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locker_monsterTitle: Echoes (2/10)
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Eleven, Amy, Rory, Amy/Rory
Timeline: Post-"Death of the Doctor" and post-"A Christmas Carol" and pre-"An Impossible Astronaut"
Summary: The Doctor runs into an old enemy, and an old friend, when the TARDIS lands in 18th century Scotland.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to the BBC.
A/N: Once again, a big thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. You rock!
Chapter One.
The smell of smoke hung faintly in the air. The Doctor took a deep breath and he hazarded the attack on the hamlet took place no more than two days ago. And it was definitely an attack, not just a fire. There was no mistaking the burn pattern of a blaster. He ran his fingers over one circular burn on the outside of a stone cottage. Close range, he mused, rubbing the ashes between his fingers. Either the shooter was a bad shot or the intended target was very light on their feet.
He wandered through the rest of the hamlet but there wasn’t much to see. Less than fifty people probably lived here, if he had to guess, and every building was marred with burn marks. One cottage had been completely gutted by fire. A violent firefight had occurred without question. So where were the injured or the dead?
“Hello?” called out the Doctor. Every house was locked up with curtains drawn and shutters closed. Perhaps there were no survivors.
Soft footsteps behind him made him think otherwise. Someone was trying to sneak up on him.
The Doctor spun around and he nearly came face to face with a pitchfork. Had he wobbled forward just a few centimetres he would have been very sorry indeed. As it were, the sharpened ends of the pitchfork were still too close for comfort.
The man holding the pitchfork, middle-aged with sandy hair and grey blue eyes but strongly built from years of toil in the field, regarded the Doctor warily. He seemed ready to jab the pitchfork forward at the slightest hint of hostility.
“You’ll put someone’s eye out with that.” The Doctor leaned back and he gently pushed the pitchfork aside.
The man scowled. He took a step forward, aiming the prongs under the Doctor’s chin. “Yer trespassin’,” accused the man in a thick Scottish accent. “I have every right to run ye through right now.”
The Doctor tried not to swallow. The pitchfork was dangerously close to his throat. “I’m a traveller. I was passing through and I saw your settlement. I thought you might have wounded.”
“Yer English,” snarled the man.
The fact that the man wasn’t wearing a kilt told the Doctor this was after 1746. If he had actually been English, this might have been an issue. “No, I just sound English.”
“Be quiet!” The man spoke in Gaelic, but the TARDIS handily translated the exclamation. Even without the TARDIS’ translation circuits, the Doctor would have understood the man’s meaning.
“Donald!” A door creaked open and an older woman, perhaps in her forties, emerged from one of the houses. Her hair was a similar shade of sand as the man’s and she had the same coloured eyes, hinting the woman was the man’s sister. She grabbed the handle of the pitchfork and looked her brother square in the eye. “I didnae know we killed strangers on sight now.”
“After what happened,” said Donald, continuing in hushed Gaelic, “we cannae trust no one.”
“You can trust me,” said the Doctor. “I’m here to help.” Brother and sister looked over at him, both surprised he had understood Donald. The Doctor smiled back. He held out his hand to the sister. “I’m the Doctor.”
“A doctor?” Her voice rose hopefully. “Come with me, please.” The sister hiked up the hem of her dress, allowing her to run off at a decent pace. The Doctor and Donald were left to stare at each other.
While the Doctor had every intention of following the sister, he didn’t want a pitchfork to the neck either. He fixed Donald with an unwavering gaze. “You’ve been through quite a lot, I get that, but you won’t save this village by being stubborn. Let me go and I promise you I’ll do everything I can to protect your people from another attack.”
After a moment, Donald lowered his pitchfork, his murderous rage simmering down to a boil. “Go,” he muttered.
The Doctor easily caught up with the sister outside one of the houses. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said as she unlocked the front door with a large key.
“Morag, and that be my brother, Donald, the gomeril.” Morag paused in the doorway of the house and in a booming voice that was probably heard across the whole of the Highlands, shouted, “Cameron! Where are ye, ye daft boy?”
A boy in his early teens with dark unruly hair dashed out from a nearby barn. He ran over to Morag, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Clean linens and buckets of hot water. Mrs. Mackenzie should have plenty of soap. And grab any spare lanterns. The Doctor needs light to work.” Cameron nodded his head and then he was off again.
“What am I working on?” The Doctor followed Morag into the house and his question was quickly answered. The small dwelling was filled with wounded townsfolk. They lay out on cots or were propped up against the walls with blankets thrown around them. The ones still conscious lifted their heads to stare at them. The Doctor counted seven injured in total.
“Yer a doctor. They need doctorin’.” Morag left it at that. She exited the house, shouting to the rest of the townsfolk that everything was all right.
While the Doctor had picked up many skills travelling the universe, being an actual doctor was not one of them. He needed Rory. And speaking of… where were Amy and Rory? They would have been five minutes behind him, tops.
Cameron came running back, white linens thrown over one shoulder and a bucket of hot water carried in his hands. About half of the water spilled out by the time he reached the Doctor, but the water was still steaming hot. “Mrs. Mackenzie’s coming with the soap. Ye can wash up so there be no germs, sir.”
The Doctor grabbed Cameron’s arm before the boy could dash off again. “Germs. Where did you learn that word?” Doctors of this age would be familiar with infection and disease, but not with the reason why they were caused.
“From our laird, sir.” Cameron spoke proudly. “He kens a great many things. He fought off our attackers.”
Warning bells started to go off inside of the Doctor’s head. He wanted to pose more questions to Cameron when Amy and Rory huffed their way into the hamlet. He heard Donald shout at them, but Amy shouted back and the fierce tone of her voice was enough to quiet the other Scot. Seconds later, Amy and Rory spotted him outside of the house and they ran towards him.
“Doctor!” Amy’s face was flushed from her run and the cool air.
“Amy, talk to Cameron, ask about their laird. I need Rory right now.” The Doctor breezed past Amy to speak with Rory.
“What? Doctor, we found something you should see.”
“Rory, they have injured. You need to–” The Doctor spun around to face Amy as her words finally registered. “What did you find?”
“This.” The Doctor turned back around and Rory dropped something heavy into his hands.
The Doctor brought it up to eye level and it looked like he was doing a scene out of Hamlet. Cameron muttered a Gaelic curse and he dropped the bucket, spilling the rest of the water on the ground.
The Cyberman head had been severed from its body at the neck. Ragged cables hung down from the bottom of the head like cut nerves. One of the handles on the side of the head was dented, suggesting the Cyberman had taken a blow to the temple.
“That’s a Cyberman head,” said Rory, slightly panicked. “What is it doing here?”
“It looks different, too,” added Amy. “Are there different kinds of Cybermen? Don’t tell me there are different kinds of Cybermen.”
The head was indeed different from the one that had attacked Amy in the Underhenge. It was boxy and the metal finish was silver rather than a dark grey. The Doctor thought he had seen the last of these.
Urgent voices drew the Doctor out from his musings. Cameron had run off at some point and now he returned with company. From what he could gather, the boy had brought along the laird. The Doctor handed the Cyberman head back to Rory. He couldn’t have picked a better time to talk with the hamlet’s leader, the man who knew so much about topics that should have been beyond his grasp.
“It’s one of the metal men, sir. The Sassenach’s in league with them!”
The last thing they needed was the laird thinking they were working with the Cybermen. The Doctor couldn’t fathom why the Cybermen had attacked this hamlet, or why these particular Cybermen were here, but he could stop any fear mongering dead in its tracks.
Cameron ran up to the house, radiating restless energy that abounded in youth. Though he only came up to the Doctor’s chin height-wise, he carried himself like he was the taller of the two. With his chest puffed out and his head held high, he was clearly seeking approval from the laird for apprehending the interlopers.
The Doctor ignored the boy and he strode over to the older man who had followed Cameron. He had a stirring speech proclaiming their innocence ready to go but then it promptly flew out of his head when the Doctor saw the laird.
He was of average height for the era and slimly built. His weathered features put him around his mid-to-late sixties. He wasn’t a farmer like Donald but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle himself in a fight. The laird held himself like a soldier, eyes focused and his stance posed for the possibility of a conflict. His hair, worn short, was grey, but once upon a time it had been raven black.
Despite the years that were now evident in the laird’s face, there was no mistake. The Doctor knew this man.
“Jamie?”
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Eleven, Amy, Rory, Amy/Rory
Timeline: Post-"Death of the Doctor" and post-"A Christmas Carol" and pre-"An Impossible Astronaut"
Summary: The Doctor runs into an old enemy, and an old friend, when the TARDIS lands in 18th century Scotland.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to the BBC.
A/N: Once again, a big thank you to my beta
punch_kicker15. You rock!Chapter One.
The smell of smoke hung faintly in the air. The Doctor took a deep breath and he hazarded the attack on the hamlet took place no more than two days ago. And it was definitely an attack, not just a fire. There was no mistaking the burn pattern of a blaster. He ran his fingers over one circular burn on the outside of a stone cottage. Close range, he mused, rubbing the ashes between his fingers. Either the shooter was a bad shot or the intended target was very light on their feet.
He wandered through the rest of the hamlet but there wasn’t much to see. Less than fifty people probably lived here, if he had to guess, and every building was marred with burn marks. One cottage had been completely gutted by fire. A violent firefight had occurred without question. So where were the injured or the dead?
“Hello?” called out the Doctor. Every house was locked up with curtains drawn and shutters closed. Perhaps there were no survivors.
Soft footsteps behind him made him think otherwise. Someone was trying to sneak up on him.
The Doctor spun around and he nearly came face to face with a pitchfork. Had he wobbled forward just a few centimetres he would have been very sorry indeed. As it were, the sharpened ends of the pitchfork were still too close for comfort.
The man holding the pitchfork, middle-aged with sandy hair and grey blue eyes but strongly built from years of toil in the field, regarded the Doctor warily. He seemed ready to jab the pitchfork forward at the slightest hint of hostility.
“You’ll put someone’s eye out with that.” The Doctor leaned back and he gently pushed the pitchfork aside.
The man scowled. He took a step forward, aiming the prongs under the Doctor’s chin. “Yer trespassin’,” accused the man in a thick Scottish accent. “I have every right to run ye through right now.”
The Doctor tried not to swallow. The pitchfork was dangerously close to his throat. “I’m a traveller. I was passing through and I saw your settlement. I thought you might have wounded.”
“Yer English,” snarled the man.
The fact that the man wasn’t wearing a kilt told the Doctor this was after 1746. If he had actually been English, this might have been an issue. “No, I just sound English.”
“Be quiet!” The man spoke in Gaelic, but the TARDIS handily translated the exclamation. Even without the TARDIS’ translation circuits, the Doctor would have understood the man’s meaning.
“Donald!” A door creaked open and an older woman, perhaps in her forties, emerged from one of the houses. Her hair was a similar shade of sand as the man’s and she had the same coloured eyes, hinting the woman was the man’s sister. She grabbed the handle of the pitchfork and looked her brother square in the eye. “I didnae know we killed strangers on sight now.”
“After what happened,” said Donald, continuing in hushed Gaelic, “we cannae trust no one.”
“You can trust me,” said the Doctor. “I’m here to help.” Brother and sister looked over at him, both surprised he had understood Donald. The Doctor smiled back. He held out his hand to the sister. “I’m the Doctor.”
“A doctor?” Her voice rose hopefully. “Come with me, please.” The sister hiked up the hem of her dress, allowing her to run off at a decent pace. The Doctor and Donald were left to stare at each other.
While the Doctor had every intention of following the sister, he didn’t want a pitchfork to the neck either. He fixed Donald with an unwavering gaze. “You’ve been through quite a lot, I get that, but you won’t save this village by being stubborn. Let me go and I promise you I’ll do everything I can to protect your people from another attack.”
After a moment, Donald lowered his pitchfork, his murderous rage simmering down to a boil. “Go,” he muttered.
The Doctor easily caught up with the sister outside one of the houses. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said as she unlocked the front door with a large key.
“Morag, and that be my brother, Donald, the gomeril.” Morag paused in the doorway of the house and in a booming voice that was probably heard across the whole of the Highlands, shouted, “Cameron! Where are ye, ye daft boy?”
A boy in his early teens with dark unruly hair dashed out from a nearby barn. He ran over to Morag, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Clean linens and buckets of hot water. Mrs. Mackenzie should have plenty of soap. And grab any spare lanterns. The Doctor needs light to work.” Cameron nodded his head and then he was off again.
“What am I working on?” The Doctor followed Morag into the house and his question was quickly answered. The small dwelling was filled with wounded townsfolk. They lay out on cots or were propped up against the walls with blankets thrown around them. The ones still conscious lifted their heads to stare at them. The Doctor counted seven injured in total.
“Yer a doctor. They need doctorin’.” Morag left it at that. She exited the house, shouting to the rest of the townsfolk that everything was all right.
While the Doctor had picked up many skills travelling the universe, being an actual doctor was not one of them. He needed Rory. And speaking of… where were Amy and Rory? They would have been five minutes behind him, tops.
Cameron came running back, white linens thrown over one shoulder and a bucket of hot water carried in his hands. About half of the water spilled out by the time he reached the Doctor, but the water was still steaming hot. “Mrs. Mackenzie’s coming with the soap. Ye can wash up so there be no germs, sir.”
The Doctor grabbed Cameron’s arm before the boy could dash off again. “Germs. Where did you learn that word?” Doctors of this age would be familiar with infection and disease, but not with the reason why they were caused.
“From our laird, sir.” Cameron spoke proudly. “He kens a great many things. He fought off our attackers.”
Warning bells started to go off inside of the Doctor’s head. He wanted to pose more questions to Cameron when Amy and Rory huffed their way into the hamlet. He heard Donald shout at them, but Amy shouted back and the fierce tone of her voice was enough to quiet the other Scot. Seconds later, Amy and Rory spotted him outside of the house and they ran towards him.
“Doctor!” Amy’s face was flushed from her run and the cool air.
“Amy, talk to Cameron, ask about their laird. I need Rory right now.” The Doctor breezed past Amy to speak with Rory.
“What? Doctor, we found something you should see.”
“Rory, they have injured. You need to–” The Doctor spun around to face Amy as her words finally registered. “What did you find?”
“This.” The Doctor turned back around and Rory dropped something heavy into his hands.
The Doctor brought it up to eye level and it looked like he was doing a scene out of Hamlet. Cameron muttered a Gaelic curse and he dropped the bucket, spilling the rest of the water on the ground.
The Cyberman head had been severed from its body at the neck. Ragged cables hung down from the bottom of the head like cut nerves. One of the handles on the side of the head was dented, suggesting the Cyberman had taken a blow to the temple.
“That’s a Cyberman head,” said Rory, slightly panicked. “What is it doing here?”
“It looks different, too,” added Amy. “Are there different kinds of Cybermen? Don’t tell me there are different kinds of Cybermen.”
The head was indeed different from the one that had attacked Amy in the Underhenge. It was boxy and the metal finish was silver rather than a dark grey. The Doctor thought he had seen the last of these.
Urgent voices drew the Doctor out from his musings. Cameron had run off at some point and now he returned with company. From what he could gather, the boy had brought along the laird. The Doctor handed the Cyberman head back to Rory. He couldn’t have picked a better time to talk with the hamlet’s leader, the man who knew so much about topics that should have been beyond his grasp.
“It’s one of the metal men, sir. The Sassenach’s in league with them!”
The last thing they needed was the laird thinking they were working with the Cybermen. The Doctor couldn’t fathom why the Cybermen had attacked this hamlet, or why these particular Cybermen were here, but he could stop any fear mongering dead in its tracks.
Cameron ran up to the house, radiating restless energy that abounded in youth. Though he only came up to the Doctor’s chin height-wise, he carried himself like he was the taller of the two. With his chest puffed out and his head held high, he was clearly seeking approval from the laird for apprehending the interlopers.
The Doctor ignored the boy and he strode over to the older man who had followed Cameron. He had a stirring speech proclaiming their innocence ready to go but then it promptly flew out of his head when the Doctor saw the laird.
He was of average height for the era and slimly built. His weathered features put him around his mid-to-late sixties. He wasn’t a farmer like Donald but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle himself in a fight. The laird held himself like a soldier, eyes focused and his stance posed for the possibility of a conflict. His hair, worn short, was grey, but once upon a time it had been raven black.
Despite the years that were now evident in the laird’s face, there was no mistake. The Doctor knew this man.
“Jamie?”
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no subject
Date: 2013-06-06 05:00 am (UTC)Also, I feel like we need to be friends. You're still writing Amy/Rory & Eleven era fic (which is pretty much the most epic fic ever). I'm writing Rory fic too but wasn't going to post it because I thought everyone had moved on. Now you've inspired me to finish what I started and get it posted :)
no subject
Date: 2013-06-07 12:22 am (UTC)Yeah, one problem with Doctor Who is that it does have eras. Characters come and go and once they leave, interest in them sort of wanes, too. I figure, if you like a character or a pairing, you should write it, regardless of what's going on in the show at the time. I love Rory so much; he deserves to have more stories devoted to him.
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Date: 2013-06-13 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-13 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-12 04:43 pm (UTC)*HUGS*
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Date: 2013-06-13 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-13 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-13 07:13 pm (UTC)But it's totally up to you. Maybe it's more of a question of how excited you are to share your creation.
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Date: 2013-06-12 04:42 pm (UTC)OMG.
*RUNS*
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Date: 2013-06-13 12:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-13 12:17 am (UTC)