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eve11It's been going around. Last time I did it was January 2011. There isn't much more to what I posted then, but I'll send out what I have. WIPs from then, plus a few new ones:
The one with the phosphorescent planet and the horrible secret from the Time War:
The Illuminati of Pshiir
-----------------
Prologue: Kavaashthe
The sky above the temperate zone on Pshiir was a starless black, and it was raining. Soft, viscous drops sheeted down, angling into the twisting streets and across the vine-metal buildings that comprised planet's largest city, Kavaashthe. Though it seemed a driving gale, the rain landed with only a muted shush of white noise, barely noticeable over the warm wind and the hum of engines and people that brought Kavaashthe to life.
The gale force was instead absorbed and converted by the peculiar chemical engine primed in each drop of Pshirri rain. Droplets fell clear, but chain reactions flared as they struck home, smearing luminescent trails like miniature showers of cold, blue comets. And where the rain pooled and painted the city, Kavaashthe glowed.
Like everything on Pshiir, the city was built for rain. Droplets danced down the gentle slopes of beveled streets, collecting in small gullies beside the squarecar tracks to illuminate the main transitways. It funneled through wide-mouthed street lamps open to the sky, flowing from post to post along the strung catenary curves of clear, lightweight polymers. Rain-spattered buildings, their sides subject to the whims of wind and squalls, found more permanent definition in the vine-metal trim that caught even the lightest drops and channeled them to trace edges, corners, doorways, and sills.
It was fifth bell and the wind was dying down. Commuters hopped on and off the flat squarecars that clattered to stops on their meandering tracks. Boarders jockeyed for a good tailhold on the car's low inner railings under pavillion roofs, while debarkers flicked their ears forward to shield large, pale eyes against the downpour before padding off on foot toward the gloom of narrow alleys. This was the Old City. No matter how much the city project planners tried to channel the rain, there were always corners it didn't quite reach. In her bid for Protectorate Director at the last elections, council-woman Leegat Theen had promised "a light-path in every street and a glow globe in every home." She'd won the job, but not everyone was disappointed when her actions failed to soak up to her promises.
A stray gust of wind picked up the rain and hurled it against the unsheltered side of the street. This brought a burst of illumination across walkways, buildings and people--who all ignored it, save one. An unusually tall person paused at the gale, shrugging herself closer into an unusually hooded coat, and hurried faster through the crowd toward the dry dark. Her strangely heeled shoes clacked on the pavement, but she navigated with the surety of someone who had a good deal of practice not stepping on tails, even though she didn't have one.
She reached her destination--a blank, darkened facade in the shadow of a towering colloquium house. She peered closely at a single glowing sign--the building's only outward light source--and after some time determined that it said "Giilve Anthoraat: Structural Equations and Time Talents."
With a sigh of relief, she gave a sharp knock at the door before catching herself with a muttered curse. Gingerly, she placed a hand on the white teletap sphere embedded in the muted vine-metal doorframe, and braced herself.
DROP-INS ARE HONORED TWOBELL TO FIVE boomed its way between her temples, making her teeth vibrate.
LIKE HELL THEY ARE she thought back before she could stop herself. She took mild satisfaction in the psychic wince she felt from the other side. The amplifier she used to make these things work at all was a two-way street. She couldn't help but shout and be shouted at, and rather than listen to yet another flipping rude comment from yet another flipping secretary with no patience for "mindblinds", she just continued shouting.
NUURIK SENT ME I'M HERE ABOUT THE DOCTOR
By the time the door opened to admit her, she had already shrugged out of her glowing coat, turned it in on itself and draped it over an arm, effectively vanishing from any prying eyes.
There was a saying on Pshiir: rain soaks what wants to be seen. By now, Donna Noble knew Kaavashthe was defined as much by its shadows as anything.
**
(random snippet from later/earlier on)
As the Doctor and Donna disappeared from sight, the ground around the TARDIS started to swell. Tiny tendrils released themselves precariously from the packed strands of moss, straining upward, searching clumsily at first and sticking haphazardly to edges and corners. A small series of hisses took place as the creeping tendrils latched on to the side of the TARDIS. Each new generation grew quicker and surer on the trail of its predecessors.
Then, they started to pull.
In cock-eyed surprise, the TARDIS sank mutely into the ground. The moss smoothed out and settled again in her wake.
-------------
The one where Seven and Mel have an adventure quest at the edge of a deterministic universe:
The Entropy House
-------------
This new Doctor was a study, Mel decided. In situations where his previous incarnation would get louder, this peculiar little man would get quieter. The more reserved he appeared, the more astonished he actually was.
"In this era, even quantum physics has been reduced to determinism, but people--decisions, actions, motivations and reactions--have not. And If you want to predict the future of sentient events with any surety of success, you must include the right kind of random variation." He tapped the door before them. "Which makes what's behind this door one of the most precious commodities the universe has ever known."
Mel looked at the door. It had a dull steel lever for a handle and a bolted metal frame. Could it be a prison of some kind? "Some kind of medium?" she asked. "An industrial strength fortune teller?"
"No, of course not!" the Doctor said with a huff. He composed himself and held up a hand, professorial again. "In fact, exactly the opposite," he said slyly.
"And what's the opposite of a fortune teller?" Mel asked.
"Something that tells you nothing at all. Pure, unpredictable, white noise."
Mel rolled her eyes. "And that's a commodity?"
"The Entropy House is ground zero for the most sophisticated simulations this galaxy has ever known. For the past twenty centuries, every mathematical prediction across a million worlds--from devastating wars to economic dynasties, from upset elections to pop culture trends--everything has started as a string of random bits originating from the generator behind this very door."
"Do you think we're supposed be here?" Mel asked, scanning the empty corridor.
The Doctor practically bounced. "I scarcely think we should be anywhere else. Imagine! The tiniest pattern inserted into this data stream, the tiniest trend would propagate through countless simulations like a ripple in a pond, a nearly undetectable flap of a butterfly's wings that could change the course of history itself."
"You mean, like a feedback loop?" asked Mel.
The Doctor nodded, trying the door and finding it locked. "Indeed, Mel! It's not what people know that drives history--"
"It's what they think they know," Mel finished.
"Perception is powerful," he said gravely, "and dangerous in the wrong hands. Should someone be so inclined"--he fished his sonic screwdriver from a pocket, aiming it at the door--"and should someone have access to the proper tools"--it unlocked with a click and creaked open, bathing the dim hallway in flickering light--"someone could use this room to seed machinations and schemes on a galactic scale, with timetables in the centuries."
With that, he raised his eyebrows mischievously and disappeared through the door.
"Oh, I don't like it when you get that look," Mel said, hurrying after him. "Doctor, this 'someone' . . ."
A roaring hum like the sound of static noise on a thousand television sets assaulted her ears as she came into the room. She stopped next to the Doctor, who was standing perfectly still, silhouetted by the white light of a hologram, fifty feet high if it was an inch, of a cube perched on its tip and spinning like a flywheel, full of billions upon billions of blinking pixels of light.
The Doctor peered up at the dizzying sight, studied it intensely for half a minute, and frowned.
"Someone's beaten me to it," he murmured.
-------------
The Fires of Pompeii post-ep where Ten takes Donna to Oregon:
Mirror
-------------
It is two days and four thousand years after Pompeii, but Pompeii is catching up.
Donna wants to go somewhere colorful, somewhere alive, so the Doctor takes her to a textile market on the eighth moon of Sarekat. It's famous across the other seven moons and beyond for the Katrian aura weavers, who have added a whole new dimension to the idea of bespoke.
"They have the best third eyes in the business," the Doctor explains. "They already know what you really want."
The atmosphere on Sarekat is close and tactile under a blanket of orange clouds. Amid the richly patterned tents, surrounded by streamers of gold, azure, purple, rust orange and deep metallic green, an aura weaver tests the air around Donna with its feelers. It clacks its ring segments at her appraisingly, reading her psychic impression before setting to its loom. That afternoon, Donna sips a strong aromatic tea in a cafe tent and drinks in the melee of brilliant colors around her. She wonders which ones she reflected to the aura weaver.
At the end of the day, the fabric it hands her is ash gray, streaked through with tiny strands of black.
"Oh," she says.
As the silky fabric slips through her fingers, pooling softly on the ground, it seems to unravel something inside of Donna as well. Something had curled itself so tightly in the pit of her stomach that she hadn't really noticed it was there. But now it is coming out, and to her surprise, she is simply coming undone.
"Oh, my god," is all she can say through her tears when the Doctor finds her. "Oh my god."
He takes her hand in his. She can't look. Those two hands--she can feel again the heavy, scraping stone as it sinks into place, completing the circuit and dooming the city--those two hands have killed thousands of people. Nothing can ever make that right, can it? Nothing can ever fix that.
Dimly, she is aware of the Doctor apologizing to the weaver, settling the bill as best he can and gathering the merchandise. Then they are moving again through the maze of market streets. All the colors blur; she can't stop crying.
"I'm fine," she says, pushing away when the Doctor tries to pull her closer in support. Her focus has narrowed to walls, air, and touch. Her skin feels like the thinnest of barriers to try to hold against the pressure of those simple things. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. I just can't--not here, not now."
"It's all right. We're nearly there," the Doctor says, in the same tone as one might say 'the postman's here' or 'I'll pull the car around.' They turn a corner and a blurry blue box swims into view.
As soon as the Doctor closes the TARDIS door behind them, Donna sinks down to the grating, pulling him down with her and sobbing uncontrollably into his chest. He doesn't say anything. He puts one hand lightly on her shoulder, and he lets her cry.
Perhaps ten minutes pass before she sits back, dizzy, exhausted and sniffling. The Doctor rises gingerly, heads straight for the console, and sets the TARDIS wheezing into the vortex.
"Feeling better?" he asks tentatively.
"I feel like an idiot," Donna says, her voice still trembling as she stands up.
"You're not an idiot. It's a perfectly--"
"I know. It's a perfectly normal human reaction," she interrupts, dabbing at her eyes. "But you didn't ask what I know. You asked how I felt, and I still feel like an idiot. God, I must look a mess."
She retrieves a compact from the quilted tote bag of last-minute accessories she'd left hanging on the hatstand by the doors. She snaps it open and looks long enough to see that her eyes look as puffy and swollen as they feel, and sighs.
"Donna, I'm--"
"Don't." She snaps the compact shut and turns to her companion, who is still open-mouthed, but smartly silent. "Don't you dare tell me you're sorry," she says.
-------------
There is my tentatively-titled Nyssa and Eleven timey-wimey story, still late for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
who_at_50, Love in the Time of Cholera
There is my Papua New Guinea Eleven and OFC WIP with "magical" avocados: The Greens of Doom
There is a snippet of original fic: my Ghost Bus possible graphic novel story:
Lyndell Ride
-------------
The summer I turned 12, my dad rolled his motorcycle and ended up in a group home, and me and my mom and my younger sister Charlotte moved to Lyndell, out to the country, to finally get away. Tragedy like that, the news stories say it brings families together or strengthens love or whatever. I don't think that works all the time. My grandma and aunts were there to sit and cry at his side, but Mom… the way she looked at him, lying still as death in that bed with tubes and wires and monitors, his tattoos and tan skin standing out against the crisp white sheets--there ain't nothing in this world better than a hospital bed to make someone look so, so small.
She didn't stay. Mom had always wanted a farm and it never turned out that way. But there was plenty of space for farms in Lyndell. You just had to make sure to keep the ghosts on your good side.
-------------
The main one I've focused on since then is the "shamelessly beat up on Eleven" story (that in January 2011 was just a spark of an idea and a few paragraphs and is now at like 40K words) aka the WIP-o-Doom:
Principal Components
-------------------
THIS REEL IS CLASSIFIED *TOP SECRET//BOARDWALK MISTLETOE//NOFORN*
PROPERTY OF UNITED STATES AIR FORCE
GROOM LAKE EXPERIMENTAL AIRCRAFT AND XENOTECH RESEARCH FACILITY
13 JUNE 1969
14:25
RECORD OF DETAINEE TRANSFER TO N.R.O. CUSTODY
PRESENT REPRESENTATIVE PARTIES:
CALDWELL, COLONEL MARTIN C
OGDEN, MAJOR CHARLES J
DUVALL, HENRY D (SPECIALIST)
SECURITY DETAIL:
JAMES, STAFF SERGEANT KEVIN J
KELLEY, AIRMAN FRANK C
LITZINGER, AIRMAN JOSHUA L
DETAINEE:
DS-#234-8H ALIAS "DOCTOR"
GROOM LAKE FACILITY: INTERROGATION ROOM 3100A
[Col. Caldwell is seated at the left side of the interrogation room table, his back to the two-way mirror taking up three fourths of the far wall from the door. He is leafing through documents in a manila folder. Maj. Ogden and Specialist Duvall are stood at the table to his right. Maj. Ogden holds a briefcase at his side. The detainee is escorted into the room by Sgt. James and two guards. The detainee appears clean-shaven and in good health but has some superficial scratches on his face and bruising under his right eye. He is restrained by a straight jacket, augmented at the waist with a multi-use leather transport belt with two handcuffs affixed to it.]
CALDWELL: Sit him down.
[The detainee does not resist when seated at the chair bolted to the floor at the right side of the table, facing Col. Caldwell. He is flanked by the two guards, who secure the cuffs of the transport belt to two rings on the chair, located where the seat meets the back. Sgt. James affixes two straps attached to the front legs of the chair across each of the detainee's legs, then stands and salutes and is instructed to stand at ease.]
DETAINEE: Colonel Caldwell. I can't say I'm pleased to see you again.
[Maj. Ogden places the briefcase on the table and opens it briskly.]
OGDEN: Are all those restraints required?
[Specialist Duvall retrieves a flash camera from the briefcase and takes several pictures of the detainee during the ensuing conversation.]
CALDWELL: Major, I informed Security to use whatever means necessary for containing the prisoner.
OGDEN: Yes, sir. Understood. [To Sgt. James] Does that include roughing him up?
JAMES: Sir, those injuries were sustained during the detainee's most recent escape attempt.
DETAINEE: To be precise, it was afterward--
DUVALL: Hold his head still.
[Airman Kelley stabilizes the detainee's head while Specialist Duvall focuses the camera on his injured eye and snaps a picture. The detainee grimaces at the flash and does not struggle, but blinks rapidly when his head is released.]
OGDEN: Go on, Sergeant.
JAMES: The detainee was apprehended at the south perimeter, a quarter mile from the fence. Airman Chavez brought him down with a tranq, sir. He sustained the injuries from a fall onto rough terrain.
OGDEN: He got that shiner from a fall?
JAMES: Yes, sir.
[Specialist Duvall finishes with the camera and sets it on the table.]
DUVALL: What kind of tranquilizer was used?
JAMES: It was one of the adaptive rounds your agency sent.
DUVALL: Good.
DETAINEE: And what agency is that?
[Sgt. James takes a threatening step toward the detainee but is waved off by Maj. Ogden.]
OGDEN: Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all for now. Dismissed.
JAMES: Yes, sir.
[James and the security detail salute and leave the room.]
CALDWELL: I'll see that they receive the proper security clearance compartment briefing to continue supporting your mission.
DUVALL: They should have had it already.
CALDWELL: With all due respect, they were busy making sure you didn't come all the way out here for nothing.
DETAINEE: Long trip, was it?
[Col. Caldwell arranges the papers back into the file and signs the document at the top of the stack. Maj. Ogden signs as well, and nods to Specialist Duvall, who retrieves a thin electronic data pad from the briefcase and uses a stylus tool to turn it on and enter some settings.]
OGDEN: All right, gentlemen. The transfer is now official.
DETAINEE: Transfer to whom? For what purpose?
DUVALL: The subject has been categorized as an extra-terrestrial species with unknown origin, intent, and abilities.
[Maj. Ogden removes a small, black, conical object from the case. The detainee's demeanor changes visibly from calm to nervous when he sees it. He straightens in the chair, rattling the cuffs against the metal supports. Specialist Duvall sets the data pad on the table facing the detainee and comes around to the far side of the table.]
DETAINEE: Origin--Gallifrey, in the constellation of Kasterberous. You won't have heard of it.
CALDWELL: What is that device? Does he recognize it?
OGDEN: The device is based on xenotech, so he may have encountered something similar. [He holds the small black cone up to the light and addresses the detainee] Do you know what this is?
DETAINEE: At a guess I'd wager brutal, invasive and unnecessary. I know your sort. My intent--
[Maj. Ogden nods at Specialist Duvall, who forces the detainee's head forward, exposing his neck. The detainee starts to struggle but has little room to move and is held easily in position.]
DETAINEE: My intent right now is to avoid coming into contact with it!
OGDEN: You should also know that this will be less painful for you if you choose not to resist.
[Specialist Duvall studies the data pad as Maj. Ogden places a finger on the base of the device and puts it point down against the detainee's neck. The device begins to emit a high-pitched whine.]
DETAINEE: I'm not resisting. I'm telling you what you want to know. Origin, intent, abilities--abilities, well naturally I'm good at transcendental maths, football--ah, I suppose it's called soccer in America isn't it?--but don't ask about dancing; everyone tells me I'm rubbish at dancing--
DUVALL: Locked.
[Maj. Ogden releases the base of the device. The detainee stiffens and screams in pain as the cone unravels into a series of tiny wires that burrow down into the skin, until only the circular base is visible. It settles and the whining stops. The detainee stops screaming but stays bent forward in the chair, breathing heavily and spasming every few seconds as the data pad emits a quiet diagnostic ticking pulse. Specialist Duvall looks over at the data pad.]
DUVALL: It's calibrating. [To Col. Caldwell] He'll be out of it for a little while until the branching stops. It usually takes about an hour for the SMM to map out regions of sensory input processing in the brain. More if there are any active abilities involved, tied to a perception like telepathy.
CALDWELL: English, please. SMM? Was that covered in the SAP brief?
OGDEN: No, but it's need-to-know now for anyone in contact with the subject. Sensory Monitoring and Manipulation is the standard procedure for an uncatalogued xenobiological specimen in a possible foothold situation, mainly to protect against psychic threats. We'll soon get an idea of what kind of information he can interpret, and how to control it.
CALDWELL: I see. Should we move him back to his cell?
OGDEN: Not yet. Brief your men. We can monitor him from the observation room next door until then.
CALDWELL: It's your show, gentlemen.
[Col. Caldwell turns to leave.]
OGDEN: One more request, sir?
CALDWELL: What is it, Major?
OGDEN: I'd like to get a handcuff key from Sergeant James. I think we can do away with those restraints, now.
*END OF CLASSIFIED MATERIAL*
----------------
ETA: and another snippet from this story here from last year.
The one with the phosphorescent planet and the horrible secret from the Time War:
The Illuminati of Pshiir
-----------------
Prologue: Kavaashthe
The sky above the temperate zone on Pshiir was a starless black, and it was raining. Soft, viscous drops sheeted down, angling into the twisting streets and across the vine-metal buildings that comprised planet's largest city, Kavaashthe. Though it seemed a driving gale, the rain landed with only a muted shush of white noise, barely noticeable over the warm wind and the hum of engines and people that brought Kavaashthe to life.
The gale force was instead absorbed and converted by the peculiar chemical engine primed in each drop of Pshirri rain. Droplets fell clear, but chain reactions flared as they struck home, smearing luminescent trails like miniature showers of cold, blue comets. And where the rain pooled and painted the city, Kavaashthe glowed.
Like everything on Pshiir, the city was built for rain. Droplets danced down the gentle slopes of beveled streets, collecting in small gullies beside the squarecar tracks to illuminate the main transitways. It funneled through wide-mouthed street lamps open to the sky, flowing from post to post along the strung catenary curves of clear, lightweight polymers. Rain-spattered buildings, their sides subject to the whims of wind and squalls, found more permanent definition in the vine-metal trim that caught even the lightest drops and channeled them to trace edges, corners, doorways, and sills.
It was fifth bell and the wind was dying down. Commuters hopped on and off the flat squarecars that clattered to stops on their meandering tracks. Boarders jockeyed for a good tailhold on the car's low inner railings under pavillion roofs, while debarkers flicked their ears forward to shield large, pale eyes against the downpour before padding off on foot toward the gloom of narrow alleys. This was the Old City. No matter how much the city project planners tried to channel the rain, there were always corners it didn't quite reach. In her bid for Protectorate Director at the last elections, council-woman Leegat Theen had promised "a light-path in every street and a glow globe in every home." She'd won the job, but not everyone was disappointed when her actions failed to soak up to her promises.
A stray gust of wind picked up the rain and hurled it against the unsheltered side of the street. This brought a burst of illumination across walkways, buildings and people--who all ignored it, save one. An unusually tall person paused at the gale, shrugging herself closer into an unusually hooded coat, and hurried faster through the crowd toward the dry dark. Her strangely heeled shoes clacked on the pavement, but she navigated with the surety of someone who had a good deal of practice not stepping on tails, even though she didn't have one.
She reached her destination--a blank, darkened facade in the shadow of a towering colloquium house. She peered closely at a single glowing sign--the building's only outward light source--and after some time determined that it said "Giilve Anthoraat: Structural Equations and Time Talents."
With a sigh of relief, she gave a sharp knock at the door before catching herself with a muttered curse. Gingerly, she placed a hand on the white teletap sphere embedded in the muted vine-metal doorframe, and braced herself.
DROP-INS ARE HONORED TWOBELL TO FIVE boomed its way between her temples, making her teeth vibrate.
LIKE HELL THEY ARE she thought back before she could stop herself. She took mild satisfaction in the psychic wince she felt from the other side. The amplifier she used to make these things work at all was a two-way street. She couldn't help but shout and be shouted at, and rather than listen to yet another flipping rude comment from yet another flipping secretary with no patience for "mindblinds", she just continued shouting.
NUURIK SENT ME I'M HERE ABOUT THE DOCTOR
By the time the door opened to admit her, she had already shrugged out of her glowing coat, turned it in on itself and draped it over an arm, effectively vanishing from any prying eyes.
There was a saying on Pshiir: rain soaks what wants to be seen. By now, Donna Noble knew Kaavashthe was defined as much by its shadows as anything.
**
(random snippet from later/earlier on)
As the Doctor and Donna disappeared from sight, the ground around the TARDIS started to swell. Tiny tendrils released themselves precariously from the packed strands of moss, straining upward, searching clumsily at first and sticking haphazardly to edges and corners. A small series of hisses took place as the creeping tendrils latched on to the side of the TARDIS. Each new generation grew quicker and surer on the trail of its predecessors.
Then, they started to pull.
In cock-eyed surprise, the TARDIS sank mutely into the ground. The moss smoothed out and settled again in her wake.
-------------
The one where Seven and Mel have an adventure quest at the edge of a deterministic universe:
The Entropy House
-------------
This new Doctor was a study, Mel decided. In situations where his previous incarnation would get louder, this peculiar little man would get quieter. The more reserved he appeared, the more astonished he actually was.
"In this era, even quantum physics has been reduced to determinism, but people--decisions, actions, motivations and reactions--have not. And If you want to predict the future of sentient events with any surety of success, you must include the right kind of random variation." He tapped the door before them. "Which makes what's behind this door one of the most precious commodities the universe has ever known."
Mel looked at the door. It had a dull steel lever for a handle and a bolted metal frame. Could it be a prison of some kind? "Some kind of medium?" she asked. "An industrial strength fortune teller?"
"No, of course not!" the Doctor said with a huff. He composed himself and held up a hand, professorial again. "In fact, exactly the opposite," he said slyly.
"And what's the opposite of a fortune teller?" Mel asked.
"Something that tells you nothing at all. Pure, unpredictable, white noise."
Mel rolled her eyes. "And that's a commodity?"
"The Entropy House is ground zero for the most sophisticated simulations this galaxy has ever known. For the past twenty centuries, every mathematical prediction across a million worlds--from devastating wars to economic dynasties, from upset elections to pop culture trends--everything has started as a string of random bits originating from the generator behind this very door."
"Do you think we're supposed be here?" Mel asked, scanning the empty corridor.
The Doctor practically bounced. "I scarcely think we should be anywhere else. Imagine! The tiniest pattern inserted into this data stream, the tiniest trend would propagate through countless simulations like a ripple in a pond, a nearly undetectable flap of a butterfly's wings that could change the course of history itself."
"You mean, like a feedback loop?" asked Mel.
The Doctor nodded, trying the door and finding it locked. "Indeed, Mel! It's not what people know that drives history--"
"It's what they think they know," Mel finished.
"Perception is powerful," he said gravely, "and dangerous in the wrong hands. Should someone be so inclined"--he fished his sonic screwdriver from a pocket, aiming it at the door--"and should someone have access to the proper tools"--it unlocked with a click and creaked open, bathing the dim hallway in flickering light--"someone could use this room to seed machinations and schemes on a galactic scale, with timetables in the centuries."
With that, he raised his eyebrows mischievously and disappeared through the door.
"Oh, I don't like it when you get that look," Mel said, hurrying after him. "Doctor, this 'someone' . . ."
A roaring hum like the sound of static noise on a thousand television sets assaulted her ears as she came into the room. She stopped next to the Doctor, who was standing perfectly still, silhouetted by the white light of a hologram, fifty feet high if it was an inch, of a cube perched on its tip and spinning like a flywheel, full of billions upon billions of blinking pixels of light.
The Doctor peered up at the dizzying sight, studied it intensely for half a minute, and frowned.
"Someone's beaten me to it," he murmured.
-------------
The Fires of Pompeii post-ep where Ten takes Donna to Oregon:
Mirror
-------------
It is two days and four thousand years after Pompeii, but Pompeii is catching up.
Donna wants to go somewhere colorful, somewhere alive, so the Doctor takes her to a textile market on the eighth moon of Sarekat. It's famous across the other seven moons and beyond for the Katrian aura weavers, who have added a whole new dimension to the idea of bespoke.
"They have the best third eyes in the business," the Doctor explains. "They already know what you really want."
The atmosphere on Sarekat is close and tactile under a blanket of orange clouds. Amid the richly patterned tents, surrounded by streamers of gold, azure, purple, rust orange and deep metallic green, an aura weaver tests the air around Donna with its feelers. It clacks its ring segments at her appraisingly, reading her psychic impression before setting to its loom. That afternoon, Donna sips a strong aromatic tea in a cafe tent and drinks in the melee of brilliant colors around her. She wonders which ones she reflected to the aura weaver.
At the end of the day, the fabric it hands her is ash gray, streaked through with tiny strands of black.
"Oh," she says.
As the silky fabric slips through her fingers, pooling softly on the ground, it seems to unravel something inside of Donna as well. Something had curled itself so tightly in the pit of her stomach that she hadn't really noticed it was there. But now it is coming out, and to her surprise, she is simply coming undone.
"Oh, my god," is all she can say through her tears when the Doctor finds her. "Oh my god."
He takes her hand in his. She can't look. Those two hands--she can feel again the heavy, scraping stone as it sinks into place, completing the circuit and dooming the city--those two hands have killed thousands of people. Nothing can ever make that right, can it? Nothing can ever fix that.
Dimly, she is aware of the Doctor apologizing to the weaver, settling the bill as best he can and gathering the merchandise. Then they are moving again through the maze of market streets. All the colors blur; she can't stop crying.
"I'm fine," she says, pushing away when the Doctor tries to pull her closer in support. Her focus has narrowed to walls, air, and touch. Her skin feels like the thinnest of barriers to try to hold against the pressure of those simple things. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. I just can't--not here, not now."
"It's all right. We're nearly there," the Doctor says, in the same tone as one might say 'the postman's here' or 'I'll pull the car around.' They turn a corner and a blurry blue box swims into view.
As soon as the Doctor closes the TARDIS door behind them, Donna sinks down to the grating, pulling him down with her and sobbing uncontrollably into his chest. He doesn't say anything. He puts one hand lightly on her shoulder, and he lets her cry.
Perhaps ten minutes pass before she sits back, dizzy, exhausted and sniffling. The Doctor rises gingerly, heads straight for the console, and sets the TARDIS wheezing into the vortex.
"Feeling better?" he asks tentatively.
"I feel like an idiot," Donna says, her voice still trembling as she stands up.
"You're not an idiot. It's a perfectly--"
"I know. It's a perfectly normal human reaction," she interrupts, dabbing at her eyes. "But you didn't ask what I know. You asked how I felt, and I still feel like an idiot. God, I must look a mess."
She retrieves a compact from the quilted tote bag of last-minute accessories she'd left hanging on the hatstand by the doors. She snaps it open and looks long enough to see that her eyes look as puffy and swollen as they feel, and sighs.
"Donna, I'm--"
"Don't." She snaps the compact shut and turns to her companion, who is still open-mouthed, but smartly silent. "Don't you dare tell me you're sorry," she says.
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There is my tentatively-titled Nyssa and Eleven timey-wimey story, still late for
who_at_50, Love in the Time of CholeraThere is my Papua New Guinea Eleven and OFC WIP with "magical" avocados: The Greens of Doom
There is a snippet of original fic: my Ghost Bus possible graphic novel story:
Lyndell Ride
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The summer I turned 12, my dad rolled his motorcycle and ended up in a group home, and me and my mom and my younger sister Charlotte moved to Lyndell, out to the country, to finally get away. Tragedy like that, the news stories say it brings families together or strengthens love or whatever. I don't think that works all the time. My grandma and aunts were there to sit and cry at his side, but Mom… the way she looked at him, lying still as death in that bed with tubes and wires and monitors, his tattoos and tan skin standing out against the crisp white sheets--there ain't nothing in this world better than a hospital bed to make someone look so, so small.
She didn't stay. Mom had always wanted a farm and it never turned out that way. But there was plenty of space for farms in Lyndell. You just had to make sure to keep the ghosts on your good side.
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The main one I've focused on since then is the "shamelessly beat up on Eleven" story (that in January 2011 was just a spark of an idea and a few paragraphs and is now at like 40K words) aka the WIP-o-Doom:
Principal Components
-------------------
THIS REEL IS CLASSIFIED *TOP SECRET//BOARDWALK MISTLETOE//NOFORN*
PROPERTY OF UNITED STATES AIR FORCE
GROOM LAKE EXPERIMENTAL AIRCRAFT AND XENOTECH RESEARCH FACILITY
13 JUNE 1969
14:25
RECORD OF DETAINEE TRANSFER TO N.R.O. CUSTODY
PRESENT REPRESENTATIVE PARTIES:
CALDWELL, COLONEL MARTIN C
OGDEN, MAJOR CHARLES J
DUVALL, HENRY D (SPECIALIST)
SECURITY DETAIL:
JAMES, STAFF SERGEANT KEVIN J
KELLEY, AIRMAN FRANK C
LITZINGER, AIRMAN JOSHUA L
DETAINEE:
DS-#234-8H ALIAS "DOCTOR"
GROOM LAKE FACILITY: INTERROGATION ROOM 3100A
[Col. Caldwell is seated at the left side of the interrogation room table, his back to the two-way mirror taking up three fourths of the far wall from the door. He is leafing through documents in a manila folder. Maj. Ogden and Specialist Duvall are stood at the table to his right. Maj. Ogden holds a briefcase at his side. The detainee is escorted into the room by Sgt. James and two guards. The detainee appears clean-shaven and in good health but has some superficial scratches on his face and bruising under his right eye. He is restrained by a straight jacket, augmented at the waist with a multi-use leather transport belt with two handcuffs affixed to it.]
CALDWELL: Sit him down.
[The detainee does not resist when seated at the chair bolted to the floor at the right side of the table, facing Col. Caldwell. He is flanked by the two guards, who secure the cuffs of the transport belt to two rings on the chair, located where the seat meets the back. Sgt. James affixes two straps attached to the front legs of the chair across each of the detainee's legs, then stands and salutes and is instructed to stand at ease.]
DETAINEE: Colonel Caldwell. I can't say I'm pleased to see you again.
[Maj. Ogden places the briefcase on the table and opens it briskly.]
OGDEN: Are all those restraints required?
[Specialist Duvall retrieves a flash camera from the briefcase and takes several pictures of the detainee during the ensuing conversation.]
CALDWELL: Major, I informed Security to use whatever means necessary for containing the prisoner.
OGDEN: Yes, sir. Understood. [To Sgt. James] Does that include roughing him up?
JAMES: Sir, those injuries were sustained during the detainee's most recent escape attempt.
DETAINEE: To be precise, it was afterward--
DUVALL: Hold his head still.
[Airman Kelley stabilizes the detainee's head while Specialist Duvall focuses the camera on his injured eye and snaps a picture. The detainee grimaces at the flash and does not struggle, but blinks rapidly when his head is released.]
OGDEN: Go on, Sergeant.
JAMES: The detainee was apprehended at the south perimeter, a quarter mile from the fence. Airman Chavez brought him down with a tranq, sir. He sustained the injuries from a fall onto rough terrain.
OGDEN: He got that shiner from a fall?
JAMES: Yes, sir.
[Specialist Duvall finishes with the camera and sets it on the table.]
DUVALL: What kind of tranquilizer was used?
JAMES: It was one of the adaptive rounds your agency sent.
DUVALL: Good.
DETAINEE: And what agency is that?
[Sgt. James takes a threatening step toward the detainee but is waved off by Maj. Ogden.]
OGDEN: Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all for now. Dismissed.
JAMES: Yes, sir.
[James and the security detail salute and leave the room.]
CALDWELL: I'll see that they receive the proper security clearance compartment briefing to continue supporting your mission.
DUVALL: They should have had it already.
CALDWELL: With all due respect, they were busy making sure you didn't come all the way out here for nothing.
DETAINEE: Long trip, was it?
[Col. Caldwell arranges the papers back into the file and signs the document at the top of the stack. Maj. Ogden signs as well, and nods to Specialist Duvall, who retrieves a thin electronic data pad from the briefcase and uses a stylus tool to turn it on and enter some settings.]
OGDEN: All right, gentlemen. The transfer is now official.
DETAINEE: Transfer to whom? For what purpose?
DUVALL: The subject has been categorized as an extra-terrestrial species with unknown origin, intent, and abilities.
[Maj. Ogden removes a small, black, conical object from the case. The detainee's demeanor changes visibly from calm to nervous when he sees it. He straightens in the chair, rattling the cuffs against the metal supports. Specialist Duvall sets the data pad on the table facing the detainee and comes around to the far side of the table.]
DETAINEE: Origin--Gallifrey, in the constellation of Kasterberous. You won't have heard of it.
CALDWELL: What is that device? Does he recognize it?
OGDEN: The device is based on xenotech, so he may have encountered something similar. [He holds the small black cone up to the light and addresses the detainee] Do you know what this is?
DETAINEE: At a guess I'd wager brutal, invasive and unnecessary. I know your sort. My intent--
[Maj. Ogden nods at Specialist Duvall, who forces the detainee's head forward, exposing his neck. The detainee starts to struggle but has little room to move and is held easily in position.]
DETAINEE: My intent right now is to avoid coming into contact with it!
OGDEN: You should also know that this will be less painful for you if you choose not to resist.
[Specialist Duvall studies the data pad as Maj. Ogden places a finger on the base of the device and puts it point down against the detainee's neck. The device begins to emit a high-pitched whine.]
DETAINEE: I'm not resisting. I'm telling you what you want to know. Origin, intent, abilities--abilities, well naturally I'm good at transcendental maths, football--ah, I suppose it's called soccer in America isn't it?--but don't ask about dancing; everyone tells me I'm rubbish at dancing--
DUVALL: Locked.
[Maj. Ogden releases the base of the device. The detainee stiffens and screams in pain as the cone unravels into a series of tiny wires that burrow down into the skin, until only the circular base is visible. It settles and the whining stops. The detainee stops screaming but stays bent forward in the chair, breathing heavily and spasming every few seconds as the data pad emits a quiet diagnostic ticking pulse. Specialist Duvall looks over at the data pad.]
DUVALL: It's calibrating. [To Col. Caldwell] He'll be out of it for a little while until the branching stops. It usually takes about an hour for the SMM to map out regions of sensory input processing in the brain. More if there are any active abilities involved, tied to a perception like telepathy.
CALDWELL: English, please. SMM? Was that covered in the SAP brief?
OGDEN: No, but it's need-to-know now for anyone in contact with the subject. Sensory Monitoring and Manipulation is the standard procedure for an uncatalogued xenobiological specimen in a possible foothold situation, mainly to protect against psychic threats. We'll soon get an idea of what kind of information he can interpret, and how to control it.
CALDWELL: I see. Should we move him back to his cell?
OGDEN: Not yet. Brief your men. We can monitor him from the observation room next door until then.
CALDWELL: It's your show, gentlemen.
[Col. Caldwell turns to leave.]
OGDEN: One more request, sir?
CALDWELL: What is it, Major?
OGDEN: I'd like to get a handcuff key from Sergeant James. I think we can do away with those restraints, now.
*END OF CLASSIFIED MATERIAL*
----------------
ETA: and another snippet from this story here from last year.
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no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 06:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 12:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 10:38 am (UTC)I hope you finish them. Good luck especially with your WIP of Doom of course! But I'm glad you shared, anyway.
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Date: 2013-03-11 12:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 05:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 07:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 08:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-11 11:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-01-07 03:07 pm (UTC)DONNA! I was really intrigued by the way you portrayed Donna, and goodness, the psychic shouting was so typical ♥ That idea was lovely and intriguing too, and I loved the last line of that part…
The TARDIS being pulled into the ground was also a great one! And the following one—although I've never seen Seven, I really enjoyed your characterization of him, his very clever lines and the dialogue with Mel, her assessing him compared to the previous Doctor she had known. The Entropy House is a really fascinating concept, and the Doctor's reactions to that was delightfully expressed in his lines and mannerisms, seriousness but a very perceptive thrill at the same time. :D
Sarekat was brilliantly done as well, visually stunning and I love the idea of the aura weaver. Donna's breakdown was very subtly, insightfully depicted, with the weight of what happened on Pompeii catching up with her. I loved the way you portrayed Ten's presence around her, too. Her focus has narrowed to walls, air, and touch. Her skin feels like the thinnest of barriers to try to hold against the pressure of those simple things. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. I just can't--not here, not now." This. It's just beautiful. ♥ And Donna's reactions, her sharpness were all spot-on. God, I love Donna.
The bit of original was pretty interesting. And HERE COMES THE WIP-OF-DOOM! Oh, I love it. It's really striking, you've handled the record form perfectly, lines and descriptions alike, some bits of that squeezed at my heart rather painfully. Oh Eleven, the way they handled him! ♥♥♥ I love it!
no subject
Date: 2014-01-09 05:17 am (UTC):) I like using the report format as it is short-hand for long drawn-out explanations in POV other than the ones I care to write from in the WIP (River and the Doctor). Hopefully I don't overdo it.
Thanks for reading! It makes me excited to keep writing, for sure.
no subject
Date: 2014-01-09 11:24 am (UTC)Report format isn't something you see that often, and it felt pretty striking to me, and well handled, so no worries there! :)
Good to hear! I'm excited to see more of your stuff ^_^