NationStates Jolt Archive

The plush interior of the TARDIS rumbled softly, and its occupant patted the columns around the control console, feeling the pitted iron surface of the I bar that made it up, peering through one of the round cutouts in the centre of the bar, at a screen on the console that showed internal performance.

On schedule, for Earth, England, the 17th June…
Destination
Earth
Local Dateline
1887.4
Manussian EraHe stepped up to the console, made a slight adjustment, and sat down to read once more, a smashing, newly printed (when he got it at least) novel called ‘Dialogues in Vacuum,’ which he had a sneaking suspicion was based on one of his last adventures.

He was about done – to the last chapter – as the ship’s engines began to grind softly, and the central column slow down. He stood and put the book away in one of the many bookshelves that lined the room, and strode back to the console.

The instruments indicated a perfect landing. Suspicious, he pulled the chain again, and punched up an exterior view. “Well… That’s nice,” he said, twisting his wrist a touch on one of the controls, switching it to a local map. East end.

“Why do I always end up in the sewers?” he said, looking up at the high roof of the TARDIS. “You have this… thing for London sewers, don’t you, old girl…”

He pressed a few more controls, and the ship rumbled again, outside, appearing to fade from view for a few moments, and then reappear.

Looking at the screen, the Doctor sighed, “Very funny…” he said, and tromped off to find the nanotechnological deodorant he’d made in a fit of frustration last time the ship had decided he needed a humbling journey through the hidden waterways of London. “It could at least have been the river fleet this time, but no…” he moaned.


The police box was an anachronism, and in completely the wrong place. While police telephones had been invented, this idea wouldn’t be developed for some years yet. The door folded inward, and the Doctor stepped out cautiously onto a step in the alcove on the overflow chamber. It was no surprise that there was almost no light in the drain, but the Doctor had prepared for that too, taking a battery operated torch from his pocket and looking around for a ladder out of the chamber.

Nothing, of course, he wasn’t so lucky.


The Doctor was serious considering investing in gravitic boots as he trudged, head down to keep his curls from scraping the ceiling of the sewer, carefully trying to wedge his shoes against either side of the oval shaped passage.

A tiny shaft of light illuminated the way ahead, and it sparkled off the iridescent waters. He made for it, though it wasn’t much of a choice, at the moment there was only forwards and back. He felt something unusual underfoot. And it wasn’t the kind of unusual he expected. Looking down with his torch – he’d been trying not to – he gasped suddenly at what he found.

Even as he reached down to turn the body over, he knew it was dead. The smell, now that he thought about it, wasn’t particularly noticeable, and it seemed disturbingly fresh. The corpse had been a man, middle aged, with grimacing teeth that could use more than a little repair work, and deep lines around his eyes. His grey hair was receding, and his cloth would have been poor even before he came to be there.

More disturbingly, the man’s chest sported something that was the handiwork of more than common malnutrition and poor sanitation. A finger sized hole, at the front. Far larger at the back, with the characteristic charring and disruption of an energy weapon or contact explosive, probably the former, that had been used on his back.

The Doctor reached up, and closed the eyes of the dead man, but not before looking into them in the wan torchlight.

He saw something more horrible than terror.


The Doctor sprayed his feet and ankles carefully, and closed the manhole cover, buzzing it with the metal cylinder of his sonic screwdriver, affixing it back into place. Now to find out what had happened. His quick gaze alighted on a pub, and simply from the look of the place he could tell that he wasn’t in the best part of town. Far from it in fact. Dodgy characters who would likely like the cut of his coat seemed to ooze from the place, but he didn’t give them more than passing heed, for after all he’d faced down far more terrifying.

He attracted more than a few questing or questioning looks, for, as his people, the Time Lords, had an ability to change their forms many times, if not entirely wilfully, he had most recently assumed a form that was youthful in appearance, and most importantly, he now tended to dress in a manner that while perfectly in keeping with the time he’d found himself in, was not quite a match for the place.

He walked with some resignation to the bar, and ordered a whiskey of some sort, the specifics of which he didn’t care or want to know about. It didn’t take long.

“You’ll find more than you bargained for,” he said, seizing a slender wrist. He’d seen Oliver Twist too many times, though, and hadn’t quite expected a moderately good looking – for the time period, very – woman in her thirties to be reaching into his pocket. “but perhaps you can help me anyway… For something rather better than you expect.”

“Yes,” he said, turning to face her, fully, staring into her eyes, brown, with slight hints of green, “I want something…” he said, “And I’m prepared to pay generously for it.”

“Oooh?” she asked, leadingly.

“Yes. Information… I want you to tell me something. Have you heard or seen anything strange around lately…”

“Strange? You mean like you?” she laughed harshly.

“Not in the sense you mean,” he said, still holding her wrist, pulling it back from his pocket slowly. Someone was coming over, but she waved him off slowly, uncertainly, as the Doctor didn’t even look away. “Strange lights. Monsters. Disappearances, people behaving oddly, anything…”

“You’re pretty strange yerself…”

“I am that. But aside from me… Anything. Think about it…”

“What’s in it for me?” she asked, suddenly, jerking her hand back and looking into the Doctor’s slightly hypnotic eyes as the silent addendum of an unspoken challenge.

“Ten pounds…” he said, and reached into his weskit pocket for a moment, drawing part of a note out tantalisingly.

“Alright, I’ll bite. But I’d better get that,” she nodded off to her side, and the Doctor again didn’t bother himself.

“I think we have an understanding.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you. Old John McGinnis down the way…”

“Who?”

“The ‘broker’s father…”

“He was in here the other day saying he’s seen angels, up north like…”

“Whereabouts?”

“I don’t know. He was drunk. And a few people have disappeared too. David Datz”

“Big guy, getting on a bit, white hair, blue eyes? Beard?”

“That’s him. You seen him?”

“After a fashion, go on…”

“He disappeared not two days ago…”

“Makes sense… Round here…”

“’S right.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of…”

“Good. Where can I find McGinnis at this hour?”

“Right now? In the gutter I’d ‘spect, or someone else’s rooms. I’ll ask around if you like…”

“You do that,” he said, “I’ll be back here presently. Say, one hour.”

“You’re forgetting something,” she said, angrily, as the Doctor started off, seizing his shoulder.

“Oh yes,” he said, and passed a pair of credit notes to her, “Have a whisky too…” he said.

---

OOCery: A not entirely serious, and rather closed, thread. Enjoy.

<Clear>

The party had been going well into the night by that time, and many of the people who had been invited were tiring now. Lady Macintyre sighed and looked up at the clock. “George, if you would care to start showing our guests to the door?” The butler bowed low and went off to organise.

“Oh, one moment, your ladyship. Have you met my friends?” Dame Elisabeth of Calgary Manor waved the Baroness over. “They've come all the way from... I'm sorry, I keep forgetting. Where did you say you were from?”

Macintyre looked around to see who was being addressed, and then glanced down. A short woman with very delicate features had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, sipping gently at a glass of wine. “We're from... Russia.” She answered, her voice having a curious accent. Her eyes were a rich, beautiful blue which seemed to suck at Macintyre's attention, drawing her into them. “East Russia.” It was as if the woman was reading something off an internal board. “Vladivostok.”

“Ah, a lovely city. I've never been, of course.” Lady Macintyre shifted a little, feeling as if she was flawed, fundamentally flawed, when compared to this perfect specimen of womanhood. “And what brings you to England?”

“Anastasia!” A man called, hurrying over to join them. “Are you troubling Her Ladyship?” Macintyre tried not to stare. The man was, yes, slightly too short for her tastes, and when the man on the street was tending to go in for beards and other facial hair it was curious for an otherwise perfectly well dressed man to go about smoothly shaven. Yet there was something about him that drew her eyes and made her... “My apologies, ladies. My dear wife can be very curious.”

“N-no,” Macintyre managed, swallowing slightly and fixing the pair of visitors in her gaze. They were, when she managed to take a solid look at them and see through the physical perfect, almost too perfect. There seemed an almost perfect symmetry, none of the slight differences that it could be said made humans human. 'Well, none of us can help how we're made.' “Your accent is charming, Messieur...”

“Lord Anasim, Lady Macintyre,” Elisabeth supplied. “They and their entourage are currently staying at my manor, His Lordship and Ladyship volunteered to come with me.”

“We're exploring trade opportunities and investment opportunities. The environment is very unstable in Russia. Is that not right?” Anastasia glanced up at her husband.

“Yes, that is right, correct.” Anisim nodded.

“Well... it's a pleasure to meet the pair of you, my lord. Will we see you at the exhibition?”

“Yes, absolutely. That is why we are here. Did we not say?” Lord Anasim frowned and twisted his fingers along the head of his cane.

Macintyre nodded and curtsied. “Absolutely, my lord. I hope to see you, then. Anything you need we will give you.”

“Yes, I know you will.”


“I don't like to lie to her.” Elisabeth said to her two companions as the three of them stepped up into her coach. “She's a good woman.”

“I'm sure she is, for a human, Dame Elisabeth.” Anastasia reached for her eyes and pulled something free, then looked up with glittering, radiating sapphires where her pupils should have been. “But our sacred mission cannot be compromised.”

Anasim took off his smoked glasses and rubbed his eyes, the twin rubies that lay within his eyesockets casting a red glow from the coach's walls. “She might prove useful.” There was a crash of metal, and the three looked up. A streetwoman had caught sight of them. “Let me off.”

“Must you, Lord Anasiel?” Elisabeth said, shivering. “No one will believe the tramp.”

“Do not argue with your betters, human.” Anastasia hissed, baring sharp teeth. “Let him off.”

Elisabeth reached across and thumped on the side of the coach. “Halt, Baxter.” A minute passed, and then the horse moved on.


The whore fell against the wall, breathing quickly. She wasn't sure what she had seen, but whatever it was had filled her with horror. She slid from the wall and took off running again, only to go crashing into the arms of a man just one or two inches taller than she was. “Good morning, my dear.”

“Good morning, sir.” She managed, trying to be polite. “I'm not working right now.”

“Aren't you? Oh, that's a shame.” He grabbed her wrist. “Your pulse is racing! Is something wrong, my dear?”

'What an unusual way to phrase it. Must be a medical man. Funny voice.' She thought to herself. “I...I saw something that gave me a start, doctor.” She told him what it was.

He nodded. “I thought as much.” Suddenly his eyes started to glow hot red behind his smoked glasses and a twisted smile appeared on his face. Anasiel shoved her against the wall and kissed her, overpowering her more with presence than any physical strength. She couldn't think to lift a hand against this attacker. And the kiss was so warm... Despite herself, she sighed in pleasure.

There was a sound very much like fft and the prostitute fell to the ground, a massive burn covering her breast. Anasiel replaced the metal object he had been holding underneath his cloak, and then he tugged the young woman over to a manhole he had marked before, forced it open, and shoved her down it.

A final glance to make sure no one was watching, and then the cape began to flap strongly in the wind, and suddenly he was gone. A large bird seemed to pass over the moon in between the clouds, and then it was gone.

The doctor strode into the TARDIS control room, and hung his coat on the stand in the atrium, “Right. Let’s see if you want to go up top now…” he said, twisting knobs on the walnut panelled display, and pulling a lever back firmly. A wheezing groaning sound started up, and the crystalline columns in the centre of the panel began moving, and the police box faded from the sewers.

“Wotcha’ doin?” a voice came from the balcony above, and the Doctor looked up to glance at his companion, a humanoid female, originally a human derivative, through complex circumstances, who resembled a fish with fins on either side of her head covering her ears, and long thick fronds that appeared to serve no real function.

Her parents had adopted a rather… excessive response to an especially virulent plague destroying humans – stop being human.

“Ah. You’re up…” the Doctor said, looking up at her. “We’ve landed.”

“We don’t look like we have,” Destrii said.

“That’s because I’m moving us…”

“What’s that smell…”

“Damn… Err, we landed in the sewers when we arrived.”

“Ew. And you went out?”

“Mind of its own, this ship… Ah hah!”

Destrii skipped – well, not quite skipped, she managed to make her movement into a sinister sort of skipping though – to the ladder that made the most direct route from the bedrooms to the console, and slid down it as if she were a fireman, holding the sides and keeping her feet pressed to it.

“Ah-hah?”

“We’ve landed “

“Properly?”

“Yes.”

“I see… So, what are we doing?”

“Going to see who’s using a particle gun in eighteen eighty seven!”

“On Earth? Isn’t that almost a century before working laser weapons?”

“More,” the Doctor said, “And precisely.”

“I get it. Off-worlders. Interfering?”

“Yes, precisely. Very bad, coming?”

The fish-woman nodded, “Wouldn’t miss it. Why do you care, anyway?”

“Can’t have people from more developed contextual frames interfering with those beneath them. That’s exploitation.”

“Isn’t that,” she said, twitching finger, carrying a medallion from the coat stand into her hand, and thence to hang around her neck, generating a sudden soligraphic illusion of a long haired dusky skinned human woman.

“Quick earth culture question doc…”

“What?”

“Isn’t this era rather racist?”

“Just ignore it and act superior. It’s what I do. Anyway… We’ve murder to find.”

“Fine,” the fish-woman said, taking a few more items, and putting them into her ‘pockets’ in a brisk fashion while the Doctor was looking elsewhere.


“Mister McGinnis…” The Doctor smiled winningly at the inebriate sitting before him, “I’d like you to tell me a few things…”

A thousand images twirled in space as the figure slowly rose to its feet. A long, slender hand reached out and stroked a glowing, semi-transparent sigil on one of the reflective walls. A mirror slowly slid into a concealed panel,and the figure walked out of its mirrored chamber, grabbing a diaphanous blue slip from a hook by the door and drawing it over herself. As she did so, her image faded and blurred, becoming less alien and more human. To a given value of human, of course.

The heartbreakingly beautiful woman shrugged her slip down past her hips and crossed into a conference room, where several other beautiful people sat waiting for her. "I have just received word from our 'agents' in the city the humans call 'London'," the alien said, leaning across the table. "Unexpected difficulties have led to a delay in the construction and deployment of the Worldmaker. These difficulties seem to stem from..."

"The inability of human workers to keep their inferior mouths shut,"

A male offered from the opposite end of the table. "Twice, now, we've had to absorb further humans into our plan simply in order to prevent more of them from discovering our plans."

"And the net result of this plan has been?" The Captain inquired, though the information was available on the desk in front of her.

"Complete failure. I propose we liquefy the workers and hire some more of their slumdwellers."

Naturally, this obtained unanimous approval. The workers and their families were invited to the manor for a 'company picnic'. A custom which their preliminary readings assured them was common practice for corporations at the time. For Roanians, they had done a good job. They were only a century or so off.

Still, when the time came the Roanians managed to round up their 20 or so workers and their families to be shipped off to Calgary Manor on the promise of a day that they'd never forget.

An hour or so later another batch of workers were brought into the quiet darkness of one of the dock's many warehouses.


The priest shivered occasionally. He had been the only person in the manor's small village to doubt the words of these beautiful strangers who had appeared so suddenly those few months before. Father Alvin had to admit that they did seem to be what they had claimed. The miracles, the magnificent feast they seemed able to provide, as if the Lord was working through them... but he was forced to recall every day that the Devil, too, had once been an angel in the service of the lord.

He wasn't sure what the Great Work actually was, the 'angels' being unwilling to discuss matters with him. What little he had heard, though, was concerning to him as both a loyal Englishman and a true servant of the Lord.

Their obvious contempt for him and his faith, their ignorance of all but the most general knowledge of the Church... he feared for the safety of his soul

and the souls of his parishioners.They were coming for him. He knew that now. One of the women had been sitting in on his sermon that morning, when he had finally spoken out about the devil that hides his evil through the disguise of an angel, drawing metaphors from the performance of Othello that had once been performed in the manor. The reference had undoubtedly passed the 'woman' by, but she had understood the meaning behind his words quite clearly. Clearer, by far, than many of the parishioners around her, all of whom seemed quite desperate for her attention.

He grasped for the simple cross that he had always worn around his neck. Either everything he believed about God, the universe, and man's place in it was a lie, or these visitors were demons from Hell, sent to test the souls of his flock. He knew that the good Lord would find the poor people of this manor wanting.

The door slowly turned and in walked one of the women, accompanied by a pair of blank-faced members of the local constabulary. She was, the chaste priest was forced to admit, stunningly beautiful. The soft glow of her skin seemed to light the room as her perfectly formed body stepped gently along the carpet towards him, those burning eyes fixed upon his body while her lipslocked into something between a pout and a sneer. "Father Alvin, I believe you have doubts about our mission here?" She was right in front of him now, as if the hundred feet of chapel between the door and the altar had been dismissed as irrelevant. A soft, warm hand reached up and touched his face.

"Do not be afraid," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "We are here to create a better world for humanity. Is that not so, Arnold?" The constable to her left gave a start, but assented before sinking back into the stupor.

"They have seen the truth. Why not you? Do you not believe in your God? Is he not kind? Would he not send such perfect beings as us to save your race from the danger it lies in?"

Intense pressure filled the priest's mind, images and words floating through his head. It was right that he should agree with her. The angels were obviously so perfect and must know what was right. Plainly humanity needed guidance from such beautiful beings...

Her expression was reshaping itself into a chilly smile when he lashed out and broke her nose. "I deny you! Your words are the same as those spoken by the Great Enemy to the Lord on the 5th day! I deny you, servant of the black pit and Lucifer, and I cast you from my church!" He didn't know quite what he expected. Perhaps a puff of smoke as the devil vanished back to the hell which spawned it.

He didn't expect her to back away in terror before doubling over, dark purple blood streaming from her nose to stain the floor. Nor did he expect the shocked tears of rage and deep, eternal pain that began to drip down from those glowing eyes. "You...you worthless human!" Her voice became a snarl. "Grab him and hold him!"

The constables moved towards the priest, who backed away towards his desk.

At the end, his faith wasn't strong enough. But... perhaps he had miscalculated! The woman was flesh and blood! Not a devil at all! But if she was...and then the police were on him, holding him tight against the altar.

"Arnold, Michael, I welcomed you into this world! Don't do this! She's a witch!" If possible, the writhing, pained creature on the floor seemed to scream even louder at this, outrage overtaking all other emotions in the voice.

The constables didn't respond at all, just staring straight ahead with their leaden gaze. "What did you do to them?" the priest demanded as the woman slowly rose to her feet, white wings now visible and beating harshly in the breeze.

"You would have had your chance to find out..." The beautiful features shattered, revealing something underneath coldly alien and distant. These features too were perfect, symmetrical in every way, except for the shattered nose that marred her image. "But for the sin which you've committed... break his arms." The constables snapped his arms in half with superhuman strength and the priest howled in pain. She watched with satisfaction that slowly turned to pleasure as she gave her next order. "His legs." Soon the only thing keeping the priest up was the support of the constables. The woman opened a mouth that now seemed all too full of teeth and lunged forward with a metal tool she had produced from some hidden pocket. For the priest, all went black.

The next day, Father Alvin was waiting in the church's yard for early services, as always. He nodded to those of his flock who came by him. Only the best examiner would notice that his usually warm eyes had been drained of soul and life, and they looked blankly out at the world around him. Father Alvin was already dead, of course. His body just hadn't realised it.


"Lieutenant, there must be something you can do!" Ailiea was almost in tears that night, staring at her reflection in the mirror. "I'm flawed!"

Lieutenant Rachimel leaned across and touched her shoulder. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do to solve the deeper damage until we complete our mission, Ailiea. Using the resources to hand we expect a return to reasonable symmetry within the week."

"R-reasonable?" Ailiea whispered as she actually did start to cry. "As in...an approximation?" The word was almost a curse to Roanians. "My reflection is ruined and that's all you can offer me?!"

"Just for a little while, Ailiea. I promise." It was all the Roanian could do to look at her face and she knew it, though. His expression was patronising, and she hated it. But what else was she going to do? She had to wait.

"However, your experience suggests that we will require guards who can preserve our images." Rachimel finally lost his struggle and looked away. "We'll have more of the Ravens in action within a day or two. Is there anything..."

"Look at me..." Ailiea whispered, determinedly. He did, after a fashion, his eyes focussing on her forehead, her breasts, anywhere but her marred face. "Darkness take you, at me!" She snapped. "I'm not a human you can
ignore at your leisure! I'm Ruahnayi! I'm one of yours! And it's your fault that I was in this situation in the first place so you can look at what's happened to me and take responsibility!"

Rachimel flinched and tried to focus on the splintered nose, and the bruise which was already spreading out to cover even more of her face. "I..." he flinched away again. "My apologies for the failure of my security apparatus. If you like, I will arrange for your transportation to New Roan and our friends there immediately in order for you to be restored to perfection. If possible."

It was Ailiea's turn to flinch, at the thought that the damage done to her was enough for her to be forever marked. She rose to her feet and stormed out. "I'm going to go and check on our London Operation.""That's a good idea." Rachimel nodded. "We'll let you know if anything changes." Rachimel hummed and added a little note to his to-do list, namely, ensuring that an adequate supply of personal shields was in place for all those who had to go amongst the humans.

A broken nose today could be a snapped ear tomorrow or, Light preserve them, a scar deep enough that not even Roanian cosmetics could hide or cure it. It was a shame that Ailiea had to suffer in order to prove his original point that the humans were dangerous. He could only hope that this would move the Captain closer to his way of thinking...

Destrii had wanted to simply get answers by breaking a few fingers, but she’d learnt enough about the Doctor to realise that he probably wouldn’t appreciate the suggestion. She even managed to keep from actually playing bad cop, instead making… suggestive… gestures from behind the Doctor whenever the human didn’t seem to be cooperating. That had been rather fun, especially as the Doctor studiously ignored what she was doing, apparently deciding to tolerate a few little threats…


“Soo… Recruitment… Workers. I wonder what they want workers for,” he frowned, “They’re not taking the best minds, so it’s hardly as if they need to repair something technological. Maybe they want to dig something up… that’s quite common,” he said, thinking back to the future, “We have to find out what they’re doing…” he said.

Destrii raised an eyebrow – well, a simulation of one – “If this involves getting captured…”

“What made you think that?”

“All your plans involve getting captured. You’re in and out of someone’s prison so often that you ought to come in a plastic wrapper with your own cage.”

“Well…” The Doctor said, thrusting his hands into his pockets, looking coy, “It [/I]is[/I] a way of finding out what’s happening that usually works for me.”

“That’s because you’re luckier than a black cat walking in a figure eight over a vat of horseshoes, after rolling around in a grass-patch full of four leafed clovers…”

“You’re really good at human supersitision…”

“Comes a little after my peerless knowledge of human culture…”

“Twentieth century American pop culture, you mean.”

“Close enough. I know you’re madly in love with old music, and anything that qualifies as square…”

The Doctor jerked his hands from his pockets, and leaned on the weak looking railing that supported the home-made bridge they looked down on the street below as the sun sluggishly crawled up into the sky, burning lazily through the reek of the city, its light seeming reluctant to shine on the less salubrious areas.

Destrii looked up, “When are these apes going to invent atmospheric decarbonisation. This smog is getting right up my gills…”

“That’ll take them about a hundred and fifty years, but they’ll get better at limiting their emissions first. It’ll take a big ‘global warming’ scare before they snap and decide to put money into global cooling so they can have synthetic fossil fuels… I wouldn't want to go swimming in any of the water if I were you, for that matter...”

Destrii frowned, looking down at the street, “So, when do you think the aliens will get here…”

“Who knows… But probably not long. I’m lucky, remember…”

The coach didn't fit in with its surroundings at all. While many of the hansoms around it were dingy or grey, this one shone as if constructed from other material. Wherever it went a space was found for it, as if the other coaches just didn't matter to this one. In fact, the other coaches appeared to be simply pale reflections of this shining one, their horses primitive by comparison to the mighty stallions drawing it. What was odd, though, was that hardly anyone paid the coach any heed, as if while they saw it they could barely bring themselves to notice it. It drew to a halt, and someone stepped out, then drew to the side, carefully placing his coat on the ground in front of the coach's stairs, an odd action in this place and at this time. Someone else stepped out of the coach after him, grinding his coat into the mud and walking off down the street without so much as an indication that she had noticed his gesture. For his part, the servant trailed in her wake.

The woman herself was unusual, dressed in a light coloured, tightly cut dress. Her skin was pale, but it gave the impression of shining from an inner source, and she seemed as untouched by the dinginess surrounding her as her coach had been. She stopped in her tracks and made a gesture that was a cross between a shrug and lolling her head. She turned around, revealing that over her eyes she wore a pair of smoked lenses that even at their distance could be seen to reflect the light from the sun. If their eyes were very good, a distant observer might have noticed she made a facial expression that could be described as 'sniffing'. Her eyes scanned the surrounding rooftops as if something was out of place.

The curtain over the window on the coach was swept aside and another long, strange face could briefly be seen looking up and down the street. A strange sort of heat haze began to play across eyes, and a feeling like being gently wrapped in cotton wool settled into the minds of the man on the street, reassuring everyone that there was nothing to be seen here in any way out of the ordinary. The curtain was snatched closed, but not before the keen observer could also note that the man in the coach too seemed to be trying to pick up a scent.



"Mistress Aiyanna, are you all right?" The servant had caught up to her and was wearing his dirty cloak like a badge of honour. "You seem troubled." His unfocussed eyes weaved back and forth across the street as if his mind was not in complete control of his body.

The addressed woman scowled at him, flashing her teeth. "Something is amiss, but I cannot place it." She said in her accented English. "I can smell something unusual...but not place what or where. But it's not something that should be here." Anastasia reached up to fix her tiara back in place as a gust of wind ruffled her hair slightly. "Though for all I know about this filthy city, it might be some of your local food stuffs."

"Mistress Anastasia, I don't understand..." The man began, sounding honestly confused.

"No, of course you wouldn't, human." She snarled, flashing teeth sharpened to points once more. Somewhere behind her glasses there was a spark of something. "Possibly it was nothing. I'd require verification." Behind her, a pedestrian accidentally bumped into her. Her eyes flashed again and she rounded on the unfortunate man, who stank of cheap alcohol. "How dare you!" She shrieked in a voice that should have brought the Peelies on them, as well as drawing the attention of the few other pedestrians out and about. But no one reacted as if this was in any way unusual.


"Sorry, ma'am. Just got laid off, you see, so I was out drinking..." Was what the miscreant eventually said when his shock at being shrieked at was overlaid. "Replaced with a machine after all my years of work..."

And suddenly she was all smiles. It was like seeing the sun for the first time. The smile of no other woman, no other person could possibly compare to this smile. She said something to him. He responded. She said something else, the smile growing wider and wider. The words couldn't be heard, though plainly they were there, as he was nodding and smiling as if they made perfect sense to him.

Then Anastasia set off down the street again. This time, she was followed by two servants, one of whom waited outside for her as she walked into the small shop on the corner. The only difference between this store and countless other ones, it would seem, was that this one sold books.

“I want one…”

“You want a coach?”

“Not any one. The mirrored titanium one there… With the sweet lighting rig.”

“Very anachronistic.”

“Yeah. It looks way more modern than your ship.”

“My ship happens to be a type 40 TARDIS. The only vessels in the universe that are more modern than it are other TARDISes. Bar none.”

“Yeah. But it’s just a little bit… retro, isn’t it?”

“I happen to like it ‘retro’ as you so charmingly put it. You should have seen the version I had for most of my previous regeneration. Shiny white and festooned with touch-screens, incredibly dull – just like what you expect an immensely sophisticated time ship to look like. Fortunately I grew up as I grew old.”

“Huh. Why’s that noble talking to that peasant? Not the kind of peon I’d want to stick my tongue down the ear of on the street…”

“I think that’s enough of that for me. Let’s go and see what happens. Follow the man, meet me back here… Try not to kill anyone…”


A bell above the bookshop door rang cheerily as the Doctor slid inside. He stood for a few moments, watching, making a careful study of some of the shelves, and taking a book from one of his pockets, something that seemed impossible given that they didn’t bulge when it was in there, “If you’re looking for a recent book of note…” he said, sidling up to ‘Anastasia’ you could do worse than John Henry MacKay’s ‘The Anarchists.’ It covers social movements, albeit from a very biased perspective, with an emphasis on this year… The Chicago hangings, for instance…” he looked carefully into the eyes of the strange woman, and passed her a first edition of ‘The Anarchists, a picture of Civilisation at the Close of the Nineteenth Century.’

Somehow he was unusual himself. Firstly, he was perfectly clean, even by Roanian standards of fanaticism – the ships of the time lords preformed cleaning functions on their passengers and other contents automatically, and thankfully, he habitually wore the same clothes, and would be rather unpleasant to be around if they didn’t.

Second, his eyes were… somehow different. At once old, ancient, and youthful and alive, vigorous, “Do you know much about the topic?” he asked, fishing for an answer that would betray an incriminating knowledge of future events. He seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to the reactions of the servant, or indeed, the woman, as he interrupted their day. Barging in was a specialty of his. Future events indeed – the riots were in the past, but the end of the book – and its publication – was months into the future.


Meanwhile, Destrii considered whether or not it was worth continuing to follow the derelict she was following…

Anastasia frowned at this strange man who had appeared out of nowhere. The volume she was clutching herself nearly slipped from her hands, and behind her glazed glasses the lights flickered in confusion. She gripped the book proferred loosely, looking at the cover but not seeming quite to see it. "The Chicago hangings? For the Haymarket bombs? Ah, yes. Shame that it was a miscarriage of justice."

Then there was another flicker as she flipped through the book's pages" This book...you shouldn't have this book!" She snapped, and suddenly there was an element of imperiousness in her voice. Her body became more and more beautiful until it almost hurt to look upon her, and her voice began to become more and more intense, as if she was speaking into his very soul. "Tell me where you obtained this book, human!"

The bookseller looked up from where he was working. "You'll have to pay for that if you keep shaking it, ma'am."

"Oh, shut up!" She ordered, and the bookseller fell absolutely silent. Anastasia rounded on the doctor. "Where did you find this book, human? Who are you? Answer me!" The words echoed into his mind, repeating themselves over and over again, ever louder.


The newly recruited 'human' staggered along the road. His alcoholic induced stupor should have been wearing off by now, yet he still seemed to be not entirely in control of his actions. He reached a nondescript building and knocked on the door, to be allowed in.

Before Destrii could make a decision to follow or not, there was the sound of two boots clicking on the cobbles behind her. "I thought I smelled something unusual." The Roanian stood there, his smile far too wide for his face. Several sharp teeth glinted in the weak light of the sun. "I happen to own the property you are watching, young lady. May I help you?" This male was handsome beyond belief, seemingly perfect in every detail. She would have gotten the impression he was laughing at her, though. "Let me give you some advice. You shouldn't be here. 'Go away.'" The voice became commanding, reaching deep into her soul and trying to find the levers to push to make her obey.

Destrii’s first reaction was to attack. But then, it occurred to her that the Doctor might not approve of her beating this… person… up without a good reason. He still made her tremendously uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t determine. The ‘feel’ of her mind was ragged, like a mental caltrop, or broken glass. Hard. Sharp. Aggressive.

She tilted her head to one side, red hair rustling down the back of her coat, “Yeah. Why not, I’ll do that…” she said, flashing him a grin that was anything but compliant, and a look in her eye that seemed to promise… a future.

She turned, and began to walk – well, she strutted, more than walked – back the way she had come.


The Doctor grinned down at the Roanian woman, leaning against one of the bookshelves, “Oh, America somewhere. New York, I think, next year. And I’m not human. I must say, you’re quite astoundingly pretty, given that you’re evidently an alien to this world. And a time traveller at that. So, where are you from? And why are you here?”

If he’d been at all affected by her outburst, it didn’t show. His bouncy hair had been more affected by her perfumed breath than his face…

Anastasia's eyes became flames that danced beneath her glazed glasses, the blue fire becoming visible even through the smoky lenses. "I demand you tell me who you are! You do not belong here! Are you here to interfere?" She became aware she was saying rather more than she should, and fell silent for a second. "I command you to tell me who you are!" Her words carried with them a violent punch this time, energy following them and attempting to compel him to obey her.

"My name is Bernard Peran, I own this bookstore, I've worked in London..." The bookseller had gone crumpling to the floor.

The Roanian snarled, sharp fangs bared. "Not you!" She had lost her temper, and with it, the control of her glamour. Her image flickered for a second, revealing an icy cold, statuesque woman with sharp fangs and claws outstretched, waiting. The moment passed and then the angelic image had returned as she regained command of her disguise. The smile returned, a predatory smile now. "Tell me who you are, my dear, and such sights I shall show you..." There was more softness in her words than any voice should contain, and her body became even more enchanting, so enchanting that it could have blinded another man...

He looked, doubtless much to her annoyance, still completely unaffected. Unaffected by her wroth or by her beauty and unaffected by her would be temptation. He had confidence over confidence. There had been few times in his life, since long ago, when he’d ever felt inferior to anything, let alone something with such obvious temper problems “I am the Doctor,” he said, and then was abruptly in motion, walking past the Roanian, toward the collapsed man, grabbing him by the shoulders, pressing him down to the floor suddenly. “Stop!” he snapped fiercely at the man, twisted in some paroxysm of, not quite agony, but that may have been a part of it, and staring down at him.

The Doctor’s eyes had a faintly hypnotic quality, startlingly blue, and somehow, very subtly, different, distinctly mesmerising. The Doctor was obeyed. “Sleep!” he added, in the same tone, a moment later, and, after that, “and forget…” he added, before standing.

He no longer seemed as calm as he had before, “So now you know who I am. Or at least, as much as you need to know,” he added, tilting his head to one side, his hair falling back again, “Now, let’s have it,” there was no deference, “Where do you come from. What are you doing here… And then maybe you’ll get more information from me, humm?” he slipped his hand into a waistcoat pocket and stood, looking unblinkingly at Anastasia.


Destrii didn’t do quiet entrances, the bell over the door rang, and then the door smacked against a bookcase behind it, the wood and glass quivering, but not breaking. She strode into the room, and looked at the Doctor, who looked past Anastasia to her. “Ah. And this is Primatrix Destriianatos,” he said, “Now that’s two new things you know. Wouldn’t it be polite and cultured of you to start sharing in return?” he said, raising his eyebrows meaningfully at Destrii, who took the hint and stood near the door, legs apart, seeming as though she was looking forward to doing violence.

“With Destrii,” he said, “You can judge a book by its cover. Well. In a certain way, at any rate,” he corrected himself.

She grinned.

"I am Aiyana, a former soldier in the service of the Divine Imperium before it fell into the hands of Chaos-lovers and witches." She became slightly more desperate, the weapons in her arsenal now having been deployed, and she didn't feel like risking herself in close combat. "Plainly, two such as you can only have the deepest sympathy for our goals if they're explained! Please, come with me, and I'll see that you get an audience with our Captain. We only want to help these humans..."

"I believe we will do no such thing with this 'doctor', Aiyana. We have travelled a long and hard distance, at much risk to ourselves, to set this world to rights, and we cannot afford to be defeated now, not at the moment of victory.." The man from the coach was standing there, but his smoked glasses were off now. Red eyes glared out at the doctor, the flame intense, and then with a snap and a blur of feather two angel wings spread out and folded behind him. "Doctor, You and your... friend... will not be allowed to interfere, and I will ensure that you do not."

A small silver barrel appeared in his hand. "This is a Mark 20.1 Personal Matter Disentegrator. If I fire this, you will both be broken down to subatomic particles unless you have body armour on you underneath those vile garments." The male smiled slightly, baring sharp fangs. "I hereby invite you both to come with me and meet my Captain, and she will decide what to do with you. I feel your presence here is no co-oincidence, but the Captain will decide if you are servants of the government or not, and what to do with you. As for you..." Without a pause, he directed his weapon at the shaking Anastasia, who barely even had time to blink before she vanished into a cloud of dust. "Shall we go? I'm sure my Captain would be interested to hear how you killed a defenceless agent and a human she was engaged in a transaction with." He asked, coolly turning his weapon to face the doctor and Destrii. The Roanian produced another weapon and directed it at the unconscious bookseller.

The Doctor stared at the newcomer. “You could. But you’ll have a hell of a time explaining how I did that. You know, given my lack of anything remotely lethal enough to vaporise anyone like that. Of course, you could not take the life of another defenceless being, this one who won’t remember any of that anyway,” he said, stepping in front of the unconscious form of Mr Bernard Peran.

Destrii looked over at the newcomer, “Cool wings…” she said, apparently unphased by the violence. If she had any other comments regarding the violent death of someone a moment before, she kept them to herself, for now.

The Roanian crooked his head on his side, a confused look on his face. "What is the life of this worthless creature to you?" He asked, uncertainly. "Is his life vital to the future of this world?" The pistol remained aimed at the unconscious bookseller, but then he sighed and made it vanish. "It is a shame to waste ammunition on such a thing. Our supplies are limited since our exile. As you know doubt know." The Roanian seemed disappointed at the lack of murder.

"But we shall be leaving now." His eyes dimmed and then he opened his mouth. A series of clear musical notes echoed from his lips, similar in a way to the calling of birds. Then the bookstore dwindled into darkness as a bright light surrounded them, and they were suddenly moved to another room.

One of the walls held a massive window that overlooked a village green. Several candles and oil lanterns hung around the place, but they had obviously not been used for a long time. Instead a blue glow came from a small cylinder hanging ffrom the ceiling. A female was at the desk. She was very definitely female, and dressed to show it. Her wings flapped gently in the gentle breeze from the open window. "Are these the..."

"I'm afraid so, Captain." The male murmured, bowing his head. "They're agents from the government, I feel certain of it. Come to stop our work. I thought it best to bring them here to you for punishment for their murder of one of our own."

The captain slumped back into her chair. She was obviously depressed, but despite the sadness radiating from her she lounged. It was as if she couldn't sit any other way. "Better a million humans die than one Ruahan." She mumbled, and then her eyes closed. "Nevertheless, order dictates these...people be given a chance to...explain themselves. Who are they?"

The male paused, and looked troubled. The captain's eyes blew into frenzied light. "You caught them murdering one of us, and you didn't even question them?! I should have you..." She paused and then looked down. "No, too many of us have been lost since this venture began."

"I believe the man is a doctor of some sort..." The male offered, producing his pistol and gesturing vaguely. "You two. Introduce yourselves and explain your murder of Aiyana."

The Doctor mooched, slouching down, hands thrust forward in his pockets, neck in, looking like a delinquent child, “I must confess…” he began, and then his tone changed, “that I’ve never really liked governments. I ran one for a while, and it was a total disaster. My presidency lasted a day in actual terms and it set a record for short duration on paper too. I ended up helping my own world be invaded – don’t worry, I fixed it – then one of my ministers let in another invasion force, and finally, they deposed me because I left. Honestly, with a record like that, I’d have at least expected a statue… ‘The Doctor: Did the right thing and got out of our hair…’” he stood up straight again, crossing his hands behind him, still in his pockets, “But that’s beside the point, I’ve never killed anyone…”

Destrii eyed him carefully…

“… I didn’t have to. And Anastasia and I were getting on perfectly. And I certainly didn’t have the means to do that to the poor woman anyway; what was that by the way, Nuclear Disruption Force? He pulled his hands out suddenly, turning out his pockets on either side of him, resulting in a cascade of seemingly useless items from balls of string and yo-yos to an elaborate pocket watch and what seemed to be a small wand shaped device, “See, no guns. And it shouldn’t be hard to find if I’ve got any others, let alone left one behind – how many megawatt power sources are there in London these days; a fair few I suppose given your presence, but normally that’d be a rhetorical question…”

Destrii rolled her eyes…

“And I don’t have any funky powers that let me make people disappear sine corpus as one might say,” as if to illustrate he shot a murderous and ill humoured glare at the male Roanian with the gun, “otherwise he’d be dead by now,” he said, “And I know Destrii doesn’t have the ability to blast people with her thoughts, or I’d have been annihilated the last time I told her not to leave things lying around…”

“Please, you already live in a, what was that shop?”

“Antiques shop,” the Doctor said, seemingly unflustered, “so that begs the question, who did murder the poor woman. And for that, well, I’ve a fair idea, but you probably won’t believe me. It’s someone not a million miles from this location, who’s not me.”

“Or me…” Destrii added, sighing.

“Which leads to a further question. How have so many of you been lost? I don’t know the numbers, but I doubt it was the human population that were the culprits…”

“For once,” Destrii said, and it was the Doctor’s turn to sigh.

“…on this occasion. From what I’ve seen, most of them would have difficulty even approaching you. What are the chances of one of your kind being over-fond of lethal measures here, humm?”