“… and Johnny comes marching home!” the Master calls out as he stalks the halls back to the lead-lined rooms of the Lord President. His face is plastered with a crisp smile, a smile that screams, ‘Avoid me or suffer the consequences.’
He reaches the infamous chamber, turns his back to the door as it clicks laboriously into place like some tremendous locking puzzle. Then he leans into the comforting thick lead and stares around the room.
There is the desk where the Doctor said he’d tangled with Borusa over the location of the Great Key.
Here is the bed the Doctor pretended to sleep in after the Matrix Crown refused his mind and nearly sapped him senseless before he’d confided in Borusa.
Ahhh, the Good Old Days, and for reminiscence! Oh for the marriage of lead and titanium-based alloys!
In a small niche, a hexagonal table stands lonely.
Odd. That was not there before.
He walks to the usurper stick of furniture, idling.
He runs his fingers across it, along its tapered sides, its squarish legs.
His skin contacts a thin piece of paper. He stops for a moment, then rips it off the underside of the drab little thing.
“A post-it note. Oh Doctor, how thoughtful!” he rages, flipping his hand away from his face like a simpering Earth girl in one of those dreadful movies.
Then he uncrumples it with one hand, reading the one-liner written on it so many times the paper begins to smear.
‘Duck, duck, goose.’