Gods And Monsters

Chapter Thirty-three:

The graveyard was dead silent. The sun had set a little over an hour ago, and Buffy Summers was on her routine patrol, as per usual.

Demons seemed to be scarce tonight, which equalled boredom for the Slayer. She meandered absentmindedly between headstones, a wooden stake gripped in one hand, and scanned the cemetery for any trace of activity.

An angel statue stood less than ten feet to her left. Its hands were cupped over its face, and feathered wings unfurled from its back.

She passed by it without a second glance, absorbed by her task. Humming to herself and cramming her hands into the front pockets of her dark jeans, she kicked at a small, random rock on the grass. Her denim jacket was unbuttoned, worn over a white tank top. Buffy tucked a stray strand of blonde hair that had fallen from her low bun behind her ear.

Sensing movement behind her, she spun around. Her gaze fell onto the statue base and her eyes widened. The angel had vanished. She furtively surveyed the graveyard, but was unable to locate the missing statue. She ignored the slight quickening of her pulse and turned back towards the direction she had been heading.

Buffy nearly jumped at the sight of a Prussian-blue phone box less than two paces ahead of her.

A narrow, black sign above the set of double doors read, in glowing white letters: POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX. Atop the roof sat a luminous lantern, and both doors were recessed with four square panels. In the top panel of each door was a small, six-paned window. On the panel just below the left window was a board painted white, with black text she couldn't be bothered to read.

She raised her hand and hesitantly rapped her knuckles twice against the wooden door.

The door on the right was yanked open from within, and a grey-haired man poked his head out. His pale face was slightly ragged and lined with age, his silvery curls ruffled. His deeply-set, bright blue eyes bore clear signs of sleep deprivation.

Buffy took an instinctive step back, gawking at the stranger in awe.

"Who are you?" He asked, his voice thickened by a strong Scottish accent and his grey, intimidating eyebrows drawn together.

She blinked, recovering her voice. "Buffy."

He stepped out, and she immediately retreated a few steps farther. "This is Earth, yes?"

She stared at him in bewilderment, eyebrows raised. "Well... yes."

He stuck his index finger into his mouth and quickly withdrew it, holding the dampened digit out as if testing for something. "America." He concluded, lowering his hand. Then, he sniffed at the air, and wrinkled his nose as though the scent of it disgusted him. "California. I should have known."

Baffled by his odd behaviour, she began to wonder if she hadn't woken up after all. Surely, this was nothing but a ludicrous dream. A man as strange as him had to be a figment of her imagination.

The focus of his attention snapped to her expectantly. "What year is this?"

"Two thousand and two."

He nodded approvingly. "Good year. Camera phones, iPods, X-Box; the list goes on." He shut the door behind him. He wore a black waistcoat buttoned over a white dress shirt. The lining of his navy jacket was red silk, and the neckline had a shawl lapel. The hem cut off a few inches above the knees of his charcoal-grey trousers.

Buffy eyed him inquisitively. "You're bizarre."

"Yes, I am. What about you?"

"I'm the Slayer."

"Good to meet you." He took her hand and shook it, a broad, insincere grin stretching across his face. "Now get lost."

She folded her arms across her chest and smiled defiantly. "No."

Glancing over her shoulder, his eyes suddenly went wide. "Tardis. Now." He ordered, walking around behind her and positioning himself with his back to hers.

"What?" Frowning in confusion, she turned around to identity the source of his altered attitude.

Her expression became a reflection of his. This strange man was all that stood between her and the stone likeness of an angel. The statue's hands were outstretched, with claws for fingers, and its face was contorted into a roar. Its gaping mouth wielded razor-sharp teeth.

"That box behind me. Get in."

"Why?" She asked, unwilling to admit the fear she felt. "It's just a statue."

"No, it's not. You know it isn't. I don't like repeating myself, so this is the last chance you are being given: do as you are told!"

Finally, Buffy heeded his advice and spun around, hastening to the door. She shoved it open, and he followed her inside. She stopped dead in her tracks, entranced by the impossibly vast and futuristic interior. The architecture was mechanical and stark, like something straight out of a Sci-fi movie.

The lighting was minimal, circular light fixtures dotting the curving walls with rings of blue and centres of orange.

An enormous, hexagonal console of switches, lights, buttons, levers and monitor screens dominated the centre of the room. A clear, vertical tube with a core of bright red florescence connected it to three, orbiting tiers of on the ceiling. Each tier was engraved with unfamiliar symbols and illuminated by recessed orbs of white light.

Three separate, railed staircases led to a raised balcony encircling the console room. Its walls were lined with fully stocked, wooden bookshelves, a cluttered workshop table, and a large blackboard, every inch of which was scribbled on with chalk.

The strange man ran around the console, flipping levers, smashing buttons, and entering coordinates on the keyboard.

Buffy whirled around to confront him. "Who the hell are you?"

Throwing his arms out wide dramatically, he lifted his head and paused his actions momentarily. "I'm the Doctor."