Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

White Christmas at the Ivory Tower

The Museum, a beacon of enlightenment situated on Gallifrey’s white northern cliffs, has never before seen the like of the great big box wrapped in shiny foil now sitting on its front step.

Another ‘box’ it knows well dropped that thing by.

So heavy, it is.

Big, boxy box.

Like two people could fit inside it. Why would two of those silly mortals want to do that?

Sleeping in a people-sized box.

It’s absurd.

Well, better to ask the spinny blue rectangle of a harlot that left them here, in that shiny strange box, with that floaty paper thing tied to it by a ribbon. How dare one of those pesky mortals kick some strange shiny box out on the Museum’s front step!

Shameful.

And what is that shadow circling like one of those damn southern vultures overhead?

No! No! Don’t...

Something white lands on a busted column, splashing softly.

Damn bird.

And it’s that pesky Myrtlegull too.

Is it landing?

Oh skies above, it is.

The flight feathers of the annoying bird circle downward, elevating, flopping back, descending as the bird descends.

Perhaps it won’t... land on the Museum. Perhaps it...

Yes, the strange shiny box!

Yes yes, bird, land there!

LAND. THERE. BIRD.

The shadow thickens like a miracle over the shiny box.

The shadow falls, straight down, gliding strangely downward, over the strange box, strangely.

Almost not like a bird at all.

The Museum is certain of it.

The bird-thing is white, and monstrous... and as its one eye peers down at the big big big goldish bow tied snugly atop the shiny box it now is stomping about on, it snaps up the tag in its beak and stares back at it, as if remembering the words.

Good Boy.

Merry Christmas.

Do not open till...

...

The stupid creature! It then drops the card and claws at it, flattening its talon across the words, almost... as though its tiny subdivided lentil of a brain comprehends.

Then the beak.

Oh, the horror!

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

The terror in that turn of head! The malicious, plotting twist of neck as it pounds out its relentless chorus of resounding misery on the box, right on that blinding bloody no good tinfoil paper, in a catchy beat of four.

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

...

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

...

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.


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