A/N:

If you haven't seen the newest episode of Doctor Who called Dark Water and don't want to be spoiled, DO NOT READ FURTHER! Also, there is no love for the Showrunner in this little ficlet, none at all. You have been warned!

The latest Doctor Who episode, Dark Water, was on. And so they all came together, even the normally outcast Americanized one, and stared in absolute horror at the primitive video distribution devices the earth people called television.

"Can you believe what that insulant primitive down there has done to us? The first Master exclaimed. He was enraged almost to the point of pulling out his own beard.

"Well, she is rather pretty don't you think," the last Master, the insane one, smirked

"Pretty! Pretty! Is that all you ever care about, pretty indeed!" the decayed one, the one in between the first and his near look alike replacement howled. He tried to launch himself at his mad successor, but since he was so decrepit and could barely move, the act only succeeded in losing him even more precious flesh, and a few bones.

"And you all thought I was so terrible," the American version snickered, and straightened his motorcycle helmet. "So how do ya like me now, huh?"

Almost all the others rounded on him, but were quickly brought up short by a cold commanding voice.

"Alright, now settle down, all of you!"

Surprisingly, they all did.

"The question here isn't which of us was the most terrible," the old man, formerly known as Professor Yana before his true self was revealed, said with a cold and calculating stare. "The question we all need to decide upon is how do we get back at that piddling little Showrunner for the crime he has committed against us, and against all of the Doctor Who universe, now isn't it? So do you all want to stand around bickering like, well, like a load of Doctors, or can we get down to work, gentlemen?"

They all nodded in agreement, except for the decayed one who could not move that much and just wheezed his ascent. They put their heads together in a telepathic link, and began to plot how best to take their revenge on the current Doctor Who Showrunner.

Their first act was to apprehend that female incarnation and disguise her so no one would have to know of her ever again. This took some doing, but they eventually caught her by using one of the Doctors as bate. They forced a Fob watch upon her and sent her back to Earth in the guise of an actress. She lived and died forever thinking she was a human actress, and a successful one at that.

For the human they called Showrunner, their revenge was far more direct.

The place was plastered with notes, all saying the same thing, written in a hurried trembling hand:

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry …"

The dead man had scribbled this phrase everywhere and on everything, his desk, the walls, the floor, even on the ceiling, somehow.

"So, this is what they found, eh? No wonder it triggered all of our alerts. I've heard all about this from Dad, but this is the first time I've seen it firsthand."

Kate Lethbridge Stewart of U.N.I.T. leaned over a chair in a posh BBC TV Producers' office and studied the occupant with interest and more than a little in trepidation. The tiny doll size man was sprawled out in the chair, appearing almost to be asleep, except for the shock pain and fear etched forever on his little shrunken shriveled face. Around his neck hung a card, as if the very presence of the miniaturized body was not calling card enough:

Courtesy of all us Masters. Now to the Peoples of Earth, we trust that you will never again foist upon us another Showrunner like this man, not ever. Consider this a command from

Your master.

The End