(I don't own Doctor Who)
The three kids boarded down the road, keeping to the back routes and in the shadows.
"Whoa!" yelled Anglo, as he almost toppled down five feet off his board.
"Don't go so fast if you can't stay on!" teased Bernadette.
"Then why don't you guys slow down?" asked Angelo.
The sound of a laser and a rather substantial crash answered his question.
"OK, I'll try keeping up and I won't fall off Bernadette!" said Angelo.
"Good, but I'm not so sure about the last part."
"Bernadette!" I yelled.
"Sorry for being so rude, it just so hard to draw the line between honesty and rudeness." She said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
We landed, Angelo lurching to a halt and falling flat on his face.
"Ouch…" he moaned, pulling himself up from the hard ground of the junkyard where we had landed.
Turing on our flashlights, we searched the slowly darkening junkyard for Guardian. The reason she was in the junkyard was obvious. Whoever was her previous owner was did not like strong willed TARDISes because they were not easy to fly wherever you wanted them to go. TARDISes like Guardian went wherever they wanted or felt you need to go, not where you wanted to go. Guardian either felt we needed to stay at home or just didn't feel like moving.
At long last we found the old wardrobe with the chipped white paint that wasn't really a wardrobe. It was Guardian. Feeling for the door handle that was concealed among the orate carvings on the door; I felt my hand catch the small pull handle with the unmistakable feeling of cool metal. It was literally impossible to see and could only be felt. I pulled open the door and was greeted by the warm light of the console room.
In the large room, a central control panel sat with all sorts of flashy lights and big buttons of all sorts of colors. It was a hexagon in the center of the room and all the buttons and levers and zigzag plotters called out to be pushed and pulled and spun. But all the controls sat under a cover of glass. Guardian knew that none of us could fly her. She, and only she, flew herself. She made sure of that. If we tried to fly her we'd all crash and die within the minute off takeoff. Walkways criss-crossed the ceiling the rose to dizzying heights from which you could look down upon the grand control room, all bathed in a warm light that bounced off the copper-colored walls.
Exhausted by our over-eventful day of events that would not sink in for days; we stumbled off to our bedrooms and collapsed into our beds. We were too tired to even tell Guardian to take us anywhere in particular, or take off at all, but she knew what to do. As gently as she could, we went off into the night sky as our planet began its end.
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