The blackness of space waits outside the white doors flung open to two figures, revealing all.
Dark bits of dust that spiral across time like skipping stones.
White pinpricks of stars that bloat and fade before the vision.
Shapes of purple and indigo and gold that sing and spin.
And burn again.
“Heigh ho, Melty, away!” yells the Master as he flops his hand backward from the Flesh Doctor’s back.
The white arms flail, two doughy hands holding in their batter grasp the bow and body, respectively, of the Violin. Then the Flesh falls back, clutching the Violin in drippy fingers that spray bits of white yoghurt-y Flesh back toward Rosette’s out-flung bay doors, and begins to draw his elbow back.
“Cluck old hen!” the Master whispers a line from the old rhyme as the doors fold back inside like little origami paper folds. “Cluck and sing.” His eyes are red from facing the airlock, and burning from something far damper.
An image squirms into view across the screens suddenly trumpeting in silence over the surface of the white, white doors, now melted back into themselves and solid again.
There is the Flesh, floating there, backdropped by black, and stars.
The Kaku Inko is searing away the mood, the strings creating a strange kind of laterally crawling fire in the absence of air.
Rainbow flames burgeon left and right, in flat lines, back, forth, up, down, in a ménage-a- trois between a psychedelic trip, a positron emission topography scan and a rorschach test, creating the semblance of wings in a festive keep-away game display of optics centered around the violinist and his instrument.
“The link to trigger and trap the blast has been made.” the Master whispers, sinking down against the solidified doors as he watches the white streaming like salt from the Flesh and the Flesh Violin. “Now hurry on to Mount Doom, Stupid.”
As the white figure of Rosette’s interface grows out of the floor, and sits cross-legged there beside him, he growls at her, then lets out a deep, gasping breath and looks again at the screen.
It’s switched over to the red jewel of Gallifrey, the silver points of chronon mines flickering like shrapnel in orbit.
“How long has he got?” the Master murmurs softly.
“Till after the cows come home.” Rose-Rosette sighs, handing him a mug of something dark. It smells vibrant, full of spices.
He lifts it to his lips, swishes, and swallows.
“Bitter, thick and seasoned, just like good South American chocolate should be. Where did you get this? Teotihuacan?”
Rose-Rosette small-grins her plump lips into a juicy pout, then grasps the mug in her silent hands as she turns it so he can see.
There’s something printed on it.
The text reads,
“Death By Tesco’s.”
He smiles, looks over at her, then takes another sip.