Chapter Text
“God,” Clara says, disgusted. “That’s sick.”
“That’s humanity,” the Master corrects, “perpetually cannibalizing and exploiting its own kind. Complete wonder as to how you ever got out of the dark ages—much less into the stars.”
“Still,” Clara replies, “this feels... more fucked up than usual.”
“Mm.” He peers over the railing, into the massive space of the factory. The thick smell of ash wafts through the air, residue from the furnaces. “You’re a literature teacher. What’s that novel... ah, Brave New World? They cremated the dead and turned them into depressants?”
Clara frowns. “I don’t remember that,”
“I might’ve skimmed it,” he admits. “Anyways. Unless you fancy the grinder, best move along before they recycle us for insolence, or insubordination. Or something. There’s always some excuse.”
“Ugh. Yeah, let’s go.”