Rose couldn't breathe; every gulp of air drew a line of fire down her throat. Her Torchwood training kicked in instinctively and she was dropping to the floor before she was even aware of what was happening.
The room she and her team had just stepped into was shrouded in some sort of fog. No, not fog - it was like pollution, or mist… she couldn't find the right word to describe it, which caused a brief moment of panic. It meant thatthe haze, or veil, or whatever it was, could impair memory function and that was the last thing Rose needed.
On top of that, the cloud (vapour?) was impervious to the facemasks that Pete had insisted they wear. Rose could feel the miasma seeping down her throat, and her breathing becoming ragged. Her chest felt so tight that she wasn't even sure her lungs were still intact.
She wished she knew what these blasted fumes were called. The Doctor would know.
But the Doctor wasn't here. Her team was, and Rose needed to get them out. Preferably before they all choked to death.
She could see Leo to her right, looking like he was coughing up a lung, and the new girl was to her left. What was her name again? Josie? Jamie? Jeanette?
Stupid smoke. She was forgetting her own team members now.
Rose's eyes raked the room for the exit but everything seemed to have shifted around her. She didn't know whether that was because the air was almost a solid white wall, or because the smog was starting to infiltrate areas of her brain other than memory.
A rescue team would be here any minute, she tried to assure herself, ignoring that the slow burn of her lungs had well and truly transformed into fiery agony. How long was she meant to wait for them though?
Five and a half hours.
Where the hell had that come from?! She'd be dead in five minutes, let alone five hours. But there was a niggling feeling in the back of her mind, telling her that it was important. Why did it mean so much?
Oh. Because he had said it. He… he was pinstripes and laughter and adventure and… medicine? No, that wasn't right. He was…
Rose's eyes widened when she realised that she didn't know his name. How could she forget his name?
Suddenly the agony ripping through her chest was nothing, nothing, compared to the anguish she felt over forgetting one name.
This was all so, so wrong.
Rose closed her eyes, no longer caring about escape because if she couldn't remember that name – remember him – then the outside world was not worth going back to.
She made a list in her head.
Pinstripes, great hair, gob that never stopped, blue eyes – wait, that wasn't right. He had brown eyes, didn't he? Or did he have both? And was it pinstripes, after all? Maybe it was leather? A northern accent? Something… blue. Rose loved him.
Why did she love him?
She couldn't remember, Rose realised, her heart clenching painfully.
There was only one thing left that she knew, and she knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt; one fact that stayed with her, cutting her right to the core.
The man (whoever he was) was gone.
