(no subject)
Enter a tired-looking young woman, simultaneously throwing her keys in the direction of a nonexistent table and shrugging out of her coat.
It's been a tough few days, with friends and lovers lost and restored and lost again, so she can be forgiven for not noticing her changed surroundings until the keys clatter to the floor with a muted thunk.
There's an almost resigned look on her face as she takes in the ornate lobby, folding her arms and - in a strident Welsh accent - demanding, "What the bloody hell is this, now?"
Typist: Gwen Cooper, from Torchwood.
It's been a tough few days, with friends and lovers lost and restored and lost again, so she can be forgiven for not noticing her changed surroundings until the keys clatter to the floor with a muted thunk.
There's an almost resigned look on her face as she takes in the ornate lobby, folding her arms and - in a strident Welsh accent - demanding, "What the bloody hell is this, now?"
Typist: Gwen Cooper, from Torchwood.