Dawning
by Adrian Tullberg
Just after Night of the Doctor
He got up, dusted himself off, and entered the TARDIS. The Sisterhood weren't big on gratitude, just as he wasn't big on goodbyes.
This incarnation; there wasn't much of the post-regenerative maniac behaviour. None at all in fact. No memory loss, no mood swings, no inexplicable appetites, no existential angst, no neuron damage. It was just like seamlessly fitting into a tailored suit.
Bespoke was essentially what he was now. His new persona - as of this moment, He was Custom Made. Even his - third? - body, who had been programmed into an Agent for the Time Lords, wasn't as smoothly fitting as this one.
He took out his screwdriver, examined it. Maybe a new emitter. A light-based one for increased utility.
What was he now?
A Man is the sum of his memories; a Time Lord Even More So.
Aspects of Earth were distant, dim, an effort to remember.
No, catching the edges of conversation in the UNIT canteen. Sergeant Benton talking about the importance of fields of fire in an engagement. Lethbridge-Stewart on the essential importance of conserving ammunition because there was no telling how long it would take the Do- him to work out a solution.
Leela, on the correct angle to puncture the heart under the sternum. Ace casually mentioning the importance of locating load bearing structures for her... explosive...
Those factors and more were now in stark, memorable contrast to the rest of his forgotten lives. And he was already ruminating, expanding, improving on those tactics, rules, strategies, incorporating them with his own lengthy experiences and knowledge - yes, those memories were in fine order - of the Daleks.
Nothing fancy. No bluff, double-bluff, and other complex schemes that blew up in his face more often than not. Straightforward, direct, maximum result with minimum resources and danger to himself and civilians.
In fact, he couldn't conceive of anything like he used to do, regularly.
It was dawning on him that this was what he was now, wasn't he? Stripped down to the bare basics, streamlined to a more effective, less prone-to-breakdown tool.
Like a screwdriver.
Like a chisel.
Like-
- say it, at least to yourself.
Like a knife.
And that was what he was now, wasn't he?
And that was what he'd do.
The Sisterhood needed him to enter the War.
They didn't create some blood crazed psychopath with a barreled chest and a tendency to fire multiple weapons at the drop of a hat.
No, they needed him. All they did was strip him down to the bare basics. A model of efficiency.
And made sure that he would do what needed to be done, when it needed to be done.