The day before Christmas Eve, she disappears, and the day after Boxing Day, she returns. Doctor Song's annual sabbatical from Stormcage is as inevitable as that other Great Escape, come Christmas, and so they are waiting for her. No alarms when she returns, no wailing siren, no battalions of guards, like any other return.
Oh, what folly. That far in the future, they are perhaps unaware of the Laws put in place by Messrs Sod and Murphy, those eternal tenets that govern all life; the day you are unprepared is the day you should have barricaded the door.
She returns still armed, and fires pointless and frustrated holes into the walls. The first guard to approach her is tender, delicate. He only wants the gun, that's all. Calm and coaxing, he tells her that whatever happened outside is over now, and that he can't let her compromise security here, and that if she'll just hand it over-
River punches him, and on the blow he crumples to a pile at her feet.
The next is not so kindly. He needs two punches.
By the time she reaches her cell, they have managed to mobilize, a ragtag group of patrolmen from this circle gathered at the bars. Finally, River relents. The gun falls limp on one finger, and she raises up her hands.
"Fine," she sighs. "Naughty River, slapped wrist. You can put me back in my cell now. I may kick the wall a few times. Then I'll fall asleep, and I intend to stay that way for several days."
This said, her intentions clearly stated so that all might assist her in their achievement, she steps forward. Almost without looking. They should have moved, and opened the door for her. They should lock her in and leave her in peace.
But they have not moved.
"Boys?"
They shift and stir amongst themselves. One, the bravest, is nominated to speak. Nominated, of course, in that playground way, where everyone else looks at their feet before he can, and he realizes he's It.
"Orders from the Governor, Doctor Song. Before we can let you-"
"Oh. No. No, don't do this to me."
"I'm sorry, it's straight from Bracewell."
"Please…"
"You're going to have to visit-"
"I'm still armed, you b-"
The clack-ict noise of all their stunners cocking stops her. She sighs again. Hangs limp, looking, for the briefest of moments, almost defeated. Then suddenly stiffens and hurls her weapon at the one who spoke. It clocks him neatly on the temple and she leaves a third unconscious body in her wake. Then stands, lost and empty-handed and shrugs at the rest of that shy bunch.
"So take me to him."
Him is straightening the new knickknacks on his new desk. Setting the Newton's cradle swinging only to stop it again. The clicks make him nervous. Sound too much like the clock, like his racing heart. And God, he wants a cigarette, but quitting was all part of coming here. New job, new surroundings, new lungs. Whole new Phillip Frungle, PhD, psychiatrist to the universe's most notorious prison.
And about to meet its most notorious inmate for the first time.
The nicotine patch isn't working anymore. He should have stayed at Alcatraz II with the suicidal tax dodgers. Alcatraz was so easy.
But no. Phil's strong, he can do this. He's been waiting for the chance like this. This is his step up. He's ready for this, dammit, he's been ready for years and just waiting for the opportunity. And is he going to let nerves get the better of him now, now that he's here? Hell no. Not Phillip Frungle, the new, strong, utterly gagging for a cigarette Phillip Frungle. That guy can do this.
From out in the hallway, outside his door, a crash like God himself is trying to come through the wall.
"I know who's door it is, thank you very much!"
It's the strangest thing, but the knees disappear out of Phillip's legs. Shin and thigh are left perfectly intact, but the knee is gone. He sits. Has no choice. No thought in his mind but, River-Song-that's-River-Song-oh-my-god-that's-
"Oh! Oh, hello…"
A purring. A satiated noise. It is the sound of a cat who has its mouse and now is merely toying with it. She enters in a haze of some strange and fusty smell, heavy with jasmine and ambergris, tousled and exhausted and brimming with murder. Hangs in the doorway with eyes like lasers, locked on him.
"Oh, you're new here," she goes on. "Oh, we haven't met. I'm River, and you're…" She leans in, peering over-dramatically at the new brass name-bar on his desk. "Phillip Frungle, well, that's… that's certainly… that's a name, no doubt."
"Have a seat, Doctor Song."
She does, heavily, rolling her head to rest on the chair back. "I could go to sleep and you could just pretend we have this conversation."
"What conversation?"
She lays it out for him in perfect detail. The imitation of his voice, he feels, is a little much, but she hasn't hit him with anything yet. According to the stories, that puts him one up on his predecessor. She tells him that he'll ask how she escaped, and she'll tell him that the Doctor came for her. Then he'll ask why, from various angles, and she'll tell him straight on every time where to stick it.
"Difficult Christmas, was it?" he tries instead.
She growls, through her teeth, eyes squeezed shut like the very words give her a headache. "Don't say that."
"Say what?"
"The C-word…"
Oh yes! This is the new Phillip Frungle, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, mining the dark core of the problem from minute one. This is what he came here for, what's going to make his name, and oh my God, is she crying?
He's telling himself, strongly, repeatedly, not to smile too broadly.
"Doctor Song?"
"I'm sorry," she mutters. One hand waves him off, the other covering her face. "I'm fine."
Wonderfully, beautifully, he produces a box of tissues from his desk drawer.
This is the moment. She's going to trust him, they're going to get along famously. There's an article in this. A book, even.
He's busy dreaming of fame and fortune, and doesn't notice her staring at the tissues until she throws them at him.
"What the hell!" he balks, not quite keeping his perfect control. More irritated than he should be with an inmate, "So at what point did it turn into a C-word then?"
"What, Christmas?"
"No, you. Cow…"
"Oh, you're worse than him! In fact, no, you're not, at least you just come out with it…"
So he drops the pretence of clinical remove. Picks the tissues up from the floor and actually leans across the desk this time, hands them to her. Leans, yes, and leans right in, and asks with genuine interest, "God, what happened, River?"
"…I'm going to kill him."
"Haven't you? Isn't that why you're here?"
"Read the case file, Phil Frungle, you're way behind." He falters. And she sees that. Maybe, slightly, softens. Takes pity on him. "The moment after I escaped, Phil. That's when it started to go wrong…"
[I am making a special Christmas present of every chapter for one of you good, good people. This first one is for Meg, who none of you will have heard of, but who has been totally instrumental – my own Miss Frungle. Merry Christmas, doll, and thanks for all the cookies!]