Passersby, and... the middle end of convergence.
That’s what they’ve been reduced to.
The Master’s boyish Flesh avatar drifts in a special place in time.
But that’s all right. He has a white, warm, disagreeable cloak made of drippy stupid person.
The Doctor’s own liquidating, mindless Flesh has drawn around him, like a blanket.
It’s not warm at all now, really. Rather a bit like an ice lolly.
He is rolled in a ball, see, wrapped in a very cold almond paste man’s idea of an insular, he himself being much the warmer as they drift in the cold of space. It is getting cold inside though. If they do not find shelter soon, the Flesh Doctor’s now-frozen form will crack and shatter from keeping a round shape around the heat of the Master’s Flesh.
Leave it to the Doctor to admire the quirky physics of a living snowbank enough to mimic the reactions involved on the fly.
If Koschei the Master’s hands ache like little thin reeds from the cold, Koschei’s toes feel like the benchwarmers at a C game.
Inside his cocoon of Doctor-flavoured almond paste, the Master he sighs.
Alone, the Master of All, he tumbles, with this oldest and now completely brainless companion, hugging him out of habit, a white ball skipping merrily from chronotic wind to chronotic wind in the cold sanctity of the Vortex.
Sanctity. What a word to come out of –his- mouth.
“You know, Theta,” he murmurs to the dormant Flesh, on whom the only thing left of a face are twin suns of ice green eyes staring sightlessly back at him like the inside of a behelit, “…you’d think we’d have packed some Jelly Babies. And I see no corsets. What gives?”