FANFIC: Twist of Destiny (Eight, Samson & Gemma Griffin) PG-13
Title: Twist of Destiny
Author: ponygirl72
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Eighth Doctor, Samson & Gemma Griffin from Terror Firma
Pairings: None
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, non-con (brief scene of unwanted sexual attention, interrupted by another character)
Summary: Choices make the man or woman. Samson and Gemma (from the Big Finish audio Terror Firma) return with the Eighth Doctor.
A/N: I am cheating this month by reusing a fic. I originally wrote this story for the print fanzine Myth Makers #15, published by the Doctor Who Information Network (dwin.org). They stipulate a one-year exclusive rights deal on works in the 'zine, and it's been... well, way longer than that. So, since it fits this month's theme, I'm releasing this baby into the wilds of the internet-- enjoy!
Twist of Destiny
The pretty lady only visited him when he was angry or upset.
Seven-year-old Sammy sat on the tree-swing in the back garden, scuffing his heels in the patch of dirt worn bare by feet pushing the swing back and forth, back and forth. His eyes felt sore and puffy, but it wasn't because he'd been crying or anything. Grown-up boys didn't cry... not even when their stupid little sisters got a new tricycle, and they got in trouble for trying to ride it when they were too big and too old.
Stupid.
When Sammy looked up again, the pretty lady was standing by the tree trunk. It never occurred to him to wonder how she'd got into the garden-- she just did. He glanced away, wiping a palm across his eyes, so that the pretty lady wouldn't think he'd been crying. Which he hadn't been, of course.
"Poor Sammy," she said. "It's just not fair, how they treat you. It's as if they don't even see you-- not like I do. Don't you want to get back at them sometimes?"
"Yeah," he mumbled, eyes fixed on the dirt. "Sometimes."
"You should wait until they put the tricycle away and go to bed, and smash the bloody thing. That would show them, wouldn't it? It would teach them not to ignore you. You're important, Sammy. More important than the rest of them put together."
When Sammy looked up again, the pretty lady was gone. He sat on the swing, thinking about how it would feel to throw the tricycle down again and again until it was just a twisted mess of metal. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded.
And if Gemma's mournful wailing the next morning made his chest feel funny and tight... well.
Big boys never cried.
* * *
Nine-year-old Sammy sat in his room listening to his Mum and Dad argue downstairs and trying not to pick at the stitches in his cheek.
"I tell you, Richard, the boy is completely out of control!"
Even through the wooden door, Mum's voice was loud and a bit shrill, like it always was after she'd been drinking. Dad's voice was quieter, most of the sense of the words lost as the sound drifted up from below.
"A 'tussle?' A 'tussle?' He started a fist fight, for God's sake! A school yard brawl, like... like a-- common hooligan! Maybe now you'd like to rethink your rather baffling opposition to military school! If you won't take him in hand, then at least the people there might..."
Sammy let the words fade into a meaningless buzz and poked gingerly at his cheek. It hurt, but the strange heavy feeling in his stomach was worse. A hand brushed his hair back from his face, and he looked up at the pretty woman, seated next to him on the bed.
"Don't worry, Sammy. You did the right thing by fighting. When that girl called you a name, the only thing you could do was hit her-- you have to fight, or no one will ever respect you. I know those other boys who piled in were bigger than you, but some day you'll be big as well. You'll be the one with the power... and you'll know that you have to use it. You'll know that it's-- "
The woman was interrupted by a tiny knock at the bedroom door. Sammy's head jerked toward the noise as the door creaked open, and when he looked back, the lady was gone. Gemma peeked in, her ratty old stuffed bear tucked firmly under one arm, and her favourite story book clutched in the other hand.
"Are you okay, Sammy?" she asked, eyes wide.
Sammy hugged himself, and refused to look at her.
"Go away," he muttered. "Just go away."
Silence. Then, "I can't sleep, it's too loud downstairs. Please, will you tell me a story? Just one. I think I could go to bed afterwards."
He frowned, and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Being Gemma, she seemed to take this as permission to come in, and a couple of seconds later she was scrambling up next to him, pushing the large picture book into his lap.
"I can't," he said angrily, staring at the letters that seemed to swirl and jump on the cover, never staying still long enough to make sense.
"Yes, you can. I want to hear the one about Hansel and Gretel, and the witch in the woods," she said, and curled up next to him. "You know that one. You tell it, and we'll both look at the pictures." She blinked, her large brown eyes shiny and trusting as she waited for him to begin.
Sammy sighed, defeated, and settled himself against the headboard as he flipped through the old book until he found the page with the pictures that looked right. The words mocked him with the feeling that he should be able to read them; that this book should be an old and faithful friend instead of the symbol of yet another shortcoming. Even so, the smell of paper and leather was soothing; the solid weight of "happily-ever-afters" in his hands, a comfort. He cleared his throat, and began to recite the old, familiar fairy tale.
"'Once upon a time, a poor wood-cutter lived deep in the forest with his wife and two children. The boy was called Hansel, and the girl Gretel...'"
* * *
The alley was dark and threatening, so different than it would have seemed during the daytime. Eleven-year-old Sammy huddled on the verge of the light from the street beyond, torn between the desire to hide and the desire to run and run, until he found someone who could help him.
Running away from home had seemed like the only option when he'd done it. He could still hear the voice of the woman in his ear... "You'll be better off away from them. Better off on your own. The only one you can count on to take care of you is you." Thing is, he wasn't really sure how to take care of himself.
His stomach was beginning to growl. He was thirsty, too. He probably should have packed some things to take with him... some food and clothes and things, maybe. There was a little money in his pocket; perhaps he could use it to buy all that stuff, instead.
Taking a few steps out of the shelter of the alley way, he reached into his pocket and began pulling out the small handful of bills and coins, intent on determining how much was there. A soft noise in front of him jerked his attention away from his calculations and towards the skinny teenager who had quietly appeared in front of him. The older kid was bigger than him-- much bigger.
And he didn't look friendly.
"This block is my territory, Shorty. You wanna be here, you need to make a... donation." The teen's bloodshot eyes dipped down to the money, and Sammy clutched the fistful of bills tighter, crumpling the paper.
Should he run? The other boy was probably faster, and if he was caught... but what else could he do? He could try to fight--
As if reading his mind, the kid moved to block his way out of the alley. His hand, buried in a pocket of the bettered pea coat that hung on his skinny frame, clenched and unclenched convulsively. When he pulled it out, the streetlights glinted off the shiny metal of a knife blade.
Sammy's heart began to pound against the side of his chest; his empty stomach cramped as adrenaline flooded his system. His vision seemed to narrow down to the bright silver of the knife and the hand holding it, and he backed up, instinctively trying to put more distance between himself and the threat. Unfortunately, that only meant that he ended up deeper in the anonymous darkness of the alley, further from prying eyes... or witnesses.
The teenager followed him step for step. "Gimme that money, or I'll slice you open like a slab of meat," he snarled.
Sammy sucked in a lung full of air, ready to scream for help. His cry was cut off with a squeak, though, as a commotion erupted beyond the damp confines of the blind alley.
The teenager whipped his head around as a strange man ran toward them, waving his arms and shouting. "Clear out, quick! The police are coming!"
The kid shifted his weight nervously back and forth, knife still extended toward Sammy, glancing between his easy mark, the newcomer, and the end of the street around which the threatened cops might appear at any second. "Who are you? What the hell are you talking about?" he yelled as the man hurried past.
The stranger skidded to a stop and whirled to face him. "There's a huge bust, one street over! The police are doing a sweep; they'll be here any minute," he said urgently. His eyes widened as he peered back the way he'd come, raising a hand and pointing. "Look! Here they come!"
The teenager spun around to see for himself, and when he turned back, the strange man was holding his knife.
"What the hell--" he began.
But the man was already stepping around, positioning himself between the would-be robber and the alleyway. His body language changed smoothly from harried and fearful to calm and confident.
"Samson, you can come out, now... thank goodness I've found you." He reached out with his free hand, the one that wasn't holding the knife. Sammy wavered for a moment, heart still hammering and chest heaving as if he'd just run a mile. Then, he stepped forward into the light and allowed his oddly reassuring rescuer to take his hand.
"But... the cops--" the teenager stuttered.
"There aren't any police," the man said. His voice was quiet, assured. "No donations tonight, either, I'm afraid. But there's a soup kitchen down the street that's still serving, and probably a bed for the night. A little food and rest will help with the cravings. Certainly more than a fight against two people would, I should think."
The teen seemed to weigh the odds for a minute, his face twisting with anger.
"You're dead, you freaks," he said, his forefinger wavering between Sammy and the strange man as he slowly backed away. "I'm gonna go get a bunch of my mates and come back here, and you're dead." He gobbed and spat at the newcomer's feet before turning and running away.
"Charmed, I'm sure," the stranger replied to the retreating back, and Sammy turned to look at him properly for the first time. He was weird, dressed in strange clothes and a long, velvet coat, and with long wavy hair like a girl's. He looked a bit like one of those men on the covers of the novels Mum was always reading, but without all the bulging muscles.
"Who are you?" Sammy asked. He told himself that the tremor in his voice wasn't really very noticeable.
The strange man looked down at him, and his very blue eyes made Sammy feel funny, as if he wanted to look away but for some reason he couldn't. "I'm the... I'm a friend. I've been worried about you, Samson."
No one called him 'Samson' except his father. And when his father called him that, it made him feel weird-- but the way the stranger said it was different. Like he was talking man to man, instead of to a kid.
"Have you run away from home?" the man continued, and Sammy nodded.
"I had to," he said. "They don't understand. Mum wants to send me away to boarding school, because I keep getting into trouble."
The man's eyebrows rose. "You? I must say, you never struck me as a childhood troublemaker," he said nonsensically, and Sammy frowned in confusion. "In any case, don't you think your family will be worried when they find out you've gone?"
"Don't care," he muttered, tearing his eyes away to stare at the ground.
"What-- not even about Gemma? Who's going to look after her if you're not there?"
"Who's gonna look after her if I'm at military school?" he shot back.
The man considered for a moment. "A fair point; nothing wrong with your logical faculties, apparently. But I still think we should get you home. At least if you were at military school, she'd know where you were. Right now, she's probably scared to death... and I don't think you really want that. Now, why don't you show me where you live?"
Sammy shrugged. "I guess," he said eventually, and allowed the stranger to usher him away from the alley with a hand on his shoulder.
* * *
Thirteen-year-old Sammy looked down at the haphazard pile of books on the floor in front of him, and tried to talk himself into going through with his plan.
His last grade report from his teachers had sparked off another round of family arguments about military school. Dad seemed to be weakening, his protests growing more half-hearted each time the subject came up.
It had only been a passing comment from the woman, perched on the edge of the desk in his room as the bitter words once again drifted up from downstairs.
"You'd probably like to see that ridiculous school burn, wouldn't you?" she'd said.
And when he'd repeated the comment to some of his friends, he hadn't meant anything by it-- not really. But they'd jumped on the words, and wouldn't let it go, and now somehow here he was in the school library after dark, standing in front of a pile of books and holding a book of matches.
He couldn't do it. Could he?
It would hardly take anything at all, really... and it would be so big. Knowing that he'd been the one to cause it...
"Samson, you don't want to do this." The voice came from the shadows a few feet behind him.
"How do you know?" he asked without turning around.
"You love books." This time, the voice was right next to his shoulder. "You're one of the few people I've met who loves books as much as I love books."
He looked up at the man beside him, angry and confused. "What are you talking about? I hate reading! I've got di... dylex... dyslexia, or whatever it's called. The words never stay still on the page!"
The man seemed taken aback for a minute, his fingers resting against his lips.
"Of course!" he exclaimed, making Samson jump. "This is all just a dream to you, isn't it? And human beings can never read things properly in dreams. Or do mathematics, for that matter..."
"Dream?" Samson muttered, staring at the pile of books before him. "Nightmare, more like."
"I still don't think you really want to do this, Samson." The man's voice was low and compelling, and Samson found his eyes drawn to his companion's face. "There are animals trapped in cages in the biology classrooms. There may be a janitor in the building somewhere. I don't believe that you've thought this through completely. Have you?"
The silence stretched out for several moments.
"N-no. Maybe not."
The man placed a hand on Samson's shoulder, kindly. "Let's put these books back on the shelves, shall we?"
* * *
Sixteen-year-old Samson sat on the floor, just inside the doorway of the cold, sterile hospital room, his back pressed against the spotless white wall. His eyes were fixed on the small spot of blood seeping through the sheet covering his father's body. As the minutes trickled by, the little stain darkened from red to brown, the only evidence that time was still passing and hadn't frozen into a solid block of wrongness and impossibility.
He didn't look away, even when the man appeared in the doorway.
"Samson, what is it-- what's happened?" The distinctive voice was strained with worry.
Samson was silent for a long time, trying to find the words. "He's dead," he said eventually. "My Dad, he's... there was a road accident, and he's dead."
"Oh, Samson." The man let out a long breath, and slid down the wall to sit beside him. The velvet of his coat sleeve brushed against Samson's arm. "I'm so sorry. I never knew what happened to your father. Where are Gemma and your mother?"
"They were here with him... his... body. A doctor took them away to talk to them. They tried to make me come, too, but I wouldn't."
"Maybe you should go to them. You should be together, as a family."
The lumpy form under the sheet filled his vision, its very silence and stillness an unspoken accusation.
I stood up for you, Samson. All these years, I stood up for you-- and now you're going to leave me alone in this cold, white room?
The shape was all wrong, because of the missing right leg. It seemed too small, too pathetic to be his father. And yet...
"No. I can't leave him alone."
His friend's voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. "You can't do anything more for him, Samson. Not now."
The little patch of blood was almost dry. The blue cotton of the sheet puckered and wrinkled slightly around its edges as it shrank and solidified.
"She'll send me away, now," Samson said. His voice sounded strange and wobbly... but distant, and he realised that he was shaking, shivering as if he'd been out in the cold too long. "Now that Dad's gone, Mum'll send me away."
The man remained silent, wrapping an arm around Samson and rubbing his shoulder as Samson trembled.
* * *
Samson gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he pulled himself up to the chin-up bar for the umpteenth time. The mystery woman-- Colonel Smith, he corrected himself, now that he had a name to attach to her-- and her entourage looked on coolly as he struggled halfway up and then subsided, breathing hard.
Intellectually, Samson knew he should have been shocked to discover that the face of his commanding officer at the military academy was the same face that had appeared to him since he was a child, guiding and prodding, and yes-- sometimes manipulating.
"But you aren't shocked? Not even a little bit taken aback?" his other childhood friend, a guardian angel in a velvet frock coat, had asked from his perch on the end of Samson's bunk the previous night.
"Not really," he'd replied, voice weary.
"And what do you conclude about that, and its implications regarding the nature of your reality?"
Samson had no answer for him. All he knew about his reality at military school was that it started early, ended late, and involved lots of hardship in between-- including hanging from a bar, trying to ignore the burning pain in his hands and arms while his commanding officer and her underlings looked on, unimpressed.
"I chose you because I saw something special in you," said the no-longer-mysterious woman, as Samson strained to pull himself up. "Don't disappoint me, Cadet Officer Griffin."
With a noise halfway between a growl and a shout, Samson wrenched himself the final few inches up to the bar one more time.
* * *
Take what you want.
If you have power, use it.
These lessons had been drummed into his brain for what seemed like years, now. Samson looked down into the face of the plain, mousy girl he'd just wasted an entire evening dancing and drinking with. An entire evening, and now she thought she could kiss him, and giggle like an idiot, and then just walk away and leave him hanging?
"I think you owe me a little something more than that, don't you?" he said, keeping her caged against the alley wall with his arms.
He watched as the expression of discomfort on her face transformed into fear. Watched as she tried to cover it, keep things light.
"Look, you're real nice, okay? But I'm just not interested in anything that serious right now, yeah? And I need to get home, so..."
He lifted a hand; stroked it down the side of her face. "C'mon... you were into it a few minutes ago. I'm not ready to stop yet, and I don't think you are either. Not after teasing me all night on the dance floor." His hand trailed down her neck to her collarbone, then dipped lower.
She knocked it away, then tried to push him off-- the first physical resistance she'd offered.
"Get off! I don't want this! Let me go!" she yelled, loud enough to attract attention if anyone happened to be walking past on the street beyond. He looked at her, still pinned against the wall, seeing the panic in her eyes, and froze.
"I... I don't..." His stammering reply was cut short as a hand grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him around and slamming him back against the wall with a thump.
"Samson! What do you think you're doing!" The man's blue eyes radiated disbelief and horror.
Samson's attention flickered back and forth between the shocked blue gaze, and the girl haring away down the street, the frantic clack-clack-clack of her silly, impractical shoes against the pavement echoing against the alley walls.
"I..."
The man continued to hold him against the wall, hands digging into his shoulders painfully. "Oh, Samson, what have they done to you?" he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. The hands gave him a small shake. "This isn't you. What if someone had done that to your sister? Think, Samson! What if that was Gemma?"
"I... she... I don't... oh, God, I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know what to do!"
The man closed his eyes and exhaled, releasing some of the tension that seemed to hang in the humid night air like smoke. "Samson, you are one of the kindest, most ethical people I've ever had the privilege of knowing. I have always known that I can trust you to make the right decision in any situation, if only you have all of the relevant information at hand.
"Right now, you don't. You're facing your own life: childhood, and family, and growing up, and loss. But you're facing something else as well, something beyond your perception, and it's trying to change you. I wish I could fight it for you. I wish it was a dragon I could slay or a foe I could outwit. But it's not. It's something you have to do for yourself, and all I can do is try to be here when you need me."
"I don't understand!"
"I know you don't, Samson. Just promise me that you'll do one thing."
Samson nodded, desperate for some clue-- some piece of advice that would fix his screwed-up life. The man's hands tightened on his shoulders once more.
"Question everything," he said, his piercing gaze seeming to cut right through Samson's flesh.
* * *
Was it possible to have multiple personality disorder, where the personalities were walking, talking people in the world around you?
Question everything.
Don't question orders.
You are one of the kindest people I know.
If you don't fight, no one will ever respect you.
Samson listened with the other soldiers as Colonel Smith concluded her briefing on the Enemy forces massing outside of the Green Zone, and her upcoming mission to deploy the newly developed doomsday weapon.
"In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen... we didn't ask for this war, but now we are going to end it. You soldiers are the sword and the shield that will protect your families and loved ones from a barbaric force that does not even deserve to breathe the same air as decent, civilised human beings." Colonel Smith's eyes met Samson's directly, and reality shivered, a strange sense of dissociation overcoming him. "This is your destiny... to wield the ultimate power which will save us all. Dismissed."
Don't question orders.
Question everything.
* * *
The forward control centre bustled with soldiers and technicians. Samson sat at his post, awaiting orders, part of the smoothly functioning military machine. The control panel in front of him thrummed with power, only a tiny hint of the destruction that it could unleash upon the Enemy; in his hand, he clutched the key that would unlock the firing button, and bring the conflict to an end by completely eliminating the other side.
When the order came he would carry it out, and know that he was doing the right thing... because...
Because...
He would know that he was doing the right thing. Destroying the Enemy utterly was the right thing to do.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Colonel Smith stepped up on to the raised command platform. "The time is upon us. Soon, we will fulfil our destiny and end this war. Stations, everyone!"
Samson felt the adrenaline flow through his body. It was almost time.
"Lieutenant Griffin," began the woman who had guided Samson towards this moment since he was a young boy. "Prepare to arm the weap--"
Colonel Smith's order was interrupted by a commotion at the entryway. A pair of RMP's entered, dragging a very familiar figure between them. Samson swallowed, his heart pounding as the Redcaps hauled the chained man in front of the Colonel and saluted.
"Report," she ordered, her voice low and dangerous.
"Ma'am, this intruder was discovered trying to gain entry to the compound. He was arrested just outside the control centre."
"A saboteur?" Colonel Smith pondered aloud. "Or-- even better-- a collaborator!" She addressed the man directly, looking down at him from the command platform. "You will account for your actions immediately, prisoner."
The man ignored her, blue eyes searching the room and eventually coming to rest on Samson's face. "Samson, it's time. Time to make the choice," he said quietly.
Samson stood frozen, flinching when Colonel Smith's swagger stick connected hard with the man's cheek. He fell sideways, unable to catch himself with his wrists chained behind his back.
"You will answer promptly when spoken to, prisoner!" snapped the Colonel. "Do you know what we do with collaborators? We execute them. You have no rights here-- no rights to anything other than a quick death!"
Samson's erstwhile guardian angel spared her a quick glance from his position on the floor. "You don't matter," he said. "You're not real." His gaze returned to Samson. "What matters, Samson, is whether or not you're going to push a button which will destroy an entire race. Are you really capable of that? I don't think you are."
"He understands the importance of the chain of command, and will do as he is ordered!" the Colonel shouted, face red and eyes blazing. "Lieutenant Griffin, draw your side arm!"
In a daze, Samson unholstered his handgun with unsteady hands.
"Lieutenant, I order you to execute the prisoner, and then deploy the weapon immediately!"
Breathing in hard gasps, Samson raised the gun and snapped off the safety. The man ignored the barrel pointed at his chest, and met Samson's eyes squarely over the cylinder of black metal.
"I trust you, Samson," he said, serene in the face of imminent death. "Now, it's time to make the choice."
The gun's sights trembled and blurred as Samson fought to keep the weapon steady. His mind churned with conflicting thoughts and ideas.
Piles of Enemy corpses, rotting in the sunshine.
Dead blue eyes, staring upwards as blood from a bullet hole dribbled down like red tears.
His father's coffin disappearing into the cold, brown earth.
His sister Gemma clinging to his neck as he left for military school, whispering "I'll miss you."
Don't question orders.
Question everything.
Question.
Everything.
"Do it!" screamed the woman he'd once thought of as beautiful and mysterious.
With an anguished yell, Samson whirled and fired several shots into the weapon's bank of controls, behind him.
"No!" Colonel Smith wailed as sparks erupted from the machinery.
The world disappeared in a storm of white.
* * *
The first thing Samson became aware of was the feeling of cool fingertips pressed against his temples. The second was the sensation that something small and furry had crawled inside his mouth and died... several days ago, at least.
With an effort, he peeled back sticky eyelids and blinked several times until the blurry shape above him resolved itself into the worried face of the Doctor.
"Wha--?" he croaked, and the hands on his face disappeared, returning a moment later to lift him up and help him drink a few sips of blessedly cool water from a plastic cup.
"Just take it slowly," the Doctor warned. "You're in hospital, but you're going to be fine. We're in the capital city on Myarnmir. Do you remember what happened?"
Samson swallowed several times and coughed, trying to clear his throat.
"I... I was following two people back from that terrorist safe house we found. Gemma went back to get you, and-- wait!" he looked around the room, panic fluttering in his chest. "Where is she? Where's Gemma?"
"She's fine, Samson. She's fine. She'll be back in a little while. What else do you remember?"
"I was walking past this alley, and someone got me from behind-- I never even saw them. And then... it's all fuzzy. No, that can't be right." He frowned, trying to make sense of the swirling memories. "There was this woman. One of the insurgents... only she was my commanding officer, and we were at war... and you were there..."
A sense of dread pooled in Samson's stomach, and he looked up at the Doctor fearfully.
"I did something... Doctor, I think I might have done something horrible."
The Doctor put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
"No, you didn't. You did exactly the right thing. Someone tried to use you-- use you for a terrible purpose, but they didn't succeed. D'you hear me, Samson? They didn't succeed."
"Then tell me what happened, Doctor. I feel as if I've been asleep for twenty years!"
The Doctor sighed, and pulled a chair over next to the bed.
"The insurgents captured you and held you for six days. I tried to find you, but..." He trailed off, looking upset. "You were dumped by the highway the day before yesterday, just outside the city limits, and authorities brought you here to the hospital. You were unconscious, but didn't seem to be injured.
"The medics couldn't figure out why you were unconscious-- all the scans came back normal. Then, two hours ago, your brain activity went into overdrive. They'd never seen anything like it." He fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket, uncomfortable. "I... initiated telepathic contact with you, in hopes of figuring out what was wrong. It's not exactly the 'done' thing, I'm afraid--"
Samson pushed past the muddle of questions to focus on what was probably the least important one. "Hang on-- you're telepathic? And you've just been inside my head?"
"I was worried," he said simply. "And it turned out I was right to be. The rebels used a rather frightening brand of psychological programming on you, Samson. They tried to turn you into a living detonator switch for a bomb hidden somewhere in this city."
"They... what?" Samson asked, feeling stupid.
"Some time ago, their operatives managed to smuggle a powerful device into the capital, but the security crackdown caught them before they could detonate it. They needed to get someone in who wouldn't be suspected-- and you were the perfect choice, since we've been working so closely with the government. They programmed you with a mental scenario which would culminate in a distinct brain wave signal designed to set off the bomb."
Samson felt the blood drain from his face. "I remember a weapon-- the woman in my dream ordered me to fire a weapon."
The Doctor nodded grimly. "If you had set off that weapon, you would have detonated the bomb. I found the mental programming when I initiated telepathic contact, but I couldn't undo it-- all I could do was insert myself into the scenario playing in your mind, and force you to make a conscious decision when the time came, rather than mindlessly following the script you'd been given."
Samson swallowed convulsively. "But, I almost--"
"But you didn't," the Doctor reassured him. "I sent Gemma to warn the authorities as soon as I realised what was happening. They'll find the bomb, and disarm it. I suspect it's quite close to us; there's only one hospital in the colony, and they knew you'd be brought here. I can't believe that the signal could travel very far. Ah... speak of the devil," he said, as Gemma came running into the room.
"They've found it!" she said breathlessly. "It was huge-- it could have taken out half the city!" Her attention shifted to Samson, and she lunged for the bed and enveloped him in a hug.
"You're awake!" she cried, then pulled back to smack him on the shoulder. Hard.
"Ow! What was that for?" he asked plaintively, still in shock.
"That was for getting yourself caught, you idiot," she said, and hugged him again.
He squeezed her back, meeting the Doctor's eyes over her shoulder.
"It's all right now?" he asked, just to be sure. "Everyone's safe?"
The Doctor nodded, a small smile tugging the edges of his lips. "Yes. It's all over."
"Thank you," Samson told him.
The Time Lord sobered, looking at him intently.
"I told you Samson, I know I can always trust you to make the right decision-- you and Gemma both-- once you have all the information."
fin
Author: ponygirl72
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Eighth Doctor, Samson & Gemma Griffin from Terror Firma
Pairings: None
Warnings: Disturbing imagery, non-con (brief scene of unwanted sexual attention, interrupted by another character)
Summary: Choices make the man or woman. Samson and Gemma (from the Big Finish audio Terror Firma) return with the Eighth Doctor.
A/N: I am cheating this month by reusing a fic. I originally wrote this story for the print fanzine Myth Makers #15, published by the Doctor Who Information Network (dwin.org). They stipulate a one-year exclusive rights deal on works in the 'zine, and it's been... well, way longer than that. So, since it fits this month's theme, I'm releasing this baby into the wilds of the internet-- enjoy!
Twist of Destiny
The pretty lady only visited him when he was angry or upset.
Seven-year-old Sammy sat on the tree-swing in the back garden, scuffing his heels in the patch of dirt worn bare by feet pushing the swing back and forth, back and forth. His eyes felt sore and puffy, but it wasn't because he'd been crying or anything. Grown-up boys didn't cry... not even when their stupid little sisters got a new tricycle, and they got in trouble for trying to ride it when they were too big and too old.
Stupid.
When Sammy looked up again, the pretty lady was standing by the tree trunk. It never occurred to him to wonder how she'd got into the garden-- she just did. He glanced away, wiping a palm across his eyes, so that the pretty lady wouldn't think he'd been crying. Which he hadn't been, of course.
"Poor Sammy," she said. "It's just not fair, how they treat you. It's as if they don't even see you-- not like I do. Don't you want to get back at them sometimes?"
"Yeah," he mumbled, eyes fixed on the dirt. "Sometimes."
"You should wait until they put the tricycle away and go to bed, and smash the bloody thing. That would show them, wouldn't it? It would teach them not to ignore you. You're important, Sammy. More important than the rest of them put together."
When Sammy looked up again, the pretty lady was gone. He sat on the swing, thinking about how it would feel to throw the tricycle down again and again until it was just a twisted mess of metal. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded.
And if Gemma's mournful wailing the next morning made his chest feel funny and tight... well.
Big boys never cried.
* * *
Nine-year-old Sammy sat in his room listening to his Mum and Dad argue downstairs and trying not to pick at the stitches in his cheek.
"I tell you, Richard, the boy is completely out of control!"
Even through the wooden door, Mum's voice was loud and a bit shrill, like it always was after she'd been drinking. Dad's voice was quieter, most of the sense of the words lost as the sound drifted up from below.
"A 'tussle?' A 'tussle?' He started a fist fight, for God's sake! A school yard brawl, like... like a-- common hooligan! Maybe now you'd like to rethink your rather baffling opposition to military school! If you won't take him in hand, then at least the people there might..."
Sammy let the words fade into a meaningless buzz and poked gingerly at his cheek. It hurt, but the strange heavy feeling in his stomach was worse. A hand brushed his hair back from his face, and he looked up at the pretty woman, seated next to him on the bed.
"Don't worry, Sammy. You did the right thing by fighting. When that girl called you a name, the only thing you could do was hit her-- you have to fight, or no one will ever respect you. I know those other boys who piled in were bigger than you, but some day you'll be big as well. You'll be the one with the power... and you'll know that you have to use it. You'll know that it's-- "
The woman was interrupted by a tiny knock at the bedroom door. Sammy's head jerked toward the noise as the door creaked open, and when he looked back, the lady was gone. Gemma peeked in, her ratty old stuffed bear tucked firmly under one arm, and her favourite story book clutched in the other hand.
"Are you okay, Sammy?" she asked, eyes wide.
Sammy hugged himself, and refused to look at her.
"Go away," he muttered. "Just go away."
Silence. Then, "I can't sleep, it's too loud downstairs. Please, will you tell me a story? Just one. I think I could go to bed afterwards."
He frowned, and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Being Gemma, she seemed to take this as permission to come in, and a couple of seconds later she was scrambling up next to him, pushing the large picture book into his lap.
"I can't," he said angrily, staring at the letters that seemed to swirl and jump on the cover, never staying still long enough to make sense.
"Yes, you can. I want to hear the one about Hansel and Gretel, and the witch in the woods," she said, and curled up next to him. "You know that one. You tell it, and we'll both look at the pictures." She blinked, her large brown eyes shiny and trusting as she waited for him to begin.
Sammy sighed, defeated, and settled himself against the headboard as he flipped through the old book until he found the page with the pictures that looked right. The words mocked him with the feeling that he should be able to read them; that this book should be an old and faithful friend instead of the symbol of yet another shortcoming. Even so, the smell of paper and leather was soothing; the solid weight of "happily-ever-afters" in his hands, a comfort. He cleared his throat, and began to recite the old, familiar fairy tale.
"'Once upon a time, a poor wood-cutter lived deep in the forest with his wife and two children. The boy was called Hansel, and the girl Gretel...'"
* * *
The alley was dark and threatening, so different than it would have seemed during the daytime. Eleven-year-old Sammy huddled on the verge of the light from the street beyond, torn between the desire to hide and the desire to run and run, until he found someone who could help him.
Running away from home had seemed like the only option when he'd done it. He could still hear the voice of the woman in his ear... "You'll be better off away from them. Better off on your own. The only one you can count on to take care of you is you." Thing is, he wasn't really sure how to take care of himself.
His stomach was beginning to growl. He was thirsty, too. He probably should have packed some things to take with him... some food and clothes and things, maybe. There was a little money in his pocket; perhaps he could use it to buy all that stuff, instead.
Taking a few steps out of the shelter of the alley way, he reached into his pocket and began pulling out the small handful of bills and coins, intent on determining how much was there. A soft noise in front of him jerked his attention away from his calculations and towards the skinny teenager who had quietly appeared in front of him. The older kid was bigger than him-- much bigger.
And he didn't look friendly.
"This block is my territory, Shorty. You wanna be here, you need to make a... donation." The teen's bloodshot eyes dipped down to the money, and Sammy clutched the fistful of bills tighter, crumpling the paper.
Should he run? The other boy was probably faster, and if he was caught... but what else could he do? He could try to fight--
As if reading his mind, the kid moved to block his way out of the alley. His hand, buried in a pocket of the bettered pea coat that hung on his skinny frame, clenched and unclenched convulsively. When he pulled it out, the streetlights glinted off the shiny metal of a knife blade.
Sammy's heart began to pound against the side of his chest; his empty stomach cramped as adrenaline flooded his system. His vision seemed to narrow down to the bright silver of the knife and the hand holding it, and he backed up, instinctively trying to put more distance between himself and the threat. Unfortunately, that only meant that he ended up deeper in the anonymous darkness of the alley, further from prying eyes... or witnesses.
The teenager followed him step for step. "Gimme that money, or I'll slice you open like a slab of meat," he snarled.
Sammy sucked in a lung full of air, ready to scream for help. His cry was cut off with a squeak, though, as a commotion erupted beyond the damp confines of the blind alley.
The teenager whipped his head around as a strange man ran toward them, waving his arms and shouting. "Clear out, quick! The police are coming!"
The kid shifted his weight nervously back and forth, knife still extended toward Sammy, glancing between his easy mark, the newcomer, and the end of the street around which the threatened cops might appear at any second. "Who are you? What the hell are you talking about?" he yelled as the man hurried past.
The stranger skidded to a stop and whirled to face him. "There's a huge bust, one street over! The police are doing a sweep; they'll be here any minute," he said urgently. His eyes widened as he peered back the way he'd come, raising a hand and pointing. "Look! Here they come!"
The teenager spun around to see for himself, and when he turned back, the strange man was holding his knife.
"What the hell--" he began.
But the man was already stepping around, positioning himself between the would-be robber and the alleyway. His body language changed smoothly from harried and fearful to calm and confident.
"Samson, you can come out, now... thank goodness I've found you." He reached out with his free hand, the one that wasn't holding the knife. Sammy wavered for a moment, heart still hammering and chest heaving as if he'd just run a mile. Then, he stepped forward into the light and allowed his oddly reassuring rescuer to take his hand.
"But... the cops--" the teenager stuttered.
"There aren't any police," the man said. His voice was quiet, assured. "No donations tonight, either, I'm afraid. But there's a soup kitchen down the street that's still serving, and probably a bed for the night. A little food and rest will help with the cravings. Certainly more than a fight against two people would, I should think."
The teen seemed to weigh the odds for a minute, his face twisting with anger.
"You're dead, you freaks," he said, his forefinger wavering between Sammy and the strange man as he slowly backed away. "I'm gonna go get a bunch of my mates and come back here, and you're dead." He gobbed and spat at the newcomer's feet before turning and running away.
"Charmed, I'm sure," the stranger replied to the retreating back, and Sammy turned to look at him properly for the first time. He was weird, dressed in strange clothes and a long, velvet coat, and with long wavy hair like a girl's. He looked a bit like one of those men on the covers of the novels Mum was always reading, but without all the bulging muscles.
"Who are you?" Sammy asked. He told himself that the tremor in his voice wasn't really very noticeable.
The strange man looked down at him, and his very blue eyes made Sammy feel funny, as if he wanted to look away but for some reason he couldn't. "I'm the... I'm a friend. I've been worried about you, Samson."
No one called him 'Samson' except his father. And when his father called him that, it made him feel weird-- but the way the stranger said it was different. Like he was talking man to man, instead of to a kid.
"Have you run away from home?" the man continued, and Sammy nodded.
"I had to," he said. "They don't understand. Mum wants to send me away to boarding school, because I keep getting into trouble."
The man's eyebrows rose. "You? I must say, you never struck me as a childhood troublemaker," he said nonsensically, and Sammy frowned in confusion. "In any case, don't you think your family will be worried when they find out you've gone?"
"Don't care," he muttered, tearing his eyes away to stare at the ground.
"What-- not even about Gemma? Who's going to look after her if you're not there?"
"Who's gonna look after her if I'm at military school?" he shot back.
The man considered for a moment. "A fair point; nothing wrong with your logical faculties, apparently. But I still think we should get you home. At least if you were at military school, she'd know where you were. Right now, she's probably scared to death... and I don't think you really want that. Now, why don't you show me where you live?"
Sammy shrugged. "I guess," he said eventually, and allowed the stranger to usher him away from the alley with a hand on his shoulder.
* * *
Thirteen-year-old Sammy looked down at the haphazard pile of books on the floor in front of him, and tried to talk himself into going through with his plan.
His last grade report from his teachers had sparked off another round of family arguments about military school. Dad seemed to be weakening, his protests growing more half-hearted each time the subject came up.
It had only been a passing comment from the woman, perched on the edge of the desk in his room as the bitter words once again drifted up from downstairs.
"You'd probably like to see that ridiculous school burn, wouldn't you?" she'd said.
And when he'd repeated the comment to some of his friends, he hadn't meant anything by it-- not really. But they'd jumped on the words, and wouldn't let it go, and now somehow here he was in the school library after dark, standing in front of a pile of books and holding a book of matches.
He couldn't do it. Could he?
It would hardly take anything at all, really... and it would be so big. Knowing that he'd been the one to cause it...
"Samson, you don't want to do this." The voice came from the shadows a few feet behind him.
"How do you know?" he asked without turning around.
"You love books." This time, the voice was right next to his shoulder. "You're one of the few people I've met who loves books as much as I love books."
He looked up at the man beside him, angry and confused. "What are you talking about? I hate reading! I've got di... dylex... dyslexia, or whatever it's called. The words never stay still on the page!"
The man seemed taken aback for a minute, his fingers resting against his lips.
"Of course!" he exclaimed, making Samson jump. "This is all just a dream to you, isn't it? And human beings can never read things properly in dreams. Or do mathematics, for that matter..."
"Dream?" Samson muttered, staring at the pile of books before him. "Nightmare, more like."
"I still don't think you really want to do this, Samson." The man's voice was low and compelling, and Samson found his eyes drawn to his companion's face. "There are animals trapped in cages in the biology classrooms. There may be a janitor in the building somewhere. I don't believe that you've thought this through completely. Have you?"
The silence stretched out for several moments.
"N-no. Maybe not."
The man placed a hand on Samson's shoulder, kindly. "Let's put these books back on the shelves, shall we?"
* * *
Sixteen-year-old Samson sat on the floor, just inside the doorway of the cold, sterile hospital room, his back pressed against the spotless white wall. His eyes were fixed on the small spot of blood seeping through the sheet covering his father's body. As the minutes trickled by, the little stain darkened from red to brown, the only evidence that time was still passing and hadn't frozen into a solid block of wrongness and impossibility.
He didn't look away, even when the man appeared in the doorway.
"Samson, what is it-- what's happened?" The distinctive voice was strained with worry.
Samson was silent for a long time, trying to find the words. "He's dead," he said eventually. "My Dad, he's... there was a road accident, and he's dead."
"Oh, Samson." The man let out a long breath, and slid down the wall to sit beside him. The velvet of his coat sleeve brushed against Samson's arm. "I'm so sorry. I never knew what happened to your father. Where are Gemma and your mother?"
"They were here with him... his... body. A doctor took them away to talk to them. They tried to make me come, too, but I wouldn't."
"Maybe you should go to them. You should be together, as a family."
The lumpy form under the sheet filled his vision, its very silence and stillness an unspoken accusation.
I stood up for you, Samson. All these years, I stood up for you-- and now you're going to leave me alone in this cold, white room?
The shape was all wrong, because of the missing right leg. It seemed too small, too pathetic to be his father. And yet...
"No. I can't leave him alone."
His friend's voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. "You can't do anything more for him, Samson. Not now."
The little patch of blood was almost dry. The blue cotton of the sheet puckered and wrinkled slightly around its edges as it shrank and solidified.
"She'll send me away, now," Samson said. His voice sounded strange and wobbly... but distant, and he realised that he was shaking, shivering as if he'd been out in the cold too long. "Now that Dad's gone, Mum'll send me away."
The man remained silent, wrapping an arm around Samson and rubbing his shoulder as Samson trembled.
* * *
Samson gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he pulled himself up to the chin-up bar for the umpteenth time. The mystery woman-- Colonel Smith, he corrected himself, now that he had a name to attach to her-- and her entourage looked on coolly as he struggled halfway up and then subsided, breathing hard.
Intellectually, Samson knew he should have been shocked to discover that the face of his commanding officer at the military academy was the same face that had appeared to him since he was a child, guiding and prodding, and yes-- sometimes manipulating.
"But you aren't shocked? Not even a little bit taken aback?" his other childhood friend, a guardian angel in a velvet frock coat, had asked from his perch on the end of Samson's bunk the previous night.
"Not really," he'd replied, voice weary.
"And what do you conclude about that, and its implications regarding the nature of your reality?"
Samson had no answer for him. All he knew about his reality at military school was that it started early, ended late, and involved lots of hardship in between-- including hanging from a bar, trying to ignore the burning pain in his hands and arms while his commanding officer and her underlings looked on, unimpressed.
"I chose you because I saw something special in you," said the no-longer-mysterious woman, as Samson strained to pull himself up. "Don't disappoint me, Cadet Officer Griffin."
With a noise halfway between a growl and a shout, Samson wrenched himself the final few inches up to the bar one more time.
* * *
Take what you want.
If you have power, use it.
These lessons had been drummed into his brain for what seemed like years, now. Samson looked down into the face of the plain, mousy girl he'd just wasted an entire evening dancing and drinking with. An entire evening, and now she thought she could kiss him, and giggle like an idiot, and then just walk away and leave him hanging?
"I think you owe me a little something more than that, don't you?" he said, keeping her caged against the alley wall with his arms.
He watched as the expression of discomfort on her face transformed into fear. Watched as she tried to cover it, keep things light.
"Look, you're real nice, okay? But I'm just not interested in anything that serious right now, yeah? And I need to get home, so..."
He lifted a hand; stroked it down the side of her face. "C'mon... you were into it a few minutes ago. I'm not ready to stop yet, and I don't think you are either. Not after teasing me all night on the dance floor." His hand trailed down her neck to her collarbone, then dipped lower.
She knocked it away, then tried to push him off-- the first physical resistance she'd offered.
"Get off! I don't want this! Let me go!" she yelled, loud enough to attract attention if anyone happened to be walking past on the street beyond. He looked at her, still pinned against the wall, seeing the panic in her eyes, and froze.
"I... I don't..." His stammering reply was cut short as a hand grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him around and slamming him back against the wall with a thump.
"Samson! What do you think you're doing!" The man's blue eyes radiated disbelief and horror.
Samson's attention flickered back and forth between the shocked blue gaze, and the girl haring away down the street, the frantic clack-clack-clack of her silly, impractical shoes against the pavement echoing against the alley walls.
"I..."
The man continued to hold him against the wall, hands digging into his shoulders painfully. "Oh, Samson, what have they done to you?" he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. The hands gave him a small shake. "This isn't you. What if someone had done that to your sister? Think, Samson! What if that was Gemma?"
"I... she... I don't... oh, God, I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know what to do!"
The man closed his eyes and exhaled, releasing some of the tension that seemed to hang in the humid night air like smoke. "Samson, you are one of the kindest, most ethical people I've ever had the privilege of knowing. I have always known that I can trust you to make the right decision in any situation, if only you have all of the relevant information at hand.
"Right now, you don't. You're facing your own life: childhood, and family, and growing up, and loss. But you're facing something else as well, something beyond your perception, and it's trying to change you. I wish I could fight it for you. I wish it was a dragon I could slay or a foe I could outwit. But it's not. It's something you have to do for yourself, and all I can do is try to be here when you need me."
"I don't understand!"
"I know you don't, Samson. Just promise me that you'll do one thing."
Samson nodded, desperate for some clue-- some piece of advice that would fix his screwed-up life. The man's hands tightened on his shoulders once more.
"Question everything," he said, his piercing gaze seeming to cut right through Samson's flesh.
* * *
Was it possible to have multiple personality disorder, where the personalities were walking, talking people in the world around you?
Question everything.
Don't question orders.
You are one of the kindest people I know.
If you don't fight, no one will ever respect you.
Samson listened with the other soldiers as Colonel Smith concluded her briefing on the Enemy forces massing outside of the Green Zone, and her upcoming mission to deploy the newly developed doomsday weapon.
"In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen... we didn't ask for this war, but now we are going to end it. You soldiers are the sword and the shield that will protect your families and loved ones from a barbaric force that does not even deserve to breathe the same air as decent, civilised human beings." Colonel Smith's eyes met Samson's directly, and reality shivered, a strange sense of dissociation overcoming him. "This is your destiny... to wield the ultimate power which will save us all. Dismissed."
Don't question orders.
Question everything.
* * *
The forward control centre bustled with soldiers and technicians. Samson sat at his post, awaiting orders, part of the smoothly functioning military machine. The control panel in front of him thrummed with power, only a tiny hint of the destruction that it could unleash upon the Enemy; in his hand, he clutched the key that would unlock the firing button, and bring the conflict to an end by completely eliminating the other side.
When the order came he would carry it out, and know that he was doing the right thing... because...
Because...
He would know that he was doing the right thing. Destroying the Enemy utterly was the right thing to do.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Colonel Smith stepped up on to the raised command platform. "The time is upon us. Soon, we will fulfil our destiny and end this war. Stations, everyone!"
Samson felt the adrenaline flow through his body. It was almost time.
"Lieutenant Griffin," began the woman who had guided Samson towards this moment since he was a young boy. "Prepare to arm the weap--"
Colonel Smith's order was interrupted by a commotion at the entryway. A pair of RMP's entered, dragging a very familiar figure between them. Samson swallowed, his heart pounding as the Redcaps hauled the chained man in front of the Colonel and saluted.
"Report," she ordered, her voice low and dangerous.
"Ma'am, this intruder was discovered trying to gain entry to the compound. He was arrested just outside the control centre."
"A saboteur?" Colonel Smith pondered aloud. "Or-- even better-- a collaborator!" She addressed the man directly, looking down at him from the command platform. "You will account for your actions immediately, prisoner."
The man ignored her, blue eyes searching the room and eventually coming to rest on Samson's face. "Samson, it's time. Time to make the choice," he said quietly.
Samson stood frozen, flinching when Colonel Smith's swagger stick connected hard with the man's cheek. He fell sideways, unable to catch himself with his wrists chained behind his back.
"You will answer promptly when spoken to, prisoner!" snapped the Colonel. "Do you know what we do with collaborators? We execute them. You have no rights here-- no rights to anything other than a quick death!"
Samson's erstwhile guardian angel spared her a quick glance from his position on the floor. "You don't matter," he said. "You're not real." His gaze returned to Samson. "What matters, Samson, is whether or not you're going to push a button which will destroy an entire race. Are you really capable of that? I don't think you are."
"He understands the importance of the chain of command, and will do as he is ordered!" the Colonel shouted, face red and eyes blazing. "Lieutenant Griffin, draw your side arm!"
In a daze, Samson unholstered his handgun with unsteady hands.
"Lieutenant, I order you to execute the prisoner, and then deploy the weapon immediately!"
Breathing in hard gasps, Samson raised the gun and snapped off the safety. The man ignored the barrel pointed at his chest, and met Samson's eyes squarely over the cylinder of black metal.
"I trust you, Samson," he said, serene in the face of imminent death. "Now, it's time to make the choice."
The gun's sights trembled and blurred as Samson fought to keep the weapon steady. His mind churned with conflicting thoughts and ideas.
Piles of Enemy corpses, rotting in the sunshine.
Dead blue eyes, staring upwards as blood from a bullet hole dribbled down like red tears.
His father's coffin disappearing into the cold, brown earth.
His sister Gemma clinging to his neck as he left for military school, whispering "I'll miss you."
Don't question orders.
Question everything.
Question.
Everything.
"Do it!" screamed the woman he'd once thought of as beautiful and mysterious.
With an anguished yell, Samson whirled and fired several shots into the weapon's bank of controls, behind him.
"No!" Colonel Smith wailed as sparks erupted from the machinery.
The world disappeared in a storm of white.
* * *
The first thing Samson became aware of was the feeling of cool fingertips pressed against his temples. The second was the sensation that something small and furry had crawled inside his mouth and died... several days ago, at least.
With an effort, he peeled back sticky eyelids and blinked several times until the blurry shape above him resolved itself into the worried face of the Doctor.
"Wha--?" he croaked, and the hands on his face disappeared, returning a moment later to lift him up and help him drink a few sips of blessedly cool water from a plastic cup.
"Just take it slowly," the Doctor warned. "You're in hospital, but you're going to be fine. We're in the capital city on Myarnmir. Do you remember what happened?"
Samson swallowed several times and coughed, trying to clear his throat.
"I... I was following two people back from that terrorist safe house we found. Gemma went back to get you, and-- wait!" he looked around the room, panic fluttering in his chest. "Where is she? Where's Gemma?"
"She's fine, Samson. She's fine. She'll be back in a little while. What else do you remember?"
"I was walking past this alley, and someone got me from behind-- I never even saw them. And then... it's all fuzzy. No, that can't be right." He frowned, trying to make sense of the swirling memories. "There was this woman. One of the insurgents... only she was my commanding officer, and we were at war... and you were there..."
A sense of dread pooled in Samson's stomach, and he looked up at the Doctor fearfully.
"I did something... Doctor, I think I might have done something horrible."
The Doctor put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
"No, you didn't. You did exactly the right thing. Someone tried to use you-- use you for a terrible purpose, but they didn't succeed. D'you hear me, Samson? They didn't succeed."
"Then tell me what happened, Doctor. I feel as if I've been asleep for twenty years!"
The Doctor sighed, and pulled a chair over next to the bed.
"The insurgents captured you and held you for six days. I tried to find you, but..." He trailed off, looking upset. "You were dumped by the highway the day before yesterday, just outside the city limits, and authorities brought you here to the hospital. You were unconscious, but didn't seem to be injured.
"The medics couldn't figure out why you were unconscious-- all the scans came back normal. Then, two hours ago, your brain activity went into overdrive. They'd never seen anything like it." He fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket, uncomfortable. "I... initiated telepathic contact with you, in hopes of figuring out what was wrong. It's not exactly the 'done' thing, I'm afraid--"
Samson pushed past the muddle of questions to focus on what was probably the least important one. "Hang on-- you're telepathic? And you've just been inside my head?"
"I was worried," he said simply. "And it turned out I was right to be. The rebels used a rather frightening brand of psychological programming on you, Samson. They tried to turn you into a living detonator switch for a bomb hidden somewhere in this city."
"They... what?" Samson asked, feeling stupid.
"Some time ago, their operatives managed to smuggle a powerful device into the capital, but the security crackdown caught them before they could detonate it. They needed to get someone in who wouldn't be suspected-- and you were the perfect choice, since we've been working so closely with the government. They programmed you with a mental scenario which would culminate in a distinct brain wave signal designed to set off the bomb."
Samson felt the blood drain from his face. "I remember a weapon-- the woman in my dream ordered me to fire a weapon."
The Doctor nodded grimly. "If you had set off that weapon, you would have detonated the bomb. I found the mental programming when I initiated telepathic contact, but I couldn't undo it-- all I could do was insert myself into the scenario playing in your mind, and force you to make a conscious decision when the time came, rather than mindlessly following the script you'd been given."
Samson swallowed convulsively. "But, I almost--"
"But you didn't," the Doctor reassured him. "I sent Gemma to warn the authorities as soon as I realised what was happening. They'll find the bomb, and disarm it. I suspect it's quite close to us; there's only one hospital in the colony, and they knew you'd be brought here. I can't believe that the signal could travel very far. Ah... speak of the devil," he said, as Gemma came running into the room.
"They've found it!" she said breathlessly. "It was huge-- it could have taken out half the city!" Her attention shifted to Samson, and she lunged for the bed and enveloped him in a hug.
"You're awake!" she cried, then pulled back to smack him on the shoulder. Hard.
"Ow! What was that for?" he asked plaintively, still in shock.
"That was for getting yourself caught, you idiot," she said, and hugged him again.
He squeezed her back, meeting the Doctor's eyes over her shoulder.
"It's all right now?" he asked, just to be sure. "Everyone's safe?"
The Doctor nodded, a small smile tugging the edges of his lips. "Yes. It's all over."
"Thank you," Samson told him.
The Time Lord sobered, looking at him intently.
"I told you Samson, I know I can always trust you to make the right decision-- you and Gemma both-- once you have all the information."
fin