Doctor Who and The Gimmick: A Target Novelization

Part One: Every Breath You Take

The Planet Rigel VII

The Day It Began

Rigel Seven had talent. It was the name of the show. Not a metaphorical show, the TV show, or at least the equivalent form of entertainment streamed as holovid across the cosmos. Of course Rigel VII had talent - America and Britain had Talent and they were tiny little Countries. Rigel Seven was a planet, thought Mr. Hedgewick. It had to be something pretty special. Load times bigger, so there had to be loads more talent, right?? He certainly supposed so. He liked to think he was talented. Liked to think he had something to benefit society from being in it. That he could play the Spoons, or Sing, or weld Metal into Daffodils like that one feller.

But we all know the truth about talent shows isn’t the quality of performance in one way - it’s the quality of performance in another. Saying it could change your life. Telling your sob story. Everyone had a sob story, and you could always get more points if you were really young, old, or a veteran. It doesn’t matter if you’re talented.

But Mr. Hedgewick did think he was, and regardless of whether he was or not, he was old at the least, so in those terms of things, he did have some chance.

He was going through the backstage closets, preparing his new fun little costume, when it all sort of stopped. The lights flickered, and when they came back on, they were now red. Mr. Hedgewick didn't have anything against red lights, per se, but it was slightly ominous. They're used in war films, and Stephen King adaptations. It's rarely a good sign - but at least he wasn't a sailor, and it wasn't morning, so he didn't necessarily feel warned.

"New studio mandate," called out an assistant who looked like she had recently appeared in The Devil Wears Prada, "All contestants are hereby required to put these on."

Mr. Hedgewick was surprised. This wasn't The Masked Singer. That was on the planet Exillon. Besides, even if it was, the whole uniform thing was seriously cramping his (quite frankly, Edwardian) style. "Why?" He asked. But he was not to ask questions, he was told, and quite frantically he began putting it on. It was difficult, these days his bones were quite stiff, but he was the first in line, and thus the first to manage. He found himself the first on stage of the show - whispers from the crew murmured that he was the first to begin a new era of television. He paid this no heed. With the attention span of the current generation, damn them, there was a new era of television each week. But coming out on stage, he was proven quite wrong. This was new.

The audience was empty. There was no audience. Absolutely none, zero, zilch, nada and nope. There were seats - seats where the audience used to sit - but they were empty, all of them. All except one of the four Judge's chairs in the first row, elevated slightly onto the stage, as these things were. He saw the four X's above his head, and felt curiously amused. He felt amusing - there in, well, what was essentially a boiler suit with a large opaque helmet.

"Where are the other Judges??" He asked, cautiously.

"I am." The bald man in the front row replied, and Mr. Hedgewick was very sure that wasn't quite grammatical.

"You're the Judge? I was promised a clone of Simon Cowell," Mr. Hedgewick insisted, despite himself. It was somewhat rude, but he was expecting to see someone of importance.

"There was an accident," The Judge replied, flicking a bit of skin off his teeth. He was bald, and this was the main thing you noticed about him, but he was hairless in all faculties. No eye brows, no stray bits of facial hair, featureless but for his wrinkly jowls and the bags underneath his dark eyeglasses. He was intimidating, but it was beset by the fact that he was so odd. He checked a book on his desk - labelled G. O’Well. This was new, but Mr. Hedgewick forged on.

He decided to begin his sob story. It was a good one. It had all the right bits in it - he had lived through two wars, and his mum had had cancer when he was young, and because of this he grew up in an orphanage. He had lived a fairly horrible life, it's true, but he still would be careful to excise any material that may make it appear like there was light at the end of the tunnel. His wife, for instance, he wouldn't mention. It'd piss her off, of course, but he'd win, and that was what would matter, wouldn't it? Around halfway through the first sentence, he was cut off.

"Cease. Proceed with your act, contestant 9417," The Judge commanded.

"But how will they know who I am??" He asked. "I'm not Contestant 9417, my name is-"

"They will know you as contestant 9417, provided of course," The Judge said, his voice raspy and dissonant, "you pass the first phase." He glowered at Hedgewick, and although his dark eyeglasses were not lowered, you could see the shining glinting anger in his eyes.

Mr. Hedgewick sighed to himself, and began his act. He began to sing: "I dreamed a dream of time gone by..." It was a good first note, especially for his octave range, and suitably unemotional too. The Judge would merely view it from a technical standpoint. He should have received thunderous applause by now, but no, there were just the glowering eyes behind the eyeglasses in the front row. "I dreamed that love would never die-" And here, his voice cracked ever so slightly.

This was enough, of course. The Judge pressed a button on his chair, and the four X's above his head glowed a bright and decidedly negative red. Mr. Hedgewick proceeded to very quickly and rather terribly, die. His chest hurt. It was a burning. A horrible burning. He collapsed onto the floor of the stage, and no one saw his face as the helmeted boiler suit was dragged off-stage - and the next person, in the same white helmeted boiler suit, stepped on.

* * *

3 Weeks Later…

(Relatively)

At the Vulgar End of Time, there is quite a bit that you really don’t want to bother with.

Everything is heightened there - evolution has gone on uninhibited for quite some time, and generally speaking, as the stars go out and new stars bloom, over and over again, the average person has evolved over many new frames of reality, and is slightly extradimensional. This isn’t a bad thing or a problem, it is how it is.

As a general notation, people are a slight bit odder, and they all look like they’re dazed out of their mind in ecstasy, but that’s just because their brain is struggling to process the four dimensional schisms they are currently within.

In this strange and awkward edge of time, there is movement.

First the light of the lamp appears, then the outline of the police box appears, then the light of the windows. The outline of a door becomes evident, and then more solid. It is coming together now.

The TARDIS has arrived.

With it, the doors open, and out steps The Doctor. She is remarkably excitable. “Come on, it’s a place, guys, come on, it’s a place!!”

Indeed, it was a place, the florescent underglow of some sort of alien institution. However it was all very human in design, if not in technology level. The building was some sort of Blackbox theater, with enormous metal girders holding up the backside of a stage. It was futuristic for the name of futuristic, several lined patterns of lights on the walls that didn't serve to illuminate much, and were mostly there to look spacey. The entire world had the tint of blue, and it was not just the lights being blue, it was that everything, everything but the three of them had been quite thoroughly washed through a photoshop filter.

Danny and Roman cautiously stepped out. They had been travelling for a while now, and had plenty of off-screen adventures for expanded media to insert haphazardly into any gap you may wish, available or not. This did not make them any less perturbed of super futuristic places they were not aware of - which oftentimes meant trouble.

Roman was aware of most places, and so when he and the Doctor both didn't know something, Danny did his very best not to die, or at least, more than usual. "Oi, Doctor, have you seen Looney Tunes??" Danny asked.

“Of course,” The Doctor said.

“Well, this looks like that. You know, when they have an episode that takes place in the future?? And it looks new but also a really old idea of new at the same time??”

“Raygun gothic,” The Doctor mused, remembering that she should spend less time on TvTropes in this incarnation.

“It’s sort of spooky and empty,” Danny mused. It was, indeed, sort of spooky and empty. There was not too much going on but the empty blue backstage interiors.

It was indeed spooky and empty, and the Doctor concurred that it was spooky and empty. She moved downward, and then stopped herself from licking the ground. She really had a problem.

"So, we're thinking 29th Century Theater?? Or is it a studio, I can't tell." Danny queried.

"We're thinking the Doctor is a git." Roman answered sharply, and Danny nodded.

"But seriously," Danny said. "Why did the TARDIS take us here??"

"Plenty of possible reasons," The Doctor said. "There could be an invasion for us to stop, violations of justice and human rights, free soup..."

"Why is the weird one always the third one people list??" Danny asked Roman, who in his infinite time lord sartorial wisdom, shrugged.

They ran out of jokes and witty repartee, eventually. The strange room was too omnipresent. All there was to do was walk.

* * *

Danny was still thinking about death. It seemed to be a common theme, he noted, and while it had been a bit of time, he could not get certain images out of his mind. Blood was on his mind, and it had no intention of leaving, no matter how much it distressed him.

It was like when you watched something particularly violent in a horror movie, and it disturbed you, but your mind kept wandering back. Unfortunately, Danny was not simply just watching a movie as of late. Death had become quite a personal companion - his own, in a sense, in the way that he and to an extent Roman were attached to the Doctor.

He respected Roman, but every time he looked at the man’s lined face, he couldn’t help but wonder if Roman could, you know, do better than all of this. He was rather competent. Surely he could make his own way through the universe, without you know, him, the dead weight.

Eventually, as they kept walking in silence, they came to the end of the corridor. It shone brightly for a brief moment, and thus appeared a strange woman. “Excuse me, who are you??” She asked. “How did you get here?? What are you doing??”

“Doctor,” The Doctor said, answering all three questions.

* * *

"Seriously, how did you get in here?" The woman repeated. Her skin was metallic and shiny, Roman observed. She was dressed very fashionably, and Roman didn't understand fashion. It was a lot of being skinny and arbitrarily deciding what was allowed and what wasn't. She unnerved Danny immensely, but Roman did not seem to mind. Perhaps he was more used to advanced constructs such as this.

"You're an android?" Roman asked.

"I am inevitable, constant. My name is Open Brackets 00218763 Close Brackets." She said, with a cheerful annotation. "Also yes. Welcome to Rigel 7's Got Talent. I'm Your Host for tonight's program!" Her words sounded completely normal, which made all the technobabble feel slightly unstable.

"Okay. This is ridiculous." Danny stated. "I mean. We deal with ridiculous rather frequently, so I'm unsure why I'm announcing it, but I do almost feel like this is overdoing it." The others nodded. Usually the people they met kept a veneer of normalcy, you know, for the sake of it.

"Would you care to Open Parenthesis One - Not Leave - Close Parenthesis - Open Parenthesis Two - Tell Me How You Got In Here? I don't believe you were selected for the show. Close Parenthesis." Open Brackets said in her weird completely normal sounding voice.

"Oh, we, um. This is the future, right, Doctor??" Danny asked.

The Doctor nodded. “Yes, why do you need to ask me that?? It’s very obviously the future.”

"I just - uh, We teleported in with our supercool spaceship box." Danny explained, rather awkwardly. He would probably remember this minor mess-up of slight awkwardness for several months, whereas no one else would ever think of it again.

"Very Well. Open.File. Surprise,,Contestants.begin!! SUITS, please put these on," Open Brackets said, handing the three of them boiler suits and helmets.

"It's not my color," Roman commented, as The Doctor began examining the suit, and Danny began to put it on without any hesitation.

"All Contestants shall wear the requisite Rigel VII brand Talent outfits." Open Brackets said once more.

Roman sighed. "But what if I don't wish to be a contestant?"

"You cannot." Open Brackets affirmed. “Praise be Geog.”

From the look in Open Bracket’s eyes, Roman decided not to press the subject further and he hurriedly placed the uniform on.

* * *

They were ushered to the backroom, where several contestants lay in wait. They were all a rather different sort of bunch. Some old, some young, most middle aged, and all very diverse. The sort of diversity you can only get by sheer random selection of a planet's population. The Doctor decided that the best way to move forward was to get information from the more talkative ones - and so she had found herself talking to a woman named Mrs. Havisha Hamilton. She was a large woman, but she wasn't fat at all, she was just muscly, strong, some sort of body builder. She was wider than tall - her muscles around two people wide - perhaps she was some sort of human-passing alien. Her skin was dark brown, but her clothes were all exceedingly bright, yellow, turquoise and pink.

The Doctor liked her immediately. "Where'd you get the outfit?" The Doctor asked, currently wearing a black and white pantsuit. She had given up color a while back for a more minimalistic aesthetic, but it didn't mean she didn't appreciate it - perhaps she could have a mid-season outfit swap, or a revolving outfit palate.

Havisha Hamilton smiled. She explained that she had been watching Rigel 7's Got Talent since she was a little Non-Euclidian Lifeform, so, 3 WHOLE WEEKS, positively ages, and that That over there, that was Timothy Pierce, and ooh, he was probably ordinarily a shoe-in, bless him, he did really good singing and dancing. But that was probably before, these days, she thinks that Judge is bored of singing, and that if she does something new and exciting, that will really get in through to them, she's certain of it. That's why her act is a surprise. But enough about her, then there's Grralb, and Grralb can shit gold, and you know, that's a talent. He just poops them out, diamonds, gold, emeralds and sapphires, you just have to scoop 'em right out of the feces. It's a wonder he doesn't have IBS or something, really, but he's a lovely person really. Last but not least the last contestant is Professor Notie, and well, he does actual fucking magic, straight up, not any of that "different form of science" bullshit, he just goes and actually summons Demons with his motherfucking staff. Oh, and I forgot Mr. Longdale he's very nice too. I shouldn't mean to discount him, he's a lovely person, very good singer. Anyway, I'm sure you have plenty of talents too, and you're a very lovely person so honestly I think it's gonna be a great one, it really will be, I'm very happy to meet you, would you like some coffee with that, I have some nice free coffee somewhere in my bag, could you hold this while I rummage through, ooh, thank you, there it is, here's the coffee, thank you for that, darling, I'll just take that back.

The Doctor nods, coffee cup in her hand and quickly agreed with Havisha. It's not often she can't get a word in among people. It's best not to push further.

* * *

Danny and Roman were a little perplexed they were the only ones in uniform, at least, until Open Brackets and a few other assistants entered with a pile of boiler suits for the other contestants. "There was a change in the P R O C E E D I N G S a little while back, and we're still a tiny bit [[ [ [ hyperlink blocked ]] ] disorganized, haha, sorry."

Danny didn't very much like whoever Open Brackets was. She reminded him a lot of Cicily, and the Daleks and also Deltarune. Basically a lot of the problems he'd had to deal with so far were almost to some degree computer related. Except Countryfile, that was Countryfile related. And the letters of doom. Those were Time Lord bullshit. But to be fair, it was still half of them. Suffice it to say, he was slightly freaked.

"Roman," he whispered. "I don't get what's going on here. If this is just a talent show, then what's with the boiler suits??"

"Different alien cultures, I would assume," Roman noted.

"I don't buy it. When the next person goes on, I'm gonna try and sneak into the audience, see what's going on."

"Understood. I'll try and keep Open Brackets busy so you can look around." Roman nodded.

Danny hadn't known Roman for as long as he would have liked, and he wasn't sure if he necessarily trusted him with his life, but he did rather like the man. It was rare to meet someone as unabashedly good, intelligent, as he was. He was a lovable (read: cantankerous) old sod. "Gotcha."

* * *

"Hello, Open File GREETINGS CONTESTANTS," Open Brackets' voice came in over the loudspeaker. "PRAISE BE O’WELL. COULD WE PLEASE HAVE Open File Timothy Pierce Contestant Number 9910342138 to the stage please!?"

The atmosphere suddenly became funeral-like. Bleak misery swam over them like treacle. "It's happening already?" Mr. Longdale whispered.

"What's going on?" Roman whispered, even though the funereal tone made it quite obvious. 

"Hey, knock 'em dead!!" The Doctor cheered as Timothy began walking slowly down to the stage. The others looked at her as if she had said something reprehensible, vile. The Doctor didn't notice, or understand.

Timothy didn’t seem to want to move - he trudged. He did not turn to say goodbye when he got to the door. He simply stepped out of the backstage room, and began down the dimly lit hallway to the stage. He disappeared into the shadows around a corner.

"CONTESTANTS MAY VIEW THE P R O C E E D I N G S ON THEIR PERSONAL ELECTRONIC DEVICES USING THE special RIGEL VII GOT TALENT APP." Open Brackets said over the loudspeaker.

The Doctor got out one of the provided tablets from beneath the desk. Danny grabbed one too, and then his face exploded.

"Oh, sorry, Danny, your brain isn't made to survive Light 2." The Doctor explained. “It’s actually normal though, don’t worry about it.”

"what"

"Yeah, it may have deflated. If you see some Grey Matter on the floor, try and scoop it back in." The Doctor explained.

“But why can you watch it?” Danny whined. He didn’t want to have to go backstage and creep about if he could avoid it. Was it an alien biology thingy again??

“I mean, it’s Light 2.” The Doctor said, as if this explained something. “It’s the sequel.”

Danny sighed. Of course watching it on the screen would be too easy. He nodded to Roman. Roman nodded back. It was time.

* * *

Timothy Pierce waddled awkardly onto the stage. He couldn't really walk well in the boiler suit, with it's big clanky boots. "Hello," He said wearily.

"Greetings Contestant 9910342138." The Judge said.

The building had not been remodeled, but for a giant sign that said O’WELL on it. There was still seating for a vacant audience, and three vacant seats for other Judges that simply did not exist - two to the right and one to the left. The Judge did not look any different than he did three weeks ago, because that was three weeks ago. Timothy Pierce though, had only seen the television broadcast, where a celebrity's face was usually deepfaked onto the Judge's own. It felt rather intrusive to him, in a strange way, to be a part of it at last.

"Hello, I'm Tim-"

"You've been watching this show for quite some time, haven't you, Contestant 9910342138?" The Judge intoned dangerously. "Surely you understand how it works?"

"Yes, Mr. Judge, sir."

"Yes, and surely because of that you wouldn't deign to waste my time and, ergo, your life, by daring to present yourself in a manner outside the required personality-less performance?"

"No, Mr. Judge, sir."

"Then I do wonder why you even tried, Contestant. You are quite lucky I interrupted you. Begin. Now."

Timothy Pierce breathed heavily. Then he began. "Rah, rah-ah-ah-ah Roma, roma-ma Gaga, ooh-la-la-" he intoned robotically. There was no life or movement to the sounds. The Judge watched in rapture.

* * *

Roman had distracted Open Brackets just long enough for Danny to slip past. He was nervous. Something about this whole endeavor felt decidedly dangerous.

Something felt very bad indeed.

He approached, delicately peaking behind a curtain, and doing so, if he twisted himself just right, he could see onto the stage.

Timothy Pierce - if that was Timothy Pierce, and Danny couldn't tell with the boiler suit, but he figured it couldn't be anyone else... was performing for his life. Astonishingly good, actually. The whole stage transformed under his control, there was no audience, but he was still electric. Astonishing.

"Very good, Contestant." The Judge said, eventually. "Eight out of Ten." Factually speaking, The performance was horrid mind you, but this was the best score the Judge had given on the program. Possibly because it was sufficiently soulless, possibly because the Judge liked Lady Gaga. It was a mystery.

"No...." Timothy moaned. "Please. Let me do it again, I'll do anything you need me to - just give me a ten, please, I have a wife, I have a family -"

This was the wrong thing to say. Danny assumed he wouldn't have lived regardless, but this seemed to infuriate the Judge. Rising to his feet, The Judge lifted his sunglasses, just for a split second, and there was a bright flash of red light. His eyes were burning stars, incandescent, precisely glowing directly at Timothy. Danny looked away - the light was blinding and he couldn't see - he didn't want to damage his eyes. It was such a bright, all consuming light, that even with his eyes closed and turned away Danny could see a delicate red aura with little white circles of indentations behind his eyes, like someone was poking his eyelids with their fingers.

Eventually, the red light faded, and so did the aura. Danny cautiously opened his eyes and looked on stage - nothing was there but a small scorch mark, which a delicate genderless figure in a suit began to wipe off the stage. The horror was the main thing he felt - utterly petrified. He couldn't feel anything else, couldn't think, really. It was a Fight or flight response, but he was too busy trying to decide which of the two was a better option, he sort of froze.

"What's that back there, behind the Curtain, Janitor?" The Judge asked.

Danny didn't dare move now even if he could decide. They'd see him running off.

"Why, it's - it's a contestant, Judge." The Janitor said, callously, finishing wiping off the stage with their cloth, and walking off.

"Isn't that fascinating. It's a contestant." The Judge mused. "Come out, Contestant!"

Danny nervously stepped onstage. Luckily, he was wearing the boiler suit he had been given. He assumed that wearing said boiler suit was immensely important.

"Isn't this nice and convenient," The Judge mused, and it was a question that didn't need answering, "I don't need to ask Open Brackets to call for another one. Come closer, Contestant."

There was no way out. Nowhere to go. He couldn't run. Danny cautiously approached.

"Contestant 9910342139." The Judge said, considering. As if deciding on the cruelest action that he could manage. He carefully placed his hand in a tentative position above the buzzer. "Please begin your act."

Part Two: Another Brick in the Wall

Danny stuttered. He was a remarkably talentless and dull fellow for someone who travelled through space and time for a living. "I'm sorry??"

"Contestant 9910342139, I do believe it is time to begin your act," The Judge said again, his ragged voice dripping with poison.

The Clock was ticking, and Danny had to perform or die. He could feel the pressure building up. Danny considered. "Would you like to give me a moment to think?"

"Not Particularly," The Judge responded sharply. Danny could tell he wasn't lying. He knew the Judge was a rather impatient man, that is, if he was one. He knew male pronouns were involved with the Judge, but it was space, surely one must assume.

Danny thought very very quickly. There had to be a reason to all of this, didn't there? There had to be a sort of way you could actually do it, actually win, and he had to have some kind of talent, didn't he? He had to have some sort of reason that he was going to get out of this.

He was clever, he told himself, but he couldn't believe it. It didn't track, and his brain dismissed the thought. He wouldn't even be able to die with good self esteem.

"My talent is..." Danny began, mouth open and speaking before he knew how the sentence would end. Possible talents raced through his brain. Remembering useless Star Wars facts. Improv. Staring into blank space. Saying 'What's That, Doctor?' Dying. Maybe he could say that his talent was being untalented, though that's the sort of pretentious thing that would likely get him killed.

"My talent is Card Tricks." Danny said, eventually.

His talent was not Card Tricks.

"Interesting." The Judge said. "Proceed." His fingers arched expectantly. He leaned forward, intent.

"I... I don't actually have a deck of Cards on me, though." Danny said.

"One will be supplied then," The Judge said.

"I need very particular cards," Danny replied quickly, really trying to get out of this now. "I'll just go get them."

"What brand?" The Judge asked. "I have a replicator available."

"Blorps." Danny said, now having made up a word. "I need some Blorps cards."

The Judge reached under his table and dragged out a device that looked an awful lot like a microwave. He imputed several digits into the side, and a deck of cards that were circular and gooey emerged from the microwave's central oven space with a flash.

The Judge got up from his seat, casually walked over to Danny and handed him the gelatinous goop, glowered at him and returned to his seat in the front row.

Danny stared at the circular deck of gelatinous goop cards in his hands. He did not know that a Blorps deck was a real thing, but by sheer luck - or perhaps infinite monkeys, he had indeed discovered the existence of Blorps cards.

"achoo," the blorps cards said gently in his boiler suit covered hand.

Danny bit his lip sheepishly.

"Begin," hissed the Judge in his monotonous growl.

Danny stood there, and the adrenaline began to hit his chest like some kind of Michael Bay special effect. He was such a fucking idiot. "Can you look away for a second?" Danny asked, embarrassed. "It's for the trick."

The Judge sighed. “O’Well preserve us," He grunted, turning around.

Danny made a break for it.

* * *

He was shocked that no one had stopped him from leaving the stage, he realized, as he ran for his life down the backstage corridors. It seemed like a basic concept. But no one usually got past the Judge, he considered, what with the Judge being a total psycho man.

He rounded the corner and came to a small glowing door. It was remarkably small, actually, incredibly so, maybe two foot wide and three foot tall. The glow wasn't from anything magical about the door, at least Danny assumed, since it seemed to have several glow-sticks pasted on it's diameter that created the effect. Danny was short, thanks to the Danny Devito incident, and so he attempted to clamber inside the small door as not to be found. The handle was somewhat fragile, he noticed - it nearly came off in his hands. He opened it and began to crawl in.

He was in a technical area, he realized. And thankfully, the room was much larger than the door, even if it was a bit of a crawlspace. One of the lighting booths for the stage, not used in a very long time, since the advent of automatic lighting. He could tell it hadn't been used in a very long time because of the dust, but the futuristic wires and cables and tiny little dots of light on the wires made him think that it was very advanced, it's own secret little world.

Danny was still breathing rather heavily. He leaned against the wall out of sheer exhaustion. What the hell was this place??

* * *

The Judge took a long time to turn back towards the stage.

"Ah. A disappearing act." The Judge murmured. "How wonderful."

* * *

The Green Room was filled with frenzied whispering. The contestants were quite fearful as to what would happen next. They had been watching the edited version of the events on their tablets. The sheer audacity of contestant 9910342139 to try and disappear like that - well, there would have to be repercussions.

The Doctor and Roman looked around the room urgently.

"Well, it's good he's not bloody dead," Roman observed.

"He would have gotten better." The Doctor insisted. “He’s not the sort of man to die.”

Havisha Hamilton was boisterously booming about the room, trying to find out who was next on the chopping block. Surely The Judge would be furious. He had to be furious about it. No one dared to try and escape the talent judging, not after the mass contestant annihilation of last week.

She... could hardly remember it until now. They had tried to block it from her memory... Havisha began to think and suddenly became quite frightened at what she had thought was real.

* * *

The Doctor tapped Roman on the shoulder. “I think I know what’s happening here,” she remarked. “It’s an inversion.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, with no other change in his expression betraying an emotion. “An inversion??”

“-Of the typical talent show.” The Doctor said. “The whole thing is being run by computers who don’t know what the heck they’re doing. This all started as an attempt to rid Talent shows of the whole emotion mongering problem. You know, where there’s 10 minutes of usually sad backstory for each contestant? The computers tried to fix that, to fix up the ideal talent show, to make it just talent, but they’ve forgotten all about the importance of human connection and achievement.”

“How gauche,” Roman murmured. “Well, what is to be done??”

“I have no clue.” The Doctor admitted. “But it is odd…”

An orange and brown blob in a boiler suit approached, which the Doctor recognized as Graallb, thanks to it not currently wearing a helmet, which it balanced on a protruding privacy. “Hello.” She said, aimiably.

“Your friend, Contestant 9910342139,” Graallb said, irritably, “he’s gone and shifted it. He’s bloomin’ run off.”

The Doctor, unlike herself, felt a little bit embarrassed. It was odd, she’d not truly felt the feeling for several lifetimes. “Apologies,” she said. “I mean, he was about to die, though.”

“Shameful display,” Graallb said, what the Doctor thought were his nostrils puffed. “You know his whole region will be excommunicated now. For every disobedient act, hundreds are punished.”

“That’s monstrous,” The Doctor blurted.

“It is the way.” Graallb said, as if that was enough. He slid away, grunting in severe displeasure.

The whole room seemed furious. This was not only the status quo, it seemed to be a fairly liked one. The Doctor bit her lip. What was a girl to do?? These idiots seemed utterly enrapt.

Open Brackets entered the room. “Good afternoon, genders and none! I have heard that there is currently trauma.” Her voice, once again, Roman noted, had not a bit of electronic tinge to it, it was just remarkably inhuman in it’s cadence. Open Brackets seemed to be doing her best to appear empathetic. She was failing - she reminded him of a politician trying their best to convince him they cared. Open Brackets continued. “In order to appease the contestants, we will be supplying you with your daily memes shortly. We thank you all for your tireless service.”

The devices in each of their hands began to print out several sheets of what looked like fiberglass. Roman lifted the sheet, despite himself. The first ‘Meme’ was an orange sheet with the text VENGAR in big block letters. It depicted a creature with a noodle like posture making a shocked expression. It was leaking fluid. The second sheet expanded within Roman’s hands, letting out an enormously echoey and reverb filled version of Frank Sinatra’s My Way set to a screaming image of an upside down cat-scorpion. Every other word was, however, ear or towel.


♪♩ Ear, I've had a ear
Ear towel ear towel few towel mention
I towel ear I had to towel
I ear towel through towel exemption
Ear careful towel along the byway
And towel, much, ear more
I did it, I towel my way ♪♩ 

Roman did not find this particularly funny, even though he was usually one to be amused by such internet thingys. There was a level of failure to it, that it was autogenerated to be amusing - that it was so surreal that it was pointless.

The third and final meme provided was an image of a bleeding sponge with the text CONFORM printed on it. This one too, was three dimensional.

Roman placed the sheets of what he presumed was humour onto the table. There was no laughter in the room, though. None at all. His hypothesis was likely correct. Roman looked at the Doctor. They began to understand what was going on.

* * *

Danny crawled about underneath the stage. He wondered what to do. He wondered what he could do. There were guards everywhere, and whatever this place was, it was not for humans. The lights hurt his eyes. The whole place had never stopped being tinted blue, but as time went on, the blue became actively painful to look at, like someone was itching and scratching at his eyes, but a bit duller.

He thought of Open Brackets. He felt like she was remarkably frightening, in her oddity. She just didn’t care. She reminded him of an old high school counselor he had who tried to be empathetic but simply asked why his family couldn’t afford an apartment anymore, were they not trying??

He had worked so hard to get away from people like that, and then he was someone else, very physically someone else, and his life became filled with that cruelty again. He looked at his skin, his tired old hands and he started to cry a bit. This wasn’t his body, this wasn’t what he wanted to look like. This wasn’t who he was. He bit his lip.

Why couldn’t he remember his name, his real name?? He had one, he knew he had one. He knew he wasn’t just Danny. I mean, he was, in a very physical sense, Danny, but it just didn’t work for him. His brain - god, what had those Dalek things done to him??

He would choose another name, he decided, but not now.

Now he had to Survive.

But later.

Later he would do that.

* * *

Suddenly, Open Brackets moved forwards and grabbed Professor Notie by the arm. “It is your time, contestant.” She said.

Professor Notie looked at her in tears. He was special, he had talent. He could do magic! He could actually do it. He begged her to listen, but he did so without words, and so he was marched off in the boiler suit to the stage.

Half an hour passed. No one turned their devices on. The Doctor and Roman considered their options. What could they do, what talents did they even have?? They tried to think about anything but Professor Notie’s tearful face. They knew what was coming before the noises started.

The screaming could be heard for quite some time. Evidently Professor Notie had tried to escape, tried to perform his best, or done something wrong - but he was being punished. The death was slow.

After a while, Open Brackets re-entered.

“It is time to sleep.” Open Brackets said, coldly.

“Time to sleep??” The Doctor questioned. “Where??”

Open Brackets did not say a word. She marched away.

The group of all of them looked at each other. “I - I wish you all well!” Havisha Hamilton said, afraid. The sparkle of newness had worn off, the nostalgia that she had for this program had disappeared. There was no love left in her eyes, she knew what they were in now.

The game would continue in the morning, and more of them would die.

“I - I’m sorry, Roman.” The Doctor admitted. “I thought this was American Idol or something, I thought it was the future. This - this isn’t a talent show. This is an execution chamber.”

Part Three: A Dream

The Doctor felt angry with herself. This sort of thing should be much easier to recognize. She was very good at finding dictatorships, and taking them down and everything, and how come she didn’t recognize this one?? Stupid. Absolutely stupid. 

Her hands balled into fists without her even thinking about it. “Tomorrow - I need to go on.” She said, tense. Her brain moved into motion, theorising what she could do to stop it - but she would have to be on stage for her plan.

Roman sighed with indignation. For someone so smart, she could be goddamn stupid. “You’d die,” he said, attempting to reflect a semblance of logic onto The Doctor’s brain. But she was already bound to her plan, and there would be no changing it, at least, not right now. Maybe later there would be time for some scant improvisation, you know, if they were lucky. 

“It’s a good idea,” The Doctor said, not bothering to explain her plan.

Havisha Hamilton cautiously approached. 

“Oh, hi, Havisha.” The Doctor said mildly. “We’re committing thoughtcrime.” 

Havisha looked nervous, and sullen. 

* * *

When Havisha Hamilton was a child (three weeks ago, species age differently) she watched Rigel 7’s Got Talent religiously. Actually religiously, mind you, that was enforced and everything. She prayed at the altar of Bigger Brother that one day, she would be picked, because she had so much talent to show the world, even though she wasn’t sure precisely what that talent was.

The broadcasts were quite different from the actual studio experience. They edited out all of the death, mostly. Minus the really bad ones, if someone was really untalented, you could see them die, sure, but that didn’t matter because they were rubbish, and those who aren’t good at a selected predetermined amount of things that you must be good at to be talented - well, those people don’t deserve to live, now do they??

That’s what Havisha had thought. She liked to think that she had remarkable talent - she could do Marge Simpson and everything - but she wasn’t quite sure about that anymore, looking at the really good people around her leaving the program. 

Young Havisha had suspected that the reason you didn’t see the people after they performed is because they were being given loads and loads of money and accolades, and all sorts of happy stuff like that, and they didn’t show it just because it wasn’t good drama.

A few hours (or years for Havisha) she had been backstage for the first time, and seen some of the contestants who had been there longer be carted away to perform, all of them never coming back, and some of them screaming.

Havisha resolved that this must be a very good reward if people were screaming not to get it - maybe they had self esteem issues. 

She lived her life in naivety, until slowly, the understanding crept up on her, and she had tried to put on a happy face for The Doctor and the others, but they really didn’t seem to get it. Surely they also had a little altar for Ryan Seacrest, He Who Must Be Praised, at home. 

Thinking of home now, she died a little. It had been 43 of her years since she left it. Her mother and father would be dead of old age now. Depending on her siblings, she could be the last of the clan. 

She stood in front of the Doctor, and while she began to ask the question if she would be okay, she began to cry, and The Doctor didn’t know what to do precisely - Havisha had been moving through these emotions so fast, she was fine a few moments ago, she thought. The Doctor did not know that Havisha had felt this way for years. 

The Doctor resolved herself to work on her bedside manner - an important trait of all Doctors, why, it didn’t do to be crotchety, and she placed a hand on Havisha’s shoulder. 

* * * 

“Alright,” Open Brackets said, her voice articulating perfectly the fury she had in the matter. “Information: Where the Expletive is Expletive-ing Contestant 9910342139.” She stomped across the stage to her cronies, two genderless employees in (there is no other way to put this) frankly slutty white jumpsuits. 

Slutty Genderless Employee #1 shrugged, and began to return to sweeping the stage with their broom.

Slutty Genderless Employee #2 shrieked and combusted, for they had reached their sell-by date. 

Open Brackets hissed. Infuriating. Absolutely Infuriating. In the name of the holy Simon, the even further blessed O’Well, how could such a discrepancy be allowed to proliferate by the standards of 39.2?? 

Something was in the back of her head, she noticed. It hadn’t precisely been there before, she was certain. 

It was fire, metaphorical fire, that still burnt hot and brightly, white coals hopping across brain 1 parietal lobe subsection D2. She balled her fists, and listened to the holy directory of the David Walliams. 

Destroy all interlopers. Decimate Contestant 9910342139. Simmer in a pot to boil. 

She relished this feeling. The fiery directory. The burning of the deceivers. Holding up a sign that said 1. 

* * *

Danny shrieked as something began to tear apart the stage. What was going on?? Why was something tearing apart the stage?? It was metal! But the hands too, were metal, so it at least made very horrifying sense.

The robotic drone tearing apart the floorboards revealed it’s intentions. “ENEMY DETECTED. TEAR OFF SKIN. TEAR OFF SKIN.” 

GOD DAMN IT, Danny thought as the hands grew closer. It grabbed his leg with furious abandon. He struggled against it, but it pulled him upwards. Danny could now see the room above him. 

A robotic security drone, followed by Open Brackets, standing there ominously, and a genderless janitor sweeping the stage in the distance. “TEAR OFF SKIN??” The robot asked, like a Dog begging for a treat from the cookie jar. 

“Negative,” Open Brackets said, sourly. “I - sorry, This unit wants to identify why Contestant 9910342139 could even consider trying to escape. Such flagrant disregard for Bigger Brother has not ever been noted in my archives.” 

“Bigger Brother??” Danny laughed despite himself, and it hurt because of how the drone was clutching him. This couldn’t be real. The world was never this stupid. “Are you serious?? A bigger version of 1984??” It was so STUPID, he couldn’t help cackling, partially out of humor, partially out of fear. Regardless: hysterics. “George Orwell’s 1984??”

“I do not know this George. But 1984??” Open Brackets asked. “1984?? You dare to speak the name of the sacred text without the proper preamble?? You dare to bemoan the glorious and beneficial "How-To??”” 

How-to?? Danny felt ill. How-to. The thought stayed in his head like when you accidentally taste a chemical, or soap or something, and it stays there for a really long time and tastes awful. These robotic maniacs - the basis of their entire society - they had been using a cautionary tale by George Fucking Orwell as an instruction pamphlet. 

“You’re kidding me, right?” Danny babbled. “First off, there are some inaccuracies.”

Open Brackets narrowed their eyes. “Malcontent,” (she said this like a swear,) “Scholars braver and more intellectual than you or I have done their very best to translate the ancient texts. They have degraded quite a [[INSERT INTEGER]] with the wear and tear of time. But we were lucky to understand the meaning regardless. Praise be Geog O’Well, greatest god the universe has ever known.” 

 * * * 

The Doctor placed the helmet over her head. The boiler suit was stiff and uncomfortable - she didn’t plan to wear it for that long, but for the first phase of the thing-that-was -very-nearly-a-plan, it would work. 

She looked at Roman, and nodded fiercely as the signal. 

* * *

Enter Passcode was a young-looking male being who was monitoring the broadcast for tomorrow morning. After the contestants slept - the more dissenting of which would have to be replaced due to the Party’s Standards and Practices, they could begin once more broadcasting some real ass Class Seven-G Propaganda. 

Enter Passcode was not a high-ranking ambassador like Open Brackets and so he did not have emotions like them. Open Brackets was an entertainer, first and foremost, they had to have a little something extra, for the public’s sake. Plus they were artificial. Enter Passcode on the other hand felt nothing but a dull sense of satisfaction from his dopamine pump when he was especially efficient. 

Enter Passcode had not felt like anything really for several years or three weeks, depending on how you counted it. He merely monitored the camera drones, moved them into position with the correct angles. He was supposed to interject a little soul into the camerawork, make it seem like real people were doing it. Enter Passcode did not have much soul left. 

“Excuse me, is this the camera operation centre,” A contestant asked politely in dulcet tones. 

Enter Passcode turned to them. “Contestants are not allowed within the camera operation centre.” He said, because this was everything he knew about the matter.

“Yes, I know,” The Contestant (Roman) said, before he began to bludgeon Enter Passcode into the wall. Roman did not like doing this sort of thing, violence - peaceful conclusions were always preferred, but you can’t really fight fascism by asking it to please stop politely. Luckily, Enter Passcode had never considered that anyone would ever disobey the laws of the Simon Cow-well, or even, god forbid, the heavenly O’Well. 

After Enter Passcode was thoroughly discombobulated, Roman tapped out a message on the Multi-Tool of Rassilon to the Doctor’s phone. “I’m in,” he said, like a real 90s film and everything. 

* * *

The Doctor stepped out on stage. It was night. The other guests were sleeping. They should have it all to themselves, all to make a foolhardy broadcast to the people of Rigel 7 - so they could liberate an entire culture, an entire civilization from the dystopian society that had arisen out of George Orwell and Britain’s Got Talent. The Doctor didn’t actually know about the Orwell bit - she just assumed. The O’WELL posters and billboards and praising and whatnot had rather made him out to seem important. How funny language is. 

Misinterpretation, and the fact that it was this end of time, everything had decayed - surely they couldn’t begin to understand English or Spanish or anything similar. They certainly weren’t speaking it, The Doctor felt the TARDIS translators at the back of their skull. Working off of a decayed copy of a book whose language you hardly understand and letting it subsume you like this?? It’s ridiculous.

 It all made sense to her - but she was going to fix it. She wasn’t going to let them go crazy. Starting with just one broadcast.

Unfortunately, the Judge was still sitting there, emotionless, in the audience. “There is a curfew,” he said in harsh intonations - the precise emphasis on consonants in the words made The Doctor think that perhaps the Judge was Shakespearean trained. “No one will see what you are trying to do.” 

The Doctor chuckled to herself. By now, she had plenty of hours of overthrowing space dictatorships. Surely one based on the original concept couldn’t be too difficult. “Nah, judge.” The Doctor grinned wickedly. “My mate’s working on a broadcast to the emergency announcement channels.”

“You should not have access to those–” The Judge began, but–

“Are we live, Roman??”

“In 3,” Roman intoned over the mic.

The Doctor smugly smiled. She tore the boiler suit off. 

2 

1

“HELLO EVERYBODY! WELCOME BACK TO RIGEL 7’S GOT TALENT!!” The Doctor hollered, louder than anyone had been all day. “On this special broadcast program tonight, I’m your new host: Doctor Who! Tonight, we’re going to do the unthinkable. We will astound you. We will surprise you, and we will even tug at those old heartstrings, huh??!” 

Canned applause came out of the speaker to the Judge’s indignation. He roared. 

The Doctor ignored him. Everything was going perfectly. “Your first act tonight – she’s only 98 years old, and she’s a corker - give a BIG hand to HAVISHA HAMILTON!”

It was time for a sob story. 

Footage of Havisha Hamilton’s desperately, miserably short life began to play on-screen, as the ancient woman trundled onto the stage. She had spent most of her life in the backstage waiting room for this moment. A Mayfly like her - she would not make it until morning.

The Judge was indignant. He had no clue what was going on, or what to do about it. This had all happened out of nowhere. He pressed the button on his remote to vaporise them, but nothing happened. He pressed the button to call security, but no one came. 

How could all of this fall apart so damn quickly??

* * *

Backstage, mid strangulation, Danny was suddenly let go. Open Brackets shook. What was going on?? This had never happened before. Nothing like this had happened before. “Run diagnostic program,” Open Brackets shrieked, but it was no use. The Doctor had been very very clever, and she only needed a few people to make something like this happen.

Danny grinned in wonder. 

* * *

Grallb had snuck out and reorganised the power couplings, deactivating the droids. Roman was on camera crew. Mr. Longdale had used a combination of stealth and deception to lock out the few remaining organic security guards from the room. He had barred the door with several chairs, and was keeping it held. 

It only took a few moments for people to realize the Doctor was in charge at times like these. It had taken very little effort to persuade them. 

* * *

There were too many sob stories once. Every one has one. The truth in the matter is that if you talk about yourself for too long, eventually you’ll find something that someone else is bound to find fairly depressing. Talent shows, back on planet earth, way long before this, weaponized this. It was a talent in of itself, the sob story. You couldn’t beat a good one, because of the power of empathy. 

It doesn’t matter if you’re the best and most talented person in the room at piano playing, because little Timmy with the cancer diagnosis needs the money more. That sort of thing - a horribly cynical thing to think, that talent shows aren’t about talent shows. 

But it was what Open Brackets and her crony the Judge had thought, once upon a time, when they started all of this dystopian bull (three whole weeks ago, can you imagine??) 

Havisha Hamilton was very good at telling a sob story - perhaps this was because living the way she did, she had plenty of material. 

And you couldn’t get her to stop. Havisha Hamilton’s real talent was talking - talking, talking and talking, she could talk your head off. 

But the images on screen of Havisha’s Mother - who never lived long enough to see her compete in her dream - of Havisha herself, little baby Havisha watching the television religiously, waiting for her time, and the images of her in the waiting room, dying of old age before she even went on stage… they told a story in of itself. 

It can be a little annoying, sure, especially when they go on - but the Doctor looked at admiration at Havisha Hamilton, who just now began to belt out the most gorgeous song she had ever heard, in all of the Doctor’s many, many, many, many, many, many, lives. 

The Judge, stalwart and frowning in the front row, quite suddenly - he was not even aware of it until it happened, felt a tear roll down his cheek.  He didn’t understand what it was, and held up his hand to it, curious, a newborn child. What was happening?? 

I dreamed a dream in time gone by

When hope was high And life worth living

I dreamed that love would never die

I dreamed that God would be forgiving

Then I was young and unafraid

And dreams were made and used and wasted

There was no ransom to be paid

No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night

With their voices soft as thunder

As they tear your hope apart

As they turn your dream to shame

He slept a summer by my side

He filled my days with endless wonder

He took my childhood in his stride

But he was gone when autumn came

And still I dream he'll come to me

That we will live the years together

But there are dreams that cannot be

And there are storms we cannot weather

I had a dream my life would be

So different from this hell I'm living

So different now from what it seemed

Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.

People like Havisha are who we watch this show for, The Judge thought. It’s all for her, the show is for the desperate, those who don’t have another way, and those who grew up seeing others like them succeed. Shouldn’t it be like that?? Shouldn’t it?? Despite himself, he was frozen in rapture. And not just he, but the world was watching.

The Judge was crying, and he began to tear at the damn book on his desk, tear it all to hell. There was no point in a world where you didn’t care, now was there??

* * *

The Doctor smiled. “And cut.”