Variable Similitude
(or When a Duck isn't a Duck)
1.
If there was one thing John Benton liked best, it was a nice, uninterrupted cup of tea. Piping hot, maybe with a thin-sliced bit of sponge and jam, perfection after a properly uneventful stroll around the perimeter under the stars.
So why was it so difficult to ever have some? Either someone else had eaten all the sponge, the jam was empty or the tea was cold. Or something happened to interfere with his star-gazing (aside from the seemingly perpetual cloud-cover) and he would end up like he was tonight: looking up at the cheery yellow rectangle of window where he knew the tea was brewing and wishing he were there instead of where he was, which was hiding behind a rubbish tip and hoping whatever it was out there would either understand English and be a reasonable sentient creature, or that it would at least be potentially stopped by bullets.
He inwardly sighed and checked his gun. He could just make out one of the sentries from where he was; the man was inexplicably just standing there, as if for all the world there wasn't anything amiss. Benton wondered what had been done to him - surely he wouldn't be so casual if he'd been blinded or deafened. Considering the way things had been going over the past year or so, he decided it was most likely hypnotism which didn't bode well. Frankly, he'd rather face some sort of alien whatsit.
He shifted his stance, alarmed and frustrated. The movement repeated, a slow, man-sized movement coming right up to the sentry, who remained where he was, staring off across the lot as if daydreaming. Benton knew if he were to shout a warning or even give a warning shot it could go badly; the intruder might turn desperate and violent. And if the sentry had been hypnotised somehow it would do the man no good, and possibly harm him.
The movement of the intruder could now be seen as a silhouette, moving stealthily forward. It lifted up slightly; a taller man, hopefully alone. A motion near the sentry was followed by a faint metallic click, the sound of a gun being checked or readied. There was no more time for wondering, Benton knew he had to do something.
The Sergeant stood, his own firearm aimed and steady. "You there! Stop where you are! Drop your weapon!" The sentry didn't even react, but the other figure did; it turned and the arms came upward, but not in a gesture of surrender. And he knew there was a gun.
Nothing for it then. He grimaced and shot, aiming only to wing his mystery adversary, but the other man was moving faster than he'd expected and he didn't know if his aim was true. There was a small cry of pained surprised and the man fell. Benton was out from behind the tip in a flash, running to disarm him while he was down. He had no idea where he'd hit him, but it obviously hadn't been fatal.
As he came closer, his insides suddenly clenched in a different kind of fear. The figure that lay crumpled on the paving in the dim light was someone he knew, and knew well. He bent, gently, fearfully turning the velvet-clad shoulder upward.
It was the Doctor.