Prologue
This fanfic is a joint effort written by the brilliant Amethyst Princess 27 and myself. The main characters are original characters from some of our other fanfictions. The Professor and Sir Kay, My creations, and Venn, AP's creation... I hope she doesn't mind me calling her that.
Anyways, if you like this story, you'll enjoy these character's other stories, so please feel free to check them out... no seriously, please do... Please?
And as always, thank you eternally for reading.
Mark Bendrick straightened, wiping the sweat from his eyes… He glanced down to the old watch at his wrist. It was high noon…
He scoured the barren landscape surrounding him and scowled. He had always thought that the west had… a little more foliage. From what he'd noticed so far, the only thing the west had plenty of was dust and heat.
Mark sighed and stepped down from the stagecoach. The driver looked back to him curiously as he dusted off his suit, he had gotten that stare from almost everyone lately. Ever since he had traveled through St. Louis, Mark had been the center of everyone's attention.
He didn't like the stares and whispers. He wouldn't even have come, if it hadn't been his obligation to. His older sister had died here, in the little town of Thistleback, about three months ago.
The telegram was strange, there was talk of two long riders who smelled of death and fired weapons that shot lightning bolts instead of bullets. A man in the last town said that it was as if they were already dead themselves, their eyes glazed, their flesh bloating-
Now that he thought of it that man had the smell of whiskey about him, and a lot of it… That settled it. It was all a bunch of lies. Pure nonsense!
Nonsense or not, his sister was dead. He had come to pay his respects, gather her belongings, and high tail it back to New York as fast as he could. The frontier life just didn't suit him.
Mark shook his head, grabbing his suitcases as they were handed to him, then he turned and headed towards the closest saloon he could find. The first building he saw was a tavern and inn called the Bluejay.
Mark crossed the empty street without a problem and looked around at the town. There wasn't a single living thing in sight. Perhaps he had gotten off at the wrong stop? No. A sign near the tavern door confirmed that he was in fact in the little town of Thistleback, home to fifty-two poor souls out in this dusty west.
Now that he thought about it… The town seemed fairly deserted for midday. Some of the buildings were charred, a few showed signs of repair work while others were still in a state of blackened disrepair. It almost appeared as if there had been a fire…
No… Nonsense! Weapons that fired lightning bolts? There was no way!
"Mr. Bendrick?"
Mark jumped at the sudden voice. He turned to the left and was approached by a heavyset, balding man, appearing to be in his forties or fifties. He wore a wide brimmed black hat, and a black waistcoat. A golden star was pinned to his lapel.
"Are you Sheriff Madron?" Mark asked.
"That's me." The Sheriff said, politely tipping his hat. "I take it you're Mark Bendrick. Here 'bout your sister."
"Yes sir." he replied.
"A shame really." The Sheriff said sadly. "So many died that day. I thought the whole town was gonna get killed off."
"What happened?" Mark asked. "Are all those stories true?"
The Sheriff beckoned Mark to follow as he headed for the saloon. "Let's get you your room first." He said. "I'll explain on the way to Alice's old place."
"Did you know my sister?" Mark asked, surprised the sheriff had used her first name.
The Sheriff smiled. "Boy, in a small town like Thistleback, everyone knows everyone." He said, pushing the saloon doors open. "Now I'll be waitin' for you out front, so don't take too long."
Mark quietly asked for a room, was handed a key, and headed up the stairs. The saloon, despite being, well, a saloon, was fairly quiet…
He entered his room and, after looking around, sighed. A small wooden bed was up against the wall furthest from him, a wooden dresser against the wall to his right. There was a small mirror above the dresser, and a nightstand with an oil lamp on it next to the bed. A small rug lay at the foot of the bed, and there was a door on the wall to his left that led to a small bathroom. It had once been a fairly decent hotel room, but years of use had left their toll.
Ah well, beggars can't be choosers.
Mark placed his luggage on the bed, then sat down and put his head in his hands. He was exhausted from the long trip in the stagecoach. He just wanted a quick moment of peace and quiet, to gather his nerves to finish off this stressful day…
A loud, grating noise suddenly tore through the silence, making him jump. A white wooden door materialized right in front of him. He yelled in alarm, falling off the bed in surprise.
He stared at the door in amazement. It was nothing but a white door on a white frame, with the number 503 painted in gold on the top of the frame.
Mark stood and peered around the door curiously. There was nothing on the other side, just the backside of the door. A door… in the middle of his room…
The door opened.
Or tried to at least, it was too close to the bed, and the door only opened a fraction of the way, where it was stopped, with a thump, by the bed frame.
Mark took a step back and jumped when his leg made contact with the bed behind him. He slowly sat down on the top of the covers frozen in fright and surprise, a surprise made even greater when…
"What the-… Crap! This isn't the Bluejay!" A musical voice flitted out of the door.
"Well isn't this great!" A low voice responded. "How the hell are we gonna get out?"
"Hold on! I'm thinking…" The musical voice responded.
"…
…
I can fit through there... yeah, then I'll just move the door back."
"Ha!" The low voice laughed. "You're gonna try PICKING UP the TARDIS? That's the- … wait, that might work!"
Mark suddenly rediscovered his voice, and used it to scream as a teenage boy stuck his head out the door. He had short blonde hair, teased up in the front, with sharp blue eyes. His pale skin caught the light in a very odd way…
He stared at Mark in distaste. "So this IS the Bluejay…" He muttered. "Hmm… Hey!" He asked Mark. "What day is it?"
"Wh-wh-wha?" Mark stammered.
"Come on!" The boy groaned. "I thought the west was one of the manly man eras! Where… Men felt they had to prove they were men by being… well… manly! Not cowering and stammering the first time they see something that… well, doesn't make sense!"
"Wha- What?" Mark stammered.
"What." The boy enunciated slowly. "Day. Is. It?"
"F-f-f-Friday!" Mark said.
"Friday the…" The boy trailed off.
"Friday the twen-twenty-seventh! September!" Mark spluttered.
"The twenty seventh?" The boy raised an eyebrow. "So this is before… That frickin!... She screwed up the controls!"
He fumed, putting a hand up to his eyes. "I told her! That's not the vortex manipulator! That's the handbrake! She said: 'What century are you from?' " He said in a mocking, high pitched voice.
" 'One where Timelords aren't frickin' bunglers like you!' I told her." He said to himself, continuing. "…Bungler. Where did that come from? That's a new one, new word. This mind," he puts a finger to his forehead. "Brilliant! Comes up with everything."
"Where was I?" he pauses momentarily. "Gah! She annoys the HELL out of me!"
"You liked her didn't you?" The low voice laughed, muffled by the door.
The boy paused then smiled politely at Mark. "Hang on a second will you?" He said.
His head disappeared back through the door. Mark froze, completely shocked. He heard shouting, as if it was coming from another room, coming from the door… The boy stuck his head back through the slightly open door, making Mark jump again. His blonde hair appeared slightly disheveled.
"Right!" the boy said. "Sorry! Just… passing through and what not! Thanks for the update on what day it is and all! Love to chat, but, um… I'm busy! Very busy! So, thanks again!"
The boy slammed the door. As he did, a small spark came off the doorframe, jumping all the way from the base of the bed to the oil lamp on the bedside table. The grating noise started up again, and, like it had arrived, the door vanished.
Mark sat there, completely stunned, for a good ten minutes…
Then he quietly picked up his luggage, headed down the stairs, gave the key back to the barkeep, and walked through the door.
"What's wrong?" The Sheriff asked. He was sitting on a bench right outside the saloon. "Why do you-"
"Is the stagecoach still here?" Mark asked politely, his face white.
"Why, yes." The Sheriff said bewilderedly. "Why do you ask?"
"…I'm leaving." Mark said simply.
He marched down the steps of the saloon, across the little town, and straight up to the stagecoach. It was exactly where it had been…
"Leaving?" The Sheriff said incredulously. "You haven't been here five minutes! Why would you?- What about?-"
"Thank you for your hospitality," Mark said stiffly, handing his bags to the stagecoach driver, along with a large clump of bills. "But I'm afraid I cannot stay here any longer." He mechanically climbed into the coach. "Good day, sir." He said, the words stumbling out of his mouth. "Driver?" He said. "Take me… just… same place we were just at… anywhere but… please…"
The stagecoach driver turned and looked back towards the door of the coach, surprised and confused…
"WELL!? LET'S GO!" Mark shrieked at the driver.
The driver jumped, then cracked the reins. Dust flew up from the ground as the coach raced from Thistleback and into the horizon…
The spark glistened on the metallic surface of the oil lamp, like gasoline on water…
Suddenly, it crackled, and shot off the lamp and onto the rug at the foot of the bed…
It began to grow… Moving back and forth on the rug, creating static electricity… It sparkled upwards, gaining form, pigment, and substance and slowly the crackling mass turned into…
An exact copy of Mark Bendrick.
It looked at its right hand, and wiggled its fingers. Then it turned and looked into the mirror. Seeing its reflection, it smiled, a spark twinkling in its eyes.
"And so." It said, with the young Bendrick's accent. "It begins."