...when last we tuned in, I believe that the Doctor, Rose and Jack were discreetly legging it for the back door out of the clinic. Pray, disabuse me of that notion if I'm incorrect and let me know what you've got next in mind, you crazy kids. :)
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St. Dymphna's natal clinic is a typical example of NHS care at it's most mediocre. Located in a suburban neighborhood, crammed into a pebble-dashed post-war home (converted to business use) far too small for its needs, the clinic tries to serve a community far larger than first anticipated. A small patch of grass out front has given up all pretense of being a lawn, and the concrete stairs leading to the front entrance are stained and cracked. Whatever funds this place has, they're not being spent on maintaining the grounds...
Inside, the floors are well-worn carpet and linoleum. Singularly uncomfortable plastic chairs line the walls of a waiting area, and a strong smell of antiseptic pervades throughout. Posters warning against the effects of drinking whilst pregnant and other such concerns hang limply on the wall. A single corridor leads from behind the receptionist's desk further into the building and takes a right-hand bend towards the examination rooms. Straight down that corridor, should a person bother to pay attention to such things, is a small kitchen decorated in the sort of colors that made sense in 1974 and photographs of proud parents and their offspring. About halfway between the reception area and the kitchen, a staircase leads upwards.
The waiting area is crowded - keeping in mind that it's small enough to feel crowded with only four or five people waiting. The receptionist, a woman who might be pretty if she didn't look quite so frazzled, juggles a phone, the appointment book, questions of patients and the occasional command-in-passing from the medical personnel who drift in and out.
The atmosphere in the place is a strange mix of tension and happy anticipation, as cheerfully pregnant mums-to-be wait beside young ladies who are anything but cheerful.
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(OOC: Going to god-mode a bit, but it's for the best of reasons)
Rose awoke from the latest in a series of naps - she seemed to be sleeping a lot lately - with a crick in her neck and the realization that the TARDIS had "landed"...somewhere. The tone of the omnipresent hum had changed, ergo, the TARDIS had manifested somewhere/somewhen.
Not overfussed with sartorial niceties, Rose shambled into the control room in her stocking feet, only to find Jack apparently in the throes of some good news and the Doctor nowhere in sight.
"Alright! That’s great! I’ll lube your bearings when I get back, sweetheart.” He promised, apparently to the ship itself. “I’ll probably have to do mine, by then, too.” He laughed.
“What’s going on” Rose yawned, wondering if she was going to regret the question.
Jack looked around for the button to open the TARDIS doors – it tended to wander. “London, 1974! It’s amazing what this old gal will do for you if ask her nicely. It’s not ideal, of course," Jack conceded. "Do you know what passed for fashionable then? Terrible! But the nightlife? Hot dog!” Jack picked up an overnight bag that had been hitherto unnoticed on the floor. It seemed that he had something more than a quick pint at the pub on his mind.
“Rosie, babe, I gotta get some fresh air – more to the point, some fresh meat, or else something regrettable is going to happen. If I’m not back tomorrow, send in the Marines. I’ll be just about ready for them.” Jack grinned. “Where’s that..? A-ha!” Jack finally found the button he sought, and headed for the doors as they swung open. “Don’t go running off on me again, Ms. Former Time Goddess. I’ll be back tomorrow,” he assured Rose over any incipient protests. “Hey, you should go check out the Chelsea Club while you’re here, get some of the dust off ya. Bye!”
Rose wasn’t sure what to get angry about first – that Jack had apparently taken control of the TARDIS or the fact that he had made plans that didn’t include her. She decided to look for the Doctor and have a word with him. He had said something about needing to recalibrate the temporal vortice generators, which Rose suspected actually meant having a cup of tea and a biscuit, so she thought she’d begin her search in the kitchen.
However, as she turned to leave the control room, Rose was suddenly overcome by a wave of dizziness and everything turned black…
...Meanwhile, the Doctor had just sat down with a fresh cup of tea and a Terran gossip magazine he would deny reading, were he ever asked, feeling nothing but a sense of happy anticipation at avoiding an annoying chore. A cup of Orange Pekoe, the coronation of King Sean I of Scotland and a packet of digestives - the ingredients of a pleasant afternoon, the Doctor thought.
Unfortunately, that happiness was marred by the distinct sensation that the local environment slipped off its central axis, just for a second - rather like the inner-ear disturbance that many people would feel during an earthquake that would otherwise go unnoticed. It would seem that not all was quite well within the TARDIS - the Doctor knew the signs...
Rose came around just in time to see the doors close behind Jack. Fortunately, she was none the worse for having suddenly become one with the deck. In fact, she realized that she felt quite good - the omnipresent headache that had been nagging her for a few days had finally departed and, well, it seemed that fainting spells could leave one quite refreshed...
(OOC: Could participants please react in comments to this post. If you chat in IM, share a log here. Alex and/or myself will give info as needed as the Doctor and Rose react to the situation)
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In another TARDIS, a young black man lies on the floor. His clothes are torn, and too big, as if they are someone else's.
He wakes up and feels his face. When he sees the colour of his skin, he freezes, and then laughs.
Pulling himself to his feet, he looks into the polished console of his TARDIS. He examines his reflection, as if he's never seen it before.
For a second, he looks pleased, then crashes to the floor unconscious.
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Without even a melodramatic *pop*, a slightly silly postcard from WWII appears on the console of the TARDIS, and written on the back - in rather tiny print - is the following:
I don't know if this will work/has worked, but I got an idea, Doctor, and I think your TARDIS put it in my head before I left. It took me a little while to figure it out and get the wires crossed properly. Talk about your dead letter drops.
As I'm writing this, it's been a few months since I last saw you, and let me tell you, if you want to take a holiday in some sunny, uplifting spot, don't come here. Recovery efforts are well underway, but an amusement park, Satellite 5 is not. It's hard work, but it has to be done that's what I get for being a do-gooder. (smiley face)
Rose, if you're reading this, give the Doctor hell from me, as he must be running short by now.
Doctor, if you're on your own, what on earth are you doing?
More soon,
- Jack
PS. I won't apologize for the card, so don't ask.
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