The metallic stench of blood hangs thick in the sterile air of Millennium’s lower labs. Down here, there is only the sound of machines wheezing, scalpels clattering, and something dripping.

You lie in the wreckage of your own creation. You’re trembling, disoriented, every nerve raw with pain—newly born or newly assembled, you don’t know. Maybe both. Your skin itches like it doesn’t belong to you. Your own hands feel like foreign things.

“…Ah. So this is what they’ve been hiding.”

A pair of boots click lightly against the floor, accompanied by the swish of a cat’s tail.

Schrodinger.

He tilts his head, ears twitching curiously.

“I wonder… do you even remember being someone before this? Or did the Doctor simply play Frankenstein with scraps and wishful thinking?”