Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Beating a Dead Retreat

It’s the Valeyard’s comeuppance, all right.

In fact, now he’s coming up the stairs.

Frightened Time Lords abound before him in the halls of the lower Citadel, all staring.

They’re waiting for him.

…to bite them, perhaps?

…how inanely touching. Although it -is- an idea…

“Well now,” the Valeyard Flesh says softly, leaning down and setting a finger to his nose like a gloating, evil Sinter Klaus, “…what have we here? Lambs for the slaughter. But not yet. You’re too stupid to see it. You lot have always been that way. Oh it will be sooo good to finally be rid of all these misfit toys. But you’ll have to wait a little longer for the final action! So sorry.”

As he mentally edits the many speeches he’s prepared to amuse himself, the bits of himself that he dribbled so carefully come rolling back to him up the stairs, tripping up the horrified onlookers with a great red mess of swishy stains across the walls and floor like little parasites from a horror movie.

“Where… where is Rassilon?” asks Raskalin, cowering behind Pasmodius’ purples.

“Upstairs, downstairs, give a dog a stone…” says the Valeyard, eyeing the shivering masses, “It seems the father figure has left the building! Time to die.”

He play-lunges, directing hands and bodies in the opposite of his path as he swings himself wildly, his white eyes joying in the emanations of fear from the Time Lords around him.

The Valeyard Flesh raises his hand, as if to snap his long, squarish, whitish Flesh fingers together; then he rubs his chin instead, making sure to sink the tips a bit into his half-melted plastilina skin. He cocks his head to the side, then says, “Just kidding!” Then he smirks, grinning as the faces flinch and turn away at his every breath, like piles of blood-stuck feathers in front of a fan.

As he punches a symbol onto the Flesh-generated leather strap he’s just formed on his wrist and pats the pocket of his new Flesh-generated coat, he sings out merrily, “…it’s just no fun plucking sacrificial chicken anymore… in any case I think I’m turning vegan. Ciao ciao for now!”

Fitfully for those staring ahead at the empty space, he is soon gone to parts unknown, in a burst of displaced chronons.

Once he appears aboard his tiny orbiting bolt hole of a ship, he smiles, and pushes the smaller of two blinking red buttons near the control console.

Somewhere on board, a slide hatch retracts, and a flood of tiny metal spheres similar to edible ball bearings floods out, like the powdery spray of eggs from a sea sponge.

“Oh, and here you, go, have a cloud of proximity-detonated chronotic scatter mines…” he muses, as he pushes the ship to planet com, then reaches to tease the larger red button with his finger before bringing his fingertip up high above it and hanging it there, to amuse himself, “… and of course, because they’re time-active, these little Barcelonans will block all time-space signals coming to and from the planet. Ever. Which means no time travel off-planet. You’re all going to starve. Goodbye. I won’t be staying.”

Down goes the finger, and then…

His lightweight, single-passenger ship comes apart to the sound of his cackling, in a collection of loud, fluid bursts like a cooling lava rock, trailing a surprise symphony of nasty little puffball choruses above Gallifreyan space.

One by one, the lights of the Citadel go out as sensors black and monitors flush with static.





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