“And you say the latest batch of that fanatic’s self-indulgent missives claims what? Let me see that, Pasmodius. They must be reviewed, in light of The Admission. To think the Other’s Nurse was temporally frozen right above us, all this time, waiting in that transport pod…”
“Silander, your worry over your Cousin the Doctor is clouding your mind. The other Time Lords must not know of his failing condition through your lips or any other’s. It would behoove you, I believe, to just read the transcript, please.” the old man says, carefully perched in thought against the back of his rickety old wooden chair, his wrinkled hand to his chin, grasping his own skin loosely as if pinching a bird for the stewpot. The fingers of his free hand twist with impatience at the younger Time Lord as he calls out strangely, through…clenched teeth? “I rather think that I will close the door, as well. We don’t want any troubles wafting in.”
And then he smiles, does Pasmodius. For he knows what happens next.
Silanderedloomiscariotiquilylon holds the crisp and faded pages up to the lights, and begins to read…