0066. 30kft. [spam.]
(( Okay! First comment is reserved for Coyolxauhqui. The deck in question is meant to be empty, save for her. After her initial spam comment, those who see him in there are welcome to spam here, or if Coyol makes an announcement of him COMING BACK AND DYING FOR NO GOOD REASON OTHER THAN IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME, then people can come on account of that too :3 Whatever happens, his communicator was destroyed in the previous explosion. A proper journal will go up tomorrow when he can ask someone to ask the Admiral for a new one. Til then, HAVE AT THEE. bonus points for caught title reference. ))
[Somewhere, on a conveniently unmanned deck, the familiar squeal of the TARDIS touching down may or may not be heard. Those familiar with TARDIS ships and their empathic properties, however, would know the shriek of agony running like an undercurrent through the squeal. Unfortunately, the deck in question is nowhere near another Time Lord, nor companion.
She lands on her side, her flickering laboured, and the light at her top shudders out rather than simply fading. She's hurt, and badly.
The door slams open, the wooden panel bouncing on the floor, and the space behind the frame spews forth a grappling pair of men. No, a grappling pair of beings- one is a man, surely, or looks like one at any rate: the Doctor has discarded his cricket whites, it seems, in favour of a severe black uniform. In better days, it could be described as a classical brigadier's dress uniform, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, but it has definitely seen better days: singed, tattered in places, and stained with blood- although the blood can really only be seen on the gold braid trim. The other seems like a man swathed in tinfoil. His headdress is a great mess of tubes, wires, and pipes, and his face is covered in scuffed steel.
The struggle is harsh, and somehow, a ray gun finds its way into the wrong hands, if it hadn't already been. A laser shoots into the TARDIS through the door, and another empathic shriek rips through the ether around them. A word she no longer has the capacity to translate is shouted. Another shot, a creak, and a snap... and the silver man's head lolls peacefully off his shoulders, hanging by a mere coil. The Doctor staggers back, a great deal of his outer side gone and, if the uniform were any other colour to show it, his ribcage crushed into a sickening pit in his chest. He sags against the upended edge of his ship and pulls the door shut, trying to focus long enough to find his key. When he regenerates, he'll be back, and she'll have at least been able to start mending herself. If he can only lock up...
When he goes to his knees, he gives a dazed glance around and, seeing the vague shape of a woman nearby, manages to look perplexed.]
Clear... not safe for you...
[Somewhere, on a conveniently unmanned deck, the familiar squeal of the TARDIS touching down may or may not be heard. Those familiar with TARDIS ships and their empathic properties, however, would know the shriek of agony running like an undercurrent through the squeal. Unfortunately, the deck in question is nowhere near another Time Lord, nor companion.
She lands on her side, her flickering laboured, and the light at her top shudders out rather than simply fading. She's hurt, and badly.
The door slams open, the wooden panel bouncing on the floor, and the space behind the frame spews forth a grappling pair of men. No, a grappling pair of beings- one is a man, surely, or looks like one at any rate: the Doctor has discarded his cricket whites, it seems, in favour of a severe black uniform. In better days, it could be described as a classical brigadier's dress uniform, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, but it has definitely seen better days: singed, tattered in places, and stained with blood- although the blood can really only be seen on the gold braid trim. The other seems like a man swathed in tinfoil. His headdress is a great mess of tubes, wires, and pipes, and his face is covered in scuffed steel.
The struggle is harsh, and somehow, a ray gun finds its way into the wrong hands, if it hadn't already been. A laser shoots into the TARDIS through the door, and another empathic shriek rips through the ether around them. A word she no longer has the capacity to translate is shouted. Another shot, a creak, and a snap... and the silver man's head lolls peacefully off his shoulders, hanging by a mere coil. The Doctor staggers back, a great deal of his outer side gone and, if the uniform were any other colour to show it, his ribcage crushed into a sickening pit in his chest. He sags against the upended edge of his ship and pulls the door shut, trying to focus long enough to find his key. When he regenerates, he'll be back, and she'll have at least been able to start mending herself. If he can only lock up...
When he goes to his knees, he gives a dazed glance around and, seeing the vague shape of a woman nearby, manages to look perplexed.]
Clear... not safe for you...