"Make something, it helps," the redhead called to the man who strode by with his hands thrust deep ino his pockets. He offered the smudgy pastels to the man as if they were a pack of cigarettes.
"Not interested." The man looked at the street artist. The face was familiar. Couldn't place it. Odd. Maybe he was famous. Not for his art. Appalling stuff, any century. Still…
Plots to foil, death to seek. He walked on.
"Or you could blow something up," the Prodigal sighed as the last of the Timelords followed the path he himself had so carefully abandoned.