20 JANUARY 2019

SHEFFIELD

The Doctor frowned, laying back on the couch. That was a weird dream. She'd been on some unknown military base with one of her younger selves and, for some strange reason, John Benton as well. There were only bits and pieces that she could remember. And where did all those Angels come from?

Another thought crossed her mind. Was it really a dream?

She closed her eyes, letting sleep take her once more.

After a few hours of rest, the Doctor again attempted communication with her TARDIS. Like the past several days, there was still no success.

"Come on, girl, why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

The TARDIS remained silent. The Doctor attempted to approach her ship, but instead collided face-first with a high-powered shield. The Time Lord fell, landing on her arse, glaring at her longest companion. "What is going on with you?"

Again, the TARDIS said nothing. No whirring of the gears, no telepathy, not even an external interface. Just defences.

"Are you being hacked?" the Doctor tried again. "Has somebody been messing with your controls?"

Silence.

This has gone on far enough. "Fine," she growled. "Out with it. Why the hell are you shutting me out?" The Time Lord fought back angry tears. "What did I do to you to deserve this?"

Again, silence. The Doctor's face fell as she finally let those angry tears go. She turned her back to the TARDIS, hand covering her mouth as feelings of hurt overwhelmed her.

Ever since Staffordshire, the TARDIS has been acting weirdly around me, she recalled. My own ship is rejecting me after a few thousand years, even after being at my side during the Last Great Time War. My own ship!

She closed her eyes. A hot shower will probably do me some good.

"You alright, Doc?" Graham had probably walked down to check on her. "It's just past six; you should get some sleep."

"Six," the Doctor echoed, though she wasn't sure if it was out of defeat at this point or if she was just too damn tired to think straight.

Probably both.

"I'm fine," the Doctor lied, even though she knew it was painfully obvious that she wasn't. She shook her head, not willing to meet Graham's eyes. "I need a shower." She pushed herself up the stairs before the older human could say anything, wishing for something to ease the pain.

20 JANUARY 2019, 7:05

Ryan walked downstairs, anxious for some caffeine. He had hoped to get a quick shower, but someone was hogging the one in the upstairs bathroom. He wasn't sure who. In all likelihood, it was probably the Doctor. Try as she might to hide it, she was looking a lot worse than she had been when the Angels slashed her neck in Staffordshire. Maybe their claws were poisonous?

In any case, Ryan wanted to be more awake before he started speculating on such things.

"Ryan."

Ryan looked up, confused. The voice was Scottish—and masculine. "Who's there?"

"For crying out loud, dude, just turn around."

Ryan turned, yelping in surprise. A man with white and grey mad scientist-type hair stood in front of the TARDIS, wearing the same clothes that the Doctor had the night they had first met.

"Why are you calling me madam?" the blonde woman had asked.

Awkwardness was mutual between the three that were present in the train car. "Because…you're a woman," Yaz told her.

This fact was not apparently obvious, because the woman's hazel eyes had widened in surprise. "Am I?!"

Yaz looked flummoxed. "What?"

The woman ignored her, as if something had suddenly dawned on her. "Oh, I remember now!" She turned away, somewhat flustered. "Sorry. Half an hour ago I was a white-haired Scotsman."

And a white-haired Scotsman was now standing in Graham's living room.

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Doctor?"

"Not exactly," the Scotsman responded, holding up a halting hand. "Yes, I look like the Doctor. But not your Doctor, no. Her immediate predecessor, as a matter of fact. This image, I guess, is from not long before this one regenerated into the woman currently raising hell in your upstairs shower." He gestured to the TARDIS. "I am the TARDIS visual interface. I can appear in the image of anyone I choose, on either the inside or the outside of the TARDIS—for the latter, mind you, I do think the range is quite limited. It's annoying, really."

Ryan folded his arms. "The Doctor told me you're avoiding her. What gives?"

The Scotsman frowned. "Well, let's just say that a certain group of quantum-locked killer statues are to blame for that little predicament. There is something terribly wrong, and it's putting all of us in danger."

Ryan's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked sharply. "What did they do to her?"

The Scotsman's expression darkened. "Something far worse than ripping her throat out, I'm afraid."

20 JANUARY 2019, 8:07

Well, the Scotsman did say I'd be using my mind palace a lot. I might as well put that to the test. The Doctor closed her eyes, meditating.

The Time Lord found herself inside her TARDIS, similar to the last time. Just one thing was different, though.

She walked to an area northwest of the TARDIS entrance, noticing a portable chalkboard…and someone familiar nearby.

"Clara," she whispered.

Clara Oswald did not respond. The scene was eerily similar to the Doctor's time inside her own Confession Dial—an experience she hoped never to repeat again unless it was an absolute last resort. The English teacher wrote something on the board.

Question 1: Why did the Angel let you go?

"No idea," the Time Lord admitted. "I'm just glad it did." She felt her neck, wincing. "I just wish these wounds would hurry up and heal already." The Doctor shook her head. "Maybe it's just as well that I don't know. The less I know, the better, am I right?"

Clara turned, shaking her head. Her brown eyes betrayed her alarm; her face, concern. She then proceeded to write something else.

Question 2: Are you okay?

"Yeah," the Doctor responded. "Of course I am."

Again, Clara shook her head. The Doctor noticed a tear falling down her late friend's face as she erased the board and wrote again.

LIAR!

The sounds of strange footsteps approached and Clara faded, replaced by the chilling silhouette of a stone angel.

The Time Lord's eyes fluttered open, and she woke up, gasping. What the hell?

"Doctor?"

She sat up, seeing Ryan over by the sofa. "You good, mate?"

There's no use lying to him. "Nightmare." That was true—Clara's response had completely unnerved her, along with what she had seen right after. "I'll be ok." That response was dull even for her.

Ryan, from the looks of it, decided not to argue. "All right, fine, suit yourself." He frowned. "Yaz just called. She wants your help on a case today."

"That depends on the case," the Time Lord muttered sleepily, eyes fluttering shut.

"She said something about an image of a Weeping Angel appearing in the eyes of a couple of dead people."

The Doctor's eyes shot open. All indicators of tiredness left her body as she felt a cold chill run down her spine. She rolled onto her side, looking intently at Ryan. "Where was this?"

20 JANUARY 2019, 11:17

SHEFFIELD HALLAM A&E

The Doctor walked into the emergency building, anxious. Yaz was in the waiting room, along with a dark-skinned young man with 1970s-style round glasses. He looked just as anxious as the Doctor herself.

She made her way over to them, gulping. "Yaz?"

Yaz stood. "Doctor. Great to see you."

The Doctor nodded. "You too, Yaz, but I wish it was under very different circumstances." She gestured to the man next to her. "You must be Oslo Stefansson?"

The man stood, shaking her hand. "Yes, ma'am."

Yaz nodded. "Follow me."

They made their way deep into the ER, reaching the the imaging wing after what felt like ages. Crime scene tape stretched for several metres, even across the men's lavatory for some reason.

This is bad. Very bad.

"This is it?" the Doctor asked instead.

"What gave it away?" Oslo asked. It sounded as though he was attempting sarcasm, but it came out tired and hollow.

Officers that were present let Yaz and Oslo through, but one barred access for the Doctor. "I'm sorry, ma'am." Her expression was concerned. "You can't be in here."

Yaz put a hand on the officer's shoulder. "It's okay, Sergeant. This is the Doctor; I've brought her in on the case for some extra help."

The officer nodded, letting the Time Lord through. "Who was she?" she asked.

"Sergeant Takahashi," Yaz explained. "She volunteered last night for the Weeping Angel case."

"Braver than most, that one," Oslo muttered.

Yaz nodded in agreement. The Doctor, however, was more concerned with the imaging machine to her right. "Positron Emission Tomography?" she asked, surprised.

"Yep," Oslo confirmed. "We figured it would be easier to study Max's corpse this way since he still had methamphetamine in his system when he died."

"But the meth wasn't the cause of death, was it?" the Doctor asked, dread in her voice.

"I don't think so," Oslo admitted. "When I was running the PET scan on him, there was a weird pulsing coming from his occipital lobe. I ran it three times, and it showed the same thing."

"That's weird," the Doctor mused.

Yaz folded her arms. "For those of us who don't know a lot about neuroscience, can you please cover this in plain English?"

"The occipital lobe is the area of the brain that controls and regulates visual output," the Doctor explained. "For humans, it's right at the back of their heads." She placed a hand on the back of her own to demonstrate.

Oslo raised an eyebrow. "What did you say you were a doctor of again?"

The Doctor shrugged. "A lot of things." She waved her sonic over the machine, surprised to learn that the scan had picked up an extra test after Max's. "Was any more testing done on this machine?"

"Yeah," Oslo said. "The coroner had me run a test on him while he was still alive, just to make sure the machine wasn't malfunctioning."

Yaz let out a hiss of pain. The Doctor turned, concerned. "You doin' alright, Yaz?"

She shook her head. "It's my eye. I told Allen that I'd get it checked out while I was here. She thinks it's infected."

"Given you got punched in the eye by a Weeping Angel, I wouldn't be surprised if it was," the Doctor said darkly. "See if you can find a nurse to look at it."

Yaz nodded, exiting the room.

Oslo glanced at the Time Lord. "So…not a medical doctor, then?"

"I can be one when needed," she responded. "Did you ever see the results of the coroner's test?"

"No," Oslo admitted. "He was counting down from ten for some reason; I got spooked and made an excuse to run to the toilet."

He was counting down from ten. Down to zero, probably. If it was what I think it was, he was a dead man walking for the last ten minutes of his life. She stiffened. "How did this happen?"

"I don't follow, ma'am."

She sighed. "What made him start counting down?"

"Oh." Oslo frowned. "He looked Max's corpse in the eyes. Said something about a strange image in the retinas. I went over to look and saw a stone angel with its eyes covered." He shuddered. "It was too creepy to look at for more than a couple of seconds."

"It's a miracle that thing had its eyes covered, otherwise you'd be dead, too," the Doctor remarked, her tone dark. This is one of the times that I wish I was wrong.

"Am I clean, Doctor?"

"Give me a minute and I'll let you know." She scanned him with her sonic, admittedly just as anxious about the results.

SCAN NEGATIVE.

She sighed in relief. "You're not infected."

Oslo placed his head in his hands, letting out an equally relieved sigh. "Thank God." The intern made his way to the PET machine, calling up a few images. "This was the test done on the coroner."

The Doctor walked over, frowning. "Was this before or after he saw the Angel?"

"About five minutes after."

She grimaced. "This neuropathy is…chilling, to say the least. Not only is it quick, it's taking over all of the receptors and reducing neurotransmitter activity, especially in the occipital area."

"Not the dopamine receptors, though," Oslo noted. "On the contrary, they've been enhanced."

"Probably so their victims don't know the Angel is there while it is in the process of taking over," the Doctor remarked, lip curling. "It makes me feel sick just thinking about it."

"Is it a plague?" Oslo asked, voice rising in pitch. "If so, we should quarantine the area!"

"Not a plague per se, but if people are stupid enough to look a Weeping Angel in the eye, and then into the eyes of the dead that looked a Weeping Angel in the eye, it could become a major crisis." She glanced over at Oslo, who scooted backwards frantically, eyes wide with terror.

"It's only a possibility," she said quickly, hoping to reassure the young intern.

Oslo nodded, gulping. "Y-yes, ma'am." He didn't meet her eyes, instead closing his own as he sat back against the wall. "Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you explain to me the part about looking Weeping Angels in the eye?"

"I can," she responded carefully. But you might not want to hear it. No, scratch that. You should hear it, regardless of whether you want to or not. "You ever hear the saying, 'The eyes are windows to the soul?'"

"…No."

"Well, that should be taken literally," she told him. "Any image of a Weeping Angel manifests into the actual thing. It will escape from one's eye the way a video does when it's being projected onscreen, leaving behind just the image."

Oslo's eyes shot open. "That explains a lot."

"Oh?"

"The men's toilets," he clarified. "I'll show you."

The intern stood, and the Doctor followed him into the men's room.

Haven't been in one of these in a while, she thought. The Time Lord wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, the smell!"

"That's the men's room for ya," Oslo said sardonically. "We seem to be noseblind to it."

You're not wrong, she wanted to say. But explaining the whole gender-regeneration thing to him was not a priority at the moment, especially since he didn't know she was not human.

"I don't doubt it," she said instead, looking around. Her eyes landed on a figure in front of the mirror.

"Well, well, well," she said coldly. "Conahan's Angel, I presume?"

The Angel did not reply. Nor did she expect it to, given that it was quantum-locked.

"That bastard snuck up behind me not long after I ran in here," Oslo grumbled.

"Where were you standing?"

Oslo walked over to the sink in front of the Angel, pointing to the center. "Right about there."

The Doctor folded her arms. "Guess you got lucky twice, then."

"I'd rather not think about it."

I don't blame you in the slightest, mate. She walked over to the sink to the left of the Angel, looking directly into the mirror. For some reason, she felt a lot better after doing so. More…in control.

"Do you think there's a cure?" Oslo asked.

The Doctor shook her head. "There's not any real way to kill a Weeping Angel other than paradoxes and opening a crack into time. Or even starving it, for that matter, but that takes upwards of centuries to millennia. These creatures are the deadliest predators in the universe; they feed on temporal energy. One touch can displace you into the past, or through space if you're lucky, which is rarely. You live out the rest of your life in the past while the Angels feed on what would have been your future."

"That's…horrifying."

"It's better than being digested by a sarlacc," the Doctor countered.

"And if you look them in the eye?"

"If you're human, you're dead in ten minutes," she said grimly. "These things are parasites, so they operate on a similar level to infectious bacterium. The rate of infection depends on species' physiology, but it almost always ends the same way."

"What if there's a way to develop a vaccine to counter the neurobiological effects?" Oslo asked.

The Doctor smiled wanly, turning towards him. "Oslo Stefansson, if you could do that, then I think half the universe would be scrambling for it."

He shook his head. "As good as that sounds, ma'am, pharmacology isn't an area I wish to specialise in."

The Doctor's brow furrowed. "What do you want to do with your degree, then?"

"The same thing I'm doing now: police stuff." He shrugged. "I was originally thinking about doing my internship with UNIT, but their operations got suspended a few months ago because of Brexit. I don't know when they'll be back up and running. I love impossible things. And syfy-type stuff."

"I actually used to work for UNIT," the Doctor informed him. "Maybe when this is all over I can put in a good word with Kate Stewart for you."

Oslo's eyes lit up. "You can seriously do that?"

"I can't guarantee anything, but I'll do my best."

"Alrighty then." Oslo frowned, gesturing to the Angel. "Are these things alien?"

Now that is a good question. "Hard to say, really," she admitted. "Weeping Angels have been around since the beginning of time itself. Hell if I know where exactly they originated from."

It's not like you're going to find out, a voice whispered tauntingly. The Doctor raised an eyebrow, confused. It sounded ancient…and strangely like her own. But it wasn't. It was more…distorted. It was the same voice she had heard days ago, not long after she saw the Third Doctor in Yaz's bathroom mirror wearing silk pyjamas.

She turned back towards the restroom mirror, the voice fading into silence. She tilted her head to the side, perplexed. "What is it with these mirrors?" she wondered aloud, running her sonic screwdriver over them. She looked at the results in surprise. "Huh. These are just normal mirrors."

"Well, what were you expecting, a mirror into another dimension where other aspects of your personality reside?" Oslo asked.

The Doctor looked at him, not understanding what he was talking about. She even said as much, to which he replied, "It's a Teen Titans reference."

"Whatever." The Doctor looked closely at the mirror in currently front of her—the one to the right of the Angel—and was surprised to see John Benton in the mirror, the way he looked when her third incarnation had known him.

"Benton?" she whispered, shocked.

The Sergeant jumped, evidently shocked as well. "You're that woman from the other night! The one who brought those things!"

She raised an eyebrow. "Mate, what the hell are you talking about? What even is this?"

"The Doctor was looking for a feedback signal on that psychic projection you sent out," he told her. "Looks like we got the right frequency."

"And what? This is a psychic projection?"

"I guess," Benton said. "It's hard to understand anything that man says sometimes."

So I've been told. "Where are you speaking from?"

"Obsidian Nine, 2257. You?"

"Men's toilets, Earth, 2019," the Doctor responded.

Benton's brow furrowed. "What are you doing in a men's lavatory?"

"Long story. Now, what things do you think I brought?"

"Weeping Angels. Psychic projections that can kill."

The Doctor's blood ran cold. "Why do you think I brought those monsters?"

"You appeared alongside them. It's the only logical explanation."

"Well, your logic is wrong, Sergeant," she retorted.

"Ma'am?" Shoot, she'd forgotten Oslo was still in the lavatory. "Who are you talking to?"

"Someone in the mirror," she said.

"You're nuts," the intern responded. He walked over, gasping in surprise. "I take that back."

"Who's he?" Benton asked.

The Doctor gestured to Oslo. "That's Oslo. He's a police intern."

"Hi," Oslo said, waving. "This is weird."

"Tell me about it," Benton responded. "Who are you, really?"

Not going there. "I can't tell you that."

"So you've said. But why not? What's with the secrecy?"

The Doctor sighed. "Because I'm from the future, and names have power."

"I'm fighting against Daleks. There's a chance that I might not have a future. I need to know, ma'am."

"Daleks, wonderful," the Doctor groaned. "Even more of a reason for me not to tell you my identity."

"In any case, you've said the Doctor is in danger from those Angels. We need to know how to stop them."

Over there too? I don't remember this. "Unless you carry a massive thing of mirrors or find a way to keep them quantum-locked permanently, you can't. If you want to survive, don't blink. Don't look away. Don't turn your back. And, most importantly, do not look them in the eye under any circumstances."

Benton's image flickered. The Doctor took out her sonic screwdriver, trying to get him back.

"What's happening?" Oslo asked.

"Something's interfering with the signal on his end," she muttered. "If I can just find a way to boost the power—"

The image fizzled out, leaving the two of them to their own reflections. The Doctor cursed vehemently, both scared and confused.

"Doctor?" Oslo asked. "Mind telling me what just happened?"

"From what I can tell, an army Sergeant from the 1970s made contact with us from another planet in the 23rd century," she summarised.

"How did you know he was from the '70s?"

"The uniform. That, and I knew him from back in the day. I worked alongside him at UNIT."

"In the '70s?!" He looked her up and down. "You don't look any more than thirty, thirty-five at most!"

Okay. Reveal time. "Allow me to reintroduce myself. I am the Doctor. I am an alien from another world. And I am, technically speaking, just over four-and-a-half billion years old."

Oslo's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Holy. Fucking. Shit."

She grinned. "Hello."

"But…you look—"

"Human?" the Doctor finished.

Oslo nodded.

She shrugged. "From my perspective, you look Gallifreyan. But try not to go around advertising it; I'd rather not be dissected when my services can be put to use saving the universe."

"Got it." Oslo shrugged. "But, seriously, why couldn't you just tell Sergeant what's-his-face who you were?"

"Because, like I said, he is working alongside my past self in UNIT's early days, back when it was known as the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce," she said. "If I let on too much about the future, or even a possible one in the midst of a bunch of nonlinear timelines, then it could change the future of this timeline or even a few others." She folded her arms. "I really hope you understood all of that, because I'm not gonna say it a second time."

"Loud and clear, ma'am."

"And, Oslo."

The intern turned back towards her. The Doctor pocketed her sonic. "Mention what happened in the past several minutes to no one. Except Yaz, but only her, or anyone else on my crew. Understood?"

"Understood."