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Romana was tired. Always so overwhelmingly tired. Technically, she had been like this since Etra Prime, but it seemed like every year it got even worse. Ordinary politics had been bad enough before juggling intergalactic relations, which had been exhausting even before Pandora, from which her nerves and cognitive processing had never fully recovered. The Axis had been a source of constant stress, but at least she’d been able to rest at night. And then the other Gallifrey was even worse than back home, between fighting to reach even her own planet’s baseline levels of ethics and the constant fear of being discovered.
And then there had been the daleks. She’d needed it, the revenge, but after that the nightmares returned for the first time in years.
Any job other than President should have provided a much-needed rest, but somehow even the CIA was now in a constant fight not to give in to the whims of trigger-happy leaders. She heard the word dalek a dozen times a day and, yes, it was easier now, but the sound still sent a jolt through her like the ghost of an electric shock.
She hadn’t slept at all since Ace died. Not more than a few minutes dozing in her chair, at any rate. Someone else she’d gotten killed, just one more, but this one was different. There had been something about Ace, and not just the connection to the Doctor. Romana saw something of what her own potential had been, once, in this human. They had talked, the way Romana had hoped it would be with Narvin and Leela once they returned and drifted into their own lives again.
(One time, Ace had expressed surprise that the daleks were still around to start this war after the Doctor had destroyed them all and their planet with the Hand of Omega. Oh, how Romana missed him that night.)
But Ace was dead and Romana wasn’t sleeping. She’d started seeing daleks in the shadows around corners. The shimmering barrier overhead no longer felt solid enough to protect her. She no longer even bothered returning to her room, dozing in her office chair once a week or so. She missed Leela, the easy way she had of making everything feel simple and clear, but she never came around anymore and seemed only to call with official liaison business. Romana suspected she had done something to anger her again, but there never seemed to be time to figure it out. She was always too busy fighting not to get the universe destroyed in some harebrained War Council plan.
Narvin was here, technically, but Romana found she couldn’t stand him suddenly. Not quite in the mistrusting way of simpler times; it was just that everything he said annoyed her.
She just wanted to be left alone.
She was so lonely.
There’s only one way this ends . The thought ran through her head as it did ten times a day. They didn’t understand. They didn’t get it and she wanted to scream and tear at her hair.
Her hands stayed at her sides.
Her steps tapped evenly down the deserted hall.
Hundreds of Time Lords had seen daleks now. Many of them had died (and been brought back) at the ends of dalek guns. But it was all so...so quick. So bloodless. Pain and fear, but with room remaining for rage. For hope, even.
But if they took Gallifrey? If they had the Time Lords at their mercy to destroy as they saw fit?
She had seen what daleks considered fun. It would not be quick.
She was so tired.
She was so alone.
And, suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the corridor. Dark spots played at the edge of her vision, and she put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Take a deep breath. Just another panic attack.
But no. This was different. She couldn’t keep her eyes open…
She felt the floor hit her shoulder, but then there was nothing at all .
Romana opened her eyes. Everything hurt, even more than normal. Light was reflecting off the polished floor directly into her face.
Why was she on the floor?
How long had she been here?
She pushed herself up, and—
And for a moment, she was 300 again and in a dark cell struggling to sit up, struggling to prove she was still strong enough.
But only for a moment. Deep breath. Remind herself but quietly now, only in her head.
My name is Romanadvoratrelundar. I am 624. I am Coordinator of the CIA. I am free, and strong, and—and Rassilon, my ribs hurt.
It was probably worrying that it was only then that she noticed that she’d fallen all the way down one of the small flights of stairs scattered around the Citadel. Well, it might have been worrying. She really had no sense for that anymore; she was always forgetting or missing things she probably should have noticed.
Keeping one hand pressed to her ribs, Romana raised the other and rubbed at a new bruise on her head. Great. Now she was alone, tired, and hurting in a distracting and urgent way (as opposed to the dull background ways she usually hurt).
Alone in an empty corridor, Romana had to cling to the wall to pull herself up. Maybe she would stumble to her room tonight after all, instead of back to the office where she might be seen.
It was a good reminder (put her bad leg down, test it, grit her teeth). She needed reminding (limp slowly away, head thick and spinning). She couldn’t be allowed to forget.
No one ever came for her.