Somewhere on Gallifrey, the sound of a hard clack can be heard.
In a sealed white room, the pinkish, white-tipped nails of a French Manicure tap softly to on a laid bare wrist.
The wrist is on a table. There is a leaning shoulder -wrapped in a bit of temperature-controlled grey blanket- attaching the wrist to the man and the man to the wrist.
The man is sitting in a chair, his hunched form covered by the grey blanket and others. Near the edge of the circular table, balanced in the man’s open fingers like a cigarette, there is a silvery packet the size of a playing cards deck; twenty-three uniform tiny chads are busted and broken along its lined surface, and would dangle if the thing were picked up, perhaps even flutter to the floor like bits of foil, which is what they are.
Bits of foil.
In the center of the table is a hand-size white pyramid, floating above the table face at just the height of a man’s nose. Below it lies an inset game board with an intentional crack, surrounded on all sides by black and white little round pieces, still slightly shiny despite their obvious age.
A small shadow falls across the board; another body holding a cup has entered the small white stone room; the door floats shut behind this new wrinkled one, growing into the wall as though it had never been there.