The Indsø Tys receptionist looks out, her head a massive yellow diamond-like shard floating above bare, cool marble shoulders.
One figure cuts his usual swathe, a single Boekind human standing next to a flood of incoming staff coming in early – it’s crunch time before the big day. One man, the Museum accountant from the office on the fifth floor, has a glass pyramid for a head. A cerulean-hued chair set is prancing along the hallway to her right, near the Braxiatel Collection Entrance sign. Passed the sign, the small mechanical rat named Philomena and someone with large hairy feet (it must be Murray, the Yeti) hold paws as they share tiny nut-based coffees from the workers only café.
“Good morning, Steve!” she calls out to the Boekind man, noting the angle of his gaze as his blue, blue eyes sweep across her denuded second scapula. The first, thank the seven stars and fifteen goddesses, is hidden under the cellophane folds of her plastic party dress.
Jack Harkness is looking. There’s no shame in admiring such a fine form; the choice, ripe shoulders that gleam down from a spectacular vertebrate structure like stairs slipping over water, the way the limbs and hips strain under that milky flesh, like white birds under the surface. The tiny curve of tiny shoes that flick upward in back and slurp down her hard, cloven hooves, crunching that water from liquid into deer-foot vanity ice cubes. She’s like an old 30’s Help Desk Girl, the way she mans her station, a small blue note in her hand. Very sexy.
As he walks by her purple desk, the small, sturdy affair of flowing, living purple fur and heart-shaped wood slats dripping phosphorescent moss like little candles on strings, he sees something else.