Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Off the Shoulders of Orion

Jack Harkness stands in the light of a dewy street lamp, surveying the place.

Silvery metal and the rusty red comfort of old bricks weave up at twisting angles from the damp noir sidewalk, a thick yet delicate baobab bursting out from the awkward cauldron of the everyday.

An answer to his unspoken question, he concludes, is that the Indsø Tys has led a busy life, and as his eyes follow the lines of the big, loping structure, dallying in the pits and cracks of those aging blocks of baked clay and shale and fillers, lingering here and there over the pooling, faded sheens of prancing flexiplatinum that’s been eating its generic wheat-product cereal, he begins to make the usual assumptions as to what that life might be worth to him.

Why has he come here, he asks, as he steps forward into the night shadow of the sinuous, heavily-stylized building and reaches out to touch a hard brick popping out like a ready pimple from an oddly curved corner... he laughs.

He laughs again, then answers himself. "Well that's an easy one, isn't it, 'Jack'?" His other hand, long fingers chilling to bone despite being deep inside the pocket of his dark trousers, balls into a frosty fist and stays where it is.

"Boy meets Boy. Boy One sleeps with Boy Two. Boy Two turns out to be a god damn Time Lord, just not the right one." He tightens the fist in his pocket, turning up to the sky because the Environmentals are whirring and buzzing overhead.

Bzzt. Krunk-krunk-krunketa. Bzzt.

Ploosh. A droplet from the freshly-created rainstorm overhead.

The system is newer than the one on Rapunzel, that Ood Phillip Cake’s turf, and it shows. The quiet is deafening, and all he can hear is the whir of the machines. Hadn’t Cake had a revelation, in the rain?

Jack barks a laugh at the crisp, artificial night air, letting out a slow and lumbering breath that catches on his lips, stuttering his exhalation like a paper bag with a hole in it. He’s always known better than to let himself believe in providence. But with Him, he’d come close. With Him. But He had died, and probably alone, the bastard. And then, Benjamin Pond had turned up like a pretty weed, sweet blue flowers and all. Jack had just been a bee for him, his handsome prince, his pollinator of convenience.

His golden ball, to be lost down the well.

And wasn't that just like a Time Lord?



Sht-sht plink, sht-sht plink.

The rain isn't going to stop. It's getting icy now, hitting the pavers across the way in the demure green circle of purple and blue plump Deluvian tulips. The rain just seems to... slide right over them. Strange.

As he walks away, back to the miserably perfect hotel -with the green and grey striped faded floral wallpaper- Benjamin or Plombkins or both of them must have paid for, he considers things.

Yes, he thinks, how appropriate- a rent-a-cop working at a museum.

Good going, Princess.

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