nitro_is_ace: (curious)
Ace leans against the console as the sound of the engines dies away with a last wheezing tearing thump.

Well.

That was that, then.

She's a trifle disappointed that she never found a way to effectively deal with the biscuit people, or even an effective way to communicate with them, but the primary purpose of being there (blowing the hell out of something) was met.

Good day. Gooooood day.

Days.

Whatever.
nitro_is_ace: (bomber girl)
It was the planning of the thing that took the longest. The site had to be scouted (and Ace was very glad she had, because not a one of her fuzzy-headed friends had mentioned that the plants growing near the crash site had begun mutating as well, becoming rather carnivorous and terrifyingly sneaky), explosives had to be gathered, biscuit-men had to be dealt with (whatever else they were, they were damnably persistant), deer-critters had to be given jobs, and she had to work out a way to get close enough to the malfunctioning engines to blow them to hell without getting caught in the field herself. Who knows what she'd mutate into, and there's already been enough changing of the Ace, thank you very much.

In the end, Ace built a catapult. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't highly technical, and it took her a good couple of days to build one that had a decent chance of staying together. The deer-creatures helped, though Ace had quickly discouraged the 'push the tree down with our heads' idea when one particularly whippy tree gave an unsuspecting deer-critter a free lesson in unpowered flight. Razor wire rigged to two deer with harnesses worked much better.

Then she had to figure out how to get the explosives inside the bubble of warped time to where the engines were. Sure, she could now fling explosives at it all day long, but as soon as they hit that field they'd either get stalled completely, or deteriorate so fast they would explode long before they got to the engines. This is where fifty years of temporal physics helps. It's surprisingly easy to set up a temporal null apparatus, given that there's a sufficient power source.

'Sufficient', in this case, meaning 'can power the entirety of New York City on New Years Eve'. She has Q to thank for the solution to this problem. He gave her plasma bombs, once, a very very long time ago. A little bit of jiggery-pokery, and they'd happily fuel her little contraption just long enough (she hopes) to turn the engines into so much scrap metal.

So now she stands, on the ridge thrown up by the crashing ship long ago, with her catapult calibrated by means of chucking rocks at the ship for a while (it might be ugly as sin, but the catapult works beautifully), the deer-critters scattered about watching, and not a sign of the ambulatory yeast balls. It's a beautiful day for an explosion.

Yes, Ace would have thought that even if it was sleeting sideways with occassional hail the size of Volkswagon Beetles. Hush.

Carefully she loads her heavily armed contraption onto the catapult, and sets the timers.

It takes all of her weight to trip the catapult's throwing arm, but the bomb sails away in a perfect arch, up over the ship and down into the aft compartment. It enters the field's outer limits and dives through, not falling apart and disintigrating into dust (gotta look on the bright side, after all).

And then she waits.

And waits.

... How long did she set those timers for?

Maybe they got caught in the field, and they'll be ticking away until the universe collapses.

Maybe the bombs were duds?

...

Nah.

Maybe there's an explosive-eating monster down there. Much more logical.

Ace is about to give up on the whole venture and go back to the TARDIS to call in someone who knows what they're doing when a dull crump sounds over the whirring insects and then there's a flash brighter than the sun as the whole ship goes up in one massive explosion. Ace whoops victory, doing a little celebratory dance on her ridge, with only the deer-critters to see it.
nitro_is_ace: (say what?)
It was a long tale in the telling, made doubly so since Ace couldn't quite believe what she was hearing and kept asking for bits to be repeated. There was no native sentient life, the deer-creatures confirmed solemnly. It is surprising easy to be solemn with those big soulful eyes. They were part of an experiment by a conglomerate of leading-edge scientists, various experiments concerning the feasibility of using their kind as meat-producing species on colony worlds. The ship was a prototype, the newest and greatest thing to be brought online - a ship powered by ripples in time itself. Ace had to hear that part a couple times, just to be sure.

Well, they claimed it was indestructible.

That's rather like painting a giant target on it, isn't it?

The ship crashed on this world, years ago, the entire crew dead on impact. Two of the deer survived, and mutated thanks to the radiation from this new wonderful drive that failed so spectacularly.

Turns out the deer weren't the only things left alive on that ship. One of the scientists also fancied himself a chef. The biscuit people are the direct result of a sourdough starter that splattered all over the kitchen on impact.

"... So what am I supposed to beat them with, clam chowder?" Ace asks the uncomprehending deer while trying to sort out just how one kills mutated yeast balls. "Never mind that, I'm not here for them. Where's this ship?"

She has a time bubble to knock off-line.
nitro_is_ace: (the other one has bells on)
Ace is beginning to think the biscuit people simply aren't coming back.

It's very early in the morning, she's more than a little light-headed from the lack of water (positive: It's not a desert), and there hasn't been any sign of her bread-like captors since they tied her up and left her here.

This is very much not on.

Funny thing about dehydration. It can lead to some very amusing hallucinations. There was one concerning a Dalek in a tutu that kept Ace busy for quite some time.

Thus, when the deer-like creature steps out of the forest and asks her name, she isn't overly surprised.

"Oh, I'm Ace, how'd'y'do?" She replies glibly. The deer tsks, shaking its head (and disrupting the cloud of flies that are hanging about it).
"That is not a proper name." It informs Ace primly. "I am Darnybuck Tarnacyfall. Whyever are you leaning against that tree?"
"Not leanin'." Ace informs it, a little put out that her hallucination is taking her to task. "I'm tied to it, see. Got caught by the biscuit people." The deer sighs dramatically. Ace rolls her eyes. Figures she'd get a drama queen for a hallucination. At least it isn't another Dalek.
Darnybuck sighs, as if being massively put out of its way, then whistles. Sharply. Ace winces as the sound seems to cut straight through her head.
"Oi, cut the..." she doesn't get any further in her complaint as a small herd of deer creatures step into the clearing. Some have wickedly sharp antlers.

"Um. Hullo?" But they ignore her new-found cautiousness. One of the horned ones stands in front of her, antlers lowered, while another couple trot behind her tree. A few moments later, and the vines wrapping her hands behind her back snap free.

"You will come with us." The Darnybuck orders resignedly, and turns, trotting off into the forest. Ace is herded along by an antler-armed guard, though in truth, this looks to be a much better alternative to staying tied up to the tree.

Why can't she ever have normal adventures?
nitro_is_ace: (WTF)
They didn't drag her far, at least as much as she could tell - distances seem different when you're being dragged backwards by something that smells like it escaped from a bakery. She does know one thing - she's never heard of this species before, ever, not unless they've done some major evolving from something else. All her attempts of starting up a conversation have been met with a squishy sort of silence.

Not encouraging.

They leave her tied to one of the massive trees in the forest, though what advantages this tree has over all the others they've gone marching by is beyond her. Her hands are tied behind her, and not even together since her arm-span is somewhat shorter than the circumference of this massive tree.

After making sure her bonds are tight (a little too tight, in her opinion, but they don't seem to care much about her opinion, or anything else she's offered), they march their squishy squashy way off into the distance, soon lost to sight in the heavy foliage.

"Um. Hullo? Hulloooooo-oooooo..." There isn't even a decent echo to answer her. She's beginning to wish she hadn't worn her coat. It's entirely too hot for coats, now that she isn't moving. Well, the good news seems to be there aren't similar skeletons bound to trees all around, so this isn't some ritual dumping ground for sacrifices. Always good to start with the positives. There isn't a giant pit with something hissing and scuttling at the bottom. Another grand positive. She hates hissing and skuttling things at the bottom of pits. They're always so very hungry. There also isn't a satanic torture droid. See? The day's looking up already.

...

There is that rather large charred patch circled with rocks a few yards away.

That is most assuredly not a positive. Maybe it was the hut prisoners used to be kept in before it burnt to the ground in a freak lightning storm. Ace eyes the unmarred canopy far above.

Or maybe it's not?

"Anyone there? Hate t'be a bother, but I'm losing feelin' in my fingers, and I rather like my fingers in their alive an' non-gangrenous state. Hullo?" She tries again. When there's no answer, she sulks, minorly. If it was the Doctor tied to this tree, there'd be a megalomaniac ranting at him while unconsciously providing the perfect route for escape.

Of course, the Doctor probably wouldn't be tied to this tree in the first place.

Bother all that experience, anyway.

Back to looking at the positives then. There's a wonderful canopy, so the sun's not baking her to a crisp. A great positive.

It's then that she hears the hum. It's a low, droning sort of hum that sneaks up on one. She's probably heard it ever since she was dragged to this tree, but she's only recognized it just now. Curiously, she looks about for the source of the hum.

Finally she looks up at a crook in the tree just to the front and right of her own lovely accommodations.

...

Bees. They're huge, and they're kind of purple, but they look like bees.

Bees mean honey.

...

Can she repeat that she was only joking a few days before?

IDIC

Jul. 7th, 2006 01:10 pm
nitro_is_ace: (WTF)
Ace studies the scanner intently as the TARDIS hums in standby mode. They're on a planet - one she's never heard of in any particular sense, in a system thought to be too young to have developed sentient life. Wouldn't be the first time the Council was wrong, however. Something out there was creating a temporal bubble, the energy pattern repeating just often enough to make her suspicious that it isn't natural. It could be, of course - certain crystals at the right frequency can mimic an artificial temporal bubble, but she's not reading the right sorts of chemical compounds anywhere in the area to blame it on that.
"Guess there's only one thing for it, huh?" She asks the black doberman who's lounging at her feet. "You'd better stay here, I don't know what sort of critters are out there, and you're too big to lug if something manages to bite you." Don't ask her what she plans to do if she gets bit. There's only so much you can do.
The doors open to a humid, lush forest, full of irridecent greens and blues. A very pretty place to go exploring, for sure, even if it isn't the most comfortable. Magic whines as the doors close on her, and Ace makes a mental note to drop off on some California beach on the way back and give her pup a good run to make up for the lack of adventure now.
The planet really is beautiful - trees towering far above Ace's head forming a canopy to block the light of the planet's red star sun, vines and shrubs and ferns carpeting the landscape, tiny bugs marching everywhere - of course there's bugs. There's always bugs. They do tend to show up fairly often across the 'verse. Luckily nothing's tried to bite her yet. Something big has evolved here as well - judging by the three-toed footprints, it's possibly the size of a small pony. The trails the creatures have made make convinient paths for Ace to follow through the jungle. She hasn't heard any birds yet, or seen any - the biggest thing flying seems to be a giant dragonfly-type creature that buzzes her every few minutes.

And then her pleasant little walk is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a spear.

Actually?

It's more like a telephone pole with a sharp end.

Ace blinks at the massive weapon that's appeared in her path, then turns to run.

She slams directly into something she hadn't expected at all.

It's huge. It's a pale sort of tan color. It is slightly sticky. There's a definite Ace-imprint in it for a few seconds before it fills out again. It smells vaguely of yeast. Ace stares in shock from where she's fallen, only distantly recognizing the sounds of something else big behind her.

It's a biscuit person. A massive biscuit person.

She was only joking before!

Then she's grabbed from behind (sticky hands, yeasty smell, there's more than one!) and hauled off into the jungle.
nitro_is_ace: (Ace)
So the scene ends with siblings reunited, and all is well. But, as always, there are things to do, newly-made mortals to taunt, cookies to fetch, Coyotes to tease, dogs to check up on, and footballs to track down.

This might explain how Ace ends up sitting at the lake shore, idly trying to skip stones across the water.

Maybe.

There's just so much to think about.
nitro_is_ace: (gleeful)
Ah, Trafalgar Square. The tourists. The nationalistic pride. The man who still has two arms in the statue. The pigeons who proudly defecate on the man who has two arms in the statue.

The lions modeled after dogs.

Hush.

It's a bright and sunny Saturday morning here in Trafalgar Square, with the traffic buzzing around, the tourists taking rolls and rolls of pictures of their kids sitting on the dogs lions, the tour guides trying in vain to herd said tourists on to their next stop, the pigeons looking for food.

The traffic is almost loud enough to mask the wheezing, groaning sound of a TARDIS rematerializing. Since humans have this marvellous capability to ignore unexpected events even when they are happening right in front of them, most of the crowd completely fails to notice that one of the dogs lions suddenly becomes a pair. Well. Most of the crowd, except for a group of kids who stare with gaping mouths.

The statues had been pretty boring, but this? This is cool.
nitro_is_ace: (interested)
The market has a decided tropical feel to it - all bright colors and warm air and sea breeze, and if you look very carefully between the rows of tents on the left, you can see clear blue water and white sand. There are some humans, here, but the vast majority of the patrons and sellers are not, to greater and lesser degrees.

Off in a far corner, away from the crowd, a new tent suddenly fades into view. It's much like the others, except for the odd diamond pattern stitched into one side. One of the flaps is pushed aside, and Ace peeks out.

"Yup, this is the place. Brilliant."
nitro_is_ace: (Huff)
There is a lesson in this, somewhere, she's sure of it. Something about washing one's hands, or the virtues of chicken soup.

Or reading epidemic warnings. Yeah. That could be it.

Of course, 'making sure one's vaccine protocol is up to date' is also pretty high on the list.

One thing she's figured out beyond a shadow of a doubt - the Doctor will never hear of this, ever. He'd never let her hear the end of it.

Jartun is really a quiet little world - mostly farming communities, shipping their harvests to the twin planet Thaltun, which is the industrial half of the pair. It works quite well, most of the time. There is even a thriving tourism trade on Jartun, mostly families trying to expose their children to the 'farm life' - dude ranches and massive farms truly run behind the scenes by a veritable army of workers, leaving the tourists free for hay rides and hoe-downs. Ace, unable to quite believe that people actually shelled out money to go play with pigs and such, had made a little side-trip to see the whole thing in action.

It wasn't until she got back on the TARDIS that she figured out why things had been so slow. The first clue had been when the cough she thought was caused by the dust refused to go away. The cursing from the TARDIS' medbay would have lit the air if such a thing were possible when she got a confirmation on her suspicions. The Yeteli strain of the flu virus usually turned up on backwater worlds where the vaccine, developed long before humans began leaving Earth on a permanent sort of basis, was hard to come by. It is (was, will be) a common childhood vaccine on more cosmopolitan worlds - though those protected would still get sick, the very worse that would happen is a very mild headache. Most patients are asymptomatic.

Like the little girl who had brought the virus to Jartun, too excited about the ponies she was going to get to ride to worry about feeling a little more stiff than usual.

There is no cure, other than massive doses of anti-viral drugs that are better saved for some of the more truly nasty viruses in the universe. While this strain of the flu certainly isn't fun, a normally healthy pyro with a decent immune system isn't in any danger of anything but a miserable week or two.

So, Ace has esconced herself in the library of the TARDIS, curled up on the couch, her soccer-ball blanket tucked around her tight, and does her best to amuse herself and keep hydrated.

Just... don't talk to her about food. Ever. Thank you.
nitro_is_ace: (Default)
She's talking, fast and tight and even, knowing somewhere at the back of her mind that she's dropping more consonants than she's keeping at this point, but it doesn't matter. They know she isn't official. They might not know that they know, but if she stops talking long enough to let them think, they'll realize it.

And damn don't they have big guns.

But still, she keeps talking, rattling off some nonsense about the aft cooling coil of the tertiary underdrive (and who knows if there actually is such a thing) being in such a depressing state it'll be a wonder if she lets them off with only a warning. Truely this ship isn't meant to be flying. She believes that part, but not because of any rusty engine bit or container of severely out-of-date food kept in the pantry.

This is a slavers ship.

She hadn't meant to land here, on this rock of a planet that serves as a trade-off spot. But here she ended up, and as much as she might get in trouble for it, she couldn't just walk away. Alright, so she wouldn't be walking away in any case, more like flying, but the principles hold true. Some of those slaves weren't even near being adults yet. 'Course, some folk liked it like that, meant the new slave wouldn't remember much of a free life, would be easier to control. Among other reasons. Ace prefers not to think of those reasons. If she thinks about those reasons, this little chat will turn into a firefight, emphasis on the fire. She can't risk it. She has to give everyone time to get away from the holding cells, into the TARDIS, or off into the forest if that suits them better. It's all about choice. Right now, her job is to keep the goons busy by pretending to be some over-anal example of officialdom that just happened to stumble across their signal.

Lucky her.

A couple are beginning to get that worrisome look of dawning comprehension, so she talks faster, louder, more stridently, look here, don't think, I'm not asking you to think, clearly your thinking has been messed up of late so let me do your thinking for you. She's also slowly leading the back towards the TARDIS - she's given the time promised, and more besides, and the shorter distance she has to run is all the better for her. She's complaining bitterly about the state of their port injection coupling (which she's fairly certain doesn't exist at all) when, at the back of the crowd, a slow, dim sort of voice pipes up.

"Ain't never heard of no aft coolin' coil." He's big, he's muscular, and he probably hasn't got two brain cells to rub together. That's the problem. Smart people, they have imaginations. They see someone in a vaguely official-looking uniform, and they fill in the details themselves, up to and including the many various ways she can punish them for not coming up to par, the reinforcements she can call in to back her judgements, the depth of her obvious disapproval. Stupid poeple... there's no intimidating stupid people. They just don't have room for it in their heads.

Slowly, the rest of them realize the truth - there has never been, nor will there ever be, an aft cooling coil, not in the tertiary underdrive or any other drive on this ship. The jig is most assuredly up.

Ace is running flat-out down the corridor before the snap and crackle of dozens of safeties being clicked off sounds behind her, eerily loud to her ears.

Louder is the sound of gunfire that follows her, the pound of footsteps and the enraged shouts as they realize that she's making a beeline for the slave deck. She flies, doing her best to slow them down as she goes, closing hatches, pulling down boxes, anything to give them a bit of trouble and give herself a bit more time. There it is, a door marked not with a number, but with the symbol of the ace of spades. She has to pause, fish the key out of her pocket, get it into the lock...

Her lower left leg explodes into a haze of firey pain, just as she gets the key in the lock, the cheers of victory coming from behind her drowning out the sound of the lock snicking back, the door opening under her hand...

The door closes behind her just in time to stop the next hail of bullets.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There weren't so many as she had hoped. Most hadn't trusted enough to go through another door that didn't lead outside, and had made a break for it. They might make it - it is a big enough world, with enough natural species to keep them going, if they put their minds to it. Besides, what little passes for government should be nosing about there soon, after the distress beacon Ace left howling away gets their attention. Those that did come, she sets off at the nearest, safest station, within a decent timeframe to not directly implicate a Time Lord in their rescue.

As for the bullet...

TARDIS medbays are wonderful things. Luckily it was a through-and-through, and she was blessed enough to escape with no major nerve injury, though touch is kinda awkward, in spots. Looking at it, you'd think the wound was months old, years, at least.

Which means Ace will never tell.

And learn to talk faster, next time.
nitro_is_ace: (Default)
An unimportant planet in an unimportant system. At least, unimportant to anyone who didn't live there. Considering there were only five hundred colonists all told at the end, even that amount of important is rather... unimportant. Ace peers around the door of the TARDIS, eying the landscape dubiously. Looks to be a migration, or something.
"You sure there's a hopper here?" She querlously demands of the ship. Of course, TARDISes don't talk. Ace goes on anyway.

--------------------------------------------------


It's not a migration, it's an evacuation. Something to do with the background levels of radiation on this planet, Ace figures, after going back to the TARDIS to check figures. Doesn't anybody check these things out when planning settlements?

--------------------------------------------------


That night, after most folk have gone to sleep, Ace takes a head-count. Much easier to do it late at night - less chance of double-counting, or missing folks entirely. Thank goodness they don't seem to believe in tents. It still takes several tries to get two numbers that match.

Five hundred and one.

Well well well. Someone here's a hopper. She just hates it when the ship is right. That hum gets intolerably smug.

--------------------------------------------------


She's run everyone through every database she has.

Twice.

This is getting old in a hurry. Must be a first-timer, or someone who's kept his (or her?) head down low enough to not attract attention before.

Then it occurs to her to check radiation exposure levels.

Hello, Mr.... Brayborne. Huh. He's been around a while. Why pop up as a problem at this point?

--------------------------------------------------


Oh.

OH.

Oh shit.

Note to self: Learn edged weapons from one of the Slayers. Figures she'd pick up a knifer. Ace watches her scanner as Braybourne manages to talk himself out of being suspected of following the young girl the watch had stopped. 'Course he was following her. With a Damn Big Knife. Now why the hell would he wait this long...

--------------------------------------------------


It needs to be said. What the Fuck, mate. Well. the CIA will be very interested in the odd pattern of deaths among youngish, blondish, femalish settlers on doomed planets. Funny how they all manage to fall on something sharp. Get in good with the settlers, wait until the inevitable happens and they're given orders to move out... hell, no one will be awake enough or strong enough to stop you. Just, see, the problem is... that particular youngish blondish femalish settler on a doomed planet? Is going to go to the university one day. History records that she manages to stop a major epidemic with her research. Way t'go, idiot.

--------------------------------------------------


Ow. Buggering fuckin'... ow. Ace kicks the still form on the ground irritably. That bloody well hurt.



Gee. It's bloody well... bloody, too. Charming. She drags our dear Mr. Braybourne well clear of the camp, dopes him up thoroughly, and leaves a transceiver on him to alert the authorities.

'Leastways he didn't mess up the coat.

--------------------------------------------------


Ace hisses as she dabs cautiously at the shallow knife wound with antiseptic. It's not bad, just looks ugly. 'Course, most wounds that are your own tend to look ugly. It's just the way of things - self bleeding is bad.

Time to go home.
nitro_is_ace: (Ace)
She hadn't planned to leave tonight, meant to stay until breakfast, get an early start. But she got rattled in there, after a run-in with a god she has no faith in, claiming... well. First that she was one of his, which she strongly resents, later that she is favored. She's not sure if she resents that even more. She doesn't want dealings with gods, no more all-powerful bastards who think they have the right to muck about with her life, leaving her with no way to escape, to play by her own rules.

She calms down considerably once back on board the TARDIS. This is familiar, this is home, no mysterious gods here - all science and physics and mechanics, logical sane things that don't change on a whim. The lights are dimmed to the point the console looks all bright and cheery, its gauges lit up and shiny in the near-darkness.
"Hullo dear. I'm back." She smiles as she prowls around the console, checking settings she already knows by heart, seeing what the scanners have picked up lately.

"Let's go find some trouble, shall we?"
nitro_is_ace: (Portrait)
There are people, in the cosmos, who are fueled by a nearly fanatical belief in a righteous cause.

There are people who are out to promote their own ends by any means possible.

There are those, even, who delight in creating chaos where ever they go.

There is one thing that binds these three groups of people together - they cause no end of trouble when given access to time travel technology.

------------------------------------------------------------------------


Ace tugs at the high lacy collar of her dress, standing in the faintly lit hall of Ford's Theater, on a muggy night in April as the play most of the people in the building have come here to see starts up further inside. It will be a good hour until the excitement begins, but as Ace couldn't think of a good way to get out of the theater in time when needed, she's going to have to wait it out here.

Almost immediately upon telling the TARDIS to search out temporal anomalies, it had centered on April 14th, 1865. In these last hours of Good Friday, in what is, for the time, a well-appointed theater, something went disasterously wrong.

Some bloody idiot with a cause decided to fix history.

Ace looks down the hall, to a closed door which leads to a private box. The Presidential box. There, Abraham Lincon and his wife, along with an army major and his fiancee, watch the new play brought over from England. Figures the backdrop for one of the great tragedies of American History is formed by a musical comedy. As the show goes on inside, and Ace tries not to become stiff with standing still so long, she wonders if it would do much damage to warn that major's fiancee to not marry her beloved army darling. It won't be too many years until he goes mad and murders her, after all. Charmin' bloke.

Stealthy footfalls coming up the stairs give Ace just enough warning to duck into an alcove. As quietly as he can, the shadowy figure of the famous assassin creeps by, intent on the door to the Presidential box, a .44 caliber Deringer gleaming in the dim light of the gas lamps. John Wilkes Booth, actor and Southern sympathizer. Poor John, she thinks. You'd have a longer life if you turn around now. There won't be any revolution due to your actions. He doesn't stop, of course - he's committed at this point. So far, so good. Now, to wait for the interloper.

She doesn't have to wait long. The second shadowy figure climbing the stairs is tall, fit, the very image of a well-fed, well-off middle-class American of the twentieth century. No doubt, inside the collar of his Union uniform, the words 'Made in China' are printed somewhere. He didn't even bother to bring a historically correct weapon, Ace notes, eyeing the gun in the man's hand with distaste. She does hate it when these fanatics get the details wrong - shows less brains than are needed to have any hope to peacefully talk them out of it. This is one Thomas Lowry, of Detroit. Enthusiastic if somewhat inept member of the local Civil War Reconstructionists club, author of some rather horrid papers on the Messiah-like traits of the dear President Lincon. Seems Mr. Lowry has decided to take matters into his own hands, and improve the world by assuring that Lincon does not die tomorrow morning due to his wounds.

Booth's hand is on the door handle, as Lowry pauses just past Ace's alcove, raising his gun to fire.

The door to the box is eased open... and Mr. Lowry crumples onto the hall runner, victim of a sharp rap to the back of the skull, delivered by one highly satisfied pyromaniac. Thank God for Knuckle Dusters. She busies herself in hogtying her prisoner while she waits for the shot to ring out - even with Booth's careful timing, everyone will hear the shot that will end the President's life.

Suddenly there is a sharp crack, a scream, then more, and closer hoarse shouting from the box as Booth and the army major grapple. In the few minutes she has left Ace hits the recall for her TARDIS, its groaning, wheezing arrival muffled by the racket inside the theater.

Both Ace and Lowry are gone by the time the first of the crowd rushing up to see what damage has been done hits the bottom of the stairs.
nitro_is_ace: (Ace)
Every couple of nights she sleeps on board the TARDIS, just so she can keep up her connection with the alien timeship, get used to her little quirks and oddities.

Her room, oddly, is almost an exact replica of her room on board the Doctor's TARDIS, if somewhat tidier.

Plus, in this room, there's a doggie bed. Currently occupied with a snoozing doberman pup.

Ace is asleep, curled up under her blankets and quilts and comforters.

His look of uncomprehension as she explained why she was hurt

She frowns, slightly and shifts.

The Reverend, under glass, devolved into something ape-like and hideous

Wash, bloody and pale and still, Raven distant and exhausted, Lilly crying ohGodnodon'ttakemybrothers

The frown deepens, one hand twines around the loose end of the sheet.

Fighting back from under the madness to see Faith ohnoohnoIattackedherhurtherFaithbealrightplease

Pain exploding through her shoulder as she realizes just how stupid it was to turn her back on the traitor

A stranger who turns out to not be a stranger at all, the stranger that stole her Doctor away, and she can't hate him 'cause it's not his fault but her Doctor is gone ohProfessorcomebackpleaseImissyouloveyouI'msorrydidn'tmeantogopleasecomeback

She's crying, tears making little silvery tracks across her face that are highlighted by the dim running lights.

Coming home to a cold house with the telly blaring and her mum saying things, such horrible things, drunk or stoned beyond caring.

Mal, Cuthbert, ohGod Crowley, and she can't help them can't even offer 'cause she's too weak to go in there, bloody useless

He laughs and she's never heard him sound so happy, so carefree, she can compare it to laughter before an know now that he's been miserable the whole time they all have how could she be such a horrible person and wish they could stay?

Daleks they're closing in all around screaming her bat's in shards oh hell this is it

She doesn't know what it is but it just ate half that ship and it's coming after the Serenity this isn't fair they won it's supposed to be over

The soup, it's human

She whines.

His laughter echos in her ears as he burns

And twists.

He bleeds as irradiated skin fails to hold together

And sobs.

Worthless

And somewhere in the TARDIS' databanks, the abnormal biorhythm of ship's Time Lord is noted.

The hum shifts, slightly, in response.

Slowly, Ace calms, relaxes, and falls back into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

TARDISes are good for many things. Travel is just one of them, you know.

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nitro_is_ace

July 2012

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