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Chapter Text

The wheezing had been going on for weeks.
The TARDIS had not been the same since the attack. Her once-steady hum now came in ragged bursts, her inner workings lagging behind the Doctor’s frantic repairs. The time rotor rose and fell sluggishly, its usual golden light now dulled to an uneasy amber. Shadows pooled in the corners of the console room, lengthened by flickering overhead lights that buzzed faintly, like the hum of a dying insect. The air smelled faintly of burnt circuits and a sharp, metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat.

The Doctor paced in restless circles, his fingers darting over switches and buttons, adjusting and readjusting, only to abandon the controls and disappear beneath the console. Sparks flared, followed by muffled curses. Every so often, he would resurface, absently rubbing the thin scar on his palm as though trying to erase something deeper than flesh. His eyes, usually so full of mischief and calculation, were shadowed with worry.

Ace watched him from the gantry, a can of Nitro-9 gripped in one hand, knuckles white. She had refused to let it out of her sight since that thing had broken into their home. Not that explosives would do much against a creature that rotted time itself, but it made her feel better. Safer. Benny, leaning against the railing beside her, lowered her voice.

“He hasn’t stopped. Not since that thing invaded the TARDIS.”

Ace’s gaze didn’t waver. “He’s got that look again. The one where he’s already three steps ahead and hates what’s waiting at the finish line.”

Benny raised an eyebrow. “And you’re okay with that?”

Ace shrugged, her grip tightening on the canister. “Better than being two steps behind.”

Another violent spark sent the Doctor jerking back, shaking out his scorched fingers with an irritated sigh. He scrambled up, swept a few stray wires aside, and pulled a monitor towards him. His eyes flicked across the data, his expression tightening. A few more adjustments. A pulled plug. A sharp, clipped breath—

And then—

Silence.

The TARDIS gave a shudder, the kind that wasn’t from damage but something deeper, like a body exhaling after holding its breath for too long. The dim amber glow faded, replaced by a cool sapphire hue. The familiar, steady hum returned, no longer fractured—though there was something just off about it, a single discordant note buried beneath the sound, like a piano key struck just slightly out of tune.

A small smile flickered at the Doctor’s lips. He exhaled.

“Ah.”

Ace straightened. “Ah? That’s all you’ve got?”

Benny was already moving, peering over the Doctor’s shoulder at the monitor. “And what does ah mean?”

Before he could answer, the TARDIS let out a deep, metallic groan—like a ship adjusting after a storm. The lights flickered one last time, then settled. The hum remained steady, though the faint discordance lingered, like a whisper at the edge of hearing.

Ace grinned. “Professor! You’ve done it!”

The Doctor didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the monitor, his fingers brushing the scar on his palm. For a moment, his expression was unreadable—a mix of relief and something darker, something he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—put into words. Then he turned to Ace and Benny, his usual smile firmly in place.

“Of course I have,” he said lightly. “Did you ever doubt me?”

Ace rolled her eyes. “Only every other minute.”

Benny crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. “So, what was it? A loose wire? A faulty circuit?”

The Doctor’s smile faltered, just for a moment. “Something like that,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

Ace and Benny exchanged a glance. They knew that tone. It was the one he used when he was hiding something.
Before they could press him further, the TARDIS shuddered again, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor that made the hairs on the back of Ace’s neck stand on end. The Doctor’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowing as he turned back to the console.

“Or,” he murmured, “perhaps not quite done yet.”

Chapter Text

Far away, deep within the heart of the Capitol, a red light pulsed insistently on a monitor.
The Celestial Intervention Agency’s operations room was a pristine, sterile space—banks of computers lining the walls, their displays streaming endless columns of Gallifreyan script. Holographic projections flickered in the air, casting faint blue light over the agents who sat at their stations, their faces illuminated by the glow of their screens. The air was cool and carried the faint tang of ozone, a byproduct of the advanced technology that hummed softly in the background.

At one console, Furuth frowned. He leaned in closer, double-checking the anomaly that had just appeared. The patterns didn’t make sense. The numbers twisted, contradicting themselves, like a recording warped by time. The display flickered, the data fracturing into jagged lines that pulsed with an unnatural rhythm. He hesitated only a moment before activating his communicator.

“Coordinator Vansell, I need you to see this.”

The response crackled through almost instantly. “What is it, Furuth? Surely I don’t need to come down there.”

Furuth didn’t take his eyes off the display. The figures flickered again, the distortions growing more pronounced. It was wrong. It was impossible.

“It’s the Doctor, sir,” he said carefully. “Something is happening to his timeline.”

For a moment, there was only static.

Then the doors hissed open, and Vansell strode in, his movement somewhere between a disciplined march and a barely contained sprint. His high-collared robes billowed slightly as he moved, his sharp features set in a mask of barely concealed irritation.

“Move.”
Furuth barely had time to step aside before Vansell hunched over the monitor, fingers flying across the controls. His brow furrowed as the readings fluctuated again, bending in ways they shouldn’t. The data rippled like water disturbed by a stone, the numbers twisting and folding in on themselves.

“What is this?” Vansell muttered. “Temporal decay?”

Furuth nodded. “It looks like some kind of—”

“But how?” Vansell snapped. He didn’t wait for an answer. “We need the Matrix records. Now. If this is what I think it is—”

He stopped himself. The implications were too vast to put into words.

Furuth hesitated. “Sir… What exactly are we looking for?”

Vansell’s expression darkened. “A cause. An origin. Before this spreads any further.”

He turned back to the monitor, his fingers moving rapidly across the controls. The display shifted, showing a three-dimensional representation of the Doctor’s timeline. It was a tangled web of intersecting lines, each one representing a moment in the Doctor’s life. But now, the lines were fraying, unravelling at the edges like a thread pulled too tight.
Furuth stared at the display, a cold knot of unease forming in his stomach. “If this continues…”

“It won’t,” Vansell interrupted, his voice sharp. “We’ll find the source and contain it. The Doctor’s timeline is a liability, but it’s also a clue. Whatever’s causing this—whatever’s rewriting reality—it’s tied to him.”

Furuth glanced at Vansell, his expression thoughtful. “And if we can’t stop it?”

Vansell didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the monitor, the flickering light casting shadows across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and grim.

“Then we’re all in danger. Because if the Doctor’s timeline unravels completely, it won’t just erase him. It will rewrite everything.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fear. Furuth looked back at the monitor, the distorted data pulsing like a heartbeat. Somewhere, in the depths of time and space, something was stirring. Something ancient. Something hungry.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t finished yet.

Chapter Text

The TARDIS materialized with a sonorous thud, its ancient engines groaning as they settled into place. The air shimmered around the battered blue police box, out of place amidst the sterile grandeur of Gallifrey’s capital. The console room was awash in the residual hum of the journey, but the Doctor remained at the controls, unmoving, his fingers lightly drumming the edge of the console. Ace and Benny stood behind him, exchanging wary glances.
The doors opened of their own accord.
Beyond them stood Coordinator Vansell, flanked by silent agents of the Celestial Intervention Agency. Their high-collared robes were pristine, their expressions unreadable. Furuth stood slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture deferential but his eyes sharp with curiosity. At Vansell’s side stood Castellan Nandria, a figure of imposing authority.

Nandria was tall and broad-shouldered, her presence commanding the room like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. Her uniform, a deep crimson trimmed with gold, fit her like a second skin, the fabric stiff and unyielding, as though it had been forged rather than sewn. Her hair, a cascade of silver streaked with black, was pulled into a severe braid that fell like a whip down her back. Her face was all sharp angles and hard lines, her jaw set in a way that suggested she had never once doubted her own decisions. Her eyes, a piercing grey that seemed to see through lies and pretence, scanned the scene like a predator assessing its prey. She carried herself with the precision of a soldier, every movement deliberate and calculated, as though even her breath was part of some greater strategy.

“Doctor,” Vansell intoned, his voice coldly formal. “You are expected.”

The Doctor didn’t move. “Summoned, you mean.”

Ace muttered under her breath, fingers twitching toward the pocket where she kept a canister of Nitro-9. Benny rested a calming hand on her arm, though her own eyes narrowed as she took in the scene.

“You’ve fractured the Web of Time, Doctor,” Vansell continued. “A feat even for you.”

The Doctor finally turned, resting both hands on his umbrella. He regarded Vansell with an expression somewhere between amusement and boredom. “Have I? How terribly careless.”

Vansell’s lips thinned. “I don’t find this amusing.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” the Doctor mused, stepping forward at an unhurried pace. “And yet here we are, standing in the bowels of your little house of secrets. You must have truly run out of options to call on me. I suppose you will be wanting to take me to the President then?”

Nandria’s voice cut through the air like a blade, crisp and authoritative. “The Lord President is not to be involved in this, Doctor.”

Vansell inclined his head in agreement. “Lady Romana is… preoccupied with matters of state. This situation requires decisive action, not sentiment.”

The Doctor’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face. Then, he smiled. “Romana always did have a soft spot for me.”

Nandria’s gaze hardened. “The Lord President’s sympathies are irrelevant. This is a matter of Gallifreyan security, and it will be handled by those best equipped to do so.”

The Doctor tilted his head, his tone deceptively light. “And by ‘those best equipped,’ you mean yourself and the good Coordinator? How very convenient. Tell me, Castellan, does Romana even know I’m here?”

Nandria’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer. Vansell stepped in, his voice sharp. “The Lord President’s involvement is unnecessary. This is a CIA matter, and it will be resolved as such.”

The Doctor’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes grew colder. “Ah, I see. So you’ve decided to keep this little… incident to yourselves. How very clandestine of you.”

“The President will have no part in this,” Vansell repeated sharply. “And neither, shortly, will your companions.”

Ace took a step forward, her voice laced with defiance. “Like Hell! You think separating us from the Doctor is the smart move here?”

Benny’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not exactly a winning strategy, is it? Unless you’re trying to make enemies.”

Furuth, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his voice quieter than Vansell’s but firm. “It is not a matter of strategy, Professor Summerfield. It is a matter of necessity.”

He gestured, and the two agents at his side moved forward.
The Doctor’s posture stiffened. “Furuthtukegrevras, isn’t it? I hope you understand the mistake you’re making.”

Furuth’s expression remained neutral, though there was something almost regretful in his eyes. “Furuth will do, and I understand my orders, Doctor.”

Ace clenched her fists, her muscles taut. “Try it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Ace.” The Doctor’s voice was soft, but firm. He met her gaze, and whatever passed between them was enough to make her hesitate. Reluctantly, she stepped back.

Benny let out a slow breath. “Fine. But don’t expect us to go quietly.”

Furuth nodded, an unspoken promise in his expression. Then he gestured for them to follow.
As they were led away, the Doctor turned back to Vansell. “So, I’m to be the honoured guest at another one of your inquiries, am I?”

Vansell folded his arms. “Your presence is a formality. The facts already speak for themselves.”
The Doctor exhaled slowly. “How very ominous.”

Nandria observed the exchange with a watchful gaze. “Will you cooperate, Doctor?”

The Doctor tilted his head, considering. Then he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Vansell exhaled sharply. “Then you leave us no choice.”

The Doctor stepped forward, lowering his voice. “You always have a choice, Vansell. You just never seem to like the ones that don’t end in disaster.”

Nandria’s hand twitched toward the weapon at her side, a subtle but unmistakable threat. “Enough. The time for debate is over.”

The Doctor’s smile faded, replaced by a look of cold determination. “Then by all means, lead the way. But remember this—when the dust settles, it won’t be me who’s left standing in the ruins.”

The Castellan and the Coordinator exchanged glances. Then, without another word, Vansell turned on his heel and strode towards the exit. The agents moved to flank the Doctor.
The Time Lord stood motionless for a long moment, staring at the empty space where his companions had been.

Then, at last, he followed Vansell into the depths of the Capitol, where the past, present, and future awaited judgment.

Chapter Text

The cell was silent except for the faint hum of Gallifreyan technology, a noise too precise to be comforting. The walls, smooth and cold, pulsed gently with the Capitol’s unseen power. A single light hovered overhead, casting a sterile glow over the two occupants.
Ace paced, arms crossed, her expression set in a scowl. Benny, seated on the single, unwelcoming bench that jutted from the wall, drummed her fingers impatiently on her knee.
Furuth stood by the door, his presence oddly unobtrusive, as though he had mastered the art of waiting. He watched them, not with the detachment of a guard, but with the patience of a scholar observing a controlled experiment.

“So,” Ace finally muttered, stopping mid-stride. “When’s the torture start?”

Furuth’s brow arched slightly. “That is not our way.”

Benny leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Oh, I don’t know, Ace. I’d say indefinite imprisonment without charge counts.”

“You are not prisoners,” Furuth corrected calmly. “You are being… contained.”

Ace snorted. “Same difference.”

Furuth clasped his hands together, his tone still measured. “The Coordinator’s orders are clear. I am to ensure that neither of you interfere with ongoing investigations.”

Benny rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because we’re such terrible interlopers. Honestly, don’t you Time Lords have bigger problems than two mere humans?”

Furuth’s lips pressed together in a thin, almost apologetic line. “That depends on the humans in question.”

Ace exhaled sharply. “Alright, enough of the polite chit-chat. We both know what’s coming. You want our stuff. Might as well get it over with.”

Furuth inclined his head. “It would be wise to surrender any items that may facilitate escape or disruption. It will make things easier for all of us.”

Ace folded her arms. “And if I say no?”

Furuth smiled faintly. “Then I will take them.”

There was a tense silence as Ace looked straight into Furuth’s eyes, almost daring him to do just that. Then Benny sighed and reached into her coat, producing a sleek, silver instrument. “Fine. Here. The sonic trowel.”

Furuth took it with care, almost reverence. “A fascinating tool.”

Ace, meanwhile, hesitated, her fingers twitching toward her jacket. “What, you think I’ve got something?”

“I know you do,” Furuth said plainly. “Nitro-9, of course. And before you ask—yes, I know exactly how much you carry at any given time. Three canisters, tucked into a secure pocket in your backpack.”

Ace scowled but begrudgingly reached into her pack and retrieved two of the explosives, tossing them to him.

Furuth frowned and said, “And the one in your jacket pocket, if you don’t mind.”

Looking disgusted, Ace grabbed the last canister and tossed it at the Time Lord.

“You Time Lords and your snooping.”

Furuth secured the items in a compartment on his belt. “We prefer to call it preparation.”

Benny leaned back. “Right. And now what?”

“Now,” Furuth said, stepping towards the door, “you wait.”

The door slid shut behind him, and a heavy silence settled over the room.

Ace exhaled forcefully. “I hate this.”

Benny stretched her arms above her head. “That makes two of us.” She glanced at the ceiling. “Though, if we’re locked in, I suppose that means the Doctor’s not playing along.”

Ace smirked despite herself. “When does he ever?”

They exchanged a look, and without another word, both moved to examine the room.
Ace ran her hands along the edges of the walls, searching for inconsistencies. Benny crouched down, tapping at the floor with her knuckles.

“So,” Benny murmured as she worked, “on a scale of ‘mildly annoying’ to ‘oh no, we’re doomed,’ how bad do you reckon this is?”

Ace grunted. “I’d say we’re somewhere around ‘getting increasingly worried but still pretending we’ve got a plan.’”

Benny snorted. “Sounds about right.”

They worked in silence for a few moments, finding nothing but seamless, perfect Gallifreyan craftsmanship. No gaps, no cracks, no obvious escape routes.

“Typical,” Ace muttered. “They’ve thought of everything.”

“That’s the Time Lords for you.” Benny stood, dusting off her hands. “They’re thorough. Pity they never use that talent for anything useful.”

Ace leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “You think the Professor’s alright? He looked… off, back in the TARDIS.”

Benny frowned, her expression thoughtful. “Off how?”

“I don’t know. Just… not himself. He’s been weird ever since that thing showed up.”

Benny’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the… whatever it was. The darkness. The thing that made the TARDIS go all wrong.”

Ace nodded. “Yeah. That. He hasn’t said a word about it, not really. Just keeps tinkering and muttering to himself like he’s trying to outthink it.”

Benny sighed, sitting back down on the bench. “That’s the Doctor for you. Always playing his cards close to his chest. But this time… this time it feels different. Like he’s scared.”

Ace raised an eyebrow. “The Doctor? Scared? Nah, he doesn’t do scared. He just gets more cryptic.”

Benny gave her a look. “You’ve seen him when he’s properly rattled. You know what I mean.”

Ace hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. I do. But what’s got him so spooked? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t dealt with creepy stuff before.”

Benny leaned forward, her voice lowering. “This wasn’t just creepy, Ace. This was… wrong. Like the universe itself was breaking. Did you feel it? That cold, like it was sucking the life out of everything?”

Ace shivered despite herself. “Yeah. I felt it. And I don’t like thinking about it.”

Benny’s expression softened. “Neither do I. But we can’t just ignore it. Whatever that thing was, it’s tied to the Doctor. And if the Time Lords are this worked up about it…”

“Then it’s bad,” Ace finished. “Really bad.”

Benny nodded. “Exactly. And the Doctor’s not telling us everything. Which means he’s either trying to protect us, or he doesn’t know how to fix it.”

Ace pushed off the wall, pacing again. “Either way, we’re stuck in here while he’s out there, probably getting himself into even more trouble.”

Benny smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”

Ace stopped pacing, turning to face her. “You think he’ll come for us?”

Benny’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course he will. He’s the Doctor. He always comes back.”

Ace nodded, but her expression was troubled. “Yeah. But what if he can’t this time?”

Before Benny could answer, the lights flickered.
The hum of the walls wavered, like a breath catching in the throat.

Ace straightened. “Uh… was that supposed to happen?”

The temperature seemed to drop ever so slightly. Not enough to be truly cold, but enough to make the skin prickle. The sterile light overhead dimmed, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. The shadows seemed to shift and writhe, as though alive, stretching toward the centre of the room like grasping fingers.

Benny stood, her eyes darting around the cell. “Ace…”

Then, a sound.
A laugh.
Low. Amused. Inevitable.
A voice, smooth as oil, rich with malice. Familiar.

“My, my,” it purred. “Aren’t we in trouble?”

Ace and Benny froze.
The lights steadied, no longer as bright as it was when they first arrived. The hum returned. The room was almost unchanged.
But they were no longer alone.
Not really.

Chapter Text

The chamber was stark and unembellished, a room of function, not comfort. In its centre, the Doctor sat in a chair, an island of stillness amid the rising storm of accusations. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between calm indifference and cold calculation, as if he were allowing the moment to play out while privately mapping out every possible move, every eventuality. Beneath the surface, his mind raced, piecing together fragments of information, calculating odds, and weighing strategies.
Before him stood Coordinator Vansell and Castellan Nandria. Vansell, ever the pragmatist, wasted little time on pleasantries. He paced as he spoke, hands clasped behind his back, every word carefully weighed and measured. Nandria, however, was rigid, her posture one of a woman accustomed to command, yet her voice carried the unmistakable weight of unease.

“We’ve traced the disturbance through the Matrix,” Vansell began, his tone clipped. “A fracture in the Web of Time, spiralling outward from a singular point—one that is inextricably linked to you, Doctor.”

The Doctor gave a small tilt of his head, his fingers steepling together as he observed.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, noncommittal.

Vansell ignored the remark. “This shadow—this entropy that bleeds through our readings—it is from your future. A future seemingly sealed, locked off from the rest of time, and yet entirely steeped in war.” His voice darkened. “A war unlike anything we’ve ever recorded. A war that consumes everything—time, space, reality itself. And you, Doctor, are at the heart of it.”

The Doctor’s expression didn’t change, but his mind was a whirlwind of activity. A war without beginning or end. That darkness from the TARDIS. It’s already begun. Outwardly, he shrugged, his tone light. “Ah, well, wars do have a habit of breaking out when people refuse to ask the right questions.”

Nandria took a step forward, her sharp gaze cutting through the air. “You know something,” she accused.

“Do I?” The Doctor leaned back, as if entertaining the notion. “Perhaps. But if I did, would you really listen? Or have you already decided that I’m guilty?” His voice was low, almost amused.

Vansell’s composure slipped, only slightly. His pacing stopped, and he turned to face the Doctor, his eyes narrowing. “You remain insufferably cryptic, Doctor. I would almost say that you want us to make our own conclusions.”
The Doctor spread his hands, affecting innocence. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Your minds are clearly made up already. Far be it from me to interfere.”

Nandria’s nostrils flared, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You don’t understand the gravity of this situation.”

“Don’t I?” The Doctor’s voice was silk-smooth, his patience infinite. “Let me see if I have this right—there is a terrible future, one filled with decay and war. And because you believe I am somehow its foundation stone, you think removing me from existence will prevent it. Have I got the gist of it?”

Vansell nodded sharply. “Yes. You are the anchor point. That much is clear. How, exactly, is less so—but the Matrix has shown us enough. The Dispersal Chamber is the only option left to us.”

For the first time, the Doctor’s expression shifted. A flicker of something—concern, calculation, or maybe just the ghost of a frown—passed over his features. The Dispersal Chamber. Erasure. Not just death, but the unravelling of every thread I’ve woven into the tapestry of time. Outwardly, he remained calm, his tone almost conversational.

“Now, see, this is where you Time Lords always trip over your own robes. You act in absolutes, make judgments based on incomplete data, and somehow convince yourselves that you’re infallible.”

“We are not acting lightly, Doctor,” Nandria said, her voice firm but tinged with frustration. “Your silence has left us no alternative.”

The Doctor stood abruptly; his movement sharp enough that it stilled even Vansell’s pacing.

“And what if you’re wrong? What if this phantom from the future only exists because of your interference? What if you, in your desperation to ‘fix’ the Web of Time, are the ones who unravel it?”
His voice had lost its earlier flippancy, now laced with a razor-thin edge of urgency.

Vansell’s lips curled into a sneer. “Your arrogance is astounding. You think you’re the only one who can see the bigger picture? The Matrix doesn’t lie, Doctor. It shows us the truth, no matter how inconvenient it may be for you.”

The Doctor’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “The Matrix shows you what you want to see. It’s a tool, not a prophet. And if you’re so certain of your conclusions, why haven’t you brought this before the High Council? Why keep it hidden, like a dirty little secret?”

Nandria’s jaw tightened. “The High Council would only delay what must be done. This is a matter of Gallifrey’s survival, not politics.”

The Doctor took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. “And who gave you the authority to make that decision? You’re so convinced of your own righteousness that you’ve blinded yourselves to the consequences. Erase me, and you might just erase the only chance you have of stopping this war.”

Vansell’s patience snapped. “Enough! Your theatrics won’t save you this time, Doctor. The facts are clear, and the decision has been made.”

Nandria turned toward the door and signalled to the guards waiting outside. “Take the Doctor to the Dispersal Chamber.”

The Doctor’s expression hardened, but he didn’t resist as the guards moved to flank him. His mind raced, calculating, planning, but his voice remained calm, almost conversational. “As I told you before, you will always have a choice, Vansell.”

Vansell’s eyes burned with contempt. “And you, Doctor, have run out of choices.”

As the guards led him away, the Doctor’s gaze lingered on Nandria and Vansell for a moment longer.

“Remember this,” he said quietly. “When the dust settles, it won’t be me who’s left standing in the ruins.”

Chapter Text

Romana sat at the grand desk in her office, fingers steepled beneath her chin as she listened to K9’s report. The mechanical dog’s voice droned on with precision, though his details were frustratingly incomplete.

“Surveillance incomplete. Fragments of intelligence suggest covert operations led by Coordinator Vansell and Castellan Nandria. The Doctor’s presence on Gallifrey linked to a temporal disturbance. Nature of disturbance unknown. Matrix access restricted. Further data unavailable.”
Romana’s brow furrowed. “Restricted? Who authorized that?”

“Insufficient data.”

Romana sighed and rose from her chair, her crimson robes flowing around her like a river of silk. “Summon the High Council for an emergency meeting, K9. At once.”

—

The chamber of the High Council was a vast, circular room, its marble columns stretching skyward, gleaming under the soft golden light. At the centre of the room stood a grand table, its surface etched with intricate Gallifreyan runes pulsing faintly with energy. Around it, the members of the High Council sat in solemn anticipation, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, concern, and restrained impatience.

Cardinal Matthias, broad-shouldered and imposing, rested his clasped hands on the table. Though his deep blue robes were immaculate, his weathered face betrayed a flicker of unease. Beside him, Cardinal Ollistra leaned back, her piercing gaze sweeping the room. Silver hair framed her sharp features, and the crimson robes of the Patrex Chapter draped elegantly over her shoulders. Every movement carried an air of quiet authority.

In contrast, Cardinal Carixas, the youngest among them, remained still, his dark eyes fixed on the table before him. Despite his age and his relatively simpler crimson robes, his presence commanded attention. Councillor Engin, his lined face a testament to centuries of wisdom, adjusted his robes as he cleared his throat, while Councillor Delox, wiry and perpetually scowling, tapped impatient fingers against the table, his sharp eyes darting between his peers.

Councillor Endreas, a woman of flint and conviction, sat with arms crossed, her deep purple robes marking her affiliation with the Cerulean Chapter. She radiated barely concealed disdain. Across from her, Inquisitor Prime Darkel leaned forward, her dark hair forming a halo around her severe features. She watched the proceedings with the practiced scrutiny of a judge awaiting the next case.

At the head of the table stood Romana, her presence commanding the room. She cleared her throat, and the murmurs died away.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she began, her voice steady but firm. “I trust you all understand the gravity of this meeting. The Doctor is on Gallifrey, summoned by the Celestial Intervention Agency under mysterious circumstances. K9’s surveillance has been obstructed, and we lack clarity on the nature of the situation.”

Darkel was the first to respond, her voice sharp and cutting. “A lack of clarity indeed, Madam President. The Doctor’s presence alone should be cause for concern. If the CIA has intervened, it’s likely because his meddling has finally become too great a risk.”

Frowning, Matthias leaned forward, his voice deep and resonating, “And you would take Vansell’s word on that without question?” He shook his head. “The Doctor has risked everything for this world time and again. If the CIA is hiding their findings from us, that alone should warrant caution.”

Endreas scoffed, her tone dripping with disdain. “Caution? You mean blind faith. I’ve read the reports, Cardinal. This Doctor—this particular incarnation—is the most secretive and manipulative of them all. The Web of Time is not his plaything. If the CIA has proof that he’s fractured it, then action must be taken.”

“Yet we do not have that proof, only the CIA’s assertion.” Engin began with a calm but firm voice, “What could have driven them to summon the Doctor here and exclude us from the discussion?”

There was a sneer of irritation as Ollistra interjected, “Perhaps it’s precisely because we’re discussing this instead of acting. If this matter truly concerns the Web of Time, then bureaucratic dithering will serve no one.”

Carixas, who had been silent and still, suddenly spoke, his voice smooth and measured. “Has anyone asked why the Castellan has not joined this council? This matter concerns the security of Gallifrey, yet she remains absent.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his question hanging in the air.

Darkel’s expression darkened. “An excellent question, Carixas. The Castellan is the guardian of our law and order, yet she’s seen fit to ignore this meeting?”

Crossing her arms, Endreas retorted, her voice sharp. “Or perhaps she’s busy securing Gallifrey from the Doctor’s interference. If she’s with Vansell, that alone should tell us where our priorities lie.”

Matthias shook his head, his tone firm and resolute. “Or it tells us something is amiss. If this is a matter for the High Council, then it should have been brought to us first. The Castellan is answerable to this chamber, and she has not reported in.”

“Insufficient data,” K9 interjected from Romana’s side, but his voice was drowned out by the rising debate.

Delox leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing. “If this temporal disturbance is as severe as Vansell claims, then why has the Matrix been restricted? Should we not demand access before making any judgments?”

Darkel’s voice dripped with impatience. “And wait for another cycle’s worth of debate? The Doctor has already proven himself a threat.”

“Correction: Insufficient data,” K9 repeated, slightly louder, his voice ignored once again.

Engin sighed, “It would not be the first time the CIA manipulated facts to suit their agenda. We must tread carefully.”

Carixas straightened abruptly, his palm slamming against the table with a resounding crack.

“Silence!”

The word cut through the room like a blade. All eyes snapped to Carixas, startled by his sudden authority. Even Romana looked momentarily taken aback.

Carixas turned his gaze toward K9. “Repeat your statement.”

K9’s ears swivelled. “Confirmed: The Doctor is being taken to the Dispersal Chamber.”

A stunned silence fell over the chamber.

Romana’s composure shattered.

“What?”

The word rang through the chamber, sharp with disbelief.

K9 continued, oblivious to the shock his words had caused. “Confirmed: Coordinator Vansell and Castellan Nandria have ordered the Doctor’s removal from time and space. The process is underway.”

Engin’s face paled. Matthias exhaled sharply. Ollistra narrowed her eyes, calculating. Endreas, for all her opposition to the Doctor, looked surprised at the sudden escalation.

Romana wasted no time. “This ends now. The council is coming with me—to the Dispersal Chamber.”

Without waiting for further debate, she turned on her heel and strode from the chamber, crimson robes billowing like a storm cloud. The High Council scrambled to follow, their footsteps echoing in the stunned silence. Whatever had transpired in the depths of the Capitol, they had to stop it—before it was too late.

Chapter Text

"My, my," that voice purred, smooth as oil yet crackling at the edges like burnt paper. "Aren’t we in trouble?"

Ace stopped mid-stride. Benny’s head jerked up.

"Who’s there?" Ace snapped. Her fingers twitched towards where her Nitro-9 would have been, had Furuth not confiscated it. "Show yourself."

A chuckle, low and knowing, echoed from the shadows. "Ah, but where’s the fun in that? Let’s not rush to unmasking, shall we? I much prefer conversation."

Benny’s eyes narrowed. "You’re in here with us?"

"Oh, I am very much everywhere," the voice replied smoothly, cryptically. "Just… unseen."

Ace turned towards the cell door, scanning every corner. There was no sign of another occupant, no movement, no shift in the air. Just that voice, slithering through the dimness.

"So, what? Some kind of intercom?" she guessed. "CIA trick?" She threw a glare toward the ceiling, as if Vansell himself might be lurking there, listening.

"Oh, the Celestial Intervention Agency?" The voice let out something resembling a scoff. "Please. They’re crude. Pedestrian. And, most importantly, blind to what lurks beyond their own little games."

Benny exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "Alright, let’s say you’re not with the CIA. Then who are you, and what do you want?"

"To help," the voice said simply. "To tell you what’s happening to your dear Doctor."

Ace and Benny exchanged a glance. Scepticism hung between them, unspoken but clear.

"He’s been taken, hasn’t he?" the voice continued. "Dragged off under the pretence of diplomacy. Such an ugly word when spoken by bureaucrats, don’t you think? But diplomacy is not what’s being practiced here."

Benny leaned forward. "If you know something, then stop wasting our time and tell us."

A pause. Then, very deliberately, the voice intoned:
"They’re taking him to the Dispersal Chamber."

Benny frowned. Ace just blinked. "And that is…?"

"Ah," the voice laughed, pleased, "you don’t know. That’s good. That means Gallifrey’s little secrets remain as well-kept as ever. But let me enlighten you. The Dispersal Chamber is not a prison. It is not a means of execution. It is erasure."

Benny stiffened. Ace’s stomach turned cold.

"Every molecule of him, every trace, every shadow of his existence will be unmade. Not just now, but in the past. In the future. He will be removed so thoroughly that the universe will fold itself neatly over the gap he leaves behind. It will be as if he never existed."

Ace’s hands curled into fists. "You’re lying."

"Oh, dear Ace," the voice crooned, "you don’t really believe that do you? You know Gallifrey. You know their arrogance, their fear. This is the only solution they understand—cutting out the rot before they even bother to understand what it is."

Benny’s mind raced. "But why? Why would they do that?"

The voice was silent for a moment. Then it spoke again, lower, quieter, more measured.
"Because they believe he is the cause. The fulcrum on which catastrophe pivots. They have seen a future so terrible, so utterly consuming, that they are willing to break their own laws to prevent it."

Ace felt a shiver crawl up her spine. "What future?"

The voice did not hesitate. "A war. A war unlike any before it. One that will rip through time itself, fracturing reality at its core. A war against an enemy that does not relent, does not bargain, does not bleed. It is an infection. A rot. An entropy that does not just destroy but consumes. The Time Lords believe that if the Doctor is erased, this war will never come to pass."

A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken possibilities.

Then Benny asked, her voice taut, "And you believe they’re wrong?"

The voice sighed, a breath of static. "I have seen into the Matrix. I have seen the shadows creeping towards us. Gallifrey’s leaders, in their arrogance, think that by cutting away the wound, they will stop the bleeding. But some things fester in the dark. Some wounds become gangrenous when left untreated."

"You’re saying they’ll make it worse?" Ace asked.

"I’m saying," the voice answered, "that their interference might be what dooms us all. And that only one course of action remains."

Benny’s eyes narrowed. "Which is?"

The voice chuckled again, deep and knowing. "Ah, my dear archaeologist. You already know."

The door lock hissed. The heavy metal groaned as it swung open.
A figure stepped into the dim light closing the door behind him. A tall, gaunt figure draped in black robes, the hood casting deep shadows over his ruined face. His skin, what little was visible, was charred and cracked, blackened like smouldering coal. And yet, even in his ravaged state, his presence was unmistakable.
Ace took a step back. Benny’s breath caught in her throat.

"No," Benny whispered. "Not you."

The Master smiled, teeth gleaming like knives. "We have work to do."

Ace reached for a weapon that wasn’t there. "Oh, you have got to be joking."

"I assure you; I am not." The Master’s voice was smooth, almost soothing, but there was a dangerous edge to it. "Whatever differences the Doctor and I have had—and oh, how many they have been—none of them matter now. Not against this."

Benny’s voice hardened. "And why should we trust you?"

The Master took a deliberate step forward, his gaze locking onto hers. "Because, my dear Professor, I am the only one who knows how to stop it. And to do so, we must go to the Death Zone. We must awaken the first and greatest of us all."

His gaze flicked to Benny.

"You know the stories, Professor Summerfield. You know what lies in the Dark Tower."

Benny swallowed. "Rassilon."

The Master’s smile widened. "All the best stories are true."

A tense silence filled the air.
Then, footsteps. The sharp click of boots against the stone floor outside.

Ace turned. "Oh, what now?"

The door to the cell burst open, and Furuth entered, a staser raised. "No one moves."

The Master’s smile widened. "Ah, good. We’ll be needing an escort."

Before Furuth could react, the Master moved. For all his apparent frailty, he was fast—inhumanly fast. His hand shot forward, grasping Furuth’s wrist. The agent gasped, his body rigid, his pupils dilating as the Master’s voice slithered into his mind.

"Look into my eyes," the Master whispered, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur. "I am the Master, and you will obey me."

Furuth’s face twisted in resistance, his free hand clawing at the air as though trying to grasp something solid. His body trembled, muscles straining against the invisible force that sought to dominate his will.
"You are strong," the Master murmured, his voice dripping with mock admiration. "But strength alone is not enough. Look into my eyes."

Furuth’s gaze flickered, his jaw clenching as he fought to look away. But the Master’s eyes burned like twin suns, impossible to ignore. Slowly, reluctantly, Furuth’s resistance began to crumble. His breathing slowed, his body stilled, and his eyes glazed over, reflecting the Master’s triumphant smile.

"Good," the Master purred. "Now, you will take us to the transmat. You will not question. You will not hesitate. You will obey."

Furuth nodded, his movements mechanical, his voice hollow. "I will obey."

The Master released him and turned back to Ace and Benny. "Shall we?"

Neither moved.

"Oh, come now," the Master said, feigning exasperation. "You want to save your Doctor, don’t you? Then let’s get on with it."

Ace folded her arms, her expression defiant. "And what’s to stop you from double-crossing us the second we’re out of here?"

The Master’s smile didn’t waver. "Nothing at all. But ask yourself this—do you really have a choice?"

Benny stepped forward, her voice low and steady. "If you’re lying, if this is some kind of trick—"

"Then you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you tried," the Master interrupted, his tone light but his eyes cold. "But I assure you, Professor, this is no trick. The Doctor’s life—and the fate of the universe—hangs in the balance. Are you really willing to risk it on your distrust of me?"

Ace and Benny exchanged a glance. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken doubts.
Finally, Benny nodded. "Alright. But if you try anything—"

"You’ll do what, exactly?" the Master interrupted, his smile widening. "Come now, let’s not waste time with empty threats. We have work to do."

With no other choice, Ace and Benny stepped forward. The Master gestured to Furuth.

"Take us to the transmat. We’re going to the Death Zone."

Chapter Text

The great door to the Dispersal Chamber loomed before them, its smooth, unyielding surface reflecting the dim golden light of the Capitol’s corridors. Romana pressed a hand against it, feeling its coldness beneath her fingers. It was sealed. No overrides, no immediate way through. Just a single viewing window, large and imposing, almost impossible to break.
Beyond the reinforced glass, the Doctor stood within a shimmering containment field, arms folded, his expression one of infuriating calm. Opposite him, Coordinator Vansell and Castellan Nandria stood behind a control panel, their eyes fixed on the machinery before them. They did not turn to acknowledge the gathering outside.
Romana’s voice was sharp, cutting through the hum of the chamber’s machinery. “Open this door.”

No response. Vansell tapped something on the control panel, his movements precise and deliberate. Nandria’s fingers twitched at her side, betraying a flicker of hesitation.

“I said, open this door!” Romana repeated, her tone carrying the full weight of her authority.

“They’re ignoring us,” Matthias muttered darkly, stepping up beside her. His deep blue robes rustled as he crossed his arms, his expression grim.

Engin scoffed, his voice calm but laced with frustration. “Of course they are. They know what they’re doing is illegal.”

Darkel stepped forward, her sharp gaze fixed on the scene beyond the glass. “We cannot stand idle. The Dispersal process is not an execution—it is an obliteration. Removing someone from all history is the gravest crime imaginable. If they truly believe this is necessary, then they must answer to the High Council.”

Inside the chamber, the Doctor tilted his head, watching as Nandria hesitated at the controls. His mind raced, calculating, strategizing, but his expression remained calm, almost amused. They’re scared. Scared of what they’ve seen in the Matrix. Scared of me. But fear makes people reckless, and recklessness leads to mistakes.
“You can hear them, can’t you?” he said, his voice almost conversational. “They’re not going to stand for this. You think you can just erase me, and no one will notice?”

Vansell did not look up. “History will adjust.”

The Doctor smiled faintly. “History doesn’t adjust. It remembers. You lot are always so convinced you can outthink time. But the Web of Time is like a spider’s thread—delicate, intricate. You snip one strand, and the whole thing trembles.”

Nandria exhaled sharply, her voice tight with frustration. “Enough. You’ve said nothing useful since this process began.”

“That’s not true,” the Doctor replied, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “I’ve been very useful. I’ve given you ample opportunity to reconsider.”

Outside, Romana turned to K9, her expression a mix of determination and desperation. “K9, can you open it?”

The robotic dog trundled forward, his eye sensors glowing as he scanned the door. “Negative. Lock is reinforced. My laser is ineffective.”

“Try anyway,” she ordered.

A thin red beam shot out, striking the seam of the door, but it barely left a mark. The door remained steadfast, its surface unyielding.

Carixas, silent as ever, took a step back from the group, his dark eyes flicking toward the corridor behind them. No one paid him any mind.

Inside the chamber, the Doctor continued, his voice light but laced with an edge of urgency. “Tell me, Vansell, does it bother you? Knowing that this plan of yours is already unravelling?”

Vansell’s fingers twitched, but he did not look up. “The calculations are sound.”

“But are they yours?” the Doctor asked, his eyes sliding toward Nandria. “Or is she doing all the work while you stand there and issue orders?”

Nandria stiffened, her jaw tightening. “I am Castellan of the Chancellery Guard. This is my decision.”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, his tone deceptively mild. “And yet, when the messages started coming through, it was Vansell who told you to ignore them.”

Her fingers clenched at her sides, her voice sharp. “The High Council would only delay what must be done.”

The Doctor smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Ah. So you did want to answer them.”
Nandria turned back to the controls, her movements stiff and deliberate. Vansell exhaled slowly, his voice low. “Castellan, remain focused. We have a duty.”

The Doctor’s smile widened, but his eyes were cold. “Yes, Castellan. Do focus. After all, you’re the one pulling the levers, aren’t you? The one who has to press the final button. You, not Vansell. So tell me—if you really believed this was the right course of action, why are your hands shaking?”

A sharp sound from outside the chamber interrupted them—a burst of gunfire striking the door. Nandria flinched, her head snapping up. Through the viewing window, she could see a new arrival.
Commander Maxil.
The gold-armoured leader of the Chancellery Guard stood at attention, his men flanking him, weapons raised. His voice was clipped and precise, carrying the weight of authority.

“Castellan Nandria, this is Commander Maxil. I request immediate communication.”

Nandria’s fingers twitched toward the console, but Vansell stopped her with a look. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“Do not answer him.”

The Doctor chuckled, his voice low and amused. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

Outside, Maxil’s frown deepened. “Castellan, respond. I will not ask again.”

Nothing.
He turned to Romana, his expression grim. “Lord President, do I have your authorization?”

She nodded, her voice firm. “Use whatever means necessary.”
Maxil took a step back, barking an order. The guards raised their weapons, their movements precise and practiced.

“Fire.”

A volley of staser blasts erupted, striking the viewing window in precise formation. The glass, reinforced as it was, shuddered under the assault. Cracks spread like lightning across the surface, the sound of fracturing crystal echoing through the chamber.
Inside, the Doctor looked up, his expression calm but his mind racing. They’re coming. But will they be in time?

Vansell paled, his voice tight. “They wouldn’t—”

The Doctor grinned, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “Oh, I think they would.”

Another round of fire. The cracks deepened, the glass groaning under the strain. The light in the chamber flickered, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
The final shot rang out—and the glass shattered.

Chapter Text

The Master, Ace, Benny, and the hypnotized Furuth emerged from the transmat into the gloom of the Dark Tower. Shadows stretched long across the cold stone chamber, flickering as torches guttered with an unseen wind. The air was thick with history, with something older than even the Time Lords’ own legends. The grand tomb of Rassilon loomed before them, the sarcophagus draped in the dust of ages, its presence oppressive and unyielding.
Benny’s breath caught as she took a slow step forward. She was in awe despite herself. Here was history itself, a monument to the very foundation of the Time Lords. Her eyes traced the engravings along the sarcophagus, the intricate carvings of past lords, the watchful stone faces that lined the walls, their expressions frozen in grim contemplation.

“Who are they?” Benny murmured, mostly to herself, her archaeologist’s mind racing with possibility. “The busts along the tomb?”

The Master chuckled softly, his voice dripping with sardonic amusement. “Those tempted by fairy tales,” he said. “Members of our esteemed race who sought immortality. Why, there is dear old Borusa. What a fool.”

Before Benny could ask another question, a deep, resonant voice filled the chamber, shaking the very walls with its presence.

“Who dares disturb my rest?”

A shimmering, overlarge projection of a great bearded face materialized above the sarcophagus—Rassilon, or what remained of him. His eyes, burning with the weight of the cosmos, swept across them like a judge considering the condemned.

The Master stepped forward, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Great Rassilon,” he intoned, voice laced with reverence—but also something else, something smug beneath the surface. “I have come to speak of the future.”

“The future is written,” Rassilon’s voice thundered. “It is immutable.”

The Master smiled thinly. “Then allow me to educate you, my lord. Time is not as immutable as you believe. A great cataclysm approaches, an age of ruin beyond even your imagining. I have seen the horrors that will come to pass—Time itself in flames, Gallifrey razed, the Legions of Decay overrunning eternity. And it all stems from a single act: the erasure of the Doctor.”

Ace tensed. She was still reeling from what had happened, from what they had learned, from the Master’s unholy proposal. But she also knew he was right. She hated it, but she knew. The Doctor was in danger—more than danger. He was about to be wiped from existence itself.

Rassilon’s burning gaze did not waver. “The Doctor is but one. What matters his erasure in the grand scheme?”

The Master’s expression darkened. “Everything,” he hissed. “The Doctor is a fulcrum. His existence has shaped history beyond your ancient reckoning. Without him, without the choices he has made and will yet make, the balance of the universe will tip. And from that abyss, the Beast shall emerge.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the distant howl of wind against the tower’s ancient stones.
Rassilon studied him for a long moment. “Why should I concern myself with this? I am the architect of Gallifrey’s power. I have shaped eternity. My work is done.”

The Master took another step forward, his voice low and urgent. “Your work is never done. You claim dominion over Time, yet you let it fall to ruin? You would let Gallifrey burn?”

The great projection regarded him with something akin to amusement. “And if I return, what then? Do you imagine I shall simply rise again, take my throne, and undo all that you fear?”

The Master bowed his head slightly. “I imagine you will do what you must. What you were born to do. And in return, I ask for one thing.”

The air in the chamber thickened with expectation. Rassilon’s image flickered, shifting like a mirage. “Speak your request.”

The Master’s lips curled into a faint smile. “A new regeneration cycle. This body is broken, decayed. I ask only to be restored.”

Ace scoffed. “Oh, so that’s what this is about. Thought there had to be something in it for you.”

The Master didn’t look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on Rassilon, unwavering. “This is about survival, girl. I need strength to fight what is coming. You all do.”

Benny had remained silent, her attention drawn elsewhere. Her fingers traced the strange markings along the far side of the tomb, following them down to the towering monolith of obsidian that loomed like a dark sentinel. The glyphs were ancient, even by Gallifreyan standards. She felt a shiver of recognition, something primal within her responding to the weight of history.

“What is this?” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The Master turned, a knowing glint in his eyes. “The gateway,” he said cryptically. “The key to Rassilon’s return.”

Benny’s eyes widened, her archaeologist’s instincts kicking in. “A gateway? To what? To where?”

The Master’s smile widened. “To the very heart of Time itself. But it requires a catalyst.”

He motioned Furuth forward. “Touch it.”

The enthralled Time Lord obeyed without hesitation, placing his palm against the cold black stone. A low hum vibrated through the chamber, the air growing heavy with anticipation.

Benny took a step back, suddenly wary. “What exactly does it do?”

The Master’s smile widened. “Why don’t we find out?.”

Before she could react, he moved with startling speed, seizing her arm and hurling her against the monolith. A blinding violet light exploded from the stone, engulfing both Benny and Furuth. A deep, guttural roar filled the chamber, shaking the very foundation of the Dark Tower. Rassilon’s voice intertwined with their screams, an ancient cry of rebirth.

“Ace!” Benny’s scream was swallowed by the inferno of light.

Ace surged forward, desperation clawing at her, but the Master yanked her back, his laughter ringing through the chamber like a death knell.
The radiance dimmed, and Benny’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Furuth remained standing, his hand still pressed against the monolith.
And then he turned.
Ace’s breath hitched. It was Furuth—his face, his form—but impossibly more. His eyes burned with unfathomable knowledge, his very presence commanding the air around him. He was changed. He was Rassilon reborn.
A terrible silence settled over the chamber.

Ace fell to her knees beside Benny’s body, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch her friend’s lifeless form. “No… Benny, no…”

The Master adjusted his robe, smoothing out imaginary creases. “Rassilon required both a vessel and a sacrifice. A body to house him, and a life-force to reignite his flame.” He cast a glance at Benny’s still form. “She provided the latter.”

Ace’s hands curled into fists, her voice trembling with rage. “You killed her.”

The Master merely smiled. “She became something greater.”

Rassilon exhaled, his voice newly restored, his power undeniable. He turned his gaze upon the Master, considering him. Then, with a slow nod, he spoke.

“My faithful servant… you have done well. The time of Rassilon is renewed.”

Chapter Text

The shattered viewing window lay in jagged shards across the floor, glinting like broken teeth in the dim light. Maxil and his Chancellery Guard poured into the chamber, their stasers raised and trained on Vansell and Nandria. Romana strode in behind them, her crimson robes billowing with the force of her anger. Her eyes burned with a fury that could have melted the walls of the Capitol itself.

“Stop this at once!” she commanded, her voice cutting through the hum of the Dispersal Chamber’s machinery. “Release the Doctor immediately.”

Vansell didn’t flinch. His fingers hovered over the control panel, trembling slightly but resolute. “You don’t understand, Romana. This is the only way. The Web of Time—”

“Is not yours to mend!” Romana snapped, stepping closer. Her voice was like a whip, sharp and unyielding. “You don’t have the authority to make this decision. None of us do.”

Darkel stepped forward, her sharp features etched with disapproval. “Coordinator Vansell, this is beyond your jurisdiction. You cannot act without a proper trial, without a full exploration of the facts. This is not justice—it’s butchery.”

Nandria, her face pale and drawn, glanced between Romana and Vansell. Her hands, usually so steady, trembled as she gripped the edge of the control panel. “Perhaps… perhaps we should reconsider. If the High Council—”

“No!” Vansell’s voice cracked like a whip. His composure shattered, his eyes wild with desperation. “There’s no time! The fracture is spreading. If we don’t act now, it will consume everything!”

His hand slammed down on the control panel, and the Dispersal Chamber roared to life. The air shimmered with temporal energy, a low, resonant hum filling the room as the machinery began its grim work. The Doctor, still trapped within the containment field, staggered as the process began. His body twisted and warped, aging rapidly before regressing to infancy, then back again. His face contorted in agony, his voice a strangled cry that echoed through the chamber.
Romana’s eyes widened in horror.

“Maxil! Stop him!”

Maxil raised his staser and fired without hesitation. The blast struck Vansell square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the floor. But it was too late. The process was already underway.
The Chancellery Guard moved swiftly, seizing Nandria and forcing her to her knees. She raised her hands in surrender, her voice trembling.

“Please, don’t shoot! I didn’t—I didn’t know it would come to this!”

Romana ignored her, rushing to the control panel. Her fingers flew across the interface, but the system refused to respond. “K9! Engin! Can you stop this?”

K9 trundled forward, his laser extended. “Negative, Mistress. The system is locked. I cannot override it.”

Engin, his face ashen, shook his head. “The Matrix is unresponsive. The dispersal process is irreversible.”

The Doctor’s body convulsed, his form flickering like a dying flame. Fragments of his past and future were being torn away, erased from existence. His voice, weak and broken, echoed through the chamber. “Romana… don’t… let them…”

Romana’s heart clenched as she watched the Doctor’s form flicker and distort. Her mind raced, searching for a solution, but the cold, unyielding reality of the situation pressed down on her like a weight. This can’t be happening. Not like this.

She turned to Maxil, her voice sharp with urgency. “Is there nothing we can do? No way to shut it down?”

Maxil shook his head, his expression grim.

“The system is sealed. Only the Coordinator or the Castellan could have initiated the override, and now…”

He glanced at Vansell’s prone form and Nandria, who was being restrained by the guards.

The Doctor’s voice, faint but insistent, cut through the chaos. “Romana… listen to me. You can’t… let them… erase me. The Web of Time… it’s more fragile than they realize. If they… if they succeed, it won’t just be me. It’ll be… everything.”

Romana’s eyes met his, and for a moment, the room seemed to fade away. She saw the fear in his eyes, the desperation, but also the resolve. He was still fighting, even now.
“Doctor,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I won’t let this happen. I swear it.”

But even as she spoke, the machinery hummed louder, the temporal energy intensifying. The Doctor’s form flickered again, his features blurring grotesquely.
Nandria, still on her knees, looked up at Romana, her voice barely a whisper.

“I didn’t know… I didn’t realize what this would mean. Please… you have to stop it.”

Romana’s gaze hardened. “You should have thought of that before you started it.”

She turned back to the control panel, her fingers flying across the interface once more. “K9, is there any way to bypass the lock? Any way at all?”

K9’s sensors glowed as he processed the question. “Negative, Mistress. The system is designed to prevent external interference. Only a direct override from within the Matrix could halt the process.”

Romana’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll have to find another way.”

The Doctor’s voice, weaker now, echoed through the chamber. “Romana… listen. The Matrix… it’s not just a tool. It’s alive. It… it remembers. You have to… make it remember.”

Romana’s eyes widened as the meaning of his words sank in. She turned to Engin, her voice urgent. “Engin, the Matrix—can we access it directly? Can we make it stop this?”

Engin hesitated, his expression troubled. “It’s possible… but it would require a direct neural link. Someone would have to interface with the Matrix directly, and the strain… it could be fatal.”

Romana didn’t hesitate. “Then I must do it.”

Engin’s eyes widened. “Madam President, you can’t—”

“I can, and I will,” Romana interrupted, her voice firm. “If it’s the only way to stop this, then I have no choice.”

The Doctor’s form flickered again, his voice barely audible now. “Romana… don’t… risk yourself…”

She turned to him, her eyes blazing with determination. “You’re not the only one who can make sacrifices, Doctor.”

As Engin hurried to set up the neural link, Romana took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come.

Chapter Text

A polite but deafening cough echoed through the chamber. All eyes turned to the doorway, where the Master stood, his decaying form draped in black robes that seemed to drink in the light. Beside him was Furuth—or what appeared to be Furuth. His eyes burned with an ancient, otherworldly light, and on his hand gleamed the Gauntlet of Rassilon, pulsing with a deep, unnatural blue. Behind them, Ace struggled against a containment field, her face a mask of fury and fear.
Romana’s voice was icy, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The Master smirked, his cracked lips twisting into a grin. “Oh, Romana. Always so quick to assume the worst.”

Furuth—no, Rassilon—raised the Gauntlet. The air seemed to thicken around him, the very fabric of reality bending to his will. With a flick of his wrist, the control panel exploded in a burst of energy, sending shards of metal and sparks flying in all directions. Romana and Engin were thrown backward, their bodies crumpling to the floor, broken and mortally wounded. The chamber filled with smoke and the acrid smell of burning circuitry.

As Romana’s body convulsed with the first sparks of regeneration, her eyes locked onto Rassilon’s, filled with a mixture of fury and disbelief. “You… you’ve gone too far,” she managed to gasp before the golden light engulfed her.

The containment field around the Doctor vanished, and he collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. His body was a patchwork of wounds, his timeline fractured and bleeding. He struggled to his feet, his movements slow and unsteady, but his eyes, filled with pain and defiance, locked onto Rassilon.

“You…” the Doctor rasped, his voice hoarse but unwavering. “What have you done?”

Rassilon stepped forward, his presence commanding and oppressive. “I have done what you could not, Doctor. I have saved Gallifrey from its own folly.”

The Doctor’s body began to glow, dark violet light erupting from his skin. He staggered, clutching his chest as the regeneration energy surged through him. His form shifted and twisted, the air around him crackling with temporal energy. When the light faded, he stood renewed.

The new Doctor was tall and gaunt, his frame angular and almost skeletal, as though he had been carved from shadow and bone. His long brown hair fell in loose waves, framing a face that was both youthful and ancient, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. Thick Edwardian sideburns gave him an air of timeless elegance, but his dark eyes burned with the weight of eons, filled with a quiet, simmering intensity. His presence was magnetic, commanding attention even in his weakened state.
Romana, now regenerated into a new form, rose to her feet. She was tall and imposing, her features sharp and regal, but her movements were slow and deliberate, betraying the strain of her recent regeneration. Her voice, though steady, was laced with fury.

“What have you done, Furuth?”

Rassilon turned to her, his expression one of cold amusement. “I am not Furuth. I am Rassilon, the Lord President Eternal. And you, my dear, are no longer required.”

The Doctor’s gaze flicked to Ace, still trapped in the containment field.

“Let her go,” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Rassilon waved a hand, and the field dissipated. Ace stumbled forward, her eyes wide with shock and grief. The Doctor caught her, his grip firm but gentle. He turned back to Rassilon, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Where is Bernice?”

The Master chuckled, his voice dripping with malice. “Gone. But not forgotten.”

The Doctor’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. He lunged at the Master, grabbing him by the scruff of his cloak. The hood fell back, revealing the full extent of his decayed, burnt visage. The Doctor’s voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thunderclap.

“Where. Is. She?”

The Master’s laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound that sent a shiver down Ace’s spine.

“She was a necessary sacrifice, Doctor. A small price to pay for the return of greatness.”

The Doctor threw him to the ground, his fists clenched. He turned to Rassilon, his voice cold and final.

“Let us go.”

Rassilon inclined his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “As you wish, Doctor. But know this—your time is running out.”

Chapter Text

The TARDIS doors slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the console room. The hum of the engines was faint and fractured, as if the ship itself were struggling under the weight of silence. The golden light of the time rotor stretched long shadows across the walls, transforming the familiar space into something distant, alien.

Ace stood by the railing, arms crossed tightly, her gaze fixed on the floor as though daring it to break beneath her. Her presence felt like an accusation—silent, heavy, and sharp-edged. She hadn’t spoken since Gallifrey. Since Benny. Her grief hung in the air, thick and suffocating, an unwelcome companion that refused to be ignored.

At the console, the Doctor was a flurry of movement. Hands darting, switches flicking, controls twisting with mechanical precision, as though motion alone could silence the cacophony in his mind. His new face—the sharp lines, the haunted eyes—was reflected in the glass of the time rotor. He glanced at it briefly, then turned away with a sharpness that startled even himself. It was not the face of a saviour. It was the face of a failure.

His reflection flickered in the glass, distorting with the pulsing glow of the rotor. He forced himself to hold its gaze this time, his own dark eyes staring back at him, empty and unfamiliar. The same mind, the same regrets—but a stranger in his own skin. He swallowed hard, forcing his hands to keep moving, to keep doing something.

The room felt smaller, colder, as though the TARDIS itself recoiled from its occupants. A place that had once been their sanctuary now bore the weight of ghosts. Benny’s absence was a tear in the fabric of their world, and the Doctor knew it was one he could never mend.

He paused, his fingers hovering over the controls. For a moment, he faltered, the silence pressing against him like a tidal wave. Ace’s presence in the corner of his vision was a reminder of all he could not say, of all the words that would never be enough. He forced himself to breathe and set the ship in motion. The engines groaned in protest, wheezing as if the TARDIS herself grieved.

Ace shifted, her movements sharp and deliberate. She hadn’t looked at him directly since they left Gallifrey. He didn’t dare to meet her eyes, knowing too well the storm of anger and sorrow he would find there. Instead, he spoke, his voice low and distant.

“We’ll leave it behind,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Gallifrey… Rassilon… all of it.”

Ace didn’t reply. But her stillness spoke for her. She was waiting—waiting for something from him that he couldn’t give. Or wouldn’t.

The Doctor tightened his grip on the console. He wanted to say something—to comfort, to explain—but the words tangled in his throat. What could he say? That Benny’s death was his fault? That Gallifrey’s games had consumed them all? That the face staring back at him in the glass was a stranger he couldn’t begin to understand?

The TARDIS wheezed into the vortex, its engines sputtering to life. The Doctor stared at the time rotor as if the answers lay somewhere beyond its golden light. But they didn’t. There were no answers. No solace. Just the endless stretch of time and space, fractured and unrelenting.

Ace finally spoke, her voice flat, her words cutting through the silence like a blade. “Where to now?”

He hesitated. A hundred responses surfaced—cold, pragmatic, dismissive—but he bit them back. None of them felt right. None of them could fix what was broken.

“Somewhere far,” he said at last, his voice hollow. “Somewhere… quiet.”

Ace didn’t move. The air between them was thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Benny’s laughter lingered in the silence, an echo neither of them dared to acknowledge.

The TARDIS shuddered, and the Doctor turned back to the console, his hands moving without thought. He didn’t look at Ace, and she didn’t look at him. The silence remained—a chasm neither of them could bridge.

A soft flicker rippled across the TARDIS lights, dimming for the briefest second. The Doctor’s fingers hesitated over the controls, a strange unease skimming his thoughts before he dismissed it. A simple fluctuation. Nothing more.

But somewhere, deep in the heart of the time vortex, something shifted. A flicker on the scanner. A shadow, fleeting but insistent. Watching. Waiting.

Chapter Text

The Presidential office was a place of cold grandeur, its high vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows casting fractured light across the polished floor. The air was thick with the weight of history, the walls lined with portraits of past Lord Presidents, their eyes seeming to follow every movement. At the centre of the room stood the great crystalline desk, its surface etched with Gallifreyan runes that pulsed faintly with ancient power.

Rassilon sat in the ornate chair behind the desk, his presence dominating the room. The Gauntlet of Rassilon still tightly worn on his left hand glowed with a faint, ominous light casting an eerie blue hue across his features. His gaze was fixed on the Master, who stood before him, his decaying form a stark contrast to the opulence of the room. Romana, now settled in her new body, stood to one side, her arms crossed and her expression one of barely concealed disdain. She had been summoned, not invited, and the indignity of it burned in her eyes.

“You have served me well,” Rassilon said, his voice deep and resonant, echoing through the chamber. “And now, as promised, you shall be rewarded.”

The Master inclined his head, a faint smile playing on his cracked lips.

“I live to serve, my Lord President Eternal.”

Rassilon raised the Gauntlet, and it flared with a brilliant light. The energy surged forward, enveloping the Master in a cocoon of golden fire. His body convulsed, the decayed flesh sloughing away as the regeneration energy consumed him. The room filled with the sound of his laughter, low and triumphant, as his form began to shift and change.
When the light faded, the Master stood renewed.
His new body was both regal and terrifying. His features were sharp, angular, with a chiselled jawline and high cheekbones that gave him an aristocratic air. His eyes, once fevered and wild, now gleamed with a cold, calculating intelligence that sent a chill through the room. His hair, dark as midnight, was thick and perfectly styled, falling in sweeping waves that framed his face with an air of deliberate elegance.
His clothing had transformed as well. Gone were the tattered robes of his decayed form, replaced by a dark, tailored coat that clung to his frame like a second skin. The coat was sleek, almost militaristic in its cut, with subtle Gallifreyan symbols embroidered along the cuffs and collar, shimmering faintly against the fabric. Beneath it, he wore a high-collared shirt of deep crimson, the colour of old blood, and trousers that tapered into polished boots. The ensemble was both practical and imposing, a reflection of his newfound power and ambition.
The Master stood tall, his posture poised, radiating an aura of control and menace. His movements were fluid, deliberate, as though every gesture was part of a carefully choreographed performance. He flexed his hands, savouring the feeling of strength and vitality that coursed through him, as if testing the limits of his newly crafted form.

“Ah,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, with a hint of the charm that had once made him so persuasive. “Much better.”

Romana’s lips curled in disgust. “You’ve traded one monster for another, Rassilon. Is this what Gallifrey has come to?”

Rassilon turned his gaze to her, his expression unreadable.

“Gallifrey has always been a place of power, Romanadvoratrelundar.” He spoke her full name slowly, mockingly, each syllable dripping with disdain. “And power requires those who are willing to wield it without hesitation. The Master has proven his worth. He will serve as my High Chancellor, a position of great honour and responsibility.”

The Master’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“High Chancellor. I must say, it has a certain ring to it.”

Romana took a step forward, her voice sharp. “You’ve made a grave mistake, Rassilon. The Master is not to be trusted. He will turn on you the moment it suits him.”

Rassilon’s eyes narrowed, his voice cold and final. “And yet, he has not. He has served me faithfully, and he will continue to do so. Isn’t that right, Lord Chancellor?”

The Master placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of mock sincerity.

“You have my word, my Lord President Eternal. I am yours to command.”

Romana’s fists clenched at her sides, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. “This is madness. You’ve brought a viper into the heart of Gallifrey, and you expect it not to bite?”

Rassilon rose from his chair, his presence towering and oppressive. “Enough, Romanadvoratrelundar. Your objections are noted, but they are irrelevant. The High Council will be restructured, and you will take your place among its members—if you know what’s good for you.”

The threat hung in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. Romana met his gaze, her own eyes blazing with defiance. “You may have the throne, Rassilon, but you do not have my loyalty. Gallifrey will suffer for this.”

Rassilon’s smile was cold and dismissive. “Gallifrey will endure, as it always has. And you, Romanadvoratrelundar, will either fall in line or be swept aside. The choice is yours.”

The Master stepped forward, his new form radiating confidence and menace. “Come now, Romana. Surely you can see the wisdom in Rassilon’s vision. Together, we will restore Gallifrey to its rightful place as the supreme power in the universe.”

Romana turned to him, her voice dripping with contempt. “You are a fool if you think this will end well for you. Rassilon will use you, just as he uses everyone else. And when you’ve outlived your usefulness, he will discard you like the rest.”

The Master’s smile didn’t falter. “Perhaps. But until then, I intend to enjoy every moment.”
Rassilon raised a hand, silencing them both. “Enough. The matter is settled. The Master is my High Chancellor, and you, Romanadvoratrelundar, will serve as a member of the High Council, as the Prydonian Cardinal, and nothing more. Any further dissent will be met with… consequences.”

Romana’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She knew when she was beaten—for now. She turned on her heel and strode from the room, her robes swirling behind her. The doors hissed shut behind her, leaving Rassilon and the Master alone.
The Master turned to Rassilon, his expression one of quiet satisfaction.

“She’ll be trouble, you know.”

Rassilon’s gaze was distant, his mind already turning to the future. “She is of no consequence. The real threat lies elsewhere.”

The Master raised an eyebrow. “The Doctor?”

Rassilon’s lips curled into a faint smile. “The Doctor is but one piece of a much larger game. And now, with you at my side, we will ensure that every piece falls into place.”

The Master’s smile mirrored his own. “As you wish, my Lord President Eternal.”

The two stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their ambitions hanging heavy in the air. Somewhere, in the depths of time and space, the Doctor and Ace were already moving, their path set on a collision course with the forces gathering on Gallifrey. The war without beginning or end was drawing closer, and the stakes had never been higher.