Spiegel im Spiegel, Chapter 4
Nov. 22nd, 2008 06:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fic_of_forkSorry for the delay! Wrath of the Lich King was released 11/13, and my warlock is now 72.
Word Count: 2454
Summary: Like a mirror reflected into a mirror, choices made create an infinite of possibilities.
Warnings: Spoilers for "Journey's End".
Rating: Teen
Characters: Ten, Donna, Braxiatel, Torchwood, Original characters (Mike)
Genre: AU, Adventure
Author's Note: Thanks to mtemplar_fic for the beta! If you'd like more information on Ada, see "In the Twilight Kingdom" and "Mykonos."
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, Torchwood, or any of its characters, and I'm receiving no profit from this beyond the joy of writing.
Chapter 3, Chapter 2, Chapter 1
Every morning, Donna awoke to find her little kitchen fully stocked with whatever food she'd need that day and her clothes from the previous day freshly laundered. Her caretakers were silent and invisible, although Donna only glimpsed them once in the middle of the night, when she awoke to use the bathroom. The silent figure had apologized profusely and disappeared through her door. When Donna awoke the day after her meeting with Braxiatel, she found a cream envelope of heavy stationery waiting for her with her laundry.
Idly, Donna opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of the same cream stationery and read the following note written in an immaculate cursive done with a fountain pen:
Donna,
I have some information regarding the matter which we discussed yesterday. Please come see me at my office at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Irving
She hastily pulled on some clothes, but changed her mind when she pulled out another blouse that suited her better. Donna grabbed one of the bars of food left for her--she assumed it was some sort of energy bar--and left her room. As she walked, she nibbled. The food they left for her was satisfying, but uninteresting, much like how she saw Gallifrey, now that she was stuck here. After a few bites, she sighed, wrapped the rest of it in a napkin, and stuck the remainder in a bag she carried with her. Donna was willing to pay good money for a simple croissant and a coffee. No, make that the café con leche she had in Barcelona in that little café off of the Placa Catalunya. For that, she was willing to sell her soul.
As Donna turned towards the area of the Citadel claimed by the Prydonians for their living quarters and offices, she thought she caught a whiff of the distinct aroma of coffee on the morning breeze. She put it out of her head, thinking it was just induced by her memories, but as she got closer, the scent became stronger. When she peeked into the open door of Braxiatel's office, she saw two cups of steaming coffee waiting for them, along with a plate of pastries. Helping herself, she watched as Braxiatel finished writing something in a leather-bound notebook. Taking off his glasses, he placed the notebook in a desk drawer, which he carefully locked.
Looking down at her lap, Donna cringed at the flaky crumbs that remained of one of the croissants. "That was rude of me to wolf that pastry before even saying hello," she said.
Braxiatel smiled and gestured amicably. "That's what they're here for," he responded. "In my time away from Gallifrey, I've become accustomed to a certain other level of creature comfort." He helped himself to a pastry, after carefully unfolding a cloth napkin in his lap. "After all, what good are the better things in life, when one has an opportunity to enjoy them but doesn't?"
"You said it, mate," Donna replied, sipping her coffee. "You mentioned finding something out?"
Braxiatel fastidiously wiped his mouth and replaced the napkin after taking a bite of his own pastry. "The Doctor left Gallifrey a week ago."
Donna was stunned. "But...he didn't even take me home. Or come see me. We were friends. Best friends, even."
"It's been my experience that the Doctor can be quite impulsive. But it seems in this case that he was needed elsewhere on a matter of extreme urgency."
"Did he recover?" Donna asked.
"His departure was contraindicated by every physician here," Braxiatel responded.
"Then he could be in danger," Donna said. "We need to do something."
Braxiatel laughed, but it was cold. "You might be able to leave. There was a time when I had free rein to leave Gallifrey as I chose. You overestimate my political capital."
Donna thought for a moment. "It seems as if we're both stuck here, yeah? I don't belong here, and if I can get a meeting with the Chancellor or the Castellan, I'm sure I can work something out. I just can't get either to respond."
"You know the current Chancellor and Castellan?" Braxiatel asked, not hiding his incredulity.
"Vardan, the Castellan, isn't a bad bloke, once you get the stick out of his arse."
Braxiatel hid his amusement with an effort of will. "It would seem that neither of us would merit the attentions of the Inner Council."
They lapsed into silence, as a light began flashing on a video unit on Braxiatel's desk. Donna smiled to herself and said, "Let's give them a taste of their own medicine." Donna swiveled the video console towards her and answered it. "I'm sorry, but Cardinal Braxiatel isn't available. May I take a message?"
"Not available? I know he's in there. Put him on, please," the red-robed figure demanded.
"If you'd like to meet with him, I would be glad to arrange a meeting. How would next Thursday work?"
"Next Thursday! The absolute nerve! Do you know who I am? I'm the Senior Cardinal of the Prydonian Chapter!"
"I'm so sorry, sir," Donna responded. "But it looks like next Thursday is right out. How will the following Thursday be?"
The Time Lord on the other end sputtered in rage. "And who are you to be arranging Braxiatel's affairs for him?"
"Donna Noble, personal assistant to Mr. Braxiatel," she responded calmly. "Now shall I pencil you in?" The Time Lord closed the video link without so much as a salutation. Donna looked over at Braxiatel, who was wiping his eyes and laughing. "Best temp in Chiswick, I don't come cheap, you know."
Braxiatel sighed. "I've been relegated to ordering office supplies, so I'm not sure how much salary I could offer."
"Office supplies?" Donna asked.
"Certainly they use pencils, pens, paper and the like on Earth in the twenty-first century?" Braxiatel's voice was frosted with sarcasm.
"See, I temped in the Department of Health for a few days, but I learned something important. The real power isn't with the administrators, it's with those who control the office supplies. Every bureaucracy needs its staples, pens, and pads...not to mention whoever orders the coffee. Caffeine is important, you know."
"I believe, Ms. Noble, that we could reach an arrangement."
***
The Doctor had to admit that being a Time Lord had its advantages. One of which was that it got you into the best parties in the universe. The other was that training and discipline from childhood made it so that you could move among those parties without being noticed or seen. The ideal was that a Time Lord would move like a wisp or a wraith in the time he or she would observe and leave no trace of his or her presence behind. In his youth, the Doctor openly flaunted and thumbed his nose at that convention, but as he grew older, he began to understand that at times it was best to not be noticed.
This particular night, however, was different. The music was too loud and the flashing lasers and lights were too bright. People were too close, and the stench of so many different races packed into one room and high upon various illicit substances was too much for the Doctor. A headache throbbed in time with the oppressive beat of the music, and he began to feel guilty for snapping at a waitress, who offered him a drink laced with some type of psychotropic drug for the third time in less than an hour.
The lead that he followed here was cold. When serendipity in the form of his TARDIS didn't lead him to a situation that needed fixing, his incessant monitoring of every form of communication did. In the days after his recovery, he needed an excuse--any excuse--to leave Gallifrey. He found a quieter corner and leaned against the wall, feeling the music's vibrations carry through the building.
A week ago, he had woken in an opulent room and was fussed over by a team of doctors and servants. The procedure needed to effectively restart his mind had been a success, and he was told that Donna was stable, even with her memories of her travels with him restored. They couldn't tell him if the metacrisis would return, and they were shocked, when he refused to see her, since everyone on Gallifrey knew the legends of how dear the Doctor's companions were to him.
People going missing and bodies being found was urgent enough to leave Gallifrey, he reasoned with himself. All signs he found, however, pointed to the ordinary kinds of crimes that happened every day. Wearied, he left the party by a side door that opened out into an alley. For a moment, he enjoyed the cool night air and sudden hush.
The man who keeps running, never looking back because he dare not, out of shame...The Doctor shook his head and implored whatever gods he had that he didn't leave because of her. No, it was better this way, on his own. He knew Donna would be safe and that they'd make sure she got back to her own time and place. She was only one in a long litany of names who were caught in his wake of chaos.
The Doctor took a deep breath of the cold night's air, held it just long enough that his respiratory bypass system wicked off the carbon dioxide building up, then slowly exhaled, feeling his body relax. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he walked away from the alley and nearly tripped over a supine form on the pavement in front of him. He muttered an apology, when he realized it was a body and bent down to help.
The Doctor furrowed his brow as he bent over the body, a human male who had been dead a few days. He knew the man would probably not be mourned. In his experience, most vagrants and homeless people weren't. Looking around the opulent city buildings rising above him--great glass globes and shapes floating on the clouds of a gas giant--he wondered if the rest of the city knew or cared that a man had died horribly.
There were no signs of struggle or discomfort, and the Doctor didn't expect to find any. The man's eyes were vacant, as if his soul had been sucked out. Feeling an itch in the back of his mind, the Doctor heaved a sigh of relief when he realized it was only psychosomatic. The almost-faded tang of chronon energy--undetectable by any being other than a Time Lord--made it clear to the Doctor that the man's killer was far away from this place. And, if the Doctor's fears were correct, far away from this time.
Quietly, the Doctor closed the man's eyes and covered him with a tattered and soiled blanket that appeared to be the man's only possession. He stood in silence for a few moments, then turned and walked away. As he did, a loud ringing noise from his inner coat pocket split the night air. Pulling out a cell phone, he noted the number, then switched it to silent.
***
Ada, the 419th President of the Time Lords, the youngest President ever in their history and the first Patrexan President in longer than living memory, was furious as she gazed over the line of people threading its way through the streets of the Prydonian sector of the Citadel. Her platform was one of responsibility--no longer was the High Council a kind of fascist nanny for the other Time Lords. She gave the other Time Lords freedom to act within certain boundaries, so long as they acted responsibly. So far it had helped prevent the kind of political backstabbing and power-hoarding that had been all too common in the years leading up to the Time War, when an entire race of beings with near-godlike powers had been cooped up on a single planet. It had also spurned a renaissance of new research, which had helped to heal a planet's soul. Her reign was being hailed as a new golden age.
As she paced towards the head of the line, she became angrier. Rumors reached her that Daleks--and Davros--had resurfaced, nearly held the universe for hostage--and here they were, playing petty political games. The menace had faded as quickly as it had appeared with rumors of the Doctor's involvement. With an entire planet's infrastructure still being rebuilt, they were unable to field an army necessary to deal with a large reserve of Daleks, never mind that they were still reeling from the side effects of war: cholera, influenza, and other pestilences that their population hadn't considered in ten thousand years. Fortunately for Donna and Braxiatel, there was nothing--at present--as threatening. If there had been, Ada thought to herself, their bodies would already be rotting. People waiting in line grumbled, but let her pass into the tiny office.
"Madam President, you do me too much honor," Braxiatel began.
Ada cut him off. "You have five minutes to explain to me why you shouldn't have a dagger between your ribs." Braxiatel began to address her with some florid euphemism, but Ada cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I'll put it in simpler terms," Ada said. "I tried ignoring your temper tantrum, letting the Prydonians settle it, but you involved everyone else, bringing the Citadel to a standstill over office supplies. This will stop today."
"We only wanted information," Donna said. "I've been here for weeks, and I can't get an answer about anything."
"So you interrupt the workings of a government to make yourself heard?" Ada asked. "Did you consider, perhaps, that we didn't have any information to give you? And you--" she turned to face Braxiatel. "There are those who survived the Time War and remembered all that happened during Romana's Presidency. The only reason you aren't seeing the inside of a prison cell right now is in deference to your kin."
"I hesitate to question such an august judgment," Braxiatel said. "But would Madam President consider this to be best use of my talents?"
Ada fixed Braxiatel with a glare that left little doubt as to what she thought of his pre-Time War courtesies. "Cardinal Braxiatel, did you stop to think that perhaps you were given some task clearly beneath you so that you'd have plenty of time to focus upon healing?" Ada turned her attention to Donna. "Donna, you are confined to your quarters until you are deemed fit to leave this planet. Cardinal Braxiatel, I want this mess taken care of today. If the Citadel isn't back to normal by the end of the day, you are to report to the Castellan for incarceration. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
Word Count: 2454
Summary: Like a mirror reflected into a mirror, choices made create an infinite of possibilities.
Warnings: Spoilers for "Journey's End".
Rating: Teen
Characters: Ten, Donna, Braxiatel, Torchwood, Original characters (Mike)
Genre: AU, Adventure
Author's Note: Thanks to mtemplar_fic for the beta! If you'd like more information on Ada, see "In the Twilight Kingdom" and "Mykonos."
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, Torchwood, or any of its characters, and I'm receiving no profit from this beyond the joy of writing.
Chapter 3, Chapter 2, Chapter 1
Every morning, Donna awoke to find her little kitchen fully stocked with whatever food she'd need that day and her clothes from the previous day freshly laundered. Her caretakers were silent and invisible, although Donna only glimpsed them once in the middle of the night, when she awoke to use the bathroom. The silent figure had apologized profusely and disappeared through her door. When Donna awoke the day after her meeting with Braxiatel, she found a cream envelope of heavy stationery waiting for her with her laundry.
Idly, Donna opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of the same cream stationery and read the following note written in an immaculate cursive done with a fountain pen:
Donna,
I have some information regarding the matter which we discussed yesterday. Please come see me at my office at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Irving
She hastily pulled on some clothes, but changed her mind when she pulled out another blouse that suited her better. Donna grabbed one of the bars of food left for her--she assumed it was some sort of energy bar--and left her room. As she walked, she nibbled. The food they left for her was satisfying, but uninteresting, much like how she saw Gallifrey, now that she was stuck here. After a few bites, she sighed, wrapped the rest of it in a napkin, and stuck the remainder in a bag she carried with her. Donna was willing to pay good money for a simple croissant and a coffee. No, make that the café con leche she had in Barcelona in that little café off of the Placa Catalunya. For that, she was willing to sell her soul.
As Donna turned towards the area of the Citadel claimed by the Prydonians for their living quarters and offices, she thought she caught a whiff of the distinct aroma of coffee on the morning breeze. She put it out of her head, thinking it was just induced by her memories, but as she got closer, the scent became stronger. When she peeked into the open door of Braxiatel's office, she saw two cups of steaming coffee waiting for them, along with a plate of pastries. Helping herself, she watched as Braxiatel finished writing something in a leather-bound notebook. Taking off his glasses, he placed the notebook in a desk drawer, which he carefully locked.
Looking down at her lap, Donna cringed at the flaky crumbs that remained of one of the croissants. "That was rude of me to wolf that pastry before even saying hello," she said.
Braxiatel smiled and gestured amicably. "That's what they're here for," he responded. "In my time away from Gallifrey, I've become accustomed to a certain other level of creature comfort." He helped himself to a pastry, after carefully unfolding a cloth napkin in his lap. "After all, what good are the better things in life, when one has an opportunity to enjoy them but doesn't?"
"You said it, mate," Donna replied, sipping her coffee. "You mentioned finding something out?"
Braxiatel fastidiously wiped his mouth and replaced the napkin after taking a bite of his own pastry. "The Doctor left Gallifrey a week ago."
Donna was stunned. "But...he didn't even take me home. Or come see me. We were friends. Best friends, even."
"It's been my experience that the Doctor can be quite impulsive. But it seems in this case that he was needed elsewhere on a matter of extreme urgency."
"Did he recover?" Donna asked.
"His departure was contraindicated by every physician here," Braxiatel responded.
"Then he could be in danger," Donna said. "We need to do something."
Braxiatel laughed, but it was cold. "You might be able to leave. There was a time when I had free rein to leave Gallifrey as I chose. You overestimate my political capital."
Donna thought for a moment. "It seems as if we're both stuck here, yeah? I don't belong here, and if I can get a meeting with the Chancellor or the Castellan, I'm sure I can work something out. I just can't get either to respond."
"You know the current Chancellor and Castellan?" Braxiatel asked, not hiding his incredulity.
"Vardan, the Castellan, isn't a bad bloke, once you get the stick out of his arse."
Braxiatel hid his amusement with an effort of will. "It would seem that neither of us would merit the attentions of the Inner Council."
They lapsed into silence, as a light began flashing on a video unit on Braxiatel's desk. Donna smiled to herself and said, "Let's give them a taste of their own medicine." Donna swiveled the video console towards her and answered it. "I'm sorry, but Cardinal Braxiatel isn't available. May I take a message?"
"Not available? I know he's in there. Put him on, please," the red-robed figure demanded.
"If you'd like to meet with him, I would be glad to arrange a meeting. How would next Thursday work?"
"Next Thursday! The absolute nerve! Do you know who I am? I'm the Senior Cardinal of the Prydonian Chapter!"
"I'm so sorry, sir," Donna responded. "But it looks like next Thursday is right out. How will the following Thursday be?"
The Time Lord on the other end sputtered in rage. "And who are you to be arranging Braxiatel's affairs for him?"
"Donna Noble, personal assistant to Mr. Braxiatel," she responded calmly. "Now shall I pencil you in?" The Time Lord closed the video link without so much as a salutation. Donna looked over at Braxiatel, who was wiping his eyes and laughing. "Best temp in Chiswick, I don't come cheap, you know."
Braxiatel sighed. "I've been relegated to ordering office supplies, so I'm not sure how much salary I could offer."
"Office supplies?" Donna asked.
"Certainly they use pencils, pens, paper and the like on Earth in the twenty-first century?" Braxiatel's voice was frosted with sarcasm.
"See, I temped in the Department of Health for a few days, but I learned something important. The real power isn't with the administrators, it's with those who control the office supplies. Every bureaucracy needs its staples, pens, and pads...not to mention whoever orders the coffee. Caffeine is important, you know."
"I believe, Ms. Noble, that we could reach an arrangement."
The Doctor had to admit that being a Time Lord had its advantages. One of which was that it got you into the best parties in the universe. The other was that training and discipline from childhood made it so that you could move among those parties without being noticed or seen. The ideal was that a Time Lord would move like a wisp or a wraith in the time he or she would observe and leave no trace of his or her presence behind. In his youth, the Doctor openly flaunted and thumbed his nose at that convention, but as he grew older, he began to understand that at times it was best to not be noticed.
This particular night, however, was different. The music was too loud and the flashing lasers and lights were too bright. People were too close, and the stench of so many different races packed into one room and high upon various illicit substances was too much for the Doctor. A headache throbbed in time with the oppressive beat of the music, and he began to feel guilty for snapping at a waitress, who offered him a drink laced with some type of psychotropic drug for the third time in less than an hour.
The lead that he followed here was cold. When serendipity in the form of his TARDIS didn't lead him to a situation that needed fixing, his incessant monitoring of every form of communication did. In the days after his recovery, he needed an excuse--any excuse--to leave Gallifrey. He found a quieter corner and leaned against the wall, feeling the music's vibrations carry through the building.
A week ago, he had woken in an opulent room and was fussed over by a team of doctors and servants. The procedure needed to effectively restart his mind had been a success, and he was told that Donna was stable, even with her memories of her travels with him restored. They couldn't tell him if the metacrisis would return, and they were shocked, when he refused to see her, since everyone on Gallifrey knew the legends of how dear the Doctor's companions were to him.
People going missing and bodies being found was urgent enough to leave Gallifrey, he reasoned with himself. All signs he found, however, pointed to the ordinary kinds of crimes that happened every day. Wearied, he left the party by a side door that opened out into an alley. For a moment, he enjoyed the cool night air and sudden hush.
The man who keeps running, never looking back because he dare not, out of shame...The Doctor shook his head and implored whatever gods he had that he didn't leave because of her. No, it was better this way, on his own. He knew Donna would be safe and that they'd make sure she got back to her own time and place. She was only one in a long litany of names who were caught in his wake of chaos.
The Doctor took a deep breath of the cold night's air, held it just long enough that his respiratory bypass system wicked off the carbon dioxide building up, then slowly exhaled, feeling his body relax. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he walked away from the alley and nearly tripped over a supine form on the pavement in front of him. He muttered an apology, when he realized it was a body and bent down to help.
The Doctor furrowed his brow as he bent over the body, a human male who had been dead a few days. He knew the man would probably not be mourned. In his experience, most vagrants and homeless people weren't. Looking around the opulent city buildings rising above him--great glass globes and shapes floating on the clouds of a gas giant--he wondered if the rest of the city knew or cared that a man had died horribly.
There were no signs of struggle or discomfort, and the Doctor didn't expect to find any. The man's eyes were vacant, as if his soul had been sucked out. Feeling an itch in the back of his mind, the Doctor heaved a sigh of relief when he realized it was only psychosomatic. The almost-faded tang of chronon energy--undetectable by any being other than a Time Lord--made it clear to the Doctor that the man's killer was far away from this place. And, if the Doctor's fears were correct, far away from this time.
Quietly, the Doctor closed the man's eyes and covered him with a tattered and soiled blanket that appeared to be the man's only possession. He stood in silence for a few moments, then turned and walked away. As he did, a loud ringing noise from his inner coat pocket split the night air. Pulling out a cell phone, he noted the number, then switched it to silent.
Ada, the 419th President of the Time Lords, the youngest President ever in their history and the first Patrexan President in longer than living memory, was furious as she gazed over the line of people threading its way through the streets of the Prydonian sector of the Citadel. Her platform was one of responsibility--no longer was the High Council a kind of fascist nanny for the other Time Lords. She gave the other Time Lords freedom to act within certain boundaries, so long as they acted responsibly. So far it had helped prevent the kind of political backstabbing and power-hoarding that had been all too common in the years leading up to the Time War, when an entire race of beings with near-godlike powers had been cooped up on a single planet. It had also spurned a renaissance of new research, which had helped to heal a planet's soul. Her reign was being hailed as a new golden age.
As she paced towards the head of the line, she became angrier. Rumors reached her that Daleks--and Davros--had resurfaced, nearly held the universe for hostage--and here they were, playing petty political games. The menace had faded as quickly as it had appeared with rumors of the Doctor's involvement. With an entire planet's infrastructure still being rebuilt, they were unable to field an army necessary to deal with a large reserve of Daleks, never mind that they were still reeling from the side effects of war: cholera, influenza, and other pestilences that their population hadn't considered in ten thousand years. Fortunately for Donna and Braxiatel, there was nothing--at present--as threatening. If there had been, Ada thought to herself, their bodies would already be rotting. People waiting in line grumbled, but let her pass into the tiny office.
"Madam President, you do me too much honor," Braxiatel began.
Ada cut him off. "You have five minutes to explain to me why you shouldn't have a dagger between your ribs." Braxiatel began to address her with some florid euphemism, but Ada cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I'll put it in simpler terms," Ada said. "I tried ignoring your temper tantrum, letting the Prydonians settle it, but you involved everyone else, bringing the Citadel to a standstill over office supplies. This will stop today."
"We only wanted information," Donna said. "I've been here for weeks, and I can't get an answer about anything."
"So you interrupt the workings of a government to make yourself heard?" Ada asked. "Did you consider, perhaps, that we didn't have any information to give you? And you--" she turned to face Braxiatel. "There are those who survived the Time War and remembered all that happened during Romana's Presidency. The only reason you aren't seeing the inside of a prison cell right now is in deference to your kin."
"I hesitate to question such an august judgment," Braxiatel said. "But would Madam President consider this to be best use of my talents?"
Ada fixed Braxiatel with a glare that left little doubt as to what she thought of his pre-Time War courtesies. "Cardinal Braxiatel, did you stop to think that perhaps you were given some task clearly beneath you so that you'd have plenty of time to focus upon healing?" Ada turned her attention to Donna. "Donna, you are confined to your quarters until you are deemed fit to leave this planet. Cardinal Braxiatel, I want this mess taken care of today. If the Citadel isn't back to normal by the end of the day, you are to report to the Castellan for incarceration. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
