Beyond the Roundels

I can definitely say that nobody has ever asked me to do the Cat and Twelve before, but now you have, and here you go:

***

The Doctor crouched down behind the shrubbery, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the bunker. It was going to blow any minute… now.

Or at least, he was sure it should have done. He wished Clara was with him; he could have used someone who was likely to be wearing a wristwatch. He counted down another ten seconds, then held his breath and put his hands over his head and wait.

Nothing happened. The bunker was still notable by its too solid existence and complete non-explodedness.

The Doctor sighed. This sort of thing never used to happen when he had Ace around. The problem in those days had been things tending to explode too much and too soon, not bombs stubbornly refusing to go off until possibly some time next week. He glared at the bunker through the greenery, but that didn’t fix the problem.

“Psst,” said someone suddenly crouching down beside him. “You haven’t seen a six foot fish go past, have you?”

The Doctor turned his head. The person was definitely not Clara and they didn’t seem to have the first idea about basic sneakery or the concept of camouflage, since in addition to the loud stage whisper, the newcomer was wearing a bright yellow and black suit with sequins sewn to his lapels and the edging of his jacket and pockets. He also had a matching large hat with a tall feather in it. His outfit probably even involved shoulder pads. Maybe several.

“Not recently, and not round these parts,” the Doctor said in answer to the stranger’s fishy query. “But the way my day’s going, hang around here for a bit longer – you never know.”

“Damn. Still, no harm in asking. One of these days the answer’s gonna be yes, right?” said the newcomer. He was not, the Doctor realised, entirely human, or at least not exactly your regular homo sapiens. He had an edge of the feline about him; no lumbering apes in his ancestral bloodlines.

The Doctor coughed. “Did you want anything else? Only I am sitting out here, hiding from my mortal enemies, waiting for that bunker to explode, so you might want to consider getting out of my way if you don’t want to wind up plastered across the landscape in the near future.”

“Okay, but first, have you seen an android with a head like a modern art sculpture, a weaselly hologram, and a guy who thinks curry stains are the new black?”

“No.”

“You sure about that? They gotta be round here somewhere…”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. A sarcastic eyebrow. The recipient didn’t even notice, let alone flinch. “I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered. So, no. Now, go away before you get us both shot!”

In front of them, the bunker door burst open and three figures came tearing out at a run, yelling loudly. One of them did indeed have a head that could have won prizes at the Tate Modern, the other had an H on his forehead, marking him out as a hologram (weasel-ness not yet confirmed one way or the other), and the other definitely seemed to have been determined to decorate himself with chicken vindaloo at his last meal, or possibly several last meals.

“Okay, now I have,” said the Doctor. “I can’t say I was expecting that.”

“Damn,” said the stranger again, this time with more feeling. “I thought I’d finally lost them!”

And then, with perfect comic timing, the bunker exploded.

***