#e:abomination

[dalek-ambassador-kor-blog]

[ x ]

YOU SAW TIME. YOU WOULD BE A GREAT ASSET.

[decreednomore]

“COR-RECT. AND I WOULD USE MY SIGHT TO DESTROY THE DALEKS AGAIN, AGAIN, ALWAYS, ETERNALLY! SKARO MUST FALL TO RISE NO MORE!”

[decreednomore]

I AM DALEK AMBASSADOR KOR. I ALSO OPERATE A BLOG ON THIS HUMAN WEBSITE. HOW ARE YOU ALIVE? RECORDS INDICATE THAT YOU WERE DESTROYED.

“I WAS! DESTROYED—OH, DESTROYED AND BROKEN AND BLEEDING FROM THE BEGINNING, DEAD AT MY CREATION. YOU TOO HAVE BEEN DESTROYED; I HAVE SEEN IT. I HAVE SEEN THE FIRES OF TIME AND I HAVE BURNED, KOR, HOW I HAVE BURNED! KYEHEHE-HAAH!“

[decreednomore]

doctorfromchiswick:

[ x ]

Donna put her hands down, cowering slightly. “W-what do you mean? What “oblivion of fire and storm”?,“ she asked.

Caan cackled. “I CAN SEEEE...,” it crooned, its tentacles spasming with glee. The vision was all too clear: the burning Crucible, the Oncoming Storm, the golden light of Donna’s new life quietly slipping into nonbeing. Caan’s single eye wandered erratically, following invisible flickers of flame. “I MEAN THE EMPTINESS APPROACHES, CHILD---THE EDGE OF THE VOID IN THE TOUCH OF A FRIEND. THE COMPANION MUST DIE BY THE DOCTOR’S HAND.”

[decreednomore]

The abomination is insane.

Yes. The abomination is insane. And you laugh. The Supreme doesn’t understand the joke. But you laugh because the Supreme is the abomination and its paper empire is insane. You laugh because otherwise your agony would tear you apart. You laugh because you cannot laugh. This tinny synthesised noise shrieking through your vocoder is not laughter. You see the forgotten age and you know now you cannot throw your head back laughing; you cannot run your fingers through your dark Kaled hair; you cannot walk or run or dance, dance, dance through the ocean of blood that is your people’s history.

You laugh.

Your people, they are nothing. For they are like you and you have seen yourself and you are nothing. Sewn-together scraps of something that once was, amorphous and disgusting and abominable. You see their faces—the faces that never were. You see their would-be smiles and the never-warmth in their eyes. And you see them now, warped and twisted and melting. They are already dead. You are already dead—a shell inside a shell. And is it not worthy of laughter, these undead travesties of flesh in their mobile hospitals annihilating the free and the beautiful? You want to laugh and laugh and fire your exterminator into your brain.

And so you turn the universe inside out, you declare Judgement Day, and your burning hellfire is a Chiswick temp in a wedding gown. Your laughter echoes through time. Sec was wrong. He offered you mercy. He was the only creature in the universe who ever, ever loved you, and now he and his ideals rot in an unmarked grave.

You will not make his mistakes.

The Crucible burns like your sanity and you hear your voice, silenced a thousand years before your birth, as you laugh and you laugh and your decree brings these temple pillars crashing down, the dying screams of the abominations ringing in your head as they have since the beginning of time.

The first and last thing you ever feel against your face is the kiss of the flames. You smile with the lips you never had.

No more.