Chapter Eleven: Dawn QuixoteMature

“Let me in, you stupid bitch! He’s dead and I’m the bastard who gets to tell them!” 

The Master just keeps screaming at her. His fists strike the blue painted wood of her unassuming hull. It doesn’t chip anymore, because the idiot repainted. That’s comforting, at least. 

 She is fairly certain that ‘bitch’ is not her name. 

So certain in fact, that she calls up the Voice Recognition Interface of Lucy Saxon. 

With the Paradox Machine fresh in her mind, she reaches for him with Lucy’s arms.

 Koschei of Oakdown does nothing as the faint brush of holographic flesh envelops him.

  He does nothing as the arms fall through him. He cannot let the guards see him sink to the ground, a pool of man. So he finds something to do there, on the floor where he’s curled up into a ball. He bends down, stuffs a hand into his pocket, grabs a pen, then sticks the resultant post-it note on the floor in front of the TARDIS. 

He can, however, whisper ‘thank you’ as her doors open, revealing a console room that is more idyllic scene than control center for a TARDIS. 

The Doctor might have called it ‘Sunset on Glass, with Sky and Typewriter.’ Or ‘Portholes.’ 

The post-it reads:



Playing Duck Hunt.

Do Not Disturb.

The End

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