Nautilus Journals - January, Year 1 (Doctor Who SPOILERS!)

[memories_of_me]

(Please note this is written in a mix of Gallifreyan, Latin, and will only dip into other languages for names - like Chat Noir - or words not found in either should any exist.)


January, Year One.

For many reasons this shall not be a typical journal. I shall explain here so that I shall recall my reasoning later, should I forget. This place is a world out of time, as can be seen by the date. Trying to figure out the year would be rather pointless and a waste of time.

Not that I have ever lacked for time.

These journals were given to me by the Doctor, but not the Doctor I have known these billions of years, another - younger - who is on this world. And now he is not the only one. River's constant and irritating comments about birthdays aside, they seem more upset by this than should really be warranted. But that could simply be a case of overlapping companion. Rose does seem to be at the center of many of their arguments. Though I fail to see why at this point.

Let us begin with the date. I am not now, nor do I ever recall being, so solipsistic that I think the world's dating system should revolve around me. Nor do I miss the fact that even were I, my arrival here was at the last quarter of last year, rather than now. These Journals are dated by the dates I am writing them, rather than any other factor. This is my first year journaling, so this is, for the sake of these journals only, year one in Nautilus. This volume will endeavor to relate all that happened since my arrival. I have come to accept that I am here long enough to need it, and have already experienced things I would rather not forget.

I am already forgetting some of my time in the Tardis with Clara. I do hope I journaled those before my arrival, and that those journals shall turn up here. I think I recall writing while Clara was on some errand, and thinking that the journals were in some way atypical. I hope that is a true memory, rather than a wish. In this place, my memory seems less reliable than usual, which is - to say the least - irritating.

Though I am finding the challenge of writing in Gallifreyan enjoyable.

I will start here with my arrival, though I was told that I awoke, rather than arriving. As I was without memory of arriving, and was without my Tardis, I was willing to take it at face value to begin with. Nothing I have learned since has made me feel otherwise, though I keep my mind open to other explanations should they be offered me.

There had been a hope, of a sort, for a brief time when I arrived. The first being I met was a cybertronic entity with multiple forms by the name of Dead End. I will admit that my first thought had been that the Doctor would have hated him. Between the Daleks and the Cybermen, his track record with tolerance for largely non-organic sentient races is rather depressing. How many of my people would he have happily killed? I can say only that the number would have been less than those actually killed by the Time Lords. They threatened my block to get me to betray the Doctor. I trusted him to be clever enough to escape my trap. And he nearly was. Had Clara not been so clever herself, and yet so wrong, we could have survived everything.

Yes, I blame Clara. I blame the Doctor. I blame myself. That is a story for another journal, though it does relate to this one. I shall come to that later.

I spoke with Dead End for a time, and felt something I had not felt in some time. Hope. He is mortal, yes, but his race is mortal in that they have a finite end, but the scale is closer to geologic. I would still lose him, if I had chosen to allow myself to befriend him, but tens of thousands of years. I almost thought it might have been worth the pain. Almost. No one had ever been with me so long. The Doctor and I may go back billions of years, but they were not spent together. He got to pop in and out and gad about in his Tardis while I took the longer path, meeting him at the end of the universe, the long way round. This could have been different. This... could have been a place I might have been happy.

A fool, I, really to think that. I had thought I was past the point of naivete.

I now understand how this place works. Even a true immortal would be as smoke, would be like a mayfly here. Because just as we cannot control arriving, neither can people control leaving. Oh, no one dies here, apparently, or something effectively the same. So the one thing that makes me special - that I have lost the ability to die - is not special at all in this place. We all suffer under the same curse. But rather than that being something wonderful, it is a new nightmare. A fresh ****.

Because leaving is no different from dying. Someone you foolishly allowed yourself to care about is gone, and you cannot get them back.

Doctor, if you are ever in the future reading this, please take note. When someone is dead, leave them to their hard earned peace. if you truly care about them, there is nothing better you could do for them. Us.

Me.

Knowing that Dead End could remain all his years here, or be gone tomorrow, I cannot allow myself to befriend him. I would be willing to speak with him again, his point of view is fascinating, and meeting someone who does not hold the Doctor in awe is refreshing, and something I had missed.

But we cannot be friends. I have learned that lesson. I have one friend left, and I rather suspects he hates me now.

But I may be able to fix things. I have never been brave enough to end my own life. And now there would be no point to it. This world is fascinating, and even at home not only is it too late for my death to save anyone, but I have a Tardis of my own. I can go where and when I wish. For the first time I have freedom and a reason to want to live.

But if I could die back when it could have saved Clara, could have saved the Doctor? I am not brave enough to end my own life. But... he is.

Clara would be. If she were here....

But she is not.

The Doctor, however, is. The Tardis... sort of is.

After leaving Dead End, I followed his directions, and the impossible was true. Where someone recalled seeing the Tardis, the Tardis remained. Directions to the Tardis. With the Doctor in residence. It put me on my guard.

And then when I saw him, the Doctor... he wasn't the Doctor I knew. He didn't know me yet. Oh, I remembered things about him. I have stalked the Doctor all these many millennia. I know every face he has ever showed to Earth, though not the order, perhaps. In his own words - Wibbly wobbly, timey wimey - words so utterly ridiculous I wrote them here in English, because Latin and Gallifreyan simply refuse to translate them. As though the languages themselves realize just how much bull he was spouting on those DVDs and will have none of it.

The Doctor... and Rose Tyler. Yeah, Jackie's daughter. I will admit my thoughts of dying just then were thoughts of cowardice, not bravery. My feelings about the woman have since shifted several times. There was a moment later when I would have offered the Doctor the second immortality dose, had I it still, to offer to her if he chose. And then just recently I realized that it was better she died while he cared about her, before he realized that she did not deserve him and became disillusioned.

But then, that was why I never used it myself, back when I had the choice. There was never anyone good enough.

I spoke with the Doctor and Rose. I tried to warn him.

He not only refused to agree to kill me, he did the single most surprising thing I could think of, and I can think of it only now, in hindsight. I never could have imagined it then, and my imagination is superb. He welcomed me to the Tardis, invited me to live in her with him and Rose.

Billions of years with my greatest desire being to be welcomed into the Tardis with the Doctor, to travel with him.

Life is nothing if not the twister of dreams. Some days I wonder if life itself is alive and has a dark sense of humor. I was invited to stay in the Tardis, but she could not travel. At home, I have a Tardis that can travel, but the Doctor wants nothing to do with me.

And people wonder why I would not mind ceasing to live.

I have a room in the Tardis on this world that I rather suspect had once belonged to the Ponds. Rory had spent nearly two thousand years complaining about it to me, but then we were guarding a box, there was little else to talk about.

Well, no. He was guarding the box, I was guarding his sanity. As I said, life has a rather dark and unwelcome sense of humor.

Anyway, I keep looking for their initials carved somewhere. But... I have a bunkbed room in the Tardis. Which isn't the Tardis. It is still bigger on the inside, still looks like a police box, the Doctor still opens the door the wrong way, but it isn't an actual Tardis. So I suppose this room is a recreation from the mind of a version of the Doctor who may not have met Amy and Rory yet. I don't know if Amy would be hurt or would flirt at him to make everyone uncomfortable. Perhaps both. Probably both.

So, here in this strange place, the Doctor says he wants to trust me. Even after I warned him that I betrayed him, warned him about Clara. Warning him as best I could. And why? Because I could have killed him or Rose where we met - atop Big Ben - and did not. Why he thought I would, is beyond me. Killing him would be pointless, he would regenerate if a fall from that height was even enough to do him real injury, and I don't have to kill Rose.

Time will do that regardless of our will.

I have the blood of one person he loves on my hands. Why would I ever need a second?

Perhaps he thought I was Missy. But I made sure he was aware there was only one heart in my chest, and it was dead at that. The Mire medicine keeps it pumping, but nothing can make it feel again. I will not allow it.

He seems determined to make me love again, him and Rose both. So when my first journal appeared, I let him read it. It was the worst of them. Torn pages and tears. And it changed nothing. Some days he makes it so difficult to work towards his hating me. Some days I want to give in, to enjoy time with my friend before he knew me well enough to hate me. But I know better. I will find a way to make him hate me. Somehow. I have to.

It is the only way to save him and Clara. And I would give all I have ever been to save them. The Doctor and the Mayfly who keeps up with him. Clara who taught me so much. Clara who has always been so much braver than I ever could be.

Some notes on this world.

The world itself is apparently alive. I must cross reference with my notes from the Ponds about House once that journal is found. I recall something about it being a sentient world, and feel like there is something there that I should remember, that I need to remember. But I am not sure what it is, or why it fills me with a vaguely uneasy feeling.

One of the things this Nautilus world does is to give people things randomly. Apparently shortly before I arrived, the Doctor received clothing he wore in other regenerations. Rose finds them fun to play with, somehow she misses the pain in his eyes when he sees her in them. Rose is perhaps not the brightest bulb in the display case. The sad thing is that I believe that she does love him. But she is a study in how selfish love can be. Hers is.

Thankfully, given the ball this past weekend, my clothing did not arrive in quite the same way. I have been making due with what I have found, but more or less have been sticking to what I arrived in, washing it at need.

What has arrived, and is still arriving, however, are my journals. A few at a time. And not always the ones I need. I am missing at least one volume from my time with the Ponds, as noted above. I do have to wonder if that is deliberate.

As to why I am glad my clothing did not arrive as his did... there had been a ball recently. Apparently the City enjoys playing with us, as though we are toys. There are things like the ball I shall categorize as events until given a better term, and things that are apparently called storms. From a sample size of one of each, I dare say I prefer the events.

The ball was a masquerade ball. And with the humor of either this world or life itself, I wore the mask of the Knightmare, and the gown of the time when I was called Lady Me. It is odd, they all call me Lady Me here, though I introduced myself simply as "Me". So of course I did have to indulge my own humor at the dance. I let them see what the dress caused them to expect. I pitched my voice, changed my posture back to what it had been when I was a noble lady. I admit, some of my mind was dwelling on vague memories of my time with Reinette, so that even as a version of Me that no one would know, I was not too much myself.

I will admit... I allowed myself to enjoy that night. Oh, it was a wonder. With a few exceptions, I was able to convince everyone to keep to the spirit of the masks. There was thus no temptation whatsoever to become attached, to care. It was safe to allow myself the freedom of fun in a way life never is for me. And it was superb. I had forgotten how much I love to dance. Oh. To dance. The music, the motion, especially when there are no expectations or attachments. Just two people moving together, isolated and yet part of the larger whole. It is physical and metaphysical at the same time. It is a thrilling dichotomy. It is the way the blood pumps that much harder, the way the motion of the feet become a pattern, the small rush of fear that you might mess up, the exhilaration that you have not, and the freedom to feel both fully.

Were this world to have one such event every year, I would rather enjoy that. Because I would, it likely would not. A shame.

There were a few moments that marred that wonderful night, however. More than the fact that someone failed utterly to restrain himself from giving his name. More than the fact that had we not had the masks, there were in fact at least three people who fascinated me enough to almost regret not knowing who they are - which makes me all the more certain that it is better to not know. However there were two dark moments to the night, that spoiled much of my good mood.

And both came attached the the Doctor. The one who recently arrived, in the leather jacket. I think it will be easy to get him to hate me. For all he is the Doctor, I very nearly showed him just how good I am at fistucuffs. Were it not for the mask, I may well have. I am thankful to not have memories of ever having been so hurt or insulted as I was by him. To have implied that I would ever, EVER, have been talking to him or anyone else for the hope of a night of wanton physical pleasure. Even not knowing that I would never again risk getting pregnant, to make that presumption of any woman for being friendly is simply abhorrent. I would not have expected any such thing from the Doctor, and should he make any such comment to me while I am not masked, or while I am in some other guise, we will perhaps see which has stronger regenerative qualities, a Mire field pack with billions of years of learning experience, or a Time Lord. And if he makes the mistake of thinking that because I was frozen young and I am a small woman, he will regenerate having learned a painful but needful lesson. And if he lets me get to the kitchen knives, he will regret that as well.

And then when I had gone to get air, the mood and the night spoiled, he would come along again, wouldn't he? But not alone. No, he and Rose were so involved in each other, they didn't even notice my attempts to get past them and away. Frankly at that point I wanted nothing more to do with that form of his, except to get him to agree to kill me. But I could not get free without drawing attention to myself.

Next thing I knew, they were snogging, and I was trapped behind a curtain like the Wizard of Oz. So of course then the Doctor who invited me to live in the Tardis, the one who JUST got engaged to Rose - who was going around not wearing her ring - arrived. Finding them snogging like kids. All at once I felt any warm feeling I might have been tempted to ever allow to form for Rose wither away. It was like she intentionally was playing them off of each other. It was like a domestic case, though. Cops knew better to get involved, and I knew the same. If I defended them from her, they would have both attacked me. Pointless to die here and now, when I need to be unmade, killed in my distant past. But there she was, riling them both up. She was a child with divorced parents, except she wasn't. She agreed to marry one, had made her choice, and this was how she treated both of him? How could she be so cruel? And how could she possibly think she deserved him? Any version of him?

While most of the night had been wonderful, I had been rather relieved to be home. I made sure neither of them had reason to think I had been at the ball at all. But for some reason their attention hadn't exactly been on Me, which suited Me just fine.

Before the dance had been two other things to note. A dinner, and... the Tardis that isn't a Tardis, for one night flew. The Doctor and I flew her, together. Apparently he insisted upon giving out gifts. I was just waiting for explosions and aliens and mass panic. Apparently the blow up between himself at the dance was crisis enough. Every Christmas should be so calm, but I know better.

The Doctor, the one who had been here before I arrived, he keeps trying to make me open up, I can tell. He bought me these journals and pens. Or bent. I still need to learn more about this Bending. And about the Network. There is much to learn.

The other thing that happened, before we flew even, goes hand in hand with another skill I desire to obtain. I think I need to learn bending first, but I do wish I had spent time learning to draw, so I could include pictures.

Because Rose, the Doctor, and I were not the only people in the box. There was also Chat Noir. He claims he is a superhero with magic from a form of Earth. He is shallow and young. I do not think he shall live long enough to mature to his full potential. And not just because he is smoke. Someone is going to take him out at some point. He... tries too hard. He was concerned about my bad dreams. I do not see why, as I do not remember them. He did almost make me laugh, though. He told me poor sleep leads to bad memory issues. Drop in the bucket. Besides, I rather doubt the Mire patch would allow such a thing.

The reason I wish to draw is that he looks rather.. odd. I took care of a street full of ood, Judoon, Sontarans, Cybermen, you name it, I looked after it. I wore a quantum shade about my neck. Nothing came close to this kid. I say kid based on how he acted and spoke, mostly, but there is something about him that reminds me of the worms I once used on my street. A low level psychic field. Something I both do and do not want to see at the same time. Another reason to want to have the ability to let my my mind wander while I draw.

I will use my words as best I can in place of art. The overall theming of him seems rather older than he appeared to be. Black tight leather with a cat motif. Collar and bell. Belt tail. Ears that looked like folded leather. You could almost picture a gaggle of animated school girls lining up to tweak his ears to see if they were real. They were. The ears and the tail which looked so fake moved as he spoke.

But that wasn't what caught my attention most. It was the eyes behind his mask. The pupils were more like pointed ovoids than circles, and were a dark dark green rather than black. When they expanded and contracted with the light, they seemed to do so sideways rather than all around. Outside of that were the iris should be was what did seem to be a medium green iris in each eye, but lacking in the striations and variations usually found in human eyes. But it was the rest that was so striking. Where the whites of his eyes, his eyelids, and the skin around his eyes should be was another layer of green. Bright neon fluorescent green to the edges of the mask. And when he would close his eyes or squint, the mask moved as though it were not mask at all, but black skin over the pale that was the rest of his skin. I hope I shall manage to master art before he fades away on the wind. I do not think my words could properly capture him. He is perhaps visually one of the most fascinating things I have ever seen. Were he in a Zoo, I perhaps would spend some years studying the exhibit.

Sadly, as with most things, there is a balance. While the workings of his eyes ears and tail are fascinating, his personality leaves much to be desired. There is, thankfully, no temptation in the least to care for or about him. The Doctor cares about him... but...

Rose.
Me.
Martha.
The Master.

Not exactly a shining track record there.

Chat Noir was somehow connected to Adrien, a boy the Doctor teaches as an actual job. Clara would love that, the Doctor as a teacher. Something was going on with Adrien, and for a time I had the box to myself. I mostly spent it in the library. Then we were going to see Adrien and his father for Christmas dinner. I almost asked if this was the Doctor choosing to whom the crisis would happen, but from the conversation it sounded like I had missed the crisis already. The father had apparently been... kidnapped? I am not sure on the details, and still need to learn them. Dinner was a tense and strained affair before we went to deliver gifts.

A note on the storms I mentioned on a prior page. That was when I first met Chat Noir. A storm made some people act rather odd. Rose was one of them, and this Chat Noir was apparently another. I went with the Doctor to fetch them back, in hopes that even a fake Tardis would return some semblance of sense to them. Either it worked but slowly, or the effect wore off on its own. Not myself afflicted, I am unsure as to which is the case....