The Keeper's assassin had stepped through stone and over great leagues of time and space, all in one step. Holding itself, arms wrapped tight around each other, it rematerializes in the same white box of a room it originally left. At it's right hand is the same little box, the co-ordinate log, which sent it away. In front of it, just a little above eye level, is the same round window and, now that it has returned, the same guard's face looking in. Tilting his face to the left, unused to the patch on his eye.
It shows him the blood on its hands. Or tries; it is carrying a small bronze disc in the left, holding tightly to it in fear of losing it. He nods.
The white room turns briefly red, scanning the killer for any contaminants brought back from outside. Then flashes blue, once, and returns to white. The flush edges of the door hiss as the pressure lock is released and it slowly opens. Beyond there are old smells and sensations – the feel of people the right size and shape and weight moving around in the right places. The killer picks up on all of it, sensing the different walks of the guards and the Tall People. Out of it all, it finds the sharp taps of Owner's long strides. Owner wears strange shoes. The guards wear heavy boots and the Tall People wear flat dark shoes. Owner wears shoes with a spike at the back that make her taller.
The killer hears her coming and feels its own heart-rate finally slow. The adrenaline ebbs away, and it shakes loose its arms again. The fear, finally, fading. It does not know the word 'home', has no concept of it, but the sense of solidity, of absolutes, in its heart, is much the same feeling that human society associates with the word. It waits for Owner to come.
The guard, who it surmises to be new since it is not yet accustomed to having one eye covered, does not hold it in the transport room, but steps out of the way. It walks to the edge of the gallery and watches for Owner.
The room beyond is flawlessly spherical, around fifty feet in diameter. The single perfect wall is lined bronze in tiny dots, each of them like the one it holds in its hand.
And far, far away, all over the universe, there are little bronze discs just like it too.
Owner arrives. With four guards, she is carried from bottom to top on the platform elevator. She stands back, and the guards file out onto the gallery. The killer goes through the drill without thinking, without even boredom, much as one might put on a uniform in the morning. It rolls back its sleeves and holds both arms out straight.
Twinned, just below the elbows, are two small wounds, already drying out, plugged with ragged shards of hard, bluish blade.
Owner, watching, shakes her head. It looks up and watches the lips form words – "Told it not to snap them." Saying it makes Owner think of something, look up in alarm. The dark painted lips move again, a little too quickly. "-Was – wrong, was-" The tilt of the chin and the brow, asking it something. Answering only what it saw of the question, it shakes its head.
The guards have, by now, placed the steel shackles over the wounds, preventing any more blade from coming out. It moves its arms down in front and allows them to shackle the wrists, then steps onto the platform with one at either elbow. The other two stand between it and Owner.
The platform stops halfway down the room, where it fits neatly into the space between the walkways. These bridges stretch out to the walls, where technicians move around on magnets, placing and cataloguing the little discs. It feels them move around like little flies on the edge of its vision.
Owner looks directly at it, and ensures it is looking back. Then says, "We sent it to kill the Keeper. Is it done?"
It nods.
"Good. It was to retrieve matrix information from the Keeper. Is it done?"
It takes the Keeper's black pendant with the glowing display from a pocket inside its loose tunic, and passes it over.
"Very good. Anything else to report?"
It holds up the disc in its left hand. Owner seems pleased, and a little confused. "You planted this?" It nods. "Why?" It brings both hands up. Crossed over on its chest, to indicate both sides, the fingers tap twice on its collarbone. Boom-boom. Two-hearts. Time Lord. And now, Owner is very pleased indeed. "Which? And where was it planted? How do we designate it?" This is all said too quickly, but the killer knows these questions, and presumes them from the words it picks out.
One of the guards hands it a Cleanslate, and the pen that draws in electric blue on the transparent surface.
"Type 40 Tardis," it writes. "Designate Doctor."
Nobody moves. Nobody reacts, or takes the disc from its hand. Slowly, cautiously, it looks up at Owner, and Owner's face is angry and dark. It quails, moving back even from the guards, against the platform rail.
"Not in the time you just came from. You're mistaken."
It brings up its hand and taps its head beside the eyes – 'Saw him'.
"The Doctor died at Lake Silencio. It's a recorded fact."
Owner, pursed and wrinkled with disgust, snatches the Cleanslate from it and gets off the platform. "It has to learn not to make up stories," she says, addressing the guards, "Take it for punishment."
It shakes its head, it tries to run after Owner and, if it knew how, it would scream. The tapping at the side of its eyes turns into a full force blow, until the guards restrain it. The platform again begins to sink towards the bottom of the room. It looks pleading up at Owner, who stares back with nothing but distaste.
It cries. It knows how to do that.
And before they reach the bottom and it is dragged away, it manages to put the rejected disc away safely in that secret inside pocket.
[Hi again, folks! Since a couple of people have actually (shockhorror!) expressed an interest in hearing a little more from me, I've decided to go ahead. Love is such a motivator. This here is just a little teaser for the next part, which I should hope to at least get started by the end of the week. Just so y'all don't forget me (!) So, if you fancy it, keep an eye out for Garmonbozia again. I'm thinking of 'Trespass' as my title for episode 2. (And trust me, we do not take kindly to stowaways on the Tardis). Anyway, with love, hope to see you soon,
Sal]