Come Undone (Theatrical Muse)
[Directly after this.]
She wasn't aware of how she'd gotten back to the blue police box that was waiting dutifully on a street corner, hidden in just enough shadow that passersby would not have taken notice. They never did, and she would not have, either. Would not have seen it if she'd been anyone other than her, wouldn't have recognized it, felt the sentience within the ship as she got close to it.
She didn't remember having done any of that, though she probably would later. Would be able to retrace her steps perfectly if she wished to. It's possible she would have killed anything that might have gotten in her way that night, and equally possible that she'd have passed right by it without even sparing it a moment's notice. It was possible she'd done either one. She certainly looked as though she could have just come from a battle, to anyone who was used to looking at her. It wasn't anything in particular, just that she looked a bit less composed, a bit wild and disheveled, as though she'd just come in from a windstorm.
She pushed the ship's door open, finding it left unlocked, and the Doctor presumably somewhere within though she didn't bother to look for him. She didn't know where she was going until she found herself in a room that she'd never done more than glance into in passing, hadn't given the slightest notice to until now. A vague echo in the back of her mind recalled its purpose, that the Doctor had explained it once and she'd sniffed a bit in disdain. The Zero Room, he'd called it. A place of complete solitude, completely empty but for walls tinted faintly pink and the whole thing smelling a bit like roses. She may have even scoffed at it when the Doctor told her it was where Timelords went during particularly traumatic regenerations. As though one should need such things. As if her rebirth into this world hadn't been traumatic. As though she even cared that it had.
It wasn't a room she'd have sought out, but it's where she ended up, perhaps where the TARDIS thought she needed to go. She could communicate with the ship in her own fashion, in a way similar to the way she'd once been able to listen and speak to plants, though it was nothing so precise, nothing more than whispers here and there unless she was particularly focused on it.
She wasn't, tonight. She wasn't focused on anything. She felt too much the way she had after she'd been stripped of her powers, felt a sharp sensation of pain in her chest that made this Shell want to gasp for breath when she knew there was nothing physically wrong with it.
She'd intended come here with a mission, with a purpose, with a request that she was perfectly willing to make a demand if he wouldn't listen. She'd worked it all out in her head, worked it out before she'd even left the room, the house. Before she'd told him she couldn't stay. Before she'd known he wanted to ask her to.
She would have -- that's the part that makes that dull ache return to steal her breath every time she remembers how to quiet it. The sneaking suspicion that she would have stayed. The knowledge that it probably wasn't suspicion at all. That she had perfect awareness of herself, if she were truthful, and that she knew what she'd have done if he'd asked.
It had always come down to that. If he'd asked. She'd only ever offered, never pushed, never took, never simply compelled him to obey her. She could have. She knew she still had that in her, and often enough in those early days she'd wanted to, to simply break him and see what came of it, to make him her pet, to threaten to kill him for defying her, for hating her, for hurling unkind words at her when he bothered to acknowledge her at all. And even now that that had changed, that not an unkind word had been spoken since her return, it still stung her. SHE was the goddess. She was the one who should make the requests and be obeyed. She should have commanded that kind of loyalty.
She had once. She had, and he'd taken that last faithful servant from her. She hadn't even wanted the pawn, had considered him trivial, but he'd taken him and she'd let him, even accepting his reply that it wasn't justice. He'd taken that and he'd taken her powers and he'd hated her so fiercely at first and she couldn't say she didn't forgive him because she didn't even have a concept of forgiveness.
These things simply were.
She didn't know why they hurt. Why she even could.
And that was a lie, and that hurt, too, that she couldn't invent her own truths any more, that she knew, and she knew that she knew, had acknowledged too much to ever put it back away, to ever force herself to deny ever again.
Still, If you'd asked her just then, she wouldn't have been able to give you a reply. She might have torn your head off for asking, but wouldn't tell you why she found herself sitting on the floor in that empty room that suited her so very little. Why she'd simply fallen there and not bothered to pick herself back up. Why she sat there in silence and tried to put herself back together, tried to re-order herself in a way that made sense, tried to put back what had been undone, and tried to decide whether she'd choose to undo it all. Tried to tell herself that that sharp incomprehensible pain didn't grow a little worse when she thought of undoing it.
At some point she simply stopped trying. At some point, she just simply stopped. This Shell knew how to keep itself alive, she'd seen to that when she remade it in her own image. It was hurting her and she couldn't make it stop and if she didn't simply stop, herself, she was going to willfully tear herself apart.
So she stopped.
It would likely be a while before she'd have any idea if it helped.
She wasn't aware of how she'd gotten back to the blue police box that was waiting dutifully on a street corner, hidden in just enough shadow that passersby would not have taken notice. They never did, and she would not have, either. Would not have seen it if she'd been anyone other than her, wouldn't have recognized it, felt the sentience within the ship as she got close to it.
She didn't remember having done any of that, though she probably would later. Would be able to retrace her steps perfectly if she wished to. It's possible she would have killed anything that might have gotten in her way that night, and equally possible that she'd have passed right by it without even sparing it a moment's notice. It was possible she'd done either one. She certainly looked as though she could have just come from a battle, to anyone who was used to looking at her. It wasn't anything in particular, just that she looked a bit less composed, a bit wild and disheveled, as though she'd just come in from a windstorm.
She pushed the ship's door open, finding it left unlocked, and the Doctor presumably somewhere within though she didn't bother to look for him. She didn't know where she was going until she found herself in a room that she'd never done more than glance into in passing, hadn't given the slightest notice to until now. A vague echo in the back of her mind recalled its purpose, that the Doctor had explained it once and she'd sniffed a bit in disdain. The Zero Room, he'd called it. A place of complete solitude, completely empty but for walls tinted faintly pink and the whole thing smelling a bit like roses. She may have even scoffed at it when the Doctor told her it was where Timelords went during particularly traumatic regenerations. As though one should need such things. As if her rebirth into this world hadn't been traumatic. As though she even cared that it had.
It wasn't a room she'd have sought out, but it's where she ended up, perhaps where the TARDIS thought she needed to go. She could communicate with the ship in her own fashion, in a way similar to the way she'd once been able to listen and speak to plants, though it was nothing so precise, nothing more than whispers here and there unless she was particularly focused on it.
She wasn't, tonight. She wasn't focused on anything. She felt too much the way she had after she'd been stripped of her powers, felt a sharp sensation of pain in her chest that made this Shell want to gasp for breath when she knew there was nothing physically wrong with it.
She'd intended come here with a mission, with a purpose, with a request that she was perfectly willing to make a demand if he wouldn't listen. She'd worked it all out in her head, worked it out before she'd even left the room, the house. Before she'd told him she couldn't stay. Before she'd known he wanted to ask her to.
She would have -- that's the part that makes that dull ache return to steal her breath every time she remembers how to quiet it. The sneaking suspicion that she would have stayed. The knowledge that it probably wasn't suspicion at all. That she had perfect awareness of herself, if she were truthful, and that she knew what she'd have done if he'd asked.
It had always come down to that. If he'd asked. She'd only ever offered, never pushed, never took, never simply compelled him to obey her. She could have. She knew she still had that in her, and often enough in those early days she'd wanted to, to simply break him and see what came of it, to make him her pet, to threaten to kill him for defying her, for hating her, for hurling unkind words at her when he bothered to acknowledge her at all. And even now that that had changed, that not an unkind word had been spoken since her return, it still stung her. SHE was the goddess. She was the one who should make the requests and be obeyed. She should have commanded that kind of loyalty.
She had once. She had, and he'd taken that last faithful servant from her. She hadn't even wanted the pawn, had considered him trivial, but he'd taken him and she'd let him, even accepting his reply that it wasn't justice. He'd taken that and he'd taken her powers and he'd hated her so fiercely at first and she couldn't say she didn't forgive him because she didn't even have a concept of forgiveness.
These things simply were.
She didn't know why they hurt. Why she even could.
And that was a lie, and that hurt, too, that she couldn't invent her own truths any more, that she knew, and she knew that she knew, had acknowledged too much to ever put it back away, to ever force herself to deny ever again.
Still, If you'd asked her just then, she wouldn't have been able to give you a reply. She might have torn your head off for asking, but wouldn't tell you why she found herself sitting on the floor in that empty room that suited her so very little. Why she'd simply fallen there and not bothered to pick herself back up. Why she sat there in silence and tried to put herself back together, tried to re-order herself in a way that made sense, tried to put back what had been undone, and tried to decide whether she'd choose to undo it all. Tried to tell herself that that sharp incomprehensible pain didn't grow a little worse when she thought of undoing it.
At some point she simply stopped trying. At some point, she just simply stopped. This Shell knew how to keep itself alive, she'd seen to that when she remade it in her own image. It was hurting her and she couldn't make it stop and if she didn't simply stop, herself, she was going to willfully tear herself apart.
So she stopped.
It would likely be a while before she'd have any idea if it helped.