A/N - I should probably have mentioned before now that I don't, in fact, own any part of Ashes to Ashes. The plot in this little escapade is mine all mine though - hehe! The song credit goes to David Bowie (who else?) for "Reality". Enjoy!

Pale yellow July sunlight filters slowly through unwashed windows. A man sits alone in an armchair, the remnants of a frugal breakfast on a tray beside him. He is not long up: unshaven and dressed in only a vest, belted trousers and slippers. The lines on his face tell the story of his younger days as a copper: a respected DCI. Traces of his once rugged handsomeness are still visible. A gold pendant on his chest glows in the sunlight as he pushes himself up from the chair and walks slowly through his hallway, past the phone that he knows will ring today. He stops to look in the oval mirror of a mahogany hallstand and two silvery-blue eyes look back at him, barely concealing a glint of anticipation. He runs a hand across the golden grey bristles on his chin and tells himself this will be the day. The day he gets the life he was meant to have.


He tried to open his eyes, but all he could see was white. He felt he couldn't breathe, like someone was holding a giant pillow to his face. He tried to move, but something was holding him still. A shooting pain ran down his neck and his right shoulder, across his chest. A seatbelt? Two senses out of five confused him as he tried to figure out what was happening. Listen Gene. Traffic. The sound of another car horn pierced the air incessantly, but it was in the distance. Music. A man's voice singing…

I still don't remember how this happened

I still don't get the wherefores and the whys

I look for sense but I get next to nothing

Hey boy, welcome to reality

Very slowly Gene Hunt pushed his body backwards, until his head rested on the seat behind. His neck ached and he was aware of the warm sticky sensation of blood running down his face. Gingerly, he opened his mouth and tasted the metallic sweet fluid as it ran between his lips. He opened his eyes, aware of very little but a crushing pain in his lungs as if all the air had been suddenly forced out and now every tiny little cavity was struggling to fill up again. Bright sunlight hindered his attempts to see where he was, but when he gradually adjusted he was able to make out a giant white inflatable cushion in front of him. A steering wheel was just visible below the bulbous shape: above it a wide expanse of glass, which miraculously was all still in place despite being in a million small pieces. A windscreen… I'm in the Quattro! he reasoned. But what the hell was this balloon thing? Whatever it was it had broken his bloody nose. And why on earth did he have his seatbelt on? The biker! Gene suddenly thought. I'd better see if 'e's alright.

He felt around with his fingers down his left side until he located the seatbelt clip, and carefully pushed the button down. With his right hand he dragged the belt across his body, wincing as the woven fibres moved through the cut they had already made in his neck. Leaning slowly forward, Gene pushed at the now deflated white balloon, moving the material out of the way and looking in bewilderment at the dashboard in front of him. This isn't my motor. Sure, the four interlocking silver rings in the middle of the steering wheel looked familiar, but everything else was completely alien to him. In the middle of the dash sat a small silvery screen, out of which ran a white wire into the radio unit. The screen read "David Bowie - Reality (2003)". What the 'ell? 'Ave I gone mad? Gene put a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes and trying to wipe away the blood now congealing around his nose and mouth.

With no small effort, he reached to the handle of the door and wrenched it towards him. The door swung wide as he kicked it hard and tumbled to the road on his hands and knees. The world was a strange and surreal place to Gene as he carefully got to his feet and looked around him. The air was clean, all sound distant and changed – the reek and clamour of heavy industry was gone and he was gazing up at a bright summer sky. A helicopter circled overhead, its blades chopping mercilessly at puffy white clouds. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered: their clothes and hair looked odd to him as they stood gaping at the scene, some apparently taking photographs with tiny silver cameras. He looked down in amazement at the black car he had just climbed from, its front end crushed and crumpled against the small white sports car he had collided with. There was no motorbike in sight.

As Gene approached the window of the other car, he caught sight of his reflection in the window, marvelling at his shorter hair, neat-collared white shirt and tailored black suit. His face was exactly the same save, of course, from the bloody stain below his nose and the beginnings of two rather impressive black eyes. He pulled open the door of the car and placed his fingers on the neck of the young woman behind the wheel. Her pulse was weak – but definitely there. Gene roared at the nearest bystander, "Well don't just stand there y' bloody Nancy! Go and phone fer an ambulance before she bloody karks it!" He stood there, gobsmacked as the young man felt in his pocket and brought out a tiny slim black box, swiftly punched three digits into it with his thumb and began talking to, what Gene assumed, was an ambulance operator.

Alex! Gene suddenly thought. Alex! I have to find her! As if in answer to his desperation he turned and saw, looming through the glass and steel of modern London, the familiar brick chimney of Bankside Power Station. The helicopter had crossed back across the river and now circled above the building, but Gene was unable to see what was happening. Just then, a police car squealed up behind him and a young constable leapt out, radio in hand. Thinking quickly, Gene reached inside his suit jacket and searched for his warrant card. God, please let it be 'ere, he thought. His fingers closed around the slim leather wallet and pulled it out, flipping it open in the young officer's face. "Sir," the young man said straight away. He stood there for a moment, eyeing Gene expectantly, looking for instructions.

Although this world was unknown to him, Gene's instincts told him that now was not the time to get involved in a friendly chat with a copper, so he turned on his heels and ran, not really knowing exactly where he was going as his feet carried him through streets and alleys, past offices and car parks and restaurants. He headed for the Thames.

As he approached the bank he stopped, feeling sick from running so hard and from the pains in his neck and face. He stared in amazement at the sunlight bouncing off each little wave on the water's surface: before him stretched a long, silvery bridge of lustrous metal cables, shining panes of glass and a path of glittering steel. It was full of people coming towards him, some of them upset, in tears and comforting one another. He overheard a young woman seemingly speaking to no-one, but wearing an earpiece not unlike the ones he had seen in his visions.

She was half sobbing, "Oh God, Mum it was horrible. I was terrified. The way he was just waving that gun around."

A pause while the person on the other end spoke.

"Yeah, and then this policewoman just walked right up to him."

Another pause.

"Yes, right up to him, no gun or anything. But then this little girl appeared out of nowhere… Oh Mum…God, I thought he was gonna kill her."

She was shaking as she spoke, one hand clutching her chest. "But then he just disappeared. Police don't know where he went. The little girl was okay though I think."

She carried on walking past Gene, whose heart was pounding in his chest: he could still taste blood in his mouth. It had to be Alex. It had to be. He remembered the day they had argued – he had found her at Bankside, sobbing at the water's edge, remembering what had happened there that day. All sense of logic and reason was gone as he tried to recall all the things she'd said to him; all the thoughts she'd shared with him; the events that had unfolded after she had arrived on Layton's boat in 1981.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts as he stood there, that he almost didn't notice a tall bearded man in his early fifties walking towards him with his arm around a young girl. Gene looked up at the child: the school uniform, the flyaway mousy brown hair and the birthmark on her cheek instantly recognisable. She didn't give him a second look as she carried on laughing and chatting with the man. They were almost past him when Evan White suddenly caught his gaze. A moment of recognition - fear and disbelief burned on both sides.

"She's with her godfather." Alex's words came back to him. Evan White! Gene thought, as more and more pieces of this nightmarish jigsaw fell into place. He was here that day: he was there when the Prices' car was blown up - he was their daughter's godfather too. Gene could have cursed himself for not realising before what now seemed so obvious to him.

She is Alex Price!

The throng of London buzzed around them, their heads alive with thoughts of work and home: their loved ones, and what was for dinner that night. On the other side of the river, armed response stood down and called off the search for Arthur Layton. Police vans filled up with officers heading home, tourists flocked into the museum and no-one gave a second thought to Detective Inspector Drake, who had simply got into her car and driven away.

Evan continued staring back at him as Molly skipped on ahead. His eyes bored into Gene's as he silently mouthed one word.

"Run!"


The man stands in his lonely kitchen and glances at the clock in the wall, taking a deep swig of whisky before placing the empty glass on the sink. He sighs - waiting. He leans forward and one strand of silvery blonde hair falls into his face as he listens for the phone.

When it eventually rings, he walks through the hallway and lifts the receiver to his ear.

"'Elllo," he says, almost wearily.

"Yeah, Layton"

"I know 'oo it is. I don't need to listen to what you 'ave t'say."

"Yeah, well you're gonna 'ave to listen, cause I've got a piece of your past, standing right 'ere in front of me. Tim and Caroline Price's daughter. An' I'm gonna tell 'er the truth… why her parents died."

"You do what you think you 'ave to, you scum. Jus' see what 'appens."

"Well… that's your choice."