Fic: Old Street Tricks
Title: Old Street Tricks
Part: 1 of 2
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Characters: Ten, Voice, Ken
Summary: There have been murders. In an empty car park just off Old Street, London, a mysterious voice has begun to trap victims with guilty secrets, and the Doctor wants an end to it.
Tag to/re-working of the FilmFour short Old Street, in which David Tennant plays the night manager. I just wanted to pretend it was the Doctor.
NB: You do not need to have seen Old Street in order to figure out what's going on. It's all explained.
Disclaimer: Neither Doctor Who nor Old Street belong to me in any way, though I wish David Tennant did.
Old Street Tricks
Part 1 of 2
He had been there for some time, the man in the tasteless orange shirt. The TARDIS feed had shown him hurrying towards a marked blue van, hastily changing clothes and making a valiant attempt to drive away. He should have been long gone now, but the barrier had refused to raise.
When it finally had raised, poor Ken had been wandering back on foot into the multi-storey car park in a vain attempt to find a warden or security guard to let him out. Racing back to his van as quickly as his slightly overweight, middle-aged legs could carry him, and frantically starting up the engine, he had been dismayed to find the barrier was falling again. He had barely moved three feet towards home.
Feeling isolated, frustrated and ever so slightly claustrophobic, Ken had leapt out of his van and given the ticket machine a hefty kick. Then he noticed the intercom, and the green ‘Help’ button. He pressed it.
That was when the visual cut out.
That was when the visual always cut out.
The Doctor still had audio, though, despite the video being highjacked. Whoever it was apparently preferred to use the intercom on the ticket machine, and that meant they were close.
Strangely, though, he could only ever hear one side of the conversation - the victim’s side. He supposed that meant the intercom was just a decoy, and that the voice was coming in on a telepathic frequency unique to the individual; but it didn’t really matter. Either way, the killings would stop, tonight.
The Doctor listened closely to the one-sided conversation being channelled by the TARDIS. It was difficult to make out in places; interference was building and a lot of it didn’t seem to make much sense. He gleaned certain significant pieces of information, though: Ken was a family man, albeit an unfaithful one; he had children, a wife; but his antics had taken him away from them to a hotel, where he had spent much of the night.
“I’ve been out.” Pause. “It’s none of your business.” Pause. “Hello? I’ve been... it’s really none of your business.”
The TARDIS flashed up a warning of a change in power emissions around where it stood.
A nervous Ken could be heard: “Can you turn the lights back on now please?” Another pause. “I’ve been to a hotel. Holiday Inn. Old Street!”
And immediately the lights came back on.
“Old Street,” the Doctor sighed. “Kenny, you’re a stupid, stupid man.”
The conversation continued, Ken becoming more and more distressed as it went on. The Doctor didn’t blame him; he had good reason to be anxious about the strange voice not letting him leave. Eventually he decided it was time to step in, and - dressed in an ill-fitting grey suit he had found in the wardrobe and carrying a small polystyrene cup filled with tea - he made his way out of the TARDIS and towards the barrier.
By now, Ken was on his knees in front of the intercom yelling to be let out.
“There’s no-one there, sir,” the Doctor called with a calm Scottish twang. Ken, startled, turned. “There’s no-one there.”
“Are you… the manager?” asked Ken, pointing towards the Doctor as if he weren’t quite sure if he were real.
“I’m the night manager, sir,” the Doctor lied, approaching as Ken shouted a desperate ‘thank you’ to the heavens. Then he got up and hurried towards where the Doctor stood.
“There is someone there,” he insisted.
“The shift finished at midnight, sir,” the Doctor reasoned. “The car park’s automated after midnight.”
“No!” Ken interrupted, pointing back towards the intercom then up to the camera mounted on the wall behind them. “The guy... your guy in the glass booth!”
“There’s nobody there, sir. You’re free to go.” He reached into his pocket for his sonic screwdriver, though to a dazed and frustrated Ken it seemed nothing more than a key on a funny shaped chain. “Why don’t you go home, sir?” said the Doctor as he moved towards the ticket machine. He placed his tea on the top of it and unlocked the barrier, which raised obediently in front of them.
Ken shuffled forward, drawing the Doctor to one side as he hissed intently, “Don’t let the barrier come down on my van. It’s not mine, it’s a company vehicle - but I’m responsible for it.”
The Doctor looked at him. “I’ll... hold it up for you, sir.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, sir,” the Doctor smiled, doing his best to appear as uneasy as any true British man would at the proximity of his suppliant.
“Thank you,” Ken uttered and pulled him into a hug. The Doctor hadn’t quite been expecting that; he tried pulling away but Ken’s hold was worryingly tight. Eventually, close to tears, Ken released him, and the Doctor moved swiftly away to stand beside to barrier, proving he would hold it up.
With one last look at the ticket machine, Ken got into his van and started up the engine. Then, for no reason at all, he stopped it.
The Doctor watched, growing anxious. This man needed to leave now if he had any hope of escaping. “Sir?”
Ken’s gaze shifted to his wing mirror, where he could see the ticket machine waiting behind him. The intercom clicked into a quiet crackling, and when at first Ken spoke his lips stayed motionless, his voice echoing in from the electronic distortion of the intercom.
“I can’t move. I don’t want to move.”
The Doctor froze.
The distortion faded slightly. “I don’t know the way home,” said Ken, his lips moving now but his blank eyes staring torpidly out through the windscreen. He was no longer aware of his surroundings; he didn’t even notice as the Doctor pulled open the door and pressed a whirring blue light against his temple.
“Ah!” the Doctor exclaimed in frustration and dismay, slamming the door closed again and spinning to deliver a swift kick to the ticket machine. Then a thought flashed through his mind and he pounded the green ‘Help’ button.
“Kenny? Ken? Can you hear me, are you in there?”
A deep, jubilant chuckle crackled through the intercom. “No, man,” replied a disturbingly gleeful Afro-Caribbean voice. “He ain’t here no more.”
End of Part 1.
[mood|
curious]
Part: 1 of 2
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Characters: Ten, Voice, Ken
Summary: There have been murders. In an empty car park just off Old Street, London, a mysterious voice has begun to trap victims with guilty secrets, and the Doctor wants an end to it.
Tag to/re-working of the FilmFour short Old Street, in which David Tennant plays the night manager. I just wanted to pretend it was the Doctor.
NB: You do not need to have seen Old Street in order to figure out what's going on. It's all explained.
Disclaimer: Neither Doctor Who nor Old Street belong to me in any way, though I wish David Tennant did.
Old Street Tricks
Part 1 of 2
He had been there for some time, the man in the tasteless orange shirt. The TARDIS feed had shown him hurrying towards a marked blue van, hastily changing clothes and making a valiant attempt to drive away. He should have been long gone now, but the barrier had refused to raise.
When it finally had raised, poor Ken had been wandering back on foot into the multi-storey car park in a vain attempt to find a warden or security guard to let him out. Racing back to his van as quickly as his slightly overweight, middle-aged legs could carry him, and frantically starting up the engine, he had been dismayed to find the barrier was falling again. He had barely moved three feet towards home.
Feeling isolated, frustrated and ever so slightly claustrophobic, Ken had leapt out of his van and given the ticket machine a hefty kick. Then he noticed the intercom, and the green ‘Help’ button. He pressed it.
That was when the visual cut out.
That was when the visual always cut out.
The Doctor still had audio, though, despite the video being highjacked. Whoever it was apparently preferred to use the intercom on the ticket machine, and that meant they were close.
Strangely, though, he could only ever hear one side of the conversation - the victim’s side. He supposed that meant the intercom was just a decoy, and that the voice was coming in on a telepathic frequency unique to the individual; but it didn’t really matter. Either way, the killings would stop, tonight.
The Doctor listened closely to the one-sided conversation being channelled by the TARDIS. It was difficult to make out in places; interference was building and a lot of it didn’t seem to make much sense. He gleaned certain significant pieces of information, though: Ken was a family man, albeit an unfaithful one; he had children, a wife; but his antics had taken him away from them to a hotel, where he had spent much of the night.
“I’ve been out.” Pause. “It’s none of your business.” Pause. “Hello? I’ve been... it’s really none of your business.”
The TARDIS flashed up a warning of a change in power emissions around where it stood.
A nervous Ken could be heard: “Can you turn the lights back on now please?” Another pause. “I’ve been to a hotel. Holiday Inn. Old Street!”
And immediately the lights came back on.
“Old Street,” the Doctor sighed. “Kenny, you’re a stupid, stupid man.”
The conversation continued, Ken becoming more and more distressed as it went on. The Doctor didn’t blame him; he had good reason to be anxious about the strange voice not letting him leave. Eventually he decided it was time to step in, and - dressed in an ill-fitting grey suit he had found in the wardrobe and carrying a small polystyrene cup filled with tea - he made his way out of the TARDIS and towards the barrier.
By now, Ken was on his knees in front of the intercom yelling to be let out.
“There’s no-one there, sir,” the Doctor called with a calm Scottish twang. Ken, startled, turned. “There’s no-one there.”
“Are you… the manager?” asked Ken, pointing towards the Doctor as if he weren’t quite sure if he were real.
“I’m the night manager, sir,” the Doctor lied, approaching as Ken shouted a desperate ‘thank you’ to the heavens. Then he got up and hurried towards where the Doctor stood.
“There is someone there,” he insisted.
“The shift finished at midnight, sir,” the Doctor reasoned. “The car park’s automated after midnight.”
“No!” Ken interrupted, pointing back towards the intercom then up to the camera mounted on the wall behind them. “The guy... your guy in the glass booth!”
“There’s nobody there, sir. You’re free to go.” He reached into his pocket for his sonic screwdriver, though to a dazed and frustrated Ken it seemed nothing more than a key on a funny shaped chain. “Why don’t you go home, sir?” said the Doctor as he moved towards the ticket machine. He placed his tea on the top of it and unlocked the barrier, which raised obediently in front of them.
Ken shuffled forward, drawing the Doctor to one side as he hissed intently, “Don’t let the barrier come down on my van. It’s not mine, it’s a company vehicle - but I’m responsible for it.”
The Doctor looked at him. “I’ll... hold it up for you, sir.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, sir,” the Doctor smiled, doing his best to appear as uneasy as any true British man would at the proximity of his suppliant.
“Thank you,” Ken uttered and pulled him into a hug. The Doctor hadn’t quite been expecting that; he tried pulling away but Ken’s hold was worryingly tight. Eventually, close to tears, Ken released him, and the Doctor moved swiftly away to stand beside to barrier, proving he would hold it up.
With one last look at the ticket machine, Ken got into his van and started up the engine. Then, for no reason at all, he stopped it.
The Doctor watched, growing anxious. This man needed to leave now if he had any hope of escaping. “Sir?”
Ken’s gaze shifted to his wing mirror, where he could see the ticket machine waiting behind him. The intercom clicked into a quiet crackling, and when at first Ken spoke his lips stayed motionless, his voice echoing in from the electronic distortion of the intercom.
“I can’t move. I don’t want to move.”
The Doctor froze.
The distortion faded slightly. “I don’t know the way home,” said Ken, his lips moving now but his blank eyes staring torpidly out through the windscreen. He was no longer aware of his surroundings; he didn’t even notice as the Doctor pulled open the door and pressed a whirring blue light against his temple.
“Ah!” the Doctor exclaimed in frustration and dismay, slamming the door closed again and spinning to deliver a swift kick to the ticket machine. Then a thought flashed through his mind and he pounded the green ‘Help’ button.
“Kenny? Ken? Can you hear me, are you in there?”
A deep, jubilant chuckle crackled through the intercom. “No, man,” replied a disturbingly gleeful Afro-Caribbean voice. “He ain’t here no more.”
End of Part 1.
[mood|
curious]