This is so late and I'm so sorry. The wifi at my house has been down for the last week and a half and we don't know when we can fix it. I've been stuck going to Starbucks and the library to write and edit this. Hopefully, everything will be resolved soon, but the next chapter might be late too. In the meanwhile, here's 4k of me taking out my frustrations on fictional characters. Enjoy!
Again, I own nothing.
Winter doesn't like to drink often. Alcohol tastes abhorrent—why not just pour battery acid down your throat instead? Getting drunk is also reckless. It dulls the senses, slows reaction times, and makes people belligerent more often than not. There are easier ways if she wants to get caught, like painting a target on her back, or sending out a massive transmission of her exact whereabouts, or simply going to the nearest police station and picking any one of her aliases to reveal herself as. But sometimes even Winter needs a certain level of inebriation to tolerate the 4D Picasso painting that is her life. Those times, she goes to Lethean.
As far as bars go, it isn't bad. The lighting is low enough to give the illusion of privacy and secrecy, but also bright enough that she doesn't have to struggle to see anything. Most of the furniture is relatively clean. Not that Winter's much of a neat freak, but she likes being about to sit and rest her hands on something not sticky with what she hopes is just beer. The usual patrons are neither high class enough to be snobby or the sort of lowlives that make ruckuses wherever they go. They all understand the concept of confidentiality, and Mercy has made it clear that she doesn't tolerate outside business within her walls.
Speaking of, Mercy's the reason why Winter favors Lethean when she gets into these moods. She did the owner a favor once, and now Mercy lets her drink for free. It helps that Winter will sometimes bring her even more illicit alcohol whenever she comes to visit. Her travels take her all over, and it's not hard to pick up a bottle now and then. Especially when she knows it'll make Mercy's skin flush that satisfied shade of red.
"You sure know your way to a woman's heart," she coos as she takes the three bottles of Kygrian moonshine. Mercy ducks into the back room to put them somewhere safe until the next full moon. When she comes back, her skin is once again a pale blue to complement her dark dress. Her two left eyes wink as she pours another drinker his shots before walking over to a trio of Tritovores with a "What can I getcha?"
Winter takes a long drink from her cup, then makes a face. Mercy really knows how to cover up the bitter taste, but it still clings to her tongue, lingering even when the fruitiness of the concoction fades. There's another reason why she likes coming here—Mercy's got an excellent memory for her drinking preferences, and she's one of the few that Winter's interacted with enough to retain a memory of her. It does take some prompting though, and she tries not to let too long pass between their visits.
It also helps that Mercy keeps one of her cards with her behind the bar. For some reason, having a physical reminder of Winter that people can see or hold helps them remember her. Granted, there's also the fact that Mercy's not a time traveler. Usually, her memories are foggy and distant until something, like Winter showing up again, jogs them. But it's nice not to always be starting from scratch.
A bulky torso, expensively clothed, leans onto the bar in her peripheral vision. Winter bites back a sigh. Here we go again.
"Haven't seen you here before."
"You won't be seeing anything if you don't back off, Doorn."
She doesn't have to turn to know that his thick brows are furrowed in confusion. "How'd you—"
She starts to tune him out after that, having heard it all before. Eventually, Mercy comes back and fixes him a glare. The threat of being cut off drives Doorn away, but not until after Winter starts developing a headache. She taps the counter and Mercy begins to mix her another drink. There's mango juice in this one if her nose isn't mistaken. "Don't you get tired of that lug hitting on you every time you come in here?"
"You have no idea."
"Why so down? Someone confess to you or something?"
Winter stares down at her new glass. The liquid is a bright yellow, and Mercy's added a little blue umbrella and a pink straw for décor. She doesn't really care what her drinks look like so long as they do their job, but this one, inextricably, reminds her of Rose Tyler. It's the colour scheme, she decides, and suddenly her thoughts are jumping in the direction of the Doctor.
"I made a mistake," she tells Mercy.
In the beginning, it had been simple curiosity driving her to travel along the Doctor's timeline. She just wanted to see what sort of person he was, and what he did to go about inspiring awe and terror in equal turns. What she ended up finding is a bit of a disappointment. The Doctor is far from the dashing hero or horrible villain she always pictured. He's sort of hopeless, actually, always managing to get himself in the middle of the mess. If life were a painting then the Doctor would be the colour clinging to the brush, getting mixed in with every stroke and corners where he has no business being.
It's an accident the first time she saves him. Only after, when it was too late to take it back, does she even realize herself what she's doing. She keeps at it because she's surprisingly good at it, and it annoys people she likes making trouble for. The rush is indescribable, whether it's materializing just in time to grab his hand so he doesn't fall to his death, or if it's acting out a plan weeks in the making, behind the scenes and out of sight.
And then she has to go and do something stupid like start talking to him. Then, it stops being mildly annoying that she has to keep introducing herself. Then, she thinks one night, when they're waiting out a firestorm and the sky is bathed in beautiful blues and reds and oranges, it won't be so bad if this lasts a little longer.
She should never have allowed herself to get that complacent.
She still hasn't gone back to Henrik's yet. It's getting a little ridiculous at this point, but she can't seem to bring herself to go back. "I got a job in retail," she says to change the topic. Mercy misunderstands and thinks that's the mistake she's made and Winter doesn't have the energy to explain it to her. She doesn't want to if this becomes one of the conversations Mercy doesn't remember. That happens sometimes. Sometimes, Mercy's no different from the Doctor when it comes to forgetting.
"Well that don't sound like you at all."
"It's not" she agrees, taking a sip of the drink. The mango juice is a bit too sweet, and it only makes the sour tang of the berries that much more noticeable. Again, the bitterness of the alcohol stays on her tongue, mixing all three tastes into a vaguely unpleasant concoction.
"No," Mercy asks. Her skin is a pale yellow, betraying her amusement.
"I'm trying to get drunk, Mercy. If you wanna shock me sober, why not just pour the drink over my head?"
"The Griffs like it." She takes back the cup and starts mixing something new. "But back to what you were saying before—sales? You?" Mercy looks her up and down. Winter's clothes are still dirty and ripped from her excursion into the marshlands of Hathi. She was almost eaten by a swamp monster there.
"Oh, shut up. It's not a permanent thing."
"Honey, I wouldn't believe that even if you said it was. I mean, how long you been working there? A week? Two? And you're back here already. You wouldn't last two months."
She sips her new drink. Much better. "Yeah, well, thanks for the vote of confidence. Next time I come across fancy liquors whose brewing instructions have been lost, I'll just keep them to myself."
Mercy gasps. One hand comes up to the center of her chest while the other two cover the places humans have kidneys. She has hearts there too. "After all we've been through? Darling, I thought you cared about me!"
Carmille Saint-Saens's Danse Macabre starts playing before she can reply. Loudly. A few heads turn in the bar, but most of them are uninterested. Mercy has one delicate eyebrow raised as Winter sighs, shuts the music off, and downs the rest of her drink in one go. Her eyes water, her throat burns, her taste buds want to crawl off and die somewhere, but she can feel the buzz beneath her skin. "Duty calls."
"Sure you're okay to drive," Mercy asks as she slings her bag over her shoulder.
Winter turns back to grin at her. "Who said anything about driving?" She jumps using the vortex manipulator as soon as the door swings shut behind her.
It feels a bit like skipping, if she has to draw a comparison. Certainly, it takes a little bit to get used to and get right. Vortex manipulators aren't like TARDISes, they take a bit of the wearer's energy with each trip. There's also a momentary sense of gravity losing its hold on you, of lifting off of the ground and just going up and up. But then you land, of course. Then gravity wins. Then, the trip is over and you're falling to the ground until next time, chasing that rush.
Danse Macabre is one of the warnings she's set for the Doctor. Each regeneration has his own song, so she knows roughly where in his life she's headed. It's only supposed to go off if there's a danger to his life, something she didn't catch earlier. Now, it's drawing her to London in the year 2006. Winter purposely stops the trip a little early, touching down outside a fancy conference room hastily prepared. All sorts of people buzz around inside, and the name of the group is projected up on the screen.
UNIT. Winter can work with UNIT. She has, in the past, when the situation called for it. First thing's first—she needs to change. And find that consultant ID they gave her last time. It's the English branch that's here, no surprise there, but she can always say that one of the other higher ups called her in.
Ten minutes later, she's as clean and swamp-free as a person can get using a bathroom sink. Her hair is pulled back, and she had on a pair of glasses that make her look slightly older. The stiff outfit also helps there: white collared shirt, black blazer, black skirt. She looks early twenties instead of how she usually looks, and that's good enough for the science side of UNIT.
As for the military side, well, it's amazing what they let slide under the "crazy-genius-liability" label.
"Sure you're in the right place, sweetheart?"
Winter tries not to let her irritation show. Even an organization as forward thinking as UNIT can't be totally free of the occasional arsehole. She hates the sickly sweet and obviously false tone of his voice, the mocking tilt, the way his hand inches to his gun because violence is the first and only option he'll consider to something displeasing. But she doesn't want to cause a scene and she can't afford to be barred or left behind. Besides, she puts a lot of effort into maintaining her cover at UNIT, and she doesn't want to have to start from scratch because of this guy.
Holding up her ID, she tilts her head down slightly and looks up. The man—a lieutenant if his markings are correct—is satisfied with her apparent submission. "Yes? The French branch sent me?" This, of course, sets off a lot of grumbling and complaining. It helps that the heads of France and Great Brittan's UNIT teams are in a Cold War stalemate and keep trying to one-up the other. Hands—his are like clubs, and he rests one a little too low on her back—unnecessarily guides her fully into the room and to an empty seat. He lingers behind her when the briefing finally starts.
The video footage is a little shaky, put together from CCTV and phone cameras, but it's rather clear what happens: an unidentified flying object crashing into the Thames, hitting Big Ben on the way. A team has already been sent to examine the body found inside. Winter spares a moment to regret not joining that instead of coming directly here. They're just waiting for now, apparently, until someone comes to fetch them for a meeting of experts at Downing Street.
She leans back in her seat and pops a stick of gum in her mouth. Getting drunk sounded like such a good idea at the time, but now the headache is kicking in. Instant hangovers are another reason she likes to drink. Whatever buzz people tend to laud when they talk about getting sloshed never lasts long for her, if it kicks in at all. What she wouldn't give for one of those hangover cures they develop in the twenty-third century.
"Are you alright," the girl besides her asks. "You look a bit flustered." Her face is nearly perfectly square, and she keeps twisting her hands in her lap. Winter recognizes the nervous tick for what it is, but why is she nervous? Hands chuckles behind her at something another soldier says and the girl stiffens further.
"Excited," Winter says not very convincingly. "You? You seem a bit nervous."
"Same here," the girl lies, nearly jumping out of her seat when Hands's chuckle grows into a full laugh. "Tina Yeong," she says, trying to cover the reaction up.
"Aria Delmar," Winter says, shaking her hand. "Tea? I saw a place by the lobby." Mostly she wants to get out of the room, and she thinks Tina could do with some distance from Hands too.
Tina looks around the room, eyes wide. She's young, and probably new at this. UNIT hired her for a reason, and Winter doesn't doubt that she's smart. But it's hard to be an expert in a field that most people deny existing. She's much better suited for the later iterations of the organization, when the science sections expand and the militaristic responses are downsized. "But, what about— I mean, what if…"
"What if they leave without us?" She nods. "It's not like we don't know where they're going," Winter points out. "And it's only tea. We'll be gone ten minutes max."
Tina agrees to join her in the end. They leave and come back without anyone noticing, and it's another forty-five minutes before the bus arrives to take them to Number 10. Winter imagines that this is what it feels like to be a kid on a fieldtrip in this time. Tina chats with her the entire way, telling her about her schooling, about why she wants to study aliens. Winter manages to deflect most of the questions she asks, but Tina is very persistent once she gets past her shyness.
"Where did you go to school, Aria?"
She can't remember the name she put down. She knows that UNIT's profile of her says she was homeschooled for her younger years, but the only thing she can remember about Aria Delmar's higher education is that it was some sort of private school. "I went abroad," she settles with. Tina nods and starts talking about how she's always wanted to travel, and when the best time to go for this or that country is.
That conversation carries them all the way to Downing Street. Reporters, paparazzi, and military men line the street. Inside, political aids scurry about, trying to hold down the fort while it attempts to fly away. Someone thrusts an ID badge at her while she's busy looking around. There's no sign of the Doctor yet, but the night is young. It can't be a coincidence that UNIT and every other self-proclaimed alien expert is gathered at the UK's government headquarters to give briefings on first contact and the Doctor isn't involved.
All the new people has put Tina back into shy mode, which Winter is grateful for. She likes the other woman, she just doesn't have the energy to engage with her right now. She mostly wants to go in, save the Doctor, then pop right back to Lethean because she is both too sober and too drunk to deal with her life right now.
People begin to file into the large room prepared for them. She tells Tina to go first and save her a seat. Future Prime Minister Harriet Jones is talking to one of the aids who's doing his best to brush her off. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the Doctor walks through the doors, Rose Tyler by his side. Winter lingers long enough to see him handed an ID of his own before making her way inside.
Tina waves from a spot in the upper-middle half of the room. She's practically vibrating in her seat with a mixture of nerves and excitement. There are two people at the front with a chair and podium for them. Both men are rather portly, and neither does a very good job of looking properly grim, scared, worried, or confused.
Winter flips through the materials provided for her and suddenly she knows where and when she is. The urge to groan is nearly overwhelming—this is what she came here for? A family of criminals trying to destroy the Earth so they can sell it? Discreetly, she unclips one end of her ID off and lets the entire thing fall to the ground. Luckily, she still has the sonic pulses that she made for Angie and Artie. They're mostly drained, but there's still a bit of a kick left.
The Doctor slips in seconds before they start, taking a seat near the back on the opposite side of the room. "Ladies and Gentlemen. I'd like to have your attention please," Asquith, one of the men at the front, says into the microphone. "As you can see from the summaries in front of you, the ship had one porcine occupant—"
"Now the really interesting bit happened three days ago," the Doctor interrupts unabashedly. "See? Filed away under every other business. The North Sea—the satellite detected a signal, a little blip of radiation at one hundred fathoms like there was something down there… You were just about to investigate and the next thing you know, this happens—spaceships, pigs—massive diversion—from what?"
She rolls her eyes. Tina's to enraptured to notice, and it's not like anyone else is paying her any attention. The Doctor's in complete show-off mode, engaging the entire room. He doesn't even notice the glance Asquith exchanges with Joseph, the man beside him. Or how Joseph's hand slips into his pocket to pull out a remote. Winter kicks her ID a little further away and prepares herself.
"If aliens fake an alien crash and an alien pilot, what do they get," the Doctor asks. "Uh. They get us. It's not a diversion, it's a trap. This is all about us. Alien experts—the only people with knowledge how to fight them gathered together in one room." His eyes go wide at the realization. The grandstanding comes to a stop as Joseph lets out a loud fart."Excuse me, do you mind not farting while I'm saving the world?"
"Would you rather silent but deadly?" He and Asquith snicker.
Moving out from behind the podium, Asquith takes off his hat to reveal the zipper on his forehead. He pulls the tab, letting a bright light shine through the opening. Joseph continues to laugh as the other man pulls down the skin suit until it crumples to the ground. He stands taller now, green skinned with large claws at the end of his fingers and bulbous eyes. A collar encircles his neck—compression field.
"We are the Slitheen," he announces, voice distorted by the crude translator.
"Thank you all for wearing your ID cards." Joseph cackles. He holds up the remote and clicks it. "They'll help to identify the bodies."
Electricity bathes the room, overtaking everyone inside. the sounds of jerks and half-bitten off screams fill Winter's ears, and the horrid smell of flesh beginning to burn clogs her nose. She rips off the tag from around Tina's neck, ignoring the dark red mark it leaves. The other girl falls to the floor, unconscious but still alive. The Doctor screams, on his knees from the pain. He'll last longer than everyone else due to his Time Lord biology, but the others are dying and some are probably already dead.
At least she doesn't have to worry about explaining herself this time. The pain distracts him as she flips one of the coins at Asquith's collar, and the other at the remote in Joseph's hand. They hit their mark and start the feedback loop. Asquith isn't the only one who screams—Joseph does too as the electrical current that engulfed the others fades and instead attacks the Slitheen family. Downsides of a linked compression field.
Winter slumps on the ground, pretending to be among the injured as the Doctor shakes off the last of the after effects and stands. His ID tag goes slithering across the floor and he runs to the door. He'll be back soon, no doubt, with guards and soldiers. She takes a moment to feel Tina's pulse, making sure the other girl is at least alive before she skips out. Her job is done, the Doctor's not dead, and she has better things to do than stick around.
She doesn't head back to Lethean right away. Her first stop is to the ship she acquired from her job on Mori V some months ago. She'll have to abandon it soon, or maybe sell it. Or, as more likely, she'll use it as a diversion for one of her upcoming escapes or faked deaths. She's been feeling eyes on her ever since she met with Jack. It's always a risk, going back to someone she's met before, especially someone connected to the Doctor, but he's worth it.
The ship is rather big for just one person. The entire thing is automated, so Winter doesn't really have to worry about upkeep or cleaning out the filters. The lights are programed to stay off unless she specifically activates them. That, or if there's a breech that doesn't match her bio-signature. It's one of her more paranoia driven security measures, but she's glad for it, because she knows the moment she materializes in the cockpit that she's not alone.
The lights are on.
She unclips the necklace, harmless looking but actually thin strands of titanium wires weaved together, and slips it under the cuff of her vortex manipulator. Her sword is already secure in the holster under her skirt. She doesn't pull it out just yet. Rare as it is, sometimes uninvited guests aren't people trying to kill her. It won't do to take off the head of a client, or god forbid, someone she actually cares about.
It's not. Of course it's not. Her luck is never that good. The cameras are out, but the intruder only thinks to knock out the relevant one. It tells Winter exactly where she is—her room. There's another camera in there, hidden among the few trinkets inside. the feed connects to a device separate from the ship's system. She's human—blonde, dark eyed, on the tall side and sturdily built—with some extra modifications. There's the signature whirl of cybernetic components, probably a prosthetic limb with a fitted weapon. Ridges line her back, and the skin of her left side is scaly. Definitely some genetic splicing going on there. Winter bets it's for extra strong strength and some form of venom, but she won't rule out other possibilities.
She charges into the room, catching Blondie off guard when she doesn't strike out, but jumps instead. Winter's legs wrap around her shoulder and torso as she pulls out the makeshift garrote and winds it around her neck. Leaning back, it's easy to let gravity do its thing and pull her down, cutting of Blondie's airflow. Unfortunately, the trespasser isn't not a complete amateur. Once she finally realizes what's going on, Blondie throws herself on her back, and Winter is forced to let go or be crushed. Abandoning the wire, she leaps away and pulls out her sword instead.
They exchange a few blows. She's right about the prosthetic arm, and the blaster in it. Whatever it's made of, it's very sturdy. Probably some Adamantite alloy. The pure stuff is extremely rare; even her sword isn't completely pure, but it's stronger than Blondie's arm. Cracks in the casing are starting to spread from where they clash. Blondie realizes this, and strikes out with her left arm. Her nails are more like claws, and it looks like Winter is right about the venom too since she can see some sort of opaque fluid coating them.
Unable to bring her sword back up in time, Winter kicks out instead, using the sole of her shoe. Blondie thrusts the blaster in her face, muzzle already lit up and whining loudly. She cranes her neck and headbutts her, ripping a cry from Blondie's lips as her nose cracks under the pressure. Blood gushes everywhere, Winter can feel the warm fluid drying on her face, and the shot goes wide. She swings her leg out, tripping the other woman, then cuts off her weaponized arm before she can think to shoot again.
She whistles sharply. Five metal bars that were arranged in a star on the wall fly off and restrain Blondie at her ankles, remaining wrist, neck, and waist. She screams, struggling futilely to slip or force her way out. Winter whistles again, low and drawn out. The restrains shrink until she stops, red faced with exertion. "Go on," she spits out, "kill me. It won't make a difference."
Winter doesn't respond. She picks up arm, intending to study the design and mechanics. Keeping Blondie is a liability; she can't just drop her off at the nearest planet, but she won't just kill her either. The modifications mean she's not just an ordinary woman though. She's a hit man, maybe an assassin, and probably a bounty hunter. All three are lines of work that garner enemies, and Winter's sure there's someone she can foster Blondie onto, or a long list of crimes she can atone for in prison.
The restraints have a secondary feature, activated by yet another type of whistle. Winter knows the exact moment the needle bites into Blondie's skin from the way she grunts. It's a harmless sedative, but fast acting. She's out in seconds, and she'll stay like that for a good long while.
For now, Winter dumps the arm on her desk, activates a small containment field around it in case there are any other tricks, and wanders off to the bathroom. If the universe refuses to let her get drunk, the least it can do is let her relax in the bath. God knows she's earned it from the number of people that've tried killing her in the past forty-eight hours.