Chapter Text
It wasn’t anything conscious – I could tell that right off. I distinctly remembered the moment I fell asleep, and that in and of itself was peculiar. I don’t think anyone can pinpoint the very moment they fall asleep… but I’ve been wrong before. But this was not one of my usual dreams. No family members asking odd things. No bizarre vistas with dubious unspoken claims of adhering to the laws of physics. Most damning of all, and perhaps the most obvious cue that this wasn’t necessarily a dream, was the fact that I had all my digits and teeth, and text was not gibberish.
Oh, right. The rest of it.
I was looking at a help wanted sign, printed in red Impact font on typical letter paper.
The man holding the paper grins at me with an almost malicious intent. He’s thin with slicked-back brown hair and black eyes. There’s a sort of liminality about him that makes me uncomfortable and I can’t look directly at him. How much of that is my autism flaring up is a matter of debate. But I recognize the man, nonetheless. John de Lancie. Q. From Star Trek.
This is patently impossible… and yet, here he is.
“Q, I presume?” I ask in an unimpressed voice. His expression hardens and the help wanted sign vanishes with a pop.
“Oh, Mr. Quick, don’t act so detached,” he admonishes, wagging a finger at me.
“I’ll stop acting detached just as soon as you stop wagging that finger in my face like some Victorian schoolmarm and tell me what exactly you want.” There’s a tense pause before I add, “Please.”
“What I want is quite simple,” Q replies, retracting his finger. “I need you to have a simple chat with one Joshua Ben Ari.”
Now that gets my attention – I drop my gaze down, thinking. Joshua Ben Ari? The guy I’ve been talking to for a couple months on the Alternate History Forum? Wait… Wait. If Q’s asking me about Josh, then that means- I look back up, jaw slack.
“Yes, yes, work it out quickly. I do have other things to be getting on with, you know,” the trickster grumbles.
“That stuff Josh is posting on AH.com is actually happening to an alternate version of him in a parallel universe?” I utter in disbelief. Q nods.
“Hence why I came to you. You have an outsider’s perspective – one unique from even my own – that everyone else he could speak to lacks. And there’s no bothersome familial connections to get in the way of him seeing sense.”
I quirk a brow at that. “I’m not sure I follow the logic with that last bit. Are you sure about that?”
“Remember who you’re speaking to, Mr. Quick,” he smirks. “I’m surer that I’m right than you are that I’m wrong.”
“That… never mind.” I clap a hand to my forehead and shake my head. “So, wait, you want me to just… talk to Josh. Why come to me in my dreams about this? Why not send me to the Enterprise to do this?”
Q shakes his head with a dramatic sigh. I can’t help but smile – this is my level of theatricality to a tee. If he wasn’t so insufferably pompous and sure he was always right, I think Q and I could get along like a house on fire. “I think you know why I can’t do that,” he says.
“Oh, right… the Prophets.”
“Quite. Now, let’s not waste any more time!” Q declares, producing a contract on medieval parchment and an ornate peacock-feather quill. “Sign here, if you’d please.”
“What,” I ask as I take the quill, “no ‘initial here, initial there, check this box’?”
“What would be the point of initials?” he shoots back with a laugh. “Everyone where I come from is called Q!”
“I suppose you’re right.” I finish signing – and checking the box Q failed to point out – and hand him back the quill. Rolling up the scroll, he points the peacock-feather end of the quill at me.
“A good rule of thumb is that I’m always right,” he replies without the barest hint of modesty.
“Suuuuuure,” I drawl, rolling my eyes. “Can we get this show on the road? At this rate, I’m going to be late for a surreal dream date with Chris Evans on the gantry at the Pharos Project.”
“Don’t tempt me with crossover ideas,” Q warns with an admonishing wag of the quill, which promptly vanishes. Ostentatiously cracking his knuckles, the trickster grins a puckish grin. Ooh, don’t like that. Don’t like that at all. “I’ve pinpointed a section of time where Ben Ari is supposed to be knocked out. You’ll waltz in and sort him out.” I nod in understanding and Q nods back. “Off you go!”
Suddenly, my surroundings start to fluctuate, swirling and shuddering. The worst parts of my brain – the fatalistic parts, not the horny parts; pipe down at the back – supply the lovely thought that this must be the last thing that people who are sucked in whirlpools see. With a theatrical shudder, I try to shift my body a bit.
“Don’t do that!” snaps Q’s voice from nowhere. “You’ll foul everything up!”
“You didn’t tell me I had to stay still!” I snap.
Wait. There are two other people here. I can’t make them out, but I hear something from outside whatever this is. Several figures, their features and voices muddied by the whirling morass, are in some kind of standoff, it seems.
“Mister Ben Ari, I have listened to your stories and your excuses and your evasions, and I will listen no longer,” crows a raspy, irascible voice. Well, at least I know I’m in the right ballpark? Maybe I’m not in Josh’s unconscious mind, but perhaps that isn’t necessary? The voice goes on. “It is my moral duty to protect mankind from whatever devious plan you have in mind. Now, move along. I suspect that even time travelers are vulnerable to the Colt .45. Now, let’s go. I made a young fellow a promise and I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re an idiot,” grumbles another voice – one that I presume is Josh’s.
“Yo! Ben Ari! Help me out here!” I call out desperately. At that, all the figures turn to look at me and the mysterious pair of strangers. Yes, good. Let’s sort this out! And then, just before I can break through the ethereal spin cycle, I’m unceremoniously yanked back to the white void.
“You primitive little moron!” Q screeches. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“As a matter of fact, no! I don’t!” I screech right back. We’re nose to nose, but his produces no breath. That’s quite unnerving, if I’m honest.
“You just altered history! Twain was supposed to shoot Ben Ari! I’ve had to call in damage control!”
Chagrined, I lean back. Not sure of what else to do, I try to say something witty. “Uhh… flit like a butterfly, something something… uh, sting of the time bees?”
The higher being glares at me venomously and I shut up. “We’ll try this once more. Try to stand still this time.”
“Alright. Let’s do this.”
Q’s expression softens slightly and that puckish grin is back. Still don’t like that. “Hope you can swim,” he says in a tone that’s far too casual.
I jerk bolt upright, spooked. “Just what’s that supposed to mea-” I start to say, before suddenly Q and the white void are gone. No spin cycle, no blurry figures and voices, none of that. Instead, I’m staring a large, very startled bass in the face – from underwater! Water is filling my mouth and surging down my esophagus. I quickly slam it shut so hard my teeth clack. Shoving the bass away, I summon all my childhood swimming lessons back from the recesses of my memory.
While jostling those loose, I finally realize I’ve made two monumentally stupid moves. The first is one I’ve made far too many times. I signed a contract without reading it. I’m the grandson of a legal secretary, for fuck’s sake; I should know not to do that! Secondly, I never got Q to tell me exactly what I need to talk to Josh about! I’ll have to kick myself for all that if I get out of this alive. Right now, I need to get to the surface. I am not drowning because of a fictional character’s sadistic sense of humor!
Oh, I take back what I said about him and I getting along, too!
Finally, after much paddling and an altercation with a truculent turtle, I manage to make it ashore. I’m utterly soaked through, sopping wet and dripping onto the beach. I have absolutely no idea where I am, but that’s to be expected. It’s Josh’s dreamscape, not mine. Physical exertion isn’t my forte, so I’m panting hard. My breaths are ragged and rasping.
Looking around, I notice an ominous shadowy figure approaching. They’re blurred by the lake water clinging to my lenses and my own bad eyesight. I blink up at them blearily as they approach.
“Are you Joshua Ben Ari?” I ask doubtfully, anticipating the negative answer.
“No, and neither are you.” The figure’s voice is deep and rumbling, with malice dripping from every syllable. It sounds awfully – and I do mean awfully – familiar. “But you’ll still do.”
“You leave him alone!” hollers Q’s voice from nowhere in particular. “Quick’s my agent, not yours! He signed a contract!”
“Yes, and? What do I care! Sit and spin on your precious little contract, Q!” the demonic voice retorts, completely unafraid. I start to object – Q may be next-of-kin to chaos, but I reckon even he’s better than someone who sounds exactly what I imagine Satan to sound like. Before I can say anything more than a “hey,” the figure has me by the throat and is chuckling. It’s a thick, phlegmy, oily chuckle that sends a wretched chill down my spine. “Yes, you’ll do, Mr. Quick. Off you go!”
And then I’m tossed screaming to the side. The woods and lake vanish and are replaced by pitch black. No Q. No Josh. No Lucifer-voiced figure. Just… me? Is this me? All of a sudden I don’t feel like myself. It’s strange. Floaty. Like I’m lightheaded, but all through my body, not just my head. This ethereality doesn’t feel bad, I’ll admit, though I hope it passes quickly. I wanna return to my usual madcap dreamtime antics… or ones where I’m happily married to Tom Holland in a cozy cottage in rural Belgium. Just no more abortive missions to help Joshua Ben Ari, or anyone else for that matter.
Oh… hold on. It feels like something’s tipping. Ugh. Please don’t let this be that rowboat rocking feeling I get sometimes, just before I fall face-first out of bed. I haven’t had that in a while and I don’t want to repea-
Suddenly, I feel myself falling- no, plummeting. I reflexively shut my eyes, with only the sensation of my lids closing making me sure I did anything at all. Please don’t let this hurt – I can feel myself picking up speed. God, please…!
The impact doesn’t wake me, but I think… I think everything below my neck is broken. How am I alive? Am I alive? Oh, fuck, the pain is like white-hot fire. As if every nerve ending in my body has gone into total meltdown. My heart is beating so fast and so loud it’s like I have two of them. Heh. Now that would be silly. I’m no Time Lord.
“Doctor?” a voice asks suddenly. Huh… It’s very familiar, but I can’t place it. Is it someone I know?
“Doctor?” another voice asks. Voices are echoing around now, all of them demanding a doctor. Why are so many people asking for one? I worked at the shop in the Detroit Veterans Hospital for a few months, but that’s hardly a medical qualification. Well, maybe I can find them help? But the voices grow in number, getting more and more insistent, and panic sets in. I want to curl into a ball. I want to shut this out. I want to wake up!
But then the voices fade away, and one last voice speaks – much more familiar, but still evading a name – a young man’s voice. “Doctor… Doctor!” the young man demands.
“I’m no doctor, but I can help,” I try to say. But instead, a different voice booms out, deep and reassuring despite the pained undertones.
“It’s the end,” it says, “but the moment has been prepared for.”
The end? Already? But I’m so young….
“The Watcher!” the young man exclaims a moment later.
“So, he was the Doctor all the time…” murmurs the second voice, a young lady.
I then feel something enter my body. This seems so familiar, but I can’t place it despite feeling that I know what this is! My eyes now open, I turn my head, and suddenly I’m looking at myself, only covered in cobwebs. The black void begins shaking, my view of my other self shuddering as something momentous starts happening. Why momentous? I dunno – it just feels like the right word.
“What’s going on?” I demand of my doppelgänger, shouting over the thunderous rumbling. “I want to wake up!”
“You’re about to,” my double assures me in naught but a low mutter. I can hear him despite the rumbling, which is quickly approaching a roar. His expression is grim. “But not where you want.”
“What’s that supposed to mean!?” I scream in panic.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find out momentarily.” I- er, he turns away, pulling off the last of the cobwebs. Belatedly, I notice that he’s not in my usual pajamas – a t-shirt and briefs – like I am. He’s dressed in formalwear. Something inside me doesn’t like that. That same something is very worried.
I feel as if I’m rising. I’m approaching a distant light that’s flickered to life in the distance of the void. Whether I like it or not, I’m going towards it like a ship to a lighthouse’s beacon. As I approach, a squirmy feeling overtakes the ethereal one and the smell of roasted almonds assaults my nostrils. I shield my eyes as the light grows brighter and brighter, blinding and searing. The rumbling reaches a hideous crescendo, as if the world itself is about to be torn asunder, and then… nothing. Nothing except birdsong.
Birdsong?
Yes, birdsong meets my ears… and there’s no ringing. But how? How did my tinnitus just go away all of a sudden? That’s simply not possible.
I open my eyes again. It’s a beautiful summer’s day. I blink in the bright sunlight, spots flashing over my vision. A low groan escapes my lips. It still feels like I’ve been left for dead after a hit-and-run with an eighteen-wheeler. I can feel boots that are several sizes too small constricting my feet. How did I even fit into these in the first place?
Looking around, I idly begin wondering why above me there’s a huge… um… hmm. Is that a satellite dish? I tilt my gaze down a bit. Three people, maybe about my age or a little bit younger, look down at me in concern. Were they the ones asking for a doctor? But it… it sounded like there were far more than just three….
The black-haired young man with elfin features has his brows knitted together. He’s clad in a ridiculous yellow-and-green getup with a star-shaped badge pinned to his left breast pocket. To his left, a young woman with curly brown hair looks surprised, but in more of a scientific way than shock. She’s in… uh, is that a brown fur fairy princess outfit? Très gauche, honey. To her left, the last one is wearing a purple uniform of some kind. She’s older than the last lady but still young. Maybe my age? She looks like she can’t believe her eyes. I frown at her – I may not be as hot as Henry Cavill or Manny Jacinto or whoever but, surely, I’m not ugly beyond belief.
“Wh-What the hell just happened!?” she demands of the other woman. Huh, so she’s Australian, if that accent is anything to go by…
“Regeneration,” she replies. “To the best of my knowledge, it happens when the Doctor’s people are grievously or fatally injured. I don’t know exactly how it works, but the Doctor-”
“The Doctor?” I ask, excited now. This dream was great if I get to meet the Doctor. “As in the one with the TARDIS? Oh, I’d love to meet him!”
The younger guy speaks up now, sounding hurt and a little exasperated. “But you’re the Doctor!”
“What’d you say?” I sit up, and it’s like all my memories come flying back to me. “No, no, no. I’m not the Doctor. I’m just… I’m not…” What’s my name? Why can’t I remember my own name? And why am I wearing- oh, Jesus H. Christ. I’m wearing the Fourth Doctor’s Season 18 costume – burgundy abounds. Was that figure from before the Black Guardian? Did… Did I just live through the end of Logopolis?!
I gasp in alarm, both of my hands clapping over my mouth. I recognize these people now. Adric of Alzarius, Nyssa of Traken, and Tegan Jovanka exchange worried looks, but it’s nothing compared to my mounting panic. The horrifying, mind-bending realization that this isn’t a dream washes over me as if I’ve just been doused in warmed-over vomit.
“This can’t be real! It can’t!” I sob. “NO!” I fall back to the ground again, now spread-eagle, and I feel everything ache as I cry. The pain makes sense – I just fell off the Pharos Project’s radio dish. No. The Doctor did. The panic is all-consuming now, and every part of my brain is in meltdown. I… I’m not capable enough to do this!
I cannot be the Doctor!
Thankfully, before I can think about it any further, it’s like someone flicks a switch. My body must heal after the regeneration. I manage to croak, “We gotta get to the TARDIS. Help me… please.” Then everything goes mercifully black.
