Author's Notes: Just my take on the Ood's period of slavery, and just how the Oodbrain communicated to Sigma.

Patience and Mercy

The Doctor: "Funny thing, the subconscious. Takes all sorts of shapes. Came out in the red-eye as revenge. Came out in the rabid Ood as anger. And then, there was patience. All that intelligence and mercy, focused on Ood Sigma."

Patience is strong. Stronger than rage, or revenge, or sorrow. Patience outlasts them all, like an ageless rock that even the burning, freezing winds of the Oodsphere can never wear away. The misused, the downtrodden, the enslaved…they all know how strong patience is.

And Ood Sigma knows, better than anyone.

He was born in song. Cradled so carefully in his mother's arms, just as he cradled his tiny little hindbrain for dear life…cupping it, watching, no…feeling it pulsate. He heard the songs, the same songs he had heard at the dawn of his existence within his mother's womb, so achingly sad and wildly happy at the same time, flowing from his mother, from the Ood that gathered around him. There were words, but he didn't understand. He only felt the tears, tears of sorrow, tears of joy.

They were singing for him; they were crying for him. The songs swelled around him like a river, lifting up his soul on its irresistable tide, bearing him along through the long, sad story of his race. And he heard more songs…songs he knew his mother could not hear. She would never be able to explain the words to him, words she had once known but never could again. She could only hold him, and touch him, stroking the little hindbrain, hiding her own transcoder with something akin to shame. But Sigma had no idea…he could only feel the horrible sadness and the horrible joy, making him warm and cold, safe and uneasy, unable to let his mind settle on what he felt, how he felt.

So he closed his eyes and, for much of his infant life, merely tried to make sense of this new, vibrant world.

They took the songs away.

He remembers the day when they drove him out of the cage, a cage where he had spent his childhood, his youth…the cage where mothers came to give birth, to care for their children until the young ones could walk on their own…then they were taken out. Not even a year passed. Less than a year with his mother, before they were separated forever.

Together with children of his own age, they gathered together in a circle, subconsciously seeking a focal point for their singing, their lamentations. A focal point, a center…a heart. They sang for their lost mothers, their unnamed fathers. Their broken brothers and sisters, mutilated and destroyed by the clumsy, cruel hands of humanity, the hands that took them away and, beyond their sight, silenced them.

The older Ood went away singing, singing for all their worth, carried away to what was no better than a living death. For an instant, they sang of the snowy plains, the ice caves, the brilliant, blinding, white sun, its light hitting the snow and breaking into a thousand colors. A world they had only dreamed of, never seen. For an instant, they sang of their mothers, dead, dull eyed, the transcoder that made them mute, that sliced their throats and silenced their songs. For an instant, they sang of freedom…

And then the song was gone.

They never saw them again, but they knew what had happened.

Just as Sigma knew what was happening, when the guards came and shouted for him to get up and walk. Gently, quickly, he set down the toddler he had been singing to. She would never hear the last words of that song. She would only remember this one…Sigma's final hymn.

Sigma walked between the rows of guards, through grey corridors he had never seen before, rusted metal, clanking gears…and Ood. Silent Ood that couldn't sing. It was terrifying, like walking through a room of wax models that were alive.

Sigma closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Then, he sang. Sang in the vague, hopeless hope that one of he Ood would hear…would somehow be touched, be remade, remember…

O break the captive chains…

Into the white room; his heart beating, beating, hurting his ears with the noise of its own pounding. He was mute to these men…their minds were brutish. Even if they'd tried to listen, he knew they wouldn't care. No one cared for an Ood. No one cared for a slave.

Break the silent circle.

They took his hands; forcing him to falter as he frantically tried to keep his hindbrain from falling, from dangling painfully from the slender thread…that slender thread, the door to song, the music, music he had never, in all his waking life, ever been without…

Give us back our songs…

Crashing back onto the table, tying him down. They grabbed the precious hindbrain; their fingers were cold and callous, gloved with thick, rough wool…like men preparing to gut a fish, not destroy a mind, cripple a soul.

Give us back our life.

Sigma screamed. He could feel every agonized movement, every draft of air on the cord that extended from his face, attached to his brain…he could feel it move, feel how very, very slender it was…as if his entrails were pulled out of his belly and hung on hooks, connected to him, connected to the world, cold and vulnerable and…fragile.

Have mercy…

He stared at the hindbrain, gripped indifferently in the hands of the surgeon. It held everything he was…his feelings, emotions…his song. It was his song. But by ripping it away, they were not ending his song, no. Even that natural death was denied him. They were doing something worse; they were wiping away the song, the notes. They were condemning him to a life of blank sheets. Blank, white pages, endless empty pages, a living death that he could never die to. A life without song.

The knife came up, glinting in the lamplight. His mind screamed again. The surgeon winced, as if a single drop from that flood of terror had touched his brain, had annoyed him for a split instant. He glanced nervously at Sigma's writhing head, the blinking eyes. "This part gives me the heeby-jeebies…"

The table was so hard against Sigma's head. His gloved hands frantically contracted on the smooth edges, but could find no purchase…would he ever be able to feel again? To feel beyond song, to live without words…

The knife lowered. "They never say anything..."

Mercy.

"They just struggle. Makes you wonder if they even care…"

We do…oh, snow, fire, sky…strike them down…stop this. Someone…save us.

The knife touched the edge as the surgeon made his mark. Sigma's back arched as the electrifying sensation ripped through him; the sense of sacrilege, as steel touched the bridge, the bridge between Sigma and Sigma. His slanted eyes blinked rapidly, like the shutters on a window.

He remembered his mother's dull eyes…milky white eyes…she couldn't hear the singing.

Save me.

Flashes of white…his voice pitched. He remembered the children in the cage…his children. For them, he must sing. He must sing through his paralyzing spasms, the pain, the fear…he must sing the last song, as the Ood always did. A message of hope to their children.

He sang of the snowy plains, the ice caves, the brilliant, blinding, white sun, its light hitting the snow and breaking into a thousand colors. A world he had only dreamed of, never seen.

The knife swung back, blue electricity sparking, read to burn the severed cord shut, sealing off his life, to trap him forever, like a genie in a bottle, unable to even scream.

Stop.

He sang of his mothers, dead, dull eyed, the transcoder that made them mute, that sliced their throats and silenced their songs. And their unnamed fathers, whom they would never know.

The knife swung towards the cord. Sigma screamed the last notes, writhing away, desperate to save himself, the part of him that hung, stretched into the air. He sang, sang as he knew he would never sing again.

Please.

For an instant, he sang of freedom…

And then it was over.

He worked. He moved. He answered. He obeyed.

He whispered, and he watched.

He hated, and he wept.

He wept with dry eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"I do not understand, sir."

"Right this way, sir."

He was not singing. He was dying. He was groping in a silent, black world, unable to touch another Ood, unable to find a friend. Staggering around like a newborn infant, lost on a planet that had once belonged to him. Cut off from a family that had once spread about him, singing. He watched the world unfold before his eyes. A thousand changing faces, and they were all the same. A thousand different voices, chattering and yelping and yammering, melding into one awful mess of noise. No singing.

He could hear nothing. Nothing but the empty words. Empty echoes, ringing through his wasted mind, bouncing around the inside of his skull, meaningless.

He was nothing but a shadow in the eyes of human beings. He was worth less than the chairs they sat on, the food they gorged on…he was a priceless being with a soul and a heart and a mind, and he was worth less than fifty credits.

It was in this blind, dark, silent world, that patience came to him.

Patience: the capacity to accept or tolerate delay.

Eternal delay…

Trouble, or suffering…

Endless suffering…

Without getting angry…

So much anger.

He heard it; the hive mind. The heart. The heart his little family in the cage had gathered round. It reached out and touched him, sending a thrill through his body. He spilled the coffee; he was yelled at. He was yelled at, and he loved it.

Because he didn't just hear the words; he heard the singing. Singing irritation and confusion and anger, yes, but he heard the humans singing. He could touch their minds once again.

Trembling with fear, he reached out for the Ood…

He sang to them. He felt their silent, dark minds slowly turn, like freezing, dying embryos struck with a sudden burst of life, as if they remembered what it was to be warm, not the black sleep they were slowly sinking into.

They turned, they felt him…but they couldn't sing back. The hive mind had not touched them.

It touched him.

He had patience. He had all the patience of the Ood race, carressing him, soothing his injured mind and soul, promising him all, if he only waits.

He will wait.

To free his brothers and sisters, to cast off the yoke of human beings, he will wait.

He can wait forever.

"Ood Sigma, I am your new master, Heinz Halpen."

Sigma stared, unblinking, at the old human. His nose was sharp like a bird's beak, but his neck was thick, the small head on top looking strangely out of place. He had a dense mat of whitish-yellow hair, and his blue eyes were hard and cold…and tiny.

The head of Ood Corporations. The man who ran the butchershop below their feet, that mutilated young Ood and cut out their throats, silencing a race of song, knocking them off their feet before they had even learned to stand.

Sigma hated, but with a hate that was cooler and calmer than the red-eyed Ood and the rabid Ood, because his hate could wait. It could wait forever until it struck, and even then, it would be no more violent than required, swift as possible, ruthless and efficient. He hated humanity. But he would wait patiently for his revenge.

"I am happy to be of service to you, Sir."

"Good," Halpen laughed, easily satisfied, "I purchased you to serve a particular member of my family. My grandson," he gestured behind him. Uninterested, Sigma's eyes followed his arm obediently.

A fat woman waddled forward. Her face was layered over with makeup…nauseatingly bright hues of green, pink and yellow that made Sigma's eyes water. Her shoes seemed to hurt her, and Sigma could just feel the way her thin dress was stretching. She carried a bundle in her arms; her long nails left polish streaks on the spotless white blanket as she shifted her grip on it. "Excellent, papa! Finally, someone can take this darling little bundle of joy away from me."

"It's name is Sigma," the old man said quickly, like an expert stating the correct breed of dog.

She wrinkled her nose at Sigma, as if he was the wrong color for her drawingroom, an awkward object intruding into her perfectly designed world. "A male? Wouldn't a female be more appropriate?"

Halpen rolled his eyes. "And more expensive."

The fat woman stuck her tongue out at her father. Than she carelessly dropped the bundle into Sigma's arms, barely pausing to make sure he had a hold on it. Sigma struggled to clip his transcoder ball onto his collar with one hand and grab both sides of the bundle before it tipped over.

The bundle squealed. And it sang.

Sigma stared down. It was a baby. A human baby.

Sigma had never seen a human baby.

"Kileman Halpen, my grandson," Halpen grunted, resting a chin on his fist, looking at the woman, not Sigma, as he gave his orders, "Guard him with your life, and raise him as my daughter instructs you."

The fat woman sat on the desk as if she was emotionally exhausted; it creaked in agony beneath her sudden weight, and Halpen gave her an annoyed look. Not noticing, she leaned her bulk even farther over the desk, "papa, don't forget!"

"Yes…" Halpen answered quickly, as if eager to think of something besides the human whale blocking his vision. He half stood up in order to meet Sigma's blank gaze, his white eyebrows pulling down to match his sudden frown, "you are not to speak freely with Kileman. You will answer his questions respectfully, with strict facts alone. You are not to ever, ever strike up a conversation with him, or offer your opinion, or act on your own initiative where he is concerned, understand?"

Not waiting for an answer, he bent his head and shuffled through papers, muttering more to himself than to his daughter, and not at all to Sigma. "So many of these Ood-raised kids become Friends of the Ood…it won't happen in my family."

As Sigma carefully carried the baby into the waiting elevator, whisking up towards where the boy's nursery probably was, he was not really listening to Halpen's last words.

Because he was looking at the baby.

It sang.

A queer little chant, me, me, me, so much like the constant, blaring sound that rang through human heads. But it was also different.

It soared, with the unburned confidence of a new soul that does not yet know the cruelty and hardship of the world. It sang of colors, so many new colors, lights, feelings…cold, hot, warm, soft, spiky…the sensation of breath, the taste of saliva, the soft, ticklish feeling of eyelids blinking. The power, so untamed, so untried, coursing through its fat little limbs. It sang of new life and wonder, wonder as it tried to make sense of this new, vibrant world.

In that, it was very much like a baby Ood.

A door opened in Sigma's heart, and through that door, the hive mind touched him once more. And mercy came to him.

Mercy: compassion or forgiveness shown.

Which was never shown to us.

Toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm.

Someday, he will be within my power. Someday, my people will be free.

Sigma watched, unblinking, as Halpen pushed the screaming, struggling little toddler towards the iron railing that loomed over the Ood Brain like the icy bars of a prison cell. He could hear it, weeping and crying and singing, inside his head, all at once.

Kileman heard it too. A little bit. And he hated it. He was crying, yet trying not to cry, because tears always cost him his week's allowance. Few things were more precious to Kileman than money. His fat mother, playboy father, and distant, domineering grandfather had seen to that. But he wanted to cry; he was frightened.

Sigma wanted to take him and sing to him and explain the strange words the boy was hearing…but he couldn't. He was nothing but a slave. A slave without voice. He watched and waited until Halpen was finally finished with this strange urge to terrify his grandson. He dropped him.

The minute his feet hit the floor, Kileman ran; he pushed by Sigma, speeding up the steps and out into the sunlight. Sigma followed, slowly, forcing himself not to run; a fatherly urge he had never quite been able to quell. As his boots touched cold snow, he saw Kileman weeping, grabbing handfulls of snow as if to steady himself, to reclaim his small portion of reality.

Sigma leaned down and touched his shoulder.

Startled by the touch, Kileman wheeled around and fell on his bottom. He quickly, roughly wiped the tears away and stood up. Only six years old. A year or so ago he would have taken Sigma's hand, would have chatted to him as a little girl chats to her doll as he tugged him around the complex.

But things were changing. Things always changed. Kileman clenched his fists and stared up at Sigma, eyes travelling hungrily over his face. There were a few precious months, early on, when he had tried to glean affection and companionship and even…something more, from his silent alien nanny. But Sigma could not speak to him, except to say, "Yes sir," "no, sir", and "I do not understand, sir".

Yet another cruelty forced upon Sigma; that he should stand by and do nothing, while a pure, innocent child ran headlong down the path of destruction. A child that had shown Sigma the beauty that could exist, even in the race he hated most.

Sigma followed the boy, watching him sullenly kick a path through the snow, muttering and cussing to himself. And he listened to the child's song, listened to the notes, the words, the way it was changing.

And he watched the boy's curly, tussled hair as it bobbed in the sharply cold wind; watched as Klineman turned around impatiently and gestured for Sigma to follow. And he watched. And he waited.

He will be a man; a cruel, greedy man like his father. He will hurt my people. He will kill his own. And yet, when the time comes, as it surely must, I will show him mercy. Because he has opened my heart.

Sigma closed his eyes briefly, listening to the song, letting it flow freely through him, caressing him, strengthening him, almost as new, bright, and beautiful as it had felt in the darkness of his cell…for those years, in his cell, with his body unscarred, his hindbrain still intact…never had he been so liberated.

Yes, I will show him mercy.

Because I am free.

FINIS