Jack Harkness turns to her, staring at her tan, sun-framed face. He glares, then stops.
“You know, it must have slipped my mind. That doesn’t happen often. I don’t know why I was so angry… there seems to be something pulling at me from the corners of somewhere, but I just can’t… ah. Never mind,” he adds, patting her shoulder in a loose embrace of fingers before walking down the ramp and strutting across the museum’s storage basement to a large, crate-shaped object nearly as tall as the shuttle and covered in a white sheet.
He reaches for the sheet; it flies off in his magic hands, like a tablecloth trick.
Under the sheet, there stands a big box, covered in all manner of mirrors with the shiny side facing away from view.
Jack pats her on the shoulder and says, “Go ahead, River Song; take a look.”
Borusa watches from the shuttle door, taking it in like a wizened professor too long at the drink, her irises globes of blue against the drab grey nano-stone of the museum’s basement walls, doubtless gaping more at the imitation of classical architecture than the thing in the box.
And oh yes; there is a thing in the box.
A dangerous thing.