It was some tiny little world, marooned somewhere on the edge of the universe. Dark and dank, the planet was obscured behind an asteroid belt – so daylight lasted for but five minutes a day, and even that was just a smidge away from the 1,435 minutes of night, as the planet was obscured with a layer of natural thick, choking, black clouds.
The world had become covered in an infinite sprawling forest –not a forest with rich earth, and proud, strong trees with green, sunlit leaves, the light streaming through and spattering hope upon the thick blanket of undergrowth and bracken. There were no clean rivers, glowing a tranquil aqua in the sunshine, flowing through the woods and bringing life to a million species of fishes, and insects and mammals beside the banks, mushrooming into a forest shining bright with light and life and calm.
Instead, the forest was black, decayed, and dead. There was a thick network of trees, but because of the planet's darkness, their leaves were stained black and grimy, and the only light that streamed to the ground was gloomy and murky, choking the undergrowth – and yet, as if almost in reaction, a sprawling web of vines and creepers extended across the forest floor, latching onto the greenery and turning it into a grubby scrubland, populated by thin, brittle trees. Several filthy rivers churned through the planet, ploughing through dusty, chalky dirt, teeming with a billion diseases. The planet reeked, the smell of mould and rot and fungus infecting the entire surface, cell by cell and leaf by leaf, corrupting everything with its horrific stench.
There was very little life on the planet. There were wolves, their thick coats stained and muddied, their eyes shining red as they hunted out their prey – small, scuttling mammals that through a scraping desperation to survive, had evolved enough to consume the infected, diseased water, and to eat the bugs and worms that imbedded themselves in the dirt. It was a sick planet. Even when the rain fell, it was not simply water. A complex arrangement of the elements, to form something akin to gasoline. And so, when it drenched the planet, it would kill the life that the rain should normally nourish. The rain should make things grow. This rain was a poison.
There was no civilisation on the planet. Except, there was a house. A manor house, broken and dilapidated, a fading memory of a time there had been people living in the forest. Now, the wood was crumbling, infested with lice and insects, and the plaster and wallpaper was peeling and disintegrating. Inside the house, where there were carpets, they were faded and frayed, some of them had even decomposed completely, exposed to the lifeless elements. Several parts of the bottom of the house had been damaged completely, leaving only the dusty surface of the Earth as a ground-floor.
There were remnants of furniture in the house – very little, but there was an old, wooden table, frail under its age, but useable. A wooden chair sat beside, lonely, just as its occupant would be, as there was nothing else for anybody else – a room that now, would only be fitting for one person. Perhaps another to stay occasionally, judging by another chair, mismatched against the other. The only other item in the house was a musty, unclean mattress, perhaps recently pinched out the back of a skip and tossed into the house, with no concept of who it was to be used by. It waited in the master suite – which did not deserve that name, as it was in a similar state of disrepair to the rest of the house. A fragmented grand staircase loosely paved the way to the landing, individual stairs hanging off, and holes crushed into it.
And from the landing, one could look out the remnants of a great window. It was long shattered, allowing the stinking winds would blow through the house, freezing any occupant who had the misfortune of staying there. The old panes of glass were smashed, sharp shards jutting out to slice at anyone who should let their skin get caught in their teeth – and one might be tempted to do that. To just stride through that window, allowing the splinters to tear the skin into ribbons, before they fell, so far, to the ground, and their bones would shatter, just as the window had.
There would be nobody to find them, nobody to save them.
Death would greet them.
But there had been nobody to greet death. Nobody to step through the window, nobody to use the matress, nobody to use the lonely chair.
Until that night.
The Doctor walked through the forest, his TARDIS parked far away, just to ensure the people he was meeting would be unable to get their hands on it. As he walked through the undergrowth, the Doctor felt the chill in the air nipping at him, and then biting deep into his skin. So, he pulled his coat closer to him, and he sped up the pace with which he walked. He could see the house ahead of him – the house he'd been summoned to.
The house he'd been summoned to by his own people.
By the Time Lords.
He had no idea what for – the rendezvous was secret to everyone, apart from those involved. He had been forbidden to tell any of his loved ones – and now that he had a family, the Doctor was not willing to risk it. He had responsibilities, now. He had to tread carefully, and with every step he took, he would have to consider the extent of the consequences – for Lizzie, for Cioné… and above all, for Iris.
The Doctor was always terrified of meetings with his own people, although he would never dare to admit it. They had a troubled relationship, and whenever he was summoned, there was always that slight, nagging fear that he would not come back. So, before he left, he'd held Iris in his arms, and kissed her. Too small to know what was going on, just a tiny baby, with the whole universe raging above her head. And with that kiss, the Doctor hoped, that he would come back. That he would see his little girl grow up.
He wanted nothing more than that.
They were already there, it seemed, waiting outside the house. Waiting for him. There were a few of them, the guards dressed in a subtler garb to the usual, ornate Gallifreyan attire. This was a meeting that nobody was meant to see, that was meant to pass undetected into history… that would be forgotten about.
Most strikingly, and most intriguingly… one of the guards held a white object, visible in stark contrast to the gloominess of the world around them. As the Doctor got closer, he realised that he was looking at a sort of… cradle. A travel-cot.
At the front of his Gallifreyan reception party, stood a man, dressed impeccably in a suit and tie. He exuded an air of authority, command… and terror. Although the Doctor had never seen him… he knew exactly who the man was.
"I am honoured, it seems." The Doctor spoke sarcastically, with a mocking tongue. He had nothing but contempt for this man. And at the same time, the Doctor knew he had to play his cards carefully… the man he was faced with, meant that whatever business this was, was going to be very, very serious. The Doctor was also acutely aware that if he got on the wrong side of the person in front of him, it could lead to catastrophic consequences.
"You know the severity of the business at hand," the man spoke simply, his voice clear, cold, and clipped.
"Faced with you, Not-Applicable? Of course." The Doctor knew it was him. He was the highest ranking general in the Gallifreyan secret police – and he was known by the name 'Not-Applicable', simply as he did not need a name. He was order, running subliminally beneath the streets. He was oppression, keeping an unyielding grasp on everyone who lived on the planet – but a grasp so secret, so subtle, that barely anybody noticed when they were being constantly controlled and manipulated.
But everybody knew who he was, for everybody, barring his superiors, were simply his puppets, and he pulled the strings, so slightly and shrewdly. He operated quietly, delicately, but coldly effectively. There was no fuss, there was no big scene, there was no noise. If Not-Applicable was coming for you, one night, you would be there. And the next, you would simply disappear, as if you had never existed.
"May I ask, what am I doing here?" the Doctor questioned, bristling slightly at Not-Applicable's lack of any visible response. One might feel safer when he displayed some kind of emotion… or at least, more assured of where the conversation was going.
Not-Applicable gestured to the travel cot.
"This is the child of –"
London, 2018 – 13:30PM
"Hmm, I'm starving," Cioné began to scoff her way through the giant steak on the platter in front of her, the chips eyeing her up gleefully from the side of the plate. The Doctor looked down at his chicken Caesar salad, and then looked off the balcony of the restaurant, at the passers-by milling around the riverside beneath them. It was a rather beautiful day, and the sun streamed down the tree-lined boulevard, shining on the families strolling past the river, and the content old couple meandering past a boutique, and the group of teenagers huddled around a bench. And then the sun glinted on the sharp surface of the river, making it shimmer in the golden, midday light, and turning it into a mirror – a universe where this riverside happiness was the only world, and where nobody had any demons to worry about.
"I need to tell you something," the Doctor said, as his eyes turned away from the river to look at his wife. She looked so beautiful, sat there in the sun. And there was part of him that wished he would never have to talk about what he was about to – because then that world could've stayed perfect for just a little bit longer. But he knew, in his heart, that that could not be the case. He would have to confront what needed to be confronted, and he couldn't hold it off longer. If he did, it would grow, it would get darker and scarier. And above all? Cioné had a right to know.
"Oh?" Cioné murmured through a mouthful of chip. They did lovely chips there. That was why she loved it so much. And… she knew that her husband enjoyed it as well. And right then, that was perhaps what they needed, although she didn't know it. Perhaps being in the restaurant would make it easier. Because the Doctor knew that what he was about to say would shock her. In fact – maybe it would change her opinion of him forever.
Easier for her. Not for him. When she'd seen the look in her husband's eyes, she wondered whether that was a good thing. She was scared, when she looked up and saw it. For most spouses, the simple words, 'I need to tell you something', were ominous enough. Cioné hadn't been unnerved – but as she'd looked up and seen the look of trepidation, and something… something akin to fear – present in his eyes – that was when she was unnerved.
That was when she knew something was wrong.
"Iris talked about her once," the Doctor started. Immediately, Cioné's mind started going. He wasn't having an affair, was he? No. No, the look on his face suggested something much worse. The Doctor paused, and she could've spoken – so often, she would've done. Slipped in a quick joke, or something. But the way he looked up at her… this was not a time for joking.
"This girl…," the Doctor said, his voice trailing off. "Emma."
Cioné thought about it. She couldn't put her finger on it…
"Oh!"
Yes. She could remember.
"Yes – that girl Iris and Lizzie got to find out… information or something on Cullengate? They showed me a picture of her – red lippy, pasty, that sort of thing."
The Doctor nodded grimly. Cioné stopped trying to be so glib. But then her husband didn't say anything, and so she kept talking. She couldn't stop herself.
"I just… assumed she was some… private detective, and I thought, well, if she agreed to help the girls' find out about Cullengate for free, it might be useful in the long run, I – I – I didn't recognise her –"
The Doctor interrupted her. He spoke clipped, and coldly, and the very words sent a shiver down Cioné's spine.
"But I did."
The Doctor couldn't look at her – his eyes flitted around to every other location possible. He knew that if he did dare to look at his wife, all she'd be able to see was the look of guilt in his eyes. But, Cioné kept staring at him – she couldn't take her eyes off him. He'd recognised her – he knew who she was, and he hadn't said anything. Why hadn't he said anything? And, with her eyes locked firmly onto him, eventually his face gravitated back to her.
The Doctor knew he had to look her in the eye. Cioné deserved that.
And as he did look her in the eye, Cioné saw it. A look of confession.
"Who was she?" Cioné asked.
"Emma…," the Doctor said her name, like he was trying to make sense of it – a word, undefined, that he didn't really… get. It was, sort of, the truth. But in reality, he was playing for time. Trying to find the words to explain himself, and also trying to delay having to reveal the truth. Emma. The private detective. The consulting assassin. "A long time ago…"
"Just – Doctor, tell me who she is. To you."
"Do you remember the Master, Cioné?"
Cioné stopped. She knew the Master. Not like the Doctor did, but the Master was one of those Gallifreyans with a reputation. A bit like the Doctor – a renegade Time Lord, insane, hell-bent on destruction – and not just because they liked the destruction. Because they found it beautiful. Always played nicely off the Doctor. One saw the universe and loved it. The other saw the end of it, and loved it.
And, in a way… the Doctor's best friend. No… something different to that. Something a little bit… more.
But the Master was dead.
"I – I know of them. Why?"
And that's when Cioné realised. That's when it all started falling into place. The Master was dead. But a grey, private detective, consulting assassin – ruthless and efficient, independent and… terrifying. It made sense. Maybe that was why Emma had taken such an interest in Iris. A distorted reflection of herself. And… the Doctor and the Master, held in a strange, sickening balance, them both being the close, childhood friends they were… maybe that was why.
Because everyone left a legacy behind.
As Cioné looked up at the Doctor, she was almost certain of what he was going to say.
He spoke.
"Emma… Emma is the Master's daughter."
A Long Time Ago
"The Master is dead," Not-Applicable said, more of a statement than a question, as he knew that the Doctor would have known.
"I know…"
"Before her death, she had a child."
A shiver crept down the Doctor's spine, and the air around him felt a little bit colder. Of course… the Doctor and the Master had once done everything together. Why was it a surprise that they would have children at the same time? And yet, the Doctor was the only one left, the legacy of the sibling-like presence in his life lying in front of him in a cradle. He caught sight of the baby, looking up at the black, empty sky, so innocent, so sweet.
And he felt a pang in both his hearts, a strange cocktail of emotions rising through him. It was heartbreaking, that the Master wouldn't see her child growing up. So, the Doctor felt a strange kind of loyalty, of devotion, to the child. And above all, he felt hopeful, dreaming that he might be able to stop baby going the same way as mother. Someone with an impossible potential… but someone who had wasted it, gorging on death and destruction and pain. The Doctor thought, perhaps, that he could help the little baby, to raise them into what the Master always could have been.
To help them.
"A girl, given the shortened name 'Emma'. Born not long ago, a similar time to your own infant. Until now, she resided in an orphanage. Your orphanage. However, as she grows… she will need another residence."
Not-Applicable gestured, and the guard with the cradle stepped forward, and passed it over to the Doctor. He took it, and quickly took the girl into his arms, placing the cradle on the floor. Emma was stirring, and her eyes briefly flickered open. It was like a punch to the gut – as the eyes staring up at him were those of the Master. And yet… they were different in their emptiness, their innocence. An open book, ready to be written. The Doctor, with his Dad-skills, held her and quickly soothed her back to sleep. Now was the time for sleep. The questions could come later.
Not-Applicable asked a simple question.
"Will you protect it?"
As if there were no doubt about it all, the Doctor said, "I'll try and keep her safe, yes."
"No," Not-Applicable replied bitterly, filled with nothing but contempt for the Time Lord and the child opposite. "The universe. Will you protect it from this child?"
Horror spread through the Doctor – Emma was just a baby, she couldn't harm anything or anyone – and so he held Emma closer, as if protecting her from the people opposite. "What do you mean by that?" the Doctor questioned.
"This is the daughter of the greatest mind, and the greatest psychopath, Gallifrey ever produced. She cannot be allowed to roam free."
"Why not?" the Doctor protested. Emma was her own person, she wasn't just a carbon copy of her mother. Who were the Time Lords to think that? Of course genetics had a bearing, but above all, nurture. That was what made a person who they were.
Not-Applicable ignored him. "The girl will reside here, in this property," he gestured to the crumbling mansion. "She will live alone, and you will visit her regularly. You will watch her, you will ensure that in her mental state, she poses no threat to creation."
The Doctor gazed grimly at the squalor around him. Each breath he took was a struggle, the putrid gases filling up his lungs and draining the life out of him. And there was barely any life around, the miserable landscape reduced to nothing by death and despair and decay. It was bad enough to leave a young child on their own – especially here, for this was no planet for a child. "I can't keep her here, especially not alone."
"The girl will be observed," Not-Applicable continued. "We will see how a Gallifreyan child survives when left purely to their own devices. You will provide the human element. With your regular visits, we can examine her interactions with others. Furthermore, you will assist in developing communicative and social functions."
The Doctor shook his head then, knowing that he couldn't be part of such an… experiment. He looked down at the child in his arms… there was no way he would allow it to happen.
And, as if Not-Applicable had read the Doctor's mind, he said,
"The Master was the greatest Gallifreyan mind to ever exist. How fitting that her daughter should contribute towards Time Lord science. A Monitor device has been implanted in her head. This allows us to watch her every move. Furthermore, if you ever attempt to take her from this world, we can detonate the Monitor, killing the child in an instant."
The Doctor would not be part of this. He had not always got along with the Master, obviously. In fact, universes that been born, and had died, over the years of their conflict – but at the heart of it, the Doctor and the Master… they had a strange relationship that perhaps nobody would ever be able to grasp. And now the Master was dead, the Doctor felt a strange loyalty, to ensure that he didn't… corroborate with such a scheme, a scheme disgracing her memory – the memory that lived on with her children.
Perhaps he felt this now, stronger than he ever would have done before, because he was a father. The lengths he would go, to protect Iris.
The lengths he would go to…
It was then, that he had an idea. A bit crazy, a bit reckless... in fact, perhaps it wasn't even the right thing to do. But with it, he could save Emma. He could let the Master's memory live on… and he could help raise her daughter into what the Master always could have been.
"Fine," the Doctor laid Emma gently down in the cot. "I'll do it – regular visits, yes? Weekly sound okay?"
"Yes," said Not-Applicable, admittedly slightly suspicious that the Doctor was so open to the idea. "Be aware, Doctor. If you play games, I will kill you. I will kill your human plaything. I will kill your wife. I will kill your infant daughter."
"I understand," the Doctor said, trying to hide his shaking breath. They were only threats, but against his family? That in itself was chilling. And, he knew Not-Applicable's power, so the words cut deep. He knew he was going to have to be subtle… there was so much at stake here. So much he was risking. And yet… he didn't have a choice. There was a lonely child, one who needed his help. In fact, the Master was his greatest friend, his greatest enemy, his greatest rival. One might see him as an uncle to Emma.
The Doctor knew what he had to do.
"This is confidential, Doctor," Not-Applicable instructed. "Just as our meeting. You will communicate about this with nobody."
"Of course," the Doctor agreed, knowing he had little choice.
"We are taking no chances with this operation. The ultimate experiment, leaving a Gallifreyan child alone in the wild. There is little, Doctor, that is as secret as this."
And as if to prove his point, within seconds, Not-Applicable held a gun in his hand. He turned, and within seconds, shot his five guards dead. The ultimate proof, that Not-Applicable was not just a man in control, not just a man who had the power to oppress. He was a man unafraid of doing the dirty work himself. Unafraid of personally exercising that power.
"Remember what I have told you."
The Doctor didn't think he would ever forget those threats. And so he watched, with great contempt, as the man strode away into the forest, before picking up the cradle, and holding it close to him.
He turned, to look at the giant, looming, skeleton house, alone in the death, in the dark. He looked down at Emma, and he knew that in his life, there would be little making him feel as guilty as this. A girl, the same age as his daughter… but hidden away, part of an experiment. He scooped Emma out of the cradle, and kissed her forehead.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I truly am."
He wanted to say something else, he wanted to reassure her – but he didn't know whether the Time Lords were already watching, so he stayed quiet.
But to himself, he pledged it. Although he could not hate himself more for complying, he kept reassured, in the knowledge that if this went to plan, the experiment would be for nothing. In the long term, the people looking down upon them would be in no doubt, that they had got this wrong.
Holding Emma close, they stepped inside.
London, 2018 – 10:30AM
"That's completely ridiculous, why would he do that? I mean, blowing up the car, that's just… well, nonsensical!"
Cioné watched the TV from over the rims of her glasses, feeling the bubbling irritation of her daughter beside her.
"Err, because they controlled his whole life, perhaps?" Iris' sarcasm was evident – in fact, Iris' sarcasm seemed to balloon whenever watching television with either of his parents. There was just something… naturally irritating, at a parent's inability to sit and watch television.
Thankfully, her dad seemed to be much more up to speed with it, as he sat in one of the arm chairs, K9 at his feet. "You wouldn't just sit there and do nothing," he shook his head.
"Alright!" Cioné raised her arms defensively, as both her husband and daughter mounted their assault at her inability to understand whatever trite they were enduring on the television. Of course, all of it was done in jest, and they were all laughing throughout. General family banter. Just… family.
Lizzie watched on, with a bittersweet smile. It was, perhaps, something she felt regularly, whenever watching the Doctor and his family. The outsider… never a part of any of it, but always watching on. Lizzie had felt a little bit like that, all her life. Perhaps it stemmed from the loneliness, but… who knew? She didn't need to be alone to feel so, it was a feeling she got, as she trudged through existence… that even with people around her, she was alone. It wasn't a thing that bugged her constantly, a lot of the time, she could laugh along with the Doctor, and Iris, and Cioné, and feel as if she were part of them. But there were moments, where she would zoom out – and it would be as if she were looking in on the world.
That was why Leo had been so completely wonderful. Leo Akram made her feel… not outside. He made her feel as if she were living, as if she were there. He was sat munching miserably (a miserableness quite part of his personality) through a bowl of cereal. Leo smiled up at her, and he looked solitary, and by-himself, but… he seemed as if he were happy, simply because she was there. That was the weird thing about loneliness. You didn't need to be alone to experience it. In fact, Lizzie was quite comfortable being alone, she loved it, it was her favourite place to be. But when immersed in a group of people… that was when she felt saddest. As if everyone were simply passing her by. Often solitude was a good place for her, but… occasionally, she wanted something more.
And Leo had helped with that. The two of them, against the universe. It had all got so much easier since he'd been around, there had been so much less of that… distance between her and everyone else. But it would still strike her – after all, there were wounds Lizzie simply couldn't heal for good.
"Look, come on, both of you, out."
When Lizzie looked up, she saw Iris herding her parents off the sofa, and guiding them towards the door. She was putting the plan into action, as they had agreed. Granted, Lizzie wasn't sure how good Iris' excuse for them leaving was – a rogue Vervoid in a Victoria Secret outlet – but it would do. And Cioné seemed quite willing to go – knowing her, she'd probably guessed what was going on.
"Are you… sure?" the Doctor, admittedly rather reluctantly, backed out of the door. Cioné trailed behind him, trying to look over her husband's shoulders, as if trying to salvage whether her guesses were correct.
"Yep, absolutely, please, go, enjoy being in love, or whatever," Iris walked further and further, until her mother and father were retreating down the stairs. Both of them knew Iris was lying, because Iris was a rubbish liar. But both of them seemed willing to comply, perhaps because they were naïve, or because they were both aware that arguing with their daughter was not something either of them had the willpower to do. "Okay bye!" Iris waved, slamming the flat's front door in their faces. They heard the door lock, and then that was that. They were trapped outside.
The Doctor reached into his pocket, pulling out his sonic screwdriver. Cioné, however, quickly put her hand on his arm and lowered it. "Darling, they're busy."
"Doing what?"
"Organising our anniversary party. Come on!"
"Right…"
"Yes, I know. Anniversary parties, not our thing. But it's lovely for them to be so wonderful, so let's leave them to it. We should have lunch?" she suggested, taking the Doctor by the arm as they walked out onto the street. What she didn't mention, was that she had ulterior motives herself. Something she needed to discuss with him.
"Sounds wonderful. There's that riverside place we tried once?"
"Absolutely, let's go."
What Cioné had not realised, was that the anniversary party was a half-ruse in itself. Yes, of course they were going to be giving them the most spectacular anniversary shindig ever, but they were also going to be getting up to something a little bit untoward. Leo had been shepherded in as lookout, and he gestured to them when the Doctor and Cioné were turning at the end of the road, making their way to the underground station.
"Awesomesauce," Iris suddenly leapt off the sofa, and bounded over to the far corner of the kitchen. There, she tapped thin-air, and the air beside her rippled, the faint outline of a blue box shimmering into existence.
"Invisibility. Cute, huh?"
"Erm, yeah," Leo nodded along, his love of sci-fi fascinated by the spectacle. He had other things on his mind – he was about to spend the day with Kym Gomez, planning an anniversary party with the terrifying girl from next door who had nearly deafened him several times. And it was as if on cue, that she burst into the flat.
"YOU CALLED THE RIGHT GAL," Kym screamed, striding into the flat with an admirable enthusiasm. "What've we got so far, guys?"
Lizzie, as she took her coat from the back of the chair, sheepishly gestured to the small bits of planning that they'd done for the anniversary. "Erm… that."
When Kym danced over and quickly scanned over the documentation, she turned to Lizzie, a look of terror plastered across her face.
"What the hell is this." Kym said it not as a question, but a vacant, terrified statement.
"Planning…," Lizzie's voice drained away as she said it, as her lack of understanding of planning big events became evident, and she felt guilty for clearly leaving so much for Kym to do.
"I can't plan with this, Lizzworth," she side-lined the papers, and whipped out her phone – the ultimate party-planning device. Kym was quite certain that with such a powerful device in her hands, she would be able to provide the most ultimate outer space event thingy for her favourite outer-space married couple. Lizzie's documentation was feeble in comparison to the might of Kym's party planning brain. "We need to start again," she declared, before her voice trailed off. "Oh….."
Lizzie looked at Kym, who had just looked at Leo for the first time.
"He's adorbs," Kym muttered wistfully.
"Oh, erm, er…," Leo spluttered, like a rabbit caught in headlights, before stumbling into the kitchen.
"He's beautiful," Kym repeated, her eyes wide, as if struggling to contemplate how attractive the awkward little nerd guy was.
You know," Iris said, leading back against the TARDIS. "You talk, and all I hear is bluuuuuuuuuurrghhhh."
"Right, yeah," Kym got her mind back on the job. This party was not going to plan itself. In fact, although she would not admit it to Lizzie, Kym believed that this party would work better if Kym were the sole orchestrator of events. Lizzie was not a sociable person, and her influence might not be hugely appreciated in the light of such a deeply complex task. "Babes, I can handle this from here. You both go do whatever it is you have to do."
A look of trepidation spread across Lizzie's face, as she tentatively walked towards the TARDIS, looking back at the flat in its current state, savouring the memory of her lovely ordered place, before Kym did whatever she was going to do to it. Of course, her stomach was a pit of nerves anyway, churning and twisting, as she knew what was about to happen. But leaving all of her possessions in a flat which Kym was going to be 'working her magic on', was also a little bit terrifying.
"Okay well… I don't know how long we'll be. Actually, maybe a while. I'm not sure, but… good luck, yeah?"
Kym seemed extremely nonchalant about the whole thing. Leo was stood beside her, paralysed with fear – even more so when Kym yanked her arm around him. Lizzie caught Leo's eye, and she struggled not to laugh at her boyfriend's awkwardness, which reminded her so much of herself.
"Don't look at my laptop," Iris spun into the TARDIS, with Lizzie following her close behind.
At the end of the universe, where all the planets and the stars and the people had stopped, there was Mountain.
No determiners have been dropped. The mountain on Mountain was so huge, and vast, and gigantic, that it is the origin of the word 'mountain'. Everyone calls mountains 'mountains', because of the name of the planet. The extensive, immense mountain on the planet's surface, occupied the entire world with its huge, infinitesimal rockiness, before peaking at a point higher than all of the peaks in the Milky Way put together.
As it lies at the edge of everything, looking out over the void, that boundless darkness, where nothing ever has or ever will live, one can stand and feel so tiny and insignificant and random in the face of the universe. People who looked over the edge of the world often felt so miniature, it would strike them how desolate, and solitary, the whole universe is. In an infinite plane of blackness and emptiness and nothingness… there we are. And in the scale of all that emptiness… well, the universe is nothing. And the people who watch the void often felt so small.
On that day, upon Mountain, a band of weary, ragtag, patchwork travellers trudged through the snows. They wore torn clothes and muddy furs, and some covered their heads in bandanas, while some wore cloaks, the hoods pulled tightly over their heads. Their supplies were carried upon an armada of braying donkeys being led behind – there were less of them than they'd started off with. A few of them had been slaughtered, to provide food for the expedition.
So, it would come as no surprise the times were hard. The blizzard had stopped, after raging all night and all day. Several of their people had died last night, the frostbite driving deep into them – not just their physical bodies, but their minds. The cold would tear the skin apart, and from that, it would creep into the mind. And when the cold was in the mind – often that was curtains for the sufferer. Gradually, their willpower, their desire, their hope, to carry on, would freeze, just like their body. And when the hope was drained… they often gave up, allowing the ice to take them.
The days were bleak, the nights were bleaker. There was a thick sense of depression and misery pungent in the air. What had started off as a joyous, optimistic adventure, had quickly turned into something rife with upset and despair. None of them wanted to continue, as under the light of the stars, and under the sight of everything that didn't exist, they all believed they were insignificant.
But still they trudged on – for what other choice was there? They could kick over and die now, or they could kick over and die later, when perhaps, they'd discovered something interesting.
And perhaps, it was that night, that something interesting was about to happen.
One of the men beckoned the travellers over, and quickly they'd all waded over the snows and crags and rocks to a snowy bank, over which they saw something quite majestic.
A vast plateau of rock stretched out far away from them, like the polished marble surface of a kitchen counter – but in this case, it was enormous, perhaps the size of a football pitch. Spaced evenly along the sides of the flatness were outcroppings of rock, with eloquent carvings chiselled into each.
Their leader, a broad-shouldered, gruff man in his 50s called Urshak, gestured for them to step backwards. This was his expedition, he had led them through these tough times – so, he believed it was only right that he should be the first person to examine this marvel of nature. He knew what it was, of course. As someone who had dedicated their lives to dragging expeditions to the most distant, most remote parts of the universe, he knew what he was talking about.
"This is the Table of the Gods," Urshak spoke, his voice trembling in the cold. He knelt down, and ran his hand over the smoothness of the marble. "The legends tell of a God, who awoke from an age-old slumber, and destroyed an army of heroes."
"Yeah, sorry, that was me," called out a voice at the back of the parade. It definitely wasn't the voice of any of the men Urshak had recruited, and when he turned, he saw the figure pull down their hood, revealing a thick, flowing mane of brunette hair – it was, god forbid, a girl!
"It was New Year's Day," the girl continued. "The night had been rowdy, I did apologise, but I told the High Priestess to be careful about leaving the rest of the chocolate out."
"She did," spoke another woman, pulling down her hood. This one was different… shier, nervous – but still, definitely not one of the men Urshak had recruited. "I was there," she added.
The first woman continued.
"And if your next story is about the High Commander of the Guard and his humiliation, that was my mother. Strip poker."
Gasps erupted from around the troops, who had spent so long plodding up this almighty mountain surface, only to be confronted by such idiocy amongst their own ranks.
"Yes," continued the woman. "It was just as traumatic for me."
Urshak growled, not pleased with being taken for a fool. "Who are you?"
The second woman spoke, and as she did, a chill, very different to that of the usual biting cold, ran through all of their bones.
"I'm Lizzie Darwin, this is Iris, and we're the one hope you've got of surviving tonight."