Prisoner Of War

Darkness reigned, the moon nothing but a myth as Red-Eye carried Vivien through the ruins, followed by Scarface Sally and the others. They'd crossed paths with other contingents of creatures, a series of screeches being exchanged between each patrol, before heading their separate ways, a pattern that had been repeated through the long night, and whenever the ground shook, the silence shattered by a long piercing drone, they'd hidden in shadowed alleyways or the darkest bowels of underpasses.

Red-Eye slowed to a stop before lowering Vivien to the ground, watching as she pushed the tangled hair out of her eyes, bones aching as she stepped forwards, her forehead creasing in confusion. They were at the edge of a wide expanse of wasteland, the landscape ravaged beyond repair. In the distance, rows of warehouses reared out of the darkness, surrounding them on all sides. All was still, all was silent and there was no sign of the TARDIS anywhere. She turned to Red-Eye, but he and the other creatures were nowhere to be seen. Only Sally remained, her head tilted expectantly to one side, her ancient eyes filled with farewell.

Sally chittered softly before reaching out and gently stroking Vivien's cheek, the creature's claw alarmingly scraping her skin. Vivien reached out in return, gingerly, then gently, patting the creature's head. She still found Sally's maternal devotion to her slightly alarming, especially on such short acquaintance, but even as Vivien appreciated the risk these creatures had taken in hiding her, Sally had been the only one to show any real kindness towards her, as well as being the only one to stay and say good-bye.

The creature inclined her head, before turning and slowly walking away, her gait awkward, belying her advanced years. Feeling like the ground had been cut away from under her feet, Vivien then staggered towards the row of warehouses, figuring she had nothing to lose. The TARDIS had landed in a warehouse, so perhaps she was being kept prisoner in another. The creatures seemed to inhabit such places, so it made a sort of sense to keep what they stole close by.

But Vivien wasn't exactly sure what she was going to do if she found the TARDIS, especially if it was surrounded by guards. Create a distraction? Try and make off with a time machine she had no idea how to operate? Alright, the Doctor had let her loose on the console a few times, but it had been under his strict supervision, just in case she crashed them into the Cretaceous Period or something.

Crushing down her doubts, she continued to stumble towards the warehouses, every step feeling like she was walking on broken glass. Wrapping her arms around herself, the cold night air cutting into her, she rounded the side of the closest building, sticking to the shadows as she searched for a back door, or even a window she could break in through. To her relief, her search was short-lived, her gaze alighting on a bottle green door with its paint peeling off in long curling strips. Figuring she had to start somewhere, she reached out to turn the door-handle, hoping against hope it wasn't locked, bitterly thinking she could really use the sonic at this moment if it was.

Then she froze, the metal biting into the back of her neck.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, sweetheart," a man drawled, his American accent sugar-coating every syllable.

Vivien's hands dropped to her sides.

"Now turn around, nice and slow," the man then ordered.

Vivien did as she was ordered, biting her lip to stop herself saying something that would end up resulting in a bullet between her eyes. True to form, she found herself staring down the barrel of a shotgun, its owner looking her up and down like she was a piece of shit on his shoe, his lips curling up into a sneer.

"Well, Blue-Eyes," he said, tossing back his long brown hair with cruel confidence, "it's been nice meetin' ya."

Vivien just stared at him, and then the world went black.

"Do I look like I need a toilet break?" the Doctor said from between gritted teeth.

"I was just asking" -

- "And I'm just telling you that I don't!"

Tom turned away from the Doctor, before running his hand over his beard, wishing he hadn't been so hasty in dismissing the Doctor's guards. Despite following the Doctor's advice in regards to the food run, the sight of him was still enough to make Tom's skin crawl. Ever since they'd set up camp on the outskirts of Acton, the Doctor's presence had continued to cause chaos. Although he'd been kept isolated, out of sight and under armed guard, people were baying for his alien blood, and it had taken all of Tom's tact to talk them out of committing carnage.

"I'm troubling your conscience, aren't I?" the Doctor asked abruptly, interrupting Tom's tumultuous thoughts.

"Why would someone like you trouble my conscience?"

"Look at your choice of words, Tom."

Tom just stared at him.

"I'm someone to you," the Doctor explained, his face solemn, "not something." Tom started to protest but the Doctor halted him with his bound hands. "You're the only one that's bothered to offer me food and water," the Doctor continued, "and you tried to stop those buffoons from kicking my head in. Now you're here, twittering on about toilet breaks. Can I make myself any clearer?"

Tom's mouth just opened and closed like a trapdoor.

"Where are you heading now, Acton Armory?" the Doctor then said conversationally, folding his hands in his lap.

Tom did a double-take. "How do you know about that?" Tom said, finding his voice again.

"Little pitchers have big ears," the Doctor said cryptically.

There was a long silence.

"I hate armories," the Doctor then said with distaste, "too many guns."

Tom just stared at the Doctor again. "What do you want?" Tom exploded, feeling like he was being played like a violin. "What are you angling for?"

"My pocket."

"Your what?"

"My pocket, Tom!"

Against his better judgement, Tom stooped down, searching through the Doctor's pocket as he'd demanded, his worn fingers closing round a strip of paper that crackled as he pulled it out, the Doctor averting his eyes away from the past.

"That's Vivien," the Doctor said, pain filling his face as Tom glanced down at the passport booth photos taken so long ago during happier times. Despite the top hat tilted over one eye, Tom recognized the Doctor immediately, but the girl perched on his lap, pulling a series of ever more ridiculous faces as the pictures progressed on, was a complete stranger to him.

Yet as he studied her, she seemed oddly familiar, despite being so far from him. He ran his thumb thoughtfully over the crumpled paper, smoothing out the wrinkles. She wasn't pretty, but he was caught by her vivid colouring; the long ebony hair, crimson lips, ivory skin and indigo eyes making her seem like she had fallen straight out of the pages of a fairytale, Snow White torn from her once upon a time.

"Your friend?" Tom asked, glancing up at the Doctor.

"Just my friend."

"She looks like a bit of a live-wire," Tom observed dryly.

The Doctor exhaled sharply through his teeth. "You have no idea," he said.

Tom raised his eyebrows questioningly, but the Doctor offered no further information, so Tom left, heading outside instead. Nodding at several passing soldiers and civilians, Tom then slowed to a stop in front of the old Chevy, giving its battered bumper a fond pat, before leaning against the parked pick-up, studying the strip of photos he was still clutching in his hand, Vivien's ridiculous face pulling making him grin despite himself. Nearby, Click was showing Anthony how to spar, ducking and diving like he was Mohammed Ali, his voice carrying through the night, Hal, Karen and Dai cat-calling and wolf-whistling in appreciation of his display, killing time until they headed out to the armory.

"Hey, Mason," Weaver called, startling him. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Yeah, sure," Tom said, grin fading as Weaver stalked towards him.

"It's about that bastard beatnik," Weaver said, face grim. "I've been hearing tales of you sneaking food to him and such, dismissing his guards so you can have a cosy tête-à-tête with him. Care to explain what that's all about, eh?"

"Porter told me to keep him alive," Tom said, trying to keep his temper, "so I can't exactly let him starve, can I? And as for dismissing the guards, I was trying to get him to loosen up a bit, you know, so we could talk and... stuff."

"Talk and... stuff?" Weaver echoed, raising his eyebrows.

"Never mind about that," Tom said abruptly, "we need to talk."

Weaver's jaw tightened. "About what?" he growled.

"The Doctor knew about us making plans to head for the armory."

There was a long silence.

"Loose lips sink ships, Tom," Weaver then said with some difficulty.

"I never said anything about the armory in front of him," Tom snapped. "But someone else did."

Weaver's jaw tightened

"We also spoke about the food run in front of him," Tom said tensely, "and he gave us that advice" -

- "Which you followed."

"But we ended up with a truckful of food, food we desperately needed," Tom argued. "If we hadn't done as he suggested, we'd have been worse off than if we hadn't."

"So what are you saying? That we trust him?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying," Tom said tiredly, "it's just we need to watch what we're saying around him, for better or worse."

"Nobody's marrying him, Mason."

Tom rolled his eyes.

"To talk in front of him though... that's an oversight we should know better to avoid," Weaver then said slowly, straightening his skip-hat. "It's letting him gather intel and God knows where that's going."

"But nothing happened on the food run."

"You said there were problems."

"Yeah, some Skitters and a Mech, but we were expecting that anyways. It doesn't mean it had anything to do with the Doctor though."

Weaver just looked at Tom, before sighing heavily. "We need to be better than this. All of us. We're letting standards slip."

"I know," Tom said quietly, "I know."

Weaver studied Tom for a moment before gesturing to the photos in his hand. "What's that you got there?" he said gruffly. "Contraband?"

Tom hesitated before reluctantly holding out the strip of photos to Weaver, who took them, brow furrowing.

"Who's the Mad Hatter?" he asked, brow furrowing even further.

"The Doctor."

Weaver snorted in derision. "So that's the girl, then?" Weaver then said, jabbing his finger at Vivien's spectacularly gurning face.

"Yeah."

"Not much of a looker, is she?"

"Does a good Jim Carrey impression though," Tom tried to say lightly, taking the pictures back.

Weaver just harrumphed. "Why did he give you these pictures anyways?" Weaver then asked, brow furrowing even further as he glanced between Tom and the photos like he was watching a tennis match at Wimbledon.

Tom glanced up, grin fading. "I'm not sure," he said uneasily, wondering where Weaver was going with this. "He says she's just his friend, but who knows?"

"Well, I'm not letting you take a team out there. Hell will freeze over before that happens."

Tom just looked down at the pictures again, dark eyes thoughtful, the hint of a grin playing on his lips.

"That girl," Weaver said suddenly. "What exactly is she to him, the Doctor I mean."

Tom glanced up, surprised. "I'm not sure," he said slowly, wondering where Weaver was going with this. "He says she's just his friend."

"They seem pretty cosy to me."

"What do you mean?"

"She's sitting on his lap, for chrissake."

Tom just looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Maybe you'd prefer it to be your lap," Weaver said, straightening his skip-hat again.

Tom was startled, then angry. "Oh really?" he said dangerously, standing up, taking a step forwards.

"Yeah, really."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Look at yourself, Tom, clutching these goddamn pictures like some Homecoming Queen and her crown at high school prom," Weaver snapped. "That girl is a Skitter-siding bitch who could bring hell down on the 2nd Mass, and you're smiling like someone's just slipped you a happy pill!"

Tom just shook his head, completely speechless, before turning and stalking over to the others, Weaver watching him go.

John Pope's miscellany of thugs and hoods strode through the access tunnels, faces grim and unrelenting in the harsh light of the bare bulbs that barely lit their way. His brother, Billy, had the girl slung over his shoulder, his grey eyes gleaming at the prospect of fresh female meat, traitor or otherwise. Pope wasn't interested in shit like that; he preferred his women willing. But as far as the chick they'd picked up at the armory was concerned, he just wanted to know what the hell she was doing backstabbing the human race before he put a bullet in her brain.

When he and his gang had seen her being carried through the ruins by the cooties, they'd just yawned, thinking they were witnessing another harnessing kidnapping. As long as it wasn't their kids being taken, they didn't care. But then things had gotten interesting, the main cootie setting the girl on her feet before scuttling off, followed by his little green friends, one remaining behind, exchanging some sort of good-bye with the girl, before disappearing into the darkness as well. Then the girl had made a beeline for the armory, and that's when Pope had gone after her, sensing there was some sport to be had.

Up close, he'd seen she wasn't a girl after all, but a woman, about twenty or so, not bad looking underneath the dirt, but no beauty either. Even with a shotgun trained on her, ready to blow her brains out, she'd stood her ground, eyes burning like blue fire in her filthy face. Girl had guts. He had to admire her for that. Then Whitey had pistol-whipped her, and here they were, bringing her back to their lair, Pope and his partisans more than ready for the games to begin.

As they entered the auditorium, Vivien blearily opened her eyes, only to find the world the wrong way round. As her brain struggled to catch up with itself, it slowly registered she was slung over somebody's shoulder, every jolt making her pounding head explode with pain. Confusion reigned, and then reality came rushing back, making her heart swoop alarmingly in her chest with panic. She started to struggle, the somebody telling her to can it, making her struggle even more. Then teeth were biting into the back of her bare leg, deep enough to make her cry out in pain, the sound muffled, choked by the gag in her mouth.

"Billy, behave," Pope drawled, Vivien recognizing him as the one who'd had his shotgun trained on her.

"She ain't, so why should I?" Billy jeered, the others laughing at his lame wit.

Then his hands were on her, wandering like spiders over her flesh, and she lashed out, trying to strike him with her fists and feet, but her wrists were bound, her ankles tied together, rendering her assault ineffectual. Unconcerned, Billy carried Vivien down the rest of the aisle, before flinging her onto the floor in front of a stage, her head connecting with concrete, stunning her into submission.

The men gathered round her as she lay there, anticipation filling the air. A girl, with long dyed blonde hair dark at the roots, got up from the front row of seats, a rifle slung across her back, face unreadable as she surveyed the unfolding scene.

"Margaret," Pope said, sweeping her a low bow.

"Maggie," she said, her voice a monotone.

"So you keep saying," Pope said, rolling his eyes.

Maggie turned away, hiding her hatred.

Pope studied Vivien for a moment before suddenly stooping down and grabbing a hank of her hair, viciously jerking her upwards. "Hello again," he drawled, before throwing her down onto the ground again. Then he was on top of her, tearing what was left of her camisole in half, exposing her back. "Not harnessed, eh?" Pope spat, standing up. "And all the signs point to you acting at your own volition..." He booted her savagely in the side, making her cry out in pain. He knelt down so he was almost but not quite nose to nose with her. "You know what I hate more than a cootie?" he asked, voice low and dangerous. "A cootie siding human, that's what."

Vivien just stared at him, blue eyes blazing.

"If you're too old to be harnessed," Pope continued, ramming his face further into hers, "what are you to them? A pet? Maybe something a little more... intimate, shall we say?" -

Vivien suddenly headbutted him, her forehead smashing off his nose. He reeled back with a sharp cry, clutching his face, blood pouring out from between his fingers. She went sideways, seeing stars, Maggie standing out for some strange reason amidst the whirling landscape, something like satisfaction oddly flickering in her dead eyes.

"Stick her in the fucking Bird-Cage!" Pope gasped, Whitey and Cueball dragging him over to the front row of seats, forcing him to sit down as Billy picked Vivien up, before carrying her up the stage steps like a bride over the threshold, one of the other men clambering up onto the platform, flinging open the entrance to a cage that was about five feet tall and five feet wide, its floor splattered with dark bloodstains. Vivien was shoved inside, body crashing against the bars. Then there was the sound of a key being turned, and as though from far away, she remembered the TARDIS key hanging from its silver chain around her neck, freedom falling through her fingers.

Woken up like an animal
Teeth ready for sinking
My mind's lost in bleak vision
I tried to escape but keep sinking...