“My dear Rassilon, without an Archive, how can we teach our students? How can we adjust to the rigors of maintaining the Restoration if we cannot educate the next generation adequately to avoid the mistakes of our shared past?”
Rassilon scoffs at this display. What is the old man getting at? He’s never been one for politics- he just wants what’s his. Nothing else matters. The Restoration is a fool’s errand. No reason for him to stick around once the manure flies. Between the Terrorist and the Lady Flamina, the Doctor and the Master, and the Old Man and the Sea, Gallifrey is going right back where it came from. Obscurity. He holds no love for the planet of his birth. They are not his people anymore.
He laughs as he waves away the Old Man’s glare. If he is to die, so be it. But it won’t be here, at that man’s hands.
He does not see Pasmodius staring after him as he departs.
But when two thin, leathery fists ball in purple fabric, clenching so hard that blood runs over the gnarled fingers, even Pasmo is surprised.
“Good thing you sent that mouse off with the book then, isn’t it, you old tosser? Can I play? I do love a good scavenge.”
Looking up into the unexpected and, wondrously placid, dark gaze of the Lord President, Pasmodius merely frowns.
Does he imagine it, or is the Master’s hair a shade lighter? And furthermore, is the discrepancy mistake or a’purpose?
He shakes himself, outwardly because that is who he is, of late.
Of course he doesn’t imagine it.
After all, Patrex isn’t a Chapterhouse known for its imagination.
But Rassilon is a curious man, if curiosity suits his needs.
So he waits.
He is jovial, even.