How The Cancer Man survived.
A short Doctor Who\X-Files crossover
by Adrian Tullberg (email@example.com)
My own take on how the Cancer Man managed to bleed half his guts on the floor and be hale and hearty at the end of the season. I don't know if how much this has been covered in alt.tv.x-files.creative, but I'm posting it anyway.
Spoilers:The End. Other misc. episodes (I don't watch the X-Files that much) Continued on from _The Truth Is Out There, but Who Knows_, my first piece of fan fiction. (Could somebody tell me if this piece clashes with X-files continuity?)
Classification. G, PG-13 at a stretch.
The man lay in a steadily growing pool of his own blood.
Sniper. Textbook shot, straight through the left lung, the tightening in his chest indicating that the round nicked his heart on route. The man chuckled, at his appreciation of the shot which was going to take his life.
Perhaps it was a blessing that he was conscious - well, partially - that he had the opportunity to know that he was going to die very soon. A blessing that he could evaluate and take stock of his life.
Or maybe not. There were some things in his past that he really didn't want to look at.
His vision greying again. Blood loss. The shock was numbing the wound. A blessing? Nature's anesthetic? Then vague halucinations. A groaning noise, similar to intense wind.
Perhaps it wasn't right to question biology while his faculties were impared. Painlessness and Muzac.
The man chuckled, softly, in his solitude.
Voices. One young female and loud, the other male, older and - Scottish?
"Hey, Professor! Check out all this blood!"
"Not now Ace. Press your hand against the wound with this - like so - very good. I'll find something to bind it with."
Something pressed against his chest. Cloth. His sense of time was distorting. The man's voice again. He had the habit of rolling his ` r's'
"No other wounds. Let's get him in."
"Hang on - I thought you wanted to get him to a hospital?"
"There's no time. Grab his legs, and lift on three."
A momentary blackout. Then a sense of movement. The man chanced opening his eyes. A woman in a silk jacket covered with badges was holding his legs. He couldn't see the Scottish man who was at his shoulders.
A blue doorway.
A rush of consciousness. He was lying down, and there was a scent of disinfectant.
The man chanced opening his eyes. A hospital? White curtains, white walls. An odd motif, with large white circles inset along the walls in parallel lines.
He decided to turn his head. A high tech variant of a dialysis machine was connected to a single IV in his arm. Bandages swathed his chest.
The girl was watching him suspiciously.
The man managed a thin, weak smile.
"You saved my life."
The girl shrugged. Her accent was English. "I helped. It was the Professor who did the work. It was strange, ` cause I knew that he didn't like you."
The man nodded, mind beginning to calculate. "Really."
"He did the surgery, y'know. Took out the bullet, and sewed all the bits up that were cut up."she recounted the events with the ghoulish glee that only a teenager could muster.
The man nodded again, thinking. Obviously not a professional. Too young. It was `the Professor' who was the leader and the brains here.
He racked his mind for any Professor that was on the Syndicate's payroll. He knew a few, but none of them were surgically qualified. An outside group then - but who?
"I still owe you something."
Another shrug from the girl. "I've got enough here, y'know?"
"Well, could you tell me your name?"
"Ace. What about you?"
The man was just about to tell her when old habits kicked in. He decided to be creative. "Would you believe that I have no name?"
To his mild surprise, the girl nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I don't like my name. I guess the Professor didn't either."
Again, the Professor.
"Can I meet him?"
"You can meet him right now."
The Scottish voice. The man turned, to see. Framed in the doorway was a little man. He was Caucasian, dark and middle aged. Striped trousers, c ream jacket, a small scarf draped over his shoulders. A woolen pullover covered in a pattern of hundreds of multi-coloured question marks. A straw hat perched on his head.
The man instantly recognized him. A slight thrill of fear.
Not a professor.
The newcomer ignored the patient, and went straight to Ace. "Ace, I told you; when he wakes up, tell me immediately."
A childish whine. "We were just talking ..."
"Ace!"A short sharp slap of authority which silenced the girl. Then The Doctor spoke more softly. "Please go to the control room, and tell me when we've reached our destination."
"Okay."A short sigh, then the girl went out. The Doctor cautiously watched her leave, then turned to the man, taking a wicker chair that was nearby and sitting down. He produced a black umbrella which sported a red handle shaped like a question mark - it even had a little red ball situated down the shaft - and leaned over it, his dark gaze centred clearly on the man's own.
"I've gone to a lot of trouble to keep you alive. I would appreciate it if you didn't talk to Ace while you were here."
The man struggled to a partial sitting position. "What could I do to her?"
"Let's just say she's had enough bad influences in her life already, I'd rather not compound them."
The man got comfortable. Where he was suddenly clicked. "This is the TARDIS?"
The Doctor nodded. "I waited until the sniper left, then materialised inside your apartment. We took you in and into the infirmary. I operated, then placed you into a bio-stimulus capsule to promote regeneration of the damaged organs. You've been asleep for three days."
The Man nodded. He started to probe where he remembered the shot, and felt only slight tenderness. He was experiencing little metal fuzziness so there was no anesthetic being used.
The Doctor waited for the enevitable question. "Why?"
"There is nothing I'd rather have done then let a monster like you live. Unfortunately, you still have a role to play in this tale."
The man couldn't resist a grin. "Every hero needs a villain."
Another tactic. "How long has it been for you?"
A pause. "Sorry?"
"How long since we last met? For you that is, time travel being subjectively different."
A cautious reply. "As far as I know, we've never met."
The Man was worried. "You were in a different form then, but it was you-"
The man thought. "Younger and taller. Long brown hair, cravat, nineteenth century blue frock coat-"
A smile. "Ah. My replacement."
"I'm meeting you in my future but in your past?"
A casual shrug. "And for me, it will happen in reverse - your past, my future. Unavoidable."
"Hopefully, that'll never happen to you again."
The man probed his wounds. "Your diagnosis?"
"You'll be up and about in a few hours. Wait for the nanites to finish their work."The Doctor pointed to the machine, which was connected to The Man. "When that machine tones, you can get up. Clothes are over there." An arm extended to some clothing on a chair.
The Doctor left. The Man looked around, and saw nothing to read or do. He emptied his mind and tried to sleep.
The machine woke him up, and he dressed in winter clothes. The Man was escorted down endless white corridors with the circle motif, and eventually taken out through a large room with a hexagonal control panel shaped like a large mushroom.
The vehicle was, paradoxically, vast inside, while sporting the exterior of a wooden phone booth - no, Police Box. The man had read countless reports from a UNIT mole, but the reality still shocked him.
The Doctor and Ace had led him to a house. Wood, a cabin really. The Man automatically checked the windows and found endless fields of snow.
"We're in Canada. The house is bought under a false name. There's supplies and clothing, hot and cold running water, cured wood - enough to keep you going for a few months."
The Man turned. "Then what?"
"Oh, I know you'll think of something."
The Man nodded. The Doctor turned to his vehicle, then back, pointing to a speaker. "There's several proximity sensors outside, it'll give you some warning if anybody comes knocking."
With that, The Doctor entered his vehicle. Ace hesitated for a moment. "I've never known the Professor to take this much trouble. Who are you?"
The man sighed. "Part of destiny it seems. I have no friends, no family - a little power."
Ace hestitated, then she reached into her pocket, and withdrew something. "I found these at your place. I didn't want The Doctor to see them - he'd have a major wobbly. "
The Man took the items. A Bico and a packet of Morleys. He pocketed the items with a smile.
"Thank you Ace."
A grin. Then she walked back into the Police Box.
The wooden booth started to emit a weird sound - a wheezing, groaning, electromechanical reverberation. The man watched as the TARDIS disappeared, without comment.
The man spent a month there. No newspapers, no radio, no television. No electricity. A wide variety of books in several different languages and three pounds of candles. He would take walks around the mountain range. He saw a nearby township, bu t was worried about going there. Somebody could be waiting for him. He still managed to get close enough to steal a gun, however.
What could be seen as paranoia for others was simple common sense for him. His power was greatly compromised if somebody dared take a shot at him.
Apart from that, his solitude was spent healing.
Until the precious peace was broken.
The Doctor and Ace were in a large American city. Ace spent nearly a hundred dollars on `South Park' videos. The Doctor went to a phone booth, and dialed a ten digit number from memory, without the need for coins. His tone was soft, but to the point. In less than a minute the location of The Man was given to the people who either would hurt him or need him.
The Man was surprised, but the proximity sensors worked beautifully. Allowed him to kill an intruder and get away.
The other was younger and more fearful of his employers. However - the powers that tried to kill him needed his services. Realised however his faults, they still needed someone of his talents.
The Man left behind the cabin - but would look in from time to time.
He now knew that his position had shifted - for the better. Somehow, they were coming to him, even though he could be a liability.
He would return. At a price.
The Man smiled mirthlessly as he took a cigarette and smoked for the first time in a month.
Whatever he had to do, he would fulfil a destiny that only the man who rescued him knew about.
The show must go on. No matter what.
Dedicated to Slyvester McCoy, the Seventh Doctor.
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