A/N: Just in case anyone wondered about my writing process (which I'm sure nobody did), sometimes a story comes into place when I have a picture of a scene in my head that won't go away, so working from there and moving backwards towards the beginning I create a whole story around it. This was one of those times, and it came from a conversation with a friend and fellow Whovian who asked, "So, what's the most awkward place the Doctor could land the TARDIS?" This won out over the other possibility, which is right next to the short stop during a baseball game; preferably game 7 of the World Series.
"I've traveled the whole of time and space," the Doctor said, a scowl forming on his face. "I've crossed the galaxies time and time again, I've stared into the very heart of evil... and that is the most disgusting thing I've ever seen."
Quinn Fabray rolled her eyes and sighed. "Dramatic much?"
"It's just... inconceivable!"
"It's not that bad."
"A strawberry jam and goose pâté sandwich? Not that bad? I'd sooner lick a Sontaran's head. It'd probably taste better and all."
"Stop being such a wuss," she said, reaching for the hot mustard and putting a generous dollop on top of the bread before she took a bite. She closed her eyes and moaned a little in pleasure. "That hit the spot," she said, and took another huge bite while the Doctor looked on in disgust.
"Just... don't drip any of that on the console," he said. "The last thing I want is to be catapulted into the dark ages by a misplaced gobbet of goose liver."
She rolled her eyes as she ran a hand over the console. "Where are we going this time?"
"Where would you like?"
She smiled gleefully at him. "Somewhere fun," she said. "I feel like celebrating."
"Celebrating what, exactly?"
"I have no idea," she said, smiling. "But for the first time in a long time I just feel good. I don't feel like puking, I'm not depressed, and my hair has never looked better."
He smiled. "You can thank elevated hormone levels for that. The sebaceous glands on the surface of the skin react-"
"No, no, no!" She said. "It's a good day. Don't... scienceify it."
"That's not even a proper word."
"Shut it!" she said, pointing an accusing finger. "It never stopped you. Unless you're going to try to tell me that 'flobbity' is a technical term."
"Fine, fine," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Far be it from me to ruin the moment."
"I thought that was your speciality."
"Alright people, places!" Robert called. The hubbub on the set slowly died out as everyone gathered around the director. "Alright, we had a spectacular opening night last night," he said, "but we all know that for all intents and purposes, that was only a dry run. Tonight's the real test, when we see if the play pleases our patron."
"And pray to God it will..." said one of the members of the lighting crew.
"I think that goes without saying, Josh," Robert replied. "Now," He was ready to go on, but Josh interrupted him again.
"Does it? Because I seem to remember a few flubbed lines and missed music cues last night."
"That's why we're all here. To polish any last rough spots," Robert said, but this time it was Howard, his Mr. Milligan, who cut him off.
"And I suppose the lighting was perfect, then, eh Josh? My dearest wife's bedroom sure seemed pretty bright, even after she turned the lights out after my funeral."
"Those lighting cues were right on schedule," Josh said, wagging a finger angrily at Howard. "It's not my fault she rushed through the monologue and forgot the last line."
"I'm doing the best I can," Callie said. "It's not my fault I had to come in so late in the production. If Angie hadn't gotten wrapped up in something stupid and... and..."
"You stupid girl," the manager of the props department, Clegg, grumbled. "D'you think the King will be interested in your blubbering excuses?"
"Now wait, people," Robert said, but he was cut off.
"Hey, don't talk to her like that!" Howard said. "You can't talk to her that way."
"Oh shut up, Hackett," Josh said. "you do know you're not actually married to the little tramp, right? Or has it all become too real for you? I mean, for all we know Angie wouldn't have done what she did if Robert hadn't filled her head with all that Traveler propaganda..."
"People, please, we're professionals here," Robert tried again, but by now everyone was talking over everyone else.
Callie, for her part, seemed like she was on the verge of tears. "I don't know why you all hate me so much," she said. "What happened to her was not my fault..."
By now the rest of the cast and crew were getting into it as well,
"...I wouldn't be surprised if she turned her in herself..."
"...make sure tonight goes off without a hitch..."
"...certainly going to do all I can, not that I speak for any of you amateurs..."
"...idiot..."
"...moron..."
"...washed-up has-been..."
"...worked for years in this field, and I'll tell you another thing..."
"...did the best I could..."
"...shut the hell up and leave me..."
Robert stuck his fingers in his mouth and blew as hard as he could, making a shrill whistle echo throughout the backstage area. "That's enough!" But the argument wasn't dying down, not by a long shot. He rolled his eyes and reached out for the gun in the holster of Soldier #2, as portrayed by . The weapon wasn't dangerous, of course, it was just a prop - but it was certainly loud enough. He ripped the gun from the holster, raised it above his head, and fired into the air. The bang made everyone jump and they stared at the source of the noise. "I said, that is enough!" He thrust the weapon back at Soldier #2 who caught it awkwardly. "There isn't anyone here who likes the way this turned out," he said, making eye contact with each person in the circle as he spoke. "This isn't what any of us set out to do when we started, and we've lost a lot of people. Good people. People we care about." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "There isn't a single one of us who doesn't know the stakes for tonight, and we're all on edge. But we're not going to get through it unless we all work together. Okay?" There was a murmur of begrudging agreements, a few hushed and hastily spoken apologies, and then they were back to work. "Good job folks. Now, lets start with the interrogation scene. Three hours until curtain call," he said, clapping his hands together. "Let's make them count!"
The final scene before the first act ended was the most important one of all, Robert thought. Maybe none of the others would have agreed - certainly not the King - but to him it was the clearest moment of his artistic expression. Just like the remainder of the dramatic scenes in the play, it took place in the Milligans' living room, and he was determined that this scene go right. He'd rehearsed the whole scene start to finish with the troupe two times this afternoon. In a few moments they'd be doing it again, and he wanted to be there for it, hopefully to see the King's reaction.
He folded the paper he'd been reading. Initial reviews from last night were conservatively positive, and there was no shortage of people clamoring for tickets. The media had been hyping the show ever since the King had endorsed it personally.
"Come see the new sensation, now prepared as a fully-endorsed stage experience," the ads said. If only they'd known what 'preparation' actually meant. The Traveler's Folly was the play he'd envisioned in name only - except he'd written this version instead. Did that make him a traitor to the party, he wondered?
He could mull over his artistic integrity later. Right now, the scene he wanted to see - the one that was least perverted of them all and yet also the one that had started this roller coaster ride to begin with - was starting. He made his way out to the wings and stood just offstage, watching Calli and Howard as Kate and Frank in a heated discussion.
"We can just give it to them," she was saying. "We'll give them what they want. It'll mean a few years in prison, yes. It's a setback, I know. But at least both of us will be alive!"
"No!" Her husband exclaimed, slamming his fist on the coffee table. "No way no how. This is what we wanted to achieve, and we can't back down now."
She came and sat next to him, grasping his hands in hers. "You know full well this is not what I wanted." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Alright, it is, but not like this," she said. "It's not worth it!"
"Yes it is," he said, "and you know it. This is what we worked for, and we've done too much to let it go now."
"I don't care about it anymore. I care about you. I won't let you throw your life away for this."
The sound of a distant klaxon started playing. "It's too late," Howard said. He stood and moved to the other side of the room, against the mantle, admiring a photo that had been placed there. The picture frame was empty - Howard was only acting as if there were a photo there. As he stood leaning against the fireplace he looked right out at the audience through the glass, and Robert took a moment to admire his own blocking. That scene was full of the kind of metaphor that critics just ate up, left, right, and center.
The klaxons grew louder, soon accompanied by the sound of a legion of booted feet running around outside the house. This was the poignant scene, the one that was supposed to shock people right before the second act ended. When the soldiers were about to burst in, Howard would smile forlornly at the picture frame and replace it on the mantle. He would kneel down in a perfect picture of submission, ready to be arrested. But the soldiers wouldn't arrest him at all; as soon as they entered the house they would see him across the room and shoot him dead right there in the living room. The cruelty was the driving force in Kate Milligan's character development, the thing that would turn her from an uninvolved pacifist trying to ignore her husband's political activities after hours in the dark, to the very leader of the resistance. It was beautiful, it was untouched, and it was the only thing left in the play that Robert was in any measure proud of.
Howard - though at this point, in some way, he really became Frank - looked at the imaginary photograph forlornly, just like he was supposed to. He knelt down with his hands on his head, like he was supposed to.
And then something happened that wasn't supposed to happen.. something that had never happened on this planet before, something the likes of which nobody had ever seen and never would again as long as they lived.
As Robert looked on from the wings, a few of the fabric pieces on set fluttered slightly. There must be a breeze getting into the set from somewhere. He'd have to have Clegg look for it during the intermission, he thought, see if there was anything they could do. But they didn't stop. Soon even heavier things on set were moving. A book lying on its side blew open and the pages started flapping in the sudden breeze.
Then there was the sound. Picking up from no place at all, a whistling hiss turned into a grinding like someone was tearing holes in the fabric of space. Howard was still on his knees waiting for his mock arrest, but even he looked up when he realized something was amiss.
Before their very eyes, a light started to flash on and off in the middle of the air in front of Frank. A few seconds later, as the wheezing sound echoed throughout the entire theater, something began to form in the space before him - a hard thing with sharp, angular lines and strange writing on it. A thing that declared, in large, bold, audacious letters that it was a "Police Public Call Box." And then just as suddenly, the wind died away and the sound faded, leaving nothing but stunned, mouth-agape silence.
Robert watched in horror at the little blue box appeared right in the middle of his most important, most dramatic, most artistically perfect scene, torn between the desire to scream and to laugh maniacally. Not realizing what was happening inside the living room set, the soldiers burst in and took their shots without so much as a glance at what was actually before them. The thing, whatever it was, was right between them and their target, though, and the little puff of theatrical smoke that was supposed to rise up off the target whisped harmlessly off the wooden thing.
There was absolute silence in the auditorium. The audience stared open-mouthed, completely astonished by what they'd just seen and totally unaware that those on the other side of the stage were just as surprised as they were.
And then, as if the whole thing couldn't get any stranger, one of the doors opened, and a blonde girl came out of the box. "I mean, isn't that what you're known for anyway?" she asked, head still pointed into the box. She turned around and saw the soldiers, with their guns pointed at her, and took a step back, gasping.
"No! 'course not!" a man said, coming out behind her. "When's the last time I ever ruined someone's... moment..." he said, trailing off as he, too, noticed the guns. "Ah. Guns. Good. Been eons since I had guns pointed at me. Well, I say eons. Ages, maybe. Well, I mean, actually it was last week. Still, think you could put those down? I don't mind, of course, only my friend here has been under a lot of stress lately and, well, who knows how long until she snaps, really? Certainly not me. "
The soldiers stared, completely caught off guard, and Robert was sure it was the actor, not the character he was portraying, who stammered out, "Who... are you?"
"Us? Oh, don't mind us," he said. And then he said the worst thing he possibly could say. "We're just a couple of travelers, Quinn and I. I'm the Doctor, by the way..." There was a collective gasp from the audience. The girl was petrified, and she didn't take her eyes off the men pointing guns right at her chest, but the man risked a look in the direction of the sound. He squinted into the bright lights pointed at the stage but a moment later his eyes seemed to adjust, and he realized he was looking at a sea of faces all staring up at them. "Oh," he said.
There was another moment of silence, then the King himself stood and started a slow ovation - unheard of behavior for the monarch. But of course the rest followed suit, and soon the entire auditorium consisted of people standing up in the aisles, the seats, anywhere they could find, clapping as profusely as possible for the astounding entrance.
If Robert had been in a position to enjoy this at all, he would have been over the moon with joy and excitement at this kind of reaction. But all he had was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that something dreadfully wrong was about to happen.
"Curtain," he hissed to the stage hand next to him.
"What?" the man replied distractedly.
"I said curtain!" Robert hissed out. "Start the intermission!"