𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙇𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀𝙍.

||: i like how this image has weird borders for some reason

( gets hit by an urfcar and crukking DIES )

doing things, talking to people more . . . wasn't he trying? wasn't he getting better?

his breathing was ragged, and then, as he thought about how unfair things were, he went still, and died.

of all the ways, why here, why now? he had so narrowly flown through the war, by the seat of his own pants. seen so many good people simply squeezed out of existence like undesirable spots. and he was doing so well . . . ! he was getting better! he had natasha, and he was getting out more,

i knew you wouldn't disappoint. you've always been rather amusing." the fur coat recedes from his vision.

"ah. here. for your troubles." the lancer cannot see what is going on, what is changing hands above him, but so desperately wishes he could.

he just can't understand it. any of it.

pretty quickly. a surprisingly clean gnash near his heart. yet doesn't he feel it beating still, on the other side of his body?

oh, he's not surviving this one, is he? oh cruk. oh cruk. "well, i think i've learned enough here for now," the voice says. "very good, jasper. well done.

but his hearing's cupped, sounds like it's being carried over underwater, from a tide rolling far away from here. "still doing the bidding of the time lords!" and the voice laughs. does he know it . . . ?

he tries to move, to get up, but finds that he can't. he can feel the blood coming out of him

"i-- i-- b-- but-- you . . . how?" he says, and prones out on the floor.

from there things get kind of hazy for him. sound leaves him; his eyes fail him; things are blurry on the floor, and all he can see are black pointy dress shoes and someone's dark fur coat. "look at you," a voice says,

he's wearing abratanium alloy. how could this be happening? and not a sound. he should have had warning. he turns to look at the doctor with the last of his might -- and even this fails him. he half-makes it, and his face is full of horror, trying to make words come.

the lancer's first instinct upon feeling the seeping heat of the blade is shock. then the buzz and trickle of the stab wound comes, hitting him fast and hard. oh, what a rush! what a thrill! adrenaline goes pumping through him like a train going whistling off the tracks. abratanium alloy.

ow.

She puts the knife through back @axisbound.bsky.social. Like she slipped. She just steps forward, the blade sinks in, it doesn't even make a sound.

maybe something will.

no, not at all. i'm interested. it's not so often i have such insightful company. what do i have to hide from?

*hiding*? ( his body language suggests he doesn't like the idea. )

from what? i've got nothing to hide from.

hmmmm. i guess you're right.

sorry, all this talk of food, it can't be nice for you. what brings you to my little ship *really*? there's nothing that you would find interesting here.

why? should i?

maybe as a baby. it doesn't seem like it'd taste nice.

poetic *and* vivid. i like it.

i don't think i've ever eaten grass, but i *have* tasted morning . . . i guess you're not far off.

friends?

well . . .

tell me. what do you imagine melon tastes like? not what your records say, what do you imagine?

( a rare smile at his own joke. )

nice of you to come over.

nice melons.

organisms are always afraid of the future. they know, deep down, it's probably way beyond them. don't take it personally.

to WHAT secure these firearms????????

Dog legs folding in on themselves. Her born with sixth fingers tells us how to ride the Metro, cruising over hot vents of lips . . . My virginal secret is we've lived the wrong lives, sponsored by Transidyne . . .

everything happens so much . . . no more war; i've a state-sponsored headache . . .

Psychiatrists chanting and gnashing their teeth at the altar where they abort your first words. Deskinning your coat and peeling back the words on it like doors on an advent calendar; You splat a spider and it shits toothpaste. Your daughter tries to take you out the room.

. . . and you wake from a 250-year-old dream of empire, innocent as a bairn-brain, something minty in your mouth, and start walking west once again . . .

Ectoplasmic discharges of the imagination; Videos of foot fetishists lining up for leg amputations;

for you to hide in.

your hungry daughter shakes you silly. 'wake up, wake up, doctor, you need to snap out of this, we need to get out of here, there's something wrong,'

'no,' doc two-thirty says, slipping us naughty ones and doing away with our furniture. 'i am your god, and i say CHOOSE.'

'i thought you were much better than this,' eli frowns. 'it's only a light flirt with your synapses.'

sparks connect with sparks, arcs rushing down the furrows and alleways of your mind, shorting the shortcuts and skipping over the sewage to get out, a whole world of impossible thoughts and places