Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Yelow Girl Submarine

It was a long night of programming with the missus.

The Master shifts in his sleep.





A deep clanging noise, his own personal cloister bell, erupts near his ear and begins, in the long upheld tradition of overlarge gongs, to toll loudly through him.

“Is there an elephant in the room?” his drowsy tongue slurs.

He reaches his elbow over Flamina to grab his jeans… but his brain cells misgauge the distance, sending his forearm stumbling over empty air.

His arm falls down, striking hard floor; his eyes jolt awake at the sound of an extra ding rapping against the white ground, like oblivion.

Oh god. He realizes it as he looks down at the golden ring wrapping his finger like a soothsayer’s curse.

Oh god, oh god. Flamina was never… Flamina was never…

Because Rosette is there, staring up at him out of the ground as though through a window, a golden wreath of girl framed by a pink floor.

His fingers scrape against her rosy carapace; they scratch at her blue, green, grey and golden eyes heavy-lined with gold-feathered mascara-like blotches. The semblance of rouge on her face is fuschia laced with gold dust; he screeches wordlessly at it, tracing the crumbled gold leaf piles of dust at her Fortuna feet like love-hate words in the sand of a distant strand.

“…you,” he breathes blankly, staring, his hot-stung gaze like bloody mirrors, suddenly bloodshot.

“…I know,” she says, straining a sugary soup of softness into her words with just those silent, saucer orbs she might call eyes, “…Rose Tyler, Defender of the Universe- blonde chit, yellow girl, chav extraordinaire, to the rescue. The Doctor needs to hear what I’m gonna say before I say it…” Her light-filled eyes roll up in a groan, crisping the edges of the golden dayshine blonde-dyed hair spilling into the pink hoodie. She grips his face with glitter-sprinkled hands, gold pouring into his vision like liquid butter in a vintage popcorn machine, “And you’re gonna tell ‘im.”

The Master scrubs his hair through with his hand. Perhaps if he regenerates into a bald man he won’t have to do this again.

“…what is it I’m supposed to tell him? Besides the fact I want to wring his scrawny chicken neck like a tasty turkey and stuff him with rice, then hand him over to the local street urchins as a piñata for making up this exquisite little fib about my online girlfriend?”

Rosette the TARDIS and Rose Tyler the woman who loves and might possibly be loved by… that prat. That Prat with a capital P. No difference.

Really? This will take some getting used to, he thinks, as he narrows his eyes at her, grinding his teeth together.

Rose Tyler smiles, her lips part in that pout he’s always heard about, and then she laughs, the sound chiming deeply through the rooms of her hull, and the world below them lights up for a split hair’s second.

“You’ve got three minutes. ‘t’s all I can give you. Tell ‘im… Tell ‘im Bouncy Castle says to try the other radio. There’s his signal now. Shift it.”


But then a buzz comes over the comms.


“Hello up there? Do you have any tea left? I’m out of black oolong… and the stupid chronon bombs, they just don’t understand the need for a proper service… When I get out of here, I’m going to have to do something about…”

The Master sighs and snaps his fingers, causing the fuzzy black pussy willow arm of an old style radio show boom to elongate from the ether and up through his grasp. He clicks the on button, then speaks into the microphone, coughing for effect.

“Idiot. Shut up. As if you’d ever get out of there without me. The blonde chit who turned herself into a TARDIS says hello, something about a Bouncy Castle and trying the other radio.”

A short pause from the com, and then, a soft hitch before the mast, “… did she mean the Siesta, the Admiral or the Amberola?”


“YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW? Oh my fucking god, I’m writing my will, right now. I am! I’m writing it. I’m fucking writing my god damn will, you are the biggest moron in the history of…”

“Hrm… definitely the Siesta… or maybe the Amberola…”

“Gaaah! For once in your life can’t you just bloody pick one? The cake may be a lie, but you are the Troll King under the god damn bridge! PICK ONE! We only have one minute left!”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”

“…heavens to betsy we’re all going to die if you decide to change your cravat tomorrow!”

‘Wait, wait wait, I’m running to the engine room now! I just have to check something! …what’s wrong with my cravat?”

“Must… kill… stupid… person… and stop drumming your fingers on the console to make the running sounds!”

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