It was dark out now in the rural town of East Hallow, Arizona, a name of a town totally not made up and fake and an absolutely real place. The streets were silent as could be, silent with the stench of fear. It had been two weeks since East Hallow had been cut off from the world by those… things, creatures that nobody could name, nor dare to. Nobody knew what they were, only that when the screaming started, you’d better make a run for it.
A loud, creaking wheeze erupted from a street corner, breaking the town’s only rule that silence was key. There, after a few moments of flashing in and out of existence, lay a brilliantly deep blue box, one that of familiar with the customs of Europe would recognize as a Police Box, but had since fallen greatly out of fashion. The owner of the box, infuriating to deal with as he was, simply wouldn’t let the chameleon circuit that allowed the box to change shape and form be repaired, and so any people living on the vessel in solidarity with its owner (of course, I am speaking of the Master) would have to simply suffer the particular eccentricities of this broken down excuse for a time machine.
A tall, roughly 6’3” in height and cheekboned figure emerged from the shadows where the box had landed. His hair was greying brown, with sideburns as sharp and angular as he was, with white streaks dashing through the sides of his longish, jaw length slicked back hair. He wore an odd, almost gothic and antiquated outfit, a green cape and collar on top of a deep black overcoat, the rest was a navy cravat, shirt, navy waistcoat and dark slacks on top of battered brown Oxfords. He looked, well, tired to some, handsome to others, a downright pest to many, and to one person all three of those things. That person… those days were long gone.
But never mind that. The figure looked up, smelled the air. “Rural Arizona, 2003. God, I hate Americans.” his rich tenor voice was full of British Accent. “I don’t want to be here! Can’t you see I’m-“ he reconsidered shouting, with how quiet this place was. “I don’t want to be here.” he settled for grumbling instead. He took a small phone out of a compartment of the box, closed the compartment, and made off towards the closest bar…
Meanwhile, the bar was empty, save for a few brave or perhaps stupid patrons; Robbie Brown owned the bar and he was a kind, if not empty-headed man. He knew to keep silent and let things happen. If you didn’t, you’d end up like Kim, frozen into magma forever, unable to stop scooping magma onto your body until you simply petrified yourself into stone, as the screams commanded you to. If there had been a plucky young thing here to direct the townspeople to revolution, perhaps things would have been different. But no… no such person. Unless?
The man we described earlier came in in a blaze of less glory, more awkwardness as the patrons turned to stare at this eccentric of a man who wore strange clothes and had a funny voice with an accent nobody could recognize. He went and ordered some sort of wine that nobody could recognize, when all people ordered here generally was beer. “Sorry, only we don’t serve that here.” Robbie said with a quaver in his voice, how had an outsider gotten here when nobody even could drive in. “Well I don’t see why not. And there seems to be no Pachelbel on your jukebox, a shame.” he said, making his way out of the bar and out into the cold night. Nobody walked around the streets anymore, except to get to work as cars were silently banned here. The man walked back to his box, only to find it missing, with a hole in the ground where he’d left it and no clues as to where it could have gone beneath the earth save for the echoes of screams around him. He went back to the bar, settled for some cheap wine in the back cellar, and moped.
(I’d assume Ash would come in here, however he would do that. Your post doesn’t have to be nearly so long as mine, I just wanted to exposit a lil bit too much.)
