[Who fanfic]: The Last Battle
Nov. 30th, 2005 08:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
khaosworksNumber two in a series.
The Eighth Doctor: The Last Battle
He knew, somehow, that it would end like this. All his lives he had gathered people to himself, to abate the loneliness of his interminable wandering. He sometimes thought that it was a product of a kind of reverse solipsism; a paranoid fear that if people didn't see him, didn't know him, he didn't exist. So it seemed appropriate, after all, that right at the end, he would be alone.
He didn't care much for the irony. She had kissed him, to his surprise, before she left in the last of the battle TARDISes. Not an impulsive, good luck kiss either: this one had real passion behind it. He was so startled that he didn't even kiss her back. "I'm glad you're with me, Doctor," she said, "at the end of all things." It was from one of his favourite books. She had remembered that, too.
Around him, the Panopticon was crumbling, shards of polydimensional ceramic, designed to withstand the most intense of time winds, structures that had stood for eons beyond memory, all falling apart. He had seen it happen before, but the second time around didn't make it any easier. Quite the opposite, since he had put it back together the last time, performed the most spectacular conjuring trick in the universe by restoring the Time Lords to a continuum that had forgotten them.
He ran through the Capitol, barely avoiding being crushed by debris several times, until he made it to the landing bays, where the TARDIS was, still stuck in that silly old police box shape. He had every opportunity to repair it, in the time he had stayed on Gallifrey since the Restoration, but it just didn't seem appropriate. He patted the exterior affectionately as he stepped through the doors. "Just hold on, old girl... one last trick to perform."
They were buying him time. The battle TARDISes, just barely a dozen of them, the remnants of a once proud fleet, were stringing themselves in a sixth dimensional battle configuration through the vortex. They were extending their defensive spheres backwards, forwards and sideways in time, constantly shifting the temporal harmonics to take care of any incoming attacks that tried to sneak in through a parallel universe where those defences didn't exist.
Buying time. Perhaps these last few years were all borrowed time, perhaps he wasn't meant to have brought them back, and the universe had summoned the Daleks to undo his impertinence. It was funny — he had lived in this particular body longer than most, and yet it hadn't seemed all that long, like he had never quite been given the chance to prove himself. Perhaps he and the Time Lords had brought it down on themselves. He wondered what if, back at the start of it all on Skaro, he had simply said "No."
All those possibilities. All a matter of time, which was itself splintering around him as the Dalek war saucers clashed with the defensive line of battle TARDISes. The universe shuddered, and brief alternatives flickered in and out of existence around him. The situation had really been desperate at the end, and the Laws of Time had not just been bent, they had been irrevocably shattered. Forty-two of him, as many past and future selves as they could gather, coming together, companions and all, a merry, epic chase through the vortex, confronting the Daleks on multiple worlds and multiple parallels. One last grand adventure, one last chance to stave off the apocalypse.
All gone, now. The fact that he had seen his past die and his future perish didn't mean anything in the grand scheme, of course. The transduction barriers had long fallen, the integrity of the timelines were in ruins, and causality had been dragged into an alley, been beaten senseless with a perigosto stick and then piled on top of the rest of the bodies. Rassilon would weep.
Life, death, struggle, victory from the jaws of defeat, winning battles, losing wars. It had all been for nothing... it would all be for nothing, if he failed now. The Eye was the key, as always. The nucleus of a black hole, the naked singularity that Rassilon had clothed with technology so undreamed of that it was magic. As long as it existed, the Time Lords would neither flux, nor wither.
As he ran around the console like a madman — some things never changed — he estimated that to be approximately seven minutes. The TARDIS knew this; her Cloister Bell was ringing so hard that he was getting a headache.
"I know, I know..." he muttered, "But we're out of options."
He wanted to join them... to join her, to face down the ultimate evil, to stare it in the face. But he was the only one left who could do this, the only one brilliant enough, mad enough, to even try. He wondered if he had acquiesced too easily. Perhaps it was cowardice after all, staying behind while the others made their last stand. Or perhaps it was because, of all of them, he was the only one who would dare to do it. The effects of the Eye of Harmony's annihilation would be felt throughout history, and beyond. The consequences would be incalculable, unpredictable.
All except one. It would finally end. Everything would end. Him, Gallifrey, the Time Lords, the TARDIS. No more regenerations, no more last minute rescues, no more miracles. But the Daleks would end, too, and after his fourth self had prevaricated, and his seventh self had not gone far enough, his eighth self, running for so long and hiding behind a mask of boyish wonder denying the darkness and weight of his responsibilities... he could take that final step. Coward, killer, everything in between.
He focused the heart of the TARDIS on the Eye. Every last iota of power the old girl had, pouring into the singularity, to release that last, history-destroying burst of energy.
He suddenly remembered what day it was, relative time.
"Merry Christmas, you tin-plated, one-eyed bastards," he growled through clenched teeth.
And threw the switch.
The Eighth Doctor: The Last Battle
He knew, somehow, that it would end like this. All his lives he had gathered people to himself, to abate the loneliness of his interminable wandering. He sometimes thought that it was a product of a kind of reverse solipsism; a paranoid fear that if people didn't see him, didn't know him, he didn't exist. So it seemed appropriate, after all, that right at the end, he would be alone.
He didn't care much for the irony. She had kissed him, to his surprise, before she left in the last of the battle TARDISes. Not an impulsive, good luck kiss either: this one had real passion behind it. He was so startled that he didn't even kiss her back. "I'm glad you're with me, Doctor," she said, "at the end of all things." It was from one of his favourite books. She had remembered that, too.
Around him, the Panopticon was crumbling, shards of polydimensional ceramic, designed to withstand the most intense of time winds, structures that had stood for eons beyond memory, all falling apart. He had seen it happen before, but the second time around didn't make it any easier. Quite the opposite, since he had put it back together the last time, performed the most spectacular conjuring trick in the universe by restoring the Time Lords to a continuum that had forgotten them.
He ran through the Capitol, barely avoiding being crushed by debris several times, until he made it to the landing bays, where the TARDIS was, still stuck in that silly old police box shape. He had every opportunity to repair it, in the time he had stayed on Gallifrey since the Restoration, but it just didn't seem appropriate. He patted the exterior affectionately as he stepped through the doors. "Just hold on, old girl... one last trick to perform."
They were buying him time. The battle TARDISes, just barely a dozen of them, the remnants of a once proud fleet, were stringing themselves in a sixth dimensional battle configuration through the vortex. They were extending their defensive spheres backwards, forwards and sideways in time, constantly shifting the temporal harmonics to take care of any incoming attacks that tried to sneak in through a parallel universe where those defences didn't exist.
Buying time. Perhaps these last few years were all borrowed time, perhaps he wasn't meant to have brought them back, and the universe had summoned the Daleks to undo his impertinence. It was funny — he had lived in this particular body longer than most, and yet it hadn't seemed all that long, like he had never quite been given the chance to prove himself. Perhaps he and the Time Lords had brought it down on themselves. He wondered what if, back at the start of it all on Skaro, he had simply said "No."
All those possibilities. All a matter of time, which was itself splintering around him as the Dalek war saucers clashed with the defensive line of battle TARDISes. The universe shuddered, and brief alternatives flickered in and out of existence around him. The situation had really been desperate at the end, and the Laws of Time had not just been bent, they had been irrevocably shattered. Forty-two of him, as many past and future selves as they could gather, coming together, companions and all, a merry, epic chase through the vortex, confronting the Daleks on multiple worlds and multiple parallels. One last grand adventure, one last chance to stave off the apocalypse.
All gone, now. The fact that he had seen his past die and his future perish didn't mean anything in the grand scheme, of course. The transduction barriers had long fallen, the integrity of the timelines were in ruins, and causality had been dragged into an alley, been beaten senseless with a perigosto stick and then piled on top of the rest of the bodies. Rassilon would weep.
Life, death, struggle, victory from the jaws of defeat, winning battles, losing wars. It had all been for nothing... it would all be for nothing, if he failed now. The Eye was the key, as always. The nucleus of a black hole, the naked singularity that Rassilon had clothed with technology so undreamed of that it was magic. As long as it existed, the Time Lords would neither flux, nor wither.
As he ran around the console like a madman — some things never changed — he estimated that to be approximately seven minutes. The TARDIS knew this; her Cloister Bell was ringing so hard that he was getting a headache.
"I know, I know..." he muttered, "But we're out of options."
He wanted to join them... to join her, to face down the ultimate evil, to stare it in the face. But he was the only one left who could do this, the only one brilliant enough, mad enough, to even try. He wondered if he had acquiesced too easily. Perhaps it was cowardice after all, staying behind while the others made their last stand. Or perhaps it was because, of all of them, he was the only one who would dare to do it. The effects of the Eye of Harmony's annihilation would be felt throughout history, and beyond. The consequences would be incalculable, unpredictable.
All except one. It would finally end. Everything would end. Him, Gallifrey, the Time Lords, the TARDIS. No more regenerations, no more last minute rescues, no more miracles. But the Daleks would end, too, and after his fourth self had prevaricated, and his seventh self had not gone far enough, his eighth self, running for so long and hiding behind a mask of boyish wonder denying the darkness and weight of his responsibilities... he could take that final step. Coward, killer, everything in between.
He focused the heart of the TARDIS on the Eye. Every last iota of power the old girl had, pouring into the singularity, to release that last, history-destroying burst of energy.
He suddenly remembered what day it was, relative time.
"Merry Christmas, you tin-plated, one-eyed bastards," he growled through clenched teeth.
And threw the switch.
