The Doctor stared at the message and thought it was a little funny, she was sure another regeneration might laugh. A thousand thoughts all shot through her mind as she tried to figure out what was happening.

Dr. Matsumoto was with her in the laboratory looking at a picture of the writing.

'It's New Earth Standard,' said the Doctor.

'Yes. But of course, that would make an amount of sense. Weeping Angels send you back in time, from what I remember. Of course, all we know is mythology and the children's games. I remember reading a theory from someone who suggested that they were an ancient race who travelled multiple planets, only ever hunting sparsely to keep the populations alive for the next round of hunting. These sparse huntings meant that the children developed the games. I believe Summerfield said the same about Daleks.'

The Doctor wasn't really listening, didn't pay that much attention to what a Dalek was or who Summerfield could be. She was trying to tap into the Time Lord privilege of understanding the future, but nothing came, it couldn't in the volatile atmosphere, fizzing and fluctuating with space-time rifts.

Later, much later, a few days later, when they had all recovered from the fear of the black sarcophagus and the shock of finding the message, Joshua came to the Doctor.

They were alone near the ravine. Joshua kept a proximity alarm active in case someone should come close and overhear them.

'Doctor, I'm a little spooked with the message, I gotta say, and I can't—can't see what's going on any more.'

He looked away, de-activated the perception filter, revealing the face on the back of his head. He combed the beard out of the way, although it had gotten used to being combed up, so stayed a little stiff.

The Doctor didn't react. 'You're a Janus,' was all she said.

'You don't sound surprised,' said the back head, now looking at her.

'I am, I just take people as they come. Why hide?'

Joshua shook his head. 'You really aren't up to date.'

'No,' admitted the Doctor, thinking of her TARDIS and the weeks she would sometimes spend researching the local history to blend in.

'Janus are still hunted. The future-seeing ones anyhow. I'm not that unique, really, the male Janus have learned to see glimpses of the future for a few decades now. I can't see that well—just glimpses—my quick reactions. But while I'm here, I can't see all that well, it's wrong, it's weird. When I'm around the coffin and crown my reflexes kick in, I want to wear it and open it. Should I? Should we? If I want to and I see enough to protect myself from harm…?'

'Just yourself?'

'Well, yeah.'

'Then no. I always feel safer with a loaded laser gun, doesn't mean I'm safe to be around.'

Joshua nodded, understanding. He lingered a while with the Doctor, hoping for more sage wisdom, or answers, but she gave nothing away, was quiet and continued with her analysis of the temporal boundaries.

Dr. Matsumoto was in a world of his own, he was not a botanist, but as a xenobiologist anything alien held an allure for him. He wandered through the forest thinking that this was the adventure he needed, what he wanted. Having spent so much time cloistered in the shining halls of academia he did wonder if life had passed him by, but to be on an alien world, one not just entirely lost to him, but to everyone in the known galaxies, was brilliant.

Sometimes you have thoughts that aren't true, or have thoughts that you don't remember and so they don't matter, or never did happened. In this way, I know that Dr. Matsumoto did not consider the following: His first experience off-world, out of the town he was raised and lived in, was to a lost planet; anywhere else might feel less worthy, or have less of a spiritual impact on him. I do not know for certain if his want for elsewhere is the itchy feet of Hestamoloc, or that the matter of finding quality life early is a wonderful thing, but doesn't exactly fill the autobiography.

Dr. Matsumoto experiencing this flower, something between a lily and orchid. The crumpled pistil looked like an animal face, and the thin, wide petals like tendrils. How it floated there on a bent stem, it looked like a squid suspended in the ocean.

He was drawn in by it, and, as he moved forward, found a glistening quality to the petals. He thought touching it would be like silk. He thought its bite would be sharp and quick, but painless. He thought it was beautiful. He thought Hestamoloc would like to see it.

He fell and cried out.

'Dr. Matsumoto, are you alright?' asked Hestamoloc, close by.

How utterly embarrassing! Dr. Matsumoto thought.

He tried to pull himself up, but the movement of his leg wrenched pain through him and sent him back to the ground.

He had cried out again, and only registered the coming of Hestamoloc after he had stopped moving.

Dr. Matsumoto tried to turn, a little embarrassed to have to do so in such an inglorious position, his face buried into the dirt.

'I fell.' He said lamely.

Hestamoloc bent to pick him up, but Dr. Matsumoto yelped and threw himself back down. He was at least sitting up.

He brushed dirt off his face and felt for the source of pain. His ankle.

'I may have twisted it.'

'You can't walk.'

'No.'

It wasn't a question, but you can see that from the punctuation.

'I'll have to carry you.'

'Oh.'

'Is that okay?'

'Oh.' Dr. Matsumoto could only nod.

'Sorry, I know I'm a bit scary, but I promise the spines don't hurt.' Hestamoloc, with ease and some help from his environment suit, lifted Dr. Matsumoto with ease, cradle carrying him.

They had to walk slowly because Hestamoloc was strong, but not that strong.

'I'm not actually afraid of you—I'm not—not racist, y'know. That's not a double negative. I mean that I don't care about your genetic heritage. I don't listen to those Puritans or ethno-biologists.'

(A group dedicated to genetic 'purity', I would say they aren't moralistic or spiritual, but any group claiming a hierarchical categorisation of worth are placing a moral judgement. And ethno-biologist is just the dog whistle for racists who use scientific language to mask their baser instincts of in-group/out-group mentality.)

'Then what?' asked Hestamoloc through a very manly grunt that sent shivers down Dr. Matsumoto's belly.

'Military types. You're tall.'

'So are you.'

'But you are taller, you take up more room.'

'I was a nanny before this, I'm not a military type. The fire-arm training is part of being a nanny. I also speak six common languages in case translators fail. I am also trained in survival and evasive manoeuvring.'

'For nannying?'

'In case star liners crash or the paparazzi take liberties with personal boundaries.'

From a distance, with contempt, in her little glass room of hydroponics, listening to the hum drown out the world around her, Aumegden caught sight of the soldier carrying the scholar and muttered, 'For all that is sacred.'

Watching this display sparked some vulgar impetus in her fingers and she hit the table. The crash and rattle drowned out to the rest of them. She was glad, she didn't need them hearing her anger.

She couldn't pin point it, but I could tell you it came from a lifetime of being around people, being important, being useful, being needed, being useful, people needing her help, being useful, being useful, having something to do, always having something useful needing doing, people, a lot of people, fast transport, racing, racing people, people needing her to race, being used to fast racing people. Lt. Castillo chose her for a reason. She knew it too—or at least, she wanted to believe it too.

The solution was more within her reach, a nineteenth century cure for 'female hysteria', but that wasn't going to happen on this expedition.

Icrel, while Dr. Matsumoto was on bed rest, had to confess his shortcut and show him the program that explored chemical and flavour databases. Icrel was sent out to find the alien flower and pick over empty dirt. Dr. Matsumoto had coding friends, because it was good practise to not have friends in the same research field as you, and he knew about chemical processes. He did not disrupt the original code, but made a copy and worked on that while Icrel was kneeling in dirt, brushing away the softer particles of soil to examine the complex root system of the orchid-lily. It had enough depth of root and strength of purpose to cling like in a cartoon.

Icrel re-entered the city carrying a bag of reeds and the lily-orchid. The image caught on Diana's mind like an idea.

She turned to the base and searched through their extensive collection of iconographies. Her first thought was iconography symbols, and there it was. A person carrying the reeds, distinctive in their stiff stems and limp leaves. Given the corona circle around their head, she deemed it to be a goddess of the harvest.

Dr. Zimorax caught up with her.

'Why did you run away like that?'

'Dr. Zimorax, look—the reeds.'

'Yes. I know. They are the same ones on the black coffin—sarcophagus.'

Diana deflated a little. 'Oh. Sorry. I just… Um.'

It was foolish, I'm being stupid, she thought.

'We discussed that they cultivated these,' Dr. Zimorax said, just a little flatly, just a little patronising, just a little on the wrong side of dismissive.

'Yes, but she's a harvest goddess. We see others carrying them in the murals and symbols, but she has the halo. All harvest gods are depicted with a food-stuffs.'

Originally anyway. Sometimes this is considered a phallic metaphor, this is often wrong.

'That is Dr. Matsumoto's field, not mine,' said Dr. Zimorax, not even registering the possibility for a pun. 'Or yours. I am sure they are testing every outcome.' Although Dr. Zimorax had yet to see either the student or teacher slave over the laboratory bench.

'Yes. I guess… I just.'

Dr. Zimorax closed her eyes, the thought would not come, she furrowed her brow. 'The mural in the parliament, on one of the upper floors. It went around the room. It was the reeds.' She had to take this slowly. The thought might escape her.

Diana knew what one she was thinking of and searched it up on the database.

It was a sequential iconography, the direction of reading only then understood by Dr. Zimorax who could see the harvest goddess handing down the reeds to lesser mortals. They were not an offering to the goddess. Of course there were also missing pieces so the process wasn't entirely understood.

Diana and Dr. Zimorax went over the different parts of the sequence.

'Well, I think that's clear they're boiled.'

'Why not stewed?'

Dr. Zimorax conceded this with a nod. Such a big thing for anyone desperately clinging the mere authority of an expert. Diana did not see it, rather, she saw the nod, but didn't feel the impact of it, having shielded herself from her aunt's sharp edges. All that she understood was that, for once, just this once, Diana was not completely and incompetently wrong.

'Stewed or boiled until they are reduced—no, actually, neither of those. We assume that's a stove, but there isn't a fire.'

'It could be heated stone,' said Diana.

'But we haven't found any of those,' Dr. Zimorax pointed out.

'We found ovens. If you drew the ovens we found you'd draw a mouth, or maybe just a flat stove.'

'You are thinking that they think like us. They might not. I don't want to discount the intelligence of lost peoples or ancient societies, they are intelligent enough to cut corners, but if this is in the parliament, if this is a depiction—in stone—of their mythology, then it would be important to depict the flame if there was one. If we only had that missing piece—if there was one.

'But if we go on, they are strained through cloth…' Dr. Zimorax had leaned back in her chair, she had forgotten about the others she left outside, she had forgotten about the flower Icrel returned with.

Neither noticed the time moving until the others made noise in the mess hall, eating. They joined them to rest their minds, distract themselves while the brain did the slow work of thinking. But neither could quite let it go, so Diana asked Icrel about the reeds, he gave a superficial answer, so Dr. Zimorax asked Dr. Matsumoto because she also found Icrel difficult to deal with sometimes.

'I think those reeds might be edible and, if not delicious, certainly have flavour. They have a lot of glucose. I imagine eating them would be sweet.'

'Can I see one?' asked Diana over the table.

There was an abundance, so Icrel handed her one after they had eaten. She used her fingers to burrow into the flesh, the clear, slime of the inside leaked out amongst the stringy sinew inside.

'Cook them down, strain out the stringy bits, could make a syrup out of it.'

Dr. Zimorax hit the work bench in the laboratory where they had congregated. 'That's it! Diana, the stewing, the cooking down.' She took the damaged reed from Diana and tore it apart herself, examining the viscous quality of the inner sap. 'You could make syrup, stew, glucose, basic, flavourless source of sugars.'

They had a party catered with the foodstuffs they could create from the reeds. It was mostly syrups and candies and sweet, clear soups. It lacked strong flavours, but there was a hint of grape and mint. The most curious thing was that it wouldn't produce sugar itself, although the process to create sugar was long and not worth much of their time, they still attempted it. It resulted in the same bitter, brown slag as when they tried to caramelise the syrup.

Dr. Matsumoto wanted to study it, but there was music and people were dancing. He did not want to dance, but he wanted to be there as they danced. Vazican (off-duty Dr. Zimorax) sat with him, feeling he needed to be kept company, but also that she would never dare dance, no matter how much fun everyone was having. She had too much shame for that.

The only one not at the party was the Doctor. She was staring at the message—the joke—and trying to figure it out. She was certain that there wasn't a Weeping Angel in the sarcophagus, but she didn't know what was. What perplexed her wasn't just the language—New Earth Standard—but the syntax and capitalisation. She expected it to be a message for her, but also didn't discount the possibility it was just for any one of the many doctors who were supposed to be coming to join them. The capitalisation could have just been a mistake.

Aumegden danced, she danced like she needed to stretch her body, wide and sudden movements. Chitra danced with Diana, each guiding the other into movements and sequences they had picked up from the bars and clubs they had been too, and the occasional move stolen from visual media. Orlo wiggled his tendrils with surprising dexterity, in his community, his species, he would have been considered good potential for a dancer. Dr. Chen let loose like she was back in the electric disco clubs of her youth, all very house dance movements and a bit of voguing for flavour.

Trying to impose a bit of authority, Lt. Castillo didn't dance, but then saw Dr. Chen giving it her all when the song chanced to a classic of their youth. She simply had to, especially when Dr. Chen held her hand out and they began a partnered dance that put the rest of them to shame.

'I knew you'd remember this.'

Lt. Castillo laughed, unable to reach an easy answer. Of course she remembered this, it was the song she played on the base camps, the album that got her through the trial after the war, it was something that wasn't traditional Peladonian. Compared to the well-tended slums of Tangier-Delta, this song was something vibrant.

'I met my wives dancing to this song,' said Dr. Nasti Chen, who knew she was never off-duty. 'In a little underground club for the feminine queers who didn't care to be model citizens. Maltris and Galaía were sort of together, and then I come in and steal Maltris away,' she burst with giggles and pulled away from Lt. Castillo to sit down and calm down.

Their fourth child was expected—although depending on the time-dilation of gravity perhaps they were already born. It was Maltris and Galaía's turn to decide on the name, it would be an entire surprise to her.

The next day, they did not suffer hangovers because they could not drink, but every single one of them who ate the sap were sick. Dr. Chen had to call for Nursebot-W7Alpha. The droid could transport itself, but it would take half a day following the trail of the hover craft.

Only Dr. Clayton managed to be able to stand straight, she had only tasted the foodstuffs. While she did need a moment or two every so often to get fresh air and had to slowly sip at cold water to fight the nausea, she was well enough to tend the crew.

When Nursebot-W7Alpha arrived, it was able to better manage them.

The Doctor had an opportunity. She was alone. No one would be able to stop her if she went for the crown. They were all sick, they were all so much weaker than her. She could, she could, she could.