In the TARDIS, at first, Compassion complains it’s too quiet. She is cut off from the signals, from the constant stream of information she was used to, before. Even back on Earth, in the primitive era that the humans of the time laughably call the ‘information age’, there’s always something available. Television. Radio. The internet. Twenty-four, seven. Even if most of it is repetitive nonsense.
In the TARDIS, all there is is the TARDIS. Muted somewhat, due to the Doctor’s tampering with her implant, but ceaseless. Whispering continuously at the edge of her consciousness, telling her to trust this man who has maybe rescued her, maybe kidnapped her; certainly he’s imprisoned her in his ship that can go anywhere, any when. Just until she’s used to being cut off from the Remote, of course, he says with a smile. She wonders, sometimes, if he only trusts her because he trusts his beloved timeship so completely. Fitz certainly doesn’t trust her, and he doesn’t like her and she reciprocates entirely. He reminds her with every scowl and every puff of his cigarette, every strum of his guitar that the Doctor ‘fixed’ Kode to make him. So she wonders, at other times, if he’s trying to use his ship to fix her too.
In the TARDIS, she explores. There are passages trailing miles into the depths of the ship, and although no dust has settled there is always the sense, whenever she gets bored and ventures very far away from the console room, that no living creature has been along here in years. She asks Fitz how much of the TARDIS he’s explored and he shrugs and tells her not to go wandering off and getting lost, because he isn’t going to come and find her. She doesn’t understand him because she can hear the TARDIS guiding her, directing her, lighting her way; urging her to explore, to familiarise herself with the possibilities. How could anyone fail to hear that, when there is nothing else to hear?
In the TARDIS there are fields and museums, ballrooms and store cupboards, bathrooms and bedrooms and merry-go-rounds. Clothes and books and knick-knacks from every era of every planet. She takes food and drink from the kitchen and when she runs out the TARDIS shows her to funny little dispensers that produce edible cubes. The Doctor doesn’t seem to worry when she disappears for days, and Fitz has stopped asking what she’s getting up to.
In the TARDIS, wandering along alone and without outside influences, she knows she should feel more concerned. It’s oddly comforting though, the soft, constant pressure of the TARDIS’s thoughts in her mind. She doesn’t understand all that she’s being told; there’s complex mathematics and Gallifreyan lore all tied together with the looping, swirling threads of the web of time. She tries to make sense of it; then she tries to ask what it all means. Then she stands in a room cluttered with bits of motorcycle and packing cases and the enormous silk envelope of a hot air balloon and stamps her feet demanding an explanation, clarification, more information. Much, much more information.
In the TARDIS she feels frustrated and lost and safe and sees things clearer than ever and yet finds it far more confusing. The TARDIS refuses to intimidated by her threats or flattered by her entreaties. But the TARDIS never leaves her alone, never stops feeding her what information she needs or, perhaps, will need yet.
In the TARDIS, Compassion wonders, late at night, if she’s really is being fixed or actually being prepared. She wonders, more and more, if the Doctor is shaping her future or if the TARDIS has plans too. She wonders, when she feels brave enough, what’s in store for her.
In the TARDIS her past is irrelevant and her future is being written line by line in a language she is learning only letter by letter. So she puts up with the Doctor’s odd ways, and with Fitz’s resentment of her presence, just so that she can stay with the TARDIS.
And this is, obviously, what the TARDIS wants too.
Requests: Harriet Jones/Harry Saxon, Donna Noble/Peri Brown, Fitz Kreiner/Ninth Doctor
Compassion/TARDIS
In the TARDIS, all there is is the TARDIS. Muted somewhat, due to the Doctor’s tampering with her implant, but ceaseless. Whispering continuously at the edge of her consciousness, telling her to trust this man who has maybe rescued her, maybe kidnapped her; certainly he’s imprisoned her in his ship that can go anywhere, any when. Just until she’s used to being cut off from the Remote, of course, he says with a smile. She wonders, sometimes, if he only trusts her because he trusts his beloved timeship so completely. Fitz certainly doesn’t trust her, and he doesn’t like her and she reciprocates entirely. He reminds her with every scowl and every puff of his cigarette, every strum of his guitar that the Doctor ‘fixed’ Kode to make him. So she wonders, at other times, if he’s trying to use his ship to fix her too.
In the TARDIS, she explores. There are passages trailing miles into the depths of the ship, and although no dust has settled there is always the sense, whenever she gets bored and ventures very far away from the console room, that no living creature has been along here in years. She asks Fitz how much of the TARDIS he’s explored and he shrugs and tells her not to go wandering off and getting lost, because he isn’t going to come and find her. She doesn’t understand him because she can hear the TARDIS guiding her, directing her, lighting her way; urging her to explore, to familiarise herself with the possibilities. How could anyone fail to hear that, when there is nothing else to hear?
In the TARDIS there are fields and museums, ballrooms and store cupboards, bathrooms and bedrooms and merry-go-rounds. Clothes and books and knick-knacks from every era of every planet. She takes food and drink from the kitchen and when she runs out the TARDIS shows her to funny little dispensers that produce edible cubes. The Doctor doesn’t seem to worry when she disappears for days, and Fitz has stopped asking what she’s getting up to.
In the TARDIS, wandering along alone and without outside influences, she knows she should feel more concerned. It’s oddly comforting though, the soft, constant pressure of the TARDIS’s thoughts in her mind. She doesn’t understand all that she’s being told; there’s complex mathematics and Gallifreyan lore all tied together with the looping, swirling threads of the web of time. She tries to make sense of it; then she tries to ask what it all means. Then she stands in a room cluttered with bits of motorcycle and packing cases and the enormous silk envelope of a hot air balloon and stamps her feet demanding an explanation, clarification, more information. Much, much more information.
In the TARDIS she feels frustrated and lost and safe and sees things clearer than ever and yet finds it far more confusing. The TARDIS refuses to intimidated by her threats or flattered by her entreaties. But the TARDIS never leaves her alone, never stops feeding her what information she needs or, perhaps, will need yet.
In the TARDIS, Compassion wonders, late at night, if she’s really is being fixed or actually being prepared. She wonders, more and more, if the Doctor is shaping her future or if the TARDIS has plans too. She wonders, when she feels brave enough, what’s in store for her.
In the TARDIS her past is irrelevant and her future is being written line by line in a language she is learning only letter by letter. So she puts up with the Doctor’s odd ways, and with Fitz’s resentment of her presence, just so that she can stay with the TARDIS.
And this is, obviously, what the TARDIS wants too.
Requests: Harriet Jones/Harry Saxon, Donna Noble/Peri Brown, Fitz Kreiner/Ninth Doctor