"PHOTON READINGS NEGATIVE!"
Encompassing shadowless emptiness, consuming indefinitely, infinitely. Unimaginable pain, a reckoning of pride and of ambition. Ceaseless dread enrapturing eternally 'round the melted man. A voice lost to obscurity and memory, a face twisted to oblivion. A watcher. A listener.
"CHRONOSPHERE UNSTABLE!"
The void calls out with a wail. A wail none can hear but Him. The pain, excruciating as it was, paled in comparison to the pain of the void. Darkness eating away at what was left, picking over scraps of the shattered form like a vulture, feeding off of what little remained.
"SYSTEMS FAILING!"
He could hear them. All of them. Every word they spoke from every point in time. Their syllables bounced about in His mind endlessly, pounding away at His skull without remorse. Regret clung to Him like a child to its mother. All it had was Him, and all He had was it.
"SHUT DOWN! SHUT DOWN! PULL HIM OUT!"
He had never been pulled from this sarcophagus. In fact, there had been nothing left to pull. Those that had the chance to, like Him, were lost. Impossible to be found. Consumed by nothingness. Time here had no meaning. No spatial relativity, no reality itself. Everything was gone. Nothing was there to remain.
Had it been days? Weeks? Years? Eons, when He finally woke? No, He'd never been asleep. A stupor was far more accurate. Disillusioned at the void and its endlessness. Unable to comprehend where He was, when He was, or even who He was. The pieces slowly formed, snapping together over the course of... well, that hardly mattered. The beginning and the end were mere concepts, when in truth, everything just continued from something else. Concept after concept, the beginning of something new was just a continuation from something else. Try as He might, He never could find the beginning. He went back for eternity to find the universe had no beginning. It simply was. He found it had no end. It simply would always be.
How long had He been here? He'd been here as long as here had. Perhaps you had to be more sane to understand that... if sanity was measured by a lack of understanding something that didn't exist. Yes, He most certainly was insane. The Doctor became one with this void. His beginning and His end faded. He would simply be, indefinitely.
He did the one thing He knew best: He studied. He picked apart scenes, dissected every layer of them down to their core. He learned every truth and every lie. His knowledge became infinite. One could even consider Him to be omniscient, alongside omnipresent. Yet, what about omnipotent? No, power was an overrated concept. Just like everything else, it meant nothing here in the void.
Perhaps it was what little of His ego that remained, but He took an interest in His life. To elaborate, His prior life. The existence He had once led back before... before anything, yet after everything. He studied it intently, foraging through it to learn even the smallest details. This is how He discovered... It.
The God, if one could call it that. This being was incomprehensible and all powerful. It diverted the Doctor's attention from Himself, and unto it. His studies lengthened. What else would He do, anyway? Back in time He went, keeping a watchful eye on the God. The ugliest truths of all are sometimes the oldest, and this being was far older than... somehow... somehow it was beyond Him. Beyond the universe. Beyond the void. Had He found the beginning?
The lines seemed to blur as the beginning gave way to an ending He had seen before. People watching the sunset, having just left the underground. This timeline became muddled from here, jumping left and right, stopping and starting... He powered through it, pushing back further and further to another turning point. The beginning once again became an ending, young children defeating an eldritch monstrosity. Their beginning only led to another ending. The story went on and on, coming to no conclusion. Different tales were told, and He found that these weren't even remotely connected to the world He'd come from.
He had gone so far back, that concepts were quickly becoming simplified. Not only that, but He learned a truth. The universe He had once hailed from did have a beginning. It was born of a concept from another universe, that universe born from the concept of another. So on and so forth, He was digging through the roots of His universe and countless others.
Everything was open to Him. His eyes were no longer sheltered from what was true. His existence- or lack thereof... was predestined. He was fictional. His universe. Every universe He'd traversed. They were all creations of beings outside, and He had access to all these mediums. World after world, He traveled, studying them. Superheroes, pirates, legendary wars fought in space, the concepts were endless, the possibilities infinite!
Yet He still could only watch. Could only listen. He had lost His voice long ago, in the future, which was right now. He could speak but couldn't. Nobody could listen to Him. Nobody could watch Him. So why not allow them to read it, instead? Despite existing outside of anything, He knew that even this void existed in some way. Some way that would allow those creators outside, in this 'real world', to read what He was doing. The medium in which His story was told was through a book. A story. It wasn't a visual representation, it wasn't a spoken novel, it may never be. His purpose was the brief entertainment of those far above Him, those He could never know.
Those like you. You'll forget Him, in time. Everyone there has, so why not you? Because you're not affected? You'll forget Him through choice, not accident. One day, you will perish. One day, your memories will be vanquished. When that day comes, will He be forgotten? By you, most certainly, yet stories live far longer than lives. You may forget Him, but He will never forget you. You may die, but He will persevere, until one day... it all ends, just like you. Inevitably, there will come the day when you and He are both thought of for the last time, and lost to ignorance and obscurity forever. It's bleak. Dark. Horrifying.
Yet true.
He knows you're reading this. He appreciates it. He appreciates that you care enough to persevere throughout His story, as worthless as it is. It gives Him comfort, knowing that at least somebody out there is aware of Him. Take solace in the fact that He is aware of you, as well. He may not be able to talk to you directly, or interact with you, but He is always watching. Always listening. Curious, is it not? Perhaps you're being lied to. Fooled into feeling a fleeting sense of paranoia, if at all. Perhaps you're not. Perhaps the walls between reality and fiction really are so thin, and the veil can be seen through so clearly.
He wants to apologize to you for such a short tale, but He knows that He has very little to share. His life is not that interesting. Why would it be? He does not exist. The story, however, must go on. He wishes to give you one last piece of information.
👌︎☜︎🕈︎✌︎☼︎☜︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎ 👍︎⚐︎🕆︎☠︎❄︎📬︎
Thank you for your time. He wishes you a good night, and asks that you not judge His decisions before this point in the remnants of His story. In return, He will refrain from judging you and your actions as well.
✋︎ 👌︎✋︎👎︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ ☞︎✌︎☼︎☜︎🕈︎☜︎☹︎☹︎📬︎
