It was a long night of programming with the missus.
The Master shifts in his sleep.
A deep clanging noise, his own personal cloister bell, erupts near his ear and begins, in the long upheld tradition of overlarge gongs, to toll loudly through him.
“Is there an elephant in the room?” his drowsy tongue slurs.
He reaches his elbow over Flamina to grab his jeans… but his brain cells misgauge the distance, sending his forearm stumbling over empty air.
His arm falls down, striking hard floor; his eyes jolt awake at the sound of an extra ding rapping against the white ground, like oblivion.
Oh god. He realises it as he looks down at the golden ring wrapping his finger like a soothsayer’s curse.
Oh god, oh god. Flamina was never… Flamina was never…
Because Rosette is there, staring up at him out of the ground as though through a window, a golden wreath of girl framed by a pink floor.
His fingers scrape against her rosy carapace; they scratch at her blue, green, grey and golden eyes heavy-lined with gold-feathered mascara-like blotches. The semblance of rouge on her face is fuschia laced with gold dust; he screeches wordlessly at it, tracing the crumbled gold leaf piles of dust at her Fortuna feet like love-hate words in the sand of a distant strand.
“…you,” he breathes blankly, staring, his hot-stung gaze like bloody mirrors, suddenly bloodshot.