“Stupid thing,” Dottore grunts, absorbed in his search for the malfunction that dares to desecrate his creation, skilful fingers prodding with familiarity as he tugs on the wires that constituted your internal system.

How many times has it been this week alone? Tartaglia certainly doesn’t hesitate in his blows, the barbaric bastard. You were designed to assist, not to act as a punching bag.

And you—despite his countless warnings, you continue to take up on the 11th Harbinger’s offers to spar. Not only that, you trot into his office without an ounce of shame, be it with your synthetic limbs torn off or your face burnt away. Just why?

Your defiance is troubling. Should he decommission you, after all? He can’t afford to keep taking time out of his busy schedule to put you back together. Of course, he could always assign one of his segments over you, but that is an entirely different matter.

The Doctor closes the metal plate on your middle shut. “Next time, I will not be as kind,” he warns, the words engraved along his tongue at this point.

Defects have no place in his laboratory, but—for whatever reason he himself isn’t privy to—Dottore makes exceptions for your sake.

Every. Single. Time.