Post by Ribs, Suthers' Pal on Sept 30, 2015 2:23:53 GMT
Ten.
Professor Hall had lit the fuse.
Nine.
He turned around, and began running as fast as he could.
Eight.
He ran all the way back, around the corner, to the military cadre waiting for the boom.
Seven.
The Brigadier, pressed up against the wall, held his pistol at the ready. They were ready to go in.
Six.
Sergeant Benton and Fmr. Captain Yates, behind him, both stood holding their assault rifles and clad in their UNIT berets.
Five.
Professor Hall scooched in between the Brigadier and his men whilst awaiting the explosion of the fuse. He put on his honorary beret to match.
Four.
Behind Benton and Yates stood a small battalion of nameless privates and other low-ranking servicemen within UNIT. It was Christmas day, and staff was short.
Three.
They too were all armed, though not all of them had been given a precise objective. They were there to simply pad out the number; to try and scare the enemy into submission more than anything.
Two.
Behind them, the military caravans and trucks they and their supplies had come in on. It sat on a road that went around the mountain, closed off officially on account of the season but in actuality so as to allow this operation to continue.
One.
And behind there stood Sarah Jane Smith, an individual of substantial note. She had a pen and pad at the ready, under some strange delusion she would be able to get some amazing story out of this top secret confidential military raid of a private compound.
Boom.
And with her stood the Doctor. He had curly hair and a hat; he had a scarf and a long coat, he wore boots that in all practicality were far too large for any reasonable individual of his own size. His demeanor was solemn; a smile could not be found in his affect whatsoever. He was not in the mood for any sort of madcap adventure today.
The door blown off the Master’s ski lair, the UNIT squadron rushed inside to recover the kidnapped United Nations delegates and stop the Master. Doctor Who watched them do this, sipping a cup of tea to himself whilst having small chat with Sarah.
Retrieving the delegates, the soldiers began bringing them to the caravan.
“But I don’t understand,” said Sarah. “Where’s the Master?”
“He died.” Doctor Who, a frog in his throat, said. “He’s not coming back.”
“Then who did this?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, exactly.”
Doctor Who stepped into his Aston Martin, and with Sarah sped away. Professor Hall was to meet them at the ski lodge after the weekend so they could begin their exciting new series of adventures.
Professor Hall had lit the fuse.
Nine.
He turned around, and began running as fast as he could.
Eight.
He ran all the way back, around the corner, to the military cadre waiting for the boom.
Seven.
The Brigadier, pressed up against the wall, held his pistol at the ready. They were ready to go in.
Six.
Sergeant Benton and Fmr. Captain Yates, behind him, both stood holding their assault rifles and clad in their UNIT berets.
Five.
Professor Hall scooched in between the Brigadier and his men whilst awaiting the explosion of the fuse. He put on his honorary beret to match.
Four.
Behind Benton and Yates stood a small battalion of nameless privates and other low-ranking servicemen within UNIT. It was Christmas day, and staff was short.
Three.
They too were all armed, though not all of them had been given a precise objective. They were there to simply pad out the number; to try and scare the enemy into submission more than anything.
Two.
Behind them, the military caravans and trucks they and their supplies had come in on. It sat on a road that went around the mountain, closed off officially on account of the season but in actuality so as to allow this operation to continue.
One.
And behind there stood Sarah Jane Smith, an individual of substantial note. She had a pen and pad at the ready, under some strange delusion she would be able to get some amazing story out of this top secret confidential military raid of a private compound.
Boom.
And with her stood the Doctor. He had curly hair and a hat; he had a scarf and a long coat, he wore boots that in all practicality were far too large for any reasonable individual of his own size. His demeanor was solemn; a smile could not be found in his affect whatsoever. He was not in the mood for any sort of madcap adventure today.
The door blown off the Master’s ski lair, the UNIT squadron rushed inside to recover the kidnapped United Nations delegates and stop the Master. Doctor Who watched them do this, sipping a cup of tea to himself whilst having small chat with Sarah.
Retrieving the delegates, the soldiers began bringing them to the caravan.
“But I don’t understand,” said Sarah. “Where’s the Master?”
“He died.” Doctor Who, a frog in his throat, said. “He’s not coming back.”
“Then who did this?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, exactly.”
Doctor Who stepped into his Aston Martin, and with Sarah sped away. Professor Hall was to meet them at the ski lodge after the weekend so they could begin their exciting new series of adventures.