I wanted Jim and the Master to meet, so here we are.

An Unexpected Visitor

Jim returned home that evening to find the door kicked in.

He knew it wasn't Seb. As unorthodox as that man was, at least when he forgot his keys he had the decency to pick the lock rather than break down the door.

There was also the matter of the door itself being discretely constructed from reinforced steel.

An impact like this should have made one hell of a noise, and the fact that apparently no one had done anything irked him. How unfortunate, he thought to himself, that his neighbour's scandalous affair and the security guard's questionable sexual activities would have to come to light so early.

Jim silently stepped inside, noting the damage as he slipped past: the steel had crumpled under the impact of what appeared to be a well-placed and impossibly powerful kick. He couldn't fault the accuracy, it was precisely where he would have ordered the explosive to be set.

Glancing at the alarm, he was both impressed and slightly unnerved to see that it had been disabled. No mean feat considering the intruder had had precisely five seconds to notice, open and disable it before the whole place was incinerated.

He took out his phone and sent a quick message:

Our flat. Now.

Stepping further into the flat, Jim was intrigued to find nothing moved or missing. Any single item could have fetched a thief a considerable amount of money if sold to the right people (although they would not have enjoyed having the money long, for all the right people were his people) and yet everything was untouched.

Except, judging by the sounds coming from that direction, the kitchen.

As he approached the half-open door he wondered if this were a bad idea; who knew how far away Seb was, which meant the only protection he had was the bodyguard following silently, a respectful number of steps behind. The large man was very much the consummate professional, his weapon already unholstered, his forefinger resting motionless on the trigger.

Boring, thought Jim. Throwing caution to the wind (and idly wondering how he would have disposed of the cat had he been Curiosity), he slowly eased the door fully open.

Sat at the kitchen table was a thoroughly dishevelled man with dirty blonde hair, dressed in a black hooded top and trousers. His stubble was flecked with pieces of flesh and bone from the raw chicken he was in the process of tearing apart with his bare hands, shovelling the chunks into his mouth. There had been two whole chickens in the fridge earlier that day, and Jim spotted the remains of one of them on the table and on the floor. His attention, however, was elsewhere.

'Well I wasn't expecting this,' he said, his eyes transfixed upon the face of Harold Saxon.

The man ignored him, continuing to devour his meal. Jim slowly began walking along kitchen wall, hands in his pockets, his complete attention on the former Prime Minister of Great Britain.

'I was going to cook that,' he said, continuing in his relaxed tone.

The intruder grunted, finishing off a wing. 'I was hungry.'

Jim's eyes hardened. He dropped the pretence of normality.

'It wasn't for you,' he snapped, coming to a standstill.

The Master finally raised his head and acknowledged Jim's presence for the first time. Two dark, cold pairs of eyes met; a silent struggle for dominance began.

'Get rid of him,' he muttered after a long and tense silence.


'Who do you think? The one pointing the gun at my head.'

'And why should I do that?'

The man before him grinned, leaning forward. 'Then I won't tell you how I broke in.'


Without breaking eye contact Jim signalled his bodyguard to stand down.

'Do people still have henchmen these days?' asked the Master, idly picking at the remains of the chicken.

'Call me old-fashioned,' replied Jim. He smiled mirthlessly, evidently waiting for the explanation.

Another lengthy pause followed. Neither of them moved a muscle, simply analysing each other, searching for their weaknesses.

The Master was the first to move, abruptly sitting back in his chair and wiping his filthy hands on his trousers.

'I've been running. For as long as I can remember.'

'Running from who?'

'The only man who can save me.'

Whoever this man truly was, Jim knew he would be a valuable asset to have under his control. So he smiled - a genuine smile this time, something far more disturbing to see than his false one.

'I can help you with that.'