I watch him as he struggles to regain his feet and viciously kick him back down, my foot landing square in the middle of his chest.
It hurts a bit, the force of my foot against the firmness of his chest. I feel my ankle give a little, so I straighten my foot out and kick again.
Ah, much smoother that time.
The other Time Lord coughs up a mouthful of blood. It splatters and stains the white tiled floor in a long stream, like the cut of the Belaxian Nebula across the eight systems. I always think in star systems. Especially lately.
He struggles to get to his feet. It's a feeble attempt, as he's been beaten so badly at this point that I'm not sure this regeneration will hold out for him. Oh, won't that be something? I've never taken a Time Lord's life like that, not ever. Oh, when Gallifrey burned, that was different. This is just beating a man to death. And you know what? When he regenerates, I think I'll beat him again.
Part of me, a very small part, curls up with disgust at my actions. It's the part of me that wishes I hadn't changed. The part of me that longs for the way things were. It's a very small part that keeps getting smaller day by day. It wants me to stop.
I tell it to fuck off.
Not literally, mind. It's all internal. We mustn't think I've gone completely mad, now.
"Stay down." I push my foot against his shoulder and he goes down without a struggle.
"Oh, look at that, he's stopped struggling," you say. I don't have to turn around to know that you've got that grin splitting your face in half, the one that makes the small, sad part in my stomach hurt. That mean, cruel grin.
Rassilon speaks. "You will both---"
"I'm sorry, did he say you could speak?" you say, crouching next to him. "I don't think you did, Doctor. Ought to kick him again so he gets the message.."
Again and again and again. Centuries of hurting and guilt and anger and each kick to this old Time Lord makes me feel better. I learned well, on Mars. I never forgot how much I could change if I just stopped giving myself pesky rules.
Your disappearance? Sorted. Once you realized I wasn't about to stop your plans, you and I managed to get on quite nicely. It almost felt like old times. Almost.
Gallifrey's return? Sorted. The explosion was bright and beautiful, though neither of us saw it. Well, if it was Earth or Gallifrey, you knew I'd choose Earth. Did I mention I appreciate your cooperation?
Rassilon's attack? Well, presently sorting that out with another kick.
If only I could sort out the small part of my stomach that hurts.
"For pity's sake, stop!" It's Romana's voice and I'm pretty sure she's here, but it sounds a very long way away. I hear the sick crack as another of his ribs break. It feels like an accomplishment, and I like being accomplished. My Time Lord professors always did tell me I never applied myself.
"Can you hear them, Doctor?" you murmur, watching my violent attack on our President with a cool, enraptured voice. "Can you hear them? The drums. Calling to us."
You know what?
Muse: The Doctor (Ten / Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 604