'Bloody hell.'

The words are Gene's, spoken with a sort of hushed, sickened awe, and behind them, Sam hears Chris retch and stumble away to be sick somewhere.  Sam doesn't blame him, and he swallows, closing his eyes for a moment and pressing fingertips to his eyelids, as if that might make the sight before them more manageable.  It doesn't.  Still, Sam is nothing if not a consummate detective, so he quells down the visceral reaction in his gut, and makes himself examine it.

It's a body, only barely recognisable as a man in his thirties, and it's torn nearly in half.  Torn, as if by some massive animal with claws and teeth, straight through the middle.  The spinal column, broken, protrudes out of the wound, sickeningly red with still-congealing blood, the flesh of what was formerly his abdomen riven to bloody shreds.  The cobbles are a mess with blood and gore, and Sam grimaces, looking to one of the men from forensics who's standing on the side, holding a clipboard and looking mostly put-together.  He doesn't say anything, but the man gets his cue and joins them, looking down at the body. 

'What've you found?'

( Gene glares, which Sam ignores. )

Sam sat on the bed in the strange room, swinging his feet absently.  In reality, he was rather too tall, and the bed rather too short for effective leg-swinging, but that didn't stop him.  Every now and again, he would turn to the laptop sitting next to him and give it a curious little poke, wrinkling his nose at the screen; it was clear that he didn't entirely understand what to do with it, but he was trying his damnedest nonetheless.

He didn't know how Johnny was going to get here.  America was pretty far away, or so he thought, so it might take a while, but Sam hoped he'd be here soon.  Despite what he said, it was kind of scary being here on his own, not knowing where he was or if anyone would find him here.  He'd wandered around for a while, but there wasn't much else to the place, just a loo with a broken mirror and rust on all the taps, and a little kitchen in the corner of the room he was in now.  The telly didn't work properly either, just gave him a lot of fuzz, and Sam was starting to get bored.

Besides, the sooner Johnny was here, the sooner he was away from his dad.  Sam didn't know a lot about how dads were supposed to be-- he didn't remember much about his, except little bits here and there-- but he knew they weren't every supposed to hurt you.  Dads were supposed to protect you against people hurting you.  Well, since Johnny's dad wouldn't do it, Sam would have to protect him instead.  He had perfect confidence in his ability to do so.  Anyway, once Mum found him (because she would, he was sure), she could help too.

Sighing, Sam flopped onto his back and started humming absently.  Surely it wasn't that far from America to England.

Gather all your RP journals,list the characters and any AU versions you RP. Open the doors to the public side so even lurkers outside of the RPG can ask the muses questions. They'll respond to any question ICly

I play:

sky_w_diamonds- Lucy Saxon
bertiewwooster- Bertie Wooster
commodore_jln- James Norrington
out_of_my_time- Sam Tyler

also, I'm giving this one a test run over at dear_mun, thought I might as well put her up here.  In case you want to ask any questions of the creepifying little girl.

youronly_friend- the Test Card Girl

So, ask away!

On his bed, Sam Tyler shivered; he felt like he was burning up with fever, but the sweat that dotted his forehead and stained the collar of his vest was cold and clammy.  He hiked the blanket up further around his shoulders, hunching over the incongruous silver laptop that sat before him.  Typing was an effort, with the way his fingers shook, and the screen was almost too bright for his eyes, but it was better than the hallucinations and fever-dreams he knew awaited him if he laid back and tried to sleep.  He shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, and glared balefully at the television.  River, the Doctor, Simon, the man who called himself Mr. Green, they all flickered past with a click of changing channels, and Sam exhaled shakily, angrily.

He wasn't supposed to be seeing this.   These things- real, happening things universes away, and suddenly Sam could see them.  It was so, so wrong.  And it was their fault; all their fault.

'Come on,' he muttered, rocking a little in place.   The Doctor had said he might be able to help, that he'd come.  But he wasn't here and he wasn't here and he wasn't here.  It could only have been a few minutes, but each second stretched like molasses, and it felt like forever.  Compulsively, he clutched at his right arm, raising a clenched fist to his mouth.  The muscles spasmed under the skin, catching in place, growing stiff and immovable.   He growled, and punched the wall. 

'Fuck!  Fuckfuckfuckfuck come on.  Doctor, please.'

He massaged his bruised knuckles, staring at the television set.   No Doctor there now, though, just early morning static.

Sam laid on his bed, lazily regarding the ceiling.  A faint smile played absently over his lips.  In the background, the radio was fuzzily playing Atomic Rooster, for once entirely devoid of the voices of doctors and nurses or the sound of a heart monitor.  For once, Sam didn't particularly care.  It was a warm evening, the light of the late sun spilling through the window across the bed, and soon enough, he'd be down at the Arms with a man from another world.  Life was good.  It occurred to him that Simon might not exactly mesh with the CID lads, but they'd deal with that when they came to it.  He was glad Simon was coming over; it was good to get a fresh start with the man, especially after what the Master had done.  Not that he particularly wanted to think of that at the moment.  No.  For now, Sam was content just lying here. 

On the radio, the song ended, switching to the initial, driving guitar lick of 'The Jean Genie,' and Sam's grin widened.  Hanging off the end of the bed, one foot began to tap in rhythm.  Yeah, things were good.

Sam gritted his teeth as he drove down the narrow streets of 1973 Manchester, his eyes peeled at every turn for a brick building with a large camper van out front.  The problem with that, of course, was that most of the buildings in 1973 Manchester were made of brick, as were the roads, and Sam had no idea where this camper van might be.  However, he very much wished to avoid another- and there was no other word for it- temper tantrum like the one River had thrown when he'd initially refused to go looking for the Master.  Trapped as a cat in 1973.  I mean, really!  And Sam owed him nothing, certainly did not want him in his flat.  But if he was just a cat, Sam supposed it was the price he had to pay if it meant the girl cuffed to his arm would calm down. 

It was difficult to drive with one wrist cuffed to another person, but he was managing well enough so far, and he turned to River with a little sigh, wincing visibly at the sight of her with her head out the window, her long hair whipping wildly about her face. 

'River?' 

She pulled her head back inside. 

'Don't do that, yeah?  I'd really rather not see you get decapitated.   You seen it anywhere?  It's a bit of a wild search, this.'

Alrighty, you lot.  Comment here, and I shall tell you exactly what Sam really thinks of your character.   Granted, he's a bit new and doesn't know all that many people yet, but... whatever!  Just for a lark, you know.