Nov. 28th, 2011

pinkandyellow: (bitch I do not have cankles)
It took three weeks to get to that beach, ten minutes to get a broken heart, five and a half hours to leave, three more weeks to get back home, and another month before she bothered to leave her bedroom. Two weeks after that she had an identity established, and started training at Torchwood. Sixteen days and she was a certified field agent. A year, and she was leading her own team, with five people working under her.

Nearly a year and a half, but she was going relatively strong. Running on her own two legs, going around the pub for football matches, visiting her mum and dad, her new baby brother. At some point, she'd started having a life. A real, proper, linear day-to-day life that wasn't as miserable as she'd probably have assumed. It wasn't the same, granted. It still felt like she was missing half of herself, like she was stuck, trapped, pressed against the other side of the wall, but she was Rose Tyler. He asked her to have a fantastic life, and she would.

And she did. Sort of. Even if roughly 89% of it was centered around work. She ate work, slept work, showered work, worked work. She had her hand in the building of a dimension canon, a multiuniversal telepathy field, and a rift projector. No telling how likely any of the three devices were to actually work at any point in the future, but it kept her busy. When she wasn't overseeing the pet projects, she was running for her life in the field.

Which was exactly what she was doing today. There was a signal being projected from the heart of London, and she was in the process of tracing it. Apparently, it was leading her to some rubbish sub-basement, because it was dark, and cold, and full of useless boxed items that would probably never see the light of day. She just carried on, observing the feedback from her handheld monitoring devices.

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Rose Tyler

November 2015

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