(no subject)
This is probably several levels of illegal in a city like this, a strange man in far too much tweed stumbling out of a smoking box and coughing and waving a hand in front of his face, stumbling drunkenly across cracked pavement until he's slumped against a stone wall. The TARDIS doors wide open, the poor box stowed between a Mexican restaurant and a fetish clothing shop, and his bowtie's askew.
"Well, that's not fifteenth century Russia at all."
It's HERE again, and it's not his first time - alternate universes are rarely scheduled, and though he's been finding himself in them more often than should be allowed, this one kept popping up, why, why did it keep popping up? There was nothing particularly alien or off about it, it was just. Wrong overall, but that was how it was, and how was he to stop that? Some societies baked their first child into a pie as good luck for their upcoming batches of children, he wasn't about to stop them. Baby, they were born this way. "Oh, you," he scolds the rocks still, straightens and sweeps his hair out of his face with a flick of his head as he eyes the graveyard in front of him, doesn't miss for a moment the gaunt girl in rags and fishnet ducking behind a stone, a glowing blue vial trapped tight in her fingertips like a bar of gold.
Maybe she likes it here. Maybe she wants him to do something about it, but he's never asked her. "You old bat, you're not in the condition to be doing all this universe traversing. Universing, if you want it to be a verb," he scolds the TARDIS next, just as the door slams shut, and he flicks a thumb at the handle. "Well, don't be short with ME!" He turns back to the street. He straightens his bowtie. He fixes a gaze up and beyond, on that familiar billboard flashing that same woman in her tight leather corset, her feathered sleeves, her voice of a bird, and her dead, cold eyes.
"GeneCo."
Welcome back.
"Well, that's not fifteenth century Russia at all."
It's HERE again, and it's not his first time - alternate universes are rarely scheduled, and though he's been finding himself in them more often than should be allowed, this one kept popping up, why, why did it keep popping up? There was nothing particularly alien or off about it, it was just. Wrong overall, but that was how it was, and how was he to stop that? Some societies baked their first child into a pie as good luck for their upcoming batches of children, he wasn't about to stop them. Baby, they were born this way. "Oh, you," he scolds the rocks still, straightens and sweeps his hair out of his face with a flick of his head as he eyes the graveyard in front of him, doesn't miss for a moment the gaunt girl in rags and fishnet ducking behind a stone, a glowing blue vial trapped tight in her fingertips like a bar of gold.
Maybe she likes it here. Maybe she wants him to do something about it, but he's never asked her. "You old bat, you're not in the condition to be doing all this universe traversing. Universing, if you want it to be a verb," he scolds the TARDIS next, just as the door slams shut, and he flicks a thumb at the handle. "Well, don't be short with ME!" He turns back to the street. He straightens his bowtie. He fixes a gaze up and beyond, on that familiar billboard flashing that same woman in her tight leather corset, her feathered sleeves, her voice of a bird, and her dead, cold eyes.
"GeneCo."
Welcome back.