[House TARDIS - Nightingale's Office]
The House TARDIS hums gently around them, the air dense with the quiet crackle of suspended schematics. Genetic strings twist midair like strands of glowing thread. Loom constructs, theoretical and half-built, drift among them.
Nightingale paces beneath it all, datapad clutched in one hand, the other raking back through her hair in frustration. She stops, starts, spins again. Her eyes scan the floating information without seeing it.
Niam leans against the edge of her desk, arms crossed, calm. He watches her spiral without interrupting—yet.
"We stand here today not as the prime directors," Nightingale begins, voice tight, "but as the last members of our species... our species..."
"Keep going," Niam says, steady.
She groans, tossing the pad onto a nearby chair, "I just don't understand why you can't do this. You're a prime director and you're used to all of this bureaucracy stuff from Gallifrey!"
"Yes," he says, unfazed, "but I'm not a xenogeneticist, and this isn't Gallifrey. I have as much hold here as you—maybe less, in terms of our presentation. You speak the science. I back the policy. Try again."
Nightingale sighs hard and picks up her notes again. Her fingers tremble slightly, but she steadies them.
"We stand here today not as the prime directors," she repeats, more firmly this time, "but as the last members of our species. Time Lords of Gallifrey."
"Pause," Niam pushes off from the desk, "That line's strong. But don't make it a eulogy. You're not burying our people—you're fighting for them."
"Then you say it!" she snaps, "If you're so sure how it should sound..."
"I'm not," he says, gently but without backing down, "That's why you need to. You believe in this more than anyone."
Nightingale swallows, jaw clenched, "Because I have to. Because if we don't get this right, there won't be any more of us. No more looms. No more Bondmates for our children. No more children at all. Just... the few of us left, waiting to die out in peace and silence."
"Then say that," Niam murmurs, "Not all of it, not like that—but the truth of it."
She looks down, eyes skimming the notes, then slowly back up. Something in her spine straightens.
"Our world is gone," she begins, voice firmer now, "Our history, our culture—fractured across stars. We are not asking for the past to return. We are asking for the future to have a chance.
"Time Lords were once loomed, born from machines that wove our DNA because not all of us could reproduce naturally. Because the bond we need—the neural match that allows us to create life together—cannot be manufactured. It cannot be forced.
"We are not trying to rebuild Gallifrey. But we cannot let our species fade into memory because we were too proud to adapt. The looms were never just tools. They were lifelines."
Niam breathes out, barely audible, "Yes. Yes, keep going."
"We need authorization to develop new looms," she continues, "Organic, adaptive, modern. Not just to repopulate—but to give us back choice. To give our children a future. To let us have children at all."
The room stills.
Nightingale's chest rises and falls, breath shaky, but she holds her ground.
"That's the speech," Niam says quietly, "Right there. That's you."
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Eyes of Time: The Final Line ✓
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