A/N: Aww, shucks! Thanks for the outpouring of support; I'm glad you all are excited for the return of the series like I am. I'm getting good ideas again that I can only attribute to giving my brain a little rest, so thanks for that.
Will the Doctor and Quinn kiss, I was asked? Hm. I hadn't considered it... I kind of see their relationship more like a father/daughter thing, plus I'm not sure it's appropriate for 900+ year old aliens to make out with sixteen year old pregnant Earth girls, but... hm. You plant interesting possibilities in my head. Perhaps I'll water them and see if they grow.
ALSO, did you all see the series 7 finale? WHAT IS THAT I DON'T EVEN! 187 days... just gotta wait 187 days...
Callie sat on the couch as primly as she possibly could, palms on her knees, trying to make herself look physically small, to take up as little space as possible. Every ragged breath made her body tremble. She was showing every outward sign of fear possible, even though she really didn't feel anything of the sort inside. Tonight didn't matter in the long run - if there would be a long run. She wasn't sure there would be at this point. But that decision wouldn't be made tonight. Just give it time, she thought, and she'd be quaking in her boots just like everyone else. Nonetheless, she congratulated herself on her outward showmanship. It was terribly be important that this appear convincing, or the consequences could be very real indeed.
The whole room was silent, everyone completely hushed as if they feared shattering the delicate situation if they were to make any sudden movements. She looked over to her left, at the man leaning against the mantle of the tiny living room. The room was perfectly set up - just the right number of knick-knacks to imply a whimsical personality, just enough photos on the wall to indicate the importance of family in her life, every single item part of a carefully crafted image that someone had made for her. He looked out of place in the room, his crisply pressed, drab military uniform standing in sharp contrast to the warmth of the room around him. But then again, that was exactly the feeling his appearance was supposed to invoke.
His casual posture belied the seriousness of the situation. He picked up a picture frame and stroked the wood with two fingers, not really appearing to be looking at it so much as through it, as if it were as insignificant as a bit of lint on his sleeve. "I'm sorry, could you repeat the question captain Saunders?" she asked in a childlike voice.
"You heard me perfectly well," the man replied, "and you will give me the information I'm looking for. Now I won't ask you again. Where's your husband?"
"I don't know."
"Where's the case he stole from the king's chambers?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about! How many times must I tell you?"
The man wasn't calm anymore. Suddenly his temper flared up. He threw the picture frame against the far wall where the glass shattered and, stepping forward, he upended the coffee table with his boot. She lunged backwards, pressing herself more fully into the couch under the towering figure now standing directly before her. He leaned down and grabbed her by the lapels of her blouse. Dragging her face up to his own, nose to nose with her now, he growled out, "I am not playing with you, you verminous insect! Your husband is a known associate of the Travelers, a traitor to king and country. Now, you will tell me where he is, you will tell me where His Majesty's property is, and I will consider sparing your life."
He threw her back down on the couch. She stood shakily back to her feet, putting one hand to her throat and gasping for breath. She hated when he held her that way - not the feeling of powerlessness or paralyzing fear. No, she was used to that in her everyday life. It was simply the pain of being jostled so that bothered her. Nobody should have to endure pain like this, not even for the cause.
She staggered over to the bar under the watchful gaze of the officer, getting ready to run, muscles tensing. As nonchalantly as possible she poured herself a drink. Then without turning back to him she said, "You've made a mistake."
"There is no mistake," the officer bellowed from his position near the couch. "Traffic has been intercepted between this residence and encrypted relay buoys known to be in use by the Travelers. Your husband is most definitely a sympathizer, and I think you are hiding him."
"Then as I said, you've made a mistake." And before he could say anything else in reply, she opened a drawer on the bar, pulled out a pistol, and shot him cleanly through the heart. "I don't need my husband to do my dirty work."
She walked back to the couch, briskly and efficiently flipping the couch cushions over to reveal a hidden compartment, from which she pulled a large black case. Slinging the strap over her arm, she made for the door, but stopped when a trilling sound caught her attention back in the room. She spared the corpse of the officer a look, and was surprised to see that one of the buttons of the overcoat had begun to flash and squeal. An alarm of some sort, most likely.
She wrenched the door open and stepped out onto the porch, already hearing the sound of the helicopter and seeing light streaming down from above to seek her out. It was an alert, she realized, probably tied into the soldier's vital signs. If anything happened to him, the others would be alerted to his presence. In a very, very short time this place would be swarming with officers, all with itchy trigger fingers, ready to help take down one of the Travelers and claim their rightful place as leaders in the community. They would be heroes, lauded and adored, becoming exalted pillars of the community, all for hunting her down and killing her. The air of competition among the soldiers was great, only serving to incentivise them into greater and greater acts of cruelty. There was no recognition for long service, no recognition for heroism or bravery. Only kills. A single ear was all you needed to prove you had the mettle to work on the top rung of society. Even though she knew that tonight was not as significant as it might be under different circumstances, the thought made her stomach turn with rage. The government had made a game out of killing her and people like her, just for thinking differently.
Was she any different, though? Any better? How had she repaid her allies? By participating in this ridiculous charade. It would almost have been laughable if it weren't so terribly sad instead. She pushed the feeling down. She had a job to do, and she would do it well. Others were depending on her, after all. She gave one last glance at the house, packing as much longing and desperation into the moment that she possibly could. She would be leaving her home for the last time, she realized, one way or another. And with one deep breath, she ran.
There were soldiers in the street, so she ducked down into an alley, still clutching the case. There was a safehouse not far from there. If she could just get there then she would be safe, at least for the time being, but she knew intellectually that it could never be that way. Still, she had to believe it if it were to look real.
She knew the soldiers were coming before they actually appeared, of course, but she still screamed and threw her hands up in the air when they jumped out and pointed their guns at her. "Please," she said, "I'm being chased by Travelers! You have to help me!" but they weren't buying her story, not for an instant, which was something she knew would be the case, ultimately. Besides, they knew her. They stepped out of the shadows almost in unison, revealing their faces. The Stanton brothers, Brock and Marv, were here to cause her trouble once again.
They advanced on her, each of the pair holding their weapons out in front of them at arm's length, keeping them trained on her. She backed away slowly, but the entrance to the alley was too far away, and she'd never reach it in time.
"Kate Milligan," Brock said, addressing Callie directly. "You have been found guilty of multiple crimes," said.
"Aiding and abetting, harboring a dangerous fugitive, betrayal, and thievery against his majesty the King," Marv supplanted. "Surrender the case and yourself to be imprisoned, or die here like the vermin you are. Choose."
She smiled a wry smile. "You'll never take me alive! I'm too strong. We, the populace, are too strong! Harm me and two others will appear in my place!"
"So be it," Brock said, and both brothers fired their weapons. Callie fell down in the alleyway, onto her back, the two soldiers now standing directly over her, aiming their weapons at her head. She felt something burst as she fell, felt the pool of liquid starting to form beneath her and spread out over the floor, the cool liquid, staining the cobblestones a deep crimson. She gasped and sputtered for air.
Brock spoke again. "By order of his Majesty the King," the first soldier said, "I declare you an enemy of the state. The penalty is execution." He reached down and grabbed the bag from her, and she found herself too weak to fight him for it. "Look what your rebellion has wrought," the soldier said. "Look at yourself, look at where you are now. Anyone would be a fool to follow the Travelers now; it brings nothing but ruin. Your own personal insurrection will end. Now. But fear not, for the rest will follow along nipping at your heels." He quieted his tone only in terms of volume, not intensity, when he leaned down by her ear and said, "You won't be alone long, ma'am. Because as far as I can help it, I will fight to make sure that every last one of the associates of the Travelers ends up dead and buried. By their very nature, martyrs must be rebels, and martyrs by their very nature must die. Now, Marv," he said, and the two of them pointed their weapons at her head and fired. There was a split second of some crackling sound, and then, from her point of view, blackness. Simple, utter blackness. "And so it must be, for those who fail to follow the King."
"Yes, brother. No actor against the King can stand."
There was an utterly hushed silence over the whole scene, which nobody dared to break for fear of upsetting the delicate balance. Then, very suddenly, the light returned. Callie stood up, dusted herself off, and smiled. The soldiers from the alleyway smiled, likewise. The man from her house earlier appeared on stage, followed by her husband, her best friend... all people who had died in the name of the resistance mere hours before assembled, each one smiling and proud of whatever they had done to contribute to this evening's success. Joining hands with all the others, she took a bow. It was at that moment that the audience went wild with appreciation for their skill.
The theater was a small venue, seating less than five hundred, but it's work was important, or so they were told often enough by those in charge. Callie stepped forward from the line of actors and gave a huge bow, reaching forward to accept a bouquet of flowers the stage manager handed her and waving to the audience. The huge smile plastered on her face now was just as fake as her fear had been moments ago. The audience thought their act had finished for the night. Really, it was just beginning.
She stepped back in the line and waved once more as the curtain closed in front of them. Robert, the director and playwright, approached from backstage and gave her a tight hug, neither of them wanting to let go.
"You were brilliant," he whispered in her ear. "Listen! They love you!"
"Yeah," she said, "but what about tomorrow night?"
"You just sell your performance like you did tonight and we'll be fine, all of us. Everyone that matters."
She pulled out of the embrace and looked him right in the eye. "You really think the King will like me?"
He hesitated for just a moment, only long enough for her to notice, but then he nodded. She knew it wasn't any doubt about her abilities that made him consider it. Truthfully, the King's whims were unpredictable even at the best of times, and knowing how he would react with certainty was impossible. But he smiled wanly and said, "Just remember who we're doing this for. If you do that, your performance will follow."
"Mr. Delerno?" one of the stagehands said, coughing to announce his presence. "Some of the critics would like an interview."
"Of course, Steve. I'll be right there," he said. Then quieting his voice and turning back to her he asked, "You alright?"
"Just nerves. I'll be fine," she said. "Go on, Robert, go enjoy your big moment!"
The other actors had dispersed by now, and she was all alone on the living room set. She sat down in the same seat she'd been in minutes before, her legs trembling so that they threatened to give way beneath her as she sat down. She'd only been acting before, but ironically she was now utterly and completely terrified.
DAVID TENNANT
DIANNA AGRON
DOCTOR WHO
THE KING'S PLAYERS