Doctor Who and the Tree of Doom: an Oh My Goddess! Crossover

		   Chapter Four: The Cabinet of Doctor Who



    Inside the wood-panelled and Victorian furnished drinking pub, a
miniature mahogany table supported a faceless man.  Faceless, since his
head was buried in his arms, and an unnerving strangling sound did not
escape his mouth but seemed to vibrate through his body.  A pint of
Guinness, still ice cold, sat neglected on the corner of the desk, the
surface of which was engulfed by the large and psychedelically garbed
man.  Having unkempt blonde curls that flopped impotently upon his head,
the man was currently, thus blissfully, unaware of the adverse reactions
to his obnoxious snoring.  He was known as The Doctor, and he was in deep
concentration. 
    Supposedly.
    At least, that was what he'd claimed when he announced that he would 
solve an age-old question--why cars drive on parkways but park on 
driveways--before collapsing in a violent fit of inaction.
    Alas, tranquility was at last disturbed by someone who didn't know
when to let sleeping dogs lie.  Perhaps she felt lonely or, perhaps,
insulted that someone fell asleep whilst in her company, but the young
girl with flowing black hair and large brown eyes, in any case, couldn't
accept the status quo.  Her name was Skuld and she had pulled out her
polo mallet, inseparable only from her possession, and aimed judiciously. 
    But let's digress for a moment.
    Skuld was a goddess.  As this was fact and not a subjective opinion,
no matter how worthy, she had powers befitting of a deity. Unfortunately,
she was immature (again, fact) thus weak in the powers department. 
*Physically*, that is--Her mental acumen was astonishing to the nth
degree, being capable of designing, building and operating sophisticated
robots, or mecha, that actually worked the odd time. 
    As for the enigmatic purpose of her mallet, it would be safe to say
that she'd never played a game of polo.  She'd never even ridden a horse;
Sleipnir would have too arduous an undertaking (only her oldest sister
Urd had done so, suffering from terminal saddle soars which seemed odd
since she didn't use a saddle).
    As foreign as polo was to Skuld, so was croquet.  So what was the odd
function of the mallet?  The device was a de-bugging tool, a corrector if
you will of errors in the computer program, a program beyond the scope of
any petty Bill Gates marketing, a program beyond the understanding of all
humans, a program that regulated reality itself: The Yggdrasil.  Now,
whenever this computer of the Gods--heaven forbid--had the audacity to
malfunction, symptoms of which, appearing as small eight-legged rabbits,
would appear and it would be Skuld's task to eliminate them.  The
function of the mallet thus revealed. 
    She was inconsiderate, certainly, but she was irresistably cute--some
say, insufferably cute; so cute as to occasionally induce insulin shock
on sight.  She was also, according to Scandinavian mythology, one of the
three fates, her domain belonging to the future.  And, with Skuld's
mallet preparing to introduce itself to someone's head, it was The
Doctor's future in question.
	"Hey!" she yelled, squelching a hiccough.  "Are ya sleepin' yer
lazy ass?" 
    She saw the sleeping body and proceeded, after carefully considering
the desired level of damage, to whack him one.  As she posed for the shot
like a batter at base, her legs apart as far as her skirt allowed, Skuld
gave a mighty Thor-like swing.  Nee dless to say, The Doctor awoke. The
black beer remained untouched. 
    "Thank goodness," The Doctor mumbled. 
    "Wha--?" Skuld said. 
    He rubbed his eyes, then yawned. "A dream.  It's been centuries since
I've graduated from the Prydonian Academy, yet there I was, desperately
in search of the lecture chamber although completely lacking a timetable.
Even the location of my locker was unknown." 
    "Doctor? Wake up." 
    "Hm?" he hummed.  He reached for the lonely Guinness.  The Doctor
sluggishly jammed his face into the beer and enthusiastically gulped it
down. At this moment he had several thoughts floating around his brain;
many of them weren't crucial but he could n't argue with an army of ideas
which cluttered his mental closet.  It was bad--he was mixing metaphors
again.  He scratched his head, his hair feeling a little stiff. 
    "Skuld, have you seen my sonic screwdriver?"
    If there was an answer, it had to wait.  
    "Doctor, it's important."
    "Are we in peril?" The Doctor bolted upright. 
    "No, time t'make yer order." 
    "Good evening," announced a penquin which resembled a waitress.
"Guinness and Gritstone on tap.  What will it be? 
    The Doctor blinked and realized it was the other way around. "I'll
have another Guinness; it has a full dark flavour that massages the
tongue with a thick, creamy head and therefore makes it the only choice
for me.  Besides," The Doctor said, "Gritsto ne makes me fart." 
    "Me too. 'Nother fer me," said Skuld, as the waitress went to the
bar. The Doctor gave her a look--Skuld, that is. Skuld continued, "Is
like ice cream, no?" 
    "Are you old enough to drink?" The Doctor asked.
    Skuld crossed her arms with a deep frown.  "I'm not a kid."
    "Fine." The Timelord sighed. This was going to be a long day.



			* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 



    The rampant Panda lumbered through a misty void, bright enough to
appear white with no discernible topography.  Except for the ornate water
fountain incongruously placed in the middle of nowhere.  Moments before,
he was human; yet no sooner had he fou nd himself here he had tripped
into the fountain.  The dripping, growling beast wondered about the odds
of inconveniently placed cold water before it lumbered onward in search
of a meal. 


			* * * * * * * * * * * * * *



    They sat comfortably inside a lounge enclave nearly secluded from the
restaurant proper; even the blaring D.J. could not penetrate. 
   "Nice acoustic design of this section; the soft material acts as some
kind of sonic absorber," The Doctor commented, feeling the velvet
armchair he sat in. 
    Skuld was more interested in her drink. Her cheeks became flushed as
the blood, delirious with alcohol, forced their way through tiny veins of
the epidermus. She couldn't remember whence she came but she didn't care. 
She felt safe with The Doctor. It was one of those explainable feelings
but she knew she could trust him; he was every bit the father figure to
her.  He was self-confident and intelligent--like herself--yet he also
had the wisdom from centuries of experience.  And she admired him for that. 
    "Doctor?" Skuld asked.
    "Yes?"
    "Do you.. do you..." she stammered, "...have a name?"
    "Of course, I do," he replied. 
    "Then...then..." she tried to speak but her mouth felt like heavy
slabs of rubber. 
    "Are you all right?" worried The Doctor.
    "I'm fine, silly!" she said with a dazed grin.
    "Can't handle alcohol, eh?"
    "Course, I can! Gottit?"
    The Doctor rolled his eyes. There were far more important matters to
get to. "Why are we here?" he muttered to himself. 
    "Hey! Don't get so, um, extenchul--ektsesh--ah, funny on me!" Skuld
wrestled with the words before giving up and resting her dizzy head upon
The Doctor's chest. "I like you." 
    "Ah..."
    Skuld yawned. "Gonna sleep now. 'Night!" And she promptly closed
her eyes. 
    "Skuld!" The Doctor blurted, jarring the young goddess to attention.
    "Hmm?"
    "Don't you remember anything? Before we got here?"
    Skuld reached into her shirt and pulled out one her spherical bombs.
"Here. Please except my humble gift." She handed it to him and giggled. 
    "Curious petard," The Doctor said as he examined the tubes that
riddled the smooth surface. 
    Skuld grabbed a toothpick and surreptitiously inserted it into her
mouth, letting it hang out like a country hick. "What th'matter? Don't ya
like me? Or are ya just ephetic?" 
    "I'll admit you're cute--but I'm a nanocentenarian; I'm old enough to
be your great-grandfather to the power of forty!" 
    Across them faced another table where two young men sat, intently
eavesdroughing to the conversation. The lighter haired one shouted back
at the two isomorphic humanoids, Skuld and The Doctor. "Hey guys, the
High Brow Society is next door." 
    "Shaddap, ya bufffoooons!" Skuld yelled back, then gave the two
hecklers a raspberry.  The dark-haired man responded also with a
stuck-out tongue before turning back to his friend for a laugh. 
    The Doctor emptied his glass and proceeded to jam a nearby spoon into
the prongs of a fork. 
    "Wad'ya doin'?" Skuld said still picking her teeth.
    The Doctor, intent on his actions, ignored her. He had to complete
the apparatus before the waitress returned, fearful that she would
discover his plan but mostly because she'd take his much needed glass
away. Without giving Skuld a glance, he yanked the toothpick out of her
mouth and jabbed the saliva coated stick right in the nexus of his joined
silverware. 
    "Hey!" Skuld protested, but The Doctor was too absorbed. Skuld sighed
in resignation. 
    The timelord, now satisfied with his handywork which resembled a tan
coloured insect with humungous, and unwieldy, silver wings that were
unsuited for flight, he carefully balanced its 'body' on the rim of the
emptied glass, carefully sat back, and ca refully admired his invention. 
    Skuld carefully grinned. "Aaaah.  An equilibrium indigitator?" she
pronounced slowly and precisely. "So yer tryin' t'measure bad vibes!" 
    "You're such a genius, Skuld," he commented sarcastically.
    "That's what I always say! But whazzit for?"
    "I'm trying to find the source of this anomaly. We're not supposed to
be here, but I... can't remember." He said.  "All I know is: I've got to
go to the washroom!" 


    A nearby television set disturbed the calm ambience of the bar. The
image of a heavy-set, balding man was doing his daily rant piece for the
local community. 
    "Today I discovered something that really ticks me off.  You know
that brand of toilet paper that claims to have 2000 sheets? Well, I had a
few spare hours to do a little counting, and guess what? There were,
exactly one thousand-nine hundred and Nine ty Nine sheets! You can
understand how I gypped I had felt at that moment of truth.  Is this some
sort of left-wing pinko commie plot? I suggest that we boycott Procter &
Gumble to show those bastards that we won't take no crap from subversive
corporate a gendae.  I'm Jim Dyck." 


    "Wha?"
    "It's pointing towards the washroom. The answer lies behind that
door," The Doctor explained though to Skuld he was being cryptic. The
Doctor tried again. "Do you know what a divining rod is? 
    "A forked stick that bends down when water's present underground? Of
course! Divining's a department of the RGO. My sister did that before she
was promoted to wish-giving." 
    The Doctor raised an eyebrow. 
    Skuld frowned. "Right. You don't believe in gods. Fine!" She crossed
her arms with a pout. 
    "But gods do exist," The Doctor reassured.
    "Huh? But--" the young goddess was shocked at the change.
    "You see, we've found ourselves crossed over from different, yet
parallel universes. In my universe, you, like all gods, do not exist.
It's a very scientific world where even the impossible can be explained.
But I cannot deny that you're here. You exi st in your universe while I
most likely do not. The impossible isn't explainable--it just *is*. Call
it magic, if you will. But due to some major force, our worlds have
collided and we're here, and it's not from hallucinogenics as I gave that
up nearly a millennium ago. I wonder if the Prydonian uprising would ever
had happened if--" 
    "Doctor, I remember now," said a more subdued Skuld, as if the
alcohol at quickly evaporated from her system. 
    "Good," The Doctor said, a twinkle in his eye. "So do I." 
    "Then we'd better get out of here."
    "Right. As I was saying, this equilibrium indigitator as you
christened it, is pointing towards the washroom." 
    But before they could get out of their chairs, the washroom door
opened.  Two silver figures exited. They were extremely tall, humanoid in
shape with terrifyingly blank faces, small round eyes and slits for
mouths. Two handle-like projections took pla ce of ears, and a
complicated chest unit occupied the front of their massive bodies. Human,
or at least humanoid in origin, their bodies were part organic, but
mostly metal and plastic.  The Doctor recognized them. 
    "Playmobile figures!" Skuld shouted.
    "What?" cried The Doctor. It was supposed to be his moment to
announce dramatically the presence of the Cybermen, but he missed his
cue. 
    "They're toys from Germany. Big Sister picked up some for me when she
came back from a trip there. They have round eyes and a slits for mouths
too. They're real cool!" 
    The Cybermen turned towards them. One of the automatons had black, as
opposed to silver, ear handles, and it spoke first with a deep,
digitally-processed voice. 
    "Excellent! So we meet again, Doctor."
    The Doctor sighed.



			* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 



    St. Petersburg. 
    Russia's largest seaport with a population 6 million; for Tatyana
Revnova's whole life it was known as Leningrad: Home of the October
Revolution--actually in November because the Russians persisted in a
calendar that the modern world abandoned, remaining 13 days in the past. 
This swampy, mosquito infested marsh, with a harsh climate that even
scared away the sturdy Finnish trib es, was her home. 
    It might have been nighttime.  She knew it was the middle of May when
the sun never set; this was known as the White Nights.  The air was cool,
yet her large crimson sweater provided adequate warmth.  She scanned her
watch but instinctively realized t hat she was out of sync--but she
couldn't recall why. 
    It was quiet.  Yana realized it had to be late evening since it was
then that the locals would be crowding the pubs drinking their vodka, and
perhaps some kvass.  The boisterous revellers would imbibe into the wee
hours of the morning.  How long would it be until the men stumbled out 
of the bars, ineptly avoiding ditches, on their tumultuous journey home?
    She smiled.  She stood at Ploshad Dekabristov (December Square) where
the Bronze Horseman on his rearing horse majestically pointed his sword
towards the west. 
    She recited some poetry to herself. It was, of course, the famous
poem about the statue by Alexander Pushkin, which every Russian knew by
heart.  Her grandmother had told of when, during the second World War,
the city was cut off by German troops, and 470,000 died from starvation. 
Reciting the Bronze Horseman, though not nourishing, did provide ample
distraction from the pangs of hunger. 
    Walking away from the square, Yana walked along the windswept streets
towards the Hermitage, in sight of the Battleship Aurora which was
permanently moored off the river divide.  She remembered that Russia
wasn't without its finer moments.  For some r eason, thoughts about Japan
penetrated her consciousness as if it were on her mind recently, yet she
could not recall why. 
    Japan's fate after WWII was decided, not by the bombing of Hiroshima,
but by the might of Soviet military forces which defeated the Japanese in
the Chinese mainland three days later. She had been a keen student of
history, and learned her lessons well. Her interest in history... 
    ...She thought she remembered someone she knew, someone who also had
a keen involvement with history, but who? Again, she could not recall. 
    She continued her way and began to cross the bridge toward the Naval
Academy, and onward towards the Peter and Paul Fortress.  Her mother once
told her, if she ever were to be separated, to look up to the golden
spire of the Peter and Paul cathedral, pointing 122 meters into the sky
like a beacon over the city, and follow it to be re-united with her
family.
    As she appraoched the angular shaped cathedral, she saw a
head-scarfed old woman standing by the Peter Gate, featuring the
tsarist's emblem of a double-headed eagle, as if waiting for her. 
    "Babushka?" she asked. Who are you, old woman, to be out alone at
night? Yana wondered. 
    The head-scarfed old woman did not speak but turned to face Yana.
    At once, Yana froze with the wild fear like a sharp-clawed rodent
burrowing within her gut. It was the face. But it was not the face of an
old woman. 
    It was the face of death.



			* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 



    "I see you're enjoying a quick drink before cybernizing yet another
race of humanoids." 
    "You are wrong, Doctor. We do not 'enjoy'. We are here on a refueling
stop," the black-handled leader said menacingly. "Alcohol is an excellent
source of energy, as you are aware." 
    "It's cleaner than fossil fuels! Say, you wouldn't happen to be
responsible for creating a temporal nexus point, would you?" The Doctor
asked, gesticulating her arms wildly as to mime the shape of that cosmic
concept. "About this high, and this wide, and this deep, and this time,
and this space overlapping different realities? No?" 
    Skuld was eyeing the other Cyberman with keen interest.
    "No, Doctor. And the purpose of your visit?" the Cyber-leader
interrogated. 
    "Just stocking up like you."
    The sombre metalman would have laughed, but as Cybermen were cold,
emotionless creatures and incapable of humour, the joke flew over its
head.  "But living organisms are inefficient in its processing, resulting
in poisoning the nervous system. You, Do ctor, are drunk." 
    The Doctor was never so insulted in all his lives. He could handle
his liquor; he could out drink a Vogon. He would set them straight. 
    Skuld, with a look of pure ecstacy, massaged the other cyberman's
silver skin with tingling fingertips. "Ooh, such a beautiful silver suit. 
Is it a special metal/plastic alloy? I just love robots!" The Cyberman
stood motionless and, other than waitin g for the order to exterminate
her, did not react to her advances. 
    Cybermen do not get embarrassed.
    "Oh, lighten up. Can't you guys ever have fun?" The Doctor seceded.
    "Fun, Doctor?"  
    "Yes, fun. You don't understand what that means," he said
indignantly. "No wonder you're never invited to parties--you just
gate-crash and the drain the spirit out of everyone, leaving them as
soulless as dancers at a Kraftwerk concert." 
    "It is the survival of our species. And finding you here will ensure
our survival. Do you understand what that means? 
    "Oh, let's see," The Doctor responded, his hand to his mouth as if
considering the options. "I am an insufferable interventionist and clever
foil for any Cyberman plan, thus you must eliminate me?" 
    "Excellent! Kill him."



END PART FOUR




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omega@torfree.net     -     Proud member of #SkAS# 
Skuld Appreciation Society, Goddess of De-buggers!
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