milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Ace has taken over a table, spreading her notes out all over it. Unlike the Doctor, she hasn't gone rogue. She still needs to send reports back to Gallifrey now and then about what she's up to. Of course, they already know what she's up to, making this more of an exercise of remembering who her bosses are.

This may have something to do with how furiously she's scribbling. Ace has never liked busy-work.

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Ace's is terribly gravel-free, if highly accented.

"Well, what do y'do with yourself Mister Black when y'not rescuin' pyros from paperwork?"

"I do some consulting."

A beat.

"Pyro?"

"I do some explosions." Which might qualify for the 'verse's greatest understatement. "Among other things."

"Okay."

Another beat, and a wry smile.

"Anywhere I'd have heard of?"

"Dunno." Ace says, musingly. "Does your Earth have a London? ... Are you from Earth?"

"I'm from Earth. Seattle."

"It's London for you, I gather?"

"Perivale - London's unwanted stepchild. I don't much go there anymore."

Ever.

Unless she has to.

"Oh. I've never heard of it, I'm afraid."

"No, that's a good thing. Only reason it'd be on the map at all is the Cheetahs, an' that's not sommat anyone wants t'be known for." Ace replies, off-handedly.

Frank raises his eyebrows.

"Cheetahs?"

"Cheetahs. They were huntin' folk in Perivale."

Context, Frank?

You get no context.

Evidently he doesn't need it.

"Sounds unpleasant."

"Not all of it." Ace tilts her head, considering. "Just... most of it."

The running was nice.

And Karra had been a friend. For a little while.

"Some people might say that was enough."

The low, gravelly voice is not unsympathetic.

Ace shrugs. For such a small little pyro, she's very blase.

"Someone has t'do it, an' I'm good at it. So."

"I understand."

Strangely, he sounds as though he does.

"You can't just sit back and hope for a happy ending."

"No, 'cause if you do? It'll most likely get upgraded by a bunch of rogue Cybermen." Ace agrees, wryly. "Or shot by Autons."

A pause.

"Cybermen and Autons?"

"Cybermen are... well, they were originally from Earth's twin planet, the one that got knocked out of orbit an' sent off into deep space. The scientists thought it'd be nifty if they could survive by buildin' these technologically advanced suits t'live in. Only problem is they got a little too smart for their own good an' figured out a way t'graft some poor sod's nervous system straight into the suit. A few more tweaks later, such as removin' emotions, an' the folks bein' grafted stopped committin' suicide. Problem is, then the grafted folk, the Cybermen, started thinkin' that this was the best way t'live, an' went about upgradin' everyone they could lay their metal paws on. Havin' run out of folk on their own planet, they started in on other planets. Fun types. Luckily easy t'kill. Autons are just the plastic an' somewhat deadly mental projections of the Nestene Consciousness."

No, she's not kidding. Sorry, Frank.

There's a very long pause before he slowly says,

"Okay."

"Annn' now y'think I'm crazy. Don't worry, y'not the first." Ace reassures him, grinning. "Just watch out for the Dalek, he fancies himself a therapist."

Frank grins back, a little wryly.

"Should I even ask?"

"Daleks are homicidal blobs of green goo drivin' giant laser-armed pepperpots in their mad drive t'subjugate the entire universe. They've taken over Earth at least once, dabbled in time travel, an' are quite mad. This one's the last of it's kind, an' is a bit nutty. I've got the cure f'that, but no one much wants me t'give it to him."

Pity.

"Laser-armed pepperpots."

Frank's expression is rather deadpan.

"I've heard of cooking therapy, but this seems a little unusual."

"'Bout.... so tall, all fury an' a short fuse." Ace offers, measuring with her hand a point off the floor that would be just shorter than her, if she were standing.

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