FICLET: Ordinary Morning (Doctor Who: Oswin) [PG]
This episode has been on my mind quite a bit, and it's been a slow afternoon, so this happened. Seems I haven't entirely forgotten how to write after all ...
Title: Ordinary Morning
Character: Oswin Oswald
Rating: PG
Warning: Spoilers for Asylum of the Daleks.
Summary: (highlight to read | skip) Wood and soufflés and genius against the Daleks, for a year.
Author's Note: Many thanks to fluffyllama for the beta!
~*~
The boards nailed to the bulkhead are loose. It's the first thing she checks when she wakes. One of the boards is missing. They were here again.
They. She doesn't like to even think the name - they give her the creeps. But she hears their voices call for her, and she knows a Dalek when she hears one.
They always come at night. She never sees them, but she can tell.
They won't get in; she's a genius after all, and she can do things with a few wooden boards and a handful of nails that a Dalek could never imagine. She won't let them in.
New boards are nailed in place quickly enough; there are always more. What do the Daleks do with the boards they break, she wonders. Then shrugs. She replays her last diary entry, cheery messages home that she hasn't yet found a way to send. No matter. She will.
Then it's time for another attempt at a soufflé. She smoothes a hand over her dress and puts on an apron; it wouldn't do to stain the lovely red fabric.
Butter and flour; milk and cheese. Beating and stirring. She cracks eggs and separates the yolks into one bowl, the whites into another. Crack, crack, crack. She imagines she is cracking open Dalek shells. (What does a Dalek look like beneath its shell?)
She's been under siege for a year now. It never changes. Wood and soufflés and genius against the Daleks. So far she's winning. They can't get to her. She's doing fine; she'll get out of here eventually. Oswin Oswald never gives up.
It's not as if she's bored. There's all of the Dalek network, easy enough to hack into. Their perspective is bizarre and unsettling, but the facts are interesting enough, and she can always find something new to manipulate. Already she can see nearly everywhere. Well, everywhere with Dalek tech. So easy, almost like it's made for her to hack.
And then of course there's opera and books and trivid plays. The escape pod's database is well-stocked. So far she hasn't found anything it couldn't pull up. Whatever she can think of, she can find.
The soufflé comes out of the oven, burnt again. She sighs and rolls her eyes. Eggs and milk continue to elude her. Another attempt for the bin.
The cracked eggshells on the counter remind her. She sweeps them into the bin, too, then makes herself comfortable in her armchair and pulls up a few screens. It's so easy to hack into the Dalek network, like plugging into the uplink back home. All hers. They never even notice there's an intruder. She finds quickly what she wanted to know. Kaled. Dalek. Twisted, mutated, mutilated. Her stomach revolts. No. No.
Suddenly the Dalek database no longer holds appeal. She turns up the music - Carmen again, her favourite at the moment - and sways in her hammock.
L'on m'avait avertie
Que tu n'étais pas loin,
Que tu devais venir ...
Insufficiently distracting. Maybe she'll have a nap instead.
Mais que je vive ou que je meure
Non! Non! Non! Je ne céderai pas.
She drifts and thinks of soufflés, eggs and milk and an oven that never works right.
Eggs. Eggs and milk. Eggs ... stir ...
Eggs, clustered into bizarre shapes. They swarm towards her as she sinks into sleep. They surround her; they dress her up in a pebbled coat.
Laisse-moi ...
The music becomes a harsh staccato rushing against her from all sides, drowning every thought: grating, rising, swelling.
Eggs ...ter ...
The shell closes around her as her own voice joins the choir.
EX-TER-MI-NATE.
~end~
Title: Ordinary Morning
Character: Oswin Oswald
Rating: PG
Warning: Spoilers for Asylum of the Daleks.
Summary: (highlight to read | skip) Wood and soufflés and genius against the Daleks, for a year.
Author's Note: Many thanks to fluffyllama for the beta!
~*~
The boards nailed to the bulkhead are loose. It's the first thing she checks when she wakes. One of the boards is missing. They were here again.
They. She doesn't like to even think the name - they give her the creeps. But she hears their voices call for her, and she knows a Dalek when she hears one.
They always come at night. She never sees them, but she can tell.
They won't get in; she's a genius after all, and she can do things with a few wooden boards and a handful of nails that a Dalek could never imagine. She won't let them in.
New boards are nailed in place quickly enough; there are always more. What do the Daleks do with the boards they break, she wonders. Then shrugs. She replays her last diary entry, cheery messages home that she hasn't yet found a way to send. No matter. She will.
Then it's time for another attempt at a soufflé. She smoothes a hand over her dress and puts on an apron; it wouldn't do to stain the lovely red fabric.
Butter and flour; milk and cheese. Beating and stirring. She cracks eggs and separates the yolks into one bowl, the whites into another. Crack, crack, crack. She imagines she is cracking open Dalek shells. (What does a Dalek look like beneath its shell?)
She's been under siege for a year now. It never changes. Wood and soufflés and genius against the Daleks. So far she's winning. They can't get to her. She's doing fine; she'll get out of here eventually. Oswin Oswald never gives up.
It's not as if she's bored. There's all of the Dalek network, easy enough to hack into. Their perspective is bizarre and unsettling, but the facts are interesting enough, and she can always find something new to manipulate. Already she can see nearly everywhere. Well, everywhere with Dalek tech. So easy, almost like it's made for her to hack.
And then of course there's opera and books and trivid plays. The escape pod's database is well-stocked. So far she hasn't found anything it couldn't pull up. Whatever she can think of, she can find.
The soufflé comes out of the oven, burnt again. She sighs and rolls her eyes. Eggs and milk continue to elude her. Another attempt for the bin.
The cracked eggshells on the counter remind her. She sweeps them into the bin, too, then makes herself comfortable in her armchair and pulls up a few screens. It's so easy to hack into the Dalek network, like plugging into the uplink back home. All hers. They never even notice there's an intruder. She finds quickly what she wanted to know. Kaled. Dalek. Twisted, mutated, mutilated. Her stomach revolts. No. No.
Suddenly the Dalek database no longer holds appeal. She turns up the music - Carmen again, her favourite at the moment - and sways in her hammock.
L'on m'avait avertie
Que tu n'étais pas loin,
Que tu devais venir ...
Insufficiently distracting. Maybe she'll have a nap instead.
Mais que je vive ou que je meure
Non! Non! Non! Je ne céderai pas.
She drifts and thinks of soufflés, eggs and milk and an oven that never works right.
Eggs. Eggs and milk. Eggs ... stir ...
Eggs, clustered into bizarre shapes. They swarm towards her as she sinks into sleep. They surround her; they dress her up in a pebbled coat.
Laisse-moi ...
The music becomes a harsh staccato rushing against her from all sides, drowning every thought: grating, rising, swelling.
Eggs ...ter ...
The shell closes around her as her own voice joins the choir.
EX-TER-MI-NATE.
~end~