There's a needle in his arm. He can feel it. He reaches for it with his other hand but something stops it. A restraint of some kind.
He pries his eyes open and finds himself in a room. Not the cell, and the recognizes the walls, the ceiling. He's in a room in the Master's suite. The guest room he saw when he was snooping, though that seems to have been an eternity ago.
He's been changed out of his clothes and into pyjamas. There are restraints around his wrists, his ankles. There's blankets keeping him warm and a saline drip in his arm. He's not sure how long he's been asleep, but there's the faint muzziness of the tranquilizer.
He concentrates. It's been less than a day. Twelve hours, 34 minutes, 21 seconds. 22. 23.
He still feels weak, sluggish, but no longer dehydrated. Not that he isn't thirsty, but it's not as bad. He twists his hand feeling for the fastening, grateful for this regeneration's long fingers. Leather, but padded. A steel buckle. Too sturdy and awkward to undo on his own. He suddenly realizes he's seen these restraints before, in that drawer full of sex toys. He feels a flush of embarrassment.
Still, could be worse. They're more comfortable than something like handcuffs, and he's rather relieved not to have the association with traditional hospital restraints of this era. The last time they were used on him he woke up in a morgue. Not the most pleasant of memories.
Not that he's out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. If he wants to keep up the metaphors, he's in the lion's den. And the lioness's, apparently. But he can't deny that he's glad to be out of that cell. If he never sees it again it'll be too soon.
He lies awake feeling the slow trickle of saline into his veins. The suite is quiet. As much as he needed to refuse the Master, he needs to regain his strength in order to make it through the next ten months or so. If he wants to save the Earth, save humanity, which he does. He isn't like Lucy, so broken she let herself become the Master's toy. He wishes he could save her, too, but he doesn't even know where to start, and he has to save himself before he can save anyone else. He has to start thinking in terms of survival.
If he can save the Master, he will. But he can't do that if he loses himself in the process.
He hears a door open, close. The murmur of voices. Footsteps on the thick carpet. Lucy walks into the room, bearing a tray very similar to the one before. She sets it down and sits on the edge of the bed. Perches, really.
"You're awake," she says, pleased. "Are you feeling better?"
"A bit," the Doctor admits, his voice no less creaky. "Thank you."
Lucy's polite smile widens to a grin. "Oh, you are feeling better. I'm so glad. Are you up to eating?"
"Might as well try," the Doctor says. With any luck he'll be able to keep it down, and the more he can eat the stronger he'll feel.
He's not exactly surprised when Lucy leaves the restraints on and feeds him herself. He's cooperative, more concerned with the food than how it's delivered. And it's not like he has any dignity to worry about at the moment.
When he starts to feel full, he also starts to feel sleepy. He yawns as Lucy is wiping his mouth. She gives him a fond look and pulls up the blankets a bit.
"Rest up," she says, and gives him a delicate kiss on the forehead.
The Doctor is asleep before she's even left the room.
The next few days vary little from this routine. The Doctor wakes up, eats, and then sleeps again. The only variation is when she detaches his cuffs from the straps on the bed and helps him to the toilet. At least he has the strength for that.
He's not going to starve himself again, not as long as he has the choice. He suspects he was following Jack's example, and in the end it did more harm than good. This isn't a situation where he can hold out for rescue. He's the rescue, and he's no good to anyone like this.
The cuffs never come off. They're not only buckled in place but locked rather securely, and unless he can get hold of his sonic screwdriver he'll have serious difficulty getting them off. He examined them in the bathroom and found metal wire woven between the leather, so simply using a knife on it wouldn't be enough. The Master clearly wants these to stay on. Not that he's seen him. If the Master has been in the suite, he's never around when the Doctor is awake. There's only Lucy, who despite her seeming fragility and refined nature, clearly has some sort of experience in nursing.
When he asks her, she says that she took care of her father. And that puts an end to that conversation.
As he feels up to it, Lucy helps him walk around the suite, and then lets him go on his own. He's no longer bound to the bed once the drip is removed, and after a week he's wandering the suite by himself, raiding the fridge as his appetite demands.
He doesn't get his clothes back, but the pyjamas are comfortable enough. It reminds him of his most recent regeneration. Classic stripes, though no satsumas in sight. It's a safe bet that the Master has CCTV footage somewhere with him in stripey pyjamas from that day. It's amazing to think that all that time, the Master was in London, right under his nose.
When he enquires after the Master now, Lucy says he's overseeing the fusion mills in Japan, but he'll be back soon. The Doctor isn't sure if that's a bad thing or a good thing.
Now that he's awake for hours at a time, he engages Lucy in conversation. Her father used to be in the House of Lords, which explains quite a lot about her. She went to all the right schools, excelled in athletics as well as languages. She gave her spare time to charities and helped the Master with Harry Saxon's autobiography. She's intelligent and ambitious in a narrow way, but also undeniably mad. Which made her the perfect woman, no doubt, as far as the Master was concerned.
She loves Harry Saxon quite deeply. It could be called devotion, but it's more than that. It seems that once the Master displaced her abusive father, he became the centre of her universe. In her eyes, he can do no wrong. It gives the Doctor the shivers and he wonders if the Master hypnotised her at all, but on reflection doesn't think it was necessary.
Lucy Saxon willingly surrendered herself to the Master. If she ever recognized her own free will, she doesn't seem to have had any use for it.
Apart from recovering and Lucy, there's a small library he can entertain himself with. Mostly political theory, but it's still something to read. He's getting strong enough to feel bored again, but it's still a hundred times better than that cell. Maybe a thousand.
He looks out at the window but they're too far up for him to truly see what the Master has wrought.
Finally, the Master returns. The Doctor is at once glad to see him and anxious about what he might have in store. For the moment, he decides to aim for casual yet wary.
"I trust he's been behaving himself," the Master says, after he's kissed Lucy hello rather emphatically.
"He's been very good," Lucy says, as if the Doctor is a child she's been looking after. "No trouble at all."
The Master releases her from his arms and walks over to the Doctor, who's sitting with Hegel's Elements of the Philosophy of Right open in his lap. He looks him over, then takes his arm and pushes up his sleeve. He pinches the Doctor's forearm, then checks the lock on the cuff. Satisfied, he lets go. The Doctor is rather bemused.
"Checking to see if I'm done yet?" he asks.
"Making sure you're not still starving yourself to death," the Master replies, evenly.
"I'm not," the Doctor says.
"Good," the Master says. His stiff posture relaxes. "You shouldn't have done that, you know."
"I think he punished himself enough, Harry," Lucy says. Not placating, exactly, but with an air of protectiveness.
"I agree," the Master says. He pours himself a drink, takes a seat on the couch. "It's good to be home," he sighs, and takes a long sip. "Bloody Japan. You'd think they'd be more obedient, but no."
Lucy settles beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Do we need to help them behave?"
"I'm very tempted," the Master says. "I can be very generous, but I don't like it when they refuse to learn." He looks over at the Doctor, the message implicit. The Doctor gives a small nod, then deliberately goes back to his book.
The Master leaves him alone as he relaxes from the hard work of enslaving humanity. Lucy dotes on him shamelessly.
When it's time for dinner, two servants come in. To the Doctor shock, one of them is Martha's mother. They stare at each other until the Master intervenes.
"Ah, Doctor. I think you've met Francine." He smiles. "Francine, meet the Doctor. He's going to be our guest for the foreseeable future."
"I see," Francine says, not sure what to make of this. She sees his physical condition, his clothes. Then her eyes catch on the cuffs on each wrist and ankle, and he can see her making up her mind. He's a prisoner like her, and that's all she needs to know.
"Tell the Doctor about Jack, Francine," the Master prompts. "He gave up quite a lot to save him from my tender mercies."
"Jack's fine," Francine says, and he can tell that she's holding something back but she's not lying either. "We take turns feeding him."
The Doctor would have preferred a more positive report, but it's still a relief to know that the Master was true to his word. At least he's following the letter of his promise. "Thank you, Francine," he says, quietly. "I'm glad to hear it. I hope you and your family are all right."
"We are," she says, tightly.
Before the Doctor can ask her to tell Jack he's all right, the Master puts and end to the conversation. Francine casts a look at him over her shoulder as she goes into the dining room.
It's all right. She'll tell Jack something, at least. That he's not dead.
It's not until the servants are gone that the Doctor realizes he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the Master to hurt him, physically or emotionally. It's almost harder because nothing's happened yet, because all he can do is anticipate.
But all the Master does is invite him to sit down and eat.
Delayed shock, that's what it is, the Doctor thinks. Delayed by a good month, but that's irrelevant. He just wishes he could make himself relax. A tall order given his situation, his captivity, his... whatever this is. But he managed it before. This shouldn't be any different. But it is.
"Stop worrying," the Master says, mildly amused. "Anyone would think I starved you and it wasn't something you did to yourself. I already said I wasn't going to punish you."
That finally gets the Doctor's hackles up. "I don't recall you having any right to punish me or not," he says, annoyed.
"Fair point," the Master concedes. "All right. So we understand each other, these are the ground rules. As long as you're on the Valiant or Earth, I have the right to do anything I want to you. If you misbehave, we'll start with punishments and move on to isolation. If you're a very naughty Time Lord, I'll take it out on the humans. There's plenty of population centres I'm not doing anything useful with."
The Doctor's stomach tightens. "And I'm just supposed to accept that?"
The Master chews thoughtfully. "Well, you could throw yourself out the window. But there's no guarantee I wouldn't take out my grief on a whole continent." He smiles smugly. "Cheer up! We're going to have fun. As long as you're a good boy. Maybe even if you're not."
Lucy giggles. "Oh Harry, you're such a tease."
"I know! Come on, Doctor, where's that smile?"
"I left it with my appetite," the Doctor retorts. "Are you going to punish me for that?"
"Of course not. What do you think I am, some sort of monster?" The Master's grin is particularly toothy. "I enjoy our witty repartee. Witty on my end, anyway. No, I want you to be your stubborn, human-loving self. Challenge me, Doctor. Keep things interesting. Let us take care of you. Lucy's very good at that, aren't you dear?"
"Isn't he wonderful?" Lucy says to the Doctor.
"You're our guest," the Master says. "Consider it a vacation. Kick up your feet, read a few books. Enjoy the food. Only the best for us." He raises his wine glass. "A toast to us."
The Doctor declines to raise his glass. He holds the Master's gaze as he and Lucy clink glasses and drink.
The Doctor's instinct is to get up from the table and go back to his room, refuse to eat. But he's already been down that path and he knows it won't do any good. He forces himself to eat, to drink. His body needs the energy, the proteins, the nutrients. It doesn't matter that he's too angry to taste it.
He hates feeling trapped. Always has. It's why he left Gallifrey. It's why he spent all that time with UNIT half out of his mind with impatience. It's why he can never stop moving. Except now he's stuck, he's trapped. He wants to rip off the cuffs and throw them in the Master's face, but he's powerless and he hates it.
It was bad enough when the Master used Jack to keep him in line. Now the whole Earth is at stake. And even though it'll all be reversed with the paradox, he couldn't live with himself if he was responsible for the kind of suffering and death the Master promises.
No, that's a lie. He already has to live with that kind of suffering and death on his conscience. But he refuses to add any more. It's already too terrible for words.
He's too wound up to deal with the Master's petty games tonight. He grits his teeth through the conversational evening and excuses himself early. The tension has worn him out anyway. But once he's under the blankets he finds he can't fall asleep no matter how hard he tries.
As he's lying in bed, he listens. He hears them talking, low murmurs through the wall. He hears the creak of the bed and then laughing gasps, and by the time Lucy is crying out rhythmically he realizes they're having sex.
Not again, he thinks, and covers his head with his pillow. It doesn't help. Damn the both of them for being so bloody noisy and... and inconsiderate. He thinks it's the petty evils that are the worst. The big stuff, that's easy. He can fight the big stuff. What's he supposed to do about this? Pound on the wall?
He turns over, thumps his pillow and huffs. He closes his eyes and tried to listen to the silence beneath the sounds, but finds himself straining to hear the Master. Lucy's rather loudly enthusiastic, but the Master... the Doctor finds it far too easy to picture him. That day in their bedroom...
He knows his recovery is speeding along. Otherwise he wouldn't have the energy to spare for arousal, even if only a simmer.
He'll have to give them credit for endurance, at least. He turns over again and tries counting asteroids.
The next day he wakes up feeling immediately tetchy. He's just not in the mood. He glowers out the window, glares at his breakfast, and stomps back to his room to read. There's a comfy chair and a reading lamp in the corner, and he takes advantage of them. Both Lucy and the Master have gone off to do something undoubtedly evil, and they're welcome to it. He's just glad he doesn't have to deal with them when he's in this much of a sulk.
By lunchtime he's sick of reading and decides to case the joint again. This time it's not so much about snooping as looking for any kind of weaknesses in the security of the place. He's not surprised to find a small camera embedded high in a wall in his room, pointed down at the bed. He makes a face into it and covers the lens with peanut butter.
When he tries to open the door out, it doesn't budge. He works at it with a butterknife for a half-hour and it clicks open. He has a second to savour his success, and then he finds himself staring at a rather muscular pair of thighs. He looks up to see two guards staring down at him, and a few of those deadly globes hovering menacingly behind them. Another four buzz past, on their way to who knows what. The ship must be swarming with them.
"I'll just..." he says, and closes the door, leans back against it. So much for that. Even if he snuck past that lot, he'd need more than a butterknife to make it to the TARDIS, much less inside. Still, he has plenty of time to improvise. Maybe he can figure out some signal to short out the Toclafane, broadcast it over the intercom. That'd be a nice trick. The ventilation ducts are, sadly, much too small to crawl through. Lucy's too mad and madly in love to be convinced to betray the Master. He could cling to the outside of the Valiant, break through to another floor and try to find Jack, the Joneses, but not unless he had a way to avoid being immediately zapped or sliced into pieces. Those bloody Toclafane. Without them, the Master could never have conquered Earth. He always has to go around making alliances, time after time. Typical.
He could set up a feedback amplification to short out the electrical grid of the ship. Unfortunately, that would probably send them all crashing to Earth to instant firey doom. And thanks to the TARDIS' sturdy exterior, it wouldn't even scratch the paradox, which is the heart of the problem.
What else, what else?
He could give the Master and Lucy food poisoning. Somehow he doubts that would do anything more than get him into trouble, and the Master seems to genuinely believe he's in charge. Well, technically he is, but threatening punishments? That is new. Well, not entirely new. Their rebellious games on Gallifrey did tend to have a certain... flavour to them. But that was a thousand years ago, and this doesn't feel like a game. The Master seemed far too focused for that.
No, for the moment he's stuck. This suite is his new cell, albeit a very comfortable one. He plops himself down on the Master's bed and fiddles with the cuff on his left ankle. The mechanism for the lock doesn't appear to be accessible. Probably keyed to the Master's touch or psychic command. Now that he takes a good look, the buckle is effectively decorative, either there to disguise the true nature of the cuffs or for aesthetic effect. Probably the latter. The Master has always loved the projection of power in any form, even a detail as small as this.
He wonders if Lucy wore these, since they were in that drawer. This regeneration has fairly thin wrists, so it's possible the cuffs would fit her as well. He looks askance at the dresser. He might as well have a peek. It's not like he has anything better to do, and he'll take his small rebellions where he can.
But when he opens the drawer, to his surprise he finds another set of cuffs. He picks one up and inspects it. Slightly smaller, and none of the high security nonsense in his. It's just that they look practically the same. It gives him a strange feeling and he doesn't know what to make of it.
He wonders which came first, then decides that isn't a helpful train of thought and puts the cuff back, shuts the drawer.
The thing is, the Master hasn't made any overtures towards him. Not really. But the Doctor can't shake the feeling that if he tilts the last two months until he sees the world as crookedly as the Master does...
No. Yes. Maybe...
His hearts beat ever so slightly faster. He forces them to slow. He goes back to his room for his book, but sits out in the living room to read it.
The Master comes in alone. The Doctor is fairly sure they have other private rooms on the ship, along with whatever residences the Master has on Earth. It's easy to forget in his relative isolation that messing with his head only takes up a small part of the Master's busy schedule. As for Lucy, she was disinclined to talk about her share of the conquering of Earth, but he doubts she sits around all day. Harry Saxon's perfect wife must surely have a stake in management.
The Doctor watches him carefully when he walks in, and notes that the Master's eyes linger on the cuffs. The Doctor rolled up his pyjama sleeves, curious to see what reaction he would get, and he's intrigued by the result. An easy excuse is that he's looking for a way to manipulate the Master, look for a weakness, but the truth is the both of them just enjoy getting reactions out of each other. That's what they do.
"You're going to finish that soon," the Master observes.
"I hope you haven't burned down all the libraries," the Doctor replies. "Otherwise I'm going to need something to entertain me once I read through all of your paltry collection."
"It's not paltry. It's selective." The Master goes to pour himself his customary glass, though he's moved from scotch to whisky for the time being. "Not that you have enough taste to know the difference."
The Master passes close as he walks to the couch, his finger tracing briefly over one cuff, almost an unnoticeable motion. The Doctor might have missed it if he hadn't been watching for it. The Master sprawls casually, facing him at an angle.
"So where's Lucy, then?" the Doctor asks.
"Oh, she won't be back tonight," the Master says. "She's found her niche."
"And what's that?"
"Executions," the Master says, with an air of pride. "There's nothing quite like madness for inspiration. I think every time it's like she's killing her father."
The Doctor feels a bit sick. "That's what she does?"
"Not all the time. But I let her have all the useless old men. It's only fair, seeing how I did what she never could." The Master takes a sip, savouring the whisky as it goes down. "You should be glad I aged you back down. She might have gone after you."
The Doctor shifts uncomfortably, then start to roll back down his sleeves.
"No," the Master says, quietly stern. "Leave it."
The Doctor looks at him defiantly. "And what if I don't?"
"I don't think your sleeves are worth the life of a small child," the Master warns. "Two, in fact. One for each sleeve."
The Doctor rolls his sleeve back up.
The Master smiles, pleased. "Good. Keep them that way from now on."
"So rolling up my sleeves counts under 'very bad Time Lord,' does it?" the Doctor says.
"No," the Master replies. "But being ashamed to be mine, that's quite terrible indeed."
"I'm not your property."
"I think we've had this conversation before," the Master says. "I know you're a slow learner, but really."
"Prisoner, yes," the Doctor concedes. "But that's all."
"I'll let that one pass," the Master says, calmly. "But don't do it again. Next time I won't be so lenient."
The Doctor glares at him, and then says with complete deliberation: "I am not. Your. Property."
The Master's anger seems to rise in a flash, then lower to a steady simmer. "I think you need a lesson," he says, slowly. "Roll up your sleeves to the elbow and your trousers to the knees. Argue with me and this will be so much worse."
The Doctor presses his lips together in a thin line and does as he's told.
The Master stands and walks to the bedroom. He comes back carrying the belt from his robe. The Doctor looks at it curiously but doesn't comment.
"Follow me," the Master says. "And don't bother trying anything stupid."
The Doctor follows him out of the suite. The metal grating is uncomfortable on his bare feet, and along with the guards there's Toclafane everywhere, bobbing playfully or zooming past with determined menace. Sick creatures, whatever they are.
To the Doctor's surprise, they end up in the main conference room, where President Winters was disintegrated. To his greater surprise, the Jones family has been gathered, and so has Jack. Jack looks relieved to see him, and for the Doctor it's mutual. Jack looks a bit dirty but otherwise unharmed, and he wishes that meant he actually was unharmed. The Joneses are quietly defiant, Francine and Tish dressed as servants and Clive in coveralls.
There's also a young girl standing in front of the stairs. Her clothes are ragged at the edges, layered for warmth. Dirt streaks her dark skin but her hair is in neat braids. She looks frightened but proud. She reminds him of Martha. That's probably why she's here.
"I love a good audience," the Master says, satisfied with the scene before him. "So glad you could come. Today, boys and girls, we're going to find out what happens when the Doctor doesn't behave. Stand over there, Doctor."
The Doctor walks over to a spot next to the windows, across from Jack and the Joneses and a short distance from the young girl.
"Doctor," Jack says, taking a half-step forward.
The Master tsks, shakes his head. "If you can't behave you'll have to leave."
Jack couldn't possibly look any unhappier about all this, but he steps back. Worry practically radiates off him when he looks at the Doctor, and anger when he looks at the Master.
"The gang's all here!" the Master says, clapping his hands together. "Well, almost, but who needs corpses stinking up the place?" He walks over to the girl, takes her by the chin. "Just look at that face. She's a real fighter. If she grew up, I bet she'd make all kinds of trouble."
"Don't do this," the Doctor says, half-warning and half-pleading.
"You had your chance," the Master says. He leaves the girl and walks over to the Doctor, takes him by the chin. "But you just don't know when to quit. You never did, as I recall. Always had to do things your way, always had to break the rules."
"So did you," the Doctor says, hoping he can appeal to the Master's nostalgia.
"That's where you're wrong, as always," the Master says, unmoved. "The thing about rules, Doctor, is they exist for a reason. Without them the universe is chaos. Just look at the mess you've left behind!" He waves at the air and the Doctor sees the tell-tale shimmer of fluid time, though they're the only two in the room that can perceive it. "Do you think I could have done all this if the Eye of Harmony still existed?"
"Tell me what the paradox is," the Doctor says, needing to know.
The Master ignores that. "Thanks to you, this is my universe now. My rules. And you will obey them."
"Or else what?" the Doctor says, defiant.
The Master takes a step back, his mouth curving in a cruel smile. "Or else this." He pulls the laser screwdriver from his jacket and aims it at the Doctor.
The Doctor screams. Howls in agony as he falls shuddering to the floor, his very molecules twisting and bending and turning back and back and back. He's aware of nothing but white, blinding, utter pain.
And then suddenly it's over. He's lying on the floor, lungs burning, muscles trembling. He whimpers and it sounds strange to his ears, his voice high and thin. He starts to push himself up and stops, stares at his hand. It's a child's hand. No.
"Doctor!" Jack cries.
The Doctor sits up, staring at his hands. The cuffs are loose, his pyjamas entirely too big. He touches his face, his body. He looks up and the Master seems so tall.
"Eight years old," the Master says, tilting his head as he looks down at him. "The age when learning begins. Induction into the Time Lord way of life. That's when it all went wrong for you, Doctor. You learned the wrong lessons. Fortunately for you, I'm a Professor."
"Age me back," the Doctor says, wishing his voice didn't tremble so much. In a child's body he has a child's mind, even if he has all his memories. A Time Lord is more than the sum of his timeline, he is flesh. He is change. The mind is the water and the body is the river, and the water takes the shape of the river. A hermit once taught him that, after he'd taught him the secret of life in a daisy.
The Master pockets the screwdriver and reaches down, grabs the cuffs. At his touch they contract, shrinking to fit his small wrists. He taps them against each other and lets go, and the Doctor finds them stuck fast. He struggles angrily, kicks with all his strength, but the Master does the same to the cuffs at his ankles. He stands and steps away.
"Let me go!" the Doctor screams, angry and afraid. "Let me go let me go!"
"I'm going to count to three," the Master says, exasperated. "If a certain mother doesn't shut up that child she's going to find herself without any daughters at all. One, two--"
Francine rushes across the room and pulls the Doctor into her arms, covering his mouth with her hand, muffling his screams. The Doctor struggles briefly and then stills, goes quiet. His eyes prickle with tears. He wants his TARDIS, he wants to go home.
"--three."
"It's all right," Francine hushes. "I've got you." She keeps her hand over his mouth, but with only the lightest pressure.
"Peace and quiet," the Master says, eyes closed and head tilted back. He sighs. Pulls the robe belt from his pocket and tosses it at the Doctor. It lands over his legs. "So his trousers don't fall down."
Francine takes the belt. She gently lays the Doctor on the floor and gives him a pleading look to be still and quiet as she ties it around his waist. The Doctor doesn't struggle, not wanting to risk Tish's life. It's bad enough that he's lost Martha, even though he knows she's still alive down there somewhere. She has to be.
The Doctor pushes himself up with his elbow until he's sitting. He looks at the young girl and realizes that she's eight. They're both eight, and she's never going to be nine. But she's looking at him with sympathy and pity.
"Doctor, meet Martha," the Master says, gesturing to one and then the other. "Not your Martha, of course, but the pickings are starting to get slim down there."
Please don't do this, the Doctor thinks, begging silently. Please don't. Please.
"Martha, can you be brave for that boy over there?"
Martha gives a determined nod.
"Isn't that sweet? Mini-Martha." The Master grins. "Do you know what, mini-Martha? I'm going to give you a sweet, just for being so brave."
A guard carries over a tray. On it there's a glass full of chocolate milk. The Master takes it and holds it out to her. "I bet you haven't had chocolate milk in months."
Martha shakes her head.
"Go on," the Master says. "It's your reward."
Martha looks nervously around, then takes the glass. She drinks it greedily, probably been half-starved until now.
Francine gives a small, choked sob. She looks away, unable to watch.
The Master takes the glass back, and Martha is giving him a crooked smile. Then her eyes go wide, wider. She starts to gasp and wheeze and clutches at her throat. The wheeze gets worse and worse until she can't breathe at all and she falls to her knees, lips turning blue, and she's so very scared.
The Doctor's eyes well with tears. His chin trembles. His small hands curl into fists. But he can't look away.
It doesn't take any time at all for Martha to die.
The Master walks over to the Doctor, towers over him. Doesn't say anything, just looks at him, a long, even, pointed look. Then he walks over to the table and puts down the glass.
The Doctor bursts into tears. Francine takes him into her arms again, holds him close. She glares up at the Master with a mother's fury. "You evil bastard," she hisses.
"Aww. Poor little Doctor. Don't you just want to eat him up?" the Master coos. His expression turns to a sneer, quick as mercury. "He always was a crybaby."
Jack runs full out at the Master, murder in his eyes, but a Toclafane shoots him dead on the spot. He drops to the floor with a thump.
"Look at this mess," the Master says, shaking his head. "Corpses everywhere. Someone clean them up before they start to stink."
The guards drag Jack away and carry Martha off. One back to prison and the other... The Doctor doesn't want to think about what will happen to her body. He swallows his sobs and wipes at his eyes with his bound hands.
"Stop it," the Doctor pleads, voice thick and young and shaking.
"Say please," the Master says, sternly.
"Please stop," the Doctor pleads.
"What's the magic word?" the Master says, in a sing-song voice.
The Doctor looks up at him. "Please stop, Master," he says, defiant and afraid and just wanting it all to stop. He'll do anything to make it stop.
The Master looks pleased. "There's hope for you yet. I think I'll keep you like this for a bit. See if we can't make this lesson stick."
The Doctor looks down, ashamed and angry and lost. Francine holds him tighter, but then the Master reaches down and takes his arm and pulls him away from her.
"No," she gasps, as he slips from her hands. "Oh god, no."
The Master releases the ankle cuffs with a touch and the Doctor finds his footing, but the Master's grip on his arm is like iron. He looks back at the Joneses one last time as he's dragged from the room. He trips on the grating, jamming his toes against the steel, but the Master doesn't slow down.
He's dragged all the way into the suite and then into the guest room. The Master drags him up onto the bed and then releases him, only to lock his ankles together again. He turns and reaches up and wipes the peanut butter off the camera lens with his thumb.
He leans over the Doctor. "Do you know what killed her? What I put into the chocolate milk?"
"You poisoned her!" the Doctor cries.
"Not at all. I gave her this." He holds his thumb over the Doctor's face. "She was allergic to peanuts. This killed her, Doctor. You killed her."
"No," the Doctor gasps, horrified, sick. His chin trembles. "No!" He starts to sob, to bawl. It's too awful, too terrible to bear.
The Master wipes his thumb on the Doctor's shirt. He stands, walks to the door. Looks back coldly, turns out the light, shuts the door behind him and locks it.