I'm tentatively rating this as T now, but I'll change it to M if I get enough complaints, mostly due to language in later chapters. I don't own anything except the plot and any OCs. Enjoy!
On Thistle, the rain is a wonderful shade a purple when it falls. Watching it is an experience in and of itself. It only rains about a total of ten days per year—five hundred and twelve earth days in total—but when it does, it pours. The local populations have a festival devoted to it, and people from three star systems over travel just to experience it. Artisans will wait the entire year just to have their crafts dyed by the rain, and poets and singers have written enough material on it to fill an entire section of a library.
He's come a little early this time around. The clouds above are dark violet. They threaten to burst and let the rain fall at any minute, but just not quite yet. The party is already starting—he can hear the cheers and echoing string instruments from the city square. Children run past, their parents yelling at them slow down, the festival's not going anywhere! You'll trip and ruin your clothes before The Washing!
Besides the food and the music and the art, The Washing is what people come to Thistle for. Its full name is The Washing Away of a Year's Toil. The children dance first, then pick out older and older members of the crowd to join in. Everyone starts out dressed in white, but the rain dyes their clothes to revel the intricate patterns hidden. It's supposed to symbolize renewal and reawakening, starting again and forgiving all the wrongdoing of the past year.
The Doctor thinks he'd have to dance for the entire ten days if he wants to erase even a fragment of all his sins. Right now, he can't even muster up the energy to get up, much less dance. His body aches and his bones feel brittle and weak. He feels like an old man despite his face.
"Doctor?"
He looks down to see a girl. Not a local—she lacks the markings and the three studs on her forehead that all Thisians bear. She's also not dressed the part for someone who plans to take part in the festival. Her clothes are dark and tightfitting, and the fabrics come from somewhere and sometime far away. Not to mention the shockingly pure white shade of her hair and the umbrella haloing her.
"Yes? How do you know who I am?"
Her face does this complicated thing that he isn't sure even qualifies as a proper expression. He catches her lips thinning slightly as her jaw tightens, and her right eye gives the barest of twitches. She looks away so he can't pick apart the look in her eyes. As soon as it appears, the reaction is gone, so fast he almost thinks he's imagined it. She smiles down at him and it's a cocky smile, curved more to one side and showing the hint of teeth. The umbrella spins a little above her head, making the design of petals look like they're actually falling.
"A man of your repute should be used to being recognized."
He can't tell if she's mocking him or not. In fact, he can't really make much of anything about this girl. She looks young, but he of all people knows that an appearance can betray actual age. This girl could easily be a threat, chosen because people are idiots and tend to underestimate those who look young. "Don't tell me you're a fan," he says back, hoping to coax out a more revealing response.
The girl looks positively amused by his accusation. "No. Though I supposed you could call me a follower."
He can feel his interest drying out. He bets she feels so clever, singling herself apart from the rest. If only she knew how many people have tried that one before. "Not interested."
"But you haven't even heard what I have to say yet." Oddly, she doesn't look very putout or angry.
"Don't care. Not interested."
She laughs. "You never do change, do you?"
And that strikes a nerve. He doesn't know this girl and she sure as hell doesn't know him. Whatever stories she's heard, whatever skewed portrayal of him she has in her head, it doesn't give her the right to assume anything.
If anything, the glare he sends her earns him a nod of approval. He grits his teeth and tries not to feel like a dog that's just been tricked into performing. "No, I meant that as a good thing," she says before he can properly chew her out.
"How did you mean it as a good thing?"
"Constants are memorable," she says with a shrug. "Your face and voice change, but you're still the Doctor."
That gets him to pause. He hasn't been as discreet as he likes to think, but while he gives out his name readily, there aren't many people who know that he's a Time Lord. Most of the places he goes don't even know what a Time Lord is, much less that he can change his face. This girl might be more troublesome than he originally thought if she's figured that out on her own.
"What do you want," he asks.
"It's not about what I want, I'm just the messenger. You might wanna swing by Earth soon. Say, late twentieth century?"
He's on his feet before he knows it and in her face. She's a few good inches shorter than him, which gives him an excellent advantage in glowering. "What've you done? If you've hurt anyone—"
She doesn't back down or flinch away. "Like I said, I'm just the messenger. I haven't done anything."
"Who are you?"
There's a rumble in the distance—a drum roll. That's all the warning he gets before the sky opens up. There's no light trickle, no warning drops, just pouring rain drenching him near instantly. The clouds are so dark they're nearly black, but the rain is a pretty lilac around him. By the time he looks back down, he's forgotten why he's stood up in the first place. The festivities are even louder as the celebration goes into full swing. The Washing will be starting soon, and that's what he came for.
He hurries to the town square, not wanting to waste the trip. He'll party of a few days, maybe even the entire ten, and then he'll be off again. Maybe he'll swing by Earth. It's been a while since he last thought about it, but he's feeling nostalgic for some reason.
A girl twirls her umbrella as she walks in the opposite direction, headed to the space docks.
"Platform One? Really?" He blinks in surprise at the girl who asks. Rose is asleep because humans are silly and need so much rest, but Doctor felt like having a drink.
Well, that's only partially true. He hates the taste of alcohol, all kinds, but once in awhile he wants the atmosphere of a bar, so he orders Kerbonen cola and pretends to be a noir detective. It helps that he's got the face for brooding this time, though he's not exactly dressed the part. The idea of wearing a suit makes him want to shake his head and go yuck. He's worn enough suits in the past. Besides, he doesn't think he could pull off dapper in this body. Maybe the next one.
But back to the girl. The fact that she's been allowed into the bar in the first place speaks to the sort of place he's in since she doesn't look old enough to drink by the standards of any planet in this system. She's holding a cup of something that he doesn't think is alcohol since it makes the same popping sound of his own drink, but he could be wrong. The look she levels him is full of exasperation.
"Sorry? Do I know you?"
She makes a face that screams ugh! and takes the seat next to him. Her completely white hair is pulled back, and cute star earrings dangle down. It makes her look younger, and he doesn't miss the way some of the other patrons eye her. The Doctor's caught between warning her and leaving. He doesn't think she's a prostitute, but he also makes a note not to come back to this bar again. Probably after leaving a tip for the police.
"Taking a human to Platform One on her first trip? You really have no tact, do you?" He feels his defenses go way, way up. How does she know that? Better yet, how does she know him? He's positive that he's never seen her before. "Oh, relax. If I was gonna try something, I'd do it before I got your attention."
He grabs her arm, not caring that it jostles her so that her drink spills over the edge. She glares at him and uses her free hand to grab a napkin. "Who are you? What are you?"
"Tired," she says, dabbing lightly. "I just spent the past forty hours negotiating with the Tree of Cheem on someone's behalf so they wouldn't take out a bounty on his head." She pulls away and places an order of food with the bartender. He doesn't even look up as he grunts in response, yelling back to the cook rudely.
"Why would you do that?"
"You know, I started asking myself that same question around hour twenty-eight when I was slogging through Gawakushi Salamander guts."
"What?"
She rolls her eyes and takes another drink of her cola. "They wanted your head for getting their princess killed. I gave them something they wanted more. Not that hard to put together."
He has so many questions. Why is the most prominent. Why would she do that, why her, and why for him? There's also how. The Gawakushi Salamander has been terrorizing the Forests of Cheem for nearly a decade. Is this girl seriously suggesting that she's killed it?
Her food arrives, the aroma heavy with salt and basil. "This guy bothering you," the bartender asks. The Doctor feels affronted. She's the one who started the conversation with him, not the other way around.
"We're good," she says, digging in. Mr. Brute grunts again, eyeing the Doctor before walking over to the other side of the bar to serve someone else.
"Who are you," the Doctor asks again. He feels wrong-footed and off-balance, and he doesn't like it.
The girl pauses. She's already put a considerable dent in her food, which he thinks says more about how hungry she is than the quality of it. She has a wry smile on her lips. He wants to complain. If anyone deserves to feel dissatisfied, it's him. "Neutral third party. Well, I say neutral…" She sets her fork down and wipes her mouth. "Bit of advice. Next time stick to Earth. Your girl'll have an easier time adjusting."
He nearly chokes, sputtering as he tries to begin explaining all the things wrong with that remark. "Rose is— Rose is not 'my girl!'" They're friends. He can say that now that she knows about the Time War, but there's nothing remotely romantic between them. "And how do you know her anyway?" He's only just started traveling with her. This last trip was more of a test run to see how they'd fit together.
"Just trust me on this," she says.
He thinks back to how Rose reacted to the aliens on Platform One. Sure, he probably could have prefaced their trip with a bit of an intro, but there wasn't always time for that. Maybe it is best to stick around Earth and uninhabited planets, just until she's a little more used to everything. He doesn't want to scare her off.
Later, Mr. Brute tells him his tab is already paid for. It draws out a curious frown. Who would pay for his tab? He doesn't remember talking to anyone and no one in the bar looks like the generous type. There's an empty plate and cup beside him—maybe the person who sat there paid for him?
Curious, but not all that interesting. It's only a bar tab after all, it's hardly like he owes a life debt. In any case, he should be getting back to the TARDIS if he wants time to wash off the smell from the bar. It won't do to face Rose like this.
He'll probably take her back to Earth for their next trip. Maybe they'll go back in time, somewhere with lots of other humans so she won't freak out about aliens. He thinks Earth suits her better, anyway, and he doesn't mind sticking around it for a while.
He feels faraway from himself and intangible, like a swirling mass of clouds in the shape of a man. He manages to keep a brave face for Martha, but as soon as she's gone, so is the last of his strength. The TARDIS is floating in the Time Vortex and the current is slow so he doesn't have to worry about getting swept away, but all that does is free more of his mind to wallow. They're alive. They survived. The Time War, Satellite Five, not even getting sucked into the Void could stop the Daleks. He's lost so much and somehow they still survive.
Dalek Sec was the only redeeming part of it. If a Dalek, and not just any Dalek, but a member of the Cult of Skarro, could change, then he had hope. Things could change; maybe they'd finally have peace instead of being locked in this never ending battle full of loss. But then Dalek Sec had been killed by his own, and the Doctor's hope died with him.
He's going to bounce back. He will keep on keeping on, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. That's how he always was. How he hopes to always be. But it feels so hard to try right now that he's alone again. He's not really alone; Martha's just a few rooms away. But a few rooms feels like an entire galaxy.
There's a knocking at the door, and he's almost opening it before his brain catches up to his body. There's a knocking at the door. A knocking at the door of the TARDIS. The TARDIS which is in flight in the Time Vortex. There shouldn't be anyone around to knock. There shouldn't be anyone capable of it. What's a person doing in the Time Vortex anyway?
"Oh, come on," the person complains through the wood. "It's boiling out here! I'm about to pass out from heatstroke!"
He opens the door and in walks a girl. A young girl. Her white hair is plastered to the sides of her face and her neck, skin covered in a faint sheen of sweat. She gives him a dismissive "thanks" and walks further inside, leaning against one of the columns. Inside the console room it feels like a cool spring day.
He lets the door shut behind her, blocking out the unbearable heat. Numb with shock is a good descriptor for how he's feeling now. So is confused as hell. He can't help but look back and forth between the girl and the now closed entryway. "Wow, it's like you've never seen someone use a door before," she says with a raised eyebrow.
"How did you— where did you— who—"
Her lips tick down ever so slightly at that last aborted question. They're straight and neutral again when he blinks, wondering if he's having some sort of grief hallucination. "Nope," she says like she heard his question. "You're not seeing things."
"What?"
"Well, you are," she amends, grinning. "But only the things you're supposed to."
"What?"
"Me, I mean. I'm real—you're not hallucinating or dreaming."
"What?"
"Wow you really like that word. Ooh, thanks." She grabs the mostly full glass of water Martha set down some time ago and forgot about. The TARDIS has a habit of preserving food, so it's still fresh, ice clinking as she downs it in one go. She grabs her head and makes a face. "Oh, that was a bad idea. Brain freeze."
He doesn't know what to think. A stranger has just barged into his home. Not only that, but she acts comfortable and at ease with him when he's sure he's never met her before. There's nothing, not even a comment about the TARDIS, to suggest that she's the least bit taken aback by a box that's bigger on the inside.
They look at each other for a while before the girl sets down the glass. "Well, this is awkward."
He wants to yell that she's the one who made it so, but he's afraid it'll come out a little too hysteric. "I'm the Doctor," he says instead, because it's his name, his constant, and right now it's also his clutch for balance.
"Yup," she says.
"And you are…?"
The sound of a bell cuts her off before she can reply. He's not sure if he would've gotten a straight answer anyway. She had this look in her eye, and he knows that look. Not just disappointment, but resigned disappointment. The sort of resigned people get when they tell themselves not to expect something, and when it doesn't happen they discover that some subconscious part of them hoped anyway.
But he could be wrong. It was only there for a fraction of a second.
She glances at the inside of her wrist, eyes widening when she reads the time. "Late," she says, the change from seated to standing so quick it's as if she teleported. "I'm late. I'm so, so late. And so dead. I'm dead."
He can't tell if she's serious or not, and it's rather alarming. But she heads back to the door, none too happy about having to brave the heat again before he can put together enough words to ask a question, any question. "Right. Thanks for the drink. You owed me one, so I guess we're even now."
"Wait," he tries to say.
"Nope, no time. Gotta run. Or skip, actually, but semantics. Anyway, only stopped by to tell you something."
"Tell me what?"
"Don't forget to believe," she says cryptically, typing her hair back.
"Believe in what? That doesn't tell me anything!"
He's suddenly by the entrance, alone since Martha's off in her room to sleep off their last adventure, and wondering why he has the door open. He shuts them quickly. It's boiling outside, even for a Time Lord.
He hums a Journey song under his breath—the words escape him at the moment. Something about streetlights and strangers. A strange good mood lifts his spirits despite the less than stellar outcome of their trip to Manhattan. Then again, he can't say that it's a complete failure. Lazlo survives, the Hooverville disappearance were stopedp, and he has proof now that even his greatest enemies aren't irredeemable.
Not bad, really, when he thinks about it.
A hand stretches down and grabs his just before he clears the edge. His shoulder pulls in its socket, and the sudden sharp pain makes him wonder for a moment if falling instead really was so bad. Sure, the landing would kill him, but at least that would be instantaneous.
Painfully, he's pulled up until he can swing his other hand over the edge. It takes more effort than he likes, but he's finally on solid ground and not a pancake so he counts it as a win. He turns over to thank his savior, expecting the page who tipped him off on this little amoral gig. Instead he sees a young girl with hair so white it's nearly blinding after so long in the dark.
"Really," she asks, slightly out of breath and leaning against the wall. "I leave for five minutes, and you find yourself a suicide mission? Mars wasn't that bad!"
There are so many things wrong with those words, starting with the fact that he's never seen her before in his life. Also, this isn't a suicide mission, he has—had, now—a perfectly clever exit plan and it isn't his fault that it quite literally blew up in his face. Also, how does this girl know about what happened on Mars?
"I only know the basics," she says, and it does nothing to make things clearer. "But I know enough to know that while you screwed up, you didn't screw up that badly."
He wants to argue. Not only did he interfere where he was never supposed to, he broke the laws of time, tried to rewrite a fixed point, and drove a woman to kill herself. It's plenty bad by anyone's standards.
The girl winces like she's realized her mistakes. "Okay, so it was bad. But you didn't break the universe. And it's definitely not worth killing yourself over. Learn from it and move on."
"It's that simple to you," he asks. The words come out a little more bitter than he intends, but it's too late to take back now. "Who are you, anyway? How do you know me?"
The girl stands and half-turns away. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Worse, you wouldn't remember."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing." She turns back and her face is carefully blank. An alarm goes off in the distance. He estimates about ninety more seconds until the guards storm in. "Look, I'm not saying you have to get over it right away. Take your time; really think it over to drive the lesson home. Just do it somewhere that won't get you killed."
She has a fair point. It isn't really fair or helpful to anyone for him to be so distracted when he promised to help. Life and the universe are hardly ever far, but the Doctor tries to be when he can.
There's banging on the sealed door down the corridor. He and the girl both run, trying to put as much distance between them and the guards with pointy weapons as possible. Absently, he notes that she's leading him back towards the lab in the dungeon. "What does it matter to you?"
They slam the wooden doors shut behind them. The sonic is useless, but together they barricade it with what they have. It won't hold forever, but if they're lucky, it'll slow their pursuers down long enough.
"It matters," she says. "That's all you need to know."
She stops at the entrance to the stairs. The air here hums with electricity. The design of the antigravs are sophisticated, but the mechanics powering them are crude. It's only a matter of time before they fail and the castle goes crashing back down to Earth. It's a major catastrophe unless he can safely land them, not to mention all the cows that need rescuing.
"What are you doing?"
She pulls off one of the decorative spears from the wall. It's nearly twice her height, but she wields it like she actually knows what to do with it. "Someone has to hold them back," she says. The sound of footsteps gets louder as the guards draw closer.
"You? With that?"
"Do I tell you how to do your job," she shoots back. The doors budge out as something slams into them, but the lock holds. For now. "I'll be fine. No one will be if we don't land safely."
She makes a good point. He wants to argue, partly just for the sake of it, and partly because he's genuinely worried. Stranger or not, she's helping, and that's more than he can say for most of the other people in the castle.
It's the closest call he's had in a while, and that's really saying something, but he manages to land the castle near enough to where it took off from that no one'll notice. Probably. Strangely, the castle guards are all passed out when he leaves the dungeon. He doesn't think the landing is that rocky, but bully them and lucky him.
The stolen cows are no help the entire time, but they're grateful to be back in the fields and farms they belong on.
Rose is dancing out on the floor and the Doctor can't help but feel out of place. There's a girl drinking with Jack at one of the tables, and he sincerely hopes that flirting is just friendly because she has to be younger than Rose. Or maybe she just looks it. Her white hair actually makes her fit in with the other clubbers, though she's dressed more conservatively than most of them.
He looks over at the bodies Rose is half-writhing with, then back over at Jack. There's no decision to be made, really, so he slinks over and tries to ignore pretty much everything about his surroundings. He's only here to placate the others. Jack would be find on his own, but he's promised Jackie to look after Rose and he's not about to leave her in a Lunar Colony club on her own. The people are mostly human, but there are all sorts of drugs and other questionable substances, and Rose has no built-up tolerance.
The music is near deafening. The bass makes him feel like the floor is shaking. How can Rose and Jack like this, then complain about his piloting skills? The journey from Raxacoricofallapatorious was even one of the smoother rides.
"Hello." Up close, he can see the pattern of silver swirls running along the sides of the girl's face. Her neck and arms are similarly decorated. The temporary markings glow under the strobe lights thanks to the moon dust mixed in them. There's a sly smile on her face and he can see why Jack has spent the last twenty minutes talking to her; she's exactly his type. Well, pretty much everything alive and sentient is Jack's type, but her especially so.
He wonders if he should say something on Rose's behalf. He's not sure what's going on between her, Jack, and Mickey, and where exactly he falls in line in everything. It feels like one of those times when no one says what they really want to and everyone pretends not to notice. He certainly doesn't care who Rose dates so long as she's happy. Same with Jack. As for himself, well, he's not looking for a relationship like that.
"This is the man I was talking about," Jack begins with, and that's either a very good or very bad thing. He's prepared to run if it comes down to it, but he'd hate to ruin the night for the others.
The girl leans back and grins. "Your friend's been telling me quite a story. Something about nearly cracking the Earth open like an egg."
It feels like he's missed something. There's something about the way she talks—is that a hint of amused disapproval he detects? He hopes she's not a Time Agent or some sort of bounty hunter.
"Ah, but did he get to the part where everything worked out in the end?"
"Way to steal my thunder," Jack jokes easily.
The Doctor isn't sure when he decided to take a seat, but now he's joined their table and it feels weird to stand up again. The atmosphere is easy and he can almost ignore the nonsensical music. The girl eyes the two of them, but her gaze doesn't feel objectifying. "I love a good story," she says. "Tell me more?"
They finish telling her about Margaret, and then they keep talking. Jack tells her about some of his former cons. He's careful, of course, to word everything so it sounds legal. The amused glint in the girl's eyes says she doesn't mind playing along but knows better. He thinks Jack knows that he's not fooling anyone either, but as long as no one gets hurt and there's no proof, there's no harm in pretending.
The Doctor surprises himself by sharing a few stories of his own. They talk about how he and Jack met, and that brings up Rose so he tells that story too. If the girl is surprised that they're not alone, she doesn't show it. In fact, when Rose joins them for a break from dancing, she's inviting towards the other girl, asking for her version of some of their exploits.
It doesn't escape the Doctor's notice that the girl doesn't reveal much about herself in turn. When Rose finally drags Jack away to dance with her, they leave the two of them alone at the table. The club is far from empty, but it's late enough that most of the traffic is egress instead of entry. The DJ uses the lessening crowds as an opportunity to change the music up a bit. It's no longer just songs heavy on the base with beats that all mix together as one. She plays a few slow songs intermittently, and even some experimental stuff that doesn't sound too bad.
"I never did catch your name," he says causally.
Instead of offering it, the girl looks straight at him and says, "I never gave it." At least she's not denying it, but then, it begs the question as to why she hasn't introduced herself yet. He wonders if Jack knows.
"What's your name?"
She hums. "How 'bout I give you a hint, and if you guess right, I'll tell you."
"Alright," he agrees. It's not like it'll hurt. If she wanted to try something, she'd have done it by now. And he'll admit, if only to himself, that she's sort of saved his evening. It's been fun talking to her. "What's the hint?"
She pretends to think about it. "I come at the end."
"The end of what," he asks before he can help himself. The girl smiles, and all the parts are there—the upward curve of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes, even the small, breathy exhale through her nose—but something about it doesn't feel like a regular smile. Silence is his only answer, and he supposes it's fair. She said one hint, after all. But he can't help the curiosity that burns in his blood. It's the thing that drives him, the desire to know, to see.
Three songs later, and he still doesn't figure it out. She laughs at some of her more outlandish guesses, but hey, people are known to give their children strange names. People are known to take on even stranger ones for themselves. "New rule," she proposes after he asks if her name is a form of punctuation.
"What?"
"You get three more tries, and if you're still wrong, then you have to dance with me." He pauses to weigh the pros and cons. Truthfully, he wouldn't mind dancing so long as it's to something slower. He doesn't think he's laughed this hard in a while, and the girl is good company. If Rose and Jack can leave him to dance together, then why can't he dance with someone else?
"Alright, Oblivion?"
"Not even close," she teases. His next to guesses are equally bad. She grins victoriously and stands after the third, hand extended out to him. "Dance with me, clever boy."
As if on cue, a slow song starts playing. It's very romantic, which makes him feel a little more nervous now than when he agreed, but a deal is a deal. She places her left hand on his shoulder and he puts right on the small of her back. Their other hands are clasped together. It's not a song to waltz to, and there isn't really space for it anyway. He'd be surprised if she even knew how since it's long since fallen out of fashion by this time, but they sway and it's not as awkward as he feared.
"Are you going to tell me," he asks. Over her shoulder he can see Jack, dancing with another man much more intimately and grinning back at him.
"You never guessed right," she points out. He spins her and she pretends her jeans are a beautiful dress, just like in the song.
He catches her hand when she twirls back. "You got me to dance," he counters.
She grins and pulls them back from nearly bumping into a nearby group. "You asked if my name was Whimper. I mean, Whimper."
"I was drawing on poetry!"
She hums in agreement. "Eliot. Nice chap, tiny bit of a dramatist, but that was his job."
The music cuts out abruptly, much to the annoyance of the rest of the clubbers. They make their dissatisfaction well known. The Doctor spies Jack and Rose both beginning to make their way towards him with twin looks of confusion. He's in the same boat as they are.
The girl's eyes are trained on the doorway, which he just notices is opens someone stands there, using the contrast of light to keep their features hidden. There's no mistaking the flashing lights and grunts through. "We have a warrant for the Doctor."
She glances back at him, but not in surprise like he expects. He has no idea what this warrant is for—he's only been in this one club and the alley behind it since they landed. "Guess we'll have to save the rest of the dance for later," the girl says softly. She pulls away from him, taking a step towards the officer. He wonders if she means to interfere or if the plan is to blend in with the crowd. "Better run, clever boy."
Kincaide eyes the doors with caution. Careful Kincaide—that's what everyone calls him, but it pays to be careful. Careful keeps you safe, it keeps you alive. Recklessness gets you kills. He tries to be as careful as he can. Look both ways before crossing the street. Make sure the waiter knows all your allergies so there's no chance of cross-contamination. Don't wander past the red house on Endeavour. In the old days on Earth, they would call places like these the wrong side of the tracks. Until the moment he crosses them, Kincaide had no idea that tracks could have a wrong side. He gets it now. It's all about how it feels on the other side. Everything, the air the ground, even the people feel wrong here.
If it were up to him, he would never come here. Sadly, it's not up to him. This is quite literally his last resort. The only reason he manages to come this far is because of his referral. Jethro is at best a distant acquaintance and at worst a nuisance that hasn't realized he's not wanted. But he swears this place is 'licit. Ever since he's come back from that vacation on Midnight—and Kincaide isn't sure how much of that fantasy tale he keeps telling is true—he's been more manageable. Slightly.
Shame it doesn't seem to be helping his coherency any. Jethro still talks like he's lofting all the time. He probably is. This is probably where he gets his drugs. Kincaide is about to walk into a drug den and the person inside is going to take one look at him, see he doesn't belong, and sell his organs. It isn't too late to turn back, is it? He's too young and beautiful to die like this.
But last resorts are last place for a reason, right?
He knocks. The door is just a plain door, but as he stands there growing more and more awkward as no reply comes, it starts to feel like one of those new titanium vault doors. He has to talk himself into trying the knob. If it doesn't turn then that's it, he's turning around and hightailing it out of there, desperate or not.
When it gives with a soft click, he isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. He's sweating slightly—he's a nervous sweater, which is one of the reasons he likes to err on the side of caution because no one likes sweating. It feels like this was a test and he's just barely scraping a passing grade, but how the hell does know this is supposed to be one of those don't-knock-just-enter places? It's not like he makes a habit for visiting drug dens!
Except it isn't a drug den. Or it's not supposed to be. If Jethro mixed up the addresses then Kincaide is haunting him forever because he's dead if this doesn't work.
It's neater inside than he expects, especially given the grim and desaturated colors that everything on this side of the red house seemed to come in. Then again, the inside is also rather plain. There isn't much there in terms of decoration. The only furniture he sees is a table, an office chair, and a bigger but only slightly more comfortable looking couch. Both the desk and chair are white while the sofa has blue accents. Kincaide is so busy looking around that he completely overlooks the girl sitting in the chair.
Frankly speaking, she's not what he's expecting. In fact, if you could sum up the opposite of what he was expecting into an actual person, and apparently you can since it is an actual person staring him down, then she is it. Her most striking feature is her hair—pure white. It actually distracts from a lot of the rest of her, but he manages to take in her youthful appearance—and by youthful he means she looks younger than he is—and smaller than average stature.
Behind him, the door clicks shut, and it's like that moment where the tension-building string-filled background music would crescendo and ends, signaling his fate if this were a movie. Kincaide thinks about that sometimes, if his life were scripted entertainment. Until recently he would say the genre would be self-help, maybe one of those blockbuster slice-of-life stories they used to call indie for whatever reason. But then It happens and takes over his life and now it feels like he's living an action-thriller only with less impressive stunts and no hot side character that doubles as his love interest.
The girl looks at him, bored. He takes the seven or so steps it takes to cross the corridor shakily, not sure if he should wait for her to offer him a seat or just sit down. He chooses to stay standing in the end, just in case it ends with him needing to run out. It pays to be careful, and he's Careful Kincaide. Or he was.
"I— er…" He wipes his sweaty palms against his pants and hopes she doesn't notice. There's a jug of water and an upside-down cup resting near the edge of her desk. His throat is suddenly bone dry, but he feels like asking for a glass is a sign of a sucker. "My friend—" But Jethro isn't his friend. "Or, my colleague, um. He told me. That you do stuff. I mean, not stuff, I mean… like…"
"Look kid—"
"I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," he says because that's just pathetic. Jethro is nineteen, and Kincaide only just manages to tolerate him because he's twenty-two and it's immature to pick on people younger than you. But this girl is maybe eighteen at his oldest guess.
"Kid," she says like he never interrupted, "I'm not doing anything for someone who can't even say what he wants me to do. Especially not some kid who's most illegal action is probably ripping vids off the net. So spit it out and let me decide if your job is worthwhile, or you can walk right back out the door."
He takes a deep breath and, "I need transport."
He has three days to get to the Triomphe Pavilion on Paris IV or his little brother is dead. Only, Paris IV is on lockdown because some moron tried to smuggle Saurian mushrooms into the colony and the spores got out into the main ventilation. Kincaide's brother stopped responding to his messages half a day ago. All the hospitals and other emergency services he's tried calling give him the same answer: they're busy managing crises and don't have time to hunt down one boy. As of two hours ago, all he's getting is a busy signal, hence this as his last resort.
Cadwal is immunodeficient and Kincaide knows for a fact that he's missed his last medication refill two days before the lockdown. If he's left somewhere without access, or runs out, then his brother is dead, spores or no spores. And even with the advances in medicine, Cadwal's immune system is still bad. The point of him studying at Paris IV is that it's supposed to be cleaner there. Everything is automated, and their grandmother, who took care of them until she died last year, made it clear to everyone in Cadwal's life how dangerous it is for him to be exposed to anything exotic.
The girl—shit, what did Jethro say her name was? Snow? Frost? Something that's also a noun—listens to his word vomit silently. It doesn't come out at all like he practiced on the bus ride and walk over. Somewhere in the middle he takes a seat in the couch that's surprisingly comfortable. A glass is magically in his hand, filled with water warmed by his grasp, and he chugs it down when he's done. Her expression is unreadable. He has no idea of she'll provide him with what he needs or if she even can.
She pulls up a newsfeed covering what little the press know and care about the Paris IV. "Saurian mushrooms," she mumbles, and he almost wants to cry. There's a reason why they're banned on nearly every human habituated planet and colony. Not only are they highly addictive, their side effects are debilitating and the lethal dose is quite low in their spore form. Most junkies extract the juice from the actual grown mushroom and dilute it by about a factor of a hundred before lofting.
"Do you have your brother's medication with you?"
It takes a moment for his brain to register and understand her question. "Huh? I'm mean, no. I tried negotiating with the pharmacist, but they refused to let me fill it in his place." And by negotiate, he meant arguing. It ended with him nearly in tears and almost thrown out of the building.
She makes a dissatisfied face and hands him something. "Here."
He takes the rectangular piece of paper—is this actual paper? Just who is this girl?—and stares at it uncomprehendingly. "What is it?"
"My card. Meet me back here in three hours and we'll we on our way. Don't stay, I have arrangements that need making and you'll only be a distraction."
"Does this mean…?" He can't quite bring himself to hope.
"We'll discuss my fee on the way to Paris IV."
Three hours is enough time for him to hurry back to his flat and pack at least an overnight bag. Kincaide can't help but run his fingers over the card again and again. He's never touched actual paper, only the synthesized stuff. It isn't fancy, just a name, a title, and a contact number. There are indents in the card where it's been typed in.
Winter, no last name. Or is Winter her last name?
Contractor. It doesn't say what sort. He wonders if that means she really is Jethro's supplier. Maybe some of the arrangements she needs to make are about drug shipments. He can't seem to find it in himself to care right now. If she'll get him to Cadwal then he can turn a blind eye. What he's asking her to do is illegal too.
He ends up tucking the card carefully in the back pocket of the extra pair of pants he packs. Real paper is precious and who knows—if they get out of this alive and not arrested, it might be handy to keep the contact information of a girl like that.
The sky is dark and clear when he makes his way back to her office. Winter. It suits her, he thinks, because of her hair. It also suits the style of the action-thriller that's become his life. The year is ending soon; the first day of winter is ironically three days from now, his deadline.
He hopes to hell with everything he has that they make it.