OPEN RP FOR ANYBODY (RP topic from oncoming_storms)

[rude_not_ginger]

You have picked up a distress signal, and followed it to a hotel in London. All you are able to determine is that it is coming from someplace inside the hotel, and is not terrestrial in origin. What will you do? What will you find at the other end of the signal?

"But I've found a...oh, nevermind."

The receptionist was exceptionally unhelpful, so the Doctor darted down the hallways of the hotel, knocking on doors. One of them would be the person who sent the distress signal.





OOC: Open to all. Any universe, any time. If you want to have your pup be in this hotel and answer the door, just go for it! I won't be up toooooooo much later this evening, but I won't leave anybody hanging, I'll catch you asap tomorrow afternoon!

Comments

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

One door swings open under the Doctor's knocking hand, revealing no hotel room but what can only be described in highly scientific terms as a messy bit of time and space beyond.

Beyond that there is... a studio. A big, open art studio that smells of turpentine and oil paint and a somewhat confused looking hispanic man standing in the middle looking at the door.

"Who the hell are you?"


OOC: Been trying to get the boy into contact with more people and if there ever anyone to break the laws of time and space... :)?

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor looked into the room, then back out to the plush hotel in London. Was that street level out those windows? Definitely not a London street.

"I'm the Doctor, did you send out a distress signal?"

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

"The who? What? Doctor who?"

Out of the windows of the studio there is blurred scenary that indicates this is not street level.

"I... am distressed a lot, does that count?"

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

Different time zones, and the man was most certainly not a Londoner.

As Peri would say: Bingo.

The Doctor extended his hand, "Just the Doctor. Mind if I come in?"

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

"C'mon in. I don't normally guests except Clotho and Hana."

He holds out one paint marked hand and shakes the Doctor's. "Isaac. Isaac Mendez. Um... welcome to the studio?"

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor didn't recognize his name, but that didn't say much. A studio meant art, and companions like Mel were more into art than the Doctor ever would be.

"Well, it's...well-lived in, at least. Significantly cleaner than where I live." He took a breath. "Where, exactly, are we, Isaac?"

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

"Should be. I haven't left here in five months. Six months? Something. I forget."

He shrugs and looks around. "Exactly? I have no idea. I tried to answer that myself once, it wasn't pretty. It's a place. No one's meant to be able to get here. But you can. Which doesn't make sense." He's apparently talking to himself now, moving back towards a table covered in sketch books. "This place isn't anywhere."

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

As the Doctor stepped into the studio, he felt odd. Something was strange about this room. Like it was...seperated from Time. He had a strange, sudden memory of being himself before his regeneration---sleeping in a room with no windows or doors.

It was something Time Lords were not meant to remember.

"Well, it has to be somewhere, doesn't it?"

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

"I guess. But it's not. It's not inside time. And it's not in it's physical space, so I don't know where it is. I'm just an artist."

He flicks through a book, occasionally looking back to the Doctor and then shaking his head and flicking on. "You're looking for a distressed person or something?"

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

"An artist in a box that shouldn't exist," the Doctor replied. "That makes you a bit more than 'just' an artist, I think."

He pulled out his timey-wimey device and scowled. It was working, and not that long ago, either. It was short-range, though. This place, wherever it was, was waaaaay out.

"Distress signal. Not sure from where."

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

"Details." Isaac waves his hand and if to brush off the statement.

"Well, as I say, I'm pretty distressed most of the time here. I'm not sure if that really help you though. What's that?"

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

"Timey-wimey device," the Doctor replied easily, "Goes ding when there's stuff. Right. So, you're in a room that doesn't exist in a place that shouldn't exist, and distressed. Enough psychic energy like that could potentially break through and get caught up in the Huon particles in the TARDIS and come through as a distress signal."

He hopped up onto a table, letting his legs dangle off the sides.

"What're you distressed about?"

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

Isaac doesn't know what was just said. So he'll make a 'bwuh?' face at the Doctor now.

Nope. Still not helping. He sits himself on a work bench and picks up his book and a pen and starts idly drawing without looking. "I've been trapped here for five or so months? But I have company now. The first four months it was just me and these rooms and the paintings. Didn't even have the computer then."

He's drawing a police box. It's glowing. And apparently, flying along a motorway. "Do you often run around saving random people?"

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor, however, is distracted by the paintings. They're twisted and full of pain, and some of the people in them he could swear he recognizes, but he's not certain.

"Random, no," he replies. "People, always."

He turns and gives the other man a grin, "More of a hobby than anything career-oriented."

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

There's one which is just an eye peeking out from behind a stack, but that eye - or rather, that eyebrow - is very, uniquely distinctive.

Isaac can't help but smile at that crazy grin though. And instinctively start a fresh page, eyes misting over white as he talks and starts to draw. "Right, a hobby out saving people."

He draws the Doctor smiling in a few sharp, defined lines. And then draws him again, shaved head and big ear and hawkish nose, same mad grin.

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor's grin fades, and his jaw hangs a bit loosely as he watches Isaac draw, eyes pupilless balls.

He wonders if the other man realizes what is happening. What would he do if he did? Instead of risk that, the Doctor continues to talk, while walking around the other man in a large circle around the room.

"Well, yes. Hobby of mine since I was a youth. Not exactly the best kind of thing to raise a family on, so you know, just have the hobby as a family and that's all right for me. You've been painting the entire time you've been trapped in here, am I right?"

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

Not yet. Not judging by the way he's still sketching, loose curls now, long hair and the same smile.

"Yeah. There's a massive gallery out through the fire escape. Don't ask, I don't know. I just exist here, it does whatever it wants otherwise."

He doesn't actually turn his head to follow. "Bathroom's that way. Or are you still looking for your distress signal? You don't look old enough to have been doing this for more than a few years if you started as a-"

He trails off, still drawing. "I've drawn you before."

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor turns his head in the direction of the fire escape, "Where does it go, though? The fire escape? You could always try to run."

That's the Doctor, always thinking about running.

He turns back to the drawing man.

"Have you?"

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

"It goes to the Gallery. And the Gallery doesn't end. Just takes you back to the entrance eventually. I've tried escaping."

Isaac stands up and moves to one of the stacks, pulling through canvases until he finds what he wants and slides it over.

Burnt umber sky. Silver trees. In the distance, a vast tower under a great, shimmering bubble.

"The traveller. With too many life times." Blind eyes distinctly watch him.

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor stares at the painting for a long, long moment before he speaks. His fingers touch the silver paint of the leaves----it had been so long, so long since he'd seen them in anything but his mind's eye.

"How did you do this?" he asks, "This is...impossible."

Not a word he enjoys using, but it's appropriate, especially for this.

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

"It's what I do." He really isn't sure how else to put it beyond that. But he should probably try. "I have a- I dunno. Power? Ability? Gift? Curse? I see things. Used to just be the future, but then I started to learn more. Started to see the threads and chase them. And then more stuff happened, which was bad, and I was here. And here, I paint. Whether I want to or not."

He pulls out a marker from a pocket and signs his name in the corner and holds it out, white eyes meeting the Doctor's if he'll glance up. "Take it. It's yours."

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

The Doctor takes the painting, still flabbergasted. He looks up to Isaac's white eyes, and feels a shiver run down his spine. It was so odd, seeing those blank eyes look back at him.

"There's a way out," he says, "How I got in. It'll take you to London, in the middle of a very posh, very snobby hotel, but it's out of here."

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

Isaac smiles sadly and shakes his head. "Not for me it doesn't. It never leads out. There is no out. Only people to ever get in are you, Hana and Sylar once, but he might have been a hallucination."

[rude-not-ginger.livejournal.com]

So he is trapped. The Doctor feels a sudden, intense sympathy for the man before him. He knows what it's like to feel that way.

"Here..." he reaches into his pocket and produces a cell phone. It's not the one Martha is supposed to call him on, it's the one he used to use for UNIT calls only.

"Take this. If I can get in here once, I'm sure I can get a signal in, too. I'll figure out a way to get you out, I promise."

[prophecyinpaint.livejournal.com]

Isaac blinks again and the eyes that glance between the Doctor and the phone are dark again. "I- thank you."

He doesn't have any idea who he'd call. But it's nice to have options.

"I don't have anywhere to go, but thanks. I'm not meant to exist really anymore. I'm dead."