[Arriving at Jordan] [OPEN]
The TARDIS was silent, cold. Like death in the arctic, and he sat on the floor grating where he'd fallen and stared at her. The usual low thrum of machinery and life was absent, and he felt a sort of vague desperation building as he felt under his hands the still cold metal. No signs of life, no movement whatsoever except his own slow breathing and the too-quick beating of his hearts.
This time he'd really done it; fallen through a tear between dimensions, out of the range of the Time Vortex, and he was lost. He didn't know if he was in a parallel world or in the Quiet Place, that vast reach between dimensions where there was simply nothing. The places from which one could never return. There wasn't any coming back from there, not anymore, not since the Time Lords had gone.
So the Doctor reached out, leaned forward to touch the TARDIS console, ice-cold against his fingers. Dead. She was dead. And he was truly, really, completely alone.
He stood, more shakily than he would have liked, glancing around the control area. It was possible... if he could find some sort of a power source, he could jury-rig a way out of here with a bit of jiggery-pokery and a lot of luck. No such source was apparent, though - he would have to wait it out. He didn't like it, hated the idea of it, of leaving the TARDIS cold for however long, but he didn't have a choice.
The TARDIS was dead, and he had to try everything to revive her. Everything.
And thus he walked to the door, grabbing and donning his usual brown coat on the way, and pushed it open. It was impossible to say what sort of a place he had landed in, and for all he knew it was one where there was someplace he could fix the TARDIS. He would have to at least look. Since no one else could enter the TARDIS, he could afford to leave her for a short while and have a look around.
The door opened to green grass and brick buildings. The TARDIS had wedged itself between two buildings, as good a hiding spot as any, and as he shut the door behind him he found himself wondering if he'd ended up in another alternate London.
His exploration of the immediate area bore no significant findings except that he was most certainly not in a particularly modern area, and that there was a talking finch following him around. He supposed that might be normal for this world, being alternate and all, but it was a bit odd.
More odd when the finch turned into a mouse on his shoulder and skidded down into his suitcoat pocket. Investigation and a bit of small-talk revealed that, evidently, this creature - Artaith, it called itself - was some aspect of himself, or... something. She called herself a daemon, which he found a bit funny and said as much.
"Artaith, then. Let's get a look around." It didn't bother him in the least that he was talking to a dormouse that had been a finch. Stranger things had happened, after all. Like aliens in Downing Street. That had been a bit stranger than this.
Stepping out into the sun, he found himself in some sort of courtyard, with buildings arranged around it. There weren't any signs, which he would have appreciated.
"You'd think they'd have directions up," he said brightly, talking half to himself and half to Artaith and not at all to anyone else, if he even noticed anyone else. "Some sort of signs. That'd be nice. Keep people from getting lost."
Not that it helped him very much, as there were not, as said, any signs about, and he was quite lost. Lost in a strange other-world with a dormouse that had been a finch and was named Artaith in his suitcoat pocket, and the TARDIS debilitated in an alley.
Never let it be said that the Doctor did not find trouble wherever he went.
This time he'd really done it; fallen through a tear between dimensions, out of the range of the Time Vortex, and he was lost. He didn't know if he was in a parallel world or in the Quiet Place, that vast reach between dimensions where there was simply nothing. The places from which one could never return. There wasn't any coming back from there, not anymore, not since the Time Lords had gone.
So the Doctor reached out, leaned forward to touch the TARDIS console, ice-cold against his fingers. Dead. She was dead. And he was truly, really, completely alone.
He stood, more shakily than he would have liked, glancing around the control area. It was possible... if he could find some sort of a power source, he could jury-rig a way out of here with a bit of jiggery-pokery and a lot of luck. No such source was apparent, though - he would have to wait it out. He didn't like it, hated the idea of it, of leaving the TARDIS cold for however long, but he didn't have a choice.
The TARDIS was dead, and he had to try everything to revive her. Everything.
And thus he walked to the door, grabbing and donning his usual brown coat on the way, and pushed it open. It was impossible to say what sort of a place he had landed in, and for all he knew it was one where there was someplace he could fix the TARDIS. He would have to at least look. Since no one else could enter the TARDIS, he could afford to leave her for a short while and have a look around.
The door opened to green grass and brick buildings. The TARDIS had wedged itself between two buildings, as good a hiding spot as any, and as he shut the door behind him he found himself wondering if he'd ended up in another alternate London.
His exploration of the immediate area bore no significant findings except that he was most certainly not in a particularly modern area, and that there was a talking finch following him around. He supposed that might be normal for this world, being alternate and all, but it was a bit odd.
More odd when the finch turned into a mouse on his shoulder and skidded down into his suitcoat pocket. Investigation and a bit of small-talk revealed that, evidently, this creature - Artaith, it called itself - was some aspect of himself, or... something. She called herself a daemon, which he found a bit funny and said as much.
"Artaith, then. Let's get a look around." It didn't bother him in the least that he was talking to a dormouse that had been a finch. Stranger things had happened, after all. Like aliens in Downing Street. That had been a bit stranger than this.
Stepping out into the sun, he found himself in some sort of courtyard, with buildings arranged around it. There weren't any signs, which he would have appreciated.
"You'd think they'd have directions up," he said brightly, talking half to himself and half to Artaith and not at all to anyone else, if he even noticed anyone else. "Some sort of signs. That'd be nice. Keep people from getting lost."
Not that it helped him very much, as there were not, as said, any signs about, and he was quite lost. Lost in a strange other-world with a dormouse that had been a finch and was named Artaith in his suitcoat pocket, and the TARDIS debilitated in an alley.
Never let it be said that the Doctor did not find trouble wherever he went.