You will probably want to read the Introduction before you start.
Prologue
The Doctor held the voice recorder up uneasily, the tremor in his hand now more apparent than it had been before. With his hand’s weakness, he was able to feel the weight of the tape recorder. Even so, it was such a light contraption: a thing that could record his innermost worries and desires if he allowed them to surface, which could stencil memories in an intangible form and play them back to all who would listen. Comparatively, it really was light: all things considered, weightless.
He pressed record.
“My name is the Doctor…”
His voice shook at first; the first distinct, purposeful sound in so many hours. He would get used to it.
“…and this is my confession.”
He pressed record.
“My name is the Doctor…”
His voice shook at first; the first distinct, purposeful sound in so many hours. He would get used to it.
“…and this is my confession.”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
RUN
Written by the Genie
Earlier
It was a small town amidst a great civilisation. There were traces of Earth; colonist’s memories, stamped onto new land, polluting it. Pollution? The Doctor dismissed the notion. He admired the hallmarks of humanity. They were seldom proud, to his mind, never a threat. The truth was that remarkable people would spend their whole lives yearning for travel, and when they finally completed their journey, would yearn for home. Not throughout the journey – that was a cliché. No. The Doctor understood it from all the times it had happened. The moment travellers would turn back and miss home would be the moment it became clear that they would never be able to see it again. And so, as a careless, subconscious coping mechanism, they would paint their home in the form of a new culture: in the form of architecture, music, and even a complete societal system.
The Doctor saw that here. He saw it in the bulbous street lamps, the jagged roads and the houses. If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he could make out a Tudor-esque influence: cruck, timber-framed cottages, black-against-white. There was a mist in the air; a natural coincidence. And there was silence.
The people of Colony Indigo had disappeared a year ago. Pressed to find a new planet but not granted intergalactic license, they huddled together in their cramped, impractical spaceship and turned to flesh technology, climbing into harnesses and taking on new forms. From there, they would descend on empty planets and colonise them. When the authorities came – or in some cases, invaders – the ship would be alerted, the flesh avatars would melt, and the crew would wake up back on the spaceship, which was now half-way across the universe, ready to make home on another new world. The technology was tweaked so that upon melting, the flesh would undergo a decomposition process hastily reducing it to atoms, so that DNA testing could not be used to determine the identity of individuals used in the process.
The point?
To Colony Indigo, the point was another chance: life on a new planet, a roof to sleep under, food to eat, resources to use; a place for children to grow up, inspired by memories accounted in picture-books and data banks. To the Doctor, the point was what he was experiencing right now. The city’s lights, automated and tuned to daylight hours to conserve energy, flicked on and off every night without fail. At key times of the day, a pre-prepared track-list was recycled, speakers throughout the town blaring the last charts the colony had collected before leaving home. And there was one more thing.
The Doctor used his sonic screwdriver to open the door to a small cottage and stepped just inside, concerned only with the entrance. It was always good to respect the privacy of a family on the other side of the cosmos.
He looked to the mat on the floor. His theory was correct. There were piles of letters. He picked one up to be completely sure.
Dear Citizen,
Your taxes have not been registered with the state since 34/13/5456.
If you are eligible for exemption please submit your TE Signal using the code provided in your exemption kit.
If you do not make the state aware of your reasons for not paying taxes, you will receive an official visit without notice. Please do not leave the state until the issue has been amended. Any attempts to do so will result in your arrest.
We look forward to hearing from you.
How many more are there? The Doctor made a rough count of thirteen. The postal service was carried out by droids, but only humans had the right to administer services such as taxing.
Any threats were empty threats, delivered to empty houses which once belonged to fake people. All semblance of a society had evacuated a year ago: every personality, every emotion, every secret, every nuance. Yet the mechanisms of order ticked away in their absence. Taxes, power companies and entertainment services took no notice of a mass exodus. A society so well-constructed, thought the Doctor, so ordered and so consistent, that it carries on ticking over after its death.
That was the point. But what did it tell him? He deliberated. Perhaps the answer could be found through his motivation, through his reasons for coming here, though they were unclear even to him.
What ticks over, he asked himself, in the absence of what it was created to protect? What can carry on in a perfect, reliable way and have absolutely no point to it whatsoever?
He had no idea. But the silence was becoming unnerving. He realised how much he appreciated the gentle hum of the TARDIS, the reassurance that he was enclosed within another life, a life that cared for him, rather than left to wander some soundless maze.
TARDIS – Drawing Room
The drawing room was the Doctor’s favourite room. It was the only room which remained unchanged throughout his many lives, the only alterations being memories which were added. Nothing was forgotten, nothing shelved. Well, everything was shelved, literally speaking: that was sort of the point of a drawing room.
There was an umbrella, a scarf, some photographs, a recorder, and even some plaid trousers hung over the back of the Doctor’s chair. When was I wearing them? The Doctor racked his brains to no ado. They made for ghastly attire. Perhaps he had forgotten to turn the light on as he got dressed. It had taken him until his third incarnation to find the light switch, and it broke for the duration of his sixth.
He sat down, easing into his seat. He had left a writing pad out, his scrawl denoting some imprecise attempt at fiction. This he also struggled to remember. It was as if another man had been in here.
Of course. The Doctor nodded, as the truth occurred to him. After four years in a Dalek camp, the Doctor had returned straight to Robin Moon, and embarked on a journey to save Autumn Rivers. When this was complete, he dropped Robin home and went on a couple of adventures with Autumn: one in her own time, the Eighth Great and Bountiful Human Empire; and another in human history, where Ayn Rand had located and recognised him. He had half-expected her to make an attempt on his life, and was thoroughly confused when she rather aggressively tried to sell him a book.
So this was the first time in over four years. His suspicion was right: a different man had been in here before him. And he had never been in here before.
Autumn Rivers. The name brought a smile to the Doctor’s face. His greatest victory, after years of suffering, was having the chance to show her the truth. Tricking her would not have had the same effect – she had to see how it was. And that truth reassured the Doctor. As long as she trusted and loved him, he would know that he really was a good man. If she had not trusted him, or had turned against him again…
The Doctor shook off the thought. It didn’t deserve his time, and he couldn’t imagine what such a situation would do to him.
Today, Autumn had wanted to go somewhere on her own; somewhere in her own time. It hardly mattered to the Doctor, and it was hardly his business. But it left him alone, for the first time in far too long. He may have been alone at heart – his thoughts and feelings repressed – in the Dalek camp, but in the simplest terms, he had company. Casting aside psychology, there were people next to him, above him or below him at all times. He had company in eating, company in working, even company in torture. For once he was actually alone – on his own, within a measurable space.
The Doctor looked down at his scrawl. There was something about a home, something about a confession…
A diary?
Autumn had once told him that a diary was a good way of understanding his priorities. He would be able to look back months or years down the line and remind himself of what once mattered to him. But as he went to pick up a pen, he noticed his hand was shaking. As he gripped it, it steadied slightly, but the grip… it felt strange. The more he studied it, the more he doubted himself, and a terrible, shameful question crossed his mind.
Can I write?
Not wanting to risk it, he instead turned the body of the pen. It was bizarre what he remembered – his ability to form letters was lacking, yet he recalled that his pen doubled up as a voice recorder. Not needing a desk, he left the drawing room.
TARDIS – Console Room
The Doctor held the voice recorder up uneasily, the tremor in his hand now more apparent than it had been before. With his hand’s weakness, he was able to feel the weight of the tape recorder. Even so, it was such a light contraption: a thing that could record his innermost worries and desires if he allowed them to surface, which could stencil memories in an intangible form and play them back to all who would listen. Comparatively, it really was light: all things considered, weightless.
He pressed record.
“My name is the Doctor…”
His voice shook at first; the first distinct, purposeful sound in so many hours. He would get used to it.
“…and this is my confession.”
The Doctor tried not to laugh at the irony. There was always a confession, always a secret of some kind. Did this one hold any kind of unique value? Did that even matter? He avoided considering the complications.
“I tried to think of something that sums me up. Saving people, tearing down societies, making friends, trying to do good things, meeting the celebrities of the universe… they’re all up there. But there’s something I’ve always done, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing; an instinct to almost every creature in the universe which I have embraced beyond what is healthy. That’s running. I always have and always will run.”
The Doctor took a deep breath. “When you run, everything is a blur. I started running when I left Gallifrey and I’m still running now. I run in every moment, even when I’m standing still: I run away from the truth, from my mistakes, or from what I’ve been told to do. I don’t even realise I’m doing it. But for once, for some reason, I decided not to. Maybe it’s because I’ve got no one to run with.”
“You can run for a long time. I can run for longer than most. Continuing isn’t hard – the difficult part is stopping and starting again. When you stop running, you realise how tired you’ve been this whole time. You realise how breathless and vulnerable you are. I’ve been running for hundreds of years, every part of me. Imagine how I’m feeling now.”
Another question occurred to the Doctor. How am I feeling now?
Suddenly, it all came together in his mind. The answer to all his questions. The town.
What ticks over, in the absence of what it was created to protect? What can carry on in a perfect, reliable way and have absolutely no point to it whatsoever?
“Me…”
The Doctor froze. It was true: his experience had been that of a lifetime’s organisation; of pre-prepared responses and logical outcomes. But the Doctor had vacated, left out of fear of being discovered, gone so far he could never be found.
“I was hurt,” admitted the Doctor. “More than I ever have been in all my lives. And I was broken.” He corrected himself, straightening his leather jacket as he did: “I am broken. I’m alone. And I’m scared.” His voice shaking no longer seemed out of place. “Scared that no one can fix me. Scared that however many people are around me, I’ll still be alone. And scared of fear itself. But…”
Looking on the bright side was the one thing that worked when running didn’t. Or maybe it was just a part of running.
“I’ve tried to be a good man for so long. Being a good man isn’t what’s important in that – it’s that I try. Maybe healing will be the same. If my friends try, if they really try, maybe that’s what matters. Because what you try to do is the truth.” He cleared his throat, steadied his hand. There would be no tremble for this declaration. “The truth always wins. And the only remedy for me right now is Planet Earth. I’ll go home, eventually, when I’m ready. I’m in no rush.”
“I don’t know why I’m recording this. In all likelihood, no one will find it. If they do, they won’t speak my language. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. Because if anyone does get their hands on this, there will be a reason. I will finally be able to put my finger on the universe’s motives.”
“Was that a confession?” The Doctor shrugged. “It was the truth. Honest, unabridged and for the sake of its own admission, this one and only time. If that’s not a confession, I don’t know what is.” He approached the door and opened it, not properly studying the space outside. “My name is the Doctor. One day I might be able to live up to it.” He let go. The recording drifted up through the air corridor and then into space; a novelty pen, floating through the vacuum.
The Doctor had not yet taken the chance to look out, and now, as he stood at the edge of his ship, he could admire fully the vista: a nebula in deep space; clouds of gasses gathering together and spiralling, some with the appearances of jagged, moving rocks, stretching out into the beyond, where thinner cerulean clouds veiled darkness. The Doctor took in the colours, new meanings forming in his mind. The burnt, glowing orange at the heart of the nebula, once the colour of the waste material around the outside of the Dalek camps; the brown of the clouds, the colour of the walls and the muddy ground; the black, darkness the Doctor recalled from the nights he was shut in his cell of a cabin without light; and finally the blue, the deep azure of the stars, a shade before defined by the eye of the Dalek: a cold, harsh reminder that he was always been watched, always being loathed, and always being feared.
The Doctor watched on as the colours drifted into each other, relinquishing their meanings. The ideas in his mind did the same, passing over each other, and letting go of the things they defined: the colours and names, the things they had stolen and refused to give back. Some, of course, remained, for the purpose of providing occasional pain. But at last, it was time to let go.
Blue wasn’t an eye. Blue was freedom. Blue could be anything the Doctor chose.
He ran his hand up the exterior of the TARDIS. That was what blue would become.
But now the Doctor was tired, as he was more frequently these days, and owed a great deal of rest.
***
The Doctor lay back in bed, his mind already beginning to run again, faster than ever before and quickening in pace. That was good, the Doctor decided; healthy. It was not an instant recovery. There was no all-encompassing epiphany, no painless healing, no final catharsis. Recovery was slow, manifold, and sometimes horrendous. But each two steps back were a step forward, and freedom was the greatest medicine the universe could offer.
The Doctor drifted off, calmed by the hum of his ship. In terms of proximity, he accepted his solitude, but he was not alone. True lonesomeness is rejection, and the Doctor was accepted by the universe, with every meaningful force of power on his side.
His pen still drifted through space, carrying a message with the capacity to change lives; a message so subtle yet so obvious, and the real reason – though he did not even realise it himself – why the Doctor had let it go, and why he had hoped someone would find it. The recording contained a message, and within that, in the realms of inference, another, which would stand as testament to the power of the good man, the sacrifice of a brave woman, and the futility of evil:
I am the Doctor – and I beat the Daleks.
It was a small town amidst a great civilisation. There were traces of Earth; colonist’s memories, stamped onto new land, polluting it. Pollution? The Doctor dismissed the notion. He admired the hallmarks of humanity. They were seldom proud, to his mind, never a threat. The truth was that remarkable people would spend their whole lives yearning for travel, and when they finally completed their journey, would yearn for home. Not throughout the journey – that was a cliché. No. The Doctor understood it from all the times it had happened. The moment travellers would turn back and miss home would be the moment it became clear that they would never be able to see it again. And so, as a careless, subconscious coping mechanism, they would paint their home in the form of a new culture: in the form of architecture, music, and even a complete societal system.
The Doctor saw that here. He saw it in the bulbous street lamps, the jagged roads and the houses. If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he could make out a Tudor-esque influence: cruck, timber-framed cottages, black-against-white. There was a mist in the air; a natural coincidence. And there was silence.
The people of Colony Indigo had disappeared a year ago. Pressed to find a new planet but not granted intergalactic license, they huddled together in their cramped, impractical spaceship and turned to flesh technology, climbing into harnesses and taking on new forms. From there, they would descend on empty planets and colonise them. When the authorities came – or in some cases, invaders – the ship would be alerted, the flesh avatars would melt, and the crew would wake up back on the spaceship, which was now half-way across the universe, ready to make home on another new world. The technology was tweaked so that upon melting, the flesh would undergo a decomposition process hastily reducing it to atoms, so that DNA testing could not be used to determine the identity of individuals used in the process.
The point?
To Colony Indigo, the point was another chance: life on a new planet, a roof to sleep under, food to eat, resources to use; a place for children to grow up, inspired by memories accounted in picture-books and data banks. To the Doctor, the point was what he was experiencing right now. The city’s lights, automated and tuned to daylight hours to conserve energy, flicked on and off every night without fail. At key times of the day, a pre-prepared track-list was recycled, speakers throughout the town blaring the last charts the colony had collected before leaving home. And there was one more thing.
The Doctor used his sonic screwdriver to open the door to a small cottage and stepped just inside, concerned only with the entrance. It was always good to respect the privacy of a family on the other side of the cosmos.
He looked to the mat on the floor. His theory was correct. There were piles of letters. He picked one up to be completely sure.
Dear Citizen,
Your taxes have not been registered with the state since 34/13/5456.
If you are eligible for exemption please submit your TE Signal using the code provided in your exemption kit.
If you do not make the state aware of your reasons for not paying taxes, you will receive an official visit without notice. Please do not leave the state until the issue has been amended. Any attempts to do so will result in your arrest.
We look forward to hearing from you.
How many more are there? The Doctor made a rough count of thirteen. The postal service was carried out by droids, but only humans had the right to administer services such as taxing.
Any threats were empty threats, delivered to empty houses which once belonged to fake people. All semblance of a society had evacuated a year ago: every personality, every emotion, every secret, every nuance. Yet the mechanisms of order ticked away in their absence. Taxes, power companies and entertainment services took no notice of a mass exodus. A society so well-constructed, thought the Doctor, so ordered and so consistent, that it carries on ticking over after its death.
That was the point. But what did it tell him? He deliberated. Perhaps the answer could be found through his motivation, through his reasons for coming here, though they were unclear even to him.
What ticks over, he asked himself, in the absence of what it was created to protect? What can carry on in a perfect, reliable way and have absolutely no point to it whatsoever?
He had no idea. But the silence was becoming unnerving. He realised how much he appreciated the gentle hum of the TARDIS, the reassurance that he was enclosed within another life, a life that cared for him, rather than left to wander some soundless maze.
TARDIS – Drawing Room
The drawing room was the Doctor’s favourite room. It was the only room which remained unchanged throughout his many lives, the only alterations being memories which were added. Nothing was forgotten, nothing shelved. Well, everything was shelved, literally speaking: that was sort of the point of a drawing room.
There was an umbrella, a scarf, some photographs, a recorder, and even some plaid trousers hung over the back of the Doctor’s chair. When was I wearing them? The Doctor racked his brains to no ado. They made for ghastly attire. Perhaps he had forgotten to turn the light on as he got dressed. It had taken him until his third incarnation to find the light switch, and it broke for the duration of his sixth.
He sat down, easing into his seat. He had left a writing pad out, his scrawl denoting some imprecise attempt at fiction. This he also struggled to remember. It was as if another man had been in here.
Of course. The Doctor nodded, as the truth occurred to him. After four years in a Dalek camp, the Doctor had returned straight to Robin Moon, and embarked on a journey to save Autumn Rivers. When this was complete, he dropped Robin home and went on a couple of adventures with Autumn: one in her own time, the Eighth Great and Bountiful Human Empire; and another in human history, where Ayn Rand had located and recognised him. He had half-expected her to make an attempt on his life, and was thoroughly confused when she rather aggressively tried to sell him a book.
So this was the first time in over four years. His suspicion was right: a different man had been in here before him. And he had never been in here before.
Autumn Rivers. The name brought a smile to the Doctor’s face. His greatest victory, after years of suffering, was having the chance to show her the truth. Tricking her would not have had the same effect – she had to see how it was. And that truth reassured the Doctor. As long as she trusted and loved him, he would know that he really was a good man. If she had not trusted him, or had turned against him again…
The Doctor shook off the thought. It didn’t deserve his time, and he couldn’t imagine what such a situation would do to him.
Today, Autumn had wanted to go somewhere on her own; somewhere in her own time. It hardly mattered to the Doctor, and it was hardly his business. But it left him alone, for the first time in far too long. He may have been alone at heart – his thoughts and feelings repressed – in the Dalek camp, but in the simplest terms, he had company. Casting aside psychology, there were people next to him, above him or below him at all times. He had company in eating, company in working, even company in torture. For once he was actually alone – on his own, within a measurable space.
The Doctor looked down at his scrawl. There was something about a home, something about a confession…
A diary?
Autumn had once told him that a diary was a good way of understanding his priorities. He would be able to look back months or years down the line and remind himself of what once mattered to him. But as he went to pick up a pen, he noticed his hand was shaking. As he gripped it, it steadied slightly, but the grip… it felt strange. The more he studied it, the more he doubted himself, and a terrible, shameful question crossed his mind.
Can I write?
Not wanting to risk it, he instead turned the body of the pen. It was bizarre what he remembered – his ability to form letters was lacking, yet he recalled that his pen doubled up as a voice recorder. Not needing a desk, he left the drawing room.
TARDIS – Console Room
The Doctor held the voice recorder up uneasily, the tremor in his hand now more apparent than it had been before. With his hand’s weakness, he was able to feel the weight of the tape recorder. Even so, it was such a light contraption: a thing that could record his innermost worries and desires if he allowed them to surface, which could stencil memories in an intangible form and play them back to all who would listen. Comparatively, it really was light: all things considered, weightless.
He pressed record.
“My name is the Doctor…”
His voice shook at first; the first distinct, purposeful sound in so many hours. He would get used to it.
“…and this is my confession.”
The Doctor tried not to laugh at the irony. There was always a confession, always a secret of some kind. Did this one hold any kind of unique value? Did that even matter? He avoided considering the complications.
“I tried to think of something that sums me up. Saving people, tearing down societies, making friends, trying to do good things, meeting the celebrities of the universe… they’re all up there. But there’s something I’ve always done, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing; an instinct to almost every creature in the universe which I have embraced beyond what is healthy. That’s running. I always have and always will run.”
The Doctor took a deep breath. “When you run, everything is a blur. I started running when I left Gallifrey and I’m still running now. I run in every moment, even when I’m standing still: I run away from the truth, from my mistakes, or from what I’ve been told to do. I don’t even realise I’m doing it. But for once, for some reason, I decided not to. Maybe it’s because I’ve got no one to run with.”
“You can run for a long time. I can run for longer than most. Continuing isn’t hard – the difficult part is stopping and starting again. When you stop running, you realise how tired you’ve been this whole time. You realise how breathless and vulnerable you are. I’ve been running for hundreds of years, every part of me. Imagine how I’m feeling now.”
Another question occurred to the Doctor. How am I feeling now?
Suddenly, it all came together in his mind. The answer to all his questions. The town.
What ticks over, in the absence of what it was created to protect? What can carry on in a perfect, reliable way and have absolutely no point to it whatsoever?
“Me…”
The Doctor froze. It was true: his experience had been that of a lifetime’s organisation; of pre-prepared responses and logical outcomes. But the Doctor had vacated, left out of fear of being discovered, gone so far he could never be found.
“I was hurt,” admitted the Doctor. “More than I ever have been in all my lives. And I was broken.” He corrected himself, straightening his leather jacket as he did: “I am broken. I’m alone. And I’m scared.” His voice shaking no longer seemed out of place. “Scared that no one can fix me. Scared that however many people are around me, I’ll still be alone. And scared of fear itself. But…”
Looking on the bright side was the one thing that worked when running didn’t. Or maybe it was just a part of running.
“I’ve tried to be a good man for so long. Being a good man isn’t what’s important in that – it’s that I try. Maybe healing will be the same. If my friends try, if they really try, maybe that’s what matters. Because what you try to do is the truth.” He cleared his throat, steadied his hand. There would be no tremble for this declaration. “The truth always wins. And the only remedy for me right now is Planet Earth. I’ll go home, eventually, when I’m ready. I’m in no rush.”
“I don’t know why I’m recording this. In all likelihood, no one will find it. If they do, they won’t speak my language. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. Because if anyone does get their hands on this, there will be a reason. I will finally be able to put my finger on the universe’s motives.”
“Was that a confession?” The Doctor shrugged. “It was the truth. Honest, unabridged and for the sake of its own admission, this one and only time. If that’s not a confession, I don’t know what is.” He approached the door and opened it, not properly studying the space outside. “My name is the Doctor. One day I might be able to live up to it.” He let go. The recording drifted up through the air corridor and then into space; a novelty pen, floating through the vacuum.
The Doctor had not yet taken the chance to look out, and now, as he stood at the edge of his ship, he could admire fully the vista: a nebula in deep space; clouds of gasses gathering together and spiralling, some with the appearances of jagged, moving rocks, stretching out into the beyond, where thinner cerulean clouds veiled darkness. The Doctor took in the colours, new meanings forming in his mind. The burnt, glowing orange at the heart of the nebula, once the colour of the waste material around the outside of the Dalek camps; the brown of the clouds, the colour of the walls and the muddy ground; the black, darkness the Doctor recalled from the nights he was shut in his cell of a cabin without light; and finally the blue, the deep azure of the stars, a shade before defined by the eye of the Dalek: a cold, harsh reminder that he was always been watched, always being loathed, and always being feared.
The Doctor watched on as the colours drifted into each other, relinquishing their meanings. The ideas in his mind did the same, passing over each other, and letting go of the things they defined: the colours and names, the things they had stolen and refused to give back. Some, of course, remained, for the purpose of providing occasional pain. But at last, it was time to let go.
Blue wasn’t an eye. Blue was freedom. Blue could be anything the Doctor chose.
He ran his hand up the exterior of the TARDIS. That was what blue would become.
But now the Doctor was tired, as he was more frequently these days, and owed a great deal of rest.
***
The Doctor lay back in bed, his mind already beginning to run again, faster than ever before and quickening in pace. That was good, the Doctor decided; healthy. It was not an instant recovery. There was no all-encompassing epiphany, no painless healing, no final catharsis. Recovery was slow, manifold, and sometimes horrendous. But each two steps back were a step forward, and freedom was the greatest medicine the universe could offer.
The Doctor drifted off, calmed by the hum of his ship. In terms of proximity, he accepted his solitude, but he was not alone. True lonesomeness is rejection, and the Doctor was accepted by the universe, with every meaningful force of power on his side.
His pen still drifted through space, carrying a message with the capacity to change lives; a message so subtle yet so obvious, and the real reason – though he did not even realise it himself – why the Doctor had let it go, and why he had hoped someone would find it. The recording contained a message, and within that, in the realms of inference, another, which would stand as testament to the power of the good man, the sacrifice of a brave woman, and the futility of evil:
I am the Doctor – and I beat the Daleks.
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Next Time
Rebirth
As Autumn becomes increasingly interested in the Doctor's life she wishes to delve into the Time Lord's mind. This request takes them to UNIT HQ where the Doctor revisits his old job. During this visit the Doctor bumps into old friend Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. Their reunion is cut short after a hostile alien force attacks the base. The Doctor, alongside the Brigadier, manages to prevent the attack but quickly comes to the conclusion that the attack was a diversion. They discover that the Black Vaults have been breached and valuable alien artefacts have been stolen. The Doctor, accompanied by the Brigadier and new friend Private Alan, follows a trace to the intruder's base. Upon arrival the Doctor's curiosity is challenged when a trap closes in around him, as an old friend prepares their return the Doctor is forced to face his most dire situation yet. Can the Doctor escape the impending nature of death when death itself strikes him head on? Episode list: 1. Shattered Time 2. Run 3. Rebirth 4. The Infestation 5. The Doctor Dyad 6. On Air |