Post by henshin on Mar 18, 2024 6:45:22 GMT
Hello!
For the past few months, I have been working toward writing my first novel-length fan story for the Tenth Doctor.
Premise: it's a slightly new take on the Tenth Doctor where, following The Parting of The Ways, the Ninth Doctor regenerates alone while Rose is safe in Cardiff. Instead of Rose being Ten's first companion, it will be Martha. All continuity from An Unearthly Child to The Parting of the Ways is intact.
Tone/Style: a more mature/darker take on the era without turning it into a different show. The spirit of the show is still alive and well, but also takes it some places where RTD and the BBC wouldn't have during Tennant's run. These elements include added violence/gore, profanity, sex, and adult themes.
When?! August of this year. Book 1, Braxietal Incorporated has been written. I am currently re-reading, adding visuals.
Where? An Archive of Our Own. I considered Fanfiction, but the site doesn't host images.
Preview? Of course!
“Tina James…Seventy-five…Seventy-five…Seventy-five,“ Kevin muttered with a Bristol accent, his words somewhat mirroring the melody of Ke$ha’s hit, 'Tik Tok.' The song blared into his earphones as he strolled along the sidewalk, checking each house number on the street.
The number of the gable-roofed house in the address located in Hertfordshire matched the order on the delivery receipt. Entering the front yard, the gate springs squeaked, and the chilly English wind ghosted through Kevin’s black polo top beneath his black bomber jacket.
Not even the thick fibres of Kevin’s cargo trousers could guard him against the breeze. Kevin fastened his peak cap over his frizzly head of red hair and stomped toward the house in his chunky white sneakers along the curvy S-shaped tree-lined path. He pressed the doorbell button and was shortly greeted by the smile of a homely, middle-aged barefoot woman of colour dressed in a t-shirt and track pants.
“About time, we’re starving!” She jested in a British Nigerian accent.
“The holiday season has kept us busy. Two family-sized soft drinks, garlic bread, one supreme pizza, and a meat lovers pizza for Tina? All paid. We’ve thrown in a coupon for a free pizza on the next delivery.”
Tina tutted, “You could have saved paper and just given us the free pizza, young man.”
Kevin shrugged, “but my arm can only handle so much!”
Tina laughed and took the weighty delivery, “More weights, less X-box. But not before shaving those mutton chops!”
Kevin laughed along, “The chops are sacred! Wishing you the best for 2011.”
She winked, “Be good,” and closed the door.
Kevin drew his phone, turned away, and strolled the path leading from the house. Affording a moment to look up from the glowing screen, he tilted his head after something peculiar caught his attention near a tree to the left of the concrete path. Kevin’s eyes narrowed at a slim shadow that sidestepped behind the thick column of bark as he neared the tree.
“Hello?” He called while activating his phone’s light. “Anyone there?” Kevin inched toward the tree with clenched fingers. A gust of wind filled the silence between Kevin and the anonymous stranger, only for Kevin to feel the chill of a low growl. He jolted back and was nearly thrown onto the moist ground as his sneaker heel nearly slipped on a moist leaf. Correcting his footing and gaining his balance, Kevin's chest heaved back and forth.
A barefoot young woman of colour, dressed in a creased and bloodied hospital gown, stared at him wordlessly, stepping away from the tree, and onto the path. Her bulging eyes, frizzly hair, and cheeks coated in charcoal-tinged crimson slime completed the ghastly sight. She gritted her teeth and hissed, blackened liquid seeping between each groove.
Kevin stood on the spot, asking, “Are…are you bleeding? I can call for help.” He averted his eyes from her face, only to wince at the scratch marks on her upper chest. Each of her staggered limb movements slumbered almost like she was suspended by strings.
“Hey hey hey, stop!”
The young woman’s words were obscured by her gravelly growl. Kevin winced, “Have you been rolling around in a pit of dead rats or something?”
He clutched his nose and took another backward. Kevin’s heels hit the small step leading up to the house as he reversed. His phone dropped from his hands, and the screen cracked on impact with the concrete paving. The girl swiped her right hand at Kevin in what appeared to be an attempt to swat him. He spun toward the house up the small steps.
The combination of adrenaline and his broad-shouldered frame provided the brawn Kevin needed to shove through the front door, crashing into the hallway of Tina’s house.
He charged into a hallway table that abutted a skirting board on the right of the corridor. A vase rattled on the table, and Kevin collected it, thrusting the porcelain object toward the girl with a limp wrist. The vase shattered into several pieces before her feet. The girl’s facial expression didn’t shift, nor did she move away.
“What’s going on?!” A teenage voice screamed from the top of the stairs to the right of the corridor.
Kevin ran through the hallway along the polished floorboards, his moist sneakers squeaking against the varnished wooden surface. Tina jolted into the corridor, directly in Kevin’s path from an adjoining room. His shoulder slammed into her, and they both fell into a heap with a loud cry. Kevin reached the end of the corridor, emerging into a kitchen with a tile floor.
Before he could catch his breath, Kevin was tackled by an older man nearly twice Kevin’s bulk. A voice boomed into Kevin’s ear, “Gotcha!”
Tina’s cries echoed up the corridor while both men were sprawled in a heap on the tile floor. Kevin was gripped by the collar of his polo top from behind. His attacker shouted, “What did you do to my wife?!”
Kevin’s shaky, adrenaline-induced voice was devoid of clarity, 'There’s some freaky thing in your yard! Go and look!' His speech came out in bursts and stutters."
A teenager hastily entered the kitchen and saw the grounded intruder, “Dad?!”
The man pinning Kevin to the floor looked over his shoulder, “Check the front yard. NOW!”
She stared from her father to the intruder and backed toward the corridor. The girl ran to the front door to meet a calm wind.
***
The TARDIS turbulently spiralled through the time vortex, not unlike the cabin experience of a 747 flying during peak storm conditions. Each twist of the blue box brought the ship closer to colliding with the electric walls of the space-time tunnel. Inside was no less chaotic, especially for its sole passenger.
Sparks showered off numerous surfaces inside the TARDIS console room which dimmed in ominous coral blue lighting, with occasional flashes to orange. The Doctor crashed to the smoke-covered TARDIS floor, inhaling the scent of burning circuitry. Through his pained expression, he looked off to the side at a cracked opaque glass panel to see the fractilised image of a younger and less rugged man than his predecessor, the Ninth Doctor.
Dressed in his predecessor’s clothing, the Tenth Doctor’s eyes widened at the sight of the slim-figured stranger with brown, longer, flopped-down hair that stopped just below his eyebrows. Each article of his clothing, whether it be the round neck full sleeve top, black trousers, or the black leather jacket, was a size too large for a man of his slim frame. His black lace-up combat boots, meanwhile, were a looser fit around his feet.
Collecting his strength, the Doctor pressed his slender fingers against the metallic grating of the floor and stood. The TARDIS shook again and he was thrown toward the nearby stairs but stopped himself as he gripped a nearby rail. Once the time rotor halted, the Doctor sighed.
Coughing violently from the build-up of black smoke, he exited through the rickety wooden TARDIS doors seconds after they snapped shut with a loud clap. The Doctor frantically spun on his heels and pressed his hands against the doors which refused to budge.
Pressing his back against the door, he muttered in a more rounded British Estuary accent, in contrast to his former incarnation’s more abrasive Northern British accent. “Rose!”
He murmured to himself. Pressing off from the wooden surface of the blue box, the Doctor ran through the park late at night where he had arbitrarily landed. The roof globe glowed, charged from the tendrils of lightning striking the TARDIS. The evening wind blew dry and crackled leaves beneath the thunderous sky which threatened an incoming storm.
After only a few minutes of sprinting, the Doctor found himself collapsing to his knees with leaves crunching beneath his bulk, coughing once again. He was approached by a couple who were on their evening stroll.
The man knelt beside him, “Are you ok.”
The Doctor looked at the man through rabid eyes and grabbed him by the lapels of his tracksuit jacket, “Who am I?”
The man shook his head as his wife attempted to tug him away from the erratic woman, “WHO. AM. I?!” His pleas agonised with added urgency.
Kevin was slumped in a chair like a beanbag as he nursed a swollen black eye over his freckled skin, the injury only subtly obscured by the shadow of his peak cap.
Despite the strength suggested by his lumberjack physique, Kevin was not the one in charge.
The room was mostly dominated by the square table where Kevin sat, facing two chairs. The musty smell of sweat, cheap coffee, and an aged punch mark on the nearby wall dispelled any misconception that the interrogation room was one of hospitality.
Kevin gazed at a wall covered in posters warning about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. He clamped his eyes shut and slowed his breathing in an attempt to soothe his facial throbbing. Kevin opened his eyes and stared at the one-way glass, calling, 'Anybody there? It’s been nearly an hour!”
Any sound from outside the room was muted by the echo of Kevin’s creaking collarbone as he tilted his head up toward the ceiling, his gaze fixed on the flickering light causing annoyance. Minutes later, a click sounded from the door to the left of the one-way glass.
Two officers, one male and one female, entered the room. The man, in his forties, had a crew cut of grey hair and was dressed in a creased grey suit paired with a navy open-collar shirt. His black shoes clacked along the solid floor.
He was accompanied by a younger woman of Asian descent, dressed in a navy blue police uniform. A uniform cap sat atop her head, beneath which her brunette hair was styled into a bun. Both took their seats, and the man opened a folder.
“Thank you for confirming your identity, Mr. Deacon. It didn’t take us long to find your file,” the male officer’s Scottish accent dryly opened. “Prior convictions of breaking and entering, plus previously served community service on a good behaviour bond.” His finger traced along the document text, “All of seven years ago.” He looked at Kevin, “What happened, mate?”
The younger female officer folded her arms and crossed her right leg over her left, the pointed toes of her black, block-heeled ankle boots aiming at Kevin from beneath the neat hem of her trousers under the table.
Kevin divided his eye contact between the officers, only too familiar with the (usually) much exaggerated good cop-bad cop routine seen in cinema. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then it might help to start at the beginning,” the male officer’s eye contact was unflinching, hanging into each of the officer’s words.
“We’ve been through this!” Kevin protested.
The younger woman nonchalantly spoke in a London accent, ceasing her silence. “My shift has only started. I have all night,” she assured.
Kevin huffed and looked off to the side. “I made my evening delivery. I was alone, and the woman took the pizza. She closes the door, I turn around, then there’s this zombie staring at me.”
Deathly silence. Again.
Kevin shook his arms like a sulking infant, “is that all you’re going to do?!”
The woman sat forward and clasped her hands on the table, “it’s all we can do because that’s all you are saying.”
“I know I’ve got priors! You think I’m going to bury myself with some ¤¤¤¤ and bull story about the walking dead?”
“The occupants saw nothing matching what you described.” The male officer closed the folder, looked to his co-officer, and then back to Kevin before continuing.
“We cordoned off two entire blocks of the suburb surrounding the house, questioned locals, neighbours, and even the local bus driver on duty. There was no sighting of a woman in a hospital nightie.”
“I want a lawyer!” Kevin demanded.
“We’re happy to provide that, Mr. Deacon. But you’ve been in the court system enough times to know that nothing in this story has merit. You stormed into a house, damaged their property, injured a defenceless woman, and caused distress,” the female officer answered.
The woman’s persisting silence commanded Kevin’s focus toward her.
His eyes glazed over the name printed on her badge:
Madison Lu
Constable
“I know what I saw, Constable Lu. My lawyer, please.”
Madison's right foot moved in circular motions as her narrowed and indignant eyes further intruded into Kevin's pupils. Parting her lips, Madison nodded and excused herself.
Standing in the corridor, she took out her phone and dialled a contact, ‘Doyle’. The block heel of her boots echoed through the vacant corridor as she waited for the other side to pick up.
“Doyle here,” a male’s stern voice, underscored by a slight lisp, answered.
“It’s Lu.”
“I told you not to call my personal number. UNIT has assigned you a phone. Don’t tell me you lost it again,” Doyle chastised.
“The battery is dead, and I’ll be quick. It concerns the immortals.”
A passage of silence persisted while Madison turned the corner. She stopped and pressed her back against the wall. Doyle answered, “What is it?”
“We arrested a man tonight who vividly described the appearance of a woman with a deathly appearance, fowl stench, and dressed in a hospital gown,” Madison whispered. She sheepishly filled the void of silence, “Since it’s your personal number, if you give me your address, I can drop over some of those homemade cookies you enjoyed. In the meantime, would that smile you seem to adore suffice?” She bit her bottom lip.
Doyle laughed gently, “Sweetness does kill. Alright, I’ll come down. But we need to talk about protocol. Understood? Trust me, it’s not a conversation you want to have with Kate.”
“Understood,” Madison swallowed and nodded, clenching her fingers in the opposite hand while her right boot heel tapped up and down.
Martha Jones exited her bedroom at the far end of the apartment hallway, opposite the kitchen. Stepping into the corridor, she pulled her door closed while slipping into a black hoodie over a basic white t-shirt. Yawning after catching up on sleep that day, Martha sat on a stool outside her bedroom, tucking her skinny black jeans into a pair of white Doc Marten sneakers that stopped just below her calves.
She pushed herself up off the stool once she tied her boots and walked down the aged carpeted hallway toward the bathroom. Examining herself in the mirror, Martha brushed the loose strands of her black hair back into a ponytail.
Her slim facial features scolded the image in the mirror, “Could do with a trim, but I’ll make it work,” she muttered. Martha exited the bathroom and walked toward the apartment entrance. She hesitated to open the front door, having heard a male moaning from behind the door closest to her in the hallway.
The male’s moan grew deeper, punctuated by a high-pitched sigh. Martha narrowed her eyes, knocking on the door. 'Sam?' Wording which seemed to indicate a pet name of sorts was then heard from a second male..
Martha shouted louder, “Sam!”
She pushed the door ajar to see Sam sweating in bed, lying on his side, and lunging horizontally across the bed coverings, which concealed a thicker mass beneath.
“What are you doing-“ Martha and Sam asked simultaneously.
Martha folded her arms across her chest, “You said that you had work.”
“I felt sick,” Sam responded.
Martha became distracted by movement at the foot of the bed. She kicked aside a pair of sneakers, narrowly avoiding crushing a closed laptop on the floor. Gripping the duvet cover, Martha pulled it toward her. A skinny male in his late twenties with blonde, Tarzan-styled hair sat up, his legs pressed together as he tugged a pair of red underpants along his slender, waxed thighs.
Ire filled Martha’s eyes as Sam’s slim figure jumped out of the bed, wearing only blue underpants, and waving apologetically. “Please just-“
Martha pursed her lips and tossed the doona toward Sam’s near-naked body, and looked back to the blonde male “Chris Tanner.” Looking back to Sam, Martha continued. “I was saddened when Chris needed to move out due to expenses.”
Sam assured, “It’s a one-off.”
Chris sat up in the bed, tying his hair back into a ponytail, “This hasn’t been going on long.”
“Despite there being, for roughly the last four weeks, fresh bottles of apricot juice at the back of the fridge. The very brand which neither Sam nor myself can stand. Then, there’s the water bill which seems to have crept up, almost like Sam or myself are doubling up on showers and washing.”
Martha then looked to Sam, “I suppose the strands of blonde hair extensions in the bathroom last week were yours? Going through a glam phase?”
“I mean, it’s possible. I have been listening to Motley-“ Sam began.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot! I know what’s going on, he’s living here rent-free while we’re struggling to keep the rental afloat.” Martha’s frustration was almost maternal.
Sam answered, “Martha, he’s got nowhere to go.”
Martha scoffed, “rubbish! He’s living at home. In her own granny flat, may I add.”
Chris hugged his legs and reached for a red nail polish bottle on the bedside table, “I just really miss being here.”
Martha sympathised, “We miss you too, Chris. But neither Sam or myself live here rent free. We’re desperately trying to find a third flatmate during this tenant shortage.”
She looked from Chris to Sam, “Otherwise we’re both out. We’re already three weeks behind, and we’ve only avoided a phone call because Mister Colter is on holiday.”
“Give me a couple of days to work something out,” the sound of a crunch could be heard from beneath Sam’s barefoot as he stood forward, wincing. “Chris may have something lined up.”
Martha breathed, “two days. TWO.”
“You got it. We can make this work,” Sam assured, and looked to Chris as he ran his right hand through his messy black curly hair, “Hun?”
“Hun?” He began to unscrew the nail polish, wagging with the opposite finger. “This is just sex-“
Sam groaned, “The job hunting?”
“Yes!” Chris looked to Martha while he waved the moist brush from the bottle casually, “I swear it’s almost a thing.” A dot of red nail polish spat onto the mattress.
“Hey!” Sam hissed.
“I’ll bloody well believe it when I see it. I have nightshift,” Martha walked to the door, nearly crushing the lid of the discarded laptop beneath the tread of her boot.
***
Martha exited the changeroom dressed in her scrubs, muttering to herself, “Here we go.”
A hysterical woman stood outside Martha’s assigned ward, dressed in a buttoned-up thick black coat, slim navy-blue jeans, and white Converse trainers. She was surrounded by a small circle of nurses. “I just said my name! Tina James! My deceased daughter was on our doorstep!” The woman’s hair bob was in an unruly mess.
Martha looked to the six beds of the ward as he approached, “Everyone, calm down, please.” She nodded apologetically toward the two patients sitting up in their beds.
Martha stood toward Tina, “I’m this evening’s duty supervisor. Just talk me through it.”
Tina glared at Martha, “I have just been through it, and I refuse to be treated like some mental patient! I don’t want an intermediary!”
Martha raised her voice, “I am not an intermediary!”
Martha was interrupted by a smaller, bald man in his fifties who emerged from behind her. He was dressed in a navy-blue pinstripe suit with a red tie and white shirt. The man held out both hands, “what’s all the ruckus?”
Martha sighed, “Thank goodness, Regis-“
The man interrupted Martha, “Where are your manners, Miss Jones? It’s Doctor Jensen.”
Regis looked to Tina, “I am assistant to the hospital administrator here at Lister. I humbly apologise that our performance this evening has been less than satisfactory. Would you like somewhere quiet to talk?”
Tina fumed, “Thank you.” Accompanying Regis, she scorned the staff through a seething stare, Martha in particular.
The Doctor, meanwhile, sat up in her hospital bed in a patient gown, looking at the grief-stricken woman. “Maybe she returned to apply for a refund for the shoddy surgery?” He murmured to himself.
Lifting his glass, the Doctor sipped it until it was empty, just like the jug. Seeing the staff were occupied, he climbed out of bed and walked toward the bathroom adjoining his ward. He started to fill the glass at the basin and unclasped his fingers. The Doctor’s indifference to his surroundings was evident. His reaction to the glass shattering on the tiled floor was second place to the man he saw in the mirror. He gasped, standing back, and shook his head. Raising his hands, the young man pressed his back against the wall and sunk into the floor with gritted teeth, shouting, “What is happening to me?!”
For the past few months, I have been working toward writing my first novel-length fan story for the Tenth Doctor.
Premise: it's a slightly new take on the Tenth Doctor where, following The Parting of The Ways, the Ninth Doctor regenerates alone while Rose is safe in Cardiff. Instead of Rose being Ten's first companion, it will be Martha. All continuity from An Unearthly Child to The Parting of the Ways is intact.
Tone/Style: a more mature/darker take on the era without turning it into a different show. The spirit of the show is still alive and well, but also takes it some places where RTD and the BBC wouldn't have during Tennant's run. These elements include added violence/gore, profanity, sex, and adult themes.
When?! August of this year. Book 1, Braxietal Incorporated has been written. I am currently re-reading, adding visuals.
Where? An Archive of Our Own. I considered Fanfiction, but the site doesn't host images.
Preview? Of course!
PROLOGUE
“Tina James…Seventy-five…Seventy-five…Seventy-five,“ Kevin muttered with a Bristol accent, his words somewhat mirroring the melody of Ke$ha’s hit, 'Tik Tok.' The song blared into his earphones as he strolled along the sidewalk, checking each house number on the street.
The number of the gable-roofed house in the address located in Hertfordshire matched the order on the delivery receipt. Entering the front yard, the gate springs squeaked, and the chilly English wind ghosted through Kevin’s black polo top beneath his black bomber jacket.
Not even the thick fibres of Kevin’s cargo trousers could guard him against the breeze. Kevin fastened his peak cap over his frizzly head of red hair and stomped toward the house in his chunky white sneakers along the curvy S-shaped tree-lined path. He pressed the doorbell button and was shortly greeted by the smile of a homely, middle-aged barefoot woman of colour dressed in a t-shirt and track pants.
“About time, we’re starving!” She jested in a British Nigerian accent.
“The holiday season has kept us busy. Two family-sized soft drinks, garlic bread, one supreme pizza, and a meat lovers pizza for Tina? All paid. We’ve thrown in a coupon for a free pizza on the next delivery.”
Tina tutted, “You could have saved paper and just given us the free pizza, young man.”
Kevin shrugged, “but my arm can only handle so much!”
Tina laughed and took the weighty delivery, “More weights, less X-box. But not before shaving those mutton chops!”
Kevin laughed along, “The chops are sacred! Wishing you the best for 2011.”
She winked, “Be good,” and closed the door.
Kevin drew his phone, turned away, and strolled the path leading from the house. Affording a moment to look up from the glowing screen, he tilted his head after something peculiar caught his attention near a tree to the left of the concrete path. Kevin’s eyes narrowed at a slim shadow that sidestepped behind the thick column of bark as he neared the tree.
“Hello?” He called while activating his phone’s light. “Anyone there?” Kevin inched toward the tree with clenched fingers. A gust of wind filled the silence between Kevin and the anonymous stranger, only for Kevin to feel the chill of a low growl. He jolted back and was nearly thrown onto the moist ground as his sneaker heel nearly slipped on a moist leaf. Correcting his footing and gaining his balance, Kevin's chest heaved back and forth.
A barefoot young woman of colour, dressed in a creased and bloodied hospital gown, stared at him wordlessly, stepping away from the tree, and onto the path. Her bulging eyes, frizzly hair, and cheeks coated in charcoal-tinged crimson slime completed the ghastly sight. She gritted her teeth and hissed, blackened liquid seeping between each groove.
Kevin stood on the spot, asking, “Are…are you bleeding? I can call for help.” He averted his eyes from her face, only to wince at the scratch marks on her upper chest. Each of her staggered limb movements slumbered almost like she was suspended by strings.
“Hey hey hey, stop!”
The young woman’s words were obscured by her gravelly growl. Kevin winced, “Have you been rolling around in a pit of dead rats or something?”
He clutched his nose and took another backward. Kevin’s heels hit the small step leading up to the house as he reversed. His phone dropped from his hands, and the screen cracked on impact with the concrete paving. The girl swiped her right hand at Kevin in what appeared to be an attempt to swat him. He spun toward the house up the small steps.
The combination of adrenaline and his broad-shouldered frame provided the brawn Kevin needed to shove through the front door, crashing into the hallway of Tina’s house.
He charged into a hallway table that abutted a skirting board on the right of the corridor. A vase rattled on the table, and Kevin collected it, thrusting the porcelain object toward the girl with a limp wrist. The vase shattered into several pieces before her feet. The girl’s facial expression didn’t shift, nor did she move away.
“What’s going on?!” A teenage voice screamed from the top of the stairs to the right of the corridor.
Kevin ran through the hallway along the polished floorboards, his moist sneakers squeaking against the varnished wooden surface. Tina jolted into the corridor, directly in Kevin’s path from an adjoining room. His shoulder slammed into her, and they both fell into a heap with a loud cry. Kevin reached the end of the corridor, emerging into a kitchen with a tile floor.
Before he could catch his breath, Kevin was tackled by an older man nearly twice Kevin’s bulk. A voice boomed into Kevin’s ear, “Gotcha!”
Tina’s cries echoed up the corridor while both men were sprawled in a heap on the tile floor. Kevin was gripped by the collar of his polo top from behind. His attacker shouted, “What did you do to my wife?!”
Kevin’s shaky, adrenaline-induced voice was devoid of clarity, 'There’s some freaky thing in your yard! Go and look!' His speech came out in bursts and stutters."
A teenager hastily entered the kitchen and saw the grounded intruder, “Dad?!”
The man pinning Kevin to the floor looked over his shoulder, “Check the front yard. NOW!”
She stared from her father to the intruder and backed toward the corridor. The girl ran to the front door to meet a calm wind.
***
The TARDIS turbulently spiralled through the time vortex, not unlike the cabin experience of a 747 flying during peak storm conditions. Each twist of the blue box brought the ship closer to colliding with the electric walls of the space-time tunnel. Inside was no less chaotic, especially for its sole passenger.
Sparks showered off numerous surfaces inside the TARDIS console room which dimmed in ominous coral blue lighting, with occasional flashes to orange. The Doctor crashed to the smoke-covered TARDIS floor, inhaling the scent of burning circuitry. Through his pained expression, he looked off to the side at a cracked opaque glass panel to see the fractilised image of a younger and less rugged man than his predecessor, the Ninth Doctor.
Dressed in his predecessor’s clothing, the Tenth Doctor’s eyes widened at the sight of the slim-figured stranger with brown, longer, flopped-down hair that stopped just below his eyebrows. Each article of his clothing, whether it be the round neck full sleeve top, black trousers, or the black leather jacket, was a size too large for a man of his slim frame. His black lace-up combat boots, meanwhile, were a looser fit around his feet.
Collecting his strength, the Doctor pressed his slender fingers against the metallic grating of the floor and stood. The TARDIS shook again and he was thrown toward the nearby stairs but stopped himself as he gripped a nearby rail. Once the time rotor halted, the Doctor sighed.
Coughing violently from the build-up of black smoke, he exited through the rickety wooden TARDIS doors seconds after they snapped shut with a loud clap. The Doctor frantically spun on his heels and pressed his hands against the doors which refused to budge.
Pressing his back against the door, he muttered in a more rounded British Estuary accent, in contrast to his former incarnation’s more abrasive Northern British accent. “Rose!”
He murmured to himself. Pressing off from the wooden surface of the blue box, the Doctor ran through the park late at night where he had arbitrarily landed. The roof globe glowed, charged from the tendrils of lightning striking the TARDIS. The evening wind blew dry and crackled leaves beneath the thunderous sky which threatened an incoming storm.
After only a few minutes of sprinting, the Doctor found himself collapsing to his knees with leaves crunching beneath his bulk, coughing once again. He was approached by a couple who were on their evening stroll.
The man knelt beside him, “Are you ok.”
The Doctor looked at the man through rabid eyes and grabbed him by the lapels of his tracksuit jacket, “Who am I?”
The man shook his head as his wife attempted to tug him away from the erratic woman, “WHO. AM. I?!” His pleas agonised with added urgency.
CHAPTER 1
Kevin was slumped in a chair like a beanbag as he nursed a swollen black eye over his freckled skin, the injury only subtly obscured by the shadow of his peak cap.
Despite the strength suggested by his lumberjack physique, Kevin was not the one in charge.
The room was mostly dominated by the square table where Kevin sat, facing two chairs. The musty smell of sweat, cheap coffee, and an aged punch mark on the nearby wall dispelled any misconception that the interrogation room was one of hospitality.
Kevin gazed at a wall covered in posters warning about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. He clamped his eyes shut and slowed his breathing in an attempt to soothe his facial throbbing. Kevin opened his eyes and stared at the one-way glass, calling, 'Anybody there? It’s been nearly an hour!”
Any sound from outside the room was muted by the echo of Kevin’s creaking collarbone as he tilted his head up toward the ceiling, his gaze fixed on the flickering light causing annoyance. Minutes later, a click sounded from the door to the left of the one-way glass.
Two officers, one male and one female, entered the room. The man, in his forties, had a crew cut of grey hair and was dressed in a creased grey suit paired with a navy open-collar shirt. His black shoes clacked along the solid floor.
He was accompanied by a younger woman of Asian descent, dressed in a navy blue police uniform. A uniform cap sat atop her head, beneath which her brunette hair was styled into a bun. Both took their seats, and the man opened a folder.
“Thank you for confirming your identity, Mr. Deacon. It didn’t take us long to find your file,” the male officer’s Scottish accent dryly opened. “Prior convictions of breaking and entering, plus previously served community service on a good behaviour bond.” His finger traced along the document text, “All of seven years ago.” He looked at Kevin, “What happened, mate?”
The younger female officer folded her arms and crossed her right leg over her left, the pointed toes of her black, block-heeled ankle boots aiming at Kevin from beneath the neat hem of her trousers under the table.
Kevin divided his eye contact between the officers, only too familiar with the (usually) much exaggerated good cop-bad cop routine seen in cinema. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then it might help to start at the beginning,” the male officer’s eye contact was unflinching, hanging into each of the officer’s words.
“We’ve been through this!” Kevin protested.
The younger woman nonchalantly spoke in a London accent, ceasing her silence. “My shift has only started. I have all night,” she assured.
Kevin huffed and looked off to the side. “I made my evening delivery. I was alone, and the woman took the pizza. She closes the door, I turn around, then there’s this zombie staring at me.”
Deathly silence. Again.
Kevin shook his arms like a sulking infant, “is that all you’re going to do?!”
The woman sat forward and clasped her hands on the table, “it’s all we can do because that’s all you are saying.”
“I know I’ve got priors! You think I’m going to bury myself with some ¤¤¤¤ and bull story about the walking dead?”
“The occupants saw nothing matching what you described.” The male officer closed the folder, looked to his co-officer, and then back to Kevin before continuing.
“We cordoned off two entire blocks of the suburb surrounding the house, questioned locals, neighbours, and even the local bus driver on duty. There was no sighting of a woman in a hospital nightie.”
“I want a lawyer!” Kevin demanded.
“We’re happy to provide that, Mr. Deacon. But you’ve been in the court system enough times to know that nothing in this story has merit. You stormed into a house, damaged their property, injured a defenceless woman, and caused distress,” the female officer answered.
The woman’s persisting silence commanded Kevin’s focus toward her.
His eyes glazed over the name printed on her badge:
Madison Lu
Constable
“I know what I saw, Constable Lu. My lawyer, please.”
Madison's right foot moved in circular motions as her narrowed and indignant eyes further intruded into Kevin's pupils. Parting her lips, Madison nodded and excused herself.
Standing in the corridor, she took out her phone and dialled a contact, ‘Doyle’. The block heel of her boots echoed through the vacant corridor as she waited for the other side to pick up.
“Doyle here,” a male’s stern voice, underscored by a slight lisp, answered.
“It’s Lu.”
“I told you not to call my personal number. UNIT has assigned you a phone. Don’t tell me you lost it again,” Doyle chastised.
“The battery is dead, and I’ll be quick. It concerns the immortals.”
A passage of silence persisted while Madison turned the corner. She stopped and pressed her back against the wall. Doyle answered, “What is it?”
“We arrested a man tonight who vividly described the appearance of a woman with a deathly appearance, fowl stench, and dressed in a hospital gown,” Madison whispered. She sheepishly filled the void of silence, “Since it’s your personal number, if you give me your address, I can drop over some of those homemade cookies you enjoyed. In the meantime, would that smile you seem to adore suffice?” She bit her bottom lip.
Doyle laughed gently, “Sweetness does kill. Alright, I’ll come down. But we need to talk about protocol. Understood? Trust me, it’s not a conversation you want to have with Kate.”
“Understood,” Madison swallowed and nodded, clenching her fingers in the opposite hand while her right boot heel tapped up and down.
***
Martha Jones exited her bedroom at the far end of the apartment hallway, opposite the kitchen. Stepping into the corridor, she pulled her door closed while slipping into a black hoodie over a basic white t-shirt. Yawning after catching up on sleep that day, Martha sat on a stool outside her bedroom, tucking her skinny black jeans into a pair of white Doc Marten sneakers that stopped just below her calves.
She pushed herself up off the stool once she tied her boots and walked down the aged carpeted hallway toward the bathroom. Examining herself in the mirror, Martha brushed the loose strands of her black hair back into a ponytail.
Her slim facial features scolded the image in the mirror, “Could do with a trim, but I’ll make it work,” she muttered. Martha exited the bathroom and walked toward the apartment entrance. She hesitated to open the front door, having heard a male moaning from behind the door closest to her in the hallway.
The male’s moan grew deeper, punctuated by a high-pitched sigh. Martha narrowed her eyes, knocking on the door. 'Sam?' Wording which seemed to indicate a pet name of sorts was then heard from a second male..
Martha shouted louder, “Sam!”
She pushed the door ajar to see Sam sweating in bed, lying on his side, and lunging horizontally across the bed coverings, which concealed a thicker mass beneath.
“What are you doing-“ Martha and Sam asked simultaneously.
Martha folded her arms across her chest, “You said that you had work.”
“I felt sick,” Sam responded.
Martha became distracted by movement at the foot of the bed. She kicked aside a pair of sneakers, narrowly avoiding crushing a closed laptop on the floor. Gripping the duvet cover, Martha pulled it toward her. A skinny male in his late twenties with blonde, Tarzan-styled hair sat up, his legs pressed together as he tugged a pair of red underpants along his slender, waxed thighs.
Ire filled Martha’s eyes as Sam’s slim figure jumped out of the bed, wearing only blue underpants, and waving apologetically. “Please just-“
Martha pursed her lips and tossed the doona toward Sam’s near-naked body, and looked back to the blonde male “Chris Tanner.” Looking back to Sam, Martha continued. “I was saddened when Chris needed to move out due to expenses.”
Sam assured, “It’s a one-off.”
Chris sat up in the bed, tying his hair back into a ponytail, “This hasn’t been going on long.”
“Despite there being, for roughly the last four weeks, fresh bottles of apricot juice at the back of the fridge. The very brand which neither Sam nor myself can stand. Then, there’s the water bill which seems to have crept up, almost like Sam or myself are doubling up on showers and washing.”
Martha then looked to Sam, “I suppose the strands of blonde hair extensions in the bathroom last week were yours? Going through a glam phase?”
“I mean, it’s possible. I have been listening to Motley-“ Sam began.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot! I know what’s going on, he’s living here rent-free while we’re struggling to keep the rental afloat.” Martha’s frustration was almost maternal.
Sam answered, “Martha, he’s got nowhere to go.”
Martha scoffed, “rubbish! He’s living at home. In her own granny flat, may I add.”
Chris hugged his legs and reached for a red nail polish bottle on the bedside table, “I just really miss being here.”
Martha sympathised, “We miss you too, Chris. But neither Sam or myself live here rent free. We’re desperately trying to find a third flatmate during this tenant shortage.”
She looked from Chris to Sam, “Otherwise we’re both out. We’re already three weeks behind, and we’ve only avoided a phone call because Mister Colter is on holiday.”
“Give me a couple of days to work something out,” the sound of a crunch could be heard from beneath Sam’s barefoot as he stood forward, wincing. “Chris may have something lined up.”
Martha breathed, “two days. TWO.”
“You got it. We can make this work,” Sam assured, and looked to Chris as he ran his right hand through his messy black curly hair, “Hun?”
“Hun?” He began to unscrew the nail polish, wagging with the opposite finger. “This is just sex-“
Sam groaned, “The job hunting?”
“Yes!” Chris looked to Martha while he waved the moist brush from the bottle casually, “I swear it’s almost a thing.” A dot of red nail polish spat onto the mattress.
“Hey!” Sam hissed.
“I’ll bloody well believe it when I see it. I have nightshift,” Martha walked to the door, nearly crushing the lid of the discarded laptop beneath the tread of her boot.
***
Martha exited the changeroom dressed in her scrubs, muttering to herself, “Here we go.”
A hysterical woman stood outside Martha’s assigned ward, dressed in a buttoned-up thick black coat, slim navy-blue jeans, and white Converse trainers. She was surrounded by a small circle of nurses. “I just said my name! Tina James! My deceased daughter was on our doorstep!” The woman’s hair bob was in an unruly mess.
Martha looked to the six beds of the ward as he approached, “Everyone, calm down, please.” She nodded apologetically toward the two patients sitting up in their beds.
Martha stood toward Tina, “I’m this evening’s duty supervisor. Just talk me through it.”
Tina glared at Martha, “I have just been through it, and I refuse to be treated like some mental patient! I don’t want an intermediary!”
Martha raised her voice, “I am not an intermediary!”
Martha was interrupted by a smaller, bald man in his fifties who emerged from behind her. He was dressed in a navy-blue pinstripe suit with a red tie and white shirt. The man held out both hands, “what’s all the ruckus?”
Martha sighed, “Thank goodness, Regis-“
The man interrupted Martha, “Where are your manners, Miss Jones? It’s Doctor Jensen.”
Regis looked to Tina, “I am assistant to the hospital administrator here at Lister. I humbly apologise that our performance this evening has been less than satisfactory. Would you like somewhere quiet to talk?”
Tina fumed, “Thank you.” Accompanying Regis, she scorned the staff through a seething stare, Martha in particular.
The Doctor, meanwhile, sat up in her hospital bed in a patient gown, looking at the grief-stricken woman. “Maybe she returned to apply for a refund for the shoddy surgery?” He murmured to himself.
Lifting his glass, the Doctor sipped it until it was empty, just like the jug. Seeing the staff were occupied, he climbed out of bed and walked toward the bathroom adjoining his ward. He started to fill the glass at the basin and unclasped his fingers. The Doctor’s indifference to his surroundings was evident. His reaction to the glass shattering on the tiled floor was second place to the man he saw in the mirror. He gasped, standing back, and shook his head. Raising his hands, the young man pressed his back against the wall and sunk into the floor with gritted teeth, shouting, “What is happening to me?!”
