Hello. My name is Clare, Clare Williams. I'm nothing special or extraordinary, because you've never heard of me and no one ever will. Not that I mind, I'd rather be invisible. I'm more invisible than I'll ever be, now. I've done more than I'm given credit for, but they'll never know, will they? You could say I'm... on the run, from my past.
Anyways, this is the story. This is the story of Superhuman and the Doctors and Alaya. In my universe, where heart-broken girls get left on a beach, this story would be a legend, if I hadn't stopped it from becoming one. You, dear reader, are very privileged; only five people in existence know this story; the story of me, the girl that time forgot.
CHAPTER 1
The sun is shining this morning, a large improvement from the dreary rain of yesterday night.
Too bad. I'm not in the mood for sunshine.
"Annabelle!" I yell lazily out my open doorway and roll over to bury my face into my soft pillows. Annabelle is my step-aunt, married to my dad. She's the most organized, cleanest person I've ever met, she loves to clean. In the four years I've known her, I've never once had a messy room.
When I used to complain about my chores, my father always ridiculed me, saying, "Clare, you are far too old to have a nanny and not rich enough to have a maid." I can never understand the last part. Because of Uncle Pete's money, I can practically buy anything I want (not that I do). When Dad met Annabelle, I never had to complain again. She was like our live-in maid, except the tidiness in which she kept our home was voluntary.
I hear Annabelle's footsteps before I see her, mostly because my view is the forest green of my pillow. Something clanks in her hands as she walks, suggesting she is bringing a breakfast tray. I decide not to face her.
"Good morning, Clare. Do you need me to do anything for you, honey?" Annabelle's sugar-sweet voice asks calmly. I can picture her leaning in my doorway, with her silky blond hair waving down her back and balancing a tray on her knee while she pinned her side bangs back. Unconsciously, I smile.
Annabelle is the closest thing I have to a mother.
"Can you close my curtains, please? The sunlight is blinding me," I mumble, hoping she can hear me. I know I should get up and do it myself, but I know Annabelle would insist if I tried to do it. The thin cracks of light seeping through the space where I'm not tightly pressed to the pillow are shut off abruptly. I roll over, staring up at the ceiling, the room now darker and actual possible to see in.
Annabelle's tray is set down by my feet, so I reach forward, grab the handles, and lean against my headboard as I begin to eat it. I mumble my thanks for the food. Following suit, Annabelle sits down on the other side of my bed and lies back, like I am doing. She looks just how I imagined her, with her golden waves and a few loose bobby pins tucked in the sides. She is already freshened and dressed in her casual work clothes, and she smells like pine trees; I've always loved this smell of Annabelle's.
I wouldn't really refer to Annabelle as my mother figure. She is more of a friend than a mother, but I don't mind that. Annabelle is very rambunctious and adventurous; she's more the kind of woman who goes shopping with me and out to the movies and sets me up one blind dates than the kind who helps me with homework and washes my dishes (she actually does wash the dishes, but I'm just going to pretend she doesn't for a moment).
"So, what have you got planned today?" She asks, snatching one of my doughnuts and taking a bite out of it. I frown and eat the other before she can grab that one, too.
I don't respond, just quietly chew. My eyes wander to the silky green curtains blowing softly in the wind. For something so delicate, they can sure block out the sun.
The coffee she brought me is creamy and thick, even if it is scalding.
"Finals were last week, the semester is over. I have nothing planned for today."
She nods knowingly and slides off the bed. I watch as she lays out an outfit for me today, and we make small talk.
"I had a nightmare last night."
"Oh, really? You know, if you feel like talking I'll listen."
"It was about the night the Cybermen came."
"Oh. Do you want to tell me?"
I dived right in.
I'm not really aware of what I'm doing, but I'm behind the wheel of my Jeep Wrangler. As I drive into London, I can feel my heart pounding and my palms sliding off the steering wheel with sweat. I'm tense, the kind of tense only nervousness brings.
I set the gears into park and hop out, trying not to pass out. Liz is leaning by the entry to Starbucks, holding my caramel macchiato and drinking her own coffee. She looks impatient, which is to be expected of Liz, and shakes my drink. "Took you long enough to get here. Don't bother, it's on me," she assures when I try to give her a five dollar bill. She frowns. "You've been in London for seven months and you're still trying to use American money? It won't do you much good here."
I grab it from her, ignore the comment, and sit down at a small table near us.
I lean forward, talking softly so we can't be overheard. "Did you get them? Did you get the plans?" I ask, demanding an answer.
Liz slides a folded piece of paper from her pocket; ordinary, blank, and folded into fourths. I nod and tuck it into my pocket. It's not exactly what I'd been expecting, but I know that it's what I bargained for. Liz wouldn't let me down.
"There are two copies," she hints, winking. "Why should Anderson get all the authority? Take it, just in case." As much as it scares me, I decide to follow her advice.
While we wait for Anderson, a member of the company Torchwood who bargained with me for the plans Liz could get me, I stare at Liz. Her messy, dirty blond hair is pulled up and uncombed, and a pencil is stuck behind her ear. She wears a knit cream sweater that falls past her hips, long enough to pull off with black leggings and boots; a typical Liz outfit. Traces of smudged mascara under her eyes signifies that she's been reading one of her sad romantic novels again. Her EarPods flash, diverting my eyes to them. Even though she's not talking, I can just tell she's British by the way she holds herself.
Despite the fact that I've been in London for over seven months, I can't shake my American habits. All my friends here, especially Liz, love drinking tea. I, on the other hand, prefer a nice, cold can of Diet Coca-Cola. My Californian accent just seems to be getting stronger by the month. The more British traditions pop up, the more American I get. I can't say that I hate London, it's nice. It's hard to get used to the rain and double-decker buses and how nobody can pronounce the letter 'r' when I'm so used to sunshine and sandy beaches and tan lines, palm trees and ice cream and real parties, surfers and lifeguards and Hollister models. I miss the casualty and craziness alternating in my social life, my best friends and my boyfriends.
I snap out of my nostalgia as a black car slides up to the curb. The paint is fresh and shiny, and the glint of sunlight bounces off it and blinds me. The driver wears a suit and dark sunglasses, his dark hair slicked back neatly. The window is rolled down three-fourths of the way.
He removes his sunglasses. "Cab for Clare Williams."
"This is so Anderson," I say. "This has Anderson written all over it."
The man doesn't say anything, just stares at me intently until I open the side door and slide in.
We slide away from the curb, leaving tracks on the tar. The man, supposedly called Mr. Cohen, takes us across town and through the traffic. His speed seems high above the speed limit, but neither of us contradict him.
When the daily updates approach, downloading into the society of London's brains, he screeches to a halt and Liz and Mr. Cohen stay completely still for the moment. I just continue to drink my coffee.
Eventually, we reach the Torchwood tower. The sleek, tall building looks intimidating but I don't focus on it as we are lead inside, into an elevator, onto a high floor, and into an office where we sit down across from Anderson. He appears very bored, if not annoyed. This doesn't surprise me.
"Ms. Williams, we've been very straightforward with you this time. Our patience is waning. I'm really not in the mood to hear your excuse for not gaining the plans, so I expect your confirmation of the location of them," Anderson drawls. He appears bored, which doesn't make me want to hand over the papers.
My reason for involvement in this is far more important than a grudge, however, so I dig the plans out of my pocket and pass them to him. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "You know, Anderson, since I'm the one granting you access to these things, I'd kinda like to know exactly what I'm giving the Torchwood Institute, just in case I end up in court," I hint, sitting back in my chair.
"Californian, I see, " he notes, marking my accent. Spite entangles his thick, dreary voice. "I never liked California. Too... American." I know he is doing this just to set my jaw on edge, but it makes me angry anyways.
"Is there anything wrong with Americans, Anderson? I can assure you they don't sit around all day, drinking tea," I counter. I can feel my eyes narrowing into a slit.
"Oi!" Liz shouts, hurt, and jumps to her feet. "We didn't come here for a reenactment of the American Revolution. Just get to business already!" She sips more of her drink and sits down.
Anderson rolls his eyes and sighs. "I thought your companion would have explained this to you. Recently, Torchwood has gained an interest in Cybus Industries. Rumors of John Lumic's' inventions got around to us, and Lumic is breaking quite a few ethnic rules. So, we send one of our best members, Captain Jack Harkness, over to find out how much is rumor and how much is true. Jack returns, and brings rumors of a new species being created. Cybermen, they're called. The EarPods are just the first step, which I can see you don't have."
I point at my ears. They aren't real, of course, but I can't let him know that. "I do have them, and what's a Cyberman?"
Anderson smirks cruelly. "I'm not quite sure, but from what I've heard it is very gruesome. You will find out very, very soon. The one thing Jack did tell us is the key code to the emotional inhibitor is vital if we want to survive. But you might be too late."
My heart sinks. If what he says is true, I might have condemned humanity. I curse myself for being too late; my stupid laziness has got in the way again. Grief floods through me and my mind immediately jumps to my cousin, Alaya, just a tiny baby. If I caused Alaya to die, I would never forgive myself. For that matter, if anyone on this planet is killed because of me I will never be able to live with myself.
I remind myself of my side of this bargain. Leaning in, I whisper the question that has been on my mind for so long, "I believe my side of the trade is in order. I'll put it in four, very simple words; is my mother alive?" With each word, the intensity of my tone increases immensely.
For a moment, I don't think Anderson is going to uphold his promise. Lines creasing around the corners of his mouth tell me he's going to smile. That's never a good thing with Anderson.
To my surprise, he sits back and his voice drawls out slowly of his mouth again. "Yes."
A flutter of happiness leaves me out of breath. My hand goes over my mouth, without my consent, and tears gather in the corners of my eyes. I tuck away the happiness for a moment.
There's one thing that still confuses me. "Why did you say my EarPods were fake?" I don't know how he can tell, because they are virtually foolproof.
"Torchwood has access to many files, including yours, and you have never been properly fitted with the EarPods. I believe you've been acquainted with Mr. Rickey Smith, he would have warned you against them. I believe we're done here," Anderson stands and walks away formally. I sneer at his back, wishing I had the courage to do it to his face.
Liz smiles. "So, your mum's alive! Isn't that wonderful?" She asks, the happiness in her voice threaded with doubt. Due to her insecurity, Liz doesn't quite trust Anderson. I don't blame her.
I can't, however, hide the grin spreading across my face. "She's alive. I can tell. Now I've just got to find her." Just the confirmation of her existence allows me to feel her arms wrapped around me, soft and warm. I remember her distinct aroma of lemongrass, her curly dark hair, big, bright brown eyes and dark freckles sprinkled across her face.
Since Mr. Cohen has disappeared, Liz and I catch a bus to ride back to the Starbucks we started at.
"If you were my mom, where would you be hiding?" I ask, deep in thought on the matter.
Liz shrugs. "If I were your mum, and I was in hiding, I'd go somewhere with lots of people, so I could blend in easily. From what you've told me about your mum, she sounds like someone who would like to go somewhere tropical, like an island." She goes on for a few more minutes, talking about the possibilities and where she would and wouldn't go. I can hardly concentrate, instead thinking of Anderson's warning against the mysterious Cybermen and how they would appear soon.
"Speaking of EarPods, why did Anderson say yours were fake? Have you actually been meeting up with Rickey Smith? Is he your secret boyfriend or something?" Liz questions with suspicion. She raises an eyebrow on the last sentence and glares at me. Knowing Liz, she won't give up until she knows what I've been up to.
"Don't be stupid. I've met Rickey, and he warned me about the EarPods, but I'm not his girlfriend. You've seen him; do you really think I'd be interested?" I scoffed at her acquisitions. I'm not willing to admit the short, romantic relationship we shared, which now only embarrasses me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Liz snickering. I (unwillingly) dismiss it.
Liz joins me in my Jeep, begging me to drop her at the mall. I oblige, and go in with her just for the love of shopping. As we walk in, Liz chats with me. She's going on about the great taste of her coffee when something rams into my back, I lose my balance, and I get knocked to the pavement.
The man who ran into me stops to help me up, repeatedly apologizing. The first thing I notice is that he's got a local accent and is wearing a long brown trench coat. My disoriented vision settles, and the next thing I notice his wild brown hair, which sticks up in every direction. Familiarity pangs in my head, but I can't quite put a name to his face.
"I'm so sorry, are you alright? I'm not from around here, I don't quite know my way around," he mumbles, helping me to my feet. He stares at me, concerned. I smile.
"Well, you sound like you're native. Wow, I wouldn't run so fast through a crowded street if I were you, who know how many people you'll knock over!" He laughs. The laugh sounds like one I've heard a million times. I frown, and ask, "Have we met?"
"You can't have. I must have one of those faces, I get asked that a lot..." he gazes around, looking for a face in the crowd.
"Again, I'm really sorry, but I've got to dash."
He winks and speeds off into the crowd again, his coat flying behind him and his white shoes clapping against the pavement.
"That was really weird," Liz informs me.
I turn around, shake it off, loop my arm through Liz's, and continue inside with her. You know him, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind. You know him quite well. Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia hits me, one so strong that tears form in the corners of my eyes. Breathing in heavily, I push them away and forget about the entire incident.