Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Tiny Bubbles

The Assassin sits in his own rooms; the rooms of the Cardinal, now. His fingers flash about idly, thumbing papers. But then the documents with their red seals all slide to the floor. He leans back on his bed, dreaming of what to do once he’s gone. Once he’s free. Once he’s no longer wearing Rassilon’s face.

Now and again, he imagines himself on Hitchemus. They make good narcotics there, the illicit trade in drugs having established quite the underground machine, to be perfectly ironic.

It’s been thousands of years since he’s had a hit of Bliss.

The best thing was, unlike the monkeys and the cats, he wouldn’t be bleeding from both ends after a few patches.

Nice little clean white patches. They stuck anywhere you wanted.

“Oh, my lady… my white lady… we’ll be together soon…” he murmurs to the ceiling.

Redecorating after Borusa’s sudden retirement had been painfully necessary, but worth it. There were bright colors of blue everywhere now, lines of green like a swipe of computer circuitry across the door, red woven rugs on the wooden flooring. Rassilon was merely Cardinal now, with no hope of ever regaining his ridiculously high status; he could afford to be spontaneous.

It reminds him of Hitchemus, like everything else didn’t. That planet boasted thick jungles called the Bewilderness, full of old tech and the graveyards of promises, like any lost cause in the leaves.

The Doctor had been there, left his mark. Legend told he’d once called rain like lightning and flame like avarice, all to stop a teensy little war, a trickster dancing in the dark. That he’d played that now famous violin (called Kaku Inko by the cult that rose around it – they claimed it gained sentience once it left his hands) more quickly and more fluidly than Abaddon himself, so much that the strings curled and burst into flame, then snapped completely off. Such a pity. There was a recording still floating around- of course the Assassin had bought that for his collection. The man really should have got more praise for his performance.

But oh well; the Assassin would soon fix that empty feeling. For a dagger to the hearts brought better tears of pleasure than any adoring smile, didn’t it?

It was a favour. He’d be doing him a favour.

Yes, a favour.

That girl, the one with white hair. Flamina. Her hair always made him think of his white lady.

But he hadn’t seen her since the party… since he’d escaped the Eye. And that had been the day he’d done it, too.


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