Deviation Actions
Literature Text
“Sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones. But you still have to choose.”
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Be careful what you wish for.
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His palms are sweaty as he pushes buttons and readjusts controls with calculated precision. The heat should –logically- impair his ability to explain, quickly, methodically, rationally how the whole system works.
“I can invert the system, set off the volcano, and blow them up, yes. But, that's the choice, Donna. It's Pompeii or the world”.
“Oh my God”.
“If Pompeii is destroyed then it's not just history, it's me. I make it happen”.
The rising temperature should at least slow down his thinking, his ability to look at the machine before him and analyse exactly what he has to do, his ability to remember, remember in horrified piercing flashes that strike him like darts of poisoned ice. It really should.
“I lived. Everyone else died.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone died, Sarah.”
Unfortunately it doesn’t.
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He is trembling head to toe, grabbing for dear –dear!- life at the console, as the TARDIS rocks and shudders, spins out of control, as it crashes down –he glances briefly at the screen- on some random uninhabited, abandoned planet.
Who cares.
Down, down, down.
He’d throw up if there was anything left to throw up inside his body except blood, dust and ashes. His lungs are burning. And it’s not nausea and it’s not vertigo from the fall, the troubled landing, and it’s not regeneration sickness.
He coughs up a swirl of golden energy as the TARDIS comes to a halt, and for the first time, it looks so, so much like fire.
“I watched it happen! I MADE IT HAPPEN!”
He doubles over, unable to breathe. A ragged, inhuman scream tears out of his throat, drowning out his ship’s desperate, soothing lullaby, until the engines stop and he is rewarded with crushing emptiness and a deafening silence.
His mind, his hearts are filled with a howl of pure agony.
“What did it feel like, though? Two almighty civilisations, burning... ooh, tell me, how did that feel?”
He shrugs off the leather jacket and stumbles blindly to the bathroom, please Old Girl, please let it be near, oh thank you,
“You must have been like God”
slams the door, fumbles with the lock (why bother, no one’s coming), sonics it shut, still gasping for air, drags himself towards the sink
“I have betrayed the future”
He doesn’t spare a glance at his reflection, turns on the tap and lets it wash over his hands, splashes it on his face, as if it could wash away the blood.
“One day you’ll count them. One terrible night”
No.
He shakes his head violently to wash away the horror. Unsuccessfully.
A tiny spark of curiosity makes him glance up at the mirror; what might the new man look like? But his vision is blurred, there’s just a vague dark shape, fever and water and tears in his eyes and all he can see is revulsion and all he can think is hate.
“The Daleks were genetically bred to kill. What excuse do you have?”
He lashes out with a strength born of fury.
“HOW COULD YOU?!”
The echo barely dies out and he keeps striking, punching it, the mirror cracks under his hands, a thousand blue eyes staring accusingly at him, the glass breaking and falling and there is more blood on his fingers and he doesn’t care.
“YOU-YOU MONSTER! HOW?! YOU-YOU-HOW COULD YOU?!”
He is drowning, acid in his stomach, poison in his throat, furious misery and despair coating every fiber of his being.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
He should kill himself right now. There is no hell to go to that could be worse than this one.
He collapses, sobbing, shaking, hides his face in his hands
“soaked in the blood of a billion galaxies”
and everything is mercifully fading to black, and it’s not death, no matter how much he wants it.
“You…murderer…”
And then nothingness.
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“I'll do it!”
“Then prove yourself, Doctor. What are you, coward or killer?”
He can’t. Oh God, he can’t.
“Coward. Any day”.
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And Donna is looking at him almost crying, and he‘s sure the horror and despair on her face are an exact mirror of his own.
But there’s no anger there. There’s not the wide-eyed dread of the condemned who sees the scaffold. Why would there be?
He feels sick. He tries to breathe and it’s like a ragged knife is ripping through his organs. And the sensation of dizziness and resignation is sickeningly familiar.
Why? Oh, why?
He wants to beg, to scream, to plead to whoever is doing this to him. Stop it. No more! No more!
Why again?
Please, mercy. Oh, please don’t do this.
There are children up there.
(2.47 billion-)
How dare you. How can you. How can you ask me that?
(“Don't you think I've done enough?”)
Apparently not.
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His hand hesitates over the button.
You asked for it, Doctor.
(“I said he was me. I never said he was the Doctor.”)
Don’t call me that.
First, do no harm.
Ridiculous notion, really.
(“What might that word come to mean?”)
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“And then I find a new name, because I won't be the Doctor any more”.
Calm. Ever so calm. And underneath it bitterness and resignation and hate.
Deep down he wants to laugh.
Where are you now? You poor, poor, desperate man. Oh, you who fought, who tried so hard. Where did you go?
You feared me, you hated me before I was even born. Oh, you should have been grateful.
(“I could do so much more. So much more! But this is what I get. My reward. AND IT’S NOT FAIR!”)
Look. Look what you’ve given me. Look what I have spared you.
(“For such a creature, death would be a gift”)
You thought the universe was against you. Now look at them, them forcing my hand, doing this.
("Homo sapiens! What an inventive, invincible species!”)
Is this what you protected them for?
Cold, cold anger growing, tension climbing up his throat. He explains while fiddling with the controls and there’s the tiniest edge of despair in his voice. But he’s calm, still impossibly calm.
A beautiful, innocent creature, last of its kind. But he can’t just let them die.
And it’s him, always him who has to press the button.
At least he can blame someone else this time. Little good it will do for his conscience.
A horrible machine once again before him, and humans behind him muttering useless protests and suggestions.
Oh, you want to do something, huh? You’ve done enough.
And I, now, have to do this.
(Again)
Anger and disgust choking him, exploding.
“Nobody talk to me! Nobody HUMAN has anything to say to me today!”
Still. It’s his choice, forced though it is. Worst thing he’ll ever do.
That’s saying something.
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“Doctor, the Pyrovile are made of rocks. Maybe they can't be blown up.”
Desperate. So desperate.
“Vesuvius explodes with the force of twenty four nuclear bombs. Nothing can survive it. Certainly not us”.
(“Then that's your punishment. If you do this, if you kill them all, then that's the consequence. You. Live”.)
She looks at him, blue eyes brimming with tears, so brave, and his hearts are breaking.
“Never mind us”.
They are always brave.
(“I can be brave for you”)
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And there’s no one to be brave for. He’s all alone, the Moment, just a benevolent ghost, looking sadly at him. As he should be. No one should have to see, to witness this.
No more.
(“You leave me no choice”)
It doesn’t make it easier.
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Later, after you’ve dropped off the family and Donna has gone to sleep, you stand alone in the console room, doors open, starring off into space.
Deep breath.
Sit down on the floor, elbows on your knees, head on your clenched fists, the exact posture of guilt.
(Didn’t he feel guilty?)
Something like pity stirs deep inside your chest.
(He did; of course he did.)
Maybe….
No.
He damn well should have. He still did it.
(He was you once, you know)
Yes. And now he’s dead. And you are not him.
(Of course. Cause if you were, you’d carry twice the guilt. Oh, you are so clever, you selfish, selfish man.)
You already carry guilt enough. You did count them after all. Still do.
And you are not him.
(And here? What have you done?)
It’s not the same thing. You didn’t have a choice.
(He never had one either).
He should have found a better way.
This wasn’t genocide at least. It saved the Earth.
(He saved the universe).
You are not him. You did save people, someone, what you could.
(He couldn’t. And without Donna you wouldn’t have saved them either.)
Did you take part in a war? Did you fight, did you kill?
(This face alone has killed so many)
Did you ever use a weapon?
(You never needed one).
You are not him.
(“Hail the Doctor, the Great Exterminator!”)
You are not him, you can’t be.
If you were you’d kill yourself.
(“All right, so it's my turn! Then kill me! Kill me if it'll stop you attacking these people! Do it! Just do it! DO IT!”)
Deep breath.
You didn’t have a choice. Pompeii or the world.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, don’t they say?
(Wasn’t that his case?)
They weren’t few.
(Were these ones?)
This wasn’t…Gallifrey.
(Shame on you).
Yes. Oh, yes.
But it was genocide.
("You'll find a little picture of me there, and the caption will read 'Over my dead body'!")
And now Earth is all that you have left.
(“IT IS DEFENDED!”)
Because of him.
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(“Looking at you, Doctor, is like looking into a mirror, almost. There's rage there, like me. Guilt, like me. Solitude. Everything but the nerve to do what needs to be done. Thank the gods my people weren't relying on you to save them.”)
Blind rage obliterates everything and he throws him out, grabs a gun -so wrong now, wrong, so heavy in his hand- threatens him, levels it at his head.
“You wouldn’t”.
“I genuinely don't know”.
And he should know. Because he’s done what needed to be done. Over and over. Don’t you dare talk about nerve, little man.
Perhaps he should have even done it more often.
Finger on the trigger, cold steel in his voice. Oh, they are trying to stop him aren’t they? Who do they think they are?
(“I am a Time Lord. I have that right”)
He suppresses a shiver of horror and keeps his hand steady. One step and he’ll do it.
He’ll do it.
(“He's lying. Every word, every thing he says, it's all lies”.
-“Rule Number One”-
“This man is a murderer”.
-“You would make a good Dalek”-
“Jex has to answer for his crimes”.
-“The anger! The fire! The rage of a Time Lord WHO BUTCHERED MILLIONS! THERE HE IS.”-
“Make peace with your gods.”
-“So what do Time Lords pray to?”-)
And then, maybe, he’ll turn the gun on himself, because Jex is right, he is looking into a mirror, he’s always, always looking into it, he is looking at the cracked glass and the thousand staring, accusing eyes, the dead, the slaughtered dragging him down, the blood of a billion galaxies staining his fingers.
And he can’t, he can’t take it anymore.
Ten (eleven) men dead, each guiltier that the other, and you are the last, old fool, and why are you still standing?
(“On the Fields of Trenzalore, at the Fall of the Eleventh...")
Bring it.
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They’ll be good men, his successors, he tells himself. A small comfort. They will, he saw it.
They’ll be the Doctor, so perhaps it’s worth it.
(No, of course not).
They’ll be what he is not, what they should, what he can’t be.
(Will they be happy?)
His shoulders slump ever so slightly.
What is the happiness of one Time Lord compared to the universe? Would they be happy, anyway?
What are the lives of every Dalek, every Time Lord, compared to everything that exists?
(Too much. It is too much.)
“Whatever the cost”.
There is no other way.
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“Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveler’s journey is done.”
He closes the book – “Songs of Innocence and of Experience” by William Blake - sets it aside and settles back in his chair with a sigh, chin resting on his tangled fingers.
“I can explain. Tell them why I had to”.
“You want to be forgiven”.
(“Fear me; I’ve killed all of them”.
“You're turning me into you!”
“And some, not many but, some died. Not them. Not them, Brian. Never them.”
“Come along Pond. Please”.)
Slowly, almost reverently, he takes off the glasses and places them carefully on the grey, smooth surface of the console.
“Don’t we all?”
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She’s screaming at him, voice thick with tears, hoarse with indignation, anger at the injustice of it all, the unfairness he’s come to accept, his kindness gone cold. But Donna Noble is human, so human, and a force of nature all at once, and she won’t stand for it, fixed points be damned.
“You've got to go back! Doctor, I am telling you, take this thing back!”
He sends them off violently into the vortex and his anger is cold, his hearts dark ice and bitterness and empty black holes. And she breaks down.
“It’s not fair.”
“No, it's not.” He refuses to look at her.
“But your own planet. It burned”. Crying. Definitely crying now.
“That's just it. Don't you see, Donna? Can't you understand? If I could go back and save them, then I would, but I can't”.
He’s trembling and he must look horrifying now, volcanic ashes littering his hair, blood only he can see staining his clothes, his hands, the Bringer of Darkness, truly, the Destroyer of Worlds. And he doesn’t care.
“I can never go back. I can't. I just can't, I can't…”
He trails off, almost delirious. Pain everywhere, destruction in his wake, death to all, his only constant companion. Death.
(Everybody knows that everybody dies.)
“Just someone. Please. Not the whole town. Just save someone.”
And then he looks at her, pleading for them, compassion enough to melt a heart of stone, and he’s got two.
Oh, not to me Donna Noble. Never to me.
He’s cruel and humans are begging and they should never, ever need to.
(Here to help.)
(“For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity, a human face,
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.”)
Suddenly, the sound of hope, and an old, old door of bluest blue opens, Time and Light and Life, a defiant, passionate fire shining through.
“Come with me.”
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Hand on the button.
(“To know that life and death on such a scale was my choice. To know that the tiny pressure of my thumb, enough to break the glass, would end everything. Yes, I would do it!”)
He wouldn’t. But it’s not his choice.
Just press it and it’s over.
“You know the sound the Tardis makes? That wheezing, groaning. That sound brings hope wherever it goes”.
His hand draws back.
“Yes. Yes, I like to think it does.”
“To anyone who hears it, Doctor. Anyone, however lost.” And now she’s smiling and yes, that’s a time rotor and he’s not imagining, he can’t be, that wonderful noise.
“Even you”.
They step out, grim, determined, the future he’s condemning to a living hell. Sad, sad pity, and understanding, impossible acceptance, filling eyes warm brown and dark green.
(“Forgiven. Always and completely forgiven.”)
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“Oh, come on. Give me a day like this. Give me this one”.
(Some days are special. Some days are so, so blessed.)
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“Pretending you weren't the Doctor, when you were the Doctor more than anybody else.”
“You were the Doctor on the day it wasn't possible to get it right.”
“But this time…”
“You don't have to do it alone.”
Somewhere, somewhen, Time is changing, twisting ever so slightly, a new strand springing up, blooming like a tree. Under his flesh, a song of another melody, the unyielding Laws he protects, so, so abused by his own people, relenting.
Forgiveness and two young and so older hands on top of his.
(“Push this lever and it's over. Twenty thousand people.”
Voice hoarse, trembling, face flat white with despair.
The Human steps forward, places her hands over his, sharing the burden, the curse of the Time Lord.
Grief and dread black as a pit enveloping them both, and Donna looks into his wild eyes and the gratitude she sees there is almost unbearable.
And she doesn’t regret it.
[“You are not alone”]
Never alone.
Together, they push down.)
“Thank you”, he whispers.
(Time still rewriting-)
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“In bed above, we're deep asleep,
While greater love lies further deep.
This dream must end, the world must know,
We all depend on the beast bellow."
They hug tightly and oh, it’s so obvious after all, and how couldn’t he see it? Stupid, stupid Doctor.
She’s smiling and he can see there, somewhere, the child, he can see little Amelia.
“Gotcha.”
(But not every day. Not today. Some days, nobody dies at all.)
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“Gentlemen, I have had four hundred years to think about this. I've changed my mind.”
How old are you Clara, twenty-five? Not a tear. Smile, Impossible Girl, oh please, smile for me.
He couldn’t just stand there. He never could.
And soon, they are all smiling, all of them.
(But I do think that all the skies of all the worlds might just turn dark, if he ever, for one moment, accepts it.)
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He’s smiling, laughing like a madman, a raw joyful laughter. He can’t stop it, he lets it out, triumphant, powerful, all-conquering.
He feels so light, the closest to innocent he’s felt in centuries. He feels like dancing, really. Just wait, Rose. Just you wait.
The mask comes off and he is holding the child in his arms, still laughing, little blonde bundle made of life. He is hugging it tight, sacred, precious, so unbearably precious. He wants to hug the entire universe.
He releases the nano-genes, a wave of light, and he’d swear he’s spreading out his joy, sharing it with everyone.
It works, Time smiling down at her Champion.
Oh, he’s a Doctor; just today he’s earned it. Nobody’s hurt, nobody is dead on his watch.
Happiness everywhere, ecstatic joy, joy radiating, exploding out of him like a wave. Maybe he deserves it after all.
“Everybody lives, Rose! Just this once, everybody lives!”
(Every once in a very long while, every day in a million days...)
It is enough.
Today it is enough.
Thank you. Oh, thank you.
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Somewhere, somewhen, an Impossible Girl wanders into the TARDIS console room carrying a tea tray, and finds his 11th self sleeping peacefully on a battered sofa.
(“Oh, this one? Paris, last Friday. Ah, Jules Verne, splendid, generous fellow! Although it might just be because I gave him that idea about the giant, underwater, mechanical squid… thingy. Still, very comfy!”)
It is so rare to find him sleeping. Rarer still to see his form and face relaxed, his rest unburdened, free from nightmares.
She sets the tray down and tiptoes closer, studies him with affection, and for once, he almost looks young, barely older than her. He looks so human.
She bends down with a smile, careful not to wake him, and kisses him lightly on the top of his head, smoothing back his hair. He shifts just a little, then stills again, and she leaves him, climbing up the stairs one ginger step at a time. The tea can wait.
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He’s dreaming of starlight and a planet with red grass.
Trees with silver leaves that reflect the morning sunlight, a sky glowing orange, and tall, snow-capped mountains he may never find, or live to see again.
(“My experience is that there is, you know, surprisingly always hope”.)
But maybe; just maybe.
The stars are smiling. A big, wonderful, ridiculous universe and sometimes, the rare, impossible things we call miracles.
“Home; the long way round.”
-the end-
Don Bluth Principle, motherfuckers.
If I wrote down every episode from which I used quotes, we'd be here all day. However, I will mention that the second poem is also by William Blake, from "The Divine Image".
Oh, by the way, during the obsessive, poetic and geeky trance that I was under while I was writing this, I was inspired and also went back and fixed the format, some spelling mistakes, akward phrasing and other confusing errors in my other big fanfic, "Love Is A Promise": basiliskrules.deviantart.com/a…
If you've read it before, you may want to revisit it, I promise you a much less confusing and more enjoyable read. (At least I think so, do tell). If you haven't and you liked this, well, check it out, you might enjoy that too. It violently attacks your feels in a similar way, I promise. Coooome on, you know you want to!
Comments are welcome!
I love it.