Entry tags:
Fic: The Death and Life of Rodageitmososa. Act Two. (3/5)
And - yet more fic! :) For more info, see Cold Open:
Cold Open | Act One
Title/Summary: The Death and Life of Rodageitmososa.
Summary: Roda knew, at that very moment, that she was going to die.
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
luckweaver (aka the_redjay - they changed their name) & ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elisi.
Warnings: Character death, grievous injuries.
Setting: Between 'Day of the Doctor' and 'Time of the Doctor'. AU 'verse. Set post-A Good Day and [immediately] post-Galimaufrey.
Spoilers: Day of the Doctor, A Good Day, Galimaufrey.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: The Seeker (OC), Roda (OC), the Doctor, Clara, the Master (original/author-created), Jack.
Act Two
The view was as spectacular as always. Whilst away, when things had gotten difficult, it was the view from the top of his tower that he had thought of - his private refuge, his personal wonder of the universe.
Except now his eyes were registering none of the splendour. The burnt orange sky curved above him, twin suns were rising behind the mountains scattering golden warmth and light over his world, yet, inasmuch as he took any notice, it was only to note how he had created a whole world from nothing, yet his friend had died in his arms and he had been helpless to save her.
She was currently safely ensconced in a stasis-field, out of time, and he’d run several tests to ensure that she wasn’t just dormant, or having a very delayed regeneration.
Slowly he sank into the seat, dismissing the world outside, but when he absentmindedly dragged a hand through his hair he was surprised at how his hand caught, only registering that it was covered in blood when he brought it in front of his face, studying it with a frown. His clothing, too, was sticky and bloody he realised, and for just a second his emotions threatened to get the better of him.
Ruthlessly he pushed them down.
Tears would not help her. Nor would self-pity or grief.
But science might.
Dismissing his stained clothing for the time being, he delved back into his mind, to the barrage of thoughts that had assailed him.
Sorting through them, carefully weighing each one, he eventually narrowed the issues down to a single point:
Had she died because her injuries were too severe to trigger regeneration - or had she run out?
She’d never spoken much about her past lives, except in passing, and he didn’t think she could be old enough to have gone through thirteen lives… Yet his father had run through his first cycle of lives in less than half her lifespan.
His eyes narrowed.
A new cycle of regenerations was a completely different problem to kick-starting one that had failed… And he couldn’t afford to be wrong. He would have one shot, nothing more.
But how to find out how old she was? The answer was immediate: Her TARDIS.
Which would be… where?
Backtrack.
Her immediate memories had been of meeting the Doctor - and then returning to Cardiff. She’d come to him using... Jack’s vortex manipulator? Yes. (Although that was now goodness knew where. She hadn’t been wearing it, so it was probably on a red grassy slope somewhere, being eaten by whatever animals were near-by. But that was not important.)
Her TARDIS would therefore still be in Cardiff. If he knew her, she’d not have brought any keys when going out on a mission, so getting in would be an issue - her symbiotic link was very strong, and goodness knew how her TARDIS had taken her death.
But first of all he should probably have a shower. Turning up covered in blood would not endear him to any TARDIS.
About an hour later, clean, and wearing fresh clothing, he - after a moment’s internal deliberation - fetched his teleport pendant and slipped on his perception filter bracelet at the same time.
This was a private errand, he didn’t want to accidentally be spotted by anyone. Not even Jack.
He found Roda’s TARDIS tucked away in an alleyway near the club that had proved so fatal, but as he laid a hand on the door he felt the dark emptiness within with a sense of dreaded, dull recognition. Except stars and eleventh dimensional matrixes folded into a mechanical were more difficult to extinguish than bodies, and he knew there would still be a consciousness somewhere inside.
“Let me in?” he whispered. “Please? There is something I need to know, and only you can tell me... “
Nothing. Except the surface of the door almost seemed to recoil from his touch. He’d never come across anything more hostile.
“I’m trying to bring her back. I promise - I swear - that if I fail I will leave you alone forever more. But I have to try, and I need your help.”
Letting his head fall against the rough surface, he bit back something that might be a sob. His eyes were burning, his chest so tight he felt he couldn’t breathe.
(‘Will you be my someone tonight?’ A simple, blunt question, but she’d come to him - not asking questions or ever wanting anything in return, ever, just freely giving her time, her affection, her friendship, her love… They’d never used the word, but they both knew the truth. And last time they’d met he’d hurt and betrayed her in ways he’d not been keen to examine too closely. It couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t end like this...)
And then the door swung open.
He stepped inside cautiously, the cosy red of the console room nearly black, except for a single dimly lit monitor.
Swallowing, he laid his hands on the console, knowing this was the last tangible link to his Redjay, and that he might lose that as well.
“I… need to know how many lives she has had. Can you show me all her faces?”
The TARDIS seemed to think about it for a very long time indeed, but eventually the monitor flickered to life.
~~~
Seventh face. Only just over half way. So much life stolen away… His hands curled into fists as he studied her, the bloodied scrapes across her face, not even bruising thanks to the stasis field.
Where did he go from here, though? He had exhausted all his sources, everything in his databases had come up blank. But it had to be possible… Anything was possible, if only you worked hard enough. And he was a genius.
Except he needed a starting point, or he could spend years going down the wrong avenues. Not that he wouldn’t do it if he had to, but he disliked wasting time on pointless endeavours.
For the first time, he conceded that maybe he should have pushed Missy harder to find out where Gallifrey might be. It was knowledge he needed now, knowledge that Gallifrey had to overflowing…
And then he nearly laughed. Of course, why hadn’t he seen it before? Roda herself had given him the tools he needed!
Seconds later he stepped out of his TARDIS next to her library - she’d never settled like he’d half-hoped, but she had brought all her old books, her inheritance from her father. Who knew what might be hidden?
It took many days of searching, but eventually he found what he had been looking for. Or rather what he had been hoping for. He’d had no way of knowing whether her library actually contained anything useful for his purposes. (It wasn’t as if there was an index, just piles upon haphazardly stacked piles of ancient tomes.)
The book he now held was almost threadbare, but the entry on the Sisterhood of Karn was still legible, and - although the name only rang the faintest bell - it caught his eye. Known as ‘The Keepers of the Flame of Eternal Life’, according to legend they knew how to create an elixir that could trigger regeneration - and not just that, but control it.
The clues were faint, but he cherished them like a man in the desert finding a single drop of water. This would make all the difference. He wasn’t bothered about controlling it (although that was a fascinating avenue for a dull year, should he ever have one), but the fact that it was possible, and had been done, successfully… He could work with this.
Even the fact that it had been a drink was a supremely useful clue - he didn’t think the long-dead author knew just how much that alone told him. His mind was already spinning out possibilities.
Standing, he realised that he had not eaten in… far too long. And he needed a shave. Not that he didn’t look rather neat with a beard, but he didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction.
So - food first. And then to re-create lost knowledge.
Carefully returning the book to where he had picked it up (she’d kept saying how she’d organise everything… She never had, although he suspected that she knew where everything was), he took a final look around.
“Thank you,” he said softly. The most remarkable thing about all this was how she had helped him every step of the way. Her resources had come through when his own had failed.
‘I need her to return, so I can tell her how amazing she is.’
She probably wouldn’t believe him though. He would have to find a way.
~~~
The cup held in his hands, the vapour from the liquid within spilling over the sides, he was glad he didn’t have to worry about his hands shaking - his upbringing had been such that he'd deliberately forced himself to master physical control at the age of barely fifty. Although there ought to be music playing… Something to mark the occasion.
On the other hand it might just be his greatest failure, compared to which the destruction of his matrix faded into insignificance. So silence it was. The zero room was calm and quiet, muted tones soothing his exhausted mind.
He only had one chance…
He’d cleaned her up as best he could, as well as removing the dirty, bloody clothing and instead dressing her in a simple, gold-embroidered red robe. (All his robes were red, so there hadn’t been much choice - not that she would care either way. But he knew that she had been a Prydonian like the Doctor and his father, and he liked the sense of adhering to official rules, in this at least. There was precious little else to adhere to. And if it didn’t work- If it didn’t work, she would be suitably attired for her funeral.)
’This is it.’
He had done the best he could. If it didn’t work he had gotten it wrong on a level so fundamental there was no saving it. There had been choices, complicated choices he had done his best to navigate, but even though he’d checked and triple-checked everything he could, he knew that at best he only had a fifty-fifty chance. (How long had he been working… He wasn’t really sure. Weeks, certainly, probably months. He’d tried to remember to eat, wash and shave at regular intervals, even forcing himself to sleep now and again. Although he’d never quite managed to turn his mind off.)
Reaching out he pressed the switch that would trigger the mechanism that would bring her back to life for a few precious moments - a simple set-up, based on a Sontaran design of all things. But it’d work, and that was the important part.
Her eyes fluttered, and he stepped forward, helping her to sit a little more upright. (Her face was still grazed, her body so damaged it hurt him just to look at her - and he hoped, with every fibre of his being, that the cup in his hands would light the fire that would burn it all away, and create her anew.)
“What- where am I?”
“Hush my love,” he said softly. “I’ve got you. And I am sorry, but I have to ask you to drink this. It will either hurt you more, but bring you back - or there will be no more hurt, ever. Do you trust me?”
She looked at him for the longest moment, as if seeing him from a great, great distance, then smiled gently.
“Yes.”
Act Three
Cold Open | Act One
Title/Summary: The Death and Life of Rodageitmososa.
Summary: Roda knew, at that very moment, that she was going to die.
Authors:
luckweaver (aka the_redjay - they changed their name) & elisi.Warnings: Character death, grievous injuries.
Setting: Between 'Day of the Doctor' and 'Time of the Doctor'. AU 'verse. Set post-A Good Day and [immediately] post-Galimaufrey.
Spoilers: Day of the Doctor, A Good Day, Galimaufrey.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: The Seeker (OC), Roda (OC), the Doctor, Clara, the Master (original/author-created), Jack.
The view was as spectacular as always. Whilst away, when things had gotten difficult, it was the view from the top of his tower that he had thought of - his private refuge, his personal wonder of the universe.
Except now his eyes were registering none of the splendour. The burnt orange sky curved above him, twin suns were rising behind the mountains scattering golden warmth and light over his world, yet, inasmuch as he took any notice, it was only to note how he had created a whole world from nothing, yet his friend had died in his arms and he had been helpless to save her.
She was currently safely ensconced in a stasis-field, out of time, and he’d run several tests to ensure that she wasn’t just dormant, or having a very delayed regeneration.
Slowly he sank into the seat, dismissing the world outside, but when he absentmindedly dragged a hand through his hair he was surprised at how his hand caught, only registering that it was covered in blood when he brought it in front of his face, studying it with a frown. His clothing, too, was sticky and bloody he realised, and for just a second his emotions threatened to get the better of him.
Ruthlessly he pushed them down.
Tears would not help her. Nor would self-pity or grief.
But science might.
Dismissing his stained clothing for the time being, he delved back into his mind, to the barrage of thoughts that had assailed him.
Sorting through them, carefully weighing each one, he eventually narrowed the issues down to a single point:
Had she died because her injuries were too severe to trigger regeneration - or had she run out?
She’d never spoken much about her past lives, except in passing, and he didn’t think she could be old enough to have gone through thirteen lives… Yet his father had run through his first cycle of lives in less than half her lifespan.
His eyes narrowed.
A new cycle of regenerations was a completely different problem to kick-starting one that had failed… And he couldn’t afford to be wrong. He would have one shot, nothing more.
But how to find out how old she was? The answer was immediate: Her TARDIS.
Which would be… where?
Backtrack.
Her immediate memories had been of meeting the Doctor - and then returning to Cardiff. She’d come to him using... Jack’s vortex manipulator? Yes. (Although that was now goodness knew where. She hadn’t been wearing it, so it was probably on a red grassy slope somewhere, being eaten by whatever animals were near-by. But that was not important.)
Her TARDIS would therefore still be in Cardiff. If he knew her, she’d not have brought any keys when going out on a mission, so getting in would be an issue - her symbiotic link was very strong, and goodness knew how her TARDIS had taken her death.
But first of all he should probably have a shower. Turning up covered in blood would not endear him to any TARDIS.
About an hour later, clean, and wearing fresh clothing, he - after a moment’s internal deliberation - fetched his teleport pendant and slipped on his perception filter bracelet at the same time.
This was a private errand, he didn’t want to accidentally be spotted by anyone. Not even Jack.
He found Roda’s TARDIS tucked away in an alleyway near the club that had proved so fatal, but as he laid a hand on the door he felt the dark emptiness within with a sense of dreaded, dull recognition. Except stars and eleventh dimensional matrixes folded into a mechanical were more difficult to extinguish than bodies, and he knew there would still be a consciousness somewhere inside.
“Let me in?” he whispered. “Please? There is something I need to know, and only you can tell me... “
Nothing. Except the surface of the door almost seemed to recoil from his touch. He’d never come across anything more hostile.
“I’m trying to bring her back. I promise - I swear - that if I fail I will leave you alone forever more. But I have to try, and I need your help.”
Letting his head fall against the rough surface, he bit back something that might be a sob. His eyes were burning, his chest so tight he felt he couldn’t breathe.
(‘Will you be my someone tonight?’ A simple, blunt question, but she’d come to him - not asking questions or ever wanting anything in return, ever, just freely giving her time, her affection, her friendship, her love… They’d never used the word, but they both knew the truth. And last time they’d met he’d hurt and betrayed her in ways he’d not been keen to examine too closely. It couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t end like this...)
And then the door swung open.
He stepped inside cautiously, the cosy red of the console room nearly black, except for a single dimly lit monitor.
Swallowing, he laid his hands on the console, knowing this was the last tangible link to his Redjay, and that he might lose that as well.
“I… need to know how many lives she has had. Can you show me all her faces?”
The TARDIS seemed to think about it for a very long time indeed, but eventually the monitor flickered to life.
Seventh face. Only just over half way. So much life stolen away… His hands curled into fists as he studied her, the bloodied scrapes across her face, not even bruising thanks to the stasis field.
Where did he go from here, though? He had exhausted all his sources, everything in his databases had come up blank. But it had to be possible… Anything was possible, if only you worked hard enough. And he was a genius.
Except he needed a starting point, or he could spend years going down the wrong avenues. Not that he wouldn’t do it if he had to, but he disliked wasting time on pointless endeavours.
For the first time, he conceded that maybe he should have pushed Missy harder to find out where Gallifrey might be. It was knowledge he needed now, knowledge that Gallifrey had to overflowing…
And then he nearly laughed. Of course, why hadn’t he seen it before? Roda herself had given him the tools he needed!
Seconds later he stepped out of his TARDIS next to her library - she’d never settled like he’d half-hoped, but she had brought all her old books, her inheritance from her father. Who knew what might be hidden?
It took many days of searching, but eventually he found what he had been looking for. Or rather what he had been hoping for. He’d had no way of knowing whether her library actually contained anything useful for his purposes. (It wasn’t as if there was an index, just piles upon haphazardly stacked piles of ancient tomes.)
The book he now held was almost threadbare, but the entry on the Sisterhood of Karn was still legible, and - although the name only rang the faintest bell - it caught his eye. Known as ‘The Keepers of the Flame of Eternal Life’, according to legend they knew how to create an elixir that could trigger regeneration - and not just that, but control it.
The clues were faint, but he cherished them like a man in the desert finding a single drop of water. This would make all the difference. He wasn’t bothered about controlling it (although that was a fascinating avenue for a dull year, should he ever have one), but the fact that it was possible, and had been done, successfully… He could work with this.
Even the fact that it had been a drink was a supremely useful clue - he didn’t think the long-dead author knew just how much that alone told him. His mind was already spinning out possibilities.
Standing, he realised that he had not eaten in… far too long. And he needed a shave. Not that he didn’t look rather neat with a beard, but he didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction.
So - food first. And then to re-create lost knowledge.
Carefully returning the book to where he had picked it up (she’d kept saying how she’d organise everything… She never had, although he suspected that she knew where everything was), he took a final look around.
“Thank you,” he said softly. The most remarkable thing about all this was how she had helped him every step of the way. Her resources had come through when his own had failed.
‘I need her to return, so I can tell her how amazing she is.’
She probably wouldn’t believe him though. He would have to find a way.
The cup held in his hands, the vapour from the liquid within spilling over the sides, he was glad he didn’t have to worry about his hands shaking - his upbringing had been such that he'd deliberately forced himself to master physical control at the age of barely fifty. Although there ought to be music playing… Something to mark the occasion.
On the other hand it might just be his greatest failure, compared to which the destruction of his matrix faded into insignificance. So silence it was. The zero room was calm and quiet, muted tones soothing his exhausted mind.
He only had one chance…
He’d cleaned her up as best he could, as well as removing the dirty, bloody clothing and instead dressing her in a simple, gold-embroidered red robe. (All his robes were red, so there hadn’t been much choice - not that she would care either way. But he knew that she had been a Prydonian like the Doctor and his father, and he liked the sense of adhering to official rules, in this at least. There was precious little else to adhere to. And if it didn’t work- If it didn’t work, she would be suitably attired for her funeral.)
’This is it.’
He had done the best he could. If it didn’t work he had gotten it wrong on a level so fundamental there was no saving it. There had been choices, complicated choices he had done his best to navigate, but even though he’d checked and triple-checked everything he could, he knew that at best he only had a fifty-fifty chance. (How long had he been working… He wasn’t really sure. Weeks, certainly, probably months. He’d tried to remember to eat, wash and shave at regular intervals, even forcing himself to sleep now and again. Although he’d never quite managed to turn his mind off.)
Reaching out he pressed the switch that would trigger the mechanism that would bring her back to life for a few precious moments - a simple set-up, based on a Sontaran design of all things. But it’d work, and that was the important part.
Her eyes fluttered, and he stepped forward, helping her to sit a little more upright. (Her face was still grazed, her body so damaged it hurt him just to look at her - and he hoped, with every fibre of his being, that the cup in his hands would light the fire that would burn it all away, and create her anew.)
“What- where am I?”
“Hush my love,” he said softly. “I’ve got you. And I am sorry, but I have to ask you to drink this. It will either hurt you more, but bring you back - or there will be no more hurt, ever. Do you trust me?”
She looked at him for the longest moment, as if seeing him from a great, great distance, then smiled gently.
“Yes.”
Act Three