The Quick and the Doctor, a Doctor Who + Quick and the Dead Crossover fanfic

Summary: The Doctor is captured by a sadistic old mercenary who's running an old mining town in the Andromeda Galaxy with an iron fist. He enters the Doctor in his annual blood sport, a quick-draw competition, because he knows about his aversion to guns. A mysterious dark-haired lady enters the contest to kill the mercenary. Nine's encounter with Clara.

Notes: Blame my husband. He watched "The Quick and the Dead" (Gene Hackman, Sharron Stone, Russell Crowe) before I went to sleep one night, and the idea wouldn't leave my head. This is not a crossover, but is based on the movie. There will be differences in the particulars, including a Clara-specific ending. This won't be AU to "Doctor Who"; it just happens before Nine goes to Earth to stop the Nestene Consciousness, with a prologue and an epilogue from just after Clara is brought back out of the Doctor's timeline.

* Using Sto credits for reference, making this a £500,000 purse, or $760,000 US.

The Quick & the Doctor

Prologue

"Run, you clever boy, and remember me."

"How many times have you saved me, Clara? Just this once, just for the hell of it, let me save you."

The Doctor pulled Clara up into his arms, and ran, Vastra, Jenny and Strax running behind him, but not nearly able to keep up. He had to save her. There was no way, after she had done what she did, that he was going to let her die for it. He had to get her back to his TARDIS.

The TARDIS doors were already open, and as he burst in, he saw that the infirmary had been moved right off the control room. He quickly got her on the table and hooked up to the diagnostic systems. "Psychic shock, and dangerously low blood glucose." He grabbed some emergency glucose film from the storage bin behind him and got two of them under her tongue. That would handle her sugar problem, but there were other concerns. The psychic shock would need a gentle touch to calm it. He'd been much better at that sort of thing in his last life, but he could still do it. He stood at the head of the bed and pressed his fingers to her temples, going into her mind as gently as he could so that he could smooth things out.

It was chaos. Twenty six lives, one of them even Gallifreyan, and all of those memories were bouncing around in her skull, vying for attention. He found the core of her personality and helped her set things in order, giving each life it's own partition. He did his best not to look; he hadn't asked permission to be in here, after all. But he saw a few things, and he could only shake his head in wonder at what she had done for him.

It took several hours after he removed himself from her mind before she was able to wake up. Jenny had found one of the kitchens and had set about making tea and sandwiches for everyone, to keep her hands busy if nothing else. Strax simply sat and waited, while Vastra meditated. The Doctor watched the monitors with an intensity that should have melted them. But finally, the monitors began to show an upswing in brain function, and Clara began making small movements with her eyes and hands.

Then, with no more warning than that, she shot into an upright position, shouting, "Doctor!"

"Easy," he told her. "We've got you. You're in the infirmary."

She held her head in her hands, wide eyes seeing the massive amount of new things in her memory. "I was a governess. And a bar maid, and a Dalek, and a mechanic, and a shootist, and a tourist in Tibet, and-"

"Hey, it's all right. You're back now, and the only thing you ever have to be again is Clara."

"That's just it, Doctor." She suddenly looked at him, her eyes boring into his. "I am Clara. All of them were Clara, and all of them were born, lived and died, and all of them were me."

He met her frightened stare. "I know. How are you feeling?"

Her expression didn't change. "Very full. Like one of those giant balloons with a stuffed animal inside. You see it and you think, how on earth could they have put something that big through a hole that small?"

"Because it's very stretchy. Just like your mind. But you could have gone too far. I'm so glad you didn't go too far, Clara." He pulled her into a hug, so very thankful her mind hadn't imploded on itself.

Vastra asked, "So what happened?"

Clara took a moment, shook the cobwebs out and breathed deeply before letting it all out in one go. Then she said, "All those lives. I lived every one, and each time I would eventually meet up with the Doctor, whichever Doctor he was at the time. I stopped him, Simeon, every time, whatever it took to save the Doctor. I was even Gallifreyan once. Simeon switched this TARDIS in place with another in the workshop. I told him to take this one, because he'd have more fun."

"And she always takes me where I'm needed. There's no telling what would have happened in another TARDIS."

"I was about a hundred and sixty that time before I died. I was a normal Gallifreyan, you see, not a Time Lady. But that's a lot for a human. Then I was on a ship, and it crashed on this planet of snow and it was full of insane Daleks. I got converted into one, but I barricaded myself in my own mind to fight the Dalek programming, and then you came."

The Doctor grinned. "And you wiped my name out of the Dalek databases. They don't even know who I am anymore." Then he frowned and sighed. "And then I sent missiles that destroyed the Asylum, and you with it."

She smiled sadly at him. "That's all right, Doctor. I wouldn't have wanted to keep being a Dalek." She looked at him sideways. "Do you remember Redemption?"

"Redemption?"

"Little mining town on Peluka, in the Scorpio Cluster?"

He thought back, then surprised them all by cursing violently.

Jenny said, "What? What happened there?"

Clara said, "It's a frontier town, or it was at that time. Don't actually know what time that was, to be honest, but it was like western America in you three's time, only with higher levels of technology. Everything is dusty and gray. The water is only under the ground, and all the wealth in the area was sucked up by the ruler of the place, a tyrannical Chula named Herrod."

"Herrod and that place, what they did to you, to me—they're why it makes me so angry when someone kills someone without even bothering to find out their name." He looked at her. "Your hair was curly then."

"Filthy, you mean. Dusty town was not conducive to hygiene."

That startled a laugh out of the Doctor. "Come on. If you're going to be telling stories, and I think you are, we should all go somewhere more comfortable."

He led them all to a sitting room with lovely squashy sofas and chairs, and after Jenny made sure all of them had their tea, out of habit, Clara and the Doctor told the Paternoster Row detectives the story of Redemption and all that had happened to them there. It wasn't a pleasant story.

Chapter One

The Doctor woke up in shock to a kick to the gut. He sucked in a ragged breath and jerked back against his restraints. "Wake up, Time Lord. Time to get moving." He shook his head to clear it, stretching his pulmonary canals to their maximum to get oxygen, and then wished he hadn't as pain from his battered skull increased. He looked up at his keeper with a baleful glare, but didn't say anything. At least one of these cretins thought it was funny to make him scream, so he was as quiet as he could be in protest. "We're moving in five."

He stood unsteadily, walking to the very edge of his chains to a slightly darker area where he could relieve his bladder in relative privacy. Then he walked in the other direction toward the remains of the fire. He was given a cup of water and a slice of bread. It would be the only food he received that day, so he didn't waste it.

He wondered again how he could have been so stupid as to let Jehain Herrod get hold of him. Herrod was a Chula, one of the many mercenaries that the Time Lord Council had hired to help fight the Daleks, and the Doctor had approached him to find out if he'd heard of any other surviving Time Lords. But he'd forgotten how much of a bloody bastard he was. If he was correct about what he'd overheard since being attacked and chained, Herrod was ruling a mining town called Redemption; it had probably been easy for him to take it over, and knowing how he had treated both his own men and his prisoners during the war, he didn't imagine that living under his thumb would be very pleasant.

As for his current situation, he still wasn't sure what Herrod wanted with him. He'd mentioned something about public entertainment, but he hadn't been very informative. So far, he'd been beaten a bit, and his coat had been taken, along with his sonic screwdriver. He was under no illusion that this would be the worst of it. For now, they were making him walk along on their way to Redemption while they rode on their Ories; four-legged beasts covered in feathers with mouths full of flat teeth and thick taloned feet which were the size of Clydesdales. They weren't in that much of a hurry; he was able to walk rather than run, but he really had no choice other than to keep up.

Foster's northwestern continent was a lot of scrub, prairie and sand. Dust blew in the air, getting into everything, and without his leather jacket, his jumper was no protection from it. The manacles dug into his wrists, cutting the skin and bruising the underlying tissues. Adding to the environmental issues were the deliberate actions of one of Herriad's men, Rusty the Cyborg. He smoked truly horrible cigars, and seemed to delight in putting them out on the Doctor's skin. He already had three open burn wounds on each arm. He saw the man headed for him again with the stub of his cigar in his hand, and tensed up.
Herriad noticed it, too. "Rusty."

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Make sure you don't touch his hands. He's going to need them."

The Doctor took that as an opening to try and find out what the mercenary was planning. "Why is that?"

Herrod's face grew an evil half-grin. "Every year in Redemption, I hold a competition for the entire sector. The fastest draw wins a purse of twenty-five million credits."*

The Doctor was horrified. A contest where people were willingly shooting each other for money! "Why don't I think you're talking about target shooting?"

"Hah! Targets don't shoot back, Doctor. Where would the challenge be in that?" He grinned at him again. "You fought in the war, Doctor. You've shot a gun before. Think you're still fast enough?"

The Doctor shook his head defiantly. "I despise guns. I won't use them."

The Chula cocked his head at him. "That's right. You were more of a demolitions man, weren't you."

A firestorm snapped in the Doctor's eyes as he glared daggers at the mercenary. Herriad knew that he had been the one to end the Time War, and he knew how he'd done it. Anger rolled through his voice. "What makes you think I'll play your little game?"

"What makes you think you have a choice?"

Dusty old mining towns looked the same across much of the universe. Barn board buildings and compacted dirt streets, painted wooden signs, and hitching posts for Ories and dust skimmers completed the picture. It looked like something out of Earth's American Old West, and it looked that way for the same reasons; similar climates and similar functions. There was a brothel, a barber, a carpenter, a general store and the boardinghouse, which also housed the saloon. One building on the main street didn't match, a fancy wooden house. Its colors were the same dust-filled brown, but the designs spoke of money in a town where money was clearly lacking.

The lady came in from the north through the cemetery. She saw the town as she came down the main street. She attracted a little attention because women on Peluka just didn't dress the way she was dressed. Men's clothes, dusty old boots, an ancient buckskin coat, and a buff hat sitting on top of her loose black hair were all part of the picture, but not nearly as much as the sonic blaster and the ancient 1875 Colt Peacemaker that rode on her hips.

The lady was riding a solid black Ory, heading straight for the boarding-house. She knew from the adverts that were posted across the sector that the boardinghouse was both the only place in town that she would want to stay (the brothel catering to women of a different kind) and the registration location for the contest.

She was itching for a fight. One fight in particular, of course, but there were plenty of fights to get into in a place like this, and until the contest started and she had a chance to kill the man she wanted to kill, any fight would do.

The proprietor was standing on a stool to stock the more expensive bottles of whiskey on a high shelf away from sticky fingers. A young girl was handing him the bottles. The lady said, "How 'bout a room?"

He didn't turn around, still fussing with the bottles. He just heard a woman's voice, and he made an assumption. "Whores next door."

She didn't say anything in response, choosing action instead. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and she kicked the stool out from under him. She caught the stool and the bottle as they went flying, but he hit the floor hard. She opened the bottle and took a clean glass off the bar, pouring herself a drink as he caught his breath. He looked up and saw how she was dressed, noting especially the weapons just under her coat. "Now, have you got a room for me?"

The barman picked himself up off the floor. "Yes ma'am. Sorry about that. Kat'hi," he called to the girl who was helping him. "Let's get the lady a room and a bath."

While the pair went to prepare her a room, the lady turned around to finish her drink. Another customer walked in, calling for a bottle of champagne. He was average in height, but tried to make up for it with the heels on his boots and the feather in his hat. "And don't you dare open it. I want to know what I'm drinking." The man looked at the lady at the bar with an appraising eye. "You want to play poker with me?"

She blew a laugh through her nose. "You look like you're having enough fun just playing with yourself." She turned around to put money on the bar for her drink, then took her glass and headed back outside.

He persisted. "This is a very special deck. I put an extra ace in it every time I kill a man."

The lady smirked at him, but just kept walking, and ended up back outside. The wind had died down a bit, and the dust had begun to settle, leaving a green sky with a few wispy clouds and the various smells of town. She sat down at the shoe-shine station which was being run by a young blind man, a boy really, with blond hair and smoked lenses. He started brushing the dust off her boots as he asked, "Interested in first-class Androzine whiskey? Fine cigars, shimmer ink or perfume?"

She smiled, though she knew he couldn't see her. "Just shine my boots."

The boy worked on her boots, and she glared at the big wooden house across the street. There were two armed men with both rifles and blasters maintaining a visual presence, and there was a scope just visible from one of the upstairs windows that caught the sun as it rotated. It was a rich house, but dirty, and she figured that reflected the personality of the owner. The boy said, "Jehain Herrod owns that house. He gets one of every two credits in this town."

She nodded, expecting as much. But she didn't know how well that was received. "What's the town get?"

The boy huffed a humorless laugh. "They get to live." So the town folk weren't involved. Good. That made this simpler. The town wouldn't mind her getting rid of the bastard.

The noise of a galloping Ory drew the attention of the lady, the boy and the scope. Someone was riding in from the south side of town, and riding fast. The boy said, "Another gun in town." Sure enough, the figure resolved itself into a man in prison gray running right for them. He was wearing a blaster on his hip and a knife at his waist. "Hi, Scars," said the boy. The lady could see where he'd gotten the name. At some point, someone had slashed the man's face from hairline to chin across one eye, almost cut his throat, and he had a row of self-inflicted scars on his left arm.

Scars ignored both of them and went straight into the saloon. The boy told the lady, "Stand back." She listened, and sure enough there was a commotion immediately. Someone came flying through the batwing doors, having been bodily hurled through them and onto the street. The fallen man got up in a hurry and ran for the Ory that Scars had just got off of. Mounting it, he wasted no time in galloping the creature toward the north end of town.

But he wasn't fast enough. Scars came strolling out of the bar with a mug in his left hand. He walked down the steps to the street and pulled his blaster, aiming for the rider, and killed both him and the animal dead in the street. He then drew his knife and dragged the blade across his left arm, adding to his tally. "That makes fifteen."

The repulsive man turned back toward the bar, draining his mug as he did so. He saw the lady and walked right up to her. The smell was a truly disgusting mix of body odor and beer. He got right in her face and stared at her as he said, "I just got out of prison."

Her look of loathing was plain. "Congratulations."

He wasn't smart enough to catch the look. "I got thirty years, but I got out early."

The boy asked, "How long did you do this time?"

"Three days." He really wasn't interested in the boy's questions, a more carnal conversation on his mind. "You're pretty," he told the lady, looking her up and down.

"You're not."

"I need me a woman." Really his breath was too much.

She snarled at him. "You need a bath. And a toothbrush."

The boy snickered. Scars glared at him, and feeling humiliated, walked around both of them to the chest of products the boy was trying to hock. He pulled it over with a crash, and the tinkling sound of breaking glass. "I'm so clumsy, I must be blind!" Then he laughed at his own joke and went back into the bar.

The lady shook her head. "It's always the thick ones. Will you be all right kid?"

"Yeah. And it's Sean."

"Thanks, Sean."

The riders reached the town of Redemption around sunset, and by the noise there was already some kind of party going. Herrod told his men to take the Doctor into the barn and have a little fun with him. "He needs to be angry. But if any of you touch his hands, you'll answer to me." Leaving him in their hands, he went to his house to get changed out of his dusty trail clothes.

Of course, Herrod's men's idea of fun was beating the Doctor unconscious, and they took their time about it. More than once he tried to put his hands in the way, but that only got the rest of him hurt worse. He was more than willing to have his hands injured because it meant that he wouldn't be able to hold on to a gun, much less fire one. But they were at least more clever than to go against Herrod's express orders.

They didn't much care if he could breathe well. But he had to be ambulatory, and able to shoot straight. They didn't break his legs, hands, arms or face bones, but they broke a few ribs and tried to break his jaw. Rusty started playing with a knife, making shallow cuts across his chest and back, promising to come back with a whip because he wanted the Doctor to scream. But Foyd, who was higher up in Herrod's organization, warned him off. "Not enough time. Put a shirt on 'im. He's got an appointment at the saloon.

Kat'hi took the lady up to her room, up the stairs around the back of the boardinghouse. There was a line of green doors, all leading to a room. She overheard townsfolk (identified by their accents) giving some kind of payment to a big Vosch, but didn't really pay them any mind.

The room was very basic, containing a bed, a dresser a toilet, a faucet, and a bath tub. The tub had a drain, but had to be filled manually by buckets from the faucet. Because of that, they had drawn her a bath before bringing her into the room. Kat'hi had the last bucket of hot water with her and poured it into the bath while the lady arranged her packs and got settled into the room.

Kat'hi was a little talkative, missing the fact that the lady was not in the mood for conversation. "Don't mind my daddy," she said, referring to the barman. "He's just stupid. Are you here for the contest? I've never seen a woman carrying a gun before. If you're a good shot, maybe you could win the money! Nobody's ever beat Mr. Herrod, but he don't always enter." Finally noticing that she was being ignored, the girl said, "I guess I'd better go now."

The lady had laid out the things from her travel kit; her ammunition, her toiletries, her journal, and her wallet, which held her cash and a single photo. She didn't look at the picture very often. She had it memorized, but right now it caught her eye. It was her mother, taken not two days before she died. Memories of that day clawed across her mind, and for a moment she was lost in them. That was why she was surprised by the door opening.

Surprising her was a bad idea. She had her blaster aimed at the person behind the door before thought caught up with action. When it did, she realized that it was just Kat'hi. She set a tin can with wildflowers in it on the dresser and ran back out of the room. The lady shook her head and put the blaster back where it belonged. You're hair-triggered, girl. She looked back at the picture of her mother. "I'll get him, Mum. I'll get him for you."

The lady sat in the corner of the bar at a table next to the doors so that she could see the whole room. She was nursing her drink, really just waiting. Registration was meant to start any minute. In fact, Hace, the barman, stood at that very moment and addressed the crowd. "Quiet! Everyone listen up! I now declare the quick-draw competition open! Each man who enters the contest will fight once a day. Fighters will only use projectile firearms. No blasters or energy weapons. Anybody can challenge anybody. Fight times will be drawn from a hat. for the duration of the contest, fighters are entitled to anything they want, courtesy of Mr. Herrod. The winner gets twenty-five million credits, compliments of Mr. Herrod and Security Intergalactic." He turned to the board, picked up some chalk, and turned back.

"All right, gentlemen! What do you say? Do we have some real gunmen in the room? Yes!"

One man stood from the back of the bar. He was drinking something green, and he had white hair and skin. His eyes were red, and everyone knew that he was of the race of the Architect, the Shadow Proclamation. He made people nervous, but he didn't have any Judoon with him, so they weren't too worried. He said, "I am of the Shadow, for the glory of the Shadow."

Hace blinked and shook his head. "Okay. Mr. Shadow. Anyone else?" He quickly wrote Shadow in the first slot on the board.

The poker player who'd tried to hit on her earlier said, "Write Hands up there. Everyone knows that's me."

"Yes, sir! Hands it is. Anyone else?"

A Sontaran stood next. "None of you scum can defeat me. I am General Braxion of the Sontaran Empire, and all of you will leave here dead!"

"Right, Braxion. Next? Who else wants to test themselves against all these fine men?"

Scars didn't bother getting up. "Put my name up there." It meant free beer and a killing spree, so he was all for it.

A handsome young man, eighteen years old or so, was leaning against the bar with a mug of blue ale. "Put me and my friend's names up there. Gentuce, you know how to spell your name?"

The man he asked was already very drunk, but he still had a couple of brain cells firing. "I ain't joinin' no contest!"

"I hear clucking. Did someone let a chicken in here?" The boy tormented his friend in such a way that the end result would be inevitable.

He jumped at the boy, but he was stopped by more sober heads at his table. "I'll kill you with my bare hands!"

The boy said, "No, it's a gun fight. We both fire, you die. You'll get the idea."

Hace said, "Hey, the fight begins tomorrow, in the street! Not here and not now."

Gentuce calmed a bit, but said, "Sign me up."

"Yes, sir. Gentuce and the Kid. Who else?"

The next person to stand up was the Vosch the lady had overheard upstairs taking payment. "Cantor."

The young man called the Kid came over to the lady's table holding both his own blue ale and a glass of the same hypervodka she was drinking. "I'm Fen, but everyone calls me the Kid. I'm worth a million credits across twenty systems. Fifty offenses, no convictions."

The lady fought not to roll her eyes. "Congratulations."

The Kid shoved a chair right up next to hers and arrogantly sat down, handing her the hypervodka as he did. "Hace said you drink this. You sure must want to die young."

She grinned. "Maybe." He really wasn't that much younger than her, but he seemed like it, young and inexperienced. But she didn't mind him flirting with her, either. It reminded her that there were other things besides her crusade, life after her vengeance was complete.

A new man walked in, a man with a dour face and a black suit. His suit had a fur-collared coat that reached to his knees over a white shirt and a black vest. He wore a string tie and a silk top hat, black trousers and well shined black boots. He looked like a businessman or a doctor from a much wealthier system, but he also wore a silver revolver in a plain black gunbelt, just visible as his coat moved with his walking motion. He walked up to Hace and quietly entered his name for the contest. Hace wrote GI Simeon on the board, and poured something amber into a shot glass for the quiet man.

Simeon turned to find a seat, and spotted the lady. His eyes narrowed, and she returned his stare, but neither said anything to the other. She thought he looked familiar, but she had no idea why.

Over the next hour, three more men put their names on the board, all various degrees of humanoid, ugly and filthy. The lady didn't pay them much mind. Her real target hadn't shown yet, and until he did, she wasn't putting her name on that board.

And then he was there.

Jehain Herrod was older now, twelve years since she'd seen him last. A few more lines around the face a lot more gray in his hair, but he was still the picture of health, and still a dark, confident presence that stilled the entire room as he walked from the doors to Hace. Men moved out of his way, fear in their eyes. Fen cursed and sat up in his chair, no longer trying to flirt, tense and wary.

Herrod asked Hace, "How many brave men do we have?"

Nervously, the barman answered him. "Twelve, Mr. Herrod. Thirteen if you count Foyd, but him and Rusty ain't back yet."

"They'll be here. They're just running a little errand for me." He looked at all the names on the list, frowning at one in particular. Then he shook his head, and said, "Put my name on the list."

"Yes, sir."

Fen cursed again. This had not been part of his plan. But anyone was free to join the contest, and nobody in their right mind would attempt to tell Herriad not to do so.

The next thing anyone knew, two men entered the bar carrying a third between them. He was chained, beaten and bloody, wearing a long-sleeved homespun shirt that someone had disguarded, and muddy black trousers and black trainers. He had close-cropped black hair, an impressive nose, big ears, and blue eyes that were trying to bore holes in Herriad's head, despite the fact that the left one was swelling shut. He had a very bruised square jaw and a busted lip.

"There they are. How's our guest doing, boys?"

Rusty said, "We beat 'im good, boss."

"Tried to burn that box of his, too," Foyd said, "but it wouldn't catch."

Herrod shook his head. "No, I don't expect it would. A TARDIS is too tough a nut for either of you to crack. Well, Doctor, glad you finally made it. This is registration day, and I want you signed up for the contest. I want to see if the demolition man can shoot. And before you get the idea of losing on purpose, let me warn you; if you start that regeneration crap, I'll shoot you in the head while you're still in the middle of it."

The Doctor remained silent, glaring at Herrod. The lady watched their interaction with interest. Here might be someone who could help her.

"Don't I get an answer?"

The Doctor said, "I'm not entering. I am giving you a chance to stop this."

"A chance. I heard that about you. You tell them to stop doing whatever it is you think they're doing that's so wrong, then if they don't, you make them. Do you really think that's an option for you?"

"I will stop you, Herrod, and you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

Herrod laughed, and the rest of his men with him. "Good luck with that." He turned to Foyd. "Chain him to that chair." As the henchman complied, Herrod kept on the Doctor. "Yes or no, Doctor."

"No." Herrod aimed his gun at the Doctor's head.

The lady had seen what she needed to see. "Sign me up."

A random voice from the crowd said, "No women in quickdraw!"

But Herrod shrugged. "No rules against ladies. It's just that women can't shoot for shit!" He turned back to the Doctor. "Good night, Doctor." He moved to shoot the captive man.

The lady acted, shooting out the leg of the chair just in time for it to collapse under his weight and take him out of the path of Herrod's bullet. All of Herrod's armed men turned their weapons on her as a potential threat, but she just spun her revolver back into its holster and sat down to see what would happen next.

Herrod was shocked, to say the least, but the big Chula finally just grinned. "Sign them both up."

The crowd went back to enjoying their drinks and their whores, and Herrod gave the lady along look before telling them to chain the Doctor to the fountain outside.

The lady went back to her room for the night, but she found herself being very curious about this Doctor. Obviously he had some kind of history with Herrod, and that would come in very handy later. But what kind of history? He obviously didn't actually want to be here. How would that affect how things played out? Would he refuse to shoot? And what was this regeneration that Herrod had talked about?

So many questions, but only one that really mattered; would the Doctor help her kill Herrod?

The Doctor didn't need to sleep so much as he needed to heal, but he was afraid that one wouldn't come without the other, and he honestly didn't fancy sleeping in this horrible place. He might wake up with another new face, and honestly he didn't have that many to spare. Too old, heartsick from the death of his race, and suffering from post-traumatic stress from the Time War, he should have stayed in the Vortex for the next century. Or better, found a way to end it.

He blew a humorless snort of laughter through his nose. Perhaps he had found a way. Herrod knew how to kill him permanently. Nothing said the bastard wouldn't do it, no matter the outcome of the contest.

He wondered about the people who had willingly signed up for this contest. He was sure they all had very different reasons. One in particular intrigued him, though, the woman who had asked to be signed up while he was inside. She seemed barely out of childhood, but there was something burning behind her eyes. It was Herrod she was after for one reason or another, and she wanted to kill him in a way where it was his own fault he died. She wanted him to kill himself at her hand.

She might help him, if it helped her achieve her goal, but did he want to help her kill?

He slipped into a fitful sleep without having come to a decision.

The lady woke in the morning with a sore back and the certainty that something had crawled into her mouth overnight and died. The hypervodka wasn't addling her brain anymore, just strangling it in a vice-grip that threatened to break it in half.

She had gone back down to the saloon after an hour of fitful tossing and turning, deciding that she was never going to get any sleep if she didn't shut her mind off, and the hypervodka was the only thing that did that for her. Unfortunately, Fen had met her drink for drink and had managed to win her virtue in a hand of Sabaacus, and whatever the hell he was using for a bed was hard as a rock.

"Morning." She turned around to see the kid loading his weapon, a shiny reproduction Smith & Wesson Schofield revolver. "Want some breakfast?"

The thought of eating turned her stomach. "No. This thing is so hard. I don't know how you sleep on it. When you're not drunk, I mean."

He laughed a little. "If I don't sleep on it, somebody will steal it."

Confused, she lifted up the fur that lay on top of what proved to be a bunch of wooden crates. They all said SEMTEX-9. "Mining explosives? Why do you have mining explosives?"

"Some folks still try to mine for tirelium and balcite around here, and they get at it by blasting. I happen to be the only supplier on the planet." Switching to his second gun, Fen also switched topics. "So who are you gonna challenge today?"

"Herrod," she said without hesitation. She focused on putting her clothes back on so he wouldn't see her face when she said so.

"Bad idea. I'm the only one who can take him, and I ain't gonna rush it. Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"Why not? Rush it, I mean."

"He's my father."

She stared after him as he went into the kitchenette, her mind whirling. What was Herrod, other than the man who ruined her life? Obviously, he was someone's father, but what kind of father signs up to potentially have to harm his own son?

Then her mind hardened. The same kind that would put a gun in a little girl's hand against-she yanked her thoughts away from that place in her memories. Bad enough that she had such nightmares about it.

The Doctor woke to thirst and soreness. He'd gotten a little sleep, which had helped some of his more serious injuries to heal up. He didn't have the deep aches anymore, and the small bleeder on his left back kidney had sealed itself. The sores on his arms were healed over, as well, but they still stung. No matter. He could deal with it, especially now that he could move around a bit more easily.

Someone came up behind him, and he startled. "You been challenged yet," said Foyd. The Doctor shook his head. "You have now. I'll go get us a time."

Great, he thought sarcastically. No doubt at Herrod's orders. Herrod didn't want to fight the Doctor himself, necessarily. He wanted to watch as he forced the Doctor to use a gun, something he would never do voluntarily.

The lady who had helped him yesterday walked up to him. "Sleep well?"

A bit snarky due to the circumstances, he said, "Not as well as you." He'd watched her stumble out of the bar last night with that boy, Fen.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You've got a major gratitude problem, you know that? I saved your life last night."

"Nah, just stretched it a bit longer. Might not have had to fight if you'd left well enough alone."

Herrod walked behind them into the bar, watching them with idle curiosity, but then turning his attention on where he was going.

"Sorry," she said. "Don't you even want to fight back?"

"'Course I do. I'd like to kill them all for what they've been doing. But I won't do it, not like this. Killing people is wrong, especially like this, for sport, for money."

"Some people deserve to die."

"And you think you have the right to decide that?"

She shrugged. "Just once." Then she walked into the bar. He looked after her, wondering what the hell Herrod had done to her to make her seek vengeance so strongly.

The lady walked up to the bar and he slid her usual hypervodka to her while still dealing with Herrod, who was taking money from the bar to line his own pockets. Yes, she thought, some people deserve to die. She loosened her sonic blaster in its holster, preparing to fire on the Chula, when a man pulled her around by her arm. "I challenge you!"

It was the man in the fur coat, GI Simeon. He was glaring at her with a cold stare, and something in the back of her mind tried to fire, but her need for vengeance squashed it.

"I'm not fighting you." She really wasn't interested in killing anyone other than Herrod.

"You have no choice, child," he sneered.

"I told you—"

"What are you doing here?" Herrod interrupted. "What are you doing here?" He glared at her waiting for her to answer.

She turned back to the bar, hiding her emotions with her hair. "I'm here for the money." Get it together, girl.

"You want the money, you've got to follow the rules. Rules say you have to accept every challenge. If you've got a problem with that, get out of my town."

She glared at him. "I've got no problem."

Hace put their names on the board and drew a time from his hat. Lady and Simeon at 19:00. The strange man tipped his top-hat and left the bar. For all the free alcohol that was available, she had yet to see him take more than a single drink.

The first fight of the day was Fen against the Shadow. Not much was known about the race of the Architects, the intergalactic peacekeepers behind the Shadow Proclamation, so speculation was wild, and the betting was wilder. Fen was a fairly well-known quantity, and the town knew he was very good against a target, so the bets were running slightly in his favor, but there was no clear favorite.

The Doctor was chained to the porch railing of Herrod's house where he could sit on the steps and watch the proceedings. He wanted nothing more than to get to his TARDIS and get out of here, but for the moment he was trapped. He needed his coat, and the sonic screwdriver and TARDIS key in its pockets. Without those things, he would be forced to participate in this insanity, and really, he was done with insanity. There had been enough of that in the war.

Hace got out in front of the gathering crowd. "Quiet! Quiet!" He gave everyone a chance to quiet down, then addressed the fighters. "Gentlemen, remember; you must not draw until that clock chimes on the hour."

Fen said, "What happens if someone gets a little excited?"

Herrod answered. "Any cheaters will be eliminated."

"From the contest?"

"Eliminated." His two men on the rooflines visibly charged their sonic rifles.

Hace continued. "Whoever is left standing after the draw is the winner. If both men are still standing, you must continue firing. Gentlemen, the street is yours.

The two men faced each other with about a minute to go.

Shadow said, "For your youth, I will only wound."

Fen smirked at him. "You're too kind."

Those final seconds wound down, and the Doctor couldn't help but notice every minute detail of those seconds. He noticed the way the wind was blowing and how fast. He noticed that the clock was just faster than local solar time by 3.4 seconds. He noticed that the Shadow was sweating when Fen wasn't, and that Fen's gun had pearl handles. He noticed that the hands of the clock clicked into place before the gong inside the clock was struck, a quirk of its mechanism, and an advantage if you knew about it and your opponent did not.

The Shadow went down, shot in the arm. The bullet tore through muscle, and not bone, so the man would be able to heal and have full use of the arm again. Fen had been as kind as he could be in this contest, and still come out the victor. He was here to prove himself, not to maim and not to kill.

"Damn, I am fast! Did you even see me?" Fen had turned around and was gloating to the crowd. And the Shadow was getting back up, trying to get his arm back into position to fire. Someone shouted, and Fen whipped back around in time to shoot him again, this time through the fleshy part of his thigh. "Mr. Shadow, are you done? You stay down if you're done."

Wounded and knowing he'd never get another shot off, Shadow said, "Yes, I give up." He threw his gun to the side so there was no mistake.

Hace announced Fen as the winner, and he started a celebration with a young woman he'd taken a liking to. Really, the Doctor thought, he is a bit pretty.

"How does it feel, Doctor," came the hated voice of Jehain Herrod. "Does it remind you of the war? Are your pulses racing?"

"You want to examine my biology? Buy me a drink first."

Herrod just laughed at the non-answer.

Several other fights went by as the day rolled on, and then it was the Doctor's turn. Of course, he didn't own a gun, so Herrod ordered him taken over to Fen's Everything Store. He had the cheapest weapons in town that actually worked.

Of course, Rusty couldn't help but push him around, and he shoved him through the doors to the floor of the shop. The Doctor waited until the cyborg was close enough to the door, then he kicked it closed on his completely organic nose, breaking it. Herrod gave him an amused snort, then turned to Fen behind the counter. "The Doctor needs a gun."

"Plenty of gun shops in this town."

"None so cheap."

"As if anything was cheap enough for the great Chula warrior. I sell decent merch at a fair price, plain and simple. I know it's a little complicated for you, but you'll get there eventually."

"That mouth's going to talk you into a hole in the ground."

Fen just shrugged.

"Well, I'm not going to waste your time. I happen to know the dear Doctor has no money. So what's the cheapest piece of crap gun you've got?"

He seemed to consider it, then reached into a drawer, pulling out an ancient Colt revolver. "Five credits."

Herrod said, "Fine."

As the Chula reached for his purse, Fen told the Doctor, "Now I won't sell a gun that doesn't shoot straight, and it won't blow up in your hand, either. It doesn't look like much, but it's solid and well oiled."

He smiled kindly at the young half-Chula. "Thanks, but I won't be using it."

"You'll use it, Doctor." said Herrod. "You're too cowardly to just roll over and die."

The Doctor stood on the street, trying to decide what to do about this, and realized he had to make a decision. The one who'd chosen to fight him was one of Herrod's men. His sons were among the audience, and he was raising them to be just like him, brainless and cruel, but he still didn't want to take their father from them. He'd done plenty of that over the years, and he was sick of it.

Well, though, the rules didn't say you had to kill to win. He could just wound the bastard in such a way that he couldn't continue.

Resigned, the Doctor tried to mentally prepare himself to take the gun. He'd hated guns even before the war, but now he utterly despised them. He much preferred that big red button, possibly because you didn't have to see who you hurt.

Not that he couldn't still hear the screaming.

He shook his head, looked at the clock. Five minutes. He noticed that the mysterious lady fighter was out to watch. Focus, Time Lord. He started focusing on the clock, on it's rhythm, and from there sunk into his time sense, closing his eyes and focusing on nothing but the ticking of the clock and the movement of the seconds through space. He heard the click and drew, aiming perfectly for his opponent's gun hand, and piercing it through the bones of the wrist, blowing the nerve cluster in there to pieces, and making sure that if the bastard didn't seek medical attention, thereby ending the fight, he'd die.

He'd read the man right. He left the field screaming for a medic, and the Doctor thanked the fates that he hadn't had to kill anyone. But his tortured mind whispered, Yet.

"So you'll use a gun after all," Herrod sneered in triumph.

He said nothing.

The strange woman who had entered herself into the contest by saving his life came up to him with a smile. "You're fast. I hope I don't have to fight you."

"You have the choice of whether to be here or not."

"If it's you or them, you should make sure it's them. Of all this lot the winner should be someone who's trying to save people. What kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

"Not much of any kind lately. I doubt I deserve the title any more."

"That's right," said Herrod, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She'd thought that bastard had gone inside! "The Doctor here was a soldier in the Time War, just like me."

"I was never like you. You were in it for the money."

"And you were in it to kill the Daleks. But that wasn't enough. No, he had to make a choice; his own world or the rest of the universe. Most people are going to take home and hearth over a bunch of faceless planets out there they'd never have a chance to see."

She looked at him, saw something in his eyes, something ancient and weary. "You're a Time Lord?"

The Doctor swallowed, hard, but he didn't deny it or look away. "Yes."

She glared at him. The Time War had been hard on folk, even this far away from the main battle lines. As she stalked off toward the bar, she spat, "I should have let you die."

Herrod laughed long and hard at that, but the Doctor didn't allow that to get to him. No, what got to him was the nameless lady. She reminded him far too much of another young woman, one who died rather than set foot on a TARDIS with a Time Lord. Her name had been Cass.

Herrod had his own fight to handle, and handle it he did, taking out Hands not only for the contest but for taking credit for one of his own jobs back in the day. General Braxion, Gentuce, Scars and Cantor all took out their opponents, and none by wounding. Braxion was in it for the glory, Cantor had been hired for more than the purse would be worth, and the other two just liked killing.

Finally it was the lady's turn, and her opponent was the strange pale man in the tall hat. He hadn't said a word to her, other than to challenge her, and she still didn't know why he'd done it, but right now he was standing in her way of killing Herrod, so he had to go. Still, she was nervous. She'd defended herself before, but never outright killed a man in a duel.

She walked past the Time Lord on her way to the street, and he whispered at her, "You can do this. There's a click before the strike. Listen to the clock."

She wanted to glare at him. The Time Lords had made life hell in this galaxy for the longest time, and—and she had saved his life. He was returning the favor, that was all, and she couldn't afford not to use the information.

GI Simeon was not a braggart. No one'd had a single conversation with him. He'd had a single drink, though the liquor was flowing free. And he was staring, not at his opponent, but at the Doctor. It seemed the lady was not the only one here with a vendetta.

Finally, he turned his attention to the woman in front of him, and pulled his coat to the side. "Choose what you will lose, child. An ear? A hand? A foot perhaps? I'll oblige you."

"Confident sod, aren't you."

"You're trembling. I don't need confidence."

"I'm not aiming to wound. I'm not into causing needless suffering."

Simeon shrugged. "As you will. I'll be as generous, then."

The crowd around them jeered and hooted, but two things calmed her; the calm of her opponent, and the words of the Doctor. Listen to the clock.

She focused on the clock. Simeon had noted the sound as well, and they both began their motion at the same time. If the Doctor had not told her about it, she would have died. As it was, she was just faster. A hole appeared in Simeon's forehead. He never got a shot off, just collapsed in a heap, then sort of crumpled.

The undertaker walked out onto the street to examine him. He seemed shocked, and soon everyone realized why. The man was nothing but a hollow shell!

Something stirred in the back of the lady's mind. His friends are lost for ever more, unless he goes to Trenzalore. She shook herself. The universe was full of strange things. It didn't have to mean anything. And if he'd been a hollow shell, not a real person, then she hadn't killed anyone, either. But you would have, whispered her conscience. She squashed it. She was here for Herrod, and the rest was collateral damage. She'd try to take him out before there was any more, but she wasn't going to allow her sensibilities to stop her.

"The lady is the winner," shouted the barman. "Quick-firing resumes tomorrow at noon."

When the lady returned to her room, there was a box in front of her door with a note on it. She brought it into the room and closed the door behind her. The note said, Dinner tonight. Jehain Herrod. She grimaced. Bloody hell. Well, perhaps she could end this before anyone else got hurt, take him out in his own house. There would be justice in that. After all, Mum had been at home that night. She shook her head, slamming that thought shut.

She wanted him dead. He ruined her life, and she wanted him to pay for it. She looked inside the box. It was a black silk dress with small red flowers printed on it, along with a lace shawl and matching elbow-length gloves. He had no idea who she was, and he was inviting her to dinner with a lovely dress, and an expectation of a return on the investment the frock must represent.

Why not?

That night she dressed and put her hair up as artfully as she could, given its drastically shortened length. Bloody cactus, the thought went through her head. She looked at herself in the mirror, surprised at the sight that stared back at her.

There had been a small makeup bag included in the kit, but instead of makeup, she slipped a small sonic blaster. Could she do it? Could she kill him in cold blood, rather than on the battlefield? It was the same thing, wasn't it?

She left the hotel, still unsure of the answer to that.

She had to pass in front of the fountain to get to Herrod's house, and the Doctor had been left chained to the porch just far enough away that he couldn't reach it; chained, but unmolested at the Chula's order. She'd brought an empty glass from the bar with her, and she filled it from the fountain. "Thirsty?" she asked him.

"No need to go to all that trouble just for me." He was still wallowing in self-hatred over shooting Foyd, and that made him snappy. "Last night, the Kid. Tonight Herrod. You're a busy woman. Any man you're not interested in?"

She glared at him. You try to be nice to someone. "Yeah, you." And just to spite him, she left the glass of water sitting on the fountain, just beyond the distance the chain would allow him to reach. The Doctor stared at the glass and cursed himself for a fool.

The inside of Herrod's house was quite lavish, decorated in gilded filigree and red velvet. The townsfolk could have lived for the rest of their lives on the money represented by this empty house, and he wasn't afraid of showing it off. His servant seated the both of them, and brought them their drinks, a white champagne. She could drink it, but she preferred hypervodka. Still, this night was about appearances, so she sipped it like a highborn woman.

As their meal was set before them, Herrod said, "You're looking at me and thinking we have nothing in common. But we do. We're both winners." He took a drink of his own. "How do you feel after surviving your first day?"

"The same as yesterday." She decided to play it cool.

But he wasn't fooled. "No. Your eyes are shining. You've passed a test. You feel alive."

She shrugged, and tried to decide if it was too soon to pull the blaster. "I guess it doesn't excite me as much as it does you."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "You think I do this contest because it's fun?" He snorted. "Look at this town. These people would kill you for your bootlaces. This way I get to face my enemies. They can't shoot me in the back." That made her pause, though her hand had been traveling toward the blaster. "And of course, I always win."

"One day your luck will run out." She said it conversationally, carefully keeping all trace of her true feelings out of the statement.

He frowned at her, though. "I don't win because I'm lucky." He took a cigar from his servant, thanking him in his own language, then took a drag off of it, and while he savored the smoke, he pondered his guest. Then he blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling, and asked her, "Why did you come here tonight?"

"You invited me."

"You could have turned me down."

"I don't think that happens often. And I wanted to see what you're really like."

"What kind of man am I?"

"The kind people hate." Again, she didn't say it with any malice, just matter of fact.

Herrod shrugged. "I'm not trying to be popular. The people in this town need me. I bring a sense of order to their lives. Not law. Order."

"Like hanging a doctor?"

"He's no healer. He's a fraud. If a man is a killer, that's what he is. That same man can't tell me it's not in his blood any more. He's the worst kind of liar."

Curious, despite herself, she said, "Why does he upset you so much?"

But Herrod was done talking about the Doctor. "I find myself almost uncontrollably attracted to you."

She fingered the blaster again. If he made a move on her, she'd kill him easily and with a completely clean conscience. "I'd think a man like you would have a woman."

"I was married to a beautiful woman." His face twisted with hatred. "She was unfaithful."

Uneasy now, she asked, "Where is she now?"

"I told you-she was unfaithful." He glared at her, his hatred of his wife mixing with the here and now. "Why are you really here?"

"Like I said, for the money."

"I'd give you all the money you want."

"But I wouldn't feel like I'd earned it."

Now he leered at her. "Yes you would." Then he backed off. "Did you ever kill anyone before that mockup today?"

"Sure."

"I don't think so. It all comes down to how far you're prepared to go."

"All the way."

He smirked at her, sure he had her number. "My father was a judge." She raised an eyebrow at that. "That surprises you. He used to make my mother and me watch people being hanged. One day he said there was too much bad in this universe. He took a sonic revolver and nixed all but one of the charges, then spun the chamber. He took it in turns, clicking it at each of us, until he blew the back of his own head off with the final click." Then he gave her a hard look. "Understand this; there is nothing in all of reality that frightens me now." He stood and walked around the table, stalking her. "Nothing."

She hastily stood and made for the door. "I have to go. I shouldn't have come here."

He grabbed her arm, and growled, "Who are you?"

She yanked her arm away, shouting, "Let me go!" She brought her free hand up and slapped him, using his surprise to get away. Then she ran like hell for the hotel.

The next morning, the lady had gotten no sleep and was stone sober. She dared not take another drink of alcohol in this town, not until Herrod was dead. She went down stairs dressed as she normally was, and though her Peacemaker was most prominently displayed, all of her guns were on her person.

She went down to the fountain. Herrod was insane. She wanted to know what the Time Lord was that he hated. She noted with a smirk that he'd finally got that drink of water. He looked up at her and gave her a small smile. "I want to apologize for my behavior last night. You didn't deserve that from me." He sighed. "He's not wrong about me. The war had already lasted for centuries, and it could have lasted for centuries more, but it wouldn't have. Both sides were getting ready to deploy weapons that would have not only destroyed the other side, but the rest of reality with them.

"I fought to get them to see reason. Then I fought to get others to help me stop them, to see what was going on and that it was wrong." He took a shaky breath. "In the end, all I could do was end it. The Time Lords and the Daleks burned together, and I was the one that burned them and Gallifrey to cinders."

He'd said it all quietly. The words were so heavy, there was no need to shout them about for them to impact her. "This certainly won't be the first time I've killed, understand, and if I survive, it won't be the last. But you do not have to do this. Don't become like him, or like me."

She smiled at him. "You don't understand me, and that's okay. Thanks for caring about it, and—" She sighed. "Thanks for stopping them. If you hadn't, well, we wouldn't be having this conversation." Then she walked on, finding herself a chair along the sidewalk of the saloon.

He stared after her, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. That was the last thing he had ever expected. He almost didn't want it. Why should he be thanked for killing his own people? But she wasn't. She was thanking him for stopping them, for surviving herself.

There was a disturbance in the middle of the street that distracted him from the nameless lady. "I thought Hands was the hired gun. I was so sure of it. But he was just a buffoon. You're not." He was speaking to the Vosch, Cantor, and they were setting up for their fight.

"My name's Eiron Cantor, and I'm a fighter. I've killed twenty-two men, but for business, not pleasure. My employer is confidential."

Herrod grinned at him. "As soon as the rain stops, I'm going to make an example of you."

The barman came out to start the day's fighting. "Round Two! Four fights today, featuring the eight remaining contestants. The winner is the contestant left standing-"

Herrod interrupted him. "Left alive."

"Left alive. From now on, we fight to the death."

"What a surprise, you changing the rules," snarked the Doctor.

He shrugged and asked Cantor, "Any problem with that?"

The Vosch shook his head. "I was planning to kill you anyway."

"Gentlemen," shouted the barman, "the street is yours."

The people stood around, praying in the dappled light of the passing stormclouds. This was the man they had put their hopes in, and all the valuable things they owned.

The clock struck, and the two men drew. Herrod was by far the faster, and the Vosch slumped to the ground. Then Herrod addressed the crowd. "I'm confused. All I hear from you weak cowards is how poor you are. How you can't afford my taxes, my protection. Yet somehow you've all managed to find the money to hire a professional gunfighter to kill me. Where's all this money coming from? What am I to think? If you've got so much to spare, I'm gonna have to take more off you.

"This is my town! If you live to see the dawn, it's because I allow it. I'm in charge of everything. I decide who lives or who dies. Your gunfighter's dead. Old news." His speech finished, and angry beyond measure, Herrod stalked off the street.

Fen fought next, killing Scars, a man who nobody'd miss or mourn. Scars wasn't particularly fast, but Fen bragged about killing the man who'd killed so many before him.

Before anyone else could fight, a massive storm rose up out of the west. The barman declared that there would be no more fighting until it passed, while the scum that hung around the town tried to figure out what to do with Scars's stinking corpse.

The lady went in to get out of the rain and to get something to eat. She saw something then that riled her to the bone. Kat'hi, the barman's daughter, came running out of a back room, tears streaking down her face. She was followed more leisurely by Gentuce, who owned the brothel. He went to sit down at a poker table, saying, "That little girl is gonna be a real good earner. Deal me in, boys. I feel lucky."

"Was she good?" one of them asked.

"Wriggled like a fish."

She'd heard enough. She took out her pistol and struck him across the face as hard as she could.

"Bitch! I'll kill you!"

"Outside, you bastard!"

The second they were on the street, she didn't give him a chance to draw. She shot him in the ass, and he screamed. He went for his gun, and she shot his hand. Realizing he was in real trouble, he started begging. "Please. Don't kill me."

But Herrod wouldn't allow it. He didn't much like the fact that she'd turned him down, and he wanted her to feel what it was like to kill someone for real. "Finish him off! This contest isn't over until one of you is dead."

Gentuce's eyes widened in shock. "Please! Don't!"

She hesitated, and Herrod pushed the point. "This contest is not over yet."

Then she closed her eyes for a moment. She looked around and spotted the barman. "Get me a drink," she shouted. She held up one finger at Herrod, and he nodded, giving her just a little leeway.

The barman brought out the drink, then scampered off the street. She handed Gentuce the hypervodka, and he said, "Thank you," thinking he was getting away with his life.

He took a giant swig, trying to dull the pain in his opposite hand and his behind.

Then she put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. The whole thing seemed to go in slow motion, and he crumpled to the ground, dead.

The barman said, "The lady moves to round three!" As she passed him on her way in, he said quietly, "Thank you."

Her expression softened just a bit, and she nodded.

The Doctor had watched the whole thing in surprise. What had set her off? But it wasn't long before someone shared the story with him. Gentuce had taken the barman's daughter, and the lady had taken exception. Gentuce was in the contest, so he was a legitimate target, even if they weren't technically supposed to be fighting at the time. She'd dealt justice there, and most would say in that case the punishment had fit the crime. At least she hadn't been forced to take the life of someone more innocent.

Soon enough, though, he realized he had his own problems to deal with, namely General Braxion of the Sontaran Empire. He closed his eyes, hating this. He'd much rather turn that foul gun on Herrod then contemplate killing Braxion, but at least it was a Sontaran, who considered death in battle against a competent opponent to be glorious. The Doctor, of course, did not agree, but he knew he wasn't hurting the Sontaran's feelings, nor those of his family of four to six billion clones. Small consolation.

The Doctor sat on the fountain, wondering why he didn't just let Braxion kill him. Why did he survive? Why did he even regenerate after setting off the Moment? It wasn't like he expected to survive that. Honestly he expected to be blown up so there was nothing left to regenerate. But aside from all of that, why not just let Braxion kill him, and refuse to regenerate?

Because he didn't want to let Herrod win, that's why. He wanted to stop him, return this town to its people. He wanted to be able to say he was truly the Doctor again, because the Doctor saves people. He wanted to save the town. He wanted to save the nameless lady who seemed so lost in her need for revenge. To do that he'd have to take out the Sontaran, and he still hated it, but he would do it.

The lady went to Fen's store after killing Gentuce. She hated this, hated every single thing about it. She was seriously considering getting out of town, forgetting about Herriad. But that left the Doctor dead, and Fen to either kill his father or be killed by him.

"You're not quitting, are you?" asked Fen. "I know this is probably the wrong time, but I like you, and I want you to stay."

"I can't live like this. I don't know how you can."

"Like what?" She didn't answer him, just shaking her head. "Are you going to see the Doctor's fight?"

"No, I'm not. I don't care about him, or you, or anybody else in this town. I'm through." She moved to leave the store.

"But I meant it! I like you!"

But the lady was done, and past it. She couldn't stay, even though something in the back of her mind was screaming at her not to leave.

The Doctor looked at his next opponent with trepidation. Sontarans were bloody hard to kill, virtually impossible from the front. He had to find a way to hit the probic vent in the back, or else to drill him through the forehead, and with as much bone as there was surrounding the creature's brain, he didn't have much chance with this revolver. And as a General, Braxion had the best warrior's programming available. With luck, he wouldn't know about the Doctor, but that wasn't much of an advantage.

Meanwhile, General Braxion was bragging about how thoroughly he was going to kill the Doctor. "Not only will I kill him, but I will destroy him utterly, for the glory of the Sontaran Empire! Sontar-ha!"

That was when the Doctor noticed the cart behind Braxion. If he could set up a ricochet—

"Gentlemen, the street is yours."

Quickly calculating the angle he would need to hit the vent, the Doctor listened for the click that would give him that split second advantage. It came, and he dove right and fired. Bile rose in his throat as the action landed Braxion in the dirt of the street, face first. But he had to push it down, make sure his opponent was down. He could indulge in self-hatred later.

The undertaker pronounced the Sontaran dead. But the undertaker didn't know much about Sontarans.

The first twitch had the Doctor yelling at Herrod. "Give me another bullet."

"No."

"Now, Herrod!"

"I thought you didn't want to kill. I told you the rules."

"Doctor!" The Time Lord turned toward the voice. It was the blind boy, Sean. He had a bullet in his hand.

"Here!" he shouted, giving the boy something to aim for. And his aim was true. The Doctor caught the bullet and had it in the gun before Braxion could get out of the dirt. And as he struggled to his feet, he had to be bent at such an angle that the probic vent was exposed. He took a breath, then took the shot, and the bullet ripped through the shielding to ricochet through the Sontaran's body.

He continued his fight to stand, and for a moment, he thought he would have to find a blaster to take the General out. But he said, "You have killed me Doctor. Congratulations on your victory." Then he collapsed with dignified finality.

Herrod began applauding, grinning around the filthy pipe he was smoking. "Well done." Then he walked up to the Doctor and gloated. "Welcome back, killer."

The street cleared, and the Doctor was led silently by his chain to the fountain. He sat on the edge of the stone fountain as the reality of what had just happened slammed home. He hung his head in the rain that came suddenly from the heavens. If some of the water on his face was salty, well, there was no one who could tell the difference.

She couldn't find him among the stones. He should be here! Even with the hallowed soil being turned to mud, she kept looking, but it wasn't there to be found. She looked up suddenly, and there found a familiar face, old and kind. The undertaker. He'd been the town doctor once. He smiled gently at her. "I knew I'd find you here."

"You know who I am?" she said. I don't know who I am.

"Of course, I do. I brought you into this world." blew into this world on a leaf. He grabbed her and embraced her like a father would. "Your mother—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

He nodded. "You've been here for hours, looking for her grave. She's not here. Herrod's men, they smashed the gravestone I made, and then they burned her body 'till there was nothing left. There are good people here. They're just cowards, like me. And they're waiting, hoping, for someone like you who'll come and stop him."

"I can't. I can't kill him. I had my chance and I was scared, scared of dying."

He shook his head, made her look at him. "You've been dead since it happened. You're more scared of living. It'll be the same if you just keep riding." He sighed, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-pointed star with the words Star Marshall engraved on it, and handed it to her. "She was the best friend I ever had."

The badge brought it all back, that day with her mother. The last day. She'd been teaching her how to make a soufflé. The soufflé is not the soufflé. The soufflé is the recipe. It was one of her rare days off, and she was spending it with her daughter. Until Herrod's gang had started running around the house on their Ories, shaking the ground and popping off their projectile guns. She'd pinned her badge on, and grabbed her pulse rifle, but they were waiting right outside the door and grabbed her. The old doctor had been visiting, and he dragged her out of the house by the back door, hoping to get her to safety, but she stopped when she saw them putting a noose around her mother's neck. She'd never forget the sight of Herrod shooting at the legs of the wooden stool they had her standing on.

She nodded. And she decided. She would go back. She was going to end this.

The next morning saw the nameless lady walking down the wooden walkway toward Herrod, who was sitting on a bench. She made no further bones about it. "I challenge you."

"Go away." He swatted his gloves at her as if she were a nuisance.

"I'm not fighting anybody else. I want you."

He looked up at her with utter disdain. "I've already been challenged."

That was when she saw Fen coming down the walk with that pink-frilled twit of a girl, Mattie, or something. His fangirl. He was dressed up, and it was quite obvious he'd just married the girl. The lady narrowed her eyes at him. Surely not.

"It's time for me to see if I'm my father's equal," he said.

As he walked past, she was shaking her head. "You would fight your own son," she said in disgust. "I'm going to kill you if I have to ride all the way to hell to do it."

Not knowing who she was, as was natural since she'd only been a child at the time he'd killed her mother, he said, "Do you have some particular problem with me?"

"I'll let you know."

The Doctor was watching with jaded eyes as the day's first duel was being set up from the edge of the saloon doors. The lady was standing on the other side of them. "I'm not fighting you," she said.

"I'm not fighting you."

"I came here to kill Herrod and that's what I'm going to do."

He shook his head. He didn't believe she could do that, not because he was any better, but because her head wasn't in the right place. "Stand down."

Angrily, she said, "I will not stand down."

"I'll take him in the final, he'll be just as dead."

Suddenly, Herrod came walking up to them. The massive Chula looked down at them with a nasty look on his face. He wasn't having fun any more, but he wasn't about to lose control of this contest, because he knew that if he did, he'd lose control of the town. "Let me make something perfectly clear to the both of you. You are going to fight. Nobody walks out on this contest. Nobody stands down."

"You don't tell me what to do!" she challenged him.

He sneered at her. "You try to leave town, my men will kill you. You refuse to fight, my men will kill you. You had your chance to quit, now it's gone." He slapped her across the face with his riding gloves. She reared back instinctively to strike him back, but suddenly there was a pulse rifle in her face. She froze, and Herrod continued walking into the bar.

The Doctor shook his head. That was another plan down the drain.

As Hace was clearing the streets for the two gunfights that were about to go down, the lady was trying to talk Fen into not fighting his father. "You don't have to do this. You're better than he is. Prove it by walking away."

"It's not about that. I'm his son, and this is the only way I'll ever get him to admit it."

"Why?"

"I just want his respect."

"He can't respect you if either of you is dead!"

But the young half-Chula would not be deterred. He walked out onto the street to the cheers of the town. They thought this was their next best bet. Cantor had failed, but Fen was of Herrod's blood. Surely, if anyone could beat him, it would be his own son! And they knew he'd be a better master than his father. His new bride was in the street along with everyone else to support him, along with her friends and their men.

At the end of the street, waiting and alone, was Herrod.

Herrod knew better. This young colt was not his son. He was the son of a farmer, one of the thousands of Chula workers he'd brought in with the intention of feeding his fighting men by their labors. Still, the boy had spirit, and he had devoted himself to Herrod, or tried to, because his mother had told him that they were father and son. Silly human wench, thought she'd get away with cheating on him. "Drop out! You've made your point."

The gunfight is in the head, not in the hands. The thing that makes him invincible is that you all think he is. Maybe five years ago he was the fastest but time catches up with everyone. He's just a little bit slower than he used to be. As for myself—I just reached my peak."

The clock moved. The men fired. The Doctor watched, and Fen wasn't wrong. He was just a hair faster than his father. But Herrod was the more accurate marksman. Fen's bullet grazed Herrod's neck. Just a centimeter off from a lethal shot. But Fen—

It was a gut shot. "See? That was fast!" he said in a breathy tone from suddenly bloodless lips.

Mattie screamed, "NO!" and ran to catch him as he fell. The lady joined her at a more sedate pace, knowing there was no way to save the boy.

"Did I get him?"

She smiled down at him. "Yeah, you got him."

"Did I kill him?"

Mattie said, "You were so fast, Fen."

His face crumpled. "I don't want to die!"

The Lady sighed. "I know."

The last thing he saw was Herrod standing over him, a vaguely disturbed look on his face. But the man still refused to acknowledge him, not even to ease his passing.

She sat in Fen's store, on the bed of Semtex-9, wondering how she was going to survive, how she was going to make this work. When Sean walked in, it all clicked in her head. "What kind of ink do you have?"

"Any kind you need." She set up her surprise, then went outside to sit next to the Doctor.

He looked at her, but he didn't know what to say. Perhaps, he thought, it would be better to be killed by a friend than an enemy. But then she said something that surprised him. "Shoot for the heart, okay? I promise, if you do, it'll be all right."

He stared at her, then realized she had a plan. "Plans are usually what I'm good at. I don't see this one."

"Shoot me. That's the plan."

He shook his head. "I will not kill you."

"You won't have a choice."

But he knew he had a choice. He always had a choice.

They soon stood in the street, this time against each other. When the clock turned, though. neither fired. The Doctor even had his hands in the back of his belt so he wouldn't do it on autopilot.

Herrod wasn't having it. "If neither one of you fire by the time I count down from ten, my men will gun you down. Ten. Nine."

The Doctor knew he'd have to goad her a bit. "Draw your gun. There's no point in both of us dyin'."

"Eight. Seven."

But she still just stood there! "Draw!"

"Six."

"Kill me, damn it."

"Five."

"Kill me! Kill me, woman! Kill me. Or I'm gonna kill you. Please!" Please don't make me do this.

"One!" They both drew on one, and they both fired. The lady's shot went wide, but then her chest bloomed red where she suddenly clutched her chest and fell to the ground, her face utterly surprised. NO! He'd fired to miss! But apparently he'd actually hit her, right through her single human heart.

He stared, pale and furious and dead inside. No one left. No one but him and Herrod. "You're going to burn for this, Herrod, you bastard." He stalked toward the Chula, intent on killing him then and there. His henchmen tried to stop him, Rusty coming from behind to restrain him, but he butted his head backward and broke his nose, again. He got close enough to take him on, but Herrod had a backup pistol, and had it pointed at his head in an instant.

"Of course we'll fight, but the rules say tomorrow. I'll even let you pick the time."

"Dawn."

The Doctor was treated to more of Rusty's version of fun that night, the sadistic creature figuring that would be the last time he'd get the chance. And he went further than he should have.

At dawn, when he was led to the street, he wasn't just beaten up. Rusty had broken the wrist of his right hand. It was healing, but that hand wasn't yet a match for Herrod. And Herrod went ballistic when he saw it. "Who did that?"

Rusty proudly said, "I did, Mr. Herrod!"

"You've ruined the contest, Rusty. You've got twenty seconds to get out of town."

"But I thought—"

"Fifteen, Rusty."

The cyborg suddenly bolted, realizing Herrod meant it. He was fast enough, maybe, with his cybernetic enhancements, to make it around a corner before he could be shot.

Ignoring him for a moment, he turned back to the Doctor. "What do you think, Doctor? There's a lot of people here that want entertainment. I could draw with my left hand. How does that sound?" The Doctor nodded. "Of course, unlike Hands, I really can fight with both hands. How do you feel? I'm nervous. It takes a lot to scare me. I love the sensation." He turned and grabbed a pulse rifle from one of his henchmen. "Time's up Rusty!" he shouted, and shot the fleeing cyborg through the back. "I always wanted to fight you, Doctor. Ever since the first time I saw you, back in Arcadia. It's just this itch that I had to scratch." He went down the street, preparing to commence the fight.

The Doctor settled the pistol so that he could draw it with his left hand. He could draw with either hand, as well, but he wasn't sure he was as fast as Herrod.

But when the clock reached that place in its workings where it clicked before turning over, the clock blew up in a massive explosion, knocking Herrod and several of his henchmen to the ground. It was quickly followed by the brothel, and then by Herrod's own house. Herrod aimed at the Doctor, but then she came walking out from behind the debris. Shocked, he said, "You're dead!"

One of the henchmen moved to shoot her, but the Doctor pulled the man's pistol from his belt, then elbowed him in the face. He shot the one coming up behind him with the pulse rifle, then turned and took the ones off of the roof. He wanted to know how the lady was still alive, but protecting her was more important.

"You're dead!" Herrod repeated.

"Sorry, Herrod. Fight's will be fair, now." As she came to a stop, she said to the Doctor in a quiet voice, "It was ink, clever boy. You didn't hurt me."

He grinned like a maniac. "I've got to know your name."

"Later."

"Who are you?" Herrod shouted.

She took the ten-pointed star out of her breast pocket and threw it at the Chula's feet. "You stole my life, and you did it by my own hand."

Herrod stared stupidly at the star for a moment, then the penny dropped. The Star Marshal woman. He'd had her strung up, but then her little brat came running in and he'd decided to have a bit of fun with them, told her if she could shoot the rope they'd both go free. But she'd shot her mother in the head, never having fired a weapon before and flinching at the last moment. This was that little girl, all grown up, and fire in her belly for revenge. He looked at her with new respect, but it still wouldn't change the facts. "You're not fast enough. You can't beat me!"

She smiled just a little. "Today I am."

They suddenly drew against each other. She cried out in pain. Herrod thought, for a moment, that he'd won. But then he felt a strange feeling in his chest, and looked down to see a bullet hole. Knowing he had moments, he tried to shoot again. But this time she shot him through the eye.

The townsfolk erupted with joyous shouting. He was dead!

Then the lady collapsed. The Doctor ran to her side. "Hey, you hang on there. If I can get you to my TARDIS I can fix you right up." He looked down and saw that the bullet had nicked the heart and punctured the lung. She was bleeding out into her lung.

"Don't think I'll make it that far, Doctor."

"No, don't go. Please let me save you."

"It's all right. I've done what I came here to do. So you run. Run, you clever boy. And remember me." Then all of the muscles in her body relaxed as she died.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to tell you my name that time, Doctor."

The Doctor, now three hundred years older than the man who had screamed his rage into the sky of Peluka, said, "Hey, that wasn't your fault. None of us had the brains to ask you. Unless Fen did?"

"No. He didn't care about it."

"How many stories like that do you have," asked Vastra.

She smiled at the lovely lizard woman. "Twenty-six. I don't remember everything about every life. I don't think my mind would hold it all if I did." She turned to the Doctor. "What did you do after Peluka, Doctor?"

"Oh, I ran. Ended up on Earth, nasty business with a Nestene Consciousness trying to invade London."

She grinned. "Why is it always London?"

That set them all laughing.

"Do you have any other stories you'd like to share," asked Jenny. "Maybe one or two that didn't end badly?"

"Well there was this one time with a Yeti in Tibet..."

And that's it for this one. I've actually been working on it for a long time, had a bit of a problem with my source material. Hope you all enjoy it. It's a one-shot only, no sequels, so don't ask, but please feel free to leave a review.