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I want the old world to burn.
And now, it is burning to the ground. It is charring like a dry twig thrown into an all-consuming, ravenous flame. It crackles pitifully as it dies, casting only a faint shadow of its former existence—and along with that twig, all the lies burn away.
We all live in lies.
Perhaps it’s easier to accept these lies than to fight against them. Ignorant fools often live happily; their lives are simple and primitive. You wake up, open your eyes, and know perfectly well how this day, tomorrow, and the day after that will go.
So pitiful. Is this a blessing in the guise of misery? Or is it, on the contrary, misery in the guise of a blessing? Perhaps such a life is easier. Such a life is happier. After all, it's more comfortable than looking up at the sky and seeing lies and looking down at your feet and seeing more lies. It’s easier to live this way.
However, “easier” is not a word I’m very familiar with.
The flame kept burning. It burned, warming the hands, casting light on the face hidden behind the mask. It burned, consuming all those lies, like a spiderweb that had accidentally found itself near a bonfire that had gotten out of control. But there was nothing accidental about what was happening here.
Dottore smiled, watching the remains of the old world burn out right before him. He watched the last leaf turn into a pitiful shadow of its former self, a skeleton of a past life giving way to a new one.
This is the end. But it is also the beginning.
Savoring the moment, he lowered his arms from his chest to let the warmth envelop his body, and accidentally brushed against a hand in a black glove.
And at this very moment, of all the people in the world, you’re standing right next beside me.
Pantalone. The only person left by his side. The only person who understood him. Who listened to him. Was their relationship just another transaction, or were they truly comfortable in each other’s company? Who knows. Probably, neither of them fully understood what the hell it was that bound them together. But there was no doubt that something did bind them.
Dottore raised his palms.
“My dear friend, isn’t this wonderful?” He took a step forward toward the blazing flames. His cheeks began to feel the heat even more intensely—it burned so fiercely it was almost painful. But Dottore, more than anyone else, was familiar with pain. He had experienced it; he had accepted it. Perhaps, to some extent, he had been forced to love it. “I see the old world becoming nothing more than coal and smoke. Black clouds rise high above, reaching for the false sky. Burning everything in their path. And in this smoke… I see the reflection of a new world.”
“You’re being particularly poetic today,” Pantalone said with a smile. A smile that expressed a million different emotions. That expressed anger, that expressed contempt, that expressed joy, and that expressed sadness. But now, it expressed only joy.
“Is that so?”
“You know… I actually kind of like it.”
They continued to admire the end of the old world. They were close; they were together.
And as they basked in the warmth, Dottore felt Pantalone’s hand brush against his. Was it by accident? Or on purpose? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were standing side by side.
The future—it wasn’t for the Doctor or Regrator.
It was for the Doctor and Regrator.