Scenes From A TARDIS

[The Meddler]

OOC: This isn't a thread, per se. It's more of a series of 'mini-threads'. An excuse to write little scenes that take place in the Meddler's TARDIS. They're canon for the Meddler, although I ask that you not take liberties with another character without running it past that character's player first.

This is open to anyone who would have been aboard the Meddler's TARDIS, and who feels an urge to write a little short fiction.

[The Meddler]

The Meddler rested his chin on his workbench, staring up at the platinum ring floating in the suspensor field. He was within mere minutes of tearing his hair out of his head in frustration. After a moments reflection, he opted to make a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh instead.

"Éibhleann," he said, addressing the ring. "I have no idea how to undo whatever it is that Xandavier did. None."

He gestured irritably at the reference texts heaped on the bench. "I've been through all of these, and I still can't figure out how to free you without destroying you in the process."

A snort. "And that would be a lovely thing to tell her, wouldn't it?" His voice took on a mocking quality. "I've got good news and bad news, Dreamweaver. The good news is that your mother has been freed from Xandavier's prison. The bad news is that I've utterly randomized the information content of her matrix."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "Oh, yes, quite lovely."

He brooded, staring at the ring. Trying to remember the details. Somehow, she'd spoken to him when the Specialist first slid the ring on his finger. But how?

Music, he thought. I remember hearing her sing, first. And then warmth. And her silver aura...

He let his mind drift, thinking consciously of nothing. Music. Vibrations propagated through a medium. Energy.

A thought struck him, and he sat bolt upright in his chair. "Vibrations propagated through a medium!" He laughed, then grabbed the ring and did a little dance. "I still don't know how to get you out," he chortled, "But I can give you a voice!"

---

As always, the execution is far more difficult than the idea. He'd had to delve into Gallifreyan neuroanatomy (a subject he'd barely looked at since graduating), back into psionic matrix architecture, biological-electronic interface technologies, and even metallurgy.

Oddly enough for a Time Lord, the most challenging part of the entire project had been getting enough time to establish the groundwork. There had been distraction heaped upon distraction, duties to perform and obligations to meet. Not all were unwelcome, but they interfered with his concentration.

The Dreamweaver had recently begun to insist that he not work for eighty or a hundred hours straight on his research, that he actually leave the lab and pay attention to what he was eating, and that he spend time with her. "And no," she had said, "Grunting and technobabbling do not count."

Pointing out that they were both immortals, and that they had all the time they could possibly need, did not seem to go over well.

He had felt it important to spend time with the Specialist as well, although she had been far more busy (and somewhat distant) in recent weeks. The pregnancy, he assumed, that and her plans - details still held close - to somehow leverage the twins into a way to reunite the last survivors of Gallifrey.

Playing the "immortal" card with her didn't go over very well, either. It made sense with the Dreamweaver - she was still young enough that a month still seemed long - but one would think that the Specialist would understand that a hundred hours was nothing.

Maybe female Time Lords experience the passage of time differently? He made a note to research the topic, later.

But still, he'd managed to work in his research. And his theoretical design work. All of the simulations were successful. Now it was just a matter of putting them into operation.

And so the Meddler sat on one of the beds in the Infirmary. He'd finished loading a set of custom instructions into the central column just a minute ago. Now he held his arms loose, hands out, palms up.

Éibhleann's ring sat on the bed next to him, waiting. That would be his first successful test.

One of the Infirmary armatures tapped each of his wrists in a precise sequence. All sensation from his hands vanished, as the neural blocks went into operation. Then a second went to work, unweaving the dermis and epidermis of his palms and the insides of his fingers, leaving behind exposed orange-red muscle tissue and grey-white tendons.

A third armiture began to operate, stitching in circuit designs with a flexible, nanometer-thick platinum wire, building up the designs one layer at a time. As it completed each layer and moved to the other hand, the second armiture rewove a layer of dermal tissue.

Soon, both had finished. His hands looked almost the same as they had before. Except that now, psionic circuit patterns wove through his flesh, visible as glittering spider webs of platinum if the light struck just right.

The neural blocks were removed, and he flexed his hands. So far, so good. Now for the final test. He picked up the ring, and slid it back on to ring finger of his left hand.

There was a moment's disorientation as the ring interfaced with the circuits in his palm.

::Took ye long enough.:: Éibhleann's voice echoed in his mind.

He laughed. "You can't rush genius."

::Oh, I ken,:: she answered, laughing. ::So what's your excuse?::

There was a sensation, like feathers in his mind. ::Oh. Oh, I see[/i].::[/i] Ghostly laughter. ::Aye. I seem to recall it took ye a bit o' time to recover yuir strength when we did that...::

"I can take your ring off any time, you know."

Ghostly laughter was his only answer.

[The Meddler]

(OOC: Just a short little thing, in honor of the season.)

"C'mon," the Meddler urged, impatiently, "We're almost there."

They'd been following him through the hexagonal stone halls of the TARDIS for the better part of an hour, taking junctions and branches seemingly at random. He'd once claimed the ship was nearly the size of the dwarf planet Ceres and, after all the walking, it was easy to believe.

"Almost where?" asked Ken. He was all of five, and bound and determined to show how grown up he was by not complaining that his feet hurt.

"It's a surprise," the Meddler answered.

Ken and Morgain exchanged suspicious glances, fully aware by now of just how surprising their father's surprises could be.

Their mother made little shooing motions with her hands, urging them along. Then she adjusted the straps of the papoose pack their youngest sibling was carried in. "Where are we going, Robin?"

The Meddler stopped in his tracks, looked back, and begain counting doorways. "Seven... eight... ah! Here we are!" He threw the door open, then smiled at his family. "Observation dome," he said with a grin.

They entered, finding themselves in a large egg-shaped room. Padded seats lined the wall, and the center of the floor was dominated by a dias covered with what looked like antique astronomical and navigational tools. The twins immediately flopped down on the seats, sighing a little.

"Last year, Yule and Christmas got a little... disrupted," the Meddler said.

The Dreamweaver snorted and the twins giggled at the understatement. Last year, Christmas had been marked by the twins getting kidnapped and rescued, Moira Blake getting murdered and returned to life, Time Lords trying to kill the Meddler, and the twins learning that their parents weren't actually human.

He crossed the room and hunkered down in front of the twins. "So, I thought that this year, I'd surprise everyone and celebrate Yule the way your mother's family celebrates it."

"What?" asked the Dreamweaver, surprised. The twins, for their part, just looked curious.

The Meddler stood up. "Open!" he called.

The walls seemed to split into peices, opening like the petals of a flower, receeding until the only things visible were the door, the dais, and the seats. All around them was blackness speckled with stars, like diamonds on velvet. Above them was a vast, glowing whirlpool-like disk.

He threw his arms wide, turning slowly. "It's about 4.6 billion years before the two of you were born," he said, "And we are exactly one astronomical unit from the gravitational center of a particular protostar and its accompanying protoplanetary disc."

With a sudden motion, he threw himself down on the seat next to the twins. "Now, what's your mom told you about Yule?"

"It's when we celebrate the Goddess giving birth to the Sun King," said Ken. "It's a promise that night won't win."

"It's the longest night of the year on Earth," Morgaine said almost simultaneously. "The days start getting longer again."

He smiled at his wife, and ruffled the hair of both children. "Quite right," he said cheerfully. "Quite right." Then he sat in silence for a minute, arms around the twins, clasping the Dreamweaver's hand.

Just as Morgaine began to fidget a little, he raised his free hand and pointed at the center of the disc. "Watch..." he said.



And then he begain to count down. "Five. Four."

The twins stared, Ken shading his eyes with one hand, trying to see what was going to happen.

"Three. Two."

Morgaine leaned foreward, so eager she nearly fell off the seat.

"One."

A brilliant white light began to burn at the heart of the disc.

"That's the sun of your homeworld," he said with a grin. "And it's just been born."