A Servant to Time and Consequence (rude_not_ginger) wrote,
A Servant to Time and Consequence

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for fandom_muses: March Topic, Truth

"When in doubt, tell the truth." -Mark Twain

They capture him in the middle of the eighteenth quadrant. Stupid mistake, but he was drawing fire away from Lady Flavia's regiment. Seemed like the right sort of sacrifice. He is rather well-known to them, so they don't simply kill. Don't merely exterminate. Too simple a process for someone like the Doctor.

Red Dalek #1 speaks first: "You-are-a-po-li-ti-cal-pri-so-ner-of-the-DA-LEKS. You-will-await-int-terro-gation-by-Dav-ros."

"High Dalek himself is coming down to see me, that's quite a treat, you know."

The flippancy earns him a quick shot from the creature's beam, and he's paralyzed from the waist down. Dragged by his fellow Timelord prisoners to a cell of his very own.

He is stripped of his Edwardian frock, and curls up naked on the cold metal floor of his cell. It's filthy, smelly, and dank. The Daleks have no noses, they don't care. Their prisoners are merely caged rats, they don't need them to be happy.

The interrogation room is bright. Four shining bulbs of---what is that glow? Coroscendrence crystals? Would explain the harshness. There is no chair, and he has to crouch before the dripping, disgusting and inhuman body of Davros, a lump in a spinning chair.

"Well, well, Doc-tor, at last you are here. You once told me you were not merely another Timelord, and now you are right. You are filth, and I have you captured."

"Must you be the one to torture me?" he asks, and a boyish, obnoxious grin slides across his face, "Very like being interrogated by a lump of melted plastasine, isn't it? Not exactly attractive, Davros."

There is no pain like that of a Dalek torture beam. It is meant, it is designed to slowly put pressures of pain on every nerve of the body. Everything hurts, and it hurts more than anything. Like razors sliding up and down veins and then being doused in lemon juice and salt. There is no pride in how he screams in agony.

"How many lights do you see, Doc-tor?"

His eyes wince to open. Curled in the fetal position. The beam has stopped, but the pain continues as the nerves cry out in confusion and alarm.

"The ones up there or the ones behind my eyelids?" Humor always does make the best relief from throbbing pain.

"Up. There."

He considers making another comment, but the beam on Davros' chair aims at him again. Deep breath. Had to a be a trick in it. The question was too easy.


"No, there are five lights, Doc-tor."

"No, no, really, there are four."

And the beam again, stronger. For denying the truth that Davros spoke. He refuses, of course, to say that there are five lights when there aren't, so the beam continues. For a long, long time. He counts the double-heartbeats until each wave stops.

Eventually, he is dragged back to his cell, to curl up against the metallic wall. He can feel his TARDIS, somewhere out in the universe. Waiting, empathizing, trying to pull back the pain. Good ol' girl. Always trying.

He goes back into the room many times.

Their questions are always ones he won't answer. Symbiotic nuclei, Timelord navigation, location of the Lady President's shuttle. How many lights.

Eventually he starts saying five. Then they put a truth serum through his veins and ask again. He says five, and his skin goes a shade green, so they use the beam again, because green means he's lying.

His reddish, curly hair gives way to short-cropped brown hair when too many doses of that stupid detecting serum makes him overly ill. They don't know anything about Timelord physiology short of what he's told them. Lots of lies with lots of truth, and his skin goes green as often as it stays normal.

"You will answer the question."

"Go to hell."

"This in-car-na-tion of you, Doc-tor, is more verbally abusive. It should be taught a les-son."

And the beam burns again.

The War doesn't stay still, and eventually the ship is attacked. Right in the middle of a bloody interrogation of all things.

"How many lights do you see, Doc-tor?"

The Lady President stalks into the room, shoulder-length black hair hidden behind the coronet of Rassilon, pulls out a gun and blows a rather neat hole into the center of the lump that was once his captor.

She shoos the bodyguards to do more fighting. Drops to his side and covers his shaking, terrified, and exposed form with her exterior robe.

"Davros is dead," she murmurs, rubbing his skin, holding him close, "Doctor, he's dead, are you all right?"

He nods, slowly, but his skin turns a few shades green at that. He'd never be "all right", not like that. Not again.

"There are four lights," he murmurs against her shoulder. "Four lights." There's a desperation to his voice.

"Yes, yes there are, Doctor. It's all right."

"No, you don't understand, Romana, there are four lights."

She doesn't understand that he's lying. He can see five lights, now.

Muse: The Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 828
Tags: awards: nominated fiction, community: fandom muses
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