Post by clocketpatch on Dec 3, 2009 2:05:25 GMT
Turlough’s people had been coming to Earth for years previous to the civil war which divided Trion and set brother against brother, father against son. The planet was popular because the humanoid form came easily and was convenient. When Turlough was exiled, that was the form he was forced into. His ability to shift was suspended. His wings literally clipped and flight stolen.
All he wanted was to get home, and not just to get home, but to become himself again. He wanted to be rid of the infuriating brand on his arm, and the chip inside which constrained that most basic of biological functions.
The Doctor watched the skittish youth carefully. He understood. Hadn’t he been a clip-winged exile himself? Earth was the Doctor’s favourite planet, but he’d grown to nearly hate it during those years in his third body when he’d been trapped there.
He knew that he’d have done anything for freedom, even at the risk of his own life. And with that certain knowledge he was concerned for Turlough’s safety – and his own.
The Black Guardian debacle was in the far past and they’d been travelling alone together for some years. The Doctor felt he could trust Turlough, but it had been a long road and replete with hiccups. Their current situation was one of those hiccups.
Turlough’s left arm was buried elbow deep in the genetic splicer, a pained look on his face.
“I think a lesson might be learned from this,” the Doctor said carefully. “In future, about putting your hands in strange holes…”
“Was that supposed to be funny?” Turlough gritted.
The Doctor opened his mouth and closed it, stuttering around the inadvertent innuendo.
“You do know what this is don’t you?”
“I do. I’m not sure if you do.”
“I know a genetic splicer when I see one.” He grunted, twisting his arm for a better angle. “Why isn’t it working?”
“Wrong biology. Sorry Turlough, but if you’re going to abuse the TARDIS looming system, you should at least have a basic knowledge of… ehem…”
“Right,” said Turlough. He reached out with his right hand, straining to reach the on/off toggle that was frustratingly just out of reach.
“It’s a two person job,” said the Doctor.
“I figured,” said Turlough. “Why do you even have this thing on board anyways?”
The Doctor tugged his shirt collar, thinking about how, before their break-up, Romana and him had been discussing time tots. They’d even gone so far as to build this machine. But, before they could use it, there’d been E-space, and Adric, and the realization that he really wouldn’t make very good parents.
No, not at all. He swallowed, pushing bitter memories away.
“I’d advise you to take your hand out of there this instant,” said the Doctor. “And we won’t speak of this again.”
“It’s stuck,” said Turlough.
“What?”
The Doctor noticed that the engagement light was bright green and blinking. He pressed his hand to his forehead in frustration.
“Turlough, you didn’t…” he gritted.
“It was the only button I could reach!” the Trion protested. “Now if you could… I don’t think it’ll let me go until…”
“It won’t,” said the Doctor. He contemplated cutting his idiot companion’s arm off. It would be easier than… oh bugger it all.
“Turlough, how do you feel about children?”
“What?”
The Doctor pulled the toggle. Loominess and crack ensued.
