Chapter 1: Underground
London, England.
She was, of course, an alien, but only one person on Earth knew that. He was an alien too, but no one suspected him, either.
Everyone staring at her vaguely annoyed her, but it didn't worry her unduly, and it was to be expected if you visited a planet where you looked so unlike the residents. Oh, she was alike enough to arouse suspicion. She had the same number of limbs, in the same places, the same facial features and so on, but she was just unlike enough to attract attention.
At just over six feet in height, she was far taller than most of the females on this planet, and her arms and neck were long enough to alter the proportions of her slender body. Her hair, which reached below her knees, was a dark, bright blue, and along with her simple, loose fitting black clothing it contrasted her chalky white skin to perfection. Her heavy silver rings, along with the hoops in her ears and lip, and the studs in her tongue and eyebrow gleamed in the bright, artificial light. Above the collar of her long, leather coat, a tattoo of a wolf the same shade of indigo as her eyes wound up her neck.
Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at a Burberry-cap wearing youth whose intentions she didn't like the feel of. He was on the platform across from her, the tracks between them. He soon realised that he wouldn't be able to stare her down, as she didn't seem to need to blink.
He glanced away for a second as a train thundered past, the confined space of the underground increasing the noise tenfold. Nevertheless, over the almost deafening roar, he could have sworn he heard something else. An odd, pulsating, almost grating sound, unlike anything he'd ever heard.
When the tail end of the train disappeared, he received a nasty shock. In the space of about ten seconds, a telephone booth had appeared out of nowhere. It was weird looking though, really old fashioned. He wasn't the only one staring.
The alien girl groaned inwardly, and ducked her head. So much for inconspicuous. As the door slid open, she muttered something in a language that no one listening would have understood. Very aware of everyone in the reasonably crowded station staring, she moved a hand to her forehead, still muttering.
A tall, thin man with dark, cropped hair leaned out of the booth, looked around, spotted her and grinned. His voice stood out from the listening Londoners as strikingly northern, but they couldn't place hers. African? Jamaican? Definitely tropical. But she was so pale, even by British standards.
Shaking her head, she turned and walked into the box. He closed the door behind them, and with that bizarre noise, the booth disappeared.
Inside the TARDIS, she leaned against a wall and watched him move around, flicking levers and pushing buttons.
"So, wherr arr we goin' den?"
He glanced up at her.
"Sunnydale. Southern California."