Doctor Who - 01 - Past Future Continuous

13. Deus ex Machina

The Doctor took a deep breath, coughed and opened his eyes. There was a battered, rusty object the size of a fist whirring about two feet from his face. On the top of this object swung an elastic tube tipped with a camera lens. At the bottom whirled three sets of brushes, much wider than the object's metal body, and making it look a little like a miniature dancing lady, her skirt spread wide. Brushes were raising dust in the air; dust particles, irritating his nose and throat, woke up the Doctor.

"Well, hello," said the Doctor. He did not change his position, which meant that he still had his cheek pressed to the floor, one arm uncomfortably trapped under his body and the other, just as uncomfortably, twisted behind his back. He had no idea how uncomfortable were his legs, as at some point they had gone completely numb.

"I'm the Doctor," he introduced himself to the metal object. "And who are you?"

The lens at the end of the elastic tube turned towards him and blinked once, with metallic click.

"Extremely dusty, this floor, eh?" continued the Doctor. "Lots of work?"

The machine blinked its round eye again. Its brushes whirred wildly, spinning on the floor and raising small clouds of dust. It came close enough to the Doctor's face for brushes' stiff bristles to scratch his nose once or twice.

"Hey, easy!" he mumbled, untangling his arms and legs. "What are you going to do – sweep me out with the rest of the rubbish? And what's that with the dust? You should suck it in, not spray it around."

He sat up with effort.

"And how did you get in? You had to get in somehow. Not by a transmat, nooo, I don't suppose so, a waste of energy for something so small. Who let you in?"

"Cell 7B. Wednesdays and Fridays," announced the machine, using absurdly pleasant, deep baritone.

"Wednesdays and Fridays, yeah? So which one is it, Wednesday or Friday?"

"Cell 7B. Wednesdays and Fridays."

Leaning against the wall the Doctor rubbed his face with both hands.

"I'm a Time Lord. One would think I'd know the day of the week. At least it's not Sunday. Sundays are boring."

He tried to reach the machine, but it evaded his hand deftly, engine and brushes whirring.

"A little mechanical deck cleaner." The Doctor sighed. "A hoover. Not intelligent enough to keep up a conversation. Just my luck..."

"No, wait," he interrupted his own sentence. "Wait, what am I talking about? I am lucky, I have to be lucky, otherwise I wouldn't even exist, nine hundred plus years and lots and lots of luck... Weeell, all things considered..."

The little, mechanical deck cleaner came a little bit closer, still whirring and humming.

"Ow, you have five by five steps of the floor to sweep, or to cover with dust; do you have to hoover the exact spot I'm sitting at?" The Doctor lifted one foot, moving it out of the machine's way.

"Typical." He moved away his hand.

"Not a moment of peace." Another foot.

"You know what, it reminds me of a game, an Earth's game; Twister it's called; quite a fun, especially if you have a good company; you can really entangle yourself with somebody..."

With metallic clicking something rolled towards him across the floor.

"Oh..."

"Cell 7B. Wednesdays and Fridays," said the little, mechanical deck cleaner. "Have a nice day."

The Doctor covered the sonic screwdriver with his hand.

"Who sent you?" he whispered tensely.

"Cell 7B. The Doctor," answered the machine.

The Doctor's eyebrows went up his forehead.

"Ooooh..." he whispered, sudden laughter in his voice. "Cheap tricks. How improper..."

He lifted the tiny hoover, turned it upside down, ignoring its angry buzzing, and looked between still rotating brushes.

"That's why you were spreading all that dust? Ha!"

He switched the cleaner off and put it into his suit pocket. Into the bigger on the inside pocket. The tiny hoover didn't even bulge it; it didn't disturb the clean line of the Doctor's fitted suit. The Doctor got up slowly, hiding the sonic screwdriver in his hands. For a moment he considered adequate settings.

"Oh, yes!" he whispered finally.

The sonic blinked blue and twittered quietly. The Doctor's image trembled, flickered and dissolved. With muffled pop the air filled the space the Doctor had occupied a moment ago. A small handful of dust powdered the floor.