Title: Age of Gold
Author: James Stoker
Rating: All Ages
Word Count: 30297
Author's Summary: The Doctor takes an incredible risk to tick off something on his bucket list, and unwittingly sets off a chain of events which will change the fortunes of millions of children.
Characters/Pairings: Eleventh Doctor, Clara Oswald
Recc'ed Because: This is a twisty turning adventure written in a charmingly light and often humorous style that sometimes belies the complexity of the world building and the gravitas of the situations that unfold. With Eleven and Clara at the center of a new world of its own different original characters, mysteries, villains, and unfolding significance in the greater Doctor Who universe, this story reminds me very much of something we might see in a classic Fourth or Seventh era serial, but updated and brilliantly characterized so that both Eleven and Clara shine. Go take an afternoon and read it! But don't be disarmed by the style; you really do have to pay attention to all of the details to get the full effect of the storytelling.
The capsule disintegrated only a minute after the Doctor jumped ship, and with a childlike glee he was watching its many parts burn up above and around him like tiny meteors. As it turned out, this was the perfect cover for his descent. And it was a good thing that he was also wearing the perfect suit. Never lose track of a good tailor, especially one who is not only friendly and competent, but also good with heat, pressure and micrometeoroid resistant fabrics.
* * * * *
A few minutes later, now standing in a field of very tall wheat, the Doctor hurriedly removed his dive suit, bundled it up in his parachute and set about hiding it as best he could.
He decided that criminals were not the brightest bulbs in any civilisation. If the bouncers of Protos had indeed spotted him, they could track down Hatfoot without too much trouble. The small silver chute had HATFOOT SPARE PARTS painted across it in large fluoro orange letters.
At least his supersonic space jump was more accurate than the TARDIS was likely to be. The Doctor had landed not only in the correct year, and merely minutes before what looked to be a spectacular day of sunshine, but he was standing only a few hundred yards from his intended destination.
The tiny lights of civilisation, or at least the fires and smoke of an encampment, twinkled off to the east. The Doctor shivered and rubbed his arms against the cold, straightened his bow tie, adjusted his backpack, and began pushing his way through the wheat towards the torchlights ahead of him to the west.
Based on the little information he had been able to gather from a distance, these were the markers of the tomb of Avram, fashioner of worlds, craftsman of dynasties, keeper of secrets, and owner of a planet so laced with veins of gold that it almost bled the stuff. No wonder it was protected.
“Clara, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Doctor! Are you alright?”
“According to my calculations, your cake is burning.”
He was right.