The Assassin holds out two silver rings and a metal disk with a hole in the middle, then smiles. He knows better than to hope he Great Lord does not see through a good portion of this banter. But, he has survived this long after being trapped in the Eye by the Doctor in the eve of the Other’s death … surely, clearly, one more escape was in the cards?
The Great Lord takes both, slipping one on. Immediately his hand becomes Pasmodius’gnarled old branch of a limb.
“Excellent work,” says the true Rassilon, his false yet somehow more earnest-seeming wrinkles squinting like a Gallifreyan Mandrake as he grins. His mouth, the Assassin decides, looks more like a bloody beak than lips and chompers. “Run along now. I will take care of any Council opposition. There is always my mole in the Dromiean Chapterhouse. No one would suspect them.”
“Do you intend to murder anyone, My Lord?”
The old man stares at his back, boring holes like dead stars. He does not see this.
Then Rassilon laughs. He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs.
The timbre of that laugh holds the blackness of certainty in its mouth like a plaything.
When finally the Great Lord strides away, the Assassin feels a strange sensation running close to the nerves of his spine.
But at last he is alone, save for inconsequential Pasmodius in his borrowed tomb, flanked by four red pillars and dark marble. He should have killed the old man, he should have killed the boy, he should have killed…
He shudders, even as he slips his own ring over his finger and activates the transport back to his prison.
Only then, when his shimmer-disguised foot brushes the hidden node on the floor and his fingers wrap in comfort around the bars of his cell does he breathe.