an afternoon in the gallery
Who: The Fifth Doctor & Jilly Coppercorn
What: Catching up, and getting away
When: Tuesday afternoon
Where: The gallery
Rating: PG? PG-13 at the most, if the murder gets discussed
The Doctor had had the slowly sickening feeling of being in a pressure cooker on low for the last couple of weeks, as the clues rolled in. For all their filters and all their caution, some part of him had known it was only a matter of time before Riful and her brood realized that they were being plotted against, and took some kind of action. And now, a good man was dead. It didn't matter a whit to him that he'd be back to life in two weeks - a murder was a murder, and the Doctor knew that many of his friends felt the same way.
All the same, there was only so much that he could do before wearing himself thin. When he started seeing the sample strips of Riful's flesh even when he closed his eyes to rest them, when his subconscious wove filters around every thought in case it needed to be written down ... he knew it was time for a breather. And where normally he would take the TARDIS and run ... he didn't have that luxury. He needed to find a place where he could relax, but still be available at a moment's notice. So, taking up his hat and a bottle of water for the hot weather, the Doctor made his way down into town, not really caring where his feet took him.
It was surprising, and yet no surprise at all, when he found himself in front of the gallery doors. He took a moment to cap his water bottle and stow it away in a pocket - for the safety of the art within, of course - and then strode inside to quietly wander among the pieces, and lose himself, letting his own perception of the art get tangled up in idle guesses at the thoughts and intentions of the artists.
What: Catching up, and getting away
When: Tuesday afternoon
Where: The gallery
Rating: PG? PG-13 at the most, if the murder gets discussed
The Doctor had had the slowly sickening feeling of being in a pressure cooker on low for the last couple of weeks, as the clues rolled in. For all their filters and all their caution, some part of him had known it was only a matter of time before Riful and her brood realized that they were being plotted against, and took some kind of action. And now, a good man was dead. It didn't matter a whit to him that he'd be back to life in two weeks - a murder was a murder, and the Doctor knew that many of his friends felt the same way.
All the same, there was only so much that he could do before wearing himself thin. When he started seeing the sample strips of Riful's flesh even when he closed his eyes to rest them, when his subconscious wove filters around every thought in case it needed to be written down ... he knew it was time for a breather. And where normally he would take the TARDIS and run ... he didn't have that luxury. He needed to find a place where he could relax, but still be available at a moment's notice. So, taking up his hat and a bottle of water for the hot weather, the Doctor made his way down into town, not really caring where his feet took him.
It was surprising, and yet no surprise at all, when he found himself in front of the gallery doors. He took a moment to cap his water bottle and stow it away in a pocket - for the safety of the art within, of course - and then strode inside to quietly wander among the pieces, and lose himself, letting his own perception of the art get tangled up in idle guesses at the thoughts and intentions of the artists.