Sabbath shrugged graciously. "You know, Doctor, even allowing for the, ah, unique circumstances of your last near-death experience, it's extraordinary how often you're plucked out of trouble at the last minute."
"Is it?"
"Rescuers turn up. Weapons jam. Your companions, who, if you will forgive me, don't strike me as more than usually competent, save the day. Buildings explode immediately after you find the way out. Cities fall just as the TARDIS dematerialises."
"Exaggerated reports, I assure you."
"Electrical currents short-circuit. Evil masterminds make foolish errors. If you fall out of a window, there's something to catch you. If you're drowning, a spar floats by. You find your way unsinged out of burning houses."
"Where do you get all this stuff? I don't remember half of it."
"You survive alien mind probes that would boil the average brain in it's skull. You are dug unharmed from beneath fallen rubble. No one ever shoots you in the head. Deadly drugs turn out not to affect you. Villains tie you up too loosely, and hide-bound tyrants convictions falter at your rhetoric. In short," Sabbath finished smoothly, "in your presence, the odds collapse."
This speaks for itself. And considering Sabbath directly experienced much of that after taking the Doctor's Time Lord abilities, this isn't exaggeration.
He smiled again, but it was a sad kind of smile this time. "Lets just say I'm a doctor of history."
She smirked, in a way exactly calculated to inform people when they are being pretentious. "You mean you study it."
"I mean I make it better." And he held her look. Funny thing about those eyes....
For a giddy, plunging moment she believed him. She knew he really needed the book, knew that she could trust him absolutely, knew that lives hung in the balance and only this improbable-looking music-hall reject could make a difference. She found herself reaching to punch in the authorization codes and the complex protocols that would pluck the book from it's shelf half a world away, suck it through a HyperTube, and thump it down on the desk in front of her. As her fingers flickered over the sensor pad, she only hoped it wasn't too late, prayed she hadn't cost this strange little man too much time....
Continuing on in the story, the woman actually reveals that she doesn't even know what a music-hall is, but she somehow thought it.
Now, the viral creature was attempting to see the datascape as the Doctor saw it, constructing the area as a two-dimensional map, a simple pattern. This Time Lord, it decided, must have a real gift for approximation. The datascape extended into time as well as space, and the wetware (a human term meaning biological computer hardware - the Wyrm had liked the sound) it was housed in was threaded with symbiotic nuclei. These had defied analysis, a fact that, considering the Timewyrms resources, was equally astonishing. They were, as far as the being could fathom, atomic nuclei that somehow acted in an intelligent manner, coordinating the host's nervous system on a hyperspatial level.
The host, the Timewyrm was beginning to realize, was a lot more than a simple intelligence. The mere concept of memory in such a being was complex. Memories of the future, of alternate possibilities of tachyon-based fictional universes - there was the potential to access them all.
Basically he can see the future and react to it (9th Doctor and 10th Doctor both stated this as well in the show).
It's the reason the Daleks don't incinerate him on site. It's the reason why thugs don't kill him immediately when he interferes with their plans. Not unbeatable, but against generic human thugs, enough to save him from being shot on site. Without prep, not enough to win, but enough to keep himself from being killed instantly.
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