Vincent didn’t know how, but he currently found himself in Edinburgh, Scotland. With all the ‘inadvertent traveling’ he had done, he still
didn’t know how it worked. How he had ended up in Oslo, in Berlin, in Edinburgh. He still also didn’t know what the creatures were that kept following him. Vincent saw them everywhere, some hiding in the shadows and others out in the open, clear as day. How could no one else see them? He saw the way the general populace looked at the creatures, the look of surprise and fear when they first laid eyes on the aliens and then the blank look of forgetfulness as soon as they looked away. Yet why could Vincent himself see them? And why did they keep following him? Was he really as ‘special’ as The Doctor had told him when they had met all those years ago?
The Doctor was the reason he was here, right? Not just here in Edinburgh but here in this futuristic world. He didn’t still didn’t understand it all, but it could be worse. He could be dead and have never met Amy again. Here in Edinburgh, everyone spoke with the accent that Vincent had first heard in her voice. His own accent from Holland. Yet, Amy had not been from Holland and neither were these Scotsmen, but their accents were so similar. He would much rather be with Amy in general, or with Amy here in Edinburgh, but being here in Edinburgh was a nice reminder of his time with Amy if merely because of the sound of the Scottish accents.
He found a quaint café on the corner and ordered a coffee before he found a booth in the back to sit down and have a quiet moment to himself. He sipped his coffee and looked around at the people before he retreated into his own world of eccentricity, color, and wonder. He began to daydream once more, remembering fondly Amy Pond and The Doctor. And that magic box: The box that was a magical wonderland on the inside, the box that was the bluest of blue, and the box in which they had stayed sane while Vincent was the mad one.
With the magic blue box on his mind, Vincent opened the satchel that he had started keeping on him—and which the Silence and ‘the Eyepatch Lady’ had allowed him to keep on him—and pulled out some paints, paint brushes, and a small canvas. After setting out his things on the table, he started to paint on the small canvas which he had set out in front of himself. It wasn’t a masterpiece like his The Pandorica Opens, but it was good for art in a café in Edinburgh.