Application: The Rani (Doctor Who)
The inside of the Rani's TARDIS was an unholy mess.
The Tetraps had done plenty of damage to begin with (and they'd left a fair amount of their effluvia behind, disgusting), and trying to get them out had done even more. An entire century's worth of experiments in wreckage on the floor, the contents of the greenhouse half-eaten, -and where in the universe was she going to get another Katraxian sunflower?- five hundred years' worth of notes in disarray, the neutron accelerator completely trashed, to say nothing of the hypersonic regulators -- and all of this on top of the fact that she'd never had a chance to repair the damage that unmitigated -here was a curse that couldn't quite be spoken with normal humanoid vocal chords- did when he separated the secondary console room and left her with that damn Tyrannosaurus...
Time to find somewhere quiet to settle down and fix the poor thing. She patted the console soothingly -there there, my love, it'll be all right, we'll get you back in order soon enough; that nice little planet in the Argos system should do nicely- flicked a few switches and adjusted one of the sliders-
The floor tilted wildly and she fell, catching hold of the edge of the console by her fingernails. Alarm klaxons screaming -Rassilon's arse, was that the cloister bell?- an awful groaning noise from somewhere down the corridors. She slammed her hand down on the emergency stabiliser and after one more stomach-jolting shake, everything was still.
She leaned against the console, taking stock. Her TARDIS was queasy and drowsy at the same time, and it made the Rani's stomach turn just a little as well. She checked her instruments and frowned. That time reading couldn't possibly be right, could it? And those spatial readings-what did those coordinates even mean?
Only one way to find out.
She pushed the door open and blinked in the bright sunlight. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the chameleon circuit was working properly; to any other viewer, it would seem that the entrance plaza had sprouted an extra ticketing booth. She looked up at the sky and frowned. -Looks and smells like a bog-standard carbon-based-life-supporting planet orbiting a G-class star, but the time flow is all wonky, and dear Rassilon what is that?-
***
She takes a step towards the curious two-dimensional mouse, tries to walk around it, and when it talks, it has to be admitted that she jumps a little.
Mickey coughs theatrically. "'What is your name?'"
"Who's asking?" she retorts. When no response seems forthcoming, she says, "I am called the Rani."
"What is your quest?" asks the Cat. It's perched, suddenly, on the roof of one of the gate-stiles.
Talking cats. Two-dimensional talking cartoon mice -wasn't this one from that planet the Doctor loves so much, that little third-rate watery rock with the unfortunately all-too-useful natives- and the flow or not-flow of time creating a feeling of pressure behind her eyes... She feels she's entirely justified in snapping, "None of your business."
"'What is the average w..?'" Mickey frowns down at the notebook. "You know, I don't really see why that's important." He flips a page. "'If you could be granted three wishes, what would they be?'"
She rolls her eyes. "As if wishes have any consequence in reality. Very well, if I must-I'd wish for my TARDIS to be repaired, for a fully-outfitted laboratory, and a planet where I can work in peace." She'd had Miasimia Gloria, of course, until everything there had dissolved into chaos. No thanks to the Doctor, as far as she was concerned.
"Or," the Cat says, examining its tail with interest, "if you were a genie and someone you were trying to give three wishes to was trying to trick you into giving him more, what would you say?"
"Is shooting the fool allowed?"
Mickey looks rather nonplused at the next, but reads, "'When the revolution comes, what skills will you be able to barter for food?'"
"Are you expecting a revolution? There are things that can be done, you know, to prevent such inconveniences from happening, but -- you were asking about skills. I am a scientist. I could engineer troops to handle the anarchy effectively. Were a food shortage to become an issue, I've no doubt I would be able to help find a resolution. I expect I could be of considerable use."
Of course, it's possible that her methods would have certain detrimental (and potentially lethal) effects on the subjects during the experimentation and refinement processes, but that was the cost of doing business, as it were.
The Cat rolls its eyes in a friendly (and rather disconcertingly out-of-sync) way, and asks, "Milk, dark, or white chocolate?"
She takes a deep breath, straining to keep her temper in check. This is becoming most wearisome. "Chocolate." Oh, yes, the plant-derived theobromine-and-vegetable-fat compound from that stupid backwater planet. "None. I can't stand the stuff."
"'Choose the two coolest: robots, pirates, fairies, bears, ninjas, monkeys, vampires, or humans,'" says Mickey, giggling a bit as he goes through the list. "'Explain.'"
-This is the biggest pile of nonsense I've had to sit through since that time at the Academy when bloody damn Mortimus decided- Not something she wants to think about right now. "I cannot believe I'm answering this infantile question, but if you've got to have one, very well -- robots and monkeys. Robots make reliable servants and monkeys uncomplaining test subjects." She shoots a look at the Cat that suggests it'd make a good one itself, if not for the whole talking thing. Talking test subjects are an annoyance.
"Great!" Mickey flips through the blank pages of the notebook at top, cartoon-y speed. "Well, I think that's just about it! Oh, and I'm supposed to ask, 'for your safety: are you carrying anything sharp?'"
"Not on me, no," she snaps. What's on board her TARDIS isn't up for discussion. "Now I've got a question of my own: where in the name of the Pythia am I?"
((Say hello to the Rani, mad scientist and villainess extraordinaire from classic Doctor Who. She's taken from a point after the end of Time and the Rani. Note that for the sake of my brain, she currently looks more like she does in Mark of the Rani -- long straight hair, fitted jacket, leather trousers, boots with wicked heels. No poofy 1980s hair and space-cadet getup. Here's a screencap gallery. Check out her userinfo for background tl;dr, video links, and other fun and games. The muns for the Doctor and the Master have given their enthusiastic permission to torture their characters even more.))
The Tetraps had done plenty of damage to begin with (and they'd left a fair amount of their effluvia behind, disgusting), and trying to get them out had done even more. An entire century's worth of experiments in wreckage on the floor, the contents of the greenhouse half-eaten, -and where in the universe was she going to get another Katraxian sunflower?- five hundred years' worth of notes in disarray, the neutron accelerator completely trashed, to say nothing of the hypersonic regulators -- and all of this on top of the fact that she'd never had a chance to repair the damage that unmitigated -here was a curse that couldn't quite be spoken with normal humanoid vocal chords- did when he separated the secondary console room and left her with that damn Tyrannosaurus...
Time to find somewhere quiet to settle down and fix the poor thing. She patted the console soothingly -there there, my love, it'll be all right, we'll get you back in order soon enough; that nice little planet in the Argos system should do nicely- flicked a few switches and adjusted one of the sliders-
The floor tilted wildly and she fell, catching hold of the edge of the console by her fingernails. Alarm klaxons screaming -Rassilon's arse, was that the cloister bell?- an awful groaning noise from somewhere down the corridors. She slammed her hand down on the emergency stabiliser and after one more stomach-jolting shake, everything was still.
She leaned against the console, taking stock. Her TARDIS was queasy and drowsy at the same time, and it made the Rani's stomach turn just a little as well. She checked her instruments and frowned. That time reading couldn't possibly be right, could it? And those spatial readings-what did those coordinates even mean?
Only one way to find out.
She pushed the door open and blinked in the bright sunlight. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the chameleon circuit was working properly; to any other viewer, it would seem that the entrance plaza had sprouted an extra ticketing booth. She looked up at the sky and frowned. -Looks and smells like a bog-standard carbon-based-life-supporting planet orbiting a G-class star, but the time flow is all wonky, and dear Rassilon what is that?-
***
She takes a step towards the curious two-dimensional mouse, tries to walk around it, and when it talks, it has to be admitted that she jumps a little.
Mickey coughs theatrically. "'What is your name?'"
"Who's asking?" she retorts. When no response seems forthcoming, she says, "I am called the Rani."
"What is your quest?" asks the Cat. It's perched, suddenly, on the roof of one of the gate-stiles.
Talking cats. Two-dimensional talking cartoon mice -wasn't this one from that planet the Doctor loves so much, that little third-rate watery rock with the unfortunately all-too-useful natives- and the flow or not-flow of time creating a feeling of pressure behind her eyes... She feels she's entirely justified in snapping, "None of your business."
"'What is the average w..?'" Mickey frowns down at the notebook. "You know, I don't really see why that's important." He flips a page. "'If you could be granted three wishes, what would they be?'"
She rolls her eyes. "As if wishes have any consequence in reality. Very well, if I must-I'd wish for my TARDIS to be repaired, for a fully-outfitted laboratory, and a planet where I can work in peace." She'd had Miasimia Gloria, of course, until everything there had dissolved into chaos. No thanks to the Doctor, as far as she was concerned.
"Or," the Cat says, examining its tail with interest, "if you were a genie and someone you were trying to give three wishes to was trying to trick you into giving him more, what would you say?"
"Is shooting the fool allowed?"
Mickey looks rather nonplused at the next, but reads, "'When the revolution comes, what skills will you be able to barter for food?'"
"Are you expecting a revolution? There are things that can be done, you know, to prevent such inconveniences from happening, but -- you were asking about skills. I am a scientist. I could engineer troops to handle the anarchy effectively. Were a food shortage to become an issue, I've no doubt I would be able to help find a resolution. I expect I could be of considerable use."
Of course, it's possible that her methods would have certain detrimental (and potentially lethal) effects on the subjects during the experimentation and refinement processes, but that was the cost of doing business, as it were.
The Cat rolls its eyes in a friendly (and rather disconcertingly out-of-sync) way, and asks, "Milk, dark, or white chocolate?"
She takes a deep breath, straining to keep her temper in check. This is becoming most wearisome. "Chocolate." Oh, yes, the plant-derived theobromine-and-vegetable-fat compound from that stupid backwater planet. "None. I can't stand the stuff."
"'Choose the two coolest: robots, pirates, fairies, bears, ninjas, monkeys, vampires, or humans,'" says Mickey, giggling a bit as he goes through the list. "'Explain.'"
-This is the biggest pile of nonsense I've had to sit through since that time at the Academy when bloody damn Mortimus decided- Not something she wants to think about right now. "I cannot believe I'm answering this infantile question, but if you've got to have one, very well -- robots and monkeys. Robots make reliable servants and monkeys uncomplaining test subjects." She shoots a look at the Cat that suggests it'd make a good one itself, if not for the whole talking thing. Talking test subjects are an annoyance.
"Great!" Mickey flips through the blank pages of the notebook at top, cartoon-y speed. "Well, I think that's just about it! Oh, and I'm supposed to ask, 'for your safety: are you carrying anything sharp?'"
"Not on me, no," she snaps. What's on board her TARDIS isn't up for discussion. "Now I've got a question of my own: where in the name of the Pythia am I?"
((Say hello to the Rani, mad scientist and villainess extraordinaire from classic Doctor Who. She's taken from a point after the end of Time and the Rani. Note that for the sake of my brain, she currently looks more like she does in Mark of the Rani -- long straight hair, fitted jacket, leather trousers, boots with wicked heels. No poofy 1980s hair and space-cadet getup. Here's a screencap gallery. Check out her userinfo for background tl;dr, video links, and other fun and games. The muns for the Doctor and the Master have given their enthusiastic permission to torture their characters even more.))