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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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.

He can’t do it.

He could stop the Master, –he’s sure he could– fight him off and throw him out of his mind, but not without using all his strength. As long as the Doctor holds back the Master wins.

And there is so much he has to hide, so much he can’t risk letting the Master catch even a glimpse of. –so he’ll sacrifice her again; let her die in his mind as she died in their Universe? she’s worth more than all of them, damn the rest to Hell–

The Master holds her tight in his mental grip, and it hurts. He hesitates.

He knows there's something wrong.

The Doctor should be –wheezing and sinking– finished with his little bravery act by now, it shouldn't take this long. It had taken three arduous months to bring him down to such minimal resistance, and this felt like –it had at the beginning, all hope and defiance and sparks at the edges–....

He couldn't afford to dwell on it if he wanted this round. No, he has to dangle it on a string and laugh in spite of the headache it's giving him to maintain such a hold.

You've taken her this far and only to give her up now?

Shame on you.

Something sparks in the Doctor at the words, a –bright and painful– barb of defiance shooting toward the Master, but it fades as quickly as it came. Because the other is right, and there is no victory for the Doctor here no matter what choice he makes.

Also, he’s forgotten what he was trying to do in the first place.

So he lets go, eases back and allows the Master’s presence. I’m sorry, he says, and then, Master. and then, please. Slowly, and with a little reluctance, he opens a corridor in his mind, inviting the other wordlessly to follow.

He swallows to drink in his name.

With the rest of those appeasing words it's like being stroked with silk after having your fur rubbed backwards. He absorbs it, explands it, he obtains power from it. Very good.

He follows the path the Doctor has opened while this new energy suffuses, taking no care to be cautious with the other's mind as he rushes through.

The place where he comes out is already disorienting –same painting with the subject changed, what a cheat– and he peers hard to see it.

What is this?

The Doctor flinches away from the words, drawing a little deeper into his own mind, and hates himself for it, stopping the mental cringe that follows a moment later as the Master goes charging through his consciousness. –like he owns the place–

You never listen, he murmurs back to the other's bewildered question, and there’s almost a sort of exasperated fondness there. No, you have to make me show you…

He guides the Master’s attention to the moment of his own arrival, lets the other feel his own confusion, –disorientation, even fear– as he slowly recognized the strange place for what it is. He doesn’t linger after the questioning –too many faces, vulnerable already for their acquaintance with him– but ushers the Master forward in his memories to his exploration of the park and then finally to the awkward stare down with the void. –possibly with a capital ‘V’, he hasn’t quite decided–

The Master's chuckle echoes through the space. I'm a visual learner. You know that. He would have thought that was made clear enough through Jack –how do I know I can kill him over and over again unless I see it happen all the time? Watch me, watch me do it again–.

The Doctor's scattered emotional imprinting tackles his brief calm as he watches the scene - almost like the way they showed these things in Earth movies, –not live, like a rerun you can walk through– but with extra colour and light and the all impressions of shared thought. The other hadn't known what to make of it either, had tried to shape the references in a more recognizable pattern, forced to admit that there was no reason in any of it.

It's not possible.

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