Prologue
“You’re late.”
Sasha jumped, nearly hitting the wall but not making a sound. The man from earlier – the Doctor, as he had called himself – was sat on the leather chair in her hall, his nose buried in Songs of Innocence and of Experience. Sasha sensed, with the precision he turned the pages, that it was more of a reflective joy than a first-time experience. She sympathised: she had read it three times herself.
“And you’re in my house. Again.” She drew the curtains and calmly took a seat opposite him. “Tell me, do you do this to lots of women, and do they ever club you over the head?”
“Yes,” admitted the Doctor, putting the book down. “And no, not yet. I should probably look into that. Do you have a club?”
“No. I’m not into golf. Or murder.”
“I had a friend who was into both,” recalled the Doctor. “Actually, did she like golf? I can’t remember. No, she wasn’t big on sports, but she could run for the galaxy…”
“Yes, your friend. You mentioned her earlier before you went weird and ran off. Troubling memories? Is that one of your character traits?”
The Doctor sat forward and studied Sasha curiously. She turned her head, almost willing him to conduct a full assessment. “You don’t ask the usual questions.”
“You’ve broken into my house after you left earlier when you expelled some sort of dream creature with a funny little device, and now you’re in my hall reading William Blake. Define ‘usual’.”
“Good point.”
“So why did you come back?” This time it was Sasha’s turn to study the Doctor, trying to figure out his responses before he articulated them. She was surprised by his honesty.
“Something didn’t feel right. I had to… resolve things.”
“So who are you? It’s your turn. You expect me not to hit you with that club I don’t own, you give me answers.”
The Doctor admired the response enough to divulge his secrets, but seriously doubted the threat of violence. Sasha was the sort of person who could calm and reassure you as she raised a baseball bat to your child’s head. “I’m the Doctor, or at least, that’s what everyone calls me. I fly around in a little blue box that’s bigger on the inside, called the TARDIS, and it can travel into the future and into the past. I’m rather ancient, though don’t ask me precisely how old… I never get it right, and neither do the other sources. Somewhere in the late hundreds, I’d think.”
“Okay,” said Sasha, accepting the premise unnervingly easily.
“You… believe me?”
“I’ve already seen the impossible today, and besides, a little blue box that’s bigger on the inside? I mean, tell me you have a time machine and loads of alien friends and I’d doubt you, but that’s way too specific and frankly way too weird. You’d have to be high, or visionary, or stuck in the 1960s to come up with a concept that far-out. Sure, I believe you. Even if I’m wrong, what harm will it do?”
“This is far too easy,” noted the Doctor, getting up. “It never works like this.”
“Doctor,” said Sasha, smiling reassuringly, “of course it is. I’m just a calm person. You couldn’t rile me if you tried. And for the answer to your question, I’ve just got home because I was visiting my father in hospital. That’s why I’ve moved back into the area – he’s dying, and I promised my mother I would look after him.”
The Doctor nodded. “Fair enough. Good for you, Sasha Ramachandran.”
Sasha seemed impressed. “People don’t usually remember the surname that easily.”
“You’ve just been introduced to alien life in the form of a Blake-reading burglar after a long night at your father’s bedside, and you’re questioning my retention skills.” The Doctor winked. “Define ‘usual’.”
Sasha jumped, nearly hitting the wall but not making a sound. The man from earlier – the Doctor, as he had called himself – was sat on the leather chair in her hall, his nose buried in Songs of Innocence and of Experience. Sasha sensed, with the precision he turned the pages, that it was more of a reflective joy than a first-time experience. She sympathised: she had read it three times herself.
“And you’re in my house. Again.” She drew the curtains and calmly took a seat opposite him. “Tell me, do you do this to lots of women, and do they ever club you over the head?”
“Yes,” admitted the Doctor, putting the book down. “And no, not yet. I should probably look into that. Do you have a club?”
“No. I’m not into golf. Or murder.”
“I had a friend who was into both,” recalled the Doctor. “Actually, did she like golf? I can’t remember. No, she wasn’t big on sports, but she could run for the galaxy…”
“Yes, your friend. You mentioned her earlier before you went weird and ran off. Troubling memories? Is that one of your character traits?”
The Doctor sat forward and studied Sasha curiously. She turned her head, almost willing him to conduct a full assessment. “You don’t ask the usual questions.”
“You’ve broken into my house after you left earlier when you expelled some sort of dream creature with a funny little device, and now you’re in my hall reading William Blake. Define ‘usual’.”
“Good point.”
“So why did you come back?” This time it was Sasha’s turn to study the Doctor, trying to figure out his responses before he articulated them. She was surprised by his honesty.
“Something didn’t feel right. I had to… resolve things.”
“So who are you? It’s your turn. You expect me not to hit you with that club I don’t own, you give me answers.”
The Doctor admired the response enough to divulge his secrets, but seriously doubted the threat of violence. Sasha was the sort of person who could calm and reassure you as she raised a baseball bat to your child’s head. “I’m the Doctor, or at least, that’s what everyone calls me. I fly around in a little blue box that’s bigger on the inside, called the TARDIS, and it can travel into the future and into the past. I’m rather ancient, though don’t ask me precisely how old… I never get it right, and neither do the other sources. Somewhere in the late hundreds, I’d think.”
“Okay,” said Sasha, accepting the premise unnervingly easily.
“You… believe me?”
“I’ve already seen the impossible today, and besides, a little blue box that’s bigger on the inside? I mean, tell me you have a time machine and loads of alien friends and I’d doubt you, but that’s way too specific and frankly way too weird. You’d have to be high, or visionary, or stuck in the 1960s to come up with a concept that far-out. Sure, I believe you. Even if I’m wrong, what harm will it do?”
“This is far too easy,” noted the Doctor, getting up. “It never works like this.”
“Doctor,” said Sasha, smiling reassuringly, “of course it is. I’m just a calm person. You couldn’t rile me if you tried. And for the answer to your question, I’ve just got home because I was visiting my father in hospital. That’s why I’ve moved back into the area – he’s dying, and I promised my mother I would look after him.”
The Doctor nodded. “Fair enough. Good for you, Sasha Ramachandran.”
Sasha seemed impressed. “People don’t usually remember the surname that easily.”
“You’ve just been introduced to alien life in the form of a Blake-reading burglar after a long night at your father’s bedside, and you’re questioning my retention skills.” The Doctor winked. “Define ‘usual’.”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 3 - Episode 2
The Sleepwalker
Written by Janine Rivers
Sasha studied the Doctor again as he twisted the cap off his device, adjusting something on the side. As he turned another notch, a hollow needle protruded from the end, which he proceeded to give a gentle flick. A Doctor indeed.
“What is that thing?”
“It’s a sonic screwdriver. Well... more like a multi-tool screwdriver with some sonic capabilities, I suppose, but that doesn’t really roll off the tongue as much. I’m going to use it to administer a very small dose of anaesthetic… with your consent, of course.” He let the ‘screwdriver’ rest on the table.
“Why would we need anaesthetic?”
“We want to go back to the Destiny Institute – the place in the dream. If they’re using the virtual reality to illegally conduct medical trials, then they’ll be observing us. They see that two people who they randomly selected are taking a dose of anaesthetic at the same time… they’ll want a word. And they can have one, because we’ll be very, very deep in the land of nod.”
“Okay,” agreed Sasha. “I consent. And thank you for giving me the option, even if you had made your mind up for me before you offered.”
Nothing Sasha said was ever malicious. Everything was conveyed with a sense of purpose, as if to provide a new perspective, or a new creative energy. She saw through masks, understood explanations, yet even when she challenged them, her tone never reached anything near what could be described as threatening.
The question nagged at the Doctor more every second, trying to force its way out, take its hold over the world and overrule the promise he had made to himself. He could hear it in his voice: in all of his voices, every time it had ever been spoken or thought of.
Do you wanna come with me?
He brushed it aside again, and settled on another one.
“Ready to have a nap?”
***
As soon as Tommy heard the news, he had come over, the sheer shock of it enough to wake him up. He was proud of his friend, but realising the coincidence he felt himself slipping: slipping back into another world, a world where, when he knocked on the door, he half-expected the ding-dong to be replaced by a wheezing, groaning sound; and the ordinary, recently-cleaned hall to be replaced by some sort of palace interior, a size which should be spanning most of Primrose Hill, not just one house. But instead, it was the same house it always was: nothing spoke of the Doctor’s return or of a shift in the way things worked. Instead there was just this one, inexplicable thing.
A child.
Robin was sat in the dining room, in a state of pure shock, pouring her second glass of orange juice while her husband sat opposite, unwanted toast losing its warmth in front of him. Tommy sat down on the other end of the table, nabbing a slice of Chris’s toast before lathering it with marmalade from the fridge.
“I can’t believe it,” said Tommy, with a mouthful. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Positive.” Robin took another swig, finishing her glass of juice. “I think it must have happened a while back. I just started getting morning sickness, which I thought was strange, so when I got up I decided to take a test. And apparently I’m pregnant.”
“Do you think it’s…” Tommy deliberated over opening up that can of worms. “Do you think it’s anything to do with…?”
“The Doctor?” interjected Chris. He shook his head. “No. It’s just luck. It happens.”
“But you were injured,” pressed Tommy. “Robin, back on The Worst-“ he paused before finishing the title he usually gave that day, deciding not to make it about himself “-back on that day, under the dome, you were hurt. You’re not meant to be able to have a child. It’s great that you are, but shouldn’t it be, like, impossible?”
“Maybe,” pondered Robin.
“Nothing’s impossible,” insisted Chris. “Doctors are getting things wrong all the time. They got me checked for cancer once, turned out I just had polyps up my nose. They’re always making things sound worse than they are. That’s careers’ people for you… they cut corners, misread the small-print, get a wee bit tired sometimes and suddenly, look, there’s a massive mistake. I’ve done it before and I’m a head-teacher.”
“Yeah…” Robin clearly remembered the event Chris was referencing. “Best not bring that one up.” The return of her subtle humour made Tommy smile; Robin was still there, buried beneath the shock and confusion.
“The point is, we should just accept this. Don’t question it, that’s when bad stuff starts to happen. We’ve got lucky, that’s all.” He looked at his wife and smiled softly. “We’re having a kid.”
“I’m having another kid,” repeated Robin, almost welling up and utterly failing to conceal her grin. She lifted up her glass and tried to get a bit more out of it; there was no more juice in the fridge. “It’s wonderful. It’s just… I’m half-expecting him to turn up now.”
***
“What is that thing?”
“It’s a sonic screwdriver. Well... more like a multi-tool screwdriver with some sonic capabilities, I suppose, but that doesn’t really roll off the tongue as much. I’m going to use it to administer a very small dose of anaesthetic… with your consent, of course.” He let the ‘screwdriver’ rest on the table.
“Why would we need anaesthetic?”
“We want to go back to the Destiny Institute – the place in the dream. If they’re using the virtual reality to illegally conduct medical trials, then they’ll be observing us. They see that two people who they randomly selected are taking a dose of anaesthetic at the same time… they’ll want a word. And they can have one, because we’ll be very, very deep in the land of nod.”
“Okay,” agreed Sasha. “I consent. And thank you for giving me the option, even if you had made your mind up for me before you offered.”
Nothing Sasha said was ever malicious. Everything was conveyed with a sense of purpose, as if to provide a new perspective, or a new creative energy. She saw through masks, understood explanations, yet even when she challenged them, her tone never reached anything near what could be described as threatening.
The question nagged at the Doctor more every second, trying to force its way out, take its hold over the world and overrule the promise he had made to himself. He could hear it in his voice: in all of his voices, every time it had ever been spoken or thought of.
Do you wanna come with me?
He brushed it aside again, and settled on another one.
“Ready to have a nap?”
***
As soon as Tommy heard the news, he had come over, the sheer shock of it enough to wake him up. He was proud of his friend, but realising the coincidence he felt himself slipping: slipping back into another world, a world where, when he knocked on the door, he half-expected the ding-dong to be replaced by a wheezing, groaning sound; and the ordinary, recently-cleaned hall to be replaced by some sort of palace interior, a size which should be spanning most of Primrose Hill, not just one house. But instead, it was the same house it always was: nothing spoke of the Doctor’s return or of a shift in the way things worked. Instead there was just this one, inexplicable thing.
A child.
Robin was sat in the dining room, in a state of pure shock, pouring her second glass of orange juice while her husband sat opposite, unwanted toast losing its warmth in front of him. Tommy sat down on the other end of the table, nabbing a slice of Chris’s toast before lathering it with marmalade from the fridge.
“I can’t believe it,” said Tommy, with a mouthful. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Positive.” Robin took another swig, finishing her glass of juice. “I think it must have happened a while back. I just started getting morning sickness, which I thought was strange, so when I got up I decided to take a test. And apparently I’m pregnant.”
“Do you think it’s…” Tommy deliberated over opening up that can of worms. “Do you think it’s anything to do with…?”
“The Doctor?” interjected Chris. He shook his head. “No. It’s just luck. It happens.”
“But you were injured,” pressed Tommy. “Robin, back on The Worst-“ he paused before finishing the title he usually gave that day, deciding not to make it about himself “-back on that day, under the dome, you were hurt. You’re not meant to be able to have a child. It’s great that you are, but shouldn’t it be, like, impossible?”
“Maybe,” pondered Robin.
“Nothing’s impossible,” insisted Chris. “Doctors are getting things wrong all the time. They got me checked for cancer once, turned out I just had polyps up my nose. They’re always making things sound worse than they are. That’s careers’ people for you… they cut corners, misread the small-print, get a wee bit tired sometimes and suddenly, look, there’s a massive mistake. I’ve done it before and I’m a head-teacher.”
“Yeah…” Robin clearly remembered the event Chris was referencing. “Best not bring that one up.” The return of her subtle humour made Tommy smile; Robin was still there, buried beneath the shock and confusion.
“The point is, we should just accept this. Don’t question it, that’s when bad stuff starts to happen. We’ve got lucky, that’s all.” He looked at his wife and smiled softly. “We’re having a kid.”
“I’m having another kid,” repeated Robin, almost welling up and utterly failing to conceal her grin. She lifted up her glass and tried to get a bit more out of it; there was no more juice in the fridge. “It’s wonderful. It’s just… I’m half-expecting him to turn up now.”
***
“Doctor! Sasha! How lovely to have you here.”
Sasha sat up, conducting a couple of dream-checks: this time it took additional observations to determine the nature of her surroundings. This dream was clearer than the rest: there were no fuzzy patches; no floating lumps of wax, as she had come to understand them.
This time they were in an office – monochrome, with an emphasis on the black, and closed curtains. The boss, whoever she was, was sat back on an office chair, feet on her desk. She too was dressed in black, with purple streaks in her hair, and somewhere in her early twenties; attractive, but a touch terrifying. When her eyes focused on you, it was less like paying attention, and more like a weapon settling on a still target. Sasha imagined people shifting nervously when they were around her.
It was a sinister place on appearance – there was no doubting that. But distractingly, the place had a built in rhythm: one, two, three, four. This rhythm was intersected with syncopated beats. Sasha recognised it after the first few bars.
Mika.
“New album,” said the boss. “Well, old album from my point of view, but new for you. I’m not sure it’s been released yet. I should charge you!” She laughed at her joke.
“Who are you, and what the hell have you done to the Destiny Institute?”
Blimey. Sasha turned to her new acquaintance. He doesn’t waste time.
“Hello boss, how are you? I’m fine thank you Doctor, how are you? I’m angry.” The boss did her impersonation of the Doctor in her best attempt at a grumbling male voice, putting on a pretend stern face. “I’m angry because you’ve been conducting experiments in my favourite secret research facility, and this is my angry face, and I’m going to stop you, UNDERSTOOD?!” The sudden screech on the last word sent a shiver up the Doctor and Sasha’s spines.
“No,” continued the boss, back to her normal voice. “This is my institute now, I’m in charge of it. The rules are now my rules. The plan is now my plan. Anyone who interferes with that plan, I kill.”
“Are you causing suffering?” asked Sasha.
“Suffering?” The boss snorted. “Of course not! It’ll all be over too quickly for any suffering…”
“Who are you?”
The boss considered the question.
“Wrong question,” interjected the Doctor, avoiding eye contact with the boss. “The question you should be asking, Sasha, is this: what’s she doing in our dreams. What does she really want?”
“Oh, I’m conducting illegal medical research in a fake reality, at the risk of all the patients’ lives,” said the boss, matter-of-factly.
“No!” retorted the Doctor, surprisingly closely to the voice the boss had mimicked earlier. “You’re doing something worse. And I’m going to stop you.”
“Ooh!” The boss’s eyes widened, and she looked at her computer screen, taking her feet off the table. “I like the next track. Do you mind if I take this one alone? I’ll… chat to you both another time.”
She pressed the space bar, and the Doctor and Sasha awoke.
***
“So, any, ahem, observations?”
After the anaesthetic wore off – in the late hours of morning, long after Sasha should have been at work – the Doctor took no hesitation in letting her inside the TARDIS. After she entered, and closed the doors behind her, she stood still, marvelling, for a good thirty seconds. The Doctor fidgeted around the console, waiting for his favourite response.
“Anything unusual?”
“I thought we had a rule about unusual…”
“Hey! No sarcasm. This is the TARDIS, you should be observing certain… qualities.”
“Oh my God!” cried Sasha. “It’s got a bar. That’s adorable.”
“Well, yes, it has…” the Doctor rolled his eyes, stepping in front of the stairway to the bar in an attempt to get Sasha to focus on something else. “Anything on a bigger scale, maybe.”
“Well of course there is, it’s massive!”
“Yes,” agreed the Doctor sardonically, “yes, it is…”
“I mean, it’s bigger on the inside,” she muttered, as if it hardly mattered.
“Yes!” exclaimed the Doctor. “Yes, it’s bigger on the inside!”
“Well, you did say it was.”
“And you believed me?!”
“Well I thought you were mad, but yes, I think I did. Mad people don’t usually lie, they just make the truth too big. Besides, it’s not the hardest of technological developments to imagine, is it?”
That one left the Doctor speechless. Sasha made an effort to carry on the discussion herself, as the Doctor piloted the TARDIS like a new driver.
“So a time machine, then? Are you going to try and prove that one to me too?”
“I’m working on it…”
“And anything else you think you ought to tell me?”
“Yes.” The Doctor landed the TARDIS and turned solemnly to Sasha, leaning back against the console. She walked forward, away from the entrance, from wherever it was the Doctor had landed her, and gave him all her attention. “I believe I owe you an explanation, Sasha. My friend.”
“The one you mentioned before? Who you… lost?” Sasha could not recall if the Doctor had imparted this detail; but frankly it was obvious.
“Her name was Autumn Rivers.”
Sasha smiled kindly. “That’s a beautiful name,” she whispered.
“She was beautiful. She was beautiful, and intelligent, and funny, and witty, and always unpredictable… she did a lot of bad things, but she was also a learner, and she always learnt. She was my best friend. And that woman? The one who just spoke to you?” The Doctor’s poetic narrative came to an end, and his expression turned cold. “She murdered her. Just when I thought I could save Autumn, that woman murdered her, and I’m not forgetting that.”
“Is that what this is all about, then? Revenge? Because Doctor, revenge is not the answer, not ever. It just traps you in a cycle.”
“It’s not about revenge, it’s about stopping her from doing the same to anyone else. To everyone else. And there’s something else – would you believe me if I told you that Autumn was reincarnated?”
“Yes.”
The Doctor was taken aback; Sasha had barely had time to process the question, let alone consider an answer. “Are you sure?”
“From what I’ve heard of her, I struggle to believe she wasn’t. Though I imagine what you mean by 'Autumn' and what I mean by 'Autumn' are two different things -- you see a self, I see a collection of evolving impulses, desires, dreams, regrets...”
“Yes. Of course.” The Doctor looked Sasha in the eye intently: not staring, but searching. “Everyone I come across… I wonder. Is she in there? I was told she might remember some of her old life, but that wasn’t certain. I was told it would take a while. She could be anyone. Sasha, nothing that happened to you today surprised you, and we took to each other, you know we did. You…”
He raised his hand, not sure what to do with it; this was the time when some sort of sixth sense should be exercised. Sasha lowered it calmly and took a step back.
“I’m not Autumn Rivers.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because that name means nothing to me.” Sasha lifted her bag off the floor and headed to the exit, reopening the door. Though she had never doubted it, here was concrete proof of the time travel too: they had materialised in Coal Hill School, and the day had not yet started. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sure we’ll end up bumping into each other again soon.”
Sasha turned to leave again, but this time someone was standing in her way: one of the teachers, perhaps. She examined the woman’s badge.
Robin McKnight
Pastoral Support
“Hi,” murmured Sasha. “Sorry, er…”
“Travelling with him, then, Miss Ramachandran?”
It immediately occurred to Sasha that she was missing something. Robin was able to identify her, and, more startlingly, was unfazed by the presence of a blue box in the corridor, and indeed by its inexplicably vast interior. She got the sense of something else – something she always hated being embroiled in.
Unfinished business.
“It’s a very long story,” said Sasha, an answer even she found unsatisfying.
“I’m sure it is,” replied Robin bitterly, “and I don’t want to hear it from you.”
“And who are you, exactly?”
“Just the headmaster’s wife. Your first day’s off to a bloody shining start, isn’t it?” Robin gestured to the end of the corridor. “Art classrooms are that way. I need to speak to the Doctor on my own.”
Sasha nodded submissively and followed Robin’s direction to the art corridor. When she was out of earshot, the Doctor broke the silence.
“There was no need to take it out on Sasha.”
“Oh, because you’re really in a position to tell me what to do, aren’t you?” Robin stepped inside the TARDIS and slammed the door behind her. “Younger model, is it? Prettier? No family? That’s no excuse to pretend all your other friends are dead!”
“I’ve just met her.”
“You seem very close for people who have just met. But it always is intense at the start, isn’t it?” Robin took a deep breath, using a technique she often recommended when her own students started to see red. “Look, I’m sorry, I get that I don’t know the full picture, Doctor, but the way you just flew off? And the wedding? What the hell was that even about?”
“It was a bad day.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“No, sorry, not like that-“ the Doctor stepped forward as Robin turned to leave, but she stopped again and turned back. Each near-exit made the Doctor feel worse. “I’m sorry if I misunderstood. I thought you wanted me out of your life.”
“Yes, you did misunderstand, Doctor. I wasn’t talking about myself, I was talking about Tommy.”
The name was enough to lift any other words out of the room. The only audible input now was the sound of the TARDIS. It was like standing on the back of a great beast as it took deep, weary breaths.
“He came to see me. You have no idea what you did to him Doctor, no idea. And you owe him an apology.”
“He’s better off without me,” said the Doctor, trying to move the subject on.
“You owe him an apology,” repeated Robin, and the Doctor reluctantly nodded. “Now do me a favour and stay out of my life. It was just starting to go well.”
***
Dear Mrs Jackson,
I am dreadfully sorry to hear about the experience of your daughter, and would like to assure you that we are taking this issue very seriously and plan on carrying out a full investigation. For now, Miss Loftus will continue to teach Drama lessons, however if you have any aversion to this I am happy to try and move Elizabeth into another class.
It should also be noted that whilst it was very bad for Miss Loftus to call your daughter a numbskull, the email was not meant to be read by you, and teachers send these sorts of emails to each other all the time.
Chris backspaced the entire last paragraph. He would never be able to say that. It was fun to write, though.
He glanced down to the clock on his laptop screen – 8:55 – then to the ‘Things To Do Today’ post-it note on his desk.
He wondered why they had thought he would make a good headmaster. What it was that the kids even liked about him…
A man knocked at the door and entered, but it was only when Chris saw who it was that he cast his to-do list and anxieties about competence aside altogether.
“No way.”
“Yes way. Hello, Mr Moon.”
Chris sighed – he would never be able to explain the human customs, no matter how hard he tried, and the Doctor would probably still get them wrong with the sole intent of winding him up. “You’d better sit down.”
The Doctor did politely as asked, then less politely examined every object on the desk individually.
“What are you doing here?”
The Doctor fiddled, disappointed, with a pen, perhaps wondering where the sonic part was. “Well, it was completely by mistake, really… but it happened… so I thought I should…” he pinched the side of the pen and the lid shot off across the room. Chris sighed again. “…drop in and greet you. That is what people do, isn’t it?”
“Forgive me for pointing this out, but you haven’t exactly shown an aptitude at ‘doing what people do’.”
“You’re all big on the criticisms today, aren’t you?” The Doctor put the pen down and picked up a pack of mints, taking five and making a face as he put them in his mouth. “You’re like a Scottish Robin Moon. Scottish Moon, so much easier to remember than your real name…”
“Chris.”
“Who?”
Chris rolled his eyes, a satisfying variation on the sigh, and snatched the pack of mints out of the Doctor’s hand before he could grab another five. “Please, I’m asking you, stay out of Robin’s life.”
“Why? What makes you think that’ll be the best thing for her?”
“Because you never pop in for a visit! You turn up all smiles and charm, but secretly you’re following a signal, or testing a hypothesis, or using your friends’ home as a safe-house. Don’t do that to her, Doctor. Don’t use her again.”
“Isn’t that her choice?”
“Yes,” agreed Chris, trying not to let the comment rile him. “And every time she’ll choose to help you because that’s who she is. I’m not trying to control you to control her. I’m trying to make you go away because that’s what she deserves. She doesn’t deserve the stress of you coming back into her life, she doesn’t deserve having to do what she always does, which is go along with it because she wants to help you. If you care about her, then do what’s right for her.”
“And I can’t guarantee that the right thing will be staying away.” The Doctor picked up a third object; this one a photo frame. The photograph showed Robin and Chris behind the fountains in Barcelona – it must have been taken the night the Doctor left. He tried to search for a trace of a blue box in the background; a sign of where he fitted in to that moment.
“Then if it’s going to keep us safe, come back into our lives.” Chris tried to continue, distracted by the Doctor’s close examination of his photograph. “But if you walk back in to ‘protect’ us and my wife gets hurt, I will kill you myself, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.” The Doctor put the photo back. “You make yourself clear, Scottish Moon.”
“I’ve got an assembly to present,” Chris said with mild irritation. “I need to go and make it up. I don’t want to see any blue boxes on my way back, and when I arrive back here, I don’t want to see you.”
As Chris shut the door, the Doctor felt a sense of overwhelming discomfort. Being told off by the head-teacher was still, somehow, like the death sentence. He felt this was when people usually rebelled, did something really… rebellious…
In truth, the anaesthetic had not worn off in him yet; he had given himself a higher dose than Sasha, and was still weary. Chris did not want to see him when he got back – but that would be a good half-hour yet, at least.
I could just…
***
Sasha cursed herself as she headed to Robin’s office. She probably should have been in assembly, but her priorities were, as always, more emotionally-driven. It might have been unfair. No: it was unfair. Even if Robin had done something wrong, she had still formed judgements without knowing the facts… she had been too sharp with her. She imagined herself in Robin’s place: the Doctor may have been an old friend; she knew he had exercised the ‘bigger on the inside’ routine before. Maybe one day she would be in Robin’s place.
“Oh girl you’re the devil…” Sasha found herself humming the tune from the dream. She could almost still hear it; that four-beat piano rhythm going round and round in her head. It would drive her insane if it lasted much longer.
She peered in through the door, and noticed that Robin was not sat at her desk, but before she turned away something else caught her attention, and she slowly pushed the door open and entered the office. There was a drop of blood on the desk, and the window was smashed. Treading carefully over the broken glass, Sasha used the desk to propel herself up, and looked out of the window for a sign of who had broken in or out. There was no one.
The door slammed behind her. Turning around with a jump, she noticed a tall man in a black suit stood behind her. She felt this would be a good time to take the Doctor’s golf club suggestion seriously: she had none of the abilities required to fight him, no words to negotiate, and nothing about him to tell her that he wanted anything good from her.
“Hello, Sasha,” said the man, looming over her. He lifted a syringe from his inside pocket. “I’m from the Destiny Institute.”
***
Sasha sat up, conducting a couple of dream-checks: this time it took additional observations to determine the nature of her surroundings. This dream was clearer than the rest: there were no fuzzy patches; no floating lumps of wax, as she had come to understand them.
This time they were in an office – monochrome, with an emphasis on the black, and closed curtains. The boss, whoever she was, was sat back on an office chair, feet on her desk. She too was dressed in black, with purple streaks in her hair, and somewhere in her early twenties; attractive, but a touch terrifying. When her eyes focused on you, it was less like paying attention, and more like a weapon settling on a still target. Sasha imagined people shifting nervously when they were around her.
It was a sinister place on appearance – there was no doubting that. But distractingly, the place had a built in rhythm: one, two, three, four. This rhythm was intersected with syncopated beats. Sasha recognised it after the first few bars.
Mika.
“New album,” said the boss. “Well, old album from my point of view, but new for you. I’m not sure it’s been released yet. I should charge you!” She laughed at her joke.
“Who are you, and what the hell have you done to the Destiny Institute?”
Blimey. Sasha turned to her new acquaintance. He doesn’t waste time.
“Hello boss, how are you? I’m fine thank you Doctor, how are you? I’m angry.” The boss did her impersonation of the Doctor in her best attempt at a grumbling male voice, putting on a pretend stern face. “I’m angry because you’ve been conducting experiments in my favourite secret research facility, and this is my angry face, and I’m going to stop you, UNDERSTOOD?!” The sudden screech on the last word sent a shiver up the Doctor and Sasha’s spines.
“No,” continued the boss, back to her normal voice. “This is my institute now, I’m in charge of it. The rules are now my rules. The plan is now my plan. Anyone who interferes with that plan, I kill.”
“Are you causing suffering?” asked Sasha.
“Suffering?” The boss snorted. “Of course not! It’ll all be over too quickly for any suffering…”
“Who are you?”
The boss considered the question.
“Wrong question,” interjected the Doctor, avoiding eye contact with the boss. “The question you should be asking, Sasha, is this: what’s she doing in our dreams. What does she really want?”
“Oh, I’m conducting illegal medical research in a fake reality, at the risk of all the patients’ lives,” said the boss, matter-of-factly.
“No!” retorted the Doctor, surprisingly closely to the voice the boss had mimicked earlier. “You’re doing something worse. And I’m going to stop you.”
“Ooh!” The boss’s eyes widened, and she looked at her computer screen, taking her feet off the table. “I like the next track. Do you mind if I take this one alone? I’ll… chat to you both another time.”
She pressed the space bar, and the Doctor and Sasha awoke.
***
“So, any, ahem, observations?”
After the anaesthetic wore off – in the late hours of morning, long after Sasha should have been at work – the Doctor took no hesitation in letting her inside the TARDIS. After she entered, and closed the doors behind her, she stood still, marvelling, for a good thirty seconds. The Doctor fidgeted around the console, waiting for his favourite response.
“Anything unusual?”
“I thought we had a rule about unusual…”
“Hey! No sarcasm. This is the TARDIS, you should be observing certain… qualities.”
“Oh my God!” cried Sasha. “It’s got a bar. That’s adorable.”
“Well, yes, it has…” the Doctor rolled his eyes, stepping in front of the stairway to the bar in an attempt to get Sasha to focus on something else. “Anything on a bigger scale, maybe.”
“Well of course there is, it’s massive!”
“Yes,” agreed the Doctor sardonically, “yes, it is…”
“I mean, it’s bigger on the inside,” she muttered, as if it hardly mattered.
“Yes!” exclaimed the Doctor. “Yes, it’s bigger on the inside!”
“Well, you did say it was.”
“And you believed me?!”
“Well I thought you were mad, but yes, I think I did. Mad people don’t usually lie, they just make the truth too big. Besides, it’s not the hardest of technological developments to imagine, is it?”
That one left the Doctor speechless. Sasha made an effort to carry on the discussion herself, as the Doctor piloted the TARDIS like a new driver.
“So a time machine, then? Are you going to try and prove that one to me too?”
“I’m working on it…”
“And anything else you think you ought to tell me?”
“Yes.” The Doctor landed the TARDIS and turned solemnly to Sasha, leaning back against the console. She walked forward, away from the entrance, from wherever it was the Doctor had landed her, and gave him all her attention. “I believe I owe you an explanation, Sasha. My friend.”
“The one you mentioned before? Who you… lost?” Sasha could not recall if the Doctor had imparted this detail; but frankly it was obvious.
“Her name was Autumn Rivers.”
Sasha smiled kindly. “That’s a beautiful name,” she whispered.
“She was beautiful. She was beautiful, and intelligent, and funny, and witty, and always unpredictable… she did a lot of bad things, but she was also a learner, and she always learnt. She was my best friend. And that woman? The one who just spoke to you?” The Doctor’s poetic narrative came to an end, and his expression turned cold. “She murdered her. Just when I thought I could save Autumn, that woman murdered her, and I’m not forgetting that.”
“Is that what this is all about, then? Revenge? Because Doctor, revenge is not the answer, not ever. It just traps you in a cycle.”
“It’s not about revenge, it’s about stopping her from doing the same to anyone else. To everyone else. And there’s something else – would you believe me if I told you that Autumn was reincarnated?”
“Yes.”
The Doctor was taken aback; Sasha had barely had time to process the question, let alone consider an answer. “Are you sure?”
“From what I’ve heard of her, I struggle to believe she wasn’t. Though I imagine what you mean by 'Autumn' and what I mean by 'Autumn' are two different things -- you see a self, I see a collection of evolving impulses, desires, dreams, regrets...”
“Yes. Of course.” The Doctor looked Sasha in the eye intently: not staring, but searching. “Everyone I come across… I wonder. Is she in there? I was told she might remember some of her old life, but that wasn’t certain. I was told it would take a while. She could be anyone. Sasha, nothing that happened to you today surprised you, and we took to each other, you know we did. You…”
He raised his hand, not sure what to do with it; this was the time when some sort of sixth sense should be exercised. Sasha lowered it calmly and took a step back.
“I’m not Autumn Rivers.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because that name means nothing to me.” Sasha lifted her bag off the floor and headed to the exit, reopening the door. Though she had never doubted it, here was concrete proof of the time travel too: they had materialised in Coal Hill School, and the day had not yet started. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sure we’ll end up bumping into each other again soon.”
Sasha turned to leave again, but this time someone was standing in her way: one of the teachers, perhaps. She examined the woman’s badge.
Robin McKnight
Pastoral Support
“Hi,” murmured Sasha. “Sorry, er…”
“Travelling with him, then, Miss Ramachandran?”
It immediately occurred to Sasha that she was missing something. Robin was able to identify her, and, more startlingly, was unfazed by the presence of a blue box in the corridor, and indeed by its inexplicably vast interior. She got the sense of something else – something she always hated being embroiled in.
Unfinished business.
“It’s a very long story,” said Sasha, an answer even she found unsatisfying.
“I’m sure it is,” replied Robin bitterly, “and I don’t want to hear it from you.”
“And who are you, exactly?”
“Just the headmaster’s wife. Your first day’s off to a bloody shining start, isn’t it?” Robin gestured to the end of the corridor. “Art classrooms are that way. I need to speak to the Doctor on my own.”
Sasha nodded submissively and followed Robin’s direction to the art corridor. When she was out of earshot, the Doctor broke the silence.
“There was no need to take it out on Sasha.”
“Oh, because you’re really in a position to tell me what to do, aren’t you?” Robin stepped inside the TARDIS and slammed the door behind her. “Younger model, is it? Prettier? No family? That’s no excuse to pretend all your other friends are dead!”
“I’ve just met her.”
“You seem very close for people who have just met. But it always is intense at the start, isn’t it?” Robin took a deep breath, using a technique she often recommended when her own students started to see red. “Look, I’m sorry, I get that I don’t know the full picture, Doctor, but the way you just flew off? And the wedding? What the hell was that even about?”
“It was a bad day.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“No, sorry, not like that-“ the Doctor stepped forward as Robin turned to leave, but she stopped again and turned back. Each near-exit made the Doctor feel worse. “I’m sorry if I misunderstood. I thought you wanted me out of your life.”
“Yes, you did misunderstand, Doctor. I wasn’t talking about myself, I was talking about Tommy.”
The name was enough to lift any other words out of the room. The only audible input now was the sound of the TARDIS. It was like standing on the back of a great beast as it took deep, weary breaths.
“He came to see me. You have no idea what you did to him Doctor, no idea. And you owe him an apology.”
“He’s better off without me,” said the Doctor, trying to move the subject on.
“You owe him an apology,” repeated Robin, and the Doctor reluctantly nodded. “Now do me a favour and stay out of my life. It was just starting to go well.”
***
Dear Mrs Jackson,
I am dreadfully sorry to hear about the experience of your daughter, and would like to assure you that we are taking this issue very seriously and plan on carrying out a full investigation. For now, Miss Loftus will continue to teach Drama lessons, however if you have any aversion to this I am happy to try and move Elizabeth into another class.
It should also be noted that whilst it was very bad for Miss Loftus to call your daughter a numbskull, the email was not meant to be read by you, and teachers send these sorts of emails to each other all the time.
Chris backspaced the entire last paragraph. He would never be able to say that. It was fun to write, though.
He glanced down to the clock on his laptop screen – 8:55 – then to the ‘Things To Do Today’ post-it note on his desk.
- Letter to Mrs Jackson about numbskull daughter
- Blanket email about Ofsted
- Blanket email banning blanket emails
- Read CVs for new Religion teachers
- Try to attract some new science teachers
- Assembly
- Buy coffee on way home
- Buy teabags on way home
He wondered why they had thought he would make a good headmaster. What it was that the kids even liked about him…
A man knocked at the door and entered, but it was only when Chris saw who it was that he cast his to-do list and anxieties about competence aside altogether.
“No way.”
“Yes way. Hello, Mr Moon.”
Chris sighed – he would never be able to explain the human customs, no matter how hard he tried, and the Doctor would probably still get them wrong with the sole intent of winding him up. “You’d better sit down.”
The Doctor did politely as asked, then less politely examined every object on the desk individually.
“What are you doing here?”
The Doctor fiddled, disappointed, with a pen, perhaps wondering where the sonic part was. “Well, it was completely by mistake, really… but it happened… so I thought I should…” he pinched the side of the pen and the lid shot off across the room. Chris sighed again. “…drop in and greet you. That is what people do, isn’t it?”
“Forgive me for pointing this out, but you haven’t exactly shown an aptitude at ‘doing what people do’.”
“You’re all big on the criticisms today, aren’t you?” The Doctor put the pen down and picked up a pack of mints, taking five and making a face as he put them in his mouth. “You’re like a Scottish Robin Moon. Scottish Moon, so much easier to remember than your real name…”
“Chris.”
“Who?”
Chris rolled his eyes, a satisfying variation on the sigh, and snatched the pack of mints out of the Doctor’s hand before he could grab another five. “Please, I’m asking you, stay out of Robin’s life.”
“Why? What makes you think that’ll be the best thing for her?”
“Because you never pop in for a visit! You turn up all smiles and charm, but secretly you’re following a signal, or testing a hypothesis, or using your friends’ home as a safe-house. Don’t do that to her, Doctor. Don’t use her again.”
“Isn’t that her choice?”
“Yes,” agreed Chris, trying not to let the comment rile him. “And every time she’ll choose to help you because that’s who she is. I’m not trying to control you to control her. I’m trying to make you go away because that’s what she deserves. She doesn’t deserve the stress of you coming back into her life, she doesn’t deserve having to do what she always does, which is go along with it because she wants to help you. If you care about her, then do what’s right for her.”
“And I can’t guarantee that the right thing will be staying away.” The Doctor picked up a third object; this one a photo frame. The photograph showed Robin and Chris behind the fountains in Barcelona – it must have been taken the night the Doctor left. He tried to search for a trace of a blue box in the background; a sign of where he fitted in to that moment.
“Then if it’s going to keep us safe, come back into our lives.” Chris tried to continue, distracted by the Doctor’s close examination of his photograph. “But if you walk back in to ‘protect’ us and my wife gets hurt, I will kill you myself, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.” The Doctor put the photo back. “You make yourself clear, Scottish Moon.”
“I’ve got an assembly to present,” Chris said with mild irritation. “I need to go and make it up. I don’t want to see any blue boxes on my way back, and when I arrive back here, I don’t want to see you.”
As Chris shut the door, the Doctor felt a sense of overwhelming discomfort. Being told off by the head-teacher was still, somehow, like the death sentence. He felt this was when people usually rebelled, did something really… rebellious…
In truth, the anaesthetic had not worn off in him yet; he had given himself a higher dose than Sasha, and was still weary. Chris did not want to see him when he got back – but that would be a good half-hour yet, at least.
I could just…
***
Sasha cursed herself as she headed to Robin’s office. She probably should have been in assembly, but her priorities were, as always, more emotionally-driven. It might have been unfair. No: it was unfair. Even if Robin had done something wrong, she had still formed judgements without knowing the facts… she had been too sharp with her. She imagined herself in Robin’s place: the Doctor may have been an old friend; she knew he had exercised the ‘bigger on the inside’ routine before. Maybe one day she would be in Robin’s place.
“Oh girl you’re the devil…” Sasha found herself humming the tune from the dream. She could almost still hear it; that four-beat piano rhythm going round and round in her head. It would drive her insane if it lasted much longer.
She peered in through the door, and noticed that Robin was not sat at her desk, but before she turned away something else caught her attention, and she slowly pushed the door open and entered the office. There was a drop of blood on the desk, and the window was smashed. Treading carefully over the broken glass, Sasha used the desk to propel herself up, and looked out of the window for a sign of who had broken in or out. There was no one.
The door slammed behind her. Turning around with a jump, she noticed a tall man in a black suit stood behind her. She felt this would be a good time to take the Doctor’s golf club suggestion seriously: she had none of the abilities required to fight him, no words to negotiate, and nothing about him to tell her that he wanted anything good from her.
“Hello, Sasha,” said the man, looming over her. He lifted a syringe from his inside pocket. “I’m from the Destiny Institute.”
***
The music returned, and the Doctor was back in the office. This time, the boss was sat forward in her chair, scanning some papers as she spoke to the Doctor.
No. Not the boss.
“The Master.”
“Oh!” cried the Master, realising the Doctor had woken open up, and beamed upon hearing her name. “So you do know who I was? I was rather looking forward to the reveal, personally. You figured it out, then?”
“Of course I figured it out, I figured it out the moment I saw you. I tend to sense your presence as it is – a virtual reality, on the other hand, is more or less screaming with it.”
“Then why didn’t you say my name?” The Master got up off her chair, prompting the Doctor to leave the floor, reluctantly.
“I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. But I know everything. I know that you were uploaded to the Matrix, and I know that this place is… I don’t know, a slice of it, a part of it inaccessible to the Time Lords, that you’ve wriggled away to and now you’re accessing people’s dreams and conducting experiments on them. So tell me – why?”
“Do you like this one?” The Master danced around, counteracting and undermining the Doctor’s menacing advances. “Grace Kelly. What a classic! You should listen to more music, you know, Doctor, it would really make you see everything in a new light!”
“Stop it!” yelled the Doctor, but the music continued. “Nothing I’m seeing here’s real. Even that body you’re in is just taken from the Matrix archives – probably some dead woman whose face you’ve taken.”
“That’s what regeneration is, dear,” muttered the Master. “Does it never occur to you to ask where the faces come from.”
“Stop trying to change the subject. What are you doing?”
“Oh…” the Master waved her arm as if to brush the subject aside. “Just a bit of research!”
“You killed my friend.” The Doctor stopped still in his tracks, and even the Master stopped dancing and moved towards the Doctor, sensing the intimacy of the conversation. “You killed Autumn.”
“No,” whispered the Master. “Autumn killed me. What happened at the Destiny Institute was just Karma.”
“You don’t know what Karma means,” spat the Doctor, “and you’re far too blinkered for me to change that. But I can tell you this – it’s never, ever synonymous for revenge.”
“Yet revenge is what you want more than anything, isn’t it, Doctor?” The Master let that one hang in the air, and the music softened at her command. “Let me show you something. Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me.” The Master held her hand out impatiently. With a frown, the Doctor placed his hand in hers.
“Well then?”
The Master smiled momentarily. The Doctor half-expected her to run her finger across it, tell his fortune; tell him when Karma, as if she understood a thing about it, was to occur in his life.
This nearly happened – she brushed his palm with her index finger. Then, unexpectedly, with her other arm she unveiled a nail, and before the Doctor could recoil, dug it through his palm. He cried out in pain, and watched on hopelessly as this virtual reality’s depiction of blood seeped out in front of him.
He tried to pull his hand away, but the Master was gripping it closely now, her fingers around the wound she had created. She smiled, as with her other hand, she softly stroked it.
“You think I’m no longer a danger to you because I’m dead,” she murmured. “You’re wrong. I’m a greater danger than ever. You think the things in your dreams can’t hurt you. You’re wrong – they’re the ones you can never kill. And you think Autumn Rivers is lost – but you’re wrong.”
The Master raised her voice back to its normal level, and walked over to the other side of the room. The Doctor tried to nurse his hand.
“I know what happened to her. I know who she became. But that’s a story for another day.” She put her storybook voice on – the Doctor could imagine her on a children’s television show, subtly hijacking the narrative to give them all nightmares. “You’re about to see the extent of my research, dear Doctor. You’re about to see the extent of my plan. Because I know about the Empire, old friend, and I know about its secrets just as much as you do. And all of this, I am doing for the Empire.” She clicked her fingers, and the music started to fade. The Doctor was waking up. “It’s time to wake up and smell the… oh.” The Master cocked her head mockingly as the Doctor fell to the floor. “Trap.”
The Doctor blinked his eyes a few times, and suddenly he was somewhere else. The room was small, dark, damp and empty; a spotlight cast a white light over his face, turning it pale and ghostly, and a locked door in front of him confirmed that the Master had kept her promise of trapping him. He wanted to kick something, as he always did when he was captured: the man in the bigger-in-the-inside home, confined to a real metal box.
He looked down at his hand, feeling a sudden throb of pain. There was a hole in his palm, out of which blood rushed, flowing between his fingers. He hoped it didn’t go too deep.
He hoped he was wrong about what had caused it.
“There are not the words to describe how much I hate you right now.”
Puzzled, and vaguely recognising the voice, the Doctor turned around Sat against the wall, her hair a mess and her voice hoarse from a few hours of dehydration, was the last person in the universe he wanted to be in the middle of danger with.
Robin Moon.
“But I think it’s time we talked.”
No. Not the boss.
“The Master.”
“Oh!” cried the Master, realising the Doctor had woken open up, and beamed upon hearing her name. “So you do know who I was? I was rather looking forward to the reveal, personally. You figured it out, then?”
“Of course I figured it out, I figured it out the moment I saw you. I tend to sense your presence as it is – a virtual reality, on the other hand, is more or less screaming with it.”
“Then why didn’t you say my name?” The Master got up off her chair, prompting the Doctor to leave the floor, reluctantly.
“I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. But I know everything. I know that you were uploaded to the Matrix, and I know that this place is… I don’t know, a slice of it, a part of it inaccessible to the Time Lords, that you’ve wriggled away to and now you’re accessing people’s dreams and conducting experiments on them. So tell me – why?”
“Do you like this one?” The Master danced around, counteracting and undermining the Doctor’s menacing advances. “Grace Kelly. What a classic! You should listen to more music, you know, Doctor, it would really make you see everything in a new light!”
“Stop it!” yelled the Doctor, but the music continued. “Nothing I’m seeing here’s real. Even that body you’re in is just taken from the Matrix archives – probably some dead woman whose face you’ve taken.”
“That’s what regeneration is, dear,” muttered the Master. “Does it never occur to you to ask where the faces come from.”
“Stop trying to change the subject. What are you doing?”
“Oh…” the Master waved her arm as if to brush the subject aside. “Just a bit of research!”
“You killed my friend.” The Doctor stopped still in his tracks, and even the Master stopped dancing and moved towards the Doctor, sensing the intimacy of the conversation. “You killed Autumn.”
“No,” whispered the Master. “Autumn killed me. What happened at the Destiny Institute was just Karma.”
“You don’t know what Karma means,” spat the Doctor, “and you’re far too blinkered for me to change that. But I can tell you this – it’s never, ever synonymous for revenge.”
“Yet revenge is what you want more than anything, isn’t it, Doctor?” The Master let that one hang in the air, and the music softened at her command. “Let me show you something. Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me.” The Master held her hand out impatiently. With a frown, the Doctor placed his hand in hers.
“Well then?”
The Master smiled momentarily. The Doctor half-expected her to run her finger across it, tell his fortune; tell him when Karma, as if she understood a thing about it, was to occur in his life.
This nearly happened – she brushed his palm with her index finger. Then, unexpectedly, with her other arm she unveiled a nail, and before the Doctor could recoil, dug it through his palm. He cried out in pain, and watched on hopelessly as this virtual reality’s depiction of blood seeped out in front of him.
He tried to pull his hand away, but the Master was gripping it closely now, her fingers around the wound she had created. She smiled, as with her other hand, she softly stroked it.
“You think I’m no longer a danger to you because I’m dead,” she murmured. “You’re wrong. I’m a greater danger than ever. You think the things in your dreams can’t hurt you. You’re wrong – they’re the ones you can never kill. And you think Autumn Rivers is lost – but you’re wrong.”
The Master raised her voice back to its normal level, and walked over to the other side of the room. The Doctor tried to nurse his hand.
“I know what happened to her. I know who she became. But that’s a story for another day.” She put her storybook voice on – the Doctor could imagine her on a children’s television show, subtly hijacking the narrative to give them all nightmares. “You’re about to see the extent of my research, dear Doctor. You’re about to see the extent of my plan. Because I know about the Empire, old friend, and I know about its secrets just as much as you do. And all of this, I am doing for the Empire.” She clicked her fingers, and the music started to fade. The Doctor was waking up. “It’s time to wake up and smell the… oh.” The Master cocked her head mockingly as the Doctor fell to the floor. “Trap.”
The Doctor blinked his eyes a few times, and suddenly he was somewhere else. The room was small, dark, damp and empty; a spotlight cast a white light over his face, turning it pale and ghostly, and a locked door in front of him confirmed that the Master had kept her promise of trapping him. He wanted to kick something, as he always did when he was captured: the man in the bigger-in-the-inside home, confined to a real metal box.
He looked down at his hand, feeling a sudden throb of pain. There was a hole in his palm, out of which blood rushed, flowing between his fingers. He hoped it didn’t go too deep.
He hoped he was wrong about what had caused it.
“There are not the words to describe how much I hate you right now.”
Puzzled, and vaguely recognising the voice, the Doctor turned around Sat against the wall, her hair a mess and her voice hoarse from a few hours of dehydration, was the last person in the universe he wanted to be in the middle of danger with.
Robin Moon.
“But I think it’s time we talked.”