Donna's latest job, though surpassingly dull, was quite a step up from her previous position in a factory that made piano keys and had smelled oddly of a funeral parlour
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Gene was making his way back to the Quattro after a long, boring stakeout that had, regretfully, not taken place in said car, but rather, inside a shipping container in a sodding warehouse. Only lackeys they'd already identified showed up, and the big boss himself had remained out of sight - almost as if someone had tipped him off to a potential police presence.
At any rate, he was ready to head off to Luigi's for a well-deserved pint or three, pulling the collar of his coat up to guard against the sodding mist that permeated the night, when he heard a bird scream. "Bloody fantastic," he grumbled, heading towards the source of the sound.
Donna was turning in a tight circle, trying to locate herself - had she been kidnapped, perhaps? Kidnapped and... dumped at some docks? The thought made her more angry than afraid, and when she was facing away from the river once more, she spotted a man crossing toward her. At last - a target for her overwhelming emotions.
"You!" she called out, striding toward the man, keeping her head held high. Even if he was her kidnapper, he didn't look fit enough to catch her if she ran, so she wasn't too afraid of confronting him. "Where have you brought me?" she demanded, her eyes blazing and her color high.
Gene was fairly unimpressed by the screeching woman; he folded his arms over his chest, looking down his nose at her. "Me? I 'aven't done a damn thing to you," he told her. He looked at her eyes, trying to figure out what sort of drugs she might be high on. Definitely not weed, she was too active for that, and probably not any sort of shrooms or acid, else she'd be trying to claw his face off. Maybe a low dose of crack? "C'mon, love, I think it's time for you t' go 'ome," he said, trying to sound soothing.
Donna folded her arms across her chest, glaring at the man before her. "An' just how do you expect me to do that?" she asked, tapping her foot impatiently. "I don't even know where I am!" She cast her glance about once more, angry at herself for not having any inkling of her whereabouts, angry at this unhelpful man for not telling her, and angry... just angry in general, really.
Maybe not much crack, he thought, surveying her. Definitely enough to fuck with her mind, though. Poor thing must've wandered off without any idea. "You're in the West India Docks," he offered helpfully. "Dunno 'ow you got 'ere, it's practically th' middle o' th' night." And she was dressed decently, which meant she probably wasn't a prossie - just an average nutter. "Come on, then, we'll take you t' th' station an' ring someone t' come an' get you."
"The West India what?" she repeated, knitting her brows together. She'd never even heard of such a place - and since the man was speaking with a Mancunian accent, she doubted they were in sodding India. She shuddered - if she'd somehow turned up in bloody Manchester, she thought that might be just as bad.
"Who're you meant to be then?" she demanded, making not attempt to follow him even though the misting rain was now jumped up a notch to actual rain. "Some sort of copper, then?" What sort of police officer wore snakeskin boots, she had to wonder, not to mention a get-up that made him look sort of like Twiggy Rathbone.
"Docks," Gene repeated, raising his voice a little to make sure she heard him properly. If she hadn't sounded like she'd been born and raised in London, Gene would've pegged her for an out-of-towner - as it was, she was just a little batty.
"DCI Gene Hunt, love, an' if you don't 'urry up, you'll be spendin' th' night out 'ere, I reckon." Though he would've dragged her bodily back to his car if he had to; this wasn't a good area for an incapacitated woman to be alone in at night.
Donna shook her head. "I'll just call a taxi," she said a tad grumpily. She dug into her bag for her mobile - and it was only then that she realized she was carrying a pocketbook that didn't belong to her. It was a great oversized leather thing that looked like it might have belonged to her mother twenty years ago - and in a word, it was tacky. She glanced down at herself then, and lo and behold, she was wearing a completely different outfit than the one she'd left home in. Donna was dismayed to see the clothes she wore also could not belong to her - though they fit, they were a few decades out of date. It was no wonder this copper was treating her like she was mad - she looked like a complete nutter on her way to a fancy dress party.
Frowning darkly, she looked up at Gene. "Well, whoever kidnapped me also robbed me," she snapped. "So I suppose I need to go along with you to report my things stolen." Donna huffed - she almost preferred the migraine and a night in to this much trouble.
"You've got your bag with you," Gene pointed out, and he still doubted she'd been kidnapped, whatever she claimed. "Someone make off wi' your wallet?" Maybe she'd been out at a bar and had something slipped into her drink - though why a bloke would leave her unharmed in the middle of the West India Docks in the middle of the night was another very good question. In Gene's experience, date rapists simply didn't do that.
"This way," and he jerked his head in the direction of the Quattro and started walking, not glancing back to make sure she was following. "Care t' tell me your name, Red?"
"Donna," she said absently, digging through the bag that she was sure wasn't hers. There was a wallet tucked into one pocket, and she drew it out, hoping it might give her a clue as the the bag's owner. She flipped it open and the first thing she saw was a driver's license - one that had her picture and name on it. Her picture, her name, and a birthdate thirty-five years before her own.
"It's... this is me," she said quietly, dumbstruck. Riffling through the wallet, she found a few credit cards bearing her name right down to her signature that had expired almost twenty years ago, a book of cheques belonging to her but listing an address she'd never heard of, and a few quid. At least she recognized the notes.
Donna stopped dead, barely holding onto the bag in her hand. "These things all have my name on them," she told Gene, her eyes round with worry and bewilderment. "But that's... that's impossible."
Gene paused when he heard the footsteps stop, turning his head to look at the redhead. "What, that someone knocked you out, dumped you 'ere, an' just left you with your wallet and belongings intact?" He snorted. "Most bloody unlikely thing I've ever 'eard, but prob'ly not completely impossible, just daft." She looked shocked, though, and the colour had left her face.
He frowned a little, taking a few steps back to stand in front of her. "Look, darlin', we can figure things out at th' station. You don' want t' stand out in th' rain an' cold, not when you could be 'avin' a nice brew." Gene wanted a cup of tea, too, and he was about ready to just drag this madwoman back to the car.
Without a mobile and in possession of an identity that couldn't belong to her, what else could she do but follow the man? At the very least, he offered respite from the rain. She was only a foot from his car before she stopped cold once more, turning her glare on again.
"How do I know you are who you say you are?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest - though the effect was somewhat spoiled by her increasingly sodden clothes and wet hair. But she had to ask - after all, she wasn't even sure she was who she was meant to be. After all, who'd ever heard of Ms Donna Noble of Ealing, born in 1945? Sure the woman pictured on her driver's license looked just like her... but this had to be some sort of scary coincidence or practical joke. And until she had sorted everything, she didn't intend to trust anyone.
Gene rolled his eyes and pulled his badge and warrant card out of his jacket pocket, passing it to her. "'s all in order, see?" As she examined his identification, he got in the Quattro - maybe she wanted to stand out in the rain, but that didn't mean he had to. While he was waiting, he pulled out his flask and took a long swig, the liquor banishing the chill that the rain had given him.
He crossed his legs, brushing a bit of mud off of one trouser leg. "Any time you're ready, love," he drawled."
Donna studied the badge - she'd never actually seen one up close, but people were forever asking for them on television, so she guessed it was the thing to do. She supposed it looked real enough - but the expiration was up in 1987. Odd that the entire thing looked completely new. Donna got to thinking perhaps she had gone mad.
Well, nothing was a surer sign than not knowing when to get in out of the rain, and while she wasn't sure she trusted this Hunt bloke, Donna didn't fancy a jaunt around some docks on her own. She climbed into the car, looking at him frankly. "Well?" she prompted. "Go, then, if we're going." She knew she was being quarrelsome, but she was in no mood for niceties.
Gene pocketed his badge - and his flask - then pulled his long legs into the car and swung the door closed. The engine purred as he started the car up, and he couldn't help but beam proudly - the Quattro was brand new, and he was still getting used to the feel of such a powerful car. He patted the dash. "She's a beauty, isn't she?"
And then he pulled out of the docks and onto the street, and he was lost in the sheer exhilaration of driving through London at night.
Donna gave Gene a sidelong look that should have clearly told him that a, she wasn't even remotely impressed by the wee German sportscar that reminded her of the aging Talbot Samba she'd inherited from her mother when she was still in school, and b) she really wasn't interested in any case. At least she was still able to give looks like that, she thought; Donna just wasn't the sort who'd break down into dramatic tears in a situation unless there was an appropriate audience for such a display.
Turning her attention to the sights as they drove, Donna began to recognize landmarks at once, and they only served to confuse her more. "Wait - this is Blackwall!" she said, completely dismayed and not just because they were driving through a dodgy bit of the East End. "How can we be in Blackwall? We didn't even go through Canary Wharf!" And unless Gene's precious car had flown, there was no way to find one without seeing the other, not since Canary Wharf Tower had been built to dominate London's skyline.
At any rate, he was ready to head off to Luigi's for a well-deserved pint or three, pulling the collar of his coat up to guard against the sodding mist that permeated the night, when he heard a bird scream. "Bloody fantastic," he grumbled, heading towards the source of the sound.
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"You!" she called out, striding toward the man, keeping her head held high. Even if he was her kidnapper, he didn't look fit enough to catch her if she ran, so she wasn't too afraid of confronting him. "Where have you brought me?" she demanded, her eyes blazing and her color high.
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"Who're you meant to be then?" she demanded, making not attempt to follow him even though the misting rain was now jumped up a notch to actual rain. "Some sort of copper, then?" What sort of police officer wore snakeskin boots, she had to wonder, not to mention a get-up that made him look sort of like Twiggy Rathbone.
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"DCI Gene Hunt, love, an' if you don't 'urry up, you'll be spendin' th' night out 'ere, I reckon." Though he would've dragged her bodily back to his car if he had to; this wasn't a good area for an incapacitated woman to be alone in at night.
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Frowning darkly, she looked up at Gene. "Well, whoever kidnapped me also robbed me," she snapped. "So I suppose I need to go along with you to report my things stolen." Donna huffed - she almost preferred the migraine and a night in to this much trouble.
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"This way," and he jerked his head in the direction of the Quattro and started walking, not glancing back to make sure she was following. "Care t' tell me your name, Red?"
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"It's... this is me," she said quietly, dumbstruck. Riffling through the wallet, she found a few credit cards bearing her name right down to her signature that had expired almost twenty years ago, a book of cheques belonging to her but listing an address she'd never heard of, and a few quid. At least she recognized the notes.
Donna stopped dead, barely holding onto the bag in her hand. "These things all have my name on them," she told Gene, her eyes round with worry and bewilderment. "But that's... that's impossible."
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He frowned a little, taking a few steps back to stand in front of her. "Look, darlin', we can figure things out at th' station. You don' want t' stand out in th' rain an' cold, not when you could be 'avin' a nice brew." Gene wanted a cup of tea, too, and he was about ready to just drag this madwoman back to the car.
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"How do I know you are who you say you are?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest - though the effect was somewhat spoiled by her increasingly sodden clothes and wet hair. But she had to ask - after all, she wasn't even sure she was who she was meant to be. After all, who'd ever heard of Ms Donna Noble of Ealing, born in 1945? Sure the woman pictured on her driver's license looked just like her... but this had to be some sort of scary coincidence or practical joke. And until she had sorted everything, she didn't intend to trust anyone.
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He crossed his legs, brushing a bit of mud off of one trouser leg. "Any time you're ready, love," he drawled."
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Well, nothing was a surer sign than not knowing when to get in out of the rain, and while she wasn't sure she trusted this Hunt bloke, Donna didn't fancy a jaunt around some docks on her own. She climbed into the car, looking at him frankly. "Well?" she prompted. "Go, then, if we're going." She knew she was being quarrelsome, but she was in no mood for niceties.
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And then he pulled out of the docks and onto the street, and he was lost in the sheer exhilaration of driving through London at night.
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Turning her attention to the sights as they drove, Donna began to recognize landmarks at once, and they only served to confuse her more. "Wait - this is Blackwall!" she said, completely dismayed and not just because they were driving through a dodgy bit of the East End. "How can we be in Blackwall? We didn't even go through Canary Wharf!" And unless Gene's precious car had flown, there was no way to find one without seeing the other, not since Canary Wharf Tower had been built to dominate London's skyline.
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