Author's Notes
The sixth part in the Twelfth Doctor Adventures.
The story so far…
The Doctor's finally rewarded Charlie with a TARDIS key. He might have earned the Time Lord's trust, but they've seen each other's darkest thoughts, and the Doctor knows the boy is keeping something from him.
He wants to find out what, but that might just put them in more danger.
The Doctor had been in worse situations. Not many, but there were several he could name.
Just a few days ago, he'd almost been killed by an Arachnid. If it weren't for Charlie, he might never have made it into another spot of deadly peril.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire, he mused.
Well, more like an endless wave of frying pans, and they were all already on fire, spitting flames like a dragon having a sneezing fit. What was it they used to say about the Doctor's dangerous lifestyle?
At present, the Doctor was standing on a stage, surrounded by dozens of chanting people. There were hundreds more watching, projected on holographic viewscreens stretched out across the wall of the chamber.
Good so far, yes?
No. For tonight, the Doctor was the main act, and the show he was about to perform was his own execution.
The chanting had grown more intense. Despite the Doctor's above average hearing, he couldn't make out any of the words the crowd were screaming. It was lost in the sheer noise of the ecstatic roars of this alien population.
The Doctor was 86 percent certain he'd make it out of this one intact. That number had dropped a little over the last half hour, but it was still reasonably high.
He was restrained beneath a huge column, expertly painted gunmetal-grey to look like an ancient weapon; an historical artefact, a relic of a hundred massacres. Crackling arcs of purple electricity webbed across the ceiling of the room, converging on the weapon, supposedly powering up the deadly laser.
The Doctor knew it was all just for show. Everyone loved a spectacle. He'd seen the weapon being set up this morning. The spitting bolts of electricity didn't actually do anything.
He had to applaud the set design, if nothing else. At least, he would if his hands weren't bound.
He was currently shackled up in these overly high-tech restraints, completely encapsulating his hands, and occasionally zapping him with high voltage shocks.
Fortunately, these primitives didn't understand Time Lord biology, and vastly underestimated his capacity for pain. At best, the shocks were mildly irritating.
Unfortunately, they had confiscated his sonic screwdriver, which made escape that little bit trickier. Not that he'd have been able to get to it anyway. Not with his hands trapped inside orbs the size of bowling balls.
The odds were not promising.
Even so, the Doctor had been in worse situations than this. He could count on his fingers the number of stickier spots he'd been in. Taking all of his past lives into account, that was 29 hands, making a total of 232 fingers. (If you weren't including thumbs.)
There was an outburst of roars, and applause.
The Doctor hadn't been paying attention to the announcer's speech, but it was evidently time to activate the Big Death Machine. Of Death.
That probably wasn't its name, but the Doctor was willing to bet that it was something along those lines. He'd stake his life on it. (Not that he'd need to)
In the event that they did get around to delivering a lethal charge of concentrated laser fire straight to his nervous system, which may or may not disintegrate him, his respiratory bypass system would kick in, and his chances of survival would increase by 22%.
Which would leave his chances of survival at… about 22%. Give or take.
If that didn't work, this angry mob would have some new fella to deal with, and he'd be a tad cross. Either way he looked at it, it was SEP.
SEP?
Somebody Else's Problem.
It was on days like these that the Doctor was really glad to have his friends around him. He could always rely on Donna, or Sarah Jane, or Peri to get him out of a sticky situation.
On second thoughts, perhaps not Peri, as fond of her as the Doctor was. She had a talent for getting them both into these kinds of situations.
However, at this moment in time, Charlie Drake was nowhere to be seen.
Useless boy. He was probably moping in a corner somewhere, smashing his phone to pieces.
There was something about the boy which couldn't be trusted. Besides, humans had such tiny brains; they were so easily distracted. He'd probably settled down and started a family or something, and forgotten about him. Perhaps one of his descendants would be intrigued by the story of how he came to this place, and would try and rescue him.
Wait, how quickly did humans breed again? Might have been getting mixed up with rabbits. Very similar. Apart from the ears.
"Stop!" a voice yelled.
Hold on… that was Charlie's voice.
The Doctor threw him a confused frown.
Where did he spring from?
Charlie was standing on the stage in front of him, his arms open wide, making sure the guards didn't step any closer.
Which was incredibly brave of him, considering the fact that the guards were armed with buzzing laser whips.
The Doctor rewound a few seconds, reviewing his memory to pick out where the boy had been hiding.
Ah, so Charlie had been quietly making his way through the crowd, his face shielded by his hoodie. He'd been concealed so well amongst the roaring crowd, no-one had noticed him approach until it was too late – not the executioners, not the cameras, not even him.
Well, he was nothing if not determined, the Doctor conceded.
"You didn't think I'd come, did you?" Charlie whispered.
"I never doubted you for a second," the Doctor grinned.
Charlie's face lit up with a genuinely surprised smile. For a moment, the Doctor was incredibly proud of the boy.
"What is the meaning of this?" the biggest executioner demanded.
"This… uh," Charlie stammered. His nerves were getting to him, and it was clear that he hadn't thought this far ahead. He glanced anxiously around at the half-dozen guards slowly advancing towards him, cracking their knuckles and coiling their whips.
There were some things the Doctor didn't quite understand about this boy. He was pretty awkward – even for a teenager – and clearly lacked a certain degree of confidence. Yet his ability to show such courage under pressure was impressive.
"This execution is… a mistake!" Charlie managed.
His raised voice was wavering; crumbling under the weight of hundreds of eyes turned on him, thirsty for the Doctor's blood.
"A mistake?" queried one of the guards, sharing a puzzled look with a colleague.
"Yeah." Charlie shot nervous glances between them.
"Nope, he's scheduled in for the seventh timeslot," the announcer spoke up, checking the notes on the holographic display circling his wrist.
The TV cameras flew in closer, capturing the drama unfold from all angles.
"Well, he shouldn't be scheduled in," Charlie retorted.
"What are you saying?" the announcer asked, patting his brightly coloured hairdo; concentrating more on his appearance for the cameras than Charlie's desperate interruption.
"I am… saying… that he's… um… innocent," Charlie croaked.
The announcer, who looked frankly ridiculous in his glittering green three-piece suit, was unmoved by Charlie's garbled protest.
"Very convincing. Good job," the Doctor muttered quietly.
Charlie threw him a look, indicating that he was being unhelpful.
The Doctor shrugged, accidentally making eye contact with one of the burly guards, who grimaced at him.
"The trial was unfair. The voting was rigged," Charlie argued; his arms pleadingly outstretched.
"There was a fifty two percent swing in favour of execution," the announcer informed him, scrolling through the statistics floating in the air above his hands, "By the laws of our people, he must be sentenced to death."
"Ah! There you go. We're not of your people. We're from another world."
The Doctor cringed. Not a sensible move.
Still, the boy's confidence was improving. His muscles were less tense, and there were fewer beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.
"They're aliens?"
The guards shrugged, and a susurration of awestruck xenophobia rolled through the crowd.
"Therefore, the laws that govern your people do not apply to us," Charlie continued, his voice growing stronger.
There was an uncomfortable pause, which became exponentially more awkward as the length of the pause dragged on.
"Technically, he's right," the announcer's aide muttered, jumping momentarily in front of the camera drones, "The laws of punishment may only be instigated upon a person of Morovia."
"But are they aliens, though?" one of the guards grunted, expressing the doubts of many of his colleagues, who were all quite anxious to get back to work.
"Course they are. Are you thick? They look nothing like us," argued another of the very human-like beings.
"But… if he's swinging the alien thing, he's not actually protected by the Morovan Rights Act," the aide continued.
"Does that mean we can kill him anyway?" the first guard questioned, tangible excitement betraying his professional demeanour.
"Uh… I think so. There's probably nothing stopping you from executing both of them."
"Can we do that? Won't that violate the Extra-terrestrial Equality Act?" the announcer wondered, covering the recording device surgically inserted into his cheekbone, to keep their moment of indecision concealed from the ears of the viewing public.
"Well, if they're not from one of our partner worlds, and they've chosen not to act upon the Extra-terrestrial Equality Act, then we don't have to treat them fairly."
"Excellent!" one of the executioner's lips curled in glee.
"Well then, youngling, prepare for your summary execution," the announcer decided.
"Oh ho. Nice work," the Doctor chortled.
"Shut up!" Charlie hissed back.
"Stand on the second torture disc, please." An executioner prodded him with a carbon fibre rod.
"Not a bloody chance!" Charlie swiped the stick away from his torso.
"It's not open for discussion," the announcer reasoned, "The crowd are eager for a bit of action. They won't be happy about the delay as it is, so we might as well try and please them. We can't afford to lose our ratings."
"You can't make me," Charlie snapped.
"And why's that?" the announcer responded, with a hint of weariness.
"Because I am from a civilisation far more advanced than yours," Charlie's voice rose grandiosely, "The technology in my possession is far more advanced than anything on this world."
Charlie pulled the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, held it aloft for a moment, then aimed it at the Doctor's cuffs.
"Quick! Stop him!" the announcer yelled, "He's using a sonic disruptor to disable the restraints!"
The orbs encapsulating the Doctor's wrists folded away into a thin strip of metal twisted into a figure of eight, and clattered to the floor.
The Doctor nursed some life back into his numb hands, and reinforced Charlie's efforts by taking a place by his side.
"Yes, that one only works on species of lower technology classes," he muttered to him.
"You're welcome," Charlie grunted back through gritted teeth.
The executioners stepped towards them, flexing their muscles, and turning their weapons up to 12. The hum from the power cells was audible as the crowd held its breath.
"How did you find it?" the Doctor asked, accepting the proffered screwdriver from Charlie.
"The Chancellor's daughter helped me out."
"Ah yes, the Chancellor's daughter," the Doctor uttered, his brows dropping into a scowl. "Remind me, which one was the chancellor?"
"Tall guy? Stupid hat," Charlie reminded him, "You know, the one who ordered your execution?"
"Ah yes…" the Doctor pursed his lips in disgust as the unpleasant memory resurfaced.
"Now, how do we get out?" Charlie asked.
The guards had the stage surrounded. There were more storming through the audience, cutting off any escape.
"We can climb up the big deadly laser, and escape through the roof?" the Doctor pointed at the Big Death Machine.
"Is that a good idea?" Charlie responded in disbelief, nervously glancing at the arcs of electricity dancing over the weapon's surface.
"It's either that, or we try and escape through the crowd of bloodthirsty viewers, who've been waiting for my execution all day."
Charlie nodded. "Okay. Fair point. Roof it is."
"Good. Ready?" the Doctor asked.
There was a nod from Charlie.
The Doctor began their escape with a quick swish and flick of the sonic, diverting the intense arcs of electricity away from the deadly laser, and towards the camera drones instead.
Through the confusion of spectacularly exploding cameras, the Doctor and Charlie clambered up the metal cylinder.
The machine creaked under their weight; he quickly realised the material was a cheap substitute – not the sturdy metal alloy it had first appeared to be. He wasn't sure it would support both of them; a concern which quickly passed when they scrambled out of the building through the weapon's power cells, exposed on the roof of the execution studios.
"That way!" Charlie pointed across the rooftop, where there was a ladder which would take them down to ground level. Evidently, he had scouted the area beforehand, and knew about the fire escapes on the side of the building.
Flashes of laser fire scorching the roof at their feet forced Charlie to consider a change of plans.
There were guards rising above them inside small quadcopters, their weapons churning up the concrete around them.
The Doctor and Charlie dived behind the cover of the tall cylinders they had escaped through.
"We'll have to find another way down," the Doctor suggested.
"Where?" urged Charlie peeking around the cylinder to count the guards attacking them.
The Doctor thrust his thumb towards the wall of guards closing in on them. "Probably not that way."
Charlie gaped at him in disbelief.
"You seem remarkably calm about all this," he exclaimed.
"That's because I'm with you," the Doctor answered, his face carefully sculpted into an expression of honesty, trust.
Charlie's features dipped into a frown.
"But… you could have died down there!"
The Doctor shrugged, chuckling to himself.
"Not really. I could have escaped if I'd wanted to."
"But…" Charlie was speechless. "Why…"
It took him a moment to work it out. "Were you… testing me again?"
"I wanted to see what you'd do," the Doctor admitted. "You're doing very well, by the way."
A large explosion from a motion-sensing grenade spat flames in their direction, singing the metal cylinders.
"Right… fine," Charlie growled, grabbing the Doctor's arm, and pulling him away. The Doctor ran after him, following Charlie's newly improvised escape route.