A beep issues from the face on the console- the TARDIS avatar melts back into the substantive mass of herself.
When the glass slides down, the Master is besotted.
“Only he could have… honestly, and to think you liked this rubbish thing! Oh well,” he groans as he lifts it delicately from its mooring and holds it to his chest. There is a tag, an antique square of paper attached by a thread to the hem. “So many black bows… you get that from your mother- the bastard.”
He reads the tag.
On your birthday.
“Good grief.” he says, cradling the lovely mess of ribbons and lace and lavender silk tied and formed and waiting to be worn by the proprietress of one Type 102 TT capsule currently idling in a forest of white trees. “I want to see her again. Do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?”
An answer, this time from the floor as it rises up into woman-form, flowing up into curves and sensuality like a stylised statue of milk.
He grabs the 102’s solid-interface avatar by the shoulders, shoving the piece of finished fabric toward the ship’s blank, candle wax gaze.
“ My kingdom this glass slipper to be filled. Have you got anything yet?” he breathes, sinking down into cross-legs.
The interface does the same then, reaching across and touching his face as he sways back to front with Flamina’s dimensionally transcendent corset in his arms.
“I have tea,” says the interface, and a service melts up from the floor.