TITLE: The Lost Children (1/6)
AUTHOR: Talepiece
RATING: 15 cert.
PAIRING: (not yet)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, I only borrow them for short periods.
SUMMARY: Something is attacking the Children Of Time.
CHARACTERS: Sarah Jane, Martha, Tegan, Jack and others.
CREDIT: Long and Lovecraft for the use of the creatures.
CONTINUITY: Post-Journey's End, pre-End Of Time. References numerous classic and new Who stories as well as my Not In Chronological Order story.

They was always a way out, the woman knew that. She'd known it for a long time. Always a way out of any place, though sometimes the way out was through time not space. She'd learned that a long time ago too. So, really, she'd chosen to stay in this place for the past dozen years. It was nice enough after all. Not great but there were worse places in the world and worse worlds, come to that. But she'd kept her eyes open, seen the weaknesses, spotted the opportunities. Somehow she'd always known that a time would come when she'd need a way out. A quick, convenient way out.

Then the voices had started. Not the usual voices, the ones so many people in this place heard. No, these were real voices. Maybe not voices of this Earth and certainly not human voices but real. She'd waited, knowing something would follow the voices and curious to see what it was. There weren't a lot of surprises in a place like this so it was nice to have something to think about. Something more than what they'd be having for tea.

To be honest, she hadn't expected the blue smoke. She wasn't sure what she'd expected but that wasn't it. And the thing that followed the smoke - no, certainly hadn't expected that. But what really freaked her out, what truly terrified her, were the words. The voices had just been gibbering nonsense before. Voices, some words, but not anything coherent. The smoke had bought clarity. Ironic really. And clarity had bought the deep down fear that even she hadn't felt too many times in her life. Three, she decided after a moment's thought.

Only a moment, though. She had been waiting in the dark corner between two of the outbuildings. Old, ramshackle things that should have been pulled down years before. Any fool could see they were the perfect place to hide while you waited for the lone security guard to make his rounds. Well, apparently only one fool. She waited a few seconds more, giving the man chance to amble down the path. Then she was moving. She tugged her cardigan closer around her and picked up her pace. The middle of the night. Escaping her home of the past twelve years. She felt giddy with the excitement of it, suddenly reminded of how her life used to be.

This next few minutes was the tricky bit. Wait...wait...now. She jogged across the open space and threw herself against the wall. High and topped with spikes. Though she'd never been sure if that was to keep people in or keep people out. Didn't matter; she knew something that the rest didn't. Oh boy, did she. Actually, she reminded herself, she knew lots of things the others didn't. Three of those things were truly terrifying.

She glanced at the corner of the wall, where it turned at right angles to run down the North side of the grounds. She hesitated, stumbling over her own feet as her focus was held by the angle. Maybe that was it. Angles? Could that be it? Nah, surely not? But, then...anything was possible - she knew that too. It didn't matter; she had her chance now. The coast was clear and the night was hers. And she knew where she was going too. The most important part of any escape plan: know where you were headed before you left. Thank god for the library in this place. It would take her the rest of the night and she'd have to be bloody careful but, yes, she could do it. Because someone had to know, someone had to do something about this. And there was only one person she was absolutely sure could live up to that.

She took a deep breath and made her move.

She'd always been proud of her handwriting but her old fingers weren't as dexterous as they once had been. And she was rushing now anyway. Always difficult to write well when you were rushing to get your last words down. They were her last words, she was sure of it. Liz Shaw was sure of it. Someone had teased her with that once. Years ago when she'd returned to the University after her brief time with UNIT. Oh the Doctor. He really did have a lot to answer for. He'd ruined her really. It wasn't a nice way to say it but it was accurate. Ruined her. She couldn't talk about any of the things she'd seen. Not because of the Official Secrets Act - well, partly because of that - but because of the sheer lunacy of what she'd seen and done. Absolute madness.

And now the madness was coming for her again. Coming for her one last time. Funny how things worked out sometimes, Retiring from academia...moving in to the little cottage that Dr Quinn had lived and died in...taking up some of what her old colleagues would call "questionable" studies. Questionable! If they only knew.

She had hoped that the old cottage might be her saviour. Angles seemed to be a big part of all this business and the cottage walls were so ill-formed that there wasn't a clean angle in the place. But, apparently, clean angles weren't necessary - any old angle would do. The voices started now and she wrote more quickly, her usually fine hand becoming an urgent scrawl. She'd called the Brigadier to warn him but he was off somewhere doing something official. Or playing golf perhaps. No way to contact the Doctor and she wouldn't recognise him if he knocked on the door right this minute. Probably a few regenerations down the line by now. She could have done with a couple of regenerations herself.

So her notebooks and journals would have to do. She had a computer but you could never really trust the things. No, good old fashioned handwriting from a good, old fashioned academic. That would do the job. The voices gibbered away and she just laughed at them. Then the smoke began. Blue. A lovely blue really. Wouldn't be a bad colour for the bathroom, she thought idly. It didn't smell. Funny that; no scent at all. She'd expected to be writing the word "foetid". The room was warming up though. The smoke seeped out of the corner and swirled around lazily. The voices grew more clear and she raised her eyes from the book, pen hovering over the page as she tilted her head and listened carefully.

'Ah,' she said, 'Ah, yes, now I understand.'

She was glad. It was the one mystery she had feared would elude her: why. The wording could have done with some work. Not entirely poetic and certainly a bit rich for her tastes but, still, nice to have that answered too. She'd had a good life and, while there were still a few of the really big questions left unanswered, most everything she considered important to her personally had been sorted out. Nice to now why you were going to die, just to keep things tidy at the end. Wouldn't want to go to her grave wondering, she thought and gave a gentle laugh in response.

The blue smoke danced around her and coalesced in to a large blue head. All scales and spikes, barely a discernible face, but it was becoming more coherent by the second. Fascinating. She returned to her journal. The scrawl was barely legible now but it would have to do; there was so much to say and she wanted to get down everything she could before... Anyway, no point being afraid now. Keep writing old girl and let those that are left behind do the rest. The readings would help, she thought, daring a glance at the little mechanical device that sat on her coffee table. The arm flashed back and forth, writing in a more fluid hand than her own. The paper churned out, lines up and down that told a tale that she hoped Sir Alistair and UNIT would be able to follow.

The head was sprouting a neck now...the neck elongating to form slim shoulders...the torso becoming clearer as the smoke swirled around the creature. Funny that; she'd expected batrachian, not serpentine. Hey-ho, if she hadn't learned not to make assumptions by now she never would. Really never would. "A blue, squamous body", she wrote her last words. The elongated head ducked down and stared at her. She looked up, holding its gaze, looking it square in the eyes. 'Well,' she said in a conversational tone, 'at least no-one will be able to say I had a boring death.'

'Hello! Mr and Mrs Jackson? Hello there?'

PC White rapped at the door again. He looked around, taking in the concerned expressions on the faces looking back at him. This was Neighbourhood Watch in action and he felt a little bit of pride swell in his chest when he thought about it. His father had been a copper and his grandfather before him. In those days - or so his father liked to remind him - there was a community and there was Community Policing. Well, today he'd have something to come back with. Last night someone had noticed some strange noises from their usually-quiet neighbours' house and the couple hadn't answered the door this morning. So they'd called him in. Good old East End neighbourly behaviour was how he'd describe it to his father when they met up in the pub later.

He banged at the door again, the old wood rattling in the frame. It wouldn't take much to force the door. The thought gave him pause. He hadn't expected this to be anything serious. The two of them were prone to keep themselves to themselves. Not that they weren't neighbourly but they were one of those sweet older couples who still adored each other after forty-odd years of marriage and didn't really need anyone else to make them happy. Now, though, the forcing the door in thing was looking a bit more likely. And the other members of the Watch knew it. They seemed almost excited about it. PC White pushed down on his concern and smiled at them.

'I'll just have a look round the back, see what I can see from there.'

'Oh I sent my Arthur round there this morning, Constable,' Mrs Jenkins said, 'Said you couldn't see nothing.'

'Still, I'll just have a look.'

He nodded at the inappropriately named Mrs Lively, having to shorten his stride while she manoeuvred herself out of his way. Then he was jogging round the corner and shouldering open the back gate. It was close to falling off its hinges and he had to grab at it to keep it upright. He carefully left it propped open and walked the few paces across the yard to the back window. The curtains were drawn. Even with his face to the glass, a hand shielding his eyes, her couldn't see more than a slither of the room beyond. He tried the back door halfheartedly. Something was wrong. He knew it. Copper's intuition, as his father would call it.

He returned to the front of the house to find another couple of woman had joined Mrs Jenkins and Mrs Lively. They looked at him expectantly. He lifted his radio and informed the station that he was going to enter the house. No to back up; surely that wouldn't be necessary? He told the women to stay back and had to hide his smile at their reluctance to do so.

'Give me some room then, ladies,' he said with false confidence.

He was suddenly aware of the very real possibility that the door wouldn't give as easily as he expected. He lined his shoulder up, took a good step back and charged the wood. It shook heavily in the frame. He shook heavily too. But it did give. The wood around the lock screamed in protest and the door shuddered open.

PC White staggered inside, only just managing to stop himself from falling on to the little hallway's wooden floor. He pulled himself up, rubbing at his shoulder vigorously. Bloody hell, that hurt more than he expected. He blinked in the semi-darkness of the hall. The doors off it were closed and the press of bodies in the doorway cut off most of the light from there.

'Easy there, ladies,' PC White tried again, 'Best you all wait out there until I've had a look around.'

He didn't bother to look back as he moved down the hall, knowing full well that the women would follow him in no matter what he said. He couldn't decide if they were hoping to find the Jacksons alive or dead. Dead would probably make a better story for the gossipy old dears. All these houses had the same layout, though plenty of them had been converted, updated and renovated in to oblivion. Not the Jackson's house; just the same as when they bought it. PC White tried the kitchen door first. Nice and neat, very clean, though there was a hint of ageing fruit in the air. That was a worry.

Backing out of the kitchen, PC White had to negotiate Mrs Lively again. Mrs Jenkins was at the parlour door. He raised his hand to stop her but it was too late. She was already pushing the door open and bustling inside before he could get his words out.

The scream was horrifying. He would never have believed that Mrs Jenkins could produce such a clear note. PC White wasn't sure where that thought came from but he would remember it to his dying day. Not because of the sound itself but because of what he saw immediately after he heard it. He manhandled Mrs Lively out of the way and pushed in to the parlour alongside Mrs Jenkins. There was no smell. He'd always remember that too. No smell and no blood. Not a drop. A blue slime, like kiddies' bubble bath but without that sickly scent they always had. A thin coating of blue slime over everything. The bodies. The room. But no smell and no blood. No blood at all.

Just the two bodies. Mr and Mrs Jackson. Lying side-by-side on the old, threadbare carpet. Not laid out the way an undertaker would do it but not sprawled out like those white outlines that American TV shows used so much. Just lying there. Their bodies almost touching. Their heads placed carefully on their chests.