“Hello, Silver Helmet,” the Doctor murmurs from the floor of his cell, one hand covering his blood-smeared mouth, one hand pressed against the stones in the wall behind him.
The guard from earlier, he thinks. He recognizes her slim build, the tone of arrogance hiding in her unsettled carriage.
Two slender hands reach to shift the silver helmet, removing it cleanly.
“So, how many of you are there? Did he give you Dental? It’s really quite important to get good Dental, in the current economical climate. Why I remember when the Brigadier dragged my third body off to the dentist to get my toothache sorted- kicking and screaming, as I recall... next thing I know, my little Amelia saw a particular painting in some gallery somewhere, and here I am!”
Jennifer Lucas, the Flesh from the Factory, stares back at him from the sleek silver lines of the new guard’s uniform. She lifts her leg, planting her booted foot in his face.
“You look like you could do with a rest, Doctor,” she breathes, smiling widely, her long hair tied back in a utilitarian ponytail.
“You’re not well, Jennifer... I could help you,” the Doctor says, spitting some blood and a tooth from a corner of his mouth.