LOVE IS TIME AND SPACE MEASURED BY ONE'S HEARTS
Struggling against his encroaching unconsciousness, with great difficulty and bluster he set the craft in motion. (At least, he thought, the people of Pisces Australis Nine were safe.) The same unfortunately could not be said for Kamelion, the Doctor's cyborg companion from the planet Xeriphas. [Actually, Kamelion II to be exact.] Kamelion had given his life to secure the Doctor and Munchkin's escape. And all he could hope for now ... was the silver android's sacrifice had not been for naught. But even so, worse case senario, at least Munchkin was alive and safe. Yes, she would live another day to fight, and to ever annoy K9.
Slumped against the large six sided console the Doctor sighed deeply. He was very grateful to see the steady rise and fall of the translucent Time Rotor shaft, as the TARDIS had correctly responded to his keyed in command, slipping the two of them into the silence and safety of Vortex.
"Daleks!" the Doctor snorted in annoyance. Even wounded, his voice possessed its normal, clipped edge. "Am I to be dogged for all Time by their continued interference in my lives?" He continued to grumble. "Why, they're almost as annoying as the CIA of Gallifrey!"
As the Doctor righted himself to stand next to the wide control center, a hand idly swept across the broad, high forehead to brush back his mop of perspiration damp, strawberry blond hair. His hand moved to his side. Withdrawing it he saw it was covered with blood ... his. This was hardly a surprise to the slightly enigmatic Time Lord, but he was rather annoyed by it. Carefully, gingerly removing his coat of many colors, he let it fall to his feet.
Supporting his throbbing side, as best he could, the Doctor grimaced, then, staggered from the Console Room, a single destination in mind, the intimacy and serenity of his private suite.
"Doctor, do you wish us to follow?" she asked, to the rapidly disappearing form, picking up the discarded top coat.
"No, Munchkin, back soon," the Doctor promised.
The little elf snorted. She threw the Doctor's coat back down. "Are you OK, K9?"
"Batteries low, Mistress, but otherwise intact."
Removing her bow and quiver from her shoulder she silently sat down on the Console Room floor. Wrapping her arms around her knees she began to slowly rock back and forth. Putting her face against her knee, a solitary tear was shed for the brave Kamelion.
Without a sound the Doctor slowly rolled himself over.
Slowly up righting himself he smiled at the accomplishment. Then for all his expended efforts he slipped off into a deep, yet fitful sleep.
When consciousness returned to him, so did his slightly gravelly voice. "Daleks!" Though his green eyes were ravaged with pain, the arrogance of the Prydonian was still his; especially in the way he held his mouth. "Guess I always knew it was just a matter of time before one of them got off a lucky shot."
Simply dressed in a long white nightshirt, with a large, fluffy, multicolored, embroidered cat on its front, the Doctor chuckled, marveling slightly at his ability to make light of his present situation. "Actually I am rather surprised I did make it this far in my rather long, if not illustrious career, before one of them did succeed."
Briefly he closed his intense ... penetrating eyes. "Well, my dear," he whispered to the TARDIS, "Quite obviously this is the end of the me, me ... once again. But, hopefully, it is but the beginning of something else." He sighed deeply, " ... For where their is life, Victoria their is ..." The Gallifreyan's gaze slowly traversed his domain. "Huh, wonder who I'll become this time?" Snuffling, his nose crinkled. "Just as long as I don't turn back into that cricket lad." The Doctor scowled. "Never was happy with that one." Chuckling, he began to drift off into the hazy in between, limbo ed existence that always preceded a regeneration.
His words became badly distorted. "Different ... somehow, each time manages to be so very dif ..."
The Doctor inhaled deeply. "How strange ... to be alone at this particular junction in my lives," he contemplated. [And yet, wasn't it he who had just left the companions in the Console Room, commanding they remain there till his return?]
At the eve of change, the Doctor usually found himself among caring, devoted companions.
The Doctor managed to arch a brow. "Well, almost always," he sighed, recalling the second (and forced) regeneration. "But even then, surrounded by the hostile, disapproving High Council, I certainly wasn't alone!"
The Doctor's sudden, heightened awareness of his isolation, his separation, his distance from home, was beginning to swamp him.
"Alone ... alone. I've never 'felt' so ... alone, so ... isolated from the Time Lords and Gallifrey. Gallifrey? What's happening to me? Salt free tears welled in his eyes, and began to slowly trickle down his cheeks.
"Alone; Doctor?" a kindly, disembodied voice riddled.
The Doctor blinked, and struggled to focus his sight. A puzzled look swept across his now ashen face.
An enormous head shimmered, as it slowly materialized above him.
"Rassilon?" the Doctor whispered, failing to comprehend the reason for this particular specter's sudden appearance.
"Yes, Doctor," Rassilon soothed. "Not alone. Not now, nor ever, but certainly not especially now, now at this time of becoming."
The Doctor struggled briefly, then his eyes slowly closed, and he stopped breathing. This gentle, Prydonian Time Lord who had a fondness for kittens, and yellow/brown stripped trousers, was dead. The Daleks, evil machinations of the twisted Kaled scientist, Davros had finally managed to kill him. But not ... utterly, as Gallifreyans don't die as humans do. Though his present body was no longer capable of sustaining life, with a little luck, and the release of a special hormone (lindos) from three special glands in his body, the individual cells of his body could renew. This was called Regeneration: a new chance at life, given to the peoples of Gallifrey.
The change began quietly, invisibly at first from the center most part of the Doctor's body; with ever increasing velocity, and visible manifestations as it radiated outward. The Doctor's lindos was well on its way to working its particular brand of magic. The lindos ... plus, in this case, something (or rather someone) more.
The humanoid face and skin blackened markedly. The features of the Doctor's face blurred, like melting wax. The slightly rotund face began to shutter. But then ... all at once, it was over ... accomplished ... done.
With the regeneration complete, a much thinner, and slightly younger looking body had replaced the former.
The Doctor's breathing, slow and regular began again.
All at once the Time Lord's eyes popped open.
This time it was pair of hazel eyes that greeted the new day. Eyes that brimmed with keen intelligence, bubbling enthusiasm, and an incredible softness.
The MAZER hologram of Rassilon nodded proudly, and slowly, silently shimmered into nothingness.
A smile lazily spread itself across the Doctor's new and different face as the Gallifreyan realized a new life span had began. How did the Doctor know this with such certainty? The ever present pain of the last few hours of his former life had vanished ... or perhaps, it was merely vanquished.
In the very first moments of existence for persona number seven, the Doctor slowly sat up.
"So ... once again I appear to be the little fellow," the Doctor observed. The rejuvenated head turned to the side in puzzlement. "What a terribly odd sounding voice you have, Doctor." The Prydonian Time Lord pouted with the old comfortable idiosyncrasy.
Shakily standing the Doctor lightly padded over, in bare feet, to a cheval glass.
Smiling at the unkempt reflection, the renegade from the planet Gallifrey chuckled. This was for sure a downsized Gallifreyan who held up arms totally engulfed in the nightshirt's sleeves. The Doctor cackled. "And once more to find myself all teeth and curls!" The Time Lord grinned widely in approval at this discovery, proudly displaying nearly two full rows of perfect, glistening teeth, tousling the jumbled mass of curls framing this stranger's face. This persona of the Doctor's hair was a near copy of the earlier fourth persona's. "Though I do recall it having a lot more reddish high lites."
Stepping up to the mirror, for a closer scrutiny, the Doctor snarled at the newest in the line. "Is that supposed to be a nose? Flapdoodle!" The reflection was given a loud, raspy raspberry. "How in the seven sons of Delos am I supposed to breathe through something as tiny as those?" Sighing deeply, the Time Lord accepted that which was unchangeable. "Well, one must take the rough with the smooth," the Doctor waxed philosophically. "Unlike the females of our species, generally speaking, we have no choice in how a regeneration turns out."
Suddenly the Doctor's features contorted in stark realization.
"Jumping' Jehosophat!" But the Doctor quickly reconsidered. "Can't be ... too ridiculous to contemplate. Too ... too monstrous!" the Prydonian stated unequivocally.
Glaring into the cheval glass a second time, the Doctor watched as a pair of small hands began to explore the rather vacuous face. "True, the features are very fine, one might even say, delicate, but I am the Doctor! Am I not?" the Time Lord snorted.
Turning from the freestanding mirror Number Seven made Decision One. "However, first things first. A shower, a shave, and locate some proper fitting garments from Wardrobe; and a suitable pair of boots from my Boot Cupboard." The Doctor briefly reflected. "Maybe Scarecrow's old things (persona #2) can be put into service yet again." The face brightened. "As I always say: 'Never throw anything away ... Susan'!" The Doctor's face soured. "Or is it that I always say ... ??? 'It's a mistake to clutter one's pockets ... Harry'!"
Munchkin looked up from her rocking. "Who are you?"
"Exactly my dear, Munchie," the Doctor said with a wry smile. "Or I will be soon, if this Regeneration continues to work itself out."
Bundling up everything in the red plaid/gold/pink/green/yellow stripe/blue plaid/wine colored great coat, laying at the end of the trail in the TARDIS'es Control Room, the Doctor tied everything together with the long red white neck cloth, and red question mark braces.
"Do be a good lil' Keebler Elf and recharge K9 for me will you? Then he can explain Regeneration to you, while I'm gone. Back soon."
Keebler Elf? THAT did not go down well.
Turning with a chuckle, the Time Lord headed back into the corridor, the jumble of clothing tucked under one arm.
On one of his hands was a black leather mitt. Cradling it in his bare hand, the Master glared daggers at the constrictive glove. "So soon? This can't be happening to me! Tremas was in his prime when I acquired his body. Somehow I've been double crossed!"
All at once his expression became venomous. "Who else but the Doctor! I can feel his stupid, stubborn interference in this! Yes ... yes, he was on Traken. I remember it now. Manipulating the Source! And in a later regeneration he was there too on Sarn when I used the Numismation gas to restore my size." The Master further contemplated. "What I must do is assure for myself a new secure cycle of Regenerations while removing utterly, somehow, this very persistent thorn from my side." His mind continued to plot his villainy. "And if I could somehow include in that plan those shallow, pompous, arrogant, poltroons who call themselves Time Lords ..." The outlaw Time Lord chuckled. "That would be delicious!"
The Doctor looked at her dazed, disorientated, confounded, reflection. "But how can this be?" she whispered.
"This isn't supposed to happen!" she roared angrily, slamming a tiny fist onto the dresser top. The intensity of the reaction startled her.
Looking at herself, her lower lip began to tremble. "How? Why?" She swallowed hard. "Of course Gallifreyans come in two different models." She grinned slyly. "It's far more fun that way." The fragile smile faded. "However, one does not switch over to the other side simply because one regenerates." Her eyebrow arched. "I mean, just the logistics of it all ... changing every single cell in the body. Now that's some engineering." She cleared her throat. "Indeed!" She shook her head. "This has never happened before. Even when people willed it to be ... it wasn't to be. Never ... ever in all of Time Lord history." Her voice became full of anger. "So why now? Why pick on me?" Turning her head slightly she smiled wistfully. "If ever I had need of a Zero Room ... it's now!"
Realizing what she had just said, the Doctor grabbed up the little wooden recorder. "The Zero Room of course!" she exclaimed, bolting from the bed chamber.
"Then we are unanimous ladies and gentlemen. We must send a Panoptican summons to the Doctor ... immediately. He perhaps better than anyone else, living, comprehends the MATRIX; its indispensability to Gallifrey, and to the greater Universe at large."
A mumble, for the most part, one of voiced agreement, echoed round Flavia.
Her suite was totally renovated and the bed chamber part of it looked very much like the sleeping quarters used by Queen Victoria during her long reign as Queen of England. Provided one over-looked the cream colored futuristic, roundelled walls, and the ever present hum of distant machinery.
Without any bumps, thumps, or other such warnings the Cloister Bell began its sonorous, deep throated gong-gong-gong.
"The Cloister Bell!" the Doctor exclaimed loudly, bolting upright, nearly choking on an orange sweet. She continued to listen, then covered her face with a corner of her blue tweed, caped coat. "Oh no, no, no; not today thank you," came her muffled reply. But the bell was insistent. She slowly lifted her head, listening to the bell's doleful peal. Sighing deeply, exhaling nearly a whole mouthful of air, the Doctor reluctantly stood; shuffling towards the suite's exit, muttering to herself. "Man the battle stations, Munchie. Looks like there is stormy weather ahead." Sighing and plopping her deerstalker cap onto her jangle of curls, she added almost as an after thought. "Oh, piffle."
"Piffle?" Munchkin queried.
"Mistress, Doctor, expression also: bally, blinking, blooming, dashed, flaming, rattling, ruddy, jiggered, blast, rats, bother and many more all meaning 'damn'."
"Then why doesn't she just say damn?"
"WHO knows?" K9 teased with a throaty, "ooough."
"Oh great, humour now from a tin dog!" she snorted. "What a day!"
Then she realized, "Come on, K9, we are loosing your mistress.
[Originally the sonic screwdriver had been part of the TARDIS'es tool kit but in time it became a friend, being kept about the Doctor's person until it was destroyed by a Terileptil when she had still been Cricket (persona #5). After that, while Joseph (persona #6), the Doctor decided any tool Romana (persona #2) could duplicate, making subtle improvements upon, he could too. So he (persona #6) did.]
Using the sonic screwdriver to remove the bolts from the access panel, the Doctor manhandled the heavy hatch to the deck, muttering to herself this time in an obscure Martian dialect.
About that time Munchkin and K9 rounded the corner.
Looking up at the mass of fine gray wires she'd just exposed, she sighed with deep respect at the Gallifreyan technology responsible for its creation.
"Oh Omega, without question, you were a genius."
Each strand of wire contained a light of its own, with different colors traversing each length to and fro. The random winking reminded the Doctor of a Christmas tree, and the total effect was in a word, mesmerizing.
She smiled. "Hullo main logic. Are you well, sweethearts?"
Expertly she ran tiny fingers through the wires, and the TARDIS central computer responded to her caressed inquiry by turning the wires a pale beryl.
"Obviously, nothing wrong with the main logic junction, functioning," she said pouting, looking towards her companions. This particular puzzle was not to be put together very easily.
Tapping her lips with the sonic screwdriver the Doctor began to absentmindedly create a filk song. "Junction function, what's your compunction? Putting together bits and nybbles, and bytes, and logically opening and closing logic gates, ever logically ..."
Putting away the sonic screwdriver she took out her wooden recorder, and began to play a few notes of the song she had just created.
Taking the cream colored, tasseled flute from her mouth the Doctor leaned the side of her face against the wall, noisily exhaling in frustration. Her expression became one of intense concentration, as she lightly tapped the recorder against her lower lip. "Then what ever in the Stripped Zans of Doddiefrax caused the Cloister Bell to toll, anyWHO?"
As if on cue, the early warning system began again it's bassoon type bellowing. The Doctor covered her face with her hand. Thumping herself on the head with the flute she scolded: "Doctor, has anyone ever told you, you have a big mouth!!!"
K9 and Munchkin nodded, cautiously.
"Indeed!" the Doctor said, smiling, "Oh, piffle!"
Flavia nodded. "But we can not call on either his past selves, nor can we call on any of his future selves without setting into motion the gravest of consequences. You must continue your search Coordinator Damon, for the present Doctor, in spite of all this interference in our Time Band." Her eyes narrowed. "How difficult, even with the drain on the MATRIX, can it be to find the only Type 40 T. T. capsule still in operation?"
"It is a very large Universe, Excellency," Damon said softly. "And my old friend has a very long history of itchy feet. And contrary to any of our rules, the Doctor could be almost ... anywhere ... anytime. Maybe not even in his own Time Stream, or traversing our part of our Time Band as he is supposed to!"
"Yes Coordinator," Flavia agreed with a very wistful smile. "We all realize that fact. But you must keep trying. The Doctor will turn up." The President, chosen by the Doctor himself, before she was elected in her own right; paused a long moment. When at last she spoke, her words came out sounding more like a plea ... or a prayer. "He must."
Damon nodded solemnly, returning to his station at his primary console.