He's come through the doors to Ten Forward, only to stop in his tracks. The Master hadn't counted on company. This much company. A motley assortment of different species, from, going by their clothing, different times.

Unless it's fancy dress!

Which, actually, on reflection is probably the last thing that might cheer the Master up at this point. Yes, he's only just found himself on a holodeck. Yes he's tried using his vortex manipulator, attempted to diagnose the problem, shaken the damn thing, cursed at it, pleaded with it, and come within a hair's breadth of stamping on it and obliterating its smug defiant existence.

He's stuck on this vessel, and it's chock-full of humans.

The Master leans against a supporting column in the dining area, where it seems to be less busy. His fingers absently tapetty-tapping on the column as he looks out at the stars. So this is third-class travel. He prefers the jarring of the vortex manipulator to what basically amounts to public transport. Without any temporal facility, whatsoever.

Hm. Still, could be worse. Getting stuck on early 21st century Earth can be a nuisance. That's what comes of being the ex Prime Minister of Britain.

Maybe he will have that drink.