Striped.
He stood leaning against a pillar staring out at the first of the twin suns sinking below the waves. His face, bathed in the soft light of sunset, appeared serene; only his cold, hard eyes betrayed how ill at ease he felt. He was healthy in body; his loose open shirt showed skin tanned and taut, his hair was glossy, his face clear, his fingernails trimmed and clean. He was in good shape, he knew, because not even aliens abuse favorite pets.
His arrival in the tropical hell he was trapped in had been quite accidental. The incident at Gallifrey and his closely avoided execution had left him troubled. He left just wanting to spend time alone with his thoughts. Sarah Jane, his best friend and companion, was gone, expelled from the TARDIS by his own hand. His regret was now his only traveling partner.
Traveling through the void he had no indication that there was trouble, not until the TARDIS shuddered. He was knocked off his feet as, like a car slamming into a brick wall, the ship stopped moving in five dimensions simultaneously. He slammed his head against a rail of the raised platform, staring up at the ceiling and the stars dancing around his eyes. He gave a start as the sound of the cloister bell rang through the ship, which was quickly masked by the sound of the unit’s materialization. He rushed to his feet, trying to divert catastrophe. The coordinates displayed were incomprehensible jibberish, changing constantly, faster than his eyes could register.
He slammed buttons and levers; nothing responded. The shriek of metal against metal filled the air; he had no idea where it was coming from, somewhere in the bowels of the ship. The ambient light, usually at a comfortable level, became suddenly much brighter. Presently it was too bright for his eyes, burning into his skull. He clasped his eyes shut, hands pressed over his face. The TARDIS was battling an immense outside force for control, and with a horrible popping sound, it lost. Thrashing about, gravity upended itself, sending the Doctor flying like a tennis ball inside a washing machine. After hitting the darkly paneled walls, floor, and time rotor, he blacked out.
Waking up some time later - maybe days, maybe weeks - he awoke slowly. He hurt from a dozen places, and as he carefully levered himself into a sitting position he noted several fresh bloodstains below him. The unit seemed to have landed right-way up until he tried to walk towards the controls, when he realised the floor had a subtle slope upwards.
Flipping switches and pressing buttons confirmed his worst fear; there was no power. No response was to be had from anything. Only a very dim light shown from a few of the circles in the walls, but even they seemed to be failing quickly. He looked around nervously, working out what had caused this accident. He suddenly because painfully, cripplingly aware of an absence in his mind. The TARDIS, which he had had a link with since he completed the Rassilon Imprimatur hundreds of years ago, was gone. There was simply nothing there, as though the TARDIS was dead. Looking around at the gloomy interior, he felt it was true, and fear clamped down on his chest.
He refused to believe that it was truly dead, and he was right. Working for days without rest, he managed to get some response from non-essential systems, but the circuits that controlled travel, air supply, or even the doors and things remained inert. After a few hours of watching the lights bounce around, they too shut off, much to his anger. Losing control, he threw himself at the wooden railing, tearing off pieces and throwing them at the walls, the ceiling, anything. After his anger was expended, he fell to the floor, feeling weak.
He hadn’t eaten in weeks, nor had he drank anything; the parts of the ship where such things were in pitch black corridors behind doors that wouldn’t open. He had forced himself to keep working, knowing that he couldn’t rest until he was out of danger. The injuries he suffered during his force materialization were healing slowly if they were even doing that. Most of the cuts had a thin scab over them that broke open, spilling blood at the slightest pressure. Breathing heavily in the thin air, he sucked on a bleeding thumb while staring at the view screen that refused to budge. What was outside, he had no idea.
Outside, waiting patiently, a predator watched with untiring eyes for his exit, ready to snare him as soon as he showed his face.
The air became impossible to breath, even when he slowed his breath and heart rates. He felt weak and hopeless after his untold weeks of being trapped in his secondary control room. There was nothing left for him to do, he pulled himself to his feet one last time. Grabbing a crowbar from a cabinet nearby, he staggered to the doors and hit the manual override one last time. The door didn’t open. Hitting it again repeatedly, it did nothing but give him sore fingers as his stabbed it with increasing force. Finally feeling his temper overrule him, he swung at the switch with the bar, smashing it to pieces, before sinking to his knees.
A small whoosh sound could be heard as air escaped. Pressing his face eagerly to the double doors, he saw a small crack where one had not been before. Renewed energy filled his body as he thrust the thin part of the prybar into the crack and exerted himself. They refused to budge, but he wasn’t about to give up hope. Muscles standing out along his neck and arms, he threw all his weight against the doors.
Suddenly, without warning, they flew open, bouncing back against the walls. He fell to the ground, spent, basking in the cool air of the antechamber between the control room and outer door. Finally lifting his head, he looked at the dark room, where the only light came from the small windows of the policebox. Crawling forward, he pushed open the door and tumbled out onto the floor. Outside a breeze ruffled his sweat-soaked curls and moved the folds of his bloodstained clothes, but he was only just aware of them before losing consciousness. A high pitched sound rang through the air, a sound of triumph.
Months had passed since the fateful day that his captor finally laid hands on him. His injuries had healed, his emaciated flesh filled out healthily. Despite his good physical fortune, a part of him wanted to walk out into the water and die. Yes, he was well, but at the cost of his freedom. A swishing noise behind him made his muscles tense almost imperceptibly.
“Sha-thine,” a woman called softly. It was a term she used on him from her own language, one that translated easily to ‘Pretty pet’. He, not surprisingly, refused to answer to it. “Sha-thine?” she wheedled, then sighed after his extended silence. “Dahck-tar,” she stumbled over the unfamiliar English word that he insisted she call him. He considered trying to escape, but she rounded a corner, spotting him. “Ah, sha-thine Dahck-tar, keen tho gamu phansho?” she said questioningly.
Not tearing his eyes from the horizon, he responded in fluid Gallifreyan. The TARDIS translation of alien languages automatically into his native tongue was severely missed. He had no idea what language she was speaking, except that it sounded vaguely like what was spoken in the Polaris system. The two people had managed to learn some key phrases in each other’s language, but conversation was incredibly stilted.
She tutted loudly at him and repeated her question; he responded again in his own language. Both individuals were stubborn and refused to speak the other’s language, knowing that such action annoyed the other. She glared at him levelly while he continued to stare peacefully out over the water.
The Doctor felt no gratitude toward the woman who had nursed him back to health. He knew full well that she only did it for her own selfish reasons and not out of any mercy she felt. He didn’t know if she was the cause of his crash on the planet, but he was almost certain of it. The pair observed each other, her staring at him intently, him studying her in his peripheral vision.
She reminded him of the ancient greek goddesses, all smooth skin and beautiful, over exaggerated features. She had the longest legs he had ever seen, making her a full three inches taller than him. Her breasts were full and round, her teeth and smile bright. Unfortunately, he found, she was eager to show all of her perfect features off; she wore very little, blaming it on the tropical heat. She probably would have felt better if she was a little less plump. Like any god or goddess that had all they could want, she was plump, but in a way that was pleasing to the eye. Underneath the baby fat hard muscles that could rip him in half rested. All in all, she was incredibly beautiful, a specimen the ancients would have worshipped, and attractive to everyone, even the Doctor. Or would have been, if he could bring himself to enjoy her company.
He knew she was nothing more than a temptress. She might not even have existed except as a test to get to him. She was altogether too perfect, too symmetrical. And too persistent; she only tried to seduce him every time she was around him. He could even now taste her, a sickly sweet flavor that stayed in his mouth. He steeled himself for more of her charms, imagining what failure would lead to. He didn’t doubt that it would be his own death or a fate much worse. Sexually driven aliens who grab you right out space and time often meant bad news.
*every person she knows, has a crush on, thinks about, or that we discuss in conversation ends up being declared as her lover. Except she hasn't said that about me, I don't think..
His arrival in the tropical hell he was trapped in had been quite accidental. The incident at Gallifrey and his closely avoided execution had left him troubled. He left just wanting to spend time alone with his thoughts. Sarah Jane, his best friend and companion, was gone, expelled from the TARDIS by his own hand. His regret was now his only traveling partner.
Traveling through the void he had no indication that there was trouble, not until the TARDIS shuddered. He was knocked off his feet as, like a car slamming into a brick wall, the ship stopped moving in five dimensions simultaneously. He slammed his head against a rail of the raised platform, staring up at the ceiling and the stars dancing around his eyes. He gave a start as the sound of the cloister bell rang through the ship, which was quickly masked by the sound of the unit’s materialization. He rushed to his feet, trying to divert catastrophe. The coordinates displayed were incomprehensible jibberish, changing constantly, faster than his eyes could register.
He slammed buttons and levers; nothing responded. The shriek of metal against metal filled the air; he had no idea where it was coming from, somewhere in the bowels of the ship. The ambient light, usually at a comfortable level, became suddenly much brighter. Presently it was too bright for his eyes, burning into his skull. He clasped his eyes shut, hands pressed over his face. The TARDIS was battling an immense outside force for control, and with a horrible popping sound, it lost. Thrashing about, gravity upended itself, sending the Doctor flying like a tennis ball inside a washing machine. After hitting the darkly paneled walls, floor, and time rotor, he blacked out.
Waking up some time later - maybe days, maybe weeks - he awoke slowly. He hurt from a dozen places, and as he carefully levered himself into a sitting position he noted several fresh bloodstains below him. The unit seemed to have landed right-way up until he tried to walk towards the controls, when he realised the floor had a subtle slope upwards.
Flipping switches and pressing buttons confirmed his worst fear; there was no power. No response was to be had from anything. Only a very dim light shown from a few of the circles in the walls, but even they seemed to be failing quickly. He looked around nervously, working out what had caused this accident. He suddenly because painfully, cripplingly aware of an absence in his mind. The TARDIS, which he had had a link with since he completed the Rassilon Imprimatur hundreds of years ago, was gone. There was simply nothing there, as though the TARDIS was dead. Looking around at the gloomy interior, he felt it was true, and fear clamped down on his chest.
He refused to believe that it was truly dead, and he was right. Working for days without rest, he managed to get some response from non-essential systems, but the circuits that controlled travel, air supply, or even the doors and things remained inert. After a few hours of watching the lights bounce around, they too shut off, much to his anger. Losing control, he threw himself at the wooden railing, tearing off pieces and throwing them at the walls, the ceiling, anything. After his anger was expended, he fell to the floor, feeling weak.
He hadn’t eaten in weeks, nor had he drank anything; the parts of the ship where such things were in pitch black corridors behind doors that wouldn’t open. He had forced himself to keep working, knowing that he couldn’t rest until he was out of danger. The injuries he suffered during his force materialization were healing slowly if they were even doing that. Most of the cuts had a thin scab over them that broke open, spilling blood at the slightest pressure. Breathing heavily in the thin air, he sucked on a bleeding thumb while staring at the view screen that refused to budge. What was outside, he had no idea.
Outside, waiting patiently, a predator watched with untiring eyes for his exit, ready to snare him as soon as he showed his face.
The air became impossible to breath, even when he slowed his breath and heart rates. He felt weak and hopeless after his untold weeks of being trapped in his secondary control room. There was nothing left for him to do, he pulled himself to his feet one last time. Grabbing a crowbar from a cabinet nearby, he staggered to the doors and hit the manual override one last time. The door didn’t open. Hitting it again repeatedly, it did nothing but give him sore fingers as his stabbed it with increasing force. Finally feeling his temper overrule him, he swung at the switch with the bar, smashing it to pieces, before sinking to his knees.
A small whoosh sound could be heard as air escaped. Pressing his face eagerly to the double doors, he saw a small crack where one had not been before. Renewed energy filled his body as he thrust the thin part of the prybar into the crack and exerted himself. They refused to budge, but he wasn’t about to give up hope. Muscles standing out along his neck and arms, he threw all his weight against the doors.
Suddenly, without warning, they flew open, bouncing back against the walls. He fell to the ground, spent, basking in the cool air of the antechamber between the control room and outer door. Finally lifting his head, he looked at the dark room, where the only light came from the small windows of the policebox. Crawling forward, he pushed open the door and tumbled out onto the floor. Outside a breeze ruffled his sweat-soaked curls and moved the folds of his bloodstained clothes, but he was only just aware of them before losing consciousness. A high pitched sound rang through the air, a sound of triumph.
Months had passed since the fateful day that his captor finally laid hands on him. His injuries had healed, his emaciated flesh filled out healthily. Despite his good physical fortune, a part of him wanted to walk out into the water and die. Yes, he was well, but at the cost of his freedom. A swishing noise behind him made his muscles tense almost imperceptibly.
“Sha-thine,” a woman called softly. It was a term she used on him from her own language, one that translated easily to ‘Pretty pet’. He, not surprisingly, refused to answer to it. “Sha-thine?” she wheedled, then sighed after his extended silence. “Dahck-tar,” she stumbled over the unfamiliar English word that he insisted she call him. He considered trying to escape, but she rounded a corner, spotting him. “Ah, sha-thine Dahck-tar, keen tho gamu phansho?” she said questioningly.
Not tearing his eyes from the horizon, he responded in fluid Gallifreyan. The TARDIS translation of alien languages automatically into his native tongue was severely missed. He had no idea what language she was speaking, except that it sounded vaguely like what was spoken in the Polaris system. The two people had managed to learn some key phrases in each other’s language, but conversation was incredibly stilted.
She tutted loudly at him and repeated her question; he responded again in his own language. Both individuals were stubborn and refused to speak the other’s language, knowing that such action annoyed the other. She glared at him levelly while he continued to stare peacefully out over the water.
The Doctor felt no gratitude toward the woman who had nursed him back to health. He knew full well that she only did it for her own selfish reasons and not out of any mercy she felt. He didn’t know if she was the cause of his crash on the planet, but he was almost certain of it. The pair observed each other, her staring at him intently, him studying her in his peripheral vision.
She reminded him of the ancient greek goddesses, all smooth skin and beautiful, over exaggerated features. She had the longest legs he had ever seen, making her a full three inches taller than him. Her breasts were full and round, her teeth and smile bright. Unfortunately, he found, she was eager to show all of her perfect features off; she wore very little, blaming it on the tropical heat. She probably would have felt better if she was a little less plump. Like any god or goddess that had all they could want, she was plump, but in a way that was pleasing to the eye. Underneath the baby fat hard muscles that could rip him in half rested. All in all, she was incredibly beautiful, a specimen the ancients would have worshipped, and attractive to everyone, even the Doctor. Or would have been, if he could bring himself to enjoy her company.
He knew she was nothing more than a temptress. She might not even have existed except as a test to get to him. She was altogether too perfect, too symmetrical. And too persistent; she only tried to seduce him every time she was around him. He could even now taste her, a sickly sweet flavor that stayed in his mouth. He steeled himself for more of her charms, imagining what failure would lead to. He didn’t doubt that it would be his own death or a fate much worse. Sexually driven aliens who grab you right out space and time often meant bad news.
*every person she knows, has a crush on, thinks about, or that we discuss in conversation ends up being declared as her lover. Except she hasn't said that about me, I don't think..