“So this is it, hrm?” the Master quips, running his open palm across the outside hull door’s entry panel and locking it. “We’re here. I suppose the other two idiots have gone to make camp or something. Lightweights. Theta, do you want to… what’s the matter with –you-?” he asks, cocking his head and staring at the Doctor.
The other man’s body is glued to the line of the continental shuttle, his jacket and grey shirted form fitted to the metal like a thrown doll. He’s obviously leaning.
The jacket seems... muted somehow- almost as if it’s sucking up the light.
The Doctor rubs his head and looks up; his boy-face scrunched into an old man’s lines of pain. His eyes hang unseeing and open on the path ahead. His hands quiver uselessly at the ends of his forearms, like wretched grey stumps dangling water-rotted roots beneath the skin of some fetid pond.
Suddenly he straightens, and his chest is rising and falling like nothing else. High on life. The look of illness and confusion is gone. He reaches up and adjusts his coat and bowtie, throwing out his elbows with his usual swagger, then says, “What? Damn thing is malfunctioning again. I’ll have to tune them with better equipment when we get back. Shall we?”
The Master knows better than to argue with him. This is not what he signed on for. What is worse, this is not the man he signed up -with.- Best to go along and see what comes of it, play the moderator once the answer presents itself. And if it’s who he thinks it is, well… he won’t allow it to go far enough to sting. When the hell did he become the Doctor?