dizzy_land | Application for The Master, Doctor Who

Entry tags:

Application for The Master, Doctor Who

Arranging universal domination... was not as easy as it looked.

Okay, that was complete bullocks. It was very easy. Also fun, convenient and –so satisfyingly destructive after that endless stasis– surprisingly simple to set on autopilot once all the essentials were put in place. Also oddly merciful this time around; he was saving two great civilizations from terrible fates, after all. How could that not be –and it isn't, it's only to save his precious mind from it, the drums, the neverending– merciful? –da-da da-da, da-da da-da–

Well, the Doctor didn't seem to think so. Then again, they rarely –never– agreed on anything, and the Doctor's opinion didn't matter so much now that he was in the doghouse. Literally.

Hedonism agreed with him. He had fallen asleep on the floor between his manicurist and the woman –curvy, graceful, dark-haired and full-lipped, who made Lucy's eyes dim like crushing a firefly between his fingertips, yes– who had been brought on board to arrange all the rooms on the Valiant so that they kept with the rules of Feng Shui. He had found it endlessly amusing to chase her around all day, rearranging her work; it wasn't what she'd really been brought on board for anyway. Feng shui. What an idiotic concept that was. –Everything still looked like shit, only now it was all blocking the door to prevent "negative energies," ooooo, how inspired– Just another example of the funny ideas humans came up with to make their existence more meaningful. Big scary world, but maybe it would be more bearable if your bed faced the rising sun...

He had a feeling that he was going to wake up soon. Somewhere in the middle of his subconscious he was thoroughly aware of this, which was an odd sort of thing –all that flickering and burning, like knowing you have a cold before it hits full on– to know. His eyes fluttered open and he blinked into... sunlight? But the blinds had been closed.

There's an emptiness and an echo right at the edge of his mind that he can't expel. It makes him restless enough to sit up and slump forward, dazed.

Mickey coughs theatrically. "'What is your name?'"

He gets up, takes his time doing it too, gesturing with one hand in a 'go away while I get rid of this hangover' sort of manner. Dusting off his suit jacket, he remembers a dream he had about teletubbies the other night.... –Dream! Oh, of course.– He smirks like the cat who ate the cockatiel. With whipped cream and peaches –yum–. "The Master. As in 'Your Lord and --'. I used a human name to make people comfortable for a bit, which was bloody tedious. Harold Saxon. You've probably heard the whole story, though. Remember this?" And he clasps his hands and smiles, wide and seemingly genuine, though it is plain that there is something not right –but they always missed it, didn't they, with their little human brains, so easily hypnotized and trusting, taken in by the drumming because now they felt it too– about the expression.

"What is your quest?" asks the Cat. It's perched, suddenly, on the roof of one of the gate-stiles.

Well, that's enough to make certain that he doesn't take any of this seriously. Loopy and sarcastic it is, then. "My semi-corporeal friend, you've really got your Time Lords crossed. I'm rubbish at the chivalry... thing. Why don't you give me a quest?"

"'What is the average w..?'" Mickey frowns down at the notebook. "You know, I don't really see why that's important." He flips a page. "'If you could be granted three wishes, what would they be?'"

He lets out a held breath in a big puff, shifting his hands behind his back –because he doesn't wish, he never wishes, he either has his way or it's one more for the airlock– in a harmless sort of way. "Oh... how about the Doctor on his knees, begging me to be forgiven for both of his mawkish hearts? Mawkish... that's a good word. Or!" he pipes up excitedly, "a really big strawberry sundae? Or maybe an encyclopedia collection and a few chimpanzees, it would make work so much easier." He tilts his head from side to side, grimacing as though the line of questioning is far too trying. "I really can't decide, can you give me a minute on that one?"

"Or," the Cat says, examining its tail with interest, "if you were a genie and someone you were trying to give three wishes to was trying to trick you into giving him more, what would you say?"

He pauses for a moment, lips pursed together in a manic manner, before beginning to guffaw like a deranged hyena. He wants to respond, he really does, it's just... giving. Giving wishes. Being benevolent, like a saint or that foundation for little children dying of cancer –or a Doctor; see definition: a man who makes people better–. Can't breathe-

Mickey looks rather nonplused at the next, but reads, "'When the revolution comes, what skills will you be able to barter for food?'"

He rolls his eyes and buffs his immaculate fingernails on the lapel of his jacket before inspecting them boredly. "Why would the one leading the revolution need to do that? Stop having a laugh Mickey, you go run your evil empire and leave me to mine."

The Cat rolls its eyes in a friendly (and rather disconcertingly out-of-sync) way, and asks, "Milk, dark, or white chocolate?"

Oh, he likes that cat. –da-da da-da– "Er... white. Dark. No, milk. Though it must be white because they always say that your initial impulse is the correct one, right?" He wiggles his eyebrows. "The real question is why are you asking that? Are there psychological reasons behind the question, for instance; dark means you're unthinkably evil, or something?" There's no response from the inquisitors - not that there has been for any of his answers - and so he shakes his finger in a 'got you' sort of way. "I think true, true evil should prefer white. Traditional colour symbolism is such a bore."

"'Choose the two coolest: robots, pirates, fairies, bears, ninjas, monkeys, vampires, or humans,'" says Mickey, giggling a bit as he goes through the list. "'Explain.'"

"Can't I have one of each?" he suggests sensibly.

"Great!" Mickey flips through the blank pages of the notebook at top, cartoon-y speed. "Well, I think that's just about it! Oh, and I'm supposed to ask, 'for your safety: are you carrying anything sharp?'"

Laser screwdrivers –his toys always were more fun– weren't sharp per se, so he felt no need to mention it. "Why, are you going to frisk me?" he asks, feigning shock. "If the answer is yes, please choose someone else to do it, would you? I've never had a cavity search by a two-dimensional being, and though I'm sure you're very nice, we've only just met."

((Well, folks, you've met the good Doctor. Now meet his archnemesis - the Master. Yes, it does sound very kinky. Because it kinda is.... But I digress. I should warn those who are only familiar with Classic Who, this regeneration of the Master is a little different from the ones you've been used to; he's about 90% kooky-er and much less vampiric. Still just as evil, though. For more info, see his profile. The Master was taken some time between The Sounds of Drums and Last of the Time Lords, the last two episodes of season 3. Also, it would be great if no one mentioned the Doctor just yet. ;) Oh, and this would be Crichton-mun. *waves*))

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

(Also, for reference, the laser screwdriver (http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/8b/Master_with_laser_screwdriver.png) doesn’t look anything like a screwdriver. Neither does the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver (http://featuresblogs.chicagotribune.com/photos/uncategorized/tennant_2.jpg). Sorry, sometimes I forget that not everybody knows my fandom. XD))

“Don’t.” The Doctor’s voice is low, but there’s no mistaking the whip-crack of power behind the words. More gently he adds; “It’s fine Setsuna. Stay back.”

His eyes never leave the Master’s.

“Look around,” he urges. “Master. Really look.”

He doesn't want to.

He sees the flowers the sunshine and blue sky, he knows somewhere at the back of his skull, he feels the quiet and how wrong it is -

–It's not fair–

"No," he hisses, bringing his right hand up and pressing a button to watch his world regain a bit of order.

The Doctor screams.

He can’t help it. He hasn’t forgot how much it hurts, but even being prepared, even having spent a year forced through this change again and again, he can never stop the vocalization of the pain anymore than he can stop the involuntary thrashing of his body as his cells wither and fade –and crack, or at least that’s how it feels– and another hundred and fifty years of age are forced onto the thirty-something this regeneration seems to carry.

And when it’s over and he can breathe and see again, there he is in his old familiar place, on his hands and knees on the ground at the Master’s feet.

[[ooc: 1. Oh, I see about the items. Setsuna would still be concerned, however, just from the actions it's obvious the item is dangerous. 2. I'm heading off to bed after this comment. So good-night, and hopefully I won't you hold up too much tomorrow. 3. Sorry for the repost.]]

"HEY!" Setsuna shouts out again when the Master hits the button. He hadn't been fast enough to move before that, but now that something was clearly happening despite the Doctor's words, Setsuna wasn't going to just stand there.

He tries lunging for the Master's arm holding the device -- doesn't bother thinking about it, like always.

((1. Oh yeah, we figured that. We just wanted to give you the image so you actually knew what they looked like, in case we confused you. ^_^ 2. Sleep good!))

The Master has a tendency to shoot on sight when someone comes at him like –handsome Jack– that, but he's too absorbed in the turmoil around him; the sound of the Doctor's screams filling his mind up like water, fogging the lense so he can breath better.

On instinct he backhands, feels the laser screwdriver make contact with something to his right, but he can't be bothered to pay attention to that right now. He crouches down to the Doctor's eye level, and perhaps it's truly sick to find that odd look of –disappointment and almost– pity etched into his features. "Old men shouldn't tell lies," he says with a lilting sigh. "And we are old, you and I."

"Why break the habits of a lifetime?" the Doctor answers shakily. "Feel better now?" There's a hint of a bitter smile on the aged lips.

He tilts his head to look around the Master and find Setsuna, concerned.

Adam is neither a child nor crazy, but the Master may not yet understand that he's omnipotent and that piece of information would be rather crucial in this case.

He smiles. "I expect you get there more often than most people do."

((*is slightly disturbed at how well their smiley icons mesh* XD))

Had the Master understood the young man was omnipotent, it probably would have made little difference; someone who understands the flow of Time and Space, who has looked into the Untempered Schism and been given a task –da-da da-da– by the Universe itself, would be inclined to view omnipotence as a matter of perspective, no matter how powerful the individual.

"One tries," he says ambiguously, returning the smile with ease. He has, in fact, been ruling over the Earth from the sky for nearly a year now, but the bragging could be set aside for later when it proved useful. "And you? Or are you more of a soil-bound sort?"

It all sort of depends on your opinion of who, precisely, the Universe is. But it doesn't matter here and now.

Adam thinks a moment before saying, "I dun't think I c'n answer your question. I've been everywhere an' nowhere much if that means anythin' to you. Some people say that I'll never be allowed in the heavens. I s'pose I can live with that if I can keep what I've got now." Soil-bound isn't so bad if the Earth loves you.

"Oh, you're the Antichrist," the Master says instantly, then pauses at the start of a new sentence to consider what he just –this is the problem with minds like theirs, too many levels operating at once– said.

Well, clearly this young man is not the really real Antichrist. Nevermind the fact that it's all Christian mythology; he's dreaming, remember?

"I met Lucifer a few minutes back," he continues matter-of-factly. "Nice chap. You two get along, or is there family drama?"

"Kira's not my dad," he replies simply.

Adam is real enough to know truth from fiction, and more importantly, whose.

The Master nods. "Serious family drama. Right then." He puzzles over the way this Antichrist doesn't fit pattern. The only person so far who hasn't yelled or snarked or attempted to provoke a rise out of him. "Is there, oh, any particular reason you decided to stroll over?"

Not bothering to correct the Master's misinterpretation of the situation, Adam nods. "I like to come in person to meet all the people who think they should be the one rulin' the world."

The Master's head drops back in exasperation. Was no one paying attention? "I am ruling the world, little Damien." He has seen The Omen more than once and laughed his arse off all the way through, but he doubts this one will see the humor in the joke. "It's the universe that's next."

He can't quite understand –as if theirs was the only world, they're all the same with their self-importance– how the people of Earth can center in on their own planet like it's the End and the Beginning and Everything In Between. It won't even be there by the Year Five-Billion.

Adam smiles faintly, if enigmatically.

"I didn't say you were or weren't," he points out reasonably. "I jus' said I like meetin' the people who think they should be."

Prince of This World isn't really a vanity title. And Adam takes the job seriously.

When he was struck, Setsuna didn't much feel the pain, so angry was he, but there's a small bit of blood that flies before his eyes, and once again, the blond finds himself too sleepy to stand and collapses without another word or movement. All he can think to himself is, "Dammit. Not again," and worry about the Doctor to himself. Otherwise, he's completely fine, rather used to getting smacked around by now anyway.

"Well, I never said I thought I should be," the Master points out with equal reasonability –that's not a word. well, it should be–. "I just am."

The Master of All Things isn't really a vanity title either. Well, to others it might seem that way, but it's all in the eye of the beholder, isn't it? "So it's your hobby, then?"

"No," Adam agrees mildly, "you never did. An' you c'n say that it's my hobby if you like. Gotta find some way of keepin' busy, right?"

The Master doesn't notice Setsuna's collapse, rather that the obstacle blocking the Doctor from his control has been removed.

The old man has asked a question. Two in fact –but one is rhetorical–.

"Yes." –not yet– But he is not smiling triumphantly as he is known to do. Instead, he traces every line of the Doctor's falsely aged face, reading and waiting.

The Master comes up short at that one. "You can't find anything more worthwhile to do?" he asks. "In your line of work? Shouldn't you be..." He grasps at the air for an answer –and finds it more quickly there–. "... releasing the hell hounds and pulling up creatures from the depths of the sea and cracking the sky open-" –done that one– "-so that it rains fire?"

"I'd rather not, thanks," he says quietly. "Makes an awful big mess that does."

“Good for you,” the Doctor –almost– praises. –no you don’t– He meets that searching gaze squarely.

“So what now, Master?” It’s a challenge. “You’ve got me right where you want me. What’s next in your great scheme? Shoot Mickey? Or the Cat– no, you probably like him– hypnotize everyone here into electing you King of Disneyland?”

He rather suspects that arching an eyebrow doesn’t have quite the same effect in this wrinkled version of his face, but it’s too late to take the gesture back. He’s also worried about Setsuna, who’s lying unmoving on the ground, but there’s nothing he can do for him now and he certainly doesn’t want to draw the Master’s attention back to the boy.

Oo, listen to that nerve being struck sideways. "And you're speaking from experienced regret or honorable intentions?" Because he cannot figure out the reason for his mind conjuring up a failed Antichrist –oh, but you can, now that you know he's here– in this instance.

His eyes widen, gaining fury as his head tilts the way a child's might. "Well, well, well," he whispers, leaning in –uncomfortably– close to his enemy's face, "put him in a blue suit and he becomes bold."

He laughs suddenly. "You don't actually feel safe here, do you? Think the good and mighty Mouse will have enough fight in him to come to your rescue?" The Master sneers, awaits the cavalry. –And they won't come.– "No one for it, it seems, no companions about. Where's strong Jack, Doctor? Smart Miss Jones, maybe?" He presses two fingertips to his lips, seeming to consider a moment. "Or maybe–"

And then he presses his fingers to the Doctor's temples and –dives, digs and scrapes the sides with claws– presses into the other Time Lord's mind without asking. He never had asked, not for this favorite pastime on board the Valiant. He doesn't think of where he is or all the information he needs from the man, no, he focuses and grabs hold of something bright –all pink and yellow– in the Doctor's brain.

"Where is she, then?" And he knows he won't have to say more than that.

“I think it suits me,” the Doctor murmurs coolly.

He hardly feels safe here, in this unknown place with its broken lines and changed rules, but the stakes are different now, the anti is lower and his own hand is higher –and when did he start thinking in poker metaphors? Jackie and her love of George Clooney, probably…– And he knows that look in the Master’s eyes and she’s not the person he should be thinking about now, but it’s too late because the Master is there.

The Doctor throws up walls so fast and so hard he makes himself dizzy, and he scrabbles vainly with the other –outside their minds his hands, too, catch at the flesh and blood fingers against his temples– for a few moments before he’s pushed back and clawed aside and the Master’s grabbed something beautiful and –golden and– sacred from one of the most private parts of his mind.

Let her go, he snarls.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 5 of 7

Application for The Master, Doctor Who

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject