Chapter 4: Awakenings

It's like...there was this singing...

It whispered through her mind, caressing her thoughts and filling her with understanding. Time's music filled her, was her. Infinity stretched before her and she knew it all. She could see it all.

All that was. All that is. All that ever could be.

She saw him. Her first Doctor. Brilliant with golden light, she could see him, could feel him press his lips against hers.

I think you need a Doctor.

And she knew. Oh, god, she knew.

Everything must come to dust…all things. Everything dies.

She'd killed him. She'd killed him. He'd died…for her.

That's right! I sang a song and the Daleks ran away.

It was too much. Far too much. There was so much pain. So much...

"Rose."

She could hear the voice on the barest edge of her perceptions. But she couldn't answer. She was lost. Lost in the Vortex, in her memories, in her new-found knowledge. She'd killed him. Oh, god, she'd killed him.

"Rose, please don't do this to me. It isn't meant to end like this." She recognised the voice. It was Dorothée. But what had happened?

Brilliant gold filled her, but Dorothée was right. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Not like this. At that moment she could see eternity stretched out before her, she could pluck the strings of time and cause history to dance to her tune. She could do so much, but she did nothing.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

There was this singing…

And there was. Around her, within her, it filled her. Time's music swelled within her mind and she knew in that moment how harsh destiny could be before it was washed away.

The music reached its crescendo within her mind and then…

It stopped.

The music, the vibrant colours, and the Vortex itself began to fade as she slowly returned to awareness. Everything was blurry for some reason, all browns and greys and blacks. Nothing was in focus.

She tried to say something as she blinked away the dryness in her eyes, but all that emerged was a strangled groan. Her vision cleared and she realised that her friend was leaning over her, Dorothée's worried expression changing to relief.

"Rose! Don't do that to me again!" Dorothée exclaimed as she was pulled into a rough hug.

"What…" Her voice emerged in a croak and she swallowed before she tried again. "What happened? I jus' remember getting' on the bike and then there was this singing..."

Dorothée shook her head, apparently at a loss. "You wouldn't answer me, Rose. I thought I might've lost you to the Vortex."

"The Vortex," she repeated, almost tasting the words. "Yes. I remember."

Dorothée's gaze sharpened. "What do you remember?"

"Not enough." She sighed briefly, brushing back her hair with an impatient gesture. "There was something with this brilliant golden light an' some sort of understanding. Like I knew everything for just a moment but it's gone now. It's all gone, except for one thing." She could see him in her mind's eye, bending over her, his eyes sad.

I think you need a Doctor.

"What's that?"

His lips had touched hers. His arms had wrapped around her. The knowledge that this was the end had filled her…

She shook her head, unable to give voice to her newfound knowledge. "'S not important. So how much time before the mourners get here?"

"We've got about an hour," Dorothée explained after she cast a glance at the sky. "But we need to get the bike out of the street and get into hiding. Curfew doesn't end until dawn. The mourners have special privileges to walk outside at this time of the morning."

After a quick glance up and down the street, she gestured toward one of the alleyways next to the patisserie. "How 'bout there?"

"Works for me."

Together, they pushed the bike out of the street and into the alleyway. Once Dorothée was satisfied with the location, she pointed at the only relatively clean spot on the pavement. "We can rest here. I'll keep an eye out for the first few hired mourners. Best to get to the first couple rather than waiting for the stragglers, there'd be more chance of us getting caught the other way."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the brown velvet bag that Dorothée'd handed to her in the flat. After the ruckus with the Constables, she'd stuffed it into her pocket and promptly forgot about it. "Here," she said, offering her the bag.

"Thanks," Dorothée accepted it and, with one hand holding the bag, she held out the other. She tipped out the contents, coins and a strange robot-like insect tumbling onto her hand. "Oh, good. I had remembered to pack a few twenty-first century coins. Wouldn't do to get caught without them." Brushing the insect and a few other coins back into the bag, she put it back into one of the pockets in her armour and put the rest of the coins into a separate pocket.

Dorothée reached into a compartment in her armour and pulled out something that looked suspiciously like an old-fashioned version of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. The other women handed it to her and she turned it in her hand.

"Is this what I think it is?" It had to be. Only it looked more like a tyre gauge than a screwdriver.

"Sonic screwdriver," Dorothée said, confirming her guess. "Probably a bit older than what you're used to, but it gets the job done. You'll need that. Got it set to setting 3980 – great for opening stubborn locks. That is when you can't use an explosive."

She smiled faintly as she tucked the device into her hoodie's pocket. "Thanks. So, now we wait?"

"Yeah."

So they did.


He slept fitfully, curled into as tight of a ball as he could manage in an attempt to conserve as much body heat as possible. Every few minutes, he'd wake up with a start, realise where he was, shiver a bit in the cold, take note of where the Doctor was, and then try to return to sleep. However, without fail, three or five minutes later his eyes would open and he'd repeat the cycle anew.

It was useless. Pointless. He was going to die in a few hours. Oh, sure, the Doctor'd said they that they'd be safe. That they'd escape and that all he needed was a little faith.

Faith couldn't keep him warm. Faith couldn't save them from this all-too physical reality. Faith couldn't prevent death.

Didn't even make it easier. It just was there. Looming over him like an unwelcome visitor. Death: It was so final and so incredibly useless.

He could see his breath – a thin tendril of white vapour that faded away as soon as it left his lips. The prison was bloody cold at night; either that or the guards had a sadistic streak within them and liked to watch their prisoners suffer. He certainly wouldn't doubt it. But he was still here. Still stuck. Still captured. And still with no one other than a melancholic Time Lord for company.

He heaved the sigh of the world-weary and pinched the bridge of his nose. He just couldn't do this. Rose? Rose was made for this sort of life. Terrible danger, daring escapes, and not being the tin dog. He was nothing more than their fall-back, their spare, their gooseberry.

No prizes for guessing who the Doctor would prefer to share these last hours of his life with. Not him. Never him. But then, nobody ever chose Mickey Smith. Rose. It was only ever Rose for the Doctor, despite that French woman they'd met yesterday. And it was only the Doctor for Rose. He just bet the Doctor was wishing it was Rose sitting here. And he wouldn't be keeping as far away from her as he could manage, either. Or not talking to her.

But he was glad Rose wasn't here. Fiercely glad. Because that meant she was alive. And there was a good chance she'd stay that way, unless she was stupid enough to try to rescue them. The Doctor wasn't exactly who he'd choose to spend the last hour of his life with, either. So he supposed they were even. Tough luck for both of them.

"You should get some sleep," the Doctor said, shifting a little from his position against the opposite wall.

"Can't. 'S too cold," he replied, hugging himself against the chill.

The Time Lord frowned, as if he'd only just realised how cold it truly was. "Oh. Right. Didn't think of that."

Damn him anyway. 'Didn't think of that.' He repeated the words in his mind. Of course the Doctor didn't think of it. He never thought. Just did. That was the way he was. His personality. He'd just jump right in without thought of the consequences.

The Doctor'd asked a question. Got them both thrown in jail.

Another shiver ran through him. Didn't help that the place was so bloody cold.

He stared at his feet, wishing that they'd at least left him his shoes. But, no. Just his trousers and socks. That was it. Damnit. What a way to die. Well, be condemned to die. He wasn't dead yet.

That was when he noticed that there was another pair of feet where there'd just been his. When he looked up, startled, he was surprised to see sympathy in the Doctor's eyes.

"Shove over, Mickey," the Time Lord said and, once he did, settled next to him. Only their sides touched, but the meagre heat was enough to bring some feeling back into his body.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said after a long moment, running his hand through his hair.

He blinked. "What for?" There were never apologies. Not with him.

"I may have miscalculated," the Doctor admitted quietly. "This isn't how it was supposed to go."

He wanted to laugh bitterly at those words. Miscalculated? But at least he was trying. "Can't say I wanted to travel with you and get killed on my second go."

The Doctor winced. "There's still a chance. Where there's life, there's hope. At least, I was once rather fond of saying that. Might be again. Who knows?"

Right. Regener-whatsit. The Doctor could come back. He only had this one life and that was it. No more. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Death." Morbid curiosity drove the question, as did a need to know. If he was going to die, what was it like? How would it feel? The Time Lord had died at least once, but probably more if Rose was right about his age – not to mention his knack for getting into trouble.

The Doctor sighed. "I don't know. I've never died."

"Must've done," he protested. "I saw you. You were all big-ears and a Northern accent and now you're all hair and geeky. If that's not death, what is it?"

"Regeneration isn't death, Mickey. It's just...I change. New personality, new body, new everything, but it isn't death. I'm still here. I'm still me. Same experiences and the same memories. Can't tell you about death because I don't know." When he looked at the other man, he could see that the Doctor's expression was haunted. "I just don't know."

"Oh," he said, folding his arms over his knees.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said again.

"'S all right. New adventure, yeah?" He tried to smile, but it was forced.

"Yeah. But, whatever happens, we've just got an hour to go. Only an hour. And then..."

One hour.

One stupid, measly little hour until they were killed.

Right. That was so comforting.


Something scratched its way across the pavement. A piece of litter twirled in the early morning breeze, disappearing behind the rubbish bins. She felt herself get lulled into a sense of relaxation. Here they were safe. Here they could wait in...

She started, realising just how close she'd come to falling asleep. Cruk! She stood and peered over the edge of the rubbish bins. None of the mourners had arrived, but it was only a matter of time.

As if her thoughts had summoned them, she heard footsteps in the distance. Judging from the hurried pace, they probably belonged to one of the mourners. No constable would walk that quickly. She nudged Rose with her foot, urging the other woman to stand.

"We've got company coming," she said quietly.

"The mourners?" Rose asked, stopping when she held up her hand for silence.

Judging from the footsteps there was one, no, two people approaching. Gesturing for the other woman to stay where she was, she eased out from behind the bins and edged toward the end of the alley. If she timed it just right...

"Are you sure that this is the right way? This is my first time doing this," a young woman asked anxiously.

Another voice answered. "We meet up by the patisserie every morning, mademoiselle. A constable escorts us to the gaol. It is the same." A wizened woman came into view escorting a young waif of a girl, her too-large eyes almost overwhelming her otherwise delicate face. Fear tainted both of their expressions and she felt a pang of sympathy run through her.

To live her life in a constant state of fear. To know that a single step out of the bounds defined by the regime would mean death. She could never live like that. She didn't know how these women did. But she suspected that she would've been one of the first to die. But she would've taken a few of them with her. She never had learned how to take regulations well, especially ones that went against her own personal code.

Once she judged that the women were close enough, she revealed herself, stepping out of the shadows and into the street. "Bonjour, madame. I believe that I might have something that would be of interest to you." She reached into her pocket and pulled out some of the larger-denomination coins, revealing them to the women.

"What do you want?" The older woman was suspicious, shielding the girl with her body. She must truly look a sight – combat suit, shades perched on the top of her head, long brown hair, and slightly dishevelled from the trip through the Vortex.

"I –" She was cut off by the sudden appearance of Rose. Her friend looked desperate and sad. Her clothing was dishevelled and she looked as if she hadn't slept in twenty-four hours.

Rose's voice broke convincingly as she spoke. "Your help, madame. Our brothers are inside the gaol. We just want to say goodbye to them, before they die. Just to give them some comfort. Please, you must help us. We can give you money, something, but please...we just need to get inside."

The younger of the two mourners stepped out from behind the other. "You have family inside the gaol?"

"Yes."

"Then there is no question. It is a cruel place, but it is our state in life to suffer, no? Being stuck on the outside? Of course you may –" The woman began to take off her badge, but the motion was arrested by the older woman.

"No. We do not know them. They could be Resistance. Trouble. We don't want to be discovered as those who aided them."

"We're not Resistance," Rose denied, doing her best to appear pitiful. "Please, I just need to see my brother."

She was impressed. Rose was rather good at this type of work. Then again, she was one of the Doctor's companions.

"We won't tell anyone who we got the badges from. Please. Before the others arrive." If her voice was a little desperate, it could be forgiven. It'd been a long day. Not to mention a long night.

"You will pay us?" The old woman asked even as she pulled off her badge. "It isn't much pay, but it's enough to feed my family."

She nodded. "Of course. Double your monthly wage." In this society, wages were a mere pittance of what she was normally used to. Barely enough for a single person to survive on, let alone take care of a family. It was the least she could do to pay for the badge. She felt guilty for having originally thought of taking the badges by force. This should be enough.

The transaction took barely five minutes. The exchange of money for the badges was done, and she and Rose did their best to tidy themselves up – she grabbed a trench-coat from one of the saddlebags on the bike and put it on, she was too conspicuous otherwise - before the other mourners arrived.

Ten minutes later, surrounded by other women, they were escorted toward the gaol.

She didn't know what they'd find inside, or how they'd find the Doctor, but she hoped against hope that they weren't too late.

Hang on, Professor. We're coming.

To be continued...