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Rebel Doctor, Regeneration Episode
Fandom: Doctor Who (AU with Alternate Doctor)
Rating: ...PG?
DISCLAIMER: I probably don't need this, but I don't own it. (Except for the singular combination of words and the particular characters and plots and my mind. But if I didn't own my mind, I would have a completely different set of problems.)
Fandom: Doctor Who (AU with Alternate Doctor)
Rating: ...PG?
DISCLAIMER: I probably don't need this, but I don't own it. (Except for the singular combination of words and the particular characters and plots and my mind. But if I didn't own my mind, I would have a completely different set of problems.)
And he was no longer in a forest. Nor was he in his own time.
He felt senses he didn't know he'd possessed reaching out, trying to determine where he'd landed. And in that moment, he realized that there was no going back. Perhaps he wasn't lucid. Perhaps, in that moment of perfect insanity, he'd accepted his situation, barmy as it was, and there was no going back. But that didn't matter. Because he'd never felt so alive.
Tuesday. Earth. Probably still London-ish area, although he couldn't be certain on that point.
The skyscrapers reached up further than they'd ever dared before, trying to touch the heavens with irreverent fingers. Small terraces (in some cases, larger ones) bloomed out like fungi on trees every so often on the levels. And there were flying cars.
He spent so long staring, that he didn't notice the automobile behind him until the blaring horn blasting behind him caught his attention. He spun in place in a move so graceful he'd have scarcely acknowledged it as his own. Time seemed to slow down, and almost stop completely. Every so often, the car would inch forward, and the Doctor watched in fascination. It was incredible-the slow rate at which the man's mouth moved, probably shouting something like "get out of the way!", and the incredible detail with which the car seemed to be endowed. Everything, really. The sound of the horn had dropped several octaves in pitch and now was like the rumbling of a lion's roar, and yet he had trouble feeling threatened by something moving at the pace of a snail. It reminded him of when he'd pause DVDs and then press the fast forward or rewind buttons, entertained by the unintentional slow motion unfolding before him.
Then something clicked in his mind. He was a Time Lord. (What that meant, or where it had come from, he had no idea.) It wasn't that the rest of the world was moving incredibly slow. He was moving incredibly fast. He could move between the ticks of a clock, so that words like nanosecond and pictosecond actually had meaning for him, unlike humans. And even if it seemed slow, like the man was driving at one kilometer per hour or less, that was his perception. If the driver hit him, it would still hurt. It would kill him. And he'd only just now begun his life, a new life, and wasn't about to let that be taken away from him. So he moved.
Several steps took him to safety. Several long, graceful steps that might have involved some twirling. If he was going to get out of the way, at least he could look awesome while he was doing it.
Time sped up again, as he let himself lean against a brick wall, (unusual, he thought, since mostly everything around here was steel and glass and perhaps some shiny rocks here and there), giggling slightly at the adrenaline. He was hyper. The danger was making him dizzy, but it also excited him, thrilled him. He wanted more.
The man screamed at him, "Watch where you're going, splotch!", and gave him the finger. He merely smiled back at that one, unperturbed. The driver, who had possibly been hoping for a reaction, was disgruntled, and drove off in a cloud of smoke.
That also seemed entertaining at this moment, so he giggled again, realizing that he was acting drunk. More breathing, to get himself under control.
The thought came to him that he had no idea how he'd done it, so if danger threatened again there was little chance he could count on that to save him. "You're not invincible, you know," he muttered to himself, aware of the stares. That, however, was enough to sober him, so he glanced around again, taking in his surroundings.
He realized something that had been disturbing him for the past ten minutes or so, poking at him with a great big fat finger. He couldn't see one spot of green. No trees, no grass, nothing. He fought off a wave of nostalgia (why do I care about a few stupid plants all of a sudden?) and shook his head as if to clear it. He glanced back to where he'd been-in an alley, he supposed-and the ship-thing was still there, only now it looked like a red phone booth with really, really dirty windows. He hoped no one tried to use it, and that the door was locked. It won't work for anyone else. He hoped that little voice in his head was telling the truth, and not just what he wanted to hear.
He took in another deep breath and realized that the air wasn't crisp and cool, either. Growing up in London, he'd gotten used to the fact that there wasn't a backyard everywhere and that pollution lay heavy on the air. But this was taking it just a little too far, in his opinion. In all probability, the two bothering details were related.
It smelled too disgusting to keep inhaling like this, so he decided shallow breaths through his nose were best. If he started feeling faint from lack of oxygen, he would adapt his strategy, but until then he didn't want the stench clogging up his nose, his mouth. In a flight of fancy, he imagined a handkerchief over his face, filtering the air even slightly, but didn't own a handkerchief and didn't think people would take kindly to it. They'd probably even think that he was some sort of terrorist or something. He chuckled again at that thought, then began to stroll down the street, whistling a sweet tune that he'd never heard before in his life.
He felt senses he didn't know he'd possessed reaching out, trying to determine where he'd landed. And in that moment, he realized that there was no going back. Perhaps he wasn't lucid. Perhaps, in that moment of perfect insanity, he'd accepted his situation, barmy as it was, and there was no going back. But that didn't matter. Because he'd never felt so alive.
Tuesday. Earth. Probably still London-ish area, although he couldn't be certain on that point.
The skyscrapers reached up further than they'd ever dared before, trying to touch the heavens with irreverent fingers. Small terraces (in some cases, larger ones) bloomed out like fungi on trees every so often on the levels. And there were flying cars.
He spent so long staring, that he didn't notice the automobile behind him until the blaring horn blasting behind him caught his attention. He spun in place in a move so graceful he'd have scarcely acknowledged it as his own. Time seemed to slow down, and almost stop completely. Every so often, the car would inch forward, and the Doctor watched in fascination. It was incredible-the slow rate at which the man's mouth moved, probably shouting something like "get out of the way!", and the incredible detail with which the car seemed to be endowed. Everything, really. The sound of the horn had dropped several octaves in pitch and now was like the rumbling of a lion's roar, and yet he had trouble feeling threatened by something moving at the pace of a snail. It reminded him of when he'd pause DVDs and then press the fast forward or rewind buttons, entertained by the unintentional slow motion unfolding before him.
Then something clicked in his mind. He was a Time Lord. (What that meant, or where it had come from, he had no idea.) It wasn't that the rest of the world was moving incredibly slow. He was moving incredibly fast. He could move between the ticks of a clock, so that words like nanosecond and pictosecond actually had meaning for him, unlike humans. And even if it seemed slow, like the man was driving at one kilometer per hour or less, that was his perception. If the driver hit him, it would still hurt. It would kill him. And he'd only just now begun his life, a new life, and wasn't about to let that be taken away from him. So he moved.
Several steps took him to safety. Several long, graceful steps that might have involved some twirling. If he was going to get out of the way, at least he could look awesome while he was doing it.
Time sped up again, as he let himself lean against a brick wall, (unusual, he thought, since mostly everything around here was steel and glass and perhaps some shiny rocks here and there), giggling slightly at the adrenaline. He was hyper. The danger was making him dizzy, but it also excited him, thrilled him. He wanted more.
The man screamed at him, "Watch where you're going, splotch!", and gave him the finger. He merely smiled back at that one, unperturbed. The driver, who had possibly been hoping for a reaction, was disgruntled, and drove off in a cloud of smoke.
That also seemed entertaining at this moment, so he giggled again, realizing that he was acting drunk. More breathing, to get himself under control.
The thought came to him that he had no idea how he'd done it, so if danger threatened again there was little chance he could count on that to save him. "You're not invincible, you know," he muttered to himself, aware of the stares. That, however, was enough to sober him, so he glanced around again, taking in his surroundings.
He realized something that had been disturbing him for the past ten minutes or so, poking at him with a great big fat finger. He couldn't see one spot of green. No trees, no grass, nothing. He fought off a wave of nostalgia (why do I care about a few stupid plants all of a sudden?) and shook his head as if to clear it. He glanced back to where he'd been-in an alley, he supposed-and the ship-thing was still there, only now it looked like a red phone booth with really, really dirty windows. He hoped no one tried to use it, and that the door was locked. It won't work for anyone else. He hoped that little voice in his head was telling the truth, and not just what he wanted to hear.
He took in another deep breath and realized that the air wasn't crisp and cool, either. Growing up in London, he'd gotten used to the fact that there wasn't a backyard everywhere and that pollution lay heavy on the air. But this was taking it just a little too far, in his opinion. In all probability, the two bothering details were related.
It smelled too disgusting to keep inhaling like this, so he decided shallow breaths through his nose were best. If he started feeling faint from lack of oxygen, he would adapt his strategy, but until then he didn't want the stench clogging up his nose, his mouth. In a flight of fancy, he imagined a handkerchief over his face, filtering the air even slightly, but didn't own a handkerchief and didn't think people would take kindly to it. They'd probably even think that he was some sort of terrorist or something. He chuckled again at that thought, then began to stroll down the street, whistling a sweet tune that he'd never heard before in his life.
