Power Button

It's no good changing the channels- but what does it matter? Every one wants to hear what Mr. Saxon has to say. Martha/ Master (Harold Saxon)


SAXON BROADCAST

ALL CHANNELS

The man you can trust


His face is always on the edge of her consciousness ― glossy magazines, speeches, smiles, smiles, smiles. She glances over the posters, listens to the broadcasts and puts him aside, but some part of her remembers him, the beat to a forgotten tune

(A heart beat, but doubled. Twice as necessary. Twice as inescapable.)

It sounds in her head through rushes of adrenaline, as she struggles to survive in a devastated world. Mocking words that are diamond sharp, black poison barbs, static screens, and smiles everywhere.

"Martha Jones." He breathes her name with a special loathing, the kind given to a pet that always nips, always fights, never listens. "What are we going to do with you?"

.

.

(Boom. Bye, Mr. Saxon)

.

.

Some posters catch her eye on the bustling streets that proclaim new candidates with bored, butchered smiles, eyes that hold only linear possibilities.

She checks her own heart beat ― to make sure her pulse is still strong. To make sure she's not forgotten. That night he strolls into her dreams wherein she slaps him, kills him, listens to him speak and almost forgets to wake up.

(His speeches dance on the edges of her mind ― butterflies that flit away, bees that buzz, spiders that spin webs.)

It's curious how gray the world becomes, how the lines blur, faces pixelate, and words mesh together, mattering less and less.

(For frightened seconds the image of Lucy Saxon with her blank blue eyes overcomes her and she hears his voice:

"Oh, Martha Jones, tell me that you're fading.")

She squeezes her temples until the world turns red: (black/white/red/ half-healed scars/ blood)

On Christmas Eve she punches her television, screams as she stares at the shattered glass, and phones to order a new one. The next night a lightning strike of fear streaks through every mind on earth, a jolt from the past ― of the future.

He's laughing ― some where, out there.

Martha turns over in her sleep, and she smiles.