The man, his scarlet shirt decked with brass buttons, his gun drawn, burst into the dimly lit clearing. Seeing the backside of the one he knew as the Doctor, he yelled, "Turn around! And no tricks this time!"
To his surprise, his quarry barely moved. "I said, turn around," he reiterated. "I have in my hand a .44 Magnum I borrowed from the 20th century, and I'll wing you if I have to."
The Doctor slowly, clumsily rotated on his heel. The moonlight dawned on his face, revealing an utterly vacant expression. His wandering pupils focused on nothing, and a stream of saliva flowed from the drooping corner of his mouth.
The armed man scowled incredulously. "Enough of your mockery," he spat, training his firearm at the Time Lord's nose.
"Enabaya moggery," mumbled the Doctor with a grin of idiotic amusement.
His enemy lunged at him with cautious agility, seizing his wrist and jamming the gun's barrel into his ribcage. As River, unnoticed by them, lay snoring in a drunken stupor, the two men were swept violently away by a quick-forming time portal.
Her next memory was of awaking under a cloudless, azure sky. Trees covered with lush, green pine needles surrounded her, and the only sound was the morning serenade of the wild birds. It was torture.
"Unnngh," she groaned, her hands groping blindly. Every chirp of every bird was like a whip cracking against her skull, forcing it to throb harder. Schmidt, she thought bitterly. It's like giant robots are battling it out inside my head. My mum warned me there would be mornings like this one.
Raising her leaden arms with much effort, she took hold of the virtual reality helmet and pried it from her scalp. The pastoral setting gave way to the harsh, yet familiar, reality of her 45th-story apartment. It was as messy as she had left it, or messier, thanks to a puddle on the carpet of what looked like vomit. She straightened her legs, knocking over two textbooks and a half-empty pizza box in the process. If my mates ask me who I kissed last night, I'll lie, she resolved, her cranium rebelling painfully as she lifted it. I'll say, 'New Year's Eve? I thought it was bloody Guy Fawkes Day!'
Despite feeling like a zombie on depressants, River soldiered on through her daily routine. A dose of hot shower water helped to revive her befogged mind, but only to the point where she recognized how lonely she was, bathing without the flawless body of Mustang Cloud before her eyes. Tears dribbled down her cheeks, and she put her face under the stream to wash them off.
Once her brown locks were dry, she bunched them together with a hairband, and scrutinized herself in the mirror as she applied foundation, eyeliner, and lipstick. A pretty doll with pronounced cheekbones stared back at her, the image of a woman she had seen before…
"What?" she blurted out unexpectedly.
Her heart pounded, spurred on by a sensation she couldn't describe or explain. For a brief instant she had recognized her own face, as though she had seen it on another person, a long-departed friend, perhaps. Pish-tosh, she reassured herself. It's the same old face as always. Bloody American whiskey…I'm goin' back to Johnny Walker.
Having no other plans for the holiday, she put on a loose-fitting mohair sweater, relaxed on the sofa, and trained her eyes on a book about the ruins of Old Camden Town. She sped through the first two chapters, at which point a chipper female voice distracted her: "You have received a message from…Julia…Hatfield. To listen to the message, say 'listen'. To ignore the message, say 'ignore'. To add…Julia…Hatfield…to your Friends list, say 'friend'. To throw a sheep at…Julia…Hatfield, say…"
"Listen," mumbled River. What kind of a name is Julia Hatfield? she wondered.
"Hi, my name is Julia," uttered the holographic form of a young woman that materialized in her den. "I'm responding to your advertisement for a new flatmate."
Next chapter coming soon!