Then he blinks as he watches the scene unfolding before him, eyes widening, because every Time Lord in the Panopticon was suddenly clutching at their throats and stumbling and collapsing over themselves like silk curtains with legs.
Something they ate, most probably. Idiots. He silently thanked the Doctor for putting the idea in his head not to attend to the rich fare laid out so enticingly on several tables.
There is Pasmo to the right, a general amusement and strangely artless dodger one can always see coming in the heliotrope purples of the Chapterhouse Patrex, gasping and choking and generally re-enacting Gettysburg inside his scrawny esophagus. The most creative he’s ever been since joining up with all those damn artists and decorators.
Eventually, he falls behind a table.
The Master stifles a laugh.
“What a pity,” he says, hopefully covering his surprise in time to avoid seeming soft while lagging the muscles of his face just enough to let them all know that he isn’t the one who Done It. He highly doubts that anyone will believe him, of course. No one except the optical cameras he had implanted in all of them during the routine examinations the Doctor had implemented to combat any recurrences of wartime diseases. As he brings out a holographic tablet and checks the data streaming in from all those tiny protein cameras, he smiled to himself. No one knows he’s hotwired them to the ring… feeding him real time news. He hums to himself. Even if he can’t remember why he has it, or who gave it, it’s helping him to keep his eye on things. Normally he wouldn’t be so trusting, but.. for some reason… but there is no time to consider the origins of the ring. He has work to do.