The Time of Change

Van Staten

A second of absolute, utter silence passes between the Doctor and me, neither of us daring to breathe. But then the scream hits our ears again, just as full of malice and terror as it was the first time, and a shiver so violent I stumble backward runs down my spine. I turn tremulously toward the Doctor, and his eyes slide to me. We both stand so rigidly that we might as well be rooted to the spot.

"Let's get out of here," I whisper, voice itself shaking, and he gives a single nod in agreement. Our hands automatically find one another's; I can't tell if it's his palm or mine that's sweaty with fear. As one, we start unsteadily back down the hall through which we came, back toward the TARDIS.

Without any warning, an average-looking man in a suit intercepts our path as he steps sharply out of a nearby branch. At first glance, he seems familiar. "There you are," he growls in an American accent, unceremoniously grabbing me by my elbow and yanking me in the opposite direction.

"Excuse me!" I say indignantly. I pull against him, but his grip only tightens.

"What do you think you're doing?" my husband demands as he attempts to pry the man's fingers off me. After discovering that every move to have him release me only results in him holding tighter, the Doctor settles for grabbing a fistful of the man's muddy brown blazer and stopping him in his tracks.

"Hands off," the American orders, sounding bored. "Name's Henry Van Staten, and I'm taking you both to see something."

The Doctor glares at him. "You let go of her, and I'll let go of you."

"Looks like we're at an impasse then. Oh, wait." The man called Van Staten rolls his eyes as he stomps forcefully on the Doctor's foot. I shriek in shock, lunging toward him, but the American holds me back. My husband's fingers instinctually unclench from Van Staten's jacket. The latter scoffs, flicking his eyes toward me with something like savage enjoyment. "For God's sake, get up, Doctor. We've got places to be."

Ice-cold surprise washes over me, and I exchange a glance with my husband as we start moving again. "Do I know you?" I ask Van Staten. It's more confirmation than inquiry because the air that surrounds him is maddeningly familiar: intelligence, a mask of arrogance, and secrecy.

He does not look at me. "Doubt it."

"Then how do you know me?" the Doctor asks, apparently not sensing what I do.

"Because I'm not an idiot," Van Staten harshly replies. "Now if we're done with the theatrics, I have something here you'll recognize, and you're gonna help me shut it up."

"And why on Earth would you think we'd help you?" I ask him as bravely as I can.

The look he gives me is so full of dislike that I clam up. "You don't have a choice."

The Doctor glares at Van Staten with contempt, grudgingly following on his heels because he's still got me restrained. "We don't even know where we are," I say simply for the sake of saying something.

He scoffs again, and I become aware of the fact that my fingertips are tingling because of the restricted blood flow. "Of course you don't. That's convenient."

"We don't, so why don't you tell us, sir?" The Doctor stresses the final word sarcastically, throwing as much weight onto it as possible. Van Staten doesn't seem to notice. "You're in my museum," he says simply. "I'm a collector—a procurer of the strangest, most unique, and most amazing things in the worlds."

I can almost feel the hot air pouring through his ears.

We come to a skinny metal door with rivets all along the frame, and he is finally forced to release me in order to unlock it. I rub my arm, feeling slight indents where he held it and picturing the finger-shaped bruises already blooming there. The Doctor gives me a concerned look; I return my own confused one.