Notes: This one is shorter, I know. Chapter length is going to be a bit erratic. I'll try to post two at once on the shorter days, if I remember.
Since I have a little space for ranting: how is it that the stories you think are better get fewer reviews than the junk you posted when you were 13? And how can it be possible that I have stories that have more 'favorites' than reviews? If you're going to put a story in your 'Favorites' section, isn't more courteous and even more convienient to do it by leaving a review? How does one get reviews? Do I have to threaten to kill off Rose? No-- that wouldn't work thematically. Mickey? No, there's a scene with him at the end that is way too funny to cut. The Doctor? Hmm. Actually, I could probably knock off Ten without too much trouble. Should I threaten to do that? Would it work?
Of course it wouldn't. You know I won't. Still, it would be nice not to have to do such things. Not to have to beg and cajole and threaten people to get them to leave you an opinion. I guess I'm not really one to talk, not being the most frequent reviewer these days myself-- but I still think that if you're gonna put something in your favorites section, you should at least leave a bloody review.
Okay. Done now. -resists temptation to beg for reviews; pretends to have more pride and artistic integrity than that; but wouldn't mind if someone occasionally took pity, not at all-
(-)
Wake you up in the middle of the night, just to hear them say
It took her a long time to get to sleep, these days. Probably because her subconscious knew what was coming.
Her father lay dead on the ground, bloodless, life slowly going out of his eyes, and she'd been a fool, such a fool, and it was all her fault. The wind was fire, blowing ashes, and she looked up at the blood-red sky splashed everywhere with thick black smoke. Guns everywhere, and screaming, screaming, and all of them knew her name, and were screaming it as they died-- pleading, begging, helpless, confused, furious, worst of all, betrayed--
Betrayed, everything a betrayal, because this was the way the universe really worked, and there was no escaping it anymore, no delusions that she could fix--anything-- anything anymore. Everything burned, everything died, and she'd been fool enough to promise them--
Promise them to save them, to end this battle, back a thousand years ago when she'd been too daft to realize there was no such thing as salvation. And the battles always raged, and everyone lost. And cruelty of cruelties, she'd promised them life, and hope, when there was none left.
Not for anyone.
She got up and ran through the barren landscape, running like a coward across the scorched earth, around the blackened rubble, toward a few extra days' time before the galaxy burned. Toward a devil's bargain that was the only sembelance of hope she had.
An arm shot out of the rubble and grabbed her ankle-- she tripped, and fell, and there was the burned and bloodied face staring out at her--
"WHY?"
Rose woke up screaming, again, heartbeat thundering in her ears. She glanced at the clock; three thirty-four, as always. She hadn't needed to look. She always did anyway.
And the song, louder than ever in her mind, except now that she'd read the lyrics, she could remember what they said.
"Welcome to the Hotel California..."
"What are you trying to TELL me?!" she screamed.
"Such a lovely place
(Such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face..."
She focused on her breathing, trying to slow it down, beginning to get the faintest glimmers of an idea.
"Living it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise
(What a nice surprise)
Bring your alibis..."
"Bring..." Rose said. "Is it you? Do you want me back? What are you trying to tell me?"
There wasn't any answer.
Rose looked over at the clock. "Something's wrong. All I know is, something's wrong, and you're tryin' to tell me, and you're just doing really badly at it."
No answer.
She shook her head. "Well, you'd better have a damned good excuse, that's all I can say."
Then again, if she knew the TARDIS, and if she knew the Doctor-- both of which she was far less certain about than she was a month ago-- she would.
So. Something was wrong.
What the bloody hell was she supposed to do about it?
(-)