Doctor Who: Sick in the Head

DOCTOR WHO: Series 11

Episode 8:

Sick in the head

Written by Zachary Denoyer

All rights belong to BBC Studios

Prologue

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Vein Cargo & Shipping

Captain Varunar: Log 231

July 23rd

We tried doing the right thing. Helping these people. But we didn't realize how bad it was. We didn't know about the quarantine. My crew of five crash-landed here about two weeks ago. We've been treated quite well by the populace but...their affliction, it's terrible.

To think they can carry on in such a state. To think we can.

Crandall, a Crespallion medic we brought on, tried looking them over but there wasn't anything he could do. Bark and roots have spread throughout their bodies and everyday it gets worse. Worse for all of us. We too are afflicted with the same disease they have. The oldest among the populace are looked to for guidance. They say the disease can be slowed by staying calm...if that's even possible. But Aiden was taken, which left me no choice but to leave.

I've taken it upon myself to investigate this strange planet. This affliction. I must hurry, because hope is being lost. People are disappearing and most likely walking into the outer lands to wither and die from the disease. I won't have it. I won't let the Elders push them.

This planet is a cage. And I'll discover its secrets before I wither too. For now, I walk the badlands, trying to piece together this hell. It's lonely...but sometimes I feel like the trees on this planet are whispering to me, urging me to give up. But it's probably the wind, and my mind giving into the disease... 

Chapter 1

Sitting upon the counter in Michael's Costume Shop, The Grave Mistake, the Doctor was fiddling with a metal sphere of some kind. His green coat draped over the counter, his legs were crossed, and his tongue was flung out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. 'Sweet Leaf' by 'Black Sabbath' sputtered from the shop's speakers, echoing throughout the shop. Classic beats always seemed to help the Doctor focus, but this 'thing' was bothering him greatly.

The Doctor had been trying to figure out the spherical device for hours and Michael was downstairs cleaning, avoiding the complaints of the Time Lord. It seemed the gleaming and childlike wonder of the Doctor had its limits.

What makes this thing tick? Which wires go where? the pouty Time Lord brainstormed. He grew tired of the meddlesome device as he blew his poofy hair out of his field of vision and threw his arms down in frustration. The Doctor's eyes met a humorous mask hanging from a nearby rack. It seemed to mock him with its silly, crude face, long tongue, and dopey smile. The totally and completely mature Time Lord threw an equally dopey face toward the mask in mockery of its transgressions. "Michael!" cried the Doctor, "This stupid ball won't cooperate with me!"

Utter silence followed the Doctor's plea for help. He was obviously being ignored. The Doctor scoffed and continued to fiddle with the strange device until the door to the shop opened, triggering a bell to ring. "We're closed," snidely said the Doctor.

The man laughed. "But the sign says you're open until..." the man stopped speaking. Something was off.

The silence made the Doctor look up from his device and meet the bluish eyes of the customer. The man was a tall, bearded fellow that bore a prosthetic left leg. Currently his expression was one of bewilderment and possibly a dash of anger. "What the hell?" bellowed the man.