Medium: Doctor Who / Spaced
Characters: The Eleventh Doctor, Tim Bisley and Daisy Steiner... plus guests. And zombies.
Disclaimer: Yeah, none of them are mine.
Warnings: Nothing too bad, but it's got zombies in it, so...
Word count: Around 2118.
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt on the "Bowties Are Cool" series 5 ficathon (Eleven + Tim + Daisy, Zombies, if you're interested). My first time writing Eleven -- or, for that matter, the characters of Spaced. So I'm not sure how successful it is. Nevertheless, I plunge right in. Enjoy!
Summary: The scary thing is, an invasion of zombies and a Time Lord lodger isn't even the weirdest thing Tim and Daisy have seen this week. Doctor Who / Spaced crossover.
He shows up at the front door with a bow-tie, a huge grin and a large paper bag filled with more money than either Tim or Daisy have ever seen before.
“I’m your new lodger,” he happily declares himself.
This itself is not a problem, except for the fact that they haven’t put the sign up in the newsagents yet. Or written it, even.
“Well then, just as well I showed up then, isn’t it? Saved you a lot of effort. And some ink. Although, might make a note of that for future. Show up after, not before.” His beam gets bigger. “This is going to be so easy.”
Still, Colin seems to like him. And so 24 Meteor Street has a new lodger.
Within twenty four hours, the Doctor’s blown up the kettle, reconfigured the PlayStation 3 so that it picks up signals from space (and has not only flawless backwards compatibility and no region coding but also plays games from XBox, Wii and, somehow, the SNES -- how’s that for a slice of fried gold?) and built some... thing on the kitchen table out of old wine bottles that’s had Brian from downstairs kneeling in front of it with genuflecting and weeping for hours. He also talks to himself. In gibberish.
And then the living dead show up.
The scariest thing is, it’s not even the weirdest thing that’s happened that week.
“I think they want to get in,” Tim Bisley stammers nervously. The pounding on the door and savage moaning behind it would certainly support that interpretation of events.
“What are they?” Daisy Steiner demands, incredulous. Tim just gives her a look that reads 'weren't you even paying attention during that Romero marathon?'.
“Zombies,” The Doctor murmurs.
“Zombies?” Daisy echoes incredulously.
“You’re not supposed to call them that,” Tim grouses.
“What, actual zombies?” Daisy repeats, ignoring Tim, who again looks pained at the repeating of the ‘z’ word. “As in...” she holds her arms out and moans in what would appear to be a vaguely close approximation of the creatures pounding on the door coupled with an impression of a zombie done by someone who once sleepily half-watched a George Romero marathon under coercion from her boyfriend and can only vaguely remember the details.
“Technically,” the Doctor replies, scrutinising his weird clampy pen-torch thing and sounding very matter-of-fact for someone talking about the living dead, “they’re necrotic brain parasites from an asteroid cluster on the other side of the Magadelion system. Must have hitched a lift on a passing piece of space debris. Or a crack...” and at this, he looks mildly troubled, before seeming to snap out of it. Tim looks at Daisy, mildly confused.
“Zombies from space,” Daisy clarifies. She appears to have taken on the role of unofficial Doctor-Tim translator.
“Living dead from space,” Tim corrects peevishly. “Zombies just sounds... silly.”
“And for future reference,” the Doctor continues, “it’s more like...” and proceeds to do a very good impression of a zombie as would be done by someone who has never in his life even heard of George Romero, but has spent a lot of time running away from monsters in his life.
“That was a good one, actually,” Tim remarks, impressed.
“I preferred mine,” Daisy shakes her head.
“No, I think he captured it.”
“I don’t think he got the voice right.”
“Anyway,” the Doctor remarks as the zombies begin pounding on the door louder, apparently irritated at being ignored as well, “thanks to my necrotic repellant, they can’t get in. As long as it holds.” He gestured to the weird wine bottle statue think on the table, which is glowing green and beeping despite not actually having any kind of electric connection that Tim or Daisy can see. It hums in a fashion that everyone present would rather not think of as ‘omnious’. “But something’s drawing them here. Something big. And if the repellant breaks they get in..."
Daisy was paying enough attention during the marathon to know what happens then.
“What kind of zombies?” Tim suddenly asks. “Romero, Russo or Snyder?”
The Doctor frowns at Daisy, mildly confused.
“Slow-moving, brain-eating or fast-moving,” she clarifies.
“Oh. Right. The first one. With a bit of the second one. But not much. More a sort of... everything-eating, really.”
“Be right back,” Tim replies, before scurrying into the bedroom.
“Does this happen to you a lot?” Daisy asks as the Doctor begins scanning the doors and windows with the pen-torch-thing again, and the sound of frantic rummaging comes from the bedroom. “Zombies and stuff?”
“No,” the Doctor replies defensively. “I don’t know what you mean. First time. I’m perfectly normal. Human. Very... humany” he waves his hands a bit in a fashion Daisy can only describe as ‘weird’. “Most human human you’ll ever meet, me.”
Daisy just looks at him skeptically. “Yeah. That ship kind of sailed when I caught you talking to Colin.”
“Lots of humans talk to dogs!”
“And Colin talked back.”
The Doctor wavers. “Probably shouldn’t have used the dog translator, should I? But I needed an agent, and dog’s not as easy to learn as cat.”
“Plus, that weird pen torch thing you’ve got...”
“And the whole tweed jacket and bow-tie thing...”
“Bow-ties are cool,” the Doctor replies defensively. “I don’t know why you lot won’t just give in and accept it. It’s like I’m the only being around here with any kind of taste. In that case, yes. Happens all the time. Sort of. Zombies, not so much. Stuff, yes.”
The back window breaks, and a hundred zombies lunge into the room, snarling and spitting and howling, eyes dead, flesh peeling. Unfortunately for them, they all lunge in at exactly the same time, and so none of them can actually squeeze in. Still, not a good development.
The Doctor aims the sonic screwdriver and sets off a higher pitched squeal which sends them reeling back, clutching their heads in what, for a zombie at least, amounts to pain. But not back far enough. The Doctor glares at the screwdriver in an accusatory fashion, as if everything can be blamed on that.
“I need more power...” the Doctor grouses. “The magnifier isn’t ready yet; if I can just get enough static to overload the parasite’s transmission frequency...”
He swings around and scurries towards the table in order to check on his wine bottle-junk whirligig -- and promptly trips over Brian Topp, who is still kneeling in front of it weeping tears of pure wonder, and somehow gets himself tangled in a chair.
“Brian,” Daisy says sweetly as the Doctor shouts what she presumes are numerous curses in a language she’s not sure is from Earth, “we’re kind of in a tricky spot, here. Maybe you could do that later?”
“It’s beautiful,” Brian whispers, showing no sign of having heard her. “Such a statement! The fragile pain of life, the beautiful misery and loneliness of it all! Such wonder! Such art!”
“Yes,” the Doctor replies as he picks himself up and adjusts the wine bottles on the table, “when I said it was a piece of modern art? That was a lie. A pretty bad one, even if I do say so myself. It’s actually a device for detecting and disrupting anti-synaptic and neuronic mental activity. It is a bit amazing, I’ll grant you that, but it’s not art. So you can stop worshipping it now.” He sends another burst from the screwdriver, this time into the wine bottles; they begin to glow, and the zombies howl again, clutching at their temples. The Doctor frowns. “They felt that. Beginning to weaken, though; when it gives out, they’ll be able to get in to this room...”
“But don’t you understand?” Brian replies, turning tearfully radiant eyes to the Doctor, “you’ve captured it. All of it. In one beautiful sculpture, you’ve found it all. All of the anger, fear, pain and aggression! The sheer hopelessness of it all! It’s remarkable!”
“Oh, don’t say that, Brian!” The Doctor replies, putting an arm around his shoulder. “There’s always hope. Even now. Come on, give us a smile.”
“I shouldn’t...” Brian mumbles.
“Oh, go on Brian!” Daisy encourages him.
Brian smiles. It is a smile that sums up every single ounce of hope, joy and happiness in his life. In the fridge, milk began to curdle. Even the zombies are repelled.
“No,” The Doctor replies, sounding a bit freaked out, “on second thoughts, don’t do that. Again. Ever.”
Tim suddenly emerges from the bedroom, carrying a large khaki military surplus box. He dumps it beside the table, and brushes off the top, almost fondly. Stenciled on it in severe black military writing are the words “To Tim; Happy Birthday from your loyal comrade-in-arms, Mike.” The pink love hearts scrawled around these words were lot less military.
“What’s this?” The Doctor replies, kneeling beside Tim as he loosened the latches and flung off the lid, revealing what could only be described as some kind of zombie-fighting arsenal. Any kind of blunt object you could hope to use hope to use against the skull of an undead flesh-eating ghoul contained within.
“Zom- Undead preparation kit,” Tim corrects himself, lifting out a mallet, a cricket bat and a metal pipe all clearly labelled OPERATION ROMERO.
“You have a preparation kit for the living dead?” The Doctor replies, somewhat incredulously.
“Yeah.” Tim looks at him, confused. “So what?”
“It’s... just not what I’d expected. Most humans I’ve encountered don’t really plan for this sort of thing. Not seriously, anyway; a conversation or two down the pub, maybe. This is an arsenal.”
“Mike thinks of everything. If they’re slow moving, we should be able to take a few of them out at least.”
Before the Doctor can say anything in reply, there’s suddenly the sound of an explosion in the garden. And machine gun fire. And the pure, joyous laughter of a man who has discovered the true purpose of his life. There suddenly seemed to be a lot less zombies at the window. And a lot more blood.
“Speak of the devil,” Tim remarks casually.
Mike Watt is suddenly at the window, covered in blood and shirtless apart from two machine gun belts crossing his chest. He’s carrying possibly the most massive automatic rifle ever, and wearing a camouflage hairnet to keep the hair out of his eyes -- which, considering his hair is already cut with military precision as short as it’s possible to get before even the military start thinking it a little excessive, is a little unnecessary. The overall effect is something like Rambo, if Rambo had been a rather overweight Territorial Army volunteer with poor vision and a moustache.
“Hiya,” Mike calls out cheerfully as he stoves in a zombie’s head with the butt of his gun.
“Hi babe,” Tim replies warmly. Daisy shoots rather a jealous look at him.
“You seem to have a little undead problem here, Timmy-boy.” He sees the opened zom-undead preparation kit on the floor, and the look on his face is suddenly glowing the with radiant glow of a lovestruck teenager. “You remembered.”
“How could I forget?” Tim replies lovingly.
“Yeah,” Daisy cuts in, sounding a bit put out, “good timing, Mike. Got a bit of a zombie problem here...” -- Tim and Mike both flinch at the use of the ‘z’ word -- “... and the Doctor here’s got a plan..."
"A thing," the Doctor corrects pedantically.
"A thing to sort it out. You remember the Doctor, Mike, our new lodger?”
“Pleasure to renew our acquaintance, sir,” Mike salutes.
“Um, yeah,” the Doctor replies, a bit uncertainly. He gestures at the blood-covered man in front of him, in what could be a wave signifying either ‘hello’ or ‘for the love of God please don’t come near me’. “Hi again. You’ve got some... red on you.”
“Oh, yes,” Mike puffs himself up, “had a bit of a battle to get here.”
“Anyway,” the Doctor claps his hands together, recalling himself. “Got a plan, got a team, got a mission. Save 24 Meteor Street, save the world. Tim, start distributing those weapons. Mike, you’re a big lad, you get behind the door and ready to force it open. Maybe get a towel, first, you seem to be... dripping. Brian... actually, Brian, you stay there. Tell me if that turns colour from green to red. Colin, you get ready to get that message to UNIT if necessary.” At this, Colin -- safely ensconced on the beanbag in front of the telly, perked up in readiness, as if he understood every word. “Daisy, you’re with me. Ready, people? Now’s when we save the world.”
And so they do. And then they all go to the pub afterwards and have a nice drink with their friends. Which is a slice of pure fried gold all round if ever there was one.