"This place hasn't changed a bit."
He mutters a small observation while electricity hums along the rails. Here he used to run instead of walk, his fiery soles swishing down the path as stars streaked into long, winding ribbons of light. One could easily get lost in the maze. He often did.
His steps slow.
The ARK.
Birthplace.
Slaughterhouse.
Home.
A powerful feeling gnaws at his chest when he stops to consider the last word, one he's hard-pressed to name.
Whom does the colony belong to now? The Doctor, who hungers only for the Cannon? Him? No one? Who would want it, he thinks, with its invasive webs of dust clinging to the rafters, the steel components left spinning in perpetuity with nothing to temper their clanking grind?
The colony sails endless waves among the stars. It's equal parts grave and cradle, some parts dead, others painfully alive.
Fifty years have passed, and the rust one would expect to gather on the bones of any abandoned building on Earth abstain from the towers. The lights that guide him continue to glow as strongly as ever. Gerald designed it for posterity, just like him.
Is he willing to let the colony, this unique, self-sustained wonder, crumple and burn?
He must. The Professor's will is a matter of overriding importance.