The Assassin sits in his own rooms; the rooms of the Cardinal, now. His fingers flash about idly, thumbing papers. But then the documents with their red seals all slide to the floor. He leans back on his bed, dreaming of what to do once he’s gone. Once he’s free. Once he’s no longer wearing Rassilon’s face.
Now and again, he imagines himself on Hitchemus. They make good narcotics there, the illicit trade in drugs having established quite the underground machine, to be perfectly ironic.
It’s been thousands of years since he’s had a hit of Bliss.
The best thing was, unlike the monkeys and the cats, he wouldn’t be bleeding from both ends after a few patches.
Nice little clean white patches. They stuck anywhere you wanted.
“Oh, my lady… my white lady… we’ll be together soon…” he murmurs to the ceiling.
Redecorating after Borusa’s sudden retirement had been painfully necessary, but worth it. There were bright colors of blue everywhere now, lines of green like a swipe of computer circuitry across the door, red woven rugs on the wooden flooring. Rassilon was merely Cardinal now, with no hope of ever regaining his ridiculously high status; he could afford to be spontaneous.
It reminds him of Hitchemus, like everything else didn’t. That planet boasted thick jungles called the Bewilderness, full of old tech and the graveyards of promises, like any lost cause in the leaves.