Chapter 6: Just When You Think It Can't Get Any Worse
Scratch. Scrape. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Thump.
The odd sounds echoed in time with the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat and the dull throb of pain that characterised his current existence. He could barely remember who he was, let alone why he was frightened by the noise. Why should scrapes and scratches cause him fear?
Why was he here? Who was he? Why was he...Rose. He remembered Rose. Sending her away, watching her run, staring down the Silurian – they were just as ugly as he remembered - and then the red. Red everywhere. Within and without. He had thought that it had been the end. No more Jack Harkness. Just the red. And death.
It wasn't supposed to end like that. And it hadn't.
Focus, he firmly told himself. Focus. Step one – determine bodily status. Beyond aches and pains that he could easily associate from his being hit by the Silurian's stun beam, he seemed to be okay. Aches and pains were easily dealt with – they could be ignored.
Step two – determine the current surroundings using senses that would not give away consciousness to the enemy. Start with touch. He could feel moist air against his skin and the rough scales of the Silurian against his wrists. Hearing. He could hear the clicks of the Silurian's claws against ancient stone. He could hear the whistle of the wind and the cries of birds in the distance. Smell. He could smell moist dirt and decay. Taste. He could taste dust and decay on his tongue, but he dared not lick his lips.
Step three – draw conclusions. One, he was outside. Two, he was being dragged across rough stone. Three, he could hear at least three creatures around him, including the one that was dragging him.
Step four – plan an escape. He had to think. There must be something that he could do.
Scratch, scratch, scrape.
"Cubaal, in wac'tZiyal!" New voices – new human voices - interrupted his concentration.
His wrists were released and he landed badly against the rough stone. Stunned, he opened his eyes to see a tribe of natives rushing toward the Silurians carrying spears and sickles. In the part of his mind that was not consumed with fighting off the effects of the stunning blow against the hard surface, he wondered at the ferocity of their attack. Surely the Silurians were affecting their concentration.
Surely the Silurians were making them afraid.
But still they attacked. Wave after wave of painted humans carrying little more than rough-hewn shields and obsidian weapons rushed the Silurians. Many of those brave warriors were cut down, either by claws or red beams from the aliens' third eye. Yet, surprisingly, they were gaining the upper hand.
Bit by bit. Step by step. They drove the Silurians back toward the ruins as they cried out in loud voices incomprehensible battle cries.
Impossible. Inconceivable. They were winning. How could this be possible? He struggled to push himself to his feet, but the sharp point of a spear against his spine made him rethink that course of action. "Right. I'll just stay where I am."
From his position against the rough stone, he watched the Silurians retreat within one of the temples. The warriors seemed to deem this worthy of a celebration, as one of them with a particularly vibrant shade of blue outlining his face grinned widely. "Ni tamka!Zina. Ni tam cimsaj!"
"Ni tam crasa? Tol krisaka!" The point of the spear was jammed further into his spine and he winced in reaction.
"Hey, mind if you take it a bit easy with that thing? I haven't exactly been having a good day."
At the sound of his voice, the blue-painted warrior approached. The other man sank to his knees and stared at his face for a long moment before he spoke. "Amer-kan? Ark-e-gist?"
Though the native's accent was atrocious, he interpreted the words to mean American archeologist. Of his possible answers, that sounded far more likely than companion to the last Time Lord. He nodded. "Yes, I am. My name's Jack Harkness."
"'U-c'aba' Jack?" The blue-painted warrior nodded before pointing at himself. "'U-c'aba' Atan."
"Your name's Atan?" he asked.
The other man grinned toothily before gesturing imperiously at the warrior who held him captive. Thankfully, the spear was removed.
"Come. Tenaam." Atan said and helped him to his feet.
"Thanks, but I need to find my friends..." Jack protested, but Atan's hand against his chest prevented him from continuing.
"No. Come tenaam. No safe."
Silently cursing the language barrier – why wasn't the TARDIS translating this?- he nodded. "Tenaam," he repeated. Rose had told him that the Doctor was part of the circuit – if something had happened to him, if he were sick or dying, the TARDIS would not be able to translate other languages. He had heard the Doctor scream in pain. He knew he'd been trapped in the pyramid with the Silurians. What if...the Doctor was dead?
"Tenaam." Atan grinned.
Surrounded by the painted warriors, he was led from the clearing and deeper into the jungle. He walked automatically, his body on auto-pilot, as fear and shock reached a crescendo in his mind. The Doctor could be dead.
He was not certain that he could deal with that.
She stared at the double doors that sealed her off from the outside world with no small amount of trepidation. Outside, the fear might return. Outside, the creature might capture her.
No.
She was better than this. She could face the fear. She could go outside. The Doctor needed her. Jack needed her. She could do this.
Rose pushed open the door.
In the semi-twilight of the forest, shadows and movements seemed enhanced. What had once been a beautiful place had gained an ominous edge. She could do this.
She took one tentative step. When nothing untoward happened, she took another, and another, until she was almost sprinting back toward the ruins.
Careful, careful, careful. She chanted the words mentally. Duck and hide. Use the brush as a cover. They could not find her, would not find her. She could rescue the Doctor. She could rescue Jack.
It would be easy, simple. Get in and get out. She could evade the Silurians. She could do this. Her hand curled around the handle of her blaster, drawing some small measure of comfort from the cold metal.
There. Her goal was in sight. She knew the Doctor was inside the pyramid, but she did not want to climb the exposed steps once more. As for Jack – well, she would have to do a methodical search. No other choice.
She scanned the ruins from her position in the shadows. No Silurians were in evidence, but she knew that they were there. Lurking in the darkness, perhaps. Or just inside that temple, or behind that stelae. However, she had no choice. To rescue the men she loved, she had to do this.
Scratch, scrape, crack, click.
Behind her. The noise was coming from behind her. She had to move, had to get out of sight, had to find a new hiding spot.
Click, crunch, scratch.
It was almost upon her. She bolted from cover as the fear lent her feet wings. Her goal was a stelae, cracked an eroded from centuries of exposure from the elements. It was large enough to hide her. It would protect her.
However, her attention was upon her destination – not upon her feet. With a groan of protest, the soft earth and stone gave way beneath her. For one terrifying moment, she was in freefall.
They said that one's life flashed before their eyes when certain death was upon them.
They were right.
She dropped the blaster in a frantic attempt to gain purchase against the slick grass and stone. It wasn't supposed to end like this. She could not have come so far, done so much, to die like this.
She was better than that.
Yet she still slid. Centimetre by centimetre, she slid. No. She had to stop this. She could stop this. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she jammed her fingers into tiny crevasses in the stonework.
Her arms and shoulders trembled in agony as disused muscles stretched and strained under the effort of trying to hold her weight.
Yet she slid.
"No!" she growled. It was not going to end like this. Her life would not end like this.
She dug her fingers deeper into the stonework. She wanted to live.
Her downward fall slowed and finally stopped as her fingers caught against the stone. She was going to live. Now, she had to pull herself up. She had to...
Click, click, click.
She glanced upward at the unexpected sound. To her dawning horror, she found that she was not alone. She was staring into the angry yellow eyes of a Silurian.
Amateur.
He winced as he shifted against the wall, his entire body aching in time with the thrum of his hearts. This was supposed to be the part where one of his clever plans came into play. However, his Plan A – Annoy the Local Megalomaniac - seemed to be backfiring. He was even using his best lines, and getting shouted at in return, but they had no effect. Either Morka had far more stamina than he gave him credit for, or he was losing his touch in his old age.
Why do you do that, Doctor? Why do you make things difficult for yourself? It would be so much easier if you just gave in. Give up. You're defeated. You're mine. And you will die. Why fight against it?
Why did Morka prattle as much as he did? "Why not?" he asked through gritted teeth. A percussion section had apparently set up camp somewhere near his left eye and had begun to rehash the punk rock version of the 1812 Overture. Great. Fantastic. As if it weren't already hard to concentrate.
Why not? After everything, you ask that?
"Yeah, I do. Why not, Morka? Why shouldn't I fight? Why shouldn't I rebel? You say that I'm yours. You say that I'm defeated. What if I told you that I'm not? A defeat isn't a defeat when the one you think you defeated doesn't think so." He wrinkled his nose in thought. "That didn't make much sense, did it? Ah, well, guess that's the sort of man I am." Was that a twitch? Maybe plan A was working...
I'll tell you what sort of mammal you are, Time Lord. You're a killer. A murderer. And you are doomed.
Why did the local villain always use the phrase 'you are doomed?' Was it in a handbook somewhere? He had hoped Morka would not fall into the stereotype, but he was doomed to disappointment it seemed. "Is that supposed to scare me? Really?" He pointedly yawned. "That might've worked before, but it doesn't now. An' you know why?"
You are a fool.
The Doctor pushed himself to his feet and grinned. The image was somewhat offset by his unsteadiness, but he figured that it would do. "'Cause I'm a new man, Morka. No brolly. No Ace. No Benny. Just me. I'm completely different. New body, new teeth, new mole, new hair, new suit, and new annoying habits. This is a new me.
"But you know what else? You can't scare me, Morka. You have nothing over me. You can do nothing to me. You are an amateur amongst megalomaniacs. And you bore me." That was definitely a twitch. Finally!
I do? The Silurian's mental tone sounded amused. You say that you're different, but you really aren't. Your past self was just as arrogant. I can do something to you, though, Doctor. Your care for this world is famous. Your desire to protect it, to champion it, is obvious in all of your dealings with us and with others.
You have no idea what I am capable of. You have no idea what I can do, what I will do.
Threats. Why did it always come down to threats? He could practically write a self-help guide on it. He even had a title: 'How to properly threaten the Doctor or his companions – the essential guide for amateur megalomaniacs.'
"Honestly, I'm just surprised that you've held up as well as you have. Usually, my prattling merits some reaction beyond meagre threats. Really, am I annoying you at all? And if I'm not, would you get on with the part where you threaten me with certain death? Or the destruction of this planet, or something?" He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Really, I'm getting rather bored. In fact, I'm so bored I'm starting to repeat myself! You could at least try to be threatening. Even a little growl might help."
He might have to compromise and change his plan a little to accommodate Morka's stubbornness. Guess it was plan B – delay the local megalomaniac enough for the cavalry to ride to the rescue. The cavalry, in this case, as played by Jack and Rose. However, for the sake of his own worry for their safety, he would prefer to skip past plan B and go straight to C – where the dashing hero escapes in a cunning and completely unexpected manner. Now if only he could figure out how.
Morka smiled – or at least what passed for the expression on his reptilian face. "You are right, Doctor. The time for talk has passed. The time for action has begun. You know what you have done. This is the consequence."
The Silurian's third eye gleamed brightly and images flooded his mind. It started with one human, stumbling through the streets of a major city, covered with weeping sores. It spread. Thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children – all dead. The climate of the planet roughly shifted, jungles crept over the Earth, and the Silurians rose as the dominant species on the planet. What few humans survived the plague were slaves or sport – nothing more, nothing less.
This is the consequence, Doctor. This is the world that you have built. And I will let you see the beginning, Doctor. I will give you that at least.
His eyes narrowed as he stalked to the edge of his cell. "You have no idea what I am capable of. You have one chance. Just one. You recanted before, you can do so again. Do not rebuild that world. Do not release that plague."
This is your consequence, Doctor. You will live with it.
"No, Morka," he corrected, folding his arms before him. "This is your consequence. No second chances."
To be continued...