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[crescentfool]

ryoji likers when they see persona 3 reload pv04... it's me.... i'm ryoji liker.. did they really have to do that 🥺💛 (POSITIVE) (UNBELIEVABLE) (WHAT THE RYOJI) (RYOJI IN THE FLESH)

[circular-time]

D a l e k   F r e e   S p i r i t   ☼   t e a s e r

-Characters: Fifth Doctor, Nyssa, Turlough cameo -Rating: T for character death and going to dark places -Summary: The Doctor learns that when he and Nyssa escaped from the Daleks by the skin of their teeth, skin wasn’t all they’d left behind.

OPENING SCENES BELOW THE CUT

❝He could not change the past, nor could he alter her future. He’d be damned before he let the Daleks destroy the middle of her life, too.❞

{SPOILER ALERT: Prisoners of Fate, Entropy Plague, DALEK SOUL}

“A week! I thought you said this was a hospital ship, not some frontier apothecary’s hut!” Turlough’s brows bristled like backfires. His pale eyes were even more startling than usual, picking up the periwinkle blue of his hospital gown.

The Doctor patted the young man’s arm in awkward sympathy. “Bone regrowth in the foot is a delicate process. There’s so many ligaments and small bones that could fuse incorrectly. But don’t worry.  You’ll be as good as new with Dr. Kadowaki overseeing the process.” He flashed a wry smile. “I do wish my companions’ ankles were more durable.”

“Durable? I’m lucky the brute didn’t break every bone in my body while it was chasing me. A fine epitaph that would look on my funeral urn: Trampled to death by a pygmy mammoth. Although how anyone could name something that size pygmy I’ll never know. Humans!”

“Well, relatively speaking, it was a very small mammoth,” the Doctor pointed out. “Island populations tend towards dwarfism.”

“And your ‘perfect spots for painting’ tend towards hazard of life and limb. When you said you were taking me to the wellspring of California Impressionism, I was expecting sun, palm trees and beaches, not the Ice Age.”

The Doctor did not trouble to correct him. He had not expected to find a lonely mammoth on Catalina as late as 8000 BC, but then, the Wrangel Island herd had survived off the coast of Siberia right into the Minoan period. Even in the 21st century, there had still been enough frozen carcasses lying about for well-meaning scientists with confused priorities to clone and release them into the wild just after the Arctic Circle thawed.

So much for paradise. They would have to try again after Turlough’s ankle had healed. The Canary Islands, perhaps?

Setting aside the remains of a mediocre tea, the Doctor pushed back his chair. “Well, if you’re settled in, I’d better go check on the time rotor. It was scraping when we landed. Collision with a panicky pachyderm may have jarred it out of alignment.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Would you like me to bring you anything?”

“Some peace and quiet,” Turlough grumbled, “which is not to be found aboard the TARDIS.”

Humming to himself, the Doctor was taking the ship out for a quick spin to see whether he’d eliminated the squeak in the rotor’s downward motion. A light on the communications panel began to flash. Probably just a glitch to add to the ever-growing repairs list. Even so, any signal strong enough to maintain coherence in the temporal vortex was worthy of attention. Especially when it was a choice between scientific investigation, proceeding to the next item on the repairs checklist, or returning to a hospital that served no tea but Tetley. He hurried around to the communications panel and flipped a switch.

A shrill voice made him reel back from the console in shock, not so much from its volume as from its wrenching familiarity. “LEFT POCKET!” came the cryptic cry.

“Nyssa?!” He had never expected to hear her voice again. Although considering the way their timelines kept crossing and tangling with one another like vintage phone flexes, he should hardly have been surprised.

“Get in!” Her rising note of panic was difficult to block out. He felt a mad impulse to throw open the doors in case she was stranded outside.

Instead, he reached for the switch to respond. “Who is this? If this is some kind of joke, it’s in remarkably poor taste.”

“LEFT POCKET!”

The random outburst would have seemed like mere nonsense, did he not know its context. Nightmare memories flicked past: Nyssa’s wrist bleeding from the bite of the manacles where she had wriggled her hand free, the crack! of the straps springing back from his chest, the desperate dash back to the TARDIS, the frantic scramble for a misplaced key, and the howl of Dalek guns erupting on all sides as he threw her bodily through the doors.

“Get in!”

He gritted his teeth. The recording was repeating itself. To amplify its obscurity, someone had erased all traces of the Daleks and his replies, transforming a moment of terror into banal absurdity. Whatever it meant, it was intolerable. He stretched out his hand to kill the signal. Just then, the looping audio stopped, to be replaced by the gruff tones of an old man.

“Wait— don’t speak yet.” The voice was a stranger’s. “Hear me out. Our mutual acquaintances may be listening. So first, if you wouldn’t mind, tell me what was in your left pocket.”

Seething, the Doctor hesitated with his thumb over the “End” button. The caller sounded human, but that was hardly a bona fide. How could anyone but a Dalek agent have access to that security footage? How had the stranger managed to reach out to a specific TARDIS in the time vortex and establish two-way communications in relative realtime? Only a limited number of spacefaring races had that capability, and the Daleks were one of them. What would happen if the Doctor confirmed his identity, which was apparently the question’s intent? And how dare someone use Nyssa’s voice for a simple identity check? Too many questions. Yet the veiled warning about “mutual acquaintances” suggested that the Doctor was not the only one worried about a Dalek trap.

He needed answers. “A key.”  

“Very good. Now, listen closely. You know who that was, and you know where it happened. That was some years ago. They are gone. With her help, we drove them off. But she was the last casualty. I could do no more than keep her in cryostasis—”

“That’s less than six impossible things, but I’ve already had breakfast,” the Doctor broke in.

“Quiet. I am an old man now, and I fear what will happen to her when I’m gone. I had hoped to rehabilitate her without troubling you, but we lack her expertise. You are her only hope. For her sake, I must ask you to come.”

The indicator light blinked out before he could reply. The Doctor slammed his fist on the console beside it.

Deep breaths. Nyssa— Nyssa, whose distorted parting words had crackled from that same communications panel— was almost certainly dead. Yet death, like time, was relative. Once upon a time, she had said goodbye to her traveling companions and stayed behind on Terminus. By chance they had found her again, fifty years later in her own relative timeline, out on the galactic frontier searching for clues to cure another plague. There she had made the fatal mistake of accepting a lift home. Best not to dwell on how she had left them. The point was, before their reunion on Helheim, her career as an epidemiologist could have taken her almost anywhere, including… what was it the Daleks had called it? Mojox. It was not as if she would recognise the place, since the Daleks had transported their prisoners there while unconscious.

Unless—

He had not actually seen the moment of Nyssa’s death. So long as he did not know for certain, he refused to rule out her dogged stubbornness. Had she beaten the odds, then found her way back into normal space like Romana? There was always a chance, albeit an astronomically slim one.

Either way, his choice was clear. He must act upon the message just as if it were genuine. For her sake, he must confront the hateful possibility that he had mistaken a Dalek base in deep space for a Dalek outpost on an occupied planet. If that were true, and Nyssa had somehow found her way back there, no army of Daleks would stop her from trying to help the natives throw off their enslavement. That was the devil of it: the story was perfectly crafted to arouse his protectiveness and his guilt.

“Very well,” he said, addressing the mute walls of his ship. “Let’s get to work. We may as well know the worst at once.” He began to key in a Fourier analysis.

Twenty minutes later, he had his answer. As expected, the message had arrived via Dalek carrier wave. The signal’s exact source was impossible to pinpoint, but standard deviation placed it well within the neighborhood of Mojox, whose location he retrieved from the archives of the TARDIS flight log.

Mindful of other duties of care, he opened a channel to the hospital ship.

“Doctor, are you mad? You said it yourself: Mojox is a Dalek installation. Of course it’s a trap!”

The Doctor was pacing beside the console. “Be that as it may, I owe it to Nyssa to—”

“Nyssa’s dead, Doctor!”

“Thank you, Turlough.” He frowned at the speaker grill. “I’ll program the TARDIS to return to you via the Fast Return Switch. If all goes well, I’ll contact you, and you can bring her back to me in the same way. If you don’t hear from me within two weeks, transmit a message to Gallifrey that I may be compromised. They’ll see to it that you’re settled in a time and place of your choosing.”

“Doctor, wait!” Turlough’s voice subsided to a grudging mutter. “You’ll need backup.”

The Doctor hesitated, although there was no question of bringing a companion with him this time. Beneath his cynical, selfish exterior, Turlough was a fundamentally decent person overwhelmed by fears, indicative of some deep trauma that the Doctor had never pressed him about. Despite his handicap, the boy usually managed to master his cowardice when it mattered, which in itself was a special form of courage. The Doctor’s voice softened. “I appreciate the offer, but this is my responsibility. Rest. Heal. Try not to worry. Remember, I’ve been battling Daleks for centuries.”

“But never alone,” Turlough insisted, voice cracking. “You’re leaving me behind because you still don’t trust me like you did Tegan.”

“I wouldn’t take her into a Dalek base either, not after what happened last time.” At least Tegan had survived, but her tearful farewell had forced the Doctor to reexamine how much horror his companions could take. Whence the recent string of resort towns and artistically inspiring landscapes.

“But Doctor, I’m not Tegan. I understand the necessities of war. And I know something about infiltration.” That last was a bleak admission, a clue to whatever past Turlough was fleeing.

“If I didn’t trust you, Turlough, I wouldn’t be sending you my ship.”

It was not quite the truth, or at least not the whole truth. The Doctor could never forget Turlough’s part in trapping Nyssa in yet another time loop, this one walling her off from her own family. It was not Turlough’s fault that an enemy had diverted the TARDIS to a place and time where Nyssa’s son was working twenty-five years after she had set out for Helheim on a routine scouting mission. But Turlough had ensured that mother and son met face to face. After that, history was sealed. Once Nyssa had learned that she never returned home, then she could not return, not without creating a paradox. Possibly the time loop had been irrevocable from the moment the TARDIS touched down. But Nyssa would not have gone on her last journey burdened by fresh heartbreak, if not for Turlough’s indiscretion.

Time loops and crossed timelines: such tragedies were why Time Lords were required to steer clear of them. If the Nyssa in this transmission was Nyssa in the fifty-year gap between Terminus and Helheim, then the Doctor would have to act with the utmost discretion to conceal what he knew of her future. Turlough had already proved untrustworthy with just that kind of secret. Anyway, this was Time Lords’ work. Quite apart from personal considerations, the Doctor was embarking on a de facto CIA mission, protecting the integrity of the timeline by ensuring Nyssa’s survival until her appointment with fate.

While he mulled all this over, Turlough was evidently doing the same. “If you’re that worried about being compromised,” he said, “then how can I know whether it’s safe to fly the TARDIS back to you when you call?”

“We’ll just have to trust your finely-honed skills of self-preservation. Use your judgment.”

“Wonderful.” Turlough sighed. “Good luck, Doctor.”

“Thank you. We’ll talk again soon.” He closed the link and leaned heavily on the edge of the console, staring at his hands.

Ever since he had been the Watcher, Nyssa and he had been meeting one another in the wrong chronological order. It was becoming harder to face her each time. Truth be told, it was not Turlough at the most risk of blurting out something she ought not to hear. When you encounter us on Helheim, don’t let me put off taking you home. Go straight back to your family. Cure the Richter’s plague. Save lives. For you, these things are more important than all of time and space.

He could not change the past, nor could he alter her future. He’d be damned before he let the Daleks destroy the middle of her life, too.

to be continued....