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Who: The Fifth Doctor and OPEN!
What: A DUDE APPEARS!
When: Day 50!
Where: Town Square!

Comments

[fucktonofcoffee]

Debra Morgan was running. She was running because right now if she stopped she was going to fucking fall down and not be able to get back up. Everything of the last couple of days had worn on her, and she looked like complete shit. Below the stolen aviator glasses, there was dark circles below her eyes, and for a Detective who'd been maintaining her Miami glow, her skin was looking rather fucking pale and sallow. Even on Deb's best days, she couldn't be fucking bothered to slap on some make-up, but occasionally on days like this she almost wished she'd had the skill to hide what a piece of shit night she'd been having.

The borrowed boy's shorts and shit didn't do her angular and lanky body any favors, and from the wet condition of them it was clear to tell that she'd been running a long time. The woman was quite breathless when she spotted a man sitting in the middle of the road on the ground, and she slowed down a bit, the rhythmic running of her stride faltering. Damn, it would have been so much easier to ignore him if they'd had ipods in the fucking 1950s.

With her usual charm and grace, Debra just stared down at the man before her, and she spoke sharply. "Who the fuck are you?"

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His communicator was nowhere to be found on his person. With no TARDIS, no companion to look after, and no way to contact the Admiral (or the man he'd been speaking with only minutes earlier), the Doctor was at a bit of a loss, and had taken to assessing the contents of his pockets.

By the time the young woman approached, a small but impressive array of odds and ends was set out before him, and he was arranging the mass of useless objects as if they were a jigsaw puzzle. Cricket ball and post-it stack in hand, he glanced up, blinking hopefully against the sunlight. That vocabulary could only mean....

"...Miss Parker? Oh!" The moment he realised it wasn't her, he scrambled up, tucking the objects into his pockets and offering his hand. "Terribly sorry. I'm the Doctor; how d'you do?"

[fucktonofcoffee]

Deb just stared at the at the assortment of bips and baubles that were put out in front of the man. An appraising look moved over his form, and there was no fucking way that all of that could fit in the shit that he was wearing. It was just fucking impossible. She'd heard mention of the puzzles and games that West had once tried using on the people there and wondered if this was something similar. God she fucking hoped not; the last thing she needed right now was to fucking have to try and focus on some shit.

When he called her 'Miss Parker' Deb's brow quickly moved toward her hairline. Yeah, that definitely wasn't something that she'd ever fucking been called before. Watching the objects disappear back into his pockets was an impressive task, really. "I didn't know you could fit so much shit in such a fucking tight pair of pants." Eying him over the rim of the glasses, Deb wasn't really all that impressed.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Shit, right, fucking manners. She had some, fucking somewhere. "Deb Morgan, Detective. Doctor who?"

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"Yes, I've been called that too, on occasion," he replied without missing a beat, unfazed by the inspection. "And I appear to be wearing clothes of some sort." With a cheeky grin, he tucked his hand away when it became apparent the gesture was unnecessary. He then scratched at his head, still vaguely disorientated but getting his bearings and finding his senses again.

"This, ah... this might sound a bit strange, but where are we, exactly, and when?"

[fucktonofcoffee]

Right. Oh good, some fucking bright ass cheerful motherfucker. Just what the fuck she needed. Yeah, her day kept getting better and better. Fucking West and his collection of god damn idiots. (And yes, Deb's 'husband' was including on this fucking list. Douchebag. Double fucking douchebag.)

The question was the least strange thing about him. "We're in the fucking Twilight Zone, buddy. Legitimately. The asshole you just fucking met with? Well, that's Mr. Henry fucking-asshole-bitch-West and he fucking runs this little place." A beat. "At least he thinks he does." Another pause and she gestured around.

"Think 1950s chic."

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"The Twilight Zone," he repeated flatly, and for a moment, he didn't sound at all as if he believed her. "But Peri's always said..." He trailed off a moment, his expression not necessarily sad, but thoughtful all the same. It didn't add up. This wasn't quite what Peri had shown him, and the feel of it, Mr. West included, was stirring an entirely different memory.

(...The fact that he'd only watched the scant few episodes Peri had managed to force him to probably wasn't helpful. He'd never been fond of television.)

And something in this young woman's tone was far too indignant to be in jest. "So he isn't the Admiral," he murmured after a moment, and then glanced back up. "Tell me, does the environment ever change here? Or has it always been this city?"