Chapter 1: Remembrance

Eve Glysson gasped delightedly as she waved a wand over the top hat, causing a beautiful white dove to emerge from it and flutter into the magician's hands. She giggled as the audience applauded the 5 year-old's feat, and turned to face the magician. She liked him. He was old and young, clever but funny, patient, kind and wonderfully good at magic. She decided to put her dreams of becoming a princess on hold for a while. She wanted to be just like him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the mystical, brilliant Eve" the magician exclaimed joyously. He gave Eve a signal to curtsey, which she did, and then she ran off stage back to her mother, who pulled her up onto her chair and whispered congratulations.

The applause died down as the magician gently took hold of the dove. His long and slender fingers, encapsulating the attention of the audience entirely, stroked the pure white feathers. Then, quickly yet elegantly, he flicked them outwards, flourishing his hands. When they drew back, the dove was gone. A mist of tiny glitter floated down from the spot of the vanishing, and the magician cupped his hands full of it, clenched them up, and put his lips to them. He opened his hands as he blew, sending the mist outwards, and leaving a single red rose on his left palm.

The audience went crazy – applause, laughter, whooping – the small theatre erupted into a cacophony of joyful noise. It seemed, to the magician, that though he didn't have the skills to change the world, he was remarkably adept at making his own little universe happy. He bowed once, twice, thrice – then he put on his hat in one fluid movement and tapped his cane on the stage. The magician walked offstage to the sounds of excited murmuring and yet more clapping. It felt good to cheer up other people.

He walked across the mish-mash of props backstage until he reached his dressing room. A tune popped into his head – he whistled it while he opened the door and strode across to his mirror.

His name was John Smith. He'd been a magician at the BW theatre for about 2 years now. He gazed at his appearance, which as ever mildly troubled him, for no real reason. Longish hair, boyish face, an especially large forehead and sharp cheekbones. John's eyes always struck him as rather sorrowful, as if to serve a reminder of a dark past – a past that John didn't have at all. His attire, featuring as it did a top hat, bow tie, tailcoat and spats, made him seem like a rather chirpy Victorian madman. He liked it. It was a good, eccentric look.

He frowned at the tune he had been whistling. It sounded like Beethoven – it must be, surely, because there was no denying the signature style. But it didn't sound like any piece of classical music he'd ever heard. Maybe he was just mixing tunes together. A pulsing headache started in the deepest corners of his brain and he groaned. He put his hat and bow tie on the table.

He needed to know the time, that was his current issue. The BW had apparently no working clocks anywhere in it – a quick glance at the broken timepiece on his wall told John that it was still eternally quarter to 5. He frowned as he fumbled through his cupboards and drawers for a watch. His search appeared to be in vain. His frown deepened as he realised he needed to know the time if he wanted to prepare for the next show in time.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a golden glint from the bottom of his discarded top hat. That was unusual – he didn't remember anything being in it except for the dove. He gingerly picked up the object of his curiosity and saw that it was a golden pocket watch. The pounding in his head grew harder. Clutching his temples with one hand, the other brushed the surface of the timepiece. It was gold and lustrous, and seemed to be old. Having said that, it still regained a somewhat mysterious glint. It was engraved with a nonsensical design – a lot of circles interconnecting with one another. Though his head was seized by a throbbing pain, John Smith flicked open the watch's lid.

If any human happened to be walking past the BW, they would have seen a sudden flash of golden light from one of the side windows, lasting for half a minute then disappearing.

If they'd waited another 5 minutes, they would have seen a Victorian madman in a top hat rush out of the Bad Wolf theatre, and mischievously run into the waiting night.

10 minutes earlier

The research centre stood alone in the icy wilderness. A dull, grey slab of reinforced concrete, it was the only landmark of any sort to be seen around the icy wilderness. A glance in any direction confirmed that up to the horizon, in all directions there was endless whiteness. Not that it was easy to see in this horrendous weather. An icy blizzard raged around the building, howling at the world as if some great cosmic injustice had exiled it to this barren place. This frozen desert.

The research centre was called Centre 7, but was fondly known by its residents as The Last Centurion, as it was the last of 7 research centres designed to study the wildlife of Antarctica. All 6 of the others had been abandoned and demolished now – once the work was done, it had to go. However, the scientists at Centre 7 were determined to keep running the centre, and fiercely believed that Antarctic research was never-ending.

If you were still scanning the horizon, you would suddenly spot a small black dot emerging from afar.

This dot, as it approached, revealed itself as a small snowmobile, grey and blue. It ran smoothly across the icy surface, and in quick time reached the front of the centre. A small garage door opened, and the snowmobile entered, parking itself. The door closed, leaving the Last Centurion, as ever, a faceless guard.

A woman got out of the vehicle and pulled off her helmet. She had long ginger hair, wide eyes, and a pretty, lively face. Her name was Helen Morris and she was a new researcher at the station. Well, new enough. In an area of science this specialised, 'new' for her meant about 2 years. She shook off her boots, revealing sensibly thick socks underneath. Not bothering to put on shoes, she opened a door and strode down the corridor to her living quarters.

Almost as soon as she entered, her phone, which was lying on her bunk, rang. The chirpy sounds of Cee-Lo Green's Forget You filled the room. Perching on her mattress, Helen answered it.

"Hello?"

"Only two more days!" a cheerful voice sang down the line. Helen grinned to herself. It was Andrew, her husband, calling from their home in Australia. The two days he referred to was the time until she came back home for her summer holiday.

"Morning handsome," Helen replied in a voice layered with Scottish warmth, "you been keeping busy without me?" She knew the answer, they phoned each other every day.

"Just about! I've been cleaning out the attic, actually. Thought I should get some stuff sorted out in time for you to get back."

Helen was suddenly overcome with emotion. Ridiculously, she felt a bit teary when he said something as mundane as that. She supposed it was a combination of missing him and gratitude. He didn't have to do these things for her, but he did. He was the perfect husband in her eyes.

"You're too sweet to me. And I can't wait to come home and see you."

"I can't wait either. It's been what, 4 months, since we last saw each other? I don't know how I've coped." There was a pause and the noise of rummaging came down the line "Helen...I've just found a gold pocket watch tucked behind some old cushions. I thought I'd given it to you when you left."

She frowned, and unzipped her snow suit slightly. Her hand reached for the object she'd been carrying round her neck everyday as a reminder of Andrew. A gold pocket watch. The one he'd given her on her last day in Australia. The one he was describing now.

"You did give it to me...I'm holding it now."

A pause from the other end. "This one looks identical. Maybe they're a pair? It was so long ago that we got them...I can't remember when we bought them."

Helen tried to cast her mind back to the time they'd acquired them. Her head started to hurt, a throbbing pain that echoes through her skull.

Andrew spoke again. "It's a mystery, I suppose. Here, I'll open this one to see if it needs a clean."

Helen was still staring at her watch – she felt as if she was seeing it for the very first time. The golden shine, the mysterious circle engravings, they drew her in.

Very definitely, one thought immediately entered her mind. I need to look at the time. And with that thought firmly in place, she opened the lid of the watch.

The next 30 seconds was a flash. As she stared at the face of the watch, a golden light seemed to burn at her suddenly, piercing into her inner mind. Her brain exploded with a series of images.

angels daleks silurians TARDIS rory amelia river pandorica silence doctor Doctor DOCTOR

She collapsed on the bed, still clutching the phone to her ear. From the other end, a terrified voice came.

"Helen, are you still there? Helen I don't know...something's happened...I'm..."

"We forgot." She was suddenly aware that she was crying, hot tears spilling down her freckled face. "How did we forget, Rory?" It had been 2 years since she'd used his real name. It felt comfortable on her tongue.

"Rory...you said...Oh my God, Amy!" A sense of wonder entered his tone.

Amy could do nothing but cry and repeat the same words over and over again.

"We forgot everything Rory. We forgot."