ɸ Around the Mulberry Bush and Back ɸ

Excerpt from"Introduction to the Solace Planets: Rapheyon Delta"

Because of the lack of technology and intelligence on Rapheyon Delta, all guests are to take a mandatory introductory training class. The class will prepare you mentally and physically for the different lifestyles and customs of the Rapheyonites, as well as the different terrains that will appear on the planet. The training class will also cover what to do in certain situations with the tribal members and what not to do while you're on the planet. The Commandments of the Comfort Planets, as provided in this booklet, should always be adhered to. Fine details will be covered later in the class.

The Commandments of the Comfort Planets:

Always follow the Commandments.

Do not bring anything with you.

Appropriate clothing for you will be provided, do not bring your own.

Do not initiate communication with primitives without the tribe's magistrate.

Do not offer religious/philosophical ideas.

Do not talk about the weather.

Do not use sarcasm.

Do not give gifts to the primitives.

Do not accept gifts from the primitives.

Do not touch the primitives.

Do not go into primitives' huts, unless guided there by the magistrate.

Do not wander away from the village until appropriate departure time.

Do not use obscene hand gestures.

… [the list goes on for several pages]…

248. Do not feed the primitives.

249. Do not accept food from primitives.

250. Do not feed the livestock.

251. Do not eat the livestock.

252. Do not kick the livestock.

… [a hand written entry] 252 ½. Unless the livestock kicks you.

253. Do not take anything from the planet back with you.

…[254. has been crossed out to the point of illegibility]

255. The Magistrate is Law.

... [a hand written entry] 256. Do not piss off the magistrate.

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In the middle of a rock formation on another continent of the Rapheyon Delta,

Plupt! Thumpt!

Tww-woiiiing-wong-wong, a metal hubcap spirals around and around, making the metallic ringing noise as round metal objects are apt to do.

ɸ

The Time Lord leaned against the wall, looking at the ceiling in the cell he was getting very familiar to know. If my hypothesis is correct, more things will come hurtling back. Perhaps something decidedly dreadful. Then they'll come and get me again, yelling, demanding, that's how it always goes, and then probably a threat on my life or a ritual sacrifice is in order. Although, with this bunch, they'll most likely just shove me back in here. They don't know what to do with me, he grinned to himself in a lackluster way. In, out, back in, and then out, and then forced in again. I feel like an overused Jack-in-the-Box. Doc-inna-Box. Hum. If she were here, she'd say something sarcastically witty, or at least try to be witty, in comparing the TARDIS to a clown-holding box, which would make me the clown. Or she'd be whining about being in a cell. Though I'd definitely would have escaped by now… not much initiative now that there isn't someone complaining in my ear to do something about it. The body that lay in the middle of the room moved slightly, but the Doctor failed to notice, being lost in thought. Never liked the sound those boxes made, though. What was it? ... 'Pop goes the mongoose?' or something like that. You'd always slow down at the end, dreading when it would come hurtling out of the box. No matter how many times you'd do it, it scared the draknas out of you. The figure sat up, rubbed its eyes, and stretched its arms.

"Hullo, Doctor," it said.

The Doctor dropped his gaze from the ceiling and looked down at the boy. "Yes… uh, hello!" he stumbled, obviously confused on how the boy already knew who he was. He certainly wasn't Mort; he was too old. "uhm… Have we met?"

The boy was obviously offended, "Mort, remember? We talked not less than an hour ago. You asked me how old I was."

"Right… right. Sorry." The Doctor rifled his hand through his hair as he pondered the possibilities. Certainly he had seen stranger things than rapid aging. "What's your answer?"

"Then? 12. Now, 17. I always age before everyone else in my village; I was born slightly before the feast." Mort stood up, slightly shaky because he was not used to being taller.

"And what feast would that be?" The Doctor asked, milking as much facts as he could from Mort.

"The Feast of a Thousand Moons," Mort paused, "shouldn't you already know this?"

"I-Ah, I probably do, but those people out there," he gestured to the door, "knocked me around and I can't remember a darn thing." He knocked a fist up against his head as he outrageously fibbed. He had the feeling that Mort wouldn't be as talkative if he knew that the person he was talking to was of a different species, not to mention timeline and galaxy. "How often is this party?"

"Oh, well it comes every year, right around the time of the spring equinox of our Sol 1," Mort informed him. "Sol 1 is the slightly reddish one that crosses over Sol 3, the yellow-er sun, and Sol 2 is a blue tinged one that is only seen every 15 years. My grandparents were the last ones in my family to see it. The feast is apart of our ageless culture, everyone is born during this time, except for a few like me."

"Ageless culture? Hm." Not quite. The Doctor mulled over the facts in his mind. Rapid aging, items appearing from outside of time and space…, which leaves it with, let's see… … Rapimenosial Anositiscm? "Ohh, it can't be! For your sake I hope not," he talked to himself and scratched his jutted out chin. "Where could they have gotten that technology? That shouldn't be around in this galaxy for… quite a while… Something is decidedly wonky here."

Mort looked at the Doctor with glazed eyes. "Don't you think we should try to get out of here?" he ventured, after he thought the Doctor was done with his personal conversation.

"What? Oh, yes, in due time. I think we'll be seeing another guard whisking me away promptly to people in charge, demanding to know what's going on, implying that I'm the one that's done it, et cetera. " The Doctor was suddenly lackluster and void of his normal spunk, the previous conviction gone from his voice. Mort noticed the instant change in the Doctor's voice, but decided not to comment on it. The Doctor sat heavily down on the bench, "People like them always do the same thing, every time. It's so predictable. For once, just once, I'd like to be wrong about something."

Just as the Doctor predicted, soon after, a guard came. The Doctor looked up in un-anticipation, "Where am I off to now? Someone see something they shouldn't have? Someone need a Doctor?" The guard grunted impassively and took him by the arm. Groaning, the Doctor obeyed. At the door, he half turned to Mort, "Don't get any older," and left the cell.

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James St. John stood in front of the large window overlooking the planet with his arms crossed in disapproval. A squat, fat man with thinning hair and impish eyes stood beside him, clasping his hands behind his back, which was a terrible strain on his tragically short arms. To say that the man had a wide waist would be an understatement; the man had an equatorial beltline. The vast differences between the two are unfortunate and comically obvious. The tall and thin James turned his head to look at the squat man who continued to look out the window. James sighed and looked back through the plasmaglass at the seemingly peaceful planet. James knew better; the planet below was all but tranquil.

"Are you sure it's five?" James casually commented to the man. He did not need an answer for he knew he would not make such a disastrous folly.

The man casually glanced at James with a broad grin that folded his face into a ripple of creases; if his face was terrain it would be a mountain chain. "That'd the third time you're arsked me that." The man's complicated thick accent caused havoc with the grammar system of the New Plutonian language. "Yer 'orrible with the small talk, ain't che'? Yers, I'm shure that it's up to five."

"Alas this is so, dear Hugo." James unfolded an arm to clap the man on the back. "I'm afraid I'm terrible with idle chit-chat. Do you plan on attending the second interrogation?"

"Down ta' business alreddy ar' we? Yers, I'll be thare, Jamesie-boy, I'll be thare." James detested the nickname Hugo had abruptly given him 3 years ago, but to tell him that would be like kicking a puppy. "Thare'll be no need of fear from that ravin' lunatic when I'm thare, eh? Tho I dont think that I'll be able ta tell ya two apart!" Hugo nudged James in the ribs jovially with his plump elbow. James normally would have feigned laughter, to keep him in good humor, but with everything that had happened recently he couldn't seem to muster up even a smirk.

"Oh, yer in a foul mood this evening, Jamesie-boy, ain't che? That'd ol dragon et yer sense o' humor, didjit? It musta still be starving!"

James pinched the bridge of his nose as Hugo continued jabbing him in the side with his elbow. "Y-yes. I've got to prepare." He quickly glanced at his wristwatch and left Hugo jiggling with mirth by the window. Hugo abruptly stopped laughing as soon as James was out of sight. His jovial face creased back into an impudent frown.

"Oh, you don't know what's in store for you, you unlucky bastard." His thick accent completely vanished.

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