Drabble
After the Doctor discovered what happened to Oliver immediately before his Crucible arrival, I wrote a drabble outlining the scene. So why not share it?
Mikaeja greeted Oliver cheerfully and welcomed him into the flat, offering him a drink and something to eat. The flat itself was plain, marked with little decoration and a mishmash of styles in what furniture there was. It was not terribly unlike Tomas Alvarenson’s home--nor any of the other flats for new residents who had come to Gondovan with almost nothing.
Mikaeja himself was a large, burly man with a thick moustache and short beard. He was broad-shouldered and well-built, stocky but athletic--testaments to a life of constant physical activity. Despite his imposing physical presence, his smile was warm. After a few moments of pleasantries, they both sat down in the kitchen over a cup of tea. Oliver pulled out his file and began to walk Mikaeja through some of the necessary paperwork it contained, as well as instructions for what the man needed to do to help them set up some of the important parts of a relocation--mostly the details involved in the job search.
Oliver was in the midst of speaking when Mikaeja turned suddenly, frowning.
“What is it?” Oliver asked.
His host shook his head. “I thought I heard something,” he mumbled in his heavy accent. Whatever it was, he brushed it off with a wave of his hand, turning back to Oliver. “Please, continue.”
Oliver glanced around with a frown, but if the man wasn’t concerned, then there was no reason for him to be. He looked down at the form, trying to remember where he’d left off.
This time, Mikaeja let out a cry, jumping to his feet and sending his plasteel chair clattering to the floor. Oliver moved to jump up, too, but before he could manage it, rough hands grabbed him from behind. He tried to struggle against someone’s iron grip, but his attacker’s other hand quickly pressed something against his mouth.
For a moment, Oliver could swear he smelled oranges. Then his vision blurred and gave way to darkness.
Mikaeja greeted Oliver cheerfully and welcomed him into the flat, offering him a drink and something to eat. The flat itself was plain, marked with little decoration and a mishmash of styles in what furniture there was. It was not terribly unlike Tomas Alvarenson’s home--nor any of the other flats for new residents who had come to Gondovan with almost nothing.
Mikaeja himself was a large, burly man with a thick moustache and short beard. He was broad-shouldered and well-built, stocky but athletic--testaments to a life of constant physical activity. Despite his imposing physical presence, his smile was warm. After a few moments of pleasantries, they both sat down in the kitchen over a cup of tea. Oliver pulled out his file and began to walk Mikaeja through some of the necessary paperwork it contained, as well as instructions for what the man needed to do to help them set up some of the important parts of a relocation--mostly the details involved in the job search.
Oliver was in the midst of speaking when Mikaeja turned suddenly, frowning.
“What is it?” Oliver asked.
His host shook his head. “I thought I heard something,” he mumbled in his heavy accent. Whatever it was, he brushed it off with a wave of his hand, turning back to Oliver. “Please, continue.”
Oliver glanced around with a frown, but if the man wasn’t concerned, then there was no reason for him to be. He looked down at the form, trying to remember where he’d left off.
This time, Mikaeja let out a cry, jumping to his feet and sending his plasteel chair clattering to the floor. Oliver moved to jump up, too, but before he could manage it, rough hands grabbed him from behind. He tried to struggle against someone’s iron grip, but his attacker’s other hand quickly pressed something against his mouth.
For a moment, Oliver could swear he smelled oranges. Then his vision blurred and gave way to darkness.