Fic: Girl In The Mirror ‘Verse-Prologue: Regeneration
Title: Girl In The Mirror ‘Verse-Prologue: Regeneration
Author: psyfi_geekgirl
BetaBabe: akkajemo
Characters/Pairings: Eleven, Twelve
Rating: PG
Excerpt: Surely this couldn’t be right? How will he ever adjust to this??
Word count: 1,367
Disclaimer: Until Jossed, Twelve is mine-but of course based entirely on stuff that ain’t mine… All hail Auntie Beeb!
A/N: This is the beginning of my own series, Twelfth Doctor ‘Verse--Posted appropriately enough on the 12th!
*insert Mister Smith Supercomputer fanfare here*
TAKE NOTE: I also DO NOT give anyone permission to post this in whole or in parts anywhere else! To do so would be very dishonest and terminally uncool and your actions would kill kittens, make puppy dogs cry and send the Reapers to eat your thieving flesh...
K. I feel sick now *goes to hide*
Somehow (he didn’t quite know how) he made it back inside the TARDIS.
The pain was unimaginable.
Ah, well, at least I didn’t trip over a brick, he thought ruefully as he all but crawled up the few stairs to the console.
He was alone.
He looked around his magnificent TARDIS for the last time, the memory of his last regeneration so fresh in his mind. He knew he didn’t have long. He winced a bit at the greater pain he knew was to come. He thought to himself that if he wasn’t more careful, he was going to run out of time altogether. After all, only one left after this, he thought and shook his head. He’d lied to Clyde of course. Hadn’t wanted anyone to worry.
Rule #1: The Doctor always lies.
Well, just now he was worried about the way he’d been running through his regenerations. He was right to. This one had been rather quick to end.
Things just hadn’t been the same since that bloody Time War.
He cried out in pain as the first of it began-like a hot coiled spring in his hearts that snapped and burned as it sliced through him. At least it blotted out the pain from his fatal wound-but was that really a consolation?
Wouldn’t be long now.
He wondered about his next regeneration in order to keep his thoughts away from the dread of the increasing pain that he knew would follow. What would he be like next? Would the next him still hate apples and beans? Would he keep the same penchant for unusual headgear? And the bow tie-oh, his bowtie!
His hand instinctually fluttered up to his neck and he stroked it appreciatively, like an old friend. He would miss it. He would miss all of this…
He wondered if his next self would have floppy, ridiculous hair, if he’d have as much fun as he did, or still believe in silly, impossible miracles. Would his next self be as connected to River? Would he forget even more about Rose?
He wondered if his next self would be as cool…
In the end, though, it was worth it.
“Well, that was really something…” he muttered, appreciatively.
Holding his hands out in front of him he saw the achingly familiar golden glow.
The Universe did not sing for him this time, but he did not need it to.
Suddenly, the burning started building in earnest. Hot tears welled up in his eyes, brought on by the searing and destruction of the renewal process-and the worry that he would be eventually forgotten. For the Universe would move on. Regenerations would come and go. Companions would always outgrow him. Someday, there would be no one who would remember him-this him-and it stung. The mortality of a Timelord didn’t make much sense, but it was all he had.
Yet he knew there was no question, and no turning back. His annihilation was certain.
Noxiously cloaked Death was bearing down on this, his Eleventh incarnation. It’s rasping, greedy breath turning what little courage he had left into cold, blackened embers in the cold grating of his ribcage. And it would not be kind. And it would hurt.
A lot.
Some new man would go sauntering away…
It was time, and he would not fight it.
He felt it in his hearts first… The boiling.
Pain rushed across his chest like inhaling smoke in a fire until he tasted tangy metal in his mouth-this feeling spawning his last abstract thought he would have that his death would be the last thing he ever tasted and it was worse than beans or apples. Searing hot blood spiked down his spine and forearms, causing him to fling his hands out at his side--as if getting them away from his body would somehow cool them.
It wouldn’t.
Relief would come, but not soon enough.
A golden veil fell across his vision, engulfing his head. In an instant, he would be gone.
Energy blasted out of his face, his fingers and his eyes, with the fury of the Fates. Cells began to replace themselves, overwrite themselves, regenerate themselves. Hair lengthened, eyes changed color and limbs contracted and elongated. Features molded and reformed together, flesh caught in the smelting of the regenerative process.
He willed his eyes to stay open as long as he could, until the pain wrenched him from consciousness and he shrieked out his last breath, into the dying light of his soul-
--and into his rebirth!
The TARDIS echoes with the first cries of the newest Doctor as he pitches forward, off balance. Fighting to stay upright, hands flail out to catch himself against the console.
The console.
The TARDIS!
Still here!
HA Haaaaaa!
This time there is no all consuming, raging fire-no cloister bell, no plummeting from the Vortex.
There is, however-one killer headache.
He groans, running his hands through his hair. Quite a lot of it. Rather a lot of... brown hair, actually… At least I’m not bald, he thinks, that’s a plus! But still not ginger!
He runs his hands over his face, counting everything. Yes, two eyes, ears (not too big-a bit of luck there), a nose-rather slight-mouth, okay… New teeth, still weird… Chin: Not bad. Pretty long neck. Arms-check. Hands, fingers-check. Legs! Legs are still good!! A little shorter, he notices. Still there was something… Can't put his finger on it. Reflexively, his fingers rise again to the bow tie.
Still there. Still cool… Right?
He makes an effort to smooth down his tweed jacket as all his clothes feel a bit tight and lumpy now, despite having a shorter body. He shakes his head, hoping he hasn't shrunk too much. Please, not as short as my Seventh, he thinks to himself, and runs his hands over his backside absentmindedly.
BLIMEY! That’s quite a backside!
He strains to get a look at his own bum. It is rather large-at least larger than he was used to in his last several regenerations. Still, no bother, he can fix that with a little running…
Do we still love the running?
Jiminy Crickets, he forgot how much his hearts raced after regeneration!
He reaches up to feel his heartsbeats and feels…
What?
…
Softness…?
Yes. A softness. Definitely some serious running was in order, he thinks as he looks down to see and feel-what is that, exactly? Funny… For a minute they felt to him just like…
Breasts???
…
BLOODY HELL!
BREASTS!!!!
He lets go of his breasts like they burned his hands and stumbles backwards, as if to avoid a slap from some unseen girl. But the act of arching his back in an effort to get away-pops several buttons-revealing… cleavage.
In a panic, he pulls out the slack of his trouser waistband and looks down…
He feels his world take one viciously hellacious carnival ride dip.
“I’m a GIRL!!” the Doctor shrieks, startling instantly at the voice that comes back. He bolts around the console as if to get away from himself, stumbling drunkenly, his centre of gravity completely off. “NO WAY!” he screams, barking his knee on the underside of the console. Running around the console again in the opposite direction, he pulls the monitor out and angles it at his midsection, spinning back and forth in an effort to get a look at front and backside practically simultaneously, blinking wildly and gibbering, unbelievably. Of course, the too-tight pants split as soon as he leans over to see his bum. “NO! NO, NO, NO! NO!!!!”
This can't be. This can not be happening!
He yanks the monitor around violently to see his face. Perhaps the regeneration process is not finished? Perhaps something has stuck halfway through the process? Perhaps it will all work itself out?
But there, in the muddy silver indifferent reflection of the lifeless monitor he sees the smooth, delicate, refined, angular features-
--Of.
A.
GIRL!
Surely this couldn't be right? How will he ever adjust to this??
Pitching her head back in horror and desperately wrenching the sinews of her new vocal chords, the Twelfth Doctor howls her frantic shock and frosty rage into the belly of the empty TARDIS…
Chapter 1: Everything Old Is New Again
Author: psyfi_geekgirl
BetaBabe: akkajemo
Characters/Pairings: Eleven, Twelve
Rating: PG
Excerpt: Surely this couldn’t be right? How will he ever adjust to this??
Word count: 1,367
Disclaimer: Until Jossed, Twelve is mine-but of course based entirely on stuff that ain’t mine… All hail Auntie Beeb!
A/N: This is the beginning of my own series, Twelfth Doctor ‘Verse--Posted appropriately enough on the 12th!
*insert Mister Smith Supercomputer fanfare here*
TAKE NOTE: I also DO NOT give anyone permission to post this in whole or in parts anywhere else! To do so would be very dishonest and terminally uncool and your actions would kill kittens, make puppy dogs cry and send the Reapers to eat your thieving flesh...
K. I feel sick now *goes to hide*
Somehow (he didn’t quite know how) he made it back inside the TARDIS.
The pain was unimaginable.
Ah, well, at least I didn’t trip over a brick, he thought ruefully as he all but crawled up the few stairs to the console.
He was alone.
He looked around his magnificent TARDIS for the last time, the memory of his last regeneration so fresh in his mind. He knew he didn’t have long. He winced a bit at the greater pain he knew was to come. He thought to himself that if he wasn’t more careful, he was going to run out of time altogether. After all, only one left after this, he thought and shook his head. He’d lied to Clyde of course. Hadn’t wanted anyone to worry.
Rule #1: The Doctor always lies.
Well, just now he was worried about the way he’d been running through his regenerations. He was right to. This one had been rather quick to end.
Things just hadn’t been the same since that bloody Time War.
He cried out in pain as the first of it began-like a hot coiled spring in his hearts that snapped and burned as it sliced through him. At least it blotted out the pain from his fatal wound-but was that really a consolation?
Wouldn’t be long now.
He wondered about his next regeneration in order to keep his thoughts away from the dread of the increasing pain that he knew would follow. What would he be like next? Would the next him still hate apples and beans? Would he keep the same penchant for unusual headgear? And the bow tie-oh, his bowtie!
His hand instinctually fluttered up to his neck and he stroked it appreciatively, like an old friend. He would miss it. He would miss all of this…
He wondered if his next self would have floppy, ridiculous hair, if he’d have as much fun as he did, or still believe in silly, impossible miracles. Would his next self be as connected to River? Would he forget even more about Rose?
He wondered if his next self would be as cool…
In the end, though, it was worth it.
“Well, that was really something…” he muttered, appreciatively.
Holding his hands out in front of him he saw the achingly familiar golden glow.
The Universe did not sing for him this time, but he did not need it to.
Suddenly, the burning started building in earnest. Hot tears welled up in his eyes, brought on by the searing and destruction of the renewal process-and the worry that he would be eventually forgotten. For the Universe would move on. Regenerations would come and go. Companions would always outgrow him. Someday, there would be no one who would remember him-this him-and it stung. The mortality of a Timelord didn’t make much sense, but it was all he had.
Yet he knew there was no question, and no turning back. His annihilation was certain.
Noxiously cloaked Death was bearing down on this, his Eleventh incarnation. It’s rasping, greedy breath turning what little courage he had left into cold, blackened embers in the cold grating of his ribcage. And it would not be kind. And it would hurt.
A lot.
Some new man would go sauntering away…
It was time, and he would not fight it.
He felt it in his hearts first… The boiling.
Pain rushed across his chest like inhaling smoke in a fire until he tasted tangy metal in his mouth-this feeling spawning his last abstract thought he would have that his death would be the last thing he ever tasted and it was worse than beans or apples. Searing hot blood spiked down his spine and forearms, causing him to fling his hands out at his side--as if getting them away from his body would somehow cool them.
It wouldn’t.
Relief would come, but not soon enough.
A golden veil fell across his vision, engulfing his head. In an instant, he would be gone.
Energy blasted out of his face, his fingers and his eyes, with the fury of the Fates. Cells began to replace themselves, overwrite themselves, regenerate themselves. Hair lengthened, eyes changed color and limbs contracted and elongated. Features molded and reformed together, flesh caught in the smelting of the regenerative process.
He willed his eyes to stay open as long as he could, until the pain wrenched him from consciousness and he shrieked out his last breath, into the dying light of his soul-
--and into his rebirth!
The TARDIS echoes with the first cries of the newest Doctor as he pitches forward, off balance. Fighting to stay upright, hands flail out to catch himself against the console.
The console.
The TARDIS!
Still here!
HA Haaaaaa!
This time there is no all consuming, raging fire-no cloister bell, no plummeting from the Vortex.
There is, however-one killer headache.
He groans, running his hands through his hair. Quite a lot of it. Rather a lot of... brown hair, actually… At least I’m not bald, he thinks, that’s a plus! But still not ginger!
He runs his hands over his face, counting everything. Yes, two eyes, ears (not too big-a bit of luck there), a nose-rather slight-mouth, okay… New teeth, still weird… Chin: Not bad. Pretty long neck. Arms-check. Hands, fingers-check. Legs! Legs are still good!! A little shorter, he notices. Still there was something… Can't put his finger on it. Reflexively, his fingers rise again to the bow tie.
Still there. Still cool… Right?
He makes an effort to smooth down his tweed jacket as all his clothes feel a bit tight and lumpy now, despite having a shorter body. He shakes his head, hoping he hasn't shrunk too much. Please, not as short as my Seventh, he thinks to himself, and runs his hands over his backside absentmindedly.
BLIMEY! That’s quite a backside!
He strains to get a look at his own bum. It is rather large-at least larger than he was used to in his last several regenerations. Still, no bother, he can fix that with a little running…
Do we still love the running?
Jiminy Crickets, he forgot how much his hearts raced after regeneration!
He reaches up to feel his heartsbeats and feels…
What?
…
Softness…?
Yes. A softness. Definitely some serious running was in order, he thinks as he looks down to see and feel-what is that, exactly? Funny… For a minute they felt to him just like…
Breasts???
…
BLOODY HELL!
BREASTS!!!!
He lets go of his breasts like they burned his hands and stumbles backwards, as if to avoid a slap from some unseen girl. But the act of arching his back in an effort to get away-pops several buttons-revealing… cleavage.
In a panic, he pulls out the slack of his trouser waistband and looks down…
He feels his world take one viciously hellacious carnival ride dip.
“I’m a GIRL!!” the Doctor shrieks, startling instantly at the voice that comes back. He bolts around the console as if to get away from himself, stumbling drunkenly, his centre of gravity completely off. “NO WAY!” he screams, barking his knee on the underside of the console. Running around the console again in the opposite direction, he pulls the monitor out and angles it at his midsection, spinning back and forth in an effort to get a look at front and backside practically simultaneously, blinking wildly and gibbering, unbelievably. Of course, the too-tight pants split as soon as he leans over to see his bum. “NO! NO, NO, NO! NO!!!!”
This can't be. This can not be happening!
He yanks the monitor around violently to see his face. Perhaps the regeneration process is not finished? Perhaps something has stuck halfway through the process? Perhaps it will all work itself out?
But there, in the muddy silver indifferent reflection of the lifeless monitor he sees the smooth, delicate, refined, angular features-
--Of.
A.
GIRL!
Surely this couldn't be right? How will he ever adjust to this??
Pitching her head back in horror and desperately wrenching the sinews of her new vocal chords, the Twelfth Doctor howls her frantic shock and frosty rage into the belly of the empty TARDIS…
Chapter 1: Everything Old Is New Again