Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Quick, Kill It Before It Breeds

“… so let me get this… straight, Pasmodius,” the Master says, swishing the end of the Sash of Rassilon in his cocoa mug with a pointed look at the old man’s mostly toothless maw, “… -the Doctor- was the head archivist for Gallifreyan Central Intelligence? What the hell did they have you people do, spy on Borusa blowing bubbles in his bathtub?”

A tiny female snort from behind- probably Borusa, hopefully, “… watch yourself, boy. You may wear the mantel of Lord President, but I still have my Giant Ruler of Rassilon.”

The Master turns, blinking, and a smile grows on his stubbly face.” You know, little girl, I think you need an all-day sucker, and I don’t mean an ice lolly.”

“Don’t be vulgar, young man, or I’ll…” Borusa stops, her young ears tweaking to some sound in the hall.

“I wasn’t, Bimbo Smurf. But I didn’t hear you anyway. My Imprimatur doesn’t translate Raptor Jesus.”

“What is this ice lolly, Lord President?” queries Pasmodius, ignoring the rising voices in favor of rubbing his wrinkled chin as though trying to discern the fairer fruit at a market stall.

“Well, it’s what I call Raptor Jesus, I mean the Doctor, when he’s not here, you know!” the Master covers his face with an aside palm, looks around, then whispers, “…when he’s out being… fat and stuff!”

“I’m not fat, Koschei. Who has been spreading these malicious rumors? You know I’ve never ah, stolen anything except the TARDIS, and she stole me! Now what’s all this about me taking things from the old Museum?” comes the softly Northern, rather threatening voice of the man in question from nowhere in particular, his dangerous hyper-enunciations sliding like bits of shattering iceberg into the sudden sea of silence the mood in the room has become.

Then the grayish exit door slides open, revealing no reassuring bowtie below the Doctor’s strong chin. Above that, the ever calculating lips curving in just precisely the wrong way. Atop the downturn of those reddish lips, a scrunching, hawkish huge perfect nose more annoying than a check engine light, this set by two bleary, bloodshot peridot eyes a little too purpled and baggy underseat.

“Calm down. You missed some important diplomatic-type talkings yesterday, Moron,” the Master quips, glaring dark eyes at the comfy soft grey lounge chair he’s just vacated. As he looks, he realizes it’s closer to the Doctor than himself now, and the small, devious kernel of an adolescent prank forms in the hindmost thick of his massive brain. “Where were you?”

The Doctor sighs, puffing out his cheeks, then raises a hand to his forehead, holding his face down like a floppy dog as though out of sheer tiredness but really just his usual malaise. “Oooh goodie, comfy chair!” he cries, suddenly quite animate, squeaking and perking slightly as he curls a finger at the four-legged lump of grey softness and telekineses it in his direction.

The tapered dark chair legs begin to screech toward him-

Screeeeech.

Screeeeech.

Soon, so soon, the chair will be within his grasp.

Screeeeech.

The Doctor reaches down to squish the lovely fluffy rise of seat in back, then cracks his neck as he turns to sit.

His body bends over itself, preparing to clutch the chair arms and ease into position, when a rush of air blows against his legs. But then an arm clutches the back, pushing the chair away.

“Goodness,” says Borusa, covering her bright eyes as the Doctor stumbles backward, his parental death glare -of death- glinting tiger yellow even as the same arm that took back the chair wraps around his shoulder and strains, easing him to the floor.

“-My- chair.” says the Master, dropping the heavy gold rectangle links of the Sash of Rassilon directly down onto the Doctor’s rabbit brown head with the hand he didn’t use. “Sit boy.”

Two golden, murderous cat’s eyes glow out from beneath the shadowing thick bars of the Sash. But then the crunch of cellophane follows, and the slightly sweet, dried and salted eau of seaweed, purple carrot and sunny red tomato crisps ascends the room’s various nostrils.

A squarish hand snakes out from the safety of the Sash, too. Its owner the Doctor looks up from between the dangling strips of golden bars comprising his shiny, not-so-bouncy headgear at the Master with a plaintive, pouty lower lip and asks, “… is that a Baby Jane chocolate bar I smell in your back pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”


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