The sound of beads shuffling against each other signalled the arrival of the store's latest potential customer. Walking into this catacomb of a shop, the figure was very much the image of a colourful street-performer.
Shelves aloft with various odd paraphernalia hanging off the sides, webs clogging up the various holes and cracks in the stone walls, the shop had the air of a torture chamber about it. The patchwork figure moved along the aisle quickly, as if sick to the stomach of being in this dark, dank place.
The patchwork man stopped at a stack of shelves. This stack of shelves held a rows of heads sitting neatly against each other, shrunken heads. Reaching towards one shelf, the blonde man firmly grasped a head of withered red hair. Pulling this dried up old prune by its red mane, the figure gently thumbed a series of stitches that now marred a spot once belonging to a blue eye, a Trion eye.
"Vislor." The figure sighed. "Why did you have to challenge him?"
"Sir?" The figure turned towards the voice. It was the owner of the shop, an old man, hunched over. Crippled by the years that had passed, the owner gestured towards the head. "Would you like it gift-wrapped?"
The patchwork figure growled, the shadows hiding his angered expression. "Where, may I ask, did you get this particular piece?" he whispered.
"Begging your pardon, sir," the old man got out. "But I'm not allowed to divulge the confidentiality of my business dealings."
The colourful man sighed. He didn't like to attempt what he was about to do, but the old man held knowledge that could save a life. Calmly and confidently, the figure walked over to the old man, stopping as soon as the tired old fool began to quake. "I am the Doctor," the figure whispered, "and you will obey me."
Something left the old man's eyes, a spark had gone out, now there was nothing but a void to be used for this figure's own ends. "You will tell me how you came across this item here," the patchwork man said, holding aloft the head of a once proud prince of Trion.
"A dark man," the tired old fool said emotionlessly, "a bearded fellow, dressed in black velvet. He needed spare parts for a Type 45 TARD-" The patchwork man pulled out of the old fool's mind. The old fellow had confirmed what the colourful man had suspected all along.
"The Master," the figure said, rushing out of the catacombs.