Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2008-10-09 12:06 am
ptahrrific) wrote2008-10-09 12:06 am
Entry tags:
Fake News/Doctor Who: I'm Your Moon, part four
Title: I'm Your Moon (4/9)
Rating: PG (the wet and soapy kind)
Series: The Colbert Report, Doctor Who
Spoilers: Anything through New Who S3/Torchwood S2 is fair game.
Summary: Young Stephen's situation gets soapier; adult Stephen's predicament gets scarier; and Four and Sarah Jane learn just who on the psi-moon has been sentenced to death.
There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.
George Carlin
See also: wallpapers! Four and Ten.
Beta by the latitudinarianstellar_dust. Table of contents, and footnotes, here.
I'm Your Moon
Part Four
The psi-moon: 2,999,404 AD
"Executioner?" exclaimed Sarah Jane, as the various aspects of Stephen around them began to rise from their places and move towards the door of the dining hall. "Doctor! We can't let this happen!"
"Hush, Sarah."
"But they're going to kill someone! As entertainment! And what if it's Stephen? I know Truthiness said he was all right, but—"
"Surely you don't trust anything that man says?"
"Well, pardon me for not having your magnificent Time Lord truth-sense."
"Who said anything about truth-sense? It's right there in his name!"
"What?"
"Truthiness," said the Doctor patiently. "That which one wishes to be true, regardless of the facts. If that aspect of Stephen claims that Stephen is fine, the only thing we can infer from that is that Stephen wishes he were fine. For all we know, the truth could be the exact opposite."
"Does that mean there might not be an execution at all?"
"Exactly! If there is, of course, we'll stop it, but there's no need to say it so loudly that every Stephen, Stephen and Stephen can hear you. Now come on!"
⇔
Stephen felt his way slowly through the forest. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but not much; it seemed to be a cloudy night, and he had already bumped into a tree once.
His memory wasn't much clearer than his vision. He had stepped out of the TARDIS in what he was pretty sure had been broad daylight, though he couldn't for the life of him picture the scenery he had walked into. Then the ground had bucked beneath him, and the next thing he knew he was coming to in a place that looked like nothing so much as his childhood idea of Mirkwood, right down to the glints like pale eyes between the trees.
It was also exactly the kind of place where bears would live. Never mind that it wasn't on Earth. If there was one thing worse than bears, it was alien bears.
But the image of Mirkwood was freshest in his mind when he felt the sticky strands of a spiderweb against his face.
With a thoroughly unmanly shriek Stephen flung himself backwards, brushing frantically at his face with both hands. His heel caught on a rock and he fell, back slamming against the trunk of a tree so hard that the wind was knocked out of him and there was nothing to do but slide to a seat at its base.
It took him several minutes to get his breath back, during which time he was not attacked by a giant spider; but neither was he rescued, and now he was scraped and bruised in addition to being aching, half-blind, and lost.
Stephen hugged his knees to his chest.
He wasn't going to cry. He was not.
⇔
Earth: 1562.
By the time he was covered in lather, Stephen had finally begun to relax.
The layers of mud from Higgins' Moon were receding, little by little, under the firm and expert touch of the beautiful dark-haired boy. And the more Stephen saw his natural color (if tinted slightly pink by the scrubbing) emerge from beneath the dirt, the more inclined he was to let this other boy take control.
On his own, Stephen never would have come to a place like this. Independent, self-made American men didn't need someone else to bathe them. But since he was here anyway, he might as well enjoy it, right?
When the boy lifted Stephen's soapy wrists and pressed them gently against the wall behind him, he was so calmed that he thought nothing of holding them up obediently while his underarms were scrubbed.
In fact, his mind had come back to the question of language. "Are you an immigrant?"
"That's a strange word for it, sir," said the attendant with a sad smile. "My country became part of the empire several years ago."
"'Became part of'—You mean, you were conquered!"
The other boy started. "Sir, you must not say that!" he hissed, lowering Stephen's arms and directing him to bend over again.
"But that's terrible!"
"I am alive. I eat well. The sultan has passed reforms that make it easier for my people." Another round of warm water was poured over Stephen; this time, except for the white suds floating on its surface, it flowed away clear. "On the whole, this is not a bad life."
"I don't think I could stand it."
"Is there no such system where you live? You must be from very far away."
Stephen sighed. "You could say that."
The attendant pushed him gently back into an upright position, but left his hands resting on Stephen's shoulders. "Well, you are very kind, at any rate."
Without thinking about it, Stephen reached up and touched the softly smiling face.
And then he was being kissed.
Deeply. Thoroughly. With tongue.
So accustomed was he to passively accepting what the other boy did to him that he completely forgot to object—for about thirty seconds. Then he pushed the other boy away.
"I can't," he said, meaning it to be a rebuke although it came out as a plea.
He followed it with "I'm sorry," for no reason that he could imagine.
A moment later he was making for the door, and if not for the slippery tile beneath his feet he would have been running.
⇔
The psi-moon: 2,999,404 AD
Stephen pulled off his glasses, rubbed the lenses with his tie, and put them back on. It didn't help his vision at all, but it gave him an excuse to dab briefly at his eyes in the meantime.
"Shake it off, Col-bert," he ordered. "So you're lost and alone and it's dark and cold and there are things out there that might possibly want to eat you. So what? You're an independent, self-made American man. You don't need anyone to hold your hand."
Revived by this exemplary pep talk, he struggled to his feet, ignoring the way his joints popped as he moved. He wasn't that old.
"There's got to be something other than forest eventually," he reasoned. "Just keep going."
⇔
The Stephens filed into a room that seemed to be based on a fuzzy idea of French baroque. The floors were wooden, polished so finely that you could see your reflection in them. The walls were were all paneled in marble, with floral ornamentation in white gold and the occasional recess to allow for a statue. There were also a couple of gold cherubs mounted about; these had baby figures topped with an adult Stephen's head, which was far creepier than probably intended.
To Sarah Jane's very great relief, the tops of the walls did not give way to curved ceilings with paintings on them. She wasn't sure how many images of Stephen she could take. Instead, they turned into windows, mercifully plain rectangles of cloudy glass that allowed sunlight to filter through, though no details of the sky could be seen.
"Can you see anything past the crowd, Doctor?" she asked. They had left the dining room at the very end of the procession, meaning there were now dozens of Stephens standing between her and the main attraction.
"Not much," said the Doctor. "There's some kind of raised platform up at the front there, with Truthiness standing on it. Hop up on that pedestal and see if you can't get a better look."
The pedestal held one of the statues of Stephen, unreasonably buff and clad only in a helmet and a toga. He was leaning on a sword and hefting a shield, and at his feet lay the carved head of someone who looked faintly like Helen Thomas. Clutching the sword, Sarah Jane hoisted herself up to the statue's level and peered forward.
At this point Truthiness, who had been giving a speech about something along the lines of moral character and the pursuit of perfection, announced, "Bring out the condemned!"
A door off to his right swung open, and out came a pair of Stephens with squared shoulders. These were the first Sarah Jane had seen not wearing suits: they were clad in military green, with polished black boots and crisp white gloves. Somehow they managed to retain stiff postures in spite of the wriggling, crying captive between them.
"It's a child!" gasped Sarah Jane, her voice strained with horror. "Doctor! The prisoner's a child!"
"The Need To Be Held," said Truthiness, addressing the prisoner, "you have been sentenced to death. Do you have any last words?"
Rating: PG (the wet and soapy kind)
Series: The Colbert Report, Doctor Who
Spoilers: Anything through New Who S3/Torchwood S2 is fair game.
Summary: Young Stephen's situation gets soapier; adult Stephen's predicament gets scarier; and Four and Sarah Jane learn just who on the psi-moon has been sentenced to death.
There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.
George Carlin
See also: wallpapers! Four and Ten.
Beta by the latitudinarian
stellar_dust. Table of contents, and footnotes, here.I'm Your Moon
Part Four
The psi-moon: 2,999,404 AD
"Executioner?" exclaimed Sarah Jane, as the various aspects of Stephen around them began to rise from their places and move towards the door of the dining hall. "Doctor! We can't let this happen!"
"Hush, Sarah."
"But they're going to kill someone! As entertainment! And what if it's Stephen? I know Truthiness said he was all right, but—"
"Surely you don't trust anything that man says?"
"Well, pardon me for not having your magnificent Time Lord truth-sense."
"Who said anything about truth-sense? It's right there in his name!"
"What?"
"Truthiness," said the Doctor patiently. "That which one wishes to be true, regardless of the facts. If that aspect of Stephen claims that Stephen is fine, the only thing we can infer from that is that Stephen wishes he were fine. For all we know, the truth could be the exact opposite."
"Does that mean there might not be an execution at all?"
"Exactly! If there is, of course, we'll stop it, but there's no need to say it so loudly that every Stephen, Stephen and Stephen can hear you. Now come on!"
Stephen felt his way slowly through the forest. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but not much; it seemed to be a cloudy night, and he had already bumped into a tree once.
His memory wasn't much clearer than his vision. He had stepped out of the TARDIS in what he was pretty sure had been broad daylight, though he couldn't for the life of him picture the scenery he had walked into. Then the ground had bucked beneath him, and the next thing he knew he was coming to in a place that looked like nothing so much as his childhood idea of Mirkwood, right down to the glints like pale eyes between the trees.
It was also exactly the kind of place where bears would live. Never mind that it wasn't on Earth. If there was one thing worse than bears, it was alien bears.
But the image of Mirkwood was freshest in his mind when he felt the sticky strands of a spiderweb against his face.
With a thoroughly unmanly shriek Stephen flung himself backwards, brushing frantically at his face with both hands. His heel caught on a rock and he fell, back slamming against the trunk of a tree so hard that the wind was knocked out of him and there was nothing to do but slide to a seat at its base.
It took him several minutes to get his breath back, during which time he was not attacked by a giant spider; but neither was he rescued, and now he was scraped and bruised in addition to being aching, half-blind, and lost.
Stephen hugged his knees to his chest.
He wasn't going to cry. He was not.
Earth: 1562.
By the time he was covered in lather, Stephen had finally begun to relax.
The layers of mud from Higgins' Moon were receding, little by little, under the firm and expert touch of the beautiful dark-haired boy. And the more Stephen saw his natural color (if tinted slightly pink by the scrubbing) emerge from beneath the dirt, the more inclined he was to let this other boy take control.
On his own, Stephen never would have come to a place like this. Independent, self-made American men didn't need someone else to bathe them. But since he was here anyway, he might as well enjoy it, right?
When the boy lifted Stephen's soapy wrists and pressed them gently against the wall behind him, he was so calmed that he thought nothing of holding them up obediently while his underarms were scrubbed.
In fact, his mind had come back to the question of language. "Are you an immigrant?"
"That's a strange word for it, sir," said the attendant with a sad smile. "My country became part of the empire several years ago."
"'Became part of'—You mean, you were conquered!"
The other boy started. "Sir, you must not say that!" he hissed, lowering Stephen's arms and directing him to bend over again.
"But that's terrible!"
"I am alive. I eat well. The sultan has passed reforms that make it easier for my people." Another round of warm water was poured over Stephen; this time, except for the white suds floating on its surface, it flowed away clear. "On the whole, this is not a bad life."
"I don't think I could stand it."
"Is there no such system where you live? You must be from very far away."
Stephen sighed. "You could say that."
The attendant pushed him gently back into an upright position, but left his hands resting on Stephen's shoulders. "Well, you are very kind, at any rate."
Without thinking about it, Stephen reached up and touched the softly smiling face.
And then he was being kissed.
Deeply. Thoroughly. With tongue.
So accustomed was he to passively accepting what the other boy did to him that he completely forgot to object—for about thirty seconds. Then he pushed the other boy away.
"I can't," he said, meaning it to be a rebuke although it came out as a plea.
He followed it with "I'm sorry," for no reason that he could imagine.
A moment later he was making for the door, and if not for the slippery tile beneath his feet he would have been running.
The psi-moon: 2,999,404 AD
Stephen pulled off his glasses, rubbed the lenses with his tie, and put them back on. It didn't help his vision at all, but it gave him an excuse to dab briefly at his eyes in the meantime.
"Shake it off, Col-bert," he ordered. "So you're lost and alone and it's dark and cold and there are things out there that might possibly want to eat you. So what? You're an independent, self-made American man. You don't need anyone to hold your hand."
Revived by this exemplary pep talk, he struggled to his feet, ignoring the way his joints popped as he moved. He wasn't that old.
"There's got to be something other than forest eventually," he reasoned. "Just keep going."
The Stephens filed into a room that seemed to be based on a fuzzy idea of French baroque. The floors were wooden, polished so finely that you could see your reflection in them. The walls were were all paneled in marble, with floral ornamentation in white gold and the occasional recess to allow for a statue. There were also a couple of gold cherubs mounted about; these had baby figures topped with an adult Stephen's head, which was far creepier than probably intended.
To Sarah Jane's very great relief, the tops of the walls did not give way to curved ceilings with paintings on them. She wasn't sure how many images of Stephen she could take. Instead, they turned into windows, mercifully plain rectangles of cloudy glass that allowed sunlight to filter through, though no details of the sky could be seen.
"Can you see anything past the crowd, Doctor?" she asked. They had left the dining room at the very end of the procession, meaning there were now dozens of Stephens standing between her and the main attraction.
"Not much," said the Doctor. "There's some kind of raised platform up at the front there, with Truthiness standing on it. Hop up on that pedestal and see if you can't get a better look."
The pedestal held one of the statues of Stephen, unreasonably buff and clad only in a helmet and a toga. He was leaning on a sword and hefting a shield, and at his feet lay the carved head of someone who looked faintly like Helen Thomas. Clutching the sword, Sarah Jane hoisted herself up to the statue's level and peered forward.
At this point Truthiness, who had been giving a speech about something along the lines of moral character and the pursuit of perfection, announced, "Bring out the condemned!"
A door off to his right swung open, and out came a pair of Stephens with squared shoulders. These were the first Sarah Jane had seen not wearing suits: they were clad in military green, with polished black boots and crisp white gloves. Somehow they managed to retain stiff postures in spite of the wriggling, crying captive between them.
"It's a child!" gasped Sarah Jane, her voice strained with horror. "Doctor! The prisoner's a child!"
"The Need To Be Held," said Truthiness, addressing the prisoner, "you have been sentenced to death. Do you have any last words?"
no subject
Ooooh, what forgotten/repressed things lurk in the deep forests of Stephen's mind?
And the masseur looks a lot like Jon. In the picture, it almost looks like ickle!Stephen is figuring it out. Wonder if we'll be seeing him again...
Great chapter! I'm glad that you got to update so soon!
no subject
Ickle!Stephen wouldn't recognize a Jon yet. (Though the masseur is Jewish.) That said, there are Jon-based timeline-bending shenanigans to come.
Thanks!
no subject
Zomg wallpapers. *grabs* I <3 that logo! And little excited Stephen is so adorable. Fluffy hair!
no subject
There can never be too much fluffyhair!Stephen. Glad you like!
no subject
no subject
He wasn't going to cry. He was not.
Awwwww, Stephen. *hugs*
"I can't," he said, meaning it to be a rebuke although it came out as a plea.
He followed it with "I'm sorry," for no reason that he could imagine.
Awwwww x2. Oh, Stephen. No matter your age I still want to cuddle you sometimes.
these had baby figures topped with an adult Stephen's head, which was far creepier than probably intended.
LOL. Indeed.
"The Need To Be Held," said Truthiness, addressing the prisoner, "you have been sentenced to death. Do you have any last words?"
Eeep! You end it there? That's just mean! Now I can't wait for the next part.
(Love the wallpapers. The way you draw ickle!Stephen continues to be so freaking adorable. =P)
no subject
Truthiness is the mean one - I'm just the writer. *whistles innocently*
Thanks!
no subject
(Anonymous) 2008-10-09 08:52 pm (UTC)(link)there's no need to say it so loudly that every Stephen, Stephen and Stephen can hear you. <--oh, Doctor, you're so adorable.
oh, poor adorable Stephen! well-written and adorable.
and the picture. WOW. awesome. i like their expressions. and WOW. that scene, if you don't mind, is HOT. and adorable. and hot.
nooo, keep Need To Be Held! he's adorable!
fangirling hard,
Kagaya
p.s. you're adorable.
p.p.s. is the arc word Color? or Truth? it's Truth, isn't it?
p.p.p.s. is it me or has Stephen been mentioning time travel and sf-type things lately? you think he reads this? i guess we'll know for sure if he changes 'Multi-grain' to 'Time-traveling'. though i'm surprised it hasn't changed to 'Emmy-winning'. i use too many hyphens.
no subject
The arc word is neither Color nor Truth. It's . . . more sort of an arc phrase, really. (Arc item?)
It would be hilarious if the real Colbert read this. (Someone in TDS' audience the other day asked about time travel. Wonder if that was a coincidence.) And, now that you mention it, I have no idea why the word in the opening hasn't been changed to "Emmy-winning."
Especially since "multi-grain" is lame.no subject
As per the comment above, I am looking forward to these Jon-based shenanigans you mention :-D