Work Text:
The sky above Westminster was grey and threatening drizzle, the kind that never fully falls but clings like static to everything.
The TARDIS materialised between two steel ventilation towers at the back of a sprawling, oddly quiet power station. It was cloaked—not invisible, just unnoticed. A trick she'd picked up in her 39th regeneration, refined by her 47th. By the 52nd… it was second nature.
The door creaked open and out stepped the Doctor.
This face—this new, weathered, knowing face—was sharp with curiosity. She adjusted the lapel of her long purple-and-charcoal coat and narrowed her eyes.
“Westminster Power Grid, year 2000” she muttered. “Should be humming like a badger in a Tesla coil. But the Artron levels are… astronomical.”
She raised her sonic with a flick of the wrist. The readout sparked in violent orange. “That’s not natural. That’s time screaming through copper wires.”
A clatter. A bang.
She whipped around—just in time to see a rubbish bin, one of the huge industrial ones, shift—and a figure climb out of it like she'd been born in there.
The woman—wild-eyed, slightly panicked, dressed in dusty leathers and tech-stitched boots—looked up and locked eyes with the Doctor.
“I wasn’t looting,” she said quickly. “I mean. Not technically.”
The Doctor tilted her head. “Oh, I don’t care about that.”
She aimed the sonic toward the bin. It whirred and hummed, sparking again.
“I care about this. That bin is leaking Artron energy like it’s got a TARDIS on the fritz shoved inside it. And you—climbing out of it—have the signature of someone who’s recently travelled through temporal fragmentation fields.”
The woman blinked. Then sighed. “Should’ve taken the sewer exit.”
The Doctor stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”
The woman glanced away. “Call me Archangel. Or Arch. Pick your poetry.”
The Doctor’s smile was razor-edged. “You named yourself after a celestial protector?”
“No,” Archie said, her tone suddenly serious. “I named myself after you. I’ve been following you since I was old enough to breach quantum shadows. Never spoke to you. Not until now.”
The Doctor blinked. “You’ve been following me?”
“I knew when you took your sonic out. That's how closely I’ve tracked your signature. I—” Archie hesitated, breath shaky. “I always thought the moment would come when you needed backup. Real backup. Not a companion. Not a soldier. Another Time Lord.”
Silence.
The Doctor's smile faded. Her voice dropped low. “You said Time Lord.”
Archangel nodded. “You say you’re the last. But that’s never been true. You just stopped looking. There’s more of us.”
She held up her hand, tracing names into the air like they were holy.
“The Master. The Corsair. Villiana—you haven’t met her yet, but you will. Me. And The Rani. Oh, and she’s doubled herself, by the way. Bi-generation. Like you did back on your 15th. Two of her now. One cold. One colder.”
The Doctor was silent for a long time. Something ancient and sad passed behind her eyes. “I didn’t want to believe that others survived. Or… that they became worse.”
“They didn’t all,” Archie said. “Some of us remember what the Time Lords should have been. Some of us still want to do better. Like you.”
The Doctor studied her. Then offered a hand.
“Allies, then?”
Archangel didn’t hesitate. She took the hand. “Allies.”
The sonic buzzed again.
The Doctor frowned. “And yet, I still think there’s something else here. Something more than just your TARDIS crash bin. The Artron surge is… multiplying.”
Archie’s eyes narrowed. “Multiplying how?”
The Doctor looked up, past the smokestacks and into the rising hum of the sky.
“I think we might be standing on the epicentre of a paradox breach. And someone—or something—is charging it.”
Archangel smirked. “Well then. Let’s go poke it with a stick.”
The Doctor grinned. “Knew I liked you.”
Together, they turned toward the doors of the silent power plant.
Somewhere inside, something hummed. Something old. Something very Time Lord.
~
Inside the rig, the atmosphere buzzed with a nervous tension thicker than the hum of machinery. Concrete walls sweated under blinking lights, and the air smelled of burnt copper and static.
Amanda Coles stood in the centre of the main operations floor, arms folded, dark blazer rolled to the elbows. Her sharp eyes swept the room, which was filled with anxious engineers and flickering screens showing irregular power fluxes across Westminster.
Another power cut. That made three this week. Behind her, someone muttered something about another control panel shorting out. Someone else mentioned the word "containment."
She didn't like that word.
Then, as if conjured by the building's own nervous system, two figures stepped in through the far sliding doors—one with a confident swagger and a coat that somehow billowed without wind, and the other more guarded, quiet, observant.
"Who the hell are—" Amanda began, stepping forward.
The woman with the strange coat flipped open a worn leather wallet. “Safety inspectors. Council sent us. Audit protocols for facilities with recurrent Class-5 anomalies. Usual drill.”
Amanda squinted. “What council?”
The Doctor’s grin widened. “The one that sends people when things go boom.”
The psychic paper flashed just right under the flickering light—Amanda saw exactly what the Doctor wanted her to see. She exhaled, already tired of this day.
“Right. Fine. Welcome to the most cursed rig in Westminster,” Amanda said. “Every panel’s got a ghost in it and I’ve had three engineers resign in the last fortnight.”
One of the techs—a young man in a black WEST.M Power jumper—lifted his hand hesitantly. “We haven’t been able to access the main supply node, either.”
Archangel leaned forward. “Why not?”
The engineer looked sheepish. “Door won’t open. Not locked. Not sealed. Just… won’t open.”
The Doctor perked up. “What, like it’s resisting you?”
Amanda turned, slowly. “What door?”
The techs all exchanged glances.
“You weren’t told?” another muttered.
Amanda glared.
The Doctor clapped her hands once. “Brilliant! A door that’s not just shut, but refusing to open. That's never a good sign. Basement, did you say?”
Amanda stared at her for a long moment, then gestured. “Come on. Let’s see what the hell you’re on about.”
~
Metal grated beneath their feet as Amanda led the way down a long corridor. Overhead lights buzzed and flickered like they were deciding whether or not to stay on. The deeper they descended, the colder it got.
“I’ve never had to come down here,” Amanda muttered. “This part of the plant is on legacy systems—pre-modernisation. No one ever flagged it.”
“That’s because the moment you started asking questions,” the Doctor murmured, “whatever’s down there didn’t want to be found.”
Archangel trailed a finger along the wall. “I’m picking up residue,” she said quietly. “Temporal bleed. Old, but recent enough. Something’s been moving through this space—something big.”
At the bottom of the stairwell stood a single, unassuming steel door.
Amanda approached, frowned, and pressed the panel.
Nothing happened.
She tried again.
Still nothing.
“See what I mean?” said a voice behind them—one of the engineers who’d followed a little way. He turned with a sigh, back up to the rig.
The Doctor stepped up, knelt in front of the panel, and pulled out her sonic. “Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding.”
A low-pitched hum echoed through the corridor as the sonic danced across the control unit. The Doctor’s brow furrowed.
“Huh. Interesting.”
“What?” Amanda asked.
“It’s not jammed. It’s not locked. It’s just… temporally shielded. Time-blocked.”
She stood, dusted off her coat, and looked to Archangel.
“Someone doesn’t want us to see what’s behind this door.”
Amanda raised an eyebrow. “Any idea who?”
The Doctor gave a small, knowing smile, but didn’t answer. Instead, she raised her sonic again and stepped forward.
The door creaked—and slowly began to open.
Beyond it, only darkness. But deep within that darkness… a low, rhythmic thrum, like the heartbeat of a broken engine trying to remember how to live.
The Doctor stepped forward.
Archangel beside her.
Amanda, now deeply unsure of everything, brought up the rear.
They disappeared into the dark.
And the door slid shut behind them.
~
The basement's silence was oppressive, like a held breath. Shadows tangled across rusted piping and forgotten tech, the air thick with dust and the metallic scent of ozone.
Only two lights pierced the darkness—one was the warm, flickering beam of Amanda’s torch; the other, the cool, steady glow of the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver. The Time Lord walked slowly, scanning the air, frowning as the sonic clicked softly in her hand.
“This place feels… bent,” the Doctor murmured, half to herself. “Time’s thinner here, like clingfilm stretched too far. That’s not good. That’s never good.”
She turned to Archangel, about to comment—
But Archangel wasn’t there.
The Doctor blinked. “Arch?”
No answer.
She turned to Amanda just as her torch clattered to the ground with a loud clang, spinning in a half-circle, casting wild beams across the walls.
“Amanda!”
The Doctor’s voice echoed—but it was met only with silence.
Then—
A whistle.
Low. Taunting. Familiar in the most sinister way.
The Doctor whirled around.
And there she was.
Standing like a cracked portrait of a memory, Anita Dobson’s Rani held a sleek, organic-looking weapon shaped like a tuning fork and a serpent, aimed directly at Amanda and Archangel—both frozen, caught mid-motion by some paralytic field.
Behind her, another figure stepped into view: Archie Panjabi’s Rani, her smirk sharp enough to cut dimensions. Behind her swirled the gaping storm of a paradox portal, Artron energy spiralling into a furious cyclone of orange and blue.
“Regeneration suits you, Doctor,” said Archie’s Rani, voice honey-sweet and venom-laced. “So youthful. So naïve. Again.”
“What do you want?” the Doctor demanded, stepping forward instinctively.
Anita’s Rani tilted her head. “You. Just you. You’re the variable. You always have been.”
“Come quietly,” Archie’s Rani added. “Or your companions become... collateral.”
The Doctor hesitated, hearts pounding in her chest. Her hand tightened on the sonic.
Anita clicked something on the device. Amanda winced, her body flickering as if caught between atoms.
“Enough!” the Doctor barked, tossing the sonic to the ground. “Fine. I’ll come with you. Just let them go.”
“Good girl,” said Archie’s Rani, reaching out. She snatched the sonic from the floor, examined it with a clinical smile, and then gripped the Doctor’s wrist tightly. “Time to step into the future.”
She yanked her toward the portal. The storm's wind howled as they crossed the threshold.
Anita’s Rani stepped backward, the weapon still aimed at Amanda and Archangel until the last possible second—
Then she, too, vanished into the swirling vortex.
The portal shrieked shut with a crack, leaving the room silent once more.
Amanda collapsed to the floor, gasping. Archangel was already scrambling forward.
“No, no, no—” she muttered, scanning the air where the portal had been. “It’s closed. She’s gone—They took her.”
Amanda slowly sat up. “What... what the hell was that?!”
Archangel wasn’t listening. Her eyes locked onto something glinting under the minimal amount of light.
The Doctor’s sonic screwdriver.
She picked it up, holding it like it might shatter in her hand.
Amanda stood shakily. “You—you know what’s happening here, don’t you? Or some of it. Don’t leave me out of this.”
Archangel looked at her. “I don’t know everything. But I know this.”
She held up the sonic.
“They made a mistake. They left behind a piece of the Doctor.”
She turned and started toward the basement door.
Amanda followed, jaw tight. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the TARDIS,” Archangel said. “Because if there’s one thing following the Doctor taught me—”
She looked back over her shoulder, eyes burning.
“—you never leave her behind.”
~
The air outside the power station was sharp and cool, laced with the hum of the city that never quite slept. Amanda strode after Archangel, still dazed by what she’d witnessed—but determined not to fall behind.
“Wait,” Amanda said breathlessly. “Where are we going?”
Archangel didn’t stop walking. “Back to my bin.”
“…Your what?”
They rounded a corner, and there it was—plain as ever—a grimy industrial waste container parked awkwardly at the edge of a loading bay. Amanda blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Archangel smirked faintly. “I don’t joke about time travel.”
She knocked twice on the side. A soft chime echoed. The lid lifted itself with a hiss of displaced air. Beneath it, a ladder led down into what looked like darkness.
Amanda took a cautious step forward. “You can’t be serious.”
Archangel climbed up the lip of the bin and dropped through. “Deadly.”
Amanda hesitated, sighed, then muttered, “Oh, what the hell,” and climbed in after her.
What she found was impossible.
The ladder descended into a vast chamber lit with warm, pulsing golden light. Hexagonal panels hummed softly underfoot. Copper piping and wires twisted across the walls and ceiling like a living machine. In the centre stood a console of levers, dials, and orbs—all orbiting a tall glass cylinder that glowed with internal energy.
Amanda stepped down slowly, her mouth open. “…It’s bigger on the—”
“I know, right?” Archangel said, already darting around the console. “Never gets old.”
Amanda spun in place. “This is a time-machine, right?”
“She’s not just time. It’s what TARDIS stands for – Time And Relative Dimension In Space. The Doctor’s granddaughter made that up.” Archangel flicked a switch. “Technically I borrowed this one. Long-term. It was sort of abandoned.”
Amanda blinked. “So... you’re an alien?”
Archangel looked up from the console. “You’re asking me that inside a box disguised as a bin that’s bigger on the inside.”
Amanda gave her a look.
Archangel smiled. “Yes. I’m Gallifreyan. A Time Lord. But to you, I’m the alien. To me?” She raised a brow. “You’re the alien.”
Amanda groaned and folded her arms. “Great.”
The console chirped. Archangel had pulled up a swirling series of signals on a glowing monitor. “Scanning for anything related to the Doctor’s Artron signature on Earth. Narrowing by century. Plugging in her screwdriver for a viable trace…”
She slotted the Doctor’s sonic into a circular inlet. The machine whirred.
One result appeared on-screen.
A vintage neon sign. An American diner, mid-century design. Its flickering letters read: Ditra’s Diner, Wisconsin.
Amanda squinted. “That’s it? A restaurant?”
Archangel’s brow furrowed. “Oh, come on, come on—what else can I do—?”
Then she stopped.
“…Ditra’s…”
Amanda blinked. “What about it?”
Archangel turned slowly, a grin dawning on her face. “It’s an anagram.”
Amanda frowned. “Of what?”
Archangel tapped the screen. “TARDIS.”
The TARDIS console let out a confirming ding. Archangel zoomed in on a grainy photo of the diner’s owners. Two women stood smiling in front of it.
One with sharp eyes and a knowing smirk. The other—young, brilliant, familiar.
Archangel squinted. “I know that woman. That’s the one who used to travel with the Doctor.” Arch paused. “Clara Oswald.”
“And the other?”
“She used to be Ashildr. Viking girl. Got made immortal by the Doctor. Now she goes by ‘Me’. Clara and Me. They took a TARDIS out of time. They’ve been hiding in plain sight for decades.”
Amanda looked up. “So, what now?”
“We go to them. They’ll help us find the Doctor. If they believe us.”
Amanda crossed her arms. “And if they don’t?”
Archangel tilted her head, mischievous.
“Then we bring someone they will believe.”
She darted to a side panel and flicked open a control node.
Amanda raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
Archangel was already keying in coordinates. “The one Time Lady nobody expects to help—but sometimes does. I saw her at a solar party on Kozatranda’s moon fragment, hosted by Willa Wilde—she’s a Weeping Angel, but not really—anyway—”
Amanda held up her hands. “What?”
Archangel grinned wide. “We’re going to find Missy.”
Amanda groaned. “Oh. Fantastic. Who’s Missy?”
Arch smirks. “Just you wait and see...”
The TARDIS engines roared to life with a thunderous VWORP-VWORP.
And the bin was gone.