XYZ
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Chapter Thirteen
XYZ
After another moment of staring at the same facts and figures that hadn't changed in the last fifteen minutes, the Doctor slowly raised his head from the console. Rose had gone after her. It was for the best. Violet needed someone. He'd meant to be that someone, but really—it should be Rose. The child's mother—not someone with a questionable ability to do anything resembling comforting or consoling. The Doctor couldn't deal with this…thing and with… her. It. The whole lot of it.
With a shuddering breath, he forced the thought of leaving the girl to regenerate entirely reliant upon her own devices out of his head and focused on the situation he had a prayer of doing something about, slim though it might be. Thinking the problem over, he scratched at the wound under his collarbone, picking more fabric made hard and crusty with dried blood out of the battered, broken flesh.
It really wasn't healing at all, was it? Well, it'd never start closing itself up if he didn't get it clear of debris. Violet's turns at playing Nurse Ratchet were good for some things, he supposed—if he was actually missing the bubbling waterfalls of peroxide that usually heralded her attempts at healing open wounds. Oh well. There wasn't really time to dwell on what wasn't, he supposed.
Ok, so the Daleks could come and go as they pleased. But how? Were they able to open and close these rifts at will? It was bad enough when the Daleks had achieved time travel—it precipitated the Time Wars. But if they could open holes in dimensions at the drop of a hat… It wasn't just all of time and space he'd have to worry about—him, one lone Time Lord—but every single level of reality layered one on top of the other.
This had to stop in the here and now. There was no one left to do battle with these creatures, if he failed. He was the last line of defense. If he failed…the whole of time and space would pay the price.
Had a hole opened up between this world and the Void, then had it been propped opened, like with support beams in a mine? Was it a permanent fixture in time and space? The Doctor dared to hope that it was. That was something he could find and close. The sort of anomalies that had been popping up in his native dimension were closable, but difficult to predict and time-consuming to find.
Of course, who the hell knew what Torchwood's actual involvement was? They could be maintaining the breach; they could have created the breach… They could have been pawns the entire time in whatever game that had been set afoot. That information might be helpful towards the end of closing the breach, but that was his ultimate goal.
That was probably something else that would need to be sorted, in order for this situation to resolve itself. He punched in a few more figures and started a new process, and then sighed, turning away from the console as it did its work. Exhausted, jittery hands raked through his hair yet again, as he tried keep his mind focused on one thing, which was always a hell of a lot harder than it looked. Especially with a thousand things going on about him.
Rose wasn't happy with him. But what the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn't solve the problem with the Daleks and solve the problem with Violet…even though the two were hopelessly intertwined. And right now the Daleks issue was taking precedence—this whole world, or a girl's feelings? The choice seemed relatively simple to him.
Or at least the part of him that knew just how unwise it was to become emotionally ensnared in a single time or place or person had an easy time with this decision. The part of him that used to tuck the freshly bathed girl into bed and read ridiculous and repetitive stories to her wanted desperately to ask the Daleks if they couldn't just hold off on the insidious take-over or domination or extermination plot until tomorrow.
It was frustrating, now and again—all of time and space at his fingertips, but he couldn't just halt the passage of time now that he was caught in this stream and deal with Violet in a sane, calm and rational manner. Oh like anything in his life had ever worked like that. He might as well ask the universe to stop expanding. It was always one crisis to the next, and in most circumstances, he preferred it that way. He just needed to… let go of this moment.
Besides—eventually Violet would remember. Eventually she'd remember what it was she'd forgotten to tell him… she'd remember how things were, the way they'd always worked together, and how, sometimes, tough and emotionally unpleasant decisions had to be made for the sake of time, space and the universe. Personal… situations couldn't take priority over the greater good. It was one of the 'rules' he'd instilled in her from a very young age.
She'd eventually remember, he consoled himself. She'd remember and she'd know why he'd behaved as he had. Forgiving him was optional, he supposed. But at least she'd understand the why of it all.
Regeneration was tough…you never knew what you'd end up with, or how it would go. He'd told Rose before—you could be up and about in five minutes, you could be in a coma for a week having fond dreams about shoes. Considering the battering her mind had taken prior to the regeneration, things were going along splendidly. A touch of amnesia was preferable to her being a babbling idiot, or worse. In the next day or so, she'd be back to a status quo. Granted, it would be different than her previous status quo, but it will have been reached and maintained. It would all come back to her, and she'd hate him a little bit less. He hoped.
Of course, all of this was very much dependant upon his ability to figure out how to seal the hole in the Void. And if he could somehow manage to get home again, after all was said and done, that'd be rather nice as well. Of course… the company was good. He could think of worse places to be stranded. Still—he didn't belong here.
This was going to be tough. The last times this universe had collided with his own, it had been an overlay of the two realities with bleed through occurring at a single weak point. The current situation was… unique. He sensed it was because of Violet. She was the thread between this world and his own. Somehow, instead of forging a direct path between a slice in the realities, she'd created some circuitous loop through the Void. Leave it to Violet to find the most difficult way to do something, and then find some way to obfuscate it just a tad more on top of that. Maybe, if he gave her the opportunity, she could tie time and space into intricate little knots…just to add to the difficulty level a smidge more. Because, really—this was JUST impossible.
It complicated things—well, no—Violet complicated things, possibly irrevocably. He'd been pondering this problem for the last ten minutes—it was why he'd been so short with both Violet and Rose. He needed to somehow get himself to be on that side of the Void and still close the tear on this side. OH yeah, and he needed all of the Daleks to be in the Void when he did it. NO problem, right?
Another day in the life of a Time Lord. 'Course, if he didn't figure this out, it might be one of his last.
XYZ
Still standing a few feet from the tailgate, Mickey folded his arms over his chest. Trying to figure out what the thing was about, he looked at the evil eyestalk critically. "Alright. Say I bring this Doctor person here," he began, figuring continued denial and stalling would be his best way to gather more information.
If nothing else, it was drawing the attention of the semi-functional refuse heap away from Pete, which increased their odds of both survival and success exponentially, every step that he took away from them.
Pete was still slowly backing away, a critical glare making it apparent that he was doing something he'd really rather not (of course, that was life as a grownup, Mickey conceded). All Mickey could do was nod, letting him know everything was all right. It wasn't exactly ok, but things seemed to be relatively stable…for the moment at least. It was probably all that he could hope for at this point. What it came down to was that Mickey just had to do this. No getting around it, really.
The lens swiveled a bit, seeming to question what Mickey was on about. He continued. "Say I get this Doctor person here. What happens then? If he's as smart as you say, then he'll figure out a way to kill a broken Dalek in about three seconds flat." Which was probably being generous, despite the Doctor's improvisational abilities. Still, he was trying to make a point, here.
The broken bits of Dalek regarded him for a moment. "We will destroy him. And the apprentice." It was said is if it were the most logical course of action. Then again—to a Dalek, it probably was.
With that in mind, it was weird to hear a weird word, well—it was more of a concept, really, such as apprentice come out of the speaker grill of a Dalek. They weren't the most creative creatures in the universe (but what they lacked in creativity, they made up for in ruthlessness, cunning and intelligence—in those circumstances it was fairly easy to get on without imagination), but whenever this one said 'apprentice,' all Mickey could think about was the sorcerer's apprentice in Fantasia, with the giant mouse and the dancing brooms.
That was another movie that had bombed in this reality—no one here had any taste, Mickey was convinced. Football was also for crap here, which made him wonder if there was some kind of balance that needed to be maintained somewhere. But that wasn't the point. They regarded Violet with a respect usually afforded to mythical or legendary figures.
Mickey wondered if there was a way to use that against the Daleks, if it happened to be true. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he made it clear that he wasn't going anywhere or moving to comply with the Dalek's wishes in any way. He wasn't sure how…active the thing was (basically how capable it was of blowing him to smithereens)…but he wasn't going to show fear.
Any sort of leverage that he possessed would promptly dry up if he showed any sign of weakness. "And if I don't? You're a scrap heap. What can you do to me, if I don't play the part of your lackey?" Well, he could end up getting shot and killed. But hey, you don't get anything without risking anything.
Besides…Pete had made it around the corner. He was out of sight, and if Mickey could stall, hold things up, whatever…he had a chance of Pete coming back with something big, ugly and with a lot of firepower.
The thing's ocular appendage twisted, snidely, if Mickey could bestow personality traits upon hunks of metal and glass. "We will take you with us."
Mickey took a full step back from the flatbed, trying to put distance between himself and the creature. Just what in the hell was that supposed to mean? "With you?" To where? Of course, did he really want to know? Well, ok, he wanted to know. He just didn't want to acquire this knowledge through first-hand experience.
Metal creaked again, making a grinding noise. The hesitating, mechanical voice confirmed. "With us."
XYZ
Violet wondered if there was anything more lovely in the entire universe than this. She couldn't imagine it. And certainly…she couldn't imagine why anyone would ever stop. Her only problem with the whole thing was that his hands wouldn't travel up further. They could… she wouldn't be opposed to that in any way, shape or form…despite it being questionably appropriate to do so in a semi-public area.
His warm, firm hands were gripping the small of her back, beneath her jumper, and she just wanted them to go up…higher. There were whole bits of her that had a hollow, aching desire to be touched that left her taking shallow breaths, biting back moans in her effort to be discrete.
This was far better than just plain old kissing. His mouth was so hot on hers, his chest and legs so firm against her, crushing her up against the cupboard door, his neck so fleshy and muscled and alive beneath her hands as she pulled him closer…
There was only one thing that could possibly be better than kissing him like this…and god…she wanted it. She'd never understood 'it,' or people's fascination with it… but bloody hell…she'd probably have him right here, were they not just barely hidden by the alcove that lead directly into a busy hallway.
Every bit of her was on fire—her senses were already crackling with an almost galvanic regenerative energy in addition to the simple novelty of being new—even the smell of sweat mingling with the lingering remains of his soap was intoxicating, like some kind of opiate hanging heavily in the air. The feel of his skin beneath her hands made her palms ache with the need for more of him. He tasted tea and honey, and her tongue wanted more, as if she had some thirst that could only be sated by him. His heartbeat was the only sound in her ears.
Her other senses, which always played in the background like a radio, were silenced. There was no annoying turn of the earth beneath her feet, there was no time, no space, no place or zone. There was only him…his lips, his hands…his mind pressing up so closely against hers…she could read it, if she dared. Or she could just let him do what he was doing…as it was driving her too mad to even look in his head. That was fine too.
When his thumb brushed against the side of her stomach, she almost trembled visibly beneath his touch. She'd wondered, a few minutes ago why anyone would ever stop doing this—eating and sleeping were unnecessary things by comparison, but then he did that, and she wondered by anyone would ever do such things—the swirling mix of want and need and desire coupled with the heady sensations pouring through her made her think she'd die again, if there was any more or it got any better.
She'd come up here and found him because of something…some reason that seemed very distant and unimportant right now. Greg's lips did that to her. They made her forget what century and solar system she was in…
His mouth was suddenly on her throat, teeth grazing the soft flesh beneath her ear and she trembled. This was the weak in the knees thing people always talked about—she was certainly feeling it. She felt like they were going to give out on her. It was only the heavy pressure of Greg's chest against her that was keeping her upright.
Which was why, when the door behind her opened, she fell through, flat onto her backside.
She hit the ground, visibly shaken by being parted from him, the intense sensations being suddenly cut-off. For a moment she was unsteady and almost felt sick, like she was going through some kind of sensory withdraw. Lust was a dangerous thing, she decided. Glorious…but dangerous.
Looking up at the figure of Captain Jack, hands on his hips, she gave a weak smile and felt herself flushing terribly red. Oh that was embarrassing. What was even worse was it was the first time she'd felt like her old self—tripping over her own two feet or landing on something awkwardly…stumbling, quite literally, into trouble. "Hi…" she muttered, hearts still beating wildly and every nerve still on fire.
Jack wasn't looking at her, though. He was glaring over her at Greg. "I'd say congratulations on ceasing to be pathetic, but we've got some stuff going on here. Now's really not the time." Without waiting, he stepped over Violet. There was someone else behind him.
…Another Jack.
She scrambled away from the door, into the hall. "Evil Jack, twelve o' clock!" Of course, how did she know that the first Jack wasn't the evil Jack? Stumbling to her feet, she backed away from both of them. Grabbing Greg's wrist, she tried to yank him away, but he didn't move.
Using his free hand to wipe his mouth, he shook his head. Hair wild and eyes a bit glassy, he looked as…disheveled as she felt inside. If lust was a drug, she would gladly be an addict—or become a nun. She still wasn't sure she could handle that much pleasure again—and they hadn't even delved into the depths of the possibilities that lay before them—kissing was just a scratch on the surface. Anything else may destroy her. "It's ok." Greg didn't sound all that sure, though. He looked to the nearest Jack for answers.
That Jack frowned. "Looks like we're on the same side…for the moment."
In disbelief, Violet looked back and forth between the two of them. First of all, was it navy button-down shirt day? All Jacks wore black braces on Sundays? "He tried to kill me, you know," she blurted, in accusation. "He was going to hand me over to the Daleks—the REAL ones." It was all starting to come back to her. She was remembering why she'd done…it. The thing that had landed her in her current state—alternating between confusion and a splitting headache, every nerve and sense on fire and sensitive to the smallest stimulation.
Captain Jack grabbed her arm, dragging her back into the alcove. "Keep your voice down. Look, yeah, that sucks. He tried to kill you and stuff. But we've got some more pressing matters."
Violet let herself be dragged back into the cubby, out of sight, but then she tore her arm from his grasp, wondering just how un-evil this Captain Jack was. A small disgruntled huff escaped her—she happened to think Jack (any Jack for that matter) attempting to kill her and/or hand her over to enemies was a rather pressing thing. Being captured and used as a pawn in any sort of game anyone happened to be playing with the Doctor was the quickest way to draw her ire. That obviously hadn't changed with a new body.
A look of consternation screwing up her eyebrows, Violet thought that this information should make Captain Jack rethink any sort of temporary truce they had going on here. "Yeah, we've got Daleks all over the place, and this one," she thumbed over her shoulder at the other Jack. "Is playing doll house with a bunch of empty Dalek shells. Oh, I remember THAT much—psychic inhibitor? Handing me over to the Daleks? Yeah, you're a real great hero, Ringo."
The other Jack—Ringo, as Violet had come to think of him, glared at her, eyes narrowing. "I should have killed you when I had the chance—put you out of MY misery. God. For alleged geniuses, you and your Doctor are thick. Can we save the 'catch up' session for later? Like when we're not standing incredibly exposed?"
Shooting him a questioning glare, Violet fixed her jumper, pulling it down from where it had ridden up her back and rebuttoned her jacket, finally setting herself right.
Ringo gave her a smug shrug. "What? I might be in charge here, but I will lose my place in the pecking order fairly quickly if I'm seen consorting with the enemy. And being so bold as to do it fifty feet away from the crisis control centre."
This was wrong. This was just so wrong on so many levels, Violet thought as she followed the two Jack's to a set of fire stairs, leading them further up in the building and away from prying eyes, Greg bringing up the rear. Her hand instinctively went behind her, and he grabbed it. It made her remember the rest. The rest of what she had to do—why she was here. Why she was…as she was now. Regeneration hadn't been a lark.
Guilt and regret twisted inside of her, making her squeeze Greg's hand tighter.
After she let out an involuntary sigh, Captain Jack turned around. "I never said he was one of the good guys," he whispered. "But for right now, our objectives are the same." Turning back around to manoeuver a few more steps, he looked back up at both of them from the landing. "But watch your back. Don't trust me as far as you can throw me. If it gives him a tactical advantage—he'll throw you to the wolves. In a heartbeat."
Or Daleks, as the case may be. Still—there was something in the way he said it that Violet didn't like. Well, didn't like on top of the content of what he was actually saying.
She rubbed the back of Greg's hand, pulling him around to the next flight of steps. Stealing a glance at him, she didn't notice Captain Jack turning around again and almost ran right into his back. "You've got a…thing." Jack brushed his own neck just under the ear, indicating the 'thing' he was talking about.
Violet's free hand slapped her neck, right where Greg's mouth had been moments earlier. It still tingled with the sweet agony he'd inflicted upon her. Huffing, she could feel herself turning red again. Great—this incarnation was a blusher, on top of everything else.
Jack had quietly returned to up the steps again, innocently staring at his feet as he went, but Violet knew he was grinning. "Jerk," she whispered. "If I get killed for good, I'm coming back and haunting you." She didn't know if it was possible, but she'd find a way, if it could be done.
Yanking open the door to the top floor, Ringo regarded his entourage with a look bordering on disgust. "Couldn't I have gotten the COMPETENT Time Lord? Just a bit of seriousness would be nice."
It was fine, Violet thought as she made a face—it wasn't like there was any love lost between them. "Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before you tortured 'the smart one' and tried to hand ME over to the Daleks. I'd say the Doctor isn't in a 'helping' mood right now. In fact, I still don't know what the hell I am doing here. I've interrupted a perfectly good snog for this." She could always hand HIM over to the enemy, see how much fun HE thought it was.
Why was Captain Jack glaring at her like that? "Just stay calm," he muttered, looking over her shoulder at Greg, like he should be her wrangler or something.
But there was something in his tone that put Violet on edge. It wasn't just a friendly 'lets just all get along until this is over-with' kind of attitude—she'd certainly been forced to work the bad guys before, and she'd always managed to somehow keep the peace. Certainly Captain Jack had to have a bit more confidence in her than all that.
Then it hit her and Violet's shoulders slumped. "I'm so stupid."
Confirmation of her stupidity was in front of her in the form of a lance of Daleks, weapons pointed square at her chest. "I really need to stop walking into traps like this. Oh, by the way, Jack. I'm pretty sure that beheading will solve your immortality problem. Allow me to demonstrate, just as soon as I get myself out of this mess." IF she could get herself out of this mess. But in addition to an appreciation for marmalade the Doctor had given her a deep love and commitment to false bravado. The prattling thing he was welcome to keep to himself, however.
The girl finally just sighed in disgust. She'd been duped twice, by two different Jacks, all in the same day. This had to be some kind of record. "Just stay calm," Jack whispered again as Greg's hand wrapped around her upper arm tightly, cutting off circulation. "I have a plan."
Somehow Violet doubted in her own ability to see it come to fruition. Of course, she suspected, somehow, that this was all part of the game. Something twisted in her chest, lodged like barbed wire between her hearts—the desolation of betrayal. It wasn't directed at Jack, though. She'd only known him a few days…and she hadn't trusted him to begin with.
No, her eyes locked onto Greg, seeking answers.
There was a helplessness streaked across his features and a stark hollowness in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Vi. It's the only way to get him here." He was sorry. Great. Good for him. His Judas-like remorse wasn't going to help when the Daleks did… whatever to her. And him? Him who? Probably the Doctor. Had anyone ever thought about just asking nicely?
Oh wait—she remembered why she'd done mental battle with the psychic inhibitor. The Doctor couldn't be here. Badness would ensue, were that the case.
And now she was revisiting an old predicament. She practically needed a stick to keep the hopelessness at bay. She'd regenerated to keep this from happening. What could she do now? Trying to tug her arm from Greg's grasp, she was held steady on the other side by Jack. "Just. Stay. Calm," he whispered harshly.
You try staying calm, she wanted to tell him, but held her peace. Because—really—what else was there to say?
Ringo approached the Daleks, stepping into the long dark shadows that cut across the space, which was little more than a glorified storage unit, gesturing over his shoulder at his captive. "I told you I'd bring her to you."
At which point Violet gave a few more half-hearted struggles, seeing the futility of her plight. Being taller now gave her more leverage—but she was still weak from regeneration and Jack looked like he could bench press a small bus.
Her throat burned with a suppressed sob which had quickly turned into a strangled cry of anguish at her own stupidity. She'd trusted Greg—ready to give herself to him. And he was serving her up, all right. Right to the Daleks.
Behind her, the metal fire door swung open. She twisted her head around, elation bursting like a bubble in her chest just as quickly as anxiety settled in her stomach. "Mum!" she gasped. "Get out of here!"
Another fruitless gesture, she was sure—her mum listened about as well as she did…which was to say…not at all.
TBC…