Chapter Thirteen, Part Two: Dead Man's ChestMature

The Doctor smiles at River’s bum one more time, then shifts to stare at the Master. “Really Koschei? Don’t be so hard on me; I’m a sensitive man with burgeoning prospects, and in my fragile condition, I’m allowed a secret smile or two! In fact, I’ve been thinking -and River, you can chime in on this if you like- that perhaps, once all this silliness is over, I might regenerate into my previous body, you know, the one you fell for, with the bleeding and the bullets and the whinging?” The Doctor grins as he speaks those last words, through thinning lips that remind of newly-hatched grubs stretching over a corpse. 

Well. That does it- much more of this charade and the thoroughly evil idiot who’s wearing the Doctor’s Flesh Avatar is going to be a likely candidate for the day’s braining. 

The Master cracks his young boy neck and settles his head on his elbow, somewhere very far away from the moron’s disturbingly self-pleased gaze. He can’t take this lie much longer. 

 So he doesn’t. 

He sets his teeth, quite fine and white, to the –Doctor’s- stockinged and booted ankle, sinking each gleaming chomper in, to the bone.

The End

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