The Master stands in the center of the emptiness; his long arm, here again, is molded against his side like a plastic boat left uninflated against the torrent of the falls, his fingers clipped on the lavender hem of a bluish corset, dangling a rusty old tag.
The unnecessary bank of controls, with its blinking squarish lights and panels and screens seems so very far away.
But he’s the Master.
He’s not going to bitch and sob ten feet away from the console like that idiot would.
He stuffs his empty hand in his pocket, drags out a crumpled white bag, and begins tossing back the Doctor’s favorite little sweet iconic candies like a barfly at the peanuts.
And every time he gets one in his mouth, he takes a step.
With every step, his smile gets a little wider.
Jelly baby steps it is, then.