[open] [location: variable] I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower...
Hands stuffed in his suit-coat pockets, the Doctor strolls through the streets of Taxon, occasionally striking up a conversation with the newly arrived people in the city, but for the most part he keeps to himself, observing the city with dark eyes and a slow, easy gait. Walking comes easily to the Doctor, probably more than most people. He used to run all the time, and was probably a little healthier for it. Now, he only walks, more of an ambling shuffle than a proper walk. He walks because he has nothing to do, nowhere to be, no one to fight with [or for, now that he thinks about it] and nowhere to run to. When his life got boring in his younger years, he'd hop in the TARDIS and rocket deliberately into trouble, practically feeding on peril and excitement to keep his mind from wandering anywhere but the present moment.
Which brings him to why he's walking. Something about the constant motion helps him focus. He counts by the Fibonacci sequence in his head, recites the universal table of elements, practices Gallifreyan higher physics in the back of his head. Sometimes he recites Shakespeare or Milton when he's alone on his path. Now and again, he stops. He stops to appreciate Taxon's facade of beauty; the Italian architecture coated with the artificially soft shimmer of sunset, terra cotta rooftops and adobe walls almost glowing in the mid-evening light. It's a shame it's largely fake, really.
The Doctor has been places so much like this, seen people just like these new people wandering the streets. It was easier when the city was dead. It was easier to believe he was trapped somewhere hostile, that the environment really was out to get him, and that he had to defend himself and keep sequestered in the only safe environment he knew of in this place. Now it's been months spent alone in the TARDIS, and nothing's happened. Nothing dangerous. Nothing violent. Nothing difficult.
It's simply been breathe, think, live. No turmoil. No peril. No excitement, and no companions to share any of those things with.
The Doctor moves through the crowded streets, alone with his thoughts.
Which brings him to why he's walking. Something about the constant motion helps him focus. He counts by the Fibonacci sequence in his head, recites the universal table of elements, practices Gallifreyan higher physics in the back of his head. Sometimes he recites Shakespeare or Milton when he's alone on his path. Now and again, he stops. He stops to appreciate Taxon's facade of beauty; the Italian architecture coated with the artificially soft shimmer of sunset, terra cotta rooftops and adobe walls almost glowing in the mid-evening light. It's a shame it's largely fake, really.
The Doctor has been places so much like this, seen people just like these new people wandering the streets. It was easier when the city was dead. It was easier to believe he was trapped somewhere hostile, that the environment really was out to get him, and that he had to defend himself and keep sequestered in the only safe environment he knew of in this place. Now it's been months spent alone in the TARDIS, and nothing's happened. Nothing dangerous. Nothing violent. Nothing difficult.
It's simply been breathe, think, live. No turmoil. No peril. No excitement, and no companions to share any of those things with.
The Doctor moves through the crowded streets, alone with his thoughts.