There’s a lot of Prestige in punching a perfect corridor at Fort Boyard
The Great Screenwriter once said, when you are born, something else accompanies you into existence. A newborn baby cries and grabs at the air not from the smack of the nurse, not as it gasps for breath, but because it’s lost its only companion in the womb: a vast monologue.
Once you’ve popped out of your maternal hard drive, your life unfurls ahead of you like a clockwork countdown prophecy, a programmed puzzle unknowable to its prewritten protagonist, so many lines of code, too many to read, stretching towards infinity, close to unending. And yet.
The 12th Doctor awakens in a bespoke hell, pursued by a slow-moving tormenter who’ll yield only to a confession. Who brought him to this place? How will he win? And if the hybrid was so blasted legendary, then how come Capaldi made her in the first place?! Bloody reckless, if you ask, like, genuinely anyone. Perhaps he deserved this hell. What a right hook, though, eh?
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