Screeeeee-

"Ow! Dammit." Toxin snarled at the spot on the building where he'd been attempting to scratch, backing away from it. It wasn't like his claws needed sharpening, but he'd figured that doing it would help him vent his frustration a little.

So much for that. All it did was give him a headache from the high pitched noise. He bared his teeth at the building again simply because it made him feel better, then jumped onto the building, scrambling up its side until he reached a ledge. He sat there, eyepatches narrowed as he stared down at the city and sulked.

Stupid Spider-Man. Stupid Venom. Stupid no fighting rules.

If someone were to ask Jack Harkness why he'd turned the Sensorium into a perfect replica of the Boeshane Peninsula, he probably wouldn't be able to answer. Not a real answer, anyway -- he'd shrug, give his most charming smile, and say it seemed like a good idea at the time, and change the subject to something far more interesting.

The fact that it's been over two thousand years since he last saw home (even if most of that was spent in a seemingly endless cycle of suffocation and death -- and let's not think of that now) might have something to do with it, as might the fact that 21C Earth didn't have VR worth the name, and he was never one to keep pictures.

It's... strange, seeing the place he grew up again, with all that's happened. Strange seeing it so empty, too, without friends, family... Gray. But an AI wouldn't be the same.

An AI can't forgive.

So instead of engaging in more emotional self-flagellation than he is already, he's just stretched out on the gentle slope of a sand dune, watching the ocean. Remembering.

He'd welcome an interruption, even if he's not quite up to seeking anyone out at the moment.

Fitz, like many others on board this big, icky, moist spaceship from hell, was making good use of the sensoriums.

He had sequestered himself in a huge mock-ballroom lined in mirrors, and was chainsmoking so heavily there was a slight haze.He had a stack of cigarette packs by him, apparently not noticing any sort of short supply like his fellow addicts, and he was tuning a guitar that didn't really exist (And thus didn't need to be tuned, but he was ignoring that.)

He could still feel the plantsuit pulsing around him under his fake old clothing, a horrendus mash of plaid and hawaiian print with a leather jacket thrown on top.

The strange fashion disaster of a young (?) man started to croon around the fag in his mouth. "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..."

It's up to you, oh brave observer, if you want to venture near the living sixties mess, or just stare and move on. Fitz couldn't care either way. ...Unless you're a hot bird. Yes, please.