a wibbly wobbly timey wimey note
from the ninth episode of the ninth doctor's only season.
(the empty child / the doctor dances)
if you noticed,
I've changed a major part of the episode,
which actually changes the whole outcome,
and the ending of the episode,
but since this is a one-shot type thing,
I thought, WHY NOT?
you'll understand if you've seen the episode,
and if you haven't, well, that's alright.
:)
* * *
The claws of a small rodent clicked against the floorboards as it scuttled down the hall of the large house. Its pink nose wrinkled at a strange scent, acrid, like burning plastic. Then, it smelled food.
Staying close to the peeling wallpaper, the tawny mouse peeked into a doorway, and there, high up on the table, was what it had been looking for. A feast, fit for a king, left alone, unguarded. Turkey, biscuits, apples, more than the mouse had ever seen, even in the cold metal boxes where humans stored their food.
The house was empty; the people had stampeded out the back door as soon as they had heard the wailing noise. The noise had been loud. So loud, in fact, that the mouse still heard it, ringing in its ears.
It stepped carefully into the warm room, the thick carpet silencing its steps. Then, it realized something. This tabletop was so high up off the ground; a mouse couldn’t possibly reach it. Perhaps something can be climbed, thought the mouse.
Padding over to the curtains, it tested its weight by sinking a claw into the heavy fabric. But the cloth was slippery, and the mouse slid back down to ground.
Suddenly, from out in the hall, it heard a noise, a footstep, a voice. Had the humans returned already? Previously, the wailing noise, which had sounded on at least two occasions, kept the humans out of their houses for long periods of time, enough for the mouse to retrieve a meal for its family and return to its home in the building that smelled of medicine and cleanliness.
The mouse’s whiskers twitched in irritation, and it scurried underneath the table, and crouched behind a table leg. Now, the footsteps had turned into that of several humans, heels tapping the wood floor. The people entered the dining room, and it became clear to the mouse that they were not the family that lived in the house. These voices sounded younger, and the mouse had not heard the deep voice of the unpleasant-sounding man who was in the house earlier. Instead, there was another man. Taller, thinner, more jovial. He smelled strange, it decided.
Stepping carefully around kicking feet and wooden chair legs, the mouse made its way, unnoticed, out of the dining room. It scampered quietly into a corner and waited for the people to leave. Soon, fatigue took over its senses, and with a little squeak, a little yawn, the mouse had fallen asleep
* * *
The mouse blinked. Something had woken it up from its slumber and it hadn’t been a breeze or a noise. Cautiously, the mouse emerged from its hiding place under the cupboard and sniffed. There it was, the acrid, burning smell from earlier. Now, it thought, the house must be empty. But from the room with the table covered in food, where the people had been eating, there was a sharp gasp as, from up on the chest of drawers, the radio crackled to life and the voice of a child made itself heard.
“Please, Mummy. Please let me in, I’m scared of the bombs, Mummy,”
The mouse looked up, and by he table stood a woman, clutching a bundle of apples, face frozen in an expression of pure horror. She slowly backed away from the radio, then, hearing footsteps from the hallway, hurried into a crouch under the table. The mouse could hear her breathing heavily, as if she had just finished running a race. The mouse also felt a strange feeling. It was fear, of the nearing footsteps, but, deciding to ignore its instincts, the mouse crept to the doorway, and peeked out. He saw a strange sight: a small figure, no taller than the cupboard the mouse had been sleeping underneath, was walking slowly, through the front door, down the hallway, and into the room. Now, the pungent smell was stronger than ever, burning and stinging the mouse’s nose.
The strange thing about the figure was that it was wearing an outlandish contraption on its face. Round, reflective eyes, with a cylindrical protruding mouth. The skin of its face was leathery brown, and a strap of sorts encircled the back of its head. The mouse watched on, curiously, as the child-like figure moved forwards into the room, calling for its mummy as it went.
Suddenly, an apple rolled out from under the table, and the mouse knew with certainty that it had been in the bundle the woman was holding. The figure looked down at the apple, then, crouching, picked it up. It looked under the table, but the woman had scrambled out the other side towards the hallway. To the mouse’s amazement, when the figure pointed a finger at the door, it slammed shut and locked itself with a click. The woman twisted the knob frantically, then, with a look of dread, looked back at the masked child.
The child advanced slowly, cornering the woman.
“Mummy,” it repeated, pushing a chair away. The woman’s back pressed up against the wall. She looked distraught, almost sad.
“It’s me,” she started, “Nancy,” That didn’t stop the child, though, who stepped forward, slowly, like he was sleepwalking. The mouse saw a jagged scar on the back of the child’s hand, and it sparked a strong feeling of terror in its tiny, beating heart. The child looked, smelled, and even sounded unnatural, and the mouse didn’t like it one bit.
Before it, an inexplicable scene unfolded.
“It’s Nancy,” cried the woman, “Your sister! You’re dead, Jamie. You’re dead!” Not deterred by her pleading tone, the child kept going, one foot in front of the other.
“Mommy, mommy,” he chanted, almost tauntingly. The woman suddenly looked resigned, as the child reached down, and touched her hand.
The mouse let out a squeak as the woman’s hand slowly began to bear a scar, the same scar as was on the child’s hand. From the smooth skin of her hand, the scar grew, longer, wider, caked with blood. When it stopped, it looked as if the woman had had the scar for several days.
“Jamie,” croaked the woman, voice hoarse. “Jamie,” She repeated the name again, and then, a different phrase left her mouth.
“Are, you,” she said haltingly. “Are, you, my mommy?” Her expression of resignation suddenly turned to that of pain, of suffering. The mouse could only watch as her mouth stretched outwards, into a cylindrical shape. The skin was no longer skin; now, it was leather and metal, the material of a gas mask. Her eyes bulged out, and they became two reflective discs. The mouse realized what he was watching: the transformation of a human being into a creature of the night. A creature that would haunt the dreams of many, that would spark fear in the hearts of even the strongest men. But this creature had no name, not that the mouse knew of. Involuntarily, it let out another squeak, this time, louder, and the child’s head whipped around.
“Mummy?” he asked, seemingly confused. The masked child started slowly, back across the room, towards the little brown mouse sitting, paralyzed with fear, its little mouse heart beating out a rhythm within the cage of its chest, on the carpet.
“Mummy,” The child crouched down, and reached out a grubby little hand. The mouse couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. A little finger stroked the mouse’s head.
