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Ripples in Time

One choice. One change. One chance.

The Doctor’s search for the Nestene Consciousness leads him to a modern art museum instead of a department store. And just like that, the course of history is inevitably, irrevocably altered.

“That’s not art.”

“It is too.”

“No it isn’t. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Yeah, it is!”

“Seriously? It looks like someone lined them up, took a paintball gun and just started shooting,” you said, gesturing at the mannequins lined up in the corridor. “It’s ridiculous.”

“You’re just too simple-minded to get it. That doesn’t mean it’s not art!”

“All right, all right,” You sighed, holding up your hands in defeat. You knew a losing battle when you saw one. “Agree to disagree.”

Chelsey Abbott, a girl who balanced precariously between being your tentative friend and being a complete pain in the arse, gave you a death-glare, and popped her bubble gum multiple times for emphasis.

You rolled your eyes.

She heaved a dramatic sigh, and placed her hands on her hips. “Whatever,” she snapped. “I’m leaving. I should’ve been home hours ago. You can finish the rest of these by yourself.” She gestured around the storage closet to the rest of the paint-spattered mannequins. Or, what you had taken to calling them—‘a waste of space’. But that was beside the point.

So Chelsey turned on her heel (a very impressive heel, at that—had to be at least three inches tall) and somehow managed not to trip as she click-clacked her way back through the hallways. The echoes of her heels on the tiles faded, and then you were left in silence.

So much for reliable employees.

You could probably go home. If you wanted to. And the museum would be closed tomorrow anyway—it was a Sunday, after all—so it’s not like you couldn’t just sneak back in and finish the job later.

But the idea of going home to your empty, barren apartment wasn’t exactly appealing. And it’s not like you had many friends to dial up. Not ones you’d actually want to spend your Saturday evening with, anyway.

Might as well just stay. There was plenty left to do, not even counting moving the stupid mannequins.

You sighed, and looked at the nearest one, which was covered in a patchwork of blue, yellow and pink paint.

“You look utterly ridiculous, you know that?” You said conversationally, as you picked it up by the legs and maneuvered it through the door. “Stupid. It’s not even art, right? I mean, the mannequins are all made for you, all somebody’s got to do is take a bit of paint, and just splash it on there. It’s not that difficult, I mean—“ you set it down next to the others in the exhibit, and frowned. “What am I doing? I’m talking to a mannequin.” You shook your head. “That’s—wow. A new low, even for me,” you mumbled, heading back to the storage closet.

When you got back, the closet was dark—the lights were motion-activated, you remembered.

You stepped inside. The lights flickered back on. The mannequins looked slightly (okay, more than slightly) creepy, now that you were alone.

A shiver ran down your spine.

It was awfully quiet, wasn’t it? Had it always been this quiet? You didn’t think so.

In the corner of your eye, you caught a flicker of movement.

“Hello?” You said. Your voice echoed strangely through the room. You narrowed your eyes, and peered at the crowds of mannequins.

There it was again, on the other side of the room—a flash of movement. You frowned. “Okay, that’s enough of that,” you said, and turned away, closing your eyes for a second. This was ridiculous. It had to be a trick of the light, or something, it’s not like mannequins can actually—

“Oh my god.”

The closest one—with a ridiculously bright yellow head—reached out its arm. You stared. The sound of your blood pounding in your head was the only thing you could hear.

There was a long pause.

And then—

It moved again. Just one leg jutting out stiffly, then the other, and it took you a minute to realize exactly what it was doing—

It was walking towards you.

And just like that, almost as if it was a chain reaction, the others began to move.

You were frozen.

All around the closet the mannequins were coming to life, getting closer and closer, and you couldn’t do anything. It was surreal. It was strange. It was—

It was amazing.

But also terrible, of course, because you were going to get killed by mannequins, for god’s sake. That’s—awful.

And then it got worse. Or—better. Or something.

Someone grabbed your hand.

“Run!”

And you did. You ran for your life, and it was terrifying, but it was also something else, something you couldn’t put your finger on. The feeling of your heart pounding from adrenaline, of being just so aware of every single inch of your body, every single cell, every single atom—

It was exhilarating.

You ran.

You didn’t look at the person who grabbed your hand. You didn’t ask. You just ran, down corridor after corridor, skidding around corners, only pausing once to look behind you and see that the mannequins were close behind, picking up speed—why is it that a lump of plastic can be in better shape than I am— did you say that out loud? You must’ve, because the stranger beside you laughed as you ran through two double doors and skidded to a stop. The stranger—a man in a leather jacket—slammed the doors closed just as the mannequins were about to burst through them, pushing his weight against them to keep them shut.

“Those doors don’t lock,” you realized, as the sound of the mannequins hammering on the wood grew louder.

The man smiled. “Well, they do now,” he said, and pulled out a—well, a thing. A thing that had a blue glowing tip and made a whrring sound when he pointed it at the door.

He backed away. You fully expected the mannequins to come bursting through.

“God, what a way to go,” you muttered. “Pasted all over the six o’clock news, Local Girl Mobbed to Death by Rabid Mannequins.”

But the door held.

You were silent for a moment, shocked. And then reality kicked in, and you asked the most obvious question you could, given the situation:

“What are those things?”

“Plastic. Living plastic creatures, controlled by a relay on the roof,” the man said, taking off down the hall towards the door to the fire escape.

“No, that’s not—Plastic isn’t alive. That’s not possible,” you said, following him. Which, in retrospect, was not the wisest of moves.

“Try telling them that,” the man replied. “You lot, you’re so rigid. You think you know everything about everything, but all you do, is sit around, eat chips, go to work, and watch the telly.”

“Hey, I’d like to think I do some productive things! Occasionally. Like, maybe once a month.”

The man smiled. “Now there you go, already making progress,” he said, yanking open the heavy metal door at the end of the hallway and walking out onto the fire escape.

Again, you followed him. The wind was strong, and pulled at your clothes. It was freezing. Eight o’ clock at night, and there you were, standing three floors up on a fire escape. You realized dimly that this entire thing was mostly—actually, entirely—insane.

The man pulled out his little blinky blue tool thing (you still had no idea what it was, but it seemed to function like a master key), and pointed it at the fire escape door, locking it. Well, at least you assumed he was locking it. It was hard to tell. He was more than a little on the eccentric side, you’d noticed, and also quite possibly one-hundred-percent off of his rocker.

“So what do we do now?” you said. “We’re locked out of the building.”

“Well, I’m going to go up to the roof. That relay would be a great big problem, but—“ he paused, and fished around in the pockets of his leather jacket, pulling out something that looked suspiciously like a bomb. “I have this. So I’m going to go up there, and blow it up. And I might well die in the process, but don’t mind that.”

“That… sounds vaguely dangerous. And stupid. This is an art museum. You can’t just blow it up,” you said blankly. You couldn’t quite wrap your head around what exactly was going on, but you figured you were completely right in your guess that this man, this stranger, was most definitely insane. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, though, you hadn’t quite figured out.

“Yes I can. And I will. Now, off you go. Shoo. Go on. And don’t tell anyone about this, or you’ll get them killed.” He gave you a gentle shove towards the stairs leading down the side of the building, as he turned the corner and started upwards. You stood there for a moment, stunned. A second later, he leaned down to look at you over the railing.

“I’m the Doctor, by the way,” he called. ”What’s your name?”

“[Name],” you replied.

The Doctor (what kind of name was that, anyway?) smiled. “Nice to meet you, [Name].” He waved the bomb around, looking vaguely maniacal in a mad-scientist sort of way. “Now, run for your life!”

You realized that for some ridiculously stupid reason, you trusted him. A little. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the fact that he sort of saved your life.

Either way—

You ran.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Ripples in Time

One choice. One change. One chance.

The Doctor’s search for the Nestene Consciousness leads him to a modern art museum instead of a department store. And just like that, the course of history is inevitably, irrevocably altered.

“That’s not art.”

“It is too.”

“No it isn’t. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Yeah, it is!”

“Seriously? It looks like someone lined them up, took a paintball gun and just started shooting,” you said, gesturing at the mannequins lined up in the corridor. “It’s ridiculous.”

“You’re just too simple-minded to get it. That doesn’t mean it’s not art!”

“All right, all right,” You sighed, holding up your hands in defeat. You knew a losing battle when you saw one. “Agree to disagree.”

Chelsey Abbott, a girl who balanced precariously between being your tentative friend and being a complete pain in the arse, gave you a death-glare, and popped her bubble gum multiple times for emphasis.

You rolled your eyes.

She heaved a dramatic sigh, and placed her hands on her hips. “Whatever,” she snapped. “I’m leaving. I should’ve been home hours ago. You can finish the rest of these by yourself.” She gestured around the storage closet to the rest of the paint-spattered mannequins. Or, what you had taken to calling them—‘a waste of space’. But that was beside the point.

So Chelsey turned on her heel (a very impressive heel, at that—had to be at least three inches tall) and somehow managed not to trip as she click-clacked her way back through the hallways. The echoes of her heels on the tiles faded, and then you were left in silence.

So much for reliable employees.

You could probably go home. If you wanted to. And the museum would be closed tomorrow anyway—it was a Sunday, after all—so it’s not like you couldn’t just sneak back in and finish the job later.

But the idea of going home to your empty, barren apartment wasn’t exactly appealing. And it’s not like you had many friends to dial up. Not ones you’d actually want to spend your Saturday evening with, anyway.

Might as well just stay. There was plenty left to do, not even counting moving the stupid mannequins.

You sighed, and looked at the nearest one, which was covered in a patchwork of blue, yellow and pink paint.

“You look utterly ridiculous, you know that?” You said conversationally, as you picked it up by the legs and maneuvered it through the door. “Stupid. It’s not even art, right? I mean, the mannequins are all made for you, all somebody’s got to do is take a bit of paint, and just splash it on there. It’s not that difficult, I mean—“ you set it down next to the others in the exhibit, and frowned. “What am I doing? I’m talking to a mannequin.” You shook your head. “That’s—wow. A new low, even for me,” you mumbled, heading back to the storage closet.

When you got back, the closet was dark—the lights were motion-activated, you remembered.

You stepped inside. The lights flickered back on. The mannequins looked slightly (okay, more than slightly) creepy, now that you were alone.

A shiver ran down your spine.

It was awfully quiet, wasn’t it? Had it always been this quiet? You didn’t think so.

In the corner of your eye, you caught a flicker of movement.

“Hello?” You said. Your voice echoed strangely through the room. You narrowed your eyes, and peered at the crowds of mannequins.

There it was again, on the other side of the room—a flash of movement. You frowned. “Okay, that’s enough of that,” you said, and turned away, closing your eyes for a second. This was ridiculous. It had to be a trick of the light, or something, it’s not like mannequins can actually—

“Oh my god.”

The closest one—with a ridiculously bright yellow head—reached out its arm. You stared. The sound of your blood pounding in your head was the only thing you could hear.

There was a long pause.

And then—

It moved again. Just one leg jutting out stiffly, then the other, and it took you a minute to realize exactly what it was doing—

It was walking towards you.

And just like that, almost as if it was a chain reaction, the others began to move.

You were frozen.

All around the closet the mannequins were coming to life, getting closer and closer, and you couldn’t do anything. It was surreal. It was strange. It was—

It was amazing.

But also terrible, of course, because you were going to get killed by mannequins, for god’s sake. That’s—awful.

And then it got worse. Or—better. Or something.

Someone grabbed your hand.

“Run!”

And you did. You ran for your life, and it was terrifying, but it was also something else, something you couldn’t put your finger on. The feeling of your heart pounding from adrenaline, of being just so aware of every single inch of your body, every single cell, every single atom—

It was exhilarating.

You ran.

You didn’t look at the person who grabbed your hand. You didn’t ask. You just ran, down corridor after corridor, skidding around corners, only pausing once to look behind you and see that the mannequins were close behind, picking up speed—why is it that a lump of plastic can be in better shape than I am— did you say that out loud? You must’ve, because the stranger beside you laughed as you ran through two double doors and skidded to a stop. The stranger—a man in a leather jacket—slammed the doors closed just as the mannequins were about to burst through them, pushing his weight against them to keep them shut.

“Those doors don’t lock,” you realized, as the sound of the mannequins hammering on the wood grew louder.

The man smiled. “Well, they do now,” he said, and pulled out a—well, a thing. A thing that had a blue glowing tip and made a whrring sound when he pointed it at the door.

He backed away. You fully expected the mannequins to come bursting through.

“God, what a way to go,” you muttered. “Pasted all over the six o’clock news, Local Girl Mobbed to Death by Rabid Mannequins.”

But the door held.

You were silent for a moment, shocked. And then reality kicked in, and you asked the most obvious question you could, given the situation:

“What are those things?”

“Plastic. Living plastic creatures, controlled by a relay on the roof,” the man said, taking off down the hall towards the door to the fire escape.

“No, that’s not—Plastic isn’t alive. That’s not possible,” you said, following him. Which, in retrospect, was not the wisest of moves.

“Try telling them that,” the man replied. “You lot, you’re so rigid. You think you know everything about everything, but all you do, is sit around, eat chips, go to work, and watch the telly.”

“Hey, I’d like to think I do some productive things! Occasionally. Like, maybe once a month.”

The man smiled. “Now there you go, already making progress,” he said, yanking open the heavy metal door at the end of the hallway and walking out onto the fire escape.

Again, you followed him. The wind was strong, and pulled at your clothes. It was freezing. Eight o’ clock at night, and there you were, standing three floors up on a fire escape. You realized dimly that this entire thing was mostly—actually, entirely—insane.

The man pulled out his little blinky blue tool thing (you still had no idea what it was, but it seemed to function like a master key), and pointed it at the fire escape door, locking it. Well, at least you assumed he was locking it. It was hard to tell. He was more than a little on the eccentric side, you’d noticed, and also quite possibly one-hundred-percent off of his rocker.

“So what do we do now?” you said. “We’re locked out of the building.”

“Well, I’m going to go up to the roof. That relay would be a great big problem, but—“ he paused, and fished around in the pockets of his leather jacket, pulling out something that looked suspiciously like a bomb. “I have this. So I’m going to go up there, and blow it up. And I might well die in the process, but don’t mind that.”

“That… sounds vaguely dangerous. And stupid. This is an art museum. You can’t just blow it up,” you said blankly. You couldn’t quite wrap your head around what exactly was going on, but you figured you were completely right in your guess that this man, this stranger, was most definitely insane. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, though, you hadn’t quite figured out.

“Yes I can. And I will. Now, off you go. Shoo. Go on. And don’t tell anyone about this, or you’ll get them killed.” He gave you a gentle shove towards the stairs leading down the side of the building, as he turned the corner and started upwards. You stood there for a moment, stunned. A second later, he leaned down to look at you over the railing.

“I’m the Doctor, by the way,” he called. ”What’s your name?”

“[Name],” you replied.

The Doctor (what kind of name was that, anyway?) smiled. “Nice to meet you, [Name].” He waved the bomb around, looking vaguely maniacal in a mad-scientist sort of way. “Now, run for your life!”

You realized that for some ridiculously stupid reason, you trusted him. A little. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the fact that he sort of saved your life.

Either way—

You ran.