A/N: I was a little delayed. But, as they say: Better late than never!
***
The room went very still.
The three newcomers took their seats like they owned the place.
The tall one smiled again,
"First of all," he said, "let me say what an honour it is to finally meet you. On behalf of the wider… ah… community beyond your little world."
He spread his hands like he was unveiling a prize. The skin over his knuckles moved wrong. Too tight. Too… stretched.
I could feel the compression field around him, humming just off my normal senses. Whoever built those suits had experience squeezing big things into small spaces. The energy signature buzzed against my senses.
The Doctor rocked back in his chair with his arms folded, his expression somewhere between amused and deeply unimpressed.
"And you are?" he asked.
The tall one inclined his head.
"We have many names," he said. "But for now, you may address us as the leadership of your… alien liaison team."
"That's not a name," I muttered. "That's a job description with delusions of grandeur."
Harriet Jones, MP for Flydale North, scribbled notes furiously beside me.
The Acting PM cleared his throat.
"These… gentlemen," he said, "have been in contact with us for some time. They've been instrumental in preparing a framework for… interplanetary relations."
"Have they," the Doctor said softly.
"Yes," the tall one said smoothly. "We simply never expected first contact to come quite this soon. But needs must. We came to offer assistance."
He leaned forward, suit buttons straining.
"Your planet is vulnerable," he went on. "We have watched you, seen you stumble into space with your little rockets, dabble in forces you don't understand. You are at a crossroad."
He let that hang there, waiting for someone to ask the obvious question.
The PM obliged.
"And you're offering to… guide us?" he said. "Protect us?"
"But of course," the tall one said. "We can be… patrons for this little world."
The word patron landed on my head with the weight of "protection money".
The Doctor smiled pleasantly.
"And what do you want in return?" he asked. "Nobody turns up with a spaceship and a pig and does all this for free."
A little ripple went through the three of them. Annoyance. Then it smoothed out again.
"Resources," the tall one said. "A safe haven. A… how do you say…" He pretended to search for the word. "A partnership, with your leaders. We provide planetary defence. You provide… cooperation."
"Defence against what?" Harriet piped up. "Is there another threat?" Her eyes darted between the screens on the wall. "Is this crash part of a wider—"
Clipboard Woman shot her a warning look, but the tall one answered anyway.
"The universe is a dangerous place," he said. "You have… enemies." He smiled. "Fortunately, you also have new friends."
He stood up, spreading his arms.
"In fact, my… colleagues… have arranged for a demonstration. If you would all turn your attention to the screens."
He nodded to a technician at the back. The channels flicked over, settling on a single live feed: the UN building in New York, framed by news banners.
ALERT AT UNITED NATIONS
ALIEN SIGNAL INTERCEPTED
The voiceover rattled along, explaining that some strange transmission had been picked up, of unknown origin, addressed to "the leadership of Earth".
Then the image changed. A crude graphic appeared: a distorted alien face, generic as a Halloween mask, speaking in garbled syllables. A translator ticker ran underneath, full of words like "surrender", "threat", "retaliation".
I felt it immediately. The same compression-field signature as the three in front of us, but stretched and smeared through the signal. Like they'd recorded themselves, then mangled it until it sounded "alien" enough for broadcast.
"This is staged," I said quietly.
"Obviously," the Doctor said. "Look at the phase jitter."
I nudged the nearest minister and nodded at the screen.
"See the way the translation scroll is perfectly timed?" I said. "That's pre-rendered. They didn't intercept this. They sent it."
He paled, looking between us and the three "liaison" experts.
The tall one didn't take his eyes off the room.
"This message," he said solemnly, "was sent to your world by a hostile species. But do not be afraid. If you authorise us to coordinate your response, we can neutralise this threat before it reaches you."
"That's very generous," the Doctor said. "Is this the part where you ask for the launch codes?"
There was a tiny pause. Barely half a second. Enough.
One of the generals bristled.
"Those codes are highly classified," he said. "And not up for negotiation."
"For now," the tall one said mildly.
His eyes flicked to the PM.
"Think about it," he purred. "Your nuclear arsenal is your greatest strength. But you have no defence against an attack from space. If we were allowed to integrate your weapons into a planetary shield… we could keep you safe. All we would need is full access to your armament systems."
There it was. The heart of the plan.
Not "save Earth". Not "protect humanity".
Just "plug your nukes into our toys and let us press the big red button".
The Doctor's expression went flat.
"Don't," he said quietly. "Whatever you do, don't give them that."
"Excuse me," Harriett said, voice shaking but determined. "You're talking about handing over control of every nuclear warhead on this planet to three men we've never met, based on a ship that we now hear was built on Earth."
Heads turned toward her.
"Backbench MP," one of the ministers said dismissively. "Local government. Not her remit."
She ignored him. Brave woman.
"What proof do we have," she pressed on, "that these… gentlemen are who they say they are? Or that they have our interests at heart?"
The tall one's smile thinned.
"Ms Jones," he said. "We understand your concern. Perhaps you would feel more reassured after a private briefing." His gaze slid to the Doctor and me. "You and your… experts."
Alarms clanged in my head.
Private briefing. Separate the ones asking real questions. Get them somewhere with fewer witnesses and more doors that lock from the outside.
The Doctor clocked it too; I saw the line of his shoulders change.
"Love a briefing," he said lightly. "But before we all go off into little rooms, maybe we could answer Ms Jones's question. Who are you?"
The tall one's eyes gleamed.
"In our language," he said, "you could not even begin to pronounce our glorious name."
"Try me," the Doctor said.
The tall one's smile went sharp.
"We are the Slitheen," he said.
The word shivered in the air. Old, oily, not a species name so much as a brand. I'd heard it before, in some dusty Academy case file. Not a race, but a family. A clan.
"Raxacoricofallapatorian," I said, the old syllables dropping into place. "Of course."
The room blinked.
"Raxa-what?" muttered one of the generals.
"Raxacoricofallapatorius," the Doctor repeated, savouring the consonants. "You lot always did like your drama."
The tall one's eyes widened, just a fraction.
"You know our world," he said.
"Yep," the Doctor said. "Big. Green. Not known for subtlety."
"One of the rougher neighbourhoods," I added. "And I'm not talking about the gravity."
A second little pause. The air seemed to thicken.
Then all three of them laughed.
It was not a nice sound.
"Then we are among equals," the tall one said. "How reassuring."
He pushed back his chair and stood up.
"If you will excuse us," he said, "we shall confer with your Prime Minister about your… security arrangements. Doctor, Engineer, Ms Jones—perhaps you would accompany us?"
Clipboard Woman opened the door at the far end, leading deeper into the warren of Number Ten.
Harriet shot me a quick look that said, Is this as bad as I think it is?
Oh, worse, I thought. Aloud, I said, "After you."
Because if we didn't go with them, they'd just find another room, another set of humans to convince. At least this way, we'd be in the blast radius when they tried something clever.
We filed out into the corridor.
As soon as the conference room door shut behind us, the atmosphere immediately changed. From performance to something more predatory.
The nearest Slitheen—shorter, broader—let out another wet little noise.
"Sorry," he said. "Gas exchange. Different planet."
"Been hearing that all day," I said. "You might want to get your suit checked. Wouldn't want a catastrophic leak."
His eyes narrowed.
We walked in silence for a few paces. The building's corridors were narrower back here. More domestic, like an old house that got too many extensions.
"As I understand it," the tall one said casually, "you two are considered… authorities on extraterrestrial matters on this planet."
"Sort of fell into the role," the Doctor said.
"And you, Engineer?" he asked. "What exactly is your… speciality?"
"Maintenance," I said. "Keeping things running. Making sure delicate systems don't blow up and take half the neighbourhood with them."
"Ah," he said. "How relevant."
We passed an alcove with a CCTV monitor showing various angles of the building: front door, press pen, kitchens. On one feed, I caught a glimpse of the TARDIS sitting in the street, blue and patient.
On another: Rose, in Jackie's lounge, staring at the news, biting her lip.
We turned another corner. The tall one stopped at a door.
"Here we are," he said. "The Cabinet Room. The ideal place for… decisions."
He pushed the door open.
Inside: polished table, high-backed chairs, portraits of dead men who'd made worse choices than this.
The Clipboard Woman ushered us in. Harriet, the Doctor and I stepped over the threshold.
The Slitheen followed.
The door shut behind us with a soft click.
I felt the compression field around them flare.
"Oh," I said.
The Doctor's eyes flicked to me.
"Oh?" he echoed.
"Trap," I said.
The lights flickered once as something heavy slammed into place in the walls.
Harriet jumped.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"Locks," I said. "And power reroutes. They've just turned this room into a sealed box."
The tall Slitheen smiled, finally dropping the "helpful advisor" act entirely.
"At last," he said, voice thicker, wetter. "Privacy."
He shrugged his shoulders.
His skin suit bulged.
Buttons pinged off like bullets, skittering across the floor.
Harriet squeaked and backed into the table.
"Stay behind us," I told her, stepping sideways so she was shielded by both me and the Doctor.
The tall one's neck swelled, then unzipped with a slick wet sound, the human face peeling away like a mask.
The Raxacoricofallapatorian inside grinned down at us with far too many teeth.
"Well," the Doctor said. "That answers one question."
A second Slitheen began shedding his suit in the corner, filling the room with bulk and a smell like rancid meat.
Harriet made a strangled noise.
"This is not how constituency surgeries are supposed to go," she whimpered.
The first one loomed closer.
"You know our name," he said. "You know our world. You know what we can do."
"Tax fraud and murder," I said. "Usually in that order."
His black eyes fixed on me.
"And you," he said, sniffing. "You smell of old time. Little Time Lord, playing as a human."
He leaned down, drool sizzling slightly where it hit the carpet.
"I wonder," he purred, "what price your little heads would fetch on the open market if we pickled them properly."
The Doctor's jaw tightened.
"Don't," he said. "Don't try me."
"Or what?" the Slitheen asked. "You'll stop us? You and your little… fixer?"
He took another step forward, claws flexing.
The cabinet table was at my back. Harriet's breath trembled behind my shoulder.
Okay.
Time to do some work.