dizzy_land | Application for The Master, Doctor Who

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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*))

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Three hundred and twenty-two days. So near the end. Only forty-three short little Earth days left. –He thinks of how long they felt at the time, and doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse.– The Doctor forces the dying smile to stay on his face.

“It’s been three hundred and sixty eight for me,” he tells the other gently. “I’m from your future, Master.”

Setsuna is saying something about leaving them be. –and the Doctor thinks in some part of his mind that he’s been rude again and he flounders–

“Oh, I, uh… I’m sorry, Setsuna, terribly rude of me, it’s just, the Master and I… well, you see we... we didn’t… part… on the best of terms. And I…”

The half-hearted attempt at asking him to stay might be more convincing if he could tear his gaze away from the Master’s face.

He's about to make the now-so-old quip about how he loves his name falling from the Doctor's lips –because it's so important that their roles be laid out, that he be paid his due and given his respect after all the crushing defeats he's had to endure across countless centuries and planets– because it's funny humiliating him when there are -

Future. No.

Three sixty-eight. Three days after his paradox should come to fruition. Why was his own mind telling him this? Why did the Doctor's presence feel too vivid –too close to mending– the way it shouldn't in a dream?

Why was the Doctor looking at him as though he had –discovered a planet or a stream flecked with gold– to keep staring to be sure he wouldn't vanish? "Part," he repeats coldly, squaring off toe to toe, his eyes a cocktail mix of confusion and violence. "I think you have some explaining to do."

"Heh," was all that parted from Setsuna at the Master's words. He wasn't really sure, and couldn't place it, but Setsuna knew there was a strange connection or closeness that his presence was imposing on, even if they were ignoring him.

Quite the contrary to what the Doctor thought, Setsuna didn't find him rude in the slightest, just occupied, and with good reason. He didn't want anyone to try to convince him to stay, so Setsuna only turned back around to shake his head at the Doctor and offer him a warm smile. "You're not rude. Don't fret about it. And no use being sorry either. This ain't something I should be present for. You two just catch up."

But...just in case, the kid didn't leave the entrance area, he walked far away enough he wouldn't be able to hear them talk and leaned against a wall. Ever vigilant and ready in case this reunion turned sour at any point.

The Doctor gives the Master a very small smile and –it’s not sad, not quite, as– he murmurs;

“You don’t really think I’m going to tell you your own future, Master.”

He thinks maybe he wants to thank Setsuna, but he settles for a grateful smile in the boy’s direction –see, he knew they’d be friends– before turning his full attention back to the other Time Lord. –the other, just for a little while, a little stolen time–

“Whatever this is,” he tells the other gently. “It’s just a moment, you know? A pause in the game. Sooner or later it’ll go back to how it was, and then…” –and he knows that he will lose this.–

His attention wanders down to their feet, the Master’s shiny black shoes and his own battered red –look Rose, I match– converses. He feels the power of the Master’s eyes on his face.

He pulls the words apart and shuffles them back together the way a codebreaker might, looking for an anagram, a sequence, a key, something or anything that made sense of the world now that it was -

–still, silent and scrambled, how the hell had he not realized it before–

But it was only a dream. Just a –deep, deep breaths– stupid dream. Someone playing an unimaginative trick. Or a –pause in the game...–.... He trails the Doctor's gaze and finds his eyes on their –red trainers with maroon suit stripes, and you still don't match, you old fool– shoes.

He's about to get very, very angry, it's right there lurking in the corners, behind his ear like a bad magician's trick. "You're blathering and it is not rearranging my calm to your benefit."

The Doctor frowns.

“I’m not blathering,” he protests. “Look, I don’t know where or how this place is- I mean, I was sort of hoping, now that you’re here…” –And the Master will scoff, he’s sure, but he knows that the other won’t be able to resist the allure of a mind that follows the same patterns and logics as his own any more than the Doctor can–

“Couldn’t we have some sort of truce?” he ventures. “Just for” –here– “now?”

Oh, scoffing is indeed in order and in rather large supply too. "You've been beaten," he says –desperately even, needs the reassurance that is was real or it might as well have been a dream in reverse–. "Why would I do that?"

He has to find what happened, though. He has to....

His face gives way to true hesitation for the first time since he opened his eyes.

“Yes,” the Doctor answers, his expression empty. “But not here. Not now.” –well, that was arguable either way, really, but–

There is something missing in the conversation, something the Doctor only now begins to understand, struck by the hesitancy on the Master’s face. “You do realize what’s happened, don’t you? Where we are?”

"I realize that you are nothing more than a figment in my mind," he snaps, finally pulling the laser screwdirver from his inside pocket and pointing it right –at the centerpoint between two hearts– at the one in front of him. "And now might be a very good time for me to wake up, so as you spare you any more pain." His bottom lip puckers out in a mock of lip-trembling, his eyes going comically sad.

The Doctor flinches slightly as the Master pulls out –and oh isn’t he a fool for not thinking of– the laser screwdriver.

“What?” he exclaims, surprised, one hand rising in a ‘don’t shoot’ gesture, although what he really wants to do is take a step forward and put that hand on the Master’s arm. “Master, this isn’t a dream.” –although he can understand perfectly how the other might think so–

When the Master pulls out a screwdriver, Setsuna pulls away from the wall and starts to walk a bit closer, concerned, but when the Doctor puts a hand up, Setsuna starts to run over. His first instinct is to lurch out and grab for the item, or the Master's arm and keep him from harming the other, not understanding the situation at all.

"Hey, what are you doing?" he shouts while rushing over.

(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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

He feels the Doctor's fingers working against his own, but –they are old and arthritic– it only makes him fix his own hands harder against the skull. That stabilized, he glimpses the show from his own corner, watches that precious kernel glow, feels that active resistance and pain leaking like blood onto the tapestry of the Doctor's memories.

He guards her like a treasure. The Master never could make sense of it, of her, her above all the others there had been. But that would not stop him. Penance due.

Say you're sorry, he hisses back.

No!

He surprises himself with his own vehemence. Angry with the Master and angrier still with a Universe that won’t leave her alone even in his head, he finds himself struggling harder, lashing back at the Master with whatever weapons he can, trying, maybe, to return a little of that pain.

Still, he knows –in some more rational part of his mind– the great disadvantage he is at. They’ve done this too many times before the past year, the Master knows him too well. The Doctor can see that he is losing.

If it were a physical movement, it would be quite like side-stepping a javelin or a bullet. The Doctor throws at him, but there's no elegance in it, –he'll have to do so much better than that– no ability to make a concentrated effort because he's harbouring too much there, and he can't control it.

He feels a light wash of agony seep through his own barrier. It sharpens and renews him, and he stops holding back. He pries and pushes until he has command over what his enemy guards, thinks to twist it, change it, even –it would be so difficult and so very worth it– force it to vanish entirely.

I can make it worse. Much worse. Say you're sorry and mean it.

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