Chapter Twelve, Part One: No Country For Old MenMature

“Now that you have managed this senile old tosser for me, what do you intend?” the man says, patting the red sarcophagus on the floor beside him. Inside the sarcophagus, a sleeping Time Lord. 

“I believe his name is Pasmodius, sir.” says the man in the mask. “This is the last step in our plan. Soon the Restoration will be finished, and I will be with her again. I thank you for-…” 

“I do not care for you. You are youthful and an idiot. I proceed with my part only because I have something to gain from this little affair. An audience with the Doctor. I must see him. I have... something to give him.”

 The man in the bear’s mask smiles, his teeth gleaming in a thin line. His lips are appreciative, but the eyes beneath the mask are reticent.

 “Could not the Great Lord Rassilon simply call on the traitor while in this disguise I have provided?”

 He truly expects to survive this union, Rassilon muses to himself while he watches the Terrorist, as the fool boy has come to call himself, watch his every move as though such childish eyes could ever know anything. 

“I imagine I could. How useful, my goodness.” He pauses, grinning flatly like a drunkard. “Bah. I’ve had enough of this dandy! Flutterwing, be gone.” His hand waves.

 A quip, “Oh, I do remember, sir, that you only wear that face…” and then the unfortunate boy walks away, doubtless seething. His fists are wadded tight enough, surely.

 Oh yes, he’ll have to kill him presently. He thinks fondly of the garrote in his pocket, taking a step after the retreating young blond in the dark.

The End

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