Airfield

A utilitarian expanse of tarmac and concrete cracked by weather and oil stains, stretching taut under the weight of sudden rocket engines. Ragged winds whistle through nylon tether lines still snapping after the Doctor's gyrocopter settled heavily, one skid sunk slightly in the damp where the surface gives. Low sheet-metal huts with corrugated roofs huddle at the field's edge, their walls dented by gyrocopter backwash—one door hangs ajar, revealing shadows deeper than the early evening light admits. Across the apron, the Brigadier’s staff car slews into a skid, its tires spitting gravel as it brakes, while the Doctor is already airborne again in stolen airspace, the space car’s ionization trail licking at the darkening sky. The air smells of burnt kerosene and hot metal, mingling with the sharper note of the Doctor’s cigarette, still smoldering on the cracked concrete where he dropped it.