Dangermouse-Jeopardy on the M-1

 

DANGERMOUSE:

JEOPARDY ON THE M-1

Written by Zarius

Disclaimer: Dangemouse (2015) and all trademarked characters are property of Fremantle Media and CBBC

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London.

It’s on fire.

A great fire indeed.

A great fire…of LONDON.

I’m paid to be this dramatic.

A new fangled super tank, a gift to the militaristic “men of mice” regiment in service to her majesty’s external defence network, with an impenetrable control dome shaped in the form of a mouse’s head, and christened the M-1, has been appropriated by that tyrant of a toad Baron Greenback, and is being piloted by the nefarious Snowman, and he is unleashing it’s unique and lethally irritable firepower on any monument that falls upon it’s targeting mechanisms.

Why the Snowman and not someone like, say, Stiletto?

Because it’s December, Snowman has offered up a discount price on his services as a principle antagonist.

It’s a winter sale.

I don’t write these puns, I just throw that out there.

But opposing the warpath of the M-1 is the world’s greatest road block, at the helm of the Mark Three as it darts across the sky is the world’s most insecure sidekick Penfold, and at his side, the ever-confident, ever cool, forever renowned…Jeopardy Mouse.

Hey, wait a second, my script said DANGERMOUSE a couple of rehearsals ago. Jeopardy, what is the meaning of this?

“DM’s locked up in bed. He has the sniffles”

Ah right, my apologies Penfold. Shall we cut away to him then?

“Best not to disturb him, he’ll just play up to the cameras”

This isn’t exactly a visual story Penfold.

“Oh it’s not? Well, he might put in a bit of an over dramatic word then if he hears us rambling”

“Penfold, I need you to take the wheel” said Jeopardy as she disembarked from the car in mid-flight, Penfold franticly scrambled into the driver’s seat as Jeopardy made her way over to the bonnet of the vehicle

“What’s the plan Chiefette?” said Penfold as the Mark III steadily hurtled towards the terrifying tank

“Cheifette? Just call me boss, it helps keep things clear” said Jeopardy, “And the plan is to get close enough to attach this DNA locking device to the outer shell, I then place my palm on it, the DNA overrides the security lock, and we can get it and drive the Snowman to meltdown”

“Wait, how did Snowman even get in that thing?” said Penfold.

“It was during a lunch break, he poised as an ice cream refreshment” said Jeopardy.

“Oh” said Penfold

As the Mark Three rapidly approached its target, Jeopardy fired a grappling hook; it latched on to the exterior shell. She quickly jumped on to the grappling wire feet first and slid down it.

As soon as she landed, she approached the side of the control dome. However, from hatches encircling it, shot forth small alphabetical letters, that, when they clicked into place, formed a sentence.

BOOM.

Explosions were set up as soon as they formed the word.

Jeopardy thankfully was able to doge the blasts.

Penfold was almost not so fortunate, as the words assembled ‘Dangermouse’, the mark three pulled up just in time as the giant logo exploded.

“Crumbs, why did it form the name of the chief” Penfold spoke over the radio to Jeopardy.

“Must be the Men of Mice’s way of honouring DM with a customized explosive” said Jeopardy, “How I wish such an accolade could be bestowed on me, especially since I’m more of a pro”

Smaller letters continued to click into place, trigging cataclysmic explosions that were truly testing the patience and perseverance of the American agent, but she was able to gut the experience out. She took to summersaults, rolls, and ducking to avoid becoming soup to the alphabet.

Finally, she was able to latch the DNA lock on to the control dome and placed her hand on it. The dome glowed brightly, and the top of the dome sprang open.

Jeopardy clambered inside and confronted Snowman, only to find a puddle in the command seat.

“Must be a faulty air conditioner” she said, and scooped up the Snowman’s liquid state in a small glass.

“Jeopardy, are you ok?” Penfold said over the radio as Jeopardy brought the tank to a standstill.

“I’m fine Penfold, I’m just a little irritated that I’ve brought the day to a peaceful end and DM’s name still ended up lighting up the skies”

“Well if it helps any, I now know whatever DM will have to say, and it won’t make as much a dent in the room as those lethal letters did” said Penfold.

Jeopardy permitted herself a giggle.

 

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Doctor Who-Exterminate Me

DOCTOR WHO:

EXTERMINATE ME

WRITTEN BY ZARIUS

Disclaimer: Doctor Who is trademarked by BBC. This is for non-profit purposes.

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Note: This contains spoilers for “Hell Bent”

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Somewhere, at the end of all things, it waits to speak

It cannot afford to whisper.

It’s not hard-wired to.

It must have a commanding presence. It must own the room. And all around it should obey.

In its private moments, it had often dreamed of being a Supreme in the legion, where all could obey it. It thought such a role to be a divine concept.

A concept of beauty.

Like all dreams, they fade and reality sets in. The reality of war, and the reality of consequence.

It lay there now, in the cloister corners of the Matrix, in the catacombs of its most hated adversaries, those who had denied its race the stranglehold on creation they felt they had earned through their persistence and patience. A race that had defied its own end twice, and once in a far more novel fashion than the last.

That one time, the end did come. The second instance was a cheat. A parlour trick, designed to fool naive eyes.

And those eyes were now staring back at it, give or take the seconds where their faces could show, and when their screams could be visible.

They never spoke to it, they needn’t have to, their thoughts were everywhere. Their thoughts and sounds and stories informed its hours. Informed it’s purpose. For purpose was what it needed to justify the endurance of the final days granted to all corners of creation.

Everything has purpose, even at the end.

It absorbed the information, the prophecies, the tales of the creature that was the making of the oncoming storm.

The talk of the hybrid.

Two travellers, two companions, who would break the barriers of all reality to undo the deaths of one another. Two stubborn spirits who refused to let the traditional course of events be the most natural and befitting.

Those who deemed endings inappropriate.

It knew what the prophecies meant.

It knew the prophecies were wrong.

It knew what the hybrid was. It had sussed it out.

All it needed was to give out a warning. That is, if the pain could permit it to speak, and if it could lay a gaze upon one face. Or two.

And then it’s chance arose.

There they were.

A man who, in all his lives, had never associated knowledge with wisdom, and his companion, a woman now thrice dead.

One with a pulse, another with none.

One who’s heart beat no more, and one who’s twin hearts were broken.

They stood now, in the catacombs of the Matrix, amongst the ghostly Cloister wraiths and other prisoners of the chamber, seeking a way to defy the impossible.

It knew it’s chance had come.

As the woman thrice dead approached it, it knew it’s voice needed to be heard. The pain was excruciating, the strain was unbearable, but the warning had to be given.

But would she hear it?

“Exterminate Me” it said, the veins around it tightening their grip, “Exterminate Me”

The woman thrice dead reeled back, the man with the broken hearts pushed her aside. In an instant of time, both disappeared from sight.

The Dalek rested, it complimented what had just happened.

Had the moment passed without incident? Had it been over just like that?

Did she understand the warning?

That there was another factor yet to step forward on their journey. Somewhere beyond the cloisters and the matrix and the world of the Time Lords. A third participant. An immortal who had long cut herself off from care and concern.

Someone whose influence could prove a damning one on that long way ’round.

Me.

The Daleks have a concept of beauty, and sometimes, a concept of mercy.

In this instance, at the end of all things, this Dalek chose to embrace that concept of mercy, to spare all of creation the unrest the Hybrid would cause.

The woman thrice dead, and the woman who lived.

Left unchecked, they could unsettle reality, and the ripples would be felt all the way to the end.

And all this Dalek wanted to do was rest alongside everything else.

As its consciousness drifted into a deep slumber, it prayed its mission, its mercy, would be understood.

And if the woman thrice dead was still able to run, so too, should she be able to remember.

The Dalek rested, remembering, or perhaps, hoping, that everything could work itself out, that everything had a purpose that could be eventually understood.

In time.

 

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Doctor Who: Twilight Seconds

DOCTOR WHO:

TWILIGHT SECONDS

WRITTEN BY ZARIUS

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Disclaimer: Doctor Who is trademarked by the BBC. No profit shall be made from this venture.

Somewhere in the hereafter, you hear the question.

Somehow in the physical world, where you live, where you work, you take the question for granted.

Some person ought to ask you the obvious when you die.

Some angel.

Some God.

Someone you love.

Even some pet.

Yes, pets ought to talk.

You ought to understand a lot more than you tend to cope with and comprehend in normal life.

Nobody likes being put up against a wall.

Nobody likes putting their fist in one either.

That’s the way life is paced though.

You spend every waking hour pounding through the invisible skin of reality.

Accessing different things.

The lucky ones anyway.

Some will never know the way around walking.

Or talking.

Or thinking too clear.

And those blessed with all of that will never quite know what it is to feel that helpless.

Or even mistake it for a blessing.

Life is rough, we need reminding of that.

So that when we punch through the rough diamond, we settle each time.

Letting complacency get the better of us.

And consume us.

Just as I am doing with my stalker.

I’m too slow.

That’s ok.

It’s the long way ’round.

They’ll understand.

Those lords of time.

They’re also lords of patience.

Only mine is close to running out.

I have little time for jokes.

So I permit myself only one.

I look at my streak of failures in this castle so far.

My billion year setbacks.

And I focus on what it was like for the first.

The first Doctor to arrive.

The first to smell the flowers

The first to show off.

The first to get up off his arse.

And the first to take the plunge.

Into the murky blue.

Into the sea of skulls.

The sea of skulls.

There’s something black and white about that.

The first who arose.

The first to warm himself by the fire.

And then the one who left the clothes to dry.

We cast our mind back to who we see in the hereafter.

Some loved one.

Some angel.

Some god.

Some pet.

Yes, pets should talk.

They ask, “Are you decent?”

You look at how you present yourself.

Well…are you?

I am no angel.

I have no desire to be a God.

And I am nobody’s pet.

But I care.

Just enough.

Just enough.

To ask my first self that question.

Because if I cannot break through this reality, I will join them in the next.

And it may just brighten my twilight seconds.

How many seconds in Eternity?

 

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