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He found himself in the TARDIS, somehow.
The night, day, whenever -- had flown by him in a strange, incomprehensible blur.
Daleks. There had been Daleks, right? On a space station. Broadcasting deadly television programs to the planet below. He almost died himself in the Weakest Link. He almost died at the (Whisk? Plungers?) of the Daleks. He remembers Captain Jack Harkness, with his strong jawline and persistent smile, somewhere in the mix. But where he went remained a mystery.
The bigger question was: how did he get
here?
Last he could remember, he was on Earth. In the 21st century, midday. Harold called in a favor, wrapping around the corner of the narrow street with a hulking industrial winch trailing him. The pair grabbed the claw of the winch, a huge, gray hunk of metal and led it into the TARDIS and…
Nothing.
He simply opened his eyes and the Doctor was there. Smiling and slightly breathless, but
alive
and beaming at John with those dark eyes of his. Behind the Time lord, the emptied corridors of the space station stretched as far as John could see. And in all that space, not a single Dalek could be spotted in the forest of entangled wires and flickering screens.
They were gone! But…How?
He pulled the Doctor’s rough hands from the sides of his head. His temple still ached, but the sensation was beginning to subside. Had he hit his head? “Doc..tor?” He managed, his voice a croak, “What happened?”
The Time lord smiled, but said nothing, gently grasping at John’s hands. He pedaled backwards, guiding the human into his TARDIS. The machine seemed to warble sadly, her engines releasing a high, loud whine as the Doctor approached the console. John could feel that noise in his very bones. It grasped at his mind, embedding its presence in his temples and made him tremble. It was
agonizing
.
The Doctor seemed to ignore her attempts at communication, pulling levers and jabbing at her buttons in order to escape. They both know he heard it, but the alien seemed too eager to depart to stop himself.
The engine churned to life, whirring rhythmically to throw them through time and space. Hopefully far, far away from the demented place they’d just left.
The Doctor began to speak, saying something that couldn’t quite reach John’s ears. His voice was rough, broken and rushed, but everything he said sounded like cotton. Something dangerously akin to regret seemed to lace his murmurs as he grazed his large hands over the TARDIS’ console.
John slumped against the railing. It seemed like the only thing he could do. Exhaustion pulled at his limbs and a terrible hole nagged inside of him. Something
felt
wrong. “Doctor?”
The Time lord seemed not to hear him, continuing to pilot them almost out of duty. The man could be so animated as he spun around her console, dotting in coordinates or navigating them through the time vortex, but now, he was subdued. He seemed swayed with sadness, like plagued by every movement. Like he let his hands linger in fear she may break if he’d let go.
John tried again. “Doctor?”
This time, the Doctor turned to meet John’s gaze with his huge, brown eyes. He wore a small smile. “Right then.” He pulled his hands from the TARDIS’ console, burying them into the pockets of his jacket. He did that, sometimes, when he was especially nervous. Perhaps he thought John never noticed -- it was, after all, a rare habit of his. But John caught it. Then, and especially now.
Something gnawed at the Time lord. But knowing him, John wouldn’t learn of it until the Doctor was ready to tell him. Somewhere in the far, far future.
“It’s alright.” John offered, rising. “Whatever, um, happened.” He strode next to the Doctor, crossing his arms.
John rose, settling beside the Doctor. Pain still traced his every movement, but it was becoming bearable. He glanced at the Doctor’s side profile, studying the alien’s blank expression. The Doctor had such a large range of expressions, though rarely, he wears a neutral mask.
It was a strange sight to see. Maybe that made it hurt even more.
For a moment, the pair sat in silence. Silence, except for the churning of the TARDIS working tirelessly and the Doctor’s even breathing. It wasn’t often they enjoyed the emptiness of the TARDIS, but now, it only seemed appropriate. It was the only comfort John could provide for whatever plagued the Doctor.
“I was gonna take you to Barcelona.” Whatever possessed the Doctor subsided. His distress broke and his warm, usual self bobbed to the surface once again with a wry grin. “Not the place, the planet, Barcelona.” He swung on his heel, turning away from John and grabbing the monitor with a single hand.
John followed him at arm's length.
Was?
The word carried a finality to it. A ‘would be’ or a ‘what if’ -- language that the Doctor rarely associated with himself. Impossible was not a trait that John could ascribe to the Doctor, so why did the Doctor force it onto himself?
“Doctor,” John began, stepping forward, “What do you mean by that? We can still go. Nothing’s…changed.”
The man barked out a laugh. But it was surprisingly humorless. Dry. “I did want more time. With you, I mean. But you had the time vortex swimming in your head. I had to take it all.” His smile dropped, his voice lowering. He tossed a pained glance towards John.“Thing is, no one is meant to do that. Not even me.”
The Doctor buckled, clutching his sides. He let out a chilling groan, his face twisted in agony. He thrust a hand out towards John, “Dont!” He shouted, rising back onto his feet. He choked on a groan, before continuing, “Stay… away.”
John froze. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
The Doctor, now standing, turned to meet John. He kept a huge gap between the pair of them, seemingly not daring to breach the distance. “I don’t regret it though. Us.” He broke into his signature grin, warmth crowding his words. He seemed almost giddy. And perhaps John might’ve thought he was happy -- until his face once again betrayed the hurt he felt.
His composure crumpled, briefly. Threads of gold swam beneath his skin, spreading like streaks of light across the sky. It entangled with his veins, growing in strength as every agonizing moment passed. “I think you were fantastic.” He chuckled, eyeing his hands. The energy bled from the small streaks and pooled across his skin, dyeing the entire expanse of his hands in the warm, burning light.
“
Doctor?
” John tried again, desperation flooding his voice. “What--”
The time lord seemed not to hear him. Rather, his grin stretched further. “And you know what?” The light climbed the column of his neck in web-like strands, grazing his chin and moving further. He smiled once more, “So was I.”
He threw his head back, and the gold seemed to burst from his hands and neck. It spouted into thick violent columns of shimmering flames that charged forth, scorching the interior of the TARDIS. John could hear the ship cry out beneath the furious rippling of the gold energy.
He couldn’t move, however. He stood, frozen, watching. The man he’d come to love was burning alive in front of him and John
couldn’t move.
The Doctor would know what to do. If John was the one burning, the Doctor would fly into action. He'd ramble about something John vaguely understood, raising his sonic screwdriver and pointing it at the huge wells of energy that burst forth. He'd say something clever, with a huge grin, and save the day, like he tends to do. But John wasn't the Doctor. He didn't have the vast stretches of alien weaponry and sciences to save the Doctor. He didn't have hundreds of years of experience across time and space.
He couldn't... save the Doctor.
John sunk to the floor.
There were too many times where John thought he'd lost the Doctor. But the leather-clad alien would find a way through impossible scenarios and return to John, smiling and musing about how he'd manage to escape this time. But how could the Doctor escape the flurry of gold that swallowed him whole?
John pressed the cuff of his jacket onto the corner of his eyes, wiping away stray tears. As he blinked tentatively, his breath growing ragged, he glanced at the Doctor. His writhing form began to calm.
Whatever had ravaged the time lord seemed to slow, the golden curtain thinning slightly. He shot up from the ground, speeding towards the stumbling time lord. "Doctor!"
The gold thinned even more as the Doctor began to tip over completely, slinking over the TARDIS' console. As John approached, he could just make out the edge of the Doctor’s face, but something was… wrong.
He was… shorter?
“Doctor? Doctor are you okay?!”
John ventured closer, emboldened by the weakening energy. The Doctor’s bent form had yet to rise or respond. For a moment, John’s heart clenched with grief, his breath caught as he kept his gaze affixed to the Doctor’s unmoving form. He continued to the alien’s side, still keeping a wide gap between him and the gold.
The veil of the energy seemed to vanish in a single breath, exploding in a gust of curling glitter and enigmatic whispers. But the Doctor was not there, anymore.
Rather it was a woman.
A short, blonde-haired woman.
She rose her head from the console, tracing the insides of the TARDIS with an inquisitive gaze. She spun on her heels, trying to capture the structure’s incredible features.
Staggering, she slumped back onto the console, using the wide breadth of the machine to prop herself up. She wore the Doctor's clothes. His leather jacket slunk off of her slender shoulders and his black tee seemed to swallow her figure. Regardless, she didn’t seem to care. Her hands drifted to her face, patting the pale skin gingerly as they rose from the array of controls.
“Oh.” She gaped. Her hands forcefully tugged a strand of her white, shoulder-length hair. “Oh, it’s long. Much longer than I’ve had it before. And it’s new.” She buried both her hands into her hair, ruffling the blonde strands wildly, as if she was petting a dog.
John blinked.
She continued exploring herself, pressing her hands against her arms and legs. She frowned slightly, staring at her feet and took a tentative, wobbly step. “Coordination is a bit funky.” She remarked coolly, raising her foot to take another step. She seemed to be moving towards John. “But that usually comes with such a drastic loss of height. I think.”
“Who the hell are you?” John finally managed, his voice ragged. “Where is the Doctor?”
The woman finally glanced at John. She pursed her lips together. “Oh.” She leaned forwards, her feet struggling to accommodate her sudden rush of movement. She stumbled onto him, grasping his shoulders before he could back away. “We never did have this conversation, did we? Sorry--”
Before John could begin hyperventilating, the TARDIS landed. Her characteristic whooshing silenced with a huge, reverberating thunk.
John shoved the woman’s small hands off of his shoulders. The imprint of their presence, the brief memory, filled his chest with an unpleasant fever. “Who are you?” He repeated, fury beginning to color his words.
“It’s me.” She remarked plainly. As if it answered any of his questions, as if it were that simple. As if she hadn’t done something to the Doctor. “John, it’s--”
A dull series of knocks interrupted her. She glanced over her shoulders, her brows furrowing.
John took the opportunity to back away from the woman. He only managed a few paces before she noticed, a broken expression flashing over her even composure. She tried to move towards him, opening her mouth to say something, but she dove forwards, having tripped over her own feet.
“Wait!” She cried at John’s back. But he ignored her. He ignored the woman who somehow got into the TARDIS, slipping into the Doctor’s clothes and making him disappear. John couldn’t hope to understand how or why she did it-- but the awful, awful truth remained that the Doctor was not here. He could be dead, even.
The thought that she hurt him in any regard made John’s fists curl tightly. The Doctor wouldn’t approve of violence, John knew, but her mere presence felt like an insult to the Time lord. With no weapons on her person and stumbling over herself, she seemed ill equipped for whatever she has done. The only person to get to the Doctor in such a way -- and she barely came prepared. It was almost laughable.
He thrust the TARDIS doors open, not daring to look behind him and meet the gaze of the woman. She took too much from him, too soon. He could still hear her calling for him, her uneven footing in the Doctor’s boots clambered behind him.
“You’ve been gone for--” Harold began, swiveling to meet John. The annoyance fell from his face almost immediately. He took in the sight of his flatmate and softened, “What happened?” He demanded, peering into the open TARDIS.
John kept his gaze trained forwards, his voice trembling as he bit out the words he never thought he'd say. “The Doctor… is gone.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Previously…
He thrust the TARDIS doors open, not daring to look behind him and meet the gaze of the woman. She took too much from him, too soon. He could still hear her calling for him, her uneven footing in the Doctor’s boots clambered behind him.
“You’ve been gone for--” Harold began, swiveling to meet John. The annoyance fell from his face almost immediately. He took in the sight of his flatmate and softened, “What happened?” He demanded, peering into the open TARDIS.
John kept his gaze trained forwards, his voice trembling as he bit out the words he never thought he'd say. “The Doctor… is gone.”
The reality of what had happened seemed to settle on John’s very bones. The Doctor is gone. The words, though they came from his mouth, seemed alien. It felt wrong to say, to believe. Like he’d been robbed of the dogged faith he held for the time lord and all that remained was a gaping void. But it wasn’t like that, was it? The Doctor disappeared in front of him. Literally vanished. The column of gold swallowed the alien whole and spat out his assailant. The forces the woman commanded were far beyond John’s understanding and somehow beyond the TARDIS’ capabilities to stop. If the Doctor was still alive, how could he find his way back to the present? To John? And to his TARDIS?He felt his frame curl over like a weeping flower. Energy, or panic, slipped from his muscles and crumpling felt so easy. He kept himself standing simply because he couldn’t fall apart. Remaining upwards took tremendous effort, but on his feet he stayed. Harold eyed John wearily. His expression, though usually unreadable, seemed dyed with something akin to empathy. His bow-like lips dipped downwards in some kind of displeasure. “You’re sure?” The man breathed gently, his dark eyes never leaving John. John felt a stab of regret roll in his stomach. He nodded slowly. He cast his gaze on his home. How gray it seemed compared to the vast, vast universe. Huge, lazy clouds swam gently across the placid blue sky -- a chilling rain soon to come. The curls of winter gales crept through the buildings, grazing his exposed cheeks. It felt almost cruel. Christmas, without the Doctor. Life, without the Doctor. John blinked away tears. They were scalding against the cold air. Harold seemed to notice, but he said nothing. The older of the pair wasn’t terribly elegant when it came to emotions. His silver tongue seemed to fail him in the presence of tears. So he reached out a gloved hand gingerly. John grasped it, holding onto his childhood friend tight so that he too, wouldn’t be swept away. Moments passed. Achingly slowly. A minute seemed like eternity in the palms of someone who’s ventured through time. The sun peered down through the clouds, its gaze was warm, gentle. Like one day, it wouldn’t consume the Earth. But it would and it did. The silence that fell around the pair was splintered, suddenly. The dull, awkward thumps of uncoordinated footfall echoed from the belly of the TARDIS. John braved a glance backwards and his gaze settled onto the woman. She rose her legs high, clambering through the TARDIS’ doors. Her head was bent downwards, focusing her gaze on her inelegant movements. She strode forward, one step at a time. Harold seemed to stiffen in her presence. He slunk his hand from John’s, though the gesture was not unfeeling. The man had an appearance to maintain. John knew too well. “Who’s this?” Harold muttered, turning around to face her with his whole body. The woman perked her head up. John wanted to be furious. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to scream, to demand she bring back the Doctor. He wanted to avenge his best friend, the person he loved. But the well of passion that coiled through his core went unanswered. The flickering heat of anger felt dull against his numbed body. Everything was muted in the wake of his loss. He blinked slowly. Resent sprang free and sullied his expression with a steep frown. It didn’t carry to his voice, though. He couldn’t muster the anger. “I don’t know.” He replied softly. “She… did something to the Doctor.”Harold leveled his gaze to the woman. She seemed to stiffen in the path of the student’s heated stare. “Is this true?”She swayed on her feet, digging her hands in her pockets. John tried to swat away the image of the Doctor, in that same pose, only moments ago. She seemed to mimic his mannerisms easily, almost unknowingly. How long had she kept an eye on John and the Doctor? “In a way.” “Real helpful.” John’s flatmate bit. “Care to elaborate?”The woman flicked her blonde hair behind her ear. Her fascination with the white tufts seemed long dead. Whatever adrenaline shot through her nervous system had been sapped from her, lulling her expression into a dead neutral. She seemed almost bored in the face of the humans, if not for the quirk of her eyebrows. Her voice was soft, “Time lords have a defense system.” She began, swaying on her feet. Her hands remained buried in the Doctor’s jacket. “A way to cheat death, if I’m being honest.”She moved her gaze to John. Her eyebrows bent further, a certain sadness slipping from her even composure. “Regeneration is what it’s called. As a time lord approaches death, their cells renew themselves.” She held out a hand, flipping in in front of her eyes. “A complete revival, almost.” She cut herself off, approaching John slowly. For once, he didn’t move. He felt just as frozen as when he watched the Doctor disappear. But fear didn’t cling to him, like it did then. A strange, tiny flicker of hope warmed his very core as she approached. She gathered his hands into hers, clutching to them gently. “But the process is costly.” She continued, raising her chestnut eyes to his. Her hands never left his. And he clung to her hands, desperate. “The new cells are new. Completely different from the ones before.” “Resulting… in a new body. A new face. A new… me.” John felt his breath catch. The woman smiled softly, “Hey there.” John drank in her glassy eyes. “Doctor?” He asked, grasping at her hands desperately. The skin felt new, unblemished. It didn’t feel like the Doctor’s rough grip or his slightly-wrinkled knuckles. Her hands were tiny, compared to his. John’s fingers could curl over hers, whereas the Doctor used to be able to do the same to him. “I--I thought…”She chuckled, a wry grin gracing her new features. “I know.” For a brief second, John could see the Doctor in her. The last Doctor, anyways. Her crooked smile reminded him of the leather-clad man after he’d done something completely impossible. Or said something stupid. Or something clever. It seemed some things survived the steep change the Doctor had undergone. “I’m so sorry.” He offered lamely. “I had thought--”She placed a small hand on his shoulder, steadying his trembling, “I never told you.” Her eyes fluttered, but her words didn’t. ““Sorry about that. I’m not yet used to this body.” The Doctor offered, “It’s very. very different from my last.” She opened her mouth slightly, drawing in a thin breath. She mulled her words, but breathed out, “Oh,” Her eyes drooped suddenly as her words began to slur. “And sorry about this. I--” She fell backwards onto John, unconscious. He grabbed her narrow shoulders, pulling her slumped body into his arms. Her chest rose and fell softly-- still breathing, but barely. Her face twisted in discomfort, her soft voice rising through her throat, but she wasn’t speaking. A thin trail of the golden substance rose from her open mouth, traveling through the winter air. John could hear whispers entangled in the tuft of energy, speaking in English, but saying nothing he could understand. Harold stepped forward, eyeing the unconscious time lord. “Full of surprises, this one.” He admonished quietly. John cradled the Doctor’s unconscious form. “Yeah.” He brushed stray hair from her face, “Sometimes, I think she has too many surprises.” He glanced at her and drew in a thick breath.Peace finally resettled onto his frame, but a slew of questions rose in the absence of his grief. The Doctor said it was a new body. Just how new did she mean?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Previously...
John cradled the Doctor’s unconscious form. “Yeah.” He brushed stray hair from her face, “Sometimes, I think she has too many surprises.”
He glanced at her and drew in a thick breath.
Peace finally resettled onto his frame, but a slew of questions rose in the absence of his grief. The Doctor said it was a new body. Just how new did she mean?
“God .”Music churned through the streets, a mix of traditional Christmas carols sung by bushy-tailed carollers and a trumpet rendition of “Silent night” drifting from further up the pair’s path. “You’ve gone through time and space and you’re still as bitchy as ever.” Harold droned, carrying both their bags, his thin arms sagging with the weight. “How does the lack of character development feel?” John glowered at the elder of the two. “I’ve changed plenty, thank you.”They passed another row of elegantly decorated Christmas trees. Baubles and thick cords of lights crawled up the trunk of the massive outdoor decorations, shining dimly in the low light of the moon. Cheap, fake snow dotted the green branches. People bumped into the girth of the tree, shaking its ornaments as they ran by.“The Doctor certainly has changed.” Harold remarked easily, eyeing something in the distance. He seemed somewhat uneasy, but it didn’t penetrate his cheery demeanor.“Quite a bit.” John breathed deeply. “Yes, he--she, I mean, has.” Hours after it happened and he still can’t believe it. Harold demanded to know what happened after they arrived at their shared flat, but John couldn’t possibly explain it. He didn’t even know what happened to the Doctor. He still didn’t know what happened on the space station, what happened to the Daleks, to the people residing on it. Least of all, he knew what was going to happen next. Would they continue to travel together? Would the new Doctor not find John as interesting and sail away in her TARDIS? “Stop taking yourself so seriously!” Harold bit, smacking John’s side with one of the bags. “Hey!” John’s flatmate scowled. “Enough of your brooding, it’s Christmas! Lighten up or I’ll do it for you!” The other man bit back a curse. “What does that even mean? ” “Don’t want to find out? Stop moping!” Harold returned, weaving around a strolling couple. “Would it kill you not to be a downer this year? Believe it or not, I rather enjoy Christmas.”“You enjoy getting gifts, you mean.” Harold cast a side glance towards John. “Maybe.” He returned simply, his lips turning upwards gently. It’s a welcome change to the business-like tone Harold had worn during John’s ‘interrogation’ of the recent events.. Now that the dust had settled, they could carry on with their lives momentarily. Or rather, Harold could.John was still… unsure. Things were still in the air.The Doctor, still asleep on their flat couch, wouldn’t give the answers that John desperately needed to hear until she woke. Every time he glanced at her sleeping form, her chest rising and falling shallowly, he wondered if she’d ever wake. And if she did, would she still be the Doctor he knew? The new face gave him pause. The Doctor always warned about judging appearances. Strictly speaking, the Doctor never cared much for the skin one wore. He looked beneath it. Studied the creature that spoke, not the one he saw. John had yet to master the Doctor’s ease of ignoring the surface. Everything alien was, well, alien to him. It was hard not to give in to the initial surprise of seeing something not of this Earth. But he was learning. It was easier to do when the Doctor was so unfazed by the incredible things they see.But could the Doctor’s principles still be applied here? This Doctor was completely new. She was, or seemed to be, the opposite of the rough, stoic Doctor that John had come to know. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the change, but she seemed shaken. She no longer seemed sure of herself. She stumbled into this world from her previous form and she seemed like she was still reeling. Some times, when she whimpered in her sleep, and when John was at his weakest, he believed she might be too different from her last form. Maybe they wouldn’t get along? Maybe she’d want to travel on her own? Or perhaps, she’d find someone to travel with instead?He found himself grasping at his own wrists, trying to steady his breathing, when thoughts like that swept over his mind. It’d take a moment, but rationality would return to him. Who ever the Doctor was now, would have to wait for when she woke. As painstaking at is was to tend to her, waiting on her bedside for a glimpse of her stirring-- John wouldn’t stop taking care of her. She was once the man he loved. Even if she isn’t him anymore, John still cares for her, in some way. He’ll keep looking over her in her vulnerable state and wait for the penny to drop.It was all he really could do. Harold’s presence was a nice distraction, though. His warm, mischievous tone carried through the frigid air, though John could only just hear his words beneath the cacophony of Christmas eve. As vindictive as Harold could be, the other man was a fantastic friend when things came crashing down. And things were crashing down hard as of late. John’s flatmate tipped his head to the side, looking John up and down. “Again with the brooding!” Harold quipped. “Does it ever end with you?”John couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “You’re ridiculous.” The blonde pouted. “And you’re no fun.” He moved his lips, but John couldn’t quite hear what he was saying. Rather than asking Harold to speak up, John moved alongside him, nodding slowly as his flatmate paused, inviting the brunette’s responses.It seemed that the chaos of the festivities once again drowned out Harold’s musings. People cheered and conversed among themselves, listlessly filling the air with idle thoughts and hopes for Christmas day. Music carried along the frigid breeze, popping any pockets of silence with Christmas carols and soft jingles. Everywhere John moved his eyes, someone was doing something, saying something with a light, joyful energy. It was almost odd, standing in a crowd where nothing seemed amiss. Alongside the Doctor, John would catch the few oddities or lingering tensions that plagued the civilizations they came across. Even if they didn’t seek out an issue to resolve, which was their usual course of action, they wound up finding a deep-seated conspiracy or something dangerous lurking in the shadows. To be able to breathe without immediate peril was almost nice.
Almost.
Harold seemed to notice it before John, slowing to an even trot and casting his gaze east. He pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything. He seemed to tense before John could fully react, stopping dead in his tracks, his head still turned. John traced his gaze and caught sight of what the blonde couldn't tear his eyes from. …They weren’t moving. If you ever cast your gaze across a crowd, the first thing you notice is something that stands still. Not simply standing, but standing completely still. An organic form sways, breathes, twitches and moves their limbs about, taking part in small, but noticeable actions while standing. An unfortunate byproduct of life is the inability to remain truly frozen, automatic processes continuing to operate even after you’ve planted your feet in the ground. So that would mean -- One of them lifted their heads slowly, boring their artificial eyes onto the pair. Stradling brass instruments, they seemed to be a part of the many, many musical groups that dotted the crowded streets. But the nozzles for lips were pressed gently against a pane of plastic rather than human mouths. Music still drifted from their cluster, even as the illusion shattered. Framed with golden-brown hair that almost seemed natural, the mask almost disappeared in the thick swathes of the crowd. Dismissed as some woman’s locks drifted in the cold breeze. Had John not spotted their frozen forms, perhaps he would have assumed the same. But he did. And so did Harold. Its face is round, almost jovial, with cherub-like features with huge, red rounded cheeks, and was clearly painted. Its eyes, brown and lacking any sort of depth, were framed with bushes of huge, spider-like lashes. It seemed like a poor initiation of Mariah Carey. The features were sliced with stray strokes of paint, seemingly done with a shaking hand and crude materials. “You see them too, then?” Harold whispered, stepping slowly backwards. “Mhm.” Another rose its head dangerously slowly. Followed by another, then two more and finally, the rest of the group had lifted their plastic masks towards the pair. Their instruments drooped gently in their arms, peeling the mouth pieces from the surface of their painted lips. Still, the music played on. John chanced a glance around the plaza. People swarmed the pair on every side, chatting listlessly and burdening their arms with clusters of bags and soon-to-be-presents. What once seemed so amazingly normal, the thick crowds and the lull of Christmas songs, presented itself as a danger to both the men and the people surrounding them. If the Mariah Careys chose to attack, the shoppers would be caught in the crossfire. “We should really go.” Harold pressed, already beginning to turn on his heel. He set his foot back down as he combed John’s unmoving figure. He pressed his lips together, displeased. John caught himself suddenly embarrassed. “The people,” He began, unsure of his words as they bubbled up like coughs, “They’re in danger. We have to--” The blonde shook his head firmly, grasping John’s wrist roughly. His dark eyes bore into John’s own with a ferocity he never expected his flatmate to muster. “You’re going to get us killed. ” Harold’s voice trembled on the last word, but his demeanor remained iron-clad. “You go home. Check on the Doctor.” John began, eyeing the Mariah Careys. Their hollow eyes traded an equally interested gaze with his. Or so he believed. “I have to try and stop them. At least -- try.” Harold’s eyes widened. He grit his teeth, a retort undoubtedly swirling on his silver tongue. But no such response slipped from his lips. Instead, he took in a shallow breath, “If you don’t make it back in an hour, I will hunt you down.” He spat. “Only you could make a threat sound caring.” John offered. He couldn’t manage to say goodbye. It simply wouldn’t leave his throat. The sheer volume of goodbyes that filled this last day clogged his words with hesitation. Another goodbye simply wouldn’t do. Not today. Harold smiled softly. It seemed he had understood. In a tight nod, the other man sped off, walking with a renewed sense of urgency. John couldn’t afford to watch him navigate through the crowds, his figure shrinking alongside the horizon. Even if it would provide John the slightest comfort to know his friend was away and safe, he had to keep his gaze trained on the Mariah Careys. He strode forwards, slicing the horizontal current of shoppers with his path. A woman bumped into his shoulder, but her apology was soundless against his ears. The soft thrum of music that rose from the Mariah Careys’ midsections overtook the small, senseless noises that made up the majority of the open space. He stood only a foot in front of them. Here, the soft bruises of indentation across their metal expressions seemed more evident. Cuts sliced the edges of their paint, marring the already imperfect splotches of caramel and blush. The masks were handled carelessly. Or old, perhaps. Either way, they didn’t seem to be human. And unlike the Doctor, John still had a healthy distrust of nonhumans on Earth in the 21st century.
Well. Here goes nothing.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Previously...
He stood only a foot in front of them. Here, the soft bruises of indentation across their metal expressions seemed more evident. Cuts sliced the edges of their paint, marring the already imperfect splotches of caramel and blush. The masks were handled carelessly. Or old, perhaps.
Either way, they didn’t seem to be human. And unlike the Doctor, John still had a healthy distrust of nonhumans on Earth in the 21st century.
Well. Here goes nothing.
In the face of an unknown possible-enemy, John is not the bravest.
Sure, he’s faced off with some spectacular creatures before in impossible circumstances, seen things that Harold has still yet to grasp, and has managed to scrape by without major injury. But that was all with the Doctor. The timelord was at least familiar with the perils of the strange and fantastic, and could navigate those circumstances without faltering. Without the Doctor’s reassuring quips and long-winded explanations, John was practically stumbling in the dark.
So no, John was not confident. He trembled ever-so slightly in front of the masked beings, but he’d hoped they missed it.
Fear was not a card that could be played by John. No, they’d use it on him, if they noticed.
Invaders tended to be clever like that. Those who took enough care to be disguised, albeit poorly, sought out the crumbling pillars of the resident race simply by walking among them. Then, when their plans took hold, the invaders would take advantage of the things that gnawed at their victims, using it to bend the race into submission.
That
John could not allow, Doctor or no.
“I am addressing you.” He began slowly. His eyes never drifted from the Mariah in the front. Its own, 2-D eyes, stared back, unreadable and unmoving. He tried to force his voice to be firm, clear. To give no room for loopholes or questions of his authority. “What are your intentions?”
For several thundering beats of his heart, the Mariahs remained silent. Only the music that drifted from beneath their red and white robes filled the horrible silence, but it was not a response in the least. They neither shifted nor blinked, probably lacking the capacity to do the former, absolutely unable to do the latter.
John cleared his throat. “What are your intentions?” He repeated, choosing to ignore how his voice trembled slightly. The power he threaded through his words, constructed to emulate the Doctor’s confidence, wavered beneath the Mariah’s blank gazes.
Still, nothing.
It was, at this point, John felt almost stupid.
The Mariahs weren’t alive. They moved, only when Harold and John spotted them, but no more and no less. Did they even have a free will to appeal to? The Mariahs were wholly capable of responding to their environment, but did that make them sentient?
Too many questions. None of which John was equipped to answer.
Perhaps, they never had ill intent in the first place? Perhaps, in the absence of the Doctor’s reassuring presence, John is almost paranoid. Catching glimpses of the shadows and believing them to be more than just that -- shadows. Or in this case, bizarre musical mechanisms posing as a famous singer.
But
no.
The Doctor is not the only person capable of seeing things that aren’t right. She is the smartest person John has ever known, but she isn’t always aware of things. Sometimes, John catches the little things before she does. It’s her wide net of knowledge that reinforces John’s concerns.
The Doctor is not here. But maybe that doesn't mean John is wrong. The Doctor is so, so smart. They’re the most intelligent person John has ever met. But they are not the only person capable of spotting these kinds of threats. Sometimes, John would spot it first. And it was the Doctor’s vast breadth of knowledge that reinforced John’s concerns. They worked well, like that. Complimenting their strengthens and solving the problems they came across.
“What are your intentions?” He repeated, for the third time. It felt like talking to a child, but with grave consequences. “If you are here for Earth, you won’t get it!”
This seemed to finally stir the Mariah in the front. It cocked its head to the right in a rough motion, almost inquisitively, but the machine gave no such indication it was capable of being inquisitive.
John stiffened. What… was it doing?
It held that position for several moments, before cocking its head to the left in an equally swift jerk. It held its face there for another several moments, the glossy exterior of its mask shining low in the moonlight. It never looked more inhuman then it did then.
Its head finally snapped back to the upright position. But then, one of its feet rose. Awkwardly and with small jolts, the Mariah approached in clunky steps.. Its joints seemed to wheeze with effort as it closed the gap between John and itself. But its movements grew more assured, more powerful as it came close. The stuttering motions it made became swift, smooth.
John backpedaled slowly. The crowd bending around him, still unaware of what was occurring just meters beyond their field of interest.
Before he could call out and disperse the crowd, he caught sight of the other Mariahs whirring to life, their huge boot-clad feet pounding against the cold concrete in an almost rhythmic pattern. They raised their brass instruments, tucking the would-be valves between the crease of their right arms and bodies. The mouths of their trumpets and saxophones turned towards John, the black maws staring at the man hungrily.
The front-most Mariah held its own instrument in a similar manner, grasping at the slide with its index finger.
Weapons.
They had
weapons.
One of the Mariahs pulled the slide of their would-be trumpet, letting loose a streak of light. Before John could move, the light screamed as it exited the chamber, breaching the idle chatter with an ear-shattering roar. As the beam made contact with the ground beside him, it exploded in a tuft of flames.. Another Mariah fired and another, their weapons pointed squarely at the lone human.
“Run!” Someone yelped, the clatter of discarded belongings tumbling filled the air alongside hoarse, painful screams.
People collided into one other, battering themselves with their bodies just to scramble to safety. They shrieked and howled as the Mariahs let loose an onslaught of light, huge plumes of flames crackled and hissed as the Christmas trees caught fire, bathing the street in unwelcome warmth.
At this point, the Mariahs were ceaseless in their barrage. Getting close to them was almost impossible, given their rapid fire blanketing the now-emptied street. From behind a barreled-over plastic snowman, John attempted to consider his actions. But a beam penetrated the plastic, burning a sagging hole through the snowman’s vast chest.
The hot, acrid vapors crept closer to John, cloying his senses. Perhaps… It was time to retreat.
He shot up, eyeing the Mariahs from their corner. The frontmost Mariah caught his glance, turning it’s mask to face him and swiveling its trumpet in the same direction. Flames curled around the Mariah, framing it’s cherub-like expression in walls of blazing light.
“
This is what happens when you refuse us.
” The Mariah’s actions screamed as it held its finger on the slide, preparing to fire but choosing not to. The threat was clear, but it wouldn’t go unanswered for long.
John turned on his heel, running.
The graze of England’s frigid air bit the exposed bits of John’s skin. It hurt, though only enough to distract John from his reality. His body moved without him thinking about it, the long strides of his legs used to the strain, the effort coming almost effortlessly.
He arrived, almost immediately after he tore off, or so it felt like.. Though winded, he cast a long, tired glance at the ribbons of flames down the street. Some had died, leaving thick plumes of smoke to curl into the air, dyeing the sky a pigeon gray. The others that still remained, were being snuffed out one at a time.
John knew, in no uncertain terms, the damage was mostly his fault. The Mariahs fired after what he had spat and only after.
His hands shook against the doorknob. It was terribly cold outside, but John still felt the lingering warmth of the fires. The scorching hot surface of the light streaks grazing just meters away from his face. The air, which should have been freezing, tainted with a sweltering evil.
He would never forget this night. The sights, the sounds, the way his heart shuddered in his chest -- all of it, burned deep into his mind. He tried to blink away the scene, but the light burned the burning plaza behind his eyelids.
Inhaling deeply, swallowing the thousands of thoughts that raced through his head, he turned the knob and entered the flat.
Immediately he was met with swimming hues of red, gold and green. The beige and tan flat, accented only by the eggshell-white baseboards, was preened into a holiday paradise. Rows of thick, busy garland entangled a thick, bushy Christmas tree and huge, gleaming baubles hung from the even branches, weighing them down.
It was too bright.
John crept inside, peeling his trainers off. He took ginger steps into the narrow hallway, tracing the length of the walls whilst glancing around the flat.
The space was silent. Only John’s quiet footfall carried through the still air, thumping gently like an apprehensive heart. Harold’s presence seemed all but absent, which wasn’t wholly abnormal. The man liked to keep to himself, holed up in his room for the majority of the day. But the Doctor’s voice was still dreadfully
absent.
The Timelord could talk a mile a minute, ranting about any sorts of subjects or fantastic things that John frankly had no idea about. It could be amazing to watch. Or sometimes, it could be dizzyingly confusing.
Right now, John would do anything to hear them ranting.
He turned past the hallway corner, gently making his way towards the Doctor’s temporary room. He approached the white door, resting his ear against the door in case the woman
had
woken up.
But all that murmured through the wood was the even whoosh of her breathing, broken by the occasional snore.
He stood there, resting against the door for a few moments. Weariness, like a hefty blanket, settled onto his shoulders and refused to budge from them. His muscles finally breathed a sigh of relief, using the small frame of calm to finally unveil the damage John’s predicament has levied onto them. He stretched softly, but even that did not rid his body of the bone-deep soreness.
There’s too much happening. I can’t handle it all.
He lifted his head from the door. The sound of her breathing was almost grating to his ears. A timid, rhmythic reminder of their ever-worsening situation. Innocent in its purpose, but almost taunting to John’s adrenaline-soaked mind.
Doctor, when are you going to come back?
He folded his hands together, trying to steady his frayed nerves. It seemed, even with the Doctor by their side, normalcy was far from returning.