Lockdown! - 01x02 - Revenge of the Nestene

[bunniefuu]

One little bit survived.

A tiny nugget of
Nestene Consciousness lived on.

It had escaped the Doctor's anti-plastic

by hurrying into the substrata

and hiding inside the
nearest available shape.

The body of a clown.

Days before,

the Nestene had
posted sentries along

the Embankment in the
form of living statues,

those strange humans who decide to
earn a living by dressing up as clowns,

robots or statues and then
standing perfectly still,

waiting for people to throw money at them.

What an odd,
odd species.

But now the plastic guards had dissolved,

except for one.

A white-faced Pierrot.

Well, half a face.

Half a head, its right half,

a crescent of head
perched atop a ruffed neck

and glittering silver bodysuit,

with one eye,

bright as insanity,

and a bisected leering grin.

The Half-Head
Pierrot hauled itself

up onto the opposite
bank of the river

and looked back at the
grave of the Consciousness.

The secret underground lair had collapsed,

causing the whole
of the London Eye to

tilt forward and
collapse into the Thames.

Pods had broken free,
bobbing on the surface,

little people inside banging
on the glass and screaming for help.

The half-Head,
half-smiled

as the pods were caught in the suction

as water poured down
into the vast underground chasm,

a whirlpool swallowing the pods and people

and screams, down,

down, down, gone.

- Good!
Said the Pierrot,

or tried to say,

but this only resulted
in a gout of dirty water

jetting out of its
open, plastic throat.

It turned around to look
at the remnants of London.

In every direction, fires bumed,

and bodies lay in the streets,

victims of the glorious invasion.

The immediate area remained flooded,

overwhelmed by the tsunami
resulting from the Eye's collapse.

The streets of Westminster

had become a stinking swamp.

The clown stood tall upon the rubble.

Overlooking floating cars and fallen buses

and weeping survivors,

as it formulated...

A plan.

It had to survive.

To survive, and conquer this world.

And more than that.

To survive and conquer and
then destroy the Doctor.

Oh, but to defeat a Time Lord would need
extra strength and greater cunning.

Perhaps, thought the Consciousness,
an alliance?

A combination of the Doctor's
greatest enemies,

perhaps even the mighty empires
of Daleks and Cybermen combined,

to rid the universe of this pestilence.

An excellent plan.

But then, a spasm of pain,
stabbing its plastic guts.

The Nestene was dying.

Its single cell could
not sustain for much longer.

But it knew it contained the energy
for one last reconfiguration.

If it burnt up its clown
molecules in a final polystorm,

it could plasticise itself
into a new,

albeit hollow shape.

But what?

A head, there lay a palace.

The ruins of this little
country's government,

river water still pouring
out of its shattered windows.

Inside, amongst the
nation's crowns and sceptres,

the Nestene might Find
something it could use.

The silver clown lurched
to the opposite side of the bridge.

A woman looked at its
half-head and screamed.

The clown pushed her over the balustrade
and she fell, with a wail.

It staggered on.

Its single eye staring,

furious, fixed on the clocktower.

The palace seemed
to be calling to the Nestene,

summoning it to the halls of power.

Here, the creature would
Find its own kind, surely.

It clambered over fallen masonry,

waded through stinking pools,

swatted aside screaming humans,

fuelled onwards by memories.

Remembering the day
Nestenia fell.

Not so long ago, the seventeen planets of
the Plastic Conjunction had been at peace.

After aeons of w*r,

the Nestene Consciousness
had abandoned the old ways,

and entered into rapport
with the Embodiment of Gris.

Joy and harmony prevailed!

The food planets churned out ample
supplies of smoke and oil.

The Crown Consciousness
basked in happiness,

its everchanging shape
writhing in a pit of plastic gold.

The Embodiment showered it with favours.

Some said the Nestene
had found love at last.

And then the skyes opened.

Onto hell.

It was, the legends said afterwards,

the edge of a Time w*r,

a battleground beyond comprehension.

A tumble of planets
fell out of a rip in space,

like stray b*ll*ts from some
epic offstage gunfight.

Copies of planets,

stolen from different
seconds of their existence.

a hundred orange worlds,
known as Gallifrey,

a thousand black cinders once called Skaro,

a dozen small blue·and
green planets which

the Nestene recognised
from an old campaign:

Earth.

A rolling, tumbling, spinning,
bouncing cosmic destruction unfurled,

the food planets smashed by many Skaros,

the Crownworld pulverised
by various Gallifreys,

the Maternity Reefs crushed by 57 Earths.

And then, beyond physical destruction,

time itself advanced as a w*apon.

A wave of Early washed
over the Consciousness,

reducing it to helpless baby tendrils.

A cloud of Late reduced
the foodstocks to dust.

A blizzard of Tick-tock
sent the Embodiment insane.

All in one second.

And then it was gone.

The w*r was sucked back into its breach,

beyond the normal universe,

leaving only silence.

The ruins of Nestenia and its empire
lay glinting in the light of a cold

and dying sun.

"No more."
Thought the staggering Pierrot,

as it entered the ruins of the palace.

No more!

The Nestene had sworn
revenge after the Time w*r,

deliberately targeting
this ridiculous Earth.

But now to be defeated again,
by a Time Lord and human together...

This time, its revenge would be brilliant.

And ruthless.

And subtler than anyone could guess,

even if it took fifteen years or more.

It had reached the interior corridors.

A wet green carpet underfoot.

The building had been rotting,

long before today's disaster,

and sections of both roof
and floor had now caved in.

The Thames mingled
with the stink of open sewers.

It seemed appropriate,
somehow.

But again, that s*ab of pain.

The cell of Consciousness dying.

Time was running out,

as the clown shambled onwards,

and then...

A body.

On the floor.

Crushed by a concrete beam.

And yet, the clown felt
something in the substrata.

A scent, a shiver,

a lingering promise
from the human's form.

Reeking of things which
the Nestene recognised.

Ambition.

Lust.

Greed.

Joy.

Power.

The clown grinned.

A grin so wide,

its half-mouth split apart and
the top of its head fell off.

But the now-eyeless
quarter-headed Pierrot was unstoppable.

Giggling from its throat-tube
as it crouched down.

It held the hand ofthe body

and began the final process,

Transformation!

The clown began to glow,

its atoms becoming furnaces.

And the human glowed,

its cells separating to feed
the ferocious polystorm.

In a swirl of bright particles,

the Pierrot ceased to be,

and the human scattered
away into nothingness.

And something new took shape.

It stood proud.

Alone, in a dark,
wet, wrecked corridor.

A new, true Auton,

cradling the last of the
Nestene Consciousness within.

A perfect, plastic copy of the human male.

It turned to consider its reflection
in the broken glass of an interior door,

its substrata probing the
remains of the mammal's memory.

He had power,
this man.

He had authority.

He had the potential
to go so much further.

The Auton smiled at himself.

Loving this new self.

The suit.

The body.

The face.

The blonde hair.

This was going to be fun!