"I was Dead too long, this time --
Paul McGann DOES Count
Chapter 8
The Night of the Doctor
On the day I killed him, The Doctor was a happy man. Though since what made him happy was a distress call from a terrified woman who died less than seven minutes later, my conscience is clear.
At the time, he was in his eighth and final incarnation. My memory of his appearance is a little hazy, but I have a general impression of dark hair, urgent blue eyes, and a choice of clothing that was probably intended to be swashbuckling. I think there were long boots, possibly a waistcoat, and certainly one of those overcoats with the kind of collar that young men turn up against the wind in the hope that someone might use the word Byronic. He wasn't young, of course: no one can be called young on the day of their death, when they are as old as they will ever be. But the voice echoing round the creaking, wooden cathedral of the TARDIS console room was young enough, and more than adequately terrified.
'Hello, please, hello, can anyone hear me? This ship is crashing, please, is anyone there, can anyone hear me?'
It should be remembered, this was at the heart of the Time War, that endless savage conflict between the Daleks and the Time Lords that threatened every moment of the time continuum. It is strange to reflect that the deadliest conflict history will ever know began between a race of traumatised mutants sealed into tiny battle tanks, and an enclave of time-travelling academics, who had sworn never to interfere in the affairs of the wider universe. However, the day came when the Time Lords of Gallifrey decided that the Dalek mutants posed a threat to all reality, and so attempted to use their time-travel abilities to cancel them from existence. The attempt failed, and the Daleks used their own time-travel machines in a similar attempt to cancel out the Time Lords. And so time became a weapon in a war that could never end, and the conflict spread not only through space, but backwards and forwards through history. Days became battle lines, and century turned on century, and divergent time streams found themselves fighting each other for the right to exist. It was said, one soldier could die a thousand times in one day of that war, and discover he'd never been born the next. And so, when The Doctor heard that cry for help, there would have been countless billions across the universe suffering in exactly the same way. But this young woman had an advantage over all the others who, in that same moment, were also screaming and begging for their lives. She happened to be in earshot of a man who mistook himself for A Hero.
The Doctor had always loved distress calls. They appealed to his vanity. He lived for the thrill of stepping through a door, and seeing all those faces turn towards him in hope and wonder. The danger, too, was delicious. More than delicious; over time it had become necessary. Danger is the only true palliative for a guilty man. And certainly the only drug strong enough for The Doctor.
Setting aside his tea, it took him seconds to track the signal to a little gunship, tumbling towards a red planet. There was one life sign on board, and all the engines were phasing. Clearly, there was no possibility of deflecting the ship's course, and a tractor beam would almost certainly shatter the hull, so a manual extraction was the only possibility. He would have to materialise on board, introduce himself as dramatically as possible, and get her into The TARDIS. She would be so happy and excited to see him. He wondered, briefly, how it would look if he took his teacup with him, but decided the risk of spillage was too great.
'Please, please, somebody, please!'
The fear in her voice would have broken any heart. The Doctor grinned. For the very last time, he slammed the levers, roared the engines, and sent the TARDIS spinning to the rescue.
Although there was no one else to hear, he laughed and whooped. If anything sealed his fate, in that final hour of his existence, it was his laughter. I never wanted to hear that laugh again.
