The Time of Change

A Chilly Solution

"Right, guys, we need to be ready for whatever's coming up," the Doctor says. He looks down at Ambrose's son, whose name he has learned to be Elliot, and adds, handing him a piece of blank paper, "I need a map of the village markings where the cameras are going."

    "I can't do the words," the boy responds shamefully. "I'm dyslexic."

    "Oh, that's alright," the Doctor tells him with a grin. "I can't make a decent meringue. Draw like your life depends on it, Elliot." A determined smile on his face, Elliot runs off with the paper to begin.

    As the Doctor begins to walk out of the church again, Tony looks up from the screen, next to which Hunter is hooking up a television to portray the same image. "Five minutes to go," Hunter reports. "Works in quadrants. Every movement sensor and light trip we've got. If anything moves, we'll know."

    "Good lad," replies the Doctor. Hunter gives a curt nod, but there's a slight proud quirk to his lips. The Doctor goes outside where the sky looks to be approaching dusk and spots a truck with the phrase MEALS ON WHEELS inscribed on its side. Strolling around its perimeter, his interest is sparked. He touches the tip of the sonic screwdriver to the back doors' lock, and they pop open. A blast of cold air rushes out to meet his face, blowing his hair up a little. He examines the inside just a woman's voice exclaims, "Oi! What're you doing?"

    "Resources, Ambrose," he answers without looking back or being completely certain to whom he is speaking. "Every little bit helps. 'Meals on Wheels...' What've you got here, then? Warmer in the front, refrigerated in the back?"

    Ambrose comes into view as she steps toward him and empties her arms, dropping heavy objects onto the bed of the refrigerated back section. An assortment of rifles, baseball bats, and a cricket bat make hollow sounds as they knock against one another. The Doctor jumps backward slightly. "Bit chilly for a hideout, mind," she tells him as if she had done nothing out of the ordinary.

    "What are those?"

    "Like you said. Every little bit helps."

    "No. No weapons," he says, shaking his head. "It's not the way I do things."

    "You said we're supposed to be defending ourselves." She takes up a rifle, looking determined. There is a glint that can be seen in her eyes even in the dimming light. The Doctor sighs. The gleam is one he recognizes, for he himself has felt it within him today. It is the drive to protect the lives of her loved ones. He keeps this in mind as he replies softly, "Oh, Ambrose, you're better than this. I'm asking nicely. Put them away."

    Her face falls a bit, but she picks the weapons up again and carries them off. Elliot takes her place at the Doctor's side with the sheet of paper in his hands. In order to see it more clearly, the Doctor leads him inside and peers at the map he has drawn. "Look at that!" he quips appreciatively, patting the young boy on the shoulder. The little houses and streets are even and proportionately drawn. "Perfect. Dyslexia never stopped Da Vinci or Einstein, and it's not stopping you."

    Elliot looks up at him with pride in his eyes, but after a moment, his expression becomes one of confusion. "I still don't understand what you're going to do."

    "Two-phase plan," says the Doctor, ticking off a finger for them. "First, the sensors and cameras will tell us when something arrives. Second, if something does arrive, I use this to send a sonic pulse"—he gestures at Tony, the computer, and the television, which tells that there are three minutes remaining—"through that network of devices, a pulse which would temporarily incapacitate most things in the universe."