Before the Mistress, lay three plastic dummies. Their faces smooth, expressionless, and partially reflective in the light. But with the Master being a master of disguise, he'd soon be able to dress them up to look like anyone he wanted. For now though, he'd dressed them in Farrel Plastic's jumpsuits, which seemed appropriate since these particular dummies would be working the factory. That is, they would be, once the Master finished converting them into Autons. And once they were complete, he'd use them to make more Autons, and after that they'd have army at their disposal.
However, the Mistress tried not to get ahead of herself, as she watched the Master connect the Nestene energy unit to the first of the dummies on the table. Taking two wires from the purple beeping orb, the Master pressed each of them to either temple on the dummy's head. A few minutes later and he disconnected it, before snapping his fingers. There was a pause, and then the Auton sat up on the table.
"You did it!" exclaimed the Mistress eagerly, smiling from ear to ear as she stepped up to the Master's side.
"Did you ever doubt me, my dear," replied the Master with a confident chuckle. She turned to look at him, deliberately withholding the roll in her eyes until he was looking back. It only made him chuckle more, before they kissed. A small toast, to the beginning of the end of the Earth.
"Never," answered the Mistress as their lips parted, both still grinning at each other.
Allowing her Master to get back to work, the Mistress stepped back, as the Master moved the energy unit onto the next dummy. "Go and stand guard by the door," he ordered the first Auton, who bowed in acknowledgement, before making its way into the corner of the room by the closed door. As for the Mistress, she went back to her own little experimental project. Something which she and the Master had been discussing. Something they could also use against the human race, as well as the Autons.
Meanwhile, the Master was repeating the animation process on the second dummy, same as before. Ending it once again with a snap of his fingers, prompting the newly created Auton to arise. However, as it sat on the table, the Master and the Mistress looking over it, the door opened and in stumbled Mr. Farrel. Who took one look at the strange and terrifying Auton and turned to ran. Only to then find the Auton guard at the door ready to kill him.
"No, stop!" commanded the Master, to which the Auton froze in its attack.
"Mr. Farrel," spoke up the Mistress as she calmly made her way over to him. Once again using her soothing hypnotic voice to capture his attention. However this time, it seemed it wasn't quite enough, as his terror of the Auton seemed to briefly override her hypnotic commands.
"Mr. Farrel, you will turn and face me now. Now I said," ordered the Mistress firmly, before finally, a trembling Mr. Farrel turned his back on the Auton and looked to the Mistress. And with one look into her compelling blue eyes, he calmed, as the Mistress then began to feed him new hypnotic thoughts.
"You have nothing to be frightened of, Mr. Farrel. The Autons are under our control. They serve us, just as you do. You are not to be frightened off them. You accept them for what they are. Understand, that you accepting their existence will satisfy me. And in accepting their existence, you realise there is no need to fear them," explained the Mistress in her angelic voice.
"There is no need to fear them," repeated Mr. Farrel in his hypnotic trance. "I accept them."
"Good," said the Mistress as she released her hypnotic hold on him. Regrettably, Mr. Farrel was turning out to be more work than she'd bargained for. Maybe she ought to hone hypnotic abilities some more?
"Now, why did you come here?" asked the Mistress, moving on.
"Its my production's manager, James McDermott. He's-He's asking questions. He's trying to undermine me," explained Mr. Farrel hysterically, obviously still recovering from his first meeting with the Autons.
"Nothing we can't handle," the Master said with an easy shrug as he walked over to stand at his Mistress's side. "Do you wish to deal with this Mr. McDermott, or should I?"
"Actually," purred the Mistress with a devilish smile. Her blue eyes alight as an idea popped into her head. "Why don't we test my little creation?"
"Is it ready?" asked the Master with intrigue.
"Ready for a test subject. And Mr. McDermott sounds like the perfect volunteer," said an eager Mistress as she collected what looked like a black plastic pillow from where she'd been working. She turned back to the Master, showing it off with pride as she sauntered back over to him.
"Very nice work, my dear," congratulated the Master, taking it when offered and looking it over. "I can't wait to see it in action," he said, handing it over to Mr. Farrel to carry. "Now, where might we find this Mr. McDermott?"
"He's in my office," answered Mr. Farrel.
"Right," declared the Master before leading the way back to Mr. Farrel's office, where an angry Mr. McDermott was waiting for them.
"Ah, I suppose you two are the troublesome customers that have been giving me and my lot all this bother," snapped Mr. McDermott once he saw the Master and Mistress enter with Mr. Farrel.
"Colonel Masters," the Master introduced himself politely. Despite the itching urge to kill the rude man before him. "And my wife, Ms. Masters," he added with a gesture to the Mistress, before holding out his hand for a shake. But Mr. McDermott only glared at it in response, hands refusing to budge from his hips. That was his second strike, and there wasn't going to be a need for a third. His fate had already been decided by the Master and his Mistress.
"Mr. Farrel tells me you two told him to change the mix. And just what right have you two got to interfere? Do you know you've ruined a whole day's production?" Mr. McDermott continued on angrily in his thick Irish accent, clearly having no desire to introduce himself.
That could be his third strike. That was if the Mistress was in the need of a three strike system before she killed a man. Which she'd only needed in one previous incarnation. It had been a personal rule at the time.
"I resent that claim, sir," responded the Master firmly, barely binding his anger. "As Mr. Farrel can attest, me and my wife have been putting a lot of work in for the benefit of this company." Mr. McDermott look dumbfounded, and was clearly about to make another angry comment before the Master continued on regardless, gesturing towards Mr. Farrel and the black plastic product he was holding. "I mean, just look at what my wife has created for you. Would you say that looks ruined?"
Mr. McDermott glared at the creation Mr. Farrel was holding, before sharply looking back to the Master and the Mistress as if they were lunatics. "Yes!" he snapped as if they'd both lost their minds, and the Mistress watched as the Master's glare darkened on the Irish man.
"Now, now, dear," the Mistress telepathically told him. "I'll handle this." At her word her Master backed off, but not without a regretful huff of air. After all, there was only so much insolence he would let slide by – especially towards the Mistress – before he would step in and make those responsible suffer.
While the Mistress had been communing with the Master however, Mr. McDermott had been continuing on his rant. "I mean it's the wrong colour and the wrong texture. Of course it's ruined! You'd have to be a blind bat not to think that's ruined!"
"Mr. McDermott, please," the Mistress said stepping ahead of the Master. "Perhaps a demonstration would help sell you on this unique piece of plastic. Mr. Farrel, if you would." At her instruction, Mr. Farrel then dropped the black plastic lump down on the floor. The Mistress then snapped her fingers and they all watched – the two humans in shock and awe while the two Time Lords both grinned darkly – as the black plastic began to expand. Growing in size like it was a blowup mattress, before it began to unfold itself into pristine black plastic armchair.
"Well…it's, er, unique right enough," conceded Mr. McDermott, obviously more than a little confused at how the little pillow like plastic had evolved into a fully sized armchair. "But–But you're still not a director of this company, Miss. You or your husband. I'm in charge of production here and I answer only to Mr. Farrel and his father."
"But of course," the Mistress agreed, hands clasped behind her back as she eyed Mr. McDermott with a sly look. A look which made the production manager very uncomfortable.
"And-And I'll tell you, you'll never sell that. You can have that for nothing. Look at it, it's like…like…black pudding!" exclaimed Mr. McDermott, trying to keep up him anger but failing as his uncomfortableness got the better of him. And it certainly wasn't help that the Mistress was still eyeing him with that twinkle in her eyes.
"Mr. McDermott, I've just had a thought," the Mistress began as she stepped right up to him. "Why don't you sit down and try the armchair for yourself. If you don't like it, then you'll never have to see me or my husband, ever again." Although, what she didn't tell him, was that no matter his opinion, there was only one outcome.
"You're crazy if you think I'm sitting in that thing," replied Mr. McDermott as he pointed a nervous hand at the armchair. "It looks uncomfortable. It's off putting. I can tell it's cold from here, and let me tell you no one likes cold…" As he'd been speaking, Mr. McDermott began to trail off, as he noticed the Mistress's flirty smile and her beautiful misty blue eyes.
Running her finger along the lapel of his jacket, the Mistress let out a seductive chuckle, as a goofy smile spread across Mr. McDermott's face. "You know, Mr. McDermott. It would make me happy if you sat in the chair. You want to make me happy don't you?" she asked in her angel like innocent voice.
"Of course," he answered, his Irish accent no longer as thick.
"That's right," the Mistress said with her calculating smile, as she straightened Mr. McDermott's tie for him. "Now, make me happy and sit in the chair." Unbeknownst to Mr. McDermott, the Mistress had slowly turned both him and herself around, so that he had his back to the armchair now. And then, as she stepped towards him, her strong finger pressing against his chest, he stepped back and then fell into the armchair. The hypnotic trance breaking as he sat down, but it didn't matter now.
"What am I doing in this thing?" snapped the confused Irishman, his accent thick and strong again. "Like I told you it's cold and clammy and…" he trailed off, trying to lift up his arms only to find they were stuck to the arm rests.
"Trouble, Mr. McDermott?" asked the Mistress with a cruel smile as she looked down at her test subject. Towering over him with her hands clasped together in front of her, ready to watch her creation in action.
"I-I-I can't move. I'm stuck to the chair." A more horrified look then came over Mr. McDermott, as he realised something even move terrifying. "Oh my God. It's moving!" he shouted in a rush of panic. Frantically he tried to get out of the chair, but it held on to him tightly. Pulling him even further in as it began to fold in around him.
Mr. Farrel stepped towards him, reaching out to help him, but the Mistress caught sight and halted him swiftly. "Stop, Mr. Farrel," she ordered, and he froze in his tracks. "Now step back," she added calmly, watching him do so while ignoring the pitiful screams of the man being crushed right in front of her. "And watch," she finished, her cold eyes going back to the near dead Mr. McDermott. Taking in the final moments of his life, before the remaining three limbs that stuck out of the chair went limp.
A spark shot through the Mistress's eyes then. Like a shooting star across the night sky. Taking a life had always given her great pleasure, and this one had been no different. And when the limbs of the now dead body, began to get pulled in by the plastic, the Mistress giggled to herself, as the remains vanished from sight, and the black plastic shrunk back down to its original size. Presumably crushing the remains of the corpse.
Once it was all over, Mr. Farrel waited a moment, before then calmly making his way over to his desk and turning on the intercom. "Sylvia," he said to his secretary on the other end. "Will you check Mr. McDermott's entitlement on termination of employment, please?"
Over her should, the Mistress shot Mr. Farrel an amused smile as he shut off the intercom. She'd had no idea that he possessed a sense of humour. But then, those were the kinds of personality traits that often got drowned out when you hypnotised someone – at least to the extreme degree which the Mistress had with Mr. Farrel.
"So, what do you think?" asked the Mistress with a confident grin, as she turned back to the Master who was stood over her refolded creation.
"Well, my dear, I almost hesitate to say it," the Master began regretfully, as he made his way over to his Mistress. Something like disappointment in his eyes. "But, well, it is a very clumsy operation isn't it."
"Clumsy?" snapped the Mistress defensively.
"Ah, now I can see I've up set you. But just remember I'm only trying to help you," he declared supportively.
The Mistress gave him a very wide eyed look with her big blue eyes, holding back the urge to start a shouting match with him. After all, they were in the middle of destroying a planet, this was hardly the time for a lovers' spat. "Well, by all means help," Mistress said curtly.
"Oh, now don't take that attitude," begged the Master halfheartedly. "I'm just merely pointing out that…that it's a bit of a lengthy process, isn't it? First the subject has to sit down. Then the chair has to crush him – which can take several seconds, during which we had to put up with all of that dreadful screaming."
"You know I like to make them suffer," pointed out the Mistress, almost on the verge of pouting. She was at the very least disappointed that the Master didn't approve of her creation.
"Yes, I know, my dear. But be reasonable, we just don't have the time. Think about it. It's not just the process of the killing itself, but the distribution of it all," explained the Master, trying to be as persuasive and thoughtful as possible.
"Oh, I don't know," spoke up Mr. Farrel from behind his desk thoughtfully. "Seems very effective to me," he said with an obvious look to the black plastic on the floor, and the body which was no longer in sight. "And I'm sure we could work out a way to distribute them."
"Thank you, Mr. Farrel," the Mistress said, shooting him a flirtatious smile. More to irritate the Master than anything else.
"Yes, but as I said we don't have the time," insisted the Master. "The production of these things alone would take a few hours if not days. And why use yards of plastic to accomplish that which can be done by just a few inches?" At this, the Mistress's intrigue perked, eyes narrowing on her Master.
"What are you saying?" she asked curiously, watching her lover as he began to grin.
"My dear," he began as he stepped over to her. "Haven't you noticed? The human body has a basic weakness. One that we shall exploit," he explained, before taking her hand in his and holding it up with an oddly tender smile.
Still feeling more than a little disappointed over the Master's rejection of her project, the Mistress remained thoughtful for a moment, before her gloomy expression lifted and she looked up into the Master's warm brown eyes. "Will they still suffer?" she asked hopefully.
"Of course they will," he assured her. "Only now, we won't have to listen to them scream while they do." At that the Mistress broke out into another smile. And with her smiling once more, the Master smiled too, before kissing her hand and then explaining his latest idea to her.