But it is just then that a flicker sharply shimmers over the walls of the Vortex now, humming along like a predatory toothy fish with prospects as it shoots through and over and under and comes out a hole on the other side of the temporal tube, swimming along.
A woman’s white head breaches the slit in odd repose, giant and wide like a fluttering salmon in a silky stream. Silent and solid. Motionless.
The rest of her soon follows, first a milky elbow, then a shoulder carved of cream. A bodice of nude breasts and fluid torso. Legs that taper to a bent point like the broken tip of a short wave radio antenna. Above the lines of sculpted navel, thoughtful fingers tented in repose cover something small, sharp and hidden in their palms.
A ship, then. But whose? The Master can only guess, because the Doctor’s Flesh is incapable of relaying any messages to him now. It’s gone completely to sleep. He’s using his psychic abilities to see; best not to dwell. They suck, compared to the Doctor’s. Although, he’s always fancied his hypnotism prowess…
As he rambles on inside his head, the white, blank Michelangelo eyes of the solitary Fortuna slide over the tiny spot of Flesh. Her arms reach out for them.
Her mouth opens to breathe them in.
There is a woman in the mouth, waving from between the singing teeth. A woman in a corset.
A lavender corset.
And a mess…no, a mass of white hair, tied up in some kind of bird’s nest bouffant.