Jonas walked Patchwork and R2 through the corridors of the TARDIS.
They had just exited the workshop—the room where Patchwork had been assembled and brought online—though Jonas couldn't quite remember what Hermione had called it. From there, he began the tour in earnest. He showed them the parts room and pointed out the door to the so-called "nightmare room," though he didn't dare go in. Not yet.
He led them through the main gallery, across the expansive central control chamber, and down a branching hallway where they found rooms prepared for each of them.
Patchwork's quarters had already been adapted—presumably by the TARDIS itself—making them spacious and easy for his tall frame and powerful limbs to navigate. R2's room was smaller but packed with specialized ports, self-repair tools, and modular components for upgrades or replacements. It was more than just a closet; it was a workspace, a home. Jonas had so many unused rooms that it just made sense to give one to the little droid. Why not? There was no shortage of space.
After that, Jonas took them topside—up to the planet's surface. The sun glowed faintly through the hazy sky as Jonas walked to the clearing where he always fished the multiverse. With a flick of his wrist, the red rod shimmered to life, forming a glowing portal pond. He cast the hook into it.
Patchwork stood beside him, observing silently. His right hand shifted shape, morphing into a makeshift tricorder—its fingers flattening into squared plates with blinking lights along the edges. R2 beeped and whirred softly as he scanned the portal as well.
Every so often, Patchwork glanced from Jonas to R2, and then back again.
"Captain Jonas," Patchwork said finally. "Forgive me, but I'm not sure I understand. If you already had this R2 unit functional and loyal, why did you need me—especially given how afraid of me you were?"
Jonas looked down at the droid, rested a hand lightly on R2's dome, and tapped it.
"Well, astromechs like R2 are great mechanics. They're versatile, they can repair ships and systems, and they're invaluable on the battlefield. But they aren't designed to innovate. They fix what's broken—assuming they have the schematics or the situation fits known protocols.
"You, on the other hand… you're something else. Your positronic matrix is the closest thing to a human brain I've ever seen. You can reason, adapt, and troubleshoot without a template. You have… creativity. Hermione said that was one of your most important traits—randomized, emergent thinking."
Jonas gestured at the TARDIS behind them.
"This ship isn't a fighter. It's not even a traditional spaceship. It's alive. Hermione said the secret of the TARDIS is that it's grown, not built. How exactly that worked, I couldn't tell you. But I watched her, on old videos in the Tardis's databank, feed it, material from the planet, bits of salvaged tech, even entire chunks of broken spacecraft. She stopped after a while, maybe because it had grown enough. Or maybe she was afraid of what it would become."
Patchwork raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying everything within the TARDIS… was grown?"
Jonas nodded slowly. "Yeah. I don't understand it all, but it's not a standard TARDIS, either. A normal TARDIS travels through time and space, anywhere in the universe. The Time Lords, when they ruled, had even managed interdimensional travel—splinter timelines, parallel realities. But that required enormous power, which they had in abundance… until they didn't."
He looked away for a moment, the weight of memory—or imagination—settling in.
"When they fell, when the Time Lords, Daleks, Cybermen, and half the old empires crumbled, so did their control over the dimensional web. Most TARDISes lost access to that multiversal network. But this one... I think it's different. Hermione's notes suggested it could still breach between realities. How? No idea. That's one of the things I need you to help me figure out."
Jonas gestured toward the ship. "I have what I think is the means to activate it. But I don't dare. Hermione, for all her genius, made a mistake. A fatal one. She and her friends—Ron, Harry… they didn't survive. I found their bodies. Just skeletons, really. I buried them over there."
He pointed to a small clearing. Three modest graves marked the spot.
"As for me, I'm not even close to Hermione's level. I won't pretend I understand how this thing works. I've been hoping to fish out a ship, something safe, something familiar."
He turned and pointed to a fabric tent that folded open at night and closed at dawn. Beside it sat a gleaming silver pod, alien and pristine.
"That's Kal-El's, Superman's Kryptonian infant escape pod. It's… well, it's meant for a baby. One Kryptonian child. I've tried to open it, but I can't. Even if I could, I wouldn't fit. Still, it's got everything a ship needs. Phantom Engines, from what I hear, are beyond incredible."
Patchwork walked over to inspect the pod. He ran scans, much like Jonas had done when he first discovered it.
The message was the same: "Non-biological life detected. You are prohibited from accessing this Kryptonian escape pod. Please cease infiltration attempts."
A sudden jolt of energy sparked through Patchwork's hand. He stepped back.
"Fascinating," he muttered. "Though highly uncooperative."
Then he turned back to Jonas.
"Do you know what Hermione used to grow her TARDIS, exactly?"
"I read some of her notes," Jonas said. "She had a kind of chute. She tossed all kinds of junk in—broken tech, fusion cores, scrap metal, alien machinery. It was like she was feeding it. Then one day she just… stopped. Maybe she had what she needed. Or maybe it got too big. I don't know."
Patchwork nodded thoughtfully.
"Then I would like to begin by reviewing her records. That would be the most logical starting point."
Jonas nodded and stood, brushing dust off his knees. "Yeah. That makes sense."
When Jonas stood up, he looked like he'd walked straight out of a galactic costume party.
His pants were comically baggy, tapering down awkwardly just above his bug boots. His shirt had a pirate-like flair, and over it, he wore what he liked to call a Han Solo vest, which, in his book, meant any completely black vest. No jewelry. No gear. Just his ridiculous outfit and his trusty red fishing rod.
"Well," he muttered, glancing down at himself, "guess we head back down."
He didn't fish for anything today; his mind wasn't on it. He wanted to show Patchwork how it worked; that was about it.
He thought about the ridiculous clothes he wore when he noticed Patchwork curiously gazing at them. Truthfully, he hadn't picked the outfit because he liked it. He'd chosen it because everything else was in a pile. A chaotic, towering, unsearchable pile of scavenged multiversal junk. That mess had been nagging at him lately.
He turned to Patchwork. "Hey, Patchwork, I'm going to call you Patch. Is that okay?"
Patchwork nodded without hesitation. "Yes, Captain. That's perfectly fine. Or, if you prefer, I can designate myself with a military call sign."
"Nah," Jonas said, shaking his head. "Patch works just fine."
"Very well, Captain."
"Patch," Jonas continued, "I think we need to build some robots. You know—cleanup bots, maintenance bots, something. The TARDIS is great at anticipating my needs for rooms and equipment, but she's not exactly Marie Kondo. Everything's just... dumped in heaps. If you go into the library, books are all over the place. No system. No order. Just spines in chaos."
Patch raised a brow. "She, you say?"
Jonas blinked. "Yeah. I guess I did."
"You're assigning a gender to the TARDIS?"
"Well... not exactly. I don't know if it's a she, a he, or an it. They're grown, yeah, organically or semi-organically, but that doesn't mean they have genders. Still, the Doctor called his TARDIS her, and ships get called her, so… maybe it stuck."
Patch tilted his head. "The Doctor? A Time Lord like yourself?"
Jonas laughed, loud and rough. "Oh, no. No, I'm not a Time Lord. The Doctor is a Time Lord. You can usually tell—two hearts, they regenerate when they're on death's doorstep. The thing is, when they regenerate, they change. Whole new appearance. New personality. Like a reboot with memories."
He paused, then added thoughtfully, "It's like dying, then waking up in a new body as a baby—but with the memories of your past lives. But the baby grows up differently. Still remembers, influenced by the past, but it's its own person. Honestly, it sounds awful."
Patch seemed intrigued. "But what if that change—the new persona—was still you, at the core? Expressed differently, yes, but still the same essence? And wouldn't experiencing life from multiple angles expand your understanding? Perhaps that's the reason the Time Lords evolved—or engineered—the regeneration ability."
Jonas shrugged. "Maybe. But according to some, they didn't evolve it. They stole it. Splice it into their genes from another race. Either way, even if it offered enlightenment, I don't want it. I like being me."
"Fascinating," Patch replied. "Still, perhaps you're not being entirely objective."
Jonas snorted. "Doesn't matter. I'm not a Time Lord. I'm human. Just a regular guy."
Patch blinked, and for the first time, his expression truly shifted into confusion.
"Captain," he said slowly, "you say you're human. Yet my scans show that you possess two hearts. Your biology doesn't fully match human norms—or Time Lord norms, for that matter. It's... strange."
Jonas stared at him. "Two hearts? That can't be right."
Patch nodded. "It is. Your vitals are consistent. Heart A and Heart B are both functioning."
Jonas laughed nervously. "That can't be right, I'm...I'm...I'm...well, I'm too stupid to be a Time Lord!"
Patch cocked his head. "Captain, respectfully, you're hardly stupid. You assembled me despite lacking formal training. That alone speaks to advanced problem-solving skills."
"That wasn't intelligence," Jonas muttered. "That was luck. I had Hermione's blueprints. I followed them like IKEA instructions. I'm no genius. I'm not even a smart human. Time Lords are born super-geniuses—like Einstein and Stephen Hawking had a baby with a quantum AI."
He shook his head. "I had a library card. That's my claim to fame. I loved reading as a kid, and now I'm somehow in charge of a grown TARDIS and an android with a Swiss Army leg."
Patch raised an eyebrow again. "Even so, your biology is unusual. Perhaps I should search the TARDIS database for information on Time Lord physiology. Compare it against your profile."
Jonas hesitated, then sighed. "Sure. But if I am a Time Lord, I'm probably the dumbest one in history."
They approached the TARDIS entrance—a battered, oversized suitcase. Patch eyed it skeptically.
"Have you considered enlarging this entrance?" he asked. "Perhaps wheels?"
Jonas chuckled. "Yeah, average TARDISes have something called a chameleon circuit. It lets them disguise themselves to match their surroundings. This one? I have no idea if it has one, or if it's broken, or hidden. For now, it's a suitcase, and honestly, it makes travel easier."
Patch nodded. "Understood. I will investigate whether this TARDIS retains a functional chameleon circuit for potential reconfiguration."
"Thanks. That'd be helpful."
Jonas paused, then added, "Now... about those robots."
Patch considered this. "It depends on available materials. Given how long it took to complete me, I suspect you may be lacking."
"Maybe," Jonas said. "But I've got piles of junk everywhere. Some I've collected, some I haven't even inventoried yet. That's why I want helper bots. I can't keep up."
Patch placed a hand on his chin thoughtfully. "The TARDIS does seem large."
"You think?" Jonas said, grinning. "I once spent an hour walking in a straight line, and the corridor never ended. I mean that literally. I got tired before I hit a wall. If there's no limit, who knows how much stuff is buried in there?"
"Then yes," Patch said, straightening up. "Let us build helper units. This TARDIS may be vast, but with the right systems in place, we could truly tame the chaos. With your permission, Captain, I'll begin drafting possible models for the cleaning and inventory drones."
"Please do," Jonas said, smiling for the first time in a while. "Let's put some wheels under this circus."