The Valeyard’s slumbering arm is draped with a half dozen shirts, all of which go with the lovely grey suit he’s chosen.
His fingers are aching like little carrots afflicted by root rot.
“What about this one?” he asks, sticking his free hand into the open air, holding out a slick silver tie with thin black striping for Rassilon’s peruse.
“Hrm, not enough contrast for the black to work. Try the gold again. And Valeyard...” Rassilon says demurely from his perch atop an iced bench, “...if you need to take a break... there’s no shame in it. It’s hard to choose a good armor to die in. You know I always had trouble.”
The Valeyard pops his head around the sliding fitting room door, opening it slightly, “...yes. Am I the only one who finds it sad you’re still alive? Well, you were always right about one thing; no one does trouble like we do. But really Dallyrasse, do remind me to murder you once this is over, if I have the time. All these anecdotes from our shared past are making me nauseous.”
“You could alleviate that in your new derby. It would save your wife the trouble of shooting it, since you actually look good in the thing. That must have been traumatic for you, losing your favorite plaything to the Whore of Babylon on at least three separate occasions.”
Quiet fades into something Else then, in the dim lighting skirting the hall of fitting rooms.
Then it comes, a hoarse, foreboding whisper in the darkness of mood.