Chapter Sixteen, Part One: Hoist the Black FlagMature

“What are you doing in there! Get off the floor!” 

The guard in silver bangs on the door, clanging a silvery baton against the bars of the Doctor’s cell.

 Back and forth.

 Back and forth.




 The key clicks in the lock. Old lock, old key.

 Old cell.

 Dank, dusty. Musty with old death smells.

 “Oi! What is this?” the guard smirks, irritated at the audacity of the Doctor’s fell hand, lying in the muddy dirt like that.

  He kicks at the shadow where the Doctor is slumped.

 But, his boot sticks there; he pulls.

 “You! Let go of my foot you idiot! You’re not allowed to play stupid games with us guards down here! I bring you food and this is how you thank... agh!”

 The shadow crawls along his leg, sucking up the light. Darkness creeping and crumpling along.

 And out of the darkness, five white fingertips and a hand. 

“I’m sorry,” the darkness says softly, parting to allow the face of the Doctor to appear as the man himself stands up, brushing off flecks of shadow that reattach to him in disconcerting, magnetized little streams, “... but these are hostage negotiations. Sleepy time.”

The End

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