Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

The Gold-Guarding Grypes of Arimaspea

The Doctor knows he is dreaming, this time, as the black muck enters his mouth.

It fills his throat with cold resistance.

Once he would have flailed, his hands clawing the air, feeling and touching and grasping and clutching in desperation.

Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now. The muck has him. He’s going to die.

It’s all right...

He tried. So hard.

He tried.

It’s okay.

Somewhere under the goo, his manhood tingles its distress.

“Bad, Pickles, stop that,” he thinks, chiding it softly, “... just because we’re naked doesn’t mean you get to direct the movie. The theatre’s closing anyway. The show is over...”

He leans back in the pitch-y slop, waiting for the goopiness to gush over him, to glop glop glop over his head.

The gloop sucks over his nipples, reaching little tar-hands over his tiny hairs... combing through all the forests of him slowly, like a marijuana mudslide.

“We didn’t even get any popcorn... so hungry...” he murmurs, as the goo crawls.

It’s over his considerable chin now.

He closes his eyes, relaxing further into it.

Blackness claims his upper lip, climbing him like a spelunker in reverse, mindless, exploring.

“Ah, well... soon I’ll be a mudpie...” he thinks to himself.

But, the gloop swishes away from him then, pouring the opposite way as two long, sharp, multi-toed somethings clutch on his biceps and pull.

Easily, he is torn free of the muck.

Again, he is naked.

Again, he looks down.

“Hrm...” he breathes, his lungs suddenly free of the black stuff, “I’m clean, at least. But who are you?”

“See? I told you Santa was an idiot,” the large black one on the left quips at the other one with a squiggling sarcastic caw as the two of them ease the Doctor’s naked feet down onto the black muck.

The big white one on the right, however, merely cocks her white head at the Doctor and opens her long grey beak, then shuts it again with a tidy little clack.

Suddenly the Doctor is aware of his chest burning slightly... and the fact he’s now standing on the muck instead of sinking in seems forgettable, somehow.

He reaches for the little burning pain on his skin... and finding a pin stuck over his left heart and poking through the flesh of his bare pectoral, he touches the odd bit of jewelry, caressing it, For Science, and discovers three curls of pointed leaves, hiding a splash of tiny berries.

The Doctor then unpins the broach from himself and holds it up to examine it in the light.

“Red light, green light... hrm. Ruby berries, emerald leaves. Oh! Holly Go Lightly!” he facepalms his forehead, then turns around and flaps his hands against his knees once or twice, smacking his fingers loudly against the naked skin and cartilage-caged bone.

“Well aren’t ‘you’ a street vendor in Hyrule,” the big black crow caws in irritation, unsettling the air for a moment as he begins abruptly to flap with a tad more vigor.

“Don’t you two want this back? I don’t need it anymore!” the Doctor huffs, out of breath with excitement as he holds up the pin.

The white crow flies close, but instead of clutching the pin, she turns her crow-head to the black crow for confirmation.

“It’s yours, stupid...” the black one groans in thick sarcasm, quite a feat for a bird, and then rises slightly in the air in preparation for a hasty exit, “I’m going back to the Library. Come on, hayseed,” he calls back irritably to the white crow as he makes for the horizon, “we’ve got other matters to attend to.”

The white crow stares at the Doctor for a moment, before flying off behind her black companion.

After looking down and fumbling the pin back onto his chest with a wince, the Doctor tries to find the two crows in the sky, but the light from the sudden overhead sun obstructs his vision, blinding him for a moment or two and singeing his hair. Unseen by the Doctor, the two crows in the distance fade out and ultimately disappear in two puffs of dust, one black, one white.

Instinctively, he reaches up to cup the light, and his fingers grip the golden globe.

With a tug, he tears the sun from its cloudy moorings and down the hatch it goes; then he pinches his nose, and scuba dives backward into the muck.


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