Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Security Guards

A swish of blonde hair and its diminutive owner stride lovingly away into the dark as the scene behind doors just locked continues, sparingly, unmindful of retreating childish footfalls or their gift of a prisoning click.

No, the conversation behind doors flows forward thusly, like the trumpet of feast after a war, trumping all cares save those of the two hungry and dominant males who now resume their places in the comm. Room after circling each other, much as beasts do when fighting over tasty, bleeding morsels.


“I hate you. Why can’t you just surrender like normal people? Because you aren’t normal people, that’s why! You… old buzzard! And your taste in clothing is worse than the Doctor’s!”

“As if I would rise to such a statement.” Rassilon says, lifting a finger upon which rests a small silver dot. “These are amusing. When did you find the time, between harassing me and stalking him?”

The dot is confiscated by the blunted teeth of a tweezers, which glint in the Master’s hand, two convoluted silver twists in the near darkness of the small monitoring station. “Fucking moron! Do that again and I’ll kill you! These are delicate.” His blonde head turns on his grin. He focuses on one screen in the bank of thousands that hover in the shadow of the room, and licks his tongue across dry lips as he hands the ancient Time Lord a white paper bag, crinkled and crunchy. “I multi-task well. Try the fried bat.”

Rassilon taps his fingers on the console in front of them both, a horrid, dull thing of drab grey-blues and mismatched rows of raised cubical buttons and depressed bubble lights. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. “All the other cretins I vanquished are usually dead by now. Cretin.” His strong, nimble hand dips into the bag, draws out a fragile, dangling lump of breaded, curling claw, and pops it in his mouth, crunching on each digit with a deliberate leisure. “Yes, the bat does melt on the tongue. And the answer to my question would be?”

Koschei of Oakdown knows he is the Master, Great Lord President of all life upon this gorgeous, drowsy stolid little red rock, and all that lies beyond it. But the drowsy little rock won’t be drowsy for much longer. The documents secured by the Hand will prove invaluable to him in rooting out the worms. And as for the Doctor…

“Huh.”

A snort from Rassilon in the plastic-y chair beside him, and the Master returns more of his attentions to the screen. “Do you think you could shut up for a minute? I’m busy calculating… things.” Snorting back at Rassilon, he crumples something small, blue and thin in his left hand, then swivels back to the screen.

“Hah.”

Another snort, but this time a hand to the fall of shadow tucked below the prominent chin. Consideration, so blatant. What is in his mind?

“Lord Master, Lord Master, Lord Master- that was weak, even for you. I have not been a child for a very long while. Therefore, shall I be gracious and give you lessons on being an adult?”

With sudden impudence, the pretty eyes like blue wheels swivel, stabbing to the right; the long lashes quiver over apportion, gauging just how much to give away as they hover like cliff birds, for in a corner screen of their necessary theatre, a figure flickers like snow at the rounded edges of crystalline displays inset and bubbling out from each mooring, reflecting an element of menace in kaleidoscope.

One screen, two screens, three screens, four; something crawling over them ignites into life, graying out those screens where a boy lies dying next to a man and a woman in the park, beneath the lonely figure standing in the rain near a Jacob’s Ladder of bricks and gleaming liquid glass. Those uncomely, scratching, black, vaguely feminine fingers growl across the displays, drowning out a man and another man in bed together. They stretch like a pall through the reaches of the TARDIS, casting a shade against a melting white figure connected by wires to another man, whose cheeks are nearly bloodless too, for a different reason.

But again, five screens, six screens, seven screens more. The hand is flying now, soaring through the watching eyes, reducing the task of an angel in stone to nothing beside this.

For this is a travesty.

The bag of bats is on the floor.


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