“…Master, please! I’m dying here…”
Flamina feels like a doll. This is unreal. She’s sitting in the TARDIS with the man she killed and the man she wants to kill. How is it then, that neither one is dead? How came the blood between two killers thread? And… she trails off, her poetry forgotten for sudden curiosity. What is the Master pulling out of the Doctor’s pocket?
A gasp escapes her at the silver glint. Her lover’s mask! The Master has it. Has he had it all this time?
“You killed him? I haven’t seen him in ages. So that’s where he got to- my sword, my Terrorist. There is no point to my lives then.”
She draws a shard of glass, long and wicked, from her bodice.
“You know, I thought you almost loved me till you did this,” the Master says softly, licking his tongue along the mask’s carved rim and taking a step. “I know I almost loved you. But really now,” he shakes his head, slowly at first, then more vigorously, until a vicious crown of dirty whitish blondish hair is falling around him. As he sets the mask on his face, his cheeks ungrow their stubble and lose a bit of fat along the bones. His appearance is changed, and so he finishes his sentence. “… who but a woman could keep space between her breasts. I know if I was a girlie, I’d hide my trans-dimensional pockets there.” He grins cheekily, then adds, “Give us a kiss?”
Her hand fits perfectly across his face, slapping the mask from his fingers and drawing a line of orange-red blood across the bridge of his nose.