1) Closer and Closer
It was heading right for them. At the moment, it was still a tiny blue speck in the distance, barely visible amongst the other orbs joining it. One word hung in his mind, refusing to budge or give way; Earth…
Henderson groaned quietly to himself, hitting the console in front of him gently. Just enough to vent some of his anger, but not enough to do any serious damage. A blown computer was the last thing they needed right now.
"How close are they?" he sighed, turning to the other pilots beside him. The duo of them, Ferrys and Chet, were bracing against the door. Not that it would do any good, of course – it was a bulkhead that rose and fell when used, and without any form of grip or handle. Resistance, it seemed, was futile.
"Not long. All six of them are just down the corridor," replied Ferrys, his eyes wide with faint terror. "I saw them on the camera…before they shot it out."
"Great. Absolutely perfect."
Desperate to change the topic, Chet rang up:
"Any luck changing the flight path?"
"No," answered Henderson, a grimace plastered over his face. "It's no good. They've double, triple, quadruple-encoded it. It'd take us years to sort it out.
A fire broke out on the bulkhead – the metal hull around it glowed a faint orange in response.
"No…" whispered Ferrys, his voice a mere whisper, as the air almost floated out of his body. "No, they can't be here already. It's too soon!"
"Hang on…" Chet said, his eyes widening with excitement. Lightbulb moment! "If we can isolate the ventilation systems for this deck…" he said, running over to the nearest computer console. "…then we can use the seal on the bulkheads to drain them of all oxygen. It'd kill them!"
"Can we do that?" Henderson replied, following Chet, standing by his side. "I mean, do we have the time?"
"It's better than just waiting here…" Ferrys decided, joining the other two. "It's definite death against very likely death,"
"We have to stop. Whatever the cost," agreed Chet, sealing the fate.
Something went wrong. The orange glow on the bulkhead finally pierced the metal – the seal was broken.
For a silent moment, the three men stared at the new hole, as if they could close it back up again if they wished hard enough for it. But it wasn't to be. The hole kept on growing, the hue consumed the cold grey metal eternally.
Without uttering so much as a sigh, Henderson strode over to the console, and placed his hand on the lever. Chet had already keyed in the correct sequence, and it was only a matter of pulling the lever, and it would be done. He glanced at his comrades, and they nodded in reply – let's do it.
With one last defiant motion, Henderson tugged on the lever, and it was over. The air ducts sucked whatever was left of the oxygen out of the deck, extinguishing the flame and filling the room with silence. The trio of men paused in the air, barely able to move, just marionette puppets with the strings chopped away.
It probably didn't even register anymore, but Henderson could've sworn that as he slowly rotated towards the punctured bulkhead, a quiet smirk of victory filled his face. It didn't matter who came through by this point, it didn't matter what they did, it didn't matter whatever the cost had been…Henderson had won.
The flashing lights danced in the air to the music of metal tinkling upon metal, as the Doctor twirling the spoons between his fingers.
"Stop it, Doctor…" chided Mel, as she swatted away the instruments from her. She was not in the mood for the spoons at the moment. Not that she was particularly fond of them at the best of times, that is…
At this precise moment, the sun was pounding down relentlessly on the Earth below, slowly boiling the people below half to death. Using the notepad in her hands, she fanned herself, trying desperately to beat back the sweat. Thanks to the regular aerobics, she didn't normally sweat, but this was a special occasion.
Amazingly, the Doctor wasn't even breaking a sweat, despite the jacket he had on, complete with pullover and shirt underneath. He was the same as he always was; just a little distracted, his mind working on five different problems and a fruitcake recipe at the same time. Against this, Mel was barely keeping cool in the long white dress, with green polka dots, her ginger curls let loose.
Within a second, the Doctor had replaced the spoons in his jacket pocket, and instead balanced his head on top of the umbrella, staring into the distance pensively. Slowly, he breathed in and let out an enormous sigh, his face drooping a little with the motion.
The two were currently sat on the steps outside the train station, waiting for the next train to arrive. The station inside was an oven, and whilst the outside wasn't much cooler, the scant breeze didn't go unappreciated.
"When's the next train?" Mel asked for what seemed like the thousandth time – she knew the answer, anyway. The next trains were at 15:02, 15:25, 15:46 and 15:59, for the next hour or so. Given the current time – ten to three – they wouldn't have to wait much longer. Naturally, the Doctor didn't reply, focused on the horizon.
"You chose here, Mel…" he muttered, mostly to himself. Again. Here, naturally, being Liverpool – Lime Street Station, to be specific. The front of the station was masked by a square web of scaffolding – replacing the glass panes, something along those lines. As a result, the typically scenic station was instead more of a landmine than a landmark.
"But you chose the train," Mel replied, her voice more teasingly than vindictive. Frankly, she was a little glad of her small victory over the Time Lord.
"Fascinating things, trains…one of the most common violations of the Temporal Laws. Never know if they'll be on time or not…"
Mel chucked, turning away from the Doctor. He was still a little erratic since the regeneration; still, it paled in comparison to the earlier Doctor, who looked like a stunt double for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, and spoke like a child who'd memorised the thesaurus a few times.
Suddenly, a great roaring sounded in the sky above them. Every head on the steps peered skywards, wondering what the bizarre sound was. They abandoned their activities and conversations, now much more interested in the strange sight.
A giant ship, mottled grey and a trail of fire blazing behind it, roared through the sky, black smoke billowing from its rear end. It's engines, like the ground splitting open, groaned and screamed, desperate to lift the great bulk of metal a few metres further above the ground, to dodge the station it was zooming towards, closer and closer.
"Doctor!" Mel called, turning to face him. "What is it?"
"Sh, Mel, sh!" the Doctor replied insistently, shielding his eyes from the sun with his spare hand. "I'm concentrating!"
Something went right in the ship, and the engines clicked back into place. One final burst of energy transformed the painful orange hue into a bright blue flash, and the ship picked up speed, turning towards the sky and fast becoming a faint silver prick in the brilliant blue of the sky.
"Fascinating!" the Doctor noted, somewhat cheerfully, turning to face Mel. "An Alpha-type trans-galactic scow! I haven't seen one of those since…"
However, his sentence trailed off as he spun around, taking in his surroundings. The scorching heat, the blinding daylight, the distant chatter was all gone. He was alone, in the dark and cold.
"Mel…?" he murmured quietly, spinning around to search for her. But she was gone. Everyone was gone. He was completely, and utterly, alone.
A spotlight boomed on above him, blinding him temporarily. The Doctor pulled off his panama hat in reaction, shielding his eyes.
"Good evening!" he cried, grateful for the company. "I'm the Doctor…and who might you be?"
"You are a non-terrestial. Correct?" the voice echoed in reply. Emotionless and monotonous…probably a computer.
"I'm sorry?"
"This is correct. Our scanners revealed your biological makeup to differ from all native lifeforms on this planet. You are Number 3,"
"No, I'm known as the Doctor," he said, attempting to doff his hat in greeting.
"You are Number 3. The evidence corroborates the facts,"
"You're mistaken!" the Doctor cried one last, time extending his arms to the spotlight. Somehow, he didn't move an inch with the action.
"You are known as Number 3. You have been captured. You will face punishment,"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You will die."
Mel looked around in a slightly mad panic – where had the Doctor gone? The crowd surrounding her hadn't seemed to notice a thing; they continued with their lives, almost forgetting the spaceship that had almost crashed into them a few seconds ago.
"Doctor?" she asked, picking up the notepad from beside her, and started to walk over to the station front. Perhaps he had seen something, or someone, and walked over in one of his dazes.
The station, as one would expect, was almost completely empty. Most people had preferred to wait outside in the breeze than bake inside. A few builders lazily worked away on the scaffolding above her, and some stall attendants forced to stay at their posts whilst everyone else enjoyed the weather.
"Get 'em out, love!" hollered one of the workers from above, peering down on her. Without thinking, Mel craned her head up a few degrees to acknowledge the voice, before instantly cursing herself. The worker, about twice her age and not showing it well, grinning a largely toothless grin, laughing up clots of saliva.
Mel groaned to herself, before returning her attention to the Doctor. After a brief moment of decision, she entered the train station.
From across the street, cloaked under the shade of a towering building, the man watched her, through the noir tint of sunglasses. Gingerly, he pulled out a long, thin cigarette and placed it into his mouth, before sparking the end. As the tip of the cigarette began to flame, he sucked on the opposite end, before breathing out the stream of smoke, through a set of pursed lips. His gaze never left Mel.
As he strode across to Mel, he dropped the stub, still flaming slightly, onto the stone ground beside him, dropping it like a bomb from a fighter plan.
"Excuse me?" he stated to Mel, facing her dead on, the slightest whiff of an American drawl in his voice. She spun around in response, a little confused.
"Yes?"
"I think you better come with me,"
Mel started to object, her face on the verge of screwing up in mild irritation and a hint of humour. Then the man pulled out the gun. Small, bulky, about as graceful as a brick.
"I think I better had…" Mel muttered, accepting defeat.
The man brandished the gun – move, move! Mel glanced over at the crowd, around twenty metres away; why hadn't they noticed? Were they all blind?! With a gentle click, the hammer of the gun was pulled back, readying it. So it was real.
"Where to?" Mel asked, her voice trembling for a second with worry.
"I'll show you the way." came the reply.
Slowly, the two of them marched away from the station in single file. The man concealed the weapon in his jacket pocket, the muzzle still aimed towards Mel, his finger never abandoning the trigger.
The light intensified, and the Doctor began to crumple, falling towards the floor slowly but surely. Eventually, he dropped to his knees, holding his head in his hands. An anguished cry escape his lips, and his eyes were clamped shut, trying to lock out the agony brought on by the light.
The booming voice spoke up one last time:
"You. Will. Die…"