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Regeneration wasn’t usually too bad for the Master, but this time was different, what with the Doctor’s horrible foreign regeneration energy getting all mixed up with the Master’s own and trying to add bits of Doctor to them. They tried to focus on the techniques they always used to make the process go smoother, but it was hard - they hadn’t intended to regenerate, after all, so they weren’t prepared like they usually were. Every cell in their body burned, exploded, imploded, stitched itself back together and ripped itself apart and stitched together again like the most irritatingly perfectionistic mechanic crew to ever exist. The only constant was the drums, louder than ever, beating into their half-moulded ears again and again and again, so strong they were sure they would regenerate with dents all over their body like the craters of the moon.
Time was impossible to keep track of, minutes turning to days and hours to milliseconds. Their surroundings were invisible to them, all their senses blacked out by that burning energy.
Eventually the only coherent thought the Master could hold on to was that when this was over, they were going to die. They were going to kill themself and they were going to well and truly die and they weren’t going to let the Doctor stop them. Weren’t going to let him just keep them locked in the TARDIS like a geriatric dog. They held onto it like a lifeline in that swirling, soul-destroying mess of a rebirth that the Doctor had forced upon them.
I’m going to die Drum I’m going to die drum-drum I’m going to die DRUM I’m going to die…
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