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"LUX – JAMES GOSS TAKES A METATEXTUAL MASTERPIECE TO THE NEXT LEVEL"

Following up on his brilliant work with The Giggle, James Goss returns in top form with Lux, a pitch-perfect Target novelisation of Russell T Davies’ dazzlingly strange and richly layered Doctor Who episode. Goss doesn’t just transpose the screenplay into prose—he elevates it, reframing the story through the eyes of its most unexpected chorus: the Doctor Who fans themselves. The result is a joyous, self-aware, emotionally intelligent novel that takes the meta-text of the original and rewires it into something both hilarious and deeply human.

A STORY THROUGH THE EYES OF FANS

The boldest—and most successful—decision here is Goss's reconfiguration of the narrative structure. Rather than simply recounting the events from the Doctor’s or Belinda’s perspective, the novel is framed by Lizzie and her fan friends, a group of die-hard viewers who gather every Saturday for ritualistic Doctor Who screenings. Goss bookends the novel with them and returns to them regularly throughout, inserting interludes where they theorise, analyse, and agonise in familiar ways (yes, The Rani is mentioned).

These moments are not only funny but affectionate, showcasing Goss’s deep understanding of fandom—its rhythms, fixations, and shared joy. It’s a knowing wink to us, the readers, without ever tipping into mockery. The interlude titled “Tea Break”, in particular, is a gem—a gentle warning that even stepping away for a moment can dull the show’s rhythm.

REEL WORLDS AND REAL FEELINGS

Beyond the fandom framing, Goss goes all in on the lush, stylised Miami 1952 setting. He subtly layers in context about racial segregation and the social climate of the time, without overshadowing the plot. Reginald, the projectionist, becomes a fuller character with a moving backstory involving the death of his wife—adding nuance to his role in the story’s emotional core.

When it comes to the central antagonist, Mr. Ring-a-Ding, the novelisation maintains his surreal menace. While some of the impact is inevitably lost without Alan Cumming’s performance, Goss compensates with razor-sharp prose, lending the character a theatrical, glinting presence that still chills and charms.

The book even dedicates a chapter to Lux itself—a welcome surprise—delving into the being’s motivations and desires. It's a delicate balance of comedy and tragedy, and it cements Lux as one of the most interesting, if bizarre, antagonists in recent memory.

EXPERIMENTAL, INVENTIVE, EXUBERANT

As with The Giggle, Goss isn’t afraid to play with format. The most bonkers parts of the TV episode—such as the sequence where the Doctor and Belinda become trapped inside a film—are beautifully translated to the page. One section is presented as a comic, another includes two Chapter Eights, and there’s even a fully written “deleted scene” in script format involving a surreal plane chase in a wide shot.

These structural flourishes are delightful without feeling gimmicky. They enhance the madness of the TV episode and help replicate the feeling of unpredictability and magic that made Lux such a standout. Goss also leans into the media-savviness of the tale, scattering visual gags and typographical surprises throughout that echo the episode’s own shifting styles and tones.

BELINDA, THE DOCTOR, AND BEYOND

Though the episode’s plot remains essentially unchanged, Goss deepens the emotional texture. We get more insight into Belinda’s experience, and the scene where the Doctor interacts with the fans is expanded to touching effect. The novel offers extra moments of intimacy, introspection, and absurdity—sometimes all in the same paragraph.

Fifteen is captured well here, with his energy, compassion, and spontaneity intact. Even without visuals, his voice rings out clearly, though, as the novel acknowledges, some of the spark of the original is inevitably muted when separated from the performances and visuals.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Lux is a magnificent novelisation—funny, inventive, and packed with love for Doctor Who and its fans. James Goss once again proves himself the master of adapting chaos with clarity and wit, enriching the material without ever overwriting it. While it may not reach quite the experimental heights of The Giggle, it’s easily one of the strongest Target books in recent years. If you loved Lux on screen, this version offers new layers to fall in love with—and if you’ve never seen it, Goss makes sure you’ll still feel every twist, laugh, and gasp.

Rating: 10/10

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"THE ROBOT REVOLUTION – UNA MCCORMACK POWERS UP A FIERCELY PERSONAL UPRISING"

Una McCormack makes a strong debut in the Doctor Who Target range with The Robot Revolution, the first of three novelisations from Season 2. Adapting Russell T Davies’ bold and timely TV episode, McCormack transforms it into something more introspective and textured—a slow-burning takedown of toxic masculinity and coercive control that thrives on added character depth, quiet world-building, and a clearer sense of purpose behind the story’s uprising.

BEFORE BELINDA: THE WORLD OF MISS BELINDA CHANDRA ONE

The novel smartly opens not with Belinda herself, but with those who inhabit the gleaming world of Miss Belinda Chandra One. These early chapters flesh out the society that will soon be turned upside down, with McCormack spending time on the lives of its citizens and the hushed arrival of the Fifteenth Doctor. We see him prowling the periphery, investigating strange patterns and laying groundwork for what’s to come, long before Belinda even appears on the scene.

This opening stretch takes its time, but it adds tremendous weight to the story’s central upheaval. Rather than simply reacting to events, we understand the complex systems in place that make revolution not only inevitable but necessary.

BELINDA’S JOURNEY: FROM DOUBT TO DEFIANCE

When Belinda finally steps into the narrative spotlight, McCormack enriches her character immeasurably. Her past relationship with Alan is explored in far more depth, showing the controlling behaviours and subtle manipulations masked behind charm. Alan is revealed to be an archetype of toxic entitlement—affectionate when it suits him, quietly undermining when it doesn't.

We also gain much better insight into Belinda’s life before her abduction: her work at the hospital, her friendships, and her inner doubts. Importantly, the novel places greater emphasis on her relationships with her flatmates and family, expanding on characters who were only briefly seen on screen. These scenes help contextualise Belinda’s emotional landscape—how she moves through the world, how she’s been shaped by those around her, and what kind of support system she’s left behind.

Crucially, McCormack reveals that Belinda’s wariness of the Doctor is rooted in how certain aspects of his personality—especially his charisma and quicksilver intensity—remind her of Alan. It’s a compelling touch, one the TV episode only hinted at, and it makes Belinda’s eventual trust in the Doctor feel hard-earned and sincere.

REVOLUTIONARIES AND RESISTANCE

Among the revolutionaries, Sasha 55 and Manny are brought vividly to life. McCormack gives Sasha in particular a strong emotional journey, showing the strain of servitude, the cost of loyalty, and the fierce determination to be something more. Manny shares a close bond with Sasha that underpins much of the resistance movement’s emotional core.

The society’s rebellion isn’t sparked by economic oppression or class warfare, but rather by ideological rot—an ingrained belief system that demands service, silence, and conformity. The Robot Revolution isn’t about class struggle or capitalist critique; it’s about what happens when one man’s entitlement infects an entire society. The uprising is a rejection of coercion disguised as kindness, of control masked as care.

THE DOCTOR IN THE SHADOWS

McCormack writes the Fifteenth Doctor with a breezy charm and quiet solemnity. He watches from the wings in the early chapters, careful not to intervene too soon. His presence becomes more central as events spiral, and his understanding of both the problem and its emotional undercurrents is deftly captured.

The connection between the Doctor and Belinda, too, gains a new layer. She isn’t immediately swept away by his energy—she’s cautious, even distrustful. And through her point of view, we understand why. Her reluctance is never framed as irrational; it’s born of experience.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Robot Revolution is a thoughtfully expanded retelling that reframes one of Doctor Who’s sharpest 2025 episodes with emotional clarity and thematic purpose. By grounding the revolution in the personal and enriching the narrative with greater insight into Belinda’s flatmates, family, and community, Una McCormack turns a simple uprising into a powerful reckoning with toxic masculinity and the quiet courage it takes to resist. Though the early pacing may test some readers’ patience, the payoff is a novelisation that feels not just faithful to the screen, but essential in its own right.

Rating: 8/10

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"EMPIRE OF DEATH – A TARGET-SIZED TOMB FOR SUTEKH'S RETURN"

Scott Handcock’s Empire of Death—the novelisation of The Legend of Ruby Sunday and The Empire of Death—joins the recent crop of Doctor Who Target books that don’t just adapt their televised counterparts but enrich them. With Handcock’s insider insight as the series' script editor, this version feels like the definitive director’s cut of the 2024 finale. It may not fix every flaw from the TV version, but it adds texture, atmosphere, and thematic clarity in all the right places.

EXPANSIONS THAT BREATHE LIFE INTO DEATH

Right from the outset, Handcock adds value. The book opens with a newly written prologue that sees the Doctor travel to 1940s America and to several alien worlds (such as Vortis, from The Web Planet), hoping for a chance encounter with the ever-present mystery woman. It’s a compelling cold open that deepens the creeping paranoia surrounding Susan Triad’s many incarnations. Just a few chapters later, another clever use of structure emerges: a mid-book “prologue” that recounts Susan Foreman's adventures, grounding the Doctor’s emotional stakes and subtly introducing long-time fans to the novel’s mythic aspirations.

The core plot remains faithful to screen. Every major beat, from Ruby’s quest for her origins to the final confrontation with Sutekh, is here—complete with intact dialogue, as one might expect from a Target novelisation. But what elevates the book is the way it fills in the cracks.

Minor characters are fleshed out, notably Colonel Chodozie, whose fate on-screen was swift but shallow. Ruby’s adoptive mum Carla gets more room to breathe in an extended scene at home before being whisked away to UNIT, adding warmth and grounding. Susan Triad’s chilling transformation is granted more interiority, while additional glimpses of the “other Susans” across the universe being corrupted by Sutekh give the cosmic horror a grander sense of scale.

Rose Noble—sadly sidelined on screen—is given a touch more material here, and a few reinstated moments (like the origin of the dog whistle) help explain unresolved plot threads.

WHERE EVEN A NOVELISATION CAN’T SAVE EVERYTHING

For all Handcock’s efforts, some of the issues that plagued the TV episodes remain unsolved. The infamous “SUE TECH” anagram reveal is still as nonsensical in prose as it was on screen. The Time Window sequence—visually striking in the episode—loses a great deal of its mystique in pure description, and the longer 2046 interlude continues to bog down the pacing between Sutekh’s reveal and the final showdown.

Harriet Arbinger is no more developed here, remaining a cipher despite being the herald of death itself. And the final battle, while clearly described, just can’t match the punch of seeing the Doctor dragging Sutekh into the Time Vortex. The visual spectacle is too intrinsic to the moment to fully replicate.

Perhaps the biggest sticking point is the continued deflation around Ruby’s parentage. The story goes out of its way to suggest a monumental reveal, only to undercut itself by insisting Ruby is “just an ordinary girl.” This may be thematically noble, but it feels anticlimactic, and the novelisation doesn’t offer any additional insight to reframe it more satisfyingly.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Empire of Death is a thoughtful and textured adaptation of the 2024 Doctor Who finale. Scott Handcock’s prose is clean and propulsive, and his additions offer new emotional depth and world-building flourishes that enhance the televised story without smothering it. While the novelisation can’t entirely salvage the plot’s more questionable choices—especially the SUE TECH twist and the drawn-out middle act—it delivers what fans come to Target books for: clarity, character, and expansion. Not a perfect resurrection, but a worthwhile one.

Rating: 7/10

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"ICONS: SHIRLEY JACKSON AND THE CHAOS BOX – A BOX FULL OF RAGE AND RUSHED IDEAS"

Kalynn Bayron’s Icons: Shirley Jackson and the Chaos Box has the distinction of being the only Doctor Who: Icons novella to feature a companion—namely Ruby Sunday—accompanying the Fifteenth Doctor. Set during the earliest days of their travels, this story explores the eerie, unsettling realm of one of America’s most influential horror authors. Or at least, it tries to.

A WRITER OF TERROR MEETS AN ALIEN ENGINE OF ANGER

The central concept isn’t without promise. Shirley Jackson—best known for her chilling short story The Lottery—is portrayed as a reluctant protagonist, one whose macabre sketches have unwittingly captured a strange box that turns out to be an alien artefact. Enter the Ursa, angular, insectoid aliens who feed on chaos and rage, using the titular box to inflame human tempers through rumour, paranoia, and emotional manipulation.

It’s an allegory with teeth: how easily humanity can be driven to violence by baseless ideas, how anger spreads virally, and how truth is often less influential than the loudest lie. But despite its thematic potential, Chaos Box doesn’t quite know what to do with itself.

NOT QUITE JACKSON, NOT QUITE DOCTOR WHO

The Doctor and Ruby should be the beating heart of the story, especially given that it’s the only Icons novella with a proper TARDIS team. Unfortunately, both are written with a flatness that’s hard to ignore. The Doctor—so usually a whirlwind of eccentricity and conviction—here feels generic, dishing out exposition about Jackson’s work in a way that reads more like a Wikipedia summary than lived experience. Ruby fares no better, reduced to bland observations and lines that feel written more for the reader’s benefit than for character consistency.

Even the framing device—having the Doctor and Ruby recap their recent adventures—comes across as awkwardly expository, especially for a novella as short as this. It wastes time that could have been spent building tension, developing character, or exploring the implications of the Chaos Box itself.

Shirley Jackson, the supposed icon of the piece, is oddly sidelined. While present throughout the story, she never really gets a moment to shine or a clear role in resolving the conflict. She often feels like a passive observer rather than an active participant in her own story.

THE URSA DISAPPOINTMENT

The Ursa, the alien antagonists, are introduced with promise: two angular, elegant, and sinister beings orchestrating a plot to stoke human fury. But instead of following through on this premise with creeping dread or social commentary, the story breezes past their motivations and ends with a literal deus ex spaceship. A benevolent Ursa descend from the skies and talks the villains out of their plan with all the drama of a polite intervention. It's not just anti-climactic—it's narratively deflating.

There’s an attempt at resolution through a speech about love, hope, and how humanity can choose better, but it feels unearned. The tension never escalates enough to justify the moral, and the rushed conclusion undermines what could have been a chilling critique of human susceptibility to anger and hysteria.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Shirley Jackson and the Chaos Box has an intriguing premise and some timely ideas, but the execution feels rushed and undercooked. The Doctor and Ruby are blandly characterised, Shirley is barely present, and the central conflict fizzles out rather than explodes. As an Icons entry, it underuses its historical figure and over-relies on exposition. It’s short, shallow, and sadly forgettable.

Rating: 4/10

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"THE MONSTER MAKERS – CORPORATE NIGHTMARES, EYEBALL ALIENS, AND MEME-SPEWING VILLAINS"

Alan Barnes and Mike Collins return to Doctor Who Magazine's comic page with The Monster Makers, a direct follow-up to The Hans of Fear that trades snowy fairytale battles for chaotic, corporation-run monster mayhem. This five-part story takes the Fifteenth Doctor and Ruby Sunday on a bonkers, biting, and sometimes baffling journey into a testing ground for off-the-shelf alien invasions—complete with customer surveys, meme-quoting megalomaniacs, and shape-shifting nightmare fuel.

FROM FAIRYTALES TO FOCUS GROUPS

The action kicks off with immediate energy: the Doctor and Ruby land right in the middle of a brutal alien invasion by giant gun-wielding eyeballs. It's a delightfully surreal start, and the page layouts cleverly split when the pair are separated—allowing parallel storytelling as they both infiltrate alien war machines and meet resistance fighters. There's real flair in how these mirrored sequences play out, showing their shared resourcefulness.

But in classic Doctor Who fashion, things aren't what they seem. The story soon reveals a delicious twist—this isn't a “real” invasion, but a test run for pre-packaged invasion forces offered up by a war profiteering company. It’s The War Games meets The Android Invasion with a dash of The Happiness Patrol’s corporate satire.

The assessors—observers who pause the simulation to gather feedback—are a wonderfully weird inclusion, adding to the dystopian absurdity. A planet's government can simply buy an invasion to reinforce their power? Capitalism really does ruin everything.

MONSTERS MADE TO ORDER

Ruby takes centre stage this time, which is refreshing. She’s roped into working for the monster-making company as a “creative consultant,” forced to pitch her own designs for fearsome invaders. Naturally, this backfires when the biomaterial used to create the monsters starts mining her memories for inspiration—leading to the creation of creatures that look suspiciously like fairy tales with a sinister twist.

This idea of personalised monstrosity—manifestations pulled from a character’s own mind—is rich with potential, even if it doesn’t get quite enough room to breathe here. The callbacks to The Hans of Fear and Liberation of the Daleks provide some nice connective tissue across recent DWM comics, helping to form a sort of ongoing arc for this TARDIS team.

EYEBALLS, EXTORTIONERS, AND EXCESS

Enter Xirxis: a space tyrant with a love of the letter X, a hatred for others using the same, and a personality composed entirely of internet references and grating pomposity. He’s supposedly the grandson of the long-forgotten villain The Extortioner from an early DWM comic—a fun continuity nod, if obscure. Unfortunately, Xirxis himself is less fun in execution, feeling more like a rejected Guardians of the Galaxy baddie with an overused Twitter feed. He even quotes GIFs unironically.

The climax piles on the chaos, as Ruby’s fairy-tale-fuelled monsters cause havoc, the TARDIS jukebox is used to play a calming melody, and the Doctor belts out the Venusian Lullaby (which, charmingly, he notes sounds a bit like a Christmas carol). There’s a lot going on, and the final chapter buckles under the sheer weight of its ideas. Concepts collide—biomaterials, corrupted memories, long-lost villain families, space capitalism—but little gets the space it needs.

Mike Collins’ art remains a reliable anchor throughout, with expressive character work and a vivid sense of movement. Still, even his work can’t always save sequences that feel cluttered or overloaded with exposition.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Monster Makers has its heart—and eye-stalks—in the right place, spinning an imaginative satire on militarism, commercialism, and memory. Ruby gets a strong showing, and there are some top-tier Doctor Who ideas scattered throughout. But a messy third act, a cringeworthy villain, and stilted dialogue hold this one back from greatness.

It’s another colourful, chaotic entry in the Fifteenth Doctor’s comic run—but unlike the monsters it conjures, it doesn’t quite stick the landing.

Rating: 6/10

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"THE HANS OF FEAR – FAIRYTALES, FROST, AND FIFTEEN IN COPENHAGEN"

Leave it to Doctor Who Magazine to deliver a gloriously bonkers historical romp that takes the Fifteenth Doctor and Ruby Sunday to the snow-dusted streets of 19th-century Copenhagen for a showdown with Hans Christian Andersen and an Ice Queen hellbent on literary revenge. Alan Barnes’ The Hans of Fear, with lush, expressive art from Mike Collins, is a frosty delight that blends folklore, metafiction, and a healthy dose of Nordic camp.

ONCE UPON A TIME IN DENMARK

It’s a rare treat to see Doctor Who set in Scandinavia—rarer still that the Danish capital is so vividly brought to life. The comic gives us a magical version of Copenhagen, infused with snow, looming Gothic architecture, and a real sense of fairy-tale melancholy. This is a city where stories can come to life—and indeed, that’s the central conceit of the tale.

The Doctor and Ruby arrive just in time to meet the great Hans Christian Andersen himself—depicted here as a neurotic, theatrical, and somewhat insecure genius. The Doctor is, delightfully, a massive fanboy, and it’s hinted that the two go way back. That sense of warmth and familiarity anchors the story emotionally.

And what a title! The Hans of Fear is a pun so gloriously awful it immediately signals the tone: witty, self-aware, and firmly in the tradition of comic Who at its most playful.

THE ICE QUEEN COMETH

The villain of the piece is the marvellous Snedronningen—the Ice Queen herself, brought to the comic page in all her icy regality. With her ability to bring endless winter, freeze her victims into fantastical forms, and generate experimental beings inspired by her stolen stories, she’s a fabulous blend of comic-book melodrama and fairytale menace. Think Frozen’s Elsa reimagined by Stephen King.

Her vendetta against Hans for libelling her in his fairy tales (by painting her as a villain) is as inspired as it is ridiculous, introducing the concept of interdimensional beings holding grudges over how they're portrayed in fiction. In an era where the Fifteenth Doctor’s stories are full of genre-blending and reality-bending, this fits right in.

The fact that the Ice Queen transforms humans into living fairytales is chilling—literally and figuratively. The Ugly Duckling, the Tin Soldier, the Little Mermaid, and the Match Girl all show up in tragic, twisted forms. It’s a brilliant way to weave Andersen’s actual stories into the plot while adding a creepy new layer of body horror.

HANS, HENCHMEN, AND HOMAGE

Andersen is written with real affection. His quirky Danish speech patterns (“five and twenty” instead of “twenty-five”) and self-deprecating charm are well observed. There's a delightful moment when we learn he travels with two muscle-bound bodyguards—one from the Gold Coast and the other amusingly named Thomas of Finland, a cheeky nod to the iconic Finnish artist. And yes, there are shout-outs to Nordic cultural figures like Avicii, Loreen, and Jenny Lind, keeping things gloriously weird and rooted in the region.

The comic makes time for poignant moments, too. One of the story’s strongest threads is Hans’ relationship with his father, who once gave himself up to Snedronningen to save his son and now returns as one of her transformed tin soldiers. That their fate remains unresolved at the end adds a bittersweet coda to the fairytale antics.

FAIRYTALE BREAKDOWN

Ruby doesn’t get a ton to do here, but her frozen transformation—complete with wings—is visually striking, and she plays a pivotal role in helping the other victims resist Snedronningen’s mental hold. Her belief in fairy tales falters, sparking a rebellion that ultimately undoes the Queen. It’s a clever inversion of Peter Pan: instead of clapping if you believe, you have to stop believing.

The resolution—defeating the Ice Queen by stripping her of narrative power—is meta and fitting. Like all great fairy tales, this one ends with a moral: stories matter, but only if we choose how we tell them.

Each issue opens with a quote from Andersen’s The Ice Queen, and even some of Hans' dialogue is taken from his real letters. It’s a rich tribute to both the man and the myths he spun.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Hans of Fear is a gorgeously realised comic tale that blends gothic fantasy, literary history, and playful Doctor Who storytelling. It’s clever, campy, poignant, and laced with snowflakes and sorrow. With a wonderful setting, a flamboyant villain, and a storybook heart, it captures everything that makes the Fifteenth Doctor’s era so special.

Rating: 8/10

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"MANCOPOLIS – MOTHS, MAYHEM, AND MANCHESTER IN SPACE"

Mancopolis, the five-part comic adventure from Doctor Who Magazine, penned by Alan Barnes with art by Lee Sullivan, offers an energetic and visually stylish romp through a dystopian Manchester of the far future. Set in 2424, it’s a satire of capitalism, a cyberpunk-infused mystery, and a political thriller wrapped around one of the Fifteenth Doctor’s more outlandish alien foes. And it’s a lot of fun.

FUTURE MANCHESTER, SAME OLD ROT

The story’s setting is a triumph of design and tone—Manchester has been reborn as Mancopolis, a gleaming sci-fi mega-city of glass towers, neon lights, flying cars, and deceptive cleanliness. The surface appears perfect: smiling citizens, ultra-productivity, and a sheen of prosperity. But peel back the layers and you find a crumbling reality beneath—a theme wonderfully evoked through the decayed ruins of the real Manchester hidden below the digital façade.

There are strong echoes here of Smile, The Happiness Patrol, and Magra Terror, but with a 2020s political sharpness. The enforced cheeriness hides a crumbling economy and a sinister secret, with public morale controlled not by ideology but industrial deception. The real kicker? Mancopolis isn’t even real—it’s just a digital reflection, a hollow simulation of prosperity.

MOTH-MAYOR AND MONSTER MACHINATIONS

Mayor Mulberry is a standout villain, and not just because she's secretly a giant alien moth. Originally a populist saviour who pulled Mancopolis out of economic ruin, she’s now a paranoid despot keeping the machinery running on cosmetic charm and monstrous compromise. The twist that Mulberry is harvesting the skins of beautiful young people to use in production lines (yes, really) is darkly inventive—and exactly the kind of grotesque flair Doctor Who comics can get away with.

The moths themselves are terrific creatures: looming and creepy yet delightfully logical in their weaknesses—drawn to light and repelled by noise. It’s classic Doctor Who: take a relatable Earth creature and supersize it into something terrifying and weird.

Mulberry’s villainy is reinforced by his trapdoor elevator of doom, which teleports victims into a pit of hungry moths—an idea so Russell T Davies-esque it practically screams 2006. It’s a fun nod to the kind of bureaucratic barbarity that Who often critiques best.

DOCTOR, RUBY, AND THE UPRISING

Fifteen and Ruby are very well realised here. The Doctor gets to be clever, theatrical, and righteous, while Ruby has a bit of a traditional companion arc: captured, cocooned, nearly digested, but still returning in time to help defeat the baddies. There’s a touch of The Long Game in her journey—she briefly vanishes from the narrative while the Doctor teams up with locals, only to swoop back in for the finale.

The uprising subplot, echoing the real-life Peterloo Massacre of 1819, is suitably dramatic if a little undercooked. The rebellion feels a bit sudden, with little groundwork laid among the citizens for a full-on revolt, but it works in the moment, especially with Mulberry literally summoning lightning to crush dissent using weather control tech.

LITTLE GEMS AND STRAY THREADS

The story is filled with clever flourishes. The use of moth biology is inspired, and there’s even a sly reference to the capitalist obsession with youthful beauty becoming a literal resource. A highlight is the resolution involving Ruby’s childhood bank deposit, which earns enough compound interest over five centuries to effectively cover the debt Mancopolis owes

—witty, ridiculous, and peak Doctor Who.

That said, there are a few dropped stitches. The brave local who initially helps the Doctor disappears from the plot once Ruby re-enters. And while the uprising is satisfying, it might have had more impact with stronger groundwork or a bigger supporting cast.

Still, the satire lands. Whether it's on capitalism, surveillance states, beauty culture, or civic decay, Mancopolis has something to say—and it says it with moth monsters.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Mancopolis is a sharp, slick, and slyly satirical sci-fi comic with strong world-building, an inventive villain, and a satisfying blend of absurdity and political commentary. While its pacing can feel uneven and a few characters fade into the background, it captures the Fifteenth Doctor’s era with flair, and serves as a strong entry in the DWM comic tradition.

Rating: 7/10

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"INTO CONTROL – SWORDS, SYCORAX, AND STORY SPLICES"

Into Control by Steve Cole, featured in the Doctor Who Annual 2024, picks up directly where the prose tale Out of Control from 10 Days of Christmas (and earlier in the 2024 annual) left off—giving readers the second half of the Fourteenth Doctor's confrontation with the Sycorax, but this time in comic strip form. It’s a fun publishing experiment, but one that works better in concept than execution. As a standalone, the comic falters, delivering action without much substance or setup, and relying on readers to have read the prose story first.

DUELLING DOCTORS AND SYCORAX SWORDS

The central event of Into Control is a sword fight between the Doctor and the Sycorax Queen—a visual payoff to the buildup in Out of Control. For those who have read the first story, this is a punchy continuation that allows the Queen’s betrayal and the Doctor’s cleverness to play out in full colour. The artwork sells the energy of the duel, even if the choreography never quite leaps off the page the way the best Doctor Who comics do.

It’s a shame, though, that Into Control doesn't bother to recap or re-establish the scenario. Without Out of Control, it reads more like a third act plucked from a story you were never told. The Doctor’s arrival, the Queen’s motivations, and the plight of the prisoners are all barely touched upon—leaving newcomers in the lurch.

GOOD DOCTOR, DODGY SYCORAX

The Fourteenth Doctor is captured well here, both in look and tone. His charm, confidence, and righteous anger come through clearly, and the dialogue rings true to Tennant’s performance—especially his now slightly older, more grounded iteration of the character. Steve Cole gets the voice right, and it’s fun seeing this version of the Doctor back in action, swashbuckling like it’s The Christmas Invasion all over again.

The Sycorax Queen, however, is something of a missed opportunity. While the design is bold—more monstrous and grotesque than what we saw on TV—it lacks the cultural identity and eeriness of the original Sycorax design. She feels like a generic villain in a Sycorax skin. There’s also little time given to develop her as anything more than an antagonist to be defeated.

ART THAT TELLS, BUT DOESN’T SING

The artwork throughout is solid, with clean panel layouts and a good visual representation of the Doctor. The action is easy to follow, and there’s a definite effort made to keep the momentum up. But aside from the Queen’s slightly off-model appearance, the comic doesn’t push any stylistic boundaries. It’s competent, but hardly memorable.

What it does succeed at is giving readers who have read Out of Control a satisfying visual conclusion. Seeing the Doctor free the prisoners and turn the tables on the Queen is enjoyable, if predictable. The script doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but it delivers the beats it needs to hit.

A NOVEL EXPERIMENT… WITH LIMITATIONS

The decision to split a story across two media—a prose short story and a comic strip—is an exciting one in theory. It’s refreshing to see a multi-platform narrative told across a Christmas anthology and an annual. But in practice, it highlights how fragile such an approach can be when the individual pieces aren’t allowed to stand on their own. Into Control relies heavily on the reader having read the prose half, and without it, the comic is a blur of context-less action.

For those who have read both, this is a pleasant enough epilogue. For those who haven’t, it’s a curious fragment.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Into Control is a nicely illustrated, briskly paced continuation of a story most readers won’t have immediate access to. As a comic book coda to Out of Control, it works—just barely. But judged on its own merits, it's more of a supplementary visual than a self-sufficient tale. Worth a read for fans of the Fourteenth Doctor and Sycorax lore completists, but not a must-have.

Rating: 6/10

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'ORIGINS – THE FUGITIVE DOCTOR TAKES FLIGHT"

Origins, written by Jody Houser and drawn by Roberta Ingranata, stands as the Fugitive Doctor’s sole comic book outing to date—and thankfully, it’s a strong one. Set before the events of Fugitive of the Judoon, this four-part series explores a formative Division mission that ultimately sets the Doctor on the path to rebellion. The plot may be simple, but the themes are sharp, the characters are strong, and the visuals elegantly echo the cold, clinical beauty of Gallifreyan design. This is a crucial stepping stone in fleshing out a once-mysterious incarnation—and a worthy companion to her few televised and audio appearances.

A MISSION WITH STRINGS ATTACHED

At its core, Origins is a mission story: the Fugitive Doctor is dispatched by Division to track down and stop a rogue cult believed to pose a threat to Gallifrey. She’s partnered with a freshly graduated Time Lord, Taslo—a regulation-loving, gun-toting rookie whose devotion to the High Council is both her strength and her blind spot. The comic thrives on their chalk-and-cheese dynamic. The Fugitive’s sharp wit and disdain for bureaucracy contrast brilliantly with Taslo’s indoctrinated loyalty and trigger-happy nerves.

What elevates this beyond a basic team-up is how clearly it signposts the Fugitive’s disillusionment with Time Lord society. When the Doctor realises that Gallifrey's elite is willing to exterminate entire Time Lord colonies for perceived ideological impurity, the seeds of rebellion are sown. This isn’t just a mission gone wrong—it’s a moral reckoning, and a significant pivot point in the Doctor’s mythos. Her defiance here draws a straight line to the character we later meet in Fugitive of the Judoon and the broader Timeless Child arc.

TASLO AND THE DOCTOR: TWO PATHS DIVERGE

Taslo emerges as more than a simple foil—she becomes the emotional core of the arc. Torn between her duty and the Doctor’s conviction, she undergoes a quiet transformation. When push comes to shove and she’s ordered to execute the Doctor, her hesitation allows the truth to come to light. Her redemption is small but sincere, and while the story doesn’t linger on her future, the suggestion that she might follow the Doctor’s path—however cautiously—adds depth to what could have been a throwaway sidekick.

Houser writes the Fugitive Doctor with clear affection. Her dialogue drips with righteous cynicism, rebellious charm, and simmering frustration. Jo Martin’s performance is easy to hear in your head as you read, with that commanding presence and deadpan delivery preserved in every line.

STRONG FOUNDATIONS, SIMPLE STRUCTURE

The comic’s structure is neat and straightforward. Issue #1 offers a fun Division briefing (always welcome), #2 and #3 form the meat of the mission, and #4 brings the ideological reckoning and fallout. If there’s a drawback, it’s that the mission itself doesn’t pack much tension. The cult, the chase, and the central conflict play out in predictable beats, and there’s little sense of threat throughout.

Still, the stripped-back plot allows the spotlight to fall where it matters—on character and theme. This is less about suspense and more about showing why the Doctor turns her back on Gallifrey. It's a prelude, not a standalone epic.

INGRANATA’S ART: CLINICAL ELEGANCE

Roberta Ingranata’s art is clean, confident, and evocative—particularly in the design of the TARDIS interior, rendered with a luminous, blue-tinted alienness that sets it apart from other incarnations. The alien world is intriguing if somewhat static, with the action scenes never quite leaping off the page. Still, it complements the script’s cerebral tone.

The biggest frustration is that Origins ends just as things are getting interesting. The closing pages tease further stories—perhaps audio-bound—but never overpromise. It's a tantalising goodbye that both satisfies and leaves you wishing for more.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 8/10

Origins is a thoughtful, well-structured introduction to the Fugitive Doctor’s journey toward rebellion. While the action may lack punch, the themes of disillusionment, conscience, and identity shine through in both script and art. A compelling piece of Fugitive’s fragmented history—and a perfect springboard for further adventures.

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"CLAWS OF THE MACRA – CHOOSE YOUR OWN CRABVENTURE"

Trevor Baxendale’s Claws of the Macra claws its way into the more promising half of the Decide Your Destiny range, offering a fast-paced, intermittently thrilling, and surprisingly ecological choose-your-own-adventure. With a solid opening premise and some genuinely engaging decision points, it almost delivers the kind of interactive excitement the series often struggles to achieve—but ultimately crumbles under the weight of its rushed finale, muddled tone, and squandered monster potential.

GAS, CLAWS, AND CLIFFHANGERS

Rather than launching the story in the TARDIS as most of these books do, Claws of the Macra kicks off with a refreshing change: you’re on a school trip to a gas refinery. It’s not the most glamorous setting, but it grounds the story in a relatable and appropriately industrial atmosphere—perfect for a tale involving sinister gas-guzzling crustaceans. The early pages offer you immediate agency, with a handful of solid choices that actually feel like they matter, plunging you into mystery, peril, and some classic Doctor Who-style tight spots.

The Doctor is written fairly well—flailing, brilliant, and energetic in that Eleventh Doctor way—and his banter is consistent throughout the various branching narratives. The ecological messaging, while clumsily tacked on, gives the plot a commendable bit of moral texture. The Macra, for once, aren’t just mindless monsters; their role in absorbing poisonous gases offers a thin but welcome twist to their usual rampaging. There’s even a decent explanation for their presence here—this is less an invasion than a negotiation.

WHEN THE MACRA BARELY SHOW UP

Unfortunately, this promising premise doesn’t reach its full potential. The Macra may be the title stars, but they’re barely seen—relegated to one fairly exciting attack scene and a closing conversation where they suddenly become humanity’s unlikely pollution partners. It's a bizarre tonal shift, especially considering they were just terrorising schoolchildren.

The real issue lies in the structure. After building up the tension and offering some interesting diversions, the story abruptly rushes to an unsatisfying ending. Amy barely contributes—often sidelined depending on your path—and the final “twist” involving a new professor character is so hastily introduced and resolved that it barely registers. The ending is a damp squib: no real climax, just a vague agreement with deadly crustaceans and the Doctor waving goodbye like it's all perfectly normal.

Some versions of the story wrap up with troubling implications left unexamined—like the fact that the Macra have now formed a "problematic symbiotic relationship" with Earth after traumatising a group of schoolkids. And no one seems to mind. Not even Amy. It’s hard not to feel like the narrative quietly gives up just when it should be ramping up.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

Claws of the Macra is one of the more functional Decide Your Destiny outings, and it deserves credit for an engaging start, meaningful decisions, and a welcome return for a classic monster. But it's let down by minimal monster action, poor pacing in the final stretch, and an ending that feels morally murky and emotionally flat. A decent claw-swipe at greatness that sadly pulls its punches.

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"ICONS: CHARLES DARWIN AND THE SILURIAN SURVIVAL – WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE (AGAIN)"

L. D. Lapinski’s Icons: Charles Darwin and the Silurian Survival plunges the Tenth Doctor into a quintessentially Doctor Who scenario—a tropical island, eminent scientists, and subterranean lizard people vying for dominion over Earth’s future. The premise is golden: Darwin’s voyage to the Galápagos collides with a hidden Silurian scientific outpost beneath the islands. If that sounds familiar, it’s because Bloodtide, a 2001 Big Finish audio, did almost exactly that—with the Sixth Doctor. And, unfortunately, this novella doesn’t do quite enough to differentiate itself.

DARWIN MEETS DINOSAURS (SORT OF)

On paper, this is a delightful concept. The Tenth Doctor’s barely-contained fanboy glee at meeting Charles Darwin is a treat, capturing the manic energy and historical reverence that defined his era. There’s a certain dramatic irony in the Doctor having to carefully sidestep telling Darwin just how pivotal he’ll be to human understanding of life—especially while standing next to giant lizards who predate humanity.

The inclusion of a scientific Silurian outpost, separate from the usual militaristic interpretations, is a refreshing twist. These Silurians aren’t ready to wake up just yet, but they are actively monitoring Earth from the shadows, raising ethical questions about responsibility, cohabitation, and history’s trajectory. Darwin earns their respect not through force or argument, but via his awe for the natural world—a quiet moment that encapsulates the thematic heart of the piece.

There’s even a cute meta-commentary on the Silurians’ ever-changing designs over the decades, chalked up to evolution. Nice touch.

TALKING THROUGH TIME

Lapinski writes with vivid, textured prose, but often to a fault. Pages are bogged down with over-explanation, historical context, and reiterations of time-travel consequences. We’re reminded again and again that this meeting between Darwin and the Silurians shouldn’t be happening—and yet nothing ever really comes of that tension. The drama, like the island-sinking threat, remains theoretical rather than tangible.

There’s also a lopsided dynamic at play. The Doctor spends much of the novella talking at Darwin, explaining Silurian history, the dangers of temporal paradoxes, and the various gadgets he’s licking. Darwin—brilliant as he is—mostly responds with wide-eyed curiosity or expository questions. While in-character for a young, still-developing Darwin, it renders him more of an audience surrogate than an active participant.

Meanwhile, the Silurians themselves are mostly benign and professional, and their doomsday device (sinking the islands to preserve secrecy) never gets anywhere close to being activated. The plot coasts on goodwill and dialogue without ever truly building momentum. Even the Doctor’s solution is standard-issue tinkering—useful, yes, but dramatically flat.

DARWIN’S OTHER TIMELINE

The one true nod to Bloodtide comes late in the game, as the Doctor briefly wonders if he’s done this before. A clever wink, but not enough to mask the overlap. And if Bloodtide was Shakespearean tragedy, Silurian Survival is a polite seminar—pleasant, well-meaning, but lacking in urgency.

That said, the novella does try to do something thoughtful. It’s less about peril and more about philosophy—what it means to be a custodian of Earth, the delicate tightrope of first contact, and the burden of history, especially when you know how it ends.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

Icons: Charles Darwin and the Silurian Survival is a well-meaning, dialogue-heavy novella that coasts on the strength of its historical guest star and the novelty of scientific Silurians. It captures the Tenth Doctor well and offers some neat thematic wrinkles, but it falls short of generating any real excitement. The stakes remain abstract, the resolution neat and bloodless, and Darwin himself is more a vehicle for exposition than a driving force in the story. Worth a read for completionists and Ten fans, but not quite the icon it aims to be.

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"FREE COMIC BOOK DAY 2022 – DOLLS, DIVISION, AND A DOCTOR IN DISGUISE"

Jody Houser’s short comic from Free Comic Book Day 2022 serves as a brisk, colourful glimpse into the Fugitive Doctor’s shadowy past with the Division. While slight in scope and substance, it teases some delicious lore at the edges and ends with a tantalising nod to the very beginning of Doctor Who itself. At a lean few pages, it doesn’t try to change the world—but it does prod at its hidden corners.

MONSTERS IN THE CLUBHOUSE

The story drops us into 1962, just a year before the Doctor would famously take Susan and flee in a police box. A group of children, living out their Secret Seven fantasies in a treehouse, discovers their new dolls have come to life—and they’re not here for tea parties. These creatures, colourful hybrids that look like Stitch crossed with a troll doll, are aliens who plan to strip Earth of its metals and flog them on the intergalactic black market. Because of course they are.

Enter the Fugitive Doctor, still in the employ of the Division, assigned to intercept this threat. Despite the setup, she does very little. The actual capturing of the aliens is done by the four kids—completely unarmed and barely developed as characters—who trap the creatures with a minimum of fuss. It's amusing, but also undercuts any tension. If Earth can be saved by a bunch of tweens with a sack and a bit of string, one wonders why the Division sent the Doctor at all.

THE DOCTOR, THE DOLLS, AND THE DIVERSION

What saves this tale from throwaway obscurity is the ending. After completing her non-event of a mission, Fugitive muses that Earth is “quaint” but that “the people are nice,” hinting at a fondness that will (perhaps) one day blossom into rebellion. Then, in a final splash page, the comic jumps forward exactly one year—to 1963—as the First Doctor and Susan appear in the same wooded location, suggesting this was where they’d hidden the TARDIS before the series began. It’s a neat little continuity Easter egg, quietly advancing the (still unconfirmed) theory that the Fugitive Doctor precedes Hartnell in the Doctor’s timeline.

That moment, brief as it is, adds a level of intrigue and connectivity to the wider canon. It’s a clever use of the comic format to bridge eras without shouting about it. And while Fugitive isn’t deeply characterised here—she mostly observes, comments, and delivers the final quip—she retains an air of cool authority and untapped potential, much like Jo Martin’s portrayal on screen.

A VISUALLY BRIGHT BUT NARRATIVELY FLAT OUTING

Artistically, the comic is bright and polished but nothing extraordinary. The designs of the aliens are fun but silly, never quite feeling like a threat. The 1962 setting—a children’s treehouse in a wooded glade—isn’t given much detail, and the story breezes through its events too quickly to develop mood or suspense.

The fact that the monsters pretend to be dolls before springing to life isn’t really explained either. It’s a good horror trope—à la The Twilight Zone or Toy Story gone rogue—but without any in-story justification, it just feels like a gimmick.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

Free Comic Book Day 2022 is a minor tale in the grand scheme of Doctor Who storytelling, but it’s not without charm. While the plot is featherlight and the kids forgettable, the Fugitive Doctor’s presence and the final Hartnell-era tease give the story a retroactive importance that elevates it above mere fluff. A curio for lore fans, but not essential reading.

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"THE WORLD TREE – A GENTLE LOOP OF MEMORY, TIME, AND SACRIFICE"

Nick Slawicz’s The World Tree, a Paul Spragg Memorial Short Trip, is a quiet, meditative tale that blossoms into something quietly profound. It finds its power not in galaxies conquered or monsters vanquished, but in a small garden, an old woman, and a Time Lord who keeps his promises. With Lisa Bowerman narrating and lending her voice to both whimsy and weight, this is a Doctor Who story that gently lingers in the heart.

ONE OLD LADY, ONE TIMELORD, ONE VERY LARGE TREE

The premise is deceptively simple. A mysterious alien tree—the titular World Tree—has rooted itself in Nora’s back garden and begun expanding at an exponential rate. If left unchecked, it could engulf the planet. The Eleventh Doctor intervenes, trapping the garden and surrounding area in a time loop while he searches for a way to contain or remove the growing threat. The problem? It takes decades.

At the centre of this narrative is Nora, a widowed elderly woman with memory problems and a kind, determined heart. She’s portrayed beautifully in Bowerman’s narration—warm, sharp in spirit even when her mind falters, and full of understated wisdom. Nora immediately clicks with the Eleventh Doctor, and their dynamic is the beating heart of the story. She is a kindred spirit, reminiscent of Evelyn Smythe in both warmth and quiet strength, making it all the more tragic that she spends forty-six years reliving the same day in the time loop.

And yet—she chooses it. That’s what makes the story so poignant. Nora is given the opportunity to leave, but opts to remain in the loop to keep the World Tree company until it can be safely removed by the Great Arboretum. She doesn't want the creature to be alone, so she chooses to stay, even as her life quietly slips away. In return, the Doctor promises her a daily holographic companion—himself.

A TIMELY GUEST AND A TIMEY-WIMEY TREE

Slawicz ties the story’s sci-fi elements into its emotional themes of memory, identity, and loneliness. The World Tree becomes a metaphor for Nora herself—growing older, increasingly unrecognisable, but still full of life and value. The use of the time loop is both literal and figurative, reflecting how people with dementia can experience time in disjointed, repetitive ways, while also enabling the Doctor’s clever solution.

There’s also a tantalising moment that gives this Short Trip historical significance: a brief scene in which a dark figure—heavily implied to be the Fifteenth Doctor—appears outside the time bubble to help the Eleventh Doctor. Due to licensing restrictions, it’s never made explicit, but the suggestion is thrilling and subtle, a tiny brushstroke of the show’s broader mythos on an otherwise intimate canvas.

TALKY, TRICKY, BUT TOUCHING

As with many Short Trips, there is a heavy emphasis on narration over action. Much of the plot is relayed through dialogue and reflection, which may slow the pacing for some. The tree itself—while a potent symbol—is never fully explained. It’s there, it threatens, it vanishes. But perhaps that ambiguity is intentional; the story is less about the alien danger than about the human connection forged around it.

The only major quibble lies in the portrayal of the Eleventh Doctor—Bowerman’s performance captures the spirit but doesn’t quite match the vocal eccentricity and bounce of Matt Smith’s incarnation. At times, he sounds more like a young Third Doctor. Still, the writing gets Eleven’s compassion and playful brilliance spot on.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 7/10

The World Tree is a melancholic but hopeful tale—small in scope but grand in emotion. It highlights the strength of the Paul Spragg Short Trips as a format for quiet, reflective storytelling. With Nora’s heartbreaking kindness, a tree that almost eats the world, and the Doctor keeping vigil through holograms, it blossoms into something special.

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"ICONS: FRIDA KAHLO AND THE SKULL CHILDREN – A DAY OF THE DEAD WITH DATA DEMONS"

Sophie McKenzie’s Icons: Frida Kahlo and the Skull Children is a thoughtful if uneven novella that daringly blends historical biography, Mexican folklore, and high-concept sci-fi in a tale that pits the Doctor and Frida Kahlo against a gang of binary-coded body-snatchers. It’s a welcome attempt to spotlight one of history’s most iconic artists in the Doctor Who universe, even if the execution occasionally falls short of the ambition.

SKULLS, SENSATIONS, AND SINGULARITIES

The story opens with a simple but refreshing premise: Frida Kahlo, still recovering from the traumatic bus accident that changed her life, is drawn into an alien incursion when the Doctor turns up in 1920s Mexico chasing strange energy signatures. These signatures lead to the titular Skull Children—schoolchildren transformed by an alien presence into ghoulish, skeletal husks with rictus grins, a twisted echo of Día de los Muertos imagery that gives the opening chapters a satisfyingly creepy tone.

The alien presence behind this is Talbak, a member of a digital lifeform known as the Caretans. These AI entities, born from an asteroid that crashed into Earth alongside the one that killed the dinosaurs (and Adric, in a nice continuity nod), seek to understand organic sensation and emotion by forcibly inhabiting human bodies. It’s a Cyberman-like threat wrapped in existential curiosity, and the story is at its strongest when it contrasts the cold logic of the Caretans with the vibrant chaos of human life—particularly the pain, art, and defiance embodied by Kahlo.

Frida, in fact, becomes the story’s emotional and narrative anchor. Still processing her physical trauma, she is haunted, proud, and already beginning to walk the path of the artist and rebel she’ll later become. The novella wisely centres her experience, letting her be the one to solve the emotional puzzle at the heart of the story, while the Doctor (here written slightly passively) functions more as a narrative instigator.

CULTURE CLASH AND COMPUTER CODE

McKenzie’s fusion of historical and futuristic elements is bold, and mostly works. The Skull Children—underused, unfortunately—provide a strong horror hook, while the philosophical question of whether emotion can be “uploaded” or simulated gives the story thematic weight. Frida’s broken body and indomitable spirit are powerfully contrasted with the Caretans’ desire to bypass pain altogether. It’s no coincidence they choose Frida as their ideal host—her relationship with pain is deeply human and thoroughly defiant.

There’s also a quietly touching undercurrent of grief and memory. Talbak and its ilk are essentially digital orphans, looking for meaning in physicality. The fact that their asteroid is the same one that destroyed the dinosaurs ties in Doctor Who lore in an unexpected and almost poetic way.

A VIRTUAL FINALE WITH LOW STAKES

The novella, however, loses momentum in the middle, with a stretch inside the TARDIS that sags under the weight of exposition. Once Talbak reveals its plan, the plot hits autopilot. There’s a VR-simulated solution, a corrupted offshoot named Kappa that refuses to cooperate, and a final confrontation that plays out more like a software patch than a dramatic climax. Kappa is “reset,” the danger ends, and the Caretans are given a digital paradise to inhabit—neat, tidy, and a little underwhelming.

The Doctor’s role is disappointingly low-key—she’s sidelined for much of the action, serving more as a sounding board for Frida than an active participant. And while there’s mention of Frida’s family, they’re peripheral at best. Even Mexico City, with all its cultural richness, feels like it’s mostly window dressing.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE: 6/10

Icons: Frida Kahlo and the Skull Children is a thoughtful and sometimes beautiful novella that brings a historical icon into the world of Doctor Who with sensitivity and imagination. While the alien menace and plot resolution don’t quite land with the impact they could, Frida’s portrayal and the eerie atmosphere of the Skull Children make this a worthy, if slightly uneven, first entry in the Icons series.

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"VELVET HUGS – A LOVE LETTER FROM JO TO THE WORLD"

Katy Manning’s Velvet Hugs is less a traditional story and more a heartfelt meditation—a patchwork memoir told in Jo Grant’s unmistakable voice, weaving together her past, present, and future into a single tender monologue. Written in first person, it blurs the line between fiction and autobiography, creating something that feels deeply personal, if not always dramatically compelling.

A LIFE FULL OF LOVE, LAUGHTER, AND LOAM

Told as if Jo herself were looking back on her extraordinary life, the piece takes us from her childhood dreams through her world-saving travels with Cliff, right up to her continued (and slightly secretive) work for UNIT in her later years. Manning, ever attuned to the emotional truth of Jo, paints a vivid picture of a woman who’s never stopped believing she can make a difference—whether in the Amazon rainforest or on an alien planet.

There’s something deeply comforting about this vision of Jo: still active, still passionate, and still herself. Manning’s affection for the character is plain in every line—so much so that at times it’s hard to tell where Jo ends and Katy begins. That’s the charm, and also occasionally the drawback.

A WHIRLWIND LIFE, WITH A FEW NODS TO FRIENDS

The narrative is episodic and fragmentary, capturing moments rather than building a cohesive plot. We’re given reflections on Jo’s early UNIT training (a lovely touch), her globe-trotting adventures with Cliff, her ever-growing family, and even a surprise visit from Doctor Who’s most outrageous time-traveller, Iris Wildthyme, who turns up to tell a young Jo that her life is going to be “very exciting indeed.”

The standout moment comes near the end, when Jo recalls the day she joined UNIT—having passed a grueling year-long training programme and being assigned to “assist” one Doctor John Smith. It’s a delightful beat that brings her story full circle and roots it firmly in the Whoniverse.

And, in a lovely final grace note, Manning hints that Jo may still be working undercover for UNIT, now under Kate Stewart’s leadership. It’s a quiet way of acknowledging that some heroes never really hang up their velvet jackets.

A VELVET HUG, BUT A SLIGHTLY FLAT ONE

While all this is endearing, it won’t be for everyone. There’s little in the way of plot or tension, and the biographical tone—charming as it is—means that dramatic stakes are virtually non-existent. It’s a reflective piece rather than an adventure, and that may leave readers hoping for more traditional storytelling a little underwhelmed.

Jo’s passion for environmentalism and her belief in hope and kindness are central themes, but the prose occasionally leans too heavily into sentimentality without offering much narrative movement.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Velvet Hugs is a gentle, affectionate tribute to Jo Grant, written with unmistakable sincerity by the woman who brought her to life. It’s not a riveting read, but it is a warm one—a velvet-soft reflection on a life well lived. It won’t thrill, but it might make you smile.

6/10

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"CLARA OSWALD AND THE ENCHANTED FOREST – MEMORY, MAGIC, AND MISCHIEF"

Jasbinder Bilan’s Clara Oswald and the Enchanted Forest sets out to explore the teenage years of one of Doctor Who’s most complex companions—but ends up feeling more like a brief diversion than a meaningful origin story. While it captures the essence of young Clara’s spirited defiance, it struggles to justify the surreal adventure at its core.

A HALLOWEEN DETOUR INTO THE UNKNOWN

Clara, still a teenager and already showing signs of the boldness that would one day define her TARDIS journeys, defies her mother’s instructions and heads off to a Halloween party with a friend. But when a detour into the woods takes her to a strange, otherworldly version of the forest, her friend is swiftly written out of the narrative and never seen again—an odd choice that drains the early setup of any emotional weight.

This enchanted forest is home to a white wolf and a lion—mysterious symbols, perhaps, but without context or explanation, they serve more as vague atmosphere than meaningful metaphor. The setting is brimming with potential, but Bilan doesn’t take the time to explore it, leaving the reader with more questions than answers.

A DOCTOR IN SEARCH OF HIS CLARA

Matt Smith’s Eleventh Doctor makes a brief but welcome appearance, continuing his ongoing search for “the right” Clara—a neat tie-in to his arc in Series 7. He’s written very accurately, full of whimsical energy and cryptic compassion, and the scene in which he meets this “wrong” Clara is a highlight of the story. It feels like a genuine Eleventh Doctor moment, full of curious sadness and fleeting connection.

But this encounter is fleeting and mostly decorative, like the rest of the sideways reality. It’s all very dreamlike—but without enough clarity or purpose to make it emotionally resonant. The story seems unsure of what it wants the forest or the creatures within it to symbolise, and without a deeper metaphor or narrative payoff, it becomes style over substance.

YET ANOTHER MEMORY WIPE

And then, as if following a rulebook for Origin Stories, everything is neatly reset. A memory wipe sweeps away the events of the story, leaving Clara with only a faint trace of her forest adventure. It’s a trope that’s rapidly becoming tired across this collection, and here it feels especially unsatisfying, erasing what little emotional impact the story might have had.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Clara Oswald and the Enchanted Forest is a curious, meandering little tale with a few bright spots—chiefly in its depiction of Clara’s youthful spark and a pitch-perfect cameo by the Eleventh Doctor. But its central mystery is too vague, its stakes too low, and its resolution too convenient. In the end, like the forest itself, the story vanishes into mist.

5/10

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"THE GIRL WHO TORE THROUGH THE UNIVERSE – AMY, RORY, AND A RAGGEDY HOLE IN THE HEART"

Nikita Gill’s The Girl Who Tore Through the Universe is a tender, emotionally rich tale that captures the aching loneliness and fiery determination of a young Amy Pond. Long before the Doctor crashes back into her life, we find her grappling with the residue of her encounter with the Raggedy Man, clinging to the belief that he was real while adults around her insist otherwise. It’s the perfect snapshot of the girl who waited—curious, stubborn, and wounded.

THE GIRL WHO WON’T LET GO

Amy’s teenage years are presented with sincerity and melancholy. She haunts the school library, studying science books not out of academic ambition but to make sense of the impossible man who once dropped into her garden. The prose leans into her loneliness and need to believe—to prove that her memory isn't madness. It’s a beautifully observed depiction of a girl trying to reconcile trauma with hope.

Rory Williams, meanwhile, is exactly how he should be at sixteen: awkward, earnest, and smitten. He’s well characterised as a gangly, soft-hearted teen, happy to follow Amy down whatever rabbit hole she digs—even if he’s clearly baffled by it all. The dynamic between the two already hints at the roles they’ll later play: Rory as the loyal companion, Amy as the fearless seeker of wonder.

A HOLE TO ANOTHER WORLD

The plot spins out in true Doctor Who fashion when Amy hears of an old manor linked to Isaac Newton and his experiments with dimensional doors. The story revels in its quietly fantastical premise—this isn’t loud, universe-shattering sci-fi, but something intimate and mythic. The manor, the portal, and the brief foray into another reality feel both ancient and strange, like something out of a Moffat fairytale.

Then comes the twist: Amy meets her long-dead mother in that parallel world and, driven by longing, brings her back. The story takes an emotional turn here, using sci-fi not for spectacle but for catharsis. The danger that reality will unravel if her mother stays adds urgency, but it’s the emotional cost that makes it sing. Amy has to choose between impossible joy and devastating responsibility—and Gill makes you feel every beat of it.

RAGGEDY MEMORY, RAGGEDY MAN

The story’s biggest strength is how it adds to Amy's internal mythology. We see how the Doctor's brief appearance shaped her world, and how Rory’s quiet, unassuming goodness helped anchor her. Her realisation, after parting with her mother again, that Rory is always there—kind, patient, true—hits with quiet power. This is where the roots of their relationship are gently but meaningfully laid.

There’s also something appropriately tragic in the idea that the Doctor leaves a wake behind him—children chasing shadows, broken hearts, and minds full of stars. Amy isn’t just waiting; she’s searching, even tearing holes in the universe to find meaning in what happened to her.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Girl Who Tore Through the Universe is one of the standouts in the Origin Stories collection. Nikita Gill delivers a lyrical, heartfelt portrait of a young Amy Pond on the cusp of heartbreak and wonder. While the plot is simple, the emotional resonance is anything but. It’s a tale of grief, hope, and friendship—of what it means to lose everything and still believe the impossible is real.

8/10

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"THE SECRET OF NOVICE HAME – A LAST WHISPER ON NEW EARTH"

Russell T Davies closes Adventures in Lockdown with a gentle farewell in The Secret of Novice Hame, a quiet, contemplative coda that reconnects us with one of New Earth’s most enduring characters. It’s not a bombastic adventure or a grand finale—it’s a reflective sigh, a fading memory in the final moments of a life well lived.

A DEATHBED CONFESSION… ALMOST

We find Novice Hame, once the feline-faced nurse of New Earth and Gridlock, nearing the end of her life. She lies in a hospice, reflecting on the paths she’s taken and the transformations she’s endured, as the world she helped preserve flourishes around her. As her breath shortens, she waits for the one person who might truly understand her: the Doctor.

And he does come. In what is implied to be his Tenth incarnation, during his last lap of goodbyes (The End of Time style), the Doctor visits Hame one last time. It’s a touching moment, one that rewards long-time viewers with a sense of quiet closure. The feline nun who once guarded secrets beneath New New York dies in peace.

Except… she has a secret. Something she’s never shared, something she’s been meaning to tell him. And just as she’s about to, death steals the moment. The Doctor—and we—are left forever wondering.

A CAT'S CRADLE OF NOSTALGIA

There’s a wistful tone here that suits Davies’ strengths as a writer. His knack for conjuring emotion in small, resonant beats is in full effect, painting Hame not as a sci-fi oddity but as a soul whose life was shaped by kindness, sacrifice, and quiet strength. He even gives us a soft recontextualisation of the New Earth stories—not just as Doctor Who oddities filled with cat people and body-swapping, but as episodes that had heart, and characters who lived beyond the frame.

This isn't an essential story, nor does it attempt to be. It’s a bonus scene, a deleted epilogue, a last visit to a familiar face. It doesn’t seek answers—quite the opposite, in fact. It ends on a mystery. That whisper of a secret that dies with Hame is a Davies flourish: an unresolved thread that turns into an echo, haunting and poetic.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Secret of Novice Hame is a whisper rather than a roar—a reflective, melancholic farewell that rewards long-time fans of the Tenth Doctor era but offers little beyond mood and memory. It's not essential, nor is it especially gripping, but it has heart. A soft, feline purr of a story to close out Adventures in Lockdown.

5/10

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"WETWORLD – SLIMY SWAMPS, SMART OTTERS, AND MISSING MARTHA"

Mark Michalowski’s Wetworld opens with a splash—literally—as the TARDIS sinks into the swampy surface of Sunday, an aptly soggy human colony planet. With Martha dragged away by a tentacled creature and separated from the Doctor, it promises a high-stakes, atmospheric tale of survival and alien intrigue. Unfortunately, like the titular planet, it quickly gets bogged down in shallow waters.

SLIPPERY START, STICKY MIDDLE

It’s to the book’s credit that the setting is vividly realised. The planet of Sunday, still reeling from a recent flood that decimated its early settlers, is all dank textures, oppressive humidity, and murky swamps. The swamp world has a distinct Power of Kroll flavour, albeit with more otters and fewer giant calamari. There's an almost Fury from the Deep-like edge to the story, as slimy creatures lurk in the wetlands and human colonists begin behaving… strangely.

We get some charming nods to Doctor Who past: the psychic paper identifies the Doctor as “Madam Romana” at one point and later as an Earth Adjudicator, gently tying in with Colony in Space-era lore. And yes, we’ve been here before—a troubled human colony hiding some bio-horror secret—but the setup, involving intelligent otters and mind-warping slime, at least aims for a fresh spin.

MARTHA’S MISSING MOMENTS

Sadly, for a story featuring Martha Jones, she’s often criminally underused. After being snatched early on and dumped in a slimy nest of high-IQ otters, she spends far too long in a cycle of being rescued, falling unconscious, hospitalised, and then sidelined. Even when she does something significant—like succumbing to the alien influence or leading a furry army of otters—it feels like a footnote in a narrative far more concerned with exposition and colony politics.

When Martha finally does take centre stage, it’s to cure the possessed Doctor (of course he gets possessed—it’s practically in the Ten-era job description) and help lead the charge against the slime. But by this point, she’s been absent so long, her sudden reappearance lacks weight.

TEN GOES SLIME MODE

Speaking of the Doctor: something’s a bit off about Ten here. While Michalowski nails some of the verbal quirks and manic energy, he often reduces him to glib remarks and occasionally has him come across as uncharacteristically dismissive of Martha’s questions. His possession by the slimy intelligence—complete with bestial regression—is a classic narrative detour but ultimately serves little purpose. It’s a means to an end: revealing the alien’s motives, which we could have guessed already.

And while the psychic paper gets a clever use as a memory recovery tool (nice touch), the rest of the plot falls into a predictable rhythm: colony leader gone mad (Pallister, irritated delightfully by the Doctor’s deliberate mispronunciations), strange experiments, corrupt intentions, and the all-too-familiar “let’s build a bomb and spread across the stars” finale.

OF OTTERS AND OTHER ODDITIES

The supporting characters are a mixed bag. Candice Kane is a name that screams “Bond girl parody,” and doesn’t rise far above it. Ty is likeable enough but forgettable. Col and Orlo are standard-issue filler. The most memorable new characters are, amusingly, the psychic otters. They're cute, learn to speak, and end up pivotal in the climax. It’s a strange delight seeing Martha leading her own otter army against the sentient slime.

There’s a nugget of an interesting idea here—animal intelligence rising as humans regress—but it’s buried under thick description, sluggish plotting, and a general lack of urgency. The overly florid writing style may evoke a fully fleshed world, but it also drags the pacing to a crawl.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Wetworld has an intriguing premise and a vividly described setting, but never quite capitalises on its potential. The narrative meanders, Martha is frustratingly sidelined, and the Doctor doesn’t feel entirely himself. A few fun moments—psychic paper tricks, cute otters, classic references—keep it afloat, but only just. It’s a story that sinks under the weight of its own swampy sprawl.

5/10

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"VAMPIRE WEEKEND – HENS, TRUTHS, AND A BLOODSUCKER IN THE DRAWING ROOM"

After a long wait, Jodie Whittaker and Mandip Gill finally make their Big Finish debut in Vampire Weekend, a lively, sinister, and very Thirteenth Doctor-style tale penned by Tim Foley. Set during the gap between Revolution of the Daleks and Flux, this is a story that manages to be both a zippy reunion comedy and a gothic murder mystery—with chickens. Naturally.

A HEN DO TO DIE FOR

The premise is delightfully absurd and perfectly in tune with the tone of the Thirteenth Doctor era. Yaz, reconnecting with her earthbound life, heads off to a hen do with her old mates—only to have the Doctor crash it, hens in tow (named Ian and Barbara, of course). What begins with awkward small talk and guitar-backed car rides soon escalates into comas, missing friends, and a shape-shifting vampire on the loose. It’s The Unicorn and the Wasp by way of Knives Out, with a bit of State of Decay for good measure.

Foley’s script keeps the tone light but layered, using comedy and banter to ease listeners into the creeping dread. Yaz is the emotional anchor, and it’s a pleasure to see her back at the forefront. Her dynamic with the Doctor feels relaxed, with years of experience evident in how she handles strange goings-on. There’s also emotional friction with Zoya, a rival for Yaz, which adds human tension to the paranormal plot.

FANGS FOR THE TRUTH

The central twist—that the vampire feeds not on blood but truths, infecting others through unwanted confessions—is a brilliant genre subversion. The idea of weaponised honesty is both clever and thematically rich, especially in a group of friends reuniting after time apart. There’s comedy in the chaos (and a few hens clucking about), but also an underlying melancholy: the notion that some truths are too painful to bear, and some friendships don’t survive full honesty.

The vampire being a Great Vampire, a call-back to the ancient Gallifreyan enemies first introduced in State of Decay, adds scope and mythos to what is otherwise a contained whodunit. The reveal that the vampire is the dead dog—a gloriously weird twist—is both shocking and hilarious. The moment it kills Barbara the chicken is genuinely unsettling, in the way only Doctor Who can manage when it turns the absurd into the horrific.

The script smartly uses the classic country house setting, but doesn’t rely too heavily on it—though it must be said, the atmosphere could’ve been painted more vividly. The tone, music, and pacing, however, feel absolutely of a piece with the Chris Chibnall era, especially in how the tension builds gradually through banter, confessions, and disappearances.

TIME, TRUTH, AND TENSION

Jodie Whittaker’s return is triumphant. She slides straight back into Thirteen’s motor-mouthed, effervescent energy, and Mandip Gill is clearly relishing a Yaz who’s grown in confidence and competence. The script taps into Yaz’s experiences and her loyalty, setting up intriguing new dynamics now that Graham and Ryan are gone. There’s also a nice hint of mystery brewing beneath the surface, as the vampire’s ability to time-travel raises future questions.

The resolution is tidy but perhaps too easy—the vampire, once discovered, doesn’t put up much resistance. The climax lacks the grandeur of the best finales, but the journey is entertaining enough to forgive that. And while some characters blur together vocally (especially with Kat and Zoya voiced by the same actress), the ensemble still lands the comic and emotional beats with panache.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Vampire Weekend is a sharp, funny, and occasionally creepy return for Thirteen and Yaz, capturing the warmth and weirdness of their era while introducing fresh story concepts. With hens, truths, a whodunit structure, and a dog-shaped vampire, it’s a wonderfully Doctor Who sort of absurd. Tim Foley once again proves he understands the rhythm of a good character comedy wrapped in sci-fi horror. It's a strong opener that promises good things for this long-awaited audio era.

8/10

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"DOCTOR JONES – MARTHA’S FUTURE, BUGS IN THE PAST, AND A TEMPORAL IDENTITY CRISIS"

Doctor Jones by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé offers a well-meaning if somewhat uneven origin tale for Martha Jones—clever, capable, and on the cusp of becoming the extraordinary woman who'll walk the Earth. Set just before she takes her A-levels, this is a story of identity, pressure, and choices wrapped in a sci-fi package that plays with Doctor Who motifs but never quite lands the emotional or narrative punch of its inspirations.

A BRIGHT YOUNG MIND IN A STRANGE LITTLE SHOP

Àbíké-Íyímídé presents Martha at a crossroads: she’s bright, observant, and already thinks like a doctor, but remains uncertain whether to pursue medicine. The story grounds her in a strong, believable family dynamic—especially her relationship with her mother, Francine. Their interactions crackle with realism, capturing both affection and frustration. It’s a good foundation for exploring how Martha becomes the woman we meet in Smith and Jones.

The story’s sci-fi kicks in when Martha stumbles into a strange little shop with a shopkeeper who looks both ancient and youthful—and who coughs up insects. It's creepy and compelling, with unsettling imagery that lingers. The parallels to Smith and Jones are deliberate and effective: the isolated, displaced location, the feeling of being cut off from the world, the slow realisation that time and space are being tampered with. There’s also a touch of The Shakespeare Code, as Martha ends up in 1692 Salem and is promptly accused of witchcraft. It’s a clever echo of her future adventures, albeit one that’s not fully explored.

BUGS, BRANCHES, AND THE DOCTOR

The alien threat, a time termite that shifts timelines and takes on human forms, is a functional if familiar concept. It provides the excuse for time travel and the crisis at hand, but it’s not the most memorable antagonist. The stakes never feel especially high, and the resolution—surprise, it’s a memory wipe and a timeline reset—is too neat and too familiar, especially in a collection that’s already seen multiple stories end this way.

The Ninth Doctor makes an appearance here, but it’s a fleeting one and not entirely successful. His dialogue doesn’t quite capture Eccleston’s sharp, manic intensity, and his presence feels more functional than dramatic. He’s here to deliver exposition and pull Martha out of danger, but we’re left wondering whether this cameo really adds anything to the tale beyond ticking a continuity box.

SALEM AS WINDOW DRESSING

The biggest missed opportunity is the Salem setting. The infamous 1692 witch trials are fertile ground for tension, fear, and historical commentary—but the story doesn’t do much with it. The girl Martha meets in the prison cell is barely developed, and Salem itself is little more than a backdrop for a short escape scene. It’s a fascinating period, reduced here to a single beat in an already overstuffed narrative.

Still, there's something satisfying in seeing Martha’s moral clarity and compassion shine through. She doesn't need a sonic screwdriver or time travel knowledge to make a difference—she helps people, questions what’s wrong, and finds the courage to confront things others would run from. That, more than the time termites or witch trials, is what sells her future as the Doctor’s companion.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Doctor Jones is a passable but unremarkable piece in the Origin Stories anthology. While it successfully captures Martha’s intelligence and compassion, the sci-fi elements feel underbaked, the Salem setting is squandered, and the Ninth Doctor’s cameo doesn’t quite land. It’s a story with a strong emotional core but a wobbly sci-fi frame, ultimately worth reading for its character insights rather than its plot mechanics.

6/10

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"THE BIG SLEEP – VASTRA, DINOSAURS, AND A DEADLY COUNTDOWN TO HIBERNATION"

In The Big Sleep, Dave Rudden gives us something quite rare in the Doctor Who universe: a Vastra-led tale set entirely in prehistoric Earth, before she ever met the Doctor. It’s a bold and thoughtful story of murder, justice, and extinction, taking place against the ticking clock of a civilisation about to go into slumber for millions of years. But while the premise is fresh and the world-building ambitious, the execution occasionally struggles under the weight of its own lore.

MURDER AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Rudden’s decision to explore Vastra’s origins in the time of the Silurians and dinosaurs is inspired. Here, the world is lush and dangerous, and the Silurian society is at its height—elegant, hierarchical, and facing an apocalyptic threat. It’s a setting bursting with detail, where the grandeur of civilisation is met with the looming certainty of planetary doom. There’s something deeply compelling about a murder mystery set in a city shutting down for the end of time.

At the centre of this tale is Vastra, young but resolute, a Silurian detective unwilling to abandon justice even as her people prepare to sleep through the oncoming extinction event. It’s a great angle on her character: her refusal to look away from injustice, her determination to bring murderers to justice, and her sense of duty even when others are prioritising survival. Her clash with her superiors—who would rather let crimes go unsolved than delay hibernation—adds tension, even if the stakes never quite reach a boiling point.

DINOSAURS, DEATH, AND DECEPTION

One of the highlights of the story is a thrilling confrontation between Vastra and a Deinonychus—a scene that injects a jolt of action and reminds us that, yes, this is a world of dinosaurs. More than just a fun set piece, it underscores the physical danger Vastra faces, reinforcing her bravery and skill as a warrior long before she became the poised detective of Victorian London.

The other standout character is High Priest Acracan, Vastra’s wise and humble mentor. His decision to enter stasis among the common people rather than claim privilege feels both noble and quietly radical. It makes the eventual twist—that Acracan is the murderer, killing off criminals to prevent them from joining the new world—land with real weight. It’s a classic twist, but it works well here precisely because he’s so likeable. His motivation, while extreme, is rooted in his desire to shape a better future.

WORLD-BUILDING FATIGUE

Rudden’s attempt to create a fully realised Silurian culture is admirable. He populates the world with alien customs, unfamiliar terminology, and a deep sense of history. But the sheer volume of invented vocabulary and dense exposition can feel overwhelming at times. It sometimes pulls the reader out of the narrative, especially when the core mystery could have used more pace and urgency. While it’s intellectually interesting, it’s not always emotionally gripping.

The central murder mystery, while solid, doesn’t quite crackle with suspense. There's a sense of inevitability about it all—perhaps a reflection of the hibernation countdown—but it robs the story of narrative energy in places. It’s less of a thrilling whodunnit and more of a quiet, respectful farewell to an era. That’s not inherently a flaw, but those expecting a fast-paced detective yarn may find it a little sedate.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Big Sleep is an atmospheric and thoughtful glimpse into Vastra’s past, filled with unique world-building and a compelling central conflict. While it occasionally buckles under the weight of its own lore and lacks a real spark of danger, the character work—especially between Vastra and Acracan—shines through. As an origin tale, it succeeds in showing the roots of Vastra’s unshakeable moral compass. It's not the most exciting story in the collection, but it’s certainly one of the most original.

6/10

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"MURMURATION – BIRDS, MEMORIES, AND A SCARF IN PERIL"

Mark Griffiths’ Murmuration, from Origin Stories, is a brisk, slightly surreal slice of Doctor Who that pitches teenage Sarah Jane Smith against a possessed flock of carnivorous birds—and a fleeting encounter with none other than the Fourth Doctor. It’s a short story bursting with nostalgic energy and gothic undertones, even if its conclusion feels like it chirps away a little too neatly.

THE GIRL WHO ASKED QUESTIONS

Set in Sarah Jane’s school days, the story gives us a glimpse of the inquisitive, bold, and stubborn young woman who would one day become one of the Doctor’s most beloved companions. From the get-go, Sarah Jane is sharp and probing, peppering the strange man with a scarf with all the right questions. Her curiosity and fearlessness are entirely in character, and Griffiths effectively shows how she always had the mind of a journalist—even before UNIT and outer space.

The Doctor himself is written with a delightful sense of authenticity. Tom Baker’s voice practically booms off the page, full of eccentric charm and exasperated wisdom. One of the funniest beats in the story involves his infamous scarf causing him to trip—a rare but hilarious case of his wardrobe working against him, and a clever reversal of his usual dramatic grandeur.

CROCUSES, MURMURATIONS, AND MURDEROUS BIRDS

Then there’s Crocus Pinker—a name that sounds like it stepped out of The Beano—who serves as Sarah’s smug school rival. It’s a brilliant moniker for a snooty antagonist, and it sets the tone for a story that straddles the line between childhood fantasy and body-horror-lite. The central threat, a murmuration of birds possessed by an alien intelligence, is genuinely eerie. It echoes Hitchcock’s The Birds but adds a sci-fi twist, with the avian swarm devouring people whole.

The concept is fantastically grotesque, and the imagery is strong. However, the execution leaves something to be desired. After a chilling build-up, the alien menace is rather anticlimactically dispatched—literally turned off with the flick of a dial. For a foe that eats humans alive and speaks through flocks of starlings, it’s a disappointingly tidy resolution.

MEMORY WIPE WITH A TWIST

Like many origin stories in this collection, Murmuration falls back on the well-worn memory-wipe device to preserve continuity. But to its credit, this one attempts a new spin on the trope. The Doctor explains it not as a telepathic trick or chemical fix, but as a correction of corrupted timelines—the universe itself course-correcting a paradox. It’s not wildly original, but it adds a faint shimmer of legitimacy to an otherwise overused tool.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

Murmuration is a charming, slightly macabre tale with flashes of wit, nostalgic warmth, and a surprisingly grisly central idea. Its strength lies in the vivid portrayal of a young Sarah Jane and an excellently voiced Fourth Doctor, but it’s let down by a perfunctory climax and another predictable memory wipe. Still, it’s a fun little story that perches nicely among the Origin Stories collection—even if it never quite takes full flight.

6/10

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"THE LAST OF THE DALS – A CHILDHOOD DAVROS TALE THAT TRAVELS DARK PATHS"

Temi Oh’s The Last of the Dals, from Origin Stories, dares to do something few Doctor Who stories have ever attempted: humanise Davros. Not the unhinged creator of the Daleks, nor the raving, half-machine dictator of Skaro—but Davros the child. And somehow, against all odds, it works. By painting a portrait of the infamous villain as a young boy with hope, conviction, and curiosity, Oh creates a layered, unsettling narrative about destiny, choice, and the thin line between good intentions and monstrous outcomes.

THE BOY WHO COULD HAVE BEEN GOOD

Davros here is not the megalomaniacal figure we’ve seen in Genesis of the Daleks or The Magician’s Apprentice. He is presented as a brilliant, idealistic young boy, living with his mother amidst the desolation of the Kaled–Thal war. He wants to end the conflict, not perpetuate it. He dreams not of extermination, but of peace and purpose. That tension—between who he is and who we know he’ll become—drives the entire story and gives it a powerful tragic weight.

What’s clever is how Oh uses Davros’ youthful intellect and moral questioning to build sympathy without ever fully redeeming him. He’s clearly a special child, but also one with shadows gathering around his heart. His conversations with Elwyn—an idealist who serves as both guide and warning—reveal a boy teetering on the brink between salvation and damnation.

SKARO REIMAGINED

Oh’s descriptions of Skaro are vivid and immersive. The radioactive wilderness, ruined cities, and bleak landscape are brought to life with almost mythic detail. A particular highlight is the scene where Davros and Elwyn traverse the Lake of Mutations, their boat attacked by decaying hands reaching from beneath the surface. It’s pure gothic horror and evokes imagery from The Lord of the Rings’ Dead Marshes or Harry Potter’s inferi-infested cave. Skaro becomes a character in its own right—unforgiving, twisted, and hauntingly atmospheric.

The structure of the story is almost quest-like: a journey through the wastes to the Dal city, a confrontation with the truth of Davros’ future, and an inevitable betrayal. Along the way, we get effective action beats and some quieter, philosophical exchanges that ask timeless Doctor Who questions about time, destiny, and whether knowledge of the future can truly change it.

“I WON’T BECOME THAT”

The beating heart of the story lies in Davros’ confrontation with a holographic prophecy: a vision of his future as the twisted creator of the Daleks. His horror at what he might become is palpable—and for a brief moment, we’re led to believe he might defy fate. But fate, or perhaps character, wins out in the end.

The final twist—where Davros lets Elwyn fall to his death, either through intent or convenient inaction—chills the blood. It’s a small but crucial moment, revealing that the seeds of the Davros we know are already sprouting. He’s still a child, but already calculating, already ruthless when it suits him. This is not a neat redemption arc. It’s the shaping of a monster.

AN IMPOSSIBLE UNIVERSITY?

There are, admittedly, elements that might cause lore purists to raise an eyebrow. The inclusion of a Skaroan university, for instance, is jarring in the context of a planet supposedly devastated by a centuries-long war. Likewise, Davros living a semi-normal domestic life with his mother feels slightly at odds with his famously grim origins depicted in Genesis of the Daleks and further explored in Big Finish’s Davros.

Still, Oh acknowledges the canon's murkiness by referencing The Magician’s Apprentice, where Davros' child-self was also briefly seen. This is a tale that doesn’t seek to rewrite continuity, but to deepen the emotional and psychological understanding of its subject.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

The Last of the Dals is a surprisingly poignant and atmospheric take on Davros’ youth, one that plays with the mythic trappings of Skaro while delivering a character study that’s as tense as it is tragic. It may stretch believability in parts, but its thematic strength, strong structure, and evocative prose more than make up for it. A bold, haunting addition to Doctor Who’s ever-growing tapestry of “what made the monster.”

8/10

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"MY DADDY FIGHTS MONSTERS – DAUGHTER, DEFENDER, AND A LEADER-IN-THE-MAKING"

Dave Rudden’s My Daddy Fights Monsters, from the Origin Stories anthology, zooms in on a childhood Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, long before she became UNIT’s cool-headed leader and global defender of Earth. In place of invasions or cosmic catastrophe, this tale delivers something far more intimate and affecting: the messy, complicated reality of growing up in a broken home, shadowed by secrets and shaped by silence.

It’s an origin story with heart, handled with the care and nuance befitting the future leader of UNIT—and it features a truly memorable alien too.

A SCHOOLGIRL WITH A SOLDIER’S SPIRIT

What immediately stands out is Kate herself—not as the commanding officer we know, but as a perceptive, sharp, and emotionally intelligent schoolgirl. Rudden cleverly sketches out her precocious duality: a young girl adept at standing up to bullies but paralysed by stage fright during presentations. That contradiction already hints at the woman she’ll become—capable, brave, yet marked by the emotional distance required to survive a complex childhood.

The focus of Kate’s inner world is her missing father, the Brigadier. She doesn’t know the truth—only that he’s gone more often than he’s home, and her mother, Fiona, spins stories to cover the absences. There’s a rich emotional vein running through this dynamic, with Kate aware of the falsehoods but too hurt to confront them, and Fiona equally caught in the web of duty, love, and regret. It’s not just about Kate’s beginnings—it’s about a fractured family trying to make sense of the life the Brigadier’s role has forced them into.

AN ASSESSOR IN THE HOUSE

Enter the alien: the Assessor, a member of a spy species that clones people’s appearances, slips into their lives, and gathers data. What makes this invader fascinating is that it's not here to conquer or destroy—it just wants to learn. But what it learns is what makes the story so powerful.

By impersonating Kate's teacher, the Assessor gains a front-row seat to Kate’s emotional pain. Rudden does a superb job making the alien oddly sympathetic. Despite being a psychic spy wrapped in a cloned skin, the Assessor is riddled with self-doubt and anxiety. It is moved by Kate and Fiona’s strained relationship and becomes, in a way, an accidental therapist as it absorbs their grief, their hopes, and their resilience.

And in a surprising twist, it’s Kate who defeats it—not with action, but with reason. She simply convinces the Assessor that they don’t know anything of importance about the Brigadier or the Doctor. There’s no laser blast, no chase through corridors—just human truth standing strong against alien manipulation.

LOVE, LOSS, AND TRUTH BENEATH THE MONSTERS

The story’s strength lies in its emotional intelligence. Fiona’s fables about the Brigadier’s exploits aren’t just lies—they’re acts of love. Kate’s mistrust isn’t just teenage angst—it’s protective pain. And the Assessor, though alien, becomes a lens through which we see the toll taken by secrecy and sacrifice.

There’s a particularly touching moment where Kate realises Fiona isn’t trying to hide the truth to be cruel—she’s hiding it because she misses him too. That moment of shared vulnerability marks the beginning of healing, and Rudden handles it with warmth and elegance.

MISSED CONNECTIONS

Despite being billed as Kate’s origin story, the narrative often shifts focus to Fiona and the Assessor. While that doesn’t ruin the experience, it does blur the edges of Kate’s arc slightly. This could easily be called My Mummy Misses Monsters, given how much screen time Fiona commands. Additionally, while the Assessor is a compelling creation, one wonders why Rudden didn’t simply use the Slitheen—already established shapeshifting aliens with Earth infiltration plots. The Assessor is original, yes, but not so different that it couldn’t have leaned into existing lore more strongly.

📝THE BOTTOM LINE:

My Daddy Fights Monsters is a heartfelt, quietly resonant piece about grief, identity, and growing up in the shadow of heroism. Though it meanders slightly in its focus, it still manages to deliver a beautifully drawn portrait of a young Kate Lethbridge-Stewart and the fractured world that shaped her. Its emotional power is matched by the sensitivity of its prose, and while it may be light on action, it’s rich in feeling. 7/10.