shadow).
He nods in that understanding way – that grandfatherin’ way. She takes a gulp of tea
that’s almost scalding as her thoughts rattle off like shuttles behind her eyes.
There’s something wrong with me.
76
TWO MANIFESTATIONS OF MADNESS

(and an exam on temporal mechanics)
What Theta saw in the untempered schism haunted his subconscious from that very first
glimpse. Vaguely, the knowledge hung over him; the thing inside himself, encased in a
cocoon of flesh, of mortality. It was still there, although sometimes he could ignore it for a
while, if his mind was sufficiently wandering (which, it often was – Theta was told he had
an overactive imagination). It lurked, in the same way that a headache, constantly
experienced, can fade into a background-pain if you experience enough stimulus to push it
back. Until, that is, you think about it. Until you’re alone and you’re forced to acknowledge
it.
The academy wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be (not that it was possible to meet
the expectations of children force-fed fantastical propaganda since before they could talk).
In many ways, Theta found it disappointingly similar to home. The people here were
constantly telling him what to do, doubting him, thinking he wasn’t good enough to be
there – telling him to get his head out of the stars. He was surrounded by idiots, too;
people who thought they were better than him just because they could ace a test and
memorise a few facts. His mind wandered far too much for all that – his short attention
span and unbounded creativity making it impossible to sit still and soak in all that dry,
dusty knowledge. His head was up among the stars because it was the only direction worth
looking in. It was the only direction worth going in.
Here on Gallifrey, everything was still. Thousands of people standing still under the
weight of brazen head-dresses, sentinels in golden towers encased in glass, observing.
Theta could never stay still for that long. In class, he learnt about the theory of the universe
from sour old professors down to their tenth or eleventh life at least. All that time,
standing still. It was unthinkable. They taught him – or talked at him, rather – about
everything from the essence of time to the infinite abyss between limitless parallel
dimensions; techniques to breach and navigate the psychic plane, the mechanics of sentient
time machines fuelled by dying stars, understanding and interfacing with the causal web
that interlaced all of their kind; how to see time; how to spin it to your will and twist it
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around smaller minds. Along with it all, there were always rules. Rules of interaction with
lower sentience level life-forms, caught in time’s web, rules about where a TARDIS could
fly to and where it couldn’t – a guide to conformity and non-interference. All this wonder,
this knowledge, was framed within a dreary narrative; the history of the Time Lord’s
mighty empire. He found these lessons the most stale of all, and would push his head as far
up into the stars as they would go. Rassilon and Omega and the supposed third founder –
why should he care what they were up to millions of years ago? Right here and now, all
across time and space, there were worlds and all their peoples flaring and dying and flaring
up again. They spoke billions of different languages, lived trillions of different lives. Some
saw time as a grey line, some as an intricate twisting spiral, and others saw it from above
like a tapestry of causality – and Theta wanted to understand them all. What was the point
of being superior if you had to stay locked behind the glass? What was the point of seeing
time itself stretched out around you if you couldn’t reach out and touch it?
They weren’t all bad though, his classmates. Some of them understood. They’d caught a
bit of that star in their eye and it burned blue with longing for something more. His
favourite – the one who’s star burned the brightest – was Koschei. He was brilliant. His
head was in the stars as well, even farther up than his own, perhaps – right up into the
never ending, intoxicating darkness. Koschei was much better at hiding this fact, and so the
professors loved him. In all their five years of mischief and misdemeanours at the academy
– Kosch always came away unscathed. He was charming like that – something which Theta
knew all too well.
There was one thing he didn’t know about Koschei; and that was whether he
understood the part of Theta that was buried the deepest; the thing that lurked in his
nightmares and the schism and in every in-between moment since.
“You alright?” Koschei asked. He sat cross-legged at the foot of Theta’s bed, a great tome
wedged open in his lap.
Theta hummed a reply from his position draped over, top-half hanging over one side,
letting the blood rush to his head and his arms trail down towards the polished floors. It
was a shared dormitory; twenty beds crammed inside. They weren’t often used for sleeping,
though even on Gallifrey, children needed it more than adults. Theta always tried to stagger
his own rests – if he was caught in a room full of people sleeping, they might hear his
terror, and the others always thought so loud. He still couldn’t shut them out.
There were desks on the far side littered with books. That’s what they were meant to be
doing this evening, and every evening – studying. The others were in the library, but
Koschei preferred the quiet, so he stayed with Theta in the dormitory, despite the fact that
Theta was anything but. Theta’s noise was more of a background ambience; comforting, in
its way. There was that, and the fact that Theta wasn’t strictly allowed in the library to study
anymore, due to the commotion he caused last time, and Kosch didn’t like leaving him to
his own devices. Being left to his own devices was what got him in trouble.
“It’s just that, you haven’t said a word in so long that I was actually starting to retain
something,” Kosch elaborated. He was still staring down at the book in front of him
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intently. It looked terribly boring to Theta; there were some nice diagrams, at least –
something about Chameleon Circuits and their mechanics. Boring.
“Well, we can’t have that now, can we,” said Theta, snapping out of his stupor. He
wrenched his head up from its hanging position too fast, and was overcome with dizziness.
“What is this rubbish anyway?” he asked, plonking himself down beside Koschei on the
floor in front of his bed. The room was adorned in red and gold – honestly, it was hard to
find any other colours in the citadel. He thought that perhaps the Time Lords were so busy
standing still that they’d forgotten that other colours existed. Theta pulled the book away
from his friend and pulled an expression of mock interest. Koschei rolled his eyes, but,
Theta was compelled to remind him that he’d brought this on himself. As much as he liked
to pretend to be fed up with Theta’s deliberate annoyingness, it was clear to anyone that he
found it endearing.
“The mechanics of the Chameleon Circuit, it’s actually sort of –”
“Yaawwwwn,” Theta groaned, snapping the book shut. “Why are you reading this
anyway? You know it already.”
“I actually want to pass tomorrow,” Koschei replied with a pointed look that said
‘unlike you.’ “I have a reputation to uphold, you know,” he smirked, eyebrows raised
beneath his neat dark hair.
“So do I,” he cried in sarcastic indignation, “class dunce, that’s me.”
“You’re better than all of them – or you could be, if you tried.”
“I am trying – I’m just not trying to do the same things as they are.” Kosch rolled his
eyes, to which Theta swelled with false pride, and adorned a wicked grin. “Oi, just
yesterday, I built a clockwork squirrel – I’d like to see you do that!”
Kosch pressed his eyes shut, placing curled fingers against his brow. He sighed. “Why
the othering hell would I want to do that.” Theta smiled even wider, to which Kosch rolled
his eyes. It was a tired pattern of exchange – a game they played. They played other games,
too, spiralling paths on which they fell into step, rhythmic. Arguments – stupid arguments;
all scratching words, balled fists (sometimes thrown fists, too), but always forgiving one
another. Shielding one another when the other children got mean, protecting one another
from their games and their words, sometimes their violence (and sometimes, that
protection went a little too far, though they’d both left that particular incident far behind).
“You won’t be allowed anywhere near a TARDIS unless you play by their rules. They’ve
marked you as a troublemaker,” he mused, almost-laughing at Theta’s conspiratorial
expression. “You’re going to have to work twice as hard to get that stain out.” Both of
them had made a promise; to see every star, every planet, every possibility. What was the
point of having access to all of time and space if you couldn’t lark about through it all with
your best friend like the geniuses you were?
“It’s not my fault. I’m not like you, I can’t just talk my way out of things – not around
this lot, anyway. They’ve got no imagination.” It was why he needed Kosch to get him out
of trouble – Theta was no good at spinning excuses, or being undercover. He wasn’t good
at being quiet, blending in. He didn’t get the same kick out of the act that Koschei seemed
to – the act of spinning lies.
“You’re just terrible at telepathy.”
“Not everyone can be a master hypnotist.” He tried for a compliment, because Koschei
always loved those – sometimes they even distracted him enough to shut him up. Koschei
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snatched his book back with a smirk and searched for his page. Compliments were good,
they stopped him prying, because he was right, Theta was terrible at telepathy, but it wasn’t
innate – at least, not all of it. There was something inside of him that was a lot bigger, a lot
darker, than the usual psychic backlog most others carried around with them – bouncing
around their echo chambers. Their minds were like an auditorium, everything magnified.
He didn’t want anyone to find out what he was hiding, despite his own curiosity. The
instincts of the creature advised him as much; stay hidden. He closed himself off because
he had too – what if someone saw inside and caught a glimpse of an eye opening in the
dark? He would have done well to keep himself unremarkable as well, staying out of
trouble – but that was against his nature.
Even then, he was beginning to piece it all together; the name of the creature, it’s
origins. The facts matched the feeling; the dormant whisperings that came from far above
and deep within. He denied it, else he ignored it – ran from it. Still, old memories came to
him in the guise of dreams, piece by piece. Memories and premonitions.
“Do you ever think,” he began, glancing over at his friend. The other boy was once
again staring intently at his book, pressing his face in still closer than before. At the sound
of his voice, Koschei looked up. As annoyed as he liked to act, he was always desperate for
a distraction. Sometimes, Koscheu’s thoughts seemed too fast for the rest of him – like he
needed substance to churn through before the deeper parts of him caught up. Theta was
like that, too. Maybe that was why neither of them were content to stand about in a glass
dome for thirteen lifetimes. By this time, the other boy’s dark eyes were waiting for him,
listening – the only one who did. “Do you ever think there might be something wrong with
us?
Koschei cocked his head to one side, considering the notion, surprised by it. “Wrong?”
he repeated, questioningly, scrunching up his face as if appalled by the taste of it. “Wrong
how? We’re the only ones smart enough to see through this place. Wrong to them, maybe,”
he scoffed, all sidewards smirk and jutting jaw. Dark, flaring eyes. “To them, but not
wrong, period.” Theta thought that he could see the stars in his eyes; all the stars they
wanted to reach.
“I mean, they used to say the schism could drive you mad,” he tried for a conversational
tone, but the nerves crept in, and the seriousness. His mind reached out with redsand-
scaredsince-madenning. He didn’t like being serious; yet another state of being that didn’t suit
him. Koschei, of course, saw right through to the core; as serious as serious comes.
“Sometimes I think I might be mad.” He brushed it off with a nervous laugh that died like
a breath choked out.
“Well,” Koschei smirked, “I think you’re barking – that’s why I like you.” Smirk to grin
to smile; wide and unreserved.
He couldn’t help but smile weakly back. “You know what I mean. The bad kind of
madness.” (The kind we don’t talk about. The unthinkable kind). “I have these weird dreams. I
think maybe there’s something... wrong.” The rest of it came out between the lines, within
his thoughts. Theta let down the walls, just a little. Peeling plaster. Not all of it; not the
creature, nor his suspicions about it – just the fear. There was an awful lot of it besides.
Koschei’s eyes softened, and he turned away to break the connection. “It’s crossed my
mind,” he shrugged. “I mean, there’s something about you – and me, Ushas, Mortimus,
Magnus – all that lot – like maybe we’re seeing something the rest of them aren’t.”
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“Like possibility –” The endless scope of them; galaxies and planets – places, faces.
“Like freedom,” he finished, and his voice became a whisper. “I really have wondered
the same, you know; whether I’m mad.” Koschei stared off into the space in front of him,
heavy book laying open on his lap as he tapped a steady four beat rhythm against the page
with his finger. “Because I feel like something’s chasing me, or pulling me, I can’t tell
which. It’s inspiration, of a sort,” he mused, a smile quirking his lips, jaw pushed out under
heavy-lidded eyes. “All that stuff they used to say to us as kids, about a true Time Lord
being inspired by the sight of the vortex, about the madness and the running…” Theta’s
mind throbbed with the effort of receiving Kosch’s communication; the shared tales
whispered by their cousins in the night, like ghost stories. Legends passed down. “It was all
the same thing really, wasn’t it? Madness is just a sort of inspiration that doesn’t conform
to their rules. It means being inspired to do something radical, or something wonderful,”
he grinned as he said the word; something manically beautiful in his eyes. Behind them, his
mind screamed; fire-chaos-alltheworldsinthesky. It was, like he said, a wonderful thing.
“Madness, isn’t losing yourself,” he shook his head, eyes far-off again, “it’s becoming
yourself. The one they’re trying to hide from you.”
Kosch seemed to come out of his stupor, and was met by Theta’s raised eyebrow;
impressed, a smirk plaguing his lips. “Quite the speech,” Theta grinned.
“Shut it,” he replied, bashful, a playful fist pushed against Theta’s shoulder. He snatched
up his book with both hands and pressed his nose into it, hiding an obvious flush that was
creeping into his pale cheeks. Theta’s smile widened, and he lay his head back onto the
bed, staring upwards.
Who was he becoming? Was he the creature or the boy it was born from? Could they be
seperated at all? Their madness, the boy and his friend, were two of a kind; one was bone-
deep and age-old, wise and patient and sharp; the other was new, building up and burning
like an eruption, wicked teeth and glinting eyes. Both were coming, even then. Didn’t he
know it – hadn’t he known it ever since a gentle hand had closed around his ankle in the
night? – fear was a superpower. The creature was like his madness, along with the regular
kind, and he wouldn’t run from it. He was It.
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VI
Getting a shift on
When It wakes, It’s all full of holes. A punctured tire. There’s a tingling sensation that It
thinks must be pain and a hollowness in Its head where the machine (or the drill, as she’d
put it) had toiled away. It harnesses the wealth of regeneration energy held within this form
(thank Rassilon for that) and concentrates its power into the empty spaces gouged within
Its flesh, repairing. The glass that encases It fills with golden light. The twists of thistled
metal twined between Its (her) bones unravel into atoms. Tubes vaporise in the afterglow,
chemicals bursting out; evaporating, swallowed. It (she) is becoming whole again; a body
strung together from the pieces left behind, loose string spooled and tightened into
coherence – adherence, to physicality.
It (she) emerges from the light like a stain, an afterimage. Rising up, rearing head,
opening Its (her) eyes for the first time in hundreds upon hundreds of millennia – opening
properly. Before, looking out of her eyes had been like looking through frosted glass, like
trying to concentrate while concussed. A swirl of white with hints of colour shielded
behind, thoughts confused and circular and dreadfully simple; senses not working nearly as
well as they should. They’re coming back to It (her) now, those senses, blinking Its (her)
old mind back into existence like a cobwebbed light-switch flicked on in a dusty attic. Lost,
then found.
Old power. Old light. Fourteen sets of eyes blink from behind her new pair, and more,
stretching further back. There are people beyond Its prison of glass. They’re small, at first,
almost too small, but she reminds It how to do these things. She’s good at seeing them. It
still thinks of them that way, at least for now; an It and a she. The she that It was, and the
she that still exists somewhere within the mass of that It, a droplet absorbed into an ocean
of memory.
Pinpricks to handspans to people; life-sized. It (and she) feel no relief at the re-
acquisition of their old senses and power, just exhaustion. The people beyond the glass are
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crying out; fear-excitement-exaltation. It’s all mingled together and trickling from the corners
of their mouths like drool. Their thoughts, though small, are difficult to miss. It (her, as It
(she) will now refer to herself, because it’s become a habit), now free of her restraints,
stands upon the glass surface of the tank; barefoot against the cold in a cloud of dissipating
gold. She may be powerful, may understand regeneration and the intricacies of its
mechanics better than anyone or anything – but that doesn’t mean she can calm the wave
of nausea and fatigue now engulfing her. One cannot simply mutate every cell in their body
in a forge of fire and expect to come away without a bit of a dizzy spell. She sinks down
slowly against the glass, head lolling. Parts of her are missing, as pain and regeneration
often mask the self. There’s a reason she’s back here; whole and aware. If she could just
reach it...
Above her, the curtains are red. A lingering presence of regeneration energy haunts the air,
hanging stagnant like the smell of burning fuel. A window lets in the white rays of twin
suns, dappled through the meshed draperies. The President’s chambers. There was a time –
when she called herself the Doctor – when the thought of setting foot in this room would
have filled her with dread and disgust. It still does, but she isn’t too proud to enjoy the
comfort of the blankets. She hopes they’ve at least washed the sheets since Rassilon slept
here. She takes comfort in the knowledge that Time Lords don’t have to sleep often.
There’s a knock at the door, but the perpetrator doesn’t wait long enough for an answer.
It’s the Cardinal, the one that has so kindly been keeping her office in order in wait of her
arrival. He nearly jumps right back out the door when he notices that she’s awake.
“Lord President – Lord,” he pauses, clearing his throat. He puts on his ‘Cardinal’ voice
– the one that’s a little deeper, more commanding, more accustomed to addressing crowds.
“Creator.” She tries not to grimace at that word, because, really, they’d done most of the
work themselves. She’ll take the compliment, though, because the Cardinal finally, finally
looks afraid. “You have returned to consciousness.” She remembers this one – Atral. A
snarl curls her lips, an echo of the Doctor. She presses her expression flat, a brief falter.
The zealous Cardinal is unfazed. He looks to her expectantly, hungrily, ready for all the
secrets of the universe to come spilling out.
She knows the words that will excite him most – enthral him, even. She sees them laid
out before her eyes as plainly as his racing thoughts; stretched out like a banner. “Correct. I
have returned.” She makes an effort to sound disdainful – proud, as someone so revered
should be. She struggles into a sitting position, resting her back against the elaborately
carved dark-wood of the headboard. There are thin red robes clothing her body in place of
the old garments – which is a little forward of them, in her opinion. She wants to remind
Atral of the disappointing review she’ll be leaving his laboratory on Tripadvisor, but there
is such a thing as a time and a place. That is a piece of advice that the Doctor never truly
understood, but that she is now patient enough to heed. “I admire your technological
prowess, Cardinal,” (Atral m’pal) “but I’ve gotta say I disapprove of your methods. It was a
little…” she holds his attention as she mulls over the word in her mouth,
“uncomfortable.”
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The muscles in his neck tense, protruding. “I apologise, most deeply.” He bows his
head, and she wonders if that strained neck of his will be able to lift it and its ridiculous
headdress back up again. “I see you have retained your previous form,” there’s a hint of
disappointment there as he examines her. Maybe he would have preferred something more
formidable for the occasion. Too bad for him, she likes things just the way they are. “Such
mastery of our biological processes…” he shakes his head in polite disbelief. He’s trying to
flatter her. It’s quite the opposite to his attitude towards the Doctor, which just goes to
prove how little he understands.
“It’s quite simple, when you know how it works. I did engineer the process, after
all.” She allows herself to be a little narcissistic – it’s what he’s expecting.
“Of course,” he smiles in a wan, submissive way. She’s never liked this sort of treatment
– preferred to stay in the shadows. The Doctor sometimes enjoyed it (egomaniac needy game-
player) but awe gets old, after a while. “And that is just one of the many wisdoms you alone
hold, that have been lost to time. Your people need you. Your once shining empire has
fallen into disre –”
“Yeah, yeah, no need to go on about it,” she mutters, bringing a hand to her head in
prediction of a headache. “I was conscious, you know. I’ve heard all your speeches a
hundred times already.”
“Right, yes, of course,” his face goes through all five stages of grief in a single moment.
She can tell how much it pains him to hold his tongue on what he doubtless believes to be
the greatest and most moving piece of prose ever composed. Herald to a God. “My
apologies,” he murmurs. “You are aware of the situation, then? I beg of you, my Lord, help
us. Bring your people out of the dark, back to the centre of creation where we once did
reside. Guide us, as you did our forefathers –”
“Cardinal,” she snaps, sharper now, because he’s getting a hint of murky mysticism in
his eye, a swell of pride in his chest. Tumours like that spread quickly, and with her head in
its current state, she just doesn’t have the patience. “You’re doin’ it again. Let’s get down to
business, shall we?” She’s kept the accent as well as the body. She likes them, and so does
the Doctor.
“Of course, Lord President,” he bows. “We shall await you in the council chambers.”
He appears as if he might say something else for a moment, but her expression is a hairs’
breadth away from a scowl, so he keeps his silence. Smart boy. He bows himself right out
of the room.
She pulls the silken sheets away. Strips of layered red and gold, embroidered into the
shapes of flowers. Red thread; they could be fires – it would be more appropriate.
Standing, she lets red fabric float down to rest around her ankles, hanging from her
shoulders, her back, skirting over narrow hips. Her hair hangs uneven, nearly to the base of
her neck. They kept her imprisoned for a while, then. Time is hard enough to pin down on
a good day, let alone when it’s being torn out and twisted around you. She steps across the
room; barefoot on shining stone, golden walls and golden ceiling practically screaming
arrogance and aristocracy. From the window, at eye level, there is only vacant yellow and
the far-off sheen of glass. Beyond; empty red fields. No silver trees, no red reeds or glassy
lakes or wandering creatures. A society as advanced as the Time Lords has long since
stopped needing such things, but old races grow sentimental. They mastered the arts of
conservation, terraforming, genetic engineering, only for it all to be lost in that great dark
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age, in the cataclysm of the war. Dead; the once beautiful natural biosphere, and the
knowledge of how to cultivate it. Now, only sand turned sharp and poisonous by engines
of war. A dusty, barren sphere.
She has to crane her neck down, pressing her head forward against the warm glass, just
to see the city dwellings so far below. Huddles of dark brown crammed up together
beneath the weight of the citadel’s great metal girders, ringing the blackened charnel pit
above which it hangs, ornamental. The towers, the complexes, the homes, the vehicles
struggling between them; all of them seem to reach up with old bones to the light above
them – and here she is, at the top of it all. The citadel towers clustered beneath her are
raised up, pointing sharp toward her like knives to a throat. The cage may be larger, but she
is still encased in glass.
She was once a boy in a barn crying in the dark, belonging to a fallen house. A boy of
no considerable talent save a penchant for mischief and a kindness that burned. The boy
used to dream of this yellow bulb; an amber jewel amongst the burnt cliffs and crimson
grasslands. His mind used to cry out for the sight of those glinting towers, in the hope that
he might someday walk among them as he dreamed to walk among the stars themselves.
The entire planet cries the same lament; a final, straining hope placed in the Capitol.
Billions of people standing in their lesser citadels, the last bastions of the empire, else
huddled in the rusting streets, war scarred cities with cave-ins never filled and collapses
never repaired. They truly are a shadow of the past – great holes ripped and left gaping in
their psychic consciousness. So many lost in the war, and only so many left to care for the
children being woven from light and pushed out into the harsh world. The children grow
in wasted lands; acrid red sands blown over dead grass, mulched – tectonic plates churned
up and spat out in jagged slices by a thousand white-hot warheads. They crouch in the
ruins of the old houses, the children, because there are no Time Lords to take them, to
teach them – barely enough to keep the academic and innovative exploits of the planet
running. Only a handful of those old elite remain; inspired by stories, looking back as far as
they can because the future is so empty. The Gallifreyans – single-lived and second-class –
staring out upon it all, in wounded pride or in wicked satisfaction, depending on how
expertly the stories of the elite have shaped them. There are certain advantages to a ruling
elite with heightened telepathic abilities. The Shobogans – considered little better than
animals, pushed out to the fringes of the world, barely surviving after the destruction that
was the Time War. The Lords offered them no protection.
All of their voices are screaming out, and the sound of it is so raw and so painful and so
hopeless that she might almost be moved to help them. Almost; because isn’t this what was
always going to happen? Try to create an everlasting empire built on peace and the pursuit
of knowledge, then, of course, it can only end in war and superstitious tyranny. If you live
long enough, entropy chokes the good intentions out of everything. She knew that well,
when she was the Doctor, but now she remembers the full weight of it. The weight of life,
bearing down. She can’t help them. Maybe she should never have even tried.
There’s something more that’s wrong with the Doctor’s home (not her’s, she tries to
convince herself, because she must distance herself from this place if she is to see this
through). It’s more than the surface level scratches of extinction and ruin – it’s something
conscious, something so deeply buried that, at first, she hadn’t been able to sense it. She
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does now. The richness of the world is drained out, sapped of its usual colours – those
fiery hues. There’s a reason these people are so scared, soft shadows on the sand cast over
their former empire, and the reason is time. They are a people born with a sense beyond all
others, one that she’d helped them develop because, at the time, it had seemed like an
excellent idea. She’s been wrong before, she’ll be wrong again. Time – they need it as much
as sight and sound, air and water. They need it like those twin hearts pushing the blood
through their veins, and they’re cut off from it. They are a race, starving. Pushed out of the
universe, locked out of time, billions of people trapped inside an air-tight dome,
suffocating. (Judoon platoon upon the moon), the Doctor hums. It’s pitiful, but not in a way that
disgusts her, in a way that makes her hearts ache for them. Some of them were born like
this, blind. They don’t even understand the grief they’re feeling, whispers feeding back
from generations past who know there used to be something more. She knows what it’s like,
realises it as she tunes into the web of grief as it rises and falls in united breath, blanketing
the planet. The Doctor knows too. It’s like watching children cry. (Very old and very kind and
the very, very last…) Live long enough and everything reminds you of something – some old
piece of advice. Everything is familiar, and the entire concept falls through. But she can’t,
not now and not ever; she can’t just stand here and watch children cry.
The President turns away from view and buries the feeling. Throwing open the
wardrobe, she is greeted with a final, stinging mockery. The President’s robes, headdress
and all. Rassilon and Omega, her protegees, were many things, but never fashion designers.
She, as the Doctor, was crowned President twice, and both times shirked her duties as well
as the matching outfit. It’s been a long time since she’s worn robes like these; this rank, this
ridiculous intricacy. Millions of years ago, when this world was young and her hearts only
beginning to grow weary. She adorns them, despite her dread. Afterall, she did promise.
The council room is just as welcoming as ever – that is to say, not at all. A conglomeration
of familiar-yet-unfamiliar faces stare up at her expectantly from high-backed chairs as she
walks in. Unfamiliar, because she has never seen most of them in her life. Familiar, because
she’s seen their like before. New-blood, eager, thirsty for war and glory. Young, proud,
terrified. They stand when they recognise her, fumbling chair-legs scraping a low groan
against the marble. A ritualistic drone.
“Lord President,” Cardinal Atral nods. He stands beside her seat at the head of the
table. She returns the nod, maintaining an air of mystery that their eyes eat up hungrily. She
takes her time, and takes her seat. Her hands find their place in old wooden grooves,
forearms pressed against regal armrests. Her neck is already getting sore from the weight of
the monstrosity on her head.
Her first instinct, back in the Presidential chambers, was to play the God – that is, to
play to their expectations; all quiet wisdom and callused benignity. It felt like slipping into
an old pair of boots; comfortable, but coming apart, soles worn through. She’s got new
boots, now, and she prefers their look a great deal. Youthful, funny, exuberant. A disguise,
maybe, but a fun one.
“Right,” she claps her hands together and grins from her place at the head of the table.
“Before anyone has the initiative to make any rousin’ speeches – which, by the way, I’m
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sure are very well rehearsed – I’ll introduce myself,” she says. A hint of old mischief. “Yes,
I am what you call the Other. Terrible name, by the way – not an ounce of creativity to it.
You could have at least made somethin’ up.” She looks around the room for a moment,
letting her eyes wander, letting them wait on every breath. “You’ve certainly made a mess
of things, that’s for sure. I mean a Time War, really?” Many of them look down, like
scolded children. “And now you expect me to clean up your mess.” she scoffs, “typical.”
“Maybe you were expectin’ me to thank you for freeing my from my prison of the flesh
and all that, but I’ll be honest guys, I was havin’ a pretty good time – you’re lucky I’m
helpin’ you at all.”
A moment of silence during which the children gaze down at the desk. Atral looks the
most put-off by her demeanour, so put-off, in fact, that for once he isn’t the first to fill the
beckoning silence.
“In that case, my Lord, we thank you, and offer our deepest apologies.” Another of the
council members; a man near-indistinguishable from Atral in expression. This one
definitely got a piece of that patented star in his eye – all dark brows furrowed in perpetual
concentration; square chin turned up. The President (because she has, however grudgingly,
accepted her position) nods in sombre gratitude.
When she’d first been brought to Gallifrey with those three wonderful humans of hers
(what was it that she used to call them? Team? Gang? Fam?), they’d arrived at the end of the
universe, give or take a few star systems. Gallifrey is time-locked in the final moment of
creation; the moment before the last star goes supernova. Trapped, between one heart-beat
and the never-ending silence.
After the confession dial, her first trip to the end of the universe, she’d arrived in a
Gallifrey barely broken free of the time-locked war, suspended in time at the end of
everything by thirteen Doctors (not fourteen, or fifteen, which didn’t exactly bode well for
her future). The people there were scarred and battle-worn, and they remembered.
Rassilon’s rule, then, was tentative; strained like a frayed string. His people were tired,
disheartened, dying. It didn’t take much to tip the balance, just an old war hero standing
behind a line in the sand with eyes that were just as weary and dead as the planet itself.
Rassilon hadn’t really stood a chance. But then, their new hope, the Doctor – the subject of
all that war-time awe and fear – had abandoned them. How the legends had spread of what
the Doctor truly was, she didn’t know, though times of hopelessness often brought forth
old legends. Nearly fifty-thousand years, now, since the fall of Rassilon. Nothing but a blip
on the timeline of Time Lord civilisation, but enough for multiple generations to live and
die in the darkened ruins of the empire. Enough time for stories to be spun of the golden
age, now lost, when the Time Lords ruled. The very title of their race is defunct, now, for
what is a Lord without a holding?
Time Lords at time’s end in a time-lock. Honestly, stick the word ‘time’ in front of
something and the people of Gallifrey would take to it like a fish to water.
“So,” she addresses her crowd of reluctant devotees, “you want out of the end of the
universe, and access to your old channels across time and space. You want your cities
rebuilt and your people re-prospered, and you want to sit, as you once did, as judge jury
and executioner for the entirety of creation?” she waits, but she knows she’s got the gist of
it. It’s what everyone wants, on this world and the rest. A little more power; back to the
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glory days. “Right then,” she claps her hands together and flashes them a jovial smile, “let’s
get a shift on.”
To these people, she’s become hope, incarnate. As she steps out into the audience chamber
and onto the raised dais, she can feel their hope like the weight of her headdress against her
shoulders. They’re hungry, too, and scared. The three most prominent and most powerful
emotions that life can experience; hope, hunger, fear. The trio gathers in the crowd below,
permeating every particle in the stands, pressed into every crevice of the hall. The on-
lookers channel them like radio towers.
Only the inner circle of the high council have allowed their disappointment in her to
show, and they don’t let the truth travel far from their chambers. She jokes and skips and
scrunches up her face in a myriad of expressions – none of which they seem to consider
particularly god-like. Her image is left unstained because, in the end, she is still a prisoner in
this glass cage – just the fate the Doctor always feared as a student at the academy. Maybe
she should be trying harder to fit the role of saviour – keep a stolid face and a straight
back, shut away her quirks and her jokes in favour of long words and cryptic speeches –
but the part of her that so enjoyed being the Doctor hasn’t changed. Clearly, they were
expecting someone a little more sophisticated, her being old and unknowable and all that
nonsense. She’s part Time Lord, and properly this time, not just a mirage. She’s organic –
and there’s no point in being grown up if you can’t be childish sometimes.
Black banners still fly, because they’ve decided it’s her colour. Void-like. They bear no
insignia, she doesn’t have one yet, and she doesn’t need one. The emptiness is enough, the
simplicity. She takes her place, the place of President, but there is no welcoming cheer nor
resounding applause, just silence; stuffed with awe and reverence. She knows that, all
around Gallifrey, this message is being broadcast. In every square in every city across the
entire planet. In every noble house to their abundance of newly-woven, time-starved
children, in every sub-citadel upon their metal frames; the Cardinal’s message blares, and
the new President of Gallifrey stands in dignified silence. The Doctor, and the Other, and
something more, to every one of them. She hears it now; the hope. It infects her like
spores, mycelium roots burrowing into her core.
She (It) stands upon the podium and looks down on the spot where, (how long? Days
to weeks to months – seconds in eternity), she had stood trial. In her right hand, she holds
a staff; golden, heavy, embellished with jewels. (Go be a king – or a queen, you know, whatever).
Belled sleeves hang below her knuckles, white against gold. Across her front, twin sashes
drape from her shoulders; a tapestry of deep reds and star-golds.
She raises her chin as Atral’s voice booms out, as deep and thunderous in public as it is
weaselly and irritating in private. “People of Gallifrey, our creator has returned!” he
bellows. It sounds like a war speech, and she’s heard far too many of those for comfort.
The rose-tinted words that sound like marching feet, like drumming. Loud and flowery and
glorious so as to hide the stench of ash and blood and decay. She keeps her face set in a
mask like plaster. “The one who once guided the hand of our ancestors – of Rassilon
himself,” a pause, because that name still inspires such fear, such respect. It’s a word like a
curse. “She has returned to guide us once more. You may once have known her as the
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Doctor – hero of the Time War, lorded among our sworn enemies, the Daleks, as the
Oncoming Storm, the Bringer of Darkness and Destroyer of Worlds.” She tries not to let
the names hurt her – the titles she’s amassed are thrown at her in glory, but sting the
Doctor like insults.
The Time Lords on the benches below hold their heads high and mighty. Ruffled necks,
sharp like vultures. Do the people out there now remember the war? They remembered the
last time she was here – the pain of it was still fresh in the minds of the culture – but what
about now? The air tastes older, crueller. The universe is breathing its last, as it will
eternally, in this stale bubble of time. She can feel it, and so can they, and they look upon
the end with desperation. Time runs thin here at the edge of the crust.
“But she is something else, something more even than a Time Lord! She will bring us
out of the dark, back from the end of time, back to our seat at the centre of all creation
before Rassilon’s foolishness plunged us into war!” They keep silent, but she can see the
grimaces on their faces – like war cries struggling to escape through their guarded
expressions. Only a matter of time until they break through. Their pride is their
wickedness, and they raise their children on the stuff as if it were their lifeblood; tradition
and duty. Superiority. In a way, she made them – and now she rules them. She’s not quite
sure what that makes her. “All hail Lord President,” she flicks her eyes sideways to give
Atral a warning glare, and he clears his throat, saying with a grimace, “Doctor.” Well, the
Other was hardly a name worth repeating. She likes her name; it means something other
than an absence, a shadow. It means someone who helps.
Now they let the sound out; and the war cries breaks through their tight-lipped mouths
like water through a dam. Destructive. Raw cries, and though she cannot hear them, she
feels them all across the planet – echoed by billions. She sets her face deeper; narrowed
eyes, jaw so tight her lips are almost trembling. Maybe she (It) can do this again, maybe she
can really do it; rule.
But, she still remembers her real home, her real family. Ryan, Graham, Yaz. They might
have only been hers for an infinitesimal fraction of her lifetime – but they were hers all the
same. She’s in two minds; one of which desperately wants to go back to them, restore their
memories, and go off on a brand-new adventure. The other imagines the lives they’re
building for themselves; little lives, beautiful lives, and she thinks she’d be better off leaving
well enough alone. They’re human, they’ll live their lives along that straight grey line, at the
end of which they’ll fall from the precipice and into eternity. And that will be all. Does she
really have to go meddling with things? Meddling, in her experience, never goes well, not it
the end. Things turn sour; they ripen, and then they rot. They turn brown-tinged and
white-fuzzed from the inside out. People to weapons, scientists to dictators, utopias to
militant empires. Doctors to warriors.
Maybe she could help, try to change them from the inside out. More than suggestions
and whispers – a true leader. Isn’t it her responsibility to help – the universe, yes – but
them most of all? The ones she helped create. She would be the ultimate architect, her days
of being a pawn finally done. It was exactly the fate she had wanted to avoid; but she, and
the Doctor, know better than most that one cannot run forever. Time to be more than a
shadow, perhaps. Time to be someone that the history books will remember as more than
just a rumour, a mystery, an other – if she can stomach it. Perhaps, if all goes well, it’s time
to be the President. But then; there is a time to build and a time to destroy, and threads can
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be unanchored. Life requires death, and there would be something poetic, something
necessary, about burning it all to ashes.
There’s a choice here, and an important one. How much does she still feel for this
planet; between her tenure as its founder, and her short life among them as one of its
children?
There’s another factor to take into account, beyond either of her two phases of
existence. She stares past the crowd and their suffocating hopefulness, halfway across the
universe and into the mind of a girl on Earth who no longer remembers her. The girl is
scared, and brave, and brilliant. Somewhere, far away, she is unravelling.
The girl is, perhaps, the President’s only means of escape, if she chooses to be the
Doctor again.
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VII
Misery
It’s getting worse; the dreams, the dissonance – all of it raging behind her eyes when she
tries to sleep, yellow. Every morning she wakes with a deep, insatiable longing in her chest.
Craving something blue. The bruise is still there, lingering on the edge of healing. She’s
keeping it there, with all her prodding and pressing, every desperate bid to feel that gold. It
reminds her of something she’s forgotten – or rather, it reminds her that there is something
that she’s forgotten. If she can just find out what it is, maybe she’ll be able to sleep again.
...
At work on Monday, she turns up late. It’s a new chord struck in her mundanity track;
dissonant, grinding against the rest of her. Being late isn’t something she does, isn’t part of
her song. She might have made it on time if that flash of blue in the alley hadn’t caught her
eye. It’s tempting; like a flash of a coin on the pavement as you walk past. You have to
stop, maybe even reach down and take it. She stood there, in that alleyway, filling her eyes
with blue as if they were eating up the colour. There’s something inside that box that she
needs; the shadow.
She turns up late, and it’s only the second time in two years.
“Khan, how very uncharacteristic of you,” Officer Sunders tuts, mischief in tone. She’s
all wild eyes and wild hair, bursting through the door with her vest half-fastened.
“Sorry sir, overslept,” she pants. She ran from the carpark and straight in through the
doors, trekking in streaks of water from the puddles outside.
“Well it’s a good thing I’ve caught you alone,” sternness creeps in. The others have
already been given their assignments and sent on their way. She’s getting put behind a desk
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today for sure. “I’ve got something I need to discuss with you.” She nods hurriedly and
follows him to stand by the wall, closed off.
“We do keep records, you know,” he sighs.
“Excuse me?”
“Of accounts that access classified evidence files – we keep records,” he doesn’t seem
angry, maybe a little bemused. Frustrated, but not angry.
“Right, ‘course,” she mutters, looking down. That isn’t like her either, looking down.
Her eyes are usually the first to turn up and meet those of whoever’s towering over her,
trying to hold power. She’s good at tearing it from their hands, but not today. Just another
off-beat.
“So you know what I’m gettin’ at?” he leads. “You came in on Saturday?”
“Yeah.” She tries for defiance, but it sounds more like defeat.
“Jesus, Yaz. How did you even get that password?” She doesn’t answer, because she
figures it’s pretty obvious. “More of your ‘professional curiosity’ was it?” he asks, a hint of
a laugh. At her expense, of course – always. “Or did you figure you could take on some
cold cases yourself and blow us out of the water. Just stay in your lane for God’s sake.”
“It was more than just professional curiosity, actually,” she says. Cordial, but not
without snark. It fits – something assonant, for once. “Remember that big night in
October? There were five deaths. What are the chances of that happenin’ in Sheffield?”
“Very unlikely, I’ll give you that, but sometimes unlikely things happen. They weren’t
connected, if that’s what you’re sayin’,” he chuckles pre-emptively.
“Except they were all taken over by somethin’ called the Unified National Intelligence
Taskforce – why would they take over three completely separate incidents?”
“Unified what? I’ve never ‘eard of them,” he’s only half-paying attention – the rest of
it’s banked on whatever ‘more important matters’ he has to be getting on with today.
“Maybe you should fact check your own case files, because as far as I can tell the
taskforce doesn’t exist,” says Yaz, triumphant.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, coming back to attention. Something’s wrong (not with me, with
everybody else). It’s shifting under her feet; the Earth, her memories, everything. “What is it
now, Yaz,” he drawls, looking past her. “I haven’t got as much time for you to waste today
as usual. Get moving.”
“Sir,” she stammers, incredulous – but she knows what’s happening. They’re forgetting,
rewriting. The world’s memories are editing themselves around her while she’s caught at
the centre – the only one who knows. She tries to fight the dizziness with the colour blue,
like a combative – the feeling and the taste of it. Blue wood beneath her fingers, blue lights
in her eyes. A faint wheezing…
“Sir, the case files, those deaths in October – who’s overseein’ those cases now?” She
uses her PC Khan voice. It feels like control – control over the chaos opening beneath her
like a chasm. She tries to stop him from falling in with her calm, but she knows it won’t
work.
“What case files? What are you on about now, Yaz?” He doesn’t listen to her, none of
them ever really do – not even Graham. It’s like he wasn’t even trying to hold on, just
giving in to what was easy. Blissful ignorance. Sunders is doing the same.
“Five deaths in October, you can’t just edit them out!” she raises her voice, as if she
could shout over it, address time itself. In her mind, she feels blue ridges under her fingers,
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wet with rain. “I saw them, I was there! You can’t just make me forget!” But she can feel
those marionette strings tug-tugging away, pulling what she thought she knew up behind
the curtain.
“Yaz, are you ok? What are you talkin’ about?” She’s got his full attention now – a bit of
hysterics is all it took – but it’s not working. In her mind, the alleyway is empty, and she
remembers a computer screen coming up blank when she searched for incidents occurring
on a certain night in October.
“I’ll show you. I’ll prove it!” she races across the station, and people part for her, eager
to watch the show. She doesn’t care, because she’s right. She’ll show them all what they’ve
been missing. Maybe whatever’s going on can change people’s memories, but they can’t
alter reality… surely. Nothing can alter reality. She’s a rational sort of person.
She runs through the office, outrunning threads of time unravelling and restitching
tripwires under her feet. Sunders is calling out her name in a despondent, exhausted
fashion, as if her having a complete mental breakdown was only a matter of time. (They’re
workin’ you too hard down at that station, love, I’ve always said so, haven’t I? Graham chuckles). She
logs into one of the computers, cursing the abysmal efficacy of their ancient software.
Sunders is by her side soon enough, having taken the station at a leisurely stroll. There are
voices all around her (what’s she doing?/is she okay?/Sunders, is she one of yours?).
“Yaz, stop this right now!” he’s never shouted at her before. For once she doesn’t care
about being the favourite.
“Just wait, please, it’s important. I’ll show you (I’ll show you, I’ll show you),” she isn’t sure if
the echo is inside her head or if her mind is buffering words again and spewing them out
on repeat. Autopilot. She enters the password for the high-clearance case files. (She’s not
well!/How did this one pass her psychology assessment?/What the hell is wrong with her?). It feels like
school again, with all those chattering voices saying the same things about her, so many
variations on the same jibes and jeers and whispered strings of gossip all blurring together
into one antagonist. But it doesn’t matter what they say, because she’s right. She’s a rational
sort of person.
She searches for the date when all this started; the gaps, the confusion. She shouldn’t be
surprised, but she is, because it’s the rational thing to feel when reality stops being real.
Blank. No deaths at all. Two memories are jostling into the space of one, and they won’t
fit. Her head is bulging. “But, but,” she murmurs, staring at the screen, unblinking, willing
for something to change. Eventually Sunders pulls her away from the desk himself; sturdy
hands on her shoulders, pulling back her chair. Something hot is trickling from her nostrils
– blood, again.
“Yaz, you’re sick, okay,” he placates.
There’s someone else there, a woman. She puts a hand against Yaz’ forehead. “She’s got
a fever.”
“Should I call an ambulance?” someone else says. He was laughing at her just a moment
ago. That’s the power of physical symptoms, despite the fact that a nosebleed and a fever
are the least of her worries.
“I’m fine,” she shudders. Small voice.
“At least take the day off – take the week off, if you need. Lord knows you’ve done
enough overtime to cover it,” his expression is knotted up in wary kindness. “Just call up
tomorrow mornin’ if you’re comin’ in.”
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“Yeah, yeah okay,” she stands on shaking legs and holds two sets of memories between
her teeth. “I’m fine, I’ll just go home and rest.”
She leaves the station and sits in the driver’s seat of her car for a moment, wiping up the
blood pooling against her lip. The rain is starting again, and the sound is a comfort. She
wonders, in the clarity of the moment, whether the rational conclusion to all this is that
she’s going insane. It strikes a bitter note, but poetic, too. The sound of a prayer. Plagal
cadence.
She isn’t one for twiddling her thumbs, in a figurative sense – except when she’s losing
her grip – then it’s all she can do. She stays in bed, because she really is sick. She’s
becoming ill with the strain of it all; holding onto memories and swimming against that
vicious tide.
She’s checked, and all the facts that reality has to offer are telling her she’s wrong. She
searches the names of the murder victims. Both are missing, but no bodies were found.
Both of them were young men without much tying them down, no suspicious
circumstances surrounding their disappearances, so the conclusion the authorities came to
was sensible enough – that they’ll turn up sooner or later after travelling to some foreign
country and drinking their fill of adventure (expect they won’t, because their jaws were torn
apart and their bodies were frozen solid). The train crash still happened, and so did the
freak electrical accident in the operation booth of the construction site – but neither were
marked as suspicious. Neither earnt so much as a subheading in the papers. Grace still died
that night, but not at a construction site. She died at home. Aneurysm.
She checks out Ryan’s YouTube channel and, sure enough, even his tribute video has
changed. Now, instead of ‘dyin’ doin’ what she loved’ Grace ‘did what she loved right up
‘til the end;’ (helpin’ people). Everything she thought she knew is fading, even the experiences
that she thought tied her and her friends together. She reaches for blue wood, but it isn’t
there.
...
She takes the week off.

Her parents don’t mind – maybe they’re even a little relieved, because they’ve been
proven right. Yaz is suffering from burnout. She doesn’t tell them about the scene she
made at the station, but she accepts their care and their comforts. She doesn’t deserve
them, not when she’s being like this. Useless, likely insane. Sonya sees through some of it,
maybe more than Yaz gives her credit for. Luckily, Yaz has the fever to pin the blame on –
the blame for the lethargy, the indifference, the melancholy, (and no, Sonya, things aren’t
getting’ bad again. I’d tell you if they were, honest. I’m fine, really. Nothin’ wrong with me at all).
At noon on Friday, she gets a text from Ryan.
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Hey
Up for a drink tonight?
She thinks of ignoring him, but then she reasons that Ryan is probably the only person
who will listen to her. Whenever the shadow is near, Ryan is never far behind. They’re
connected; by that night, by blue wood, and by the shadow.
I’ve been pretty sick this week, haven’t even gone into work.
Aww mate, that sucks :( you feeling better today or nah?
I’ll come, pretty much over it now. Just got a fever.

Not gonna drink tho, obvs
I know, drink just means hang out

That’s the code
Right, for cool guys like you
Exactly
But yeah, we’re gonna go to this club in town, that all good with you?
Yeah, sounds great

What’s it called?
Bad Wolf Bar
He’s linked the location, so a photo comes up along with its average star rating. It looks
nice – a lot nicer than the pub, anyway. There are framed posters on the walls and a black
polished bar-top. It looks like the sort of place Sonya probably goes to. Even if Ryan
doesn’t believe her – what better place to accept your complete insanity than a nightclub,
where everyone else feels the same?
Looks well cool!
See u there at 9?
Yup, see ya!
Outside her flat, though the sky is dark, the blue in the alleyway still catches her eye. It
seems faded; royal blue to navy, teetering towards grey. In places, the paint is peeling. It’s
dying; sodden by the rain and turning to mulch just like the cardboard slush and garbage
slurry that surround it. She touches a hand to its surface.
“I know you’re in there,” she whispers – but whether it’s the shadow or the answer, she
isn’t sure.
95
...
The bar is difficult to find. She wouldn’t have found it at all if it wasn’t for the
interestingly-dressed youths trailing a path ahead of her. Bad Wolf Bar is tucked away
down an alleyway with only a small neon sign to mark its existence; ‘Bad Wolf’, written in
jagged, graffiti-style yellow lettering. Her hair is mostly down, with a simple braid running
its length, twisting from two strands to meet at the back of her head. She’s gone with a
black leather jacket and black jeans, which seems to fit the mood around here. Ryan isn’t
here yet, because to him 9 o’clock is a flexible window rather than a fixed time. There is
someone there, though. Joan.
She seems to have received the dress code, too. Yellow and black pleated tartan skirt
under a cropped black jacket. Her hair is windswept in a way that’s too beautiful to be
effortless, and it hangs around her slim shoulders in a shock of pale blonde.
“Yaz!” she exclaims, smile broad. Yaz likes her smile; it’s genuine, joyful. Electric. “I’m
so glad you’re here, Ryan said you might be comin’.” Her already-large eyes are accentuated
with dark shadow and eyeliner. She’s beautiful, and so, so familiar.
“Hey Joan,” she grins, and she can’t even find it in herself to be nervous. It feels like
they’ve known each other much longer than one night. “You look great.”
“Thanks, so do you,” a grin mimicked right back. Small talk. “So, wonder when Ryan’s
gonna turn up.”
“Whenever he feels like it, knowin’ him.” She isn’t feeling bold enough yet to ask about
the kiss. In fact, she hasn’t thought about it all week. She’s had other things on her mind,
what, with time collapsing in on her. Joan, and everything she seems to represent to Yaz –
a breath of fresh air, a drawn silence in the mundanity track – seems too good to be true.
When she shuts her eyes, or lets her mind wander, it’s like Joan and her sunshine smile isn’t
there at all; particle to wave, particle to wave – and she remembers someone explaining all
that in a way that was much more exciting than the way her physics teacher had. Quantum
state.
“Heard you were sick. Is it catchin’?” Joan’s voice is bright, smudged. It dulls the edges
of her thoughts.
“No, I’m all over it now,” she says, truthfully. For the first time all week it feels like
some of the pieces of herself are knitting back together into something she can understand.
Something linear – dull, but familiar. It’s a breathable atmosphere.
“Good, because we are so dancin’ tonight.”
Yaz smiles, throat suddenly too dry to speak. Fortunately, Ryan turns up to save her
from having to answer.
“Hey guys,” he grins. He wiggles his eyebrows in what he evidently thinks is a
suggestive manner. Yaz is glad that he’s rooting for them, but wishes he’d be a bit more
subtle about it. “Ben and Ian are already inside, Zoe too – you haven’t met her, Yaz, but I
think you’ll like her. Harry had to go into work tonight, so it’ll just be us six.”
“Alright then,” says Joan. “After you, Yaz,” she steps aside and ushers her forwards.
96
The bar is nice enough. It seems like the sort of place young adults are supposed to
spend their Friday nights; dark corners and strobe lights, oversized speakers and the smell
of spirits in the air. There’s already a DJ diligently blasting his music through the speakers
and dancing with a seemingly impossible amount of energy.
“Up for a soft drink again?” Joan asks, voice strained to rise above the general hum;
chattering voices, shouted orders, music, and the shuffling of feet.
“Sounds great,” she grins, glad that Joan isn’t pressing her into anything. People are
usually cooler about it than what her parents made her believe when she was younger.
“Great,” she smiles. Her expression is always so animated; every tendon tugging up
together to spell out something new. “Come on then Yaz, let’s get a shift on!” She grabs
Yaz’s wrist and pulls her along towards the bar, and the phrase hangs tangible in the air. It
feels warm.
She goes for a Sprite. Sure, they’ve got a heap of fancier non-alcoholic stuff that’s
supposed to taste like the real thing, but there are way too many options to consider right
now, especially when she’s still recovering from a week of the world not making sense. It
makes more sense now though. Joan is all nonsense, in the loud way she talks and the way
she’s always grabbing onto her and tripping into things, but it’s sense she inspires all the
same. She feels stable. Familiar.
Joan gets a vodka and cherry, because it’s the sugariest thing they’ve got – mostly
cherry, because the bar’s sellin’ ‘em cheap because they’re cheap bastards, according to
Joan. The sugar gives her a bit of a kick, but it’s probably just Joan and that sunshine haze
around her that’s making her smile. Joan asks her about her week, and Yaz about hers.
Joan works in a cafe in the city. She doesn’t like it all that much but it’s nice to meet new
people, even if they’re rude quite a bit. She’s not really sure what she’s doing with her life
or anything, but she stays in an apartment with a few mates and she makes do. She wants
to go travelling, once she saves up the cash. It’s nice for Yaz, just to hear something
normal, to think about something that isn’t a train or a warehouse or a construction site –
or a mansion both full and devoid of spiders. Gaps in her memory hastily filled in like
cheaply-fixed potholes.
They have another drink before heading to the dancefloor. Yaz gets water, because the
sugar’s a bit much, though Joan can’t seem to get enough of it. She tells Yaz she takes her
tea with five sugars at least, to which she replies with a suitable amount of outrage. After
that, with Yaz’s teeth throbbing in the chill of icy water, Joan pulls her onto the dancefloor.
They’re playing a song Yaz has heard before – something they’re constantly playing on that
station Sonya listens to when she wrangles control of the car radio.
“We have to dance to this Yaz!” Joan cries, whirling along, dodging people with an
expert, haphazard grace. She pulls Yaz right into the centre of the fray, and though Yaz is
shy at first, Joan has no such issues. She’s a ridiculous dancer – laughably bad, but in a way
that’s endearing instead of monstrous. Her skirt flits around her thighs as she sways her
legs around energetically and holds Yaz’s wrists as she does. Yaz laughs.
“What?” Joan cries, eyes bright and smile brighter.
“You’re terrible!” Yaz cackles. She doubles down further at the sight of Joan’s outraged
expression; mouth agape in an O.
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“Let’s see you try, Officer Khan, you’re just standin’ there, give it a go.” The words are
garbled under the music.
So, she does. Not with Joan’s level of enthusiasm – not at first, anyway. She begins with
the basic-est of basic moves; slight hip sway, slight feet movement side to side – but Joan
quickly rolls her eyes and grabs Yaz by the wrist. She practically pushes her arms side to
side, making her move more exaggeratedly. She begins to get the hang of it; pushing a hand
through her long hair and tossing it back. It seems to have a lot to do with hair; the
dancing. Joan keeps grabbing hers and tossing it about, ruffling it up into golden static.
Yellow.
They keep on dancing; getting lower, a bit wilder, smiling wider, too. The music beats
out generic tunes, easily anticipated phrases; a pause, and the beat lands exactly where you
expect, building to just the right burst of energetic sound. It makes it better to dance to,
knowing what comes next, its formulaic nature. It’s different to the predictability of the
mundanity track; drumming ostinato and heavy beats. Four chords. Different again to the
new song, the warped song. No polyphonic chaos; melodies scraping dissonance against
one another as she struggles to keep up with the pace. This feels right; it fills the hole
where the shadow stirs, and flows rivulets through the grooves dug through her memories,
the extra timelines running alongside and crossing over. All paths lead to Joan, at the centre
of it all, like the ocean. She isn’t sure why that is, but she doesn’t care. She should probably
care – she should at least be curious, because she’s inquisitive, she’s PC Khan – but all of
that strain, that determination, it falls away at the sight ahead.
She’s smiling and her eyes are flicking down, thin wrists raised up above her head and
hanging jagged as she moves up and down. She’s glad that Ryan’s leaving them alone; had
she wanted him for something? A conversation, an important conversation… Joan wets
her lips a little and once again runs her fingers through her hair and tosses it from a face
becoming sweat-stained and shiny under the neon lights.
She puts a hand on Yaz’s waist, and she feels her heart flutter. Yaz looks up to find
Joan’s eyes already trained on hers; brown, but catching the white flashing lights so they
shine gold, maybe even (yellow). Yaz doesn’t back away, but she doesn’t move either. A
smile pulls at the corner of Joan’s mouth, collapsing outwards into that contagious grin.
She catches it, that grin, and pulls in a little closer. Joan leans in too, just slightly, but Yaz is
starting to feel it again; that wrongness. Standing on black ice, cracking, time falling in. She
can hear something, too, like the sound of a knife edge against ceramic and bones pressing
up beneath skin. She’s heard it before, but she thinks she would remember. She would
remember hearing something like that.
“Yaz?” Joan asks, or mouths, rather, because the sound is too soft to penetrate both the
music, the voices, and the noise that’s building inside her head.
“I’m okay, I am, I’m just…” she steps back, and they unhook themselves. “I’m sorry,”
she mutters, impossible to hear, and barges her way out of the crowd. She has to find Ryan;
suddenly, that fact is very important. She needs to talk to Ryan, because he’s the only one
who’ll understand. Isn’t that the whole reason she came here in the first place? She feels
bad about leaving Joan, but she doesn’t look back. Even if she did, the amassing crowd
would make it impossible to see her. She’s overcome with a stranger notion; if she looked
back, would Joan be there at all? Quantum state.
98
She realises that the crowds will make it impossible to find Ryan as well, but fortunately
he isn’t one for dancing. He’s sitting in a booth in the far corner with Ian and one of the
other guys from the bar last week – Ben, along with a girl who must be Zoe. The latter two
are sharing a large cocktail adorned with lemon wedges and striped straws, while Ryan and
Ian are engaged in an animated conversation in gruff voices – all hunched-backs and
spread legs. She’d pay him out about it if she wasn’t in such a panic.
“Ryan!” she calls, straining over the sound. He looks up as she approaches and scoots
his way out from the booth.
“Yaz, are you okay?” he asks, gruffness gone, replaced with concern. “Are you feelin’
sick again.”
“No, no. I’m okay, really, I just need to talk to you.” He looks confused for a moment
so she adds, “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, I really need to ask you somethin’. Do
you reckon we could go outside?”
“There’s a rooftop bar” he suggests, still looking sceptical. Yaz nods in agreement and
Ryan takes the lead, seeming nervous. It’s nothing to the nerves Yaz is feeling – she doesn’t
even know what she’s going to say. (Hey Ryan, mate, have you noticed time collapsin’ around you
and leavin’ great big holes in your memories that are gettin’ so big you feel like your mind is more empty
than it is full. Do you feel like it’s eatin’ you, Ryan? Because I do).
Upstairs, the fresh, biting air cuts cold relief. It’s still busy up here; bodies clad in black
jeans and short skirts and buttoned shirts, all smelling like sweat and alcohol. She leads
Ryan over to an empty space along the balcony and looks out over the city. She knows if
she meets his eyes she’ll only be met with concern, maybe pity as well. She doesn’t like
those looks, and she’s been getting them more and more lately. She folds her arms, one on
top of the other, resting them against the cool metal railing. She stays silent, because where
can she possibly begin? She’s scared he’ll tell her she’s crazy, or worse, time will write over
him too, and anything she tries to reach him will be whited out like a mistake in a
perfectionist’s notebook. Worse, still; what if the white out just keeps on running? What if
time writes her out too, just like it’s written out the jagged shadow and the golden lights?
“Yaz, there’s something up with you, isn’t there,” he broaches it gently, but it isn’t really
a question. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps on staring, building courage. “I noticed, last
Saturday, I mean. I should’ve called earlier but I didn’t. I don’t know, I guess I just put it
off. I’m sorry.” She’d stayed, after the incident with Graham – the incident he’d forgotten.
She was drained, though. Sullen, confused, quiet. She had been afraid to ask any more
questions in case they opened more doors in her head to impossible things. She felt like a
kid, then, a kid in a room full of china told not to touch a single thing – afraid the tiniest
movement would send everything shattering to the floor. She was thinking about the
shadow as well, trying to trace out the shape of it in her mind. She kept trying all week
long, and this week too. No closer. “Graham’s worried about you too, you know,” Ryan
adds, and he puts a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“I know, and I’m sorry to worry you. I’m okay, really. I just… Look, Ryan, this is all
goin’ to sound really crazy, but you have to believe me. Or at least,” she sighs, “at least just
listen, yeah?”
“’Course I will,” he murmurs, voice low. “Whatever you need – and you’re not crazy,
okay. Just for the record.”
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“Thanks,” she smiles, still staring out at the surrounding buildings; their lights and
windows sprawling out underneath the canopy of stars. “I just keep thinking about that
night, the night when…” she trails off, because what really happened on that night, to him?
She tries to flick through the timelines like the pages of a book, find the one that’s solid.
“The night when,” she swallows, “your Nan died.”
“Yaz – I –” he stammers.
“I’m sorry, I know, but please – do you remember? Can you tell me?”
“’Course I remember, it was one of the worst nights of my life.” He isn’t stony – Ryan
doesn’t exactly go cold, not to Yaz. He tightens, and draws everything a little closer. “Well,
we were in the sitting room, I was just scrollin’ through my phone because it was havin’
some sorta malfunction, and –”
“Before that,” Yaz prompts. Ryan masks his confusion, his exasperation, but a little too
late. Luckily for her, he’s persistent in his kindness, wants to get to the bottom of this. He
wants to help her, and she really hopes he can.
“Err, the train broke down,” he recalls, not without difficulty. More to do with grief
than the memory being hazy. “Nan called to let me know they were stuck, that it’d be a
while before substitute buses got there – but you had your police car, so I went with you
and we picked them up.”
“Why was I with you?”
“Yaz,” he says, strained, “can’t you just tell me what this is about? I know you’ve been
really stressin’ about work lately, and I –”
“This isn’t about that –”
“What is it about, then?” he asks, a bit waspish. A bit impatient. Sand in the hourglass;
running, running. “Because I want to help, I really do, but you have to tell me how, or at
least let me try.”
“You saw this weird pod in the forest,” she pushes again. If she keeps the momentum
going maybe she’ll be able to make it through without everything getting mixed up.
“Yeah, it was just a prank or somethin’,” he shrugs, suppressing a sigh. “A good one,
must’ve put dry ice inside or somethin’, and it was painted real well. I didn’t do it though,”
he puts his hands up in mock surrender, trying to lighten the mood. “I know you probably
still don’t believe me, but I’m proper gullible. No need to go on about it, it’s embrassin’
enough.” He tries for a smile, but her expression is sombre, pinched and thin.
“It wasn’t a prank, though, it can’t have been…” things are fraying again, so she tries to
right herself. “And Grace?” at his strained expression she presses, “I’m sorry Ryan, but I
need to know. It’s like my memory’s all wrong, everythin’s muddled and I’m rememberin’
things that can’t have happened, but they did. I know they did.”
“Well,” he begins, alarmed, but glad to be getting somewhere, “like I said I was just
sittin’ there in the lounge. We’d been home for a few hours and Graham was watchin’
reruns on TV and Nan was asleep. That’s why we didn’t notice it at first, but the thing is,
she snores like crazy, usually, so, err,” he presses his eyes shut for a moment. “Yeah, that’s
what was different, that’s what got our attention, the quiet. A blood vessel ruptured
somewhere in her head and she was gone in a moment. I don’t even know exactly when
that moment was… I wasn’t even payin’ attention.” His turn to stare off into space. Two
sudden and uncontrollable accidents to the two most important people in his life. It’s
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worse, in a way, than the events that Yaz remembers. Worse for him. “What does this have
to do with her, anyway?”
“I remember her falling,” says Yaz, throat dry. “From a crane, she fell because she was
electrocuted. I remember a whole different night running parallel to that one, more than
just two, it’s like there’s a thousand, maybe infinite nights running alongside.” She pictures
them now, thin as gossamer strands, and impossibly tangled.
“And what happened,” Ryan asks, keeping scepticism at bay, “on those other nights?”
“Lots of things,” she murmurs, casting her mind back to a past desperate to evade her.
“There was a warehouse and a construction site and a crane. There were murders, and a
creature that was ice cold. In the middle of all of it there was this shadow, and it’s still there
I just can’t… I can’t describe it.”
“A shadow?”
“Yeah, like a person, I think, except not really like a person at all.”
“Umm, okay,” he says, clearly confused. Not nearly as confused as she is.
“But you were there, and Graham too. There’s something connectin’ us.”
“What do you mean, connectin’? Like destiny or somethin’?” he stops himself from
scoffing outright, but the sentiment is clear.
“No, not really. I mean, why are we all friends, think about it, really – why do we hang
out every Saturday?”
“Because we enjoy each other’s company?” he shrugs. “I don’t know, does there have to
be a reason?’
“But it’s weird, you have to admit. I drive you down to the train line to pick up your
grandparents one night” – because that’s the strand that sits prominent now, untangled and
above the rest, the one that reality has decided to favour – “and then I spend the next few
days hanging out with you, and then every Saturday after that?” Never mind the gaps in
between – whole months of her life she feels like she’s missed. She remembers grappling
with Sunders for secondment approval, only she’s never taken a secondment in her life.
“Well, what are you suggestin’ happened?”
“We were friends in primary school, never spoke since we were little kids, and all of a
sudden I’m best mates with your granddad? What do we even talk about, Ryan? I can’t
remember a single conversation we’ve had when I’ve gone for tea. I spend hours there
every week, but last week was the only time that any of it felt real. All the times before that
just feel… empty.”
“We talk about… Well, I don’t know, just life stuff. Regular stuff.”
Again, she swallows, and comes out with the truth; to herself as well as to Ryan. “I don’t
think any of it really happened.”
“What? Yaz –”
“No, no, think about it –” she puts on her PC Khan voice again. It’s logical. It’s calm
and trustworthy. She’s a rational sort of person. “– what did we do? You can’t tell me you
can actually remember what we did. We were somewhere else, but it’s all blank, and it’s all
got to do with that shadow.”
“The shadow that’s a person but also, err... isn’t?”
“I know you don’t believe me,” she says, testing.
“No, I do, I just –”
“No,” Yaz interrupts, final. “You don’t.”
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He exhales, breath a visible mist in the night. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know. A
shadow? What does that even mean, Yaz?”
“I know,” she sighs, “I know. I just don’t know how else to describe it.”
“You sure you aren’t ill? Not on any medication for that fever or nothin’?”
“No. Just don’t, okay. I’m not sick, not like that.”
“Okay,” he says, gentle. “I’m sorry.”
“I went to the station on the weekend, before I came ‘round to yours,” she begins,
gauging his reaction. He just seems tired. Sad, too, and pitying. “I was looking through the
classified case files for that night.”
“But Yaz, nothin’ happened that night –”
“Yes, it did. That night was when it all started branching off, that’s when the holes
started appearin’.” she exclaims. “I checked the files on Saturday; five deaths were listed
and none of them were properly solved. They were all listed as being taken over by
something called UNIT, but the organisation doesn’t even exist.”
“What deaths?”
“That’s just the thing; come Monday when I go into work, my boss is in the middle of
lecturin’ me about sneaking looks at classified info. When I questioned him, it was like time
rewrote itself around me. I checked, and the case files weren’t there anymore. None of
those people died officially, not the suspicious ones, anyway. Just Grace, the train driver,
and a construction site operations manager. Time is repairin’ itself around me every time I
try to remember somethin’ that contradicts anythin’ else, and it’s gettin’ worse.”
“It sounds like you’re seein’ into parallel universes or somethin’,” Ryan offers with a
nervous chuckle. “Sounds proper sci-fi.”
She lets out a laugh that’s a little too shrill. “Yeah, I know right?”
“It’s just that, Yaz – and don’t take this the wrong way or nothin’ – but, err,” he’s clearly
afraid to go on, and Yaz raises a dark eyebrow as if to dare him. “You get a bit, err, caught
up in things… sometimes.”
“What do you mean?” she says; cold, bracing.
“I just mean, you get bored. Haven’t you always said you want to be doin’ somethin’
more – that handin’ out parkin’ tickets and tellin’ teenagers to turn down their music is
drivin’ you up the wall?”
“You’re suggestin’ that bein’ a fed has driven me crazy?”
“No, just that you’ve always loved an adventure. The way you throw yourself at
everythin’ – at cases, workouts, whatever it is – it’s like you’re desperate to –”
“Desperate?” she repeats, anger rising.
“Ok, not desperate, just… don’t you think this could be stress or somethin’? I mean, I’d
love to believe you’re seeing across multiverses and bein’ stalked by a shadow but it all just
seems so… I don’t know...”
“Look Ryan, it’s not like I come up with these wild stories all the time – this is really
happenin’, I’m not some conspiracy nut. You’re the one who’s all over those conspiracy
theories and the mandela affect or whatever it’s called, not me.”
“What, and you think that stuff’s real now?”
“No!” she cries. They’re facing each other now. She can’t remember the last row they
had – probably over a crayon or something when they were five.
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“Look, all I meant is that suddenly there’s this great big case that only you can solve.
You’re restless, I know because… so am I. After Grace, and still now, all I’ve been wantin’
to do is get out. I’ve been goin’ out more than I used to. Stayin’ out later, you know, gettin’
hammered, and you… well maybe you’ve got this so stop yourself goin’ stir-crazy, or
maybe you just need help. You know, I saw someone after me Mum went. I hated it, you
know, because I was a fourteen year-old boy, but –”
“Ryan, please,” she sighs, “I’m not doin’ this for attention.” Anger fading, reining in
hurt. She really thought he would believe her. It doesn’t seem like him to dismiss it. The
Ryan Sinclair she knows would have been right on board with multiple timelines and
murders that never happened. It’s almost like he’s being rewritten too. She feels tears sting
her eyes, and hates herself for it. He isn’t being cruel, not deliberately. He’s being kind,
being rational. He’s being the sort of friend he thinks she wants, being like her. Not the kid
from Redlands anymore; the one who used to make up wild stories and build the most
incredible, ridiculous machines out of popsicles and cardboard.
“Yaz, I’m really sorry. Would you like me to give you a lift, or I could call a cab?”
“No,” she sniffs, and the tears stop coming. “I’m fine.” She swallows, and gazes
resolutely into the night.
“I want to believe you, I do. Maybe if you could explain a little more?”
She smiles thinly. “It won’t get any easier to believe,” she warns him. “There’s this box,
a blue police box, its outside Park Hill in an alleyway by the carpark.” He nods, and doesn’t
interrupt. “It has somethin’ to do with this as well. I think that whatever’s missing from my
memories is in there, or the answers in there. It just appeared there last Saturday, and that’s
when everything really started to get weird.”
“Could you show it to me?” he asks, curiosity creeping in. It’s that curiosity that he was
trying to hide before, when he was attempting to be rational. He’s still the same
underneath; pulled in by stories. Gullible, too, and maybe that’s why he was afraid of
believing her. “Maybe if I saw it, I might remember somethin’ too. It could be
somethin’…” she can tell that he’s staying away from the words ‘paranormal’, or ‘alien’ –
mostly because of the reaction he’s come to expect from her when he mentions anything
of the sort. To be honest, even being the self-identified rational sort – Yaz is beginning to
expect something of that calibre to be behind all this. She feels that maybe, finally, she
might be onto something.
“Yaz?” Another voice. The sound shocks her so much that she stumbles back into a
barstool, and the pressure of the metal pushes against the un-healing bruise still lingering
there. Electricity shoots up her spine, gold and crackling, and beneath it all, somehow, blue.
She thinks she might have just discovered something important – but all of it melts away in
front of –
“Joan,” Yaz smiles, surprised. She steadies herself.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, eyes flicking between Ryan and Yaz, and her barely
disguised tears.
“It’s okay, you’re not interruptin’ anythin’ really,” Yaz answers. Quite suddenly, her
voice is bright again, stomach nausea-free.
“It’s just that, I thought you might be feelin’ unwell,” Joan explains, looking a little
nervous, “you know, because you were feelin’ sick this week. I wanted to make sure you
were okay, thought you might’ve been gettin’ some air.”
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“I was feelin’ a little unsteady, but I’m alright now,” Yaz smiles. She can’t take her eyes
off the other girl. Her hair is still messy from all the trials she’d been putting it through on
the dancefloor. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s holding her leather jacket tight around
her waist.
“Well, would you like to come back downstairs?” she asks. Her hope is thinly veiled, a
little desperate.
Yaz grins in reply. “Yeah, I’d like that, actually. I’d like that a lot.”
“Cool if I take her off your hands, then, Ryan?” Joan looks up at him with a
mischievous look.
“Err, yeah,” he says, seeming a bit confused. “But Yaz, weren’t you gonna tell me about
–”
“Later,” she chirps, as she leads Joan back through the crowd, feeling suddenly settled.
Steady; feeling like it doesn’t matter if anyone believes her, or if she ever gets to the bottom
of this mystery. It isn’t like her; being content to leave loose ends hanging – but dancing
with a beautiful girl in a club isn’t exactly like her either.
Joan gets shots, and makes Yaz put her water in a shot glass just so she can knock it
back like she’s having one too. Yaz manages not to spill any on herself, whereas Joan
manages to spill hers just about everywhere. The beginnings of tears quickly dry on her
cheeks as Yaz makes her way back towards the dancefloor.
It isn’t long before both of them give in; partaking in that partner’s dance of one
moving in, then the next, then the next – a little bolder every time. Faster, now, because
Yaz is the one who’s forward-thinking, who’s taking the lead. It feels right. Joan fits the
shape of what’s missing so well that it might have instilled an uncanny sense of dread
within her if the joy of the act wasn’t drowning it out.
Soon enough they’re hooked together, bodies buffeting them back and forth all around
like wind-currents. The music still bangs out that good kind of predictable, the kind that
makes you feel both in control and spiralling out of it at the same time. Yaz leans in first,
and Joan closes the gap; their lips pressing together. Hands through her hair that aren’t her
own, down her back, around her waist.
Joan leans in and whispers in her ear, starry eyes and loose lips. “Wanna come ‘round to
mine later?”
And Yaz, blue box pushed far from her mind, answers, “yes.”
They catch a cab back to Joan’s flat. It’s not far from Yaz’s own apartment complex,
which is almost too convenient. The building is cluttered – the lives of five young
roommates crammed into a small living space. The others stay out of their way. Yaz
doesn’t see anyone else.
Joan asks her if she’d like a glass of water or a snack, but Yaz declines. She doesn’t really
want to draw this out too long, doesn’t want to have to deal with the in-between moments
when her mind begins to wander and the limerence of the situation starts to fade to a dull
anxiety. There’s a still moment there where they regard each other with eyes turned down,
gazes flickering, smiles drawing out the silence, which Joan is the first to break.
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“Do you want to, err,” she breaks off, thinks on it, then charges forth – speaking rapidly
to get it over with. “Do you want to go to my room?”
It’s cluttered – messy in a way that’s cosy rather than repugnant. The bedsheets are a
shade of burnt gold; vibrant with red and blue hexagonal designs. It reminds her of
something (old, new, borrowed, blue) but Joan is smiling so widely that she doesn’t think any
more on it.
“Just gotta tidy up a bit,” she grins, shy. She ducks to the ground and starts yanking
clothes off the floor in a frenzy and throwing them into her open wardrobe. There’s a
variety of articles littering the floor; a long coat stained sky blue, a tweed jacket, a striped
scarf. It seems as if this girl picks her clothes by waltzing into a charity shop and picking
things off the hangers at random.
Joan shrugs off her jacket and sits on the bed, rustling with a half-finished packet of
custard creams she has sitting out on the dresser. Yaz doges the piles of clothes and sits
down beside her – not close enough to touch, not yet. There’s a model sitting on the
dresser; a pale blue rectangular sculpture of – and she recognises the shape with a pang – a
police box. Before Yaz can ask about it, there’s a hand grasping her arm, and a voice in her
ear saying; “sorry ‘bout the mess, Yaz.” The sound snaps her back to attention, out of
fantasy. She shadows are filled in and the gaps in her mind have closed over. The golden
light is shut out; sun in an eclipse. (Yaz, because we’re friends now).
“I don’t mind,” she grins, so bright her muscles strain with it. Joan reaches over and
grabs her other hand, guiding Yaz around to face her.
“Look, Yaz,” she says, and suddenly her smile is serious. It’s genuine, not playful. She
feels her heart jump up to her throat as she stares into those eyes (something new). “I know
I’ve only known you for a week or so but you’re, like, the best person I’ve ever met.” The
words bubble over as her smile bubbles out, quivering lips to a quivering grin. The words
feel like an echo (I want more).
“I feel the same,” Yaz whispers, leaning in. That’s all it takes, because soon they’re
sinking back into the covers, heavy bodies melting in.
Later, they’re entwined in each other, breaths coming hot from flushed cheeks, bodies
pressed together and heartbeats synchronised – humming out the soft beats of a song. The
same song. Misery. She’s with her, and it should feel like heaven but it just feels like misery.
Joan is curled up; small, pale limbs tangled together. Yaz has an arm draped over her softly
breathing form, and Joan trails her fingers through Yaz’s hair in a comforting, repeated
movement. It’s in this lull that the terrifying happens; her thoughts begin to wander,
because Joan reminds her of someone, and that’s why she feels so miserable, because it’s so
close to being right but it isn’t.
The person she’s searching for, the shadow that Joan fits the shape of but isn’t
anywhere near large enough to fill, she would never be with her, not like this. She’s a
monster, a mystery, not a girl. Not just a girl. And Yaz used to call her –
“Doctor,” she whispers, and it feels as if a lightbulb has just flicked on. Clarity.
“Ok,” Joan murmurs, a smirk on her lips, “that’s gotta be the weirdest you could’ve said
right now.”
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“It’s the Doctor,” she gasps, sitting up, untangling her body from Joan’s in a sharp twist.
She jumps to her feet and starts snatching her clothes up from their places strewn around
the room.
“Yaz!” she cries, exasperation and annoyance creeping into her tone. That playful haze
is gone, broken. “What – what are you doing?”
“The shadow, the one I’ve been seein’ in my dreams,” she mutters, voice coming too
fast for her breaths to catch up, so that her words come out strained and thin. “The one
that I can remember but no one else can, I remember its name. She’s called the Doctor.”
“Yaz you’re makin’ no sense, are you sure you’re okay?”
“No,” she laughs, and it’s a little hysterical. “No, I’m not sure at all. I think I’m very,
very not well, actually – but now I know why. I forgot the Doctor, I don’t know exactly
who she is or what we did, but we travelled – me and Ryan and Graham – we travelled
with her every Saturday. All those secondments, the blank months, I know where they’ve
gone!”
“Wait, Ryan?” Joan asks, trying, to her credit, to keep up with Yaz’s rambling. “What’s
he got to do with this?”
“Everythin’,” she grins, despite herself, and the madness she’s feeling. She struggles
back into her clothes and hurriedly laces her boots – only just tight enough so that they’ll
stay on. “Because we all forgot her, and I still don’t really remember who she was or why
we were friends, but we were and…”
“And what, Yaz? Come on, this is just silly. It doesn’t make sense.”
“And she’s in trouble,” Yaz breathes, eyes going wide. “I need to help her!” In a split
second, Yaz is dashing out the door and back through Joan’s cluttered apartment to the
front door.
“Yaz!” Joan cries out from behind her. Yaz can hear her scuffling around in the
bedroom to find her own clothes and follow her, but Yaz doesn’t have time to wait. The
Doctor needs her. She doesn’t remember why, but she knows one thing; when people need
help, she’ll never refuse.
She takes the steps down to the street two at a time, sweat brewing beneath leather, a
hot contrast to the biting night air. Feet hitting the asphalt, she runs. Lucky that her
apartment is so close to Joan’s – except that she doesn’t believe in coincidences. Except
that, the moment Joan’s shouts into the night fade into silence, Yaz is sure that they never
sounded at all. The pavement is slick and silver with rain, street-lamps casting her in
orange, watery light. She dashes through it, a shadow across the night like the shadow
that’s been streaking through her memories for weeks.
She makes for the alleyway where she knows she’ll find it. Pandora’s box; blue wood
and golden lights and the yellow spirals that snake up her spine from a bruise on her back.
Answers. She sees it looming ahead, seeming to shine under the moonlight. She’s running
so fast that she can’t stop herself in time, and she skids right into its surface, hands banging
into the wood, filling her with comfort. It feels like there’s a piece of her inside the box,
reaching, crying out. She tries the door, but it doesn’t open.
“No, no, no, no!” she cries, banging her fists against the police box. “You have to open.
I’ve figured it out! Doctor!” she screams it, like a password. “She’s called the Doctor, and
she needs help!” To her dismay, the box seems to be falling apart. The paint is peeled and
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cracked away to reveal sodden, dark wood underneath. The colour itself is now a muted
grey. It’s decaying so fast it’s as if it’s accelerated beyond time.
She hangs her head, hand still held against the door of the police box. ‘Pull to open’ it
says, but nothing she does works. “I know what you are,” she whispers, pressing her face
against blue wood, tears against rain. She chants it; “I know what you are.” Time fluxuates,
but she can’t tell if it’s getting faster or slower. She feels it, sees it in a way she never has
before – in a way she suspects no one has before. It’s tangible, and it’s twisted around her
like ivy, digging in its thorns. Her phone rumbles in her pocket, and she pulls it out. No
such thing as coincidences, and right now he’s just the person she needs.
“Yaz!” Ryan’s voice calls from the other end of the line; panicked, urgent. “Yaz, are you
okay? Joan’s just called me, she says you freaked out and ran off down the street.” And she
remembers the existence of a girl who isn’t a girl, but a pale imitation of something more.
“Ryan, you need to come here now. I’m in the alleyway next to Park Hill, by the
carpark. I’ve remembered somethin’ important. It’s the Doctor, she needs us!”
“Who? Look, just wait there, I’m comin’, okay. Just promise me you’ll stay there.” She
doesn’t answer for a moment, so he says, sharper this time “Yaz!”
“Okay, I promise. I promise.” he seems satisfied with that, and hangs up. A memory
stirs that isn’t her own; something about a promise, something very important. Something
concerning running and laughing and Pakistani cuisine in space. Her head is burning. “I
can’t…” she trails off, because she’s having a hard time stringing a sentence together –
she’s having a hard time stringing her very timeline together; it’s all frayed ends and
coloured in hues she isn’t supposed to be able to see.
All of it reaches a crescendo; beyond beauty, beyond mundanity. A tremolo bowing,
brass booming, wind trilling symphony. It ends, and instead of applause, she hears the
building noise memories that aren’t her own, unfamiliar movements and unfamiliar
instincts. She latches onto them.
She raises her arm and snaps her fingers; the sound sharp in the silence. The doors fold
inwards with a creak. Darkness, as she had expected, but not a square metre of sodden
wood – an entire chamber. She walks, letting the dull golden lights inside her guide the
way. The floor clangs metallic beneath her boots. A great cold washes over her as she
enters, and a sadness. It’s dying; decaying inside and out. She thought there would be
answers – but there’s no one here – only the burning of her head and the golden lights,
shifting from dream to reality. Memories and premonitions.
Something is reaching out to her; an echo of the past, a call from the future.
Danger-dying-YasminKhan-youbrilliantgirl.
Drowning it all it the light, so bright she thinks she might never see again. Yaz weaves
her way through overarching pillars of ridged crystal, moving towards the centre. It almost
looks like a control panel, one that’s exceedingly disorganised, constructed with all manner
of junk and unrelated items. Extending from the middle of the console is a crystalline
cylinder; empty and cold. She places a hand against it and opens her eyes, letting the light
free. It spills out in tendrils of spiralling motes, eyes swimming with gold. It resounds
throughout her being; swirling up and down her spine, through every vein like an electric
current. Encore.
All around her, the ship shudders to life, light spreading from her to it, a message she’s
been keeping all this time. She was always heading for this, ever since she was thrown back
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into this console just as the machine’s soul was drained out. A part of her has been inside
this box, or rather, a part of the box has been inside of her – escaped rather than being
siphoned off and destroyed – but now she’s home. Now, she’s alive.
Abigword-soverysad.
Bulbs shift up and down like lungs heaving breaths within the crystal. It glows yellow as
the light spreads throughout the ship, throughout the TARDIS. She looks up in delight as
the pillars begin glow like amber, round lights blaring blue and orange; hexagonal patterns
outlined in deep russet fading into life against the walls. She laughs, and for the first time in
a while the sound isn’t shrill and hysterical – it’s warm. It’s joyous.
“Doctor,” she tries the word out, seeing if it means anything more than it did a moment
before. Her memories still aren’t back, but it doesn’t matter. She’s going to find the
Doctor, and the TARDIS is going to take her there.
A wheezing sound erupts – a sound that might have been annoying to anyone who
didn’t know what it meant. She grips one of the amber pillars and smiles as the TARDIS
begins to disembark – until the crystal fades to a weak, transparent yellow, and her face
falls flat.
“No, no don’t leave me here!” she cries, moving to the console. She begins flicking
switches and pushing buttons at random. “Please don’t leave, I need to find the Doctor!
She has the answers, I know she does. I can’t stay here. I can’t keep going on like this!”
The ship doesn’t listen, just chirps out a series of disgruntled whirrs and beeps at Yaz’s
incessant fiddling with the controls. She can still feel its sentience, its emotion. Soon it will
fade away, all of it; the golden light and the blue box and the shadow called the Doctor.
She clings desperately to the memories as invisible hands try to snatch them away. Jagged
faces with blank expressions and blood-curdling stares.
Her pleading does no good, nor does her button-pressing, because her fingers are phasing
through the controls and hammering at mid-air. She feels the chill of the night outside
creeping in, flyaway papers swirling about her ankles in the wheezing winds.
“Doctor!” she tries again, one final scream into the dark. The shape of the word is
familiar, she’s screamed it so many times before, forgotten. Her throat tears. The ship is
gone; not even a hint of yellow around her, just the black and silver night. She sinks to her
knees.
She hears a car pull up, idling in the carpark behind her. She feels the headlamps sweep
across her back, and the gentle splash of settling water as heavy footsteps bound up
behind.
“Yaz,” Ryan says; gently, panting. He presses a steadying hand to her back. “What are
you doin’ here? The ground’s all wet. Lucky I don’t live far, eh?” He nudges her playfully,
kneeling beside her.
“It’s gone,” she whispers. Nothing but a rasp can pass through her ragged throat, and
Ryan pulls her closer, looking into her eyes with concern.
“What’s gone? Yaz, please just let me walk you home. You’ll probably feel better in the
mornin’.” He must think she’s drunk, or maybe he just thinks she’s mad. He might be right
about that.
“The TARDIS,” but even as she says it, she’s beginning to forget what it means. She
clings to the word like a lifeline.
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“What?” he sighs, pulling her to her feet with strong arms. Instinctively, Yaz reaches
back and presses a finger against the bruise on her back. It throbs, a little sweet, but there’s
no colour. Grey. Time is grey, too, just a stark grey line reaching forward into the dark.
Forever and ever; mundanity.
“Is she mad at me?” she’s really screwed things up with Joan, running off like a
madwoman. It hadn’t seemed important a moment ago, but it does now.
“Who?”
“Joan.”
“Err, Joan who?” He shakes his head, but he isn’t frustrated. Ryan is infinitely patient,
and infinitely kind. “Come on Yaz, let’s get you back home.”
But Yaz is already forgetting about the girl with the bright eyes and the joyful smile. She
isn’t real, and never was. She was just an echo of someone else; the Doctor. A memory
implanted second by second, constructing an experience, distracting her from the truth.
Important people could do that – a memory that isn’t her own tells her, as it fades – create
new beings, new timelines, new universes around them when their paths diverged from
that the imposed, the intended.
In a way, though, she was real. She was exactly what Yaz was looking for; the shadow,
but one that wasn’t impossible. One that was human. One who could love her back. (In the
end – the voice says, fading, always fading – what are any of us looking for? We’re looking for
someone who’s looking for us).
Despite the pull from something beyond her, from metal discs pressed against her skull
in a white room full of stolid, indifferent expressions, she remembers who she’s looking
for. She’s looking for the Doctor.
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OTHERSTIDEEVE
(and the flight of a young man and his granddaughter)
Once, they had thought themselves the only two on the planet bold enough to question
the suffocating ideals of Rassilon. How naive they were. There were questioners
everywhere; doubt was laced through the population’s psyche like a poison – but there was
also fear. Fear, loyalty, and the comfort of tradition. Duty – that was their life on Gallifrey
– from the first glance into the schism to the fourteenth and final rebirth in the cloisters,
because what was death but another life of duty, down in the dark?
There was a conversation, some years after Koschei’s lamentation on the forms of
madness, that changed everything. It was a conversation typical of two friends beginning to
grow apart. Growing up, but one faster than the other. It was Kosch, of course, because he
was always more mature, more focussed. He was the first to break their promise, made
under a black sky on a red hill deepened to magenta in the night. Every star. There might
have been a thousand secret friendships such as theirs across the planet, although they’d
definitely taken it farther than most with the Deca and all their idealistic blasphemy.
Definitely taken it further, with their borderline-blasphemic telepathic connection. A
thousand friendships, a thousand promises, all broken the same way. Fear. Duty. Growing
up. What, Theta thought, is the point in doing that.
(Do you really still believe all that? We’ve got a responsibility to the universe, and
besides, there’s no escaping it. (and in his mind, Theta, still a boy, had pleaded red-grass-
promise-wonder-every-star, but his friend had batted away his sentiment with impatience). We’re
not kids anymore, Theta, I can’t keep covering for you, and you have to stop pretending
like you’re going to just run off. Even if you did, they’d find you. I mean, face it, you’re
rubbish. You can’t even fly a TARDIS. How do you expect to be able to outrun the Time
Lords? (and he’d said that they could go together, with a healthy, transparently desperate
plea of belong-together-onlyonewhoever-red-grass-late-nights-I’myours). It’s time to grow up. I’m sorry
(connection cut, warding him off, and Theta couldn’t even plead anymore. Somewhere
deep, the creature felt sorry for him, and the terror of it was almost comforting)).
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Now, Koschei was an upstanding member of the standing-still society. He probably

wore important-looking robes and held his chin up, mouth taught, brow furrowed. Proper
Time Lord. Not him, because he had a reputation to uphold, and a secret to keep. Class
dunce. Very smart, for a class dunce, but also very good at staying hidden. Their rag-tag ten
of high school miscreants had all since gone their separate ways. Ushas, he heard, was also
doing something very important and very much above him– neurochemistry or some such
thing. That was the problem with moving up in the world, it also meant moving in. It
meant taking up the space they’d set out for you, and now more. It meant keeping your
head down, mouth shut, hands still. He didn’t fancy any of that.
He had a lot of interests, but no intention to specialise. He kept to himself for the most
part, because that was what the creature wanted, and he wholeheartedly agreed. He ponced
about the citadel, travelled across the planet, even – but after a while all the red began to
grate on his eyes. More colours in the universe, he would remind himself, than red and gold.
Eventually, he found himself back at the citadel, where all good things on Gallifrey were
tauted to flow. Rivers to the sea, lost in the expanse. He taught, for a time. He tried to
teach the children something real, and that made a lot of boring people very unhappy, so
he didn’t last long. He worked all over; did as much running around on his standing-still
planet as was Time-Lordly possible. He grew bored, and he wasn’t even through with one
of his thirteen long and boring lives. Going or staying? Running or resting? It was the
choice he’d been pondering ever since he was a boy who stared into time and saw
something worse than eternity within himself.
There were things in his short glimpse of life (relatively speaking) that gave him hope.
She was one of them. He met her when he was working as a guardian for one of the lesser
Great Houses, and from the moment he met her, she was brilliant. Only a child, just four
years old. She was slight; a shock of black hair, lightning blue eyes and lightning quick
mind. She called him Grandfather, because on Gallifrey, that title was earned, not through
blood, but through kindness. Duty. Even caring was a duty, here. Standing still and
preparing the next batch of bright-eyed children to be shoved in front of the schism and
scarred, hollowed out – and, if they were lucky, trapped in a glass-domed prison for the
rest of their mercilessly long lives.
He knew she wouldn’t last, living like that, because she was just like him – perhaps even
more like him than he was. Ideal. She was hopeful and bright. Nice and kind, fast and
funny. She wanted to see every star, too, and he thought she had enough compassion for
every one of them. He liked to imagine her, out there – a vicarious fantasy of laughing,
running, travelling. Just a traveller.
It wasn’t possible, but he could dream. He could believe. He’d been believing in
forbidden, impossible things since he was a lonely little boy in a barn, (impossible, and all
before breakfast).
She was sent to the academy – the child he was coming to regard as his granddaughter.
She’d do better than him, he expected, because she had no reason not to be extraordinary.
She was much better at concentrating, too. Sooner or later they’d quell that beautiful
curiosity of hers like a doused candle, they always did. He followed her. He wasn’t afraid to
admit to playing favourites. There was cynicism in him, even then, a sort of weary
anticipation for the moment they’d stamp the life out of her and turn her into another of
their perfect, upright prisoners. Just like Kosch, like Ushas – everyone he ever thought was
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on his side. Part of it would be satisfying, because it would prove that Koschei was right, all
those years ago, that the promise was just a story they told themselves because the world
was too cruel and the future too bleak (a grey line in the dark going ever forward, even
when their minds were capable of seeing in all that colour, that detail). They could be like
tapestries, but they were tiny. Pinpricks in the dark.
He watched out for her, because he had a duty of care.
They didn’t let him teach again, because he’d garnered a reputation, and honestly, if it
wasn’t for the fact that he was stone cold brilliant (when he wanted to be), he doubted
they’d have let him back into the citadel at all. He worked in the maintenance sector,
repairing broken TARDISes. He was never any good at piloting them, or communicating
with them, because the creature inside him was wary of getting too close to beings of a
consciousness similar to its own, that also happened to be under Time Lord control. He
was a decent mechanic, though, very good at building things. He felt at home in a pile of
scrap; grease on his fingers, oil on his brow, a pair of goggles strapped tight to his face.
He’d always been a little too creative to be considered a prodigious engineer – always
working outside the plans, never quite sure what he’d made but certain that he’d made
something.
Things were okay, for a while. He got to see her, and she him, and he felt hopeful. He
was just the caretaker – until, that was, he started dreaming of the war. Memories and
premonitions. All of it; a cycle. Round and round, though he was still too small to see it (a
pinprick in the dark). Where once he dreamed of a past that a creature inside him lived,
now he dreamed about a future that the creature couldn’t bear to witness. There was a
reason, then, a reason it scattered itself, and a reason it was dragged back, kicking and
screaming, into the mind of a child. It had seen what was coming and It was scared, and,
like any creature, it ran. Fight or flight – though this was a war It could never hope to win.
Like all dreams in waking, they faded – most of them, at least. Implacable images flashed
behind his eyes; nightmares with gaping jaws, contradictions in time eating up worlds like
monarchs with armies; engines of war. A war of time itself.
He knew, then, like an instinct, that he needed to run. On the surface, he had grown
bored of his wandering through red grass and glass towers, but beneath, he was deeply,
primally terrified. The future was a universe on fire; time unravelled, dimensions collapsing,
and at the centre of it all was Gallifrey. Bringer of darkness, destroyer of worlds. A storm,
oncoming. He didn’t want to be there when it hit.
So, when he ran, in his mind, it was boredom that he cited as the reason. The boredom
and restlessness and frustration he’d been screaming out at this whole stinking planet since
the moment he was woven into existence. In reality, he was woven from the fear of
something else. Its fear – but fear can look a whole lot like boredom when you’re good at
hiding your face. It’s an easy thing to do when you’re good at lying, especially to yourself.
The universe wasn’t ready for his name, and he’d never much liked it. A title seemed a
convenient placeholder, because a name you choose is just a promise, and he promised to
leave the universe a little nicer than he’d found it. To help, and to heal. It’s the sort of
sentiment she would like – his granddaughter – and who was she but the person he so
desperately wanted to be? The person that a life spent wandering on Gallifrey had stamped
down into the dust and almost destroyed.
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That’s why he took her with him, because he didn’t want to see her light snuffed out.
She was the best of him, and she deserved – was capable – of so much more. Ever since she
was a child her mind had screamed out every-star-hope-compassion-laughter-runningneverstopping-
love. There was that, and the reasons that stayed buried for a long, long time. The reason
that he didn’t outwardly confess until the rotting, time-swollen hand of a corpse closed
around his neck on a tower where the stars were wrong. He ran because he was scared. He
ran because he saw what was coming; the war, and the creature knew why it would happen.
His (Its) fault.
And he couldn’t let her die, because he had a duty of care.
He ran, in a stolen TARDIS that would become his dearest friend, with a girl who’s fate
would fill his hearts with deepest regret when he saw her for the final time; hands over her
eyes, red robes – upright but still fighting (and him, younger, older, blood on his face and a
gun in his hands). He tried to save her, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Cycles. And he said
he would come back (oh yes, I will come back), but he never did.
He chose a title, and the title was Doctor.
The first night aboard a stolen TARDIS; fugitives, forever hunted and forever hated,
the newly named Doctor received a message. It came in the form of a dream, but not the
usual sort. It wasn’t a nightmare either; the dark images he feared beyond all sense were
premonitions of a war to come. It was the woman he’d been seeing behind his eyes since
his beginning; Ohila of the sisterhood of Karn. He hadn’t known her name back then, but
he did now. The sisterhood were scorned amongst his people for their superstition and
their primitive ways. They were ancient and powerful – the previous ruling force of
Gallifrey now reduced to a cowering, dwindling cult. Devoid of power, hiding on an
unmarked red moon. She told him that he was foolish for believing he could escape the
future, the future that he forgot every time he woke up and was greeted with the steadying
sense of reality. She told him that he had a job to do, and that she was watching, waiting
for his debt to the sisterhood to be repaid.
But that was what the running was for – leaving behind things such as debt and old,
broken promises to old, broken friends. He didn’t owe the universe a thing, but to her, he
owed everything – his granddaughter. Despite his fear and his old, twisted cynicism – he
was going to show her every star in the universe.
What he did not find out until much later was that another renegade fled the planet on
the following day – Otherstide – in a fit of rage and longing. Following, because he
couldn’t bear living that still life behind the glass any longer. He ran with a TARDIS of his
own, clasping on tight to a dream never truly forgotten, only pushed down because it
seemed too impossible. Inside, the madness began to bubble over, held back for so long;
fire and laughter and all the worlds in the sky. Koschei followed, and he named himself
Master.
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VIII
The Storm that Stayed for the Aftermath
She’s bored. The boredest she’d ever been. Bone dead bored. Being the Doctor was
exhilarating; running and chasing and building, rattling off thoughts and quips at a jarring
pace; meeting new people, seeing new places, everywhere and anywhen and those smiling,
wonderful humans. Being the President is quite the opposite. One building on one planet; a
handful of bland, disapproving faces, and a great deal of red and gold.
She’s in the council room (again), listening to some dull discussion about said council’s
affairs (again). The whole ordeal is beginning to remind her why she was once so
determined to remain in the shadows; nothing but a whispered suggestion, a murky legacy
left behind. It was the paperwork, the dreary meetings. The ones who actually stayed
behind and ruled were the ones who had to sit still and drone on and pass laws and take
action at that horrific snail-pace that could barely be called action at all. Not her. She
remembers Rassilon in a time long past – young and spritely and restless. The one she’d
deposed was old, but not wise. Decrepit, stiff, brittle as a branch, and spiteful too. Standing
still does that to you.
She isn’t good at being the one who picks up the pieces. She is the storm – she doesn’t
stay to help clean up afterwards. Cleaning up is for other people, patient people – and
patience is for wimps. To her credit, she has lasted quite some time, over ten thousand
years, in fact – though that’s nothing on Rassilon’s lengthy term, nor is it more than a blip
along the expanse of her own timeline.
She looks to the window, continuing to tune out the voice of whoever is talking now
(identical, predictable). To her constant dismay, Cardinal Atral is still among them. He had
been on his fifth life when he had first summoned, berated, and tortured her. He is now,
thankfully, on his twelfth, and soon to retire once his final life arrives. This go around, his
skin is dark and his shoulders broad. His figure is imposing rather than gangling and
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weasel-like, but his eyes are still beady and deep-set, his lips pulled down into a permanent
scowl. His voice is deep for reals, so he doesn’t have to fake it.
The view from the council-room windows is breathtaking. Thousands of years ago,
looking out from her bedchambers, the red, jagged tundra had been so desolate – so
hopeless – that she’d been overcome with sadness. Now, the landscape fills her with awe
and longing. The longing comes from deep within, a tiny thread woven through the
impossibly vast tapestry of her life, from a boy who used to run through the fields of that
red-stained prairie and trace the path of the sunlight through leaves glossed silver.
She has not been idle for the past millennia, far from it. She’s been rebuilding,
reshaping, from the helm, this time, and not the shadows. The architect. After the war, the
cities were left in ruins, the soils barren, the wildlife extinct. Across the land, the Great
Houses toiled away, weaving children born into neglect and poverty, whispering stories
about wars and their heroes, Gods and their glory. Now, the soil is rich; sown with seeds
sprouting fields of red grass. Water flows in all its bodies; rindles and runnels feeding great
channels of pale, glassy blue. Rivers and Ponds, stark amongst the red. Animals walk the
plains of Gallifrey that haven’t seen the light since the far distant ages. She’s recreating an
image, she realises, of the world she’d always hoped this could be. Balanced and beautiful.
Order and chaos. She was given a chance to build the society she had once envisioned
when she saw those funny bipedal creatures scampering around in the dirt – only, lacking
in their most important feature – their power. The matrix is now, in reality, just a big
computer. Sure, it enforces the Web of Time, but it has no control over it. Even the
TARDISes don’t work anymore.
She’s proud of her work, however slow it has been. She’s restored the biome to its pre-
war state, and then some. It’s as if the war never happened at all. She could stay a little
longer and dismantle the aristocracy all together – since a time-locked society has no need
for Time Lords, only scientists, teachers, carers. Good men. But, as she is beginning to
admit to herself, she’s getting dreadfully bored.
She could do so much more if she stayed, but staying is bound to arouse suspicion,
because she still hasn’t delivered on her most crucial promise: the restoration of the
Gallifreyan Empire. Returning them to the universe they once ran from, therein restoring
their power. Over the millennia, she’s enlisted a number of research teams and sent them
down rabbit holes that she knew would end in failure. They’re smart, though, and growing
smarter. She’s been feeding them breadcrumbs, morsels of knowledge, just enough to stop
them from guessing her true intentions – because she won’t do it. She won’t restore the
great iron fist of this world to the universe. Sooner or later, her underlings will figure that
out – the idea growing from suspicion to fact. But with every breadcrumb she leaves on the
trail, they get a little closer to working out the solution for themselves, and she can’t have
that.
She has found herself, once again, engaged in a delicate balancing act; giving knowledge
while holding it back, trying to decide how far their clever little minds will follow the trail if
she sets it out. The paths of their logic.
“Lord President?” A sceptical, impatient tone. She’s heard that sort of tone before, used
to get it all the time from her friends. She pictures Yasmin Khan and her officer calm,
trying to snap her out of the haze she goes into when old memories stir. It’s moments like
that when the Doctor would wonder (when she was the Doctor) if her new best friends
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could recognise the age in her eyes and, if they did, how long they would be content to
ignore it.
“Hmm?” she hums, still staring out of the window. The part of her that was the Doctor
feels like a kid again, zoning out from the drone of a professor who’s spent his entire life as
still as a weeping angel under a constant stare.
“The machine,” the one addressing her says, waspish vitriol pressing through a mask of
patience. “It is due to be activated for preliminary testing. Would you like to oversee the
process? The engineering team has requested your audience.”
The President raises an eyebrow in bemusement. “My audience?” People don’t ask for a
meeting with the President unless they’ve done something very impressive indeed. It ought
to be even more impressive than the usual feat, because she’s no ordinary President to
them. Over ten thousand years, and the legend stands as strong as ever. That’s partly due
to her little gang of stuck-up high council members, who don’t let the true nature of her
behaviour, and definite lack of benevolence, leave the confines of the presidential tower.
They don’t let her leave it, either. Even now, after all this time, she’s technically still a
prisoner. Over ten thousand years, and she hasn’t left the citadel – though that’s common
practise for most of the more revered diplomats. Why trouble oneself with the squabbling’s
of the less important? Her leaving the citadel would be very suspicious indeed, and though
she is something of a God to these people, she was, at some point in her past, the Doctor
– and the Doctor is not be trusted.
“Yes, according to them the machine will soon be ready, all, of course, due to your
assistance.” Yes, her very carefully constructed facade of assistance, at least in matters of
conquest. She’s a pacifist, or at least, she is endeavouring to be one now. “Recall that it
would be impudent to allow words of this to escape this hall, we don’t want to get the
people’s hopes up.”
“Of course not!” she chirps, settling into her easy cheer. “I mean, what if it all goes
wrong! When we do it for reals though,” she smiles and leans forwards conspiratorially,
“we should have a big party – make a day out of it, you know? Returnin’ to glory and all
that – that’s gotta be worth a proper celebration.”
A moment of disgruntled silence, wherein the President marvels at the effect that an
exaggerated accent and a cheery temperament has on them, so bent on assimilation, on
sameness. “Yes,” one of her Cardinals smiles. She should probably have learned their
names by now, but she’s had a lot to think about. “It shall be a day to remember
forevermore, celebrated in your honour. The day that Gallifrey returns to power.”
“Hmm, excitin’ stuff,” she grins, though it fades from her face after barely a moment.
Cardinal Atral’s extra-special, top-secret laboratory has been repurposed – on her

orders, at first, because she wasn’t about to have that awful, brutish psychic drill used on
another living creature ever again. Now, it serves as one of many of the think-tank-like
efforts that she’s started up running all across the citadel. It’s been a delicate game;
puppeteering all these little research groups, making sure that none of them get too near to
a working solution. Unfortunately, it hasn’t taken the council too long to figure out where
the best solution lies – the machine. It doesn’t even have it’ own name, just an ostentatious
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‘the’ to mark its significance. The most important machine in the universe, and the most
deadly. The ‘the machine’ (as she calls it in the privacy of her own thoughts, just to spite
them all) is a rather brutal heap of junk that, when all the pieces are suitably aligned, will rip
a whole in the self-imposed quarantine of the supposedly unbreakable and unarguably
iconic time-lock-plus-bubble-universe duo that’s keeping Gallifrey safe from the universe –
and the universe safe from it.
If it works, they will see time, and time will see them. The engines of cataclysm – the
monstrous species bred to hate and fight and keep on breeding – are locked away in the
original time-lock where the time war once raged, is raging, and will rage forevermore.
Time-lock upon time-lock, like padlocks on the door of the home of an especially paranoid
pariah. Except, the pariah is her, and the house is the entire universe. Removing even one
lock weakens the entire security structure. It’s a slippery slope, removing those locks,
thinking that the universe might just be safe, that there’s nothing lurking in the darkness
after all. The pariah can’t afford for that to happen, she likes her house far too much to risk
a break in. The monsters outside are merciless.
Even if the Time War is locked away – for now – there’s always the promise of
something just as cataclysmic waiting on the horizon. The Time Lords incite that sort of
desperation, that sort of cruel, unadulterated, passionate violence. They grip, they hoard, they
control – time and all its relative dimensions. People don’t like being bossed about, that’s
just a fundamental fact of existence – probably her favourite of all of them. They rebel.
They stand up. It always ends in blood, and sometimes, life is better on the other side, but
sometimes there’s no life there at all, and she can’t risk that.
(Where there’s risk, there’s hope), somebody whispers, buried beneath all her years. The
Doctor wants desperately to believe that there’s a hope for them, for her people, that they
might return to their place in the stars and learn. Grow. Change. (We’re all capable of the most
incredible change). But, after a while – a long, long while – you start to realise that change is
really just the next step in a cycle that’s impossibly large. You can’t see the beginning or the
end or the patterns in between unless you step back – like admiring an enormous, intricate
painting. Change is just the next step in the cycle, and the cycle never stops spinning ‘round
and ‘round. It’s dizzying, and she’s tired of it. The President sees it, and maybe someday,
the Doctor will too. She wishes she could freeze them all in a moment and just make them
stay still. That, unfortunately, comes dangerously close to being a God, and didn’t she make
a promise?
The ‘the machine’ takes up the entire lab. It reminds her of those magnificent early
computers from Earth in the 1940s – the ones that took up entire rooms and took dozens
of operators just to spit out a feeble string of ones and zeroes. A feat of engineering, sure,
but devastatingly inefficient to someone who knows the elegance and simplicity with which
it could function. A heaving mass of metal, wires overhanging in haphazard rainbow
rivulets like a canopy. The entire chamber has to be kept dark, with the number of lasers
involved. A closer Earthly comparison might be one of those early quantum mechanics
labs; a maze of prisms and lasers and wires running through in elegantly composed chaos.
Now, she’s thinking about humans again; wonderful humans. It’s a bit like a craving, she
thinks, and it’s getting worse.
In the centre, where once she was strung up like a deconstructed marionette, sits the
computer’s processing core. It gives off steam from the vents constantly cooling its
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overheating machinery. So much energy consumed merely monitoring, it isn’t even fully
activated. The engineers have a long way to go, which is good news, though she can’t help
but feel a little proud of them for putting all this together. She makes a note of the
geometry of the room, down to the nanometre. She tucks away the dimensions,
calculations to run through as a backup process; escape routes, the precise frequencies that
will allow her to send a message across the stars to her only true friend left in the universe.
The process is slow, because she’s only organic. The brain, especially the Time Lord brain,
is a powerful computer, but still susceptible to overheating.
At the other end of the great chamber, there is a glass box. Great metal pads are bolted
into the glass, fastened at geometrically resonant intervals – a perfect randomness – like
electrodes pasted to an enormous skull. For the test, the machine’s power will be
concentrated and fed into the box, and within, tear a hole in this bubble universe to let the
rest of creation peak through. Just a glimpse; a blip on the radar of the universe, pulling
back the curtain only to yank it shut again. It’s a proof of concept, for now – but whoever
stands within that prism of glass will be granted a tantalising glimpse of what has been
denied them for generations.
It’s a tricky balance to strike. All the machinery must be calibrated to an almost absurd
level of precision; an incision in space and time, carving out the space of a few square
metres – and, in time, an entire planet. Cut through just a fraction out of place and they
might miss the universe altogether and end up in the void, else in another universe entirely,
likely to reject them like a poorly-digested meal. Breaking out of a time-lock is tricky too –
that, she’s well aware of, having spent centuries calculating the intricacies of it herself,
across multiple regenerations. Once time got itself moving again, it was rather like an
accelerator; slowly gaining speed, then rocketing away, exponentially. One needs to make
sure that it’s flowing at the right speed and in the right direction, that the spread of it is
even, the colour agreeable. Time is fickle like that.
The lucky test subject is a volunteer from the engineering team, who clearly has a great
deal of confidence in her work. She steps into the prism with her pale coat and paler
expression; gaunt and stoic and lined. The President sees a girl who was born into the dark
and has never known the touch of anything else. She’s been searching, creating blueprints
drawn from the imprints of dead memories. She yearns for more than this blinded
existence (more of the universe).
As the ‘the machine’ fires up, the glass box is bathed in light, and the woman is invisible.
Around her, reality is being torn apart; brutally, desperately. The woman in the prism is
afraid, but she would never show it. Even her psychic ambience is guarded, sensible. Still.
A moment later, the surge of energy dissipates, and the box is black, all energy sapped out.
Black box, like a final message. A moment of bated breath, then the darkness unfurls like a
bud in blooming. Colour floods the prism; petals of violet and indigo spanning across the
starless dark like nebulous clouds. It’s sight, finally; a tangle of timelines woven gold and
phosphorescent with colour. Everyone in the room – the lab-coated engineers, the
maroon-robed council members – all of them can feel an echo of that light. Blurred vision,
but better than nothing. Again, their hope is suffocating, because when the colour clears
and the machine shudders to a halt, the woman is unharmed. For a moment, she was there,
back in the universe, and back in time’s stream. The President can’t help but be proud of
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them (please, just be a little bit proud of me. I was good). Exceptional, yes, the Doctor reminds
herself, but not good. Nothing good will come of their returning to the universe.
At the moment, the ‘the machine’ sits in isolation, its energy and its processes
completely self-contained. On launch day, which she’s decided may as well be
Otherstideeve (because she loves poetry just as much as she loves quantum physics (they
rhyme)), the contraption will be synched into the geometry of the entire planet and its
people – the hanging threads of its borrowed time, waiting to be pulled back out into the
wider universe. She knows where they should be placed. She’ll make sure they do it
properly, because she’s made her choice.
She’s had over ten thousand years to mull it over in these two minds of hers. She won’t
destroy them, nor will she save them. She won’t do anything so grand. She’s held titles like
that before; saviour, destroyer, both of them bitter because one brings reverence and the
other brings hatred – neither of which she can stand. She will leave the world better than
she found it, because she is just a traveller (sorting out fair play across the universe. How’s that then
team? Gang? Fam? I gave them a chance, didn’t I, you saw me. I tried my best. I gave them a chance).
Even now, seeking the approval of ghosts.
She leaves the engineering team with what she hopes is an awe-inspiring speech and a
telepathic expression of age and sophistication. She acts the sort of God they want her to
be, because she’s not about to let things go wrong now. She’s made her choice, on their
behalf, but one more choice remains. It’s far less important, less consequential, but all the
same, she must make it. She has to decide whether she will stay or go, and it’s the decision
she’s been making on and off since the beginning, since a young man ran away from it all
on that fated Otherstideeve. Going or staying? Running or resting? This time, her decision
will be final. Once the trap is sprung, there will be no escape.
The test went well, and news of it spreads fast. The city is alive with the song of new
hope.
It was beautiful, in a way that was terribly sad, standing in that room, feeding off the
echo of a perception craved by a world entire. She will give them that, at least – that sight,
that perception – because without it she thinks they might wither altogether. They almost
did, when last she left them leaderless and directionless all those years ago.
She retires to her Presidential chambers, which she’s made some slight adjustments to
over the years. She’s never really had a space of her own (the TARDIS doesn’t count, since
it’s near enough infinite, and any room she favours and clutters with memorabilia soon
becomes unbearable to stand witness to, so that one day she leaves it to the dust and never
returns). The bed is still there; extravagant and barely-slept-in. The walls, which once were
a smooth, golden metal, are now etched and inked with an array of mathematical equations,
mechanical blueprints, and portraits. Old, familiar friends scratched into the walls. They
remind her of the photographs on her desk in her office in Bristol; always judging, always
lovely. They remind her of who she is, who she promised to be. What it means to be flesh,
walk their earth and breathe their air. Earth and Gallifrey. Twin suns, twin hearts.
The President sits cross-legged in the centre of the cool, sparkling floors, under the light
of the glass dome above, filtering marmalade skies. Machinery is strewn about her, and she
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wears a pair of goggles she stole from some unlucky maintenance worker centuries ago.
She nicked the spare parts from a variety of places; the maintenance bays of the lower
citadel, laboratories, exhibitions – all her old haunts, back when she was something of a
caretaker. She feels almost at home, now, as if she were back in the Doctor’s TARDIS. It’s
similar, except for the silence. She’s used to noise; that low hum of background telepathy,
encouragement and reprimand and love.
She’s building something. She’s always building something, whether with her hands or
in her head. This time, it isn’t just fodder for an overactive imagination and an insatiable
desire to move. It isn’t a clockwork squirrel or an ambiguous contraption that goes ding
when there’s stuff. It’s a sonic screwdriver – well, sonic sceptre, because Time Lords don’t
have screwdrivers. Nor do they have pockets, so she’s going to have to be clever with
where she hides this mass of circuitry. Sonic sceptre. It certainly has a ring to it.
The staff is awfully narrow, so what might have been a dense and compact few inches
of packed metal instead stretches out like sinewed muscle along its length. There’s a button
under the sceptre’s head – clawed talons clasped around a bulb, all very obnoxious – the
pushing of which opens the casing of the bulb to reveal the sceptre’s true crowning jewel;
the lovely little light and whistling drone that comes with anything sonic. It’s yellow, like
the one she made in Sheffield out of old spoons and infuriating Stenza tech. Yellow, like
fizzing energy and new beginnings. It feels like memories muddied under the surface,
unknown past, unknowable future, and incredible change (yellow as a bruise, unhealing). She
casts her mind to someone who knows the feeling, who’s thinking of the same night. A girl
who’s looking for someone who’s looking for her.
She is planning her escape, still unsure about whether or not to take it. Only one thing
can break into this time-lock that wasn’t reeled in by the Time Lords themselves – and
that’s her TARDIS. It was the eye of the storm that created this concealed universe –
thirteen TARDISes like the points of a star. It can save her, and that’s precisely the reason
that the Time Lords had been so determined to erase it. It hadn’t worked, because her time
ship is as clever as it is sexy, and her friends, well, they’ve always been the best of her. Nice
and kind, fast and funny. Investigative.
She’ll leave the Time Lords far behind, for the final time – but she’ll leave them better
than she found them. She owes them that much. She’s still a helper, a healer. Maybe soon
she’ll be a traveller again, too.
She plans to set them up a nice little contraption; a self-contained time loop, fifty-
thousand years long. There, they will be safe. Every time the universe is about to end – in
the final explosion of light before the long fading – the planet will be zapped back in time
and left to live it out all over again, with everything inside – the biome, the people, the
culture – growing and changing as if living linearly. Maybe it isn’t right, but it is what’s best.
It won’t be easy, either, because she knows just how far their faces have to fall. Hopeful to
desolate. Believers to cynics. They’ll live, but she can’t give them back their glory.
She’ll savour this time – her final days as President, and all the comforts of being home,
being whole. Beneath the ground, in spiralling metal bunkers burrowing beneath the red
dust; a great consciousness stirs, mourns. The TARDIS network. They were once a great
species of consciousness; now bound, bent into a mechanical shape and powered by
starlight. The Time Lords – or perhaps a better name might be the Lords of Nothing – will
have no use for those leviathan engines anymore. They’ll be useless, dead – as good as
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scrap in a graveyard, rotting outside the universe. She would save them if she could, those
old creatures. Down there, sitting in a frozen moment, they may as well be dead. Catatonic.
Sleeping forever, and starving. It’s just another price she has to pay to save the universe.
Lose them; the creatures that were once like her, burning brightly in the chaos before
everything began. She’s watched them torn, bound, captured, exploited – and though at
first she thought their imprisonment in tangibility was a gift, she now realises it was a
punishment. Consciousness is always a punishment. Even when it’s bearable, or beautiful,
there’s always that underlying pain. Loneliness, no matter how telepathic a species you are.
Again, this is the price, the price always demanded of her; save the universe but destroy her
own kind. Not in fire, or pain, or war – not this time – just in disuse, in sitting down below
the soil, trapped in metal cages, and waiting for a universe that would never come, not until
it ended. And she would be the last of her kind – or at least, almost the last. Again.
She feels like she’s standing before a red button; sharp and shining. The destroyer of
worlds. Once again, she’s trying to decide whether she should end herself along with the
rest of them, trying to overpower that instinct to run, to survive. So far, she hasn’t been
able to – even after the war, when all she wanted to do was curl up in that blue box of hers
and starve. Only once had she done it – though she wasn’t really her, only masking as flesh
and bone – on Gallifrey, when she’d thrown herself into a prime distributor to wait out the
destruction of the universe, so she could try again. She’s done the best she can, but maybe
that’s not enough. It’s never been enough, and that, the faces on the wall reprimand, is
exactly her problem.
Her knuckles strain white in their grip, tight around the sceptre (sonic, but they don’t
know that). She stands; again, about to address the entire planet. Lord President, Lord
God. The lines have been blurred for a long while now. Again with the hope, their minds
screaming it. Suffocating, strangling, hands reaching across the universe (come home). Not
here, here isn’t home.
This time, they’ve pulled out all the stops. Ten thousand years since her presidency
began, and for their sake – tradition’s sake, because she knows how much they love it –
she’s had the Panopticon rebuilt from the ruin the war left it in. She stands in the centre of
that great, jade palace, surrounded on all sides by old friends; companions, enemies, rivals.
Puppets. A six-pointed star for six fabled founders. She honestly doesn’t even remember if
there were five others, she’s never been shy to admit to playing favourites. She had two,
though both of them turned out to be colossal disappointments. They stare at her now
from their statues of black marble (all except Rassilon, whom the local legends now despise
so much that his legacy has been left to disappear amongst the dust). The Other was once a
statue of indiscriminate nature; a black mass of stone in robes, with dark eyes and a
fathomless face – now she has a face that the history books will remember, so they used
her likeness ‘specially, and rebuilt the statue in her image. She did try to convince them to
sculpt her wearing her favourite outfit – the long blue coat and striped shirt long lost to
some unnamed incinerator, but even the power of the President proved inadequate in
stretching those brittle, traditional ideals.
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The final preparations have been made. The ‘the machine’ has been completed, the
anchor points of its energy dug into the fabric of the planet’s bubble universe, computer
primed and ready to boot – and her own mind reeled through the numbers and ready to
spring into action. She’s jittering with nerves, because even now she’s second guessing
herself. Two minds.
Again, she is introduced, and it’s all very proper (her past says up-standing, still-standing,
Gallifrey-stands).
“Gallifrey,” Atral booms, because he always talks first. He’s like a ringmaster, bringing
out the lions – or an opening band playing before the real star of the show, the one the
people actually came to see. The thought makes her snigger. “I address you now. This day
will be our greatest victory. Out of the shadows, the darkness – this rancid, timeless void –
we will ascend. We will take back the throne of the universe and all its dimensions. On this
day, Gallifrey rises!”
Their voices echo his, even in their minds. Booming voices, hungry voices. Voices that
deserve more than this, deserve to breathe and to see again.
She steps forwards on the dais, tilts up her chin, and tightens her grip around her
sceptre. The headdress cuts sharp bruises around the base of her neck.
“Gallifrey,” she smiles, a bit cheeky. “This is your captain speaking,” Atral cringes, but
doesn’t dare interrupt. “So, today’s the big day,” her grin grows wider, and she’s reminded
of another day, and another ceremony. Standing on a riverbank on the edge of war, a
yellow flower tucked behind her ear and intricate patterns painted on her palms. She feels
the same mingling thrall of joy tainted by grief, knowing something they don’t. Happy now,
and so very sad later, because she can’t save everyone. Sometimes she has to walk away.
“It’s been a long road, recoverin’. But you’re strong, all of you are so strong. Look at you
all, trapped here at the end of time, pulled out of the universe, out of everythin’ that was
yours. Everythin’ I gave you. None of you remember the war, just echoes…” her voice
begins to lose that silken sheen, falling into old pain. “Calling back from the dead, and the
ones who were written out of existence. But you survived, and you fought back against
your corrupt leaders, and you clung to hope.” The Doctor remembers, and twists the
words, (the greatest weapon we have. Like love, hope abides, in the face of everything). “You clung to
stories,” she smiles warmly, sadly.
“Now –” she snaps her voice from wistfulness to something more business-like.
Something that would say to her fam, if they were watching (or even rememberin’) that
there was a bought of technobabble incoming. Bombastic, impressive – flailing hands and
smiling words. Enthusiasm isn’t a common characteristic of the Gallifreyan ruling elite “–
there’s just the thing I need to tell you, actually. It was just a story. I’m nobody, really, and
I’m definitely not a God – sorry,” she shrugs, “know you don’t like that word, but you
know what I mean. I’m just a traveller. Poncin’ about, bit of this, bit of that. I know you
don’t want to hear this,” and her voice isn’t unkind (I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry), “but I think I
made a mistake.”
A pause in her talk, break in her voice – wondering if she should say more, if she’s said
too much already. Around her, their hope fails, slowly sliding off like a mask to the floor,
showing their true faces. Hungry, helpless, hopeless. Only shadows.
“I thought I could fix things, but everythin’ I do just makes it worse,” she chuckles,
despondent. “Try to make a little order out of the never-endin’ chaos, guide a species that
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is just so, so brilliant, give them the universe, one glimpse at a time… You were beautiful,
so, so beautiful. You were like giants.” Cycles, and those swollen, twin hearts. “But, in the
end, war came, because you’re never, ever satisfied.” Neither is she, neither is anything.
Always poncin’ and pokin’ and proddin’. Sticking her oar in. Thinking she can make things
better, see something more, show something to someone that gives them just a little bit of
hope, lets them see even a sliver of the universe as she sees it. “You won’t be either. You
want to rule again. The universe has moved on, but it hasn’t forgotten. It hasn’t forgiven.
No matter how much power I give you, and no matter how well you use it, war will come.
And maybe you think I’ll lead you. I was a general once, the Doctor of War. Not again. No
more. I’ve given you as much as I can. Your world is rebuilt; grass growing, animals
roamin’, houses thrivin’ and children fed. Your cities stand as magnificent as ever. I even
got the matrix up and runnin’ again, so you can prophesise and philosophise all you like. I
can give you time, put you back into the centre of it so you can feel it. Oh, you’ll love it,”
she whispers, passionate. “A sixth sense calling out to the stars that has never been
stimulated. Just you wait.” She lets the proposition hang in the air for a moment, misty-
eyed. She clears her throat. “There is just one thing, though. I won’t take you back. Would
have been a better idea not to announce that to the whole planet, because now I’ve got
some very angry lookin’ guards comin’ towards me, which is quite rude,” she raises her
voice a touch, “seein’ as I’m President, but when has that ever stopped you.” She throws a
dead-eyed glance to the guards advancing on her position; hesitant and slow, spurred along
by Atral’s orders muttered from the corner of his mouth in a way he must think is discrete.
They don’t dare approach her, which is smart, but she makes sure. “Don’t come any closer,
alright,” she advises, a sharp and casual whisper. “What’s done is done, and stoppin’ me
from talkin’ won’t make a difference.”
She quickens her pace, regardless. She’s always been good at talking fast. “You’ll see
time again, because I think you might wither and die without it, but you won’t live it, not
properly. You’ll still be trapped. You’ll be livin’ in the same fifty thousand years over and
over in a loop. Stale time, but at least it’s time, right?” She’s trying to placate them, she
realises, make them see that really, this isn’t so bad – that really, this is the best they could
have ever hoped for. “Shielded corner of the universe, but, like I said, you’ll be able to spy
on the neighbours. You’ll be invisible. You’ll be powerless – but you don’t need glory. You
don’t need to own the universe, just see it,” she swallows, contemplating her own advice.
“That’s ownership enough. That’s non-interference, pure and simple.” She’s condemning
them to their own hollow promises. The Doctor might have laughed, but the President
does not. In her mind, their faces fall, and their hope crumbles.
“I’m sorry.” (So, so sorry). Time to make a choice. Going or staying. Running or resting.
Going means coming home; back to Sheffield her new best friends – Graham and Ryan
and Yaz. Back to custard creams and tea at Yaz’s and Saturdays out in the big wide
universe – larkin’ about, as Graham would have smirked, fondly. Kindly. All of them, kind.
Staying means leaving herself at their mercy. They won’t forgive her, God or not,
because they’ll see who she really is, and that is just a traveller. All she ever wanted, but
what she wants doesn’t matter anymore, and even if she leaves them, her fam are safe
living along the straight and grey. The dull, narrow, mundanity track. Chaos to order, just
the way humans always do it. Sense from madness. Anchoring the thread.
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She wonders if her people will torture her for this, wonders how far their idealistic
worship will stretch their tolerance for her betrayal. Another confession dial, perhaps –
and her fingers tap-tap eighty-two against her thigh in a satisfying sort of anticipation,
knuckles bracing for a punch. Even if they decide on something else – Atral will have a
great many tricks up his oversized sleeves – she’ll still be here. Trapped for good. Finally,
finally, they’ll have caught her. Stuck out of time, out of the universe she so dearly loves,
suffocating with the rest of them. The pariah, locked out of their own house. At least the
precious things inside will be safe.
Her finger lingers against the button on her sceptre.
Never be cruel, never be cowardly, she says, like a question, and the Doctor answers (coward,
any day).
She pushes the button, and in her mind, she chooses to run. She calls out to a human
girl housing the consciousness of a dead god – just a fraction, but it’s enough. In an
alleyway in Sheffield, her blue box wilts like a dying flower, but there’s one person who can
save it – save her.
In a flash, the shining emerald of the Panopticon dissipates with a nauseating flip of her
stomach. The air is cool as fans blare, mechanical hums surrounding her, and wires
sparking overhead. She stands before the ‘the machine,’ and a smirk curls her lips. She sets
to work.
The first thing she does is destroy the general teleport, otherwise the guards would be
upon her in moments. She jams the tail end of her sceptre into the mechanism, rendering
the teleportation platform useless in a hail of crumbling metal flakes and sparkling embers.
There’s a few finishing touches she has to make, things she couldn’t program in advance
lest the engineering staff notice and tamper with the settings. They’re are a little bit stupid,
but not so stupid that she can rely on their total ignorance.
She charges over to the computer’s primary console, robes billowing and stupid
headdress scraping along the trails of wires overhead. She wrenches it off in a clumsy
manoeuvre, letting it clang to the metal floor amongst the machinery. Her expression twists
at the sight of it there on the ground. A grin, glad she’ll never to put one of those on her
head again. Her hair hangs long and loose, puffed into static by the friction of the metal,
hanging over her eyes in a yellow haze. She really does need to get rid of it, but she’ll have
time for vanity later. Maybe. Hopefully.
At the console, she punches in the set of numbers she’s had tucked away in this head of
hers; compartmentalised, saved for later. Thank the Other for the perks of being a Time
Lord.
A rumbling starts up from the corridors surrounding, echoing thunderous through
metal maze. It was a strategic decision to have the Panopticon be her venue of choice for
the broadcast – all the important people were gathered in one crowd, far away from the
nearest teleport – but not, apparently, far enough to buy her the time she needs. Atral
bustles in, blustering, flanked by guardsmen armed with stasers and confused, terrified
expressions.
“What’s going on?” he yells. “What’s happened to the machine?”
“You know,” she grins, sticking her head out from behind a hunk of the computer’s
enormous body, “you really shouldn’t have let me oversee this entire project, given my
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track record for being an uncontrollable,” she slaps down a lever on the control panel with
gusto, “unpredictable,” another flip, punctuated by a wicked smile, “idiot!”
His teeth clench, a vein in his forehead working tirelessly beneath his headdress. “What
have you done?”
“Exactly what I said I’d do. I’ve just trapped this planet in a time loop,” she shrugs, “out
of the time-lock, into the time loop, it’s sort of like a frying-pan to fire situation, if you
know what I mean. Very difficult to escape.” He gapes, because clearly, he doesn’t.
“Another human colloquialism, sorry.” She’s still punching away at the controls, and just as
Atral is about to open his mouth the call his guards to action, she swipes the final key with
a theatrical stroke, and clasps her hands behind her back in feigned innocence. “It’s done,
mate. Even destroyin’ this machine won’t stop it, already powered on. All it will do is rip
this entire planet from the fabric of reality by messin’ up the coordinates of the incision, so
I wouldn’t bother tryin’.”
“Why are you doing this? You’re the Other, you’re meant to help us!” There’s
something childish in his voice; petulant, whining. Desperate. “You’ve guided our species
since its inception – you cannot leave us here in the dark. We deserve to rule,” his tone
grows ever more sulking, entitled. Face growing blotchy with anger and a refusal to believe
his senses.
She steps out from her alcove of wire and circuitry to face him, head on. A line of
guards stretch out on either side, torn and hesitant. She’s reminded of another standoff,
another dictator. Another proud, desperate old man. Facing him, the one he believed
would save them all, and the one he had tortured beyond all others. “I’m the Doctor,” she
says. Stone-like. “I’m sorry for what I did to you, and I’m sorry for what Rassilon turned
you into. I’m sorry for the war and all the dark and hungry days since, truly, I am, but this
is the end of the Time Lords. Just be content to live, please. That’s all I can give you.”
His face resolves only to redden further, his brow to thicken and his jaw to steepen in
its gaping protest. “You were going to help us, return us to our place in the universe, our
place at the centre of all creation – my rightful place!”
She smirks, chuckling softly, cutting him off. “And there it is. The reason I left this
world in the first place. People like you.”
“Like me? I live to serve –”
“Exactly – but live to serve what? Yourself. Your own interests and ego and perceived
superiority.”
His turn to smile, a little victory. “And this, Doctor, is your greatest weakness.” He calls
her by her name, again, and it feels good to hear it, even if his voice is laced with contempt
– in fact, the contempt makes it all the sweeter. “You just can’t keep your mouth shut.
While you’ve been blabbing on and on, I’ve had time to call every guard on the citadel to
surround this room. I will do whatever it takes to bring Gallifrey back to glory, and if that
means inducing regeneration and forcing the solution from your mind, then so be it. We
will keep you here, and you will work for us.”
“My weakness? I’m afraid the weakness is all yours, because I’ve had time to establish a
psychic connection with a certain something on a certain planet – and don’t even think
about it, Cardinal,” she yells, as he raises a hand to issue orders to guards she’s not sure will
obey him anyway. Cycles. “because I’ve got a staff, and I’m not afraid to use it.” She
brandishes her sceptre threateningly.
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“What are you going to do with that? Bludgeon an army?” Atral mocks.
“Oh no,” she smirks, “I’m going to do this.” She presses the button inlaid upon the hilt,
hidden amongst intricate carvings of cylindrical prose. The bulb at the top of the sceptre
folds away like an eggshell cracking in two. Instead of yolk, golden light and a familiar
buzzing that greets her like a very old friend. “That’s right, sonic sceptre! Ha!” she spits,
eyes wild. “So, you’d better retract that order, because I’ve got it trained to your genetic
frequency, and one more push of this button is gonna unravel every cell in your body. It’ll
be painless, unlike what you did to me, but I’m offering you a choice. Your life, or
Gallifrey’s glory – because with all your talk of the greater good, I don’t think you have it in
you leave the glory days for someone else.”
A moment’s hesitation – and a moment is all she needs, because somewhere long ago
and very far away, a girl called Yasmin Khan is breathing life into something that’s been
dead for a very long time.
“Thought so,” she grins. A wind starts up, gusts blowing in currents around her,
whipping her hair and robes up in a swirl of warm colour. “You asked me what I was doin’
– why, I’m doin’ what I always do, Cardinal. I’m hoppin’ in my TARDIS, and runnin’
away.” She throws him a lazy, two-fingered salute, “all the best, but I must be going.”
Guttural wheezing fills the air, growing louder and louder as a shape begins to form around
the Doctor – tall and sharp, air tainted faint blue. “Until we meet again, Allons-y!” She’s
enjoying this; the old phrases, old habits. The Cardinal’s strained expression fades out as
familiar golden lights swim before her, knitting together to form a space she was afraid
she’d never see again.
The floor of her TARDIS lurches as it takes off, struggling against the force of the
universe’s boundary. A grin spreads her face wide, and it’s the first time in a long time that
she’s allowed herself to feel anything so fully.
“Hey there, old girl,” she says, running a delicate hand along the edge of the console.
“Knew I could always count on you – and Yaz!” she cries, jumping into action. She reels
back and blows a kiss up into the recesses of the golden pillars. “Yasmin Khan, you
brilliant girl, you brilliant, brilliant girl!” She stumbles around the console, grasping for
levers and buttons and dials with a feverish hunger in her hands. The way her feet slide out
from underneath her as she spins, all sharp elbows and bent knees, limbs wheeling and
hearts thrumming and blood rushing – it reminds of old times, of youth and movement.
Someone she used to be. She cheers her pleasure; shrill and ecstatic and completely
unapologetic. The TARDIS hums a chorus of joy in response – and with so much of what
the Doctor had once been sitting on the surface – she understands what the ship is saying
far better than she ever has before.
Joy-relief-love-comfort.
The words are concrete, and each one sends a distinct feeling through her. Before, the
more she buried, the more muddled the ship’s communications became. Sometimes they
were just noises, sometimes feelings that tugged at her mind, trying to dislodge memories
from her psyche to convey meaning. Now, it’s almost like talking.
Sternness-reproach-frustration.
“Come on,” she crows, feigning anger. “Don’t be like that, I’m fine. It was only ten
thousand years-ish,” she shrugs. The ship communicates her indignation.
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Alone-notgoodatbeingalone. It relays a memory of a man with darkness in his eyes, the

winner.
“I didn’t hurt them, they’re safe.”
Confusion-notthesame-somethingold-somethingnew.
She presses a hand to the centre of the console where, inside the crystal structure, the
organs of the TARDIS bob up and down like a steady breath through enormous lungs. “I
know. I let it out, all of it, but it’s okay. I’m still me,” she closes her eyes, tilting her chin
down, relaying it – all of her. “We used to be kin, you know, a long time ago. Creatures of
consciousness, so many orders of perception up. I’ve been in a body for so long that I’ve
almost forgotten what it’s like to see things that way, and I suppose you’ve been a part of
this machine for so long that you’ve forgotten what it’s like too.” She smiles, whimsical,
trying to remember being whole. She snaps herself out of it as one of the ship’s warning
lights blares on.
“Time for a catch-up later, sexy, we’ve gotta get goin’.” She flicks the lever of the
custard cream dispenser and watches with giddy delight as one shoots out into her palm.
She pops it into her mouth all at once and her expression melts at the taste. “Ohhh, they
don’t make biscuits like this on Gallifrey – they don’t even have proper biscuits on
Gallifrey, it’s terrible!” she mumbles, mouth full of custardy goodness. Presently, she kicks
another lever forward with her foot, and the ship gives a mighty shudder as it attempts to
break out of the time-lock. Her ship may be the only one that can do it, but that doesn’t
mean it’s going to be easy.
There’s just one stop she has to make before she breaks through the barrier. A tiny
planet, ruined long ago by Gallifey’s conquest, and forever dwarfed beneath its shadow.
Karn, and its Sisters. She has some questions for them, before she leaves the bubble of this
system altogether. She doesn’t have long, because the machine’s power is still building,
ready to carve out Gallifrey and its surrounding, desolate rocks. It will be a risky flight, with
the energy field amassing around the planet, ready to rip through the vortex itself. Time
enough, she thinks, to get the answers she needs. Time enough to clarify what she
desperately hopes isn’t true.
Ohila – high priestess of the Sisterhood of Karn – is ready for the impact when it
strikes. A blurred mass of blue spins down through the black sky. Here she comes,
tumbling down from the heavens; the oncoming storm. One does so love fireworks.
The Doctor’s TARDIS crashes to the surface of Karn in a cloud of harsh red sand.
Ohila shields her eyes with one trailing sleeve of her red robes, squinting at the
smouldering form of the infamous blue box. The President of Gallifrey emerges from the
ship coughing and retching. Smoke billows from behind the TARDIS doors, dancing
through her stumbling feet and flailing limbs.
“Your return was foretold, Doctor,” Ohila crows, a grin tugging at her withered
features. Her age is beginning to show, but only a little. She’s near enough immortal. Their
powers are old – faded, but old. They see things here that the rest of the universe cannot.
They see the truth of what must be done, and the creature that must do it.
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“Was it?” the Doctor exclaims between heaving coughs, tone writ with incredulous
sarcasm. She trudges across the sands towards Ohila. Her presidential robes are tattered
and torn, and jagged wisps of crimson and gold hang from her figure, drawing sharp
accents against the night sky. “That’s not really fair though, is it, you only said that then I
was already –” she pauses as she doubles over, retching up smog from the depths of her
lungs, “– when I was already here. You could’ve made that up on the spot.”
Ohila scowls, deep-set, and rolls her eyes. “See!” the Doctor exclaims, hammering her
chest with her fist as she does so, letting out another cough. “Now it’s my turn” – she
crosses her arms and paints a stoic expression across her face. “It was foretold,” she says,
in a mockingly regal voice, “that you shall react to my appearance with disdain and
annoyance. Furthermore!” she cries, as Ohila opens her mouth to speak. “It was foretold
that the Sisterhood of Karn will extend a gracious, welcoming hand to their guest.” Ohila
presses her eyes shut and suppresses a groan. How many years, and still she underestimates
just how annoying the Doctor can be.
“May I ask due to what we owe the pleasure?
“Due to me havin’ some questions, and you havin’ the answers.” She chirps, coming to
stop a few paces in front of Ohila. Her cheeks are flushed, and she pants with her whole
body; chest rising and falling in shuddering rasps, hands splayed against her thighs, bent
over. She’s always enjoyed her theatrics; youth and movement. Running. There’s something
else, difficult to place because the Doctor won’t stay still long enough to give Ohila a clear
view of her eyes. The aura is enough; darker and larger than it’s ever been. The Other has
awoken, and all the stories are true.
“You’ve let it slip through, all of it – more than you ever have before.”
“Is it that obvious?” she heaves, finally straightening up. There it is, the edge to her
gaze. Stars peeking out of too-dark irises. A flesh body attempting to contain more than it
ever advisably should.
“Why did you come here?” Suddenly, her voice has a bitter edge, because she realises
who she’s talking to – who she’s staring right in the face. The Other was the one who led
the war against chaos all those ages ago, whose actions led to the banishment and slaughter
of the original cult of Pythia. She may not have been alive then, but the memories of her
ancestral sisters lived on in her, and she feels their deaths and their rage a thousand times
over. She puts the feeling aside, however, as she has done when dealing with the child of
Gallifrey ever since his inception, because now, she is their final hope.
“Reason hasn’t changed,” the Other smiles, because it’s difficult for Ohila to see the
little Gallifreyan boy in those dark, fathomless eyes. “You, me. Questions, answers.”
“As in?” Ohila prompts.
“As in, do you have some scissors I can borrow?”
“Some – excuse me, what?”
“Or a knife, or a sword. Anything will do, really,” she quips, as if this clears everything
up. She’s exceeding expectations, as always. “Ooh, that’ll do!” she reaches forward and
snatches a ceremonial dagger tucked into the ornamental sash tied around Ohila’s robes. It
has a thin, silver blade inlaid with ancient Pythian runes, and it is very much not to be used
for frivolous trivialities. Just as she’s about to say this, however, the Other reaches up and
starts hacking at her long blonde hair. The blade is sharp – for blood sacrifice, not hair
cutting – but it does the job nonetheless. The Other chops away feverishly until her hair is
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cropped short and spiky. She lets the excess fall to the sand in an unceremonious pile of
blonde turned silver under the light of the surrounding moons. “Sorry,” she offers, half-
sneering. “That stuff was really startin’ to annoy me.”
“If you’re quite finished, Doctor, or should I call you by another name?” Her smirk is
wicked, teasing. A bit vindictive.
“Oh no, Doctor’s fine. It’s who I am, although it’s difficult for some to accept it.” Her
voice goes cold as she says this, looking Ohila right in the eyes.
“News of your reign on Gallifrey has travelled far – you’ve worked wonders in
rebuilding your little empire.”
“The empire, I assure you, is dead and buried. They will go on, though. They’ll live out
their days in plenty and in comfort, until entropy takes them, as it takes all things.”
“And you think this is merciful?”
“I think it’s the best I can do, and I think that’s enough.” Her eyes are like stone, face
marble white. “And, if you don’t mind,” a smile breaks through the rockface, “I think it’s
my turn for questions now.” Ohila nods obligingly. “You brought me back, why? What did
you hope to gain?”
“You are, I assume, referring to the child that was loomed to house Lungbarrow many a
thousand years ago?”
She smiles thinly. “The very same.”
“So, you worked out who was behind it, then?”
The Other chuckles; a low, guttural sound. Ohila is stroking her ego, giving her leeway
to brag. It’s easy to see that she likes it. “It wasn’t too difficult to figure out, sister,” she
turns to pace, hands clasped behind her back, thin wrists peeking out from underneath the
ruined sleeves of those once-regal robes. “You’ve been watching me my whole life. I used
to have dreams about you, and I saw you again after fleeing Gallifrey. You do like to check
up on me, don’t you? You pulled my ship into orbit and saved my life before I became a
soldier. I think I’m right in believing there’s a reason you wanted me to fight in the Time
War – you wanted me to see the worst of the universe. You wanted me to see the true
horror of what I’d created.” And horror it was; the Nightmare Child, jaws closing over
entire worlds and snuffing them out from creation itself. The Could’ve Been King and his
Neverweres – ghastly engines of war and the ghoulish creatures born from their maws. The
war had brushed its foul stain across the universe, and nothing had been left untouched.
“We wanted you to see what the Time Lords had become, what your precious universe
of order and structure had devolved into.”
“Well, it was a good idea, it worked – but maybe not in the way you hoped. I chose to
save them, and I would again.”
“Oh yes, you saved the Time Lords – but what about your newest project?”
The Other scoffs, turning sour. Another thing that’s clear to see; she doesn’t like not
knowing. “What new project?”
“Why, the Doctor’s favourite world. Earth.”
“And how is that a project?” she asks, biting. Her jaw is sharp, cheekbones prominent
under her cropped hair.
“You waltzed on down there, fell in love with a new form of life barely stumbling out
from the dark, and you began to shape them.” Ohila watches with satisfaction as the
Other’s expression darkens further, a scowl playing at her lips. “You were less obvious
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about it, less set in your goal, but the pattern repeated all the same. Long lives can become
ever so circular,” she smirks. “You found a few plucky companions, played with them, and
the ones who survived you were forever changed, fashioned into – now what was it that
the emperor of the Daleks said – weapons?” The Other doesn’t answer. Energy brews
behind her stare; the largeness of her being wriggling under the thinness of its shell,
blackness bracken at the edges – a roiling sea. “All the great forces of the universe have
been drawn to that little planet over the years – and the people of that planet have become
monsters themselves. All those organisations; UNIT, Torchwood – they went from
harmless projects aiming to study and protect, to weapons of mass destruction. All of them
were seeded by you. Soon enough the Earth will be an empire of its own, a virus spreading
out across the stars. There will be wars, perhaps not as big, but there will be wars. People
will die and children will cry, and it will, Doctor, be your fault.”
If she were still the Doctor, she might have protested, but now, she can see the entirety
of her life and all its endless cycles, and instead of finding the prospect of it hopeful or
endearing, she finds it incalculably sad. Defeated, before she even opens her mouth. “And
what do you expect me to do about it. I can’t just observe, I have to try and make things
better. But that isn’t why you made me into this, is it? You made me to undo what I did all
those billions of years ago.”
“Oh yes,” Ohila smiles, “the Doctor is always breaking all the rules, so fundamentally
opposed to rule and power, to death and endings and confinement. She is the master, the
manipulator, the winner. She is imbued with an ancient force that once bound this universe
to order, and hence to its slow unravelling – to entropy. To truly have your way you must
undo the rules of the universe that you once wrote. Unanchor the thread. Unravel the web
of time. We made you into this, Doctor, so that you would know the pain of living by
those rules. We made you into this to stop you from running through the never-ending
nothingness of the infinite void, and make you face what you had set in motion. We made
you so that you could return the universe to what it once was. You came close to fulfilling
our prophecy, the prophecy made by all creatures on all planets since the beginning of time
itself.”
“I know the one – tricky little tale, isn’t it? The sentence that got me four and a half
billion years of torture.”
She smiles and repeats it, in a mockingly regal voice. “The hybrid will stand over the
ruins of Gallifrey and unravel the web of time, breaking a billion, billion hearts to heal its
own.”
The Other snaps her fingers. “That’s the one. I really do hate prophecies.” She falters,
turning to Ohila. “You do realise what that would do, tearing down the structure that holds
the universe together – unravelling the web of time?”
“The universe as we know it will cease to exist. The old powers will rule; chaos and that
ancient, unknowable science we’ve come to call magic, though nothing so childish, so
tameable, truly exists. Time will run rapid, and none will rule over it. Everything will be as
it was before you ordered it, and set it on this path of self-destruction.”
“Well, yeah,” she shrugs, with a whimsical smile. “When you put it like that, it does
sound sort of nice.” She stares Ohila down with those eyes like jagged shards of earth,
ruddish brown above the red sands.
“Creatures such as you don’t belong in a universe such as this.”
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“Perhaps you’re right.” Introspection, in those wide, dark eyes. A deeper recognition of
what must come to pass. “Everything ends,” she echoes her own words, said with a tear,
“and it’s always sad.” A sigh. She casts her eyes down to her feet, and the ragged remains
of her Presidential gown. “Everybody knows that everybody dies… but not every day. Not
today,” she turns her gaze up with an accompanying grin. “You lot have waited billions of
years – you can wait a little longer. I have some unfinished business on Earth.” The Other
turns her heel and trudges off across the desert, leaving a pile of blond hair in the sand,
slowly buried within it by the winds. How typical, the Priestess thinks, scornful. Every time
the universe breaks her, the Doctor finds some new senseless reason to run.
“How much longer, Doctor,” Ohila calls after her, voice gravelled and wise. “You
cannot run forever.”
“I can try,” she chirps, all cheer, a bounce in her step as she makes for her TARDIS.
Ohila watches the creature skip away, and despairs for the fate of the universe.
As she breaks through the barrier of the time-lock for the final time, she feels the energy
of the Time Lord’s machine swell to a crescendo. It boils away the fabric of their self-
contained reality, gouging them from their prison and stuffing them into another – back
into the universe proper – forever sealed. She wonders if the legends will ever forgive her.
Maybe they will forget what it was to hold power over the universe, and content
themselves with living in it, observing. She doubts it – and what a hypocrite she is, scolding
them for their thirst for the stars. A thousand children will be born on Gallifrey with a clear
view of that dying sky, hearing stories of a universe teeming with life, and they will never
be able to reach a single star – let alone all of them.
On her way back to Earth, the TARDIS blares melancholic blue. The ship does this,
when she gets herself in a mood – either the ship or the pilot. Symbiotic. The two beings
are inseparable, even in their sadness. She chose to run, but now she must make another
choice; unravel or repair? Build or destroy? Ohila is right, she can’t stand the rules much
longer, and she doesn’t belong in a universe such as this – but the part of her that was the
Doctor needs that little planet and its little people. Humanity was the only reason she ever
let It out, and It agrees with the Doctor on all things concerning love and truth and beauty.
They are the things that being organic – being the Doctor – have taught her; how to feel.
Compassion; her greatest weakness or her greatest strength, depending on who’s doing the
talking.
It feels like weakness, now, because she’s giving into temptation – but the prospect fills
her with strength and courage in a way that can only be good. She’s going to see her friends
again.
The Doctor (because she’s determined, now, to take back the title), opens the console’s
grating and puts a hand against the glowing flesh within; the creature caged in metal. It
hums its disapproval, but she savours the feeling. Not the last, not even the last two. There
are at least two more out there in the universe; beings such as them, put through the fryer.
Unrecognisable.
She heads for Earth, her other heart, and runs towards three people who hunger for
adventure the same way that the Lords of Nothing once hungered for time. If she chooses
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to go back to them, her fam, then there’s something else she must do. There’s too much of
her stuffed into this shell, and human perception doesn’t deal well with creatures such as
her – whatever shape they’re stuffed into. She’s going to have to bury It again, and she has
a dreadfully long way to dig.
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IX
God, and What it Means to be One
The first time Yasmin Khan sees the shadow, it’s standing in the corner of her room.
She doesn’t dream of golden lights anymore, doesn’t crave the weathered ridges of blue
wood and the warm glow of temporal engines. She’s just a girl. Just a girl, with a shadow
following her. It’s the sort of thing she can trick herself into believing is just a consequence
of the overactive human imagination. A monster woven out of a wardrobe, a branch on a
moonlit window, clothes draped over a chair. The sort of thing you see when you stare into
the dark too long. She can trick herself, but she knows the truth. There’s someone
watching her; a glint of yellow eyes in the dark.
(Hello? Hello, is there anyone there?).
And there is, but Yaz thinks if it answered the sound of its voice would be worse than
the silence.
...
Ryan’s in the park again – drunk enough that his thoughts are a pleasant haze of bliss,
but not enough to be spewing up his guts. He has the balance down to an art. He’s lying on
his back, deep green grass damp with cold, sleeping into his jacket. He smiles lazily up at
the stars and pushes away the thought of his shift the following day. Around him, music
blares – proper good music, despite what Yaz might say if she were here. They’re all with
him, the usual crowd; Ian, Ben, Zoe, Harry. Someone’s missing, though. Someone who
used to laugh loud enough, glow bright enough, to outshine them all. He feels a spur of
grief for a person who doesn’t exist.
A shiver runs through him, and he sits up with a jerk. There seems to be a voice on the
wind, and across the park, there’s a jagged silhouette leaning against a tree. A long coat
billows around it in a non-existent breeze. The music blaring from Ian’s speaker muffles to
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a dull thrum, and static crackles underneath its sound. Ryan tilts his head to one side, trying
to work out whether the figure is real or a consequence of the dark. The air around it
ripples like gas in sunlight, and Ryan thinks he can feel it smiling. The expression is clear,
despite the distance between them. A sad smile.
...
When Graham sees the shadow, all he feels is weary. He notices it in the corner of his
eye, but never turns to look. He won’t give it the satisfaction. He’s seen ghosts before,
especially in this house. There was a time when, if he saw Grace wandering about the
house, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from looking, even though his looking only
made her image clearer. The apparitions were a side effect of memory, because he’s never
lived in this house without her. The mind doesn’t see everything at once, there’s too much
to process. Familiarity does the rest, memory filling in the gaps with what it expects to be
there. His memory expected to see her sitting on the armchair in the corner of the lounge,
or standing by the kettle in the kitchen in the mornings. It expected to see her sitting across
from him at the dining table, and laying beside him at night. But, memory adapts, and
apparitions fade to tricks of the light that disappear upon attention, until they fade
altogether. That’s why, when he notices a shadow in his peripheral, all he feels is tired. He
was under the impression that his memory had adapted to a new reality without her.
The shadow, however, doesn’t fade with time, and it doesn’t lurk in any of Grace’s usual
haunts. He doesn’t want to acknowledge what he knows – that this is another ghost
altogether. It doesn’t have Grace’s soft edges or her warm stare. Over the days, the
weariness is carved out, and fear settles in its place.
...
Yaz doesn’t notice the door until Tuesday evening – about a month after she sank to
her knees in a rain-drenched alleyway as a certain blue box disappeared. Walking back
towards her flat after her shift, along the white, identical halls of the building bathed in soft
twilight, she notices something viscerally wrong with the scene, only visible to someone
who looks closely. Only visible to someone like Yaz. There’s an extra apartment in the
Park Hill estate. She’s been running up and down these stairs, along these halls, since she
was just a kid. She knows how many doors there are. She’s only noticed it now because she
took a different route up the stairs than she normally would’ve. She’s half wondering
whether fate itself broke the railing on the leftmost stairwell so that it would be roped off,
and she’d be forced to find herself standing here, face to face with this very impossibility.
Fortunately, she doesn’t believe in coincidences.
It’s impossible, because the door doesn’t seem to lead anywhere at all. It’s wedged in
between apartments 51 and 52 – both of which, being of standard dimensions, have rooms
of a size such that nothing exists between them. The other anomalous detail is the room
number, which has no business occurring between consecutive integers in the low fifties;
thirteen.
Yaz grasps the doorknob and feels something vibrating through the brass – far too
shiny and scratch-less. There’s a smell wafting from under the door; engine oil and the
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burnt smell of air singed by electricity. It’s familiar. Yellow. She tries to turn the knob, but
the door is, predictably, infuriatingly, locked.
She doesn’t tell her family about the mysterious new room, partly because she’s scared
she’s going crazy, and partly because she knows her dad will make a big deal out of it, and
then make an embarrassing Facebook post about the government conspiracy that’s
building extra hidden rooms into flats. There’s something else, too, because she feels in her
generally-reliable gut that this mystery is meant for her. There’s a familiarity to the feeling
of wonder that the sight of that door, the vibrations through polished brass, instil in her.
The touch of it is like blue wood.
In her bedroom, after changing out of her police uniform and having some of her Dad’s
terrible Pakora (again, because he insists that practise makes perfect, though so far he has
proved impervious to the fact), she calls Ryan. He’s always quick to answer, on account of
the fact that he never lets his phone stray from outside arm’s reach.
“Hey Ryan,” she says, sprawled on her bed, laying on her stomach with her knees bent
up like a proper teenage girl.
“I thought we were usin’ codenames,” he hisses. “I’m Eagle, remember?”
(Of all the good things one could say about Ryan Sinclair, he was dedicated when he
wanted to be. Dedicated where his friends were concerned. For the past month, both he
and Yaz have been focussed on finding the Doctor. Ryan loves a conspiracy, and Yaz loves
a good case. Even though he never saw the police box himself, nor retains any residual
memories of the Doctor like Yaz does, he still believes her, and she loves him for it.
Neither of them told Graham about their investigations, because he wouldn’t believe them
in a million years. They haven’t been able to find much; many links touted around on
Reddit and other internet forums concerning the Doctor have since been blocked or taken
down. The reasoning for these internet blockades was, at times, explicit, and always the
same. UNIT. Videos on YouTube were copyright claimed, domains seized, websites
blocked – and still there was no sign of any such organisation ever existing in the first
place. They widened their search for UNIT itself and discovered that it was a branch of
British government forces tasked with investigating the ‘anomalous’. Ryan’s thoughts
immediately jumped to aliens, because of course they did, and Yaz, despite herself, found
herself thinking along the same lines. All they had to go on were two facts; there was
someone out there called the Doctor, and said Doctor owned a teleporting blue police box.
The trouble was, all the information they did manage to find was contradictory, and none
of it especially reliable. There were some old archived conversations from a late 90s chat
server where two users (MelsTheAssassin and DoctorPond11) conversed about someone
called ‘the raggedy doctor’ who had a blue police box. There was a folder of photographs
of the same young man and woman from a range of historical settings posted by someone
called Angie Maitland, and another folder showing a different man with short cropped hair
and rather large ears – once again in different historical settings, and with the same police
box. There was an advertisement for a ‘Doctor Investigators Group’ that seemed to begin
and end in 2006, and a Facebook post from 2009 with a description of a man called the
Doctor who had ‘sticky-up hair’ and a blue police box. These were, supposedly, the pieces
of evidence that had slipped through the cracks of the more professional cover-ups, but by
far the largest piece of evidence had come to Yaz quite by accident).
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“I’m not callin’ you Eagle, okay,” it’s likely he can hear her roll her eyes through tone
alone. “Just listen, this is important.”
(It was a book that her dad was reading. He loved historical fiction, romance novels,
and conspiracies – so a historical romance novel about an alien conspiracy was basically his
perfect story. It was called ‘A Journal of Impossible Things’ by Verity Newman. It told of a
character called the Doctor; an alien who travelled through time and space in a blue police
box. A man who could change his face. That explained the different men they’d seen, the
different time periods, and just what their missing memories might have been. In all these
accounts, the Doctor was often described alongside a human companion, someone with
whom he travelled the universe. It still didn’t explain why their memories were missing,
though, or if this Doctor was ever going to come back. Since the TARDIS disappeared the
previous month, neither of them have caught a glimpse of anything out of the ordinary. No
memories writing themselves over, just two versions of events that felt like the truth,
jostling for her attention. No golden lights. No shadow).
“I need you over here for an investigation, this room has just appeared at Park Hill that
weren’t there before.”
(Until recently, these past few days, because both of them were being stalked by one).
“You what? Seriously?” she can hear the excitement in his voice.
(It’s the sort of memory that one tends to bury. Something is watching them in the
dark).
“Seriously,” Yaz answers. “
“Have you tried goin’ in there?” On the other end of the line, he’s shuffling around,
rifling through drawers – no doubt unearthing his secret evidence draw full of information
concerning the Doctor. They keep the evidence at his house because her parents (and
Sonya) are far too relaxed about barging into her personal space. Graham, on the other
hand, gives Ryan plenty of it, especially these days. They don’t meet for tea anymore, but
Yaz always has a chat with him when she visits. Where once she felt the three of them were
connected by fate, more and more, those strings are unravelling. Now, Graham is just her
best mate’s granddad.
“Can’t. Door’s locked – and that’s not all. I think this has somethin’ to do with the
Doctor.”
“How’d you figure that?”
“I dunno. When I was holdin’ the door handle there was this vibratin’ comin’ from the
other side, and it smelt like engines, you know, like spaceship smell. It reminded me of the
police box, the feeling of it. It was like it felt… alien.” She sounds like a lunatic. Maybe she
is.
“But the Doctor’s supposed to have a police box, like you said, not an apartment.”
“I know, but maybe there’s some sort of alien in disguise or somethin’, and if there is,
then the Doctor’ll be here to stop it for sure. Remember all those posts by that support
group that were investigatin’ the Doctor – they always turn up when there’s some sort of
alien threat.”
“That would be so awesome,” he breathes, incredulous. “Do you know anyone livin’ in
the places either side? They probably noticed the door, maybe they’ll know somethin’
about it.”
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“Probably, haven’t asked them, though. I’ll do it in a sec, put on my uniform and all that
so they’ll actually talk to me.”
“I’ll meet you soon as I can. I need to see what’s in that room.”
“Sounds good, mate. See ya soon,” she hangs up, and a giddy smile stretches across her
face.
Just before seven, she knocks on the door of number 51. Ryan stands behind her,
jittering with nerves. She’s lent him her spare police vest, but it doesn’t fit him at all. He
has it slung over both shoulders with no hope of doing it up, and he certainly doesn’t look
the part either. He’s terrible at being authoritative. Yaz is just hoping that whoever lives in
apartments 51 and 52 aren’t terribly confrontational, or terribly observant.
She steels her face with her famous officer calm and says; “Hallamshire police, open up
please.”
Beside her, Ryan whispers “that’s so cool, man. Can I say it next time?”
She nudges him in the ribs as the door opens. A woman of around seventy stands in a
fluffy pink dressing gown, grey hair loosely curled, with a warm and business-like
expression on her face.
“Good evening ma’am, I’m PC Khan and this is officer Sinclair –“
“Oh good, they did send someone after all,” she says, straightening. Sizing them up. “I
tried to call the Hallamshire station yesterday afternoon and they were ever so rude.”
“Right, yes, of course. I’m very sorry about the way you were treated Mrs –“
“Harkins,” she smiles. “Come on in then, don’t just stand there.” She beckons them
inside with spry enthusiasm. Yaz and Ryan exchange a bemused look and follow her into
the flat. It’s of a similar layout to Yaz’s place, though a bit smaller. The whole place could
use some airing out – musty, floral-print armchairs sit stagnant upon the carpet in positions
they likely haven’t left for decades, and a thick layer of dust coats beige curtains that
presumably used to be white.
“So, Mrs Harkins,” Yaz ventures, following the woman into her front room, gazing
around for any signs of abnormality. “Just for the sake of record-keepin’, can you tell me
exactly what you called us about?” In the corner of her eye, Ryan sniggers. She nudges him
again. For someone who wants to use code-names like proper movie investigators, he’s
terrible at undercover.
“Oh, yes, I suppose you’ll need to collate all the evidence,” she bristles importantly,
slowly lowering herself into an armchair.
“That’s right,” Yaz puts on her bright smile. The favourite smile.
“Yes, well,” Mrs Harkins begins, while Yaz pulls out a notepad and pen from her
pocket. “There’s been these terrible noises coming through the wall – smells, too. It smells
like one of those old car engines firing up, and something else. I can’t quite place it.”
Ryan makes a show of sniffing the air. “I don’t smell anythin’, ma’am.”
“Oh well, it’s not here at the moment,” she waves her frail hand in a lazy gesture. “It
comes and goes, same as the noises.”
“What sort of noises? If you, err, if you don’t mind repeatin’ what you said on the
phone.”
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“It’s a bit like wheezing – not a person wheezing, mind – more like a machine. There
are other sounds too, all these weird beeps and boops, like a big computer.” Again, Ryan
and Yaz exchange a glance. Sounds like a potential alien incursion, and they couldn’t be
more excited.
“Any idea what might be causin’ it?”
“Well, I’ll admit I was feeling a little woozy when I phoned in yesterday – not like
myself. I can understand why they thought I was a bit potty,” she giggles, casting her eyes
down to the carpet. “It’s got to be the man next door. He’s shifty if you ask me, up to no
good,” she waggles an aged finger in disapproval. “He’s always playing loud music, if you
can call that garbage music, ha!” she exclaims, and again, Ryan sniggers, thankfully out of
her view. “He and his nasty friends all play those computer games, which might explain the
machine noises. As for the smell, he doesn’t strike me as particularly hygienic, or maybe
he’s building something. I thought you could pop over and investigate, in case it’s
anything,” she leans forward and narrows her eyes conspiratorially, “criminal.”
“Right,” Yaz nods, scribbling nonsense in her notebook to look busy. She flips it shut.
“And, if you don’t mind me askin’, what did you say it was when you called it in?”
“I called because of the noises and the smell – ordinarily I would’ve contacted the estate
agent but… Oh, well it’s silly really, because I could’ve sworn I saw someone in the
house.”
“You think someone broke in?” Yaz says, re-opening her notebook and writing
something down, for real this time.
“But they can’t have done, I checked. The doors and windows, I keep them locked at all
times.” That, Yaz thinks, would explain the stuffiness. “And the keys were right where I always
leave them. Nobody could have been here.”
“But you saw somethin’?” she prompts.
“Yes... something. I’m not sure if it was a person, probably just my old eyes playing
tricks,” she chuckles softly to herself, diffusing the tension. Yaz can see that she’s shaken,
and that she’s lying to convince herself as much as the two supposed officers in front of
her. “I called when I saw it, because I was in such a panic. I was so afraid,” a gentle chuckle
again, “so silly of me…” Horror logic (oh, silly me).
“Where did you see this person, or whatever it was?” Yaz asks.
“Just over there, by the wall.” Mrs Harkins points to the wall that, apparently, should
connect to room 13. “But really, it wasn’t a person, didn’t even look like one, not really. I
was just frightened. I’d be glad if you could give that boy next door a good talking to,
though. Get him to stop his tinkering and those noises keeping me up half the night.”
“Ma’am,” Ryan pipes up, and Yaz casts him a warning look to remind him he’d
promised to let her do the talking. He persists, ignoring her. “For the sake of, err, record
keepin’, as my colleague here said,” he casts a nervous side-eye at Yaz to make sure she
isn’t about to nudge him again. “What exactly did this person, or trick – or whatever – look
like anyway. Could be we have a, err, a major incident on our hands,” he coughs, “citizen.”
His voice drops nearly an octave on the last word, and he winces. Yaz really hopes Mrs
Harkins is too caught up in her hatred for that tinkerin’ boy next door to find it
suspicious.
“It was like… something dark, in the shape of a person...”
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“Like a shadow,” Ryan finishes, and Yaz turns to see that his expression is stonily
serious. No hint of a smirk.
“Yes,” murmurs Mrs Harkins. “I think it was talking, or it was trying to. It seemed to be
looking for something… I promise you,” she says, a little desperate, snapping out of her
recollective stupor, “I’m not loony. I’ve been here at Park Hill since before the
renovations, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s okay, Mrs Harkins, we believe you,” Yaz assures her. “You said you’ve been livin’
here since before the renovations?”
“Yes,” she says, swelling with pride, “almost forty years.”
“And, tell me, in all that time have you ever noticed a room between flats 51 and 52?”
She’s taken aback. “Well, no, no there’s no room between us. I should know, I’ve been
hearing the racket that boy makes on the other side of the wall for something close to three
years now. It’s just gotten a lot louder these past few days, that’s all.”
“Right,” she nods, again scribbling her pen against her notebook for something to do.
Something official. She casts Ryan a knowing look and he jerks his head back to indicate
that they should leave. “Mrs Harkins,” Yaz smiles again, “would you mind just steppin’
outside with us for a moment. We’re going to have a talk with the man next door, but we
want to make sure we get our facts straight.”
“Of course,” she bristles, face settling into calm disgruntlement.
As they exit the flat, Yaz whispers, “a shadow, have you seen it too?”
“Yup,” he answers, face unreadable. “Do you think this alien’s followin’ us?”
“Could be,” she humours him, but Yaz is thinking about another shadow. Once upon a
time it suffused the empty spaces in her memories, but that shadow had been joyful, gold,
sparking with energy. That shadow was the Doctor. The one that stood over her in the
night was nothing but an absence of light and sense. They couldn’t be the same thing.
Outside number 51, Yaz is relieved to see that flat number 13 still exists. She’s had
trouble, in the recent past, with things disappearing on her. Memories writing over. She
tries the door again, but it’s as locked as ever. Beyond the wood, a non-existent space
rattles, tantalising.
“This room here, Mrs Harkins,” Yaz says, as soon as the old woman’s hunched form
comes pottering out of her dwelling. “Was this always here?”
The woman comes to a stop outside number 13, and it seems to take her a moment to
focus on what’s in front of her. “Oh, that’s strange…” she mutters.
“Almost forty years you’ve lived here, yeah?” Ryan prompts, not bothering to ask Yaz
for permission with his eyes. He’s getting excited, and so is she. She has half a mind to grab
an axe or something and break down the door just to see what secrets lay in wait.
“Well, it must have been, mustn’t it?” She’s desperate again, pleading for some
semblance of logic. Yaz can relate.
“All those weird noises you’ve been hearin’, the smells, they’re comin’ from there, not
your neighbour.” Yaz explains.
“I didn’t notice it… forty years…” the old woman shakes her head.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” Trust Ryan to ask the good questions, the kind questions.
Yaz is too busy rattling off a thousand more of them behind her bright, smiling eyes.
“Err, officer Sinclair,” she says, voice gruff and professional. “Would you go back into
number 51 and listen at the wall of number 13?” she casts what she hopes is a confident
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nod to Mrs Harkins. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this disturbance, ma’am.” The
woman nods, still shaken, and Ryan leads her by a steady arm back into her flat.
Presently, Yaz walks over to the doorstep of number 52 and prepares to meet this
apparent delinquent that’s caused poor old Mrs Harkins so much trouble.
She knocks; sharp, but considerate. The door opens to reveal a man just a few years
older than Yaz with a straggly strain of dark stubble spotting his chin, and unkempt hair
trailing over a greasy forehead. He looks thin, as in doesn’t-eat-anything-more-nutritious-
than-crisps thin. His white T-shirt is stained, and his expression wary.
“Hello sir, I’m PC Khan, would you mind if I take a look inside? We’ve had reports of
strange noises and smells coming from this apartment, and I’ve been sent to investigate.”
“What sorts of reports?” he asks, eyes narrowing. Yaz makes a point of leaning across
to get a view of his apartment over his shoulder. There’s rubbish littering the floor, and the
only light comes from a TV blaring from somewhere down the hall.
“D’ya have a warrant?” he asks, tilting his chin up in defiance.
“Look mate, I’ll level with you,” she shrugs, giving him a casual grin. “I don’t care if you
and your mates are in here shootin’ up or what have you, not here for that. I’m only here
because the lady next door keeps on complainin’ about the noise, and the smell, and we’ve
got to look like we’re doin’ somethin’ about it.”
He grins, bemused, and shrugs back. “Guess that’s okay, but I’ll have my lawyer onto
you if you start stickin’ your nose about,” he warns. Yaz scoffs, because he looks like the
last guy in the world who’d have a personal lawyer. “If this is about them engine smells and
all those wheezin’ machine sounds, that’s got nothin’ to do with me. Figured it was
somethin’ in the pipes. It’s no real bother, though.”
“So you’ve noticed it too?” she confirms. “And what about number 13?”
“What?”
“The room between this one and Mrs Harkins in number 51.”
“Err,” he chuckles at her expense, “there’s no room there.”
She raises an eyebrow, “Wanna check that mate?”
He raises his own eyebrows in a bemused response, shrugging those skinny shoulders
under his stained shirt and dodging past her. She wrinkles her nose in anticipation of the
smell, and walks over the threshold. Behind her she hears an exclamation; “No. Way.”
“Told you,” Yaz calls over her shoulder. Once inside, she presses an ear up against the
wall that once connected numbers 51 and 52. She knocks and calls “Ryan!”
There’s a single answering knock from the other side, and his muffled response of
“Yaz,” penetrates the wall with far too much ease for there to exist any substantial space
between them.
“I could swear to you,” the man says as he returns to his filthy apartment, “that room
was never there before.”
“Almost like you saw it, and then forgot all about it after.”
“Guess so,” he muses, “are you really a police officer, or are you like, paranormal
investigators?”
“Really a police officer,” she assures him, the side of her head still pressed against the
wall, testing the acoustics. It sounds like mystery, adrenaline, excitement coming back into
her life. “Really, also paranormal investigators – well, sort of. More like alien investigators.”
“That’s so cool.”
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“Tell me, err –”

“Steve.”
“– Steve. Have you noticed anythin’ strange recently, apart from the weird noises and all
that? Noticed anyone lurkin’ about?” The question stirs something in him, as she knew it
would. She smiles, satisfied, relishing in a mystery that for once is going somewhere.
“Err, yeah, actually. Is it an alien?”
“Do you think it’s an alien?”
He scoffs, “ok, not exactly a fair question. I didn’t even know aliens were an option
until just now – not sayin’ I believe you, by the way.” He seems to take a moment to collect
his thoughts – she knows what that feels like, trying to dislodge the parts of your memories
that have gotten jammed together and shoved down deep. Buried. “There’s been
somethin’, just these past couple nights. Like somethin’ in the corner of my eye, right
exactly in the spot where I don’t want to look. You know, a weird silhouette behind my
computer, and lookin’ at it feels like starin’ in a mirror in the dark until your face warps
into somethin’ scary.” She hadn’t taken Steve for the type to swap metaphors, but he’s
certainly captured the sentiment. “I think it was trying to talk to me…” he trails off, clarity
coming in bursts. Once again, she can relate, thoughts trailing off from one certainty to the
next, aimless but for the next spotlight on the dark path. “It weren’t like a voice, more like
somethin’ pushin’ into my thoughts. I didn’t think much of it because of the, well,” he
pauses, throwing her a sheepish look, “I won’t say more with you bein’ fed and all, but you
get the gist. It was looking for somethin’, felt it searchin’ me – look,” he snaps out of it for
a moment, suddenly stern, “if you’re havin’ me on I swear to god. I don’t usually believe in
all this paranormal stuff, but this was proper weird. What I think it said, or thought – or
whatever mad thing it does – it was lookin’ for…”
“What?” she says, snapping a little, brittle with curiosity.
He shrugs, looking apologetic. “Fam? I think it said fam. Can’t mean in the colloquial
sense though, right?”
Couldn’t, except that the Doctor used to be warm and bubbly, and somewhere in the
back of her mind there’s a cheerful chirrup of (Team? Gang? Fam?). But it can’t be, because
the Doctor isn’t like that. The Doctor doesn’t feel like that. She doesn’t watch from the
shadows and scare little old ladies half to death.
Ryan’s measuring the front of the apartment. More specifically, he’s measuring the
distance from the door to the wall of number 13. He did the same on the inside, and the
results, while not shocking, are decidedly weird. Based on the positioning of the door, it
should be opening halfway into one apartment and halfway into the other. Only, inside the
apartment, the other side of the door simply isn’t there. He runs his hands over the
wooden finish of door number 13. It seems normal enough, though there is a sort of
strange hum resonating within the material. It definitely isn’t painted on – he can hear the
hollow clangour of a room beyond – but there can’t be another room, because Yaz’s
knocking had come directly from the other side of the wall, her voice clear. It doesn’t make
sense. Disgruntled, he ducks back into number 51, wondering if there’s something he can
use to break down the door. Do old ladies usually keep axes lying around?
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Mrs Harkins is sitting on the sofa, only she isn’t sitting, she’s slumped. Motionless. Ryan
is reminded forcibly, and painfully, of his nan, slumped and loose and unresponsive. Dead
in a moment, but according to Yaz, dead a different way altogether. He wants to believe it,
he really does. Aliens and murderers – alien murderers. Monsters made of electricity and
his nan climbing up a crane like some sort of action hero to destroy one. More crucially, he
wants to believe that there’s someone out there that stops the monsters and gets him out
of his dreary, monotonous life of warehouse-laptop-warehouse-pub-fitful sleep. Tea on
Saturday. Someone with a time machine. Someone who can save his nan. The past has
always haunted him as something immovable, unchangeable, time slipping through his
fingers like so many objects dropped when his fingers don’t work like they’re supposed to.
He knows that the Doctor is real – that much is obvious from the amount of information
available online, more evidence than your average conspiracy theory, anyway. Yaz says that
they used to travel with her – the Doctor’s a woman, she assured him, despite the online
accounts describing several different men.
“Mrs Harkins?” he asks, more apprehension than urgency – because why is it always
him that finds them? Why is it always his heart stopping in the split moment between
horror and clarification, one way or the other.
She starts awake and opens her eyes, and thank god for that, Ryan thinks, because it
would’ve been a hell of a thing to explain to the real police if they had to be involved.
“Err, sorry to disturb you ma’am, but I’m going to need to break down that door out
there. Do you have anythin’ like an axe or a shovel or somethin’?” No answer. She doesn’t
seem quite herself. Brain addled and face screwed up, shaking her head as if to rid her eyes
of an invisible light. “Mrs Harkins?” he tries, stepping forwards.
Her eyes snap open with alarming speed. Bright and glassy, as if tears are beginning to
form. She grins, and it’s too wide for her face. Her jowls quiver with the effort and old,
cracked skin strains over the muscles of her face. “Hiya Ryan,” she says, voice cheery,
croaking. Forced. “Sorry ‘bout this, really I am, but we’re gettin’ the band back together –
and I’m not so stable as I am right now. Needed to borrow this for a bit, but she’ll be okay
in a mo.”
He stands, dumbstruck, edging back a fraction on feet that refuse to move in anything
but a guarded shuffle. “What –” he croaks, “what happened to your voice? You weren’t
Northern before.”
“Don’t bother with that, I don’t have long.” That much is clear. Whatever’s happening
to Mrs Harkins is taking its toll. She shakes, as if what’s inside doesn’t have enough room
to get around. Sparks of blood-shot red creep along towards her irises, and there’s a hint of
red teasing at her nostril. “You don’t remember, but you have to trust me. I’m the –” Mrs
Harkin’s eyes roll back into her head to show a glaze of red-rimmed white.
“Ma’am?” Ryan asks, as the woman shudders in her seat. He steps forward again, feet
suddenly remembering how to walk. “What were you gonna say just now?”
“Mm?” she murmurs, eyes rolling back to placid blue. “What is it, dear?” The posh
accent – somehow retained in Sheffield for decades – has returned. He’s seen enough
movies to know he’s being thick, he just doesn’t want to believe what he’s seen. Possession
– the proper, demonic kind. He thought this was a sci-fi story. He doesn’t mind sci-fi
stories. They’re full of big guns and spaceships and killer robots. He’s not, unfortunately, a
big fan of horror. “Err, never mind,” his voice squeaks out.
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In front of Mrs Harkins’ armchair, the TV blares on. It’s one of those ancient sets from
the 70s; brown box and crooked antenna. Analogue. The kind that doesn’t get signal
anymore – so the fact that the screen has come alive with crackling static is alarming to say
the least. The white noise shifts, seemingly without purpose, as Ryan stares – again, too
stunned to move. The darker pixels form words; swirling, difficult to pinpoint like those
tests they do online to see if you’re a robot (and oh, what he wouldn’t give for a few robots
right now. Much rather that than a ghost). For a moment, it’s clear. The screen reads:
TEAM
“Oh, sorry about that, dear. I must’ve sat on the remote,” Mrs Harkins mutters. She
rustles around in the musty armchair and fishes a dusty remote from beneath the cushions.
The woman pushes one of the buttons in a deliberate, exaggerated movement that seems
to cost her a deal of mental effort. The screen switches:
GANG
Switches again:
FAM
The message wavers, and Mrs Harkins struggles with the controls. “It’s not switching
off, blasted thing,” she mutters, hammering the power button on the remote. “It hasn’t
done this before,” she chuckles. “Are you going to go along and help your friend now,
officer? I hope that miscreant next door isn’t giving that nice girl any trouble.”
“Right, yeah,” he edges away, slowly at first. “Just, err,” he backpedals as he shouts,
“Yaz!” He dashes out of the flat, leaving Mrs Harkins sitting in stunned silence. “YAZ!”
Ryan shouts while Yaz is in mid conversation with Steve, still very interested in the
whole paranormal/alien investigators schtick. She whips around to the source of his cry,
but before she can go to him, Steve taps her on the shoulder.
“Hello Yaz,” he quips, voice suddenly lighter. Layered, and distinctly not his own. “I’m
reassembling team TARDIS, but I’m havin’ some trouble gettin’ a grip on this reality –”
Steve groans and his hands jerk upwards to clasp at his head.
“Yaz!” Ryan cries, bounding into the flat. “Yaz, I’m not kiddin’, somethin’ seriously
weird is –” he stops, staring into the corner. Yaz turns around to see that Steve’s computer
has blared to life – dual monitors and all. Blue screens and white, compressed text. It’s
typing something so rapidly that the cursor seems to lead a stream of white across a neon
ocean.
“What the hell was…” Steve murmurs, but both Yaz and Ryan are staring at the
screens. Yaz edges forwards first. Across the screen the characters reel off:
YASMINKHANRYANSINCLAIRGRAHAMOBRIEN –
“It says our names,” she whispers to Ryan. “And… I think Steve was just –”
“Possessed. Or something. Yeah, same with Mrs Harkins. Hang on –” and he points
back towards the screen, “– it’s changed. Now it just says…” And the screen reads:
1313131313131313131313 –
Yaz turns back to face Ryan, both of them outlined in harsh blue, eyes wide. “It means
the room.”
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“It said – well, Mrs Harkins said – it was gettin’ the band back together, what the hell
does that mean?”
“It also,” she whispers, hopeful, “said TARDIS.”
The screens flare out and flash to black. The sudden contrast makes both investigators
jump. There’s a deafening bang from the entrance of the flat as the door is blown wide on
its hinges and slams up against the wall outside. In the darkness of the doorway, a shadow
is silhouetted against the moonlight. A sound presses itself into her skull; a dull thrumming
growing to a warbled voice. Groaning, squeaking, knife points on metal. Doctor.
“Oh my days,” Ryan mumbles.
Yaz steadies her breath, clenches her teeth, and runs at it.
“Yaz! Wait!” The apparition disappears a moment before she reaches it, but in her
proximity, she makes out a face bathed in starlight. Old eyes, and hair, yellow.
She keeps running right out of the flat, only stopping when her body slams into the
railings barring her from a fifteen-foot drop. She pants into the night, seething with
frustration. Again, it’s slipped through her fingers. Memories in her palms like clumps of
sand, falling, and the shadow, always in the corner of her eye but never within reach…
Down below, in the square outside the estate, a figure stands. A long, dark coat trailing in
the jagged breeze of a perfectly still night. It jerks its head to the right, gently, as if to
beckon. Even now, its outline seems clearer, as if its more in tune with its surroundings.
Ghost to flesh, lines blurring.
“I think it’s her, Ryan,” Yaz says, as he comes to stand beside her at the railing. He
looks apprehensive, hesitant. Scared. He casts a look behind him at the ominous door
marked 13.
“Can’t be, though. She was just a person, not a ghost.”
“I know… It doesn’t make sense.” But nothing’s made sense in a good few months,
and soon she knows she won’t be able to take it anymore. Half the beauty in a mystery is in
seeing it solved, otherwise it’s just running in circles. Running and running until your heart
gives out. If she can’t solve this, it will never stop haunting her. She doesn’t know what she
is, without this. Just a grey line, forward forever. Mundanity, but she wants more.
“Mrs Harkins, or whatever it was, she said she wasn’t stable,” Ryan ventures. “Maybe…
maybe the Doctor isn’t all here. Maybe she’s caught between, like you were with your
parallel memories, makin’ you all muddled.”
Yaz latches onto the theory, because a theory is just a thread tied to a mystery leading
somewhere better than confusion and listlessness. “And she’s tryin’ to communicate with
us, except she isn’t all here.”
“She said she was gettin’ the band back together,” Ryan repeats, puzzling it out in a
slow, drawn voice.
(yasminkhanryansinclairgrahamobrien) the voice echoes.
“It wants us together. Team TARDIS. All of us…” The thing that used to tie them
together has come back. I promise, the same voice echoes; clearer, kinder, everything’s goin’ to
be back to normal in no time. “Ryan, you need to go home and get Graham. We all need to be
here, you know, the band. The team.” Gang. Fam.
“Right, okay,” he nods, and Yaz can tell he’s debating whether or not to protest.
Graham isn’t exactly an easy person to persuade to go running off in the middle of the
night. Ryan’s going to have a hell of a time coming up with an excuse. “Do you really think
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it’s the Doctor – I mean, that didn’t seem like the person you told me about, or the person
that was online.”
In the back of her mind, Yaz knows this. The Doctor isn’t a shadow. In all the
impressions of buried memories existing within her, not one of them holds a hint of fear –
only tonight, she’s full of it. Fear. Not awe or hope or a sort of wild school-girl’s crush. Just
fear. “I do,” she affirms, because she needs it to be. Golden lights and blue wood and
dreams of a life that played on brash and loud and exciting. So long spent dreaming of
something more (old, new, borrowed, blue). She needs it to be the Doctor.
Graham doesn’t consider himself to be a nosy person, but this isn’t some frivolous
curiosity – it’s his grandson, and he’s up to something. Things were good between them.
After Grace died, they grew much closer. It would have been infinitely nicer to grow closer
together, the three of them as a family, but it was better than nothing. Yaz was a gem, too,
and he used to cherish their Saturday afternoons. The way they brightened up the house
that was, throughout the week, so often quiet, dreary, and graceful; in both its old elegance
and its fullness of her.
They grew apart from him, though, as kids do. For a while he thought they might be
seein’ each other, only he soon came to realise that theirs was far more of a sibling’s love –
with all its teasing and fearless, battle-worn affection. They spent a lot of time up in Ryan’s
room. He thought that perhaps they were playing video games, but he heard strange talk
when he pottered by the door. Soon he was potterin’ back and forth far more often than
was strictly necessary – only he wasn’t snooping, just getting in his daily quota of steps – he
told himself.
He heard snatches of conversations, stuff about alien invasions. Daleks and Cybermen,
Slitheen and Zygon. Christmas stars shooting laser beams, forests growing overnight, alien
broadcasts on the news. He thought they were definitely playing some sort of game, then,
maybe a role-playing campaign – only those didn’t exactly work with two. He’d done a bit
of digging. Novice though he was, he could navigate the internet easily enough. There was
a lot of stuff online about the names he’d heard them whispering behind that closed door,
ridiculous conspiracy theories about alien invasions. All of them had perfectly rational
explanations, of course, because he remembered them being on the news. Hoaxes,
hallucinations, and some incidents that he didn’t remember at all. Frankly, he’s pretty sure
he’d know if there’d been a forest covering the entire world, but according to some nutters
online, it had happened just a few years ago. Ridiculous. He knew Ryan liked a good
conspiracy. All in good fun, though – Grace didn’t raise a boy who was likely to believe the
Earth was flat and the moon landing was faked – but Yaz… no. Yaz didn’t seem the type
to even humour the idea. She was all duty, that girl – head screwed on about as tight as a
head could go. But there they were, discussin’ aliens like those doomsday preppers from
the telly.
It went on for some time, and he didn’t bother them about it. Let it not be said that
Graham O’Brien is a spoil-sport of a Granddad. He let them have their fun, their
distractions. Lord knows he was in need of some of his own. Only, Saturdays became less
of chat at the table, exchanging stories and laughs over cups of tea and custard creams, and
145
more of a chance for those two to grab a tray and rush upstairs to discuss the Borgalorgs
from planet Zog. He hated himself a bit for resenting them, because they were a couple of
kids that didn’t have any business hanging about an old codger like him. He wondered why
they ever bothered in the first place, frankly. He remembers them having more in
common, more to laugh about, more to do. They were good times, those Saturdays, but he
can’t remember why.
That’s how Graham justifies his choice to pry when he sees the door to Ryan’s room
left wide open, and the pile of papers strewn over the untidy bedspread. He’s going to find
out what’s been keeping those two kids so busy of late.
It’s impressive, in a way that’s a little scary, because he’s never seen Ryan put this much
effort into anything aside from Call of Duty, doing what he called ‘easter egg hunting’ (an
activity that, to Graham, seemed to involve nothing of the sort). The printed pages are
stuffed into several binders, else stapled together in clumps. Pages of text smattered with
highlighter pens; circles and arrows and crosses. He suspects it’s Yaz’s handiwork – the
physical evidence – because that girl can never take off her figurative police hat even when
the literal hat is removed, and her literal hair untied from beneath it.
Judging from the collated evidence, they’re looking for someone called the Doctor –
only they never look the same picture to picture. There are witness accounts of alien
invasions, blurred photographs that could be anything, really, if you squint. There’s one of
a man clearly in fancy dress running through a supermarket with big red suckers pasted all
over him, another of some sort of floating cylindrical object with what looks like toilet
plungers for arms, which is even more ridiculous. There’s a line of silver robots, which
have clearly been – now what’s that word – photoshopped into the streets of London.
Something about this Doctor bloke has got to do with the alien invasions. At least regular
conspiracies are usually a tad believable. This one’s downright bananas.
There are sketches, too – proper horror movie sketches that you find all over the
possessed kid’s notebook or the serial killer’s den (not that he enjoys such films, too
squeamish, but Grace used to put them on for a laugh and a balk at the questionable
medical information presented). They’re all black pen drawn in sharp, tidy lines; a jagged
silhouette, a police box like the sort they used to have back in Essex when he was a kid. A
crane from which someone is falling. The figure seems to be the artist’s muse – and it ain’t
Ryan’s hand, because he can’t draw a straight line to save his life, so it must be Yaz’s. The
figure has been drawn multiple times, each subsequent sketch getting more detail down,
like a camera coming into focus. The last one is clearly a woman with short, light hair, and
a long, trailing coat. Yaz is no Da Vinci, but still the image stirs a memory. He shakes his
head, because the notion is ridiculous. No such thing as aliens, and certainly not in
Sheffield.
When he hears Ryan’s heavy footfalls bounding up the stairs, he knows it’s too late to
escape the room unnoticed, so he stands his ground. He tries to arrange his face into a
curious expression, one with a bit of sternness behind the eyes, just to make sure Ryan
doesn’t brush him off and actually explains what’s going on here.
Ryan stops at the top of the landing – noticing Graham, no doubt. He wouldn’t know,
because he’s turned his back to the door in an attempt at nonchalance. He’s not doing
anything he ain’t got the right to do, after all.
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“What are you doin’ in my room?” Ryan asks. Not accusatory, just apprehensive.
Worried.
“Oh, Ryan, didn’t see you there, son,” he pretends to have a little start, and turns
around. “What’s all this then?”
“Why are you in my room?” He repeats, casting the odd shifty glance to the papers
laying on the bed.
“Well” Graham shrugs, “you left the door open and all this stuff on the bed.”
“Don’t matter, it’s still private.”
“Right,” he nods, a slight smile curling his lips, “of course.”
“Did you look at it?” he asks, clearly hopeful that he hasn’t.
“Yeah, well, just a little. Fascinatin’ stuff.”
“Right, yeah,” Ryan trails off, hesitant to meet his Granddad’s eyes. “Listen, do you
want to come with me? I’m goin’ over to see Yaz, she’s not been feelin’ too well.”
“Weren’t you at Yaz’s just now?”
“Err, yeah, I was just checkin’ up on her.” He lies, clearly. He saw how excited Ryan
was when he dashed out the door just before seven. You don’t look that eager when you’re
off to visit a sick friend, and besides, why would she want him there – Graham the
Grandad – when she was ill?
“Listen, son, I ain’t daft. I know you’re up to something, you and Yaz. The two of you
don’t bother with Saturday tea anymore – you’re always shut up in this room. I knew you
were lookin’ into aliens and all that, and I thought well good on them, they’re havin’ a bit
of a laugh, but this…”
“It’s not what it looks like, gramps.” Gramps, well, he’s pulling out all his secret
weapons now. Ryan must really want him to go and see Yaz.
“So, you’re not investigatin’ some bloke called the Doctor that stops these alien
invasions that have supposedly been happenin’ for years,” he indicates the piles of binders,
notebook scraps and printed papers laying around him with a somewhat theatrical gesture.
“Well, err, we are, but we’re not crazy or anythin’. It’s real –”
He sighs, “Ryan –”
“No, no, just don’t, okay? I know what it sounds like, but somethin’ real is goin’ on,
somethin’ that’s messin’ with our heads.”
“Now, just hold on, I remember Yaz tellin’ me about this months ago.” But does he?
The conversation was buried. Discarded, because holding onto such a memory was to
place himself in danger of questioning everything he knows. He stops himself from
questioning it now, too. Glaze over his eyes, relief blooming in his chest.
“See! Good, you remember that, because she told me you forgot – like bam, mind
wipe.” His eyes are wide, expression urgent. Graham casts his mind back to Yaz’s inky
shadow; a familiar outline. “The Doctor has this police box, see” – and Ryan dodges past
Graham’s stunned form and snatches up one of Yaz’s drawings of the box, along with a
handful of photographs taken from what looked like multiple places, and – judging by the
quality of the images – different times, too. “It’s called the TARDIS, and it’s a spaceship
“Right,” he nods. Short. “Anythin’ else?”
“And, err, it’s time machine,” he gazes up at Graham, wincing, as if hearing his own
logic for the first time.
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“Seriously, Ryan, lad, just calm it down. I can’t believe you’d buy this – actually,” and he
casts him a conspiratorial smirk, a signature wink. Diffusing the tension. “– I can believe
that, but not Yaz. Sensible girl like her, no way.”
Ryan glares at him, deadly serious, and Graham presses his mouth shut. “It’s real, I
promise you. I don’t have time to go through the evidence right now, but you need to
come with me to Yaz’s.”
“What’ve you done, wrangled a Boogeyman?” There’s bite to his voice, now, because he
sees what this is, or he thinks he does. He’s not sure what’s gotten Yaz so invested in this
nonsense, but with Ryan, it’s all too obvious.
“No, but the Doctor’s back, sort of, and askin’ for us.”
“Missing something here, I think, why is an alien superhero lookin’ for us.”
“We used to travel with her, in the TARDIS.”
“Umm, no, son, we didn’t. Wait, her? I thought we was talkin’ ‘bout a bloke.”
“Don’t matter right now,” he waves away the inconsistency. “Yaz remembers bits of it,
and I think I do too, not as much as her, though. I think you’ve gotta remember somethin’
too, Graham.”
“Trust me lad, I would know if I’d been larkin’ about on some alien world with a great
big alien!” But that stirs up something too, something to do with the silhouette of inky
black (if I’m gonna be larkin’ about on some alien world). His shock must register, because Ryan
latches onto it.
“There you go! You do remember, don’t you? See, there’s all these holes in our
memories, and the more you think about it, the wider they get.” And he’s right, oh god, he’s
right. “Just think, Graham, we used to meet for tea on Saturdays, and they were the best
times of my life, but we never even did anythin’.”
“We talked,” he mutters, quietly. “We had a good time, you know, just hangin’ about,”
he says it with doubt and desperation laced through every word, decorative. It’s true,
because there used to be something that made his life worth living. His idle days of
retirement spent on readin’ and telly and seein’ his mates, the smatterings of appointments
and the lonely hours wishing she were still here with him – it made them mean something,
because he was for something. He was important, or at least, he’d felt important. Special.
Chosen. Loved.
“No, Graham,” Ryan sighs. “That’s what I said, too, but it don’t make sense. I mean, I
like you mate, but I don’t like you that much.” Don’t like you so much that the world feels like it’s
not turnin’ if we don’t sit down for an hour or so every Saturday, when we do that nearly everyday anyway.
“There’s somethin’ missin’ from all of us. It’s the Doctor.”
“Ok, son, I’ll humour you,” and he’s only half lying, “let’s say I believe you. This
Doctor lass, why don’t we remember her, and why has she only come back now? And how
come Yaz remembers more than we do?”
“Ok, lot of questions there. I don’t know why we don’t remember, but it’s probably like
those sci-fi shows where they do a mind wipe and erase all your memories –”
“Oh, like, err – like Man in Black!”
“Men in Black,” he corrects. Ryan’s eyes are blown wide with enthusiasm, shoulders
tensed with adrenaline. “But yeah, like that. And Yaz says that the Doctor was trapped
somewhere, and she needed to save her. The police box – the TARDIS – it used to be
parked near her flat. One day she went inside and it disappeared, like, all around her. She
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says she can’t remember a lot of it, but it’s been comin’ back in her dreams. She reckons,
since it’s the Doctor’s ship, it was homin’ in on her, goin’ to rescue her from wherever she
got stuck.”
“And how’d you know she got stuck?” He can’t help himself. Even if it is complete and
utter nonsense, it’s still a train-wreck of an imaginative tale to listen to.
“She must have done, otherwise she would have come back for us already, yeah?”
“Err, yeah, I guess.” He trails off, wondering how far he should push this. He certainly
isn’t about to go traipsing across the way to Park Hill at this time of night to join in on
their little alien investigation. He’s heard about this sort of stuff happening before, from a
therapist he used to see when he was supposed to be dying, and he saw it happen to fellow
patients. They ran. They ran so far inside themselves, into fantasy, that they could escape
the torment in themselves, in their families. The torment of their terrible reality. It’s a
reaction to trauma, to hide. Trauma like coming to grips with your own death, like he had
to, and coming to terms with someone else’s, like he and Ryan both continue to do every
day – and Ryan not for the first time, poor lad. As for Yaz, he can only guess. Policin’ can
be a tricky job, a terrible job. Violent, demanding, let’s you in on the worst the world has to
offer. And that girl, well, she throws herself right into it, head screwed tight and expression
set. Determined. Only, you can’t fix everything. You can’t save everyone. That is, unless,
you acquaint yourself with the deliciously comforting idea that there’s someone out there
who goes about in a magic box, saving the world. And what’s more, that she took you with
her, because you were special. What a nice thought that would be. “You don’t think that,
maybe, Yaz could be, err… lyin’ to you.”
“No way,” and he says it so quickly, and with such assurance, that he almost daren’t
argue with him. Almost.
“She’s a clever girl, Ryan, I know that, but she throws herself headfirst into all that
policin’ business, and she’s always been frustrated about not gettin’ any real cases, she’s
told me so heaps of times.”
“And so you think she’s gone crazy.” He shrugs, a smile playing at his lips. “You know,
I thought the same thing at first, but all the stuff she’s said, it all checks out.”
“In what possible way does any of this check out, son?” he strains, drawing up a hand to
his brow as if nursing a headache. Right pain in the head, this is, and not just the absurdity
– he’s having trouble ordering his thoughts, because as much as he tries to rationalise it
with psychology and logic and everything he tends to hold dear, as an upright sort of man,
he can’t help but believe, and want to believe, what he’s hearing. Larkin’ about on an alien
world – wouldn’t that be nice? “Just forget it, please. Just call Yaz and tell her you can’t meet
her imaginary alien friend tonight. Reschedule, yeah?” He’s being cruel, and he knows it.
Cruel to Yaz, and cruel to Ryan, because he loves them both dearly. Those two were
inseparable long before Graham came swaggering – to Ryan’s dismay – into his life.
“I won’t do that. You’ve got to come, just see for yourself. I promise, I’m not actin’ out
or tryin’ for attention or nothin’.” He’s been guilty of that in the past, Graham knows from
Grace’s tales. After his mum, Ryan relished in the downward spiral of an act so aptly
named ‘goin’ off the rails.’ Bludging off, staying out, drinking, too much – but Grace soon
put a stop to it all with that firm, endless love of hers. Only, she isn’t here this time to help
him. Graham has noticed all his staying out late; his coming home in the mornings with
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stained clothes and starry eyes. His rocking up late to shifts and forever putting off that
NVQ he’s always talking about getting.
“She’s gone, Ryan. It’s been nearly six months now.” He murmurs it; soft, afraid to say
the words out loud. This is the root of the problem, the root of all their problems at the
moment. Grace. Slumped in that chair, there one moment, and gone the next (or falling,
heroic, blue light above and shock through her bones; falling, falling from a…)
“This isn’t about nan, okay? It’s not.”
“What is it about then, son? I want to help, I really do.”
“If you wanted to help, you’d come with me and see Yaz and the Doctor.” His voice is
cold, his word final. Ridiculous.
“So, you’ve seen her then, this Doctor?”
“Well no, not exactly, but I know she’s real. The TV was switchin’ on and off, and the
computer was writin’ our names and we saw this silhouette outside the door, and there’s
this room at Park Hill that was never there before, and Yaz says –”
“Oh Ryan, Yaz is off her rocker! And all that stuff you said don’t sound like no doctor
to me. Sounds like somethin’ off some paranormal hauntin’ hoax where it all turns out to
be electricity faults and computer mishaps. And a shadow? You saw a shadow in a densely
populated apartment complex, and you thought, ‘oh, well,” and he puts on a mocking
voice, cruel, “must be that alien time travellin’ chap we was lookin’ for Yaz.’ It’s silly, Ryan,
it just is. You can’t run away from this stuff. Grief is hard, but you’ve just gotta feel it,
know it, recognise it – and move on!”
“Hey, no, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you don’t know anythin’ about
me!” his voice is rising, and he hasn’t done that for a long time, not since the early days of
Graham’s relationship with Grace, when he was intruding on the strong, immovable love
between a lonely boy and the only adult who’d ever stood by him. Ryan’s a quiet boy, his
nan taught him that, to control his temper. That lesson is wavering now. “Besides, don’t
you see what we could do, if we went back to the Doctor like we was before? She’s got a
time machine! And I know you don’t believe me, but I know you remember” – Graham
balks, but Ryan insists, correctly “I know you do. She’s got a time machine, Granddad,”
Grandad, not Graham. But when had that happened? Sitting around, drinking tea? He
remembers a mirror and a cave and a woman waiting for him in the grass – except that he
doesn’t. Ridiculous. “We can go back and save her.”
And there it is, satisfaction, because Ryan’s just admitted why he really believes in all
this. Why he believes, now more than ever, in impossible heroes. “Ryan, son,” he says, with
all the gentleness he can muster beyond his doubt, and beyond the cruel satisfaction of
being proven right. “She’s gone, and trust me, it’s been hard for me, too. It’s been harder
alone. We need to help each other.”
“Yeah, but at least you’ve got somethin’ to look back to – a time before. She’s all I had.”
He’s close to tears, but Graham knows he’d never let them fall. Too proud. “I can’t
remember a moment of my life when she weren’t there for me.”
Graham’s kind eyes wait for his, but they continue to stare down, stubborn. Hiding
tears. “You’ve got me, and you’ve got Yaz – as long as she gets some help for whatever
this is, too. And this,” he once again gestures to the mess of papers surrounding him,
“needs to stop.”
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“Please, please just come with me.” The tables turn; now he’s the one pleading – but
Graham won’t give in. Sooner or later, Ryan will see what Yaz is doing. He’ll come to,
come round, come home. Sooner or later, the twinging pain in Graham’s head will dissipate as
he sorts through these pesky memories of his, as he pushes the unwelcome ones, the
irrational ones, back down.
“I’m sorry Ryan, but I ain’t comin’.”
Final word, end of story. Aliens in Sheffield? Ridiculous.
Yaz has a final check on both Steve and Mrs Harkins. Both seem a little disorientated,
but otherwise okay. She tells them that she’ll be referring their complaints to the local
building authority, who’ll have a talk to the landlord about the mysterious room and the
noises/smells/alien telepathy emanating from it. To which, they both reply, ‘what room?’
and Yaz greets the infuriating sensation of madness like an old friend. The room is still
there, to her eyes, at least, so she waits. She tries to go back to her apartment, tries to sit
there for a while, doing what normal people do when they’re waiting. Twiddling thumbs,
being alone, having thoughts unaccompanied by any particular sensation; none of which
take her fancy. Patience is for wimps.
Consequently, it’s not long after she sits down on the edge of her bed – tense, alert,
hoping for a glimpse of a shadow in the corner – that she’s out the door again, coat tugged
up from the floor and shrugged back on. Out into the night.
Only, this time, as she makes her way towards number 13, praying that it’s still there,
someone is there waiting. It isn’t Ryan, because the shape of them is too slight. Ryan, she
thinks, might have some trouble persuading Graham to join them, and he’s terrible at
making up cover stories. Lyin’, bein’ undercover – all that’s her game. Graham’s a bit like
that, too. Doesn’t miss a trick.
It’s the shadow. Clearer than she’s ever seen it, wavers a little at the edges, shimmering
like gas in the heat of the day. Wrong, because this is night, and she doesn’t shimmer as
much as impassionately refuse to abide by the natural movements of the air.
“Hey, wait!” Yaz calls as she approaches the figure. She doesn’t want it to disappear
again. If Ryan was right, if she isn’t stable, calling out in any way she can, then they might
not have long to talk. “I know you,” she swallows. The taste of answers, anticipated, dry
out her throat, tongue sticky on the roof of her mouth. She’s close now, can read the
number on the door, and the outline of the figure only grows clearer. It’s as if her
conscious observation of the phenomena only strengthens its resolve to exist. This, she
thinks, is true of most things. Apparently, it’s also true of alien ghosts.
“You’re the Doctor, aren’t you?” she says, as it’s image clears to solidity. “I used to
dream about you.” But you looked different, she doesn’t say, though she desperately wants to
know why. You wore blue and you used to smile. It isn’t just a shadow cast over her, she wears
all black. A long, trailing coat – not unlike the previous fabric of sky blue and pale lilac that
Yaz dimly remembers.
The shadow’s slight shoulders shrug beneath the oversized coat, elbows sharp in their
outward turn, hands crumpled into her pockets. She turns, and Yaz sees her face properly
for the first time. She has an ageless look about her; the slight creases forming between her
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brows, around her smile, and the pressed-in curve of her lips tell Yaz that she isn’t all youth
– but her eyes are bright and dark, her hair shaved on one side while the other sports a
silvery hanging fringe that’s splayed across her face in spikes from the bitter wind. The
wind that only seems to affect her. These attributes, along with the silver chain hanging
from her ear, communicate youth, the flavour of which feels forced, like a colourful mask
to compensate for the monochromaticity of the rest of her.
“You remember me, Yasmin Khan?” She seems to savour the taste of her name in her
mouth. She sounds northern, which is almost ridiculous enough to make Yaz laugh. She
doesn’t look human – let alone like she could be shackin’ up just ‘round the corner here in
Sheffield. There’s an edge to her like powdered glass – pretty, until you touch it, and it cuts
through your fingers as if they were raw dough.
“We travelled, didn’t we,” it’s less of a question and more of an open, meandering train
of thought. “Ryan and Graham, too.” Memories that were locked behind a door – a both
outwardly and self-enforced imprisonment – continue to come swimming to the surface.
“We certainly did,” the shadow – the Doctor – smiles wistfully.
“Why are you watchin’ us? What did you do to those people – Steven and Mrs
Harkins,” once again, she falls into the old rhythm of interrogation. Officer calm, officer
curiosity. “– and what did you do to the TV and the computer and –” and my head? She
says, in her mind, but she gets the impression that the Doctor hears her anyway.
“Excellent questions, gold star for you – wait,” she casts her glance up, as if trying to
remember something. “Was I doing stars or points? – it’s been a lot longer for me than it
has for you, so forgive my terrible memory.”
And here’s something else, an old frustration. A fundamental truth of the Doctor,
unearthed. She never answers questions. “Well?” she prompts, trying to mask her fear,
because there’s still something undeniably wrong with all of this.
“Right, answerin’. Yup, I can do that. I’m stabilised now – well, sort of – you’re
probably still noticin’ somethin’ a bit, err... off.” She certainly is; the voice isn’t quite in
tune with the rest of her, and there isn’t just one voice either. It’s like there are others
rushing ahead or lagging behind, echoes and encores. The face is too young, the eyes too
shiny, teeth a bit too white with a steely glint like bare wire. All of the wrongness stuffed
into an oversized trench coat and a bit-too-trendy buzz-cut, like she’s trying too hard. “I
was watchin’ you because I was tryin’ to make a decision based on you. I had to gather data
– but I’ll tell you about that later. So, not really an answer on the first one, but I promise
you, Yaz –” she pauses, considering the word with an eyebrow raised, “– can I still call you
Yaz?”
What’s she’s really asking is ‘are we still friends?’ and it hurts a part of her that she
doesn’t quite remember being, so she says “answers first, then I’ll think about it.” She still
isn’t sure, because the Doctor isn’t like this. She isn’t like this at all.
“Well, Yasmin Khan,” she gives her a nod, proper, with a bit of a smirk, too, as if this is
all old territory. As if she’s been waiting for a chance to say that name for a long time. “I
promise you, I’ll give you answers, all of them. That’s not the sort of promise I give out
willy-nilly, so savour it, won’t you?” she grins. “What I did to those people was called
perfect psychic resonance – let me puppet their physical processes for a bit so I could send
a message across to you and Ryan. It’s not a good idea, generally speaking, so I usually rule
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it out as a hard no. Besides, it’s sort of uncomfortable. Bit tight, too, like being all squashed
up on the subway because, blimey, those heads are smaller than a –”
“Doctor,” she interrupts. That feels good, too. Familiar. That word and that tone;
snappy, disbelieving. Hurry it along now.
“Right you are. Well, then I keyed into the aerial signals from the television, which was
pretty easy, just some low frequency radio waves, sending through some words that might
jog your memories. The computer – that was just a very complicated little bit of electrical
stimulus applied to the transistors. Involved a lot of complicated equations rattling off in
this old nut,” and she taps the side of her head with a wink, “at basically the speed of light,
which is actually a pretty fascinatin’ form of communication, and, might I add, great, for a
party trick. Once I was at a party on Cordoril 9, and –”
“Doctor!”
“Sorry, Yaz – Yasmin,” she corrects, and coughs. “I haven’t been able to do the whole
ramblin’ thing for a while now, gettin’ carried away. Righto, next question. Oh right! Your
head, err… that one’s a bit more complicated. Got any easier questions first, Yasmin
Khan?”
Millions, she thinks, and once again, the Doctor’s sympathetic smile gives her the feeling
she’s heard her thoughts again. “Err, why don’t we remember anythin’ about you?”
“You remember my name.”
“Yeah but, I don’t remember who you are or what exactly we did. Nothin’ that’s
happened to me in the past few months makes any sense.”
“Oh, but you shouldn’t remember anythin’ at all, which just goes to show how strong
you really are.”
“Strong how?” It’s not that she doesn’t believe it, she just wants to hear it. Favourite,
always straining for that title.
“Strong like you resisted executive meddling from the most powerful civilisation on
Earth – well, used to be, anyway. They’re still pretty good though,” her voice grows wistful,
like an old woman recalling a rosy childhood. “They tried to erase everything about me that
was still in your head, but you resisted, and you spurred the others into resistin’ to. I can
feel them, comin’ to. Graham’s a little slow on the uptake, but you know how he is.
Stubborn. Brilliant,” and she grins, nothing wicked about it, now, nothing steely. It’s kind
and bright, something like the old Doctor would have done, she expects.
“So, you really are an alien?” She asks, and maybe it’s a stupid question, given everything
she’s seen, but it still feels so surreal, so at odds with who she used to be. The rational sort.
“Yeah,” she says, patient. A hint of a smile. She’s done this before; the installation of
wonder. Yaz thinks she might breathe that sensation like she herself breathes air.
“And that blue police box, it was your ship – right?”
“Still is –“ she pats the door of apartment 13. “I’ve fixed the chameleon circuit, so it’s
disguised itself as an extra room in the estate – clever, right?”
“But, there’s nothin’ there. It’s just two walls pressed together.”
“Dimensional engineerin’, Yaz – Yasmin. There’s a whole other dimension through that
door.”
For a moment, her need for answers, her fear, is replaced by a ceaseless wonder. “Can I
see it?”
The Doctor grins, “‘Course you can.”
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She’s seen it before, but the lights in her eyes were so bright she may as well have been
staring into the sun. The Doctor’s expression is almost manic in its enthusiasm. Again, she
wonders how long she’s been waiting to do this. Watching, calculating, collecting data. Yaz
can’t help herself as she pushes the question down. She’s greeted by another feeling; the
feeling of being so overcome with wonder that you never stop to ask why.
Why the trust and the admiration? Why the taking your hand and following wherever you go like some
sort of kid? She does that now, follows her, because she wants more (more of the universe).
The Doctor pushes open the door of flat number 13 with a casual jerk of the arm, and
unleashes a euphony of colour. She remembers a similar feeling, buried now, of stepping
into a room seemingly spun from gold and ridged with amber, ochre lights blaring
geometric patterns across her face. She was, back then, at the end of her rope, her hope.
Almost ready to die on a faraway planet named for its desolation, and almost okay with it
because she was with her. This is a similar sort of feeling, like walking into a cloud of
promise, and future, and hope. Hope for the days that will come after this moment, during
which she will be happier than she’s ever been. It’s adrenaline. A pause in the mundanity
track replaced with something big and bombastic and too loud to scream over (the screams
are there, though, beneath the wonder, because all this is terribly, incalculably wrong – but
where there’s risk, there’s hope).
Purple walls are dotted with a random elegance of blue lights – diamond shaped,
midnight to turquoise. The centre spreads orange warmth from familiar amber columns,
red to fuchsia fading outwards like heat from a fire. The space echoes a sweet hum, as if its
welcoming her. She remembers a time when she understood what this place was saying as
if it were speaking, but now they’re just sounds. Beautiful, but only sounds. A homophonic
melody, harmonising with her own.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. The bigger on the inside bit is sort of obvious. She smells
what the neighbours have been complaining about – the engine smell and gritty oil coming
from a panel beneath the metal floor, and something overpoweringly saccharine.
“Is it comin’ back to you?” the Doctor asks, hopeful. She’s walked in behind her and
shut the door. Maybe that should strike her as ominous, but it doesn’t.
“A little, yeah. So,” she says, conversationally, suddenly at home. She rests a hand
against the central console and feels a shiver shoot through her. The good kind. “How
come the neighbours don’t notice this place. They just forget about it.”
“Psychic concealment,” she answers, clearly about to throw around some more terms
that, for all Yaz knows, she might be making up. “I never used to bother with it ‘cause it
makes me difficult to find. That, and I could never work out how to rig it up. They don’t
have them in the old type 40s, but I’ve wacked something together well enough haven’t I
old girl?” she comes to stand beside Yaz and gives the console an affectionate stroke. It
whirrs a soft response, almost like the purring of a cat. “It’s sort of the same reason they
don’t notice me – or at least, don’t notice me much, until they really start thinkin’ about it.
Perception filter,” she smiles, rocking back on her heels. Black boots, Yaz notices, and
striped socks that seem at odds with the rest of her appearance. “Not invisibility, just
makes me hard to notice. It’s come in handy a few times, though it doesn’t always work.
You could all see me, partly because your subconsciousness wanted to – remembered,
even. But you only saw a shadow. Difficult to remember. I’ve deactivated it now, though.”
She does look more solid, almost normal. Almost. “That’s why I’ve got all this black,
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honestly I don’t really think it’s me.” She wrinkles her nose, looking down at herself. “But a
perception filter can only do so much, don’t want to tempt fate with too much of an
incredible outfit.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, barely a whisper.
The Doctor forces out a nervous chuckle. “Ok, I’ll try not to be offended by that.”
“I mean, I remember the Doctor, sort of, and she never went around posessin’ people
or using radio waves or computer circuits.”
“Oh, well, that’s because I’m not so good at bein’ here, not yet, anyway.” When Yaz
doesn’t seem the least bit satisfied, she continues, wary. It’s as if she doesn’t want to say
too much, spill it from that rambling mouth of hers. Another familiar feeling, and it twists
discomfort in her gut. “I could do all those things before, just didn’t need to. My people
are quite different from humans, so it took me a bit to adjust after bein’ ‘round them for so
long. I had also just broken out of a bubble universe that was stuck in a time loop that was
very well designed because, well, I designed it, but anyway – I was sort of out of sync with
this plane or dimension or whatever you want to call it in this,” she coughs to disguise her
mutter of; “stupid language.” She clears her throat, and gives her a reproachful look when
Yaz casts disdain her way. “So, long story short, not fully in this dimension, needed to take
a few shortcuts to get the message across, until I established direct psychic contact and
could anchor myself here.”
“What are your people, if you can do things like that?” she asks, trying to pretend it’s
casual curiosity and not frightened awe that makes her wonder.
“Oh, just a bit more advanced than you lot, that’s all. Exposure to the time vortex,
elevated perception, quicker synapses, direct control over intellectual functions, telepathic
affinity, total cell regeneration – and yes,” she winks, “this is what I put on my resume.”
The bragging isn’t new, either, because it turns Yaz’s stomach in another way; annoyed and
affectionate. Only this time, it’s tinged with apprehension, because the Doctor doesn’t tell
them anything about herself. Mystery is the bulk of her personality. Mystery with a smile on
top and a lot of fluffy nothing.
“Wow,” she says, humouring her.
She pauses, smile faltering. Said too much. Yaz can practically see her closing off before
her eyes. A blooming flower in reverse. “Are the other comin’?” she asks, glancing towards
the door.
“Should be, but I’m not sure if Ryan will be able to persuade Graham to come along.”
She twinges and shakes her head. “No good, I need all of us here, the whole team. No
good one of you bein’ missing if I’m going to …” but she trails off. Said too much. Yaz
suppresses a scowl. “Ya –” a split-second pause, “– asmin, could I give somethin’ to you?”
“Gonna have to elaborate before I answer, Doctor,” she says, not unkindly, but wary.
She remembers the Doctor telling her to tread lightly; and that’s what she tells herself now.
(Tread lightly, you’re treading on something bigger than you could ever understand).
“Oh, no, it’s a good thing, promise!”
“Still, got to tell me, yeah?” she says, stepping back. It’s instinctive, and maybe once she
would never have done such a thing as shrink away from the Doctor, but there’s still
something wrong.
“Your memories, I was gonna give them back.”
“You can do that?”
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She winks. “Start believin’.”

“Are you goin’ to take us with you again?” she asks, again, casual. Don’t show her you
care, (hide the damage) because these months have been the hardest of her life, and now the
thing that was missing is back, but it’s wrong.
“Yasmin Khan, I will take you wherever you want to go.” she smiles, and places her
hands on her shoulders, gentle. The sleeves of her coat are slipped up over her palms,
white knuckles peeking out, gripping just a bit too tight, as if afraid that she’s going to slip
away. “You saved me, you know. When the TARDIS was dyin’, when my people tried to
siphon off its consciousness, it transferred an imprint of itself onto the closest organism it
could find – and yeah, I know,” she shrugs, chuckling, “sounds a bit Harry Potter, but
that’s what happened. You got a bit of the TARDIS in you. A bit of star in your eye,” and
her own eyes trail away, remembering. Three options like a forked path; compliance,
disobedience, madness. Weren’t they the only three choices one ever had? “It let you see
what the others couldn’t, and guided you to the TARDIS, its home. And the TARDIS
came straight to me. It’s your strength that let that happen, Yasmin, because you could
have turned away. You could have buried those dreams like any old recurring nightmare
and gotten on with your life, but you didn’t. There was a mystery, oh,” her smile curls
wicked at the edge, a tilt of the jaw, “and you’d be damned if you ever let a good mystery
go unsolved. You’re brilliant, I just wanted you to know that,” she’s close, sincere. Yellow,
glowing brighter than the golden lights that used to govern her, filling her eyes. “Brilliant,
truly.”
There are a thousand things running through her head, like tangled timelines, because
she can see a hint of that old, infuriating complexity in the Doctor’s eyes. Fathomless.
Wrong. But didn’t she want this? Didn’t the insistence of her mind in rejecting the reality
with which it was presented manifest one Joan Smith, the perfect weapon against her
questioning, because being with the Doctor – even a human girl who was the same in all
the ways that Yaz needed – is to run into joy like the sunset and never look back what’s
stewing underneath. Never ask questions. Never ask questions, except for one. “Call me
Yaz, yeah?” ‘Cause we’re friends now.
She smiles. “Yaz, I wanted to thank you,” and her nose scrunches up in that adorable
way as she grins, like a twitch. “This is your last chance to change your mind. You can go
back to your life, without any confusing memories, just a regular, wonderful life. I want to
give you that, because, to be honest,” and there’s a terrible vulnerability to her, laid bare;
glossy-eyed, staring past her. “To be honest I don’t know if I’m the same thing that I was
before, and I don’t know if I’m doin’ the right thing by you, or Ryan, or Graham, or the
entire universe, by keepin’ on this path. I’ve been running for a long time…” Weary, more
than anyone she’s ever seen. More, even, than her Nani with all her ghosts and grief and
years. Much more. “It won’t be the same, or it could be the same, if you wanted, but I’m
not sure that’s right either. I’ve never been much sure of what’s right. I wasn’t really built
for certainties like that. Where I’m from, it’s all chaos. I’m just an observer, or a traveller,
I’m not supposed to go meddlin’ and yet,” she pauses, taking a heavy, shuddering breath.
“And yet I have been, for a long time. All this started with me meddlin’ with a species of
life I thought was beautiful, and now… well, it’s all happening again, I think, and I don’t
want it to end like last time. It can’t end like that, with the war and the killing and,” her
voice breaks under the weight of her words, and Yaz thinks for a terrible moment that she
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might cry, but she doesn’t. Hiding the damage goes both ways. “I can’t do that again. I
can’t watch everything I’ve made turn outwards and rage against the rest of it. I can’t be
responsible for that. I finally went back, tried to rebuild. After all that time spent running
away, I finally stayed. I did what I could, but I had to leave them.”
She used to think that the Doctor was a person – an alien person, sure, but still a
person. This, what stands before her now, is less of a person and more of a concept. It
seems strange to admit, but it’s the only world she can think of. Maybe the Doctor’s right;
maybe their language is too stupid to express a thing like that. There’s only one word she
can think of, but it sounds childish to say out loud.
What are you then – like a... like a God?” her words come out trying to be too casual
and end up sounding shrill, maybe a little silly. Definitely accusatory, because surely friends
are supposed to inform one another of such things.
Her face scrunches up as if she’s smelt something awful, and Yaz is afraid that her
curiosity has ruined the moment, again. The Doctor steps back a little, taking her hands off
Yaz’s shoulders, so that the moment certainly feels ruined. “Ergh, no, don’t like that word.
All sorts of nasty connotations. Don’t vibe with it, at all.”
“Okay, but,” she braces her expression, jutting jaw, eyes set. Officer calm. Officer
authority. “Are you, though?”
She winces, snaking her neck to one side, casting her eyes away. It’s as if she’s looking
to the console for guidance, and for all Yaz knows, she’s getting it. “Godhood, it’s a tricky
thing to define,” she begins, like it’s any ordinary sort of explanation; like an antimatter
universe or a quantum engine or a helmic regulator. A machine. “All it boils down to, its
essence, is an imbalance of power. And power,” she reels, falling into her stride, “is really
just perception; how much you see. Maybe this isn’t such a good example, but most
animals will notice things around them, like shoes and ships and sealing wax, and – well,
you get where I’m going. They see them but they don’t know that you, humanity, made
them. They see a skyscraper, and they say, my what a tall thing that is! They don’t
understand the way it was built, even that it was built. Things are there or they’re not.
There’s no process, no root or science or understanding. There’s a thousand different
materials in that building composed from elements arranged in an impossibly specific
structure of alloys and compounds that make steel and glass and wooden walls and carpets
and office chairs and the coffee machine on floor five that the lass from HR is always
leavin’ with milk stains all over – and that’s the incredibly complicated nature of the world
you live in, Yaz, and they just think, oh, rather tall, isn’t it?”
Yaz nods, hanging onto every word, yet entirely confused as to where this is going. This
is what the Doctor does though – another nagging memory reminds her – trails off topic
until you don’t remember what you asked in the first place, and your brain is so full of
useless little tidbits that you wouldn’t have room to retain the answer even if she gave it to
you.
“Right so, picture that the universe is the skyscraper. I’m probably the lass from HR,
because I’m all about humans, and the coffee machine is like, err... well, that doesn’t matter
– I leave a mess wherever I go – but you see this big, wide, beautiful universe and you say,
oh, rather big isn’t? Wouldn’t it be nice to know what that is? You don’t see the past and
the probable future and the possible future and all the futures in between. You can’t see
the parts that make up the steel and the elements in the alloys or the atoms in the elements
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or the, well, you get the idea. Orders of perception. You can’t see all the places the parts
came from, either. That’s the sort of perception I’m talking about!” she finishes with
gleaming eyes, which darken in puzzlement, as her mouth curls into a frown. “Only, really,
it’s nothin’ like that, so maybe just forget I said anything, actually.”
“Err, right,” she can’t help but smile. She thinks that’s what the Doctor does, too,
frames the worst and the most terrifying parts of herself in jokes so that you laugh instead
of think.
“Point is, I can see a lot more than you, therefore I’ve got what I need to build
skyscrapers and cabbages and kings and what have you. Perception, power – all that. All
linked. So no, I’m not really a God, because there’s no such thing.
“But you can build universes like skyscrapers?” She thinks anyway, instead of laughing,
because she’s a rational sort of person.
“Well,” she winces, “I could – with a lot of help, you know, Rome wasn’t built in a day
and all that – but not anymore. I’m all,” and she waves her hand in a vague gesture of her
body, “fleshed up, as it were.”
“But you’re still the Doctor?” It’s a more important question than all the rest, and more
difficult, because she doesn’t think that even the shadow knows the answer.
“I want to be,” she smiles. Again; wistful, staring past. “It’s been good, bein’ a pawn, for
a while. Still, I’ll savour this, the perception. It might be a long while before I get it back,
once I – well, that part comes later… Someday I’ve got to undo it all, but I really, really,
didn’t want it to be today. I like bein’ this,” the final phrase is barely a whisper, and Yaz is
left to wonder what she means by it, but never to ask. No, you never ask. “So, point is, I’m
askin’ you, maybe I’m beggin’ you, a bit, which I know isn’t fair, but I still am; give me a
reason.” her eyes are hungry, moving closer again. “Give me an excuse to run a little
longer, the universe can wait for you, and for Ryan and Graham, too. The universe can
wait.” Another smile, and she brings her hands up to rest on the sides of Yaz’s head.
Yaz cocks her head to the side, a slight movement, and the Doctor’s hands follow it.
She smiles, warm, bright; the favourite smile. “As if you even had to ask,” she says, staring
at her, just that slight inclination of the head. She feels like most of its back now, the
memories, or at least, the feeling of it. Specifics elude her, but she wants them. She wants
them desperately. “You are,” her smile widens. Dark eyes, “the only mystery worth
solving.”
The Doctor smiles and presses the pads of her fingers to Yaz’s temple. She leans in and
presses her forehead against the girl’s, tilting her chin forwards to brush the bridges of their
noses, the side of a cheek. Yaz answers that awkward couple’s dance as her mind fills with
golden light again. Familiar. Yellow. The tops of their lips touch, and the Doctor is the one
to seal them, bottom lip brushing gently at first, then firm, forceful. Passionate – because
she just wants to be this. Yaz can see it now, too, how badly she wants it. Just a traveller.
Just this.
In the light lurks something deeper. Motes of dust in a sunbeam; tiny, invisible on their
own, scattered (water molecules mixed into mud, and you’re drillin’). Together in that light they’re
like a swarm, and the swarm has a shape that twists its way beneath her eyelids even when
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she presses them shut. Someone is kissing her, holding her head, breathing fire. The
creature in the light is old and magnificent, pressed into something tiny and struggling with
the truth that comes with suffering; acute, diminished, real. Alive; big word, sad word. Yaz
feels that now, too; alive, unlike she has been in weeks. In her ears, the music swells. There
are undercurrents of something darker, some discordance in the ever-present swell of the
bass that casts the melody in shadow (something old, something old). She doesn’t want to get
too close.
The melody, oh the melody; it sounds like coming home. Adrenaline and answers and
praise and friends and family and love. It sounds like more. More than mundanity, and she
wants to hear the sound of it forever.
159
The Hybrid
(and their adventures across time and space)
He should really have stolen a better TARDIS. He was already having all sorts of problems
with the navigation, and not only because he was trying to fly a six-pilot vehicle with an
unqualified teenager and himself, who hadn’t actually passed his test in the first place. It
was as if the machine was being temperamental on purpose. There was one planet the ship
seemed to have an inexplicable affinity for, and that was Earth. It was a completely
unremarkable planet in all regards. Bipedal, mammalian lifeforms were the dominant
species, so it wasn’t as if their evolutionary pattern was particularly unusual or interesting.
They dominated the planet with primitive, destructive industrial practises, hand-in-hand
with that abhorrent brand of cruelty token to any race who rises to privilege within the
biosphere. He expected that, like so many similar species, the humans would go extinct
within a few centuries in most possible timelines, snuffing out all life on the planet with
their blackened smog and raging fires. It was sickening, really, which was why he couldn’t
understand his granddaughter’s continued interest in the rock. She loved it, and the ship
seemed to as well, because no matter how hard he tried to navigate away from the strange
ball of brackish water, the ship always endeavoured to bring them back.
He hid the TARDIS in an abandoned junkyard marked Foreman, and spent most of his
time locked up inside it. Brooding, as his granddaughter said, or working, as he said. It was
much nicer in the box – for that was the disguise it had chosen for itself upon arrival, a
blue police box – than out there on the planet. The people were so small he had to walk
about sporting a permanent metaphorical squint. Pinpricks, trundling along a grey line like
merchandise shuntering along a conveyor belt. Their thoughts were circular and dull.
He didn’t know how his granddaughter got around among creatures like that. They
must have been exceedingly daft if they couldn’t spot her brilliance – her enormity
compared to them. It was snobbish, he knew. The old touted tale of superiority that,
someday, he would come to loathe. In truth, he was brooding. Sulking. He’d never liked it
at home, but the universe admittedly wasn’t much better – not when you were running.
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Not when the slightest anachronism would raise a scent on the breeze to an overpowering
stench that they would sniff out in seconds. He didn’t want to know what they’d do to him
if they found him, and whatever it was, he wasn’t about to let it happen to her.
She tried to coax him out of his mood, and he loved her for trying. It was part of the
reason that he put on an act of stark indifference – to see it juxtaposed beside her hope.
An old conversation was repeating itself. She stood, hands on hips and wearing Earth
clothes, as was he. Her dark hair was cropped short in a way that was supposedly
fashionable in their chosen hideaway, and her pale eyes burned blue with a brilliance he had
once admired in an old friend. “You should give them a chance, you know,” she
reprimanded. “They’re really quite brilliant.”
“My dear – ” he began, puffing out his chest in preparation for argument.
“Susan. You have to call me Susan now. It’s a human name.”
She truly was enthusiastic about her deep cover. Earth names were strange – so few
syllables, and so much repetition among their ranks. “It’s silly, my dear, I simply refuse. I
cannot understand your fascination with the apes in the slightest.”
“Human beings, grandfather,” she reminded him, stern, “and the only reason you don’t
understand is because you don’t try. You stay in this warehouse all day long and mope
about your TARDIS and then wonder why you’re so glum all the time!”
He gaped, putting up a protective stance; hands clasping the lapels of his jacket (the
clothes being the only thing on this miserable planet he’d taken a liking to). “She needs
maintenance!”
“So do you – I’m running diagnostics on your systems, grandfather, and what you need
is to get out there and explore a little,” she smiled.
Explore, hmm,” he politely considered the notion, “you do realise how dangerous that
could be, don’t you, my dear? The world out there is teeming with undeveloped life, if you
let your true abilities show even for a moment,” he whispered the last word, leaning towards
her. “Who knows how they’ll react?”
She smirked, playful. “I’m good at hiding. No one suspects a thing at school.”
“Sometimes these life-forms can be more perceptive than you might expect. Be careful,
my dear.” He didn’t even want to consider what would happen if a couple of humans got
their hands all over his ship. Simply unthinkable. “As for me, there’s the simple fact that I
have rather a lot more to hide,” he smiled knowingly. If she was puzzled, she didn’t show
it. She was sharp, and perhaps she sensed that there was more to him, below the surface. It
was growing in its power and awareness; the creature. Even then, he still thought of them
as separate, though that would soon change. Something about being out here in the
universe, traversing the vortex and staring out into its depths – it was bringing the creature
forth like a hunger, never satiated.
For all his dreaming of the universe, now that he was here and living in it, he was
unsatisfied. The fact of the matter was, non-interference was just plain boring. Soon
enough Susan – he tried out the word, for her sake – would grow bored of life here, or the
locals would get suspicious, and they’d have to move. They’d have to keep on moving –
running – forever. Dragging her along with him – an old man with a terrible secret and
terrible dreams of a terrible future. He wanted to give her one of her own, every-star, but he
wasn’t sure that he ever could.
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He fell. Through time and space, from life to death. Through the vortex, in the blackness,
he fell. Screaming.
He was foolish to think he could run. He’d gone too far, meddled too much, and his
status had been upgraded from runaway to renegade; dangerous. Now his friends were
back in their own times and their own lives, and all their adventures were nothing but
dreams.
The Time Lords had caught up with his pace, finally. They’d captured him, killed him
(for want of a better word, because ‘inducing regeneration’ sounded far too detached from
the terror he felt as he died) and wiped his companion’s memories of him.
It was what he deserved, maybe, for disobeying his own rules so completely. It wasn’t
his fault they were so charming, these humans. It was Susan’s hope; contagious, infecting
him like a parasite that made you swim with milky bliss before it killed you. His
punishment was about as poetic as it could get; exiled amongst the apes. He liked them,
but nobody likes one planet enough to spend their entire lives upon it. Not Gallifrey, and
certainly not Earth. He needed to feel time around him, thoughts spun in a web, the voices
of the vortex. On Earth, the speech was dull and wordful, not a single thought to
accompany the incessant chatter. Better than Gallifrey, though. Anywhere was better than
Gallifrey.
Maybe it was for the best, because they would have no reason to drag him back home
again if he was locked away on Earth. They would never be able to find out his secret. It
certainly didn’t feel like it was for the best as he fell, burning. Changing. He hoped that the
next one along might at least be a little taller.
“There’s something about you,” she said, staring up at him with stern, inscrutable eyes.
“Yes,” he answered, raising his brows above eyes of bulging blue. “I suspect it’s my
charm.”
“No, no, you have a rather short supply of that.” Romana clasped her hands behind her
back and paced side to side, chin tilted up. Examining him. He thought he was coming to
understand why she had chosen this form; the youth. Large eyes and petite figure. It was as
if she were daring the world to question her authority, ready to delight in the act of
snapping back and proving them all wrong. “You’re not like other Time Lords.”
“Thank you, but I think both of us knew that already.”
She wrinkled her nose in a haughty parody of offence. “You know,” she drawled, “I
think you’re hiding something.”
“I’m hiding a great many things, my dear” he threw his obnoxiously long scarf over his
shoulder and flourished his coat. “Lots of room for things in this coat.”
“And you try to be annoying to make up for it, but the fact is you’re awfully strange.”
she continued, eyes boring into him.
“Yes, I am.”
“You miss my point.”
“No, I don’t.”
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“Well then you’re dodging the question.” They liked to do this; bounce off each other.
It felt good, having her around after so long spent around humans. Another of his kind,
and a good one, too, even if she had been rather difficult at first. He thought he might turn
her into a proper renegade someday, if he kept on being such a terrible influence.
“My dear,” he sighed, teasing, “you haven’t asked a question.”
“Would you answer, if I did?”
“I think not.”
She scowled, tilting her head, and charged forth, as ever. “I’m going to ask anyway.”
“I know.” He braced himself.
“What are you, really?”
He turned back to the console, finding something to fiddle with. “Bored, to tell you the
truth. Fancy a trip.”
She smiled, “I always do,” and bounced over to stand beside him, staring at the
TARDIS’ readout on the screen. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever tell me what it is, then?”
Bored voice, trying to sound as if she didn’t care. The desperation in her thoughts was
palpable. Curious, almost to a fault, and kind in her own stand-offish, bitter way.
“I think it rather unlikely that I would.”
“And so I must content myself with the enigma?”
“Yes,” he quipped, “and do enjoy it. Puzzlement suits you. It staves off your general air
of arrogance.”
Romana glared at him, head tipped down and eyes narrowed to a cat-like stare. “Do you
even know?”
He glared back. “Yes. Whatever you think it might be, I assure you, the truth is far
worse, far stranger, and far more interesting.” He finished with a smile, wide and toothy. A
glint in his eye.
“Is it – or are you just trying to impress me?” She smirked, tilting her head and sticking
out her jaw in a playful manner. Youth; he’d never really enjoyed it much. At least, not yet,
because it was far too close to a lie. She, however, revelled in the mask.
“I don’t need to try, I’m always impressive.”
She chuckled, rolling her eyes. “You’re always insufferable.”
He tipped his hat. “If it’s all the same to you.”
“I’m going to find out,” she teased, voice almost song-like. Taunting. “Your thoughts
feel strange in my head, and your time runs… deeper,” she whispered the final word, again
with her head tilt. Curioser and curioser, those blue eyes seem to say. Quite the Alice. “I think
you’re older than you say.”
“Well, we all lie about our age from time to time,” he grinned. “Let me know if you ever
figure it out.” He leant in, daring her. She didn’t shrink away, but stared him down with
that endearing, obnoxious look of hers. “I daresay Rassilon will want to know what you
discover,” and he tapped the side of his nose, eyebrows raised, lips quirked into a smile. A
secret, my dear Romana, and may the others never find out what it is.
...
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Her face was twisted into a frown; a caricature of anger. Her muscles were tensed like a
storm cloud; grey, bloated, rumbling. Ready to unleash hail like icy bullets.
“I hate you.” She snapped, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her eyes were glistening with tears.
Idly, he wondered what it was that had set her off this time. It was probably something
during the events involving the killer aliens, or the running, or the leaving her alone while
he dealt with the killer aliens. Any or all of these things were apt fuel for the fire that was
Tegan Jovanka. The dead people, though, was perhaps the most likely culprit. The ones he
couldn’t save. No matter how many times he assured his companions that there were rules
when it came to time travel, it didn’t help them understand. He thought that she’d
understood that fact, after Adric, but some lessons need to be learned more than once. He,
after all, had learnt them a thousand times, and would learn them a thousand times more.
The humans just couldn’t see things the way he could – though that was part of why he
liked them. They would never discover the truth about him – not like Romana, who came
awfully close.
He kept his voice calm, face kind. “You don’t hate me.”
It only angered her further. “I do,” she insisted, shoulders taut, cheeks red with strain
under her short-cropped hair. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Actually, I do, Tegan, dear. I can read your thoughts.”
“That’s not true.” she said, unsure.
He raised an eyebrow, hands clasping the crisp lapels of his jacket. Made far crisper, he
thought, by the celery pinned there.“It is.”
“No,” she snapped, “and I won’t hear anymore of it.”
He cast her a sceptical, knowing look, and watched her scowl deepen under bright, dark
eyes. In the TARDIS of her own volition, this time, and still she endeavoured to keep up
her reputation. Nyssa tended to balance her out, but Nyssa wasn’t here just now, so he was
stuck with those accusing eyes boring into his own; young. He did like that about this go
around. He was tall and fit and a little bit dashing – it was an intoxicating image. He saw,
now, why Romana liked it so. It had occurred to him that it might simply be a mid-lives
crisis – though he wasn’t quite there yet, he hoped. He was getting better at hiding it; his
age (from the humans), and his nature (from the Time Lords). He had garnered quite a
stained reputation among his people on his own dastardly merits, thank you very much.
Every day, the creature uncoiled, a bit at a time. He wondered what he’d find there, at
the centre. How much of it was already uncovered, if someone like Tegan could hate him
so much? If he could scare her so much just by doing what he always did. Saving people.
Helping. Meddling. With all the people he’d failed to save, he feared that he may be
growing cold.
...
Oh yes, cold indeed. Cold was what you had to be if you wanted to play games with the
universe. And he did. Oh, he really did.
He was a mystery incarnate, and he didn’t waste time trying to hide the fact. Great big
question; see if you can find the answer! It was on the end of his umbrella, that question,
looking absolutely absurd. It was on his tie and his sweater vest – question, ha! See if you can
figure it out.
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There were parts of him that remained buried, but they would come forth, in time. As
they did, new power came to him. Old perception – which, in a sense, was entirely the
same thing. Time was clearer than ever before; its intricacies. The faults and knots and
splitting ends. Every path, every impossible tangle and tangent, open at his fingertips.
Waiting.
He kept the humans around, in short, because he liked them. Keen fire and sharp wit.
Rebellion and youth – the traits he used to hold so dear on his quaint little home. They
kept him fast, and tested his patience. He once ran away from home because he was scared
– but he wasn’t scared any longer. Nothing in this great and wonderful universe could scare
him now, because he knew what he was, and he embraced it. Master of death, if you liked.
Most didn’t. It made them feel uneasy. He did, too, with his cold eyes and his colder smile;
a grim line muttering cruel words. Kindness wasn’t always nice, the universe wasn’t so
simple. The Doctor wasn’t always the Doctor, because he wasn’t so simple either. Both
were facts, and neither were anything to shy away from. He wouldn’t shy away from
anything ever again.
But he should have. He should have been scared. He should have been so very scared –
because fear makes you fast. If he’d been faster, maybe he could’ve outrun the war.
He tried, for a long while, even pushed down the monster – tried to be small and
inconsequential again. It didn’t work. It was all coming to pass; the nightmares he used to
have on Gallifrey before he knew what they meant, or what they were. Such
incomprehensible destruction. Fear so primal and so complete that is was revolting just to
feel it. The universe was coming apart at the seams because of what he created. It created, he
would correct himself, because he wanted to distance himself as much as possible from the
blame. He really had thought that he could run, the estranged uncle to a proud and mighty
race. Sitting amongst their ranks in a terrible coat and scolding them all like a parent (which
he was, in a sense, but was wont to deny it).
The day came for the running to stop on a ship as it crashed onto the dusky world of
Karn. He could’ve saved himself, but where was the dignity in that, if he couldn’t save the
pilot? Cass; more scared of him than she was of dying. That was the final straw. The hatred
in her eyes reminded him of another, but Tegan had been one girl, this was an entire
universe. A universe terrified of the Lords of Time, and rightly so. He wanted to die before
the real fighting started, before he had the unfortunate chance to feel any of that pain; of
being undone, drifting in the void, eternally tortured, internally sifted out until all that was
left was the starlight from which he was born. Scattered. He didn’t want to feel that pain,
because he was finally, wisely, scared.
Ohila was there, waiting for him. He didn’t recognise her then, as the face from his
dreams, because dreams have a habit of fading in their substance and leaving only the fear
behind.
“Will it hurt?” he asked her, as he took the goblet from her hands. It was filled with his
own special poison. It would turn him into a monster. Burn the old me, to create a new one.
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“Yes,” she answered. It always hurt, burning alive in those regenerative fires, but he
meant something more, and so did she. The hurt that comes with changing the very fibre
of your soul.
“Good,” he grimaced, and drank. His final thought, as he pushed the scalding liquid
down, was of the creature. He knew It, and its power. He walked it during those lost years;
the lonely path. A lonely God. Testing his limits, the boundaries of his being. Playing the
architect. Now, the creature was angry – even angrier than him – at the state of the
universe. Its universe. He didn’t want to know what the creature might do to end this war.
He wouldn’t be the one to unleash that. So, he drank, and he dug – a pit deep enough to
bury it. He planned to live and burn and die in this war, and for that to be the end of it.
Finally. The universe he tried so long and so hard to protect, and to explore (every-star), and
he would die with it.
The new man didn’t know his name at first, but then remembered that he didn’t have
one. Born into duty, as all Time Lords were, though he’d been running from his duty for a
very long time. The gold surrounding him fizzled out into black night and rusted stone.
“Doctor –” said Ohila.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. His voice was gruff, grizzled. A warrior’s voice, he
thought, and was satisfied.
“Then what, pray tell, should I call you?”
“Oh,” he considered, “I don’t much care. Call me John, call me Soldier. Call me a fool
or a monster or a madman.” His eyes darkened, and he thought it good. These are the eyes
that will watch planets burn and their people unravel into atoms. These eyes will see it and won’t care –
because my name is nothing but the hollow ring of a broken promise. “Just don’t call me Doctor.”
After the war, he kept the creature at bay. It rested, down there in Its hole, ashamed.
(stay down there, and think about what you did).
This him was born in grief, self-hatred, and the blood of billions. Regret, as deep as
regret goes. After he destroyed them – the Daleks and the Gallifreyans alike – he simply lay
there. A new body in old, tattered leather. It was the worst way to be born. Alone, except
for the slow, debilitating unfolding of memories as he came to grips with who he was.
What he’d done. Every time he thought he knew the worst of it, some new recollection,
some new piece of himself, would come surging up his throat like burning acid. He had
memories, but still didn’t know who he was. He wasn’t the Doctor – he couldn’t be, not
after everything he’d done. He wasn’t a warrior, either, because the war was over.
Around him, the TARDIS grew twisted and dark. Already, during the war, it had begun
to sprout that rot; brown reeds twisting out from the centre, spreading grime. White lights
flickering out. Now, the space decomposed along with him as he lay, waiting to die.
Hoping to die. White to gritty gold, pillars twisting like mulching mycelium roots. This was
what he was now – an old, dying thing. Despite his anguish, the creature beneath him felt
something infinitely worse.
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In Its mind, the sleeping thing, It wondered if this was the breaking point. It wondered
if the terror of war would finally destroy the Doctor and release It to the aether from
which It once hailed. It suspected, even then, the true reason behind its imprisonment in
flesh. To return the universe to what it was, and undo all of Its mistakes.
It wasn’t the breaking point, because the Doctor struggled on, and pushed It down. He
found hope, and a new reason to run. He found them first in a girl called Rose, and again
after she was gone, over and over. Cycles.
Again, he thought he’d reached the breaking point. All alone in the universe, and the
trials of unrestrained adventure had shown him who he really was, how far he would go to
maintain his image of the helper, the healer. The winner. Bending the rules of time until
they stood brittle against the raging storm, just a strand away from snapping. He stood in
the snow in a new body. New, but apparently its song was ending, with the fanfare finale of
a four-beated knock. In the snow, on the street where Adelaide Brooke died, he lamented;
gone too far, lived too long. Time to go – but he didn’t want to.
He thought that the grief might get easier with time, but it didn’t. All the feeling did was
twist him into something monstrous – but he blamed the creature for that.
He blamed the creature for just about everything.
He sent Gallifrey spinning back into the eye of the storm. Standing among the shattered
sheets of glass, bones aching, cuts seeping, he ended the war again. Condemned Rassilon to
his ready-made bed of nails, along with her. A woman he recognised – beyond all desperate
hope – as the girl from Gallifrey with lightning eyes and endless love. Didn’t he begin this
ragged running race in an effort to save her? Yet she was the one that would burn, again.
He should have burned with them, but he didn’t want to go. Selfish. Gone too far, lived
too long.
Going, because someone was knocking against the glass. One, two, three, four.
Technically, he’d had over nine-hundred years, but in his hearts it had only been three.
This him was born from love, and hope, and her. This him was rash, passionate,
temperamental. Angry. Reckless. As human as they came. Three years was all he got, and it
wasn’t fair.
He had half a mind to end the line with him. It was cruel, to the ones that would come
after, but perhaps kind, too, in a shrouded way. No one, not ever, would have to feel this
pain.
He didn’t break. He kept going, because the next one along was bursting with
excitement for its turn in the spotlight. It ached sweet, that new, sauntering man, like a
tooth waiting to come through, pushing the old bone out. He hated him, that new man,
and all the ones that would come after – because it wasn’t fair.
167
The one who regrets – now the one who forgets – sat upon a bench staring at a
painting. So many different titles for its image, a moment frozen like a postcard. He ought
to have felt elated, but the deeper parts of him were laced with contempt. Worry.
Always worrying, this one; worrying with those restless, flailing hands, worrying at a
bow tie at his collar, worrying about mysteries and menaces and masks of youth, sliding
off. He was running from another prophecy – the first prophecy, that concerned his very
being – along with a new prophecy, which concerned a planet called Trenzalore.
He couldn’t exactly play his old card – that he hadn’t lived long enough as this version
of himself. Centuries, in one body alone – never before had he spent so long in one shell.
It wasn’t his fault, he liked this shell. It was young and gallant in a near-boyish manner. He
understood Romana now more than ever, and her need to appear to be everything she was
not. It was a game, and a lie – and lying was rule one.
He may have been at the end of his life, but he had, at least, laid old regrets to rest.
Gallifrey stands, he smiled, and the creature warned. They would come back, someday. A
race as old and as proud as his were not likely to learn their lesson; give up their power,
stop their meddling. He couldn’t exactly blame them, with the reputation he had amassed
over his tenure. Warrior, some races called him, and a cultish order erected in fear of him
called The Silence.
They would come back (oh yes, they would come back) and, despite his longing, his relief, he
wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready to face them.
...
He hadn’t exactly wanted to die, but he was ready. He had been, until he’d been given
the option. Regeneration energy streaming through a crack in time, feeding his cells with
too much power, exuding it outwards into an explosive force. A weapon. Wasn’t that just
like the Time Lords.
He thought, at first, that it was a reward. He did save them, after all, even if they were
time-locked out there in the middle of nothingness. However, he thought there might be
more to it. Some debt he now owed, that someday he must repay. Rassilon wasn’t one to
hand out immortality like a common war medal. It was a gift considered – by It (himself),
most memorably – to be corrupting in its nature. Hypocritical, he knew, but it wasn’t as if
the Other had a choice in the matter of being eternal. It was just the way of things.
Rassilon was above the rules, of course, but he was never one to share the limelight, I mean,
look at Omega. So it puzzled him, this new cycle. It worried him.
Now wasn’t the time to let those worries show, he had someone to perform for. He was
young again, and he planned to enjoy the feeling while it lasted. A brief respite before the
finale. For Clara’s sake, he hoped he wouldn’t get old.
...
Against his leg, his fingers tapped to eighty-two. Old habits. Very old habits. His
knuckles throbbed with the ghost of an ache that he suspected would never stop. Fist
against a wall, seconds in eternity.
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He sat outside an old barn – the only part of his old house left standing. Lungbarrow,
cast down from the mountains into the abyss, and then, the mountains themselves levelled
by the bombs and beams of hellfire rained upon his planet. Its planet. Beneath him, the
creature whispered its sympathy, quelled his anger, and despaired upon the sight of its
ruined world.
This wasn’t Gallifrey. It was a husk; decaying bones carved clean of all their marrow and
their fibre. Time frozen solid and wrapped around the people’s throats, choking, like great
pairs of bug-eaten, swollen hands. How long had he spent searching for home? Racing to
false coordinates, bashing fists of rage against the console of his ship, who felt the rage
along with him, red in its circuits. Now he was here, and he didn’t feel anything at all.
Around him, ragged children stood, dirty and time-starved, living in the ruins that the
war left behind. He felt sorry for them, wanted to help them, but there was something else
he wanted far more than that. Clara. Twin suns, twin hearts – and she was his. He couldn’t
lose her, not after everything he’d been through. Four and a half billion years, fading to the
status of a dream, but slowly. Too slowly. It occurred to him, and to It, what he was doing.
Breaking those brittle rules again, worse, even than before. Worse together than he was
alone. He thought that was the reason Koschei had chosen Clara for him – they were made
for each other, in a terrible way. He turned, again, to the wisdom of humans (you fit into
me/like a hook into an eye). He would tear down the universe for her, and after everything
he’d taught It, the creature agreed. So maybe this was the breaking point. Unanchor.
Retake the rules. Be an architect (no Clara, not a warrior, but not a doctor, either).
He knew they were coming for him, and he wasn’t going to hand himself over until he
came face to face with Rassilon himself. It was time for him, and for It – for them – to
remind their old friend of something he seemed to have forgotten. This was their planet.
In the cloisters, Clara was telling him something important. He could have told her the
same thing she told him on trap street, in their final moments together. Everything you’re
about to say, I already know. He’d learnt now, that the saying it was what made all the
difference.
Ohila watched him, he could feel her old eyes boring in. Gaze blazing like the red sands
of that pitiful rock upon which she had toiled for so long. There was a grin in her eyes,
satisfied. The old powers were so close to being returned to her.
For a moment, standing within that glass dome again – upon the balcony of the
Capitol’s tallest tower – he had considered what it might mean to stay. With Rassilon gone
and his forces exiled, the planet now looked to him for guidance. He didn’t care. In his
anger, he wanted to let them shrivel to husks under those twin suns until they were naught
but ash amongst the bloodied dust.
In the dark again – in the haunted, twisted halls in which he’d first heard a prophecy
that he thought he might have been about to fulfil – Clara was telling him something
important (a fish hook/in an open eye). The prophecy could have referred to him, or to It. To
them, entwined, or to him and the girl, the hook in the eye. It, and humanity. Twin hearts.
He didn’t break, because she wouldn’t let him.
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But there were others on the Earth – in amongst seven billion, always, there was
someone like her. And he betrayed her.
This had to be it; the breaking point. Cast aside by his oldest friend, and his newest
friends left for dead. Bill; hopeful and bright. Nice and kind, fast and funny. So much like
his granddaughter – and hadn’t he left Susan on a battleground too? Hadn’t she died in the
fires of another?
He’d made Bill wait, with that marvellous hope, and an iron heart, only for the cruelty
and desperation of the universe to tear her apart. Progress, at the mercy of fear, and the
sacrifice of emotion. They’d churned up her flesh, picked apart her mind, quashed that
hope, slow, just a piece at a time. She was strong, but no one was strong enough to resist
conversion – not forever. Even Nardole, who had done nothing but get on his nerves for
the past seven decades, was gone. Another war, intended to be his last, and he had lived.
Where I stand is where I fall – but he never did seem to fall, despite his intentions. Cursed to
live, as the regretful one had said. Curse of the Time Lords.
This life would be his last. His reasons, he believed, were nobler than the last time. He
didn’t look upon the future with hate, only weariness. No more. This would be the last, and
the creature would be whole, apart from flesh. Chaos. Free to make Its choice. Finally
understanding the nature of the universe through the eyes of something small – the
suffering of standing on the battlefield, cooling in the aftermath, bodies decaying around it
like wilting flowers while it stood, never falling. Until now.
He didn’t break, again, because she wouldn’t let him. None of them would let him,
those memories. Twin hearts. He left a message for the next one along, held her to a
promise. She was born in hope and a bright, beautiful second chance. Second wind, part-
way through the race. She smiled – and even as she fell, she was hopeful. Even as she fell,
Gallifrey was watching, and the order of the universe was waiting for its architect to finally
break.
170
X
Family, and How it Feels to Have One
When Yaz comes to, it takes a while for her eyes to lose that golden glow. She’s
disorientated, and the Doctor still has the girl cradled in her arms, leaning against her chest
in a slumped stance, head slowly regaining its steadiness atop her neck.
“Doctor,” she murmurs, eyes settling into dark.
“Hiya Yaz.” To her dismay, Yasmin Khan doesn’t smile. She frowns. It pulls down her
whole face into that mask of constable authority.
“I could hit you,” she mutters, breathless.
“Oh, well,” she says, surprised, but maybe she shouldn’t be. “It wouldn’t be the first
time.” She braces for impact in a way she hopes is endearingly comical.
“I’m not gonna hit you.” Yaz sighs, and straightens up, standing steady.
“Err, okay, that’s great! So, Yaz, we’re still waiting on the other half of the team. What
do you say? Team TARDIS, round two!”
“Can you just,” Yaz falters, staring around, anywhere but into her eyes. “Can you stop
talkin’ like her?”
Maybe her voice, then, goes a little too cold. “I am her.” (Please, just see me).
She shakes her head, trying very hard to believe it. “What happened to you?”
“A lot of stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”
The look Yaz shoots her is scalding, so much so that she flinches from the sight of it.
“No, Doctor. You never say anything,” she snaps. Quiet voice, full of venom.
She sighs, fiddles with her fingers to keep her hands busier than her thoughts, and tries
to explain. “There’s been somethin’ inside me, inside the Doctor, ever since she was born.
Like a passenger, dormant, but connected. Deep in her subconscious, a, err – well, a God,
as you said – but I don’t like the term,” she adds, hastily. “Forget I said it. It’s like how the
you from last year is still you now, even though you don’t remember bein’ the you that
were you last year. It’s all just memories.”
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Yaz raises a sceptical eyebrow, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing, hurriedly.
Eager to make her understand. “Maybe you don’t remember everythin’ you did last week,
in fact, you probably don’t remember most of it. You only remember a handful of
moments of your life because you were payin’ close attention, or your brain decided it was
important. The rest of you is all buried, but sometimes you remember parts, they’re
unearthed by emotions and experiences – re-forgotten, sometimes. You aren’t really you,
you’re more like a hand-picked, eclectic selection of moments. If you were made up of
every moment you’d ever experienced, you’d be a different person. You’d see more, be
more. It’s like that; becoming the sum of all of your moments, even the ones that shouldn’t
fit inside your head.”
Yaz takes a minute step away. Maybe she doesn’t notice it, but the Doctor does. “Why
didn’t you tell us?”
“To be fair, Yaz, I’ve never told anyone, not properly. Also,” her voice comes out rapid
as ever, “I didn’t always know, and I was always very scared.”
Yaz scoffed, an exasperated grimace. She used to do that a lot, though within the
confines of a jarringly different context. The grimace that oft followed one of the Doctor’s
trademark lapses in judgement – shoving dirt into her mouth, or licking something she
definitely shouldn’t – and not, generally, after admitting to harbouring a deeply-held fear of
an omnipotent consciousness concealed inside herself. “Your people came and snatched
you away and they, what, did this? Are they even your people, if you guided their creation
like you said? Do you even have people?”
“Hey, hey, slow down there,” she placates, at the sight of Yaz’s near rabid expression of
curiosity. “I’ve got people, we’re just sort of old and, err, well I don’t see them much,
anyway. They mostly like to keep to themselves, when they’re free.” Which they aren’t, she
reminds herself, because you left them to starve in cages in a wheel of stale time. “And yes, they did
this – sort of. They wanted me to help them, and I did. Don’t worry, they won’t be
botherin’ us again.”
“And you’re really you?”
Still doesn’t see, still can’t. Pinpricks. “Have you changed your mind, Yasmin Khan,
because of all the things I want, I want you to be sure.”
Her brow creases, lips flatten. She casts her eyes up to the Doctor’s, the reddish glow of
the console casting her eyes in scarlet, and looks right into her, resolute. “Sure. Always.”
Ryan walks with a strong, determined gait towards apartment number 13 of the Park
Hill estate, an axe gripped tight in one hand. He’s going to see what’s behind that door if
it’s the last thing he ever does, and he’ll break it down if he has to. He needs answers, and
he suddenly understands how Yaz feels when she can’t let a question go unanswered.
Coming up to the door, he curls both hands around the axe, putting behind the swing a
great many things – most of all his anger at Graham. He’s angry because his Granddad’s
right. All of this is absurd, and he’s tried running from grief in any conceivable way, but still
the grief is faster. Just as he’s about to land his first blow against the wood, he notices a
slim crack of golden light peeking through the door. He hangs the axe loose at his side and
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pushes gently on the wood. The door swings open. He lets the axe clatter to the floor as he
steps inside.
“Ryan!” Yaz’s is the first voice to reach him. She’s standing there, somewhere amongst
the pillars of blinding colour. She runs and launches herself at him, half mad, and pulls him
into a crushing hug. “The Doctor’s here,” she grins into his shoulder, “she’s back.”
“No way,” he looks up and sees the shadow standing there, clothed in black, hand
raised in a lazy, apprehensive wave.
“Hiya Ryan,” she grins. “Sorry ‘bout earlier, really am. I was havin’ some trouble
homing in on this dimension, but psychic contact with the two of you made it a lot easier.
Now I’m properly here!” Yaz is smiling just as widely as the Doctor as she disentangles
herself from Ryan. He begins to pace around the ship, admiring its beauty.
His words tumble out in quick, breathless succession; “this place is bigger on the
inside.”
“Oh yeah, yeah it is. Smart boy,” she smiles, a bit sarcastic.
“This is proper awesome.”
“Yeah, I know, you said that the last time – speakin’ of, do you want to come with me,
Ryan, travellin’, like we used to?” She’s striding towards him, and for some reason he’d
imagine she’d be taller.
“What about Graham?”
“I’ll talk to him. If he doesn’t want to come, I won’t make him. It would be nice,
though,” her lips quirk in a way that stirs a familiar feeling in him. “Team TARDIS, all
together again.”
“Yeah,” he says, still quiet, still unsure. There are pieces of the past coming back, but
not nearly enough of them for him to feel comfortable in this literally (and he revels in the
fact) alien place.
“Are you sure you want your memories back, Ryan? It’ll be dangerous, travellin’ with
me.”
He casts Yaz a look, asking her, because she tends to know what’s best. He’s been
following her lead, doin’ what’s best, ever since they were weedy little kids. She nods, with
an encouraging smile, but he thinks he might have said yes anyway. He needs this. He
needs it so badly, because he doesn’t think he can last another week of work and games
and shallow friends, and drinking too much on the weekend to reset the cycle again. “Of
course, yeah, I’m sure,” he says.
“Right then,” the Doctor smiles, clearly just as overjoyed about the situation – if not
more – as they are. “Here you are, then,” and she steps forwards, reaching up to the
admittedly lofty height of his head. “I’m not gonna kiss you, though,” she mutters, almost
inaudible.
“What?” he blurts out, just as the Doctor’s fingers brush lightly against his skull, and his
veins fill with heat, his eyes with gold.
The Doctor catches him as he falls, or she tries to, but he’s too heavy. Yaz sees it
happening as if in slow motion, and throws herself towards the Doctor to hold him up.
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“I miss bein’ tall,” the Doctor grumbles. Together, they lower Ryan to the cool, gently
vibrating floor of the ship. Yaz sits down beside him, hand to his forehead. He’s burning,
but she supposes that she must have been too. She wonders if he’s seeing what she saw;
that endless light, the age of it spanning back and between and around. The feeling of so
many memories flooding back.
“He’ll be alright in a moment, don’t worry,” the Doctor assures her. She’s not even
looking at them; her eyes are far-off, gazing out into the orange glow of the console, seeing
something that Yaz can’t. She does that a lot – she remembers every instance of it now –
every furtive glance she’s cast the Doctor’s way, only to find her staring at nothing. Glassy-
eyed, shining, as if tears were about to well there, and cold. Old. She used to ignore it,
because the silence never stretched quite long enough for the nature of the look to register.
But she sees it now, in this brief, silent moment. She sees her age, the mask, and the lies
cower feebly beneath its thinness.
“Was that the same thing you did to me?” she asks, trying to sound casual.
“Not exactly, no,” the Doctor replies, snapping back into action. Immediately, as if on
instinct, her restless hands reach for the console to occupy themselves. “With you I got a
bit, err,” her eyes flick towards Yaz on the ground for a fraction of a second, “carried away.
Shouldn’t have done that, it was dangerous for you.”
She tries for cheek. “Everythin’s dangerous with you.”
The Doctor replies with an affirming hum, eyes fixed firmly on her working fingers.
Part of Yaz desperately wants to ask what it meant, the kiss, but she won’t. How many
times had she thought about that happening… but never like this. No matter what she
said, this woman still didn’t seem like the Doctor. The difficult truth was that Yaz had
always known, deep down, what the Doctor was really like. For all her quirks and
idiosyncrasies, the inhuman, intoxicating strangeness was still there – wrapped in a sky-blue
coat and yellow suspenders that looked so jarringly hideous it took your mind off the rest.
She loves solving mysteries, but she thinks she may have found the first mystery she would
rather leave unsolved. The lie is easier, for all of them.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go have a conversation with Graham.” She looks sad, shoulders
hunched, eyes cast down. It’s as if she begins the conversation so as to distract Yaz from
her dangerous train of thought, slipping off the tracks. As if she were listening. Had she
been listening, Yaz wonders, ever since the beginning? Perhaps, ever since she crashed
through the roof of a train to find them all staring in bafflement and awe.
“Are you takin’ the TARDIS?” she asks, hoping the Doctor isn’t planning on landing it
in Graham’s front room again.
“Nah, I’ve got somethin’ easier. See you in a bit, Yaz.” She races off up the jagged
hexagonal steps before Yaz can open her mouth to ask what. Yaz gets the feeling that she’s
removing herself from the room for more than one reason. Maybe, in her thoughts, the
Doctor’s worst fears are realised.
...
Graham sits downstairs in the living room, the silent room. He doesn’t like it here,
because it reminds him too much of Grace’s laughter. There’s not even the soft thumps
and reedy, electric echoes of Ryan gaming upstairs to fill the quiet. He’s trying not to think
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about what his grandson’s words unearthed in his head but, as is always the case, the trying
only makes the thinking grow stronger. Then, just as he’s beginning to think his night can’t
get any worse, he sees the shadow. Only, it isn’t really a shadow, not anymore, just a
woman. He recognises them as one and the same; the long coat and the weary grin, smiling
out of the corner of his eye for days now.
“Who are you?” asks Graham. Clasped around his mug, his hands are shaking.
“Do you want to know?” the woman asks. There’s a ghost of a smile on her face, one
that she’s toned down for his sake. Sincerity doesn’t look good on her – it brings out the
age in her eyes.
“You’re that woman Yaz’s been goin’ on about, aren’t you? You’re the Doctor.”
She doesn’t look at him. She’s shrunk in on herself under a too-big jacket, heel kicked
back to rest against the wall. “In a way.”
There’s a familiar feeling, one he hates but can’t seem to place. Dancing around
questions. It’s infuriating. “I didn’t want to believe her, poor girl. I turned Ryan away, too.”
“He forgives you,” she offers him, calm. “But you don’t have to believe them now,
either. They’re right, of course, but belief is always a choice. I can make you remember, or,
if you want, I can finish the job.”
It sounds sinister, the way she puts it. Finishing the job sounds like a final blow. It
sounds like the last nail in the coffin holding all the joy his life used to have before this
misery. Before the grief had time to catch up. “No, I, err, I do want to remember. I might
not recall any of the details, but I know we had a good time when we were together, the
four of us.”
“Team TARDIS,” she smiles wistfully. Again, those years… he almost wants to ask,
because he’s never seen a person with eyes like that.
Instead, he mutters; “yeah,” and looks down again at his hands. Not quite gnarled, not
yet, but they’re getting rather close.
“So, memories now, choice later,” she seems to decide, kicking back lightly from the
wall and gaining her feet. Graham winces, thinking about the boot-print she’s likely left
behind, except she leaves no mark at all. “I want you to be sure, when you decide to come
with me. I’ve asked you before, but things are different now.”
“Right,” he nods, not really sure what she’s talking about. Something stirs in his
memories, though, his voice: it helps, it really does.
The Doctor walks over to him and kneels down on the softness of the old carpet in
front of his armchair. Steam from his tea wafts into her face, but she doesn’t seem troubled
by it. No red flush running into those cheeks that seem too smooth, that waver pale static
in the air. Red rims her eyes, because of the tears, though he can’t tell whether they’re
happy or sad. True tears are never one or the other, not really. She reaches both hands up
to hover on either side of his face. His eyes betray a little of the alarm inside, bells going
off, asking him what sort of mad, ridiculous nonsense he’s got himself into now. He nods,
despite the warnings, and she shuts her eyes, pressing her fingers to his skin.
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“Yaz?” Ryan groans, and she looks down to see his expression stirring, eyes flickering
open. The ship envelops them in a warm orange glow and a pleasant thrum. She’d
forgotten how wonderful, and creepy, this place could be.
“You alright, mate?” she smirks. He grips her shoulders and pulls himself up into a
sitting position, the swirls of colour reflected bright like claude glass in his eyes.
“We can’t save her,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Oh, err, it’s nothin’.”
“No, come on, what is it?”
“I mean, all that talk about time machines and alien heroes, I sorta got my hopes up that
we could, umm…” And the answer comes to her as his dies in his throat.
“Save your nan,” she finishes, looking anywhere but his eyes. She feels guilty, because
he never said anything. She was stringing him along on this wild investigation he barely had
a reason to believe in, all because of that simple hope. “I’m sorry,” the apology sits lamely,
inadequate to her ears.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t thinkin’, really, just hopin’, because everythin’ else in my life without
the Doctor was pretty borin.’” His eyes travel away, almost like the Doctor’s do. “I just felt
like I wanted to run and never stop, just scream or somethin’.”
“I know the feelin’. Like all this adrenaline was buildin’ up and it had nowhere to go.”
Maybe it’s like an addiction, because now, she can’t live without it, felt like she was going
mad along her allotted dull, grey path. Ryan can’t either, and she suspects it’s the same for
Graham. She wants things to be the way they were for the four of them, but knows they
never can be, because they’ve seen too much. The Doctor is no longer just some
intergalactic tour guide/best mate, she’s really, truly alien. She has a past, which is
something Yaz never really stopped to consider before. Maybe the swift and learned-ease
with which the Doctor used to brush away their questions should have told her that – but
it was all so easy to ignore, back then. “Do you think Graham will come back?”
“I don’t know. He loved it, obviously, but I just don’t know.” Don’t know if we’ll ever be
back together the right way again; team TARDIS. “I never thought I’d see her again, you know,
when we was hooked up to those machines and everythin’ was goin’ dark.” Yaz remembers
thinking, up until the final moment, that the Doctor was going to save them, just like she
always did.
“She’s different, though.” And not just her hair and her clothes, her eyes say, the fear. The way
your ears buzz against the strain of her voice and your eyes prickle like somethin’ is trying to crawl out. The
way your head swims and your knees quiver and stains of bright light pool in your vision like sunspots.
“Yeah. I mean, who knows what they did to her.” The prompt hangs in the air, alive
with the sounds of the ship. Yaz wonders what people so cold could do to change
someone as hopeful and happy as the Doctor so much. To unearth a buried God. “She
was tryin’ to pretend, but she was proper scared.”
“They were scared, too. Remember the trial. They were all scared.”
“You know, back then I couldn’t believe it. A whole planet of people that were like…
that… and they were scared.” That; Yaz knows exactly what he means. Looking at them
was to feel a voice in your head, and feel the blood rush to it – see the sky shimmer around
them, as if they were woven from light instead of flesh. She shivers, and so does he. A
shared nightmare. “I can believe it now, though.”
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“Yeah. She really isn’t human, huh?” Not in the same way they thought before, when
she was just a person like them from a planet like Earth somewhere out in the infinite
universe. Alien in a way that they were nothing to her; fathoms of difference separating
them, stopping them from being anything close to kin.
“Yeah.” He pauses, unsure. “It’s worse for you though.”
“Why’s it worse for me?” But she thinks she knows what he’s getting at. He’s teased her
about it before, but it was never serious. It was never something that could actually,
conceivably happen – and it definitely isn’t now.
“Because you like her,” he says. Casual, and a little sad. The truth catches her off-guard,
because she was expecting him to drop it. “You know what I mean, you like her… like that
– or you did.”
That’s the question, isn’t it; past tense or present? “I did, or, I do. I don’t know. It’s too
weird.” And after everything they’ve seen, both of them know that that’s saying a lot.
...
The Doctor waits for him to wake. She’s okay with leaving Ryan behind with Yaz, still
coming out of his stupor, because she knows he’ll say yes no matter what, that he’ll follow
PC Yasmin Khan of Redlands Primary to the very end. Graham she’s not so sure about.
He’s older and wiser, and he’s bound to ask difficult questions – the sort of difficult
questions she needs to answer, despite the pain it might cause her.
“Doc?” he mutters, as his eyes blink open; gold to pale blue. Ageless to old.
She smiles, quiet and subdued. “Hello.” She’s sitting on the floor in front of his well-
loved armchair, resting an elbow on the coffee table.
“You got a haircut,” he points out.
“D’ya like it?”
He chuckles; warm and quiet in his gut. “Bit punk rock, but yeah. I like it,” and the
smile falters. “You seem different.”
“I know, I’ve had a bit of a makeover.”
The quip does nothing for his smile, which continues to droop into a sympathetic
frown. “Doc, I’m so sorry. We would’ve tried to save you, but I didn’t remember a thing. I
didn’t even believe Yaz when she told me about you.”
“Don’t sweat, Graham. It’s not like you could’ve done anything anyway. I escaped
though. Didn’t I say I would?”
“Yeah, but how long did they keep you prisoner? I mean, time machine and all. It’s been
a couple months for us, but how long for you?” How long indeed. It feels as if this is the
moment she’s been running to from the very beginning. It’s the real reason she was
brought back, she thinks, to experience the universe from the eyes of something small and
beautiful. Joy and pain alike, before unravelling it all to an old peace she isn’t even sure she
wants anymore.
...
The Doctor looks away for a moment when he asks the question. Wild, darting eyes,
looking for an exit. That tells him everything he needs to know. “Oh,” she shrugs, hastily
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erecting a casual front, “weren’t a prisoner, not the whole time anyway. I actually
cooperated, which, I know,” she grins sheepishly, “when do I ever do that,” she chuckles,
uneasy. “But it was okay. I got to put some things right back home. Can’t ever go back, but
to be honest I never liked home too much anyway. I get restless.”
A sad, thin smile. “Don’t you just. They didn’t hurt you, though? You said somethin’
about them torturin’ you. Did you say…” and he casts his mind back to a marble
courtroom on a red planet; proper alien city. “Four and a half billion –“
“Oh, that,” she swats away his words, his sympathetic eyes. She doesn’t do sympathy.
“Didn’t count as bein’ alive, not really. More like a simulation. Time loop. And yes, they
did employ some of their old tactics. Had some internal organs shifted around where they
shouldn’t and my mind all rifled through, but I’m fine. It’s been a long time since then
anyway.”
His turn to look away, because the casualty with which she said all that makes him
nauseous. He tries another angle, the other incessant question: “how old are you?”
Her head lolls against her palm, propping it up from her position on the floor. She’s
tired, incalculably so – that much is obvious. “Depends on who you ask, really,” she
answers, almost bored. “I’m either three-thousand-ish, or just a tad shy of infinity. Bit of a
difference, I know.”
“Right,” he nods, not sure what answer he was expecting. “I’m not even gonna unpack
that. Don’t think I could live that long. I’m already gettin’ tired,” and so are you, his thoughts
add, and her eyes flicker to him as if she hears.
“Probably shouldn’t have told you that,” she mutters, a tad resentful. “I’m rusty, haven’t
been around any humans in a while. I forgot my own rules.” He remembers those rules,
the ones that never made much sense to anyone but her. One of the rules must have been
about keeping them in the dark, lest they catch a glimpse of how old and how tired she
really was. It was the only rule she seemed to follow, because all her others were awfully
flexible. “I’m sorry for watchin’ you,” she adds, in the silence. “I wasn’t sure whether I
should come back or not.”
The statement is a cry for help, and he extends a hand. “Of course we want you back,
Doc.”
She smiles again, old and sad and tired. Do the others see that age in her? Ryan and Yaz
always seemed so caught up in the enigma and the adrenaline that they didn’t seem to
consider the stories that eyes can tell, when you really look. “Are you up for an adventure,
Graham? I’ll meet you at Yaz’s? The other two are already there.” She looks so hopeful
that he can’t refuse, and he wouldn’t, regardless. This woman has all of them wrapped
around her finger, and she around theirs, because both parties need each other like a lung
needs a pair to keep on breathing. “What do you say, renewed best friends?”
“Yeah,” he grins, “alright.” She answers with a grin of her own, wide and unapologetic.
She stands, brushing off her coat. “What d’ya mean, meet you, though? Ain’t you already
here.”
She smiles again, and the shape of it fills her face – the Doc’s face – so well. He ignores
the other feelings boiling away inside, because when she touched her hands to his mind he
saw something there that was so large and so bright that the imprint of it left coloured
spots in his eyes and a hollow feeling in his chest. Travelling with the Doctor, he
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remembers now, is all about ignoring niggling feelings like that. “Psychic projection,” she
says, and holds up two fingers as she fazes out of view. “Peace.”
...
When the Doctor comes out of her trance, she rushes back out to the control room.
Ryan and Yaz have moved to sit on the hexagonal steps, heads hunched together, deep in
whispered conversation. They stop as soon as they notice her there. She thinks she caught
the tail end of an anecdote involving a skyscraper. Filling him in, she sees. Secrets never
stay secret for long, and secrets uttered spread with the ferocity of a wildfire.
“How’d it go?” Ryan asks. His mouth is half full of custard cream. The TARDIS, she
sees, is being a gracious host, takin’ care of her fam.
“He’s comin’ along, memories and all. He wants to keep travellin’,” she answers
brightly.
“That’s great!” Yaz beams, too forced. She can see that both of them are
uncomfortable. Something’s wrong with the whole dynamic, something she suspects will
never be right again. Too long apart, she hasn’t adapted to appearing to their eyes. There’s
too much in her to disguise.
“I’m goin’ to land the TARDIS down in the square, save Graham havin’ to get up all
these stairs. Besides, I need to fix – or break, actually – something very important.” She
jumps down the short span of stairs and hits the floor with a deafening clang.
“Err, okay,” Yaz calls after her, half a question.
The Doctor charges straight for the console with a ferocious focus, a need to fix and
build and do. She gathers a mass of assorted tools in her hands, enjoying the sound of metal
on metal, cold rust against her skin. She fiddles with the controls; dials and discs and
wheels and buttons and sticks and shifts and levers – anything to feel beneath her hands as
her mind struggles not to listen to their thoughts of wrong-not-her-dark-Isaw. She pulls her
face into a grimace. Ryan and Yaz are still pressed close together; her, folded in against his
shoulder, his arm around her in a gesture of noththedoctor-scared-notthesame.
She won’t be able to keep it up, this disguise. She’d been so set on getting back to her
friends that she hadn’t stopped to consider the fact that her friends would never entirely
come back to her. They’ve had a taste of her strangeness, caught it like a star in their eye
while they stared into the unknown. Her soul, like a schism. They will never stop hearing
the grating, trembling tones of her true language, never stop seeing the impossible, infinite
body of the TARDIS stretching out around them. They won’t forget the sight of her planet
or the cruelty and jagged edges of her people. They won’t forget the way she watched them
from the shadows; the psychic resonance and the signal interference. They won’t forget the
things she’s let slip in her eagerness to see them again; the godhood, the torture, her age,
and her enormity. They’ve seen all of it – so how can she be just a traveller to them now?
How can she even pretend?
On the stairs, Yaz looks exhausted. She crumples further into Ryan’s form. There are
tears in her eyes.
“You shouldn’t have done that to her,” the Doctor whispers to the ship.
Dead-neededyou-neededme-shewanted.
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“I know. I just don’t know if she’ll forgive me for tearing her head apart.” She sighs,
“and for leavin’ her.” She pulls down the dematerialisation lever with a hearty tug, and the
apartment wheezes out of the space between the walls, leaving Mrs Harkins and Steve to
their business of bein’ spectacular humans.
A smile plays on Yaz’s lips, Ryan’s too, only her smile is the saddest. The Doctor sees
her lips mouth, hushed, “I’ve missed that sound.”
There are two decisions she must make now, one of them so obvious in her hearts that
it’s barely a decision at all, but the other is more difficult. It concerns the decision to run or
to face her fear. The voice of the Doctor comes from within, contradicting (coward, any day-
never be cowardly). Bit inconsistent, but that’s very her.
The first decision is this: should she bury her consciousness and go back to being what
she used to be? It’s easy, because she can’t stay the way she is, as large and as old as she is,
and keep her friends near. She scares them, unnerves them – the reaction is only natural.
The Doctor is unnerving in an exciting sort of way, but the Other streaks right past
exciting and straight into the territory of primal fear. She has to bury it, for their sake and
hers, because she only wants to be a pawn, a traveller. Her architect-ing days are done.
Someday, she’ll be a destroyer again, but not yet. Not today.
The first decision leads into the second with an obvious logical leap: does she let them
remember, or make them forget?
The ship lands at the foot of the Park Hill estate. She checks the chameleon circuit and
sees that the ship has chosen a familiar form. The blue box. Still, she won’t be caught dead
in a TARDIS with a working chameleon circuit any longer. The ship murmurs an
agreement of notme-identity-familiar-legend-onbrand. The Doctor smiles, flips open a
compartment on the underside of the console, and jams a spanner into the inner workings
of some of the most complex machinery in the known universe. Sparks kick out from the
console, and the ships shudders, whizzing and whirring.
“Doctor!” Yaz exclaims, jumping up from her position on the stairs. “What the hell are
you doin’?” Ryan is standing too, looking at her as if he thinks she’s gone mad. There’s a
familiarity to the situation, something innocent. They’re too worried about her, too
bemused by her absurdity, to take a good look at all the rest.
“Breakin’,” she grunts, “the,” she slams the spanner against the mechanism with every
pinwheeling swing of her arm, “chameleon circuit!” she finishes, dropping the spanner
where it clangs against the metal floor. She sighs and brushes her hair back from her
forehead. “It’s the device that lets the TARDIS disguise itself wherever it lands to fit the
environment, which is useful in theory, but I’m the sentimental type.”
“So, it’s stuck as a police box again?” Ryan asks, bemused.
“Why would you break it on purpose?” asks Yaz.
“Because, Yasmin Khan, I’m a mad woman with a box, not a mad woman with a
hidden room from the Park Hill estate – so,” she claps her hands together and grins
around at them both. “Just one thing we’re waitin’ on now.”
“Speakin’ of,” Yaz says, pointing towards the doors, now back to their usual wooden,
square-windowed appearance. They open with a tentative, creaking swing to reveal
Graham, cheeks flushed with cold, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He looks upon
the scene with barely concealed wonder. A smile stretches across his face, greeting an old
friend.
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“Gramps!” Ryan calls, running forwards. He pulls his granddad into a bear hug, who
reciprocates the gesture with a fatherly pat on his back. The Doctor remembers a time
when Ryan would shy away from Graham as if he were carrying the plague. She likes to
think that some of their bonding had to do with their adventures with her, but maybe that’s
giving herself too much credit.
“Woah there, son,” Graham chuckles, a little breathless. Ryan pulls away. “I’m sorry, I
really am.”
“Don’t mention it, alright? We’re all back together again. It’s all gonna be fine now.”
His words contrast aggressively with the thoughts running through his head; different-scared-
light-wary.
Graham pierces the Doctor with a knowing look. Sympathetic, coaxing. She really
shouldn’t have told him about the torture, or her age. She isn’t supposed to suffer in their
eyes. She’s supposed to be their hope, and hope is clear, true, sure.
“All that stuff, Doc...” he begins, and she’s afraid that he’s about to spill her secrets, but
Graham O’Brien knows better than that. He’s suffered worse than the younger two, and he
understands the sacrality of secrets. “All those invasions and alien sightin’s – did they all
really happen?”
“Well, that depends on which ones you’re referrin’ to,” she shrugs, easing into a
straightforward sort of conversation. An animated explanation. “There’s plenty of hoaxes,
and most people who say they got abducted are just lyin’ for attention or hallucinatin’.
Plenty of real one’s, though. Daleks, Cybermen, Zygons, Sontarons, Slitheen, Sycorax,
Racnoss,” she ticks them off on her fingers, “some of them multiple times – and that’s just
in the past fifteen years or so.”
“And you’ve travelled with other humans before, haven’t you?” Yaz is evidently trying
not to sound jealous. Failing, just a little. “When you were…” and falters for a moment,
“different.”
“Yes,” she says, not looking at her. Humans could be touchy about this sort of thing,
the thought that there were others before, that they’re not as special as they thought. Of
course, it isn’t true, they are special, every one. More special than they can possibly imagine.
“And you worked all this out yourself? Even with the world and your own minds workin’
against you?” she shakes her head with a smile. “Just brilliant.”
“But hold on,” Graham says, “we ain’t the only ones who don’t remember those alien
attacks – that’s everyone on Earth who’s forgotten. Why’s that, then?”
“Ah,” she cocks her head, giving him a lazy shrug. “Well, that’s slightly more
complicated. Basically, the Time Lords used to deal with all that – keeping time as it should
be, editing memories, smoothing over little hiccups in time. It was all part of their rule; they
were like the self-appointed janitors of the universe. Certain people were unaffected
because I made it so, and others slipped through the cracks. Psychic interference on my
part, but necessary. I had good people working with me that needed info on these things.
UNIT, the organisation was called, you probably haven’t heard of them seein’ as they’re –”
“But we have!” Yaz pipes up. “All the info online that was blocked, the action was put
down under UNIT. Even the case files to do with the night Tim Shaw came, they were all
marked as taken over by UNIT.”
“That was me, actually,” she confesses. “Did a bit of rearrangin’ on the police officers –
sorry,” she adds, at the sight of Yaz’s alarmed expression. “Filed it under my old place of
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work, only I found out not too long ago that the organisation’s been shut down. Shame,
really, because I’ll be needin’ their help if anythin’ big happens here on Earth.” She
wonders how much more she should say; the truth of the extent to which their society is
puppeted, even now, with no Time Lords to rule over their existence. “Was a time when
the Time Lords, err... lost touch, with things here on Earth. Suddenly I had to go around
erasin’ myself manually – computer viruses and such – and the government had to explain
away a whole heap of impossible scenarios. My power’s been growin’ since then, though.
I’ve been gettin’ used to bein’ myself again after… well, bit of an upheaval.” No need to
get into that. Grandad's war stories. They don’t need to know about all that. “I’ve been
keyin’ into the psychic network of the planet – and yes, Graham, before you ask,'' because
he’d opened his mouth as if to protest the existence of such a thing, “there is too a psychic
network – lets me mask some things from public attention – not all of it, mind, most of the
forgettin’ you do all on your own. You’re good at makin’ up plausible stories to cover up
the impossible, I just give it a bit of a helpin’ hand. Your people can’t know about all that,
not yet. Causality is delicate.” Delicate, because she’s decided that she likes the twenty-first
century just the way it is. Too many aliens too early means conflict, or peace (rarely) and
that means advanced tech coming into play far too early in their timeline. Her gimmick just
doesn’t elicit the same brand of wonder if they already believe in the aliens. She delights in
opening their minds, widening their perspectives. An impossible hero showing off
impossible things. It’s not the same if they already believe in them.
They’re silent for a moment, taking it her words. “So, it’s all you? Protectin’ the planet
from aliens, and from the knowledge of ‘em, too.”
“Well, me and my mates. Always have my mates. I’ve been at it for a while, but I’m sure
you’ve worked that out by now. Those different faces, the stories you’ve heard about me –
they’re true, I can regenerate. Change my body when I’m dyin’. Let’s me live for as long as
the universe needs me, barring accidents, which are quite likely, actually, so don’t get too
comfortable.” She chuckles, spinning the sadness into a joke. Good’ol’Eyebrows turns in
his metaphorical grave, because he thinks that maybe he should have been the last after all.
That night in Sheffield, she’d never dreamed of letting this much through, because the
Doctor lies – by omission, most of all – though she never did tell them rule one.
Before her, their eyes say; wary-wonder-alien-powerful-old. “You okay?” she asks, knowing
the answer; both the truth, and what they’re going to say.
“Yeah, yeah,” Yaz is the first to reassure her, “‘course, it’s just that….”
Ryan saves her. “We thought you were just some alien tourist.” Yaz nods at his words,
and her eyes are so bright they’re almost gold again.
“But –” Graham begins, keen (whether on her behalf, or to satiate his own curiosity) to
move onto something easier for the Doctor to digest. “– when your people wiped our
memories and sent us back here, Yaz said that time was changin’ around her. I felt like that,
too, like there were two sets of memories, but that each was as real as the other.”
“The world wasn’t changin’, just your memories of it. Memory shapes reality, quite a
few species play with the idea quite elegantly, in fact. Yaz only noticed because she was
imbued with some of the TARDIS’ consciousness. It sees time in a way humans don’t.
Whenever any of you discovered a contradiction within yourselves, your memories were
edited so as to omit me and any of our alien shenanigans, except that Yaz,” and she flashes
the girl what she hopes is a winning smile, “was able to notice it. Every time you
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questioned people around you, their memories were altered too. It all revolved around the
three of you and your immediate timestreams. Bit bare-bones, exponential in its
computational order, but good enough for three regular humans. Pretty clever, really.”
They don’t seem impressed, so she adds, “I mean, horrible, obviously. The only reason Yaz
picked it up at all was that she could sense both the real and the replacement memories at
the same time. Her doubt spread to the two of you as well, in small ways. Contagious
scepticism,” she grins, “contaminating the psychic link between the three of you like a
virus.” She can’t help appreciating the technology, though her enthusiasm isn’t reflected in
her friends. “The mechanisms that were forcing you to forget me, they would’ve done
anything to your memories to force you to believe in your new ones instead. Implanting
new events, even people –” and she gives Yaz a pointed look, “– just to keep you docile.
Not anymore. I’ve fixed it all up.”
“But,” Graham puzzles, “I still remember all the fake stuff they made us think
happened instead.”
“Exactly, fake stuff. You can tell the difference now. It’ll fade, soon, like a dream. You
might have a bit of a headache, though.”
“Right,” Ryan nods. All of them are quiet. She’s trying for a certain tone; triumphant,
congratulatory. It’s the end of the adventure, and they’re all finished, all safe. Victorious.
Time to go back home, or head off on the next escapade. Only, it doesn’t feel like a victory
at all. This doesn’t feel like the end of one of their little outings – more like the beginning
of something the Doctor would rather never starts at all.
They shift their feet, casting furtive eyes up to one another that she’s sure, if she were to
turn her back, would become fully fledged looks. Their eyes would communicate there,
behind her back – whispers exchanged, plans formulated. Plans of attack in the form of
more questions. Their minds will never stop that constant ringing chorus of doubt-
whathavewegottenoutselvesinto-whatisshe-fear. She won’t give them the chance. She keeps her eyes
on them all.
They aren’t supposed to be silent, that’s not what she keeps them for. She keeps them for
their questions, their wonder, their laughter. She knows what she has to do – the answer to
the second question – but she isn’t sure if the part of her that was the Doctor will ever
forgive herself. Just one more unforgivable thing. Why, sometimes, she did as many as six
unforgivable things before breakfast.
“I did promise that everything would be the way it was, Team TARDIS – next stop
everywhere.” She smiles; strained, wan. They see right through. “I keep my promises.”
Another smile. This time, she tries harder. Her eyes are full of mischief, the corners of her
mouth twitching with disguised mirth, laughter threatening to break through. Old joy. She
hopes it sits well on her face – it’s been a while. She holds out both hands, offering them to
Graham and Yaz, who stand either side of Ryan. Always them, in a line, facing her like a
firing squad. Questions and expressions like bullets from the barrels of their mouths.
Yaz takes her hand without hesitation, to which Graham responds by doing the same.
Ryan grips their other hands, casting the both of them a sheepish grin, a slight shrug.
“What exactly are we doin’, Doc – some sorta team-buildin’ exercise,” Graham
chuckles.
183
“Exactly,” she grins, and it isn’t exactly a lie. This is the only team building exercise that
could ever repair the damage she’s caused them. “Just makin’ it official.”
They take her hands because they’re moved by her desperation – that much is clear
from their thoughts. It’s the same way that Yaz answered her shifting feet and sad, pressed
smile as she sunk, slumped, back into her box all alone as she said goodbye (d’ya want to
come for tea at mine?). They’re doing the same for her now; inviting her over for tea, indulging
her in another strange venture into the eccentricities of human friendship. They trust her;
that’s the fact that hurts the most. After everything that she’s put them through, they still
trust her.
In their wonky circle of four, they hold hands. She watches as Ryan gives Yaz’s hand a
comforting squeeze, casting her a warm smile, which she returns, bright.
She focuses on keeping them small; pinpricks in the dark, nothing more. Seeing them
properly, their lives – their sprawling folded layers of detail – would only make this harder.
Pinpricks don’t have a past that is theirs, and they don’t have eyes that look at her in a
mingled haze of apprehension, reproach, and that terrible trace of trust. Pinpricks don’t
have any thoughts at all.
She shuts her eyes, and feels their touch go soft, limp. Through their skin, she reaches
into the labyrinth of their nerves, and into their minds. She searches through the confusion,
the agony, the mundanity of the past few months, and she scrubs it out. She scoops up all
their hurt into her arms and carries it, just another burden to bear. She goes further,
because wouldn’t it be better if they didn’t know a thing? Forget the Time Lords, and their
fear, their nightmares. Go back to the night before a Saturday full of possibilities. Before a
hung-over warehouse shift, a family lunch, a relaxing day at home. Mundanity, but the
good kind, because they still had her to look forward to. Alien tourist. Just a traveller.
Unearthed as she (It) is, she still has power over them and the dimensions they inhabit. The
rules of time are hers, the architect. The Doctor may never forgive It (herself), but she will
know, deep down, that it was for the best.
Sometimes, what is best isn’t always what is easy. Sometimes it isn’t even right. Gallifrey
will learn that lesson, in time. They live, she feels them, in that time-loop, cut off from
everything. They have their forests, their sky, their red grass and their time – but not their
power. Not their universe. They stand in the freezing night outside the locked door where
the pariah lurks. The curator. They will live and die, generations upon generations of her
people, Its people. They’ll swap old tales of the glory days that shall grow ever twisted upon
each retelling, ever brighter, ever false. Maybe they’ll spin a legend from her, too, a God
who turned her back. Maybe they’ll cry for her blood, or see her wisdom, or even forget
her entirely – and wouldn’t that be nice? They will live, and that’s the main thing. Without
war, or struggle, or glory. Just this once, everybody lives.
And she can get on with her life as if nothing happened at all.
In the final moment before her world goes dark, Yaz knows what’s happening. She
understands what the Doctor is doing, because she’s felt this sensation before. A veil being
pulled down over her eyes, violent and forceful. Time winds back, like stems shrivelling to
buds, furling into seeds beneath the Earth. Regressing. Forgetting.
184
She sees the light again, all around her, swallowing her. It has fourteen sets of eyes, and
more, further back, that don’t seem to be eyes at all. Something old.
Ryan and Graham are there too, drowning in gold. She screams, but it doesn’t hear her.
It can’t even see her. She’s nothing to It, and it’s a horrible feeling, unfurling to nauseating
vertigo; the feeling of non-existence. Picked apart, erased, altered, unspooled into tendrils
of thought. The light that held her together. Something new.
It’s stolen them, just as It’s stolen the face It wears like a mask. Young, smiling, bright.
Yellow. It’s older than anything has the right to be, and yet it needs them. Like air, it needs
them. So it clutches tight, shaping them. Curating them like prized exhibits. Something
borrowed.
She’s staring out into the darkness of her closed eyelids. Black, and around her, a
familiar smell, a familiar touch. Home. Outside, the Sheffield sky rakes its midnight hues
across her eyes. Something blue.
1:00
Yaz doesn’t see the time tick over, because

she’s fast asleep. On her desk, her phone stays
resolutely silent. No mystery calls in the night.
She dreams, not of golden lights, but of a girl
called Joan Smith who looks remarkably like
an eccentric alien she knows in her waking
hours. She’ll be embarrassed in the morning,
because in the dream she’s kissing her, but in
real life the Doctor never looks her way.
1:00
Ryan watches a football game on TV in the

local pub. As the hour chimes, the TV stays
on, no space-bending static reaching out
towards him. He’s looking forward to hitting
the streets once he and his mates are suitably
inebriated (Ian, Ben, Zoe, Harry… no, there
was no one else, no other mates he’s got apart
from Yaz and the Doctor). Tomorrow, he has
to go into work, which is always a drag, but
he’s got the Doctor to look forward to. He
always has the Doctor to look forward to.
1:00
Graham, too, remains asleep. Although he wouldn’t have noticed either way, the landline in
the kitchen doesn’t ring. He dreams of Grace, but there’s no glint to her eyes, no haunting
voice, and no warning about a President. He’s telling her about his adventures (things you
185
wouldn’t believe, love, I wish you could be here to see it). He’s telling her that he isn’t scared. Even
without her, he isn’t scared. He’s faced impossible things – terrible and wonderful – but
he’s never been scared, because the Doctor is always there with her last-minute plans and
her bright, calming words. As long as she’s with them, Graham doesn’t think he’ll ever be
properly scared again.
186
I
The Promise
Something’s wrong with her. It feels good, admitting that to herself. Something’s wrong
with me.
(Something that might have always been there – so stop worrying about it.)
Itcameback-buriednow-fading-headache.
The TARDIS relays its message with surprising clarity. She can still hear her – almost as
if she’s speaking in words – but the connection is fading. Burying itself, following the path
of something else.
Warning-concern-love-sadness.
The Doctor massages her head and tries to place herself in time. She’s in the vortex, the
coordinates set for Sheffield, Earth, 21st century. Saturday. Funny, she could have sworn
that the phone was ringing before. Now it’s silent.
She’s tired – more than she has any right to be. Her body is worn and weary, even
though she’s only had it for a year or two of linear time. She feels sick, and small. Blind.
Full and choked, like she’s swallowed something too big for her throat. It takes her a
moment to piece her memories together. They come in fragments of red dust and golden
chambers, of betrayal, silver hair, and hands in hers, drowning in light. They flash before
her in a mess of incomprehensible static. Something’s wrong with me.
What did you do? She asks It, accusatory, because it staves off the guilt. Easy to fall back
into the old habit of pretending they aren’t one and the same.
Within her, the creature whispers, and they are still close enough to being one that she
can understand Its meaning.
(What was best).
The TARDIS lands, rougher than usual. She hopes she hasn’t broken any more chairs.
There’s a knock at the door, and a bright, comforting voice. It serves to ground her
amongst the onslaught of half-buried memories. “Hey Doc!” Graham calls from outside.
She quite likes that nickname, it suits her. Hip and – what was it that Eyebrows had said? –
down with the kids. “Gave me a bit of a turn there, I almost dropped m’tea!”
187
“Tea!” she exclaims, brightly, hurtling out through the TARDIS doors in front of a
startled and exasperated looking Graham. “I’d love me some tea, thanks very much
Graham.” She slips easily into the routine, pushing down her doubts.
“Well alright then, I’ll put the kettle on shall I?” he says with a chuckle. He sets his own
half-full mug down on the dining table and calls up the narrow staircase. “Oi Ryan! The
Doc’s here, get down or you’ll miss out til next Sat’day.” How old are you? his voice asks,
from somewhere else. Deep witihn, she remembers lurking in this house in the dark, a
shadow in the corner of his eye. Her head twinges.
“He’s havin’ an afternoon nap,” Graham informs the Doctor with a fond, knowing
smirk. “Went out with his mates down the pub last night and came back in a right state. I
don’t know how he does it.”
She smiles weakly, “the youth and all their mysteries,” it’s quiet and bright enough that
Graham doesn’t give her any questioning looks – just a question in his eyes. Never uttered,
and the Doctor suspects that Graham doesn’t even know it’s there, but she remembers it;
how old are you?
“Yaz should be round in a bit, she had some family lunch, extended and all. Makes me
jealous just thinkin’ about that food. Do they’ave Pakistani food in space?”
She starts, because the question is familiar, but launches into an anecdote all the same.
Distractin’ herself. “Oh yeah, plenty of em’! Especially in the 31st century when you lot
really start branchin’ out. There’s one in the Taureen System just off the Braken Nebula –
excellent Karahi. I’ll take you sometime, shall I?” A promise. She remembers reflecting
upon its making, strung up and stuffed behind glass like a grotesque exhibit. Time bends,
and not in its usual fashion, coming back around on its twisted arc like a boomerang.
Memories and premonitions.
“That sounds great Doc,” a flash of concern. That isn’t good, he must have noticed her
discomfort. All of this seems familiar, and not in the nostalgic way. The scary way. Not a
happy coincidence, but a primal wrongness, like she’s missing something enormous. “I’ll
get that tea on. Make yourself at home.” Graham bustles out as Ryan traipses down the
stairs, one careful foot in front of the other. Climbing down a British suburban staircase
with a hangover and dyspraxia is a feat of unimaginable skill, and he almost makes it look
easy.
“Mornin’ Ryan,” she calls, plastering on her grin again.
He winces. “Hey, Doctor.” (different-scared-light-wary.)
She snarls as the thought pushes its way into her mind. She isn’t even sure that it’s his.
It’s incongruous – displaced from time – and sensing it sends a wave of disgust through
her, wrinkling her nose at the rot. Luckily, Ryan is too busy watching his feet to notice her
expression. “Big night?” she asks, still pondering on the taste of the time around her.
Curdled and tanging and singed, like something’s been torn away and stuffed crudely back
into place, misshapen.
“Yeah,” he sighs, blinking rapidly as if the action might jerk him awake. “Long shift at
work too. I’m down for an adventure, just no more space warehouses, yeah?” His eyes
flash with the ghost of his future, afraid. It’s disorientating, watching something struggle to
stay alive where it doesn’t belong, dying slowly, gasping for life. Fish out of water.
Temporal waste. If she stops looking, it’ll fade soon enough. She hopes.
188
“Well, guess I’ll have to cancel my plans for our space warehouse extravaganza then!”
She rolls her eyes in mock-frustration. “Honestly Ryan, you keep me on my toes.”
The doorbell rings, causing Ryan to wince and hold his head again. “Ooh, is that Yaz?”
she asks, eager to have an excuse to look somewhere other than Ryan and the fear gripping
his heart.
“Yeah,” Ryan mumbles. “I’ll get it.” He wanders along the landing, the Doctor
following absently, not really sure what to do with herself. Her feet move almost on
instinct, as if she’s walked this path before. Lived these seconds before. When Ryan opens
the door, Yaz’s face is almost covered by the tower of Tupperware balanced precariously in
her arms. Almost. The Doctor can see her eyes, a flash of gold that might’ve been the sun
on brown irises, but that she knows definitely wasn’t. It’s the light that the Doctor has seen
in her dreams all her life, the deep sort of light that’s so expansive and blinding that it’s
almost like darkness in the way it consumes.
She asks It again: what did you do? The notion seems to anger it somewhat, but that’s all
the answer the creature gives. She sees red cliffs and golden cities, and robes of a similar
hue, draped over her. She feels hope, and the taste of it turning sour, to betrayal. Ash
coating her lungs. Black, like a coat she slung over her shoulders to stay hidden.
“Hey Ryan, Doctor,” Yaz beams. Her smile seems sad, though the Doctor is sure that
Yaz herself doesn’t notice she’s doing it; that slight turn of the lip, a glaze of the eye that
has her looking past instead of at. “Could you grab a couple of these, otherwise I’m gonna
collapse under a pile of Nani’s cookin’.” Ryan obediently scoops the top-most lot of
containers from Yaz’s tower. The smell is overpowering, and steam fogs up against the
plastic, softening it. The Doctor takes the next lot with a hurried grin at Yaz and carries
them to the kitchen. Her eyes linger on the girl as she goes, who only endeavours to smile
wider. Sadder. There’s something on her back; sprawling, yellow. She feels the need to
apologise for something she hasn’t done yet.
“Oh Yaz, you’re a gem, you are,” Graham exclaims as he waves through the parade of
leftovers.
“Well I wasn’t about to leave you out, was I?” she says, shunting the sparse contents of
the O’Brien/Sinclair fridge to make room for her contribution. “How about we have
second lunch when we get back. Just make it a long one, okay Doctor, because I am full to
burstin’.”
“Ooh, lunch with the fam,” The Doctor cries, a little too loudly to be passed off as
merely enthusiastic. Her mind is being torn apart between two pasts, two timelines.
Something has plucked them all from time and shoved them backwards in their own
timestreams. A reset. It feels wrong, and makes her face tighten in a disgusted grimace.
Time shouldn’t be moved about like that – not even the Time Lords have that sort of
power. She can hazard a guess at who might, so she asks again, more agreeable this time;
what did I do?
(Kept a promise).
She remembers sitting at the dining table of this very house. The lights were too bright,
too warm, and her fam sat around her with faces too calm and smiles too soft. Words too
perfect (we’ll see you soon). A simulation. The Time Lords had caught her, (Lords of Nothing) It
reminds her, and it’s then that she begins to remember. The moment she let it all out in her
desperation to escape, and the moment she buried it, desperation of a different sort driving
189
her to hide herself. A desperation for old times, a simpler time. A time when they didn’t
fear her. All the moments in between are shrouded. The part of her she’s so naively come
to call ‘herself’ was only a small fraction of the mind that lived within her then, almost
drowned by the volume of It. Now, the memories are too big for her head. She feels their
absence looming over her, great empty spaces like holes burnt through the tapestry of her
mind. She’s still settling back into old illusions of self. A line in the sand, wont to
disappear, drawn between the ‘she’ and the ‘It’. She draws it now, and focuses on the
present.
There’s a shared sheepish smile from her three wonderful humans (like bullets from the
barrels of their mouths). “Sorry fam,” she smiles, shaking her head slightly to sell the illusion of
pulling herself back together. “Zoned out for a bit there – but, I believe we have come to
that fateful time of the week, the moment you’ve all been waiting for...” she grins wide,
hunched over, drinking up the wonder on their faces like a leech sucking blood.
Their minds chorus, clearer than usual: finally-yes-allweek-allmylife-needthis-running-trust.
“Barcelona!” she beams, as if unveiling an act. The ringmaster. In truth, she made it up
on the spot. She’s been feeling a little sentimental. “Not the city, mind, the planet. You’ll
love it – it’s brilliant!”
“You tellin’ me there’s a planet named after a city on Earth?” Graham asks, sceptical.
Old roles. Old habits.
“No,” she laughs, and Graham smirks knowingly, “of course not. The city’s named after
the planet. Couple of Barcelonians were feelin’ homesick when they suggested the name to
Charles the Great during the founding of the Carolingian Empire.” The smirk slides off his
face.
“You what?”
“And I suppose you were there, were you?” Yaz asks, laughter in her eyes. None of
them ever really believe her anecdotes, and that’s just as well. Half the time she doesn’t
believe them herself. Behind Yaz’s eyes lurks a deeper question. A buried question; are you
still the Doctor?
“Not at the time, no, but they told me all about it last time I was visitin’ the planet. Shall
we go then, Barcelona?” And she launches into the familiar feeling of an explanation; wild
hands, words rattling off almost as fast as her thoughts. “The skies are like fire – sprawling,
towering cities of sentient brick that move and shape themselves to the needs of the
inhabitants. The locals ride about on creatures who’ve evolved naturally-occurring wheels!
It’s brilliant; a symbiotic relationship between the nature, the wildlife, the dominant species,
and the architecture. It’s a delicate, beautiful balance. Interlocked, inseparable.”
(Remind you of anyone?).
Yaz smiles wider still. “That sounds brilliant!”
“What are we waitin’ for then? Let’s get this tea and get a move on,” Graham grins,
heading back towards the kettle with a muffled exclamation of “get in!”
Yaz and Ryan exchange a bemused look, but between them she hears the fading echo of
doubt-whathavewegottenoutselvesinto-whatisshe-fear. The Doctor shivers, and buries the feeling as
deep as it will go. Almost as deep as the creature.
190
Throughout their excursion, memories unfold. Ten thousand years watching arid sands
bloom to grass and trees of silver. Leaving them, afraid and doomed to eternity but no
longer starving. Making up for old mistakes, old anger. She hasn’t reached the breaking
point, not yet. Every time she thinks she’s reached it she turns around to find a new spark
of home glimmering in the place where that star had lodged itself so long ago; inspiration
or madness. Sad or beautiful. Both.
They stay out for six or seven hours of linear time, and are met with no major
complications. She doesn’t like taking them out for too long at a time, it disrupts their lives
on Earth too much. She knows what can happen when travelling with her becomes one’s
life, and it’s never pretty. So, she tries to get them to take time off work and all that when
she wants to take a proper trip. Keep things regular. She’s a good travel agent. Well, good,
except that Ryan almost got eaten up by the sentient brickwork who recognised human
DNA as inconsequential fauna – but that was soon fixed by a cloaking device whipped up
on her sonic. Yaz got the adrenaline rush she always craves; streaking along gold-grassed
planes on the back of a great, wheeled, horse-like creature, hair whipping out behind her in
the fiery air. Orange sky. It almost looked like home. Graham got some relaxin’ in; a gentle
stroll across the Barcelonian forests and a sunset that struck the towering trees stark and
red (sharp, trapped behind jewelled glass). Home.
Now they’re back in the O’Brien/Sinclair dining room with reheated Pakistani cuisine
sitting in front of them in steaming Tupperware containers. This, the Doctor knows, is her
real home. Her only home, now, because Gallifrey is unreachable. The Doctor doesn’t
often stay for dinner, but this time she caves to the request. She’s had a long day. A long
ten thousand years, in fact.
“Oh Yaz,” Graham moans, mouth too full of curried lamb to be entirely
comprehensible, “this is just heavenly. Tell your Nan this is the best thing I’ve ever
tasted.”
“She knows,” Yaz smirks. “What do you reckon though, Doctor?” she nudges the
Doctor, who’s got a Tupperware container of her own, filling the air with smells of
turmeric and cardamom. “Does this live up to the Pakistani food they’ve got in space?”
“Well,” she says, swallowing a mouthful of rice, “by the 31st century, the chefs of the
Taureen system have got food chemistry down to a precise art. Everythin’ tastes not only
authentic, but also mathematically perfect, so, objectively speaking it’s probably a lot –” she
stops abruptly at the blazing look on Yaz’s face, and clears her throat. “Well, objectively
speaking, Umbreen is the best chef in all the universe.”
“Too right she is,” Yaz grins, playful.
“Careful mate,” says Ryan, gasping and reaching for his third glass of water. “She
would’ve hit you if you’d finished that sentence.” (I could hit you) she remembers. Steely
eyes, PC calm.
“What’s with all the water, Ryan?” Yaz teases.
“I’m not good with spice, okay,” he cries, indignant.
“He’s right,” says Graham, “that boy can’t even stomach medium salsa.”
Ryan shoots him a look. “Don’t pretend your eyes aren’t waterin’ Grandad.”
It’s true; his cheeks are flushed, his eyes glazed. “Oi, these right here are tears of
culinary appreciation, son.”
“D’ya want some water?” Yaz asks, grinning.
191
“Yeah, go on love, my mouth’s burnin’” he concedes. She chuckles, and passes him a
glass of his own.
“How ‘bout you Doctor?” Ryan asks. “You good with spice?”
She realises that she’s been staring at them, eyes blank. Taking in the sight, like soaking
up a good sunset before it’s gone. “Oh yeah. I’m alien, remember,” she winks, “human
spice is nothin’. I once took a bite out of the certified spiciest chilli in the universe for a
bet. My mate thought I was gonna die from it, but I only had to recuperate in the zero
room for a month and completely recalibrate my taste buds!”
“Really?” Yaz asks, eyebrows raised. Again, sceptical of her anecdotes, and her unsure
of sure what’s true and what’s instinct. Part of the lie.
“Really,” she nods. “Point is, I can stomach stuff that would turn you lot into husks!”
“Cheery thought, thanks Doc.”
“No problem Graham,” she retorts, smiling sarcastic right back.
Smiling, all of them. She couldn’t have had this, if she’d left their memories intact. They’d
still be looking at her as if she were some sort of monster. (You are) It reminds her, though
its remarks are fading to gentle stirs again. It’s buried itself, and for that she is thankful.
There’s not enough room in her body for a power such as that, not for their minds to
handle, anyway – her humans.
It was wrong, but it was best.
After their meal, she’ll jump back into the TARDIS. She’ll drift, for a time. Save some
planets, meet some people, stop some evil. Helping, healing. Maybe she’ll jump right
forward to next Saturday, just to see them again, whole and unquestioning. For now.
Losing them might just be the breaking point, she thinks, but she’s thought the same
before. Immortality means finding someone you can’t live without, over and over again,
and always, always losing. She’s going to lose them someday; to death or impossibility or
purpose, when they find a place to rest instead of run. She doesn’t want to lose them to
fear, not yet – so who can blame her for making that impossible, unforgivable decision?
Herself, that’s all, and that, she thinks, is exactly the problem. Answerable to no one. Time
Lord victorious.
The rules of time are Its, and It is her. Someday the cruelty of existence will break her,
and she will break the universe in turn to quell the ache. Unanchor, and let old dreams of
order float away on the sea. Someday. Not today.
But she can always run a little farther. Always a bit more energy to go on, another scrap
of hope to find. She’s good at that – hoping, running.
That, in essence, was the promise.
192
Epilogue
It remembers a girl
193

The Prodigal Daughter

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something is a question of hasn’t or can’t is another matter altogether. There’s something

THE UNTEMPERED SCHISM

Graham scoffs. “Bit up themselves, are they?”

“So you will –”

A BARN IN THE DESERT

They think of it as a ritual, a necessary operation. It’s a ghastly intersection of religious

TWO MANIFESTATIONS OF MADNESS

She takes the week off.

At noon on Friday, she gets a text from Ryan.

Aww mate, that sucks :( you feeling better today or nah?

I’ll come, pretty much over it now. Just got a fever.

I know, drink just means hang out

Yeah, sounds great

Bad Wolf Bar

Looks well cool!

Yup, see ya!

Now, Koschei was an upstanding member of the standing-still society. He probably

Cardinal Atral’s extra-special, top-secret laboratory has been repurposed – on her

Alone-notgoodatbeingalone. It relays a memory of a man with darkness in his eyes, the

“Tell me, err –”

She winks. “Start believin’.”

Yaz doesn’t see the time tick over, because

Ryan watches a football game on TV in the

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