The system is newer than the one on Rapunzel, that Ood Phillip Cake’s turf, and it shows. The quiet is deafening, and all he can hear is the whir of the machines. Hadn’t Cake had a revelation, in the rain?
Jack barks a laugh at the crisp, artificial night air, letting out a slow and lumbering breath that catches on his lips, stuttering his exhalation like a paper bag with a hole in it. He’s always known better than to let himself believe in providence. But with Him, he’d come close. With Him. But He had died, and probably alone, the bastard. And then, Benjamin Pond had turned up like a pretty weed, sweet blue flowers and all. Jack had just been a bee for him, his handsome prince, his pollinator of convenience.
His golden ball, to be lost down the well.
And wasn't that just like a Time Lord?
Sht-sht plink, sht-sht plink.
The rain isn't going to stop. It's getting icy now, hitting the pavers across the way in the demure green circle of purple and blue plump Deluvian tulips. The rain just seems to... slide right over them. Strange.
As he walks away, back to the miserably perfect hotel -with the green and grey striped faded floral wallpaper- Benjamin or Plombkins or both of them must have paid for, he considers things.
Yes, he thinks, how appropriate- a rent-a-cop working at a museum.
Good going, Princess.