If I had any food left in me, I would've barfed by now.

Luckily, Rose seems eager to remedy that. Helping me to my feet, she swings an arm round my waist and lets me lean on her for support.

I feel her palm mold to my ribs, (too) solid and (too) warm and (too) real against me. So I slip away.

"I think I got it," I tell her, pretending to brush away some lint on my skirt to hide the quickening of my breaths. I swallow down the flood of panic, annoyed with myself for being so spotty in the first place. "You jus' focus on leading the way."

Rose's face remains carefully neutral as she falls back into step beside me. I don't bother to ask where the Doctor's going when he splits off from our pod, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other if it means a fuller belly faster.

"There you go," Rose says, pulling out one of two chairs at the dining table for me. "Pasta okay?"

My stomach rumbles. "Perfectly."

Rose rustles about the kitchen with practiced ease as an amiable silence settles over the two of us. I'm a little surprised that there isn't a food replicator or something on the TARDIS. Or, maybe there is and she just prefers to do it herself? The more likely explanation hits me at the same time a top-shelf colander does my chef's tippy toes. It appears Rose Tyler, much like myself, is too proud to ask how to operate anything more technical than a kitchen stool. And even that will be avoided at all costs.

All in all though, it is a fairly normal kitchen. Out of place, in fact, in its absurd normalcy. It's got that grayish-brownish vinyl flooring that's easy to clean in that it's actually just hard to tell when it's dirty, the typical Poundland plastic bin tucked under the faucet, and plain laminate countertops that taper off into rounded corners. I didn't used to notice rounded corners, but they were all Jane could talk about when she was pregnant and nesting, so now I see them everywhere. Toddlers lose eyes on those things!, she'd insist anytime we questioned why the sandpaper was out again, but whether the TARDIS had similar concerns about Rose, I couldn't be sure.

"Is there a reason why the kitchen looks like it's straight out of Newham when the rest of the TARDIS looks like an emo USS Enterprise?"

Blonde hair swishes as Rose pauses to shoot me a curious look over her shoulder. The sliver of butter she was in the middle of carving slips from her knife and onto the floor, unnoticed.

"Southwark, actually."

I frown, eyes on the butter currently camouflaging into the linoleum. "Hm?"

"The kitchen," Rose turns back to the noodles. "It's from my mum's flat in Southwark. I guess the TARDIS wanted me to feel at home," she shrugs, despite the edge in her voice.

Oh. "The layout's a little different," I notice with newly probing eyes, "but I see it. Bit bigger, though, yeah?"

"Bit bigger," Rose confirms, words clipped.

Not exactly in the mood for chit-chat myself, so I take the hint and shut up.

Minutes pass. Rose and yet another prolonged silence join me at the table as I shovel forkful after forkful of spaghetti into my mouth, not minding when the noodles sliver down my throat unchewed or the metal scrapes against my teeth.

I think Rose is about to tell me to slow down when she says, "Could I ask you somethin'?"

Until this moment, I hadn't considered that I might be just as much an enigma to her as she is to me. Maybe more so, seeing as I actually know a bit about Rose's life.

"Go ahead," I say, swiping a wrist along my chin to slop up the runaway marinara.

Rose sets her fork down. I don't think she's touched her food at all, actually.

"When you said this was all a TV programme…how much of this do you actually see?"

I frown. "Is this about my kitchen comment? Really, I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable or anythi–"

"No, no, it wasn't that. Don't get me wrong, that was weird. It's just—" she gestures to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, then to the splash of butter (she did indeed notice) on the floor, then interestingly, to herself. "Are they seeing me in my jammies right now? Or like, when I take showers?" She glances furtively at a corner of the kitchen, like a camera's going to pop out and reveal itself at any moment. "I don't even have my mascara on."

My heart would be breaking for Rose right now if the whole thing weren't so absurd. So instead, I squint at her lashes and say, "You don't?"

"No," Rose answers too quickly, her face contorting into a perfect picture of teenage insecurity as she follows up with a, "Should I?"

Billie Piper's clumpy-lashed Bratz Doll look was clearly the work of makeup on the show, but translated into this universe, I guess they're just…like that? And now I'm starting to doubt that the foundation I was going to compliment her on earlier isn't really foundation at all. Just the youthful glow of teenage skin.

"This isn't the panopticon or anything," I gather myself, realizing that the reason she looks so young is because she is. 19, if I remember correctly, rather than Billie's 23. That's only 4 years older than Dot. A baby. "Anyway, it's not that kind of show," I supply at last, thinking of all the horny mums that would love if it were. I suppose the horny tweens, in Rose's case. Doctor Who is meant to be a kid's show, after all.

"We only really see the adventures, and those are just the snippets that can fit into 42 minute episodes," I reassure her. "As for the kitchen, we've never seen further into the TARDIS than the console room. We're just made to believe that's bigger. Movie magic," I give a half smile. It might be my first since I've gotten here.

Rose slumps with relief. "Just the adventures, then?"

"Just the adventures," I confirm.

"Well, then that's brilliant," she grins, leaning back into her chair. "If we're cutting out all the naff bits, I must look like some kind of Wonder Woman to your lot."

I bite down on a laugh. "No getting cocky now, Blondie," I warn playfully.

Or at least, I thought I was being playful. Maybe the whole coming to terms with 'reality' thing is starting to affect my tone, because Rose's face falls.

"God I'm so sorry! I should be comforting you and here I am babbling on about me."

My stomach twists as armies of Cybermen and Daleks swarm past my mind's eye. "Don't worry about me, Rose Tyler." I'm not the one that gets sucked into another universe, is what I don't say, because it's neither helpful nor strictly true considering my own circumstances. All I know is that if I were to throw a pity party right now, Rose would be the first on my invite list.

And so, I smile, and I tell her the one thing about me that will always be true in every reality: "Whinging's my favorite pastime, and let's just say, I have a hell of a lot to whinge about now."

I can't bring myself to marvel at the wonder that is my room.

"Where's the shower?" I ask instead, and Rose points to a little door tucked away in the neverending expanse.

"Could be a closet though," she warns.

I stare at her.

She smiles encouragingly before pushing me in. "Go on, then! Poke around!" I see she's shut the door and herself outside it in the second it takes me to regain balance, and with that, I am alone again. Or still.

Rose was right about the shower.

I peel off my clothes from today—yesterday? No, I think it's been just the one. The yellow poodle skirt feels more like an artifact of a time long ago than a costume I was meant to borrow for the morning. I stare at it for a good long moment, puddled there around my ankles. Remind myself to not feel bad when I spot the pilling on its wool-felted surface, because there's no one to expect it back.

And so I cry.

And scrub.

And braid.

And brush.

And do not feel surprised when everything I could possibly need (toothbrush, paste, hair ties, bonnet) appears inside opened cabinets, greeting me like an old friend rather than some pathetic bug that's mistakenly crawled its way onto a flight only to get spat out on the other side of the world.

Universe, I remind myself.

When I pad back into the bedroom, I find a comfy set of pajamas and a shiny red box laid neatly on my bed. I don't remember them being there before, but then again, I was doing more wallowing than investigating. After changing into the pajamas, I dare to open the box.

To my pleasant surprise, I'm greeted by chocolates. Rows on rows of chocolates.

I get up from the bed to investigate the forest of fiddle leaf figs and the Roman bust and the four different chaise longues. No one seems to be hiding behind any of them.

A gift from the TARDIS, then?

I pop one into my mouth. Dark chocolate, which is indeed my favorite, coats my tongue. I decide another couldn't hurt, and soon two turns into three and four and five. I make sure to lick up the beads that bleed into the corners of my lips, too.

I empty the box. A quick glance about tells me that despite all of the TARDIS's interdimensional past, present, and future knowledge, there are no bins in the bedroom, so I replace the lid and abandon it on my side table. Only, just as I go to set it down, the box feels strangely heavy again.

I frown. Shake it. Open the lid.

Inside are replenished sweets.

"Why'd you do that then?" I whisper to the box, my face reflected in its varnished surface. The box does not tell me.

And so, I eat more chocolates. Only half this time, starting to feel queasy.

Only, when I go to abandon the box on the side table again, it doubles in weight.

I peek inside once more, annoyed.

The empty plastic shell has been refilled, now with milk chocolate bonbons placed ever so perfectly in each once (or twice) vacated slot.

I suck on my molars. There's still chocolate lodged in them.

An unannounced hiccup erupts from my throat, sending a putrid mixture of acid and cocoa nearly spewing from my mouth. I gag it back down, disgusted that the thought of more chocolate in this moment actually sounds like a good idea.

I don't know what the TARDIS thinks she's up to, but I've had enough. I walk the box and its infernal sweets to the bathroom, dump it in the bin, and re-brush my teeth.

The lights are already off when I return to the bedroom and I slip beneath the duvet. My tongue tastes sour as I fall into a restless sleep.

Hours (or maybe only minutes) later, I wake to a dull ache in my stomach. The pang grows more urgent, so I sprint to the bathroom, bend over the tub, and vomit my heart out. Half dissolved chocolates splash against the porcelain with each queasy spurt and the sound alone is enough to make me sick again and again and again.

I rinse the tub once I've emptied myself.

As I brush my teeth for the third time, I recognize hunger staring back at me in the mirror. Feel the hollow in my stomach. Wonder if it's too late to fish the chocolate box back out the bin…

But it's not the chocolates, I realize. Not hunger.

It's the fullness I crave.

I go back to bed with an empty stomach, despising the feeling that echoes images of the void in my nightmares.

A week passes. Or something like it at least. I haven't seen the Doctor since my arrival on the TARDIS, but Rose, at least, has been a present-ever present?-entirely too present fixture.

"The Doctor and I are stopping by the Sploogian Market for a bit. They've got these cube fruit things that remind me of chips. Let's get some?"

"The fourth moon of Kreton is calling your naaame Kit! You comin' then?"

"The Doctor's told me T'raghii's got the second best pedicure in the galaxy. Can't pass that up can you?"

Needless to say, I have become intimately familiar with my room. Once I'd bothered to actually give the place a look, the feeling was not unlike the first pair of Christmas socks I received with genuine delight. Practical. Adult. Just a little sad. Can all my wildest dreams really be found on page 9 of the IKEA catalog?

Even the TARDIS has started protesting against my better Swedish-minimalist sensibilities. Any spot on the floor that's collected more than five dirty items of clothing tends to grow a chair. As a result, I have about five of them now. And when I'm not looking, balsa wood side tables go missing.

But alas, there are only so many times you can open and shut the soft-close cabinets before the act loses its shine. That was about when I actually took Rose up on her offer.

"Kit! Ready for adventure then? What's it gonna be? We could do Juno. Juno's great in the summer-Ooo, but Rose has been begging me to take her to the Never Ending Sea for ages now. What d'you say. A hop over to Juno then a day at the beach?"

The Doctor is beaming at me. Waiting for a response, probably. I wonder if baring all his teeth like that is a Time Lord intimidation tactic.

I scan the console room for an escape.

"Where's Rose?"

The Doctor slumps against the console very cooly, very James Dean.

"Humans," he scoffs, "Only species without internal clocks that bother to make promises about their timely whereabouts. S'pose she's still getting ready—"

"-Doctor?" Speaking of the devil, she struts in wearing a flappy futuristic sort of jacket that would fit well in whichever circle of hell is dedicated to crimes of fashion. Understandably distracted, I don't notice the shiny metal tube she's pawned until she starts waving it in the Doctor's face with a gloating grin. "Did you mean to leave your sonic in the flower pot?"

The Doctor pats down the pockets of his trenchcoat before turning to me with a sheepish grin.

I raise my eyebrows at him. "What was that about waiting around, Doctor?"

"Kestuvian orchids," the Doctor ignores my jape, plucks the sonic out of Rose's hand, and blows a bit of dirt off the end. "Fickle things," he explains, continuing to fiddle with the barrel, "most flowers like a light chat," buzz, "but Kestuvians are loud mouths by nature," buzz buzz, "and farmers by trade," buzz, "so their flowers either need a gifted gabber or a full zap of sonic to bloom," he finishes with an extra ooo on blooom.

Satisfied with the screwdriver's condition, the Doctor slips the sonic into his pocket before shifting his attention to the tele-screen.

"Now that brings me back to my first question," he pauses his button mashing—I suspect some sort of dematerialization sequence—to beam once more. "Where to?"

Rose and I exchange looks before she hurtles me under the bus.

"Kit had a suggestion actually..."

I wince as the Doctor and Rose's joint gazes settle on me. There's something about their full attention that feels nothing short of terrifying.

"I was wondering..." God, was it too late to head back to the IKEA room? I'm sure the TARDIS has fully redecorated by now. Lots new to explore. Really, why bother leaving the TARDIS when I could count all 15,000 threads of my Egyptian cotton bed sheets?

"I uh…wanted to…" Rose twists her face into a look of encouragement as I start shaking my head. "Actually, it's fine. I don't—"

"She wants to get rid of her music," Rose blurts out for me.

I feel my soul shrink a little as the Doctor's eyebrows shoot impressively high. "What! Nooo, come on, Kit, isn't it cool?" He whines. "D'you really want to-"

"Yes," I manage.

"But-"

"I want to get rid of it," I assert, because it's true and Rose is giving me two thumbs up like an overly enthusiastic mum at her daughter's first dance recital, and surprisingly, it's working. "Is there anywhere you can take me that could do that?"

"No. Well possibly, but I really don't think it's…" The Doctor pauses for an open-mouthed moment before something sparks behind his eyes. He shifts gears, bouncing to the other end of the console before furiously inputting information. "Yes, yes, this could work. I'm doing a search of the TARDIS database. Filtering by attribute. I've got 'humanoid', 'psychic sensitivity', and 'music' so far. That should do it. Annnd," he flattens a final lever, "there we go! I'm sending us to the closest match."

The Doctor and Rose each grab onto the Y-beams, and as the TARDIS belches its familiar gurgle, I realize my mistake.

I'm reminded of those old American westerns dad would put on the telly to fill the house after mum died. There was always that one scene where the hero had just mounted his horse, reins squeezed tight in his hard knuckled fists as a wide expanse of blue blue sky stretched over his shoulder. But then it thundered or a shot's fired, and suddenly, the hero's face down in a pile of shit as his horse skitters off into the sunset?

In this instant, it's hard to tell whether I relate more to the cowboy or the horse.

The metal grating bites into my knees as I go crashing to the ground. My fingers catch the lip of the console, but I'm sent careening backwards as the floor pretends it never existed in the first place. After a few more breathless knocks about and the reemergence of the floor, I can only assume we've materialized in some unknown corner of the universe. Doing a quick check of my limbs, I right myself with a groan.

"Brilliant!" Rose and the Doctor cackle in unison.

I trail after them as they race out the door.

Do I really want to do this? There's a good chance that if I stay on the TARDIS until Doomsday, the music won't make itself a problem. Afterall, it was only the adventures that warranted a soundtrack. I consider my options, my acting abilities, and my odds of corralling the Doctor and Rose back into the safety of the spaceship upon declaring a sudden liking for my unnatural musical ability.

A burst of laughter sounds from outside the TARDIS doors and I knock my cautious 10% chance of success down to a 2.

The Doctor pokes his head back in through the doors. "Come on Kit!" He exclaims with an enthusiasm that seems all too natural on TV but positively deranged in person. He ushers me outside with his hand and I follow.

"We've landed in a cupboard," Rose fills me in as we fall into step with the Doctor who's already begun lecturing.

"Some sort of base. Moon base, sea base, space base..."

I find his joy at our meek surroundings utterly demoralizing. If all it takes is a few metal beams to please the Doctor, I can't imagine what a good time looks like to this lot. Or rather, I know exactly what a good time looks like, and the fact it's not happening with me sat on the sofa in front of the telly is so incredibly wrong.

"Human design. You've got a thing about kits. This place was put together like a flat pack wardrobe, only bigger. And easier."

I've almost shut the hatch-door (bright yellow, submarine like, air tight - do we need to keep the air in?) behind us when I hear it. Not the drilling the Doctor's taken it upon himself to ramble on about to Rose, but a thrumming. Like hearing a party going on inside from the porch, or your dad plopped in front of the TV the next room over. Not loud enough to warrant a yell, but enough to spook me into silence. The muted dissonance of an orchestra poised to introduce whichever big bad is supposed to be this episode's monster of the week. Because that's what this is. An episode. As long as we're under the invisible camera's watchful eye, we can't die, right? At least that's the only line of reasoning keeping me from shriveling up on the spot.

"Welcome to hell."

"Oh, it's not that bad."

"No, over there," Rose giggles.

My heart throbs thickly as both she and the Doctor move to crouch by the wall emitting music. Inky symbols are scribbled beneath a spray painted WELCOME TO HELL. I'm astounded by their absence of a will to live.

"Very old. Impossibly old," the Doctor murmurs, fingering the script. He shoots to his feet with no warning, already sniffing out trouble. "We should find out who's in charge."

Fearing the thought of being left behind more than the music, I follow after the two. My ears ache against the dull throbbing of notes as the Doctor throws open another hatch door.

A face full of aliens and an ear full of shrill violins greets us.

"Oh! Right. Hello!" The Doctor cheers.

They're hideous. Like octopuses (octopi?) welded onto pokeballs. Or the top bit of Cthulhu squeezed into a demure gray smock. White piping. Black gloves. I don't have a chance to check out their footwear, but it's a hell of a costuming choice either way.

"I was saying, er, nice base."

The music kicks back in, twice as loud. I stumble back a step, clap a hand over the tinny squeal in my head and try not to double over in pain. My eyes fix on the wretched creatures. They don't look too fast. We can probably out run them. But not if I'm passed out.

The aliens advance through the door. I think the Doctor shouts something at us, but it's hard enough to hear over the deluge that I just fill in the blanks: Get the everloving hell out of here.

Rose gets turned around in the shuffle, knocks straight into me. I'm off my feet, suspended in mid air, I swear, for half a second longer than gravity should allow. What was it then? The adrenaline? A faulty grav-sim?

A slow-mo shot? A cut to a different angle?

Despite my miraculous flight, I crash twice as hard. My hands take the brunt of it, which can't be good for my wrists but is even worse for my ears now that I'm exposed to the chaos. The orchestra blares on just as loud as before. It's the aliens I now hear in full clarity.

"We must feed. We must feed."

At least I know what the pokeballs are for.

I scrape myself off the floor as the Doctor stumbles for another hatch. Just as he's got it open, though, another hoard of aliens march through.

Instinctively, we huddle in the middle, each of us facing out towards one of the many futile exits. Sheep shepherded by wolves.

I don't know which is worse, the Doctor brandishing his sonic screwdriver like a weapon, Rose shielding herself with a nearby stool, or me, too busy with my brains spilling out the ear holes to bother with anything at all.

It's a tie between me and the Doctor, then.

"We must feed! We must feed! We must feed!"

The music crescendos, and everything becomes a part of it. Our harsh breaths the whimpering choir. The blood thrashing through my veins the booming bass. The scrape of shoes a thousand bows chafing against a thousand haunting strings.

And then, the aliens stop.

Inches away. The first one shakes its orb, gives it a smack, and when it rears its ugly head at us, I suspect that implied in the squinting crescents of its yellow-red eyes is a smile.

The music cuts out.

"You, if you are hungry."

A wheeze escapes me. Neither flat nor sharp nor particularly percussive in its exhalation. Just a blessed, hideous wheeze.

In the thundering silence, my laugh is just as ugly.

"Sorry?" The Doctor lowers his sonic. Thank god there isn't a shelf that needs building.

"We apologize," the proffered orb glows, "electromagnetics have interfered with speech systems. Would you like some refreshment?"

I look at the aliens anew.

They're speaking through the orbs? Speech systems, they said. Were these the aliens meant to help me with the music? Had they heard it, too?

Rose recovers first. "Have you got any coffee?"

"We have only Protein 1, Protein 2, or Protein 3," comes the monotone response.

The Doctor eyes Rose skeptically as she contemplates her choices.

"Well, I'll umm…Let's do a cup of 1 with just a little bit of 3. Tiny bit," she bows her head. "Thank you."

I dare say the Doctor looks a little proud. I link my arm through Rose's and squeeze.

"We will have to charge payment to your designation codes."

Figures.

"We haven't got one," The Doctor informs them, matter of fact.

"That is impossible."

He sucks his teeth, the sound echoing in the newfound silence. "Well that's us," he shrugs, "Impossible!"

"With apologies, but this must be reported."

"Oh, do you have to?" He whines.

"With regret," the head alien apologizes again, proceeding to bow towards its orb. "Unauthorized humans in Habitation 3."

The Doctor plops down on the stool-shield Rose abandoned just moments ago. "That's a bit harsh, unauthorized! Why don't you jus' call us visitors? No! Tell you what! Guests! Guests is good. Or, how about, friends you just haven't met yet?"

The Doctor's ramble is cut short when the far hatch-door flies open. A man, early 50s, clad in cargo trousers and astonishment storms towards us. He's followed by two non-descript guards, each fitted with their own rifles.

"What the hell?" Cargo trousers stumbles towards us, a hand never leaving his holstered side. "Have…? Who are you?"

The first alien's orb lights up. "These are friends you just haven't met yet."

The smile creeping up my face is wiped away as the man slaps the orb out of its hand.

"Oi!" My voice hurts on the way out. Had I been screaming? "There's no need for that!"

The man narrows his eyes at us, lifting his forearm to his mouth. "Captain," he speaks into a wristband. There's just a hint of something tugging at the corner of his lips. "We've got people."

An alarm blares suddenly. I assume this sound, despite its similarity in decibels to before, is real as the man in the cargo trousers ushers us through the hatch door with haste.

The base convulses as we barrel down a narrow corridor of metal beams and handrails. Blazing jets of steam gush up from between the vents. I hiss as a tendril catches my exposed ankle.

"Move it! Move it!" Cargo shouts as sparks catch in our hair.

When we're finally birthed out the other end of the canal, I can tell we look a little worse for wear.

"Oh my god, you meant it," a man in black—the Captain I presume—eyes us through his lashes. Something is oddly familiar about the expression. Or maybe the person?

"People, look at that!" My head whips to a similarly astonished voice, a young woman with blondish curls. "Real people!"

Rose raises a hand, as if to wave, but abandons the gesture for a nervous smile. "Yeah, definitely real. My name's Rose. Rose Tyler. And this is the Doctor. Oh, and this is Kit! Kit, uh—sorry I don't think I know your last name actually."

"Griffith," I supply limply, the consonants catching on my ragged breath.

More blank stares from the crew.

"Come on!" A man with dark, slicked back hair approaches us with a supply of bravado entirely unproportional to his height. He's in the same black t-shirt, military vest get-up as Cargo and Captain. I glance at the two women crewmates, curious... Yeah, definitely boobier costumes than the rest. I wonder if Louise was consulted on this set.

"We're hallucinating," he continues, ghastly self-assurance a foots breadth from us, "They can't be—"

Strangely, I think he and I are on the same page.

I take a step closer, but he was already so obnoxiously close to begin with, I end up standing on his toes like the world's most unlikely Daddy-Daughter Dance duo. Whoops.

"I dunno"—atoms and quarks and quantum particles scream and burn and—"Am I real?"

He stumbles back.

Really, I should be asking if he's the real one, but I don't think the questions are mutually exclusive. After all, I am the one crashing their reality.

He frowns before turning tail between legs back to his crew.

Rumbling sounds from above.

"Come on, we're in the middle of an alert! Danny strap up," the Captain reminds us all of our imminent deaths. "Impact in thirty seconds. Sorry you guys"—this he says to us—"whoever you are. Just hold on. Tight."

The crew have designated seats with rollercoaster-esque strap bars to keep them from hurtling through space, but I still do my best to heed the warning. After that joyride in the TARDIS, I'm learning it's better to hold on first, ask questions later.

The base lurches just as the Doctor and Rose find handles to cling onto. The music is back, and I dare say louder than the earthquake itself. Various items clash to the floor in the jumble, mere embellishments to the blaring score. I couldn't cover my ears even if I wanted to, my death grip to a pole the only thing keeping me on my feet. I bare my teeth against it all, sure my head will pop off if it all becomes too much.

There are flames in the aftermath.

"That's it," the Captain confirms. "Everyone all right? Speak to me. Ida?"

OLDER WOMAN

Yeah, yeah!

"Danny?"

DOUCHE CANOE

Fine.

"Toby?"

TALL SKINNY WHITE MAN (but not as tall and skinny as the Doctor)

Yeah, fine.

"Scooti?"

YOUNGER WOMAN

No damage.

"Jefferson?"

CARGO rounds off the expositional roll call with a Check! before clambering for the fire extinguisher.

I guess the audience needs to learn their names somehow.

Audience. Is that meant to be me? Or…

What exactly are the rules of this reality? Is this absurd situation the product of a writer's room? Or does it all exist independent from my original reality, and the cinematic flare is just a…a coincidence? I mean, no one else can hear the music. Am I just projecting? Filling in what I know about tv shows to explain what's going on. I mean, roll calls are normal, right? The first day of school isn't just some narrative exposition for the rest of the year. And some women like to wear lower cut tops! Doesn't mean some lady named Louise is shoving cutlets into their hands!

"What's that shaking the roof?" Rose interrupts my train of thought.

I didn't even notice the howling coming from outside.

The older woman—Ida—gapes at us some more. "You're not joking. Well, introductions. FYI, as they said in the olden days. This?" She takes a few steps towards the wall, wrapping her fingers around a lever. "This is home."

"Brace yourselves," Captain Zach says in all seriousness. "The sight of it is said to send people mad."

Ida throws down the lever and the shutters overhead slide outwards, bathing us in light.

There are no prophets, no holy writs, no things sacred. The stars burst like overripe melons in their superheated skins and no gods spare them from this god who unmakes Creation. All things are torn asunder in the frenzy. Over the twitching carcass of Time. The all-consuming fire—

ROSE

That's a black hole.

But the fires went out when there was nothing left to burn—

DOCTOR

But that's impossible.

And in the space where a planet had been, the void—

ROSE

And that's bad?

And in the place where the voices were, the void—

DOCTOR

Bad doesn't cover it. A black hole's a dead star. It collapses in on itself, in and in and in until the matter's so dense and tight it starts to pull everything else in too. Nothing in the universe can escape it. Light, gravity, time. Everything just gets pulled inside and crushed.

And the void is hungry—

DOCTOR

We should be dead.

And the void is cold—

IDA

And yet here we are, beyond the laws of physics. Welcome on board.

And the void is staring back.

The base shudders again and I'm snapped out of the moment. Snapped back into myself. The shutters are closed. I breathe. Squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

"Your refreshment."

Reluctantly, I leave the dark behind my eyes.

One of the little alien guys is standing in front of me, a cup in hand. When they're not all marching towards you saying "We must feed!"—it was actually quite cute. I accept the drink with shaky hands.

"Yeah, thanks."

I see the rest of the crew are huddled around the center console. A hologram of the black hole is being projected and spoken over.

I look away quickly.

Rose, on the outskirts of the debrief, catches my eye. I see she's holding a little paper cup of her own as she waves me over. I shake my head with what I hope resembles a smile on my face. I swish the drink between my teeth. Salty.

"So what are you, then?" I ask the alien, welcoming the distraction.

"We are the Ood."

Speaking in the collective even when alone. Cliche #1.

"Alright, Ood. Ooood. Nice name. Is it your name? D'you all go by Ood?"

Its orb alights: "We have no titles. We are as one."

I sigh. Should've expected that one. Were they like those NPCs in Dot's video games? Just there for a bit of exposition and background dressing? Sounds a lot like being an extra.

Oh god. The poor extras! And the poor makeup team. Being a faceless extra was bad enough, I can't imagine having to wear tentacle beards for at least a few weeks straight.

I wonder what they feel like.

No, Kit.

Probably just silicone prosthetics though, right? Or maybe some type of foam base? But then, how would they get that shiny effect…

Curiosity gets the better of me: "Would you possibly mind if I, er, touched your head, Mr. Ood sir?"

It blinks, just the once. "Certainly."

The Ood bows forward. I think I catch Rose giving me a look out the corner of my eye.

Oh god—

The texture is not at all what I was expecting. Warm and dimpled, and all too flesh-like. Its skin isn't wet, but slick, like a frog's back. I lay my palm flat against its head and it must be over a vein because its got a pulse. A pulse.

I jerk my hand away. "I, uh, thank you. Sir."

"You are welcome, Kit."

Its orb blinks off, and there is silence.

Silence.

Silence.

And in the dark there is nothing—

"I'm sorry, that was rude," I blurt, "I didn't mean to—You know, people do that to me, uh, ask to touch my hair like it's, it's, uh, alien, or no—but it's uncomfortable and they probably shouldn't ask, and yeah…sorry."

I am an idiot.

"There is no need for apology."

I glance at its shoes. Loafers. So if it wasn't costuming…? "Who, uh, who dresses you guys?"

"Our clothes are sourced by Ood Operations. We are dressed in Stage 3 of assimilation, after Stage 2: Mutilation."

"Wha–"

"Hey Kit?" Rose calls over to me.

My head whips to her. Reorienting feels a bit like trying to jam a brainful of square thoughts into round words. "What's that?"

"Do you remember where we parked the TARDIS?"

I blink, imagining the canary yellow door I'd closed behind us before it all went to shit. There was a number on it. 4? 5? "Habitation Area 3, was it?"

Something in the air changes.

Captain Zach looks skeptical. "D'you mean Storage 6?"

My teeth ache first. Isn't that what old people say with the rain? Or is it the joints?

"It was a bit of a cupboard, yeah," the Doctor scratches his head. "Storage six. Yeah. But you said…You said storage five to eight."

Quieter this time. More suspense, less thriller. The first few tinkering notes of a score.

The Doctor catches Rose's eyes. He's so fast, I wonder how his converse don't go flying off and hit her. We watch in silence as the door flaps shut behind them with an air of finality.

Captain Zach turns to me, arms crossed. "Shouldn't you be, I dunno," he motions to the door, "runnin' off with 'em? Check if your ship's alright?"

I crook an ear towards the door. The music didn't even get a chance to crescendo before high-tailing it out the room with the main characters. There are never any lyrics, but if there were, I'm sure this diddy would go a little something like: "yeah, no shit the TARDIS is gone".

"No use," I tell him and his stupid familiar face.

He squints at me for one, two seconds, before settling on cool-guy indifference.

"Yeah, okay, none of my business. Everyone back to work!"

Hey babes, I started working on this chapter in MARCH and it's been sat, mildly edited, in a google doc since JUNE so I'm just going to publish it despite all of my grievances with its current state. Pardon the sparse descriptions and atmospherics. I suppose the goal was to add those in eventually, but better meh than never? Let me know what y'all think! Hopefully I'll stop being lame and actually work on this fic again bc I have so much planned for it. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!