Doctor Who and the Great Eclipse - Part 5 - Distress
Part Five
Distress
This was a nightmare, if he’d ever had one, Abu acknowledged as he looked from the varied faces of the survivors to the scene that greeted his eyes. Zeke and his mate, Shazza, were looking around with the fatalistic air of people who know exactly how bad the situation is but don’t want to alarm anyone else with the news, he noted. Zeke’s dusty skin seemed fine with the sun here, and Shazza merely put a hand up to shade her green eyes as she studied the landscape. The Imam gathered up his pilgrims, leaving Jack in the bushwhackers' care before the scarred, barren, rocky soil leeches the faith right out of him.
He led his trio past the businessman, Paris. The fellow is dressed in silks and smells of expensive cologne. There’s no doubt that the asthmatic man teetered on shock, but is too arrogant to notice it. If this world had native life that might find them editable it’s a toss up if the businessman would attract or deter them. The Imam’s goal is just off to the side of the crash, so that he can shield his boys from the worse of the still smoldering scar that bisects the stark terrain. They had taken enough time finding and digging out the captain that the twin stars are hovering at about the four o’clock position, but still beating down upon them without mercy. As they walk away from the crumpled hull, back lit by the harsh light Abu notes the odd low hills off to his right and their strange spikes of earthen spires. Behind him the voice of the businessman floats on the dusty air, “Well. Our own little slice of heaven.”
It was nothing short of ironic then that he couldn’t figure out the celestial directions to pray. His pilgrims are already kneeling and he spins slowly looking for some internal clue that eludes him with puzzling intensity. With so much lost and so much to pray for, not knowing the direction is a blow to the gut. He looked toward the others, finally settling on the marshal to question, “Please...which way to New Mecca? We must know the direction in order to pray.”
Johns looked at him with surprise and frowns. He’s also aware suddenly at his rudderless internal compass. He scans the landscape and finally pulls out a device to indicate direction. ‘That is not right,’ he thought as the needle spun like there’s no magnetic north here at all. Beside him the Imam makes an expression that is almost dismay. Johns gives the man an apologetic look.
The eerie scream that had been ringing in the Imam’s ears for so long that he almost became used to it stops suddenly. He and Johns share a glance about that too. A man has just died here, by either grace of God or temptation of the devil. Prayer was something he must do, and he thought of a way to deal with the fiendish trickster that this world is proving to be by placing each of his boys facing a compass direction.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The soft sobs from the woman to his right lasted for quite a long time before she gathered herself together, stripped off the blood covered warm up suit and exited out into the sunlight. His one silver eye tracked her path through a tear in the blindfold. They had all but forgotten him, or nearly so. But no matter, he had a plan. Once he was sure that his blue-eyed-devil was occupied enough to be out of range with his pistol then he’d act on it. He currently felt moisture seep running down the wall from a crack in the cistern. He’d take care of his thirst. With her gone, he turned his face into the trickle and pressed his lips to it so that the water could dribble in around the horse-bit.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Carolyn Fry felt numb. More numb than she’d felt, ever. Getting the blood off her hands was impossible. Getting it off her warm up suit trivial. She shed the heavy jumpsuit and scrubbed her hands with a moist wipe that she had found in her nearly shattered locker. It’s time to face the others and pretend that nothing has happened here. Steeling herself she strode out into sunlight that took her breath away. Having difficulty already breathing that became a rather difficult problem. She closed her eyes and paused, waiting for her body to settle a bit. She swallowed and headed out to the others. Johns is standing near the access ladder on the back of the ship’s hull with a bewildered expression. She raises an eyebrow and he motions for her to climb. As she does so he followed her up speaking all the while, “Big talk about a scouting party.” She notes that everyone except the pilgrims are already up here. Johns steers her attention out in front of them, “...then we saw this.”
Her world narrows down to the smoldering, blackened groove cut into the yellow sand by the passage of the Hunter-Gratzner. Bits of ship, cryo-lockers, and what looks like cargo holds (and she is amazed to see that at least one of the bays that she dropped several orbits before contact ended up within sight of the main crash), spread out into the horizon. She blinks. It was mind shattering to think that there are any survivors at all, looking at the carnage that spread out across the planetscape. Honestly, she’d guess that anyone thrown from the ship as it came down was cooked like a baked potato in foil.
“Anyone else having breathing problems? Aside from me?” the art dealer asks from her right. Carolyn is breathing through her mouth at the moment, too shocked to actually react to the question.
Behind him, further to the right, came a kid’s voice, “Like I just ran, or something...”
The bushwhacker female tags on, from Fry’s left, “Feel one lung short. All of us,” although she doesn’t really act it.
“Well, I tend toward the asthmatic. And with all this dust...” Paris continued.
Carolyn is slowly becoming aware that all of them, even her saviors, are looking to her for answers. She tried to remember what Owens was rattling off as they were crashing. The technical babble boiled down to what, exactly? “It's the atmosphere. Too much pressure, not enough oxygen. Might take a few days to--”
But she is cut off by an angered voice, “So what the bloody hell happened, anyways?”
Oh, like she planned this? Fry was just as upset as everyone else was, here. This little trip had not been on the ‘planned jaunts for my life’ calendar, thank you very much. She glanced at Zeke, who had interrupted her, “Hey. Somethin' knocked us off-lane. Alright? Hull breach. We were leakin' air, and the crisis program did what it was supposed to do by finding a planet to land on. Maybe it was rogue comet. Or a cluster of micro-asteroids. All I know is that I watched Captain Mitchell become hamburger before he was fully awake. So you just -- ”
“Well, I for one, am thoroughly fucking grateful. This beast wasn't made to land like this. But cripes, you rode it down,” Shazza cut in placing a hand on Fry’s shoulder and defusing the fight that was building inside the blonde woman. Green eyes scanned over the others, “C'mon, you lousy ingrates, only reason we're alive is a'cuzza her.”
The rest of the survivors seem to change their tune in the face of Shazza’s glare. Carolyn is too shocked to really hear the thanks that are settled on her shoulders for her actions. Thanks she knows she doesn’t deserve, that belong to Owens for stopping her. But she is too numb to show it. The guilt can’t push its way past the shock, yet.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The Doctor had chosen to leave the Tams in each other’s care for the moment. Well, the sister in her brother’s care, anyhow. Aware that the young man was able to dress and settle his sister on the space blanket with professional detachment, he’d decided that the better part of valor for him was to leave the boy at it. He was hoping that standing in the sun, just out of sight of the sleeping girl, would be enough to keep Simon away but knew it was only a temporary measure. Now that River was settled, dressed, and as protected as she was going to get, the male Tam was looking for him. He could feel the mental sweep of the boy’s mind as he searched. The Doctor’s expression tightened, muscles bunching under the hairless skin along his jaw.
Coming around the corner, Simon spotted the tall man clad in black twill or denim slacks, dusty black shoes, and worn leather jacket that in this light could have been a charcoal brown. The stranger is a good four inches taller than he is, solidly built but not with a trace of fat. Simon can’t say the gent is muscular, exactly, either. But strong, yes. Simon remembers even through his panic the feeling of those potent hands and arms grounding him and helping him breathe. Even from a distance it is clear that the fellow wants to be left alone. He exudes a kind of restrained power that Simon cannot ignore even with his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. The man is well aware of the fact that Simon is there even before he opens his mouth, “The suns don’t seem to bother you much. I would have thought that with as pale as you are that you’d avoid the worse of the light,” Simon is a medical doctor, a trauma surgeon to boot, but he’s no expert. His eyes don’t see signs of sunburn on the other gent’s too fine, too smooth, too pale, hairless skin. He can’t hide the curiosity that crept into his voice. “Is it Ectodermal dysplasia that makes you so sparsely tressed?”
The other man scoffs, “Forgetting your fugitive scans so soon?”
Not a genetic flaw then, Simon thought. That fact that the other fellow knew about the scans made the raven-haired man freeze in his tracks. “I’m sorry, but should I have not checked to see if you suffered injury in the crash?” It’s as good a cover as any other is, but Simon refuses to admit that he wouldn’t know what to do if the fellow had been damaged in the first place. The other man shrugs in response to the question. Silence fills the space between them, and it is not a comfortable one. “I never thanked you for saving my life.”
“It’s what I do, so I can assure you that I did nothing that was out of the way.” The Doctor can feel what is coming next, the thing that always defines how people react to him. He’s been avoiding it as best he can. The Introduction. And for once in his long life the Doctor wishes he had a name that humans could pronounce that was his own. Only he doesn’t. He could use his house name, Lungbarrow. He could use his nickname, Theta. Neither are his real name. He’s never responded well to the use of alias. Using the old John Smith might tide things over until he forgot to react to it. With how he’s feeling that might happen seconds after he’s gotten the bloody thing out of his mouth. But telling this obvious medical expert that he’s The Doctor might not go over too well. And the psychic filtering he’s doing for the boy’s sister is giving him a headache the size of a mountain.
“I’m doctor Simon Tam, by the way.”
He tried not to react, but is overly aware of the dark scowl twisting his face as he looks down at the dark haired, thin figure that has stepped in front of him with a hand out. The boy’s vest is open, unbuttoned, showing off the expensive tailored shirt underneath. There’s leather suspenders holding up his pants. The entire outfit just about screams ‘wealthy’ with the fine details worked into the lines of his clothes. The Doctor can feel the inside of his leather pockets against the back of his hairless hands as he shoves them in deeper, an automatic reflex to avoid that strong suggestion to be polite. Social situations are not going to be this re-incarnation’s forte’.
He can ignore it, he can avoid the implied question about who he is but accept the introduction, he can lie, or he can try to get the fellow to accept what he is willing to reveal. Somehow, he already knows that this young man has the intelligence of his sister behind the layers that deaden his imagination with human debris and hogwash about what is true and what is not. Any lie he tries will last all of a blink before being exposed. The longer he waits, the more it seems like he’s ignoring the lad and the further the hand wavers. Oh, this won't do, the Doctor thinks. “Doctor Tam,” he starts, “I wish this were under better circumstances.” He slowly draws his hand out and takes the warm palm being offered in a firm but not crushing grip.
The pulse of energy that connects them for the split second is enough to make Simon lose his balance and sway dangerously. The cool grasp in his own keeps him upright. And he finds that his other hand has come up to grip the wrist, too. He can’t recall if the man said his name or how long he’s been frozen like this and he feels slightly foolish. The odd fluttering pulse beats double-tempo through skin that is so cool it nearly scares Simon. A human with this body temperature would be in serious trouble. The reminder that this gent is not human is found in those aged but timeless eyes. He’s caught in that intense stare like a fly in honey and can’t break free. “Pardon. I think the heat is getting to my head,” he mumbled.
The Doctor is becoming quite aware that something strange is going on here. Simon and his sister can’t be normal humans with the sheer amount of gratuitous energy that is passing between the three of them. Admittedly, he started it by trying to help the girl, but - the resounding feedback from her brother is not warranted. He had a funny feeling that there was more to this than the TARDIS had wanted him to know. Even though Simon’s single-handed hold on his arm threatened to leave a bruise the Doctor doesn’t try to get the man to release him. “It’s not the heat, Simon Tam. Tell me what happened to your sister.”
It’s a command, not a request. Simon isn’t really aware of his mental ‘sharing’ as he responds by preparing to actually tell his story. But he finds himself wondering about the man still and responds out loud, “No. I don’t know anything about you.” He starts to pull away and finds that the stranger has not let him go, “Give me some reason, any reason, to trust you, and I’ll tell you.” As if saving his life isn’t enough…
There are an unreasonable number of things that flash through the Time Lord’s mind about what he wants to do to this amazing human boy. The events that led them to this moment flashed between them, in so much detail that the Doctor knew Simon had choked down a piece of dry toast the morning before rescuing his sister and not eaten since. He knew the color of the boy’s bedroom back on his parent’s estate. And there was a familiar image that sat on the mantel above the fake fireplace in the formal dining room there that told the Doctor exactly who this dear child was. He could shake him, hug him, or hit him, or kiss him even… So like Susan, in so many ways… And yet so undeniably human. Instead of doing any of those things the Doctor said, “I’m the Doctor, Simon. And there’s a reason you and yours called me here.” He just had to find out what that reason was.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
She’d managed to play ‘Captain’ enough to get everyone back inside the shade before anyone passed out from the effects of the double dose of sun. Now to deal with the lack of oxygen before that Paris fellow made her ears fall off with his whining. Shazza and Zeke are willing to help out any way they can, so are currently standing and holding heavy pressure suits that she is pulling out of the emergency crew lockers. She handed the second to the last suit to Zeke, “Liquid oxygen canisters inside. Start ripping them out. Quick hits only - try to make it last.”
The one boy, Jack, seemed to follow Zeke almost as much as Ali. Currently he was with Zeke, “Well, is someone coming for us? Or are we all just gonna die of exposure or dehydration or sunstroke or maybe even something worse?” The stream of questions makes even the bushwhackers look queasy. “Hey, you don't have to worry about scaring me,” the child says in earnest.
The wild-haired woman rolls her eyes at the kid, “Jack, luv,” she holds up her hands to quiet the boy. “We're worried you'll scare us, not the other way around.”
It doesn’t work for long; “Do we even have enough food? Or will we have to resort to cannibalism?”
Zeke reaches over and squeezes the back of the child’s neck with his free hand in warning before saying to Carolyn, “I'll see 'bout makin' this air go a bit further, cap'n. With your permission, a' course.”
The blonde woman nods. She still was getting used to this idea that she’s in charge. The bushwhackers drag Jack and the heavy gear away. It was only then that she realized that there was another issue to deal with. She frowns at the man chained to the bulkhead. Johns has been haunting the proceedings without much to add. Fry looks at the badge, “And him?”
The redhead’s blue eyes follow her gaze, “Big Evil?”
She shoots Johns a look that said ‘no, the Easter bunny, dipshit,’ before turning and settling her weight against a downed bit of the console, “We just keep him locked up forever?”
“Be my choice. Already escaped once from the max-slam facility on -- ”
Fry cut off the rattling; “I don't need his life story. Is he really that dangerous?”
William Johns isn’t irritated with her, but rather amused. Actually she’s not a bad looking woman, and he could see promise in knowing her. “Only around humans.”
Carolyn has been watching the unmoving figure, with his odd position, and his face against the metal hull. Something about it tickles her senses. She moves closer. What is that dark glistening - “Oh, Christ...” She doesn’t wait, breaking into a run and snagging up one of the discarded lights. She hits the ladder in a run and clambers up faster than she’s ever moved before. Johns half follows her through the parts of the ship that haven’t seen humans in years. But the woman knows her way around and finds the crank-hatch for the cistern without need to backtrack. Her pause makes his heart stop for a moment. He can see light that is not from her hand beam flooding through the hatch.
“Well? Is it just the pump?” He hopes beyond hope that it is, but knows already that it’s not.
She slams the hatch closed. “It’s empty. Drained out onto the sand. We need to head to the cargo bay and see if there’s anything to drink.” Her voice sounded dead in the oppressive heat.
Distress
This was a nightmare, if he’d ever had one, Abu acknowledged as he looked from the varied faces of the survivors to the scene that greeted his eyes. Zeke and his mate, Shazza, were looking around with the fatalistic air of people who know exactly how bad the situation is but don’t want to alarm anyone else with the news, he noted. Zeke’s dusty skin seemed fine with the sun here, and Shazza merely put a hand up to shade her green eyes as she studied the landscape. The Imam gathered up his pilgrims, leaving Jack in the bushwhackers' care before the scarred, barren, rocky soil leeches the faith right out of him.
He led his trio past the businessman, Paris. The fellow is dressed in silks and smells of expensive cologne. There’s no doubt that the asthmatic man teetered on shock, but is too arrogant to notice it. If this world had native life that might find them editable it’s a toss up if the businessman would attract or deter them. The Imam’s goal is just off to the side of the crash, so that he can shield his boys from the worse of the still smoldering scar that bisects the stark terrain. They had taken enough time finding and digging out the captain that the twin stars are hovering at about the four o’clock position, but still beating down upon them without mercy. As they walk away from the crumpled hull, back lit by the harsh light Abu notes the odd low hills off to his right and their strange spikes of earthen spires. Behind him the voice of the businessman floats on the dusty air, “Well. Our own little slice of heaven.”
It was nothing short of ironic then that he couldn’t figure out the celestial directions to pray. His pilgrims are already kneeling and he spins slowly looking for some internal clue that eludes him with puzzling intensity. With so much lost and so much to pray for, not knowing the direction is a blow to the gut. He looked toward the others, finally settling on the marshal to question, “Please...which way to New Mecca? We must know the direction in order to pray.”
Johns looked at him with surprise and frowns. He’s also aware suddenly at his rudderless internal compass. He scans the landscape and finally pulls out a device to indicate direction. ‘That is not right,’ he thought as the needle spun like there’s no magnetic north here at all. Beside him the Imam makes an expression that is almost dismay. Johns gives the man an apologetic look.
The eerie scream that had been ringing in the Imam’s ears for so long that he almost became used to it stops suddenly. He and Johns share a glance about that too. A man has just died here, by either grace of God or temptation of the devil. Prayer was something he must do, and he thought of a way to deal with the fiendish trickster that this world is proving to be by placing each of his boys facing a compass direction.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The soft sobs from the woman to his right lasted for quite a long time before she gathered herself together, stripped off the blood covered warm up suit and exited out into the sunlight. His one silver eye tracked her path through a tear in the blindfold. They had all but forgotten him, or nearly so. But no matter, he had a plan. Once he was sure that his blue-eyed-devil was occupied enough to be out of range with his pistol then he’d act on it. He currently felt moisture seep running down the wall from a crack in the cistern. He’d take care of his thirst. With her gone, he turned his face into the trickle and pressed his lips to it so that the water could dribble in around the horse-bit.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Carolyn Fry felt numb. More numb than she’d felt, ever. Getting the blood off her hands was impossible. Getting it off her warm up suit trivial. She shed the heavy jumpsuit and scrubbed her hands with a moist wipe that she had found in her nearly shattered locker. It’s time to face the others and pretend that nothing has happened here. Steeling herself she strode out into sunlight that took her breath away. Having difficulty already breathing that became a rather difficult problem. She closed her eyes and paused, waiting for her body to settle a bit. She swallowed and headed out to the others. Johns is standing near the access ladder on the back of the ship’s hull with a bewildered expression. She raises an eyebrow and he motions for her to climb. As she does so he followed her up speaking all the while, “Big talk about a scouting party.” She notes that everyone except the pilgrims are already up here. Johns steers her attention out in front of them, “...then we saw this.”
Her world narrows down to the smoldering, blackened groove cut into the yellow sand by the passage of the Hunter-Gratzner. Bits of ship, cryo-lockers, and what looks like cargo holds (and she is amazed to see that at least one of the bays that she dropped several orbits before contact ended up within sight of the main crash), spread out into the horizon. She blinks. It was mind shattering to think that there are any survivors at all, looking at the carnage that spread out across the planetscape. Honestly, she’d guess that anyone thrown from the ship as it came down was cooked like a baked potato in foil.
“Anyone else having breathing problems? Aside from me?” the art dealer asks from her right. Carolyn is breathing through her mouth at the moment, too shocked to actually react to the question.
Behind him, further to the right, came a kid’s voice, “Like I just ran, or something...”
The bushwhacker female tags on, from Fry’s left, “Feel one lung short. All of us,” although she doesn’t really act it.
“Well, I tend toward the asthmatic. And with all this dust...” Paris continued.
Carolyn is slowly becoming aware that all of them, even her saviors, are looking to her for answers. She tried to remember what Owens was rattling off as they were crashing. The technical babble boiled down to what, exactly? “It's the atmosphere. Too much pressure, not enough oxygen. Might take a few days to--”
But she is cut off by an angered voice, “So what the bloody hell happened, anyways?”
Oh, like she planned this? Fry was just as upset as everyone else was, here. This little trip had not been on the ‘planned jaunts for my life’ calendar, thank you very much. She glanced at Zeke, who had interrupted her, “Hey. Somethin' knocked us off-lane. Alright? Hull breach. We were leakin' air, and the crisis program did what it was supposed to do by finding a planet to land on. Maybe it was rogue comet. Or a cluster of micro-asteroids. All I know is that I watched Captain Mitchell become hamburger before he was fully awake. So you just -- ”
“Well, I for one, am thoroughly fucking grateful. This beast wasn't made to land like this. But cripes, you rode it down,” Shazza cut in placing a hand on Fry’s shoulder and defusing the fight that was building inside the blonde woman. Green eyes scanned over the others, “C'mon, you lousy ingrates, only reason we're alive is a'cuzza her.”
The rest of the survivors seem to change their tune in the face of Shazza’s glare. Carolyn is too shocked to really hear the thanks that are settled on her shoulders for her actions. Thanks she knows she doesn’t deserve, that belong to Owens for stopping her. But she is too numb to show it. The guilt can’t push its way past the shock, yet.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The Doctor had chosen to leave the Tams in each other’s care for the moment. Well, the sister in her brother’s care, anyhow. Aware that the young man was able to dress and settle his sister on the space blanket with professional detachment, he’d decided that the better part of valor for him was to leave the boy at it. He was hoping that standing in the sun, just out of sight of the sleeping girl, would be enough to keep Simon away but knew it was only a temporary measure. Now that River was settled, dressed, and as protected as she was going to get, the male Tam was looking for him. He could feel the mental sweep of the boy’s mind as he searched. The Doctor’s expression tightened, muscles bunching under the hairless skin along his jaw.
Coming around the corner, Simon spotted the tall man clad in black twill or denim slacks, dusty black shoes, and worn leather jacket that in this light could have been a charcoal brown. The stranger is a good four inches taller than he is, solidly built but not with a trace of fat. Simon can’t say the gent is muscular, exactly, either. But strong, yes. Simon remembers even through his panic the feeling of those potent hands and arms grounding him and helping him breathe. Even from a distance it is clear that the fellow wants to be left alone. He exudes a kind of restrained power that Simon cannot ignore even with his shoulders hunched and his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. The man is well aware of the fact that Simon is there even before he opens his mouth, “The suns don’t seem to bother you much. I would have thought that with as pale as you are that you’d avoid the worse of the light,” Simon is a medical doctor, a trauma surgeon to boot, but he’s no expert. His eyes don’t see signs of sunburn on the other gent’s too fine, too smooth, too pale, hairless skin. He can’t hide the curiosity that crept into his voice. “Is it Ectodermal dysplasia that makes you so sparsely tressed?”
The other man scoffs, “Forgetting your fugitive scans so soon?”
Not a genetic flaw then, Simon thought. That fact that the other fellow knew about the scans made the raven-haired man freeze in his tracks. “I’m sorry, but should I have not checked to see if you suffered injury in the crash?” It’s as good a cover as any other is, but Simon refuses to admit that he wouldn’t know what to do if the fellow had been damaged in the first place. The other man shrugs in response to the question. Silence fills the space between them, and it is not a comfortable one. “I never thanked you for saving my life.”
“It’s what I do, so I can assure you that I did nothing that was out of the way.” The Doctor can feel what is coming next, the thing that always defines how people react to him. He’s been avoiding it as best he can. The Introduction. And for once in his long life the Doctor wishes he had a name that humans could pronounce that was his own. Only he doesn’t. He could use his house name, Lungbarrow. He could use his nickname, Theta. Neither are his real name. He’s never responded well to the use of alias. Using the old John Smith might tide things over until he forgot to react to it. With how he’s feeling that might happen seconds after he’s gotten the bloody thing out of his mouth. But telling this obvious medical expert that he’s The Doctor might not go over too well. And the psychic filtering he’s doing for the boy’s sister is giving him a headache the size of a mountain.
“I’m doctor Simon Tam, by the way.”
He tried not to react, but is overly aware of the dark scowl twisting his face as he looks down at the dark haired, thin figure that has stepped in front of him with a hand out. The boy’s vest is open, unbuttoned, showing off the expensive tailored shirt underneath. There’s leather suspenders holding up his pants. The entire outfit just about screams ‘wealthy’ with the fine details worked into the lines of his clothes. The Doctor can feel the inside of his leather pockets against the back of his hairless hands as he shoves them in deeper, an automatic reflex to avoid that strong suggestion to be polite. Social situations are not going to be this re-incarnation’s forte’.
He can ignore it, he can avoid the implied question about who he is but accept the introduction, he can lie, or he can try to get the fellow to accept what he is willing to reveal. Somehow, he already knows that this young man has the intelligence of his sister behind the layers that deaden his imagination with human debris and hogwash about what is true and what is not. Any lie he tries will last all of a blink before being exposed. The longer he waits, the more it seems like he’s ignoring the lad and the further the hand wavers. Oh, this won't do, the Doctor thinks. “Doctor Tam,” he starts, “I wish this were under better circumstances.” He slowly draws his hand out and takes the warm palm being offered in a firm but not crushing grip.
The pulse of energy that connects them for the split second is enough to make Simon lose his balance and sway dangerously. The cool grasp in his own keeps him upright. And he finds that his other hand has come up to grip the wrist, too. He can’t recall if the man said his name or how long he’s been frozen like this and he feels slightly foolish. The odd fluttering pulse beats double-tempo through skin that is so cool it nearly scares Simon. A human with this body temperature would be in serious trouble. The reminder that this gent is not human is found in those aged but timeless eyes. He’s caught in that intense stare like a fly in honey and can’t break free. “Pardon. I think the heat is getting to my head,” he mumbled.
The Doctor is becoming quite aware that something strange is going on here. Simon and his sister can’t be normal humans with the sheer amount of gratuitous energy that is passing between the three of them. Admittedly, he started it by trying to help the girl, but - the resounding feedback from her brother is not warranted. He had a funny feeling that there was more to this than the TARDIS had wanted him to know. Even though Simon’s single-handed hold on his arm threatened to leave a bruise the Doctor doesn’t try to get the man to release him. “It’s not the heat, Simon Tam. Tell me what happened to your sister.”
It’s a command, not a request. Simon isn’t really aware of his mental ‘sharing’ as he responds by preparing to actually tell his story. But he finds himself wondering about the man still and responds out loud, “No. I don’t know anything about you.” He starts to pull away and finds that the stranger has not let him go, “Give me some reason, any reason, to trust you, and I’ll tell you.” As if saving his life isn’t enough…
There are an unreasonable number of things that flash through the Time Lord’s mind about what he wants to do to this amazing human boy. The events that led them to this moment flashed between them, in so much detail that the Doctor knew Simon had choked down a piece of dry toast the morning before rescuing his sister and not eaten since. He knew the color of the boy’s bedroom back on his parent’s estate. And there was a familiar image that sat on the mantel above the fake fireplace in the formal dining room there that told the Doctor exactly who this dear child was. He could shake him, hug him, or hit him, or kiss him even… So like Susan, in so many ways… And yet so undeniably human. Instead of doing any of those things the Doctor said, “I’m the Doctor, Simon. And there’s a reason you and yours called me here.” He just had to find out what that reason was.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
She’d managed to play ‘Captain’ enough to get everyone back inside the shade before anyone passed out from the effects of the double dose of sun. Now to deal with the lack of oxygen before that Paris fellow made her ears fall off with his whining. Shazza and Zeke are willing to help out any way they can, so are currently standing and holding heavy pressure suits that she is pulling out of the emergency crew lockers. She handed the second to the last suit to Zeke, “Liquid oxygen canisters inside. Start ripping them out. Quick hits only - try to make it last.”
The one boy, Jack, seemed to follow Zeke almost as much as Ali. Currently he was with Zeke, “Well, is someone coming for us? Or are we all just gonna die of exposure or dehydration or sunstroke or maybe even something worse?” The stream of questions makes even the bushwhackers look queasy. “Hey, you don't have to worry about scaring me,” the child says in earnest.
The wild-haired woman rolls her eyes at the kid, “Jack, luv,” she holds up her hands to quiet the boy. “We're worried you'll scare us, not the other way around.”
It doesn’t work for long; “Do we even have enough food? Or will we have to resort to cannibalism?”
Zeke reaches over and squeezes the back of the child’s neck with his free hand in warning before saying to Carolyn, “I'll see 'bout makin' this air go a bit further, cap'n. With your permission, a' course.”
The blonde woman nods. She still was getting used to this idea that she’s in charge. The bushwhackers drag Jack and the heavy gear away. It was only then that she realized that there was another issue to deal with. She frowns at the man chained to the bulkhead. Johns has been haunting the proceedings without much to add. Fry looks at the badge, “And him?”
The redhead’s blue eyes follow her gaze, “Big Evil?”
She shoots Johns a look that said ‘no, the Easter bunny, dipshit,’ before turning and settling her weight against a downed bit of the console, “We just keep him locked up forever?”
“Be my choice. Already escaped once from the max-slam facility on -- ”
Fry cut off the rattling; “I don't need his life story. Is he really that dangerous?”
William Johns isn’t irritated with her, but rather amused. Actually she’s not a bad looking woman, and he could see promise in knowing her. “Only around humans.”
Carolyn has been watching the unmoving figure, with his odd position, and his face against the metal hull. Something about it tickles her senses. She moves closer. What is that dark glistening - “Oh, Christ...” She doesn’t wait, breaking into a run and snagging up one of the discarded lights. She hits the ladder in a run and clambers up faster than she’s ever moved before. Johns half follows her through the parts of the ship that haven’t seen humans in years. But the woman knows her way around and finds the crank-hatch for the cistern without need to backtrack. Her pause makes his heart stop for a moment. He can see light that is not from her hand beam flooding through the hatch.
“Well? Is it just the pump?” He hopes beyond hope that it is, but knows already that it’s not.
She slams the hatch closed. “It’s empty. Drained out onto the sand. We need to head to the cargo bay and see if there’s anything to drink.” Her voice sounded dead in the oppressive heat.