Fight or Flight ( Doctor Who Fanfiction )

Tranquil.

Two years & six months Before.

We used to come to this beach all of the time as kids. Sharon would drive Amy, Rory, and Mels. My sister and I would take a jet or a helicopter or an armored limousine. It really depended on the weather.

All of us would walk the beach, playing games, attending the carnival on the pier. We ate things that my sister and I didn't even know existed the day before. Candy floss and caramel popcorn were particularly memorable. All the while, three bodyguards shadowed us, never straying more than ten yards.

After a while, the others got used to their company. They let them carry bags. Let them open doors for us. Learned their names.

All the while, we played rigged games in the hopes of winning a prize stuffed animal worth five dollars even though we were all well-aware by that age that my family could buy the whole pier with a snap of the fingers.

I closed my eyes and listened to the laughter in my memories.

Today, things were quiet and cold. The tide was going out, and a storm was rolling in, so we built a fire out of driftwood and sat around it on spare blankets Rory had packed.

We were still supposed to be kids, or so I was told. Today was my birthday, and seventeen was still legally too young to be called an adult.  farther than ever from those childhood memories.

They were deciding whether we should eat at a gas station on the side of the road or take the jet to a nearby five star restaurant. It was sounding like they were collectively leaning towards a gas station. The five of us were enthusiastic regulars of a local chef, but one can only eat so much roast duck with walnut and orange rind.

I nodded along, and chimed in where necessary, but my mind was elsewhere.

My sister's short hair was curling around her face in the wind.

I remembered the day - not long ago, now - when she'd last skipped her pills. She'd appeared in my darkened bedroom doorway with a pair of scissors from the kitchen. I didn't know how she'd gotten them at first - household staff worked hard to keep sharp objects away from her.

She stood still, staring at me through glinting eyes.

The sight should have made anyone scared for their life.

Not me.

I just stared at her from my desk, pen in hand, and said in an indifferent tone that resembled my father's, "You've cut your hair."

My mother was not indifferent. She mourned my sister's hair. Neither one of us had ever been allowed to cut off more than an inch.

While I didn't mind the long hair for myself, I preferred my sister's hair this way. She didn't become irritable or constantly shrug her shoulders like it was scratching her when it was down.

It was also the only rebellious thing she'd ever done - fourteen years old, and she'd never stepped a toe out of line. As the family disappointment, I had to admire it.

Although it was clear her hair bothered her less, it wasn't a complete fix.

Now, I could tell it got on her nerves; she got twitchy, trying to push it out of her face and shaking her head.

I held out a hand to a guard standing a few yards behind me and he gave me a bag. I dug around, found a headband, and handed it to my sister without a word.

"How's all the business stuff going, Omara?"

Rory was the most - and possibly the only - interested party of the group when it came to my work with my parents.