entrancelogs | Who ever thought that wagon travel was a good idea?

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Who ever thought that wagon travel was a good idea?

Who: The Tenth Doctor and OPEN.
Where: The Oregon Trail.
When: 8/31 to 9/4.
Rating: PG-13, but probably variable.
Summary: The Doctor strikes out on an adventure, has a good two days, contracts an illness and dies, and then becomes a ghost.
The Story:

Day One

It doesn't take the Doctor long to realize what's going on when the mansion changes and vendors selling various useful but slightly antiquated goods crops up. That, and the sudden appearance of wagons, makes things very clear, and for some reason he can't quite explain, this just excites him.

Granted, he feels just a bit odd, what with the new clothes he's wound up in, and of course, he still can't forget the fact that he's been turned human for the second or third time now, but the excitement of adventure is just unavoidable.

When he's not buzzing around gathering supplies for the journey, he's just wandering around looking for people to join him on the trip, because it would be a long and lonely one if he didn't have someone to come alongside.

Day Two

The second day of the trip sees the Doctor and his traveling companions through quite a few harrowing adventures, from nearly sinking as they attempt to cross a river to trying to take down a herd of buffalo.

Not the entire herd, now, but at least one or two sizable specimens to provide them with food. But either way, there's guns and ammunition and the odd buffalo and other creatures just plodding by their wagon.

It seems like it would be a shame to pass up this opportunity. Or at least, that's what the Doctor tells himself as he somewhat reluctantly loads up his gun and looks for a target.

Days Three and Four

By the third day, some of the fun and excitement has dwindled. Somehow, or by terrible luck, the Doctor's failed to hunt and bring home a buffalo, and the supplies are slowly running out. But then there's a brief glimpse of hope when an outpost appears in the distance. Just maybe it'll be their saving grace.

...Except once they get to said outpost rather early in the morning, there's nothing there but clocks, so they have no choice but to continue and ignore the increasing empty space in the back of the wagon.

Fast forward to several hours later, and the Doctor's no longer at the head of the wagon. He's lying down in the back, feeling the worst that he's ever felt in his long life. Or at least, it feels like it's the worst. He's feverish and tired, and really, it's like nothing he's experienced before now.

It's miserable, and he's miserable, and he can't do anything about it but lie there and hope that it passes quickly, one way or another.

But luck isn't with him, and as time passes, the Doctor only gets worse until the evening of the fourth day, the sickness finally overtakes him and he dies.

Day Five

Well, then, what's a ghostly Doctor to do? There seems to be quite a few options open to him, but he spends most of his time flitting back and forth between wagons, looking for people to trouble with his relentless commentary and oh-so-helpful comments.

But really, can anyone blame him? Being a ghost is considerably better than dying in the back of a wagon, and after going through that unpleasantness, the Doctor just wants to put it from his mind and hover around as a ghost until this completely mad event ends.

Good luck, everyone, you're now going to have a ghost-Doctor paying you a visit.

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Day two for John Blake did not start out on a high note, and by evening, he's having a hard time pressing forward toward the end of their long trail. He's hardly had the chance to think about all that's already happened before something new is nipping at his heels... or maybe more aptly, swarming around his head.

He comes across Ten with a hand on his hat and a hammer in hand, waving him to take cover as the young man runs as fast as he can with all of the bulky gear on his back. "Doooooooooooc!" he yells as he gets closer, "Get down! Get under the wagon!" It's less a command and more of a very strong suggestion, as John's heading there himself to avoid the attacking flock of birds.

Likewise, by evening, the Doctor's not much better off. Hunting hasn't gone as well as he hoped, but he's still got one hand on his gun just in case something wanders by.

And by something, he means preferably something that's not another traveler. When Blake comes up yelling at him to take cover, he doesn't stop to ask questions, choosing instead to bend and make a dive underneath the wagon, apparently not a moment too soon.

When Blake eventually joins him there, he turns his head sideways to look at him. "I don't suppose you make a habit of being pursued by flocks of birds, do you?"

Even as he asks that, he's staring down said flock as if wondering what it would take to catch one or shoot one to bolster his supplies.

Blake's quick to settle on his arms, squinting and straining to try to get a better look at the flock of birds flying around overhead. "Birds? No. Feel like we're in some kinda Alfred Hitchcock movie here," he says, voice rueful. "Last thing I remember was firin' my pistol to scare off some vultures and bam: birds."

If he would have thought they'd take it so personally, John might have just avoided the whole ordeal all together. As it stands, he doesn't have much of a choice and he's managed to drag the Doctor into it while he's at it.

Several birds organize a strike on the wagon, a good dozen of them heading beak-first into the canvas covering. They drop to the ground, unharmed, but immediately note their prey under the wagon and begin charging on foot, ready to peck, feathery wings flapping.

"How does this make any sense?" He doesn't remember reading about bird attacks during the great migration west.

The Doctor imitates Blake's position as he peers out from underneath the wagon. "Alfred Hitchcock meets travelers on the Oregon Trail?" He looks like he wants to laugh, except the situation really isn't that amusing, especially when the birds give up on the aerial approach and start advancing forward on foot.

"Not that I need any persuading, but it might be best to temporarily abandon using weapons, at least while these birds are around." He only picked up a rifle because it was there, and throwing rocks had never really been an effective way of bringing down game.

"It doesn't, but when has anything on Wonderland made sense?" Granted, some things have, but the parts that don't outweigh the ones that do.

True enough, Wonderland's been nothing but one bad dream after another, but that doesn't quite make it easy to swallow every pill that's served to them. Some choked down way easier than others, and after having seen Greed remove himself from the world, this pill's feeling a little stuck.

"Ah, fuck," he says, shooing away one of the birds as if flaps in his face. "We might have to get outta here, actually." More and more birds seem to be catching on to the fact that the two men are hiding. "Does your wagon cover lace up, or is it open?" They might have a chance if they're able to get into the back of the wagon and close themselves in; the odds are pretty good that the birds won't make it through the canvas.

Well, no, and to do so would require being an extremely patient and easygoing person, and the Doctor is most certainly not that, not all the time. This might be a bit lower on the totem pole of events, but it's not exactly a breeze either.

"Oh, I was hoping you wouldn't say that." Of course, it seems like a foregone conclusion. Those birds weren't just going away, and Blake's statement confirms it. "It covers up, or at least, it does just enough that it should keep them from coming in. Come on, then, let's see if we can't give them the slip."

The birds are advancing towards them from the front of the wagon, but there's open space behind them as well, so the Doctor scoots backwards towards the rear side of the wagon and to the opening, pausing just briefly to make sure Blake's coming after him and not having difficulties.

Blake's quick to follow, but he's also forced to fend off the birds in the wake of their escape. More and more of them are find their way under the wagon; thankfully, they all seem to be coming from one side leaving their escape route mostly clear.

"Keep goin', keep goin', think we're in pretty decent shape now," he urges, but he's really not that sure, not when the cacophony of chittering and tweeting raises to an uncomfortable din.

Struggling closer, John argues with the strap of his pack and manages to pull up next to Ten. "Don't s'pose you've got a couple hundred cats at the ready, do you? Could use that right about now."

Martha's about had enough of this event, thank you very much.

She's never been to Oregon before and she'd never had much desire to go there. She has hardly a clue why it's so important to get there now, except that this probably has something to do with westward expansion, she vaguely remembers learning about it, but she honestly doesn't care because she's had about enough.

It really wouldn't matter who she was sharing her wagon with at this point -- regardless of who it was, she'd be sick of them by now. She's chewing on some jerky in the back of the wagon, hoping beyond hope that they're at least close to their destination, and she's made it clear to her wagonmates that she doesn't want to be bothered. Even America seems to know better at this point, although he's half-dead by now, having only barely survived that dysentery.

So when Martha feels a presence in the wagon with her, she's not too pleased. She opens her eyes, having decided to rest them for just a few moments, and is faced with the Doctor's translucent face. Martha yelps and skitters back away from him before her mind catches up with her body, at which point she tosses down her packet of jerky and glares at him.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, sneaking up on someone like that?!"

"Blimey, they're persistent little buggers!" One rather determined bird gets past Blake, and goes straight for the Doctor, trying to peck at his hands. He hisses as the bird's beak connects, and for lack of anything else to do, he swats at it with his other hand. "Get off!"

Of course, shouting isn't nearly as effective as he'd hoped, so the Doctor just keeps making his way out from underneath the wagon, still pursued by birds. "We should be alright if we can just get away from them." Of course, right now that seems like something easier said than done, but never mind.

"I don't make a habit of carrying cats with me. And, well, I never thought I'd say this, but this is almost making me wish some of those cat-nurse-nuns I met once were here. I'd bet they'd have more luck getting rid of these birds."

At least said cats had claws, which are probably more effective than wild swats and shouts.

Well, the event was bad, but the Doctor's finding out that it's not as bad now that he's effectively shuffled off the mortal coil.

It's all a bit strange, this business of traveling to Oregon, but it's also very historical, at least to an extent, and if there's anything that interests the Doctor, it's history. Of course, this is maybe a bit too historical, because having to ford rivers and hunt oxen and buffalo really wasn't what the Doctor signed up for.

Actually, no one signed up for it, but that just proves the point, in a way. Either way, the Doctor's just floating around from place to place, enjoying his newfound ghostliness, and that's when he happens to spot Martha off by herself in the back of a wagon.

Of course, this might come as a bit of a shock to her, because he's not usually see-through nor floating, but that thought is quickly squashed beneath other thoughts about how amusing it might be to surprise her. And, well, her reaction doesn't fail to disappoint.

The Doctor just laughs when Martha yelps and then glares. "Oh, sorry, must've forgotten to get my hands on some chains. That would've announced my approach, wouldn't it?" Well, that and moaning like a proper specter. "But really, Martha, it's not as though ghosts are very loud when they're moving." Maybe obtaining some chains is a good idea after all.

Busy enough with shooing away his own assailants, Blake can't afford a moment's pause, else he might lose an eye. Nevertheless, something the doctor says is enough to make him stop and stare and... wonder. Did he really just say cat-nurse-nuns? Because that's certainly what he heard.

John doesn't get too long to contemplate this, though, before several birds perform an organized strike, pecking viciously at his exposed wrist, just where his watch would normally sit.

"Hey, god—" Blake lets out a frustrated growl and fends off the attack, quickly following after Ten with no wasted haste. "—dammit, those things pack a punch!" he adds shaking out his hand as he rights himself behind the wagon.

He parts the wagon cover and gestures the other man inside.

While this venture hasn't turned out too badly for Toothless, by day two he's gotten separated from Hiccup and he's feeling a bit less confident than he was. He sticks with what wagons he can find, but often he loses sight of them. Luckily, scents and keen draconic hearing cover for his visual inadequacies. And today, he smells food. Meat, to be specific.

His stomach is already rumbling by the time he trots over a hill to spot the dead buffalo, and he pauses. Dead buffalo means the vikings have those loud stick things. And those hurt. That's what he's heard, at least.

So he freezes in place, green eyes wide, and waits to see what the reaction to his presence is.

The third day, Hazel had woken up with a fever.

Certainly not the worst she had ever had, but enough to leave her forehead damp and her muscles aching. The rattling of the wagons as they trekked along didn't help matters much, until eventually she needed to stop. There were other wagons in the area, and she could see a few of them men toting shotguns. Hunting, no doubt.

Even thinking of food right then was too much effort, so rather than eat, she decided to spend some of the early morning preparing a decent campfire for those who came back with spoils to cook the meat over.

With any luck, they might be willing to share with her as well; while her water and bread were still adequate, she'd long since run out of meat.

Yes, that's exactly what he heard, but either way, it's a story for another time and place, when they're not dealing with extremely persistent birds.

The Doctor's still fending off attacks of his own, wincing occasionally when a beak makes contact, but eventually he gets to the back of the wagon and clambers inside without a second's thought. Once he's in, though, he turns around so he can give Blake a hand getting inside, if he needs it.

"I honestly didn't think birds could be that vicious or determined!" He comments as he waits for Blake to get inside the wagon. "This is definitely the last time I underestimate a flock of birds."

The Doctor's not really comfortable wielding a gun, and neither is he really fond of the idea of shooting an animal, but it's either that or starve, and he's not keen on that either. Reluctance shows itself clearly in his stance, but that's quickly replaced by tension as he hears footfalls coming closer to where he's standing, with a buffalo he's felled lying not too far away.

Of course, when he realizes who it is and recognizes Toothless, he relaxes again and waves at the dragon.

"Hello again! It's alright, you can come closer if you want to." He sets the gun down, having had enough of it for a little while.

Recognizing the viking who doesn't quite smell like a viking — not as unique a scent in Wonderland as you might think — Toothless trills, high. A greeting, as he saunters past the dead animal. His stomach is grumbling just being this close to it, but he doesn't make any moves on the thing. Not until he knows if it's all right. Surely the vikings don't need all of the creature?

Then again, perhaps they do.

Still, his priority is to nudge his head gently against the Doctor's leg, asking for attention in the plainest way he knows how. It's been a grueling couple of days.

The Doctor's laughter only earns him another glare for his trouble. If looks could kill, Martha would most certainly have put the Doctor in a grave all over again in that moment. It's just not very nice, is it, to sneak up on someone like that. She's had enough issues with trying to keep everyone in her wagon alive, and she gets the feeling not all of them will see it out to the end.

Granted, if all that happens if they become some kind of cartoon ghost, then maybe it wouldn't be such a huge loss.

She recovers her packet of jerky and starts on another piece. It's not particularly good, but she's hungry enough that she'd eat anything right now, and she doesn't want to fall ill. The death may not be permanent (even less so than back at the mansion), but the sickness that leads up to it still doesn't look very pleasant.

"Are they not?" she shoots back at him as she leans up against one of the wagon's inner walls, still appearing a bit put out. "And how many ghosts have you met, exactly?"

Knowing the Doctor, it's quite a few.

Finnick takes to an axe, disliking the weight of a gun in his hands, even if it'll be easier to take out dangerous mutts without him needing to get up close and personal. But as there's no trident for him to cling to, wielding it as if it's an extension of himself, an axe fills the void well enough. He's still quick with it, using it as though he had been born with it in his grip. It keeps him safe and alive — and that's all Finnick needs in order to succeed, becoming a victor for the second time — or third, if Haymitch's words are anything to go by — of a different kind of Games.

But he doesn't take his axe to his fellow tributes. Instead, he uses it to assist them, properly allying himself with those he travels with, jumping from wagon to wagon and pilfering the supplies he can carry on his person. It doesn't take long for him to find the Doctor with a grin on his face and relief flooding his chest to know his friend is alive.

As part of his history, the Doctor falls — and Finnick's incapable of doing anything. No sponsors exist to beg for a cure, or an ointment or something to see the sickness seep from his pores. He's left to watch as the Doctor writhes in pain with no hope in sight.

The one regret Finnick has is letting Mags leave. Even though it had been her decision, one she must've formed before she had entered the arena, guilt still weighs heavily upon him that she had died alone, wrapped within cold fog as the poison had bubbled her skin and eaten her alive. He stays by The Doctor's side, axe at the ready to hack at any mutts that come their way. His survival is still at the forefront of his mind, but he does think of the Doctor's on a few occasions, perhaps ending it for him as he only grows worse, complexion growing paler, his face sheen with sweat. But he doesn't, instead choosing to stay by his friend.

Despite knowing he'll return by Wonderland's rules, it still hits hard when he dies. But Finnick continues onward, stealing supplies from the wagon to take to on his own. But it doesn't seem as though he's by himself for too long as he scavenges through some of the items left on the wagon.

Well, maybe Martha's glare is warranted, but after the trouble he went through of getting sick and hanging on for a few days before he just couldn't anymore, the Doctor thinks he deserves the chance to have a little fun. Except, of course, it does bother him a little to know that there are others out there who are sick and quite possibly not going to make it. And even with the knowledge that people who die in Wonderland come back in some shape or form, that does put a bit of a damper on his spirits, however slight that might be.

He crosses his ghostly arms in front of him as he watches Martha's progress with the jerky. "Well, alright, I haven't met many, but really, how loud do you think a floating wispy vapor can be?"

Regardless of what Martha might say, the Doctor believes he's correct in saying that ghosts are mostly silent in their movements, unless they're working to deliberately not be that way.

Edited 2014-09-05 15:19 (UTC)

Right now, he probably smells more like a viking than he's ever done before, since this event has rendered non-humans human, for the most part, but still, maybe there's some residual not-viking scent left. Either way, the Doctor just lights up upon spotting the dragon, and his smile only grows wider when Toothless nudges his leg.

"How're you doing? Holding up all right?" He reaches out to scratch behind the dragon's ear before he gestures to the animal he's just taken down. "I don't think I'll be needing all of this, if you happen to be hungry. It's a bit much for one person, so I don't mind sharing."

He wouldn't mind sharing either way, but really, why waste a perfectly good food source?

Edited 2014-09-05 15:22 (UTC)

Similarly, the Doctor started off that day knowing he wasn't feeling his best, but there was still things to be done, and he told himself he wasn't that bad off, not yet. But the hunting wasn't going so well, so he decided to take a quick break, and that was when he passed by Hazel's campfire.

"Oh, hello there!" He recognized her as the girl who was stuck up a tree with a dog at its base. "You look like you're doing decently, as far as this little adventure goes." In his experience, not everyone was cut out for things like this, but it seemed to him that Hazel had things well under control.

Well, the day starts off decently enough, and it improves by quite a bit when Finnick finds him. He rather likes the younger man, and well, an adventure like this is better off shared. Of course, when he first encounters Finnick, he pretends to be put out, because pilfering his supplies is not all right by him.

There's just a bit of mock-disapproval, but really, it's just the Doctor on his own with more than enough supplies to last him awhile, so he doesn't mind if Finnick takes a few things.

But later on, a great deal of the enjoyment has passed, as the Doctor's now reduced to huddling in the back of the wagon, clearly very sick and incapable of doing very much else but lie there battling a fever and no small amount of discomfort.

He's not the most coherent he's ever been, but still, he manages to catch Finnick's attention during one of the times the young man comes to sit with him. "Sorry about this. Can't think this ranks very highly on your list of things you want to do." Watching a sick person wasting away isn't really on anyone's bucket list, but still, Finnick has been good about staying with him, in spite of that.

Toothless' shoulders seem to relax as the Doctor scratches him behind his huge, flappy ears. Some of today's venture has been very lonely, such as losing sight of Hiccup and not being able to find him again, his scent lost to the dust of the trail. Getting attention from someone is a balm against the stresses of the day.

He glances at the buffalo, and his stomach gives another loud grumble. Really, he doesn't need much more invitation, in his present state. The weary Nightfury gives the Doctor another affectionate nudge before sinking his teeth into the body of the fallen beast.

She glanced up from the campfire, eyes tired but not without a faint smile for the familiar face. It took a moment for recognition to settle in.

"You obviously haven't been riding the same wagon I have. I'd almost prefer the tree branch."

"Well, you have a point. Travel by wagon isn't really the best or easiest way to go, but I was talking mostly about your setup here. Nice campfire."

Of course, building a fire isn't exactly rocket science, but it does require prior know-how. "Mind if I stop here for a bit?"

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Who ever thought that wagon travel was a good idea?

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Day Five

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Day Two

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day four/five, demanding a lot from you, i know.

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wow, so demanding, so rude.

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