First off: Obviously "a week or so" turned into more like two months or so. I can't help it if I'm consumed with deadlines of all sorts.

At any rate, I got a review in my email that set off my imagination like wildfire. A whole new subplot, and all! Brief as the review was, it spurred me to squeeze in some writing me-time, which (obviously) resulted in this little gem of a chapter.

I will do my best to update at least semi-regularly from now on, but my promises on update scheduling are about as reliable as an addict saying, "I'll quit next week—I promise!" Yes, myself and certain aspects of my life do have something of an addiction edge to them. They don't call us "workaholics" for nothing.

Onward and forward!

Be forewarned: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE. If any of you feel this is too descriptive for a T rating, tell me and I'll switch it over to M.

~H

i

Dry heaves carved at her stomach. This couldn't be happening. Why was this happening?

The door behind her opened again and she thought, Maybe if I had some strength left I could make a run for it, but she didn't have the strength nor could she have navigated the labyrinth of a building even if she did. Heavy boot-steps sounded behind her and she flinched as something light was thrown on her back. The material slid off her skin and onto the floor. A silk robe? She sighed and winced. They're mocking me.

"You should put it on, Miss Tyler. We wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable during our little chat." It was a deep voice, reverberating and harsh. It reminded her a bit of Sherlock's, but less like chocolate and more like tree-bark.

She carefully picked the rose-colored garment off the linoleum (How appropriate…) and slipped it on slowly, almost falling over in the process. Her muscles really were shot.

"Comfortable?" her voice was hoarse and dry. "You say that as if there weren't a selection of cutlery displayed behind you. I truly doubt—" she keeled over and started coughing uncontrollably, her retort cut short. She desperately clung to the pinkish silk in some wasted sense of modesty. What was the point, really? But she was intent upon regaining some semblance of dignity.

Blood spattered from the back of her throat onto the white tiles.

"Ah," the deep voice said. She still hadn't looked up to see his face. "That must be the Ulareen nebulizer that Rogers so rashly removed. My apologies." Rogers, she thought. I'll keep that in mind. When I get my strength back I want to know what to call him when I cut off his— "Miss Tyler, would you like to take a seat?" he interrupted her thoughts.

She supposed it was only natural to feel as if every thought she had was being cut off prematurely. Thoughts were, after all, the only things she had experienced in the past who-knows-how-many months.

In response to his question, she slowly looked up, eyes having finally adjusted enough to see through the bright glare.

The man was tall—perhaps 6'2", bald, and far too thin to have such a commanding voice. Looking him over, she knew in an instant he wasn't fully human. Sometime during the 65th or 66th century, she thought. The length of his hands and the light-purplish tint to his skin suggested a specific species. It wasn't as if she knew the history of all species in the universe—she wasn't the Doctor, after all. But certain historical anecdotes were passed along to Torchwood agents for their importance to human survival. The unfortunate history of interbreeding genetic testing by an alien species known as the Ravletyas was clear in her mind. The Ravletyas held Eugenics as the single most important duty of any species or society: Building the perfect race. They determined that breeding humans with a species known as Etervans would produce brilliant, long-living, hyperlogical individuals. Instead, it created a species of brilliant, long-living sociopaths.

She narrowed her eyes at him in anger. He was mocking her, again. Take a seat? Of course she couldn't take a seat. She could barely move.

"No?" he said with contrived innocence. "Let me help you, then." She expected him to harshly grab her and throw her in the seat. Instead, he gently took her by the hand and helped her up as if she were his grandmother. Rose let him lead her because she had little choice in the matter. Pick your battles. And frankly, if she were going to have some sort of discussion (especially one that included bargaining for her release) she would have to give in once or twice. Even if it did make her skin crawl to feel the bastard touching her skin.

He carefully lowered her into the chair and handed her a handkerchief. She accepted it and dabbled at her face, staring at her own reflection in the mirror.

She looked like hell. Not as if that was some sort of revelation. Rose knew she would look like hell, but her imagination didn't do the truth justice.

Her skin was so pale she could see blue veins in spidery lines across her forehead and neck. The silk robe—probably a size extra-small—hung on her like an oversized blanket. She looked like a stick-figure made of bones, the skin tautly pulled over her joints like a trampoline. Her hair was thin and frail from lack of proper nourishment. In her mind, she was panicking. The technology they had gave them the opportunity to keep her in prime condition for several years. So, one of two things had taken place: Either they wanted to make her weak or…she had been under their "care" for more than a few years.

She swallowed heavily, tasting blood on her tongue. Rose never thought she'd see the day where she hoped people had kept her captive and intentionally malnourished her body. Because if this was them trying to keep her healthy, heavens knows how long she'd been in this facility.

"Dr. Harvenly." The man took the seat across from her, blocking Rose's view of the two-way mirror and the haggard woman staring back at her. She shifted her eyes to meet his. "That's my name and I am glad to make your acquaintance." Rose didn't respond. "Miss Tyler, do you know why you're here?"

"Haven't the foggiest, but I'm sure you can tell me," she quipped. Then, her eyes became fierce. "Why am I here? Why have you kept me captive? How long have I been in this fu—" she started to cough again and shakily held the kerchief to her mouth while blood dribbled out.

He smiled. "Miss Tyler, I was not referring to this facility. I meant, do you know why you're in this room?"

She looked up and smiled right back, teeth red with her blood. "Like I said, I'm the idiot here. You tell me, Harvey."

His smile suddenly went flat. "Harvenly, Miss Tyler. And don't lie to me."

"I don't need to lie, Harvenly. I'm clueless, just like you've worked so hard to make me."

Let it never be said that Rose Tyler lacks fire. Even when reduced to skin and bones, those bones remained built of iron.

The skin, on the other hand—

ii

"DON'T! No, please! PLE—"

"Tell me where they are, Tyler," his voice was even, unaffected. How could he be so unaffected?

She screamed in response, a high-pitched shriek.

"Miss Tyler, I'm losing patience. Where are they?"

"I don't know, I don't know, idontknowidontknowidon—HELP!" The word echoed off the walls in the tiny room.

"You're lying again, Miss Tyler. We were monitoring your brain activity and you were clearly conscious—hyperconscious, in fact. You knew exactly what was going on so tell me where they are!"

Her voice pierced the air, high and clear as the instrument sent yet another wave of pain through her flesh. Red blood dripped down her back slowly. The machine—she couldn't remember its name, not through the searing pain—was an alien object that was built to cut through the flesh and safely (but painfully) grip the spinal cord, sending electrical shockwaves through the nervous system. Without actually doing so, the machine could imitate the sensation of bones being shattered, limbs being severed…and other feelings Rose couldn't even put into words. At least if those things were to actually take place, at some point the body would recognize the pain as being too intense and would either send its owner into unconsciousness or completely numb the nerves. Instead, this machine had the ability to keep the subject awake, aware, and alive through the entire process. Rose was reaching the point of insanity. She couldn't tell if these things were really happening or if the machine was simply making her feel it.

Her head was spinning. She opened her eyes, fighting against the vertigo, to look down at her legs—were they still there? But she'd been given a pill—some sort of hallucinogenic. Her legs were gushing blood, at least as far as her eyes could see. She could see the muscles in her thighs. Her skin was filleted from her bones.

Rose screamed from sheer terror.

"TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!" The voice was booming. She felt as if she were sinking into blackness. She knew she was crying, but she couldn't feel the tears; her nerves were preoccupied. Every moment it seemed she would be on the verge of falling into unconsciousness…or death, she couldn't tell which. But then the hormonal shot would poke into her pituitary gland and she'd be slingshot back into agonizing awareness.

Somewhere within the annals of her mind, she realized she'd been in this chair before, felt this sensation before. There was some overbearing sense of déjà vu that was pounding on the walls of her brain, begging her to—

The pain stopped abruptly. It was so instant, she felt the backlash of the relief as if it were a final wave of pain—her nerves throbbing from the trauma, screaming out for retribution.

She opened her eyes slowly, ungluing them. She could hear her breath, the heaving of her chest. Her nerves were still numbed so she couldn't quite move, couldn't quite see straight. Eventually, her mind came back into focus, her thoughts started to categorize properly, and she realized he probably stopped because the hallucinogenic wore off. He was probably going to shoot her up with another dose, since there wasn't a chance in hell she would swallow it again, no matter how hard he held at her jaw.

Above her head was Harvenly's face, silhouetted by the glaring white light. He raised his eyebrows expectantly and smiled—a disturbing grin that made Sherlock's creep-smile look almost genuine by comparison.

The thought was Rose's own attempt to rebuild her spirits through humor, but suddenly she was struck with the most frightening idea of all. Why does he remind me of Sherlock? A chilling consideration hit her. What if he created Sherlock? Was this man pretending to be Sherlock all along? …Was I meant to discover it was all a dream? Were they intentionally torturing my mind, just as they are now torturing my body? Her whole body shook from the inside. In all honesty, she would much rather have him carve up her body or manipulate her nerves than toy with her mind. It hurt her in all the worst ways to consider—she didn't even want to think—that perhaps Sherlock and John had been falsehoods.

All her emotional strength was swiftly depleted in one fell swoop. At that moment, if she had known who "they" were or where "they" were, she would have given it up just out of sheer mental exhaustion.

Sherlock…Rose pondered. She'd lost it; she was now at the tipping point between a will of steel and total desolation. Was he even real? Or was he a figment of her—or someone else's—imagination, created to make her feel comfortable in a truly sinister situation? What were they hoping to accomplish? Or was it all just some way to torment her from the inside out?

Her eyes slid back to the mirror in front of her, but she wasn't looking at her reflection. She was looking through her reflection, to the eyes watching her, the eyes taking sick pleasure in the way her body twisted as pain overwhelmed every nerve in her system.

"Who are you?" she ground out.

Harvenly backed off, slid into the corner. She didn't need to look over to know he was scared. That probably should have scared her, too (Who could make an interrogator cower?). Instead, it gave her more strength; Harvenly was just as "human" as she was, and so was this puppet master. And if she was going to be tortured, then she, at the very least, had the right to face her tormentor.

"Why are you doing this?" she pressed.

There was a brief pause and Rose thought perhaps she wouldn't get an answer. Then, she heard the click of the intercom and the room filled with a man's manic laughter.

"How sick can you be," she murmured, voice thick.

"Rose, Rose, Rose…," the patronizing voice sing-songed through the speaker and Harvenly flinched against his space in the corner. "'Sick' is the word people use to describe behavior they don't understand. Like evil…or insane." Rose balked at the response, her mouth open. "Of course, you know all about that. You are, after all, the understudy of one of the sickest men to ever travel the universe. We are, if anything, kindred spirits." Rose's voice suddenly came full force into a scream unlike anything she'd ever heard, let alone believed she'd be capable of producing. She was on her feet, the chair thrown across the room. Before she could crawl across the table and shatter the mirror, Harvenly sprang into action. No longer treating her with gentle care, he grabbed at her with a panicked roughness.

She growled. She wasn't desolate anymore. She was damn pissed. And, as crazy as it might seem, Rose Tyler wanted to stay in that room. She wanted to confront the bastard behind the mirror.

But Harvenly dragged her from the room into the hallway. Her blood-stained silk robe was falling open, but she didn't care. Modesty took the backburner as she struggled with all her might. Her nerves were overwhelmed from the onslaught before, but they were complying with her struggle. The urgency she felt, the anger replacing the terror and the indignation replacing the exhaustion, suddenly injected her with a newfound energy. She was actually putting up a fight. Harvenly's thin frame could barely keep her in check. His arms were grasping in vain at her limbs as she screamed and bit and went straight for the pressure points. She wasn't so frail, after all, and she was more than a woman scorned; she was Rose Tyler, defender of the universe, and the man behind the mirror had pressed the wrong button. No one, no one, insulted her Doctor.

Several other men rang towards the scene and indiscriminately groped for something to hold onto as she thrashed, scratched, and left angry welts on their faces. These same men who had mocked and jeered at her not two hours ago were suddenly afraid to touch her, afraid to be injured. Several men stood back, disobeying the orders of their superior.

Rogers reached forward to hit her with a baton, but she lunged forward to meet him as if demon-possessed. Three men held her back and Rogers stumbled away in clear alarm.

From behind her, Rose felt a sharp shock against her spine that she recognized as a high-wattage Taser jolt. Shouting out, she almost keeled over and the brief moment of reprieve was enough to give her captors the upper hand.

They quickly dragged her through the facility, back down the hall towards the large door she recognized as her prison. Her anger was mixing half-and-half with a familiar terror. It was becoming clear to her. She'd definitely been here before. She'd been through this before. They'd done this to her before. It was like remembering a practiced dance…and realizing this was the final step in the waltz.

One thing she also knew: the man behind the mirror had never spoken back before now. And she'd never put up such a fight before, if the faces of the mercenaries were anything to go by.

As the door was hastily pushed open, she put her heels forward to slow them down. But the light from the hallway spilled inward and her mind came to dead stop.

Next to the "bed" where she was held captive in her own mind, there were other similar set-ups…occupied by Donna Noble, Mickey Smith, Jackie Tyler, Peter Tyler, Martha Jones, and…two empty spaces.

Her eyes locked onto the two empty beds. The restraints were still locked in place. How the hell…Suddenly, it all clicked. A strange sense of exaltation overwhelmed her, further convoluting the feelings of rage and fear. Sherlock and John were real and they'd somehow escaped.

She was laughing. Of course they escaped! Who else could they have been talking about! "Where did they go?" Sherlock, you brilliant bastard!

Then, as they pulled her into the room inch by inch, she was taken by yet another emotion. Her body grew rigid and her voice cracked.

"Tony—where's Tony?!" she called out frantically. Looking to her left and right, struggling with all her might, the men looked at her with expressions of fear—the kind of fear that said they thought she'd finally slipped into insanity, jumping between anger, laughter, and panic. "WHERE IS TONY?" Rose was screaming as they attempted to coordinate the tug-of-war. A shadow fell behind her and she twisted her head to see over her shoulder.

The light through the door was obscured by the figure of a man, but she couldn't see his face through the dark contrast of the silhouette. "Safe." That voice. She knew it was the man behind the mirror.

The distraction was used to flip her onto the bed. Before she could truly react, the metal grips were being clicked into place around her limbs. She heaved for breath. It was too soon. Too soon. She needed more time.

Someone started putting a sort of metal crown on her head. That crown. Not the crown.

She swallowed frantically, suddenly livid.

"What do you call yourself, then? Clever?" she spat out towards the man leaning against the doorjamb.

"Hmm," he sounded pensive. "Brilliant. Genius…" He paused. "Masterful."

Rose's eyes went wide.

"No. No, no, no," she whispered. Then, as they lowered the crown onto her head, "No! NO!" She screamed. It was a sound of desperation. As someone flicked the switch, she repeated the word like a mantra, like a prayer in her mind: Remember.

iii

Remember.

Rose threw the covers off and heaved for breath. Pink screamed from her walls, the duvet. She'd woken up before the alarm went off…again.

"Remember," she whispered into the empty darkness of the room.

Remember what? That was an odd dream…What did I dream of, again?

Her eyebrows furrowed and her fingers gently massaged her temples. "Ugh," she groaned, falling back onto the pillows.

And the shadows on those pink walls sighed.