Chapter One: The Phone Booth and the Police Box
The Doctor knew what was coming. He had to answer the call from Ood Sigma, and that meant that his song would soon come to an end. Not the sort of future one looked forward to, not even a Time Lord who had already regenerated nine times.
Still, even a life that reached over nine centuries held surprises now and then.
A phone booth, much like the ones used in the late 1980s on Earth materialized in the middle of the TARDIS.
"What?" exclaimed the Doctor. His shields hadn't even been down this time. "What?"
The door to the phone booth opened, and out stepped two teenage boys. The taller one had a dark mop of hair, and wore a black vest over a white t-shirt, an orange shirt tied around his waist over black shorts with a smiley face, and black-and-white trainers. The other had shorter, curly blond hair, and wore a blue shirt over a white t-shirt, worn blue jeans with an upside-down question mark, and white trainers with red laces.
"What."
"Whoa," said the darker-haired one, "this is like something out of Star Trek."
"Science fiction nonsense. Hold on," said the Doctor, his mind (as usual) flittering about at a million kilometers per hour, even as his sonic screwdriver chittered away. "This technology... late 27th Century, Earth. Brilliant job with the chameleon circuit, though it's a bit primitive."
"We should probably introduce ourselves," said the brown-haired lad. "I'm Ted 'Theodore' Logan."
"And I'm Bill S. Preston, Esquire," cut in the blond. "And we are..."
"Wild Stallyns!" shouted the Doctor. "Brilliant! Oh, brilliant!"
"He totally knows us, Ted."
"Excellent," exclaimed the two boys, jamming out most righteously on their air guitars.
"Excellent, yes, but completely, completely wrong. Judging by the fact that you are not, in fact, currently creating world peace through music, and are, in fact, in the middle of my TARDIS, I would say you are approximately, oh, way off track."
"Dude," said Ted, "he's right. We need to get my dad's keys, a tape recorder, and a trash can, so we can totally have gotten all the historical dudes out of jail."
"Have gotten?" asked the Doctor. As in 'crossing their own timelines', as in paradox, a wound in time, and what that would bring. He winced. "Oh..." If time was to be saved from a massively huge wrinkle in the timey-wimey stuff, he was most definitely going to have to get involved. "Right. San Dimas, 1988." He ran about, madly flipping levers and turning dials as the whoosh of the TARDIS engines carried them down a completely different time track.