Jack Harkness stands in the light of a dewy street lamp, surveying the place.
Silvery metal and the rusty red comfort of old bricks weave up at twisting angles from the damp noir sidewalk, a thick yet delicate baobab bursting out from the awkward cauldron of the everyday.
An answer to his unspoken question, he concludes, is that the Indsø Tys has led a busy life, and as his eyes follow the lines of the big, loping structure, dallying in the pits and cracks of those aging blocks of baked clay and shale and fillers, lingering here and there over the pooling, faded sheens of prancing flexiplatinum that’s been eating its generic wheat-product cereal, he begins to make the usual assumptions as to what that life might be worth to him.
Why has he come here, he asks, as he steps forward into the night shadow of the sinuous, heavily-stylised building and reaches out to touch a hard brick popping out like a ready pimple from an oddly curved corner... he laughs.
He laughs again, then answers himself. "Well that's an easy one, isn't it, 'Jack'?" His other hand, long fingers chilling to bone despite being deep inside the pocket of his dark trousers, balls into a frosty fist and stays where it is.
"Boy meets Boy. Boy One sleeps with Boy Two. Boy Two turns out to be a god damn Time Lord, just not the right one." He tightens the fist in his pocket, turning up to the sky because the Environmentals are whirring and buzzing overhead.
Bzzt. Krunk-krunk-krunketa. Bzzt.
Ploosh. A droplet from the freshly-created rainstorm overhead.