/Who/niverse: Never Trust Randomness

/Who/niverse: Never Trust Randomness
An adventure featuring about twenty-five separate Doctors fighting against the Vashta Nerada for the fate of London, and more importantly against each other for page space

Paul McGann, who inexplicably was now alive during the London Blitz, was walking around being Scouse and a great actor. The sun was setting on London, the sky burning orange. He walked along the high street and down a back alley, a shortcut to his humble abode. Paul McGann was shocked to see the TARDIS, windows glowing white, standing before him. The door opened and out stepped the guy from Death in Paradise. He had a perpetually baffled, gormless look on his face.
     "Ah, thank goodness for that, a previous incarnation," he smiled dumbly, "I'll need all the help I can get."
     Paul was confused. He recalled seeing the guy from Death in Paradise at a party in 2007; he sat in the corner of the room sobbing for something like six hours but nobody even went near him to ask what was wrong. Paul furrowed his brow. "Excuse me?"
     "Good to meet myself," came his reply, as the Doctor extended his hand.
     "Nah, mate, I'm Paul. You're Kris."
      The Kris Doctor dropped his hand back to his side, numbed by yet another painful rejection to add to the pile. "I see. Well, anyways, there's some weird time weirdness going on around here, citizen. Return to your home and lock your doors."
     "I was going home but your TARDIS is sort of blocking me way."
     "Is it?" The Kris Doctor's face was contorted in childlike confusion.
     "Yeah, I need to get through here."
     "My apologies," the Kris Doctor said, internally kicking himself for being so socially inept. "I'll sort that out for you," he said, climbing back inside the TARDIS. "Are you going to ask what's going on?"
     "Nah, I'm alright."
     "Sure? Not even a little, 'what can I do to help the cause, Doctor'?"
     "I'd just like to go home, actually."
     The Kris Doctor let slip a segment of many centuries worth of disappointment. "Yeah, well, fuck off then. Go home and fucking have a fucking wank. Walk on, you fucking dipstick."
     Paul decided to be the bigger person, walking away silently.

Paul, forced to take the long way round, returned to the busy high street. Then, he saw three figures bolt out of a side alley and stop on the pavement in front of him. One of them, a man who appeared to have been pulled out of a shitty non-canon early-2000s animation, pointed straight at Paul.
     "I've found him!" The man cried, his mouth animating shittily.
     One of the others, who looked like Grand Moff Tarkin, barged past the animated man, shouting out "I saw him first!" The third figure, a big-chinned man with a quiff, bow tie, and white powder completely enveloping his lower face, stood still. His pupils were dilated to a degree that morticians would later describe as 'medically impossible'. Paul couldn't look long, as the two old men approached.
     "What's going on?" Paul demanded.
     "I'm the Shalka Doctor. I am definitely canon," he stated.
     "I am the Peter Cushing Doctor. I am even more canon."
     Paul sighed loudly, frustrated. "That doesn't help me. You're both talking shite."
     "It's the Vashta Nerada. They’ve arrived in London on propaganda leaflets dropped by German bombers," the Shalka Doctor explained, his animation jerking like a possessed marionette.
     "Come the air raid tonight, they will infest the streets. Hundreds, no, thousands will die," said the Cushing Doctor, "we've gathered every incarnation we could find to help. Including yourself, thankfully."
     "Look," Paul said, "another one of your bunch stopped me a few streets back. I don’t want to buy anything you're fucking selling. Now please leave me alone." He left the old guy and the shit drawing man, only remembering about the spaced-out third man when he was forced to walk right past him. Emerging from his cocaine-induced trance, the man gripped Paul by the shoulders.
     "It's those fucking Zygons," he spluttered, cocaine falling like January snow from his malformed chin cleft, "the Zygons are taking over my life."
     "Get off me," Paul shouted.
     "But I love you," the Cocaine Doctor mumbled. Then, from the side alley, what looked like Christina Hendricks appeared, dressed in a prim frock coat. She sidled up to the Cocaine Doctor, frowning with concern.
     "I'm so sorry, mister," she said to Paul, "he's going through a rough time right now. His wife left him for Greg Davies."
     "Am I going mad?" Paul muttered.
     "Could be a side effect of the time differentials. So many incarnations in the same place at once," the Hendricks Doctor explained.
     "Just… stop. I've had a fucking gutfull of this shit. I'm going home. Please just leave me out of it."
     "But, Doctor, we need all the help we can get against the Vashta Nerada. They're shadows that eat people alive. How can you fight against a shadow?"
     "Alright, you want help against the fucking spooky shadows? Here." He reached into his jacket and got his key ring. He unhooked the pocket flashlight and handed it to her. Meanwhile, the Cocaine Doctor jittered uncontrollably. "There you go. Good luck." Paul charged away, mindful of any other costumed autists nearby.

He turned a corner and saw a huddle of figures on the next shadowy road. There was a worried, frantic tone to the chattering as Paul approached. Hearing his footsteps, a Doctor who looked distinctly like Bill Cosby turned around. He was dressed in a prison jumpsuit.
     "How's it hanging?" The man said to Paul.
     "What's happening here?"
     "Jus' a few folks had a lil' accident. Don’t you go worrying about it, a zipple dipple here come the pills."
     Paul grimaced. "Which one are you then?"
     "I'm the Rape Doctor. The physical embodiment of the concept of rape, given sentience by a stray gamma ray burst."
     "I see," Paul said.
     "Can everyone just stay fucking back?" A voice called out from within the crowd. "Stay fucking back or I'll rip out your fucking diaphragm and ram it up your own arse."
     "That'll be the Malcolm Tucker Doctor," explained the Trevor Martin Doctor, sensing Paul's surprise, "he's a bloody wrongun. And I should know, because I'm friends with this maniac." He pointed to the Rape Doctor, who bellowed out "Hey, hey, hey" for no discernible reason. Paul slipped past them, deeper into the crowd. He elbowed through the assembled Morbius Doctors, who stood about looking perplexed. Paul reached the epicentre, and was promptly shouted at by the Malcolm Doctor.

     "Oi, fucking emo Oscar Wilde Doctor," he said, "stay right there."
     "You're holding up the street."
     "I don’t give a dead elephant's final tortured shit," the Malcolm Doctor yelled.
     "What's so important that you have to clog up the whole bloody road?"
     "It’s these fucking Vashta Nerada, they’ve got the proper Doctors." He glanced over into the shadow. Paul strained, and eventually could make out five separate shapes in the darkness. Five corpses, stripped of their flesh. One wore Victorian garb, complete with cravat. Another had a bow tie pinned haphazardly to his collar, but was sadly not the drug-addled loony from a few minutes ago. Another wore a flowing cape and mesmerising red velvet. Another lay dead under a crumpled scarf. Finally, near the back, was a more feminine shape, the skeleton disappearing within an oversized grey coat and and hoody. "Nasty way tae go. That just leaves us shitty contrived Doctors," the Malcolm Doctor went on, "we're more fucked than anybody who has ever been closer than thirty feet tae the Rape Doctor."
     "Oh shit," said the Bird Doctor, who had been standing there cocking his head about wildly, "I'm fucking out of here. I want to live." And with that, he took off on his eagle wings and into the increasingly black night.
     "Calm down, everybody," the Malcolm Doctor pleaded, "don't fucking shit yourselves. There's still at least ten of us."
     "But we are all fucking garbage," shouted out the Douglas Camfield Doctor from the back of the crowd.
     "Yeah," agreed the Cabinet of Light Doctor, "nobody accept the anon who suggested me to the author has even heard of me. Think how shit I must be."
     Paul felt an bump on the arm, and looked over as the Kris Doctor pushed to the front, with a Asian-looking lady at his side. "Don’t worry, gents. I'm here."
     A chorus of groans rang out. "See? Only the shit Doctors are left," the Cabinet of Light Doctor piped up.
     "Not this arsehole again," Paul said.
     The Kris Doctor glared at him. "I'm afraid we haven't met, sir."
     "Yes, we did you wazzock."
     "I'll ask you not to use such course language in the presence of my waifu," the Kris Doctor pursed his mouth in disapproval, whilst his Japanese companion eagerly took a photograph of the scene on her disposable camera. No sooner had the flash gone off did the other Kris Doctor arrive at the gathering.

The unaccompanied Kris Doctor fought through the crowd and halted at the sight of the other Kris Doctor.
     "Imposter!" They yelped in unison.
     "Here we fucking go," whispered the Malcolm Doctor, grinning broadly, "the stoppable force meets the fucking movable object."
     "Usually I despise violence," the lone Kris Doctor rolled up his sleeves, "but I'm willing to make an exception in your case."
     "I will defend my waifu's honour," the other Kris Doctor did so too. The crowd of second and third rate Doctors stepped back to give ample room for their brawl. The Japanese companion did not even blink as the Kris Doctor left her side and began retardedly jostling with his virginal counterpart. They grunted and squealed with exertion, pulling at each other's poorly designed costumes.
     Paul heard the voice of the Shalka Doctor in the distance call out, "My money's on the one with the Jap bird." Though out of sight, Paul could clearly see the fucking shoddy animation of him saying those words.
     The lone Kris Doctor pulled back from the tussle, wiping his mouth. Then, turning gracefully, he used his retard strength to reach into the crowd and throw Charlie from Class at his opponent. The small twink, who had viciously parted his hair in an attempt to resemble the Cocaine Doctor, merely bounced off the Kris Doctor. The Ruth Negga Doctor attempted to assist Charlie from Class, but was pounded to the floor by a swinging blow from the Waifu Kris Doctor. She cradled her broken arm and scurried away from the scene of the climactic battle. "You dumb cunts broke my fucking arm," she snarled, as the Christina Hendricks Doctor and her considerable cleavage helped her to flee.
     "Kill each other!" The Cushing Doctor screamed, as the Kris Doctors brutally slugged it out. Neither seemed to have the upper hand; they took turns delivering crushing blows. The Douglas Camfield Doctor, ever squeamish, shielded his eyes with his ugly cravat, certain that Charlie from Class would be trampled to death at any moment. His suspicions proved correct as the lone Kris Doctor fell backwards on top of Charlie from Class, crushing the boy's sternum and mortally wounding his lungs. Waifu Kris Doctor seized his opportunity, taking the lone Kris Doctor by the lapels and throwing him into the pit of shadow that had claimed the real Doctors. Gasps of horror ensued. The Prostitute Doctor, played by Marion Cotillard, consoled Nardole with a head rub, and then, remembering that she was Marion Cotillard, took off her shirt and bra for her scheduled nude scene. But peculiarly, the lone Kris Doctor was unharmed.

     "What the fuck?" The Waifu Kris Doctor said.
     "I'm not dead!" The other Kris Doctor exclaimed.
     The Malcolm Doctor looked as though his subway sandwich had just shat into his own mouth. "Why didn’t the fucking Vashta Nerada waste that fucker?"
     "I think I know why," said the Thirteenth Doctor, played by Jodie Whittaker if her 2012 labiaplasty went horrifically wrong and her vagina was transmogrified into a functional penis. "Look around, look at the faces around you. Look at how fucking awful they are. Look at how contrived, badly thought up, unappealing, and generally shite we are. The Vashta Nerada saw that, clearer than even we could. And they took pity."
     "Aw, I don't know about any of you," the Malcolm Doctor said, "but I could fucking cry. How inspiring."
     "I'm so happy," said the Trevor Martin Doctor as he cradled the mangled corpse of Charlie from Class.
     "We went and we diddly doddly did it. Bazoop a zorp gotta eat the pills or the Doctor gets angry," the Rape Doctor declared. The now-topless Prostitute Doctor jumped for joy, and the Rape Doctor was gifted with the galaxy's most engorged erection.
     Paul looked around, without emotion. "I'm going home now."
     "Isn't it a fucking shame that a quality idea such as the Vashta Nerada during the London blackout was wasted on the ultimate shit trips submission?" The Malcolm Doctor pondered.
     "Yeah, you're right," Paul responded, longing to curl up inside his basement and never leave again.

FIN