One flash of light but no smoking pistol
Romana (the Time Lady, not the fallen angel) has settled into life at the Conrad - as best as you can when your entire species has been wiped out in the blink of an eye. It's taken some adjusting, and, in the process, she's learnt a bit about controlling her new powers, so the next person to hug her won't end up with a jaguar in their face. (To be fair, the Doctor probably deserved it.) She's not crazy about Earth, but she believes the Doctor when he says that they're stuck here for the immediate future.
At the moment, she's in an easy chair in a corner of the common room, a stack of thick books about government and politics on the floor next to her. She looks absorbed in her reading, but that doesn't mean that she isn't paying attention to everything around her, as well.
Brighid Sheridan has been avoiding Grant Park since Bambi's crucifixion. She normally likes to keep her head down. The narration would say that's how she survived two world wars, but that would be a lie, as she was safely away from the fighting both times. This, she thinks as she stares at where the cross once was, jamming her hands in the pouch of her sweatshirt, is more of a danger to her than mortals' wars. It makes her shoulderblades prickle, and she hunches them unconsciously as the wind blows her hair into her face. And then she gets a mouthful of hair, and she flails and sputters a little, trying to get it out. Way to ruin the dramatic moment, wind.
Alex Drake has been pointedly ignoring this date since the beginning of October. She'd thought about just trying to sleep through it entirely, but inaction has never been her thing. Instead, she's spending a day out on the town, window-shopping and getting her hair done. She wanted a perm, but the hairdresser gave her a disgusted look - and then told her that her hair was already too damaged to have much of anything done to it. So she had it all lopped off. It's a weird feeling, the breeze off of Lake Michigan blowing cold on the back of her neck. She hasn't had hair this short for as long as she can remember.
Come evening, or at least when she judges it's late enough to start getting thoroughly smashed, Alex finds her way to the Luna Bar. She's already made a good start on a bottle of red wine; her gloves have been stripped off and are on the arm of the sofa, and she's resting her free hand in her lap. She's busy not thinking about what happened a year ago today. Twenty-eight years ago today. Both.
At the moment, she's in an easy chair in a corner of the common room, a stack of thick books about government and politics on the floor next to her. She looks absorbed in her reading, but that doesn't mean that she isn't paying attention to everything around her, as well.
Brighid Sheridan has been avoiding Grant Park since Bambi's crucifixion. She normally likes to keep her head down. The narration would say that's how she survived two world wars, but that would be a lie, as she was safely away from the fighting both times. This, she thinks as she stares at where the cross once was, jamming her hands in the pouch of her sweatshirt, is more of a danger to her than mortals' wars. It makes her shoulderblades prickle, and she hunches them unconsciously as the wind blows her hair into her face. And then she gets a mouthful of hair, and she flails and sputters a little, trying to get it out. Way to ruin the dramatic moment, wind.
Alex Drake has been pointedly ignoring this date since the beginning of October. She'd thought about just trying to sleep through it entirely, but inaction has never been her thing. Instead, she's spending a day out on the town, window-shopping and getting her hair done. She wanted a perm, but the hairdresser gave her a disgusted look - and then told her that her hair was already too damaged to have much of anything done to it. So she had it all lopped off. It's a weird feeling, the breeze off of Lake Michigan blowing cold on the back of her neck. She hasn't had hair this short for as long as she can remember.
Come evening, or at least when she judges it's late enough to start getting thoroughly smashed, Alex finds her way to the Luna Bar. She's already made a good start on a bottle of red wine; her gloves have been stripped off and are on the arm of the sofa, and she's resting her free hand in her lap. She's busy not thinking about what happened a year ago today. Twenty-eight years ago today. Both.