The Time of Change

Handles' Information

"Please, Doctor," she begs me. I stare at the anemic fowl through the glass window in the oven, my hands on my hips. I furrow my scarce eyebrows and sigh. "Oh, that's never going to work, is it?" She looks over my shoulder, trying to figure it out for herself. "What's wrong? Do you think it's not done yet?" she enquires.

"I think a decent vet would give it an even chance."

Clara groans, "Okay... okay. Well then. Use an app." I glance at her on my left. "An app?" I repeat, uncomprehending. She meets my gaze like I should know exactly what she's talking about. "Yes, an app. On your screwdriver. App it." I shake my head. "Most certainly not! It doesn't do turkey. Nothing does turkey. You'd need a time machine."

The look she gives me could both wither a plant and start a fire, simultaneously. It makes me feel very out of the loop, although there's only the two of us in the loop in the first place. So, if I've been put out of the loop, that makes it a circle. Clara's circle of knowledge.

"What?" I ask her.

Before I can blink, she's yanked me back outside and we're walking briskly across the yard toward the TARDIS. Clara holds the turkey, uncooked and pale, in her arms, and now she nods her head toward the doors. I roll my eyes and unlock them. "You can't keep using the TARDIS like this."

"Like what?"

"Missed birthdays, restaurant bookings. And please, just learn how to use iPlayer."

She trots toward the console, tapping her foot on a panel on the floor every now and then. One of them pops up, and she stops, smiling widely. "Ooh, vortex cooking?" she asks. I chuckle, crouching next to her. "Yep, exposure to the time winds. It'll either come up a treat, or possibly just lay some eggs."

"Information available," I hear from around the console. I jump to my feet and sprint toward where the sound came from and grab the sides of Handles' head. "What's that?" Clara inquires, running up behind me. "Oh, just a bit of a Cyberman. He'll get us to the church on time."

"I have developed a fault," Handles supplies. I nod sadly. "The organics are all gone, but there's still a full set of data banks. Found it at the Maldovar market." Clara blinks a couple of times, watching Handles wearily. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the Scanner buzz to life, rapidly focusing on an icy, snow-covered planet. I turn my attention back to Handles as he speaks again. "Planet identified from analysis of message."

"Right, cool," I breathe excitedly. "Go on, then. Okay. Tell us. What is the planet? Go on."

"Processing official designation," he says, monotone. A second's pause. "Processing."

I roll my eyes. "Okay, in your own time, dear. Don't rush." Clara smiles at me. "So why haven't you just gone down there and had a look?" she asks, curious. I turn my face toward her just as she sweeps the curled brown hair away from her face and behind her ear, just like she used to. My lungs falter for a moment, freezing the air coming into them and stifling the breath leaving. Handles suddenly feels very heavy in my hands. Get a grip on yourself. You never get so sidetracked like this. But I never think like this so much, either, never think about her so much and let her invade my mind like she has been lately. I've done a good job of keeping her out, for both our sakes. I've done a good job of pretending I got over it. At least, until recently.

"It's shielded," I reply. "Even the TARDIS can't break through it."

"Gallifrey."

Both my hearts skip a beat, though they're not synchronized. They don't beat together, yet they both stopped at the same moment. Clara's eyes get a bit wider, and they fall on Handles. I glare at him, disbelieving and not understanding. "What did you say?" I ask lowly. It takes only a second for him to respond, but it lasts decades, centuries, millennia. I hold my breath without realizing it and feel as though I'm going to explode if I don't move, don't breathe, don't do something but no, no, no I have to wait. Wait to hear what he says. He has to say it again, just one more time, because I have to be sure, say it again.

"Gallifrey."

"What are you talking about?" I snap. "Gallifrey? What do you mean?"

"Confirmed. Planet designation, Gallifrey."

I jerk him up in my hands, thrusting the shiny metal head at the Scanner's screen. A part of me shouts that he can't see it, he isn't able to see, but the other eleven parts of me yell other things, profanities I can't sort out and advices I can't hear over the infernal, ridiculously loud pounding of my blood. It's the only thing louder than the voices, the only thing that's able to drown them out. Why is it so damned loud? My arm shaking, I shove Handles toward the Scanner and hiss, "You see that? Gallifrey is my home. I know it when I see it. That is not Gallifrey."

"Doctor," says Clara carefully, "are you okay?"

"It's not Gallifrey," I tell her shortly. "Gallifrey is gone." The words that spill from my mouth cut me deeply, but the truth often does, doesn't it? Because what is the truth if not painful? I put Handles back down onto the console and walk toward the doors, my legs stiff and nearly numb. I breathe deeply, my hands on the knobs, my head bent down. I can feel the top of my head brush the wood of the door and I just keep breathing, pushing the terror, the anger, that has enveloped my body back down into my stomach. Or wherever it came from. I feel warmth on my right but I don't look. I know who's there but it isn't who I want most to see.

"Unless... unless you saved it," Clara replies, sounding hopeful. I peer at her. "You thought you might have."

I swing open the doors, and we stare down at the planet shown on the Scanner. It's much more impressive when looking at it in person. Its entire surface, every single piece of land, is white, snowy. I sense Clara wrap her arms around herself protectively. Even the stars don't seem to penetrate the force field around the planet. I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking. The Curator told me it worked -- well, insinuated, but did so heavily -- and I trust him more than I'd trust anyone who would tell me it hadn't. What proof do I have, though? How can I ever know for sure? A gut feeling? A sensation? Neither of those are grounds for any scientific, solid statement. But this is my home, this is my past. Is it really even scientific?

"Even if it survived," I tell Clara, "it's gone from this universe. That" -- I point viciously at the snowy planet far beneath us -- "is not my home." I turn around, closing the doors behind me, and wring my hands together. My gaze falls back on Handles and I think. Long and hard, I keep thinking. I seem to be doing that a lot, lately. More often than usual, and about more of a variety of subjects. Possibilities run through my mind, dancing just within my reach but just outside of it at the same time. It's maddening, being mad. "It can't be."