“Really, Dallyrasse? Kill them? Is that what Tzipporahkoczeskatilya would want?”
Both men turn; a voice that cannot be flies out of the dark of a storage cupboard. A figure in a dark hood appears to own the sounds. He is dressed in black from hood brim to boot strap. Those boots cross the room now, with so convincing a lack of swagger that the two conscious men in the room could easily believe he isn’t there at all. The man pauses to look at something on his wrist, then leans on a monitor halfway between the Doctor’s bed and the Master, whose feet are dangling and twitching like a bag of live snakes in the general vicinity of ‘Pasmo’s’ medal.
“Stop squirming, vermin! I swore I’d kill the both of you. What makes you think I care how many of you there are? I failed my daughter. Failed Gallifrey. Because of you! It’s all gone... her beautiful future, my reasons for existence… everything lost to you, and him, and that fool who wears my face.” His fingers tear holes in him; red lines trickle down across his cheeks, exposing the top layer of skin to the open air in thin rents.
But then his eyes lift, as if born up. His lashes raise like the veil of a virgin, his gaze railing against it all, the tiny flame of a candle lit by newly soaked wick.
“What? What did you say? My daughter’s… name?” he screams, a lurching pool of purple silk as he lunges for the man in the cloak.