Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

On the Comforts of a Pyramid-Shaped Tent, Part One

Flamina looks at the Master.

The Master looks at Flamina.

They both, then, respectively, look at the only other door between them and the hallway which promises the desired location within Rosette’s hull.

The Master shoves. Flamina pushes.

Flamina finds her shoulder in the door.

But it’s the doorframe, really.

Smash.

Crunch.

Ah yes, a crunching.

“You fractured my shoulder, idiot,” she murmurs, crashed as she is against the doorframe leading to the outer hall, which in turn, eventually, will lead to the Doctor’s Zero Room.

The Master, leaning into her, is just as unpleased; his nose has shifted by means of her fist quite a sizeable ways to the visual right, just enough to give his face the approximation of a heavyweight boxer’s sterling, empty gaze, the dark eyes full of ribbons of brains and the weight of obols. Their importance to someone.

“But my dearest Flamme, you broke my nose.” He rubs his eye with a free hand. “In any case, let us continue down the hallway; I sense a skedaddle in progress.”

The shoulder archs up, then back; lots of little cracks are heard as they walk.

Soon his long hands are on her back, soothing up her muscles with gold flecks of light that seep into her veins.

“Precious my flypaper, we should get further down the hallway soon,” she whispers, feeling a cold tingling arise beneath the knitting bone.

She reaches up to pull his fingers away and adjust his nose, her fingers glowing.

Krik-krak.

Their eyes meet over the flow of blood from his bruised septum.

“Excellent riposte. But what now, Candy Love?” he asks, nodding his blondish head down the way, toward an open door, slightly swaying from recent motion. “I, personally, feel I was denied the right to counsel. In any case, huh? What are you…”

Flamina sticks her tongue out in a mess of ruffled white hair and flushed face and vibrant olive eyes, then applies her hand to the Master’s chest and pushes.

He stumbles, his mouth opening like a drooling dog after bacon. His hands find the smooth white floor, while his roving eyes study the bum of his escaping girlfriend as it bounces tightly down the hallway, then disappears inside the pyramidal door to the detachable Zero Room in question.

After the clack of her heels stops at what he gathers is a wall, there is a crumpling noise, then a thick, uneven pulling, as if there was something sticky on the back of whatever she took off the wall.

“Let me guess,” he mutters, scrambling up to position himself behind the door, “…it’s a blue post-it note.”

Flamina sighs, holding up the blue paper with the sticky back, “You’d be right. It seems he’s flown the coop.”

He finishes for her, snatching the blue note and twisting it before his eyes, turning it, examining it with every relevant orifice. Including his tongue.

“Well, he keeps -saying- he’s an adult, but yet, somehow I don’t believe him. Want to go down to the planet and harass the locals? Again?”

Flamina furrows her brows at him, but then sighs. Her shoulders slump like little piles of sugar.

“Oh all right. He’ll be fine for a little while, I suppose. Rosette?” she says, looking up into the white ceiling. “Let’s drop back into Kasterborous space for a while, but keep tabs on him, would you?”

A smiling, vague-feminine likeness of a face melts out of the white wall and nods.


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