A swish of blonde hair and its diminutive owner stride lovingly away into the dark as the scene behind doors just locked continues, sparingly, unmindful of retreating childish footfalls or their gift of a prisoning click.
No, the conversation behind doors flows forward thusly, like the trumpet of feast after a war, trumping all cares save those of the two hungry and dominant males who now resume their places in the comm. Room after circling each other, much as beasts do when fighting over tasty, bleeding morsels.
“I hate you. Why can’t you just surrender like normal people? Because you aren’t normal people, that’s why! You… old buzzard! And your taste in clothing is worse than the Doctor’s!”
“As if I would rise to such a statement.” Rassilon says, lifting a finger upon which rests a small silver dot. “These are amusing. When did you find the time, between harassing me and stalking him?”
The dot is confiscated by the blunted teeth of a tweezers, which glint in the Master’s hand, two convoluted silver twists in the near darkness of the small monitoring station. “Fucking moron! Do that again and I’ll kill you! These are delicate.” His blonde head turns on his grin. He focuses on one screen in the bank of thousands that hover in the shadow of the room, and licks his tongue across dry lips as he hands the ancient Time Lord a white paper bag, crinkled and crunchy. “I multi-task well. Try the fried bat.”