2.47…

2.47…

He's not sure why this number keeps repeating in his head. Doesn't seem to mean anything.

Nothing seems to mean much of anything. Not sure who he is or why he's in this box (TARDIS?) that's bigger on the inside. Not sure why he doesn't know or why he doesn't want to find out.

He knows how to drive it, fly it, whatever it is that it does, so that's what he does – flies, travels from place to place (time to time) and never stops.

Stopping is bad.

His skin feels strange, like it doesn't quite fit. Legs are too long. Face under his fingers is unfamiliar, but mirrors scare him, so he doesn't look.

Just keep moving, keep flying, keep running – to what? From what? Doesn't matter where, doesn't matter why.

Fixing the machine is good. He knows what to do with all the gadgets under the console. When he works on it, the need to run lessens, the fire and screaming fade. Keep fixing, keep moving, keep running…

Sleeping is bad. Crowds are bad. He stops in one place and bonfires are burning and then there are fireworks. He thinks he blacked out, because he finds himself in a closet in his traveling machine, buried under a pile of blankets, and the screams he hears are his own.

He does not leave his ship for a long, long time after that.

And then one day, after months or years or decades of travel (no reason to keep track) he makes a mistake. One tragic error.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the shiny surface of the panel he was replacing.

He stares at the face, at the cropped head, the hollow cheeks, the deep pits that are the eyes, and suddenly he knows, remembers.

Remembers who he is.

Understands the burning and the screams.

Knows what the number is. What it represents.

2.47.

Billion.

And his mind slips anchor and drifts away, into dark waters and raging storms.

Safe harbor is only found in the hand of a golden girl.