prompt response: oncoming_storms 77.3, conference, or why I am on way too much crack.
Martha takes shelter under the table, something she will never actually admit to later on, should anybody ask. (Though, as the walls are coming down around her in great chunks of plaster and dust, under the table seems like a perfectly safe place to be - the general across from her seems to think so, too. Twenty-first century UNIT obviously believes strongly in cowering.) The conference had been going smoothly until the chelonioid aliens escaped, kidnapped a karate master, and transferred his knowledge into their minds. Now they've suddenly started battling another group of aliens that resemble giant brains in metal suits, and the international conference on the paranormal is going to the dogs. Or, rather, the turtles.
"Oh, hell," she mutters as a small bipedal chihuahua launches itself at a turtle's hamstring.
"Enjoying yourself, Martha?" Jack rolls underneath the table, grinning at her as he shakes the dust out of his hair.
"We're being invaded by a pet store, Jack," Martha retorts, watching the turtle - clad in purple - fall onto its shell and struggle to roll over again.
"I was thinking more of bad Nineties television. You calling the Doctor?"
"So he can laugh at us?" Martha rolls her eyes - not that she hadn't thought of ringing him, but the situation hasn't quite reached the world-threatening level yet. "Come on, you're Torchwood, this sort of thing is supposed to be your forte."
"Well, I was thinking about having Ianto call for pizza," he admits, ignoring the cries of "Cowabunga!" in the background. The turtles' martial arts seem to be no match for the brains' lasers - someone, Martha thinks, is cheating.
"We're a bit beyond conciliatory snacks!" she shouts above the crash of another wall collapsing.
"I don't hear you offering any useful solutions, Doctor Jones! Besides, the rest of my team is back at the hotel. UNIT's meant to be in charge here."
"Fine," she grumbles, pulling her mobile out of the clip on her belt and slipping it to Jack. "But you're going to be the one calling him, not me." Martha only believes in calling the Doctor as a last resort, and preferably only when the world is about to be exploded, poisoned, flooded, frozen, or taken over by very large and threatening penguins, just for example.
She can't hear what Jack says on the phone, but he looks smug enough when he hands it back to her, and soon enough, the sound of a familiar "vworp, vworp" fills the room.
"Ohhhh, you blokes! I love you blokes!"
Martha exchanges looks with Jack. "Was he sober when you called him?"
"He was at a party," Jack admits. "At least, it sounded like a party. Could've been a battle, or maybe an orgy. Lots of things sound alike."
"You're so...so...turtle-y!"
Martha buries her face in her hands. "We're doomed."
"Now, Martha, have faith in the Doctor." But Jack looks a little worried, too, and neither of them appear to be inclined to leave their safe spot under the table.
"Dude," one of the turtles says. Their English skills are somewhat questionable.
"Dude!" the Doctor replies, slinging an arm around the turtle's shell. "So, like, this whole using Earth as a battlefield thing? Totally not cool. Not righteous at all, bro."
Martha reevaluates her diagnosis from drunk to high and is contemplating strangling Jack when everything suddenly goes quiet - too quiet. She peers out from under the table to see the Doctor standing on a skateboard, clearly pondering how to use it. "Er, Doctor?" she asks cautiously.
He wobbles a little on the skateboard. "Martha!" He beams at her. "You'll have to forgive me for not greeting you properly; I'm working on my balance just now. And Jack! Come on, now, you two should've been able to handle this on your own. They're all just adolescents looking for somewhere to skate, man. I suggested they try the moon - less gravity, loads of craters to enjoy, that sort of thing. NASA'll spend ages trying to figure out the tracks. Have you ever used one of these things? It seems a little dangerous, really." And with that, the skateboard slips out from under him, sending his long limbs flying every which way.
All Martha can do is shake her head and give a long-suffering sigh.
Character: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 722
"Oh, hell," she mutters as a small bipedal chihuahua launches itself at a turtle's hamstring.
"Enjoying yourself, Martha?" Jack rolls underneath the table, grinning at her as he shakes the dust out of his hair.
"We're being invaded by a pet store, Jack," Martha retorts, watching the turtle - clad in purple - fall onto its shell and struggle to roll over again.
"I was thinking more of bad Nineties television. You calling the Doctor?"
"So he can laugh at us?" Martha rolls her eyes - not that she hadn't thought of ringing him, but the situation hasn't quite reached the world-threatening level yet. "Come on, you're Torchwood, this sort of thing is supposed to be your forte."
"Well, I was thinking about having Ianto call for pizza," he admits, ignoring the cries of "Cowabunga!" in the background. The turtles' martial arts seem to be no match for the brains' lasers - someone, Martha thinks, is cheating.
"We're a bit beyond conciliatory snacks!" she shouts above the crash of another wall collapsing.
"I don't hear you offering any useful solutions, Doctor Jones! Besides, the rest of my team is back at the hotel. UNIT's meant to be in charge here."
"Fine," she grumbles, pulling her mobile out of the clip on her belt and slipping it to Jack. "But you're going to be the one calling him, not me." Martha only believes in calling the Doctor as a last resort, and preferably only when the world is about to be exploded, poisoned, flooded, frozen, or taken over by very large and threatening penguins, just for example.
She can't hear what Jack says on the phone, but he looks smug enough when he hands it back to her, and soon enough, the sound of a familiar "vworp, vworp" fills the room.
"Ohhhh, you blokes! I love you blokes!"
Martha exchanges looks with Jack. "Was he sober when you called him?"
"He was at a party," Jack admits. "At least, it sounded like a party. Could've been a battle, or maybe an orgy. Lots of things sound alike."
"You're so...so...turtle-y!"
Martha buries her face in her hands. "We're doomed."
"Now, Martha, have faith in the Doctor." But Jack looks a little worried, too, and neither of them appear to be inclined to leave their safe spot under the table.
"Dude," one of the turtles says. Their English skills are somewhat questionable.
"Dude!" the Doctor replies, slinging an arm around the turtle's shell. "So, like, this whole using Earth as a battlefield thing? Totally not cool. Not righteous at all, bro."
Martha reevaluates her diagnosis from drunk to high and is contemplating strangling Jack when everything suddenly goes quiet - too quiet. She peers out from under the table to see the Doctor standing on a skateboard, clearly pondering how to use it. "Er, Doctor?" she asks cautiously.
He wobbles a little on the skateboard. "Martha!" He beams at her. "You'll have to forgive me for not greeting you properly; I'm working on my balance just now. And Jack! Come on, now, you two should've been able to handle this on your own. They're all just adolescents looking for somewhere to skate, man. I suggested they try the moon - less gravity, loads of craters to enjoy, that sort of thing. NASA'll spend ages trying to figure out the tracks. Have you ever used one of these things? It seems a little dangerous, really." And with that, the skateboard slips out from under him, sending his long limbs flying every which way.
All Martha can do is shake her head and give a long-suffering sigh.
Character: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Words: 722