Prompts
wonder.
He remembers shedding the dome for the first time as a child, and gazing up at the unhindered radiance of a billion stars. He promised himself then that he would one day be among them, as free as their light to travel as he wished.
He ignored his studies in favour of different books, encyclopaedias of different cultures and languages and knowledge. Perspectives no one else wanted to consider, that he was continually amazed by.
As his grades slipped his dreams held fast, climbing ever higher until he could not bear to stay in one place, in a world of stagnancy and apathy.
chance.
It was several hundred years before he achieved his goal, stealing what would become his new home from neglect and decay, leading his shunned kin into the Vortex.
That first flight was the best moment of his first life, and remained so. He didn't know where he was going but it didn't matter at all. He was going to experience the universe.
desire.
The shine wore off eventually. Everything was still fascinating, exciting, but adventure was stained with blood, memories damned with the lives he could not save. He was disappointed in people, in life, but he couldn't bring himself to give up on them, not entirely.
Not, at least, to abandon them.
He wanted to make the universe better. To heal it, the Doctor of the Cosmos.
inspiration.
He knew that people couldn't be trust to run their own worlds. The earth decayed, the people starved, the sovereigns closed their eyes.
Someone needed to take control, to end the chaos, the pointless bloodshed, the needless poverty and devastation.
Why not a Time Lord? He had always struggled against their policy of non-interference, why not makes futile gestures and challenging ideas a reality?
quest.
His path was unsure at first. He didn't know yet how to overthrow governments from the inside, how to rally the people, how to choose the right rulers.
He learned. He grew more adept, more competent, more skilled as the centuries passed. More devious, more ruthless, because that was what was needed.
He learned that, sometimes, violence was unavoidable. That it could be used to his advantage, to that of everyone who was left. The ends could justify the means.
He learned that he could not always watch from a distance.
He learned to shape children into pawns and bishops, knights and kings.
triumph.
He is far from finished, but he has come a very long way. His name is known, now, across galaxies. He has forged countless alliances, defeated yet more adversaries.
He has taken lives to save millions. He has changed planets from wartorn wastelands to soaring societies, all under his control, distant but constant.
He does not regret. He does not hesitate. He is the Doctor.
Six words that guide the Doctor's path.
He has seen so many children die.
He can only watch, now, as the freighter descends, burning into nothing, leaving no trace of the brilliant child still inside.
Sometimes he can't stop it. Sometimes he lets it happen. Sometimes, he orchestrates it.
It is never right, and it is never fair.
It soon dawns on him that the doomed ship was destined to transform the Earth. There was no need to send him to stop it.
He does not allow himself to mourn. Remorse has no place in his mission, his quest for a better universe. Morality cannot be allowed to stand in his way.
"How could you?" An enraged whisper from quivering lips, and he turns away from her, turns toward the remaining threat.
The Doctor should feel only relentless determination, and just enough anger.
There is not supposed to be this much.
His hands tremble as he grips the stolen weapon, firing again and again until there is nothing left but black smoke and charred steel.
It does not matter that he was his student, his companion, his responsibility. He is now simply another sacrifice for the greater cause.
He drops the gun as they embrace, strangers bound by grief. He has no such luxury, and he focuses on repairing the console. He will take them home.
It should not hurt like this. He is above hurting like this.
One will return, and one will not. He does not look them in the eyes as they leave him.
For the first time in centuries, he feels guilt, and he doesn't know how to make it stop.
The Doctor's reaction to Adric's death, which happened shortly before he encountered the Astral Plane.
"When...when was the first time..."
"The first time I killed someone?"
They were sitting on a bench made of diamond - the gem was hardly a rarity on this planet - waiting for a notoriously tardy ambassador. Peri had spent some time examining the grass, the flowers, the trees, all unfamiliar and exciting. He'd promised they would return and take samples.
Eventually her enthusiasm had waned, and she'd strolled over to sit beside him, chatting amiably until that, too, faded.
Now her arms were held tightly around her, and she refused to meet his gaze as she muttered an affirmative. He knew the girl found it hard to cope with what he had to do; he kept his voice carefully gentle.
"With these hands?"
Her head turns slowly as she gazed down at the slender fingers curled in his lap, bare for once.
"Yes," was the soft answer.
He paused, allowing her to believe it was a hesitation born of remorse. He'd stopped feeling that a long time ago, but it might make the answer easier for her.
When she met his eyes, he made sure they reflected the sadness in her own.
"A planet called Deva Loka was being colonised. By the time I arrived, two of the Kinda - the native inhabitants - was being held in a cage. Only one member, a scientist, respected their culture, but even she condoned this act." Peri was frowning, hands twisting in her lap. He didn't shield the disgust in his voice, knowing she would understand it.
"The leader, Sanders, refused to listen to my advice; a quite stubborn, ignorant man all told. When he left to search for the missing members of his team, he left his deputy in charge." He could see a faint light of curiosity in her eyes, but knew she wouldn't voice it. He wouldn't go through all the details, focusing only on the most relevant. There was no need to tell her of the Box, the Mara, the Great Wheel.
"This man, Hindle, was quite unbalanced. We were immediately placed under arrest. He came to believe that everything outside the Dome was a threat, from the trees to the soil, and was intent on destroying it." A faint gasp as her eyes widened.
"I...couldn't allow that to happen." She was nodding, now, though he knew the question burning her tongue, pricking at her eyes.
"I tried talking with him, negotiating, humouring, but...he was too far gone, Peri. There was nothing else I could do." His gaze dropped.
"It was quick," he said softly.
He hid the smile as Peri reached out a hand to cover his own.
This conversation occurs long after his current time, but it describes an earlier event, and presents both his attitude towards murder and ability to manipulate.
A pair of silver suns ascend, casting the land in dull shades of grey. A marble building shines and from it a lone figure greets the dawn, swathed in darkness.
The Doctor stands on a high balcony, gazing down at a mass of unmarked graves. The markers are shoddy, some stained with blood, others already wearing away. Gloved hands gently clench the rail before him, never tightening as the footsteps come.
"Hello, Koschei," he says quietly.
"I should want to push you off this thing." Yet all he does when he comes close is stand beside him.
The Doctor says nothing. His gaze, distant and impartial, remains on the valley of remembrance below.
Beside him, he knows, Koschei is closing his eyes, clenching his fists, readying himself.
"You didn't have to do this, Thete."
The Doctor's voice, when he speaks, is dismissive.
"They achieved what they wanted. The ruling class is overthrown. People can work for a better future unhindered." A hand rose in a sweeping gesture.
"Every one of them gave their lives for the benefits their people are reaping now." A glance at his old friend; Koschei is gazing upwards, a grimace on his lips. The Doctor waits.
"Hundreds of them, Doctor. Hundreds more than this, and you know it. How many kids are orphans now - "
"Their parents died to give them lives worth living."
Finally, he turns, scowling, and the Doctor faces him calmly.
"Dammit, Thete - "
"That is not who I am." A slight tightening of his voice, his features. It earns a sad, mirthless laugh.
"I guess not. You as well as murdered them," a far more violent indication to the graves beneath them, "and you don't even care."
"Their sacrifice was worth it." His voice is quietly certain.
"Tell that to their families! They could have achieved something real - and instead they're slaughtered, canon fodder for your precious revolution." The Doctor turns his head, and Koschei steps closer.
"What happened to life being precious, Theta? These people were more than knights on your chess board." Koschei turns away from him, fists trembling. His next words are a furious murmur.
"There should have been another way."
"Of course there should have been another way." Again they face each other, Koschei's eyes wide, the Doctor's narrowed.
"There wasn't. Bloodshed is the way of the universe, Koschei. Do you think I enjoy it? Do you think I take pleasure in staining my hands with it?" The sudden anger shocks Koschei into silence, as the Doctor thought it would. His hands release the banister and he turns, sharply, towards the doors.
"I'll be guiding the elections. Stay out of my way."
"Fixing, more like," Koschei mutters, but he doesn't follow his adversary, instead turning back to the despondent scene below him.
The suns are high now, their radiance breathing life into the barren battlefield.
Hope born from the carnage he was too late to prevent.
"I'm sorry," an evanescent whisper to nameless soldiers.
"I hope he's right."
The Doctor, Koschei, and an alien graveyard.