The Flesh Valeyard ducks his head out of the Library room, aiming himself for the safety of the stairwell that leads to the new swimming pool, one hand clutching his belly as though he expects something to spill out. Again. How many times has he lost his breakfast now?
“I have to get there, get the Ring!” he murmurs, banging his fist on the wall.
The floor... is swinging from side to side in his vision; he wasn’t lying about the headache.
Well, he thought he was. But obviously not.
“Old Girl,” he breathes, falling against the pale sand colored wall, “Stop tossing about! I didn’t intend to spend forever traipsing one picosecond at a time down this damn hallway. Did you move the engine room again? You had better not! I’ll fry your secondary navigational leads and leave you in Jersey for a month!”
The hallway totters sharply to the right; a door to a room is on the opposite wall, and he is certain the ship intends to toss him into...
His feet fly out from under him, jumping his nerves into several greasy buckets hanging from a ceiling fan, somewhere.
The hallway cuts a hard far right this time, and he sails through the open door as it slides open to digest him into the room- he curl himself into a ball, awkwardly hugging his knees around his small but annoying belly against the inevitable impact.
As he free falls, something blue and sticky peels off his trousers and situates itself mockingly in front of him.
“Bite Me... charming...” he murmurs to himself, patting his stomach as his eyes fly further to the floor.
Then the ship rights itself in a quick reverse rotation, leaving him sailing now toward the door he just fell into.
“PLEASE! It’s me and I’m pregnant, remember? I tried to help you!” he cries.
His mouth is like a bloated jelly roll filled with numbing agent, suddenly... he can’t imagine why he said that.
She’s his TARDIS! Why would she... why would he need to...
He plummets as the gravity feeds hum suddenly back to life, spewing nice, refreshing weight back into everything relevant in the room.
His back hits something long, hard... jointed. Bones... feels like- an elbow.
His head strikes a small roundish object, concussing him.
When he wakes up again, the floor is an even line again, albeit colored with bits of jagged glass, towering over half the space in broken shards sticking up from...
He looks down over the precipice, then down at the thing he landed on.
His favorite red fiberglass fishing pole! He thought Susan had lost it, back when they...
But as his eyes travel its length, he sees it. The rod is broken in two places; the reel he cracked with his skull, breaking the handle entirely. The rod is useless.
The Master’s still down there.
“Koschei!” he yells, and instantly stretches out his hands to telekinese the man up.
He strains, and lifts, tugging with every corner of his very distracted mind. He grabs two nearby shards, to lean...
“Sharp! OW! Stings!” he hisses, whistling his pain through his teeth. But he holds to them both, feeling the ache begin in his hands, trembling up the nerves of his fingers.
He’s not going to let go.
Red-orange slicks down the shards, slicking his fingers.
The long digits, they’re turning white; the fingertips are greying, bleaching like old wood left on a beach.
“Koschei, hold on!” he calls, reaching out with his last bit of air and sense. He’s kneeling in his own blood, sliding forward and backward and sideways, all at once.
“KOSCHEI!” his cry falls silent, however, as his knees finally give out and he falls backward, his feet slipping to the sides, jostling his leverage.
Koschei of Oakdown slips off the big shard like that last bit of ice cream, teetering at the top, his body a tiny shell of peanut stuck to the edge of the paper bag.
Any gust of wind could...
Any wind! The Time Winds! The residues should be leaking out of the Rose Ring by now! If he can hold to the tiny touch of those trapped in the Ring’s metal, the loops of time energy wrapping around the Master instead of the Master himself, maybe... the ring should still have enough juice for that. Yes.
He reaches out again, looking down over the blood-smeared glass floor, getting a feel for the location of the Ring in relation to the engine and the length of Koschei’s arm.
Then he closes his eyes, and lifts, keeping tightly to both his blood-wet anchoring shards, both of them cutting into the sinew and arteries above his elbow as he uses his hands to manipulate the energy of the Time Winds.
He pulls, baring his teeth against the friction of the shard against the Master’s flesh.
Finally, Koschei’s body heaves itself onto the safer parts of the floor, on the side near the opposite door, which is strangely open. Koschei rolls outside the room, leaving a trail of blood, and the door slips shut again.
“See, Kos? I told you I’d... save... you. I told... you I would.”
The Flesh Valeyard telekinetically unclenches his fist, having severed both his brachial arteries holding onto the shards that way; on the upside, his palm reveals a charred and bloodied golden treasure.
Again, he uses telekinesis to twist the Ring into his finger, succumbing to the blood loss just as the Ring quick-jumps him into the Panopticon... his arms spasm and throw themselves about from the lack of blood; a superior vascular reflex inherent in any Time Lord. But that reflex knocks his nearly unconscious body straight into the Pythia’s path. Her path through the Mirror is the last thing he sees before his dimming eyes fail him.
He is close to passing out; the brachials will be slow to drain him dry, but drain him they will. He’s going to die.
Blinking, he lies back, curling slightly, both arms wrapped underneath him in an awkward sort of stand, as though he were a glass orb in a carnival gypsy’s stall.
He blinks again, staring at the wall for something to do whilst exsanguinating.
What? The engine room walls aren’t white! And the door was there before...
“What’s going on? If this is the TARDIS, that shouldn’t... I didn’t ask you to... do that! Open that ...door back up... right... now...”
“It isn’t though, is it? I’m so glad! Nobody ever notices me...” a giggle bubbles from nowhere, in a vaguely feminine tone.
The voice is slightly nasal, scratchy, a bit young. Taking a long, deep breath, the Flesh Valeyard forces eyes he didn’t know had closed back open again. To look.
But his head lolls to the side, too much, the effort. Too much.
The floor looks... so very very white now. Like a river of milk. Is that a hand attached to it, crawling along his leg like a Lilliputian? How bizarre.
“You said, he could survive if he wanted to,” the voice adds, coming closer now. It’s almost as though it’s beneath him, sounding like a ripple of water as it does.
But he mustn’t sleep. He can’t sleep. Not with her in here. It’s not safe... not safe for the...
“I’ll take good care of you, and your baby, Doctor...” The voice smooth, so very close now; it must be in his ear. Is it a fly? Well, it isn’t very nice, but perhaps it will... you know...
His eyelids are fluttering now, dumpily.
“You’re so very pale, Doctor,” the voice soothes. He feels... lifted, as though his weight is being born by something strong. By Her. Hadn’t she said she was? Strong?
“That’s right, Doctor... it’s me, Jennifer. The Flesh, from the factory.” The voice is softer now, more gentle, like a pillow over the head. “I’ll take care of you. Then, when you’re better, when you’ve had your baby, you can take me to Rory. The Valeyard promised me! He came and got me, after you murdered us. Rest now.”
His eyes snap open, but it’s too late.
Thousands of white hands fill every wall.
They descend from the ceiling, reaching, grabbing for him. Soon, they’ll be here. Soon.
The white fills his nose.
He cannot scream with his lips... –or- his mind; the Flesh is merging with him.
But I’m not the...
Susan. Susan. Susan. Susan. Susan.
It is the last word that enters his mind before...