A heavy blow struck the glasstic; the Doctor flinched at the heavy texture of the sound—wasn't musical at all. A muffled roar of baffled rage trickled through the barriers and into his ears.

Lovely.

Just when the Doctor was consigning his fate to being bait, lights flared and blinded him. He blinked out the blurry spheres dancing over his head to see Brasher and Mirrortooth facing off.

This was not going to end well.

"Looking for something, Mirrortooth?" Brasher dandled a heavy-looking key from a meaty paw.

Mirrortooth snarled, his chin wet with drool. "One of your tricks, Master Fowler." It sounded like a bitter insult.

"I thought to take precautions. Considering how you've infected some of my own students with your lack of...savoir fare at the table." The big Androgum commented with a smile full of ice. "Did you think I wouldn't notice when the specimens go missing?" He lifted his eyebrows.

The smile vanished. "And now you plan to steal my triumph to the Grigs. You dishonor all of us with your slovenly schemes."

"You pretend to be Androgum and yet you eschew the pursuit of pleasure!" Mirrortooth challenged. "Our highest calling!"

"Oh, that's your own short-sightedness, Mirrortooth." Brasher was deadly calm. "The problem is, you think food is my pleasure. It isn't."

And now he smiled.

"It's the hunt."

It took a moment for Mirrortooth to catch on. With a bellow he lunged at his enemy, but Brasher's long knife was between his chest and Brasher's throat.

The Doctor flinched, his face remote as the heavy body folded to the floor, eyes dulling in death even as the limbs twitched and flailed as a second stroke severed the spinal column.

"And so it ends." Brasher commented dispassionately. "I knew you couldn't resist, Mirrortooth. A taste of Time Lord blood?" He shook his head. "Short-sighted." He tipped his head as his apprentices came in upon some unknown signal. "Take it to the back room. Hollow, bleed him out for the sausages. Serrate, I expect you'll find a medium-grind a palatable solution to this gristly old thing." He paid the corpse one last nod of contempt as it was dragged out the door. "Normally I'd tell them to carry it," he confided at the Doctor, "But any tenderizing of the meat will be an improvement."

The Doctor looked away. He couldn't remember being this angry at another being since he was "negotiating" peace with Vaughn.

"Now that that's out of the way, time to move you to more appropriate quarters..." Brasher played with the lock, but the Doctor fought against the gravity as hard as he could, pressing himself against the wall with all his strength. The door opened and the Androgum made a "tching" sound.

"Now, now, don't be silly." Brasher sounded like he was coddling a frightened animal in the stockyards—not too far from the truth. The little Time Lord's eyes were wide and...grey? As he cringed back. "Anyone would think you weren't a Time Lord," he scolded at the little fellow. "Which we both know you are! Why aren't you showing some dignity?" He closed a huge hand over the captive's shoulder, and tugged. The tiny little chap showed surprising determination in not being a help. Brasher sighed, hoping he wouldn't bruise the meat any further than it already was. He stepped partially inside the pen, grabbed hold with both hands, and tugged harder.

As suddenly as if cutting strings, the Doctor stopped resisting. Brasher's heavy strength yanked his smaller, lighter form out of the corner like a ballistic, and, proving this was all part of the plan in his convoluted little head, the little Time Lord dipped into the momentum, slithering under the Master Fowler's arm and outside into normal gravity.

The Doctor whirled around, taking the suicidal maneuver of kicking his legs out from under him by the backs of the knees at the same time he pushed upon the back with all his available strength.

The advantage of being small: a lower center of gravity.

Brasher, propelled by the momentum, took one large step to correct his balance. That was all it took; the door shut after him before he'd finished turning around—and the Doctor was dialing up the gravity meter to the highest possible setting. Not that he expected it to hold an Androgum for long—they could give an Ice Warrior a bad moment in battle, and they were usually faster.

The Androgum howled, hammering against the glass, fighting the chain of gravity with frightening strength.

The Doctor didn't waste time with good-byes. He took off running.

Gallifrey:

"I'm going to wear out my regeneration 5,000 years ahead of schedule if this keeps up."

"Het'laup, it just happens to be a little bad for morale if you keep voicing what we're all thinking..."

The Doctor wasted no time in ducking into a nearby room and sonic'ing the air vent off the wall. With the ease of too-much practice he wriggled in feet first and closed the panel behind him, using the same SSD to seal the screws from the other side.

It is quite often the little things that make the best tricks... the Third Zone saw his little gadget as nothing more than a child's toy—they didn't even keep them in their toolkits, using more sophisticated gravity-manipulators instead of outdated sonics. Had they bothered to search him, they would have (had they recognised it) seen his screwdriver as another plaything—just like his jacks, balls, marbles, playing cards, and ball of string for cat's cradle.

Bad engineering, to mentally create a tier of "grown up" tools...

He paused, drafted a rough diagram in his head of the ship and his most likely location. The holding pens for the prisoners—no, live cattle, he corrected himself sternly, knowing that he had to never forget this point because that was all they were to the Androgums and the usual prisoners/hostages/criminals situations wouldn't fit at all.

He moved as far as an intersection within the dank, dark and very unclean shaft and sat up (Rassilon, but he liked being small! The advantages outweighed the disadvantages!). With a frown he focused his night vision as he pulled out his 500-year diary.

Androgums...Androgums...

Cannibals; social architecture...

Here we are...

Being cannibal species did not actually mean that species was morally bankrupt; some of his best friends were cannibals. The Original Doctor had collected quite a few warm and pleasant observations about the rare cultures on Earth...and on not a few other planets.

The difference was, the majority of cannibal cultures lived in areas where protein was at a premium. They ate to survive; they didn't eat other beings out of fun or for pleasure's own sake. That was make as little sense as killing and eating any living creature for fun or pleasure's own sake. To make sure it never went further than that, their cultures built up a large degree of social responsibility.

It was an interesting fact that the majority of the species in the Universe refused to eat other species that fit their culture's definition of intelligence, feeling the level of intellect made it into a de facto case for cannibalism. The Doctor personally saluted any attempt to reach a common ground across the species.

Androgums were unfortunately the exception to the general rule.

Androgums were fortunately the only exception to the general rule. It was in their genetic coding to eat other and intelligent species.

Perhaps thousands of years ago, when their species was still in its manufactured infancy, matters had been different. Well, they were too far gone now! And that was the whole meat—that is, the kernel—er, the nut—bother. The SUM of the problem. There. An analogy that didn't sound edible! The little Time Lord flipped through the pages, dowsing through memory and following half-suspected leads in the paper leaves. Androgums were a manufactured species, created as an amalgamation during one of the Third Zone more contemptible wars. Designed to wipe out the opposing race and "leave no trace" the brutish beings took their directions with literal translation, and ate the remains. No one realized Androgums possessed a rudimentary form of memory transfer, though they should have, in hindsight, closely examined the donor species for their creation. The carnivorous vulpines used for much of the genetic stock had been in possession of this to an unusually high degree.

Then again, hindsight usually was 20-20...

By the time their creators had the chance to make some atrocious and tasteless jokes about waste, it was too late. The Androgums had developed a taste, and turned on their creators. Ever since, Androgums had existed as 'that embarrassing problem' with Third Zone Society.

Right. Here we are. Androgum culinary cultural norms...

Oh, my word.

The Doctor re-read through the painfully neat writing he used to have, shuddered at a few overly-illuminating details, agreed with his original's assessments and acerbic opinions wholeheartedly, and quickly stuffed his diary back into his large coat. Moving partially by memory of his brief passage through the ship, and partially by the memory of antiquated Third Zone craft, he aimed to the most likely location for the frozen Colonists.

The pale slips of mechanical illumination brushed against him at odd angles, revealing a face that no longer looked clownish or foolish.

It was grim resolve, a Lungbarrow-born pushed too far.

"What's going on?"

The Doctor almost paused as the words trickled against his ears. He just as quickly realized it for a psychic echo, and kept going, his face even more of a mask than before. Just his luck he was starting to pick up psychic imprints from that old TSV.

"I think he's getting ready to do something."

"That's a frightening face he's got on."

"He's planning something. Something big."

"No. He's already planned it. He's on his way to do it. I've seen that look before—when his mind's made up, he'll not change it. He's getting ready to do something he doesn't want to do, and that's enough to scare anyone."

You have no idea, you puffed-up popinjays. The Doctor thought this, but kept the thought roundly shielded He might hear their thoughts, but he didn't want to return the courtesy. He was already swimming in a deep pool of dislike for what he was about to do.

Rarely did he have to make a judgment call such as this one!

Long-depth tactics hadn't been his forte in over a hundred years—ever since Sardon decided to get very serious about "the original plan" with his contract.

If I really have served for a hundred years, he thought grimly as he slithered around a pathetically outmoded and frighteningly rust-speckled coupling ring for large, live electrical cables. The dust was so thick in this neglected space he half-imagined it was sliding up his wrists and into his sleeves with each slide of his palms forward. (At least it kept him from listening to the tiresome Time Lord chatter in the back of his head)

Initially he had chosen to keep his mouth shut with the Grey Lord over that illicit Matrix-coding. He wasn't supposed to know about it. But the fact of the matter was, Sardon had a copy of his least favorite agent hidden deep in a library large enough to swallow Jupiter. And for what purpose? It was high time they started talking about it.

Assuming he survived this mess so he could talk about it...

"Master?"

Brasher did not appear to hear his apprentice at first. He was standing before a large wall-map of his ship. Stroking areas turned them red instead of their usual dark blue, and he made these changes whenever he got a report on a place successfully searched without fruit.

Serrate swallowed and moved forward, "Master, will the Time Lord be likely to hide close to the bays? Thinking he may escape?"

"He may think it," Brasher admitted, still without turning his head. "But will he? This is a trickster, Apprentice. Time Lords are succulent and toothsome, but usually without imagination and...the savor of battle." He paused long enough to exhale through his nose at the pity of it. "It hardly seems fair that something that tastes so good can be so normally dull and...insipid in personality."

"Sir?"

"Except for this one." Brasher added under his breath. "Something different about him, his scent is richer. The bouquet is layered. If I didn't know better, I would say he carries elements of Tellurian in him."

Tellurian? Serrate was wide-eyed at the thought. "A hybrid, sir?"

"Possible. It is scientifically proven that hybrids can carry the most desirable attributes of both parent species..." Brasher listened to a new report, nodded, and stroked a new section of deck to red. "But tempting though that is, Time Lords do not keep consort with other beings. They consider it bad business—whatever that means."

The big Androgum mused thoughtfully over his map. Over 2/3rds of the ship was now accounted for.

"He must have eaten Tellurians in the past." Was the final decision. "Nothing else makes sense." He lowered his hand from the map and pressed a code into the speaker. "Mastic," he muttered, "Are you finished with the freezers?"

"Almost, sir." Mastic was—even for an Androgum—thick and brutish looking. His Grig had the palatial preference for eating species designed for power, more than intelligence and cunning. Still, no one had cause to criticize their work or work performance—so long as they were crystal clear on instructions.

The storage freezers were almost 1/5th of the ship's storage space. It was even larger than the live pens because it was equipped to help salvage food, swiftly. Living overtly on the sly required some sacrifice of basic Third Zone architecture.

He held his comm-piece in a large, square hand, and watched as his men filed fast, shaking their heads in the negative one by one. "No sign of touching the freezer doors, no sign of tampering." If he was puzzled at the strangeness of the orders, it was not his place to question.

Nor was it Serrate's, and he didn't flatter that his status as apprentice made a bit of difference. But his curiosity burned to be satisfied.

"Very good, Mastic. Move your men to the Docking Bay and search there. Pay particular attention to the ins and outs. He will be trying to escape."

Brasher stroked the spaces red and glanced at his apprentice.

"We are up against a Trickster, boy." He said mildly, but the reproach was there. "Tricksters are fence-testers. It's their nature to be where you don't expect them to be. Thus, we must be thorough."

Serrate bowed his head. "Yes, Master. I will remember."

Brasher chuckled softly. "Where are you, little one?" He asked under his breath. "I taste your blood still. The life within it. You will not stay hidden for long. You are no good at hiding, I think. You are better at running."

Deep in the ship's hold, the last Androgum stepped past the jamb that marked the archway into the ship's freezer.

It would be wrong to call it a door. It wasn't a door at all, but a giant, Androgum-sized lock. Instead of the usual glasstic or transparent metal hatches, Brasher had considerately made the doors opaque. It was just mindless torture to keep all that food within sight of Androgum eyes.

On the other side of the door stretched row after row of freezer doors covered in thick frost. As Brasher had ordered, his men had examined them for signs of tampering.

They had seen nothing, save the usual disruption of frost that was to be expected when the frozen Colonists were transported into the storage holds.

So they didn't look further.

It was Brasher's own fault. The obvious can be the first thing to overlook. Humans know this phenomenon as 'hiding in plain sight.'

Besides. There were security cameras.

Long minutes passed as the compressors hummed away.

Then one of the locked hatches opened from the inside.

Careful not to touch—and stick—to the subzero metals, the Doctor slithered out of the frosty maw of the strongest freezer. His hair had turned white from the snows, and his coat was more suited to an outdoor wedding in Brighton, but he was definitely alive.

His face was almost as pale as the coating of ice about his chops; keeping mental tabs on Androgum species was not advisable—he doubted even the Great Pythia could keep it up for more than a few hours, and he had only done this for a few minutes!

Feeling every inch of his 500+years, the little Time Lord ducked under the blind spot of the security camera and blew on his hands, stamping his feet and shaking the snow out of his hair before it melted freshets down his back.

Not a second to spare, he scowled. Androgums certainly liked to take their time! What a lot of trouble they were causing him, just by being themselves! Pausing only to bang ice out of his left ear, the Doctor re-opened an innocent-looking panel in the wall. It was a trick and a half to get a security camera to believe what you wanted it to see...and with Third Zone imagination designing it all, the effects were usually temporary.

Holding his breath, he tinkered with a few of the more promising relays, and played mix n'match with some of the conduit tabs.

There. The cameras wouldn't see him at all when he walked past. Well—they would see him, but they wouldn't believe it. Lovely how so-called manufactured sentience in machines were really only reflections of their creators' greatest flaws...

Now to get this highly unpleasant business over with...

The little Time Lord rubbed his hands one last time, and strolled to the Master Control panel for the compressors.

Many floors above his head, Master Fowler Brasher was scowling like a thundercloud and struggling to figure out why he couldn't shake off a certain suspicion.

It could likely be from the fact that it had been quite a long time since he'd last eaten Time Lord. One's memory is never what one wanted it to be. But still...

He comm'd to the Tower. "How long until we dock in Androgum space?"