Quicksand Mix

It itched into the entirety of The Doctor’s psyche. He twitched as though the sounds were jabbing their pointed notes into him.

The Doctor rubbed his forehead and looked around. The TARDIS…she would have to wait. The Doctor turned and charged back the way he had come, his large shoes making flat indentations in the sliding ground beneath him. Light quicksand. It was everywhere.

It had been The Doctor’s sure intention to break back into the oversized prison, as per the usual gesture of friendliness- and perhaps there would be another escaping prison to converse and suffer misfortune with. The Doctor pursed his lips as his mind continued to scream on. Maximus’ death had been his fault, but he wasn’t going to dwell…well, not in the presence of business. And such business came from the howling of unsubtle agony that was rounding the prison; for now The Doctor was certain that the sound came not from the metallic structure that scraped into the sky above, but from the curved sides or even the other end of an exit to the prison-city.

He altered his course of descent from the dunes and ran for the panel that he had previously latched onto, only snapping his head sharply in the new direction he was forming at the last minute.

The sides of the metallic people-container were just as steep as the front that the man had first set his eyes upon. Though bare- with the possible exception of a few dreary windows- the frame commanded so much magnificence that The Doctor just had to stop and stare.

“Wow, that is…beautiful. If only it were not used for the containment and torture of species…”

However, The Doctor did not stand on the comfort of terra firma for long. In fact, almost a minute after he had began investigating the prison-city with his eyes, and in that minute he had not moved, he found himself slipping into thick sludge, a mess of murky dust beneath his feet. Down his feet sunk into the dew, trapping the man.

However, this was The Doctor, and moving flooring did not postpone his journey or sense of mind!

Light quicksand. The fact had temporarily slipped The Doctor’s mind that it was everywhere. He cursed the ridiculous shoes that he had been wearing as he stepped out of the them (thrusting away his socks, too; for what are socks without shoes?), hoping that the committee of judges, or whatever Counsel of Misdemeanours had incarcerated him, would not use shoes as evidence. Shoes? What would that say against him, The Doctor of universes? Shoes, indeed!

Still, grumbling about the lack of laws that applied to singular law-charts, the time-traveller strolled along the banks of dirty sand, watching his feet this time, though his head still jutting into the air, arrogance and pride the same.

The End

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