Not Until We Are Lost

A day or two after Annabelle Curry left the TARDIS, the Doctor relocated his ship. It wasn't that the spot he had it was a bad hiding place. It was more that he didn't relish the idea of continually having to explain to those in his group that he was down this alley, past that broken window, and mind you don't get your pocket picked coming in. There were easier places to place the TARDIS.

Now she sat inside the natural history museum where Cavan and Annabelle first found him. Happily, there was a section here about the Allied Forces. Though the TARDIS was still slightly anachronistic, it wasn't by much since the police boxes she was fashioned after had existed since 1877, so he parked her in the England portion of the exhibit. He even made her a plaque in the style of those the museum had. It read as follows:

POLICE CALL BOX OF THE KIND TYPICALLY FOUND IN LONDON. THE CITY CURRENTLY HAS 613. THIS MODEL IS BASED ON THE 1929 MACKENZIE TRENCH DESIGN. A PHONE INSIDE RINGS LOCAL POLICE, AND A FIRE EXTINGUISHER CAN USUALLY BE FOUND INSIDE AS WELL.

With that done, the Doctor started to do some research. He was still looking into things for Annabelle. The girl was going to have a very rough time of it, even with the help of this Simon fellow. She was bright, yes, but the Doctor wanted to speed along her learning. He'd re-visited the holograms in his library and right now was looking at some Shakespearean references to witches. There was something here, he was sure of it, but he couldn't quite pinpoint it.

Outside the TARDIS, the museum was beginning to close for the evening. No matter; the Doctor had rigged a window near his beloved Queen Elizabeth that enabled him to come and go as he pleased. Tonight he might pop in on Phaedra, see how she was doing.

He set down the book he'd been reading and left the library, making his way back to the control room.

There was a lot going on.

He knew where the Doctor was, the TARDIS having been formally and somehow easily inserted into the museum where he and Annabelle had discovered the man. He knew where Annabelle was, or at the very least what she'd be up to. There seemed to be an absence of the others entirely. He'd not seen Dean in a while, which he couldn't decide his feelings about. Or the pirate, but she wasn't quite the concern as the others.

Cavan had not been alone since arriving on the planet with the evil bunnies.

The freedom went to his head a little bit, and he found himself thinking of the hobby he'd not had a chance to engage in since York. The real York, not the pretend one made by aliens to lull them into a false sense of security, thus ushering them on to Electric City and perpetual planet-hopping Hell. It was easy to get caught up in the surrounding aloneness. To realize that beyond being alone, he was in a time period in which forensics were not what he was used to. And also, it didn't matter, since they'd be eventually whisked away to some other strange place. He could leave all the prints he wanted. He could write his own name in blood across the body of his victim, and there would be very little anybody could do about it. His only real concern surrounded those he was traveling with. No doubt there were several of them that wouldn't take kindly to the things he liked to do best.

Still, Cavan found himself stalking. It was likely that he wouldn't be here, on this planet, long enough to develop the full relationship that he really preferred. He'd have to act fairly quickly. Make a day of it. Add to his collection in a more impromptu manner.

In his hand, which was in the pocket of his coat, was a silver chain. Woven into the links and held up by centers that were not made for the purpose were the little items he took off of each one. Earrings. Rings. Brass buttons. Tie clips. Zipper pulls. Charms. Whatever small bit caught his eye and he felt like keeping forever. It was a comfort that he had not lost it yet, that it hadn't been taken from him by the aliens. He didn't dare leave it in his room at the hostel, even though carrying it on his person did more harm to his nerves than good.

Cavan found a bench to sit on and watch people go by. His eyes scanning each to measure them against his current desires.

Arlene didn’t think of the women she took as people. She didn’t care to know their name or what they did for a living. Didn’t care for much beyond what she’d learned while staking out her prize, while following them and watching and waiting for the best opportunity to take them. She didn’t look at them as victims either. They were all a part of her grand plan. She’d left the bodies all over the city, adorned with her artwork and faces covered in mud. They could be anyone. They were anyone.

The blonde one that she’d taken wasn’t much of a screamer. That was... disappointing. Usually the good girls broke first. The other women, the broken, tarnished ones. They’d seen more, so it took longer. But this one? This one was surprising. The whore had broken before the good girl in this case. Instead of screaming, the blonde had doled out several threats that first day. There were less threats by the second day. Soon, she would scream just as much as the woman in the room down the hall.

Arlene wasn’t too worried about the friends and family that would supposedly find her and make her pay. No one was looking for a woman. And certainly, no one was looking for her. She lived a quiet life outside of this place. She visited the tea room regularly-there were so many lovely girls there. She walked her dog, ate in diners, made small talk with the neighbors. She was careful not to linger for too long with any of the ladies that she took. The neighbors might start to question things if she wasn’t home by sunset every night like clockwork. She certainly did make it home at that time, only to sneak out yet again so she could keep a watchful eye on her prizes through the night. And then she slipped home just before dawn so everyone could see her leaving in the mornings.

She would break this one too. In the end, they all welcomed oblivion. When she sensed that they were ready to welcome that final departure, she was happy to grant it like the merciful artist that she was.

----

Mary wasn’t sure if she’d been in the dingy room for hours or days. She thought it might have been at least a day or two because her kidnapper had had time to carve up both her arms and had fed her at least a few meals. The Slayer didn’t talk much but seemed to want to take her time with the torture. There was just as much time spent cleaning Mary’s wounds, feeding her, caring for her. And yes, her. It had been a surprise when Mary had gotten the first glimpse of her captor, who was a woman not much older than her. A woman who probably wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of those high society clubs. She was a classic beauty, and her expression was permanently fixed with a cold and remote stare. She never made eye contact with Mary, never made conversation. She only came in the room to carve more intricate designs in Mary’s flesh or to offer meals or medical aid.

Currently, Mary hadn’t seen the woman in awhile. She’d heard screams from somewhere else in the building and she couldn’t help but feel like she should be helping, not tied to a godforsaken chair. She was half-conscious and trying to call up the determination she’d had when she’d first come in, that knowledge that no matter what else happened, the people that mattered the most would hunt this woman down and make sure she didn’t hurt anyone else again. There had been a good amount of hope that they’d find her in time, but Mary was starting to lose hope. She was starting to let her mind wander down the darker path of what might happen to the people she loved if this didn’t have a happy ending. This was going to kill her parents, she knew that. And Johnny. What were the odds of something like this happening a second time to someone he cared for? And Rob. And Cas. There were a lot of people who were very good at blaming themselves and Mary couldn’t help but think that she was letting them all down.

Her head lolled to the side just a bit as she drifted in that half-conscious state, trying to get at least a little sleep before the torture started anew.

Rose hadn't wanted to go to sleep the first night in the TARDIS. Part of her felt like sleeping was wasting time, and she'd already lost too much of it with him. But the other part was truly afraid she'd wake up in flat 48 of the Powell Estate, John Smith across the hall, Torchwood waiting across the city, and no hope of seeing her Doctor ever again.

She felt it strange to see her old Doctor again, strange to know that she'd seen what he looked like after this face, and after the face after that one. But she'd begun to love him when his eyes were that icy shade of blue, and the truth was that she didn't mind at all. In fact, it was a relief to look at him and not feel that tug of anger-almost-hatred that she'd felt every time she looked at John Smith. It was better, she'd decided, somewhere between 2 and 3 a.m., not to have to be reminded of what he'd done to her... to them both, but also to her.... every time she looked at him now.

It was inevitable that she finally fall asleep. Rose didn't remember being moved to her own bed in the TARDIS, but that's where she woke up the following afternoon. Of course, the TARDIS was sans-Doctor by the time she finally got up, showered, dressed, and ate. And then, with a huge grin at the inside of the door of the TARDIS, she went exploring.

Far stranger was this graytone world. She wasn't immune, and neither was her Doctor or the inhabitants of the world. No one acted as if anything were amiss, and Rose quickly acclimated. Up one street she went, staring through boutique windows and ducking into shops here and there. She quickly found that the money in her pockets didn't work here, and the faces on the bills weren't of the queen but of old movie stars. Even the city itself was named after a movie star. Rose wondered if this wasn't a deliberate part of their kidnapper's experiment.

She finally settled on a street bench and picked up an abandoned newspaper. Unfolding the front page and smoothing it out across her lap, she started reading. It was grim. Her mouth turned down as she skimmed the dark news.