[Author's Note: As this is my first fanfic and first time writing for an already existing being, please be kind! Although I do enjoy a nice critique!]

ɸ The Beginning ɸ

Press these buttons, pull that lever, jiggle that knob, and twist that wheel. It really wasn't that complicated, he thought. He never understood why all of his companions could never get the hang of it… well all except for Romana, and that was the only exception. She was an exception. And of course he did put a bit of show into it; pushing, pulling, wheeling, turning, flipping things that really weren't necessary and/or functional anymore. There seemed to be a lot of that now days. Too much show, too much flash and bang. It was really getting out of hand and he didn't quite know when to stop. Of course they delighted in it, the companions. They enjoyed the over-the-top performances he gave, and the even idea of doodad jiggery whatnots seemed to orgasm the most stiff-upper lipped.

He desperately needed air. He felt too poked, too prodded, too stretched, and too… well just too. He had set the destination for the best place when one starts to feel too too'd. His hands in the classic thinking man's position, he mused on.

He watched the console churn about in its labor, the centerpiece hard at work. He and the TARDIS were getting much too old for this. He'd been saying that for a couple of centuries now, and in time he was getting more and more morose. He didn't like it, not one bit, but even in that thinking made him gloomier. Time was marching on, and not as sedately as he remembered it, but going on at a faster pace. He would like to think it was because he was getting older, but knew deep down in his hearts that the real reason was that there were no Time Lords to keep track of it, to gently nudge it back into its place before real havoc occurred. That was the trouble with time. When not controlled, it was a force to be reckoned with, like a tiny stream of water being flooded with the ocean. It destroys, erodes, hides and reappears out of nowhere. Time as a renegade, a fugitive! The very idea would have offended The Council, to have time go willy-nilly about the place like a tramp. But now there was nothing, no Council, no Time Lords, no Gallifrey—just him.

Not even his companions stayed long now. Tourists! That's what most of them were. Go see the sights, see the danger, say ooh and ahh, take pictures, and then jump back on a boat home. He felt as if he was a tour guide to some awesome wonder that all the visitors could never notice or appreciate the full value. As soon as they catch a glimpse of it, they abandon ship or were taken away. Or maybe he was the sideshow. Maybe he was the circus freak in the box that the universe craves to see, and then refuses to pay the extra pound to hear what he has to say.

Just when he was about to enter some other profound, heartsrending thought, the TARDIS materialized. Rapheyon Delta: the ultimate solace planet. Or at least one of the Solace Planets in the mega chain that the Comfort Corp. had established in the past hundred years. He was taking a holiday.

ɸ

The boy lounged about on the hill, idly watching the grazing sheep. How he hated shepherding! So dull to watch stupid sheep mull about eating all day and then go and be stupid somewhere else on a different patch of land and eat there as well. Although it was better than one of them getting stuck in some odd place and having to rescue them, narrowly avoiding being kicked and bit to death. He loathed the smell and the noises they made—it grated on his senses like no other. He couldn't imagine why some would think that they were pristine white and were delicate like fluffy clouds on land. They smelled of old piss and were of the same color as well.

He twisted the grass with his fingers, uprooting some and throwing it in the strong wind. The sun beat down on the boy, taking away the harsh coldness the wind could sometimes inherit in the Delta Valley. The only noises were the wind whisking through the grass and the horrible sheep down below. But then again… something else happened. A noise he would never forget for the rest of his life occurred. It echoed about in the valley, back and forth, and the boy, not knowing where it was, was unprepared. Of course, as Mortimer stood, he would have never been prepared for what his eyes saw.

He would definitely get a lashing from his mum, he decided. Too much leisure and imagination and not enough hard work, she would say. When the apparition did not waiver, he ran home, gladly taking a beating for abandoning the flock because of some odd fantasy than to stay and see what would happen to the nasty sheep.

ɸ

Something was wrong. He could feel it. Something had happened in between stopping and materialization, but what he wasn't sure. He heard a rustling sound on the other side of the control center, yet no one appeared to be there.

"Hello?" asked The Doctor, "Anyone there?"

An answer was given, though not in a human dialect, as would befit this planet, and more rustling occurred from the other side. It was getting restless, whatever it was, and either that or it had ten legs.

"Maa-h!"

Puzzled, The Doctor crouched down and peered under the main console table. A sheep peered back at him. Four legs, he corrected himself and grinned.

"Maaaaa-hh?!"

ɸ

"I had heard you saw an odd thing in the fields today, Mortimer?"

"Yes, sir" answered Mort dutifully to the village's highly respected magistrate. "Mum said it was 'cause I think too much and don't pay no mind to the sheep."

"Your mum's right," said the magistrate, ignoring the boy's lack of grammar etiquette. "A good and honest shepherd watches over his sheep like his own children. Where was your flock located this morning, boy?"

"Down by the stream wif the rocky bits innit and the two treefs wif one leanin over like it's tired an' asleepin." Mort purposefully lapsed into garbled toddler talk. His entire plan was to appear so childish that the magistrate would have to send someone to get the flock, in fear that the 'children' would be lost forever by the hands of some inept kid. He predicted an afternoon off, he hoped.

"Very well boy, run along and I'll see that your flock has not gone astray." The magistrate guided him to the side and sighed. Unknown to Mort, this reason was exactly what the magistrate wanted.

Finally a good excuse! This child is obviously too young to tend to sheep, and luckily too young to have realized what actually occurred on the fields today. Whomever, or whatever, he corrected himself, had the gall to land a spaceship on a Class 18 Planet would be in so much court trouble, they'd have to not only hand over all their possessions but their lives as well. Possessions including that ship that evaded all our radar signals, warnings, and missile defense systems, he grimaced. Technology these days could do anything and it was getting harder and harder to stop raiding pirates and unwanted souls coming in contact with the Solace Planets.

He hoped, to whatever heavenly celestial body was in vogue at the moment, that this ship didn't carry any Sentient-ial Rights advocates. Purposefully keeping a planet in the dark was apparently against some hippies' ideals of living. Obviously these tecchies didn't realize that with more technology, the more overwhelmed and distraught a person becomes. The Comfort Corp. had created an ultimate getaway from technology! A recovery for the mind, body, and if applicable, soul.

As if he had already decided this would be a messy situation, he signaled for backup. Of course the village would be monitored by satellites; every precaution had to be made. Signaling was to be made by arm gestures and the vivacious technicians would interpret these waves and send out the message accordingly. If noticed by the natives, the stretching of one's arms would be the answer. The natives, who were not as idiotic as the corporation would believe, thought the magistrate peculiar with his complicated arm stretches. The magistrate, fluent in arm-ese, sent out a signal to command.

ɸ

The Doctor was trying to send the wayward sheep down the ramp and out through the doors, but the task was proving fruitless so far, as the sheep had other things to think about. Such as: Mmaaah?, Maah?, and the often thought MAAAAAAAH! Corralling the sheep, he tried coaxing it.

"There's plenty of nice green grass out there, my friend. Not that much in here, I'm afraid. Though it would be a nice sort of carpeting idea, very mod, but a bit too much needy and too much work to keep it satisfied. Hm. Sounds a bit like someone I knew once. Not the carpeting idea, that would be a bit messy, walking all over her and well... you get the point. HAyah! Comeon' you! Allonzay…. " He pushed it out the door despite its reluctance to leave.

The Doctor exited the TARDIS as well, and entered a field… of sheep. He was an island in a sea of sheep. Hundreds of them were mulling about the TARDIS and contentedly pulling up grass around him. A happily bubbling brook nearby caused the Doctor to pause and reflect for a moment.

"How… Quaint? I don't think I've ever used that word in my entire lives. Hm. Don't you find it confusing that the same word sheep is used for the plural of you as well?" He casually commented to a contented grazer, and began his wading through the tides of wool. "It could be disastrous, say a sheep farmer wants to sell his sheep, but the buyer doesn't know how many sheep he was buying. It could be just one sheep or it could be twenty sheep. And sheeps just doesn't soun---unf!"

This is where the Doctor was aptly tackled by a bunch of barrel-chested men clad in dark clothes.