Dear Reviewers,

Thank-you so much for your patience! Now that I've graduated university I'm working on updating all the stories I've fallen behind on. Thank-you so much for sticking around! Much love to you all. Personal replies below =)

Pip

ZombieKillerLevi: Yes, in this universe, the past journeys to Narnia do exist! I think the reason why there isn't a lot of mental crossover is because surviving by the side of the Pevensies in a medieval world is quite different than being whisked off to space. It's one thing to run from Miraz's sword, and quite another to run from a 7 foot Nim with a high tech gun =) Thanks for the thoughts, I'm going to use that reminder while I'm writing =)

Rwy'n-Y-Blaidd-Drwg: Wolfy! Thank-you for the review! I think you saw it coming because you're probably awesome. Nuff said.

Avi W. Lovegood: Thank-you so much for your review. I will not be a regular companion of the Doctor, but this might not be the only adventure. This is what I'm calling my "Christmas Special"—basically I'm the guest star for a single episoe. But I won't say no to future Doctor adventures =) Thanks for actually liking me enough to want to see more of my awkward-self-insertness. That's really sweet.

Alexandraya: If only we were friends in real life, we could speak in accents to our hearts content! My roommate and I went to the grocery store once to do homework (Starbucks tables, haha) and I pretended I was a British transfer student. You should have seen the big, enchanted smiles of all the people that walked by—it was like being a celebrity. Lol!

Softballgirl: Brilliant Lord of the Beans reference. I love you.

Warning: some violent content. Do be careful. I wouldn't want you to get a papercut.

Chapter Three

Two Hackers

The dark eyes of my Nim companion fluttered nervously as his gaze darted quickly from side to side, as if searching for means to escape. His long, (almost creepily long) fingers were still wrapped around my hand, encompassing it completely. Both of our palms were beginning to sweat.

I felt suddenly ravenous. Heartbroken? Hungry. Bored? Hungry. Scared out of my wits? Even hungrier… What would make this kidnapping even better? A bag of jelly babies. Just for the sake of having something to chew over while plotting escape.

In a moment, I realized I hadn't even thought of escape. Sure, escaping from a moving elevator—impossible. Wrestling a seven-foot Nim for his gun was out of the question.

What had I always heard about being kidnapped? There's a minimum chance that the kidnapper can actually shoot straight, and so it is better to run away?

What about an alien race training to kill and holding a gun of the highest technology? What then? Who invented common sense for kidnapping on another planet?

I knew that if we were going to be held in some kind of confinement, it would most likely be impossible to break out of. Unless they were stupid, and I was lucky.

But they're not stupid. And I'm terribly unlucky.

And this hallway is lasting for a very long time…

"What is your name?" I asked my fellow death row mate.

"Jinn," he said, his voice calm. "What is your name?"

"Pippin," I replied, with an awkward, high-pitched laugh. Because at that moment, our kidnapper pressed his gun into my back again, and it hit a terribly ticklish spot. "Eek, stop!" I shrieked. "I get it, okay? That tickles."

"Just keep walking, runt. Try walking faster," Nim-captor-Mahnna-Mahnna snapped.

I glanced up at Jinn, a little embarrassed, and he was fighting a smile.

"You think that's funny," I whispered.

"Nims don't have 'tickles' or whatever it is you call it," he responded. "It's just a human thing. I wish I could understand it but I cannot. The best I've heard it described is 'laughter in the skin'."

I snickered. "That's not bad…"

"Can you walk any faster?" snarled our bearded kidnapper, jabbing the point of his gun in Jinn's back, instead of mine. But he was addressing the question to me. "We have a long way to go, and you're holding me up."

"Oh, sorry," I said dumbly, "Phew… yeah… boy was I a fool for cutting gym! Why don't you two go on without me, and I'll catch up?"

"Pathetic," coughed Saruman… (I'm sorry, it's the best I can do until we're properly introduced…) "Humans really are unfit to have the gift of speech."

THUNK.

Oh HIIIII floor my besssssssssss FWEEEEEEND…

My best friend is the ground and we are, at this very moment, embracing. I've loved the ground (it's quite literally the only thing that catches me when I fall) but why are we cheek to cheek right now? Is it a slow dance?

"What was that sound?" I asked, my eyes squeezed shut. "It was like a bang and then it was like…"

Floor!

"I'm sitting on the floor," I said, opening my eyes. I found myself sitting upright against the wall, chilling beside Jinn as if we were buddies sitting in a high-school hallway waiting for a class to begin, leaning against the lockers with our legs stretched out before us, as if we hadn't a care in the world.

"Please don't tell me that the thunk sound I heard was something hitting my head."

"It was something hitting your heard," said Jinn.

"And now we're in a cell."

"That is correct."

"With about… fifteen other prisoners?"

"Twenty prisoners... hm… How many fingers am I holding up?"

"OH MY GAWD… SIX… SIX FINGERS… I'm dying! Am I dying?"

"I have six fingers. We all do."

"Oh! Oooooh… I'm so relieved… I thought I had a concussion."

"He hit you with his gun, and you were knocked unconscious… so that's entirely possible."

"How'd I get HERE?"

"He ordered me to carry you, and then we were here in about thirty seconds."

"You walk that fast?"

"We Nims… well, it's kind of a glide, isn't it?"

"I thought it looked like skating. Yeah. That fast…"

"A lot faster with you unconscious, to be honest."

"Hahaha—ow!" I broke off in mid-laughter. Getting knocked unconscious has certainly progressed since the Nancy Drew days, but recently people are rather inaccurate in their interpretation of people getting hit in the head. It's not like you can just wake up and walk around. Unless you're captain Jack, then it's okay.

Jinn put his hand on the back of my head and felt the nasty bump there. "Very lucky to not be losing any blood. You should have some ice though."

"Yeah, um, pretty tender back there," I said testily, drawing my knees up and resting my forehead against them. "But no scalp wounds—that's good!"

Of course I needed ice… But in the room there was nothing but blank, wide, cinderblock walls. The room was about twenty-five by twenty-five feet, roughly. There was blinking, white florescent lights, a white tiled floor, and one silver door without any handles, visible hinges, or a small customary window. One small picnic-style table decorated the far left, with the door at the right. There was about six Nims in the room, the rest were human.

A human woman walked over to us from the picnic table. She wore a sweater, skirt, a cooking apron, and had her hair dyed to stay a young blond color. She seemed to be in her late forties, perhaps whisked right out of her kitchen where she might have been making cookies or lemonade.

"Hello dear," she said sweetly to me. "You were pretty out of it when you were brought in. How are you feeling?"

To be honest, death in a hand basket made out of migraines.

"Fine. How are you?"

"Well enough, dear, well enough. Is this your husband?"

Jinn looked at me, unable to contain a look of revulsion. "No! No! We're not… together."

I snickered. "You're all for humans till someone asks if you're married to one, eh?"

"No offense meant to you," Jinn whispered solemnly, "Really. I'm just partial… romantically, that is… to my own kind."

"I understand."

"Well, all I was going to say," said the human woman, "Try not to look too friendly. They're watching with cameras, you know. If you look too attached to someone, they'll kill them."

"What?" I yelped. "Did you—lose someone?"

"No, I didn't, but you see that young Nim over there in the corner? That one had a wife. They took her away a few hours ago—said that they looked too happy together. Can you imagine?"

"I'm afraid this is looking very grim, Pippin," said Jinn. "And likely to end in death for us both. I won't deny it. Nimrode has truly fallen this time."

"I don't believe it for a second," I insisted. "The Doctor is here, and he fixes everything."

"They blew up the hospital," exclaimed the human woman.

"Not that sort of doctor—THE Doctor."

"The Doctor? What kind of person is that?"

"A Timelord," I said proudly. "The Last Timelord."

"What do they call other timelords?" chuckled the woman. "The Officer? The Janitor? The Captain? The Consulting Detective?"

Moffat, I thought, What a closet cross over fan!

"I know this Doctor was just in the museum, so he is nearby," offered Jinn. "If the legends are true, I'd say our chances have brightened considerably. But I wouldn't raise false hope."

-"A Satellite Vision System," the Doctor had explained to me. I had taken it in like any other information, not knowing it would be used to publically display my death.

A SVS player didn't look much different than a TV, except it was circular, and sitting on a stand like a make-up mirror. In the middle of a console, very much like Tardis controls, the SVS player sat like it was a place of honor. Around the console, bearded Nims in armor and official-looking gowns sat around it, dialing and pushing buttons and speaking in headsets.

First, they collected eight of us—Jinn, myself, two other Nims and five other humans. Then they brought us to some kind of control room, jamming their fancy rifle butts into our backs to prod us along. They lined us up against the wall, facing the middle of the smallish room, where the console stood on a raised pentagon of flooring.

All around, above, and behind us, the walls were littered with wires, tubes, cables, and breakers. It reminded me of a ship's control room, as long as it was directed by Ridley Scott and starred aliens that burst out of people. Everything glowed puke-green in shining black technology.

"It has been a pleasure knowing you, however briefly," said Jinn, once again wrapped his six, long white fingers around my hand and holding it tightly.

"Likewise," I sighed, caught somewhere between bed-wetting scared and impatient for the rescue. "Um—can we not do 'famous last words' yet?"

"I do not understand?"

"We're not dead yet," I added, "Let's not give up quite yet. Can you tell me what kind of room this is?"

"A SVS station—or at least, something that is made to look like one."

"What are all those people doing at the console?"

"They said they wanted to execute us on live SVS. I can only assume they are hacking into the system now."

A Nim guard was walking up and down the line, gripping his gun in his hands. When he reached Jinn and I, he uttered a deep growling sound. We quickly let go of eachother's hands.

We stopped conversing; it seemed pointless to act like boys that sit in the back row of a freshman class. Too much talking could mean a swift blow to the head.

Suddenly, the screen—and many other hidden screens, all hanging on the wall around the top of the room—crackled with white noise. It came into focus, and there was the Saruman Nim, standing at the opposite end of the room. A geeky looking Nim stood in front of him, balancing a large, heavy camera on his shoulder. Sarumalala was looking right into the lens, and subsequently, into the soul of anyone looking at a screen.

"Good afternoon," he said quietly, his voice rolling like thunder. "You are wondering why I have interrupted your programs. Let me be quick—across the room from me, we have eight prisoners. There are several more that will remain hidden—to ensure our demands are obliged with. We demand that—first, the government shall bring the One Planet, One Race Act back into practice, promising from now on, all humans will expediently and efficiently evacuate the planet and find homes elsewhere. Second, the power of the planet will return to Commander Prin, unfairly exiled for his laws of purity and equality for Nims. Thirdly, his forces will be established in their rightful places—in the palace guard, street officers, federal police force, and minimalist security. These are our demands—three, harmless, reasonable demands that will set free the Nims from their tourism bondage they've created. It will set them free of obligation and traditions that are not our own. It will set free those who have been wrongfully shoved and buried into stereotypes in their own planet. It will set free the obligation to play along. ONE PLANET. ONE RACE. The ancients prospered for these reasons, and Nimrode will prosper again."

He looked at us, and nodded to the camera-Nim. That Nim swung around and panned the camera across our faces. When it reached my face, I mouthed the word "Basement." To the untrained eye, it would have just looked like a silent plea of Help me!

In a way, it was both. And I hoped the Doctor was watching.

The camera went back to Sarumoomoo.

"These are our prisoners," he declared, with a tragic flare. "I am not a murderer. I am for equality for Nims. But know this—these prisoners, Nim and Human alike, will die, if our demands are not met with. These are not the words of a mad man. These are the words of representative—I have thousands upon thousands of followers. We are the majority. We vote for ONE PLANET. ONE RACE. For Commander Prin, our wise and gifted leader. We are fair and we will have our home back."

A dramatic pause.

"I am on the airwave of 1138," he continued, "I will now await the call of our current government, to confirm that we will be honored in our requests."

"Sir," said a voice at the console, "We're receiving the call."

"Put it through," he replied.

A robotic voice sounded throughout the chamber. "Now opening airwave 1138."

A scratchy feedback sound, and then a throaty, frightened voice. "We will not comply with a terrorist," said the voice, "This is Commander Siska—your current commanding officer—speaking. Officer Serin, we will not comply until you release your prisoners. Then we shall negotiate with you, as gentlemen of Nimrode."

Officer Serin? Saruman? It was darn well close enough, okay?

The cameraman panned from the console back to Serin, who shook his head grimly. "And we do not 'negotiate' with dictators," he growled, nodding to the cameraman.

The cameraman swung around to the line of prisoners.

One of the guards came forward, holding a mighty-looking, high-tech rifle.

"Please, don't!" shrieked Jinn.

The guard threw his gun over his shoulder, unused. He pulled a sword from his belt, instead. With not so much as a flourish, or any dramatic pauses whatsoever, he went to the first in line—a Nim, younger than Jinn, equally as beautiful and terrified—and plunged the sword in his abdomen.

The Nim exhaled, eyes filling up with tears, and slumped to the floor.

The cameraman focused back on their leader.

"Second denial? Second victim," Serin said cruelly, "Edgar Monstruo suffered for his consistent persecution in his art and teachings. And now this nameless being shall suffer for your continual refusal to treat us as an honorable political party. More deaths will follow in the next hour. I will make this same declaration in ten minutes. I will give you time to discuss and consider our demands."

The red light at the console turned off, the cameraman put the camera on the ground and stretched his shoulder. Sarum—I mean, Serin—went to the console and began to talk in a low voice with his compatriots.

Jinn's tears flowed silently. This time, I took his hand. I tried not to look at the Nim on the floor, who was still bleeding profusely, but he was not dead yet.

Suddenly, there was a shrill feedback sound, like one might get with a microphone and an amp at a cheap concert. Several of the console-workers began hitting buttons, looking around wildly.

"What is going on?" barked Serin.

"We're getting another signal, sir," replied one, panicking.

"Another SIGNAL—do you mean someone else is hacking into the same channel?"

"Yes, sir!"

"A second hacker?" mused another. "That doesn't seem possible. Who else would be hacking?"

"It's just Commander Siska, trying to regain control," explained one.

"No, it's not. He wouldn't hack. He'd just switch command centers," said another. "This is from someone separate. It's coming from an unknown source."

Serin roared. "FIND OUT WHAT THAT IS."

Suddenly, the screen flickered. The red light on the console turned on, and everyone looked at the camera-Nim confusedly.

"My camera is off! It's not me!" he shrieked.

The SVS system was back on, and on the screen, the Doctor himself looked through. I half expected him to start flailing on and reciting, Bingle bongle, dingle dangle, lickety too lickety ta, ping pong, lippy toppy too ta! but no such luck.

The first thing he said was, "Hullo? Is it on?" while flicking the screen several times. Then he paused, eyebrows cocked. "Oh, I see," he mumbled. "Make it two ways, then!"

A fumble, and a clickity buttony-time-wimey beeping sound.

"Perfect!" the Doctor grinned and put on his glasses. "I can see you all now."

The room went into silent chaos. Serin stood his ground, glaring at the SVS screen. Many of the console runners tried to duck down and hide from the screen's reach. Others began slamming random buttons, trying to turn it off.

"Well—first things first, then, you've got a very new friend of mine. I'd like her back."

The Doctor was facing Serin, at the other side of the room. Us prisoners were against the other wall. He couldn't see me, but he knew I was there. That was comforting.

"Second of all, this—this shooting thing—has got to stop. I don't like guns. Never have."

A chorus of growls.

"Fourth—wait. Third. Thirdly I've got interesting, powerful things right next to me—don't bother looking, you can't see it on your screen. I've got something powerful that will make you regret ever kidnapping my friend and threatening innocent people."

"He's bluffing," Serin hissed.

"I most certainly am not bluffing!" the Doctor exclaimed, indignantly. "Why would I bluff when lives are at stake?" He grew very serious, his eyebrows furrowed and teeth gritted as he spoke. "I am the Last of the Timelords. I've laid waste to civilizations and I've committed genocide. How hard do you think it would be to remove a small threatening faction of terrorists? Hear THIS. I will find you. You will be brought to justice."

Serin snarled. "You're nothing and you have nothing to stop me."

"I've got psychic paper," snapped the Doctor. Then he stopped, and reconsidered his statement. "Er—wait. I don't. I don't have it. I gave it to someone. I made a deal with someone, that nothing bad would happen—but I couldn't ignore that it usually does. I may—or may not—have slipped a little psychic paper into someone's pocket, as a precaution. Oops. Forget that plan—I don't have psychic paper. Never mind. I lost the bet. I'm sorry."

Shell-shocked, I slipped my hand into my pocket. A small wallet was suddenly in my hand—so what was this? Reverse pick pocket? No one paid any attention to me as I opened it, and read the following…

I AM bluffing. I don't have something powerful sitting next to me—I'm sitting in it. I'm back in the Tardis. The Tardis can translate languages, it's really helpful with traveling and all, but I've discovered something new today—it can do a bit of scrambling as well, if I play my cards right. Sadly it seems to only scramble one thing—luckily for us, it's the signal controlling the weapons in the hands of your captors. I can't see you but I am trusting you'll take the opportunity to get away while they're scrambled—just a little suggestion. When I say run, you RUN. Got it? Clever girl. I'd bring the Tardis in, but they've got some kind of protective shield. I can't land in there. So when you run, run fast, run hard. Come back to the surface. I'll find you.

"Psychic paper?" scoffed Serin. "He is bluffing."

"Oh, all right, you caught me, I am bluffing," the Doctor smirked. "I'm just going to fly into a rage and press a bunch of buttons to try and look intimidating!"

Look at me, I'm a target! I mentally quoted the eleventh, giggling. I passed the paper to Jinn, quietly. He read it, dark eyes widening in shock.

"How?" he whispered.

"Just pass the word," I said, "And see if one of the Nims can't carry the injured one?" I returned the paper to my pocket, and then turned to the apron-wearing woman beside me. I whispered, "When the man on the screen says RUN, you run. Pass it along."

Wide-eyed, she nodded and turned to the next.

Soon, the whole line of prisoners were whispering to each other, while the Doctor rattled on and on in a strange monologue while hitting a series of melodic buttons.

"You know the funny thing about me is?" he quipped. Beep.

"I am probably your only hope for peace!" Beepity beep.

"The only chance you have to get out of this mess is to run away or face the consequences—you are surrounded, did you know that? You're still on the surface, have you ever thought about that? There are hundreds of stories between you and the atmosphere—so if you've ever considered this wouldn't go well…"

Bop, bop. Pop, pop. Beep beep peep.

"You may have just considered that there wasn't going to be an easy escape for you!"

Whir, screech. Beep.

"And FURTHERMORE!" He continued, hair askew as he abused every button the Tardis had that would make a noise that might sound important. "I'd speak for you to your nation if I wasn't so upset that you've got my friend."

"Enough," Serin barked. He glanced at me. "Kill the friend."

"NO!" screamed the Doctor.

I barely had time to think before a guard raised his gun towards me, and fired.

The gun fizzled, and a robotic voice said flatly, Command not recognized. Please check manual for changing language settings.

"RUN!" screamed the Doctor.

Everything flew into chaos. All the Nims at the console pulled out handguns, and began shooting to no avail. Serin drew a long knife. We all ran in different directions, the crowd dispersed like cockroaches out of a light.

And me? I ran like hell for the door.

Review, my darling whovians, and I will be that much quicker with my updates. Sounds like I'm trying to bargain, but it's true! I feel inspired to update based mostly on the reactions of my readers. So please send me your thoughts! xoxo