I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to go. Yeah? Well I’m the Lord of Time. Don’t you think she looks tired? Sweet, maybe… Passionate, I suppose… But don’t ever mistake that for nice. I’m Dr. James McCrimmon from the township of Balamory. You need to get yourself a better dictionary. When you do, look up ‘genocide’. You’ll find a little picture of me there, and the caption’ll read ‘Over my dead body’. You can spend the rest of your life with me, but I can’t spend the rest of mine with you. I have to live on. Alone. That’s the curse of the Time Lords.
People assume that time is a strict progression of cause-and-effect… but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it’s more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly… timey-wimey… stuff. It is! It’s the city of New New York! Strictly speaking, it’s the fifteenth New York since the original, so that makes it New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New-New New York. I don’t want to go. Sweet, maybe… Passionate, I suppose… But don’t ever mistake that for nice. Please, when Torchwood comes to write my complete history, don’t tell people I travelled through time and space with her mother!
There’s something else I’ve always wanted to say: Allons-y, Alonso! Please, when Torchwood comes to write my complete history, don’t tell people I travelled through time and space with her mother! I’ll tell you what, then: don’t…step on any butterflies. What have butterflies ever done to you? There was a war. A Time War. The Last Great Time War. My people fought a race called the Daleks, for the sake of all creation. And they lost. We lost. Everyone lost. They’re all gone now. My family. My friends. Even that sky.