The streets of London were silent, not a soul walked about them. The air was cripplingly cold and disgustingly stale. As it blew in gusts across the glittering wet pavement, the stench of death floated by and permeated everything in its path. Flickering street signs of empty stores and restaurants screamed with bright colors. Dim streetlamps loomed overhead, reflecting even more dimly on the large white posters nailed across walls, taped to windows. All of them repeating the same message:
"STAY HOME. STAY CLEAN. STAY ALIVE."
A young woman walked down these streets. She gripped her jacket close to her shivering figure, her boots clicking on the sidewalk. Her free hand held a large paper grocery bag filled to the brim with her mid-week groceries and medications. Hanging on her wrist was a plastic bag containing tonight's dinner of Indian food that was emanating some warmth to her person.
"Yeah, I'm on my way home right now…. Right… Gotcha… You too." Her thick London-accented voice muttered through a white medical mask into her Blue Tooth headset. Her finger tapped the button and she hung up her end of the line. Her hand slipped into her pocket and she pulled out her cell phone to check the time. It was 6:34 pm. She took a short cut and passed through an alleyway, past a few yards of garages and headed up to her tiny flat at the corner of the street. Her maroon-veneered nails tapped against the touch screen of her phone, checking texts from her few co-workers at the shop, and from her workaholic boyfriend who let her know that he had to meet with his supervisor, again. Slipping her phone back into her pocket, the woman grabbed her keys and made her way up the steps of the entrance.
After greeting a neighbor passing by, Rose Tyler faced the elevator, mashing her thumb to the button. It was a tricky one that button. Normally, it had to be twisted anti-clockwise about three times, then pressed very hard to get anything moving. That also depended on whether the elevator wanted to work that day.
Today wasn't one of those days.
The blonde woman groaned and made her way towards the extremely claustrophobic staircases. After risking her life on those stairs, she strode down the quiet hallway and to her door. She pushed her key into the sticky lock and opened the old door, causing the number 8 to tilt to the right again. Rose rolled her brown eyes and fixed it before pushing her way through to the small kitchen counter, then setting her bags down. She removed her medical mask and took in a long breath of the air of her home. Turning around and hanging her black coat on the wall, she thought of how this place seemed to be the safest place in her world right now. Since the epidemic began a few months ago, nothing has been the same.
The case of mass paranoia was almost as dangerous as the epidemic itself.
Rose ran a hand through her long blonde waves as she grabbed a bowl and began to scoop her portion of curry and rice into it. She then reached into the paper bag again and grabbed her three bottles of medications, mixing her cocktail of prescriptions. Better safe than sorry, besides, Ian did a double check on them to make sure they were good. Now was the time she let her mind wander.
She thought of that man, going by the name of Ian Noble Smith, who has been living with her for nearly two years and working harder than she's ever seen him do before. Yet he has made barely any money at all. He was doing it all for her, as if he was trying to prove his worth. She thought of the long hours he spends away working three jobs. Getting a good job was harder than he thought. Despite his 900 years of knowledge and expertise on seemingly infinite subjects, not one university would glance at his applications for professor of Astrophysics, Chemistry, Computer Engineering, Astronomy, or History. He was still optimistic though, saying that they were 'almost there'.
Hope seemed bleak from the viewpoints of others, but not to Ian. They had barely anything leftover after paying rent, with his three menial jobs of tech support, selling washing machines and refrigerators, and packaging hardware at the factory and her managing the shop. He still planned what their wealthy future would look like. His dreaming was difficult, of course, when they lived in a cramped apartment and practically lived off of instant noodles. Today's Indian was a treat.
Rose had finished about half of her dinner, when she heard the door in the entryway screech open then shut again. Slow and dragging footsteps sounded on the wooden floor and quiet swears were muttered under breath. The young woman looked up and caught sight of the tall, slender man. His large brown eyes looked darker than normal behind his smart spectacles and after he removed his medical mask, she caught his lips bent into a frown. He dropped his bag on the floor by the couch and he strode silently to the counter, grabbed the Indian food in the foam box and plopped down at the table.
"You're home early, what happened at work? What'd Phil want?" Rose inquired.
Ian remained silent. He got back up to grab his flatbread and a fork and returned to his spot, proceeding to attack his dinner hungrily.
"Ian. What happened?" Rose repeated more seriously. This was one thing that started to really annoy her: Ian's silent treatments. She reached out and touched his forearm, feeling him tense up. After much hesitation, his shoulders slumped and he let his fork hit the table top with a clatter. He reached into his pocket, pulled out, and slid the pink piece of paper in her direction.
"I got cut from the factory." He said, placing a hand on his forehead, trying to rub away the headache. Almost a thousand years of near-death experiences, making life-altering choices every day, yet here he was, so distressed over losing a job. It was almost unbearable to look at him. Rose reached out and took his free hand in hers.
"You know, I'd say that this was a good thing. Now you have free—"
"Rose, I just lost my highest paying job, how can you call that good? How are we going to pay rent now? And how can I—" Ian interrupted almost angrily.
"Ian, we can manage. Mum and Dad are more than happy to help if we need it. We can get by." She said calmly, hoping he would do the same.
Ian grasped the foam box and fork, got up and strode to his studio room on the far side of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
Ian flipped on the light switch, blasting cold white light over his mess of artist supplies. Sketches upon sketches littered every horizontal surface in the room. This room was where he spent what little free time he had. He felt this was a better hobby than tinkering with all the appliances in the apartment. He threw his food on top of the drawing table in the corner and unbuttoned his constricting shirt. After grabbing his charcoal and pad of paper, he began to scribble furiously onto the white surface. His headache had returned again, making it difficult to focus on his sketch, not that he really focused on it anyway. His hand darted in every direction on the page without stopping. No thinking, just lines. His fingers and wrists became sore. His shoulder burned. He finally sat back, wiping his forehead with the back of his blackened hand.
Ian then stood up and stretched, reaching for his food and gobbling it all down. He reached into his miniature refrigerator and pulled out a beer, opening it with a loud pop. Leaning against the light table behind him, he studied at the scribbles he had just made. Despite the mess, there seemed to be something forming from it.
He narrowed his eyes at it. There was something forming from his scribbles. After taking a long gulp from the cold bottle, he stepped forward, grabbed the eraser that sat in his tackle box of supplies, and began to clear away some of the messy lines. A face began to appear. Picking up on this idea, Ian began to drag his charcoal across the paper again. He shaped eyes, a nose, lips, cheekbones and hair. Lots of hair.
The half-time-lord finally stood back and stared his work. Upon the flat surface of his sketchpad, the portrait of a man stared back at him. The man was young, with high cheekbones and a square jaw. His bright eyes sat hidden behind a low brow; his nose was unbelievably straight, and his lips thin. The most distinctive part of this man's face was his dark, floppy hair. He seemed so life-like, as if the page was just a mere window into his world. Ian shook his head as he looked over at the sketches of this same young man lying all over his desk. But, this man was only a figment of his imagination, nothing more. Ian heard a soft knock on the door behind him.
"Can I come in?" Roses' voice asked softly.
"Yeah." He answered, then taking another sip of his beer.
Rose quickly slipped in, taking notice of her boyfriend's newest work. It was of that mystery man again. This had been a recurring subject in his artwork. It had been for a couple of years. Ian used to draw so many things, animals and plants, children; she had even modeled for some of his work from time to time. All of it was superbly crafted. Ian must have learned from Da Vinci back in the day. But now it was only this mystery man. He began as a simple sketch, but over time, Ian fleshed him out and gave him life. Rose looked at the other sketches around her. There was another drawing of the mystery man sitting in an invisible chair, one leg crossed over the other in a very posh manner. One arm wrapped around his middle and the other elbow rested atop of it, his expression smug. She looked up and saw another drawing of the man, his back turned away and a hand raised, fingers running through that hair and the other hand in his pocket.
"It's him again." Rose remarked.
"He's missing something…" Ian added after a beat or two. He bent forward and sketched out his neck and shoulders. On top of that he formed the collar of a button-up shirt and what looked like a textured jacket.
And a bowtie.