Starman [ Life on Mars / Doctor Who Crossover ]

Chapter 10 The Seeker

I asked Bobby Dylan
I asked the Beatles
I asked Timothy Leary
but he couldn't help me either

---

The words fell out of his mouth.

"You're posh."

"Oh, I'm lots of things, turns out." Sam grinned and caught his gadget mid-flip. "Murderer, obviously, though I suppose mass-murderer is more apt -- serial killer? No, too crass -- slaughter enthusiast?"

Nichols' dead body slid out of Gene's hands and onto the ground.

"They called me 'The Decimator' for a year." Sam scratched his chin. "That was nice -- though 'His Lordship' was even better, I think--"

"What the hell is this?" Gene rose to his feet, fists shaking, voice catching in his chest. "Tyler--"

Something slammed into him, into his lungs. Gene fell back to his knees, wheezing, as his palms hit the wet concrete.

Sam's heels clicked on the floor, then stopped in front of him. He crouched down and yanked Gene's gun from its holster.

"Gene, Gene." Sam's voice tut-tutted above him as he tossed it away. "You're out of your league."

Gene raised his head. Sam smiled down, serene, and that's what did it -- that's what shattered it all, turned the mirror to the dirty side, smacked him upside the head. Sam had never been bloody serene.

"You came out of that room," Gene muttered.

Sam's mouth mock-pouted. "Look -- he's trying so hard."

"You," Gene repeated, low, "came out of that room."

Sam's arms flew up in feigned surrender. "I'm caught. Please, officer -- don't hurt me!"

Gene moved to stand. Sam's hand whipped out his gadget.

"There are explosives in all four corners of this building," Sam's voice said, one chilling octave lower. "This is the detonator."

Gene's fists clenched against the ground. "You'd go too."

"So would all your little detectives." Sam's smile split into a grin. "Shame if DI Tyler made a miscalculation, put that perimeter just a little too close. Damn shame."

Gene grit his teeth. He raised his eyes as Sam -- Sam, in his worn leather jacket, his poncy flared collar, the little gift shop medallion that swung around his neck -- stepped back and strolled into the bullpen.

Gene stood and followed. Sam dropped into his usual chair and kicked his Cuban boots up on his desk. He crossed his arms across his chest and shoved a pile of papers off with his heel.

They fell to the floor like leaves, typewritten pages, stupid memo pad scribbles. Scattered pieces of someone. Ashes.

"Who the hell are you," Gene said.

"The Master." The thing wearing Sam's skin grabbed for the tape recorder on his desk. "Music?"

He pressed down the play button. Paul McCartney started belting out chipper lyrics from what had been one of Sam's interview tapes. Gene dug his fingers into the seatback of the nearest chair.