“That’s the plan? Send a scared animal and a plague wizard?”
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The main gate explodes inward. Not from explosives. From raw mass. (six-foot-eight, bolts crackling, sewn together from seven different war criminals) roars. He’s holding a ship’s anchor as a flail. Beside him, THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN (elegant, silent, lethal – her stitches glow faintly blue) twirls a razor-edged parasol. “That’s the plan
The Doctor laughs – a wet, rattling sound. He touches the ground. The entire arena floor begins to writhe. Oil-soaked earth turns into grasping hands. Dead mercs, dead animals, even dead insects – a chittering tide of bone and rot. From raw mass
"Log entry… six hundred? I’ve lost count. They’re moving us. Not to a cell. To a pit."