A/N: I'm about to enter into my last week of classes before my final exams,
so it might be a while before the next update-in the meantime, enjoy what's
here, read & review if you feel so inclined.
~Autumn~
************************************************************************
Slipping unseen out of the TARDIS was one of the many skills Laurel had picked up over the years, and she was now so adept at it that she appeared to have been simply walking nonchalantly down the street. Trench coat billowing, she strode towards the nearest pub. The Doctor has always told her that local gossip was one of the most valuable sources of information on most planets; she hoped she might gather some clues as to why she had been brought here. *And I *was* brought here,* she thought. *But how. and why?* A quick glance at the inside of the pub told her it was relatively safe (as far as pubs go, that is-there was always the danger of a bar brawl, but that was nothing she couldn't handle), and she entered.
Laurel blinked at the sudden darkness. It was a typical London pub: dimly lit, smoky, and packed with young locals. *It must be Saturday,* Laurel mused. *Pubs are only this crowded on Saturday.* She stuck her hand in one of her coat pockets and drew out a handful of change. *Alzarius.Iceworld.Karfel. have I no Earth currency?!* she raged internally. Dropping the assorted coins back in the one pocket, she dug around in another, finally coming up with a handful of crumpled bank notes. Approaching the bar, she dropped a five pound note on the countertop. The tired-looking woman behind it looked up from cleaning a glass. "What can I get you?" she asked.
"Pint of bitter, if you don't mind," Laurel replied.
"Coming right up." The woman grabbed a glass, drew the foaming drink from the tap, and slid it along the counter to Laurel. "That'll be four quid."
Laurel nodded at the bank note. "Keep the change," she said, picking up her glass and retreating to a table at the back of the pub. She shed her coat and laid it on the seat next to her. Keeping her hat low over her eyes, she sipped at her glass, her sharp ears picking through the smoke and noise.
"So I heard that Daniel and Rachael."
". couldn't help but notice."
".the hell you say!."
".could you believe it?."
".come on, one dance."
Laurel rolled her eyes as the inane chatter continued.
"So anyway, Rachael said."
".hate the office, fucking *hate* it."
".what're you on about now?."
".must stop the Masters of Time."
The Time Lady straightened up, all her senses automatically going on alert at the sound of the ice-cold voice. Masters of Time? The Time Lords. she cast her eyes over the crowd, searching for the source of the words. she had heard them so clearly.the *thoughts,* they were *thoughts,* not words.
"Looking for someone, love?"
Laurel blinked and looked up, the thick East End accent jarring her out of her thoughts. A man in his late twenties stood before her. She examined him with narrowed eyes, taking in his longish light brown hair, blue eyes, dark green pull-over shirt, khaki pants, and black-or were they dark brown? The pub was too dim to tell-boots. Laurel drew back. "Can I help you?"
The man leaned in with a cocky smile. "I thought, if you were looking for someone, that I'd better get to you before he does."
"That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard."
"I don't usually need them."
She arched a brow. "That so?"
"Want to go someplace a bit more quiet?"
"No."
"Oh, come on."
"No."
"A drink, then?"
"No."
"Not even a-"
"Look, if you're trying to get a girl for the night, try someone else. Someone with an IQ below 70," Laurel said pointedly.
"Ouch."
"You asked for it." She turned from him, searching the crowd again. She felt out into the far corners of the room with her mind, trying desperately to find that presence she had felt before. those words, those thoughts. where were they?
Gone. Laurel cursed under her breath in the language of a planet that had been all but dead for two thousand years.
"What was that?"
She looked up again. "You still here?"
"Well, yes-"
"Don't waste your breath."
The man gave her an injured look. "You won't even give me a shot?"
"I told you, if you're looking for a one-night stand, go find another girl."
He looked at her hard. She met his gaze, unblinking. Then she stood, shrugged on her coat, and pushed past him.
"Prude," he muttered.
"Wanker," she tossed back at him. Then without another glance, Laurel swept out of the pub.
***
The streets were beginning to empty of their stumbling groups of drunken Londoners. As Laurel headed back to the TARDIS, she cursed again, damning that blue-eyed heckler in the pub for making her lose the only important thing she had found all evening. She adjusted her cap roughly, resisting the urge to kick the nearest stationary object. "Must stop the Masters of Time." she murmured under her breath. What did it mean? Stop them from what? Laurel remembered the sharp, icy voice, and a chill ran through her.
Whose side was the voice's?
************************************************************************
Slipping unseen out of the TARDIS was one of the many skills Laurel had picked up over the years, and she was now so adept at it that she appeared to have been simply walking nonchalantly down the street. Trench coat billowing, she strode towards the nearest pub. The Doctor has always told her that local gossip was one of the most valuable sources of information on most planets; she hoped she might gather some clues as to why she had been brought here. *And I *was* brought here,* she thought. *But how. and why?* A quick glance at the inside of the pub told her it was relatively safe (as far as pubs go, that is-there was always the danger of a bar brawl, but that was nothing she couldn't handle), and she entered.
Laurel blinked at the sudden darkness. It was a typical London pub: dimly lit, smoky, and packed with young locals. *It must be Saturday,* Laurel mused. *Pubs are only this crowded on Saturday.* She stuck her hand in one of her coat pockets and drew out a handful of change. *Alzarius.Iceworld.Karfel. have I no Earth currency?!* she raged internally. Dropping the assorted coins back in the one pocket, she dug around in another, finally coming up with a handful of crumpled bank notes. Approaching the bar, she dropped a five pound note on the countertop. The tired-looking woman behind it looked up from cleaning a glass. "What can I get you?" she asked.
"Pint of bitter, if you don't mind," Laurel replied.
"Coming right up." The woman grabbed a glass, drew the foaming drink from the tap, and slid it along the counter to Laurel. "That'll be four quid."
Laurel nodded at the bank note. "Keep the change," she said, picking up her glass and retreating to a table at the back of the pub. She shed her coat and laid it on the seat next to her. Keeping her hat low over her eyes, she sipped at her glass, her sharp ears picking through the smoke and noise.
"So I heard that Daniel and Rachael."
". couldn't help but notice."
".the hell you say!."
".could you believe it?."
".come on, one dance."
Laurel rolled her eyes as the inane chatter continued.
"So anyway, Rachael said."
".hate the office, fucking *hate* it."
".what're you on about now?."
".must stop the Masters of Time."
The Time Lady straightened up, all her senses automatically going on alert at the sound of the ice-cold voice. Masters of Time? The Time Lords. she cast her eyes over the crowd, searching for the source of the words. she had heard them so clearly.the *thoughts,* they were *thoughts,* not words.
"Looking for someone, love?"
Laurel blinked and looked up, the thick East End accent jarring her out of her thoughts. A man in his late twenties stood before her. She examined him with narrowed eyes, taking in his longish light brown hair, blue eyes, dark green pull-over shirt, khaki pants, and black-or were they dark brown? The pub was too dim to tell-boots. Laurel drew back. "Can I help you?"
The man leaned in with a cocky smile. "I thought, if you were looking for someone, that I'd better get to you before he does."
"That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard."
"I don't usually need them."
She arched a brow. "That so?"
"Want to go someplace a bit more quiet?"
"No."
"Oh, come on."
"No."
"A drink, then?"
"No."
"Not even a-"
"Look, if you're trying to get a girl for the night, try someone else. Someone with an IQ below 70," Laurel said pointedly.
"Ouch."
"You asked for it." She turned from him, searching the crowd again. She felt out into the far corners of the room with her mind, trying desperately to find that presence she had felt before. those words, those thoughts. where were they?
Gone. Laurel cursed under her breath in the language of a planet that had been all but dead for two thousand years.
"What was that?"
She looked up again. "You still here?"
"Well, yes-"
"Don't waste your breath."
The man gave her an injured look. "You won't even give me a shot?"
"I told you, if you're looking for a one-night stand, go find another girl."
He looked at her hard. She met his gaze, unblinking. Then she stood, shrugged on her coat, and pushed past him.
"Prude," he muttered.
"Wanker," she tossed back at him. Then without another glance, Laurel swept out of the pub.
***
The streets were beginning to empty of their stumbling groups of drunken Londoners. As Laurel headed back to the TARDIS, she cursed again, damning that blue-eyed heckler in the pub for making her lose the only important thing she had found all evening. She adjusted her cap roughly, resisting the urge to kick the nearest stationary object. "Must stop the Masters of Time." she murmured under her breath. What did it mean? Stop them from what? Laurel remembered the sharp, icy voice, and a chill ran through her.
Whose side was the voice's?