XYZ

Crossfade

Chapter 11

XYZ

Tutting and clucking like a mother hen, Jackie pushed the girl's shoulder down, trying to get her to lay back on the bed. "Back to sleep now. Just because that bloody donor came in here stirring up trouble, doesn't mean you get a free pass on runnin' around."

Violet didn't comply, which seemed typical for Violet in all her many forms. Jackie could remember so many nights of dragging the girl out of hiding places and into the shower or from the cellar, after she'd been told a thousand times not to go down there. If the Doctor had one tenth of the 'fun' she and Rose had always had in putting the girl to bed, then there was some sort of justice in the world.

In defiance, Violet ducked under her grandmother's hand and swung her legs off of the bed. "I'm fine. For now."

Well, at least she was being honest. "For now. Until you pass out, or worse. You don't have to save the world all the time, you know. You can leave it up to other people now and again. So why don't you just go back to sleep. It'll do you good." Jackie noted her grandchild's incredulous stare. "Well, it can't hurt! It ain't natural for your whole body to just explode, and someone else wakes up in your place. I'm thinking, some more tea, maybe another sandwich, maybe a bit more of a nap…"

The girl was far too awake (for the moment) to consider it. Damn the Doctor—she'd been sleeping. Why the hell had he had to come in her and get Violet all stirred up? "I—I'll be ok. Really. I don't think I like bread any more and…I should at least figure out what I was supposed to tell him. It seemed awful important."

Indulgence dripping from her voice, Jackie pushed the girl's hair over her shoulder. "Sure—sure. You can think about what you were supposed to tell him. You can think about it with your eyes closed, while you're resting up. I'll make you something else, if you don't like bread. What about…I don't know…what else does that lump have on this ship to eat?"

Brows turned downward again in concentrated frustration, Violet shook her head no. "I'm not hungry. Look—I just…I'll figure it out on my own. I don't know why, but I have to. Besides, no one stays in bed this late in the day except for students and people working the graveyard. It's ten forty-one. That's just not respectable."

Jackie checked her watched, somewhat surprised at the girl's accuracy—especially considering there were no other time keeping devices in the room. "It's not unrespectable if you're ill. Now listen to your grandmother and get back under those covers." The girl didn't obey and Jackie gave an aggravated groan. "You might not think you're ill, but you did just change into a whole new person—that's just not normal. So you're ill until I say otherwise. And when you're ill, you have to stay in bed and have your grandmum wait on your hand and foot."

The grin that spread across the girl's face dawned slowly, like sunrise and shone about as brightly. She pecked the woman on the cheek. "Thanks, gran. I mean it. All those things the Doctor used to say about you… they're not…oh nevermind. they're definitely true, every last one of them. But in a good way." She slid off of the bed, tugging her shoes back on and headed for the door. "But I'm telling him you called him a donor," she called behind her brightly.

Clamoring after the girl, Jackie shook a finger. "I don't care if you do!" Continuing on after her granddaughter, Jackie fumbled her way down a spiral stair case, trying to keep up with the exuberance of youth (and regeneration). "Oh, don't tell him that, Violet! He doesn't need to know what I call him… it's just a bit of a private joke…"

At the bottom of the steps, the girl spun around, beaming. "I think you care more than you'd like to let on, huh?" Laughing, she rushed on ahead, turning a corner sharply then disappeared.

Jackie was left standing in a corridor beneath rusted coral arches, noting how much things changed, and how they also managed to always remain the same. That girl would still be the death of her, she just knew it.

XYZ

The Doctor had finally shed his shredded, filthy suit jacket. It had required pealing cloth away from semi-closing wounds, but he'd done it with Rose's help. He'd kicked the thing into a corner, and she worked at pulling torn and frayed strands of green shirt from the wound while he continued to ponder the readings.

Wincing when she managed to dig undershirt out of the cut on his arm, he batted her hand away. "I can't think when you do that!"

Rose took a step back, not offended, per se though perhaps a bit annoyed with the attitude. It had been many years since she'd travelled with the man, but it was amazing how well she remembered his moods. This version of the Doctor was, on the whole, more pleasant, but he was still capable of great annoyance and brooding when driven to it, something that seemed to have been invented and trademarked by his last self. It almost made her fear for which annoying habits of Violet's would now end up having exaggerated to new levels. Remembering the shift in the Doctor's brand of humour, she was also struck with a fear that they might be replaced with something even worse.

Still—she had to smile. He annoyed so easily sometimes. In about thirty seconds he'd be calling her a stupid ape, if she didn't watch it. Which only made her grin still further…which rankled the Doctor just a bit more. She'd seen hissing, wet cats with more love in their eyes. It made her feel like a blushing, giddy nineteen year old again—off to see the universe with some galactic man of mystery whose moods she couldn't even begin to predict.

Oh that time was long gone, but if they were thrown her way, she'd take those fleeting glances out of the corner of her eye at her past—they were comforting memories of simpler times when the universe was a playground and her responsibilities were fewer—or at least simpler. Back when the most troubling thing in her world was trying to trick the Doctor into forgetting (or at least questioning his memory of) their lone drunken escapade. Half a laugh escaped her with that thought… which certainly wasn't helping her cause.

If looks could kill… his face would have at least wounded her…if not for Rose developing a thick skin to certain things ages ago. If she hadn't—she'd never have survived those first few months with him, and every tetchy tangent he'd go on every time something didn't go his way.

The daily shaving ritual usually ended (back in the day) with half an hour spent on life forms. A bit of over-steeped tea, and it'd be a good ten to fifteen minutes on the failures of the second Euro-Asia Union as an endeavor simply because of the president's inability to secure a trade treaty with the fifth moon colony. Little things like him being angry that she'd poked and prodded his wounds (and possibly his pride) didn't even faze her any more.

She'd been hoping that stepping out would give him a touch of perspective; maybe give him a few moments to gather himself together. He'd come back even more fuming than before. Maybe sending him to check on Violet hadn't been the smartest of all moves, but it was the only thing she could think of to get him out of the room.

Rubbing his arm, then moving on to prod the puncture hole beneath his shoulder, the Doctor shook his head, a tiredness creeping in to his features. She couldn't remember seeing him quite so tired. Briefly, Rose wondered if it was an intellectual and emotional weariness or a physical one. "Stuff just can't go nowhere."

Taking a step forward, she crossed her arms again, investigating the read outs, as if they'd make some sort of sense. She'd learned a lot in the intervening years since travelling with the Doctor, but reading the language of his people was not one of them, sadly. "Vaporised?" Rose asked, trying to think of where the Daleks could have gone to.

The Doctor shook his head. "Not vaporised. There was a matter signature in that energy signal. Something got teleported, transmitted, transferred…something. But to nowhere."

Tapping his lip, the Doctor reached deeply into his mind for an answer. Thinking it over for several long moments, he came to an unhappy conclusion. His eyes grew wide. "We're in so much trouble," he declared to his audience of one. "We are in so much trouble I don't even know where to begin… if those things can move freely, in and out of the Void. Hell. How long have they been able to do that?"

Rose shook her head. "They can't do that, can they? I mean, look at how much it took for Torchwood to pull the TARDIS through the Void. They can't just… come and go at will? Can they?" The inner door of the ship opened and they both turned. "Violet—I thought we told you to stay in bed," her mother said a bit too loudly, in her effort not to sound like a harassive, overly concerned parent. Like… Jackie. Oh well—they always say you turn into your mother. Now she knew it was true. All she had to do was wait for the day when Violet abandoned her own child on a boring planet in a strange time for the child's own good, and Rose could laugh and say 'I told you so.' Then the circle of life would be complete.

Unconcerned, the girl shrugged. "I'm tired of sleeping and I'm tired…of being tired. I want something to do."

Looking to the Doctor, Rose indicated that she would defer to his judgment. He certainly had loads more experience in the realm of regeneration. Personally, Rose wanted to pack the girl back off to bed. For oh… another month or so. This impulse was tempered with the overwhelming and motherly desire to grab hold of her child and swear she'd never let go. How the hell had her own mother put up with her for all of those years? Jackie Tyler was a saint.

Sighing, the Doctor ran a hand through his hair. She knew this must be tough for him but really hoped he'd be able to provide Violet some kind of support—Rose had been through this once with the Doctor, so as an outsider she knew what to expect…but only the Doctor had been through this himself. "It depends. Mostly on how much you remember."

XYZ

Jack didn't have to go very far to find himself; basically he just tried to figure out where he'd be, if he were an evil genius and in charge of a slightly evil secret organization. He did happen to know a thing or two about the being in charge of the slightly evil secret organization, so he only had to work on guessing how he'd behave if he were less benevolent towards the universe at large. He was certainly jaded enough to be evil—well, of course, Ianto thought he was pretty monstrous. But Jack had to pat himself on the back for having some kind of altruism buried deep down in his soul, because he wasn't a megalomaniac. He didn't even play the stock market with his advanced knowledge of the future. He might not be a good person, but he was better than when he'd started out freelancing.

The floor with the command centre was fairly secure, but no one questioned his presence. He was, after all, the guy on top of the food chain. No one bothered or dared to question the kid's presence—Jack suspected that he could have probably brought a turkey and an emu onto the floor with him and no one would have batted an eye.

They stopped just out of the command room when Jack saw himself inside. He managed to deter a few people who'd been intent on going inside—if they went in they'd certainly take note of the Two Jack Syndrome that had suddenly started going around, and that'd just be bad.

He leaned in toward Greg. "Go in there." The kid looked at him like he was crazy. "Tell him you're from R & D. Tell him you think you've found a way to crack the lock on the TARDIS. Mumble on about phase shifting technology and trans-dimensional locking devices. I'll come running right out here."

Looking up at him, Greg arched an eyebrow. "When you say 'I,' do you mean you-you, or him you?"

Jack made a face. "Don't be smart. You know what I mean. Just get in there. You're the one that came here after I told you not to, and then decided to 'help me' to death in the TARDIS… you can get in there and get the other me out here."

The kid still had a look of protest about him, but he went—slowly. Hand pressed against the glass door, he swiped the access card that Jack had pilfered for this very purpose on the way up here then entered the control room, which seemed to have been largely unaffected from the power overload that had seemed to affect the rest of the building.

There were three rows of computer terminals facing a wall of screens—it looked like mission control. It was also just the sort of place Jack would have set up, if his ego happened to be that large. Well, ok, his ego was that large. But there were some things he just didn't try to do with Torchwood Three… he still wanted people to do little things like continue taking him seriously. Having a common enemy in the office might be good (in its own sort of way) for morale, but people not thinking he was completely mad was more productive, especially when he regularly asked his people to do something completely mad.

He could see figures and maps on the large wall of monitors (at least fifty-two inches, every single one of them—it was a multi-media wet dream and he'd never hear the end of it if Toshiko caught wind of this—even reminding her that this was an alternate dimension in addition to the future wouldn't even save him). One looked like it was charting Void-related activity. It was a bit impressive that they had anything capable of analyzing any data retrieved from a rift, but it was also a tad on the frightening side. Sure his people kept tabs on the rift and any anomalous readings, but this was above and beyond what they'd managed—this was a direct scientific charting and graphing of a nothingness. It was as bizarre as it was unlikely—and yet, it appeared to be so—at least as far as Jack could tell.

Stealing another glance from the doorway where he was hidden, Jack saw the kid walk semi-purposefully to the front of the room, and to Jack's other self, who was manipulating the three dimensional model on the middle screen with a small hand-held device. He didn't know what the other Jack was looking for, but he was dead serious about it.

That other Jack spoke with two other people, issuing various orders before he acknowledged the kid's presence.

Jack was fully prepared to watch something painful transpire—he couldn't imagine a kid as awkward as Gregory Sheel Patel actually managing to get through a conversation with an evil version of himself without things going moderately horribly, or at least there being some strange stammering, looking at the ground and possibly some running away in avoidance.

However, it was nice to see that he was wrong—the kid actually managed to not drop a muffin in his drawers in the face of danger. Of course, the boy had travelled with the Doctor for a year—it was entirely reasonable that Greg could handle himself. Or that he could at least fake it when necessary. That was the thing he'd learned in his time as a freelancer—you didn't need to know everything, you just needed to pretend so hard that you believed it yourself.

The kid wasn't gawky or physically awkward—he seemed to have escaped that stage, or passed through it with flying colors. There was just something about him that made him seem… uncomfortable in his own skin. The universe was a dangerous place for people like that. Fortunately the kid at least seemed able to hold himself together—or so Jack gathered from the manner in which his young partner in crime was carrying himself—and from the added fact that Jack's counterpart actually moved to follow the kid out of the control centre.

A wave of pleasure rippled through him—he knew that any version of himself would be hard pressed to ignore entry into a TARDIS, which were known to be the most magnificent ships in the universe—and he bounced on his heels for but a second before other concerns overtook him. In a bout of last moment nerves, Jack rubbed his sweaty palms together. No dress rehearsal for this one, unfortunately—he was about to try to outwit himself.

Why did he always get into situations that they never bothered covering in the Time Agency academy?

XYZ

Just as they were about to haul the last piece of Dalek that they could find (other scraps had already been found by the police and by Torchwood groups that refused to acknowledge their existence—they'd have to try to get those back later, before they could be used for evil—well, ok, more evil), Mickey heard something shift in the back of the flatbed.

He hoped for a full second and a half that it was just precariously placed metal scraping against some other piece of metal with the force of gravity, the previous rumbling of the vehicle, and, like… whatever else would make twisted metal move around like that. Of course, Mickey had been at this for far too long. He knew that Murphy's Law was the only law the universe seemed to abide by on a consistent basis. Therefore, since anything that could go wrong would go wrong, the sound of metal shifting behind him was a very, VERY bad thing.

Some day Mickey was going to get involved in an alien situation that involved loveable, peaceful teddy bears.

Well, he could dream, at least. Everybody needed something, after all, and he didn't have time for fantasy sports leagues. Finally meeting Ewoks and having a feast with dancing and drums around a bonfire without having to go through that whole uncomfortable fighting the evil empire thing first was his idea of a day-dreaming good time.

'Course, it didn't help (or at least bode well) that the there was no Return of the Jedi in this reality—A New Hope bombed, and while it became a cult hit when it finally came to DVD, there was no original revenue to make sequels. Slowly he turned around. Sticking over the edge of the back gate was the blue glowing business end of an eye stalk, twitching back and forth. Mickey wasn't sure if it was the shuddering of death throes or nervousness (something he wasn't sure these creatures were capable of—that was—unless you mentioned the Doctor). He also didn't want to find out. "Pete!" he called out.

The man turned round from the cab of the vehicle, looking at him through the glass. The unconcerned curiosity on the older man's face was about all Mickey needed to tell him that Pete didn't see it.

And it just might be the death of him—it wasn't just an ugly, lonely eyestalk poking over the edge of the junk heap, now there was also a jittery and slightly phallic death ray pointed at him. Mickey really didn't want to figure out whether it was functional or not.

It was always a very rare day, indeed, when Mickey Smith got what he wanted, though. So he did the only 'sensible' thing he could think of in the situation. "Pete!" He hollered again. "Pete, get out of here! Now!"

Sensible solutions were for people who had the luxuries of such things, Mickey decided as he walked toward the lively eyestalk. "You there… Yeah you—I'm talking to you." He pointed a finger right in the visual center. "You think I'm scared of you? You stupid piece of junk. You think I'm scared of—scrap? So what's your big plan, anyway? Pretend you're dead then just start killin' again? I reckon you're as hard up as you look, right now."

Pete was slowly backing away from the cab, keeping an eye on the situation. When the remaining Daleks had disappeared, they'd ditched the only marginally effectual weapons—this scrap was heavy enough without having to lug around another who knew how much weight while attempting to haul awkwardly shaped and weighted bits and pieces hither and thither. Oh well. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Best laid plans of mice and men, and all that.

When the thing didn't respond, Mickey just figured that was it. One of the empties wasn't as dead as they'd thought it was or one of the 'real' Daleks had managed to repair itself (probably cannibalizing—quite literally—parts from other Daleks). Neither seemed like a good answer though, somehow. Probably because of just how little was left of all of these things—once the personal shielding gave way, a Dalek death ray did a crazy amount of damage to other Daleks. They hadn't found any scraps bigger than two feet by two feet among all the hunks they'd already collected.

It was a little something that he meant to file away for later, granted there was a later. It wasn't like he wanted Torchwood, or any other organization for that matter, running around with Dalek death rays, but if they could actually be used in defense against the creatures?

Hopefully some good would come out of this situation… of course, every time Mickey started dealing in hope, he remembered why he gave it up in the first place. It was just easier on the nerves to expect the worst, then be surprised when you woke up alive the next morning with the world still in one piece. Jake called him a pessimist. He couldn't imagine why. "Well?" Mickey yelled. "What're you waiting for? Do it!"

The stalk stopped moving. The slightly cracked lens twisted as it focused on Mickey, the blue exterior light bored into him, as if the creature were trying to read his soul. It made Mickey feel a bit naked. "I…wait." The mechanical voice hesitated. "I…wait for the Doctor. You will take me to him."

It didn't seem like the thing was in a position to make demands. Especially since there didn't seem to be much of it left. Mickey wasn't even sure if the death ray was functional. "And why would I go and do a thing like that? Assuming, of course, that I even know this 'Doctor' of yours."

The eye swiveled questioningly. Great, Mickey thought, he was anthropomorphising evil eye lenses. "The Void is open. His protégé passed through with no harm—others followed. We come and go as we please. All things move through the Void like creatures in the sea. He will not stand for that." The last was said smugly—proudly. As if the Dalek were declaring Check.

Oh great-now they were getting sarcastic, in addition to clever. True, the Doctor wouldn't stand for that. But a snide Dalek hinting at how it was going to give it an advantage?

It made Mickey have waking dreams about drinks with little umbrellas in them for real this time. Lovely icy drinks in large glasses with salted rims to be consumed on tropic beaches with pure white sand that looked like warm, baking snow (which was, he thought, the only way to put away a drink with a paper umbrella inside of it). He'd sit in one of those wooden beach chairs, his face hidden from the sun by one of those books that people took with them to the ocean…only he wouldn't actually read it. He'd just use it as a teeny umbrella for his face while he baked in the cancer-causing sun. Maybe he'd even get a raging case of sunburn. Difficult task with his skin tone, but not impossible. It would mean spending a hell of a lot of time in his chair of choice on his beach of choice, but he felt very up to the task at this moment.

He was exhausted, hungry, sore… and this Dalek was playing games with him. It was official—Mickey hated the universe. And he couldn't be entirely certain, but from what he'd gleaned from what was left of the Dalek, Violet appeared to be both the cause and the solution to the problem with the Void.

TBC…