TWILIGHT ZONE

by time and tea

p r o l o g u e

my beacon's been moved under moon and star

MANCHESTER, 1980 – TIME UNKNOWN

There is water everywhere, coming in through the windows and rising up through the floor. It's suffocating, and as Sam Tyler struggles to be free of his seatbelt, Gene Hunt's words float back to him in the silence of the river as it starts to destroy him.

"Take that seatbelt off—yer a police officer. . ." His voice fades out and Tyler clicks the belt free, struggling against the confines of the car. It's terrifying, he reflects, the dark abyss stretching out around him with sunlight somewhere up above, just waiting to be seen, and his hands move to the door, kicking it to free himself.

It doesn't move. How long has he been under now? He's not sure—he kicks it again, blowing bubbles and ramming his elbow through the remainder of the window's shattered glass. The fragments float around him and he squeezes through the window, kicking feverishly as the fight or flight instincts rise up inside him and he realises that he wants to live.

No—he knew that all along.

Sam Tyler can barely see; his cheeks are swollen with air and he exhales more bubbles, craning his head to try and see the surface from where he is. The car is in tatters but that isn't his concern now; he kicks fiercely, pulling his arms as memories of learning breaststroke come back to him, and starts his bid for freedom.

Light shines, murky and shimmering up ahead. It wavers faintly, as does his will to survive, ebbing and draining from him—the water is sucking it out—but he struggles onward and upwards, hands stretching and reaching desperately for that first breath of air.

I want to live, he thinks, but the light is fading.

And then, just as he reaches it and is able to grasp it in his hands, it goes out.

LONDON, 1982 – 10:13 A.M

CID was slow-moving, reacting to cases at a sluggish pace, and even Alex was feeling the lack of activity. Nothing interesting had come in for weeks; their time had been filled with reports of burglaries, muggings and the occasional assault after a night of drinking, and although the brief period of rest between intense cases was welcomed, the fact that nothing had come up for weeks was somewhat strange.

Even Ray's newspaper, known to often report vicious crime, had a dull headline, something about how Danish fishermen had invaded British waters. For a moment, she almost believed he was reading that very story until he rustled the pages in an obnoxious manner that she had frequently come to associate with him, tapped Chris on the shoulder and descended into a fit of snickers at something he clearly found funny.

Chris glanced at the contents of the newspaper, a brief frown forming on his face. "What's so funny?"

"Seatbelts," Ray returned, pointing to something on the page. Alex sighed and returned to glancing through files at her desk; boredom had started to rot the brains of CID. "Thatcher wants 'em to become mandatory equipment when you're drivin'."

"Bloody hell," Chris breathed, catching onto what was so funny about the proposed idea, "Imagine what the guv would do if that ever happened."

"Stop wearin' your seatbelt," Ray mimicked, deepening his voice and giving it a gruffer edge, "Yer a police officer, not a bloody vicar." He laughed again, turning another page of the newspaper.

"Do vicars even go in cars?"

There was a pause as Ray glanced at his colleague, a look of faint irritation on his face. "Of course they bloody don't," he retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Why's that, Ray?"

"God gives them special ways of gettin' around. You know, like… confessional stuff. They don't need to have a car if they're doin' confessions, people come to 'em and they don't need to drive around in order to know stuff."

A brief lapse in noise followed this statement. "Oh," Chris replied, looking as if he'd just had an epiphany. "Didn't know that. Thanks."

Ray snorted, shrugging his shoulders and propping his feet up on his desk as he turned another page. "Don't trust vicars anyway," he added, shifting in his seat, "You can't trust anyone who's got God whisperin' in their ears all the time."

Deciding that she'd heard enough of this, Alex stood up suddenly and clasped her hands together, glancing at the two men with a bright expression on her face. "Right," she declared, moving around her desk and gesturing to them with one hand, "Chris, Ray, you're with me. We're going to go out and do some police work."

". . . police work?" Ray echoed, brows knitting together in slight confusion. "There's no police work to do, ma'am."

"There's always work to do," she sang back, shaking her head and tugging her jacket on, "And we need to get out there and prove we're actively helping people."

Muttering under his breath, Ray sat up and folded his newspaper in two, tossing it onto the desk with a disgruntled expression on his face. "Women," he sighed, lifting his shoulders and rising to his feet, "Always wantin' to help people."

"Isn't that why you joined the police force?" Alex asked, a little too innocently with a faint smile on her face, "To help people?"

"No," Ray shot back, hiking up his jeans and huffing, "I joined it to arrest slimy bastards who go and commit crime."

Chris cleared his throat. "I joined it to help people," he murmured, catching Shaz's eye and smiling at the pride on her face. Ray glared at him, and he frowned, hastily adding, "Oh—and to catch blaggers."

Alex sighed. "For Heaven's sake, let's just get out and—"

The doors to CID swung open with force that she had only ever seen from one person, and they rattled shut as that very person stormed further into the vicinity with papers clutched in their hands and a determined expression on their face.

"Did someone die in 'ere?" Gene bellowed, ploughing right through the space between Alex and Ray, "Get movin', we've got us a case!" He paused, slapped the papers into Alex's hands and continued towards his office. "Bolls, I want you to brief the lads and meet me in my office in five."

She stared at him as he stood in the doorway of his office, surveying his kingdom with a smug look on his face. Glancing down at the papers and then back at her DCI, Alex tilted her head and frowned slightly. "What case?"

"Man with no memory," Gene announced proudly, gesturing towards the papers. "Just woke up from a three year coma with no memory, no knowledge of who he is—"

"—why are we taking this case?" she asked tentatively, shifting.

"Because," the DCI spat, lip jutting out as he met her gaze, "the nurses say 'e's a police officer of some sort. No one's seen 'im before—'e claims 'e was in a pursuit or somethin' b'fore 'e lost 'is memory."

". . . so we're taking this case because he's one of us?" Alex echoed, baffled by Hunt's logic.

"Exactamundo," he shot, opening the door to his office. "Give the papers to Ray an' Chris an' get your bony arse into my office, Bolls."

She stared after him as he shut the door, silently handing the papers to Chris. The whole of CID exchanged a glance and Alex shrugged her shoulders helplessly—how was she meant to know what was going on?

"Well, I'd best. . ." and she glanced towards Gene's office without another word, inching past Ray's desk and towards the door.

"No problem, ma'am," Chris provided, flicking through the papers and grinning at her, "We'll get crackin' on this."

Gene was pouring himself a tumbler of scotch when Alex came in and closed the door behind her, approaching his desk with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

He set the tumbler down and sat up, eyes piercing hers momentarily—eyes that were clouded with something she couldn't read. "I didn't mention it out there," Hunt murmured, voice lower as he picked up the tumbler and stared at it for a second, "between you and me. . . you knew Sam Tyler, didn't you?"

She answered him with a nod; yes, she had known Sam Tyler. She knew Gene through Sam Tyler—she knew all of them through Sam Tyler, but that was something that wouldn't be mentioned. "Yes," Alex replied, "I knew of him."

There was a momentary lapse in talking as Gene digested the information and swallowed a mouthful of liquor. "Thought so." He set the glass down and sat back in his chair, watching her silently. "That's what complicates this case."

Resisting the urge to make a comment about how he acknowledged this case as complicated instead of open and shut or whatever it was he used to define a case, Alex's eyes met Gene's. She wasn't following. "Me knowing of Sam Tyler complicates this?"

"No," came the short response, with some tightness in the tone, "This officer claimin' to be Sam Tyler complicates this."

He took another swig of scotch as silence descended between them, his face as cryptic and unreadable as ever.

notes: i'm actually going to complete this one, since i lost interest in twentieth century. the title and song lyrics come from golden earring's twilight zone, which was a hit in 1983, also when this is meant to be set for those who are interested. i have most of it planned out in my head, but whether or not it comes out the way i want it to when i write it is a completely different story. there are several events that happened in 1983 that are going to be rewritten for the purpose of this story, some of which you may or may not know about, so that's just a warning. this is obviously au after the series 2 finale, but hey, au is good, right? as always, critique and whatnot on my interpretation of the characters is absolutely loved and vital; i feel as though i can never get them right, though i'm sure all writers who write in this fandom feel like that sometimes. thank you for reading, i'll respond to all your reviews and such in the next chapter. x