He watched the young girl – Maisie Pitt, too young and hurt and confused – step back from the thing that only she could see. Somewhere in a detatched part of him, the part not watching the seconds tick away on his stopwatch or preoccupied with trying to solve the problem, he was surprised that it was her turn now. If the thing was choosing its victims according to mental health now, he wondered that the Doctor or himself weren't slated to go next.
He could not believe that the Doctor was not going to save the girl – or would not try to. At the same time, he was also afraid that he was going to make an attempt; and he was more afraid that the attempt would work. Certainly the Doctor seemed convinced that the sixty-six seconds allotted to the victim were more than enough for him to stop the mummy and save the passengers; but that was a risk they could not afford. The only way to save Maisie would be to take the curse in her stead, and the Doctor didn't have nearly enough information to risk the price should he fail – he was their best chance to eventually defeat this monster, and he was not immortal or infallible.
Still watching the seconds tick away quickly – slowly? The hand seemed too fast – he reached into his pocket, pulling out the small letter-opener he always kept there. The Doctor was fiddling with something, telling the girl to focus, reaching for her; and he stabbed the knife into his neck.
"It's gone!"
The Doctor glanced up, frowning at her words. He looked around for the creature, but could see nothing. "That shouldn't have happened..."
He winced, pressing his hand tightly around the wound, holding the letter-opener still within the hole punched in his juglar. He wasn't even certain if he could staunch the bleeding to prolong his death for a minute, or if he would die before the mummy reached him. Either way, he would have bought some time and information for the Doctor and the passengers; and he would have left on his own terms as well.
"No, it's not gone yet."
The Doctor stood between him and the creature, looking at the blood running down his arm and then to his face. "Perkins..."
"There's nothing you can do here." He carefully stepped around the Doctor, towards the mummy. The movement jostled his hand, and he stumbled slightly, clutching instinctively to the mummy's outstretched hand to keep his balance. "It's solid."
The Doctor stepped forward again, staying out of the way; but using the opportunity to gain more information as he knew he would. He may be a saviour, but there was something terribly pragmatic about the man...
He pulled his hand away, peering at the moldering wrappings. "The mummy's solid – there's something here under the cloth." He tried to hold his hand steady as he lifted it up again to check the time on the stopwatch. "Thirty seconds."
"Markings? What language? Can you read it?"
"Yes, like..." He leaned closer, and his numbing hand slipped from his neck for a moment before he steadied it and pressed harder against the wound. "Like the letters on the scroll – old letters..." He trailed off, carelessly watching the mummy reach slowly for him.
"The scroll... A piece of cloth on a stick that it's willing to kill for..."
Distantly, he heard the Doctor thinking aloud as he tried to figure out a way to stop the creature before it killed again – however inevitable the death might be. The hands were almost to him, and he welcomed their grasp. Perhaps it would be nothing. Perhaps he would walk away as always. But perhaps, just by some infinitesimal chance, this would be the one thing that could give him rest. He stumbled again and collapsed to the ground, kneeling before the mummy. "I can't smell it though – you'd think I'd be able to smell it."
"...Surrender – tell it we surrender!"
He could feel the Doctor shaking him awake again and he winced as his hand slipped down, pulling the letter-opener out of his neck with it. Sluggishly, he dragged his gaze to the Doctor; but the mummy's hand came between them.
The Doctor was reaching into his pocket, reaching for the gadget he had been using with the girl – his plan to save the girl. It would do nothing to save him in the end, but the nosy Parker seemed determined to refuse the mummy another victim.
The hands wrapped around his head as he reached out to snatch the gadget from the Doctor's hands, hurling it to the furthest end of the car as he helplessly relaxed into the deadly grasp. "Zero..."
He wandered through the corridors, following the faintly pulsing lights that would turn off when he stepped in the wrong direction. If he was dead, this was a terrible afterlife; if this was where the mummy's victims ended, he certainly hoped that the Doctor found it soon and released them; and if he were alive still, he hoped that he was not being led to another death.
He had almost forgotten how much chlorine burnt when inhaled, and had nearly drowned again trying to expel the terrible pool water. The library surrounding the warm pool had been a surprise, but he had ignored it in favour of searching for a towel or robe he could use. While he hadn't found any bins or shelves stocking such things, he had stumbled into an immense wardrobe. He had searched through the seemingly endless racks for hours before finally pulling together an adequate substitute for his usual uniform. When he had stepped out of the room into the corridor outside, the lights had completely shut off when he had turned to the right; so he allowed them to lead him where they would once they turned on again when he stepped to the left.
He had lost track of time, but the winding corridors and steps had been humming with machinery, and it had been calming. As he stepped through a set of doors into a large circular room, he noticed first that the lights were no longer faintly pulsing ; and that there was some smoke rising from a tangle of slowly melting wires winding beneath the raised area of the room. Ignoring the rest of the room for the moment, he stepped forward to fix the problem, ever an engineer. Absorbed in his task, he didn't hear the footsteps cross the floor above him or step down the stairs until a man spoke behind him.
"Who are you?"
"Very sorry – these wires lying here were an accident about to happen." He finished straightening out and separating the overheating wires and then turned. "I don't have my tools or wires to properly replace – Doctor?"
He stared at him in surprise.
Perkins stood still, not saying anything and not sure how this situation would ever unfold. If it were anyone else, he had a general idea – but with the Doctor? They were alike, and yet different – there was no predicting the outcome of this meeting.
"Chief Engineer."
"Nosy Parker."
The Doctor smiled slightly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I take it that surrendering worked then?"
"He was just an old soldier – tired and ready to stop fighting."
He winced in sympathy, the feeling too familiar at times. "I don't suppose you saved my letter-opener?"
"How did you get aboard? The ship is impenetrable to invading forced."
He folded his hands into his pockets, staying relaxed. Too wary of saying too much, he habitually opted to say as little useful as possible. He titled his head to the side as the Doctor studied him, and he noticed the other's eyes immediately fall to his vein. Seconds later, he saw some sort of recognition spark in the Doctor's eyes; and he tensed in wariness.
"You're immortal."
He froze and forced himself to relax again. Somehow, he doubted that the man would use something like that against him, but habit is hard to break. "Just very lucky."
The Doctor relaxed, apparently back in some sort of familiar territory for him, and having decided that the engineer was no threat. "No, I doubt you'd sincerely say that. You stabbed yourself to buy me time to be certain of stopping it; and you took the tool from me in hopes that it would be able to give you a lasting death. You reappeared in my pool, and the Tardis led you back to the console room."
He subconsciously stepped back, surprised somewhat when the Doctor did the same.
"My apologies – I haven't done this for a long time." He turned and started up the steps.
Perkins watched the Doctor's feet disappear to the level above his head, and forced himself to set aside the fear and follow his curiosity after the Doctor.
"What do you mean 'haven't done this?"
The Doctor ignored him, searching in a cupboard beneath the cold-looking console. "I've known...a few others like...like you." He finally pulled a bundle of wires from the depths of the cupboard and handed them to Perkins along with a cloth toolbelt he snatched up from where it was dropped along the railing. "They're terribly suspicious, but I can't blame them."
He carefully accepted the wires and tools, fingers already itching to organise and catalogue them; already memorising the weight and feel of the lot.
"Go on – off with you." He waved his hands at the engineer. "She doesn't like it when I fiddle with her – but she liked you enough to take you in and guide you here."
He decided to question the identity of 'her' another time and took a cautious step back, and then another; finally turning to go down the stairs to the wires still smoking slightly beneath the console level. Around him, he was almost certain that the lights brightened and the air hummed louder; and he knew that he heard the Doctor huff in annoyance as he flipped switched around. Setting the tools down, he turned his attention fully to them; blocking out the world around him.
There was blood on the navy-coloured belt: enough on the side to completely cover it, and traces covering the other half as though someone had trailed blood-covered fingers over the cloth. The blood was black and stiff, weeks old by now; and he wondered how the Doctor had acquired this – why it was lying in the control room.
And what he had said about others – about having met immortals before – who were they? Surely with their lifespans apparently unending, some must have met each other; or even been noticed by others... One anomaly was easily explained away – two or three? Much more difficult.
He frowned as he pulled out a pair of wire-cutters, recognising the nicks and scrapes on the blades and handles of the tool. The hammer and screwdriver he pulled out were the same – familiar – as were the protractor and notepad. He clenched his hand for a moment, finally recognising the toolbelt he had worn aboard the Orient Express.
He hadn't even worn his belt once Gus had revealed himself; had taken it off in preparation for his inevitable death and hoping that he would have been able to return to the train at some point to retrieve his tools. It had been beneath his arm when he stabbed himself, had apparently been covered in his blood when it ran down his arm. But the train, the mummy – that had only been a day ago at the longest if he had walked away again! The blood on this – disregarding that it was here at all - was too old for it to have been his...
Before he could begin worrying about what had happened to the passengers – what failsafe Gus had implemented once the Doctor stopped the mummy – his fingers caught on a thin handle in one of the front pockets, and he reached in to pull it out. The blade of the letter-opener was still covered in blood, and the black-webbed steel lay in stark contrast to his hand. There was blood on the handle too, too high for it to have gotten there in his death, and he could see that the Doctor had tried in vain to staunch the bleeding after he had died. And then had apparently kept his tools after he died – after the failsafe had been implemented to dispose of any unlikely survivors.
Thoughtfully, he stowed the letter-opener away in his pocket again, ready for whatever use awaited it next. He reached into the wires then, cutting out burnt parts to replace them with new wires and different patches: the work rote but steadying and calming for him. It was a mindless task that had always pulled his mind away from death – away from the apparent uselessness of life.
It allowed his mind to focus on other things, such as the man wandering around above him and the apparent discrepancies in his recent death. He had lost weeks this time instead of hours – had left behind blood when all organic traces should have disappeared with his corpse. Obviously, his immortality was still in-tact for the mummy had obviously not killed him – but what if he hadn't taken the curse by killing himself? What if so much of his energy hadn't flown out with his blood? If he had merely waited until he was chosen, would the death have been permanent? He sighed, melting the patch over the exposed wires. A chance lost...
He could feel the Doctor watching him as he worked, and he ignored him for a moment. The man was dangerous. He was older than he looked, and so very tired and dangerous – a soldier fighting in an endless war as well; but for him there was none to surrender or to tell him he was done. It must be a lonely life as well as a long one... He folded and tied the wires back as he finished, ensuring they would be less of a hazard.
"You should have someone look at these more often – they're quite a mess."
"Yes, I probably should. I suppose whoever I did get in, it would be easier to have them stay on board for awhile."
He put away his tools and stood up, slowly turning around to face the Doctor.
"I don't suppose you'd know of anyone?"
He looked up. The Doctor's question – his meaning – was obvious, almost hopeful in a way. "No – a job like that, it could change a man." He climbed up the stairs, pausing at the top to meet the Doctor's eyes. "I'll keep a look out though."
The Doctor nodded slowly, and then gestured towards the doors. "As you can imagine, your job with the Orient Express has been effectively terminated. However, I found you a job that you should find just as interesting – just be careful about the times."
Perkins opened the door of the Doctor's ship, looking out into the steamy engine room of a ship – a ship fit with boilers on one side and futuristic technology upon the other.
"It's a few years before the Express, but the idea is the same." He stepped forward to stand by the engineer. "The cruise ship Titanic – you should be well-placed here for a while.
He nodded, stepping out into the engine room and turning to face the Doctor again. "Take care of the girl – it was good to meet you."
"Good luck, Perkins." He turned and shut the door behind him, and seconds later a raspy sound filled the room.
He watched the blue police box disappear completely, half-wishing he had gone on it. But now wasn't the time – he couldn't completely trust the strange man. He straightened up, looking around the room with interest. Given that the Doctor was a self- named 'nosy parker' he was certain to meet him again.
In the distance, he could hear someone shout: "Allons-y!"
AN: I was musing on what would have happened if an Immortal was aboard the Orient with the Doctor; and my friend thought I meant if Perkins was the Immortal. I hadn't, but it certainly was an intriguing idea; and one I could follow given that he was apparently a oneshot character. SighsIrrelevant though... This is technically a crossover with Forever, but no characters from Foreverare used. And I actually have the letter-opener his is based on – it is incredibly sharp and would be easy to use for that purpose; probably not something I should have around... The ending here also meets with the Tenth's Christmas Special aboard the Titanic, shortly after it crashes and the Doctor begins going through the engine rooms.By the way, for any faults with the length it would take him to die from such a wound, I could think of nothing incurable that would take a minute to kill him – they were all much longer or much shorter – so stole the scene from Blacklist1x01 where Lizzie stabs Reddington in the neck with a pen, because she said that it would take about a minute for him to bleed out. So...creative license please pardon my errors? 11-9-2015