The Seventh Doctor

It had taken him some time to create it. A small pocket, just out of the way of the rest of the timestream. A bit akin to a bubble, floating along a river. Everything in it was artificial, to some extent or another - an extension merely of the TARDIS' ability to create an atmosphere. The ground, made to look like a rather ornate bit of carpet on some flat grey material, was all projection, by and large. A trick of artificial gravity and hard light holographics.

The rest, however, was not. He'd dragged two old armchairs out from the TARDIS, ones he'd picked up a long time ago when he was both incredibly old and yet a young rebel at the same time. He'd been authoritative in those days, and these had...well, turned up. The benefits of living in an old scrapyard, really. The irony of course was that he'd had them since near the beginning, but in those days he'd been such a man of action he rarely sat down at all. The nervous energy is gone in this incarnation.

To the side of them is a small cart with a tea service and a tray of cucumber sandwiches, and some assorted cookies. And between the two chairs is, to his mind, the most important part. The chessboard sits on an ornate metal stand, a gift from Napoleon Bonaparte. Each of the pieces was carved by hand - flawless Italian marble for white, scintillating Guatemalan obsidian for black. He finished dusting it off with a handkerchief, then sat back in the one arm chair, pulling a comic book out of a coat pocket.

He rather liked Flash Gordon. They got so much wrong, he could lose himself in it for a spell. And he might have to wait some time. It might be a while before the intriguing little signal sent out as a lure attracted its intended fish...