THE UNIFIED DOCTOR

Threads of
Becoming

Book One

Regan Andrews

Illustrated edition · September 2026

Unofficial Doctor Who fan fiction

About this edition

Threads of Becoming
The Unified Doctor · Book One
Regan Andrews

First illustrated EPUB edition, September 2026. Contains the completed, expanded 21-chapter edition and its 28 published illustrations.

The Unified Doctor Adventures is an unofficial work of Doctor Who fan fiction and an independent, not-for-profit fan project. It is created for enjoyment and appreciation of Doctor Who, not for commercial profit. This book is free to read.

This is not an official Doctor Who publication. The project is not affiliated with, authorised, sponsored or endorsed by the BBC or any other Doctor Who rights holder. Doctor Who and its associated characters, names, settings, designs and trademarks remain the property of their respective rights holders. No ownership of those underlying rights is claimed.

Original contributions are shared under CC BY-NC-SA only to the extent that their creators hold the rights to license them. This licence does not cover Doctor Who or any other third-party intellectual property, and does not grant permission to use rights belonging to others.

Cover and interior illustrations were generated with AI and selected for this edition.

unified.doctor
the.unified.doctor@the.unified.doctor

Chapter One

The Convergence

The stars had stopped whispering.

The Doctor pressed two fingers against the glass of the scanner. Somewhere beyond it, a small yellow sun should have been turning through the last peaceful hours of its afternoon. He had set the instruments to listen for it. There should have been the pressure of its gravity, the long movement of its planets, all the little disturbances by which a place announced that it was still there. The glass felt cold. On the screen, the sun remained a steady point of light.

He increased the sensitivity. Nothing answered. For several journeys now, the distances between things had been growing difficult to judge. A century that ought to have passed beneath the TARDIS like deep water had caught her hull. A landing coordinate had yielded three incompatible skies. He had blamed the instruments, then the damaged routes, then his own exhaustion. Each explanation had allowed him to make another journey without addressing the next silence.

He tapped the screen. The yellow point blinked out, and the fault indicator remained green.

“Well, that’s unhelpful.”

He reached for the signal log. It showed that the sun had never been selected.

The timeline was collapsing. He had known that when he entered it; he had believed there was time to find a way through. Across the ruined branches of the Confluence, whole histories had sheared away from one another. His own life ran through too many of them. There were places where he had stayed, places where he had left, and places where the same departure had acquired a different cost. Now the barriers between those histories were giving way.

At the back of his mind, a laugh arrived with a remembered taste of smoke. The Fifteenth Doctor’s laugh; the War Doctor’s smoke. He knew both intimately, but the order was wrong. Reaching for one memory pulled the other across it. The Fourteenth’s weariness settled into his shoulders. A sudden, fierce impulse to conceal the scanner belonged to an earlier danger he could no longer place. He put his hand flat on the console until the impulse passed.

He remembered being the Fugitive. He could not remember what had just frightened her. That gap disturbed him more than the memories themselves.

The external view widened. The TARDIS hung inside a derelict pocket reality on the dying edge of the Multiversal Confluence. Beyond her, the remaining stars had begun to smear along the same curve. One pale arc crossed another, and the point where they met darkened. The ship’s projected exit route went straight through it.

The Doctor cancelled the route. He entered another, taking them back towards the place from which they had arrived. Its coordinates appeared correctly for a moment, then exchanged positions. The scanner offered a landing probability. Before he could read the last digit, it withdrew the calculation.

“A suggestion would be welcome,” he told the console.

The TARDIS rang a low warning. He had heard it before, and remembered dismissing it before. He could not tell whether either memory belonged to this journey.

The floor tipped. He caught the rail with his forearm and struck his knee against the lower console. Pain gave him something immediate to attend to. The coral walls, darkened and brittle along their ridges, shed a fine dust over his sleeve. A crack opened around the base of a support. He watched it climb, stop, and begin again.

“All right. I see it.”

He closed the exterior shields and cut the drive. The upward rush of the central column slowed. For three breaths the room steadied. Then a second motion passed through it, dragging against the first. The column jerked upwards while its reflection continued down. He stared at the glass, counting. At the fourth movement the two images coincided, and the shock knocked his fingers off the control.

He tried a manual correction. He knew the sequence: shut the feed, hold the phase, release the brake. His hand moved to a switch that was no longer there. In the console room he remembered, it had been beside a brass wheel. Here his fingers closed on a bare edge.

He swore, found the right control by its cable, and pulled it. The opposing motions slowed, but the floor continued to tremble. Through the open service grille, a thin band of light was travelling backwards along the wiring. The disturbance was already inside the ship.

“It’s time,” he said aloud.

The words sounded more settled than he felt. He crouched at the grille, one hand on his bruised knee, and watched the light pass beneath a connector. The connector aged as it crossed: bright metal, tarnish, a small bloom of rust. Then the sequence reversed. He could disconnect it, perhaps. He could also remember three different consequences of doing so, and none of them told him what this particular ship would do now.

He left the connector alone. On the underside of the console, the manual isolation handle was still where he expected. He braced his foot against the plinth and hauled it down. A bank of instruments went dark. The light continued along the cable, slower now, and stopped beneath his hand.

“There. You hold that. I’ll do the difficult bit.”

The floor gave a small, unfriendly kick.

“Our usual arrangement, then.”

His face appeared in the blank instruments. It looked unfamiliar in the way his face always did when he had been avoiding a mirror. He lifted a hand to his cheek. The movement came back to him in several shapes: an older hand, a narrower wrist, fingers he remembered curling around a different rail. None of the reflections held long enough to examine.

This was not the familiar warning of a regeneration. He knew that approaching heat, the bodily insistence that an ending had begun. What pressed against him now came from lives already lived. He had tried to keep them in their separate places while he piloted. The Confluence was removing those places faster than he could find them.

He stood slowly. His knee would take his weight. He checked it twice, embarrassed by the need, although there was nobody present to see.

Light spread through the matrix core beneath the central column. As the Doctor watched, it separated into a pattern he recognised without knowing where he had learnt it. Old Gallifreyan work: deeper than the Citadel’s preferred histories, older than the explanations Rassilon’s successors had made compulsory. Recognition gave him a starting point. It did not supply the missing instructions.

He opened the diagnostic panel, keeping its loose inspection plate in his hand, and asked the TARDIS to show the pattern again. Several of its lines ended at his own biodata reading. Each time the room shuddered, those lines pulled apart, and the opposing movement returned to the column. The ship was trying to carry several incompatible accounts of her passenger through the same failing boundary.

He checked the shield reading against a second gauge. There was little power left to spend on keeping those accounts separate. Before he touched the selection control, he tried to find out whether the ship could escape without making that choice at all.

He cleared a narrow strip of the scanner and requested the nearest reachable boundary. The result appeared as a white notch. It was close, provided the distance could be trusted. He distrusted it. He asked for a second measurement, using the hull's movement against the surrounding field instead of the navigation records. The notch shifted to the other side of the display.

“Pick a side.”

Both results vanished.

He set the instruments to record without interpreting. The TARDIS could still push against the boundary; he could feel her doing it through the rail. Perhaps a short burst would carry them clear before the contradictory positions mattered. He would have to divert power from the inner field to test it. He marked the shield's present level with his thumbnail on the dusty gauge, then moved the power control a fraction.

The ship leaned towards the white notch as it reappeared. For the first time since the sun vanished, the stars on the scanner moved together. He let himself hope for almost a second.

The reflection in the central column split. One image continued towards the boundary. Another dragged backwards through it. A third stood still, and the pressure between them bent the inspection plate in his hand. The metal pressed into his palm. He shut the test down before the plate broke.

The shield gauge stopped below the mark his thumbnail had left. He waited for it to recover. It did not. The test had spent something they would not get back before the next impact.

He laid the bent plate on the console. For a few breaths he did nothing except keep his hands off the controls. Another burst might look more promising on the first reading. He knew how easily that could persuade him to spend the rest. Instead he compared the time of the split in the column with the instant the drive had engaged. They matched. Moving the ship was pulling the conflicting signals farther apart.

“I'm making you fight yourself.”

He restored the inner field as far as the remaining power allowed. The column's images drew closer. A low vibration eased beneath his feet, and he realised how hard he had been gripping the rail.

He could order the TARDIS to choose one account of him. He found the control and rested his thumb above it. He had evidence now that the disagreement mattered. He still had no evidence that deleting most of his life was the only way out.

On the scanner, a face briefly resolved where his reflection had been. He lifted his thumb. He needed to see what he was asking her to discard.

The first echo stood on the far side of the console, almost hidden by the column. Then another appeared beside the doors. The light passed through their outlines and caught on remembered details: the turn of a collar, a hand behind a back, a mouth preparing to interrupt. The Doctor held still as they took shape.

They had the presence of people in a room, yet none of them displaced the dust falling through the air. When he shifted his weight, several made the same small adjustment. The TARDIS had given the converging streams of his own consciousness a shape he could face. He could already feel their recognition from inside his body.

The First inspected the cracked support with visible disapproval. The Seventh watched the Doctor’s hand near the selection control. The Eleventh was looking at the door, measuring the distance to it with a restless movement of his fingers. Near the scanner, the Thirteenth smiled briefly and then bent to examine the light under the grille.

He knew the temptation to follow her down there. A damaged connector was a manageable problem. He could spend his last minutes making an excellent repair to a part that would vanish with everything around it.

The First lifted his chin towards the console. The gesture made the Doctor feel, absurdly, that he had been caught leaving a task unfinished. He straightened. The echo straightened with him.

“You’ve been running for too long,” said the Twelfth, arms folded.

The voice came from the other side of the column. The Doctor turned towards it and felt the words forming in his own throat a fraction too late. He remembered saying things like that to people who could no longer bear to hear them. He remembered having reason. Both memories made him want to argue.

“I wasn’t running,” he answered. “I was preparing.”

The Twelfth looked down at his hand. It was still resting beside the control that would make the choice for him.

The Doctor took it away. He could picture the quieter room that one selection might leave: one sequence of memories, familiar movements, an escape route the TARDIS could calculate. He could not establish what would happen to the rest. The display marked them as conflicting data. He knew how much could be hidden inside a label like that.

“Preparing badly,” he conceded.

No one laughed. He found that fair.

The echoes drew closer as the room contracted around them. There was no vote to take. Each brought the pressure of a choice he had once made, and the effort of remembering it was his. He could feel himself reaching for clever evasions, for righteous anger, for the comfort of deciding there was no alternative. Those habits were familiar enough to distrust.

He returned to the diagnostic panel. The selection control could reduce the number of signals. A different connection might let the TARDIS recognise them as one continuous life, but the diagram showed an empty interval between the streams. He could see the gap. He had no safe means of crossing it.

His breast pocket had grown warm.

He had been aware of that warmth since the first route failed. He had managed, until now, to treat it as another thing to examine later.

He drew out the shard of the Moment. Light flickered between its edges without settling on a surface. When he moved it, the glow stayed where his hand had been for a moment before catching up. This fragment had survived choices that could not comfortably occupy the same history. The TARDIS’s broken pattern brightened in its presence.

“You might bridge it,” he said.

The shard gave him no answer. He would have preferred an argument. He could question an argument; all he had here was a response on a damaged instrument and an object he had good reason to fear.

He held it farther away. The pattern separated again. He brought it back, slowly, and watched the lines approach without joining. The relationship was repeatable. Whether it would survive contact with the core remained unknown.

The ship jolted, hard enough to drive him against the console. He closed his hand instinctively. A bright edge pressed into his palm, and for an instant he remembered doing exactly this in a room full of people. He opened his hand. The room was empty except for his echoes.

He checked the scanner for life outside. The search returned no reliable result. He could not take that as proof that there was nobody to harm. He shut down the outward transmission path and drew the remaining field in against the hull. Whatever happened at the console, he would keep as much of it as he could inside the TARDIS.

The access collar beneath the column refused to open. He set the shard on the rim, held it with two fingers, and used his free hand to release the catches. One moved. The second had warped. He could see the little fault clearly now: a bent metal lip beneath the ceramic housing. For all the light pouring through it, the console still contained parts that stuck.

He worked the lip loose with the edge of the inspection plate. His hand shook, and the plate slipped. A line of blood opened across his thumb. He wrapped it in his handkerchief, tried again at a shallower angle, and felt the catch yield.

Below the collar lay a narrow recess where the converging light was brightest. The shard was wider than the opening. He turned it once, expecting to have to force it, and found that its other edge fitted. He stopped just short of contact.

“I can’t tell you what this will do to us.”

The TARDIS’s hum deepened. The collar held open against his hand. He took the support she could offer without pretending it was a guarantee.

The Doctor placed the shard into the heart of the console.

Reality rippled across the room. The rail curved away from him, returned, and met his hip with enough force to bruise. Every illuminated gauge briefly displayed the same reading. Then the screens went white. He could no longer tell whether the floor was falling or whether his body had lost the means to judge it.

He kept one hand on the edge of the console. It was a poor anchor, but it was the only thing he could still feel distinctly. He had expected the pressure to increase. He had not expected to lose the word for his hand.

The cold reached his teeth. He tried to call to the TARDIS and drew a breath that would not come all the way in. A memory of drowning rose so sharply that he kicked against a floor he could no longer locate. The movement twisted his bad knee. That pain belonged to the present, and he held on to it.

Then the rest arrived. His back arched. The console edge tore free of his grip, and he fell hard enough to jar his jaw. For a moment, the only sound he could make was a small, furious gasp. He had survived pain before. Remembering all the ways was no help at all.

Lives crossed through him faster than he could distinguish them. He heard the Tenth resisting his departure and felt the fear beneath the words. The Sixth’s laughter arrived with the memory of disaster held at bay for somebody else. He knew the deliberate distance of the Fourth, the Fugitive’s anger, the Thirteenth’s effort to keep speaking brightly when brightness had become work. These were things he had done. The recognition brought their reasons close enough to hurt.

He tried to sort them. For a few seconds he put one departure after another, matching faces to rooms, rooms to voices. The order broke as soon as he found it. A farewell he had thought understood opened into a different recollection: how impatient he had been to leave, how carefully the person at the door had hidden their relief. He could no longer preserve only his preferred account.

He wanted someone to tell him when it would end. The room offered his own faces, thinning in the light. He reached towards the nearest one. His fingers passed through it and struck the floor.

He could feel the original selection control above him. One pull might still break the connection. He dragged an elbow beneath his body and almost reached it before the memory of another abandoned argument stopped him. There had always been a reason to hurry. There had always been somebody left to live with what he had decided in the hurry.

He let his arm fall. He could not promise that joining these lives would make him wiser. He could stop using the distance between them to avoid recognising his own decisions.

His hearts stumbled out of rhythm. He pressed a hand against his chest, trying to distinguish one beat from the other, and found that counting made the panic worse. The TARDIS lowered the light around him. A slow vibration passed through the deck, steady enough to follow.

He breathed with it. The first breath caught. The next went deeper. Somewhere above him, a circuit failed with an ordinary electrical snap. The burnt smell cut through everything else. He concentrated on that, on the hard floor under his shoulder, on the present weight of his own body. The separate streams kept coming, but he had somewhere to receive them.

The bright outlines folded towards him. He felt no one step inside. Instead, the effort of keeping each recognition apart began to loosen. He could remember being afraid and being brave without having to assign either feeling to a face before admitting that it was his. The change was difficult to follow while it happened. Afterwards, he would remember chiefly the relief of being able to draw a full breath.

The room fell quiet. A loose piece of the inspection plate spun once beside his ear and settled. He waited for another impact. None came.

When he opened his eyes, the underside of the console was inches from his face. A bead of solder hung from a broken joint. He watched it cool before trying to move. His long sable coat had twisted beneath him, its crimson lining caught on the grille. He freed it carefully. Standing required two attempts and both hands on the rail.

His reflection stayed with him when he looked at the scanner. The same eyes followed his movement across the glass. He looked tired. He also looked present in a way he had not for some time, although he distrusted that judgment enough to check the instrument beside him.

One biodata reading. Unsteady, but one.

The echoes were gone. He looked towards the doors, then behind the column. Their absence brought a brief stab of loneliness, followed by the recognition that he had been expecting an audience for something he would now have to do himself. He could recall the Twelfth’s reproach. He could also recognise his own evasion in the reply.

He was whole. The word described the continuity he could feel through his own life. It did not explain where he had misplaced the inspection plate, or why the name attached to a familiar remembered voice would not come when he reached for it. He tried once more, then stopped forcing it. The feeling of having known that person remained; the details would have to wait.

His thumb had begun to sting. He unwrapped the handkerchief, checked the cut, and bound it again. The simple task steadied him more than the new reading on the screen. There were things to do with these hands. He would have to learn which of his instincts helped him do them, and which merely felt convincing.

“I’m him,” he whispered. He considered the sentence. “All of them.”

The TARDIS gave a faint hum.

“The Unified Doctor,” he added, testing the shape of it. “We’ll see how that goes.”

Outside, the Confluence continued to crumble. Two arcs of starlight met on the scanner and disappeared into a darkness that spread towards the ship. Convergence had not repaired the pocket reality. The Doctor checked the exit calculation. Its figures held their places now, long enough for him to read how little time remained.

He released the isolation handle. Several screens came back; one did not. The access collar closed around the spent light in the core, leaving a scorched mark on its rim. He touched the edge and pulled his fingers away from the heat. That connection had bought him a chance to act. He could see no reason to assume it could be used again.

He smiled at the ship as her column found a steady rhythm. The expression hurt a little where he had struck his jaw.

“Thank you.”

Then he turned to the navigation controls.

The silence beyond the hull was still there, but he could attend to it without losing the thread of his own thought. He selected the place where the yellow sun had been. The instruments offered nothing. This time he wrote down the coordinate before the display could change its mind.

He could not tell whether the light was gone, hidden, or arriving from a history the ship could no longer reach. He kept the note. An empty reading was a reason to investigate, and he had spent too long allowing it to excuse departure.

“What happened to you?” he asked the missing star.

The pencil rested in his bandaged hand. He waited, listening beyond the repaired rhythm of the engines.

On the far edge of the scanner, the blank space moved towards them. The Doctor set the note beneath the rim of the console, where he could find it, and reached for the central lever.

Chapter Two

The Eaters of Time

The silence didn’t last. The Doctor had barely closed his hand around the central lever when a knock sounded inside the console. He glanced towards the loose inspection plate on the floor. It had stopped moving. The next knock came from beneath his feet, and the pencil rolled off the note he had made about the missing star.

He caught the paper against the console rim. For a moment he could still read the coordinate. Then the scanner flashed, bleaching the room white, and he had to turn his face away. When he looked back, the number on the paper was legible. He folded it into his coat pocket before anything else could change.

A long groan travelled up through the TARDIS. The rail shook against his hip. Across the room, the crack in the coral support opened far enough to show darkness inside it. He reached for the shield control and found it already at its limit. The escape test had used the reserve; moving the lever harder would not bring it back.

He stood still long enough to distinguish the movements. The first came from the ship, a tired vibration through the deck. The second arrived between those vibrations, pressing against his teeth. He knew several ways to stop a resonance. Each required him to know which side was producing it. His thumb throbbed inside its handkerchief as he eased his grip.

“Let it come,” he said softly, watching the interval between the pulses. He wanted one clean reading before he acted. The TARDIS answered with a warning sharp enough to make him flinch.

“One reading. I’m not inviting it to stay.”

The core pulsed blood-red. He touched the recorder, but its trace flattened every time the second vibration arrived. He tried a separate circuit. The trace flattened there too. Neither circuit retained anything he could examine. He could not yet tell whether the intrusion was disrupting the record or taking it away.

Jagged symbols lifted from the scanner into the air. Their edges trembled above the glass, and the Doctor drew his hand back before one crossed his fingers. He looked for a familiar construction: Gallifreyan, a Matrix indexing form, anything from the languages he remembered seeing in the Shadow Proclamation’s records. Nothing fitted. Even the order of the marks changed when he tried to follow it.

Yet the meaning arrived. He understood the accusation before he could decide how he had read it, as if he had reached the end of a conversation whose beginning had been taken away. He disliked the ease of it. With his free hand he entered the sense of the message into a separate display, keeping it apart from the symbols themselves.

THE EATERS HAVE AWOKEN. YOUR UNITY IS AN ERROR. CORRECTION IMMINENT.

“So that’s your play,” he murmured. “Send scavengers to erase what the multiverse just dared to mend.” The words steadied him briefly. They also assumed a sender he had not seen. He left the incoming channel open and asked who had authorised the correction. The symbols continued to change. No answer came.

He crouched beneath the console, favouring his injured knee, and pulled out a long black case. Its weight was familiar. Several memories of working on it crowded together: a fine screw that would not seat, an argument with the ship, the decision to leave something unfinished. He could not recover their order. The biometric lock had refused him before. Its dark surface warmed beneath his palm now.

The lock clicked. He kept his hand there for another second, almost suspicious of a mechanism that had finally done what he wanted. On the small panel beside the catches, several readings settled into a single line. He had changed sufficiently for the case to recognise him. That was all the evidence it offered.

The case unfolded across his knees. Inside lay a sonic instrument in Gallifreyan bronze and silver, its crystalline tip scattering a thin band of colour over his cuff. He lifted it carefully. The grip accommodated his hand without telling him how every control worked. He found the low-power setting by touch, checked it against the open lock, and received a reassuringly ordinary measurement of metal.

“Good. We’ll start with things that exist.”

He pocketed the sonic and pushed the empty case safely beneath the console. Another pulse struck before he could stand. The lights along the floor came on in the wrong order, beginning at the doors and running backwards towards him. He used the rail to get upright. The ship had stopped trying to disguise how badly she was hurt.

The Eaters were arriving. The warning marks contracted into a point above the scanner, and a thin sound passed through the room. He heard it once with his ears and once as the recollection of having heard it. His hand moved towards the drive before he consciously decided to run.

A rupture opened to the right of the console, about the size of a mirror. Through it, stars disappeared in sequence. The Doctor raised the sonic and compared the opening with the wall behind it. The wall returned a distance. The opening returned three, each shorter than the last. He lowered the instrument rather than let its automatic adjustment pull him into following those readings.

A shadow crossed the nearest star. He stepped sideways. The shadow followed without moving through the intervening space, occupying the place where his reflection should have been. Behind it, the last of the small lights went out.

The first Eater pressed into view. Its outline narrowed and widened around joints that would not stay in the same places. Where a face might have been, clock hands gathered around a dark opening. Their tips struck one another without a sound. The Doctor could not judge whether he was looking at one creature or several successive positions of it. He kept the console between them.

He knew what it would say a moment before it spoke. The knowledge had the unpleasant intimacy of remembering his own reply. He tried holding his breath to interrupt the sequence. The words reached him anyway, stripped of any audible voice.

“You should not be.”

“And yet, here I am.” He heard himself give the answer he had anticipated and felt a chill despite the heat from the core. Arguing might be another way of standing where it expected him. He turned away from the rupture and checked the departure controls. There was still a route out. There was no longer time to test it safely.

He pulled the central lever down and forced the TARDIS into a compression skip. The familiar departure sound broke in the middle. A manoeuvre he remembered using to evade temporal assassins in the Time War compressed the ship’s passage while the exterior ran ahead: a hundred seconds outside for each second he spent within. He watched the paired counters separate. Somewhere beyond the hull, events were continuing without him.

At three internal seconds he tried to end the skip. The release resisted. He could have increased the drive, the first solution that came to mind, but he remembered what acceleration had just done to the divided column. He reduced the load instead and worked the manual release with his good hand. The sonic slid across the console when the floor tilted. He caught it against his wrist and held the release until the counters returned to the same rate.

They emerged beyond the collapsing pocket, on the other side of the Confluence. The rupture had vanished from the console room. The Doctor checked the empty space twice before allowing himself to look outside. On the scanner, one of the navigation traces ended halfway through a populated system. He called up an earlier record. The system was absent from that one too.

He widened the view. A river basin appeared on a world below them, with settlements strung along its banks. The image changed while he watched. Streets shortened, then gave way to ground with no foundations beneath it. A figure in a doorway lifted an arm. The doorway went first; for an instant the arm remained raised in empty air. Then the display showed an unbroken slope.

He tried to retrieve the frame. There was no frame to retrieve. The Eaters were changing the history that would have made a ruin possible. On another channel a voice asked half a question, and the rest arrived as empty carrier noise. He kept the channel open while he brought the ship down towards the slope.

The TARDIS landed hard. He checked the air and the ground immediately outside, then opened the doors. Dust lay against the threshold in a shallow ridge. Beyond it spread a bare plain under a pale sun. Something about the horizon tugged at his memory. He pictured himself standing there with a different face, but could recover neither a name nor a reason for coming. He would not use that feeling as a map.

He left the doors open. The scanner had shown people here. Until he knew otherwise, he would look for them.

He knelt a few paces from the ship. His bad knee objected and he shifted his weight, digging his fingers into the top layer of dust. There should have been a trace of the river or of the settlement. Even an old roadbed would have given him somewhere to begin.

He pressed his uninjured palm to the soil. Fine grains worked beneath his nails. He turned a small stone over and looked for roots, fibres, a fragment of anything that had grown. Then he passed the sonic across the shallow scrape he had made, keeping its range narrow enough to check against what he could see.

Nothing living registered. He tested the instrument against his own wrist. It responded at once. He returned it to the ground and waited through a second reading. The same blank result appeared, while dust settled into the impression of his hand.

The soil held none of the residue he expected from the world on the scanner. He could not date the surface reliably. He could not even establish that this was the same history of the same place. He sat back on his heel, angry with the tiny scrape and with the absurd hope that a deeper handful might contain everyone who had disappeared.

“Beautiful,” said a voice behind him. The word was spoken with such dislike that he looked first towards the TARDIS, wondering what its speaker had seen there.

He turned carefully, leaving his hands where they could be seen. A woman stood between him and the ship, though he had heard no approach. She was looking past his shoulder at the empty plain. When he moved to rise, she took a step back.

He stayed on one knee. “The ship? Or the view?”

“The finish,” she said. “You can scarcely tell there was anything to remove.” She rubbed a patch of dust from one cuff. It was a stubborn, ordinary movement, and he found himself watching it with relief.

She looked to be in her mid-thirties. Light shifted deep inside her eyes when she turned towards him, like distant colour moving behind glass. Her clothes were cut asymmetrically; their overlapping threads cast no shadow on one another. He could see her breathing. Whatever had been done to her, he was speaking to somebody who was cold enough to fold her arms.

“Who are you?” he asked, getting slowly to his feet.

She watched him brush the soil from his hand. “Were you looking for something?”

“People.”

“You’ll have to be more specific. The records are very particular now.”

“I was a historian,” she said. “Now I’m a librarian of corrections. The Eaters rewrote me when they crossed my world. I’m mostly me. But with all the wrong endings.”

He waited. She seemed to need the pause more than another question. Her fingers were still working at the clean patch on her cuff.

“I used to check who made a record,” she continued. “Who paid for it. What they left out. Now I can remember the approved account of things I never studied. It arrives already arranged. If I try to recall how I learnt it, there’s nothing.”

“And the unapproved account?”

“Sometimes I know where a name ought to be. That isn’t the same as remembering it.”

“They’re assimilating sentient beings?” He took out the sonic, then stopped when she stiffened. “May I?”

“No.”

He put it away. She watched his empty hand for a moment before speaking again.

“You heard me say historian. Then you reached for an instrument. Is there a question you could ask me instead?”

“What do you want to keep?”

Her expression changed. “The ability to notice when something’s missing.”

“They’re curating,” she said. “You’re the last unarchived anomaly. They want to erase you before the merge holds.” Her voice had become flatter over those two sentences. She pressed her lips together afterwards, as though checking that they were still hers.

“Is that what you remember, or what they’ve put there?” he asked.

“I can’t always separate them. I could tell you it’s certain. It feels certain. That’s one of the things I no longer trust.”

He looked towards the bare slope. “You came to warn me?”

“I came to see whether you were still here. That part was my decision.”

“Tough luck,” he said, trying to put some warmth into his voice. “The merge is holding because of me.”

She looked at his bandaged hand, then at the TARDIS. From outside, its battered blue doors gave little indication of the damage within. He heard how his reassurance must sound to someone who had watched her own history become unreliable.

“Then they’ll eat the merge.” She stepped closer. “You can believe you’ve solved your part of it. I’d be careful about promising mine.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. A narrow line had appeared in the ground beside her boot. Its two edges showed different colours of soil. He reached past her towards the ship.

The sun flickered. Heat struck his face, vanished, and returned with a cold wind that lifted the dust. Around their feet flowers rose through the plain. One caught against the woman’s boot, opened pale petals and shrivelled before she could free herself. It grew again, catching in the same place. She stared at it, waiting for the sequence to finish.

The Doctor stepped across the line in the ground. For a moment his foot seemed to sink below the surface without meeting resistance. He pulled it back and chose another place. Between them and the TARDIS, the shadows were moving too quickly to follow.

“Inside the TARDIS. Now.” He pointed to the open doors. She turned towards them, but her first step brought her back beside the flower. He saw her recognise the failure. On the next attempt she changed direction, taking a longer stride across his own footprints.

“I don’t think—” She stopped and looked down at her hands. “If they changed me, I might bring them with me.”

The Doctor glanced at the sky. The pale sun had become a broad red disc, sinking and rising along the same short arc. He had no test that could settle her fear before the ground beneath them changed again.

“I know,” he said, catching her wrist as the next shift pulled her sideways. Her fingers closed around his sleeve. “The threshold. Can you see it?”

“I can see two.”

“The one my footprints reach.”

“They reach both.”

He followed her gaze. She was right. He had given her an instruction she could not use. Keeping his hand around her wrist, he backed towards the door he could physically reach, letting her feel the direction through his arm.

She pushed with him when his shoulder struck the door. They fell across the threshold together. The Doctor caught the inner rail; she turned and dragged the other door shut before the strip of changing sky could widen. Something struck the outside with the dry sound of sand against wood. She held the handle until he told her she could let go.

The room surged around them. She seized a coral strut while he adjusted the coordinates, keeping one reading visible as he changed the other two. His thumb slipped on the final control. He wiped it against his coat, leaving a small dark mark, and tried again. The dimensional lock engaged with a heavy clunk. He waited for the scanner to show that the threshold was sealed before bringing the drive up.

The sudden quiet left them listening to each other breathe. The woman looked from the column to the far walls, then back to the little doors through which they had entered. She started to speak twice. In the end she said, “That would have been worth mentioning.”

“I usually do.”

“Before or after the running?”

He considered his record. “It varies.”

He found a folded cloth in a drawer and offered it to her. She wiped dust from her palms, examining each hand afterwards. He resisted the temptation to make that examination for her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She looked up sharply. For a moment he thought he had asked something worse than the question about her past.

“Ava. Or it was.” She spoke the first word again under her breath. Then she took the pencil he offered and wrote it on the clean corner of the cloth. The point snagged in the weave. She steadied the fabric against the rail and finished the last letter anyway.

“It still is,” he said, with a tired smile.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know what you’ve asked me to call you.”

She studied him. “Ava, then.”

“The Doctor.”

“Just that?”

“For now.” He looked down at the pencil in her hand. “You can keep that.”

She sat on the edge of the jump seat, leaving the cloth beside her rather than folding the name out of sight. He returned to the console. The outward channels remained open. None of the interrupted voices had returned. He checked their settings once, then left the volume low enough that they would hear anyone who answered.

“Why are they afraid of you?” Ava asked.

He glanced towards the empty space where the rupture had been. “I don’t know that they are.”

“They called you an error. They’ve put an account of you in my head. That seems a great deal of trouble for something they could ignore.”

He leaned against the console, keeping his weight off his knee. Until she asked, he had been occupied with keeping them both alive. Now he had to describe something he had barely begun to understand, to a person who had good reason to distrust an explanation arriving fully formed.

“Those lives feel connected now,” he said. “I can recognise the intentions as well as the faces. The anger, the kindness, the decisions I used to keep at a distance. I still forget things. I still get them wrong. But I can’t pretend another man made those choices.”

Ava glanced at his hand. “Did one of them do that?”

“No. That was very recently me.”

“And being connected matters because?” She drew the cloth closer to her knee. “I can remember making choices too. It didn’t stop them.”

He nodded. He had been about to explain unity as though she had failed to possess enough of it. Her question made him start again.

“They feed on fragmentation. Variability. That’s what the attack suggests, and what you’ve been made to know about it. My histories have joined where they expected to find separate strands. Perhaps they can’t pull one free as easily.”

“Perhaps.”

“Yes. I’d like another word as well.” He looked at the single biodata reading. “A temporal constant, in that limited sense. Their correction hasn’t divided me.”

“I’m stable,” he said, then felt the pulse in his injured hand. “At the moment. Still frightened. Still perfectly capable of a bad decision. If I start saying otherwise, you may remind me of the two doors.”

Ava looked towards the entrance. “I wasn’t planning to forget.”

“Then why are they winning?” she asked. There was no triumph in the question. She looked at the silent channels on the console while she waited for his answer.

He had none that would help her. Surviving an attack had occupied all his attention. Outside, people had continued to disappear. He reached towards the receiver, wanting to turn it up, although he knew the controls were working. Instead he asked Ava whether the pattern now appearing on the main screen meant anything to her.

She stood beside him. Several damaged routes bent towards a common point. The Doctor separated the navigation trace from the incoming distortion. The convergence remained in both. He checked it against the ship’s stored chart, then watched the distortion advance along a line the chart marked beneath Arcadia. He recognised the arrangement, and this time recognition gave him somewhere specific to look.

“They found the Loom.” He enlarged the junction. The screen could not show him its condition. It showed routes failing towards it, one after another, and that was enough to make waiting dangerous.

“What Loom?” Ava asked. She had bent closer to the display, trying to distinguish the original chart from the changing marks. He moved them apart for her rather than giving her another answer she could not examine.

“The Loom of Time. The original one. The first algorithmic architecture Gallifrey used to weave timelines. It’s buried beneath the ruins of Arcadia.” He indicated the point on the older chart. “Those routes meet there. Something is attacking along them. I need to know whether it’s reached the structure itself.”

“And if they eat it?” Ava asked. She held the cloth in one hand now. The small pencilled name had smudged where her fingers gripped the edge, but he could still read it.

“The past could become unwritten. Events that never happened would leave nobody to remember losing them.” He looked at the name. “I can’t promise to recover what they’ve taken from you. I can try to stop them taking more.”

“Then tell me when you don’t know something,” she said. “Before I have to find out by following you.”

“I will.”

He cleared a space beside the chart where she could stand without reaching across the hot console. Ava put the cloth in her pocket and moved there of her own accord. He showed her the route he intended to take. When the first section flickered, she pointed it out before he touched the drive. He adjusted the entry and checked it again.

“We’re going to Arcadia,” he said. Ava took hold of the coral strut. The Doctor kept the failing route in view as he drew the lever towards him, and the TARDIS lifted into the Vortex.

Chapter Three

Through the Howling Storm

The route to Arcadia folded across the scanner before the Doctor had finished setting it. He lifted his hand from the drive. A moment later the TARDIS lurched as though he had already pressed down.

He checked the sequence against the console clock. The correction came first, his instruction second. Around the ship, the Time Vortex was carrying consequences ahead of their causes. He cancelled the course and watched the cancellation arrive too late to prevent another jolt.

Amber light filled the console room. Ava tightened her grip on the coral strut as the floor rolled beneath her. Outside, the bright currents broke into short, violent loops. One struck the hull repeatedly, returning to the same point before the last impact had finished sounding.

The Doctor separated the navigation readings from the shield readings. He could follow either for a few seconds; together they obscured the fault. The ship was correcting her position against a route that changed whenever she used it. He stopped the automatic adjustment. The next blow came harder, but its reading stayed on the screen.

“Is that better?” Ava asked. Her voice shook with the strut. She had tucked the cloth bearing her name into her pocket, yet her free hand kept going back to check it was there.

“I can see what's happening now.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

“No. It wasn't.”

He steadied himself against the console and reduced their speed. Calm was something he was doing with his hands. The rest of him wanted to hurry, to drive straight through before the route vanished altogether.

The ship slowed. A loose fastener skittered across the deck and stopped against Ava's boot. For two breaths the rail ceased shaking. Then the current outside curled back towards them, following the change he had made.

He tried a shallower course. The first bend opened cleanly. At the second, the same loop appeared ahead of the bow. He watched it strike, checked the retained trace, and abandoned the turn. Going round was bringing them back into the disturbance.

“They've rooted into the primary subflow.” He enlarged the place where the routes joined. “Or something has. Every correction feeds us into it.”

“English, please.” Ava had shut her eyes. He started to describe the junction, then saw that she was trying to remain upright rather than inspect his explanation.

“The road changes behind us and puts the same obstruction in front. I'm trying to find where that starts.” He turned the nearest display towards her. “You don't have to look. Hold on with both hands.”

She opened her eyes anyway. “Tell me before you turn again.”

The TARDIS dropped. He felt his stomach rise before the deck caught his feet. Ava's shoulder struck the strut; he heard her breath leave her and reached for the brake.

Sparks jumped from the navigation rail. He snatched his hand back. The brake indicator went dark, taking the retained route with it. Smoke rose from a narrow seam beneath the control.

A deep sound spread through the walls. Ava bent beneath it. The Doctor felt it through his jaw, the same sustained note at every point where his body touched the ship.

He knew the TARDIS's complaints, her warnings, the noises she made when she wanted him to stop pretending a repair could wait. This was pain. He cut power to the burned rail. The sound weakened without ending.

Ava dropped to her knees. One hand scraped across the floor, feeling for something he could not see. “There was a step,” she said. “I thought there was a step.”

He crouched beside her, favouring his bruised knee. “May I?” When she nodded, he put his good hand between her shoulders. She pressed backwards against it, finding resistance. He told her where the console stood and let her turn until she could touch its base.

“Why does it feel like I'm being split apart?” She was staring at her own hand. “I remember taking hold of this. I remember refusing to come inside. Both of them end here.”

“The Vortex carries possibilities as well as journeys. The shields should keep that outside.” He looked up at the failing field. “I think the disturbance is making alternatives press through. They're arriving with the force of memory.”

“Which one happened?”

“You came in with me. We shut the doors together.”

She rubbed her wrist where he had caught it on the plain. “That hurt.”

“Yes.”

“All right. I remember that part.” She breathed out slowly. “Don't tell me this is normal.”

“It isn't.”

He helped her stand. He had known different versions of himself closing over the same moment; he had also mistaken familiarity for understanding often enough to distrust it. “I've had something like it happen. That doesn't tell me what you're feeling. Can you reach the seat?”

“Can you stop it?”

“I'm trying.”

She moved sideways, keeping a hand against the console. Another shudder pushed her into him. He caught the rail with his bandaged thumb and hissed through his teeth. Ava took his elbow until he had his feet beneath him, then let go to reach the jump seat.

The Doctor braced his hip against the controls and engaged the inertia stabiliser. It resisted the next sideways pull. He changed the shield harmonics a little at a time, watching the outside field turn from mauve to green. The wall's sustained cry broke into shorter notes.

A gap opened between the looping currents. He marked its far edge on the scanner. It held for one pulse, two, then began to narrow.

“I'm going through that gap. There'll be another fall.”

Ava sat low and gripped the seat. “I heard you.”

He brought the drive up. His first instinct was to hold the gap wider with more shield power. The reserve gauge was already at the bottom. Instead he turned the ship to present her narrowest course to the opening and committed before he could persuade himself to try both.

White light swallowed the scanner. The console vanished in it. He kept his hand on the lever until the metal burned hot, then pulled away and heard something heavy strike the deck behind him.

For a moment he could hear Ava breathing but could not locate her.

“Ava?” He turned towards the seat. Its outline was there, then farther away, then close enough that he nearly walked into it.

“Here. Don't move.”

The TARDIS tumbled. The Doctor felt each turn without being able to identify an up or a down. He crouched where he stood and reached for the lower rail, finding bare air where the metal should have been.

The walls passed through several shapes. Coral gave way to smooth metal; a dark doorway opened across the scanner and disappeared. Beneath Ava, the floor became a pale slab with an unfamiliar crack running through it. Her boot pressed into the crack. When she pulled back, the slab had gone and the old floor returned under her heel.

The Doctor lost the beginning of the sequence he was entering. He could see the last three instructions. He knew he had selected the first two. He could not remember what they were meant to preserve.

He stopped typing. His hand trembled above the keys. Continuing by habit would be quick, and might complete a command whose purpose he had already lost.

“Say what you're doing,” Ava said.

He looked at her.

“You told me where the console was. Tell yourself.”

“Protecting the recent record.” He cleared the unfinished command and began again, speaking each stage. “Holding the last stable arrangement. Asking her to use it.” The sequence kept its beginning this time. He left the record open and turned to the temporal stabiliser.

His own timing signal would not hold. The ship rejected it twice. Beneath the warning noise he could hear her ordinary engine note, broken but recognisable. He isolated that sound, matched the stabiliser to its intervals and waited for her response instead of imposing another rhythm.

The TARDIS answered with a low pulse. The deck became solid enough to jar his knees. Ava's seat stopped shifting. On the scanner, a small patch of green held around the hull.

He drew breath to thank her. The patch began to fray at its edges before he could speak.

He closed the adjustment panel. The stabiliser had caught; meddling with it now would cost the few moments she had given them. “Stay where you are. I need to see outside.”

The Vortex returned to the screen in broken sections. Through the gaps he glimpsed skies whose stars were already cooling and landscapes that failed to remain long enough for the scanner to place them. Routes crossed, split, and closed over their own beginnings. He could not tell which images showed inhabited places.

Ava leaned forwards. “That doesn't move with the rest.” She pointed beyond a gap in the nearest current. He held the image where she indicated.

A spire rose through the centre of the disturbance. The current struck its base and returned along the same loop that had battered the ship.

Its gold surface changed as he watched. A window appeared in it, then a hillside, then the underside of a hand raised against bright light. The images settled into layers, adding height. He remembered the settlement disappearing on the scanner and felt his grip tighten.

“What is that?” Ava asked. She had come to the rail, choosing the section farthest from the scorched seam. “Are those places inside it?”

“Remnants of what they've consumed, I think.” He compared the incoming currents with the growth of the structure. Each new layer preceded another pulse. “It's holding them here. An anchor.”

“And that means?”

He tried to separate one image from the surface. The scanner returned the whole Spire again. He tried a narrower view. The same result filled it.

“They're nesting. They can keep feeding the storm from a fixed point.” He turned off the magnification. “I can't find a way to pick those remnants apart.”

Ava watched the hand become a strip of gold. “Could someone still be there?”

“I don't know.”

He moved to the manual override and asked for the Arcadia route again. It appeared beyond the Spire. Every projected approach crossed a pulse from its base. When he requested a retreat, the same intersections followed them backwards.

“We can't reach Arcadia while that's holding the currents like this.” He cancelled the projections before the ship spent more power following them. “We barely survived one crossing. I won't ask her to keep doing it.”

“Then destroy it.” Ava spoke quickly, with the anger of someone who had run out of places to retreat. She looked back at the changing surface. “If that's what it takes to stop them.”

The Doctor did not answer at once. He opened a channel towards the Spire and called for anyone who could hear him. The return carried his words out of order. He sent a simpler signal. It came back with the next pulse.

“A blast would scatter what it's made from through the routes we're trying to use. I need to break the connection that lets it exist here.” He traced the point beneath its base. “Unwrite the anchor.”

Ava studied his reflection in the glass. “You mean erase something.”

“Yes.”

“That was easier to say when I was telling you to do it.”

He left the unanswered channel open. “I'm trying to stop a structure that's still taking things. I can't promise we'll recover what it took.”

She looked down at the cloth she had pulled from her pocket. “Then don't call it recovering them afterwards.”

“I won't.”

The next pulse made the green field shrink against the hull. He had to choose while the ship could still hold a place for him to return to.

He brought the TARDIS alongside the edge of the disturbance. There were no useful coordinates. He held her relative to the Spire, correcting by the recurring pulse while Ava watched the strip of green. She warned him when it thinned; he eased the drive until it stopped contracting.

He raised the sonic over the open core. The instrument found a repeating interval between the ship's pulse and the point beneath the Spire. He checked it twice, then set the sonic down where it would continue to display the interval.

“I need you,” he said to the TARDIS. “Something that can reach that connection.” He had asked her for impossible things before. Remembering which requests she had survived did not make this one fairer.

Light gathered beneath the access collar. He reached towards it, then stopped as the collar closed against his fingers. The TARDIS held him away while something formed inside. He waited with his empty hand over the opening.

When the collar parted, a narrow crystal shape lay within it. He grasped the darkened end and drew it out slowly. The lights above the doors dimmed as its edge cleared the core.

It was a dagger. The shape was unmistakable, however carefully he held it away from his body. Ava took a step back from the console.

Time crystal caught the light along its blade. Within it, the Doctor glimpsed movements he had almost made: a hand withdrawn, a door left closed. The ship had condensed possibilities into an edge he could carry. He called it the Chronoblade, needing a name before he could explain what he intended to do with it.

“You've had a dagger in the heart of the ship?” Ava asked.

“No. She made it just now.” He glanced at the fading lights. “And making it has cost her.”

Ava came closer without reaching for the blade. “Can you use it from here?”

He held it towards the scanner. Nothing happened. When he turned towards the doors, the interval on the sonic lengthened and the edge brightened.

“I have to get nearer.”

“That isn't an answer to how you get back.”

He showed her the door control and the small green indication that marked the remaining shield. “Keep the threshold clear. If the field collapses, close it.”

She made him point to the control again. Then she put the cloth away and took her place beside it. “I'll watch the field. You watch where you're going.”

He opened the doors. A strip of pale resistance extended from the threshold towards the Spire. He tested it with one foot before taking his weight off the sill, then stepped into the storm.

Behind him, Ava called his name. He turned enough to show her he had heard. The doorway was already smaller than it ought to have been.

The first impact struck his face with the force of cold water. He flinched and nearly lost his footing. Beneath his boot the pale strip held, but he could feel it yielding as he shifted his weight.

A wedding crowded into his sight, a place laid for him beside someone whose face he could not recover. Then a burning world filled the same space. He remembered leaving; he remembered staying. Neither image gave him time to examine what followed. He lowered his head and took another step, refusing to mistake the force of either memory for proof.

The Spire was closer now. He could see a seam at its base where the returning current entered it. The Chronoblade pulled slightly towards that seam. He tightened his grip and kept its edge clear of his coat.

A path opened to his left. It looked firmer than the strip beneath his feet, leading towards a version of the TARDIS with bright windows and undamaged doors. He wanted it badly enough to turn. Then the window vanished when he looked directly at it. He faced the Spire again, frightened by how nearly relief had made the choice for him.

A creature stood at its base. He had taken the outline for a projection until it moved across the seam and blocked his view.

Clocks crowded the place where its face should have been. Their hands passed through one another, each following a different interval. The Doctor stopped beyond the reach of its narrow arm. He could no longer hear Ava or the ship.

“Doctor. Unacceptable anomaly. Return to division. Re-fracture.” The words arrived with a sudden, seductive sense of how easy it might be to have fewer things to remember.

“No.” He placed his foot carefully, testing the next foothold. He could remember wanting the simplicity it offered. Those wishes belonged to him too; he did not need to obey them.

“Then be undone.” The creature lifted its arm. The clocks stopped disagreeing for the first time, their hands converging on the same point.

He saw the strike begin and felt its impact before the arm reached him. His shoulder twisted. The Chronoblade almost slipped from his fingers. He could not wait for the visible movement to tell him when to dodge.

He dropped sideways as the clocks converged again. His bad knee struck the yielding surface and pain shot up his thigh. The arm crossed where his head had been. Behind it, the seam at the Spire's base lay exposed for a moment.

The Doctor threw the Chronoblade towards it. He had no second blade, no way to correct the throw. He saw the crystal turn once and opened his empty hand as though that could still help it on its way.

The dagger disappeared before it reached the surface. The seam brightened. A thin line ran upwards through the layers of the Spire, reaching places the short throw could never have carried it.

The images separated from one another. The hillside returned; the raised hand opened. For an instant he thought the remnants might come free intact. Then their edges broke apart in the light.

The connection beneath the Spire gave way. The current that had fed it ran straight through the empty space below its base. The creature turned towards the break, its clocks scattering across its face.

The Vortex howled. The sound drove the Doctor flat. He tried to push himself up and found that the strip beneath him was bending back towards the TARDIS.

The Spire cracked from base to tip. Layers peeled away too quickly to distinguish. He caught one glimpse of a room with chairs inside it and reached out uselessly before it vanished.

Voices passed through the breaking structure. He could not separate words from the tearing noise. The sound continued after the last visible images had gone, and he knew he would remember it without knowing whom he had heard.

Gold light folded into the fracture. He turned his face away. The pale strip snapped beneath his feet, and the doorway swung into view, impossibly close.

The Vortex straightened around the ship. The sudden change threw him towards the threshold. He struck wood with his forearm and felt a hand catch his coat.

“Ava—” He tried to find the sill with his knee. His arm would not lift him. The hand on his coat pulled again, and the light outside went black.

When he next heard anything, it was the ordinary sound of someone struggling to catch her breath.

He lay on the console-room floor with one sleeve twisted beneath him.

Ava knelt beside his shoulder. The doors were shut. He turned his head towards her and saw dust caught in the tears on her face.

“Don't sit up yet,” she said. “You hit the sill. I don't know where else.”

The walls held their shape. The engines had settled into a low, uneven hum. He asked how she had reached him. “The doorway came towards you,” she said. “Or you came towards it. Your coat was there. I pulled.” She flexed her fingers before laying her hand flat on the floor.

He waited until the room stopped tilting, then used the rail to stand. His knee would bear weight, reluctantly. The Chronoblade lay on the console. Ava had found it beside the threshold after dragging him in; neither of them had seen how it returned. He lifted it by the grip. The crystal was cold now, its inner movements too faint to follow. He wrapped it in a cloth from the drawer and put it carefully inside his coat. On the scanner, the Spire's place was empty, but the gaps beyond it remained. He left the record of those gaps open beside the route.

Ava joined him. “The people?”

“I couldn't bring them back.”

She looked at the screen for a long time. He did not turn it away or explain that the route was clear as if that answered her question.

“We've bought time,” he said at last. “The pulses have stopped here. I don't know how long the rest will hold.”

She rubbed her shoulder where it had struck the coral. “Long enough to get somewhere useful?”

“I hope so.”

“Arcadia next?” She pointed to the route herself. It stayed in place while she watched it. He checked the far end against the stored chart before answering.

“Yes.” He held the controls still for one more reading. The TARDIS accepted the course. No loop appeared ahead of them.

“And the Loom?” Ava asked. “We still don't know what's happening there.”

“No.” He moved the uncertain image of the destination beside the clear route. “Getting a route there is what we've managed. Nothing more yet.”

He checked the outward channels. They remained silent. The damage ahead might already have reached the Loom; he could neither establish that from here nor afford to wait for an answer that might never arrive.

He reached for the lever, then paused until Ava had settled back on the seat. She watched his hand. “You can tell me when it's going to be an ordinary journey too.”

“I'd very much like to.”

The Doctor eased the lever forwards. The engines laboured, then found their rhythm. Ava kept her feet braced against the floor as the ship gathered speed, and this time the route to Arcadia remained ahead of them.

Chapter Four

The Day the Looms Were Woven

Before the Citadel, before the Laws, before the Eyes of Harmony turned inward, a fault opened in the floor beneath Mount Cadon. The two sides moved at different speeds. Dust fell into it and rose again, settling on stone that had not yet broken.

Omega set his heel across the nearest fracture and waited for the stone to agree with itself. Heat pressed through the sole of his boot. Along the opposite wall, frost covered the crystal veins. He had measured both conditions; neither reading had helped him decide how long the chamber would hold.

Above them, Gallifrey turned beneath a low red sun. Wind passed through fields of red grass and shook silver leaves against one another. There was no protective dome over that sky. A season could end before its crops had grown, leaving the same root both frozen and scorched. The three beings in the chamber had come to impose a continuity that the world would not reliably provide for itself.

The structure they had built filled the space beneath the mountain. Twelve arms extended from a dark core, their ends suspended without visible support. Rassilon waited beside the entrance while the Other examined the gap between the nearest arm and the wall. Omega crossed to the control altar, counting his steps. On the first crossing there had been nine. This time there were eleven.

He laid his palm against the altar. The Loom remained still. Around its base, the shadows cast by the arms lengthened towards him, although the chamber's light had not moved.

“We should close the outer passage,” Rassilon said.

“And if we need to leave?” Omega asked.

“If that fault reaches the entrance, leaving will cease to be an option.”

The Other looked towards the opening. “Closing it makes that certain.”

Omega kept his hand on the altar until the stone cooled beneath it. “Leave it open. I need the difference between the air outside and the air in here.”

“For a measurement?” Rassilon asked.

“For knowing which way to run.”

The Other gave a brief, tired laugh. It ended when the floor shifted again. Omega steadied a shallow basin set into the altar, although it could not have fallen without taking the altar with it. His hands wanted a task smaller than the one before him.

He wiped the dust from his palms and inspected the basin's empty surface. Nothing he had prepared would make the first contact safe. He looked at his companions before asking the question he had postponed since they entered.

“Are you ready?”

Rassilon inclined his head. The Other stayed beside the extended arm, looking at the narrow space beneath it.

“Omega,” he said, “what happens if we ask it for different things?”

Omega's coal-black robe carried ash from the furnaces. He brushed at one sleeve and made the stain wider. He had survived a glimpse into the Vortex; sometimes the sensation of that glimpse still arrived before he closed his eyes. He knew how many incompatible results a single act could contain. He had helped build the Loom because knowing had not made those results bearable.

“It will have to hold the difference,” he said. “We designed it to receive more than one intention.”

“Receive,” the Other repeated. “That isn't the same as hold.”

“To change the very meaning of time?” The Other finally answered the first question. “No. I'm not ready. But I know something must be done.” He left the arm and approached the altar. “I don't yet know whether that makes this the right thing.”

Omega wanted to hear certainty from someone other than Rassilon. He found he respected the answer more for refusing to provide it.

The Other's bronze cowl concealed his face when he bent over the basin. He seemed younger in that posture, until his hand rested on the stone and Omega saw how slowly the fingers uncurled. Whatever history he carried, he had offered no name to accompany it. Rassilon had asked once on the way down. The Other had continued walking.

Rassilon lifted the rod he carried. Pale carved bone caught the cold light from the wall. He rested its end against the floor, using it to feel the tremor before taking another step towards them.

“We can remain here discussing the kind of failure we prefer,” he said, “or we can provide a world on which discussion has a tomorrow.”

He spoke to both of them, but watched Omega's hand on the basin. The decision to begin was still there.

“The harvests need seasons that finish,” Rassilon continued. “A child should not grow older than its mother between one room and the next. Call that ambition if you wish. I call it a duty.” He raised the rod. “Let it begin. From now on, we are not observers of time. We are its authors.”

The Other looked up sharply at the last word. Omega had already withdrawn his hand from the altar to make room.

Rassilon struck the floor with the Rod of Harmony. The note travelled through the crystal veins and returned from beneath their feet. The fracture stopped moving. Dust hung above it, caught between falling and rising.

The Loom began to hum. Its arms turned a fraction towards the altar. Omega felt the basin pull at his empty hands and held them apart until the movement settled. Rassilon lifted the rod again, ready to repeat the stroke.

“Once,” Omega said. “We don't know what a second summons would ask.”

Rassilon lowered it.

They waited. Frost loosened from the wall in small white plates. One landed beside the Other and melted only along its upper edge. He watched the water stand above the ice without running down.

There were no gears to inspect, no moving belt whose direction could settle a doubt. The Loom's arms held contradictions in their alloyed lengths; its core pulsed with zero-time particles drawn from the void beyond the stars. Omega had names for the materials. Now he had to discover what the assembled structure would make of the people asking it to work.

He put both hands into the memory basin. The surface rose around his wrists without becoming wet. At once he remembered the Vortex closing over him, and the chamber narrowed to the size of the breath he had been unable to take.

The Loom read his intention beneath the instructions he had rehearsed. He meant to offer survival. What arrived first was his terror of not surviving. The nearest arm jerked down, and the Other stepped clear as its shadow crossed his feet.

Omega tried to replace the memory with a calculation. The arm remained low. Its shadow widened over the floor until the still-open entrance was almost hidden.

“It's not taking the sequence,” he said. His voice sounded painfully thin.

“Then stop giving it a sequence,” the Other replied. “What did you come here to preserve?”

Omega wanted to snap at him. He needed his hands free, needed a gauge he could read without remembering the worst moment of his life. The basin held him without a grip. He could withdraw, but nothing else would begin until he chose to stay.

He let the calculation go. He remembered surviving the Vortex: the floor against his cheek afterwards, the effort of lifting his head, the surprise of air reaching the bottom of his lungs. Beyond that memory lay losses he could not reverse and stars whose collapse had outlasted every intervention. He offered the continuation he had wanted for all of them, including those he had failed.

A filament stretched from the lowered arm to the core. Its light was faint enough that Omega first took it for an afterimage. Then another appeared beside it. The arm lifted, and the entrance emerged from beneath its shadow.

Lines crossed the open space between the arms. Where they intersected, possible sequences settled briefly into shape: a beginning followed by something that could grow from it, an ending reached through intervening moments. The Loom was establishing what might be allowed to happen. Omega could feel how different that was from merely observing what did.

One line ended before it reached the next arm. Omega tried to hold it with his attention. Three other strands bent towards it, losing their own connections. He stopped before he could pull the whole arrangement out of shape for that one unfinished possibility.

He lifted his hands from the basin. The filaments remained. For the first time, the frost melted downwards and stayed water when it reached the floor. Omega watched the small pool spread between his boots. Such an ordinary result should not have made him shake.

Rassilon stepped into his place. “It needs boundaries,” he said. “You have given it a way to continue. You haven't given it a way to endure interference.”

Omega moved aside slowly. His wrists ached where the basin had touched them, although the skin bore no mark.

Rassilon bent over the light and began to speak softly. At first Omega could distinguish only the rhythm. Then words became clear: precedence, succession, the authority to settle a dispute when two claims could not both be honoured.

The filaments arranged themselves in tiers. Some passed above the others and crossed without bending. Lower strands moved around them. Rassilon watched until the same order appeared at every intersection, then continued.

He asked for laws that would remain after their makers died. For a decision to mean the same thing in one season as in the next. The shifting light steadied over the altar. Omega felt the floor cease trembling and understood why someone might accept everything else for that relief.

Rassilon's voice warmed as he spoke of cities. Work that could pass from one pair of hands to another. Knowledge that would survive the person who first learnt it. People able to spend a day making something because they expected the next day to contain it.

The Other listened without interrupting. He looked towards the entrance, where the dust was beginning to settle.

Then Rassilon asked the Loom to preserve the order against those who would overturn it. A strand diverged near his hand. He followed it with one finger until it straightened and rejoined the tier above.

“Who decides which change is an attack?” the Other asked.

“Those charged with protecting the whole.”

“And who charges them?”

Rassilon did not turn. “Someone must take responsibility.” The filaments bent into repeating loops. A branch formed at one intersection, hesitated, and was drawn back into the existing pattern. The Other watched the place where it had been. The next branch disappeared faster.

Omega leaned closer. The arrangement was stable. It was also rejecting differences before he could see what they might have become.

The Other came to the basin. Rassilon remained beside it, his hand hovering over the ordered light. For a moment neither moved. Then Omega touched Rassilon's sleeve and pointed to the third empty place at the altar.

“We built it for three contributions.”

Rassilon withdrew his hand. “Then let the third understand the first two.”

The Other gave no reply. He set his palms against the basin's edge and looked down into the loops. He could have argued about every boundary. Instead he waited until Rassilon stopped speaking and the room held only the Loom's hum.

He breathed in. The breath caught, and he let it catch. On the next one he did not force an equal interval. A tiny irregularity passed through the light beneath his hands.

He offered the possibility of doing otherwise. The Loom had received survival and a durable order. Now he asked it to leave room for a person who understood that order and still refused a particular demand. He did not supply the refusal itself, or choose whose it would be.

A thread separated from the nearest loop and remained apart. It trembled towards a gap between the arms. The Other kept his hands still, allowing it to move somewhere he had not indicated.

The Loom quivered. Rassilon caught the altar as the floor shifted beneath him. The free thread crossed an ordered tier, disturbing three loops in its passage.

“You corrupt it.” He reached towards the crossing. The Other moved his hand into the way, palm open, and Rassilon stopped short of touching him.

“I free it.” The Other's voice was rough from the long silence. “If everything it permits is chosen here, no one after us will ever be allowed to correct us.”

“They can correct an error within the law.”

“Then leave them the ability to discover an error in the law.”

Omega watched the disturbed loops. One broke and joined again at a different point. Another held. The Loom had not collapsed, though the basin's light was rising fast.

“Without that uncertainty, the Loom is a cage,” he said. “With it, a storm.” He looked at the Other. “People can be hurt by what you've left open.”

“Better a storm than a tomb.” The Other glanced at the fault beneath their feet, then back at Omega. “That isn't a promise that the storm will spare anyone. I don't have that promise.”

For the first time, Rassilon seemed to hear an answer he could not dismiss as carelessness. His hand remained poised above the crossing.

The light rose beyond the basin's rim. Omega felt the onset of a larger movement and caught both men by their sleeves.

“Back.”

Rassilon tried to reach once more towards the free thread. Omega pulled harder. The three stumbled away from the altar as the twelve arms turned inwards. Whatever had been offered was now inside the structure. They could no longer stand over each strand and amend it.

The Loom ignited. Light passed through Omega's closed eyelids, showing the chamber with no place for a shadow. He heard stone split above them and braced for falling rock.

Nothing struck. The fracture's edges held apart. Through the opening, a vein of crystal continued across empty space, its two ends aligned around a distance that the mountain had somehow kept.

A note filled the chamber. Another sounded within it, then another, too closely joined to follow separately. The Loom was singing. Omega could feel the sound in his wrists where the basin had held them.

Futures spun through the filaments: nations without names yet, lives that might begin, changes of body and purpose, departures that would leave different people waiting. Countless branches flared and fell away. Of the multitude visible in each crossing, only the most likely remained standing in the weave. Omega searched for the thread that had moved without permission and lost it among the rest.

He saw enough to know that Gallifrey would rise. Buildings took shape where the red fields had been; hands passed work onwards; a child crossed a room and reached the other side still a child. He wanted to keep that last image. The light carried it away before he could distinguish a face.

Rassilon stood with the rod lowered. The ordered tiers had endured the ignition. Yet somewhere in the weave a line bent without following the one above it. He looked towards the Other, who had stepped back against the wall and closed his hands into fists.

Time would be written. None of them could now look at the Loom and claim that only his own intention had entered it. Omega reached the altar again and stopped short of touching the basin. Behind him, the outer passage remained open. He counted nine steps to its threshold, then counted them again.

On the second count, the stone beneath his hand became the wooden edge of a shelf.

The Doctor drew a breath that tasted of dust. For a moment he expected ash on his sleeve. He brushed at it and found only the dark mark left when his thumb had slipped against the console.

He opened his eyes. The library stood around him, its shelves steady while the TARDIS laboured through the Vortex. He was gripping a book hard enough to bend its cover. Carefully, he set it down without opening it.

There were books here that had not yet been written. Usually that unsettled him less than the ones whose authors he had known. Now every spine seemed to offer a witness he could borrow too easily. He stepped back from the shelf and waited until his hands stopped trying to find the memory basin.

He had seen the birth of the Loom. The conviction arrived with the physical recollection of standing beneath Mount Cadon, although he had just experienced the chamber from positions no single observer could occupy. He could remember the frost melting at Omega's feet and the pressure of the rod in Rassilon's hand. He had been neither man.

He tested the experience against his own memory. He knew stories of the founders. He knew places on Gallifrey whose explanations had changed according to who was permitted to teach them. None of those memories contained this sequence. He could not place himself in the chamber by any journey he had lived.

Nor could he recover a book from which he had learnt it. He reached towards the volume he had put down, then stopped. Finding a familiar phrase afterwards would not establish where the vision had come from. It might only show how readily he could fit an old story around it.

The resonance had come through the Vortex, through histories now joined inside him that had once remained apart. He could feel that much in the way the experience had caught across them. Unification had made him receptive to something no single incarnation had lived; it had not supplied a means of checking every detail. He remembered it with an intimacy he would have to distrust.

Ava entered behind him. “You went somewhere.” She stopped beside the door instead of coming straight to his shoulder. “You said you wanted a reference. Then you stood there with your eyes shut.”

“How long?”

“Long enough for me to wonder whether I should interrupt. Were you asleep?”

“No. I don't think so.” He looked towards the corridor. The engines were still running. “I should have told you if I felt anything begin. I didn't have that much warning.”

“I went to the beginning,” he said. “To the day the Looms were born. Or I was shown an account of it.” He told her about the chamber and the three contributions, speaking slowly enough to hear where description became interpretation. When he reached the free thread, she asked whether he had seen anyone choose what lay beyond it.

“No.”

“Then leave that part open.”

He nodded. “What I saw was the founders deciding they could shape what would be possible for everyone after them.”

“Why show you that now?”

He had been about to ask the same question of the book. “The storm may have brought it near enough to reach me. Breaking the Spire may have changed what could get through. Or somebody may have wanted me to see it.”

“You don't know which.”

“No.”

“Can you write down what you saw before choosing an explanation?” She drew the pencil from her pocket. He found an unmarked sheet between two volumes and put it on the reading table.

His bandaged thumb made holding the paper awkward. Ava steadied the corner while he wrote the three names. Beside each he recorded an action, then the intention he believed it expressed. When he started to describe the Other's identity, the pencil stopped. He had a cowl, a voice, a contribution. He had no name beyond the one he had already used.

He left the space blank. Ava noticed and did not fill it for him.

“The Loom wasn't simply reflecting what existed,” he said. “It was taking what they wanted and making conditions from it.” He looked at the account of Rassilon's hand above the straightening branch. “They could call that protection and still build their own preferences into the world.”

Ava touched the line about the Other. “Including this one?”

“Yes. He chose to leave room. That was a choice made for others too.” The admission made the chamber harder to explain, and more useful to remember.

He thought of the Eaters' imposed account inside Ava, of the Spire turning remnants into an anchor, of routes that returned every attempted escape to the same obstruction. If they gained access to a structure that governed possibilities, erasing a life might be only one use of it. They could remove the alternatives before anyone reached a decision.

He told her that as a danger, not as something the vision had shown the Eaters doing. Ava read the three names again. “Then being able to survive a choice isn't enough. There has to be another choice to make.”

“That's what we have to protect.” He put the pencil down beside the unfinished account. The engines changed note, drawing his attention towards the console room. Arcadia was still ahead; the vision had given him a reason to fear for more than the Loom's machinery, but no shortcut to reaching it.

Ava folded the paper along its blank edge so the writing stayed clear. “Take this. You can add what turns out to be wrong.”

He accepted it with his uninjured hand. They left the library together, and the book he had never opened remained on the shelf.

Chapter Five

Ashes of Arcadia

The TARDIS materialised in silence. The Doctor felt the landing through his bruised knee before the console showed that they had stopped. He waited for the engines to complete their familiar descent in pitch. The note ended halfway through.

He checked the landing indicator, then the view beyond the doors. Both showed solid ground. He left his hand beside the control for another moment, unwilling to mistake silence for a successful repair. The ship had brought them through. A faint vibration under the rail told him how much effort it was costing her to remain.

“Arcadia,” he said. He recognised the line of the street before he recognised what was missing from it. The scanner showed no moving traffic, no figures at the windows, no light changing behind the broken stonework.

He had known the city's reputation long before he understood the machinery that sustained it. Double shields, triple-coded defences: people had spoken of Arcadia as though safety were a property of its ground. Now he ran the atmospheric check twice, comparing the results. The air outside could sustain them. The instruments offered no such assurance about the street.

Ava came to stand beside the doors. “Can you see anyone?”

“Not from here.”

“Then we should look from somewhere else.” She waited while he opened the outer view wider. When it revealed only more empty frontage, she put her hand on the latch.

The Doctor pocketed the folded account of the Loom's founding. The wrapped Chronoblade pressed against his side as he turned. He had a vision he could not fully trust and a weapon whose return he could not explain. Neither would tell him whether someone beyond those doors needed help.

The doors creaked open. Ash drifted across the sill and caught in the grain of the wood. Ava looked down the street in both directions, then stepped out before him. He followed her movement on the scanner until her boots reached the pavement.

Twisted girders lay across cracked marble. Farther away, broken obsidian spires cut short against the sky. The ash rose as often as it fell, collecting beneath ledges before lifting free again. He could see structural damage everywhere, yet nothing he could confidently identify as the remains of a battle. There were no bodies to account for the empty streets.

Ava stopped a few paces from the ship. She called once, loudly enough to reach the nearest open doorway. Her voice returned from inside it, thin and delayed. She waited for another sound before calling again.

“This was supposed to be unbreakable.” She spoke more quietly now. “I remember reading that. I can't remember whether I believed it.”

He stepped down beside her. The doorway she had called into led onto bare ground. Its far wall was visible from outside, with no room between the two.

The Doctor brushed the rising ash from his coat and examined the threshold. On one side, the worn stone suggested years of passing feet. On the other, the same stone ended in a clean face without a mark where a floor had joined it.

“It was meant to be,” he said. “Unbreakable.” He heard how inadequate that was and left it there. Ava was still looking through the doorway, giving anyone beyond it time to answer.

They reached the edge of the Shield Plaza. A crater several storeys deep occupied its centre. The Doctor remembered a crossing where the pavement now fell away, but stopped short of trusting the memory with his weight. Fragments of Gallifreyan script hung above the drop. Their marks separated slowly, losing the spaces that had made them words.

“What happened here?” Ava asked. She had knelt beside a low stone bearing the remains of an inscription. Her fingers followed the edge of a missing line without touching it.

He began to answer, then saw the line reappear. For a moment it extended to the far edge of the stone. It vanished again, leaving an older, smoother surface behind. He crouched beside her and watched it complete the same change twice.

The soil at the crater's lip looked undisturbed. He pressed his uninjured fingers into it, taking care to keep his weight on the paved side. Beneath the dust he felt a short pulse, too distinct to be the tremor of his own hand.

Warmth spread into his palm. He almost pulled away. For an instant the crater seemed filled with the pressure of people passing close together, although he could see nothing moving below him.

He took his hand off the soil. The sensation ended. When he laid the sonic across the same place, its temperature reading remained ordinary. He tried the edge of the stone and received the same result.

“Something of the old place is still registering,” he said. He disliked how readily his mind supplied people for an empty space. “I can feel it. That doesn't tell me who's missing, or whether anyone is still reachable.”

Ava watched the inscription. “This part keeps being taken out. The rest stays.”

“Time was rewritten.” He pointed to the join where the changing line met the stable stone. “Damage would leave a broken surface. This is replacing the surface with one where the inscription was never cut.” He looked back towards the impossible doorway. “Parts of the city have been given a different past.”

“By the Eaters?” Ava asked. The line returned once more. She leaned close enough to study its spacing, then moved back before the next change could pass under her hand.

“They're involved. But look at what's being kept.” He indicated the route beyond the plaza, still legible between two damaged directions. “The losses are being used to leave an arrangement. The Eaters are the scalpels. I think someone else is wielding them.”

“Someone you know?”

“I can't tell.” He checked the surviving direction against his memory of the Archives. “And a road left open isn't necessarily an invitation we should accept.”

A tremor passed through the plaza. Ava caught the edge of the stone. The Doctor reached for her arm, then stopped when she steadied herself. A section of paving slid into the crater without breaking; it simply lost the ground that had supported it.

They both looked up as the light changed. The nearest spire appeared against a darker sky, then against the pale one they had arrived beneath. The shift made the distance to its top impossible to judge.

Above the city, the artificial atmosphere peeled back in pulses. Through the breaks, the raw motion of the Vortex showed. The Doctor could feel a pressure change in his ears each time the sky opened. He counted the intervals. The fifth break lasted longer than the fourth.

He took out the scanner and set it low against the paving, using the sonic to check the nearest edge. One measured the local time field; the other gave him a distance to something he could see. When the sky flickered again, the distance held and the time reading shifted beneath it.

“No flux anchor.” He changed the scanner's range and watched the instability extend towards the Archives. “The region isn't holding to a consistent history. We need the Loom Vault before these remaining streets stop agreeing with one another.”

“Can your ship hold it?”

“She's struggling to hold herself here.” He would not spend her remaining strength on a promise the instruments could not support.

“And if the city goes while we're still in it?” Ava asked. She was looking back towards the TARDIS. The blue doors remained visible beyond the place where the paving had fallen.

“We could be taken out of its history. There might be no record left to bring anyone looking.” He stood slowly. “I don't have a safe route to offer you.”

She looked from the ship to the surviving direction. “Standing here isn't one either. Show me where you're trying to go.”

He showed her the Archives on the scanner. The direct approach crossed the broken plaza. He chose the longer line around its edge, keeping the crater to their left. Ava watched the paving ahead while he compared each turn with the shifting display.

They passed through the Gate of Memory. Both obelisks had cracked down their centres. Within the cracks, the Doctor glimpsed an intact street crossing the ruined one at a different angle. He stopped before it could persuade his feet to follow it. Ava had stopped too, studying the point where the two pavements seemed to meet.

“These streets feel watchful.” She indicated a band of script turning towards them above the gate. It completed half a line, lost the end, and began again. “Is that trying to tell us something?”

“Possibly to tell someone else we're here. Gallifreyans liked their streets monitored.” He waited for the line to repeat before translating the portion he recognised. It named a passage and requested a destination. “The names were tied into the city's systems. Those systems were tied to the Loom.”

“You make it sound alive.”

He almost gave the easy answer. Then the band erased its own beginning and repeated the request to empty air. “I don't know how much of it can still respond.”

Ava stepped sideways. The script continued addressing the place where she had stood.

“It hasn't noticed I've moved,” she said. “Perhaps it only looks as if it's asking us.”

The Doctor lowered the hand he had raised towards the inscription. Answering a broken civic request might be harmless. He could not establish what it would commit them to. They passed beneath it without giving a destination.

The central boulevard opened ahead. At its far end, the Loom Vault rose beneath the fractured remains of the Temporal Archives. The Doctor could see the route between them, except for a short stretch hidden by a fallen security post.

The Vault's dome was nearly a kilometre wide, split across its curved surface. Gallifreyan glyphs moved along the fracture and stopped where the stone failed. A low hum reached them through the soles of their boots. It persisted when the sky flickered, the first continuous sound they had heard outside the ship.

The Doctor slowed at the security post. One wall lay across the boulevard; behind it, an open equipment rack leaned against a broken desk. He tried the space along the wall's upper edge and found a clear view of the Vault door. When he looked down again, the next paving stone ended above open air.

He stepped back. “We go behind it.”

Ava crouched to look under the desk. “There's something here.”

An energy pulse rifle lay between the desk and the rack. Ava drew it out by its strap, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground. The Doctor stopped beside her. She looked up before he could speak.

“Something is eating people. We're going towards it.”

“I know.”

“Then I want something in my hands.”

He looked at the unfamiliar way her fingers held the stock. “Let me show you the safety before you carry it.” She allowed him to point out the catch, then moved it herself. She chose to keep the rifle, slinging its weight across her shoulder as they went round the fallen wall. He did not tell her that owning it made the route safer.

At the Vault door, he set his uninjured hand against the metal. A vibration climbed into his wrist. Its pattern caught on something familiar before he could name it, and he closed his eyes to separate the sound from the wind behind them.

“I hear them.” The words escaped before he had decided how much he understood. He kept his hand still. The vibration changed, carrying a pressure like the beginning of a voice without resolving into speech.

“The Eaters?” Ava asked. She had moved to one side of the doorway, away from the falling ash. The rifle remained pointed down. He could hear its strap scraping her coat when she turned towards him.

“No. The Loomkeepers. The original ones.” He opened his eyes, finding the word more readily than the evidence behind it. “Echoes imprinted here. That's what I recognise. I can't distinguish who's left them.” He listened again. “They're afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

He tried to attend to the vibration without imposing an answer. The pattern repeated and faltered at the same place. With it came the sensation of reaching for something familiar and finding the recollection changed before he could hold it.

He took his hand away. The fear did not immediately leave him. He had felt enough of that during unification to recognise how readily another disturbance could make use of it. He would not turn recognition into a conversation the walls had never offered.

“Of being rewritten.” He looked at Ava. “That is what it feels like. I haven't been given instructions.”

She nodded towards a shallow division in the door. “Then we still need a way inside.”

He passed the sonic over the division at low power. A narrow opening appeared, then caught against debris at the sill. He stopped the instrument instead of increasing it. Ava shifted the rifle behind her shoulder and used both hands to move the loose stone while he held the door. The movement pulled at his bruised arm. When the stone came free, the door moved far enough for them to pass through sideways.

The air inside was cold. The Doctor kept his hand on the inner face until Ava had cleared the opening. Behind them the door settled without closing completely, leaving a strip of ash-grey daylight across the floor. He checked that gap once before going farther.

Faint glyphs moved across the walls. Circular consoles, memory engines and relic processors lined the chamber, each giving a different broken rhythm to the low hum. Ava went to the nearest display. It showed marks she could not read, but she could see where a repeating sequence stopped short of its end.

She pointed towards the centre. The Doctor had already seen it, though for several breaths he could not make himself cross the remaining space. The scale was familiar from the vision. The condition was not.

The Loom stood within a spread of fallen material. He could follow the arrangement of its arms around the core, but their interrupted lines made it difficult to recognise the whole structure at once.

“This is what we came for?” Ava asked. She put the rifle strap more securely over her shoulder so it would not slip as she moved between the fragments.

“Yes.” He wished he had something useful to add to the word.

In the vision, the arms had reached across an open chamber and drawn possibilities between them. Here their shadows crossed broken consoles. The Doctor looked for the relationships he had witnessed beneath Mount Cadon without assuming that the image supplied a map of this place.

He stopped beside the nearest fallen length. Its end was split through several layers. He held the sonic above it, then lowered the instrument when the reading began to cycle through incompatible values. The broken part was still caught in the failure around it.

Several arms had snapped. He could see places where they had once joined the core, and others where the remaining material gave no indication of its original path. A convincing reconstruction in his head would not make those gaps safe to bridge.

The crystal core was dark except for a single thread. It pulsed weakly through the centre, illuminating the inside of a fracture with each return of light.

Ava came to stand beside him. “One?”

“One that we can still see.” He checked the surrounding dark before allowing himself to move closer. Nothing else responded.

The filament shone golden-white. Its light caught the loose edge of the bandage around his thumb. For a moment he watched that small ordinary reflection instead of looking directly at the thing whose survival had brought them here.

The next pulse arrived late. Ava noticed his head lift and began watching the intervals with him. Neither spoke while they waited for another.

It returned. The Doctor released a breath he had been holding and set the scanner on a stable piece of floor, far enough away that he would not have to reach across the thread to read it.

The trace showed activity without a steady rhythm. He altered the range. The line became larger but no clearer. Making the surviving signal fill a screen did not mean there was more of it.

He knelt carefully, keeping his injured knee off the hardest edge. Ava crouched beside the scanner. She could watch the trace while he examined the connection beneath the filament, and he asked her to tell him if it changed.

“The Prime Thread,” he said. “The original weave. The master filament from which the other probabilities branched.” The name fitted the structure he could still identify around it. He looked again, making himself check the physical arrangement rather than accept the relief of having a name.

“Can it be repaired?” Ava asked.

He reached for the sonic, then stopped before activating it. In the library he had written down the founders' intentions. He had not come away with a repair sequence.

“I think it can.” He could hear how much she needed the answer to contain more than hope. “I don't yet know how to do it without making the damage worse.”

She remained beside him, watching the trace instead of urging him to try something.

“A tool might reconnect a support,” he said. “Code might restore an interface. That wouldn't necessarily restore what this was made to hold.” He set the sonic down. “I can't solder an intention back into place.”

Ava looked from the instrument to his empty hands. “So what do you need instead?”

He took out the folded account with his good hand. He did not open it over the thread. There was space beside the scanner, and he spread it there.

“The founders gave it purposes. Survival, order, the ability to choose something else.” He touched the paper beside the third entry. “If that still matters to how it works, healing it needs intention. Belief in something it can carry forwards.”

“Believing hard enough?”

“No. I don't think wanting an outcome is the same as giving it a possibility.”

“Belief in what, then?” She sounded tired now, and angry at the size of the answer being asked of them. “I'd believe in this city having people in it. I believed there would be a room behind that doorway.”

He looked down at the account. Nothing he had written could return the room to her.

“In the future,” he said. “In free will. In the right to choose what comes next.” He left his hand beside the paper. “That is what I think was left open at the beginning. We have to find how to let it remain open now.”

Ava studied the word he had written for the Other's contribution. “Without deciding everyone's future for them.”

“Yes.”

He looked up at the thread. It still trembled at the same low strength. Their conversation had made no repair. He was glad of that distinction even as he wished for evidence that they had found somewhere to begin.

Ava saw his expression change and turned to follow his gaze. The light within the core had acquired a dark edge, as if something between it and the wall were interrupting each pulse.

The shadow widened. He checked the scanner without touching its controls. The trace continued, but the visible filament shortened behind the advancing dark.

A line appeared in the far wall. At first it followed an existing fracture. Then its lower edge drew away from the stone, opening into a depth the thickness of the wall could not contain.

A mouth took shape around the opening. The Doctor could judge its teeth only by the places where the glyphs vanished as they crossed them. He reached for the folded paper and pushed it back inside his coat.

An Eater emerged. This one did not flicker through several positions or struggle to keep its outline. It stepped over the broken stone deliberately, robed like a Time Lord arriving at a ceremony. The measured movement frightened him more than another rupture would have done.

He searched for a face and found a smooth dark surface. No eyes moved towards the Loom. Yet the creature stopped at a point from which it could see both the thread and the people beside it.

The surface reflected the chamber. He saw the broken arms, the faint filament and a figure standing where his own image ought to have been. The figure's posture was wrong.

The Doctor rose. His knee nearly failed him halfway up. He caught himself against a sound piece of the housing, keeping his hand clear of the thread, and finished standing before the creature took another step.

Ava stood too. He heard her shift the rifle in its strap but kept his attention on the mirror. She was close enough that he could see her sleeve at the edge of his vision.

His reflection did not share the effort of standing. It waited upright and perfectly still. The Doctor moved one hand. The reflected hand remained at its side.

It was his face. He recognised the features with the immediate discomfort of seeing himself in a recording made when he had forgotten anyone was watching. The expression belonged to a decision already settled.

He had imagined having enough power to make an argument unnecessary. The recollection was his, however much he disliked finding it here. The mirror gave that temptation a body and removed every sign that it had ever been questioned.

A tyrant looked back at him. He could see no pleasure in the face, only the expectation that other people would move when it required them to move.

A warlord's stillness held the reflected shoulders. The Doctor became aware of his own tired hands, his injured leg, the effort it took to remain ready to act without knowing which action would help.

The figure in the mirror appeared to need none of that uncertainty. It offered him the bearing of a god, and he felt fear at how easily he understood the offer.

The Eater spoke. The voice was his own, stripped of the small hesitation with which he had just answered Ava. He heard it cross the Vault while the Prime Thread continued its failing pulse behind him.

“You shouldn't have unified.”

Chapter Six

The Tyrant Mirror

The Eater's accusation remained in the Vault after its voice stopped. The Doctor looked from the mirrored face to the rupture behind it. Air moved towards the opening, lifting ash from the floor. The strip of daylight at the entrance had narrowed to the width of his hand.

The creature stood without adjusting its balance. Around its feet, broken stone trembled with each weak pulse from the Loom. Its robes did not stir. The Doctor shifted his weight off his injured knee and saw no corresponding movement in the face that looked back at him.

He wanted a flaw he could measure. The smooth surface offered none. He could see himself clearly enough to notice the absence of pain, hesitation and the small adjustments that kept a tired body standing.

White and gold robes carried the Seal of Rassilon. Above them, polished obsidian held the Doctor's features in an expression he associated with the Valeyard: judgement delivered before anyone else had spoken. Recognition did not tell him that the being before him was the Valeyard. It told him which part of his own history the image had reached for.

A god's version of the Doctor, with all the inconvenient work of being a person removed. He could understand its appeal without wanting to admit that understanding aloud. Beside him, Ava drew a sharp breath.

The Prime Thread trembled behind his shoulder. The creature inclined its head towards it, and the filament's next pulse shortened. The Doctor could not tell whether it was already attacking or whether the Loom was responding to its presence. Either possibility made the distance between them too small.

Ava raised the energy pulse rifle she had taken from the fallen security post. Its strap caught against her sleeve; she pulled it free and brought the barrel up with both hands. The Doctor extended his arm across her line of fire without touching the weapon.

“No. Weapons won't work. Not against this.” He heard the certainty in his own voice and added, “Look at the ground behind it. Your shot could go through to the Loom.”

She looked. The moving ash passed into the creature's outline and emerged on the other side. Her finger stayed outside the trigger guard. “Then give me something that will.”

“I haven't found it yet.”

The reflection stepped forwards. The robed body moved a moment later, bringing the mirror closer to the Doctor's raised hand. He lowered his arm and moved sideways, leaving Ava room to step back without catching the rifle on him.

The reflected mouth remained closed. He watched it closely, trying to anticipate the next movement. That was what the image encouraged: attention to himself while the creature approached the surviving thread.

His voice came from it again, deeper and without the effort of breath. Ava turned towards the sound before correcting her gaze back to the mirror. The Doctor saw her do it and felt a fresh dislike of hearing his own familiar tones used to mislead her.

“You saw this coming.”

It could have meant the ruined city, the attack, the face. He refused to let the accusation gather every disaster into one answer. “I knew what I was capable of wanting.”

He nodded once towards the image. It was difficult to keep the admission that small. He wanted to defend his reasons before the creature could choose what his words meant.

“Yes,” he said. “That part.”

Ava lowered the rifle a little. He could feel her watching him, and resisted turning to see whether she looked frightened of him now.

“And still you unified. Still you stitched the parts together. Even the ones you feared.” The mirror's surface brightened. In it, the Doctor's reflected hand lifted, though his own stayed at his side.

“The multiverse was breaking.” He remembered the selection control, the possibility of choosing one account of himself and discarding the others. “Keeping those lives separate was tearing the ship apart. I chose to carry them together.” He paused. “That doesn't make every choice I made inside them right.”

The reflected head tilted. “You understand the risk of unity, then. It creates something unchallengeable.”

Ava gave a short, incredulous breath. He almost smiled at the sound, then saw the creature's attention move towards her. He kept his place between it and the thread.

“I didn't unify for power.” He could hear how little that answered. A reason for acquiring something did not determine what he would later do with it. He had made that distinction for other people often enough.

“No,” the Eater said. “But you could have.”

The reflected hand closed slowly. Behind the creature, a strip of writing on the wall straightened into a single line and stopped changing. The Doctor watched it rather than the hand.

The Eater moved closer. Light faded from the consoles behind it. He took one step back, reached the sonic where he had left it beside the paper's former place, and picked it up. The motion pulled at his bruised shoulder. He left the instrument inactive in his hand.

“You've always wanted to fix everything. Save everyone. Haven't you wondered what you could do if no one stopped you?”

He remembered the pleasure of a room falling silent when he announced a solution. Sometimes there had been gratitude in that silence. Sometimes there had only been exhaustion, and he had accepted it as agreement.

He said nothing. Ava looked at him again. It would have been easy to give her a reassuring version of the pause: the Doctor wisely refusing to engage with a monster's argument.

He could not honestly offer that. “I have wondered,” he said. “People have had to stop me.” The mirror held his face in a satisfied stillness, as though admission completed the case.

The Doctor looked past it to the line of writing on the wall. It was beginning to move again. Only a little: one mark separating from the next. He had no time to decide whether the change mattered before memory interrupted his attention.

A hot wind crossed his face. The Vault remained in front of him, but he smelled burning stone. For an instant he was bracing against a different floor, trying to make himself heard over a noise he could no longer place.

Skaro came with a taste of smoke. Pompeii arrived as a hand reaching through falling ash. At Stonehenge he remembered the force of his own declaration, and how easily a crowd had become an audience for it. Then Clara's face was close enough that he almost answered a question she was not asking here. He gripped the sonic until the remembered rooms receded.

These were not other men offering testimony. The anger, the certainty and the need to be told he was good belonged to him. He had used the changes of face to put distance around them. That distance was harder to maintain now.

He remembered someone refusing to follow him, and the irritation he had felt before understanding why. He could remember the warning more clearly than his eventual apology. That imbalance was his to correct; it did not make the warning less true.

There had always been another emergency ready to absorb his attention. Sometimes there had genuinely been no time. Sometimes he had been grateful that the next crisis spared him the conversation after the last one.

The mirror took the familiar shape of that escape. Give him enough authority, it suggested, and there would be no need to explain himself afterwards. He could make the result justify the decision before anyone else had a chance to refuse it.

Ava said his name. He realised he had been looking at the reflection while the creature moved. The sonic was still inactive. He took a breath and turned towards the surviving thread.

The Eater had reached the edge of the Loom's housing. It extended a hand over the filament. A dark patch travelled beneath its fingers, obscuring the light without quite touching it.

Ava raised the rifle again. “Don't.” The barrel shook. She adjusted her grip, trying to keep it clear of the Doctor, and the creature turned its face towards her.

Her own reflection looked back. Its hands held the rifle steadily. In the glass she saw herself fire before she had decided to move, watched the imagined recoil settle against her shoulder. The reflected woman looked relieved. That relief frightened Ava more than anger would have done.

She lowered the weapon. Her breath came hard, but her hands obeyed. She would not fire merely to stop being afraid of firing. She set the safety and let the strap take the weight, keeping one hand on the stock so it could not swing into the broken machinery.

The Doctor stepped between the Eater and the Loom. He could not place his body in front of every part of the filament. He chose the nearest gap and made the creature look at him again.

“No further.”

He was close enough now to see a thin distortion along the edge of the mirror. It vanished when he leaned towards it. He stopped leaning. The creature did not need much help drawing him away from the thing he was trying to protect.

Its face rippled. The Doctor's image returned, displacing Ava's, and the reflected shoulders squared as though taking command of a room. The dark patch over the thread held where it was.

He waited through one failing pulse. He could hear Ava shift her feet behind him. She had moved away from the rifle's first line of fire and closer to the scanner, watching both the creature and the filament.

“You're not protecting the Loom. You're protecting yourself. You know what happens if this unravels. You break again. You scatter. You become him again.”

The Doctor's hand tightened. He did not know that. The fear arrived with such force that for a moment it felt like information.

He unclenched his jaw before answering. “You haven't shown me that.” The distinction gave him no comfort. He could still picture himself divided, could still feel the terrible pull that had nearly torn the ship apart.

“I'd rather break into a thousand good intentions than become one bad certainty.” He heard the satisfying shape of the sentence and distrusted how complete it sounded. He was still standing in front of a failing thread. Saying what he preferred had not protected it.

“But that is what you are. The certainty of interference. The belief that you know better than time.” The dark patch lengthened. One of the scanner's lights went out behind Ava's hand.

She looked up. “Whatever you're going to do, it needs to be soon.”

The Doctor reached inside his coat, feeling the wrapped blade with his free hand. He stopped short of drawing it. The Eater's face brightened at the movement. He took his hand away and looked at the sonic he was already holding.

He adjusted its setting with his good thumb. The instrument offered a clear carrier tone, though the response from the surrounding structure remained broken. He brought it close to himself and reduced the range.

He did not aim it at the Eater. Another threat would only repeat the argument the mirror was making about him. He needed to show something the image had excluded, without pretending that the exclusion made him innocent.

He used the sonic to amplify a recollection. The first light scattered across his sleeve. A face formed without its surroundings, then dissolved when he tried to hold it too precisely. He eased his grip and let the memory arrive in the order it could.

A small hologram opened between him and the mirror, drawn from his own mind. Its edges shook. It was no complete record; parts sharpened while others remained absent. The effort of keeping it visible made him miss the beginning of the Eater's next movement.

Ava warned him. He shifted back before its hand reached the sonic, then shortened the projection rather than force it brighter. He could show the failures he could reach. He could not summon every moment on demand, or make his account the account of everyone he had hurt.

Harriet Jones appeared in the scattered light, and he remembered the smallness of the intervention with which he had helped bring her down. The Silence brought gaps he could not confidently fill. River's imprisonment arrived with the discomfort of knowing that his place in a story was never its whole cost. Then Adric's face appeared, and the Doctor nearly closed the projection.

He kept it open. Gallifrey followed in fragments, the falls and attempted rescues refusing to settle into a single reassuring sequence. He could not arrange those images into proof that he had always done his best. The projection made his own uncertainty visible, including the places where memory failed him.

The Eater flinched. Its extended hand withdrew a fraction from the filament. The Doctor noticed the movement and was tempted to push harder, to turn the recollection into an instrument of defeat. The reflected face began to steady as soon as he did.

He stopped forcing the image. The creature's edge trembled again. It seemed to take strength from the certainty he presented, and to struggle when he refused its complete, commanding version of him. That was a pattern in this encounter, not a law he could safely apply to every Eater.

Regret did not make the people in the projection forgive him. He had to let that remain true. He allowed the memory of Adric to end without giving it a conclusion that would make standing here easier.

Beside the scanner, Ava watched the image disappear. She did not tell him that it was all right. The silence she left was harder to bear and more useful than reassurance would have been.

The Doctor lowered his voice. Keeping the hologram alive was becoming difficult. He let its light fade to a few broken shapes, enough to show that the missing parts had not become answers.

“I know what I could have been. I've felt it. I've almost become it. But I didn't unify to erase my mistakes.” He looked directly at his reflected face. “I unified to carry them.”

He stepped forwards once, making the choice deliberately instead of following the retreating hand. His knee shook under him. The creature yielded a small amount of ground, still keeping its face turned towards the projection.

“To live with what I remember. To listen when someone remembers it differently.” He glanced towards Ava, then back. “And to answer for the harm I've done. Changing my face never made it someone else's.”

A crack crossed the mirror. It ran through the reflected mouth and stopped below one eye. The Doctor held still. He could not tell whether another step would widen it or give the creature exactly the challenge it wanted.

The nearest wall glyphs brightened. Their broken sequence resumed for several marks before failing again. The chamber had gained a little light, but none of the snapped arms had moved.

The Prime Thread pulsed. Ava looked down at the scanner, then towards the filament. “A little stronger.”

“How much?”

“Enough to see. Not enough to stop watching.”

“You lie.” The Eater's voice wavered. The crack in its face made one side of the Doctor's image appear to speak before the other. He recognised the invitation to mistake that faltering for surrender.

“No. You do.” He let the sonic's projection close before exhaustion took the choice from him. “You keep showing one possible man as though no other decision remains.”

The Eater's hand moved towards the thread again.

The Doctor put the sonic into his coat and drew out the wrapped Chronoblade. He unfolded the cloth carefully. Light caught within the crystal edge, faint but distinct from the golden-white filament above it.

He did not raise it against the creature. He had thrown it once at a structure he could not otherwise reach. This was another problem, and repeating the gesture would not make him understand it.

He turned the grip away from himself. The Eater hesitated. For the first time its mirrored face seemed unable to settle on which of the two people it should reflect.

“Ava.” He held the Chronoblade out towards her. “The floor beneath the thread. I think you can give it something other than the contest it's making with me.”

She froze with one hand still on the rifle strap. The blade was much smaller than the weapon she had brought inside. That did not make accepting it feel safer. She looked past his hand to the fracture beneath the filament.

“You want me to stab the floor?”

“I want to offer you a way to act.”

“Those aren't quite the same thing.” She waited until he looked at her. “Do you know what will happen?”

“No.” He kept the grip within reach without closing the distance. “The Loom answered intention at its founding. This blade has already reached a connection ordinary force couldn't. I think it can carry yours here. I can't make it safe by saying that.”

“What intention?” she asked.

“Yours. You don't have to become what it shows you.”

She looked towards the mirror, where her face was beginning to form beside his. She had been given an approved account of herself before. She did not want another, even a kinder one handed to her by the man who had brought her here.

Ava set the rifle on the floor with its safety engaged. She took the Chronoblade and stepped towards the thread. The Doctor moved aside. He did not put his hand over hers or turn the point for her. She chose the place directly beneath the surviving filament, where she could reach without touching it.

The Eater recoiled. Ava felt a rush of relief and distrusted it; she had just seen what relief could persuade her to do. She stopped for a breath, settled her feet and looked at the place she meant to strike.

She drove the Chronoblade into the Vault floor. The resistance jarred her wrist. For an instant nothing moved except her own hand trembling on the grip. Then light ran from the embedded crystal towards the base of the thread.

She held to the wish she could actually recognise as hers: to have a next choice, and to leave one for someone else. The light carried that intention beyond the place where her hand could reach. She could feel it answering without understanding how to command it.

The Loom responded. The filament drew light up through its base, strengthening around the connection the blade had made. Ava let go when the grip grew hot. The Doctor caught her sleeve to keep her clear as the first bright loop passed across the floor.

Light erupted from the thread. Equations curved through the room too quickly to read, opening paths around the broken arms. The Eater's face fractured along the first crack, then split into smaller reflected pieces. Behind them there was no hidden person: only a dark depth crowded with futures that failed to hold their shapes.

The creature came apart. Its robes lost their outline; the polished fragments broke into light before reaching the floor. Ava kept looking at the empty space after the last piece vanished. She had expected a body, or a wound. Its absence did not tell her what she had destroyed.

The pressure in the room eased. Air stopped dragging towards the wall, and the rupture contracted until the stone behind it could be seen again. The Doctor waited for another movement before lowering his arm from Ava's sleeve.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“My wrist.” She flexed it once and stopped. “I can move it. I'd rather not do that again.”

He nodded and helped her put a little distance between herself and the hot crystal.

The silence that followed allowed them to hear the consoles separately. Several still faltered. One continued through the place where its sequence had broken before. Ava found the sound and listened until it completed a second cycle.

She sat on an unbroken patch of floor. The Doctor checked the rifle's position, safely clear of the light, then looked back at the place where the Eater had stood. Nothing appeared there. He allowed himself to believe in the quiet for the duration of one breath.

The Loom remained cracked. Its arms were still broken, and much of the core was dark. The surviving filament pulsed with renewed strength, illuminating damage they had not been able to see before.

One thread. The Doctor watched several pulses before going close enough to inspect its base. The improvement held without either of them speaking to it or making another demand.

Around the embedded Chronoblade, fine cracks spread through the crystal. The Doctor kept Ava back as the grip broke free in bright fragments. He laid the empty wrapping nearby for when they cooled. They would need to gather them carefully; he would not mistake a broken instrument for an inert one.

He knelt beside the thread, lowering himself slowly. Ava watched his injured leg and shifted to leave him room. For once neither pretended that getting down onto the floor was graceful.

“We're not done,” he said. “But now we have a choice.” He indicated the damaged connections beyond the surviving light. “We can start finding out what can be restored. The thread wasn't giving us that much before.”

Ava sat beside him. Her hand rested palm-up across her knee while the ache in her wrist settled. “And if I had refused?”

“We'd have needed another way.”

“You didn't have one.”

“No.” He met her gaze. “That still wouldn't have made your answer mine to give.”

She looked towards the doorway. “Do we tell the others?” The question escaped before she had decided whom she meant. People who kept a place like this running, perhaps. Someone who would know which room held what they needed next.

The Doctor followed her gaze. A faint smile began and faded as he understood the ordinary expectation inside her question. They had called into an empty city. He had no names to put in the places she was imagining.

“What others?” he asked gently. Beyond the half-open door, ash crossed the strip of daylight. Ava turned back to the living thread and stayed beside him.

Chapter Seven

Threads and Thresholds

The Prime Thread continued to pulse while the Doctor waited for the Chronoblade fragments to cool. He had laid their wrapping on a clear patch of floor. Each time the filament brightened, the broken crystal answered with a different colour.

The light was stronger than before the confrontation, but its rhythm still faltered. He could count four steady pulses and then a late one. Beyond the core, a damaged connection brightened with each return and went dark before the next arrived.

The Vault had stopped shaking. Nothing moved towards the sealed rupture in the wall. For the first time since landing, they could listen without having to distinguish an approaching danger from the sound of the machinery. That did not mean the machinery was well.

The Doctor knelt at the base of the housing and pressed his palms against the exposed conduit beneath the thread. Warmth passed into his hands with each pulse. He tried to follow it towards the dark connection. The warmth stopped at the break, leaving his fingertips cold against the other side.

Ava sat a few metres away beside a half-open supply pack from the TARDIS. She had fetched it while he watched the thread, following the boulevard back through a city that still offered no answer to her calls. The walk had left her tired enough to sit before opening the fastenings. Now the Chronoblade fragments lay in a padded compartment, their wrapping folded between the sharper edges. Even broken, they showed little movements that did not belong to the room around them.

The Doctor glanced towards her. She was easing a strip of cloth around her sore wrist. He offered to help, but she shook her head and braced the loose end against her knee. He waited until she had finished before returning to the conduit.

She had put the rifle beside the pack, safety engaged and barrel pointed away from their working space. Her free hand rested on the open compartment. She counted the fragments again, then closed the protective flap without fastening the whole pack.

“Will they do anything?” she asked.

“They might. I don't know what.”

She moved the pack farther from the Loom. “Then I don't want to knock them over while we're finding out.”

She watched the dark connection beyond his hands. After several pulses she leaned forwards. “That part almost catches each time.”

“Yes.”

“Are you trying to hold it where it used to be?”

He looked down at the pressure of his fingers. “I think I am.”

She came beside him and pointed without touching the broken edge. “It keeps moving away from that position.” On the next pulse he loosened his grip. A thin line of light reached a little farther across the gap before fading.

He took his hands away completely. The next line failed at the same point, but it did not retreat as far. He had been treating the original shape as the only acceptable result. Ava had noticed the movement he was suppressing because she had no reason to defend his first interpretation.

“Do you know how many Time Lords were there at the beginning of this?” he asked. He heard how much he wanted the question to restore his authority and nearly withdrew it. Instead he took out the folded account from the library and laid it on the floor between them.

Ava glanced at the paper. “Three in what you saw.”

He nodded. She had kept the qualification he might have omitted.

“Three.” He touched the first entry with an uninjured finger. The paper had acquired a fold across Omega's name during the confrontation. He smoothed it carefully instead of trying to work through it.

“And no one else ever touched it?” she asked.

“I can't establish that from a vision. These are the three I can name at its founding.” He looked towards the door where the frightened echoes had caught him. “There are things here I haven't accounted for.”

“Omega. Rassilon. And the Other.” He read the names aloud. “They gave it intentions. They didn't hand us a set of instructions for putting it back together.”

Ava looked at his empty hands. “I noticed.”

“And now you,” she said. She meant the position he had taken beside the conduit, the readiness with which he had begun deciding what should go where. He recognised it and resisted an answer about how much experience he had.

“Now we,” he said. He moved aside so she could examine the failed connection without looking over his shoulder. “Provided you still want to. I could use another account of what that's doing.”

She settled beside him. “Start by telling me what you think it was meant to do.”

He described a path for possibility through the damaged structure. Halfway through, he used a word that assumed the result. Ava stopped him and asked what he had actually observed. They began again with the light travelling from the surviving filament towards the broken edge.

For the next hour, as nearly as the scanner could measure it, they worked in tandem. The Doctor traced relationships he recognised; Ava watched what happened when he tried to restore them. Twice they returned to the first connection after a later adjustment disturbed it. He would have preferred a sequence in which each completed task stayed completed.

The supply pack contained tools. He used one to move a shard of ordinary casing out of their way, then set it down. The break itself would not yield to pressure. What joined its edges had to carry a purpose through the Loom, and they had not yet described that purpose in a way the surviving structure could sustain.

He spoke to the broken strand, explaining what it might allow to follow from the thread. At first the words came as an instruction. The edges drew together and sprang apart. He tried again, slower, leaving the branch beyond the join unresolved. This time a line of light stayed between them. When he reached to fix its shape, it dimmed.

Ava caught the movement of his wrist. “Leave it.”

He did. The connection held at an angle he had not chosen.

At the next break, Ava repeated what she had understood. She used fewer of his terms and had to stop when one proved wrong. The Loom offered no answer to the first attempt. She looked back at the joined strand, revised her description and waited. A fine light crossed the second gap. She did not reach for it.

“You're better at this than most Time Lords,” he said.

“Two attempts at one small piece?” She looked at the half-dark chamber. “You must have met some terrible Time Lords.”

“Quite a few.”

“Is that a compliment or an indictment?”

“Both.” He smiled, then checked the first connection again. It remained lit. “Particularly the part where you let it surprise you.”

She shook her head, but went back to the work. Her next suggestion failed. He was careful not to rescue his compliment by insisting the failure meant something it did not. They watched the light withdraw, compared it with the previous attempt and chose a smaller change.

They worked without speaking for a while. He could feel when Ava wanted room and moved before she had to ask. She learned to watch his injured hand and pass things to the other one. Neither arrangement required them to pretend the rest had become easy.

“You haven't asked me yet,” she said.

He had been following a pulse across two repaired joins. It reached the third and stopped. He left his hands still, giving her his attention before offering another explanation.

“Asked you what?”

She looked towards the pack. The little cloth bearing her name was tucked into its side pocket, clear of the broken crystal. She had put it there so she could reach it without opening the main compartment.

The Doctor followed her gaze and thought she might mean the changes the Eaters had made to her. He did not ask the question on her behalf. She had already told him once that noticing something missing was not the same as recovering it.

“If I'm staying.”

The pulse reached the third join again while he tried to decide what staying meant. Here in the Vault until the work was done. Aboard the TARDIS afterwards. Somewhere he could take her, if there was a place she trusted enough to name.

He did not answer immediately. He had begun to imagine her on the other side of the console, noticing what he missed. The ease of that picture was no evidence that she had chosen it.

He stood to ease his knee and wiped the soot from his hands on a corner of the spare cloth. Ava waited. He could not make the question less difficult by turning it into a task for his hands.

“No. I haven't asked.” He sat on the edge of the housing, keeping the repaired strands clear. “I hoped I knew the answer. That's a poor reason for not hearing it.”

She studied him for a moment. “Then hear this part before we go anywhere.”

He moved the scanner so its light no longer fell across her face. The two joined strands continued working without him. For a few minutes, they could leave them alone.

They sat in the Loom's shadow. Faint sounds travelled through the recovering structure, too incomplete to identify: a pressure like distant speech, a short change of pitch, something that might have been traffic. Ava listened, then chose to speak over them rather than keep waiting for a recognisable voice.

“I never thought about travelling. Not like this.” She rubbed her wrist through the support she had made. “Being somewhere because you chose the next place, instead of because something drove you out of the last one.”

“An unusual time to discover that, after the storm and the mirror.”

“After stabbing your floor, you mean.”

“The Loom's floor.”

She looked at him. “You were very particular about it being your problem until you needed someone else to do that bit.”

He accepted the correction. “I was.”

“Before all this, I was a historian. A good one.” Her voice grew steadier as she continued. “I taught schoolchildren on Silvaris V how the Last Light Treaty led to the Orion Drift Accords. I catalogued cause and effect. I could spend a whole lesson on a date everyone thought was settled.”

She smiled briefly. “They wanted the answer that would be on the test. I wanted them to ask who had written the test.”

“And now?”

“Now I have to ask it about what's in my own head.” She looked towards the named cloth. “I remember teaching. I remember wanting them to find a better account than mine. I can't promise every detail around it is still where it belonged.”

She watched the Loom's light move through the joins they had made. It did not reproduce either person's first attempt exactly. At the second break, the new connection passed behind the old one, leaving the damaged end visible.

“I used to want an account with edges that made sense. You could point to where something began and say why it ended.” She followed the new line with her eyes. “This leaves somewhere for the next person to begin. They don't have to stay inside our explanation.”

The Doctor let her finish. He could have supplied the word possibility, tied the observation back to the founders and made a tidy lesson of it. She was arriving at something more particular than his account of the mechanism.

Ava turned towards him. “I don't want everything I do now to be about checking what someone took from me. I still need to check. I want there to be something else as well.”

“I don't want only to record what happens. I want to help shape what comes next.” She glanced at the connection. “And keep enough of a record that someone can tell me when I've made a mess of it.”

He did not smile immediately. He knew the force of wanting to become useful after loss. He also knew how quickly he could recruit that desire into the next emergency and call it an adventure.

“The ship can take you somewhere to rest,” he said. “Staying aboard doesn't oblige you to step out every time I do.”

“Would you remember that when the door opened?”

“I'd need to.”

“I'd remind you.”

“Good.” This time he smiled. “Because the Loom is only the beginning. There will be other things worth doing, and I won't always be right about which ones need us.”

She stood carefully. “Let's finish this one before you start recommending the next.”

He returned the written account to his coat. Ava moved the pack away from the next damaged junction, checking that the compartment holding the crystal remained secure. Then she joined him on the far side of the housing.

They completed the restoration slowly. A joint that answered him would not always answer the same words from her; another remained dark until she changed the way she described its relation to the surviving thread. They learned to watch what the structure did, rather than repeat an explanation because it had worked somewhere else.

At the outermost damaged connection, both approaches failed. The new line formed and sagged towards the floor. The Doctor watched the scanner's time reading slip as it fell. They had been asking the Loom to hold a repair while the region around it continued to shift.

He returned to the TARDIS to establish a temporary tether from her core to the Vault. Ava stayed with the scanner, watching the repaired connections until he came back. He kept the load low; the first increase brought a warning from the ship and he reduced it at once. Her harmonic signature steadied the local field without taking the work away from the Loom.

With that support, he showed Ava how the interface glyphs followed the intentions they offered. She made him repeat the distinction between two marks before using either. The last sagging line held long enough for her to revise its course, and this time it remained joined.

She stopped before moving to the next control. The Doctor was still checking the tether when he noticed her hands had become still above the housing.

“Doctor.”

Her voice was quiet enough that he first thought she had found another break. He looked towards the repaired line. It continued to carry light.

He turned from the console. Ava had moved back to the base of the Loom, leaving the controls where they were. He put down the adjustment he had been about to make and approached without reaching past her.

Both her hands were extended towards the Prime Thread. She held them clear of it, her supported wrist a little lower than the other. The filament bent towards the space between her palms, then paused.

“It's offering something.” She shifted one hand sideways. The light followed part of the way and stopped again. “It isn't pulling.”

“What do you feel?” he asked.

She took time to answer. He could see her trying to find a description that would not become his simply because he was waiting for it.

The light warmed her palms. She thought of the doorway with no room behind it, then of the lesson she could still remember wanting to teach. Neither image went away. Something beyond them seemed possible without arriving already arranged.

She lowered her hands slightly, testing whether she could step back. The thread held its place. When she brought them forwards again, its light brightened against her fingers.

“Hope,” she said.

The Doctor nodded without asking her to make the answer more exact. He moved to one side so she could see the whole span of the thread.

Ava left her hands open for another moment, then drew them back. The filament returned towards the centre of the housing. She had taken no piece of it. She watched it move with the attention of someone waiting to see whether an offer had changed what came next.

For the first time since Gallifrey's fall, the Loom began to spin. The movement was small enough that the Doctor checked it against the fixed housing before trusting his eyes. An arm that had hung motionless passed a finger's width beyond its old position.

He reached instinctively towards the interface, ready to steady it. The movement continued without his correction. He kept his hand above the control until the impulse passed, then let it fall.

The arms turned gently. Light crossed from one repaired joint to the next without breaking its rhythm. Ava counted a full circuit, lost her place at a bright crossing, and began again.

A filament extended towards the wall. The Doctor watched it reach an old fracture and divide around the edges. It made no attempt to force the stone together. Light filled the space between, and the edges found a new alignment.

On the scanner, the local time reading steadied. The change held through the next rotation. He reduced the TARDIS tether a fraction and waited. The reading remained steady, supported now by the working Loom.

Gold and pearl light spread across the chamber. A pulse passed through the walls and upwards through the stone above the Vault, reaching beyond the Archives into the city. The Doctor felt it in the floor, slower and broader than the blows that had shaken the plaza.

The scanner's view of Arcadia changed. Gaps in the boulevard filled with connected paving. A wall acquired the room that should have stood behind it. Farther out, the damaged traces of other cities began returning to the chart. A channel that had carried only broken noise resolved into a voice asking for a name; the reply reached them a moment later. Ava leaned towards the sound without trying to speak over it.

The Loom continued to turn. She watched the doorway on the screen until its far wall stayed at a believable distance. “That's the place I called into.”

“Yes.”

“There's room for someone now.”

The Doctor left the channel open. He had no count of everyone who had returned, and no means yet of counting everyone still missing.

The surviving thread carried light into the repaired structure without fading between pulses. He checked the connections they had worked on first. Both held. The later ones held as well.

There was no instruction awaiting his confirmation on the interface. He looked for one anyway, then recognised what he was doing. The Loom was carrying out work he had helped make possible, without requiring him to approve each next movement.

Ava stood beside him with her hands lowered. The exchange at the thread had left her free to withdraw. Now the structure continued of its own accord. He could accept that response without turning consent into something he claimed to understand perfectly on its behalf.

They stayed until the repaired joints held with the tether reduced to nothing. Then he disconnected the temporary link. Ava secured the supply pack and picked up the rifle. They carried both back through a city whose streets stayed beneath their feet, leaving the Loom turning inside its restored Vault.

Later, in the TARDIS, Ava set the pack where it could not slide and laid the rifle in the storage space the Doctor showed her. He closed the compartment before returning to the console. The engines sounded less strained. She watched him check the core connection before he touched the navigation controls.

He adjusted their temporal orbit around the Vault. The recovered structure gave him a steadier reference than the fractured city had supplied on arrival. “A pocket of reinforced stable probability,” he explained, showing her the boundary before closing it. “It will hide the Vault. I've set it for a thousand years, to give this part of time a chance to heal.”

“Will it keep the Eaters out?”

She watched the Vault's outline disappear from the ordinary view. The Doctor left the underlying coordinates visible so concealment could not be mistaken for absence.

“No. It should make finding it harder. Make them hesitate.” He checked the boundary again. “The setting tells us how long the cloak is meant to hold. It doesn't promise what will happen inside it.”

Ava nodded. That was an answer she could use without first having to argue him down from certainty.

She reached for the console rail. Her wrist objected and she changed hands. He noticed, then let her finish the movement herself. The ship's hum settled into a steady note beneath her fingers.

“I want to keep going,” she said. “With you. In this ship.”

The Doctor looked up from the last reading. This time he did not answer before she had completed the sentence.

“Then stay.” He made space beside the chart, as he had before their first departure together. “And tell me when you want something different.”

“I will.”

“Not just to fix things,” she added. “To protect what's worth keeping.” She looked towards the secured pack. The cloth bearing her name was safe beside its other contents. “And find out what I want to do when there's nothing immediately trying to erase it.”

He met her gaze. The day had contained too much running for either of them to know what ordinary company might feel like. He found that uncertainty pleasant for once. It left them something to discover without a failing world requiring an answer.

“You sound like me.” He heard the words as he said them and smiled at himself. “On a day when someone has reminded me to think beyond the repair.”

“You're not the only one who can unify.” Her smile was tired but unmistakable. She gathered the pencil and her named cloth from the pack's side pocket and put them together in her coat. The Doctor took the remark as it was offered, without trying to turn it into a theory of what she had become.

He returned to the controls. The route away from Arcadia appeared clearly. He checked it once against the ship's reading and once against the stable boundary they were leaving behind.

“Well then, Ava. Let's see what the Loom weaves next.”

“After we've sat down.”

He looked at the jump seat. “An excellent first destination.”

The engines gathered their familiar rhythm. Ava settled onto the seat, leaving room at the other end. He set the course gently enough that she did not need to brace herself against the floor.

The lights flickered once as power shifted to the drive, then held. The Doctor waited for the departure indicator before taking his hand away. Beyond the scanner, the restored city receded without changing its outline.

The TARDIS lifted into the Vortex. He joined Ava on the seat while the ship carried them clear of the temporal orbit. For the first few moments neither spoke. There was work they had finished, more they could not yet account for, and at last enough quiet to feel how tired they were.

Chapter Eight

Tea in the Vortex

The TARDIS drifted in the Vortex while the Doctor tried to remember why he had stood up. He had left the jump seat with an intention clear enough to carry him halfway round the console. Now he held a small brass fitting in one hand and could not decide whether he had taken it out of something or meant to put it back.

Beyond the scanner, currents of colour passed without striking the hull. He recognised a pale blue turn that he associated with the fourteenth dynasty of Raxacoricofallapatorius. A golden flicker reminded him of the Shadow Moons of Varn and a rebellion that had almost happened there. He left both associations alone. The ship was not asking him to navigate by them.

“You said you were making tea,” Ava reminded him.

He looked at the fitting. “This isn't tea.”

“I was hoping you'd notice before I had to drink it.”

He set the part in a shallow tray and found two mugs that did not match. One had a handle broad enough for Ava to use without curling her sore wrist. She accepted it, then watched him negotiate the kettle with his bandaged thumb. When she offered to pour, he shifted it to his other hand and managed a small, excessively careful stream.

Ava leaned against the rail while the tea cooled. She had loosened the support around her wrist after the last landing shock failed to arrive. It still ached when she lifted the mug too quickly. She rested its weight on the console edge and took a cautious sip.

“Still tastes like warm regret and diplomatic compromise.”

“Still? You've barely tried it.”

“I was giving it a chance to improve.” She tried another sip. “It hasn't.”

The Doctor crouched beside an open service panel to adjust a flux compensator beneath the dimensional stabiliser. His knee objected before he reached the floor. He lowered himself onto a little stool instead, then realised the stool was where he had meant to leave the brass fitting.

“You take that back,” he said, reaching for the tray. “This blend won the Presidential Medal of Time-Aware Gastronomy.”

Ava looked into her mug. “Did it win before anyone tasted it?”

“That would have been administratively convenient.”

“Was this during the sane years of Gallifreyan culture or the insufferably smug ones?” She watched him turn the fitting against its thread and stop when it resisted. The repair seemed small enough that she could ask a foolish question without somebody dying while he answered.

“Oh, very much the smug years.” He tried the fitting at a different angle. It seated properly. “The sane years rarely had time to order medals.”

She laughed, and the unfamiliar ease of it made her look away. Nothing in the room demanded an explanation. He continued working, leaving her the laugh without asking what it meant about her recovery.

He closed the panel and stood with one hand against the console. The adjustment reduced a clicking sound she had barely noticed until it stopped. He listened for a few seconds, made a small mark on a maintenance pad, and moved towards another panel.

“Does that one have to be done now?” she asked.

He checked the reading. “No.”

“Then drink your decorated tea before it goes cold.”

The coral columns glowed with a subdued warmth. Their cracks were still visible, though nothing fell from them when the engines changed note. Near the jump seat stood a small stack of physical books and a folding chair. Ava was sure neither had been there when she fetched the supply pack. She carried her mug over and bent to read the nearest spine.

“Did you put these here?”

“No.” The Doctor stopped beside her. “She rearranges things.”

Ava looked up at the ceiling. “For me?”

“Possibly. You could try the chair before accepting the offer.”

She unfolded it with her good hand and sat. The seat was a little lower than she expected. She moved it beside the rail so she could reach her tea without balancing the mug on her knee. The Doctor waited for the ship to object to the change. The hum continued evenly.

He leaned against the console, drinking his own tea at last. Ava opened the top book. Its paper felt ordinary beneath her fingers. There was a stain at the corner of one page and a pencilled correction in a hand she did not recognise.

She read the corrected sentence twice. The alteration changed the date of a journey by one day, with no explanation in the margin. She turned back to the beginning of the chapter and found a different date there too.

“There's an argument in this book,” she said.

“Most of the good ones contain several.”

“Between the book and whoever owned the pencil.” She reached for her own, then paused before making a mark. Instead she found a loose scrap beside the maintenance pad and copied both dates onto it. “I'd like to know which came first.”

The Doctor began to lean towards the title. She covered it with her hand, smiling.

“Let me look.”

He retreated to his tea. She followed the references for several pages and found no immediate answer. The failure was unexpectedly pleasant. Nothing depended on solving it before the floor vanished. She tucked the scrap between the pages and decided she could return to it tomorrow.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“Not yet.” She settled farther into the chair. “I'm keeping it.”

“Do you know, this is the longest I've gone without someone trying to kill me in...” He considered the ceiling. “Six regenerations.”

Ava looked up. “You were nearly killed today.”

“Then I'm making excellent progress.”

She marked her place with one finger. “That isn't how the measurement works.”

“Do you ever get bored?” she asked. She expected him to dismiss the possibility and was interested when he took a moment to think.

“Sometimes. Usually when I'm meant to be listening to someone.”

“I'll watch for that.”

“Quiet can be harder,” he added. “It gives things time to catch up.” He set down his mug. The room no longer needed his attention everywhere at once. In the space that left, he could remember the sound from the collapsing Spire with unpleasant clarity.

Ava studied him without closing her book. “The people you couldn't bring back?”

“Them. Things before them.” He could have hidden the answer inside an account of the Vortex. She had asked about him, and the technical explanation would have been an evasion.

“You mean the other versions of you.”

“The things I lived through when I looked different.” He rubbed the rim of the mug with an uninjured finger. “It can feel farther away until it doesn't.”

He fell quiet. Ava let him have the pause. She had learned enough from her own missing recollections to dislike a question repeated merely because its first asking had not produced an immediate answer.

The Doctor turned a dial, then stopped himself from making another adjustment. He was finding work for his hands again. On the scanner, their view widened along the stable route they had left behind.

Arcadia appeared through the folds of protective temporal drift, restored and holding its shape. Streets crossed the place where the plaza had fallen away. The Vault remained hidden beneath the cloak, though the stored reference showed him where it lay. He checked the boundary once and left it alone.

Ava brought her book to the console. She watched the city while he returned the dial to its former position. “I still expect the road to disappear,” she said.

“So do I.”

Neither apologised for needing to see it remain.

“You talk to them, don't you?” she asked after a while. “Your past selves. Is that what happens when you go quiet?”

He shook his head slowly. “There isn't somebody else waiting to answer.”

“I sometimes put a thought into words because hearing it helps me examine it. It's still mine. So are the memories.” He looked down at his hand. “An old fear can arrive before I remember what frightened me. A familiar movement can feel right in a room that's changed. Calling it an echo describes the feeling. It doesn't make another person.”

Ava took a sip of tea and considered that. “Like remembering an argument, then finding yourself preparing the reply you wish you'd given.”

“Sometimes. Including the replies I did give and wish I hadn't.”

“Which ones are loudest?”

He glanced towards the dark service panel. The question made him want to choose a dramatic example, something old enough that he could discuss it without quite touching the hurt.

He took longer to answer than she expected. She set her mug down and rested her wrist. Outside, the current changed from blue to a muted green without requiring either of them to respond.

“The times I was most afraid.” He watched the colour move across the scanner. “They don't always arrive with a sensible account of why.”

She moved her book out of the path of the condensation beneath his mug. It was a small, practical kindness. He found it easier to continue while she was doing something other than waiting for a revelation.

“Afraid of what?”

“Losing people. Leaving. Staying when leaving would have let me avoid the consequences.” He thought of the face in the Vault. “And of what I might permit myself to become.”

“This,” he said, indicating himself without grandeur. “A man who could call so much experience evidence that he didn't need to listen. I was afraid of that before I knew what unification would mean. Being here hasn't made the fear irrelevant.”

Ava looked at him for a moment, then at the little chair she had moved. “Well, I've already changed the furniture.”

He smiled. “A promising start.”

She carried her book back to it, and he finished the tea he had spent so much effort defending.

They gave the ship a period of quiet. The Doctor changed the dressing on his thumb and rested his leg. Ava read several pages without managing to retain much of them. She went back to the beginning twice before deciding that being tired did not mean the Eaters had stolen another part of her.

Later, she found the wardrobe corridor with a small satchel in her hand. She had asked for somewhere to put the things she wanted close by; the Doctor had directed her there after checking that she wanted to explore alone. The satchel contained her pencil and the cloth bearing her name. There was room for something else when she decided what that might be.

A set of brass-framed mirrors stood where the corridor widened. In one, she wore heavy armour. In another, a long scholar's robe. A third showed her in a wedding dress. She lifted her hand, and all three figures did the same. None offered a reason for its clothes.

She laughed softly, then checked the gown's reflection against her own sleeve. The cloth on her arm remained the same dusty fabric she had worn into the TARDIS. She stepped away from the glass and watched the image loosen back into her ordinary shape.

“Didn't realise the TARDIS did metaphors.” She said it towards the corridor rather than the mirror. The armour had looked heavy enough to hurt her shoulder. She was relieved not to have been given it as an instruction.

“She cheats,” the Doctor called from farther along. He had come to find a clean cloth for the next small repair and was trying to open a cupboard that offered only hats. “She once gave me six versions of the same coat with subtle emotional implications.”

“What did you pick?”

He shut the cupboard before another hat could fall out. “The one that felt least like I was pretending to be someone else.”

“Did it help?”

“For a while.” He looked at his present sleeve, still marked from the console. “Clothes can only do so much of the work.”

He joined her in the alcove. The wedding dress returned as she shifted towards its mirror. He glanced at it and then back at her, waiting to see whether she wanted to speak about it.

“That isn't a prediction?” she asked.

“Not one I'd plan a ceremony around.”

“How do you choose, when you've been so many versions of yourself?” She looked towards the scholar's robe. “Do you ever know what you actually like, or just what you've liked before?”

He considered the question seriously enough to stop inspecting the cupboard handles. “Sometimes I discover the difference by being wrong about it. I reach for something familiar and find I don't want it now.”

“Then what?”

“Then I can put it down. I don't have to discard the part of my life that wanted it.” He nodded towards the mirrors. “You can try a thing without agreeing to every story someone might attach to it.”

Ava turned back to the glass. The armour stood squarely, as if prepared for a fight she had not been told about. The scholar seemed patient. The bride looked pleased. She could recognise the attraction of each without treating any of them as evidence of a life she had lost.

“I've never travelled like this before. Not just through space and time.” She moved her satchel to the other shoulder. “Every room seems to ask me something about myself.”

The Doctor nodded. “You don't owe every room an answer.” He moved aside when she turned towards a rack of ordinary coats. She could reach those without looking at her reflection.

“It's disorienting,” she said. She lifted a coat, felt its weight and put it back. The second had a lining that caught her cuff. She freed herself carefully rather than letting frustration pull at her wrist.

“It can be honest,” he said.

“Even if none of the pictures happened?”

“If they help you notice what you want. It still doesn't make them a record.”

She chose a soft scarf from the end of the rack. “Then today I want to be warm.” She folded it into the satchel and left the mirrors where they were.

On the way back, she stopped at the books beside her chair. “These aren't mine from before, are they?”

“I don't know where she found them. I wouldn't assume they were.”

“Good.” Ava opened the volume she had begun. “I'd rather find out what this one says than spend the whole time trying to remember owning it.”

By the time the ship's lighting suggested evening, they had found the Observation Room. A glass canopy curved above a long velvet bench. Beyond its tinted shielding, the Vortex moved in wide currents, distant enough to watch without flinching. Ava put on the scarf before sitting down.

They took opposite ends of the bench. Two fresh mugs stood between them, smelling of spice. The Doctor had offered a different blend without making a speech about its honours. Ava tasted it and nodded once, granting a verdict he seemed wise enough not to question.

For a while they watched the currents. She could hear the soft movement of his sleeve when he shifted his injured arm. He had brought no instrument to the bench. The absence felt deliberate, and she appreciated the effort it represented.

“When you said I sounded like you,” she asked, “did you mean that as a warning?”

He turned towards her. She kept looking upwards, giving him time to remember the actual exchange rather than prepare an answer to a different question.

He had meant to welcome the familiarity. He could see now how it might sound to someone whose account of herself had already been changed without permission. The pleasure he had taken in recognising his own thoughts in her answer was not necessarily hers to share.

“I meant it as a compliment,” he said. “There was a question in it too. One I should have asked instead of hiding it inside the compliment.”

“What question?”

He picked up his mug, then put it down again. She waited without helping him turn the pause into another joke about tea.

He faced her properly. “Whether you'd keep doing what you believed was right when it left you lonely. When you could see something other people couldn't see.”

As he said it, he remembered how easily seeing differently could become believing he alone saw clearly.

“Not because that makes you right,” he added. “I've confused those things. I was asking whether you'd bear the loneliness. Perhaps because I've used it to explain too much of my own life.”

Ava let the question sit. She had spent enough time with him to know that a quick answer might become something he carried into the next dangerous place. She wanted it to remain her answer after they left this bench.

The Vortex shifted above them. A long pale current divided around a darker one and rejoined on the far side of the canopy. She followed it until the movement no longer resembled any argument she was trying to make.

Then she turned towards him. “I might be lonely. I might also be wrong. I'd want someone to be able to reach me in either case.”

“I don't think willingness to be lonely is the right question.” She rested her mug against her knee, holding it with her good hand. “It makes being alone sound like a qualification.”

The Doctor started to reply, then stopped. He had been about to distinguish the noble version of the feeling from the ordinary one. She had not asked him to defend it.

Ava drew one foot onto the bench and settled more comfortably. It was a small alteration in posture, but it changed the conversation for him. She was making herself at home while disagreeing with him.

“The question is whether I'll stop, just because I am lonely,” she said. “And whether I'll keep asking for help instead of deciding nobody else could understand.”

She looked at him. “I can want to keep going and still want company. Otherwise coming with you would be a strange way to begin.”

He smiled, relieved by the practical absurdity of that. “It would.” The admission left him with nothing impressive to say next. He found he did not mind.

“Well then. Welcome aboard properly, Ava.” He rose carefully, favouring his knee, and waited until he was steady before making the gesture. “You were already welcome. I'm rather late saying it in a room where nothing is falling apart.”

He extended his hand. Ava set down her mug and took it with the hand that did not hurt. He let her decide whether she wanted to stand; she remained seated and gave his hand a brief, firm shake.

“Thank you,” she said. “I may move the chair again.”

“I'll survive.”

“That's the spirit.” She released his hand and reached for the tea. He sat down at his end of the bench, with no announcement of a destination.

The lights warmed overhead. Ava glanced up, half amused. “Does she always join in?”

“When it suits her.” He watched the glow settle. The ship offered no explanation, and for once he did not try to make one on her behalf.

Outside, a ripple crossed the distant current. Ava saw it first as a narrowing of the light near the canopy's edge. It passed behind another strand and disappeared. She waited for it to emerge on the far side.

It did, faintly. The Doctor had gone still beside her. His mug remained halfway between the bench and his mouth.

No sound accompanied the disturbance. The engines held their note. Nothing struck the hull. After so many warnings that had arrived through her whole body, Ava found the smallness of it difficult to judge.

The Doctor set down the mug and moved towards the room's monitor. He did not run. She watched him compare the view through the canopy with the image on the screen before touching a control.

A thin line on the display ended where it had previously continued. He asked for the trace again. The interruption remained, though the surrounding current had already moved on. He left both readings visible.

Concern crossed his face. He could identify the break; he could not yet see what lay at its far end. Ava rose from the bench, leaving her satchel beside the scarf she had briefly taken off as the room warmed.

She came to stand where she could see the readings without reaching across him. The Doctor shifted the display towards her. That small courtesy survived the change in his attention, and she noticed it.

“What is it?”

He followed the broken line back to the last point the instruments had recorded intact. She could see him resisting the urge to supply an explanation before the evidence reached one.

He checked the trace once more. Beyond the canopy, the ordinary currents continued to pass. The quiet they had shared had been real; the break did not make it a mistake to have stopped.

“A thread just snapped,” he said. Ava looked from the display to the unfinished tea on the bench, then back to the line he had shown her. For now, neither of them knew what had been on the other side.

Chapter Nine

The Doctrine of the Evolved

They landed in silence. Ava waited for the little tremor that usually reached her feet after the engines stopped, then remembered the last departure from Arcadia. The floor remained steady. On the scanner, the broken thread ended inside a city.

Before opening the doors, she took the spare sonic from its console socket. The TARDIS had tuned it while they followed the break; a narrow light now answered the pulse of the Doctor's instrument. He showed her how to hold a reading without transmitting it. She tried the switch twice with her good hand.

“If you find something I miss, keep the reading,” he said. “Don't send anything back until we know what we're talking to.” Ava put the instrument in her pocket. The supply pack, rifle and wrapped fragments of the Chronoblade remained aboard.

The doors opened to a sky the colour of drowned parchment. Yellow light lay across a white-stone causeway without warming it. Above the roofs, a bank of cloud held its shape while loose grit travelled steadily along the ground.

Ava stepped out first. Beyond the causeway stood the remains of a shopping arcade, its collapsed entrance fenced with lengths of new metal. “Someone's been here,” she said. “They've made it safe. Why haven't they cleared any of it?”

The Doctor followed her onto the cracked paving. A notice on the barrier was newer than the rubble. He bent to read the small print, shifting his weight away from his injured knee.

“Because here, rebuilding was outlawed.” He pointed to the last line. “Structural alteration constitutes an appeal against the settled sequence.” Ava read it again. The notice gave no date when the barrier could come down.

Wind moved through the arcade without producing a sound. Ava could feel it through her sleeve. She watched a strip of torn awning lift and strike a window frame, then lift again. Her own foot scraping stone was perfectly audible.

Towers of polymer glass leaned above the streets. Some had been braced from below; others rested against their neighbours. Across one damaged frontage, a holographic billboard struggled to complete the same three sentences. The final word kept disappearing behind a crack in the projector.

STILLNESS IS WISDOM. ACCEPTANCE IS ALIGNMENT. THE ERROR WAS THE DOCTOR.

“They remember you here.” Ava glanced from the billboard to his face. He had stopped beneath it, close enough for the failing light to cross the lenses of his brown glasses.

“They have a use for my name.” He tried to place the skyline. Its leaning towers gave him an impression of familiarity, but he could not attach that feeling to a visit. “I don't remember this city. That doesn't settle whether I've been here.”

He started along the street, then came back to study the barrier's footings. The supports had been fitted carefully around a loose slab. Whoever installed them had done the work well, although the rule they served made no sense to him.

Several ways of opening the arcade occurred to him. He could lift the barrier, cut through its fastenings or persuade the control box that an inspection had been authorised. The ease with which he imagined giving himself permission made him pause. He had entered enough ruined cities to know that access and help were different things.

Ava watched him leave the fastenings alone. In the yellow light the silver in his swept-back hair stood out sharply. Dust had settled along his short beard. He looked tired when he thought she was examining something else.

His charcoal coat caught on a projecting bolt as he turned. He freed it carefully, checking the crimson lining for a tear. Beneath it, the patterned navy waistcoat was still creased from their time in the Vault. The small bronze seal at his shoulder clicked against the barrier.

He compared the shifting constellations on his wristwatch with a reading from the sonic. “Local time is moving,” he said. “The city is spending a great deal of effort behaving as though it isn't.”

He carried no weapon into the street. His uninjured hand stayed visible when they passed an open doorway, and he called through it before looking inside. No one answered. A cup stood upside down on a drying cloth.

Ava checked the adjoining room while he waited at the threshold. There was nowhere for an occupant to hide, but she still felt rude looking. She returned without touching the cup. “Empty. Not abandoned in a hurry, either.”

“Let's find where they expected people to go.” His voice carried farther than he intended. He lowered it on the next sentence, as if there might still be someone here who had reason to fear being called out.

At the next junction, every sign pointed towards the Civic Accordation Centre. A smaller arrow indicated an appeals entrance. They followed that one and found it led to the same door.

Inside, rows of chairs faced a blank screen. Each armrest held a shallow oval plate. Surveillance glyphs glowed along the walls, their light brightening when Ava hesitated between two aisles. The Doctor stopped her before she put her hand on a plate.

She withdrew it. On the screen appeared a diagram of the collapsed arcade, intact down to its awning. Underneath were two choices: ACCEPT THE SETTLED CONDITION and REQUEST FURTHER GUIDANCE. There was no place to report the damage.

The Doctor touched a wall glyph with two fingers. The screen changed before he could read the smaller text. GUIDANCE ACCEPTED. A low vibration travelled into his fingertips. He pulled away, and the letters faded slowly enough for Ava to copy them on her sonic's little display.

“It recorded an answer I didn't give.” He kept his hand clear this time and listened to the instrument. Beneath the vibration lay a rhythm he had encountered while the Eaters were stripping recollections from the edges of people's lives.

“The Eaters?” Ava asked. She moved away from the chair. The familiar rhythm did not bring back what they had taken from her; it made the gaps feel close enough to put a hand through.

“Changed,” he said. “Or using a different method here.” He examined the plate without touching it. The glyph beside the appeals aisle brightened again. “They've arranged things so that asking for help counts as agreeing to their answer.”

Ava put her sonic beside his. Her stored reading had two peaks; the current signal had one. She pointed to the earlier trace. “That's when you hadn't decided whether to touch it. Can you get that part back?”

He tried a low harmonic through the wall glyph. For an instant the missing peak returned. The screen offered a new message: ASSISTANCE RECEIVED WITH THANKS. Its vibration strengthened. He stopped transmitting. “It uses the attempt to correct it as another act of acceptance.”

Ava saved the two-peaked trace separately. “Then I won't let it correct mine.” She switched her instrument to the hold setting he had shown her aboard the ship. The Doctor checked that it was no longer sending, then asked her to keep it that way.

They went deeper into the city. The sonic led them past offices with their doors propped open and a bakery whose shutters had been lowered halfway. The Doctor called down each side street. Ava listened at the openings between his calls.

There were no people. Once she thought she saw a sleeve withdraw behind a window, but the same movement repeated when they passed the next pane. The Doctor asked her to stand still while he took another reading.

The sleeve moved a third time. It belonged to a faint impression of someone reaching for a latch. Just before the hand closed, the image thinned and began again. Ava could not distinguish a face or tell whether the person had wanted the window open.

With his sonic set to harmonic resonance, the Doctor followed the disturbance along the wall. More incomplete movements appeared: a shoulder turning, a foot held above a step. They were traces, he told her, not people he could pull back by making the signal stronger.

At the next square the traces converged. Ava kept her own instrument closed around its saved reading rather than collecting more. She had begun to understand how easily looking for a clearer answer here could erase the evidence that an answer was missing.

A monument stood at the centre of the square. Benches faced it from three sides. The fourth side was occupied by a wide ramp, polished smooth along its edges. There were no flowers or offerings, only another row of the oval plates.

Ava looked for names on the plinth. There were shallow rectangular spaces where names might have fitted, each filled with the same unbroken surface. The Doctor crouched beside one, but found no marks he could recover.

Above the spaces, a heading called the monument a celebration of conversion. Ava rested her supported wrist against her stomach. “You wouldn't even know who to ask about,” she said. He stayed beside the blank panels a moment longer.

The structure resembled the Loom, with its arms bent inwards around an empty centre. No thread ran between them. A narrow plaque had been fixed where anyone approaching up the ramp would have to read it.

HERE STOOD THE LAST REBELS OF SEQUENCE. THEY BELIEVED IN POSSIBILITY. THEY WERE DELETED FOR THE GOOD OF ORDER.

“That isn't a memorial.” Ava read the last sentence aloud, more quietly than the others. “It's telling the next person what happens if they object.” She stepped sideways, clearing the ramp so she no longer stood where its builders expected her to stand.

The Doctor followed the sonic's trace into the empty centre. “Submission,” he said. “They don't have to chase every possible future if they can persuade you to surrender it yourself.” He looked back towards the civic building. “And call any protest a request for more persuasion.”

“What do we do?” Ava asked. He showed her the low pulse repeating through every arm of the monument. Her saved reading had the same interval, but still divided at the point where his decision had remained open.

“I need to see what it does with a person who won't accept the question.” He watched the empty centre. “If it catches me, don't give it that recording just because I tell you to. Listen to what I'm actually asking.”

He stepped between the arms. A slight pressure closed over his ears. He kept his feet apart on the smooth paving and resisted the impulse to reach for the core. Ava remained beside the ramp with her sonic held against her coat.

The air filled with reflections. Ava saw a hand where there was no arm, then a dozen faces turning towards the Doctor. They settled into the outline of a single figure before any of them finished the movement.

The Doctor moved his head. The nearest face copied him a fraction late, while the others watched. His instrument registered one signal running through all of them. He could find no separate point to address.

Ava heard a soft sound from the civic centre behind her. Its screen was still speaking to an empty room. The same measured cadence now came from the monument, without any gap between the two sources.

“Onemind,” the Doctor said, reading the designation that appeared across his sonic. The name held steady while the faces changed. He lowered the instrument so he could see the being without its reflected light between them.

Its mirrored faces fitted together around a mouth that looked almost human. When one face turned away, another supplied the part it had hidden. Ava tried to follow a single reflection and lost it at the edge of the creature's cheek.

It made no threatening movement. The pressure eased. For the first time since arriving, the Doctor heard the awning striking its frame in the distant arcade. The ordinary sound was so welcome that he nearly missed its exact repetition.

Silk hung from the creature's shoulders in pale, uncreased folds. It looked prepared to receive visitors. A second oval plate emerged beside the Doctor's hand, close enough that resting on it would have seemed natural.

“You may put down what you've brought,” it said. Its voice had the patient warmth of someone who had already made all the necessary arrangements. The Doctor kept his hand at his side.

“Doctor. You return to the system you corrupted.” One of the mirrored faces briefly resembled his own. He could not tell whether it offered a record or an accusation designed for its visitor. “You will be tired of repairing your mistakes.”

“You're not feeding on chaos any more.” He watched the plate rise another fraction towards his palm. “You want me to agree to something first.” The pressure returned when he moved his hand away.

“Chaos was inefficient. Faith requires less energy. A stable mind is easier to digest than an unstable one.” The being said it without changing tone. “You need only accept that your uncertainty has caused sufficient harm.”

“You've made yourself into an idea,” he said. “One that treats every objection as evidence that we need you.” The memory of the civic screen's thanks made him ashamed of how readily he had offered it an answer of his own.

“A doctrine,” Onemind corrected him. “You have been permitted to doubt long enough.” Around the square, the incomplete figures stopped repeating. The hand at the window remained suspended short of the latch.

The Doctor remembered other rooms in which he had been certain that only his plan would save anyone. Their details arrived unevenly: a smell of hot insulation, a name he could not immediately recover, his own impatience with a question. None belonged to somebody else he could blame.

“Easier to install than to destroy,” Onemind said. “You understand the difficulty of asking everyone.” The offered plate warmed. He could have placed his hand upon it and let the creature call that exhaustion agreement.

He tried to direct his sonic at the core instead. A fresh oval of light closed around the beam, carrying it back into the monument. The pleasant voice thanked him for participating. He cut the transmission before its pulse could settle into his heartbeat.

Onemind's silk darkened into a charcoal coat with a crimson lining. The imitation was close enough to make Ava look at the real Doctor's sleeve. The creature's cuff was clean; his was frayed where he had dragged it across stone.

“We can end this,” it said in something close to his voice. “Ava, send the reading.” The Doctor's mouth was closed. She took a step towards him, then stopped outside the arms of the monument.

“That's not him.” She kept her thumb off the switch. “You haven't even asked what I found.” The real Doctor looked towards her, but did not try to supply a better command.

“It could be,” Onemind replied. “If belief falters. If uncertainty grows. If unity collapses again, he will break.” The copied face turned towards him. “You remember enough to know what you become when nobody stops you.”

The Doctor put away the sonic. He removed the glove from his uninjured hand and laid his palm against the core, away from the offered plate. Cold travelled into his wrist. The monument tightened its arms by a few inches, leaving him room to move but less room to pretend he had made a harmless experiment.

He closed his eyes to stop following the face it had borrowed. The recollections it stirred did not arrive in order. He let the missing pieces remain missing. He could admit what he had done without making the creature his judge of everything he might do next.

Ava watched his bandaged thumb curl against his coat. He was frightened. The sight made her resist the comforting voice more stubbornly than any claim that he could not be hurt. She kept the saved trace visible.

“I remember making mistakes,” he said. His voice was low enough that she had to lean forward. “I remember people who couldn't forgive them. You don't get to take their place and sell me a pardon.”

The creature's mouth opened around a sharp, involuntary sound. The pulse beneath his palm missed an interval. The Doctor tried to lift his hand, but the surface held it. Refusal had disturbed the mechanism; it had not released him.

“I've forgiven myself for some of it,” he said. “Enough to go on trying. I haven't agreed never to be wrong again.” He opened his eyes and looked at Ava. “The gap. Can you still see it?”

A seam opened along one of the false Loom's arms. Onemind tried to close it with a pulse of warm light. Each attempt repeated the same invitation, and each repetition arrived a little later. The Doctor kept his palm against the core because it would not yet let him do otherwise.

Ava matched the two peaks on her display to the failing pulse. Her first touch of the switch was too brief; the seam narrowed. She steadied the sonic against her supported forearm and waited through another interval. This time she sent the whole unresolved reading into the gap before the invitation could repeat.

The harmonic burst travelled through the monument. Its arms sprang apart. The Doctor's hand came free, and he stumbled backwards onto his bad knee. Ava caught his sleeve with her good hand as the creature's reflected faces broke away from one another.

There were no bodies inside the shattering surface. Light struck the paving in scattered patches. In one, the arcade barrier lay open; in another, it remained shut while someone worked at the notice. Each image lasted too briefly to establish what would follow it.

Ava stopped transmitting. The sonic was hot through her sleeve. Around them, the repeated movements resumed and diverged: the hand reached its window latch, then vanished with the rest of the impression. The Doctor made no claim that its owner had returned.

The skyline shifted. For a moment the leaning towers occupied several positions, none quite agreeing with the roads beneath them. The closed sequence that had held this version of the city together was collapsing. He pulled Ava away from the ramp towards the causeway.

She looked back once. The plaque was still there, but its threat no longer appeared on the billboards. The awning flapped with an irregular noise that could finally be heard. Somewhere beyond it, glass fell; she could not see where.

“Did we help them?” she asked as they reached the ship. He held the door while she crossed the threshold. “We stopped this from holding,” he said. “I don't know how much is left.” He followed before the causeway could shift again.

The TARDIS closed her doors. Ava put the sonic back in its socket and kept her hand away from its warm casing. Its saved trace remained on the display, two uneven peaks that she now knew by sight.

The Doctor stood against the console until his knee would bear his weight. When Ava offered him the jump seat, he shook his head, then changed his mind and rested against its edge while she checked the scanner.

The lights were dim. The city could no longer be resolved clearly enough to count its streets. Ava left the image open instead of replacing it with the navigation display. Neither of them had seen anyone they could bring aboard.

The Doctor removed his coat and hung it on a hook that had appeared beside the rail. He flexed his chilled hand before pulling the glove back on. Ava checked the support around her wrist and loosened the edge that the sonic had pressed against.

She sat beside him on the jump seat. For a while the small sounds of the console were enough. He reached for a control, stopped, and asked whether she wanted the city's image left where it was. She did.

“That wasn't just survival,” she said. “What it offered you.” She rubbed a mark left by the support on her skin. “It wanted you to stop having to think about what you'd done.”

“It made surrender sound restful.” He looked at the reading she had kept. “I was tempted.” The admission did not ask her to reassure him, and she was glad. She had been tempted by quiet herself.

“That world was infected with certainty,” she said. “Even asking what was wrong counted as agreeing with it.” She thought of the person who had carefully fitted the barrier around the loose stone, then gone away leaving the arcade closed.

He nodded. “We need to remember what we couldn't find out.” On the maintenance pad, he wrote the city's coordinates and left a space beneath them. There was no reliable account of its people to enter there yet.

“They weren't only eating futures,” Ava said. “They were cancelling doubt.” She looked towards the sonic socket. “I nearly sent it the reading when it used your voice.” He waited. “Next time, ask me. Even if you're in a hurry.”

“I will.” He stood carefully and let her move past him. She checked that both instruments were seated before bringing up the route they had followed into the city.

“Where to next?” she asked. The question was practical. They had somewhere to leave, a damaged ship that could still carry them, and a broken thread whose far end remained unknown.

The Doctor turned to the console. A new message displaced the route, but not the city image Ava had asked him to keep. He read it twice before touching anything.

THREAD SNAP: COORDINATE 80092-L SEVERITY: RED DIRECTIONAL FLOW: FORWARD

His jaw tightened. The warning named a direction, not a cause. He compared its coordinates with the unfinished note on the maintenance pad and entered both into the navigation record.

“We found the evolution,” he said. Ava looked towards the blank space he had left for the city's people. He did not cross it out or fill it with an account of their victory.

He put his hand on the lever and waited while she took hold of the rail. When she nodded, he moved it slowly. The engines answered without a jolt.

“Now we see the consequence.” Beside the navigation display, the last uncertain image of the city remained open as the TARDIS carried them forwards.

Chapter Ten

The Place That Remembered Itself

There was no sensation of arrival. One moment the TARDIS engines were carrying them along the severed thread from 80092-L; the next, the central column stood still.

The ship did not lurch. The injured knee the Doctor had braced for the landing never took the expected weight, and Ava's hand tightened uselessly around the rail.

There was no thud, no hum, no ripple of causality. The TARDIS simply was, like a thought that had always been halfway through being had. Even the engine note seemed to have ended before either of them heard it stop.

Ava blinked. The last uncertain image of Onemind's city had vanished from the scanner, replaced by a pale circle and a line of figures she could not yet read.

“Are we—?”

“Already there,” the Doctor said, finishing her sentence before he realised he had done it. He looked towards her, startled by his own timing rather than pleased with it. “I didn't know you were going to say that.”

The doors stood wide open. Neither of them had touched the control. Light poured across the threshold, pale blue and dense enough to give every brass fitting a second edge. The Doctor crossed to the lever and found it still in the closed position.

He moved first, but only as far as the doors. His bandaged hand found the frame while his gloved, uninjured one held the sonic clear of it.

He did not step through.

He listened. Beneath the silence, bells sounded from somewhere beyond the threshold in a sequence that made his wristwatch run backwards for three seconds and then correct itself.

Outside was not quite a place. Streets and towers occupied measurable distances, but the air around them carried the pressure of an event still deciding where to occur.

It was a moment large enough for a city to live inside.

Concentric avenues of glass, bronze and white marble descended towards a central tower. People moved through them at an even pace. No one hurried, yet arrivals preceded departures: a tram door opened for passengers who were still crossing the square, and cups appeared on café tables before the servers emerged carrying trays.

The people noticed the blue box at once.

No alarm travelled through the crowd.

No one stopped to ask how it had arrived.

They glanced towards it with the weary recognition reserved for a delayed appointment.

Some bowed to the Doctor. Others looked away from him and towards Ava, as if checking that a second expected figure had come.

An elderly woman passing with a basket whispered, “You'll be needed. Soon.” She did not pause, and the words reached them a breath before her lips moved.

Ava turned to the Doctor. “They're expecting us.” Her spare sonic remained in its console socket; after Onemind, she had not picked it up without deciding what she meant to do with it.

“They already have.” He checked the threshold with his instrument. It reported air, gravity and a local date two hours and eighteen minutes ahead of the TARDIS clock, then revised the date while he watched.

“That sentence doesn't make it clearer.” Ava released the rail. Her supported wrist ached from holding on through a landing that had never happened.

A child shouted from the nearest avenue.

A boy of about eight ran towards her, breathless and angry at being made to run. A woman in a green work coat followed at a distance, calling for him to wait.

“You dropped this,” he said, holding out a slim data slate. “It nearly went under the tram.”

Ava kept her hands at her sides. “I've never seen it before.” The boy frowned, not because he disbelieved her but because her answer had broken a task he thought he understood.

The woman reached them. A stitched badge on her coat identified her as Mara Venn, municipal archive maintenance. “Kelan found it beside the lower station,” she said. “He has been waiting forty minutes to give it back.”

Ava took the slate with her good hand. The screen woke beneath her thumb, displaying her print, her name and a transfer authorisation she had not made.

The timestamp read +02:18.

Two hours in Ava's future.

For Kelan, the slate had already lain on the pavement, already been lifted and carried uphill through the crowd.

For Mara, the argument about returning it had happened. Ava could see the remains of it in the set of her jaw. Cause and consequence had not vanished; they had crossed each other on the way.

Ava crouched so she and Kelan were level. “Did you see me drop it?”

“No. The station record says you will.” He pointed to the authorisation. “If I don't return it, the record changes and my mother has to log an exception.” Mara made a tired sound. Ava looked up. “This isn't a loop. A loop would at least bring us back to the same question.”

The Doctor had crouched beside a flower growing through a crack in the glass street. Its petals shifted between red and white depending on the angle of his head. When he touched the soil beside it, the stem bent away before his finger arrived.

“Worse than a loop,” he said. “The city is receiving consequences before their causes. It reacts to what we're going to do, but the record isn't complete.” He pointed to one petal that stayed yellow whichever way he moved. “And it doesn't always agree with itself.”

Ava's voice dropped. “Doctor, what's happening?”

He stood carefully and returned the sonic to his pocket. A faint tremor passed through the paving after his hand left the soil.

“Time is collapsing,” he said. “Not everywhere. Here, along the forward end of the snapped thread. This place is starting to remember its future more strongly than it experiences its present.”

Mara looked from him to the TARDIS. “Then you are the Doctor.”

She led them towards the city's heart. Kelan stayed beside her despite three station notices instructing him to return home; each notice gave a different route and claimed he had already taken it.

Every building was pristine. Repair crews polished stone that had not yet been chipped. Conversations arrived in neat exchanges, answers followed later by questions, and people smiled when the civic prompts told them that their choices had been successfully remembered.

At a food counter, a woman handed a man a meal token. “Thank you,” he said. Only after he had walked away did he turn and ask whether she could spare one. The woman shut her eyes, as if the delayed request hurt more than hunger would have.

Two children began crying beside a playground. The seesaw was still level. Mara crossed the street and caught the smaller child a second before a support pin slipped and the seat fell. She had brought a wrench; its handle bore fresh grease from a repair she had apparently not yet made.

“This started yesterday,” she said as she tightened the pin. “First the archive issued collection notices early. Then doors began opening before authorisation. This morning the city registered three injuries before they happened.” She nodded towards the children. “We have prevented two.”

The third injury appeared as a bruise along Mara's wrist while they watched. She swore, checked that Kelan was clear of the street, and searched the surrounding roofs.

A maintenance drone broke loose from a balcony twenty metres away.

Ava pulled Mara beneath an awning. The drone struck the paving where her arm had been, shattering into brass panels. The bruise remained. “That's what the record saw,” Ava said. “Not what had to happen.”

Mara examined her wrist. “We were told the records were fixed.” She looked at the pieces of the drone, then at the uninjured rest of her. “That one wasn't.”

“Good,” the Doctor said. “Keep that distinction. Evidence from the future is still evidence. It isn't an order.”

At the next circle, Ava stopped beside a street mural. Ships burned above a world painted in mineral reds. A figure in a long coat stood at the centre, one hand raised towards a lattice of golden lines.

The face was still wet. An artist on a scaffold filled in the Doctor's brown glasses while consulting a projection labelled TOMORROW'S COMMEMORATION.

Below the figure, looping Gallifreyan read: TO THE MAN WHO SAVED US FROM WHAT HAD ALREADY HAPPENED.

Ava turned to him. “The city remembers what hasn't happened.”

“Or its archive has sent back a preferred account.” He asked the artist who had commissioned the mural. She pointed towards the central tower and said the order would be issued in ninety-three minutes.

Ava looked at the heroic painted hand and then at the Doctor's bandaged thumb. “Does that mean we can act here, or only fill in what they've already drawn?”

“That depends on whether the archive records possibilities or manufactures obedience.” He turned away from his own unfinished face. “Either way, we don't start by making the picture come true.”

The Archive Core rose from the centre of the city, a tower of glass reinforced by bands of time-stamped stone. People queued at its entrances carrying slates, tools and handwritten notes.

They had not come to study the past.

The shelves held records dated hours and days ahead: decisions, conversations, judgements, repairs. Some tablets updated as their owners approached. Others had gone blank except for their timestamps.

Near the main desk, a black plaque had been placed on a stand by itself.

COMPILED: TWO HOURS BEFORE HIS FINAL MISTAKE.

The Doctor stared at it. The wording offered him no subject and no deed, only the promise that something he had not chosen would be the last error allowed to him.

Ava did not ask whether he thought it was about him. The mural had already answered what the city wanted them to assume.

Instead she asked Mara, “Who runs this place?”

“Archivist Sen Var.” Mara pointed to a man asleep at a desk surrounded by paper ledgers. “He ordered the predictive stacks disconnected six hours ago. The order arrived yesterday, so the system treated it as completed and left them connected.”

The Doctor moved deeper between the shelves. Active records buzzed when he passed. One displayed a technical solution before he had formed it; another showed a casualty count without identifying who had died.

A console lit beneath his hand: UNIFIED DOCTOR LOGGED: PRESENT MOMENT. DESTINY: IN FLUX.

He stopped. The phrase Unified Doctor belonged to histories few people here should know, yet the console offered no source.

So did Ava. “It knows what to call you.”

He brought his sonic close without transmitting. Three approaches arrived in his memory at once: isolate the future feed, reverse its polarity, or flood the index with contradictory records. Each had worked somewhere. None carried the names of the places cleanly enough to trust. One recollection came with the smell of salt water and the certainty that isolation had saved a harbour; another supplied a control sequence and no memory of what it had cost. He could not use the confidence without the missing context.

“It knows a label,” he said. “That isn't the same as knowing me.” He dismissed the polarity reversal and asked Mara for the Core's physical plans. Isolation could at least be tested. Mara drew an access key from her belt but made him wait while she checked the stamped issue number against a paper log. The system had already recorded the key as returned next week.

“This isn't a forward-moving future,” Ava said, studying the slate Kelan had returned. Its authorisation now showed a location inside the Archive. “It's a reversed one, and it wants us to confuse recognition with inevitability.”

Sen Var woke before Mara touched his shoulder. “You arrived,” he said to the Doctor, then rubbed his face. “I apologise. I have been awake for thirty-one hours, except for the sleep I apparently take during this conversation.”

They gathered in the central hall. Columns of date-marked stone rose around them like the ribs of a machine designed to give causality an address. Sen spread old construction plans across the floor because their ink could not update itself. Mara opened a maintenance trench and located the three physical relays feeding the predictive stacks. Kelan counted the warning lights from behind the safety rail, calling out each change before any adult could assume the display was reliable.

The Doctor placed his palm on the marble. A vibration moved backwards through his bones: first the fading ache, then the impact that would cause it. He snatched his hand away before a ceiling panel fell and dragged Sen aside. Mara pulled the first relay. For half a second, the nearest future shelf went dark. Then its records appeared on two other shelves, copied there by a protection routine whose activation order would not be written until morning. Isolation had not failed harmlessly; the Core was beginning to defend its remembered condition.

“Put it back, but leave the manual catch open,” the Doctor said. Mara restored the relay while Sen marked the failed attempt on the paper plan. “The Core was built to compare near futures. It sends a question forward, receives the outcome and lets the city prepare. Now the snapped thread is amplifying the return. Outcomes arrive with such force that the present reorganises around them. Cut one route and the remembered outcome invents another.”

Ava looked at the fallen panel. Sen had a cut marked in tomorrow's medical register, but his forehead was unbroken.

“And then?” she asked. “If it keeps getting stronger?”

“We stop acting for reasons. The action arrives first, the record supplies a motive afterwards, and eventually we cannot tell the supplied motive from a choice.”

Sen folded one of the plans along a line already darkened by his fingers. “People are doing what the Archive remembers because resisting it creates an exception storm. Transport stops. Food allocations repeat. The city punishes deviation without anyone choosing to punish it.”

Ava sat beside him. “What happens to you when memory obeys the reversal?” she asked the Doctor. She had seen Onemind use his own unfinished memories against him; the question was practical, not reverent.

He took time before answering. The Core supplied three versions of his reply on nearby screens. He read none of them.

When he spoke, it was to her rather than to the city.

“I stop being the Doctor. Not because I forget a title. Because choosing what to do with what I remember is the work.”

Sen began assigning his staff to carry the paper plans to the outer circles. Mara objected that his route crossed two predicted tram failures. Together they chose a third path the Archive had not listed.

The Doctor removed his coat and hung it over the back of a stone bench. He had done the same aboard the TARDIS after the last city; there was nothing ceremonial in it now. The Core was warm, and the crimson lining kept slipping across the plans.

He sat without grandeur. His knee needed rest, his uninjured hand had begun to shake, and the empty threat on the black plaque had found exactly the uncertainty it was designed to find.

For a minute he was simply a tired man studying a problem that knew how much he wanted to be its solution.

His waistcoat hung open, revealing an old scar at his collarbone, long healed but not by any treatment Ava recognised. When he reached for a plan, the bandage around his thumb caught on the paper.

He steadied the page and left the tempting future solutions unread.

Ava sat beside him. Across the hall, Mara showed Kelan how to copy route numbers onto paper. Sen's staff dismantled display housings with hand tools, making choices the predictive system had not scheduled.

“Tell me something real,” Ava said.

He looked at her over his brown frames. “I'm not sure this is the ideal place for confidence.”

“Something that hasn't happened yet. Something that isn't inevitable. Not a reading, not a promise from a wall. Something you want.”

He closed his eyes. Memories came by association: companions at thresholds, goodbyes postponed and goodbyes missed, names that carried warmth before he could place the rooms around them.

He let them remain his memories rather than asking them to become instructions.

“You won't stay forever,” he said. “But you'll never leave. Not really. I'll remember you on a planet with no name, when I need to be reminded who I am.”

Ava's eyes shimmered. The statement hurt because leaving was possible, not because the city had proved it.

She could have asked whether it was a prediction, a prophecy or a manipulation.

Instead she held out the returned slate. “Then let this be a hope.”

The Doctor placed his hand beside hers without taking it. “A hope,” he agreed.

In that city, hope was rebellion because it made a claim about the future without pretending to own it.

The slate erased Ava's authorisation.

The Archive groaned. A crack raced up the nearest column, sealing behind itself before the sound reached them.

The floor fractured in concentric lines. Staff and visitors moved for the exits. Sen ignored a screen ordering evacuation through the lower station and sent them along Mara's unscheduled paper route.

Words appeared across the largest wall.

ALL THREADS COLLAPSING. FORWARD CONTINUITY COMPROMISED. PRE-MOTIVE BEHAVIOUR ESTABLISHED.

The Doctor stood, took his coat and put it on. He did not look taller. He looked sore, frightened and committed to acting before the Core could invent a nobler reason for him.

Mara returned from the eastern exit. “The outer bridges are still present, but their arrival records are disappearing.”

Sen handed her the paper plans. “Take everyone you can beyond the third circle. Kelan knows the maintenance stairs.”

“And you?”

“I am going to help disconnect the machine I maintained for thirty-seven years.” Sen looked at the Doctor. “If that remains possible.”

The Doctor studied the Core's master glyph, a swirl of linked marks that resembled the Loom crossed by a lock. “We can't stop the collapse here. The broken thread has reached too deep into the city's record.”

“Then we leave?” Ava asked.

“We leave a mark first. A scar in the pattern—evidence that choice existed here even when the record said otherwise.”

Sen brought up the root index. Every event was stored as a pair: cause and effect. The effect field now arrived completed; the Core generated a cause that made it look necessary.

Ava touched the blank place where her authorisation had been. “Give it an effect that refuses to tell it what caused it.”

The Doctor looked from the slate to the root index. “A thread that starts after the end. A motive chosen after the machine has already admitted it doesn't know.”

They returned to the TARDIS for the only instrument capable of carrying the contradiction through the snapped temporal flow. The console lights flickered in patterns that completed before the switches moved.

The doors tried to close on Ava. She struck the manual release with her shoulder and held them while Sen fed a cable from the Archive across the threshold. The TARDIS sounded a warning and refused the first connection.

“She is forgetting which side of the doors is outside,” the Doctor said. He asked the ship for an isolated channel. A floor panel opened beside Ava rather than beside him.

Ava found the shielded port beneath it. “This one?” The Doctor checked the circuits, then nodded. She attached the cable with her good hand while he used the console to keep the city from writing directly into the navigation systems.

Sen selected the citywide exception record through the isolated cable. The Core sent them its recorded effect: the timeline would remember uncertainty again. It demanded the action that caused that result. Ava laid her returned slate against the console reader; its erased authorisation left a valid timestamp attached to a blank decision field. That was the physical record they could carry into the root index.

The Doctor copied the blank field into the Core's cause register and entered no action. He keyed the routing sequence from touch, closing his eyes when the display began showing what he was about to press. Halfway through, his associative memory supplied two incompatible endings.

He stopped. “Ava, blue light or amber?”

She watched the cable, the city and the two console indicators. Amber brightened before a surge struck the shield. “Blue.” He followed her choice. The TARDIS rejected the amber route and opened a narrow path into fracture-space.

Together they sent the slate's blank cause after its recorded effect. The isolated cable carried the unresolved entry back into the Archive while the TARDIS held open its path. The Core could not complete the field without admitting that several actions might follow, including choices it had never recorded. Across the city, predictive signs broke into questions. Mara's group reached the outer bridge by a route no future tablet had prescribed. Sen pulled the manual catch on the first relay and left the future feed physically open rather than letting the protection routine choose another route.

The contradiction unfolded through the collapsing timeline. It did not restore the city or guarantee who escaped. It left one open relationship between consequence and choice, a scar the snapped thread could not close.

The TARDIS lifted into the new fracture before the Core could resolve the paradox. Behind them, the pale city began to remember uncertainty again—like a flower blooming backwards, with no record yet of who had chosen to plant it.

Chapter Eleven

The Hybrid Thesis

They materialised in the fracture-space between stabilised threads. The engines stopped with a rough scrape, and the cable from the Archive fell slack across the threshold. Its far end had come away cleanly. Ava disconnected the shipboard end before it could drag anything else through.

The TARDIS had taken them to a null zone, between time's stitches rather than beyond its reach. A cold plane of slate stretched beneath a fog lit by looping fragments of unrealised futures. There was no sun, no skyline and no mark that stayed at a dependable distance from another.

Ava retrieved her spare sonic from its socket and stepped out, shivering. She kept her supported wrist against her coat. Behind her, the Doctor checked the severed cable, then left it on the floor beside the returned slate.

“There's nothing here.” She meant no city, no bridge, no people whose names they could call. Sen's last action at the relay kept returning to her: a catch pulled open, a future feed interrupted. They had no view of what had happened after that.

The Doctor followed as far as the edge of the door's light. “Nothing we can see yet.” He tested the slate with his shoe before putting his weight on it. The surface held, though its reflection showed his foot arriving late.

He did not shiver. His stillness required effort; Ava could see it in the way he held his jaw and kept his injured knee from locking.

With his coat wrapped tight, he scanned the fog. He took out his sonic, listened to its uncertain response and switched it off. “Short survey. Within sight of the doors. If I say something confidently, ask me what I've measured.”

Pale light caught the grey at his temples and the white patch in his short beard. He pushed his brown glasses higher with the back of his gloved hand. There was grit on one lens from the collapsing Archive; he wiped it away and looked again.

He looked like a man of forty-five who needed a chair. Ava had watched cities recognise him and machines name him. Neither had made him less tired. She stayed close enough to help without taking his arm before he asked.

“How short?” she asked. He pointed to a pale seam four paces away. They walked towards it. On the third step, a sound reached them from the place where the fourth should have landed.

⸻

A voice greeted them. Ava stopped with one foot still raised, then set it beside the other. The greeting had used the rhythm of their footsteps.

It came from ahead and behind. She turned towards the TARDIS; the doors remained open, but their light had narrowed to a white stripe across the ground.

“Unified. Singular. Consistent. Dangerous.”

The Doctor stayed still. His glance moved once to the threshold, measuring the retreat. Ava followed it and edged half a step sideways until the blue door was visible around his shoulder.

“Speak plainly,” he said. “And stop moving the ground.”

The fog parted along a vertical line. A hem appeared first, crimson cloth edged with silver, hanging above a reflection that moved before its owner did.

The figure stepped through. Ava's sonic gave a brief, involuntary click against her palm. She covered its emitter, unsure whether it had detected the arrival or answered it.

He wore a Time Lord's robes, layered like ceremonial armour. Their stiff panels flexed at the wrong joints. Beneath a torn sleeve his forearm held the grain of skin for a moment, then became a depth full of moving lines.

His face turned towards them. One side had a man's mouth and an eye narrowed against the light.

The other had broken into reflective facets. They met badly at the nose, leaving a dark seam that opened whenever he spoke.

The human cheek twitched. Ava could not tell whether the movement was pain or the effort of maintaining its shape.

In the mirrored half she saw the TARDIS without herself beside it. She shifted her feet. The image did not correct.

Eyes moved beneath the facets: Eater eyes, opening through one another. She remembered the sensation of being watched for what could be taken from her. This time the attention lingered on the route between her and the doors.

The Doctor let out his breath. Recognition reached his expression slowly, disturbed by something that would not fit.

“You.”

The figure inclined his head. A silver clasp tapped his throat twice, an oddly ordinary noise amid the shifting surfaces.

“You remember me.”

“I remember what I feared I'd become.” The Doctor looked at the clasp, then back at the face. “And a briefing room. I can't place which siege. You kept tapping the table when the casualty figures changed.”

Ava stepped beside him. “Who is it?” She wanted a name she could use, not another description of what the Doctor feared.

“Cilaron Thane. A Time Strategist from Gallifrey. Master of Continuum Compression Warfare.” He swallowed. “Brilliant. Ruthless. Died in the Time War, or so we thought. I remember the report more clearly than I remember who gave it to me.”

Thane's smile pulled unevenly across the seam. “You always trusted reports most when they removed a problem.” The Doctor did not argue about the memory. He could not safely defend its missing parts.

“I died,” Thane said. “Then I evolved.”

He advanced. The pale seam beside Ava slid towards the TARDIS without passing beneath her feet. She took one step back and found herself no closer to the door.

“Your Loom spun too widely. It left the edge threads exposed. I was unmade. Then remade by those who fed on what Time discarded.” He held out his altered arm. “You call the abandoned edges unfortunate. I had to live in one.”

“You fused with an Eater,” Ava said. Her stomach tightened. She glanced at the human half of his face, trying to find where the man ended, and disliked herself for looking for a border that simple.

“Not fused. Perfected.” Thane closed his hand. The ground between them flattened into a narrow strip. Whatever had happened to him, Ava thought, he was choosing what to do with it now.

⸻

The Doctor moved forward, putting himself level with the shifting seam. He did not cross it. When he lowered his sonic towards the ground, its reading shortened while the visible distance stayed the same.

“Why reveal yourself now?”

“Your paradox in the collapsing future reawakened something. A primal thread. An origin event buried in the Loom's root. I felt it. Your fingerprint.” Thane watched for a reaction, his human eye fixed on the Doctor while the others searched elsewhere.

The Doctor said nothing. He had felt the route open; that did not prove what Thane claimed lay beneath it. Ava recognised the pause as work. He was separating what he knew from what someone wanted him to believe.

“You can't unify without consequences,” Thane continued. “Now those consequences are coalescing. You carry your history in one place, and you still expect the damage to remain scattered where you left it.”

He extended a hand into the fog. Something took it. The gesture was gentle enough that Ava started forward before she saw what was emerging.

A Loomling, malformed and child-sized, came into the light. Threads crossed its chest without forming a closed body. Its empty eye sockets faced the ground; its mouth whispered scraps of prayer with the verbs missing. One leg folded in two directions. Thane steadied it until it stood.

The Doctor's jaw tightened. Ava asked, “Can it hear us?” Thane did not answer her. The little head turned at her voice, then returned to the same angle as before. She could not tell whether it had noticed her or repeated a movement.

“You've started weaving with corrupted thread,” the Doctor said. He crouched carefully. The Loomling laid a strand across the slate, lifted it, and found a new ridge of ground beneath. On its next attempt the strand broke. Its knee collapsed again.

Thane smiled and straightened it. “A beginning needn't be elegant.” Ava watched him close its fingers around another strand. He had the patience of someone teaching a task and no apparent interest in whether the pupil wanted it.

“We're not feeding anymore, Doctor. We're building.” The next ridge reached towards the TARDIS. The Doctor stood. “Building what?” Thane's human eye flicked towards the door. “Somewhere that cannot be taken from us.”

⸻

Ava raised her sonic. Each movement of Thane's fingers made the instrument click; she chose the narrowest answering setting and sent a brief pulse towards his hand. The Loomling's strand loosened. Then its chest pulled sideways, following the same signal. Ava cut the pulse at once. She had found a connection, not a safe way to break it.

Thane moved before she could lower her hand. The Doctor began to turn, but there was no intervening movement to follow.

He was in front of her, close enough for her to see dust caught in the stitching of his collar.

He smiled. “You can interrupt a lesson. Can you put the pupil back together afterwards?”

Then his voice came from behind her. Ava turned her head without turning her body, keeping the door in view. His reflection still stood in front.

The same smile remained on both faces. “You should have stayed in the city. It had already prepared your part.”

The Doctor did not lunge. Ava saw the decision in his hands: a movement begun, checked, and opened into empty palms. Any rush might carry him through the place Thane had just vacated and leave her caught between them.

He spoke directly to the human eye, though it was no longer the face nearest him.

“Stop.”

Thane paused. The reflection on the slate slid into alignment with his feet. For the first time since his arrival, Ava could see a single route back to the ship.

The Doctor kept his hands open. He was offering a halt both of them could observe, not testing whether the word could make another person obey.

“Let her move to the doors. I'll stay here.” Ava met his eyes and shook her head once. He amended it. “We both move where you can see us. No instruments raised.”

She lowered the sonic but did not surrender it. Thane moved aside. Ava walked towards the TARDIS, counting four steps; this time four steps brought her where she expected. The Doctor followed more slowly. Thane could have closed the distance again. For the moment he chose not to.

“I think I know what you want,” the Doctor said. “To end the chaos. To make time obedient. Predictable. Controlled. I wanted it too.” He glanced at the little construct trying to hold its strand. “I don't know what you want for that one.”

Thane took a step towards them. “I once watched an evacuation corridor disappear with people inside it. Restored, destroyed, restored. The strategists called each return a recovery. I stopped counting recoveries.” His fingers tapped his silver clasp. “A line that holds would have saved them.”

“Yes,” the Doctor said. “It might have.” Memories of orders and crossings pressed together in him; the names arrived less reliably than the shame. He had argued for ruthless certainty and against it. Both arguments were his. “One beautiful, unbroken line. I know the temptation. Then someone has to decide who isn't allowed to step off it.”

The eyes beneath Thane's face blinked. The human one stayed open. “Better a rule than another corridor full of people you meant to save.” Ava heard the accusation land. The Doctor's gloved hand closed, then loosened at his side.

“The Loom has to leave room for what people choose,” he said. “Including choices I dislike. Otherwise all I've done is make a bigger version of that Archive.” He could offer that obligation. He could not honestly claim he had always fulfilled it.

They stood without speaking. Ava reached behind herself and found the threshold control by touch. A low note came from the ship. She left her fingers beside the control, waiting rather than assuming it meant permission.

“Your mercy is weakness,” Thane said. His hand tightened around the Loomling's strand. The little figure jerked towards him, its unfinished foot scraping the slate.

“No. It's defiance.” The Doctor's voice was quiet. “You can come away from this without surrendering the right to be angry. Stop pulling it.” Thane looked at his own hand. Then he pulled harder.

⸻

The Hybrid launched forward. The slate rose in a steep fold between his feet and the TARDIS, throwing the Doctor against the outside of the doorframe.

There were no claws to avoid. Ava raised her forearm against flying grit and felt the air drive it down again. The force came through the ground, the light and the shrinking space available to stand in.

Thane spoke as he advanced: “The way must remain. The walls must hold. No one leaves.” Each assertion made the same narrow strip of slate harder and shortened the distance from him to the ship.

The TARDIS shields cracked under the rewritten principles. White stress-lines spread over the open doorway; inside, a rail bent towards a point that should have been several metres away. The Hybrid was forcing his promised corridor through the console room, using the ship's own boundaries to give it shape.

Ava was thrown backwards. Her shoulder struck the edge of the step and she fell outside it, losing her breath. The sonic skittered against the blue panel. She trapped it with her good hand before it slipped beneath the folding ground.

The Doctor stayed upright against the frame. His injured leg shook. He could see a compression pattern he had once used to seal a breach; he could also remember people trapped by the sealing, though their faces refused to resolve. Closing this corridor harder would serve Thane's purpose.

His coat flared in the pressure. Ava dragged herself sideways and struck the threshold control with her elbow. The doors began to close, stopped against the intrusion and reopened a hand's breadth. She pressed again. The ship answered with a harsh warning. Repetition would not make the opening safe.

The Doctor lifted his gloved, uninjured hand. He looked once at Ava, checking she was clear of Thane's narrowing line, then opened his fingers. Something fine and bright drew taut between them. The effort pulled his shoulders towards it.

The broken Chronoblade remained aboard, with the rifle and the other things they had carried away from battles. He could not cut his way out of every shape those battles had taught him to recognise.

His sonic stayed in his pocket. Ava had already shown what interrupting the signal did to the unfinished creature bound into it. He would not repeat her test at greater strength and call the additional harm a solution.

He drew out a thread. Ava saw it stretch from his palm towards the place where Thane had made the ground meet the ship, a single line where there had been none.

Gold light ran along it: possibility spun from the Prime Loom itself. It trembled whenever Thane spoke. The Doctor's breath shortened, and blood gathered beneath his lower lip. There was no second line behind the first.

He cast it with a small forward movement of his hand. His knee nearly gave way as the line left him.

It did not strike Thane's chest like a weapon hitting armour. For a moment it followed the strand he held, crossing through the point where the Loomling's unfinished work joined his command.

Then it passed into him. The silver panels of his robe lifted away from one another. His advancing foot stopped above the ground, unable to complete its promised step.

The Hybrid screamed. Ava flinched and covered one ear. The sound broke into several beginnings but could find no ending to hold them together.

Pain alone could not account for the change. His human hand opened; the mirrored fingers stayed closed around a strand that was no longer there.

He was uncertain. The ground under Ava levelled as one of the competing versions of his command failed to arrive.

The golden thread ran through alternatives he had excluded. In the broken facets the Doctor glimpsed a hand releasing a weapon, an empty chair after a peaceful death, a man turning away from the war. Possibilities, not restored lives. Thane recoiled from them as if admitting their existence would surrender everything he had endured.

His face cracked along the dark seam. He tried to say that the way must remain, but stopped before the final word.

The reflected half split away from the human one. Neither settled into a separate body. Ava could no longer tell which surface held his eye.

He collapsed inward. The ridges of slate loosened, crumbling into thin light. Beyond him, the Loomling's outline disappeared into the disturbed fog. Ava looked for it, but the place where it had stood would not stay still long enough to search.

Thane's voice reached them once more, close to the ground.

“You… were… always the problem.”

Then he was gone. The Doctor kept his empty hand raised for another breath. There was no body to approach, no signal on which to base a promise that the disappearance was an end.

⸻

Silence returned. The TARDIS door opened far enough for warm light to reach Ava's shoes. Its damaged shield gave a low, uneven hum.

The Doctor dropped onto his sound knee, keeping the injured one bent in front of him. His bandaged hand found the ground. The slate was cold enough to hurt through the cloth.

Ava crawled over. She had her breath back, but each deeper inhalation caught where her shoulder had struck the step. She put the sonic in her pocket before trying to help him.

“You alright?”

He tried to answer and could not. She waited, watching his chest rather than demanding another effort.

He nodded. Ava looked at the hand braced against the slate. “That doesn't look like alright. Can you stand if I give you my shoulder?”

When he looked up, there was blood at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with his sleeve, saw what he had done and stopped pretending the nod had been enough. “Slowly,” he said.

⸻

They returned to the TARDIS together. He leaned through her uninjured side while she kept her supported wrist clear. At the threshold she paused to look for the Loomling once more. Nothing moved where she could see. The doors closed before the fog yielded anything else.

There was no victory speech. The Doctor sat on the step inside while Ava moved the severed Archive cable out of their path. Neither asked the ship to take them back into the collapsing city without knowing where its streets now lay.

The returned slate remained dark. Ava set it beside the console, where they would have to see it again. It was too easy to call an escape complete when the people left behind had vanished from the screen.

Something had changed in the confrontation. The threat had acquired hands that could build, and the defence had spent something the Doctor had not warned her was finite.

He checked the monitor from the seat, then stood carefully when the first reading repeated. The display gave him no evidence that Thane's account of the buried origin was true. He left the claim marked as a question.

Ava fetched water. In the corridor she stopped and let her shoulder ache without anyone needing her to do anything. When she came back, he was standing in front of the monitor with his hands clasped behind him.

He looked composed from the doorway. At close range, she could see that he was holding one wrist to keep his fingers from trembling.

She put the water where he could reach it. “Drink first.” He did, carefully. She waited until he had swallowed before asking the question she had carried inside.

“Doctor.” He watched a line on the screen, though it had stopped changing. Ava moved beside him rather than speaking to his back.

“I saw one thread.”

He did not turn immediately. His thumb rubbed the edge of its bandage, then stopped when it caught a loose fibre.

“Yes.”

“You threw it into him. Was that the only one left?”

He was quiet long enough for the ship's damaged shield to cycle twice. This time Ava did not fill the silence for him.

“It was the last one I could spin without compromising the Loom.” He kept his voice level. “Drawing another now would take more than I could safely give back.”

She came closer to the console. “Then that is something I need to know before the next time someone starts folding the ground.” He nodded, and the small movement looked harder than his earlier refusal to fall.

“What's next?” she asked. “When there's another Thane, or a door that won't hold?”

His voice softened. He looked towards the dark slate, then at the place where her sonic had waited in its socket.

“But we make more.”

He turned to her. Ava did not step away from the promise, but she would not let it stand in place of an answer. “Do you know how?”

He smiled, an old movement arriving before the confidence needed to support it. “Not yet.”

The smile did not reach his eyes. Ava pulled the chair back within his reach. He looked at it, then sat. On the console between them lay the empty sonic socket and the slate they could not return.

Chapter Twelve

The Girl Who Remembered Stars

The wind on Selayin IV blew eastward in the evenings, carrying dust from the singing crystal fields and pollen from the violet-leafed ezzara trees. At dusk the sky divided into six bands of gold and blood-orange. The stars began their low, rhythmic hum. People in the streets checked their instruments and went on walking. They no longer looked up to find their way.

But she did. Standing outside the observatory with a basket of clean lens cloths against her hip, the Archivist watched the first bright point emerge above the eastern ridge. She had intended to bring in the washing before the dust arrived. Now the cloths would need shaking again. She stayed until the light had separated from the last band of sunset.

Every evening she climbed the moss-cracked tower steps, wrapped her coat around herself and listened for a sound she could not name but had always known. Tonight someone had left a measuring case on the third step. She stopped, put down the basket and called, “If you've broken another eyepiece, carry it all the way up. I'm not coming down to admire it.”

⸻

She was not quite human. The young man who appeared around the curve of the stair knew better than to stare when the blue-white spirals in her eyes caught the landing lamp. He stared instead at the basket. “You still wash those by hand?” She passed it to him. “You still put expensive instruments where people can tread on them?”

Not quite human anymore, and still annoyed by a blocked staircase. She preferred that combination to the reverence strangers sometimes brought into the tower. Teren had once been one of her students. Now he repaired survey equipment for the eastern field crews and came to her only when a fault threatened to become his responsibility. This one must be serious: he had brought supper.

The changes had come slowly. First her eyes, once black, now threaded with luminous spirals. Then her skin, which sometimes remembered heat before feeling it. Her blood moved more slowly, and dreams arrived hours before she slept. That afternoon she had woken in her chair with the impression of a dropped cup. She had moved her own cup away from the edge, then made herself write down what she had actually seen: nothing.

She was no Time Lord. She had lived near time for too long. On some days that distinction was a comfort; on others it was merely accurate. She kept a notebook for the misplaced sensations, with separate columns for the impression, the event and the hours between. Most lines remained unfinished. Teren knew the book existed. He had never asked to read it.

Tonight she remembered him again. The thought arrived as Teren lifted the measuring case, bent one knee against its weight and said he could manage. A different man had said that in a different doorway. She let the recollection come without trying to pull the rest of the room after it. Teren was waiting for her to move. She stepped aside.

⸻

His coat had been long. She remembered it catching against her chair, remembered taking a fold of it out from under a table leg while he continued speaking. That was how he returned most clearly: requiring some small practical adjustment in a room. The grand occasions were harder to trust. She had retold them until even the pauses had learnt their places.

Black cloth, crimson lining, light brown hair with silver through it. A short beard, white at the chin. He had looked like a man who had aged deliberately, though she knew how misleading a face could be. She could remember an expression more readily than the words that caused it. Sometimes she saw him listening and could not remember what she had been telling him.

Static and tea: those scents remained. There had been another she had once called unfinished questions, when she was younger and less embarrassed by a good phrase. Tonight the tower smelled of lamp oil and the food Teren had brought. She opened the parcel, found the bread crushed against the stew tin and handed him a spoon without mentioning it.

She had known the Doctor once. Not long, measured against all the years before and after. Long enough that an ordinary movement could interrupt an evening and leave her staring at the stair. She sat across from Teren at the workbench. “Tell me what you did to it.” He began with what the instrument had done. She waited for him to reach his part.

Enough time to learn that an explanation was not the same as company. She missed having him in the room even when she disagreed with him. Teren finished his account: a survey bearing had moved between the morning check and the afternoon traverse, and he had corrected it without retaining the first setting. She pushed the bread towards him. “Then we start with what you still have.”

⸻

In this thread, her name was Ava Rynn Halvard. The town generally called her the Archivist, as if the tower had employed a single woman for longer than anyone could remember. Teren called her Ava when he was defending a decision and Archivist when he wanted a favour. Tonight he was carefully avoiding both.

She was fifty-one. Her knees registered the climb less kindly than they had at thirty-two, but the fine adjustments on a telescope still steadied her. She opened the measuring case and laid its contents on a clean cloth. Teren reached to help. “Not that cloth,” she said. “That's for the glass.” He took another without defending himself. Age had improved them both in small ways.

She had been born on the orbital colonies above the Tyrell Drift, in a life whose ordinary beginnings still mattered to her. A station school paid for by mining taxes; her father lost in a hull rupture when she was ten. Her mother taught xenolinguistics and painted water on the walls with dust. Ava remembered practising the strokes, making a river wider whenever her mother left the room.

She had been a historian. A proper one, she used to tell people, before she learnt to dislike the distinction. She had measured inscriptions, argued about provenance and spent whole afternoons proving that two fragments did not belong together. Teren put his survey log beside the open instrument. The first page was missing. “I know,” he said before she could ask. “That's why I came.”

She had been good at it. She was still good at setting an attractive answer aside when the evidence refused to meet it. They compared the surviving bearings. The final entry contained two times written over one another. Teren said he had corrected the clock. Ava gave him a fresh sheet. “Write down both. You can decide which one embarrasses you after we understand the fault.”

The life built around documenting the past had changed when she touched a relic nobody else had managed to activate: a rusted cylinder recovered beneath an off-grid Gallifreyan relay site. She remembered the tray it lay in, the padding snagged along its damaged side, the careful impatience of people who had already spent weeks finding nothing. She had reached for it because she wanted to examine the scoring beneath the corrosion.

It had sung to her. There was no more exact way to describe the sensation, though she had tried. The sound seemed to find a place in her chest before her ears supplied it with a note. She had set the cylinder down at once. The note continued. Her colleagues asked what she had pressed; she opened both hands to show she did not know.

The sonic unfolded like a flower. Metal parted along lines she had mistaken for damage, revealing a small, intricate interior. She had not known whether she was watching a device wake or watching it break. When someone reached across her to shut the tray, she asked for a moment. It was the first claim she made on the encounter: time to look before anyone gave it a name.

It was old, scarred and cracked along the emitter. Holding it, she felt a vibration close to her heartbeat but never exactly matching. She remembered shifting her grip, waiting for the two rhythms to agree. They did not. Years later, people who heard the story wanted the recognition to have been immediate and complete. She always disappointed them at that point. Much of it had been bewilderment.

It had belonged to the Doctor. Knowing that had changed the questions she asked of it, but had not answered all the earlier ones. She still treated the cracked emitter gently. Its survival was not a reason to assume it could survive anything.

A past Doctor. She used to turn the cylinder over while he talked, matching the old wear marks to the movements of his hands. Once he had caught her doing it. She remembered his amusement, and how quickly she had pretended to be examining the damaged casing.

A forgotten one, in the account she had pieced together. The catalogue entry still had a gap where the date should be. Beneath it, in a margin meant for technical remarks, she had written that he laughed when he recognised the instrument. She had never found a better place for that detail.

And it had waited. The sonic rested in her coat now, pressing against her whenever she leaned over the bench. Across from her, Teren fitted the instrument's side plate without tightening it. She brought her attention back to his hands. He had at least remembered how to avoid trapping the cable.

From the day of the relic, Ava Rynn Halvard had stopped being satisfied with documenting time. She had taken the sonic back to the relay ruins, stayed after the team packed up and missed the transport she was meant to catch. For years afterwards, the abandoned return ticket had served as a bookmark in her field journal.

She had started listening to it. Now she listened while Teren explained what the eastern crew needed: a bearing they could use before dawn, when the crystal fields became too bright to cross safely by sight. She asked him to name the fixed point in his calculation. He named a ridge marker. She asked when he had last seen it himself. He looked towards the shuttered window.

⸻

On the observatory platform the warm wind lifted her long black hair, its tips faintly auburn. Dust caught against her sun-gold skin and the faded scar at her left temple, where a Time Eater had nearly caught her in the Archive Vault. Teren stood beside the telescope carrying the case and the fresh sheet. She loosened the dome brake while he cleared fallen ezzara leaves from the track.

She reached into her coat, then left her hand there. The sonic could answer some questions she did not understand; this question deserved an instrument whose errors they could inspect. “Sight the marker,” she told him. He bent to the eyepiece. For several seconds he said nothing. Then: “It isn't where the scale says.” Ava checked the brake. It was holding. Their first calibration had not solved the problem.

Only after they had written down that failure did she pull out the sonic. She laid it on a folded cloth away from Teren's apparatus, where its cracked emitter would not catch on a tool. “That isn't going to fix it?” he asked. “I don't know what it would fix,” she said. “Turn the telescope by hand. I'll read the scale.”

Later she would hold the sonic towards the stars. First she helped Teren find the marker without using the faulty bearing. They worked from the dark outline of the eastern ridge, identifying the notch above the lower field and moving slowly along it. At last a pale mast entered the lens. Teren laughed with relief, then stopped when Ava asked him to read the number before touching anything else.

They waited for a gust to pass and made the observation again. The mast remained in the same place; the instrument returned a slightly different figure. Teren opened his mouth to average the readings. Ava shook her head. The disagreement was small enough to overlook here and large enough to put a crew on the wrong side of a cut in the field.

A faint hum came from the sonic on its cloth. Ava felt it through the workbench before she heard it. She looked down, then forced herself to finish writing the second bearing. Teren followed her glance. “Is that bad?” She set the pencil squarely beside the paper. “I don't know yet. We still haven't checked the bracket underneath yours.”

She closed her eyes for one breath. An old impulse urged her to take the sonic up and leave the rest of the evening unfinished. She could almost hear a voice asking what she was waiting for. The voice belonged to memory, and memory did not have a field crew expecting a safe route at dawn. She opened her eyes and crouched beside the mounting plate.

“I still remember,” she whispered. Teren thought she meant the fastening sequence. He passed her the narrow driver and braced the telescope while she checked each screw. One turned freely in its housing. The bracket shifted under pressure, just enough to account for part of the error. She showed him the movement rather than announcing a cure. “This much, at least, is ours to mend.”

Above them the stars answered the sonic's note with a deeper vibration, carried through the dome's metal rim. Ava felt it in her teeth. They fitted a temporary brace, repeated the sightings and recorded the remaining uncertainty. Teren wanted to call it repaired. She would sign only for the range they had tested. He frowned, then wrote a shorter route for the crew and crossed out the stretch they could not safely measure.

⸻

Aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor paused mid-sentence. He had been explaining which shield circuit they could leave isolated until they found somewhere safe to stop. Ava Reyes stood beside him, her supported wrist tucked close and her bruised shoulder turned away from the console rail. He was sitting for the explanation, though he had twice reached for a control beyond his chair.

He looked up. The damaged shield's uneven note continued beneath the familiar engine sound. Nothing on the screen announced a new arrival. He took his gloved hand away from the switch and waited, listening to something Ava could not distinguish from the ship's ordinary strain.

Something had passed through him. A room, a woman's hand, the pressure of a loss he could not put in order. He looked towards the doors. They were closed. Ava asked whether she should open them, and he shook his head, still listening.

A thread pulled tight behind his breastbone. He put a hand there. Ava set down the coil she had been sorting and asked where it hurt. After the fracture-space, he owed her a plain answer. He took a breath before giving it.

“It doesn't.” The pain from casting the golden thread remained, along with his aching knee and the tender thumb. This felt like hearing a footstep in a room he had believed empty. He waited for it to come again.

“Is something coming?” Ava asked. “I can't tell.” He had rushed towards familiar signals before, and fled from them, and regretted both. He stayed in the chair, allowing his hands to rest while the feeling rose again.

Memory. He looked across the console towards Ava's sonic, visible in her pocket. Its silence unsettled him. He had expected a note, though he could not have said which note until the absence of it caught in his throat.

“Ava,” he said aloud.

Ava Reyes turned. She had begun rubbing the unbruised side of her neck and stopped when she saw his expression. “Yes?” She waited for him to finish what he had started saying about the shield. The tools between them made the interruption feel stranger: a practical conversation had opened onto something neither of them had invited.

He heard her answer and looked directly at her. She lifted an eyebrow, waiting. The gesture was so familiar that for a moment he almost smiled back. Then the other impression returned, carrying a weariness that did not belong to this room.

He blinked. A different light around a familiar face; age where he did not expect it. He gripped the chair arm, and Ava stopped beside him. “Look at me,” she said. He did. The console light shone in her eyes.

He remembered, or felt himself being remembered. Ava moved closer. When her shoulder caught the movement, he reached for the chair beside his. Its feet scraped across the floor, a welcome noise that belonged entirely to the two of them.

“She remembers me,” he said.

“Who?” Ava did not sit. She rested her good hand on the chair back and leaned forward, bringing her face level with his. He could no longer look through her towards whatever he thought he had seen.

He turned fully towards her. The engines held their uneven rhythm. “I don't understand it yet,” he said. He wanted her to hear that before the answer, and waited until she nodded.

Then: “You.”

⸻

Back on Selayin IV, the older Ava, Ava Rynn Halvard, stood alone on the platform. Teren had gone down with the corrected sheet, promising to send the crew along the shorter route. He had taken the dirty supper tin as well as his case. At the bottom of the stairs he called that she should sleep. She called back that he should replace the bracket properly.

The stars shimmered above the open dome. She picked up the sonic, raised it towards them and held it until her arm began to tire. The note returned, faint but distinct from the crystal fields. She lowered the instrument slowly. Her hand shook with the effort of not asking the sound to become more than it was.

Then a light fell. She followed it past the dome's broken edge, expecting the brief flare of dust entering the atmosphere. It continued beyond the point where such a flare should have ended.

Not a meteor. She moved until a fixed piece of roof stood beside it in her view. Her first estimate had been wrong: it was moving against the stars, farther away than she had thought. She caught her sleeve on the dome brake and pulled it free without looking down.

A ship. She nearly called for Teren, though he had been gone too long to hear. His name formed uselessly in her mouth. There was nobody on the platform to whom she could hand even a little of what she was feeling.

A glint of blue held for an instant, vanished and returned. Ava rested her free hand on the telescope housing. She did not move to the eyepiece; by the time she redirected the instrument, the small point might be gone.

TARDIS blue. Recognition was not certainty, but it was enough to bring her hand to her mouth. The point vanished behind the edge of the dome. She hurried round the telescope, struck her shin against its base and found the light again.

Faint. The sonic lay warm against her palm. “Come on,” she said, as she might have spoken to a stubborn fastening. The little blue point held steady beyond the roof.

So far away that she could close her fingers and lose the point behind a knuckle. She left her hand open. The evening's work lay on the bench, one loose screw set apart so she would remember to find a replacement.

But real. The sky had given her something to do besides wait. She took one step towards the stairs, then came back for the cloth beneath the sonic. She was suddenly afraid of leaving anything behind.

She smiled. It hurt unexpectedly, drawing at muscles she had held still for too long. She wrapped the sonic in the clean cloth, then changed her mind and returned it to her coat where she could reach it.

“You took your time,” she whispered. The familiar complaint steadied her more than any grander greeting could have done. She secured the telescope brake and checked it with a firm push, leaving the dome open to the cooling air.

Then she began her descent. She used the rail at the cracked step, moved the empty basket out of the way and kept going. Below, the tower waited in its usual darkness. For the first time that evening she did not stop on the stairs to listen.

Chapter Thirteen

The Echoing Thread

The moment passed, but the feeling did not. Ava stood beside the chair the Doctor had pulled out for her, waiting for him to explain how someone else could remember him under her name.

He turned to the console. The TARDIS lights dimmed, and the uneven shield note sank beneath the engines. Ava felt a small answering movement behind her ribs. She pressed her good hand there, startled to find that recognition could arrive without anything recognisable attached to it.

A pulse. It came twice, with a pause long enough for her to wonder whether the first had happened.

She thought of a stair under her foot. Not this ship's steps: worn stone, a rail polished by years of use. She could feel neither beneath her shoes.

The memory did not belong among the things she could account for. Yet reaching after it brought the same private familiarity as remembering a room where she had once slept.

“Doctor, what just happened?”

He did not answer at once. He moved a coil off the scanner controls with his gloved hand and asked her whether the feeling had begun before or after the lights changed.

She told him. He ran a continuity-resonance scan, keeping the navigation locked. The readings spread in pale gold, then spiked into violet. At the spike Ava smelt warm dust. The Doctor stopped the scan, and the smell faded.

“That's a paradox signature,” she said, pointing to the folded line. “And looking at it makes it stronger?”

“A recursive one. Something is coming backwards through a memory, and our response is going back along it.” He reduced the scan strength instead of repeating it. The line remained, thinner now, running towards a set of coordinates.

He looked at her rather than the display. Ava took the offered chair at last. Her shoulder still hurt, and she wanted her attention for the answer.

“There's a version of you out there. Older. Changed. She remembers me from moments we haven't lived.” He hesitated. “I can feel the recognition. I can't yet tell you how much of the history behind it belongs to us.”

“So she's me from the future.” Ava tried the words and disliked how much they seemed to decide for her. “Is that what you're saying?”

He checked the returning line. It divided from theirs before the point the instruments could date securely. He showed her the split rather than covering it with a reassuring label.

“No. Not quite.” Ava watched the two lines continue separately. “Then let's not call her my future until we've asked her.” The Doctor nodded and released the navigation lock.

⸻

The TARDIS materialised in high orbit over Selayin IV, cloaked in temporal suspension. Six landmasses curved around a crystalline sea. The engines settled, but the damaged shield indicator stayed amber. The Doctor left its isolated circuit alone and brought the planet's thread-pattern onto the main display.

He read the first loop, lost his place and started again from the recorded arrival time. Ava held the display steady while he compared the two passes.

Dozens of threads crossed the globe. Some vanished beneath one another and reappeared in places the planetary image showed as empty sea.

The breaks clustered around one old observatory. A road approaching it existed on two maps at different heights. A transport route ended at a stop that another layer placed beneath a hillside. People could live among the discrepancies without seeing their entire shape.

“Causality scars?” Ava asked. She enlarged the observatory and found a little steadier patch around its eastern approach.

“Yes. But these traces don't match the damage we saw the Eaters leave.” The Doctor followed a loop that returned to the tower. “They're being renewed from the same place. Echoes, rather than bites.”

“Echoes of what?”

He straightened carefully. A familiar warmth passed through him again, followed by the impression of someone waiting too long. This time the display changed at the same instant.

“Memory.” He pointed to the new loop. Ava looked from it to the landing control. “Can we get to her without making that worse?” He chose the steadier approach she had found. “We can avoid sending another scan through her first.”

⸻

They landed near the observatory ruins, among violet ezzara trees. One side of the tower had fallen away; a maintained stair wound through the standing part. Fresh tool marks brightened a bracket near the door. Ava touched none of them, though she knew with alarming clarity where the next step would turn.

The familiarity drew her towards a structure within the ruined walls. It had the stubborn particularity of something she might have made, without yielding a single memory of making it.

A monument stood inside an open court. The Doctor stopped beside her as the TARDIS doors closed behind them. “You don't have to touch it.” Ava looked at the worn path leading there. “I want to know what she left.”

At its centre stood a smooth black obelisk, etched with personal Gallifreyan glyphs. Some had been cut twice where the first attempt went shallow. These were messages worked into stone by hand, not ceremonial lettering. Moss filled the lower strokes; the upper ones shone with recent handling.

Ava approached. Her supported wrist stayed against her body. She lifted her other hand and waited until the Doctor had stepped clear, so neither could mistake his contact for hers.

The glyphs brightened before her fingers arrived. She stopped. They dimmed. A breath later she chose to close the remaining distance.

The stone answered her touch with a low vibration. Warmth travelled up her arm, bringing the smell of ink and a room full of voices. She pulled her hand away; the light remained.

A woman's voice came from within. Ava heard her own cadence in it, altered by age and by a patience she did not yet possess.

“If you're reading this, it means I still remember. It means the timeline hasn't collapsed completely. It means I was right to believe in him. In the Doctor.”

Ava staggered back. The next words were already forming in her mouth. She tried to hold them there and felt a sudden, terrible pressure to finish the sentence.

The Doctor caught her at the waist, keeping clear of her sore shoulder, and steadied her against the low wall. She caught his sleeve. “Don't switch it off yet.”

Her eyes stayed on the stone. “I know what she's going to say next.” The Doctor looked towards his sonic, then left it pocketed. “Tell me if you want it stopped.”

Without deciding to begin, Ava spoke with the recording. The words came in the older voice's rhythm, even where she would normally have taken another breath.

In perfect unison, two voices crossed the court. Ava heard herself from the stone and from her own throat, neither loud enough to drown the other.

“We built the archive together. We placed the threads where they couldn't fray. And even after he was gone, I remembered. I held onto the sound of his footsteps when he walked between choices.”

The recorded voice faded. Ava stopped speaking a fraction later, frightened by the extra syllable her mouth had wanted to supply.

She sat on the low wall until her breath slowed. The Doctor waited beside her. From inside the tower came a quiet metallic click, followed by another, unevenly spaced.

He stepped towards the obelisk without touching it and read the date marks around its base. Two of them could not belong to the same continuous history. He checked the lower strokes where moss had obscured a numeral.

“She's from a divergent thread. One that should have been sealed.” He looked troubled. “These marks put me inside a history I don't remember visiting, after a point where its record says I couldn't have survived.”

“If she remembers you, doesn't that mean you did?” Ava asked. “You don't remember everything.”

“No, I don't.” He sat beside her. The concession cost him less than looking towards the tower. “But I can't make the missing part say whatever would comfort us.”

“Her memory is reaching a thread it shouldn't reach. It may be pulling that broken history back into contact.” He listened to the clicking. Ava stood. “Then I'd rather hear from her than keep discussing what she might mean.”

⸻

They found the archive beneath the tower, a spiralled chamber holding concentric rings of floating data nodes. A narrow walkway ran between them. Some nodes flickered around scenes that kept beginning and failing to continue; others held a single face so steadily that Ava first mistook them for photographs.

She paused beside one. A hand appeared within it and lifted a piece of chalk. When she moved closer, the node turned towards her, carrying its light across the walkway.

It showed her older counterpart teaching a group of young students beneath an alien sky. One pupil had his back turned, attending to something outside the scene. Older Ava waited until he looked round, then handed him the chalk. He answered reluctantly, making the others laugh.

“I taught,” Ava whispered. Then she corrected herself. “She taught.” The correction did not make the longing smaller. She wanted to know the joke and whether the boy had understood the lesson.

The Doctor stood beside her. His reflection crossed the node, and the image lurched. The older woman's mouth opened on a different word. He moved back until the original scene steadied.

“And she remembered.” He kept away from the ring while Ava followed it with her eyes. On a shelf below lay repair notes, lens cloths and a spoon. Someone had been working here this evening, not merely preserving an ending.

“Why is a broken thread bleeding into ours?” Ava asked. She pointed to a line of light that had appeared between the teaching scene and the pocket holding her spare sonic.

The Doctor looked up. He asked her to take two steps away. The line stretched with her, then divided towards him.

He selected a low damping setting and held his sonic beside the line without touching it. The clicking stopped for half a second.

Then three nodes dimmed together. A woman's sharp voice called from deeper in the archive: “Whatever you're doing, stop.” He cut the signal. The nodes recovered one by one, leaving the smallest dark.

“Something is binding this thread to us,” he said. “The connection is using you to open its seal.” He lowered the instrument. “And breaking it that way takes part of the archive with it.”

Ava flinched. The line moved when she did. She held herself still, suddenly afraid even of breathing differently.

“You think I'm the breach?”

“No. You're the bridge.” He put the sonic away. “That doesn't mean you caused this, or that you're obliged to hold it together.” From the inner chamber the woman called, “You can both come down. Slowly, please. The fourth step moves.”

⸻

They followed the light deeper. Ava counted the steps and found the fourth where it should be, then watched it retreat beneath the next. She waited until it returned before crossing. The Doctor used the rail, his injured knee stiff on the descent.

The core chamber lay beyond a low arch. Copper lines ran from the nodes into a circular table with two open channels. One channel shone continuously. The other flickered in time with the clicking they had heard outside.

Light filled the room, soft enough to reveal dust on the tools laid beside the channels. A clean cloth had been folded under an old sonic with a cracked emitter.

In a chair of copper lattice and moss sat the woman they had seen in the node. She was holding a lever down with one palm. “That little signal of yours nearly took my east ring,” she told the Doctor. “Take this while I stand.”

Ava took the lever with her good hand. The older woman watched her grip, then released it. Her eyes were still sharp; she was calmer than Ava felt, but there was a strain around her mouth that the recorded image had lacked.

Ava Rynn Halvard, fifty-one. The name was written on the repair log beside the chair. Ava Reyes read it twice, relieved by the difference and immediately ashamed of her relief.

Halvard stood slowly. She took a step towards the Doctor, stopped within reach of him and looked down at the blood-darkened edge of his sleeve.

She smiled faintly. He lifted his hand, uncertain whether to offer it. She touched his fingers for a moment, then let go.

“You made it.” The words seemed to leave her less air for the next breath. “I saw your ship. I thought I'd have longer to decide what to say.”

Current Ava stepped forward as far as the lever allowed. “Can someone explain why I know your staircase?”

“You're me.” It came out as an accusation, though she had meant it as a question.

“A version of you,” Halvard said. “The version that remembered him after everything fell apart.” She glanced at the lever. “You can brace that with the wooden catch. I keep forgetting to use it when I'm worried.”

The Doctor did not speak. Ava fitted the catch and freed her hand. For a moment neither woman looked at him; the work gave him somewhere to stand without being asked to perform recognition.

When Halvard turned back, his mouth opened and closed. The meeting he could not remember had left her with a lifetime of consequences. He could see that much without knowing what they were.

She looked at him with grief. It made him set the question he had prepared aside.

She was not greeting an enemy. Her hand stayed near his sleeve, reluctant to lose the small proof of its cloth beneath her fingers.

Nor did she look at him as the answer to everything. When he tried to apologise for the damaged node, she said, “Yes, we'll come to that,” and made him wait.

Her grief belonged to someone she had known closely enough to be angry with, someone who had not been there to hear that anger change over the years.

“You died,” she said. “Not in battle. Not in some great catastrophe. You gave up the last of your own thread to save someone else's.” She kept her eyes on his face. “I watched you do it. I asked you not to.”

He stepped forward. The line at the table flared, and he stopped at once. Even this small movement towards her had an effect on the room.

“Whose?”

Halvard looked at Ava Reyes, then back at him. Ava felt the answer before it came and hated the ease with which she wanted to refuse it.

“Mine.” She let the word settle. “Not hers. Don't look at her as though she's brought you here to ask for the same thing.” The Doctor turned towards Ava, then nodded to Halvard. “You're right.”

⸻

Silence lasted until the wooden catch began to slip. Ava pressed it back into place. The little movement released Halvard from watching the Doctor's face, and she came to the table.

She showed Ava two registers: her own damaged continuity, sustained by the archive, and the returning line now connected to their arrival. They overlapped at points the controls had not been built to separate.

“Remembering him across a broken thread cost more than I understood. I wasn't built for it.” She put a finger beside a cluster of overwritten dates. “A lesson recalled twice. A street ending in the wrong year. Sometimes keeping hold of one moment moved something I hadn't meant to touch.”

“And now?” the Doctor asked. He did not reach for the controls. Halvard had placed herself between him and the table without seeming to think about it.

“Now you're here. The archive is trying to fit you to the life I remember, and every difference pulls against it.” The copper under her hand gave a sharp click. A crack opened in the rim of the table. “The paradox is close to rupture.”

She turned to him and lifted a protective cover from a small recessed control. Beneath it was a single sealed-thread glyph. Ava saw how clean the cover was compared with the surrounding work surface. Halvard had been opening it often.

“Seal me away and this reality dies quietly. Keep me alive like this, and my memory may unweave the Loom.” Her hand remained beside the control. “Those are the two outcomes I've been able to find. I don't like either of them.”

Ava stepped between them before the Doctor could answer. “You said the archive is trying to make him fit. What happens if it stops treating one history as the correction to the other?”

“There's a third option.” She touched the edge of the two registers, not the light within them. “Leave both accounts open. Give the connection somewhere to hold them without forcing either of us to repeat the other.”

They looked at her. Halvard objected first. “Joining the registers could pull you into everything that has happened to me.” Ava shook her head. “Then we don't join the records. We join their edges. I stay here, you stay there, and neither gets overwritten.”

Halvard picked up the old sonic and handed it to her. Ava held the patched, cracked device that had once hummed with forgotten futures. Her own spare stayed in her coat. The older instrument answered the archive at once, lighting two separate points on the table. She set it across the space between them.

“I forge a new thread,” Ava said. “One woven with both of us. One that accepts the paradox instead of sealing it.” The Doctor studied the open channels. “I can help you keep the paths separate. I can't supply another thread.” Halvard looked at Ava. “And you can stop. Either of us can stop.” Ava nodded. “Then show me the release.”

Halvard hesitated with her hand over the catch. Then she demonstrated: lift it, separate the two contacts, let the unbound line fall back into its own register. They tested that movement before attempting the connection. The light drew apart without dimming the nodes. Ava tried it herself, using her good hand. Only then did Halvard put her palm against the first channel.

She smiled at Ava across the table. “You always were braver than me.” Ava glanced at the seal control, then at the years of repair notes. “You kept this place going. I'd call that something.” Halvard made a small, embarrassed sound and closed the cover over the seal.

The first contact failed. The archive sent Halvard's name into both registers; Ava lifted the catch before the second line could complete. Halvard swore, reset her channel and found the copying link she had overlooked. They disconnected it together. On the next attempt the names stayed different. Ava felt the remembered staircase under her feet, but could still feel the chamber floor as well.

⸻

The Doctor stepped back after setting the two channels to record separately. His hands wanted to finish the operation. He had spent lives accepting responsibility by taking the final control, and more lives grieving what that had made other people unable to choose. Here he kept his hands at his sides and watched for the failure they had agreed would make him call a halt.

Halvard pressed her contact. Ava pressed hers. The old sonic drew a fine arc between them. When a node began to flicker, Halvard asked for less pressure and Ava eased her hand without breaking the line. Their breaths fell out of step. The arc held anyway.

The Doctor watched two distinct readings settle beside one another. Ava could hear the recording's next sentence somewhere beyond her own thoughts, but no longer had to speak it. She took a breath and said her own name. Halvard answered with hers. Neither voice came from the stone.

A new thread spun from the archive, silver and gold, holding steady between the separate registers. Ava lifted her hand; Halvard lifted hers. The thread remained rooted there. It had not rebuilt the broken tower or restored the darkened node, but the clicking stopped. They stayed long enough to watch both channels through several cycles. Before the Doctor and Ava left, Halvard wrapped the old sonic and entrusted it to Reyes. “Bring it back when you can. Don't force the emitter.” Ava promised to try, not to fulfil a future already written for her. Halvard returned to the workbench, and the Doctor walked with Reyes towards the blue box through the remaining ruins. Behind them, the new thread continued to hold: stable, uncertain, alive.

Chapter Fourteen

The Man Who Counts the Endings

He arrived in shadows, above a world whose night side had no lights. The ship held its position while a thin line on the control altar ran from one end of a black tablet to the other. At the far end it stopped. Caldrex waited for the stone to cool before touching it.

The darkness was not concealment. There was nobody on the planet to raise an alarm. He had chosen it because the absence of traffic left fewer movements for his instruments to separate from the one he wanted.

He had come to watch. The tablet showed him an arrival that had already happened elsewhere, then tried to show a departure. The second line broke into three. He scraped two of them away and saw the first go dark as well. He had chosen too soon.

The ship had no name and no transponder. It travelled by intent, cutting between a selected place and the place it occupied without laying a course through the intervening years. That made precision essential. Caldrex could want the Doctor with perfect clarity and still give the ship no destination it could reach.

Below lay an obsidian planet the Time Lords had erased from their records long before the War. No designation answered the ship's inquiry. Caldrex had found his way there by following the gap in an older chart, a space too regular to be accidental. He had kept the chart after he no longer needed it.

Inside, the air hummed with stored names. They sounded almost spoken when he moved between the racks, then sank into the vibration of stone. He rested his left hand on one shelf and listened until he could distinguish the new resonance from the accumulated ones.

Each name had been etched into a black tablet. Some inscriptions were deep enough to catch a fingernail. Others occupied a surface already scarred by earlier writing. He turned one over, found both sides spent and returned it to the lower rack without breaking it.

The names burned away as they were fulfilled, line by line. On the tablet beside his chair a single stroke glowed and vanished. He marked its disappearance on a separate chart. A completed entry was useful; the point at which it had ended was useful for longer.

At the centre of the racks stood the pilot's chair, its rusted surface polished smooth by centuries of use. The Hunter sat again, holding the failed tablet between his knees. He turned it until the dead lines caught the dim light, then began calculating what his premature choice had cost him.

⸻

He had many names. He could still recognise the inflection with which certain people had used them, although the faces that went with the voices were less dependable. Respect and fear often sounded alike after enough years alone.

None of those names mattered to the destination he was preparing. He passed a fingertip over a half-erased title and left it incomplete. Restoring it would satisfy an old grievance while doing nothing to bring the ship closer.

He had worn many faces. In the polished edge of the altar he could sometimes see one settle over another before the surface resolved. He avoided using that reflection when adjusting the clasp of his robes. There was a narrow pane beside the door that returned a steadier image.

None had felt entirely his own. He had once kept a careful record of the differences, believing that comparison would lead him back to the missing original. The record now occupied a drawer he opened only when another instrument needed space.

Collector. Scourge. Reclaimer of Threads, whispered in places where dimensions folded low around their inhabitants. He had accepted each title when it made a door open. Later, alone, he had resented the person who gave it to him for seeing no further.

In private he answered to one name. He spoke it now, quietly, while lifting the failed tablet out of the working path. His voice was rough from disuse. The ship did not answer, and he did not ask it to.

Caldrex. The sound lasted no longer than any other name in the chamber. He set a fresh tablet on the altar and made the first mark with his living hand.

⸻

At the observation pane, his black robes showed no insignia. Fine thread-markers crossed the cloth: residue from the Loom, caught where a conventional weave should have held. His right arm ended in a silver-blue prosthetic fashioned from collapsed probability. As he raised it, its fingers offered three positions before settling on one.

He was tall enough to look over the top of the nearest tablet rack. On the far side a small alignment lamp had failed. He could see its reflection without going round the shelf, but he went round anyway and adjusted the contact by hand.

Lean, with robes that had been altered more often than replaced, he stood among machines that remembered the outline of bodies he no longer wore. One control remained mounted too low. He bent to reach it rather than moving it again.

His stillness came from practice. Sudden movement made the prosthetic's possible fingers drag against one another. He had learnt to wait through the first impulse, then move once. Tonight the effort was harder; the returning trace kept changing while he held himself quiet.

He had been a Time Lord. Certain habits survived the loss of everything that had made that a place in the world: the way he ordered dates, the angle at which he held a stylus, his irritation when a mechanism answered before he had finished asking it.

Before the Loom spat him out, there had been a life he could describe in the ordinary tense of events. Afterwards, every account of it acquired a break. He could reach the edge from either side and still fail to make the two pieces meet.

He had been unwritten. He had survived the deletion without recovering the conditions of his survival, and that offended him almost as much as the injury itself. He wanted the explanation to contain an intention. An accident would leave him nobody to punish.

Now he hunted the man who, he believed, had lived what should have been his. The claim had grown simpler each time he repeated it. He no longer remembered when he had stopped asking whether the Doctor had known there was anything to take.

⸻

“Unified,” he whispered towards the distant Vortex. “The Loom chose you.” A pale reflection crossed the glass: the Doctor's trace, gathered from the last set of readings. It held together where Caldrex's own returns often separated.

His breath fogged the pane. The ship was in null-gravity, but his hand against the frame kept him still while the warm cloud spread. He wiped it away with his sleeve. His body retained these small demands despite the centuries. He found them least tolerable when he was trying to think of himself as inevitable.

He reached towards the control altar, drawing himself across the short distance by a rail. The prosthetic followed a fraction late. He waited until its wrist resolved before bringing it near the working surface.

He tapped the black thread laid across the stone. The first contact brought no response. He narrowed the inquiry to the last observed passage and tried again, this time keeping the thought of the Doctor's destruction out of the destination he was giving the ship.

A single strand glowed. Light travelled along it, paused at a knot and continued. Caldrex moved the fresh tablet into place beneath it. The stone began to take an impression.

The Unified Doctor's thread. He recognised the recurring signature, but the knot was new. Two subsidiary lines touched it without becoming part of its centre. He increased the separation on the display and watched one of them turn silver.

The main line remained intact. Caldrex pressed too hard against the altar, and the prosthetic passed briefly through its edge. He withdrew the hand and placed his living palm on the stone until the irritation subsided.

Still spinning. Still carrying a man onwards through events that ought, in Caldrex's private reckoning, to have exhausted him. The Hunter traced the latest passage twice, searching for an ending concealed beneath continued motion.

It flickered. He stopped searching and watched the flicker itself. There was an interval in which the trace became difficult to distinguish from the surrounding possibilities. He could work with an interval. He marked its length without yet deciding what he would put inside it.

⸻

Caldrex spoke aloud to the ship. He had learnt that a spoken instruction forced him to finish choosing its terms. Thoughts alone could carry a destination and a grievance so closely entwined that the ship tried to fulfil both.

“Open fracture three-one-one-zero. Selayin-variant.” The altar showed two approaches. He selected the one ending at the Doctor's last presence. It closed as he reached for it. The new silver line held across the gap, denying the old route.

The ship removed a sliver of distance, then stopped. A seam opened across the observation pane, showing stars on one side and the obsidian planet on the other. Caldrex released the selection before the seam could widen through the chamber. He would have to approach the residue, not the finished connection.

He chose the broken outer court of the Archive. This time the space between his ship and Selayin ceased to intervene. The planet vanished from the pane; a violet canopy filled it. The tablet beneath his hand cracked along the rejected route, and he left the two pieces where they fell.

He was there. He restored enough local weight to stand and tested the floor with both feet before opening the exit. His intent had brought him to a place. It would not keep that place from reacting to him.

Below lay the remains of the Archive's outer structures, with the observatory still standing above its working chambers. Through a narrow opening he could see a light moving beside a table. The new thread continued to hold beneath the ruins. He chose a path that did not cross it.

The Doctor and Ava had recently departed. Their passage lingered near a blue-box-shaped absence beside the trees. Caldrex measured the fading disturbance against the stronger trace at the obelisk, following the route backwards from departure towards contact.

The residue was not yet cold. Warmth climbed the prosthetic as he lowered it towards the court. A word almost formed against his palm and dissolved before he could close his fingers. He would need to enter the field to hold it.

He stepped out into the air. Birds changed direction above the tower, scattering round an obstruction their eyes could not locate. The eastward wind fell flat along a narrow strip of leaves. He waited for the disturbance to settle, then placed his next step beyond it.

His presence contradicted the local thread. The world admitted the shape of a visitor but found no continuous approach to attach to it. Around his boots, the evening seemed to hesitate between allowing weight and denying arrival.

He kept the ship's opening behind him. Each step required a little adjustment of the route that had brought him here. At the third he felt the prosthetic tug towards the new silver line and stopped before the pull could carry him into it.

The surrounding threads gave a fine, frightened vibration. He listened for the one that carried a voice. The living chamber below was easier to detect, but approaching it would mean abandoning the quiet search. He turned away from its light.

⸻

He walked the Archive's outer remnants without touching them. A broken lintel occupied the path he wanted; he shifted the phase of his approach and let its shape pass across his coat. For a moment the lining showed through the black cloth. He waited until it darkened again.

Dust remained undisturbed beneath him. On the far side of the court, ordinary footprints ran from the tower to the landing place. One set paused beside the wall. He followed that pause rather than the tracks themselves.

He cast no shadow in the low light. The obelisk did, long and sharply defined across the court. He moved along its edge until the prosthetic's pull eased. The new thread did not extend into every abandoned passage.

The world let him pass as though it had failed to decide that he existed. He used the failure carefully. His sleeve caught for an instant against a returning piece of stone, and he freed it by retracing his last movement rather than forcing his way through.

Then he found what he had come for. A tiny disturbance hovered beside the wall where Ava had steadied herself, separate from the stored voice in the obelisk. He brought his hand beneath it and held still.

A pulse touched the silver-blue fingers. He nearly closed them. The pulse vanished, returned farther to the left and brought half a syllable with it. He moved his palm, leaving the fingers open until the whole sound had crossed them.

It was a fragment of Ava's voice, a memory made briefly physical by paradox resonance. The residual phrase curled into his prosthetic hand. He felt two rhythms inside it: the older speaker's breath and the younger woman's answering cadence. They had coincided without remaining one voice.

He closed his fist. Light pressed between the joints, making the possible fingers separate. With his living hand he steadied the prosthetic wrist and held it against his chest until the shapes agreed again.

He listened. The fragment resisted being reduced to the single trace he wanted. Each time he isolated the Doctor's name, another person's feeling came with it. Irritation, affection, the effort of waiting. He tightened his grip and made it begin once more.

“We built the archive together…”

He crushed the sound. The final syllable flattened into a thread of light, and the prosthetic grew painfully bright. He kept the route impression while letting the voice break apart. The choice was deliberate; he had heard enough of how she remembered the Doctor.

He ground the captured fragment into silence. Below the court, the working archive continued its quiet hum. He had destroyed one echo, not the woman who had spoken or the record she had left. The limit irritated him, but he did not turn towards her chamber.

“I know where you're going,” he murmured. The trace gave him a direction through the recent junction, not the Doctor's next decision. He returned to the ship before it faded, carrying the distinction in his instruments and discarding it in the satisfaction of his voice.

⸻

Back aboard, he opened his own Archive. The door resisted at its lower edge; he lifted it with his living hand and allowed the prosthetic to cool before touching the latch. Behind him, Selayin remained visible until he closed the outer route.

This Archive had not been stolen from Gallifrey. Its stonework carried none of the Citadel's insistence on making a library look like a court. The lowest shelves had been worn smooth by hands that left no names among his tablets.

It had been built before Gallifrey, and it offered him no comfort on that account. Its mechanisms sometimes accepted an instruction he did not understand and refused one he believed he had mastered. He maintained them with copied diagrams whose missing portions he had learnt not to guess at.

He entered the central hall. The captured route had left a narrow burn across his palm. He studied it as he walked, flexing each finger separately. One refused to resolve. He held it still rather than letting the fault spread to the others.

Only candles lit the room. He replaced a spent one from a box beneath the wall and used its neighbour to light the wick. Wax ran over his living thumb. He wiped it away, annoyed by the small interruption, then remained watching the flame until his breathing slowed.

At the centre stood a monument. He had positioned the candles so their light reached the face before the plinth, but one had burnt low and left the inscription brighter than the figure above it.

THE UNCHOSEN DOCTOR.

The sculpture showed what Caldrex believed he might have been. Its hand extended towards someone the sculptor had not included. He had once considered adding a second figure, then found himself unable to decide who should be allowed to receive the gesture.

Had the Loom spun differently, he told himself, that hand would have been welcomed. The thought had become so familiar that he could pass over the blank space where another person's answer ought to have stood.

Had the TARDIS opened for him, there would have been journeys to remember instead of routes to steal from the edges of other people's departures. He pictured a console beneath his hands. The image never included the ship refusing him.

Had the storm in the sky not whispered the Doctor's name, there would have been a different account of who had survived it. He returned to that possibility whenever the present gave him something he could not bear to examine.

He looked up at the statue. A little dust had gathered in the open palm. He reached to brush it away with the prosthetic, then stopped when the unresolved finger passed through the stone. He used the edge of his sleeve instead.

His voice was almost inaudible in the hall. He had rehearsed accusations here at full volume, but this part he always said quietly, as if someone might answer if he left enough room after it.

“You were meant to be me.” He waited. The candle nearest the plinth guttered, and he turned his head towards the draught before he could mistake it for a reply.

⸻

A machine hummed on the side altar. He had left the captured route beside the black thread. Their first contact produced a harsh vibration that made the flame bend away from the stone.

The machine pulsed. Caldrex lifted one contact, waited for the tone to settle and placed it nearer the last junction mark. This time the two traces lay alongside each other without tearing the tablet beneath them.

The black thread began to shorten. A small length drew through the guide and vanished into the working field. He marked the point with a stylus before the motion stopped.

Only slightly. He could have missed it while tending the candles. He compared the new mark with the older one, then checked the guide for a slipped fastening. It was secure.

He had a usable change. He brought the chart closer and positioned the spent route fragments around its edge, reconstructing the sequence of arrivals rather than asking the ship for another leap.

The Doctor had passed through another junction. Caldrex could not see what had been said aboard the TARDIS or which hand had moved the controls. He could see the opening the passage left in its wake, and how quickly it was narrowing.

He was closer. The thought made him reach for the direct route again. His fingers stopped above the mark that had cracked the first tablet. He moved that piece out of reach, forcing himself to work with the smaller opening he actually possessed.

⸻

“I am not your enemy,” he said into the empty hall. “But I am your correction.” He had found a sentence in which the violence sounded like maintenance. It pleased him enough that he said it again while returning to the chart.

The chart of time lay under a thin protective frame. He opened it and drew the Doctor's last passage with his living hand. The prosthetic hovered above the trace, still holding the faintest remnant of its shape.

He drew a new path. The first version ended beside the TARDIS and required a confrontation he could not yet control. He wiped it away. A second ran along the interval where the Doctor's trace had flickered.

That route skipped across possibilities rather than pursuing a body. He marked each place where the ship would have to accept an uncertain result and left the final junction open. There would be work to do before he could pass through it.

He did not want the trail to end in blood. A dead Doctor would leave a remembered absence, and Caldrex had just heard how stubbornly somebody could inhabit one of those. He wanted the welcome, the recognition, the door opening to the expected traveller.

Replacement. He set the last tablet beside the chart without writing a completed name upon it. Then he brought his flawed right hand down over the interval in the Doctor's trace and began the first, careful test.

⸻

Far ahead of that abandoned world, the Doctor paused mid-thought aboard the TARDIS. He had been answering Ava, and the unfinished sentence remained between them while he turned towards the doors.

He looked up. Nothing had entered. The old patched sonic lay beside Ava's separate spare, where she had unwrapped it after Selayin. Neither instrument gave a warning.

His eyes moved past the door to its reflection in the central column. For an instant he expected the reflected figure to turn before he did. It did not.

The sensation differed from Thane's open scrutiny. He felt observed from within the pause before a choice, as though someone were waiting to discover which movement would make him most easily mistaken for another man.

“What?” Ava asked. He put his hand on the console and left the navigation untouched. “I don't know yet.” He listened until the engines completed their next uneven cycle, watching the reflection all the while.

Chapter Fifteen

When the Loom Skips a Beat

The TARDIS corridor stretched longer than it should have. Ava noticed because the cup in her good hand had grown cold before she reached the third arch. Yesterday, three arches had been enough to take her to the observatory.

She walked more slowly, keeping her supported wrist against her ribs. Teal light moved through the coral-striated walls. Each pulse arrived a little after her footfall, as though the ship were following rather than carrying her. She stopped. The next pulse travelled on without her.

A column disappeared. Its absence left the arch above apparently resting on air; then it returned, complete with the small dark scratch she had used to recognise this turning. Ava put down her cup before she reached for anything. The column vanished again, taking the scratch with it.

She turned slowly. The cup remained on the floor. That was something outside her own recollection. She backed towards it, watching the place where the column should have stood, and counted her steps aloud.

“Doctor?” Her voice came back from the observatory end. She had called towards the console room.

No answer. She tried the wall intercom. Its grille warmed under her fingertips but made no sound. When she took her hand away, five shallow impressions lingered in the light before fading.

The engines hummed three octaves below their familiar register. Ava felt the note through the soles of her boots. It made the loose buckle of her wrist support vibrate against its fastening.

She left the cup where it was. If the way changed again, she wanted a marker she had placed herself. Keeping to the wall that had remained solid, she retraced her steps towards the Doctor.

⸻

In the control room, the Doctor stood beside the console with his spectacles pushed up his nose and a maintenance panel open at his feet. He had been checking the isolated shield circuit. Its warning lamp remained stubbornly amber.

He had stopped halfway through making a note. The pencil rested on the paper, drawing a dark spot as his hand moved with the deck.

He listened. A pump clicked twice. A relay answered. Beyond them, the ship's great travelling sound had acquired a space where a third response should have been.

He could not remember which component supplied it. That omission frightened him less than the certainty with which he had first decided he knew.

The ripple had passed through his chest before the lights changed. For an instant he had expected someone to enter through the outside doors. Not Ava; not anyone whose face he could summon. He had even turned to welcome them. Now he watched the closed doors without understanding the impulse.

He moved to the scanner, putting his weight carefully onto his sound leg. A running diagnostic showed the shield fault and nothing else.

“Show me anomalies,” he said. “Local geometry first. No reconstruction. Just what you can measure.” He rested his bandaged hand on the console rim rather than asking it to bear his weight.

The screen went blank. Not an error message, not a completed search. The diagnostic disappeared while the small indicator beside it continued to say that the scanner was operating.

He checked the indicator against a separate gauge. Both were drawing power. Somewhere, information was being gathered and not arriving here.

Usually the TARDIS could at least tell him the shape of an uncertainty. She had refused questions before. She had also been hurt badly enough to give answers she could not trust.

He reached for the manual override, then stopped with his gloved fingers above it. The last time he had ignored a warning sign, a node in Halvard's archive had died.

“All right,” he told the ship. “Keep whatever barrier you've put up. Give me something on this side of it.” The blank screen stayed blank. Under his boots, a cooling fan began to labour.

⸻

Ava came in through the left corridor, though she had set out along the right. She stopped on the threshold and looked back. The route behind her was ordinary again, which did nothing to reassure her.

“There's something off,” she said. “The observatory corridor lost a column. I left a cup beside it. Can you check where the cup is without checking where you think I went?”

He brought up the internal map. A single pale rectangle appeared, labelled corridor. Then three identical rectangles took its place. “The walls are refracting. Possibility folding inward, perhaps. The ship's compensating.”

Ava crossed to the console and drew her route on his maintenance paper. She used corners and the scratch on the column, not distances. Halfway through, the pencil line ceased to match any of the three maps.

“Compensating for what?” she asked. “And why does it seem to get worse when we ask?” The cooling fan rattled. She laid the pencil down.

He looked at her then, properly, taking in the empty hand, the tightness around her mouth and the way she kept her injured wrist close.

“Did anything touch you?” He listened to her account without interrupting. At the part about the handprints he glanced at her fingers, but he did not take hold of them.

“She may be keeping contradictory routes apart,” he said. “Or keeping something from following the route back to us. I don't know which. Thank you for not testing the missing column.”

⸻

He laid the three maps beside Ava's drawing. An old memory offered him a corridor on a ship with blue emergency lamps; another detail, a smell of hot rubber, belonged somewhere else entirely.

He almost combined them into an answer. Then he remembered that the blue-lit corridor had contained seawater, not a dimensional fault. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his good hand. Familiarity could make a bad explanation feel finished. Ava's pencil marks were more use than that sensation.

“You stopped here?” he asked. She marked the place. All three maps changed at the same junction, but only one showed her stopping. The others carried a moving dot onwards.

They watched the false dots advance. One reached the observatory. The other turned towards the console room and vanished just before it would have arrived beside them.

⸻

The Doctor asked the TARDIS for the Loom interface. He left the manual override covered. After a long pause the floor projector opened, giving him a narrow view instead of the full display he had requested.

Gold and silver filaments rose between the console rails. They were an image of connections, not strands he could pocket or spend. He kept his hands outside the light. At the edge of the display, Selayin's new thread held steady around its distant archive.

A stutter crossed the central column. Ava thought at first that one filament had passed behind another. Then the same discontinuity returned without either strand moving.

The Doctor's displayed thread blinked out. For the length of one breath it was absent. He remained beside her, frowning at the gap.

It came back fractionally displaced, while the route labels continued as though nothing had happened. Ava pointed to the mismatch. “The map isn't admitting that it moved.”

Her good hand hovered over the light. At Selayin she had learned how a displayed connection could carry an answer back to its source. She was trying to find the edge, not yet intending to touch it.

The Doctor caught that wrist with his gloved hand. He released it as soon as she stopped. Her supported wrist stayed untouched against her body.

“No. Sorry. Don't let it take a reading from you.” He showed her the tiny secondary loop opening beneath her fingertips. It closed when she withdrew.

His voice was controlled, but the sudden grip had frightened her. “Tell me before you move me,” she said. He nodded once. “Unless there's no time. Yes.”

“That isn't my thread itself,” he said. “It's the representation we're being given. Something has taken my position in the projection, and the interface is treating it as an authorised connection.”

“Mimicking you?” Ava asked. She kept her hands on the console rail now, safely behind the boundary he indicated.

“Wearing the part that lets the system recognise me.” He changed a label manually. The false strand accepted the alteration before his own controls registered it. “And learning what we ask of it.”

⸻

They fell silent. The projector rotated. Ava watched the Doctor rather than its light, trying not to turn every ordinary movement into a test of whether he was still himself.

A high note came from the interface. The rail vibrated under her palm. Somewhere behind the console, a small glass cover fractured without falling out of its frame.

The Doctor staggered. His injured knee folded before he could catch it, and the light around his displayed thread grew suddenly very bright.

His gloved hand struck the console rim. The other stayed clenched close to his chest. He drew breath as if someone had asked him a question while he was underwater.

Ava caught the back of his coat with her good hand and braced a hip against the rail. She could keep him from falling; she could not lift him. “Seat. Behind you. Slowly.”

“What was that?” she asked when he was sitting. She waited for a real answer, not the reassuring movement of his mouth that came before he had one.

He tested his knee, winced and left it alone. His hearts were beating too quickly. “I was about to close the view. For a moment I remembered already deciding to leave it open.”

He sounded angry now. Not loudly angry, which might have been easier to meet. Ava turned the projector down one notch without crossing its light.

“Someone's moving inside my potential,” he said. “Not changing what I've done. Offering the next choice with my own handwriting on it.” He looked at the covered override. “I nearly accepted.”

⸻

The cloister bell sounded softly. After the first note there was such a long interval that Ava thought it had stopped. The next arrived while the Doctor was asking permission for a deeper scan.

The TARDIS admitted a thin ribbon of diagnostic glyphs. Most folded backwards before either of them could read them. Ava copied the handful that repeated onto the paper, underneath her corridor sketch.

“Substitution,” he said, comparing the repeats. “The connection isn't being broken. Its recipient is being changed. That's why the normal alarms can't agree whether there's a fault.”

Ava moved to the side from which she could see both his face and the screen. “And when the recipient changes, the ship starts making room for the wrong person?”

“Someone is trying to replace you?” The question came out more directly than she intended. There was no kinder phrasing that would help her decide what to do.

He met her eyes. For a moment she thought he would say something terrible and absolute. He looked instead at the incomplete diagram in her handwriting.

“In this connection, they already have.” He tapped the false label. “Here. Not everywhere. I'm still here, Ava.” She exhaled, annoyed with herself for needing him to say it and grateful that he had.

⸻

The surviving trace led towards the meditation room. They followed a strip of white floor lights the TARDIS provided, pausing whenever it went dark. The Doctor used the wall at the turns; Ava walked on his uninjured side without offering an arm he might lean on too heavily.

The air beyond the room's doorway felt thick enough to resist swallowing. Ava's ears clicked. On a low shelf the usual bowl of smooth stones stood beside a cushion, both sharply visible through a haze that belonged to neither dust nor steam.

A mirror lay at the centre of the floor. It had no frame. Its edges met the room without casting a shadow, as though someone had cut an opening and forgotten to give it depth.

“Was that here?” Ava asked. The Doctor shook his head, then checked the wall inventory instead of trusting the answer. The ship listed the bowl, the cushion and the stones. No mirror.

He asked for the room to be isolated. The doorway narrowed behind them, leaving a gap wide enough to pass through. “Exit stays open,” Ava said. The white lights brightened along the threshold.

Nothing in the mirror moved until the Doctor moved. Ava shifted sideways. The reflected room ignored her. She crouched beside the shelf and lifted one stone in her good hand.

“It isn't remembering the room,” she said. She held the stone where a reflection should have shown it. The mirror continued to show an undisturbed bowl. “Or it hasn't been sent that part.”

“A lens,” he said. “A viewer. Put the stone back gently.” He took a small inspection light from his pocket and passed its beam across the edge. The beam returned from the wrong angle.

He crouched with his bad leg extended, using the shelf to lower himself. Ava stood close enough to help him rise. Neither crossed the rim.

The face in the glass was his. That was her first recognition, immediate and difficult to undo. Then the Doctor turned his head and the face below continued looking straight up at him.

It appeared younger, though she could not have named an age. The lines beside its mouth had been reduced, not quite removed.

Its attention seemed sharpened by the absence of every small distraction she associated with him. It did not glance at the exit, her wrist or the bowl that might fall.

The Doctor's inspection light trembled. The reflected hand held its matching light perfectly still. Ava saw him deliberately relax his fingers. Below, the copied fingers stayed tight.

Then the face blinked after he did. Not much later. Enough. He switched the light off, and the reflected room took another heartbeat to darken.

⸻

Ava helped him up by his uninjured forearm. He stepped away from the mirror and placed himself where the shelf blocked its view of his hands.

“Observation,” he said. “The damage may be incidental to getting a view.” He began to reach for his sonic, stopped, and left it pocketed. “No more demonstrations of how I solve things.”

“Who's looking?” Ava asked. She wanted to cover the glass with the cushion, but she had seen what the interface did when approached. She left the cushion untouched.

He studied the place where the floor met the image. Fine dark marks appeared there whenever the false face tried to follow a movement it had not anticipated.

“Someone whose route into this system isn't recognised,” he said. “Possibly someone it excluded. The trace keeps arriving without an accepted origin.” He stopped. “That describes the connection. It doesn't tell us what sort of person made it.”

Ava moved beside him, outside the mirror's direct view. It was easier to ask her next question without the borrowed face looking up at them.

“A version of you?” She had met a woman who shared more with her than a face. She was not prepared to hear a resemblance dismissed as an empty thing.

“I don't think so.” He looked towards the open doorway. “That face is an approach. Whatever is behind it has interests of its own.”

“And wants your place?” “It is collecting enough of me to make the claim.” He asked the ship to fold the room away from occupied corridors, leaving its exit connected until they were through. The floor lights guided them back. Behind them, the doorway closed without a slam.

⸻

Back at the console, the old sonic Halvard had entrusted to Ava began to scream through its cracked casing. Ava put it down on the maintenance cloth instead of trying to silence it in her fist. The spare lay separately beside her cup's empty saucer.

The scanner lit. A narrow signal had arrived through the old device's mismatched components, which were responding at different rates. The Doctor asked before connecting a lead. Ava nodded and held the cloth steady while he clipped it to the casing.

Letters assembled among the distortion traces. They vanished when he increased the scan, then returned when Ava asked him to put it back. “Leave the weak reading alone,” she said. “It's the one we actually have.”

CALDREX.

The Doctor froze. Recognition reached him before context: a name at the bottom of a restricted index, a margin he had wanted to read, an argument whose other speaker he could not place.

“That's impossible.” Ava waited. He swallowed. “No. That's what the record wanted its reader to believe. I shouldn't have repeated it.”

“You know him?” she asked. “Or you know something written about him?” The sonic's scream had subsided into a rough vibration against the cloth.

“The second.” His voice was quiet. “Fragments. I can't give you a reliable conversation, or a place where we met. I can remember the conclusion more easily than the evidence.”

“A Time Lord the Loom rejected. The account called him unmade before he was born.” He looked at the signal. “Which is an appalling way to describe somebody who appears to have survived the procedure.”

Ava looked from the name to the closed corridor. “Then being left out isn't the thing that makes him dangerous.” “No,” the Doctor said. “Taking someone else's life for his own is.”

The name remained while the surrounding glyphs changed. The Doctor remembered a phrase about existence outside an allotted history. He could not tell whether it had been a technical description or a punishment dressed as one.

He began to say that Caldrex lived in envy. The words came readily, too readily, and Ava raised her eyebrows before he had finished.

“Envy isn't a life-support system,” she said. He gave a small, tired nod. “No. And a grievance isn't a biography. We know what he's doing here. We'll work from that.”

⸻

The TARDIS groaned. On the internal map, the meditation room separated from the rest of the ship like a door closing underwater. The projector's central thread still carried the false connection.

Isolation had contained the lens without ending its influence on the readings. The Doctor wrote that distinction beneath Ava's sketch. His hand was steadier now. It did not make the borrowed certainty he had felt any less intimate.

“He's testing,” Ava said. “The mirror waited for your movements. The corridor offered routes I hadn't taken. He wants to know what we'll accept.”

The Doctor nodded. He wanted to demand the whole view from the ship, to find the watching face and make it answer him. He closed the cover over the override instead.

“Preparing to replace me.” He said it without the earlier coldness. “If we chase every resemblance, we may give him the corrections he needs.”

⸻

For a while they watched the projection without changing it. Ava loosened the buckle of her support by one notch. The Doctor fetched the chair closer with his foot and sat before his knee could make the decision for him.

“I don't want to make a test you have to pass to prove you're you,” Ava said. “People get things wrong. They change their minds.” He looked at her. “Thank you.”

“But if he's using your potential as camouflage, how do we find him?” She pointed to the thread, not to the Doctor. “The false connection. Something we can check without deciding what you're allowed to be.”

He turned the chair towards the projector. “A mismatch might give us a place to look. Not a verdict about a person.” He asked her to record what the instruments did before he described anything he felt.

“We look where it stops feeling like my choice,” he said. “Then ask whether anything measurable happens there. I could be wrong about the feeling.” Ava took up the pencil.

He placed his bandaged hand lightly against his chest. There was no further thread he could safely cast without compromising the Loom. He would have to listen with the ship's help and accept how little she could safely show.

He closed his eyes. Familiar possible answers crowded forward: speed, cleverness, the satisfaction of being right before anyone else. None was foreign merely because he disliked it. He let them pass without claiming to have outgrown them.

The TARDIS narrowed the display further. Ava followed the remaining filament. At one junction her pencil caught on the paper: the light had moved before the Doctor drew the breath that accompanied his next choice.

The room dimmed. He had chosen to wait for Ava's account. The false connection had already supplied an instruction to proceed. She circled the junction and put the pencil down before speaking.

The interface rotated around her mark. The Doctor opened his eyes. They compared the recorded movement with his recollection, then repeated the observation once, keeping the view too narrow to offer a destination.

Deep in the displayed web, the same filament twitched ahead of them again. The ship held its position. Not a route yet, not a promise of safety: a discrepancy both witnesses could point to.

Found.

Chapter Sixteen

The Thread That Lied

The thread pulsed at the point Ava had circled. Beside the console, her paper lay under a brass weight so that the fan could not carry their only independent record away.

Once, the light followed the Doctor's movement towards the interface. He stopped short of touching it and asked the TARDIS to hold the view exactly where it was.

Twice, it moved before he did. Ava marked the second displacement. The false connection was no longer travelling away from them; its successive positions were drawing a smaller and smaller circle.

Then the conduit under his gloved palm turned cold. He lifted his hand immediately. A rim of condensation remained where it had rested, broken by the shape of his fingers.

He tried again only when the ship warmed the contact. Gold current passed from the conduit into the display, tracing the choices he remembered making since Selayin. He offered recollection rather than a command. Where memory failed him, he left gaps. The TARDIS refused two proposed links and kept a third, incomplete one.

Ava stood beside the maintenance tray with Halvard's old sonic. The spare was secured in a console drawer. She had asked whether the cracked device could survive another encounter; the Doctor had answered by opening its casing with her permission.

They reinforced it with a narrow service braid from the Loom interface, a micro-thread weave carrying the Prime Loom's reference pattern rather than a free strand of power. It could compare local timing against that reference. It could not tell truth from lies, and its first test gave a false alarm over the shield fault. Ava adjusted the threshold herself.

“It's folding into a junction,” the Doctor said. His knee was stiff from sitting. He stood carefully, leaving the paper where both of them could still see it.

“Which junction?” Ava clipped the repaired casing shut and checked that the old mismatched contact still moved. Halvard's modifications had found their signal; she was not going to tidy them out of existence.

He opened his eyes. The display showed an encircling structure whose outer routes ended in the same place. A closed circuit, although something was feeding it from below the visible weave.

“The centre of a constructed loop. Not the heart of the Loom.” He requested an approach and received a holding position instead. “Fair enough,” he told the ship. “Show us the boundary first.”

⸻

The TARDIS entered a synthetic history after checking its boundary twice. Such loops belonged to the Loom's defences: isolated structures in which a dangerous connection could be contained. This one was using a city's worth of detail to make the borrowed thread look as though it had always belonged there.

On the scanner, a crystal bridge caught a golden sun. Beneath it, clear water flowed around three white stones. The Doctor watched until he saw the same leaf pass the middle stone again. Before they left, Ava clipped a return marker to her belt and checked its pulse against the ship's.

“Perfect,” Ava said. She did not sound pleased. The sonic gave a short vibration, then stopped. An irregular reading could mean a constructed loop or a poor calibration. She checked its reference before drawing a conclusion.

They stepped into a city of chrome spires and crystal bridges. The air smelled faintly of rain, though no surface was wet. Elegant people in pale robes crossed the square with unhurried smiles. A bridge joint under Ava's boot had no grit in it, no worn edge, no sign that weight had ever troubled it.

No one noticed the Doctor. He stood out of the flow and greeted a man carrying a flat case. The man walked around him with the smallest necessary deviation and smiled at someone behind his shoulder.

Ava asked the same man the way back to the square. He pointed towards the Citadel. When she followed for three steps and asked again, he gave exactly the same answer, without recognition or irritation.

“Not Gallifrey,” the Doctor said. He had been holding the name back since the doors opened. Speaking it made his jaw tighten; the accuracy of the roofs had caught him more than he wanted to admit.

Here was the city stripped of inconvenience. No argument crossed an open window. No delivery blocked a street. Even the water sounded as though someone had removed the splash that might interrupt a conversation.

“A memory?” Ava asked. The question was practical. If it was someone's memory, she did not want to damage it merely because its streets had been used against them.

“An audition, I think.” He indicated the way every avenue seemed to offer the Citadel. “Something wants to show us how well it can play a part. Stay where you can see our door.”

⸻

They did not get far before that became difficult. A side street lengthened behind them. Ava stopped at once and held up her good hand. The TARDIS was still visible, but a bridge that had been beside it now stood between them.

A woman with a silver clasp passed in front of them, then emerged from the opposite street. This time Ava spoke before she reached the corner. The woman paused, mouth open, with no words ready.

Nearby, two children skipped a rope in the same repeating rhythm. Their shadows continued for half a turn after their feet stopped. The Doctor called to them. Neither answered. He did not declare that silence proof they could feel nothing.

He asked the TARDIS to sound one low note. It came from behind the shifting bridge, steady enough to follow if sight failed. The city supplied a second note from the Citadel. Ava checked which arrived with the pulse on their return marker.

At the next turn she touched the wall with two fingertips. The sonic had indicated a timing difference there. She kept it away from the surface, remembering the loop that had opened towards her hand aboard the ship.

The wall was warm. Not sun-warmed; the shadowed side felt the same. Beneath its smooth finish, a faint vibration moved towards her touch.

She withdrew before it reached her. A thumb-shaped patch of warmth remained on her skin, though she had used her fingers. “It guessed the contact,” she said. “Then tried to finish it.”

The Doctor made himself look away from the fault. He could already see three experiments he wanted to run. Every one would teach the city more about their expectations.

“This isn't a trap we can disable street by street,” Ava said. “It changes while we're deciding what the street is.” She marked their direction against the TARDIS signal rather than the skyline.

“Then we find what's asking the questions.” He let her choose the next turning. The false bell tried once more to lure them left. They followed the quieter signal to the right and kept their route home.

⸻

The Citadel doors opened before they reached them. Ava stopped outside while the Doctor examined the threshold. There was no pressure change, no scent of an enclosed room, only the same faint promise of rain.

The hall beyond was empty except for a distant figure. Its tiled floor reflected every column with mathematical precision. Their own reflections arrived a little late.

There were no guards to challenge them. The Doctor disliked the relief he felt at that. A familiar obstruction would have made this easier to dismiss as somebody else's mistake.

No chancellors occupied the raised seats. Plaques below them were blank. Authority had been represented by the furniture without the inconvenience of anyone to disagree with its use.

The waiting figure descended one step. The city quietened behind them. Ava checked their return marker; its pulse continued, though the audible note had become very faint.

At first the robes supplied the identity: a Time Lord expecting visitors to recognise office before person. The Doctor had known that posture well enough to resent its familiarity.

Then the figure moved its hands, and the robes failed to move with them. Fabric caught up an instant later. Ava lowered the sonic's threshold without lifting it into view.

Presidential dress, but no seal. No worn fastening, no mark where an insignia had been removed. The costume had been assembled around an idea of precedence.

The figure raised its head. The Doctor had expected the face from the mirror, yet expectation did not soften the sight of it occupying a body across the hall.

His own face looked back. Ava glanced at the man beside her, then deliberately looked away from both faces and checked the device in her hand.

The likeness was younger around the eyes. Its borrowed ease suggested that whatever had aged him had been unnecessary, a flaw that a better version would have avoided.

Everything difficult to render had been simplified. The expression held no competing thought. It was an attractive simplification, and that made the Doctor angrier than an obvious mockery would have done.

The figure smiled readily. Its gaze travelled over Ava's supported wrist and moved on without pausing. Beside her, the Doctor shifted to keep the clearer exit on her side.

“You've been watching,” he said. His voice sounded calm. Ava could see the tension in the gloved hand he had kept away from his sonic.

“I wondered whether we'd find you here.” He left Caldrex's name unspoken. The connection carried it; that did not yet prove the figure was the man himself.

“You should be surprised,” the likeness said. “I perfected the moment.” Behind it, light rose along the empty seats as though an audience were taking their places.

“You removed everything that might interrupt it.” The Doctor looked at the blank plaques. “What happens if someone arrives needing something you haven't prepared?”

Ava stepped far enough aside to give the sonic a different angle. “You're the false thread.” The device showed the same early response they had marked aboard, now spread through the hall.

The figure bowed to her. “I am the thread that was meant to be.” Its attention lingered on the sonic this time. Ava closed her fingers around the controls, leaving the emitter clear.

⸻

The Doctor did not answer the claim immediately. He was watching the join between the figure and the bright structure behind it. When its smile changed, the same change travelled out into the city.

“Caldrex's echo,” he said. “A trial connection. Not all of him.” The likeness tilted its head. The Doctor added, “That doesn't mean I can assume you're harmless.”

Its smile widened at the qualification. It had been offered a distinction, something it could use to complicate his next decision. The floor lights advanced towards his boots.

“I don't need to wear you, Doctor. I only need to be preferred.” It opened both hands, inviting them to admire a world in which nothing appeared to have gone wrong.

Metrics spread through the air: divergence patterns, emotional resonance, predicted effects on companions. The Doctor saw a value change when Ava looked at him. The display was scoring their responses as it gathered them.

“Preferred by whom?” she demanded. “You made the scoreboard.” She moved a step away from the place it assigned her, and the projected companion marker slid after her.

The echo watched her. For the first time its expression required visible effort. The hall supplied the sound of distant applause, too late to make the pause seem intended.

“Not better,” it said. “More believable.” Ava looked towards the doors. The children's rope crossed the opening again, with no children attached to either end.

⸻

The Doctor stepped between the advancing floor lights. He did not draw a weapon. Ava shifted with him, keeping her line to the return marker clear.

“No,” he said. “That isn't a choice the Loom has made. You're feeding it an answer and marking your own work.” The echo's hand closed.

“It chooses what serves the Web.” The figure's voice deepened, borrowing authority from the room. On the display, every outcome that complicated its claim faded to grey.

“I've served it badly enough at times.” The Doctor pointed to one grey entry. “That decision was mine. So was trying to repair it. You can't discard one and use the other as proof that you were always right.”

The false thread flickered. The echo was trying to keep the discarded entry absent while using the consequence that depended on it.

Its mouth held two positions at once. One was the beginning of a denial; the other still wore the gracious smile with which it had welcomed them.

Ava saw the same discrepancy run down its robe. The sonic vibrated in her hand. She checked it against the damaged cuff she could actually see.

She raised the device only far enough to separate the echo's timing from the hall's. “Keep that entry open,” she told the Doctor. “Don't let it replace the question.”

The first scan saturated. She reduced the gain and tried once more. This time the reference braid resolved a narrow line running from the false face into the field behind it.

“The connection's losing agreement with itself.” She showed him the line. “Not gone. And not getting safer.” The floor under her boots began to ripple.

The echo snarled. It reached for the display and pulled three entries together, trying to conceal the gap by making the Doctor's history look simpler still.

“I was stable before she remembered you.” Its gaze fixed on Ava. The marker representing her flashed red, as though independent testimony were a fault to be removed.

The Doctor moved to block its view of her wrist and the device. He understood enough now to see the risk: an account assembled without anyone allowed to contradict it.

“Good,” he said. “Then you haven't learned to make her agree.” Ava did not look at him. She was watching the line, waiting for its next exposed interval.

⸻

He stepped into the projection field. A moment of apparent certainty met him: the hall was his, the life beyond it uncomplicated, every hard choice already excused. He nearly stopped there.

The metrics brightened around his coat. Ava called his name from outside. The sound did not break the illusion, but it reminded him that someone was still waiting for him to act.

His history came back without orderly divisions: a hand he had failed to reach, an apology too late, the ordinary pleasure of someone surviving long enough to complain about him. He could not separate the flattering parts and leave the rest to another man.

He reached with his gloved hand towards the label the echo was using. His bandaged thumb stayed close against his chest. Pain in his knee made the movement slow.

He touched his displayed name: the local label through which this field was claiming permission to speak for him.

The field pulsed around his fingers. He withdrew its permission to use the connection. The interface resisted, insisting that two incompatible occupants had given equally valid instructions.

The echo screamed. Ava saw the reference line stretch almost straight as the projection tried to carry both instructions. The sonic's normal pulse scattered before it reached the join.

A crack opened across the false face. Behind it was the exposed connection, bright and narrow, moving closer each time the likeness tried to close its mouth.

“It needs contact,” Ava said. She could not step into the field without giving it a second living pattern. She measured the short distance and shifted her feet.

The Doctor held his position. The effort was making his arm shake. “Your choice,” he said, though she had not asked permission. She nodded once, more acknowledgement than answer.

Ava threw the old sonic with her good hand. It was an awkward, underarm throw, chosen because her bruised shoulder would not bear a wider swing. For one dreadful instant the device seemed to turn away from the light.

Its reinforced casing struck the seam. The reference braid discharged against the exposed join, giving the field a single local timing it could not adjust to flatter either claimant.

The echo folded inwards. Robes, face and borrowed smile collapsed through the same small point, carrying the false metrics with them. The sonic dropped and rang against the tiles.

The connection was gone. Ava moved only when the projector light released the Doctor's hand. She picked up the sonic in its cloth, keeping clear of the hot braid.

⸻

Silence spread out from the empty field. The distant applause stopped halfway through a clap. Ava waited for a cry from the streets and heard none.

The city blinked out in sections. A bridge remained after the buildings on either side had vanished, then thinned to a line. Their return marker continued to pulse.

Black surrounded the platform beneath them. The apparent tiles had become a plain supporting surface. Ava could see the TARDIS door at its far end, open onto the only warm light left.

The Loom display turned slowly above the emptied field. The Doctor's connection now answered without a second occupant. That was all it proved; somewhere beyond the loop, Caldrex remained unaccounted for.

The Doctor lowered himself onto his sound knee, too exhausted to keep standing. His injured leg extended awkwardly. Ava crouched beside him, placing the wrapped sonic where neither could knock it into the dark.

She checked his hand before asking anything else. The glove was scorched at one fingertip, but intact. He let her look instead of assuring her that nothing could be wrong.

“You okay?” She knew it was too large a question. She made it smaller. “Can you stand if I bring the rail closer?”

He nodded, then reconsidered. “In a minute.” The honest delay relieved her more than the nod had. She stayed where she was.

Neither spoke while the TARDIS extended a narrow lighted path across the platform. She had not moved closer; she had made the remaining distance clearer.

He looked tired in a way Ava could not attribute entirely to the field. “It offered you something,” she said. He watched the empty place where the name had been.

“A life without the consequences.” He rubbed his eyes carefully beneath his glasses. “For a moment, I liked the sound of that.”

“And then?” she asked. He looked at her at last. “You were still there. Consequences include that.” It was not an apology or a defence, and she accepted it without making it either.

She rested her good hand on his shoulder until he was ready to rise. When he stood, he took most of his weight on the rail the ship had lit for him.

“He was close,” Ava said. She retrieved the sonic and tested its switch. A weak indicator answered. The braid had burned through; the old device itself had survived.

“Yes. And he isn't done.” The Doctor looked beneath the restored connection. A dark trace still ran out of the loop, too faint for an immediate pursuit. They went back to the ship to examine it without the collapsing city around them.

⸻

Far away, Caldrex closed his eyes against a pain that had no corresponding wound. The echo's return had struck through the apparatus into his prosthetic arm and locked three fingers around the console edge.

He waited until he could release them. A blackened contact fell from its socket. The failure had cost him the loop's useful access and most of the carefully assembled likeness.

But a residue remained. He separated it from the wrecked return signal with his left hand, rejecting the portions that were only light, costume and the sound of his own amplified voice.

He smiled when he found something that resisted the sorting. The expression hurt. He did not yet understand the residue, and for once that did not persuade him to discard it.

“It remembered pain,” he said. Not the physical feedback alone. The borrowed life had contained attachments that would not remain arranged as rewards.

“Almost ready.” He made the statement to an empty room. No instrument confirmed it. He needed the next attempt to be progress badly enough to name it before he had proof.

He moved to the other side of the console, supporting his right arm against his body. There was work he could do without the missing contact. There was also damage he would have to carry.

Beneath his left hand a new strand began to form from the material he had retained. It did not hold the Doctor's shape cleanly. He stopped trying to make it do so.

The first attempt had depended on a convincing copy. Every correction had made him dependent on the man he wanted to displace.

He told himself that this would not be theft. The assertion sat uneasily beside the stolen impressions still turning through the apparatus, and he turned their display away.

He forged the strand around his own insistence instead. It kinked where the echo's pain entered it, then held. The imperfect join displeased him. He left it in place.

When the naming field opened, he hesitated over the first word and not the second. The title still seemed to him a place someone else was occupying.

THE CALDREX DOCTOR.

The new strand began to hum. Caldrex kept his damaged arm away from it and listened, trying to decide which part of the sound was answering him.

Chapter Seventeen

Into the Loom’s Shadow

The Loom had always appeared as light. Even when its workings frightened Ava, there had been something to look towards: a filament, a glowing junction, the edge of a structure against the dark.

Now the TARDIS showed them the underside of the connection they had cleared. Gold routes crossed above it. Below, a dark trace led away from the ruined loop, vanishing whenever the Doctor asked the scanner to illuminate it directly.

“We're seeing what the interface permits,” Ava said. She had put the old sonic on its cloth and removed the burned service braid. The cracked casing still worked, though its indicator flickered when she tightened the last screw.

The Doctor nodded. He knew enough about the Loom to recognise an omission, and not enough to know what had been left out. He recorded both facts instead of letting the first stand for the second.

“A shadow,” he said. “The part its bright account doesn't include.” He enlarged the junction without opening it. The dark trace remained attached to a route that the display insisted was empty.

In the old descriptions, the first weaving had been an orderly triumph over unbeing. He remembered a contrary account in which it had been an act of rebellion. Neither story described who had been excluded from the result. The silence between them now had a measurable shape.

Caldrex's trial thread had entered through that silence. They could follow its surviving connection, provided they did not mistake following for understanding. The Doctor asked the ship for a protected descent.

The TARDIS supplied a transit ring and refused to extend the full scanner view. Ava watched the Doctor accept the smaller offer. Then she went to fetch the cloaks he had indicated, leaving the spare sonic secured aboard.

⸻

Ava followed him into the ring after checking the old sonic and their return marker. The Doctor lowered himself onto its bench to fasten his cloak. His knee had not forgiven the city, and the scorched fingertip of his glove caught on the clasp.

The rebreather cloaks were thin Gallifreyan memory-fabric, intended to preserve continuity rather than supply air. The Doctor explained that the descent would be cognitive: their bodies would experience a route through layers of choice. Pain and disorientation could still follow them home. Neither cloak made its wearer invulnerable.

“Where are we going?” Ava asked while he tested the fastening. “Not the direction. What will we actually be standing in?” Her voice already had a second, delayed edge.

He stopped adjusting the controls and faced her. “I don't have a reliable physical description. The ring will translate something we can't ordinarily perceive into a route we can attempt.”

“To the root?” she asked. “To the part this connection is using,” he said. “It may feel like the root. That doesn't mean we've found the beginning of everything.”

Ava tried her return marker. One pulse answered from the ship. She agreed on a raised hand for stop, since voices were already arriving twice. The Doctor repeated the gesture so she knew he had understood.

“The Loom's regret,” he said softly, looking at the dark trace. Ava checked her clasp once more. “Regret usually means somebody wants to put something right. Let's see whether it does.”

⸻

The route began as a spiral corridor. Stone alternated with light every ten paces, and the Doctor counted the transitions rather than trusting his sense of depth. Ava kept a hand near the wall without touching it. The roughness seemed to grow ahead of her fingers, as if contact were being anticipated.

At three hundred and three steps, the Doctor's count and the marker's reading disagreed. He raised his hand. Ava stopped with one boot on stone and the other still over a pale strip of light.

The floor vanished before she could draw that foot back. Her stomach lurched. The cloak tightened around her shoulders, gathering itself without pulling on her supported wrist.

⸻

They dropped into black space. Ava reached reflexively for the place the wall had been, then caught herself. The Doctor was below her, or appeared to be; the ring supplied no trustworthy up or down.

The fall slowed without an impact. Her boots continued searching for a floor. She made herself stop kicking, and the small movements of her cloak settled around her.

They floated among dark threads that reflected no light. Ava could distinguish them only where they interrupted her view of the Doctor. He moved one hand slowly, demonstrating that they could turn without pushing against anything.

The return marker labelled the nearest strands as refusals. No explanation followed. Ava read the word twice, finding it worse than a warning about temperature or pressure.

She turned towards the Doctor and brushed a strand that had drifted behind her. The contact was no more deliberate than walking into a cobweb. Her cloak flashed white at the shoulder.

Cold spread through her good hand. For an instant she knew exactly where to place a blade to stop a person speaking. The knowledge arrived with the practised ease of something done many times.

“I saw myself.” She pressed her fingers into her coat until the cloth felt ordinary. “I knew how to hurt someone. I didn't know their name.”

The Doctor brought himself level with her without touching the strand. “Can you feel your hand?” She moved each finger. “Yes.” He waited while she did it again, refusing the temptation to hurry past her fear.

“Rejected possibilities,” he said. “Some never developed beyond an instruction. Some may have had more life than the label admits. That contact doesn't tell us which, and it doesn't tell us what you'll become.”

“Is this where Caldrex came from?” she asked. The cold had receded, leaving an unpleasant confidence she could not entirely shake. She did not like how easily her hand remembered the movement.

“The trace suggests this is where he hid.” The Doctor indicated a narrow route through the strands. “That isn't the same as an origin.” He let Ava decide when she was ready to move again.

⸻

They reached a platform held within an exposed lattice. Its supports looked like scaffolding until Ava saw that each joint contained a repeating assertion. When two assertions contradicted one another, the surface under their feet softened.

At the centre stood a cracked mirror of the Loom. It had the broad shape of the bright structure they knew, but its loops ended abruptly or returned through gaps too narrow to contain them.

Light leaked from the fractures. It illuminated pieces of the platform without lighting the space between, leaving their boots visible while their legs disappeared in shadow.

Whispers moved through the cracks. Ava heard a familiar inflection without recognising the words. The Doctor asked her not to answer, then admitted he had almost done so himself.

He stepped forward only as far as the first stable joint. Ava stayed behind that line and scanned with the old sonic. Without its service braid the readings were rough, but the structure's vibration still registered.

Names shimmered along the fractures, some titles, some accusations. They changed when the Doctor moved. Ava wondered whether the surface was showing them what it stored or selecting what would hold their attention.

The Coward Doctor. The Never-Was Ava. The Peacekeeper. The Destroyer. The Caldrex Thread. One label appeared over three different cracks; another crossed a gap that contained nothing she could see.

Ava approached the crack carrying her name, stopping short of its light. She wanted to look away and resented wanting to. The image formed before she could decide whether seeing it would help.

She saw herself being used as a weapon. Not fighting in desperation, not choosing among bad alternatives. Waiting with the precise patience of a tool laid out for someone else's hand.

Silver eyes. A flat voice accepting an instruction. A sonic reworked into a blade. Her real device felt suddenly heavy, and she lowered it until its ordinary cracked handle rested against her coat.

She turned away. “I don't have to keep looking to prove it isn't me.” The Doctor began an answer, then stopped. “No,” he said. “You don't.”

His own reflection did not appear when he faced the mirror. Ava saw the outline of his coat and the space he occupied, but no corresponding face.

The absence unsettled him more than the likeness in the city. He shifted his weight, trying a different angle. The blank shape followed him faithfully.

A white edge marked its boundaries. Inside was a space too complete to be a shadow. He could not tell whether the system had no model for him or was withholding it deliberately.

⸻

“This place is intimate,” Ava said. “It uses things you can't check without remembering them.” She looked at the marker instead. Their link home had weakened but remained regular.

The Doctor was silent. The titles in the cracks offered him a familiar escape: each failure assigned to a separate possible man, each man's responsibility confined to a convenient name.

His gloved hand hovered above the core. He kept it outside the light, remembering how quickly contact with the other projection had become a contest over permission.

“It stores versions I might have been,” he said. “And versions someone feared I might be. I can't tell where the record ends and the accusation begins.”

“Then it doesn't regret them,” Ava said. “It keeps them.” She pointed to an identical whisper returning through a crack. “Nothing here has changed its mind.”

He nodded. The distinction mattered. He had been calling the place regret because that made it sound like a mind capable of learning from what it had done.

“Stored does not mean harmless,” he said. “A weakness in the boundary could let a discarded instruction run.” Ava tightened her hold on the sonic. “So we watch the boundary. Not my reflection.”

⸻

The platform shifted under them. One of the supporting assertions changed, and a corner of the floor dropped a finger's width before the rest of the lattice caught it.

A pulse travelled through the dark strands. Ava raised her hand for stop. The Doctor saw it and stayed where he was, his foot still short of the next joint.

One strand rose from below and wrapped around the cracked copy. It did not repair the fractures. It drew them closer, forcing their incompatible surfaces against one another.

The whispers stopped. A single voice came through the core with a dry edge, as if the speaker were keeping pain from changing his pace.

The name on the marker resolved to Caldrex. The voice was not the polished likeness from the city; it hesitated before certain consonants and resumed with visible effort in the tightening strand.

“I am already part of the web. You are only here to accept it.” The words made the floor firmer beneath the Doctor, offering him an easier step towards the core.

He stared at that invitation. Ava saw him glance at her raised hand again. He remained behind the joint, but his attention had narrowed to the voice.

“You don't belong in my place,” he said. Then he heard the old institutional judgment in the first half of his sentence. “That is not the same as saying you have no place.”

“A distinction made by the person who has one.” Caldrex's voice roughened. The supporting lattice tightened around the platform, closing the clearest gap through which they had approached.

“The Loom didn't choose you. You chose it. Then you called the result inevitable.” The Doctor could not make that entirely false by naming the malice with which it was said.

Ava raised the sonic to check their retreat. Its weak scan showed the closing joint, then a connection running through the core. The device was not strong enough to separate them safely.

The Doctor raised his good hand. Ava did not lower the sonic. “I'm measuring the way out,” she told him. “I haven't fired anything.”

“No attack,” he said. “Please. Not through this structure.” She checked the scan again. A break here might take the platform with it. She changed the device to a passive reading.

His voice had become very calm. Ava knew that calm now, and did not trust it to mean that he had allowed enough time for anyone else's judgment.

“I won't fight him here.” He looked at the core as though another kind of contact must therefore be safe. “I can answer through the connection he's already opened.”

He stepped into the centre before Ava could ask what answering would cost. The platform supported him. Behind him, the joint she had been scanning narrowed further.

He placed his gloved palm on the core. The silver edge of the connection climbed his sleeve. This was not a new strand spun from his reserves; it was the opened channel taking hold of its other endpoint.

“Doctor, no!” Ava moved towards him, then stopped before crossing the unstable joint. Catching his arm might drag them both into the contact. She braced the return marker against a solid support instead.

The signal home faltered. She held the passive sonic reading on the point where his sleeve met the light, refusing to let the changing display persuade her that he had never been there.

⸻

Light passed through the Doctor so quickly that it left no scene behind it. He felt the pressure of his hand against the core and then lost even that small point of orientation.

Darkness followed. He tried to count breaths, forgot the count and began again. Somewhere he could still feel his knee, an unhelpful but welcome evidence of continuity.

When sight returned, he was standing in a blank place with Caldrex across from him. No corridor joined it to the platform. The open channel had translated contact into an encounter.

⸻

There was no horizon to tell him how far away Caldrex stood. The Doctor tried one step and found the apparent distance unchanged. He stopped trying to approach by walking.

Caldrex looked down at his own hands. Both appeared flesh. He flexed the right one, and the fingers completed their movement with an ease that made him flinch.

The image was not proof of healing. The Doctor's own bandage had disappeared here, while the thumb beneath it still hurt. Representation had removed details that their bodies continued to carry.

Caldrex noticed the Doctor watching. He curled his apparently whole hand into a fist and held it behind his back, denying him the sight of whatever relief had crossed his face.

His robes were clean, unmarked by repair. The absence of the alterations made them hang awkwardly, as though this imagined body had never learned how to live in them.

Without the apparatus, he looked less like a verdict than a tired person guarding a private humiliation. The Doctor felt the danger of finding that sight easier to pity than the damaged man outside it.

They faced one another. The Doctor kept both hands visible. Caldrex watched them with particular attention, remembering enough of their previous encounter to expect another instrument hidden in the gesture.

“Your memory,” Caldrex said. “A room arranged so that you can be generous.” His restored fingers moved behind his back. He could not quite stop testing them.

“My admission,” the Doctor answered. He had prepared no speech, and for once the absence of one did not immediately become a virtue in his own estimation.

Caldrex frowned. “You enter my refuge and offer me a word.” The blank space shivered. Far away, the Doctor felt a small regular pulse against the contact at his wrist.

“What are you admitting?” Caldrex asked. “That you took it? That you knew?” The questions arrived separately, as though each answer would permit a different injury.

The Doctor resisted answering more than he knew. He remembered accepting the Loom's usefulness without asking enough about the exclusions that made its certainty possible. That was guilt he could name without inventing a secret history.

“You could have had a life it refused to allow,” he said. “I can't prove it should have been mine. I can admit I benefited from a system whose discarded people I did not look for.” Caldrex's expression tightened at the qualification.

The Doctor lifted his hand slowly. The silver channel followed it. Caldrex did not step back, but the Doctor could not honestly read that stillness as an invitation.

“I've carried guilt for what I did,” he said. “Too often as though carrying it were the same as changing anything.” He thought of Ava beyond the connection, doing work he had given her no choice but to do.

“Your guilt doesn't matter.” Caldrex's voice was nearly ordinary now, and more cutting for it. “You keep it, and you keep everything else.”

“Then let me show you what everything else is.” Even as he said it, the Doctor knew the proposition contained a threat. He could stop. He could withdraw his hand. He did neither.

He released the silver line into the opened channel, allowing it to carry his own accumulated experience instead of another argument. It was access, not a fresh reserve of golden power. Once released, it moved faster than he could order it.

Caldrex staggered. His hand came forward as if to ward off a blow. The Doctor reached to reduce the flow and found that the connection treated the gesture as another thing to transmit.

Silver light wrapped around Caldrex. It brought no orderly archive, no complete and accurate chronology. It brought the pressure of a life whose memories contradicted one another without ceasing to belong to the same person.

For a moment the separation between witness and subject failed. The Doctor felt his own experience returning from an angle he could not control, made unbearable by someone else's refusal of it.

Caldrex became the Doctor in that narrow, terrible sense: he stood inside the felt weight of the life he had wanted. No body changed. No name was transferred. There was no room left to inspect it from a safe distance.

He hated it. The recognition he had demanded did not arrive as a crown. It arrived with other people's needs still attached, and with no promise that answering them would make them love him.

The experiences collided rather than forming a lesson. The Doctor had not chosen a merciful selection, and could not now pretend that everything painful would teach the right thing.

Fear came through first: someone stepping back from a helping hand because they knew its owner's reputation. The shock of discovering that a rescue could look like the arrival of another disaster.

Then love, which refused to behave like praise. A person insisting he sit down. Another angry because he had vanished. Someone trusting him with an ordinary task and expecting him to return it finished.

Loneliness followed in a room still arranged for a voice that would not answer. It was not grand enough to justify anything. It made the smallest objects difficult to move.

Forgiveness hurt differently. Caldrex felt the relief of being offered it and the stubbornness that kept reopening the accusation afterwards. None of it erased the harm. None of it supplied the clean innocence he had imagined another life could give him.

He screamed. The Doctor tried to close the channel and felt its boundary tearing instead. The distant pulse at his wrist became stronger, giving him one direction that did not lead further into Caldrex.

Caldrex vanished from the encounter. The Doctor could not tell whether he had withdrawn or been thrown clear. He followed the pulse before the blank place could offer another face.

⸻

The cracked mirror shattered. Its pieces did not fall; they lost agreement about where the platform was and slid out of sight. Ava pulled the return marker free as the support beneath it dissolved.

The Doctor stumbled out of the light. She caught his coat with her good hand and turned rather than trying to hold his full weight. He struck the remaining rail with his forearm and stayed upright.

“Are you hurt?” She checked his sleeve, then the hand he had pressed against the core. The old scorch remained on the glove. There was no new wound she could see.

He shook his head, too quickly. His bad knee trembled. Ava waited until he corrected the answer. “Nothing new. I need a moment.”

“I made him feel what I've carried,” he said. “Not a story about it. The feeling.” His voice caught. “I meant recognition. I didn't ask whether he wanted to receive it.”

Above them the dark strands loosened from the broken structure. Ava watched the route home rather than their contents. “You didn't ask me before stepping in either.” He looked at her and did not offer necessity as an answer.

“I don't know whether that was kindness or cruelty,” he said. “It can have started as one and become the other,” Ava answered. She retrieved the sonic and checked his cloak fastening before moving.

⸻

The Loom pulsed through the empty lattice. The route began to reassemble, not as a reward but as a narrowing interval in which they might get out.

Light climbed the corridor above them. Ava tested the first returning surface with her boot. When it held, she signalled the Doctor to follow, keeping their pace slow enough for his knee.

The TARDIS called through the marker. This time neither of them mistook a way home for proof that they had done the right thing. They answered and began the ascent.

At the first bend the Doctor stopped to recover his breath. Ava waited beside him without softening her anger into reassurance. He was grateful for that and knew gratitude did not settle it.

Behind them, the broken mirror was gone. Caldrex was not accounted for. They climbed towards the ship carrying both facts, and the consequences of the choice that separated them.

Chapter Eighteen

The Becoming of Caldrex

The TARDIS was waiting at the top of the corridor. Ava could see the open doors before she could trust the last few steps beneath her boots. She stopped on the final solid surface and tested the return marker once more.

Warm light reached them. The Doctor came through under his own power, using the doorframe rather than Ava's shoulder. She followed, took off the continuity cloak and hung it where its damaged hem could not catch in the doors. Neither of them said they were glad to be back.

The console room was quiet. After the whispers below the Loom, the absence of voices should have been welcome. Instead Ava heard the small, uneven sounds of the Doctor trying to breathe normally while he unfastened his own cloak.

She helped with the clasp when his scorched glove caught. Then she stepped away. Helping him did not mean the argument on the platform was finished, and she wanted him to understand that without making her say it again.

The engines were still. Their usual travelling note had stopped, leaving the ventilation fan and a slow mechanical click from beneath the console. The isolated shield circuit continued to show amber.

The ship was awake. A light followed Ava to the maintenance tray, where she laid the old sonic beside the burned reference braid she had removed before the descent. The separate spare remained in its drawer.

The TARDIS seemed to be holding her position against something Ava could not feel. When the Doctor reached for the flight controls, their covers stayed shut. He let his hand fall.

He stumbled on the short step beside the railing. Ava moved the chair within reach but did not try to lift him. He sat, stretched his bad leg out and rested his bandaged hand in his lap.

“Status,” he said. Then, more carefully, “Whatever you can show us safely.” His voice was hoarse from the encounter. Ava poured water into a clean cup and put it beside him.

The scanner brightened. For a moment it displayed the transit ring, their return route and a fractured outline where the mirrored Loom had been. Ava recognised the same readings her marker had relayed during the descent.

The route disappeared. She caught the edge of the console before she realised she was expecting the room to vanish with it. The Doctor watched her hand and waited until she released the rail.

An error sign replaced the map. He dismissed it once. It returned without an explanation, occupying the place where a location ought to have been.

A red thread wound itself through the error into a figure eight. Its crossing point tightened with each rotation. No coordinate accompanied it. The Doctor asked the ship to preserve the first reading before it could be overwritten.

“That isn't travelling towards us,” Ava said. “The whole display changes when it moves.” She compared the saved frame with the current image. The figure eight appeared in both, although it had not been visible when the first was captured.

“A signature,” the Doctor said. “Something changing how the information presents itself.” He did not touch the projection. Below the Loom, contact had seemed a way to understand. He could no longer use that thought without remembering what followed.

“Caldrex?” Ava asked. She watched his face as much as the screen. “Can we establish that, or are we looking for the person we already expect?”

He compared the surviving trace from the city with the new crossing. They shared a small asymmetry, a return that arrived before its own departure. It was evidence of a connection, not an account of everything that had happened to its source.

“Connected to him,” he said. “And changed.” Ava looked at the cup he had not touched. He picked it up at last, took a mouthful and found that swallowing required his full attention.

⸻

In the machine-prayer chamber beneath the lost Vault of Restraint, Caldrex tried to unfasten his robe. His right hand could not manage the clasp. He had returned from the broken encounter by the refuge's surviving link, bringing the Doctor's unwanted experience into a room built to keep other claims outside.

The chamber had once housed instruments for suppressing unstable possibilities. Caldrex had reversed their purpose over years of solitary work. Now he stood among their coiled housings and found that he could not make the remembered pressure of another life become quiet.

Mercy, the Doctor might call it. Caldrex would not. A voice insisting that he sit down returned with a warmth that had never been offered to him. He wanted to keep the warmth and destroy the person to whom it had belonged. The two desires would not separate.

He pulled the clasp apart with his left hand. The metal broke. For a moment he held the pieces as though there might still be time to choose an ordinary repair, then set them beside the contact burned out by the failed echo.

The strand he had named for himself hummed in the apparatus. Its imperfect join had widened since the encounter. Instead of smoothing it away, he connected it to the chamber's reverse coils and watched the instruments disagree.

One coil rejected the load. Caldrex bypassed it. A second began to heat beyond its marked tolerance. He left that warning active where he could see it; he wanted to know precisely which part of the cost he was choosing to ignore.

The echo-vault turned around him. Negative resonance passed from coil to coil, a succession of refusals made into a working circuit. Each denied the state accepted by the next. The resulting tension could hold a shape that no single history would support, provided he kept the whole disagreement moving.

He let the robe fall. Its altered seam caught on his prosthetic wrist, and he had to tear it free. He disliked that last awkward movement more than the pain beginning beneath his skin.

Silver and black latticework entered the joins of his body. The prosthetic ceased to be a separate instrument; its unresolved edges continued into his shoulder and across his chest. Where flesh had fixed one shape, thread now carried several incompatible positions. He could feel every one of them trying to finish.

His face lost its stable outline. Caldrex reached towards a polished instrument cover and withdrew his hand before touching it. He had demanded recognition for so long that the inability to recognise himself almost stopped him.

Then he adjusted the return current. A mask formed from the choices the circuit kept denying. It was not blank. It held too many beginnings of expressions for any one of them to become a face.

The Threadform stood where Caldrex had stood. A stabilising ring cracked beneath its feet. He caught the falling segment with a hand that divided around it, then let the metal pass through when holding it began to pull the rest of him apart.

His first attempt to speak came from three coils at once. He stopped, adjusted their phase and tried again. The ordinary roughness of his voice had become a doubled vibration through the chamber.

The Threadform spoke for him, but the choice of words was still his. “Again.” He returned the surviving instruments to their starting positions. There was no one present to tell him that continuing was not the same as succeeding.

⸻

In the TARDIS, the lights flickered as the red signature expanded beyond the scanner's border. Ava covered the old sonic's emitter before it could begin another active scan. She had not forgotten how observation could become an opening.

The lights steadied. The ship shut down two external feeds and left a third available as text only. A line of data arrived, changed its own heading and then denied that the earlier heading had existed.

The Doctor braced his gloved hand on the console. He kept his injured thumb clear of the edge. He had stood too quickly, and the room took a moment to stop moving around him.

“He's become a force,” he said. Ava looked up sharply. “He's still making choices.” The Doctor caught the implication of his own shorthand and nodded. “Yes. A person acting through a different kind of structure. I don't get to forget that.”

She ran a passive comparison against the ship's stored local readings. The first result offered a direction, then reversed it when she changed the reference point. She saved both. Neither was useful for navigation, but their disagreement was useful evidence. A third comparison tried to use the old result as its reference. Ava stopped it before the scanner could replace the original. “It can make its own answer look like corroboration,” she said. She disconnected that comparison and kept the two readings separate.

“I can't fix him to a timeline,” she said. “Every bearing makes itself the origin. It's like the compass has started arguing that north ought to be wherever I'm looking.”

The Doctor studied the paired results. “The connection may have become the thing we're trying to locate.” He drew the figure eight on the maintenance paper, keeping the drawing separate from the screen that was revising itself.

Ava turned towards him. There was anger underneath her concentration, waiting for any claim that what he had done below the Loom had somehow made this necessary rather than chosen.

He met that look without escaping into the diagram. “I opened him to something I couldn't control. I don't know how much of this follows from that.”

“Has he become a Loom?” she asked. The question made him look back at the moving figure. The ship's ordinary warning lights had never seemed so reassuringly limited.

“Not the Loom. He can't supply every history it holds.” He indicated the repeated reversals. “This works by making an existing account unstable and offering another to occupy the gap.”

The sound of his explanation disturbed him. It resembled a technical description of an injury for which he still owed an apology. He sat again before he could turn discomfort into urgency.

“A counter-Loom,” he said. “That's the nearest description I have. It doesn't tell us how far he can reach.” Ava wrote the term below the figure eight and left the space for range empty.

⸻

Beneath the broken strata of time, the Threadform began to pulse. Caldrex tried to send his own name through the apparatus first. The signal returned almost unchanged, having found too few established connections to carry it far.

He increased the output. A coil split. The extra force accomplished less than he had hoped, while the pain of holding his body together became harder to distinguish from the machine's warnings.

He reduced the current and selected a memory-shaped impression from the Doctor's life. It travelled further at once. Other people already had places for that man in their accounts; the new signal needed only to resemble something those accounts might accept.

The impressions entered the Vortex through those points of recognition. Caldrex could not create a whole witnessed past by wishing it. He could put a plausible alternative beside an existing recollection and make the choice between them feel less secure.

He selected a moment in which power had almost outweighed mercy, another in which abandoning a child could have been defended as calculation. Possibilities, not events he could prove. He stripped away the hesitation and consequence around them until each looked like a complete decision.

He called them truths denied their turn. The name made the work easier. It allowed him to treat the missing context as something stolen from him rather than something he was removing from other people.

The variants travelled unevenly. One dissolved against a detailed witness account. Another found an abbreviated archive entry and lodged there, supplying a motive where the record had preserved only an outcome.

Caldrex watched the difference. Specific memories resisted him; summaries offered room. He altered the next pulse so that it asked for no contradiction of a recorded fact, only a different explanation of why it had occurred. The resistant account continued to return. He tried to cut it out of the route and lost two useful connections with it. Restoring them required admitting the troublesome detail again. He left it present, surrounded by so many easier accusations that he hoped no reader would follow it to its source.

He was not inventing without material. He was using proximity to truth as a tool. The work required attention, and each accepted alteration helped him find another account connected to the same name.

Plausibility spread more quietly than a command. A reader hesitated over an adjective. A witness supplied a harsher tone to words they had once remembered as kind. Doubt made an opening, and the Threadform widened it.

Across scattered records, the Doctor's outline changed. A statue's expression became imperious in the eye of a passer-by; a later image captured a subtly altered face. An archive offered Architect where Doctor had stood. A companion's account acquired a warning in a margin its author did not remember writing.

The true Loom stuttered as accounts ceased to agree. It did not surrender every life to the first plausible accusation. Some threads held. Their resistance cost Caldrex time, and he chose easier routes while promising himself he would return to them.

⸻

The cloister bell sounded in the TARDIS. This time the note had no hesitation. Ava put the maintenance paper under the brass weight and stepped back from the changing feed.

The sound was loud enough to feel through the chair. The Doctor flinched and covered the open diagnostic panel before its exposed contacts could vibrate against one another.

A clear interval separated the next two notes. He recognised the pattern, then checked the ship's written warning rather than acting on recognition alone. External reference contamination. Local records protected, comparison incomplete.

It was a protocol, not a guarantee of safety. The TARDIS could isolate her records while still needing outside information to navigate. Every protected door narrowed what she could see beyond herself.

Ava asked for the raw incoming text beside the last retained copy. The ship allowed the comparison and refused the moving images. The Doctor accepted that refusal without reaching for an override. One record arrived in a format she could not read. He offered a translation, stopped at a disputed word and gave her both meanings. They marked the line uncertain. It was slower than trusting the scanner's neat summary, and neither of them liked how much time that caution consumed.

He turned towards Ava as the two texts diverged. The dates and locations remained stable. Descriptions of intention changed, then the headings under which the events were filed.

“He's using the Loom to reach something else,” he said. He pointed to a rescue whose outcome still recorded survivors, while its new heading called the intervention an assumption of power.

“What people think happened?” Ava asked. “What they'll act on next?” She copied the stable facts separately, refusing to choose an explanation simply because it appeared in the more recent column.

The Doctor moved the scanner so both could read it from their chairs. They had been leaning over it as though physical closeness would make the information more trustworthy. His knee was beginning to shake again.

“Perception,” he said. “Records, recollection, the story that joins them. He doesn't have to undo a rescue if he can persuade the rescued that it was conquest.”

⸻

On a world far from the TARDIS, a museum attendant stopped beneath a memorial and read its inscription twice. The evacuation date was familiar. The title above it was not. She fetched a rubbing made during repairs and laid it beside the stone.

The difference did not tell her which was right. It told her to preserve both. She put the rubbing in a cabinet before answering a visitor who wanted to know why she had covered the new label. He said the new wording was what he had always been taught. She believed he meant it. Instead of arguing, she asked him to write down where he had learned it. When he left, she had another uncertain account, with a name and a source she could try to check.

Elsewhere, someone designing a small starship found that the voice they remembered encouraging the work had become indistinct. The notebooks remained. They continued the calculation from the last checked line, less certain of its beginning but unwilling to discard the work.

In UNIT's archives, two entries acquired incompatible accounts of the same intervention. A duty officer suspended their automatic reconciliation. The system asked which copy to retain. She retained both and opened an incident record. Doubt had reached the archive; it had not yet made everyone obedient to it.

⸻

The Doctor stared at the incoming discrepancies until Ava closed the image feed entirely. “You're looking for a version that says you're innocent,” she said. He started to object, then found he could not do so honestly.

“He's rewriting who people think I am.” He heard the possessiveness in it. Somewhere people were losing confidence in their own memories, and he had made the threat sound chiefly like an injury to his reputation.

Ava sat beside him. “Some of them already have reasons to be angry with you. We can't make agreement with us the test.” He looked at the paper where she had preserved facts without conclusions. “No.”

“Then what do we do?” Her own account of the platform was recent and painful. She would not let Caldrex rewrite it into proof that the Doctor was only cruel, or let the Doctor soften it into mercy because another danger had arrived. She wrote what she had seen while it was still clear: the raised hand, the step beyond the joint, the silver contact, the weakening return. She did not write his intention for him. When he asked to read it, she passed him the paper and waited.

He turned away from the scanner. “First, I should have listened when you stopped me. You were keeping the way open, and I made you responsible for getting me out.” Ava nodded. “You did.”

He let the answer remain between them. The white strands at his chin caught the console light as he bowed his head. An apology could not restore the choice he had denied her. It could at least name it without asking for immediate absolution.

“We need a point he can't keep supplying with another version,” he said at last. “Somewhere a thread can be considered complete. I know a description of such a place, but I've never used it as a destination.”

“Can the ship reach it?” Ava asked. He asked the TARDIS instead of answering for her. The scanner produced a single incomplete diagram. Its far edge was blank, and no coordinates followed.

He gave a small, tired smile at the size of the uncertainty. The ship had offered neither approval nor an easy refusal. There was work to do before either of them could call this a plan.

“If we try, you get the whole proposal before I move,” he told Ava. “And if you say stop, I stop.” She watched him long enough for the promise to become uncomfortable. “Write that beside the diagram.” He did.

“The End Thread,” he said. He left the name on the scanner while Ava read the description and the missing information beneath it. Their decision would begin with those gaps, not with pretending the destination had already answered them. She asked what happened if the approach failed. He could offer a return to their present holding position while the ship still maintained it, and no certainty beyond that. She asked him to check that answer with the TARDIS. The flight covers opened only far enough to expose the approach controls.

⸻

In the echo-vault, the Threadform paused its spread. A route that had offered a promising chain of references no longer returned the Doctor's attempts to correct them. The absence was too deliberate to dismiss as another failed contact.

Caldrex tilted his head. The movement passed through several possible outlines before settling. One part of the lattice wanted him to increase the pressure; another would collapse if he did. He reduced the output instead and listened.

The Doctor had stopped defending his likeness at every point of attack. That was a counter-move Caldrex had not prepared for. He could not see its destination, only the withdrawal of the resistance he had been using to measure his own strength.

He examined the gap without immediately filling it with an explanation. For a moment, wanting to know what the Doctor would do exceeded wanting to prove that he already understood him.

Curiosity held the Threadform still. Around it, the remaining coils hummed under their dangerous load, and the broken clasp of a robe lay where a hand had put it down. He tried to pick it up, failed to keep his fingers solid and left it there. The small failure followed him back to the controls.

Chapter Nineteen

The Final Thread Begins to Hum

The oldest description the Doctor could recover gave the Loom one endpoint. Ava read that line twice, then asked why the diagram beneath it showed a thread continuing beyond both edges of the page.

“A destination for a question,” he said. “Perhaps not a destination in the usual sense.” He disliked how little help that was. He wrote it down anyway, beside the promise he had made to stop when she asked.

There was no date to enter, no planet and no death from which to calculate an approach. He would not use the deaths he remembered as experimental coordinates. Ava watched him close that avenue before the ship had to refuse it.

The description called the place a convergence. Routes that had diverged could be considered there without being forced into the same result. Whether that was geography or a way of thinking remained obscure.

The End Thread: where the Loom's accounts ceased adding another consequence to every consequence. One translation said meaning ended there. Another said that no further meaning could be imposed. The Doctor preferred the second, and marked his preference separately from what the text could establish.

He had never been there. That was the first useful answer he could give without qualification, and Ava seemed relieved to hear it plainly.

He knew of no verified visitor. The absence of an account might mean no one had reached it, or that an account of it could not be brought back in an ordinary form.

Even the Founders' records offered description without a journey. He had once found that sort of omission impressive. Now he wondered how much certainty had been built upon the refusal to admit an untested claim.

Ava agreed to the approach, not to an unlimited pursuit. They would retain their holding position while the ship could still return to it. The Doctor read the limit back to her, and only then asked the TARDIS to move.

⸻

The first attempt brought them back to the same reading. The second took longer and ended with a warning from the isolated shield circuit. The Doctor cancelled it before the amber light could become red. A small fuse had opened under the side panel. He replaced it from the maintenance tray while Ava checked that the damaged circuit stayed isolated. The replacement did not make a third identical attempt sensible. He put the burned fuse beside the first two calculations, where he would have to see it before trying again.

Coordinates exchanged positions halfway through calculation. A route that appeared to lead away became the route by which they had arrived. Ava preserved each result on paper, then stopped when the page showed that they were repeating the same failure with different labels.

The TARDIS held them still. She closed the automatic route planner and opened a narrow manual channel the Doctor had not requested. He looked at its familiar controls with an affection that did not quite conceal his fear.

She knew his habits: the hand that reached too soon, the pause before he admitted uncertainty, the temptation to turn a warning into a problem he could outwit. Remembering him did not oblige her to indulge him.

Outside, Caldrex's alterations continued to disturb the references on which navigation depended. Inside, the ship retained her own recent record. It was incomplete, but it was something they could check against the journey they had actually made.

When a name faded from an incoming map, Ava left its position blank. She did not supply the name she remembered merely to make the route look complete. The Doctor found himself wanting to do exactly that and made his hand stay still.

They tried an approach based on the last stable connection rather than the newest account of it. The ship accepted part of the request, rejected the rest and began a slow drift that neither control panel described as flight.

The Doctor sat at the side console and matched the TARDIS's pulse, making no attempt to lead it. Several old methods suggested themselves. He chose the least forceful, then abandoned it when Ava saw their return reading weaken.

The ship found a third way. The return reading steadied while the destination remained unnamed. He thanked her quietly. Ava wrote down what had changed so gratitude would not become their only explanation of how they had got there.

⸻

The final drift began with a small pressure behind Ava's ears. She stood before the monitor with her good hand on the rail. The old sonic was clipped securely at her belt, its casing cool and its burned braid left on the tray.

“Are we ready for this?” she asked. The question included the journey, the encounter they might find and the possibility that the Doctor would again mistake having an idea for permission to act upon it.

He did not answer immediately. He checked their route back and asked the ship whether it remained available. A green line held on the screen, ending at a boundary they had not yet crossed.

Sweat had flattened his light brown hair. Under the console light, the grey and the white strands at his chin looked sharper. His coat hem had caught during the descent; he had tacked the loose edge down while waiting, badly enough that Ava could see where his injured thumb had limited him.

He seemed close to a decision, but no longer eager to make it look effortless. Ava had seen enough effortless decisions to know who usually had to manage their aftermath.

“Beyond that line I can't promise the same return,” he said. “We can stop here.” He took his hand away from the control, leaving the choice unhurried for once.

Ava studied the incomplete destination. “Continue to the boundary. Then we look before we step out.” He nodded. “That's what we'll do.” The TARDIS carried them forward at the same patient pace.

⸻

Arrival felt like the end of a question he had been repeating without noticing. The Doctor opened his mouth to ask for another reading and found that the existing one was enough to tell him they had stopped.

There was no landing impact. The deck remained level beneath the chair and the cup he had secured before the drift. Outside the doors, the scanner could establish neither an atmosphere nor its absence.

The TARDIS settled around them. She offered a doorway with a short stable threshold and withheld any image beyond it. Ava asked whether the threshold would hold their weight. A plain affirmative appeared on the local panel.

The doors opened onto a pale expanse. The Doctor tested the threshold with his sound foot while Ava kept her hand near the closure control. He stopped where they had agreed and waited for her to look.

It was not darkness. There was light enough to see each other, yet no visible source from which a shadow could fall. Ava could make out the edge of the blue door more clearly than anything beyond it.

There were no landmarks for distance. When she tried to judge how far the pale space extended, the effort gave her the same brief dizziness as trying to recall a word that had never been taught to her.

A single thread crossed the expanse. It was finer than the bright structures they had followed before. Ava could see it without feeling that she ought to touch it, which came as an unexpected relief.

Neither end was visible. The Doctor said so instead of calling it infinite. He had begun to distrust how readily a failure to see a limit became a declaration that no limit existed.

At a point they both perceived as its centre, despite having no way to measure it, the thread changed from a line into the outline of a standing figure.

A man. Ava first recognised the stance: weight slightly off centre, head inclined as though listening to an answer whose first words had been missed.

He stood without appearing to rest on anything. The space beneath their own boots had become a path, but no similar support was visible under his feet.

He waited. No gesture invited them closer. The Doctor found that less alarming than the doors that had opened before they reached Caldrex's false Citadel.

The figure watched them with an attention that did not follow their instruments. Ava checked the return marker; the TARDIS pulse remained behind her, small and ordinary against the pale space.

⸻

He looked like the Doctor. The resemblance carried none of the city's polished youth. It omitted details rather than improving them, leaving a face Ava could recognise without being able to describe precisely.

The Doctor adjusted his glasses and received no sharper image. He lowered his hand. The other figure did not imitate him, and neither of them tried to turn that difference into a proof of identity.

There was no coat, no sonic, no pocket from which an answer might be produced. The absence of equipment made the figure look exposed rather than powerful.

Questions seemed to supply its outline more than light did. When Ava wondered whether it was injured, she noticed its hands. When she looked for age, the face became harder to hold in focus.

She stepped beside the Doctor, staying on the narrow path. He waited until she was level with him. Their return route remained visible, and he made himself look at it before looking forward again.

“Is that Caldrex?” she asked. There had been enough borrowed faces for the question to feel practical rather than suspicious. “Or another way of watching us?”

“It looks like me,” he said. “But I don't know what is presenting the likeness.” He disliked withholding the simpler answer. He disliked more the thought of asking her to trust recognition alone.

The figure smiled faintly, as though the qualification had made the encounter possible. The Doctor refused to decide that it approved of him; approval was one of the things he had come too ready to seek.

“Welcome,” it said. Its voice came from the place where it stood. No answering voice rose inside the Doctor's thoughts. Ava heard it too and glanced at him to establish that shared fact.

⸻

He approached slowly, giving his knee time to accept each step. Ava stayed with him. When the path shortened behind them, she raised her hand; they stopped together until it lengthened again towards the doors.

“Are you the Loom's avatar?” the Doctor asked. He wanted a category, a set of known behaviours against which he could test what happened next.

“No.” The figure offered nothing to replace the rejected category. He waited for more, then recognised how much of the silence was simply his own impatience.

“The End Thread itself?” Ava watched the thread rather than the face. It had not changed when the figure spoke. She could not tell whether that meant separation or merely steadiness.

“No.” The Doctor looked back at the TARDIS. She had brought them to this place, but that did not make every answer found here an instruction from her.

“Then who are you?” He asked it without a title prepared this time. The effort made his voice quieter than he intended.

The man tilted his head. For an instant the gesture recalled the Doctor so closely that Ava wanted to put a hand on the real one's sleeve, to keep the distinction tactile.

“What remains when you subtract everything else.” The Doctor almost replied that this was not an answer. Instead he asked what would be subtracted. The figure looked at his coat, his instruments and finally his face, without touching any of them.

“What he becomes?” Ava asked. “A future?” She did not want another possible life presented as a destination he was obliged to reach.

The figure looked at her directly. For the first time its outline sharpened without reference to the Doctor, acknowledging a question that belonged to someone else.

“What he has to face.” It made no claim about a date, a death or another body. Ava accepted the answer as a limit on its claim, not as an explanation of the whole encounter.

⸻

The Doctor took off his glasses and tilted them. Ava's small movement appeared in the lenses, and the pale space beyond. The figure cast no reflection.

“I've watched someone borrow my place in the Loom,” he said. “I've watched my history used against people who trusted their own memories. If I stop defending every part of it, what do I leave them with?”

The man did not answer. The Doctor felt irritation rise, followed by shame at wanting help delivered in the form he found easiest to use.

The figure raised a hand and waited. This time the Doctor asked, “Will we remain here?” It nodded towards the path and the open doors. Ava checked both before agreeing to look.

The space changed around them while the narrow path remained beneath their feet. Ava kept her gaze on its edge until she could distinguish the arriving scene from the route that would take them home.

Ruins on Skaro surrounded the path. The Doctor recognised the place before he could place the moment. Dust seemed to catch in his throat, although the air that reached him still came through the TARDIS doorway.

The library of New Alexandria followed: shelves, a fall of light, the remembered urgency of a choice made among things no one could replace. He did not reach for a book. The scene could show him loss without authorising him to take something from it. Ava saw his hand begin the movement and stop. She had no access to the recollection that made it difficult. For once he did not try to make her understand by offering its full weight. “I want to put that right,” he said. “I can't do it from here.”

Then the fields of Arcadia. He remembered a colour differently and could not decide whether the scene or his recollection was wrong. That uncertainty remained when he tried to fit the place to a clean account of his intentions.

The TARDIS appeared around them without walls, only stars beyond its familiar rails. It was a recollection of shelter made incomplete. Behind the scene, the actual doors remained open, and Ava could still hear the return marker.

With each change came the same invitation, quietly enough that the Doctor had to stop supplying his own expected answer in order to hear it.

Remember who you were before the names. He searched for an innocent beginning and found instead a child already wanting things he could not explain. There had never been a life without desire to which he could simply return.

Before the rules. Rules had saved people from his impatience and sometimes given him a way to avoid seeing the person before him. He could not dispose of them all because some had failed.

Before the code. He remembered deciding what sort of man he would be, then using the decision as proof after acting unlike him. The memory embarrassed him more than the grander failures he knew how to grieve.

The scenes stopped changing. Ava let the silence last. She could see that something had reached him, and refused the temptation to help by interpreting his face aloud.

“Can you forgive the man who failed?” the figure asked. “Without making the failure right?” The second question prevented the first from becoming the easy permission he had feared it was offering.

⸻

He lowered himself onto his sound knee. The other leg would not fold comfortably, so he left it extended. The physical awkwardness steadied him: he was still here, in a body that could not turn reflection into freedom from every limit.

He did not cry. Ava would not have known what to do with tears, but she did know how to move the trailing edge of his coat so it did not catch beneath his boot. “Do you want me to stay beside you?” she asked. He said he did. It was a small request, with an answer she was free to give, and for that reason she could meet it without resentment. She sat on the path, leaving her supported wrist across her lap.

His hands shook. He held the bandaged one against his chest and let the other rest open on his leg. Nothing useful came from pretending that he was about to operate a control.

“I've never known whether I was the right version,” he said. Saying it exposed how often he had treated being the one who continued as evidence that continuing had been deserved.

“You're the one who can answer for this life.” The figure's reply did not praise him. He looked at Ava, who was still waiting for actions to follow a promise he had made aboard.

“Because I unified?” All that experience, all those memories now held without the old convenience of assigning a decision to someone who had worn another face.

“No.” He felt disappointment and then understood it. He had hoped that becoming more complete might count as having done some of the work of becoming better.

“Because I resisted?” He had resisted Caldrex, resisted the claim upon his place, resisted the accounts of himself he could not bear to see believed.

“No.” Resistance could preserve something worth saving. It could also preserve a mistake long after the reasons for it had gone. He knew both uses from within the same continuous life.

“Then what do I do with all of it?” He did not mean where to store it. He meant how to stop making the weight an argument that everyone else must accept his next decision.

The other leaned closer, still leaving the distance between them untouched. There was no offered thread, no hand extended towards his mind, no demand that recognition become contact.

“You kept walking,” it said. The Doctor began to shake his head, and the figure let him finish the objection instead of completing another lesson for him.

“Walking isn't always right.” “No.” He looked down the path. He could return, apologise, repair what remained repairable. He could stop when continuing would make another person pay for his inability to accept an ending. Movement was a chance to choose again, not a certificate of innocence.

⸻

Ava stepped forward when he looked ready to rise. He used her good forearm only for balance and took his own weight. The path remained firm beneath both of them.

“How do we stop Caldrex?” she asked the figure. “People are still losing parts of their own accounts while we stand here.” She would not let a useful encounter become another place to hide from the work outside.

The other Doctor turned towards her. Its outline had begun to thin. Ava wondered whether they had reached the limit of what this place could offer, or only of what they knew how to ask.

“Remember what he refuses to allow.” It did not say Caldrex could never learn. The Doctor was grateful for that small opening, and wary of how quickly he wanted it to become a promise.

“An ending?” Ava asked. She looked at the unbroken thread. “Not death. Not deciding somebody else's life has become inconvenient.” The figure left the distinction for them to hold.

The Doctor stood beside her. For the first time since the false connection had taken his place, he considered that his place might be part of what kept the contest going.

He did not yet know what he could safely relinquish. He knew only that defending every claim attached to his name was not the same as protecting the people caught in those claims.

“We are allowed to end,” he said. “A contest. A claim. A way of doing things that keeps hurting people.” Ava watched him. “Including one you built your life around?” He looked back towards the ship. “It has to include that.”

⸻

Far from the pale expanse, Caldrex howled as a return circuit ceased supplying resistance. He increased the pressure once and felt it come back through the lattice of his own body.

The Loom twisted around a connection that no longer seemed committed to defending itself indefinitely. The change was small. It was enough to expose how much of the Threadform's leverage depended on an answer being forced from the Doctor.

Black and silver flared through the echo-vault. Caldrex steadied one coil and lost another. He could keep the apparatus working, but not every route, not at every strength and not forever.

For the first time since the transformation, its limit felt like his own. At the End Thread, the Doctor and Ava turned towards the waiting doors, carrying no weapon from the encounter, only a possibility they would have to make real.

Chapter Twenty

The Choice Beyond Thread

They returned to the Loom by a route the TARDIS would not hold open behind them. Ava watched the last mark on the navigation screen disappear, then took her old sonic from the console. The Doctor had fitted the small cut-out while she checked the route. She had asked for it, watched him test it and made him explain the test again without metaphors.

It would interrupt their connection to the chamber if they could no longer withdraw. It could not shut down the Loom. It could not promise what happened beyond their connection. Ava turned its recessed control with her sound hand, felt the deliberate resistance that distinguished it from the ordinary setting, and returned it to safe.

Beyond the doors lay the heart of the Loom. No ranks of accessible spools, no walls of borrowed faces: strands crossed a broad circular dais, passing through one another without losing their separate courses. At each crossing something began to happen, hesitated, and remained possible. The Doctor put his glasses back on. Looking longer did not make the arrangement easier to understand.

The TARDIS held outside the chamber, her open doorway level with its outer rim. When the Doctor tested a foot on the threshold, the floor steadied beneath him. When he tried to read a course beyond the dais, the doors drew fractionally inward. He accepted the limit. She had brought them here; she had not agreed to follow them anywhere.

Ava clipped the sonic to her belt with the control facing outward. Her wrist support caught briefly in the fastener. She freed it before the Doctor could help, then pointed to the door. 'If I say we're leaving, you tell me what you need to leave. You don't turn it into an argument about how little you matter.' He nodded. 'Agreed.'

They crossed together. Under Ava's boots the surface felt dry and very slightly yielding, like worn linoleum, an absurdly ordinary sensation in that place. 'It's quiet,' she said. She could hear the short drag in the Doctor's step when his bad knee took his weight.

'It's listening.' He paused. 'At least, it's stopped answering before we've spoken.' Ava looked at him. 'Better.' A strand dipped toward his shoulder. He moved aside, and it followed. Another bent away from her to join it. They both watched that small preference repeat.

He removed his coat, working the scorched glove carefully through the sleeve. One tack in the loose hem had already pulled free. He folded the coat on the edge of the dais, placing the glove on top rather than hiding it in a pocket. Then he tested the bandage around his thumb. It held.

Without the coat he looked cold. His shirt had a dark mark at the cuff and a thread standing from the seam. Ava noticed him resist the impulse to smooth it down. She had expected some final preparation, an instrument or a sentence. He simply stood beside the things he had taken off.

The strands still inclined toward him. Removing a coat had changed nothing about the place they gave him. He watched one curve across a second to reach his shadow, displacing a line that had been running freely toward the rim.

Then the TARDIS door gave a single hard knock against its frame. Ava turned toward it. The Doctor turned the other way, toward a tightening in the crossings above the dais.

Caldrex arrived where the displaced line had been.

⸻

The walls did not part. There were no walls close enough to part. The chamber's light folded around an absence, and a hand formed inside it, fingers closing too late around something that was no longer there.

He was simply present. Ava could not find a path by which he had come. The Doctor kept his eyes on the hand. A thin band of darkness passed through the palm and returned to the wrist, repeating an incomplete circuit.

For one second the only sound was the TARDIS settling against the rim. Then Caldrex drew breath. The action seemed to trouble the shape he had made for his chest.

Black-thread light held an outline where his body should have been. Features approached recognisability, then slipped. The Doctor could still find Caldrex in the impatient turn of the head, in the way he stood as though someone had taken his proper place. Those habits were more stable than his face.

His voice reached them twice, the second arrival rougher and fractionally late. Ava put a finger against her ear, then lowered it. The delay belonged to the chamber; she heard it from the stones as well.

Two tones carried one sentence. Caldrex stopped until their echoes had finished, visibly angered by the loss of control over his own emphasis. When he tried again, he spoke more slowly.

Thread and Threadform, the Doctor thought: a name for a condition, useful only until it pretended to explain the person inside it. He said 'Caldrex' aloud, and the uncertain face turned toward him.

'You came to end it.' Caldrex looked past them at the open blue doors. A strand stretched from his shoulder toward the TARDIS, met the light at her threshold and curled back. He concealed the movement by lifting his chin.

The Doctor nodded. Ava shifted until she could see both men without standing between them. Her sound hand hung near the sonic, fingers open. She had no wish to be anyone's demonstration of trust.

'We came to let it end,' the Doctor said. 'There is a difference in what we'd have to do.' Caldrex's hand closed. The delayed voice murmured the last word back to them.

His features sharpened around his mouth. For an instant Ava saw the man who had addressed them before all this light and damage; then the outline broke at one cheek, exposing a weave with no skin over it.

'You presume the Loom desires stillness.' Above him, two crossings tightened. 'You have been welcomed all your life, and you mistake a door opening for agreement with everything you are.' The Doctor flinched before he answered.

'I remember the doors that opened,' he said. 'I haven't counted enough of the ones that shut behind me.' He looked at the strand bent away from Ava. 'I can't speak for the Loom. I can stop treating what it gives me as proof.'

⸻

Caldrex raised a hand. The Doctor did not reach for it. Ava saw the incomplete circuit in the palm suddenly close, and shouted a warning as the crossings above them drew tight.

The Loom pulsed. Names passed through the light too quickly to read; faces she knew from the Doctor's memories appeared as alternatives the chamber was trying to offer him. He kept his eyes on Ava. Around his shoes, the yielding surface hardened into broken stone.

Ava stumbled when her next step landed lower than the first. She threw out her supported wrist, caught herself before putting weight through it, and went down on one knee. The sonic knocked against the dais but stayed clipped to her belt.

The floor became a battlefield. Heat struck her face and someone shouted an order from behind her. Then a classroom: rows of empty desks, chalk under her nails, a child's question that she could not hear to the end. Then the close wet earth of a grave. Each place arrived with a demand that she already belonged there.

She screamed once, furious at the mouthful of earth she expected and could not spit out. Her hand found a desk edge that became stone under her fingers. She held on to that change, to the fact that the two surfaces disagreed.

The Doctor caught her upper arm with his unbandaged hand. His bad knee struck the dais. He could not lift her, so he leaned back and gave her something solid to pull against. She hauled herself toward his voice, feeling the seam of his sleeve beneath her palm.

He looked up at Caldrex. He had a dozen possible arguments and no breath for any of them. He used the one word that left the next action in the other man's hands.

'Stop.'

⸻

Caldrex stopped. His fingers remained raised, trembling with the effort of keeping the circuit closed. Then he opened them. The classroom vanished last, its windows becoming the crossings above Ava's head.

No command had travelled through the Loom. The Doctor could see the hand that had chosen to open. He stayed on his knee until Ava told him she could stand, then let her use his shoulder without trying to hurry her.

'You can stop,' he said to Caldrex. 'You've just done it.' He gave the act its full weight without turning it into forgiveness. Ava brushed grit that might not have been real from her trouser leg. Her knee was bleeding through the cloth.

The Doctor got to his feet with the dais for support. Ava released his sleeve. Between them lay a scrape in the surface, a physical mark left by her sonic's clip. Whatever else had been shown to her, the fall had happened here.

'I don't need to beat you,' he said. 'That's the story you've brought. You win, I lose; I win, and it proves you were always meant to lose. There has to be room for something you haven't already decided.'

Caldrex said nothing. One of the doubled tones made a faint sound without a word in it. Ava watched him swallow. He looked briefly, almost involuntarily, at the scrape beside her boot.

The Doctor stepped forward only as far as Ava's line of sight would permit. 'What you did to her was wrong. What I forced between us was wrong. I can't make an agreement that cancels either of those things.'

He let Caldrex hear that without following it immediately. 'But being my enemy can't be the only part of your life the Loom permits. There is a story it hasn't told. You have to be able to tell it without using someone else's body for the page.'

He extended his sound hand, palm upward. Nothing shone in it. His own supply of golden thread was still exhausted. Caldrex looked at the empty palm longer than he had ever looked at a weapon.

'We could begin there,' the Doctor said. 'Together, if you choose. It won't mean that she owes you a hand as well.' Ava remained where she was. Caldrex's eyes moved to her, then back.

⸻

For a moment he made no attempt to answer. A crossing loosened above his head, releasing a line that had been pulled tight since his arrival. The Doctor kept his hand steady despite the weight beginning to hurt his shoulder.

Caldrex shimmered. His outline briefly acquired the awkward proportions of a body trying to stand after a long confinement. The returning circuit in his palm faltered, and something like a fingertip moved beyond it.

He almost reached back. Ava saw the effort start at the elbow, saw how little distance remained between their hands. She held her breath, then deliberately let it go. They were not waiting for her to make this happen.

Almost. His fingers stopped before touching the Doctor's. In the gap, a bright strand passed downward, seeking the same familiar shoulder as before. It brushed Caldrex's hand aside without slowing.

He looked up at the Loom. The crossings had made a shallow bowl above the Doctor, inclining toward him from every side. Even the space cleared by Caldrex's restraint was being taken into that arrangement.

'Look,' Caldrex said. This time neither of them could fail to understand what he meant. The Doctor lowered his hand. The bright strand followed it, patient and proprietary, as though an old permission still required no renewal.

Nothing inclined toward Caldrex except the lines he had dragged there himself. He pulled one closer. It cut through the edge of his wrist, came free, and resumed its place above the Doctor.

'Never me,' he said. The Doctor could not know every invitation Caldrex had refused or every door that had refused him. He could see this one. He took another step aside; the whole shallow bowl moved with him.

Caldrex's rage returned before the Doctor had found a way to answer. The empty space between their hands snapped shut. Ava heard the recessed control of her sonic click under her thumb as she readied it, leaving the final movement undone.

⸻

Caldrex screamed. Both tones arrived together, and for a moment there was terrible strength in their agreement. He drove his hands into the nearest crossings and pulled them apart.

The Loom convulsed. The dais tipped enough to send the folded coat sliding. Ava caught it against her ankle. Across the chamber, the TARDIS doors began to close, then held at the width needed for two people to pass.

Threads tore. At the broken ends Ava saw ordinary things interrupted: a hand over a cup, a wheel just short of a rut, light moving over an empty table. She could not tell where they were. She could tell the interruptions were spreading.

Dark openings spread between the crossings. The Doctor gripped the dais with his injured hand and cried out. He released it at once. Caldrex was pulling against the shape gathered around him; every effort to remain its centre gave the other man something more to tear.

Ava drew the sonic. The fail-safe control pressed against her thumb. She had agreed to its limits in the TARDIS; now she could see the cost of them. Cutting their connection might get them out while leaving the opened crossings beyond their reach. 'Doctor. Tell me what you need.'

He shook his head at the control. 'A moment. That hold above me—it's where he's pulling.' Ava looked, assessed the widening gap to the door, then shifted her grip. 'One attempt. I decide when we can't wait any longer.'

'It ends with me,' he said, and saw her expression. 'The claim. I'm taking my claim out of it.' He set his bandaged hand against his chest, plainly, so she could see where he meant to begin. She gave him that moment.

⸻

He stepped into the core. The last pace was shorter than he intended; his knee would not straighten. He reached the centre leaning forward, breath coming in small jerks, with Ava's footsteps audible behind him at the distance they had agreed.

There he found his name held in the Loom. It tightened when he reached for it. His first instinct was to command the crossings to open, and the tightening grew worse. He stopped, lowered his hand and tried to see what he was actually holding.

It was not a word. No hidden syllable waited to be spoken, no final answer about who he had been. The knot drew its strength from how often this place had been allowed to treat his arrival as a decision already made.

It was not 'Doctor'. He said the name under his breath and remained himself. A smell of warm dust recalled a room whose window he could not place. The memory came imperfectly, as memories did; nothing in the knot could supply its missing edges.

Mercy and fury were woven there, sacrifice, defiance, kindness, contradiction: actions turned into a standing entitlement. He could feel how easy it would be to offer the Loom another impressive act and leave that entitlement untouched. Instead he found the narrow return where every strand led back to him.

He pulled that return loose. It resisted like a stitch worked through a healed scar. He could not spare his thumb now, but he could stop pretending pain made the act right. Ava caught the edge of his shirt when his balance failed. He took the support, stayed upright and finished the pull.

The Loom screamed. Above them the shallow bowl flattened. Caldrex staggered as the resistance against which he had been pulling disappeared; his hands flew apart, empty. Ava kept the sonic pointed down, its last movement still hers to choose.

For a breath the Doctor thought he had broken everything. He could not see a single crossing complete its course. Then a strand at the rim moved past him without turning, and a second found a way around the first.

The Loom settled. The dark openings narrowed. He did not know what damage had already escaped them, and no calm light could tell him it had all been repaired. But the tearing had stopped. Ava eased her grip on his shirt only when he stood without it.

⸻

Caldrex stopped as well. His hands remained apart. He looked down at the incomplete circuit through his palm, which had lost the returning part of its course. Nothing reached from it toward the Doctor now.

He was very still. Ava put the fail-safe back to safe, keeping the sonic in her hand. The Doctor heard the click and turned to her before looking anywhere else. She nodded once. They were still here.

The Loom turned slowly above them. Lines crossed and continued outward; none bent to follow when the Doctor moved his foot. He waited, disbelieving, then moved again. For once the chamber allowed the small action to be only that.

One crossing paused. A strand separated from it and lowered itself toward the dais. The Doctor did not raise his hand. He watched it approach, allowing the possibility that its direction had nothing to do with him.

The Loom offered a single thread forward. It stopped close enough for him to touch. Its light was soft, without the urgent gold he had spent from his own body, and it gave no instruction about what should happen next.

One thread. Ava looked around for whatever followed it, a weight, a net, an answering pull. The surrounding crossings continued at their new pace. She lowered the sonic a little further.

It came to the Doctor's open hand. He let it rest across two fingers, feeling almost no weight. He could have closed his fist. The old reflex was so ordinary that recognising it frightened him more than the chamber's scream had.

He did not take it for himself. 'I can't choose for you,' he told the Loom, or the thread, or whatever could hear him. 'But you might ask someone whose answer you haven't learned to expect.'

He turned to Ava. Before he moved his hand toward her, she said, 'Tell me what you know.' He looked down at the thread. 'Very little. It isn't the knot I removed. I won't give you that burden and call it a gift.'

He held it within her reach. 'It can stay here,' he said. 'You can leave it.' She watched the thread continue to rest across his fingers without fastening itself. Then she held her sound hand near it, still open, and waited.

⸻

Caldrex blinked. His face held long enough for them to see bewilderment there. He looked from the offered strand to the crossings, searching for a new centre, a new arrangement in which he could recognise his old position.

'What are you doing?' he asked. The two tones had become quieter. Neither the Doctor nor Ava mistook the question for consent to anything that might follow.

The Doctor's smile was small and uncertain. He kept his hand where Ava could reach it, not where she would have to take it to help him. His thumb throbbed inside its bandage.

'Letting the Loom remember someone new.' Ava looked sharply at him. 'On my terms.' He nodded. The strand stirred toward her palm, then stopped when she drew her hand back. She tried the movement once more. It waited again.

She hesitated. She had been made into a witness, a route, a point in other people's arguments. She wanted no grander version of the same arrangement. 'I can put it down,' she said. The Doctor answered honestly: 'You must be able to. If it won't let you, we deal with that together.'

Then she took it. She used her sound hand and left her fingers open. The thread lay there with a faint warmth, turning once when she turned her palm. She lifted it, lowered it, and felt no demand to bring the whole chamber with her.

At that moment the last returning line in Caldrex's form came loose. Ava saw it leave his wrist and run outward through the crossings. She looked up from her hand before the Doctor could speak.

Caldrex vanished. The place where he had stood retained the shape of his shadow for a fraction of a second. The Doctor reached toward it, too late to touch anything, and stopped with his hand extended into ordinary empty space.

They heard no cry of pain. Ava refused to let the absence of a cry become an answer about where he had gone. She searched the chamber's rim, the crossings and the open TARDIS door.

There was no final outburst of rage, either. No sentence arrived to make his disappearance easier to understand. The Doctor called his name once. Only the chamber returned it.

The counterclaim had lost the privileged claim it needed to oppose. That much they had seen happen. It did not tell them what a person's life was worth, or what had become of Caldrex when the form sustaining his contest no longer held him there.

⸻

Silence followed. Ava clipped the sonic back to her belt before looking again at the thread. She needed one familiar fastening to work exactly as it had worked before they entered.

The Loom spun slowly. A broken crossing near the rim joined itself without seeking the Doctor's hand. Another remained open. He watched both, resisting the temptation to call the first one a promise about the second.

Its light was calm enough now to show blood on his thumb bandage and the tear over Ava's knee. Nothing in the chamber asked them to admire those small injuries. They could finally attend to them.

The Doctor looked at Ava. 'Can you walk?' She tested her leg. 'Yes. Slowly. Can you?' He leaned against the dais and considered the distance to his coat. 'Slowly sounds excellent.'

She held the thread gently while he retrieved the coat and glove. It seemed ready to move if she moved, but she could not tell whether it would ever sing. For now its silence suited her.

'What now?' she asked. There were people beyond the chamber with altered records, interrupted lives and reasons not to trust either a reassuring light or his account of it. He did not try to list their needs from here.

He smiled at her, tired enough to let the expression fade naturally. 'We get back to the ship. We write down what we actually saw. Then we find out what still needs doing.'

He glanced once toward the empty place where Caldrex had stood. 'And now,' he said, 'we let this story rest.' Ava took the first careful step toward the doors. This time he followed her pace.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Loom Sleeps Quietly

The Loom no longer shone fiercely enough to hide its edges. Ava could see the rim of the dais, the scrape her sonic had made, a little blood drying in the grain of the surface. She moved her foot away from it. Until then she had been standing as though another step might begin the whole struggle again.

The light had become a low, steady glow. Threads crossed overhead at different speeds, each finding room for its own course. Some places remained ragged. The Doctor watched one loose end for a while, then stopped watching when it became clear that his attention could do nothing useful for it. The hum was soft enough for Ava to hear him breathe.

Caldrex was gone. They had looked along the rim and beneath the crossings without finding a path, a body or anything they could follow. The Doctor had called once more and received no answer. Now he stood with the knowledge he had, resisting the old habit of filling a silence with whichever explanation would let him leave most easily.

The counter-thread had dissolved into separate courses. Ava could no longer pick out the returning loop she had seen in his palm. She would remember it anyway: the hand nearly meeting the Doctor's, the strand brushing it aside. Those were things that had happened. Whatever they eventually learned about his disappearance would have to leave room for them.

The Doctor put his coat across his shoulders without trying to force his sore hand through its sleeve. The scorched glove remained in a pocket. His thumb had begun bleeding again, and he held a folded handkerchief against the bandage. Ava moved closer to inspect it. He offered the hand when she asked, then let her decide how tightly to wrap the cloth.

To do that, she had to put the new thread down. She laid it on the flat edge of the dais and took both hands away. It stayed where she left it. The relief was so immediate that she laughed, very softly, before attending to the Doctor's thumb. He heard the laugh, looked at the resting thread, and said nothing to spoil the experiment.

When she picked it up again, it curved across her sound palm. No crossing descended to attach itself to her shoulder. The Doctor moved aside to give her room, and the chamber allowed him to move. Ava thought of all the things she might do without either of them being asked to explain why she was the proper person to do them.

'I'm not keeping it because you offered,' she said. He looked at her, then nodded. 'Good.' She turned the strand over, testing its warmth with the back of one finger. 'And I'm not refusing it just to prove I can.' The Doctor's mouth lifted at one corner. 'That would be an exhausting way to choose breakfast.' She almost smiled back.

⸻

'I don't think I understand it.' Ava held the thread against the darker lining of her coat, trying to see whether it had a woven surface or only gave that impression. At one angle it looked like a length of ordinary cord. At another she lost the middle of it entirely while both ends remained between her fingers.

The Doctor smiled. 'That's fine.' She waited. He looked down at the thread and opened his mouth, then closed it. For the first time since they had entered the chamber, she felt no need to help him find a sentence. She was quite prepared to see whether he could survive leaving one unfinished.

'You usually follow that with an explanation,' she said at last. 'Several explanations. Then a warning that the first three weren't technically explanations.' He considered this. 'The third one generally contains a diagram.' 'Which you draw on something we're using.' He glanced toward the handkerchief around his thumb. 'I shall exercise restraint.'

He looked away toward the crossings. The thread in Ava's hand belonged to that place, but he had no right to invent instructions for it. He could describe what they had observed: that it waited, could be put down, responded to her movement. He told her those things, carefully, and distinguished them from what he hoped they meant.

'So no explanation this time?' 'Not a complete one.' He rested his sound hand on the dais. 'I can help you find out. You can ask someone else. You can spend a day doing something with no threads in it at all.' Ava closed her fingers loosely around the strand. That last possibility sounded unexpectedly luxurious.

They let the silence remain for a while. Ava tested her injured knee and found that standing still was making it stiff. The Doctor saw the movement and shifted his weight to match her readiness to go. Before they started, she looked at the face she knew, at how tired it could be without becoming unfamiliar, and asked the question that had been waiting beneath the others.

'Do you regret it?' His gaze went at once to the place where Caldrex had stood. She understood why and did not rush to correct him. There were answers to that question which belonged to him, whether or not they were the answers she had intended to ask for.

'The Loom? Caldrex?' He rubbed a trace of dried blood from the side of his hand with the edge of the cloth. 'Some things I did. Some things I kept doing because I knew how to do them.' He glanced at her. 'Leaving you to hold the way open after you'd told me to stop. I regret that. It wasn't mine to decide.'

'I know.' She did not say it was all right. He did not ask her to. 'But I meant being unified. Carrying it all.' The hum moved through a lower note. Ava felt it in her soles and wondered how much of his life could arrive that way: a sound first, then a place, then something he had not been ready to remember.

The Doctor took a long breath. 'It doesn't all arrive when I ask. Sometimes I remember a smell and lose the street. Sometimes I know that I hurt someone before I can remember the words.' He looked at his bandaged thumb. 'Having lived a long time doesn't make me a reliable witness to every minute of it.'

'I don't regret being them,' he said. 'But I do sometimes miss becoming them.' He considered how that sounded. 'The changes. Waking to a different face and having to notice ordinary things again. How a cup sat in my hand. What made me laugh. It was my life each time, but a beginning could make me pay attention.'

Ava nodded slowly. 'You can still be surprised by breakfast.' 'Apparently I can be surprised by advice about breakfast.' 'It's versatile.' This time his smile stayed. She understood the longing better when it concerned a cup, a face, a habit that might be changed; she had less patience for the idea that newness had to cost him everything.

'You don't need a new face to learn how to sit down,' she said. He looked toward the TARDIS, whose doorway still waited at the rim. 'You make a persuasive case.' 'I intend to be unbearable about it.' They began walking before either could turn the exchange into a promise larger than the day could hold.

⸻

They walked back together at the pace of two people pretending for the first few steps that they were less sore than they were. Then Ava shortened her stride. The Doctor did the same. He offered his elbow where the surface dipped, and she took it with her sound hand, the thread lying between her palm and his sleeve.

Nothing rose to bar the way. The coat slipped from his shoulder once; they stopped to arrange it properly rather than carry the nuisance to the door. Ava held one sleeve open while he eased his hand through. He thanked her. It was a small, ordinary delay, and they were allowed to take it.

No final threat followed them across the dais. Ava looked back because she wanted to remember how the place actually appeared, not because some instinct warned her of movement. The light was uneven. The empty space remained empty. She would not later remember a perfect chamber if she could help it. There had been damage, and there had also been a way out.

The ship welcomed them with warm air and a strip of light along the floor. Ava felt her shoulders lower as soon as she could smell the console room. An amber repair indicator still glowed beside the isolated shield circuit. The Doctor looked at it, started to turn, then stopped when the TARDIS darkened the adjoining service panel. The repair could wait until his hand could hold a tool.

Ava paused on the threshold, half inside, holding the thread away from the doorframe. It crossed into the ship without catching or brightening. Behind her the Doctor waited with one hand on the jamb. She could tell that he wanted to sit down now; she could also tell that he would stand there until she had asked what she needed to ask.

'Where does this go now?' She lifted the strand slightly. The question meant more than a storage place. She had accepted something at the heart of the Loom, and the distance from there to an ordinary shelf felt enormous. She did not want to spend the rest of her travels carrying it as though any moment of forgetfulness might betray an appointment.

He answered without hesitation, though he could give no destination. His hand remained on the doorframe instead of reaching for the thread. Ava noticed that, just as she had noticed every involuntary reach toward a problem he could solve faster if she would let him take it. This time he left the space between them clear.

'Wherever you take it.' He followed her glance toward a small tray beside the console. 'Including there, while we find something for your knee.' Ava set it in the tray. The TARDIS doors closed gently behind them. For several seconds nobody touched the gift at all, and the ship continued to hum.

She looked up. 'That's remarkably undramatic.' 'I can add a flourish.' 'Please don't.' He went to the first-aid drawer and found it already standing open. There were clean dressings, water and a pair of scissors with handles large enough for his good hand. Ava pulled a low stool into the light. 'You first,' she said, pointing at his thumb.

While she loosened the old bandage, she returned to the question. 'You're not going to guide it?' He winced when the cloth lifted from the cut, and she paused. He told her to continue. She waited for a second, clearer answer before she did, and he gave it. Then he considered what she had asked about the thread.

He shook his head. 'I'll tell you if I think something's dangerous. I'll explain what makes me think so. You'll still have to decide whether I'm right.' He watched her lay the bloodied cloth on the tray's empty side. 'That's advice I should have been giving all along, instead of arranging things until agreement was the easiest way through.'

'I think I've been guiding too long.' Ava secured the fresh dressing and sat down to tend her knee. 'You can start by passing the water.' He did. They cleaned the scrape, found a dressing that would bend with her leg, and checked that her wrist support had not shifted. His own knee needed rest more than another experiment. Neither of them called this recovery finished.

⸻

Inside the console room, with the used dressings cleared away, Ava stood before the interface. The Doctor had left his coat over a rail and written a short account of the chamber on a loose sheet: what they had seen, what they had done, what they did not know. She added the near-touch of Caldrex's hand, which he had recorded only as an interrupted offer.

Then she adjusted a few controls. A shallow brass wheel moved freely under her hand; a neighbouring lever refused to travel beyond its first notch. She stopped trying to force it. A light came on beside a different dial, and she tried that instead. From the jump seat the Doctor watched without converting every pause into a lesson.

These were not the coordinates. Those waited on a separate panel, along with warnings she had no intention of dismissing merely because the chamber had grown quiet. She turned back to him. 'If I do something that will break us, speak.' 'Certainly.' 'If I do something you'd do differently, give me a moment.' He folded his hands where she could see them.

The controls shaped the manner of departure: how sharply they entered the current, how much the ship resisted its changes, how soon she looked for a place to settle. Ava thought of it as tone. She wanted a journey with room to recover inside it. The TARDIS answered by slowing a rising column of light. Ava waited, then made one smaller adjustment.

The thread pulsed once in the tray. She turned toward it, let go of the wheel and waited to see whether the ship's rhythm changed. It did not. The strand had responded to something, but a single pulse could not tell her what. She went to pick it up because she wanted it near her, not because it had summoned her.

It was not speaking. No words appeared behind her eyes; no remembered voice offered to become her own. She ran the length gently between finger and thumb and found that it would take a loose loop without tightening. When she pulled the loop open, it opened. 'Would you help me with a clasp?' she asked the Doctor.

He found a small cloth fastening in the repair drawer and offered two sizes. She chose the wider one, worked the strand into a soft band, and let him secure the fastening around her uninjured wrist. Its glow dulled against her skin. She slipped a finger beneath it to test the fit, then undid it once. The gift would come off when she wanted it to.

The Doctor watched her fasten it again. He offered no name for it. Instead he returned the unused clasp to its compartment and closed the drawer. Ava went back to the controls wearing the quiet woven bracelet above her cuff. The old sonic remained on her belt. She liked that they were two different things, neither obliged to explain the other.

He caught his reflection in the dark navigation panel. Light brown hair lay untidily against his forehead; the white at the chin of his beard showed sharply under the console light. He still looked about forty-five. The tiredness in that face was familiar, but he did not immediately think of a way to work around it. He turned from the reflection and searched for somewhere to put his foot up.

Before settling, he stepped away from the console and put the written account in a folder. On the front he wrote that the wider damage still needed checking. Ava read the words, added a question mark beside one claim inside, and handed it back. He accepted the correction. They had made something they could return to after rest, instead of trusting exhaustion to preserve every detail.

Ava looked over when he reached for the empty mugs near the seat. 'There's water in the kettle,' she said. 'I can do that bit.' He glanced at his thumb. 'I was about to insist.' 'I noticed.' She set the flight controls at rest, waited for the answering light, and went with him to the small counter.

'Not flying?' she asked while the water heated. From here she could see the console without standing under its lights. It felt strange to be permitted to leave an unfinished decision alone for the length of a kettle boiling. The Doctor leaned against the counter, taking the weight off his bad leg. 'Do you need me to?'

She considered the question properly. 'I need you available.' He smiled. 'That I can do.' She measured the tea, then asked him where the strainer was. He pointed to the wrong drawer, remembered, and corrected himself before she had opened it. She gave him a look. 'Available,' he said, 'with occasional amendments.'

'But no,' he said as she returned to the console. 'I'm riding.' He carried only his own mug, using his good hand, and took the long way round the rail instead of stepping over its low brace. Ava saw the choice. She had spent enough time asking him to slow down to know how much of that work consisted of letting him do it without applause.

She smiled back and set her mug in a holder. 'Then you get no complaints about my route until we've tried it.' He began to answer, considered her face and merely raised his cup. The TARDIS gave a soft upward note. Ava looked from the ship's lights to him. 'She agrees with me.' He wisely left that interpretation alone.

'All right, then.' Ava rested her hand on the brass wheel. She waited for the slow pulse the ship had shown her, breathed through one full interval and turned it a little. The lever that had resisted before moved under her fingers. She did not push it to the end of its travel. The first notch was enough to begin.

⸻

The TARDIS lifted gently into the Vortex. Ava felt the departure through the soles of her boots before she saw the change on the screen. The chamber's soft light fell away behind them. She looked back once toward the closed doors, then returned her attention to the controls and the patient rise of the central column.

There was no jolt. The tea remained inside both mugs. The Doctor watched its surface with an expression of such serious gratitude that Ava nearly laughed. A loose spoon rolled a few centimetres across the counter and stopped against the kettle. That was the entire disorder of their departure, and neither of them felt cheated.

The ride stayed smooth. It was tempting to imagine the quiet Loom laying a road for them, smoothing every difficulty ahead. Ava could also see the small corrections the TARDIS made without either passenger asking. She thanked the ship aloud. The Doctor followed her example, resting his palm briefly on the warm rail beside his seat.

Outside the viewport, stars held steady for a moment before stretching into the colours of the current. Ava did not search them for a destination she could turn into a promise. Somewhere there would be a place to land when they were ready. For now the ship was travelling, her knee was dressed, and the next breath came easily.

Soft music began in an old speaker. The first note crackled. The Doctor looked up, evidently recognising something, then frowned when the next phrase went elsewhere. 'Different arrangement,' he said. Ava touched the volume control until the music sat beneath the engine hum. Whatever tune he remembered could wait alongside the one that was actually playing.

He settled on the jump seat with his fresh tea. Out of habit he tried to cross his legs, thought better of it, and stretched the sore one along a cushion instead. The mug fitted comfortably in his sound hand. A little steam passed across his glasses. He took them off, laid them safely beside him and let the room become less sharply edged.

'Where to, Captain Reyes?' Ava turned her head at the title. 'Are you going to salute?' 'It would endanger the tea.' 'Then I accept your restraint.' She looked back at the console. Being asked felt different from being presented with a course and invited to admire it. She allowed herself time to enjoy that difference before answering.

She spun a dial through a small arc and watched the TARDIS choose a gentler branch of the current. The bracelet lay quiet against her wrist. No name appeared, no completed adventure offered itself for inspection. She loosened her grip when the dial stopped, letting the ship hold what they had chosen together.

'Somewhere that's unwritten,' she said. She meant somewhere they would have to discover by arriving, asking, getting things wrong and paying attention. There would be people there whose lives had begun before either traveller appeared. For once she did not feel required to decide who she would be to them in advance.

The Doctor raised his mug. He had left enough tea below the rim to manage the gesture without spilling. Ava lifted hers from its holder and turned so they could see each other. The room was warm. The music kept its unhurried pace. Neither of them added a condition to the small ceremony.

'To the unwritten.' She touched her mug lightly to his. The sound was almost lost beneath the engines, but they both heard it. Then she returned to the console, and he took a sip of tea while it was still hot.

The TARDIS disappeared into possibility. Inside, the Doctor rested his head against the seat, Ava watched the quiet lights, and the loose spoon stayed exactly where it had stopped.