Ficlet: Disillusioned
[ooc: a brief little drabbly thing, inspired by some RL stuff]
"You're the Doctor? I thought you'd be older!"
The barrage begins, checkmarks ticked off on a list of well-meaning but ultimately belittling mentions. Older. Taller. Trimmer. Imperious. Assertive. A reputation bears much more weight than a singular man can haul himself, even when he embodies the rank of Time Lord.
You're never quite what they expect. Blame the random quirks of regeneration, genetic material reformatted, reforged into something new, different, more comfortable for you.
For you, but not for others.
The curve of your jaw suggests you're too young. The mode of your dress suggests not a gallant champion of history but a jester. Bright reds, oranges, pale beiges, and whites. Fool's colors. The sprig of green sewn upon your coat does nothing to dissuade opinions. Neither do the question marks.
Some sit in judgment of you, placing upon you expectations too frustrating to reach, too unlike you to matter. Your mentors saw such heights in your future, if only you'd care to reach out for them. The title of Lord President of Gallifrey practically falls into your lap, ready for the taking.
And you flee.
You don't live for accolades, don't care to settle into the quaint labels laid out so neatly for you. You've witnessed galaxies born and die, skimmed across the stars from one end of Time to the other, protecting the sanctity of life throughout.
Why stop for the dullards who deem you disappointing? Why attempt to change your ways for the sole sake of bringing others' desires to fruition, when there is still so much to experience, to learn, and to share?
You are the Doctor, and your reputation precedes you. Heaven help anyone who dares stand in your way.
Character: The Fifth Doctor
Word Count: 286
"You're the Doctor? I thought you'd be older!"
The barrage begins, checkmarks ticked off on a list of well-meaning but ultimately belittling mentions. Older. Taller. Trimmer. Imperious. Assertive. A reputation bears much more weight than a singular man can haul himself, even when he embodies the rank of Time Lord.
You're never quite what they expect. Blame the random quirks of regeneration, genetic material reformatted, reforged into something new, different, more comfortable for you.
For you, but not for others.
The curve of your jaw suggests you're too young. The mode of your dress suggests not a gallant champion of history but a jester. Bright reds, oranges, pale beiges, and whites. Fool's colors. The sprig of green sewn upon your coat does nothing to dissuade opinions. Neither do the question marks.
Some sit in judgment of you, placing upon you expectations too frustrating to reach, too unlike you to matter. Your mentors saw such heights in your future, if only you'd care to reach out for them. The title of Lord President of Gallifrey practically falls into your lap, ready for the taking.
And you flee.
You don't live for accolades, don't care to settle into the quaint labels laid out so neatly for you. You've witnessed galaxies born and die, skimmed across the stars from one end of Time to the other, protecting the sanctity of life throughout.
Why stop for the dullards who deem you disappointing? Why attempt to change your ways for the sole sake of bringing others' desires to fruition, when there is still so much to experience, to learn, and to share?
You are the Doctor, and your reputation precedes you. Heaven help anyone who dares stand in your way.
Character: The Fifth Doctor
Word Count: 286