Chapter Text
I have a brilliant idea, the Doctor’s voice filtered into Circe’s mind. Come on an adventure with me, Magic?
Circe forced herself away from the workbench, readjusting her grip on the soldering iron as she mentally sent the Doctor a raised eyebrow. Is this a mandatory summons or can I finish my line-work?
She felt him try to lean closer, that familiar, careful pressure against her thoughts—curiosity dressed up as concern—and she slammed the images shut. Circuits folded in on themselves. Light snuffed out.
Theta, she warned.
Okay, okay, he replied at once, a white flag fluttering through the link. Then, irrepressible as ever: But I really want to take Amy, and—
A mental grin followed, broad and boyish, paired with a wink she felt rather than saw.
How would that brilliant brain of yours like to be the first to translate the first written words in the universe?
Her soldering iron slipped from her fingers and clattered against the bench.
Alarm gave way to joy so sharp it almost hurt. She swallowed it down, heart racing, already rearranging herself around the possibility.
Do you know what you should’ve started with? she sent, even as she pocketed her project.
What?
That.
“Vavoom!” The Doctor yelled, bounding down the stairs into the console room.
Below the glass flooring, Amy deadpanned, “va-what?”
Circe chuckled, swinging her feet from where she sat in the passenger seat. She’d rolled her sleeves up while she’d been working on her project, and absentmindedly brushed off some metal dust that had stuck to her forearm, drawing the Doctor’s gaze before she quite realised what she was doing. He paused beside her, sending her a sly, heated wink, before he dashed around the console, energy electric. “I can’t believe I’ve never thought of this before,” he exclaimed, pulling levers and pushing buttons as he went, “it’s genius!”
Amy joined them on the console floor, wrapping a red scarf around her neck as she joined Circe beside the passenger seat. The TARDIS wasn’t in flight for long, the Doctor’s enthusiasm curtailing his usual desire for a hazardous journey, and he murmured, “right,” as the TARDIS landed with a gentle thump.
“Where are we?” Amy asked, linking arms with Circe as she hurried towards the door.
Circe and the Doctor shared an excited glance, both equally eager to see the outside of the doors.
“Planet One,” the Doctor revealed, “the oldest planet in the universe.”
“There’s a cliff of pure diamond, with writing carved into it. Studies have been done to try and translate it, and the Time Lords weren’t all that interested in it, which means—” Circe added.
“Letters fifty feet high, a message from the dawn of time!” The Doctor interrupted, eyes wide in fascination, always willing to add a flair of the dramatic.
“—no one has been able to get a translation for it.” Circe pulled Amy to a stop before the doors, smirking at the human. “Till today.”
The redhead narrowed her eyes at Circe in challenge. “What happens today?”
“Us,” the Doctor grinned, throwing his arms around Circe and Amy. “The TARDIS can translate anything. All we have to do is open the doors—“
Circe stole his hand from her shoulder, twirling out from under his grip until she was tugging him forward, towards the doors once more as she said, “and read the very first words in recorded history.”
Together, Circe and the Doctor threw open the doors, stepping out onto Planet One, a wonderfully biodiverse planet with mushroom trees and waterfalls of sparkling water, to be greeted with the sight of the cliff of diamond sparkling in the light of the early white star they orbited.
Her hearts froze for a moment, that newly remembered cobra of paranoia twisting back between them and constricting the flow between them.
How could those words be there? Why were they there? What in the stars did that woman want with them again?
‘HELLO SWEETIES’
Below them lay coordinates.
Amy murmured in awe, “va-voom…”
We don’t have to follow them, Circe reminded him, even as she knew they would.
The Doctor didn’t respond properly, just sending back his own concerned emotions that spilled through his mind.
“Right place?” Amy asked, voice worried, as they stepped out from the TARDIS.
They’d landed on a foggy hill, somewhere on Earth—of course, Circe didn’t think they’d ever get off the planet for any meaningful length of time—in…she sniffed the air. Early Earth. Not BC, there wasn’t enough brimstone and ash for that, but definitely close.
“Just followed the co-ordinates on the cliff-face,” the Doctor confirmed, checking his watch. “Earth, Britain. 1:02… am?” He frowned, tapping the watch face. “No, pm.”
Circe grabbed his chin, jerking his face toward the gathered Roman Legion. “No. AD,” she corrected.
His mouth rounded into an oh shape, and Circe smirked.
Amy stated in surprise, “that’s a Roman Legion.”
“Well, yeah,” the Doctor agreed.
Circe murmured, “the Romans did invade Britain several times during this period.”
“Oh, I know,” Amy grinned, smirking as she looked out over the camp. “My favourite topic at school. Invasion of the hot Italians.”
Both Circe and the Doctor glanced at her, and she sheepishly added, “yeah, I did get marked down for the title.”
The sound of metal moving against metal had Circe angling herself between it and the Doctor, her back braced to take the hit from any oncoming attacks.
But none came.
Instead, a man stood bent in half, panting, having just run in full metal armour and chainmail. He slammed his fist onto his chest, then raised it at a right angle, as he proclaimed, “hail Caesar!”
The Doctor and Circe shared a look, before she finally turned to face the newcomer.
His face was turned to the floor, having only seen the Doctor and Amy.
“Uhh, hi,” the Doctor replied.
“Welcome to Britain,” the soldier panted, “we are honoured by your presence.”
“Well, you’re only human,” he didn’t look away from the soldier, but Circe nudged his side in reprimand. “Arise…Roman…person.”
The three of them watched as he stood, and Amy murmured, “why does he think you’re Caesar?”
“Cleo—“ the soldier went to continue, but his eyes widened as he locked onto Circe. His mouth—painted with a familiar pink lipstick—began to stumble over the first letter, “C—C—C—“
“Get it out, soldier,” Circe snapped, her suspicion narrowing into a well-honed fang.
“Circe!” He threw himself to the ground once more, words becoming muffled by the mud beneath him, “please, don’t turn me into a pig!”
Her chest tightened for a heartbeat—old instincts snapping to attention. And then… she laughed. Sharp, triumphant. Finally, someone knew the name. Finally, someone knew the original myth.
Leaning into it, she smirked. “Maybe I won’t,” she teased over his mumblings, “if you tell me how you knew we’d be here?”
The soldier nodded into the ground, before his words were lost into it.
Circe rolled her eyes as she heard Amy snort. “Head up, soldier,” she snapped.
He did so, and finally was able to say, “Cleopatra—she knew. She sent me to collect you. N--“ his eyes widened, and he began to panic again. “Not to collect you as… an item, my Goddess! I mean—to bring you to her—“
Every word seemed wrong, and the soldier began to spiral, unable to form a coherent sentence without trying to beg for Circe’s mercy.
“So that’s how you get a soldier begging on his knees,” Amy mused.
“Amelia,” Circe sternly reprimanded, but she and the human still shared a grin.
Finally, Circe ordered, “stand, soldier. Take us to Cleopatra, then.”
He led them through the camp on shaking legs, a reverential awe in his gaze every time he looked back at Circe.
Circe let the soldier lead them, each step measured, every movement around the camp scrutinised. She smirked at his trembling hands and the awe in his eyes, but her mind never stopped ticking. Who else had been watching? Which of these men would hesitate, and which would act first? Her laugh from moments ago still lingered on her lips, but beneath it, the old snake of caution coiled, whispering that being known didn’t mean being safe.
Caesar had been known, and he’d paid for it. Forty-seven times over.
Oh stars, and they thought the Doctor was Caesar.
They stopped before a red velvet tent in the centre of camp, and the soldier gave a jerky, half-bow, before he opened the entrance for them.
Sat across from them, on a golden chaise, being fed grapes by one slave and poured wine by another, was River Song, dressed up as Cleopatra.
“Hello, sweeties.”
“River, hi,” Amy exclaimed, smirking at the set up before her.
Circe and the Doctor stopped just in front of the chaise, catching the way River’s gaze almost hungrily scoured them both.
Circe couldn’t deny that she was doing similarly, however. River wore a traditional kalasiris, near-sheer white linen that cinched in at her waist, hinting at the curvature hidden there. Her usual curls were hidden underneath a thick black wig, with golden jewellery adorning the crimped styling. Her eyes were lined in black kohl, accentuating them as she gave Circe a flirty wink.
“You graffitied the oldest cliff-face in the universe,” the Doctor accused, but Circe heard the flicker of warmth in his voice, felt it in his mind.
“You wouldn’t answer my calls,” River replied easily, dismissing the slaves with a wave of her hand. They bowed deeply as they left, allowing her to pull a rolled piece of canvas from behind the chaise.
She held it up on painted fingers, and Circe subconsciously angled herself to stand between the Doctor and her. River noticed it, as did the Doctor, but neither showed any sign of frustration or upset.
But when Circe noticed, felt the warmth of the Doctor at her back, the pull of River’s presence at her front, she had to suppress the rush of…
Shame.
Instead of lingering on it, Circe reached for distraction, asking, “what’s this?”
River smiled, handing it deliberately to Circe. “A painting,” she revealed, as Circe ran her fingers across the outside of the canvas, searching for anything harmful hidden in its woven threads. Finding nothing, she finally passed it to the Doctor, who wasted no time in unrolling it as he moved to a table. “Your friend Vincent; one of his final works. He had visions, didn’t he?”
Circe held down one side of the painting, while the Doctor held the other, and both of them slowly broke at the revealed image.
The blues were heartbreakingly familiar, spiralled with the golds and fire-bright oranges. The familiar visage of the TARDIS took centre stage, but in a silhouette they had never before seen.
The TARDIS, in pieces.
And written on the TARDIS’ sign?
A date. This date. Twenty-first of January, 102 AD. And galactic coordinates.
Circe didn’t breathe.
The world narrowed to pigment and canvas, the scream of possibility lodged somewhere behind her ribs. Her hands were still on the painting, fingers numb, as if the message itself had pinned her in place.
She knew this kind of moment. Knew the way time stopped when knowledge struck first.
Someone said her name. Or perhaps they didn’t—perhaps she only imagined it—but the sound dragged her back into her body.
If the future was closing its jaws around them, then she would meet it awake.
“Doctor? Circe, what is this?” Amy asked, peering at the painting over the Doctor’s shoulder.
Something cold slid into place behind Circe’s eyes. Her breath went shallow, measured. She released the canvas without quite realising she’d done it, fingers flexing as if reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
Corners. Exits. Numbers.
Her mind snapped into patterns she hadn’t consciously used in years—threat assessment, probability, fallout. The old vigilance coiled tight in her chest, not loud, not panicked. Just ready.
If it was a trap, then it was already closing.
Either way, Circe had no intention of letting anyone near her get hurt again.
“Why’s the TARDIS exploding?” Amy asked again, when no one responded.
Circe moved to the tent entrance, cracked it open to scan the camp beyond, then shut it firmly, planting herself there as a living barrier against anything uninvited.
“I assume it’s some kind of warning,” River said thoughtfully.
The Doctor scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing once before stopping opposite Circe on the chaise. Their eyes met, and for a moment their minds brushed—shared grief, shared fear, the ache of a future neither of them wanted to name.
“What,” Amy said softly, “something’s going to happen to the TARDIS?”
River smoothed the canvas again. “It may not be literal. Anyway, this is where he wanted you both. Date and map reference on the door sign, see?”
The Doctor tore his gaze away, turning to her. “Does it have a title?”
“The Pandorica Opens.”
Circe couldn’t stop the short, sardonic laugh that escaped her, brittle despite the vigilance humming beneath her skin.
“The Pandorica? What is it?” Amy asked, stepping closer to River.
“A box. A cage. A prison,” River said. “Built to contain the most feared thing in all the universe.”
“And it’s a myth,” Circe scoffed.
“A fairy tale. A legend,” the Doctor agreed, already pacing again, hands moving faster than his thoughts. “Can’t be real.”
River cut across him, voice firm. “If it is real, it’s here and it’s opening. And it’s got something to do with your TARDIS exploding.”
Circe crossed her arms, sending a sharp glare at River, even as the Doctor began scooping parchment from a corner of the tent—maps of the surrounding land spilling from his grasp.
“River,” she warned, though there was a sliver of warmth there too.
“If there’s any chance,” he went on, turning back to her. Papers overflowed from his arms as his green eyes met Circe’s blue ones. They softened, just slightly—and Circe felt some of the stiffness ease from her limbs.
He shifted to the mind-link, quieter now. If this is real… we might be the only ones who can stop it.
It’s a big if.
But she stepped forward, taking some of the parchment maps, and spread them across the table beside Amy.
“It’ll be hidden, obviously. Buried for centuries,” River explained, “you’re not going to find it on a map!”
“No,” Circe agreed, “but if you buried the most dangerous thing in the universe, you’d want to remember where you put it.”
Stonehenge stood, untouched by time, against the backdrop of an overcast sky.
Circe tied the horses up, wrapping thick rope around the cold monolith, but her eyes never left the shadows between the stones. Fingers brushed along the weathered surfaces, testing for hidden traps, unnatural fissures, anything out of place. Her stance shifted, weight coiled on the balls of her feet, ready to pivot or spring. Every gust of wind, every distant sound made her tilt her head, scanning, calculating, a low hum of readiness threading through her muscles.
The Doctor, River, and Amy were examining the site, but Circe barely registered them. Her mind measured exits, cover, angles of attack. She counted the stones in her periphery, noted which ones could conceal a weapon or an ambush. Her thumb traced a small, almost imperceptible pattern along her belt—a habit from years of anticipating threats—before she released it, the gesture as automatic as breathing.
“How come it’s not new?” Amy asked, stepping closer, drawing Circe briefly into the human present.
“Because it’s already old,” River replied, tablet raised, scanning the runes etched faintly into some of the stones. She had changed into a white belted winter tunic and fluffy jacket, wig and jewellery left at the Roman Legion, allowing her impossible curls free to fly across her face. The Doctor, meanwhile, had his sonic screwdriver, looking for any unexpected frequencies that might indicate where they were supposed to be heading to. “Been here thousands of years. No one knows exactly how long.”
Circe allowed herself a brief nod, but her eyes continued to flit from shadow to shadow, seeking disturbances in the earth, subtle displacements of stone, anything that whispered of danger.
“Okay,” Amy murmured. “This Pandorica thing… last time we saw you, you warned us about it, after we climbed out of the Byzantium.”
River smirked. “Spoilers,” she reminded her.
“No, but you told the Doctor and Circe you’d see them again when the Pandorica opens!” Amy insisted.
“Maybe I did,” River said, “but I haven’t yet. But I will have.”
Circe passed between the two women, moving close to the Doctor. Her eyes swept the skies, the trees, even the ground beneath their feet. “Signs of recent discharge of energy weapons here,” she said quietly. Her voice was calm, almost clinical, but the tautness in her shoulders and the quick darting of her gaze betrayed her readiness.
The Doctor nodded slowly, flicking open his screwdriver extension to scan a fallen stone in the centre of the monument. River added, “I’m picking up fry particles everywhere.”
Circe’s hands twitched toward her belt instinctively before she reminded herself she carried nothing lethal. She bent slightly, letting her fingertips trail along a pattern in the stone, noting subtle vibrations, anything off.
“If the Pandorica is here,” the Doctor murmured, “it contains the mightiest warrior in history. Now, half the galaxy would want a piece of that.”
Circe’s jaw tightened. She could imagine armies, assassins, hunters—all drawn to this place. She counted angles of approach, measured distance between stones, felt the pull of potential hazards threading through the site. “Maybe even fight over it,” River finished, reading the Doctor’s unspoken thoughts.
“We need to get down there,” Circe confirmed, voice steady, but her body remained a living weapon, eyes scanning the perimeter, every muscle poised, every nerve alert. “River, what have you got for us?” She turned to the woman, appreciating how River responded in kind, spine straightening, no nonsense.
“Most of my equipment is back with the Legion. I brought only what I could carry easily.”
“Such as?” Circe prompted, shifting her weight, fingers brushing along the edge of a stone as if it might conceal a threat.
“Radar, plasma pistol, a portable energy field detector, and—oh—this.” River tapped a compact device strapped to her belt. “Measures temporal distortions. Very handy for locating things buried for centuries.”
Circe arched an eyebrow. “Temporal distortions, hmm?” Her voice was calm, almost teasing, but her mind was already plotting angles, exits, contingencies. “That’s… convenient.”
River smirked. “Oh, I always make sure to measure temporal distortions,” she replied, taking half a step closer. “I find it tends to…even things out between us.”
Circe couldn’t halt the blush that rose to her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from the woman. “Good thinking,” She said, letting a faint grin tug at her lips. But despite the teasing, she couldn’t slip out of the fear that gripped her hearts. She flexed her fingers again, a subtle reminder of the muscle memory still alive beneath her control. “We’ll need that radar—every elevation, every shadow could be hiding more than just stones.”
Amy, peering between them, asked cautiously, “And… the pistol?”
Circe glanced at her. “Not for show, Red. That’s a deterrent. And a last-resort measure.”
River gave a small shrug, clearly amused. “Trust me, it’s not for show. But we’ll need brains first, brawn second.”
Circe nodded, eyes sweeping the circle again. “And eyes everywhere. I’ll take the perimeter. Doctor, you stay central—you’ll need to coordinate. Amy, you’re with me. Keep alert, human.”
Amy’s face brightened with a mix of excitement and nerves. “Right. Got it. Eyes. Alert.”
River leaned closer to Circe, her voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial. “You’re… still the Sorceress, aren’t you?”
Circe’s lips twitched into a half-smile, half-snarl. “Only enough to survive,” she murmured. “Nothing more. For now.”
Circe dropped her gaze to the ground, scanning each stone with meticulous care. A faint shimmer caught her eye—a whisper of displaced energy, a vibration out of rhythm with the natural settling of the ancient monument. She crouched slightly, tracing it with a fingertip.
“Here,” she murmured, voice low. “Someone—or something—has moved this. Not by human hands alone.”
River bent to peer over her shoulder, raising an impressed brow. “Ah. That’s why the temporal distortion meter’s twitching. Good catch, Magic.”
Circe’s muscles tensed. “It’s subtle. Too subtle for most. But not for me.” She traced the shimmer along a circle of stones, her mind mapping possible intrusions, escape routes, and ambush points. Every footstep from the Doctor or Amy made her flinch slightly, instinctively calculating the risk they presented.
“Do you feel it?” River asked quietly, keeping her voice low so only Circe could hear.
“Yes,” Circe replied, her hand flexing at her side. “Something’s buried here. Something huge. And it isn’t sleeping.”
Amy peeked closer, curiosity outweighing caution. “Do we… dig?”
Circe shook her head. “Not yet. First we make sure no one else has eyes on it. And then we go in with a plan—one step, one angle, every move controlled.” She rose, letting the radar scan sweep over the circle again, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t just a treasure hunt. It’s a battlefield waiting to happen.”
River tapped her belt, activating the temporal distortion detector. The device hummed softly, a low vibration that grew sharper as it neared a particular stone in the centre. Circe’s gaze snapped to it.
“Found it,” she said, already crouching, hands hovering over the stone.
The Doctor’s voice rang out, half excitement, half warning: “Right then! If we’re dealing with the Pandorica, we have to be fast, precise, and absolutely—absolutely—prepared for… well, everything.”
Circe’s jaw tightened. She nodded once, letting the tension settle into a controlled readiness. Every sense was alive. Every nerve, every instinct honed over years, was tuned to protect her team.
And yet, beneath it all, a whisper of thrill ran through her—the rush of a challenge, the pulse of danger. The Sorceress, awake again, just enough to meet the storm.
“Right then,” River breathed, “ready.”
Four devices hovered on top of the stone they’d identified, magnetopulsars—capable of shifting even intergalactic spacecraft—buzzing with barely contained energy.
Standing in the newly descended night, all four of them held their breath as River finally returned the command, and the stone began to shift, dirt shifting beneath it to accommodate the change.
And revealing a staircase built into the ground.
Dust flew into the air, the stone’s movement disturbing centuries of stillness. Circe took half a step forward, eyes hard as she stared into the darkness. Behind her, River switched on a torch, illuminating the swirling dust and showing only more stairs.
“The Underhenge,” the Doctor breathed over her shoulder. Circe gave half a nod, every sense alert.
Her fingers twitched near her belt, though she carried nothing. Every muscle coiled, primed for movement. The air smelled of old stone and dust—but beneath it was something else, a subtle hum, like a heartbeat trapped in metal.
“Nothing yet,” she murmured, scanning the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. “But don’t let your guard down.” Her voice was clipped, controlled, but a tiny flicker of impatience shadowed her eyes. Every footstep, echo, whisper of air set her nerves on edge.
River stepped forward, torch held high, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. “It’s… intact. Amazingly preserved,” she said, her voice softer now, reverent.
The stairway descended into a sealed chamber, ending at a barred door. Two unlit torches flanked it. Circe grabbed one, while the Doctor took the other, using his screwdriver to excite the molecules and ignite the flames.
Ready? He asked her, a flurry of emotion suddenly flooding her mind.
Ready. She braced her shoulder against the bar, ready to lift. The Doctor didn’t move, however, and she stopped. What is it? She strained her ears to try and hear whatever had caught his attention.
I love you, Magna. The words were reverent, held more dearly in his mind than any other.
Circe squeezed her eyes closed, desperately trying to ignore the spike of panic those words brought on. I can’t—
I know. But I wanted to say it. He braced himself against the bar.
“Ready, up—” he pushed it up, and Circe followed his instructions, using them to fight past her fear of loss and remain focused on the mission.
The bar clattered to the ground with a resounding bang. Circe froze, every nerve alert, waiting for something—anything—to react, to strike, to leap at them. Her eyes swept the chamber, sharp and precise, taking in the Doctor, River, and Amy, confirming they were unharmed. Only then did she give a slight nod.
Together, they pushed the door open.
The air was ancient, carrying the faint tang of stone dust and something metallic beneath it, like a warning left long ago. Dust motes danced in the torchlight, disturbed from centuries of rest.
“Cavern” was the wrong word. The floor gleamed, polished to a mirror-like smoothness, and the walls were perfectly vertical. In the centre, as if waiting for them, stood a perfectly cuboid black box. Each face was carved with intricate, alien symbols that seemed to shimmer in the flickering light. Cobwebs hung from the roof, where roots had broken through stone; the only other evidence of existence beyond this chamber.
Circe’s skin crawled. Her pulse thumped in syncopation with some hidden beat emanating from the box, vibrating faintly through the soles of her boots, her bones, even her ribs. Fingers twitched near her belt, muscles coiling as her eyes traced every shadow, every edge. Every instinct honed over lifetimes screamed caution, yet some deeper, more insidious part of her wondered… What marvel—or horror—was contained within?
“It’s a Pandorica,” the Doctor breathed, pulling out his screwdriver to scan it.
“More than just a fairytale,” River replied, voice carrying a faint, smug certainty.
“Wait here,” Circe ordered, moving forward. Barely a footstep into the chamber, and River’s hand was on hers.
She turned. “Circe, you’re not alone,” River said softly, eyes locking with hers.
A half-smile tugged at Circe’s lips, the truth of it echoing between River and the Doctor. “I know. But… let me do this. Please. Let me keep you all safe.”
Reluctantly, River released her, and Circe’s attention snapped back to the box. Each step sent a small cloud of dust twisting into the torchlight; she adjusted her gait, light and deliberate, refusing to risk disturbing whatever might be lying in wait.
Circe paused a few feet from the box, every fibre of her being alert. The air was impossibly still, yet she felt it pulse against her skin, a vibration so faint it might have been imagined—if she wasn’t trained to notice the almost imperceptible. Her ears caught the faintest scrape of stone against stone beneath the dust. Her hands flexed, twitching toward imagined weapons, though she carried none. Beside her right foot sat a severed CyberArm, wiring torn and inert, yet somehow menacing.
Every instinct she had sharpened over lifetimes whispered: Move carefully. Anything here could strike without warning. She bent slightly, fingertips grazing the floor, feeling vibrations like a pulse trapped beneath the polished stone.
“What could be in there?” Amy whispered.
The Doctor leaned closer to the box, voice low. “There was a goblin, a trickster, a warrior. A nameless, terrible thing, soaked in the blood of a billion galaxies. The most feared being in all the cosmos. And nothing could stop it, or hold it, or reason with it. One day, it would just drop out of the sky and tear down your world.”
“How did it end up in there?”
The carved surface of the Pandorica seemed to absorb the torchlight, swallowing it, and for a heartbeat she thought it might be… aware. She tilted her head, scanning edges, shadows clinging beneath the box, walls that might conceal traps or signals. Every echo, every breath of wind, every shifting mote of dust mattered.
“You know fairy tales,” the Doctor joked, “a good wizard tricked it.”
“I hate good wizards in fairy tales,” River murmured, voice teasing as she handed her torch off to Amy. “They always turn out to be him.”
Circe’s pulse quickened. Her hands brushed the polished floor again, tracing faint vibrations traveling through it. The hum—the heartbeat—was stronger now, resonating through her boots and threading up her spine. She flexed her fingers, coiled like a predator ready to strike at the first sign of movement.
“Okay, there’s no one else here,” Circe finally said, voice steady. “But stay alert.”
The Doctor immediately directed his screwdriver to the box, scanning for signs of… everything, while River set up her radar and temporal distortion meter. Amy traced her fingers across the carvings curiously.
“So, it’s kind of like Pandora’s Box, then? Almost the same name,” she commented.
Circe’s head snapped to Amy. “What?”
“The story; Pandora’s Box? With all the worst things in the world in it. That was my favourite book when I was a kid.”
The Doctor stopped, glancing at Circe, then walked up to Amy, studying her. Amy frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Your favourite school topic. Your favourite story,” he mused slowly, “never ignore a coincidence.” He paused, attention drawn again to the shimming surface of the cube. “Unless you’re busy. In which case, always ignore a coincidence.”
Circe drifted back to the front of the box, crossing her arms, senses taut. The pulse underfoot had grown insistent, insidious—like the Pandorica itself was breathing through the floor.
“So,” River finally asked, stopping opposite Circe, “can you open it?”
Circe grimaced.
“Easily,” the Doctor shrugged, coming to her side. “Anyone can break into a prison. But…I’d rather we know what we’re going to find first.”
River nodded, scanning her devices. “You won’t have to wait long. There are layers and layers of security protocols, and they’re being disabled one by one. Like it’s being unlocked from the inside.”
Circe’s fists clenched her denim waistcoat, muscles still coiled, but she gave no outward sign of alarm. “How long?”
“Hours, at the most.”
“What kind of security?” The Doctor asked.
River blinked at the readings. “Everything. Deadlocks, time stops, matter lines…” She frowned, glancing at the Doctor and Circe. “What could need all that?”
The Doctor retorted, “What could get past all that?”
Circe’s jaw tightened. Her senses sharpened even further, picking up the smallest shifts in air and shadow, preparing for whatever—or whoever—might emerge.
“Think of all the fear that went into making this box,” the Doctor murmured, moving forward to touch the box once more. He pressed his hands into the carvings on one face. “What could inspire such fear?”
“Doctor,” Circe murmured, voice filled with warning, but he didn’t listen.
“Hello, you,” he whispered instead, “have we met?”
“So why would it start to open now?” River asked, and the Doctor pulled away.
“No idea,” he commented with a shrug.
Amy cleared her throat, leaning over to mention to Circe, “and how could Vincent have known about it? He won’t be born for centuries.”
“The stones,” Circe answered with a growing realisation of horror.”The stones are transmitting to…to—” she stopped midsentence.
River frowned at her in confusion. “Magic?”
“Communicator,” Circe demanded, holding out her hand. River complied immediately—Circe’s gratitude was silent but sharp. Without explaining what had caused her reaction, she dropped, “I’ll be back,” and sprinted up the stairs. The Doctor began to continue her explanation, but she didn’t listen.
Her mind spiralled.
The stairs groaned beneath her boots, each echo bouncing like a warning. Her pulse hammered in her ears; her thoughts sliced through every possibility with ruthless precision. The stones… Vincent… centuries ahead… transmitting… How many have heard? How many are already moving?
She reached the surface—and her stomach fell.
Thousands…upon thousands…Countless ships, battlefleets, spacefaring vessels…every organization, every threat she had ever encountered, gathered in the same sky.
Circe expanded the communicator’s receiver, pulling in alien frequencies, encrypted signals, tactical chatter. Her hearts sank, already knowing the truth.
“Orbit stabilised.” Dalek battlefleet. Minimum fourteen thousand battleships.
“Commence shielding.” Cybermen. Cyberships, ten thousand Cybermen each.
The communicator exploded with noise—movement vectors, weapon calibrations, tactical chatter, fleet formations—every enemy she had ever faced, every foe the Time Lords had known, and more. Circe’s muscles coiled; her mind mapped every trajectory, every probability, every kill radius with lethal clarity.
They’re coming. They know where it is. And they’re all converging.
Her hands flexed instinctively toward imagined weapons, though she carried none. Every sense flared: the air, vibrations in the stone beneath her boots, the faint hum of the Pandorica below. I won’t let them hurt him.
The Doctor ran up beside her a heartbeat later, frantic, terrified. He stopped, breath caught, eyes wide at the same impossible sight. And then—without words—he took her hand, squeezing it tightly.
Amy and River weren’t far behind.
“What do we do?” Amy breathed as she took in the view.
River knew what they would do. But despite that, breathlessly, she begged, “Circe, Doctor, listen to me. Everything that ever hated you is coming here tonight. You can’t win this.” Her voice broke. “You can’t even fight it. Doctor, Circe, just this one time, please,” she paused, trying to see their reactions, “you have to run.”
The Doctor scoffed slightly, unable to take his eyes off the sky. “Run where?”
River countered, “fight how?”
All their minds spun for an answer.
It was Circe who saw the horses first—tethered, patient, waiting—and with them, memory clicked into place like a key turning in a lock.
“The greatest military machine in the history of the universe.”
Amy immediately queried, “what is? Daleks?”
The Doctor laughed, bright and sudden, relief cutting through the dread. He caught Circe by the waist and stole a quick, breathless kiss before turning back to Amy, shaking his head.
“No, no! No, no, no! The Romans.”
The night hummed beneath her feet, Stonehenge singing like a struck warning bell. Circe knelt among the stones, palms pressed to ancient rock, eyes closed as she listened—not to the sky, but to the tremor beneath it.
They’d made a plan; an impossible, hand-crafted plan that would fall apart at the seams if Circe tried to secure it.
But it was a plan.
River had gone back to the Romans, to recruit as many of them as were willing to come, while the Doctor had already begun to hack into the Pandorica itself, and it was up to Circe to ensure that each stone at Stonehenge was ready to accept a new signal. With wiring, a soldering kit, and half a heart of hope, Circe got to work.
Senses on high alert, she was immediately aware when an approaching figure crested over the horizon, but they were already running on borrowed time. Circe didn’t know why the hostiles above her had yet to descend, but she was going to make the most of every minute of it.
Still, the figure kept coming, walking on foot, from an entirely different direction to the Roman Legion and TARDIS.
Circe pretended not to see them, twisting and melting wires together to complete the circuit. But she knew when the figure stopped behind her, felt the weight of their stare.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she said softly.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Circe replied tersely, but her mind was spinning; what if this was some cruel trick of the mind? How could Circe know this was real?
The figure didn’t move away.
Instead, she crouched beside Circe, boots sinking into the damp grass, and reached out to steady a wire before it slipped free. Her fingers were quick, sure. Familiar.
“You’re cross-feeding the resonance loop,” Jenny said, calm as if they were in a workshop and not beneath a sky full of enemies. “The stones will broadcast the signal back into themselves. Feedback like that will tear the entire network apart.”
Circe’s hands stilled. If she was a hallucination, would she have been able to touch the wire? Or perhaps this was her mind feeding her the correct answer through the hallucination.
For one impossible heartbeat, the night went quiet.
“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do,” Circe replied, and knew it was a lie.
And so her hands shifted—altering their path, re-routing the circuit, accommodating the cross-fed resonance and bleeding it safely away.
Jenny noticed. Of course she did, she was like her father. But like her mother, she said nothing.
They crouched in silence for another minute, the stones humming softly around them, until Circe couldn’t contain it any longer.
“What are you doing here?” She set the wiring carefully on the grass and finally turned to face her.
Jenny looked… incredible. Radiant. Blonde hair pulled back into a sharp ponytail, eyes bright and alive. There was a faint line between her brows now—thoughtful, stubborn—that punched straight through Circe’s hearts with recognition. The uniform was gone; in its place, a long-sleeved black shirt, beige trousers, easy confidence. She looked like someone who had lived.
“Came to help my mum and dad,” Jenny shrugged, glancing at the stones, at the sky. “Have you seen them?”
Circe swallowed.
“I know I said you’re welcome any time,” she said quietly, not looking at her, “but this really isn’t a good time, darling.”
Jenny’s blue eyes narrowed, turning back to her, suddenly filled with suspicion. “How do you—” then her eyes widened. “Mum!”
Circe jumped as Jenny’s arms were thrown around her shoulders, squeezing her tight enough that Circe had to rely on her respiratory bypass systems — and then Circe was holding her back, fiercely, instinctively.
The weight of her. The warmth. Fabric beneath her palms.
Real.
“What are you doing here?” Circe whispered again as they released each other.
“You changed faces,” Jenny murmured instead, smiling. “You look like my mum, now!”
Circe blinked, and realised it was true. Blonde hair, blue eyes, shorter frame…they could’ve been blood relatives.
“I didn’t even realise,” she murmured with a wry smile. “But…I’m glad. That doesn’t change the fact that you need to leave before you become entangled with the event—”
“I’m already entangled,” Jenny dismissed fondly. “Besides, what kind of daughter would I be if I left my mum and dad to fight every enemy they’d ever encountered on their own?”
Circe’s panic began to spiral at the thought of Jenny being added to the list of casualties.
“You’d be alive,” Circe snapped, shifting her attention back to the wiring. “Get out of here Jenny, please.”
Jenny rolled her eyes—a movement that felt far too familiar—before she calmly said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Circe looked at her, into her blue eyes that shone with that stubborn determinedness she knew all-too-well, and sighed.
“You need to know this first,” she put the wiring to the floor, turning to face the woman with a sudden gravitas that Jenny almost flinched in surprise. “Rory is dead. Amelia doesn’t remember him. My paranoia has returned, and I am exercising the highest degree of restraint by not dragging you, the Doctor, and Amelia back to the TARDIS and running—something I’m only managing because I have not yet started seeing things.”
Jenny’s mouth dropped slightly. “I thought the Sorceress was gone?” She asked.
Circe smiled slightly, finding her daughter’s innocence heartwarming. “She was never the paranoia. She was what I became when no one stopped me. But we’re…I’m managing it.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Amy’s scream echoing up from the Underhenge. Circe vaulted onto the stone landing above the Underhenge, landing in a crouch that absorbed the impact like she’d done it a thousand times before. Jenny’s boots hit the steps immediately behind her, light and precise.
Amy’s scream split the night again, closer this time, mingled with the clang of metal and the rasp of something moving against stone. Circe’s eyes flicked to the shadows, calculating angles, noting exit routes, and measuring every potential threat.
The Doctor, impossibly cheerful in the midst of chaos, shouted at anyone—or anything—that might have eyes. “Look at me! I’m a target!”
Circe’s breath caught, and her mind raced through probabilities.
But there was no time to panic. Circe darted down the stairs, Jenny at her side, instincts slicing through the chaos. The smell of dust, ozone, and something metallic stung her nose. Sparks flared from a nearby console as the Pandorica’s locks clicked and whined under the Doctor’s ministrations.
“Stay close!” Circe barked over the roar of stone and hurried movement. Jenny mirrored her every motion, anticipating her steps as if they were a single unit.
They reached the chamber to see the Doctor ducking behind a stone pillar at the far end, and just before him, a lone Cyberarm discharged, firing rounds at him. Sensing their arrival, the weapon swiveled, aiming at them. Circe shoved Jenny behind the doorway and dove for cover behind another pillar.
“Amelia?” Circe shouted, voice sharp with urgency.
“I’m back here!” Amy called, breathless. “What is that?”
“Arm of a Cyberman!” the Doctor and Circe replied in unison.
Amy scoffed. “And what’s a Cyberman?”
As the Doctor launched into his explanation, Circe crept closer to the arm. “Part man, part machine. Organic part’s long dead, but the robot part… still wants, well… fresh meat.”
“What, us?”
“Exactly,” Circe muttered, rolling her eyes. Then she dove onto the arm, wrestling the barrel skyward. “Sonic!” she called.
The Doctor skidded out from behind his pillar, sonic screwdriver already active, aiming at the arm. It twitched frenetically, fighting for freedom, until slowly… it deactivated.
Circe kept a firm grip, feeling the stiffening metal beneath her hands, then allowed herself a brief, triumphant grin. She leaned her head against the sand for a heartbeat. The Doctor winked, still scanning the arm.
“Doctor?” Amy whispered, creeping forward.
“Scrambled its circuits, but stay put! It could be bluffing,” he warned.
“Bluffing? It’s an arm!” Amy laughed.
“Jenny, keep an eye out for any other parts,” Circe ordered. Jenny’s sharp gaze swept the room. Then Circe snapped at Amy: “Stay where you are!”
Amy pouted, retreating a couple of steps, arms crossed. Unseen by any of them, a coil of wires began to slither across the floor toward her.
“Jenny?” The Doctor perked his head up, a grin spreading clearly across his face. “When did you get here?”
The woman rolled her eyes as she began to kick over rocks and pull back moss from corners, looking for any hidden parts. “Not the time, dad! It’s good to see you, though.”
Until Amy screamed again, suddenly dragged down into the dirt and out of their view.
“Amy!” The Doctor yelled, scrambling to his feet. Circe went to follow him, but the Cyberarm discharged an incredibly potent electrical shock, and her muscles spasmed, refusing to cooperate. Her vision dimmed, as her hearts pounded in fear. Not like this, not here, not now.
But she was helpless as the shock short-circuited her brain’s electrical functions temporarily, and she fell unconscious.