theatrical_muse #176: Tell the story of one of your past scars
The deck plates on the Titanic were groaning in a distressed way. He knew this was coming. This was why he was here. To be a part of events, to see that unsinkable ship sink into the frigid waters with his own eyes. To watch. To experience. He'd had a bit of a sadistic streak in choosing events to view lately--assassinations and Earth-shattering explosions and, well, maybe he was projecting, just a little. Watching what very well was the 'end of the world' to many people, figuratively and literally. But, he could argue, it was a major and much-documented event in Earth history, of course it would interest him, just like the others. Not that he needed to argue--nobody to notice.
What he didn't know was coming was that window by him exploding with the force of the impact. Oh, of course he had to have taken that nice little family's room on the starboard side. It was a miracle the hull wasn't torn wide open right there--no, no, that was the lower decks, he knew. That meant the ship was already starting to flood with water.
But not before digging the glass out of his arm. That was nice and brilliant, standing by the window just before the iceberg, he was just full of good ideas lately, wasn't he? He muttered to himself, tearing up a bit of the dinner jacket he'd been wearing and had tossed aside to wrap around the wound. It wasn't bad, not even by Human terms, but it was bleeding anyway, which was never any good. It would heal itself soon enough, and even any scar it might leave behind would eventually vanish. Sometimes it was good to still be a Time Lord, even if he was the only one, and he wasn't going to start down that train of thought again.
It would be a few hours yet, one, maybe two, something like that, before the ship finally went under, but the scramble to life boats would be mad when people were finally told to evacuate. Not that he needed one. He'd been part of events long enough. In fact, rescue from who would eventually come was most certainly not what he wanted. There would be questions. Inquiry. Be part of records of who lived or died, who was on, who snuck aboard, who replaced who. No. He was just an observer. And he could survive the frigid temperatures better than any Human could. Best abandon ship as soon as he could; no one would ever miss him. A leap into the water--hey, it was more room for someone else to get on the lifeboats and live.
Water, water, everywhere, but the ocean's just a lake. Just water. Vast, maybe, and deep, sure, but not as vast or deep (or cold) as others he'd seen. Sometimes Earth just seemed to be a big puddle with leaves for land floating on it.
He was content to cling to the iceberg, not far from the just-damaged ship, to pull himself out of the water and rest upon it for a time before he needed to move on. Another event down, who knew how many to go. Floating for a while with the sky above him sounded, however, like a good idea, float away before getting back to business, rest and lick his wounds. The cold would even help with the gash. He'd make it back, back to land, back to his TARDIS, move onward. Put a checkmark on the mental list of destructive, intriguing events he’d constructed. Self-destructive, even. He’d had a lot of close calls, just nothing quite so stupid until now.
Maybe. Maybe he should rethink it all. Maybe, when he got back to the TARDIS, brushed off the cold and the torn outfit, he could try for something else. Who knew? Maybe by the time he got back, the TARDIS would have some emergency waiting for him, flying to a time and place he never intended on going, good old days. Normalcy. Maybe he should think about regaining a sense of normalcy. Unless this new nature of his was to be his normality.
In which case, he was in for a very rough ride indeed.
What he didn't know was coming was that window by him exploding with the force of the impact. Oh, of course he had to have taken that nice little family's room on the starboard side. It was a miracle the hull wasn't torn wide open right there--no, no, that was the lower decks, he knew. That meant the ship was already starting to flood with water.
But not before digging the glass out of his arm. That was nice and brilliant, standing by the window just before the iceberg, he was just full of good ideas lately, wasn't he? He muttered to himself, tearing up a bit of the dinner jacket he'd been wearing and had tossed aside to wrap around the wound. It wasn't bad, not even by Human terms, but it was bleeding anyway, which was never any good. It would heal itself soon enough, and even any scar it might leave behind would eventually vanish. Sometimes it was good to still be a Time Lord, even if he was the only one, and he wasn't going to start down that train of thought again.
It would be a few hours yet, one, maybe two, something like that, before the ship finally went under, but the scramble to life boats would be mad when people were finally told to evacuate. Not that he needed one. He'd been part of events long enough. In fact, rescue from who would eventually come was most certainly not what he wanted. There would be questions. Inquiry. Be part of records of who lived or died, who was on, who snuck aboard, who replaced who. No. He was just an observer. And he could survive the frigid temperatures better than any Human could. Best abandon ship as soon as he could; no one would ever miss him. A leap into the water--hey, it was more room for someone else to get on the lifeboats and live.
Water, water, everywhere, but the ocean's just a lake. Just water. Vast, maybe, and deep, sure, but not as vast or deep (or cold) as others he'd seen. Sometimes Earth just seemed to be a big puddle with leaves for land floating on it.
He was content to cling to the iceberg, not far from the just-damaged ship, to pull himself out of the water and rest upon it for a time before he needed to move on. Another event down, who knew how many to go. Floating for a while with the sky above him sounded, however, like a good idea, float away before getting back to business, rest and lick his wounds. The cold would even help with the gash. He'd make it back, back to land, back to his TARDIS, move onward. Put a checkmark on the mental list of destructive, intriguing events he’d constructed. Self-destructive, even. He’d had a lot of close calls, just nothing quite so stupid until now.
Maybe. Maybe he should rethink it all. Maybe, when he got back to the TARDIS, brushed off the cold and the torn outfit, he could try for something else. Who knew? Maybe by the time he got back, the TARDIS would have some emergency waiting for him, flying to a time and place he never intended on going, good old days. Normalcy. Maybe he should think about regaining a sense of normalcy. Unless this new nature of his was to be his normality.
In which case, he was in for a very rough ride indeed.