Chapter 1: Prologue

a/n: This story is very much a work in progress that I wasn't intending to post yet, but I found I couldn't resist. I intend to post once a week, no more than that, at least until I have a lot more finished.

Please note this story will be rated M for adult situations and portions with a lot of swearing.

a/n (June 11, 2018): In an effort to regain momentum on this story, I'm going to be editing previously posted chapters for the next few weeks.

The Choice

Prologue—London, 1 January 2007

Six months ago…

Fire. Searing heat. An inferno of red and yellow and orange rushing through the deep red grasses of the plains. Red flames igniting the trees. The delicate silver leaves ablaze, turning the trees into torches that illuminated the night sky.

Screams. Running.

Monstrous metal creatures of silver and black with glowing eye stalks. Shooting beams of energy. Killing everything in sight.

"Exterminate! Exterminate!"

Disjointed faces. Circling, swirling in front of his eyes. Voices. Echoing…

An elderly man. Straight white hair. Beaky nose.

"One day I shall come back. Yes, I shall come back..."

Dark, straight hair. An expressive face.

"Jamie, stay with me, don't wander off."

White hair. Piercing eyes.

"Courage isn't just a matter of not being frightened, you know. It's being afraid and doing what you have to do anyway."

Brown curls. Floppy hat. Lots of teeth.

"Just touch these two strands together, and the Daleks are finished... Have I that right?"

Straight blond hair. A young face. Pleasant features.

"Brave heart, Tegan."

Blond curls. Haughty, arrogant. Filled with righteous indignation.

"Power-mad conspirators, Daleks, Sontarans, Cybermen - they're still in the nursery compared to us. Ten million years of absolute power. That's what it takes to be really corrupt."

Dark hair. A Panama hat.

"Every great decision creates ripples. Like a huge boulder dropping in a lake. The ripples merge and rebound off the banks in unforeseeable ways. The heavier the decision, the larger the waves, the more uncertain the consequences."

Dark curly hair. A grave expression.

"It's not my war. I will have no part of it."

An elderly man. A warrior.

"No more!"

Explosions. Fire. Fire everywhere. The ground on fire. The sky on fire. The sounds of screaming—

Suddenly cut off. Silence. The silence of space. The silence of the Void.

The silence of the dead.

After a moment that could have lasted a second or a year or several millennia, new images, new sounds, emerged out of the blackness.

New faces. New voices.

Plastic people.

A hand in his. A glimpse of blonde hair.

"Run!"

"Are they students?"

"Nice to meet you… Run for your life!"

"The turn of the Earth… I can feel it. Now forget me…"

"It wasn't my fault! I couldn't save your world! I couldn't save any of them!"

Someone swinging on a chain, saving him. Another glimpse of blonde hair. A pretty face. Warm brown eyes and a generous mouth.

"You were useless in there. You'd be dead if it wasn't for me."

"Yes, I would… Uh... I don't know... you could come with me."

"You could come with me…"

"You could come with me…"

The feel of something repetitively poking him in the ribs drew him slowly back to consciousness. As awareness returned, he gradually realized he was lying face down on something hard. Rough. Asphalt. Cutting into the side of his face.

"Oi, mate. Wakey, wakey," said a deep male voice.

The poking became harder, more insistent. He opened his eyes a crack. Even that slight movement made his head pound. Despite lying horizontally, he was struck with a wave of dizziness and nausea.

"Come on, time to wake up." This was a different voice. Lighter, younger. Feminine.

He wondered where he was, and cautiously he opened his eyes wider. Someone, probably the person poking him, was shining a torch in his face. Through the glare, he could see a series of bins in front of him. All sorts of rubbish lay on the ground around and under them—pizza cartons and takeaway containers, empty glass whisky bottles and half empty pop bottles, cast off bits of clothing and used condoms and fragrant nappies, and large black bin bags filled so tightly they threatened to burst—as if the people who had left it all couldn't be bothered to actually lift up the lids of the bins and put it inside.

He turned his head, wincing at the throbbing pain that shot through his head at the move. Black shoes led to black trousers led to radio equipped utility belts led to bright yellow rain slickers and black helmets. Police officers. One, the female—petite with dark brown skin and closely cropped hair—was looking at him with a frown, while the other, the male—large with a red, beefy face—was still prodding him with a baton.

"Ow," he complained.

"Sir, are you hurt?" the policewoman asked.

He groaned. Now I am, he thought.

"Sir, have you been mugged?" she asked.

"He hasn't been mugged, Seward," her partner said. "New Year's, unconscious in an alley, he's sleepin' it off. And now he needs to go home." The policeman turned back to him. "So you need to get up and go home, mate."

"I don't smell any alcohol on him, Rutgers," Seward told him.

"Doesn't mean anything," Rutgers said. "Alcohol, drugs… whatever he took, he needs to sleep it off at home, not in the alley."

"Shouldn't he go to A & E?"

"Not if he's not hurt," her partner replied. "And I don't see a mark on him."

As they spoke, he felt an overwhelming wave of drowsiness. His eyes drifted closed.

"Oi, don't go back to sleep!" Rutgers said, poking him again. "Wake up."

"Sir, can you tell us your name?"

He opened his eyes again. The policewoman, Seward, was kneeling over him now, concern written all over her face.

"Can you tell us your name?" she repeated. "Is there someone we can call?"

He opened his mouth to answer… and realized he didn't remember. Not whether he had any family, not where he was from, not how he had ended up in the alley. Not even his name. Nothing.

"Told you he was drunk," Rutgers said.

He couldn't argue with that. He didn't remember, so for all he knew he had been.

"Check his ID," the officer continued.

Seward reached forward as if she was going to check his pockets, and he held up a hand. Slowly he pushed himself up to a sitting position and patted down his jacket. All he could find was a slim wallet in an interior pocket. He handed it to her.

"Looks like he's… John Smith from Manchester," she said. She handed her partner the wallet.

"Manchester, eh?" Rutgers said. The officer examined the contents before handing the wallet back to him. "You're a long way from home."

He flipped open the wallet. Only one thing in it, a driving license made out in the name of John Smith, Manchester, with the picture of a man with short cropped hair and a big nose and big ears. Him, he guessed, although the face didn't look familiar. Frowning, he searched the wallet. Beyond the license there was nothing in it. No money, no credit card, no NHS card, not even an old ticket for the Tube.

He returned his attention to the driving license. There was something odd about it. For just a second, he could have sworn it was just a blank piece of paper…

"Yeah, guess I am," he replied. He put the wallet back in his pocket.

"So what's your story? Drunk or mugged?"

John tried to remember, but he couldn't. The name sounded familiar, but odd at the same time, like it could be his but really wasn't. But until he could figure out who he was, it was as good a name as any.

"If you were drunk, we could let you go with a warning," Rutgers continued. "But if you were mugged, we'd have to bring you in to file a report. Now which was it? Drunk or mugged?"

There was only one answer he could give. If they brought him in to file a report, he'd have to admit he didn't remember who he was, and that could mean a stint in the local psychiatric ward.

No. If he was sectioned, he'd never figure out who he was.

"New Year's," he said, remembering that the officer had mentioned it earlier. "Was celebratin'. Had a couple too many at the local and got pissed. Was on my way home, but obviously didn't make it."

Rutgers nodded sharply. "Right. We'll be on our way, then. And next time, make sure you head home before you're so drunk you can't walk."

He headed out of the alley, but Seward hung back for a moment, a worried expression on her face.

"Are you going to be able to make it home all right?" she asked.

"Absolutely," he told her.

She nodded. John could tell she didn't believe him, but she stood and headed towards the mouth of the alley anyway. Just before she left, he stopped her.

"Hey," he said impulsively. "What year is it?"

She stared at him in shock. "It's 1 Jan, 2007. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Don't worry about me," he told her. "I'm fantastic. Absolutely fantastic."

She gave him another disbelieving look before turning and following her partner out of the alley.

John gave them a several minute head start before he stood up. His entire body ached, as if it had been pummeled repeatedly. Maybe he had been mugged after all, he thought. Without knowing where to go, he slowly staggered out of the alley, never noticing the tall blue box he was leaving behind.