#ninebuddy

Chapter One

A lean-figured fellow sat at a desk across from the window, October sunshine spilling across his shoulders to warm him and the woodgrain of the desk alike. He had one elbow up on a stack of books, and his head rested on his hand as he idly read from the book open before him. He was penned-in by further stacks of books from all over the library: history, biography, cooking, no less than three volumes on art, and even a pocket guide to fishing. Beside the book he was reading were several unopened spiral-bound notebooks.

“Back again, are ye, Buddy?” came an age-cracked but sweet voice to draw his attention away from reading. He pressed his finger against the passage he was on, and turned to the person who’d spoken. It was Brenda, one of the elderly librarians. Not wanting to be rude, he promptly pressed the STOP button on the tape player beside him. Well, that, and he didn’t want to miss his favorite track on the Mozart recording.

He looked up at her expectantly, wordlessly wondering what she’d said.

“I asked if you were back at it, but, obviously…” Her voice trailed off with a fond chuckle as she gestured to the desk he’d completely overtaken—yet again. It seemed to Brenda that he’d staked a claim to that very desk since his first day at the university.

Buddy glanced back around at the desk and his assorted mess of books and paper before looking back at her. He gave a small shrug and a smile. He never took her comments to heart; she meant no harm.

“Any luck then?” she asked, to which his only response was a popping-clicking noise and a shake of his head.

“No, not yet.” He let out a long, beleaguered sigh at the sight of his brand new, unopened, unused notebooks. Those damn notebooks. “I still have no ideas on what to write. Honestly, I’ve never felt less creative or productive,” he admitted.

“Don’t give up,” Brenda said. “You’re creative; it’ll come to you.” Her tone was reassuring and kind, but he could tell by the way she lingered that she had more that she wanted to say. It seemed balanced on the tip of her tongue.

After a moment, Buddy decided to pull the figurative trigger. “Was there something else?”

If he’d at all sounded rude in asking, Brenda either hadn’t or didn’t want to notice. “Well…” She did hesitate, though, considering and weighing her words in her mind before she dared to voice them. “You’ve been here every night since you got here—every weekend, too.”

“Bri, you obviously have something to say, so let’s stop beating around the bush, hmm?” It might’ve sounded irritable coming from anyone else, though his tone still wasn’t unkind. He liked that she worried; she felt like the grandmother he’d never had. “I respect you a great deal, so, please, just be plain and say it.”

“There’s more to schooling than just studying and grades. You know that, don’t you?” She gestured to the warm light from the window. “You should be out there, having fun, getting silly with your mates. Not just sitting in this dusty old library with me.”

Regardless of her good intentions, her words did sting a bit. Maybe “sting” was too harsh; it was nice to be thought of and worried about. He’d never had that before. And he had asked her to speak plainly…

“Now, Bri,” he replied, “don’t you know that you’re my girl?” He flashed her his most dazzling smile, and was pleased when she giggled and went a little pink out of embarrassment.

“Oh, now, you stop that! Making an old lady blush, you stinker…” She swatted his shoulder good-naturedly, drawing a snicker from him. “You know exactly what you’re doing, young man, and don’t you think for one minute that I don’t know it too!” She gave him a pleasant little smile. “And you know what I mean about all this…” Again, those unused notebooks.

“Yeah…” Of course he knew what she meant. “But you know me, Brenda. I don’t really have any friends.”

“Oi, then what am I? Thanks a lot!” she teased, laughing quietly when he groaned.

“Besides you, of course, Bri.”

Her smile softened. “I know that you have it rough, but you’re a lovely person, Buddy, and other people will come to realize that. But for them to see that, you’ve got to try a little. Put yourself out there.”

Everything that she said came from a genuine and heartfelt place; it made it hard for him to be truly hurt by her words.

“Okay, yeah. I mean, yeah, you’re right. You are. I know you are. But, frankly, I wouldn’t even know where to start.” He looked at the carpet, considering its gray-purple texture and the way the sunlight played across it. He briefly had the desire to be a cat and curl up for a nap in the sunlight. A blink chased the desire away as quickly as it had come, and he looked back up at Brenda. “I’m hopeless about this stuff. Really, I am. You’d think I’d be better just from copying what I read or watch on the telly, but, no. Hopeless.”

Brenda chuckled and waved her hands, as if to pooh-pooh his claims, and stepped up properly to the desk. She plucked his pen from the desktop, opened the top notebook, and jotted down a name and phone number at the top of the first page before he could protest. She babbled away animatedly while she wrote, oblivious to the distress she’d caused by writing in the previously unused notebook. Buddy silently chewed the inside of his cheek and held his thumb firmly against his palm as he registered that she was telling him about her grandson.

“He’s attending a get-together with some of his friends, and some fellow students from some group. Some movie or computer thing.” She scrunched up her nose a little. “I really don’t understand those things, but the clubs are popular.” She set the pen aside and looked down at him. “Do you know anything about computers?” She sounded earnestly curious to hear his answer.

“No, not really,” he admitted with a slight shrug. “My knowledge ends at making doodles in MS Paint.”

Back at Buddy’s small flat, he sat at his little folding table in the corner of his kitchenette, bouncing his leg and chewing on his cheek anxiously. His hand rested on the open notebook, but his eyes were on the telephone on the opposite side of the flat. He’d been sitting like this, a whole room between him and the phone, for nearly an hour, and seemed unable to shake himself out of it. Nervousness had settled into his bones, and had left him virtually paralyzed.

He kept looking back to the notebook, reading the telephone number for the billionth time—the one for Brenda’s grandson, Alexander Agutter. He knew that there wasn’t a logical reason to be anxious over making a phone call, but knowing that didn’t seem to help his nerves.

Come on, pull yourself together… It’s not like you haven’t made phone calls before, so get a fucking grip!

He took a deep breath to try to steady himself, then stood and crossed to the phone. Or, well, to stand nearer to it. He’d read the number enough times that he was confident he had it memorized, so he picked up the receiver and started turning the rotary dial. By the time he’d put in the last number and the phone began to ring, his heart was in his throat and his stomach was in knots.

Ring, ring... Ring, Ring…

Every ring was shrill against his ear, and churned up the unease in his stomach. He’d never been particularly comfortable with phone calls. He had no idea why. 

Relax. Breathe. Don’t be an idiot, he thought as he cradled his elbow in his hand, as if to help his other hand hold the phone to his ear.

Ring, ring... Ring, Ring…

He began unspooling the tangled coiled phone cord, holding the phone firmly between his shoulder and his ear. It stretched and bounced, but for every few inches he managed to pull free, the tangle only seemed to get worse.

Ring, ring... Ring, Ring…

He wrapped the cord around his wrist twice, and managed to yank the tangle loose.  The cord fell, thick and heavy, to the floor. It tugged a little on the receiver and he had to promptly grab its base to keep it in place against his ear.

He rocked from foot to foot, side to side, while the phone rang. Maybe, he thought, he should just hang up—

“Hello?”

Buddy’s heart jumped behind his ribs at the voice cutting into the repeated ringing. He tried to force his own voice despite the twisting in his stomach.

“Uh, hi, hello, yes, this is Buddy Adams. From Philosophy 101. With Mr. Bernard.” He chewed his thumbnail a little, hoping that he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. He unconsciously moved away from the sofa and coffee table where the phone sat and back into the kitchenette, cord stretching and trailing along behind him. 

“Yeah, uh-huh, whatcha want?”

“Right, um, your, uh, grandma gave me your number. I wasn’t sure if she’d mentioned, I mean, uh—”

“Ah.”

That made Buddy pause. Ah? What was that supposed to mean? His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but the other voice cut him off.

“It’s not some idiotic D&D club, or whatever. Whatever she led you to believe, that’s not what it is. She’s completely stupid, and I’m done explaining.”

Buddy stammered a little, taken aback by Alex's sudden change in tone. It was incredibly rude, but he wasn’t sure if it was worth it to try to explain the mix-up or if he should just tell him to get bent and treat his grandmother better. How dare he talk about Brenda that way, one of the sweetest women Buddy had ever met?

“I just really wanted to clear things up,” he finally said, “in case you felt pressured into anything.” He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. Yes, of course! Say it like that, so he pins you for a fag, you fucking dumbass! This shit is why you deserve all this crap! This was not how he’d hoped or planned for this phone call to go. He paused near the fridge, chewing the inside of his cheek. He still wasn't sure about this whole party business... It really wasn't his thing at all. 

“I really don’t give a shit one way or the other,” Alex said, not even trying to hide how annoyed he was. “If you want to come, then come. It’s open house, but do not bring more than two people.”

Oh. That genuinely took Buddy by surprise. Sure, it wasn’t the warmest of invitations, but it still was one. His gaze roamed across the magnets, shopping lists, and take-out menus stuck to the front of his refrigerator, his eyes coming to pause momentarily over a postcard he'd received from a penpal at the end of spring. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “No problem, can do.”

“And don’t tell Brenda.”

When the line went dead, Buddy moved away from the fridge and back into the living room, where he hung up the phone with a shaky hand. He was practically vibrating with anxiety, adrenaline still coursing through his veins despite the fact that the scariest chore was done.

He suddenly let out a breath. “What are you doing? A party? Are you insane?” he muttered to himself as he moved back across the flat. He had every intention of returning to his studying, but, halfway to the table, he paused and sucked his teeth as he considered the piles of books and papers. There was no way he’d be able to sit still—not this wound-up. So, instead of trying, he headed for his front door, grabbed his blue jacket, and headed out. A short walk—that was what he needed. Then he’d be right as rain.

His idea of a walk was a stroll around the block, smoking whatever cheap cigarettes he happened to have on hand, and doing his best not to cave to worse cravings. But, try as he might, his mind continued to wander to the loose floor board beneath his bed, and the vices he’d squirrelled away there. He’d been doing his best over the last few days in particular to resist; this wasn’t the time to let himself fall back into bad habits—not with how well he’d been doing in school.

When he’d made his way around the entire block, cigarette burned down to the butt, he was finally feeling less like he was going to vibrate out of his own skin. Even so, when he stood outside his building, looking up at his window and taking one last drag from his cigarette, he knew he’d be no good for studying. Still, he put the butt out on the sole of his shoe, and headed back into the building. Might as well do his best to relax before the party. Better than continuing to wander and burning out every cigarette in the pack.

Once back inside, Buddy shed his coat and went down the hallway that went back into his bedroom. He flicked on the light before crossing over to the alcove that housed his bed, where he knelt down and pulled the rug out from the bed to expose the wooden floorboards. After leaning down and squeezing partway under the bed, he worked one of the floorboards up with his nails and scooted it aside. From beneath the floor, he pulled his little box of goodies.

He wiggled his way out from under the bed and, still on the floor, stretched his legs out before him and set the box on his lap. It was a second- or third-hand used cigar box that Guy had given him years ago. He’d since slapped band and company logo stickers all over its worn exterior by contrast, the inside lining remained relatively pristine, with only a little bit of color damage and piling in one corner.

Opening the box, Buddy took stock of what he had. He pulled a thick cigarette case from the box and opened it. A strong wave of marijuana smell wafted from the case as he counted the remaining six fat pre-rolled joints. He closed the case and returned it to the box before pulling out a breath mint tin and giving it a shake. There was a slight rattle from within. He popped it open to find a few slips of acid, and several ecstasy tablets. He'd been out of cocaine for a while, but not so long that he'd considered seeking out any heroin to make up for it.

Then he stopped and let out a sigh as he set everything down, and took a moment to ponder his life. This wasn't where he wanted to be, but it seemed to be where he always ended up. Even despite getting back into school, and getting out of the hospital and finishing his physical therapy, he couldn't seem to shake the seedier aspects of his life. 

He remembered when he'd first gotten out of the hospital shortly after the new year. He’d been so ready to start over, to have a whole new life. He'd felt so grateful to be alive, to be free of the hospital. It was as if he'd truly been given a second chance to get his shit together and make something of his life.

But then he'd gotten home. And he'd found Guy's “Congrats on gettin' outta the hospital” gift: a shoe box full of new “treats” for his favorite piece of ass. Buddy was ashamed to admit how hard he’d cried—or how quickly he had succumbed to temptation.

"Joints now," he said, pushing the memories and sour feelings to the back of his mind. He had a party to prepare for, and anxiety to cope with. "Ecstasy later."

He pulled the oversized cigarette case from the box, and climbed onto his bed. He'd smoke a few joints to calm down, and then use the molly closer to the time of the party. He was determined to be social that night. He needed all the help he could get

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The Next Chapter:

The room was spinning. Bright early morning light filtered in through the slightly askew window blinds. His head was throbbing and pounding—no, just throbbing. What was that pounding noise?

     Blinking against the sunlight, dark curls a mess, Buddy lifted his head and took in his surroundings. He was home. Well, that was a relief. He didn’t actually remember coming home last night, and if he’d woken up in some alleyway, well, it wouldn’t have been the first time. But the pounding hadn’t stopped. In fact, it had only gotten louder and more insistent.

     It finally registered to Buddy’s hungover and sleep-addled brain that the noise he was being forced to endure was coming from his front door. With brow furrowed, half against the daylight and half against the banging that continued to insist upon itself, Buddy threw aside his blankets and scrambled out of bed. 

     His limbs were jerky and uncooperative as he staggered out of his bedroom and quickly made his way down the narrow hallway towards the door. Whomever was pounding at his door only seemed to become more impatient and insistent, the noise nearly unbearable as he got closer. He flinched at the sound, ears ringing and head throbbing, and his stomach turned a little as he called through the door at whoever was there that he’d be just a moment.

     While Buddy didn’t particularly care what a random stranger on the streets thought of him, he still pulled a baggy hoodie jacket over his pajama shirt. It was just long enough to cover the bottom of his pants. If the person on the opposite side of the door weren’t being so obnoxiously demanding, he might have pulled on a pair of jeans, but he really just needed whoever it was to stop banging on his door.

     Once he was as presentable as he was going to get, Buddy undid the locks on his front door before yanking it partway open. He was not expecting two police men to be standing on his mat. The twisting in his stomach only increased as the nearest officer flashed his badge and identification.

     Several things crossed Buddy’s mind in rapid fire succession. Firstly, this was not his first brush with the police, despite maintaining a clean record. Secondly, he hadn’t done anything wrong, so he should certainly have nothing to worry about. Thirdly, he was almost positive he’d finished off his stash the night before, and thus had nothing illegal on the premises. Regardless of all these facts, none of them provided any bit of comfort.

     “Good morning, sir. I’m Detective Villiers, and this is Sergeant McManus.” Villiers spoke with a bored but even tone that could have almost been mistaken for pleasant as he introduced himself and his subordinate. “Might I ask if you’re Buddy Q. Adams?” His sharp hazel eyes did a cursory up-and-down of Buddy’s appearance, making Buddy wish all the more that he’d bothered to take the time to put on a pair of jeans or something. 

     “What is this about?” Buddy asked with a frown, not confirming anything. He pulled his door a little more closed as another pair of officers passed by, no doubt going to knock on other doors. 

     “Is this your residence?”

     “Yes. Now what is this about?” It took more effort than he cared to admit to keep his tone even and polite. The hangover wasn’t helping, but mostly he was irritated with the detective’s whole attitude. And he wasn’t thrilled about the abuse to his door. If there was damage, he’d end up being the one fucked over. 

     “There’s been a…” Villiers’ expression tightened and he shared a tense half-glance with his subordinate. “...er, incident involving quite a few of your fellow students.”

     Buddy frowned as Villiers pulled out his pocket notebook and flipped to the most recently used page. An incident? What the hell did that mean? He couldn’t tell if Villiers was being purposefully vague in order to make him sweat, or to spare him some pain. Either way, his patience was growing thinner and thinner.

     “Do you know Alexander Agutter?” Villiers’ even, disinterested tone had returned, whatever discomfort he’d apparently felt at thinking about the incident already forgotten in the near autonomous rhythms of the job.

     Buddy was sure that he was developing an ulcer. The discomfort and tension in his stomach was so acute, he thought he might be sick. Nevertheless, he rallied his nerves and forcibly held the nausea at bay as he gave a slight nod. “Yes, I know him. Or, well, actually, I know of him. We don’t really run in the same circles.” Buddy’s brow knit against the pain, but he hoped it came across as concern. “Why?”

     “Did you call Mr. Agutter yesterday evening?”

     “Would you please just tell me what’s happened?” Buddy snapped; he hadn’t meant to, but the pain compounded with the detective was just too much. “Sorry. I’m…” He groaned. “...a bit hungover.” 

      “No shit,” Sergeant McManus muttered, then turned a little red when he realized that he’d said it aloud. He shifted his weight from foot to foot under both Buddy and Detective Villiers’ gaze. 

     Villiers shook his head slightly before looking back at Buddy. The hard hazel gaze seemed to study Buddy for a long moment, as if assessing if he were in any state to receive the kind of information he was considering divulging. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you much.” He didn’t seem sorry. “But it’ll have hit the news by now. Mr. Agutter, as well as half a dozen of your fellow students, were murdered last night.” 

     Buddy blinked, momentarily stricken dumb by this absurd statement. He felt a strange popping in his ears as a sensation like being dipped in ice water came over him. Though, a moment later, he broke out into a lukewarm sweat. “Wha-ha— What?” The word barely escaped him as he struggled to regain control of his mouth. Open your mouth and make words, stupid! “I… I don’t…” He swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly terribly dry. “I just spoke to him—”

     “So you did call Mr. Agutter?” Villiers cut in.

     Buddy blinked, and did his best to try and rein in his shock. He didn’t trust Detective Villiers, and he didn’t think speaking to the police was the best look. Still, not talking to them might look worse, given his, well, everything.

     He finally replied, “Yeah. Yes.” He kept the door close to his body, and nodded. No point in denying something that was true and traceable. “I called him yesterday evening.”

     “Wanna tell us why?”

     “Because I was told about a party. His grandmother thought that—”

     “You know his grandmother?” This seemed to pique both officers’ attention, and Buddy suddenly felt like he’d walked into a brick wall. 

     “Well, yeah. She’s the librarian at the college. I spend a lot of time in the library studying, and she thought I should get out and do something fun. Has she been informed?” Oh God, he couldn’t even imagine how devastated she’d be over the death of her grandson—even if he’d been a bit of an asshole. Buddy wouldn’t blame her if she retired from the job, honestly.

     Detective Villiers shared another tense glance with McManus, and Buddy felt close to his breaking point. Perhaps the feeling had come across in his face, because Detective Villiers folded up his notebook, and for the first time, seemed genuinely saddened to pass on his news. “Well, then I am sorry to inform you of this, but Mrs. Agutter was found this morning by the janitorial team. Apparently, she was killed sometime after her shift.”

     Buddy felt everything begin to spin and he released the door, not caring that it swung open a little. He held up a finger to the officers and had to turn away a bit and brace himself against the wall. He heaved a little, which made McManus gag. Buddy tried to apologize, but all he could do was dry heave and struggle not to be sick.

     “Don, go back to the car,” Villiers said. “Mr. Adams, would it be alright if I come in? You can, eh…” He made a vague gesture that Buddy only half-saw out of his periphery, but he gave a quick nod of consent and dashed off to the bathroom. He left the door partially open before dropping to his knees in front of the toilet.

     After he’d purged his body of whatever he’d eaten the night before and the room had stopped spinning, Buddy agreed to go down to the police station to answer any other questions. He was surprised when Villiers offered to schedule him an appointment. However, in the end, he’d simply elected to get dressed and head down there immediately.

     Villiers stepped out of the apartment to speak to his partner, something about Buddy coming down to the station with them; Buddy wasn’t really listening. He pulled his door closed behind him, then locked it and shoved the key into his pocket as he turned to follow the detective. That was the moment when he spotted him—the man from the party. John Smith.

     He looked different in the bright light of the morning, less out of place among the crowd on the street. Buddy wondered if he was new to the area or something, but part of him knew that he wasn’t.

     He’s wearing the same clothes as last night, Buddy noted, brow furrowing slightly at the realization. Had he not been hungover and reeling from the news of multiple murders, he very well might have noticed that he himself was also wearing the same clothes from last night. 

     “Ready to go?”

     Buddy blinked and looked away from the crowd that had gathered, and to Villiers, who was looking at him expectantly. He was being kind enough to give Buddy a ride since he didn’t have a car and he really wasn’t in any shape to face public transportation, but he was obviously inconvenienced by it. Good, let him be inconvenienced. Buddy sure as hell felt inconvenienced. No. That wasn’t quite the feeling. But it was close, and he was just hungover enough to be petty. 

     “Oh, yep. All ready to go.” He gave a curt nod and followed behind Villiers. He gave a brief glance back towards the crowd from over his shoulder, but “John Smith” had gone—disappeared as if he’d never been there. For a brief moment, Buddy wondered if the man had been there at all, or if he’d just imagined him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

     It was nearly noon by the time Buddy was marching back through his front door. He’d spent the entirety of the morning down at the police station giving his story, and then giving it again. He felt uneasy talking to so many police, but he was comforted to realize that they hadn’t placed him at the scene of the crime. They knew that he was aware of the party, whoever they didn’t know that he’d attended, and he kept that little bit of information to himself. He wasn’t going to just hand over any reason for them to suspect him.

     Locking the door behind himself automatically, he began shedding his outer layers as he headed for the kitchen. He’d grabbed a coffee on the way back from the police station, but his stomach was protesting the lack of proper food. He tossed his jacket and flannel over the arm of the sofa as he passed it, and quickly went to rummage in his fridge. While never properly “full”, he was always careful to keep the bare minimum and basic staples on-hand: bread, butter, gherkins, beans, and occasionally a tin of corned beef.

     He pulled out the jar of gherkins and twisted the lid off with a loud pop, tossing it noisily on the counter before dipping his fingers into the cold, salty vinegar to fish out one of the spears. He set the jar on the counter as he sucked the excess juice from the vegetable and his fingers. It wasn’t a meal, but it was food.

      Then there came a clattering commotion from directly downstairs, and he flinched before freezing in place. Had he ever heard that particular neighbor make that kind of ruckus? He remained frozen, gherkin held between his teeth as he strained his ears to listen, but there was no other sound. 

      Buddy took a hesitant bite of his snack as he lowered himself to the floor, pausing in his chewing only once his ear hovered mere centimeters from the kitchen tile. He listened intently, cheek full of pickle, vinegar teasing at his taste buds. For several long seconds, all he could hear was the sound of the busy road outside and the ticking of the analog clock on the wall.

     But then there was a slight bump, followed by a scraping sound from the unit below. Buddy lifted his head and slowly stood back up, continuing to eat his snack. He supposed that his neighbor could have been rearranging some of his furniture. Though Buddy hoped that he wasn’t tackling such a project on his own; he wasn’t a young man after all. 

      For as long as he had lived in the building, Buddy had gotten along well enough with his neighbors, though beyond a friendly hello or a nod, there hadn’t been many interactions. He liked his privacy, especially when he was having a bad time. Because of this, he was almost certain that no one had pegged his unlawful activities. But also, everyone knew the person who’d subletted the apartment to Buddy, and he’d gotten the impression everyone preferred his presence over his own.

     Despite the lack of socialization Buddy did know his neighbors—their comings and goings, when they did chores, who had regular company, those sorts of things. And as far as he knew, his downstairs neighbor wasn’t expecting visitors till the winter holidays. Though Buddy supposed someone could have come to help with cleaning. 

     Crossing to the living room, Buddy dropped into his usual seat, still crunching away at his pickle. He could still hear distant shuffling and bumping below, but he tried to ignore it, focusing instead on tending to his hangover. Holding the pickle between his teeth, Buddy fished between the chair cushion for the remote. He cringed as his fingers dragged across crumbs and lint before locating the hard plastic shell of the control. He yanked it out and dusted it and his hand off before switching the TV on. 

     Chipper, comedic, lighthearted music filled the apartment as The Trouble with Mr. Bean began playing on the small screen. Buddy tossed the remote aside with a light clatter before finishing off his pickle, the crunch a satisfying sound to his ears. The salt made his stomach feel less sour, and the vinegar left him feeling pleasantly yet urgently parched. 

     While Mr. Bean struggled to push his Mini between two other cars, Buddy considered what to eat to properly combat the alcohol still in his system. Based on what he’d seen in his fridge, his options were a tad limited.

      Buddy had only just begun to consider ordering take-away when the telephone rang out sharp and clear. There was a loud thump beneath the kitchen floor, making Buddy glance back that way as he reached to answer the phone. 

     “Hello?” He leaned over the arm of the chair in a vain attempt to reach the discarded television remote, intending to turn the TV down. “Oh.” Upon hearing the voice on the other line, Buddy ceased his grappling for the controller and sat upright again. “Guy, hi.”

     He began to bounce his leg unconsciously. “Huh? Oh, you—you did? …Yeah, no, no, I missed that entirely.” He rubbed idly at one of his eyes, leg still bouncing. He gazed, unseeing, at the television screen, not really seeing as Mr. Bean accidentally knocked the dentist unconscious.

     “No, I wasn’t in. …What? Oh, hold on.” With a slight strained groan, Buddy leaned forward towards the TV and turned the volume knob down several clicks. “Sorry, but I was kind of indisposed. …No, I was at the police station. …No, nothing like that. There was a murder. Multiple, actually. People from school.”

     He leaned back, glancing towards the opened and unorganized stack of mail on his coffee table. He eyed the pastel teal envelope poking halfway down the stack, and a small part of him wished he’d responded to the letter when he’d gotten it. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been here in this mess now. At the very least, he certainly wouldn’t have had Guy spewing his vitriol in his ear.

     He glanced towards the kitchen when there was a loud thunderous scraping noise from downstairs.

     “Jesus, Guy, people died. …No, I didn’t, but that doesn’t make it any less horrific.” He scowled hard as the man continued to rattle on, brow furrowed in displeasure as he listened to him squawk. “No, I don’t really feel like it. …No. …Look, I have a killer hangover, and I just want to take a day to recover.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and felt his insides churn anxiously. “Mmhm. …Yeah. …Yeah, okay. See you then.” He hung up the phone perhaps a little harder than was strictly necessary before leaning forward and turning the TV set back up. 

     He sat slightly slumped in his seat, hunger momentarily forgotten as he digested his latest conversation with Guy. They hadn’t talked in weeks, and Buddy honestly wished he hadn’t called. But Guy was a master at weasling his way back into Buddy’s good graces, and Buddy had no reason to doubt that this would be one of those times. 

     As the episode of Mr. Bean came to an end, the end theme playing loud and clear through the apartment, there came another loud clatter and thump against the floor directly beneath Buddy’s feet. The sensation of the impact more than the noise itself made him startle, and he yanked his feet up off the floor and onto the chair.

     “What the hell…” He could feel his heart hammering firmly against his breastbone, and had to take a surprised gulp of air before regaining some of his sense.

     Another thump, just as loud as before. Buddy could feel the vibrations through the legs of his chair as more thumping and banging came from beneath him.

     Rising from the chair, Buddy quickly moved away from the banging. He switched the television off and went to grab his coat. 

     “Sorry, Mr. Hirsch, I’m just going out!” he called loudly, hoping to be heard over the thumping. Whatever project the old guy had going on, he apparently wasn’t in a very neighborly mood. He pulled his coat on, stuffed his keys into his mouth as he moved through the door, and locked it before pulling it closed. 

     Once outside, Buddy moved the keys to his pocket. He’d go out to the public library; at least it would be quiet there. Maybe after a few hours, Mr. Hirsch would be in a better mood. Buddy descended the steps and was considering stopping off at a corner shop for a drink or snack when a loud thump rattled the ground-level window beside the stairs. Buddy jumped a little at the sudden sound, and turned to see Mr. Hirsch scowling viciously at him through the window. The look on his neighbor’s face caused Buddy’s stomach to drop, but he kept his footing. He put up his hands, mouthed “sorry”, and promptly turned and headed down the street. Definitely not in a friendly mood.

     The noise and general chaos of London’s busy streets quickly pushed worry and anxiety to the back of Buddy’s mind. Given the night that he had, and how he had started the day, it was really no wonder why he was feeling a bit discombobulated—veritably off-kilter—, and still in need of sobering-up. He was already mentally prepared for a several-hours’-long stay at the library, and wound his way through the busy street towards the nearest corner shop. A drink and another snack would do him some good. 

     A bell above the door rang as Buddy entered the shop, and was immediately hit with a wave of warm air that momentarily gave him a hot flash. Adjusting his coat, he glanced towards the counter where the clerk was helping a short queue of people before moving off towards the drink fridge. He pulled out a bottle of water, as well as a Coke before winding his way down the snack aisles. He grabbed a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits, and a bag of M&M’s before heading up to join the queue. He gave the small hot case a glance as he waited in line, but nothing called out to him. 

     Once the line diminished, Buddy approached the counter and set his things down on the old wood surface. He fished out his wallet to pay just as a group of mums entered together, chatting loudly. He glanced their way as he counted out his money, but it wasn’t until he tuned into what they were talking about that he paused. 

     “Do you think that he’s escaped assisted living?” one woman with dirty-blonde hair wondered aloud, glancing back through the shop window. “Maybe he’s having some sort of Alzheimer’s attack.”

     “Probably just another old drunk,” a second woman said dismissively, obviously not as curious or interested in whatever scene they’d walked out on. 

     “Here’s your change.” The clerk handed Buddy several coins, which Buddy quickly dropped into the coin section of his wallet. He glanced between the clerk and the half of the mum group still loitering near the front windows. 

     “What’s going on, Nance?” the clerk asked curiously and conversationally, obviously familiar with this group of women.

     “There’s some poor old man having a positive fit out down the street. Yelling and hooping and hollering,” Nancy answered as she perused the tabloid rack, occasionally peeking out the window with the blonde woman. “He’s definitely having some sort of episode.”  

     Picking up his bag of snacks, Buddy moved almost hesitantly towards the front of the shop. What were the chances of the old man being anyone he knew? They had to be low, right? But the closer he got to the door, the more his stomach clenched uncomfortably by the thought that he knew who was out there. 

     At the door, he hesitated, hand on the push bar. For a moment, he genuinely felt as if he didn’t want to leave, but, with no discernible reason as to why, he pushed forward, the bell above the door ringing for him on his way out. 

     Buddy shuddered hard as he stepped out of the warmth of the shop and into the cold autumn chill. He pulled his coat a little tighter around himself, and moved away from the shop step, joining the flow of people on the sidewalk. He only got a few steps away before the distant yelling reached his ears. He slowed, tuning into the cacophony somewhere behind him, then paused and turned against the flow of foot traffic to peer back down the street. 

      Other people also glanced around or paused. A few even muttered about the commotion as they passed. Speculating. Judging. Gossiping.

      For a moment, he saw nothing, regardless of how he craned his neck or raised up on his toes. But then the sea of passers-by shifted just so, and he got a nearly unobstructed view of the elderly man causing all the ruckus.

     Buddy felt a stone settle in his stomach.

Chapter Six

      Despite not being wholly comfortable leaving Mr. Hirsch’s body abandoned on the ground, Buddy found himself following the Doctor out of the opposite end of the alley anyway. He slipped into the crowd, and fell into step next to the strange man—who talked about crazy things with such authority and confidence that Buddy couldn’t quite help but believe him. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets while they marched along with the jostling masses, and only spared the Doctor a few sideways glances. 

     When he couldn’t take the silence anymore, which was about two blocks later, Buddy finally spoke. “Okay. Say I believe whatever horseshit you say, and we pretend that I don’t think that you’re absolutely mental, possibly dangerous…” Buddy kept his voice at a conversational volume, and his tone controlled but pleasant so as not to attract unwanted attention. “Tell me about this virus. How— How exactly did it start with a wild dog attack at the tip of Scotland? And why did it take so long for anyone to notice?”

      He could see the Doctor glance his way as they walked, brow furrowed ever so slightly. Buddy wasn’t sure if he would answer him, or if he should even be pressing the matter, let alone following this stranger he’d met under disturbing circumstances. Nevertheless, he remained beside the Doctor, only glancing his way when they came to a stop light.

     “Has anyone noticed?” Buddy suddenly had the dawning realization that people might not have. What if this was all coming to light because of some random guy's conspiracy theories paying off?

     When the crossing light changed, the Doctor immediately stepped off the curb, tucking his own hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Buddy took a second longer to notice the light change and had to hurry after him. He managed to catch up at the opposite curb, and fell back into step with the Doctor. He was surprised by the Doctor’s quick but controlled pace, and wondered if he had a destination in mind, or if he were merely putting as much distance as possible between the body and them.

     “It wasn’t really a dog attack.” The Doctor’s response came unexpectedly, but Buddy moved in a little closer so as not to miss anything that he said. 

     “What?”

     “The attack. It wasn’t a dog attack. It was a wolf.” The Doctor matched Buddy’s conversational tone, and managed to pull it off even better.

     Buddy momentarily stumbled over his own two feet in surprise. A wolf?!

     The Doctor glanced his way to be sure he was alright before continuing. “Goodman, we know, died in the hospital, so not really the best carrier host for a virus. Dunne, on the other hand, got away mostly unscathed.” He reminded Buddy that Dunne had left the hospital with only minor bruising and superficial scratches, which he hypothesized, meant that Dunne had been infected as well. “The scratches from the wolf infect Dunne, incubate over a short period of time, and then begin causing rapid decay in the host’s ability to communicate and to temper their aggressive tendencies.”

     He turned off the main road they’d been following and led Buddy down a less-congested side street, never slowing his pace, and only glancing around to be sure he hadn’t lost him. “This lycanthropy seems to–”

     “Lycanthropy?” Buddy interrupted, unfamiliar with the term.

     This didn’t seem to entirely surprise the Doctor, who didn’t miss a beat before responding, “Werewolfism.”

     “Wha– Werewolf— Werewolfism?" Buddy stopped in his tracks for a moment, watching the Doctor walk ahead of him.

     The Doctor looked over his shoulder at Buddy and simply replied, “Yep.”

      Oh, this man is insane. What the hell had Buddy gotten himself into? And why was he compelled to continue on with it? He quickly trotted to catch up to the Doctor just as he was turning down into another alleyway.

     Buddy followed, stepping over some litter and holding his breath as they passed by a dumpster overflowing with food trash and baby nappies. Where the hell is this man going? He was beginning to lose his bearings on where they even were. He was pretty confident he could find his way home from anywhere in the city, but he’d never actually tested that theory.

     “And this particular form is taking a violent and significant toll on the unlucky few who’ve managed to survive contamination. They all succumb to rabies-like tendencies. It must be an easily transmitted virus, given the number of potential hosts, but with a staggeringly high mortality rate. And who’s going to worry about a superficial scratch, even if you’re feeling poorly afterwards? Especially with the added stress of losing your friend; you might not even concern yourself with the scratch at all—at least, until it’s too late.”

     The Doctor continued to explain his theory that the virus needed more time to incubate and take proper hold, and that the rabid state was likely the host body’s response to the intruder. He suspected that, once the virus had time to mature inside of a host, the host would then fully succumb to total lycanthropic transformation.

     Buddy listened as he spoke, soaking up the information like a sponge, but marveling at the ridiculousness of it all. It was a struggle to not lean on every word, to not just believe it. Maybe he was a bit mad too, but a part of him really did believe everything that the Doctor said. This was disturbing enough, though, to keep him at least a little cynical. 

      Buddy tried not to sound accusatory when he managed to reply, but there was a subtle manic edge to his voice nonetheless. “That’s…ludicrous. And, well, frankly impossible.” He gave a small huff, his breath coming out in a puff of fog in the cold air. “Firstly, Scotland hasn’t had wild wolves in…ages.” And if a local zoo had lost some wolves, it would have been such big news that even tourists wouldn’t have been able to ignore it. “So it had to have been dogs. Why immediately assume wolves? Wouldn’t an autopsy of Goodman’s body show what sort of animal attacked him?”

     The Doctor rolled his eyes and glanced back at Buddy. He didn’t seem so much surprised by his reaction, but rather exasperated by it, as if he often had to tolerate people doubting and second guessing the things that he told them.

      Buddy, however, pressed on, following after the Doctor out onto a compact residential street. He was unwilling to immediately let go of the line of reasoning he was on. “Secondly, werewolves aren’t real.” He sounded lame saying it, he was sure, but how else could he say it?

      Buddy paused as the Doctor slowed and began searching his pockets, only picking up his pace again once he’d found what he was looking for. “I’m willing to believe a lot, but I draw the line at a virus turning a bunch of people into murderous Lon Chaney Juniors.”

      The sky overhead had begun to grow dark thanks to a multitude of blackened storm clouds. A few weak autumn rays of sunlight struggled to break through the heavy cloud cover, and a faint drizzle of rain had begun to fall. The sound of their shoes against the damp pavement echoed louder on the empty street as they moved along past the rows of homes. 

     Buddy didn’t even spare a thought to wonder why he was still following the Doctor, despite not having the faintest clue where the Doctor was going. He couldn’t imagine what they could be doing in the area; and he doubted that the guy would have led Buddy to his home. Or base, or conspiracy shed—whatever sort of place he had. He repeated his earlier claim, voice a little more firm: “Werewolves aren’t real.”

     “Says who?” the Doctor said casually, interrupting Buddy’s rambling, and only gave him a half-glance as he headed for a blue shed a little further down the street.

     The question caught Buddy off guard, and he frowned.

      This, in turn, made the Doctor smile, amused by a joke he knew would be lost on Buddy. So, instead, he rephrased his question: “Who says werewolves aren’t real?”

      What a ridiculous question—so ridiculous that Buddy almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Who— Says who? Everyone…?” What, did he want a quotable source that Buddy could use to one-hundred-percent confirm the non-existence of werewolves and wolfmen? Buddy suddenly had the mental image of a group of old historical men coming together in some sort of official capacity to announce, once and for all and across the land, that werewolves were no more. They were now, officially and legally, just some nightmare or bedtime story.

     “Everyone also used to say that the Earth was flat, but that didn’t make them right.” The Doctor approached the blue box, fishing a key out of his pocket. 

      Buddy frowned again and paused at the edge of the sidewalk, looking at the box. “Police Box”? He remembered seeing pictures of them—big green-blue police boxes on practically every other street corner. They’d seemed less impressive in the black-and-white news clippings. He couldn’t imagine what the Doctor would want with one, and genuinely doubted it was still functional three decades on.

     The Doctor unlocked the door and popped it open just a crack before pausing. He stroked his thumb along the outer door jamb before looking back at Buddy. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” was all he said before disappearing inside the box. 

      Buddy stood on the curb and stared after the Doctor. What the hell does that mean? He irritably ruffled his curls as annoyance rolled uncomfortably across his skin. He shifted his weight quickly back-and-forth before marching up to the box. Enough was enough. He wanted real answers, and he intended to get them, even if he had to corner the man in a wooden police box. He needed to know what the hell was happening around him, and how and why the Doctor was involved.

      “No, hang on, you can’t just spout some crap like that and walk away. Just because I found holes in your story—” His voice quickly died, however, his words forgotten as he stepped through the door. Where he had anticipated walking into the confined space and being confronted by the Doctor’s leather-clad back, he instead walked straight onto a narrow platform, which opened up into a vast and intricate room.

      The walls were tall, and golden-brown in color, with strange, evenly-spaced hexagonal shapes adorning them. Tall pillars stretched and curved upwards around the room, shaped almost like coral—like intricate, supportive artwork. A console sat at the center of the room, also golden-brown in color, though there were hints of cyan highlights here and there among the panels. The light was warm and low, with a subtle green tint threatening to bleed in through the various screens and lights.

     Buddy’s voice came out confused and uncertain: “Wai—” he squeaked. “What— How is— No, wait—” He raised his hands, then gave his head a little shake, as if trying to clear it. “This— It was a box… Hold on.”

      He turned and went back out the door. The sensation of concrete beneath his sneakers was familiar and grounding, and the drizzle of cold autumn rain sent chills up his spine as he stepped into it.

      He looked back at the box. It looked like a normal police box, from what Buddy could recall of the ones in the old clippings. “Police Public Call Box” across the top, and a lower panel with instructions and all.

     He stepped back up to it and gave the frame a curious touch. It certainly felt like it was made of wood. What the hell else were you expecting? he wondered.

      With some care, Buddy squeezed himself between the box and the building it sat next to, and came out behind the box into the open space. There was no way it was somehow attached or built onto the building…

     He walked back around, touching each of its walls as he went, until he was back at the door. He stepped just over the threshold and looked again, and was again confronted, not by a small shed, but by an enormous room.

     He stepped back out. Then back in.

     “It’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside.” He couldn’t believe it even as he said it. Even presented with this undeniable truth, his mind reeled and struggled to truly comprehend what he was seeing.

     “Yes, it is,” the Doctor said from where he was standing in the center of the room. He was fiddling with a mess of dials and switches on the console, though he did turn to give Buddy his undivided attention. 

     “Why… is it bigger on the inside?” Buddy asked in earnest confusion. 

     The Doctor shrugged one shoulder. “Convenience.”

     Buddy nodded slowly. “Okay.” He kept nodding, looking around with wide eyes. He tried to take it all in, but still found himself struggling. There was simply too much to look at, too much in the space, somehow. “What is this place?” There was something beautifully liminal about it. Though it bordered on cozy with its warm tones, it still somehow managed to feel cold.

     “This is the TARDIS,” the Doctor said, as if he were introducing a friend to a new acquaintance. He smiled as he gave a glance around the room. “It’s my home.” 

     “‘TARDIS’?” The word rolled awkwardly off Buddy’s tongue, his mouth subtly uncooperative with the new term. He’d never heard of such a thing. 

     “T-A-R-D-I-S. Stands for ‘Time and Relative Dimensions in Space’,” the Doctor explained, his smile still resting casually on his face as he watched Buddy process everything. 

     “Space?”

      “It’s a spaceship.”

      “And…you said that it was your home?”

     “Yes, I did.”

     “Okay.” Buddy moved slowly from the doorway and down the ramp, going further into the room and towards the center console where the Doctor was observing him. 

     This is insane! He was standing in a spaceship? Well, he sure as hell didn’t think it could be a ten-foot-tall police shed.

     “Lycanthropy has occurred around this world many times over the course of human history. That’s where you lot get so many of your myths and legends. But it is only accepted as fiction because of the hard work and dedication of many brilliant and hardworking people.”

      He leaned his hip against the edge of the console, and crossed his arms as Buddy approached. “In 1963, a Doctor Foreman was arrested for the murder of a young woman, but was later let off when he was found not guilty by the jury. The young woman—Roberta was her name—was a friend of Doctor Foreman’s granddaughter, who had witnessed Roberta suddenly turn into a large wolf. The girl’s grandfather saw the wolf attack her, and so he shot it, killing Roberta.” There was something in the Doctor’s tone, something distant behind the glint in his eye, but Buddy couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

      “There have also been several different reported sightings in Brazil, and no less than two identified lycanthropy class types. One of which cannot travel to heightened elevations, or else they die,” the Doctor continued on, then reached over to the control panel and flipped a switch. The door closed with a slight creaking sound. 

      Buddy didn’t startle, but he did glance back towards the door once before coming to a stop not too far away from the Doctor. 

     “I even had a friend once, a while ago, who’d been infected by a strain of lycanthropy virus. He was fortunate; a cure was able to be created and administered, and he recovered.” The Doctor rolled his neck a little to release some tension that the memories brought up in him. “Unfortunately, the way that the virus presents, the way that it spreads, even the way its classified varies from type-to-type. There’s no cure-all.” 

     Buddy stared at the myriad of buttons, dials, switches, and panels seemingly randomly assorted across the TARDIS’s control panels. He couldn’t even begin to guess what any of them did. He was still listening to the Doctor intently, and occasionally glanced his way before returning his gaze to the controls.

     “Are you some sort of spy?” Buddy finally asked. He wasn’t sure where the question had come from really, but he hadn’t thought to stop it.

     His question drew an amused laugh from the Doctor. “Spy from space—bit far-fetched, isn’t it?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow and giving another quiet chuckle. 

     “Is it?” Buddy countered.

     “No, not at all.”

     “So, are you?”

     The Doctor supposed that there was no reason to really lie; Buddy was handling everything remarkably well, all things considered. “No. No, I’m not a spy. I’m just a friend passing through, and one willing to lend a hand.” The Doctor smiled a small sardonic smile and shook his head slightly. “No matter how many times I tell myself that I’m done.”

     He cleared his throat and turned to face the console. He pressed a few buttons, then flipped a small switch, causing a monitor that was shoved atop the console to come to life. He glanced at Buddy, then pointed at the screen. “I’ve been tracking the uptick in instances of animal attacks, animal mutilations, and random acts of violence—following the progression from Scotland, southwest down to Ireland, and now across to here.” He let Buddy look over his findings and projections while he spoke, watching him subtly but closely, still assessing how he was taking to the information. 

     “Not the most cohesive travel plan,” Buddy commented softly as he traced a finger along the jagged course the virus-spreader had taken across two countries. His finger stopped over the part of the screen that showed a tiny map of London, and he held it there, his nail adding just a hint of pressure against the domed glass. The screen warped subtly beneath his finger, and static gently tickled his skin.

      “Hard to travel smart when you’re sick, possibly dying, and certainly slowly turning into something else entirely. But I think that’s why it’s taken so long to make its way down here; I think Mr. Dunne was traveling mainly by foot. He might’ve gotten a bus or train on clear days, but there would have been very few of those.”

      “According to your current data, it looks like he might have only had four or five of those clear days each month.” Buddy pulled his finger from the screen and turned his attention to the Doctor.

     “Six days, at the most,” the Doctor replied, nodding in confirmation. “Not a lot of time to think about how you’re going to get where you’re going.”

     “He must have been so scared.” Buddy felt bad for Mr. Dunne, whoever he was. He’d lost his friend in such horrific fashion, only to then slowly begin losing himself. He could almost relate. He’d had times during his heavier drug use periods where he’d gone days not even knowing who he was or where he was, with only fleeting flashes of clarity.

     The Doctor’s expression as he looked at Buddy was somewhat difficult to read. There was a disbelief there, but it was overshadowed by pleasant surprise. “You really do sympathize, don’t you?”

      “Yeah.” Buddy nodded. “It’s sad. One day, he’s just hiking in the hills with his friend, and then next thing he knows, he's sick and losing time. Does this guy even know what he’s doing? The harm he’s caused?”

      The Doctor’s mouth thinned and he sighed heavily, shaking his head. He then gave a shrug of one shoulder. “Truthfully? I don’t know. There’s really no way to know unless he’s found, and unless he’s in any condition to talk. But, in my opinion, no, I don’t really think he has any idea what he is or that he’s hurting anyone. And, for his sake, I really hope he’s as unaware as your neighbor was.”

      The Doctor paused when Buddy glanced away, uncomfortable with the topic of the elderly man—who was still likely lying in the rain-soaked alleyway. “I really am sorry about him.” The Doctor wished that he’d been able to prevent it—to prevent the deaths of all of them. “But I don’t think he knew what was happening.”

       Buddy nodded, looking back at the control panel rather than at the Doctor. He wanted to believe that he was right, and take comfort in his words, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully do so. He’d known the world to be cruel, twisted, and dark more often than not, but he wanted that tiny doubtful part of himself to just shut up.

     He reached up towards the console, not touching any of the controls, and just dragged his fingertips air-light against the edge to try and ground himself in the moment. He didn’t really feel up to spiraling again anytime soon. 

      Buddy couldn’t bring himself to look back at the Doctor yet, but he asked, “Are you somehow responsible for this, Doctor?” He could just see him out of his periphery, but couldn’t make out his expression. 

      “What do you mean?”

      “Is this your fault?” Buddy looked at him then, locking their gazes and refusing to back down. The Doctor would know without a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t joking, and he meant what he’d asked. “Forgive me for asking, but surely you can understand the question—considering the fact that you were at the party last night. The one where everybody died.” 

      “It’s complicated,” the Doctor replied plainly.

       Buddy wouldn’t let him off the hook that easily. “Did they die because you’re tracking this thing? This er, werewolf, wolfman… Virus-carrier?”

      The Doctor conceded that, but still spoke almost casually when he said, “I’ll admit, it looks suspicious.”

      “Damn suspicious,” Buddy agreed with a serious nod. He studied the Doctor’s expression, wishing that he was more familiar with his face so he could have a better shot at reading him. 

      “I really was only at the party because I’d been trying to catch this virus-carrier, and the party seemed like the place to look,” the Doctor continued when Buddy merely continued to look skeptically at him. “While tracking him and mapping out the attacks and random acts of violence, I realized that, more often than not, the victims were young adults. One or two middle-aged folks and your neighbor make up the exceptions. A big party with loads of intoxicated young adults, all ready to make stupid mistakes and half-remembered memories? Perfect hunting ground, or so I assumed.” He shook his head, huffing quietly, annoyed with himself. He’d failed to put a stop to all of this, leading to even more deaths and injuries. 

      “But…” Buddy decided he’d give him a little grace, and for the time being, at least pretend that he believed him. “You were wrong?”

      The look the Doctor shot his way was indication enough for him to know that he’d hit the nail on the head, and that the Doctor hated that he was right. “Yes and no.” The Doctor fiddled with a switch on the console, idly flicking it back and forth a few times. (Buddy wondered if he was even doing anything, or if he was just busying his hands with something.) “I was right that the party was a potential hunting ground. My timing was just a bit off.” The guilt and anger were evident in the Doctor’s voice as he spoke. “But, I promise you—when I left the party last night, everyone was still alive.”

      Buddy found himself more readily believing the Doctor the longer that he listened to him. It wasn’t that the things he said weren’t arguably insane, but rather that Buddy simply felt disinclined to cling to his skepticism. Standing inside a room that was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside would alter anyone's perspective and priorities. 

      “Is that why you sent me home?” he asked. The question seemed to take the Doctor mildly by surprise, but Buddy pressed on. “Last night, during Truth or Dare, is that why you sent me home? Because you thought I was, what? In danger?”

       “No,” the Doctor replied quickly. He looked a little uncomfortable, glancing between Buddy and the console, brow furrowed slightly and lips pursed as he shifted his weight where he stood. “I’d have done the same thing no matter who the bottle had ended up pointing to.” 

       “But you did it because you were worried?”

       “Wouldn’t you?” the Doctor asked, sounding almost helplessly desperate. “If you knew there was a chance to help, to save someone from that horrific fate—even if you knew it wouldn’t make sense to them or they wouldn’t believe you—, wouldn’t you at least try?”

       Last night, Buddy had felt quite upset and bothered by the outcome of the game. It had dredged up such awful feelings and memories. He’d felt that he’d been singled out to be picked on, but now…

       “Wouldn’t you at least try?”

      Buddy studied him for a moment. The Doctor had a rough exterior, but, underneath, he could almost make out the vulnerable, insecure feelings that he was trying to keep firmly stamped-down. Who was this man, with his wild theories and trippy-magic box with a bigger-on-the-inside room in it?

      “I saw you outside of my apartment building this morning,” Buddy admitted, curious to see how the Doctor would react.

      To his surprise, the Doctor merely replied, “I was worried about you.”

      “I was worried about you.” When was the last time someone had worried for him—properly worried for him? Had anyone? He was struggling to think of an example just then. 

       “When I heard about what happened after I left, I worried that maybe you’d be in trouble.”

       “I am,” Buddy said. “I spent the whole morning with the police.” He was almost certain that the police couldn't pin any of this on him, but he didn’t want any of this in his permanent record. The less he was on police radar, the better.

      “That aside for now—” He kept his eyes on the Doctor as he stepped closer, still tracing his fingers along the edge of the console. “—did you know that Mr. Hirsch was infected. Before running into us at the construction site, did you know?”

      “I didn’t,” the Doctor admitted, “but I suspected that someone in the area, if not the complex itself, would likely end up infected or attacked.”

      “But there were people, not to mention police, all over the complex. How did he end up infected?” Buddy asked. Surely someone would have noticed, right? He longed to hope, but he knew better. People really weren’t all that observant. 

       “Like you said, lots of folk about, police knocking on doors up and down the rows. My guess would be that your neighbor answered the door expecting the police, only to be confronted by the very sick and delusional virus-carrier, whose only means of communication was and is through violence.” 

      “That’s terrible.” Buddy’s stomach churned, and his chest tightened at the thought of gentle, kind, elderly Mr. Hirsch alone in his apartment—vulnerable, within range of receiving help, and unable to get it. Could he have been saved if Buddy hadn’t gone to the police station straight away this morning? Maybe he’d have heard something from his apartment if he’d been home.

      He gave a quiet sniff. “I still don’t understand why Mr. Hirsh was targeting me.”

      “Does it really matter? Why were any of the victims targeted? What made them so unfortunately special?”

      “So you think that it’s entirely random?”

      “Nothing to indicate otherwise.” The Doctor sounded utterly dismissive of the prospect that there was some grand plan, plot, or design behind these attacks. “I think that you’ll probably be fine.”

      Buddy’s brows rose towards his hairline. “Probably?”

      “Yeah, you’ll probably be fine. Have a problem with that?” The Doctor looked at him again, his insecurity and vulnerability eclipsed by his more rough edges. Buddy could practically hear him the unasked question: “What makes you so special?”

      The Doctor’s dismissiveness made Buddy bristle slightly. “It matters to me!” he insisted. “It matters to me if someone is targeting me, and I want to know why and how. What did I do? Is it something I eat, drink, or maybe—maybe it’s my soap or shampoo.” He’d been the target of harassment, abuse, and hate for plenty of seemingly arbitrary reasons throughout his life. He absolutely cared to know why someone, anyone would want to hurt him.

      “Do you believe me then?” the Doctor interrupted his speculative rambling, and his vulnerability returned. His rough exterior suddenly appeared subtly softer, and his bright blue eyes were just a little brighter with poorly-concealed hope. 

      Buddy considered the question. It was insane to trust this Doctor, let alone believe a single thing that came out of his mouth. And yet…Buddy found himself nodding slowly but surely at him. “As crazy as all of this is, I do. I really think I do.” Buddy would have loved to blame his apparent lapse in sanity on the drugs or the alcohol, but he’d sobered quickly during the chase back at the construction site. No way they were still affecting his judgment now.

      Buddy’s words brought the smallest smile to the Doctor’s face, and he gave him a quick once-over with his eyes. “I don’t know if you’re actually a target or not,” he said honestly, “but I promise that I’ll find out. And don’t worry—I’ll do my best to keep you safe.”

Chapter 9

This would be their last chance to try and locate Dunne, victim zero, their virus-spreader. Time machine or not, they’d used up their time. Buddy supposed, even with something as sophisticated as the TARDIS, finding a lone person would be akin to looking for a needle in a haystack. Maybe it couldn’t be done.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than that they were landing. Buddy held fast to the vibrating console as the TARDIS vworped, shrieked, wheezed, and then solidified with a resounding thud. He hadn’t lost his grip or his footing; he was making progress! Oh, maybe he’d spoken too soon. As he straightened up, his knees went wobbly, and he was forced to keep ahold of the console.

The TARDIS warbled overhead and Buddy couldn’t suppress a grin. It was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. I might be in love with this machine.

“Nice landing,” Buddy praised; whether he was addressing the Doctor or the TARDIS, even he wasn’t sure.

“Noticed you kept your feet,” the Doctor replied, rounding the console to lead Buddy along the grated gangplank towards the door.

“I may be getting the hang of this.” Buddy followed him to the door, and then outside. He winced a little against the morning light as he stepped into yet another morning; he’d stopped trying to keep up with what the date even was anymore.

“Alright, here’s the plan.” The Doctor pulled a matte asphalt-black mobile from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Buddy. “Let’s split up. I’ll go and search to the north, you go and search towards the south, hmm?”

Buddy was listening, but he wasn’t exactly paying attention. Instead, he was busy examining the mobile. It was the smallest one he’d ever seen in his life. The antenna was squat, and didn’t extend. He pinched the top several times, giving it a careful tug, but nothing. The screen was squatter, but taller than the kind he was accustomed to.

“This is a mobile, right?” He just wanted to be sure. For all he knew, it was something else entirely. Technology was really beginning to boom. He could hardly keep track of all the new gizmos or gadgets coming out.

“Ah, yep. Just a couple of years out, but functionally similar enough to what you’re used to. You should be fine.” The Doctor pulled a TARDIS-blue folded gadget from another pocket and flipped it open. Buddy gawked at the even smaller, even slimmer, even sleeker mobile.

“That’s some Star Trek shit!” He promptly covered his mouth and cleared his throat before muttering an apology for his outburst.

The Doctor just chuckled. “Yeah, isn’t it brilliant?” He flipped the phone closed and then open again for the sheer amusement he got from Buddy’s wonder and awe. He then tapped their two mobiles together. There was a subtle spark. “Dial 9 to reach my number directly. Call me if you think you find him, and don’t approach on your own.”

“Got it.” Buddy nodded and tucked the phone into his pocket.

“Meet back here at noon to regroup.”

Off on his own, Buddy put all of his focus and effort on the task at hand. He didn’t have the confidence the Doctor had, but he had a charming face and a pretty smile. Even with the bigoted sort, he got a lot of mileage out of his looks alone. Sure, maybe the tattered clothes and jewelry were a bit off-putting at the best of times, but he still got assistance or answers from motherly and grandmotherly types.

It was, however, still undeniably difficult to locate someone when he didn’t have any solid information. He took the opportunity to brush up on his improvisation skills, and managed to come up with several convincing fictitious background stories for why he asked people such questions. They all seemed far more likely to talk to him when he was a junior journalist going undercover on the streets to get real peoples’ responses and reactions to things like domestic abuse, spikes in crime, or animal control issues. It was rather fun pretending to be someone that he wasn’t. Someone with passion, and convictions. Someone who didn’t have a crippling addiction to cocaine and molly.

God, my body aches.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By the time Big Ben sounded the noon hour, Buddy was already waiting near the TARDIS. He didn’t loiter right in front of it, not wanting to draw attention to the blue box, and chose instead to sit on a nearby bench. He looked around for the Doctor from where he sat, but couldn’t spot him among the passersby from his position. He leaned back with a sigh, leg bouncing despite his efforts to relax.

Five minutes passed. Then seven. By ten minutes past noon, and still no sign of the Doctor, Buddy grew mildly concerned. What was keeping him? The lunch rush and foot traffic weren’t exceptionally congested. Had the Doctor perhaps had better luck than Buddy in his searching?

Before he could become properly worried, the Doctor appeared from behind him and dropped onto the bench beside him. Buddy barely had time to truly feel alarm or relief, as both emotions hit him simultaneously. He managed to keep his reaction to merely a relieved and exasperated sigh.

“I don’t understand it. Why is the TARDIS having such a hard time getting a fix on this guy? Ah, well, she’s not really designed for all of these short hops, poor thing. Guess I should be grateful she hasn’t atomized anyone, or accidently transferred our consciousnesses to any passersby.” The Doctor spoke quickly, and without pausing; he sounded as if he’d been mid-conversation with Buddy even before he actually joined him, which left Buddy more than a bit confused.

“Wait, what?” Buddy’s brow furrowed and he looked at the Doctor, who was looking, or rather frowning, quizzically at The TARDIS. Had he said “atomize”? “Consciousness transference”? Could that actually happen? Buddy looked towards the TARDIS as well, a worry line forming between his brows. He supposed, theoretically, that it had to be possible, given the nature of the machine and its functions. The Doctor had tried to explain it to him in plain terms, but its capabilities and functions clearly went beyond that. Buddy didn’t think he’d ever have a chance to understand something so complex, but he was thrilled and awed by it all the same.

When Buddy turned to look at the Doctor, he was a little startled to find him looking steadily at him. He felt pinned, as if being examined by the Doctor’s blue gaze, and butterflies erupted in his stomach again. Get a grip, Adams. Time and place.

“So, what about you?” the Doctor prompted. “Any luck?”

Buddy appreciated the question and let it ground him a little, though the butterflies persisted. He sighed and shook his head. “No, nothing new.” He was disappointed. He wanted this to be over, and he wanted to see it through to the end—for the people who’d died. “Just lots of the same.”

The Doctor seemed to pick up on Buddy’s disappointment and slapped his own thigh before standing. “We’re not giving up.” He turned and looked down at Buddy where he sat on the bench. “We’ll keep it up for as long as we can.” He offered Buddy his hand, which Buddy accepted, the Doctor pulling him to his feet.

“Yeah, okay.” Buddy smiled and nodded. “Let’s do it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Come nightfall, despite their best efforts, they hadn’t managed to make any more progress, and their time had officially run out. A chill breeze buffeted against their backs as they briskly made their way through the emptier streets and allies. The air was becoming gradually more alive with the hum of the electric lights switching on throughout the city as the sun went down.

The Doctor gave the darkening sky a mildly concerned look as they walked briskly, never losing Buddy for more than a pace or two. “We should get back to the TARDIS. We’ve run out of time.” He hated that. “We’ll need to pick back up in the morning, though there’ll no doubt be clean-up to do.”

“All that work, and we have to wait till morning?” Buddy could hardly believe it. He’d been so sure they’d do it, that they’d find the virus-spreader and do—what, he wasn’t exactly sure. The Doctor kept being vague about what would happen to the infected who couldn’t be cured.

“I never have to wait till morning,” the Doctor said triumphantly as they marched, patting his jacket. “I’ve got a time machine.” Another jump, it seemed—this time, to the next morning. Or whenever.

Despite the fact that they’d lost their window to safely attempt contact and communication with their target, the Doctor’s determination kept the spark of hope inside of Buddy alive. In spite of the doubts, there always seemed to be hope.

“So, what’s the plan? Go back to the TARDIS and hop straight to tomorrow morning?” Buddy asked, determined to go along with the Doctor’s plan, whatever it was—regardless of the fact that he was feeling a bit shaky, and that his stomach was in knots.

“No, wouldn’t do any good. The full moon will keep our target out of his mind and dangerous for the next three days.”

He offered no further explanation, and Buddy decided prompting him to elaborate was a waste of time. He would simply choose to trust the Doctor’s knowledge of lycanthropy to be accurate.

“So then we’ll be landing…when exactly?” Buddy still hadn’t quite managed to keep track of when they were. He felt a bit jetlagged—timelagged?—from all the time he’d already spent with the Doctor and his incredible ship.

The Doctor had neither the chance nor time to inform or ridicule Buddy for his inability to keep track of the time in correlation with their jumps, as distressed shouting echoed down a narrow alley to their right. Neither of them hesitated before turning and running in the direction of the shouting.

As the Doctor charged ahead, Buddy focused on keeping his leather jacket in sight, not quite able to keep up as his nausea spiked and he broke out into a light sweat. His heart pounded wildly, his lungs burned. He wasn’t even sure if he was remembering to breathe.

Are we running towards a werewolf? Oh god, we’re running towards a werewolf, aren’t we?

They came out of the narrow alleyway into a small, crooked, empty side street, and came upon a bruised and bleeding woman not far ahead. She was wet with tears and obviously frightened, but her eyes widened when she saw the pair approaching, and she quickened to them.

The Doctor didn’t make her go far, crossing the space between them rapidly, and holding her when she clung to his arms.

“What happened— Hey, hey, you’re gonna be alright!” The Doctor tried to calm the woman, but it was apparent from his tone that he was rushing it a bit. “We’re here to help!”

Buddy looked around the crooked street, walled in by compact, tall buildings and old city walls. Despite not seeing a hulking beast lurking in any corners or alleyways, he didn’t feel entirely relieved.

Then he looked at the woman. She wasn’t much older than him, her honeyed skin covered in violent black-and-blue bruising, and there were several defensive gashes across her forearms. Glitter, gravel, and some blood clung to her long black hair, half of which had fallen out of her hair tie. Her fishnet tights had been broken away on one leg, and Buddy felt his chest tighten at the sight of a large bite on her calf. Blood was dripping down to her ankle. It looked like a nasty bite; the skin was already swelling around the puncture wounds.

“There wa— There, there was this, this, this—” She trembled like a leaf in the Doctor’s grip, eyes wide, teeth chattering as she stuttered over her words in a mixture of fear and adrenaline.

“It’s alright, keep trying. What was there?” the Doctor encouraged, rubbing his thumbs reassuringly against her wounded arms. His tone had managed to soften a little, and Buddy tried to give the woman a gentle, reassuring smile when she glanced at him.

“Dog,” she managed to force firmly past her teeth. She sucked in a staggered breath. “A hu-huge dog—” She glanced back the way she’d come and pointed a shaking finger. “—came out of nowhere.” Her voice cracked as she looked back at them, and, for a second, all she could do was let out a few hysterical sobs.

“It’s alright, you’re going to be alright. What’s your name?” the Doctor said gently and calmly, drawing her towards the alleyway they’d just run down and being mindful to support her as she limped and staggered on her injured leg.

“Gin-Ginger,” she hiccuped

Buddy helped The Doctor support her as they kept moving. “You’re going to be just fine, Ginger, don’t you worry. Did you, er, happen to see where the brutish beastie skulked off to?” He only asked because whatever it was apparently wasn’t pursuing her—which both relieved and baffled the Doctor.

“It didn’t.”

The Doctor stopped in his tracks, still supporting her on one side. It took her and Buddy half a step to come to a halt as well, and both glanced at him in confusion.

“What? What do ya mean?” The Doctor’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Lis-Listen, I feel really, properly bad, but I wasn’t thinking. I just reacted… I just didn’t want to die–”

“What?” the Doctor asked again.

“Well, I— I stuck it, didn’t I?” Another series of sobs, and she began to tremble again. “I just stabbed it. Again and again! Then the knife got stuck, but it let me go! I ran as fast as I could…”

“It’s alright, you were just defending yourself,” Buddy reassured gently, his tone much more convincing than the Doctor’s, despite them both being genuinely concerned. “No one’ll blame you.”

“This is my assistant, Buddy Adams by the way,” the Doctor said added, “and I’m Dr. John Smith, currently off-duty. But, don’t you worry; we’ll get you taken care of.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Once they’d gotten Ginger out of the alley, the Doctor gave her the name and address of the clinic where he claimed he worked with from time to time. (Who was Buddy to say if it was true or not?) He told her to ask for Dr. Elizabeth Shaw, a trusted friend and colleague. He showed her his credentials before she could ask, and promised that she’d be good as new.

They waited with her for a cab, and helped her settle in once one arrived. The Doctor flashed his credentials again at the driver, and told him he’d be paid double once he got Ginger to the clinic.

It was only after the cab’s taillights rounded the corner and disappeared that Buddy broke the silence. “She stabbed a werewolf?” He didn’t look at the Doctor as he said it, as if the heavy atmosphere oozing from the alleyway at their backs would overtake them if he moved too suddenly.

“We’re not really sure she stabbed a werewolf.” The Doctor didn’t sound as sure as he no doubt hoped he did.

Buddy finally looked at him, and, a second later, the Doctor looked back at him. “There is a possible probability that she stabbed a werewolf.” No matter how frankly Buddy said it, it felt no less ridiculous and unlikely.

“Only one way to find out for sure.” The Doctor and Buddy looked at the narrow alleyway, both feeling the daunting task that lay ahead of them. They shared a glance, then both crossed into the oppressive dark of the alley.

They went cautiously, but with purpose, Buddy following the Doctor, who was following Ginger’s blood trail. Buddy wondered briefly if he were a fool to still be following the Doctor. After all, for all he knew, he was leading them to both of their deaths.

Death by werewolf—not the way I imagined going out, he thought as he trailed the Doctor. Of course, there was a very good chance that this wasn’t their target, and Ginger really had been attacked by a large dog. Dog attacks weren’t wholly unheard of in-city.

“Should we call anyone? Do you have a plan?”

“Of course I’ve got a plan,” the Doctor said with confidence, though he was careful to keep his voice soft, just in case. “We find out whether Ginger’s assailant has a bit of the wolf about him.”

“And then?”

“And then we call the proper authorities.”

Buddy didn’t exactly find that comforting. Nevertheless, he continued to follow the Doctor.

The two continued through the dimly-lit alley, following after the blood trail. Buddy was genuinely surprised that the Doctor was able to keep track of it; he seemed to notice far more droplets and smears than Buddy was able to.

When the Doctor paused briefly to calculate their next direction, Buddy examined a small smear of blood on the nearest brick wall. It had mostly dried to a gummy consistency, and appeared black in the dim lighting. Then he was following the Doctor again, but the trail was about to come to an end.

When the Doctor came to an abrupt stop, Buddy very nearly walked right into him. He mumbled an apology as he came around to stand beside him, but then fell silent when he saw what had caused them to stop.

A short distance ahead of them, lying dirty, naked, and covered in blood in the alley, was a young man. He didn’t move at the sound of their approach, resting pale against the pavement and stone.

Buddy was momentarily frozen in place, barely flinching as the Doctor stepped forward towards the man. He approached with caution, but then his shoulders relaxed and he let out a heavy, sad sigh. He crouched down beside the body, whispered something that Buddy couldn’t hear, then gently closed the poor soul's eyes.

“Ginger got exceptionally lucky,” the Doctor mused, noting a few shallow stab wounds in the man’s shoulder, and one that had bounced off his ribs. “Most of these are superficial. With medical attention, they wouldn’t even be lethal.” He pointed at where the knife jutted out from behind the man’s ear, stuck into his neck. “Except that one. One lucky hit, probably when he bit her leg.” Another sigh, and the Doctor stood. “She’s very lucky to be alive.”

While the Doctor continued to ramble about needing to contact “UNIT” for a clean up and coverup detail, Buddy worked up the nerve to approach and observe the deceased. It only seemed appropriate; the virus-spreader was a victim as well, after all.

“Probably not the best idea to leave the body here for too long. We don’t want anyone else discovering it, if we can help it.” The Doctor brushed his fingers against his chin thoughtfully. “I could use the TARDIS as a temporary morgue.” He shuddered a little, barely noticeable except for the way his nose wrinkled momentarily. “Pretty sure I could convince the old girl to agree to that. Not that we could exactly carry a dead body through the streets of London unnoticed—”

“Oh my god,” Buddy interrupted. He hadn’t been listening, hadn’t heard a thing that the Doctor was saying, and he couldn’t hide his dismayed shock when he said, “I know him.”

The Doctor blinked. “What?”

“I know him,” Buddy said a little louder, though his voice trembled slightly. He felt dizzy and winded as he looked at the body, his mouth suddenly feeling quite dry.

“You’re sure?” the Doctor asked.

Buddy nodded. He hadn’t been sure at first, with how much dirt, grime, and blood covered his skin. But, the closer he got, and the longer he looked, he knew.

“I know him,” Buddy repeated. He’d seen that face every day.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Buddy sat on the curb, arms folded over his knees, gazing unblinking towards the other end of the narrow street where the Doctor had vanished. He’d gone to fetch the TARDIS, leaving Buddy to guard the body. He’d said something about being faster on his own, and having a better sense of direction than Buddy…or something along those lines. He hadn’t really been paying too much attention.

There’s a dead body next to you. The thought came unbidden every few moments, and each time, Buddy would have to resist the urge to shudder or physically recoil. Instead, he would hold his breath tight in his lungs and chance a glance to his right.

The corpse remained where it had fallen, half-crumpled, half-sprawled in the gutter. Buddy had removed his flannel from around his waist and draped it across the body’s lower half, wanting to give Dunne as much dignity as possible. He’d then draped his jacket over the rest of him. It seemed respectful, or at least as respectful as he could manage at the moment.

You could almost pretend he’s sleeping, maybe passed-out drunk. But you know that he’s not. Buddy shuddered and glanced away, wrapping his arms around his chest and pretending that it was the cold that was making his skin crawl. He returned to his blank-gazed observation of the alleyway.

Luckily for Buddy, he didn’t have to wait alone in that back-street guarding the body for long. Soon, a mighty wind whipped up the litter and debris around him, and the now-familiar wheezing groan that announced the Doctor’s arrival echoed off of the surrounding buildings. The TARDIS materialized just across the street from him.

Buddy stood up when the door opened and the Doctor exited the box.

“And she got to you safely?” the Doctor asked.

Buddy frowned, confused for the briefest of seconds, before he spotted the black gadget sticking out of the Doctor’s ear. He was a little surprised not to see wires, or a mouth mic, but he still recognized an earbud when he saw one.

“That’s smart. …Yeah. …Well, she thinks she was attacked by a dog. Why ruin the illusion? …Okay. …Yeah, alright,” the Doctor continued, talking to someone in the earbud. Buddy assumed it was Dr. Shaw. “I’ll be bringing the body back with me in the TARDIS, but cleanup is still going to want to come and clear the area.” The Doctor crouched down beside the body, noted the flannel and jacket, and gave Buddy an approving look before continuing with his conversation. “What’s going to be the wider cover story for the general population?” he asked as he attached a metal band around Dunne’s wrists, and then another around his ankles. The Doctor stood, pulling his sonic screwdriver from his pocket, and gave it a wave over the body.

Buzz, buzz.

Both the rings lit up with a soft beep, then two thick bands of warm yellow light wrapped around the body. Buddy watched in quiet amazement as it rose from the pavement, hovered around three feet off the ground, and then began moving towards the TARDIS as directed by the sonic screwdriver.

“Bathing salts?” the Doctor barked incredulously as he followed behind the body and disappeared inside the TARDIS. He left the door open behind him, expectant.

Buddy remained where he stood. First, he looked hard at the TARDIS, with its open door beckoning, then to the blood still pooled on the sidewalk. He had wanted to see this through to the end, but now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Would he have been better off not knowing? Now that he did know, should he just be grateful for the experience, cut his losses, and walk away? Just…go back to his life, and let this nightmare adventure fade into his memories?

He could. He could walk away, and, decades down the road, maybe he’d tell someone about the mystery man and his wild, mad, but extraordinary blue box. And he’d laugh it off as just some pub story. A dream.

“I met a man, once upon a time. He saved my life, and then I never saw him again.”

As he looked back at the TARDIS, Buddy licked his lips and swallowed thickly, trying and failing to chase away the dryness at the back of his throat. He moved to take a step, though, for an instant, he didn’t know what choice he’d made.