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It's time to let go of the past.

The Doctor removes the oval-shaped, iridescent mask on her face. It smells like electromagnetic residue, heavy, stale.

Another woman approaches her from behind, observing her—dark red waves swept into a bun and pale eyes.

Fingers go slow, wrinkling the prismatic, matte fabric from her own shoulders. Not broad. There's seemingly no more hard, rigid lines to the Doctor's current body. Without the robe, anyone who understood the Time Lords can identify the tattoo of exile on her ribs.

She studies herself in the reflective glass hung on a wall, ignoring the palest blue eyes hungrily roaming her. A crop of bright blonde hair. Her faintly upturned nose. The Doctor wiggles her own little, pink toes, suddenly groaning, dizzy and weak. Hands—but not hers—slide over the Doctor's waist and hip-bones, coming to rest musingly to full, large breasts.

"An improvement," comes a voice in the Doctor's ear, raspy-dark. The Doctor flattens her mouth and holds still, pinching her teeth on the inside her lip, finally glancing at the sly expression of the other familiar woman. "From the last time we saw each other… …"

What feels like the tip of a wet, sticky-warm tongue runs up the Doctor's neck.

"It's always the last time with you," the Doctor manages to whisper, leaning to her, feeling one of—the Master's—hands lower and gently finger open, pushing apart her vaginal folds and stroking inside her. Hazel eyes shudder shut. "It's… aah, wait…"

"So polite, Doctor…"


"I'll be waiting for you… …"

With a long, nearly orgasmic scream, the Doctor bolts upright. It's a hospital cot on Ulliyian. She recovers from the throes of a fever-dream, perspiring and red-faced. Wide-eyed, she realizes this as Yas and Ryan grimace and make embarrassed apologies.