M-RATED CONTENT WARNING: DEPRESSION, TRAUMA, ANXIETY, IMPLICATIONS OF RAPE

The Doctor rolled her head forward, immediately recalling her first prison work assignment by the aching in her jaw and arse. From here she could smell the distinct rot of the Judoon encampment station and guessed that she had been returned sometime after passing out. She once again wore the orange prison uniform she left with and felt bandages sticking here and there underneath.

Bandages? My heart. I'm not healing as fast as I should be…

Upon realizing she hadn't been able to observe the return intake procedures, she shook her hand as it fell into her fists. Her breath got caught, she gasped for a moment as it dawned on her that all of it— the entire quarter-shift assignment and its horrors— were for nothing. She didn't learn a single thing that could help her escape. She felt like a fool.

The Doctor had been laid in her new cell, one bound with electric fields to replace walls and, by extension, any sense of privacy. She looked around and caught many curious eyes. It was as if her vulnerability was on display, and like the Judoon knew exactly how degrading this was.

For a moment, she considered addressing them. Normally she would greet the lot of them with a smile and silly little quip about their coincidental meeting, but she was frozen. She felt so sunken within her own thoughts, like her insides had turned to quicksand and threatened to bury her alive. She sat completely still but still felt as though her feet were encased in lead and drug her further down into an unseen abyss. The feeling crept up her legs and she felt it tug at her arms, her chest, her head. She gave into it, laying back down on the floor and drew her knees up to her chin. Maybe if she closed her eyes, hugged her legs tightly enough, she could pretend she was someplace else.

Her mind flew across time and space and landed her right next to Yasmin Khan. She could still remember the smell of her shampoo, the softness of her young skin.

The Doctor flung her eyes open, unable to bear the memories any longer. Then, to her surprise, she felt a familiar call emanating from the edge of her mind.

Contact.

Her mind and hearts raced. The Master. She couldn't decide whether she was thrilled or dismayed. On the one hand, he may be able to offer an alternative means of escape (if not, conversation at the very least), but on the other hand she wasn't happy about the idea of him discovering her in this condition. He would never let her forget if he found her memories— he would be able to feel her shame and terror.

"My, my, Doctor," the Master prompted, "found ourselves in a bit of a pinch, have we?"

She rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to think about the work assignment. "What do you want?"

The starkly absent banter, she could tell, intrigued him too much for her comfort. Still, she couldn't bring herself to add anymore for the sake of levity or diversion.

"Oh, I was just popping in to see how you were holding up in the face of all those year in solitude but if you're not in the mood for company, I'll just be on my way—"

She cut him off, "Wait!"

He stayed silent for a few seconds but kept the connection, "What do we say?"

The Doctor was in no mood to be ordered about. She exhaled and fixed her stare on a dark spot far in the distance. "Please stay," she mumbled.

"'Please stay', what?" He prodded her playfully.

She knew what he wanted, he wanted to toy with her. As if zapped by a phasing ray, she disengaged her stare and, if it were possible, she sank even deeper into her despair. "Please stay," she paused, unsure of her decision to play along, "Master."

The word fell out of her mouth like a stone, fumbling and crashing into her life again despite her resistance. All it took for him to take interest in mucking about in her memories was the single flash of depravity that struck her when she uttered the word "Master". They could both feel that the word carried a different weight of dread for her than it had before her prison sentence, and he was itching to know why. She couldn't have prepared for the hold it would take on her, to force herself to say his name just as she had to force herself to open her mouth for the armored work assignment contractor. It would have been ideal if she could keep these thoughts to herself, but not even this could be hers. The Master was already sifting through the memory of her assignment, lapping up every morsel her mind could offer. She swore she could feel him watch it a second time.

The Master began to laugh loudly in her ears, "Whoo! Doctor!" She could do nothing against his hateful joy enveloping both of their awarenesses. It burned wildly, fueled by her pitiful, stubborn, unrelenting panic. His laughter grew stronger, knowing it was increasing her anxiety and sending her heart rates soaring. He laughed as she began gasping for air, clutching her chest, bent over her knees in the struggle.

"This is a treat," the Master jested. "I mean, who knew you would be such a tease! Would you like to know my favorite part?"

Her hearts sank as he continued, "It was when you squealed after he—"

She cut the connection with him before he could finish his statement. Silence. His booming voice had been echoing so loudly in her head that its absence left behind a deafening silence; a silence worse than that she experienced in the maximum security cell. A couple seconds passed and the Doctor's confused panic betrayed her.

"No," the Doctor called out, "Contact."

She waited for an answer.

"Contact!"

Nothing.

"Contact! Contact! I'm sorry, come back! Contact!"

The Doctor couldn't help but imagine that he was still laughing, listening to her plead for his attention, loving every second of it. But that thought wasn't enough to stop her from calling out to him, saying anything and everything she could think of to convince him to return.

"You can tell me what your favorite part was! You can tell me about all of your favorite parts, anything you want. And if you get me out of here…" she knew she would regret saying this, even if it was said to the void, even if she was bargaining with darkness, "you can show me what you liked about it. You can…"

She dropped her head, distraught at the idea. A wave of nausea overcame her; she clenched her stomach and rested her forehead on the ground, knees digging into the dirty stone. Her face felt heavy and burned, bile spilled onto the floor as it swayed and tilted beneath her.

"That's not really my style, Doctor," the Master chimed, "I would think my oldest friend would know that."

She had never been so relieved to hear him in all her (known) life. She swallowed and rocked back on her knees, "I know."

They sat together in silence. The Doctor resisted the urge to look for clues about his when and where, knowing he wanted control over that information. She steadied her breathing and did her best to ignore the putrid taste on her tongue.

"Rescue me," a pathetic long shot.

Annoyingly, she knew he smirked before moaning back, "You know I can't do that."