☄ video [008] midday on saturday, october 1st
[The feed clicks on to a dark room. One filled with very little light, just enough for the camera to focus in on a few shapes hidden in the shadows, the faint outline of a form moving around. There's very little to be heard, either, at least at first. Nothing but the soft sounds of someone breathing far away and the occasional scrape of a chair being moved across concrete.
Finally, though, the Doctor comes into view, still mostly covered by the shadows wrapping around him, wiping his hands on a towel and smiling thinly at the little device recording him.] It's been a long week, hasn't it? So many people with their minds just... slightly... out of whack. Thoughts and hearts twisted and changed, just not quite right...
[He strolls a bit further forward, flicking his head to get his hair out of his eyes, eyes that are cold and piercing, as if staring right through the PCD and into whoever happened to be watching this feed, looking upon the sight he's just barely allowing them to get a glimpse at.] But is that really such a bad thing? Who's to say that what the Animus have done here, this week, isn't simply... pulling the wool off from over the eyes, letting people truly see and feel without the unfortunate hinderance of morality. Compassion.
People are weak. Human beings the most, the very epitome of utter helplessness with an annoying cockroach like ability to keep coming back. To swarm across the galaxies and infest planets, ruining them as you go, leaving behind a wake of pollution and poison.
[He turns, then, and as he does the side of his face comes into the light, revealing a split section of skin on his cheekbone, purpling and swelling, an ugly sight, truth be told. But that's not the point of the movement. No, the point of the movement is him reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out his sonic and pointing it up at the ceiling. And with just a few seconds of the screwdriver fiddling with the out of use wiring around him, a light is flickering on just a few feet from the Doctor, the PCD, casting an eerie yellow glow down onto two figures, slumped in chairs, heads lolling to the sides, hands tied to metal arms, chests strapped to the backs with frayed, dirty rope.
And the Doctor is merely strolling right over between them, spinning around to smile sickeningly widely at the PCD, one hand falling on each of their shoulders, causing the bodies to do nothing more than shift slightly under the added weight. No other reactions. None at all.]
Adstringendum, I'd like to tell you a story... [He sinks into a crouch, peeking up into those flopped forward faces, his smile dimmed a bit, but still curling almost unnaturally at his lips.] Once upon a time, there were two best friends. They went to school together, grew up together, even shared childish dreams of traveling together when they were older. But things change, people change. Words were said and violence acted upon. And one of the little boys was killed. Again... and again... and again... over and over and over again. Dying and living, dying and living. Always dying and living. Sometimes, even, at the hands of the boy he'd grew up with. His best friend.
[And then, the Doctor is standing up, moving behind one of the chairs and pushing it forward, closer to the PCD, more into the light, and features become discernable. Recognizable. As recognizable as the blood soaked through the front of his shirt. Especially when he moves and grabs the top of the man's head, tilting his face up for everyone to see.] But boys who die become strong. Strong enough to face their demons and shoot them in the hearts. Twice.
[His hands move then, shoving the chair to the side, tilting the Master's body until it falls to the floor with a clatter. A thump. But in the same movement he's spinning around again, coming to rest behind the other chair, hands falling to rest on the second shadowed person's shoulders.] And other boys need no intro. Other boys are so used to dying it hardly seems to matter anymore. But he needed to die. Just as all of you need to die. One by one, I'll wipe you from this world. One by one I'll make this city a better place, I'll clear the infestation.
[And then, with a little shove, he's pushing that chair into the light, reaching down to grab at the boy's chin, tilting his face up and revealing one Rory Williams, blood smeared down his face, from the hole gaping in the center of his forehead.] Don't worry Amy, River. It won't hurt for long.
You're next.
[And in one smooth motion, he throws Rory's chair to the side and strolls forward, his hand blocking the view just a moment before the feed flicks off. But not before the sickening thud of a body hitting the pavement just barely proceeds the wooden clanking of chair legs skidding across concrete.]
Finally, though, the Doctor comes into view, still mostly covered by the shadows wrapping around him, wiping his hands on a towel and smiling thinly at the little device recording him.] It's been a long week, hasn't it? So many people with their minds just... slightly... out of whack. Thoughts and hearts twisted and changed, just not quite right...
[He strolls a bit further forward, flicking his head to get his hair out of his eyes, eyes that are cold and piercing, as if staring right through the PCD and into whoever happened to be watching this feed, looking upon the sight he's just barely allowing them to get a glimpse at.] But is that really such a bad thing? Who's to say that what the Animus have done here, this week, isn't simply... pulling the wool off from over the eyes, letting people truly see and feel without the unfortunate hinderance of morality. Compassion.
People are weak. Human beings the most, the very epitome of utter helplessness with an annoying cockroach like ability to keep coming back. To swarm across the galaxies and infest planets, ruining them as you go, leaving behind a wake of pollution and poison.
[He turns, then, and as he does the side of his face comes into the light, revealing a split section of skin on his cheekbone, purpling and swelling, an ugly sight, truth be told. But that's not the point of the movement. No, the point of the movement is him reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out his sonic and pointing it up at the ceiling. And with just a few seconds of the screwdriver fiddling with the out of use wiring around him, a light is flickering on just a few feet from the Doctor, the PCD, casting an eerie yellow glow down onto two figures, slumped in chairs, heads lolling to the sides, hands tied to metal arms, chests strapped to the backs with frayed, dirty rope.
And the Doctor is merely strolling right over between them, spinning around to smile sickeningly widely at the PCD, one hand falling on each of their shoulders, causing the bodies to do nothing more than shift slightly under the added weight. No other reactions. None at all.]
Adstringendum, I'd like to tell you a story... [He sinks into a crouch, peeking up into those flopped forward faces, his smile dimmed a bit, but still curling almost unnaturally at his lips.] Once upon a time, there were two best friends. They went to school together, grew up together, even shared childish dreams of traveling together when they were older. But things change, people change. Words were said and violence acted upon. And one of the little boys was killed. Again... and again... and again... over and over and over again. Dying and living, dying and living. Always dying and living. Sometimes, even, at the hands of the boy he'd grew up with. His best friend.
[And then, the Doctor is standing up, moving behind one of the chairs and pushing it forward, closer to the PCD, more into the light, and features become discernable. Recognizable. As recognizable as the blood soaked through the front of his shirt. Especially when he moves and grabs the top of the man's head, tilting his face up for everyone to see.] But boys who die become strong. Strong enough to face their demons and shoot them in the hearts. Twice.
[His hands move then, shoving the chair to the side, tilting the Master's body until it falls to the floor with a clatter. A thump. But in the same movement he's spinning around again, coming to rest behind the other chair, hands falling to rest on the second shadowed person's shoulders.] And other boys need no intro. Other boys are so used to dying it hardly seems to matter anymore. But he needed to die. Just as all of you need to die. One by one, I'll wipe you from this world. One by one I'll make this city a better place, I'll clear the infestation.
[And then, with a little shove, he's pushing that chair into the light, reaching down to grab at the boy's chin, tilting his face up and revealing one Rory Williams, blood smeared down his face, from the hole gaping in the center of his forehead.] Don't worry Amy, River. It won't hurt for long.
You're next.
[And in one smooth motion, he throws Rory's chair to the side and strolls forward, his hand blocking the view just a moment before the feed flicks off. But not before the sickening thud of a body hitting the pavement just barely proceeds the wooden clanking of chair legs skidding across concrete.]