his_sarah_jane: (his girl friday)
"Submarine races? Don't tell me you actually fell for that one!"

From The Inquisitor
May 15, 2011
Submarine races do exist exist!
Inquisitor’s own John Smith gets up close and personal with mermaid.

Sarah Evans

Since the arrival of spring, the small town of Perros-Guirec in Brittany, France has been plagued with sightings of a more unusual kind. Amongst fishermen of the region, tales of mermaids and mermen have always been in trend. A trend to which those more landlocked would laugh at, taking the mickey out of anyone daft enough to fall of it.

Yet, in the past three weeks, supposed sightings have been happening so frequently that little doubt remains among the native Perros-Guirecans.

In a world where we were nearly defeated by robots, could it be possible that some sort of sub-marine sentient has been lurking in Earth’s oceans for centuries, just waiting to be discovered, providing substance to the sailors’ tales? Could an underwater civilisation, a lost Atlantis, lie under the waves unknown to those above?

It might seem a preposterous hoax at first, but after spending a few days along the Brittany shore, the hoax turned out to be anything but. With less than a day under our belts to investigate the local rumours, Inquisitor correspondent John Smith got up close and personal with one such creature.

The mermaid, later identified as Bubbles, greeted him less than one mile from town centre and quickly claimed him as her own. Sea foam green eyes on a face that surpassed any human’s with its beauty, strawberry-blonde hair, blue-tinted skin, and a green scaly tail, Bubbles washed ashore as if out of a storybook. She took one look at Smith and dragged him out to a rock some fifteen metres away.

There she proceeded to pick up English at an astonishing rate. Although she started by mimicking, Bubbles quickly became capable of putting together string of words to express her desires. Words were quickly followed by actions as Bubbles made her desire to mate clear.

Smith went along as the willing Prince Eric, touching her cheek and caressing her tail. It wasn’t until she attempted to drag him further into the ocean that he finally pulled away, deciding his heart was far too firmly rooted to the land.

Heartbroken, Bubbles kissed him goodbye. She was then noted to join a group of three more female merfolk, possibly sisters or relatives of some sort. When asked for a statement, Smith declined.

A full scale investigation is now underway, led by Dr Elizabeth Shaw of Torchwood notoriety. When asked for comments, Dr Shaw had little to say, citing that, “so far, only traces of a submarinian culture have been discovered.”

However, the search appears optimistic.

“I’ve been seeing them every day of my life,” local Brittany shrimp trawler Pierre Vioget claimed. “I’ve been seeing them ever since my first trip on the sea. Good luck, they are. Helped keep the sharks at bay that shipwreck of 2007.”

Working alongside the once-thought-mad fishers, Torchwood hopes to make a lot of progress in a relatively short amount of time.

“It’s the first time we’ve met another species since the coming of the Cybermen,” Dr Owen Harper, a new recruit for Torchwood, stated eagerly, “and with this one not planning on violent upgrades? We’re looking forward to a friendly and lasting relationship when their capital is found.”

With this positive frame of mind, perhaps Bubbles will find her Prince Eric after all. Like our readers, those of us at the Inquisitor can only wait and hope.

[ooc: based on this rp.]
his_sarah_jane: (excuse me?)
"If you have something to tell me, then tell me, otherwise we can stop wasting each other's time."

Her hands remained positioned on hips as her right foot tapped up and down. She eyed him warily, almost doubtfully.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

All around them, gentry mingled in gorgeous dress, with fur shawls and long gowns and men in tuxes, not a single hair out of place. Chandeliers twinkled in the dim light and the occasional glow of mobiles make their users stand out.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

The blue satin material of her dress switched with the slightest movement of her hips as she continued to tap her foot impatiently. She stared at him, brown eyes anything but warm. For the fifth time tonight, he had tried to distract her from her mission. She needed this interview with Peter Tyler and she was determined to get it.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

A sigh. He had been babbling for the last five minutes straight. The smile plastered on her face couldn’t grow any faker as she nodded to those occasionally passing. Finally, her resolve broke. “Look, John, i If you have something to tell me, then tell me, otherwise we can stop wasting each other's time.”

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes widened, glasses doing very little to conceal their shock. He held his neck erect, stiff against the bowtie and suit he wore. He blinked once and choked.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.


“I… er, that is to say-”


Tap, tap, tap, tap.

She shook her head when he stuttered again, far too busy staring at her than bothering to concede to her demands. She rolled her eyes at him and turned to walk away. A strong grip on her wrist stopped her. She turned around, ready to tell him off and yet, yet she couldn’t.


Her nervous and impatient tapping of her foot had returned. She had to get her proof that Peter Tyler had been elected the new head of Torchwood due to his affair with a Martian. Didn’t he realise that?


Tap, tap, tap.

“No more wasting time. Marry me.”


She stopped tapping, she nearly stopped breathing. This time it was her turn to look like a deer startled in the headlights. The look lasted seconds – no, eons – until she nodded. Even if he was just trying to protect the Tylers again, he looked too sincere to mean it for any other reason.

“Yeah,” she whispered softly, story forgotten. “You know, I think I will.”
his_sarah_jane: (i want to cry)
You find yourself receiving a letter that had been misdirected or lost in the mail for several years. Who is it from and what does it say? Show us the affect it has on your muse.

My dearest Sarah Jane, the birthday card read in a script so mused and crabby that it nearly required K-9’s help in translation. It had been an unexpected arrival and however the postal office had tracked her down to her small flat in South Croydon was beyond her. For all intents and purposes, this ought to have been sent to her aunt’s home in Ealing. It was, if Sarah recalled correctly, where she and her mum had spent her third birthday, her father being overseas for work that year.

She shook her head as she walked past the kitchen and into her bedroom. However it got here, she decided she was best not knowing, what given the note had arrived twenty-five years too late. Sarah sat on the bed as she continued to read, pulling off her shoes one at a time as she did.

Happy birthday, muffin. All of three years old today, aren’t you? My, your grandmum was right when she warned me they grow up fast. I turn my head for one second and you’re no longer that baby I held in my arms, kicking and screaming and eager to see the world. That part hasn’t changed (you better not be paying your mummy or aunt any trouble) and I hope it never will. Instead, you’ve grown taller, far more headstrong, but most of all: absolutely gorgeous.

I wish I could be there today. I heard from your Aunt Lavinia that a surprise had been planned. Your very first trip to London, was it? To the zoo to see the lions and elephants and owls? I told your mummy to buy a stuffed owl on my behalf and name it Nigel. Creativity, you know, runs in your family.

I hope your day was terrific. I am so sorry that I could not make it, muffin, my Sarah Jane. Next year, I promise, I’ll make sure that I have no sale pitch to make. And if I do? I’ll quit.

You mean the world to me, you and your mum. Have the happiest birthday you could imagine, Sarah.

Love, Daddy.

She turned the card over to look at the front of it again. The googly eyed owl with the funny smile stared back at her until it became blurry with tears. Did he know that he’d only have two more birthdays left to spend with her when he wrote this? Oh, of course not. Automobile accidents were never planned, after all.

With a sigh, Sarah collapsed on her bed and clutched the card close to her heart.


his_sarah_jane: (Default)
Sarah Jane Smith

April 2011

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