[Doctor Who] Dear Doctor (not that one. The other one. Yeah.)
Dear Doctor 2.0/Hand!Doctor/Clone!Doctor etc.
This salutation shows just one of the reasons that I feel you got totally and utterly gypped in life. Neither the writers nor fandom has apparently decided what your proper name is (though I’m sure you’d say something along the lines of “I’m the Doctor. This body was created through excess regeneration energy and a spark of humanity, but I’m still him”).
In addition to this, you’ve just been left in a parallel universe without a TARDIS, abandoned by both of the people who had a hand (pun unintended) in your creation. You have the life-memories of a 900+ year-old Time Lord and a mostly human body that grants you perhaps a maximum of 65 more years of life, about half of which you’ll be limited by the debilitating effects of age. And you can probably feel every single second of those years ticking by. Your previous self condemned you for a genocide you spent years thinking you’d already committed, left all the hard words up to you, and basically asked a woman you’ve pinned your hopes and dreams on for the past 3-4 years to take care of you as something like a favor to him.
Not to mention that Rose can’t quite wrap her mind around your existence and who you are, and thus seems to have relegated you to the status of “consolation prize” (though your former self did nothing to change that perception).
Unfortunately, as a 900+ year-old alien who’s spent most of his life living in a sentient space/time ship with fiddly dimensional technology, you will be completely dependent on Rose and her knowledge of everyday human life for a while (You won’t mind much at first because you’re so ecstatic just to have her back, but pretty soon “real life” will drive you mad with boredom). You’ve only got one set of clothes and anything that happened to be in your pockets, and somehow I doubt you remembered to pick up the psychic paper or a spare sonic screwdriver (you probably don’t even have a spare). You get to spend some time in the gingerbread-house of a whole new universe, but you don’t get to leave. Unless you build your own interplanetary spaceship (and hey! That might muck up the course of human history!), you’re kinda stuck on Earth. For 65 years.
Good luck, dear Doctor (for you are the Doctor, if only inside your own head). We barely got to know you (or maybe we’ve known you forever), and you could’ve been brilliant, if the writers had let you.
Sincerely,
A friend.
P.S. You may want to take up running. As a sport. Just in case.
This salutation shows just one of the reasons that I feel you got totally and utterly gypped in life. Neither the writers nor fandom has apparently decided what your proper name is (though I’m sure you’d say something along the lines of “I’m the Doctor. This body was created through excess regeneration energy and a spark of humanity, but I’m still him”).
In addition to this, you’ve just been left in a parallel universe without a TARDIS, abandoned by both of the people who had a hand (pun unintended) in your creation. You have the life-memories of a 900+ year-old Time Lord and a mostly human body that grants you perhaps a maximum of 65 more years of life, about half of which you’ll be limited by the debilitating effects of age. And you can probably feel every single second of those years ticking by. Your previous self condemned you for a genocide you spent years thinking you’d already committed, left all the hard words up to you, and basically asked a woman you’ve pinned your hopes and dreams on for the past 3-4 years to take care of you as something like a favor to him.
Not to mention that Rose can’t quite wrap her mind around your existence and who you are, and thus seems to have relegated you to the status of “consolation prize” (though your former self did nothing to change that perception).
Unfortunately, as a 900+ year-old alien who’s spent most of his life living in a sentient space/time ship with fiddly dimensional technology, you will be completely dependent on Rose and her knowledge of everyday human life for a while (You won’t mind much at first because you’re so ecstatic just to have her back, but pretty soon “real life” will drive you mad with boredom). You’ve only got one set of clothes and anything that happened to be in your pockets, and somehow I doubt you remembered to pick up the psychic paper or a spare sonic screwdriver (you probably don’t even have a spare). You get to spend some time in the gingerbread-house of a whole new universe, but you don’t get to leave. Unless you build your own interplanetary spaceship (and hey! That might muck up the course of human history!), you’re kinda stuck on Earth. For 65 years.
Good luck, dear Doctor (for you are the Doctor, if only inside your own head). We barely got to know you (or maybe we’ve known you forever), and you could’ve been brilliant, if the writers had let you.
Sincerely,
A friend.
P.S. You may want to take up running. As a sport. Just in case.