Four months earlier.
Grasa stared expressionlessly out over the docking port as the small ship began to align itself for landing. His gray arms were crossed over his body, weight situated on his left leg so as to alleviate the pain coming from the thin slash across his right shin. Multiple purple scars littered his bare arms and vanished beneath his rawhide combat vest, which held its own scars and suspiciously red stains. Suspicious because the Roristats bled purple.
The ship settled into the dock, the automatic airlock securing it to the loading platform and releasing a gust of recycled oxygen. From here, Grasa could not see the passengers disembark, and his impatient curiosity to know the outcome of the mission caused his sink to tingle with anticipation. They had not risked sending ahead a transmission with the results for fear of being overheard by that man's many loyal followers and debtors. Too much work had gone into obtaining him to forgive a slip-up like that. She would never allow it.
No longer able to ignore the itching, Grasa spun on his booted heals and marched down the generic-as-ever halls of the outpost station towards the docks. He felt a familiar bitter taste rise in his mouth as his hearts seized at the sight of the plain charcoal walls, black doors, and the thought of the blinding white rooms on the other side. It was all too Roristatian. Too recognizable. Too much like the home he and his men had lost.
The docking port was crowded with soldiers and technicians scurrying about, some disembarking while others hurried onto the ship carrying magnoclamps for transporting the haul. As Grasa walked passed, many of the soldiers stood at attention, showing their respect by placing their left hand on the back of their necks and their right hand on he elbow – the traditional Roristatian salute.
Grasa approached on of the soldiers who had a thin purple cloth tied around his bulging neck. "Captain."
"Sir."
"Report." Grasa ordered in his rough, grinding voice. To any man, they would have heard the colliding and grinding of rocks rather than an actual language, but the captain seemed to have understood him perfectly and responded with a similar tone of pulverized stones.
"Mission was a success, Sir. The men are unloading the cargo as we speak."
As if on cue, Grasa saw three figures appear under the illuminated arch of the ship's main doors. Two were distinctly Roristats; their thick, ogre-ish gray forms sharply visible against the bright backlight. Between them, held up by their bulky, muscular arms, was a much slimmer, much for human form, but it was as limp as a recently dead corpse, and a dark brown blinder-bag had been secured around its head. The body's hands were bound in front by manacles connected by a chain of Roris iron – the most impenetrable material within five galaxies – as were its feet. Four more men followed them out, all with their weapons out, safeties off, and ready to fire at the slightest hint of movement from the unconscious body. Grasa thought this amount of security was – in the most appropriate translation from his native language – re-fucking-diculous, but she had instructed them not to underestimate the man beneath the blinder-bag.
The party of seven approached, and the men who could salute saluted their commander and their captain, while the two holding up the body simply stood at attention, refusing to lax in their jobs. Grasa nodded for them to be at ease then turned back to the captain. "And is the cargo damaged?" He asked.
The captain shrugged slightly. "Not much, sir."
Unconvinced due to the limpness of the body, Grasa stepped forward and ripped the blinder-bag off the man's head. The wild, unkempt shock of hair he was met with caked in dried blood, which had also painted the side of the man's face and his bizarrely shaped eyebrows. Grasa raised his own at the captain, who shrugged again and repeated, "I said not much."
Suppressing a growl – the Time Lord would be of no use if his brain had been smacked into mush – Grasa motioned to the two men holding up the body. "Take him to the cell we designated. The four of you –" Now he signaled to the armed men surrounding them. "Keep them company on the walk, then station two guards outside the door at all times. Alert me when he wakes."
The men who could salute saluted again, and there were a few murmurs of "Yes, Sir", and then the band of seven departed up the hallway, the Doctor's converse-d feet sliding alone behind them.
When the party reached the cell door – how they could tell which identical door led to which room must have been a clever Roristatian trick, for there were no numbers or further identification on any of the black doors – one of the armed guards keyed in the combination and the Doctor's body was thrown, unceremoniously, onto the floor of the blindingly white room within. One of them removed the blinder-bag from his head, but made no move to clean or address to the gash along his wild hairline. The cuffs binding his hands and feet, however, were left where they were.
As the men began to leave, many grumbling about lack of sleep and whether the cook would have prepared something that was actually edible for the returning soldiers, one paused by the Doctor's side, glaring down at the limp form as if it were the most disgusting creature in the universe. Then suddenly, the man pulled back his booted foot and landed a vicious kick on the Doctor's side, sending the unconscious body sprawling onto its back from the force. At the lack of response gained from the lifeless man, the soldier growled and went in for another.
"Armacost! Stand down." One of the other soldiers grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him away from their prisoner.
Armacost was now sobbing, fighting against his comrades vise-like grip. "My mate." He howled. "My children. My family! OUR families!"
"He has coming for him what he deserves, Armacost. I promise you, your family will be avenged." He continued to drag the hysterical man out of the room, forcing down his own revulsion and desire to tear out the Doctor's hearts as well. They cleared the threshold into the gray corridor and the door was slammed behind them, cutting off their vision of the unconscious man and allowing him his last night ever of untainted – albeit unwilling – sleep.
Tomorrow, all Hell will reign down in that room for all the crimes and evil that man had brought upon them.
This chapter was a bit dull, I know, but I needed it for a filler before the next chapter (which, believe me, will not be dull!) The next chap is already in the works, of course, because it's finals week and God forbid I actually study, so keep an eye out, it should probably be out soon. In the meantime, thanks for reading and please leave a review