San Diego, 2005
Dorothee McShane stumbled round the corner of Fourth &B, accidentally scuffing a heel on the uneven sidewalks as she made her way through the crowd that shoved and shouldered their way out of the Moby concert, marijuana and trance music billowing in their wake.
Too much gin. Dorothee shook her head clear as she walked down the streets towards the harbor. Not enough tonic.
She'd promised herself no more jumps, no more clubs, just relaxing in eighteenth century Paris and keep an eye out for any random pillaging or lost aliens. She'd been doing exactly that for the past thirteen months. But between the awful music and the appeal of hour long showers, Dorothee couldn't stay away from what was roughly her era.
And when ever she was back, no matter how fancy the dress she was in, she always felt like Ace again.
And at thirty-five, feeling like she was eighteen again was far too disturbing.
Or appealing.
She was never exactly sure.
Nonetheless here she was, back again. Above her, the sky scrapers shimmered up to the stars and the bay swept out under the curved bridge to Coronado, gently lapping at the steel hulls of the aircraft carriers and destroyers. Near the Marriott, two shining hands that curved out to the sea, Dorothee slowed her pace as she neared the alley where she'd left her motorcycle, hidden among the dustbins and the homeless that slept within wool and cotton cocoons. Slipping the shoes off her feet, she picked her way barefoot towards her two-wheeled time craft, fumbling in her purse for the keys.
In the distance she heard the faint bark of tires squealing, the background hum of late night traffic and the groans and sighs unique to shipyards the world over.
Her spidey-senses, dulled by alcohol and the euphoria of the music, were almost too late to save her. Her ears discerned a sound, once so familiar, yet sped up and played back at such a rate that she almost didn't recognize it. As it was she barely had a chance to duck before the fist took a chunk out of the wall beside her.
Her purse skidded under a dustbin, slapping a homeless man against the face. His eyes snapped open in surprise as he stared at the barefoot woman across the ground from him, her red dress fluttering around her in the night breeze, her chest pressed into the grime of the street as she gaped at the thing- no, the woman above her.
"Give it to me now." The voice was firm, calm, and completely free of insanity, threat or menace.
Not, thought Ace, that it needed to. The outfit said it all really.
Slick black leather shone around the taught muscles of the thin limbs, vanishing beneath the thick cape of the trailing jacket that seemed to hold the very blackness of space in the depths of its folds. The hair, spiked and flared, stuck out at the dark sky in chaotic angles, scraping down into her pale neck that glowed white in the light of night before plunging into the stern outline of body armor that dwelled beneath the leather and malevolence.
The woman reached out a hand, pawing for Ace's chest.
Not tonight, thanks. Ace kicked upwards, knocking aside the hand and throwing herself to the-
The woman had somehow already grabbed her arm and was pulling her back, into her darkness.
What the? Ace's brain stuttered in confusion- there was no way anyone could move that fast, no way. The hand bit into her flesh with impossible savagery and Ace found herself reacting instinctively, lashing out: face, breast, groin; Ace elbowed, punched and kicked in rapid succession, rolling out of her reach and sprinting down the street, cradling her bleeding elbow, her broken toes screaming as she headed for the open highway by the water, racing past the Star of India, as the old ship swayed soothingly on the gentle waves, yelling for help for anyone, all the while with her good hand she twisted the ring on her finger- she'd promised she'd never, that she'd never..
The hand caught her foot and she found herself falling, skidding on the asphalt, scraping the her chin off, raw and pebbly. Cursing she twisted and turned to see the figure still ten feet away, the ?hand? still somehow pinning her ankle to the ground.
Damn, Ace thought. I've gone and rolled Elasta-girl. Where's Arnold when you need'im?
Ace screamed with frustration as her tormentor stood above her. Street lamps and stars vanished as the woman pressed closer and they were face to face, alone except for the occasional roar as cars drifted past, oblivious. The woman held a single, steady hand over Ace's chest, right above the heart.
"Tell me where it is."
Without realizing why, Ace suddenly knew what the woman was after. Not that it really mattered, but it had been bothering her. As she watched, the woman's fingers grew impossibly longer, fusing together to form a slick, black knife; Ace felt a stab of envy: that was one hell of a body armor.
And then with a viscous thrust the knife plunged into her flesh and sliced between her ribs, hovering a millimeter above her heart. Ace knew she should have felt pain, terror, something, but the strike was so precise, so sharp that all she felt was a wave of overwhelming disgust that something was inside her chest, tickling nerve endings she never knew she had.
Ace did blink, her hands curled into fists and spittle flecked her lips, but she looked the woman straight in the eye.
If this was it, she was damned if she was going to die screaming.
The woman flashed her a quick smile. And then twisted the blade.
Even as her mind arced with the pain of it, Ace felt the blade quiver, tremble and slowly withdraw, as if repulsed by her innards. Ace swore as she managed to grab hold of it with both hands, attempting to force it away from her, pushing against the impossible force- and she gasped. The blade- it hummed.
And with an eternally long thump of her heart, Ace knew that hum, knew that touch: it was the TARDIS, the Doctor's TARDIS and this horrible bitch of a woman was wearing her as a fucking suit!
Ace snarled with rage and tried to pull away in revulsion, only to cry out as her raw flesh caught the end of the TARDIS body armor that still hovered above her bare heart.
"I don't want to hurt you," cooed the woman.
"Not," grunted Ace, "terribly convincing-" sweat stung at her eyes as she tore tiny, quick sucking pinches of air and into her burning lungs, "at the moment."
The woman extruded the blade closer, but it refused to press any deeper into Ace's flesh. "Interesting. She recognizes you." The woman stared at Ace's body, taking in the voluptuous breasts and the trim figure that lay beneath the tattered crimson red dress. "Not that I'm surprised. No matter." The woman pulled out a sword from her back, the blade gleaming in the street lamp.
The woman stepped back and Ace kicked backwards, gaining precious feet, her hand clutching her seeping chest, the ring tingling on her finger as its call was answered.
"One last chance," the woman said quietly. "You don't realize how important this is, so I'm asking nicely: where is it?"
"I know where it is," Ace coughed wetly. Weak and drained, she wanted to sink into the pavement and far, far away from this mad woman. But she didn't want to miss the show. "I can tell you to shove it, if that's what you'd like to hear."
The woman sighed and stepped closer, her posture was reluctant, tired and almost sad. "Is that it?"
"Well," Ace sucked on her puffy and throbbing lip, "I promised myself that I'd stop saying things like this, but-"
The woman raised an eyebrow and took a step closer to Ace, sword raised high.
"-Look behind you."
The woman paused, considering, and then turned slowly around to find a tall black woman standing patiently beneath the street lamp.
Kadiatu Lethbridge-Stewart smiled and then calmly punched her through the twenty-second floor of the Marriott hotel.