[FFML] [Doctor Who] Ascension

[Ragman Jack]

Desperately needing Feedback, please. 

-------

You’re in the woods, wandering as you always do. Seems like that’s how you’ve spent your life; wandering.  You wandered here, wandered there, always searching for something you can’t name. 

Around a bend, you see it. The Tardis. The joke about how the show was a cover for the Doctor being real comes to mind and even as your rational mind tells you it’s a dumped prop, or someone’s idea of a prank, you’re going over to touch it. 

It’s warm. 

That makes no sense. It’s . . . it’s just a prop.

Right? 

You press your hand to the wood again, harder. The feeling doesn’t change.

What if . . .?

No, it’s impossible. 

Right?
 
And then you remember Through The Looking Glass:

	"There's no use trying," she said; "one can't believe impossible 				 things.”

	"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was     		 younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed 	 as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

“Six impossible things,” you say out loud, even as you move around, realizing for the first time that the wood looks sad, worn . . . tired. 

The plants growing across the wood fall away at your touch and there it is, the door. If it opens, you will either see the inside of a wooden box or . . . something impossible. 

It occurs to you that you haven’t had breakfast yet and you wonder if that’s a sign before pushing on the door. 

It opens with a click, swinging wide and you can only stare at the vastness of the room before you. 

You lean back, look at the blue wood on either side of the doorway and then back through it, then at the wood and you find yourself chuckling. 

“It’s bigger on the inside,” you say and as though the words give you courage, you enter. 

The control room isn’t one you recognize, which is a relief, but you can see certain elements from ones you do; The vast open room of Eight, the nautilus-like theme of Four, the vine like roof supports of Nine and Ten and there in the center, the control panel. It’s more like the classic who era, with everything labeled, none of the jury-rigging of Nine and Ten’s consoles, but there’s a certain erraticness to the layout that reminds you of Eleven. 

The Time Rotor is silent, unmoving and a brush of your hand on the glass stirs up dust. How long has the Tardis been here? It’s not dead, or at least you don’t think so, the warmth of the wood suggests otherwise and there’s this . . . presence in the air.

“Uh . . . hello . . . Idris? Can I call you that?” Your voice echoes in the cavernous space and after a moment, there’s a small brush of air, as though someone has run their hand through your hair.

That’s probably a yes. 

You start moving around the console and you see a book. Its leather bound, looks like a journal and one of the pages is bookmarked. You open it and written at the top of the page in neat handwriting is; “And you know what? I had a good life.” It’s the only thing on there.

You could read the previous pages, you know that, but you’re afraid, all the more because you have a good idea of what happened. At some point, the Doctor ran out of time. Maybe it was some enemy, maybe it was nothing more than simple age but at some point, the Doctor stopped running and - you run your fingers over the words - looked back. 

“But why show me this?” You ask the air, asking Idris. You’ve walked these woods a thousand times, the same path hundreds of times, but to see the Tardis now, and only now, means she wanted you to see her. Wanted you to find the book. 

With a click, a handle sprouts from the console and you know, without touching it, it’s a sonic screwdriver. 

“M-me? I - no. I can’t. I’m just a human. I’m not special.”

Then you remember Eleven. 

	You know that in nine hundred years of time and space, I've never met     		 anybody who wasn't important before.

Well okay, but this . . . this is . . . this . . . you can’t even put words to it. Sure you’ve  dreamed of being taken on an adventure by the Doctor, of seeing other worlds. Hell, you even wrote stories about it (that you will never show to anyone), but this . . . 

You can’t. 

You  . . .  you can’t . . . you . . . 

You look down at the book again. 

You’ve always been good with your hands, you like learning things, you’ve seen every episode of Who there is, even the ones with Peter Cushing, maybe . . .  maybe you could try?

You . . .

You can’t.

You run out of the Tardis and the door shuts behind you.

—————————

It seems like your eyes have been opened. Finding out that the Tardis is real, that the Doctor is real, has put everything in a new light. As you walk home, or at least to the place you sleep, it feels like you’re seeing everyone and everything for the very first time. Colors seem brighter, people seem louder. 

You wonder if this is how the companions feel. Were there companions though? If the TV show exists to cover up that the Doctor is real, then perhaps the companions really are just a narrative device.

	You’re going to need one. 

What? No. You can’t. You refused. You’re a plain old human being. You’re nothing. A nobody. A coward. 

You’re not the Doctor. 

“But you could be.”

“What?” You look around and just behind you is a blond haired woman, and you realize you’ve stopped in the middle of the narrow sidewalk. “Sorry,” you murmur, stepping to the side.

She smiles. “You could be more.”

“More?”

“More careful. It’s how you get by out there.” Her eyes lock with yours, just for a moment, and you swear that in them, you can see forever. Everything that ever was, is, and could be. Everything that you could be. 

She blinks, the contact is broken and you’re not even sure what it was you saw.  

“Uh, thanks,” you manage, as she strides past you. She doesn’t give a response, but the horizontal colored stripes on her blue shirt draw your eye as she turns down a side alley.

	Maybe you should go home. 

Yeah, home sounds like a good idea. 

—————————————

Home for you is little more than a small studio on a backstreet. There’s a roommate, or rather, a neighbor, whom you’ve never met, but occasionally hear moving around on the other side of the thin wall. It doesn’t matter much, the job you came here for has ended and its time to move on. That’s just kind of what you do and your possessions reflect that. Clothes, a few books, some knick knacks, a laptop (with every episode of Doctor Who on it going all the way back to Hartnell) and your favorite comforter. 

You’re a wanderer, just like the Doctor, which is perhaps why the character appeals to you so much. 

Once again, you think of the Tardis. Why bother wandering on Earth when the stars are out there? After all, there’s nothing for you here. Your job is simply because you have one, and no matter what you do, you always feel like you could do better. Be better. 

	Be more. 

“Be more” haunts you as you work through the rest of your day. There’s a backpack and suitcase to pack - your rent is up in a week, emails to send and check - nothing, and plans to make - of which, as your emails show, there is nothing to plan for. No responses from any potential employers, no prospects. This isn’t the first time that’s happened, but it is the first time you’re . .. almost glad?

No, you can’t be the Doctor. You . . . you can’t. You’re only human.

Argh. You should just make dinner. 

—————————

	“Y’know that sound the Tardis makes?” she asked. “That wheezing, 		    	groaning, that sound brings hope wherever it goes.”

	“Yes,” the Doctor replied, “Yes, I’d like to think it does.”

	“To anyone who hears it, Doctor,” she continued, “Anyone. However  			 lost. Even you.” 


You’re watching the Day of the Doctor while eating dinner and this scene always gets you. Moffat has his faults when writing, but this part puts the show into words in a way that you were never able to but even as you get ready for bed, the episode haunts you, that scene haunts you and continues to haunt you even when the light is out and the night is deathly quiet. 

Could it be that simple? Is that why the Tardis came to you? To bring hope? Could it be that Idris enjoys bringing hope to the universe as much as she wants to see it? 

	But she can’t do it without a pilot.

There’s a million reasons to say no. Common sense even says you did the right thing to say no. 

	And yet . . . 

No. 

	Be more. 

But . . . 

	You know you’ve already made up your mind. 

. . .

Crap. 

————————————

You feel just a little bit ridiculous entering the woods with your things, especially if the Tardis gone when you get there, or it turns out to have been some kind of prank after all and you’ll have to go home. 

But you have to try. 

	You need to try. Hope is all some people will ever have and well, it 		  	would be a great adventure, won’t it?

You come around the bend and it’s still there, leaning against a tree, still worn looking and tired. 

	Last chance to back out. 

You take a deep breath to steel yourself and then walk up, pushing on the door. 

It opens, revealing the impossible space before you and you fight the urge to look back, instead stepping inside and closing and locking the door behind you. 

“I still don’t know why me,” you say to the empty air and set down your bags. The only response is a puff of air on your cheek, like a thank you.

Your hands are shaking as you step up to the console where the book still sits, the screwdriver still poking out of its slot. 

You take one last moment to think of who you are, what your name is before pushing it all the way down too where you keep your deepest, darkest secrets and shames and then you lay your hand on the book and raise your other like you’re being sworn into office. 

“Never cruel or cowardly,” you say out loud. “Never give up, never give in.” It’s as much of an oath as a declaration and you pick up the sonic screwdriver, tossing it into the air and catching it before sliding it into your pocket. 

There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, the sea's asleep, and the rivers dream. There are people made of smoke, and cities made of song. Somewhere there's danger, somewhere there’s injustice, and somewhere, the tea's getting cold.

You’re the Doctor now.

There’s work to do.

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