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It had been easy.
Falsifying the records for one Harold Saxon, the golden boy of Cambridge and political ingénue? Easy. Securing the hearts of Great Britian’s electoral constituents? Easy. Installing himself as the front-runner for the next Prime Minister?
Easy!
It was all so easy. Laughably so—it was a wonder that the Master hadn’t tried this plan earlier and saved himself centuries of disasters. Beyond his microphone the moderator was facilitating the latest question from a long queue of audience participants towards his opponent, who was fumbling and stuttering his way towards a concluding statement like a virgin on prom night. The Master shut his eyes, smiling faintly as he zoned out, allowing the nearness of his victory to wash over him.
So easy. And so unbelievably, unbearably…
Boring!
The Master could practically feel his neurons dying, each independently refusing to regenerate as the moderator droned on. He opened his eyes again, straightening his suit. His facial muscles were aching from the smile he’d had plastered onto his face for the past hour, and there was only so much enjoyment he could squeeze out of watching his political opponent leave sweat-stains on his paper cue cards on the other side of the stage. Convincing a room of idiotic humans to follow him blindly? All that took was a confident smile, a few false pleasantries, and boom! He’d hardly even needed mind control, the humans were practically begging for his every word, and he’d done nothing but oblige them all evening. The Master had, well, mastered the debate portion of their event. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see at least one reporter scribbling away furiously, noting down his every quip and proclamation; as soon as the recording of the evening was televised, there wouldn’t be a soul left on this blasted island who wouldn’t vote for him. Still, running for political office had meant months of these public forums. Countless hours spent sweating under overhead fluorescents for post-debate ‘Q and A’, as an endless line of vermin lined up to grill him on his political stances—
“Excuse me? You're Saxon, aren’t you? “
The Master pulled himself from his thoughts, only to lurch with a full-bodied doubletake as the next man (well—male, at very least, but certainly not a man) in the queue addressed him, straightening his hat and tapping impatiently against the public podium. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his opponent brightening, watching with tentative hope as the Master demonstrated the first sign of flappability he’d shown all evening.
NO! No, no, no, it couldn’t be…! “Yes, I’d certainly hope so,” the Master replied levelly, quashing his shock with another winning smile. “After all, it’s what my publicity team has advertised on the pamphlets, and I’d hate to throw away all their hard work.”
The audience gave a sensible chuckle at that as the Doctor (the Doctor?!) stared him down from the public microphone, staunchly unamused. “Hmm.”
Dark eyes narrowed, and the Master couldn’t help a small shiver, immediately frowning at himself for it. Oh, but this wasn’t fair—this wasn’t even his Doctor! Not the wiry, desperate thing he’d left on Malcassairo calling his name. No, this was a young Doctor, one with a shroud of suspicion weighing down an aged face. A face that he’d last seen disappearing out from under his hands on the Cheetah planet; one hand on his neck, the other above their heads wielding a club, poised to strike.
Oh, just imagine how much trouble it’d have saved them both if he’d managed to bring it down—
“Are you listening?”
“Hmm?” the Master was yanked from his memories in a flash, immediately straightening his tie and refastening his grin. “My apologies, can you repeat that? It’s these stage lights, you know, they do wear on the mind.”
Those eyes were still on him, scanning him slowly and visibly unimpressed, and the Master felt a familiar prickle tense at his shoulders. Rage mostly, coupled with something more—where the Doctor was involved, there was always something more…
“I was asking,” the Doctor pressed, his cane taping tersely against the podium base, “if you could elaborate on your plan for technological expansion. What’s that thing you’ve been going on about in interviews, that Arkanglular…?”
“Archangel,” the Master corrected, and the prickling grew worse. But a moment’s slow breathing later and he smoothed it down. “I’m glad you asked, it’s the pride and joy of my campaign. Free, untethered wireless connection for the whole of the United Kingdom, and—” he added, pausing to give each camera a moment of his calculatedly benevolent expression, before turning back to the Doctor, “since you’ve brought it up, I think I can let you in on a little secret we have planned for next week’s press conference. Starting next month, we’ll be launching globally.”
There were gasps in the room, scatters of applause, the capture flash of cameras, and all the approving murmurs the Master had expected after such a reveal. On the far end of the stage, he could practically see his opponent wilt, recognizing the reveal for the death-toll of his campaign that it was. As though that hairless ape had ever had a real chance.
The only person in the room who appeared less than elated was the Doctor. Predictable. Even when he didn’t know who he was dealing with, trust the Doctor to have no sense of appreciation for the Master’s work. If anything, the reveal seemed to sour his expression further. “That’s a bit overreaching, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary,” the Master’s grin grew, sharpening. “We’ve already secured contracts across Europe and Africa, and our contacts in Asia have assured me that they’re poised to agree within the week. It’s only the North Americans that have refused—but then again, even the Prime Minister of Great Britian can’t win them all.”
Another round of polite laughter, another win for his public image.
“The potential Prime Minister, you mean,” the Doctor corrected waspishly, interrupting the chatter.
Immediately the room fell silent, shocked into wordlessness by the unexpected rudeness against their favorite political star. On stage, the Master’s gleaming smile tightened and flatlined, until only his teeth remained. “The soon-to-be Prime Minister,” he couldn’t help but redress, unable to stop a sliver of irritation from souring his tone.
“That’s a little presumptuous, isn’t? As far as I’m aware, no one has voted for you yet.”
The Master wanted to strangle the Doctor with his own moronic question mark jumper. He could take that smarmy cane of his and shove it down his throat until he regenerated into someone more pleasant, if only the idea that any Doctor would ever be capable of pleasantness wasn’t such a farce. He glared down at him, swallowing past the anger sitting heavily in his throat. “Naturally. I was only referring to the public opinion polls—all of which indicate a landslide victory in my favor. Although of course, one never does know until election day.”
Distantly, he could see a few cameras flash and hear the scratch of pens on paper. A bold reporter or two might take the comment as an unsavory show of ego, but it couldn’t be helped. The Master’s restraint was wearing thinner by the second, and if this whole debate didn’t end in bloodshed, he’d consider it a win for his self-discipline.
The Doctor’s smile was patronizing. “We’ll see,” he said simply, purposefully aloof, as to make the Master look like the one whose reactions were disproportionate.
“—Well then!” Both the Master and the Doctor’s heads snapped to the left where, towards the side of the stage and long-since ignored by them both, the event's moderator tried to regain the room’s attention with a faux cheerful tone. “Thank you for your question, it’s always great to receive constituent input. I’m sure those of you watching at home will—”
“Oh, come now—we aren’t done yet,” the Master butted with vicious sweetness, even as his brain screamed at him that this was not part of the plan! “I don’t think I’ve swayed this brave representative of the people yet, and I’d hate for anyone to leave feeling dissatisfied.” He turned away from the moderator’s confused blinking for having been brought off-schedule, ignored the flurry of action from his PR team behind the stage curtains as they frantically signaled that he’d said enough, and focused solely back on the Doctor. “Let me ask a follow-up question to the man—hmm, what did you say your name was?”
At the podium, the Doctor looked a little surprised that the Master hadn’t let the topic go. His eyes widened, and that know-it-all look this regeneration of his seemed to have permanently glued to his face was finally melting away. “John Smith,” the Doctor replied, far too hesitantly to seem like anything but the lie it was.
There were murmurs now. As he’d hoped, the spectators had similar suspicions regarding the Doctor’s go-to alias, and skepticism against any man who would speak out so boldly against proposed policies without the confidence to put his actual name behind his words. Now it was the Master whose expression was dripping with patronization. “John Smith,” he drawled, belaboring the consonants as though to emphasize them as the fabrication they were. “Well, we can all tell you’re a man who respects his own privacy. It’s no wonder my Archangel network isn’t to your liking.”
The room felt lighter again, and there were more titters of laughter as though everyone could feel the web of tension that had built up was starting to unravel. The Doctor’s eyes were wary as they watched him, but now there was confusion there too, as though the Master had ventured from his script and left him uncertain how to respond.
Seeing that look on that face sent another jolt of pleasure down the Master’s spine, joining the growing heat in his belly, and this time he allowed it without a word of self-chastisement. I’ve got you now, Doctor! “Tell me, John, would you prioritize autonomy of nations over the livelihoods of their citizens? Simply put, if you had the capacity to help the people around you, would you? I know I would.”
The Doctor sputtered. “Of course!” he snapped. “That’s what I try to do, always—”
“Good,” the Master urged, lowering his lips to the microphone as their eye-contact bordered on indecorous, “you’re just like me then. That being said, you do recognize that doing that, providing help without being asked—even where you yourself acknowledge it is needed—could be seen as a form of over-reaching? My opponents have certainly claimed as much. Perhaps some cynics might even call it an invasion of personal autonomy.”
“Now you’re just misinterpreting the point—”
“But what I see,” the Master continued, overriding his protest, “is a world full of inequalities. Great Britain has a shameful history of imperialism and global domination in its wake, and I submit to you, the audience, that the bigger crime would be not using our power to help the rest of the globe. It’s our duty! To give back, and to heal some of the damage that we, the British people, have caused. Or are you opposed to reparations, John? Are you a staunch non-interventionalist?”
The Doctor was flushing, and if he ground his teeth together any harder they just might break. “Obviously not!” he bit out irascibly.
“Of course you aren’t,” the Master sympathized, drawing his eyes away from the Doctor for a moment to survey the crowd, creating a false sense of shared commiseration. “None of us are! We’re all forward-thinking people, able to both recognize and apologize for the wrongdoings in our nation’s past.” His eyes fell back onto the Doctor, who looked seconds from jumping out of his shoes in irritation. “And I think we all know that information is power. Communication, self-expression, access to the global market, that’s how progress is made. And that is what I’m giving to the people of the world with Archangel, for free. As a gesture of this country’s good intentions and continued support.”
And wasn’t this just the most fun he’d had in decades? The Doctor was sporting that perturbed glower he got whenever he didn’t want to admit that he’d been bested. The allure of the scene was only slightly dampened by the fact that he clearly wasn’t aware who it was who was besting him; the Master was positive that if he did, there would have been a lot more yelling and throwing of sharp objects. No, if the Master had to guess, his intrusion into Earth’s 21st century must have shown up as a simple temporal anomaly, and the Doctor had been summoned to figure out just how humans had managed to get a hold of macro-generative technology like Archangel’s satellite network whole decades too early.
Wasn’t that always the way? As usual, he could parade his genius directly under the Doctor’s nose, waving around all manner of alien tech and galactic threats, and yet the Doctor would never seem to know who it was he was looking at until the Master belabored the point. Some insults never changed.
He should stop while he was ahead. He really, really should—the debate was well and truly over, and the Master knew that every second spent furthering their sparring match risked revealing his hand, and unraveling painstaking months of planning. But something in the Doctor’s lack of recognition slipped under his skin, superseding all rationality. “If you’re still not convinced,” the Master continued, when it became clear the Doctor lacked a rebuttal, “why don’t you leave your mobile number with my team? Allow me to offer you a one-time, private demonstration for yourself. A behind-the-scenes look at the new 10 Downing Street—pending the election’s results of course,” he modified, throwing the audience a humble fractioned smile.
“That’s—uh, well, what a generous offer from one of our candidates!” Far beyond the Master’s focus, he could hear the moderator trying to regain control of the stage as whispers of confusion spread throughout the crowd, but it was as though the noise of the room had dulled behind the roar of blood thumping behind his ears. What was he doing?! This was certainly not part of the plan! Inviting the wrong Doctor to the center of his scheme’s headquarters, whole weeks too early, was the very definition of ‘not part of the plan’!
Put on the spot, the Doctor began to waver. “I…” he trailed off, flummoxed. That hideous hat of his was in his hands now, being wrung agitatedly as the Doctor peered up at the Master with suspicion. And oh, he really was flushing now wasn’t he?
The Master tilted his head down, intimately, leaning into his adopted façade of the charming ex-schoolboy turned philanthropist that he was unbearably aware was the Doctor’s type. “Please do. I really think you’d find the tour of my work…enlightening.”
He couldn’t kill this Doctor, that would make a mess of both of their timelines. But he could charm him, give him access to his ministerial plans in a way that would flatter the Doctor’s overinflated ego—maybe even bend him over one of those horrid armchairs those stuffy Downing Street residences seemed to collect like houseflies, and fuck him until his mind was lax enough to let the Master stroll on in. Then there’d be no stopping him; he’d make certain the Doctor knew it was the Master making him stain the tartan polyester, just as he’d make the human race kill their own ancestors and wage a war on the galaxy in his name. Then he’d wipe his mind, and send him back to his TARDIS, sore and none the wiser—
“Thank you for the offer. But I’m not interested.
The Master was torn from his daydreaming to find that the Doctor was already half-turned from the podium with his hat re-donned. His face had returned to that mask of owlish flippancy the Master recalled this body of his wearing in perpetuity.
“No?” the Master drawled, and the disappointment underpinning the word was only half-faked. “Are you sure? Such a shame. Well, my team will note your name. I suppose you’ll know where to find me in a month, should your mind change.”
“Unlikely.” For a moment the Doctor paused, turning back over his shoulder to give the Master a last look of scrutiny, brow furrowed with unease and uncertainty as though he couldn’t quite decipher the riddle he posed. “Harold Saxon…no, no that’s not ringing any bells. I know Prime Ministers, and your name isn’t amongst them.”
“It will be,” the Master bit out, his temper flaring yet again before he spotted another camera flash, and he summoned the remainder of his strength to yank his expression back towards something pleasant. He looked around his room, pretending to stretch an inch of attention to the thousand-odd humans onlooking in the auditorium. “With your vote, and the support of the rest of you here and at home, that is.”
“Hmph.” The Doctor blinked once more, slowly, before turning entirely, stepping down from the podium with a final tut. “I don’t vote. And regardless, I have yet to see a politician worth the effort.”
Then the audience was rising, and there were scattered claps and titters of speech as the moderator reclaimed center stage, and it was too late to even try and formulate an appropriate response as the last flash of the Doctor’s loafers was already disappearing through the exit door. Still, as the Master shook hands and exited the stage amongst a shower of congratulations and insistences that he’d won the debate by a landslide, he couldn’t help focusing on the sound of a faulty dematerialization sequence, just beyond the emergency exit door.