Gallifrey ficlets
Tumblr is addictive. I think the main reason is that it's so active - compared to tumblr, LJ is a ghost town, or a film in slow motion. I wish you could somehow combine tumblr's liveliness with LJ's far superior comment function - what annoys me most is that you can't really reply to comments on tumblr, so any kind of interactivity is severely limited.
Anyway, my newly found tumblr addiction has caused two Gallifrey ficlets to happen (there is, like, an honest to god living Gallifrey fandom on tumblr!)
Title: Intervention Agency
Rating: all ages
Characters: Narvin, Romana, Gallifrey cast
Spoilers: Set in S1 or S2 of Gallifrey, no spoilers
There comes a point after too many sleepless nights when sleep is no longer the solution - the dreams would be to restless, shaped by work and more work and the haunting certainty that it won’t ever be enough. When Narvin reaches that point where it’s impossible to remain productive without some form of rest, he goes back to an old trick: surveillance footage. It’s an open secret that the CIA has mechanical eyes and ears everywhere. They’re watching all of Gallifrey, a silent, constant presence, like parents keeping an eye on their children even while they work.
He turns on a random channel, and follows someone go about their life until his own mind goes blank. He watches them do things that he has no time to do, no interest in doing, not the peace of mind to even consider doing. They tend to gardens and collect curious hats, they argue with their spouses, and fruitlessly complain about politics, they conduct secret affairs and pass on rumors at work.
Narvin never intentionally watches people he knows, because the point is to relax, and to watch the people he knows personally would be work. But sometimes it happens, and sometimes he isn’t quick enough to switch channels, and he sees things he wasn’t looking for. When it happens, it feels uncomfortable, almost humiliating even though no one else knows he’s watching. It reminds that what he’s doing isn’t strictly professional, that there’s no logical excuse for doing what he does.
He never tells a soul about the things he sees. He doesn’t tell anyone that Darkel spends her nights off doing needlework and making video calls to all her nephews and nieces. He doesn’t ever confront Leela about the picture of him she uses to practice her knife-throwing skills, or the fact that she sometimes sings to herself when she does so. He never asks Braxiatel why he spends hours talking to himself in front of the mirror - for all Narvin knows, it’s an alien form of art or highly developed narcissism.
Once, Darkel suggests that it would be all too easy to spread a rumor that Romana is too frail, too unstable to be President any longer.
“Do you really think anyone would believe that?” he asks in surprise.
“Oh,” Darkel says, with a meaningful look in his direction, “she’s very good at hiding it, of course, but I’m sure that few things escape the watchful eyes of the CIA.”
And suddenly Narvin remembers something that he tried his best to forget, something that makes his face heat with embarrassment - for himself, for Romana, for Darkel, he isn’t sure. What Darkel means, of course, is just that people would believe him if he claimed he had evidence, or that he could forge it if necessary. What Darkel doesn’t know is that Narvin has seen exactly the sort of thing she means.
“My job is to ensure the continued safety of Gallifrey and the President, not to do psych evaluations,” he tells Darkel, in a tone so harsh she raises both brows at him, and looks like a cat who smells a canary.
“Of course,” Darkel says. “Far be it from me to suggest a strategy you’re… not comfortable with, Coordinator.”
Spying on the President isn’t strictly within the rights of the Chief Coordinator of the CIA. And Narvin hasn’t done it, not since the first time he accidentally hit the bug in Romana’s private rooms during his nightly channel surfing. But the conversation with Darkel won’t stop bothering him.
He tells himself that he never saw Romana have a nervous meltdown. What he saw was Romana, alone in her quarters, staring at reports without seeing them, doing nothing for hours. What he saw was Romana too exhausted to sleep. What he saw was Romana not having a meltdown while no one was watching - no one except him.
Something about what he saw tells him that Romana is very good at not having meltdowns. That she’s practiced a lot, and with practice comes ease.
Narvin isn’t above a little palace intrigue. He breaks the law in the name of duty all the time. He resents Romana enough to put up a picture of her to practice his staser skills, if that couldn’t be construed as treason.
But the thought of revealing that he’s watched her in secret, that he’s done something so wholly unprofessional and at the same time so strangely intimate makes his hands sweat and his stomach turn. It’s wrong, from start to finish, and Narvin would love to make himself forget what he knows.
When that doesn’t work (three more sleepless nights despite slow days at the office) he figures that if he can’t make the problem go away, he needs to solve it. The obvious solution is to tell Romana to take a holiday, but that would be : a) far too embarrassing for both of them and b) not what Narvin would do in her place.
(Besides, he has a feeling she’d rip him to shreds if he dared to so much as imply that she’s going crazy.)
So he watches Romana again. It doesn’t take long, and mercifully, he’s spared any more intimate insights into the Lady President, before he finds her staring into space again, her hands very still in their lap, never shaking.
The message he sends her is completely anonymous. Even with her level of Matrix access she won’t be able who it’s from. In it he includes the access codes to several handpicked feeds. Not his favourites, Narvin doesn’t have favourites, but they’re the ones he deems most likely to relax Romana - Cardinal Jonastra, who keeps a whole zoo of genetically modified pets named after prominent political figures (Narvin is particularly amused by Braxiatel, a truly hideous mix between poisonous spider and puppy-dog), a Patrexian Academy student named Livox who is trying to build a TARDIS from scratch in a broom cupboard (if she ever succeeds, Narvin will probably have to arrest or recruit her, because unlicensed TARDISes would be a temporal nightmare, but the math on her blackboard is beautiful), an ancient, slightly mad archivist whose hobby it is to open a random file within the Matrix and insert acerbic commentary of the sort that makes Narvin chuckle.
He doesn’t wait to see Romana’s reaction. The next council meeting is confirmation enough. She looks more rested than usual, almost cheerful, and makes a biting comment about budget reports that Narvin recognizes as the archivist’s trademark sense of humor.
Romana is still his enemy, in every political sense, but the sour look on Darkel’s face makes Narvin feel almost smug. Belatedly, he understands why. The smear campaign Darkel suggested wouldn’t just have been embarrassing for Narvin. It would have been unfair to Romana as well. She may be irritable, shrill, overly sentimental, occasionally irrational - but the reason she can’t sleep some nights is not because she’s mad. It’s because she’s given too much of herself to Gallifrey.
If only we had anything else in common, Narvin catches himself thinking.
Title: Childless
Rating:all ages
Characters: Leela/Andred
Spoilers: set shortly after "Invasion of Time", no spoilers
They only spoke about it once, in their third year, when Leela was still trying to count the months and keep track of the passing of time. One night Andred asked, “Would you like to have children?”
The question startled Leela into silence. When she had chosen the path of the warrior, her father had mourned for the grandchildren he was never likely to have. A warrior of the Sevateem lived a hard, dangerous life, and few lasted long enough to grow old. And by the time they were too old to fight, most women were also too old to bear children.
Life on Gallifrey had no real dangers to offer. The deadliest animal here were other people, and the worst sting Leela was likely to suffer was from their words.
“What would they be like?” she asked, because she could not imagine. “Our children?”
“Beautiful,” Andred said, “and clever, and fierce. Like you.”
No, like you, Leela thought. Beautiful and clever and fierce. “And alien,” she said. “Like me.”
Andred frowned. “We’d fight for them,” he promised. “I swear to you, Leela, they would have the same rights as any other child on Gallifrey.”
Leela hesitated, trying to put her thoughts into words. It was difficult, because in her heart they were clear and simple, but on her lips they became clumsy. “I do not want that,” she said. “I do not want your rights, not for me and not for my children. I would dress like you, and learn to talk like you, and I would be serious and civ-i-lised all day, if I wanted your rights.”
Andred laughed a little. “Are you sure? Do you understand what I mean by rights?”
Leela turned away from him. “I understand what you mean, but it is not what I mean.”
When Andred said ‘rights’, he meant law and politics, all the things Time Lords would never stop talking about. When Andred said ‘rights’, he meant something that could be taken away.
“I am strong, Andred,” she said softly, and touched her knives for reassurance. “I know who I am, and no one can take that away. But if any child of ours would have to live like this, I’d kill anyone who tried to turn them into Time Lords.”
“I’m a Time Lord,” Andred said, and grinned. “You like me. They could be Time Lords like me.”
Leela touched his face, tenderly cupping his cheek. “There are no Time Lords like you,” she told him. “Sometimes… sometimes I think I did the wrong thing. I should not have stayed here with you. I should have take you with me, so you could know what it is like to roam wild and free…”
Andred turned his face and kissed her wrist. “I knew,” he whispered. “I knew the moment I first saw you.”
Anyway, my newly found tumblr addiction has caused two Gallifrey ficlets to happen (there is, like, an honest to god living Gallifrey fandom on tumblr!)
Title: Intervention Agency
Rating: all ages
Characters: Narvin, Romana, Gallifrey cast
Spoilers: Set in S1 or S2 of Gallifrey, no spoilers
There comes a point after too many sleepless nights when sleep is no longer the solution - the dreams would be to restless, shaped by work and more work and the haunting certainty that it won’t ever be enough. When Narvin reaches that point where it’s impossible to remain productive without some form of rest, he goes back to an old trick: surveillance footage. It’s an open secret that the CIA has mechanical eyes and ears everywhere. They’re watching all of Gallifrey, a silent, constant presence, like parents keeping an eye on their children even while they work.
He turns on a random channel, and follows someone go about their life until his own mind goes blank. He watches them do things that he has no time to do, no interest in doing, not the peace of mind to even consider doing. They tend to gardens and collect curious hats, they argue with their spouses, and fruitlessly complain about politics, they conduct secret affairs and pass on rumors at work.
Narvin never intentionally watches people he knows, because the point is to relax, and to watch the people he knows personally would be work. But sometimes it happens, and sometimes he isn’t quick enough to switch channels, and he sees things he wasn’t looking for. When it happens, it feels uncomfortable, almost humiliating even though no one else knows he’s watching. It reminds that what he’s doing isn’t strictly professional, that there’s no logical excuse for doing what he does.
He never tells a soul about the things he sees. He doesn’t tell anyone that Darkel spends her nights off doing needlework and making video calls to all her nephews and nieces. He doesn’t ever confront Leela about the picture of him she uses to practice her knife-throwing skills, or the fact that she sometimes sings to herself when she does so. He never asks Braxiatel why he spends hours talking to himself in front of the mirror - for all Narvin knows, it’s an alien form of art or highly developed narcissism.
Once, Darkel suggests that it would be all too easy to spread a rumor that Romana is too frail, too unstable to be President any longer.
“Do you really think anyone would believe that?” he asks in surprise.
“Oh,” Darkel says, with a meaningful look in his direction, “she’s very good at hiding it, of course, but I’m sure that few things escape the watchful eyes of the CIA.”
And suddenly Narvin remembers something that he tried his best to forget, something that makes his face heat with embarrassment - for himself, for Romana, for Darkel, he isn’t sure. What Darkel means, of course, is just that people would believe him if he claimed he had evidence, or that he could forge it if necessary. What Darkel doesn’t know is that Narvin has seen exactly the sort of thing she means.
“My job is to ensure the continued safety of Gallifrey and the President, not to do psych evaluations,” he tells Darkel, in a tone so harsh she raises both brows at him, and looks like a cat who smells a canary.
“Of course,” Darkel says. “Far be it from me to suggest a strategy you’re… not comfortable with, Coordinator.”
Spying on the President isn’t strictly within the rights of the Chief Coordinator of the CIA. And Narvin hasn’t done it, not since the first time he accidentally hit the bug in Romana’s private rooms during his nightly channel surfing. But the conversation with Darkel won’t stop bothering him.
He tells himself that he never saw Romana have a nervous meltdown. What he saw was Romana, alone in her quarters, staring at reports without seeing them, doing nothing for hours. What he saw was Romana too exhausted to sleep. What he saw was Romana not having a meltdown while no one was watching - no one except him.
Something about what he saw tells him that Romana is very good at not having meltdowns. That she’s practiced a lot, and with practice comes ease.
Narvin isn’t above a little palace intrigue. He breaks the law in the name of duty all the time. He resents Romana enough to put up a picture of her to practice his staser skills, if that couldn’t be construed as treason.
But the thought of revealing that he’s watched her in secret, that he’s done something so wholly unprofessional and at the same time so strangely intimate makes his hands sweat and his stomach turn. It’s wrong, from start to finish, and Narvin would love to make himself forget what he knows.
When that doesn’t work (three more sleepless nights despite slow days at the office) he figures that if he can’t make the problem go away, he needs to solve it. The obvious solution is to tell Romana to take a holiday, but that would be : a) far too embarrassing for both of them and b) not what Narvin would do in her place.
(Besides, he has a feeling she’d rip him to shreds if he dared to so much as imply that she’s going crazy.)
So he watches Romana again. It doesn’t take long, and mercifully, he’s spared any more intimate insights into the Lady President, before he finds her staring into space again, her hands very still in their lap, never shaking.
The message he sends her is completely anonymous. Even with her level of Matrix access she won’t be able who it’s from. In it he includes the access codes to several handpicked feeds. Not his favourites, Narvin doesn’t have favourites, but they’re the ones he deems most likely to relax Romana - Cardinal Jonastra, who keeps a whole zoo of genetically modified pets named after prominent political figures (Narvin is particularly amused by Braxiatel, a truly hideous mix between poisonous spider and puppy-dog), a Patrexian Academy student named Livox who is trying to build a TARDIS from scratch in a broom cupboard (if she ever succeeds, Narvin will probably have to arrest or recruit her, because unlicensed TARDISes would be a temporal nightmare, but the math on her blackboard is beautiful), an ancient, slightly mad archivist whose hobby it is to open a random file within the Matrix and insert acerbic commentary of the sort that makes Narvin chuckle.
He doesn’t wait to see Romana’s reaction. The next council meeting is confirmation enough. She looks more rested than usual, almost cheerful, and makes a biting comment about budget reports that Narvin recognizes as the archivist’s trademark sense of humor.
Romana is still his enemy, in every political sense, but the sour look on Darkel’s face makes Narvin feel almost smug. Belatedly, he understands why. The smear campaign Darkel suggested wouldn’t just have been embarrassing for Narvin. It would have been unfair to Romana as well. She may be irritable, shrill, overly sentimental, occasionally irrational - but the reason she can’t sleep some nights is not because she’s mad. It’s because she’s given too much of herself to Gallifrey.
If only we had anything else in common, Narvin catches himself thinking.
Title: Childless
Rating:all ages
Characters: Leela/Andred
Spoilers: set shortly after "Invasion of Time", no spoilers
They only spoke about it once, in their third year, when Leela was still trying to count the months and keep track of the passing of time. One night Andred asked, “Would you like to have children?”
The question startled Leela into silence. When she had chosen the path of the warrior, her father had mourned for the grandchildren he was never likely to have. A warrior of the Sevateem lived a hard, dangerous life, and few lasted long enough to grow old. And by the time they were too old to fight, most women were also too old to bear children.
Life on Gallifrey had no real dangers to offer. The deadliest animal here were other people, and the worst sting Leela was likely to suffer was from their words.
“What would they be like?” she asked, because she could not imagine. “Our children?”
“Beautiful,” Andred said, “and clever, and fierce. Like you.”
No, like you, Leela thought. Beautiful and clever and fierce. “And alien,” she said. “Like me.”
Andred frowned. “We’d fight for them,” he promised. “I swear to you, Leela, they would have the same rights as any other child on Gallifrey.”
Leela hesitated, trying to put her thoughts into words. It was difficult, because in her heart they were clear and simple, but on her lips they became clumsy. “I do not want that,” she said. “I do not want your rights, not for me and not for my children. I would dress like you, and learn to talk like you, and I would be serious and civ-i-lised all day, if I wanted your rights.”
Andred laughed a little. “Are you sure? Do you understand what I mean by rights?”
Leela turned away from him. “I understand what you mean, but it is not what I mean.”
When Andred said ‘rights’, he meant law and politics, all the things Time Lords would never stop talking about. When Andred said ‘rights’, he meant something that could be taken away.
“I am strong, Andred,” she said softly, and touched her knives for reassurance. “I know who I am, and no one can take that away. But if any child of ours would have to live like this, I’d kill anyone who tried to turn them into Time Lords.”
“I’m a Time Lord,” Andred said, and grinned. “You like me. They could be Time Lords like me.”
Leela touched his face, tenderly cupping his cheek. “There are no Time Lords like you,” she told him. “Sometimes… sometimes I think I did the wrong thing. I should not have stayed here with you. I should have take you with me, so you could know what it is like to roam wild and free…”
Andred turned his face and kissed her wrist. “I knew,” he whispered. “I knew the moment I first saw you.”