Part One: An Empire's Criminal
Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets. - Paul Tournier
Chapter Five: Secrets
John's head snapped up at an instant, the man finding himself trapped a claustrophobic room with boards patching up the walls, confining himself in a shell. It was practically the size of a shoe box in John's point of view. The ceiling was low, his arms barely able to extend themselves, his legs pressed up against his chest. The criminal had an irrational fear of confined places, he dreaded anything cramped or boxy, so the circumstances were a living hell for him. He looked around rapidly for any signs of escape, but he was only met with boarded walls. Most claustrophobic victims would instantly panic, fear replacing their blood in an immediate second, like lightning replacing the peace in a child's mind. But John wasn't exactly similar.
Panic arose from him like deathly tides, bringing along not fear, but absolute rage. His fists and feet pounded on the walls in utter protest, for when he couldn't get his way, when the world had just seemed to turn on him, he wouldn't crumple in dismay and unease, he would rebel. (He bore somewhat resemblance to a child. A very dangerous, rather scary child.) The skin of his palm glided roughly against the edge of a wooden plank, tearing the layers and letting the blood seep through generously. John look one look at his hand and yelled in frustration, fidgeting in aggravation. His mind was racing, thoughts running by him too fast for him to focus, and at the base of his disarrayed brain, was a growing anger. He pulled at his hair, the blood running down his scalp and curving its path towards his jawline, dripping down in a small puddle at his crumpled shirt. He wasn't going to let measly walls destroy him.
Suddenly, an uneven prominence was sensed from underneath him, a distortion of the surface that he sat upon. His uninjured hand reached down to feel the floor of the diminutive room, a cold, unfamiliar object meeting his fingertips. His brow furrowed as he picked it up, his hand wrapped around the metal gadget, its outline and shape bringing John's mind to one conclusion. A gun? He suddenly became confused of the object's existence in such a imprisoned state, for he saw no beneficial use for a weapon in this circumstance.
That's when the realization hit him. It hit him like an explosive to his oblivious mind.
Was he supposed to to use it against himself?
He took it into his right hand, the revolver weighing down like guilt in the depth of his stomach. He loathed the feeling of its slick metal against his skin, the exception of death all held down in one hand. It was that simple. He carefully held the weapon up to his temple, not to pull the trigger, but just to get the feeling. It felt as if all ends had come to one conclusion, as if this was his only way out; to escape not by body, but by soul. John shook his head, his fingertips tracing around the room's floor once more, having hope that some other tool or gadget would surprise him yet again. But to his disappointment, it was just him and the gun. An agitated sigh was released from his lips as he picked it up once again, and looking at it closely, he realized. He didn't have to hurt himself to get out of this room. He didn't have to sacrifice himself, he didn't have to escape by death.
It was as if a new form of enlightenment had shone upon him, one that made him compliment himself personally for being so clever. So with his index finger resting nervously on the trigger, he carefully aimed it at the opposite wall, and shot.
The impact was harsh, John's back slamming against the wall. He grunted in agitation, for he never knew how much energy was wasted into shooting a measly bullet, but as he opened his eyes, he saw the damage it made. The bullet hole was pristine. Outside the walls was light, pure and welcoming, and for once in his life John had never been so thankful to see such a sight. John carefully aimed again, and with a focused eye and a stiff bearing of himself, he shot at the opposite wall once more. The impact was less surprising this time around, but its power still remained there, but at least John knew what to expect. Bullet after bullet, he continued to impale the wall with the deathly metal, and each time, a new ray of light would shine into his wooden prison.
He slammed his shoulder up against the damaged wall, and he heard the creaking of the wood in its defeat. It was slowly slackening, the wood around the bullet holes cracking into small crevices. And while the wall's strength was receding, his hope was ascending. He continued to strike the wall with his shoulder, shooting the occasional bullet to add to the damage. The wall rasped and complained from its harm, John continuing to push against it with all of his strength, the feeling of being freed the one aspect on his mind. And like a glass pane, the wood finally gave in, breaking into its fragments as a sigh of John's triumph and victory, the man himself falling out of his confined prison and into what seemed as though an infinite light.
Suddenly, his head snapped up in shock as he found himself back inside UNIT's headquarters, his ridiculous metal earpiece clinging to the right side of his head, and John held the irresistible urge to pry it off at an instant. Oswin stood before him, writing on her clipboard casually as John looked at her in horror. "What the hell was that?!" he sputtered out at her, his fists clenching and his teeth gritting like a beast's. He might have gotten out, but that didn't mean he was pleased with the whole ideal of being imprisoned in a wooden box.
Oswin looked over to him, her brown eyes gazing back at him dubiously. "Why, that was your test. What did you think it was?"
He scoffed. "Oh yeah, let's put him in a box with a gun, see what he does. I am not some...primate!" he spat out at her in attempts to sound witty.
The girl only sniggered. "That probably sounded better in your head, now didn't it dear?" she said, a sarcastic sympathy complementing her tone. Holding her clipboard underneath her arm, she carefully brushed his long brown hair out of the way as she disengaged him from the device. "My gosh your hair is long," she muttered quietly as she held a strand of his brown hair in between her thumb and index finger, John only shoving her hand away like a temperamental child. Oswin only laughed lightly at the gesture, shaking her head and heading towards the door. He stared at her in a sideways glance as she typed in the exit code, and opening the door halfway, she looked back at him quizzically, as if she was expecting him to follow her out. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you coming?"
"Where?" he answered back dubiously.
"...your room...?" she replied, as if it weren't already obvious. "What's gotten into you today? You seem to be asking some awfully dumb questions." she added, for she didn't exactly expect John to act so dim.
"What, you're not gonna put me in handcuffs or something?"
Oswin only laughed, shaking her head. "Why? Do you miss them?" she said teasingly. John shot her a glare, the typical look she'd receive when she'd find amusement out of him. "I think you can cope without them," she said, gesturing him to stand up. "Come on."
Amy's electric blue fingernails anxiously tapped on the surface of the cold sticky diner table, her eyes darting around the room like a frightened kitten; it was as if the last person she wanted to face was going to walk right through the door at that instant, and as of now that person was Rory. He thought that she was at a board meeting that afternoon, and she didn't couldn't bear to lie to him like this. But Amy knew exactly what would happen if she had told him the truth, disputes would erupt from the surface without question, and she wouldn't get the answers that she needed. Her husband couldn't care to acknowledge her unceasing concern for the criminal that stood in between them; Amy had said that he just didn't have a clear perspective, but Rory wouldn't seem to concede with her argument.
Suddenly, the bell of the diner's door rang out, Amy's head slowly rising as a man strolled in casually, his appearance and personal hygiene unkempt. His hair astray and windblown, his coat worn-out and threadbare, but the Rolex on his wrist and wedding ring on his fourth finger told her that he certainly wasn't poverty-stricken. Either that or he lived a life of burglary. The thought made Amy shiver.
The man looked around the room nonchalantly, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a blank expression on his face. When his gaze met Amy's, she raised her eyebrows doubtfully, her eyes wide open as she saw him walk towards her booth. She swallowed hard, her Adam's apple fluctuating from the impact. She rested her hands down on the red leather seat, fists clenching at both sides as she watched him sit down across from her, clearing his throat before asking, "You Amy?"
She cast him a sideways glance. "And if I wasn't?"
He chuckled. "Well, then this situation would be entirely uncomfortable for you, little lady."
Amy straightened her posture and bit down on her lower lip. "I suppose you're Issac then?"
He furrowed his brow, as if he didn't entirely understand the question. "And if I wasn't?"
Amy rolled her eyes in exasperation, lowering her voice and leaning in closer so that no one else would overhear. "Listen, okay? I'm not here to be a flirt, I'm here because I need some answers."
He sat back in his seat, almost as if he was only getting himself comfortable. "...answers to what questions?"
Her hazel eyes glanced around the room once again, to assure herself that no one was watching them directly. She dug her hand into the left pocket of her coat, the cold feeling of metal on her fingertips as she carefully pulled out the key she found on John's side of their office, along with a fifty dollar bill as her payment. Amy slid the two items across the table, Issac eying them casually as she started to explain. "I want you to find out what this key unlocks. And I want my answer to be specific."
Issac contemplated the situation for a few moments, staring at her suspiciously as he took the money off of the table. "How specific do you want?" he queried.
"I want an address, if not an object, like a...safe or whatnot."
He raised his eyebrows in hesitation. "Well, it's gonna take a little more persuasion to give you the specifics, sweetheart."
Amy sighed in frustration. "Why? Fifty's not enough?"
"I'm a lock investigator, not a friend doing you a favor, okay?" he snapped. "This is my job, not my entertainment."
"Okay, okay, fine. Keys aren't exactly your happy pastime, I get that." Amy grunted in agitation, reaching for the wallet in her purse. Issac nodded in satisfaction as she hesitantly forked over another fifty dollar bill, the measly piece of paper leaving her fingertips in reluctance. Well, there goes my dinner. She thought to herself. Issac held the money between his fingertips for a few moments before he looked at her in a sudden curiosity. "Why go through so much for just a little key, huh?" he asked. "What's so special about it?"
Amy looked down at the tabletop for a few seconds, taking a deep breath before saying, "I had a friend who was never completely honest with me, and now..." she trailed off, licking her lips hesitantly. "...he's gone. And I'm looking for an explanation, and I'm determined to find one."
He nodded his head, almost as if he was impressed with her tone of confidence. "This friend must be pretty special then, huh?"
Amy bit her lip. "...yeah..." she finally responded. "...I suppose so."
One Year Ago, October
Laughter rang out like bells in the cold October air, defying against any form of isolation in the small park by the lively pub. Amy and John staggered like toddlers first learning to walk down the park's pathway, supporting each other's weight as they joked and lived in their drunken state."I never knew you could dance like that," Amy sniggered, raking her cold hand through her oily hair. John's lips were pulled into a loose grin as he held both arms in the air once again, swaying his arms back and forth in memory of his terrible graceless dance. "Yeah, the drunk giraffe...a bad name for a badass move!" he announced wildly to no one in particular, his words obscure, as if they were crashing against one another, triggering Amy to burst into a fitful of giggles once again.
It was unusual how they had never seen this side of each other, it was like the obscurity of the other side of the moon; hidden from sight. Their usual relationship with one another usually consisted of mutters and pointless bickering, mainly about John needing to get a life; but this night was unlike any other. With the alcohol flowing through their system and a mind that was trapped in its own haze, a comical blitheness released itself from its dusty shelf, showing off both John and Amy as careless intoxicated friends. Actual friends. Yes, intoxicated and careless, but friends.
The two absentminded alter egos settled themselves on a wooden park bench, their limbs seemingly flexible and their brains converted into those of impetuous two year-olds. They made fun of the politics and a few miscellaneous concerns for a few blissful minutes, John taking an interest into making conversation with the fellow tree to his left, and Amy, being rather mindless herself, sat there with an idiot's smile on her face while observing him quietly, as if all were normal and as it should be.
"Ya know," John proclaimed, stabbing his finger in the direction of the tree he was talking to. "I think I'll name you Horatio." he said, the conviction of his tone sure to be an amusement to anyone who passed by. Amy only sat back on her seat of the park bench, the sound of leaves brushing against each other passing through one ear and out the other, almost as if her head was hollowed out completely. John's words did the same, but she clung onto his tone of voice for a few more seconds. She leaned over to him quizzically, her brow furrowed and her eyes tired as she mumbled, "There's something wrong with your voice." She poked his jawline in dubiety.
John only grunted, his breath scented of whiskey and beer. "Nothing's wrong with my voice this is my normal voice." The words slurred out of his mouth freely, his lack of punctuation clearly stating that something was indeed inaccurate, but that didn't matter to Amy. She eventually gave up on trying to think properly, turning away from the drunken man beside her and gazing off into the scenery of trees. She inhaled the scent of the fresh air and greenery as it passed through her system like running water, exhaling in satisfaction of the refreshment. In that moment, Amy had decided that she would make John a promise. A promise that was never to be broken, rain or shine, living or dead, she was pretty sure that under any condition she would stay trustworthy to her commitment.
"I'll always be there for you." she whispered conclusively, as if it were something that should be strictly official.
John nodded his head idly, his lips turned upwards as he murmured, "I know, Pond."
His green eyes were currently competing in an extremely monotonous staring contest with the lights, and the convict was proud to say that he wasn't giving in any time soon. The ticking of the clock above his head only added to the bland scenery as its skinny hands traveled past the series of numbers patiently, John suddenly wondering how it could contain its sanity. Hands spinning all day, every day, the only attention it received being mere glances every twenty minutes or so; John found it entirely dreadful. This was his way of living when Oswin wasn't prodding him with tools and sassing him with words: laying down, hands folded politely atop of his abdomen as he challenged the lights to a friendly staring competition, pondering over the extremely uninteresting past-times of a clock. Some people wouldn't call that living at all, but then again, people never wanted him alive anyway.
The lights then flickered in their defeat, John's face twisting into a triumphant smile for his forty-seventh victory. I win. He thought, as if he could communicate with the lights through telepathy. Shall we play again?
But before he could answer himself, there was a light knock on the door, John sitting up in exasperation of the respite as he called out, "You're gonna come in anyway, so what's the use of knocking?" Oswin poked her head through the small gap in the door, her brow furrowed as she replied, "Well, aren't you grumpy today."
"I've been stuck here in UNIT for the past week being poked and prodded by an adolescent college graduate, and I'm supposed to be showing exultation?" he snapped back, his back slamming against the bed tiredly as he closed his eyes in irritation. Oswin looked genuinely offended as she proceeded to carry a large cardboard box into his room, and dropping it harshly upon the surface of his desk, she said, "I have you know that I am twenty-six and fully capable of the job that I do, so don't go whining about me being callow."
John's expression remained indifferent, though he felt his mind grow confused, his heart softening at her remark. He hadn't realized how sensitive she was to the jest of her being too young for UNIT, as if she denied its amusement entirely. He had no intentions of apologizing to her though, maybe it was because of his cruelty, or his loss of words for that matter. So simply heaving a sigh, confirming his disinterest with the subject, John opened one eye, peering at the box that sat silently on the desk before him. "What's that?" he queried dubiously.
Oswin didn't seem all that interested in it anymore, as if all of the energy had been drained out of her by his seemingly petty comment. She stared at her nails casually, silence washing over them before she answered, "A box."
"Yes, but what's inside the box?" he persisted, his patience now draining by her stubborn act.
She looked up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling as she breathed heavily. "I brought you a few things," she finally said after a lingering respite, turning back to the cardboard box with hesitation in her movements. "Mainly books, your books," she clarified, John now sitting up atop of his bed in interest of its contents. "I also threw in a few novels I thought you might like," she added, shuffling around uncomfortably on her feet as she named a few. "Ender's Game, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy-"
"That's..." John interrupted excitedly, perking up as his head lifted to meet her gaze. "...actually one of my favorite books."
Oswin bit back her smile as her eyes twinkled with charm. "Yeah?" she responded, taking out the book itself and tossing it onto the bed. "I thought it might be." It landed on the sheets before John's eyes, the cover staring back up at him as he brushed the title with his fingertips, a wave of nostalgia washing over him at the longing of its words rushing through his mind once again. Oswin saw his content with her reading choice and allowed herself to chuckle. "I remember the CSI bringing me all the junk from your office; seventy-five percent of it were books. Seventy-five percent of those books were science fiction." she explained, staring at the opposite wall as she continued. "I looked at them all and was like, how the hell does he not have The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?"
John found himself laughing along with her story, taking the book into his hands and sitting himself up against the wall. "I used to have it, actually." he claimed. "Read it all the time. Well, before I lost it, that is." he admitted, tilting his head to the right with a grim expression on his face. Oswin only shook her head, her lips forming a smile as she did so. "That's a shame."
"It certainly is." he agreed, lowering the book from his view and setting it beside him. "Thank you."
She nodded politely in return. "You're welcome."
Both of them were at a loss for conversation, the whole matter didn't even express any signs of discomfort, as if awkward silences were just a cliché to cover up the truth. Oswin and John both knew that the air was practically tinted with an unwanted bliss, far too happily optimistic for either of their liking. They hadn't considered the possibilities of them ever becoming friends, the thought itself unthinkable, as if it were impossible to intertwine a physiologist's heart with the one of a criminal's. "Look at us," Oswin laughed bleakly, her head bowed and her view fixed onto the view of her dusty high heels. "Entirely opposite of one another, the one who prods and the one being prodded, bonded together by the works of Douglas Adams." she narrated dryly, John chuckling at the peculiarity of their shared situation.
"...do all of UNIT's criminal patients get a portion of their belonging's back?" he queried, gesturing towards the cardboard box on the desk.
Oswin bit her lip. "Some do, most don't." she admitted, crossing her now tired arms across her chest. "It's really their physiologist's decision, and I mean, I saw no harm in returning your books." she shrugged idly. "Albeit the 'books are the best weapons' metaphor, but whatever." she waved the comment aside, bringing a smile to John's face. "Just, don't try to paper cut yourself to death, okay?" she teased, John's immediate laughter assuring her that it wasn't under his consideration.
"I won't. Promise." he guaranteed her, finding himself growing at ease with this girl. She had a sense of humor, and a fantastic taste in literature, remarkable qualities that he now saw through his eyes. He then seemed to notice a lot of new little quirks that defined her so precisely, the way her teeth grazed over her bottom lip when she felt anxious, or the dimple on her cheek that became more prominent as she laughed at him. She was like a painting with hidden images, details unseen when merely skimmed by the human eye, truly admired by the ones who chose to take a closer look. John suddenly found his eyes lingering on hers for far too long, his head turning away shyly as he cleared his throat, attempting to induct a new subject matter to the conversation.
"So, I take it you have an interest in literature?" he asked nonchalantly, flicking the cover of the book with his index finger.
Oswin stayed silent at first, her eyes lost and her lips parted ever so slightly as gravity tried to reel her mind back into her skull. "Oh, uh-" she stuttered, her small hands raking through her askew hair as she tightened her grip on its roots, as if she were trying to pull out an meaningless answer from the midst of her brain. Her words felt unorganized and overused as her brain messily composed a sentence, she could almost feel it's struggle to reach her tongue. "Yeah, I-I studied a bit of English in university, so I suppose I'm somewhat familiar with it." she managed to get out uneasily, and right as they left her lips, they seemed to leave an aftertaste, and it was bitter.
He cast her a sideways glance, Oswin feeling her heart contract and cringe from its impact. "What made you want to major in physiology?" he asked casually, not intending to imply on anything in particular, just his spirit of inquiry sprouting of a person he had yet to know.
She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were tying to protect herself from his questions, like something that shone upon herself was trying to hide underneath her weak defenses. "Curiosity." she responded in a mere whisper, each syllable coated with credence. "It's scary not knowing the things that live inside of you." she claimed, a perturbed look playing over her eyes. "Especially how they are capable of carrying all that grief with them, wherever they go." her voice quivered helplessly, as if something was crawling up her throat to capture her tongue from speaking any further.
Her eyes suddenly widened as they darted to the man that sat upon his bed, regret washing her tone as she blurted out, "I-I didn't mean like that," Oswin hadn't intended on offending him in any way. "I swear..." she affirmed truthfully.
John had a feeling that she wasn't trying to describe criminals at all. The girl suddenly looked frightened, as if something were to come after her and she couldn't do anything to stop it, more so defend herself from its anguish. His reaction flooded his mind by thoughts and emotions, and anger wasn't one of them. Worry, possibly. Confusion, yes. So with his voice gentle yet clear, he asked, "Are you alright?"
Oswin frantically shook her head, slowly inching away from him as she closed her eyes tightly, a tear managing to escape. It gleamed under the room's light as it made a path down her cheek, falling onto her coat as its fabric soaked it up quickly. "No," she admitted in honesty, immediately questioning herself of her thoughtless act. She couldn't react like this at work, especially in front of him. Her fingers trembled as they hastily pressed the numbers of the exit code, the door unlocking as she pried it open, turning back to him to say, "I-I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" As if she needed to ask.
John stayed silent for a moment, not wanting to pressure her any more than she already was, yet the plead of his own personal needs felt necessary to speak up for. "What about dinner?"
Her shoulders sank at his words, for she immediately felt the guilt of her own inconsideration. "Right, dinner." she exhaled, her palm pressing up against her forehead in exasperation. "I, uh, I'll have it sent to your room, if that's alright." she spoke quickly, as if her words had no leeway between themselves.
John glanced down at the book beside him, then at the cardboard box upon his unused desk. It could use some purpose. "Okay," he replied at last, Oswin only nodding her head before she left, the sound of the door's closure echoing off of the walls as he allowed himself to breathe. He felt oblivious against her emotional fluctuation, for it was certainly not his level of expertise. John simply found himself staring at her as if he were a silent spectator, unable to ease her from her personality flaws, much less even say something comforting. The need to kept lingering in his throat, but John forcefully contained his sympathy towards the girl. Primarily because, well, he was shy, and what made him think that the solace of a criminal was going to have any impact upon her?
He had decided to drop the concern entirely, possibly because he was genuinely exhausted from thinking about this girl, but suddenly he found her image clearly painted in his mind, unable to be washed away. Maybe it was because he didn't want to stop thinking about her, as if this mysterious girl was worth taking over his mind, his thoughts. Oswin Oswald. It was as if his heart had pumped out a different form of blood, a kind with more anticipation, absorption, and curiosity. John immediately shook his head in denial, his thoughts rattling about in his head, becoming a disarray of unfamiliar sentiments. She was changing something without touch, and he felt lost, almost afraid.
He hastily snatched up the book beside him, determined to remove his thoughts about her before they manifested inside of his brain for good. Skimming the first few pages of chapter titles and author dedications, his eyes stared intently on each word as if trying to force himself to focus on them, and yet, to his dismay, it wasn't the least bit of enjoyable.
Something else had already claimed his entire attention like it was their crown and victory, John then hesitantly accepting his defeat, and he wasn't surprised when he found out that it was all because of her.
Fifteen Years Ago
The book had fallen off the roof of their car, his mother had assumed as she cradled her sobbing son's body as light played across her face from the busy city street below. Even at night, their home was swallowed by the sounds of honking horns and turning wheels. John really hadn't minded, his ears had accepted it as music by now, but here he was, crying like a baby stuck in a twelve year-old body as his mother kissed his mop of hair affectionately. The tears weren't even blamed upon the city's hectic antics, it was blamed upon his stupidity of forgetting to grab his novel off the top of his mother's silver Impala before they embarked on the frenetic journey of driving to school.
John couldn't believe it had slipped his mind in the first place. He had left the book atop of the vehicle's roof to retie the laces of his left shoe; rubbish quality, those laces were. And, unthinking, off they went into the manic streets of the city, where the breaks were the only thing that stood between life and death. She remembered that morning clearly, John screaming at her to pull over so he could check if it was still there, when even he knew himself that it wasn't. Her expression had softened as her hands only tightened its grip on the wheel, an apology ready atop of her lips as she met his green eyes in the rear-view mirror. Impatient drivers closed them in entirely, moving forward being the only direction in which they could travel. There stood no possibility of John retrieving it back safely into his own hands. "B-But..." her son's eyes watered. "That was my favorite book."
His mother didn't need reminding. John was currently on the twentieth chapter of his eighty-sixth read of 'The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy', he had stayed awake until two in the morning turning its pages, his eyes managing to keep themselves open as he read each sentence with an undying passion. His mother wasn't all that enthusiastic of the whole ordeal, but seeing her son's shocked face when he realized he had lost it made her regret every single time she had scolded him for staying up too late memorizing each word. It was his most beloved possession, that book, you never saw him without it in his hands. They shared a codependent relationship, and in all honesty, she hadn't found it very healthy at times. It was simply mothers being mothers, she had presumed. Books seemed like his only enjoyable pastime. He never wanted friends over, he hardly ever held interest in his classmate's birthday parties, his mother having to force him into accepting a plate of cake.
What had she been doing wrong?
Nonetheless, Mary Jane Smith had shown sympathy for her son as her arms held him comfortingly atop of his tiny bed that he had grown out of ages ago, their toes growing cold as their feet hung over the edge. John knew he was being childish, him being twelve already and bawling over the loss of a measly book. But as the night progressed, it wasn't the only thing that he was crying about. The grief had piled atop of him like a snowball rolling down a winter's mountain, far too quickly for it to stop. Thoughts of his dead father caused his fists to clench and whiten, only to recede with a fitful of tears.
John couldn't even find the courage to ask for another copy, a cleaner printed edition, mainly because he knew that they couldn't afford it with a positive outcome. Practically evicted from their house after his father's death, sleeping in a bed that was a few inches too small, cooped up in a crummy apartment alone for most of the day as his mom tirelessly balanced out the chaos of three jobs. He could imagine the meals he wouldn't eat if he had gotten a replacement book, and his stomach complained just at the thought of it. His mother was sorry for the way his life was carrying on, trying to bring herself upon a positive outlook for her son's future, even if it wasn't the most hopeful at times.
At least she could dream.
Oswin poked and prodded at her cold spaghetti, almost as if she were trying to convince herself that she was eating instead of reading, but she couldn't help it. A worn-out copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein sat open before her eyes, her brain soaking up each word with an undeniable interest. The dim light of the isolated break room didn't exactly fit the mold of the librarian atmosphere, but it beat any other room with talking mouths. Every supervisor except her sat in the cafeteria at this time, monotonously monitoring their assigned felon eating the pleasures of a microwaved meal, the clump of so-called 'food' presented on a decent-looking plate to make it seem as though it wasn't store-bought.
She could have easily brought her book along with her to dinner, but that would mean that she'd have to meet eyes with the man whom she was technically in charge of. And considering the brainless act she put up for him earlier in the afternoon, she now became determined to avoid all uncomfortable situations that involved having to talk to him. Or seeing him, in all honestly.
Oswin wasn't even sure she could do such a thing, sending John's dinner to his room. She didn't seem any harm in it, though. The scene remained perfectly lucid inside of her mind, her storming into the cafeteria two hours too early, the lady operating the microwave carelessly tossing in each plastic tray of unnatural poultry, and Oswin couldn't blame her for it. Microwave lady looked a bit surprised at her abrupt appearance, not because she was early, but because she had looked as if a hurricane had poured out of her eye sockets. She didn't question though, which the girl in return was genuinely thankful for.
She had thought too soon.
The physiologist requested for a plate to be sent to the residence of John Smith, and just as she thought she had finished running her marathon to peace, Oswin received the look. A shocked sympathetic stare of mistreatment and pity, as if she were looking down upon a child. "You were assigned to John Smith, The Doctor?" microwave lady queried, Oswin only responding with a sigh that was far past exasperated. "Is that why you're crying, did he hurt you?"
Oswin then proceeded to do a minor reality check upon herself. Her eyes were puffy and probably resembled a hue of crimson red, she then proceeded to curse at the bloody sympathetic nervous system. Mentally, of course. She then realized what assumptions her face were painting for this nameless microwave lady, the physiologist shaking her head diligently in bleak protest. "N-No,I mean, yes, I was assigned to him, but he's not the reason for, you know-" she gestured frenetically at her post-sobbing expression. "All this."
Microwave lady certainly didn't look convinced, Oswin trying to recede her frustration by a sweet smile. "Whatever you say..." she concluded, raising an eyebrow in skepticism as she turned back to continue the unwrapping and defrosting process. Oswin raced out of there as calmly as she could, even though she'd sworn she felt like a gangly orangutang in high heels. The unnecessary acts of pity others would throw upon her like filthy wash rags had piled up too tall for her bearing, to the point in which Oswin's forthright words of denial had become unavailing. She kept trying to tell herself to stop, to stop caring, to start ignoring their voices that constantly rammed on the inner walls of her mind and heart. But she couldn't continue to persuade herself that what others said didn't matter to her, because it did. It wasn't a flaw. It was being perfectly human, which that itself had its faults.
She sniffled from the aftermath of her tears, turning the page of her book with her left hand and continuing to stab at her uneaten spaghetti dinner with her right. Secrets. She repeated the word to herself between chapters. They're so damn complicated. They built walls around certain people and certain moments, creating deception and guilt-coated lies. Oswin had been careful with her life for far too long to the point in which she claimed it to be unhealthy, she was the artist of misconceptions, eluding past her weaknesses like it was contaminated air. Her facade was painted over too many times to count, each person who knew her seeing someone different than the other. Damn it, how will I ever get out of this labyrinth? She would sometimes quote Simón Bolívar, his last words in relation to her own life. Her life was a labyrinth of fabrications, Oswin simply waiting for it to collapse in on herself in time. Would the aftermath be peaceful?
As a child, she was always told of that one special person she would run into one day, the one person whom she could release all of her flaws and imperfections onto, and still love her all the same. Prince charming, they had described it as. The other half of the heart. Somebody who wouldn't ever dare to alter a feature upon her face, because in their eyes, they were beautiful. It seemed like a paradise for her. No lies. No attempts to impress. Just simple, forever her.
Needless to say that she hadn't found that special person yet. She couldn't do anything but wait. Waiting for time to thin out until she could run through its seconds with her own independence.
She sometimes wondered why she was still here. Stuck in this miserable dim-lit UNIT underground base, testing on criminals as if they were uncivilized, unprivileged human beings. As if there were a form of segregation between them and the rest of humanity, and in Oswin's mind, she found it sickening. Maybe she was naive with a dash of unfathomable kindness, but that was better than hateful, right? At that moment, as if on cue, her eyes lay on the letters of ink before her, the words of Mary Shelley making her eyes widen from the coincidental serendipity. Life, although it may be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
Oswin immediately shut the book closed, not even bothering to remember what page she had left on, hastily sliding it across the table and away from her peripheral vision. She didn't feel like finishing it. Not now, at least. She never believed in 'meant-to-be' ironies or 'it's-a-sign' revelations, and she certainly never believed in deceased authors coinciding with her concerns of a complicated life. Mary Shelley was a literary artist, anything but her metaphorical therapist.
The fabric of her white lab coat gathered together as she she sank into her chair like a fallen ship, propping her feet atop of the seat to her left. She uncomfortably turned onto her side, curling up inside of her coat as the bitter unwelcoming breath of the air conditioner chilled the room. It had been a while since she had actually accepted a hug, as if she got the offer that often, and all of a sudden she longed for it. The feeling of another's arms around her small built body, its warmth and charity was what she remembered about it the most.
The sounds of echoing footsteps down the hallway only made Oswin want to vanish from underneath her white lab coat like a child having their blanket consume them entirely, for she only wanted to hear the deafening silence. She closed her eyes as if to drain out the disturbance from her head, but when she opened them again, she saw Kate standing before her. "Oswin, thank goodness I found you-" she shook her head in disapproval of her disappearance. "Where on Earth have you been?"
"I'm on break." she replied flatly, a strand of hair falling distractedly before her eyes, Oswin making no attempt to tuck it away. Kate only raised her eyebrows incredulously, Oswin only emitting a blank stare of innocence in return. Kate strictly knew that evenings held no respite periods. Oswin finally heaved out a sigh, rotating onto her other side so that she wouldn't have to meet her boss's gaze of dissatisfaction. "Fine, I took a break." she snapped out grudgingly, for Kate Stewart had shaped into a mother figure in the past few months, so the girl wasn't afraid to act unethical around her at times.
Kate only exhaled in exasperation, unwilling to put up with her disobedience. Raising a hand to her forehead, she announced, "Sarah Jane left early to attend a board meeting, so she'll need you to deliver some files to her office. She left you instructions with Vastra."
Oswin allowed herself to scoff. "If she left instructions with Vastra, why can't she just do it herself?"
She could almost feel Kate's stare bore into her spine. "The same reason I assigned you to The Doctor." she replied frankly, and with that, she abandoned her and her ripostes, the sound of her heels against the tiled floor creating a beat that passed through her ears once again. Oswin didn't dare turn around, that would be an act of surrender. She did, however, feel her defiance slacken greatly, her heart pounding with wonder. Why had Kate given her the rights to control John's life of felony? Oswin was nothing positively significant, she was far from favorable if she disliked you in any way, just a face in a crowd of hundreds.
Oswin wondered what Kate saw in her sometimes.
Later on at The Rose and Crown
Astrid Peth shifted her gaze upon the waitress that was tucked in a corner, a cell phone pressed up against her ear as quarrels and retorts escaped from her lips. Nina Porter, Astrid had identified her as, a fairly young waitress in her second month of serving at the small, run-down pub of The Rose & Crown. Astrid wasn't eavesdropping, just simply observing her actions from a reasonable distance. She was Nina's manager after all, therefore held a right to know what she was up to, at least, that's what she had assured herself in the first few seconds of spying on the girl. (Astrid's coworkers claimed that her privilege of being manager was starting to get to her head. "Nonsense!" she had declared while re-shining her new name-tag.)
"I can't keep doing this, you know, covering your shifts when you're off doing whatever it is you do!" Nina tried to snap under her breath, Astrid leaning in closer as her words piqued her interest furthermore. "What do you actually do, anyway? Why won't you ever tell me?" she queried with a prominent irritation in her tone. "I swear, you're impossible sometimes." she sighed in aggravation, and her statement didn't seem like a compliment. After another inaudible response from the other line, Nina hung up in annoyance, turning around to be met with Astrid's curious stare.
"Sorry," Nina said in an unapologetic tone, hastily stuffing her phone into her jean's left pocket. "My flatmate's being a pain in the ass."
Astrid raised an eyebrow as a warning for her language, straightening her posture and shifting into her 'manager's-disposition'. It was a principle of the thing. "Sorry, sorry," Nina grimaced distractedly, muttering her meaningless apologies as she pushed past Astrid into the swarm of awaiting guests to be served. Astrid herself turned around to watch the young waitress disappear out of sight, flicking a curl of her lemon blonde hair away from her face as she pondered the meaning behind the dispute. Who's shift was she covering? She wondered, crossing her arms across her chest. Turquoise eyes scanning the pub, Astrid's mind drew forth a blank as she watched her miscellaneous coworkers bustle about in bright crimson waist aprons. Astrid was just shy of oblivious when it came to who worked during which hours, and waiter's switched shifts all the time, so she was left without a clue.
Whoever they are, Astrid thought. They'd better have a good excuse for not showing up.
A/N: *Peeks out of box* Hello. xD
Finally! An update! *Collapses* This took longer to write than I had expected, and I thank everyone for being patient. :)