black

[continuum_of_drs]

It was all so ... garish.

He tossed aside object after object in the wardrobe room. Too bright. Too long. Too ... English. And what was he thinking even having something like that in there?

The whole place had been too overwrought. Or maybe it was him. He'd rid himself of the whole architectural configuration--cloisters and all. All the Victoriana and the candles and that ... seal. Everywhere. He couldn't look at it any more. The TARDIS had protested yet another overhaul, but he had to do it. Had to.

What had resulted was something strangely organic and oddly ... alien, even to him. Good. It fit how he felt. Strangely alien and detached and disassociated.

And now he stood in the wardrobe, utterly sick of cravats and waistcoats and colours. None of the colours suited him. Too red or too blue or too brown. The knee-length frock coats had to go. The striped trousers. The spats. All of it had to go, just as his past had to go. The memory of what he used to represent--who he used to represent.

He found dark trousers. A sweater. And--yes. This would do very nicely, this leather jacket. Black. Enveloping. Yes. Closed-off and closed in and utterly an entity unto himself.

That was him, now.