"Ace!" and the Doctor's cry was echoed by another: far away, a newborn chuckled. Distance softened it into melody and yet it seemed to originate from just over his shoulder. He spun around, looking frantically from side to side.
A vicious grin, framed by sharp and glistening cogs twinkling in and out of existence, coalesced before him. Emotion fled his countenance.
A teacup drifted absently by, and past him a quizzical glance before continuing to do nothing in particular.
From the smile a face unfolded, like a ripening flower. Words were spoken by the mouth, but they seemed to come from everywhere... everywhen.
"Doctor."
"We have things to discuss," added the teacup calmly. It sloped some tea, which fell into an endless abyss only to be drunk by a slice of ketchup that happened to be passing.
"Imagine what would have happened if the Whifferdil had been born without a sense of humor," commented the Doctor.
"You want to know what I1ve done with your little friend, don1t you?" the cogs giggled. A tiny tear appeared in the air. It blossomed and branched outward, splitting open and spilling nothing everywhere. "Hidden her. In secret place."
"You'll never find her as I'm far too clever," Father Christmas put in, with a great deal of arrogance. "I think..." the Doctor murmured, hand reaching for his forehead.
"Yes...?" asked the Loom, hungrily.
"I think I'm getting a headache. Couldn't you pull yourself together? I find it much easier to chat to one entity at a time."
"Can't," an axle pouted.
"Can't?" An eyebrow shot upwards.
"Nope... this is your world. Your very very summer madness. Bing."
"Did you say 'bing'?" The Loom hiccuped in agreement. "Thought so." The Doctor walked away slightly. Thoughtfully, he prodded a begonia that was nestling in the corner of nowhere with the tip of his brolly. "So I am the creator of all I survey."
"Quite so," ejaculated Mr. Dickens from the gallows nearby.
"And all I survey is madness." The Loom shrugged.
"And trees. Lots of trees." The Doctor nodded, distantly, his head cocked to one side.
Silence ensued. Promptly, a Dalek exterminated it. "Alright. I'll play your game."
"Put away your chess pieces. Pretty game of hide and seek. So simple. So easy. Look-see type thing through the looking glass."
"Or," the Doctor sighed, "in this case a tear in this reality... a tear in my madness."
"Ooh, I say that1s quite poetic."
"Very well," and the Doctor leapt through.
A million moons past. One day, perhaps someone will hear.
*Searching, searching*
*Forever hunting*
*Trapped in merry summer madness*
*Desperate to find one lost*
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Creeps in this pretty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time." The Doctor chuckled lightly to himself. "He was so depressed when he scribbled that bit out. Not as much as later on, though."
*Tick-tock, man who would be god, tick-tock*
"Yes, alright," the little frame snapped. "Where do I begin?"
*I know not. 'Tis your created madness that you do inhabit.*
After a particular, well-documented fashion, a box of blue arrived. "Well here's as good a place as any, I s'pose."
Time's minion placed forward a foot, that was swiftly engulfed by sand. With equal speed the landscape began to bleed. Incarnadining like the River Nile. He heard someone smile. Sleeking down his tattered and worn appearance, he stepped forward another foot.
"Quack," remarked a cow.
Order. Tradition. Strength. Posterity. Control. Oppression. Invasion. Wealth for the rich. Poverty for the poor. Evolution is dead. Control growing. Tradition upon tradition. Order is maintained.Repress the poor. Backbone of establishment. Control. Control.
Control.
-bang-
A hand decayed to a claw surged up through the absent undergrowth and grasped his heel. Words threaded through the clouds: black, large and ominous as if cast in wrought iron: ARBEIT MACHT FREI.
The man who had faced tyrannies untold and freed the repressed of countless worlds suddenly didn1t want to see what was digging into ankle. He wanted to leave. Be in a small, warm room with a nice hot cup of tea. Perhaps munching on some macaroons in some distant time.
Just not here. Not here.
Frantically, a multitude of claws blossomed all around him like an evil garden. Reaching upwards, yearning for the sun, finding nothing.
Into the fray pranced a madman. He was caught by the thorns, battered to death as the claws whipped forward to tear chunks of flesh from him.
In a few moments, there were only a few strings of gore left to seep into the sand.
And then, terrible then, the world belched.
(music and Julius Caesar enclosed)
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak And I seem to find the happiness I seek Heaven, I'm in Heaven Up and down, to and fro. He gave a magnificently embroidered twirl and settled back down to hugging his throne. His voice was sibilant, serpent-like rasping: 'Soon, so, all soon. So very very soon. All will be mine. All! ALL!.
'I'll show nasty, naughty-so-very-very-naughty Doctor how he should be treating I.
'I'll show them... I'll show them all. ALL!'
Except... Except she wasn't a girl anymore. He felt a familiar feeling beginning to latch onto his bosom.
He reached forward, hesitant to touch her after so long a time; a child who had just been entrusted with the safety of an Autumn leaf.
A cough and a splutter and the fragile form appeared to shatter. 'You?' its cracked, dry voice hissed.
'Shhh. Don't worry. We're going home.'
'Where... are...'
'Somewhere that isn't very nice. Now take me hand. Close your eyes.'
'Doctor--' I'm not a kid, was what she was going to say. But a blackboard whipped out a tentacle, causing a spurt of terrible memories. She closed her eyes.
-ding-
Home.
'Ah yes, your freedom.' The monster was a ferocious array of brass cogs, rods and ribbons. Leering from side to side with cringing squeaks and screams. 'Can't let you go. Far too very very precious to me for that.' The Loom giggled.
An almighty *Plurp!* sang out across the endless courtyard.
'Oh dear Doctor, I do believe I've just given birth!' and the Loom danced with delight, looking all the more like the tinman. It leaned forward, the sickly oil breath hung heavy about him and woodworm crawled about inside. 'No freedom. No rescue. No hope. Welcome, to your own personal nightmare.'
The tiny little man smiled and closed his eyes. He smiled condescendingly and when he spoke again, he spoke as if talking to one of a very young age. 'Really, well... You ain't seen nothing yet.' He clicked his fingers.
Order. Tradition. Strength. Posterity. Control. Oppression. Invasion. Wealth for the rich. Poverty for the poor. Evolution is dead. Control growing. Tradition upon tradition. Order is maintained. Repress the poor. Backbone of establishment. Control. Control.
Control.
-bang-
'Don't worry, mere mortals have to do it all the time - some with an even reasonable rate of success,' the voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Zalaxal - Master of All Time, Master of Creation, Master of Control - suddenly wanted to cry.
'What, what have you done?' he sobbed. 'Wretched unforgiving meddler, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!'
A fragile, frozen butterfly appeared to fall forever. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Shattering against the non-existent floor. A million jagged shards of a myriad of colour exploded outward and began to fly.
'I've given you want you always needed to appreciate the most.'
'A life?' Zalaxal's voice was broken and weak, as if afraid of the tiny of molecules causing him harm.
'No Zalaxal, an end.'
'How?' he was screaming now.
'This world, Zalaxal. You gave it to me. My world, I can do whatever I want, as I invariably do.'
-BANG!-
His domain.
His to *control*.
Was there any trace of him before? If there was, then he was to shrug off these last vestiges. This was an inhospitable world. It bit back.
This one world. *One* world. Follow the routine? Enslave a couple of inhabitants, achieve power and await for that nefarious philistine to topple down onto his plans for Empire and power. *Power*, a form of alcohol. Stoking the fires of ambition within the bosom of man and then impeding their performance. Pah!
A sudden sting of ozone, as he felt a million ions explode out through the air. A warbled scream and hoofbeats. Two yellow, calculating, violent eyes staring directly into his own.
He smiled.
'Better than before, as it happens,' said the other, slyly. That is how you can tell these two people apart. One reliant on facts, the other so rapt with a million woes he is forever sly and smug. Their clothes distinguish them further: the first ornately clothed in pearl with gold embroidery; the second wear a dark mish mash of apparels, his garish jumper grinning a multitude of question marks as if part of some perverted joke.
And there is the constant tap tapping of a brolly making contact with the floor.
'I suppose we should be grateful.'
'Oh I've been around long enough to learn not to be so naive.'
'Of course we are grateful. But--'
'But?' The second raised an eyebrow.
'But we cannot permit Gallifreyans to know that we, the Time Lords, were infiltrated in such a way. Threatened as we were.' 'Of course not. I recommend you all take a little nap, recover, and go about as you always have done.'
'In blind ignorance?'
'You're magnificently frank.' He paused for a moment and smiled to himself. 'Hmmm. I wouldn't worry about the children of KDX Loom 125 they'll be fine. Perhaps a penchant for more manic tendencies, but happy bouncing Time Tots all the same.'
And with that chuckle he left.
One day, perhaps a dreamer will stir in her sleep, haunted by such a distant cry.