𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧
𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐝𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐨
𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔

from the eyes of
— 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐀𝐃𝐄 —

It took me about 3.5 seconds of being crouched behind the bar with River Song as we were all fired upon to realize exactly where these robo-bastards were from and who sent them. 51st-century. The Time Agency.

The proper term for them is Robotic Time Agents. Not human in the slightest, but not augmented ones either. No, they were made entirely from steel and very advanced AI programming. Conscious only to a degree—prisoners to programming. They were not free AI bots like some in the 51st-century.

Not that any of this was important right now, seeing as screams echoed the place as everything got destroyed from rapid fire and hot ionic blasts.

What is important to note is that these bots really only get sent after other Time Agents because if humanoid agents are sent after other humans then there is always the chance of clouded judgement.

"Didn't you desert the Agency too?" I shouted to River over the chaos, ducking as a blaster scorched the liquor shelf above our heads. "Why are they only after me and not you?!"

"No, I didn't desert the Agency! I served my mission and earned an honorable pardon, thank you very much!" She yelled back indignantly. "Why would you desert the Agency? Only someone with a death wish would do that!" She added with a half-laugh, her voice betrayed the humor she was trying to suppress.

Considering River Song runs about with a Vortex Manipulator on her wrist along with her pure skill alone, it was very evident that she too had once been a Time Agent.

I assumed, based on how I know her to be, that she would've ditched them.

Apparently, I was wrong. Although, an honorable pardon with the Time Agency is impressive—those fuckers like to hold onto all the agents with an iron chokehold. And not the hot kind.

I racked my brain trying to remember if we'd ever run into each other back when I was with them. But the Agency's massive, and I've never been great with names or faces.

There were only a handful of people that I ever bothered to remember from that part of my life.

And River Song? Yeah. She would've stood out. I would've never forgot a woman like her.

Conclusion? Our paths never crossed back then.

Probably for the best.

"Alright, bada-bing, bada-boom..." I hummed, moving at the speed of light to flip my backpack around, unzipping it, and carefully (as carefully as possible, given the situation) reaching inside. "Mrs. Worldwide out here..." I shamelessly quoted Pitbull, or at least, semi-quoted him.

River Song huffed, dazzled, as my entire arm disappeared elbow-deep into the bag. She blinked, brows furrowing as she watched me rummage around.

I accidentally knocked over a few too many items (I definitely hit my toothbrush and a grenade) before finally grabbing hold of what I needed.

With a heave, I pulled out a full-length, gleaming black machine gun—standard issue, 52nd-century free-range artillery, and absolutely not legal in any sane quadrant. It stretched the fabric of my backpack as it emerged with a satisfying clank-clank-clack.

River stared at it, stunned. "Where do you keep all these things?"

"I feel like you definitely already know..." I replied coolly, checking the chamber and cocking it with a sharp snap.

River smirked. "Spoilers."

My lips twitched before falling into a frown. "Are the others still alive?"

She blinked and snapped out of her daze, leaning out the side of the bar for just a second. Blaster fire raged past her head, but she ducked back, cheeks flushed and hair frizzing from static.

"Yep!" She said breathlessly. "They're behind the flipped table—alive, and they don't appear to be shot..."

I hadn't really thought they were dead—I could hear their yelling even over the plasma bursts—but still, confirmation helped.

"Good!" I said, breathing tight as I pressed my back against the bar, waiting for that glorious lull when the bots needed to cool their systems and reload. "All I need is five seconds and a clean line..." I hummed, narrowing my gaze.

Unfortunately, another bullet grazed past my head, and it became incredibly evident that there was a much higher chance of one of us getting shot before the robots would need to pause to cool their weaponry systems.

I could vaguely hear the sound of the Doctor trying to use his sonic, but he wasn't close enough. These AI 'bots were advanced—like seriously futuristic advanced robotics. This is not to say that the screwdriver isn't more advanced because it's the Doctor's; of course, it's more advanced than almost everything in the universe. However, the sonic isn't unbeatable, even it would need to be right next to the powerlines of the bot (their necks) to shut them down.

Amy, stronger than hell itself, Amy—she was urging the Doctor to hurry up.

Blowing a bubblegum colored strand out of my face, the head of the machine gun was placed just on the counter, with my full body still blocked.

"Closer to the ground—rapid fire!" My voice was loud, harder than I intended, and far too similar to the orders that I used to give while serving as a Major for the Time Agency.

It seemed only the Doctor and River had an understanding of what 'rapid fire' entailed, for River was pressing herself as close to the ground as she could, hands covering her ears, and I heard the Doctor directing the others to do entirely the same.

I waited no longer than three seconds, not wanting to give the robots any time to take cover before my hands pulled the trigger and I was firing back.

This gun fired faster and harder, shooting every which way and destroying just as much—if not more—than what the 'bots were. War cries escaped my mouth as I fired, doing my best to aim at where I knew the Robotic Time Agents to be standing, despite not being able to see.

The screaming swelled—pure chaos. Glass crunched underfoot. Someone was audibly praying between sobs—Leandro, judging by the tone.

Suddenly there was a loud voice. "They're fucking dead! Stop shooting, lady!" Different from anyone who had previously been in the vicinity.

The voice was deep, unmistakably American, and almost baritone. It thundered through the ravaged air. It sounded like it was coming from a megaphone, but I knew that it wasn't.

It was Garren Zevon.

Augmented lungs. Internal modulation systems. The man could rattle a skyscraper when he raised his voice, if he wanted—if he pushed his internal systems to do so. Cyborgs are so awesome.

Adoration—relief, too—hit me harder than I expected.

My finger flew off the trigger.

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of sparking wires and the hiss of cooling metal. It was a breathless kind of silence; everyone was waiting to see if the shooting would resume. But the blasts were truly over.

I cautiously rose, just enough to peek over the bar. River mirrored me beside the counter, eyes sharp and curious.

The place was obliterated.

Yikes.

Broken bottles and glass littered the floor like jagged confetti. Tables were flipped and blackened, some charred down to splinters. Walls scorched, ceiling panels sagging, lights flickering half-heartedly. It looked less like a bar and more like a battlefield. But a battlefield from one of those video games that takes place in a dystopian future.

Then my gaze flicked toward the front—and there was Garren.

Green hair, spiked to one side, and dark aviators that shielded his eyes like he was too cool—or too dangerous—for anyone to see what was underneath.

If you asked someone to guess his background, most would probably say East Asian. But that sort of thing didn't carry the same weight in the universe he came from. Race? Ethnicity? Those were Earth concepts—useful in some timelines, obsolete in others. Out in the wider times and universe, people recognized you as what you are descended from.

In Garren's case, the answer was sapien-derived. Human-adjacent. Technically.

But everything about him was just a little too clean, too sharp, too enhanced.

He stood about eye-level with the Doctor—Garren was maybe an inch taller, though it could've just been the way he carried himself. That posture, that easy command of the room... it made him seem like a soldier. Hell, he is a soldier.

And then there was his build. Broad. Solid. Made like a wall you'd want to stand behind in a gunfight—or maybe crash into on purpose, just to see if he'd flinch.

Very broad. Very sturdy.

Most would consider him very... attractive.

Garren turned, he scanned the wreckage, and gave a quick nod to me—calm and composed.

I exhaled—just once—before my eyes found someone else.

The Doctor. Oh, lovely, lovely—strong, heroic Doctor. A person of dreams.

He was crouched behind a flipped table next a gaping Amy; Leandro, Vanessa, and Thiago were all trembling, edging as close to the Doctor as they could comfortably get. They basked in the calming and gentle waves he was giving off.

The Doctor's head was tilted slightly, one hand braced on the tables' edge. He looked at the destruction, narrowed his eyes at Garren, and then... oh, hell.

Then he was staring at me.

Correction: the Doctor glared.

That expression? That was not just confusion, not just fear. Not even just relief. Although I was surprised to find relief in his gaze at all, he still didn't want either River or me hurt.

Mostly, however, it was wrath that I found in his eyes.

Pure, undiluted Oncoming Storm fury—those brilliant green eyes sharpened like razors, his mouth pressed in a grim line.

The Doctor's brilliant green eyes cut across the destroyed bar and locked onto me with a precision that made my spine straighten involuntarily. His jaw was tight, mouth pressed into a grim, unreadable line. His rage didn't need volume—it radiated off him in hot waves.

I winced, biting my lower lip and quickly looking away. I refused to let those gorgeous (and very, very furious) eyes snare me any longer than necessary.

"Are we doing a green and pink duo now?" Garren's voice broke through the tension, laced with playful sarcasm and curiosity.

I whipped my head toward him, blinking in confusion—only to find him standing there with his head slightly cocked, lips parted in amusement. His dark aviators, as always, made it impossible to tell if he was joking or judging.

Self-conscious, I instinctively reached up and grabbed at the ends of my jagged pink wolf-cut.

It didn't look that bad... right?

Only Garren would make me feel self-conscious about my hair at a time like this.

"Garren," I muttered, cheeks puffing. "You've seen me with pink hair before."

"Sure," he said, frowning slightly. "But this one's very... lopsided. Did you use actual scissors this time or a knife?"

"Garren! It was a stressful day, okay!" I squawked angrily, my voice slightly higher-pitched. "Is there anything actually wrong with it apart from a bit of lopsidedness?"

"No," He shrugged, with a frown, eyes invisible behind his dark glasses. "I just would've liked a heads up. I wanted to be pink this time. It's your turn to be green..."

"Garren, please!" I rolled my eyes with a huff, releasing the ends of my hair. "Green is your signature, you've had green hair for years! You would not have changed it."

"Whatever," He rolled his eyes but didn't deny it as he crossed his arms, sulking like a child. "I still would've liked the option..." he pouted.

Leandro, still crouched behind the overturned table, rose to his feet with a groan. He looked around the wrecked bar in devastation. Smoke clung to the air, glass crunched under boots, and the faint stench of scorched metal lingered in the rafters. Tables were overturned or reduced to splinters, and the walls were peppered with blaster holes. One of the neon signs behind the bar sparked pitifully.

"My bar..." Leandro whispered, voice cracking. His hands clutched at his dark hair, fingers tangling through the strands. "This was my life, my family's business—my everything."

Guilt stabbed me square in the chest.

Garren, bless him, stepped forward like he was going to offer a shoulder to cry on. But instead, he reached into the front pocket of his trousers. He shifted around for a moment before his eyes lit up, and he pulled out a small golden ring.

"This is what, 2026? Rio de Janeiro?" He tapped the ring against the least-damaged section of the bar counter. "This should fetch you around six million, give or take. That ought to cover the damage that my friend and I have caused here today...."

The ring pulsed once in the dim light, then glowed bright gold and began to expand. It shimmered, folding outward like origami, until it rested in the size of a full adult palm—still ring-shaped, but visibly engraved now with a language older than this planet.

Leandro, Vanessa, and Thiago gawked. Amy did too.

"Wh-what is that?" He asked.

"Compressed platinum woven with interdimensional gold," Garren said coolly, brushing dust off his sleeve. "Technically banned in twelve quadrants and used as currency in five others. But here? Here, it just looks shiny and costs more than your entire street block."

"So probably don't try to pawn it at a corner store," I added helpfully. "It'll probably sell for more at higher-end markets..." I was thoughtful. "In fact, I would go to JemCut in downtown..."

Leandro's mouth opened, then closed again—twice—before he gave up entirely and just blinked in stupefied silence. The truth was that this was worth a lot more than he would need to replace and fix everything. But considering the emotional damage we caused, this seemed to be a good enough trade price.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Doctor watching the ring, his expression sharp and unreadable. His green eyes had narrowed, and his lip curled ever so slightly—as if the very sight of the rich ring offended him on some ancient moral level. Judging. Disapproving. Not of Leandro, but of me.

Before I could process that sting, my attention was pulled to Vanessa. Her brown eyes were wide, brimming with something between shock and awe as they flicked between Garren, the ruined bar, and the robotic corpses still smoldering on the floor. Her voice trembled when she finally spoke.

"Who... who are you?" She asked.

Garren turned his head slowly, casting me a long look over his shoulder.

We met eyes.

His look said everything: Do I go with the truth, or the brand-safe version? Was he Garren Zevon of the Wider Multiverse, champion of the Space Jam... or just some bureaucratic cleanup time specialist with a badge and muscles?

I gave a helpless shrug. Your call.

Garren turned to her, choosing to go with the safer answer, considering there were still many factors unknown between everybody in this room. I was the only one with real answers. Lucky me.

He faced Vanessa again, crossing his arms tightly, his posture suddenly very military. "I'm Special Time Agent Garren," he said evenly.

"Special... Time..." Vanessa repeated slowly, like the words were jigsaw pieces she couldn't quite put together. Her hands came up to rake through her hair, trembling. "Huh?" She let out a strange little laugh that was almost a sob. "Time Agent... right. Of course. Why not."

"Indeed, I am an Agent of Time—and you are?" Garren told her before spinning into a curious question—I imagined his eyes were kindly inquisitive behind the dark aviators.

"I just wanted to prove the Tomb existed..." Is all Vanessa said, more to herself as she tried to calm down, pinching the skin of her shoulder.

Oh, yikes. She thought this could be a dream. Or a nightmare.

There was a very long, awkward silence—the three Brazilians stared around in unabashed shock. River, funny enough, was actively pouring herself a shot of Don Julio. With one of the only unbroken bottles in a shot glass that by some miracle was still whole.

A quiet beeping pulled my eyes back to Amy and the Doctor. Amy's eyes were wide, frozen on Garren, who looked not far off from the real-life Terminator. What really caught my attention was the Doctor now carefully and very gently holding Amy's left hand, scanning his sonic over her wrist.

There was a cut there—nothing too deep, but visible on her pale wrist—a cut that was closing from the sonic at a moderate pace. She must have cut it on the broken glass.

The Doctor's full attention was on her wound; he was healing it silently, meticulously. Like it was the only thing in the world worth focusing on, and maybe, in that moment, to him, it was.

It was obvious just how much Amy meant to him—if it was ever a question before (not that it was)—then it was very apparent now. That man cared about his companions more than anyone would ever begin to understand.

He didn't look around at the devastation. Not at Garren. Not at Leandro or Vanessa or River. Not even at me.

Especially not at me.

His entire being was fixed on Amy. The quiet concentration. The steady hands. His fury didn't manifest in shouting or angry gestures—it radiated cold and quiet, sharper than any explosion. It was so strong, I could smell it. TimeLord rage.

And it wasn't hot this time. It was disappointment. The kind that stings longer than any weapon.

I cleared my throat, unable to stop myself from speaking—my gaze set on the Doctor.

"What?" I weakly said, and it was obvious my words were directed at the Doctor. The word barely reached above a whisper, yet it sliced through the silence like glass.

The Doctor's hand didn't pause in its movements. But I saw him stiffen.

"No questions?" I tried again, voice light, almost teasing. "That's a first."

Still, no reply.

River glanced at me over her shot glass. She casually took a sip, watching this all like it was Sunday night telly. Amy finally ripped her gaze away from Garren, but she immediately looked down at her hand, the one the Doctor was still tending to. Even she appeared awkward—or disappointed, or both.

And then, at last, the Doctor spoke. His voice was a few things, but more than anything, it was quiet, precise, and unforgiving.

"Would you even answer my questions?"

His sarcasm was subtle, but the sadness behind it wasn't. His voice was brittle. Sharpened like glass at the edges. It reminded me of the way he sounded when we visited Churchill... the way he spoke to the Daleks that day. Very cold. Entirely closed off.

"I mean, of course, you would be a Time Agent. It's obvious, no one just happens upon a Vortex Manipulator, do they?" He clicked, disappointed in himself. "I should've seen it right away..."

I felt something in my chest lurch. A second passed. Then another.

Finally, the Doctor added, with the same brutal quiet. "I have nothing to say to you." And he briefly glanced up, making eye contact with me, his lip curling before he looked away, focusing back on Amelia Pond.

I didn't move. I was not even sure what to say or do. The Doctor—my Doctor—on the other side of the room, speaking to me like I was a stranger. Or worse, like I was something beneath him.

I expected this—I knew this was bound to happen when he found the truth. It's why I never wanted to get this close to him in the first place, let alone allow myself to love him. If I didn't care, it'd be so much easier.

If I didn't care, I could snicker and scoff and wave goodbye, stroll away like I pulled the most epic prank on them, never to think of him again.

But that, obviously, wasn't the case. Because, stupidly, I allowed myself to love him. More than most. And despite telling myself that I was prepared for this—for his reaction to the truth—it still hurt.

And he still didn't even know the full story—he barely knows anything. But it seems this was enough to break him.

Shame flooded my being. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I looked away, my eyes stinging—but no tears came.

I refused to cry. No matter how much I loved him. No matter how much I loved Amy. I did not cry, especially not over things like this.

But that was a lie. I had been crying a lot more recently, whether it was from me losing the full force of my power or just hanging around someone who made me feel like I could safely cry in their arms, I didn't know.

I refused to cry right now though. Especially when the one person I could normally go to for such comfort, the one who would hold me and whisper quiet reassurances in my ear, was now the reason I felt so hollow.

It was my fault, of course, this was all my fault. I had nobody to blame for this but me.

"Wait—are you about to cry?" Garren suddenly asked, cutting through the tension. His voice was baffled, almost offended by the possibility.

For fuck's sake!

I snapped my head up, glaring. "Garren...!"

He had the audacity to gape at me, brows lifted behind his dark aviators. "No way. I've literally seen you cry once. Once. And even that was barely a tear. Don't tell me you're about to cry over some random dude—"

That earned him a scorching, absolutely seething glare from the Doctor, who was finishing up in healing Amy's cut and now looked like he was about to lob a bowling ball at Garren's face. His glare said it all: I am not just some 'dude.'

By all technicalities the Doctor is still my prideful boyfriend. So I'm really not sure if he looks so upset with being referred to as a random dude because he's my boyfriend or because he's the last TimeLord in all existence. The Oncoming Storm.

...It's probably a bit of both.

"Garren," I face-palmed myself out of embarrassment now, but also—there was no part of me that was the least bit surprised by it.

Garren is one of the most blunt beings that I know.

Amy suddenly spoke next, jumping up as the Doctor finished healing her cut with the sonic. The sonic screwdriver was not the best option for healing wounds—typically, a salve or medication should be used first. But it was better than nothing.

"You know what, no!" She said, her voice furious. "I have everything to say to you!" She jabbed an accusing finger at me. "Who are you? What's the Time Agency? Where the bloody hell did you get a machine gun from?! Is anything of what you told us true?"

The sting behind my eyes evaporated as I quickly stuffed the emotion down like it never existed. Shame still burned under my skin, but crying? Not happening. I was more of a crash-out or psychotic episode type of person, anyway.

Instead, I stared at Amy, tilting my head slightly as if trying to decipher if her rage was personal or existential.

"Uhm..." I said eloquently, stalling for time like a coward.

She glared in response. The Doctor, even though he had previously spat out that he had nothing to say actually had everything to say. Of course, he does. It's the Doctor. Despite his previous words, I know the man will not be able to stay quiet for long, and it was only a matter of time until he started throwing questions my way.

But, considering that I almost got everyone killed from two Time Bots who were after me, the Doctor was not going to let me evade his questions this time.

"The Time Agency, Pond," the Doctor said grimly, his voice cold and dry, "is a glorified mess of bureaucracy, mismanagement, and poorly regulated time travel. It's what that very thing comes from..." he motioned to the Vortex Manipulator on my wrist with his nose scrunched.

Amy turned toward him, but he didn't even look up from where he was pocketing the sonic. His voice had dropped a degree lower, bitter. "They aren't good, but I suppose they aren't inherently evil, either. The agents are trained to interfere in the timeline under the guise of 'preserving' it."

River, who had been halfway through her shot, let out a small, knowing hum—quiet confirmation from someone who'd also seen behind the curtain.

"Their motto is all about leaving no trace," the Doctor continued, pacing slowly now. "Invisible hands in the web of time. Alter what must be altered. Steal what must be stolen. Kill those who must be silenced. And make it look like no one was ever there."

Amy swallowed. "That sounds like... well, you."

He stopped walking. Looked at Amy harshly, glaring at her with a sneer—offended that he was compared.

"No," He said quietly. "I don't make it a point to kill. Ever. I protect time. They manipulate it. There's a big difference." He shook his head, eyes far off. "The TimeLords never much liked them."

The Doctor then glanced briefly at me, his eyes flickering—still full of anger—but tempered now with the edge of bitter experience. Of hurt.

I partly understood why he is as upset as he is. Along with the fact that I never told him this—he clearly didn't like the Time Agency.

"A friend of mine used to be one," The Doctor added after a beat. "Before he realized they were a bunch of power-hungry time-thieves who'd sell out their own operatives for a handful of stolen seconds."

Amy looked horrified. Rightly so. But—that was a bit dramatic. Okay, maybe not—maybe I was just desensitized to such things. Used to even worse evils. The bad of the Time Agency never much affected me, apart from it being an inconvenience at times.

Garren let out a low whistle, seeming to be on the same wavelength as me. "Well, when you put it that way, I kind of feel bad for having joined." His words were almost impossible to discern as being sarcastic or genuine.

"You should," The Doctor muttered, clicking his tongue and staring down his nose at Garren.

Garren only looked bored.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My heart thudded like a drum, but I managed to keep my expression neutral. That wasn't even the full truth—the full truth was so much worse. I already knew that Garren was thinking the same thing.

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut through with a dagger.

Leandro, Vanessa, and Thiago still looked as though they were in shock. Barely able to process even more information from what they had already been through today. First, they find a Tomb thought to be a mere legend, then a mummy wakes, then we almost get blown up by robots of the future, and now this.

Not that difficult for us, but for the average person, yeah, that's a lot to deal with at once.

"Right," Amy said at last, her voice shaking just slightly, "so let me get this straight—you were part of that?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I was. I am. Sort of." My eyebrows furrowed—do I still count as an agent? They think I'm dead. Or, at least, they had thought I was dead. That is obviously not the case anymore.

Garren raised a hand like he was volunteering. "Technically, I still am. By some miracle, I haven't been kicked out!"

"Really?" My eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Nobody responded to that statement.

Amy narrowed her eyes. "Why would anyone work for them?"

"He told you the short version of how outsiders perceive the Time Agency..." Garren said before tilting his head. "As for why people join... not everyone has a choice, but those of us that do? Usually we join..." He struggled for a moment. "Alright, most people join just because..." He proceeded to shrug casually.

God—fuck. I mean, it's kinda true, but still, this was already bad enough.

Amy openly gaped at Garren's response.

"What?" Garren guwaffwed. "You would do it too! You all would! It's a cool career program!"

Program and career is very much an understatement as to what the Time Agency is.

"No, I would not!" Amy scoffed, holding a hand to her chest, personally offended. "Besides! I am doing it the right way—learning the correct way. With him!" She pointed to the Doctor, who shook his head at this entire situation.

"With him?" Garren repeated, confused as he eyed the Doctor.

I realized then that Garren didn't know this was the Doctor. He knew of the Doctor, of course.

Anyone educated in this universe did.

Obviously though, they'd never met before and the Doctor tended to change faces so there wasn't great photographic record of him... Garren wouldn't recognize him right away. Not unless the TARDIS was in view—because the TARDIS itself was recognizable. A dead giveaway to the Doctor's otherwise inconspicuous identity.

"With me," The Doctor confirmed harshly, not shedding light as to who he was.

The last TimeLord.

Before anything further could be said, River Song spoke up. Garren continued to stare at the Doctor in a confused manner.

"Hello, by the way, darling," She greeted, smiling charmingly at Garren.

Garren blinked before his head snapped toward her. His expression shifting rapidly from confusion to surprise, then delight. It seemed he had not really taken note of everyone present.

"River Song?" His tone lifted with intrigue and just a hint of amusement. "River Song? Of course. Of course, you'd be tangled up in all of this. HA!"

He gestured broadly toward the destroyed bar, the chaos, the TimeBots now reduced to metal corpses, and finally, me.

"Chaos walking for sure!" He added, much too happily.

I gave him a deadpan look. "Gee, thanks." But it's true.

River laughed, tossing her curls over her shoulder with practiced elegance. "Obviously," she replied with a sly grin, casting a knowing glance my way. "I only associate with the hot messes."

"Flattering," I muttered, crossing my arms.

"Truthful," River countered. "Although that goes for the both of you..." She pointed at me and Garren.

The Doctor said nothing, but he was watching all of it unfold with the blank stare of someone whose mind was very much elsewhere—calculating, cataloging, and preparing for the confrontation to come.

He was going over everything he knew. All the little details that had not added up before, and coming to conclusions, deciding what questions he needed to ask, information he needed to find.

"So, how do you two know each other again?" I quirked a brow.

Garren let out a sharp exhale. "She's another Time Agent. Or—was one. She left a while back. I think. I don't know! The physics in this universe are absolute garbage—time works like it's drunk here. River always seems to know more about me than I know about her, anyway..."

"Hmph. Sounds about right," I muttered, arms crossed as I glanced up and around the half-ruined bar, like I could see the very strings of time and space fraying at the edges. "This place is a bit warped when it comes to such things."

That did it.

Steam might as well have blasted out of the Doctor's ears. He snapped toward me like a tether had been cut, his entire body coiling in a storm of fury as he stabbed an accusing finger in my direction.

"What the hell do you mean you're an interdimensional criminal?! Who are you?" He thundered, voice a violent tremor through the ruined bar.

I blinked. Oh, here we go.

Before he could so much as take a full step forward, I moved—fluid, quick, just out of reach. Like a game. A very dangerous game. I half-twirled backward, keeping a teasing distance from the Last of the TimeLords.

My Oncoming Storm.

And judging by the thunder in his eyes, he was more storm than man right now.

He kept rounding on me, stalking, trying to corner me like a lion trying to trap a particularly smug deer. Every step he took, I danced just out of reach. Taunting. Testing.

It̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶.

Nope. Not this time.

"Now is not the time, little girl," the Doctor growled, voice low and edged with barely restrained wrath.

Shivers crawled down my spine. Yep. Definitely not the time.

Somewhere behind us, Garren gagged quietly. "That's disgusting," he muttered, but no one paid him any mind.

I opened my mouth, trying to decide where the fuck to even begin. How do you explain 393 years of running, fighting, surviving, scheming? Most of it unprintable. All of it tangled.

Luckily, I didn't have to.

"Wait..." Garren coughed, voice louder now. "Wait, wait, wait! Is that the Doctor—the Doctor? British TimeLord guy with the blue box?"

He pointed at the Doctor, eyes wide behind his dark aviators.

The Doctor, still radiating soft rage, slowly turned to face him. "I'm not British," he said flatly.

But he didn't deny the rest.

He didn't give the usual fond scoff or exaggerated eye-roll he saved just for me when I called him "British." He didn't smile. His tone was clipped, raw, and bitter, still smarting from earlier.

Still, the man was British and he knew it. He may be a man of the stars, but he was Earthbound in every way that counted. And England, rainy old dumpy England, had its claws in both his hearts for whatever reason.

Garren turned his head back to me, slow and deliberate.

The look on his face made me cringe. I stared down at my feet like they were suddenly fascinating. Maybe I could fall into the floor.

"Are you crazy?" Garren asked finally, his American-accented baritone laced with something between disbelief and secondhand shame. "I know you're crazy, but I never took you for stupid. Tell me, have you just gone soft in your old age?"

"I'm not old," I snapped, eyes flaring as if that was the real offense in the room.

Garren snorted. "Could've fooled me."

I narrowed my eyes. "Aren't you technically older than I am?"

"Yeah," He said, throwing his arms up with dramatic flair. "And guess what? I'm old!"

The Doctor was still glaring, his eyes shifting all over my face. Studying me—memorizing every line, understanding every detail. His eyes narrowed.

"How long have you been 27?" He finally bit—tone more than angered.

But there was something else under it all. Something that did not sound as upset as every other emotion in his voice.

I looked at the Doctor, my eyebrows furrowed.

"A while," I couldn't help myself, not quite able to admit that it had been about 366 years. "A real long while..."

Just fucking say it, bitch! Get it out in the open now!

The Doctor opened his mouth, eyes set low firmly—but before he could patronize or get even more mad from my vague answer, I spoke again.

"Garren, how and why does the Time Agency know I'm not dead?" I asked him. "I thought you were making sure nothing fell through over there."

Of course, Garren's first instinct was to snort. "Uhm, because you're not dead?" He snarked easily.

I puffed, blowing a stray strand of bubblebum hair out of my face.

"I can't die," I deadpanned. "But they didn't know that, so how do they know now?" I rephrased the question for the crude but lovable augmented human.

"What?" The Doctor hissed, voice portraying a shock that was incredibly rare for him.

I made it a point not to look at him, only swallowing and shying away just a bit. However, the moment I did that, I shook myself out of it, steeling my body. I am better than that.

author's note:

sooo... what's been your guys' favorite chapter so far? :)