Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

Out in the corridor leaning to the central stair, Jennifer listens to her children’s screams.

Her fingers touch the com unit on the side of her silvery helmet as she squirms it off with the other hand.

Pop... and out comes the soft little bumper between her brown ponytail and the rest of the world. She hasn’t focused on her face in a mirror in a while.

She might today, she reasons, as she growls a low growl and applies her fingertips to the washed out stone of the hallway wall, a bit free of the annoying, phallically-preoccupied rainbow-colored tapestries

The wall blinks white, running white down its long length and around the corner, toward the infirmary.

Jennifer smiles, and flicks her ponytail slightly with little tilts of her head in anticipation.

“Now he’s coming up the stairs!” she calls out happily, raising her hands up to command the white now spilling everywhere.

Her uniform grows into her; her skin becomes white. Her eyes gleam like pale marbles from her white Flesh.

Her arms grow upward with the streams of white birds now flushing up from the floors, from the walls.

A murder of white, monstrous crows, feathers splitting the air, great claws hacking through the breathing room.

She and they fly forward, attacking the shadow coming up the stairs.

The Doctor-shaped shadow stands so still in its grey dust armor, its grey clouds of arms writhing with black specks of swirling death.

Then the Doctor-thing takes a step.

His hand raises, if she can call it that... and with that raised hand, an unprotected place, an eyelid, flipping open above a serious green eye.

The eye finds her in the white and the dark, lolling onto her location like an easy little dart on a magnificent board.

She never sees the pale fingers of mere man creep around her, cupping her feathers, rising over her, with errant thumb poised beneath her little bird neck, quick to keep her calmed, complacent.

The fingertips curl, softening around her.

But they never reach her head to crush, or her neck to snap.

Instead, they tumble her, shut beak and all, down the Time Lord’s throat.

The war is over before it begins.

He has won.

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