DONNA (slightly distant): --er you hear the beep.

BRIGADIER: Er, now, then?

DONNA (slightly distant, a bit exasperated): Yes, Brigadier! I said after you hear it beep.

BRIGADIER: Ah. Well. You've reached Lethbridge-Stewart, ...er, leave a message and I'll return the call when I can. (aside) Now what?

DONNA (slightly distant): Hit the off butt- (frustrated) the red one.

BRIGADIER: Alright th-

Verse: Open
Word Count: 801
Note: Beta'd by the ever lovely mun of savagestime. First ever attempt at second person tense, and why yes, it is nonlinear and purposely disorganised.



It takes only a moment for you to have your gun in your hand.

----

"-the stuff of nightmares," you mutter as you move through the darkness. You had brought a light with you, but it has just been snuffed out as if it were a candle. You should have known better than to move on, yet you went on anyway. You tell yourself you're careful. You are thorough. You are alert and ready for whatever lurks in the shadows and the dark.

Even as there are footsteps, footsteps that aren't your own, you go onward, because you must. Nothing is physically forcing you, but it is there, in your head, luring. You don't have defenses for this sort of thing, you know that. A shiver goes down your spine as you hear a sound that is almost like claws on stone, though you know of no stone to be found here. You can find no walls nor ceiling. Only the floor, which is as smooth as glass.

----

The Doctor has gone on his way and left you to tend to your own work. You know how to reach him if you need to, but this area is your forte. You have presence and command, you can get people to listen to you when you need it.

"Now, then," you say calmly, "what precisely is the problem?"

They all clamor at once, each person barking out their own details in a haphazard way. These people, of course, are not soldiers - not like you are - but they are the closest thing to a fighting force this place has. As you try to sift through their words, you notice something in the crowd.

For only the briefest of time, there is a flash of claws and too many teeth.

----

You have only two seconds to pull the trigger. No more. No less.

One.

Two.

----

You had been chasing, but now you are chased. Your heart races, but you keep as even as you can. You're trained for this sort of thing and shan't tire easily. Even as it roars behind you, even as it slavers and hisses, roars and bellows. What you have found in the dark is a monstrosity, and it has found you. You don't know which way you are going, but you know you must keep from being caught. Run.

And you wonder if it can see in the dark.

----

"You there!" you shout at the crowd.

They gape at you for a minute, confused. Some point at themselves, miming 'me' with their mouths; perhaps if their jaws were lined with rows of jagged teeth you might not be alarmed. You might be at ease, but there is that something gnawing at you.

You always knew when something was amiss, didn't you?

Didn't you?

Didn't you?

Why, yes, you did.

----

You fire. God help you.

----

It runs and you give chase.

It runs through the streets and through the alleys. It runs without abandon. Yet you give chase, because you don't let things slip through your fingers. You take charge and take responsibility. This, if anything, could be something to help the Doctor figure out what exactly IS happening here.

It hops a fence and you hop it too.

It doesn't stop even as it runs out into a field, towards

----

You wish you had a lighter on you. Your eyes can't adjust; there is no light to be found in all of this place. If you weren't being pulled (weren't you chasing before? don't you remember?) forward by something, something sitting in your head, you'd have turned around to address the person behind you.

If it is a person, anyway.

(wait, weren't you chasing? weren't you chasing someone?)

You wave the thought off. It no longer seems important.

----

You hit your target.

But you aren't contented.

The light from the muzzle of the gun, from the gunpowder, from the minor explosion involved in propelling the bullet, illuminates your pursuer.

Your eyes cannot help but notice the many rows of wicked teeth in an all too wide and gaping mouth.

----

Shouldn't you be running about now?

----

something dark. A cave of some sort, you think. The person - or thing - you are pursuing has disappeared into the opening, and you hesitate. It looks dark in there, doesn't it? You know a few basics about lighting a makeshift torch without a lighter or a match (it's come in handy once or twice since you've begun your time travelling around space), and it doesn't take long before you've got a long, thick branch lit.

You steel yourself and enter, prepared for any sudden attacks. The light from your torch doesn't bounce off walls, nor does it illuminate them. It spreads only so far out into the dark before it fades away. There should be... walls here, you think. Something to keep the ceiling-

Oh. There is no ceiling. Fancy that.

"It's almost like a dream... or-"

----

You always did know when something was wrong, didn't you?

Verse: Canon
Word Count: 618


As Alistair stepped out of his car, he quietly mused over the situation. He was, for all purposes, going car shopping, something he hadn't done since he was a younger man. This sort of thing was what he always figured would be something he'd do if he had a son; come sixteen or seventeen, take the young man out to get his very first automobile. A right of passage, if you would.

Instead, he was at a car lot with an alien much older than he was, but with all the energy and excitement of a teenage boy - at least, at the moment. He grinned just a bit at the sight. The Doctor had already gone out to inspect and investigate; Alistair was little more than an observer now. His only say so was whether or not something was within UNIT budget. In a way, it almost was like taking a teenage boy for his first car, but he'd never utter a word of that to the Doctor.

Alistair pocketed his keys, closed the door to his car, and began to casually walk to where the Doctor was standing. The man was inspecting a deep blue auto, quite obviously lost in thought. Alistair figured he was doing some sort of mathematical analysis, weighting one against the other to find the most suitable and efficient car in the lot.

"You know, Lethbridge-Stewart, they've got the prices on these marked all wrong," the Doctor commended to him when he was within range. "For this make and model, it ought to be two hundred pounds less. Not to mention, it has a bit of rust on the undercarriage; that's another hundred at least."

"We're not here to judge whether or not they're overpriced, Doctor," Alistair said. "As long as it's under the numbers I've told you, I've no problem with the owners trying to make a bit of money."

The Doctor gave him a bit of a side glance before sniffing just a bit. "I wasn't particularly interested in this one anyway. It isn't the right colour."

Alistair shook his head as the Doctor moved off again. He had a very distinct feeling that this was going to take quite a few hours, all of them including the Doctor finding some sort of flaw in the mechanics, the colour, the upholstery, the year, the model, or something else. He was hoping the Doctor wouldn't be quite so picky - he hadn't exactly packed any sort of lunch and didn't fancy waiting around for the Doctor to give up on this lot and request another.

Luckily, it only took an hour or so before he heard the Doctor call out his last name, along with a bit of a bark of 'come here, will you?' He didn't quicken his pace, seeing as there was no real reason for urgency as far as he knew. The Doctor was standing next to a canary-yellow roadster, something of a Ford model, or so Alistair guessed. He was no expert on cars.

"Come to a decision, Doctor?"

The Doctor beamed at him and gestured at the roadster. "I have, my dear Brigadier."

"You're certain?"

"Of course I am!" the Doctor huffed. "I've checked everything over, and she's a fine automobile."

Alistair nodded and glanced at the price; it was just barely within the number he had told the Doctor on the way out there. He should have expected as such. "Fine, fine. I'll go see someone about it now."

The Doctor turned away from him and waved his hand as if to dismiss him. "You go do that, Lethbridge-Stewart. Paperwork always has been one of the few things you excelled at."

As he walked away, he rolled his eyes just a bit. That man really could be ungrateful sometimes.

It had only been a day since the Brigadier had been effectively 'whisked' away from UNIT, unceremoniously deposited in the Doctor's TARDIS for extremely vague reasons - something along the lines of 'finding a note for myself saying to pick you up', which thoroughly did not explain a thing - and the Brigadier was quite ready to go back home. Time travel, and space travel for that matter, was not his forte.

In fact he couldn't help but feel a bit out of place. The Doctor, not the one he was used to, dashed about the console; his companion, Donna Noble, went about as well, following whatever manic orders the man shouted out. They were working in tandem to get the TARDIS properly running while he was left to stand on the side-lines, an uninformed and currently rather useless spectator.

"I never did take you anywhere, did I, Lethbridge-Stewart?" the Doctor asked as he dashed about. "Well, except for that one time. Well, not really the ONE time..."

The Brigadier was already beginning to tune the Doctor out.


((OOC: HERE YOU GO, KISHA.))

Verse: Canon
Comm: justprompts - Write about a time when you were terrified.
Word Count: 550


A time I was terrified. Oh, daily. You don't come into this line of work thinking it's all safety and easy escapes. Terror is something that lurks in everything we do - everything I do. It... festers. It attaches onto a person and it never lets go. That's fear, that's terror. Some men can overcome it. Some can't. In the end, we're all in the same boat together, trying not to capsize.

I don't let the men see my fear. You can't do that in this position. A good leader can strangle his emotions before they can override them; he can stand tall and unmoving in the face of adversity. He must be a pillar of strength or else his men shall lose their own courage and faith. I suppose people might see me as lacking fear entirely. It's for the best, that way. If I can remain unmoved, the men can draw their own strength off it.

...43 years is a long time to gather up fears and demons. I remember - not my earliest memory, but perhaps my most vivid - World War II. It was 1940, August, and I was ten years old. The Germans had begun their bombing of outer Great Britain: Kent, in particular. My father was fighting in Africa, leaving only my mother and I to tend to affairs. When the bombing began... that was the first time I knew what it was like to be terrified. The sounds of explosions, bombs whistling through the air, buildings destroyed. It isn't something that you forget, no matter how you try.

My father died a year after that, serving his country. Good man, so I was told. I remember a few things about him - he gave good advice, had a stern hand, but never struck in anger. What I can't remember is if I felt anything for him. I try not to think about that. A boy should feel something when their father dies, but I truthfully cannot recall. It's frightening by its own right.

I joined the army as soon as I graduated from school. I was hotheaded and hungry for battle then. I followed regulations but I always tried to find a way to get put on the front lines, put somewhere with bloodshed and death. War was in the blood, and I wanted to be in the thick of it as soon as it broke out. It was why I wanted to get into Intelligence. If anything broke out, they'd be the first ones there. It was stupid of me.

Times and people change. I'm a better man than I was then; stronger in convictions and morals. But just the same, I've got more fears and insecurities. I've fought against things that most people would never dream of - most of them, I can't even kill on my own. ...Immune to bullets, after all. Every time UNIT is set against something, there's that fear. The odds are always more towards the favour of my death. That next time might be the last.

...But no man would be the same without his fears. It's part of who we are. It's something fundamental to everyone, on Earth and beyond. A man without fear is a man on his way to the grave, and he'll most likely take others with him.

I'm always behind on these things. Completely unfair.


Reply to this post with anything you'd like and I'll tell you why I friended you and two things I love about how you play your muse. The only catch? You have to repost this as well.

Verse: realityshifted
Comm: shifted_prompts
Word Count: 696


Everything dies.

That, unerringly, is the way of things.


The Brigadier was resigned to death. He had taken far too much damage in the fight - the gaping hole in his chest was the fatal one. The size of a woman's hand, pushed in through the front, snapping ribs like they were twigs and tearing through organs as if they were nothing. He only barely felt the fangs sink into his throat and pierce the arteries. If he had any strength left in him, he would have shot her one last time, straight through her skull, but it was too late for that.

The Brigadier died a bloody mess. He was always prepared to die; he didn't expect it so much as he accepted it as a possibility with every risk he chose to take. He had known the risks when he had shot the first round from his gun and the vampire barreled down on him in a violent fury. Perhaps if he were another man he would have left her to her violence, to her slaughter.

He had been prepared for death. When he awoke what seemed like moments after, naked, cold, and on a slab of metal, he didn't know how to react. The Twins, two impish children (or perhaps childlike imps) handed him tea and spoke amidst each other while the Brigadier's mind tried to reconcile events. He had died. He had been killed in a violent and bloody manner. Yet here he was. It barely registered when the Twins shoved clothes at him then directed him to the door. It was just a fog.

That his death had been undone was something he couldn't quite grasp. He understood the words - the fact that he was breathing, his heart was beating - but the concept was beyond him. When you prepare yourself for death, you don't quite prepare to live again after it. There were no scars on him, no blood, no pains to be found in any of the places he had been wounded. It was as if nothing had happened.

So the Brigadier did what he did best. He carried on, despite the fact he was strained by confusion and fear. He waved things off to those he spoke to - he hadn't died. He had simply been busy since the fight. Discretion is the better part of valour. He left when things became wildly out of his control. Only a few people picked up any discrepancies in his behaviour, slight twinges and twitches, reactions that he might not have done prior. Those few found out.

When Donna returned from her death (which hadn't surprised him, she was a fighter by her own right, one with morals and her own sense of duty) they had drank themselves into a stupor. He wasn't a man who typically drank to excess, but he allowed himself to sink to that level this one time. He couldn't cope, despite how well people believed him to be. No one could - at least, no one human.

He slunk to the TARDIS after that, trying to avoid the Doctor at all costs. He couldn't handle the questioning that would come with being found. Inquiries as to why he was pissed, to what had happened to the blood, or even just simple nonsense of Doctor variety. The Brigadier needed time alone.

As soon as he entered his room, he locked it, then sank down onto his bed. The Brigadier stared into his hands for a long while, lost in a sort of introspection he rarely allowed himself. He had been prepared to die, even though he knew he had obligations elsewhere. There was UNIT back in London - his men who would need him back eventually. Gallivanting around time and space with the Doctor was it's own unique experience; the Astral Plane and it's inhabitants another, yet he couldn't afford this.

Finally, the Brigadier laid back in his bed and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would try again to put everything back in order. Tomorrow, he would try to resume his life as if nothing had happened at all. Tonight, he only hoped that nothing more of his world would come crashing down around his ears.

Verse: realityshifted
Word Count: 482

Donna had given him a crash course on computer operating and dealing with the internet. The Brigadier paid attention the entire time, though he was failing to see the point on some of the things she illustrated on there - for example, the quantity of websites about bees she had on her bookmarks.

("Bees, Miss Noble?"

"Something is up with the bees, Brigadier, I know it."

"Perhaps it's just a bad year for them."

"It's never a bad year for bees.")

The test sites were equally inane. Donna had said she could go at them for hours, but he already hit his limit after the first one she made him do. He had absolutely no future plans to go near any website like that again. Not even under threat of her taking his maps and holding them hostage.

(Donna covered her mouth to keep from giggling at the result that came up.

The Brigadier quietly fumed.

"Brigadier, I had no idea that you were-"

"I am no such thing," he quickly cut her off and closed the browser window.

Calling him a 'slut', indeed.)

Only a few of the things she showed him seemed interesting enough. For example, her various research sites. Most of them were by conspiracy theorists, so he figured, but some seemed to have a slight idea as to what they were doing. Though, Donna didn't linger on those for too long and instead chose to show him how on one of the websites, with just a few clicks, you could end up somewhere totally different from where you started.

("Watch. I bet you I can find a way to make this go from 'bees' to 'communism' within ten clicks."

"Somehow I fail to see the connection..."

"I'm the champ at this sort of thing. After this, I can show you how you can get to Hitler within six clicks starting from anything!"

"Good lord.")

After showing him everything she said was important, she left to give him a bit of time to fiddle around with it on his own. He went through various programs, documents, that sort of thing - when he had been fiddling around, he accidentally deleted one or two things, but he was certain Donna knew how to fix that.

Though when he attempted to get back onto the internet, it kept giving him an error, something about the computer not having a modem. He found it a bit odd seeing as how Donna had clicked the same thing he just had to get on there. Faced with this temporary problem, he went to go get Donna. She knew better how to work that machine, anyway.

He knocked on the door of the room she was in. "Miss Noble?"

Donna peered up from the magazine she was poking through. "Yeah, Brigadier?"

"I think there's something wrong with your computer. Something about the modem."

Her reaction was anything but pleased. "What?"

"It's saying there's no modem, can't access the internet."

"Please, don't tell me you deleted the internal modem..."

Verse: Open
Comm: justprompts
Word Count: 10

Do you believe in fate or destiny?


Absolutely not. I must prefer the concept of 'free will'.