𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐬
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐱

from the eyes of
— 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐀𝐃𝐄 —

When I arrived in the console room, Amy was leaning against the railing, chatting excitedly with the Doctor and Rory.

She was telling Rory more about the time we met Winston Churchill a few months ago. The Doctor was nodding along with her, his arms crossed tightly and a small smile on his face as he listened to her. His smile was tight, as though he was distracting himself—trying to stop his racing thoughts.

I felt bad about putting this on him so suddenly, but it had to be done.

While I could not tell him the full truth, this would at least get the point across of the type of person that he considered to be his girlfriend. Once he saw that, then he could truly choose if that is someone that he wants to be with in such an intimate way.

If I am even someone he wants to travel with. If I am somebody he wants to allow into his home.

It was insane to think that a few months ago, I would have scoffed at the idea of me caring what these people think so heavily. Especially when it was something as small as the atomic bomb, because in the. grand history of it all—it is hardly the worst thing ever.

Not to mention, when it comes to things like that—like war—there are so many different angles to take on it. No one is ever really a hero or villain.

At the end of the day, it's science. Perhaps that excuse could be used to justify my actions if I truly was a brilliant woman scientist trying to make it in the 40s.

But what made it terrible is that I am not: I am a time traveller who knew exactly what she was doing and hopped on board in helping create and essentially guiding humanity to its first weapon of mass destruction because it sounded fun.

Admittedly, it still sounded fun—very interesting work, indeed.

What is not fun, what is not okay, however, is watching the devastation of such a thing.

And arguments could be made on whether me involving myself in this is truly that terrible or not for hours on end, but right now all that mattered was giving my friends this small truth and the freedom to have their own thoughts and opinions on it.

Shaking my head, I decided to make the most of what were potentially my last few moments on good terms with them.

"Do I look perfectly 40s?" I asked, my voice happy as I spoke in that dialect that American women from the 40s did.

Their eyes flickered over to me, Amy being the first to move.

"What?" She gasped, prancing down the stairway. "We're dressing up—why didn't you tell me? You know I love it when we dress up for our location!" She pouted but smiled. "And you do look positively great, if I do say so." She waggled her brows at me.

Unsurprisingly, she was wearing a short skirt with a black jumper and her Converse. Rory was wearing much the same as what he typically did, as was the Doctor. But the Doctor's outfit could technically fit into the 40s—Amy and Rory, on the other hand, not a chance.

I thought about where I going to tell the Doctor to take us and cringed.

"Actually, that's a good idea—you're going to want to change with where we're going..." I trailed off thoughtfully before nodding my head in the direction of the hallways. "You and Rory should go change real quick..."

Amy's eyes lit up excitedly. "You don't need to tell me twice! Rory, c'mon!" She exclaimed before running off into the hallways, Rory hot on her heels.

Their excited chatter about what they wanted to wear faded away.

Slowly, I looked back to the Doctor, who was leaned back against the console, his arms crossed and watching me curiously. Although there was a shadow of something else on his face—wariness, perhaps.

It seemed I had put him on edge.

"Hey," I awkwardly said.

The Doctor eyed the Vortex Manipulator and backpack with a frown before he brought his eyes to meet mine.

"Hello," He said cautiously before pointing out the two objects. "Why are you wearing the manipulator? You won't need your backpack either. We're coming right back to the TARDIS after you show me whatever this surprise is..." The Doctor told me firmly, leaving no room for argument.

I visibly cringed at his words, hating this more than anything. A part of me wanted to tell him, 'Never mind, let's do something else.'

But I had already given him a year. He was going to go check out what was happening in 1945—what I could have possibly done to warrant keeping it a secret from him, whether I went with him or not.

"I know," I smiled, skipping up the steps of the console and stopping until I was a few feet away. I reached forward, fixing his bow tie and patting it when I finished. "Just thought I would bring it... just in case..." I reassured him before trailing off.

As I took a step backward, the Doctor was quick to grab my wrist gently. The wrist that was not adorning the Vortex Manipulator.

"In case what?" He questioned.

I gave him a long look, not answering his question with the next words that I spoke. "You should go change too, Doctor—go put on something more... forties-like..."

"And what would that be?" He asked with humor after a moment of silence, choosing to let the fact that I fully ignored his question slide. "A bow tie? Collared shirt? Tweed jacket?" He mused, describing his current outfit, which sort of blended in with the 40s.

I took a step back, crossing my arms and forcing the Doctor to release my arm as I eyed him up and down.

Squatting down, I got to work in unrolling his cuffed pants. The trousers then fell just over the ankle part of his boots. Men in the 40s did not wear cuffed trousers, now, the Doctor looked more natural.

Actually, he blends in rather well as a doctor/scientist in this attire with where we are going.

"Perfect!" I smiled, standing up and admiring my work. "Now you'll blend right in, people will think you're a real doctor!"

"I am a real doctor!" He complained, his voice a whine. "Honestly, why does no one believe me when I tell them that! And I don't see how uncuffing my pants makes any difference..."

"Trust me, it makes all the difference." I clicked my tongue, moving forward and attempting to fix his hair.

I licked my fingers, sticking them in his hair, and attempted to fight back against the wildness of it. He really needed a cut; that was the only thing that would tame it.

The Doctor yelped, trying to swat my hands away.

"Agh—stop it! My hair is fine!"

"Your hair is insane!"

"Exactly! I like it like this! It makes me look all rugged and hero-like!"

"You always look hero-like, but nothing will make you look rugged with these clothes! Now, stand still!"

"No!" He huffed. "You're not my mother!" He was now wrestling against me.

"No, but I am your girlfriend, apparently!" I chased him around the console, frowning as it made his hair even messier.

Truth be told, I actually rather liked his hair how it was. The wildness was pretty hot, in my opinion. But now the chase had turned into a game: can I catch the man-child TimeLord?

We stood on opposite sides of the console, locked in a silent battle. I could see the challenge in the Doctor's eyes, that playful glint that always made my heart race. His lips twitched as if he were suppressing a grin. Neither of us moved. Neither of us blinked.

I lunged.

The Doctor yelped and darted around the console, laughing as I chased him. He was quick—of course, he was. Stupidly lanky, long legs, and too much energy for someone who is almost a thousand years old. But I was determined.

"You're fighting a losing battle, dearest!" He called over his shoulder, effortlessly maneuvering around the levers and panels.

"Yeah?" I huffed, dodging around the other side. "We'll see about that!"

He barely had time to react before I changed direction, cutting him off just as he tried to escape again. With a triumphant shout, I tackled him.

The Doctor let out a surprised "Oof!" as we went down, crashing onto the glass floor of the console. I landed on top of him, straddling his waist, my hands pinning his wrists.

For a moment, we just stared at each other, both of us breathless and laughing. His chest rose and fell beneath me, his grin wide and bright, but there was something more in his expression—something softer, something deeper.

My heart skipped.

The laughter faded.

I swallowed as his eyes darkened just slightly, his gaze flickering down to my lips. I felt my own breath hitch as I leaned down, my hands loosening their grip on his wrists. He didn't move, didn't pull away.

Instead, he lifted his head just a fraction.

My lips met his, and we were kissing.

Soft at first—tentative, almost, like we were both testing how much we could take before it consumed us. But it didn't take long for the hesitancy to melt away, for the fire to burn and consume.

The kiss deepened.

His lips parted, and—of course—his tongue was the first thing to seek me out.

I barely held back a smirk as I felt it brush against my lower lip before pressing forward, gently nudging against my own in silent invitation. I opened for him, and he wasted no time—pushing in, mapping out, exploring. He was thorough, eager in a way that was so distinctly him, as if he were analyzing, cataloging, learning me.

God, I should have expected this.

This was a man who put half the things we found on our adventures into his mouth. Curious to the point of recklessness. He'd lick a rock just to see if it tasted alien enough. And now—now he kissed like he was tasting me, like he was committing me to memory with every slide and flick of his tongue.

It was so him. And it was kind of hilarious.

A quiet, amused sound bubbled up in my throat, but it was quickly swallowed when his hands tightened around my waist, pulling me more firmly against him.

I shivered.

Any trace of humor I'd had was gone in an instant, replaced by heat, by want.

My fingers curled into his hair, twisting into the wild mess of it as I kissed him back just as eagerly, meeting his tongue stroke for stroke. He let out a sound—a quiet, satisfied hum that vibrated against my lips, like he'd just solved some great mystery and was extremely pleased with himself.

God, I loved kissing him. And I knew that he loved kissing me, too.

The taste of him—warm, familiar, something uniquely Doctor. The way he kissed like he was discovering something new, something precious. The way he held me against him like I was something precious.

It was exhilarating. It was dizzying.

It was hot and hor—

"Ahem."

We froze.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped me back to reality.

The Doctor and I froze, lips still connected, breath still mingling. In another instant, we disconnected our lips, opened our eyes, and cringed at the small string of saliva connecting us.

Ugh—okay, that's actually kind of gross, oops. Didn't mean for it to get that nasty between us. I brought up a hand and wiped my mouth free of the saliva before doing the same to the Doctor's, whose face was turning red.

Slowly, we turned our heads toward one of the many archways.

Amy stood there, arms crossed, one unimpressed brow raised high. Beside her, Rory groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes.

"Unbelievable," Rory muttered. "We were gone for, like, ten minutes..."

"Doctor? PJ?" Amy drawled, amusement lacing her tone.

I snickered, barely holding in my laughter as I turned back to the Doctor, whose face was now completely red. He was still lying flat on his back, looking both flustered and betrayed by the universe itself.

"Get up," He whined at me. "Please, off now, dearest," He continued.

I grinned, patting his chest before pushing myself up and off him. I moved and leaned casually against the railing, watching as the Doctor scrambled to his feet, hastily straightening his bow tie and running his hands through his already hopelessly messy hair.

He was flapping his hands about, eyes shifting all over the console room with pure embarrassment.

Amy smirked, about to unleash some undoubtedly cutting remark, but then she hesitated. Her eyes flickered downward.

She blinked in surprise. "Doctor, your trousers!"

The Doctor stiffened, looking nervous before peering down to his newly uncuffed trousers that now covered the ankles of his boots. He actually looked far more professional this way, which was surprising, seeing as not that much was changed on his outfit.

"I know!" He exclaimed, relaxing as he realized that she was only pointing out his unrolled pants.

Amy shook her head before her smirk returned full force, and she pointed to the alien accusingly.

"What was that you said some weeks ago about not being a typical bloke?"

The Doctor spun toward the console, flipping switches far more aggressively than necessary. He was huffing out of pure embarrassment.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER ME PILOTING MY TIME-MACHINE-SPACESHIP, POND! Not typical bloke behavior!"

I snorted, arms crossed. "I don't know about that. You kiss like a typical bloke..." I muttered the last part far too cynically and happily all at once.

Silence.

The Doctor whirled, eyes wide, mouth dropping open in sheer offense. "What?! What did you just say?" He asked in horror.

"Nothing," I said airily, already making my way toward the console. "Anyway! How about I take over piloting?"

Still looking scandalized, he huffed. "I do not kiss like a typical bloke." He paused, muttering under his breath, "I use far more tongue... honestly, I'll show you later... But sure! If you'd like to pilot, be my guest!"

The Doctor flopped into one of the jump seats dramatically, arms crossed.

Rory shook his head as he and Amy made their way up the stairs. "I absolutely did not need to hear that..." He was muttering, looking disturbed.

With how he was acting, you would think that he and Amy really were the Doctor and I's children. Obviously, this is far from the case, but it was still funny to think about.

He and Amy sat on two other chairs near the Doctor

"But if you need help," The Doctor added pointedly, "Or have questions, ask me this time. Don't just press random levers and buttons!"

I grinned, stepping up to the console. "Of course, Space Lord."

Rory and Amy had changed into outfits that blended well with 1945.

Amy had gone for a high-waisted, knee-length navy skirt paired with a white blouse tucked in neatly, the sleeves rolled just slightly. A deep red lip completed the look, and her hair had been styled into a neat look—effortless, but still era-appropriate. She looked fantastic, of course.

Rory looked... well, like Rory playing 40s dress-up. He wore brown slacks with a button-up shirt and a simple tie, a blazer thrown over it all. He had thick-rimmed fake glasses on as well.

I smirked, turning my attention back to the console.

My hands settled on the controls, fingers curling around the levers and switches with something almost like reverence.

This was it.

My first time properly piloting the TARDIS. By myself.

Hopefully, this time, the old girl didn't toss me out her doors and into some shady woods.

I exhaled slowly, blocking out the eyes watching me, and moved.

The first lever engaged the time rotor, sending a deep, reverberating hum through the ship. I twisted a knob to the left—coordinates locked in. My other hand flipped a switch—vortex stabilizers engaged. Then came the best part.

With a firm grip, I pulled down the main lever.

The TARDIS thrummed beneath my fingertips, the time rotor pulsing, engines shifting from a slow purr into that glorious, signature wheezing—but smoother. I wasn't riding with the brakes on like the Doctor likes to do. A perfect, seamless descent through the vortex. No violent shaking, no emergency course corrections.

I was doing it.

I was actually doing it.

A wide grin stretched across my face as the TARDIS landed with a soft thud.

Immediately, loud whooping overcame my hearing.

I barely had time to register the sound before a pair of arms wrapped around me from behind, yanking me into a fierce embrace.

"That was brilliant!" The Doctor cheered, practically vibrating with excitement as he rocked me side to side. "You did it! No crashes, no fires, and no emergency landings in completely the wrong century! Perfect—I give you a double A+, love!"

I laughed, warmth spreading through me at the unfiltered joy in his voice. He beamed at me, then pressed a kiss to my temple. Then another. And another.

"Okay, okay," I laughed, squirming slightly, though I didn't really want to escape. His happiness was infectious, and his attention? Well, I thrived under it.

Amy, apparently unimpressed with the love fest, let out a dramatic sigh and made for the doors.

I could understand—the Doctor and I were certainly in the new couple honeymoon stage that everyone complains about.

"Right then!" She declared, reaching for the handle. "Time to see where—"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" The TimeLord yelped.

The Doctor ripped himself away from me, lunging across the console room in a blur of tweed and limbs. He caught Amy's wrist just before she could fling the doors open.

"Do not just go barging out there! We don't know what's waiting on the other side!" He scolded, eyebrows raised in exasperation. "You already know that I am the first one out of the TARDIS, always, Pond! How many times do we need to go over thi—?"

Amy raised a single unimpressed brow. "Doctor. You were just kissing PJ in congratulations like your life depended on it. How dangerous could it be?"

I groaned—we were not kissing like that! We weren't!

The Doctor made a flustered noise, rubbing at his face. "That is completely irrelevant! Stop throwing that in my face—need I remind you what I walked into you and Rory doing in your room last week?"

I raised a curious brow, having not heard that story yet, but Rory let out a loud groan.

"You said you weren't ever going to bring it up!" Rory cried out. "You said you didn't want think about it—" He was cut off by Amy.

"The keyword is our room, Doctor! Honestly, what did you expect by just barging in unannounced?" She exclaimed, her voice turning more Scottish.

The Doctor scoffed, waving her off. "It was still disgusting! And in my TARDIS, have you no shame?"

"We literally just caught you on the floor five minutes ago snogging—" She started furiously.

The Doctor ignored her, cutting her off. "The point, my young Pond, is—caution! No opening doors willy-nilly! Unless, of course, I permit you to open doors willy-nilly, then go as willy-nilly bananas as you like!"

Amy rolled her eyes but stepped back, motioning for him to open the doors.

I stood a few feet away, watching them with a small smile, something heavy curling in my chest.

Would such a moment even exist in a few minutes? Would they still be looking at me the same way once they learned this small truth?

My fingers curled into fists at my sides. I forced the thought down.

The Doctor finally swung the door open, peeking outside and then gesturing for Amy and Rory to go first. As they stepped out, he turned to follow—only for me to prance forward and grab him, spinning him back toward me.

His breath caught, eyes widening in surprise.

And then I kissed him. As hard as I dared, leaning my head up and forcing his down and everything.

I poured every bit of love I had for him into it, every unspoken thing I wanted to say. The way my hands framed his face, the way my lips moved against his—I loved him. And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself forget what was coming.

I felt him soften into me, his hands gripping my waist and squeezing.

When we finally pulled apart, his gaze searched mine, concern flickering in his green eyes. He lifted a hand, thumb brushing against my cheek.

"Dearest—" He started, his voice laced with quiet reassurance.

I didn't let him finish.

Instead, I grabbed his hand and tugged him forward, stepping through the doors.

"Come on, Space Lord. This way."

The second we walked outside, we were greeted by a grand-looking corridor. A very familiar corridor. My shoulders sagged at being in this place at this event yet again.

"Doctor?" Amy asked, looking around along with Rory. "Where are we?"

The Doctor released my hand to rub his together excitedly, looking around with bright eyes as he spoke a mile a minute. "I'm not sure, Pond, and I'm not used to not knowing right away. 1945, sure, but where in 1945? So many possibilities—Earth, no doubt... ooh, this is fun. You really have given me a treat, dearest. Where—where—where are we?" He sang the last part, mouth moving a mile a minute as he rambled.

The Doctor spun on his heel, eyes alight with enthusiasm, his hands clapping together in excitement. "Alright, alright, let's see—gleaming corridors, polished floors, a rather distinct post-war feel to the architecture—" He sniffed the air dramatically. "And a distinct scent of intellectual arrogance. Definitely academia. But where? Washington, perhaps? Or—"

"New York," Rory interjected, pointing toward a framed picture hanging on the wall beside them. "Empire State Building. Big giveaway."

The Doctor whirled around, practically bouncing as he leaned in, examining the picture with exaggerated scrutiny. Then, with a broad grin, he snapped his fingers. "New York, 1945! Exciting! Very exciting!" He spun back to us, arms wide. "The war is over, victory banners are flying, and this city is in the midst of an identity crisis—riding the high of triumph while quietly, very quietly, dreading what comes next. Oh, I do love a bit of historical tension!"

Rory furrowed his brows, glancing toward me. "You brought us to New York after the war?"

I gave him an easy smile, tucking my hands into the pockets of my skirt. "Yep," I drawled. "But there is a lot more to it, my friend."

Amy hummed, looking around, her eyes flicking over the elegant walls and the growing number of people milling about as we walked through the hallways. Most were men in suits, some older, some younger, but all of them carried themselves with a particular weight—the weight of knowledge, of decisions made, of consequences still settling.

A world both unsettled and curious about its future.

The Doctor's rambling stalled as well, his eyes sharpening as he took in the details. Military uniforms. Crisp lab coats. Older men walking with the posture of lifelong academics, younger ones with a nervous energy, eager to prove themselves. There were murmurs of conversation, clipped and serious. Words like atomic, strategy, and implications slithered through the air like invisible threads tying everything together.

He slowed beside me, his hands lowering—delicate brows furrowing. "Oh." It was a simple word, but it was his way of expressing his realization of where we were.

I clapped him on the back, grinning. "Took you long enough, Space Lord. Thought you were supposed to be clever?"

The Doctor exhaled sharply, but there was something else behind it—something a little more wary. He turned his head to look at me, searching. I just smiled, my gaze steady, my expression unreadable.

Amy let out an impressed whistle. "So this is some kind of... science convention?"

The Doctor, still watching me, answered without looking away. "Not just any science convention, Pond. This is the Social Science Research Council conference. November—1945. Am I correct, dearest?"

"Right, indeed, Eleven!"

Amy made a face. "That means nothing to me."

"Well, it should," The Doctor said, finally tearing his gaze from mine as he turned to her. "Because this is history—decently recent and major history for you. This is where the brightest minds of the scientific community—physicists, policymakers, strategists, chemists—gather to discuss what they've just unleashed upon the world." He rocked back on his heels, his hands finding his pockets as he glanced around at the passing figures. "The atomic bomb has dropped. Japan has surrendered. And now?" His expression darkened slightly. "Now comes the part where they try to decide whether to be proud of what they've done or to fear it."

Amy's lips parted slightly, her brows drawing together as she looked around again. "Right. That is... big."

Rory shifted uncomfortably. "This is the kind of place where people start arguing about whether they've doomed humanity, isn't it?"

"Pretty much," I said.

Amy turned back to me. "So why are we here? This isn't typically the choice destination, not purposely, at least..."

I tilted my head. "To watch." I shrugged.

The Doctor's eyes narrowed as he turned to me, leaning in, but Amy just huffed.

"Watch what?" He asked slowly.

"The speeches," I told him simply, motioning for them to follow. "Come on, the conference is about to start."

The three of them exchanged glances before following me down the corridor. As we walked, the foot traffic increased. More men—older, grizzled, with the kind of expressions that came from carrying too much knowledge—brushed past us, murmuring amongst themselves. Some looked excited, others grim.

"I still can't believe it," One man had said to another. "They still don't have an official death toll—but now they're estimating it's in the hundreds of thousands..."

The murmurs continued as we passed by more people, all of us picking up snippets of the conversation. Some people spoke in various accents, but the majority were American.

I made sure to keep my head down, trying not to be recognized.

"Insane radiation levels... it's still not safe to wander into the city..."

"It was mostly civilians—innocents but the military is trying to write it off as though they were all soldiers..."

"Those that survived the initial blast, they're skin was melting as they ran! Truly horrible!"

"But what else were we to do? It's war—they would've done the same to us, if not worse!"

"They killed my son! He was held captive in some Japanese warfare facility... Unit 731 or something; we still don't know everything that went down!"

"They say that as soon as the bomb was dropped—the light was brighter than anything anyone could've imagined—decimated everything, turned it all to ash within a one-mile radius! It's the devil's work, I tell you!"

The Doctor stayed close beside me, his hands slipping into his trouser pockets. His gaze flickered from one passing figure to the next, his mind clearly whirring. Trying to understand why I found it so important to bring him here. How something like this could possibly entwine with me and a truth that I was going to tell him?

He's almost there. Almost figured it out.

Amy glanced toward the conference hall's open doors, where people were still shuffling inside. "Let's get a good seat, yeah? Might as well make the most of it."

But before she could move any closer, I caught her arm, holding her back with a firm hand.

She blinked at me, surprised. "What?"

"We're staying at the back," I said, my voice even.

Rory looked confused. "Why?"

Amy scoffed. "Why? PJ, come on, we're time travelers; we can go where we want! Let's get a proper view!"

But I didn't let go.

"We stand at the back," I repeated, my voice unwavering. "We need to, I'm sorry, but we can't risk changing the past... otherwise we might make ourselves cease to exist..."

By that I meant that I would cease to exist.

I would not be surprised if my past self saw us and for fun fuck's sake decided to do everything in her power to ensure she—we—did not end up here. Did not end up traveling with the Doctor. Such a thing would cause either a terrible paradox or simply make this version of myself cease to exist.

I was vindictive like that.

Amy frowned, but something in my expression and my words made her hesitate.

Rory shifted uncomfortably, clearly sensing the tension. "Why would we cease to exist? We typically don't need to worry about that. Is something about this dangerous?"

I smiled at him, but it didn't reach my eyes. "Not necessarily. It's just better not to chance it. You'll see why in just a few minutes..."

Amy gave me a look but didn't argue further.

The Doctor, however, was silent.

He was watching me again, that sharp gaze of his laced with something cautious. Something speculative. He was considering my words, allowing them to stir around in his mind.

And then, slowly, I saw it.

The moment the final piece clicked into place.

Because there was only one instance that such a thing would be a risk when traveling through time. One of the few rules of time travel that the Doctor actually tried to follow—don't interact with your future or past self. Less you risk erasing part of your own timeline and therefore a part of yourself.

His eyes widened just a fraction. His entire body went still. His hands clenched slightly in his pockets.

That was the only one reason that made sense with what I just said to Amy.

Especially when the Doctor knows who I am. How reckless, how careless, how dangerous I can be. How my curiosity walked the line of insanity. Not to mention: he knows that I am a bombmaker—knows that to some I am known as The Bombmaker.

I turned away before he could say anything, before I could see what was forming behind that green-eyed stare.

The first speaker stepped onto the stage. The murmurs in the conference hall died down.

The discussion began.

It started clinical. Matter-of-fact. Technical jargon, theories, equations—science.

Then came the other part.

Some spoke of the bomb as an achievement, a testament to human ingenuity. Others spoke of the power—what it meant, how it had shifted the very balance of the world. And then, there were those whose voices wavered, whose eyes were shadowed with the weight of what had been done.

One man, an older physicist with tired eyes, spoke in a quiet, raw voice. "The numbers don't do it justice. You can read the figures—eighty thousand dead in Hiroshima, seventy thousand in Nagasaki—but it doesn't capture it. The streets melted. The very air became poison. We turned human beings into shadows burned onto the pavement." He exhaled shakily, his fingers tightening into fists. "And we did it with equations. With chalk on a board."

There was silence in the room.

I kept my expression neutral. Trying not to cringe and look away in shame. Because I helped.

Amy swallowed, looking uncomfortable. Rory's jaw clenched.

The Doctor?

The Doctor wasn't looking at the speaker anymore.

He was looking at me.

His gaze was unreadable. Unmoving.

I felt the weight of it settle over me, but I didn't turn to meet it.

Not yet.

The conference hall was thick with silence, the weight of words hanging heavy in the air. The physicist who had spoken last—the one with the tired eyes and hands that trembled slightly as they gripped the podium—stepped back, his speech done. There was no applause. No sound at all, save for the occasional shuffle of shoes against the floor as the audience adjusted in their seats, uneasy, restless.

But then, she stepped onto the stage.

I stepped onto the stage.

Professor Baranova.

When I came here, when I assisted Robert Oppenheimer and countless others. The world knew me by one name: Professor Maria Baranova. A woman too brilliant for her own good.

My past self moved with a grace that was too precise to be natural, too perfectly controlled. The sway of her hips, the way she held her shoulders, even the way she lifted her chin to address the room—it was all deliberate, calculated. She was dressed for the part, too—an elegant red dress, structured at the shoulders, cinched at the waist, falling just below her knees in classic 1940s fashion. A small brooch in the shape of a silver atom was pinned to her collar, a subtle little inside joke to herself.

Her hair was different—cut into a glossy black bob, curled into perfect waves that framed her face. It suited her, of course. Everything about her suited this time period. Every detail was polished, pristine.

She spoke easily. Well, I spoke, or I did speak, once upon a time.

The memories of me being her played out in my mind as I watched, still finding it odd to be watching this long after it happened and from an outside point of view at that.

"Ladies and gentlemen," She greeted, her voice crisp, bright, and fast. The transatlantic accent rolled off her tongue with practiced ease, each word clipped and precise, infused with that distinct mid-century rhythm. "It is a pleasure to stand before you all today in such historic times. What a wonder it is, truly, to be alive in an age where mankind has taken its first steps into the realm of gods."

A murmur rippled through the audience at that, some in agreement, some in discomfort.

I said nothing. I didn't move.

Not even when I felt the Doctor's eyes burning into me.

Professor Baranova continued, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "For years, we dreamed of harnessing the very power of the heavens itself, of bending the atom to our will, of unlocking the secrets that the stars have hoarded since the dawn of time." She gestured with a delicate, gloved hand. "And now? Now we have done it."

Her voice rang with something close to reverence.

But, and I only I could hear it, there was humor hidden deep in her tone. Because she—I had been having fun.

I remember it well—at the time, I thought I'd give a dramatic speech, pretend I was in a movie or some other absurdity.

I clenched my hands into fists at my sides. Foolish. Vain.

"Many of you have spoken on the morality of our work," She went on, tilting her head just slightly, her expression poised and thoughtful. "On the weight of the actions we have taken. Some of you lie awake at night, haunted by the fire we unleashed upon the world." She let the words hang in the air for a beat before continuing smoothly, effortlessly. "I do not."

Amy let out a quiet breath beside me.

Professor Baranova smiled. "You see, gentlemen, I did not enter this field with naivety. I knew, from the moment I set my sights upon this work, exactly what it was we were trying to achieve. We were not playing with fire—we were forging it. We were creating something new, something vast, something that will shape the future of humanity itself." Her eyes glimmered with something fierce. "And how grand a future that will be."

A few members of the audience shifted. Some nodded, some frowned. Others stared at her with a mixture of awe and unease.

And me?

I stood there, blank-faced. Unmoving. Unaffected.

At least, I hoped I looked that way.

Because inside?

Inside, I was crumbling.

It was like staring into a mirror warped by time, seeing a reflection of myself that I no longer recognized—except that I did recognize her. I remembered her. I remembered everything. The exhilaration, the sheer thrill of being at the forefront of something so monumental and yet so small at the same time.

One planet in one time in one little corner of the universe.

The way my mind had thrived on the complexities, the calculations, the raw, undeniable brilliance of it all.

I had loved it. I had loved it.

And the worst part?

Some part of me still did.

Even now, as my stomach twisted and my throat felt tight, as I could feel the weight of the Doctor's stare burning through me, even as I knew what had been done with this knowledge—somewhere, beneath the tangled mess of emotions that I should not have had, a part of me still relished it.

I hated that.

I hated that more than anything.

And I hated the way I could feel something else creeping in—the growing fear that I was changing. That the more time I spent separated from the full force of the Polaris Jade, the more human I was becoming.

Would the me from back then have felt this way?

No. Clearly not.

Back then, I would have scoffed at guilt. I would have laughed at the people who wrung their hands and whispered of morality over something as little as this. I would have tilted my head at the Doctor's expression right now, bemused, uncaring. But still curious.

"One corner," I would've whispered to him. "In one little solar system, in one galaxy in a universe of near infinite possibilities, of infinite timelines—this small destruction, irrelavent in the grand scheme of it all, old man, don't be such a wuss..." She would've tittered with a small laugh, waving off his concerns and kindness.

But now?

Now, my hands were trembling.

I curled them tighter into fists.

Professor Baranova—I—continued speaking, voice unwavering, eyes alight with something sharp, something almost hungry. "Many of you may feel burdened by the weight of our achievements, but I assure you, gentlemen, ladies—history will not remember our hesitation. It will remember our success."

Applause rippled through the room—scattered, uncertain. The majority of applause was coming from the men in military suits—commanders who were only glad of the victory and of America being one of the new world superpowers.

Someone shouted out a sexist comment about me being the "bees' knees" and asked if I was married. The past me laughed along with the rest of the room, but there was extreme annoyance under it all.

I remember that, too—how annoying the constant sexism was. And needing to laugh along, to find it funny as well, or risk being shunned by society during this time. Mostly because I had not gone to this time period to fight for women's rights or civil rights—well, I was always fighting for that, but this time around, this was not my main purpose. My main purpose was to be the best scientist of the 40s that I could.

I did not clap.

The Doctor did not clap.

I could feel him beside me, his presence electric, thrumming with something quiet and unreadable. And when I finally turned my head to look at him—just for a second, just long enough to see—I felt my breath catch.

Because he was staring at me like he didn't know me anymore.

Like he had thought he was beginning to understand me, only to realize he had barely scratched the surface.

There was no anger in his eyes. No rage, no disgust.

Just something worse.

Something like betrayal.

And I hated that too. But I could not exactly blame him.

The air inside the conference room was suffocating. It was thick with tension, thick with the weight of every word that had just been spoken. I kept my face carefully blank, but inside, my mind was reeling. My pulse pounded in my ears as I watched my past self—Professor Baranova—step back from the podium, her speech concluded, her presence still lingering in the air like smoke from a match that had been struck and burned out all at once.

I truly was a good public speaker; I knew how to wind a crowd up. All from experience, of course.

The next speaker, a physicist with weary eyes and an uncertain stance, stepped up to take her place. The murmurs in the room swelled, but I wasn't listening. I couldn't.

Amy was the first to move. She exhaled sharply through her nose, her expression caught between disbelief and something else—something closer to frustration. She turned to me, eyes sharp and expectant, as if waiting for an explanation.

Rory was less subtle. "You—you were up there," he said, his voice low, laced with incredulity. "Like—actually you. Not just some great-great-whatever-grandmother. You."

I didn't answer.

"PJ," Amy pressed, her voice a touch softer now but no less demanding. "Tell me that wasn't you... tell me that was like an evil twin sister or something..."

I couldn't.

But I could say this: "She's not evil." I sighed sadly. "Just careless and inquisitive..."

Then the Doctor moved.

Before I could blink, his hand was around my wrist—not harsh, not rough, but firm. Unyielding. His grip burned through my sleeve as he yanked me out of the room, barely giving me a second to react before we were weaving through the hallways of the SSRC, away from the crowd, away from them.

"Amy—Rory—stay put," He called over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Amy cursed under her breath but followed anyway, dragging Rory with her as they hurried after us.

We turned down one hall, then another, past dark wooden doors and golden sconces that flickered dimly against the walls. The Doctor didn't slow down. I barely registered the sound of our footsteps echoing against the tile, barely noticed the way my stomach twisted with something close to dread.

Then, finally, he pulled me into an empty corner of the hallway, away from prying eyes.

And the moment we stopped, he let go.

The absence of his touch was more jarring than his grip had been.

For a moment, he said nothing.

He just looked at me.

His eyes were wild, searching, like he was trying to fit together a puzzle where half the pieces had been swapped out with something unrecognizable.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was sharp, almost a whisper, but it cut through the space between us like a blade. "Why, PJ?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "Why would I admit to something like that out of the blue?" I shot back, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Amy and Rory caught up to us then, skidding to a stop just a few feet away.

Amy's arms were crossed over her chest, her brows drawn together in frustration. "So what? This is just normal for you?" She demanded. "You just—what? Slip into different eras, play with history, help create weapons of mass destruction?"

Yes. But usually, it's different universes.

For obvious reasons, I did not say that out loud.

"I thought I told you two to stay put," The Doctor sounded annoyed.

Neither human responded to that.

Rory shook his head, rubbing a hand down his face. "This—this is insane. Do you even realize what you—?" He stopped himself, inhaling sharply before finishing, "What you were a part of?"

My jaw tightened. "Of course I do; that's why I chose to do it. To put myself here..."

Amy let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah? And what, you just forgot to mention it? It never crossed your mind to maybe tell us, 'oh, by the way, I helped build the atomic bomb'? You definitely could've mentioned it when we saw Churchill a few months back!"

Her annoyance at me was more than reasonable. This is a sore topic for many people, and I knew what I was admitting to when I brought them here.

I ignored her, my eyes locked on the Doctor's. His expression was unreadable.

"You said you were stranded in the 2020s for five years," He murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. Trying to make sense of it, find any holes in my stories. "If that was even true. So when was this for you? At what point in your timestream?" His gaze sharpened. "Six—seven years ago?" He hesitated. "You were what then? Twenty-one, twenty-two?"

My stomach plummeted.

I could feel my own expression freeze, could feel the very moment my brain stuttered over itself because oh, fuck.

I didn't know what I'd told him before. I couldn't remember how old I had told him I was.

Twenty-five? Twenty-eight? Somewhere in that range.

I forced myself to nod slowly, keeping my face neutral, praying to everything that he wouldn't press any further. Because if it somehow circled back to how old I currently am, and I told him the wrong answer AKA something different than the age I told him before—to put it frank—I am fucked.

The Doctor's expression shifted—just barely. His brows furrowed, like something in the back of his mind was clicking into place, but he didn't say anything about it. Not yet.

Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose, raking a hand through his hair. "What is this, PJ?" His voice was lower now, rougher. "Why would—"

"Because I'm a time traveler, Doctor, you more than most should understand!" I cut in, my voice firm. I turned slightly, looking at all of them. "And you know better than most that not all of time is pretty, this included—"

"Oh, don't give me that crap," The Doctor pointed a finger at me. "You explain to me what the hell was going through your mind for you to even think to involve yourself in this?"

I lifted my wrist, holding up my Vortex Manipulator. "When I was younger, a few years after I got this," I waved the Manipulator for good measure, "I thought—fuck it. I want to be a part of human history. And I was getting good at bomb-making, at physics, at chemistry. So I thought—what's better than going to university and learning?"

I inhaled, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed. "Learning at the start of something big. Hands-on learning, I had told myself. So I came here. Created Professor Maria Baranova—genius physicist-chemist. Placed myself right alongside Robert Oppenheimer, weaved my way into history like a snake, and helped create this devastation."

I let my arm fall back to my side.

"And before you ask—no, I didn't dramatically change history. They still would've created the bomb without my help. I was just... kind of... there... in the shadows..."

The Doctor let out a bitter, humorless huff of laughter. "Of course you didn't change history that much," He muttered, his voice almost a hiss. "I would've been made aware of the paradox. And I would consider this a little more than you just being here in the shadows, dearest!"

But there was something else underneath his words. Something he wasn't saying.

It wasn't just about history.

It was about me.

Not mentioning this to him, but—no. He, the Doctor who has secrets upon secrets and lives upon different lives lived doesn't get to lecture me about not telling him. Especially when I am telling him this truth, this small small truth of everything that makes me up.

But that in itself is also a fucked concept.

This was a small truth... and all their feathers are still ruffled by it. How the fuck were they going to react if they ever found out that I'm not even fully human? Or that I'm not even a native to this fucking universe.

It doesn't matter.

I am THE POLARIS JADE, here for the Nine Arbiters. I have two left, and once they are located, I will merge myself whole again and take the Space Jam down once and for all.

This—despite my strong feelings for the Doctor. For my friends Amy and Rory... hell, even for River Song. None of it would matter once I merged myself back together and tore through the multiverse.

I should just be selfish and enjoy it while it lasts.

The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. It pressed against my chest like a weight, like a presence that neither of us could escape. The Doctor stood rigid, staring at me with something between exhaustion and annoyance.

His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for something—his sonic screwdriver, the TARDIS key, me—but he held himself still.

Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"Is this it?" He asked, his voice low, careful.

Amy and Rory shifted uncomfortably in the background, their presence felt more than seen. They didn't say anything. Didn't have to.

The Doctor swallowed hard. "I can get over this," he admitted. "This—it's history, it's terrible, but it's done. You're right, at the end of it, it's the life of a time traveler." He gave Amy and Rory a pointed look at those words, speaking to them firmly. "You two do need to understand that as time travelers we can be everywhere and nowhere at once. Involved in all of history no matter if it's amazing or terrible... although, I will say—in my opinion—it's not very good morally to purposely place yourself in the middle of events such as this," the Doctor threw his pointed gaze back to me.

"It's morally grey," I cut him off, crossing arms over my chest tightly and meeting his stare head on despite the guilt racking my being.

The Doctor hesitated. "Fine, morally grey," he finally agreed after a moment, rubbing his hands together nervously, "if not leaning toward black, you're really pushing that line, love..." He warned before shaking his head and puffing. "But it is what it is. Just please, PJ—tell me this is it. There isn't anything else. Nothing bigger than this."

My lips pressed into a thin line.

I couldn't answer.

I looked away instead, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

The Doctor let out a breath—half a huff, half a laugh of pure disbelief. "You can't, can you?"

His voice cracked at the edges, a mixture of frustration, of something almost pleading. Annoyed, angry, sad.

Something inside me snapped.

I clenched my jaw. "You already knew this," I snapped, turning on him. "You've totally known this! Or had an idea it was something like this! Don't tell me you didn't because you are too smart to have not connected the dots..."

The Doctor's brows shot up, anger flaring in his eyes. "I did not!" He shot back. "At this point, PJ, I've known you too long for you to keep hiding things from me!"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, that's rich! You hide things all the time!"

"I'm nine hundred and seven years old!" He practically shouted. "There's a lot about me, PJ! And most of it isn't happy! It's not like we can sit down and go over my entire life story from start to finish in a single night! And when you ask, I tell you!"

I briefly thought back to when I asked him about if he'd ever had children. He was honest and he told me the truth—told me how many he had once upon a time. No further details than that, no names; no specifics like if any of them were adopted.

Just big sad green eyes and a number.

13.

Thirteen children, he'd once been a father to 13 children. That's insane to try and wrap my head around, especially considering who I knew him as now.

Of course I could see him as a father, this was the Doctor. But a father to 13 is intense, to say the least.

Nevertheless, his words rang true. Thus far he's told me the truth about everything every time I ask.

About everything except one. Time to go low.

I didn't hesitate. "Not your name."

The words were a weapon, a perfectly aimed strike, and I saw the way they hit him. The way his entire body tensed, his expression shifting from open frustration to something harder, more guarded.

It was a very hypocritical move to play, but I had no other ammo and the ugly side of me was preparing for a war-game of the tongue.

The Doctor's lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

For a moment, all I could hear was the heavy sound of our breathing. Both our eyes were fierce, neither of us were backing down.

Then, low and firm, he spoke: "You—of all people—should understand why I don't say my name."

It wasn't just anger anymore. There was hurt in his voice now.

And that almost made me falter.

Almost.

Because even if that was the only real secret he had ever kept from me, it didn't change the fact that I had secrets, too. Big ones.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his expression twisting back into frustration. "You need to stop hiding things like this from me!"

"I don't have to do anything! But if that is where you want to take this, then you need to stop acting like you're entitled to know everything about me!"

"I am not acting entitled; I am concerned!"

"Then say that! Say you're concerned! Don't act like I owe you every inch of myself just because you and me—" I cut myself off abruptly, my throat closing around the words before they could escape.

The Doctor's expression darkened. "Because we what, PJ?"

I ignored him. "You keep secrets, too! Don't sit here and act like you don't!"

The Doctor's hands curled into fists. "You may have been raised in space as a Ravager, but you are still a human bred from the 21st century," He ground out, his voice low, sharp. "And quite frankly, for your own safety and the safety of time itself, I should take the Manipulator away from you!"

My entire body went rigid. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," He snapped. "No human from that century is meant to be time and space-hopping on their own as you've been!"

My blood boiled.

I wanted to scream at him that I am NOT human. That I am something far more than human! A weapon that could rip universes to shreds—that had ripped universes to shreds before.

But imagine his reaction if I told him that, especially since this is how he is acting about a fucking atomic bomb.

I wanted to stomp my foot and throttle his throat—yell that this was who he wanted. This is the woman you consider a girlfriend; here I am, laid out plain before you.

But I couldn't, so I settled for the next best thing.

"You have no right!" I shouted. "Your entire existence literally revolves around time travel!"

"I have every right!" He cut me off, his voice rising, his entire body tense. "I am a TimeLord from the planet Gallifrey! A Lord over Time! You are a human—!"

"Stop talking like you're better than me!"

"I'm not—"

"You are! You're acting like it!" I yelled, resisting the pull that made my eyes glow. "And honestly," I went on, my voice sharp with venom, "how are you going to sit here and judge me when a past version of yourself is probably out in the crowd of that conference room right now?"

The argument stopped cold.

The Doctor's mouth shut abruptly, his teeth clicking together, his eyes narrowing as he turned away, jaw tight.

My own breath hitched. "Oh—oh! I'm fucking right, aren't I?" I laughed, the sound sharp, bitter. "Obviously, I am. How could you not be in attendance for something as historically big for humanity as this?"

Amy hesitated, looking between us both before cautiously asking, "Doctor?"

He exhaled, straightening his shoulders.

"Yes," he admitted, voice clipped. "But it was a long time ago, and I was only in attendance. I didn't help humanity create—" he turned, pointing a finger at me. "An atomic bomb!"

"What does it matter whether I am here or not? The bomb gets created either way!" I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking my head. "And what?" I gestured at him. "You just forgot that I was here when you first met me in your tenth incarnation? Forgot that you watched me speak?"

The Doctor inhaled sharply, opening his mouth to argue—then stopped.

His expression flickered, something clicking into place behind his eyes.

I smirked. "Ohhh..." I nodded, chuckling. "You did forget. You're just now remembering that you've apparently seen me before."

His jaw tightened.

Amy and Rory were watching now, quiet, waiting.

The Doctor clenched his fists, shaking his head. "I came here a very long time ago," He muttered. "During my first generation. There were a lot of speakers. I never spoke with you personally, never saw you again—not for seven hundred years!"

I raised a brow. "But you had to have remembered my speech," I pointed out sarcastically. "Remembers everyone, he says!"

"It slipped my mind!" He bit out.

I scoffed. "And now that I've shown you, you're just now remembering?" I tilted my head. "You've technically known the whole time, Doctor..."

He swallowed, not answering.

The Doctor and I—push and pull. An unstoppable object and an immovable force. Fire and ice. The sun and the moon.

Whatever people might call it; we made each other burn. He was my opposite in every way in the same manner that he was also my twin flame.

Our pure souls seemed to constantly tug toward one another: two halves of a whole. A collision that was messy and angry and volatile as much as it was peaceful and smooth and natural.

Either way, it was ever so addicting. One glance into the Doctor's eyes told me that despite his anger and annoyance; he felt much the same.

Because despite it all, when it came to fucked up people like us—this was more than addicting. It was fun, like a merry-go-round that never stops.

How could I ever give this up? Give up something like him?

I stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "It's not my fault you didn't remember." I tilted my head, smirking. "Or, better put—" I leaned in just slightly, showing my teeth as I sneered, "didn't think about it."

The Doctor's jaw clenched, his entire posture stiff. He leaned in too, and there was no telling if he wanted to yell at me or kiss me. Maybe both.

But for once—just this once—he didn't have anything to say.