Nyssa had begun to wonder just how many variations on burgundy velvet one person could wear. She had, it turned out, reached her limit. She frowned into the wardrobe.

All she had left of her home on Traken was, literally, the clothes on her back: everything else had gone, her home and her laboratory, the night-blooming tree that grew outside her bedroom window, and poor Kassia. Of course, the Master had now fashioned himself as a ridiculous parody of her father; she could have chosen to seek revenge, to let anger consume her, but it would do no good. There was no sense dwelling on things past, or things she could not change.

And since there was no sense dwelling, it was time, she thought, to shed her mourning velvet and reinvent herself in something new and adventurous, perhaps even something playful. The choices in the wardrobe seemed endless: some were dazzling to her, some purely distasteful, some woefully impractical, but some, she thought, would serve her well. After careful consideration, she chose stripes. Many stripes. Lots and lots of stripes. She hoped the Doctor would be willing to offer an opinion. He had, after all, become a dear friend to her, and she admired his strength and wisdom greatly. At the very least, she hoped it would be a pleasant surprise.

“Well?” she beamed with a ta-da flourish as she entered the console room.

“We’re not where we’re supposed to be,” he said, scrutinizing the console.

She sighed. “Where are we?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” replied the Doctor. “There are traces of antimatter.”

“Omega?” she asked, waiting for him to take notice of her radical new sartorial direction.

“Oh, highly unlikely he’s still alive,” replied the Doctor, turning back to the console. “It’s not a navigational malfunction, either.”

She stepped back into his field of vision, clearing her throat as subtly as she could in the direction of her new look. “Shall I wake Tegan?” she asked, punctuating the question with a flourish of her voluminous white sleeves.

“No, no, there’s no danger,” he assured her, moving her gently out of the way of the console. “Although it’s puzzling.”

She intercepted him again, as charmingly insistent as she could, her blouse practically screaming to be noticed. He looked at her a moment, studying her carefully, as though he knew something had changed, but could not place what it was. Her eyes gestured in the direction of her clothes, as forcefully as eyes could gesture.

“Very puzzling,” he continued, undaunted, removing her from the vicinity of the console and continuing his investigations.

Well, that was certainly helpful, she thought; fair enough, sometimes the Doctor was an idiot after all. Tomorrow, she would ask Tegan for advice instead.