Part One: An Empire's Criminal
"Knowing it and seeing it are two different things." - Suzanne Collins (Mockingjay)
Chapter Seven: Locked Outside & In
He felt like a circus act.
Forced to endure physical pain for no reward, all for the entertainment of the well-being. UNIT had put him through things only hell could have created, crowds screaming his name with hatred in their voices, chambers that imprisoned men whose insanity shown through their eyes like a clear window, but out of all, the faces he recognized were the ones that put him to shame, and those faces seemed to appear often. The eyes of his childhood classmates, each and every one of them staring at his aged and distorted form through the bars of a rusty school gate, the one he walked through every day as a boy, his backpack on both shoulders and his conscious innocent. It made him want to go back, to unravel all the things he knew about death and damaged politics. It would certainly give him some peace and a little less weight to drag along with whatever was left of him.
All the while, his thoughts continued to battle against one another on whether Oswin was a friend or foe; it really was hard to comprehend. She had the spirit and the heart of an angel, and yet the people she worked for seemed to despise him with a passion. But he couldn't help but accept the fact that she could now write an entire biography with the things she now knew about him. Where he lived, who he fancied at the age of fourteen, what shoe he would tie first. (It was the right one, but it didn't matter, really.) John wasn't sure he should feel personally violated or relieved. After all, Oswin was now the one person alive who knew him best.
But what seemed to bother him was that he knew nothing of her. Yes, he knew she was pretty, he knew she was short, and he knew that, after all this time, he had developed a strange liking to this woman he knew by the name of Oswin Oswald. But what was the significance of that? So, in the end, as any other curious being would, John had decided to get to know her better. Even if it meant badgering her with questions that were entirely stupid.
"Do you have a favorite color?" he asked in the simulation room as Oswin detached him from his metal earpiece. It was a calm day; he had followed instructions without a word of dispute, and was now acting a little too childish for his psychologist's taste. He was even swinging his legs from his chair like a toddler. "...yes. Red. Why, do you have a favorite?" she replied quietly, as if she were a school teacher trying to make small talk with a four year-old.
"Yes, I quite like blue." he scrunched his eyebrows together, like he was putting a lot of thought into his words. "A dark blue, though." he finished off with a confident little nod of his head, Oswin only humming at the peculiarity of his sudden inane act. For a man who stole and committed serious crime, she wouldn't have expected such a light tone in the conversation, especially about their favorite colors.
"Favorite number?" he offered innocently.
By then she was already casting him a strange look. "I-I dunno...twenty-three?" she shrugged her shoulders, for she hadn't given it much thought. Her voice sounded genuinely confused, as if she were pointed in an entirely different direction of this man's personality, and it certainly contrasted with the ones she had met previously. What was she to expect from a felon? Oswin opened her mouth to comment on his rather unfamiliar nature, but she lost the chance to speak as John beat her to it.
"Mine's eleven." he piped up. "In between ten and twelve, the last hour of the day, you know." he clarified, as if Oswin didn't know and he was educating her in a way. She only nodded stiffly in reply, and not knowing what else to say, continued packing up as John continued rambling on about the endless fascination concerning favoritism towards certain aspects of everyday life. "But you know, back to colors; why do we favorite these odd hues and pigments?" He sounded like he was supposed to be her teacher, her very cryptic, unorthodox teacher. "Scientists believe it has to do with our mood and personality, how certain shades draw to suggest what we're feeling. For example, yellow or orange typically attract a more animated nature, a subtle green would be suitable for one who is more serene or content, red could represent anger, passion-"
"Alright, professor." Oswin interrupted mid-sentence, not only to shut him up, but to prevent herself from blushing due to the embarrassment. "Thank you for your rather remarkable knowledge of, uh-" she paused briefly to cough. "...colors, but I really should be getting back to my work." (She lied. She had break after this.) His expression was one of slight disappointment, one that only made Oswin's heart wear away. Yet she bit back her tongue from saying anything else that would probably end up breaking his, too.
Refusing to meet eye contact with him, she swung open the door which seemed strangely heavier than usual, and proceeded to wind her way through the maze of corridors, John following at her heels like a silenced canine. In all of her life, Oswin had never met someone like him that made her mind deluge with a thousand different emotions at once. Exasperation, sympathy, suppressed adoration; it had formed a list that was impossible to keep track of. He was thoughtful, he was insane, he was an absolute wreck; neither of these descriptions seemed inaccurate.
Suddenly, as if someone had been assigned to break the silence between them, cursing poisoned the air that almost made Oswin turn around to the man behind her as if to say, Is it even possible to have a mouth that foul? But she kept her gaze forward, her stride confident, but her thoughts were none other than afraid. And when they rounded the corner towards the entrance into the criminal dormitories, the voice that swore his own language finally had a face to match.
Oswin wished she hadn't seen it.
The man's face, his dry lips formed into a frown that fixated his entire expression of cruelty, his eyes of an icy blue that could silence people to death; it was all aged and creased, but the girl recognized him all the same. She staggered back at the mere impact of his presence there, her back pressing up against John's stomach. "UNIT medical department, we're going to need an anesthetic injection for patient 866, Walter Simeon." An officer ordered into his receiver. " I repeat, we're going to need an anesthetic injection for patient 866, Walter Simeon."
Simeon. The title squeezed the air out of her lungs. Ringing screeched inside of her ears, and it was difficult to hear the words that were spoken to her next. "Apologies, ma'am, he's new here." one officer explained to her briefly before shoving the man himself past the doors of the dormitories, Oswin's feet planted firmly on the ground as she watched the frenzy disappear before her.
"I-uh, sorry about that." she shook her head abruptly, trying to remain composed. John, however, was entirely puzzled at the scene that had just played out. After a few moments, she quietly opened the door to a now empty hallway, her legs shaken as they tried to stagger along with the fear that weighed them down. "Oswin, who was he?" John asked, coming up beside her, for it wasn't hard to catch up with the speed she was at. "H-He's nobody. Really." she replied, turning her face away from him, making the gesture an excuse to type in the pass-code for his room. "Nobody of your concern-"
She gasped suddenly as John grabbed her by the shoulder, forcing her to face him. It didn't hurt, but the pain that ached in her mind was terrible enough. That was when John saw that she was starting to break down. Fear enveloped her entire face, each feature caving in to the memories that recurred within her. "You're shaking..." he observed, his hand softening its grip.
"I know I am you idiot." she snapped back, clenching her entrapped hand into a fist as the veins in her arm started to bulge. "And don't you dare start asking your ridiculous questions-"
"Well, what am I to do?" he asked hopelessly, both of his hands suddenly holding her fragile one. "Simply watch as the world around you starts to give in, knowing that I can do nothing to help? Oswin..." he squeezed her hand gently. "I look at you every single day and I don't understand a thing about you. Please," he asked in a pleading voice. "Teach me to understand."
Out of all the things Oswin could have felt, she felt caught. Damn it. The two words repeated again and again inside of her head, and it made the guilt and fury rise up from within her. She had allowed her past, her personal life interfere with her professional one. They were like two strings, entirely apart but tangled at some places, and that had made all the difference. She couldn't allow John to see it, to see the things that had damaged her life for good; she had decided that he had enough to carry already. "The last thing I need is for you to worry about me." She shook her head. "D-Don't worry about me, okay? I'm stronger than what you see."
Unable to fight against her, John looked down at the floor, once again, rejected against his plea to help. "I suppose I-I...okay." he finally mumbled back in reply, allowing his hands to fall to his sides. Oswin bit her bottom lip, gesturing towards the unlocked door. "Go on in, get some rest, I have some work to do. I'll send your dinner here tonight, sound good?"
John only hummed idly in reply, not really listening to her by this point. Oswin shuffled on her feet with unease, contemplating upon whether to say something else or not. And for once, she let her tongue get the best of her. "Thank you for your concern John, really, but my problems are not yours to carry, nor do I want that kind of burden on you." And with that, she swiveled on her feet and left him, unchanged, confused, and most certainly in the dark.
I traced back an address for the key. Meet me at the diner, one o'clock sharp. -Issac
Amy stared at the text message for several minutes, memorizing each word and its placement. Could it possibly be true? She thought to herself. This could be the day Amy could find out everything, either that, or run into a dead end. All of the waiting, the anticipation that had been stressed upon the arrival of this message, and now that she had it, Amy almost felt reluctant to find out what that key could unlock. Do I really need to know? Amy asked herself, her right hand squeezing her phone as if she had the strength to shatter into a million different components. Of course I do, I'm his best friend. Or, at least, was.
It had been nearly three weeks since she saw him being dragged away in handcuffs by the police, the identity of someone so dangerous revealing themselves to the public, one that she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge. But, deep down inside, her hope had already been lost. Amy couldn't get John out of UNIT with the little power she had, nor could she prove him innocent of his crimes. There was solid proof of his doings, and the verdict had been guilty from the start. But, despite everything, Amy still found a reason to be doing this. And she felt in no way ashamed.
Her keys jingled as she stuffed them into her purse that Sunday morning, taking deep breaths in order to calm herself. She could do this; she was brave enough. Her eyes met their reflection in the mirror of her vanity, and she couldn't quite describe what she saw. Insanity, perhaps. Desperation. All in all, she looked out of order. As if she didn't belong in a society of people who were too afraid to get what they wanted; that was the problem with most people these days. You're just tired, Amy. That third person voice inside of her head commented. You'll be happy when it's over.
Glancing back at herself one last time before exciting her bedroom, Amy tried to walk normally as she strolled into the living room of her flat, only to be met with the face of her one barrier she was willing to sneak around. "Rory...!" she gasped in surprise, pursing her lips together. "I didn't expect you to be home for another..." She looked at her wrist watch. "...five hours!"
Her husband only nodded stiffly as he hung up his coat on the respective hook. "Yeah, I switched half-days with Boswell today, thought I could take you out to brunch, maybe even a movie?" he suggested, his very words making Amy's heart erode away.
"A-Actually, I'd love to darling, but..." she trailed off as her mind tried to run into the safest excuse. "I have an appointment at one, and I don't know how long it's going to take, so..."
His expression faltered. "Well, surely we can go afterwards if that's the problem."
"I-It's a dentist's appointment!" she brought up suddenly, nodding her head and laughing her driest laugh. "Can't eat for a few hours I presume, so I guess lunch is sort of, uh, out of the question."
Rory's features instantly enveloped with disappointment. "Oh, well then..." he spoke in a weakened tone, shrugging his shoulders in slight embarrassment. "I suppose taking the day off was a mistake." he tried to laugh it off, but it sounded in no way amusing to him. "Another time, perhaps." he concluded, nodding his head. Amy pulled her lips into a tight smile, nodding along with him. "Another time, indeed." she echoed, brushing past him and leaving the tiny flat that they both shared, big enough for the two of them, but not enough for the amount of lies it held within.
Four Years Ago, May
"May I ask you a question?"
Amy smiled in response to the boy that swung beside her on the child-size playground, the one they used to visit as kids. "Go on," she nudged him with her shoulder, for they were that close to each other. He only blushed. "Where do you see yourself in four years?" he asked curiously, kicking the dirt underneath his feet, the grain and stones becoming stuck in the indents of his shoes. Amy furrowed her brow, for she hadn't given much attention to her future, which was probably a bad thing now that she thought of it. Out of all the possibilities that life could offer her, which one would she chose? It was a difficult thing to predict.
"I-I dunno." she concluded, looking up to the night sky with its confetti of stars and a moon that looked like a moon, as if she were to find her answer there."I see...potential in myself." she started off, nodding her head in confidence. It was a rather broad answer, but she found herself branching off from it. "I see myself as a journalist, or better yet, a novelist! Think of me, writing stories in the midst of a Capitol flat." Amy closed her eyes to envision the scene. "...I see myself sipping espressos at my usual booth at a local coffee shop, a book's pages at my very fingertips." she laughed heartily into the humid summer air."...but most importantly...I see you and I, together." She whispered, as if it were a promise that she wished to keep to herself. Her fingers laced themselves together with his. "Amelia Pond and Rory Williams, living happily ever after."
He smiled at the thought. "You really think so?"
"Oh," Amy grinned widely, her faith in her prediction strong as she said, "I know so."
Looking at Skaro from a distance was like looking at an old sepia photograph, dusk covering the landscape as if you simply wanted to wipe it off, yet no matter how hard you tried it remained that repulsive hue of a golden yellow and brown. It's the retched pollution. Amy reminded herself in disgust as she looked at her view of the city from the highway. She was opposed to the idea of driving almost an hour into the morbid place, but Issac wasn't interested in hearing her whine. "You want to find out about your little friend, this key will shed you some light." He said before Amy got the chance to thank him, for he was already out the door.
The key weighed down with guilt inside of her coat pocked, Amy taking the nearest exit onto the cracked streets of Skaro. It was an enclave that eventually became apart of Gallifrey, but it still kept it reputation for the most distinct (and most abhorrent) region of the nation. Some say that Skaro was responsible for a rebellion against the Gallifreyan Capitol, yet lost and for that never repaired itself. Others claim that they couldn't maintain themselves from the beginning. Amy didn't know, and she admittedly didn't care.
Her hands tightened themselves on the steering wheel of her car as she passed each building, looking for the correct address that she knew like the back of her hand by now. Each building was either upheld with a scaffolding or looked as if it were to collapse in on itself, which made Amy consider her chances of coming out alive even more meticulously. Her vehicle decelerated once she had reached what seemed as though an abandoned flat complex, and looking through the rubble of thoughts in her mind, she matched the address with the one she had memorized in her mind. "Zephyr Lane, you'll know the building when you see it." Issac had said before chuckling to himself. "It's the only building on that street." This was it. The faded blue letters on the sign were difficult to make out, but Amy swore she could make out the word Hiding. A shiver ran down her spine.
Getting out of her car, Amy slammed the door behind her, a thin layer of dust settling on her boots. She was looking for room number eleven. It seemed like a ghost town, this open complex; and she couldn't deny the feeling of somebody watching her from a distance. Taking the smallest of steps, Amy approached the array of mysterious doors before a scratchy voice called out after her.
"Hey, you!" his yell made Amy jump in shock, her attention being brought upon a man watering the plants, which were in fact brown and dying of dehydration. "What's a pretty face like yours doin' 'ere?" he asked, a crooked smile appearing on his face. Amy immediately wanted to shrivel away and escape the stare of this man, but she found the courage to stand her ground as she replied, "I-I'm looking for room eleven, sir? I'm here to visit a friend of mine."
He only shook his head. "From what I've seen, no one's been in that room for ages. But you can try." He pointed a bony finger to the second story of the building. "Take those stairs, first room to the left."
"T-Thank you, sir." she managed to get out, rushing away like a shy toddler who had just been caught in her act. This place was a purely horrifying from what she had seen. Making her way carefully up the rusty staircase, Amy felt too appalled to even touch anything, nevertheless breathe in the air that reeked of cigarettes and beer. Just like John. She thought to herself, coming face to face with none other than room number eleven. She took the time to come to sense what she was really doing, invading the personal life of a caught and deadly criminal, who was once, or what was considered to be her best friend.
Taking one last breath, Amy took the key out of her pocket and dug it into the door's lock, twisting it quickly until she finally heard the click of correspondence. Her hands shaking, she hesitantly grasped the door knob, the paint-chipped wooden door swinging open with a loud creak in its hinges.
The room behind the door looked like the perfect atmosphere for a depressed alcoholic. Whiskey glasses decorated the scene, opened cigarette packages toppled amongst themselves atop of the glass coffee table. A ripped up couch lay pathetically at the side of the room. Amy could picture John living here, wallowing in self pity and reading books to pass the time he had left of him. But there was one thing that had caught her attention. A letter. Sitting atop of the filthy kitchen counter that was cluttered with pizza boxes and catalog subscription cards. It was practically the only thing that wasn't stained in booze or any other beverage for that matter. Like a white rose, bright and pristine.
Amy carefully stepped inside of the vacant flat, being as quiet as she possibly could. The squeak of the floorboards begged to differ. (She wouldn't be surprised if she were to fall through.) Hastily snatching up the letter, Amy tried to make herself comfortable on the worn dusty couch that John had once sat on, and looking at the tri-fold piece of paper that was held so triumphantly in her hands, now a bit creased and bent in some places, she opened it. The handwriting belonged to him, she couldn't doubt it if she tried.
To whom it may concern,
If anyone is to find this letter after my departure, consider this an afterword of sorts. I admit that I have not used my time here on Earth wisely, and if there were a way to erase it I'd take any chance I have. But, I suppose I'd have to be a time traveler for that to be possible, which can only happen in the realms of science fiction. I remember having a stack of comic books on my nightstand, bought with the coins that I'd found in between sidewalk cracks and soda machines. I remember portraying the villains as cold at heart, selfish, and perfectly unreasonable. That is, until I became one myself.
I then realized their perspective, why villains do what they do, why they kill, why they steal; it's because they want vengeance to equal the amount of suffering they endured. They want innocent people to experience the torment they had once, at a time when they themselves were innocent people as well. Trust me; its a difficult desire to overcome. And for me, I became so distracted in this vengeance that I obtained the desire, fed the hunger, whatever metaphor you wish to use.
So, in response to my doings, I have a short list of people I'd like to apologize to. Though I may never gain their forgiveness, at least I found the confidence to try.
To Mary Jane Smith, my wonderful mother who had raised and cared for me to the best of her ability. I'm sorry that I couldn't be the son you wanted me to be.
To River Song, better known as Melody, my partner in crime whom I unfortunately lost upon the way. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the love you so truly deserve.
And, last but most certainly not least, to Amelia Pond, my best friend who has put up with my stubborn and conceited act since day one. I'm sorry that I couldn't be a better friend to you, but know that I was entirely grateful.
To whoever reads this, whether you were there the day I died or there the day I finally got caught, or somewhere in the future where my story is long forgotten; these words are just proof of my very existence no records or mugshots could evince. This is my writing, from my perspective that stands completely individual from everyone else's. So please, for your own sake, don't spend your time scorning the man who's made several mistakes when you still have that choice. Don't worry about me. Live your life.
That was the one decision I didn't make, and look at where its taken me.
Best of Luck, John Smith a.k.a. The Doctor
A/N: Happy Thanksgiving everybody! :D
Also, with that Mockingjay reference in the beginning, has anyone seen the movie? I was pretty much crying once I got out of the theater. THE EMOTIONS. EMOTIONS EVERYWHERE.