Anywhere in the story: “It never ceased to amaze him how little the world seemed to care about those it had little use for.” Also include a banana.
London was overgrown. Those bits that were left were barely holding together. And still, someone took the time to write on walls.
It was a warning. Red was a difficult colour for paint in this kind of arena, but someone had still taken the time to make a bright red paint. And then paint a stylized bull’s head with horns, the word ‘MINATOR’, and an arrow pointing back the way he had come.
This was a clear warning.
Running feet made the Doctor turn, but he couldn’t see the runners. They were long gone. He stared at the graffiti, trying to remember anything about that particular spelling.
“Are you fuckin *MAD*?” someone shrieked. They seemed horrified to see him there. The speaker was short, far too thin and dressed in boring grey and brown. She seemed to be having trouble breathing, which was why she had trouble running.
“What?” he said.
“Run, yer nut!”
“What?”
Now she ran to him, seized his wrist as if she were saving his life and dragged him away from the warning sign as fast as she could manage. “*RUN*! That’s where minator is. An’ then there’s th’ bots.”
“Bots?” he echoed.
“Jus’ fuckin’ run!”
He kept pace with her. He was no medical doctor, but he could still tell she was in a bad condition to even try to run. Her lips were turning blue. Her breath rattled in her lungs.
“You run everywhere?” he said by way of conversation.
“Onna ground ya gotta,” she panted. She had that slack-lmbed run of people who had no energy left to run but still had to try so they could survive. “Bots an’ minator. They get ya. They kill ya.”
“Ah,” he said. “That would be bad.”
She rolled her eyes at that understatement.
They arrived at some kind of bus stop just as the bus literally took off for the city high above.
The girl fell onto the empty seat with a lot of coughing with a side of phlegm.
“You don’t sound very well,” he noted.
Another eye-roll and flat sarcasm. “Gee wow, you must be a fuckin’ doctor.”
The last of the Time Lords looked guiltily skywards. “Funny you should say that,” said the Doctor.
“So what you doin’ sown 'ere?” she wheezed. “Suit like that stays upside.”
“Me?” he said innocently. “I’m… inspecting.”
“Y'aint takin’ nuffint from me, y'bastid,” she said automatically.
“What? No! No, no. Definitely not. Look for yourself.” He took out the psychic paper, willing it to show a benevolent message.
She took it, squinting at the message and dragging a finger across the font only she could see. I… am… official… but… friendly. I… am… here… to… help. I… can… be… trusted.“ She boggled at him over the black wallet as she handed it back. "Y'got that lot lammed?”
The doctor stared at the traitor psychic paper. “Odd. It’s not supposed to *do* that…” He really thought about the message.
“Yeah?” she grinned. At least she was smiling. If he had them smiling, he had hope.
“It’s *supposed* to help you think I’m vaguely in charge of fixing what’s wrong. Somehow, you got the gist and not the complete message. Shall we try again?” He handed over the little wallet once more.
This time, her dragging finger helped her read, “The… Doctor. I… make… things… better.” She startled. “Whidafuh? 'Ow’d y’ do that? You some kinda magician?”
There was some confusion, but eventually she introduced herself. “Rollins. Hope Rollins.”
A deal was struck for food. In that, at least, it was wise to always have at least one banana. She ate it skin and all. As they waited for the next bus, the sad facts of being a 'grounder’ came out. About being literally the lowest of the low. Of lurgi, and minator and how the bots could kill you just for being too slow.
It never ceased to amaze him how little the world seemed to care about those it had little use for.
Well, he was here, now. He was going to get things sorted.
This was why he called himself the Doctor. Like his psychic paper said for him, he made things better.
[To meet Hope, try this story. Muse food remaining: 4. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]