Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Black Ice

The left sonic probe still is sitting there, some few hours after the processional of two men who used to know each other and might-again, silver-long, crisp-lined and bisquey against a bit of banked snow the height of a man’s large boot.

The green light flickers on occasion, blinking morse code onto the bright eyes of the shopping area.

And that particular limey sort of green showers the pedestrian walkways, the sighing sidewalks, the leafy sausage parkways lined with topiaries for the tourists... with a kind of breezy sentimental sort of missive, granting a dubious absolution of iniquities to the empty lots and abandoned hovercars and half-open slide-doors left lonely in the wake of All That Ice like a rainstorm after zombie season.

But when first it was flown to the gerund ground, it rolled like a primitive circus, flashing its portentous eye all over the low road, seeking no favor from the area other than the simple clarification of its own existence.

And even that is gone now.

It isn’t rolling anymore, either.

When it stopped, it struck the toe of the Flesh Valeyard’s rumbling masterpiece, a throaty naked foot made of unnaturally hewn ice fashioned into man’s primal nightmare, that most frightful figure of woman.

A very particular woman.

Wings emitted from her back like tree trunks, somber, grasping.

Two vicious arms played a frozen game of Red Light, Green Light in the aching darkness, that alone time between apartment building and shop when all the neighbors still don’t know you and it’s a dismal one after midnight.

Cold wrinkles like wet candles flaming up scantily dressed old-time arches, inked along her passageways by years of stolen time, whiled away in a roc’s egg.

But the heat of the light, the green song, had fallen over her once the sonic had been dropped.

-Had been- dropped.

It was dropped, and it still lit and blinked and flashed, for a while.

Enough to sear her with its little fire-shadow.

And how that fire-shadow climbed up her well-turned calf! The son of a sundial and a dreamy archaeologist.

So yes, the sonic is still there, setting back a bit into its place of honor, the tiny indent it made in the ice.

And she?

Well, she is not in well standing anymore; barely a witchy puddle, really.

Hot tears can do that, in a pinch.


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