Chapter Text
“You’ve got about three minutes left,” Cassandra says, but the Doctor knows it’s three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Twenty-six. Twenty-five.
She says something, Cassandra does, she’s trying to negotiate with the cat nurses, it thinks.
Twenty-three.
He’s trying to avoid touching the walls with his bare skin, it’s not like it’ll make any difference in three minutes and twenty-one, twenty seconds, but if he can open the door with his sonic screwdriver, it’ll be able to save the others have trapped here, stop Cassandra, save Rose — well, saving Rose might be harder, but it’s even harder stuck in here.
Three minutes, fifteen seconds. He’s pulled out its sonic screwdriver. Three minutes, fourteen. He’s looking around for anywhere he could open the door. Thirteen. Of course there isn’t an opening mechanism from the inside, it’s a cage, it’s meant to trap.
Twelve. Eleven.
It’s soundproof. The sounds the victims must be making in here necessitates it to be. Kicking, or knocking, or screaming isn’t going to do anything.
There’s got to be some way for someone trapped in here by mistake to get out, but it doesn’t seem like there is. No handles, no locks, he’s about to start using his screwdriver everywhere, seeing if anything sticks.
Three minutes exactly. Two minutes, fifty-nine. Two minutes, fifty-eight.
Nothing’s working, he’s checking every centimetre of the walls, the door, even the ceiling, but it’s not meant to be opened from this side. It’s a prison, a prison for innocent people, bred and born to spend their entire lives in the dark and the pain.
One and a half minutes. The Doctor slams itself into the door, it doesn’t budge, it’s probably deadlocked and even if it wasn’t there’s just no way to open it on this side. It’s designed with the explicit purpose of keeping desperate people contained indefinitely.
One minute.
Maybe if he kicks the door hard enough? There’s got to be some way to get out.
Fifty-five seconds.
It’s hard to manoeuvre to a position where he can kick the door without touching the sides. He’s wasting time.
Forty-five seconds.
It doesn’t budge, doesn’t crack, nothing happens.
Thirty seconds.
He’s out of ideas.
Twenty-five seconds.
It’s curled up on the ground, given up on not touching the sides.
Twenty seconds.
When he regenerates he’ll be able to get out. It’s just not fair, he’s had so little time.
Fifteen seconds.
His only hope is Cassandra or the nurses, and neither of them are any hope at all.
Ten seconds.
So it sits there.
Nine seconds.
Rocking slightly.
Eight seconds.
Trying not to think—
Seven seconds.
—about what happens next.
Six seconds.
About what’ll happen to Rose.
Five seconds.
About what’ll happen to him.
Four seconds.
About what’ll happen to the people.
Three.
Who’ve never seen the sun.
Two.
Or a life free of pain and sickness.
One.
It closes his eyes.
Zero.