Doctor Who fan fiction – A New Regeneration
By Chameleon
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I’m not the world’s biggest Doctor Who fan. I liked it well enough as a kid and still watch it from time to time, but when I heard the announcement that the next Doctor Who was going to be a woman, I trotted out this little tale...
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The blast that knocked him out the sky had already wounded him savagely – The Doctor knew he was certainly going to die. The only question that remained was how to put that to best use.
He’d been trying to flee the planet. Using an old biplane was probably ambitious but the modifications had given it enough lift to reach the alien viewing platform in low orbit. It was where the Tardis was still hidden, where he needed to get back to if he was going to do anything about this insidious plot.
But the Cryll guard monitoring the ground station had seen him, had shot him down. Surviving the crash was challenge enough – a matter of skilful piloting. When your craft is a blazing fireball, nothing left of your wings but a fractured skeletal frame, then a controlled crash-landing is the best you can hope for. When your enemy is following your decent, continuing to fire at you with a particle beam cannon, your chances of survival rapidly drop to zero.
And here he was now, tied to a chair, titanium alloy by the feel of it. Leather bands strapped him down at wrist, throat, waist and ankle. Well, on the bright side, at least he’d now located the enemy’s ground station too.
The Cryll had wandered off prepping for the upcoming invasion plan. As per their practice, a Cryll scout team consisted of only a single warrior. He would have a main ship hidden nearby, an adjacent planet perhaps or a moon. It would establish a small base, cloaked, above the planet itself. And then another down on the surface.
The Doctor now had the location of both the ground and orbital station, and once back on the Tardis, locating the ship would be simple. That was, if he hadn’t been captured, tied to a chair and left to be tortured to death.
Every move was agony. Even if the crash hadn’t wrecked his body, this torture device would make short work of anyone – even him. A sadistic piece of machinery, the Cryll warrior had placed it beneath the chair and activated it. A short-wave pulse radiated up through The Doctor’s body, making his very bones quake. His wounds had no chance to heal, not under these conditions. Turn the amplifier up even more and it would tear him apart at an almost atomic level.
He reviewed his options. He sighed. It seemed that death was inevitable and the only question that was left to him was how to make best use of it. He stopped fighting the pain, stopped struggling against his bonds, stopped hanging on to life. With certainty came enlightenment. He knew this broken and feeble body was in no state to combat his predicament. But a freshly generated form still might.
Let death come – let the regeneration cycle initiate. Let there be light.
With a rush of power he’d never get used to, The Doctor felt his body crumble away, but from within, a new form moulded. A snake shedding its skin, revealing something bright and real and raw beneath.
Potency solidified, the power gushed, and The Doctor gasped what was a new breath into new lungs – heart thumping fresh blood around new limbs. And what limbs. The strength in them. More than simple youth, The Doctor’s previous form had been older and admittedly, less sprightly than a young man, but this was so much more than the flush of youth. More even than the still thrumming potency of the regeneration. In his dying, he’d had particular requirements for his new body, and they had been delivered in no uncertain terms.
The Doctor wrenched at the bonds, flexing arms and legs. The strength was considerable indeed, this was a fighter’s body – that robust bloom of youth and vitality. The regeneration form, when born into crisis, adapts as needed. And this was certainly the case here.
With a sharp ripping sound first one then the other arm popped free of their bonds. Audible twangs as the leather bands snapped. Such relentless strength. Grabbing at the remaining restraints with brand new hands, The Doctor simply tore them away, relishing the sensation of this newly gifted brawn.
But it was more than sheer brute strength – this was not a macho, muscle-bound excess but a deeper inner core strength. Like a marathon runner’s need for endless stamina, the strength to keep going no matter what, to withstand anything thrown at it. Not a power to commit acts of brute force, but a power to endure them.
The wave amplifier was still active, still assaulting The Doctor with pulse after pulse of violent agony. It was a true test of one’s mettle. The machine was designed to sap a victim’s strength and to do so in the most painful way imaginable. The idea of escaping the bonds was almost unthinkable – to do so under such relentless assault virtually impossible. It would take a Gallifreyan at the absolute height of their strength and power to achieve it.
The Doctor slammed a heel down upon the generator, crushing it. The pain instantly ceased. Further stamps, accompanied by a furious shriek – something akin to a war-cry – and it was reduced to rubble.
The Cryll came running in, alerted to his enemy’s escape attempt, unbelievable though such a thing was. He looked in disbelief, not recognising the new being before him. Such shock however did not stop him from bringing his plasma cannon to bare.
The Doctor reacted immediately, a forearm knocking the warrior’s weapon aside and a sharp palm-strike to the face to knock him senseless. He may well have been genetically altered over generations to be a formidable warrior, but even so, the Cryll staggered backwards, reeling from the blow.
Without wasting a second, The Doctor picked up the Cryll’s dropped hand-cannon. It was immensely heavy but when the alien turned to see the weapon levelled at his head, the barrel did not so much as quiver. Even despite its tremendous weight, it was held rock steady.
“Don’t move!” Despite retaining a commanding demeanour on the outside, inwardly The Doctor was instantly struck by the voice. It was sweetly lyrical, rich, eloquent and noble. A voice that perfectly suited her new body.
But the Cryll wasn’t interested in being captured and true to his nature, he made a grab for a toggle on his armoured chest. The Doctor dived aside as the impact explosion ripped through the Cryll’s body. A fireball erupted, incinerating the warrior in a brief but intense high burn.
The Doctor stood again, smelt the singe of her new hair. She rolled her eyes.
But she was truly taken with her new form. Not the macho strength of an assailant but a hard-core athletic capacity for endurance and resilience. She’d transformed into the form best suited to environment and, though curious as to why she was now female, she certainly had no complaints.
She was shorter than she’d been, by almost half a foot, and she was relatively slender in this feminine form. But her body was solid and immensely strong. She felt a prowess raging through her form that was new and extremely exciting.
And she was by no means skinny. Some shirt buttons at the top had popped but not due to the sudden jut of breasts, though they certainly didn’t help much. But her lats were now so broad. The sleeves were tight around her upper arms, the seams about to pop. She felt her biceps – they were solid.
The Doctor smiled. She was fairly certain that she’d stopped the Cryll before he could contact his fleet and get going on the invasion. It was almost a cause for regret. With her new warrior’s body she was ready to take them all on, all by herself.
