The Day

[The Bookkeeper]

The day. This day. This is the day I leave. The day.... I abandon my people. Coward. That's what I am. Maybe that is why I took this job. Because I was afraid. I knew I could escape this war. This endless war. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts! Make them leave me!

The Bookkeeper, as he was known to that very few, was strolling along dirt roads of Gallifrey. One final time. Then he would be off, for god knows what. Adventures. Sorrow... All to protect a chip. No, not a chip. Not just any chip. A chip containing the history of his race. A history of the Time Lords.

He felt the disk in the right-side pocket of his jumpsuit. Still there. Still waiting to be pickpocketed by a theft, or vapourized by a Dalek. This task he was about to take was one of great importance....

He had doubts. Who wouldn't? His Father probably. His old school friends. His race was bred for adventure. Bred for anything other then... Reading books. He needed someone to talk to. Someone to join him in his quest.

[The Mentalist]

The dirt roads were long and winding, he knew that all too well. Dust blew around, flying into the few barren trees that littered the side of the battered path. The dust wound its way up the tree, scattering when it reached a man who was perched high up in the branches.

He scowled down at the road below him, crouching on the steady branch below him. Kitted out in a more military attire than normal, his physique had become bulkier and more menacing than before. Instead of his regular blue and white shirt, black pants and sneakers, he wore a black t-shirt, light combat trousers and a bulky pair of heavy duty boots. His bare arms were shaded by the trees, each scar in them giving off a different shade of black. His face was just as shady; a heavy shadow of stubble, dark bags under bright blue eyes and violently orange hair that was untidy. He looked dangerous. He was armed to the teeth. He had a sword on his back, a shotgun round his waist and his favorite blade tucked in his pocket.

The Mentalist had never been a friendly looking person and today was no different.

The figure fixed on his target, a man wandering aimlessly into the distance. At first, it seemed strange to be targeting such a person but it was what they had on them that was the real target. The Mentalist knew who this person below him was, The Bookkeeper. He had no personal trouble with the man, he was just in the way. The Bookkeeper stood in between The Mentalist and his goal and that was never a good place to stand.

The Bookkeeper was carrying a chip on his person, a microchip with the history of the entire Time Lord society inside it. This could prove fatal to the whole war effort if it fell into the hands of an enemy, though, his reasons for stealing it were not patriotic. The President had always driven a hard bargain and had put up a prize that The Mentalist couldn't resist nor could be bear to lose.

The President had sent him to destroy the Crucible, that was the main plan. There was no-one left on Gallifrey who was more suited to a task like that. Attacking the Crucible was slaughter in all forms and who better to send in than the butcher himself? But The President drove a hard bargain.
He'd stolen the only person that could begin to understand The Mentalist and the one person The Mentalist fallen hopelessly for. He couldn't resist her kind words, her understanding nature, her beautiful face and her soft, sweet voice. The Mentalist did not understand love, he did not love her but he needed her. Something in his gut made him uneasy when she left him in his room and when she did, he couldn't stop thinking of her. He did not understand love, he only understood wants and needs. And The Mentalist needed The Psychologist and wanted her and what he wanted, he went and got.
He had listened to every order from the Lord President, carrying them out to the exact word, in the hope she'd be let go. Suspended animation, that was the state she'd been put in and would only be released from upon the return of a victorious Mentalist from the Crucible.

This was one of his preliminary missions that the President had set him. It was a simple test, to analyze his abilities before the attack on the Crucible. The aim was simple; follow, retrieve and leave. He would tail The Bookkeeper, then retrieve the chip and leave back for base.

Still perched on his branch, he scowled down as the Bookkeeper, The Mentalist's eyes watching him like a hawk. He mumbled something quietly to himself, before shifting quietly.
"I'll follow him for a few more minutes and then approach him. This shouldn't take too long, my reputation often precedes me."
"You mean ours. After all, this body is not just yours. We all share."
A quiet snarl escaped his lips. Quickly slamming a hand to his mouth, he silenced himself and prayed The Bookkeeper wouldn't notice his presence. If he did, things could get a little messy. The other time lord surely wouldn't go down without a fight, but, The Mentalist was awfully good with blades. He could handle a claymore as well as he could a pocket knife. This fight would perhaps be a bit one sided but as long as the chip was taken and given to the lord president, it wasn't too much of a problem.

[The Bookkeeper]

Calm. Quiet. Whisper of wind through the trees. Low grumbling. Low grumbling? No, just wind. I hope. He felt along his side, searching for the comfort of his small laser pistol. It wasn't there. It was stored in a compartment in the ship 'The Bookkeeper' was being smuggled off of the world in. Abandoning his people.

The Daleks can't lose. This war is pointless. We have to protect our secrets now.

All these thoughts were racing through The Bookkeepers mind. Leaving him vulnerable to a ambush. He was on his own planet. His crimes wouldn't be found out until he was long gone. From this time? From this solar system? So many questions. So little time.

"What do you have in store for me." He grumbled. Hopefully aliens. He had read about aliens. Hadn't seen many. A Human. He was rather fond of those aliens. So successful.

Vortex manipulators. On that train of thought, he needed one. Buying one from the blackmarket of many third world worlds wouldn't be too hard. A fourth world world. Maybe a fifth. You have to watch out for those.

The final thought came to mind as he passed under a rather leafy tree.

[The Mentalist]

As The Bookkeeper passed under the tree, The Mentalist stood up on the branch. Peering down, his head ached. They refused to be quiet and each voice, each of his personalities, were screaming their opinion into his head like it a was great canyon.

Should he really carry out the Lord President's order? Was she really worth it? Did he really have to do this? Could he not kill the president, assume control and finally halt this war of madness? Would the Dalek's win? What was it like to fight one of them? Were those fond memories of a time gone by real? Did she really mean what she said? Did he feel better now? Would blood have to be spilled? How much would be spilled?

A hand went to his head, his palm rubbing the side of his head to ease the pain. This was torture. Closing his eyes and letting the Bookkeeper pass fully by the tree, he heard a mutter coming from his target.
"What do you have in store for me."
The Mentalist opening his eyes, brought his hand down and to the side of his face, he desperately tried to silence the voices in his head. He couldn't hear himself think. But he did have a reply for The Bookkeeper.
"Hell. That's what I've got for you."

As soon as that escaped his lips, the red-head Time-Lord jumped down from the branch. He fell for a second, grabbed the branch with his hands and worked his way down the tree, using various drops and grabs to steady himself. His boots hit the lowest branch of the tree, then hit the dusty ground.

Now standing right behind The Bookkeeper, The Mentalist reached out for him and put his hand on the other Time-Lord's shoulder. He scowled and spoke quietly.
"This can be done the easy way or the hard way. Struggle and I will not hesitate to kill you. I trust you recognize my voice."
He hadn't even met The Bookkeeper once, but, almost everyone on Gallifrey knew of The Mentalist. They either knew him or feared him. His voice was a cold and unfeeling as ice and was sure to send shivers down any victims spine.
"Give me the data chip you have."

[The Bookkeeper]

A chill ran down 'The Bookkeepers' spine. Hell. He heard the man swing from branch to branch, then felt the hand. This can be done the easy way or the hard way. Struggle and I will not hesitate to kill you. I trust you recognize my voice.

"Here." The Bookkeeper reached down towards his pocket, slightly kneeling. He reached into his pocket-- Then, with his opposite handed, reached down to scoop up a pile of sand and throw it behind him, using the same motion to try and hit the taller man in the groin.

What a terrible way for this to end.

[The Mentalist]

Keeping his hand on the other Time Lord's shoulder, he watched as the man reached into his pocket. This was unexpected and simple; the man didn't even put up a struggle. This was a change from the normal. Perhaps his blade might stay clean tonight.
"Here."
He raised his other hand out expectantly, a palm wide open for the data chip, his little token of obedience. White scars glinted in the dimming light, each one another experience he'd been so lucky to have.

Before he could even think about it, dust from the ground was tossed into his face and he felt a hand smack into his crotch. Letting out a yell of surprise and pain, his hand tightened around the other man's shoulder. That had done it. All sort of patience and restraint around this man had just vanished as his torso started to hurt. Everyone always hit him in that area and he scowled, hissing under his voice.
"You must have been loomed or else you wouldn't have done that. That hurt."

His free hand moved unsteadily to his pocket, taking his favorite blade out of it and shakily bringing it toward 'The Bookkeepers' throat. He clenched his teeth together, grinding them a little from the pain.
"Give me the chip... or I'll take it from your cold dead hands."
Cussing quietly, he waited for the chip or his next move.

[The Bookkeeper]

Not the desired effect. No...

"You've gotta' understand me. I don't want our race To be forgotten.
I want us to live forever. You want to end us. You bigot. I don't know who you are. Nobody does. You're trash. You carry a blade because you are afraid. If you kill me it will prove what you are." The Bookkeeper said, pausing for dramatic effect.

"Trash."


((Sorry for the length, just got back from camping.))

[The Mentalist]

'Bigot..trash...afraid...'
Those were bigs words to throw around him. The Mentalist leered at the other male. He quickly evaluated what had been said to him, bit by bit.

The Mentalist decided that for the most part, he didn't care about the other man's motives. To live forever? Nothing lasted that long. Everything had it's time, everything had to die. He knew that conservation was high on some people agenda's but it wasn't on his. The Time Lord society was nothing more than bitter, old and scared men; everything they created was better off forgotten. Most of this race could die as far as he was concerned. He'd help out!

But then the man had brought out the personal insults.
You bigot. I don't know who you are. Nobody does.
Bigot? That was true. He knew his views were right and unquestionable. The Mentalist had to agree, the other man had no idea who he was. Those words wouldn't have been spilling out if he had, but, the part about nobody knowing who he was? In a deeper sense, that was partly true. He didn't know all of his personalities yet. He knew they were there but he didn't know all of 'himself' yet. But the way this man meant it was wrong. Didn't know who he was? He was infamous. Countless murders and police chases meant something. Those who died and those who ran knew exactly who he was.
You're trash. You carry a blade because you are afraid. If you kill me it will prove what you are. Trash.
Afraid? That was as far from the truth as could possibly be. He was not afraid. He had not been afraid since 8 years old. After his initiation ceremony, after staring into the vortex and seeing the true murderous nature of the universe, nothing had frightened him. He'd seen every murder in the history of everything; war, genocide, assassinations to trivial killings. There was not a cell left inside him that felt fear.

His hand still on the other man, he spoke aloud, a smirk across his face.
"Yes, I am that. I'm a murderer, a lunatic, a convict of Shada, an addict, a womanizer, a pervert and a dog of the military."
He snickered quietly to himself, before making more comment.
"So, if that didn't convince you, allow me to prove that I am trash."
As his groin throbbed, he took that hand and grabbed a hold of his prized blade. It hurt but all this blood would certainly numb his pain.

Bringing the blade up to The Bookkeepers throat, the blade rested on the thin layer of skin. As he pressed the blade a little bit deeper, The Mentalist thrust his other hand into the man's pocket. He needed that data chip. This action no doubt made the other man uncomfortable.

[The Bookkeeper]

The Bookkeeper scratched feebly at The Mentalists arms. Something brilliant would have to save him. And, he wasn't brilliant. This made his whole quest almost impossible. He didn't want to regenerate again. Who knows, maybe his attacker would destroy both of his hearts. And he would die for good.

"P-p-please... W-w-wait!" The Bookkeeper croaked out. He was afraid of death. To stop existing... Try imagining that. Stopping from existing. Not knowing anything. Nothing. How would that feel.

[The First Doctor]

The Meddler sighed irritably as he followed the dirt road. He hated being back on Gallifrey. He loathed having been drafted into helping fight the Time Lords' war. He despised putting his stellar and temporal engineering skills to work designing weapons and strategies (and the realization that there was no functional difference between one and the other). And every time one of those gvadling, sanctimonious, robe-wearing schors looked at him like he was something the cat had dragged in - never mind the fact that he had skills they didn't have and they did need - he had to choke down the urge to smash a sneer in.

And now here he was, clumping along a dirt road out beyond the Citadel, looking for... what? His ability to read probability lines was crippled this close to basetime, but he could see that something important was happening soon.

Something important enough - and dangerous enough - to have him armed to the teeth before he left the Citadel.

And so he clumped along, a fireplug of a man in heavy boots and peacoat and black stocking cap, muttering and snarling under his breath and looking for something to take his frustration out on.

Rounding a bend, he found it. A heavily-muscled redhead with a knife (the fething Mentalist, he thought, lovely), threatening the life of a... accountant? Some smallish, soft-looking youngish Time Lord in a jumpsuit.

The probability lines were converging. Here.

He took a deep breath, activated several devices, and shouted "Oi! Mentalist! Why'n't yeh drop the wee man an' let's go have a pint an' talk this o'er like reasonable folk? Or, at least, like folk what pretend to be reasonable?"

What the heck. It might work.

[The Mentalist]

The Mentalist felt the younger Time-Lord weakly scratch at his arms, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. The scratches tickled. As the red-head rummaged around in the other man's pockets, he heard a croak of fear coming from the man, asking him to wait.

He smirked when he heard it, digging deeper into the pocket. It was one of those waits. The desperate, stalling for time wait. The Mentalist had heard a lot of those in his time, usually from the squealers. The one's who screamed and writhed around a bit before they died. The tables had turned quite quickly in that aspect; The Bookkeeper had gone from a hot-shot who talked big to a squealer who begged for his life.

After a second more of searching, the pocket was presumed empty. Just as he was about to switch hands, he heard a couple of mechanical sounds around him. Taken off-guard, his eyes frantically darted around. A call came from behind him.
"Oi! Mentalist! Why'n't yeh drop the wee man an' let's go have a pint an' talk this o'er like reasonable folk? Or, at least, like folk what pretend to be reasonable"
An eyebrow was raised and his head turned. The pair of blue eyes fixed on the angry looking man behind him.

Taking him in, The Mentalist felt a small twinge in his head. Had he seen this man before? This stranger seemed oddly familiar. He didn't feel like a recent acquaintance. That voice, the phrasing; he knew that from somewhere. As he searched back in his memories... he could remember now! That voice, he'd heard it on the first day of camp, when he'd been beaten up by one of the other boys. This man had stood up for him; had given the other boy a telling off and had yanked the other boy by the ear. That first day of camp, the last day that been a child and had nightmares...

After a second or so being lost in his memories and blankly staring at the figure, the hand that the blade was held in moved away from The Bookkeeper's neck. Pointing the blade back at the mystery man, he scowled at the comment made. Let the data-chip holder go? The Mentalist would have been better just kissing The Psychologist goodbye in a coffin. No, this data-chip was needed, reasonable went out of the window the second she had been used as a bribe. Replying, head still turned to face the new man, he spoke sternly,
"No, I don't think so country-boy. This is not your business, leave it alone."
Smiling wickedly, he continued to reply, a mocking tone in his voice.
"Though, surely, if you know my name, then clearly you understand that 'reasonable' or 'pretend to be reasonable' do not appear in my personal dictionary."

[The Bookkeeper]

"Oi! Mentalist! Why'n't yeh drop the wee man an' let's go have a pint an' talk this o'er like reasonable folk? Or, at least, like folk what pretend to be reasonable?"

The voice of a angel to 'The Bookkeeper.' He had closed his eyes as he waited for the blade to cut into his neck. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The man was facing away from him, the blade pointing to a gruff looking man. He still was being held but the neck...

He took one glance at the two people, then thrusted his free hands to gouge at The Mentalists eyes, and hopefully escape his captor.

[The First Doctor]

The Meddler watched, carefully, as the Mentalist looked in his direction. This could go badly, so very badly, and there was no room for error.

He smiled as the knife came away from the little man's throat, and watched recognition dawn in the killer's eyes.

"No, I don't think so country-boy. This is not your business, leave it alone."

"Country boy?" the Meddler echoed in tones of outrage and disbelief. "Country boy? Do Oi look like a shobogon to yeh?"

Smiling wickedly, the Mentalist continued to reply, a mocking tone in his voice. "Though, surely, if you know my name, then clearly you understand that 'reasonable' or 'pretend to be reasonable' do not appear in my personal dictionary."

The stocky redhead nodded, conceding the point. "Fair enough, fair enough. Yehr reputation does proceed yeh. But mebbe we can make an arrangement, yeh an' me. What is it that yeh..."

The Meddler's voice trailed away as the little man jabbed at the Mentalist's eyes. "Full marks fer tryin'," he said, "but he's gonna hurt yeh fer that."

[The Mentalist]

Listening to The Meddler (he really was living up to his name), The Mentalist kept a tight grip on his blade. Continuing to point it at the 'country-boy', he scowled. His mouth then broke out into a snigger as a reaction was made. The outrage and anger in the other man's voice was amusing! The Mentalist allowed himself to laugh and then answered the comment made,
"Please don't make me answer that question because, honestly, you will not like the answer."

Carefully observing the other redhead, the military man sniffed and spat on the ground. Giving a subtle glare to the furthest away man, he heard;
"Fair enough, fair enough. Yehr reputation does proceed yeh."
Smirking, The Mentalist nodded once. This other man knew his place. It was a small comfort for The Mentalist to know this. Listening the rest, he took the comments in.
" But mebbe we can make an arrangement, yeh an' me. What is it that yeh..."
Arrangement? Momentarily, he rejected the idea. Another one would be too much hassle. His course was set, his alliance lay with the Lord President. Then he thought about it more; did his alliance really have to lie with that pompous idiot? If he could manipulate this offered arrangement-

Midway through thought, a pair of hands came up to his eyes. They scratched feverishly at his sockets, nails digging in. Letting out a yelp of surprise and shock, The Mentalist shut his eyes. He was quick to take his arm away from the man and let him loose. Dropping his precious blade, he heard to fall and settle in the dust. Just as quickly as he let go however, he grabbed the wrists of the man he'd help captive, to stop the movement.
It didn't quite work and after another strike to the eye, he felt the skin be taken off. A cool trickle came from the injury and the liquid ran down his face. It wasn't much blood but it was enough to get him started.
Scowling, he heard The Meddler say;
"Full marks fer tryin', but he's gonna hurt yeh fer that."
Keeping a tight grip on The Bookkeeper so he couldn't escape, The Mentalist's eyes opened and his voice became quiet and severe.
"He's right."
His grip became even tighter, blood lust radiating off of him like heat from the dust around them.

[The Bookkeeper]

The Bookkeeper truly knew what it felt like to fight for his life now. It was a desperate attempt, but no man was invincible. He felt his nail give deeply, but when his hands were taken he pulled them away, trying to get away from the other man. It was a feeble attempt to get away, and the bigger man could easily control him.

"Kill him! Kill him!" He screamed at The Meddler, using his head and feet to smash at The Mentalist. He was thrashing around as best he could. Tears started to roll down his face uncontrollably, he felt like a child but he couldn't help it. He was starting to lose feeling in his hands.