The Assassin storms out of the comms room. His small feet echo down the hall, ding ding, ding ding.
It’s been only a few hours since his nice ending erupted like a boil all over his shoes.
“My Lord Rassilon?” a passing Dromiean asks, holding out a hand.
How cute. She’s concerned. That makes this grand, a bit of an appetiser before his exit then. An idiot, because she doesn’t know him yet. Doesn’t know yet. Hasn’t heard. Head in a book librarians! Fucking imbeciles, worrying about what kind of glue keeps moisture away all day!
He makes a grabbing motion, thrusting his elbow out to the side as his thoughts direct murder.
The woman’s thick mop of greasy grey curls scrabbles over her head in little chunks as she squirms. Her feet flail. Her silver-draped arms shimmer like two big fish lifted out of the water. Then he flicks his wrist. Her neck breaks, in little crunches, and then she doesn’t twitch anymore. Like a bloody great bird.
His hand falls to his side and he walks along the hall, touching a finger to the smooth surface. Trailing it. He’s always hated birds.
Somewhere behind him, the woman regenerates.
She screams for the Doctor, but it comes in a gurgle. Stupid chit. There are ways to disable future regenerations.
As he reaches the last corner before the Infirmary, he begins to let his memory drift over a certain moment he enjoyed. Ah, yes- that day a few weeks back when he’d found that damn Myrtlegull in his office. He’d stuffed the Terrorist’s ring down its gullet and sent it elsewhere. That had been nice. Stupid thing wasn’t even fit to eat.
The Infirmary door is unguarded; the fools must have rushed off during all the fun in the Panopticon.