Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who

Chapter 2

A clinking brought Michael Traines from his distant thoughts. He sighed. Gone were the visions of majestic courts. In their place was the dingy, raftered ceiling and the overwhelming stench of used socks. Michael took the empty glass from his nightstand and started tossing it in the air, catching it deftly with each throw.

He took the quiet opportunity to look around at his roommates. Oh, how they'd all changed. Thomas Smith, the awkward boy with thick orange hair, had grown into a dashing young man with sleek auburn locks. Though built more thickly than others, he wasn't fat. Geoffrey Market, once a scrawny, bright and cunning child, was now a serious and humorless man. An intimidating air hung around him. Trevor Cardon, however, had not changed in the year that he had been at school. He was still short and still gullible. Michael rolled his eyes, catching the glass in his palm.

Michael located the source of the sound that had removed him from his thoughts. Trevor was playing marbles. Ridiculous fool. He should know that, if he wanted to keep his games, he shouldn't reveal that he owned them. Sandwethers Academy was not as prim as it sounded. It was filled with thieves and bullies. Michael did not remove himself from this group, by any means. He was right in the middle of it.

"Cardon," Michael said, still tossing the glass, "sneak into the kitchen and get us a cake or so. And while you're there, see if you can't find us a bottle of wine."

"Yes, sir," Trevor started up from his game and hurried out of the room. If he got caught, he would get a whipping, but he was obviously less afraid of that than of his roommates. He knew now that if you messed with Michael, Geoffrey or Tom, you were asking for more trouble than it was worth. Heaven knew Michael and his roommates had worked to establish that reputation.

"Reckon he'll be able to find some?" Geoffrey inquired quietly from his bunk where he was reading from the latest newspaper. The paper crackled as he turned the pages and his voice had a negative edge to it, as it always did. He was never happy nowadays. He was never happy before, though, now that Michael thought of it. "With this new cut in budget, I doubt he'll get more than a quarter of a bun and still evade notice."

"He's got to be for something," Michael replied. "Can't write a paper worth a button. I'll sure miss that last little fellow. Whatever happened to him?"

"He went home with some sort of incurable disease," Geoffrey sighed, turning a page. "You're quiet today, Tom. What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Family's coming to visit as special guests of the headmaster," Tom replied.

"That doesn't happen every day," Geoffrey grunted, turning the page in time with his sentence.

"I'm surprised they could get Maddie out of the house, let alone all the way out here," Tom sighed, kicking the wastebasket next to the room's single desk.

"Maddie?" Michael asked, more out of boredom than actual curiosity. "Isn't that your sister? The little one in that photograph?" Michael nodded towards the frames picture, allowing the class cup to bounce across his mattress.

"From what I hear," Geoffrey said, still scanning the paper, "she's grown up. Eh, Tom? She's what? Sixteen?"

"You made it sound like she was ten this whole year," Michael complained, turning so his fist supported his head.

"She is off limits," Tom said crossly, chucking a wadded-up piece of paper at Michael, who caught it easily.

"Do you hear that?" Geoffrey asked, looking up and glancing towards the open window.

"Hear what?" Tom shrugged, and Geoffrey put a finger to his lips, setting down his paper and jumping from his bed.

"It's gone now," Geoffrey sighed, sticking his head out the window, "but I could have sworn I heard… a saw, right about the time the breeze picked up."

Michael raised an eyebrow. Maybe the school had finally done in Geoffrey's sanity. It often had that effect on the boys.

Trevor ran a hand through his thick hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He crept down the stairs and slipped through the open door to the kitchen. Luckily for him, the other boys that attended Sandwethers were out for the week, which meant that most were visiting the town nearby.

The cupboard creaked softly as Trevor pulled them open. There were the cakes and the wine bottles. He was sorely tempted to leave the food there and say that he was unable to find any. Oh, did he hate his roommates with every fiber of his being. They were dishonest, discourteous cheats, but knowing that Michael would find out that he had lied later, Trevor snatched a single wine bottle and a single plate of cakes before sneaking out of the kitchen again.

"I have to leave," Geoffrey said, checking his watch and standing up. "I ought to be back soon. If Cardon returns with those pastries, save one for me." He left Tom and Michael alone.

"Market hasn't been himself lately," Michael confided to the distant Tom. "Do you think he's alright?"

"When you say 'himself,' do you mean the clever quips he used to send in our general direction?"

"Yes."

"Well," Tom sighed, "Market has been under a bit of stress. He is paying mostly for himself and money's tight. If we ignore it, maybe help him with a debt here or there, the problem will go away."

"Hope you're right."

Trevor reentered, a box under one arm and a bottle under another. He set these on the bed and continued his game of marbles. Michael realized that, in the flow of conversation, he had completely forgotten to steal and hide the game. For whatever reason, it didn't bother him as it would have a week or so ago. Maybe he was going soft.

They split the pastries and the wine, saving some for Geoffrey and enjoyed the food and drink in silence. Tom stood up and strode out the door. Michael, bewildered, followed.

"I'm going to wait in the parlor," Tom proclaimed as he descended the stairs.

"Might as well wait with you." Michael shrugged.

On the last landing, they ran into a maid, scrubbing the floor and singing softly. Tom liked bullying the servants, particularly maids like this one: she was enjoying herself. Michael had tried to limit his bullying to other boys as a rude action towards a maid might just land him with a burnt pair of stockings on an inspection. Tom had no such qualms.

The maid's skin was darker, like the natives in South America and Michael found her rather attractive. Tom barely acknowledged her existence until he was a number of paces past her. He rounded on the maid.

"Stop that infernal noise!" he exploded at the shocked servant who dropped her rag into the bucket of water with a splash. "And keep working, for heaven's sake."

The shaking girl obeyed, but Michael noticed there was a tearful glint to her eyes. She looked sad, hurt, and, for the first time in ages, Michael felt guilty. Really guilty. Not because of a possible burnt sock, but because of the tears hitting the floor. Tom had never managed to make one of the servants cry. This one must have been new.

They reached the parlor and sat down. Michael pointed out that they'd be waiting for another hour. Tom ignored him.

Geoffrey stuffed his hands in his pockets and scraped his feet along the road. Life had turned him on his head in the most unbelievable of circumstances. After his years of struggle and heartache, Geoffrey hated the world. He hated every person who bullied or was bullied. He despised the rich and had no love for the poor. If he had a family, he would hold them in disdain as well. The world was out to get him.

At ten-years-old, Geoffrey had lived in a trailer park in twenty-first century America. His dad was a drunk and his mom worked at bars for a living. His name had been spelled "Jeffery" then. He and his best friend had had aspirations of changing the world. Those dreams seemed so fleeting and petty now. "Jeff" and his friend had made useless invention after useless invention, but they never gave up. One invention, they found, had worked, though not in the way they had expected. In trying to develop a device for telepathy, they had built a time machine that had taken Jeff to the year 1903. Unable to return, Jeff decided he might as well move on. He had taken on the name Geoffrey, to match the time and tried to find a way to provide for himself. For years, he had been ill-treated and shunned. He had eventually made enough money to move to England and start his education at Sandwethers.

""Is it working yet, Donna?" Geoffrey looked up to see a tall man in a suit, funny red shoes, and a long coat walking with a red-headed woman in a purple dress.

"Screen's still blank," she said in a heavy cockney accent, shaking a small black box. Geoffrey ignored them and passed by.

"Have you fiddled with the psychic amperage dial?" the man asked.

"Don't see why we can't zip off to some place with diamonds for dirt."

These people spoke so strangely. Geoffrey hadn't heard some of that type of Jargon since… Geoffrey spun around. Both were gone, either around the corner or part of his imagination. He sighed and continued his brooding.

In his years alone, he had developed his sociopathic mindset. He hated the world and the world hated him. However, Geoffrey had also discovered that the time travel had also changed him. He could locate a source of fear, whom it emanated from, and, most impressively, he could bring those nightmares to life. Give the nameless fears of childhood embodiment to terrorize those who harmed him.

There was something that scared Geoffrey. There were times when he did things that he didn't understand but enjoyed.

A teacher across the yard shouted for him to get his lousy behind back indoors and that he should be studying. Geoffrey made up his mind.

He was going to make the world pay for the wrongs done do him. And he was going to use the most powerful weapon he could: nightmares and fears. Despite all the logical and steady things in the world, people still found fear in a mere image of the mind, played at night. The bravest men feared bad dreams, and what better ally was that which sent your enemy running and quailing at its mere mention or sight.

Geoffrey strode towards the puffing teacher and punched him in the jaw, dragging the unconscious man into the bushes. Closing his eyes, he poured his will into the teacher and felt it take hold.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I wrote this in hopes that
You'd read and review