Author's notes: I'm back...! We have a bit of potpourri here, something for everyone. Bonus points to those who get the references contained within...Now, my dear readers: WHO IS THE VOICE? I'd love feedback as to what you think is going on in the story.
Chapter 30: Hell's Comin' With Me
James Noble stared blankly at the grey carpeting of the zeppelin corridor. Moments ago, he had passively noticed the zeppelin steadily drop altitude, making their descent into London. But he could not summon even the slightest signal from his nervous system.
And besides, I'm not River Song.
How the hell did Rose find out about River and the Library? Somehow, someone, must have told her – manipulated her – about the Other's future. The Doctor's eyes darkened like storm clouds on the horizon; before Rose woke, he had sensed a cold, dark, suffocating presence in her mind. But for some reason, either due to the metacrisis or this being, he could not identify it properly. He cursed under his breath. Since Rose no longer trusted him enough to enter her mind, a telepathic search was out of the question, no matter how vital it was to their mutual survival. Though he was so out of practise when it came to telepathy, his brown eyes widened excitedly upon realising a last possibility – if he was Time Lord enough. The Doctor spun on his heel and ran back to where Rose had slept. He was on borrowed time, as the zeppelin would no doubt land within the next thirty minutes. The half-alien took a moment to reverently caress the ivory pillow and sheets with a blue-marine Vitex logo embroidered into them before arranging his lanky frame on the small bed. The Doctor shut his eyes and focussed on her scent, her pulse, her state of mind…
The Doctor found himself seated in a crimson-coloured chair. He looked around, only turning his neck like a robot, to red – red walls, red curtains with black trim, red carpet, red furniture, red ceiling.
"Doctor…" rasped a disembodied voice.
"Who's there?" replied the half-alien in an equally surreal echo.
"Doctor who…?"
"I'm the Doctor," he shouted to the room. "Who are you?"
"I'm the Doctor," retorted the voice. Before James Noble could disagree, a man dressed in a familiar brown pinstriped suit, swirly tie, white Converses, brown coat and black spectacles appeared in front of him, smiling smugly. "No, Metacrisis, I'm the Doctor."
James gaped like a goldfish. "What the hell…?" he breathed.
"A bit slow, aren't you? Well," the Time Lord sniffed, "can't be helped. You lost IQ points in the Metacrisis transfer. It's bit like Rainman – the man and his idiot savant brother. I'd ask you to count the stars in the room, except that I've already done it."
"You're not him," James growled.
The Doctor raised his eyebrow. "How is that, my dear Theta Sigma?"
James smiled thinly. "Because, sunshine, that's the name I just communicated to you, Thete. You know that's not my name."
"Nice try," retorted the Time Lord. "You know we can't say the Name of the Doctor."
"If you're me and I'm you," challenged the Metacrisis, "then you'd be able to whisper it in my ear. So do it. Say my name."
"The Valeyard," he answered blithely. "Satan, if you prefer."
"Hardly," sneered James. "Try again, if you dare."
"I gave you my answer, Mischling." The Time Lord popped his lips together, as though savouring a foreign tang on his tongue. "Mischling, Metacrisis – they sound the same. I mean, one's a nicer, more civilised Time Lord term for lesser, don't you think, Meta-thing?"
The Metacrisis said nothing, instead studying the alien with an intense, wrathful glare.
"No? Actually, you and I both know that Instantaneous Biological Metacrisis is so woefully inadequate to describe you. But I'm brilliant in making that up on the fly! Rose knows this," taunted the brown-suited alien.
James could feel the beginning of his rage radiate into the room. He slowly stood and moved toe to toe with his duplicate. "You leave her alone," he growled. "I'm here to convey one message, and I'm going to say it once. Leave her mind now!"
The duplicate snickered delightfully. "Oh yes! The Meta-crisis lives up to his name! After the decisive point, in the category of one who judges, if I recall my Ancient Greek, and of course, I do! Socrates and Aristotle taught me themselves!" He snickered again, making a semi-circle around the enraged Metacrisis. "That was me, not you, Duplicate," he added.
James unconsciously balled his fists at his sides, never taking his heated dark eyes away from his twin.
"And I'm not occupying Rose's mind, as you insinuate. She keeps contacting me." The double leaned into James's ear and hissed, "I think she still fancies me, Mischling. John and I, that is. I could tell you about the delightful little ménage à trois we enjoyed the other night. The pleasure I gave her as I…" Before the Doctor could continue, the Metacrisis's balled fist curved toward his duplicate's cheek. With cat-like reflexes, he stealthily moved out of the way, allowing the Metacrisis's momentum to carry him face-down to the crimson carpet. James quickly flipped onto his back and crawled away from the alien. "Now, I know you're not him," whispered the Metacrisis. "He would never engage in that with a human."
The alien sniffed. "Oh alright, fine. I'll admit, bestiality lost its allure eons ago. But it's so easy to provoke you. It should be listed as an eighth deadly sin."
"Who are you? What do you want with Rose?" demanded James.
"The question is, Mischling, who aren't I? I'm known by many names. So are you, for that matter, Doctor. Mischling," the man knelt to the Metacrisis's level, "Metacrisis, John Smith, Earl Foreman, James McCrimmon, James Alastair Bowman. You seem to be rather fond of the name James, Doctor James Noble. Kinsman of…Donna Noble."
James's eyes blazed fire and ice.
"Yes!" cried the alien excitedly. "Show me your essence, Ka Faraq Gatri!" The red of the room brightened into a crimson flame of heat, smoke and fire; the Doctor heard terrified children crying for their parents, as they screamed at robotic voices and laser fire in the distance. The half-alien's eyes darkened, as he picked up the rifle-like weapon at his feet.
Pick it up, Ka Faraq Gatri.
The Doctor picked up the weapon and set it to kill before charging into the citadel of Arcadia.
"EXTERMINATE!" shrieked the Daleks above, below, next to, and far away from him. Debris pelted him like hailstones and the sky turned a sickly greenish-grey. He managed to run to a makeshift command post behind a fallen slab of concrete-like building material, where several Gallifreyan soldiers had huddled, waiting for the moment to open fire.
"Report!" shouted the War Doctor. "How many Daleks?"
"Unknown, sir," replied the lieutenant next to him. "They're everywhere!"
"What do we have? What's our arsenal?" demanded the War Doctor, as he checked his weapon for the tenth time.
"We've no more weapons, General," cried another.
"No, we've one more," said the major in charge, a junior Time Lord known as Malanthropos. "Lord Rassilon gave us the Black Sun. We've no choice, Lord General."
The Doctor froze, remembering this moment as clearly as if it happened the previous day. No, he moaned futilely in his head, feeling his face contort to one of madness and pain and his lips hiss "Do it, for Gallifrey!" The lieutenant activated a small hypercube. "This will protect us from the impact blast," she said quietly.
The Doctor counted down the ten seconds it took for the Major to throw the grenade-like device toward the Daleks, hit the ground, explode and incinerate every Gallifreyan and Dalek within a thousand-kilometre radius. He watched skin melt from bone, octopus-like membranes explode, Gallifreyans and their pets run and whimper whilst on fire and screams of young children who would cease to be in the next few minutes.
This was the six-thousandth time that the War Doctor destroyed Gallifrey in a futile attempt to end the Last Great Time War.
He would destroy it five hundred times more.
"Stop, please, stop…" begged the Doctor pitifully.
"You know what the opposite of Good is, Doctor?" asked the voice to the shaking and whimpering alien. "It's hopelessness. As for our pretty Rose, fire…walk…with…me…"
"Doctor!" a French voiced cried, shaking him. "Doctor, wake up!"
James Noble bolted awake, drenched in sweat and shaking furiously. He swallowed and searched his surroundings. Instead of finding a redhead or a beautiful blonde, the Doctor looked up to a concerned Pierre Cohen. The young man pushed his spectacles up his nose and cleared his voice. "Doctor, are you well?"
"Wha-? Oh, yes, I'm fine," he said softly. "Just fell asleep."
Pierre eyed him suspiciously and then nodded uneasily. "Yes, well, Director Tyler wants to see us. We're about to land in London. Apparently, the press has already arrived. Someone tipped them off about Agent O'Reilly."
The Doctor bolted off the cot and down the hallway. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. He had a strange, uneasy feeling, one that always followed from a nightmare. But as he thought more about it, James failed to recall the details of his dream. He stopped in the middle of corridor, nearly colliding with Pierre.
"Doctor, what's wrong?" asked the young man.
"I…I was investigating something…Something telepathic. But I can't remember what it was. This is, this is…Oh, bloody hell, I'm a Time Lord!" he shouted, pulling his hair in frustration. "I'm supposed to remember!"
"Was it about Rose, Doctor?" inquired Pierre.
The Gallifreyan paused for a moment, considering the young man's conjecture, before shaking his head. "I can't remember," he muttered quietly. Lifting his head in shame, he continued toward the main cabin.
XXX
The Vitex Zeppelin touched down at the Tylers' private hanger roughly a kilometre away from the main landing strip of London-Heathrow airport. Pete Tyler peered out of his office window to spot, much to his dismay, a group of fifty reporters wandering about like sharks, eager to jam their microphones into his agents' faces for a comment. Grimacing, he slid on his suit-jacket, adjusted his tie, and moved toward the doors. The Parisian youths, a foul-tempered Daph, a sweaty, pale Doctor, an angry Jake Simmonds gripping a bruised and handcuffed John O'Reilly by the elbow, and a nonchalant Rose standing slightly next to John and Jake looked up to the approaching, older man.
"Who the bloody hell invited the entire London Press to join us?" hissed Pete in an unusual public expression of emotion.
The group all looked at each other in total ignorance, confusion and shock. "Right," he continued. "What I hoped was going to be a quiet escort to the Republic's Prison in wait of trial has become a goddamned circus." He gestured to the flashing cameras and squabbling near the landed zeppelin.
"Fucking hell," growled Jake.
Pete raised his eyebrow. "Any ideas?"
"They want a big fuckin' story – give 'em one," said John whilst peering at the petite blonde near him. Though she tried to feign indifference, a slight shiver radiated through her body. She could only hope that her father would refuse.
Pete studied him for a second. John's faint gaze at Rose did not go unnoticed by the Torchwood director. "You're supposed to be avoiding scrutiny, Agent O'Reilly. You don't make a very good spy."
John laughed mirthlessly, holding up his handcuffs. "They've come for the Yank in 'cuffs. Besides," he looked at Rose again tenderly, irritating the half-alien behind him, "we need to maintain someone else's cover. Not to mention those of the kids and the Lord Shitbag of Time."
Pete put his hand up to stop the aggravated alien from menacing the handcuffed agent. "Fine, Agent O'Reilly. It seems as if we have no alternative." John glanced warningly at Rose and Jake, who remained silent. "Jake and I will give a brief statement to the press. You all will stay on board until the press has witnessed Agent O'Reilly in custody with MI5 and Counter-Terrorism. Once we get rid of the sharks, you'll be driven to my estate. All of you," he said, glaring at the Doctor. Pete tugged on his tie once more. "Right, then. Jake, Agent O'Reilly, shall we?"
"Nothin' like a good perp walk," muttered the American. Shoving a black mask over O'Reilly's head, Jake and his prisoner exited the zeppelin first to the flashing of cameras and voices clamouring for comment. Pete hurriedly followed them, oblivious to the text message from Olivier Jean-Baptiste marked URGENT.
XXX
"I'm Christopher Almaddin with BBC World News. Our top stories: the US President met with the Haitian President Jean-Baptiste Dessalines today to discuss a trade agreement between the two countries. President Harriet Jones reported a healthy economy, despite scepticism expressed by Tory leaders at Question Time. Breaking news….Vitex CEO and Torchwood Director Peter Tyler has apprehended an unidentified American national suspected of violating the Data Protection Act and wanted for questioning in connection with the Paris bombings nearly four days ago.
'We will not comment on this case, as it is on-going,' said Director Tyler. 'I will affirm that we do have a suspect in custody and we will be working jointly with the appropriate authorities here in Great Britain, Sweden and France.'
We do not currently know who the man in the black mask is, only that he is presumed to be American and was working in conjunction with the Torchwood Institute. It is not known if he was a Torchwood attaché or agent.
Neither Number Ten nor the Home Office has made a public comment."
XXX
"Oh, bloody hell, it's about time!" cried a middle-aged blonde woman in a peach pantsuit as the five civilians climbed out of the black limousine in front of the luxurious Tyler Mansion. Since the Cyber Wars, the Tyler Mansion had been repainted a beige and black trim and refurbished on the outside; within the past two years, an entire wing had been added for Tony and Rose, thanks to the 'uncyberisable' Jackie Tyler. The Vitex socialite went to Rose and the Doctor first, hugging them warmly. The Doctor closed his eyes, silently begging Jackie to let him go. "Finally. It's about time you two came to your senses. Tony's forgotten that he even has a sister," she added acidly. The Doctor awkwardly gazed at his dirty Converses whilst Rose attempted to protest. Jackie then studied the three French youths and the cat, who attempted to puff out his chest in the carrier. Suddenly, the woman began to wheeze, backing away from Daph. "Oh, that bleedin' ijit! I'm sorry, but I'm," she covered her mouth as she sneezed loudly, "allergic to cats. Tony, too." Jackie continued to sneeze for several minutes. Pierre and Claire huddled around Daph in alarm. Rose wordlessly begged the Doctor to help them; James closed his eyes, acquiescing in defeat.
"Um, I was going back to my flat anyway, Jackie. I'll take Daph," he murmured, glaring and pouting at Rose.
"Doctor, but…" Jackie started, but sighed heavily. "Okay, but you'd better get your alien arse back here. Tony misses you," she said, nudging Rose.
"How are you getting back, Doctor?" asked Rose, much to Jackie's visible dismay.
"Oh," he replied dismissively, "I'll take a taxi back to the flat. I've got the ol' girl to check on, yeah? You can be my assistant, Daph," he said triumphantly. The Scottish Fold hissed and snarled.
"Nonsense, love," interjected Jackie. "I'll have my driver take ya. It's the least we can do. You'd be stayin' here if Pete had bloody remembered about the cat! I'll not havin' ya' think we've put ya' out!"
"I'm sure Dad had things on his mind, Mum," growled Rose.
"I'm sure he does, Rose! But allergies are a bit much to forget! And now we're bein' rude to the Doctor and your friends!" The elder blonde stared at the silent and frightened Pierre, Claire and Ahmad. "It's okay. Please come in; Rose, Laurie and Winifred will help you to your rooms. I'll stay here with the Doctor." Jackie gave them all her patented Do not argue with a Prentice Woman glare; Pierre, Claire and Ahmad, tired from their journey and emotional turmoil, filed inside the mansion, Rose reluctantly following them. The Doctor, cat in hand, stood melancholically at the end of the driveway with Jackie, who kept a safe distance from the animal.
"Jackie, I'm fine. Really," mumbled the Doctor.
The woman turned to him and shot him a stern frown. "Are you, Doctor? I've not seen you in three bloody months, the man who supposedly left an entire universe behind for my stubborn daughter. Meanwhile, she's takin' up with that American bloke."
James shrugged his shoulders weakly. "What can I do? I screwed it up, Jackie. I ... I'm human. Well, half-human. I can't take her to the stars." He scoffed. "I've gotten her into trouble, so much trouble in the past few days. Cost her job at Torchwood."
Jackie rolled her eyes, as the rear passenger door of the car pulled up directly in front of the Doctor. "And this is different how since I've known you? You've always been half-human." At the Doctor's look of shock, she smiled slightly. "You plum, I'm not totally stupid. An all-powerful alien bloke who has a chance to go anywhere, yet comes to Earth when the goings' rough. All of his companions are human? Honestly, I'm not worried 'bout you. You're…you."
"Ta," replied the Doctor sarcastically.
"I'm worried about Rose," continued Jackie, as though he had not spoken. "She's not been herself since we returned from Norway. It's like a piece of her's missing. I can't reach her. Then again I've not been much use to 'er since you showed up," she pushed blondish-grey hair from her face.
"That's not true, Jackie! Rose, she…She wanted, needed you. You're her mum. That's why I-we brought her home," the Doctor motioned his hands, offering her the truth of the matter.
"I like this you better," snorted Jackie, as she opened the door for him, covering her mouth slightly. "The one before ya, he was always such a lying sack of shite." The Doctor rolled his eyes as he slipped inside the black town car, cradling the cat who adjusted himself in the carrier. Jackie snorted, shutting the door.
Neither of them noticed a younger blonde watching from an upstairs window.
XXX
The cat growled as the tired and dejected James Noble opened the door to an irate redhead dressed in a black jean jacket, maroon tee, blue jeans and black and white Converses. "I'm getting a Christmas bonus, Doctor, and I will write my own cheque! Tailing you is not a good use of resources."
"Hello, Donna, and yes, whatever you want. Um, you're good with cats, right?" he asked timidly.
Donna uncrossed her arms and walked to the cat carrier, where a wide, orange-eyed blue Scottish Fold silently pleaded for her to let him out of his prison. Murrrowl, he begged the woman. "Oh, what a love!" She offered her index finger to the cat, who marked and scented it in greeting. James rolled his eyes at Donna's predictable cooing at the blue beast. She slowly unlocked the carrier; Daph ran out at medium pace, hissing loudly at the Doctor as he passed by and into the kitchen.
"What did you do to him?" inquired Donna, eying him suspiciously. "And speakin' of him, what's his name?"
James faced her squarely. "For your information, Ms I Love Killer Kitties, I didn't do anything to him! He kidnapped me!" Daph turned around, ruffling his thick, blue-grey fur, and narrowed his eyes into little orange slits. "Oi, that's right, you bloody tosser! If you weren't a cat, I'd have you locked up!" At Donna's raised eyebrow, James coughed and continued, "His name is Daph."
"Daph? As in Daphne? Someone's a bit thick," groused Donna.
"Ah, no. Daph as in…The Marquis," he whispered conspiratorially.
"The Marquis?"
"Donatien Alphonse François," coughed James uncomfortably.
Donna closed her eyes and pinched her nose in disgust. "Someone actually named their bloody cat after the Marquis de Sade?"
"Yep," replied James. "And, no, Donna, it wasn't me!"
"Obviously. I'd expect some weird alien name from you." James froze for the third time in twenty-four hours – at least, three times that he could remember – whilst Donna rolled her eyes. "The whole Mr Spock mind-meld thing gave it away, Spaceman. Now, let's get Daph fed." She walked over to the waiting cat, with the Doctor following right behind her. "Spaceman, ask him what he wants. I know you probably speak Cat or something. And ask him nicely."
The Doctor crossed his arms and huffed, "The little tosser wants mouse porridge, but he'll accept tuna. Well, I don't have either."
"Yes, you do," argued Donna, as she opened the pantry and took some tinned tuna. Opening the can, she poured some juice into a small glass bowl and offered it to the hungry cat. Daph sauntered toward the bowl and drank greedily, wrapping his tail around her calf in thanks. A few moments later, he turned away from the bowl and Donna, moved past the Doctor, hissing in his direction, and jumped onto the sofa. The cat regally sat down, facing the two humanoids, having decided to hold court in the sitting room. Donna crossed the room and sat next to the cat, petting and scratching him. Daph smiled, displaying a bit of canine in pleasure. James sat on the arm of the black push chair on their right, sneering jealously at the union between human – his parallel sister – and cat.
Still scratching the cat's neck, Donna regarded the Doctor briefly, before commenting, "I've called Shawn – he'll be up to see Agent O'Reilly once they clear him. Extra governmental protocols and all that. But what happened to you?"
The Doctor stared at the wooden floor and mock oriental rug underneath his dirty Converses. "I don't know, Donna. It's more than just a terrorist incident. It's more than just some alien virus. This even goes beyond what John O'Reilly's capable of."
Donna moved gently from the cat and moved to sit on the floor next to the Doctor. "Tell me, Doctor."
James glanced down at Donna. "You trust me."
"Yeah. I can't explain it, but I do. Fully," she replied softly. "And I'm not one to just trust anyone. Why would I do that? Did…did you mind-control me?"
He frowned. "What-? No, Donna! Telepathy doesn't work like that. I can't make you do something that you don't want to do. That's just wrong!" he shouted.
"Okay, okay, Doctor," she soothed. "I believe you. Just…tell me."
James took a deep breath. "On board Pete's zeppelin, I had an experience. Only I can't remember anything. It's like having my memory wiped clean. But…whatever it was, it was…I don't know!"
Donna watched the Doctor's eyes dull mindlessly as his body shook violently. "Doctor, whatever it is, is it wise to remember?"
"I h-h-have to, Donna. Rose's life may depend on it."
"And what of the case in Paris? Solve it, then maybe you'll come upon what happened en route?" she asked. "In the meanwhile, go have a shower. I'll let Shawn know that I'll be a bit late."
The Doctor nodded meekly. A few moments afterward, he found himself leaning against the marble of his shower, the water at its hottest setting. Breathing in and out mechanically, the Doctor blinked the water out of his eyes and he vaguely remembered having entered the en-suite moments earlier. Then he felt slender arms warmly encircle his torso and a feminine voice seductively murmur his name. James spun around to see a smiling, naked Rose Tyler. The fear that had petrified him disappeared, leaving him with wonder, raw desire and joy. "Rose," he murmured. She smiled again. Stroking wet blonde hair, he leaned down and kissed the woman, pinning her lips and body to the marble wall.
XXX
"I'm Christopher Almaddin with BBC World News at Six. As of this afternoon, we have been following the story of the unidentified American arrested by Torchwood and British authorities on suspicion of terrorism and espionage activities. At a state dinner hosted in honour of His Excellency, Prime Minister Niels Olson of Sweden, President Jones issued a brief statement regarding the arrest:
'I am not yet privy to all details surrounding the arrest of this individual, so I would consult with our esteemed ally, the President of the United States, before making hasty conclusions. After all, I'm sure that Madam President has a very good explanation for all of this.'
Prime Minister Olson has not yet been available for a statement, though the new Swedish Chargé d'affaires to France, His Excellency, Mr Karl Björnstjerna, replacement of the Swedish Ambassador killed in the bombing, gave a brief press conference:
'Four days ago, I lost several friends and colleagues in a cruel, cowardly act by extremists whom we all are too familiar with in today's world. I am confident that, thanks to the commitment and thorough work by the French gendarmerie, Interpol, Torchwood and the Säkerhetspolisen, we will not rest until we find and arrest the perpetrators.'
When Mr Björnstjerna was asked about the American suspect in custody, he was, like President Jones and the Home Office, reluctant to give details:
'I would like to give our esteemed colleagues in Great Britain time to communicate their findings to us. I know Mr Tyler and Madam President Jones; they will do their jobs with all due diligence and haste.'
A formal fundraiser and dinner for the victims and their families of the Paris bombing will be held in London by Jacqueline Tyler at Kensington Palace on 17 December. Though it is unclear whether Prime Minister Olson will be in attendance, it is rumoured that Mr Björnstjerna, the President of France and the President of the United States will be present."