What Goes Around, Comes Around
Pasmo turns to a monitor. It displays the current day, then speeds through a Dromiean’s diatribe about the weather for the next twelve years. Something about temporal die off in Mutter’s Spiral…
“Well old man, those damn rings make me feel drugged. But, let me get this right. You’re saying she’s… … growing- in there?” Dressed in only a long nightshirt and a black hoodie, the Master sticks a finger in the Doctor’s general direction.
Following his Lord President’s finger as it pokes at the unconscious Time Lord on the medical bed, Pasmo raises his shoulders. Absently the Master wonders if he’s attempting a shrug, but then the old man opens his mouth, trying rather messily for speech around a mouthful of fish, “I think that’sh exactwy what he did. There musht have been no ovver way. When Nemontiarwa came to me and towd me, I immeeditwy cawwed the guardth.” <swallow> “Ah, these are lovely this time of year. Regardless, the group I had sent out to look for him found a trail of bare footprints leading all the way to the Pythia’s Tower. He was like this when they reached him. You, on the other hand,” Pasmo takes another raw bite, from the belly this time, “- they found thpawwed on the fwoor of the TAwDIS. Boff of yoo were weawing these odd gowd wings.” <swallow>
The old man holds up the golden rings in a claw-like hand. They fall from his fingers like sunbeams, dangling on two separate chains in his grip. “Do you know, we think these are the same rings stolen from the Museum when the Eighth Doctor was here during the War. They allow you to experience your own timeline through presets in such a way that you don’t have to experience it twice. Clever little things. Rumour has it they were made for the Last Pythia and her Consort just before the beginning of the Rassilon Era by one of the Triumvirate. Oh, and I took the opportunity to place guards loyal to me outside the door. This room is ours. Say what you want.”
The Master reaches over the Doctor’s prostrate form to knock a fist into the platter with the fish on, sending a bit of fluffy greens and little red fruit soaring away into a corner. The fish, however, he catches in his mouth like a diving bird, and takes a bite the size of Space Kansas. The big half-eaten Pnyy bass wobbles in his teeth, but stays put. His teeth are all there, thank you so much! Through the fish, he adds, “If I hafe to wats youw gweathy wittwe buffard of a twoat gargwe thuthi one mowe time, I am goeen to sthoot mythewf.”
Pasmodius’ cracked and withered lips part again, rising and reaching and growing and flowing, filling the room, a toothless black omen in a paper bag. And then old Pasmo, crazy old Pasmo, touches the ring on his finger, dissolving the effects of the shimmer around his strong, ancient body. Deeply, richly, cavernously, in an old-young voice like veins of untapped ore, he speaks. He says, “Does this throat work better for you, you Presumptious Prancing Pestilence?” Purple robes fly in a funnel across the unoccupied bed and clamp down on the Master’s neck, and the cold iron grip of a far stronger man than Pasmodius of the House of Patrex closes tightly around a throat.
The Pnyy drops.