Madman. (With a box.) (i_travel) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-02-06 17:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | buffy summers, death of the endless, gabriel, georgia lass, john watson, padme amidala, raven archer, sherlock holmes, the doctor, wanda maximoff |
Wild goose chase. (Log, Gabriel/Doctor with cameos from many others. Complete.)
It had not been a good few weeks for the Doctor. It was exceptionally rare that something managed to get one over on him; it happened, but infrequently enough that the occurrence was a surprise every time. He was worried - about Pond and Rory trapped on a strange planet (just imagine the trouble Pond could get herself into), about Lyra and Fred and Sherlock Holmes, trapped as he was in this strange place, about the designs behind the abductions. Things like this didn’t just happen. They took effort and knowledge and planning.
So? He’d paced about like a madman. The Doctor didn’t sit still easily, and exploring the City made him feel productive. Perhaps he could find where his crafty Urban Overlord had hidden the TARDIS. Perhaps he’d meet someone with some answers - or at least someone interesting.
He’d give the City one bit of credit: it had provided him with a suitable wardrobe. Tweed, ties, proper comfortable shoes for running about, and even a whole shelf of headgear. Now he could choose among fedoras, bowlers, a Stetson, three different takes on the fez, and what could only have been a Phillip Treacy original. It was in zebra print and had little ears on the sides.
The Doctor chose a broad-brimmed tartan fedora. It felt jaunty. It felt dashing and heroic, like Indiana Jones mixed with the Scottish Highlands.
It looked patently ridiculous. No man looked dashing in a blue plaid hat. Men in tweed jackets and bowties looked even less so.
It probably wasn’t hard to spot the Doctor wandering about, what with that getup. The fact that he kept stopping to accost - sorry, speak to - poor innocent bystanders probably didn’t help. What? He was just being friendly!
Trickster loved The City. He loved the generic people, the natives, that filled it. You could throw them any curve ball, and they rolled with it. Most the time they failed to acknowledge anything had happened at all.
But the people The City had pulled in? All that was missing was The Hulk. Sure, Trickster himself wouldn’t have bothered with anyone as troublesome as the Winchesters, but he himself had failed to find any weaknesses for the humans or any other meddlers to exploit. The entire construction was gorgeous. As someone prone to constructing realities himself, Trickster was impressed.
But someone didn’t seem to appreciate the work. Someone who should have been capable. He appeared as a force from behind the Doctor, removing the fedora and staring at it with a frown.
“You know, Doc, I think you might be hurting The City’s feelings. Keep this up and it might try something more extreme than putting everyone away in Arkham.”
The hat disappeared in the Trickster’s fingertips, evaporating into nothing at the molecular level.
“Oh,” the Doctor grumbled. “But that was a beautiful hat.” It had been, too. Why wasn’t he permitted to wear hats? “People have no proper appreciation for headgear.”
Maybe he’d find another while he was out. In the meanwhile? He found himself faced with someone who seemed to know something. “Is that a threat?” The Doctor asked. His tone was still pleasant; he could get aggressive and defensive, often at the drop of the (forgive the term) hat, but there was no sense in starting out that way. “Imprisoning people against their will? Not on. My goal is certainly not to hurt feelings, but I think the well-being of the prisoners trumps the captor’s pride.”
“Me? Threat? Come on. I don’t claim to represent The City. Heck, I just got here. But if you want me to? Sure! I am the Trickster. I can do threats.”
Trickster beamed and with a clap of his hands rubbed them together as if about to lift something heavy. He didn’t, but he liked to make his abilities look as though they took a little effort.
“You’re just so eager to leave and you’ve only just got here. I mean, I can’t force you to stay-- well, actually I could-- but that’s not the point. Your blue box? It’s in town. Right...”
Trickster called up a small cloud of mist. An image started to appear, reflected in tiny crystalline condensation particles. Not a fancy picture, certainly not in HD, but the effect was very pretty.
“...there. So let’s play a game. Your TARDIS is going to start sinking right about...”
In the image the ground started to rumble. Though it looked like the TARDIS had been parked on a sidewalk, something about the reality of the sidewalk changed. It was almost unnoticeable, but the ground became soft. The blue box was slowly creeping into a depression.
“...now. I’d give it about two hours. No cheating. No phoning a friend. But I’d find it quickly if I were you.”
What was this, the Dream Lord all over again? Had his subconscious decided to run amok and screw with him? The Doctor stared at the Trickster in disbelief. Well. Given his recent experience with self-loathing and hoop-jumping, at least he knew what to do. Specifically? Play along and learn more about the opponent as he went. He didn’t think for a moment that this ‘Trickster’ would stay ‘hands-off’ and just let him be. The game was no fun unless two people were playing, after all. And, with every move the Trickster made, the Doctor discovered something about him.
“We’re going to have a talk later.”
It wasn’t a request. Arrogant, perhaps, for the Doctor to think he had any say in the matter, but that’s how it always went. He stared at the Trickster for a moment, his expression serious, and then he turned on a heel and broke into a jog. The sidewalk upon which the TARDIS had been parked looked vaguely familiar - he’d seen it outside of a bookshop, he thought. He didn’t think for an instant that the City would make things easy for him, but at least he knew in which direction to head.
The Trickster didn’t appear to follow. At first it looked like it might be a trial of the Doctor versus The City; shuffling streets and changing directions as it went. The City had two minds to contend with-- the Trickster’s desire to make things complicated and the Doctor’s desire to get to the end. But just because the “pagan deity” wasn’t present himself didn’t stop him from putting up a few roadblocks.
The first being an illegal street auction. An old crone with one eye held up a bird cage containing a very plain looking raven. The bird wouldn’t have appeared at all extraordinary were it not for the silver ankh charm that dangled from its neck.
“CONTROL THE POWER OF DEATH. BECOME AN IMMORTAL. I’VE CAUGHT HER AND SHE CAN WORK FOR YOU. ...Let’s start the bidding at your fondest memory.”
A crowd had gathered, and though it was supposed to be a modern city, they looked as though they’d come from plague torn London-- some of them did look ill and desperate.
“My fondest memory!” said an elderly man in the crowd.
“My first born child!” offered another.
“FIRST BORN CHILD,” accepted the Crone. “Would anyone like to offer their first born son?”
“First born son!” raised the hand of a young woman. She didn’t have any children and foolishly thought she might somehow cheat the system.
“FIRST BORN SON,” accepted the Crone. “Would anyone like to offer their darkest secret?”
Oh. So it was to be one of those tests. One of those obnoxious ‘gotcha’ tests meant to pry into character. Well. At least his Dark Side - or whatever this Trickster was - wasn’t stupid. The Doctor sighed and shut his eyes. He couldn’t pass on this one. He’d just have to stop and lose some time.
“You’re idiots,” he announced. “The lot of you. She’s nothing to fear.”
But he didn’t expect that they’d understand him. He wouldn’t have understood until recently, when he’d had the pleasure of meeting her again - and remembering the experience.
“DARKEST SECRET,” someone screamed.
The Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose.
“The rest of my lives,” he interjected. “To be claimed at Death’s discretion.”
Something twisted in the bottom of his hearts. He didn’t trust, not fully, and offering up control over the length of his remaining incarnations hit hard. Still. He’d met Death ten times - or eleven, or twelve, if birth and the cafeteria also counted - and he trusted her. He trusted Didi not to abuse what he’d offered. The Doctor would always want more time, but he knew that something as old and steady and constant as Death was not given to whim. It didn’t seem in her character.
Besides. In the end, his lives belonged to Death anyway. It was only a matter of time, and time - even for a Time Lord - was not infinite.
“SOLD!” the crone shouted greedily. The remaining lives of a Time Lord? An offer like that was priceless. It would cause him problems later. The crone parted the crowd to approach the Doctor. Yanking his hand she touched his wrist, placing an ancient mark there. Leaning in she whispered sinister words in his ear: “I can wait, dear.”
The crone handed the Doctor the cage. The moment the cage opened the bird disappeared. Didi appeared to stand next to the Doctor. She wasn’t smiling. “We’ll talk about this later. Dean Winchester is in The City. He knows who the Trickster really is. I can’t help you anymore than that right now.”
Death leaned forward and gave the Doctor a small peck on the cheek.
The Doctor regretted nothing. He probably ought to have hedged his bets a little more, but when large things were at stake he laid large wagers. Death was not meant to be caged; he’d deal with the consequences later.
“Thank you,” he said, and that was that. “I’ll look for you.”
But, in the meanwhile, he had a time machine to find. If this was the opening act, the rest of the show could only grow darker. The Doctor took a reluctant step back, smiled at Death, and then turned to go. She’d find him. Or, perhaps, he’d actually find her.
He couldn’t think about it. The clock was ticking, so the Doctor began to run again. He vaulted over a park bench (thank you, proper shoes) and tore off down the street. He made it three blocks, on edge the whole way, when he spotted absolute chaos. Street lamps flickered on and off. A car crushed in on itself as all of its metal components rusted and dissolved away. Debris and trash kicked about in a whirlwind. Dumpsters threw themselves about an alley. And, at the center of it? A teenaged girl, fists clenched and angry tears rolling down her face.
Several unconscious men littered the alleyway, the mouth of which was occupied by the perpetrator of the madness. Wanda Maximoff was feeling vulnerable, and that was when she was at her most dangerous. Poor muggers. They’d picked the wrong girl to cross.
This was a situation that required delicate handling. Charm, sympathy, a light touch. It required someone like Charles Xavier. Instead? The City and the Trickster had sent the Doctor. Oops.
“Well,” he observed. “I think they’re fully unconscious.”
Wanda’s face contorted into a furious scowl. “Go away.” For added emphasis, she swung a hand at the Doctor. He barely ducked a flash of light that whizzed over his head.
“You have to stop. Do you want to be responsible for their--” No. Not the downed muggers. That wasn’t the approach to take with someone who was angry and reacting in violent self-defense. “Do you see them?” The Doctor pointed across the street, to a group of City locals who were staring wide-eyed and dumbfounded at the rapidly accumulating mess. “Do you want to be responsible for their deaths? What have they done to you?”
He’d encountered violent humans before. Callous ones. He didn’t particularly like either sort, but he was counting on the girl not being callous. She might be able to hurt someone who’d attacked her - as the knives littering the alley suggested - but innocent bystanders?
“EVERYTHING,” Wanda shouted. An echoing crash signaled the collapse of one of the dumpsters. “They’ve done everything to me.” The Doctor could see struggle on the girl’s face, though. She was upset. Frightened. But not wicked.
“Calm down.” He ordered. “Just breathe. Call the police. Let them cart these fellows off to the hospital and then to jail. You’re not a murderer.”
But I am. Wanda finished the thought. It took the wind out of her. Debris started to settle to the ground.
“Right.” The Doctor said. “Call the police. Now. Then get yourself someplace safe.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Wanda snapped. The Doctor eyed her. One of her hands surreptitiously slipped to a back pocket, where she kept her phone.
Satisfied, the Doctor started running again.
The next challenge was much less obvious. There was no market. No obvious distress. No damsels or monsters. Just an ordinary street filled with ordinary people going about their day, worried about what was for dinner, worried about making it to work on time, worried about whatever run of the mill things humans often thought about.
George stood quietly in the middle of them. She was not in a rush. She was not worried about getting to work on time or what was for dinner. She was looking at post-its. Seventeen of them. At the top of each post-it was a name, the address she was on and a time marked ETD. Fifteen minutes from now seventeen people were going die.
George wasn’t worried about getting to work on time. She was already there. Her only worry was making sure she reaped every soul on time so that they wouldn’t remember what hit them.
Whatever that was going to be.
If this had been the first obstacle and not the third, it’s entirely possible that the Doctor would have passed right by. Ordinarily he was an immensely observant individual, but with a time limit and no clear idea of what dangers he faced, he might’ve been in too much of a hurry to look properly.
That wasn’t the case, this time. People going about their business? That wasn’t odd. Someone standing in the middle of a square with a stack of post-its and a certain expectant air to her? That was odd. Something more than the obvious was going on, and the Doctor hadn’t the patience to do things the subtle way. Not with his TARDIS slowly sinking into the cement.
“Hello,” he greeted as he swooped down on George. Then? He grabbed for her stack of post-its. Rude? Absolutely. Even more rude was that he proceeded to read them - as many as he could before she tried to take them back. (He was assuming she’d try to take them back. People tended to do that when you snatched their private property.)
“P. Amidala? That’s a strange name. Sounds a bit like a ballet dancer, doesn’t it? What’s this time? Oh, they all have them.”
“Hey give those back!” George glared. She tried to snatch them back but the Doctor was quick and he’d been expecting that. George never had some one come after her post-it notes before. The trickiness of the situation was, as relaxed as George was about telling people what she did, this really wasn’t the time. People usually freaked out in the face of death.
But before George could swear or curse or beg something caught her eye. Something invisible only she could see. Gravelings. They were Death’s other creatures, little imp-like agents of chaos that tended to cause accidents and usually the result of a reaper dealing a death they weren’t supposed to.
Something more than the obvious was going on, and George hadn’t the patience to do things the subtle way. Not with seventeen souls on the line. ETA usually marked an estimated time of arrival. But ETD? Didi would have been able to tell him.
“I need those post-its,” George tried the calm, rational approach. “Something is going to happen. Something major and if your name isn’t on the list, you should go. I’m not scary or evil, I swear, just please give me back the post-its before they--”
George stopped herself from saying the ‘D’ word.
“I’ve had a hard day. I’ve put my fate in the hands of an old friend in order to set her free, I’ve dealt with a tornado’s temper tantrum, and now there’s you.” The Doctor could be really obnoxious when he wished to be. Instead of handing back the post-its? He held them high in the air so that she’d have to jump to get them. Meanwhile? He fished in his pocket for an odd, slender device. It wasn’t the same sonic screwdriver than his predecessor had used, but for someone who’d seen one, it was probably unmistakable.
Especially as he turned the device on George and flicked it to life. The screwdriver emitted a high-pitched screech as he ran it across the post-it girl. Huh. The Doctor squinted at the readings in disbelief and then made another, slower pass.
“Well.” The Doctor said. Still perplexed, he scanned the post-its and then made a slow circle-in-place to scan the entire plaza.
“That complicates things.”
The next move was to start calling names on the post-its. First, he’d need to get up a good breath. It was going to be a lot of shouting.
But George clasped her hand over the Doctor’s mouth before he could make a scene. What she was about to do was a very bad idea. But she was not in the mood to be trifled with. George just hoped this guy didn’t go on to start a weird religious movement.
Her hand already touching him it took her no effort at all to grab hold of his soul and yank it out. Congratulations, Doctor. Instant out of body experience. His own body would merely stand there as if in a daze. George took the opportunity to reclaim the post-its from his physical hand.
“Look. I don’t know what you, or that Doctor guy are with your light thing. That’s not my fucking problem. You’ve had a hard day? Every person with a post-it is going to have fucking shitty day when they die if I don’t reap their souls in time. And no, before you protest, I can’t stop it. I don’t even know what’s going to happen. If I try to interfere then Death has to balance things out which usually means something worse happens.”
Two more gravelings converged on the scene. They started talking amongst each other in their troublesome way. George stared at them with a frown and started frantically going through the post-its, trying to see if she could match up any of the names in her hand.
In many ways, George was unlucky to have run into the Doctor, but there was one small but of good fortune - he wasn’t really the ‘religious cult’ sort.
Instead, his soul was a little stunned for a moment. It was hard not to be, and he needed a few seconds to grasp what had just happened. Then? Straight back to business. People were going to die. “Doctor fellow?” He asked. “I’m the Doctor. Have we -- no, no, don’t tell me. It’s not important.” Because people were going to die. “Funny you should mention Death - she’s the one I sold my lifetimes to free. She’s got them in her hands, if she wants to collect, well.”
It wasn’t fine by the Doctor, but he couldn’t just let a bunch of people die. He did not ask if he could interfere. He’d simply do it.
Wait. “What are they?” He asked, attention suddenly on the conferring gravelings. “Are they what’s going to cause the wave of deaths?”
“Gravelings. Sorta like gremlins, I guess. Whatever they’re about to do won’t be good.” George glanced up and frowned again, then focused back on her work. It hadn’t occurred to her that someone not a reaper could interfere. As it was George hadn’t put the Time Lord back in his body. He was less troublesome that way. Being incorporeal was a bitch.
Well, if the gravelings were up to no good, and if he couldn’t affect the physical world, the Doctor only saw one option. “OI,” he shouted. Truth be told, he wan’t sure if the creatures could hear him, but it was worth a shot. “Graveling-creatures! A word.” He tried to gesture. Again, he wasn’t sure if, being incorporeal and all, he actually had hands to see.
George looked up alarmed at the Doctor. The gravelings looked up at his soul, which for the time being looked exactly like his physical self, bow tie and all. At first they looked surprised but then they looked angry at being disturbed. They started to growl. George quickly grabbed onto the Doctor as though he weighed nothing and forced him back into his body before he could be harmed on the spirit plane.
“Do you really want to attract the attention of the things that cause fatal accidents?”
Five minutes left.
Did he really want to attract the attention of the things that caused fatal accidents? The Doctor grinned like a madman. “Yes.” He lifted a hand and jabbed a finger in George’s direction - not an unfriendly jab, but a gesture for emphasis. “That’s exactly what I want to do. I’m the Doctor.” He left the rest unsaid - it was pretty much his modus operandi. “You can’t interfere? I can. Question: is this best done on the physical or spiritual plane? If I can get the people on the plaza to scatter, will the gravelings just follow them?”
George spent only a beat giving him a look. But honestly? If given the chance to prevent someone’s death she would take it. “Physical. Stop the accident before it happens, prevent their deaths. You got...” George looked down at her watch, “...four minutes. I just hope Didi doesn’t get pissed at me for this.”
“If she does, she knows where to find me. I’ll take responsibility.”
“You know my boss?” George opened her mouth to say more and then closed it. He didn’t have time for that. This reaper didn’t have much hope but she was rooting for him.
“AMIDALA?” The Doctor shouted. He’d answer George’s question later - possibly much later. Right now, he had to figure out what was going to happen so that he could stop it. “P. AMIDALA.”
Across the plaza, a woman seated on the edge of a flower bed looked up. She was young, just into her twenties, with curly brown hair and excellent posture. The Doctor hissed in a breath.
A lot of people were grouped around Ms. Amidala, among them a handful of children playing in a flower bed, a businessman on a telephone, and a couple of chatting women. Behind them? A large construction scaffold that bore the weight of several men. It didn’t take a genius to guess what was about to happen... but being a genius helped. One glance told the Doctor that the support joints had started to give way near the top. It was going to come crashing down and it was going to crush people to death. The workmen would die of the fall.
“Four minutes. I can do this.” He could. The Doctor didn’t waste time - he broke into a sprint across the plaza, leaving Ms. Amidala looking confused as he ran right past her and began scaling the structure. It creaked ominously, but the Doctor didn’t slow. For a skinny man in a suit, he was surprisingly athletic and he made it to the danger point in about a minute and a half.
With the time it took to cross the plaza, there were just under two minutes to go. He fished in his pocket for the sonic, which he then crammed beneath his teeth as he adjusted his grip on the scaffolding. Once he was sure he wouldn’t plummet to his doom, he freed a hand and grabbed the screwdriver.
A shrill sound echoed across the plaza. One minute. Thirty seconds. Finally, the Doctor could see no loose screws, no ominous bolts. Sometimes? The screwdriver was even useful as a screwdriver.
He stayed put, waiting for the countdown to pass. He glanced back across the plaza to George to check her reaction. She’d know if he’d failed. He was certain of it - she had reason to watch the clock.
Three gravelings climbed up onto the scaffolding shortly after the doctor. Though he couldn’t see it they were sneering at him. And then, they started jumping. Up and down, up and down, trying to give the structure that last final push to send it over the edge. It didn’t work. The Doctor had saved the day. Again.
George looked surprised. Then relieved. And then? She might have actually smiled. A little smile. Not a large, real smile-- that might have hurt George’s apathetic features. But it was there. The grim reaper gave him a small wave before walking back to her day job.
The Doctor scaled down the structure and took off running again. He felt that he was getting close; perhaps another five minutes. A right, a left, another left, and then -- something very loud creaked inside a warehouse. The Doctor sighed. He could’ve kept going, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t pass by without investigating. So, reluctantly, he put a hand to the warehouse door and whipped out his screwdriver once again.
Once he’d used the sonic on the lock, he crept in, only to find two very familiar faces - one strapped into a bizarre machine, the other... talking to it? The Doctor blinked.
“Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto?”
That’s right. He didn’t know the proper way to greet a human, but he knew a Styx song.
Sherlock turned to see the disturbance behind him with a loud, irritated, “SHHH! Stop thinking! I can’t concentrate!” Sherlock muttered to himself madly. There was a count down device with a lead of lights going off, inching closer and closer to his unsuspecting flatmate.
“You can’t keep this until you’ve--”
“I heard you before!” Sherlock shouted at the machine. Two beats later: “Your word!”
The lights came back on and the electronic voice replied, “Correct. Next question: I have seas without water, forests without wood, deserts without sand, houses without brick. What am I?”
The countdown started again. This time the lights started to dim just a little faster.
“May I interject without penalty?” The Doctor asked. If it was the sort of thing where only one person could take up the challenge, he didn’t want to be the cause of poor Watson’s death. Death-by-robot. How awful.
“YES.” The flatmates shouted in unison.
Well. That decided that, didn’t it? The Doctor thought for a moment. Images could have things without including their components. A painting? No. “A map.”
Once again the lights reset and the electronic voice replied, “Correct. Next question: What two words have thousands of letters in them?”
Sherlock knew this one and replied right away: “Post office!”
The lights reset but the machine didn’t seem to like how easily the consulting detective answered the last question, and so John was rewarded with a painful shock. The machine was mad, after all. “Correct. Next question: A young man walks through a forest and comes upon the bridge. Upon reaching the bridge there is a large man with an axe. The large man tells the young man that in order to the cross the bridge he must make a statement. If the statement is true the young will be strangled to death. If the statement is false the young man’s head would be chopped off with an axe. What did the young man say in order to safely cross the bridge?”
Sherlock hesitated. It wasn’t because he was afraid of giving the answer too soon, but because again the lights began to turn off, counting down towards his flatmate and each time the lights went out a little faster. The situation itself must have been a riddle, but Sherlock was afraid he wouldn’t have the time to work it out himself. (He’d been so foolish to answer the last riddle so quickly.)
If only the Doctor were psychic. How preposterous.
But Sherlock did solve the riddle: “He said, ‘You will chop my head off!’”
Again the lights reset and the electronic voice replied, “Correct. Next question: …”
Playing by the machine’s rules was not going to get them anywhere. Hand clutched tight around his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor stepped forward. “Your turn - a doctor and a nurse have a baby boy. But the boy's father is not the doctor and the mother is not the nurse. How is that possible?”
It was an easy one, but the point was not to stump the machine. The point was to stall it long enough for Sherlock to figure out the true solution - the greater riddle of how to get Watson free.
The machine did not take the interjection well. “Those are not the parameters for engagement. You do not ask the questions.” And, to prove the point, it shocked John again. Outwardly, the Doctor didn’t react. Inwardly, he winced. Poor Watson.
“Really? Where’s the fun in that? You come up with all these scenarios, but that doesn’t take much wit. The hard part is answering them. Want to prove you’re smarter than us fleshy types? Very well. A one-sentence riddle. Who am I?”
He was taking a wager - a wager that Watson wasn’t what the thing was after. The game wasn’t killing someone - the game was getting someone else to play the game. Poor John was just leverage.
“That is not a riddle,” the computer insisted and again it inflicted pain on John, this time more dramatically, for it its irritation.
“No! It is a riddle,” Sherlock joined in. He caught on to what the Doctor was trying to do. But they needed more time. “I’m surprised you haven’t answered already. It’s quite simple, really. A great machine like you? Well, if you’re not up for the challenge...”
But the more John was hurt the more visibly upset Sherlock became. As an unfortunate side effect meant it was harder to think clearly when your friend’s life was so clearly on the line. Someone he didn’t know? Sherlock could harden his heart and appear without emotion. But with John? It was harder and harder to do.
“AHA.” The Doctor exclaimed, as his eyes lit upon a particularly complicated sphere that was attached to the machine. “Sherlock, answer the riddles.” Meanwhile? He sprang into action. The Doctor rushed forward and put a hand to the glass enclosure, which - as he’d suspected - began to spin.
Right. So now he had only to get the little ball from one end of the maze to the other, and his time was dwindling with every solved riddle. He put his hands to the globe and started working on the spatial puzzle, which was much easier for a time-traveller to solve than the verbal sort. Navigation was all about location in time and space; he could do this.
“Hold on, John.”
But Sherlock wouldn’t be able to urge his flatmate on for long. The computer continued to ask riddles and without fail, despite having less time to answer, Sherlock managed to answer each one correctly. Perhaps out of desperation, he went into a sort of zone, where he was able to answer within moments. The machine didn’t punish Sherlock this time-- it gave him very little time to answer anymore.
‘AHA!” The Doctor exclaimed again. The ball rolled into place on the other end of the spherical labyrinth, and the restraints on John sprung free. “The smoke tawny ascends above the roofs, and tumult is in the land,” the Doctor quoted. “You ought to have taken my riddle.”
Meanwhile, Watson clambered down as quickly as his electro-shocked limbs would carry him.
“Alright, then?” The Doctor asked. “I’m sorry to run, but I’m chasing my time machine and I’m afraid the clock is ticking.”
Sherlock helped his flatmate down, trying to assess his injuries-- he wasn’t the doctor. “Time machine? What does it look like?”
“Blue, square, about the size of a-- wait. If I say ‘Police Box,’ you’ll know what I mean.” It was Sherlock Holmes. His store of knowledge was encyclopediac, wasn’t it?
“Three blocks west, two rights, one left and a right should get you there if you hurry before the streets change.”
“Haaaa.” The Doctor exclaimed. “Gentlemen.” And with that, he was off and running again. He followed the directions to the letter, and after rounding a series of corners, he saw his beloved TARDIS. He also saw something else.
“Doctor, I said no cheating. One simple rule and you couldn’t keep it.” The Trickster shook his head as though mimicking disappointment. He was an excellent actor when he wanted to be. Now wasn’t one of those times. “You just had to let Sherlock gab, didn’t you?”
The TARDIS continued to sink behind him.
“So sorry, but I’m going to have to add another obstacle.” Somehow, impossibly, a very familiar shape rolled out from behind the Trickster. The Dalek looked like any other; bronze and black, heartless. It started shooting indiscriminately and the Trickster disappeared instantly.
Buffy hadn’t been patrolling, but shopping. Not many places offered replacement wood bolts for a medieval crossbow. She heard the blasts and a strange robotic voice which screamed: “EXTERMINATE. EXTERMINATE.”
Buffy rounded the corner just in time to see the oddly shaped robot firing on a young man who dressed like her grandfather. There wasn’t time to quip yet, but wow had they just given her plenty of material.
“Look out!” The Doctor was fast, the Dalek was deadly, but the Slayer was faster. She pushed the Time Lord out of the way just in time to miss one very unfriendly looking ray beam. Grabbing the Doctor by the hand, she ran with him. There was strength in that arm. This was a warrior. “This is us running from the demon trashcan!”
“Oh no. Oh no, no.” Did the Trickster know what he’d just done? Of all the things he’d been through that day - the concession to Death, the angry teenagers and the grim reapers and the murderous machines, this was by far the most personal and the worst. Every single Dalek was an affront to the Doctor; they were death, and not the sort that came when it was time. Not like Didi. They were destruction, but not the sort inflicted by angry young mutant women. They were singleminded. They were cruel. They killed and they did NOT BELONG IN THE CITY.
“TRICKSTER.” The Doctor shouted at the top of his lungs. “IT WILL KILL. EVERYONE.”
He wasn’t even thinking about the TARDIS anymore. He was thinking about ways to stop the onslaught of death that even a single Dalek could perpetrate. The Doctor tensed, ready to engage -- and then someone slammed into his side and started dragging him away.
“That’s not a demon trashcan!” The Doctor exclaimed, but he didn’t argue about the running. Maybe this stranger was right; he needed a plan. A weapon. Something. “That’s a Dalek. The robot is just the casing. There’s a living being inside -- it will kill everyone.”
Yes, Doctor. You’ve said that already.
“Not while I’m alive.” Buffy didn’t let go, not at first. She wasn’t going to let this person-- who’s dress reminded her of Giles with the tweed-- get hurt. “Any weaknesses? Anything I should know about? Any reason in particular it has a toilet plunger for an arm?”
But now she was going to do something very dangerous. That was what slayers did. Buffy held out her phone with her free hand and shouted very quickly a ten digit number-- her phone number. She hoped he was good with numbers because with that she let go and doubled back to lead the Dalek away from anyone it might hurt.
Even from a block away her quips could be heard: “You know, I’m not so sure I would have let Oscar the Grouch design a killer robot. Nothing says scary less than Sesame Street.”
“SILENCE HUMAN.”
But shockingly Buffy managed to dodge it’s attacks. Her plan, as foolish and unlikely to work as it was, worked so far. But for how long?
“WHAT--” The Doctor bellowed as Buffy ran off.
RIght. Numbers. The Doctor grabbed for the telephone that the City had provided and dialed the numbers in. As it rang, he also broke into a run - for the TARDIS. He had absolutely no intentions of leaving Buffy there by herself, but he needed something. Something to use against the blasted alien.
“The eyestalk.” He began talking as soon as the person on the other end picked up. “The eyestalk is vulnerable. It’s the part that sticks out up top. If you get into trouble, invoke my name. I’m the Doctor. The Oncoming Storm. It’ll either try even harder to kill you, or it’ll hold you hostage to get to me.”
Right. Because that was reassuring.
“I’m going to go into my, ah, ship. I’ll get something to help you and I’ll be back out.”
“Right. Well, if you’re ever on the run from a group of hungry vampires you can give them my name. I’m the Slayer. Or just Buffy Summers. Whatever works.” There was plenty of noise in the background of blasts as the Dalek attempted unsuccessfully to fire on the Slayer.
“Is it regular metal? Super metal? Magic metal? I’m stronger than I look, can I just punch the thing or would that electrocute me or something?”
“Alien metal. Very durable, very strong. I wouldn’t get close enough to punch; the two protrusions beneath the eyestalk are an exterminator arm - it fires an energy beam - and a manipulator arm. That would be the plunger. The plunger can crush your skull. The energy beam will disintegrate you.”
Better and better, right? He couldn’t leave her out there. The Doctor reached the TARDIS - which was still sinking - and tried his key in the lock. Surprisingly, it opened. “Oh, BRILLIANT. I’m on my way, Buffy Summers. You’ll hear an odd sound and then something will materialize next to you. Don’t panic. I’ll open the doors and you can retreat behind the TARDIS’s protective field.”
Of course, he didn’t realize that a trip inside would be a one-way thing.
“Right. I’m trying to get to the Magic Box. There’s a weapon there I think can help. Meet me over there.” Buffy ran without panting. She wasn’t trying to outrun the deadly Dalek, but lead it along. The City this time didn’t hinder the slayer but helped her. Buffy rounded the corner only to come across the retail shop. She ducked just in time for the Dalek to blow out the shop window. Buffy dove through the opening screaming to anyone in the shop, “GET DOWN.”
Inside, Raven Archer was on duty. Her coworker, a City-born clerk, stared wide-eyed at the shattered glass. Raven, who’d had more experience with various things that wanted to kill her, lunged for her friend and tugged her to the ground. “Down,” the demon-girl hissed. Then, slowly and carefully, she eased up on her knees and peeked over the counter.
“What do you need?” Raven wasn’t exactly a big hero, but clearly something major was going on. If she could help, she would.
Meanwhile, the Doctor flipped switches inside the TARDIS. Her engines roared to life and with a tell-tale vrooosh-vrooosh sound, she dematerialized and reappeared just outside the Magic Box.
It was a momentary distraction. “IT IS THE DOCTOR.” The Dalek announced in its grating metallic voice. “EXTERMINATE!”
“Ohhh, I don’t think so,” the Doctor said as he strode cheerfully towards the doors. He reached out to tug them open -- and nothing happened. The Doctor tugged again. Nothing.
He hurriedly dialed Buffy’s number. “I can’t get out. I’m barred inside somehow. Talk to me - I’ll give you whatever help I can while I try to get these doors open.” Out came the sonic screwdriver. He wasn’t defeated yet.
Buffy answered the phone and put him on speaker so she could talk to the girls hiding behind the checkout counter. “Troll hammer! Please tell me you have Olaf’s Hammer!”
If they did, it was likely the bane of their retail existance-- no one could actually move the hammer. Not without the proper equipment. Likely the only mundane person equipped to move such a thing would be those who installed things like safes. Most vampires weren’t capable of lifting such a thing.
Meanwhile the Dalek began to levitate, assessing the situation.
“WHERE IS THE DOCTOR? COME OUT, DOCTOR. OR WE WILL EXTERMINATE THE HUMANS.”
No matter what he did, the Doctor couldn’t open the doors. He could hear their screeching through the phone, though. “No!” He exclaimed. “No, no. Come on, darling. Let me out.” He knew even as he spoke to his ship that she wasn’t the culprit, though. Someone, someone murderous and obnoxious, was the true cause.
“I’m going to go take a look on the monitor.” The Doctor turned and ran to the console, practically bounding until he reached the view screen. Outside? The Dalek was circling the TARDIS. The time machine wouldn’t keep the levitating alien distracted for long.
So, really, it was fortunate that Raven knew exactly what Buffy was talking about, primarily because it was such a hassle to move.
“Huh?” Said the clerk. Raven’s face lit up, though. “Don’t you remember, Amanda? Glass case.” Keeping low, Raven skulked along, using the counter as cover. Then, abruptly, she stood and made a mad dash for the long ‘stem’ of the Magic Box’s ‘L.’ “It’s over here.” And it had been murder to get in - all four regular staff, plus their owner at the time, and a levitation spell were needed to move it. You didn’t forget that sort of thing.
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Raven grinned. “In case of emergency, break glass.”
“Go out through the back door. Run now!” Buffy stepped over to the hammer kept behind the glass. Raising her leg in a high kick, she brought it down with an impressive smash! Her leg mostly protected by denim and heeled boots. Yes. Buffy regularly did her slaying in heels. Don’t judge.
Then she single-handedly lifted the hammer. Just one arm. It looked heavy, but Buffy made the ancient relic look like it must have been fake-- a movie studio prop. The crash of glass had attracted the attention of the Dalek. And though Buffy was strong it did slow her down. She raised the hefted the hammer high into the air and threw it at the Dalek. At the same time the Dalek fired upon the slayer.
Both of them had excellent aim. The hammer came crashing toward the Dalek which underestimated the ancient weapon and refused to dodge something so silly and so primitive. It was like watching a car wreck; once the hammer hit the entire front end of the Dalek’s shell caved in like a crushed tin can. It flew backward several yards and landed dead in the street.
Meanwhile the energy beam, only partially deflected by the hammer, grazed the Slayer’s side. For a brief flash the slayer’s skeleton had been visible. By all accounts she should have been dead. Instead she was unconscious and had a nasty looking mark which burned through her top and part of her flesh along her ribcage.
The TARDIS doors finally opened.
As soon as the doors opened, the Doctor was out of the TARDIS and dashing for the shop. He didn’t even stop to ensure that the Dalek was dead. If it wasn’t? He wanted to be between it and Buffy.
Meanwhile, Raven had taken Buffy’s advice. She was busy quietly shepherding the customers and her fellow clerk out the back. She was just a little slip of a thing, young and unassuming, but she’d kept her calm. The others responded. When she’d gestured for them to follow her, they’d done so. Sometimes there were benefits to keeping one’s head when it was easier to panic.
“Buffy.” The fellow in tweed dropped to crouch next to the girl. The TARDIS sat, closed-up and stationary, on the pavement next to the Dalek. He didn’t pay it much mind, primarily because he was trying to check the Slayer’s vital signs. He wasn’t that sort of a doctor, but he’d been around the galaxy a few times. He knew how to check for a pulse.
The slayer’s eyes fluttered open with a pained expression. It’d been a while since something had hurt her this bad and usually it was her watcher to be the one knocked unconscious. Her vision cleared on the image of the Doctor. “...Did I get it?”
She even attempted to sit up. Which hurt. But in the end she was successful. She was dazed but fine. In a day or two she’d even be ready to patrol again.
“You got it. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” And the bystanders had gotten out successfully. The shop was a bit messy, but it was intact too. For a Dalek rampage? Things could have been so much worse. Now that he was certain she’d survived, the Doctor was beaming. It wouldn’t last; he was proud of her, but under the surface he was furious at the one who’d put her in the situation to have to defend people in the first place.
“Will you be alright? I can take you to a hospital or to your home.”
He’d wait to yell at the Trickster until he was absolutely certain that Buffy was well. Or as well as one could be after taking down a Dalek single-handed.
“No hospitals. I’ll be fine.” Back home Buffy didn’t do hospitals because there was too much to explain. She didn’t want to put anyone at risk. Also? She absolutely hated them. Here in The City her concern wasn’t so much about keeping her slaying activities secret as it was not becoming a lab rat.
And then as if to prove she was feeling better the slayer asked with raised eyebrows: “Bow tie?”
Yes, now that the serious issues had been addressed she could critique his fashion sense.
The Doctor winced. “Oh. OH. Everyone with the bow tie. They’re cool. Bow ties? Are cool.” He paused and eyed Buffy suspiciously - he half expected that she’d follow with ‘and you’re so young’ or perhaps ‘what’s with the tweed?’ For emphasis, he straightened his jacket.
Buffy smiled. She even managed to stand up on her own. After a quick visual sweep it looked like everyone had gotten out safely. No bodies. A sharp intake of air, she walked with a bit of a limp but all in all she’d basically gotten out unscathed.
“I have a friend who’s a doctor. A people doctor. Just going to check the back make sure everyone got out alright. Not really planning on sticking around. Back home when there was trouble the police had a tendency to blame me for it. You have my number.”
Buffy looked down at her side. The line across her ribs which didn’t look burned was bruised. Now that had been a hell of a hit. Buffy didn’t bruise easily.
“People doctor.” The phrase wasn’t amusing in and of itself, but it had been a long day. The Doctor was going to take his levity where he could find it, and the fact that she instinctively recognized him as not people was at least a little funny. “And you’ve my telephone number. If you have alien troubles, call me.” He’d absolutely answer for Buffy. Anyone who could take out a Dalek single-handed was someone worth keeping an eye upon. Plus, she was cheeky. He had a soft spot for spunky women.
Once they’d parted ways, the Doctor trotted back out the the TARDIS. In spite of having worked so hard to regain it, he did not climb back inside. Instead? He shouted. “HALLOOO.” He was certain he was being heard - if not by the Trickster, than by the City. “I told you we were going to have words. That was irresponsible, foolish, and if you think I’ll let it slide? You’ve truly and completely missed the mark.”
Trickster appeared. As if he’d always been there, just out of even the Doctor’s perception, leaned casually against the TARDIS with one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. He kept a cherry flavored sucker in one hand which he put to his mouth. “Eh... What’s up, Doc?”
He crunched down on the sucker for a couple beats.
“Daleks exist to kill. They exist to destroy all non-Dalek life. And you.” The Doctor jabbed a finger in the Trickster’s direction, “You dropped one in the middle of the City. That is irresponsible and you are absolutely accountable for all the damage it did.” This was not the jovial Doctor, or the know-it-all, or even the casually arrogant old man who wandered about meddling in human affairs. He was well and truly angry in a way that didn’t happen often.
“What were you trying to prove? That I’m horrible? That I fail people? Brilliantly done - because no one’s ever tried that before.” The Doctor jabbed his finger once more, even as the rampage was dying down. “Do you have any idea how much damage it could have done? Any idea at all?”
The Trickster sighed and gave the Doctor a look. Finishing the sucker, he flicked the used stem into the street-- though the litter promptly vanished into thin air. He snapped his fingers and the damage to the shop was completely undone. Even the hammer was back in place. Then Trickster looked back on the crushed metallic shell of the Dalek and it vanished from thin air.
“Are you sure you’re not secretly related to the Winchesters because no one misses the point quite like they do. Well done! Let’s give yourself a round of applause.” The Trickster straightened up and brushed off his carhartt jacket. “Lets talk about the lesson shall we? All those things that happened today? Were going to happen. Not today, of course, had to bend time and space a teensy bit to get it all to line up like that, but it was going to happen down the road. And what? You honestly think I believe that-- had I not brought your little friend into the City-- the moment you found your time machine you weren’t just going to fly away? Move on to your next adventure? Let’s pause for a moment and take a look inside, shall we?”
The Trickster knocked on the TARDIS’ front door. It opened for him. Rudely inviting himself in, the Trickster whistled a jaunty tune.
“When you’ve recklessly put people in danger, their lives are always the point.” The Doctor covered his surprise as the Trickster strode casually into the TARDIS. With all the anger threatening to boil over, it wasn’t hard. “You don’t understand me at all. I would not just leave people to suffer. That’s not who I am.”
Well. It’s not who he wanted to be. He’d caused suffering across the universe during the last great Time War, and he’d never stopped carrying the burden. His new incarnation had finally accepted that it was possible to move on from there, however, to try and be productive instead of making anger and survivor’s guilt the whole of his existence.
“Do I plan to leave? Yes. Do I plan to put the City behind me while there are people still trapped against their will? No. And who are you? A projection of the City? A new attempt to render the population docile and compliant?”
Trickster didn’t answer right away. Instead he picked up the Doctor’s tweed jacket which had been left behind in the TARDIS, the one with Rory’s engagement ring in the inner breast pocket, and smelled it. “What do you say, Doc? Maybe three months-- six months-- younger than the very jacket you’re wearing?”
Trickster tossed it to the Doctor.
“Your time machine didn’t fly itself here.”
Trickster circled in the TARDIS console, fascinated by all the curious buttons and levers. Clearly he’d never looked closely at such a machine before.
“Let’s try this again. You’re saying you wouldn’t have blown this popsicle stand? Not even for a moment? Not even to gather supplies? Pick up a friend. ...A fiesty, completely adorable redheaded friend?”
The Trickster leaned forward on the console.
“See, here’s the thing, Doc. Out of all the people in The City that aren’t deities? You’re the only one that really stands a chance of actually breaking out against The City’s will. But if you do that, even if you’re only planning on being gone for a moment-- a second-- you’re not getting back in. And if you had done that, Death would have been sold to the highest bidder, some teenaged kid not fully in control of her powers would have ripped apart a few muggers and gone darkside, seventeen people would have died in a pointless accident and Dr. John Watson would be dead. That’s only the tip of the iceberg. I could have put more examples in, but Death already told you there were innocent people that needed your help, didn’t she?”
He shrugged.
“So I put a Dalek in The City? Big whoop. Cry about it if you want. Doesn’t change the fact that it got handled just fine. That if I hadn’t done it, you wouldn’t have tried something stupid like-- I don’t know-- tried picking up your friend that was already stranded here in The City thereby actually stranding her in The City? You can tell me with one-hundred percent certainty you wouldn’t have done that?”
“So. Let me get this straight; instead of telling me that Amy was in the City, and that I’d best stay because Daleks and death were imminent, you felt the need to traumatize a shop full of people?” The Doctor was trying to stay calm. He really was, but he was only barely clinging to success.
“What would you have done if someone had died?”
It was an important question. The answer was the difference between considering what the Trickster had to say and dismissing him outright.
“For a genius you really are thick. The game was rigged, Kimosabe! The real question you should be asking was could Buffy have handled the Dalek without you? You saw for yourself she was capable, but I don’t know. Definitely foxy, but doesn’t exactly have her head in the game these days if you know what I mean. Slayers! Gottah love ‘em.”
Trickster crossed his arms.
“I could have told you, but instead I showed you. So go on and bitch a little more, Doc. Because it hasn’t gotten old at all yet.”
The look that the Doctor levelled on the Trickster was not friendly. At all. “It’s not a game.”
And that’s apparently all he had to say to the Trickster, because he strolled over to the instrumentation and started flipping switches. Not to dematerialize, but to run some scans. If Pond was in the City, he wanted to locate her. And, well. Now that his beautiful blue box had come home, he wanted to see what it could pick up.
He was through talking - to the Trickster, at least. Death had mentioned Dean Winchester. Perhaps he’d be a little more helpful.
The urge to deliver a ‘warning’ - a threat, thinly veiled - was strong. The Doctor resisted. It was not wise to let people with power know that you’d be watching them. For all his professed ‘good intentions’ and insistence that the game had been rigged from the start, the Doctor didn’t believe it. He thought he could see callousness in the Trickster’s behavior, though he might have been blinded by his own wounded pride.
“Ugh! Don’t be such a sore loser.” The Trickster raised his hand and snapped, disappearing from the Doctor’s TARDIS.