Tear me
down. Take a stab. Slice me. Gut me. Go
on. You know- Why DON'T- Please. I
dare you If you're going to do something, then just
Ian never realized just how badly history smelled. He'd travelled in the past many times before, and it was true that his nose had discovered some very putrid events never recorded in history books, but after, either days or months later, his memory was able to paint over the stench and the unpleasant odours with wide, lemon-scented strokes of nostalgia. It was only during dark times, like now sneaking through the dank alleys behind the Luna Company's factory, when he could not escape the foul smells that accosted him. It was times like these that he really and truly appreciated how refreshing a good, bracing lungful of London fog really was.
"Don't you wish you could fly Mr Chesterton, like a hawk or a condor?" Susan had asked when they were both still at Coal Hill comprehensive. Ian had caught her daydreaming, again, during his lecture on Avogadro's Number, staring out the window at some pigeons in the street with wonder.
"I don't see how that's relevant to the question, Susan. Now, how much is in a mole?"
"I think you do, I think you'd like to fly…" Susan had a habit of ignoring his questions in lectures, just as someone else would be polite and overlook someone's unfortunate habit of stuttering, or perhaps in a similar fashion avert their gaze from an unsightly piece of spinach that had plastered itself to a front tooth of a friend. "Who wouldn't? I have once, just once. Just to see. The whole experience was…" Ian remembered the peculiar look in her eyes, as if she were staring down at Earth from above, as if she really had taken on the form of a cardinal and cast herself about the sky. "… breathless." Not 'breathtaking' as Ian had somehow expected, but "Breathless," as if the whole experience had been a great exertion for her.
"Susan, how much is a mole?" he had repeated stoically.
"6.02214179(30)×1023 mol-1" Susan smiled sadly at him. "A mole, you see," she treated the concept as if it were actually a small, ground-dwelling adorably furry mammal, "a mole isn't dimensionless, but has its very own dimensions…" And then Susan was gone again, her eyes drawn back to the window and the lonely birds, her mind drawn to who knew where.
Upon reflection, it was times like these that Ian wished he'd just taken the girl out for a shandy, got her hammered and got some decent answers out of her.
Not of course, he'd later learned, that alcohol had any affect on her species whatsoever.
Ian kept close to the fence, the rusty iron bars brushing against his clothes with muted sighs as he passed. If only Susan could fly, then perhaps she could soar back to him and save him the trouble of finding her.
Ian had already lost Barbara and the Doctor, and he wasn't about to lose his only remaining friend. Not in London, of all places. He had checked the Tardis, but there was no sign of the young woman. The Luna Company had been the only lead he had.
It had taken hours, delving through Acavio's papers and scattered files, to find this address. Ian was convinced the man had employed a slug for a secretary, so bad was the handwriting and looping squiggles. Eventually, however, he'd found it.
And now he was standing before the main gates of Luna Company, its gaunt spiked teeth gnashing at the clouds that loomed above him.
What do you want? What's- Why won't
you…? Can you hear me? I can feel… I
wish. I…
Who
are you?
.
Even this late at night, production at the factory was still running at full steam. The production of what, he still had no idea.
It made Ian's task both easier and harder at the same time. He had waited by the gate until a new shift had come on and slipped in amongst their ranks. For their part, they seemed so tired that they did not even notice, or want to register, his presence. He managed to break from their number before entering the buildings; he wanted to scout round first, to ascertain the layout in case he needed to find another way out. But with so many workers roaming the area, he had to find ways to move around and avoid being seen.
Traversing the area in darkness was treacherous. The grounds outside the various warehouses were festooned with abandoned equipment whose angular, corroded corpses tugged at his heels and nipped at his shins. After his initial circuit, he counted fifteen buildings in total, the crest of each spiked with the brick-encrusted, cylindrical smokestacks that coughed and belched into the sky.
Knowing that time was of the essence, and that Susan's life, if she still possessed one, was dependant upon him, and with no better plan, Ian headed for the largest of the warehouses, the sprawling angular beast that squatted within the centre of the projects. He was still searching for a rear entrance or loading dock, when he spotted the two figures lurking in a shadowy corner- one standing over another, smaller figure that sat in the mud, her face pressed against the gritty wall. As soon as he was sure that it was Susan on the ground, Ian sprinted towards them and slammed himself against the man before he could draw a blade or firearm.
The man fell beneath his weight, but did not cry out, swallowing his astonishment and pain with tightly pressed lips. While angered, he didn't seem surprised to see Ian. Ian kept his own hands pressed about the stranger's throat, while with a quick glance, he saw that Susan appeared unharmed, albeit unconscious.
Oddly, the man did not try to pry Ian's hands off his neck, perhaps sensing that Ian would not actually throttle him. In the cold of the night, Ian felt warmed by the length of the man's body, felt the strength within the broad chest beneath him. Ian knew, somehow, that the man could throw him easily, should he want to. Disturbingly, the man's large arms slowly embraced Ian's own, placing his hands upon Ian's shoulders, gently, and with a wry grin, smiled at him.
Ian lifted himself up slightly, seeking safety in the few inches that separated them and tried to secure his grip on the man's neck. Aware that there were factory workers inside the building, he pressed his face close to that of the man's, determined not display his discomfort and hissed: "All right, time for some answers. Who are you?"
"Jameson." The man's smile slipped slightly with his reply, as if saddened. "Jameson Bainswick. I used to be Lord Bainswick…"
