“No. Unless you particularly want to be reincarnated as a chronovore.”
“I see your point. Or worse, an Eternal. Gods they’re annoying. No sense of humour.”
“I agree completely.”
“…?... you have a tone. Have you met them more than once?”
“Do not. Have not. Bleahh!”
Their hold on her arms does not slacken, though, no matter how much they gabble on.
Has it really only been an hour? It’s so hard to tell with TARDISES.
Regardless, Flamina does not like this notion of theirs; and, being fervently against it, she continues to squirm, writhing like an eel in a petticoat. Her eyes pop like rotten cantaloupe, nice and purple and gooey. Well, forget the gooey, the Doctor thinks to himself, cringing every time the Master delves deeper into the woman’s oddly-situated private trans-dimensional storage… place. He just can’t watch. He can’t. It’s not decent. He knows River would though, so he does.
And the Master persists. He ruffles and scrunches and squeezes and twists, digging about between her breasts. With a pair of cold metal kitchen tongs. Serves her right for being such a… Her endowments jiggle two and fro for a few moments, then…his hand retreats. The cheap metal tongs hold in their grasp an egg-shaped stone, set in a torque. The torque and stone are placed in a special box containment, far away from her.
Her face turns white immediately; it’s as if her blood has turned to chalk-water. Her veins stand up in blue lines like reverse riverbeds across a map of dead fish skin.
“Look at her, Kos’,” the Doctor murmurs, reaching to gently brush away a strand of her white hair. “She’s fighting it. But it’s had her a long, long time. I may have to go in.”
“Do it.” the Master says softly.