Chapter Eighteen, Part Two: We Bake a Likely Lussebulle, For Saint Lucia’s DayMature

He is walking down the hall, away from the Infirmary.                         

His eyes catch on a glimpse of shadow trailing red robes. This blur of red, it’s coming toward him. 

“Oh, Rassilon, hello! Where do you think you’re going?” he hears himself say. 

His eyesight must be going- he’s seeing in squares! The other man’s smirk, the greyish walls, the retro-modern plastic-looking dog food scoop of a chair beside a door- it all becomes a mess of scattered tessera, a pool of tiny glass tiles cast for divining. 

Lines of temporal force are converging, the tails of black lines lighting the darkness before the powder keg. He must follow them. He must. So he does. 

While walking backward, he shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the mosaic, and trips over another chair, a brown one. Funny, he doesn’t remember Giovannetti ever consulting on the Brady Bunch... 

He reaches the door before the Assassin does, putting the guards to sleep with a word and a tap to the shoulder. No casualties are what he’s aiming for, but he can’t control everything. He isn’t everywhere at once. Save Rassilon. Save the Master. Save… 

“You all right in here, Koschei? I’m out to (a bit of) lunch!” he murmurs, elbowing the Master and affecting a knowing look he’s stolen from the late Lord Robin, consisting of raised eyebrows and a general air of loveable cluelessness. Well, someone stole it from someone, anyway. 

“I’ll say. Weren’t you just in here? Are you using that damn ring again? I’m not keen on staying in here with Him.” The Master points to Rassilon, then brings his hand up, mimicking a hanging rope. “Did I mention I hate you? Get me out of here.”

The End

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