Rory thought his sides might split open if he had to keep running at the same pace The Doctor-10 was setting. It was still barely enough to stay ahead of the irate supervillain racing in pursuit. The simulation of Amy had lagged behind but he was pretty sure he could hear her footsteps thumping out of sync with the rest.

"We can't…keep running…" he gasped out.

"I know," was The Doctor-10's urgent reply, his overcoat whipping out behind him. The degree of grandeur this version of his friend portrayed gave Rory an awful sting of inadequacy.

"They don't get tired! There has to be somewhere we can hide."

"Yes, well, it would help if there were any doors in this corridor! There should be practically acres of room here and all it is is just walls, walls, walls!"

His wish granted, a hotel floor's worth of doors appeared in the curving passageway, as though they had been carved into the wall like patterns on fruit. A good half-dozen of them opened at once.

"Ohh," The Doctor-10 groaned, skidding to a temporary halt. "You know, if it wasn't for the fact that it can be incredibly useful, I'd say I should really learn to stop talking."

Rory slowed. "What? Isn't this what we wanted?"

Eyes fixated upon the open doors, The Doctor-10 sighed. "Of course it is. It's exactly what we want, which means the contents of the rooms will try to do the same. Only, we know it's all too good to be true, don't we?"

Noticing a distinct lack of being melted by green goo, Rory looked back down the corridor. "What happened to the ones chasing us?"

"I expect the programme has changed or we got out of that one's range. Whatever's waiting for us up ahead, we need to keep moving. Don't look at anything, anyone, just keep walking. If we follow the path it should loop back 'round and we can find the others. Then I can ask the other me what in blazes this thing is." He pulled out a dark purple disc the size of a plate from his trouser pocket, much to Rory's astonishment.

"Oh," said Rory, deciding it wasn't the time to ask how it had managed to fit. "That, er, I don't know. The Doctor, the other one, asked me to fetch it from the TARDIS. Then I bumped into you and -."

"I asked what it was, not its life story," The Doctor-10 interjected, before pulling back on himself. "Sorry. Rude again. Sorry, I just don't like not knowing things. Learning's a fine thing, but when it's something I'm going to know but haven't yet learned, especially if it's going to be helpful, it's like a big fat finger jabbing at me and laughing."

"I don't know what it is. He was just pretty insistent I didn't throw it about."

The Doctor-10 balanced the device on his fingertips and bounced it lightly in the air, nose wrinkling. "It's a Frisbee. Some sort of wiring inside, probably some snazzy L.E.D.'s to make it look unique, but it is, it's a Frisbee."

"I really don't think it is. Can't you use your sonic? Won't that tell you what it does?"

"I don't need a sonic to tell me what this is. I'll prove it." The Doctor-10 placed his index finger and thumb in his mouth and made a sharp whistle. "Come on then, whoever's behind door number one!"

A slender figure in a generous, golden ballgown answered the summons. She stepped out into the centre of the passageway and smiled warmly at them. "There you are, my lonely angel," she announced.

"Er, who is that?" Rory found himself wracking his brains for any unintentional fantasies he might have had whilst watching BBC period dramas but was drawing blank.

"That, Rory, is Jeanne-Antoinette, or Reinette, Poisson, otherwise known as Madame De Pompadour. But, more importantly, she is now my nominated partner in sportswomanship." The Doctor-10 took a step back and flicked out his wrist, letting the purple disc fly straight down the corridor. He grinned oafishly as it sliced through the courtesan's image, shorting out the projectrons. "See! Frisbee!" He watched the disc descend quite suddenly, his gleeful expression breaking when he saw the device hit the floor with a dissatisfying crunch whereupon it belched blue sparks. "Oooh." He winced. "Not a Frisbee? Perhaps… maybe not… possibly not a Frisbee…"

Adding to the awkwardness of the moment was the buzzing sound they heard before the projectrons reformed despite their disruption. Reinette scowled at The Doctor-10, hands on hips. "I don't like this game, Doctor. I should like to choose the next one." Her anger melted as swiftly as it had formed. She walked toward them, the jewels on her dress tinkling with each dainty step. "You've seen inside my mind, but you didn't peek within every door. Won't you look again?"

The Doctor-10 grimaced anxiously. "Sadly, Reinette, I rather think you've replaced all your doors with bay windows. I'm not a man to easily blush, but there's always that chance. Come on, Rory, time to go again." With no more than that, The Doctor-10 dashed past the regally-attired simulation, fortunate that it hampered her movement. Sure that the young human was following, he snatched up the fritzing not-Frisbee as he went, hissing in pain as it continued to spark and complain its injuries. "I know, I know, I'm sorry," he muttered soothingly to it. "Bit overzealous, just don't die on me before I find out what you do, give me that, please?"

They raced along the passage, keeping their eyes ahead as best they could in spite of the open and newly opening rooms. Voices called out, begging, beckoning, using siren tactics to sway their purpose. Unwittingly, Rory found himself glancing inside the next room he passed. Speaking of sirens…

Gleaming greenish-blue, the physician of the ship that had crashed temporally against that of Henry Avery's reached out for him. Bare toes hovering inches off brine-flecked boards, she sang longingly. At once, The Doctor-10 doubled back and slammed the door shut.

"What part of 'don't look at anything' is so hard to understand?" he scolded. If he had been angry, it did not have time to show. He gawped at the doorway opposite the one he was holding shut and proceeded to pull Rory onward, faster than before

"Oh my god," said Rory.

"Just keep going!" The Doctor-10 snapped.

Rory pointed back over his shoulder, not daring to look. "Was that Elizabeth the First…?"

"Shut up and keep going!"

"She was taking off her clothes!"

"Rory!" The Doctor-10 snarled, not quite so elegant now in his escape.

"But I thought the Dreamlord was just winding us up. He actually - you actually -?"

"Rory, drop it. Discussion over, never to resume."

"I wasn't planning on discussing it in any more detail," Rory mumbled, trailing off at the sight of another figure that had slid out in front of them and was now pointing a revolver at the timelord.

"Oh well that's fantastic, that is," The Doctor-10 said sulkily, his converse squeaking to an abrupt stop. "Just what I need: another ginger."

"I don't like people who shout at Captain Williams," the figure remarked, icily.

Both men held up their palms, The Doctor-10 more as a matter of surrender, Rory in an effort to calm the image of his wife. As was to be expected with her form of address, this Amy was clad in black with an equal-hued device sealing her right eye.

"Amy, just put down the gun," Rory pleaded.

She continued to glare at The Doctor-10. "He's in my way. He's always getting in our way. Anyway, I don't see the problem. He'll regenerate, yeah? Bring on that familiar face."

"Leave him alone," someone called from behind them.

The Doctor-10 rolled his eyes. "I'll tell you something, it's a jolly good thing I've got two hearts, isn' it? One decides to let you down with a brief trip to CardiacArrestland? Never mind! Can always rely on the other one!"

Amy snorted at the new female on the scene. "No offense, lady, but you don't strike me as anyone in the least bit scary. What are you, even? His mother? 'Cause I'm seriously hoping you're not going to tell me he's some weird alien toyboy of yours."

The woman's voice trembled with hate; vibrant and protective. "Shut your mouth, you silly girl and lower your weapon. I promise you won't live to regret it if you don't."

"Oh please," Amy scoffed. "You're not even armed."

"Don't," said The Doctor-10. "I know you're not real, but please don't."

"I don't need to be armed. I have my best friend."

"Stop," The Doctor-10 snapped. "Just stop. Leave us alone. Just-just stop it!"

Amy retrained the gun more firmly in line with The Doctor-10's head. "Oh yeah? Well can your best friend, wherever they are, stop me before I blast a hole in his skull?"

"Affirmative, mistress."

Red light seared through Amy's artificial frame. Creatures of instinct, both The Doctor-10 and Rory screamed a negative. Her one visible eye alight with the glimmer of an almost soul, Amy gasped and died.


Wheelchair. The movements he had been forced to make by unkind hands had brought him into the object's grasp, hands and ankles bound in a cruelly nostalgic pose. The Doctor-11 had already surmised that the simulation of his previous incarnation would be no ally, not because it was a decrepit creature that actually needed the chair, more that he had heard it spring out of the vehicle in order to seize one of his arms and then listened to its subsequent giggling. It was one thing to hear yourself laughing, quite another that the laughter was aimed at you and anything but friendly. The chair, being the only thing his physical senses could experience at this juncture, occupied a thought pattern he was following in order to remain calm. How could he be sitting in a simulated chair? The furniture he had encountered before had been real but, aside from the complex being a great believer in accessibility, somehow he did not quite believe a wheelchair would have been provided without a request. But if it was simulated, how could it move with him inside? The obvious conclusion to The Doctor-11 was that it was at its heart some sort of trolley or similar transport that he merely perceived as a wheelchair – simulations built around a standard framework with a motor, responding to the whims of the ongoing programmes. Brilliant. Though not so useful at this point in time.

His senses were overridden with the concept that someone else was removing his blindfold, but the reality that neither he nor Jack could see was that he had reached up and pulled it away himself. Billions of words and numbers whispering into his brain rendered his real bowtie invisible, replaced by the certainty of the one that was now in The Master's possession. Not that he could see it.

"There now, no sense in hiding away like the annoying little woodland creature you are," the voice of his rival jeered. "We're all adults here, or close enough. Why don't you explain to the 'Captain' why you felt the need to cover your eyes? Did you think you would blush?"

"You might call it respecting someone's privacy," The Doctor-11 said quietly.

Jack very nearly took to heart the lack of notice he was receiving from The Doctor-11, even though he had grown to expect it. However, he began to realise that this younger-looking incarnation was not even truly focusing on The Master either. When the Saxon-faced timelord moved, the answer was all too plain.

"Wait a moment!" The Master cried, though his over-enthusiastic tones proved he was merely indulging in old knowledge, an expert storyteller with a new audience. He waved his hands in front of The Doctor-11's face and gasped outrageously. "Well, poke me with a screwdriver, if he hasn't actually gone blind! Dear, dear, Doctor, I've been warning you for years about that sort of behaviour. Is that why you got yourself a wife? Or was someone just being a big, stinking copycat after seeing my Lucy?" He grinned widely, scrunching up the unravelled bowtie and proceeding to roll its compacted form between his palms. "Oh this could be so much fun. Shame you can't admire the scenery. I did a smidge of redecorating, and not all of it on the room. Isn't that right, Jack-the-lad?"

Jack ignored the comment and strained to lift his head, his voice sharp as one tolerating several injuries. "What happened? Are the others okay?"

"Oh just a signal to my optic nerves telling them to take a holiday," The Doctor replied, contrastingly cheerful. "Sure they'll be along soon with a whole range of souvenirs, and as for your other question – depends if they ran fast enough; probably. Mind to the plusses, I've not faded out of existence, so either the other me's still going strong or someone's mucking about with paradox machinery, which might explain why my memories aren't catching up, leaving a very real possibility that I could continue existing without him whilst I'm within range. Unpleasant theory, but there you have it."

"There's only one person I know that's ever made a paradox machine…" Jack griped.

"He's gone, Jack. In every sense of the word: gone. This is only an apparition of your mind turning on you by someone else's design."

"Yeah, well, a 'year of torture that never was' kinda makes a man think a little funny sometimes."

"Actually, he's been and gone twice," chirped the simulation in the longcoat. "He is rather clever like that."

The Doctor-11 turned his face toward the speaker, straining to see so much as a shadow through the haze of sightlessness. "I'm not going to ask why you're here, but I have to wonder why you're helping him." The inflection was enough.

"Oh, yes, hello. Sorry," said the fake Tenth Doctor, smugness glomped about his tone. "How rude of me not to explain. Not that it's much of a jump. You see, our dear Mr – Captain – Harkness, for want of a real name, has always been a bit of a cheeky boy…"

The Doctor-11 cut him off. "Skip to the end."

"Spoilsport. All right. In summary: I'm the product of Jack's imagination after seeing you, when you were me, cradling your dead Master, wondering what you might have been if you'd joined forces. I'm the afterthought when he saw the metacrisis atomise the Daleks and the result of watching you ascend when the human race restored you through the Archangel Network: The Doctor, supreme and glorified."

"Oh good for you," said The Doctor-11, suitably unimpressed.

"I'm also on-and-off involved with Jack and The Master simultaneously -."

"Even better!" The Doctor-11 blurted, lest the simulation elaborate further. "I don't suppose this thing runs on automatic, does it? I have issues with sitting still for great lengths of time. In fact, I'd rather like to stretch my legs if it's not too much trouble. They're getting crampy."

Jack took the opportunity to cut in. "What did he mean 'been and gone twice'?"

"What do you think he meant, leadbrain?" The Master scoffed, tossing the crumple bowtie-ball into Harkness's face. "I came back, and now I'm back again. Ta-da!" Before Jack could pursue the line of inquiry, the suited timelord shushed him loudly. "No time to drag you along New Memory Lane, not when I can just show you." He gripped the arms of The Doctor-11's wheelchair, which also meant him pinching the younger-looking man's bound wrists, and stared into his unreciprocating gaze. "I'll show the both of you. See, I know about the poison of the black salamander root and by the dilation width of your pupils, Doctor, I reckon it's seconds before you join us in my domain. Shooting pains in the legs? That'll be the forgotten nerves waking up. Quick, we should think of something to do for when he gets it all back! Damn, if only I'd prepared!"

The simulation of The Doctor-10 snickered. "I can think of something we could be doing."

The Master chuckled deliciously but soon dismissed the offer. "No, no, we don't want him getting overexcited when he's souped up on salamander. Although the thought of watching him choke on his own tongue does lend a smack of satisfaction."

"I think being able to see Jack in his present state will be shock enough, don't you?" the false Doctor-10 grinned.

The Doctor-11 gave a half-hearted groan. "Really, Jack? Tell me you've got some manner of clothing on."

Jack laughed bitterly. "I can lie to you, Doctor, or I can count epidermal layers."

The Doctor-11 cried out then, but not from Jack's admittance of indecency. Colour burst within his eye sockets, dormant receptors waking up and panicking in a bid to make sense of the information that assaulted him from every direction. Light flickered like hard rain, slowly dissipating and drawing with it the lacerating pain of returning vision. He blinked and blinked, bringing the scene into gradual, reluctant focus. Awfully bright lighting made the process worse, the silvery overhead sheen of the Valiant's inner roof reflecting upon The Master's filthily grinning face.

"Are you tuned in yet?" Harold Saxon prodded for attention. "Can you behold the Master Screen?" He stepped aside to allow his prisoner a better view.

Fingers clutching the arms of the chair, The Doctor-11 allowed his weary gaze a careful sweep of the room. It was almost exactly as he remembered: gleaming walls and polished wooden floor; staircase up to an observation deck; circular windows, and the great glass boardroom table. However, the showy elegance had long since left this replica. The smart, black office chairs were scattered haphazardly about, having made room for Captain Harkness to be strapped to the table-top. A disconcertingly familiar cage hung to the right of the stairs. Yet these revelations were less surprising to him than the sight of the paintings hanging on the wood panelling above the exits, each one (that he could see) detailing risqué images of The Master in biblical artistry. Patches of the floor had been painted over with murals of what could only have been snapshots from Jack's spontaneous daydreams. The Doctor-11 tried not to dwell on any of it, attempting to convince himself that when you'd seen one human, or indeed, alien body you'd seen them all no matter the angle, context or inventive use of everyday objects in the scenes. Glancing to the unwilling creator of the moment, The Doctor-11 almost warmed to the idea of studying the floor. He forced himself to look at Jack, in no light of mockery, but as a fellow creature in peril.

The ex-time agent lay upon the table, bare as a Christmas turkey, bound by thick strips of what appeared to be bubble-wrap. It pinned his arms, his ankles and for decency's sake, just below his hips. Perhaps some of the simulation censorship still remained. He returned The Doctor-11's stare, secretly relieved that the timelord was careful not to seem pitying or humbled by his condition. Nonetheless, he noticed the flicker of outrage in this new incarnation's eyes as they took in the markings on his skin.

"I've had worse days," Jack said, with an encouraging smile.

"How deep are those cuts?" The Doctor-11 gave both captors a solemn glare. "How far did you go?" He made a point of ignoring the red smears upon the glass. "You'd better answer me, this is important. I don't know what's been programmed into your corrupted software maps but if you have any intention whatsoever of keeping us alive, do not rely on this man's immortality."

Jack sought clarification. "Doctor?"

"I'm sorry, Jack, but you'll have to be extremely careful. Assuming you haven't experienced it already and thus proved my theory incorrect, you do not want to be killed within a simulated environment. I can't promise you your body will wake you up, even if it continues to physically exist."

"Ooh, I'll bet that's terribly comforting," Simulated Ten chuckled. "Welcome back to the mortal coil!"

The Master sighed. "Ohh, you're not going to start whingeing on as much as the last you, are you?" he said, addressing The Doctor-11. "I'm surprised I didn't cut your tongue out."

"Tongues do have their uses!" Simulated Ten chipped.

"He's fine," The Master answered, dismissively. "Bleeding him out is far too quiet an ending. Can we come back to the topic of me, please? I do so loathe my viewing figures failing."

The Doctor-11 raised an eyebrow at his counterfeit enemy. "I've said it before: I hate repeats."

"Fine words for a time traveller. Shall we just forget Earth World War 2? Anyway, Jack here hasn't seen this episode. It's all about how I came back and took over that miserable planet. Here's a sneak preview." The Master beamed smugly and spread his arms wide, closing his eyes as if preparing to regenerate. White blonde hair rippled across his head in place of the Saxon brown, his clothes flickered, glitching, until the suit was replaced with a black hoodie and jeans. With a satisfied gasp, The Master settled on his altered form, wiping stubble into existence upon his chin. "That's much better."

"What is this?" Jack barked. "Doctor, he died. You burned his corpse to ash. Now you're telling me he came back?"

"He always came back," The Doctor-11 murmured. "Once upon a time."

"How -?"

"Later, Jack. Not now."

The Master pouted. "The Doctor has no time for Jack? I could cry. Two people with lifespans longer than most things could dare to dream, both of whom have used vortex transport, and still one of them can turn around and say 'sorry, old chum, just don't have room on my schedule!' I think Jack deserves some answers, but not from your stupid face. You'd only mess up the storytelling. In fact…" He darted for The Doctor-11 with superhuman speed and crouched before him, fingernails digging into the trapped timelord's wrists, wild brown eyes screaming up at startled green. "All this excitement is making me so very, very hungry. If I'm going to take the time to weave out an epic for my dear Captain, it just wouldn't do to attempt it on an empty stomach, would it, Doctor?"

The Doctor-11 swallowed. "I can point you in the direction of a room full of Jammie Dodgers."

The Master laughed sharply enough for The Doctor-11 to flinch. Or it was due to the increased pressure of The Master's nails. "Oh no, no, that won't do at all. There's no sustenance, no warmth, no sinew to gnaw, no curdling blood to taste, no pure, savoury life; succulent, quenching life, Doctor. There is no life in biscuits."

On the verge of finding a reply that might defend the tea-complimenting snack, The Doctor-11's lips parted and wavered. Words were frightened off like lesser wildlife as The Master gave a feral snarl and brought himself level with The Doctor-11's face. He drew back, readying to strike.

"Doctor!" Jack yelled.

Before The Master's intentions could be carried out, the far door burst open. Two figures rushed in, panting with the exertion of escape, the taller of them standing forward in protective stance.

"Did anyone order a double shot of sonic screwdriver?" The Doctor-10 clamoured, brandishing both green and blue devices.

The Master shot to his feet and turned to face the intruders. "You!" he growled.

"What?" The Doctor-10 uttered. "Hold on… you?"

"Me!" Simulated Ten cried with a little too much delight.

The Doctor-10's confusion worsened. "What?"

"Oh, bravo," The Doctor-11 exclaimed, his voice shrill with peculiar merriment. "Never would I have expected that in a million years! A rescue from a bipedal horse and a talking ferret! I am loving it! Though if you wouldn't mind hurrying up a bit, I think my shoes are turning into turnips…"

The rest of those aboard the simulated Valiant joined The Doctor-10 in chorus.

"What?"