Familiarity Breeds Contempt

“I want to play a game,” Jordan announced, reclining in his position of power atop the dead tree trunk in the middle of the concrete-floored playground.

The rest of Year 11, a.k.a. his minions, listened closely to what he would say next, as if he were a celebrity or politician. Or something more than just an incredibly beautiful fifteen-year-old boy with a superiority complex.

Yes, beautiful. Jordan Hunter had often been described by his classmates – predominantly girls – as ‘the greatest specimen of manhood on earth’, in the single year he had attended Clory Hill Comprehensive, a normal, nondescript school in a normal, nondescript town, somewhere on the outskirts of London.

Jordan, however, was the farthest thing from normal and nondescript that you could get. His body was perfectly sculpted, with muscles in all the right places, and tanned just enough to still look natural. His effortlessly mussed-up coal-black hair brushed his ears and framed his ruggedly handsome face. His inhuman eyes, a startling shade of green, sparkled with a mixture of mischief and contempt. He simply radiated self-confidence and charisma. Because of that, and the fact that he was undeniably gorgeous, people flocked to him like flies to a lamp in the dark. His classmates were putty in his hands, completely at his mercy.

Or they would be, if he had any.

“Truth be told, I’m bored,” he continued. “Things round here are getting dull. I want to do something… fun. So I propose we play a game.”

“What, like ping-pong?” one of the stupider of the group piped up, a meathead called Darren.

A look of annoyance crossed Jordan’s perfect features momentarily. Truthfully, he despised his minions, as he knew them to be, but it was worse when they acted so stupidly. It was no wonder he’d been able to take control of them so easily.

“Not ping-pong,” he said through gritted teeth, with more patience than they deserved. “Something different.”

He allowed his usual smile to grace his features, and he could have sworn he saw some of the girls swoon. He resisted the urge to snort; humans were so predictable. And so easily controlled, he reminded himself.

“I am talking about a challenge,” he purred, wondering how best to phrase his proposition so as not to hurt their poor, under-developed brains. “A challenge in which only the best of you survive.” He paused for dramatic effect, and wasn’t disappointed.

The zombie-like students nodded eagerly. If someone had looked closely at them, they would have seen that their eyes were ever-so-slightly bloodshot, their faces ever-so-slightly paler than they should be. But no one did. That was the beauty of it. No one cared. Apathy, Jordan thought with satisfaction. You could destroy a world with it.

He leant forward, his eyes glinting with barely concealed malice. “So. Who’s in?”

Instantly, hands shot up, and where there had previously been silence, there was now a rabble of rowdy reprobates. Jordan smiled as he thought that. He liked alliteration. The beauty of languages was something he never got tired of. The beauty of silence, however, he thought with a fractious frown, was seldom appreciated by his so-called peers.

“Silence,” he ordered without raising his voice, but somehow his command carried over the playground and silence was restored. “I will choose five people to attempt the challenge. Whoever wins…” he pondered this for a second, and then smiled. “Whoever wins can take my place for a week.”

Once again, hands shot up. He marvelled at the speed and certainty at which they whole-heartedly offered themselves up, without even knowing what the task was.

But that was humans for you, he mused with more than a touch of disgust. Pathetic and weak. They deserved everything that was coming to them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It’s simple,” Jordan informed the chosen ones as they assembled outside of the simple structure in front of them. “You go in. If you come out, you rule. Literally.”

Usually, they would have burst out laughing idiotically at his sheer wittiness. Instead, a look of uncertainty crossed each of their faces as they regarded the tent-like structure in front of them.

“I’m not sure,” one of them, a pretty girl said uncertainly, biting her carefully lip-glossed lip. “It doesn’t look safe. Are you sure we’ll all fit? And what do you mean by ‘if’ we get out?”

Jordan sighed. They were really stretching his patience now. He had biding his time for this exact moment. They couldn’t bail on him now.

Dear god, he thought with a tremor of fear. I sound like a native.

But their uncertainty – fear, even – was justified, he reasoned. The bare stretch of field was deserted except for the tent in front of them. It was midnight, the witching hour, he thought with an ironic smile. Owls could be heard in the distance, as well as very noisy crickets. Darkness smothered and suffocated them. He could see why a mere human would be afraid.

But he, on the other hand, felt more alive than ever. His task was verging completion. All he needed was one final push to get these moronic imbeciles to do what he wanted them to.

“Don’t worry,” he said, dropping his voice to a husky, seductive purr. “Everything’s going to be fine. Just go inside.”

Instantly, the looks of concern vanished, to be replaced by glazed-over expressions. Once again, Jordan resisted the urge to snort. Humans were just so easy. All it took was some good looks, charm, and good-old persuasiveness to get them to obey his every whim. He was leading them to their death, for crying out loud.

But they didn’t know that, he smiled grimly, as they blindly made their way into the tent. Jordan closed his eyes as the inevitable screams pierced the quiet rural air, shattering the peace forever. Ah. That was more like it. Chaos.

Once every last scream had died, he reopened his eyes and ducked into the tent. Its size was deceptive; although it looked like a two-man tent, it was enormous, easily the size of a small city. The walls were spattered with crimson blood, and mutilated bodies decorated the floor. Jordan surveyed the sight with grim satisfaction. His work here was done.

Striding over to the console, he grabbed a hammer and hit it repeatedly until it jerked to life.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles. “Just a little bit more.”

The TARDIS, for that’s what it was, creaked and groaned reluctantly. Jordan muttered under his breath, hitting the buttons on the console in a seemingly random order. He froze as something creaked behind him, and a frown fixed on his features.

“You can’t stop me, Doctor,” he said without turning around.

“That’s what you always say, Master,” The Doctor replied.

The Master turned round and leant against the console casually, and allowed himself a rare, real smile. “Long time no see, eh?”

The Doctor did not smile back. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Get away with what?” The Master said innocently.

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. “Blowing the earth to smithereens to sell it for scrap.”

“I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong alien,” The Master said pityingly. “That was the Slitheen family of Raxacoricofallapatorius.”

The Doctor paused momentarily. “So it was. Sorry. You’ll be the one trying to decimate it because you’re-” he made a disgusted noise in his throat “-bored.”

“Got it in one,” The Master chuckled.

“I must say I admire you,” The Doctor continued. “What you’re doing, it’s terrible. Terrible, yes, but awfully clever. Getting them to love you with a simple bit of mind control.”

The Master snorted. “I didn’t need to control them. Much. Humans – teenagers especially – are so easily manipulated by their own primitive desires.”

“You really hate them, don’t you?” The Doctor said softly.

“Hate is a strong word,” The Master replied. “But yes, I strongly dislike them. They don’t deserve to live when our entire species is dead. Save us, of course.”

“Master, what you’re doing – it’s genocide. You won’t get away with it. I won’t let you,” The Doctor said quietly.

“Oh, change the record,” The Master snorted. “What are you going to do to stop me?”

“It’s not a question of what I’m going to do,” The Doctor replied. “It’s a question of what I’ve already done.”

The Master’s eyes widened and he spun round. Realisation dawned as he stared at his precious TARDIS.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and pressed it. It emitted a harsh sound that pierced The Master’s ears and sent him to his knees, clutching his ears. When he opened his eyes, he realised what had happened.

“You camouflaged your TARDIS as mine,” he realised, getting to his feet. “You finally fixed that chameleon circuit, huh?”

The Doctor smiled, and then aimed the screwdriver at him.

“What’re you going to do?” The Master said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Sonic me?”

Instantly, he froze, unable to move a muscle.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” The Doctor murmured. “But this is for your own good, as well as for the good of humanity.”

Something crossed his face momentarily; it looked like regret. But then he turned and left, as The Master descended into the bowls of the TARDIS. His games were over. The Earth was safe, for now.

But for how long?