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A/N: Hey everyone, this is the beginning to an idea I had when I started re-watching Doctor Who. I've been outlining and planning for months now. A really big inspiration for this story is the Wanderer of Time fanfic series written by Tinker16. If you haven't already, please check it out. The story is incredible. While it is an inspiration, I have tried very hard to make this story my own and have no intention of copying their work in any way. If it seems that way, please let me know and I will work harder on changing things as I don't want to steal anyone else's work.

I have revised this chapter, for any returning readers, and have made some important changes. Please reread this section before moving onto the next chapter. I plan on long chapters, likely splitting most episodes into two parts, but we'll see how it goes. I'm going to try to update as much as I can this week and next week before going on another brief hiatus because I will be starting up classes again and will be in the process of moving.

Thank you to all of the readers thus far! I'm really excited to share the story of the Archiver with you guys.

And to any readers of my Peaky Blinders story, Lilies Growing in my Shoes, I am terribly sorry for the lack of updates. I lost some inspiration with that story, but I am trying to get it back through some revising and thorough planning of the story. I will return to it eventually!

Something heavy settled like a blanket of ash over the singed red grass and scattered debris. The weight of silence cracked with wails of sorrow and loss, of horrors too sacred. The battles, the genocide, the breadth of an army left broken and desolated. Ending in all the ways a soldier's life could, in shrapnel and bright flashes of pain. Life after life cut in sacrifice, in misplaced hope, in a sovereign duty. Lives that were used, built upon the shudders of war. This war, terrible and cruel and infinite.

One such soldier, a wilting silhouette surrounded by her fallen comrades, wiped a stray drop of blood trailing from the corner of her mouth. It slipped between her fingers, sticky and wet. A rather mournful grin stretched her lips.

"This is it," she rasped, a cough bubbling in her throat. There's some kind of gun dangling at her side. "This is my end, right? The war collapses in on itself, infinitely, but I stop here." Her smile was crooked. Tears left clear tracks through the dirt on her cheeks. There was a strange sort of hope in her words.

Eyes sweeping over the unmoving bodies littered around her, she could only blink. They didn't care about her, she knew. And she shouldn't have cared to see them dead, but her hearts ached at so much lost life. At a race decimated by the never-ending war. She had played a part in this destruction. And she knew she had defied an order. This was – fittingly, she supposed – her punishment, to die surrounded by those she had hoped to save.

Taking a tentative step forward, she realized she couldn't feel her leg. The twisted foot dragged uselessly behind her, pulling dirt with the sole of her boot.

A being of metal, destructive and deadly, though she secretly equated them to glorified pepper pots, watched her limp. Bedazzled in bronze and gold with special crockery attachments and a single eye. The socket shined blue as it swiveled back and forth. "I. Have. No. Response." Its voice, mechanical and haunting, slid across her spine like a razor and drew blood from her ear drums.

Debris crunched as she attempted another step. There was ash in her hair and in her lungs. She wheezed. Shards of metal and torn apart circuits cut into the planet, her fallen enemies. Probably acting as some kind of metaphor, though she didn't dwell on that triviality. The white snow was now masses of dirty sludge, slicking the battlefield in the wake of running soldiers.

Gallifrey had always been surprisingly cold, even with the second sun in the south.

She huffed, chest heavy. "Oh, you never quite do. You have your own agenda, as we all do. Though yours has always been much more…genocidal." She waved a singularly gloved hand, flippantly turning away from the creature. Two fingers, her pinky and ring finger, were missing and blood dripped down her arm. "Your kind is dwindling, as is my own. Tell me, Dalek, what was the purpose of this war? Who started it? When did it truly start? The details are foggier than they should be, given my career among my people. I think this fight is all I've truly known, even when I tried to run. I ran so far, and I always came back to this, this one moment. Maybe I've been chasing it, maybe we all have."

The Dalek's head turned, following her. Its power destructor, the whisk-like laser where the left arm should be, spun but never quite settled on the soldier. "I. Do. Not. Understand. These. Questions." But it seemed to be thinking, trying to find the answers.

Her head tilted. Her hands were shaking, though they'd been shaking for centuries. It was always a task, getting her hands to still. "The Superior Race," she started, blank and logical. It could have been mocking, if not for the way her eyes glazed and her lips thinned. "The race that wants for nothing but power. A species of self-proclaimed divinity. All others beneath them, imperfect."

Grunting as she crouched, the soldier dropped her gun. She never liked the weight of it in her palm, pinching her fingers. She looked up at the sky, once so beautiful in the light of two suns, now muddied with smoke and death.

In an attempt to run her fingers through her hair, to ease her headache, she winced as they caught on the blood and ash coating the bronze layers twisted down her back. What was left of her fingers came away gritty and sticky.

"It's ironic, and actually quite sad," she hummed, licking the salt and iron from her lip. "For, have I preached the pledge of the Daleks? Or the Time Lords?"

Her hearts beat erratically in her chest, regardless of her outer calm. One was too slow, the other much too fast to compensate. The rhythm was three instead of four and never lined up properly. She could feel the movement of her world, or what was left of it, still turning beneath her knees.

The rocks crackled as the Dalek slid up next to her. "Daleks. Are. Superior." It recited, practiced and sure of the stance of the Dalek race.

Maybe, she thought, but maybe not. Resigned, she leaned back on her heels and struggled to stand. Her damn leg, limp and bloody and useless. She managed to balance anyway.

"Do you know who I am?" She asked, albeit randomly. But she was curious, for why hadn't the Dalek killed her yet? Spare fingers interlaced at the base of her neck, and she supported her head as she gazed at the sky. She could see every dwindling life curving around every withering star.

Her eyes ached, dry and strained, but she didn't look away. Life deserved a witness.

Her wrists cramped as she tried to still her trembling. She couldn't feel the wind as it swept across her face, but strands of her hair rippled across her shoulders.

"An. Enemy." It said, like that's all there was. But, then again, she was speaking to a Dalek. Everything different was wrong. Was an enemy to be destroyed.

"Yes, yes I suppose you're right," She responded, shoulders falling. "But you're an intelligent being, I know you can narrow it down a bit." Her lips cracked and split as she attempted a rueful smile. It was small, sad, and gone quickly.

For some reason, it obliged. "A. Time. Lord."

Brow furrowed, her gaze shifted towards the Dalek out of the corner of her eye. "What am I to you, Dalek? You, and your race." Her voice was firm, even as iron boiled in her throat.

"A. Weapon." It complied, again. Something wasn't right.

She frowned, lowering her hands and turning towards the Dalek. "I was a weapon for my people, just as all other Time Lords. We are made that way. It's a title we earn, a rank among council…of sorts. No." She shook her head, as intimidating as she was stoic, though limp and shaking. "You know more than you're letting on, holding this information hostage, like an advantage. What do you know about me, Dalek? And, why haven't you killed me?"

The Dalek twisted back and forth, almost anxiously. "You. Are. Nothing. More. Than. A. Nuisance." And while that may have been true, it didn't answer her questions.

Her eyes shifted, lids drooping. The gold flecks in her irises flickered amongst the brown. Looking down at her scuffed arms and bruised wrists, she sighed. Something rattled in her chest with every breath. She was suddenly very tired. "I don't remember a time when my hands were steady," she whispered. Air wheezed from her lungs and through her broken nose as she tried to breathe. "I don't remember the last time I talked this much. Surely a few decades, at least. I don't remember much about who I am, or was, outside of my obligations. There's just not enough room for it all. Too much input, not enough storage capacity. I write most of it down, so I don't forget. I remember quite a bit of blood though, and lots of running. Like now."

"You. Are. Dying." The Dalek spoke matter-of-factly. How observant.

"Yes, I think so," she nodded, feeling the shuddering of her throat. Her ribs cracked as she breathed and her bones ground against each other in a way they probably shouldn't. "But I don't think you want me to die. The Daleks need me, or they think they do."

The burning red fabric of another soldier's uniform caught her eye. There was a shoe, too small for any adult, sat abandoned not far from a smoking gun. She closed her eyes, willing the tears away.

"Why. Do. You. Not. Regenerate?" There was something distinctly…odd about a questioning Dalek. And, why would a Dalek want her to regenerate? To live?

"I was given an order," she mumbled, speaking while she had the time. While she still had the voice and the confidence to speak. "I've followed every order ever given to me, without question and without pause. I have done terrible, terrible things for the supposed sake of my people. Things much worse than the order I was given only hours ago. But I refused this time. I don't know why, not fully anyway. And now, I'm dying by the consequences of my own choices. I shouldn't have been here, but I am. Maybe I was always meant to be. Time is fickle that way. But I think it might be best to just…stop here."

"You. Will. Regenerate! You. Will. Come. With. The. Daleks!"

Anger bloomed in her chest, scorching and rare as it was. Her jaw clenched and her eyes steeled. Shoulders squared and nostrils flared, she arched a brow at the Dalek. "You have no rule over me," she spoke. Her voice was oddly clinical and sharp, cutting through the mist between them. Not showing any of the pain she was surely suffering from. "Who am I to you, Dalek? What is it that you want from me? What, that my own kind hasn't already taken? I know my worth, Dalek, and it is nothing to you."

It hummed, moving back a few paces. The most feared creature in the universe was weary of her. "You. Know."

"I know? What do I know?"

"You. Know. All."

She paused, glare fading. "I don't understand." She repeatedly tapped the thumb of one of her shaking hands on the side of her thigh, head tilted in consideration.

"You. Do." The Dalek insisted. "You. Know. All."

The Dalek's intentions clicked all at once. The puzzle pieces fit together, dangerous and terrifying. "It's easy, sometimes, to forget what they've done to me, what they made me into. I get a migraine if I think about it too much, like my mind is ready to implode. You should know this one thing, Dalek, you deserve to know."

"You. Will. Speak!"

"Your species will die here, and so will mine. And so, perhaps, will all the rest."

Weapon flashing, the laser lined up eerily with her hearts. "Daleks. Will. Never. Die." It asserted, eye socket swiveling manically.

"I can feel it." She tapped the side of her head, eyes sad. "I can feel my people dying. I hear their screams, their gasping breaths, their prayers. I listen, so they can go in peace, knowing they are not alone. Dying soldiers, dying officers, dying women and children. I hear the truth behind the Gallifreyan race, the fear. A race that never quite grows, never quite changes, because the very first were afraid to die."

The stars used to litter the sky, polka-dotting the swirls of burnt orange and deep reds. She barely remembered a time, as just a small child, when she would try to count the stars. She'd run out of time by morning with the first rising sun. Nights were so short and days were so long.

It was long before her introduction to the physicality of time.

In this moment, she could see the stars struggling to peek through the smoke of war. And the two moons, risen without her noticing, cusped the clouds in a gray haze. They looked lonely, even as they crowded what was visible of the night sky. There was something ominous about the burning reds blotching the thinner layers of the darkened smog.

She hummed under her breath an old lullaby she thought her mother might have sung to her. Or perhaps she'd witnessed another child being sung to. Perhaps it wasn't real at all. But she hummed the tune, low in her throat. It sounded wet and croaked through her lips in broken bits.

She thought about the children who liked to stargaze, and she hummed for them too. Looking at the few stars in the sky, she projected the image as far as she could for the peace of her people.

Her right hand pulsed in pain, and blood streamed from the wounds. The glove, brown leather and two fingers down, sparked in her palm. The wires fried. It burned. It woke her up.

The Dalek had been watching her, waiting. Time passed, though she wasn't quite sure how much.

"I've never known a patient Dalek," she mused, entirely curious and confused.

It didn't respond, just swiveled and refocused its eye socket. She couldn't help but think her enemy, strangely her confidant for the last several hours, seemed lost. In thought, in memory, maybe in turmoil. Against her better judgement, she felt bad for the deadly creature. It was a soldier, used for this war, just as she was. But she had a bad habit of allowing empathy to cloud her perspective.

"Dalek, do you have a name?" Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and hesitant. She knew the answer, but thought she'd ask anyway.

The Dalek twisted sharply towards her, sliding across the gravel quickly. Its weapon pressed against her sternum. "Daleks. Do. Not. Have. Need. For. Names! Daleks. Do. Not. Accept. Pity!" Its eye flashed with each word.

"Of course, I pity you, just as I pity every victim of this war. The civilizations we crumbled, the species we erased, the soldiers we created, the lives we stole," she said, lacing her fingers at the base of her neck for a second time. The pressure helped to steady the dizzy spell that hit her. She pressed forward, allowing the metal to dig into her chest. The list of wrongdoings kept going, shuttering just behind her eyelids. She didn't close her eyes just so she wouldn't have to look at it.

"Daleks. Are. Not. Victims!"

"We are all victims," she spoke, lowering a hand between them. She rested her palm along the weapon connecting them, her three fingers curling around the metal. "Who am I to you, Dalek? Why were you given orders to retrieve me? Alive, no less."

The Dalek jerked, uncharacteristically retreating from her reach. "You. Are. The. Asset."

She sighed. "You're not wrong, though I haven't gone by that name for centuries. They gave that name to me, and I've never been partial to it. When I realized, so long ago, that I wasn't the property of my species, I suddenly had the freedom of my own name, not a title. Of course, the name I have now wasn't my choice either. It was a gift. There's even a religion titled after me. Flattering, though a bit unsettling, if I'm honest. It wasn't my idea, of course, I –"

"You. Will. Stop." The Dalek interrupted.

"Oh, am I rambling?" She quipped, eyebrows raised. She hadn't talked that way, unrelenting and without limit, in so very long. It was freeing, though her throat stung at the use. "Terribly sorry. What can I do for you, Dalek?" Her teeth were sticky. She wondered if they were as red as they felt.

Though she didn't show the discomfort, her spine spasmed and locked. She couldn't feel her limp leg at all anymore. Her lungs tore with every inhale. It was probably odd to some, the connection and control a Tome Lord had over their body, but she could feel the struggle of her kidneys. One had already failed.

"The. Asset. Will. Obey." The Dalek sounded almost frustrated, as much as a Dalek could.

If she had the energy, she might have scolded the Dalek for treating her so callously. She was not its prisoner. As it happened, she could barely blink without her body aching in pain. She knew, though, that she was the one in control here, even if the Dalek refused to recognize that fact.

"I find your species incredibly…sad," she mused. Watching the Dalek jerk back, her heart swelled with pity.

"The. Asset. Will. Explain." It screeched, lights flashing in warning.

She tapped the side of her nose twice, anxiety curling in her hallow stomach. "You're a Dalek, and no one else. You have no name, no identity. You're simply a colony of soldiers slaved to orders; and without those orders, you wait. You waste away, but you're not allowed to feel anything besides that urge to obey. Not impatience. Not boredom or pain or curiosity. I understand that, I truly do. I was much the same, once. But the difference between us is that I chose to become something different."

It was silent, she waited, and then, "Of course, all paths led me here, same as you."

"We. Are. Not. The. Same." It hissed, guttural and metallic. "Daleks. Are. Superior."

"As you've said," she nodded. Spots danced in her vision and dizziness hit from the motion. "You have your beliefs, and I have mine."

It spun, weapons twirling and eye socket flashing. "Daleks. Do. Not. Compromise! Daleks. Are. Superior!"

Glancing down, she watched as blood soaked through her trousers, staining the red of her uniform a deep maroon color. It spread from several slashes and burns in her thigh. She blinked, focus swimming. The reds blurred.

Feeling delirious and light-headed, she steadied her breathing. "We've been talking in circles, Dalek. For hours, we've been chatting without really saying anything. Repeating and repeating and repeating. Granted, I get sidetracked. I'm easily distracted, always have been. One of my many quirks. I like to think it's endearing, but it's probably just annoying. And here I am rambling, and dying – of course – and there you are, stalling, I think. Stalling for what?"

It stopped shifting, seeming to weigh the options. It was almost amusing, and sad, the confusion etched into the silence of this one unusual Dalek.

"Reinforcements," it said, finally, and she couldn't help the small huffed laughter that escaped her lips.

She stared across the horizon, the desolate wasteland of bodies and parts and smoke. Once so beautiful, magical if she were one to believe in such a thing. Tall glittering towers now crumbling to dust and ruin. The red grass capped with white snow as far as the eye could see. Silver trees reflecting the oranges of the sky, all burning to cinders. At the very center, elegant and bold, the city of Arcadia. The dome of shattered crystal rained onto the city.

The planet – her home, in a begrudging way – was now decimated, skeletal in the same way a tree losing its leaves may seem.

She saw no life; she felt no life. It was all ending. "There are no reinforcements coming."

"They. Are. Coming." And that surety in its voice broke her heart. Despite her misgivings, despite her past transgressions, she liked to think herself kind. Even a being meant to be her enemy could not truly ignite her hatred or spite. She felt hallow at witnessing the strange hope blooming in the child of a hopeless race.

"But why?" She wondered aloud. "Why, when a single Dalek could wipe out an entire planet in an afternoon, do you need reinforcements for me? I'm already wounded, and I'm hardly worth the trouble of even one Dalek." Her lips curved in a wry grin, fresh tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"You. Know. All." The Dalek repeated earnestly. "You. Are. The. Archiver."

She may have rolled her eyes if she didn't think she'd lose her balance altogether from the action. "So, you do know my name. Quite exciting, truly." She leaned forward a bit, as if to share a secret, tapping her nose twice. "Tell me, Dalek, do you honestly want to know what I know?"

"You. Will. Tell." The Dalek's eye swiveled again, showing excitement and authority all in one motion.

Her lips curled sadly, blood dripping down her chin. She tasted salt and metal as her tongue swept across her lip. Her cheeks were wet. "You will be the last Dalek, and I will be the last Time Lord. Or Time lady, if you're one for semantics." It was a whisper that echoed across the desolate expanse of war. It collapsed broken towers and swept dust from the rubble. It traveled through the cracks of Gallifrey and burned her hearts.

The Dalek shook, backing away from her and her treacherous words. "You! Lie!" It screeched, sliding and cutting into the ground. Turning away, searching for others of its kind. "YOU! LIE!" It repeated, over and over and over.

She almost wished she was lying, but she could feel it as life after life dwindled to silence. And she knew it would all end in a breathless, tragic moment. The most important moment, and the hardest choice.

"It ends here, with us." Her throat constricted, she swallowed something metallic.

"The. Daleks. Will. Never. Die." It stared at her, eye socket strangely expressive. "The. Archiver. Knows! And. You. Lie! I. Will. Not. Let. The. Daleks. Die!" Stopping, the Dalek looked to be preparing for something, and her hearts seized in her chest. One stopped all together. She didn't understand how mono-vascular creatures could cope as pain bloomed along her left side. The air rushed from her lungs and she lunged forward.

"No!" She latched onto the creature, fingers grappling for any spare handholds. The consequences didn't really cross her mind, even as her wounds screamed and her mind muddied.

"Emergency. Temporal. Shift."

The two soldiers hurtled through the time vortex. Her broken body was unprotected from the consuming nature of time and space colliding in a tunnel of spinning cosmos. A scream ripped from the depths of her throat, blood coating her tongue. Knuckles splitting as she tried to keep her grip, she felt the pressure of the shift crushing her body.

She let go, the last of her strength whittled away.

Her vision blackened. Unable to breathe in, her lungs collapsed without air. Bones shattered, scraping against each other and rattling along her torn muscles. And her hearts finally burst in a crescendo of torture. Everything was pain, agonizing, liberating pain. White hot cruelty that started from her finger tips and spread through her veins like acid. It burned; she was burning. And she cried what few tears she had left in mourning.

Of course, she would burn. It had to be some kind of bad karma, a sick joke. Her lip curled into a small, patient smile as she waited for her final release. There was only blind burning agony until there was suddenly a gentle warmth.

"No, no, no, I wanted to stop. I'm not doing this. Who…why? Please, no," she whimpered, a deep frown twisting her features, as the unwelcomed heat spread quite oddly from a spot on her cheek. It felt similar to the soft caress of a mother's touch along her skin. Her spine spasmed through the dichotomy of agony and a soothing wave of calm. The golden light enveloped her body and shot from her limbs in ribbons of regeneration energy. She was changing again, and it was devastating.

Her head was weightless. She wondered, briefly, what happened to the Dalek.

She lost consciousness somewhere between the feeling of two freshly beating hearts and the itchy sensation if grass between her fingers.

*O*O*

Before anything else, she noticed the texture of the air. Like gravel, the different atoms coated her tongue in a thick, rough residue. It was somehow both soothing and disgustingly chaotic as it filled her new lungs. She reveled in the feeling for a moment. She liked these new lungs better than her last ones. They breathed easier, fresh as they were.

She was probably on Earth, or someplace similar, based on the composition of the air on her tongue.

Her body ached with the familiar soreness of a fresh regeneration. There was a coldness beneath her…wait not beneath, behind. Gravity pressed her head to her chest without her neck's support. Propped against a large vertical metal slab, she paused to assess. Against her better judgement, she cracked her eyes open, slowly and deliberately. The light assaulted her brand-new retinas, and she groaned at the unfortunately expected migraine that ensued.

To her, more than any other change – except perhaps the tongue's taste preferences –, the eyes had always been the most exciting. Yes, they changed color and possibly shape, but the shift in her vision was something to look forward to, as minimal as her want for regeneration was. Light perception. Depth. Clarity. She'd heard of Time Lords regenerating blind, others needing glasses. She wondered if colors themselves could be perceived differently with new eyes.

These eyes, in particular, were overly sensitive, especially to the light – even for Time Lord standards. It pulsed on the edges of her vision and left spots behind her eyelids. But they were sharp, catching the dust floating through the air and the tiny cracks in the wall on the other side of the room.

The room, yes. It was compact and made mostly of concrete. There were no windows that she could see. The air felt weighted and heavy, so she was likely underground. Fluorescent light fixtures hung from the ceiling. She was glad they didn't flicker as she was already feeling quite disoriented. The floor was linoleum tiles, like a bathhouse, and there was a drain just to her left accented with a walled metal hose. The air smelled of musk, damp and sticking to her skin unpleasantly. Her bare skin.

She'd always been rather indifferent to her body. While her training and obligations required her to be physically fit – a trait that seemed to carry over through her regenerations, so perhaps there was a way to influence the outcome just a smidge –, she had never been particularly vain or shy. But there was something about knowing a stranger had dressed her in small cloth shorts and a sports bra without her awareness that made her skin crawl. Both articles were white and stiff, sterile like a hospital.

Her hips and ankles were bound to the metal slab with thick leather straps, and her wrists were strung up by cushioned chains on either side of her head. She wasn't as tan as her last body, but definitely taller, and – oh look – all ten fingers. She could wiggle them just enough in her restraints to get back the feeling in her palms and wrists.

At least twenty-four hours had passed since her regeneration as the last of the residual energy had already ebbed away. She could feel the way her cells settled into her new form, content and sure. Though there was a strange buzz beneath her skin that made her anxious, like she was misplaced in this point in time and space. Like her body wasn't quite sure where or when she was meant to be.

It was oddly warm in the…hospital? Bunker? Dungeon? Sweat stuck to her skin in an effort to cool her from the heat, dripping down her back from her neck and slicking her joints. Her hair was melded to her skin, and her scalp itched. The color of her new hair was noticeably blonde, a pale bleached color, from the longest strands that brushed just along her collar to the shortest that swept over her cheeks. Shorter than her last cut.

The near silence was unsettling. She was never particularly fond of silence. The only sounds were her deep, measured breaths and the quartet of her beating hearts strumming from a monitor somewhere behind her.

Allowing saliva to gather, she swallowed to sooth the dryness of her throat. By now, her eyes had relatively adjusted to the clinical lighting, and she searched her surroundings for a clue as to where she was or for a way out of her predicament.

The room was mostly empty, save for a block of metal cabinets along the wall in front of her, a tray with a stack of papers and manila folders to her far left – out of reach even if she had movement of her arms –, and the slab she was strapped to. There was likely more behind her, judging by the proximity of the beat of her hearts. And that was probably where the door was, since she couldn't see an exit in the scape of her vision.

Testing her movement, she fought back a groan of frustration, not knowing if someone might have been listening. She could vaguely shift and bend her knees. While helpful for circulation and cramps, the range of motion wasn't enough to loosen her bindings. She could flex her wrists as well, but refrained as the cuffs uncomfortably pinched her skin.

Twisting her neck and arching her back, her stiff muscles felt minimal reprieve. If she tugged too hard, she feared for the pressure on her shoulders.

And time passed. She imagined the tick-tock-tick-tock of a clock to fill the air.

She and time have always had a complicated relationship. It fought against her most often, but she always welcomed the challenge of conquering time. But now, as the seconds ticked by, she wallowed in the grudge that time held for her. She took to counting the cracks in the ceiling while she waited for whoever brought her here to make an appearance.

She counted to a hundred and seventy-seven when she choked on a breath at the screech that echoed across the space she now called her cell. And she knew those screeches; she'd been the cause of similar sounds many times.

The scream of a Dalek. Not angry. Not demanding. Not pleading. It was the sound of pain, deep rooted and agonizing.

Was it her Dalek? The one she spoke so personably with? Must be, she was sure.

"Where did we land?" She whispered to herself, body stiff and eyes scrunched closed. She breathed heavily through her nose and out through her mouth, trying to stay calm as the screams continued. They echoed off the concrete walls, bouncing back and forth and forcing her to listen. She didn't know which direction it was coming from.

Behind her placement in the room, a heavy metal door swung open disarmingly quiet. She didn't notice, so distracted was she by the torture of the creature she was meant to call an enemy. The sound cut off so abruptly, she felt her ears ring. Tears trailed down her cheeks, chest aching at such terrible pain for any being.

"I find you utterly fascinating," a man, human, spoke just to her left. Though surprised, she didn't jump. And yes, she was indeed on Earth.

He was short, with a receding hairline and an unflattering moustache. He wore an expensive suit and a grin that emitted arrogance. And he was, somewhat surprisingly, American. She hadn't been to America in a while, likely in their early 2000s based on his attire and speech pattern. "You just look so…human. But, clearly, that isn't the case. Not with a binary vascular system and that little trick you did to get here. I don't know what it was, but I'm excited to find out."

She remained silent, watching the man with a careful eye. His gaze made her shiver, like she was some amusing attraction to play with.

He suddenly inhaled sharply, placing a hand over his left breast and looking confusingly apologetic. "Forgive me, I don't have to do this often. I'm Henry van Statten. I'm a collector, you see. I find such strange and other-worldly things, and I showcase them in my private…museum, if you will. I choose to bring the mysteries of the universe into my own home. And you, my dear, are certainly a mystery. Do you understand me?"

Hesitantly, she nodded. She wasn't particularly confident with his pleasant demeaner.

"Great," he clapped his hand. "Do you have a name?"

Raising a brow, she nodded again, though she didn't think that was the answer he wanted.

Van Statten's eye twitched and he laced his fingers. "Yes, okay, I probably deserved that one. What's your name?"

She tilted her head, calculating his body language. He was laughably easy to read. She didn't think he was particularly smart, even by human standards. Conniving maybe, and certainly greedy, but not very intelligent. "Why," she retorted softly, eyes curious, "would I tell you anything, Mr. Van Statten?"

"A Scottish accent? For an alien? Odd, certainly," The way his lip curled was distinctly not friendly, though the raised brow translated curiosity. "Well, what choice do you have? I'm not going to let you go until I get my answers, so you might as well cooperate."

"I don't think you're going to let me go at all, no matter what I tell you," she hummed, letting her head rest back on the slab and breaking eye contact. She listened to her voice, humored by the accent. She'd never been Scottish before. It was interesting, the dialects and accents each regeneration chose when assimilating to a language. English, in particular, was always fun. So many possibilities. "You're a very predictable man."

While he obviously did not like that comment, she gave him points for not physically showing his displeasure. The truth was in the way his eyes hardened, the irises dark and edged with anger. "Perhaps, but you'll want to cooperate regardless."

She knew where this was going as he stepped back towards the door, of course she did. She'd been in his position enough times to know what came next. His knuckles rapped on the metal of the door four times, and she felt resigned to her fate.

"Simmons, so glad you could join us," Van Statten greeted, leading another man to her side.

The new man, Simmons, was about what she expected. Not the brown sweep of his hair or the decent build of his body. It was in his eyes, in his expression. The way his smile curved just crookedly enough to show a few teeth and split his otherwise handsome features. His eyes flashed with the intrigue of curious and sadistic intent. He resembled her, on her bad days – really bad days.

"Couldn't be more excited to get started," Simmons chuckled, standing far too close. Another American, though she shouldn't be surprised. How embarrassing it was to be at the mercy of these two humans.

Sometimes, she mused, humans could be the most beautiful creatures in the universe. And other times, the downright cruelest monsters of them all. She was crudely fortunate enough to have encountered the latter much more often.

"She's a bit stubborn to cooperate, but I know you'll get through to her," Van Statten said, leaning against the wall as he stared at her. "If she is, in fact, alien – which I do believe she is – then she may have some insight on our metal friend a few doors down."

He was talking about the Dalek. He clearly hadn't gotten a name from the Dalek either, as confident as she was in her deductive skills. And he was frustrated. Nothing quite like the wrath of a disgruntled torturer.

"It's simple, really," Simmons started. He disappeared behind her vantage point, and she could hear the scrape of metal along the tiled floor. "We'll start with studying her physiology, as we don't need her input in that regard. By the end of it, she'll be more than willing to answer our questions." She eyed the assortment of surgical tools sat ominously on the tray, but she was much more worried about the machine he dragged just behind him.

Simmons stuck the wired patches to her temples, on either side of her hearts, and along her hips. And, while she was shamefully afraid, she refused to show that kind of weakness in front of these men. She was much stronger than they gave her credit for.

"Right you are," Van Statten laughed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Let's get started."

She bit her tongue to keep from screaming as the shocks coursed through her veins. The taste of iron was, sadly, quite familiar.

Special thanks to my reviewers: bored411, ThatBigBlueBox, Aryabloodlust, Punky Eleven, and savethemadscientist

I really appreciate all of your feedback and would love to hear more from my readers! Any questions and comments posed in reviews or private messaging I will do my best to answer at the end of each chapter in an endcard similar to this. Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoy!

I apologize again for the sporadic updating, but it will be that way for awhile. I'll do my best for you all!