In Summer 2021 I, like probably everyone who watches both Taskmaster and Doctor Who, noticed that the two shows had some very common ground. Yes. They both have Masters in.
And, like any person would think, I thought 'well, wouldn't it be amazing if Greg Davies were actually a camp entertainment robot from Satellite 5 and all the contestants were the Master... doing tasks?'
The following 20,000ish words emerged. You're welcome folks. (Wix doesn't like me posting all 20,000 words so I'll post a second half too!)
---
The air is like hard ice. It’s too cold. Is he dead?
The Master chokes, gasping in lungfuls of frostbite. His chest pistons, muscles twinging with each rise and fall. He can see grey. Nothing but grey and the outline of blood vessels that throb behind his eyes. There’s something firm under his back- ground? No, a mattress. He is on a bed. Somebody has taken him to a bedroom.
A woman screams. The Master jolts upright, the bitter air cutting his throat as he gasps. The grey from before expands, filling every corner of his vision. There are other shapes within it: darker and lighter grey smudges blurring into one big circle in the middle. He can’t see a woman. He’s certain there’s nobody else in the room but-
“That was pants!” The woman groans. “Zero out of ten kidnapping experience. Hardly any flair. At. All.” Two loud bangs punctuate the sentence, shaking the wall beside him. A loud caterwauling noise follows, sounding like something between a song and an injured animal. The Master clamps his hands over his ears but the sound creeps through.
“Will you be quiet!” A man’s voice snaps. “Whatever that dreadful noise is, stop it at once.”
The wailing gets louder. “Not listening! Not listening!” It taunts.
The Master blinks hard, the blur sharpens slightly. The voices are familiar but muffled. Even more strangely, one has a distinctive Earth accent. He’s pretty sure the woman is speaking English too, but judging from the bitter air inside wherever he is now, it’s not Earth.
“I’m warning you-” The man’s voice is cut off by a loud groan.
“Not another one. What is this, Jeremy Kyle?” It’s another, younger, man.
His lungs are still heaving but his hearts are slowing a little. Whoever these people are, they’ve been brought together by the same transmat beam, though it seems like only he is suffering the side effects.
“Prison though?” the younger man snaps. Prison? “Surely they know who we are.”
“I assume so. That’s why we’re here.” It’s a new voice. Another man, voice scholarly and cold, barely raised. “Some foolish experiment, perhaps?”
The woman is still singing quietly in the background, but the sound comes and goes, as if she’s circling.
“I would like to know who you are and what I am doing here.” The first man demands and is met with a wall of barely restrained laughter.
The Master frowns, he can feel the translation circuit whirring at the back of his brain. Whilst the woman and the Jeremy Kyle man had been speaking English, the other two are unmistakably not.
The singing stops. “We’re not alone,” the woman says, the voice suddenly much closer than before. “Don’t be scared, we won’t bite- well, he might.”
Somebody scoffs, making way for a heavy silence. The Master’s vision spins. The air feels weighted with their expectation, though he can’t quite bring himself to speak.
“THE PRISONERS WILL WALK.”
The Master’s hands fly to his ears, too late for the booming loudspeaker. There is a collection of groans and one exhausted sounding cackle.
A dark red rectangle appears in the middle of his vision, accompanied by a loud slam. He goes to stand, barely making it to his feet before a wave of nausea hits. Walking is something he really doesn’t want to think about right now.
“I will not be treated like this!” Somebody sneers.
“Oh dearest,” the woman coos. “We’ll make them pay.”
The prisoners will walk.
The Master takes a step forward and gags. The room around him is clearer now; he can see a desk and a chair ahead, just in front of a metal cell door. There’s nothing to hold on to but the wall so he puts his weight on it and limps.
“So, whose fault was it?” one of them asks. “It wasn’t me.” They add quickly.
“I think we owe this to our mysterious friend. Whatever they were doing must have brought us here.”
He’s halfway to the door now, body slumping closer to the floor with every step. The sickness is getting stronger, somehow overpowering the discomfort of the chill.
The woman groans. “You’re all idiots.” There’s an offended ‘hey’ from the other side of the wall. “We’ve been chosen. Because we’re convenient, handy, neat. You think they’d bother getting barbeque or the Yank, or even baldy? I mean, look at the state of their timelines! We’re as clean-cut as it gets. We’re easy.”
There is a crash from another cell. “I am not easy!”
“Barbeque?” another one barks.
The Master’s frame falls into the corner of his cell. Just another step...
“-and there’s a conversation we certainly don’t want to have.”
“Shame. We could have used Skeletor for a prison break. Hoodie, you’ll have to do.”
“I’m getting a migraine.”
With one last heave, the Master drags himself through the cell door and into the blurry grey beyond.
Unfortunately, the motion is enough to push his stomach over the edge- he retches, it’s dry but he chokes regardless.
“Oh.” says Missy. Missy?
“THE PRISONERS WILL REMAIN.”
The noise makes his stomach churn. There’s an acidic taste in his mouth so strong it pushes out the air. So, his past selves are here. He’s in hell.
The Master raises his head a little. His vision is clearer; he can see more shades of grey now, there are long black lines and blue arches above them and- that’s definitely a staircase. The layout of wherever he is being held is bleak and perfunctory. From colour alone, it looks Earth-like, but the air is so very non terrestrial.
“He’s not. Is he? Do we really throw up at a transmat beam now? Is that who we are? Motion sickness and pigtails,” Prime-Minister him scoffs.
Pigtails. That’s right. Only a moment ago, he remembers raking his fingers through his hair, catching them on every knot before gathering the strands up and tying them where they couldn’t interfere. There’s nothing but blunt pain and tangled hair and of course he remembers her.
“He’s the only one affected. Must be some sort of cumulative effect, building up until it hits the latest model,” The War Criminal 33hums.
“THE PRISONERS WILL BE ACCOMPANIED TO THE STUDIO.”
Cold metal clamps around his forearm, it’s the same dark red from earlier. The Master yelps as he is dragged upright though it is quickly stifled by the clanging of metal behind him.
There’s a shrill beep and then the machine starts to pull his feet across the floor.
“Hey!” Missy yells. “Treat a lady with some respect.”
She’s cackling, so clearly in the thick of a performance. His former self is walking fine, but he can’t hear the tell-tale sound of her heels hitting the floor.
The Master yelps, his body slamming against the wall as the machine turns. The metal things in front of him begin their descent of the staircase, stomping so loudly that he almost can’t hear the pounding of his own hearts.
His youngest self is squirming, almost politely considering the force. “Where are you taking us?”
“PARTICIPATION REQUIRED. REWARD SUBSTANTIAL.”
There’s a theatrical gasp from in front of him. “Reward?” The Master’s feet are dragged down the first step. “Nobody told me this was a test. I’m extra specially good at those!”
Each step down accompanies a steady swaying motion. He almost throws up again when a second metallic arm moves to secure his waist. Wherever it is, The Master can’t rule out a hallucination. This could be a bad attack, side-effects from something he had taken. It might be best if he treated this like a nightmare. Find the cause. Kill it.
The journey doesn’t last very long. In between the metallic bumps and whirs of the machines and the pounding in the Master’s head, he receives a running commentary of their surroundings from Missy.
They are carried down a long staircase, past the cells of other prisoners- ‘nice scales’, shouts Missy- and into a different building entirely. He can feel the moment they step outside, the gravity gains a familiar copper tang and the pressure in the Master’s chest eases up a little. Their captors seem to slow their movements and he’s certain the light is getting dimmer.
“Always wanted a mood light.” says Saxon. “Black for happy, maybe crimson for murderous. Oh, and purple for ho-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” the War Criminal one groans.
He can just about see the bodies in front of him, splayed awkwardly in the arms of their captors. They’re him obviously, he can tell by the voices, but their usual suits and fineries have been replaced with a horrible, cutting red.
The Master looks down, barely holding back a cough, he’s covered in the same red. It’s brighter than the bodies of the robots, like the red on Coke cans or a sick sun and its blood red orbit.
Missy makes a shushing sound. “Am I going insane again or are those trumpets?”
The Masters fall silent. Somewhere close by there’s the muffled sound of a band. From the racket they’re making, Earth-inspired.
“Humans.” Saxon snorts. “Can’t we just kill them?”
“We’re not that hungry, surely.
“Shut up.”
Without warning, the machine at the start of the line begins to move. His youngest self barely has time to protest before he is pulled forward. There’s the hiss of an airlock, followed immediately by a flash of glaring light and the sound of the most enthusiastic trumpet section the Master has ever heard.
Missy yelps. “What in Rassilon’s freshly dug grave was that?”
“A live studio audience,” says War. “Commendable execution method.”
“You’re next, father dearest.”
The leading robot whirs into life. The Master in its arms sighs as he is dragged forward.
The sequence is the same as before: a hiss, a flash of light before the sound of trumpets blares in his ears. The music doesn’t seem to be moving on. Instead, it’s one section moving around again and again like some sort of-
“Theme music,” Saxon announces. “We get theme music now?”
“We’re an event, dear. I’m surprised we didn’t think of it earlier.”
Somebody is shuffling ahead of him. He can hear a clanging sound too, of boots kicking against metal.
“Anything to say, pigtails? Just us girls now.”
The Master presses his lips shut, triggering a wave of fresh nausea.
His body curls but is stopped by the arm of the machine. The restraint pushes hard into his stomach.
He dry-heaves onto the floor. Saxon snickers. “Thought so.”
The machine begins to move. In the sudden light, he can see the silhouette of one remaining robot ahead of him and a pair of sharply tipped heels hovering above the floor.
The echo of the music peters out. Only herself left.
“We need to talk.” The Master says quietly.
Missy’s voice is sing-song. “There’s nothing I want to say.”
“I need to know when you are.”
She ignores him. “They’re going to eat you alive and you know it. Don’t be weak.”
“Missy.” he hisses, but it is too late. The airlock is opening again and his predecessor is being dragged forwards into the light.
The sound is swallowed.
The Master looks around as far as his neck restraint will allow. There’s purple and blue-black climbing up every wall, dancing in slow motion like it is trapped in a snow globe. Wherever they’ve come from, wherever they’re going, space is only a thin layer away. He can’t tell if it’s a ceiling or endless black space but it’s eternal and it’s suffocating..
The Master isn’t even sure if that’s his name anymore.
His robot whirs into life. The applause coming from the other side of the door is quietening in anticipation.
With one last retch, the Master clunks onward.
The first thing that hits him is the sound. Hundreds and hundreds of trumpets blaring in unison. Velvet red as bright as blood.
A stage. A proper stage, curtains, lights, cameras, packed to the rafters with heavy sweating bodies, their cheers lost underneath the brass. Their eyes are on him, the lights are on him, every spotlight is tracking his feet as they drag along the floor.
The Master’s head is pounding, he’s hurting and there’s a misery so deep in his chest that he can’t pull it out. If this keeps up, he won’t be able to breathe. So, the Master does what he has always done, takes a deep breath and beams.
The audience go wild.
“Please welcome our final contestant! He’s genocide, with a touch of toyboy-”
The robot keeping him upright loosens its grip and the Master staggers charismatically into the light. Behind the cameras and shiny corporate microphones there are silhouettes. Creatures with three heads, tentacles, wings, all overtaken with ear-splitting applause. Some are standing up, knocking their friends over just to get a glimpse of him.
The Master- this version of him- is the headline act.
He doesn’t have time to look further. A robotic arm clamps his waist from the back and tugs, he travels with it. His back collides with the body of a chair, and he is forced into a sitting position. The robot gives him a quick once over before storming off the set.
The Master can’t move. There are clamps around every limb. Szarni steel locks too, it would takes hours- no- days to pick.
The way the chair has been made; he can just about glimpse his predecessors either side of him. Whoever’s responsible hadn’t wanted to put them in age order so he, unwillingly, is sitting in dead centre. Prime Minister him is just out of kicking distance but the scowl he sends the Master’s way is warning enough.
“Beaming to all stations from Satellite Five and back for its two-thousand and twenty fourth series, it’s-”
A deafening bleeping noise cuts through the studio. At the back of the audience, the Master can see a projection of the word ‘[REDACTED]’ typed in official-looking font.
“Ladies, gentlemen, trees and multiforms, please welcome your Master of ceremonies. Dievies is the name, tasking’s the game, your host-”
A large plume of smoke bursts from the middle of the stage. From below the stage, a large shape rises.
“-Grog Dievies!”
The shape twirls in the smoke, long slender arms extending into a pirouette. Through the haze, colours emerge: pink, purple, sleek white. Painted skin?
“Bon soir! ⏚⍜⋏ ⌇⍜⟟⍀! Felicitations my darlings!”
The shapes steps forward and all at once the Master can see everything. Two wide polished eyes beneath the smoke and a sleek metallic body beneath, entirely, unmistakably naked.
He’s posing for the audience, wrists loose and hands twirling. It’s something the Master might have done to himself in the mirror.
The smoke is thinning behind the android. On the other side of the stage are two golden thrones, one a doll house miniature of the other. A comically small robot rests on the edge, quaking like a leaf.
The larger android is talking. The Master can’t really hear over the noise of the crowd but it sounds like a series of electric drills, boreing into a wall.
The cheers and cries from the audience finally calm and the sickly pressure eases from the Master’s ears. He can just about make out their robotic host, a few metres in front, perched- if a robot could ever perch- on the largest throne.
“Hello, my loves, and welcome back to [REDACTED]-” The same loud beep from before booms through the studio. “I’m your host Grog Dievies and we’ve got a real treat for you today.”
The cameras in the studio turn from the thrones to the Masters. The heat of the spotlight is stark and all too revealing of their exhaustion.
“Alex. What have you brought for me today?”
The smaller robot is shaking so violently, the Master can hear the rattle of its metal casing against the leg of the throne. When it speaks, the sound is hardly louder than a whisper.
“I thought you’d want to set me free, Sir.”
The audience erupts into a roar of laughter. A tentacle slaps its owner somewhere in the stalls.
“Ahhhh,” caws Grog. “I keep saying you should go into comedy.”
“The contestants… Sir.” Alex’s voice cracks.
Grog claps his hands together in giddy delight. They clang audibly.
“Now, gosh, we can’t call all of them ‘The Master’! That would be boring and very out of character for me, wouldn’t it Alex?”
Alex’s metal face flushes a dark shade of pink.
“Missy, whatever you are, that’ll do.” Grog flicks his finger at Missy who beams, then at the chair next to her. “That one’s War, definitely, it’s his only trait. Oh, and Nehru jacket. Well. Red jumpsuit, whatever. I’ll call you Nehru.”
The robot pauses, turning his head to flash a charismatic smile at the audience. A few tentacles wiggle in excitement.
Grog swivels back around and looks dubiously at the two of them remaining. “That one’s Hoodie. My God have you seen the photos?” The audience cheer. He can see the cogs turning in his younger self’s head.
“And that one…” Grog strokes a slender finger across his lips, flicking a polished nail at the Master. “Toyboy.”
The Master feels a strange combination of exasperation and butterflies in his stomach. The taste of sick stings the back of his throat. Alex stutters.
“Ah, ah! No buts.” Grog waggles a finger flamboyantly. “Anyway. Goodness. How impolite of me. Let’s allow our guests a word.”
A pressure he didn’t even realise was there eases from the Master’s throat. He gasps in a desperate breath.
Nehru snarls, “Touch me again you tin box and I’ll disassemble you!”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to touch a lady like that?” Missy hisses.
Beside him, Hoodie is coughing angrily. Behind the wheezing, the Master can tell he’s trying his best to sound intimidating.
“Anything to say?” Grog says in an overly saccharine voice.
The Master can hear Nehru panting beside him, scrambling for some old-fashioned insult or other. War is silent, probably smiling though. He can feel it.
Hoodie bangs his head against the back of the chair. “You disgusting half-form-“
The pressure slams back down on the Master’s throat. His angriest incarnation is cut off mid-sentence.
“Enough of that.” snaps the robot- the Master doesn’t want to call him Grog, there’s no way he’s going to get on a first name basis with an android-
“It’s time to begin,” says Grog, snapping his neck one hundred and eighty degrees to stare down the smaller robot who nearly jumps out of his seat. “Our first Prize Drop of the series. This time, we’ve procured each contestant’s most prized possession-”
The Master’s mouth dries up. The force of his past self’s sudden terror slams against his barriers.
Beside him, Missy still looks as composed as she was being frogmarched from the prison. He tries looking for her usual tells but is greeted with nothing but pursed lips and smirking eyes.
“Nehru, we’ll start with you. What do we have here?”
A marble plinth rises from the middle of the studio floor. Carefully placed on top is a small piece of red velvet. They all recognise it at the same time. He can tell when realisation hits the others, the air in the studio goes from boiling to chilled in seconds
The presenter turns to his youngest incarnation. His face matches the colour as the velvet.
“Well?”
The Master watches himself scramble for words- how to explain why he keeps a scrap of the Doctor’s coat in his pocket. Grog waits. It seems like an age before the robot pipes up again.
“Very well. Not our most exciting offering but fantastic emotional blackmail!”
Alex whirs audibly, eyes wide and blinking in the spotlight. Grog steps on his toe.
“Come on! Onto our next object.”
A screen of smoke hisses onstage as another plinth rises from the floor. On top is a record, a vinyl copy of ‘Dido’s Lament’ encased in a tattered cardboard sleeve. The Master remembers running his fingers along it, playing it again and again over the sound of the bombs hailing down outside. The singing could never cover the noise, not ever, but the way the performer had caressed each word. It had made him feel safe.
“It’s a record,” War says cheerfully. “A little outdated but the recording is a vintage.”
“Your most prized possession?” Asks Grog, disappointed. A few members of the audience groan.
But his past regeneration simply smiles and slumps comfortably back in his restraints.
“How boring.”
Saxon’s plinth is painstakingly obvious. The Laser Screwdriver has been displayed in a reinforced plexiglass case and the device switched off completely- there had been no stun mode. Scorch marks and dents cover the handle and the Master wonders how much of it he had put on himself for show.
Somebody’s got a phallic fixation. Thinks Missy, deliberately loudly.
His past self seethes, muttering incoherent threats towards Grog and the tiny shaking robot next to him. None of his posturing has any effect, in fact the Master sees the manacles tighten even further.
“Tut tut. Threats will get you a one-point deduction!” Grog waggles a long metallic finger.
“Points?” scoffs Hoodie. “Points are for self-obsessed apes. Why would I need them?”
Titters rise from the audience.
“Go on then. I’ll let you answer. Viewers, what do points mean?”
“Escape from the electric chair!” Roars the crowd.
“Insolent little-” The other Master only makes it two words before his mouth slams shut again.
“My my!” Grog gasps. “No need for that kind of language. Now you.”
Missy’s plinth is smaller than the rest and cushioned with a heap of velvet red fabric. In the very centre is a neatly folded silk tie. Of course.
Missy flutters her eyelashes at the robots the other side of the stage. “A girl’s gotta dress right, you know.”
Grogs robotic mouth snaps into a devious square smile. “Elaborate?”
The Master sees herself contemplating protest but any sign of hesitation is quickly smoothed over by Missy’s familiar knowing smirk.
“A present.” She pauses. “From the Doctor.”
He feels the minds of his other selves jam to a standstill. Disbelief. Grog can see it too. The robot cackles.
“The Doctor? Your mortal enemy? Oh, that’s delicious.”
“We text,” says Missy and then, hurriedly- “I keep my enemies close.”
“What a gorgeous charade. Very well!”
Grog waves his hand in front of Alex’s face, the smaller robot scrambles for the controls.
His plinth is next. Atop it is his TCE, probably snatched on his entry to the prison. There are still scratches on it from the day he’d burned and a silvery overcoat from the Cyberium’s cold touch. He'd threatened the Doctor with it. Something he doesn’t want to think about now.
The Master feels the shackles ease from his mouth and suddenly, the pressure in the air drops.
“Toyboy.” Grog smiles fiendishly. “Oblige me, there’s a good boy.”
“My weapon. A Tissue Compression Eliminator.” He says, non-committal. Grog raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing more to say? I'm disappointed.” the robot turns to the audience. “What do we think? Liar, liar pants on fire?”
‘Liar, liar, pants on fire!’ The crowd jeers. Grog swivels back to face him, eyes as cutting as blades.
Something in the Master’s gut pulls dangerously and it’s not the nausea from earlier.
“That isn't your most prized possession, is it?” Grog puckers his metal lips, “Go on now. We'll wait.”
The Master tries to put together the right words in his head. His arms are numb from gripping onto the seat but there's shots of adrenaline coursing through his veins and the horrible sense of impending danger.
The robot’s face narrows into a cruel smile.
“I'd blush if I had a real face.”
He feels his lips tremble open. There's a raggedy stream of breath, he can feel his lungs shuddering as they move. Still breathing.
Speak!
Before the Master can open his mouth, the smaller robot stutters into life. It looks nervously in his direction and taps timidly on Grog’s metal leg. There's a moment where the Master thinks he’s surely going to die before a loud clang echoes through the studio. The larger robots face animates once again.
“I almost forgot. Our contestants deserve a warm welcome!”
The overwhelming pressure asserts itself back over the Master’s mouth. Where he'd felt numb before, the metal claw clamps down hard.
Grog readjusts a dial on the side of his head, a small aerial extends from behind his right air.
“From our friends at Satellite Five, we are pleased to introduce a whole new Task experience. For the first time in task history we aren’t just dropping our contestants beside deadly danger, we’re putting them right at the heart of it!”
Beside him Alex taps at a small tablet, the spotlights overhead dim and a rosy, red glow floods the studio.
Grog nods his head at the audience.
“Ladies, gentlemen, trees and multiforms we welcome you to the first task of the series…”
The smaller robot taps again and the spotlights cut out entirely, plunging the studio into thick darkness. A few of the audience gasp and squelch in anticipation.
Where there was hot light a second ago, there is only cold, stale air. The Master can no longer hear Missy’s breath beside him.
Only Grog's voice echoes through the dark.
“Survive. Pretty please.”
---
Grog: I mean.... they're definitely doing *something* in there....
Alex: Sir, the rules specifically say-
Grog: Ah, ah. Leave Hoodie to it, he's a growing boy.
Grog: Oh my.
Grog: Is this legal?
Grog: Oh Gods, think of the complaints.
Alex: Sir, we need-
Grog: We'll get the editors to cut it.
Alex: This is a live feed, sir.
Grog: It's appalling. It really is... grotesque. But I just can't take my eyes off it...
---
Task objective: Survive.
The Master is sure when he wakes up, they've left the space station. Wherever the studio was, this is miles away.
The room he's landed in is small, with the layout of an Earth office building but way, way more alien. There are nodules of slime coating the walls and the stench of rotting meat. It’s coming from outside of the room. He'd been given no instructions, but the Master assumes he's going to need to find a way out of here.
It's a little disorientating, standing up from the chair and seeing the marks where the machine had been gripping him. None of his other selves have come with him, it seems like there's nobody nearby either.
He walks around for a bit, testing the strength of his legs. They’re weak and unstable but he can just about work up to a slow jog. The tips of his toes are numb and there's still left-over traces of adrenaline pumping through his veins.
It takes him a few minutes to muster the energy to walk out the door. He's immediately greeted with this site of a rotting body, maybe two or three days old and covered in flies. The Master gags, it's likely one of the previous contestants.
He leans down to search the body, there’s obvious signs of a struggle and damage, done by a set of blunted claws. Whoever the person was, whichever species, is undetectable under the layer of insects. The Master looks closer, sticking out from the body’s collar is a white envelope. He manages to pull it free, the red wax seal breaking open as it dislodges itself.
Remarkably, the paper doesn't seem to have been affected. He looks inside, there's a page of text still intact. At the very top is a drawing of the two robots, sitting side by side. He recognises one as Grog. There must be some kind of orders.
“Your task. You have one hour. Find the Zygon.”
There's a set of terms and conditions underneath, mostly licencing laws. He suspects somewhere in there is a hidden clause. It's not the most brutal game show he's ever seen, but the Master doesn't want to find out what the punishment for noncompliance is.
He tucks the letter into the pocket of his jumpsuit and steps over the corpse.
There's a long, deserted office corridor up ahead. He can see rich red light peeking through, though the ceiling lamps are smashed through.
‘Find the Zygon.’
The Master walks to the end of the corridor, there's not much to look at apart from abandoned office rooms and the layers of thick slime that cover them. It would look retro if not for the remains of touchscreen tablets smashed against the walls.
He turns the corner, there’s a hole in the wall where a door would go. He can see the remains of it still attached to the hinges. On the outside is a dank, brown field. The foliage that does grow is stunted and sick looking, made worse by a crimson sky above.
It's definitely a planet but not one he recognises.
A flicker of movement catches his eye, there's a figure standing in the middle of the field covered almost head to toe in in a black suit. It's younger him. The first him. The first one he wants to admit to anyway.
The Master walks carefully through the sludge towards the other man, meandering past globules of slime and burnt black tumbleweed. Other him man is measuring something with his fingers, tracing a large arc in the sky. If he hears him approaching, he doesn't let on. The Master doesn't say anything.
“It appears to be some sort of large scale hectical illusion,” says Nehru. “Technology as sophisticated as the Time Lords.” The man turns around. “My future, I presume.”
The Master gives him a thin smile. He briefly considers a handshake but can’t bring himself to show the courtesy.
“Yeah.”
“A pleasure.” His younger self is eyeing the horizon like a freshly cooked meal. “I gather we’ll be rewarded for exploration. They seem to have spared no expense.”
“Indeed.” Says the Master facetiously.
Nehru gestures to the field ahead, ‘after you’. It’s a caution, so he can’t be stabbed in the back. The Master walks.
“Where were you taken from?” he asks. There’s a badge pinned to Nehru’s chest that looks very much part of a disguise of his. The plan hadn’t gone well if he remembers rightly.
“The Doctor’s human friends and their primitive labs. My disappearance was oddly convenient, although Miss Grant will be wondering where I am.”
The Master pushes the envelope further into his pocket. The appearance of another version of him is too coincidental. Something isn't quite right either, he can tell when the badge is from, but he'd never used it in front of Jo. So, either an imposter or a habitual liar.
“Hm,” adds the Master helpfully.
“What is this place? You aren’t familiar?”
“Nothing but offices. Probably an illusion as you said. Either we appease our host or we find transport worthy of vortex travel.”
“Don't you wish to regain our weapon? Although it angers me to play in this fools errand, there are things of value I must retrieve.”
“We must make enough of a show of ourselves to entertain.”
The Masters reach the edge of the field, over the rocky partition a few more office buildings lie in ruin. There's the same layer of thick slime covering the outside and clouds of flies crowding the exits. A Zygon here would be lethal, as long as it kept the source alive. Any blade of grass in fact, or a fly or even himself.
“You received instructions?” The younger Master pulls a piece of paper from his top pocket, it has the same red wax insignia. The Master nods slowly. “You'll forgive me for being cautious.”
He keeps his hands in his pockets, the red letter stays hidden beneath them.
“Zygons. A Zygon.” That’s enough information for now.
His younger self narrows his eyes. “Duplicates keep the original alive, though wherever we are is a universe away from our captivity. It would take a sophisticated Zygon to accurately mimic over such a distance.”
The Master stays silent. Nehru doesn’t press.
They plough on.
They're nearly at the building and slime is beginning to build around their feet. The Master curses as his shoes brush the edges. The grass is laden with black ash, though the air is still he can see grey dust tugging upwards with the breeze.
There was civilisation here, that’s a certainty. Advanced? Perhaps not. But there was life, culture, maybe even space travel and it was taken in a hurry. If it is an illusion, it’s creator must have drawn on a real planet.
“It’s Zygon,” the Master mutters. “But not solely.”
Nehru pauses in front of a pile of grey ash. “Ellaborate.”
“Zygons aren’t an aggressive species by nature. Something- Someone prompted this.”
The Master steps over a glut of slime, his foot lands on the foundations of the office building. The destruction feels recent.
“Our captors? They would massacre a planet for a stage?” Nehru frowns.
“If they have the technology to bring us here, you don’t get that level of advancement with peace talks and niceties.” He spits the second half of the sentence out like a curse.
They check through the rooms one by one, looking for give aways. His younger self mutters to himself as they go about plans and a new-found hatred for gameshows. It takes a few minutes for them to search to the end of the corridor where a larger room awaits, complete with several Earth-like office cubicles.
“Stop,” the Master frowns. “The air.”
He pushes the tip of his tongue forward, barely a millimetre past his lips. There. That spark. The air is sharp and pronged with electricity. He takes a breath through his nose, the energy that bites at his face is bitter and volatile.
“A recent transformation.” Other him offers. “Somewhere in this very building.”
“We need to search, give the Zygon the impression that it’s being threatened.”
“I don’t doubt it’ll be armed.”
“Let’s do it carefully then,” says the Master.
The two of them step carefully across the destruction and over the threshold. The electricity in the air is making it hard to focus.
Nehru inches over to the other side of the room, careful not to disturb the slime. The Master gives him a wide berth and starts picking through the sea of abandoned objects.
The paper is fragile and thin, likely not a Zygon but worth checking every last piece. Other office equipment needs a little more manhandling so the Master stabs it with a pen. His other self does the same and they quickly form a pile in the middle of the room.
“Since I will forget this encounter, you can tell me. Where do we come from? We regenerate, I take it.” His younger incarnation muses.
“We survive.” says the Master sharply, tossing a stack of paper into the middle pile.
Nehru huffs. “Very well. I won’t pry.” A considered pause. “Another question then. We do not lose track of the Doctor?”
The Master’s chest suddenly feels very tight. The rising sickness he’d tried to forget now seems hot and vicious in his gut. He places the object he was holding on top of some slime and stops to take a breath.
Yeah. He’s in agony.
“Spoilers.” He mimics.
Nehru peers at him down the length of his nose. He’s stabbing a computer part with a pen
“I’m simply curious. Truly.”
“Try not to be.”
Metal spanners litter the corner of the room, they’ll need to really throw those to damage them. His other self has moved onto computer monitors and is smashing them noisily against the wall.
The pile of objects in the centre of the room is growing quickly, most of them with tiny ‘o’ shaped holes in the middle. There’s still half of the room left to go and though the Master’s brain feels stretched and broken, he knows there can’t be much left of the hour to go.
“How is Jo?” he ventures, more as a space filler than a question. It comes out awkward and stale.
Nehru doesn’t look up.
“Miss Grant is perfectly fine.”
Electricity still crackles in the air, it’s a reminder that they’re close but still wasting time.
He tosses aside some note paper and replaces it with a metal cube. It’ll take a powerful blast to penetrate it.
The Master reaches a hand into his jumpsuit pocket and shivers when his fingers travel past where the top of his TCE should be. There’s nothing in his pockets but the small task envelope. He’s not quite sure why he picked it up, maybe he’s internalising the Doctor’s magpie-like qualities.
He fishes the paper out and stares at it for a moment- no invisible ink, he’d know. No hidden instructions either, no double entendre. The Master unsticks the wax seal and reads the instructions again, they haven’t changed.
The envelope being left hadn’t been a coincidence either. His cruel task masters must have known where to put the note before he arrived and exactly where he was going to be.
“Stop this charade.”
The Master turns. His other self stands in the middle of the clearing, a makeshift de-atomiser grasped tightly in one accusing hand. “It's been a rare and unexpected pleasure but I'm afraid I'm not so easily deceived.”
Oh. Crunch time.
His younger self’s eyes seem focused but the Master can see them flicking away, scanning the outline of his body. Nehru had spotted something unmistakably Zygon, maybe an energy trace. Meaning that the Master was close enough to the culprit for it to look suspicious.
He’s going to play along.
“What gave it away?” The Master hisses, careful to get the hollow lisp in his words. “I was precise.”
A glance down; a small bolt of red lightning curls its way around his forearm. Below, he clasps the envelope in one tight hand. The grains of the paper are a stark red, the same as the wax, the same as the ink. The static of it is hurting just to touch.
“The way you carry yourself. My future is proud, you are weak, intolerable. Whatever being you take to be me is a poor caricature,” his younger self snarls.
He’s exhausted, a current of silent agony still pulsing through him but still the Master manages a callous, fanged smile.
“Magnificent.”
Nehru adjusts his aim, the barrel of the weapon now level with the height of his chest. The area of maximum devastation. “I presume my victory is your surrender?”
The Master regards
“A Zygon does not s-s-s-surrender.” He lisps.
His younger shelf tightens his grip on the trigger. “A shame.” The Master’s hand feels electric, the façade of the paper is buzzing like a live wire. Whatever state the Zygon is in, it’s readying to transform. “Send my condolences to your employer.”
The barrel of the weapon erupts. The Master drops like a stone, barely managing to let go of the paper in his hand before it hits.
The de-atomiser’s ray strikes the centre of the envelope. Red erupts from the wax seal and the Master is thrown backwards, the tips of his fingers crackling from the discharge. In the milliseconds it takes for the Zygon to transform, the de-atomiser has already completed its work. The creature roars, its towering form shredding into streams of mottled flesh.
The electricity in the air seems to ignite, jolting through the empty space with a loud ‘crack’! Then, as if catching up with itself, time speeds up. The impacts hit him all at once, it must rejig something in him because everything suddenly becomes startlingly clear.
The last thing the Master sees of the room is the sheer red light that pierces through the back of his eyelids. Then black.
The world changes from acrid cold to heavy heat. He is sitting, clamped, a little sore.
They’re back in the studio.
The Master peers round at his other selves.
Nehru is looking dead ahead, face blank. He doesn’t struggle against his restraints. There’s a blast pattern of black silt coating his forehead. His collar is half up, stuck fast from the force of the explosion.
Further down the line, Hoodie and Missy are screaming at each other. They’re covered from head to toe in grey ash, though by some miracle Missy still looks immaculate. They’re somehow managing to fight whilst restrained to their chairs. War is clutching the side of his head, the Master can feel his migraine from across the studio.
In front of them, Grog waits for the countdown of his autocue.
“Wwwelcome back! Our favourite Violet Villains are back in the studio after their first task of the series and my, my… I am ever so pleased with you!” Grog claps his metallic hands together. “A little disappointed in the guns- goodness Hoodie whatever were you thinking- but it made for such an entertaining watch!”
Alex is holding a blocky looking calculator; it looks like something from the nineties. The Master wonders if it’s a style choice.
“Luckily for them, both teams managed to find the Zygon so we have quite the tiebreaker!” Grog beams. “Nehru, Toyboy, an efficient if… out of touch team. We saw quite the show from you- a betrayal of all things! Our audience certainly enjoyed it, isn’t that right?”
The audience whoop and cheer on cue, a few wolf whistles find their way through the noise too. The robot flutters his eyelashes. “All in all, it took you forty minutes to find and kill your Zygon. A little embarrassing but a barrel of laughs for us!”
“Hoodie, ‘Missy’ and War. Certainly the most dysfunctional team we’ve seen on-“ The Master braces himself, “[REDACTED]” A loud buzz rattles through the studio, “-for a while. Your inability to go even a sentence without squabbling was impressive. You did, eventually, locate your Zygon with a time of fifty-five minutes.”
Grog peers down at his assistant. The smaller robot is typing furiously away on a calculator, eyes shaking at the effort.
“Scores, Alex.”
Alex’s trembling head cranes upwards, eyes fixed on a space somewhere on the ceiling. If robots could melt, the Master thinks that Alex would happily be doing so.
“Three points for the quickest team, Sir, and two for the others.”
“What else Alex? What do losers get?”
“Canteen duty, Sir.” Alex stammer.
Hoodie and Missy’s kicking competition grinds to an abrupt halt. “What.”
“Do shut up!”
Grog flicks a switch on his chair and the pressure on their throats returns. Hoodie’s stare is murderous.
The Master won. The Master did well at something and, incredibly, he is still alive.
“We’ll be seeing you all tomorrow, bright and early! Don’t forget to wash, some of you really do need to make note of that.” The robot’s eyes meet his. “You’ve been a wonderful audience and we have been-“
The excruciatingly loud sound of a buzzer cracks through the studio.
“[REDACTED]!”
---
REPORT 5663: Prison Hall F
Elderly inmate confronted about graffiti on cell wall. When questioned insists that all unauthorised scribbling relates to 'progressing Dalek strategem' and that 'there's a war on'.
War not detected. Inmate questioned over possible psychoactive influence.
Inmate rations decreased.
--
“Next please.”
The Master shuffles drowsily up the line. There’s a nine foot tall, armoured lizard behind him swearing and cursing at the slow service.
“Potatoes or uh- potatoes? Sorry, they got terribly soggy. I told them not to rinse it.”
The Master has his hair in space buns. It’s less tangled, more chic with carefully positioned loose strands. Hoodie had sneered. Missy had seemed quite taken. His youngest self had made it a calculated mission to avoid his presence although War didn’t seem inclined to be as petty.
He shuffles a little further up the line.
Missy is pretending to be a dinner lady. As the only one of his past incarnations the most unbothered by embarrassment, she took the role immediately. He can see his other two selves on kitchen duty working in scowling silence.
“Next please- oh! It’s me. Hello me.”
“Hello you,” replies the Master half-heartedly.
“Ha ha,” Missy says robotically, “See what you did there.” She scoops up a lump of mash. “Anyway. What’s a nice boy like you doing in digs like these?”
“Suffering, clearly.
“Nice buns. They suit you.”
“Talk to me. Properly.”
Missy smiles sweetly. “Not a chance,” she singsongs, dropping another lump onto his plate. “Now be a good boy and save me a seat will you?”
He’s about to protest when the scaly foot of the lizard behind him collides with his shin.
“Next please!”
The Master has finished the few spoonfuls of breakfast he wants to eat when Missy joins him.
Nehru and War seem content at opposite ends of the table, picking wordlessly at what mush they have left to eat. Hoodie is the other side of the canteen entirely, half eating, half charming another inmate. The Master has kept the seat opposite free but Missy slides in next to him instead.
“They’re being sociable,” she mutters. “Keep me company a while and maybe they won’t eat you alive.
“I can handle myself.”
“Very cocksure.” Missy preens, putting the emphasis on the first syllable. “This isn’t me being kind, if you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Do you want to know why? Well, it doesn’t matter, I’ll tell you anyway. It’s because you’re my best chance of getting out and you’re very pretty so we look gorgeous standing next to each other.”
The Master looks up from his food, his cheeks meeting Missy’s outstretched fingers. She strokes his cheek.
The Master glances at Hoodie.
“I’ll work with you.”
Missy brushes her fingers across his lips. The Master feels his cheeks burn. He’s above this.
“Good boy…” she whispers. She’s looking down at him like a meal, “Listen to me. I’ve got you.”
He squirms in his prison jumpsuit, it’s getting too warm. They’re still in the canteen.
“Missy.” He says, as best he can with a finger tugging at his lips.
“Yes, gorgeous?”
“Stop.”
She draws her hand back. “Okay.”
Neither of them speaks for a minute.
“I know what the next task is,” says Missy quietly. “The prisoners know, it’s on the screens, everywhere. All of them, they lost the game, they’re previous contestants.”
The Master looks around.
Missy follows his gaze, “We’re on our own, no teams. We have to… find something. A gift.”
“Where?”
She shrugs and then mimes the beam of a teleporter with her hands. It’s very impressive.
“Youngest us has to win, to get out. Otherwise the timeline goes barmy and poof! We’ll have the timeline police all over us.”
“Escape then?”
“I’m working on the plan, technically it’s your plan too. Just sit tight and don’t work your pretty brain too hard.”
She lifts up a finger to tap him on the nose, but it pauses a few inches from his face. Missy pulls it back again and wipes it on her jumpsuit.
“Yes Missy.” He mutters.
“Wowee,” says Missy, eyes distracted. “We’re going.”
The same restraining machines as the day before march through the canteen. None of the prisoners turn to watch, there’s just the same quiet hum of conversation as before.
The Master tries not to resist, the wounds don’t heal. Nothing in him heals anymore.
Hoodie is the last to go, the Master can see the change on his face as he is jerked back. The prisoner his other self had been talking to, a slim blue-lipped woman, drags her plate away from the kerfuffle and continues to eat.
The other Master manages a kick and several punches before he goes down. There’s righteous fury in his voice as he spits and swears. He barely remembers anymore what it was like to be full of so much rage.
They’re taken the same route as before, down the prison steps and out into the black space of before. This time there’s barely any ceremony as they are wheeled into the room. Grog introduces them for a second time, the same nicknames as before. Missy is a little too pleased with hers.
“Contestants! You’ve survived your first night- I hear that canteen duty went splendidly!” The robot squeals, “We’ve got another task for you today, an audience favourite with- well what should I say- very high stakes!”
‘Very high stakes’ ricochets around the Master’s head, it sounds a little like a cave in there.
“Your task, which unfortunately you have no choice but to accept is to kneel at the altar of Grog Dievies himself, to hold up your hands in praise, to prostrate your-
“Sir,” says Alex calmly. “That’s factually inaccurate-“
“Alex!” Grog snaps before continuing calmly. “Contestants. Your task today will be to find me, your Task Master, the best gift. Whoever finds me the best present gets the highest number of points.”
The Master spares a glance to the packed theatre watching him, the creatures in it have their eyes blown wide open. Some are staring right at him, the observers’ seats grouped together into neat little fan clubs.
“We’re not going to give you a time limit for this one though I’m sure you’ll be keen to finish very quickly indeed.” Grog raises an eyebrow. “No forfeits this time, we’re contractually obligated to maintain the emotional wellbeing of our pri- contestants.”
“P-points will be collected and tallied.” Alex adds.
“What he said.” Grog slams his hand down on his chair and everything begins to dance and daze around him. “Anyway buckle up!”
He’s sure, so sure, that he’s holding on but then the Master blinks and the world has slipped away from underneath him.
Maybe it’s because he’s slept that the teleport is kinder than the first time.
He’s landed in a room with soft white walls, a children’s play area perhaps- or solitary confinement. There’s a large metal door in the centre of the opposite wall, there’s a tiny porthole in the centre just above a turning wheel though it’s too small and too clouded to see anything.
So, either he’s being kept in or something else is being kept from him.
The Master pulls himself to his feet. The floor sinks as he puts his foot down onto it, he gets the feeling it’s going to stain.
The metal door is so overdecorated that he almost doesn’t spot the small white envelope tucked into the side. It’s the same design as before: a clouded white envelope sealed with wax. He pulls it out, expecting the words inside.
Find the best gift for your task master. The best gift wins.
Like the first time, there is a pasted set of terms and conditions, riddled with asterisks and small print.
The Master skims the rest and turns the paper over. The other side is blank aside from a single line.
Deep Breath.
He pockets the task. It won’t hurt him, not like the last time. There’s nothing in the room left to see but crumbs of dirt left by the soles of his shoes. The Master flexes his fingers and takes a breath before spinning the wheel of the door.
The pressure hits like a hulk of metal. It’s the same sensation as in the studio, pure compression. He opens his mouth, the sensation forces its way down his throat. It feels the same as space, the horrible dank void of it and the never ending chase for air.
The door had been an airlock, the air inside the room, the void in the blinding white.
The Master scrambles for a handhold, there’s nothing but flat floor and white light. Nothing to fall on, nothing to stab, nothing to grasp. He needs to activate his respiratory bypass- he can remember how but it’s like the interface has been smoothed over and sanded down.
It’s just under a minute (he counts) before the muscle memory returns. He feels the pressure on his lungs ease, a familiar rush of chemicals flooding the edge of his brain. Calming and soothing…
The mistake will cost him time, he needs to search.
The Master tries putting one foot in front of the other but his whole body is tilting, barely keeping a centre of gravity. Borusa had taught on this at the Academy, about the proper usage of a respiratory bypass and why it should be not used for playing childish pranks in the dormitories. It had been one of the rare lessons that had actually saved the Master’s life.
‘Hand up… Pinch your ear. Walk slowly, stopping allows your body time to decay-‘
He can feel the decay already, the sharp pinprick ache beginning to throb in his muscles. So, the Master begins to move.
There are objects littered across the floor in roughly formed groups. Above each set is a small symbol: a clock, a replicator, a loaf of bread. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of order but if the Master was thinking in Earth terms, he would call it a supermarket.
He brings himself to the nearest pile of objects, a small pyramid of crystal trinkets from a souvenir world amongst the Leisure Hives. Depending on where Grog was in their timeline, they’d either be seen as tacky or the height of fashion.
The piles around him look the same, each pyramid a different colour and shape of crystal. Juice making crystals, beard-shaving crystals, laser eye correction crystals…
The Master moves to the next stall.
A collection of colourful jackets, each with multiple arm holes, hang from a clothing rail. Nearby are three finger gloves and custom-made wedding rings.
He picks up a ring and tries it on. It fits a little loosely, but the pattern reminds him of engines. Straggled wires and tubes intersecting and connecting, moving if he flips the switch on the side.
Anyway.
Next door, there’s a fruit stand full of bold blues and splashed purples clinging to leaking berries. The food on the stall is full and ripe, flowing with sharp juices. If Grog is wholly cybernetic, food would be a step in the wrong direction and too clumsy for an assassination.
The Master stumbles further down the strip.
There are antiques and cosmetics and airport trolley snacks littering the floor. Some of them he recognises as Satellite 5 merchandise, all printed with old timey gameshow logos. There’s a replica Dalek stalk attached to a headband- the Master clicks out of habit, it twitches beneath him.
Somehow, of everything scattered across the floor, there are neither presents the Master would like nor his robot slave driver.
Grog is flamboyant, eccentric, cruel, a gameshow android. Grog likes pain but there’s nothing the Master could offer him that would resemble agony that he hasn’t already given.
He staggers further down, shoes squeaking on the marble floor. The glow of it all doesn’t stop. It’s like the strip extends forever. There are objects on the ground as far as the eye can see
Out of everything: clocks, smokers, weapons, pills and clothes and nuts and bolts, the Master’s eye doesn’t catch on a single one.
He’s been dashing around for close to ten minutes (500 rels, 67 racallions) and the little oxygen his respiratory bypass has to pump to his brain is choking on empty. There are sections as far as he can see, overflowing with cheap tat. If he can just pick one…
The Master reaches the beautycare. There’s a light-up sign on the floor, above the other objects: ‘PraxiCo’. A gameshow sponsor perhaps, given the lemony calmfruit smell emanating from the floor.
Around his feet are beauty products and foreign dyes with pouting models on their packets. Some of them are for colours his eyes can’t even see and more importantly, for hair Grog does not have.
He can feel the warning signs in his veins and from the way his hands are beginning to clam up. There’s adrenaline doing a victory lap around his head as it thud-thud-thud-thuds from his hearts. Oh Gods, Borusa’s making a return.
‘Lungs of Time Lords are a marvel of invention. Their practical utility is second to none. You should recognise, when coming to the end of your bypass’ time restriction, that uncomfortable side effects are unavoidable.’
One of his hearts gives a warning squeeze, he can feel it begin to pump faster as his lungs run dry. Borusa couldn’t have forewarned his academy students of the possibility of spontaneous gameshows, nor the impracticalities of being stuck as a stone slab for all time. It makes him smile a fraction despite the piercing hot pain in his chest.
Out of everything, he’ll have to choose now. Of every polished, scented disgusting object, there could only really be one that him and Grog could agree on.
The Master’s hand curls around the handle of the mirror.
As the last air squeezes from his lungs. The Master feels the last of his respiratory bypass failing. The buzz from the chemicals is as faint as static.
The mirror slips from his hand.
---
“Howdy, howdy, howdy!”
Little droplets of purple swim in the dark. Here it is hot and artificial, not like the floaty, compressed cold of the mall. There’s air to breathe too, hot and rich like pillow stuffing. It has made its way through his lungs and given them volume again.
He’s survived it then as inevitably the Master always does… and Grog is waiting for him on the other side.
“It seems our wayward prince has returned to us. Wakey wakey.”
He gives up the comfort of the dark, opens his lids slowly to rosy-red studio light. The outline of Grog perches in the chair opposite, his foot twirling in the air like a smug cat’s tail.
“A word for your audience?”
The Master heaves in a forceful breath. The pressure on them has lifted and its intoxicating. It’s taking away the sting in his legs and the ache left from barren air.
He had expected to live, not that he had ever allowed himself to expect otherwise, but the adrenaline induced not-fear feels like a death in itself. Provided to him by two gay cartoon robots.
“Well?” Grog prompts.
The Master feels something he hasn’t felt in a very long time. The feeling of almost hot rage, of needing it so very badly. He wants to slaughter them.
“Shut up.”
Grog’s mechanical eyebrows shoot up, the polished white of his eyes whirs as it expands.
“Zero points.”
The audience gasp.
Alex looks timidly up from his tablet. “Sir-“
“Zero.”
“I have no gift. Your other competitors were more than able to complete their tasks with expert ease.”
There’s a gap for the Master to speak, he doesn’t fill it.
“The other contestants know their scores but, for the benefit of those now in our esteemed company, I would feel delighted to repeat them.”
Alex taps his tablet and leans it towards Grog whose stern look of punishment is fading slowly into a smile.
“Hoodie. The arfen-berries were such a kind gesture but-“ Grog holds a single hand to his chest and blinks his eyelashes(?). “They’re deadly poisonous.”
Alex scribbles laboriously on the tablet next to him.
“I adored the gesture. I thought it was cute. Three points,” Grog flutters.
In the audience there are some wolf whistles and a few hesitant ‘yow!’s. His other self looks bewildered and disgusted all at once.
Grog takes seconds to move on.
“War. I’ll be honest, I think your tastes are a little stale. You’ve made it apparent that the feeling is mutual. One point.” The Master bites down on the inside of his cheek but there’s nothing left to chew. “A hairbrush would look just perfect in my chic little bin! Alex!” Grog clicks his fingers and his assistant presses a button on the tablet in front of him.
From out of the ground in front of the chairs a pink bin rises. Grog reaches behind him, grasps the offending item by its ornate handle and tosses it into the rubbish. War chuckles politely as his gift is lowered beneath the stage.
“Now, Nehru. Nuts and bolts. Very thoughtful. You’ve got the spirit grandpa. It’s a little ‘last season’ for me but I do believe we should have a little respect for our elders so Two Points!”
His youngest self stares dead ahead.
“Missy your gift… What can I say?” Grog looks towards Alex. “Alex, what can I say?”
The smaller robot appears to have a ready printed checklist, he holds it up to his boss who mutters something about broadcast guidelines.
“Very curvaceous. Sleek, stylish, cylindrical, good for… getting in places. Even battery operated. Five points.”
Missy beams.
Grog grins down the lens of the camera as he switches into a final, showy monologue. The Master can see the fan clubs in the audience waving signs and banners, he gets the feeling his other selves are pleased.
“Join us again tomorrow, same time, same place as always! That’s all for today on [REDACTED], good night!”
The Master doesn’t get the opportunity for supper, a robot carries him directly to the cell and slams the bars shut behind him.
He can hear the faraway jeers of his younger selves, talking and cheering their dinner as they eat. Missy’s voice rises above them all, she’s teasing Nehru about his collar. He’s laughing. Hoodie’s laughing too, loud and sinister.
He’s so hungry.
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