theatrical_muse #200: "Visions of Johanna" lyrics
Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
pre-"Rose"
One day (or week, or month, or minute--it's so very hard to tell), he stands out in the worst storm the city of Tal'krama has seen yet in its history just because he can.
The planet Vega Prima, he remembers, is very watery and vaguely Earth-like. Storms brew over the oceans and blow up the coasts frequently, varying from light rain to horrible monsoons at the drop of a hat. This city has stood for quite some time, but the powerful ones always catch people by surprise.
Something in him tells him that this should be found as beautiful. The raw power of nature around him. Tree branches straining in the powerful gusts. Debris swirling about freely. Rain pounding like needles, harsh and cold and refreshing.
Empty streets.
If he walks out farther, he knows he'll see the ocean waves beat upon the shore like angry fists, clawing at the ground to get a hold and pulling back for another go. Though the wind stings and threatens to send him hurtling off, he starts off in that direction.
Something tells him it should be beautiful, in its own strange way, and he agrees. It should be. The clouds are not the blurred dark grey of Earth hurricanes; instead, they are a pale green. Something about the plant-life and various other chemicals in the water, which wasn't really H2O to begin with, but that wasn't the point. Flashes of blue flicker about in them, but lightning never strikes ground, merely hops between clouds or even shoots higher skyward. The rumbling is the same, though, if farther away.
Nature taking over. He almost can't make out any buildings around him. It's rage in the form of weather patterns. It's balance attempting to be regained. But he's impassive toward it all. The rain does nothing to cool him off, even when his jumper gets soaked through, even when he can't help but shiver. Invisible burns are still too hot to douse and smother completely. And vaguely he wonders if he'll be unlucky enough to get hit by some quickly-passing bit of carbonate sheet torn violently from any number of vehicles or buildings not already reinforced. Considering the close proximity of the last large bit of deadly projectile that hurtled by him, he figures his chances are higher than one would normally like.
But he's careful, nevertheless. On the lookout, just in case. He can hear the waves now, an awful, awesome roar in the short distance. And then he hears another sound, one of frightened crying, moaning, yelling.
The streets are empty save for him and a child.
Huddled pathetically beneath the awning of a closed shop is a child, frightened out of his wits and barely protected. The reasons as to why the child had been left there or gotten pinned there by the storm are not important now, merely the fact that said child should not be out in the storm at all. Just like him.
He makes his way to the child and scoops him up gently, and little arms clutch him for safety. There is a proper shelter, a safe haven, only a few blocks back from where they are; he passed it on his way. The rest of the storm is waited out there among strangers--and family.
No, the storm is not beautiful, he decides, when the rain seems to lighten some, and the boy is eventually reunited with his parents within the shelter. This is what's beautiful. Maybe there was a reason for his arriving here, but he doesn't care. That makes it sound like fate. But there's a big grin on his face when the father towels off his child and the mother is so thankful that she's in tears.
The storm passes, and, only somewhat dry himself, he makes his way back to the TARDIS. Something tells him that he should be hurting, that the guilt that always eats at him should be returning full-force. But he isn't, and it doesn't. That something will be right, eventually, but right now, it's the life he saved that matters most and fills him with enough joy to last him until his next trip.
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
pre-"Rose"
One day (or week, or month, or minute--it's so very hard to tell), he stands out in the worst storm the city of Tal'krama has seen yet in its history just because he can.
The planet Vega Prima, he remembers, is very watery and vaguely Earth-like. Storms brew over the oceans and blow up the coasts frequently, varying from light rain to horrible monsoons at the drop of a hat. This city has stood for quite some time, but the powerful ones always catch people by surprise.
Something in him tells him that this should be found as beautiful. The raw power of nature around him. Tree branches straining in the powerful gusts. Debris swirling about freely. Rain pounding like needles, harsh and cold and refreshing.
Empty streets.
If he walks out farther, he knows he'll see the ocean waves beat upon the shore like angry fists, clawing at the ground to get a hold and pulling back for another go. Though the wind stings and threatens to send him hurtling off, he starts off in that direction.
Something tells him it should be beautiful, in its own strange way, and he agrees. It should be. The clouds are not the blurred dark grey of Earth hurricanes; instead, they are a pale green. Something about the plant-life and various other chemicals in the water, which wasn't really H2O to begin with, but that wasn't the point. Flashes of blue flicker about in them, but lightning never strikes ground, merely hops between clouds or even shoots higher skyward. The rumbling is the same, though, if farther away.
Nature taking over. He almost can't make out any buildings around him. It's rage in the form of weather patterns. It's balance attempting to be regained. But he's impassive toward it all. The rain does nothing to cool him off, even when his jumper gets soaked through, even when he can't help but shiver. Invisible burns are still too hot to douse and smother completely. And vaguely he wonders if he'll be unlucky enough to get hit by some quickly-passing bit of carbonate sheet torn violently from any number of vehicles or buildings not already reinforced. Considering the close proximity of the last large bit of deadly projectile that hurtled by him, he figures his chances are higher than one would normally like.
But he's careful, nevertheless. On the lookout, just in case. He can hear the waves now, an awful, awesome roar in the short distance. And then he hears another sound, one of frightened crying, moaning, yelling.
The streets are empty save for him and a child.
Huddled pathetically beneath the awning of a closed shop is a child, frightened out of his wits and barely protected. The reasons as to why the child had been left there or gotten pinned there by the storm are not important now, merely the fact that said child should not be out in the storm at all. Just like him.
He makes his way to the child and scoops him up gently, and little arms clutch him for safety. There is a proper shelter, a safe haven, only a few blocks back from where they are; he passed it on his way. The rest of the storm is waited out there among strangers--and family.
No, the storm is not beautiful, he decides, when the rain seems to lighten some, and the boy is eventually reunited with his parents within the shelter. This is what's beautiful. Maybe there was a reason for his arriving here, but he doesn't care. That makes it sound like fate. But there's a big grin on his face when the father towels off his child and the mother is so thankful that she's in tears.
The storm passes, and, only somewhat dry himself, he makes his way back to the TARDIS. Something tells him that he should be hurting, that the guilt that always eats at him should be returning full-force. But he isn't, and it doesn't. That something will be right, eventually, but right now, it's the life he saved that matters most and fills him with enough joy to last him until his next trip.