Alan Finlay and The Doctor
They said that he was a freak. But Alan Finlay couldn't have been more of a freak than the next 9 and ¾ year old boy at Logan's Orphanage... if you didn't account for the voices. From a very young age, Alan knew right away. Okay, maybe not right away but gradually, he knew, in the understanding of which a nine year old could, that what he had been hearing all his life was some mysterious oddity that only he could listen to. Sometimes, these sounds were pleasant like a soft, cooing lullaby. Other times, well, Alan preferred not to think about those times because they scared him – scared him so much that he would hug himself in a ball under the thick blankets of the orphanage room he slept in. Then, he would silently pray until all of those voices were gone. This he kept to the deepest chambers of his confidential Secrets box, a.k.a. his diary.
Alan was a small boy with skinny arms and a pointy face with high cheek bones. He didn't know why, but many times he found himself in the situation where the rest of the boy-orphans at Logan's have bullied him. Maybe it was related to his short, "puniness" he had going for him at the time. The nuns in charge of Logan's constantly complained about his mop of inky black hair that was always messy and tickled his eyes. They said he needed a desperate haircut; how it was unruly curly at the ends, and how he never seemed to comb it. He liked it just the way it was. Many of the girl-orphans at Logan's, he noticed, gave the impression of pointedly leaving whenever he was within the same "breathing air" as they were. He noted that it was impossible because everyone sucked in the same air, so if they wanted to be away from him, they'd have to be dead, which made them huff and glare. Once, when Alan was retrieving his surely complicated fourth grader homework at the bottom of the stairs in the orphanage, he caught word of their gossip on how his big grey eyes nearly every time "creeped" them out in some sort of way, and how weird it was whenever he would look intensely upon normal objects. Though Alan couldn't have helped to be a bit peeved about this, he would usually ignore whatever those airheaded-girls would say. It wasn't as if they would know the right sort of men, such as himself, that they should take a fancying to anyways, even if they were within the same "breathing air". Plainly, he kept most to himself.
In the long run, while almost all of the orphans have accepted that their real parents didn't want them back, constantly, before he went to the land of dreams every night, Alan would imagine what his life would've been like if he lived with his still unknown parents. Would he be happy? Sad? Loved? Ignored? Would he still be the same Alan, liking cream puffs and cherry pies? Would he be different? Would he go on adventures? Would he still hear those voices? If he did, would they consider him mad? Or would they sympathize with him because they heard them too? By this point, Alan would decide he had enough and succumb to the enticing lull of dreamland. When the morning came by, Alan was back to being his entirely too introverted self.
Alan wouldn't say that he absolutely adored life here at Logan's Orphanage. In fact, all he ever did like about it was that the nuns would take everyone out for a walk through town on Sunday afternoons. In these little excursions, Alan loved to leave the pack of hording children and wander off somewhere like parks, and bridges, and the backs of restaurants. Maybe even the odd trail to the beach. The nuns didn't mind that Alan went on his little adventures because he never caused any discrepancies. As long as he came back before supper, they were okay with it, and he knew the way back to the orphanage like the back of his hand. No matter what happened though, Alan was never the one to initiate the "wandering offs". It was always an element of enigmatic form that led him away. Be it a sneering stray cat, or a brightly coloured flyer floating in the wind, Alan deemed it necessary to investigate. And so, he would follow said cat or flyer until he was tired. Wherever he ended up was where he would stay for the rest of the day.
Today was such an event. After all the children at Logan's Orphanage had a smug breakfast of crumpets and orange juice, the nuns rounded them up in two uniform lines, and left for their weekly walk into town. Alan was never the stickler for fashion. All that went through his mind while picking out his day clothes was how much he craved the fresh air which situated itself outside the thick beige walls that brought his shelter. Alan threw on his oversized brown jumper, dark jeans, plimsolls, and was out the door in a matter of seconds. Defiantly, he left his unkempt hair the way it was when he jumped out of bed this morning, much to the nuns' complaints.
As they were walking their weekly ritual, Alan saw him – no, he heard him first. Mind, after a few months of hearing nothing of the voices, Alan had been naïve enough to believe that they had finally been banished from his poor psyche forever. But clearly, he had been wrong, and the voices took back their leave of silence and came with a vengeance – to be so loud Alan almost fainted. And clearly, they were all emitting from that accursed man who was walking with purpose in a brisk manner. He brushed right past Alan's left arm; giving the boy-child a knowing smirk and a wink – as if he was daring Alan to follow him. As a "man of action", he took the insight to investigate. Not minding the others, Alan scrambled after the tall man, forcing his short, scrawny legs to keep up.
Who was he? Did he know something about those voices that ransacked his mind? Right off the bat, Alan noticed that the man seemed slightly off his rocker. He was wearing a bright red bowtie, with a tan coloured tweed jacket. All this matched with dark pants, hobnail boots and – bloody hell was he wearing a fez?! Alan couldn't blame him. Even though that "Madman" was wearing a damned fez in broad daylight, he decided that it wasn't all that bad compared to wearing footsies when it got cold at night. Not to mention keeping Mr. Bear. Alan would've wagered all of his spare change that had he been one of those airheaded girls at the orphanage, he would've swooned. Though this mysterious man was wearing a fez, Alan certainly couldn't deny that the "Madman", as dubbed, was a very handsome – and dare he say it – sexy man. The Madman's coffee hair had a cow lick which adorned his perfectly contoured face. His dark green eyes held mischief, and darkness, and life. Though he couldn't have been more than 25, Alan thought that there was this aura of oldness surrounding the Madman. At this he furrowed his brow in confusion. But of course, there was no competition when it came to looks.
Alan knew he was destined for great things despite being shunned from most of the people he knew. Great things like success. Great things like those – insanely-maddening-and-increasingly-loud-confusion-of-voices-jumbling-in-his-brain-and-the-strain-of-walking-so-fast-and-when-were-they-going-to-stop?! As if according to plan, the odd man stopped. They were at a fairly deserted park that had a single lamppost opposite a bench. Alan was left to catch his breath. His forehead creased slightly when he saw a blue 1960's Police Box parked right beside the lamppost. Maybe he was seeing things, Alan thought, because it wasn't that hard to imagine things when the voices in his head doubled and changed. The Madman was also humming a tune amongst fiddling with a shapely tool, which didn't help Alan's situation at all. But something wasn't right. Alan had been to this specific park on occasion and there was never a blue box, much less one next to that lamppost.
In this point of time Alan's face was screwed up in concentration; hands to his temples. The voices were none like he experienced before. There was a screaming woman, bouts of laughter, an angry man, the shouts of dying people – subconsciously, Alan fell to the concrete and huddled into a tight ball – these voices just didn't make any sense! And that was when he knew. These voices weren't just coming from the Madman. They were coming directly from that wretched Police Box too! Yells of defeat, declares of revenge, the heightened giggles of drunken men, and EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! – But then, silence. The Madman was no longer humming, but pacing around the boy-child's fetal position, mumbling insane phrases. As Alan adjusted to his surroundings, he caught a few words the madman was saying. TARDIS – what was that? Mind – chrome wave – Mallidon interference – mind – voices – oh, so he did know about them! Alan's burning curiosity gave him the strength to push up his small frame into a sitting position as he watched the Madman pace back and forth. After a moment, Alan put his voice box to some use and uttered out a weak, "I-I'm Alan…Who are – Who're you?"
The man spun around and knelt down to Alan's crouched height, mischief glinting in his eyes. He spoke in an estuary accent, much like his own. "Hello! I'm the Doctor. Nice to meet you Alan – say, may I offer you a jelly baby? I absolutely love jelly babies. You have one awesome jumper, do you mind getting one fo–"
"Doctor? Doctor?! B-But you! You're wearing a fez!"
"Don't diss the fez." The Doctor twitted. "Fezzes are cool. Now, Alan. There's some sort of…interference that's related to you, and we must figure it out. It could decide the fate of your mind."
"Wait, you don't mean the voices, do you? And how did you know I even heard voices? I didn't tell anyone."
"But you told your diary, and that's how I knew. You see, my TARDIS picks up on problems – no, not those teen dramas – but like yours. These problems are, er, special. They can affect and harm people, and as the Doctor, I'm the one who helps them. So you've heard these erratic voices ever since your ears could work, you say? Well we better take matters inside the TARDIS. Come along Alan, we have much solving to do." The Doctor held out a strong hand to the warily confused 9 year old.
Alan took it. This was the first ever lead he had on how to get rid of those voices. Alan felt giddy with excitement. No longer would he have to endure unannounced episodes of blaring noises. No longer would have to be scared. But when it came apparent that the TARDIS meant the Police Box, he couldn't help but be a bit confused. And so, he furrowed his brow and looked up at the tall man who was leading him.
"A Police Box, what? Isn't that suspicious, seeing an old man lead an innocent child inside a weird Police Box?" This was the most Alan had spoken to anyone, let alone some barmy Doctor associated with an outdated blue box.
"Oh shush, Alan." The Doctor chided. "But that's not just any Police Box. It's my TARDIS. Time And Relevant Dimension In Space – TARDIS. It's my spaceship-time machine-hybrid!"
"So you're an alien? But that can't be, you look every inch human, and handsome at that! How did you even create a successfully working time machine? It's supposed to be impossible. "
"Why thank you, Alan. You're quiet the handsome devil too. But I assure you, I am every inch alien too. I'm from the planet Gallifrey. I have two hearts, and I'm a Time Lord. All that for later though. Come along Alan, chop-chop! We don't have time to waste."
And with that, they stepped into the alleged TARDIS-Police Box. It was so gargantuan, Alan couldn't believe his eyes! There were shiny gold walls, stylish roundels, and a turquoise hexagonal console right in the center, which the Doctor was currently dancing around. Silver doors led to various corridors and unearthed rooms bigger than his. A staircase even went up to a second floor. It smelled like grease, old books and flowery perfume. The latter, he decided was really suspicious. Without a doubt, the TARDIS was possibly the most amazing place he had ever laid eyes on.
"Blimey!" Alan exclaimed. "All this can't possibly fit into a cramped Police Box." By now, his overly imaginative brain was turning gears. With this sort of technology, who knows how much life would become simpler.
"Oh, but it can, now, about those voices that intrude your mind. It's called the 'Mallidon Interference', and they come from a source. These sources are places which hold memories – usually old rooms and such that many people experience certain …"
Alan's face lit up like a child's on Christmas day. There was so much to see in this spaceship-Police Box-TARDIS. So much to explore! He took all this in stride and imagined what would lie beyond every door. As he was contemplating his schemes, Alan began to wonder why he suddenly felt light headed – as if he spun around one too many times. What was happening to him? It was exactly like the time when he ate too much cherry pie, and then decided to go on a roller coaster. Minus the vomiting. Pain flooded through his head, even more excruciating than having an aneurysm. He couldn't scream, and yet his mind was shattering and folding. With a thump, Alan fell to the floor. All went black. But not for a long time, no, because then, Alan didn't just hear voices. He saw the people, the aliens, the robots, the monsters. Their psychotic expressions too. And dear God, it was horrifying.
"… you'll know the place is the source if you faint." the Doctor was still rambling on. "You're really quiet Alan, has any one told you that? If one of my companions were here, they'd be questioning me to no end right now. It's sort of a nice change. You know, I do feel a bit peckish at the moment. After we get this Mallidon Interference sorted out, maybe we could get some fish sticks and custard. It's such a wonderful creation. I actually invented it back in the day… "
He turned around for the small child's approval, only to find that the boy in question was sprawled on the grilled floor, as though he was sleeping in a very uncomfortable position. The ever present childish smile on the Doctor's face immediately dropped.
Oh dear. He thought. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
Welp, this was my first shot at a Doctor Who fanfic, and all fanfics in general. Hoped you liked it!