Docτοr ωhο rοιε ριαγ!

OOC: Hi! D'you have any Doctor preference? I'd like to play Six, but most people prefer Ten and Eleven, so I thought I'd ask before signing up. I'm not fantastic at Eleven, though, just a warning.

OOC: Do you have a plot in mind, or should we freestyle?

The TARDIS was ill.

The Doctor knew this as soon as he returned from his last trip – his solo trip. One of many solo trips, actually. Regardless, the moment he started up the engines of his lovely machine, he was met with spluttering and gagging, until finally, when the console lights began to flicker back into existence, a slow, long growl. Perplexed as to why she was acting this way, the Doctor decided to take her on a very small trip. Teleportation, of course. She couldn’t deal with flying, not in this condition. He planned to hop quickly to the moon and back again, just to loosen whatever had clogged up her system.

Then the readings went berserk.

The pinprick of a pixel light representing Earth on his galaxy map twinkled with infrared sensors, and curiously his computerised map automatically zoomed straight down to London town, where the glowing readings only increased. The Doctor slipped on his glasses and peered closer.

"Alien life forms," he mused. Right now he was in orbit around Ganymede, one of Jupiter’s moons, somewhere in the 23rd Century. Quite a contrast to the dilapidated Vegas of Mimas, its twin moon, actually. Ganymede was certainly very agreeable, lushly fertilised and full of aesthetically wonderful architecture.

Though that was two centuries away. Not particularly far in terms of light years, but still not exactly a jog to the corner shop. He could manage the trip in a heartbeat on any other day, but…

The TARDIS whined again, and a circuit bust into a frenzy of sparks. The life signs reading tripled, then quadrupled, then fizzled out into absolutely nothing as the Doctor leant against his seating bench and thought.

"Can’t risk it," he decided, dreading to think what would happen if those jumbled readouts were in fact true, and during an alien invasion he was stuck in a moon crater tending to his poorly ship. He leant over the console and plotted a loose course to some alleyway in London, and as soon as the TARDIS gave a familiar jarring tilt forward he would have crossed his fingers behind his back if he didn’t trust in his own dumb luck. Which he did a great deal.

However, his lackadaisical plan didn’t cater for the build of momentum that the TARDIS was no longer capable of controlling. There were a million other problems with his machine at this point – the fuel line was severed, half the electric was out, the left engine had packed up completely, a small fire had started in the corner that was beginning to singe his hat stand and he was almost certain that his clothes rails had suffered from the tilting – though this one was a biggie. At this rate, he was going to crash straight into the middle of London.

OOC: I’m sorry, they wont all be long!

At 11:07:33 precisely in the northern region of London, about four people glanced up in the sky. Not many. But then again, it was a very specific time. For those four people (and anybody else) who might’ve looked up at the sky at 11:07:33, they would have seen what resembled a tall, wooden 1940s police box painted a deep shade of blue. It was hurtling across the sky towards them.

The Doctor never got travel-sick – he’d been soaring through the galaxy outrunning the speed of light for hundreds of years now – but he was threatening to smash into a heavy bit of tarmac in the middle of London with his hat stand on fire, and he was already mourning his time machine, which was broken even /before/ it made impact with the ground, and he dreaded to think what would happen upon collision. He had a few butterflies.

Fortunately, the crash wasn’t the publicity stunt he’d feared. Instead of smashing straight into the centre of the city square, surrounded by thousands of startled passersby his TARDIS smoldered and seethed with various gases and splintered straight into the bumpy tarmac of an avenue.

Right in front of a young woman who had just left the house for work.

The energy leveled out from the crumpled blue box, and eventually most of the sparks fizzled out into the now-warm tarmac as the sound of a door slamming open sounded from the only side facing away from this stranger. The Doctor crawled out and staggered to his feet, breathing heavily and coughing. The reason for this was quickly explained as thick black smoke began to billow out of the opening. He slammed the door with his foot. It wouldn’t click shut properly. He groaned, coughed again, and threw his jacket atop the dilapidated machine.

"Couldn’t hold it together for one trip, could you?" he snapped half-heartedly, crouching down beside the TARDIS and fondly stroking its blackened panels. "Wonder what got into you."