“We are so fucked. We are all-hail-the-great-Saint-Barkus-of-Quilylon fucked! And you just..."
The Master squeaks, feeling like some poor sod in coach as a red fiberglass rod falls on him from a sudden overhead hatch.
“Spiteful bitch,” he murmurs at the TARDIS. “What in the blazing, bloody hells am I supposed to do with this thing?”
he raises his hand, pulls himself up from where he’s been sitting and watching the Doctor and Flamina’s therapy session on the other side of the console.
He slows, then stills.
Again the sound, fissuring through the thick glass floor.
He can’t grab on; the floor breaks beneath his bum like a collapsing iceberg, sending up jagged sections of glass that look more like airplane wreckage than a walking surface. Naturally, as he dangles and looks, he notices the floor beneath the Doctor and Flamina is still perfectly sound…
“Course not,” he murmurs. His foot is hanging precariously like bait over the visible bits of temporal engine, all gears and clicking teeth and glowy machine. He imagines the grind of those gears to be a line of clinging elephants, swinging loose trunks and clutching tails as their matriarch trumpets mightily at the attempts of a young buck to stall the line and show his worth.
And speaking of line…
He holds the strange rod between his feet, trying to thread the nylon coming out of the reel mechanism into each eye along the tapering length. There’s a locked lever on the console, just above. If he can get the fool thing threaded… make enough loops to hang for suspension so he can climb up…