[oncoming_storms] - Communication
The Doctor muttered and cursed under his breath, hopping on one foot as he instinctively reached for the toe he'd just stubbed through his shoe. It throbbed painfully (well, not really) and he groped at the walls of the hallway in the most reprimanding fashion possible while he was balanced precariously on the side of one foot.
Said walls ignored him and the hallway in which he stood remained frustratingly dark. If it weren't for the faint glow of emergency lights spaced out in even intervals ahead of him, he would have been completely blind. Which was just daft, because he knew every hallway of his ship like the back of his hand. He shouldn't need the lights to see where he was going.
He was beginning to suspect his ship was messing with him on purpose. Why else would there have been a random step in a perfectly straight corridor? Or the lights remain off, even though he knew perfectly well she had more than enough power. None of her systems were out of order; nothing was broken. There was no reason for this.
You'd think he paid her enough attention without her having to resort to these bouts of drama, he thought. Really. It was almost embarrassing.
Letting his foot go, the Doctor continued his trek down the hallway, still grumbling to himself as he followed the mental tug in his head. She was telling him something needed fixing, demanding his attention, but he knew there wasn't anything wrong with her. He could feel her! Tip top shape -- well, for her, at any rate. Sure, she had some loose wiring up in the attic, and yeah, there was that cooling duct that was a little too warm, and sure, her temporal rotor needed a good scrubbing (completely not his fault, though! he wasn't the one who spilled the soup down there!), but other than that, his ship was completely healthy! There was nothing that demanded his attention enough to warrant these theatrics.
The nagging didn't stop, however, so he trudged along, keeping one hand to the wall until he felt the indentation of a door. His ship gave a mental nod -- This is the place -- and he sighed, stroking her wall affectionately before turning the handle and heading in.
And running out again.
Sweat. It smelled strongly of sweat. And maybe mildew. And this weird eggy smell, too, but he couldn't place it. The overpowering aroma all but exploded out of the room into the hallway, engulfing him, and the Doctor coughed loudly, doubling over at the stink.
"Blimey!" he cried, gasping for breath and clawing his way back up the hallway to get away from the smell. "That's some pretty powerful stuff!"
The TARDIS didn't respond immediately, the rumble of her engines quieting as he gulped in air. The Doctor grimaced, sniffing his own suit. "Oh, that's awful," he groaned. "How do you live with that?"
Carefully.
The Doctor whirled around, startled, coming face-to-face with the residual form of his Seventh. He blinked. That wasn't something you saw everyday. His Seventh looked back at him, expression severe. There was something ... off about him. He looked a bit young, for one, maybe a little too tall. The younger (older) man shimmered, twisting unnaturally, only to be replaced by his Third, looking just as severe, just as slightly, off-puttingly wrong.
The Doctor grinned. "That's a neat trick," he said, pulling out his glasses to get a better look. "Are those dust particles you're using? And why my former selves?"
Because you will listen to them, the apparition intoned, his First incarnation's face glowering back at him, all teeth and nose and pouty lips. And yes, they are dust particles. They are in ample supply here, after all.
He stared. What was that supposed to mean? Actually --
"Oi, what's that supposed to mean?"
His Fifth gave him a withering stare, then pointed back toward the open door just down the hall. You will fix it.
The Doctor stared. "You're kidding."
You will fix it. His Second's voice sounded decidedly icy.
"Yeah, well," the Doctor groaned, scratching the back of his head and shuffling his feet. "I've been busy. You know, saving planets, running, doing crossword puzzles..." His Ninth looked absolutely livid and he glanced away. "I'll get to it! Promise. Have I ever lied? Er, to you?"
When there was no immediate answer, the Doctor glanced back toward the swirling mass of dust that now wore his Sixth face, one finger pressed to his lips. No, you have not, his Fourth intoned, now fiddling with his scarf, seemingly lost in thought. You will keep your promise. You will fix it now.
"Exactly! I'll fix it -- what?" The Doctor stared, surprised, and his Eighth grinned back at him before the hallway suddenly shifted and an impressive gust of wind knocked him off his feet and into the open door that was now inexplicably behind him. He cried out, stumbling back, and landed with a groan in a giant pile of socks; the sudden disturbance knocked up motes of dust, flakes of dead skin, and the most horrific smell to ever assault a Time Lord's sensitive nostrils.
Just great. The Doctor was going to die in his own laundry room. All his luck he'd regenerate with green skin. And still not be ginger.
He was struggling to his feet when he heard the door begin to close. Panicked, he looked up in time to see a dark-haired woman in the doorway, her skin smokey and grey, before the latch clicked into place. There was no handle on this side and the sonic screwdriver proved useless.
Fix it, said a decidedly feminine voice, and the Doctor spun around to see that same Grey Lady standing on the far side of the room, past the mountains of dirty clothing, beside an industrial-sized washing machine. The Doctor didn't even know he had one of those. He'd always just assumed the TARDIS cleaned his clothes for him. Apparently, she'd grown tired of it.
Taking a deep breath (and immediately regretting it), the Doctor trudged over to her, looking at the machine like it was some sort of grotesque alien. His ship beamed at him, taking a seat on the floor nearby. He stared at her, dumbfounded, then turned back toward the piles that seemed to stretch on forever before grabbing a pair of black leather pants and beginning to stuff them into the machine.
It was days like this he was particularly glad he had a respiratory bypass system. Especially when he realised there was mold growing on at least one pile.
Thank you.
The Doctor turned toward the woman, one eyebrow raised, then smiled softly at her. "Anytime, old girl," he said. "Just, next time, ask me before it gets this bad, okay?"
She nodded and hummed and he went back to his laundry, making a face. "You don't happen to have any gloves, do you?"
Muse: The TARDIS
Word Count: 1,139
Inspired by the always amazing ambitious_woman
Said walls ignored him and the hallway in which he stood remained frustratingly dark. If it weren't for the faint glow of emergency lights spaced out in even intervals ahead of him, he would have been completely blind. Which was just daft, because he knew every hallway of his ship like the back of his hand. He shouldn't need the lights to see where he was going.
He was beginning to suspect his ship was messing with him on purpose. Why else would there have been a random step in a perfectly straight corridor? Or the lights remain off, even though he knew perfectly well she had more than enough power. None of her systems were out of order; nothing was broken. There was no reason for this.
You'd think he paid her enough attention without her having to resort to these bouts of drama, he thought. Really. It was almost embarrassing.
Letting his foot go, the Doctor continued his trek down the hallway, still grumbling to himself as he followed the mental tug in his head. She was telling him something needed fixing, demanding his attention, but he knew there wasn't anything wrong with her. He could feel her! Tip top shape -- well, for her, at any rate. Sure, she had some loose wiring up in the attic, and yeah, there was that cooling duct that was a little too warm, and sure, her temporal rotor needed a good scrubbing (completely not his fault, though! he wasn't the one who spilled the soup down there!), but other than that, his ship was completely healthy! There was nothing that demanded his attention enough to warrant these theatrics.
The nagging didn't stop, however, so he trudged along, keeping one hand to the wall until he felt the indentation of a door. His ship gave a mental nod -- This is the place -- and he sighed, stroking her wall affectionately before turning the handle and heading in.
And running out again.
Sweat. It smelled strongly of sweat. And maybe mildew. And this weird eggy smell, too, but he couldn't place it. The overpowering aroma all but exploded out of the room into the hallway, engulfing him, and the Doctor coughed loudly, doubling over at the stink.
"Blimey!" he cried, gasping for breath and clawing his way back up the hallway to get away from the smell. "That's some pretty powerful stuff!"
The TARDIS didn't respond immediately, the rumble of her engines quieting as he gulped in air. The Doctor grimaced, sniffing his own suit. "Oh, that's awful," he groaned. "How do you live with that?"
Carefully.
The Doctor whirled around, startled, coming face-to-face with the residual form of his Seventh. He blinked. That wasn't something you saw everyday. His Seventh looked back at him, expression severe. There was something ... off about him. He looked a bit young, for one, maybe a little too tall. The younger (older) man shimmered, twisting unnaturally, only to be replaced by his Third, looking just as severe, just as slightly, off-puttingly wrong.
The Doctor grinned. "That's a neat trick," he said, pulling out his glasses to get a better look. "Are those dust particles you're using? And why my former selves?"
Because you will listen to them, the apparition intoned, his First incarnation's face glowering back at him, all teeth and nose and pouty lips. And yes, they are dust particles. They are in ample supply here, after all.
He stared. What was that supposed to mean? Actually --
"Oi, what's that supposed to mean?"
His Fifth gave him a withering stare, then pointed back toward the open door just down the hall. You will fix it.
The Doctor stared. "You're kidding."
You will fix it. His Second's voice sounded decidedly icy.
"Yeah, well," the Doctor groaned, scratching the back of his head and shuffling his feet. "I've been busy. You know, saving planets, running, doing crossword puzzles..." His Ninth looked absolutely livid and he glanced away. "I'll get to it! Promise. Have I ever lied? Er, to you?"
When there was no immediate answer, the Doctor glanced back toward the swirling mass of dust that now wore his Sixth face, one finger pressed to his lips. No, you have not, his Fourth intoned, now fiddling with his scarf, seemingly lost in thought. You will keep your promise. You will fix it now.
"Exactly! I'll fix it -- what?" The Doctor stared, surprised, and his Eighth grinned back at him before the hallway suddenly shifted and an impressive gust of wind knocked him off his feet and into the open door that was now inexplicably behind him. He cried out, stumbling back, and landed with a groan in a giant pile of socks; the sudden disturbance knocked up motes of dust, flakes of dead skin, and the most horrific smell to ever assault a Time Lord's sensitive nostrils.
Just great. The Doctor was going to die in his own laundry room. All his luck he'd regenerate with green skin. And still not be ginger.
He was struggling to his feet when he heard the door begin to close. Panicked, he looked up in time to see a dark-haired woman in the doorway, her skin smokey and grey, before the latch clicked into place. There was no handle on this side and the sonic screwdriver proved useless.
Fix it, said a decidedly feminine voice, and the Doctor spun around to see that same Grey Lady standing on the far side of the room, past the mountains of dirty clothing, beside an industrial-sized washing machine. The Doctor didn't even know he had one of those. He'd always just assumed the TARDIS cleaned his clothes for him. Apparently, she'd grown tired of it.
Taking a deep breath (and immediately regretting it), the Doctor trudged over to her, looking at the machine like it was some sort of grotesque alien. His ship beamed at him, taking a seat on the floor nearby. He stared at her, dumbfounded, then turned back toward the piles that seemed to stretch on forever before grabbing a pair of black leather pants and beginning to stuff them into the machine.
It was days like this he was particularly glad he had a respiratory bypass system. Especially when he realised there was mold growing on at least one pile.
Thank you.
The Doctor turned toward the woman, one eyebrow raised, then smiled softly at her. "Anytime, old girl," he said. "Just, next time, ask me before it gets this bad, okay?"
She nodded and hummed and he went back to his laundry, making a face. "You don't happen to have any gloves, do you?"
Muse: The TARDIS
Word Count: 1,139
Inspired by the always amazing ambitious_woman