A/N: Okay, next chapter, the action begins. Did Lizzie Borden take the ax?

Just a heads-up, I'm planning on doing some edits to chapter one and two. I'm not sure when this will happen, but some things will be changed. Just to clear things up, Tori from chapter one is Meg, and no longer will Meg write that scene. It will happen at the very beginning as a prologue.

Thank you to all of the guests who have reviewed! I would love to see some favourites and follows, or at least a review telling me why you're not:) Also a big thank you to my amazing beta, Forever the Optimist. Go read her stuff!

It was indeed Sherlock who smirked at Meg, radiating a smug and arrogant aura. His eyes, however, told a slightly different story. They were filled to the brim with curiosity. She could almost see the gears turning, synapses in his mind firing from one place to another at a stunning speed. He was deducting her, attempting to figure out the enigma that had literally landed right in front of his nose.

Meg's own synapses seemed to have shorted out. She stared dumbly at him, jaw dropped to the floor. It was awkwardly silent, though Meg was in no state to amend that and Sherlock, with his sociopathic tendencies, certainly didn't care.

A car horn sounded from outside. Meg was startled out of her stupor, shutting her mouth as she straightened, wrinkling her nose at the wafting smell of bile. Sherlock took a sudden breath, probably the first one in several minutes. He sometimes got so focused, he forgot to breathe.

"Yes."

Meg raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'll take the case."

With that, he gracefully jumped out of his chair, navigating through the maze of furniture into the cluttered kitchen.

Meg blankly stared in the direction she'd gone, wrestling with her thoughts.

...how? I don't think fictional characters are supposed to exist, even in parallel universes, she thought.

They couldn't exist because it was impossible. Just because parallel universes were slightly different didn't mean fiction became reality. The science behind it just didn't work.

Or maybe this universe's slight difference caused fictional characters to become reality? It's possible, but unlikely.

Also, how had she arrived in a parallel universe in the first place? What would be the consequences?

Then there was that tiny little matter called Sherlock. He seemed to think she would be staying, and he would be solving all the enigmas suddenly tied to her once clear, and straightforward life. Meg didn't exactly know what to make of him.

She understood him, as an author understands their characters. She knew how he would react to certain situations, what had happened in his past, and had at least an inkling of what went on in that genius brain of his. Meg had, over the years, come to know his character well enough, that at times she thought of him as an actual person. It was a side effect of years of focus on one story.

Would this Sherlock be the same as the Sherlock in her writing? She wasn't sure, but his reactions thus far would have been the reactions she expected. Only time would tell if this was the same Sherlock.

If it was, did she even want to stay? To her, he was rude and obnoxious, but had that streak of genius that, in different circumstances, would have had Meg ecstatic to watch him work. Seeing Ben pretending to study a pretend dead body, after memorising a script she had written was not the same. But she couldn't get distracted. If, there was even the slimmest chance of finding her way back to her universe, Meg had to find it as soon as possible. Also, staying could result in Mycroft finding her...

Meg shivered at the thought. She loved Mycroft's character, the only person with a mind bigger than Sherlock's. But she loved it from a distance, like admiring a ferocious predator from a far off location, with a nice, safe wall in between. Mycroft was dangerous.

Why did Ben from her universe and Sherlock look the exact same? That one made no sense at all to Meg's brain. Sherlock and Ben's family situations were quite different, even if, supposedly, their parents looked the same. Also, Liam, the actor who played Mycroft, was in no way related to Ben.

There were too many questions surrounding Sherlock, so many that Meg could make nothing of him. The confusion was enough to make her mind shut down from sheer pressure.

If only Jack was here.

Jack would know what to do. He'd probably annoy Sherlock to no end with his constant flirting, die a few times, and figure it all out in the end. Jack would tell her to stop staring at the problem and start fixing it.

Only, Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood member, immortal, wasn't here. He was in another universe, unavailable. Everything Meg knew was in another universe, unavailable.

The implications of what that meant, had only started to sink in. Yet she already felt like she was drowning, cut off from everything important to her.

Sherlock reappeared in the corner of Meg's vision, standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Are you coming?"

"I-"

What was she supposed to do? Follow him? Like this? With so many questions demanding to be answered, that she could barely comprehend what was going on around her? When her mind was only beginning to process exactly what being in a parallel universe meant for her?

At that moment, another familiar person appeared at the top of the staircase, a cheerful smile on her face.

"Hello, Sherlock. Who's this? I'm sorry dear. I didn't hear you come in. What's your name?"

Meg stared at her with confusion, Mrs. Hudson's words sounding distant.

Had the entire world gone mad? Had she gone mad? Everything was crumbling around her. In a second, Meg's plans, her dreams, her life had all crumbled to dust. Her surroundings were spinning all of a sudden. She put a hand out on a piece of furniture to steady herself.

"I-"

A little frown appeared on Mrs. Hudson's face.

"Are you alright? You've gone quite pale, all of a sudden."

She took a step closer to Meg. Mrs. Hudson's hand went up to her nose as the still lingering scent of the sick hit her in the face.

"Oh you poor dear. You're ill."

Meg barely registered any of what went on, the features of the room blurring together like clothing in a washing machine. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, leading her.

"Sherlock, what were you thinking, not offering her any help. She's hardly any use to you like this, barely able to stand upright."

"Yes, hardly any use at all. Send her back up when her emotions aren't so heavily inflicting her thoughts."

"I doubt she would want to come back up, the way you're acting. Be more considerate, Sherlock. Watch your step, dear," she added kindly.

Her legs moved mechanically down the steps, their voices a drone in the distance. Meg stumbled, but an arm quickly steadied her.

Faces, images, memories spun through her mind at a dizzying speed, each one only widening the gaping mouth of alone swallowing her whole.

The first time she'd arrived in the strange new world called London, hundreds of people milling around her, that overwhelming sensation of success at finally being there, after hours of hard work, in another country, among people from a different country.

Meeting Jack, the sliver of hope that accompanied it, and once again, the delectable, addictive feeling of success at finally finding a link to the strange man with the blue box.

A team slowly forming, a team under the name Torchwood, one that saved Cardiff and the world from aliens on daily basis. A team Meg was a part of.

That seemingly innocent email, informing her she had a contract with the BBC, and her script Sherlock was going to be filmed. An overwhelming pride, realising these characters of her creation had caught the interest of the biggest broadcasting station on the planet.

Gone. All of it was gone. Her world, her work, her entire universe was gone. Gone to her. How was she supposed to cope? How was she supposed to succeed, when the price of failing pressed down on her chest, a constant, overwhelming shadow, ready to crush her in a second?

"Gone," Meg murmured faintly, unaware the word had even passed through her lips. "Alone."

Mrs. Hudson tutted, pushing open a door, leading Meg into a homely kitchen, and guiding her over to a sofa.

"It'll be alright, dearie. You'll see. It'll be alright. Let me just pop over to the kitchen and start the kettle. You need a good cuppa tea."

Meg closed her eyes, exhausted, her mind worn out, her body weak from the vortex manipulator, and whatever other strains it had endured before. She was asleep before Mrs. Hudson even left the room.

A little ray of sunlight hit her directly in the face, causing her to screw her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block it out. The light persisted. With a sigh, Meg stretched, attempting to undo the knot the sofa's armrest had put in her back. Her eyes sprung open.

The sofa. Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock.

Memories came tumbling back. She had been waking up like this a lot lately. Groaning, Meg attempted to force the many looming issues out of her mind. Now was not the time to deal with all her emotional problems and what-ifs. She needed to focus on finding a way back to her home universe. It was what Jack would demand her to do, if he was here.

Meg placed her two feet on the ground and stood up. Her legs practically gave way underneath her. Only after did she remember the weakened state of her body, due to a still unknown time of being unconscious.

Okay then. Tea first.

She faintly remembered something about a kettle being put on the stove…

Ahah. There it was. Her trembling hand reached out to pick up the mug, bringing it cautiously to her lips.

It was lukewarm, but still surprisingly good, the result of a practiced hand allowing leaves to steep the right amount of time. Meg enjoyed it thoroughly, more than she usually enjoyed the drink. Her American background had left coffee as the traditional caffeine supplement, and it had remained that way even after her several years spent in the U.K.

Tea was a part of England she'd observed, but never one Meg had ever been a part of. Many of her colleagues had spoken fondly of childhood memories involving rough days accompanied by comforting cups of tea. In this particular aspect, Meg had been an outsider, not one of them. It had always been that way, really. Something was always so drastically different about her, from the other people around her. Back then, it had been her American background, one of the only Americans working for the British Broadcasting Channel.

Now, her background came from a different universe, a universe that she had a high chance of never seeing again…

That line of thought was aborted.

When the cup was drained, Meg set it back down and began to study her surroundings.

She was in a well furnished room, with older, mismatched furniture, and stacks of books and magazines placed in ideal locations. The only light came from the large window, last signs of a rare sunbeam fading. There were two doorways, one leading into a cheery kitchen, and the other into a hallway. It was an oddly peaceful scene.

It was indeed Mrs. Hudson's little flat, exactly as Meg had pictured it in her mind.

The woman herself was nowhere to be seen, though there was the distant sound of a vacuum, coming from the hallway, behind one of the closed doors.

I need a plan. Hopefully something a little more stable than the 'con the conman' one…

Meg winced at the memory. She was really bad at making plans in the space of a few seconds. Plans in general, really, were not her forte. That was left to other members of the team, such as Jack.

At that moment, the distant sound of the vacuum stopped, and the squeak of old hinges replaced it. Mrs. Hudson walked through the hall, letting the door slide close behind her. Meg watched her disappear into another room.

The sweet, older landlady had a long and interesting history. Her life before Baker Street had been difficult, due to the woman's own choices. The choices, and the circumstances surrounding her had turned her into the woman she was today.

Our circumstances form the clay that we are made of, and our choices shape that clay into what we are today.

She'd experienced it multiple times, the way her choices had affected her entire future, choices such as deciding to help create Torchwood, and sending in the script for Sherlock. Those choices had made her who she was at that moment, and those choices were the reason she was in this strange situation at all.

The choices Meg would have to make now would impact her, impact everything. This strange, twilight zone place she found herself in was going to present her with choices, and circumstances like she had never experienced before. The choices Meg made here, and now, would change her. After all of this, whatever had happened, was over, she would be different. The clay would be twisted and patted into an entirely new formation. Just how different would she be?

A door opened again, and Mrs. Hudson stepped through, carrying a bundle of clothes. She smiled at Meg.

"I thought you might be up. How are you feeling?"

Meg pushed away her thoughts. She really needed to stop getting all philosophical about everything. It certainly wouldn't be good to tarnish her reputation as an 'act before you think' kind of a person.

"A lot better, thank you," she said politely.

"Good. I've got some clothes here. They may be a bit big, but you'll manage. The shower is down the hall."

She pointed in the general direction.

Meg glanced down at what she was wearing and cringed. She'd put the clothes on before the Skovox Blitzer incident and it showed, through sight and smell. Ew.

"Yeah, a shower sounds wonderful."

Mrs. Hudson passed her the clothes, a blouse and thick blue jeans. They certainly weren't the height of style, but they were better than what she had on.

"It's the least I can do after Sherlock. He has no manners, that boy. But he can be kind, in his own way."

An absent minded murmur of agreement came from Meg. She half heard Mrs. Hudson's words, but was more focused on keeping the waves of nausea at bay as she stood up. Were she not worried about being indefinitely stuck in a universe not hers, Meg would have stayed put as long as possible. Standing up made the room feel like spinning teacups at an amusement park.

"Are you sure you're better? You're face has gone pale."

"Oh, I'm perfectly fine," Meg said with a wave of her hand, forcing what was supposed to be a comforting smile on her face. The increased worry-lines engraved in Mrs. Hudson's features suggested otherwise. She inwardly threw up her hands.

Ah, I tried.

"If you say so. Don't push yourself too far, now. It won't help whatever case you've got Sherlock so excited about. I haven't seen him so energized since a serial killer back in April."

Meg inwardly flinched. Dealing with an overexcited Sherlock would be like dealing with a know it all toddler hyped up on candy and coffee. She'd written down plenty of scenes just like it and could envision what would happen clearly in her mind. No, Meg had never been a babysitter as a child, and there was a good reason for it. Patience was a virtue, and a wonderful one at that, but not hers. Sherlock viewing her curiosity-sparking situation as his next case would end in an arguement five minutes in.

"Umm… I don't think I'm staying. I never really asked him for help and I've got stuff to do."

Mrs. Hudson nodded her head, her tone sympathetic.

"I understand. He was absolutely dreadful earlier. I told him to try being nicer, or he'd lose a case eventually, but Sherlock never listens. Maybe he'll learn his lesson."

Not what I said, but that works.

"Okay."

The older woman looked like she was about to start talking again. Meg quickly spoke.

"I'm going to go shower now. I've got to get going soon, unfortunately."

Meg didn't have time for casual conversation.

"Oh, alright dear. Be careful."

With that, Mrs. Hudson left the room. Meg slowly made her way across the room, gripping furniture along the way so hard her fingers turned white. She shut the bathroom door and slid to the floor with a thump.

Everything was so bizarre. If she got back to Torchwood… When she got back to Torchwood, she would have a lot of questions for Jack.

Meg had spent a generous chunk of time in the shower, doing her best to scrub away layers of dirt and grime. She'd discovered three or four new scars. It frightened her to see them on her body- they were only white lines. Meg had been unconscious for a long time, long enough for them to heal.

She also looked awful in what was presumably Mrs. Hudson's clothes, like some homeless person. Meg attempted to ignore the outfit, knowing it was likely she'd be stuck in the clothes for a while. She didn't exactly have any money or identity to go and buy clothes. Or anything else, for that matter. That could cause a problem somewhere in the near future.

Now, Meg was sitting in the kitchen, hungrily devouring a large helping of no-longer-frozen lasagna. Mrs. Hudson was chatting away about trivial things, seated at the other side of the old, wooden table.

"It wasn't a shocker, really when they got married. Everybody saw it coming. The two just belonged together, you know. You could see it, clear as day."

Meg nodded, chewing a mouthful of sauce and noodle.

"Of course, they're young, so who knows how long it will last." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "They should enjoy it while they can, I suppose."

The older woman took another bite of her dinner. There was silence for a few minutes, both focused on their food. Almost half of Meg's plate was gone before Mrs. Hudson spoke again.

"If you don't mind me asking, why were you visiting Sherlock?"

All thoughts of lasagna left Meg's brain.

How am I supposed to explain this one?

Even though Mrs. Hudson certainly didn't show it, she had gathered plenty of skills from her younger years, and was good at hearing what others didn't say. If Meg attempted to lie, the sweet lady would pick up on it immediately. Mrs. Hudson may have never said it outright, but she was protective of her boys. Meg wasn't sure what Mrs. Hudson would do if she thought Meg was trying to hurt Sherlock or John, but the older woman was very clever. She'd find a way.

"...ahh... It's complicated," Meg mumbled.

"I'm sure it is, dear. If Sherlock's involved, it's very complicated."

There was silence again, Mrs. Hudson watching Meg expectantly. She wouldn't let the topic go.

"Um… I'm not sure how to explain it. I didn't mean to end up here. I just… did. I didn't want Sherlock involved. It was entirely an accident."

If the Mrs. Hudson from Meg's writing was anything like this Mrs. Hudson, she was perfectly aware that Meg had left out plenty of details. But the woman didn't push, temporarily satisfied with Meg's answer.

Mrs. Hudson moved onto another topic, and Meg resumed devouring the lasagna. Soon, both plates were in the kitchen sink, and Meg was lacing up her sneakers. As much as she had enjoyed Mrs Hudson's kindness, it was time for her to leave. Whatever was involved with the parallel universe would be complicated, and she would be stumbling into it blind. Meg may have a vortex manipulator, but time still might not be on her side.

"Thank you for everything," Meg said sincerely. "Really, I don't know what I would have done without your help."

Mrs. Hudson smiled kindly. "I enjoyed your company. It can get lonely down here at times."

She passed Meg a jacket.

"It's an old one, one of my favourites, but it doesn't fit anymore," she said with a sigh. "I've gained a bit of a stomach in my old age."

The jacket was baby blue, and looked like it was meant to be paired with a tracksuit. Meg did her best not to grimace as she pulled it over the fancy blouse.

"It's very comfy. I'll return the clothes, if I can."

Chances were, Mrs. Hudson's clothes would get stuck in another universe and would never be returned, but Meg would make at least a bit of an effort.

"Once again, thank you very much." Meg glanced out the window. It was dark. She'd move away from 221 Baker Street before using the manipulator. She didn't want to scare Mrs. Hudson, especially after all she'd done.

"Come visit sometime, if you're in the area."

Meg nodded. "I will."

If everything worked out, she'd never see Mrs. Hudson again. She felt slightly guilty about it, but being stuck here was not preferred. Mrs. Hudson was also safer never seeing her again. Drug cartels and exotic dancing were one thing, but aliens were another.

Mentally, Meg went over a checklist, making sure she had what she'd need.

Clothes on back, shoes on feet, vortex manip-

She froze. The realisation felt like an ice fist had squeezed her heart and all air out of her lungs. The vortex manipulator wasn't there. It's thick strap was not securely wrapped around her wrist, as it had been before she'd fallen asleep on Mrs. Hudson's sofa. Meg glanced around the room, that cold ice hand spreading from her heart, through her lungs. The manipulator wasn't anywhere in the room.

Hopelessness gripped her, the overwhelming sensation that smothers any fragment of encouragement one might have. Meg pushed it away quickly. She wasn't one for letting small things make her give up.

Mrs. Hudson had watched the tidal wave of emotions play across Meg's face. She gave the young woman a worried little frown.

"Are you missing something?"

"Do you know where it is?" Meg hoped she did. Maybe the older lady had removed it because it looked uncomfortable and she was being nice?

Actually, she probably slipped it off my wrist and snuck it upstairs for Sherlock.

"Know where what is, dear?"

"Black, buttony, bracelet thing around my wrist?"

The lightbulb seemed to go off in Mrs. Hudson's head.

"Oh, the thing for the case, you mean? Sherlock said he needed it." She had a too-innocent look in her eye.

The two schemers. Mycroft could take a hint from his brother: who needs the control of the British nation if you have Mrs. Hudson on your side?

"Right." Meg did her best to filter her irritation out of her eyes. She'd practically had a heart attack. With a single minded focus, Meg stumbled towards the doorway, her muscles burning at even attempting to stay upright. Sherlock. She'd just met the detective and he was already one of the most annoying people she knew.

If he's my character, and I've spent years writing about him, does that mean I've known him for years?

"Single minded focus, Meg," she muttered to herself. She smiled tightly back towards Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you."

As she left the flat, and dragged herself up the stairs, her annoyance grew. Meg had some major things to figure out right now, and Sherlock complicating everything because he was bored didn't help. Maybe she'd slap his perfect cheekbones into some new form.

I could cut myself slapping that face, she thought.

Nearing the top of the steps, she wondered what she would do once she got the device back. Hopefully, there was some type of travel log on the manipulator. Meg could find her original location, and try to find more out about her appearance in the Sherlock universe.

The Sherlock universe. A fitting title for now, I suppose.

Meg opened the door, using it for more support than she would admit to herself. 221B was darker than it had been earlier, the only illumination coming from the kitchen. She went in that direction, gripping the furniture with a strength that would've made the Golem proud.

Sherlock sat in a hard wooden chair, staring intently at the mess of science equipment on the table, vortex manipulator laid out right in front of him. He didn't look up as she entered the room, or even acknowledge her presence. Meg glared at his downturned head.

If only looks could kill.

"Give it back," Meg demanded.

Sherlock gave an irritating smirk, still not looking up.

"No."

"How about yes?"

"I am curious as to why a person that usually goes through lengths to control her temper would let it go now."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Oh don't start."

He suddenly sprang from his chair, the wood making a hair-raising screech against the tile. The spiel continued.

"I said I'd take the case. I have no intention on letting it go."

"You should. I'm not staying."

"You mean, "Oh, how did you know that, absolute stranger?"" His baritone voice went up an octave, in what was supposed to be an imitation of Meg. Her already angry glare took on a new intensity.

"Will you stop it?"

"No, I don't think I shall, especially for an insecure woman that clings to being social and having friends." Sherlock spat the word, like trying to rid of a sour taste. "You have issues with your family you still haven't resolved, don't have a boyfriend, and are lonely with no way home."

Each deduction felt like a punch in the gut. Meg tensed.

"That's all good and fine. You're no less than the rest of the empty-minded people blundering about this earth. But you're something else entirely, Meghan Carter."

Meg's head snapped to Sherlock's current position in the room.

"How do you know my name?"

Sherlock appeared to have not heard her, lost in a spinning whirlwind of deduction and enigma, logic and fact.

"You're a writer. It's obvious, from the keys on your laptop to the endless amount of writing utensils. You're a good writer too, from the clothes, and the haircut, and everything you own. If you're a good writer, with a lot of money, then why does noone know who you are? Why don't you exist?" The frustration was uncharacteristically clear in his voice.

"Shut up and give me back my vortex manipulator!" Meg yelled, slamming her hand on the wooden table.

He suddenly stopped, all movement coming to a standstill.

"Vortex manipulator. It's time travel!"

Meg immediately regretted her words, eyes widening. Oops.

That had been a mistake. That had been a big mistake. The last thing Meg needed was Sherlock Holmes demanding to go traipsing around time and space. He would never let her leave now.

Sherlock almost leaped over to the table, hand snatching up the manipulator. His eyes soaked it in greedily.

"Time, date, coordinates, weight, height, sensitivity to motion. The technology and likeliness of occurrence make it almost unbelievable, but when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth!"

Were Meg not still furious at the sleuth and seriously regretting what she'd said, she may have at least inwardly cheered at the quote. But she found the anger and regret creating a strange concoction of despair, despair that the genius in front of her was not Jack, or Ben, or anybody she inwardly considered her family. She needed that vortex manipulator. It was the only plan her mind could hastily come up with, to get back. Without it, Meg would be lost, more lost than now.

Meg realized too late that Sherlock was pressing buttons on the vortex manipulator, staring at the screen with glee.

"No!"

It seemed that Meg had caught him too late. Sherlock had it firmly strapped on his wrist, and was pressing the green 'enter' button. She waited, with bated breath, for the vortex manipulator to disappear.

It didn't. Instead, the device let out five little beeps. The consulting detective glanced down at the device, his gleeful smirk turning into a frustrated frown. He suddenly unstrapped the device and thrust it into Meg's hands. Surprised, she glanced down.

Termination of device aborted.

"...What?" Meg asked, scarcely believing her eyes.

Any strange, twisted version of happiness Sherlock had been feeling had disappeared in a second. He had an almost childish pout on his face. Without another word, he suddenly left the kitchen.

Meg was too stunned to tune herself into the strange frequency Sherlock's mind worked on. Why had he just… given it to her?

Through the doorway, Meg could see him opening a laptop, intense concentration suddenly directed at the device. With utmost relief, Meg strapped the vortex manipulator to her arm. Slightly puzzled, she glanced back towards Sherlock.

Why would the device threaten to terminate? It didn't for me. Did he do something to it?

"Hello? You there?"

The detective didn't even register her existence. It irked her that she couldn't be properly angry at Sherlock. He hadn't even responded to her shouting, too involved in the little enigma he'd found. Not that she really expected him to, now that Meg thought about it. She knew Sherlock wouldn't respond to taunts when there were more interesting matters at hand.

I guess it's time to take my leave, then.

Meg was relieved she could get started on figuring her way out of the mess. Quickly, she glanced over the controls. She didn't particularly relish the feeling of her skin being ripped apart and her stomach folding in on itself.

The manipulator allowed her to enter in a new profile of sorts, with her weight, height, and tons of other medical information Meg could only give rough estimations of. She did it quickly, wary of the mutterings coming from the sociopath in the other room. Then she had to choose a location.

There was indeed a log of earlier traveled-to locations, many with strange names. Meg chose one that was at least slightly familiar- labeled Good Bar #28, on Earth, twentieth century.

Meg took a deep breath, finger hovering over the 'enter' button. The last time she'd done this, it had been pure agony, leaving her feeling like shreds of wet newspaper. Logically, now that the vortex manipulator had been set to transport her, it wouldn't hurt.

As much, she mentally added. But that didn't mean it didn't make it any less hard.

Fearing the slight hesitation had cost her something precious, Meg shoved away her nervousness. She pressed the button.

For the second time that day, the word 'no' was shouted loudly, as reality around her began to bend. This time, it wasn't her mouth that had yelled the word.

Meg felt a strong hand grasp her arm just as the ground disappeared from beneath her feet, and everything turned into a blinding white. One last coherent thought entered her brain, before time travel began to tear her apart.

I don't care about his cheekbones. I'm going to slap him.