Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Part Three: The Magic Flight: Somewhere, My Love

In the depths of ever-smouldering Gallifrey, a green light blinks. A mechanism whirs. A sheet of metal with bumps on it raises, preparing itself to be interpreted by the surrounding machines like some monstrous music box spool.

Chime chime chime-chime

Chime chime chime chime chime-chime

Chime chime chime chime

Chime chime chime chime chime-chime

Chime chime chime-chime

chime chime chime chime chime-chime

E G C1 E1

B D1 C1 G F# F


A G F# G F1 E1

E G C1 E1

B A G# G D1 C1

The great reflectors, those aged mirrors of validium set in secret by the Other, are creaking into place like grand old parlour doors with rusted hinges, dancing in pirouette on turntables in the dusty dark. They are awakening, preparing to collect two people, to fling them far away and over a great many hills. And those hills are like waves on a sea of darkness, they crest and dip and sway and tumble under, over, through and between. The quantum ocean flows in those waves. Up and down they fly, in a breezy slam of keys out of sight beneath the lid of a Concert Grand. Or is it a Baby? No, only a Spinet for now.

In time, once they both wake up… perhaps a Pianola by the seashore. Yes, he is still sleeping, waiting. He had to take her inside himself, no other way. He doesn’t regret that, at least. Will never do so. To hell with Time.

And it is about Time, the Mirrors muse as they bounce the Lord and his Granddaughter’s Nurse around between them. The pair will reach their destination soon enough, a dry place stuffed with markets and stalls filled with every sort of sundry.

It is about Time.

Suddenly, their great sharp-bellied lump of stumblebum and his raisined major domo are crumpled into sharp edges, like a paper ball, and thrown through a reddish doorway onto the fine grey sand of…

The Mirrors decide they’ll have no more to do with these two- the agreement is met. So long have they waited, so long have they knelt in slabs of unmoving metal that they step from their moorings in the ancient stone floor and descend immediately on naked feet and naked limbs and trunk of glinting life, consumed by a longing for the sights of younger places. They fancy a trip, a spree, a lengthy family vacation. A relaxing getaway.

Although, to lessen the chance of being stolen again, they will, collectively, avoid Museums.

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