Chapter 2

The Doctor lay underneath his beloved car, fixing her damaged exhaust pipe. As he worked he alternately sang, hummed, or whistled whatever tune that came into his head. If there was one thing in life that was certain, he reasoned, it was that the future was always unclear.

He had hardly seen anyone since he had revealed his secret to the Brigadier. People avoided his lab like the plague, and who could blame them? He knew for a fact that the UNIT officials were currently in turmoil over what to do with him. Most of the blame was placed on the Brigadier's shoulders, being the one who had taken the Doctor under UNIT's proverbial wing in the first place.

He had seen Jo a couple times. She always smiled shyly (fearfully?), seemingly unsure of what to believe. Her own experience had taught her how dangerous the Doctor could be – but it had also taught her that he was a warm and decent man at heart, who had, after all, saved her life.

The Doctor sighed and rolled himself out from beneath the car. He stood up and wiped his oil stained hands on a rag. He felt strangely at peace. His future and perhaps even his life were at stake, but at least his secrets were no longer weighing heavily on his chest.

He sat down at the garage's worktable and picked up the newspaper that lay among the various tools. He had been almost cut off from the outside world during his practically self-made exile and was eager to learn what was currently happening.

The Doctor took only a cursory glance over the political section. (He had never been one for authority, let alone those scheming businessmen that masqueraded as politicians.) He continued quickly to the science and technology section, where he poured over the latest advancements and discoveries. As he read, a page of the newspaper slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Grumbling, he reached down to pick it up.

His hand froze. His eyes widened.

He snatched the newspaper from the floor and dashed from the room.


The Brigadier sat in his office, his head held in one hand. With the other, he filled out form after form in a seemingly endless stack of papers.

He was a troubled man, to say the least. Somewhere in this very building there was a living, breathing murderer on the loose. Of course, the man in question had had no control over his actions at the time and was really a great asset to UNIT's cause. This was little excuse, however, in the eyes of UNIT's board of directors.

Adding to his worries was the pressure being put on UNIT by MI6 to help with the investigation into the recent rash of disappearances in London. This wasn't exactly under UNIT's jurisdiction but with MI6's personnel being stretched rather thin and the secret service's pull in the government (especially where it came to UNIT's funding), UNIT felt an obligation to lend a hand.

Just then the door to the Brigadier's office slammed open and the Doctor entered, brandishing a newspaper page as if it were the Magna Carta.

"Brigadier!" he addressed curtly as he whacked the newspaper onto the Brigadier's desk (disturbing several stacks of paper). "Look at this!"

The Brigadier closed his eyes and attempted to get his blood pressure back to normal. He opened them again and dropped his gaze down to the newspaper. "This is the society column, Doctor," he said, wearily.

"I know that. Look at the picture!" the Doctor said, pointing to a picture of a young woman singing into a microphone.

"'Lacey Alexander to perform live in London on March 17th,'" the Brigadier read in a monotone voice. "Doctor, I fail to see—"

"Don't you understand? It's her! She's alive!" the Doctor exclaimed, his face alight with happiness and relief.

The Brigadier's forehead pinched together. He picked up the newspaper by its edges and looked carefully at the picture. "Do you mean to say she's—?"

"Yes! It's her!"

"Doctor, you said yourself that—"

"I'm positive, Brigadier. You must believe me. Her face… this isn't the sort of thing you forget." He leaned on the desk, his expression deadly serious.

"Doctor," the Brigadier said, laying the newspaper down. "A couple weeks ago you told me you killed this… this… Ann Lambert. Which," he sighed, looking at the mountains of paperwork. "Has caused me a great deal of trouble. And now you're telling me she's alive?"

The Doctor picked up the paper and looked at it. "The resemblance is… uncanny. Brigadier, if she is alive… I must know. You have no idea—"

"I'm a military man," the Brigadier interjected, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Believe me, I understand the guilt of killing another man." The Doctor looked at him, blinking. "So…" the Brigadier continued. "What do you want me to do?"

The Doctor sniffed and folded the newspaper. "I want you to finance a trip to London for Jo and I – help me get in contact with Ms. Alexander, etc."

The Brigadier nodded. "You've picked a rather opportune moment to ask me that, Doctor. I've actually been planning an excursion to town myself. I'm sure you've heard of the recent disappearances?"

The Doctor's eyes sparked. "No. I haven't."

"Young men and women mostly. Eleven have vanished in the past four weeks, all from vaguely the same area."

"Fascinating," the Doctor said. "So do you suggest we ride tandem?"

"I do. Will you do the honor of informing Ms. Grant?"

"Of course," said the Doctor, genuinely smiling for the first time in weeks. He made a mock-salute with the newspaper before leaving the room.

The Brigadier stared at the closed door of his office for a few seconds before returning to his paperwork, chuckling.