A/N: It would seem that in every season there needs to be an episode that is fairly Doctor free. Not quite sure just why that is, but some of the best - and the worst - episodes have had very little of our Time Lord actually in it...

Just which end of the spectrum this fic fits remains to be seen, but we are at a chapter that has an absence of our Time Lord or any of his amazing companions.

So just a heads up as you head into this one - don't expect any Doctor/Rose/Jack/Martha.

Also remember: This is 1992. Things were different back then. People thought differently, and people were allowed to do stuff and not be finger waggled at by others. This is also a chapter written from the POV of a mine mechanic ... so it gets a little gruff and, err, oh I dunno ... It's different from everything leading to this point.

That said .. I really hope you can enjoy this one... I really do. Yesterday's chappie didn't seem to go down to well, so I hope this one is better...

~~oooOOOooo~~

Bob Johnson wiped the back of a greasy hand over his sweated brow as he worked underneath a giant 3-storey 321 tonne Cat 793F Haulpak truck. Tonight he was annoyed. No. Not annoyed. He was downright fucking pissed off. This was a brand new truck, only a week so far at the Mine. A week old! He shouldn't be nosing about underneath the damn thing replacing hoses and repairing damage.

He tossed a wrench onto a warped and stainless metal tray atop a rusted-looking tool cabinet and walked out from underneath the machine, satisfied that the bulk of the damage had been repaired, but pissed off that he'd have to wait on parts to get the rest of it complete. He didn't bother wiping his hands on a rag or shop towel as he trudged toward a water cooler in the corner of the shop. Bloody thing had seen better days, it was filthy except for the new tank that had been put on yesterday. Years of grease grime on dirty thumbs had left its mark on the tap lever, which was now a dark grey rather than white. But none of the blokes seemed to mind all that much. The sheila's did though, and none of them dared take a cup of water from it. Nah, they'd bring I their own thermoses of cold water instead and then delicately wipe their hands on towels, and scrub their hands and nails with pumice soap like a damn surgeon before touching their own stuff.

He didn't mind at all. It wasn't like he inhaled and ate grease on a daily basis at work anyway. Unless he fingered a line of Vaseline on his lip like a bloody great dam against sweat, it was an inevitability. He could think of better uses for Vaseline…

He leaned a forearm across the top of the watercooler as he grabbed a shoddy looking pearl luster iridescent orange coffee mug circa somewhere 1960. Older than the mine, but in much better condition thanks to the cleaning crew, bless them for cleaning up the shit his team left behind after shift.

Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose as he hooked his fingers into the handle of the mug and used his thumb to depress the lever for water. His arm felt the glub of the air bubble the sprung up after a half-pour and he held the lever for only a second longer before flicking it up and lifting the mug to his lips for a long draw of water. He half winced at how warm the water was. The motor for the fridge unit had blown about two months ago and hadn't yet been repaired. Of course, any member of his team could probably do it, and probably make a better motor capable of surviving this damn incessant heat for longer than a month so they'd have cold water to drink. None of them were allowed to, though. Bloody sparkies would lose their shit if they did, call a strike while they were at it as well.

Not that any of those little princesses would actually fix the damn thing themselves. Nah, they'd just put a call into the local Retravision store and ask them to send out someone.

He took off his hard-hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand as walked back toward the large Cat 793 that he'd just been working on.

Fuck it was hot.

Didn't matter that the air conditioners were running fill-tilt, and it was nearing midnight, it was still bloody hot. He lifted his eyes to the thermometer that gave the outside temperature and winced. Forty Three degrees. Bloody Hell.

No wonder the air-conditioner wasn't working right to cool the place down. Damn shop was nothing more than a massive tin shed oven full of other metal shit that absorbed heat like a damn magnet. Hard for a small air-con unit to wage battle against the blazing sun overhead. Nature versus machine? Nature will kick its arse without even thinking about it.

He pulled at the collar of his navy blue pair of coveralls and sniffed with annoyance. He approached the massive wheel of the Cat and used both hands on the rim to haul himself up in the well for a sit down and smoke break. Even though the truck had been out in the mine for a week, rolling through rusted red dust, pyritic shale, and iron ore, it was still cleaner in the wheel well than in any of the filthy seats in the shop.

He pulled a worn pack of Winfield Gold cigarettes from his chest pocket and dug for his lighter in the pocket at his hip. He barely glanced around as he tapped a single white and brown stick from the pack and popped it in between his lips. One eye closed and the other squinted as he cupped his hand around the cigarette and lit it with a single flick of the lighter and deep draw. He blew what he'd drawn in up into the air as he tucked both lighter and cigarette packet into his chest pocket.

Fuck he hated Summer up here. He hated forty-eight degree weather and having to wear bloody thick coveralls and steel-toe work boots like some fucking wearable sauna. He hated the sweat on his brow, the sweat of his arm pits, the sweat of his balls dripping into his arse crack. How he hadn't ended up with a chronic case of nappy-rash he didn't know. Lord knows he didn't get enough breaks in a shift to head to the dunny and wipe down there every five minutes, add some baby powder, then slap his own arse and get on his way.

Johnno reckoned he walked around with a piece of dunny paper up his arse to try and combat the dreaded wet arse chafing rash. After he called him a dickhead pansy, Bob actually considered doing the same damn thing himself. Then he quickly came to the conclusion that a decent fart might dislodge the dam thing, and he'd be walking about for the rest of the shift kicking a leg out like a dog trying to let it fall out of the leg of his coveralls.

Too much damn work when he had enough shit to do here.

He leaned back into the wheel well, rested his head on the bulbous hub, and closed his eyes as he took another inhale of his cigarette. He may have hated a desert summer, but he damn well loved his job and the machinery he took care of. Big beautiful machines that didn't piss and moan and fight back like some of the new apprentices did when they didn't get their way. Nah, they were big and silent – the very best kind of company to have on a long and tiring shift.

He petted the wall of the wheel well with a heavy-handed slap of his palm. "You'll be right, you pretty girl," he purred to the machine through an exhale of smoke. "But next time if you're going to run over a foreman's ute, make sure the bastard's in it." He shook his head. "Fucking idiot."

Idiot indeed. The new foreman was a bit of a twat. He was tie-wearing, clipboard carrying, nose in the air type that had no business at all being on a mine site. Bastard flew in from Pert, probably never spent a day in any pit across the country, and inside a week blew the biggest rule of driving in the hole and completely destroyed his mine-issued vehicle … By letting it get run over by a 320 tonne fully loaded haulpak…

…Driver didn't even feel it, or so he reckoned anyway. Just drove over the car with a dual pair of 19-foot-high 7,300 pound tyres, flattened it, and then took off like a legend to go dump his load. The only salvageable thing left of the 4x4 ute was the red indicator flag with the red flashing light … well, it would have been a red flashing light if the dickhead had've turned the damn thing on so the driver sitting up at 3-storeys could see there was a car underneath him.

He noticed movement on the painted metal at his hip and dropped his eyes to investigate. His lip curled at a large pair of filthy brown cockroaches scurrying around a large nut. His lip curled and he used his middle finger flicking under the pad of his thumb to fire it across the room. He switched angles to do the same to the second roach to fling it off in the opposite direction.

"Filthy creatures," a deep, hoarse, female voice growled from the left of him.

Bob slowly shifted to look toward the woman, a short and large woman who Bob often described that if she were only two inches shorter, she'd be perfectly round. "Yeah, Shaz," he muttered. ""Must be rains coming. Been seeing plenty of them today around the shop."

Sharon – referred to as Shaz by her colleagues – shrugged as she wiper her hands on a blue paper shop rag. "Nothin' being reported by the weather mob." She threw her towel onto a workbench. "Then again, that lot don't usually get it right anyway. Only job where you can fuck it up every day and still be employed."

"Still," Bob remarked as he pulled his cigarette packet from his pocket and took one out. He handed the pack to her without asking if she wanted one, and wasn't surprised when she took the pack. "Bloody cockies showin' up in these numbers means something's coming." He swatted one off the tyre with a flick of his hand, then lifted that same hand to light his cigarette.

Sharon stuck her hand out to ask for his lighter.

"Jesus, Shaz," he remarked with a sneer. "Want me to smoke it for you too?"

She grinned toothily, holding her cigarette in her teeth as she lit it. "Nah, got that part of it thanks." She handed back the lighter and pack and blew upward in the air. "Huntsman's are out, too. Bloody shits. Had three of the bloody things fall from my visor on the way here this morning. Almost crashed the car over the bridge tonight and ended up in one of the ore cars of the train."

"Pussy," he remarked with a laugh that was an exhale of smoke. "Hunstman's not going to do shit. Now if it was a redback, might be a different story."

"Hey," she defended with a lift of her hands in innocent surrender. "A spider's a spider, Bob. Don't like 'em, Don't have to."

"Well, fuck, you moved to the wrong part of the world then, didn't you?" He snorted out a peppered breath of smoke. "Piss off to Perth, or something…"

"Just as big there as they are here, mate," she coughed in reply. She then tugged at the neck of her coveralls and blew out a breath. "Why the hell is it so hot in here?"

Bob shrugged. "Dunno. Air-Con might be on the fritz again…"

"Did you let the Sparkies know about it?"

"Yeah, and what are they going to do about it? Call one of the Retravision lads to come out some time in Winter?" He put the cigarette into his mouth to use both hands to push himself out of the wheel well. He landed on the floor with a loud thud and squeak of formed rubber on concrete. "Well," he managed around the cigarette. "Smoko's over. Best get back to it."

Sharon lifted a brow in surprise as he walked away from the larger truck and padded toward a much smaller – but still incredibly large – 120 Tonne truck. "Not finishing up the new kid?"

He waved a hand at her then flicked his cigarette butt through an open rolling door into the carpark outside. "Nah. Need parts we haven't got yet." He pointed to the torn and shredded tyre of the smaller truck. "Gotto make a change on this old girl first. At least we can get her back out int the pit."

Sharon followed behind him, sucking back a last draw on her own cigarette. "Yeah, I'll give you a hand." She dropped the butt to the floor and stepped on it, twisting the ball of her foot to put it out properly. "I'll go get the pump…" Her head shot upward as the power to the room cut off with a loud thump.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Bob growled out with frustration. He stalked toward the phone hung on the wall beside the door. "Now I'll call those fucking Sparkies and give 'em a piece of my mind. If they aren't 'round here in five minutes to …" He stopped as the emergency generator kicked on and the darkness that was almost complete now existed as a dim hum from fluorescent lights.

Sharon huffed. "Well. At least we can see."

"Can't do much else," he grumbled.

"Okay," she offered with a shrug. "Then at least we can see what we can't get finished by end of shift… which is pretty much all of it." Her nose curled up suddenly. A look of distaste and disgust crossed her face. "Oh Jesus, Bob. Did something crawl up your arse and die?"

"Meaning what?" he snarked back.

"Did you fart, you arsehole?" she clarified with a wave of her hand in front of her nose. "That's rank."

Bob shook his head as his nose crinkled to take a sniff himself. He noted a distasteful pungent odour, but it certainly wasn't from him. "Nah, Shax. Not me. But I can see what you mean." He looked upward and saw a green gas cloud slowly leech into the room. "Ahh, shit. That can't be good."

"What's that?" Sharon's eyes were on the ground, her nose turned upward at the thick line of large cockroaches scarpering toward one of the work vehicles. "Need pest control and an air freshener," she muttered to herself.

A rustle in a darkened corner had the both of them snap their attentions away from bugs and dust clouds.

"Who's there?" Bob asked sharply, knowing that the only two on staff right now were he and Sharon. "Stop fucking around and show yourself."

"A Bungara probably just got in," she said with a huff. "Lemme go find the sod."

The rustle became a loud bang and crash of tools. Bob clutched at her arm. "Nah, Shaz. Best you don't, if it's a Bungara, it's a bloody big one."

She rolled her eyes at him. "And you call me a pussy," she said with a laugh. "I'll take a Bungie over a Hunstman any day."

A whisper along wind, a haunting laugh, ghosted along the space between the darkened corner and the two tired mechanics.

Sharon shuddered at the sound. "Tell me that's just the wind."

Bob's voice lowered in volume to a whisper. "Never had wind laugh at me before," he warned her. He moved his hand to a tool cabinet and took a firm hold of a large torque wrench. "Stay behind me."

"Won't argue with that," she breathed as a whisper. "Age before beauty."

Ordinarily, Bob would have a retort to that. Ordinarily, he'd also have power, air conditioning, and a cold beer in his hand. Right at this point, though, there was something not right about any of this. Despite the heat of the day, there was now a cold chill in the air. The pungent smell of rotted flesh seemed to dance all around them lie a living breathing entity following them. Singing and laughing against their ears.

The soft green mist that was swirling in the air above, began to thicken and fall like a shimmering transparent curtain.

"What the fuck is this?" Bob growled out to Sharon, who had now grabbed with fear at his arm and was tugging him to a stop. "What is going on here? Is this some kind of prank?"

"Oh, it's no prank," a chuckle of a voice answered. Steve's short, but well built form stepped out of the shadows.

On his arm was a woman wearing only a two-piece swimsuit and a sarong. She was staggered in her gait and seemed to need the support to walk. Her eyes were sunken and hollow, her face gaunt. "No joke at all," she agreed on a haunted tone.

"Who the fuck are you two?" Bob bellowed out angrily, all fear gone now that he was face with two young adults, probably drunk. "You need to get out of here before I kick both of your arses."

Mary chuckled softly, waving at something behind Bob's shoulder. "Mother of mine. Father of mine. Nice of you to join us."

Bob and Sharon spun quickly to look behind them, but saw nothing of note. Only dim lighting at mining trucks waiting for repair. "Nothing," Bob snarled with rising fury. He twisted again on his heel, ready to stare down the young couple and actually kick their arses as promised. "I mean it you little bastarts…!"

Bob's spin brought him face to face with a shifting column of bright green that was slowly morphing and shifting into the shape of a man. His eyes widened, as did his mouth, and in a moment the gas cloud shifted and launched at the man, using every possible orifice to enter into his body. Bob's body shook and shuddered as the gas overtook him, gagging into suffocation until finally, and painfully he was gone.

Steve waited until the moment that both Bob and Sharon's bodies stopped shuddering and their eyes snapped into focus. Bob looked toward the young couple with an affectionate smile of gratitude. "Son of Mine. Daughter of mine," he greeted with a nod of his head. "Have you managed to find the Time Lord?"

"The Time Lord remains hidden, Father of Mine," Mary answered.

"Coward," Bob snarled.

"But aren't they all?" Sharon asked as she stepped around him and greeted both of her children with affectionate smiles. "I'm sure it won't take long to determine which one of the creatures here is the Time Lord."

"The trick is making him emerge," Bob groused. "They are tricky beasts, these Time Lords."

"Yeah, well," Steve smiled a lazy smile that seemed to way his entire body. "I think we know how to bring out the Time Lord."

Bob looked to his son with a lift in hos brow. "And how do you propose to do that, Son of Mine?"

"Because we've tracked his mate," he answered with a deadly smile. "And she's right here within our reach."