Prayers to Broken Stone ((The Meddler VI/Allison Castiel))

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

It felt like there were a million voices in his head, telling him to stop running. Demanding that he stop running. Demanding that he obey, that he turn and help the wasp that was pursuing him. That he turn on Allison and Rob, and stop them from doing the thing they were doing. The voices didn't understand precisely that thing was, but they understood enough. "Go to hell," Danny snarled, smacking an emergency release button. It was purely mechanical, and a heavy shutter clattered and clanged as it dropped fast and hard. The wasp, mere feet behind him, buzzed and screeched angrily as it struck like a guillotine.

Well, almost like a guillotine. There was a clangor of dull bells, the metal of the shutter clattering and clashing on the metallic armor of the giant wasp. It crashed into the ground, momentarily stunned by the impact but otherwise unhurt. Ignoring the burning pain in his muscles, the painful crawling itch of larvae burrowing along his nerves towards his brain, he cast his eyes around. What would Rob do? What would this 'Doctor' of Allison's do? Then he had an idea, grabbing and tearing at a heavy power cable beside the door. It sparked and snapped, clearly connected to the generator he'd restarted a few minutes ago.

"Hey, you son of a bitch!" he snarled as the wasp heaved the shutter up. "Lovely day, ain't it? Oh, and guess what?" He drove the sparking cable into the wasp's eye. "I ain't the f*$*#@g Doctor!" He had to shout to hear himself over the wasp's clicking, grinding scream of agony, and he laughed as it thrashed under the amperage load.

Then a thrashing limb caught him, and heard bones break as the impact hurled him across the room. He bounced and rolled, striking one of the dead computer banks in the central chamber. Dimly, barely audible over the sound of his own breathing and the grinding of his own bone, he heard the wasp shrug the shutter up and off. How long? How long had it been? Had Rob and Allison gotten away? Was the time machine about to explode? Fire lanced along his back as one of the larvae gnawed through bone and clamped onto his spinal cord, and he screamed in agony.

The wasp stalked forward, dim reflected sunlight from the entrance glittering on domed eyes. It cocked its head left and right, staring at him from different angles. "You," it grated out, "will obey us."

Hell. They talk. Had they always done that, and nobody ever bothered to notice? Or was it because the worms were infesting his brain now? "The worms crawl in," he giggled, trying to drag himself behind the computer bank, "and the worms crawl out..." His daughter had sang that, laughing and unable to comprehend death. She was gone, now. Soon, he'd be with her. One way or another, assuming Rob was right about fixing things. Or, at least, about the explosion.

The wasp battered the computer table aside. "Obey!" the wasp snarled. "Obey!"

Obey! the larvae chittered in his brain. Obey! "Go to hell!" Danny snarled, managing to bring up the assault rifle one handed. It clicked, empty. Not that it would have mattered. Even if it had been loaded, he wouldn't have hurt it. Wouldn't have even hit it, not with his right arm broken and trying to shoot it left-handed like a pistol.

"Where?" the wasp demanded. "Where are the others?"

Danny threw the rifle at it, weakly. It clattered ineffectually from the insect's head. "Don't matter," he laughed, wincing as broken ribs shifted. "Because... it's too late for you."

"Explain!" the wasp demanded. "Explain!"

"Because we're both dead," Danny laughed. "And... because this never happened!" Please be right, Rob. Please, Allison, let your Doctor be right!

Claws dug into his shirt and chest, and he screamed in pain as the wasp jerked him forward. "Explain!" it shrieked. Gagging with pain, unable to speak now even if he had wanted to, Danny mustered all of his strength and spat on the triangular face. Then, the world turned white.

---

The Duke of Kent building vanished in a magnesium flare of light, seeming to collapse inwards for a second before a pressure wave expanded outwards from the site just behind a blast of white incandescence and radiation. Heat volatized everything within a hundred meters, blasting structures into plasma that fueled an expanding firestorm that melted and boiled glass and steel and concrete for another two hundred meters. For a kilometer beyond that, the pressure tossed cars and blew out windows and cracked walls, and a mushroom cloud of vaporized matter spewed a kilometer and more into the sky.

Then, it began to rain. A hellish rain of condensing superheated matter, splattering the landscape and igniting small fires, rendering what was left of the University of Surrey into a scene out of the Inferno.

---

“Danny...” Alley-cat whispered, horror and numb shock on her features as it sank in that he wasn't coming with them.

Rob watched her for a second, then pulled her into an embrace. He smelled musty, in his salvaged clothes that had sat unused in a locker for years, and there was a tang of stale cigarette smoke about him. But his arms tightened around her shoulders as he held her. "Ain't nothing I can say that'll make it easier, Alley-cat," he murmured. "And I get it if you hate me, 'cos I wasn't bringing him. But..." He patted her back. "He couldn't come, Alley-cat. He'd been bit, by them Creepers. He..."

What would it be like, he wondered, to know you were under a death sentence? To have hope yanked away, because your very existence would destroy that hope? As he wondered that, he had a sudden image of a beautiful matrix of burning silver wire, and of a tired old man. No more, he heard that man say, no more. "He did what he had to, Alley-cat. To save the world, he did what he had to. Now, when you're ready, we have to do our part."

[Allison Castiel]

At first, Allie stiffened against Rob's embrace. She wanted to rail at him - to claw at his face like the cat he'd nicknamed her, to pound his chest into a bloody pulp with her small fists - for leaving Danny behind. The grief tore at her, stealing her breath, making her feel as if she wanted to throw up. The sheer, uncomprehending loss of the only thing that had held her together for the last five years.

"Ain't nothing I can say that'll make it easier, Alley-cat," he murmured. "And I get it if you hate me, 'cos I wasn't bringing him. But..." He patted her back. "He couldn't come, Alley-cat. He'd been bit, by them Creepers.”

A low moan escaped her throat, an animal sound of pain. Involuntarily, her fingers curled, clutching at the lapels of Rob's coat. Bitten. Danny had been bitten. Infected with the filthy wasp larvae, just like Glenda. How had she not seen it? How could she have been so blind? She was supposed to have had his back. But Rob... Rob had known.

“Why?” she choked out. “Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't he?”

“He..." Rob paused for a moment, his arms tight around her, as if he was considering his answer. "He did what he had to, Alley-cat. To save the world, he did what he had to.”

He did what he had to... as an epitaph, Allie couldn't think of a statement that could have described Danny any better. Quiet, solid, hard-working. Never flashy, or brilliant. Never leading from the front, or looking for the limelight. But always there. Always doing the things that had to be done, to make sure every mission went smoothly and successfully. Always watching out for her, keeping her safe from harm, right up until the very end.

“I was supposed to have his back,” she whispered brokenly, burrowing her head into Rob's chest, the hot, anguished tears burning her eyes, her thin shoulders shaking. “I was supposed to have his back.”

Kneeling there with her, the Time Lord simply held her and let her cry. Unheeding of her surroundings, Allie clung to him until gradually, the storm of weeping died away, leaving her limp and drained.

Softly, Rob spoke to her again. “Now, when you're ready, we have to do our part."

For a moment, Allie couldn't respond, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, shaking her head. What he was asking was too hard. She couldn't do it. She had nothing left to give.

But then she heard Danny's voice in the back of her head, rough and gruff, as clearly as if he was standing right beside her. “C'mon, Castiel. Get a move on. Time to come in out of the dark.”

Her eyes sprang open, and her heart gave a little lurch of pain at her own too-vivid imagination. How many times had she heard him say that phrase to her? The nights had always been their enemy, as scavengers, full of unseen dangers and potential ambush. But now Danny had paid the ultimate price, so that Rob could bring them all home, out of the dark forever. She couldn't let him down, couldn't let that sacrifice be for nothing. She couldn't stop halfway.

She tilted her swollen, tear-stained face back, looking up to meet Rob's steady gaze with rekindled determination.

“I'm ready,” she said firmly, disengaging herself from his hold, fighting to pull herself back together. “Let's do this. Danny was right, Rob. It's time to come in out of the dark.”

[Captain Jack Harkness]

Jack had used his time of preparation well. Crackling fields of electricity, invisible to the naked eye, formed a kind of protective dome over the old Chiswick Park station. A current of fifty eight point five kiloamperes, with a transferred charge of five hundred and ten megajoules. Enough power to bring down even a Toclafane, as Jack well knew. More than enough power to fry a metallic wasp.

They'd brought down four, in the initial charge, before the attacking insects had gotten wise, and had backed off. Then three more since, using improvised taser cannons, similar to the ones he and Fitz had developed for Torchwood, back during the height of the War. Back before Jem had derailed everything.

There were only five wasps left now, warily circling the settlement, keeping out of range of their weapons. Jack stood on the rooftop with several lieutenants, two men and one woman, chosen for their marksmanship. Each of them watched in a different direction, their cannons on their shoulders, alert for any changes in the enemy's tactics. The temperature was dropping rapidly, as the sun sank in the sky, and darkness crept over the land. Jack could feel the small hairs on the backs of his arms standing up in reaction to the invisible shield pulsing high above their heads. The buzzing in his head had receded, but was still there, nonetheless.

Staring out over the wasteland, he couldn't help wondering about the other settlements. Were they the only ones under attack? Or were there more platoons of wasps out there, meticulously tearing the pitiful remains of the human race into shreds? Frustratingly, there was no means of direct communication to find out. Jack still missed the days when all he had to do was to pull out his mobile phone.

Bill appeared noiselessly at his shoulder. “The techs say they're not sure how long they can keep the generator running at this capacity, Cap,” she muttered, keeping her voice low so that only he would hear her report. “They're worried it's going to burn out.”

“Then they'll have to make sure that it doesn't,” Jack responded curtly. “If that generator fails, we're all dead.”

“I'll tell them, but I...”

She broke off suddenly, as something flared on the horizon, a brilliant orange mushroom cloud that billowed against the darkness in a fiery silhouette. “What the holy crap was that? A nuke?”

Jack's blue eyes had narrowed almost to slits. “More than a nuke.” Even from this distance, he felt the telltale shiver across his skin, the unmistakable signature of artron energy. “Some kind of temporal detonation.”

Where, though? How far away? Twenty miles, maybe? Twenty five? Jack's jaw tightened. Twenty five miles meant Surrey. And he knew what was in Surrey. It could only have been the Duke of Kent Building. What in the seven hells had just happened?

“Temporal what now?” Bill echoed, still staring at the firestorm in appalled fascination.

The buzzing inside Jack's head suddenly grew louder, more frantic. He lurched, one hand coming out to steady himself on the parapet of the building. The sound was so invasive, he almost couldn't hear Bill's worried voice, the words indistinct and blurred.

“You all right, Cap?”

Overhead, there came a roar, like a squadron of jet fighters passing over. Jack's other lieutenants were cheering and shouting, as the five remaining wasps all turned in unison and flew in ragged formation towards the distant explosion.

“They're leaving!” Bill yelled joyfully. “Hallelujah, they're leaving!”

Straightening his back once more, Jack grunted. He hated to squash the sudden swell of optimism among the defenders, but he was also unwilling to encourage any premature celebration.

“They'll be back. I have no idea what just happened... but it's far from being over. And we need to be ready.”

He strode away from the edge of the building, gesturing to Bill as he went. “C'mon. Let's move.”

At the very least, the settlement now had a respite. And Captain Jack Harkness intended to make full use of it.

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

“I was supposed to have his back,” she whispered brokenly, burrowing her head into Rob's chest, the hot, anguished tears burning her eyes, her thin shoulders shaking. “I was supposed to have his back."

Strange, disjointed memories flickered through his mind - sense impressions, rather than concrete images. A desperate race across golden streets, under an amber sky filled with smoke and screams, surrounded by shattered buildings that still rose like mountains. A colossal marble structure, blackened and burning. Children screaming. He shook his head slowly, and she shifted in his arms before pulling away. “I'm ready,” she declared, blinking away tears and pain. “Let's do this. Danny was right, Rob. It's time to come in out of the dark.”

Rob nodded agreement. "Right. First order of business, we gotta figure out where we are." Turning, he shouted at the staring assemblage of children at the top of the stairs. "Oi! You lot! Where are we?"

The children hesitated, and finally an older girl worked up her nerve. "O que?" she shouted back. "Você americano, senhor?"

Nonplussed, Rob scratched his head. "Right. You understand that, Alley-cat?" Digging in his pockets, he lit a cigarette. "Where?" he called back, enunciating slowly and disctinctly, "Are? We?"

"Eu não falo inglês, senhor!" the girl called back, laughing.

"Great. Language barriers." Rob took a drag on his cigarette, then had a realization. "Hang on... I think I speak the language. Spanish, maybe?" Whatever 'Spanish' was. "Dije," he called back, "dónde estamos?"

The children laughed. "Espanhol?" one giggled, only to be hushed by the older girl. "Não somos espanhol!" she called back. "Este é o Rio!

"Ah. Portuguese." He grinned and waved. "Obrigado, obrigado! Você foi muito útil! E o ano?"

More laughter greeted him. "Dois mil e onze!"

Taking another drag on his cigarette, he stared at the sky. "So, we made it. Now we just have to get to Roraima, go find mosquito zero - and the source of whatever it is that mutated it - and remake history." He stubbed the butt out underfoot. "How hard can that be?"

Winking, he turned on his heel. "C'mon. We need an airport."

[Allison Castiel]

For the first time since their arrival, Allison began to take note of their surroundings. Danny's loss still hurt like a physical pain, but she knew the only way she could help him now was to succeed in their mission. She and Rob still had a very long way to go.

The sun was shining brightly, hot and golden on the bare skin of her arms, enough to make her recoil in automatic fear. However, after a few moments, she realised that the rays lacked the fierce white glare she was accustomed to. The warmth on her arms was akin to a soft caress, completely unlike the acid sting of the post-apocalyptic sun.

Beneath her feet, the brightly-coloured mosaic tiles were stunningly intact. Not a single one was shattered or broken. In the distance, she could hear the dull roar of traffic, and the chatter of human voices in a nearby street cafe. Here and there, she could see bunches of greenery - trees and palms and even some glorious tropical blooms. And the children... they were playing... and laughing.

Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the sky, transfixed. There, swimming in the cerulean blue, were beautiful cotton-balls of puffy white, drifting lazily along above them in the soft, scented breeze.

“Oh, Rob,” she breathed, her brown eyes wide in amazement, as it slowly began to dawn on her just how far they'd already come. In this time, the apocalypse hadn't even happened yet. The world she had known - her world – was still intact. “Clouds. Real clouds.”

"Right. First order of business, we gotta figure out where we are." Turning, he shouted at the staring assemblage of children at the top of the stairs. "Oi! You lot! Where are we?"

The children hesitated, and finally an older girl worked up her nerve. "O que?" she shouted back. "Você americano, senhor?"

Nonplussed, Rob scratched his head. "Right. You understand that, Alley-cat?"

She shook her head blankly. “I'm hopeless at languages. You have no idea how badly I failed French in high school. They said 'americano' – do they think we're American?”

Digging in his pockets, he lit a cigarette. "Where?" he called back, enunciating slowly and disctinctly, "Are? We?"

Allie listened to the to and fro between Rob and the children, not really surprised as he eventually managed to communicate with them. At this point, having just been catapulted back in time, she was beginning to think him capable of nearly anything. Trembling, she wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold, despite the humid sunshine. This was what they'd fought so hard for – but now that they were here, she had no idea what to do next.

Taking another drag on his cigarette, he stared at the sky. "So, we made it. Now we just have to get to Roraima, go find mosquito zero - and the source of whatever it is that mutated it - and remake history." He stubbed the butt out underfoot. "How hard can that be?"

“We have to change it, Rob...” Allie said shakily. “I can't bear to live through it all again.”

Winking, he turned on his heel. "C'mon. We need an airport."

She levered herself to her feet and trotted uncertainly after him. “But... we don't have any money for tickets. And they'll never let us fly, looking like this.” She gestured to her own thin, ragged form. “We both look like vagrants.”

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

Taking another drag on his cigarette, he stared at the sky. "So, we made it. Now we just have to get to Roraima, go find mosquito zero - and the source of whatever it is that mutated it - and remake history." He stubbed the butt out underfoot. "How hard can that be?"

“We have to change it, Rob...” Allie said shakily. “I can't bear to live through it all again.”

Winking, he turned on his heel. "C'mon. We need an airport."

She levered herself to her feet and trotted uncertainly after him. “But... we don't have any money for tickets. And they'll never let us fly, looking like this.” She gestured to her own thin, ragged form. “We both look like vagrants.”

"Oh, Alley-cat," Rob laughed, heading up the stairs at the double. "Yer cute, y'know that?" He made a dismissive, snorting sound. "Money. How long have you got by without some Jumping Jack, now?"

Turning left, they moved onto a broad street full of people. A polyglot babble of conversation filled the air, competing with the roar of trucks and the snarl of cabs and the whine of scooters. Rob moved through them casually, gawking and rubbernecking like a tourist. Finally, he stopped at a streetside food stand and dickered with the proprietor in rapid-fire Portuguese. After several minutes, he flipped open a wallet and counted out a fistfull of reals. Handing them over, he collected four teardrop-shaped lumps of fried dough and two bottles of soda. One bottle and two lumps were handed over, before he worked the cap off the second and took a bite of dough. Gravy, smelling of cheese and onion and chicken, oozed out and he licked his lips as he chewed.

"Coxina," he grinned, juggling food and soda as he stuffed the wallet back into his coat. "Not what you'd call hot cuisine, but damn tasty. Tuck in, Alley-cat. I'd John Major it's been ages since you had decent Lilley."

Walking once more, he polished off the first coxina and drained half his coke before talking more. "Now, see, here's the trick. We need a plane, cos' we're heading out to hell-an-gone - Yanomami, like the article said, and they don't live close. And it ain't like we're out on a joyride, cos we do this or we watch it all go back into hell, right? Course I'm right. But I ain't picked up the readies to charter one - probably could, but that'd take time we ain't got. So, we're gonna work out a little five-finger on one."

Finishing the second coxina, he sucked gravy from his grimy-looking fingertips and laughed. "An' once we pinch it, I reckon I can fly it."

[Allison Castiel]

It wasn't easy keeping up with Rob's long legs. Allie had to take two or three steps to his every one. The brilliantly-coloured stairs seemed to roll out before them, like a surreal welcome mat. Welcome to Brazil. Welcome to the world as it was before the apocalypse.

“Oh, Alley-cat," Rob laughed, heading up the stairs at the double. "Yer cute, y'know that?" He made a dismissive, snorting sound. "Money. How long have you got by without some Jumping Jack, now?"

Jumping Jack? She supposed that was more of his slang, and that he was talking about cash. The strange thing was – the thing that was almost impossible to get her head around – was that she did have money. At this point in the timeline, Lloyds Bank still existed... and they held an account in the name of Allison Marie Castiel. Not a huge amount, she had never been rich. But enough to get by. And back in Chiswick, her younger self was at this moment seated behind the counter in her antiques store, beautifully groomed, smiling and serving customers, so blissfully unaware of the horrors that were so swiftly approaching.

A lump rose in her throat, as she remembered how innocent she had been back then. So totally ignorant of how easy her life had been, despite her daily financial struggles. For one wild moment, she wanted to beg Rob to find a phone, so she could warn her younger self, tell her to... The thought tapered away into despair. Tell her to what? To run? To hide? Even if that Allison didn't write her off as a complete nutter, there was no running from the wasps and no hiding from the end of the world.

“I suppose that's one thing the Apocalypse taught us,” she responded huskily to Rob's question, giving him a wan little smile. “That money isn't everything. Not even close.”

Rob led the way into a broad street that was bustling with people and traffic. After years of living in the ruins and the wasteland, Allie found it overwhelming. She didn't know where to look first. So many people, so much energy and life and colour. The sensory overload was intense, as if she'd been subjected to a bright light after spending too long in the darkness. With a small, inarticulate sound, she moved closer to Rob, afraid that she would be swept away from him in the sea of humanity.

Rob moved through them casually, gawking and rubbernecking like a tourist. Finally, he stopped at a streetside food stand and dickered with the proprietor in rapid-fire Portuguese. After several minutes, he flipped open a wallet and counted out a fistful of reals. Handing them over, he collected four teardrop-shaped lumps of fried dough and two bottles of soda.

When he gave Allie her portion of the food, she studied it carefully. She didn't think she'd ever seen anything quite like it before, even before the Apocalypse. Having never stirred very far beyond the confines of London – at least until she met the Doctor – exotic foods had never featured very prominently on her menu. She sniffed at one of the pear-shaped dough lumps suspiciously. She had to admit, it smelled divine. Her stomach grumbled impatiently.

"Coxina," he grinned, juggling food and soda as he stuffed the wallet back into his coat. "Not what you'd call hot cuisine, but damn tasty. Tuck in, Alley-cat. I'd John Major it's been ages since you had decent Lilley."

Gingerly, with some mumbled thanks, she took a bite. Her teeth sank into the golden, crispy exterior, and inside she found a layer of soft dough filled with lightly seasoned, moist shredded chicken. Her brown eyes widened in disbelief. It didn't seem possible that anything could taste that good. In seconds, the hordes of tourists around her were forgotten, and she was tearing at the food as voraciously as a young wolf, gulping it down. Anyone looking at her bedraggled little figure would have been forgiven for assuming that she was a starving Brazilian street waif. When it was all gone, she licked at her fingers, determined not to waste the slightest crumb.

Rob was walking again, and she shadowed him closely through the press of the crowd.

"Now, see, here's the trick. We need a plane, cos' we're heading out to hell-an-gone - Yanomami, like the article said, and they don't live close. And it ain't like we're out on a joyride, cos we do this or we watch it all go back into hell, right? Course I'm right. But I ain't picked up the readies to charter one - probably could, but that'd take time we ain't got. So, we're gonna work out a little five-finger on one."

“We're going to steal a plane?” Allie's voice came out in a strangled squeak.

Scavenge, she told herself hurriedly, substituting the word inside her head. After all, she'd spent the last five years scavenging, hadn't she? She was damn good at it. And this time, it was to save the world. What was a mere plane here or there, in the wider scheme of things?

Finishing the second coxina, he sucked gravy from his grimy-looking fingertips and laughed. "An' once we pinch it, I reckon I can fly it."

Allie thought she probably should feel a bit concerned that he didn't seem quite sure whether he knew how to fly a plane or not. Surprisingly, though, she wasn't. Maybe a week ago, she would have been. But somewhere in the last few days, she had learned to trust Rob implicitly. If said he was going to fly them to Roirama, then he would.

“I don't suppose you could organise us a bath as well, could you?” she asked wistfully.

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

Walking once more, he polished off the first coxina and drained half his coke before talking more. "Now, see, here's the trick. We need a plane, cos' we're heading out to hell-an-gone - Yanomami, like the article said, and they don't live close. And it ain't like we're out on a joyride, cos we do this or we watch it all go back into hell, right? Course I'm right. But I ain't picked up the readies to charter one - probably could, but that'd take time we ain't got. So, we're gonna work out a little five-finger on one."

“We're going to steal a plane?” Allie's voice came out in a strangled squeak.

"I sure as Church ain't bowlin' round the jungle, Jane Fondaing about fer weeks in hopes we get there in time." Finishing the second coxina, he sucked gravy from his grimy-looking fingertips and laughed. "An' once we pinch it, I reckon I can fly it."

There was a flicker of memory, plans he'd made a long time ago to steal a... ship? The impression slipped away before he could make sense of it, some sort of vast thing that was more like a castle than anything else. "Besides, it ain't the first time I've pinched one."

Allie looked a little worried, but she nodded. “I don't suppose you could organise us a bath as well, could you?” she asked wistfully.

"Yeah, I can probably sort that out." He wrinkled his nose. "Didn't notice it back in th' future, but we don't half Jimmy, do we? So, yeah. Lets. Besides, we gotta figure out where we're goin' as well."

After stopping a couple of passers-by, he set off down the street once more. As he walked, from time to time, he'd produce one wallet or another and rifle through it, extracting cash before tossing the wallet in a convenient post box or UPS drop box. Twice he examined the wallet more closely, then found an ATM and produced more currency before following the same pattern. Finally, he led them towards downtown and into the Hotel Astoria Copacabana.



A furious round of bickering and bargaining with one of the desk clerks followed. That worthy was scandalized to see two grubby vagrants wander into the lobby, and horrified by the thought of renting them a room. Rob lit into him with a wild mixture of wheedling and threats that ended with a manager being summoned, and then with that confused manager renting them a suite for the night. It wasn't elaborate, that room, but it was clean and comfortable and had running water.

An hour later, Rob was wrapped in a complimentary hotel bathrobe and squatting in front of the flatscreen television in the room. He'd already showered and had their clothes sent out to be laundered, and was busily tinkering with the black box that housed WOTAN and the television. "See," he muttered, waving his hands around the box as if it were a theremin, "we need maps. Charts." The screen flickered, and the hotel cable channels were replaced with the home page of Google.

"Brilliant!" he laughed. Making an adjustment, he made the black box project a keyboard. "Now, let's see... Google Maps... Rio de Janiero to Roraima..." He glared at the results. "Right, right... what's the bleedin' capital o' Roraima, then." Fingers tapped the glowing keys projected by the box. "Ah, here we go. Looks like a six an' a half hour flight northwest." He shifted, letting Allie see the search result. "There. Step one complete. More or less. So once we've had a nap and some clean clothes, we can be off!"

[Allison Castiel]

It took Allie a little while to figure out what was going on. As she hastened after him up the street, Rob seemed to keep producing a bewildering array of different wallets, extracting the cards and money, and discarding the rest. It seemed almost like a magic trick, until it dawned on her that indeed, that was exactly what it was. Smooth, skillful sleight of hand. Every time he stopped a tourist to ostensibly ask the way, he was picking their pockets, so expertly that it was almost impossible to see it being done, unless you were specifically looking for it.

Allie knew she should probably feel shocked. But the last few years had taught her the value of desperation. She and Rob needed the money much more than these people. And if they didn't reach their destination, and do what they had to do, most of these happy, laughing tourists would be dead in under twelve months. When you looked at it from that stark perspective, morality became irrelevant and the equation was simple.

Far in the distance, she could see the enormous stone figure of the Christ the Redeemer statue, standing high on the peak of the Corcovado Mountain, his arms outstretched as if he wanted to embrace the sprawling bustle that was the city of Rio. A cultural icon of Brazil, it was said to be one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. It had also been one of the first things that had been destroyed by the wasps during the onset of the War. Allie could remember the news broadcasts at the time, the distress and horror that had rippled around the globe.

If she'd had to choose, however, right then and right now, the hotel Rob brought her to would certainly have been listed beside the statue as one of the Wonders of the World. Standing under the shower, feeling the spray of hot water cascading down her body for the first time in five years, washing away layer after layer of inground grime, she began to cry again. It felt so incredibly good, almost too good for her exhausted, fragile state of mind to bear. When she finally stepped out on to the mat, and wrapped herself in one of the fluffy towels, she stared at the small damp figure in the mirror blankly, without recognition. The emaciated, hollow-eyed girl with the long blonde tangle of hair looking back at her was a complete stranger.

Eventually, she emerged into the living area, also wearing an over-large bathrobe. Bemused, she kept stroking the white fabric, marvelling at how soft and clean it was. She'd done her best to comb out her hair, and her skin now smelled of frangipani instead of old sweat.

Rob was crouched in front of the television set, tinkering with some bits and pieces. The girl moved past him, gaping at the tea and coffee making facilities. Something that most people in this time would take for granted and hardly even notice. In the future, however, instant coffee was something that had passed into legend and fable. Allie had to keep pinching herself, to convince herself that any of this was real, and not some painful dream.

"See," [Rob] muttered, waving his hands around the box as if it were a theremin, "we need maps. Charts." The screen flickered, and the hotel cable channels were replaced with the home page of Google.

"Brilliant!" he laughed. Making an adjustment, he made the black box project a keyboard. "Now, let's see... Google Maps... Rio de Janiero to Roraima..." He glared at the results. "Right, right... what's the bleedin' capital o' Roraima, then."

Most of the names on the screen meant anything to Allie. She'd never been particularly good at geography, or had any real reason to study up on South America. The news articles they'd read back in the library were still fresh in her head, however, so at least she could answer that question.

“Boa Vista, I think.”

Fingers tapped the glowing keys projected by the box. "Ah, here we go. Looks like a six an' a half hour flight northwest." He shifted, letting Allie see the search result. "There. Step one complete. More or less. So once we've had a nap and some clean clothes, we can be off!"

“I'd almost forgotten what it feels like to be clean.” She rubbed absently at her arms, beneath the soft terry-cloth of her robe. Her gaze trailed over to the neatly-made twin beds. Clean, white sheets. Luxury beyond imagining. Then she looked back towards Rob. “Thank you... for everything you've done. Even if we don't make it, even if we can't change anything... you've been amazing. I just... just wanted to say that.”

She put the kettle on to boil, and went and sat down on one of the beds, picking up the pillow and hugging the downy softness to her chest. All at once, she felt incredibly overwhelmed. This was supposed to be her world, her old life. She'd spent the last five years dreaming of it and longing for it. Now that she was here, though, it felt like she no longer belonged. The whole experience was surreal and disturbing.

“Rob...” She swallowed hard. From what she knew of Time Lords, they didn't need as much rest as humans.  “You won't go anywhere, while I sleep, will you?”

Logically, she knew that he wouldn't. He'd proven himself as a friend over and over again. But he was the only thing she had left that she had any real connection with at all... and the idea of waking up and finding herself alone was frightening enough to prompt her to ask the question.

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

“I'd almost forgotten what it feels like to be clean.”

Rob didn't bother to look away from the improvised computer. "Well, I figure I've got an advantage there." A shrug. "I don't remember anything earlier than... what? Three days ago? So it ain't like I was missing it." He chuckled. "Can't say I'm upset to be clean now, though."

“Thank you..." she said, hesitantly.

"Eh?" Now he half-turned, looking up at her curiously. "Fer what?"

"For everything you've done. Even if we don't make it, even if we can't change anything... you've been amazing. I just... just wanted to say that.”[/i]

"Nuh-uh." He shook his head emphatically. "No. Stop that." He couldn't say he said that, couldn't explain the sudden wave of self-loathing that washed over him. Shaking his head, he forced a grin. "I ain't some kinda hero, Alley-cat. I'm just..." He moved his hands in small, grasping circles as if he were searching for something. "I'm just... me. Just a bloke, tryin' ta get by."

Suddenly, he looked away. "An'... mebbe. Jus' mebbe... I can do a little good along the way." he listened as she started up the electric kettle, felt the displaced air as she moved back across the room, heard the creak of springs as she sat down. “Rob...” Her voice was small and shocked.

"Yeah?" he answered, focusing on the improvised computer once more.

“You won't go anywhere, while I sleep, will you?”

"Course not," he snorted. "Get yerself forty winks. I'll be here."

---

Sixteen hours later...

"Sleep well?" Rob asked.

He hadn't. Although it was more accurate to say that he hadn't slept at all. Or even felt the need for it. In fact, now that he thought of it, he hadn't slept since he'd found himself on Horatio's statue. Did he sleep? Was that some sort of Time Lord thing, not needing sleep?

But the point was, he hadn't slept a wink. Instead he'd ordered up room service and had tea, then gone back to work. At first it had been estimates of travel time and ranges on different planes, and then likely airports on the way. But then he'd gone searching for 'Time Lord' and 'the Doctor', and had found himself on the crudely-made www.whoisdoctorwho.co.uk. He didn't recognize the man pictured, but... he'd recognized a few of the names in the "Contact Clive" section. Not that he knew why. From there he'd made his way into the deep web and a few classified sites, only to find himself confronted with a tangle of badly-designed conspiratorial rantings and contradictory information - and the conspiracy sites weren't any better.

Then, bored, he'd created a Facebook profile for himself. Rob Goodfellow. Date of birth... June 24, 1984. Because June 24 was midsummer, an' old Will had been 32 when he'd written that play, an' if he was gonna use the name he'd run with it. Email address [e-mail], and why on earth were there a hundred and eleven other people using "forgetfulpuck"? So far, in the ten hours that page had been up (First post: "Right. Seems I'm amnesiac. Anyone know me?") had been utterly ignored. But he'd received a ton of friend offers from people offering him Ukranian brides who would totally and genuinely love him. So social media was probably a waste of time.

"Breakfast is on the table, even if it is four in the afternoon. I figured you'd want sommat. An' it looks like we're gonna have to refuel at least once, after we nick that plane. It's a little over five thousand klicks we're flyin', an' most light planes are good fer half o' that. So, refuel or nick another - whatever looks easiest." He waved at the dresser. "G'wan. Tuck in. Yer clothes're in the closet, when yer ready."

[Allison Castiel]

"Nuh-uh." He shook his head emphatically. "No. Stop that."

At first, she though she'd offended him somehow with her thanks, and her heart sank. But then she saw the look on his face, and she realised he wasn't angry. It seemed more as if he was uncomfortable with her words. As if she'd triggered some veiled half-memories in his mind that he didn't want to think about.

"I ain't some kinda hero, Alley-cat. I'm just..." He moved his hands in small, grasping circles as if he were searching for something. "I'm just... me. Just a bloke, tryin' ta get by."

It suddenly occurred to her how difficult it must be, not to remember any of his previous life. She felt like a fish out of water, here in Rio. But he must feel like that everywhere. He wasn't just a stranger to places and people and things... he was a stranger to himself. He had no idea what kind of man he had been before. A great scientist? An evil genius? A mass murderer? Or, perhaps simply, as Allie believed... a Doctor.

Some of her own memories flickered into life – intelligent brown eyes that were somehow sad, even when their owner was laughing. Old eyes, in a young face, that had seen so many things, some of them dark beyond her understanding. The Doctor had never talked to her about it, why that shadow fell sometimes across his face. The path that he had walked, the things that he had done. But perhaps those were the painful, half-formed recollections that were stirring in the back of Rob's consciousness right now.

Suddenly, he looked away. "An'... mebbe. Jus' mebbe... I can do a little good along the way."

"It doesn't matter to me, you know, who or what you were before,” she said softly. “What matters is that you were... are... a friend to me, when I've never needed one more.”

She put the kettle on to boil, and went and sat down on one of the beds, picking up the pillow and hugging the downy softness to her chest. All at once, she felt incredibly overwhelmed. This was supposed to be her world, her old life. She'd spent the last five years dreaming of it and longing for it. Now that she was here, though, it felt like she no longer belonged. The whole experience was surreal and disturbing.

“Rob...” She swallowed hard. From what she knew of Time Lords, they didn't need as much rest as humans.  “You won't go anywhere, while I sleep, will you?”

"Course not," he snorted. "Get yerself forty winks. I'll be here."

Somewhat reassured, she turned down one of the beds and climbed in. The clean sheets were just as amazing as she had expected, the mattress just as soft and inviting. Even so, as tired as she was, she couldn't settle straight away. For a long time, curled into a small ball under the covers, she watched Rob's nimble fingers dancing across the improvised keyboard, and listened to the sounds outside as Rio slowly sank into night.

Back at the Chiswick Park settlement, night had been a time to huddle into her foetid lean-to, down in the ramshackle underground city, to snatch a few precious hours of rest, trusting to Jem's guards to keep them safe from the things that roamed the darkness. Sometimes, she'd taken her turn on the watch, and she'd heard distant screams across the wasteland, as the Creepers fed on some poor unsuspecting soul, tearing them apart with once-human teeth. Or sometimes, the triumphant howling as the Raiders tortured someone to death for sheer enjoyment.

Here in Rio though, outside in the streets, there were no agonised shrieks in the night. Instead, there were bright lights and music and laughter; the hum of traffic, a snatch of song, the sound of people dancing to a reggae beat. Lulled by the happy sounds, Allie finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

---

In the dream, she was back in the Duke of Kent building, staring through the glass window into the huge, multi-faceted eyes of the giant wasp; and all she could see were thousands of miniatures of her own face, reflected back at her – the same thin, hollow-eyed visage she had seen in the hotel bathroom - over and over again, twisting into infinity.

With a startled gasp, she sat bolt upright in bed, clutching wildly at the covers, only to find Rob regarding her calmly from across the room. He didn't seem to have moved from where she had last seen him, and the covers of the other bed were undisturbed. She doubted he'd gotten any rest at all.

"Sleep well?" Rob asked.

She rubbed at her eyes, her heart rate slowing, as she threw off the unsettling effects of the dream. “Pretty well, thanks.”

There was no use complaining about the nightmares, they were part and parcel of the apocalypse. In fact, it would probably have been more concerning if she didn't have them. Afternoon light was slanting through the windows, painting the walls a warm, golden colour. Allie figured she must have almost slept the clock around, a guess that was confirmed by Rob's next words.

"Breakfast is on the table, even if it is four in the afternoon. I figured you'd want sommat. An' it looks like we're gonna have to refuel at least once, after we nick that plane. It's a little over five thousand klicks we're flyin', an' most light planes are good fer half o' that. So, refuel or nick another - whatever looks easiest." He waved at the dresser. "G'wan. Tuck in. Yer clothes're in the closet, when yer ready."

The food looked and smelt delicious. Even better, was the icy pitcher of water that also stood there, rivulets of condensation running down the glass sides. Wide-eyed, her stomach rejoicing in rumbles at this unaccustomed luxury, Allie slipped out of bed and pattered barefoot over to the table.

“Thank you, Rob!” Reaching for a glass, she tilted the jug and watched the clear, pure water trickle into it, fascinated. Then she glanced back over towards him, a slight frown on her face as she focused on the things he was saying about the plane. “I can hot-wire us a car to get us to the airport, if you like. Danny taught me. I'm pretty good at it.”

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

“Thank you, Rob!” Alley gushed, playing with the water jug.

Made sense, really - how long had it been for her, since she'd had unlimited access to the stuff? "Think nothing of it," he said, waving it off with a vague sense of embarrasment. "Need you in tip top shape, don't I?" Then he chuckled as a thought struck him. "Seems I use false modesty an' tryin' to sound hard to cover genuine emotion as well. Go figger. I'm learnin' new things about meself daily. Anyway, now we just need to get to the airport. An' that's a bit of a trick, since..." He riffled through the one wallet he'd kept. "Ain't got much left. Hafta go foragin' first, I will."

“I can hot-wire us a car to get us to the airport, if you like," she offered. "Danny taught me. I'm pretty good at it.”

Genuine laughter bubbled up, now. "An' that's even better. Let's do that, yeah." Nodding his head, he disconnected improvised cables and tucked the black box away as he climbed to his feet. "If yer ready?"

---

A few minutes later...

"The trick, see, is lookin' like yer knows what yer doin'."

The elevator dinged and the doors hissed open, revealing level P3 of the garage beneath the hotel. It was dark and cool down here, feeling ever so slightly like a flashback to the refugee camp he'd visited four days ago and five years from now. The differences were striking, though. There was no great mass of humanity packed into the subterranean warren, just row after row of cars stretching out into the florescent-lit gloom. And the only stench was that of cool concrete and car exhaust. The distant rumble of an engine could be heard, the echoes distorting the sound oddly as it bounced down from street level.

"This is actually a good time to half-inch a car, too," Rob continued, strolling past the cars with his hands jammed in his pockets. "Everyone's havin' Frank Skinner now, so anyone who'd be goin' out's already out, an' everyone else's at th' hotel restaurant. So the odds o' getting bothered are pretty bad." A shrug. "Still real, mind. But bad. so now we need somethin' solid and functional. Nothin' flash, no 'male enhancement, I've gotta midlife crisis' kinda cars, mind. We just need to make the airport, not cruise about like we're on the pull. Ah! This looks good!"

The car in question was a red two-door hatchback with a few small dents in the doors. Not beat up, precisely, but certainly not brand new. "Lookin' good, don't you think?" he said, leaning casually against the car with enough force to rock it a little on its shocks. "Good," he grinned. "No alarm. So..." With a quick glance around, he pulled a package from his coat pocket - a cloth napkin, wrapped around two forks, a butter knife, and a steak knife. "Best I could put together, on short notice. An' I've got th' toolkit from the APC in me ruck, if you need it. You jimmy the lock and start the car, an' I'll keep watch."

[Allison Castiel]

Dressed once more in her ragged shorts and her black military-style tank top, Allie felt less overwhelmed and much more like her usual self. Even though they were now neatly laundered, the clothes reminded her acutely of the job they were here to do. And, more importantly, what would happen if they failed.

With one last, reluctant look around the comfortable hotel room, she walked with Rob down to the underground carpark, doing her best to look like an ordinary tourist. The food and the sleep had refreshed and strengthened her. Physically, she felt better than she had done for a very long time. It made it a lot easier to act as if she belonged here, in this place, in this time.

The car Rob ended up choosing was a good one. An older model, with no security system. Allie's eyes flickered around the dimly-lit carpark. There was no evidence of any surveillance cameras, but that didn't necessarily mean that they weren't there. If their car-jacking activities were spotted by the hotel security staff on their monitors, getting out of here was going to be problematic.

The car in question was a red two-door hatchback with a few small dents in the doors. Not beat up, precisely, but certainly not brand new. "Lookin' good, don't you think?" [Rob] said, leaning casually against the car with enough force to rock it a little on its shocks. "Good," he grinned. "No alarm. So..." With a quick glance around, he pulled a package from his coat pocket - a cloth napkin, wrapped around two forks, a butter knife, and a steak knife. "Best I could put together, on short notice. An' I've got th' toolkit from the APC in me ruck, if you need it. You jimmy the lock and start the car, an' I'll keep watch."

“This will do nicely,” she replied, taking the cloth parcel from his hand. Crouching down between the two cars, keeping to the shadows, she reached behind her, and drew out the wire coathanger she had purloined from the hotel room, and concealed down the back of her top. With a few deft, well-practised movements, she had unfolded the hanger and straightened it. Then, using the fork that Rob had given her, she twisted the last half inch of the wire into a hook.

When he had been teaching her how to jack a vehicle, Danny had always called this sort of improvised tool a 'Slim Jim'. Allie had never thought to ask him why. It hurt badly, to realise she would probably now never know. Rising to her feet, she gritted her teeth, refusing to give into her grief. In this timeline, Danny wasn't dead, not yet. He was back in London, going about his business as a corporate lawyer, returning home at night to his wife and children. She could still save him. She could still save everyone.

Loosening the length of black rubber weather stripping that ran along the edge of the car window, she thrust the Slim Jim down into the gap, twisting the hanger so that the hook faced inwards. A few seconds later, after a bit of expert maneuvering, the wire caught on the locking pin and disengaged it, popping up the lock.

Back in the wasteland, Danny had always emphasised there were only two types of people, the quick... and the dead. Without wasting any time, Allie opened the driver's door and slipped inside, tossing aside the Slim Jim. Now the butter knife came into play, used as a crude screwdriver, to remove the screws that held the plastic cover on the steering wheel in place, revealing a small bundle of wires. Efficiently, she applied the sharp edge of the steak knife to strip approximately an inch of insulation from the battery wires, twisting them together, then connecting in the ignition wire. Immediately, all the lights on the dashboard sprang into life, and soft music began to pour from the radio.

Last of all, she stripped the starter wire back by about half an inch. This was the most delicate part of the whole procedure, since the wire was live and therefore quite dangerous. Holding the end of it against the connected battery wires in her hand, she sparked it against them. The engine purred uncomplainingly into life, and she revved it a few times, to make sure that it wasn't about to die on them, requiring her to start the procedure all over again.

“Rob, come on, quick!” she called, satisfied with her work. “Let's get out of here.”

As soon as he swung himself into the passenger seat, she reversed the little car out of its parking spot and peeled away towards the exit, taking care not to drive too recklessly or noticeably fast.

“Looks like you're on navigation, Mr Chekhov,” she said to Rob, unexpected exhilaration surging through her veins.

[Rob "the Meddler" Goodfellow]

Quickly and efficiently, Allie had the car started. Rob slipped into the passenger seat and buckled in as she reversed out and drove towards the exit. Soon enough, they were part of the late afternoon Rio de Janeiro traffic. “Looks like you're on navigation, Mr Chekhov.”

He nodded. "Right. I mean, yeah. An' hang a right up there, would yah?" He hesitated a moment. "An' wot th' bleedin' church has old Antoshka got ta do with th' price of tea?"

---

Rob grouched about the traffic the whole way to Santos Dumont Airport, even though he seemed to have a knack for avoiding the worst knots of traffic on the crowded Rio roads. He gestured a lot as he navigated, pointing and waving and occasionally shaking fists and individual fingers at cars he disagreed with, and frequently his hands would twitch and his feet tap as if he were trying to take control of the vehicle by sheer force of will. But, in less than half an hour, they arrived.

The airport was built on a stretch of land that jutted out into Guanabara Bay, a broad expanse of water that fed into the Atlantic Ocean. A cool sea breeze took the edge of the humid heat of the day, and gulls screeched and whirled overhead. "..." Rob announced, voice drowned out by the roar of a passenger jet as it made its final approach. He rolled his eyes, and tried again. "Right, one o' them sure ain't gonna do fer us." He jerked a grimy-looking thumb in the vague direction of the landing plane. "Plenty of fuel, mind, but they ain't gonna just let us walk off with one, are they?"

Slinging the rucksack full of random junk over his shoulder, he fished his packet of stale cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. After offering one to Allie, he tipped one into his mouth and lit up, drawing a deep breath and letting smoke stream from his nose. "See, here's the plan - fer certain vague and making-it-up-as-we-go value of 'plan'." Slamming the door shut behind him, he hefted the ruck and started off in parallel to the terminal. "We slip around the back and into the hangers, mebbe pinch a few uniforms along the way if we can find 'em. Who looks at th' maintenance people, amiright? But we get into the hangers, an' find th' small planes. Knock about a bit, find one wot looks useful an' make sure it's full up, then taxi on out an' take off."

He grinned back over his shoulder, smouldering cigarette dangling from his lips. "Like I said = not much ov a plan, is it? Mebbe we'll leave a note fer th' owner: 'To whom it may concern. Sorry fer knickin' yer plane like this, but we gotta save th' world. Thanks!'" Another chuckle. "Mebbe they'll appreciate the gesture." Rounding the corner, he stopped as he found his way blocked by a chain link fence and a padlocked door. Beyond, sitting on the tarmac, stood a smallish private jet.




"Well, that looks promising." He jiggled the padlock experimentally, then peered at the mechanism. "You still got that fork?"

[Allison Castiel]

“Looks like you're on navigation, Mr Chekhov.”

[Rob] nodded. "Right. I mean, yeah. An' hang a right up there, would yah?" He hesitated a moment. "An' wot th' bleedin' church has old Antoshka got ta do with th' price of tea?"

“Antoshka?” Allie echoed in bewilderment, swerving the car obediently to the right. “I was talking about the Russian navigator guy in 'Star Trek'. It's this classic science-fiction show on television.” She gave a sudden, unexpected peal of laughter. “I don't suppose Time Lords watch much TV. Perhaps you should. I expect you'd find it very funny.”

Adrenaline prickled along her veins as she wove the little red hatchback through the traffic, following Rob's directions, her small hands white-knuckled on the wheel. Thanks to Danny's expert tutelage, there was very little she didn't know about cars. Aside from her car-jacking skills, she could also strip down and rebuild an engine almost with her eyes shut, change a tire in under ten minutes, siphon petrol like a pro, and drive like a bat out of hell across any sort of terrain.

Road rules, however, were a mystery to her. Before the Apocalypse, she had never owned or driven a car. Living in the middle of London, there had been no need. And after the War, the few roads that were left had operated under a very different set of rules indeed.

Vaguely, Allie remembered reading somewhere that Rio was one of the most congested cities in the world. Going by the amount of traffic they were encountering, she could easily believe it. Every single inhabitant of the city seemed to be out and about on the bustling streets, all of them going in different directions, complete with a medley of horn-blowing and shouting out of windows, accompanied by graphic hand gestures. Fortunately, most of the other drivers seemed to be as ignorant of the road rules as she was – or else they were accustomed to treating them with flagrant disregard. To her great relief, it meant that her survivalist approach to driving didn't stand out in any way. In fact, it probably helped, since the route to the airport resembled nothing more than a vehicle obstacle course.

At last, they pulled into the parking lot opposite the main airport terminal. Hopping out of the car and stretching the cramped muscles in her arms and back, Allie glanced up as the enormous jet roared overhead, powering towards the runway.

"Right, one o' them sure ain't gonna do fer us." [Rob] jerked a grimy-looking thumb in the vague direction of the landing plane. "Plenty of fuel, mind, but they ain't gonna just let us walk off with one, are they?"

“Probably not,” Allie agreed, her mind inwardly boggling at the thought of stealing anything remotely close to that size.

Her consternation didn't abate once Rob had explained his plan in more detail, either. Or rather, as much detail as he had so far worked out, which didn't appear to be a lot. As far as she could see, it involved an alarming number of opportunities for them to get arrested. It was going to be a bit hard to save the world if they ended up in jail.

He grinned back over his shoulder, smouldering cigarette dangling from his lips. "Like I said = not much ov a plan, is it? Mebbe we'll leave a note fer th' owner: 'To whom it may concern. Sorry fer knickin' yer plane like this, but we gotta save th' world. Thanks!'" Another chuckle. "Mebbe they'll appreciate the gesture."

"If they had any idea what was coming for them, they would,” Allie replied, again glancing automatically up into the cerulean sky. Somewhere, not all that far from here, it was probably already starting to happen. The chain of events that would lead to the Apocalypse. Despite the heat, she found herself shivering. How far would she go, she wondered, to stop it all happening? If someone got in their way... if someone caught them stealing the plane... would she be able to kill, to keep their mission on track? One death, maybe two, to pay for the billions of lives they would save? The honest answer was, she didn't know. And she couldn't predict what Rob would do either. All she could do was to hope that the situation didn't arise.

Rounding the corner, [Rob] stopped as he found his way blocked by a chain link fence and a padlocked door. Beyond, sitting on the tarmac, stood a smallish private jet.

"Well, that looks promising." He jiggled the padlock experimentally, then peered at the mechanism. "You still got that fork?"

Reaching into the pocket of her shorts, she withdrew the cloth-wrapped package of utensils and handed it over. “Here. It's a little bent, I'm afraid, but it should still work.”

As she spoke, her gaze flickered back and forth across the deserted tarmac, her body as tense as a wire, every sense straining to detect any telltale movement. “My turn to keep watch, I think.”