Chapter One - The Encounter.
*The control room of the TARDIS*
"Come along Pond." The Doctor shouts, bounding over to the TARDIS console, twisting and pushing random dials. "We've got places to be and people to see!"
I roll my eyes and plonk myself on the spinny chair, spinning myself from side to side, as I watch him whirl around in a frenzy. "Really Doctor, this better not be another one of your bowling matches with Virginia Woolf." I say, recalling my last encounter with her, that didn't go down all that well. "I swear if I have to sit through another one of those, I'll hit her over the head with her own bowling ball."
The Doctor twists around, his long coat swishing around his legs as he does, "No, we're not scheduled another one of those until …" He looks up at the screen above his head, displaying the time, date and place we're currently in. "Five years ago."
Thank god for that, I think to myself, getting up and leaning on the console beside him. "Who are we going to see then?"
His lips start to curl up at the corners and he pokes my nose. "Prepare to be impressed, Pond. Prepare to be really impressed."
I laugh, uncontrollably. "What like last time, when we landed in the middle of the Atlantic …again." His eyes narrow slightly at my teasing. "Come on then, who are we going to see?"
He taps his nose secretively, looking me up and down. "You'll find out soon enough, but you can't wear that though."
I look down at my outfit of a shirt and a mini skirt. "What's wrong with it?" I ask defensively, remembering Rory would often question the lengths of my skirts too. "It's not that short!"
"If you say so, but still, where we're going you can't be seen wearing anything like that. Have a look in the chest." He says, fixing his bow tie and pointing at the large wooden treasure chest at my feet.
I lift the lid and start pushing random pieces of fabric over the fez that I hid in there last week, if he sees it I'll never be able to get it back off his head and I don't think he needs to look any more ridiculous than he already does. I start rummaging and pulling out impeccably long scarves, leather jackets and coats you'd picture clowns wearing, at a loss for what exactly it is I'm looking for.
"If you're not going to tell me who we're going to see at least tell me where and when."
"London, Amy. Victorian London." His eyes spark open wide with excitement as he says it. "The time when everything changed."
"Ooh, where all the men wore dashing suits!"
"I wear dashing suits!" He exclaims, straightening his bow tie and gesturing to his attire of a tweed jacket, light pinkish - red shirt and dark trousers held up by red braces that sit on his shoulders.
"If you say so Doctor." I retort playfully, and turn my attention back to the box. It's like an adults version of a dressing up box in here, it reminds me of dressing Rory up as the Doctor when we were kids.
"Ah ha!" I gasp, my fingers landing on a pretty glass-bottle green colored lace corset with lashings and lashings of silk and net. I yank it out the box and slam the lid quick, hoping he never spied the fez, and hold it up to myself. Its so pretty and it's so … short for a Victorian dress. God only knows how he accumulated it, probably one of his past friends.
I dash off and quickly pull the dress on in the TARDIS wardrobe, feeling like I've just stepped out of an episode of Downton Abbey and give a little twirl, the lace spinning out in all directions. It's so pretty, and goes so well with my biker boots.
I turn and bound down the stairs "'Ello, mate!" I say, in my best cockney accent, bouncing back up onto the console platform and grabbing onto the bar, ready to be jolted around as his hand lingers on the lever.
He looks at me blankly for a moment, as if I've said something I shouldn't have. "What?"
He shakes his head, a deep gorge of a crease forming in his skin that's both youthful and ancient. "Amelia Pond, the girl who doesn't make sense, you always find a way to surprise me."
"What on earth are you going on about?"
He discards that question completely as if I hadn't said anything at all and looks up at the console. "Hang on …" He yells, yanking the lever, firing up the WHOOSHING noises that sound like wind. We start to sway, one way then the other, gently at first but as the noises pick up speed so do we. I'm thrown like a rag doll, left then right, then back and forth and round and round an round again. I try to keep my grip on the bar but my hand slips and I'm thrown into the console and bash my hip on something hard, before I'm thrown back to my previous place on the bar. I wrap my arms around it tightly, which is about as helpful as a chocolate teapot, because no sooner do I get my grip, we stop dead with a bang. Typical.
Dragging myself up to a standing position, I give my hip a rub from where I bashed it, imagining that it's going to leave a bruise. I wonder what I bashed it on, probably a tap or the ketchup dispenser or some random thing that's useless.
The Doctor adjusts his bow tie again, and shoves his floppy hair back from his face, before giving his gangly limbs a shake and bounding over to the door like a Labrador. He clamps his hands on the handle. "Brace yourself, welcome to … " The doors fly open with crash and he drags me over the TARDIS threshold. "Victorian -"
He breaks off as we look around.
We're not in London. We're not even in the Victorian times. Yet again we're not where we're supposed to be. Instead of being surrounded by horse and carts, cobbled streets and women with big bustles and men in top hats, we're in a place that couldn't be more different.
We're in the middle of a big, slightly dingy room, with brown patterned walls with a random yellow smiley face sprayed on it. The main wall is covered in tiny holes, and there's a skull sitting on the mantle piece beside the two ancient armchairs and small sofa that's occupied by four people. Each person's eyes are wide, in disbelief as they attempt to take in what's just happened and why there are two people, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, standing in their living room after materializing in a big blue box from thin air.
"Something tells me this isn't Victorian London." I mutter, jabbing The Doctor with my elbow.
I look at the people sitting, staring at us with eyes as wide as buttons. Alarm bells start to ring inside my head as my eyes land on one person. Something in my head screams like a siren, as I look him over, he looks familiar but I don't know why. My eyes fixate on him, taking in every detail of him, scouring my mind trying to find a match or a memory of this man. Maybe he looks like someone I know, I conclude.
He's so gaunt, so long, so pale, with cheekbones like razors and hair so dark and curly. Who on earth could he look like? And why do I feel like I know him?