I meant to update this yesterday, but real life has been kicking my butt lately. I'm not quite happy with how this chapter turned out, but I've rewritten it three times and now everything's staring to blur together. Please let me know what you think. Again, I own nothing but the plot and any OCs
It isn't hard to get herself admitted into the hospital, especially with the Saurian mushrooms partially inhibiting her lungs. She's taken an antidote, but it doesn't counteract all the side effects. Mostly, she's left with a persistent cough and the inability to keep any food down. The latter is what earns her an overnight stay, hooked up to saline drips and nutrient packs while the doctors try to determine if it's just the flu or something worse. The instruments aren't refined enough to detect the spores yet, so there's no worry about them finding some unidentifiable toxin in her system and causing a panic.
In any case, the difficult part isn't tricking the staff into letting her stay, it's passing for an ordinary, twenty-first century human girl. She has help with that from the BioPEN that was, quite frankly, a literal and figurative pain to acquire. Biometric and Perception Eclipsing Nano-impants are Black Market stuff, designed to trick any and all scanners into registering the wearer as any pre-set species. As troublesome as it is to track one down considering the creator tried her best to have them all destroyed, it's even rarer to find a doctor who knows how to put it in properly.
There's new skin covering a patch the size of two pound coin on the right side of her chest, and it itches like hell. Ideally, the BioPEN should have been put in the back of her neck, but the people Winter trusts with a spot that vulnerable can be counted on one hand, and while the back-alley doctor who performed the surgery was very skilled, he isn't one of them.
The hospital bed she sits in isn't as uncomfortable as you would think. She's certainly slept on and in worse, but she expects better from one of the best hospitals in Great Britain. The smell, like too many coats of disinfectant layered over one another, makes her nose burn. She's so incredibly bored, just waiting. It feels like watching paint dry or grass grow or snail sloth cross the road. There's a clock visible from the doorway at the nurse's station, and she swears she can hear the ticking of the hands moving so every slowly.
Her IV stand has wheels on it. They can't physically stop her from walking around, but the nurses shoot her disapproving glares as she gets up, dragging the IV stand behind her. She's not contagious, but she wears a mask anyway because it sets others more at ease than if she were just coughing indiscriminately. Her white hair earns her a few more odd looks, but people are satisfied to just dismiss it as another of those young people trends. Dye your hair white, pretend to be old, she mocks internally seeing one middle-aged man's eyes narrow and nose crinkle in distaste. Ruin your life by not caring. Good luck finding a job with hair like that.
She's passing by the cardiology ward when it happens. Most people's first reaction is to assume it's an earthquake, but the signs are there if only you know where to look. Winter feels the moisture in the air and feels the way the shaking isn't quite consistent with how an earthquake should feel. The air bubble clicks into place with a faint hum, nearly undetectable beneath all the shouting.
She can't help but feel… oily, she decides is the word. H2O scoops always leave her feeling like that. She knows she's dry, but everything feels a little damp and heavy. The window confirms what she already knows: they've moved. The Earth is beautiful in the distance, blue seas and white clouds. There's already a fair amount of pollution in the atmosphere, but it's nothing compared to how things will be in a few hundred years.
It reminds her of the other reason she's doing this. It isn't just about being defiant or even just saving the Doctor.
Right, contemplative reflection time over, crafty maneuvering now. The hospital is rather big, so it shouldn't be too hard to avoid the Doctor. Especially since she knows roughly what areas he'll stick too. There's no time to explain and no answers she can give him that'll satisfy. She knows, because she's tried that before, and things didn't work out as well at the weapons factories of Villengard as he remembers.
The air bubble is keeping them alive for now, but it still means a limited oxygen supply. It shimmers for a second, and that's definitely someone—three guesses who—testing it out. She does some quick math and doesn't like their survival odds. Between the ensuing panic that's no doubt breaking out all over the hospital by now and the unlikelihood of the Judoon finding their criminal on their first sweep, she's pretty sure they'll run out of air before they get transported back. If they get transported back at all.
The Judoon have their good qualities: they're sturdy, strong, and straightforward. They're not one for tricks, handy in a fight, and surprisingly good chefs. On the other hand, they don't expect tricks from others unless it's right in their face, and they're not one to back down or be convinced to change their minds after it's been made. There's no talking out of this situation; the best they can do is survive the meanwhile.
Predictably, the A&E is the most chaotic. She thinks it's because other wards have nurses around regularly to check in on and calm the patients while the A&E is pretty wild on a normal basis anyway. The patients there are easily scared and most of the staff are already exhausted. Luckily, there's already a doctor there working to try and calm the crowd. He isn't faring particularly well, but it's better than nothing.
The Judoon have landed and begun their systematic scan of every living being in the building, and the Doctor has run off with Martha to avoid them and find the criminal first. Winter obediently stays still for her scan and earns a cross inked on her hand. They don't suspect a thing and she's even more grateful she decided to go with a BioPEN instead of an ordinary perception filter. Once they clear the ward and move onto the next one, she nabs the attention of the doctor playing Good Samaritan.
"Oxygen canisters?"
He falters for a second, blinking furtively like she's an apparition that's just, well, appeared out of thin air. "Excuse me?"
"You have spare oxygen canisters, right?" She's abandoned her IV in the hallway and sort of regrets it now. The nausea is manageable, but it's not pleasant. She hopes it doesn't show on her face. The universe views teenaged girls as probably one of the least authoritative people, and sick teenaged girls are even lower on that list.
"Yes, but—" Morgenstern is at a complete loss for words. "Why," he finally manages to spit out.
Winter resisted the urge to groan. This man is supposed to be a doctor, isn't he? Or at least one in training. "To extend the oxygen supply. You might wanna also start coaching people on conserving what we have."
"Right." He blinks and clears his throat before repeating it. "Right. That's, that's just what I was thinking. Swales!" He recruits another doctor in training to help him track down what they have.
The layout of the hospital is fairly straightforward. It's basically squares on top of squares, and everything from wards to supply closets to bathrooms lineup from floor to floor. The in-network communications still work by some miracle, so they're able to coordinate with doctors and nurses from other wards without wasting time and breath by physically running a messenger. It's a small mercy, but Winter takes what she can get. Especially since her plan with the oxygen canisters suffers a setback.
They have to set some aside for the patients who are actually on oxygen and need it to survive. That's fine, she has already thought of that. There aren't that actually that many patients who fall under that category, and most of them can make do with what they already have. It's the other obstacle that's worrisome. Apparently, the Royal Hope Hospital's inventory isn't up to date and there are fewer canisters than there should be. To make matters worse, a good chunk of them are only half-full or less. She curses cutbacks and tries to figure out the best way to milk what they have.
The first floor is the most populated, and the top floor is only half of one, really, with the other half closed off for renovations. She instructs the nurses on the other floors on where to set the canisters for optimal dispersal, glad she sounds older than she looks on a phone. Morgenstern looks at her like she's crazy, but he listens when she tells him to get a move on. "Unless you want to suffocate to death," she adds, because he needs that extra push.
She turns to Swales while he rushes off faster than she'd like. They're supposed to be conserving air, and that means no running around. It's bad enough that the Doctor and Martha are scurrying every which way, but at least they're working to get them back to Earth.
Swales looks about a minute from a panic attack, so Winter gives her something to focus on. She asks if the other woman knows how to calm people, preferably without the use of sedatives. There's a fair amount of criers on the room, so she sends Swales and a few other trainee doctors and nurses standing about rather uselessly to comfort them.
A downside to the Judoon she failed to mention before: they're so slow. They're still on their first sweep of the hospital, barely past the halfway point. Her trick with the canisters can only by them so much time, and she has a feeling that the mass panic is going to start back up again as soon as the first people start succumbing to oxygen deprivation.
By now, the Doctor should be figuring out who the Judoon are after. It's a start, but he really needs to leg it. If they die before the criminal is found, the Judoon will just label them as collateral damage and take their time sifting through the bodies.
Winter isn't dying here, but she can't just leave everyone else behind. She can't just abandon the Doctor.
She needs more time, which means they need more air.
Good thing she knows how to make some.
On the bright side, she's already in the hospital, which means she has everything she needs. For once, the Judoon are on her side—since everyone's preoccupied with them, no one will notice Winter sneaking around. It helps that she's very good at sneaking too. It's almost child's play to nab the excess soda lime from the supply area. She takes a few buckets down to the basement with her. The location isn't important except that it's isolated. She doesn't want to have to stop and explain—it's annoying and just wastes more air.
If she includes something alien in her CO2 scrubber to speed up the process and make it more effective, well, no one has to know. Hardly anyone comes down to the basement anyway. The few students and porters who do stick to the side room where they can gamble without the generator and furnace looming behind them. Besides, it's connected to the ventilation, which means the oxygen can spread as it forms.
Winter takes stock of herself. The hospital gown is thin, but she's rather impervious to cold anyway. She has her sword tucked away in the back pocket of her jeans, and multiple exit strategies in case things don't go as planned.
The Doctor and Martha are on the third floor. She passes by Swales, a little surprised to see the other woman has gone the extra mile in the little task Winter left for her. Surprised, but also impressed. It might just be her trying to keep calm herself, but she's helping, and that's more than Winter can say for some people.
She waits around the corner as the Doctor and Martha examine Dr. Stocker's cooling corpse in his office. They aren't in there for very long, but Martha looks more subdued when they come back out. It's easier than it should be to follow them through the corridors—the Doctor's losing his touch. Or maybe he's still finding it, it's hard to keep track sometimes.
He leaves Martha behind with a kiss to hold off the Judoon, and yep, she can already see how that's going to be a problem. Martha's already halfway gone on him. It's not her fault; it's not anyone's fault really. It's a charged lifestyle, and the Doctor's magnetic.
The Judoon shouldn't give Martha much trouble, it's just traces of non-human DNA, but she stays close just in case. The wait for the full scan to clear her is arduous. She can tell that only Martha's apprehension is what keeps her standing there instead of running after the Doctor. It's a good thing she does comply, since hiding her from the Judoon and convincing them that her, in their eyes, suspicious actions is the perfectly normal reaction of a scared human and not a sign of guilt is something that Winter hopes she never has to do. One, she'll probably end up failing, and two, there's no time.
The platoon leader hands her a slip of paper." Compensation," he grunts roughly.
Winter slips by them to the MRI room, catching Florence leaning over the Doctor and sucking his blood through a straw. She screams to draw both Martha and a pair of Judoon over. The fear she displays is all for the sake of not giving anything away, but she can't help but feel something twist awful in her gut at the sight of the Doctor's prone body.
Florence stashes the straw behind her back quickly. "Now look what you've done," she scolds. "This poor man just died of fright."
"Scan him," the Judoon chief orders. When his scanner beets, he grunts, "Confirmation: deceased."
"No, he can't be," Martha exclaims. Winter falls back into the background, letting the others forget about her. It's getting much harder to breathe, and she wants to save her breath for what comes next. "Let me thought, let me see him."
"Stop, Case closed."
"But it was her," Martha protests, pointing at Florence while she leans heavily on her knees where they touch the floor. She's tiring too, what with all the running she's been doing. "She killed him. She did it. She murdered him."
"The Judoon have no authority over human crime," the chief says dismissively.
"But she's not human."
"Oh, but I am," Florence says rather proudly. She holds up her hand to show off the X on the back of it. "I've been catalogued."
"But she's not," Martha insists. "She assimil— Wait a minute. You drank his blood. The Doctor's blood." She reaches out and points one of the scanners, still in the Judoon's hands, at the other woman.
"Oh, alright. Scan all you like."
"Non-human," the chief declares.
Florence protests while the Judoon confirm the analysis, insisting it's some sort of mistake. Martha cradles the Doctor's body in her lap, breathing heavily as she sadly says, "He gave his life so they'd find you."
"Confirmed: Plasmavore. I charge you with the crime of murdering the princess of Patrival Regency Nine."
"She deserved it," Florence spits out, dropping the act. "Those pink cheeks and those blonde curls and that simpering voice. She was begging for the bite of a plasmavore."
"Do you confess?"
"Confess? I'm proud of it! Slab—stop them!" Her one remaining henchman isn't the slightest match for the Judoon. It's disintegrated in the blink of an eye, right before the chief announces Florence's death sentence. She receives the same fate, screaming as she disappears, but not before declaring that the Judoon are going down with her.
"Case closed."
A sign lights up above the MRI machine, warning of a magnetic overload. The machine itself is humming dangerously loudly. If it blows, it'll easily take half the Earth with it. Fortunately for everyone, that's part of why she's here.
When the Judoon retreat, Martha goes with them, protesting that they can't just leave like that. Winter takes the opportunity to spring into action. Florence thought far enough ahead to fry the controls so it isn't as easy as that. It never is really. She can survive fifty thousand volts, but it won't be pleasant. Option three, then.
His airways are clear. There's a hole in his neck from the straw, but Florence is, or was now, a poor aim for a plasmavore because she missed every major artery and vein. His neck will be sore when he wakes, but he won't bleed out, so Winter leaves it. She folds one hand on top of the other and pumps fast, counting to thirty before switching over to his other heart. She reaches thirty again and breaths into his mouth before repeating it once, twice, three more times.
"What are you…" She hears Martha slump to the floor, unconscious before she can even finish her sentence. She doesn't dare look up or stop from what she's doing. If she pauses then she might pass out, and then they're all dead.
The Doctor coughs and she wants that to be it, but it's not. His eyes are still closed as he curls in on himself, gasping for breath. While he's distracted, she drags Martha over next to him and takes her place further away. Let him think that she was the one who saved him—it's just easier that way.
Her unconscious act isn't completely an act as the Doctor sits up and assesses the room. She's a bit bitter over how easily he unplugs the MRI, the showoff. She hears him shuffle over to her and doesn't have to try hard to be able to picture the look of confusion upon his face. He's perplexed, wondering who she is and what she's doing here. He won't be getting his answers this time; she's learned that there's no point when he just forgets.
That same wet feeling overcomes her as the hospital is sent back to Earth. Two fingers press against her neck lightly. It's not hard to slow her heartbeat, and he's satisfied for the moment that she's alive. She hears the door open and close as he leaves, quietly and undoubtedly through the back door so as not to garner attention. She waits an appropriated amount of time before giving up her act and slipping out herself.
It's on the news later. Morgenstern talks about his idea with the oxygen canisters and Swales is praised for going around and helping keep everyone calm. She isn't surprised that everyone's forgotten her because that's how it works. She's never been the attention-vying sort anyhow, so she doesn't really mind. The Doctor's forgotten about her too by now.
Over and over, he forgets and forgets, and she's the only one left remembering.
So she's fine, really. It just makes her life easier.
"Well, this is a surprise."
The café is designed as a winter wonderland, with actual snow dusting the ground. It's the non-melting kind, and she can't decide if the accumulation in the corners is artsy or laziness peeking through. The tables look like they're made of ice. The chairs too, but they're actually quite warm to sit in. There's a projection of snows drifting down from above, and it looks so real if not for the fact that it cuts out about ten feet from the floor. The irony is so thick it's nearly palpable. In her defense, Winter isn't the one who picked the venue so many years ago.
They sell the best hot chocolate in the galaxy here. It's thick but not cloying, and comes with these little biscuits that she likes stirring with. The cakes are so-so, better than their sandwiches but not better than the soup. The ice cream is the second best item on the menu, and the man who walks from the counter carries a little bowl with three flavors mixed in. There's Saandori redberries, Kalister honeymelon, and pistachio. She's definitely stealing some of that.
He blinks. "Sorry, do I know you?"
"I'm why you're here," she says, indicating to the empty chair across from her.
"A note told me to come here. Almost didn't, but I've heard the ice cream," he raises his bowl here to show her, "is to die for."
They've been through this before, but that's okay. Winter's mostly just happy he's even here. Half the time he doesn't show, dismissing the reminder of their standing date as a mistake or not worth the trip.
"It is. You should try the mint flavor next time. Mint, pistachio, and a hint of avocado."
He smiles flirtatiously. "Well, I do like someone who can handle their greens. Captain Jack Harkness." His hand is cold from the bowl, but she doesn't mind. He takes the seat and it doesn't escape her notice how he keeps his blaster in easy reach, or how his eyes have a calculating gleam that he hides behind charm and being just short of too straightforward.
"Winter," she says, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.
"Cute," he notes, and manages not to sound condescending. "I get it." He says something along those lines every time. "Now, wanna tell me why you're the reason I'm here?"
"Depends on how long you've got this time. It's an explanation that can't be rushed."
"Can't be missed either, I'm guessing." He spoons a bite of ice cream into his mouth and she knows she has him. "I've got time."
Jack only laughs when she unrepentantly steals half his ice cream. He orders a mug of hot chocolate on her recommendation, and they end up leaving the café in search of real food a few hours later. She loves the moment when he goes from distant to believing, and she knows because he always gives her the same smile. The difference between him with a stranger and with someone he cares about is so obvious that he may as well be holding up a neon sign.
He's sad when they have to part ways, just like he always is. More than once she entertains the idea of them sticking together, but it's one of those things where their fates fail to align. She has things to do, and so does he, and both their things don't include each other. She types in a reminder for their next meeting, six months from now when she knows she'll be free. He'll forget about her in the meantime, and she has no idea if he'll actually show up. He doesn't promise that he will, and she's glad for it.
"What about," he starts to say, drawing out their farewell as long as he can. Longer than he can give.
Winter smirks and pretends she isn't just as reluctant to leave. "Just saw him. And Martha. They were both so young."
Jack chuckles heartily, but also wearily. To him, Martha is long since dead, a ghost from the past that's sometimes fond, sometimes painful to remember. "Next time you see her, send her my regards."
"'Course."
He hugs her, long and tight. Jack's the first person to ever hold her like that. She thinks if she were actually winter than his hug would be enough to melt her. "Same with you," she says, face buried in his shoulder. "Next time you see them, send my love." He won't remember the message, but he'll remember the sentiment, and she thinks that's enough.
She blends in with the crowd, hanging back and watching him for a while. This part's the worst, and she doesn't know why she makes herself watch, only that she feels like she has to. The second she slips from Jack's memory, his entire demeanor changes. Some of the grief lessens, and she thinks that's the only good thing about the entire experience. But his smile also gains that tired edge again, he walks a little heavier.
She lingers in the doorway when she gets back to her place. That's when she knows she has to move soon, when it starts to feel like her place, not just a place to see clients. It's been too long. Too many whispers, too many ties. But not quite yet. She still has some cases to tie up, and some promises to keep.
There's a message waiting for her on her desktop. Her clients don't often extend to relatives of royalty, but sure enough, the Empress's cousin, the Viceroy of Porpentine II is demanding that she take on her request. It's only slightly illegal, and that slight factor is the only thing that has her hesitating. In her experience, if royals don't send their own grunts to do their dirty work, then it's because something needed covering up and they want someone expendable they can cut loose. Or double cross. The last two times Winter took a job from someone rich, that exact thing happened once she got hold of what they wanted.
But the channel over which the Viceroy's message is sent is secure. Winter works a lot off referals and she likes knowing who sends who to her. The Viceroy could only have gotten this particular code from someone Winter trusts.
She hits the rely button, asking for more information before including her rates. She's not afraid to charge double or triple from someone of means, and the Viceroy is without a doubt rich beyond sense. In any case, if she's going to risk life, dismemberment, and betrayal, then she wants it to be worth her while. Relocation isn't cheap and she's been too soft hearted lately, taking on too many sob stories like Kincaide.
And she's always wanted to go to the Medusa Cascade.
The desktop beeps. Fast, she notes, which can't be a good sign. Even worse, it's the Viceroy herself who calls. Well, Winter was planning on negotiating with, terrifying, and/or annoying any stand-in until they brought her out anyway. She's not one to work for intermediates, and it never fails to annoy her how people think that just because she agrees to take on a task for them, they can treat her like a minion. But the fact that they're not even bothering with a pretense is disappointing. It also makes her nerves hum, and her heartbeat even out a little.
The Viceroy is beautiful in a way that doesn't quite seem real. Her head is covered with thin brown spikes, currently lax and giving off the illusion of hair, but ready to tense at a moment's notice. The jewels adorning her neck, and the veil built into her hairpiece perfectly matches her eye colour. Her huge dress looks like it weighs more than she does, and costs more than the annual income of entire families.
It must be bad for her to be putting so much extra effort in how she looks. Especially when it's only for a lowly contractor.
"You're the one they call Winter," she says. She doesn't ask because it's beneath her to ask.
"Among other things," Winter says.
There's a pause in the conversation. Standoff is not quite the correct word, not when she knows she has the upper hand. The Viceroy's jaw tenses minutely with irritation. It's beneath her to open the topic, to ask something of someone else without the guarantee that they'll have to accept.
Eventually, the Viceroy has no choice but to give in. There's no change to her outward appearance when she says, "Concerning my request—I trust I have your utmost discretion? I don't need to tell you what a political disaster it would be if news got out."
"Political disaster" is an understatement, and not even half the problem. The Viceroy wants her to retrieve a device that's not inherently destructive, but can easily become that way. It has the power to tear apart an entire star system, to end a war or start one. Billions of lives are at stake, and the Viceroy only cares about the political backlash.
Winter leans back in her chair. It's tempting to lash out, but it's also useless, so she plays the picture of nonchalance instead. The Viceroy sees her as a greedy grunt, to be used and discarded the second she becomes a liability. It's irritating, but there are larger things at stake than her pride. "I've forwarded you my rates."
Is it the connection, or does the Viceroy's left eye twitch? "Yes, and you'll get your dues when the job's finished."
"I'll need forty percent upfront." Oh yeah, that's definitely a twitch. "Think of it as collateral."
"Fine," she practically spits out. "Anything else?"
"I'll let you know," Winter replies with a pleasant smile. "Send me the data package and we'll see how soon I can reunite you with your missing device."