Chapter Seven: The Little Man Upon the Stair
"Do we have him?"
Sounds bubbled from a series of tanks; no feet were to be seen a maze of watery containers.
The lights were dimmed.
The figure of a man covered with dust lay posed like an Earth child's doll in a chair.
There was something in his chest.
"Yes, it is him, Inquisitor."
More bubbling.
"Is Welyx with him?"
"I should think she's with me, else we shan't be Complete for very long, eh?"
Oh great, he thought glumly, a blast of water to the face. Then another. The bowtie's all purple, now! Awww… good thing I'm bi. Heheh.
Soon those plump yet thin lips were gawping at shadows. Sadly though, the peridot eyes remained out of reach. The Crustaceaform Inquisitor sighed. Perhaps a blow to the head would shut him up?
Sorry, erm, was that supposed to frighten me? My but you people don't get out much. And that's the thing, isn't it? A genetic proximity bomb is just that; anyone it's keyed to gets to say bye bye, while anyone not on the hit list winks out with a knot to the head or laterally-similar appendage thereof.
The Doctor was a worm on stilts, then- clearly he'd enjoyed the buildup.
"And so it is, Mister Inquisitor, that you escaped that sad excuse for an incendiary, and hopped a freight back here, to cavort with your little football team! Oh I love a good reunion!"
His fingers crawled over the handy rests. His wrists burned with the need to squeeze out of the kindergarten knotwork binding him to the simple squarish stick of seat with arms.
Still, the one watching knew better than to underestimate this man. The Doctor had, after all, saved Welyx from the fire.
"Idiot," rasped a pithy voice that sounded like roots scraping over hot coals. He is surprised. He hadn't intended to speak. "Let him be. I want to talk to him. Let me show him my face."
The tall, gangly alien lobster in dark burgundy robes stepped aside to reveal the speaker to the Doctor.
"Just as I thought," the Time Lord murmured, sniffing as he skipped his eyes like stones on a lake along every facet of this new presence, scenting for weaknesses he already had guessed. "It's been a few months since I saw you last. You were in pieces. She was sad about it for a long time." His long fingers raised from the arms of the chair, dangling bits of woven seaweed rope. He'd already untied himself. Mostly. "Those were real tears, despite her… affiliations. But hey! Build a better mousetrap and it's love's labour's lost, eh Kalmbyd?"
No movement; instead, a sharpness beckoned quickly at his cheek, so swiftly thrust away from the bark-and-root man's form he almost couldn't see it himself.
"That's handy! What's in there? Is it something to drink? This storage room is really quite dry…" the Doctor coughed, choking, and tried to clear his throat. The room full of boxes of parts and packaged foodstuff suddenly resembled a still life of vaseline…
"Why did you bring her here?" the rasp returned again, closer now. "Everything is ruined now… why?"
It's becoming hard to breathe… claws of dry air are scraping down his gullet, all the way to his lungs.
The closed root-fist with its moss-covered spike shoved against his jaw; he heard a crack, but he'd tried to speak anyway. That was nothing compared to the War, after all. A walk in the park.
Life felt far away, abruptly, like a vision of the city at night from the Parisian Port Authority docks, lost in the rain and feeble underneath everything else.
The rasp came again. Now he knew- it wasn't a voice, but a synthesizer, a speak-for device. So Kalmbyd did give something up that day. As for the Doctor, he'd felt it all before, horses in the head, ocean storms in the chest. It was still one of those days, apparently… but then again, chaos had always been a frequent partner on his dance card.
As the room tilted, the last thing he saw was the root-ball opening on a green pulpy sharp-petalled flower… rather like a thick, fruity dahlia not yet in full bloom. Then a single butter yellow stamen popped out, full of pollen, and squirted a puff his way. He blinked, falling forward.
"Since it is a part of my body, I'm fairly certain it's not from a park… but it does has a similar calming effect- as an herbal analgesic designed for beings with two hearts," Kalmbyd rasped through the receiver as the robed underling curled a strong claw against the Time Lord's chest, beneath Welyx's still-sleeping squid-y silhouette.
"Why? What's going on?" the Doctor managed. His limbs felt rotted like year-old refuse. His brains? Obviously, they'd been retroactively stuffed with unprocessed cotton bolls.
A huge reddish-bluish bumpy pincer wrapped around him and hoisted his limp body from bindings that had already been cut through, and he imagined rising like the dolphin, only to be cut up into canned tuna.
"Be quiet- it's easier," rasped Kalmbyd as the seafood dinner in burgundy robes hefted the Time Lord over a shoulder and shadows descended again, "…my pollen will still the hybrid's venom so you can sleep. While you rest, we will remove it."
"Vennnn…..ommmm?" the Doctor croaked. His tongue felt like a lumpy, heavy, soggy sausage in his mouth. "Remooove? Wh-at?"
"Welyx's clone from your chest, Time Lord. Surely you of all beings have no truck with a Dalek spy?"