t was a dark and stormy night.
It's a rather contrite way to open a story to be sure, but the cliché really can't be helped – it was dark, it was stormy and well, it was also night.
While we are stating the facts of events, rather than the events themselves, it should also be said that it was also cold and wet (hence the stormy.) and that there was Serious Business afoot. This Serious Business is something that our heroine is not yet privy to, having not been in the general vicinity. It was taking place on a London street, with a few zeppelins floating about through the air which mostly went unnoticed to the point of being ignored by most of the general populace.
To add to our growing list of clichés, the Serious Business which was afoot on this dark and stormy night was being attended to by people in long black cloaks, with hoods which were pulled over their heads to hide their features. They were the sort of cloaks that always seem to be present-
Oh, I should probably introduce myself. Hello! I'm the Doctor!
No, just the Doctor. That's right. Just the Doctor.
Anyway. Back to the story. The cloaks that the men were wearing were the sort of cloaks that always seem to be present in times of great nefarity (Though not a causal factor, they are equally present in times of non-nefarity as well.) and the men were huddled around the entryway to a red-brick alley, grim looks on their faces as they dumped what appeared to be a pile of leather and rags in the mouth of the already introduced back alley. They did this with an unreasonable amount of puffing and wheezing. Honestly, you humans, with your lack of respiratory bypass systems, always take so much air to do simple things! Well, it was also probably because these people also were severely out of shape, though really this isn't an excuse for inferior biology.
So they huffed and they puffed and they threw that pile of rags down in the alley. And then, with all the inconspicuousness of an elephant trying to tapdance, they disappeared with a resounding 'crack' that echoed down the whole of the deserted street.
Now, at this point, you're probably wondering what happened to our lovely heroine, whom I have mentioned but not yet fully drawn into the story. Well, now's her first moment to shine. Because it's at this point that she first steps onto the deserted street, coincidentally (purely coincidentally, honest.) moments after the men in cloaks have vacated en masse.
You can see where this is going already, can't you?
Our heroine (Rose Tyler, her name is, to save us from having to refer to her as a pathogenic substance any longer.) is a very attractive lass, slightly busty but not too much, with a very, very nice bum. Not that I've been looking, mind you, but a bum that nice, people are bound to notice. Rose has a fit body and very pretty hair that falls to her shoulder and is a dusty dark blonde with the roots just showing. She was wearing a grey woollen dress with a turtleneck over light blue jeans and was huddled down in a ski-bunny parka of an earthy brown. The scarf around her neck was a checked red-and-tan and she had white mittens on her hands – though the finger pads were dirty. She was under a large black umbrella to keep dry.
She cursed when she stepped into a puddle. Her pretty brown knee-high boots got wet. Honestly, you humans can be so particular about your clothes. Boots are designed to keep feet dry and comfortable, not to be immaculate. She, of course, kept walking – now being even more careful to avoid puddles.
The foot sticking out of the alley mouth was what grabbed her attention. And because Rose Tyler is possessed of a rather charming, if annoying, naïveté, and an overly helpful demeanour, she felt, for some odd reason that she needed to investigate. Granted, I probably would have done so to, had I been in her position, but I would have done so from a distance. Preferably with Sonic Screwdriver in hand.
So; anyway.
She trotted over to the alleyway and - to her everlasting credit - she did actually peer in and pause out of trepidation at its mouth first, before she did the absolutely mind-numbingly stupid. But, Curiosity, thy name is Rose, and it will always win in a battle of wills against better sensibilities in the Tyler family. She glanced around nervously, hugged her parka tighter to herself, hitched up her umbrella and stepped into the alley.
I remind you now that it was dark. And stormy. And night.
The foot that was in the alley mouth connects to a leg, surprisingly, which then disappears under what was just assumed to be a bundle of rags earlier. It seemed that these rags were misnamed, for they were actually not rags at all, rather they were clothing, something which is incredibly different to rags, and they were weather-beaten, but expensive looking clothing as well. I mean, I have seen some fine threads in my day (Well, all of my days.) but these were by far some of the finest clothes I have seen. To be calling them rags is a disgra-
Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I can see you looking, timelines and all that.
Oh. Right. Story.
Where was I? Oh yes. The rags-come-clothing were actually clothing something, surprise, surprise. They're wrapped around someone that looks humanoid in shape, and Rose, abandoning all of her remaining sensibilities rushed forward towards him, rolling him over and looking into a rather dashing, handsome and sexy face.
I mean, honestly, that is one delicious bit of man meat right there.
Rose, however, appeared unappreciative of just how sexy the sex god in her arms truly was, and instead looked shocked and confused. She peered closer, took in his out-of-place dress (As fine as his clothing may have been, a leather wizarding cloak isn't exactly run-of-the-mill garb, after all.) and a small crinkle of a frown appears in between her pretty brown eyes. She reached into her back pocket and withdraws a phone.
She pressed a button for speed dial and held the mobile up to her ear, sighing impatiently when the receiver of the call didn't pick up straight away.
She busied herself by looking the man over, reaching into his pockets and pulling out a beaten up wallet, opening it with a grim little frown.
"Oh! Mickey! It's Rose." She said, looking the man in front of her up and down as she spoke. "Look, I need you to send out a team to where I am. Urgently."
She listened to the phone for a moment, opening the wallet and pulling out a strange looking identification card. She could swear the photo on it was moving, but that would have just been ridiculous.
"Yeah. Right away." She said in reply to whatever Rickey the Idiot told her. "Look, don't ask questions, just do it!"
She flipped the phone closed and shoved it back into her pocket with an angry sigh. Her lips pursed into a frown as she brushed the man's hair back from his face, contemplatingly. She looked back at the ID.
"If this wallet is found, please return to Bartemius Crouch Junior." She read aloud, looking at the man in perplexion. She's so pretty when she doesn't understand something, our Rose is.
She leans in closer to look at his face, wincing slightly when she gets a good look at his eyes for the first time. His eyes are dead and empty, soulless one might say, and even though he's breathing and his eyes are open, no trace of recognition of even her presence graced them.
"Well, Bartemius," She said, blowing her fringe out of her eyes suddenly, "Let's get you back to Torchwood and find out why you look so much like a certain other dashing and handsome man we all know."
Well, she didn't say exactly that, but it was something along those lines. Well, it was actually "Let's get you back to Torchwood and find out why you look so much like the Doctor."
The Doctor leant back on his chair, sighing with the satisfaction of a well-written (in his opinion) first chapter of his new fanfic, the Adventures of Rose.
He had been hit with a moment of inspiration not very long ago when he was watching The Goblet of Fire on telly, and had noticed that the actor who played Barty Crouch had a surprising resemblance to himself. A dashing fellow, and it opened up the door to many prospects, he thought, and his fingers had itched to write.
Now all he had to do was sit back and wait for the praise and reviews to come. His plan was ingenious! Even the Master couldn't have thought up something better.
He just hoped that Martha wouldn't find out – he'd never live it down.
.
A/n: I am a very bad person. Even more so for the fact I am half-tempted to continue this.
Leave a little review? –shakes tin imploringly-
