A grin and groan from the Doctor, who by now is on the floor. He picks up the mask, preparing himself for the effort of speech. “Will you two say I Do already? We still have to send her back in time to get the Hand from you!”
The Master blinks. “What? What are you on about? What the hell did you…” He looks at the mask. Then he looks at Flamina. “You shit! I could have killed her!”
“But you didn’t. Oh, Master, really…” Throwing off the ruse of weakness, the Doctor squints one eye, then pushes himself to his feet. With his free hand, he takes out some sort of scanner from his famous pockets and waves it over her chest until it beeps. “Oh yep, it’s there! I’d suggest drawing straws, but…” He motions to the pile of dust in a baggie sitting on the console room floor. “I’ve already had a go. Help me hold her, would you?”
Her eyes snap wide as she follows his finger. Surely he can’t mean… but then she is writhing in the Master’s grip. Soon, her arms are tied before she can level the big shard more than an arm’s length. It drops to the floor.
To his infinite surprise, the Master still finds her quite the prettiest frying chicken he’s ever seen.
The Doctor breathes a muffled sorry as he stuffs a sock puppet in her mouth. Her eyes are full and on him, dilate saucers brimming with the promise of pain.
“Blinovitch is a bore,” says the Master thoughtfully as he produces a pair of tongs and stuffs them down her bodice. “If I win the next election, can we abolish it?”