Somewhere - Nine/Jack
Title: Somewhere
Pairing: Nine/Jack
Rating: R (alcohol use, reference to drug smuggling and sales, aftermath of violence, suggestive situations)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the situation. If I did, he'd have come in much earlier...
Challenge: licenseartistic June Prompts: Sharp/"We wake in the night, to stereophonic silence." ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
Warnings: fix-it fic; WIP
Notes: Excerpts from comments in this post.
Crossposted to licenseartistic
Somewhere
by Penemuel
Game Station,
Year 200,100
For the longest time, he just stands there and stares at the empty space where the TARDIS was, part of him willing it to return and the rest of him knowing it won't. He's alone, abandoned, left behind. Just as he was starting to think they all had a chance together...
He finally grabs one of the chairs and sits, ducking his head between his knees as a wave of nausea hits him. I died. And now I'm alive again -- I think. Maybe this is hell. That'd explain it... he thinks, allowing the despair to pull him down. For a long while he sits there, until he realizes he's been crying and being, quite frankly, pathetic. There are other things he can do, places to go, Time Agents to con.
First, to find a ship.
He gets up and walks to the console, grinning as he sees the extrapolator wired into it. As he begins to disconnect it something triggers a message, and he gapes at the hologram of the Doctor.
Jack. I'm sorry. Seem to be saying that a lot, me. I had to get Rose away. She came back, looked into the Time Vortex and no one's supposed to ever do that. I had to fix it. And it's going to change me. Next time you see me, I'll look completely different. I might even be ginger, that'd be weird, that would, I've never been ginger. Or I might be a woman! Nah, doubt that. Anyway. You know the stories of the Time Lords. We regenerate. And because of what Rose did, the Time Vortex is killing me, so I'm regenerating. I didn't want to leave you without a message at least, so this is it. Always leave something for the ones you l-- anyway. Be well, Jack. You were fantastic.
The Doctor.
Before he even allows himself to think about the message, he forces the computer to replay it so he can copy it into his computer. If it's all he has left of him...
Then he allows himself to think about what the Doctor said, and frowns, realizing what must have happened. And he can't even really be angry at Rose, because even though she's responsible for the Doctor dying and having to regenerate, if she hadn't done what she did, he would have been dead and gone...
And he's heard that Time Lords regenerate, but what if the new him doesn't act like the old him? I really liked him the way he wa-- is. Is.
And looking around the control room again, he realizes there's really only one thing to do about this. I need to find some kind of transportation through space and time. I'll find a way, no matter what it takes -- I'll beg, borrow, steal, build the whole damned thing myself if I have to, but I'm getting out of here. Because I'm going to find the Doctor, and I'm going to find my Doctor.
He finishes disconnecting the extrapolator, then starts flicking switches, finding out which consoles still work and how much information he can get from the station. Sitting down behind one display, he realizes the grim truth of the situation. There's no one else on board. They're all dead...
Everyone who didn't get off the station, dead. God knows how much of the population of Earth, dead. Those who weren't killed in the fighting were probably stolen away by the Daleks and used to create more of them, and now they're dead too. And humankind will fight its way back -- it always does -- but so much devastation, so much loss... Again, he's nearly overwhelmed by it; only manages to keep going because he knows he needs to find the Doctor again.
"All right, show me where the docking bays are," he says, calling up the diagrams of the station again. As an afterthought, he adds in a search for the armories. Once he locates them he makes sure he knows the route to take, then tucks the extrapolator under one arm, slings the empty guns over the other shoulder, and heads to the lift.
327 floors later, he snaps to alertness and hurries out of the lift, jogs down a corridor and comes to a stop at a pile of rubble and a couple of mangled bodies. "Lovely," he mutters, stepping over them carefully and continuing on, ignoring the unwanted mental image of bombing destruction in London. Then it's on to the armory where he loads all the guns and stuffs additional boxes of ammo into a bandolier. Guns and bandolier slung across his back, he continues to a secondary lift and down another 163 floors to the docking bay floor.
It's even more of a mess here, and he realizes the Daleks must have tried to keep people from leaving. It's quiet, eerily so, none of the sounds of a busy space station there to mask the hum of the engines keeping it spinning, and he wonders how long it will be before the satellite itself dies and falls back to Earth. As long as it gives him time to get out, he decides, he really doesn't care. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be, but he's just a human, not a Time Lord. There's really not much he can do about it at this point.
Forcing the computer to give him access to the records, then the security feeds of each bay that still works, he checks out the remaining ships, trying to find one that will meet his needs. There aren't many left, and of the ones that are, there isn't a great selection. The one that would be best has been hulled, and from what he can see in the bay, the Daleks did it to stop people from escaping. The next largest, something that looks like it might have been a speedy and smooth ride, has one of its engine mounts hanging by the remains of shredded metal -- far too lengthy a repair for him to attempt on his own without the right equipment and supplies. The third, fourth, and fifth he decides he'll come back to if he absolutely has to, but only then.
Finally, the sixth ship he checks out looks like something he can use -- it's small, but it's a nice, speedy design. Something he might be able to trade up for something better, given a good sales pitch with the right persuasion. He'd feel happier if it had more in the way of weapons, but that might just be recent events talking. He's relatively sure that no Daleks, at least, will be coming after him.
He heads to the bay holding his new ship and lets himself in, then spends the next hour overriding the anti-theft on it. The last thing he wants to do is set off a self-destruct or something, and have to go back to one of the slower ships. Finally, the hatch opens to let him in, and once he climbs in and takes a quick look around he knows he can put up with this ship for a little while, until he can find what he really needs.
It's not exactly plush, but it's very comfortable, and as sporty inside as it is out. The controls are simple compared to the Chula ship, and the computer seems to be functioning properly. And after he discovers there actually are some small pulse cannons that are more powerful than they look, he decides to check for false panels. Everything about this ship tells him it's not quite legal, and sure enough, there's a hidden compartment packed with all kinds of interesting recreationals, and a couple of bottles of what might be gin. Suddenly, he's feeling a lot more comfortable about his purchasing power.
He realizes, now that he's able to get out of there, that he isn't really sure how long ago he last ate. And now that he's aware of how hungry he is, his stomach growls and he takes a quick look around, not finding anything in the ship. All right, I need to eat before I leave, because god alone knows when I'll get another chance, he thinks, reluctantly climbing back out of the ship and jogging off to Level 0 where he remembers seeing at least a few stands that sold snacks. Some food is better than no food, and with that thought in mind, he grabs what he can carry and what's least likely to go bad if it sits around a few days. As an afterthought he grabs a coffee mug. It's not a martini glass, and he doesn't have any olives, vodka, or vermouth, but at least he won't have to be crass enough to drink out of the bottle. Not that that would have stopped him anyway, but the size of those bottles might have made it difficult to not end up wearing the drink if he got inebriated enough.
As he returns to the ship and gets things packed away, he refuses to let himself think about the fact that it's not a good sign that he's thinking about getting blasted. Or the fact that he'll be all alone on a ship, with nothing to do but try and find a ship with time travel capabilities, and think about exactly how alone he is. No, he forces himself to focus on getting out of the station, and trying to find some place that hasn't been dragged down into decay and ruin by the Daleks. And at the back of his mind, there's a nagging voice that tells him he knows exactly where he's going to find what he needs, all he needs to do is figure out where they've holed up in this twisted excuse for a future.
* * *
That first night he's too exhausted to dream, and he's pretty sure coming back from the dead might have something to do with that exhaustion. He's lucky the ship doesn't end up in any meteor showers, because he's so out he would never hear any proximity alarm.
The second night, he's not so lucky. And it isn't the nightmare of his own death that's the problem so much as the one where they drag him off to watch while they take the Doctor, crush him down and rip away everything that makes him him, and stuff him inside one of their hideous metal shells. And then that Dalek-Doctor abomination glides towards him and he screams himself awake as it intones, "EXTERMINATE!!"
He'll never tell anyone what a jibbering, whimpering wreck he is after that dream, but it takes a very, very long time before he can let himself close his eyes again.
The next night, he discovers that about a cup and a half of the gin knocks him out just enough that he either doesn't dream, or doesn't remember them when he finally wakes up. The stuff isn't the best quality, but at this point, he's not picky, he just doesn't want to go through that nightmare again.
After a week of this, he finally comes across signs of civilisation that isn't either floating derelicts or debris. The colony looks like it might be a mining one, and he grins. Bored miners are always looking for something to make their lives more interesting -- if nothing else, he'll be able to earn some credits that he can use elsewhere to get a time ship.
He taps into their computer long enough to get the lay of the land and a who's who of the people who might be helpful and those who should be avoided, then he requests permission to land. The spaceport is pretty typical, and he knows he'll have to stay sharp, but he really desperately needs to get out of the ship and get a bath and a good meal, among other things. Before he gets out, though, he does two things. First, he fishes the TARDIS key out of his pocket and ties it on a cord, then slips it around his neck, under his shirt. It's his most prized possession, now, more important than even the guns -- and truth be told, it's been his most prized possession ever since the Doctor pressed it into his hand and told him what it was. Second, he sets the reprogrammed anti-theft on the ship, and locks it as he leaves.
* * *
Mining Colony,
Year 200,100
It doesn't take him long to work his way into the local black market, and in under a week, he has already made a tidy profit on what was in the ship, and has a line on a ship that might possibly have time engines. But he knows he can't possibly pay the asking price, and there's only one or two ways he'll be able to earn enough or coax the owner into selling for less. It wouldn't be the first time, and it's not going to mean anything, but even so, he feels an inexplicable pang of guilt just thinking about it. What have you done to me, Doctor... he muses, too aware that this growing sense of responsibility -- and honour, of all things -- was pretty deeply buried before he fell in love with the Time Lord.
But it's a necessity. He's got skills he can put to use, and that's all it is. Just another talent used to gain the assets he needs. It doesn't matter that he cries out in helpless ecstasy as his body responds to the stranger, because all the time he's only thinking about one being. And when it's over, the new ship is his. The man asks him to stay the night, but he shakes his head and tells him he has other engagements. That's the truth, in a way, but he has this nagging feeling that he has to get out of there quickly. And Jack has learned to always trust his instincts.
Which is why, when he sneaks his way down to the docking bay and gets a better look at the ship (after retrieving the extrapolator from the old one), his first thought is to run away, as fast as he fucking can, because there's something very, very wrong here. Except that by then it's too late, the trap is sprung, and even as he turns he hears them closing in on him. The compact laser deluxe is in his hand, but he can't fire it, despite all the anger and the betrayal flooding him; despite the fury making him see red, and the despair that he may never see the Doctor again.
They're on him quickly, one of the enforcers ordering him to his knees, hands on his head until they can close in and cuff him, and there's an air of smugness about them all. Especially when Davies himself steps out of the shadows and looks down at him. "Jack Harkness. You know, you really don't belong here..."
"Strangely enough, that's why I'm trying to leave," he answers, unable to stop himself. Then he looks around and frowns. "But that's not enough of an offense for calling out the troops. What's going on here?"
"You're wanted for mass murder, Jack. I never knew you had it in you, but..."
"Mass murder? You're insane, Davies! I haven't killed anyone!" he snarls, struggling against the large man forcing him back down to his knees again. "I'm stuck here and trying to get home -- that's all!"
"The entire population of the Game Station, Jack. I don't know how you did it, or why, but there's plenty of time to find out. We tracked an anomaly there, and found traces of you -- and a lot of dead bodies."
"Anomaly..." He sags, despair rising again as he realizes they must have registered whatever happened when Rose absorbed the Time Vortex, and there's no way they're going to believe him without proof. And there's no way he's going to endanger either Rose or the Doctor to defend himself. "It wasn't me. It was the Daleks," he says, praying they'll believe him and knowing they won't.
"The Daleks? Come on, Jack. If you're going to crack on us, at least blame someone who isn't extinct, huh? Next thing you know, you'll be blaming a Time Lord..."
to be continued...
Pairing: Nine/Jack
Rating: R (alcohol use, reference to drug smuggling and sales, aftermath of violence, suggestive situations)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the situation. If I did, he'd have come in much earlier...
Challenge: licenseartistic June Prompts: Sharp/"We wake in the night, to stereophonic silence." ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
Warnings: fix-it fic; WIP
Notes: Excerpts from comments in this post.
Crossposted to licenseartistic
Somewhere
by Penemuel
Game Station,
Year 200,100
For the longest time, he just stands there and stares at the empty space where the TARDIS was, part of him willing it to return and the rest of him knowing it won't. He's alone, abandoned, left behind. Just as he was starting to think they all had a chance together...
He finally grabs one of the chairs and sits, ducking his head between his knees as a wave of nausea hits him. I died. And now I'm alive again -- I think. Maybe this is hell. That'd explain it... he thinks, allowing the despair to pull him down. For a long while he sits there, until he realizes he's been crying and being, quite frankly, pathetic. There are other things he can do, places to go, Time Agents to con.
First, to find a ship.
He gets up and walks to the console, grinning as he sees the extrapolator wired into it. As he begins to disconnect it something triggers a message, and he gapes at the hologram of the Doctor.
Jack. I'm sorry. Seem to be saying that a lot, me. I had to get Rose away. She came back, looked into the Time Vortex and no one's supposed to ever do that. I had to fix it. And it's going to change me. Next time you see me, I'll look completely different. I might even be ginger, that'd be weird, that would, I've never been ginger. Or I might be a woman! Nah, doubt that. Anyway. You know the stories of the Time Lords. We regenerate. And because of what Rose did, the Time Vortex is killing me, so I'm regenerating. I didn't want to leave you without a message at least, so this is it. Always leave something for the ones you l-- anyway. Be well, Jack. You were fantastic.
The Doctor.
Before he even allows himself to think about the message, he forces the computer to replay it so he can copy it into his computer. If it's all he has left of him...
Then he allows himself to think about what the Doctor said, and frowns, realizing what must have happened. And he can't even really be angry at Rose, because even though she's responsible for the Doctor dying and having to regenerate, if she hadn't done what she did, he would have been dead and gone...
And he's heard that Time Lords regenerate, but what if the new him doesn't act like the old him? I really liked him the way he wa-- is. Is.
And looking around the control room again, he realizes there's really only one thing to do about this. I need to find some kind of transportation through space and time. I'll find a way, no matter what it takes -- I'll beg, borrow, steal, build the whole damned thing myself if I have to, but I'm getting out of here. Because I'm going to find the Doctor, and I'm going to find my Doctor.
He finishes disconnecting the extrapolator, then starts flicking switches, finding out which consoles still work and how much information he can get from the station. Sitting down behind one display, he realizes the grim truth of the situation. There's no one else on board. They're all dead...
Everyone who didn't get off the station, dead. God knows how much of the population of Earth, dead. Those who weren't killed in the fighting were probably stolen away by the Daleks and used to create more of them, and now they're dead too. And humankind will fight its way back -- it always does -- but so much devastation, so much loss... Again, he's nearly overwhelmed by it; only manages to keep going because he knows he needs to find the Doctor again.
"All right, show me where the docking bays are," he says, calling up the diagrams of the station again. As an afterthought, he adds in a search for the armories. Once he locates them he makes sure he knows the route to take, then tucks the extrapolator under one arm, slings the empty guns over the other shoulder, and heads to the lift.
327 floors later, he snaps to alertness and hurries out of the lift, jogs down a corridor and comes to a stop at a pile of rubble and a couple of mangled bodies. "Lovely," he mutters, stepping over them carefully and continuing on, ignoring the unwanted mental image of bombing destruction in London. Then it's on to the armory where he loads all the guns and stuffs additional boxes of ammo into a bandolier. Guns and bandolier slung across his back, he continues to a secondary lift and down another 163 floors to the docking bay floor.
It's even more of a mess here, and he realizes the Daleks must have tried to keep people from leaving. It's quiet, eerily so, none of the sounds of a busy space station there to mask the hum of the engines keeping it spinning, and he wonders how long it will be before the satellite itself dies and falls back to Earth. As long as it gives him time to get out, he decides, he really doesn't care. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be, but he's just a human, not a Time Lord. There's really not much he can do about it at this point.
Forcing the computer to give him access to the records, then the security feeds of each bay that still works, he checks out the remaining ships, trying to find one that will meet his needs. There aren't many left, and of the ones that are, there isn't a great selection. The one that would be best has been hulled, and from what he can see in the bay, the Daleks did it to stop people from escaping. The next largest, something that looks like it might have been a speedy and smooth ride, has one of its engine mounts hanging by the remains of shredded metal -- far too lengthy a repair for him to attempt on his own without the right equipment and supplies. The third, fourth, and fifth he decides he'll come back to if he absolutely has to, but only then.
Finally, the sixth ship he checks out looks like something he can use -- it's small, but it's a nice, speedy design. Something he might be able to trade up for something better, given a good sales pitch with the right persuasion. He'd feel happier if it had more in the way of weapons, but that might just be recent events talking. He's relatively sure that no Daleks, at least, will be coming after him.
He heads to the bay holding his new ship and lets himself in, then spends the next hour overriding the anti-theft on it. The last thing he wants to do is set off a self-destruct or something, and have to go back to one of the slower ships. Finally, the hatch opens to let him in, and once he climbs in and takes a quick look around he knows he can put up with this ship for a little while, until he can find what he really needs.
It's not exactly plush, but it's very comfortable, and as sporty inside as it is out. The controls are simple compared to the Chula ship, and the computer seems to be functioning properly. And after he discovers there actually are some small pulse cannons that are more powerful than they look, he decides to check for false panels. Everything about this ship tells him it's not quite legal, and sure enough, there's a hidden compartment packed with all kinds of interesting recreationals, and a couple of bottles of what might be gin. Suddenly, he's feeling a lot more comfortable about his purchasing power.
He realizes, now that he's able to get out of there, that he isn't really sure how long ago he last ate. And now that he's aware of how hungry he is, his stomach growls and he takes a quick look around, not finding anything in the ship. All right, I need to eat before I leave, because god alone knows when I'll get another chance, he thinks, reluctantly climbing back out of the ship and jogging off to Level 0 where he remembers seeing at least a few stands that sold snacks. Some food is better than no food, and with that thought in mind, he grabs what he can carry and what's least likely to go bad if it sits around a few days. As an afterthought he grabs a coffee mug. It's not a martini glass, and he doesn't have any olives, vodka, or vermouth, but at least he won't have to be crass enough to drink out of the bottle. Not that that would have stopped him anyway, but the size of those bottles might have made it difficult to not end up wearing the drink if he got inebriated enough.
As he returns to the ship and gets things packed away, he refuses to let himself think about the fact that it's not a good sign that he's thinking about getting blasted. Or the fact that he'll be all alone on a ship, with nothing to do but try and find a ship with time travel capabilities, and think about exactly how alone he is. No, he forces himself to focus on getting out of the station, and trying to find some place that hasn't been dragged down into decay and ruin by the Daleks. And at the back of his mind, there's a nagging voice that tells him he knows exactly where he's going to find what he needs, all he needs to do is figure out where they've holed up in this twisted excuse for a future.
* * *
That first night he's too exhausted to dream, and he's pretty sure coming back from the dead might have something to do with that exhaustion. He's lucky the ship doesn't end up in any meteor showers, because he's so out he would never hear any proximity alarm.
The second night, he's not so lucky. And it isn't the nightmare of his own death that's the problem so much as the one where they drag him off to watch while they take the Doctor, crush him down and rip away everything that makes him him, and stuff him inside one of their hideous metal shells. And then that Dalek-Doctor abomination glides towards him and he screams himself awake as it intones, "EXTERMINATE!!"
He'll never tell anyone what a jibbering, whimpering wreck he is after that dream, but it takes a very, very long time before he can let himself close his eyes again.
The next night, he discovers that about a cup and a half of the gin knocks him out just enough that he either doesn't dream, or doesn't remember them when he finally wakes up. The stuff isn't the best quality, but at this point, he's not picky, he just doesn't want to go through that nightmare again.
After a week of this, he finally comes across signs of civilisation that isn't either floating derelicts or debris. The colony looks like it might be a mining one, and he grins. Bored miners are always looking for something to make their lives more interesting -- if nothing else, he'll be able to earn some credits that he can use elsewhere to get a time ship.
He taps into their computer long enough to get the lay of the land and a who's who of the people who might be helpful and those who should be avoided, then he requests permission to land. The spaceport is pretty typical, and he knows he'll have to stay sharp, but he really desperately needs to get out of the ship and get a bath and a good meal, among other things. Before he gets out, though, he does two things. First, he fishes the TARDIS key out of his pocket and ties it on a cord, then slips it around his neck, under his shirt. It's his most prized possession, now, more important than even the guns -- and truth be told, it's been his most prized possession ever since the Doctor pressed it into his hand and told him what it was. Second, he sets the reprogrammed anti-theft on the ship, and locks it as he leaves.
* * *
Mining Colony,
Year 200,100
It doesn't take him long to work his way into the local black market, and in under a week, he has already made a tidy profit on what was in the ship, and has a line on a ship that might possibly have time engines. But he knows he can't possibly pay the asking price, and there's only one or two ways he'll be able to earn enough or coax the owner into selling for less. It wouldn't be the first time, and it's not going to mean anything, but even so, he feels an inexplicable pang of guilt just thinking about it. What have you done to me, Doctor... he muses, too aware that this growing sense of responsibility -- and honour, of all things -- was pretty deeply buried before he fell in love with the Time Lord.
But it's a necessity. He's got skills he can put to use, and that's all it is. Just another talent used to gain the assets he needs. It doesn't matter that he cries out in helpless ecstasy as his body responds to the stranger, because all the time he's only thinking about one being. And when it's over, the new ship is his. The man asks him to stay the night, but he shakes his head and tells him he has other engagements. That's the truth, in a way, but he has this nagging feeling that he has to get out of there quickly. And Jack has learned to always trust his instincts.
Which is why, when he sneaks his way down to the docking bay and gets a better look at the ship (after retrieving the extrapolator from the old one), his first thought is to run away, as fast as he fucking can, because there's something very, very wrong here. Except that by then it's too late, the trap is sprung, and even as he turns he hears them closing in on him. The compact laser deluxe is in his hand, but he can't fire it, despite all the anger and the betrayal flooding him; despite the fury making him see red, and the despair that he may never see the Doctor again.
They're on him quickly, one of the enforcers ordering him to his knees, hands on his head until they can close in and cuff him, and there's an air of smugness about them all. Especially when Davies himself steps out of the shadows and looks down at him. "Jack Harkness. You know, you really don't belong here..."
"Strangely enough, that's why I'm trying to leave," he answers, unable to stop himself. Then he looks around and frowns. "But that's not enough of an offense for calling out the troops. What's going on here?"
"You're wanted for mass murder, Jack. I never knew you had it in you, but..."
"Mass murder? You're insane, Davies! I haven't killed anyone!" he snarls, struggling against the large man forcing him back down to his knees again. "I'm stuck here and trying to get home -- that's all!"
"The entire population of the Game Station, Jack. I don't know how you did it, or why, but there's plenty of time to find out. We tracked an anomaly there, and found traces of you -- and a lot of dead bodies."
"Anomaly..." He sags, despair rising again as he realizes they must have registered whatever happened when Rose absorbed the Time Vortex, and there's no way they're going to believe him without proof. And there's no way he's going to endanger either Rose or the Doctor to defend himself. "It wasn't me. It was the Daleks," he says, praying they'll believe him and knowing they won't.
"The Daleks? Come on, Jack. If you're going to crack on us, at least blame someone who isn't extinct, huh? Next thing you know, you'll be blaming a Time Lord..."
to be continued...