Who: Yuuto and Akira, with an appearance from Doctor Cox. When: After this Where: The halls of the TARDIS / The clinic What: Yuuto saves someone in need of medical attention. Warnings: Probably some swearing and sarcasm. Definitely blood.
New arrivals had become more and more common place on the TARDIS. People from a variety of different times and place, worlds and universes were arriving on a weekly basis, verging on daily. People woke up to find themselves in all sorts of random rooms on the drifting ship. Some woke up in the halls. Others woke up in actual rooms. At least one poor unfortunate had woken up in the pool! But Akira? He had woken up in someone else's room. And he was not in the best shape. Not after everything he had been through. In his frightened state, he had picked himself up off the bed in great haste and slammed himself into the wall. His panic had set in and flooded his emotions, igniting each of them into their full fury. The poor boy had scrambled out of the room as soon as he could, but not without knocking a few things over accidentally. His mind was sober enough to work the phone that had appeared in his pocket on arrival too, and he had found help.
Now he was sitting out in the hall. Waiting. Desperate lungs fought to take in air but found the strength to do so. Eventually he let out a long breath when he felt his head start to swim. He allowed his head to tilt back and rest against the wall, his deep, dark brown eyes slipping shut. The phone slipped from his hand and onto the floor beside him. By his other side, lay a bloody katana. He was a mess. Not only was his clothing covered in blood but his face was too. His hands. The more it dried, the darker and angrier it looked. He had cuts and bruises on his face and body, a large slash on his thigh and a deep wound between his neck and shoulder.
His peaceful expression wrinkled and creased, the dried blood on his face cracking around his forehead and mouth as his lips turned sourly and bitterly to sadness. His eyes closed all the tighter and with shaking, mournful tones, he said, "Brother, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry!". He balled his fist up tightly and slammed it down onto the metallic floor. He was so angry with himself that he didn't even notice the pain any more. Blindly, his hands sought out the comforting weapon and gripped the handle tightly. So tightly that blood seeped from the cuts on his hand, trickling down and onto the floor. Tears began to stream down his face, washing away some of the blood in thin streaks. It seemed to make him look even more broken, even more defeated.
And then his eyes opened suddenly. He was sure he heard something. Footsteps. Someone was coming. Picking the blade up, he made sure he was going to be ready for whatever came his way. Even if he had to get up again and fight. He held the blade defensively, and waited, listening closely, watching...