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Here's a face that's been absent of late.

When the Doctor walks into Milliways today, though, there are two notably strange things about it. First is that he comes in through the front door instead of the back door as usual. And second, he seems completely confused and baffled by what he's seeing.

Milliways, John Smith. John Smith, Milliways.

[ooc: This is the Doctor circa "Human Nature", so he will read as completely human to anyone who's looking.]

[tags: Professor River Song]

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WHAT KIND OF SCHOOL TEACHES PEOPLE TO SHOOT?

And why is the Professor there, acting like this is normal?

"Oh, um." Shit. She scrambles to up her bull-shit-producing abilities. Luckily she's had a half of a century of practice.
"Of course, just heard a rumor they'd been discontinued. Rather hoped it was true - never could abide all of that racket, sommat ear-splittin', isn't it?"

Because her brand of boom is so quiet. Yes.

He chuckles. "I can imagine who might have started such a rumor. There are quite a few who wish it were true. But the discipline is important."

"An' teachin' boys how t'shoot things is... discipline." She tries to keep it from being a question - if she truly did work at this crazy-ass school, she'd probably be all for it.

But...

But it's kids, for crying out loud.

"Exactly. Good, strong, military discipline is just what these boys need to turn them into fine, upstanding men."

See, what this situation calls for is tea. Good, strong English tea.

So Ace can properly choke on it.

"Um." She's wishing that she could get smashed. A lot. The universe isn't fair. "Y'don't think that the military can be a bit... overbearin', at times?"

John laughs. How very like a woman.

"Oh, it's not for the soft and timid, that's for certain. But ensuring British superiority means schooling our boys to be strong and confident."

Clearly he's been knocked over the head a few times too many.

And since when does he give a fig about British superiority? She's British, and she doesn't really give a damn.

Though that does help place his timing a bit better. After a while, 'British superiority' tended to recede from the lexicon (thank the small fuzzy gods, because it sounds so dreadfully priggish).

"And what of our girls, Mister Smith? Surely you would agree they should be strong and confident as well?" She asks, aiming for somewhere in the region of 'teasing', and avoiding the more easy to come by 'concern'. Don't make her go find Leela.

"Well, the suffragettes would certainly like to believe so," he says jovially, as one sharing a joke. "And in truth, I have no objections to such a thing. But, honestly, it won't be the girls running the country in a few years' time, will it?"

"Does seem unlikely." Pre-World War Anything, then. Oh dear. "But at least then you'd know, if all of that fine military trainin' was needed, someone with a bit of brains was left behind t'tend the home fires."

And drive the lorries. And work in the factories. And tend the farms. And run the hospitals. And... oh dear.

"Oh, there will always be those men who, for one reason or another, won't be called to fight."

"Oh yes, of course." Definitely pre-world wars, and somehow, inexplicably, entrenched in that era's mindset.

"But somehow I've gotten us on such a ghastly subject. Let's try something a little more cheerful, like... oh, I know, do you travel much, Mister Smith?" She asks, in a totally-not-calculated-at-all-this-isn't-the-scheming-you're-looking-for tone.

John chuckles. "Oh, no. I would much prefer to stay in one place."

Which is, naturally, why his dreams have him traveling not only to different countries, but different worlds.

Lord, she's going to have to take home half the bar's stock of Atlantean tonight. This is horrible.

"Suppose that's fair." She allows, "I've always wanted to travel - difficult, of course, f'me, but there's so many interesting stories left behind that those that came before." She smiles, somehow managing to hit demure instead of any of her real emotions. "'Course, you'd know that better'n me."

"Oh, that's certainly true. I'm just one who would prefer to read the stories than make them."

"Well, someone must read them." She smiles, instead of... well, there are so many other options, aren't there? "Otherwise they might be forgotten. But I will bid you goodnight, Mister Smith - I had best return to my own rooms, or I will be most scandalously late."

John looks a little startled. He hadn't realized the time. "Er, yes, of course. We wouldn't want that," he adds with a nervous chuckle.

She scoops up her book, decides the waitrat can deal with the remains of her alcoholic milkshake, and takes a wild stab at her guestimated time frame by curtsying, as silly as that looks in trousers.
"Good evening, Mister Smith. I do hope," Very very much, don't make her find your current companion and thump him or her one, "We will know each other better, in the future."

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