for oncoming_storms prompt 137.4 Five Things
Five summers
1) 1940. London. Bombs break the silence of a late summer evening and we stand watch, Dodo and I, peeping through the TARDIS doors as if bearing witness to something as innocuous as a meteor shower. She's frightened, but I'd somehow got it into my head that platitudes and comforting words are useless. She's human, after all, with the common foibles and the common habits and the common frustrations. Mostly, I'm vexed that she isn't Susan, that she could not attempt to be Susan, for me.
Steven peeks out as well, thinking the aeroplanes quaint in their own way, more fascinated by the primitive technology on display rather than the destruction the bombers will leave in their wake. It still captivates me, the resiliency of humanity, the two experiences of two humans colouring their reaction to history.
And I? I watch. I've realised now how much I watched back then, watched but never acted. No. This was history, a temporal event unchanging and fixed in the fabric of reality. So many incidents set into motion afterwards, The first domino piece toppling onto the second. Humanity nearly destroying itself in the process. I await the consequences. The deaths, the destruction. I await the chance to piece lives together afterwards, as I cannot halt history.
Dodo turns away. I still find no words to comfort, or, I feel that they would ring hollow. Rather, I follow Steven outside, towards the rubble, towards the injured, towards the future, and towards the rest of a war which will test so many souls.
2) 1963. Soviet Union. Jamie's knowledge of jet propulsion is as rocky as Ms. Tereshkova's landing will be, but I'm in a surprisingly patient mood today, and I don't mind explaining the theories. Though the lad seems a bit apprehensive after learning that the woman would be sitting atop what was essentially a gigantic firework about to be lit and sent into the sky.
The room is crowded to capacity, filled with men, their eyes trained upon the image of a woman about to embark on a task none of them would dare play a part in. Particularly not the great bulk of a man blocking my view, and apparently Jamie's as well, for I find him atop a table, straining to get a closer look at the image upon that screen. He's attracting attention, now, not as much as the fetching woman about to aim for the stars, but attention enough.
I cannot abide him going at this alone, so up onto the table I climb, both of us now in good position to watch the launch. I wish the little seagull luck, and then patiently (for I am in an incredibly patient mood today) explain to a chuckling Jamie of Valentina's callsign: 'Chaika', Russian for 'seagull'.
How alone that little seagull must feel, how alone and burdened by the expectations of an entire nation. And yet, she still smiles. I ought to remember that.
3) There are few things quite as terrifying as a playground at night. All things ground to a halt, stock-still apart from the swaying of swings in the wind. Silence descends upon the space where the laughter of children echoed a scant handful of hours before. A carousel is installed in the exact middle of the park, mounted with the figures of horses in mid gallop, monstrously large birds in mid-flight. Exotic creatures frozen in an eternal race, running.
Or fleeing.
I notice the look in the wooden visages of the animals. Fear. In the eyes of every single one. Fear.
That same fear mirrored in Jo. She says she hears whispers, children's whispers, soft and inviting, encouraging her to come play where it's warm. I know she's stronger than this, stronger than she thinks she is, and I remind her of that. She's only human, but humans can strive to be so much more.
I grasp her hand, squeezing at it, the pressure calling her back to her senses. She isn't alone, and I refuse to abandon her to the 'ghosts'. Whatever we face at the carousel, we do so together.
4) 1937. It isn't every day that one comes across one of the most famous aviators in human history. Days when one can introduce said aviator to forty-first century spacecraft are even rarer. But when buffeted on both sides by the insistent requests of both Sarah Jane and Ms. Earhart, rejection is next to impossible. Then Sarah Jane suggests that Amelia and I swap scarves, her aviator's silk for my wool.
I feel like I've obliged enough of their pleas for one day and the scarf remains firmly around my neck.
Of course, arriving in 4023 requires a period of adjustment for Amelia, for as we step out of the TARDIS and onto the promenade of the space station, the first individual she sets eyes upon is a Pakhar. And as Pakhars resemble nothing less than human-sized rats, Amelia's first reaction is one of...fear.
It naturally doesn't help matters that Pakhars are quite sensitive to the appearance of human females. Screams build upon screams and suddenly we're being chased by a gang of Pakhars, chased towards the interstellar hangar and that wonderfully diverse fleet of ships and shuttles and planes collected on the tarmac.
After a lifetime of searching in the skies, Amelia has found her home among the stars.
5) I can sense the heat of the sun warming at my back, and once again I'm grateful that light colours are still favoured for cricket gear. A trickle of perspiration threatens to sweep down my brow, sting at my eyes, but I clear it away in time. My vision of the pitch is maintained. My grip on the ball, secure. My intent to take another wicket, clear.
Though the batsman's intent to score those runs is also quite clear.
I settle in, weighing out my pace. I am, by personal confession and according to outsider opinion, a fast bowler, but there are times when a different tack of strategy is required. This is, unfortunately, one of those times.
The problem with most village cricket is that the sides underestimate each other. The players cannot usually fathom that the greengrocer, or the barman, or even the vicar could rise to the challenge of the sport, could exceed expectations and bring forth victory for their club. It's a habit of mine to never underestimate the other side.
And so, rather than the leg cutter I was readying to fling out, I surprise with a googly.
And that wicket is as good as taken.
Character: The Fifth Doctor, feat. Dodo, Steven, Jamie, Jo, Sarah Jane
Word Count: 1093
Notes: Collaboration with time_lord_seven. Same summers, different POVs. Seventh Doctor's prompt can be found here.
1) 1940. London. Bombs break the silence of a late summer evening and we stand watch, Dodo and I, peeping through the TARDIS doors as if bearing witness to something as innocuous as a meteor shower. She's frightened, but I'd somehow got it into my head that platitudes and comforting words are useless. She's human, after all, with the common foibles and the common habits and the common frustrations. Mostly, I'm vexed that she isn't Susan, that she could not attempt to be Susan, for me.
Steven peeks out as well, thinking the aeroplanes quaint in their own way, more fascinated by the primitive technology on display rather than the destruction the bombers will leave in their wake. It still captivates me, the resiliency of humanity, the two experiences of two humans colouring their reaction to history.
And I? I watch. I've realised now how much I watched back then, watched but never acted. No. This was history, a temporal event unchanging and fixed in the fabric of reality. So many incidents set into motion afterwards, The first domino piece toppling onto the second. Humanity nearly destroying itself in the process. I await the consequences. The deaths, the destruction. I await the chance to piece lives together afterwards, as I cannot halt history.
Dodo turns away. I still find no words to comfort, or, I feel that they would ring hollow. Rather, I follow Steven outside, towards the rubble, towards the injured, towards the future, and towards the rest of a war which will test so many souls.
2) 1963. Soviet Union. Jamie's knowledge of jet propulsion is as rocky as Ms. Tereshkova's landing will be, but I'm in a surprisingly patient mood today, and I don't mind explaining the theories. Though the lad seems a bit apprehensive after learning that the woman would be sitting atop what was essentially a gigantic firework about to be lit and sent into the sky.
The room is crowded to capacity, filled with men, their eyes trained upon the image of a woman about to embark on a task none of them would dare play a part in. Particularly not the great bulk of a man blocking my view, and apparently Jamie's as well, for I find him atop a table, straining to get a closer look at the image upon that screen. He's attracting attention, now, not as much as the fetching woman about to aim for the stars, but attention enough.
I cannot abide him going at this alone, so up onto the table I climb, both of us now in good position to watch the launch. I wish the little seagull luck, and then patiently (for I am in an incredibly patient mood today) explain to a chuckling Jamie of Valentina's callsign: 'Chaika', Russian for 'seagull'.
How alone that little seagull must feel, how alone and burdened by the expectations of an entire nation. And yet, she still smiles. I ought to remember that.
3) There are few things quite as terrifying as a playground at night. All things ground to a halt, stock-still apart from the swaying of swings in the wind. Silence descends upon the space where the laughter of children echoed a scant handful of hours before. A carousel is installed in the exact middle of the park, mounted with the figures of horses in mid gallop, monstrously large birds in mid-flight. Exotic creatures frozen in an eternal race, running.
Or fleeing.
I notice the look in the wooden visages of the animals. Fear. In the eyes of every single one. Fear.
That same fear mirrored in Jo. She says she hears whispers, children's whispers, soft and inviting, encouraging her to come play where it's warm. I know she's stronger than this, stronger than she thinks she is, and I remind her of that. She's only human, but humans can strive to be so much more.
I grasp her hand, squeezing at it, the pressure calling her back to her senses. She isn't alone, and I refuse to abandon her to the 'ghosts'. Whatever we face at the carousel, we do so together.
4) 1937. It isn't every day that one comes across one of the most famous aviators in human history. Days when one can introduce said aviator to forty-first century spacecraft are even rarer. But when buffeted on both sides by the insistent requests of both Sarah Jane and Ms. Earhart, rejection is next to impossible. Then Sarah Jane suggests that Amelia and I swap scarves, her aviator's silk for my wool.
I feel like I've obliged enough of their pleas for one day and the scarf remains firmly around my neck.
Of course, arriving in 4023 requires a period of adjustment for Amelia, for as we step out of the TARDIS and onto the promenade of the space station, the first individual she sets eyes upon is a Pakhar. And as Pakhars resemble nothing less than human-sized rats, Amelia's first reaction is one of...fear.
It naturally doesn't help matters that Pakhars are quite sensitive to the appearance of human females. Screams build upon screams and suddenly we're being chased by a gang of Pakhars, chased towards the interstellar hangar and that wonderfully diverse fleet of ships and shuttles and planes collected on the tarmac.
After a lifetime of searching in the skies, Amelia has found her home among the stars.
5) I can sense the heat of the sun warming at my back, and once again I'm grateful that light colours are still favoured for cricket gear. A trickle of perspiration threatens to sweep down my brow, sting at my eyes, but I clear it away in time. My vision of the pitch is maintained. My grip on the ball, secure. My intent to take another wicket, clear.
Though the batsman's intent to score those runs is also quite clear.
I settle in, weighing out my pace. I am, by personal confession and according to outsider opinion, a fast bowler, but there are times when a different tack of strategy is required. This is, unfortunately, one of those times.
The problem with most village cricket is that the sides underestimate each other. The players cannot usually fathom that the greengrocer, or the barman, or even the vicar could rise to the challenge of the sport, could exceed expectations and bring forth victory for their club. It's a habit of mine to never underestimate the other side.
And so, rather than the leg cutter I was readying to fling out, I surprise with a googly.
And that wicket is as good as taken.
Character: The Fifth Doctor, feat. Dodo, Steven, Jamie, Jo, Sarah Jane
Word Count: 1093
Notes: Collaboration with time_lord_seven. Same summers, different POVs. Seventh Doctor's prompt can be found here.