(Then)

"Mason?"

Mason walked toward Laris, holding his hands out and letting the tall red grass tickle his fingers as he moved.

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you." He responded, catching up to her.

Up this high, you could actually see the sky trenches. Laris loved looking up at them, sometimes sitting for hours and losing herself in the shimmering, sky-bound shields. She was an artist, through and through, doing the impossible with a bit of ink and a sheet of parchment.

"Able." She said.

"Able what?"

"That's what I want to call our son. Able."

"Why?"

She looked at him and smiled, the soft winds blowing through her long, beautiful black hair. Mason was a farmer's boy, and he always had been. Seeing her wandering through his father's fields one day, he thought he was looking at an angel. She took a fascination with him; she called it a professional curiosity. And he, her; nothing professional about it.

"Laris?"

"What?" She asked, looking as if she had lost her way.

"Why Able?"

"Why not?" She asked.

(Now)

"Soldier! Soldier! Private MASON!" The Time Lord frustratingly searched around the base, his robes following him in a flurry.

He was a tall, foppish sort of fellow, his robes and skull cap were just too tight on his head, no doubt adding to his already sour mood.

"MASON!" His voice echoed throughout the base.

No one liked being around when he was on his tirades. He had a disturbing penchant for humiliating those under him, and morale was at an all time low. Soldiers who weren't beaten down by Lord Fop (as he was colloquially called), were embittered towards him. All others; scientists, civilians, knew to keep away.

Mason had come from a time where the war had not naturally occurred. Was it before the war had started? After? Was there an after? Was there even a before by which to measure the start of this war? All Mason knew was that he was doing his duty. He had a purpose now. Sadly, that purpose was being a glorified busboy for Lord Fop. Mason took all of Fop's punishments. Being small in stature, he was an easy target for the unusually tall Fop.

Fop was hulking down the corridor leading to the roof. He was fuming, all of his inherent self-importance fueling his strides; the critical flaw of the Time Lords. Upon reaching the roof, Fop's eyes darted to his prey; a soldier standing at the edge of the platform, intently watching the horizon.

Fop had no love for this planet. He had no love for the position he found himself in. He was a member of the upper echelon of Time Lord society. How dare they, he thought. How dare they assign him to this backwater planet. The place was barren, with no incidents occurring since he was sent here. Though he would never openly admit it, some part of him was glad nothing happened. However, he wanted glory. Glory did not come from doing nothing in some nowhere outpost at the edge of whatever system in the galaxy of who-gives-a-damn.

Mason was scanning the landscape for signs of trouble. He was one of the few who still took his duties seriously. Ribos was a planet in the medieval stage of development. It had no knowledge of the universe past the stars in its sky, and it was doubtful, Mason thought, that they even knew the full geography of their planet. They were primitive; early in their possibly flourishing development.

This war could end them, Mason thought. It could wipe them from existence and no one would remember them. Who would take the time to? Certainly not Lord Fop. Would Mason remember? He couldn't say.

In these times of unrest, Mason would secure a guard shift on the roof. This was a place he could lose himself in the beautiful untouched landscape of the planet. Ribos had two seasons; winter and summer, each lasting decades. It was winder now, light flakes performing a multitude of random dances through the air. Mason would look up at the white sky, the snow seeming to just pop into view, darting away as quick as they were spotted. As the snow fell, casting itself across Ribos, Mason's gaze did the same.

Instead of dazzling spires, Mason found comfort in the low-dipping hills, dotting the whitened horizon like imperfections across the surface of a painting; grooves created by brush strokes that you could guide your finger through. These imperfections, contrary to everything Mason had known, were something that he reveled in. They gave the place a natural perfection, Mason thought. A natural perfection criminally unseen by the people of Gallifrey.

"MASON!" Lord Fop screeched.

Whatever peace Mason had been able to glean was rather instantly torn away. He turned, bowing to Fop. He dipped his head low. He knew Fop liked it that way, and he didn't wish to anger him anymore than he already had.

"My dinner." He said, coldly.

Among other duties, Mason found himself preparing Lord Fop's meals. His palette was outlandish, especially considering the primitive surroundings they found themselves in.

"Sorry sir!" He said, lips trembling. "I thought..." Mason was unceremoniously interrupted by Fop's screeching.

"You thought?! What you think, boy, is of little consequence!" As Fop ranted, Mason sensed something was amiss. He couldn't place it, but something in the air had changed.

"I am commander of this outpost, and I must be well fed! What if there was an attack and I wasn't ready?!" Mason didn't answer.

Fop had a terrible habit of neglecting to mark if he was speaking rhetorically or not.

"Well?!" He blared. "I am waiting!"

Mason piped up. "With respect, Sir... I was watching for the attacks you should be prepared for. It was my shift after all."

Mason didn't look up at him, trying to focus on this new feeling of his. Something dark was gnawing at him, and his mind screamed to know what it was. Fop's nostrils flared, the anger building continually.

"Fetch another guard, then!" As you can see, there is no danger! Nothing is coming! Nothing is..." As Lord Fop threw his arms outward to motion to the air around him, he paused.

For once, the great Lord Fop was at a loss for words. Mason looked up, expectant of a verbal (or perhaps physical) lashing that never came. As he peered upwards, Fop seemed worlds away. It took Mason a moment to process what he was seeing. It was the snow. The dance had stopped, and the snow was frozen in midair.

"Wh-Wha...?" Lord Fop stuttered. "Are we under some sort of... t-temporal.. a-a-attack?!"

He darted about the rood in a haze, glancing at the snow around him and wildly motioning, as if trying to make it move again. Fop had no such luck. Before he could turn his anger towards Mason again, a violent tremor seemed to shake the entire planet. The two of them were slammed into the ground.

The base shuddered, as if ready to crack and splinter under the weight of this unseen new force. Lord Fop's communication unit roared to life.

"SIR! SIR! Are you alright? Something's... something's coming! Something large! Impossibly large! RIGHT TOWARDS US!" The soldier, a stern man named Rusch, was clearly panicking.

Mason turned to see Lord Fop already running for the hallway leading inside. He followed soon after, taking one last look at the Ribos expanse. This look cost him everything, it seemed. As he started for the hallway, another tremor hit. This one was larger and even more powerful than the last, shaking the base so violently that he found that his feet were off the ground.

He was tumbling through the air, trying desperately to grab at something to steady himself. By the time he realized he had been launched off the edge of the outpost, it was too late. He was falling, now; tumbling to the ground, so far below.