Chapter Nine

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of fluid lazily plopping to the floor slowly roused The Doctor from his deep, dreamless slumber.

The pounding in his head was near intolerable as consciousness crept up on him like a thief in the night. Even through his jacket he sensed the fine hairs on his arm raising and bumps form across his extremities. Cold air swathed him, clenching his already stiff muscles. Reflexively, his hands came up to his arms, rubbing them up and down to radiate some semblance of warmth. A debilitating ache thrummed through his body like an electrical current.

With a groan, his eyes reluctantly fluttered open only to be greeted by the sight of pure emptiness. Even his breath, which he felt leave him in heavy puffs, was swallowed up by the infinite pool of nothing.

Right. Abject darkness. Bruised body. Bloody cold temperatures.

This was a rude awakening if ever he'd had one.

Inelegantly, he rolled himself onto his front only for a jolt of pain to shoot up his back and paralyze him. With a whimper, he pressed his forehead against the freezing floor until the spell passed.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It was an obnoxiously persistent sound, but what was worse was it reminded him of something he'd forgotten.

Blimey, what was it?

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Water? Waterfall? River? Rain? Tears?

Tears spilling from heartbreakingly lonely topaz eyes.

Fragments of memory swept through his mind like a tornado: Long brown hair. Small frame. Red dress.

Clarice.

The Doctor's hearts leapt frantically and stole his breath.

"Clarice?" he called into the darkness, ignoring the clenching of muscles in his neck.

His cries went unanswered.

Blindly, he patted himself down until he found his pocket containing a torch. When at last he grabbed the familiar device and switched it on, he was blinded by the sudden burst of illumination, his retinas feeling as though red hot nettles were sinking into them.

The Doctor scrubbed at them with his sleeve until the stinging subsided.

His torchlight touched on a scene of disaster.

Metal plates had tumbled from the ceiling, leaving wires to hang exposed like the tendons of a gutted animal. A large pipe had detached itself from the bulkheads on the wall, dripping the remnants of some foul smelling liquid onto the floor, accounting for the dreadfully monotonous sound.

Blatantly ignoring the stiffness of his limbs, he stumbled onto his feet, swinging the torch from one corner of the hall to the other.

The Time Lord looked for a crumpled form lying amongst the wreckage, but there were no signs of her anywhere. Not a scrap of clothing, not a shoe, no nothing.

"I had her," he insisted. "I had her. She was right there!"

She'd been injured. He remembered that. She'd struck her head and he'd had to carry her.

He listened carefully, but the only din breaking the silence was that of his own uneven breathing and the annoying dripping of the engine fluid leaking onto the floor.

Plumes of white fog escaped him with every exhale. A chill wracked his spine, sending him into near convulsions.

Why was it so bloody cold?

He smacked himself on the forehead. Of course! Stupid Doctor! His virus had cut off the electricity meaning the heating systems had been deactivated as well.

But, no, no. Impossible. The temperatures shouldn't have dropped this much so soon. He had only been out for a moment. He was sure of it.

The Doctor glanced at the watch on his wrist to reorientate his time senses to find the clock's face had been punched out, leaving only shattered glass and a dented minute hand.

Instinctively, his hand plunged into his breast pocket in search of his sonic. Then it came back to him like a blow to the face: He'd given it to Rory.

A chill ran up his spine completely unrelated to the cold.

Ponds…

The Doctor's throat tightened, the pronounced silence confirming his worst fears.

No. Not them. Never them.

"AMY!" he bellowed.

The Time Lord waited a beat for a response.

None came.

The Doctor roamed through the labyrinthine corridors like a vengeful spirit, shining his torch on the ashen faces of the corpses littering the floors.

The traffickers were slumped where they'd fallen, most still holding their useless weapons. It had been a quick slaughter. The ramshackle crew obviously hadn't accounted for a battle on this scale. They didn't stand a chance. Perhaps he should have pitied them, but at the moment he really couldn't manage it. There was no time for that.

At the rate the temperatures were plummeting, it would only be a matter of time before anyone still living would freeze to death. Even with his superior Time Lord biology and spiked adrenaline he was feeling the ill-effects of the rising cold. His joints tried to lock and his muscles became stiff as if the blood pulsing within his veins was attempting to turn to ice.

Nevertheless, The Doctor didn't falter in his flight, even as the freezing air rushed past his chapped face.

The Ponds and Clarice were here somewhere.

He had to find them. He didn't care if he had to break apart the bloody ship bulkhead by bulkhead.

You did this. You couldn't just leave them alone. It wasn't enough you stole their daughter away from them and ruined their lives forever, you had to take their lives as well.

"Shut up," he murmured, breathless. "I'm busy."

Unknowingly, he increased his gait until he was nearly running, stumbling over debris and the dead.

And poor Clarice, left to fend for herself against the Time Lords' greatest enemy. And after you promised she'd be safe. Do you think she blamed you for dooming her to such a terrible fate? Do you think she begged them before they killed-?

"DOCTOR!" a voice shouted over the sound of his inner torment.

The Doctor stopped so sharply, he nearly toppled forward onto the hard metal ground.

He waited, hearts thudding painfully against his ribcage. He waited longer, fully expecting the weight of his disappointment to crush him.

"Doctor?" the plaintive voice cried again. "Doctor, please, where are you?"

"Amy?" he whispered hopefully. The speaker had an accent, a Scottish accent. Louder he shouted. "AMY!"

"Doctor! Doctor, help! Please! I can't see!"

The Doctor bolted towards the sound of her mournful cries, heedless of his surroundings.

Amy is alive. Mad, impossible, Amy Pond is alive.

The Doctor was euphoric to the point of hysteria when his body collided painfully with a large metal body, throwing him back against the wall. He was only just able to keep a firm enough grip on his torch not to send it flying. Succinctly, he shone it a the roadblock.

It was a Dalek.

He flattened himself against the wall, blood pounding in his ears.

"Doctor!" Amy cried. "Doctor!"

"Stay where you are!" he shouted.

The Doctor's chest heaved but he tried to keep a cool head. Amy was still out there, alone and terrified. He couldn't die now, she needed him. He promised himself he would get her home. If he couldn't save Clarice, he had to save his Pond. The universe owed him that much.

"Go on, then. Get it over," he goaded the alien. "You've been waiting for this moment your entire life. Have at it."

The Dalek remained completely inert, ensconced in darkness. Even its dome lights remained unlit.

The Doctor peeled himself away from the wall, chancing a step in the creature's direction. When the Dalek did not react, the Time Lord raised his foot experimentally and gave the Dalek's midsection a decisive kick.

It rolled backwards like an unmanned trolley until it collided with a clank against the wall behind it.

The Doctor stared at the alien, uncomprehendingly.

It was dead.

How was it dead?

Even in the dim light he could see its outer shell was undamaged.

Nevertheless, it was the only possibility.

"DOCTOR!"

He shook his head and ran in the direction of her cries for help.

The disembodied voice led him to a wide corridor where he discovered his best friend. A thick coat of metal shavings covered her body and her long red hair was disheveled nearly beyond recognition, but she was alive. She flinched at the light from his torch, shielding her eyes from the glare with a cut hand.

"Amy," The Doctor sighed with relief.

He didn't give her time to reply before kneeling in front of her and enveloping her in a tight hug. She wrapped her own arms around his middle in return, shivering violently all the while.

"It was dark," she croaked. "It was so dark and cold and I couldn't see."

The Doctor cupped the back of her head and shut his eyes, soaking in the realness of her and trying to rub some warmth into her. Her naturally warm human body was freezing to the touch. "You're okay. You're alright."

A groan cut through the tender moment.

The Doctor and Amy broke apart to discover Rory lying supine on the ground about four feet away. The nurse squinted as the Time Lord shone his lighting apparatus in his face.

"Rory The Roman," The Doctor beamed. "Still with us, I see."

Amy crawled towards the crumpled form of her husband with the desperation of one trapped in the desert in search of water. Without warning, she pitched forward and claimed her husband's lips in a passionate kiss that caught both of her boys off-guard. When she parted from him, tears trickled from her eyes and nearly froze on her cheeks.

"Amy?" Rory said softly, any confusion gone in the face of concern.

She sniffed and hastily wiped the wetness away with the heel of her palm. "I'm fine," she grumbled with embarrassment, hugging herself tightly against the cold. When she saw The Doctor was still staring with equal concern, she doubled down. "Seriously, I'm fine." She made a vague gesture towards Rory. "Fuss over him. He's hurt."

Reluctantly, The Doctor tore his attention from the Scotswoman and scooted closer to attend to her wounded husband. He combed the light over Rory's body, trying to gauge how much damage he'd sustained in the attack.

"Dislocated shoulder," he diagnosed. "And by the look of it you've sprained your leg."

He patted the nurse's thigh and Rory arched his back, yelping in pain.

"Yes," Rory hissed through clenched teeth, vein popping in his forehead. "I can see that."

"Sorry," his friend murmured. "Nothing I can do about your leg without the TARDIS infirmary, but I can at least sort out that shoulder."

He gave Rory a pointed look and waited for permission. Rory huffed out a white cloud and gave him a stiff nod. Carefully, The Doctor held Rory's injured arm at a ninety-degree angle away from his body.

"Ready?"

"Not particularly," Rory replied.

The Doctor pulled and the nurse screamed as all his pain receptors fired at once. For a moment, he toiled in anguish; however, relief gradually eased over his stress-scarred features.

"Thanks," he wheezed.

"You'll experience some swelling, but—"

"Yeah, I know. Nurse, remember?" Rory shut his eyes for a moment to regain his bearings. "I don't remember it being quite this cold earlier."

"That would be the power," The Doctor explained succinctly. "The TARDIS's extended airshell is currently providing us with oxygen and artificial gravity but I didn't account for us being incapacitated for this long."

"Or us being born down upon by a swarm of Daleks," Rory added.

The Doctor tried not to wince at the twinge of bitterness in his companion's tone. Of course he had a right to be angry. It was simple rescue mission, it should have gone off without a hitch. Yet he'd failed to act and now it was a wonder any of them had survived.

"Hold on," Rory murmured. "Is that…?"

The Doctor and Amy's gaze followed Rory's towards a formless heap in the shadows.

It was a fallen Dalek.

Ooze drooled out of the crack in its dome and crystalized on the floor in a clear puddle.

"What's the last thing you both remember?" The Doctor asked, keeping his eyes trained on the metal casing as though it could return to life at any moment. His mind travelled back to the dead Dalek he'd confronted only moments ago.

Rory groaned softly from the pain that wracked his body. Any movement sent a shock to his system, but his body's natural resistance to cold was preventing him from being still. "I d-don't know. We were running and…now w-we're here."

"No," Amy argued. "I-I remember there was something else. There was a blue light and…and…I don't know. I can't remember." She turned to her Raggedy-Man for help. "Why can't I remember?"

"Human brain," The Doctor reasoned absent-mindedly, "you couldn't cope with the trauma so your mind edited it out of your memory."

He felt her eyes on him, studying him to see if he really believed his own assessment or not. Regardless, she didn't call him on his bluff. "How did it die?"

"Dunno. It could have been killed while the ship was under fire, could have self-destructed, died of boredom. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I get you both back to the TARDIS safely while I look for Clarice."

"Cl-Clarice?" Amy asked, cinching her arms tighter around her torso. "You-you mean the short American girl, yeah?"

The Doctor's eyes widened as he grasped her firmly by the shoulders. "Did you see her? Did she get away?"

"I-I don't know. The last time I saw her, she was being taken by the traffickers. Doctor, why do you need to know about Clarice?"

The Doctor released her, running a hand through his thick brown hair. "Help me get Rory onto his feet."

"Hold on. Should-shouldn't we get him like a p-pair of crutches or s-something? Make the TARDIS m-materialize around him?"

"No time for that," he said. "The temperature is dropping at an accelerated rate. Even a Time Lord can't survive it. Help me, Pond, please."

The Doctor was grateful when she obeyed in spite of her reluctance. Truth be told, it would have been faster if he had just gotten the TARDIS and materialized around them like Amy suggested, but he couldn't risk leaving them in the dark, especially not with how cold it was. The Old Girl didn't like short trips and if he was even an hour late re-materializing…

Amy followed his queue supporting Rory so that together, The Doctor and Ponds, were able to awkwardly shift through the wreck and ruin.

They were a sight to be sure.

Rory was barely able to hobble along, even with both of them keeping him upright. His body wracked with pain and cold, breath expelling in shallow gasps.

And he wasn't alone. The Doctor noticed the fading pallor of Amy's skin and the multitude of cuts and bruises marring her pale flesh. She made nearly inaudible grunting noises as they marched on.

Rage boiled his blood.

They were hurt because of him.

He had hurt them.

Again.

"The tr-traffickers mentioned something about a Gallifreyan onboard," Amy stuttered, interrupting his reverie. "Is it her? Is Clarice a Time Lady? Like a real, pr-proper Time Lady? It wasn't all a trap for you?"

For a moment The Doctor didn't answer.

He imagined Clarice lost and afraid in the shadows, desperately patting the walls to find something—anything— to tell her where she was, or huddling alone, muffling her sobs of terror until being inevitably discovered and—

"Doctor?" Amy pressed.

The Doctor shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind.

"She can understand Gallifreyan and she has a vascular system that perfectly mirrors my own," he said at last. "I spoke with the captain, but he didn't seem to have any idea what she was or where she came from. Otherwise he would have realized there are dozens of races that would do anything to get their hands on her."

There was a lull in the conversation. He was hoping that she'd let it go, put the pieces together and it seemed as though she had.

He should have known it would be Rory that would ask the obvious question.

"Do you think she's still alive?"

The Doctor's jaw clenched.

Survivor of the Time War or no, it made no difference.

She had been trapped.

The escape pods would be inoperable without power.

The Daleks outnumbered her one hundred to one.

She would have had nowhere to run.

Nowhere to hide.

The question went unanswered.

Rory appeared even more ghostly under the florescent bulbs of the TARIDS infirmary.

Amy watched, afghan draped over her shoulders, as The Doctor rummaged through a cupboard until he found what looked to be standard white gauze.

"Nano-patches," he said, rolling them out for his companions' benefit. "There are tiny little microorganisms living within the lining of these wraps. Once they're attached to your skin they'll seep beneath the tissue and immediately begin healing any torn ligaments or muscles. It'll take about an hour before you're functioning like normal again."

The Doctor did most of the work administering the bandages while Amy attempted to keep Rory's leg steady. He was right, they did look like ordinary bandages at first glance but once they were properly wrapped around Rory's swollen leg they glowed faintly. Through it all Rory tried to put on a brave face in spite of his obvious discomfort. He only cried out once when Amy accidentally pulled his leg too far out.

Amy could not get over how relieved she was that he was okay. Yes, he had cheated death more times than she could count, but this time felt different for some reason.

There was something she was missing.

She hadn't challenged The Doctor's theory that her inferior "human brain" had simply locked away any traumatic memory she'd experienced, but she knew there must be more to it than that.

She was Amy Pond. She'd remembered The Doctor back from non-existence, she must be able to remember something as simple as this.

A relaxed sigh eased from her husband's mouth, derailing her train of thought. His skin, although waxy with sweat, was returning to a healthy pink.

Amy wiped the moisture from his head with her sleeve and smiled. "How's that for modern medicine, Mr. Pond?"

His eyes twinkled with humor in spite of himself. "If it's all the same, I prefer Leadworth General."

She laughed, sparing a look towards The Doctor. However, the smile quickly faded as soon as she saw the somber furrow of her best friend's brow. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he flitted out of the room leaving his friends stupefied in his wake.

Amy made to go after him, only to remember her husband, injured and weak in bed. When she turned to face him, he met her gaze with a calm, level stare.

"Go," he said.

She gave him a parting kiss on the lips before letting her blanket fall to the floor and following her imaginary friend into the hall.

"Doctor?" she asked his retreating form.

"Stay with Rory," he commanded without looking at her.

Annoyed, she quickened her gait until she was able to fall in step with the stubborn Time Lord.

"Doctor, where are you going?" she demanded.

"I have to find her," he retorted, not breaking stride.

Amy silently gave thanks for her long legs, otherwise she'd never be able to keep up with him. Especially not now that he was so determined not to be followed.

"Doctor, you don't have to do this alone. Let us help you. Doctor!"

The Doctor geared to a halt, nearly causing Amy to crash straight into him.

He whirled around, eyes glowing with rage.

"I should never have come back for you," he snapped.

Amy paused, waiting for him to take it back, but his gaze held hers unflinchingly. A weight settled at the bottom of her stomach and she felt sick with dread.

Against her will, the beginning of tears pooled in her eyes.

"You don't mean that," she whispered. "You can't."

She'd known for some time he'd been trying to ween them off of him. Making the gaps in between his visits longer and longer, little by little. But hearing all her fears spoken out loud, she couldn't stand it.

How could he? After everything they'd been to each other? They prepared a table for him at Christmas. He was married to their daughter for God's sake! How could he just leave them? Leave her?

"After Demons Run I should have left you in Leadworth where you belong." The Doctor swallowed thickly. "But I was selfish. I thought if I took you somewhere remote, somewhere safe, that nothing could go wrong. And look what happened."

Amy shook her head incredulously. "Doctor, we wanted to come with you. We've always wanted to come with you."

"Of course you did," he said bitterly. "A man offers you the universe and all of space and time besides, how are you supposed to say no? Then off you go, getting yourself hurt or killed."

The Doctor suddenly paled at the thought, all vehement energy lost in an instant. He worried his bottom lip contemplatively between his teeth and seemingly struggled for the right words. After holding her gaze for ages, he finally worked up the courage to speak in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Amy, dozens of people on this ship are dead because of me. I should have gotten everyone safely aboard the TARDIS, but I didn't. Because I wanted to be clever."

"Doctor—"

"She was a Time Lord, Amy, a real living Time Lord." Tears brightened his eyes as he spoke. "The last child of Gallifrey and I couldn't keep her alive for one bloody hour."

The sorrow in his voice broke Amy's heart. He didn't deserve this pain and loneliness. Didn't deserve any of it.

"You don't know that," she argued. "She could still be alive. If we survived, it's possible she might have done, too."

"No one could live through a Dalek incursion on that scale. How you and Rory did…" He shook his head stubbornly. "It's nothing short of preposterous."

"What happened to you being the "dreamer of impossible dreams"?" she demanded.

"Improbable," he amended softly, "not impossible."

"Doctor, you told me no one could have survived the Time War except you, but she did. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Deep lines formed under his eyes and his shoulder slumped downwards in defeat. It seemed that every decade, every century he'd lived was leaving a mark on his face. His eyes, usually so kind and joyful, now swam with exhaustion and misery.

"Amy, please don't make this more difficult than it already is. Please, it's already so, so hard."

Amy could take it no longer and engulfed him in a deep hug. At first he bristled at the contact, not wanting to let her in any more than he had to. But eventually, he wrapped his own arms around her slender body, trembling imperceptibly.

"You can't just give her up for dead," she spoke into his ear. "Not when she's already been through so much. I know it hurts more to hope, but she needs you. "

She broke their embrace to look him straight in the eye so he'd have no choice but to take her seriously.

"Now let's go out there and bring her back."

"Pond…"

"Doctor," she countered, slipping past him before he could protest further. "Come on, Raggedy Man, we've got a Time Lady to save."

Hours earlier…

Gil was sweating like a pig in a slaughter house as he clomped down the stairs two at a time, drunk off the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

From all sides, his crews were being slaughtered, their screams chasing him through the lower levels of the ship.

Gil cursed their incompetence.

He and Flash had their Church training to fall back on, but the rest of the lot were just street brawlers with fancy toys. They knew how to scrap, but when it came time to act as a unit in the face of an organized enemy they had no more idea what to do than chimps with bazookas.

They'd burst out of the bridge guns blazing, roaring and charging through the ship as if they could tear the metal bastards apart with their bare hands; an army of white blood cells against a virus. Yet they all fell one by one, their bullets ineffective.

They hadn't gotten in a hit. Not one bloody hit.

In the end, even Flash's advanced training had only spared him an extra ten minutes before he was cut down, dead before his body hit the ground.

Gil ignored the pang in his chest. Like the prick of a syringe needle, there and then gone, at the sight of his fallen comrade. If he'd been another man, he would have been devastated. His constant companion throughout all these years, dead and gone.

But Gil Bellamy wasn't a normal bloke. He was a survivor; a man who always got his catch.

The girl was the only thing that mattered.

An energy blast sent a shutter through the ship and he went sprawling as a low dirge broke through the chaos. When he reopened his eyes, his world was blanketed by darkness. His head was banging like a bleeding drum and for a moment he wondered if he'd been kicked clear into the next century.

The Daleks caterwauling had stopped, as had the death knells of his crew. The only sound he could make out was the chugging of his battered heart. Grunting painfully, he flipped himself over onto his front, ignoring his aching back. He patted the front of his uniform for the emergency torch light and, within seconds, his suit lit up.

It was barely enough for him to see a foot or so ahead of him. It was meant to be used as a hand's free option in case a breaker went out, not a primary source of light when the whole blood ship had gone dark.

He cursed.

The bastards must have cut the power.

No power, no escape pods.

No escape pods, no way out.

Gil pounded the deck with his fist. A move he instantly regretted as the whirring of wheels stole his attention. Icy dread quenched the fires of his wrath and he hugged the wall to the best of his ability, patting the front of his suit to turn off the light.

The whirring drew nearer, bringing with it faint trickles of illumination that made it just possible for Gil to see their shadows thrown up against the wall in front of him.

He pressed against the wall tighter to avoid being seen.

If they detected him, he'd have nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.

"WHAT IS HAPPENING?" one demanded in a grating voice. "EXPLAIN!"

"I HAVE LOST CONTACT WITH ALL DALEKS FROM SECTORS FIVE AND SIX!" another proclaimed in a much lower register. "THEIR MENTAL SIGNATURES ARE NO LONGER PRESENT ON THE NEURAL PATHWEB!"

"IMPOSSIBLE! THEY HAVE NOT BEEN GIVEN ORDERS TO DEACTIVATE! THE TIME LORD IS STILL AT LARGE!"

"AFFIRMATIVE! ORDERS TO EXTRACT THE TIME LORD MUST BE EXECUTED! ALERT! I HAVE DETECTED MORE DALEK DE-ACTIVATIONS ALONG THIS LEVEL!"

De-activating? Gil thought. What the hell could de-activate a—

"THE HUMANS ARE LAUNCHING COUNTERMEASURES! EXTERMINATE THEM!"

"HUMANOID BEING DETECTED!"

"EXTERMINATE!" they proclaimed, discharging their weapons. "EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINAAAAAAAAAA—"

The Daleks howled in concert a cacophony of anguish until their screams were interrupted by a wet ripping noise.

Gil heard a Thunk! like the sound of raw meat being thrown into a metal canister.

The lights of the Dalek's metal domes snuffed out.

Blackness.

Gil was rooted to the spot, listening hard.

What happened? What the hell had happened?

It was as quiet as an abandoned church. Maddening. He longed for the humming of the engines, the beeping of controls, the pounding of footsteps against the metal deck. Bleeding anything.

The captain tried to quell his shallow breathing to no avail. His body was geyser of energy, just waiting to explode.

He wouldn't stay crouch in the dark like a bleeding toddler. This was his ship. It might be damaged, but he'd be damned if he was going to let anything kill him on his own vessel.

Bolstered by his anger, he felt along the walls with a gloved hand until he found a groove where the hall emptied out into the mess hall.

"Who's there?!" he demanded, holding his position.

No answer.

"Tell me who you are, or I'll light you up like a house on fire!"

He didn't know if he was going barmy, but he thought he heard just the tiniest hint of shuffling from a few feet away.

Here it goes. Now or never.

Gil fired up his suit so he had something to part the tides of darkness, and he stepped out, exposing his position, weapon raised.

The Daleks came into relief as solitary as museum pieces.

The captain huffed and puffed, a quiet noise amplified by the lack of movement elsewhere on the ship.

A shadow swept by in the corner of his eyes and he turned, barrel raised and ready to fire.

"I mean it!" he thundered. "Come out or else I'll pump you so full of lead you'll look-!"

His rifle flew out of his hands, slamming thunderously against the floor.

Gil was hoisted into the air by an invisible snare, gagging and choking and kicking the air in futility as the unseen force clasped its hands around his throat. The ship's captain clawed at his windpipe to dislodge whatever it was, but his fingers could find nothing.

Black dots speckled his vision. His head swam from lack of oxygen. All the while, his body was raised, higher and higher, as if a vengeful angel were drawing him up.

In an instant, he was plummeting head-over-arse to the deck below.

His bones crunched on impact. Heat and pain spread through him like an oil spill.

He gasped, attempting to fill himself with precious air, only to find himself choking on hot blood. The taste of copper flooded his throat. A piercing pain in his side clued him in. One of his ribs had broken and buried itself in a lung like a knife.

His vision was eclipsed by a woman, her shoulders pinned back and chin raised in a defiant stance. Long brown hair framed her diamond-shaped face. The sleeve of her crimson dress had been ripped and the bodice was stained, but she held herself with as much dignity as one wearing the finest robes.

Like a bleeding queen.

No, he realized with pain-filled hysteria.

She wasn't a woman.

She was The Girl.

The Gallifreyan regarded him coldly, hands clasped together in front of her.

The shallow wheezing emanating from his collapsing vocal cords were the only protests he could offer as his body convulsed with hot trails of blood ran down his cheeks.

Her hand reached out and pantomimed grasping. His heart stopped beating. The delicate muscle collapsed like a rotting apple as she squeezed.

Her face disappeared into a shroud of blackness.

Oblivion embraced him.

Hey guys! I'm so, so sorry to keep you guys waiting...again. Please know that I've been working on this fic for months and months, trying to fix it up. I was going to polish it even more, but I'm honestly tired of looking at it. I think my perfectionism is getting in the way so I'm just going to leave it here for you guys to (hopefully) enjoy. I was going to break this chapter up into two parts originally, but I thought you guys had waited long enough. Has it really almost been a year? Seriously? I appreciate all of you guys for your wonderful feedback. You guys are the best and I really appreciate you! Please, if you liked this chapter (and even if you didn't), leave a comment and tell me what you thought.