“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to. And do pardon the mess. As for this one, I’ll do my best. You’re still bleeding from this little stunt, or I’d spank you too... Mister Pond. As for you, Captain,” Green Coat stabs a long finger at the Time Agent’s shoulder, bringing him down with a single pressure point jab. “…come into my parlour. If you’re very quiet, I’ll show you why they call me the Hitchemus Devil.” Then he grins like a monstrous midnight crocodile, teeth all shining with promise, pearls in the inky dark as he picks Jack up by the seat of his mundane grey trousers and pitches him into the strange TARDIS like a sack of potatoes.
A feminine laugh echoes from beyond the mini-capsule’s doors, and then the light goes out again. Good old Sweetie, of course, Benjamin thinks as Martha Jones reaches across his chest to shear off the bloody bit of shirt near his stabbed shoulder. Mickey has a warm wet sponge and is busy dabbing at the torn flesh.
Somewhere between warm water and the natural progression of sponge toward cake, Benjamin Pond’s head lolls, and he drifts.
But before his head can hit the table, the Green Pagoda materializes around him and is off again, taking a squarish, labyrinthine, Mandarin Screen bite out of Mickey’s nice new wood table.
The teacup is gone, too… but there is a blue note, stuck to an inside corner.
‘I did say it. The hologram cut out on the letter L because the sun burned out and I had no more power or will to make a second pass through to Pete’s World. Anyway, as always, my favorite idiot, you make the most excellent tea. Proud of you both.’
- Ɵ Ʃ