Pride of the Peacock 1
Tenth Doctor, Jack, Rose. A/N: This continues on from an alternative ending to Broken Boys, in which Rose and Jack fail to stop Lyt the Vampire, who teleports away with the Doctor as his prisoner. (One day I shall edit the whole thing together properly.)
Lyt had brought only a single crystal to light his way. It burned weakly in a corner of this forgotten space. The ceiling was a little higher than Lyt's head, the narrow room only a few paces long. It was filled always with the soft sound of moving fluid.
Lyt slept there, most of the time, curled, one metaphorical eye open.
Now it was time. Lyt unlatched the access port and flipped it open. The rushing liquid in the pipe below filled the close chamver with a soft river-sound.
A long, strong chain stretched from the pipe's uncovered mouth to a strut sloped against the chamber's wall. Lyt grabbed the middle of the links and hauled. Muscles worked in his back. He reached lower as the chain slackened, reeling it in.
A pair of hands appeared at the business end of the chain. Its thin, sharp links were wrapped tight around the wrists, which emerged from the sodden sleeves of a dark jacket.
Lyt got hold of the cold hands and pulled the Doctor up through the hole. The thin hydroponic fluid ran off his soaked form in great rivulets.
The lower half of the Time Lord's face was hidden by an emergency oxygen mask, its heavy tank pulling his head forward. Lyt unclipped the violent yellow mask and pulled it away from his prisoner's mouth and nose. The Doctor's eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted.
Lyt hauled the Doctor completely free of the pipe and laid his long, lifeless form on the floor of the little chamber, arms still stretched above his head, the chain snaking loosely across the floor.
Lyt had allowed him just barely enough oxygen to survive inside the pipe for a few hours. It took only a few minutes to recharge the tank each time.
As he turned back from the pump, the Doctor whipped the chain around Lyt's throat and pulled with all his strength.
They were face to face for a long moment, Lyt straining to pull free, the Doctor's pale face contorted with a grimace of desperate effort.
Lyt reached out and grabbed a handful of the Doctor's hair. Easily, he pulled the Time Lord's face even closer to his own, and with careful precision spat into his eye.
It took only seconds for the poison to loosen the Doctor's grip. Lyt sat back, the chain clanking to the floor, and watched quietly until his prisoner's struggles quietened. Long fingers curling weakly. Unnaturally large eyes full of deadly rage.
He thought that because he'd fought, it was going to hurt. Silly boy. It was going to hurt anyway.
"It all fits together so nicely," said Lyt, as he pulled open the Doctor's shirt. In the dim light he could see that the wounds he had inflicted had healed, but not whether he'd left any scars. "Your friends are looking for you in the wrong place, if they're looking for you at all. By the time anyone notices there's a little less fluid flowing into the garden, it'll be too late."
He hauled the Doctor up, an awkward, soaking wet dead weight. The man couldn't even hold his head up: it fell back, exposing his long throat with its protruding larynx.
"You tease!" laughed Lyt, and bit into the flesh beneath the Doctor's left collarbone.
He felt the body convulse in his hands as it tried to stiffen against the pain - more than that, against the revulsion. He was of this universe, this order of things, and Lyt was not, in the way that a seven-sided circle was not.
The Doctor swallowed convulsively as Lyt worried at skin and muscle and finally clamped his mouth over the fresh wound. Even paralysed the Doctor could have screamed, but all he did was pant violently.
Finally Lyt held the Doctor for a few moments, waiting for the bleeding to stop. His victim's head lolled onto his shoulder. The man weighed nothing. "We're going to die here in the dark," said Lyt, soothingly. "It all fits together so well."
Lyt had brought only a single crystal to light his way. It burned weakly in a corner of this forgotten space. The ceiling was a little higher than Lyt's head, the narrow room only a few paces long. It was filled always with the soft sound of moving fluid.
Lyt slept there, most of the time, curled, one metaphorical eye open.
Now it was time. Lyt unlatched the access port and flipped it open. The rushing liquid in the pipe below filled the close chamver with a soft river-sound.
A long, strong chain stretched from the pipe's uncovered mouth to a strut sloped against the chamber's wall. Lyt grabbed the middle of the links and hauled. Muscles worked in his back. He reached lower as the chain slackened, reeling it in.
A pair of hands appeared at the business end of the chain. Its thin, sharp links were wrapped tight around the wrists, which emerged from the sodden sleeves of a dark jacket.
Lyt got hold of the cold hands and pulled the Doctor up through the hole. The thin hydroponic fluid ran off his soaked form in great rivulets.
The lower half of the Time Lord's face was hidden by an emergency oxygen mask, its heavy tank pulling his head forward. Lyt unclipped the violent yellow mask and pulled it away from his prisoner's mouth and nose. The Doctor's eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted.
Lyt hauled the Doctor completely free of the pipe and laid his long, lifeless form on the floor of the little chamber, arms still stretched above his head, the chain snaking loosely across the floor.
Lyt had allowed him just barely enough oxygen to survive inside the pipe for a few hours. It took only a few minutes to recharge the tank each time.
As he turned back from the pump, the Doctor whipped the chain around Lyt's throat and pulled with all his strength.
They were face to face for a long moment, Lyt straining to pull free, the Doctor's pale face contorted with a grimace of desperate effort.
Lyt reached out and grabbed a handful of the Doctor's hair. Easily, he pulled the Time Lord's face even closer to his own, and with careful precision spat into his eye.
It took only seconds for the poison to loosen the Doctor's grip. Lyt sat back, the chain clanking to the floor, and watched quietly until his prisoner's struggles quietened. Long fingers curling weakly. Unnaturally large eyes full of deadly rage.
He thought that because he'd fought, it was going to hurt. Silly boy. It was going to hurt anyway.
"It all fits together so nicely," said Lyt, as he pulled open the Doctor's shirt. In the dim light he could see that the wounds he had inflicted had healed, but not whether he'd left any scars. "Your friends are looking for you in the wrong place, if they're looking for you at all. By the time anyone notices there's a little less fluid flowing into the garden, it'll be too late."
He hauled the Doctor up, an awkward, soaking wet dead weight. The man couldn't even hold his head up: it fell back, exposing his long throat with its protruding larynx.
"You tease!" laughed Lyt, and bit into the flesh beneath the Doctor's left collarbone.
He felt the body convulse in his hands as it tried to stiffen against the pain - more than that, against the revulsion. He was of this universe, this order of things, and Lyt was not, in the way that a seven-sided circle was not.
The Doctor swallowed convulsively as Lyt worried at skin and muscle and finally clamped his mouth over the fresh wound. Even paralysed the Doctor could have screamed, but all he did was pant violently.
Finally Lyt held the Doctor for a few moments, waiting for the bleeding to stop. His victim's head lolled onto his shoulder. The man weighed nothing. "We're going to die here in the dark," said Lyt, soothingly. "It all fits together so well."