Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

By bowtiedbunny

Adventure / Scifi

Red Inquisition

Thirty minutes later, the Doctor’s fingers clamp nauseous and white on the Lesser Inquiries Room door.

“...I’m here,” he says, carefully pushing the door a bit further ajar before sticking a naked foot in to keep it that way. “I think the guard has left me. Don’t really want to turn around to be sure. When did we get her? She’s creepy.”

Borusa smiles at her little table, not bothering to get up.

“Take a seat, fool boy,” Borusa says, gesturing to a wooden chair, “you and your bare toes, both.”

She then lays a paper down, something about ... disappearances? Climate change?

His eyes blur as he tries to focus on the page, but Borusa slides it away from him, watching his reaction.

“Not that, not... yet. I sense you have a question. Best be out with it boy,” she says, tapping his hand with the pointer in her fingers, because her small hand is too short to reach his, “with that look on your face, you haven’t all day, let alone the hour or so it would take for this. I’ll hurry it up. Go ahead and ask.”

She smiles, turning her eyes down at him.

Strange.

The Doctor blinks again, thinks better of shaking his head to clear it, and then sinks back into the chair, slowly tilting back against the high rest for a moment before opening his eyes and speaking.

“...where is Koschei? Last time I checked, he was miserably in love. He should have been there last night. Why wasn’t he? Or...”

He jerks forward just as two guards come in, the one from before and another one.

“Surely he wasn’t one of those disappearances, Borusa... hey!”

Both guards plaster their hands to his head and chest, holding him down and covering his mouth.

But not before he manages to catch a finger between his teeth.

He chomps it. Irately.

The guard he bit stumbles back, striking the wall with their helmet and breaking the opaque glass. The impact reveals a left eye, dark-glazed and gunning for his bowels on a spit.

The guard with the broken helmet jumps up from the floor and rushes him, but he shoves his fingers in the break in the mask, touching cold skin.

Cold, and white.

As he touches the Flesh, something bursts in front of him, an explosion of snow and red boots. A little girl running near a frozen lake. A scared little girl. Running.

He tries to call to her, but suddenly he feels monstrous fingers grip him by the spine, lifting him one-handed.

Inevitably, his flying spine crashes into a nearby wall, followed by the rest of him.

“The Doctor doesn’t ask for directions,” he murmurs, sinking to the floor like a brick of old custard pudding.

And then the lights go out.

How predictable.


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