December 14th, 2009

doctor/tardis on top of the world

for dreams_in_red: End of the World


It's my world, my love, my gun

well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world

No I’m all alone, kept the pain inside.
Wanna torch the world, cos I’m breathing fire.
Yes I’m all alone, kept the pain inside.
Wanna torch the world, cos I’m breathing fire..

Lucy isn't insane.

Not in the classical sense of the word. Not the madness her husband so willingly flaunts as he slides from room to room, surveying his kingdom. While she might dance to the beat of her own drums, they're not the same drums that pulsate through her husband's mind, they're not the drums of war and madness.

All the same, she's not all there. The Doctor can tell she's been broken in ways he knows he can't fix. It's the way she moves, the vacancy in her eyes. It's as if the deceptive and cruel woman he met months ago has left the building, and there's no one home to feel the things she's feeling.

There are always deep, penetrating bruises that she's not allowed to cover up with makeup. Marks of how much the Master loves her (because he really only hurts the ones he loves.) The Doctor has his own share of bruises, but his don't mark quite as artistically on his old skin as hers do.

She only comes to the bars of the Doctor's cage one. It's the night the Master breaks her wrist and shatters her collarbone, but that all happens after. Right now, right now she's slowly creeping towards it, as if she thinks the cameras pointed at the box in the center of the room somehow will miss her if she moves more slowly.

She touches the bars, but recoils immediately, as if expecting him to leap up from his wheelchair and attack. He doesn't move, and she becomes only the tiniest bit more relaxed. Her fingers curl around the bars and she leans, ever so slightly, to the left, bracing herself on the weight of the heavy bars.

"I'm going to kill him," she says. Her voice is calm, as though she were talking about the weather or the coldness of the bars.

He doesn't say anything at first. What can he say to her? He could tell her it's wrong to kill the Master, but it was wrong to kill one-tenth of the population and that didn't stop her. So, instead, he says, "Why?"

"I don't want him to hurt me anymore," she says, and he doesn't think she's just talking about the welt under her eye. She traces a long, red fingernail across the bar she's holding. "I'm going to shoot him in the heart."

"With what gun?" he demands, surprised by the force in his voice. She's telling him she wants to murder the person he's trying to save, of course there's going to be force there.

She smiles at it. "I'll find one. And I'll shoot."

"You better not miss," he warns her.

"I won't."

There's a click, and the Doctor knows the Master is coming. He can feel the other Time Lord's mind, buzzing with fury for Lucy's actions, and mild irritation for her words (after all, she can't hurt him). The Doctor would tell her to go, but where would she run to? Running would only mean more pain.

"Why did you tell me?" he asks.

Her expression is pained, then. Like she expected him to understand, but he doesn't. She reaches her arm through the bars to touch the side of his face. Her skin is warm and surprisingly soft. She's quite the human, Lucy Saxon is.

"Because you won't let me," she says. "And I have to do this."

She has to do it, because she's always stood up for herself, in life. It's why the Master chose her, it's why she went through what she did with him. But she still loves him. She loves him, and she doesn't want to do what she knows she has to.

There's a smack and suddenly Lucy is thrown to the side, cradling her wrist. The Master doesn't even look at the Doctor, he just hits. And hits. And hits.

The punches start to sound like drumbeats. One beat after the other. And the Doctor can't stop them.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 565
all my love to long ago, glasses long ago

for charloft: Munday: You Had Me At Hello

You Had Me At Hello:

As the typist/writer/mun, tell us about what exact moment made you fall in writery love with your character (if they are a canon char) and realize you had to write them.

I've been a fan of Doctor Who since 1996, when my mother's online friend (from the alt.prisoner forum, OH 1996 ILU) from the UK, told her she should check it out. He'd always been a huge fan of the classic series, and he was psyched that his favorite Doctor, Sylv McCoy, would be in it. She turned it on over dinner, we enjoyed it, and watching Saturday night midnight Doctor Who became a ritual for the two of us until I went to college. I even wrote a little Doctor Who fanfiction when I was a kid, my first full-length DW novel written when I was 11. I look back on it now (because, oh yes, it is still on my harddrive) and cringe, but fanfiction is what got me interested in becoming a writer.

When I started writing at theatrical_muse in 2005, I'd been interested in playing someone from the classic series. I hadn't yet seen the new series, convinced it would be crapping all over my childhood. I wrote for the Second Doctor for a while, but could never really find his voice. During that time, I discovered the new series was awesome and not suck at all, and decided I had to play someone from there, just to see if I could. Nine, I figured, because I had a wealth of classic Who knowledge I could put to use. But not Ten. Eww, no. He looked like a ferret and he wasn't Nine. (It wasn't until "Girl in the Fireplace" that I actually cared for Ten at all, actually.)

Then, after playing the Ninth Doctor (and totally loving it) at apharsites, I mentioned joining TM with him to write prompts. My friend, ibringlife said she'd prefer it if I picked up the Tenth Doctor. "Doomsday" had just aired and I had a new affection for the Tenth Doctor, so I decided, "Why not?" After all, if it didn't work out, I could always drop him after a few months, like I did with the Second Doctor. And, instead, he took off like a missile and was easy to write, fun, and interacted wonderfully with everyone who tagged him. He even interacts wonderfully with himself, so I've had some lovely Ten-chats-with-Ten threads in a few games.

And, it's been a few years, and I'm still loving it. &hearts
dark!doctor they will obey, they will obey

for daxtastic: Careful What You Pack


She thinks she's smart; she's just curious
She thinks she's alone
Doesn't even know someone's watching her
She's going to get in trouble now
Waving from the shore, never knew before
Doesn't understand
She's in trouble now

It's a new year
Careful what you pack
There's no going back
She's lost from the beginning
She's the new girl.

"You're just young enough to think you're old enough to handle things like this on your own."


"I suppose I deserve that."

He stands only a few feet away from her, though she hadn't noticed his arrival. She hadn't noticed anything, actually. Just the pain and the burning, and eventually everything in the room was still. Everything in the room, except her.

She cradles the lifeless form of the Klingon that was her husband. The whole station is dead, the monitors blink, telling her only three lifeforms remain. Her, the man in the brown coat, and his living machine.

"You lot, always mucking about with things you don't understand, time you don't understand. Even the Trill, thinking you're older than you are. Thinking you can---"

It's half a second before she's thrown him back, the blade he hadn't noticed she still carried up against his throat. His smug lecture from half a moment ago is silenced, and he takes in a shallow breath as the sharp blade nicks just below his adam's apple.

"BIHnuch! They said you were here, I told them you would help us," she growls. For a member of the Trill, a race the man in the brown coat traditionally thinks of as a very calm, intelligent, and wise-but-not-as-wise-as-the-Time-Lords, she is very primal in her grief and rage. "But you changed from the man I knew."

To her, this man with the sticking-up hair and brown coat is wrong. She longs for the one she knows, with the floppy dark hair and little ridiculous-looking bowtie. He sees her and wishes she was the shorter, stockier woman with the short dark hair that he knows.

But she doesn't know Ezri Dax yet. Just like he doesn't know his next life, and their timelines will never really match up. Time is like that.

"Can you fix this?" she demands. She takes a breath, because she's realized immediately that she asked the wrong question. "Will you fix this?"

The whole ship is dead, everyone but her, and all because Starfleet was meddling with time. Meddling with time in such a way that anyone who had never traveled via-the-Void as she has (will) would be ripped apart.

It was such a careless mistake. And they're all so small, aren't they? In the scope of the universe.

Her grip on his throat loosens, and he thinks, just for a moment, that she looks like she might cry. She doesn't, of course. She's not that sort of a person. It's something he admires (will admire) in her and her symbiont.

"Will you?" she asks, quietly.

He closes his eyes, and takes a breath. Time moves around them differently, changing the way she looks and the way she sees him. They are both very old and very young and very lonely and very guilty, all at the same time.

He answers, and time changes again.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 483
who saves the doctor?, dark!doctor who saves the doctor?

for savagestime: I'll Sink Manhattan


I'll sink Manhattan
Right under the sea
I'll find the sweetest spot to watch
As it goes away

You were so happy
With the things that you said
Like, "He's my lower half," you laughed
But you're going to cry

A river of tiny tears flow from your crocodile eyes
Too late to apologize, I say, as flood waters rise…

He only just makes it to the top of the building by the time the tides reach them. Everything on this part of America has collapsed except this one building. It's funny, but once upon a time he stood at this peak, looking over a very different Manhattan, and succeeded in saving the world.

Now, all he's done is fail.

He tries to pump the heart of the woman next to him. One, two, three. Nothing. And again. One, two, three. He's too little to hold enough oxygen in his lungs to breathe life into her. He's too helpless to save her. Drowned, like the rest of the people in this city.

Harriet Jones. Former PM.

The apologies that he speaks now mean nothing. He didn't know. He didn't know this would happen, but it did and it's too late. He scrambles back, his little legs pushing him towards the building's spire quickly, but not quickly enough. He feels hot tears start to run down his face. He's failed. Failed, failed, failed.

A year ago, he wouldn't have cried like this. He's been trapped as a little boy for too long, now. And the one time, the one time he tried to escape, his captor drowned a city to bring him back. Drowned a city full of people. Good people. People like Wilfred Mott and Leo Jones and Harriet Jones, former PM.

The present PM's helicopter is lowering towards the Empire State building, the black machine mirrored against the sparkling, still water. The Doctor watches the shiny shoes of the Master, stepping around the spire until he faces him. He doesn't even acknowledge Harriet Jones, former PM. He only barely acknowledges the crying little boy in front of him.

"Oh, don't be stupid," he snaps. "I didn't do this because of you, you idiot."

He nudges the Doctor's arm with his shiny shoe, but the Doctor can't react, now. All he can do is cry like the child the Master has told him he is.

The Master crouches in front of him, his expression almost pitying, like a father having to tell his son that Father Christmas isn't real. "This is where the resistance was holding a very big meeting," he says, all patronizing and stern. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, sonny. But it's a very good job that Daddy Master has come to pick you up, isn't that right?"

"I hate you." It's one of the most immature things he's managed to say, but right now he means it with every fiber of his diminutive being. He hates the Master, he hates everything that's happened. He hates that his running shoes don't fit and he hates the miniature suit he's wearing and he hates, hates, hates what's become of the planet he loves.

The Master looks amused. It's infuriating. "It's always the fate of a father to watch his son hate him until he realizes he's right."

"You're not my father, Master." But even the way he says the Master's name seems small. The Master seems to notice that, too, because his eyebrows crinkle together in distaste. He doesn't get the same high he once did from the Doctor saying his name. Things will change again, soon, and the Doctor doesn't want to think how.

The Master nods upwards, and soon the Doctor hears the clomp-clomp of very high heels. Lucy Saxon, a brand new split on her lip (unsurprising, considering she was the one who was supposed to be watching the Doctor when he escaped), comes rushing over, immediately scooping the tiny Time Lord into her arms.

He doesn't resist, instead going limp as she holds him. Her grip is a little too tight, and he knows she must blame him for the Master's treatment of her. Blame the Doctor for every bruise and every pain she's suffered. Blame him for the things that have happened to this once beautiful world.

As he looks over her shoulder at the drowned city, he can't help but agree with her.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 676