Notes: Set sometime in season six, probably before A Good Man Goes to War. Tell me what you think!
They won't listen.
Rory knows that even before the Doctor begins his posturing. The Doctor's a bit unfair, and not just because pitting him against anything less than a fully-fledged army is like bringing an atomic bomb to a fist fight.
It's an evil regime, this time. He's pretty sure about that. The head of it is a slick and suited human, listening to the Doctor's threats (pronouncements, more like) with condescending amusement. Rory's a little unclear on what he's in charge of, exactly. Something oppressive and terrible. They've seen its effects on the reptilian natives: once-glossy scales dulled by grime and illness, sensitive nostrils blistered from smoke and chemicals, bright yellow eyes glazed with exhaustion and pain. Maybe it's some sort of business monopoly, controlling the resources. That seems about right.
It doesn't matter, anyway. It won't exist tomorrow.
It hurt children.
The Doctor has, at the moment, no weapons, no leverage, and no plan. Rory can't blame Slick-and-Suited for laughing. He can and does blame him for a lot of other things – infants starved for overpriced food, parents worked to bone in horrifying conditions, entire families poisoned by improperly disposed of waste – so he doesn't feel that bad for what he knows will happen next.
This is the exception which proves Rule One. When the Doctor says that he will tear down Slick-and-Suited's empire brick by brick, he means it.
When he says that there's another option, he means that, too, but it doesn't matter. Maybe to the Doctor's conscience, probably to Amy, standing tall and proud and adoring at his side, but not to Slick-and-Suited or his company.
They aren't listening. Why should they? When he's moving, which is most of the time, the Doctor looks like an overgrown eleven-year-old in his grandfather's clothes. In the rare moments when he's still, he looks old and weary. In neither case would anyone guess that he's capable of what he's promising. That he's capable of almost anything.
Slick-and-Suited has finally had enough. He signals to the guards to have them thrown out, and they are dragged away. Rory gives a few token protests, Amy kicks and squirms and makes things difficult (but there are no teeth involved, so she's not really fighting), and the Doctor just keeps talking, his ultimatums sliding into pleas as desperation leaks into his tone. They don't want to make him do this (he doesn't want to do it, but he will); if they would just think; if they would just listen –
They don't listen.
They never do.