Standard disclaimers apply. Krypto beta'd, but didn't actually SAY anything. All complaints about errors should be sent to him.
XYZ
Fade to Black
Chapter 4
XYZ
Violet stopped at the foot of the body of a man—she assumed it was a man—which happened to be missing its head. Jack went past like he didn't even notice it (or it wasn't relevant) and opened the still-moving dumpster. The mass of metal shifted against the ground, digging into the cement as it moved. Whatever was inside was thrashing wildly. "I swear, I checked that dumpster," the girl muttered.
The creature inside snapped toward Jack and he let the lid fall on it. "Did you actually try looking UNDER anything?"
Looking away quickly, Violet blushed. "No." She decided she hated Earth and she never wanted to come back.
Jack pulled out a silver headset and pushed a single button on it. "I need a cleanup and containment…" He stuck his head out of the alley, looking for a street address or name.
The dumpster began jarring again, and she took a few steps toward it. The metal box bucked wildly and tipped forward. When it slammed into the ground, it shuddered with an echoing crash. It would be impossible for anyone to NOT have heard that—which meant they'd have company soon.
A limbless creature leapt out at her, pinning Violet to the ground. Its hot, humid breath blew against her entire face, slime dripping onto her cheek. Clenching her eyes shut, she tried to reach for her pocket—either of them—but she was held down too securely by the stony muscles of the adult Alzy.
Claws came flying out of the folds of flesh, tearing at her torso. Turning her head away, she couldn't even manage a cry of pain.
The air electrified and a whining boom erupted behind her, knocking the creature off of her. It landed to her left, a smoking black hole on its side. Violet scurried back away from it, pressing bleeding forearm to bleeding stomach. Her back hit the brick building behind her, and she looked up at Jack. "What did you do that for?" Her face twisted in pain and anger, she gasped, trying to keep control of herself.
He crouched beside her. "I suppose you'd like to be eaten? Look, just stay still. Keep pressure on it. I have some people coming--"
She trembled and the intellectual part of her knew that her body was going into shock. Telling herself to just not do it didn't seem to help. "It just wanted its baby." Her teeth chattered as she spoke. "It was going after my pocket."
Moving her arm slightly, Jack inspected the slices before putting pressure back on it. "And if it kills you to get to your pocket? Then what good is that?" The kid had no perspective—that thing had also beheaded somebody. At the end of the alley, a black SUV pulled up, tires screeching as it came to a halt. Jack waved a hand at the occupants as they stepped out. "We'll get you fixed up," he promised.
As soon as Jack looked away, Violet slid her bloody, torn hand into her left pocket, grabbing the staple remover. Her fingers were barely able to work it, but she managed to aim it at the dumpster.
The hinges snapped off with a spark that lit up the alley, a second after that the paper and plastic contents of the metal box ignited.
Struggling to get to her feet, Violet took off for the opposite end, away from the van and the approaching people. She was not going to be dissected by Torchwood—in any version of reality. She'd sooner run through all of her regenerations or throw herself into a sun.
Making it a few blocks before she had to stop, the girl leaned against the doorway of a shop, trying to catch her breath. Police sirens blared in the distance, approaching rapidly. Taking a few steps forward, trying to get on with it, she stopped, heat and cold spreading through her at the same time. Speaking of regenerations…
Don't be melodramatic, she told herself. Just get home.
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Earth, London, 2355…Cardiff, 1283; New Moscow, 3422…
The good news was that all the tears in the fabric of reality were relegated to a single planet. The bad news was that the tears were popping up all over time, with no rhyme or reason that could yet be discerned. The odd news was that as soon as the tears opened, they healed themselves again.
The Doctor would find it, set coordinates, and before the TARDIS could even drop out of the Vortex, it'd be sealed up again. Which was kind of good—it meant he didn't have to force fissures closed. But why were they opening, and why all over?
Staring at the figures on the monitor, he leaned against the console. This was maddening. The kind of problem he should have set before a girl with infinite patience for the types of maths that required thousands of calculations to isolate a single variable. It might have taken her a week, but she'd have probably found an answer. Of course—the Doctor suspected he didn't have a week. The cracks were appearing with increasing frequency.
Besides, she'd been appropriately dumped in a place where she couldn't get into too much trouble, so it was out of his hands. Now wasn't the time to regret what he'd done, or miss her company as badly as he suddenly did.
Think of it as a trial run for the part where she leaves the nest permanently, he told himself. Didn't help. But he kept saying it.
Thus far nothing had fallen out on his side that he could tell. Once the cracks closed, the Void radiation dried up, which would have not been the case if something had come through.
This would have been easier if he'd have had some way to tell if there was someone on the other side who could tell him if this behavior was happening in the other dimension as well. Unfortunately he was fresh out of people with a time and space machine in other dimensions.
Pete had collected quite an array of technology, either swiped from under Torchwood's nose, or invented by himself. The Doctor had also given Pete plans for some things in the last few years—signal tracers, incase Torchwood ever decided to try pulling his TARDIS through the void again, boosters so that Rose could call the ship whenever she wanted. Other tidbits of fun and destruction. Nothing that would tell him what was happening at other points in time with the cracks in the void.
Well, now that he'd established what he didn't have, what did he have? Besides good looks, tons of smarts and a smidge of luck just for measure. He knew where and when these bursts had been, perhaps he should translate that into trying to figure out where they would appear in the (relative to him) future. Which should hopefully translate into figuring out the ever-pressing WHY.
Leaving Rose to answer the problems of WHAT and WHERE. He knew she was competent, but he hated that she was playing the subterfuge game with Torchwood alone. It felt like they should be doing this together, somehow. Holding her hand, running, blowing something up.
He sighed, shaking his head, as if that would somehow get the sentimentality out of there. That time in their lives was gone. He should just be glad they had a chance to work on this problem in tandem, even if it was across a very great divide.
Adding figures and variables to his datasets, he started compiling the data in various configurations. Facts and figures were what they were. Trying to figure out what they meant—that was where alchemy came into play sometimes. Which meant that this was going to take time… time he sensed he didn't have.
XYZ
Jack went after her as soon as he explained that the creature was dead, and they'd need a level two clean up. His team would know what to do from there. He did tell Owen to stick around the area, not to go back with the others. If he did find the girl, she was going to need medical attention.
He knew better than to take the team's medic with him. The girl might tolerate Jack, but she was terrified of Torchwood. Fear was the only thing that could get a girl with wounds like that on her feet and running.
Finding a bloody handprint on a window, he knew he was going in the right direction. How the hell fast could a five foot, nothing girl run with blood loss? There wasn't any trace of her.
They were, however, near the dorms. Snapping his fingers, he cut across the lawn. Flashing the psychic paper, he said he was with campus security and needed to question a student about a time-sensitive matter. Taking the steps two at a time, he hit a few buttons on his wrist computer, pulling up her student record again—third floor, room nine.
There was another smear on the handle of the door to her room, but he went past. There were a few droplets of something dark on the grey carpet—he didn't even need to look to know it was blood.
At another time in his life, he'd have enjoyed this. Especially when the trail lead to the ladies showers. Glad it was late enough that he didn't need to explain to a gaggle of girls getting ready for bed what he was doing, he pulled back the curtain on the only shower cubicle currently in use, entirely certain of what he'd find there.
Looking down at the fully clothed figure slumped against the wall, he shut the water off. "Kids now days," he muttered, sarcasm and humor lost for him.
Head smashed against the tiles, she was entirely dead to the world. He slid an arm under her, moving her into a position not guaranteed to cut off all air flow, and then began pulling back the shredded remains of her jacket, looking for the wounds.
Oh, that was interesting.
They were there, and they were deep—but the bleeding had stopped, and they were already beginning to heal. Not quite with the speed of recovery that he possessed himself, but the area around the cuts running across her entire abdomen was red, like an infection setting in, but the edges of the wounds were coming together, albeit almost imperceptibly slow.
Grabbing the wrist on her right hand, the one not slashed, he checked for a pulse. It was slow, possibly erratic, but it was there. Pulling back her eyelid, he was about to call Owen when her mangled left hand grabbed his wrist. She had a tight grip for a few seconds, but then it slid back down into the puddle on the floor of the stall.
Her bottom lip trembled. "Don't. I'm fine." Trying to sit up, she just ended up smacking her head off of the tile floor.
Sliding a hand under her neck to keep the girl from killing herself out of stubbornness, Jack sighed. "Right. The brave front is noted, but I'm not buying it, kid." No telling how much blood she'd lost; there wasn't much left on her dark green jacket, it had probably all run down the drain. Pressing the dialer on his headset, he felt her go limp again. "Owen, I found her. Cut up and playing a martyr, refusing help. Just trace my signal, tell the front desk you're with campus security."
"No," she muttered. "No doctors."
"You're not really in a position to argue," he informed her tersely. The Doctor knew how to pick 'em, really. Rose had been stubborn. This girl was just… suicidal. Mighta been why she'd been dumped.
Trying to sit up, she forced her eyes opened, right hand twisting the sleeve of his coat. "I'm fine."
Her pupils were dilated, and he knew she was looking right at him and not seeing him. This definitely took stubbornness to a new level. "Sure you are," Jack whispered as her eyes rolled back in her skull and her head fell limply on his upper arm.
Hand twisting his coat still, she made one more attempt at consciousness. "No doctors," she pleaded. "No Torchwood. They wouldn't know what to do with me."
"I think we're pretty competent, thank you very much."
She took a few deep breaths, and then opened her eyes again. Those black depthless pupils looked him in the eye, fright and desperation renewing her strength enough for her to sit up. "They'll dissect me." Her breathing grew erratic with the effort of trying to go further. "Please," the girl pleaded one more time, falling against him.
Jack sighed as water squished off of her waterlogged body, drenching him. "Look, kid…like I said. You're not in much of a position to negotiate."
TBC…