WARNING: Disturbing stuff here, actually a little bit graphic, not because I’m trying to be grotesque but because I wanted the hardship to have reality. If you’re terribly squeamish, I suggest skipping over the italicized bits that are in the first section.
This is just as dark as Part One. Maybe more so. Part Three, which will be the final part (most likely), will also be PURE FLUFFY GOODNESS (as the original anon’s ask requested), so don’t let this one get you too down. It ain’t over.
Your hand healed. Nothing had really changed, you thought, except that now you were angry. This body had a tendency to be that way. Your first body might not have taken so much offence at that rude Gallifreyan’s condescension, but this body… it had been born from fiery pain. It was the result of years and years of independence and loneliness and living on the highs of everything near-immortality could offer. This body would not be talked down to. You had lived alone for almost all of your life, and you had seen terrible things, and done things that no one else in the universe had ever done, and you were still young.
Some part of you, maybe the childish part, wanted to say, “We’ll show him!” and do just that. It wanted to prove that you were more than a child, that you could be clever and useful and adult. But the rest of you, the much stronger part, knew that you didn’t have to prove a single thing, and certainly not to him. You had lived with strength all this time, without help and without him.