"And just who, exactly, do you think you are?" The words are said over round spectacles as a set of wizened-looking eyes narrow at the man being addressed.
"I’m the Doctor." A broad, youthful smile fades at the glare and turns into a slightly nervous headscratch.
"Oh, yeah?" a Northern accent barks from a man at the other end of the room, "Which one, then?"
"Right after you, actually," the youth replies, "So that would be, ooooh, tenth?"
"Oh, the latest, then?" the old man smirks at him, "Well it’s nice to see---"
"What, I get older and decide that the only choice is hairgel?" It’s another man this time, wild blond curls flying every which direction as he interrupts uncaringly.
The latest one crosses his arms, "You're mocking my style? With that coat?"
The curly-haired one’s round face turns about eight shades red, and the Doctor highly doubts it’s due to embarrassment. "I’ll have you know that this is the style of all nobles in Trigonia." He points, as though that makes what he's saying extra important or something. "The royal nobles."
"Trigonia, isn’t that the planet of sheep?" the dashing man in the velvet frock coat asks, shooting a sly smirk in the curly blond’s direction, "The whole planet is covered in a thick layer of manure, isn’t it?"
"If you please." Another blond’s turn to speak, this one significantly taller and slimmer, decked in what looks like a cricketer’s outfit. "I think we have more important things to discuss, don’t you?"
"Yes, like how exactly we’re planning on getting out of this," the one with the long scarf says, grinning quite broadly at the room around him, "After all, we’re not planning on sticking around here, are we?"
"Where are we, exactly?" the mop-headed man, dressed a bit like an Edwardian gent, asks. He looks a bit dazed at the entire situation, but perhaps that’s simply because he hasn’t gotten too much time out on his own.
"And when," the Northerner pops in.
"Planet location is impossible; time is quite easy. From the layout of the cave and the writing?" the man with the scarf seems to ponder for a moment, "And the location of the sun from the crack in the ceiling I’d say the time is...round about...lunchtime, maybe half past."
This, naturally, causes no laughter from throughout the group. In fact, most seem quite irritated at the attempt of humor and the fact that the man with the scarf is laughing as though he’d said the funniest joke in the whole world.
"The boy’s right, though, you know," the old man says. "We can’t get around just sitting around and arguing, we’ve got to develop a plan."
"Must you always think you’re in charge?" It’s the short one with the comically large fur coat who is speaking now, hands on hips and a frustrated scowl on his face. "Some of us have ideas too, I’m sure."
"Oh, come off it, someone has to be leader now, don’t they?" the dashing one asks, "And since it clearly isn’t going to be you---"
"And why in the name of Rassilon shouldn’t it be me?" the short one huffs at the taller man, "You think you’ve got it so good just because you’re a whole incarnation older than me, but I’ll have you know, I’ve been the one to---"
"Can we please just stop arguing!" the one with the question-mark umbrella says, his words rolling with a Scottish brogue, "If we ever want to get out of this situation, we’re going to have to stick together!"
"You really think they know how to stick together?" It’s the Northerner again this time, crossing his arms and putting on a disgusted look, "I doubt you could stick them together if you used Raxophalian paste."
"Yeah, well, at least I’m trying to help them," the Scot says, "Not just standing around looking smug."
"I’m not looking smug!"
"Did someone say they saw a slug?" The one with the scarf pokes his head, quite literally, into the conversation.
"I said he was acting smug," the Scot clarifies.
"Oh, I do apologize. Would you like a jelly baby?"
"Oh, don’t mind if I do, actually."
The cricketer drops down on the chair next to the Edwardian gent, "I have a feeling that we’re doomed."
"Get that feeling, do you?" the Edwardian replies, "I’m surprised that there hasn’t been another regeneration right off the bat yet."
"Well, I wouldn’t hope for too much just yet," the cricketer replies, "I’ve seen the temper on that one with the colourful suit over there."
"He’s got nothing on the little one, I’m sure." A slight smirk twitches the Edwardian’s face, "Care to put a quid on it?"
"Are all of my incarnations this stupid?!" the old man snaps, "Honestly, not one of you is agreeable! Not one!"
"Oh, would you just shut it, old man," the curly-haired blond barks back, waving a multi-coloured umbrella around like a pointer.
"Fingers on lips!" The newest of the incarnations puts his hand to his lips and looks angrily at the room around him, all of whom silence instantly.
Like a good schoolboy, old man’s finger goes immediately to his lips, followed by the short one, the dashing one, the man with the scarf, the cricketer, the curly-haired blond, the Scot, then the Edwardian. The newest incarnation turns to the Northerner, who simply stares at him with a very unimpressed look.
"Wha?" the Northerner barks, "I’m not your student and I’m not a child. I’m not doing it."
Without a word, the old man takes the Northerner’s hand and moves it -- with a strength a man looking of that age ought not have had -- to his mouth.
"Now," the newest one says, "We need to stop arguing and stop putting each other down. We have to work together, be one man, and figure a way out of this. A Timelord is the sum of his parts, right? Can’t be fighting with them."
In succession, the Doctor’s previous incarnations nod. Well, that’s one hurdle stepped over. Now they have to get out of the cave. After getting them all quiet and working together? It couldn’t be that difficult!
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,043