1 . Name: D.F. 38 @ 2011-12-15 00:25

So, this might be the closest thing I've written to a crack fic. I promised that for Demoman December, I would write a story starring the Demoman. What did I produce? A Demoman/Doctor Who crossover with a narrative bent to mimic Douglas Adams' writing style. Because why not.

The "Doctor Who" series does hold a strange place in my childhood. My dad used to watch it on PBS, back when they had the original show on. (Our station cut it due to lack of funds). To be honest, it scared me. But, now that I'm a little older, I can enjoy its campy nature. Fun fact--Nyssa and Tegan were names considered for my sister and myself. Guess which Doctor my dad likes the most.

Perhaps I should have gone with one of Patrick Troughton's companions. Screw it.

/***/

It was, by no fault of his own, noon again. While it was hard to say if the Demoman ever kept a schedule, his kidneys were punctual. If he did not wake up by noon, they would promptly take the place of his poor alarm clock, leaving the machine without a function or purpose. As his internal organs spurred him to life, the Demoman's one good eye wandered lazily about the room. He'd fallen asleep in the kitchen again. That was inconvenient. There was no lavatory in the kitchen.

Unfortunately for the Demoman, the organs outside of his torso suffered the worst after each hangover. His eye was reddened, clouded and floating in a part tear, part scrumpy cocktail. His brain felt like a heavy lead brick mounted atop his head. He sniffled once as he stumbled out a doorway, trying to navigate to the nearest restroom. Since his faculties were more focused on getting upright and moving than trying to determine any specific direction, he was led by accident into a nearby blue box.

You may ask yourself—and rightly so—what is so special about a blue box? It's not the shade or the shape that's important. It's what the box is not. First of all, it's not a square box. This object is rectangular, tall. It's adorned with charming little handles and glass windows. The front door has what appears to be a brass lock and a public notice, along with a telephone that does not work. To any passerby, it may look like a quirky phone booth. Something from across the pond. That would not be quite correct either, as this particular blue box has traveled for eons and across galaxies, only to land in this peculiar little tract of land on the bottom of the United States of America.

The blue box was not an outhouse either, but the Demoman did not know this as he stepped inside.

There were several strange things that he did not expect. The primary shock of finding a blonde woman in what he thought was a restroom was the first thing that threw him off kilter. Following that, there was the funny feeling of realizing that space was not correct inside of this box. The room in which he was standing was larger than what the box could possibly contain. It was white, with the cleanliness and blinding power of a fresh snowstorm. Metal paneling covered some of the walls, but they had large bubbles punched out of them in a capricious fashion. Setting in the middle of the room was a—well, he didn't know rightly what it was. It looked like a silver mushroom with a hexagonal head. A rainbow-colored cylinder jutted out of the center of this mushroom, the head itself covered with knobs and flashing lights.

"I take it that this isn't the lavatory, then," the Demoman said.

"No," the blonde woman shook her head. She was short, proportioned less like an adult and more like if Lewis Carroll's little protagonist had shot up to around five feet tall. She pointed towards a hallway behind her. "There is one back there, if you would like to use it."

The Demoman nodded. "Think I will, if I'm not bein' rude."

As strange as the lobby to the lavatory had been, the restroom itself was not hard to figure out. After attending to his business, the Demoman stumbled back. The blonde woman was messing with a coat rack towards the back of the room, fidgeting with her own apparel. Like most things inside this blue box, she only served to confuse him. Little women didn't live in restrooms, particularly not ones that men frequented.

"Pardon me fer askin', but did ye happen ta notice how big this room is?" The Demoman asked.

The woman nodded. "I suppose. It's not the largest room here, though."

The Demoman scrunched up his face. "Seems awfully big fer a lavatory."

"Well, it's not." The woman corrected him. "It's a time machine."

Most people, upon being told that they were inside of a time machine, would have one of two prompt reactions. The first would be to scoff at the suggestion of such a device, following up with a round of derisive terms being flung at their daffy conversation partner. The second reaction would be a sputtering of excited exclamations, complete with dozens of questions and pleas for a demonstration. The Demoman did neither. Rather, he responded with a mighty "Hmm."

The little woman shrugged. "It also travels through space, if you'd prefer that."

"Ye don't say," said the Demoman.

The Scotman's tepid response confused the little woman. She cocked her head to the side, puzzled. "Most humans I've met would be impressed by that."

"Most humans?" The Demoman asked.

"I'm not human. It's what it implies," the blonde woman said.

The Demoman scratched his head. That could imply a variety of things. She could be an animal, an angel, perhaps a demon. A fairy? An extra-terrestrial, maybe. This was New Mexico, after all. If the Soldier was correct, then aliens landed in New Mexico all the time. So, that seemed the most likely. He'd go with that conclusion for the time being.

The Demoman continued his inquiry. "So, what are ye doin' here?"

"Getting groceries," the woman responded. "Well, my traveling companion is. He told me that this time and this place had the best flavor of barbeque sauce he has ever sampled. We were going to have kale tonight, and it seemed like the perfect condiment."

Aliens, no doubt. Or sick humans. The Demoman pulled a face. "So, he just left ya here, is that it?"

The little woman wasn't worried. If letting a half-loaded Scottish demolitionist into her time machine for a trip to the loo didn't throw her off, then neither would being left alone. "He should be back shortly." She wandered towards the central metallic mushroom, flicking some switches on. "So, where would you like to go?"

"What? No, missy. I don't need ta go ta any time or place. Don't need ta show me yer fancy tricks," the Demoman said.

"Oh, nonsense!" The little blonde woman continued her work. She flashed him a cheeky grin. "I've wanted to try this out for myself, for a while. Come on, then! Pick a time and a place. We won't be gone more than five minutes, I promise."

It was with a strange pang that the Scotsman realized where he wanted to go. Why it had come to him so quickly, he didn't know. He hadn't thought of the place in quite some time, or the event which would propel him into his career. He used to dwell on it, certainly. Back when he was routinely mocked and jeered, when cold nights in the orphanage were all that he had before his proper parents came forward. Even then, he wondered from time to time that if he hadn't been so rash, if he'd just been a good little boy like his first mummy and daddy wanted, then perhaps he would have turned out to be a better person. Maybe even had both his eyes.

One little kick in the pants of the space-time continuum wasn't going to hurt anything. "Ullapool. 'Bout thirty years ago."

The blonde woman was confused at his request. "Scotland? Well, I suppose I can't help it if you have poor taste."

Never the less, she prepared the machine for its departure. With a few cranks and flips on the mushroom, the machine roared to life. It wasn't a grand sound, by any means. It had more of gasping, guttural quality, like someone slowly dragging a house key up and down old piano wires. The machine did not rock or sway wildly as it took off. Never the less, strange images blurred outside of the time machine. The Demoman watched them pass by the machine's windows. It was like fire and lightning dancing in an empty, black abyss. Sometimes, the energies wound together like a cylinder, other times like he was traveling inside of a diamond-shaped corridor. It continued whirling and swirling until he thought his stomach was going to drop out of his torso. As grandiose as the travelling was, it ended abruptly, with no grand trumpeting or explosions.

"So, that's what it's like ta travel in a space-time machine." The Demoman frowned. "Just kinda made me sick."

The little woman nodded. "It does that to first time travelers."

She led the way outside. Nostalgia slapped the Demoman upside the face with a kipper. They had landed outside of a small glen, dotted with hundreds of thick trees. Beyond the forest were rows of charming white houses, a lighthouse shepherding them together. The bays of Loch Broom murmured as gentle waves lapped against the beaches. Ships sailed across the loch, fishermen all out to catch their day's pull. Now he thought his heart was going to fall out.

"I should warn you," the blonde woman said. "Try not to interfere with any major events, particularly of your own timeline. The consequences of changing you future often results in—oh, bother!"

While the little woman was trying to explain to the Demoman the very complicated repercussions of breaking the space-time continuum, the Scotsman had already run off towards the north. She followed after him, settling into a light jog. He earned several odd looks from the locals, mostly from the elderly Caucasians with two eyes. He certainly didn't fit into this town. Yet, he seemed to be at ease navigating his streets. Perhaps it was his hometown?

When she had caught up to him, the woman asked, "Are you mad?"

"Quite," the Demoman said. "I'm gonna try 'n find meself before I do somethin' stupid."

The woman shook her head. "Oh? Like?"

"Well, for starters, blow up the Loch Ness monster," he replied.

The little woman pinched her eyebrows. She hadn't visited Earth all that much, but she had frequented the United Kingdom quite often. "I'm sorry. I thought Loch Ness was about a hundred and twelve kilometers away from here."

The Demoman nodded. "It is. Didn't say I was a smart kid."

"Well, if you say so." The little woman kept pace with the Demoman, hoping to slow him down. "Listen—whatever you do, you cannot change the past. It tends to gum up the future. I've heard that it can even rip holes in universes, if you change a particularly important event."

"Then how d'ya travel in time? Aren't ya afraid of clappin' yer hands and causin' a hurricane or somethin'?" The Demoman asked.

The woman shrugged. "I don't have to worry about such things. I know what is meant to be, and what isn't. We have training on Gallifrey for this sort of thing. It's not something most humans can learn."

The Demoman frowned, slowing down. Guilt banged around in his brain like a dwarf with a diamond hammer. No, golden. Oh, whatever. He sighed, "Well, Miss Gallifrey. Is it alright if I just see me adopted parents one last time?"

The lady sighed. So that was it. He was missing his family. "Very well. But you can't tell them what's going to happen to them. Sorry. Well, I'm assuming I should be sorry. Probably was something bad, wasn't it?"

"Aye," said the Demoman. "But I will be good."

There are many places and events one could partake in, if you decided to visit Ullapool. For example, there are charming music festivals that you could pop into, if you wish to soak in some local culture. There are art centers and museums, as well as several dozen pubs boasting the same fish and chips recipe as their family's own. However, it is not recommended that you visit the rickety old house where our Scottish demolitionist was left at birth. Barring the fact that it no longer exists thanks to the short temper of a six year old amateur explosives creator, it was always considered to be a boil on the fair face of Ullapool. The shingles had all but fallen off, paint flaked away by storms and the loch. Windows were dirty. The wooden porch was rotten and dropping bits into the bay. Several varieties of cats lived along the property, all sickly and gross as the establishment. Worst of all were the two miserable bastards that lived in the property. It is said that when the duo met their untimely demise, only one person cried over their deaths. Even then, most speculate that to be as much of a fable as that of the aforementioned Loch Ness Monster, who is a rather nice fellow once you get to know him.

The dark Scotsman and the little lady from Gallifrey knocked on the front door. They were greeted by the first of the Demoman's adopted parents—his mother. She had the same build as a clump of clammy chicken fat. The woman was as round as she was tall, pale as bleach. Her hair was frazzled, unsavory spools of copper that could not be tamed by brush or shampoo. The fat in her cheeks shrunk her eyes to little black dots. Her voice was grating, less that of a human's and more that of a yapping terrier's. "'N just who the hell are ye?"

Saying "Oh, yes, I am your adopted son" would be the fast track to having a door slammed in his face. Still, the Demoman didn't know what else to say. He wasn't sure what he wanted to tell her. All he had wanted was to see her again. Something was wrong. His jaw worked, but no words came out.

"We're from the unit of…UNIT," the little woman said. She smiled, extending a hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Missus—"

The fat woman gave her an undignified snort. "I ain't dealin' with the likes of you. Darlin'! Get up here. We've got quacks at the door."

If his adopted mother was like fat, his father was like bone. He easily stood six feet tall, towering and waving like a brittle corn stalk. His hair was ratty, combed in such a way to hide only the largest of moles growing atop his head like crop circles. He sniffled, wiping his small nose on the back of his work shirt. "Hon, please. 'M busy. The paper's not gonna read itself."

"You and your blasted paper." The pale woman gritted her teeth. "Should burn the damn newspaper place down m'self. Or at least get that bastard son of ours ta do it."

The Demoman was taken aback. He'd never heard his first mum talk like that at all. At least, he couldn't remember. He was able to suck enough air into his lungs to squeak out a question. "Bastard son?"

"Poor little bugger can't help it." The fat woman pointed down to the beach. Sure enough, there he was. The Demoman found himself smiling. He'd forgotten what he was like at that age. He couldn't have been more than a couple of feet tall. He was stringy, a pout constantly fixed to his face. He hadn't learned how to manage his hair yet, so it was wild and tangled, frizzed by rough winds. He'd managed to burn holes into his clothing, his knees scraped by his folly. And yet, as messy and roughed as he was, his adopted mother did not rush to scoop him up or clean him. She just let him play in the wet sand, watching with disinterest as he stuffed dirt and debris into piping.

The lady from Gallifrey smiled. "He's adorable."

Hon snorted. "Hardly. You try raisen' him. Every other day, I find some damned new plan of his. One day, he's out ta take down the lighthouse. The next, a plot ta kill Ol' Nessie. It never ends!"

Darlin' cut his wife's complaints short. "Now, now, Hon. Let's not be baggin' on family while we've got company. Wrong time of day for tea, but perhaps you'd like coffee?"

The Demoman and his traveling companion took his first father's offer. They were led inside to the rustic front room. A brief memory bubbled up in his mind. Yes, there was the old radio, fashioned just high enough to reach his hips. He couldn't recall what program was playing, but he remembered that it had always bored him. There was a small cuckoo clock hanging over a tattered, mostly empty bookcase. The clock's hands were broken, always pointing at six-thirty. Its ring went off like a charm every hour, although the bird that emerged from the clock had its head lopped off. The sofas were comfortable, but worn at least a decade past their expiration date. Most annoyingly, everything was covered in ivory doilies. They looked less like prim little works and more like webbing. Clearly, his parents had not had many visitors in their brief lives, which was a shame, considering the open view they had over the loch. Perhaps it was the only thing in this room that hadn't been ravaged by time.

"So," said Hon. "Forty quid."

This threw off both the Demoman and the little lady from Gallifrey, as neither had any clue about what the fat woman meant. The lady was faster to respond. "Come again?"

"I'm assumin' that ya've come for the boy? I ain't seen another black one like you 'round these parts. Must be your son," Hon clarified.

The Demoman felt an involuntary twitch in his good eye. "He's not mine, but I suppose ya could say we're related."

Darlin' tipped his head towards the blonde lady. "Fine then, fine then. 's that the mother? Or just your case worker?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean by that." The little woman shook her head. "I'm not his mother, at any rate."

"Shame. Ya look like ya'd be a good one," Darlin' said.

The Demoman was still taken aback by his mother's offer. "Forty quid? Really? 's that all I—he's worth to ya?"

"I admit, it's a bargain." The fat woman shrugged her shoulders, taking a sip of coffee. "Probably should charge ya more for all the property damage that one's caused. Yer the first man that's ever even looked at our son in any proper light, so I figure you must want him for yer own. I'm just willing ta cut our losses."

The little lady's nose twitched. "Oh, he couldn't possibly be all that much of a burden."

"I would have given him away, had I the chance. The orphanage didn't want one like him. Said they get kids like him all the time. All they do is wreck up the place," Hon said.

Contrary to any stereotyping which Hon and Darlin' believed existed in the Ullapool Orphanage, the reason for the Demoman's rejection was much more complicated. Over hundreds of years, several members of the Degroot lineage, of which the Demoman belonged, were abandoned by their birth parents. They would be left alone until such a time as their family penchant for explosives manifested, often in a gloriously miscalculated blast. These explosions were known to have killed thousands of people over the course of these centuries. Rumor has it that the original progenitor of this lineage was known as Myrddin Emrys Cyrus Degroot, whom many believed to be a powerful wizard and may have been the basis for the fabled Merlin Ambrosius. Most current scholars believe this claim to be pure and utter poppycock, although many of them agree that it does make for a potentially interesting plot twist in modern day cinema.

"So, what'll it be?" Darlin' asked. "D'ya want the boy?"

The Demoman tried to think of the nicest way to tell his adopted parents to stick it up their arse. Granted, they had put up with a lot of his shenanigans. Still, this was low. Offering to sell him to a couple of strangers just because one of them looked like his dad? He glared at the cuckoo clock, wishing that it had another head for him to decapitate. "What day is it?"

"The eighteenth of May. A Thursday," Hon said.

"Thursday?" The Demoman pulled a face. "Can't then."

Darlin' raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Why not?"

The little lady jumped in, trying to help the Demoman's lie along. "Thursdays are awful. We get the most paperwork then. We simply can't work it into today's schedule."

"Right. 'Fraid it'll have ta wait until tomorrow, possibly next week. We're late ta work as it is," the Demoman said.

Hon frowned, her jowls piling into a heap. "Oh, that figures. Bureaucrats. We can wait. Least ya can do is give us yer number."

"Certainly. May we have a piece of paper?" The blonde woman asked. Darlin' passed her the newspaper he was reading and a pen. She scribbled some gibberish phone number in a fluid script, going straight across the crossword as she went. Darlin' grimaced, muttering his thanks. The woman had more or less ruined his fun for the morning.

The fat woman waved her guests off, not bothering to get off the couch. "Go on, then. Ya know where the door is."

Both the Demoman and the lady promptly exited the rickety house. As they descended the porch, the Demoman slipped his hands into his pockets. How cold. Not the weather, although it was threatening to rain at any moment. He didn't remember his parents being that awful. Granted, he was young. Maybe he'd forgotten the nasty bits about them. It rubbed him the wrong way, a tiny sliver of glass jutting at just the wrong way. What was he thinking, going to see them?

He turned his head to the ocean. As he did, he found that the duo had gained another companion. The Demoman found himself staring into two brown eyes, both intact and intense. His younger self sniffled, then pointed at the grenades hanging from his armor. "Never seen a grenade so big."

The Demoman mumbled, "Goes ta a Thumper. It's forty by forty six millimeters."

"Neat." His younger version scratched his chin. "Suppose ya could kill a monster with that?"

"Suppose? Definitely. Not meant for catchin' fish, anyway," the Demoman said.

His younger self nodded. "Bit of a demo fan myself. Been experimentin' with potassium chlorate. Damned Loch Ness Monster keeps stealin' me potatoes. Gonna show him a thing or two."

This brought a confused look to the Gallifreyan lady's face. "Where does a young boy like you find potassium chlorate?"

"Different places. Not so hard." The boy sniffled, rubbing his nose against his sleeve just as his adopted father did. "Suppose I could have one 'a those?"

Most people would have done the proper thing and not passed a grenade to a small child. The Demoman, as you may have surmised, is not one of these people. Let's blame it on improper rearing, for the time being. He popped one of the rounds off his chest, tossing it to his younger self. The boy caught it with a soft grasp, like his hands were meant to carry such live explosives around. Perhaps it had been bred into him.

"Thanks, mister!" The young boy smiled.

The Demoman beamed back. "Yer welcome. Do be careful with it, though. Don't toss it into the wind when it's blowin' in yer face."

"I ain't an idiot," the boy said.

As his younger self turned back towards the fort he was building on the beach, the Demoman called to him. "Oy! What d'ya think of your parents?"

The boy shrugged. "They're rubbish, but what can ye do? Other than run away to the circus, 'a course. Think I'd be a good magician?"

"Keep workin' with that potassium chlorate. Ye'll be a wizard in no time," the Demoman smiled.

All things considered, perhaps he shouldn't have given himself the tool which he would use to cause a catastrophic explosion. It wasn't like the kid knew about the illegal whiskey cellar and all of the flammable materials it contained. He'd have to live through a lot of guilt. Hell, maybe he'd even concoct some fantasy about how perfect his first family was. Still, he'd already done it. It wasn't a big deal.

"Probably should have stopped that," the little lady said.

The Demoman shrugged. "Don't sweat it. I'll turn out just fine."

The blonde lady nodded. So, that was it. A stable time loop. A fairly rudimentary one, but never-the-less, it couldn't be broken without some nasty repercussions. She folded her arms, trying to bundle herself up in her jacket. "Well, I'm quite done with this place. Are you?"

"I suppose." The Demoman's eyes lit up. "Unless ya think I should go someplace else."

The little lady cocked her head to the side. "Well, I've got to swing by Boston to pick up some chicken. Would you mind?"

The Demoman smiled. "Think that'll be just fine."

It was approximately two hours, forty-five minutes, and eighty-three milliseconds before the blonde woman and the Demoman arrived back on his base. By this time, her companion—a moppy haired man with a ridiculously long and colorful scarf—had finished up his own little adventure with the Medic exploring his binary vascular system. Neither Gallifreyan could understand why humans were always so fascinated by hearts. Some misbegotten romantic concept, no doubt. Still, considering that she'd jacked his time machine, her companion was not as miffed as either of them expected.

As they prepared for take-off, the blonde woman extended her hand. "It was nice traveling with you, Mister—"

"Tavish DeGroot," the Demoman shook her hand. "And ye as well, Miss—"

"Romanadvoratrelundar," she said.

The Demoman blinked, unsure if his tongue or his brain could work around that word. "Right, then. Safe travels."

There was a strange, sad pain in his heart as he watched them take off. A part of him wanted to go with them, to try and figure out other parts in his life. Then again, there was a good reason he'd developed a scrumpy addiction. Perhaps he should just leave his history well enough alone. Still, at least he'd answered some questions about his adoptive parents. He hadn't done the right thing, but that wasn't what he was meant to do.

He probably wasn't meant to do the Scout's mother either, but at least he now knew why his third oldest brother looked an awful lot like a proper DeGroot.