(Untitled)
From the first day Gwen had arrived on the island, she had heard about strange occurrences. Not that being there in the first place wasn't odd enough. The winter weather that marked her entire first month on Tabula Rasa had been one of those strange occurrences, yet it was the more seemingly-minor events that had affected her the most. The
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Everyone else had home: Melbourne, London, Princeton, Cardiff, any number of ships. The Doctor had the TARDIS. And he knew her in... Well, the descriptives were too verbose, really, and sounded like a romance novel down at Woolworth's. Suffice it to say, he knew her better than anything, and had given up most hope of ever seeing her again. He wasn't certain what he would do if he did.
He was asleep, actually, taking a catnap with a dog in his own room in an attempt to reclaim it for pleasant memories (and also to give Rob just a bit of breathing room), when the sound started: slowly at first, quiet, then louder. His eyes flew open in the first two seconds, and he lay very very still, hushing Atalanta and blinking off sleep.
"This isn't funny," he murmured to himself. But he kept hearing it, and so he went down to give whomever it was making the noise what for, and padded out the door in a t-shirt and boxers. It was not a very ignominious beginning.
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"Alright, then, magical box," she addresses it, both arms wrapped securely around her dubious parcel. "What do you do, exactly? Can I use you to phone home?" Gwen thinks not. She also thinks she may be going round the twist if she's standing in the middle of the jungle talking to a telephone box. Still, she steps forward and gives the door a tug.
"Oh, of course you'd be locked," she tells it when the door won't budge. "Wouldn't want anyone stealing your directory. Owen could be lurking about, he's got a thing for phone books."
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This thought was abolished when he saw that she was talking to something blue, fairly large, and slightly abraided by the ravages of time. And holding something, but whatever, who gave a shit about that?
He looked at them, walked up, looked some more, and looked as if he wasn't certain what he was going to do, but it was going to be loud and involve jumping up and down, happiness or sadness or anger. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?" Atalanta chimed in with a few barks.
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There's an irate Doctor staring at her, with a puppy yipping excitedly at his feet. Well, Gwen thinks he's irate. Difficult to tell, really, and for a long moment she simply peers back.
"I thought that was obvious. I've gone mad," she announces, and then looks over her shoulder at the box. "I'm standing in the jungle with a severed hand in a jar, talking to a police box." When she looks back round at him, her expression is almost unsettlingly pleasant. "It was only a matter of time, I suppose. I fully expect it to start raining bon-bons any moment now."
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If he couldn't feel her, though, what did that mean about trying to turn her on? Make her go? Even though he wanted to take everyone who wanted to go, made the promise...something was telling him that if the only reason he could tell she was here were his few human senses, there was little hope for that.
He reached around his neck and pulled out a chain with a key and a gold ring on it, fetched the key, and opened the door. Motioning them inside, he continued. "Come on, both you lot. What's this about a severed hand?"
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