PROSE: Silhouette [Ch. 16, 17]

'So, what?' Clara said. 'This Empath guy is taking people's anger?'
'Anger, rage, fury. Yes.'
'Not only that,' the Doctor said, his tone suddenly grave. 'But you're storing it. Empath takes it, and then ejects it into that glass sphere in your library.'
'To create a cloud—a creature—of pure anger. Milton gave a sudden laugh and jumped to his feet. 'Now that is a weapon.'

[...]

'Pure, raw anger,' Milton said proudly as they approached the glass sphere.
Clara could see now that there was a pipe leading from the back of the globe to the fireplace and up the chimney.
The Doctor had seen it too. 'You're not going to release it?' he said, appalled.
'What use is a weapon if it's never been tested?' Milton said. 'Imagine what it could do to a city like London. An obvious choice, of course, for a demonstration as it is the greatest and largest city on this rather backward planet.'
'What will happen?' Clara asked.
'A cloud of anger, infecting everyone who breathes it in,' the Doctor said. 'What do you think?'
Milton turned to Empath. 'What do you think?'
'There will be riots,' he said, his voice as calm and unaffected as Milton's. 'Violence. Bloodshed. Murder. Within a few hours the whole city will be at war with itself. Within a few days there will be no one left alive.'

[...]

'Before I test the anger weapon on a whole city,' Milton said. 'I should like to test it on an individual.'
As he spoke, Empath opened the hatch with one hand. With the other he grabbed the back of the Doctor's head and forced it suddenly, violently down to the opening.
Caught by surprise, the Doctor gasped and struggled. But his head was shoved inside the sphere—coughing and spluttering.
'No—stop!' Clara launched herself at the sphere, but Milton grabbed her and pulled her back.
'He won't hurt anyone,' Clara told him, pulling herself free. 'You'll never make him hurt anyone.
'I think you're probably right.'
Milton smiled in satisfaction as Empath pulled the Doctor back, and slammed the hatch shut. The Doctor collapsed to his knees, his hand to his throat, coughing and retching. His eyes were wide and his whole body started to shake. His expression was one if pure rage. Milton gave Clara a sudden shove in the back. She stumbled forwards, down on one knee, and found herself staring straight into the Doctor contorted face.
'So let's see, shall we?' Milton said. 'Will he give vent to his anger by killing you? Or will he try to keep it locked up inside himself. In which case, it will tear him to pieces.'

[---]

The Doctor's face was a mask of anger and rage. His lips drew back from gritted teeth and the furrows in his forehead deepened. He pitched forward onto his hands and knees, fingers clawing at the floorboards. His breath was coming in short gasps, almost sobs, as he struggled to contain the emotion.
'Not long now,' MMiton said, his voice almost dripping with satisfaction.
Clara stared into the Doctor's haunted face, unable to look away. His eyes were bulging, bloodshot, staring back at her with a malevolence beyond anything she had seen him turn against even the most murderous and evil creatures. He raised his hand, fingers curled into a claw, his whole arm shaking. He reached towards Clara—for help? Or to scrape his nails down her face? His breathing was ragged—short, sharp, desperate intakes of air, saliva flecking his lips. The colour seemed to have drained from his face, leaving him pale as death.
'Clara!' he gasped. 'Cara, I—"
'What can I do to help? she demanded.
But he didn't seem to hear her. His eyes turned upwards, showing only the whites as he leaned back on his knees, arms suddenly spread wide.
'There's nothing you can do,' Milton said softly behind her. 'I'd say this qualifies as a success.'
She felt her concern turning to rage. But even as she turned to lunge at Milton, ready to scrape her own clawed hands down his face, she heard the Doctor laugh.
It wasn't much of a laugh. More of a tortured exhalation. 'I don't think much of your qualifications, then.'
The rasp became a cough, which became a final long exhalation. Slowly the Doctor pulled himself to his feet, grabbing Clara's arm for support. His face remained drawn and pale, but the rictus of concentration was gone.
The rage was still there in his voice, an undercurrent to his words. 'You think you can use anger as a weapon against me? I've been so angry for so long there's nothing left you or anyone else can teach me about it.'
'So it would seem,' Milton said, disappointed. 'I'm impressed. Truly.'
The Doctor eased himself away from Clara's supporting grasp, standing on his own. Defiant, if swaying slightly. He looked tired rather than angry now. The effort of resisting the effects of the cloud of emotion had clearly taken its toll.

[...]

'I estimate that in seventy-two hours all the anger will have been absorbed by the population of London. Who will all be dead in another twelve hours. Maximum. Including you, I think, Doctor. You might have been able to resist a small portion of the cloud, but I imagine the full dose will destroy even your remarkable ability to resist. Or it not, there will be no shortage of people enraged enough to tear you limb from limb.'