Marie is exploring new avenues as regards awakening the sleeping former zombies. LiGrand is exploring new avenues as regards the one that hasn't strictly done anything yet.
As it was put to me, "You like the moral high ground, cher?" Yes. Yes I do. It's warm and sunny up here and I can see for miles and miles, and am master of all of these domains. "Then be else-places for this part, 'k?
In part it's very patronizing, to be sent from the room like a child at watershed time. In part it's kind of Marie to think of me. She knows I don't always approve of her methodology. It involves rather too much drawing of blood, and she can get a bit shouty with her suspects. It is, however, one thing I know I'm never going to be able to do anything about. God knows I've tried in the past. Asked nicely and otherwise and tried to show her other ways, but Marie's got her own methods.
As it was put to me, "This is my town. And I'll protect it, but I'll protect it how I please."
So, regretfully, I must choose my battles on this one.
Ultimately, I decide to look in on Amy and Rory. Please don't mistake me; I understand that they are probably at a very delicate moment in the bandaging of yesterday's damages, and I appreciate the need for privacy. I said look in on them. I don't intend to crash. It's just I have to get away from the boarding house and I know if I just ramble I'll end up at the Embassy and probably ask questions and get Marie in trouble. Repercussions, consequences, etcetera, trip purpose defeated. Bad idea.
Thus, to the little restaurant on the Rue St Jacques. I slip up the outside stairs, careful not to make too much noise, then wonder why I bother sneaking anywhere.
When I take the time and make the effort to sneak, something noisy inevitably goes on. These are the rules of my life. To hell with all the other rules and rule seven and rule one-hundred-and-forty-nine, to hell with them all! There is but one rule; what the Doctor shall strive for, the universe shall not allow. Now I know technically, technically, that's the same thing as Sod's Law, which is the same thing as Murphy's Law (because it's a big job, you see, they've split the workload, Sod and Murphy), but this is a specific, targeted branch aimed at me and my happiness, and thus the general happiness of countless worlds that I could helping. And it's not fair
…Where was I?
Oh, yes, Pond's being attacked again.
Mr Pond nowhere to be seen, presumably off looking for a curtain pole.
Not owls this time either. That would be silly, indoors.
No, in the small upper room I took the time to reserve for them, stepping over her overturned chair to back Amy into the corner, are three more Bwa'Chech, in the same black suits and top hats.
"No, but we're okay," she's trying to tell them, "We're here with the Doctor; he cleared us last night."
When they keep edging closer, she fumbles the psychic paper out of her pocket and tries that, but they're not even interested. They know what she is, see, and what they want with her. The psychic only works if they need an explanation.
"Most honourable La Rouge," one of them smiles, starting in to doff his hat. "Calm yourself. We are but your lowly servants. This won't hurt a bit."
Then he moves to bow, and Pond, with truly champion power and speed, bundles her hands up together and brings them down hard on the back of his neck.
This, of course, is technically physical contact with a Bwa'chech; she cries out when the skin of her hands shrivels and dies. And I take that to be my cue. It's also taken me this long to work the wooden window latch from the outside, and it's only now that I can get the sash up and let myself in. "Gentlemen! And I know you're gentlemen, because you're all wearing hats. I believe what Mrs Pond would like to know, aside from the best nearby stockist of a good moisturiser, is what exactly you gentlemen are after."
"No, mostly I just want them to go away."
"A token," says the one that spoke before. The bow-y scrape-y one with all the teeth. Both Pond and I are keenly aware that the other two are still slipping towards her. "That's all."
"Ah. A favour," I elaborate for him, "from the lady." And I start to do a bit of slipping myself, trying to move faster than them to get across the room and help her. Backing closer and closer to the wall, Amy is hissing my name, needing my help. And I'm thinking, I really am. Thinking, and something will present itself. "Not unreasonable, really, with a fair lady such as our own Mrs Pond, isn't that right, Mrs Pond?"
"You're not helping!"
"A handkerchief, I believe, is the standard. This era, this planet, yeah, that's about right. Pond, give them your handkerchief."
Bless her heart, she actually pats herself down to check, and then says, "I don't have one!"
"There you go, gents, the lady can't help you, now off you pop." Of course, nothing happens. The talkative one that Amy hurt, he keeps grinning at me. The other two are getting very near Amy now, and from opposite directions. There's no way she can even run without having to shove one of them. It's no problem, so long as she hits their clothes, but she's scared after the last one. "Well, now, that is rude. Who's your boss, Bwa'chech, who sent you? I wish to report this behaviour."
"Somebody who wants us to return with a favour, sir. A lock of hair, perhaps." He snaps his fingers.
The other two, by sleight of hand, come up with little switchblade knives, and Amy screams for me. Changes her mind when the main door opens and suddenly calls for Rory instead. "Where have you been?" she rages, and I hope it doesn't drown out me telling him not to touch their skin.
What happens next happens quickly. The injured one removes his gloves and lunges at me. I sidestep, and when he lands on the window ledge I pull the sash down on him and hold it there. Rory crosses the room in two steps and knocks out one of the armed ones with a bottle of wine. That's what he came back with. He's doing rather well with his improvised weapons, you know, they're getting more suitable. Long and pointy for last night's airborne menace and heavy and solid for tonight's more humanoid threat. Well done, Rory.
Only thing about a bottle of wine is that you only really get one strike out of it. It breaks.
The third and last of the Bwa'chech still has Amy, and still has his knife. Rory steals the blade from the one he put down, but it's too late. By the time he stands back up, it's done.
The Bwa'chech is wrapping one long, fine red curl around his gloved finger. The little knife disappears, and then he makes for the door.
"Rory, do not let him leave with that!" Without a second's thought or a moment's hesitation, Rory bolts after him. "Amy?"
"I'm… I'm fine…"
She's not, but we'll be back all too soon. I throw up the sash again, unfortunately step on that poor Bwa'chech leader on my way out, and join the chase after that lock of red hair. Down to the street, following two sets of footsteps in the gas light. Rory and the Bwa'chech have already disappeared, but I know they're there. Mostly because I can hear Rory yelling how he wants his wife's hair back. The voice turns a corner ahead, so I duck across a courtyard on my left and scale the wall. Where I drop down on the other side, I hear the Bwa'chech stop.
Trapped now. Bookended between Rory and I on a narrow side-street.
"I know it's lovely, and satiny, and it smells nice-"
"Doctor, please."
"Rory, it's not my fault that your wife has a wonderful regime. But the other thing it is, my dry-bones friend, is not-yours. Pass it here and I'll see that it's returned to the proper owner."
I hold out my hand. The Bwa'chech considers its position, and decides to compromise. Unfortunately, it's not a compromise that involves giving back Amy's hair. It involves the Bwa'chech himself going up in a bang and a puff of ashy, dusty smoke, and disappearing.
With the hair.
Rory starts charging up to me. He intends to have the monopoly on the complaining this time. However, at that precise moment, slinging herself over the same wall I came over, Pond drops down in front of me and declares, "I don't like it here!" Rory nods, and makes affirmative noises from behind her. Happy to hide and bow to her greater ire. "I've been scratched up my owls, and had my hair stolen by skeleton men and look at my hands! I'm deformed! I'm a train wreck! I look like a warzone, Doctor! I want to go home now."
"Six," I tell her.
"Excuse me?"
"The number of times you used the word 'I' in that little rant, Amelia."
"Oh, no, don't do that. Don't turn this back at me. You'll regret it."
It's heartbreaking. All the good that might have been done by their dinner out tonight, gone. That bottle of wine, which could have done so much good, smashed and spilled. You know, when I find out for sure who's running those Bwa'chech, they'll pay for that. Here they stand before me, robbed entirely of every last scrap of their bright-eyed old Companion Spirit.
Yes, Companion Spirit gets capitalized now. The more I think about it the more convinced I am that that's a thing. That is a definite thing that they have or they don't now.
"So you want to go home?" I ask Pond
"Yes," she says, Scottish and blunt.
I lean around her. I probably lean a bit more than strictly necessary, just to emphasize to Rory that he is very slightly hiding. "And you? Do you want to go home?"
He lingers a bit more, nods silently until Amy turns to glare at him, then says, "Yes."
A moment's pause.
"Fine then."
Both of them, in confused unison, "Really?"
"Can't keep you here against your will. We'll just nip back to the boarding house, get Jessica, say farewell to Marie and LiGrand, and then off home. Alright?" They agree with that. Happy enough with that. Follow when I lead off, glowing quietly between themselves like they've gotten one over on me.
Oh, they have no idea.