Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Radio Silence

There is a scrabbling at the door.

So to speak.

Jack looks down, ending a thought with- so Rassilon DOES make good coffee. Huh.- as he reaches out to still Benjamin Pond’s fingers- he has the Pyramid in his other hand… could it be… causing that reaction, he wonders?

Those fingers, they are sudden and fast, scratching and scraping away like some horror in the dark. As he sleeps.

As he dreams.

He shouldn’t be allowed that. But oh well. It isn’t up to him. And the Doctor would have his head.

A sigh.

If only.

Rassilon’s little tonic worked wonders… he actually got a bit of sleep after drinking that odd poison the man gave him.

It won’t be long until the guards arrive, he thinks, so he decides, as he’s weaving his fingers around Benjamin Pond’s timorous long hand, to pick up the comm currently outputting to the bug in the Flesh’s jacket. It jimmies a signal from the aether once more, as it has been programmed to do, piggybacking backward onto the Cloud Drop Team’s comm…

Jack doesn’t see Benjamin Pond’s mouth form a single word as the man scrapes and strains against unconsciousness.


Neither does he notice the boiled jellyfish stain of amniotic fluid staining the man’s trousers.

River Song rises from her camp roll, churning her shoulders back and forth like a turn of good butter before she blinks and looks over at Borusa.

The woman’s eyeless yellow diamond head is gazing off… at the Doctor and the Master. They’re not here.


The Doctor’s roll is a flat pile of bluish vinyl-look waterproofing bag and a dog-eared book or two stuffed in the ripped out hem. The thing is, truthfully, an eyesore, and thoroughly unslept in, judging by the kink on the fabric that was just about head-area last night. It’s still there now. The Master was just sleeping on the ground, near the fire. Both of them, gone. It figures. They’re together, after all.

“The com is buzzing, River,” says Borusa, trying to balance her yellow head against her too tall body as she weaves toward the general direction of the blaring com, somewhere to her other left and sitting atop a box or two of provisions.

Borusa reaches out, steadying herself with the edge of the dimensionally-packed crate. The silvery button pulses a blinding blue.

Press. Klik.

“Hi guys. Any news? For those of you who don’t know me, the name’s Harkness- Captain Harkness. Yeah, I know. Not much going on up here, except that Pond’s fallen and hurt himself, and Rassilon’s been arrested by the local authorities- something about nine-thousand counts of murder and social fraud... anything on your end? I really hope your team gets back with good news soon, because we’ve… got a situation here. Pond’s about to… oh shit he’s…”

The com cuts out with a spark.

“Oh, you’re joking…” River says flatly, her eyes growing wide again, then narrowing as she turns her worry inward. She takes a breath, schooling her face into order. She won’t grab her chest. She won’t. “My husband can’t survive a step out the door for milk. Still…” she turns to Borusa, who is already gathering their gear, white hands digging in bags. “I hope he’s all right. The Master and the Doctor’s Flesh are far ahead of us now. They need us right now, more than his real body does, despite our desires to the contrary. Have you got everything?”

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