Never Cruel, Never Cowardly

"I have already witnessed my species extinction. As have you, Timelord." Blueton stated mater of factly. The rest of the room quieted. They watched the man - and the tin can, but made no move to answer.

"The idea was to alter the course of events during the Thal and Dalek brief period of peace- where we allotted to trick the last remaining Thals into an ambush." The Kaleds and Thals in the room around them murmured a bit, the Kaleds looked grim as ever. If they went that route the Kaled species would still be extinct.

"Why not earlier?" One spoke up finally.

"Earlier? Before your madman of a scientist made the Daleks. Why not that?" A Thal spoke up. Blueton did not even want to consider not existing.

"No." Blueton spoke sternly.

He listened, truly listened. If there was an answer here, a path that could be taken that didn't end in disaster...the Doctor couldn't say he didn't want to find it. The use of the paradox machine, while dangerous, was certainly not more so than meddling with time unprotected. The precautions were taken, but sometimes that wasn't enough.

He wasn't exactly trying to topple the plan with his point, but he was glad that this was being pointed out beforehand. They were arguing, and then they were looking at him. What did they want him to do? Solve it for them, he imagined. They wanted him to pick a time, that perfect place that would only kill the right people. Maybe that was his job as Doctor, to pick the place to put the knife to ensure that only the malignancy was cut. But if it was his job, he wasn't having it.

"If we are to restart it would be easier to prevent the brainwashing and fear mongering all together. That first decade under Davros- any Kaled- they are why we are the way we are. Born in war and living in fear of what any other might do." They eyed the Doctor, expecting them to pitch in any sort of idea.

"Then later again, decades later- there was a chance of peace between us and the Thals. The commanders instead of explaining our radioactive predicament to them decided it would be easier to obliterate what remained of their species." They explained, something like guilt fluttered in the back of their mind. They had been there- they could have stopped it- they opted not to blow the ambush instead. They regretted that decision.

Sometimes the radical solution was the only one that worked, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

He nodded, a small thing, a single bob of his head, his lips pursed. It was not agreement, nor permission, but acknowledgment. The logic was sound, and he couldn't deny that. He might not agree with it, but he could see it.

"I see your point." He paused, eyebrows furrowed deeply. "The Daleks are not a species interested in discussion or compromise. If this is going to happen, which I am not saying I am going to allow, the time picked has to be perfect." The paradox machine would protect them from the majority of any negative effects, but something like that would still be difficult. "If you pick the wrong place, the wrong time, you might only succeed in holding things off for a little while. You might also make everything worse." This was why he hated playing with time, hated people thinking people they could play god with it.

The android immediately notices the differences in biology between humans and this man – though on the outside, they appear identical, Data finds two heartbeats, and a blood flow that most certainly differs. A few species hold two hearts, such as Klingons and Zaranites, for example, but neither share this man’s very human appearance. Going through his files, he finds but one other with similar biology, but his face is different... Interesting.

You're Starfleet. What's Starfleet doing here?

“I am indeed Starfleet. And you are, according to my files, The Doctor.” There’s a pause, and then, in a voice that is not quite flat, but informative in nature, Data adds: “we are conducting research on the seismic composition of this planet, as it has shown significant change in the past decade. We believe a super volcano could erupt soon and plunge this world into an ice age. Perhaps UNIT has also sent you to investigate, although I am surprised the Captain was not informed.”

Besides, he knows that face. There can't be anyone in the business of time and space that doesn't.

"The empire is very fascist, controlling every second of every life spawned in it. It is also very xenophobic, rooting out any possibly sentient species to exterminate to attempt to minimize any damage outside forces would do to it." They eyed the man for a moment,

"Is that not bloodshed enough to attempt to erase?" With a paradox machine and stabilizer- they could try to redirect the Daleks from their first few steps across Skaro's surface.

But could he allow it? Could he live with himself if he did?

If he didn't?

They can be a little much.

Rebecca’s mind begins quelling, rotating at a more leisure (human) pace. She’d ask how they work if she wasn’t suddenly so weary, so panicked. Whitefield Heights would take him too: a brilliant man from the looks of it, and with too many organs. More questions she’d like to ask, but her mouth is already moving before she can even stop herself: help me. Like he’s some God from the Heavens – maybe he is God, come to check on his work and realizing the mistake He made.

Just take me with you somewhere – anywhere – did he not say it’s a spaceship of some kind? Maybe it’s the way back to the Beginning, the way Home; salvation. Music blares. Whitefield Heights isn’t happy, and that gives Becky some hope: She, the Mall, She only releases Becky when She feels like it, like a dog you send outside in the morning, calling it back in a few minutes later; She seems.... scared. That’s new.

You can’t keep her here if she doesn’t want to stay --

A screech is heard from the speakers as though the record was ripped from the needle – the air has grown thick and heavy, a humid summer’s afternoon under a dog day sun strong enough to cook an egg right through, and plumes of grey mist rise around their feet. She briefly wonders if Whitefield Heights won’t show them a new trick, with the fog suddenly morphing into something solid, tentacles gripping their ankles to keep them here. I know she’s your friend, and I know it hurts, but you have to let her go.

Silence. While usually blissful, this time, Becky doesn’t like it. What’s She planning?

I won’t let you keep hurting her.

CLACK! A sudden pound that could be mistaken with a gunshot, followed by darkness as the overhead lights are turned off. Another screech from above, a new song: something with a lot of beat, a song Becky remembers from her youth – and it would be funny, entertaining even, if the situation didn’t feel so suddenly dire. No no. No no no no. No no no no. No no there’s no limit! The last of the woman’s singing falls into a shadow, echoing her last word into the emptiness – more silence.

Becky swivels, worried for the entrance, but it’s still there, opened maw leading back into the mall. She gives the Doctor a glance and, careful, walks back to the entrance of the Toy Store. It’s dark, but she sees well enough, an ability gained in death. But she notes something different: the floor tiles, dirty but pale, is suddenly filled with cavities: dark pieces scatter, and she realizes those are not black tiles, but empty spaces, holes. She swallows. That’s too is new. “She’s gonna mm-make it difficult”, she announces. The atrium looms in the distance, the blue box sitting under a false sun peeking from the broken cupola above. It stands there like a trophy, something to fight for. “She’s taunting you --”, -- us. “I’ve nn-never felt her this angry....”

He's said that he doesn't care, but that's not exactly true. He doesn't care about the little things, about the feelings, about the bickering and the hand holding, but that doesn't mean that he won't help. He will always help. There is a girl that may or may or may not be dead in a mall that lives and breathes that wants to keep her trapped, that may or may not have had a part in her death. What choice does he have to be here with her? To help?

If this isn't a job for the Doctor, he doesn't know what is.

The music is louder now, and that worries him. The mall--or perhaps he should think about it like she does, the Mall--is growing restless. It's probably not a good idea to state his plans so openly, but what difference does it really make? They're trapped within it, within her. (He will accept the turn of mall to Mall, but he will not allow her to become Her.) It would take only a moment for her to figure out what he has in mind, and once she knows, they'll be at her mercy either way.

His eyes turn upwards again as the music screeches, and he takes a step close to Becky. It's protective, and perhaps, in a way, possessive. The Doctor is staking claim, not as possession, of course, but as cause. And it has never done anyone any good to get in the way of the Doctor's cause. But what can he do against tentacles of smoke? He has no weapons. He has nothing but a very angry Mall and a frightened girl. A frightened ghost, he might say, if he believed in that sort of thing. But ghosts aren't so much a problem as the very real tentacles that grip them.

(Or, the tentacles that seem real. He won't say that it's impossible that it's some sort of illusion, some kind of trick. Or it's real, and the thing that lives beneath the pitted plaster walling is far more hideous than the flashing lights and colorful signs suggest. He thinks he would prefer the former, but knows the chances, knowing the way his chances like to go, tilt towards the latter.)

Either way, the Doctor has his answer. It makes him sad to know that there was going to be a fight. That there always had to be a fight. The sound shocks through the room, the room darkens, and the Doctor has reached out, wanting to push Becky behind him, but, well, the tentacles make it hard for that to be anything more than a gesture. The other hand reaches back within his jacket for the sunglasses, putting them on to see exactly what he expects. The exact biology of the Mall may be unknown to him, but she is angry.

"It's okay," he says to Becky, to the Mall, to both of them. The Doctor is here, and he's going to save the day. The Doctor is here, and he's going to fix it. He looks to Becky as she moves, and his own hand dangling in the air where she was before he drops it, exchanging it for the other as he presses it to the wall. It feels alive. If it was a mall before, it is now something living that wears the face of one--which was always true, but now he can feel it. Becky's at the door, and the Doctor waits, the second hand coming to join the first.

"The reason is in the name." They were not alone in here. There were other Daleks, a cyber or two and some more human looking fellows in black. There seemed to be two different types of uniforms used between the two human looking fellows. One resembled that of the Kaleds- the other that of the Dalek puppets they lovingly called robomen.

Still...

He barely noticed that the room wasn't suited for him, not with the way his mind spun, searching for an answer. Did he help? With a paradox machine, the collateral damage would be lessened significantly. The timeline would remain solid, whatever happened, but he didn't think he was going to like what happened.

Neith made no comment. Just sat there licking her paw and cleaning her little face. The silent treatment was always the best response to being called rude. Khaius rolled his eyes faintly and looked back.

"... She's also my superior, technically. And you're right. I'm one of several Watchers assigned to watch the United Federation of Planets' Temporal Agency." He pointed across the way to the buildings across the park. "Two centuries from now, that will become their training campus. It ceased to exist. A few relative seconds later, starship computers across centuries of space and time desychronized--"

He hesitated. The context was as painful as it was ordinary. That was the terrible thing about the position he was. The Federation generally thought they were winning the Temporal Wars, that the fragile peace they were in was a victory. They were wrong. From the perspective of those with a broader view of time... they were losing. Badly.

Why else did he keep getting sent on missions that were far outside his purview? Because the Aegis was losing agents, and were now too few to keep him restricted only to events he specialized in.

"--permitting unknown conflicts to be lost, unknown entities to slip past the Temporal Defense Grid, and the timeline to unravel." He held out a hand for his multitool back. "I trained here, about 800 years from now. I know the campus. Sort of. I assume that's why I got this front."

He let several implications go unspoken, some accidentally through pure ignorance. For the Doctor, the Great Time War was resolved--mostly. But Khaius's version of it, the Temporal Wars, were still raging. Relative to his perspective, the final Accord was yet to be signed, the Suliban yet to pluck President Archer out of his own past, the Nak'uhl yet to reemerge as an active threat, the war yet to be decisively ended.

Maybe he would do his job better if he knew, if the temporal Sword of Damocles was not hanging over his head. But time was anything but linear. Knowledge could alter his actions and the outcomes. So his superiors kept him in the dark, just in case illumination caused him to put out the fires of desperation that propelled him through it.

"Not an ordinary house cat, then," he said, smiling faintly. He did love when things weren't ordinary. He knew some about the Watchers, though their habit of spending most of their time watching meant that they hadn't had much reason to pay them much mind. He wasn't surprised to hear that more than one had their eyes on the Agency. A place like that needed Watching. He looked across to the building. He probably shouldn't be shown, but that probably only went for if he hadn't already known. Of course he had. It was always best to assume he knew. Even if the building hadn't exactly been populated yet. Even if the Temporal Agency wouldn't exist for centuries. Could it ever really be that a place with Temporal in its name ever didn't exist?

Well, from the sound of it, yes, it very much could.

The disappearance of a place like this was worrying enough as it was, but the rest added a sense of mystery that he didn't like. He was done being a soldier in the Time Wars, and he wasn't eager to be pulled back in. It worried him, of course, but he couldn't take his time away from the people who needed him to become a soldier in another time war. He wouldn't. There were times, like now, that he couldn't turn away, but once the problem was fixed, he had no intention to turn himself to the greater issue. Let the Agency fight their war. Let the Watchers clean up after them. If that didn't work, and only then, would the Doctor come to help.

He returned the tool as it was motioned for, listening to Khaius as he did. It was a miracle he was giving him this much attention, but he was still listening. Only, he usually preferred listening while doing something else. The scans had given him information that was now adding to the story, and he didn't like the picture that was forming.

"What do you think happens to you in eight hundred years if your school is erased two hundred years before it's formed?" Mostly hypothetical, because nothing he could come up with was comforting. He was seeing part of it, hearing about it in the story. The Grid was failing, and the timeline not far behind. The Doctor would like to say that he knew that the War didn't end here, but that was the funny thing about a time war, wasn't it?

There was debate on how accurate that was, but in most cases? It was correct. That was all that mattered. All that did matter.

"You may be right," something that Dylan hated. "He may never tell me. He may keep me near him until he gets bored." His eyes rolled at that. He hated the thought of it. He hated the very idea of it. That the Master would one day get bored of him. That one day the Master would just leave him.

It was possible. Anything was possible in the end. Even Dylan knew that, but accepting it? Not something he wanted to ever do.

He wasn't exactly sure how to do this as a conversation instead of a warning. He wasn't used to people agreeing with him, wasn't used to the lack of combat. Maybe Dylan knew his old friend better than he expected. Not as a friend, he doubted that, but as the Master's toy. Hm. This would be interesting to watch unfold. "Maybe." And if Dylan was lucky, it would end without the Master deciding to get rid of him permanently. "Who knows? Maybe he'll surprise us both and keep you around." He doubted it, though.

"Blue?" Olesia shifted to standing just behind its casing as the Dalek centered themself again.

"Yes, you wish to he informed over the plans?"

"Blue- are you absolutely sure about this?"

"98.99% sure." Blueton confirmed. Ethos and Pathos. If he could manipulate the emotional state here he just might be able to sway the Doctor's favor towards his own peoples.

"There is a briefing room you will follow me to. There i will allow you to inspect the digital files aligned with this uprising." Always be truthful with your enemy. Always lie to a friend.

"I do," he answered, not so much ignoring the other's concern, but dismissing it. He wanted to know. Maybe this would be a trap, some unpleasantness that left everyone worse off, but he wouldn't be the Doctor if he didn't at least stay for the briefing, now, would he?

.... and supposed to be extinct. But, well, that was time travel for you.

He pondered how to politely bring up that the man's species was supposed to be a casualty of the Temporal Wars, that his universe was a cautionary tale, then decide it was best to leave it. For all he knew, none of that had happened yet on this man's relative timeline. The truth of the story was far, far beyond his guesswork.

But, still, they were fellow travelers, weren't they? So Khaius decided to keep his lies to a minimum. He took the servo out and presented it to the stranger. His reaction would be informative, if nothing else.

"Chroniton radiation," he murmured. "Which you are practically swimming in. Neith says you have two hearts... and I'm sure her own scan picked up other anomalies. I trust her judgment, usually."

He ignored the telepathic laughter echoing in his mind at that.

He may have laughed, had this stranger ask him just how it came that he was here in the wake of his species' genocide, but more likely he wouldn't have. More likely it was a good thing he didn't. The Doctor never did like people asking about that.

At least he did as he requested and skipped the denial. Things were very wrong, and there was no time--well for anything, but there was definitely no time for wasting time. The Doctor never liked to waste time as it was, and he certainly didn't now.

He looked at the device as it was offered to him, perfectly happy to get right into it. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at it, as he took in the information. The technology wasn't entirely familiar, but he'd seen and used enough scanners in his life to be able to assume the general idea.

"That's not good," he said, not about himself, but about the readings. A normal city didn't usually give off chroniton radiation. Or any radiation, for that matter. "Your cat talks and scans?" He made no comment, mostly out of a general irritation than any intention to keep a secret.