#toxic dynamics

Being on the brink of death is a funny thing. Especially for someone like you, who once sipped the thought — chasing after it. The hasty film flashing into the back of your eyes isn’t a memento of the life you lost — no. It’s desperation, your brain trying to connect bits and pieces of anything that can bring you back from this. You tried to kick your legs, but you weren’t sure if your body was responding accordingly or not, all external senses long gone.

You feel so… so cold…

Would anybody hold your hand?

You’re scared…

Everything goes dark, and you give in to the unstoppable, impetuous pull of oblivion.

You wake up — painfully so — and are immediately exposed to a gathering so full of people (it might as well be a blight, you sneer inwardly) you can’t pinpoint exactly who they are. The clothes and textures feel familiar, the scents and sounds close to what you once called known, yet very different at the same time. They probe and poke at you, but strangely, you don’t feel much of anything. One of them takes your arm, bending it into a V-shape, and— Wait. That is yours!

“Give it back!” You try to syllable the words, but no sound comes forth. One of the oldest turns their attention to your face, squeezing the arm of another man wearing long vests to point at you. Just as hope starts to grow — maybe they’ve noticed your predicament — the man steps forward and covers your eyes. You panic immediately.

No, no, no! …Shit.

How do you interact with the world if the only means you had are gone? What can you do? Can you do anything? Anything at all? Is this it —again?

You’re so lost and confused, and everything feels so much bigger when you're trapped in such a small body and an insurmountably vaster darkness—

can anybody hug you?

You feel — feel — a pair of hands delicately placing your shoulders into position. A pop resounds throughout the void, making the darkness feel a little less constraining. Your hands come next, fingers flexing into existence, joints humming alive, until you’re granted the blessing of sight again. Too deeply engrossed in your surroundings, you fail to notice the young man smiling at you, face half-covered, eyes a deep, scarlet unhinged madness.

That changes when he cups your cheek, bringing your attention back to him. “You, my dear, are beautiful.”

And in that moment — when everything narrows to him, to the softness with which he holds you — you believe yourself to be.

He polishes you for days on end, wiping a dry cloth over your joints to rid them of excess dirt and soot stuck between the clefts. He talks to you about various things. Wars. Knowledge. Gods. Humans — or “fools,” as he gently nicknames humanity. The stars, and everything in between. There isn’t a single moment where silence fills the air between the two of you, not even as your still image keeps blankly staring at him.

“What are you doing?” you ask once, catching him alone — as you often do — while he fixes the electrical cords behind his eyes. “Recalibrating,” he answers simply, forcing you — for the sake of curiosity (such an infuriating trait is better forgotten) — to inquire further.

“There’s something wrong, either with my running parts or my operational software. Of course, I’m already perfect, but nuisances like this may happen from time to time… I need to keep crushing them, yes? Menial business, my dear.”

You find it hard to believe. Dottore is always perfect, from beginning to end. The perfect machine. The perfect mind. The perfect scientist. How could there be anything wrong with him?

“What exactly is the problem?” You search for a chair, sitting… and he flings an arm out to draw you closer.

“My dear,” he begins.

“The world revolves around humans. For those able to understand true power — those with insight. Power derives from knowing how to draw it from its sheath and use it for yourself. Power doesn’t allow distractions; it demands much more than passing, pressing passions. Do you think you can keep up?” The question is… odd. You’re not sure where he’s going with it, but under that mad eye, you get the impression the question itself is more important than the answer.

Finishing his rant, he goes still, waiting. You feel undeniably tense, the scales of this strange interaction tipping over your circuits and sending you into a mental drive of information. It feels… urgent. “Keep up? Are you asking if I’d go after power itself?”

He tuts, apparently unamused by your Socratic semantics. He’s never one to go in circles — not when he’s on the other end, at least. You stare into that black socket — waiting — the hollow pit not quite empty thanks to the faint red light pulsing behind it, insistent, like a warning sign.

“You do not go after power, my dear,” he says. “Power comes to you… with the right means and resources.” You hardly understand, but he seems unperturbed by your silence.

“However, you are not meant for power. Not like I am.”

“Asshole,” you quip, crossing your arms. He clears his throat, snapping back curtly. “Shut up.” His hold tightens, and you get the sense he isn’t fond of your teasing right now.

“Ahem, as I was saying…” He tightens his hold on you enough to make you scrape the chair against the ground until you’re glued to him. “Power is the most important thing. Control. Reason. You might not be able to acquire it, but you will benefit from supporting it.” Supporting him, he means. He hasn’t quite learned the art of subtlety yet, leaving his intentions obvious. He stares at you intently, speaking with confidence, and every beep or clank of machinery around you feels like an extension of his words — of what he’s proposing.

You swallow. “So… not to keep up — but to go with?” you ask, tentative. He assesses the statement with calculated silence. “To… stay with?” you add quietly, gauging his true intent. He seems amused by the nervousness spreading across your face.

“Of course, my dear,” he replies — not giving you a definitive answer. Not enough to satisfy the growing pile of questions in your mind, at least. The supplied affirmation feels… incomplete.

Ignoring the fragile momentum he’s built inside your fragmented thoughts, he removes his arm and stands. With a few practiced twists, slotting screws into place — screws that will never be as tight inside his own mind — he replaces his mask. The absence of his arm is immediate. A hollowness where pressure used to be. Balance falters quietly. You don’t sway — not quite — but he notices.

“Still,” he murmurs, already moving again, “your stabilization needs work.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. Thoughts still arrive fully formed, yet speech takes an extra moment — like reaching for something just out of frame. By the time you find the sound, he’s already behind you. You feel the table before you see it. Cold. Smooth. Familiar.

“Sit,” he says, not unkindly. Never unkindly — at least not to you. You do, restless, your hands fidgeting—palms up formigating in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. Not since you stopped being and started simply existing.

Metal meets metal beneath your spine — a soft click, then a deeper one. Something aligns. The hum in your chest evens out, settling into a lower register. You exhale, once, sharply— surprised by the relief.

“There,” Dottore says. “Better.” You nod. It’s true. Whatever was drifting inside you snaps back into place — obedient, quiet. You hadn’t realized it was wrong until it stopped being so. He circles you slowly, like a man inspecting a sculpture mid-restoration. You follow him with your eyes, then stop when your neck resists the turn. Not stiff — just… limited. He notices.

“We’ll widen your range later,” he says flatly. “There’s no need to strain.”

“I wasn’t—” Something unsettled deep in your mind makes you stop, reconsider. Words are optional — they always are when he’s near. And if you stop yourself, it’s your choice… but he’s offering more. And who are you to deny it?

You pause. Then turn back to him. “All right.” That earns a pleased sound. Not quite a laugh — something softer. “See? You’re learning.”

He kneels before you, close enough that you feel his warmth through the thin layer of your casing. His gloved hands rest on your articulated joints, tracing where juncture meets juncture — a sealed path only the one who concealed it could follow. His thumb makes small circles where your knees are—would be. They’re articulated, properly oiled, cared for with the devotion only a madman with obsession could muster. Despite the gloves, his touch still registers as intimate.

“Do you know why you survived?” he asks.

You hesitate. Another question that isn’t really a question.

“Because you—”

“Yes,” he cuts in immediately, eyes wide. “But more than that.”

His thumb glides along the seam of your thigh, testing how far it moves — as though hoping skin might break into goosebumps beneath it. It doesn’t. He isn’t disappointed.

“Because you were useful,” he continues, calm — eerily so — and unapologetic.

This time, you cut him off. Not with words, but with a look — blatant despite the absence of lesser muscles, as if not even fire and steel could carve out what it means to be human.

“Not in the crude sense — don’t look at me like that,” he says, amused, a smirk tugging at his cheek. “I don’t mean expendable. I mean capable of becoming more.”

The ball joints in your limbs crackle.“I didn’t ask for this,” you snap, affected.

“No,” he agrees. “You couldn’t have.” There’s no defensiveness. No irritation. No hard glare to give you room for righteous anger, to challenge what he thinks of you. Just certainty — spoken like a man stating the weather.

“But you would have died without it.” Silence stretches. Not heavy, just… present.

Utterly defeating.

“I know,” you admit, lowering your head. His hands tighten — possessive, but not painful. Grounding, when they shouldn’t be. You cave too easily. Your old self would call it salt in the wound, but this self… this self yields. Sometimes even craves it. And it is you.

“That’s all that matters,” he says, savoring your surrender. He rises and steps behind you. One hand cups your jaw, fingers firm but careful, tilting your head back just enough to limit movement. “Relax,” he murmurs.

You do — or something inside you does on your behalf.

His grip adjusts minutely. Measures. Leathered fingers drape across your throat as he angles your head side to side, watching where resistance sets in. You feel it — the invisible line where motion simply stops. “Ah. I see.” His thumb presses beneath your ear. A reference point. "So that’s where it locks.” he murmurs. “Interesting.” He presses further. Harder.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” It’s true. There’s no pain, only absence — a missing stretch, an itch you can’t reach. He releases you only to reposition, hands sliding to the base of your skull, supporting rather than forcing. Lifting. Lowering. Rotating. Careful. Reverent. Like a man learning the limits of something precious. “Your range is narrower than it should be.”

You don’t know how to feel about that.

“We’ll widen it later,” he says calmly. “Once I understand how you compensate.” His hands linger longer than necessary before withdrawing.

You’re limited. You don’t need to force yourself to remember — everything he does circles back to that truth, to someone you once were and can never be again. You close your eyes. When you open them, he’s closer, one gloved hand tilting your face up. You let him. You always do.

“You mourn yourself,” he says softly. Not accusing. Observant. “I see it in the way you hesitate.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You don’t deny it.

“That’s acceptable,” he continues. “Grief is a transitional state. It means you’re still calibrating.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye, wiping away nothing. “You don’t need to be what you were,” he says. “You only need to continue.”

Continue. The word settles neatly between systems.

“What if I can’t?” He smiles — small, sincere, rare. “Then I’ll make it so you can.” He rests his forehead against yours, murmuring so sweetly you almost believe the promise isn’t as dark as it sounds. Your sensors adjust automatically. Your body accommodates him without being asked.

“There is nowhere else for you,” he whispers — not a warning, but an odd type of reassurance. “And there doesn’t need to be.”

You close your eyes again. You miss yourself. You miss things you can no longer name. But his hands are steady. And the hum inside you is quiet.

So you stay.

"Yes." You mumble.

"Hm?"

"The answer for your first question." He pauses, then smirks as if that was the only achievable result he was trying to find for a particularly elusive equation.

@rivkadreamer on Tumblr: Do not steal my works, or feed it to AI for that matter. My garbage shall remain mine.