October Third (Hero Worship) (1/1)
Title: October Third (Hero Worship)
Characters: Martha
Word Count: 1,545
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. *sniff*
Spoilers: Up to “The Sound of Drums.”
Summary: Martha Jones doesn’t think of herself as a hero.
Author's Notes: For 365days_fiction. Infinite thanks to the always amazing eponymous_rose for her wonderful beta help. This is an odd style for me, and my first try at writing Martha, so any concrit is most welcome. Thank you for your time!
Martha Jones doesn’t think of herself as a hero.
Never in her past life did she imagine that she would have an opportunity to be one, all those months ago when she had still been ordinary. There would be the odd patient that took a liking to her, hopefully a few lives saved, perhaps a couple family disasters diverted.
But Martha hadn’t realized when she’d signed on with the Doctor that an entire world would, one day, depend on her.
And so it’s odd, three months into her quest on the third of October, when she walks into a small town and someone knows her.
“You’re Martha Jones, aren’t you?” the man asks, his head tilted slightly to the left and bug-eyes narrowed as he studies her.
“Yes,” she replies warily, sizing up the worn and hunched figure from a distance, pondering the possibilities of a Saxon spy taking on the disguise of a middle-aged farmer. She wonders if he’s likely to have family in one of the Master’s slave camps, speculates if this man would be willing to turn her in to give them an extra ration of food.
And she can tell he’s doing the same as he leans against a post of the fence that borders the town, no doubt musing about how much an imposter could make by informing the authorities of one willing to shelter the renegade Martha Jones.
Time seems to halt and lengthen as they regard one another, suspicious and apprehensive, willing to bolt should the other make an irregular motion.
And in that suspended instant, she resists the compulsion to laugh at how they all used to trust so easily.
Instead she smiles, holds out her arms in a show of peace, and shrugs helplessly. As if to say that she’s at his mercy, that what she says or doesn’t say will do little to shake his control of the situation.
She has become very good, in these past months, at allowing people to believe that they hold the power in a world in which everyone had become powerless.
This seems to satisfy him, and he pushes off from the post with a grin on his face, motioning down a small dirt road. “Well, we’d best get going then.”
“Going where, exactly?” she questions, still wary.
“To the meeting, of course.” He smiles and she can see that he has several gaps in his teeth, that a few have been knocked out through hardships she could only imagine. “We’re expecting you.”
She takes a step back, squeezes the key in her pocket reassuringly, prepared to slip the cord that holds it over her head, ready to run. “Expecting me?”
Now he’s the one holding out his arms, taking a hesitant step towards her. “Now don’t get like that.”
She says nothing, starting to pull the key out of her jacket.
The man flinches, eyes widening as he watches her hand with fear.
He thinks she has a gun.
“Wait, wait!” He yells, retreating slightly, arms still held out in peace. “My cousin, Julia? She sent word ahead about you.”
Thinking it best not to discourage the notion that she has a weapon, she keeps her hand poised in her pocket. “How?” she asks coldly.
He gulps. “E-mail.”
“The Master.” The man frowns in confusion. “Saxon,” she clarifies. “He shut down the internet.”
The farmer shakes his head. “Not here, not yet. Hasn’t had the time, what with taking over the world. There are a few servers left, small ones.”
“There aren’t any computers either. How did she send it to you?”
“She hid her computer from those spheres and wired up a connection to the server.” He jerks his head, indicating the path. “One of the shop-keepers in the town, he has a laptop connected to the same server. That’s how we got it.” He looks at her pleadingly. “That’s why I’m here. They sent me to wait for you.”
It’s the terrified way he’s staring at her, more than anything else, that makes her believe him. True fear is a difficult thing to feign.
“Who?” she questions, still harsh. Best to keep him scared a bit longer, if she wants the truth.
“The town.”
She slowly removes her hand from her pocket. “To wait for me?” She frowns. “Why?”
He's visibly more relaxed when she takes her hand from her pocket, and finally looks up to her face once he is certain that she has no intention of threatening him further.
He smirks when he sees her confounded expression. “Because Julia said you’re something - someone - to believe in.” He turns, heading down the dirt road, expecting her to follow without looking behind to check. Then, said so softly to the vast expanse of dirt in front of them that she almost thinks she imagines it, he mutters, “And we need that again.”
She’s so startled by the statement that she doesn’t think to ask any questions (Where are they going? How did he avoid the camps? Is he working for anyone?) as she follows him down the path.
Ten minutes pass before she can think of anything to say at all.
“You shouldn’t.”
He turns and throws her a puzzled glance over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in question.
“Shouldn’t believe in me.” It’s terribly important that she make that point clear, that everyone understand that crucial detail.
Because Martha Jones isn’t a hero.
He lets out a bark that could be a laugh. “Why not? Saxon’s looking all over for you, like he’s terrified of you. Like you can kill him.” He stops walking suddenly, facing her and staring intently, hopefully. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To tell us how to kill him?”
She wonders who this man lost, to want to kill so fervently.
“No,” she says, and tries not to notice the disappointment apparent in his features. “I’m here to tell you about the Doctor.”
The farmer sighs before he turns and begins to walk once more.
She hastens to catch up. “He’s who you should believe in, not me.”
“The what?” he calls out from in front of her, pace quickening.
“The Doctor.”
“And what’s so special about him?” he asks in a bored, indulging tone.
Everything, she thinks, but refuses to say. Instead she begins her practiced speech in earnest. “He’s like Saxon, but better. Good. He can control space and time, and he’s been watching over us for hundreds of years, saving our lives without us even knowing it.”
She thinks she sees him falter a bit in his rapid stride, thinks that perhaps she might have convinced this one.
She continues. “He’s all-powerful and ancient, he’s forever, he can save us now like he’s saved us before, and all we’ve got to do is believe in him.”
She hears a sound from him, something like a snort.
“What?” she questions as she jogs a bit, trying to catch up to him. “Don’t you trust me?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, sure I do. Times like these, why not?” He stops again, turning to her once more, an amused expression on his face. “Really, that sounds all well and good, he sounds all well and good.” He looks at her, and she thinks she sees a flicker of helplessness shine in his eyes. “But where’s he now?”
And she doesn’t know what to say, only knows that, whatever explanation she offers him, it can’t be the truth. Anything but that.
He’s trapped, imprisoned by the Master. The man who can save us all needs saving, and it’s up to you, to us, to do it.
No, a declaration of that kind isn’t the sort that inspires faith.
So she simply gapes, opening her mouth only to close it when no words - at least not the right ones - come to mind.
The farmer smiles at her kindly, as if her uncertainty is amusing, perhaps even foolish, in his eyes.
“Cause you see, Miss Jones, I’ve never heard of this Doctor. He’s an idea to me, a figment. And me, I’m a man of facts. I don’t like trusting what my eyes can’t see.”
She deflates at the words, feeling the sharp sting of failure in her mind, the knowledge that the Doctor has one less person strengthening him, one less person to save him, clawing at her.
But then he carries on. “So, yes, I’m sure your Doctor’s wielding a mighty power the likes of which I’d never understand.” He finds her eyes with his own bulging ones. “But he’s not the one walking down this dirt road to my town right now.”
She furrows her brow in puzzlement. “Does that mean-”
“Oh, I’ll believe in him, sure I will.” He grins. “But only because you asked me to.”
And for an instant she swears that she feels her world sway at his words, though she doesn’t understand why.
“Just remember, Martha Jones.” He nudges her gently with an elbow, still smiling. “I believed in you first.” With one last smirk, he turns on his heel and charges ahead, following the path once more.
It is then, as she trails after the man down the dirt road to an unknown town, that Martha Jones first considers the possibility that she’s heroic.
Characters: Martha
Word Count: 1,545
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. *sniff*
Spoilers: Up to “The Sound of Drums.”
Summary: Martha Jones doesn’t think of herself as a hero.
Author's Notes: For 365days_fiction. Infinite thanks to the always amazing eponymous_rose for her wonderful beta help. This is an odd style for me, and my first try at writing Martha, so any concrit is most welcome. Thank you for your time!
Martha Jones doesn’t think of herself as a hero.
Never in her past life did she imagine that she would have an opportunity to be one, all those months ago when she had still been ordinary. There would be the odd patient that took a liking to her, hopefully a few lives saved, perhaps a couple family disasters diverted.
But Martha hadn’t realized when she’d signed on with the Doctor that an entire world would, one day, depend on her.
And so it’s odd, three months into her quest on the third of October, when she walks into a small town and someone knows her.
“You’re Martha Jones, aren’t you?” the man asks, his head tilted slightly to the left and bug-eyes narrowed as he studies her.
“Yes,” she replies warily, sizing up the worn and hunched figure from a distance, pondering the possibilities of a Saxon spy taking on the disguise of a middle-aged farmer. She wonders if he’s likely to have family in one of the Master’s slave camps, speculates if this man would be willing to turn her in to give them an extra ration of food.
And she can tell he’s doing the same as he leans against a post of the fence that borders the town, no doubt musing about how much an imposter could make by informing the authorities of one willing to shelter the renegade Martha Jones.
Time seems to halt and lengthen as they regard one another, suspicious and apprehensive, willing to bolt should the other make an irregular motion.
And in that suspended instant, she resists the compulsion to laugh at how they all used to trust so easily.
Instead she smiles, holds out her arms in a show of peace, and shrugs helplessly. As if to say that she’s at his mercy, that what she says or doesn’t say will do little to shake his control of the situation.
She has become very good, in these past months, at allowing people to believe that they hold the power in a world in which everyone had become powerless.
This seems to satisfy him, and he pushes off from the post with a grin on his face, motioning down a small dirt road. “Well, we’d best get going then.”
“Going where, exactly?” she questions, still wary.
“To the meeting, of course.” He smiles and she can see that he has several gaps in his teeth, that a few have been knocked out through hardships she could only imagine. “We’re expecting you.”
She takes a step back, squeezes the key in her pocket reassuringly, prepared to slip the cord that holds it over her head, ready to run. “Expecting me?”
Now he’s the one holding out his arms, taking a hesitant step towards her. “Now don’t get like that.”
She says nothing, starting to pull the key out of her jacket.
The man flinches, eyes widening as he watches her hand with fear.
He thinks she has a gun.
“Wait, wait!” He yells, retreating slightly, arms still held out in peace. “My cousin, Julia? She sent word ahead about you.”
Thinking it best not to discourage the notion that she has a weapon, she keeps her hand poised in her pocket. “How?” she asks coldly.
He gulps. “E-mail.”
“The Master.” The man frowns in confusion. “Saxon,” she clarifies. “He shut down the internet.”
The farmer shakes his head. “Not here, not yet. Hasn’t had the time, what with taking over the world. There are a few servers left, small ones.”
“There aren’t any computers either. How did she send it to you?”
“She hid her computer from those spheres and wired up a connection to the server.” He jerks his head, indicating the path. “One of the shop-keepers in the town, he has a laptop connected to the same server. That’s how we got it.” He looks at her pleadingly. “That’s why I’m here. They sent me to wait for you.”
It’s the terrified way he’s staring at her, more than anything else, that makes her believe him. True fear is a difficult thing to feign.
“Who?” she questions, still harsh. Best to keep him scared a bit longer, if she wants the truth.
“The town.”
She slowly removes her hand from her pocket. “To wait for me?” She frowns. “Why?”
He's visibly more relaxed when she takes her hand from her pocket, and finally looks up to her face once he is certain that she has no intention of threatening him further.
He smirks when he sees her confounded expression. “Because Julia said you’re something - someone - to believe in.” He turns, heading down the dirt road, expecting her to follow without looking behind to check. Then, said so softly to the vast expanse of dirt in front of them that she almost thinks she imagines it, he mutters, “And we need that again.”
She’s so startled by the statement that she doesn’t think to ask any questions (Where are they going? How did he avoid the camps? Is he working for anyone?) as she follows him down the path.
Ten minutes pass before she can think of anything to say at all.
“You shouldn’t.”
He turns and throws her a puzzled glance over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in question.
“Shouldn’t believe in me.” It’s terribly important that she make that point clear, that everyone understand that crucial detail.
Because Martha Jones isn’t a hero.
He lets out a bark that could be a laugh. “Why not? Saxon’s looking all over for you, like he’s terrified of you. Like you can kill him.” He stops walking suddenly, facing her and staring intently, hopefully. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To tell us how to kill him?”
She wonders who this man lost, to want to kill so fervently.
“No,” she says, and tries not to notice the disappointment apparent in his features. “I’m here to tell you about the Doctor.”
The farmer sighs before he turns and begins to walk once more.
She hastens to catch up. “He’s who you should believe in, not me.”
“The what?” he calls out from in front of her, pace quickening.
“The Doctor.”
“And what’s so special about him?” he asks in a bored, indulging tone.
Everything, she thinks, but refuses to say. Instead she begins her practiced speech in earnest. “He’s like Saxon, but better. Good. He can control space and time, and he’s been watching over us for hundreds of years, saving our lives without us even knowing it.”
She thinks she sees him falter a bit in his rapid stride, thinks that perhaps she might have convinced this one.
She continues. “He’s all-powerful and ancient, he’s forever, he can save us now like he’s saved us before, and all we’ve got to do is believe in him.”
She hears a sound from him, something like a snort.
“What?” she questions as she jogs a bit, trying to catch up to him. “Don’t you trust me?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, sure I do. Times like these, why not?” He stops again, turning to her once more, an amused expression on his face. “Really, that sounds all well and good, he sounds all well and good.” He looks at her, and she thinks she sees a flicker of helplessness shine in his eyes. “But where’s he now?”
And she doesn’t know what to say, only knows that, whatever explanation she offers him, it can’t be the truth. Anything but that.
He’s trapped, imprisoned by the Master. The man who can save us all needs saving, and it’s up to you, to us, to do it.
No, a declaration of that kind isn’t the sort that inspires faith.
So she simply gapes, opening her mouth only to close it when no words - at least not the right ones - come to mind.
The farmer smiles at her kindly, as if her uncertainty is amusing, perhaps even foolish, in his eyes.
“Cause you see, Miss Jones, I’ve never heard of this Doctor. He’s an idea to me, a figment. And me, I’m a man of facts. I don’t like trusting what my eyes can’t see.”
She deflates at the words, feeling the sharp sting of failure in her mind, the knowledge that the Doctor has one less person strengthening him, one less person to save him, clawing at her.
But then he carries on. “So, yes, I’m sure your Doctor’s wielding a mighty power the likes of which I’d never understand.” He finds her eyes with his own bulging ones. “But he’s not the one walking down this dirt road to my town right now.”
She furrows her brow in puzzlement. “Does that mean-”
“Oh, I’ll believe in him, sure I will.” He grins. “But only because you asked me to.”
And for an instant she swears that she feels her world sway at his words, though she doesn’t understand why.
“Just remember, Martha Jones.” He nudges her gently with an elbow, still smiling. “I believed in you first.” With one last smirk, he turns on his heel and charges ahead, following the path once more.
It is then, as she trails after the man down the dirt road to an unknown town, that Martha Jones first considers the possibility that she’s heroic.