fic: looking glass, challenge 18
Looking Glass, Ten/Rose, PG
His answering laugh is a higher pitch than usual. “You are completely cracked, you know that?”
Author's Note: Man, I wrote an actual AU. You are all free to call me a hypocrite. First time for everything, I suppose!
John is halfway to his car when he hears the sound of running.
It’s been an incredibly long day, and mostly John wants to go home, sleep, and do his best to not to think about the fact that neither the electricity company nor the private technicians he’s hired can figure out why his bloody movie theatre keeps losing power. It’s past two in the morning when he finally leaves the building, and he watches the pavement blearily as he heads to his car.
So it’s the sound of boots slapping against pavement that draws his head up. He looks up from his keys to see a woman racing towards him, short and blonde and surprisingly fast.
“Run!” she screams when he looks up, but John stays fixed where he is, mouth ajar. He squints, and he can just make out the shape of two men running after her, wearing something like motorcycle helmets.
“What…?” he manages to stutter out, brow furrowed, before the woman reaches him.
“Are you deaf?” she snaps. “I said run!”
Without further warning - without even slowing down - she grabs his hand and tugs him along after her.
--
She’s dragged him back towards the front door of the theatre by the time he finds his voice again.
“It’s locked,” he tells her instinctively. He looks back over his shoulder as he struggles to keep up with her, his arm practically jerking out of his shoulder as she tries to tug him forward faster. “Who are they?”
“Not people you wanna meet,” she says abruptly, and then, “I’m good with locks.”
“It’s a new security system,” he says doubtfully. “I’ve got the keys, but it’ll take a minute.” He looks forward just in time to see her pull a penlight from her pocket and shine it towards the doors. The absurdity of the situation hits him again, and he adds, “And what’s going on? Who are you?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she drops his hand and barrels towards the double doors with both arms in front of her; John skids to a halt and braces for the thud of her impact, but the doors swing open obediently. The woman looks over her shoulder just long enough to glare impatiently. “You coming or not?”
He hesitates for a moment, still perplexed. Then, deciding he’d rather take his chances with a petite blonde woman than two blokes with motorcycles, he heads through the doors after her.
--
“Aliens,” she says, when he demands she tell him whom exactly they’re running from.
“I mean it,” he insists as firmly as he can manage, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up with her. “You’ve just broken into my theatre in order to hide. I think I deserve a proper answer.”
“I’m giving you one. Aliens.” She accompanies the statement with a pointed stare. It’s quite a remarkable poker face, really, and she’s very pretty in the light. “Alien slave drones, to be specific. They’re called Slabs. Harmless enough on their own, but it depends who’s controlling them - and usually the sort of people who need slave drones aren’t the sort of people you want to be around.”
His answering laugh is a higher pitch than usual. “You are completely cracked, you know that?”
She sighs. “I always land on the wrong side of the twenty-first century.”
In the lobby below, the double doors give an impressive creak and groan as they’re rammed from the outside. John jumps, and the woman raises one eyebrow.
“That door won’t take them long,” she says. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and lifts her chin. “How about you show me the projection room?” It’s a question, technically, but she turns and starts towards the projection room before he can answer.
The doors on the first floor shake on their hinges again, and John keeps close at her heels, frowning.
Why are the pretty ones always mental?
--
Not two minutes after they’ve locked the door to the projection room, there’s a loud crash on the first floor. The woman pulls an impossibly large thing out of her impossibly small pocket, her penlight opens a compartment on the projector that really shouldn’t be there, and when John peeks through the window to the auditorium down below, he catches sight of something with a giant gun and several more limbs than it ought to have.
He’s beginning to suspect there may be the tiniest degree of method to the woman’s madness.
“They’ve built their base underneath the theatre,” she’s explaining while she works - which seems to consist entirely of waving her penlight at a strange-looking circuit board she pulled from her pocket. “Great place for it, because if anyone hears any strange rumbling or odd noises, they assume it’s coming from the theatre next door playing James Bond or something.”
John, rather distracted by the heavily-armed alien stalking about the aisles of his largest auditorium, only manages to squeak in reply.
“They’ve been sucking power from you, too,” she goes on. Her penlight whirrs every time she uses it. “Bet they even knocked out the power a few times. Am I right?”
John moves away from the window and leans heavily against the wall, staring at her. “They’ve got guns.”
Her lips twitch in amusement. “Yeah. Scared?”
Instinctively, he straightens his tie and stands up straighter. Scared? Why should he be scared? It wasn't as though aliens existed and had set up camp underground beneath his theatre and were now stalking around with guns and slaves in motorcycle helmets --
Oh, wait.
He sniffs. “No.”
This time, she out-right laughs. “You’re cute when you lie.” She shoves the circuit board back into her jacket and grins. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I’m good at this. I’ve only died five times.”
“You are mad,” he announces.
And then the door to the projection room breaks down, and the woman leaps to her feet.
--
They wind up far below the theatre, surrounded by imposing technology in what the woman calls “the base” and what John privately calls “the mothership”. There are plenty of aliens and even more guns, at some point everyone seems convinced it’s a matter of global importance, and it’s more than a little terrifying, truth be told. John’s fairly certain his heart has never done nearly so many acrobatics in his chest before.
But the woman is bizarrely calm about it all, and John manages to distract them long enough by babbling that she finds time to drop her circuit board behind one of their impressive alien computers, and somehow she even manages to get rid of the guns pointed at their heads long enough to grab his hand and make a break for it.
“What’s your name, by the way?” she calls as they weave up the stairs, dodging the occasional laser blast that reminds John far too much of Star Wars. Their arms jerk awkwardly between them, and truthfully he thinks it makes it more difficult to run, but he clings to her hand anyway, and she doesn’t seem to be any more eager to let go.
“John Smith,” he calls back, and he’s about to ask hers, but then they burst out into the parking lot and he gulps in a breath instead.
“Your parents weren’t creative people, were they?” She raises her eyebrows. “Well, John Smith, as I’ve just planted a pretty powerful explosive in the ground beneath us, I suggest we get out of here.” She grins at him again, her tongue peeking out between her teeth. “We’ll take my ride. It's faster.”
Before he can catch his breath to protest, she pulls him across the parking lot towards a big, blue wooden box.
His answering laugh is a higher pitch than usual. “You are completely cracked, you know that?”
Author's Note: Man, I wrote an actual AU. You are all free to call me a hypocrite. First time for everything, I suppose!
John is halfway to his car when he hears the sound of running.
It’s been an incredibly long day, and mostly John wants to go home, sleep, and do his best to not to think about the fact that neither the electricity company nor the private technicians he’s hired can figure out why his bloody movie theatre keeps losing power. It’s past two in the morning when he finally leaves the building, and he watches the pavement blearily as he heads to his car.
So it’s the sound of boots slapping against pavement that draws his head up. He looks up from his keys to see a woman racing towards him, short and blonde and surprisingly fast.
“Run!” she screams when he looks up, but John stays fixed where he is, mouth ajar. He squints, and he can just make out the shape of two men running after her, wearing something like motorcycle helmets.
“What…?” he manages to stutter out, brow furrowed, before the woman reaches him.
“Are you deaf?” she snaps. “I said run!”
Without further warning - without even slowing down - she grabs his hand and tugs him along after her.
--
She’s dragged him back towards the front door of the theatre by the time he finds his voice again.
“It’s locked,” he tells her instinctively. He looks back over his shoulder as he struggles to keep up with her, his arm practically jerking out of his shoulder as she tries to tug him forward faster. “Who are they?”
“Not people you wanna meet,” she says abruptly, and then, “I’m good with locks.”
“It’s a new security system,” he says doubtfully. “I’ve got the keys, but it’ll take a minute.” He looks forward just in time to see her pull a penlight from her pocket and shine it towards the doors. The absurdity of the situation hits him again, and he adds, “And what’s going on? Who are you?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead she drops his hand and barrels towards the double doors with both arms in front of her; John skids to a halt and braces for the thud of her impact, but the doors swing open obediently. The woman looks over her shoulder just long enough to glare impatiently. “You coming or not?”
He hesitates for a moment, still perplexed. Then, deciding he’d rather take his chances with a petite blonde woman than two blokes with motorcycles, he heads through the doors after her.
--
“Aliens,” she says, when he demands she tell him whom exactly they’re running from.
“I mean it,” he insists as firmly as he can manage, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up with her. “You’ve just broken into my theatre in order to hide. I think I deserve a proper answer.”
“I’m giving you one. Aliens.” She accompanies the statement with a pointed stare. It’s quite a remarkable poker face, really, and she’s very pretty in the light. “Alien slave drones, to be specific. They’re called Slabs. Harmless enough on their own, but it depends who’s controlling them - and usually the sort of people who need slave drones aren’t the sort of people you want to be around.”
His answering laugh is a higher pitch than usual. “You are completely cracked, you know that?”
She sighs. “I always land on the wrong side of the twenty-first century.”
In the lobby below, the double doors give an impressive creak and groan as they’re rammed from the outside. John jumps, and the woman raises one eyebrow.
“That door won’t take them long,” she says. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and lifts her chin. “How about you show me the projection room?” It’s a question, technically, but she turns and starts towards the projection room before he can answer.
The doors on the first floor shake on their hinges again, and John keeps close at her heels, frowning.
Why are the pretty ones always mental?
--
Not two minutes after they’ve locked the door to the projection room, there’s a loud crash on the first floor. The woman pulls an impossibly large thing out of her impossibly small pocket, her penlight opens a compartment on the projector that really shouldn’t be there, and when John peeks through the window to the auditorium down below, he catches sight of something with a giant gun and several more limbs than it ought to have.
He’s beginning to suspect there may be the tiniest degree of method to the woman’s madness.
“They’ve built their base underneath the theatre,” she’s explaining while she works - which seems to consist entirely of waving her penlight at a strange-looking circuit board she pulled from her pocket. “Great place for it, because if anyone hears any strange rumbling or odd noises, they assume it’s coming from the theatre next door playing James Bond or something.”
John, rather distracted by the heavily-armed alien stalking about the aisles of his largest auditorium, only manages to squeak in reply.
“They’ve been sucking power from you, too,” she goes on. Her penlight whirrs every time she uses it. “Bet they even knocked out the power a few times. Am I right?”
John moves away from the window and leans heavily against the wall, staring at her. “They’ve got guns.”
Her lips twitch in amusement. “Yeah. Scared?”
Instinctively, he straightens his tie and stands up straighter. Scared? Why should he be scared? It wasn't as though aliens existed and had set up camp underground beneath his theatre and were now stalking around with guns and slaves in motorcycle helmets --
Oh, wait.
He sniffs. “No.”
This time, she out-right laughs. “You’re cute when you lie.” She shoves the circuit board back into her jacket and grins. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I’m good at this. I’ve only died five times.”
“You are mad,” he announces.
And then the door to the projection room breaks down, and the woman leaps to her feet.
--
They wind up far below the theatre, surrounded by imposing technology in what the woman calls “the base” and what John privately calls “the mothership”. There are plenty of aliens and even more guns, at some point everyone seems convinced it’s a matter of global importance, and it’s more than a little terrifying, truth be told. John’s fairly certain his heart has never done nearly so many acrobatics in his chest before.
But the woman is bizarrely calm about it all, and John manages to distract them long enough by babbling that she finds time to drop her circuit board behind one of their impressive alien computers, and somehow she even manages to get rid of the guns pointed at their heads long enough to grab his hand and make a break for it.
“What’s your name, by the way?” she calls as they weave up the stairs, dodging the occasional laser blast that reminds John far too much of Star Wars. Their arms jerk awkwardly between them, and truthfully he thinks it makes it more difficult to run, but he clings to her hand anyway, and she doesn’t seem to be any more eager to let go.
“John Smith,” he calls back, and he’s about to ask hers, but then they burst out into the parking lot and he gulps in a breath instead.
“Your parents weren’t creative people, were they?” She raises her eyebrows. “Well, John Smith, as I’ve just planted a pretty powerful explosive in the ground beneath us, I suggest we get out of here.” She grins at him again, her tongue peeking out between her teeth. “We’ll take my ride. It's faster.”
Before he can catch his breath to protest, she pulls him across the parking lot towards a big, blue wooden box.