Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum


The man in the silver mask steps back from the great Rassilon, one foot behind the other as though performing some kind of renaissance walking dance.

His shoes are ankle boots and green; his blond hair falls in a pleasant cascade behind him, curling as he moves like the weights in a good cloak. His movements, Rassilon notes with a decided distaste, have the sickly-sweet grace of a masquerade performer. To say nothing of the ridiculous mask.

And oh, he reasons, behind his false amusement, this little upstart is going to be so much fun in the squashing. Can he even still take a proper joy in the snuffing of such a tiny little bug?

It is time to find out. He’s never been one for anything but chess. And he feels a reasonable degree of certainty that the descendant of the only man he’d ever deigned to play chess with is nowhere in sight. The ingrate.

“You know, it’s rather sad that the Doctor isn’t here to see you fall a second time, oh Great Lord Rassilon,” says the trespasser, his silver mask gleaming ridiculously as he takes a half-step forward and circles with the tip of his foil. “…there’s no accounting for taste in compatriots or enemies, is there?”

Rassilon stares at him, this mouse who thinks he is a cat, undecided whether to call him Romeo or Juliet. Or moron. That was the Master’s favorite at all the official assemblages… not that these poor, mentally amputated excuses for Time Lords could ever measure up to the great minds that had held the Pythia at bay in times of old. Ah, but for nostalgia. He relishes, to himself, the thought of finally discussing that meaningless passage with the Doctor, once the little idiot is back within reach.

“I am the Terrorist, Rassilon. You will bow before our House and release Lady Flamina, whom you hold in the cells, or we will destroy the Restoration from within!”

Rassilon throws back his head and laughs; it was a throaty laugh, but chiming, almost cheerful. It is the chortle of the first Lord of Time, and it flowed like water through the hall, filling every ear. No one moved.. .but wait! Who was that, slinking behind the so-called Terrorist like a skinny streetling hoping for a full purse?

Perhaps he would give the lurker time to slit their own throat, or amuse him by taking care of a pest problem. Whichever came first.

“What Restoration? Have you seen the state of this place? They’re all idiots! I failed. I don’t care one lick about these puppies now. For that matter, as soon as I am done serving my time as Cardinal to the Master, I shall go back to sleep within my tomb. I have had enough of the waking world. Between the Doctor and the Master, I am spent.”

“Coward!” a shrivelled voice cries from behind the upstart dandy in green and silver.

The Terrorist almost turns; but the old man behind him is quicker.

“Pasmodius? But how? You’re just a stupid old…”

The dagger blooms from the idiot dandy’s chest; soon the young man in green and silver sink to the floor. But as they crowd around him, his finger nudges something on his hand- a golden ring, then slumps in mid teleport and vanishes, to the fury of the guards.

Rassilon smiles. He had noticed the old man’s obscene lurching gait, even as Pasmodius had stalked his prey. “You stole my break-fast of blood, old man. Tell me,” He is attentive now, even anxious, but he dares not let it show. Things are becoming interesting after all. “Did you enjoy your kill?”

“Bah. Too stringy; all meat no brains. When I was young, we used to hunt Giant Tafelshrews in packs of three to six Cousins,” the codger mutters as he cleans his blade on the Terrorist’s gaudy green undershirt with a nod to Rassilon and a cracking back for his troubles. Then he sits himself down on one of the few benches which haven’t been overturned in the mass regeneration earlier and slumps with a satisfied harumph, perhaps wisting after a good cheese pie.

“He’s on about it again, my Lord Cardinal! Why don’t we give him a sedative and cart him to the Infirmary along with the Master so the rest of us can clean up?” says Kenny –whose fishnet-slashed sleeves hang just past his official robes, not to mention his arms, being a bit too long for him now- as he pats old Pasmo on the elbow.

But Pasmodius is already snoring.

Continue Reading Next Chapter

About Us

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered publisher, providing a platform to discover hidden talents and turn them into globally successful authors. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books our readers love most on our sister app, GALATEA and other formats.