The screen seems to float in the upper left corner.
It’s flickering again.
Rassilon grabs his smiling chin, tapping the fingers of his free hand on the console dash of the Master’s secret comm. room.
Tap tap tap.
Tap tap tap.
The taps come naturally to a rhythm of five- he will not restrict himself to the little trick he played on the Lord President’s young, impressionable brain; no, his thoughts reside elsewhere, with other people. Other matters.
His mind encases the locket, reaches for it, imagines opening it again. But for now, it will stay where it is- closed, dull against his chest, buried beneath his robes. The weight of a child’s body never held. Never scented in the morning before those eyes of hers could wake him.
He could say his mind was absent, but that would be a lie. He merely considers what she might have thought. “Tzipporah…” he murmurs, tasting the name as though his daughter’s moniker is a pale breeze off some alien sea, “… I wonder how you would have handled the Doctor’s nervous little primate?”
Too soon, and he leaves her for an arc of weather across a viewing screen.
Intuition has never failed him; it has definitely not now, he decides as he feels a pulling desire in his gut to reach for the snow-packed relay, as if to wipe it clean with the cool warmth of his hand. Hindbrain mechanics. How irritating and one-dimensional. He snuffs that out, as it is nothing more than the blade of a candle between his fingers. And he makes note. If the little rats he ruled once ever allow him into the genetics bay again, he will suggest…