The Master did his best to appear calm and collected at first. He'd been given the opportunity, at least, to wash up-- not the hot bath he'd been hoping for, but a tiny basin in a communal area, stinking of the others he'd been thrown in here with. It was a start. And the plant suit had already grown back over his chest, repairing itself and relentlessly cleaning the periodic bloodstains that spotted it. The wounds were superficial.

But there was still the withdrawal to contend with, his chest and head still ached. The drums beat on. And he was bored. After a while even resting on his mat with his hands behind his head, imagining with some glee what may be happening to the Doctor right at this moment, was simply not enough.

He paced his tiny sleeping area like a caged animal, tapping his fingers against the walls while he thought, and watching the guards intently.