Stray is a little bugger of an idea that I thought would make a good first story of mine. Stray is a fanfiction consisting mostly of a Doctor Who/Torchwood crossover, except with The Doctor working for Torchwood, instead of being an almighty time lord that wears fezzes. Anywho, Stray is about a girl named Dixie, who is about 27 years old, and lives in an old rundown apartment complex, that she calls her 'prison'. She calls herself the girl with fire in her veins, and malice in her eyes. That is, until she meets John Smith, who turns her terrible nightmare inflicted life into a fast paced si-fy novel, including aliens, possessed best friends, bi sexual aliens who can't die, and lots, and lots, of violence. T for some language\suggestive language and violence. But mostly language =]


2. Old Stage Days

Chapter Two



She was gorgeous. Stunning. Seemed a bit annoyed at his awkwardness, but still with a pretty (but slightly forced) smile, obliged to help. He watched her make what seemed like a familiar way to her towards a grimy old alleyway, feeling a bit awkward as she swung her head around. "Come on! I have to stop by the liquor store to pick up margarita mix before I head to Olivia's, so let's make this quick!" She called over her shoulder. John shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He scurried after her, clasping his hands together behind his back and looking her over once more. "I didn't quite catch your name.. Did you say?" He quietly piped up, breaking the small silence they had accumulated. "Dixie. My name's Dixie Burns." She answered after a few seconds of silence, keeping her eyes straight as they headed towards a lone cluster of garbage cans and one dumpster. There was a huge piece of cardboard clumsily nailed to the side of the brick wall, covered in dirt, grime, and rain splatters. At least he hoped they were rain splatters. He scrunched up his nose at the sight of the dirty water flowing throughout the curb, full of garbage bits and dog pee. "I take it you aren't from around here, seeing how you can't stand the sight of curb water." Dixie commented with a slight smirk, looking at him from the corner of her eye. She stopped and placed a hand on the cardboard pushing on it lightly, having to noticeably stand on her toes to reach the hole."Nope, still there." She reassured herself from under her breath. "Actually, I'm from the UK." He replied in a cut off voice, watching nervously as she hopped up onto the top of a garbage can, its silver body shaking. She lifted up the flap of the cardboard, the smell of water damaged wood and the unnatural smell of makeup- how ever old it was- came wafting out of the now exposed dark hole. He tore his eyes away from her backside to briefly inspect the hole, scolding himself mentally for checking out this random stranger (for the third time, well, maybe the fourth, but don't tell anyone!). Bricks jutted out precariously from both sides, making John's stomach coil with worry. What if he tore his jacket on a sharp edge? He did take note, however, that the bottom part of the hole was smooth and relatively safe, due to wear and tear over the years. She looked back at him, guessing his suspicion that something had been using the hole for awhile."Weren't the only ones to use the hole,"She stated, trash can wobbling dangerously under her weight. "Nobody's in there anymore, don't worry." She turned back to the hole and raised herself out of the squat position slightly, using her right hand to steady the lid as her muscles tensed, and she launched herself into the hole, grappling onto the bottom of the hole and climbing her way in, the garbage can clanking rather loudly to the grimy concrete, hurriedly making it's crooked getaway from the dank decrepit hole. John didn't blame it. Dixie made a point of clearing her throat, drawing John's slightly sheepish attention to her, and waggles the fingers of her hand that was extended slightly above his head, offering him a lift up. "Just promise not to break my back please," Dixie quipped good-naturedly. John sent her a friendly smile, grabbing onto her hand and kicking his feet up, letting her hoist him into a position where he set his feet on the wall and pulled himself up. He kicked his legs over the side of the hole and sat on the edge, looking into the large expanse of what they called a back room. Dixie looked up at him, following his gaze to the numerous makeup desks that made of most of the back room, full of old lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara, lip liner, blush, eye liner, and more, spread out on each and every table, all different colors, for all different shows. Hairbrushes scattered the untouched back room, locks of hair still stuck in their pins. "You okay? Need any help getting down?" Dixie's voice rang through his thoughts, and he looked down wide eyes at her. John shook his head softly, clearing his throat."No, I'm fine." He choked out before pushing himself off the ledge and into the building, hearing the cardboard flap that had been resting on his back falling back over the hole with a quiet thump. Dixie strode across the room, expertly weaving through the small makeup desks, shoes roughly thumping on the slightly sodden wood. She stopped at one of the more cleaner desks, full of old dusty show makeup. Mostly sultry, night out like makeup. Bar dancing makeup. But then there was on the far left corner of the desk, light makeup that matched Dixie's soft creamy skin. He touched the wood, feeling along the splintering sides. Dixie pulled out a small bashed up chair, being mindful of a hockey puck used as a substitute for a broken leg, and sat down in the chair, the old wood creaking painfully under her weight. "This was my desk. Used to put on shows... I usually would have the lead or supporting role. Really dramatic when it comes down to it I guess..." She tapped her fingers on the top of the dingy desk, dust coating most of the supplies. "There's quite a lot of... Bright.. Makeup there." John commented quietly, immediately regretting mentioning it after. Dixie looked back at him, letting out a short chuckle. "Yeah... We put on plays.. Later in the day for our older guests. Long story short, we did it for some extra cash." Dixie said blatantly. John could tell that she regarded this information flatly, not really caring if it was spread to the public. Probably had enough shame just performing on stage. "Wait, did you just say you were paid? Don't YOU pay to go to the school?"

"Normally. But normally drama schools don't put on plays that coincide with most people's bedtimes." Dixie trails off, grimacing. John looked around, awkwardly stepping through the desks and looking about. Dixie pushed herself from the desk, making an awful scraping noise in turn which made John jump, leg sliding out from under him, He fell into a desk, knocking supplies and shattering a mirror, the old water damaged wood breaking and flaking apart as it crashed to the ground. He lay there for a moment, awkwardly covered in scraps of old and broken wood. He subconsciously pushed himself into a siting position, quite loudly clearing his throat and straightening his dusty bow tie, brushing himself off. Dixie rushed over to him, holding out her hand and pulling him up as he grasped it. "Sorry 'bout that.. Not exactly the most graceful thing on earth.." He mumbled awkwardly, burning from head to toe with embarrassment. "No problem. Not like anyone uses it anymore." Dixie reassured him, looking him up and down. "What did you need here anyway?" Dixie inquired, voice slightly high pitched. John fell silent, looking into Dixie's eyes. "Well?" She prompted. He let go of her hand and straightened his jacket awkwardly, turning away and looking around. "How do I get onto the stage?" Dixie's lips curled into a slight frown, but she managed to push them back up into a straight line. So what that he'd brushed off her question? Although slightly annoyed, she didn't bring it up again. "Go straight from this point on until you reach a desk with a letter on it. Turn left and keep going that way and you'll eventually find the stairs." She replied solemnly, watching him go with a stoic look on her face. "Oh, and John?" She called out to him. His chest ached with guilt for being a bit cold as he whipped around, the question 'what?' Forming on his lips, but didn't have the chance to say it as she snapped a few pictures of him on her phone. "Watch out for the false steps. They fall through pretty easy."

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