for oncoming_storms Prompt 154.3
Clothes swap: you awake to find all your clothes have been swapped with someone else's
Floor.
A section of TARDIS floor pressed rather insistently against the Doctor’s face as he struggled to consciousness. His mind fought through fog but failed to offer up any useful memories, ultimately dismissing the circumstances with the mental equivalent of a cautious shrug.
Whatever happened, it was over for now, with his body somehow tumbling to the ground after he’d slipped into oblivion. One thing he knew for certain, however, was that he’d not fainted. Time Lords did not faint, and even if they were capable of such a pathetic loss of control, they’d not admit to it.
The Doctor did not faint.
He did not faint and now his arms were somehow bound and buckled securely against his chest.
What?
"What?"
He made the attempt to move, assuming his confinement temporary and easily solved, but the buckles refused to unbuckle and the straitjacket refused to fall away. Whatever circumstances led him to this predicament, he was rightly stuck.
Other things on his person seemed wrong. The snug cut of his trousers and his shoes. His hat, with its tight band and odd fit. In fact, all his clothing -- what he could make of it from beneath the straitjacket -- appeared made for a man of shorter stature.
He found it a battle to settle himself upright from his prone position on the floor, his ability to keep perfect balance exacerbated by his pinned down arms and the strange shoes on his feet.
Wingtips. Why wingtips?
The secret to straight jacket escape, if he recalled Houdini correctly, was to force the fasteners to be initially as loose as possible, but as he’d noted, this outfit was for a shorter man.
"Doctor?"
The young, earnest voice caused the Doctor to stop his desperate attempts to work himself free. "Erimem," he said, cautiously greeting her. He braced himself, muscles tensing ever tighter beneath his rough canvas confines as he prepared for the inevitable torrent of questions from the young woman’s ever-inquisitive mind.
Erimem, despite her initial shock at the Doctor’s appearance, edged closer to him. Her curiosity won out over any degree of apprehension she felt. "What are you doing?"
He blinked, his gaze scanning the rather incredulous circumstances he’d found himself in. "At the moment, I’m wondering why I hadn’t studied up on escapology more."
The bizarre piece of clothing enclosing the Doctor reminded Erimem of something a dangerous prisoner would wear. Why else keep the arms lashed so securely together? "You are bound, Doctor."
"Adroit observation," he sighed.
"Are you being punished?" It seemed the most logical question to ask a man trussed up like a fowl being readied for roasting.
"Absolutely, and I wish I knew why. I was wondering--"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering whether you’d wish to help."
Though Erimem found the buckles unfamiliar, Peri had already explained to her the utility of buttons and hooks and belts on many pieces of attire. She worked her fingers between the thick straps of leather, slipping them through the metal loops as she’d learnt to do.
The Doctor wriggled his way out of the jacket, arms comically flailing in those over-long sleeves before he flung the offending piece of clothing to the floor.
"What’s happened to your jumper?"
What had indeed happened to his jumper? Gone was the cream-coloured pullover with its thick, red trim along the neckline, the wrists, the hem. In its place was a sleeveless affair with row after complex row of red question marks meticulously knitted into the pattern. He swiftly lifted the slipover to check his braces beneath.
No question marks on those. Odd.
And yet he couldn’t help but think this entire outfit -- sans the addition of the straitjacket -- was rather familiar. He was certain he’d seen it (or a variation of it) somewhere before but couldn’t quite figure out the details, like snippets of melody from a half-remembered song.
Erimem raised herself on tip-toe to grab at the Doctor’s peculiar hat. "What an odd head garment! Might this be a sign of infiltration?" She understood her friend to have many enemies, despite his assurances that all he did was for the greater good. Still, in her experience, an enemy would just as soon run you through with a poison-tipped lance than...alter your regular garments.
"The TARDIS is the most secure place in the entire universe. She wouldn’t open her doors to just anybody. Besides, while we’re in the Time Vortex, it’s virtually impossible to influence it."
Erimem frowned. "‘Virtually’?"
"Well," the Doctor said after a moment’s pause, tugging at the hem of his slipover uncomfortably. "I suppose it could be possible for another temporally-sensitive vessel, also traversing the Vortex at the exact same coordinates, to somehow merge with the TARDIS...? It’s happened before." Though he wouldn’t elaborate on that incident. Bad enough that he’d aged considerably during that encounter with his future self.
Erimem’s frown did not dissipate with the Doctor’s explanation. "Do you need new clothing?"
"Not in the slightest, and that’s entirely the trouble, isn’t it?" He definitely required his original clothing back. "I believe the Cricket Room isn’t very far." Cricket! He’d planned on getting a few hours of batting practice in before this rigmarole started! Just as well they were going to the supply room; he could easily fetch together a proper outfit as well as another bat.
"We should warn Peri, at any rate," added Erimem. "I do not wish for her to find herself in another’s clothing either."
"Quite, but first, I’d rather like to make sure I’m suitably dressed." He tugged the knitted garment off, noting the way it pitted into a shapeless, limp mess in his hands. The switch of clothing was most assuredly a temporo-spacial convergence of some sort, but why? What was its purpose?
And why was there an umbrella with a question mark-shaped handle just a few feet away?
He hooked his fingers on the curl of the question mark, the gesture sending the umbrella into a lazy whirl around his hand. The curve stopped well short of completion, and the umbrella clattered to the floor, causing the Doctor to stare at the object with a gaze enmeshed somewhere between confusion and dislike. The thing’s balance was entirely wrong, or it felt wrong to muscles more used to the stockiness of a wooden cricket bat.
Erimem beckoned him out of the console room, and he followed, eager to switch out of his abnormal garments and into more proper attire. Yes, he certainly needed his own clothes back, and then he’d ponder this predicament over a cup of tea.
If only he knew the reason for the switch in the first place, and where his own clothing had vanished off to.
Character: The Fifth Doctor, feat. Erimem
Word Count: 1128
Note: companion piece to time_lord_seven's prompt.
Floor.
A section of TARDIS floor pressed rather insistently against the Doctor’s face as he struggled to consciousness. His mind fought through fog but failed to offer up any useful memories, ultimately dismissing the circumstances with the mental equivalent of a cautious shrug.
Whatever happened, it was over for now, with his body somehow tumbling to the ground after he’d slipped into oblivion. One thing he knew for certain, however, was that he’d not fainted. Time Lords did not faint, and even if they were capable of such a pathetic loss of control, they’d not admit to it.
The Doctor did not faint.
He did not faint and now his arms were somehow bound and buckled securely against his chest.
What?
"What?"
He made the attempt to move, assuming his confinement temporary and easily solved, but the buckles refused to unbuckle and the straitjacket refused to fall away. Whatever circumstances led him to this predicament, he was rightly stuck.
Other things on his person seemed wrong. The snug cut of his trousers and his shoes. His hat, with its tight band and odd fit. In fact, all his clothing -- what he could make of it from beneath the straitjacket -- appeared made for a man of shorter stature.
He found it a battle to settle himself upright from his prone position on the floor, his ability to keep perfect balance exacerbated by his pinned down arms and the strange shoes on his feet.
Wingtips. Why wingtips?
The secret to straight jacket escape, if he recalled Houdini correctly, was to force the fasteners to be initially as loose as possible, but as he’d noted, this outfit was for a shorter man.
"Doctor?"
The young, earnest voice caused the Doctor to stop his desperate attempts to work himself free. "Erimem," he said, cautiously greeting her. He braced himself, muscles tensing ever tighter beneath his rough canvas confines as he prepared for the inevitable torrent of questions from the young woman’s ever-inquisitive mind.
Erimem, despite her initial shock at the Doctor’s appearance, edged closer to him. Her curiosity won out over any degree of apprehension she felt. "What are you doing?"
He blinked, his gaze scanning the rather incredulous circumstances he’d found himself in. "At the moment, I’m wondering why I hadn’t studied up on escapology more."
The bizarre piece of clothing enclosing the Doctor reminded Erimem of something a dangerous prisoner would wear. Why else keep the arms lashed so securely together? "You are bound, Doctor."
"Adroit observation," he sighed.
"Are you being punished?" It seemed the most logical question to ask a man trussed up like a fowl being readied for roasting.
"Absolutely, and I wish I knew why. I was wondering--"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering whether you’d wish to help."
Though Erimem found the buckles unfamiliar, Peri had already explained to her the utility of buttons and hooks and belts on many pieces of attire. She worked her fingers between the thick straps of leather, slipping them through the metal loops as she’d learnt to do.
The Doctor wriggled his way out of the jacket, arms comically flailing in those over-long sleeves before he flung the offending piece of clothing to the floor.
"What’s happened to your jumper?"
What had indeed happened to his jumper? Gone was the cream-coloured pullover with its thick, red trim along the neckline, the wrists, the hem. In its place was a sleeveless affair with row after complex row of red question marks meticulously knitted into the pattern. He swiftly lifted the slipover to check his braces beneath.
No question marks on those. Odd.
And yet he couldn’t help but think this entire outfit -- sans the addition of the straitjacket -- was rather familiar. He was certain he’d seen it (or a variation of it) somewhere before but couldn’t quite figure out the details, like snippets of melody from a half-remembered song.
Erimem raised herself on tip-toe to grab at the Doctor’s peculiar hat. "What an odd head garment! Might this be a sign of infiltration?" She understood her friend to have many enemies, despite his assurances that all he did was for the greater good. Still, in her experience, an enemy would just as soon run you through with a poison-tipped lance than...alter your regular garments.
"The TARDIS is the most secure place in the entire universe. She wouldn’t open her doors to just anybody. Besides, while we’re in the Time Vortex, it’s virtually impossible to influence it."
Erimem frowned. "‘Virtually’?"
"Well," the Doctor said after a moment’s pause, tugging at the hem of his slipover uncomfortably. "I suppose it could be possible for another temporally-sensitive vessel, also traversing the Vortex at the exact same coordinates, to somehow merge with the TARDIS...? It’s happened before." Though he wouldn’t elaborate on that incident. Bad enough that he’d aged considerably during that encounter with his future self.
Erimem’s frown did not dissipate with the Doctor’s explanation. "Do you need new clothing?"
"Not in the slightest, and that’s entirely the trouble, isn’t it?" He definitely required his original clothing back. "I believe the Cricket Room isn’t very far." Cricket! He’d planned on getting a few hours of batting practice in before this rigmarole started! Just as well they were going to the supply room; he could easily fetch together a proper outfit as well as another bat.
"We should warn Peri, at any rate," added Erimem. "I do not wish for her to find herself in another’s clothing either."
"Quite, but first, I’d rather like to make sure I’m suitably dressed." He tugged the knitted garment off, noting the way it pitted into a shapeless, limp mess in his hands. The switch of clothing was most assuredly a temporo-spacial convergence of some sort, but why? What was its purpose?
And why was there an umbrella with a question mark-shaped handle just a few feet away?
He hooked his fingers on the curl of the question mark, the gesture sending the umbrella into a lazy whirl around his hand. The curve stopped well short of completion, and the umbrella clattered to the floor, causing the Doctor to stare at the object with a gaze enmeshed somewhere between confusion and dislike. The thing’s balance was entirely wrong, or it felt wrong to muscles more used to the stockiness of a wooden cricket bat.
Erimem beckoned him out of the console room, and he followed, eager to switch out of his abnormal garments and into more proper attire. Yes, he certainly needed his own clothes back, and then he’d ponder this predicament over a cup of tea.
If only he knew the reason for the switch in the first place, and where his own clothing had vanished off to.
Character: The Fifth Doctor, feat. Erimem
Word Count: 1128
Note: companion piece to time_lord_seven's prompt.