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The Time Lord who no longer allowed themself to be called the Doctor sat in front of the blue box that was the form their TARDIS always took, sticking out like a sore thumb everywhere it went. A pile of scrap electronics surrounded them, strewn across the floor where they sat, and they appeared to be building something out of the pieces.
The Agent approached the renegade who was not the Doctor as they tinkered. "Excuse me—" the Agent hesitated, realizing they hadn't actually been told what the Time Lord who'd given up their chosen name preferred to be called, before settling for a simple "sir."
"What is it now?" asked the warrior. "I am actually rather busy, you know."
"The new Battle TARDISes are ready to be deployed," said the Agent without preamble.
"Good for them," the warrior said dryly, more focused on the wiring of the gadget they were creating than on the conversation. "I'm sure they're looking forward to being exterminated."
"One of them has been set aside for you," the Agent continued.
The renegade sighed, finally looking up from the sonic device and heap of scrap metal they were fiddling with. "As I've already told the Council repeatedly, I am perfectly happy with the TARDIS I have."
"These Battle TARDISes are state-of-the-art, with capabilities we've hardly dared dream of! The good you could do with one of them, given your service record—"
"Yes, I'm sure my proclivity for violence is very useful to the war effort," the warrior interrupted. "The answer's no." They went back to twisting wires together, pointedly not looking at the Agent.
"With respect, sir, your Type 40 is an antique. It's hardly suitable to fly at all, let alone into a battlefield."
Sparks flew from whatever it was the warrior was building. "Aha!" they yelled triumphantly, waving away the smoke.
The Agent hadn't the foggiest idea what the device was. They weren't a technical expert; their role in the war was to fire the weapons, not build them. But the moment the renegade finished whatever they were making, the Agent felt a deep-seated dread, the instinctive knowledge that before them was something capable of erasing and rewriting entire timelines. The feeling itself didn't alarm them—it was a familiar one in the Time War—but they were awed (and, yes, more than a little terrified) by the fact that the renegade was able to create something powerful enough to produce it with nothing but a pile of scrap parts and ten minutes' work.
The renegade brushed off their hands and stood, holding the new device, apparently satisfied with their handiwork. Only after looking over it one last time and nodding in approval did they tear their eyes away from it and focus back on the Agent.
"Let me make myself clear," the warrior said, finally looking the Agent in the eye. "That Type 40 is a close friend of mine." Befriending one's TARDIS is a ludicrous notion, but then, renegades were known to be more than a little strange. "And if anyone attempts to separate me from her, what I'll do to them will make the Daleks look downright friendly."
The hard look in the renegade's eyes reminded the Agent of the stories they'd heard—everyone on Gallifrey had heard—about the Doctor. They ranged from mildly strange to bone-chillingly terrifying, but if even a fraction of them were true (and after everything they'd done in the war so far, the Agent had no doubt that they were), this warrior was easily among the most dangerous Time Lords who had ever lived.
"Right," said the Agent anxiously, backing away a few steps so as to leave the room as quickly as possible. "I'll tell everyone you're keeping it." A moment after the words left their mouth, they remembered how the warrior had referred to their capsule. "Er—her," the Agent corrected quickly. They gave a last fleeting glance between the renegade, their newly built temporal weapon, and the blue box that indicated the Type 40's Chameleon Circuit either couldn't work or didn't want to, and then they all but fled the room.
"Come on, old girl," said the renegade behind them, picking up the device they'd created and digging the TARDIS key out of their pocket. "We have work to do."