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Narvin steps gingerly over a broken body, identical to all the other fallen in this strangely apocalyptic Gallifrey. He's stood at the heart of the conflict, a broken Citadel, out of place in this foreign war.
"Careful where you step," Brax says to him.
"Thank you so much for the advice," he snaps. "The thought hadn't occurred to me."
"You're welcome," Brax says. If he's trying to be sarcastic, it falls flat; his voice speaks of casual disinterest rather than snippy comments. "This way," he says as they approach a crossroads of corridors, each indistinguishable from the next. The general design would be identical to their Gallifrey, too, if not for the white noise of death and destruction. "According to the rebels, there should be a supply cupboard with basic first aid somewhere around here."
"Anything more specific than that?"
"I'm afraid not. They were adamant that it was this corridor, but..." Brax glances it up and down. "Not a single handle or sliding panel in sight."
"We'll have to do this the old-fashioned way, then."
"I wasn't aware there was a modern method for investigating corridors."
"The CIA would agree to disagree."
"I believe that's their general policy, yes." His hands skim across the walls, almost a pure white if one ignores the rusty streaks (blood, Narvin's brain supplies) scattered across them. "I would assume we are looking for some kind of mechanism to be sprung, or a fault line of some sort."
"And are we going to search for this hidden cupboard, or stand around monologuing at the ceiling for hours?"
"If you're so desperate to be productive, do it yourself."
"Fine." And he does. This corridor's a dead end, as it turns out, but long enough that by the time he reaches it Brax looks diminished. He trails one hand across the wall the entire time, but nothing shows.
"Have you found anything?" Brax calls. His voice is barely raised, and yet it carries.
"No." He turns to face the dead end, the blockage, the finality before him, and, on an impulse, presses one hand flat against it—
"Correction," Narvin says as the door swings open to reveal stacks of bandages and medicinal supplies. "Yes."
The walk back to the rebel base is a short one, but as they travel Narvin starts to pay more attention to his surroundings, and realises he recognises some of the bodies. It shouldn't be surprising; they've met familiar faces before on previous Gallifreys. But those people were alive, and not strewn across bloodied floors with no one to tidy them up. If the fighting doesn't end soon, this might well end up as a mass grave.
"Hurry up," Brax says. He rarely wastes words anymore. Overcomplicates them, yes, playing with grammar like it's a game, but it all holds meaning.
It's probably because there's nobody left to waste it on.
"I am," Narvin snaps back, but he's not looking at Brax; he's standing at the edge of this hall, staring at yet another body. Despite the injuries—a staser blast to the chest, the glancing blow of a mace (these people are such an odd mix of advanced and primitive)—the face is recognisably Andred.
He makes sure to press his foot down, hard, on the man's outstretched hand as he catches up with Brax.
Careful where you step, Brax's voice whispers in the fraying corners of his mind.
"You're sure you know what you're doing?" the rebel with Torvald's face says. (Torvald, a rebel. Torvald, a traitor. Torvald, a rebel and a traitor to the right cause. One of these things is not like the others.)
"Yes," Brax says.
"And you're absolutely sure you don't need a guard?"
"Yes," Brax says. "We're hardly defenceless."
Narvin raises an eyebrow.
"Well, I'm not. Goodbye, Torvald. We'd best be going."
He's supposed to be charming (always has been, or at least, always should have been), but there's no charisma to disappearing off into the desert, never to return to this world that shouldn't be.
Narvin nods. "Goodbye."
And that's it; Torvald slips off, back to the broken Citadel and its shattered people. Narvin tries to imagine it from the other man's perspective: two strangers, perhaps loosely familiar from before the Civil War but still unknowns, turn up asking for help and then disappear into the Outlands.
What a strange pair they must make.
Narvin shakes his head and tries to forget this strange world as they return to the Axis.
The first thing he hears is Leela's voice.
"Braxiatel!" she says, delighted. "You are safe!"
Narvin coughs slightly.
"And Narvin," she adds. "Did you find any bandages? I think—"
There's a low groan from behind her.
Romana.
"Is she alright?" Narvin says, which is a pointless question since she was stabbed half to death a day ago, and is clearly still suffering. 'Alright' doesn't cut it. "What I mean is—"
"Yes, Narvin, I'm alive," Romana says, but it's faint. Then—Rassilon and Omega, what is she thinking?—she attempts to stand up.
"Do not even think about doing that," Leela growls at her, and holds her down. Not forcibly—she doesn't need to bother when Romana is too weak to properly fight back. "Pass me the bandages, please."
Brax pulls a roll out his pockets. "This should suffice. Don't bother with antiseptic; it's soaked into the fabric of the bandage."
She nods. "That is the only smart idea I've heard all day. You two should rest."
"I don't need rest," Narvin says, "I'm a Time Lord."
"Just do as she says," Braxiatel sighs.
"Fine," he says, "but I'm not happy about it."
"We know," they both say, and, Rassilon, it's irritating how easily they work together.
He almost wishes he knew how to join in.
"Wake up!" Leela hisses.
Narvin's eyes flutter open. "Wh..."
"You have been asleep for a full four hours," she says, voice still lowered. "You do not need any more. And keep your voice down; not all of us are awake yet."
"Who...?"
"Romana," she says, "and Braxiatel, although I cannot tell if that is because he genuinely needs to sleep or because he is just lazy. Or," she says brightly, "perhaps he just does not want to deal with you this early in the morning."
Narvin opens his mouth to say something, then decides it's too much effort. In the end, he asks, "What do you want me for?"
"We are going to visit another Gallifrey," she says. "The portal opens in ten minutes."
Narvin groans. "And how long is that in spans?"
"I don't know," she says. "You are the genius, so work it out yourself."
"I hate time conversions," he mutters, but Leela's already moved on.
This Gallifrey's not so bad, despite the acid rain and apparent lack of a Citadel.
Actually, that's not strictly true. There is something on the horizon, a streak of silver that hasn't changed in size for over an hour. Leela is curious, but as they get closer and closer, Narvin begins to suspect something terrible.
Arriving at it confirms his suspicions, but at the same time gives him more questions than answers. There are no guards at the gates of the Citadel (if that's what it is); in fact, there are no gates. Feeling apprehensive, he presses one hand to the shining silver surface of the settlement-city-unknown, and feels it burn at the temperature of absolute zero.
"What does it look like?" Leela asks, which is a redundant question. It doesn't look like anything, except when it does. It looks like a circular square of metal in 3D and it looks like foil and it looks like walls made of paradox and cities made of alter-time.
"A metal snow globe," Narvin says, remembering the paperweight that used to sit on Romana's desk, a gift from someplace human fashioned into a temporal anomaly. ("Dear Romana," a note under it had said in elegant cursive, "hope you're OK/wish you were here/love you! Enjoy the time-spliced snow globe." He'd never bothered to check who wrote it, but he has his suspicions.) "It's ... wrong."
"You wish to leave?"
Yes. "No."
Leela touches it, and her hand sinks right through. "If this is supposed to be a stronghold, it is not a very good one."
Narvin copies her action. "I could have sworn it was solid," he murmurs as his arm follows suit.
"What did you say?" Leela says.
"Never mind," he says, and steps through.
The inside of the city-thing (it's too large to not be a city but too solidly wrong to be a city) is a labyrinth, with architecture that's reasonable enough at first glance but shifts and changes as soon as you look away. Despite his reservations towards physical contact in general, he takes Leela's hand, certain that if he does not he'll lose her. (And it's not that he trusts her or wants her or needs her, but she's one of only three people he has right now and he'll be damned if he loses any of them.)
"Narvin?" Leela says, evidently surprised. He can feel her confusion, as much as he can feel the skin and bones and heat of her hand. "Are you alright?"
"I..." He swallows, mouth dry. "Leela, we need to leave this place. Now."
"Why?"
"It's—"
The wall in front of them melts away, revealing what appears to be a throne room.
Naturally, there's someone lazing back on the throne.
"Hello!" he says, standing up with a clap of his hands. He's tall, pale, and doesn't look like he's quite got the hang of having limbs yet. The chin's obscene, as well. "You stumbled right into my—well, calling it mine or a trap would be disingenuous. I didn't build this place any more than either of you did, and if it's a trap then I must have missed something in the briefing. Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am? And do you know why you shouldn't be here? My, my, I wasn't expecting to see either of you again. Ever."
"Er," Narvin says helpfully.
"Are any of your words supposed to mean something?" Leela says, reaching for her knife.
"Now wait a moment, there's no need for violence!" he says. He's so over the top it's painful. And strangely familiar, though Narvin can't quite put his finger on why.
"If there is no need for violence," Leela says, "then answer my question."
"Well then," he says. "Yes, my words are supposed to mean something. I think you know where you are, and if you know where you are then you know why you cannot possibly be here, with me."
"This is the Citadel," Narvin says, slowly recovering his wits, "I don't know why you think we can't be here, and you're," he sighs, "you're the Doctor, aren't you?"
"The Doctor?" Leela says. "But he is not—"
"Future regeneration, Leela."
"Interesting," the stranger says. "Yes, I'm the Doctor. But you two ... what point in your timelines are you from? It must be before all the chaos with the Celestis."
"I'd assume so," Narvin says. "Would you mind giving us a rundown of the exact history of how this version of the Citadel came to exist and what you think happened to us?"
"Happily," the Doctor says. "I love listening to my own voice."
"I knew I'd be able to outwit him like this someday," Narvin whispers to Leela.
"Are you seriously continuing your grudge across alternate realities?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"I simply thought you of all people would be above that," she murmurs.
"If you're done?" the Doctor interrupts.
"We are," Narvin says.
"Well, it started off with Morbius and the Master making an alliance. Then the Master betrayed him and took over the Citadel. Then there was a bunch of overcomplicated and frankly boring politics and a few civil wars, and then all the Time Lords decided that fighting was a massive waste of time, and the planet was a wreck by that point, so how about we all just leave? Anyway, they upped and left, I crashlanded in this idiotic city, and I've been stuck here ever since. Oh, and the two of you got executed years ago for crimes against ... somebody, probably, and that was the end of that. It was all very dramatic, you know. You were the talk of the planet for about two seconds."
"Well," says Narvin. "That was..."
"Gritty and exciting?" the Doctor says hopefully.
"Boring," Leela says.
"Poorly executed," Narvin adds.
"Well, I thought the two of you were very well executed. There was a lot of screaming."
"Why are we putting up with this idiocy?" Leela says. "We should leave. Narvin?"
He glances at the Doctor. "We can't, can we?"
"Slight hitch in the plan, yes. They designed this place out of eidomorphic metal. Once you come up with the idea of being trapped, it builds the whole city around that idea. Basically, once you're stuck you're stuck."
"That is an incredibly embarrassing way to go," Leela says. "'Death by metal snow globe.' But—" She pauses.
"But what?"
"Well, if you can think yourself into being stuck here ... surely you can think your way out?"
"If only it were that easy," the Doctor says. "You see, physically you're not here at all. Your body is still outside this place. I should know; when I landed here it took me a week to realise my physical body was dying. I screamed a lot, I think."
Leela frowns. "So are we dying?"
"No. Not yet. But if you don't get out quickly, well, you'll be almost as dead as you were when they put you through a disintegrator. How are you alive?"
"Let's not go there," Narvin says. "Let's go out. If there is a way out."
"Well," Leela begins, "I think..."
"You think?" he prompts.
"If one can be trapped by the idea of entrapment ... could you escape through the idea of escape?"
"No," the Doctor says.
"Try it," Narvin says over him.
She presses one hand to the city walls. "You see? It allows for escape through ideas. I cannot believe you did not think of that, Doctor."
"I was panicking and slowly dying, you know!"
"She outwitted you," Narvin says. "It would be impressive if she had outwitted anyone other than you."
"Excuse me?"
"What I'm saying," Narvin says, "is that you're an infuriating idiot."
"Is this really the time?" Leela says.
The city wall opens.
"No, I don't think it is." Narvin takes Leela's hand. "We should go."
"I think you are right."
Behind them, they hear the Doctor shouting, though neither of them dare look back. "What are y—" he begins, but the wall closes before the Doctor can escape. His desperation quickly dissipates into the atmosphere.
The walk back to the Axis portal is quieter than usual, and they don't let go of each other for a while afterwards.
"Is Romana alright?" Leela asks once they're back in the relative safety of the Axis.
"The bleeding has mostly ceased," Brax says, "but she won't be up and about any time soon. But enough about Romana; if we spent all our time worrying about Romana, nothing would ever get done. How are you?"
"Acceptable," Narvin says.
"And you, Leela?" His tone of voice suggests he's more interested in what Leela has to say than anybody else on the Axis. On the one hand, the repeated attempts to exclude Narvin from their camaraderie is uncomfortable. On the other hand, Romana doesn't seem to be in on their joke either.
Then again, Romana is unconscious, and still clearly friends with them.
"I am ... alright, I think." She grins at Brax. "Did you have fun whilst we were gone?"
"Oh, you have no idea," he says. "The monotony of watching over a trillion different worlds is unbeatable."
"I will have to try it some time," Leela says.
Narvin slinks away to find something better to do than listen to their tedious conversation.
He doubts they would have wanted them to stay, anyway.
"We will be back soon," Leela says just before she disappears into another world. "Do not do anything I would not do!"
Before Narvin can complain that he already lives by that rule, Leela has vanished.
He turns around to find something to do. He could ... read a book? Take a nap? Complete a 'crossword', whatever that is?
Narvin sighs. It's no use; he's too restless to get anything done today, so he sits down and drums his fingers against the Axis-created chair, waiting for something interesting to happen.
"You look bored."
Romana's voice comes seemingly out of nowhere. He doesn't like to admit it, but he may have jumped.
"That's because I am," Narvin replies.
"I can't imagine why," she says, dragging a chair round to face him. Ah, sarcasm: the lowest form of wit.
"Are you sure you should be lifting heavy objects like..." Narvin trails off when she shoots him a glare. "Look, I'm trying to hold a conversation with you. It's hardly my fault that it's so awkward."
"It is," she says after a moment's pause. "Partially. The other half of the blame is mine."
They lapse into silence. It's becoming a real problem. The thing is, it's not that they hate each other. It's not even that they don't like each other. In fact, in her own way, Romana is the most tolerable part of their sordid interdimensional affair. It's just that the underlying trust necessary for any good back and forth is ... incomplete. He trusts her, certainly; he knows from experience that Romana would lay her life down for him, although coming from her that doesn't mean much. But it's so extreme. Casual friendship seems difficult in comparison.
"Are you alright?" Narvin says in the end. It feels like an empty question, doing nothing to fill the hollow between them, but it's better than nothing. "You look more awake."
"I don't feel like I'm going to pass out from blood loss," Romana says. "That's a start."
"You wouldn't be injured in the first place if you hadn't pointlessly jumped in to save Brax, though."
She bristles. Back to square one, then. "I did the best I could in a dangerous situation."
"What, throwing your life around like it's nothing?"
"Why should you care?"
Narvin puts a particular effort into restraining his voice. "I happen to prefer you alive, in case you didn't know."
Silence.
"Sorry," she says eventually, which really isn't what Narvin was expecting. "But I ... it was the easy way out."
"I don't get it."
"Can we talk about something else?" Romana says.
"Like?"
"Well, I know how you'd act in a crisis—"
"Efficiently and calmly?"
"No, with a lot of spluttering and complaining. But I don't know ... what was your favourite part of Gallifrey? A place, I mean. And don't say the CIA."
"Honestly?"
"That would help, yes."
Narvin glares at her, but it's not harsh. "The trees, maybe. Or the two suns. The angles of light are fascinating."
"If you say so," she says, unconvinced.
"And you?"
"The sunset," she says, a little wistfully. "I liked watching it with Leela. And sometimes ... when I couldn't escape my rooms, or the Citadel, it was the most beautiful part of the day."
"I can see that," Narvin says.
"Do you miss it? Our Gallifrey?"
"No," he says. "Well, the planet, perhaps. The people? Not so much."
Romana laughs slightly at that. "Not long ago, I would have been included in that group of people."
"Let's not go there."
She nods. "Can you unwind this bandage off my arm? The wound has healed. And frankly, I think Leela went overboard with the bandages."
Narvin takes a quick look at her. "How badly did you even hurt your arms?"
"A few gashes." She lets Narvin unwind the bandaging on her left arm quickly and methodically.
"It looks like the actual wounds have healed, but—" Narvin stops. "Is this scar from before or after the Axis?"
"The one around my wrist?"
"Yes."
"I don't want to talk about it," Romana says.
"But—"
"Just don't," she says quietly. "Don't."
"Okay," Narvin says. "What do you want to do instead?"
"Not die?" He laughs slightly at that. "Go home? Read a book? Or, perhaps, talk to you?"
"It's your choice," he says.
"I think," Romana says, "we should have a conversation. A real, uninterrupted one."
"And I think you're right," Narvin replies.
"An excellent start," she says, and for the first time since they got here, they both laugh.