The sun beamed down from the sky hitting the earth. There was only patches of shadows on the ground scattered around in a the circumference of Hyde Park. This was partly due to the sparse trail of clouds reflecting the suns rays back into the atmosphere but the main reason was the large metal base-like tower hovering above the tree line. Nobody knows what it is or where it came from but it seemed to have sprung up over night.
Most people in London have ignored this newly built structure assuming its the Prime Ministers way of keeping the environmentalist at bay with a new green energy source. However there is still some people out there worried it could be harmful. But Touchwood's busy monitoring and containing a possible threat from an alien that has landed in the hills of Peru, thanks to a tip from local alien enthusiasts and a Google Map image of a black dot on the hill.
People pass by the tower going about their day but I, Elton Pope, look at the tower and wonder
"Will the Doctor return once again if something were to happen?"
I met the Doctor, twice. Once during a young age and the second time he saved me from a hideous absorbing monster. He absorbed my girlfriend, but lucky the doctor was able to restore most of her into a stepping stone. We are just as happy as ever together. We take walks and have dinner dates weekly but I still wonder.
"Will he return?
The Master looks down upon his domain from the variable safety of his currently invisible ship (where did he get it? Well, that's a long story. For that one he'll be needing a well-steeped Earl Grey - without milk - it's not MEANT to have milk - capricious fools, honestly, is there but one being on this planet with taste?)
The Master shakes his head with a violent twist and shudders,
"It's a wonder I get anything done at all."
Still. His domain is rather grand and shining beneath this especially clear, smog-free night. He, of course, aced Xenoatmospherics, unlike a certain idiot he knows, who really should have turned up by now to Save The Day or whatever he likes to call it. The thought, in itself, leaves a bitter taste to his mouth, so he spits it out - ultimately undramatic for being unheard. He's certainly broadcasted his plan along enough news circuits and radio waves. He's already enslaved the way-laid.
Prostitutes and drug addicts are easy targets. A bit like Jack the Ripper, isn't he! The Master bookmarks this as a solid human reference the Doctor would undoubtedly both revile and applaud his knowledge of. "Lie back and think of England," he mutters to himself, allowing the phantom of a smile to lift the corners of his lips at a phrase his awaited would most certainly laud a grin. So, with no particularly imminent vision of purpose, the Master sprawls back on his invisible platform, luxuriously cat-like, to wait.