The Master rubs his head, then walks over to the table.
He picks up the phone, and imagines he hears Flamina’s honeyed voice eyeing him for sleeping in.
It isn’t what he hears.
“Not remotely a good morning, beloved,” Flamina drones, tapping on the phone so that he can hear the sound it makes flood his ears with after-buzz like a boisterous foghorn, “…it seems someone has detonated a sizeable cloud of chronon mines over Gallifrey; we can’t get through.”
“Shit,” the Master gripes, scrubbing his hands through his blonde hair again as he telekineses his jeans back on.
Then he clomps out of the Zero Room on bare feet like a skinny, slightly clumsy, over-sized hobbit, leaving his tomato-red Flesh-formed converse behind on the floor.