Everything in the city was cold and without expression. The buildings were constructed of either cinderblocks or bolted steel, and there was not one green thing growing anywhere within the walls. The tallest building in the fortress was a corrugated steel skyscraper, rising into a shining point to pierce the sky. More armored mole creatures stood sentry by the entrances of it, which, much like the front gate, were not visible until they slid aside.
"These Soricomorphans really are marvelous architects. A bit lacking in imagination, but still," the Doctor remarked.
"If you're very into the plain and the boring, then yeah," Amy said, casting a disapproving eye on the grayness all around her.
"What I want to know is what's so important about that skyscraper? It's more heavily guarded than the entry to the city. What could they possibly be guarding?" The Doctor mused.
"Maybe its where their king or prime minister or whatever rules them lives," Amy guessed.
"Perhaps. We're going to need to get inside to know for sure."
"And how do you expect to do that? There's got to be at least a dozen guards."
"Don't know. The ideas buzzing around my brain haven't settled down and turned into something yet. But one thing's for certain; we're not getting in today." The Doctor pointed up at the sky. The orange was deepening, presumably waning into night.
"Right then, Doctor. First bed and breakfast I see, I'll let you know," Amy said sarcastically. None of the buildings looked remotely welcoming; she had a feeling the Soricomorphans weren't very fond of tourists.
"Excuse me, are you really the Doctor? And I don't mean just any doctor."
The Doctor and Amy turned towards the source of the voice, which was hidden in the shadows of an alleyway. They could just make out a snout and a glinting eye, which peered at them hopefully from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
"You know me?" The Doctor asked, surprised. As far as he was concerned he had never visited this particular planet in all his nine hundred and seven years.
"I know of you." the creature nodded. "I mean you no harm. Come, and I will tell you everything. You can stay at my place tonight as well. The streets of Dymecodon aren't safe at night."
The Doctor made as if to accept his offer, but Amy held him back. "What, you're just going to follow some oversized mole just because he asks you to? He could be bluffing."
"Do you have a better idea? This could be our chance to save the humans. Wasn't that what you wanted?"
Amy glanced at the Soricomorphan. Truthfully he didn't look all that threatening. By human standards he faintly resembled a grandfatherly character, considering the silver hair in his fur and the white whiskers around his snout. His little eyes were gentle, devoid of the insensitivity the gate guard's possessed.
"I promise you, good lady, I am nothing like the rest of my race," the stranger assured.
"If he tries to buy me, I blame you," Amy told the Doctor under her breath before squaring her shoulders and following the Soricomorphan into the dark alley.
The alien's abode was small, accessed by the first wood door either of them had seen that day, and consisted of a downstairs and an enclosed loft. The interior had a tunnel-like feel, the walls having been hewn from rough rock. There was a hearth, which currently held a fire that burned white at the center, and a stone slab of a table that sat directly on the floor in front of it. Overstuffed pillows surrounding it served as chairs. All manner of odds and ends hung from the ceiling, from cooking pots to dried roots and herbs tied into bunches.
"Nice place," Amy said in an effort to be civil.
"Thank you, good lady," the Soricomorphan said with a slight dip of his head.
"Oh, the name's Amy. Amy Pond."
"And I am Beetroot. Not much of a name, but it was my father's and I will not dishonor it."
"I was just wondering, erm...Beetroot—why do you keep referring to me as 'good lady'? I'm sure you know I'm human."
"Human or Soricomorphan, females should be shown respect. They are mothers of future generations, after all," Beetroot said simply.
Amy blushed slightly at this, finding it hard to see herself as a future mother. She hoped the Doctor hadn't noticed.
"You see, Soricomorphans weren't always so cruel. Fifty years ago, a new High Councilor was elected. He had been a well-decorated military general previously, and did not share the gentler views of our forefathers. He preferred Soricomorpha as a warlike, militant planet." The elderly creature bowed his head remorsefully. "My family tried to keep the old ways alive, but I fear we were the only ones. I am the last of what once was."
"The very last," the Doctor murmured, lost in his own contemplations.
Beetroot busied himself with setting the table. Supper that night was to be in the form of oddly-shaped and colored vegetables, steamed and seasoned so that they almost smelled appetizing. There was bread too, although it looked suspiciously French, and Amy guessed that he had sneaked it from the pastry shops that surrounded the portal. An herbal tea steeped in an earthenware pot, which was kept warm by what looked like a bad attempt at a handmade tea cozy.
Amy didn't care what the food looked like, and secretly hoped her digestive system would accept it. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and her stomach was letting her know it. She plopped down on one of the pillows and began shoveling liberal helpings of everything on the earthenware plate Beetroot had put out for her.
"So tell me, Beetroot, how is it you've heard of me?" The Doctor asked.
"One of my neighbors owned a human slave girl once who used to visit for tea whenever she could get away. We were quite good friends, actually, before she was sold. But before then she confided in me that a certain relative of hers, a man by the name of Charles Dickens, used to tell her stories of how the Earth was nearly taken over by a race known as the Gelth. And it would have happened, too, if it were not for the intervention of someone he called the Doctor."
"Ah yes, good old Charlie," the Doctor said, a reminiscent gleam in his eye. "Always one for storytelling."
"You met Charles Dickens?" Amy said, clearly impressed.
"It's one of the perks of being a time traveler," the Doctor said dismissively.
"In my younger years I tried to get my brethren to see the error in their ways, but nothing worked. They are beyond reasoning with now." Beetroot poured tea into small cups and passed them around. "You are a good man, Doctor. I can smell it. If you know of a way to end the suffering of the humans, I'd be much obliged to you."
The Doctor was silent for a moment, thinking. "That skyscraper in the square. What is it?" He asked.
"That is the High Councilor's residence. It's also where the portal manipulator is kept; the device that keeps your world and ours connected."
"Bingo!" The Doctor looked pleased. "Now tell me, is there any way of getting inside?"
"They say it's near impossible. Every entrance is protected by the High Councilor's Guard. The only way in is to be invited, and even then few rarely come back out again."
"Doesn't sound too hard. We shall just have to figure out how to secure an invitation from this High Councilor person."
"Doctor, perhaps you didn't hear that last bit? The 'few rarely come back out' thing?" Amy said in trepidation.
"Details," the Doctor replied as if it was no big deal. "I'm going to have to come up with a plan. I do love planning things."
Amy didn't bother to argue with him. There was no turning back now, once they had both made a decision.
That night, the couple lay in the loft bed that Beetroot had temporarily given up for them, thinking about the morning. Like the table downstairs, the mattress was set on the floor, although it was unusually comfortable. Amy had her head nestled in the crook of the Doctor's arm, facing away from him, and his other arm was draped over her body. She could feel his breath hot on her neck as he brushed his lips against the skin just behind her ear.
"It's crazy, isn't it? How we always go somewhere with the intent of doing something perfectly normal and usually end up fighting for our lives instead," Amy said, watching the flickering shadows on the far wall that were cast by the last dying flames of the fire.
"That's what you get for hanging around a madman with a box, Amelia Pond," the Doctor answered with a trace of humor in his muffled voice as he moved on to her earlobe.
Amy flipped over so that her head was next to his on the pillow, their noses nearly touching. "Does it ever frighten you, the near-death experiences?"
The Doctor smiled weakly, his fingers combing the hair out of her face. "Sometimes, for less than a second. Then the adrenaline kicks in and I sort of forget. I'm usually more worried about something happening to the people I travel with. You humans don't get a second chance at life like I do. So fragile, so…temporary. So lucky."
"Funny, doesn't feel lucky most of the time."
"Wait until you live nine hundred years and then I think you'll understand."
"As long as I'm with you, I won't mind."
The Doctor smiled again and kissed her forehead. "Good night, dear Amy."
Although Amy protested that she wasn't tired, she eventually drifted off, her cheek resting on his chest, as he traced patterns on her scalp. He himself didn't sleep, for he had quite a lot to think about. Tomorrow was a big day.
Note: the part with the Doctor visiting Charles Dickens and the Gelth was taken from an old 2005 episode called the Unquiet Dead. I had to find a way for Beetroot to know about the Doctor and, considering they visited the 1800s in that episode, it seemed like the easiest way.
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