Buffered by Butterfly Wings

[Valeyard]

What was he doing here, again?

Oh yes, that's right...

Now that he had a TARDIS again, the universe was the Valeyard's oyster. The entire Web of Time, in fact, was the Valeyard's oyster.

After all, he wasn't tied down. He wasn't obligated to anyone, or anything. Certainly not a daughter.

Wait. Hadn't that been what the Doctor had done, all of those lifetimes ago on Gallifrey? When he ran away, and left Tejana to face the Untemp-...no, was that this timeline? Or the next? Or a previous? Or another entirely?

It would be far less like the Doctor, then, to have stayed on the Zenobia, or to have taken his new family with him.

But would that just make him like the Doctor making amends? That rather defeated the point of his new mantle, didn't it? The Valeyard - a distillation of all that that chivalrous charlatan had been so afraid to become.

He had wrestled and debated with himself for so long that he had almost begun to picture that old folklore image of two tiny apparitions on his shoulders - an angel and a devil, coercing and cajoling, trying to pull him one way or the other. The only trouble was, he couldn't quite tell which of the figures was which.

So, he had tossed them both aside and left them there to argue among themselves, while he went for a quick jaunt to clear his head.

Yes, that was all he was doing. He would make up his mind soon, what he wanted to do with Ailla. Any day now. Just one more quick thing to see first, and then he would face it. He had all the time in the world. Why, he had even outmanoeuvred the Sicarii, once - he was answerable to no-one.

He popped to Greece, vandalized a statue in a museum. The TARDIS spat him out on Copernicus, where a cybernetics magnate drove forward a society warping into immaculate corruption; he quickly departed - that was just the sort of situation the Doctor would have seen fit to interfere with. He picked up a young, scatty renegade by the name of the Nine, played his minds like a piano, before flicking him out into some haphazardly chosen point in time; it wasn't until his TARDIS informed him of the significance of Central City on 28th Century Earth that he realized just how much Ailla was still playing on his mind.

And it wasn't until he found himself sailing past a galaxy named Allison, that he realized what he was really doing.

No, he resolved. He would not run like his tenth former self had done. He was the Keeper of the Matrix - that entailed being capable of responsibility, didn't it? He was a different man now - he was not that coward.

There was still an ice shard in an ex-Time Agent's eye to deal with, wasn't there? Or...something like that?

Yes, that's what he was doing here.

He wasn't altogether certain that he was in the right time period to find Jack, but he was in the right place - that counted for something, didn't it? Although he wasn't sure who exactly he had to convince. But look - here he was, on the planet Zog, striding through the doors of the Maldovarium and into the bustling, smoky cantina, looking about as at-home and at-ease as a penguin in a cattery.

[Captain Jack Harkness]

Dora:

It was harder to track him down than she had expected. The Three had warned her, of course – the Maiden, the Mother, the Crone - but despite their unsurpassed wisdom, she still hadn't really listened. After so many centuries of flitting between universes at their behest, she supposed she had become over-confident, maybe even cocky. It was always easy to detect a mind that didn't belong, a consciousness that was ever-so-slightly out of sync with its environment. Almost too simple, to manipulate the odds, to weight the probabilities, so that her path would intersect with that of her quarry. After that... well, things would usually proceed to plan – whatever the plan may be - even if there were occasional and unexpected bumps in the road. Nothing was ever written in stone. To be honest, she liked the bumps best of all. They kept her sharp, reminded her of who she was, when it would have been so easy to lose herself to mind-numbing inertia, after wandering for so very long.

This Valeyard, however.... the probabilities flowed and twisted through and around him like water. He was insubstantial, a zephyr of smoke on the wind. One moment, his future seemed crystal clear to her, only to have it change in an instant to something completely different, as if the breeze had shifted, twirling him helplessly in an unexpected direction. Even his past was not solid, so many different lives and possibilities, all entwined together, connected and yet not connected, like skeins of wool tangled by a capricious kitten.

As frustrating as it was, she understood it better now, why they needed him. Why, even though the Three did not trust him, they were determined to obtain his help. And Dora had never let them down, not once, in all the years since her penance had begun. Which was why, despite the unforeseen complications he embodied, she was here now, standing in the shadows of this filthy cantina on this godforsaken rock of a planet, watching the tall, cloaked form approaching the bar. Because she was that good. No, not just good, she was the best.

And once again she intended to prove it, because failure was not an option.

[Valeyard]

"I am looking for a Time Agent."

The Valeyard hadn't given the bartender a chance to offer even a cheery greeting before his cold, imperious tone cut through the warbling jukebox like a knife through butter. Around here, though, the bartender liked to think he had seen far worse, and his grin wavered for only the briefest instant before he was pushing a drinks menu towards the newcomer.

"One in particular? Or just a passing fancy? 'Cause the ones I've met, they'd be-..."

"Do not try my patience. I can assure you, you will find it lacking," the Valeyard interrupted, eyes like steel nails fixing the bartender in place. "Which Time Agents 'in particular' have frequented your establishment?"

"W-well, there was..." Inwardly, the bartender winced, as he heard his own voice falter. "There was one here a few weeks ago looking for some poor sucker to invest in some shady business deal. Selling air from the planet...er...Mezzanine, or something. And...er...look, why don't you have a drink, gimme a minute to think, all right? What can I get you?"

This time, the withering look that the robed stranger sent his way was enough to make the unfortunate bartender feel as though he had physically shrunk to half his size. He felt as though his heart had stopped in his chest - although it was probably just that the space between beats seemed all of a sudden interminable - and his hands on the empty glasses were clammy and slippery with sweat. He swallowed hard and nodded, glad to finally break the gaze as his eyes lowered.

"Right - I'll...I'll ask around."

And with that, he turned and hastily crossed the bar, putting the cocktail stand between himself and that dark, gaunt figure, trying to shake the feeling of a cold stare still resting on his back.

[Captain Jack Harkness]

Dora:

No sooner had the bartender hurried away, than there was a slight movement to the Valeyard's right, an almost imperceptible suserration of the air. A girl was suddenly seated on the decrepit bar stool directly next to the tall, gaunt figure, where no girl had been before. She appeared to be in her late teens, of average height, and very thin. Short black hair was feathered around her face, the ends incongruously tipped with bright purple. The punk look was echoed in her choice of clothing – scuffed Doc Martens on her feet, a pair of strategically ripped black jeans, and a white T-shirt depicting an oddly haunting picture of a woman removing a grinning sugar-skull mask, only to reveal the same beautifully-decorated face beneath, but this time with tears running down its cheeks. A slogan was slashed across the shirt in bright red, bleeding letters, which read: “SMILE NOW, CRY LATER.” Her fingers were tipped with long, pointed nails painted the same purple as the tips of her hair.

Black eyes slanted sideways towards him for a moment, cold and sharp, but tempered with a glint of amusement as her attention shifted back to the retreating bar-tender.

“YOU might not want a drink, Valeyard,” she said casually, her voice soft modulated with an odd, unconscious lilt, as though she was not speaking her native tongue. “But after the day I've had trying to track you down, I could definitely do with one.”

[Valeyard]

Here, of all places, a sudden apparition of a new bar patron wouldn't have been remotely surprising. With the huge diversity of species represented in just this one room, teleportation - whether innate or technological - wouldn't have been at all out of place.

In fact, having paid very little attention to those in the crowd as he entered, besides to note that none of them were Jack Harkness, the Valeyard might not have noticed the girl at all, were it not for the fact that he took a fleeting look around for something or somebody to try and intimidate some information out of. His gaze landed on the girl beside him, and he considered for a moment demanding to know whether she was old enough to be drinking at the bar - but no, that would have been too much like a father.

And then, she spoke.

"YOU might not want a drink, Valeyard. But after the day I've had trying to track you down, I could definitely do with one."

Now, it was the Valeyard's turn to be struck speechless - and he didn't like it one bit. Quite why her words had that effect on him, he couldn't immediately say. It wasn't just the unexpectedness of being recognized - that was nothing new, and in fact, it would ordinarily have been a small relief not to be recognized as the Doctor. Nor was it her appearance - physical form was, after all, quite inconsequential. Was it that, then? That he had nothing yet to tell him what actually lay beneath this façade of a demographic that didn't exactly usually seek him out? Or the fact that she had apparently been looking for him at all?

Finally, he spoke, his voice level and tone unreadable.

"Then I rather fear your efforts may have been in vain, child. I have no intention of tarrying."

[Captain Jack Harkness]

DORA:

“Child?” She raised one eyebrow at him, the amusement in her tone even more evident now, as she drawled the word back to him. Even so, her gaze did not waver from his face for a single second, and there was a tenseness to her body, like a cat preparing to spring. “My, you're quite the flatterer, aren't you? I think you and I are going to get on like a house on fire.”

She rapped her knuckles sharply on the bar, summoning the bar-tender, who approached with a reluctant shuffle. “As for not tarrying... it is in your best interests that you hear what I have to say. And from what I've been told, you're usually very keen to put your interests first. Besides...”

A sudden tilt of her head, and a lightning smile flickered across her mouth. “Besides, what harm can it do, to have a drink with a pretty girl? Provided that we ignore the fact that you can't drink and I'm not pretty, of course.”

Gesturing peremptorily towards the bar-tender, she pointed to a faceted decanter sitting on the bar, filled with a glistening amber substance. “If I'm not mistaken, that's made of finito glass. Which means whatever's in it must be pretty potent stuff. That will do, for starters.”

[Valeyard]

"My, you're quite the flatterer, aren't you? I think you and I are going to get on like a house on fire."

The Valeyard would have begged to differ, and he pressed his lips together, brows drawing together, the very picture of aloof disdain as the girl summoned the bartender.

"As for not tarrying... it is in your best interests that you hear what I have to say. And from what I've been told, you're usually very keen to put your interests first."

"And would you care to name your sources?" he inquired, with a single raised eyebrow. "There are very few alive to tell the tales of me, these days."

"Besides, what harm can it do, to have a drink with a pretty girl? Provided that we ignore the fact that you can't drink and I'm not pretty, of course."

Oh, she knew far more about him than he was comfortable with. There may not have been many across the universe who knew much about the Valeyard's inclinations and tendencies, but there were even fewer who could give precise details of his physiognomy.

And the worst part? Now, of course, he just had to know more.

Biting back the urge with some difficulty to make some scathing comment about whether or not she was old enough to be drinking the amber concoction, he slid onto a bar stool beside her, perched on the seat in as dignified a manner as he could manage, and contemplated the sharpness of finito glass if one could only break it.

[Captain Jack Harkness]

DORA:

In Dora's opinion, the bar-tender did a very poor job of hiding his disappointment that they were not leaving. When the Valeyard took a seat, the expression on the man's face was pure chagrin. Dora, on the other hand, was elated. From what she knew of the shayde, getting his attention had always presented a bit of a hurdle, one that she had now cleared. The only problem now was making sure that she kept it.

“I'll have one of those,” she instructed the bar-tender, nodding towards the glistening decanter. “And make it a double.”

The man shook his head. “Lady, you don't wanna do that. That's Beohquian Fire Whiskey. We only keep that for the Judoon. Their patrols call in here from time to time. They're the only ones stupid enough to drink it. Stomachs made of iron, they 'ave, and brains to match.”

“My, my, the Judoon, drinking while on duty?” Dora tutted disapprovingly. “Who would have thought? But really... you shouldn't be arguing with me, should you? The customer is always right. So... a double, please.”

The bar-tender muttered something under his breath that sounded remarkably like, “It's your funeral!”, before clacking a heavy tumbler on to the bar – one that was also apparently made of finito glass – and donning a pair of protective steel gauntlets. The amber liquid hissed like an enraged snake as he poured it, a curl of acrid golden smoke twisting towards the grubby ceiling.

Dora turned her head back towards the Valeyard. “Hard to get good help these days, don't you find? I have no idea why Jack Harkness finds this place so attractive.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Now, where were we? Oh yes, you wanted to know the source of my information, Valeyard.”

Her pronunciation of his title was flawless, with perfect Gallifreyan intonation.

“I'm so sorry, I should have said. The Moirai, the Daughters of the Night, send their regards. Especially Atropos.”

As she spoke, Dora was unable to suppress a tiny shudder. She couldn't help picturing the ancient Crone, her wrinkled face shadowed by her tattered black cowl, her hidden gaze somehow both bright and terrible, almost worse for being unseen. There was very little left in the Universe these days that Dora feared, but Atropos and her 'abhorred shears' definitely figured on the list. At the unwelcome memory, she reached for her glass and took a large swallow, relishing the burn of the amber liquid as it scorched down her throat, not so much drowning her sorrows as incinerating them.

“Yes,” she continued, her voice somewhat gravelly now, but showing no other apparent impairment from the potent alcohol. “Atropos most particularly wanted to be remembered to you.”

Perhaps there was a trace of sympathy in her eyes as she repeated the words. Or perhaps it was just the after-effects of the large draught of fire whiskey, it was hard to tell.

[Valeyard]

"I have no idea why Jack Harkness finds this place so attractive."

Was Jack Harkness just a fixture of this place? Or...did she know why the Valeyard had come here? Worse - if she did know that, then what else did she know about him? What did she know of why exactly he had decided to make some show of tracking down Jack?

What did she know of his innermost doubts, conflicts, questions? Was it her that he had been trying to convince, by coming here?

Unbeknownst to him, he was beginning to do as poor a job as the bartender of masking his consternation. His eyes followed the pouring and drinking of the Beohquian fire whiskey, but he barely registered it, even to contemplate that were he to acquire a fully corporeal form, he might be tempted to sample it himself.

But then, like a glimpse of the moon between black, broiling stormclouds, came a glimmer of something the Valeyard could latch onto.

The Moirai, the Morrigan, the Three. The Valeyard knew them by many names, and their involvement here was far from a welcome revelation. However...herein might lie his advantage, at last. Because the Valeyard had encountered the Three before and, in his opinion, bested them - certainly argued his case before them, and evaded what they had had in store for him.

He wondered if this girl knew that.

As she swallowed the harsh liquor, the Valeyard watched closely, intently, taking in that subtle shudder, the shadow that passed across her eyes as she spoke the name of the Crone...even though she had caught him off-guard, the Valeyard was not unobservant.

Unless he was very much mistaken, she had encountered the Three as well - and had, he suspected, not come out of it quite so well as the Valeyard had. Perhaps he wasn't as much on the back foot as he had feared when she spoke their name.

"Atropos most particularly wanted to be remembered to you."

"Oh, is that so?" Corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly, the Valeyard raised one eyebrow. "And I do hope she remembers that I am beyond her reach. Actually, I expect she remembers me very well - so few have ever defeated her."

Well. Perhaps a slight exaggeration. But it would be interesting to see what the girl made of it.

[Captain Jack Harkness]

DORA:

"The Moirai never forget,” the girl replied without hesitation. “Whatever dealings you have had with them, they will not forget a single detail. Not about you, and not about me. Not until the end of all Creation, and maybe even beyond that.”

Her voice was soft, just loud enough for the Valeyard to hear, and resonated with bitterness. The bar-tender was still hovering curiously, despite some of his other customers becoming more and more frustrated and vocal in their attempts to attract his attention. He'd never seen anybody casually knock back fire whiskey like that, as if it was nothing but water, not even a Judoon. Fascinated, he kept waiting for this strange girl to collapse into a coma, or to have some sort of epileptic seizure, or maybe to simply go insane. But none of that happened.

“Again,” she ordered brusquely, slamming the empty glass down on to the bar. Numbly, the man moved to do just as she said. He couldn't have explained why, but he got the feeling that she was accustomed to being obeyed, and he didn't want to find out what might happen if her expectations were not met.

Ignoring the gush of steam that billowed once more to the ceiling from her glass, Dora continued to address the Valeyard in the same low, urgent tones, as if they were completely alone in the rancid cantina. Her focus was narrow and intense, concentrated solely on the message she was there to deliver.

“Life is a twisted, finite thread. The thread is a segment, a line connecting two points. Clotho spins the thread of life on to her spindle. Lachesis measures the thread of life allotted to each person. Life is temporal, we are each portions of time. Atropos cuts the thread and Death arrives. Birth and death, cradle and grave... and the rest is silence. But not for you. Not. For. You. And that is why I was sent to ask for your help. It regards the Shadow Men. I believe you know of whom I speak.”

[Valeyard]

That bartender was still hovering...the Valeyard couldn't make up his mind whether he was eavesdropping, or just watching in morbid fascination as the girl downed the glass of fire whiskey and demanded another. And if he was eavesdropping, did he have a stake in this matter, or was he just listening for gossip?

Gossip...oh, that brought back memories - the Valeyard was more than half tempted to whisper a rumour into the bartender's ear and see how far it could travel, in memoriam.

Frankly, though, if the bartender was eavesdropping, it really wasn't any of the Valeyard's concern. If there was anything to be kept private, it wouldn't be his own secrets. He wasn't the one clearly on some sort of mission, and speaking now in almost conspiratorial tones.

"Life is a twisted, finite thread. The thread is a segment, a line connecting two points. Clotho spins the thread of life on to her spindle. Lachesis measures the thread of life allotted to each person. Life is temporal, we are each portions of time. Atropos cuts the thread and Death arrives. Birth and death, cradle and grave... and the rest is silence. But not for you. Not. For. You. And that is why I was sent to ask for your help. It regards the Shadow Men. I believe you know of whom I speak."

The Valeyard could have had a thing or two to say about the nature of Life, Time, Fate, Death and their sisters - but that...that was his own secrets to keep. If the girl didn't already know of his relationship to the Pantheon, he wasn't about to open his hearts to her.

To this day, he couldn't quite make up his mind which was the higher power - the Three, or the Six; the Morrigan, or the Pantheon. Perhaps on some plane, they were aspects of the same, he mused. Life and Hope, Time and Pain, Fate and Death. The Maiden, the Mother and the Crone. Embodied concepts - it was never going to be quite so simple as separating them out into distinct individuals of different groups, like one might on a mortal plane.

And she was right - it didn't apply to the Valeyard. The Pantheon had cast him out, and the Morrigan had been unable to reclaim him.

"I do indeed know of the Shadow Men," he replied steadily, watching closely for her reactions to her own words. He intended to give little away himself; the Shadow Men - or at least, Mallister, the one he had dealt with - would take a detail and spin it into a yarn that the most skilled lawyer could be proud of. "But what could they possibly want with me? Oughtn't they to be off seeking out Delphine LaLaurie, or Josef Mengele? Tasks which they are quite capable of themselves. Help, from me? I think not. I will not step into their snare."

[Captain Jack Harkness]

DORA:

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, the Shadow Men want nothing from you, Valeyard. Nothing, at least, that they have not already tried to claim and failed. Indeed, there are those among them who still grind their teeth when your name is mentioned. No, this is something else.”

She paused for a moment, playing idly with her glass, watching the amber contents slosh back and forth, droplets catching the light in a gleaming explosion of colour.

“On Earth, they have a saying. Perhaps you are familiar with it. 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?' Or, more commonly, 'Who polices the police?'” She shrugged. “In this particular case, Valeyard. the answer is... me. One of the seven Sicarii has gone rogue. This has never happened before, in all the history of all the worlds.”

She glanced up at him, no playfulness or amusement remaining in her expression. Her dark eyes were fathomless and grave. “I'm here because I need you to help me identify which one, before the consequences escalate to an extremely dangerous level.”

[Valeyard]

"Oh, the Shadow Men want nothing from you, Valeyard. Nothing, at least, that they have not already tried to claim and failed. Indeed, there are those among them who still grind their teeth when your name is mentioned. No, this is something else."

Contrary to the girl, now grave and somber, the Valeyard was beginning to let some amusement creep onto his face, along with a healthy dose of smugness. The thought of the Shadow Men silently seething for the rest of their conditionally-immortal lives that they had failed - failed, she even used the word herself - to outwit him, that pleased him very much. At last, he began to relax a little, settling more comfortably on his chair and watching the girl with more open interest as she continued.

"On Earth, they have a saying. Perhaps you are familiar with it. 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?' Or, more commonly, 'Who polices the police?' In this particular case, Valeyard. the answer is... me. One of the seven Sicarii has gone rogue. This has never happened before, in all the history of all the worlds."

Now, the Valeyard was not only flattered, but intrigued. He hadn't been sure quite what to expect of her, but it certainly wasn't that. Not only the revelation of her own role, but...one of the Sicarii had gone rogue? How, he wondered - would that not be to revolt against the Morrigan themselves? Of course, he hardly needed to wonder why - he was sure the rebel had their reasons.

"I'm here because I need you to help me identify which one, before the consequences escalate to an extremely dangerous level."

"And if the possibility of these dangerous consequences should appeal to me more than the prospect of aiding in your investigation?" he replied. "Come now, child - you clearly know me well. What leads you to expect that I would be willing to be in any way altruistic? The cosmos has not been kind to me; why should I feel obliged towards it?"

[Captain Jack Harkness]

DORA:

"And if the possibility of these dangerous consequences should appeal to me more than the prospect of aiding in your investigation?" he replied. "Come now, child - you clearly know me well. What leads you to expect that I would be willing to be in any way altruistic? The cosmos has not been kind to me; why should I feel obliged towards it?"

A small, wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It wasn't as if she was caught off-guard by his response. His fickleness, his volatility, his sheer unpredictability, these had been the things that had piqued her interest with regard to this assignment – not that she ever had any choice about the missions she was sent on, but her preferences and enjoyments were still her own. However, this reply at least, thanks to her briefing and her own investigations, she had easily seen coming. It was pure Valeyard.

“I do know you well. Better than you think,” she answered coolly. “There are billions of worlds out there, far too many for anyone ever to count. But there are only a few that the Morrigan personally watch over, only a few to whom they assign a coven of Sicarii. Because those worlds are important. Because, in some intangible but significant way, they affect the balance of all things. Earth is one of those crucial worlds. There are few now apart from the Three who remember why. But you do. You know what lies beneath Insula Avallonis. Not just in this universe, but in all of them. In another life, another time-stream, you saw it destroyed and then miraculously reborn. You know what will happen if it fails.”

Her slender hand snaked out to grasp his gloved one tightly, an unnatural power in her grip. “And if the rogue Sicarii is not stopped, it will fail. Valeyard, you and I are no doubt the two most unlikely heroes in the history of the universe. But if we don't find a way to deflect the unfolding course of events very soon, this catastrophic outcome will become inevitable. This time, however, thanks to a certain chip of ice, there will be no Jack Harkness to save the day. And I don't think even you would welcome that.”

[Valeyard]

This time, the Valeyard allowed himself a pause to carefully consider his response. And there was plenty to consider. His hand remained where it was, held firmly in the deceptively strong grip of her small hand - he would not give her the impression of any discomfort by pulling away.

The fate of the Web of Time, he reminded himself firmly, was no longer his concern. If Time needed somebody to fight for her - well, she had chosen her Champion, and it hadn't been the Valeyard. Let the Temporal Nucleus be rendered asunder - her scream as she was ripped apart would be most gratifying.

And the Time Lords? Once, they had liked to think it was they who were the custodians of the Web of Time - the CIA, the High Council...all of them, mere pawns on the chessboard of higher beings - the Valeyard knew now, that the Time Lords had never truly comprehended the forces that kept the cosmos in check, save for whispers and hints in their mythology, cultural memory dismissed as superstition in the later years of their civilization.

On some level, the Valeyard liked to think that having that higher understanding set him apart from them - above them.

And that was why this girl had sought him out, wasn't it? Him - not the Time Lords, not the Doctor - not even the seventh, who had stolen the role of Time's Champion. Because only the Valeyard would really be capable of understanding, let alone being of any use.

He let himself savour that thought for a moment or two, before turning his attention to another steadily-growing urge that he simply couldn't deny any longer: curiosity. If he were to decline her proposal, simply stand and turn and walk away...he was fairly sure there would be more unanswered questions than he could bear. How had one of the Sicarii gone rogue? What were they doing - how were they a threat to the Temporal Nucleus? Who was this agent of the Morrigan? How did she know so much about him - and what else did she know?

She, too, was aware of the other timelines that he recalled as easily as he saw her before him now; could she also, perhaps, see that one in particular that he mentally recoiled from as soon as he considered it - a shattered, shredded Web of Time, and the Valeyard huddled at the very centre of the fragile ruination...

"And I don't think even you would welcome that."

Was that...could it be a subtle threat? An implication of consequences that he couldn't yet foresee?

"Perhaps my current business can await my attention a little while longer..." He spoke steadily, deliberately, his tone and demeanour giving no indication of the eager curiosity or prickling of dread that lay beneath. "Come, let us begin. And I do believe we are not yet mutually acquainted - by what name ought I to call you?"

No sense in asking for a real name - she would either give it or she wouldn't.