Doctor Who: The Bright Asylum

Dude, Where's My TARDIS?

“So this is it, hrm?” the Master quips, running his open palm across the outside hull door’s entry panel and locking it. “We’re here. I suppose the other two idiots have gone to make camp or something. Lightweights. Theta, do you want to… what’s the matter with –you-?” he asks, cocking his head and staring at the Doctor.

The other man’s body is glued to the line of the continental shuttle, his jacket and grey shirted form fitted to the metal like a thrown doll. He’s obviously leaning.


The jacket seems... muted somehow- almost as if it’s sucking up the light.

The Doctor rubs his head and looks up; his boy-face scrunched into an old man’s lines of pain. His eyes hang unseeing and open on the path ahead. His hands quiver uselessly at the ends of his forearms, like wretched grey stumps dangling water-rotted roots beneath the skin of some fetid pond.

Suddenly he straightens, and his chest is rising and falling like nothing else. High on life. The look of illness and confusion is gone. He reaches up and adjusts his coat and bowtie, throwing out his elbows with his usual swagger, then says, “What? Damn thing is malfunctioning again. I’ll have to tune them with better equipment when we get back. Shall we?”

The Master knows better than to argue with him. This is not what he signed on for. What is worse, this is not the man he signed up -with.- Best to go along and see what comes of it, play the moderator once the answer presents itself. And if it’s who he thinks it is, well… he won’t allow it to go far enough to sting. When the hell did he become the Doctor?

“Do you remember where you parked the TARDIS, idiot?” he asks softly, narrowing his eyes in what he hopes looks something like jaded concern.

The Doctor smiles that cheeky shit grin at the Master and shrugs his shoulders elegantly upward and back down again. He says, “Oh she’s somewhere back at the Citadel. I wouldn’t worry. What’s that look for? Trying on a new coat, are we?” he ambles down the dusty path, picking his footing against some small jagged rocks and a bit of loose brush. “We enter the Canyon here, then trail down in a spiral. Come along Koschei-I’m certain old Borusa has sand-beetles in his pants!”

As the man strides away down the narrow trail of high-jutting rocks, the Master wills a shudder from his muscles.

“God damn it, Theta,” he mutters to the dry air as he takes a step, then another, then another toward the other man’s retreating shadow, “…wake up soon or we’re all dead. And then I’ll be pissed.”

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