The Doctor slumped down in the wooden secondary control room, looking dejected.
He was in his fourth incarnation now; the curly brown hair, the outrageous scarf, the twinkling blue eyes.
Only now there was no twinkle in those eyes; only sadness and weariness.
After he had left Sarah, and gone to Gallifrey, he had been forced to deal with an unusually convoluted plot by the Master. The Master had become a decayed, withered corpse, clinging to life only through hatred.
How can you survive, old friend? The Doctor wondered. How can you handle spending all these centuries alone?
The Doctor should know. Since Sarah, he had been alone, without companions, for thirty five years. Oh, he had gone on doing the right thing and helping those in need. After stopping the Master, he had helped UNIT deal with funding problems from the UN in New York, and at the same time stopped a terrorist attack. And he had many adventures since, fighting old foes and new. But no one had wanted to travel with him, no matter how many times he offered.
Maybe this incarnation was too strange. He was more unusual than his previous incarnations, and perhaps less approachable.
Then again, when it came to the test, Sarah hadn't wanted to depart ...
His musings were interrupted when he realized the TARDIS had landed.
Listlessly he activated the scanner, and looked out. Lightning bolts forked across the sky, revealing fleeting glimpses of rain-soaked, gritty rock outcroppings and a roiling, bubbling sea.
He checked the instruments. Maldebarnis II. Home to a handful of sentient races down the ages, none of which ever accomplished anything. None of them had ever achieved space travel, or survived to see a successor race arise. Each of the five races that had dwelt here had died. Alone.
Checking his instruments, he saw that he was just in time for the final fading days of the third civilization. He shrugged; why not?
He opened the door and stepped out into the heavy rain. It pelted his curly hair without notable effect, and his scarf and long coat absorbed it easily. He didn't bother with an umbrella; the environment matched his mood.
He stared at the roiling sea for a while, thinking dark thoughts. Then he turned, and was about to go back into the TARDIS, when he heard a thin wail from the stone buildings beyond his craft.
He jogged towards the buildings carefully, not wanting to slip, and injure himself in a way that would prevent him from helping the unfortunate.
The buildings, like everything around here, were stone; some alien variation of granite, he guessed. The building was rounded; no edges. What little he had studied of the third civilization -- the Time Lords had dubbed them the Teynaril -- suggested a peaceful, stagnant, low tech culture.
Why then, the screaming?
He rounded a corner and ducked inside, looking for guards, sentries, an outraged resident. Instead, he found only a thin, wasted, pale form, looking at him with round, bulbous eyes filled with pain.
The eyes were brown, without pupil or cornea; simply two large brown balls on stalks. The body they were attached to was a thin, wormlike form; chalk-white, with three small tentacles sprouting from the mid point. There was no waist; merely a thicker area from which the tentacles sprouted. There were no legs; instead, a slug-like tread rippled feebly on the ground.
The creature was reclining, leaning back in a pile of small round balloon-like pillows. It looked at him with pain and surprise. "Who are you?" It rasped in a warbling language that even the TARDIS' telepathic translation abilities had a hard time with.
The Doctor didn't waste time with the usual jokes; he doubted the alien would understand anyway. "A traveller. I heard you scream, so I came in. Why were you screaming?"
Its eyes seemed to bore into his soul, fascinated with every aspect of him. "Because I am dying," it said.
A distant, rational part of the Doctor's brain understood that these creatures must scream instead of weeping, but that thought was a very distant second in his mind at that moment. "Why? Why are you dying?"
"The environment has been turning against my people for the last three hundred years. The storms have now gotten so violent as to prevent extended periods outside. And we need to be outside, to experience the world -- to live."
The Doctor understood perfectly. He himself could not bear to be trapped in one place or time for very long; how much worse would it be for a race constantly trapped in their own homes, their wanderlust denied? It was death of the spirit, death by despair. His hearts quailed, and he reached out and gripped one of the tentacles, in support.
The alien shrank back for a moment, then accepted the gesture, recognizing it for the comforting move it was meant to be. But it seemed to be puzzled. "Why do you care?"
"I care about suffering. I only wish I had arrived in time to stop this."
The alien looked down, puzzled. "It was a natural change in the climate, slow but unstoppable. What could you have done?"
"I don't know, but I would've tried."
"Why? Why do you care?"
The Doctor sat back, trying to think of the words. "My people ... with very few exceptions, don't care. They stay at home and do nothing. They do not die in such an insular existence, but their lives are so dull and bland as to be not worth living."
"What made you break the mold?"
The Doctor shook his head. "A number of things, none of which I have time to explain. Please, tell me of your people."
The alien's eye-stalks drew together, then apart, and the Doctor understood, after a moment, that this was a gesture of puzzlement. "Why? Why do you wish to know?"
"Please, tell me."
So Hig'malar, for that was his name, told the Doctor of his people, and their true name, the L'kaeni. He told the Doctor of their detailed stone working, there trisexual biology (male, female, and a link between the two; Hig'malar was male). He told him of their attempts to understand the climate changes, which were not of their doing; their industries were both clean and not advanced enough to cause pollution on that scale. He told the Doctor of their finding the remains of those that had come before, but drawing no comfort from them, believing that no other races were alive in the Universe.
The Doctor theorized that the climate changes had been caused by shifts in the planet's magnetosphere, dismissing meteorite impact as an overused theory. "Besides," he said, "Your scientists would have noted such an impact." Hig'malar agreed.
At Hig'malar's prompting, the Doctor told him some more of the Time Lords; of the war against the Vampires in the early days; of their insular, isolated observance of the races of the Galaxy; of the actions of a few renegades, like himself, for better or worse.
"So many races ..." Hig'malar breathed. "So many sentient beings, both wonderful, and terrible. Thank you."
"For what?" The Doctor frowned, puzzled.
"Because of you, I can die knowing that we are not ... alone."
Before the Doctor could do anythng, Hig'malar let out a final, piercing wail...and slumped back dead.
The Doctor stood up slowly, and closed his eyes. He breathed in and out several times, hearts hammering furiously against this ribcage.
How many times had he seen this? How many times had he watched people die for no reason? How many innocent bystanders? And then there were Sara and Katerina, companions for a short time ... short because he had been unable to save them. How many deaths? How much pointless tragedy?
Then he remembered Hig'malar's last words. He had made a difference here, however small. Had made things better. That was what he did, ease the suffering of the Universe. Change things for the better.
He would get out of this funk. He always did. He would find a new companion. He always did. And he would go back to saving the universe. He always did.
He didn't know whether to bury Hig'malar. And in any case, it seemed more fitting to leave him there, a monument to his race.
It was getting darker, even under these storm clouds; night was falling. On this civilization, on this planet, on these people.
But he had made it better. And he would do so again. And he would not always be alone.
He opened the TARDIS door, and looked back at the dying world. He sighed, once, a long weary exhalation. He could never give up. Never. And soon, he would have a companion again. A flicker of life, amidst so much death. Soon, he wouldn't be alone.
He entered the TARDIS, and closed the door behind them. Shortly after, it dematerialized.
END