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| Doctor's Orders; It's a prescription for hope. | |
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| Topic Started: Apr 14 2008, 03:19 PM (296 Views) | |
| Owen Harper | Apr 14 2008, 03:19 PM Post #1 |
Time Lord
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The lights are out. The windows are high up in the walls, and barred, so they let in only the barest amount of light – just enough to keep people from bumping into each other, to see the edges of things in the dark. The dark is safe. It’s out there, in the bright brazen streetlight, that it’s unsafe. “All right,” he says with a sigh, sinking down onto his cot for the night. It’s the same words he says every night, no matter where he’s staying, and it’s always a cue for the same thing. “Gather ‘round, kids, storytime.” There’s maybe 5 or 6 kids in this place, about average for a housing complex this size. He’s not even sure where he is tonight – he’s trying to make his way back to Cardiff, for all the good it’d do him, and he’s made it far enough that English is at least recognized here, most of the kids understanding the gist of the story, if not the tone. He’s been traveling any way he can – on foot, in caravans, hitching or stowing away, watching mountains pass, skin and hair slowly lighten, languages flowing by in an indistinct blur, everyone understanding the essentials now. It’s been five months, and the crumpled turrets he saw last week may have been the Hagia Sophia. “Right, first thing, anybody got any requests?” He doesn’t have to pay for his room and board with stories. He’s a doctor, the only ones with any freedom to move about, the only ones with news of the world, even if it’s months old. Doctor’s Orders are the new Chinese Whispers, but everyone still listens, trusting the words from his lips more than those coming from their Lord and Master, Harold Saxon, and his insane little ‘friends.’ And he knows more about those mechanical terrors than most of these people can even dream. So even though they’re willing to give him their hospitality for a night just for plying his trade, he still tells the stories. “No? Well, I’ve got a new one for you lot, then.” The kids are crowded close, tired, thin, but bright-eyed and listening. Beyond them, he can see the dark outlines of some of the older children, and possibly some of the adults, also listening, quietly, taking what little peace they can. The joint of his arm aches, a phantom pain, and he wraps his jacket tighter against it to chase away the feeling, and he continues. “You’ve heard of the Doctor, right? Giatros?” Their eyes brighten, heads nod, and even more of the shadows on the periphery lean in to listen. Follow Martha, Jack had whispered in his ear, the only thing he’s chosen to remember of his five-minute audience with the Prime Minister. He doesn’t remember losing his arm, or hearing mocking laughter or feeling burning pain. He remembers a lifeline. He remembers hope. |
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6:08 PM Nov 23
