i might brave the fire til the feeling hits

sink or swim

the doctor's thoughts are in italics, unless the italics are within dialogue.

Her head pulses in time to the thrumming.

She thinks she groans, a sound of all the terror she'd wanted to scream – but if it fades away, then she's not to blame. Plor did say it would hurt.

No. She said...

She refuses to open her eyes. The world spins and sways as it is; rollercoaster regret. She may start finally screaming.

She said she couldn't guarantee it. Couldn't guarantee no pain. No warning helps. Yaz refuses to open her eyes.

Does every teleport feel like this?

Physicality comes slow. First it is her head – only her head – available to her. The rest of her body makes itself known afterwards, an overall ache, as the seconds pass. The cool sensation of metal on her skin is seeping through now, an iciness measured in its pace. Goosebumps rising. Fingertips attached to meshed metal holes. Pleading.

She refuses to open her eyes.

Maybe if she put her head to the floor. Maybe the hurt would lessen. Maybe. The thought echoes in the damaged chamber; movement feels unrealised. But it happens. Cool metal and cooler relief, a joy so sharp it may cut into her skin. She concentrates all her energy on the metal. Relief, relief, safety.

Hair tickles her jaw.

And that's new.

What on—

Her ears are still ringing, bells hailing the arrival of hurt, but the ringers are finishing up, she hopes. In half-formed thoughts, she prays to God that they will let go of their bell-ropes soon; that they will bow and congratulate themselves on a job well done. And, then, finally, they will leave. Leave her be. Leave her be.

Her head pounds. She aches to escape it.

She aches.

She doesn't hear any screams. It's likely that the others are okay. They might be coming over to her soon. For now, she keeps her eyes shut, bowed while the bell-ringers work; whispering under her breath for this, too, to pass, despite her lungs heaving, despite an emerging erraticism and the inside cacophony tearing to shreds any future sense of peace. Let her stop aching; go home, bell ringers, your deeds have been done, your defiance against death keenly felt; leave her in peace. She still has so much to do.

Her breaths are slow but her pulse isn't. Curled up on the floor, the edge of life worship, almost, the erraticism is only more prevalent. Her calm actions all in vain.

But the breathing works. The bells fall silent; now is the time for movement. She hoists her right arm out from underneath her, a ginger movement, and lifts her torso by a well-hidden strength found in her flat palms and the strain of her biceps. Eyes closed, rising – eyes open, dizzy. Try again.

Eyes open, less dizzy. She aches.

The TARDIS' warm glow has been replaced by a stark yellow. A warning? As it travels, it murmurs in a way Yaz has never heard before.

Or maybe she has. Wide open, dizzy. She no longer knows what she doesn't know.

No, no. Oh, no, no, no.

Graham is at her side in an instant. He's pale, too; he breathes heavily, open-mouthed. Eyes open are yet hooded with exhaustion, but he blinks rapidly.

Yaz thinks he's talking to her. Sorry. Be there in a bit. She tries to quieten the furious erraticism but nothing works.

The TARDIS witters. Graham eases himself into a crouch and repeats a word, a name, until she at least hears his worry.