(Untitled)
Because I'm bored while my other is sitting an exam and, on the lovely wendymr's prompting...
Pick a paragraph (or any passage less than 500 words) from any fanfic I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what' ( Read more... )
Pick a paragraph (or any passage less than 500 words) from any fanfic I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what' ( Read more... )
:P I'm sure she'll be brilliant at the exam.
Ok. So I'm tempted to try to demand commentary on 5 drabbles that add up to the specified word limit. But...
From chapter 5 of the tragically abandoned "Of Cowards and Killers"
Her voice is a whisper but it still slices through him.
“Oh, Doctor,” she says, freezing at the sight of his old body slumped next to the detonator.
He has to force himself to step past the threshold of the TARDIS, and when he does he can feel it straight away - the sheer and utter wrongness of the moment.
The Emperor is still there, watching him with his dull eye, and he thought he’d imagined it, dazed from the regeneration, but it still feels like they’re watching him, the Daleks and their dead eyes.
He knows, though, that it’s not just the echo of his memory that’s sending chills up his spine.
He shouldn’t be here - she shouldn’t be here - not like this.
“Rose, no!” he snaps, grabbing her around the waist as she tries to rush past him. “You can’t touch him.”
“Let go of me,” she growls, trying to twist free. “Let me go!”
“You can’t touch him,” he repeats, keeping his voice low as he tightens his hold.
“He really did it,” she says, slumping in his arms, “you really did it.” Her voice is low, and he thinks her words might be for him, but her eyes are glued to the prone figure across the room.
She chokes on the last word. “He’s really dead.”
“Watch,” he says, “it’s starting.” And sure enough, a flicker of gold ripples through the prone figure.
She flinches. “What was that?”
“The miracle of life,” he mutters, his voice bitter.
She turns her head away, pressing her face into his shoulder as the next surge of energy makes the body jerk.
He watches him, the man he was, wrapped in the same clothes he’s still wearing, and he can’t help the burning seed of hate. For him, for her, for all of it.
“You need to watch,” he says, turning her back. “You wanted proof.”
“Is it hurting him?” she asks, and when he turns to look at her he can see the silent tears on her cheeks.
“On some level,” he says, “it always hurts, but I don’t remember there being any pain this time. I think I was too far gone.”
“I can’t just stand here and watch it happen,” she says, pulling away and slipping from his grasp.
“You have to,” he says, and he almost has her but she brushes past the shell of a Dalek and he jerks backwards. “Always what the universe can do for you,” he says, and it’s enough.
She freezes, her gaze flicking to him before another burst of light ripples through his ninth body and her eyes are drawn back.
“Don’t,” she says, the plea in her voice unmistakable.
“You can’t touch him,” he says. “It already happened and you weren’t there when it did.”
“I can’t just watch,” she says, but her words are lost as the next ripple of energy flows through the man.
“Someone should,” he replies, distracted, as the hair on the back of his neck stands on end.
He can feel the prickle of energy as it slices through the air and then the light crackles through his ninth body for the last time and the man he was becomes the man he is.
He doesn’t watch.
She does.
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