Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Part Six: Master of the Two Worlds: Requiem for an Ocean

In the foreground beachy tide pool of a Dream, a blue-eyed man called Jack crouches on a broken mirror.

After he landed on it.

He doesn’t have any shoes on; his feet, clean and naked, rest unbloodied on the mirror’s remains.

Surf scatters across the sand behind him in the distance, the water remembering the mirror as it once was, like a sapphire dust sky blowing through grains of brassy wheat.

His eyes scatter his senses over the smooth fractures as he turns the shard he’s currently staring at over and over.

The piece of glass shimmers in his agile hands like fragments of frozen sea.

The gold frame is tarnished, but the brightness of older days shows through in spots, here and there, in curling waves of… but soon, the fragment in his hands catches a hovering darkness leaning toward his little golden boat of frame and frame-up.

It has a hawk nose, long and white, below eyeholes. It has a long robe, too, full of black lines and shades of greys. The robe conceals, even if only partially, the drab pale blues of a dotted hospital gown. The feet are obscured; perhaps there aren’t any. Long brown hair cascades down the back, a spicy ribbon of silk.

From a pocketed wrist, a white-gloved hand beckons somberly, shoving a finger westward, toward a setting sun that wasn’t there a minute ago. The other hand clicks open a ticking timepiece that gleams like a silver crystal in the snowy palm.

“Not the best of landings, Jack…” the masked man says in soft tones as he holds two spindly fingers up to Jack’s neck to check for a pulse, “But it’ll do.”

Then the man in the mask reaches up, fitting fingers to the top of his head.

Rip, pop, peel.


“It’s not a surprise, really- I’ve been off for a while now…” the new face murmurs, scrubbing itself with long squarish fingers, “…and it happened long before my… before little Amelia… heh. Before Amy Pond -that’s her, the seven year old, I mean… my mother-in-law- told me I wasn’t… what I’d convinced myself I was.”

There is, Jack notices, a rude chin, an anxious rabbit nose. Two pale jade eyes that peer from deep cup sockets- although it feels like four… one set an old wooden goblet filled with coldly flowing mercury, the other set a rusted, stranger, daytripping furnace, taking in ashes and spitting out white saplings. Above all this now, instead of ribbony hair the color of milk chocolate silk, there hangs an unruly mess of furry brown that flips down at a queer angle on one side, like the ear of a Cashmere Lop.

“You see,” the man adds, reaching over and applying his fingers to Jack’s head, “…Davros was right. I’m not Gandalf. I’m Bunny Foo Foo.” His eyes redden with water; he rubs them, blinking. “What is it they say at the old ball game? Three strikes, you’re out?”

Then the man smiles sadly, before smacking Jack’s own smooth, soft, rough brown haired head.

Jack disappears.

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