Work Text:
You could have been a killer. You came close, as a kidnapper; it was within you, always, but just then, oh, you came so close. You have spent the rest of your lives so far not just suppressing but fighting to expel that you, amplifying better-you, with variable luck (the little clown, the scarecrow, got it nearly right) and luck is vital here, for you are so startlingly swayed, rarely, perhaps justifiably, but always unexpectedly. In horror you declined to obliterate the Dalek race; in cold righteousness you set out to murder Davros, but better-you -- fatal error -- listened. The more you listened, the less you believed him, but too the less you believed yourself. Doubt, hard to uproot, took seed. You know why Tegan left? She said, meaning it, that she was “sick of it,” but in truth she left because at that moment, you didn’t know who you were, so how could you expect her to know?