(no subject)
So! This journal will now host another verse, this one where the Doctor accepted the offer of Presidency in The Five Doctors instead of swanning off. I thought it would be nice to introduce him, by way of his application to Relative Space. (What is this you say of bandwagons?)
Description: The Doctor looks very young in the Presidential regalia; soft features, fair hair, smooth skin. His expression, however, can hold all the centuries of struggle he bears, his quiet voice all the authority of his status - renegade, saviour, Lord President. He is not here because of ambition, but to make a difference where he never could before, in his own home. That goal has made him determined, driven, almost ruthless. Fairness and compassion guides his hand, but he holds no illusions of the politics he's become embroiled in. He trusts very few people; the only people he calls friends aren't Gallifreyan at all.
Backstory: The Doctor left Gallifrey because of its crushing tedium, its stubborn stagnancy, its oppressive culture. As a young man, he tried to change the world, and failed. Centuries later, as a traveller, a renegade, a force to be reckoned with, he would try again.
He has thwarted invasions, toppled dictatorships, upheld the laws of Time, saved Gallifrey itself. He has lost friends, caused bloodshed, died in agony. He has faced Omega himself and won; he has faced his oldest friend and lost. His experience outweighs that of any Time Lord who remained on Gallifrey.
When Borusa used him to gain power, the Doctor defeated his former mentor as well, with the help of his past selves and former companions. Two of these remain with him; Tegan and Turlough are among his only true friends. They represent the unity and diversity that Gallifrey as a whole shuns, as do Leela and her husband.
Your take on the character's personality and story: In some ways, the Doctor has flourished on Gallifrey. His distance, his tact, his subtlety; all have been refined, honed. He has become keenly adept at manipulation and observation.
However, almost a year on Gallifrey has made him bitter. Politics have always been tiring. He longs to travel again, to face blatant threats rather than quiet scheming. He misses his freedom dearly, and feels more alone than he has for a long time.
His friends, his true friends, are all that keep him impassioned. There are, of course, Time Lords he has become fond of, even those he trusts - but it is those who travelled with him that he holds dearest. Tegan is as stubborn and blunt as ever; Turlough as shrewd and sly. Leela is as dangerous as she ever was, and she and Andred make a formidable team.
Please write a small sample of some sort of "in character" speech, action, or both:
The Doctor was aware that most Presidents didn't spend their free time in a TARDIS - particularly one that took a form of a blue police box sitting in a corner their office.
The Doctor couldn't give one fig, frankly, and relaxed quite happily in his library with a cup of tea and an ancient play.
Mind you, the play sat abandoned on the round table before him. He'd picked it at random, and he certainly hadn't expected the assassination of the fair but naïve ruler.
Well, yes, he had, as he kept on. It was just another reminder of what his life had become - cynicism and paranoia and an endless web of secrets and lies. He'd only put the manuscript down when the poor fellow was stabbed through the heart by a trusted advisor.
It didn't matter, really, where the play came from; it was depressingly similar across the universe, the dance of political intrigue.
It was driving him mad.
The Doctor sighed, sipping the herbal tea that, once upon a time, would have cheered him, at least a little. Not here, not where the struggle outweighed the success, the tedium outweighed the excitement, the threat outweighed the...adventure?
He had to laugh at that, and repress the urge to run away and find a proper one. No, this was nothing like the life he had chosen, had grown so accustomed to, but he'd known that going in, hadn't he? He'd known exactly what he was sacrificing, what he was facing, and he'd done it anyway. There were just times when he wondered if it was all worth it.
This clearly wasn't working. Slowly, he leaned forward, sat the tea down beside the play, and stood.
The Presidential robes felt heavy as he walked through the corridors. He was heading towards the console room; beyond that, he didn't know.
He passed a mirror on his way. Beside it, hanging neatly, were his old clothes, complete with celery. He paused only a moment, spared only a wistful glance, and moved on. It wasn't the time, it was never the time.
He was tired. Of course he'd grown used to being tired, even in the life he once knew, but this was different. So much, for so little payoff.
But was it so little?
He found his mind wandering to a month before, when the first aliens attended the Academy. To his first lecture there, and the hesitant applause of the younger students, the tentative rebels. To an ancient lecturer being shamed by an insolent human.
A smile curved his lips.
Those different were still ostracised, of course, and trying to institute any sort of change was like pulling his own teeth, and Tegan wasn't allowed in that wing for a month, but it was something. It was progress.
He was feeling better as he stepped into his ridiculously luxurious office.
Now, if he could only stop himself getting killed.
"I know you're there, Inquisitor. Do stop slinking about, it's very unbecoming. Spot of tea?"
I'll just go over there and be dorky and excited, yes. Also, try to Photoshop Five into a headdress. He is not cooperating.
Description: The Doctor looks very young in the Presidential regalia; soft features, fair hair, smooth skin. His expression, however, can hold all the centuries of struggle he bears, his quiet voice all the authority of his status - renegade, saviour, Lord President. He is not here because of ambition, but to make a difference where he never could before, in his own home. That goal has made him determined, driven, almost ruthless. Fairness and compassion guides his hand, but he holds no illusions of the politics he's become embroiled in. He trusts very few people; the only people he calls friends aren't Gallifreyan at all.
Backstory: The Doctor left Gallifrey because of its crushing tedium, its stubborn stagnancy, its oppressive culture. As a young man, he tried to change the world, and failed. Centuries later, as a traveller, a renegade, a force to be reckoned with, he would try again.
He has thwarted invasions, toppled dictatorships, upheld the laws of Time, saved Gallifrey itself. He has lost friends, caused bloodshed, died in agony. He has faced Omega himself and won; he has faced his oldest friend and lost. His experience outweighs that of any Time Lord who remained on Gallifrey.
When Borusa used him to gain power, the Doctor defeated his former mentor as well, with the help of his past selves and former companions. Two of these remain with him; Tegan and Turlough are among his only true friends. They represent the unity and diversity that Gallifrey as a whole shuns, as do Leela and her husband.
Your take on the character's personality and story: In some ways, the Doctor has flourished on Gallifrey. His distance, his tact, his subtlety; all have been refined, honed. He has become keenly adept at manipulation and observation.
However, almost a year on Gallifrey has made him bitter. Politics have always been tiring. He longs to travel again, to face blatant threats rather than quiet scheming. He misses his freedom dearly, and feels more alone than he has for a long time.
His friends, his true friends, are all that keep him impassioned. There are, of course, Time Lords he has become fond of, even those he trusts - but it is those who travelled with him that he holds dearest. Tegan is as stubborn and blunt as ever; Turlough as shrewd and sly. Leela is as dangerous as she ever was, and she and Andred make a formidable team.
Please write a small sample of some sort of "in character" speech, action, or both:
The Doctor was aware that most Presidents didn't spend their free time in a TARDIS - particularly one that took a form of a blue police box sitting in a corner their office.
The Doctor couldn't give one fig, frankly, and relaxed quite happily in his library with a cup of tea and an ancient play.
Mind you, the play sat abandoned on the round table before him. He'd picked it at random, and he certainly hadn't expected the assassination of the fair but naïve ruler.
Well, yes, he had, as he kept on. It was just another reminder of what his life had become - cynicism and paranoia and an endless web of secrets and lies. He'd only put the manuscript down when the poor fellow was stabbed through the heart by a trusted advisor.
It didn't matter, really, where the play came from; it was depressingly similar across the universe, the dance of political intrigue.
It was driving him mad.
The Doctor sighed, sipping the herbal tea that, once upon a time, would have cheered him, at least a little. Not here, not where the struggle outweighed the success, the tedium outweighed the excitement, the threat outweighed the...adventure?
He had to laugh at that, and repress the urge to run away and find a proper one. No, this was nothing like the life he had chosen, had grown so accustomed to, but he'd known that going in, hadn't he? He'd known exactly what he was sacrificing, what he was facing, and he'd done it anyway. There were just times when he wondered if it was all worth it.
This clearly wasn't working. Slowly, he leaned forward, sat the tea down beside the play, and stood.
The Presidential robes felt heavy as he walked through the corridors. He was heading towards the console room; beyond that, he didn't know.
He passed a mirror on his way. Beside it, hanging neatly, were his old clothes, complete with celery. He paused only a moment, spared only a wistful glance, and moved on. It wasn't the time, it was never the time.
He was tired. Of course he'd grown used to being tired, even in the life he once knew, but this was different. So much, for so little payoff.
But was it so little?
He found his mind wandering to a month before, when the first aliens attended the Academy. To his first lecture there, and the hesitant applause of the younger students, the tentative rebels. To an ancient lecturer being shamed by an insolent human.
A smile curved his lips.
Those different were still ostracised, of course, and trying to institute any sort of change was like pulling his own teeth, and Tegan wasn't allowed in that wing for a month, but it was something. It was progress.
He was feeling better as he stepped into his ridiculously luxurious office.
Now, if he could only stop himself getting killed.
"I know you're there, Inquisitor. Do stop slinking about, it's very unbecoming. Spot of tea?"
I'll just go over there and be dorky and excited, yes. Also, try to Photoshop Five into a headdress. He is not cooperating.