Clocks ticked. So many clocks, lining the walls, ticking and tocking away the seconds of inexorable time. Inexorable, that is, for some. Crawling through the shadows, sonic screwdriver in one hand, a hotch-potch of home-made mischief in the other, came the Doctor. The Clockmaker sought to manipulate time; to twist it to his own evil ends; and the Doctor was the universe's best line of defence. One meddlesome Time Lord, and a great deal of improvising.

Clocks ticked. Time – and so much else – moved on. And yet, mused the Doctor, as she ducked a laser beam, some things never change.
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