The slow, grinding, metal on metal whoosh……whoosh…….whoosh startled the doves sleeping in the rafters of the warehouse. There/not there/there-an impossible Blue Box appeared from nothingness.
The door of the Impossible Blue Box creaked open. Bony fingers, gripping a cylindrical metal MacGuffin, preceded a sharp elbow and the sandy haired pate of the foppish chrono-hippy. Confidently he maneuvered through the jumbled crates to the fresh, man-shaped stain on the dusty floor.
Was the HE really gone? Through all of time, back and forth, and back again they had battled. To have it end with a sickly-sweet smelling stain didn’t seem very cricket. Stooping, he waved his beep-boop twinkle stick over the patch. What would he do now? An impish Cheshire grin began to creep across his face. No, this wasn’t HIS man shaped stain. He stood, stuffed the beep-boop twinkle stick into his breast pocket and headed back to the Impossible Blue Box, whistling an Arcturian pop tune that wouldn’t be written for another eleven centuries.