Chapter Thirteen
Third Person
The world may have been dull and grey to some people that day, but to The Doctor, nothing in the universe could be better. A few clouds couldn't dampen his spirits. He was looking forward to a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Aloud, he would only scorn the drink, and claim that tea was much more elegant. He did it only to wire up his little friend (figuratively, of course) and listen to her tease him about England as though he was a member of that vicinity. She was so sure that he took offense when she insulted the British crown. It was frustrating, but in an innocent sort of way, like when you can't convince a child that it's not the stork that brings babies. Irene was positively wonderful. Spending time with her almost made him forget...
"It could be hot water that we would argue about," he decided, interrupting his own depressing thoughts, "because we're both just looking forward to anything warm on such a cold day."
Where was she, anyway? The man came to the counter with the hot chocolates. He didn't seem as patient when it was explained to him why The Doctor could not yet pay.
"If there's no money, there's no chocolate," he snapped, and took the cups off the counter. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder at the tent flap. He found that he kept glancing over his shoulder at the tent flap. A minute passed. Then two, then three. How hard was it to throw a couple rings and come back?
The Doctor wandered around the tent. It was a nice tent. The tables were arranged around the edges, and the walls and ceiling was draped crimson cloth. While the man wasn't looking, The Doctor took a cookie off the counter. He didn't mean to sneak about getting the treat. The man just hadn't been looking at him when he had taken it.
When he finished the cookie, he wiped the crumbs from his lips, wishing he had a glass of milk to finish it off with. "Fine then, Irene," he thought. "If it's me you're trying to lure after you, it's me you'll get."
He went out and traced the very simple path all the way to the ring toss. There, he found nothing. Irene wasn't there. He squinted at the crowd around him, studying each smiling face in detail. If she were here, he would see her; she was so recognizable when she smiled. Irene wasn't here, though. It started to snow again. His gaze stayed at the level of people's feet and waists, because Irene was pretty small compared to grown-ups, and her general existence took place at this relative height.
He turned, ready to go back to the tent (Surely she went back there, and he just didn't see her going the opposite direction).
A scream tore through the air, and silenced much of the laughing and chatter. It came from beside one of the nearby tents. The Doctor knew he really should go back and wait for Irene. He shouldn't investigate.
His feet carried him towards the scene, anyway.
A clump of people had gathered, and they all stared at the same thing. They all murmured, some of them cried out, and some called for help. The Doctor slipped through their midst to see for himself. A man stood in the middle. He was pale as pale can be, and his eyes were sunken caves of black. His hands shook. His mouth was tightly shut.
There was a woman lying on the ground behind him, heaving at the cold air, with a black eye and blood on her neck. The spiralling snowflakes settled on her skin like she had no body heat of her own to speak of. Every time someone tried to get close to her, the man snarled at them like a rabid dog.
"There now," he said aloud to the man. This may have once been a human, but all that was gone now. The man hadn't been possessed. No one was controlling him. One look in his eyes told The Doctor that all that was left was a rabid, terrified shell. He would be lucky if the man could understand English. The man didn't seem to know which of the many faces he was supposed to look at. "There now!" The Doctor repeated, more commanding this time.
The man recognized the authoritative tone. He promptly sat down. His black eyes gazed up at The Doctor.
"Now, now listen to me," he said, crouching down to be neared to the man's eye level. "I see that you're afraid. I see you don't want to be looked at. If you calm down, we can work something out." He pronounced each word with care, just in case the man's ability to understand was only impaired.
The man answered with a well placed, "Hisss!"
"Okay," The Doctor said. "What's your name?"
"Hiss," said the man. But it was a gentler hiss. It was less vicious than the last.
The Doctor motioned for someone to take the woman from where she lay behind the man. A young couple came forward to do so, and then gently carried her into the tent to ask for assistance from whomever ran it.
The Doctor caught a glimpse of a red gash on the side of the man's neck. It was fresh, just recently clotted. There was an unnatural infection with spindly black legs like stitches which originated on the edges of that gash.
"There. Stay calm, now. My name's The Doctor." When he received no answer, "Can I see your neck, please?"
The man recoiled.
"So he can understand me," thought The Doctor. Aloud, he only said, "I think I can help. I'm a Doctor."
The man hesitantly turned his head, allowing The Doctor to see the side of his neck. His breath trembled on the way out, as though he anticipated a jolt of pain. The spindly black lines looked like an infection, one originating under the skin.
The Doctor reached for his sonic screwdriver, and came up with nothing. He rolled his eyes. Irene, of course. He rubbed his forehead, exasperated. "O-one- you had one job," he mumbled. If Irene had been there, she would have laughed. But since she wasn't, he probably should have saved what was meant for her for when she was back by his side.
"Coming through! Coming through!" Two elderly gentlemen pushed their ways through the crowd. One was wearing a mystical robe and had a long white beard, while the other had a thick gray mustache and looked to be a police officer.
"Sir, I have to ask you to step away from him." It was the one with the mustache who said this, while the one with the beard knelt down nearby to the man. The Doctor did not listen. That virus on the man's neck was no plaything; it wasn't human.
"I'm a doctor," The Doctor assured them. "I want to help him."
The man, who was on his brink from the sudden ruckus, lashed out with his hands. He knocked over the robed man. The Doctor's face was caught in the cross-fire, leaving scratches on his cheek.
The officer helped up his fallen partner, while The Doctor desperately tried to console the man on the ground. A loud crack snapped through the air as the man snapped his teeth together as a threat. From somewhere inside his mouth blood oozed out, dribbling off of his ashy bottom lip.
"Borderline insanity!" Exclaimed the officer.
"No, my good man, not insanity," breathed The Doctor, examining the man's sunken, empty eyes. The insane man carelessly wiped away blood from his chin. "This fellow has seen some things."
***
The Doctor touched the soft skin around the man's injury on the neck.
"You haven't told us who you are," accused the police officer from behind him (His name was Robert, but this is unimportant). The man was laying down a yard or so away. He twitched every now and then, but was otherwise calm.
"Oh, of course," The Doctor said. They stood inside a tent made of deep blue fabric; though, from the outside, the snow and frost which clung to it made it to be rather pale. It was the man with the white beard, the fortune teller (Whose name happened to be Arthur, but this too has no relevance to the story) who rented this tent.
The Doctor reached into his jacket, and from inside it, he drew his Psychic paper. He unfolded it and held it out on display.
"Assistant city manager? I didn't know that we had..."
"So, this man showed up in the middle of the fair. He attacked the woman in the other room, and refused to let anyone help her. So, what's the question?" When no one reasoned, he prodded. "Come on, what's the question that we are all asking ourselves?"
"Why would he do it?" Asked the fortune teller thoughtfully.
"No, that's not it."
"But you just said that-"
"Come on, think. A strange man shows up at a regular New York fair in the twentieth century. He attacks a bystander, a sideliner, your regular, average fair-goer. What's the question we all ask?"
Offered the officer, "Who was he?"
"No," The Doctor snapped. "Who is she?"
"Sir," said a feminine voice. The three men turned to face the voice. There, stood the young lady from outside who took in the injured woman. Her eyes gleamed, and her voice was soft. "My husband and I did some harmless prodding around. She is his wife."
At his mentioning, her husband materialized over her shoulder.
"There," said The Doctor. "Then she is his wife. He attacks his wife, and you, my dear, don't sound like you're New Yorker."
The lady glanced from side to side, with a confused smile. "What do you mean?"
"Your accent; you're English."
All of the people (the sensible ones, give or take) looked at him. The lady's husband eyed him viciously.
The police officer kissed his teeth. "She sounds mighty common to me, sir."
The Doctor narrowed his eyes. The officer sounded like an Englishman, too. An irritated one, but an Englishman, nonetheless. Why hadn't he noticed before now? He could see that it was five to one, however.
All the talk of accents sparked a remembrance in The Doctor's memory. He still needed to find Irene. Surely, she was back at the food tent by now. She had his sonic screwdriver, anyway.
"Okay," he said, "Recently nuts husband chooses to show up at fair and hurts wife. No one knows him?"
"No, sir," the lady looks behind her, and is greeted by the sight of her husband. The Doctor noticed a small scar on the side of her neck. "You're welcome to visit his wife of course." Her voice shook a little as she said it, but no one noticed.
The old man in the robe and the young lady's husband both stayed in the room to look after the man, who now twitched like a drop of water on a hot skillet.
The woman who had been attacked was a slouched woman with brown skin and cuts on her face and arms which she washed with a bowl of water.
"Cynthia. How are you feeling?" The woman who owned the tent knelt down beside her, and pressed the back of her hand to Cynthia's forehead.
"I'll be good thanks to you," shivered Cynthia. She was wrapped in a cloak, but the bowl of water made the unforgiving weather unbearable. The Doctor walked up to her, and reached in his jacket for his sonic screwdriver again. Again, he remembered that he didn't have it.
"Of course, it's still with Miss America," he grumbled.
"That your accomplice, Sir?" Asked the young woman.
He sighed. "Unfortunately. What do I call you?"
"Maria." She bowed her head. He nodded, trying out the name on his own tongue.
"Now, Cynthia. Tell me, how long you have been married to Mr..."
"Herald," she said. She looked down at her lap. "His name is Herald." Here, The Doctor nodded encouragingly, and crouched down in front of her to appear less of a threat. "We aren't exactly married."
"Ah. What are you, then?"
Her eyes sank even lower. "I'd rather not say, Sir."
He waited.
"Mr. Herald is a very wealthy man," she said hesitantly. "And I am not. Because of that, he married rich, as tradition."
Her eyes sparked when her lips formed Herald's name. The Doctor thought he probably could guess the rest of the story. Lines creased her slender face. Tears swelled into her eyes.
"He and I have been seein' each other in private for," here she paused, "...a time. Two afternoons ago, he told me that his wife was expectin', you see, and that this had all gone on long enough." Her wrist flicked by her face in a gesture that could have purposed for wiping away a tear on her cheek. "I know it was wrong. Still hurts."
The Doctor stood. "Love does that."
Cynthia didn't see the genuine understanding in his eyes, or register the sympathy in his voice. She heard the words, and excused herself from the room.
He turned to see the police man glaring at him. Maria looked at the ground with her eyebrows raised. "What now?" Demanded the man. "You've went 'n ran her off?"
"I need to find my friend. I need my screwdriver." He headed for the tent flap.
"Sir," said Maria. Her silky voice stopped him. She said it again when he didn't turn. Her hands were hidden behind her back. "I... I might know where to find your friend."
The Doctor took a breath. The frigid air seemed to be suddenly choking. last thing he wanted was to stay in that tent for a moment longer.
"Yes?" He turned around.
Silence fell. And so did The Doctor. Above him, with gleaming eyes, Maria stood with a long post of spare wood in her hands. The officer stepped forward, ready at command.
"Shall I leave him by the road?"
"He has the capacity to find us out," Maria said, glaring down at the crumpled figure. Her lips formed a curve around the edges. "Take him to my sisters."
***
When he awoke, pain seized his whole world. The Doctor pried himself up from the cobblestone street paving. In looking about, he found himself in a back alley, slumped in a drift of snow against a crate. His face was numb. Upon touching it, all he felt on his fingertips was a soft, grainy substance. It took a moment to identify it as snow. He checked his arms and legs, and finding all intact and more or less numb, he pried his stiff self up.
Upon further inspection (and much wiggling) of his stiff fingers, he found a symbol marked on the back of his right middle finger. He squinted at it. It was composed of threes sinister lines, in the general shape of a triangle. It looked like it had been cut there, and then lined with a blue marker over the scab.
He couldn't tell how deep the cut had been, since he couldn't feel a thing in his fingers. He checked his watch. How long had he been out here?
He heard a door slam a few buildings down. His attention was drawn first to the building, and then to the flash of fabric rumpled up in it's back alley. He crept closer to investigate, and his hearts almost stopped beating when he saw what- or who- it was lying on the cobblestone.
He hurried to Irene's side, and touched her cheek. It was cold and clammy. Her eyes were shut, but one of them had a ring of dark purple and putrid greed encircling it. Her glasses crooked. His blood ran cold, and he slowly pressed his thumb to one side of her throat. There was a faint, shy heartbeat there, but nothing that would last her for long. She had surely been unconscious out here for hours.
He searched her for his sonic screwdriver, but it would not be found. If she woke up, surely she could tell him. "When," he corrected himself, "when she wakes up."
He wedged his hands under her arms, and lifted her into the air. Her head lolled forward. She wasn't waking up any time soon. He caught up her legs in one arm, and cradled her upper half in his other. She wasn't too heavy for him, but his stiff muscles creaked and protested the strain. Cradling her in his arms, his blood suddenly began to feel like molasses.
There was someone behind him. That someone was wearing a midnight-blue dress and a black hat- but the dress was unlike anything that should have existed in this time period. It was cut to a unique fit from the thirtieth century. Though The Doctor kept his back turned to her, all of the description was true. They both stood there motionless like statues. Her eyes pierced the back of his scalp.
The silence was broken when Irene heaved in a breath and the arms cradling her almost lost their grip. The Doctor grappled for a better hold, and whirled around, abandoning all caution. The woman who had been looming there not five seconds ago had disappeared.
Around the corner, she shimmied up the side of the house, and vanished into one of the dark windows. The Doctor was oblivious of this, and kept a sharp eye out as he carried Irene safely from the alley.
He took her through the abandoned streets leading back to the TARDIS, but found that the blue box had gone. Panic began to set into him. Now wasn't the time to worry over where his time machine went, though.
He took her back to the fair, where he asked every tent if they had somewhere warm to put her. They all directed him away. He finally found a sweet woman in the shadow puppet tent who invited him in immediately, and showed him to the thin back room where there was a fire, lots of blankets on the ground, and not much else.
"I have a show in five minutes," she said. "I'll send Luigi to look after you."
The Doctor knew that whoever Luigi was, he was there probably to make sure he didn't burn the tent down or anything. But this was more than he had asked for, so he laid Irene down by the fire on the blankets that weren't frosted. He pulled off his jacket, and laid it down over her body. He felt her heartbeat, and found it slightly less shy.
Before he left, he kissed Irene's hand.
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~TheLivingParadox