Doctor Who - 01 - Past Future Continuous

07. The Psychic Wallpaper

There was nothing in the cell that could be unscrewed, wedged, smashed, moved or even scratched with his fingernails. After a couple of hours of experiments the Doctor was absolutely sure of that. A box virtually moulded out of a single piece of metal. To be precise, moulded out of a heavy duty plastimetallic alloy; the fact he discovered by knocking on and licking the walls. Without his sonic screwdriver he could not find out much more.

He was now striding from one wall to the other (five steps each way, or more accurately, five steps and a tiny little bit of a sixth one – just enough space for an energetic turn), coat's tails flapping, arms folded behind his back. His body had managed to regenerate enough blood for him not to feel dizzy anymore and the wound on the back of his head had closed a while ago. The Time Lord's body was unequalled in regeneration and healing.

The Doctor was walking and talking to himself; a never-ending monologue reminding a conversation with an invisible interlocutor.

"Parameters typical of the Serian prison unit, but... nooo... It's not convincing, maybe a coincidence... and a high concentration of the plastimetallic alloy, yes, but not only Serians, so maybe... Yes! ...No, it doesn't prove anything... And why?"

He reached the wall and turned.

"Light... very specific... no, the light source... It's not Serian technology and certainly it's not Serian modus operandae..."

He made another sharp turn by the opposite wall; his forehead wrinkled in deep concentration.

"My greatest fan... Do I have fans? Well, why not, I could have. Just, why on earth, would they be psychopathic collectors of test subject?! Do I draw such kind of fans?"

Another turn.

"Blood... Bloooooood... Goodnight, sweet prince? Shakespeare? Or another coincidence? I'm not on Earth."

He paused in the middle of the cell.

"I'm not on Earth. Different gravity. Artificial gravitation then, rotary motion, sooo primitive, out of synch with the use of the plastimetallic alloy... A starship, a space station, maybe a rig... An extraction rig! Yes, that's it, this sound, this sound, ion drive, it must be... Ooooh, but all of it belongs to different times, different ages! It's a granary of mismatched materials and technologies. A dump. A scrap yard. A lumber-room."

He pressed a fist to his lips and for a moment mumbled unintelligibly under his breath. He turned suddenly, lifting his head and thrusting forward his pointy chin. He stood for a moment, listening, then in desperation he lifted both hands and tousled his already dishevelled hair. With one hand still entangled in his crop of hair, he moved the other one down, across his narrow face, elongating it even more with this gesture.

"Ooo, but this is clever," he said with a tone of admiration. "Very clever. Cleverly hidden identity. But whose?"

"I've got too many enemies." He picked up his five-step hike from wall to wall. "Yes. Too many enemies; can't make heads and tails of them. Maybe I should take a stock. A register. A chronicle... No, some sort of an alphabetical index... Ha!"

Leaning against the wall he started counting, bending successive fingers:

"A for Absorbaloff! And for Anne Droid! B for Blon Fel Fotch Passameer-Day Slitheen! C for the Cybermen! The Carrionites! ...Cobb! D for the Daleks! And for the Devil by the way! Same thing. G for the Gelth! J for Jagrafess of the Holly Hadrojasic Maxarodenfoe! K for the Krillitans! Max Capricorn! Pirovillians! Plazmavores! The Racnoss! The Sontarans! Sycorax! Toclofanes! Vashta Nerada! Vespiforms! The Weeping Angels... and some who should remain unnamed. And it is only a brief survey of last few years!"

He turned his eyes towards the ceiling, grimacing bitterly.

"And just when I decided to renounce violence and really give peace a chance... Air exchange! Ha!"

A single jump positioned him in the middle of the cell again.

"How long have I been here? Long enough to use up all the oxygen in the room, so air has to be replaced, or filtered, so there must be some sort of air vents, or of a filter, so against appearances these are not cast walls, it's just me, I can't see something, and why...?"

He lifted his arms, easily touching the ceiling.

"A Chameleon Circuit?" he asked, brushing it with his fingers. "A cloaking device? A slightly psychic wallpaper? A spot I wouldn't touch, I just wouldn't want to touch, because I would have no reason to do it?"

The Doctor chuckled when his fingers found an invisible indentation in the ceiling. Almost simultaneously he screamed in pain. His body hit the wall and slid towards the floor.

"Have we learned something new?" asked his oppressor's voice.

"Ow!" said the Doctor, pushing his painfully clenched fingers under his arms.

"Have we learned not to poke our fingers between the door and a doorframe?"

"We have learned where the door is," answered the Doctor, a shadow of the smile on his face.

"A word of warning, then. Next time the energy field will be strong enough to fry us in the spot," the voice said. "So, let us forget about the doors and concentrate on tests."

"What te... owww!"

A narrow beam of light pierced the cell's semi-darkness, cut through the coat, suit jacket and Doctor's chest, to disperse finally on the opposite wall.

"For instance, we will assess the rate of your recovery."

"It's quick enough, thank you," gasped the Doctor from the cell's floor.

"A famous Time Lord's regeneration?" asked the voice. "Let's test its powers. Let's see what and how you can regenerate. And let's see what you cannot regenerate at all."

"Enough," said the Doctor. Mockery disappeared from his voice, madness disappeared, even fear was gone. It was a stern, controlled tone of somebody who knows his own strength and believes in his own words. "Enough. I've given you a chance to back off. You didn't take it. We will meet again, face to face, and I will destroy you. You know that. So, better start running. Run long and far. Now."

Walls of the cell begun to emanate a pale blue light.

"An empty threat. A ridiculous threat. Murderer of billions, killer, Time Lord, we will never face each other. Your time is at its end. Your time ends, just as the time of all of us. Because everything has its end, and everything dies."

In increasing brightness the Doctor felt as if surrounding walls were spinning. He outstretched his arms, but failed to get a hold of anything. He slid onto his side and curled on the floor. Somebody was laughing above him; laughing without any joy; the terrible, painful laughter of a creature devoid of all hope