Central London, England

2023

Down, down, down the ball went sailing down, far down into the distance, just over his hand. The leather nearly graced his fingertips, the taut threaded stitching on his skin. It was in that moment that he realized what he had done: he had committed the most grievous sin, to lose himself in playing the game. And so, he lost.

“No,” he gasped, possibly in hope to convince reality. Wish it, will it away. But his hand closed on empty air, and his eyes fell on the Doctors. They – for there were two of them now – stared grimly back.

“We did it,” the first one said, half exclamation and half declaration.

“Fair game,” the new one pronounced. “You lost.” 

No.

But he lost.

What would he do? Would he beg? Would he fight? Would he cheat? He took half a step forwards, and then backwards, wavering, unsure where to go. He couldn’t step back too far: there was a fall behind him, hundreds of meters down into the wide streets below. The Toymaker had never been afraid of heights, but he felt so cornered now, between the walls of fate and precipice. One of the Doctors was about to speak. It was too soon, too soon. How could it have happened so soon? Time trudged on like an executioner. 

But the Doctor was not bound by this wallowing of time. “And my prize, Toymaker,” he intoned firmly –

The Toymaker’s eyes widened. No, please no.

“Is to banish –”

“Wait!” he cried.

A World Beneath the Universe

Many Lives Ago

A view of the stars above a dark, yet glowing room – the Doctor remembered it then, stars winking as if strung up above; while below, the colors of the neon lights framed a spot like a garden arch over the coy smile of the one standing there across from him, positioned on the opposite side of the room.

Yes, a view of space – that was what hung overhead – galaxies like ripples in a pond, suspended above, colors dusted in the dark void of eternity. Dark, yet vaguely tinted with deeper shades, royal purples and oceanic blues and the faintest embers of the richest red. 

It was an old room he was in, fashioned in the faux oriental mode, like the passion project of a vainly fashionable Londoner hoping to keep up with the trend, still adorned elegantly with mother-of-pearl engravings on tables beside willow porcelain pottery on the wall. Scenes of blue and white lovers in blue and white fields, their lives captured within circular frames of blue and white pigments, hanging on pegs to keep from plummeting to a shattered death. Above, a Wedgewood carving, and besides, a cuckoo clock clicking once with every second that went by, once every time the pendulum moved on its slow transit from one side to the next, for time flowed differently here, ebbing and shrinking like the tides. 

Dreamlike that it was, there was only one noticeable physical fault, a singular impossibility. The walls were regular enough, but they extended high – far, far high, taller than any normal room, giving almost the appearance of being on the end of a beam, or atop a very, very large pinhead. It was like looking down the body of a needle, how they climbed and climbed until they were out of sight. Yet there was no point of connection; the spray of stars faded in with their distance, taking over the view above to the night. The Doctor never looked up, kept his eyes on one target. The figure at the other end of the room turned his glance, regarding his visitor with the warm expression of a king admitting ambassador.

“There you are,” the Toymaker smiled. 

The Doctor took another few steps forward before coming to a stop, returning the gaze. “Here I am,” he observed. 

“It has been too long, Doctor.” His countenance did not change as the Toymaker moved along from his position at the far end of the room, speaking as he walked closer, trailing his hand along the engravings on a smooth wooden table. His low voice was tinged by humor, mirth. “When I saw you last, you were – what, fleeing from the Gordon Riots again?”

“The Priestly Riots; that’s what they were called,” the Doctor amended, striding forward and giving a look as if offended at the misnomer. “Nasty things, those were. And yet you just happened to be there, didn’t you?”

“You know I can hardly resist that city. Of course I was. You were…” he looked up idly, “ah, you were only an unexpected addition.” 

“I am sure I was,” he sniffed, coming to a stop with a decided step. Then, he looked around as if doing it for the first time, criticizing the room with his gaze. “Well, now. For what sort of game have you brought me here?”

“Oh, no, there is no game.” The effect of the words made the Doctor return his eyes again to the deity before him, raising his brows and leaning back on his heels, as if knowingly shocked.

“No games? Ha!” the Doctor barked a laugh. “It is never so simple with you, old fellow; no, it is never so simple with you.”

“Indeed, no,” he repeated earnestly, with a touch of rare humor. “Do not let me think you forget that games and toys are two things, my friend. I have no games for you this time – only a toy, which I think you will find most interesting.” He repeated his words amusedly, “Most interesting.” 

“Have you any humans to lure for it?”

“Good heavens no,” the Toymaker defended, with almost ludicrous dramatics, “please, let them not spoil our time alone! We are here, they are not.”

The Doctor chuckled. “They are better than you think, you Sacramouche.” 

“So you say,” he shook his head. “So you say.” And then he returned to his intent, offering out one palm. “May I have this dance?” He watched as the Doctor scrutinized the floor, which he now addressed - a large construction of wide, square, translucent panels, out of which softened lights shined, glowed, and faded before being replaced with another, creating a motley patchwork of colors. “Or a minuet, or a gavotte,” he continued on, “I have built the floor to know precisely nine-and-seventy thousand of those – earthly dances you do love so, and some more.”

Pinks and yellows reflected in the blue of the Doctor’s eyes as he scanned the floor disapprovingly. “I would not be so sure that I trust it,” he toed an illuminated panel with one black shoe. “Mind-altering floors? You outdo yourself, Toymaker. Must you always revert to hypnotism?”

“Oh, you flatter my ability.” He chuckled. “But it is no hypnotism, no – it only guides the steps.” With a tilt of his head he gestured to the panels surrounding his feet. “I assure you, it is safe.”

The Doctor turned as he observed him, keeping his eyes on him and not turning his back. “And what do you want from me in this?”

The Toymaker laughed as he strided forward, stepping off from the lights, proffering out his arm again. “It is only you I want, Doctor; you know this.”

“Old charmer,” he dismissed with a smile, and took his hand. 

Its function was true to his word – the dancing floor guided their steps, though the Doctor suspected that the Toymaker did not need it. He himself figured that he could reproduce the waltz fairly easily; it had only been a few centuries since he had taken lessons after all, and his muscle memory was tact. But the one playing that they glided to was slow and simple, easily done – though with the floor in place, it was hardly effort at all to carry along.

They turned in a move of four steps: one step back led by the Toymaker, one more of his to the side; one of the Doctor’s, going forwards in the opposite direction, and then another by him to the other way. Their hands were extended together slightly out to the side, aiming in the direction they went. So they spun, and continued to spin, though to the Doctor’s notice it did not incur a feeling of diziness. Their pace was far too slow for that; and, regardless, he had the sense that the Toymaker was having the unworldy room spin around them, rather than them move any faster. Willingly revolving it on an axis. 

Magenta glow flowered out from beneath them, wrapping around the cuffs of the Doctor’s ankles and climbing up his coattails, grazing only briefly into his whitened hair. The same lit up against the glittering things of the Toymaker’s robe, gold and silver embroidery catching the light and reflecting it, tiny glass gemstones refracting it. Subtly, he became aware of the Toymaker allowing his head to rest on the black fabric of his coat shoulder, so he adjusted his hands accordingly. It was perfectly adequate to hold him there, and his palm came to rest a gentle weight on his elaborate brocade collar. Long had passed since they had danced together, after all. And the Toymaker had always been the more sentimental of the two. That space which wrapped around them was filled only by a soft, sweet orchestral tune that drifted in the air, instruments from seven star systems melodically humming together. They danced, and they danced. It was a comforting silence they shared.

The Toymaker’s soft sigh, pressed into the Doctor’s shoulder, was one as if he wished it would never end.

Yet the song, at least, was linear. So after a span of three, perhaps four minutes – so much so at least in what the Doctor percieved, for he knew it could as well have been four years, or four divisions of a second into a million pieces – it did wind to a close. The Toymaker parted from him backwards, silently, removing his hands as he stepped away. He did not look to the Doctor as he drifted over to a corner bearing the elaborate futuristic phonograph that had been playing, to with a touch close the lid and with a wave of the hand change the song.

The Doctor was surprised that he spoke none as he performed the operation, and thus went to fill the void. “Really, what is it that you have called me here for? I do not –”

“To share a dance,” he cut him off curtly, turning with his last word. “Really, Doctor, you are always so focused on business. It is a nauseating old stuff. Have some mirth in your life! Live in the moment, I beg of you.” The Doctor only laughed a response, but did not form any words for it. So the Toymaker glided back over, and the Doctor allowed him to pull his hand a bit closer again, and they fell into a second dance – a slow, waltzing thing, perhaps related to a Regency creation. Perhaps something of Dibdin, something stylized after Bach. 

He exhaled slowly, allowing himself to reminisce. The floor was new, but this was not their first dance. Live in the moment was the command – he disobeyed, and let pictures of the past flit over his mind: kinder, softer moments like this one.

It was nice, back in this time. Back when they could enjoy each other’s company. 

His hands tightened in their grip around the Toymaker’s.

Back before – what?

The Doctor stilled. The Toymaker was in the midst of taking a step back to pull him along; but instead, their hands only linked them as they grew farther back. What was it he was trying to recall? What had happened between them? The Toymaker’s face fell when he noticed he was no longer dancing. 

Back before…

And then it came to him. He said it in a murmur. 

“This isn’t a flashback.”

In an instant the Toymaker grew very cold. He faltered, and loosening his grip on the Doctor’s hands, he retracted his back. He had already taken his step away, but now he shuffled a frightened movement more backwards. 

“Please don’t send me back,” he blurted out.

The Doctor was very still, and continued to stare, the wonder of the realization still present in his eyes. “Old friend,” he sighed, “What am I to do with you?”

Shock was still etched into the Toymaker’s expression, mouth open slightly as if so surprised to be discovered of his own scheme. “I can change,” he said quickly, uncharacteristically quickly for the face he was wearing. “You need not – I mean, you don’t have to,” he gasped. “I can change,” he repeated. 

The Doctor sighed. “You said this last time.”

“Please,” and his voice was no longer the one he had just been using – instead, it was replaced with the unaccented, lighter one he had used on the UNIT bridge just earlier – ah, UNIT! That was it, and the details came back now quicker to the Doctor’s mind. 

“A clever trick, but no. Bring us back there, if you will.” He gestured with his hand, an elaborating spin of two fingers. 

Feeling his pride sink into his slippers, the ones he had just a moment ago been dancing with, he leaned forward and tried to shove every shred of sincerity as he could muster into his words. “Doctor, I’m so scared of it. Please.”

“Scared? You’re scared? Well, I do believe that the poor people of Earth might have been a bit scared, too. Did you worry about that?” He crossed his arms, placing his hands at his lapels and speaking again now so much like that older – or was it younger? – face of his, so smoothly without issue, even as the Toymaker’s façade trembled and broke. “I can’t say an apocalypse of anger and vitriol could have done them any good.”

“I –” he began, and was horrified to find he didn't have anything else prepared. Not for this, not for these words. No, he was entirely alone; no cards up his sleeve, no strategy to play. “I can change,” he echoed faintly.

“Do you think you can?”

The Toymaker could feel the air freezing around him, air that he should have been able to control but found himself rapidly falling away from. There had to be something he could say. Had to be. He was panicking now and he knew it. The feeling that there was any hope left dried up in his chest. But what could be done? He had already lost.

He had lost, and that was fair.

Bowing his head, he did not respond. 

The Doctor sighed. “Toymaker. Look at me.” But he did not, still hidden to the floor, unseen eyes reflecting only the lights that were still shifting of pinks and yellows and artificial blue. He continued regardless. “Do you think you can change?”

No aversion of his eyes could shake the way the Doctor’s disappointed stare bore fire into his skull. A whisper was all his reply. 

“You’re the one who believes in free will.”

And it was silent between them then; the Toymaker with his face hidden downwards, uselessly trying to hide from the Doctor’s gaze piercing into the space where there should have been a soul. One final cowardice.

The Doctor shook his head softly. “It’s not what I am thinking, man, it’s you. You had your chance.” Then, he leaned in closer. “It is time for us to go.” 

The Toymaker swallowed and closed his eyes, and exhaled one shaky breath.

Central London, England

2023

And one moment later

The Toymaker’s eyes were shut tight where he stood, cast before the looming Galvanic Beam, shadowing behind him like a wall. A wind rushed by the precipice they were still standing upon. The Doctor had woken up from his reverie – just a heartbeat had passed. Maybe two – or four, between him and himself. The Toymaker knew that his was empty.

The eyes of all of UNIT were staring at them. This was it.

It wasn’t his doing, but how did time slow as he prepared for the executioner’s blow, flowing towards the moment of certainty like suffocating tar. He had been too hasty, and would say goodbye to it all – the blue of the sky, the feel of warmth. The Doctor’s voice was unnaturally loud as it carried through the air, on the laser platform. “My price is –”

He tensed, readying for the pain of it, the searing hurt of nonexistence. The worst part was, he didn’t know if it had been worth it. Had it been? No matter – the blade was falling now.

The end.

“– to ensure that you won’t harm this world. You will come with me, and work with UNIT, and help undo the giggle.” 

The Toymaker’s eyes didn’t shoot open. No, it was not with a sudden shock that he reacted; his eyes were clenched shut still – but slowly he opened them, letting the light appear again. He didn’t raise his head quite yet, and instead looked distantly down at his own hands, almost gingerly checking to see he was not already gone. Then, after blinking a few times, he looked meekly up.

The Doctor was looking back at him. The former one, that was – the one with the victory. The second one, the new one – he was staring at himself, with an expression of surprise, and then smiled and shook his head. The Toymaker stood between both of them, a dozen steps away, one to his left, and one to his right.

“Oh,” he said very softly.

Buzzing up there came some exclamations up from where the UNIT staff was standing, where they had been watching on. The Toymaker saw them now, a sea of eyes curiously staring at him and picking him apart. He barely heard their noises, but they were spirited, that was for sure. It was a combination of a few shouts, some cheers, and beneath all a more general murmur coming from the bridge – voices agreeing. Pointing out logic in the plan.

Logic. Was it laughable?

“Well?” the Doctor’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. “Come on,” he beckoned with one hand. “We’ve got some major damage to get rid of.” That half that was the former Doctor, putting on a brave impression of being casual, began to walk back inwards again, but stopped after only a few steps, casting a look over his shoulder. 

The other half supplied the question. “You can do that, can’t you?”

“Yes,” he said faintly. “I can do that.”