The street was crowded, shoppers and commuters weaving their way noisily through the centre of town, chatting to friends, shouting down a cab or yelling into mobile phones. In the midst of the stream of people stood the Doctor, holding hands with his companion.

"You think it'll last for ever," he was saying, "people and cars and concrete. But it won't."

Some distance away, a man in black raised a hand to stroke his short, dark goatee beard. Could it be? he thought to himself. That leather-clad man with the ears and the accent?

"My planet's gone," the Doctor continued. "It's dead – burned like the Earth. It's just rocks and dust."

It is him! thought the man. My, my - your fashion sense has changed, Doctor. Not quite the paragon of sartorial elegance you once were. Though you still like your damsels in distress, I see.

The Doctor stared off into the distance, his eyes filled with lonely sadness. "I'm a timelord," he said. "I'm the last of the timelords. They're all gone. I'm the only survivor."

At this, the man in black gave a surprised laugh. You're still as melodramatic as ever, however.

In the meantime, the Doctor and his young companion seemed to have cheered up a little and were moving off, arm in arm, through the busy street.

The man in black watched them go, fascinated by the possibilities that the future now presented. You're not the only one who can side-step oblivion, Doctor.

We will meet again, thought the man, with an evil chuckle. In time...