Chapter 1: Box in the Garden

Christopher's fingers rapped on the table as he stared at the blank page before him. The blinking line of the line-marker mocked him with each flash. The coffee in the mug next to the keyboard had long since gone cold, only having been sipped three times. For perhaps the thousandth time, he cursed his chosen profession.

"I should have been a chef," he muttered. "There isn't such a thing as chef's block."

He stood and walked once around the table. Then twice. Then a third time. He sat back down.

"Science fiction shouldn't be this hard," he exclaimed to no one, tossing up his hands, "I could literally make-up anything!"

He stood again and this time just looked at the computer.

"You sir, are an abomination," he hissed. "You should never have been made."

He sat back down.

Christopher Dawkins was a writer. Not a prolific one, or a particularly popular one, but he made enough money to pay for a flat in the little town of Suridge and to feed himself. And to pay for the hell-beast that was his laptop.

"Fuck it," Christopher said, and put his fingers to the keyboard.

Terrence was not all that bright, he wrote, everyone agreed on that…

"Good start," he nodded. "Okay, okay…"

Just as he was about to type the next words (nor was he very strong), he heard something in the back garden his loft shared with the rest of the row. A thrumming, like a guitar underwater. And then a slam that shook the building. The windchime in his window tinkled. Christopher swore. His line of thought was gone. He decided to just start over.

But first, he had to see what had ruined what had appeared to be the end of his writer's block. Grabbing his keys, he headed out his door, down the flight of stairs to the common hall and turned to go out the back door. All sane people were at work. He was the only one in the row that worked from home. He would be the only one investigating, he guessed.

Stepping over an envelope someone had dropped near the door, he went out the back and realized that his assumption was slightly untrue. There was someone else in the backyard. A girl, maybe a year or two younger than him. Short and pixie-like, with dark ringlets that she had cut short. Her clothes were clean but plain, a pair of jeans and a loose green blouse. Christopher suddenly felt very, very self conscious. He looked down at his own stained t-shirt proclaiming his allegiance to a band called Cumberbund, and his loose-fitting grey sweatpants. He was barefoot and hadn't showered, and now he was alone in his garden with a very pretty girl, looking at…

What? Looking at what? Christopher gazed upon the object that was lodged in his yard. Lodged was the right word. A great blue box was stuck a foot into his yard at a 75 degree angle.

"Police Box," the girl said.

Christopher swallowed. "Yeah," he stammered, "yeah, Police Box."

The blue box said as much, in big white letters.

"What do you think brought it here?"

Christopher took a few tentative steps forward. He placed his hand on it's side. It was warm and…it felt like it was breathing. "Brought it here? What makes you think it didn't just…"

"Fall from the sky?" The girl giggled and put her hand on the side as well. Christopher chuckled as well, nervously. There was something…unearthly about the box. Something…

"Alien," Christopher whispered to himself.

"Alien," the girl agreed.

Christopher walked around the box. "There's a door."

"Should we try to…"

"Open it," Christopher finished. "I write sci-fi. I know what happens after that. We get eaten by the horrible, ugly alien within."

"Yes, yes, we're going to eat you, now open the damn door!"

Christopher practically leapt in the air at the sound of the woman's voice. Scottish accent and not sounding particularly patient.

"Uh, hello," he said.

"Listen, the door is stuck from our side, just open the damn thing so we can get out."

Christopher looked at the girl, who shrugged. He cleared his throat.

"I have your word you aren't flesh-consuming monsters."

"I promise you," said a man's voice, "that none of us are flesh-consuming, and only one of us could even loosely be construed as a monster."

"I resent that, Rory," said another man's voice.

"You have two hearts."

"And no tentacles or sharp teeth or anything like that."

Christopher's head was spinning. "Uh, how many of you are there in there?"

"Just the three, but hurry up please. We're all trying to stop ourselves from slipping into the kitchen."

"Why does the kitchen need an wood-fired oven, Doctor?" The woman's voice.

"I like pizza," said one of the male voices.

Christopher looked at the girl again. "They're bloody crazy."

"Just open the door and let us out, mister," the girl's voice said from the otherside of the door. The girl on Christopher's side shrugged. Christopher shrugged back.

As he put his hand on the latch of the door, he became acutely aware that he was about to have an alien experience. His palms started sweating and his throat felt dry. Great, he thought, more things to make me look like a sodding fool in front of a pretty girl. Steeling himself, he flicked the latch and pushed the door.

Three figures leapt from inside and the door closed before Christopher got a look inside. As they stood, Christopher took a step back and got a good look at the figures.

They were all human. The girl was young, in her early twenties and undeniably beautiful, with red hair and, as his father would say, "legs that went up to here" She wore a blue denim skirt, brown boots and a red and white striped t-shirt. The first man had short, choppy hair and eyes that were too old for his face. He wore a checkered shirt and a padded vest, with jeans and work boots. The third man was the strangest. His hair was long and brown. He had big eyes and a grin that suggested a joke that no one else understood. He stood quite comfortably with his hands in the pockets of his navy trousers, his black boots scuffed, tweed jacket unruffled. He wore a bow tie, a fact that instantly suggested that, if only one of them was alien, it was this one.

And Christopher felt even more remarkably underdressed.

Christopher and the girl stood and stared at the three strangers from the box. There was a very long, awkwardly silent moment before any of them spoke. The man in the bow tie suddenly looked like he had remembered what to do and pulled his hand from his pocket.

"Oh, hello," he said, grinning like a mad man. "I'm the Doctor. This is Amy and Rory. Sorry about the garden. Bit of a hiccup with…well, I don't know what, actually. A dohickey went bing and then we sort of crashed."

"We hit something," said the girl (Amy, Christopher thought, unless she was Rory, which would make an odd situation odder).

"No," the bow tie man said (the Doctor? What sort of name was the Doctor). "Impossible. We were in the Vortex. Nothing to hit anymore. I think…unless…no…yes…no. Maybe, maybe we hit something."

He is mad, Christopher thought.

"We did," said the other man (Rory, unless he was Amy). "The screen flashed impact."

The Doctor looked thoughtful. "Maybe," he mused, before looking back at Christopher. "And what can we call you?"

"Uh," Christopher looked at the girl, who shrugged. "I'm Christopher. Christopher Dawkins."

"Nice to meet you, Christopher Dawkins," the Doctor grinned. "And who is your lady friend?"

The Doctor turned to the girl. She smiled sweetly. "Actually, we just met. I'm Liz," she turned her head to Christopher. "I'm Liz."

"Pleasure to meet you both," said the Doctor. "Now then, does anyone else smell that?"

"Smell what," said Amy (Christopher had decided to keep it simple: the red-head was Amy). "Doctor…"

"No, no," Rory said, "I smell something too. Like…"

"Roasted pork," said the Doctor.

Now that the Doctor mentioned it, Christopher could smell it too. "Someone's barbecuing."

"At," the Doctor checked his watch and suddenly looked confused. "Huh. My watch isn't showing the time."

"People's watches break all the time, Doctor," Amy said.

"Yes, but their watches aren't linked directly to the TARDIS to provide an accurate time to the picosecond."

"Oh," said Amy, "that doesn't sound good."

"No," said the Doctor, "no it does not."

Suddenly, the Doctor bolted over to the twisted trunk of the tree near the garden wall and started climbing. Everyone ran over.

"What is he doing," asked Liz. The man named Rory shrugged. Amy yelled up.

"Doctor," she yelled, "Doctor, get down here and tell us what is going on."

The Doctor grabbed a leaf from the tree and dropped down. "I'm not one-hundred percent sure, Pond," he said, "but I think the TARDIS might be asleep."

"He keeps saying TARDIS," said Christopher. "What's a TARDIS?"

"Time and Relative Dimension in Space," the Doctor said, as if that explained anything. Then he licked the leaf twice and let it drop.

For a moment, he looked contemplative, then started spitting. "Bah. That tastes awful."

"It's a leaf," said Rory, "what were you expecting?"

"No," said the Doctor, "it didn't taste leafy-bad It tasted…hmmm…"

"Doctor," said Amy. "How the leaf tastes might be the least of our worries right now."

"Why's that," asked the Doctor. Amy pointed up. They all followed her finger.

Things were falling from the sky.