CHAPTER 3

Doyle's Apartment

Semi-awake, Doyle uttered profanity over his smartphone ringtone alarm. Rolling over onto his side in a curled heap, he muttered acidly as the taste of last night's beer lingered on his palette, "Piss off!"

Almost on command, his phone stopped. Seconds later, it sounded again. Doyle aggressively kicked at his bed coverings to shove them forward. He begrudgingly shuffled forward to the mattress edge, shivering from the wintery room temperature while wearing only his navy-blue bicycle shorts. Snatching his phone, Doyle read its illuminated screen through his strained, narrowed eyes, reading the caller identification:

Kate Lethbridge-Stewart

Doyle activated speaker mode before answering while using his free hand to rub his shoulders, attempting to keep warm, "Doyle."

"Late night, Commander? You've been in bed all day," the smile in Kate's voice was palpable in juxtaposition to Doyle's moody groan.

Pushing onto his feet, Doyle crossed his bedroom, opening the curtains while he held the phone in his opposite hand, "Madison kept me busy."

A pause preceded her reply, "Another personal call?"

Doyle rolled his eyes while smoothing his ruffled hair, "She wishes."

"If you can balance professional responsibility with your social lives, I see no reason why you can't be more involved with her beyond your duties to UNIT if you ask me."

Doyle clamped shut his eyes and shook his head, "A good thing I dare not ask, then."

Kate sniggered like a mother observing a childish insecurity. "Very well. Any updates?"

"Another immortal sighting during Madison's shifts, a pizza delivery chap encountered one." A pen clicking from Kate's side could be heard as she asked, "Do we have a body?"

"Negative."

"That's your next assignment. Find the body for comparison to the other immortal blood samples."

"Already on it."

Kate answered, "Not if you keep missing sleep."

"My phone was ringing. It left me no choice."

"You know what I mean. Start trusting Madison. She may be young, but she also has great potential. I'm sure I can rely on you to keep things in control."

Doyle exited his bedroom into an alabaster-toned kitchen area as chilly tiles pressed against his feet. "Will do. Although, there is one other asset we have not considered."

"Who or what would that be?"

"That professor fellow. Strange man with that blue box?"

Another beat of silence passed, "The Doctor." Kate mused, "We could use him now more than ever. If he's out there. Until then, we make the best of what we have. Clear?"

Doyle acknowledged as he opened the fridge to commence his post-slumber routine, "Perfectly." Gripping a glass bottle of homemade organic juice, he signed off. "As soon as I have an update, I'll report in."

"Likewise, Doyle. I will see you soon."

Hertfordshire Hospital

"The last time I enjoyed jelly and ice cream for breakfast was around when I had to recite multiplication for school," remarked an elderly curvy lady with her thick white hair in a bun. She propped herself up in a bunk across from the Doctor, dressed in a blue patient gown.

The Doctor pouted his ice-cream-coated lips as he held a spoon in his right hand, looking at the lady speaking. Smiling, the Doctor looked from left to right, then pointed his spoon at himself.

Her cheeks now blushed, his fellow neighbourly patient chuckled, eyes squinting in hilarity, "Well, we are the only ones here, my love." She continued speaking through her fit of laughter, "Goodness me, perhaps laughter is the best medicine."

The Doctor set his spoon into the bowl, collected a napkin, and dabbed sticky ice cream from his chin. "Glad I could oblige," he answered, sitting up.

"God bless you! Gosh, you love your sweets. Maybe I could take a leaf from your book after all I endured. Tell me your secret. You're so damn thin!"

He set aside his tray, "All attributable to a recent meltdown. Anyhow, you've had an operation?"

"Yes, gene therapy for my multiple sclerosis. I guess we'll learn sooner or later if it's any good. A potential day of vindication for my family or myself. I told them that it was important to give Braxiatel therapy a chance. It could make a world of difference, know what I mean, love? They weren't all on board."

Furrowing his brows, he leaned forward to indicate a struggle of hearing, "Say that again?"

She raised her voice, "Braxiatel therapy. That's the procedure I am undergoing."

"Braxiatel," the Doctor murmured privately in his troubled state. Something about that name tossed and disoriented him like a passenger stranded at sea who was then struck by a tidal wave. "Braxiatel. Why does that-"

His scattered thoughts dissipated in a mental haze of vapour once Martha entered the ward with a colleague and stood before his bed.

Martha smiled, "I hope you slept well. I know this may seem odd, but we need to take another reading of your heart rate."

Secluded Bar

Wearing a black tuxedo suit, with black patent leather shoes, Regis descended the spiral staircase toward the main lounge. Each tap of his shoes underscored the piano playing from the ground floor main bar. Regis walked past the lamp-lit tables being tended to by uniformed wait staff. He approached the bar, "Mister Winslow," he greeted, extending his right hand.

Winslow, a bald, tall, slim man dressed in a black suit, red striped shirt, and black polka dot tie reciprocated. "The pleasure is all mine, Mister Jensen."

Regis waved dismissively, "Please, call me Regis. Spare the formalities. Let's get a drink. A splendid night awaits," he insisted, punctuated by the dark and sleazy charm concealed by a wink.

Hertfordshire Hospital

The Doctor pulled the round neck section of his patient gown just below his upper pectoral and watched Martha press the stethoscope earpieces into her ear canals. Taking the stethoscope tubing in her right hand, Martha held the diaphragm, "Relax, take a breath."

The Doctor's brown eyes met Martha's hazel eyes.

A voice chimed from behind Martha, "Martha, are you taking the heart rate?"

Martha jolted slightly, smiling awkwardly, "Of course." She gazed down, "Sorry, I was just lost there." Martha cleared her throat, pressing the flat metallic chilly diaphragm surface against his right pectoral, instructing her colleague, "Mark it down as around 79 beats per minute."

"Dear! Can you help me love?" The white-haired patient from the opposite bunk waved to Martha, "My bedsheet is all crooked."

Martha instructed her colleague, nodding toward the patient who called for help, "I've got this." Martha looked to the Doctor, reporting, "Well, all seems fairly-" She was then distracted. "That's strange, I could have sworn I heard-"

Cutting her off, the Doctor took Martha's wrist and gently guided it to his opposite pectoral, pressing the diaphragm against his chest. He winked.

Martha swallowed, "Impossible."

Secluded Bar

"So, as you can see, Mister Winslow, it is essential that all ships sail in unison," Regis took a sip of his champagne.

Winslow nodded, "There's no question that Professor Hirst has put her life's work into this endeavour. I think Braxiatel therapy shows promise in many areas, but it isn't without its controversies. Prior to absolutely any financial investment on our part, Professor Hirst must agree to a thorough audit of the Braxiatel therapy. A full and frank disclosure."

Regis nodded, "Go on."

"Most troubling are concerns of missing patient records, complaints about maltreatment, plus approval documents being fabricated."

Regis sat back, "That is indeed a concern. Though something of a sweeping statement from a man who claims himself an upstanding member of the medical profession."

Winslow shook his head, "I don't understand."

Regis' predatory smile was wolfish, Winslow being his prey to be stalked. Regis drew his phone and took another sip of his champagne. Winslow took the phone and was confronted with incriminating images of himself.

"You'll have a better idea once you get through all that," Regis confirmed.

Hertfordshire Hospital

Martha sat alongside the Doctor on a wooden bench lining the corridor. She looked at him, "Two hearts?"

"It's confounding, I know. I can tell you, but I need something from you first."

Martha shook her head, "You want something from me?"

"What is Braxiatel therapy?"

She knitted her eyebrows in confusion, "That's very specific."

The Doctor leaned in with urgency, his fingers twitching as they clasped together. "Yes?"

Martha sighed, "You don't need it. It's an experimental procedure for specific cases, mainly for neurostimulation."

He hissed, "What else?"

"It won't resolve your memory issues. It's intended for severe disorders, like your neighbour," Martha whispered, leaning closer to him. "What is really going on?"

In Transit

Regis sat alongside Winslow on the limonene's rear passenger seating. Winslow's arms continually bumped against the armrest window controls as he fidgeted, oscillating between clenched fingers and gripping his seat's edge while quietly tapping his foot against the floor.

Regis smiled victoriously, "You're not doing so well, Mister Winslow. Relax."

A bead of sweat rolled down the right side of Winslow's head while moist patches swelled on the underarms of his shirt.

"Think of it as an opportunity," Regis continued. "You have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to place your stamp on the face of medicine."

Winslow noted his surroundings through the window as it slowed outside a single-story warehouse, "Why have you brought me here?"

Regis held up an extended hand, "As we discussed, Professor Hirst is waiting. No games. My word."

Winslow's eyes begged a futile last-minute pitch to the driver through his mirror, pleading for clemency. His urgent appeal was met with ocular indifference, offering little more humanity than a storefront mannequin.

Regis gestured out the door with his right hand, waving Winslow's phone in his opposite hand. "Rest assured. I'll mind your phone. Should your wife call, she will be informed of your movements."

Winslow shakily disembarked from the vehicle. Two black-suited men in ties held the double doors open for him. Winslow wiped his sweaty palms against his suit trousers as he stepped onto a red carpeted floor in a circular room. His eyes trailed from the crimson-coated carpet to a nearby black staircase ascending toward a white door. Peering over his shoulder, the two bodyguards stared at Winslow without comment or discernible expression. He walked up the stairs and entered through the door. A gasp escaped him at the room ceiling height, noting the logistical inconsistency with the initial single-story appearance of the ceiling as it appeared from outside.

Winslow was standing on the second floor of a building that boasted another dozen floors towering above him. Even more confounding was his perception of the significantly higher warehouse ceiling compared to earlier when he saw the single-level building from outside. Although he excused the sight as a misperception brought on by stress, Winslow was puzzled by the room's other elements that defied any rational explanation. The interior design betrayed the industrial exterior facade of the warehouse.

Winslow marvelled at a small footbridge surrounded by foliage, fountains, and cherry blossom trees over a small indoor pond. The footbridge extended to a grand staircase and elevated a further five floors. Bamboo lined the floor surfaces, while the walls were patterned entirely with shoji print-textured black and white marble surfaces. His jaw trembled at the space's impossibility as he traversed the bridge toward the grand staircase.

Stepping inside, he saw that the walls were of traditional shoji design, featuring translucent Japanese paper material between black wooden frames. Hirst lay languidly on a bed positioned in the centre of the room. Hirst sat up, stretching her legs with the prowling grace of a tiger and the hungry stare of a cougar. Her figure was a feast of black leather, accentuated by a corset that hugged her slim body as if painted on, while knee-high lace-up boots adorned her legs like a second skin. Hirst's figure embodied both the resilience of a battle-hardened warrior and the allure of irresistible sexuality.

"Is my manner consistent with your accustomed standards of hospitality, Mr. Winslow?" Hirst's voice husked darkly.

"What is this place?" Winslow stammered.

Her wraith-like movements slithered away from the bed. Standing before Winslow, she traced her fingernails tantalisingly over his cheek with her right hand., "My domain."

His words were now a garbled mess, "It's… bigger on the inside?"

Her teeth clenched together with the triumphant force of a leopard as she parted her lips, widening them. She parted her lips, allowing her tongue to protrude down to her chin, hovering above her chest. The length of her pink tongue raised and extended, brushing horizontally along her prey's throat. Trailing her hand around the back of his head, she pulled him towards her. Hirst forcefully thrust her tongue into Winslow's mouth. His arms flailed in stiffened movements as the tongue filled his throat, brushing against his windpipe.

After retracting her mouth from his, a thick, transparent, honey-like substance oozed over her chin. Winslow felt his throat being compressed by Hirst's fingers, tightly squeezing around his windpipe, her eyes gleaming cobalt blue. He felt his feet lift off the ground as Hirst's biceps flexed, raising him slightly and claiming him as her prize. She violently hurled Winslow towards the sideboard. He tumbled onto his side like a mangled ragdoll, blood dripping from his nostrils. Winslow sobbed.

"Get up," she ordered.

Hertfordshire Hospital

The Doctor broke the silence as he walked alongside Martha. "Something is definitely wrong, I cannot stay here."

Martha scoffed, "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that."

"Nothing in this hospital is working like it ought to, Braxiatel specifically."

Martha sighed, "You're reacting like it's an alien entity."

He faced her, whispering, "That's because it is."

"God help me," she muttered. Attempting to refocus her question, Martha asked, "We're still trying to identify you. You mentioned someone named Rose earlier."

The Doctor's facial expression drew vacant and dreary eyes, "Rose Tyler."

"Is there a way we can contact Rose Tyler?"

"No," his head snapped. As if experiencing a realisation, he repeated, "No!"

Martha glared, "But, who is she? Friend? Girlfriend?" She shrugged, "Relative?"

He avoided her stare, gazing distantly. "It's not important."

Martha whispered, "Why don't I believe you?"

The Doctor glared at Martha, "I know you're someone who is trying to help, but you can't. I'm sorry. But I cannot be here!"

Martha boasted, "I'm so much more than someone."

"You say that while not knowing I could be literally anyone."

She smiled, "I value anybody more than a nobody."

Lair

Red slashes marked Winslow's bare torso, trailing towards his belly as he lay on the mattress. A surge of heat jolted through his body in this moment of vulnerability. Deep bite marks were embedded in his neck and shoulders. Hirst's naked body straddled him, her legs tightly entwined with his. Their bodies pressed into the sheets, dampened by sweat and streaked with Winslow's blood. Hirst sat up, guiding his hands to press firmly against her bare breasts. She let out a sigh as her hips thrust harshly against him, as her eyes glowed green. Winslow clamped his eyes shut, his jaw trembling.

Hirst's eyes then glowed gold as she climaxed with each forceful thrust of her pelvis against Winslow's, pinning him down as she imposed her will.

"No, no, please no!" Winslow shook his head in horror as an orifice opened in her belly button.

A thick, fleshy worm protruded from her orifice; its sharpened teeth bared. The worm drove through Winslow's belly button, accompanied by the unsettling sound of his flesh fibres gnawing and shredding from his lower belly. Winslow's head tilted back against the mattress as he emitted a high-pitched pig-like squeal as though enduring the pain of a limb being ripped from his body without sedation.

His belly sprayed blood in a transparent and watery cloud onto Hirst's porcelain-coloured chest. Dragging her right index finger along her firm skin, she then brushed her blood-soaked digit horizontally across her teeth in glee as she reached orgasm. Hirst's mouth lowered toward his, stopping inches above his own. Hirst opened her mouth, thrusting a long tongue down his throat as he whimpered in defeat, with nobody to hear or see him.