A/N: This story takes place after the ending of "The End of Time Part II".

What do you do the moment you realize your entire life has been a lie?

What do you do in that instant when it comes to light that your entire existence meant nothing? That you were never more than a billboard meant to light up the night sky with flashing neon lights? A gigantic "X" to mark the spot in all of time and space so that a bunch of stuffed up, power hungry, war twisted bureaucrats could escape the hell they had dug for themselves?

What do you do with the knowledge that your life, your future, your very sanity has been used up and burnt out, leaving you an empty husk meant to be abandoned at the earliest convenience?

What do you do when you realize that you are nothing but a pawn? Nothing but a host for a parasitic presence?

You give the universe the finger and tell it to fuck off.

"Get out of the way," he speaks before he realizes, the pieces of madness falling into place around the incessant beating in his head. At any other time he would relish the look the Doctor gave him as he moved his figure – with that impossible hair – out from between him and the incoming hordes of Gallifrey. Any other time, but not today. He didn't have the time. None of them did.

I don't know what I'd be without that noise.

"You did this to me! All of my life! You made me!" he screams, his throat going raw at the sudden, consuming anger bubbling out of his chest and forcing its way up his throat. "One! Two! Three! Four!" he counts off mockingly as he fires off bolts of the energy that has been leaking out of him since his mildly botched resurrection. Burning up his life force, drawing upon the energy of his combined existence, pulling it all down to this moment – if he were expecting to continue on from this well, such actions would be foolhardy. But that was the kicker, wasn't it? He didn't intend to move on from here.

The last blast of energy takes Rassilon to his knees and he cannot help but smile as he stands next to this mighty force, the Lord President himself, and stares down at him. "You have doomed us all," Rassilon whispers, his words all but lost to the roar of the link crashing in around them, the movement of his lips all but lost in the growing brilliance of light. The fallen Time Lord grasps the leg of his pants with a shaking hand, trying to steady himself. He shakes him off disdainfully, a terrible, bitter smile twisting at his lips.

"I know."

What do you do when practically everyone you have ever known makes your life meaningless? You make it meaningless for them too.

Burning. Fire and ice burning; burning in his veins. Every little piece of him is on fire, melting and disintegrating beneath the rush of flames. A thousand stars have burst into fiery existence beneath the pale expanse of his skin. Burning, ever burning. Burning until he is nothing but light, burning too hot to turn his physical form to ash.

Falling. Endless falling. End over end over end, down into the nothingness. Every little piece of him torn and scattered across the whole of space and time. Absolute desolation.

Fire and ice and nothing.

I don't know what I'd be without that noise.

Now he knew. He was nothing.

Cold. That is the first thing he feels: cold. It should be a welcome relief from the fire that raged in his bones and blood but it's not. It's just cold. It seeps into him, forcing itself through his skin, working its way through muscle and sinew to settle resolutely into his very bones. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. He can't think of anything else. Just cold. The ground beneath his cheek is cold. The rock digging into his hip is cold. The wind whistling over his head is cold. It's all cold.

His fingers twitch, digging into the earth beneath them. Dirt, cold and wet, forces itself up under his nails until all of his fingers feel like they're on fire again. But not even the fire is warm. He lets his fingers still and instead forces his eyes to open.

Instantly, he shuts them again. That can't be right, he whispers to himself, that can't be right. He opens his eyes again and stares. He is lying in the dirt, in a half-dried puddle – the small body of water ringed with ice. In front of his gaze is a tumble of debris: boulder sized shards of concrete, a rusted over car engine, an impressive – if haphazard – stack of tires, and assorted twists and coils of fencing and wires. Most of the ground is covered with snow – dirty, old snow that is world weary and well worn by the world. Snow that has long since lost its beauty and is now an off-grey burden that forces the golden strands of dead grass to bend to the earth beneath its weight.

But it is that, there, nestled beneath the arch of the red-orange engine and the curve of the taller stack of tires that catches his attention. Slowly, painfully, he wills himself to his feet lurching and staggering like a newborn deer, he makes his way over to it. Rassilon, everything hurts. Everything is cold and everything hurts. Every single bit of him feels like he's been worked over by a metal bat. Repeatedly. For all eternity.

His toe catches on a half buried pile of steel poles and down he goes, knocking his face against the side of the engine on his way to the ground. It is probably a bad sign that he can't feel what it has done to him. It is very, very bad that all he can feel is cold – not a biting, sharp cold but a deep numbing cold – the type of cold that erases all feeling until there is absolutely nothing less. At least, he thinks that it is bad. He isn't quite sure. This sort of thing was never his forte.

Cold. He's cold. His eyes flutter open and he stares. What is that he's looking at? Tires? Where the hell is he? Why is he looking at tires?

Oh.

There's that.

It takes him six tries to pick it up. Six tries that he remembers anyway. On that final try he manages to make his fingers grasp it hard enough to pull it from the frozen earth. He brings it, with shaking hands, to hover before his blurry gaze and stares at it unthinking, unfeeling.

It was important that he get to this. It was important that he pick it up. Why? Why was it important?

He stares at the bit of plant life sprawled across his palm. It is thin and scrawny, weak from lack of sunlight and warmth, its barely green leaves tinted black with frostbite. It left its birth too late. It sprouted months out of cycle, bursting from the earth as the snows began to fall instead of springing free from its seed into the warmth of a spring or summer sun. It was doomed from the beginning, from the very moment it had cracked from the earth but that didn't prevent it from trying. It had grown, reaching high in an effort to find sunlight, stifled by that which towered around it. It had twisted and turned, desperately seeking a way of survival until it was nothing but a twist and tangle of thin stalk and tender leaves – all rendered mostly yellow, with just the faintest blush of green, by its lack of sun exposure.

Green.

That was it, he thinks dully. That was the important thing.

Plants aren't green on Gallifrey.

He closes his fingers around the bit of green, clutching it between his frozen strips of flesh, and closes his eyes as well.

Snowing. It's snowing. He doesn't know when it started or how long it has been going on. Not long, he guesses, by the fact that he can still walk without great difficulty – at least not difficulty caused by the excess of frozen moisture. Of course someone could have just cleared the snow from this pathway. That was a common practice, wasn't it? Clearing snow. He thinks it is – not sure though. He's not sure of anything.

It's hard to walk. So hard. His knees aren't working. He can't feel his legs. Every few steps he goes down. Sometimes he catches himself on the rough surface of the brick buildings. Mostly he just falls, his joints cracking as they hit the hard ground beneath him. He can't feel his feet. His shoes are crusted over with packed bits of snow and coated in ice. His thin sweatshirt is damp, crackling with ice in some places as it twists around his body. Wearily he spreads numb fingers in the snow and pushes himself upwards. Eventually he'll just stop, it's only a matter of time. It's snowing and he's cold – frozen more like – and no matter what else he is having trouble remembering he knows that he's not a fool. Eventually he'll just give up and surrender to the fate awaiting him.

He's never been big on futile efforts. Always seemed like a silly, senseless, desperate act of lesser beings who couldn't accept their destiny.

He staggers and catches himself this time, feeling the rough bricks tear at his skin. At least, he thinks that is what that sensation is. He's not sure. He should check.

He takes another step forward instead and tilts his head into the rising wind.

Night. At least he thinks it is night. It is dark out or mostly so. There are certainly worlds out there where this would be considered daylight but he's pretty sure this world isn't one of them. Why does he think that? Oh, right. That. His fingers tighten around the limp bit of greenery. So, nighttime then. He's mostly sure of that. It's not completely dark. Not like…whatever that place was called. The place with the gates and the wire and the ships and the degenerate forms of human life and…

Oh, never mind.

Snowing. It's still snowing. Why is it still snowing? Hasn't it been snowing enough already? At least he's getting warm now. At least, he thinks he is getting warm. It doesn't hurt anymore. That's a good sign, right? Except for maybe it isn't. Survival skills have never been his strong point – at least not these types of survival skills. Oh he could talk himself out of a room full of the Shadow Proclamation and an entire ship full of the Judoon. He could dance circles of intellect and craftiness all about them. Hell, he'd even charmed himself out of more than one encounter with Daleks for crying out loud. However, these circumstances were…

Wait. Where was he going with this?

Ah, that's right. Snow. It's still snowing.

It's dark and it's snowing. It's cold but at least he's warm. Or maybe he's not. Oh, this is getting confusing. Where is he? This isn't Gallifrey. Shouldn't he be on Gallifrey? Trapped with all the other Time Lords? Rotting away inside of a timelock?

Or did he just dream that?

Always possible, he supposes. He's dreamed a lot of things.

Oh look, he is on a hill. At least he thinks he is on a hill. It's the only explanation he can think of for why the ground is sloping downward. He eases himself forward, his knees buckling and bending sporadically. He really wishes they would stop doing that. They're making it very difficult for him to get where he needs to be going.

Wait. Where is he going? He pauses in the falling snow and looks around. He is somewhere civilized. He can see the outlines of buildings, blurred though they are by the wind and the snow and despite the fact that it is night there is still light. Not a lot of it but pockets here and there, scattered at seemingly regular intervals. Artificial light. He has to keep moving. He has to…

Where is he going? Where is he?

He goes down again, clipping his shoulder against something hard. Part of his mind tells him that he should be concerned over the fact that he doesn't feel anything, anything at all but the truth of the matter is acknowledging that he can't feel anything takes too much effort. He's so tired. So very, very tired. Maybe he should stop and take a rest. Here is pretty good, isn't it?

He shuts his eyes and drifts. It is dark here behind his eyelids. Really, truly dark. It's not an empty dark or a sinister dark but instead it is something warm and comforting. Like… well, he's not sure what it is like. He doesn't really have a frame of reference for warm and comforting. Does he? That doesn't seem right. Shouldn't everyone have a memory of warmth and darkness? Doesn't he? If he didn't why would his mind pick those words to describe the sensations going on in the world beyond the frozen flesh that is covering his eyes?

It is so nice here, he thinks to himself. Maybe he has dreamed this up. Maybe it isn't real. Of course it isn't real. He's dead, or as good as. He was consumed by fire, consumed and scattered across the universe. Whatever is left of him is somewhere… somewhere with the Lord President. Somewhere with Rassilon. Being punished, no doubt.

One. Two. Three. Four.

It's still there, beating slow and faded inside of his skull.

Ah, well. It was too much to hope that he would lose that. Probably his punishment, being forced to exist forever with the constant beating in his head. He'd been cursed by it his whole life. Rassilon probably didn't see any reason to stop it now, not when it gave him such pain.

Cold. The ground is cold beneath his cheek – cold and hard. It's not the coldness of pure earth or stone. No, this is a cold that can only sink into something manufactured. Manufactured stone of some sort? Why is he lying down? Why can't he feel his legs? Or his arms? Or his face? Does he even have a body anymore?

He forces his eyes open and blinks against the flurry of snowflakes descending into his cracked eyes. Snowing. That's right. It's snowing. Why is he lying on the ground then? You shouldn't lie on the ground in the snow. He never did well with physical survival skills but even he could remember that much. He should get up. He really needs to get up.

Getting up.

Right.

It takes him a while. To be honest, it takes him much longer than he would ever care to admit. Whole galaxies came into existence, lived, and died in the time it took him to stagger to his feet and lurch forward. He goes down again after just two steps. This time he hits his head as well as his shoulder, his entire body toppling into the solid surface – not metal or stone, wood maybe? – and sliding along its length to rest once more on the ground. His fingers trail down after him, fingers scrambling awkwardly and halfheartedly against the smooth wall for purchase to slow his descent. It doesn't work.

He doesn't bother getting up this time. What's the point? He's just going to fall again. And now his head hurts. It's making his eyes heavy. That's probably not good, the little voice inside of his head whispers. Probably not good at all.

One. Two. Three. Four. His fingers move softly in time to the beat in his head. Here is as good a place as any to die, he supposes. Wherever here might be.

The smooth surface disappears from beneath his fingers but he thinks nothing of it. His eyes are almost shut after all and the rest of him is almost shut too… drifting, drifting away.

"Hello?"

His eyes try to climb back open at the sudden influx of noise. It's not a bad noise, no not bad. It sounds like a… well, he is not entirely sure what it sounds like, but whatever it sounds like it's nice. Quite nice. It's a very nice change from the repetitive rhythm beating in his ears.

"What the…? Holy shit. No, nothing's wrong. Mary? I'm going to have to call you back. Yeah. I've got to go. Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?"

His eyelids flicker open just enough to wince at the rush of light – golden, not burning white. He can't see anything. Just light. Just light and… what are those? Toes? Are those toes? Toes, he's certain, even though they are covered in fur and rainbow stripes. Not that he's judging, mind you, but he's never heard of a species with rainbow striped toes. The Doctor might know, he muses quietly as he lets his eyes flicker shut again. He's been around the universe a bit more. He likes exploring.

Oh. It's dark again. Dark is good. Dark and quiet and cold. That's all good. Right?