Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [30]
Each time he thought he had them, each time he was sure they were real, he would try to make a connection. He would stretch a gossamer of his energy from the tap in the Observers’ brains to the primitive lobe he could recognise in the strangers’ minds. He had tried using as much energy as he dared at first, only to find the tendril slammed away with equal vigour. So now he was trying with more finesse, targeting carefully the precise nodule in the girl’s brain. He could see her from tens of angles as she walked briskly out of a hotel, her heels clicking across the uneven cobbles. Each image varied, some contradicted each other, but he could see the overall shape of her – a composite that allowed him to aim and strike.
* * *
Gradually, he became aware of consciousness. An ache behind the eyes, a heaviness to the head. His limbs didn’t really feel connected yet, as if his body was an afterthought of the various aching thoughts. He let out a breath and was surprised when it came out as a grunt.
‘How are you feeling?’ someone asked.
Fitz coughed, then tried to surreptitiously wipe his mouth. He was surprised at how clumsy his arm felt. At least he wasn’t tied up, although he didn’t feel up to opening his eyes and finding out where he was just yet. He settled for groaning at his unseen questioner who laughed at his response.
‘You should have eaten some food.’
Sasha. Fitz suddenly remembered the bar, the wine, the warm bliss of the floor and his fear that he’d been drugged. His eyes snapped open, or tried to. His eyelashes were stuck together in one corner and, until he rubbed it clear with a knuckle, all he saw was dark blobs. He was slouched in the passenger seat of a truck, the leather covers sticking clammily to his cheek, his jacket balled up half under his head. Sasha was turned towards him, his right arm along the back of the driver’s seat, a half-smile twitching across his face.
‘If you are a British seaman, Fitz Kreiner, then I am Betty Boop.’
Fitz pushed himself upright and leaned back, groaning again. He squinted at Sasha, doing his best to focus properly.
‘Nah, Betty has much better legs.’
Sasha smirked at him, then swivelled back to face the dashboard. Fitz sat in the back with his hangover. This was embarrassing, really. Less than forty-eight hours in and his cover had been blown and now he was in the hands of one of the Communist militia. Outside the car he could see nothing but a muzzy fog. He wondered why he hadn’t woken up in a cell: that was how these things were supposed to happen.
‘How di– what makes you think I’m not a seaman?’ he asked the back of the Russian’s head. Sasha shrugged.
‘You hands are not callused enough. Your dress is wrong,’ Fitz reached out a hand to his jacket as Sasha continued, ‘and you don’t smell like someone who has been aboard a ship for a week.’
‘Regular Sherlock Holmes,’ Fitz muttered as he rummaged through his pockets to check he still had his papers and, more importantly, his cigarettes and lighter. He jumped at a loud clunk. The Russian, still looking ahead and with one hand close to his belt holster, was getting out. He moved back and yanked open the door next to Fitz. Fitz tried to lean away but Sasha reached in, grabbed his shoulder and hauled him out. Looking about frantically, Fitz saw dark shapes approaching through the mist. Perhaps they didn’t lock up suspected spies here, perhaps waking up in a cell would have been a good thing. He tried to struggle but Sasha had his fingers dug into Fitz’s armpit, pressing against a nerve.
‘Quiet,’ he hissed and Fitz froze at