Aug. 17th, 2007

first_timelord: (time heals all)
Medical confinement, indeed.

He was perfectly fine, both he and Kiam knew this much. After she derived a great amount of amusement at beholding him in a dress, took him home from the Clinic, and then shouted angrily at him for making her worry so, he'd slept on the sofa that night. He'd deserved it, he knew. He'd been an utter, utter fool.

He rose early the next morning, or whatever passes for morning. There was work to do, and he'd done quite enough dillydallying. The Nexus had distracted him long enough. Silently, he slipped into the bedroom and put on some different clothing. Kiam was still asleep.

Not even Time Lords know why these moments stop, suspended, unmeasurable, peaceful. Why everything seems to hold its breath at the very moment you pause to watch someone you love while she sleeps. After a few seconds stretched to an eternity, he leaned down and kissed her softly before slipping out of the room again.

Quietly, he made his way to the place he liked to do this work from--it only involved a little spatial hopping. A sideways step in time, really. Rassilon appeared in a room with no outer door because the only people who needed to come to this place needed no doors. The lights came up softly when he appeared, revealing a roomful of terribly complex computers.

He'd done difficult and sometimes terribly dangerous things to acquire some of this instrumentation. He'd had to steal originals from the past, copy them, and return them exactly where he'd left them. Once he hadn't and the Lower Modular 8 System Crash of '54 had occurred, which they'd historically blamed on Borusa's infamous students--of which the Doctor had been one.

It was different, he'd told himself, than attempting to go back himself. Pulling things from the past was a simple dip of a fish net into time. Returning them, of course, was infinitely more difficult and required the utmost precision, but it was still not nearly as bad as returning himself. And that was that.

The computers were activated and resumed their silent, complex work, knitting together almost unimaginably vast amounts of data. They would be invaluable when needed. And they compiled the dimensional parameters needed for what he was going to be doing, himself. And they formed the programme base for the device being built in the next room, which he slowly made his way to.

In the next room lay a machine. A heavy, instrument-laden cylinder of glass embedded in a metal cradle. Its structure, its working parts, everything was complete. He stood over it for several seconds, looking it over, looking past it, gazing at the genetic databank that lay beyond it. That was what lay incomplete. The final task whispered to him--find the data. Find the data and the Loom will weave again. His fingers tightened around the rim of the open Loom cradle. That would be the riskiest undertaking of all. But the subjects in the Nexus were too few. He would have to penetrate the past to collect more--

Later. That will be done later.

He uncurled his fingers from the Loom and proceeded to the third door. It opened into a vast, peaceful chamber, bare save for a squashy mound upon the floor. Said mound faced a panoramic view of none other than Earth. And between the room and the Earth floated the skeletal beginnings of a vast, vast station.

Rassilon seated himself on the aforementioned mound. Made himself comfortable, but not too much so. He took a deep breath and released it with a quiet sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. "Now, where was I?" he murmured, nudging a channel open to the computer's telepathic circuitry. An orderly steam of data came to him. Dimensional information--measurements, if you will, down to the last tiny corner, curve, roundel and knob.

"Hmmmmm." His eyes opened again, already glowing softly their bright green hue, and he started to murmur something under his breath--equations, an unimaginably powerful stream of numbers--all the while watching the station as it floated serenely over the Earth, slowly, ever so slowly forming more of itself.


first_timelord: (Default)

September 2012

161718 19 202122

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 21st, 2017 02:05 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios