Summary: "He was a small Dalek by the name of Spool, and he was a pinkish sort of colour."

Sorry it's taken me so long to post something else. Busy…so busy…


"I hate casting," the casting agent grumbled, sifting through piles and piles of applications. He'd scrawled notes all over them, most of which he couldn't read by now.

"Isn't that a bit counterintuitive?" asked his friend, sifting through a similar pile of applications. "You get paid for it."

"Yeah, but everybody's leaving," Groaned the first one. "I don't like casting the protagonist."

"You know who the hardest to cast are?" his friend said.

The first one thought about it, then, stumped, asked, "Who?"

"The Daleks. You've got to have a certain personality to be a Dalek, really." The second one replied.
The first one rolled his eyes. "We're having Daleks again this season?"

The second one let out an exasperated sigh. "I know, right?"

"Aren't they all computer generated now?" The first one said.
The second one rolled his eyes. "No, actually. We still put midgets in Dalek suits, believe it or not."

The first one gaped at the second one. "So that one scene with the thousands of Daleks…"

"I don't want to talk about it." The second one mumbled.

There were a few more minutes of silence, and then the first one threw his paper down in frustration. "You know what? The actors aren't nearly as good as they used to be. We need some real inspiration in here."

"What are you suggesting?" The second one said. "Old episodes, watched over and over on lonely Friday evenings with nothing but a box of cold pizza and flat Mountain Dew to sustain you until Monday?" His eyes clouded over with nostalgia.
"No," the first one said with a sly smile, "I'm suggesting real Daleks."

It took several weeks of string-pulling, paperwork, intense funding and asylum-bailing, but finally the casting agents got their Dalek. He was a small Dalek that went by the name of Spool, and he was a pinkish sort of colour. As a result, none of the bigger Daleks ever let him participate in genocide, for they did not want to soil the Dalek name. Spool was a very resentful sort of killing machine; he had been consistently mocked while growing up, and these four seconds of torment had left him permanently scarred.

So, when he finally arrived in a wooden crate that had been hastily stuffed in the back of a truck, Spool was understandably peeved.

The moment the crate was opened, the Dalek flew out of the box, a pink blur against the building behind him. He swiveled around wildly, shrieking something completely unintelligible but what the people present suspected was something like,


Actually, that's probably exactly what it was.

When Spool finally calmed down enough to focus on his targets, he was too dizzy to aim his weapon correctly and simply ended up pivoting his whisk around in circles as he attempted to shoot the cast and crew that had let him out of the crate.

"I'm starting to think this wasn't such a good idea," Steven Moffat said wisely, crossing his arms and staring at the confused Dalek.

"Why?" Asked Russell T. Davies, taking his camera out of his pocket and snapping pictures.

"Well, for one, it's pink," Moffat replied. "The viewers'll never buy it."

Davies stroked his own chin. "We could claim the casting agents were colourblind,"

Moffat nodded. "Yes, that would solve the problem. Now there's the slight issue of having a weapon of mass destruction on our set. The UN will never let us get away with it."

"Bah," Davies replied. "Nobody cares about those guys."

"Makes sense," Moffat said. It was now his turn to stroke Davies' chin. "So how to get it on the set without everybody on Earth dying horribly?"

David Tennant suddenly grinned and stepped forward, his body in the same non-threatening position he would use to coax a dog into trusting him.

"Hey, little guy," he said in a sweet, condescending voice – exactly the same voice he'd use to convince a dog that he was the friendliest person on Earth. It was also the voice he used on fangirls.

Spool recognized the voice. "DOCTORRRRR!" he cried, and fired off his whisk randomly.

Everybody in the proximity was forced to dive to the ground or be exterminated. He missed the humans, but did manage to kill and instantly cook a goose flying overhead.

"Russell, I think our goose…" Davies began.

"Don't say it," Moffat snapped. "Don't even think it."

"WHY HAVE YOU KID-NAPPED THE GREAT AND POW-ER-FUL SPOOOOOOOL?" Spool demanded in a Dalek authoritative voice.

"We didn't kidnap you." Moffat said, "We hired you for your great and wonderful acting talent."

Spool paused. "ACT-ING?" He asked, still using the authoritative voice.

"Yes!" Moffat replied. "We think you'd be brilliant for the role of the supreme Dalek in our end-of-season special this year!"

Spool was shocked. "NO-BOD-Y HAD EV-ER APPRE-CI-AT-ED ME BE-FORE,"

"I know what it's like to be an underappreciated talent," One of the writers said. "I wrote a lot of episodes, but Davies decided to kick them in favour of his own."


"Look," Davies interrupted. "That's not the point here. The point here is that you would be a brilliant actor!"

Tennant started to open his mouth, but Moffat tackled him to prevent him from speaking. Then, the writer spoke. "Follow me into your new dressing room and we'll get you ready for filming today."

"TO-DAY?" Spool asked, in a panic. "I DO NOT KNOW MY LINES."

"Don't worry," Moffat reassured him, trying to pat him on the shoulder but finding nothing to pat. "You're a genius, remember?"

If Spool had had a chest, he would have puffed it out proudly. However, as he had none, he simply settled for twitching his whisk around and scaring the pants of various members of the cast and crew.