The Doctor, actually, is currently managing a rather successful farm full of Mallowolves, Crowlas, and Kittyflosses (yes, he keeps cats on his pinata ranch, hush). But he saved the game and set the scanner back to its standard Gallifreyan display while his other told him about Jake.
"1874? Well, no harm he could do with a fine tuner. The best human minds for millennia couldn't reverse-engineer an artron-activated system. Wouldn't do them any good if they did."
He frowns at his other's comment on his lack of findings, though he's less surprised than he would have been several weeks ago. "Mm. I thought you might say that. I reckon it's the multiverse. I've got a few theories on the place, basic universal sentience, laws of improbability, but they're only theories, haven't developed instruments yet that hold calibration out there." He jerks a thumb at his TARDIS' doors. "Physicist's worst dream or best nightmare—'s like the back side of embroidery, a mess, colors and knots everywhere and you can't see the picture for the stitches."
"Speaking of," he swings his feet down from the console and pops up from the chair. "Ready to see the labs? We can run a closer scan there."
The time spent repairing his TARDIS and managing papier-mache virtual wildlife has put him back in a decent mood; the influence of the drums is slight, though if he bothers to think hard about what he's doing—admitting that something may be wrong with him; letting his other self into the secret, worrying, very personal world of his work; inviting his other and his violent TARDIS to stay, a constant reminder of the different choices they've made—they tick up, scratching at the back of his mind, a warning.
no subject
"1874? Well, no harm he could do with a fine tuner. The best human minds for millennia couldn't reverse-engineer an artron-activated system. Wouldn't do them any good if they did."
He frowns at his other's comment on his lack of findings, though he's less surprised than he would have been several weeks ago. "Mm. I thought you might say that. I reckon it's the multiverse. I've got a few theories on the place, basic universal sentience, laws of improbability, but they're only theories, haven't developed instruments yet that hold calibration out there." He jerks a thumb at his TARDIS' doors. "Physicist's worst dream or best nightmare—'s like the back side of embroidery, a mess, colors and knots everywhere and you can't see the picture for the stitches."
"Speaking of," he swings his feet down from the console and pops up from the chair. "Ready to see the labs? We can run a closer scan there."
The time spent repairing his TARDIS and managing papier-mache virtual wildlife has put him back in a decent mood; the influence of the drums is slight, though if he bothers to think hard about what he's doing—admitting that something may be wrong with him; letting his other self into the secret, worrying, very personal world of his work; inviting his other and his violent TARDIS to stay, a constant reminder of the different choices they've made—they tick up, scratching at the back of his mind, a warning.