Sorry for not posting yesterday, but my stomach was hurting, and it still hurts, so I might not post tomorrow
And I'm still listening to Big Finish audiobooks and other stories, so this can feel like a Doctor Who
===================================
England, 2006.
The air was damp in that peculiar way only London managed: like the city itself was sweating under the weight of its own history. Rain wasn't falling, not really, but the clouds kept threatening, and the gutters smelled of petrol and rotting leaves.
The Engineer loved it.
Not the smell, though she found decay charming in its own way, but the possibility. The United Kingdom in 2006 was a nexus of tiny accidents, bruises waiting to happen. Step on a bus, someone would spill coffee on a stranger, and the stranger's laptop would spark,
The Time Lord's Law.
Murphy's Law on steroids.
Wherever a Time Lord went, things went wrong. Problems show up.
"Which am quessing is time itself getting the time lord to help."
Which she is going to abuse a time lord's Murphy's Law that attracts problems, so she can get resources and knowledge, hopefully she gets her hands on some alien tech without unit coming down on her
The Engineer had figured out she could use that.
"XP farming," she muttered to herself, sprawled upside down on a cheap hostel bunk in Camden Town. "Grind the mobs, loot the shinies, level the stats. Same principle. Except instead of boars or goblins, it's alien parasites and eldritch time-crabs."
She tilted her head, humming thoughtfully before speaking aloud to the silent presence in her mind.
"Hey, System, do Time Lords even have religion? They don't strike me as the kneeling-and-praying type."
[It's… complicated. By nature, the Time Lords are not a religious people, unlike the Dark Age Time Lords. They pride themselves on logic, science, and control. However, their history is steeped in superstition, cults, and reverence for higher beings. Roughly half of them give worship directly or indirectly to the Menti Celesti: the personifications of the primal forces of the multiverse, such as Death, Life, Fate, and Time.]
Her brows shot up. She let out a low whistle.
"Half the smug time-bureaucrats pray to cosmic personifications? Damn, those things must be heavy hitters."
[Correct. Each of the Menti Celesti operates on a scale far beyond the Eternals or other cosmic hierarchies. Their classification falls into Tier 1-T+, meaning they are transcendent entities who can influence or erase not only all possible worlds but also realities that are logically or metaphysically impossible.]
She blinked. "Okay… is that power-scaling talk? Because that went right over my head."
[(😮💨) To clarify: "1-T" means Transcendent beings who transcend all logically possible worlds. The "+" signifies they go beyond even that—shaping or destroying realities that cannot, by definition, exist. They stand outside the framework of logic itself.]
She leaned back, a slow grin tugging at her lips.
"Well damn… Mommy Time is busted, OP."
Three minutes later, the first anomaly hit.
A black, sleek car, way too expensive for the tiny brick houses around it, screeched around a corner. Tires howled, water splashed, and the thing skidded onto the curb in a spray of mud. The driver, pale and frantic, scrambled out holding a briefcase clutched like it was glued to his ribs.
Behind him? Three men in trench coats, all too coordinated, moving like predators.
The Engineer tilted her head. "Corporate espionage? Organ smuggling? Secret alien cult?"
Her grin sharpened. "Don't care. Mine now."
She strolled into the middle of the street. The driver spotted her—a pale woman in a gothic coat with purple-glass eyes and a streak of white in her hair, standing as if she owned the storm.
"Help me!" he shouted, voice cracking.
The trench-coat men raised guns.
The Engineer sighed dramatically. "See, this is why people don't like trench coats. You all make them look like a fashion statement for crime."
And then she moved.
Her body didn't flow like a human's. She didn't dodge; she edited herself. One step, and she was suddenly where a bullet should have been. Her spine twisted too far, shoulders rolling like water, head tilting at an angle that made one of the gunmen hesitate mid-shot.
Because of how Uncanny she is moving.
She smiled through it. "You know, I'm trying to be nice here, but you're making it so hard."
The gunmen fired. Bullets screamed. She moved wrong again—limbs jerking like marionette strings but always a fraction out of sync with cause-and-effect. One shot grazed her coat; another ricocheted into the ground, spraying sparks.
By the time the third man blinked, she was already in front of him, fingers gripping his wrist.
"Mine," she said, and snapped it with a sharp crack.
The fight was quick. Too quick. By the time the driver realized she wasn't on his side, the trench-coat thugs were unconscious on the ground, their weapons scattered.
She crouched, rummaging through their coats like a kid at a yard sale while using the system to identify the items.
"Let's see, let's see… ah! Old UNIT-issue comms, a neural scrambler that looks like it was stolen, and—hello, what's this?—a temporal residue scanner? Naughty boys."
She twirled the device, tossed it up, caught it, then stuffed it into her own coat.
The driver was shaking. "Who… what are you?"
She flashed him a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Murphy's Law with legs."
She plucked the briefcase from his hands. He yelped, but she was already prying it open. Inside: stacks of printed schematics, glowing blueprints laced with Gallifreyan symbols she recognized instantly.
Her breath caught. "Well, well. Someone's been raiding the Time Lord junk drawer."
[New Data Acquired: Prototype Dimensional Stabilizer (Partial).]
[Resource Gain: Quantum Alloys x3.]
Her grin returned, wider. "Ohhh, this perk is the best thing ever."
She almost didn't notice him at first. Just another man on the street, umbrella in hand, wearing an old-fashioned suit that looked a little too sharp for 2006. His face was calm, almost amused, as though he'd seen this scene a thousand times already.
He clapped slowly. "Bravo. Quite the performance."
From the darkness stepped a man in a dark suit. Neat beard, slicked hair, a smile like a knife hidden in velvet. He looked perfectly human. Too perfectly.
The Engineer froze, coat dripping in the rain. Her eyes narrowed. There was something wrong about him, not in the way she was wrong, uncanny and eldritch—but polished, masked, practiced.
"Thanks," she said brightly, tilting her head. "Do I know you, Mister Overdramatic Entrance?"
The man smiled. A charming smile, the kind that could sell poison as perfume. "No, my dear. But I know you."
But her violet eyes burned, and she saw what no human could: beneath the flesh-mask shimmered another shape. A higher-dimensional predator, like her.
The System whispered across her mind.
[XP Objective Detected: Major Entity Encounter.]
[ Entity classification: Time Lord.]
[Threat probability: 92%.]
[Recommended Action: Observe. Exploit. Survive.]
Her grin froze. A Time Lord.
Not just any Time Lord.
She looked at him again. Really looked. Beneath the glamour, the disguise, the careful mask of humanity. And she knew.
The Master.
Ainley's face. Suave, deadly, reptilian in charm.
Her heart did a little somersault.
"Well. That's awkward," she whispered aloud. "You're him."
His smile sharpened. "Who, exactly?"
" I know who you are! The Doctor's First crush at the academy," she said, "Yes, he told me about you."
"And he said you were dead."
He gave a languid shrug. "People do keep making that mistake. Eighty-five times, give or take."
She squinted at him, then suddenly pointed again. "You're the Rani!"
Silence. His expression froze.
"…What?"
"The Rani. Another one of the Doctor's old Academy friends. Brilliant, manipulative, stylish fits you perfectly."
"What!"
"Well, you're clearly a Time Lord who knows the Doctor. Who else could you be?"
He just stared at her, blank and unblinking.
"Oh, wait, are you Romana?"
His voice dropped, sharp as broken glass. "No. I am not Romana."
"So you must be the rani! Then."
"Unless…oh."
"Unless…" he snapped her fingers dramatically. "Ohhh. Ohhh, wait. I hear the faint tinkle of a penny dropping."
He folded his arms, watching her with icy disdain.
"If you're not the Rani, then… ohhh. You're the Monk!"
That made him choke. "The—what?!"
"The Monk! Time meddler, a bit of a nuisance, kind of like a knockoff Doctor, but with worse fashion sense. Yeah, I see it. You've got the whole 'smarmy, up-to-no-good' vibe nailed."
His nostrils flared. "I am not the Monk! That to far."
"Mmhm." She tapped her chin, clearly unconvinced. "You say that, but you're not exactly ruling out being the Rani either. Or Romana. Or Borusa on a spa day."
He opened his mouth to retort, but she plowed on.
"Well, you're not quite as the Doctor described you, anyway."
That caught him. "…No?"
She leaned closer, inspecting him like he was a questionable piece of fruit. "Mmm. Less… terrifying demi-god of malice, more… disappointed dad who just found out the kids ate his last biscuit."
The Master's composure wavered. "That is not—"
"Oh, don't get me wrong! Very dashing. Suave. Deadly in a 'hello, I'm evil, have you got a moment to die?' kind of way. But also—" she tapped his lapel—"I can definitely see you in a hat."
"…A hat?"
"Yes! The Doctor said you were all about the schemes, but I'm sensing a hat phase."
His lips curled despite himself. "…Funny you should say that. You'd expect shoes. Everyone expects shoes. But no, suddenly—it's hats. I'm all about the hats."
She clapped her hands, delighted. "Knew it! Evil mastermind chic. Fedora for the plotting, wide-brimmed for the dramatic speeches, and a nice bowler for when you're blending in at evil conventions. Do they have evil conventions?"
He gave a sharp little laugh, half amusement, half threat. "Oh, they do now."
She smirked. "So what do you call yourself these days? Because honestly, 'The Monk' is still open. Pretty sure it hasn't been trademarked."
"I," he began grandly, "am—"
"The Monk!" she interrupted.
His jaw clenched. "No."
"THE MONK!" She jabbed a finger at his chest. "Don't lie to me, Monk-face."
"That's enough!" His suave façade cracked as his voice sharpened. "I am not the Monk, nor the Rani, nor—"
"Romana?" she cut in sweetly.
"NO!"
"Sure? Because Romana had that same pouty expression whenever she lost at chess."
His eyes flashed. "Right. That does it. I've tolerated this long enough." He straightened, menace radiating from every word. "I'm going to pull your head off. Right here. Right now. No speeches, no theatrics, just pop, gone come here."
The Engineer's grin widened, violet clockwork eyes spinning.
"Ooooh. Angry Monk noises. Ten out of ten. Would troll again.
He circled her slowly, like a predator testing prey, his eyes sharp and appraising. Every flicker of movement, every shift in her stance, he catalogued with surgical cruelty. His voice slid out, rich and mocking, each word meant to cut.
"You move like a child in stolen shoes. Untrained. Sloppy." His gaze lingered on her hands, mostly her right hand. her stance, her balance. "Not even a trace of your precious toy. That little blasting contraption… the Omni-Tool, wasn't it? Where is it, hm? Misplaced? Or not built yet?" He leaned close, a serpent whispering into her ear. "How old are you? Some half-grown offshoot? A failed Time Tot who tripped and landed in her big shoes too early?"
Her grin sharpened, flashing teeth, violet eyes spinning faintly with clockwork light. "Ohhh, I love this. You think I'm young. Cute. Soft. Keep underestimating me, sweetheart. It's gonna make the punchline so much better when it lands in your smug face."
Outwardly, she radiated cocky bravado, chin tilted like a duelist ready to banter her way through the fight. But inside her head—
'Shit. He knows me. Wait. Did he just say Omni-Tool? Like… Mass Effect Omni-Tool? The holographic, hacking, pew-pew wristblade thing?'
Her brain derailed for a moment, spiraling.
'So… that means future-me invents one? Or do I invent it because he told me about it? Or—oh crap—he just said it, so now I know about it, which means now I'll make it because he said I would. Paradox loop! Self-fulfilling prophecy! Ugh, time travel is such a pain in the-'
Her eyes widened slightly as a thought slammed into her.
'…Okay, but hang on. An Omni-Tool made with Time Lord tech? That sounds crazy. Crazy cool. Like, miniaturized vortex manipulator + Gallifreyan chronon stabilizer + a laser screwdriver all on my wrist? Future-me, you absolute badass. Or idiot. Or both.'
She nearly giggled out loud at the mental image of a glowing orange Time Lord Omni-Tool, menus flickering in High Gallifreyan glyphs, hacking Dalek eyestalks while also brewing coffee on the side.
She forced her grin wider, tilting her head mockingly as the Master finished circling. "Sorry, what was that? I got distracted imagining how cool my future toys are. You were saying something about me being sloppy?"
He moved first. A flick of his wrist, a hiss of energy—something small, hidden, sharp. A knife of chronon energy.
But she was already gone. She bent backward at the waist, spine curving too far, dodging with an inhuman snap. Her laugh rang through the warehouse.
"Too slow!" she sang.
He tried again, feinting left. She hopped onto a beam like a marionette, balancing on the balls of her feet, head cocked.
"You move wrong," he snarled.
She grinned down at him. "No, you move boring. There's a difference."
With a snap of her fingers, she flicked a handful of stolen Chronon Fragments into the air. They shimmered, cracking the light around them. The Master flinched back.
"Where did you—"
"XP drops," she said sweetly. "Perks of playing the game."
The fight halted abruptly as voices echoed outside. Human police. Shouting, flashlights cutting through broken windows.
The Master growled. "Sloppy. You've drawn attention."
"Me?" She gasped, pointing to herself. "Excuse you, Murphy's Law drew them. I just, y'know, invited it."
"You're more insane than the doctor, that big feat."
"Thank you!"
The Master's smile returned, sharp and cruel. "Another time, little Engineer. When you've grown teeth."
She pouted dramatically. "Oh, come on, don't ghost me after our first date!"
"Enjoy your game while it lasts," he hissed. "Soon, you'll learn what it means to lose."
With that, he stepped back into shadow. His form shimmered, disguise reasserting, and then he was gone.
The police burst in a moment later, flashlights cutting through dust and smoke. The officers froze when their beams found her—standing dead-center, coat swishing, purple clockwork eyes glimmering like embers.
"Hands in the air!" one barked.
She tilted her head, grin stretching too wide. "Ooooh, authority figures. How scary."
Another officer stepped forward. "Now, miss!"
Her laugh rang soft, almost sing-song. "See, that's the problem. You're looking at me in three dimensions."
Before they could blink, her body shuddered—stuttering like bad footage. Her outline fractured, then recomposed two feet to the left, then three feet behind, like reality was buffering her frame. Flashlights jittered across her as if she were a corrupted recording.
"What the hell—" one officer gasped, clutching his cross.
She leaned close, her voice right behind his ear, though she hadn't moved.
"Don't worry. I'm not really here. Just a glitch."
The constable spun—she was already standing across the room, winking.
Then she exhaled, and the puddles on the floor rippled as if time itself had hiccupped. To their eyes, her body stretched, folded, and dissolved into static, vanishing with the sound of a tape rewinding.
Her laughter lingered, echoing in the rafters long after she was gone.