Fanfic: Blackouts
He needs some time to take in what he’s seeing. A blue police box fading away. The Tardis fading away. The Doctor leaving. The Doctor leaving him behind on a space station.
He waits, hopes, telling himself that the Doctor just went to collect Rose and will come back for him. But the tiny, evil part of his consciousness, telling him that he’s been forgotten, grows louder until he can’t stand it anymore.
He has never been one for sitting and waiting anyway, so he does the first thing that comes to his mind - searching for survivors, not expecting any. He climbs over dead bodies, trying not to look too close. He has seen battlefields before, but this feels different. This crosses the line between a battle and a massacre. He’s not finding anyone, of course not, and he already feels the slight stinging of survivor’s guilt, always the same questions creeping up in his mind. Why? How?
Two days after he's seen the Tardis fade away, he writes a short note for the Doctor and collects a few things that might be of use for him later, among them the extrapolator. Then he boards a small shuttle and goes down to Earth, praying for a smooth landing. But he never gets what he prays for.
Weeks later, he’s making his way through a world that can only be called post-apocalyptic. The society is only rebuilding slowly, help from other planets arriving hesitantly, if at all. Earth has shut itself off for more than 100 years and now a whole civilization is paying the price.
He’s not sure what the Doctor was thinking he should be doing here, but for the past weeks he tried to do what the Doctor would have done, helping where he can, trying not to look away.
And now he’s lying on the dusty ground, dying from more bullets in his stomach than he cares to count. Shot because he tried to save a girl from being raped. No good deed goes unpunished. The world has gone insane and he’s lying here, in a growing puddle of blood, while everything fades away like a blue box…
When he wakes up, he’s still lying on the ground. He tries to recall how he got there. One moment later, his hands are rushing down to his stomach, finding perfectly healthy skin under the torn shirt. He stumbles over to the girl, but it’s too late. Headshot, her eyes wide in fear. He walks away. Ten steps. Twenty. Then the shock hits him. He vomits.
When he woke up after the Daleks had shot him, he had tried to justify it with luck, a malfunctioning of the Dalek gun, something like that, never thinking about it too hard. But now he knows that something - someone? - has changed him. He wonders if the Doctor knew this, while he retches until he can only taste gall. He walks five more steps, then slides down to the floor, shivering.
Like in all times of war and chaos, people are desperate for someone to hold on to, even if it is only for one night. When Jack finally manages to get a lift off the planet, he can’t recall how many lovers he had, always stealing away before sunrise, never staying to face consequences. Another thing he picked up from the Doctor.
The captain of the cargo ship gives him a lift to the next interstellar space harbour in exchange for a night with him and for helping with the works on the ship. He tries not to think too much about the fact that he has essentially sold himself out. During the first week, he tries to make friends with the crew, until he freaks one of them out by cutting himself on a sharp edge, leaving blood behind but clearly not showing any wound on his hand. He avoids them during the rest of the trip.
It took him five years to find a ship that can be modified for time travel. Five years during which he hasn’t aged a day, realised that he doesn’t need sleep and felt the frustration eating away at him. Now he has linked the ship with the extrapolator and other stuff that he bought, stole, found or won.
He knows exactly where he wants to go, but it took him more than 1 week to program the time-space coordinates of Cardiff, 2006 into the alien computer system and Lord could he use some sleep now, even if he doesn’t need it.
But, as the Doctor once told him, Sleep is for tortoises. He goes through the syntax for what must be the hundredth time, knowing that one mistake could catapult him anywhere in time and space. Then he launches the ship, first into space, then into the vortex.
He wakes up to a familiar sound, a distant wailing. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s the all-clear, meaning that the German bombers…
He jolts up, feeling dizzy, stumbling off the street where he was lying a few moments ago. He knows the place and time. London. World War II.
He missed his destination by 132 miles and more than 60 years.
He waits, hopes, telling himself that the Doctor just went to collect Rose and will come back for him. But the tiny, evil part of his consciousness, telling him that he’s been forgotten, grows louder until he can’t stand it anymore.
He has never been one for sitting and waiting anyway, so he does the first thing that comes to his mind - searching for survivors, not expecting any. He climbs over dead bodies, trying not to look too close. He has seen battlefields before, but this feels different. This crosses the line between a battle and a massacre. He’s not finding anyone, of course not, and he already feels the slight stinging of survivor’s guilt, always the same questions creeping up in his mind. Why? How?
Two days after he's seen the Tardis fade away, he writes a short note for the Doctor and collects a few things that might be of use for him later, among them the extrapolator. Then he boards a small shuttle and goes down to Earth, praying for a smooth landing. But he never gets what he prays for.
Weeks later, he’s making his way through a world that can only be called post-apocalyptic. The society is only rebuilding slowly, help from other planets arriving hesitantly, if at all. Earth has shut itself off for more than 100 years and now a whole civilization is paying the price.
He’s not sure what the Doctor was thinking he should be doing here, but for the past weeks he tried to do what the Doctor would have done, helping where he can, trying not to look away.
And now he’s lying on the dusty ground, dying from more bullets in his stomach than he cares to count. Shot because he tried to save a girl from being raped. No good deed goes unpunished. The world has gone insane and he’s lying here, in a growing puddle of blood, while everything fades away like a blue box…
When he wakes up, he’s still lying on the ground. He tries to recall how he got there. One moment later, his hands are rushing down to his stomach, finding perfectly healthy skin under the torn shirt. He stumbles over to the girl, but it’s too late. Headshot, her eyes wide in fear. He walks away. Ten steps. Twenty. Then the shock hits him. He vomits.
When he woke up after the Daleks had shot him, he had tried to justify it with luck, a malfunctioning of the Dalek gun, something like that, never thinking about it too hard. But now he knows that something - someone? - has changed him. He wonders if the Doctor knew this, while he retches until he can only taste gall. He walks five more steps, then slides down to the floor, shivering.
Like in all times of war and chaos, people are desperate for someone to hold on to, even if it is only for one night. When Jack finally manages to get a lift off the planet, he can’t recall how many lovers he had, always stealing away before sunrise, never staying to face consequences. Another thing he picked up from the Doctor.
The captain of the cargo ship gives him a lift to the next interstellar space harbour in exchange for a night with him and for helping with the works on the ship. He tries not to think too much about the fact that he has essentially sold himself out. During the first week, he tries to make friends with the crew, until he freaks one of them out by cutting himself on a sharp edge, leaving blood behind but clearly not showing any wound on his hand. He avoids them during the rest of the trip.
It took him five years to find a ship that can be modified for time travel. Five years during which he hasn’t aged a day, realised that he doesn’t need sleep and felt the frustration eating away at him. Now he has linked the ship with the extrapolator and other stuff that he bought, stole, found or won.
He knows exactly where he wants to go, but it took him more than 1 week to program the time-space coordinates of Cardiff, 2006 into the alien computer system and Lord could he use some sleep now, even if he doesn’t need it.
But, as the Doctor once told him, Sleep is for tortoises. He goes through the syntax for what must be the hundredth time, knowing that one mistake could catapult him anywhere in time and space. Then he launches the ship, first into space, then into the vortex.
He wakes up to a familiar sound, a distant wailing. It takes him a moment to realise that it’s the all-clear, meaning that the German bombers…
He jolts up, feeling dizzy, stumbling off the street where he was lying a few moments ago. He knows the place and time. London. World War II.
He missed his destination by 132 miles and more than 60 years.