Anji found the Doctor in the console room, and instantly felt a tension. Not just in the way the TARDIS's pilot was bent over the central console, punching buttons and sliding levers, but a tremor in the air, like a vibration from nearby machines. The light from the ceiling flickered slightly, as if the ship's power was being diverted. Ripples of raw energy shuddered through the crystalline shapes within the console's central column. The TARDIS was straining, being pushed to its limits.
"Good morning Anji," said the Doctor, not looking up. He was perfectly polite, but there was an edge to his voice, a note of obsession. His curly hair seemed messier than normal, his sleeves rolled up and his waistcoat crumpled. Whatever the Doctor was working on, he was taking it seriously. "Why don't you fix yourself some breakfast? Fitz might even help, if you can get him off that sofa."
"Hey," said Fitz Kreiner, from his position draped across the sofa between two of the room's alcoves, a leather-bound book open on his knees. "If it's toast you're after, then my bread-loading skills are at your disposal. Just say the word."
"That's OK, tiger," said Anji, tapping Fitz on the shoulder. "I'll get by without you. But thanks for the offer."
Fitz grinned, returning his attention to his book. "Any time."
As Anji fixed herself some food in the kitchen area, she watched the two men in the console room. The Doctor and Fitz had a lot in common - some shared history, a tendency to be anti-authoritarian at best and downright obstinate at worst - but they were also so far apart. Fitz, in spite of all his big talk and outright lies, was one of the most "real", most human people Anji had ever met. He could try and be the man of mystery all he wanted, but there was something about Fitz's scruffy leather coat and unshaven appearance that could never be anything other than down to earth. Over the last few months she had realised she could rely on Fitz, on his good nature and humanity. The Doctor, on the other hand, was very much something else. Anji watched him muttering to himself as he operated the TARDIS controls, talking to the machine as if engaged in a motivational exercise rather than a technical operation. What was he thinking? Anji knew by now that she couldn't second guess, she simply wasn't the right species to read the Doctor's body language or relate to his mindset. She was never going to guess what he was up to - time technology hardly being her strong point - so she might as well ask.
"So, what are you doing?"
The Doctor's head darted up at Anji's query, a look of confusion passing over his features, as if he wasn't sure what to say. Was he worrying about how to explain something so complex, or unsure of what to tell her? He seemed almost embarrassed.
"I'm seeing how far the TARDIS will go," he said, slightly coyly. "Pushing into the future, seeing how long we can go in one trip. It's about time the old girl had her abilities stretched a bit. I want to see how far she can go."
In the time she had been with the Doctor, Anji had never quite managed to understand his relationship with the TARDIS. The TARDIS was a machine, and yet the relationship was very personal. Perhaps it was the very fragility inherent in flying a box through the cold expanses of time and space that made it vital for the Doctor to believe in the TARDIS as something more, the intensity of the journey that made a vehicle into both a home and a friend. How much better to think that one's survival rests in the hands of a friend, a sentient being, than life and death depending on the cold workings of circuits and engines? Either way, Anji knew how much the Doctor valued the TARDIS, how desperately he protected it from outside influence and how jealously he protected its secrets. This exercise, this marathon journey into the far future, was some kind of test of fealty, as if the Doctor were willing the TARDIS to go further, to push on, to show how far she would go just for him.
"How far into the future are we going?' asked Fitz, strolling over to the Doctor's side.
"As far as we can," said the Doctor.
Anji wondered how far would be too far.
******
For some people an office is just a place of work, a functional area separate from the rest of their lives. For others it is a home away from home, desk littered with family photographs, personal items lining the shelves, certificates and suchlike on the wall. For other, even more desperate cases the office can become their primary home, gaining the constant, lived in quality of an adolescent's bedroom, a place where life is lived constantly, where the evidence of eating and sleeping is as prevalent as the work being done.
The office of Powlin, Chief of the Hope City Militia, defiantly fitted into the latter category. High up in one of the coastal watchtowers, accessible from a winding stairwell, it was a small, functional room buried in paper, crime scene images covering all available surfaces. High on the wall a narrow window looked out over the bleak sea, while a dull light bulb hung from the ceiling. Powlin currently had his feet up on the desk, but he wasn't sitting at it. He was slumped, lightly sleeping, in a low, battered chair in the corner of the room, a case file open on his knee. The office chair that nominally belonged with his desk sat, unused and unloved, in a corner, a pile of books and dirty laundry dumped on top of it.
Suddenly, the intercom on the wall burst into life, and Powlin was awake. The voices of militiamen on duty echoed across the comms system, discussing some kind of emergency. A man was in distress nearby, screaming murder, and officers were on the way to investigate.
And Powlin just knew this was the break he was after. He was out of the door in seconds, pulling his heavy coat on as he went. He caught a glimpse of himself on the way out. Yellowing skin, heavily lined. A face sagging under the weight of responsibility.
Perhaps tonight his main responsibility would be resolved, and a little of that weight would lift. Maybe.
*****
Anji saw the confusion pass over the Doctor's face as he tried to adjust one of the controls.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"It's stuck," said the Doctor simply. His confusion began to turn to panic, his voice slightly desperate. He tried another switch. "This one too." He tried another couple of switches. "They're all locking. I've been pushing her too hard."
"What do we do?' asked Fitz, staring at the controls. Anji doubted whether he knew what any of them meant, even though he'd been travelling with the Doctor for longer than she had.
"We need to shut down, gradually materialise," said the Doctor, hands racing across the console. "Quickly enough to stop us breaking up, gradually enough to not rip ourselves apart in the force of our sudden halt." He gritted his teeth. "Tricky, tricky, tricky." He gradually pulled one the levers that materialised the TARDIS at its destination. Anji could see the tension in his arm as he moved the lever steadily but firmly. "Gently does it, no sudden halt. We just stop."
From deep within the TARDIS there came the mechanical, roaring sound that indicated the ship was about to appear somewhere new. Anji was sure the sound had a strained, slightly worn tone to it. Beneath her hand, the console began to shake. She gripped the edge, unsure whether she was trying to steady herself or the ship around her.
Kyrro was nearly at the watchtower, he knew it. He could hear the footsteps of his pursuer behind him, but he was sure he could also hear movement ahead. The militia would rescue him, surely? It was their job to protect the citizens of Hope, after all.
Kyrro only remembered what a cold night it was when he ran on to the patch of ice. Then one foot was sliding forward, and his other leg was dragging behind. He tried to break his fall, allow himself to stumble back on to his feet, but instead he just cracked his elbow as he hit the ground. Kyrro tried to push himself up but, as he tried to rise up on bloodied knees and elbows, something landed on his back, pressing Kyrro's face down on to the icy ground. He felt the air being pushed out of his lungs by the pressure, the ice burning his cheek, a pain in his twisted arm.
Then he felt another kind of pain, as something hot and sharp pierced the back of his neck, cutting straight through the top of Kyrro's spine.
