FIC: Tinkering, Doctor Who...3rd Doctor
Jun. 21st, 2007 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabid1stAnd now for something completely different in the Doctor Who range...this is just a short story I wrote about the Third Doctor by an observer. Nothing fancy or romantic about it.
TINKERING
by Rabid1st
3rd Doctor
Rating: PG
Beta: Keswindhover, Caia and Aibhinn
Summary: A character study of sorts...about what the Doctor does to people's hearts and minds.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Doctor nor any of his toys. Please do not send me piles of cash or even trinkets.
Glowering skies pelted the windows with staccato rain and an unruly wind threw itself at the door, rattling bolt and hinges. The bitter cold found its way in through every knothole and crevice in the walls. Shivering despite my wool coat, I hunkered down before the electric stove and tried to warm my stiffening fingers. When the ambient heat failed to loosen my joints, I poured a cup of coffee from the pot and wrapped my hands around the mug. Renewing warmth soaked into my palms. Good. Good. I'd need nimble fingers and a nimble mind for the work ahead. One last test to run. It looked to be a long night of tinkering.
After a few thoughtful sips of my coffee, I glanced at the shuddering door. He was late. He knew the value of time better than anyone, but still he was late and I waited. Once, long ago, nobody would have dared keep me waiting, I thought, but then I reconsidered. He probably would have dared, if it suited him. He did as he pleased.
He would knock when he arrived, for example. Even though I could not open the door to him. Even though he alone had a key to my workshop. It was one of many courtesies he paid me. My other visitors were not as thoughtful. The U.N.I.T. inquisitors had no respect for my time or my person. They arrived unannounced, often interrupting my work and they poked and they prodded and they questioned me ceaselessly. But the Doctor understood me. He sympathized over my aching back and watering eyes and stiff, sore joints. I sat the mug aside and studied my hands, once so lovely and flexible, now covered in nicks and scars and grease. These last few months of tinkering had taken a toll on my nails. They were cracked and dull. One thumbnail was missing entirely, the tragic victim of an accident with a lathe.
The expected knock came. I didn't look up but I watched the door from the corner of my eye, always alert for some opportunity to change the course of my life. He gave me no such opportunity, but entered with a temporal burst, a move no eye but mine could follow. His oilskin slicker splattered water in a wide arc as he turned to bolt the door behind him. I knew he never moved like that outside this room.
Once my cell was secured, he slowed to human speed and, after stomping his feet and shimmying away a few more raindrops, he pushed the slicker hood from his head and said, “Nasty night out there, Eddie.”
“Wouldn't catch me out in it,” I rumbled.
“Yes, I imagine I would have some trouble catching you in this sort of weather,” he said, chuckling over my pun. “Had the devil's own time nabbing you on a bright summer's day.”
“I'm not as spry as I once was.”
“Nonsense. You'd outlive us all if only....”
“If only I had a bit more time, heh?”
He didn't respond to my bitter parry but instead unfastened the clip at his collar. Whipping off his slicker with a matador's flourish, he draped it carefully on a hook beside the door. Everything this one did involved care and flourishes. Underneath his rain gear he wore black slacks, a red velvet smoking jacket and a ruffled silk shirt. His shoes displayed a high gloss finish. Not one silver hair on his head had strayed out of place, despite the slicker hood and the wind. His nails were immaculate. His fingers bore signet rings. When he spoke, his eyes twinkled merrily even when he said something alarming or deadly serious. His human speech had what sounded to my ears like a studied lisp, but was, no doubt, cultured for this era.
“I hope I haven't kept you waiting, Eddie.”
“Are you never going to use my proper name, Doctor?”
“I'll tell you yours if you tell me mine,” he countered, with that twinkle I mentioned in his eye. He knew better than to say my name and I certainly didn't know his. No one did as far as I'd been able to determine. The Doctor understood the power of naming. He was as canny as any of my people at avoiding the thrall.
“Rumpelstiltskin?” I guessed.
“Well, that's a bit closer than Scheherazade,” he drawled.
He allowed me one try at his name per visit. One try and no more. Usually, I played the fool, when asking. I played the fool but stayed alert for any vibrations in his aura, hoping he would slip up and give me some clue to his identity. All I needed were his blueprints and I'd have him.
“Are you a spinner of gold, then, or a fairytale figure?”
“Neither,” he said, “And a bit of both.”
He never slipped. I growled in frustration, but smiled as well. We were almost old friends, as close as a jailer and prisoner could be.
He came further into the room and I offered him some coffee, waving a hand at the spare mug on my workbench. Taking the mug, he filled it and drank before approaching the canopied prize at the center of my shop. Shocked, as I often was, by his arrogance, I studied the back he'd turned on me. Just for a second, I imagined my sharp teeth sinking into his neck, my long saber-curved nails ripping open his belly. He dipped a hand into his jacket pocket, very casually, but I took his meaning. He had a sonic weapon. I would not catch him unaware. We had settled that much between us long ago.
Glancing over his shoulder at me, he tilted his head toward the canopy and asked, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Be my guest,” I said, certain there would be a flourish to the unveiling.
I was not mistaken. The Doctor approached the canopy and carefully drew one corner of the grease-stained yellow tarp aside. We both saw the glint of metal. A flash of bright red and gold sparkled under the shadow of the tarp. Then, with a twitch of his wrist and a sweep of his arm, the Doctor revealed our joint project.
“The Hindle steam-powered motorbike,” he announced, “Non-polluting, personal transportation. Completely hand-crafted.”
“And nearly finished,” I said. “One more part, one more test run.”
We both looked from the bike to the plans tacked on the shop wall and back again, admiring our handiwork. The original Hindle design proposed a kerosene boiler to produce the necessary steam to drive the engine. But we'd found the whole process cumbersome in testing. Too much heat and a noxious fume. The Doctor suggested a solar powered, fusion-battery, similar to the one he used in his Betsy, to heat the water. I could not stray so far from the plans. We tested a gasoline engine but the Doctor longed to step away from fossil fuels. Finally, we compromised, settling on a modified vaporizing heater which we used in conjunction with a convoluted steam chamber to compress air to p.s.i. 1400, for a maximum speed of 10,000 r.p.m., on the two-cylinder, single-action engine.
“I thought we'd never solve the cylinder displacement issues,” the Doctor remarked as he slowly circled the Hindle. “To tell the truth, old chap, I was beginning to think you were playing Penelope in my absence. Undoing all of our work when I'd gone. Perhaps filing down the pistons to extend your stay.”
“I do enjoy the hospitality, Doctor. But more than that...far more than that...”
“You enjoy the accomplishment,” he said, finishing my thought. He nodded. “There is something deeply satisfying about tinkering, isn't there? Creating, healing, renewing...”
I laughed heartily. “You have a god complex, Doctor.”
“And you don't?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. I only I want a peek at the Creator's diagrams. I want to know how it all works.”
“And what will you do when you know?”
“Test the plans, of course. Once I see a diagram on paper, I have to find out if it is telling me the truth.”
“I remember,” the Doctor said, somberly, “You abhor plans that lie.”
“Like those books,” I agreed. “Human anatomy and physiology." I snorted. "They were my downfall, Doctor. If I'd been able to completely restore the girl, the people you work for, this U.N.I.T., would have had no quarrel with me. Yet, how was I to know their own books would lie?”
“I did point this out to them at the hearing.”
“But they were unmoved,” I sighed. “How is that justice? A life for a life? It's nonsense.”
“An eye for an eye,” he told me. “Their concept of justice is blindfolded. But I've long suspected the blindfold was nothing more than a bandage, covering up the lack of eyes in her head.”
“So, they've curtailed my experimentation. Even though you explained my gift. Such a waste. I am certain I could discover the flaw in their plans.”
“I did try to explain. But even I can't sanction what you've done. Eight people are dead by your hand, my dear fellow, and the one you restored was...how shall I put this...” he fiddled with his ruffled sleeves, unbuttoning them as he prepared to remove his jacket and get down to work, “...let's say...beyond salvaging.”
“You could have given me a bit more time with her.”
“People aren't like motorbikes, Eddie,” he retorted, sharply, no sign of a merry glint in his eye. “No amount of tinkering would have put her right.”
As I glared at him, weighing his worth to me as something like a friend, rage swelled in my chest. The plans had been wrong. That wasn't my doing. My fingers curled into claws, my long nails scissoring together. There was a time when nobody kept me waiting, when nobody spoke to me in anger. Now, my joints ache from the damp cold of my prison and my nails are dirty and cracked and very soon I will be put beyond salvaging.
Momentarily maddened by my frustrations, I snatched a spanner from the workbench and hurled it at the Doctor. Had it crushed his skull I would have taken the key from him and escaped. But, as I knew he would, he plucked the spanner from the air, catching it well before it could strike him. He was a masterpiece, an engineering marvel. Filled with admiration, I watched him calmly put the tool on the seat of a chair. Then, setting his coffee mug aside, he took off his jacket and, after folding it neatly, placed it on top of the spanner.
“I have issues with this unregulated universe, Doctor,” I said, continuing our conversation as if I hadn't just tried to murder him.
“You and me both, old chap,” he murmured. “You and me both.” He glanced at the Hindle. “Did you run copper coil from the shaft to the tank as we discussed?” He tipped his head to peer at the exhaust mechanism, saw that I had been hard at work in his absence and nodded. “Yes, I see you have. All right, then, nothing left to do but put it back together again.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a portable laser grinder and tossed it toward me. “This should help you shave the necessary microns off the flywheel for a perfect balance. We'll reassemble the transmission and have her ready for a test run in the morning.”
“In the morning,” I repeated, absently, turning the weapon he'd just given me over and over, passing it from hand to hand.
My execution had, long ago, been set for sunrise the following morning. I had the means to escape it in my hands. The Doctor wasn't stupid. He had denied me advanced tools the entire time I'd been in this prison, knowing I could use them to escape the velinium chains he'd used to hobble me. Because of these precautions, every modification we'd made to the Hindle had involved laborious primitive methods: grinding and lathing and smelting. Misaligned parts had been sanded down or recast rather than modified molecularly.
Rising from my seat, I shuffled closer to the Doctor where he crouched, facing the Hindle, back turned toward me again. He had to hear my chains clanking but he gave no sign of it. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms and a tattoo. His fingers were already grimy.
“Would you hand me that claw clutch, Eddie?” he asked, without looking at me. “I can't let go of this screw just now or the whole thing will go pear-shaped.”
One thin-beamed pulse of the laser just behind his ear would fry his brain. But if I did that, if I killed him, the spark in his eyes, that merry twinkle, would be gone. And though, I had never doubted my gifts before, I wasn't certain I could restore him to his original condition. Unlike the humans, as far as I could tell, he had no peers, no facsimile on this planet. He was a prototype, like our Hindle. Without knowing his name or his planet or his species, I could not summon his plans. He could only be reverse engineered. Or forgotten, put out of my mind.
Even my freedom wasn't worth such a price. I clanked over to the workbench, set the laser down and retrieved the part he'd asked for. He thanked me as I handed it over, studied me for a few seconds, and then smiled. I nodded before turning my attention to the unbalanced flywheel.
Why didn't I take the escape the Doctor offered me? I can't truly say. There was a time I would have killed him without a qualm, trusting in my ability to restore and salvage. Before my imprisonment, I'd believed I could solve any riddle, tinker my way through any puzzle, even reverse engineer death to restore life. My gifts were so prized, so praised, on my home world, no one questioned me. No one doubted me. No one stopped me. But the Doctor taught me something of the greater plan, and I had to know more. Were there mechanisms beyond my understanding? Or could I test creation, learn how it all worked? Perhaps dying was the only way to see the original schematics.
As my sunrise execution loomed, I stayed in my prison workshop, perfecting the Hindle Steam-Powered Motorcycle and studying the Doctor. We tinkered side by side through the wee hours of the morning. I had little hope he might let something slip, a name or a species or a planet, but I imagined I might discover something new, something fascinating, if I continued to observe him. He gave me nothing but his company.
It was enough. I stand here before you, my confessor and these fair people, my executioners, content in knowing that I will never know what makes the Doctor tick.
The End
TINKERING
by Rabid1st
3rd Doctor
Rating: PG
Beta: Keswindhover, Caia and Aibhinn
Summary: A character study of sorts...about what the Doctor does to people's hearts and minds.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Doctor nor any of his toys. Please do not send me piles of cash or even trinkets.
Glowering skies pelted the windows with staccato rain and an unruly wind threw itself at the door, rattling bolt and hinges. The bitter cold found its way in through every knothole and crevice in the walls. Shivering despite my wool coat, I hunkered down before the electric stove and tried to warm my stiffening fingers. When the ambient heat failed to loosen my joints, I poured a cup of coffee from the pot and wrapped my hands around the mug. Renewing warmth soaked into my palms. Good. Good. I'd need nimble fingers and a nimble mind for the work ahead. One last test to run. It looked to be a long night of tinkering.
After a few thoughtful sips of my coffee, I glanced at the shuddering door. He was late. He knew the value of time better than anyone, but still he was late and I waited. Once, long ago, nobody would have dared keep me waiting, I thought, but then I reconsidered. He probably would have dared, if it suited him. He did as he pleased.
He would knock when he arrived, for example. Even though I could not open the door to him. Even though he alone had a key to my workshop. It was one of many courtesies he paid me. My other visitors were not as thoughtful. The U.N.I.T. inquisitors had no respect for my time or my person. They arrived unannounced, often interrupting my work and they poked and they prodded and they questioned me ceaselessly. But the Doctor understood me. He sympathized over my aching back and watering eyes and stiff, sore joints. I sat the mug aside and studied my hands, once so lovely and flexible, now covered in nicks and scars and grease. These last few months of tinkering had taken a toll on my nails. They were cracked and dull. One thumbnail was missing entirely, the tragic victim of an accident with a lathe.
The expected knock came. I didn't look up but I watched the door from the corner of my eye, always alert for some opportunity to change the course of my life. He gave me no such opportunity, but entered with a temporal burst, a move no eye but mine could follow. His oilskin slicker splattered water in a wide arc as he turned to bolt the door behind him. I knew he never moved like that outside this room.
Once my cell was secured, he slowed to human speed and, after stomping his feet and shimmying away a few more raindrops, he pushed the slicker hood from his head and said, “Nasty night out there, Eddie.”
“Wouldn't catch me out in it,” I rumbled.
“Yes, I imagine I would have some trouble catching you in this sort of weather,” he said, chuckling over my pun. “Had the devil's own time nabbing you on a bright summer's day.”
“I'm not as spry as I once was.”
“Nonsense. You'd outlive us all if only....”
“If only I had a bit more time, heh?”
He didn't respond to my bitter parry but instead unfastened the clip at his collar. Whipping off his slicker with a matador's flourish, he draped it carefully on a hook beside the door. Everything this one did involved care and flourishes. Underneath his rain gear he wore black slacks, a red velvet smoking jacket and a ruffled silk shirt. His shoes displayed a high gloss finish. Not one silver hair on his head had strayed out of place, despite the slicker hood and the wind. His nails were immaculate. His fingers bore signet rings. When he spoke, his eyes twinkled merrily even when he said something alarming or deadly serious. His human speech had what sounded to my ears like a studied lisp, but was, no doubt, cultured for this era.
“I hope I haven't kept you waiting, Eddie.”
“Are you never going to use my proper name, Doctor?”
“I'll tell you yours if you tell me mine,” he countered, with that twinkle I mentioned in his eye. He knew better than to say my name and I certainly didn't know his. No one did as far as I'd been able to determine. The Doctor understood the power of naming. He was as canny as any of my people at avoiding the thrall.
“Rumpelstiltskin?” I guessed.
“Well, that's a bit closer than Scheherazade,” he drawled.
He allowed me one try at his name per visit. One try and no more. Usually, I played the fool, when asking. I played the fool but stayed alert for any vibrations in his aura, hoping he would slip up and give me some clue to his identity. All I needed were his blueprints and I'd have him.
“Are you a spinner of gold, then, or a fairytale figure?”
“Neither,” he said, “And a bit of both.”
He never slipped. I growled in frustration, but smiled as well. We were almost old friends, as close as a jailer and prisoner could be.
He came further into the room and I offered him some coffee, waving a hand at the spare mug on my workbench. Taking the mug, he filled it and drank before approaching the canopied prize at the center of my shop. Shocked, as I often was, by his arrogance, I studied the back he'd turned on me. Just for a second, I imagined my sharp teeth sinking into his neck, my long saber-curved nails ripping open his belly. He dipped a hand into his jacket pocket, very casually, but I took his meaning. He had a sonic weapon. I would not catch him unaware. We had settled that much between us long ago.
Glancing over his shoulder at me, he tilted his head toward the canopy and asked, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Be my guest,” I said, certain there would be a flourish to the unveiling.
I was not mistaken. The Doctor approached the canopy and carefully drew one corner of the grease-stained yellow tarp aside. We both saw the glint of metal. A flash of bright red and gold sparkled under the shadow of the tarp. Then, with a twitch of his wrist and a sweep of his arm, the Doctor revealed our joint project.
“The Hindle steam-powered motorbike,” he announced, “Non-polluting, personal transportation. Completely hand-crafted.”
“And nearly finished,” I said. “One more part, one more test run.”
We both looked from the bike to the plans tacked on the shop wall and back again, admiring our handiwork. The original Hindle design proposed a kerosene boiler to produce the necessary steam to drive the engine. But we'd found the whole process cumbersome in testing. Too much heat and a noxious fume. The Doctor suggested a solar powered, fusion-battery, similar to the one he used in his Betsy, to heat the water. I could not stray so far from the plans. We tested a gasoline engine but the Doctor longed to step away from fossil fuels. Finally, we compromised, settling on a modified vaporizing heater which we used in conjunction with a convoluted steam chamber to compress air to p.s.i. 1400, for a maximum speed of 10,000 r.p.m., on the two-cylinder, single-action engine.
“I thought we'd never solve the cylinder displacement issues,” the Doctor remarked as he slowly circled the Hindle. “To tell the truth, old chap, I was beginning to think you were playing Penelope in my absence. Undoing all of our work when I'd gone. Perhaps filing down the pistons to extend your stay.”
“I do enjoy the hospitality, Doctor. But more than that...far more than that...”
“You enjoy the accomplishment,” he said, finishing my thought. He nodded. “There is something deeply satisfying about tinkering, isn't there? Creating, healing, renewing...”
I laughed heartily. “You have a god complex, Doctor.”
“And you don't?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. I only I want a peek at the Creator's diagrams. I want to know how it all works.”
“And what will you do when you know?”
“Test the plans, of course. Once I see a diagram on paper, I have to find out if it is telling me the truth.”
“I remember,” the Doctor said, somberly, “You abhor plans that lie.”
“Like those books,” I agreed. “Human anatomy and physiology." I snorted. "They were my downfall, Doctor. If I'd been able to completely restore the girl, the people you work for, this U.N.I.T., would have had no quarrel with me. Yet, how was I to know their own books would lie?”
“I did point this out to them at the hearing.”
“But they were unmoved,” I sighed. “How is that justice? A life for a life? It's nonsense.”
“An eye for an eye,” he told me. “Their concept of justice is blindfolded. But I've long suspected the blindfold was nothing more than a bandage, covering up the lack of eyes in her head.”
“So, they've curtailed my experimentation. Even though you explained my gift. Such a waste. I am certain I could discover the flaw in their plans.”
“I did try to explain. But even I can't sanction what you've done. Eight people are dead by your hand, my dear fellow, and the one you restored was...how shall I put this...” he fiddled with his ruffled sleeves, unbuttoning them as he prepared to remove his jacket and get down to work, “...let's say...beyond salvaging.”
“You could have given me a bit more time with her.”
“People aren't like motorbikes, Eddie,” he retorted, sharply, no sign of a merry glint in his eye. “No amount of tinkering would have put her right.”
As I glared at him, weighing his worth to me as something like a friend, rage swelled in my chest. The plans had been wrong. That wasn't my doing. My fingers curled into claws, my long nails scissoring together. There was a time when nobody kept me waiting, when nobody spoke to me in anger. Now, my joints ache from the damp cold of my prison and my nails are dirty and cracked and very soon I will be put beyond salvaging.
Momentarily maddened by my frustrations, I snatched a spanner from the workbench and hurled it at the Doctor. Had it crushed his skull I would have taken the key from him and escaped. But, as I knew he would, he plucked the spanner from the air, catching it well before it could strike him. He was a masterpiece, an engineering marvel. Filled with admiration, I watched him calmly put the tool on the seat of a chair. Then, setting his coffee mug aside, he took off his jacket and, after folding it neatly, placed it on top of the spanner.
“I have issues with this unregulated universe, Doctor,” I said, continuing our conversation as if I hadn't just tried to murder him.
“You and me both, old chap,” he murmured. “You and me both.” He glanced at the Hindle. “Did you run copper coil from the shaft to the tank as we discussed?” He tipped his head to peer at the exhaust mechanism, saw that I had been hard at work in his absence and nodded. “Yes, I see you have. All right, then, nothing left to do but put it back together again.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a portable laser grinder and tossed it toward me. “This should help you shave the necessary microns off the flywheel for a perfect balance. We'll reassemble the transmission and have her ready for a test run in the morning.”
“In the morning,” I repeated, absently, turning the weapon he'd just given me over and over, passing it from hand to hand.
My execution had, long ago, been set for sunrise the following morning. I had the means to escape it in my hands. The Doctor wasn't stupid. He had denied me advanced tools the entire time I'd been in this prison, knowing I could use them to escape the velinium chains he'd used to hobble me. Because of these precautions, every modification we'd made to the Hindle had involved laborious primitive methods: grinding and lathing and smelting. Misaligned parts had been sanded down or recast rather than modified molecularly.
Rising from my seat, I shuffled closer to the Doctor where he crouched, facing the Hindle, back turned toward me again. He had to hear my chains clanking but he gave no sign of it. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms and a tattoo. His fingers were already grimy.
“Would you hand me that claw clutch, Eddie?” he asked, without looking at me. “I can't let go of this screw just now or the whole thing will go pear-shaped.”
One thin-beamed pulse of the laser just behind his ear would fry his brain. But if I did that, if I killed him, the spark in his eyes, that merry twinkle, would be gone. And though, I had never doubted my gifts before, I wasn't certain I could restore him to his original condition. Unlike the humans, as far as I could tell, he had no peers, no facsimile on this planet. He was a prototype, like our Hindle. Without knowing his name or his planet or his species, I could not summon his plans. He could only be reverse engineered. Or forgotten, put out of my mind.
Even my freedom wasn't worth such a price. I clanked over to the workbench, set the laser down and retrieved the part he'd asked for. He thanked me as I handed it over, studied me for a few seconds, and then smiled. I nodded before turning my attention to the unbalanced flywheel.
Why didn't I take the escape the Doctor offered me? I can't truly say. There was a time I would have killed him without a qualm, trusting in my ability to restore and salvage. Before my imprisonment, I'd believed I could solve any riddle, tinker my way through any puzzle, even reverse engineer death to restore life. My gifts were so prized, so praised, on my home world, no one questioned me. No one doubted me. No one stopped me. But the Doctor taught me something of the greater plan, and I had to know more. Were there mechanisms beyond my understanding? Or could I test creation, learn how it all worked? Perhaps dying was the only way to see the original schematics.
As my sunrise execution loomed, I stayed in my prison workshop, perfecting the Hindle Steam-Powered Motorcycle and studying the Doctor. We tinkered side by side through the wee hours of the morning. I had little hope he might let something slip, a name or a species or a planet, but I imagined I might discover something new, something fascinating, if I continued to observe him. He gave me nothing but his company.
It was enough. I stand here before you, my confessor and these fair people, my executioners, content in knowing that I will never know what makes the Doctor tick.
The End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-22 12:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-25 04:13 am (UTC)Rae
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-23 05:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-25 04:09 am (UTC)Glad you loved the fic...it was a complete change of pace for me.
Rae
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-25 12:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-25 03:42 am (UTC)Glad it worked for you. Thanks again for the feedback.
Rae
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-27 11:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-27 12:24 pm (UTC)Rae