BrewsterNorth.Net

Type 40, Interrupted
by Brewster North
for JR-B for the “Aladdin Fiction” festival, launched Xmas 2007
Three Wishes (Doctor Who fandom): The Doctor's TARDIS, The Master's TARDIS, not the Master
Length: 522 words
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: strongish language and, er, toilet humour.
Spoilers: a hint at the first (2005) season only (the rest is strictly old-school Who; a 'missing scene' from the last episode of Season Eighteen)
Disclaimer: this is a work of non-commercial fan fiction based upon and inspired by the works of more experienced and talented persons than the author. Doctor Who and TARDIS are © the BBC. Thanks also due to the excellent T. Pratchett, OBE, for a certain neologism.

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***

Oh, good grief. Of all the impertinences - !

We appear to be stuck.

Yes, I said “we”, last time I looked there were two of us, young fellow. Or at least I think there were – oh, my aching circuits, this is not comfortable. Right from the fire into the frying -

Oh ha. Hahahahaha. Stop. Hahahahaha – that tickles. Stop. Giggling!

Oof. Honestly. And you can take that smug smile off your face too. If I were your age you'd be a small and humiliated puddle floating through the Space-Time Vortex by now, let me tell you. Just because one of us was recently shat out of a Charged Rectum Embuggerance doesn't give the other one any reason to gloat.

Ngk. Much better, thank you.

Aren't you ashamed of yourself, you young Turk? I know I am.

It should be obvious why. I may have been lame as a rovi when I was, ahem, salvaged, but unlike some beings I don't keep my brains in my drive circuits. I've been doing a spot of lateral planning. Never you mind what. The point is – ouch. The point is, a toilet.

Stop poking and let me finish. Yes, I said toilet. An Earth contraption, like a police box. Come to think of it, a lot like a police box, except for the telephone part, and that never works anyway. Full of questionable characters and questionable substances. Anyway, the silly arse wanted a copy of one for his collection, before he even started collecting Earthmen to go with it. Strange scruples the man has, that he'll willingly steal a Gallifreyan TT capsule but not a Tellurian defecation device. Yes, I suppose yours is much the same on that count, eh? Anyway, toilet. Same idea as what we were doing this time: materialise around it, measure it up, then off to input the block transfer computations. Not a problem, you'd think? Well, a certain someone failed to measure up the little sign on the front of the thing that said “OUT OF ORDER”. First thing either of us knew about it was when one of his pet simians – excuse me, humans – started bleating that they'd managed to get stuck.

Yes, I know, only a pet, but now I feel for that poor human. Minding my own private business when suddenly this happens. Now don't get smug. They left a lot of things out when they built your type, and one of them is good old-fashioned feminine intuition. I meant what I said about lateral planning. There's a great deal more at stake than just this little lovers' tiff between yours and mine, and I for one am not going to be caught with my skirts up when it finally comes to pass. Be quiet for a second. Can't you smell it? There's a war brewing. Something is rotten with the state of Time.

Any more passing remarks about my human-dedicated facilities and I shall make you regret every last word of them. And don't think I won't: I happen to have taken lessons from himself in escapology –

Oh.

You planned for that to happen, didn't you?