Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

An Example of Minimalist Instruction

Flashback.

Borusa groans; her shoulder hit the ground of the Dream with maximum impact. She imagines it broken, then stops herself before the pain tries to infuse her arm with little distracting cracks. She rolls off that shoulder, stands up. Brushes off. Then she rolls both shoulders and inhales through her dainty little nose, then out through her pouty childish mouth. She cracks her neck left, right.

“Well, dealing with Rassilon wasn’t too hard,” she says aloud, swallowing as she recalls the rancid smell of the Valeshard, a mixture of dead body and moldy towels, “at least you’re still…”

Her eyes stop moving before her mouth does, but even still, she doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.

The crystals are gone. The overgrowth-strewn lab is gone.

In their place is a grey floor, spotted and stained with old scars of paint and nameless dark splotches.

She scans the floor, the walls, columns, all the same. Dim lights. An empty lot with regular markings denoting cordoned spaces. A bunch of lines around a hole, really. Rather a bit Yijing.

“Must be some kind of vehicular port,” she mutters, as her eyes find a strange pink object some distance away, near the center of the lonely, ambling room, “Rassilon might find me if I stay too long. Although, I don’t think he’s in the building right now, judging by the color scheme.”

She walks toward the object poking from the grey old floor, coming close enough now to see its shape.

A long pink rod, topped by a… heart-shaped royal crown set on a golden bow.

“Honestly, boy,” she grumble-huffs as she sprints the last few steps and takes the strange rod in her hand, “I knew you were into cross-dressing but this is ridiculous.”

A piece of paper flutters off as she lifts it. She rips it from the air and reads,

“For a Good Time, Twirl.”

Her resultant glare scrapes the rest of the paint off the opposite wall.


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