The Master took a sip of his martini, grimaced at the dull burn of second-rate gin and long expired vermouth, and drummed his fingers on the console. The viewing screen flickered with static, recalibrated, and flickered again. Every system in the TARDIS was fighting him in some way. “You could open the doors.” He shot an irritated glance at the speaker, who smiled back. After a moment’s scrutiny, he turned his attention back to the screen. There was no malice in that smile, or in those overly expressive eyes. A pity. He preferred it when there was something to fight. “No, my dear,” he replied, “I’m afraid your TARDIS might buckle under the strain.” The only reason it hadn’t been able to jettison him already involved a supreme amount of telepathic control. But being so close to this aberration across dimensions was having a deleterious effect on the ship; her circuits hummed anxiously, clinging to him as though he were a buoy in an unbridled flood.  The other occupant was still smiling at him. He wasn’t sure he overly liked the Doctor’s newest regeneration. His wet eyes bled sincerity. All impulse and no control. The anxious flare along their old psychic pathways were still giving him a residual headache. So panicked. So needy. So relentlessly predictable. “You could open the doors,” the Doctor coaxed. The Master didn’t hurry to reply. The sight on the view screen, distorted and warped as it was, served his needs well enough. Gallifrey, that shining ruby of the Seven Systems, lay before them. “Besides,” the Master said, conversationally, “it really wouldn’t do for my reputation to take the advice of a defence system. I believe you are rather designed to repel me.” The hologram flickered with static, but retained its smile. “You could open the doors,” the Doctor suggested.