-Chapter 8-

"Well," Canton said, sitting upon the cold iron floor – there was only one chair in the room and the Master had assured him it was not a comfortable one, "it's a nice throne room. Though I'll admit, it's my first. I may not have complex tastes in the matter."

That was evident enough with the Matraxian wine, thought the Master as he watched Canton brace himself for another slug of the brew. Rightly so. To put it in terms of tastes a human tongue could experience, the wine must have tasted as if someone had taken hops and blueberries and then tried to triple distill them. It was, like the best things, an acquired taste. Sadly, that was the end of similarities between Matraxian wine and the "best things." At least it glowed, the Master consoled himself. At least he could pretend he was getting trashed at home.

"Oh," the Master waved the comment away as he took the bottle from Canton, sitting cross-legged next to him, "you're too kind. I've had to fire so many decorators – well, I say 'fire' – they have these underlying design quirks here. All trapezoids and mauve." He winced as he took another gulp from the bottle, swallowed, and handed it back. For that, Canton seemed grateful. My, someone certainly had a taste for the worst things in life. A man after the Master's own hearts. He was giving serious thought to keeping this one.

There was a sly sort of happiness to this man, as if he didn't let himself be cheerful without a concealed edge that could take over when things inevitably turned bloody. Good, the Master could appreciate that in a companion.

Ah, that was a dangerous word: companion. The Master whispered it under his breath as Canton took another slug, too wrapped up in his own little indulgences to hear. So many connotations. And why not? If the Doctor got to drag around whatever hanger-ons he found on that backwater earth, why couldn't the Master abscond with this little trigger happy sidekick. Not that they had anywhere to go, mind you. But, at the moment, the Master didn't care as much. It was good to have company with a fashionable number of heads. It was good to have someone who understood the concept of ingesting fermented liquids. Someone who knew the value of a suit.

"I was wondering about the trapezoids," Canton said, distantly, finishing off the rest of the bottle – the bastard, "you appear to have gone with black." He said and laid down. "A very, very black room," the went on after a long pause, "but it's a nice chair. Throne. Is that solid gold?"

"It is," the Master lied with a smile and laid down himself, floundering about on the cold floor. My but it was a bad idea to be drinking so soon into his regeneration cycle. That was the problem with a new body, your alcohol tolerance was back to square one. Well, you had to start somewhere, the Master thought. Or said aloud. He had quit keeping track.

To his side, Canton nodded. Maybe he had been speaking aloud. Rubbish wine. He should really give it up. Well, he only had seventy three more bottles in the cellar. They'd drink through those this week, kill the Doctor, and then go somewhere with some good wine.

"It's strange," Canton said after a moment, "being so far from home - well, I say home - I mean Earth - or New York - or Washington - or Richard - drinking. It seems such a human thing. Reminds me how long I've been gone. That I've been gone at all. Easy to forget that, rolling from one thing to - I'm sorry what am I talking about?"

"Canton," the Master replied, splayed out and smiling, "there is nothing human about drinking. Honestly, someone needs to broaden your horizons." The Master couldn't see Canton's eyebrow raise, but he could feel it, filling the long pause that erupted between their drunken selves.

"I think you've been beat to that privilege," Canton chuckled, "I did wind up on a genuine alien planet. Two heads and everything."

"Oh hush," the Master muttered, "you couldn't -"

A sound cut off his sentence. A familiar sound? What was that? Whhhhhhhhrrrrl? Dunk? That was the sound the – Oh. Oh, my.

The Master threw himself off from the floor in an attempt to stand up – a spectacular failure impressive for its enthusiasm if not its coordination. His flailing legs managed to knock the empty bottle out of Canton's startled hands onto the floor, shattering – lloud, but not as loud as the wheezing whoop which seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. It was about this point that Canton looked up. Bit slow on the uptake, but he was only human.

"Ah," said the Master as he laid on the floor and the TARDIS materialized in his throne room. The Master squinted as it faded into the time-stream. Well no, not the TARDIS. Just the console – and the Doctor – probably that was the Doctor – what a rubbish beard. Well, that was something. The Master sighed and tried his best to direct a few of his remaining regenerative energies – it had only been an hour after all – towards sobering up. It was like a shot of espresso had been injected directly into his bloodstream or he had inhaled the pollen of a jallax flower. He was manic, with none of his inhibitions standing. Perfect. He stood up.

"Hello, Sweetie," the Master smiled through perfect teeth as the Doctor rushed past him and towards Canton, sitting up and looking dazed.

"Canton," the Doctor yelled, flailing his arms as he crossed the throne room, and knelt at the dazed, suited man. The Master felt slighted. That was a rare feeling for the Master, but it was also a dangerous one.

"Love the beard" Canton said shakily as he looked towards – but not at – the Doctor. Ah, so that was how it was. The Doctor had traversed time and space in half a TARDIS to steal the Master's companion – friend – best friend – well, they weren't best friends yet, temporally speaking – but time was inconsequential to friendship and the Master. And grown a rubbish beard. Was that a new body? Ech. It was a crime against fashion. Worse than the cursed, billowing robes the Master had settled upon.

The Master sighed. You will never find the Moon's other half, echoed in the back of his mind. That was a high price to pay, certainly. Was it worth it? The Doctor squatted at Canton's side, probably diagnosing his drunkenness as some sort of time-sickness or Matraxian flu. The Master's hand twitched at the sword affixed to his side. It would be so easy. But Canton had said – well, Canton was rather drunk. Perhaps this was when he was supposed to kill the Doctor. And if not, well, under enough torture for a long enough time, anyone would crack. Maybe the Master would get the Doctor's death and the Moon's other half – and on his time. Yes, it was really the only logical sequence of events. One had to be realistic about these things.

The Master shrugged. In one fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword and brought it down unto the Doctor, back turned, ending him forever.

Except that wasn't what happened. The Master unsheathed his sword, and brought it down, only to have – something – what was that? – a frizzy orange blur – swoop over. It caught the sword between the palms of its hands, crashing into the Doctor's crouched figure. The Doctor barely had time to go 'Waaaaa' before the interloper twisted its hands, shattering the Master's blade.

Huh.

"Well," the Master said after a stunned silence, "can't blame a man for trying." The eyes that met him – oh, the frizz had eyes – disproved the statement. They were hard eyes, full of anger. Quite unreasonable, really. He raised a finger and but stopped. Hard to argue with eyes like those, really.

"I'm the Master, by the way," the Master said, not moving an inch.

Then something – a blur – was she a little girl? – nonsense, girls couldn't move that fast – punched him in the solar plexus.

There was a sensation of surprise, bring airborne, crashing, and, at last, pain.