Bad Potatoes
Thanks to anyone who's reading this.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
"So, are you here for the potato festival?" Jack asked again, sidling flirtatiously up next to Martha.
"Cut it out," snapped the Doctor impatiently.
"What?" said Jack, forcing some semblance of innocence onto his face. "It's just a question. Are you or aren't you?"
"We aren't," said the Doctor. He held up his red plastic basket. "We're here for the chips."
"Ah," Jack nodded. "Lisson Grove. That was my first trip back to the twenty-first century, for practice jumping in crowds. Those were some delicious fries."
The Doctor offered the basket and Jack took a chip and popped it in his mouth. "Mmm. Heavenly."
Martha shuddered and gagged. Jack grinned at the Doctor. "You tell her about the Potay?" The Doctor nodded. "Yeah, covered that my first semester of galactic history. No one ate cafeteria food for weeks."
"What about after?" asked Martha.
Jack shrugged. "We got hungry. And broke." He swallowed another chip, and then coughed and pounded his chest. "Doctor, your french fries are vibrating. Why are they doing that?"
The Doctor shrugged. "No idea. Potay toes vibrate when they're near their host," he pulled out his sonic screwdriver, "but all the Potay were wiped out centuries ago…" he trailed off, staring at the screwdriver. It was whirring softly in its usual manner, but the normally blue light was flashing hot pink. "Well, it's never done that before."
Jack and Martha watched him cautiously. "What does it mean?"
The Doctor switched off the screwdriver and slipped it back into the inside pocket of his coat. "It means we need to attend this potato festival."
oOo
They passed easily through security at the potato warehouse, the Doctor flashing his psychic paper and introducing himself as John Smith, British Potato Council health inspector, Jack and Martha as his assistants.
The warehouse itself was a massive converted aircraft hanger from World War II. Its walls had been specially insulated to protect the potatoes from the iron oxide of the infrastructure, and was now filled with dozens and dozens of special storage containers filled with potatoes from all over the world, labeled on the sides with countries ranging from Ireland to Bangladesh, and each fitted with its own timer-controlled sprinkler system and atmosphere moisture measure thing, as the Doctor so clinically put it.
The Doctor held up the sonic screwdriver. The pink light was blinking, and increasing in rapidity the further down the warehouse they went until it was a constant beam, at which point the Doctor stopped and looked up at the nearest container. The lip stood a good three or four feet above his head.
"We need one of those potatoes," he muttered. "Martha, come here, get on my shoulders. Jack, help me giver her a leg up."
With severe wobbling (and no small amount of wandering hands from Jack), Martha managed to balance herself on the Doctor's thin shoulders. His whole body trembled.
"Why didn't Jack give me a lift?" Martha asked, looking pointedly at his much more solid build and well-muscled arms.
"Just…grab…a potato," the Doctor groaned. Martha leaned forward, clinging to the side of the bin and peering over.
"There's a cover," she said. "I can't reach them."
"Nn. Gah! …try…"
Martha pulled herself up off the Doctor's shoulders and swung her leg up over the side of the container so she was straddling the edge. The Doctor sighed with relief and leaned against the metal wall. Martha bent over, pulled up the white plastic cover which spanned the top of the container, an plucked a potato from the pile. It vibrated softly in her hand, sending a tingling feeling up her whole arm and making the hairs stand on end.
"Doctor," she called, dropping the potato down to him, and then landing lightly after it. The Doctor inspected the potato with his screwdriver. "I don't think…" he said slowly, "people should be eating these."
"Mind if I do a taste test?" asked Jack, holding out his hand.
"But what if it's poisonous?" said Martha nervously.
"That's kind of what I meant."
The Doctor passed over the potato. Jack sniffed it. "Haven't got any salt, have you?" The Doctor sank his arm into his coat pocket up to his elbow, rummaged around for a moment, and pulled out a salt shaker in the shape of a pear.
"I hate pears," he commented idly.
Jack shook a pinch of salt onto the potato and grinned at the Doctor and Martha. "Here goes nothin'." He took bite, and grimaced. "Yuck, raw potato." He swallowed forcefully, shaking out his body, clearing his throat. "Blegh."
Martha watched him carefully. "How do you feel?"
Jack shrugged. "Fine." A second later, his eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped to the floor. Martha knelt over him and felt for a pulse. There was none.
"Well, that clears that up," said the Doctor. "The potato festival is off."
There was a sharp intake of breath and Jack sat up. Regaining his bearing, he said, "That was much less painful than usual." Martha helped him to his feet and they faced the Doctor.
"I think it's safe to assume there's a Potay in the vicinity," said the Doctor, staring hard at the potato, which he had picked up from where Jack had dropped it when he died. "And we've got to save the potato-eating population of Great Britain."
"We've got to go to the BPC," said Martha emphatically.
Both Jack and the Doctor frowned in confusion.
"The…British Potato Council," said Martha. "Tell them to call off the festival."
Jack snorted. "Right, because that would work well. 'Excuse me Mr. Potato Council Chairman, but we have reason to believe a giant alien with no toes is coming to steal all your potatoes and possibly cause mass destruction'."
"Fine then, call UNIT!"
At this, the Doctor shook his head, in that way he had of instantly conveying the completely non-negotiable. He was frowning again in his deep-thinking manner, and when he spoke, it was with that maddening tone that always made Martha feel as though he was only telling her the tiniest bit of what was going on inside his head.
"The Potay are peaceful. Whatever it's doing here, I doubt it intends to cause harm. I'd rather find it without a platoon."
"Why would a surviving Potay come to Earth, though?" asked Jack. "It's not exactly abundant with wide open breeding fields."
"No," the Doctor agreed. "It's not." He dropped the potato into his pocket.
"How do Potay breed?" asked Martha.
"They stick their toes in the ground and stand there for three weeks until the seeds work their way out and into the soil," supplied Jack.
The Doctor raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Cultural exchange," said Jack.
"But the Potay need miles and miles of farmland to reproduce. Their entire planet was great tract of prime soil. He wouldn't come to London for that. No…" the Doctor rubbed his chin and started walking swiftly back down the warehouse, with Martha and Jack hurrying along in his wake. "He's not here to breed. He wants something else."
"What else would a Potay want?" cried Martha. She slowed to a halt in front of another poster for the festival. The Doctor stopped and looked at her. Then his eyes lit on the wall behind her, and Martha once again felt as though he was looking right through her without seeing her at all.
"He doesn't want breeding ground," the Doctor said. "Because he can't BREED! Oh, I am so thick!" He rand his hand through his already messy hair, making it stand four inches above his head. "He's looking for his toes!" He whirled in a full circle and returned to face Martha. "Remember how I said capital punishment for a Potay was having his toes chopped and scattered?"
"Yes…" said Martha slowly.
"Well, there's only one Potay in history to have received capital punishment, during the first year of the Time War. Sarkam Pendle Ulysses Daboosh."
"S. P. U. D," said Jack, grinning.
"That was his nickname. He had his toes chopped and he was banished to the far reaches of the galaxy. He's probably spent the last 500 years searching for them." He pulled the potato out of his pocket. "And now he's found them."
"But why would he look here in the first place?" asked Martha. "The first potatoes were discovered in Peru in the fifteen-hundreds and brought back to Europe by the Spanish. Surely if his toes were the first potatoes, they'd be there."
The Doctor and Jack stared at her.
"What?" she said defensively. "I did a report in seventh grade. I have a good memory."
Apparently," the Doctor muttered. He leaned to the left so that he could see all the way back down the warehouse and narrowed his eyes. "Yep. The bin you got that potato out of is from Lima, Peru." He was silent for a moment. "Martha, that report of yours. You wouldn't have happened to find out where the BPC offices are, would you?"
Thanks for reading. All reviews appersheated, I like to know who's following this. I promise I'm going somewhere. (:) peas in a pod.
-esking