Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

The Practiced Overture

“So, my friends, Pasmodius is blissfully absent, so at least we shall be availed of his whinging for the moment of your timely return,” Rassilon murmurs softly into the Citadel-to-Shuttle coms as the metal bead that is the interplanetary shuttle teleports smoothly into the bumping fracas of the teleport bay. “Step out of your Flesh, and then come out from the cabin- we await your update of our data on the situation.”

The little bead grows to size like a hungry droplet, drawing smaller breaks of water to itself before finally materializing completely. The door melts down both sides, becoming an apparent line to the left and right as it writes itself in the shiny metal of the shuttle’s hull.

Jack Harkness is standing slightly behind him, waving languidly as the occupants of the shuttle’s cabin file out toward the small, cloistered crowds of on-looking Time Lords like querents to the social offices.

“And it seems we have two fewer members of our little troupe, as well. What happened to Benjamin and the Master, River?” Jack asks, leaning on a column near Rassilon’s shoulder with his foot up, owning the wall.

River looks up as she walks, holding her prize up for everyone to see, while Borusa wanders behind, her little blonde head bobbing as she finds eyes to meet and gazes to align herself with, out of habit.

But River can tell; her mind is elsewhere. A small smile crosses River’s lips as she thinks about what must be going on in Borusa’s mind. Then Jack moves to greet them.

“Emily…” Jack says with a grin, holding out his hand and keeping his left boot heel tilted into the floor.

“Steven…” River mutters, narrowing her eyes and adjusting her hips a little so the right one bears just a bit more weight.

“Now that the niceties are out of the way…” he adds, curling the edges of his mouth in a most unflattering way as he resizes her sturdy curves up, “Where is he, Miss Pond?”

Rassilon’s ice blue eyes are a bird’s as he searches their stilted, pensive body language for information, anything, about what has happened, and what will- he knows what is happening now.

Then, just as he expects them to, they squirm into motion, flying at each other, guns to each other’s foreheads.

“Catshark fur,” he murmurs flatly, cocking his head, “…has never flown so fast.”

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