This was no ordinary incarceration. There was no time to think clearly about a plan, or even have a backup method of escape. As the Master passed every mirror, he was reminded that he wasn't even allowed a goatee. Nothing. Even that small allowance would have kept his spirits up, reminding him of what he once was, but the Council were happier to keep him like everyone else. Not that there was much time to actually think about anything deeply. He was kept far too busy for that.
The Master had been drafted to create weapons. Now, his station was underground, beneath the Citadel itself. It was a horrific, almost claustrophobic place, dripping with dull grey walls and dull grey work. There was no movement for creativity: the plans were already drawn, and the Master would build what he was told. In the past, this would have been an excellent opportunity to steal components for himself, but the Council were slowly stripping him of not only his individuality, but of his soul. So he couldn't manipulate others with his hypnotic voice, or even just explain the truth, the High Council members had voted the usage of technology to deaden his vocal chords and tighten his jaws. That way, at least, they knew he would be forced to obey the rule of silence, whether he liked it or not.
He was still guarded, of course. A week since his reanimation, the Master was never left alone. He was only allowed to eat before commencing work in the morning, and last thing at night when he had been escorted back to his cell. That was when their machines brought his jaws and voice back to normal. It wasn't anything less than pure, unadulterated slavery. And the Master, despite his best efforts, was starting to crack.
From the other side of the large laboratory, a short, dark haired male found his way in front of the almost defeated Master. "Koshynarn?" A young Time Lord, barely out of the Academy, he had been working down in the weapons arsenal for over a month. Watching the supposed 'mute,' the young one had decided that he was going to befriend him. The guards gave the Master that new name, citing that he had been offworld for a while before becoming mute. How could the Master disagree? When one of the unknown guards had uttered a name so similar to his original, though, the Master wished that he could have spat at him. Trust the Council to make this as painful for him as possible. And still the Master could do nothing. "I can't get this temporal radius emitter to properly flux in the same wavelength as the capacital regulator. It just keeps short-fusing," he then finished, lamely.
Looking at the boy with something akin to disgust, the Master took the machine from his hands. With his own sonic screwdriver already out in front of him, the Master then took the two tools. A simple adjustment to the sonic setting, raising the original sonic emitter and strength of the blue ray pulse, and the boy's machine was quickly knocked into sync. The boy himself just looked absolutely amazed. "They don't teach things like that at the Academy…" he murmured in awe. Tristellan, the boy, then took the screwdriver from the Master, hopefully trying to remember the exact positioning of the equipment so he could use it again. "Thanks. Thanks a lot."
Where Tristellan was pleased, recognising a true genius when he saw it, the Master felt another little part of his nature begin to shrivel up. Since when was he a teacher for incompetent so-called engineers? The sequencing was simple, the adjustment obvious, and yet Tristellan hadn't seen it. Shuddering, he returned to his own work. The guards stood back in case he were to attack them – wisely enough – but he wasn't so sure they would be exactly ecstatic knowing that he wasn't working to the best of his ability. Just because the Master himself believed bringing individuals back from the dead was wrong, he definitely didn't want to return to that kind of state, either. And, considering the Council brought him back without explaining anything to the Lady President, he was also sure there would be no qualms in quickly dispatching him back to the grave. Head bowed, the Master's eyes reflected blue sparks of the machinery he was pulling together. His own, natural blue was starting to fade.
A/N: Wow, been a while since an update, eh? You starting to feel sorry for the Master yet? The Mister Master loves reviews, and so do I! :D