I do not own Doctor Who, if I did Rose wouldn't have left.
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The drumming, never stops, never changes; constant unending drumming. Ever since as a child I looked into the vortex and it chose me.
The Doctor says he cannot hear it, good, so it's only me, only me it chose, good.
The drumming, loud and clear, invading my thoughts, making me mad, but I love it; it chose me, only me, for its Master.
It never stops, never wavers, I am going insane, but that's OK.
Will it ever stop? Maybe when I die, if I ever die.
Sound of drums, filling my mind, telling me to fight.
My people, dying, dead, and I hid, why? Because of the drumming.
The only other of my race is my mortal enemy, the Doctor, him with his stupid companions and TARDIS, but not the drumming. No, he does not hear the constant war-call of the drums; does not go mad with it; and he is lacking, and lucky.
Why did it choose me? Why choose a young child? These questions go about in my head, haunting me, robbing me of sleep.
But it did; choose me to torture, and yet to teach me…. The ways of war.
The sound of drumming never ceasing, never changing…
A shot rings loud in my ears, louder than the drumming. Pain, pain and the glory of it, I feel it as I go down.
I hear my name, the name I chose myself because I am the Master. The voice, the Doctor's voice as he holds my dying form; no, I will not do as he says, I will not regenerate, not to be held captive………..Of the drumming, of the Doctor.
I am dying yet I know I am not; I open my lips and say to that stupid man, my enemy, the Doctor, "You know what? I win."
Closing my eyes to darkness I find an amazing thing, the drumming has……Stopped?
The sound of drumming, no, not stopped, just faded. For the drumming never stops.
The drumming, I have heard it since I, a child Stared into the vortex, and it chose me; The Master.