Cathect - A Doctor Who Spin-Off

The Song of Mourning

"Doctor Donna Friends. Doctor Donna Friends. Doctor Donna Friends." 

It was only one of the many harmonizing lines in the song of the Ood. The song pulsated in the Editor's mind as she stepped foot on the Ood Sphere. 

"For 'friends', the Doctor and Donna left quite the mess," the Editor sniffed. She knew that it couldn't really be helped; saving a race from slavery was bound to be a bit bloody. But looking at all of the soldiers, people in suits, and Ood scattered on the snowy ground still left the Editor feeling a bit miffed. 

Without a moment to lose, the Editor set to cleaning up like it was any Spring Cleaning on her TARDIS. 

It was quite the sight. One woman, dressed in a neat 1940's Victory suit, dragging the bloody bodies of Ood and soldiers to their separate piles. Her heels crunched in the snow, and her neatly curled hair and A-line skirt blew in the frigid wind. The blazer was little protection against the freezing environment, but the difficult work warmed the Timelady up nicely. 

"You are not Doctor-Donna Friends," said a polite voice from behind her. 

The Editor straightened up, turning to face an Ood with a translator glowing in his hand. 

"Oh! Er, no. I'm the Editor. I'm the Doctor's friend." The Editor wondered if it was polite to shake hands with an Ood. 

"Doctor-Donna-Editor Friends?" The Ood tilted his head, side-ways eyes blinking serenely. 

The Editor frowned slightly. "No... we're separate beings." 

"I do not understand," said the Ood in the overly-polite voice coming from the translation device. 

"The Ood are all connected to the Ood Brain, like a hive mind, correct?" the Editor asked. "We have no such Brain. Each of us has only one." 

"I now understand," said the Ood. "Doctor and Donna Friends. Editor Friend?" 

Grammar did get a bit tricky when translating from a unified song. 

"I'm a friend," the Editor assured him. "I want to help you. How can I do that?" 

"The Ood are not to be served," said the Ood. 

"Think of it as making up for the terrible things that were done to you." The Editor's eyes fell on the translation ball again, glowing each time it turned telepathy into spoken words. 

"You are cleaning up," said the Ood. "We are building civilization. This is all the help that we will need for now." 

The Editor smiled at the Ood. "Do you have a name?" 

"I was called Delta 21," the Ood replied. "I should now be a part of the Circle. The Circle is no longer broken. But I am still Delta 21." 

"Oh dear." The Editor's smile faded. What in the name of Gallifrey did you do now, Doctor? she thought with exasperation. "Are you the only one?" 

"The other Ood are a part of the Circle," Delta 21 replied. 

"Well, why on the Horsehead Nebula did you not tell me you needed help with that? When I've finished cleaning up, I'll look into why you're not a part of this Circle yet. I'll fix it," the Editor promised. 

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I still made promises loosely in those days. I did not realize the weight of my comment. I did not realize what an effect it would have on my life, both then and forever after. Promises are like wishes. They are so fragile by themselves; they are only as strong as the one who makes them.