We've gone back to the beginning, the place where homo sapiens first believed a blue box could fly. The place is right, but the time is wrong. The air is suffused with conspiracy, scents of paranoia and confusion so commonly associated with that race of upright individuals, human beings. Somewhere underneath the paved streets of this city, a man is leading his team to destinations unknown and only he knows the plan, ideas twisting and turning in his head like clockwork gears. Shifting and changing. Thinking, formulating, scheming. Typical Earthling, colony-born or otherwise.
The story's gone full circle to the junkyard. There's something symbolic in coming home after a long and difficult rebirth. Grey hair and Edwardian couture has changed to blond curls and multicoloured patchwork, but the soul is still remembered. And you are here with the American girl and me, and I'm changing too. But it's not permanent, it never is.
You and me, we've changed, still changing, in a cycle of transformation. There's a fire in your eyes and a kick in your step that was not there before; there's a voice in your head telling you "Something is not right, something is just not right" as you walk through familiar streets and alleyways. Someone's out there in distress, calling for you, but you can't find them and it hurts. You've held an old friend in your arms as he died and you are a little bit scared that history will repeat itself. It always does.
And it does.
"Didn't go very well, did it? . . . I don't think I've misjudged anybody quite as bad as I misjudged Lytton."
See what I mean? Even in your old age - and don't deny it, nine hundred years is nothing to wave away - you're still making mistakes, underestimating that eclectic shade of gray that's splattered itself across the universe, born from apes with curious minds. Have you forgotten already? It all started with two curious school teachers, checking up on a pupil, and continues to this day on a path of stardust.
We've gone back to the genesis, the crux of the story and rebuilt our beginning. Humanity stands witness to two people crossing into the sunset; a sharp-eyed Time Lord and his book-smart companion, walking on until they are blips on the horizon, then there is nothing. What you can't see: witty repartees thrown back and forth, cocked eyebrows, laughter, tons upon tons of words and no one to write them down. And occasionally, they'll save the world, again.
The place was right, the time was wrong, but that was okay. You never had that good a sense of direction anyway, but you always ended up exactly when you are supposed to. And if you clutch your lapels from time to time, that's okay too. In the end, it's all the same, no matter the face.