He thinks Eva's off to a brilliant start, up until she suddenly does the precise opposite of what he said and panics.
He supposes he can't blame her for going mental: it's not every day you get attacked by a library and she's human, so that means she's has generations of Homo sapien instincts telling her this sort of thing is impossible. He doesn't waste time comforting her. Maybe a few lives ago he would have done, but he's not that sort of man these days and he can always comfort her as much as she wants when she's not, well, dinner for the library. Now that the library is solidifying to something more library-ish, the Doctor has a better idea what setting to use. He flicks through the sonic screwdriver's settings and takes aim.
The wood pulp on the hand holding Eva's neck twitches as its molecules start vibrating. The hand lets go. The Doctor grabs Eva, a bit roughly, and pulls her head out of range as the hand suddenly bursts into flames.
The mouth behind Eva opens in a terrific roar.
It's unlike any roar he's heard before. It's every piece of fiction in that library, every bit of spam mail and love letter; tragedies, Greek comedies, out-dated holo reviews; that terrible book of poetry he wrote when he was just shy of 200. They all roar at once, the entire room shaking overhead and under their feet. The Doctor doesn't dare look at Eva's face and see her expression. He knows she's terrified. Humans tend to adventure into even more life-or-death situations than normal when they're around him. Maybe he ought to pass out warning cards and --
"Those are rubbish last words, Eva Salazar!" The Doctor tries to attack the other hands holding her with the sonic. Some of them crumple, as if they're being attacked by termites, and the others spasm back into flames. "You need to listen to me: pull! What good is screaming going to do? Must be a human thing. Big screamers, you lot! Pull! Come on!"
The Doctor works frantically to give Eva enough space to pull herself free. Considering how quickly the library is regrowing its "arms", she won't have much time and they're starting to pop up faster than the Doctor can take them out. The mouth sprouts an impressive row of fangs behind Eva, a nightmare mix of letter openers, broken broom handles, and huge splinters from the main door. A tongue of the collected works of Charles Dickens flops onto the floor. All the words run together into a big ugly mess. The smell of ancient musty books wafts out.
ugh, sorry, massive typos when I wrote this D:
He supposes he can't blame her for going mental: it's not every day you get attacked by a library and she's human, so that means she's has generations of Homo sapien instincts telling her this sort of thing is impossible. He doesn't waste time comforting her. Maybe a few lives ago he would have done, but he's not that sort of man these days and he can always comfort her as much as she wants when she's not, well, dinner for the library. Now that the library is solidifying to something more library-ish, the Doctor has a better idea what setting to use. He flicks through the sonic screwdriver's settings and takes aim.
The wood pulp on the hand holding Eva's neck twitches as its molecules start vibrating. The hand lets go. The Doctor grabs Eva, a bit roughly, and pulls her head out of range as the hand suddenly bursts into flames.
The mouth behind Eva opens in a terrific roar.
It's unlike any roar he's heard before. It's every piece of fiction in that library, every bit of spam mail and love letter; tragedies, Greek comedies, out-dated holo reviews; that terrible book of poetry he wrote when he was just shy of 200. They all roar at once, the entire room shaking overhead and under their feet. The Doctor doesn't dare look at Eva's face and see her expression. He knows she's terrified. Humans tend to adventure into even more life-or-death situations than normal when they're around him. Maybe he ought to pass out warning cards and --
"Those are rubbish last words, Eva Salazar!" The Doctor tries to attack the other hands holding her with the sonic. Some of them crumple, as if they're being attacked by termites, and the others spasm back into flames. "You need to listen to me: pull! What good is screaming going to do? Must be a human thing. Big screamers, you lot! Pull! Come on!"
The Doctor works frantically to give Eva enough space to pull herself free. Considering how quickly the library is regrowing its "arms", she won't have much time and they're starting to pop up faster than the Doctor can take them out. The mouth sprouts an impressive row of fangs behind Eva, a nightmare mix of letter openers, broken broom handles, and huge splinters from the main door. A tongue of the collected works of Charles Dickens flops onto the floor. All the words run together into a big ugly mess. The smell of ancient musty books wafts out.