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The Master’s stomach growled pitifully.
“It’s just…”
Something took over. Not just hunger. Something more.
“…I’m starving.”
He was always hungry.
He never thought about it. Not in any timeline. Sometimes he didn’t even wait for her to whimper, just grabbed her by the arms and took a bite out of her neck, tearing muscle from muscle as her screams turned to gurgles. Sometimes he offered her mercy, strangling her to death (he might have snapped her neck in the process but that was neither here nor there) and laying the fresh meat down to feast. Sometimes he’d break her arm and rip it from her body, letting her watch in horror as he got his first decent meal in months.
No matter the method, the outcome was the same: he’d tear into her, letting the blood soak his beard and silk shirt. His yellow waistcoat turned a violent shade of crimson. He drank her blood like wine, fermented in her veins and now spilling eagerly as if from a barrel.
The guards had been the first. They had found him laying silently, eyes wide open, rolled up sleeves revealing sickeningly weak limbs. One had looked in his eyes, just for a moment. It had been enough. He had hypnotised them and commanded them to kill the other and then themself. It was all he could do.
He stood, after it was over, and bid them his farewells. And he fell. A dizzy spell took him crashing against the wall – against the wallpaper – and fumbling for purchase. His gaze fell upon one of the guards, burned by laser fire, looking like so much pork crackling. His mouth watered.
He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He didn’t know where they’d been, what diseases they’d picked up, what if they had the plague too? What would immortality-aged flesh taste like?
Just a bite.
The hunger abated, finally. He felt better. All those speeches, all that scheming, all that running about all on an empty stomach.
He suddenly felt rather sick. He’d eaten too much for his weakened body to handle. The meat had cooled considerably. He retched, coughing desperately into a handkerchief.
Don’t let it come back up, don’t waste it, don’t let it come back up, don’t waste it…
It felt like a hangover. A hangover would be preferable – at least that would have meant a good night before.
His mind was clearing. He sat back on his heels and stared. Lady Sutlumu – or what was left of her – lay barren before him. His handkerchief was red.
He started to think. What would his past selves think? What would the Doctor think? What should he think? Should he even think about it?
The bones were white.
His mind supplied a quote – Hannibal Lecter. Something about pairing a liver with a nice glass of chianti. He liked chianti. Perhaps he could… oh. Oh, no. Her liver was gone. He must have already eaten it. What a shame.
The Master staggered to his feet, legs still weak. He considered leaving his hankie behind. The Gallifreyan embroidered on it changed his mind. He stuffed it in his pocket.
She had been trying to hide. She was smart – no one would find her here. It here. The corpse. The remains.
The leftovers.
He’d have to change clothes.