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.


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 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: (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: (Default)

July 2012



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