Title: Of Legends and Heroes [Doctor Who/Heroes Crossover
Author: Lady Yueh
Disclaimer: Neither show is my property, no profit is being made and no infringement is intended.
Characters: Isaac Mendez, Mohinder Suresh, Claude Rains, Ten and Rose Tyler
Warnings/Timeline: Doctor Who: Post-Age of Steel, Heroes: Pre-Genesis
Author's Notes: My response for aurorasands who requested a Heroes crossover in the 2007 Doctor Who Crossover Ficathon. It's had a serious comb through because the tenses were driving me crazy! So, 'Of Legends and Heroes' is here and better than before.
Rose clutches at the TARDIS, not only for balance and support during the rather chaotic journey, but for comfort. She needs the strength because she refuses to break down into incoherent sobs.
She knows the Doctor is taking her home and makes a note to thank him for it later. He might sometimes be considered rude but no one can say that he isn't perceptive when it counts.
He also has her straight home when it really counts. Without side-trips or unplanned adventures.
Which is why, as soon as she feels that they're out of the Vortex and parked, she rushes out the TARDIS doors.
After all, what dangers are there in her own proverbial backyard that she isn't equipped to deal with?
'The problem is,' she thinks darkly as she's grabbed roughly without preamble, 'that this isn't home.'
'He's never gonna let me live this down,' she thinks randomly as she's put under quickly--before she can even begin to struggle.
The Doctor didn't follow his companion immediately. Torn between her retreating back and the wellbeing of his TARDIS he decides to let Rose have her initial meeting with her mother in privacy and have a look to the TARDIS who'd just navigated the Void. Again.
This allows him to discover that they are not, in fact, in London. They aren't even in their own universe.
"I'll never hear the end of this," he mutters to himself hopelessly as he dashes out to sort it out with Rose.
Only to be confronted with the sight of her limp body being manhandled into the back of a car.
He isn't fast enough.
Even with his superior physiology he wouldn't be able to catch up on foot.
His quick mind catalogues his surroundings at an inhuman speed. He's now aware that he's in New York. He ignores the stray thought that this is a "bad thing" because it seems that New York, in any of its incarnations, doesn't particularly like him. And isn't this new situation further proof? It's sometime around midnight, 12:28, still early enough for the young and old to be out and about in their club gear, but being that this seemed less Broadway and more like the slums, there are few people in attendance and even fewer garish lights.
The bright yellow cab is a stark contrast to the dark atmosphere of the night and he immediately throws himself into it.
"Follow that car!"
"I'm fairly certain there's a law preventing such things," the mild voice shakes him from his frantic fiddling with his sonic screwdriver.
"They took Rose," he hisses darkly, impressing the severity of the situation. He notes idly, his supersonic mind rendering the evidence and conclusion in mere seconds, the man's features and accent. India, Deccan Plateau probably. With a dash of English pronunciation mixed in. Well educated, he can tell. But it is irrelevant to the problem at hand. Namely, the abduction of his companion.
Better men than the well-spoken cabbie have faced the Doctor in such a state and folded.
The Doctor would have made a comment about burning rubber but he is absorbed in following Rose's diminishing trail. Her signature is unique in this universe and even then, considering her exposure to the Vortex, subtly distinguishable from anyone else.
"Who's Rose? And who took her?" the cabbie queries insistently as he, simultaneously, questions his own sanity.
"She's my friend. Turn left here!" he orders quickly.
"What are…what is that?"
"Keep your eyes on the road! It's a sonic screwdriver, turn right at the next street," he directs the unfortunate cabbie.
He grins in triumph as he catches sight of his goal.
It is then that flashing blue/red lights and loud sirens make their appearance behind them.
Panicked, he babbles and pulls at his hair in frustration. "Nonononono! What are you doing? Why are you slowing down!?"
The cab comes to a complete stop. "I am NOT going to jail and losing my cab because of you. If your friend has really been abducted then you should speak to the police."
He glares as he clambers out of the back.
"Hey! Wait! My fare!"
"Stop or we'll be forced to shoot!"
The Doctor refuses to stomp in frustration as he waits for the approaching pair of NYPD officers.
"I am going to calmly reach into my pocket for my identification," he tells them and his confidence and sheer sincerity silences them when they would have immediately halted such an action in any other situation.
He slowly withdraws a leather wallet and flips it open for them to see.
"You're Interpol?" One questions.
"What are you doing trying to skin a cabbie?" The other asks with somewhat comic bewilderment.
"I wasn't! My partner's been taken. I don't know why, probably because of the case we're on, and I was trying to chase after them!" His gaze has them feeling abashed, guilty and repressing the urge to shuffle their feet like naughty children. They reason that it is because of the British accent. Has to be.
"How about you pay the cabbie while I go and try to find some leads. Thanks, boys." And with that he is striding up the street, purpose and determination in action.
The two officers blink, one hands over a twenty to the taxi driver, and they too leave; blown over by the encounter and contemplating the existence of the James Bond effect.
The Doctor ignores the cabbie's calls.
"Are you on the list? Are you one them? That paper, back there, it was blank! Do you have some kind of of psychic suggestion or manipulation of the mind?"
The Doctor halts and pins him with a dark and searching gaze.
"Blank? Really?" Eyes shuttered, fascinated and calculating. "Who are you?"
"My name is Mohinder Suresh," he introduces himself.
"Hello, Mohinder Suresh. I'm The Doctor. One of who, exactly?" with that question, he grasps Mohinder's upper arm and pulls him along the street.
Mohinder finds that he cannot make himself break away and answers the question-at length.
"What, exactly, are you a Doctor of?" Mohinder questions in a tentative manner.
The Doctor grins and buries his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Oh, this and that. Mostly that. Now, you say your father was investigating an emergence of people with special abilities. Did he isolate the specific gene sequence?"
"Not--That is, I haven't yet found any evidence to suggest he had. Are you a geneticist?"
"Oh, I've picked a few things up, over the years."
"Where are we going?"
"You never answered my question. Are you one of these people, do you have a special ability?"
"Well, I have an almost supernatural ability to land in the most impossible of situations. Only surpassed by my ability to wriggle out of them. Like the time on Ataraxis V--but that's neither here nor there."
Mohinder absently reflects on their respective holds on sanity. Yet, who is truly mad? The insane man or man who goes along with him knowing his state of mind?
"Oh…" the merest exhalation, but filled with a sort of dread that sends shivers skittering across his skin.
The Doctor is a veritable statue, his face a study in denial, despair, and - paradoxically - hope.
Mohinder follows his line of sight.
Displayed in the window are various paintings, which the Doctor scrutinizes with a disturbing amount of concentration.
The first, a blonde girl exiting a blue police box, whose purpose he faintly recalls from his study in England. The painter has rendered the image in a sort of comic book style, only much more elegant and precise.
Another, of that same police box suspended in a swirling tunnel of colors.
The last, a luminescent wolf.
"Is the blood work finished?"
"She…She completely lacks the Genesis Gene. She isn't one of our targets."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. I mean, there are some inconsistencies; a rare, almost non-existent type of radiation. But no version or form of the Gene."
"Radiation? Any relation to C3003?"
"No, it's at a consistent level and not malignant to her or anyone else."
"Not another Sprague, then. That's something to be thankful for."
"Get me the Haitian."
She'd been strapped to a table, too drugged to resist when they poked, prodded and pulled blood from her.
Limbs sluggish and eyes unfocused.
Almost too unaware to recognize the foreign touch of another's mind.
Almost too slow to throw up safe memories to meet the intruder.
Fast enough, sly enough to hide memories of touching stars, running on alien ground and falling through time.
Of singing and golden light.
Mohinder staggers back in surprise as The Doctor explodes into motion, down the street and around the corner.
Stupefied, it takes him precious moments to regain his bearings.
'Why am I chasing after him?'
He finds he cannot answer the question.
It is moot; the street is completely devoid of life.
The TARDIS is gone.
He has retraced his journey, courtesy of his superior mind, only to find that his TARDIS had gone the way of his companion.
The suspicion had bubbled as soon as he'd seen the paintings. How else would someone have known about Rose? Where she'd be and when. The painting had told any viewer observant enough to notice. The date and time on a digital watch in a window, the street name on a corner.
Now, the question which has baffled humans for millennia-with a twist. What came first? The abduction or the painting? Which the cause and what the effect?
Best person to ask would be the painter.
Well, second best. But since the abductors aren't coming forward…
Perversely, he hopes Rose is giving her captors what for.
She groans as reality invades the fuzzy warmth of unconsciousness.
Cool wood is under her cheek and the smell of smoke and booze fills the air.
She staggers to her feet and makes a random guess towards an exit.
Isn't it fun when some spook organization snatches you off the street, experiments on you, tries to take your memories and dumps you in a bar?
She is feeling worlds more empathetic with those people who cry government conspiracy and are called nuts.
She could just about go back and tear Bennet and his cronies into thin strips, grill 'em and feed 'em to the damned dogs.
Gods, her head!
The Haitian, for all his years of "practice", has all the subtlety of a hungry toddler. It isn't surprising, considering that he's had no cause to hone anything but efficient strength. After all, how many of his victims have had a Time Lord tutoring them on all the fine points of psychic defense?
Feed him an illusion, false memories, manipulate his perception so that he believes he's achieved his objective.
She doesn't know whether to be proud or depressed that she sounds like him.
Eventually, she makes it out the door.
At least they'd given her back her belongings.
With bleary eyes, she fumbles with her phone for a moment, but practice has made her fingers remember the rhythm and rhyme of this when her vision is otherwise occupied.
"Rose?! Rose, is that you?! Rose! Rose! Are you there, Rose? Are you all right!?"
The Doctor's frantic calls fade out under the rush of blood to her head.
She doesn't know whether she wants to laugh, cry or scream.
All of them, she suspects.
Wants to rage and wail at the universe.
She knows the universe isn't fair.
She's long since resigned herself to the fact that because she experiences some of the deepest and most profound joys and delights that existence has to offer, she is also subject to sorrow and grief with liberal dashes of anguish.
She is an acquaintance of loss.
She understands it to be an irrefutable part of life.
That doesn't mean that dangling those losses, throwing them in her face and renewing that tearing pain that she thought she'd left behind doesn't enrage her. Doesn't make her hate the universe and its sick, twisted humor.
She's lost Mickey, she's been taken from the Doctor and treated like something less than human. She's been pumped full of drugs (and adrenaline isn't making that situation much better) and had her mind messed with. Again! And now he's here.
Is it any wonder that she marches right up to him, gives him a patented Tyler slap and then bursts into hysterical tears?
"And I told myself the universe couldn't hate me this much. Guess I was wrong."
He's rubbing his cheek and staring at her as if she's gone completely barmy, blue eyes she thought she'd never see again outside of memories, torn between disbelief and anger.
Confused belligerence winning out.
"Wait a mo'…how the bleedin' hell did you do that?!"
He even had the northern accent!
A quick visit to the gallery makes finding the painter's identity and address easy. Quick flash of his sonic screwdriver and a glimpse into S. Deveaux's files and the address of one Isaac Mendez is his. He even discovers that the entirety of the mystery artist's work has been purchased by an M. Linderman.
Even the ones in the shop window.
He has a lot of unanswered questions but he's certain that those don't belong here. And he's not about to let them fall into anyone's hands but his.
And really, 21st century security systems are a joke, even without his sonic screwdriver.
He's relieved to be unaccompanied. No need to explain exactly how three canvases manage to fit into his trouser pockets. Rose would have made Mary Poppins jokes for weeks. Like he'd never heard that before.
Clandestine and unauthorized entrances are easy. It's reaching the painter's residence that becomes the problem.
After more than a few prostitutes, some addicts, a transvestite and a midget, he wonders why New York seems determined to live up to its stereotypes.
And why it had to do so when he hasn't a companion to ward them off.
Finally, he arrives, and Rose had better appreciate the journey and half this has been. Frodo Baggins hasn't got a thing on him. Like to see that hobbit try and fend off a fifty year old man in drag; he'd go running off, crying for a Dark Lord to vanquish. Where was he? Ah, yes. The humble abode of the infamous Isaac Mendez. He decides not to be rude for once and knocks.
He's through the door five seconds later.
Not so much rude as impatient.
He sighs. Exasperation, annoyance, disbelief, disgust and various other fleeting emotions warring within him. They all fit the situation but do nothing to rectify it.
The sight of the unconscious painter and the smell of diamorphine which is evident to his refined senses makes an already bad situation even worse.
"Well, this is just peachy."
He isn't in the mood to be merciful or considerate, he passed that point a TARDIS abduction ago, but neither will he be willfully cruel.
A quick trip to the kitchen and a tin can full of water has the painter sputtering into some sort of awareness.
He takes the time to examine the paintings surrounding him, grateful that there are no more blue boxes or wolves, and admits that the man has talent. And the unfortunate propensity for misery and angst that all artistic geniuses seem to require. Hmm…maybe he should have tried his hand at art last regeneration. Then again, he now has these long nimble fingers. Maybe piano?
"Who the hell are you?" Isaac Mendez rasps.
"Me? Oh, I'm just a fan of your work," The Doctor fawns facetiously.
"I don't know how you got my address or even how you got in but I want you to leave." The man is in pain, that's obvious. He's teetering between too much and not enough of the drug.
"Don't you find it terribly sad and somehow ironic that most of the truly brilliant artists are only famous after their deaths? Humans, the only race that needs tragedy to make something valuable."
Isaac groans. "Are you threatening me?"
"Nope. Just making an observation."
"Well make them somewhere else," he hisses.
The Doctor's eyes capture Isaac's complete and utter attention and for once-in a very long time-the constant addiction is silenced. Immediately his thoughts stray to how this man would play on canvas. All that energy and power.
All of that age.
It's there, in the eyes.
An alien quality, a depth not present in normal people. Understanding and knowledge beyond any person's perception.
Eyes trained on him, as if seeing something around him-in him-that is indiscernible to mortal eyes. And then, he speaks.
"You have a talent, Isaac Mendez. Some would say a gift. Many people would kill for it. I'd call it more of a curse and I'm sorry. Responsibility and intent, Mr. Mendez. You can be so much more than this. You can be a hero."
"Oh, and no more recreations of my TARDIS or I'll litigate. I've got a copyright somewhere."
The tenuous connection is broken and Isaac is clearly questioning who the druggie is supposed to be.
But for all his jaded skepticism there's something there. A seed of hope. A desire to believe.
The Doctor can't help but grin.
"You're going to have to make a choice soon. Hope you make the right one."
He's almost out the door when Isaac finishes being dumbfounded.
"Wait! Who are you?"
"Me? Oh, I'm The Doctor. Hullo!"
He's re-examining the clues and trying to modify his sonic screwdriver yet again when the strains of Bif Naked's Spaceman shake him out of his thoughts.
To be fair, he isn't exactly used to cell phones. Terribly dated. So, really, it isn't his fault that he'd forgotten all about it.
He makes a note to remind Rose to stop fiddling with his ring tones. And really, Spaceman? To be fair, he'd quite liked I'm Too Sexy--though he'd never admit it.
Oh! Phone call! Right. Now, who'd be calling him in an alternate universe? Rates would be vicious!
A frenzied search through his considerable pockets finally unearths it.
"Rose?! Rose, is that you?! Rose! Rose! Are you there, Rose? Are you all right!?"
Why isn't she answering? And if it isn't her but her captors why weren't they gloating in all their clichéd glory?
Using the call, his sonic screwdriver and what passes for cellular internet he calibrates her remote location.
'Just stay on the line,' he pleads as if sheer will could make it so.
"ROSE?!" he shouts as he hears the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh.
He can't contain the growl that rises within him as the distinctive sounds of Rose's sobbing reaches his ears.
"Right," he hisses. "We're doing this the hard way."
More curious than repeating his earlier adventure with cabs is finding that Mohinder Suresh will, again, be joining him for this portion of the journey.
"Blimey, it's like it's meant to be!" he can't help but crow.
Mohinder looks as if he's contemplating deserting his taxi and running far far away.
Instead, he slumps in defeat.
"Where do you need to go?"
She can't help but laugh.
She doesn't want to cry anymore and it's such a shit situation. And even though it's not him, he still has problems with weeping women. Plus, he's still staring at her as if she's completely gone 'round the bend.
She glances at her phone to find she's been connected to The Doctor for ages. She winces. 'Oh he must be going crazy!'
"I'm fine Doctor. S'Just, it's him…I mean you. All blue eyes and big ears." She giggles wetly before she's grabbed roughly, dragged down an alley and slammed against a wall.
She gives a low groan of pain and remotely registers the Doctor's faint, frantic cries rising from the filthy cement where her cell's taken residence since her meeting with the wall.
"You must be one of The Company's little pets. How did you find me? Do they know I'm alive!?" He's desperate and angry. A dangerous combination for her.
She knows what he means when he refers to The Company, courtesy of what little she was able to glean from the Haitian.
She curses herself for letting the packaging fool her, this man is not her Doctor. She shouldn't have forgotten that for a moment.
"Rose! Don't you touch her! Rose! Are you there! Answer me, Rose! You know, you're giving me quite a complex, it's like I'm talking but no one's listening. Very disconcerting. Not fond of the feeling at all so why don't you answer!"
"Seems too involved for a partner. Babbles. What kind of idiots are they recruiting these days?"
Biting criticism seems to transcend the universes.
He stomps on her mobile, ending the call.
"Let me go," she hisses.
He smirks. "And why would I go and do a thing like that?"
"Because you have no other choice."
She sags in relief at the sound of the Doctor's voice.
All heroic with backlighting from the street and the random gust of wind that sends his coat flapping.
Bugger, she's got a concussion.
Mild, since she hasn't started in on his eyes or hair.
"You can see me," the pillock running around with her first Doctor's face states flatly.
"Yeah and it's not a pretty sight."
He's gonna get her killed with his cheek.
"Yes, well we can't all be self-absorbed pretty boys."
She almost grins at how familiar he sounds but fiercely stomps down on the urge.
Instead, she aims a shot and her arms connects with the side of his head.
The Doctor is there-pulling her away as his grip loosens.
"Hullo!" She grins as he hugs her.
So they do.
He's pulling at his hair and tugging at his ear as he gives her a very brief summary of his end of the adventure.
"So, we have to find the TARDIS," he repeats ruefully.
He turns to her and she can't help but smirk smugly at his disconcerted disbelief.
He's all teeth. "Brilliant!"
They're breaking into the building she'd been held in..
She'd quickly run through the barest of details when explaining what had happened but he could read between the lines.
The things she hadn't said are enough to make him want to level the organization.
Neither of them mention the doppleganger he'd had to rescue her from.
He can tell she's reaching then end of her tether, close to snapping. She hadn't exactly been at her best at the beginning of this mess and it certainly hasn't gotten better.
Which is why he's thankful that, for whatever reason, they navigate the corridors without opposition.
They're both relieved when the beautiful blue of the TARDIS is in view and can't help but beam as they enter the safest place in the universe. In any universe.
"Home?" The Doctor questions as he sets the coordinates for their own universe.
"Yeah. But, not just now…I need a bit of time. Can't face Mum right now. Not after all that."
The Doctor nods, understanding, before concern overwhelms him and he ushers her to the medlab.
He's quiet as he runs tests.
"So, this Isaac bloke. He can really paint the future?" she questions for the sake of getting him out of whatever mood he's in.
He frowns. "He can paint a future. Honestly Rose, with all that you've learned, you really had to ask that question? Future isn't set in stone, there's no way to predict it."
"Unless you're a Time Lord," he adds.
"Of course," she indulges.
He sends her a playful glare before turning serious. "Get some rest. That's the best thing you can do. We'll see your Mum when you've rested up a bit. Wouldn't want her to accuse me of neglecting your care, would I?"
"Makes me sound like a pet," she grumbles as sheer exhaustion pulls her into slumber.
He knows she's going to make his life miserable but he makes the remark anyway, "Nah! Pets actually listen when you tell them to stay."