“Oh for god sakes, woman, just kick the damn thing!” the Master calls back over his shoulder to River Song where she stands at the box-shaped portable comms device they’ve brought with them from the shuttle, himself careful to keep both eyes on the man who bears such a striking resemblance to his friend that he has begun to wonder if he’s imagining it all.
No, no he can’t be.
The –Doctor- is leering at River again, his bone-white lips a sickening rictus of desire, his once-lovely crystal eyes little more now than pallid sea glass vases filled with damp flowers stinking of rot. He grabs at his face, as if trying to clear cobwebs from his skin.
Wait, is the bastard... ill? But the Flesh doesn’t get… hold on a moment…
Ah. Ghost in the machine. The clever little idiot.