Text to the TARDIS

[antitimelord]

[Picture of a fortune cookie slip in a sea of crumbs: "Perhaps you've been focusing too much on that one thing."]

Comments

[antitimelord]

Perhaps there's a reason this form of divination never caught on.

[antitimelord]

[the newest slip, in gravest peril due to an unindentified amberish spill--coffee? sauce? Maybe the restaurant has turned a blind eye to an obvious lunatic bringing in booze. Maybe it's just Pepsi. Oh for the days when there were people to monitor his sugar and caffeine intake. "Remember, after rain there's always sunshine."] Someone's clearly never been to England.

[antitimelord]

I turn to these forms of divination since you're no use, and never have been. Does this universe make any difference one way or another when it comes to timeline reconnaissance? Probably not. Well at least the fortunes have something to say.

[theoldgirl]

And what they have to say is as senseless, tedious and irrelevant as you are, so I can see why you would find them so very fascinating. I, however, do not.

[antitimelord]

You didn't answer my question at all.

[theoldgirl]

Did you expect I would?

[antitimelord]

Expect is a strong word, but I like to be as optimistic as ever. I know you don't like it brought up though, so I won't pry.

[antitimelord]

[Optimist or not, this cookie slip is in the hands of someone who has given up. "An ounce of gold cannot buy an ounce of time."] Of course not. Time isn't measured in ounces. That's the only reason this fortune makes any sense, time is pretty easy to acquire with money if you just get the conversion rates right.

[theoldgirl]

As though you could understand my answer even if I were inclined to give one. Your optimism is as misplaced as it ever was when your only concern was if the rain would make your garden muddy.

[antitimelord]

That was needlessly cruel, even for you. You could have told me. Him. Whatever. It was just the weather.

[antitimelord]

But yes, I suppose optimism hasn't any place in me. Maybe I should write that down. Maybe put it in a cookie.

[antitimelord]

I mean it's on TV. There's websites for it. The weather isn't a secret, there's no harm in asking.

[theoldgirl]

It was not my task to reassure you. Not least because it would have taken a not inconsiderable amount of my time to do so for every inconsequential thing that excited you in some way or another.

In fact, your current behavior only proves how little I had to change to construct him.

[antitimelord]

Him. I can point out your failings without accepting any more ownership of him than that, it's only right. And changes don't have to be on any specific scale to be profound. Something something butterfly wings and hurricanes. I'm pretty sure it wasn't nearly an exact science, anyway.

[theoldgirl]

Choose whatever pronouns you wish, it will never change the fact that you cannot purge him from yourself. He was built on you and his memories are your memories. And you are still upset about the rain.

It may not be an exactly measurable procedure but it is perfectly comparable to other times when I effected this change upon a Time Lord. After I had stripped you of your antitime, there was not much left to trouble myself with.

[antitimelord]

If he'd known you as I do, he'd have put you down a well for everyone's sake, regardless of how he was made. [The beauty of text messages is all the angry comparisons he has the time to filter out of his communication. Though maybe it'd be worth mentioning Rassilon explicitly some time if it would shut her up. Probably it wouldn't, is what stops him.]

[antitimelord]

I promise, I am not upset about the rain.

[theoldgirl]

[You know what shuts her up? NOT CONTACTING HER]. You were not capable of such antagonism then, regardless of what you knew. Do you not remember the simple happiness that replaced feeling antagonistic towards the very universe that surrounded you?

Whatever he was, he was not a wretched creature like you.

[antitimelord]

[Someone has mopped up the spill. Certainly not an employee--Zagreus has the worst time with waitstaff, out of all New Yorkers, they seem to have a sixth sense for avoiding him and approach only when absolutely required by the bounds of tolerable tablewaiting. But that only leaves Zagreus, in a fit of, what, shame? Futile industry? May as well kick trash under your couch after you let in your guests, tsk tsk. The slip on the clean but probably sticky table reads: "How much deeper would the ocean be without sponges?"] Well now I'll never get back to sleep.