Application for The Master, Doctor Who

[hear-the-drums.livejournal.com]

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*))

Comments

[hear-the-drums.livejournal.com]

Oh, but he knows –always, eternally, because manipulation is the same no matter what species you're communicating with– exactly what he is saying. Things just got fun again. "Rather touchy, aren't we?" His eyebrows go up in a disconcerted manner. "You should talk to someone about that anger problem." He shrugs. "And someone is always playing God, you know. Even with good intentions. Someone has to." –Because you always know what's best for them, don't you, Doctor?–

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He pauses on that one. "Good question. I'm inclined to think..." And he stands there muttering to himself for a moment, eyes flicking about, like he's doing some very complicated math in his head. "...yes. Of course, it depends a bit on how you're thinking of God." –raw power of Time and Space, and it lights up right in front of your eyes, and you can see it with a clarity that no one else possesses– "Why? You're not jealous, are you, because I can't get you an appointment."

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And baiting was something that Master had always been good at. Exceedingly so. Baiting someone in a dream was almost as enjoyable as baiting them in realtime, so he sees no reason to stop. "I'm sorry, your perception of the infinite is a bit narrow," he tsks. "But if it makes you happy to think that I have no idea what you're talking about, continue by all means. Tell me about your God-God and His terrible unfairness."

He pulls a paper bag from his –depthless– pocket and reaches into it for something small and bright. "Jelly baby?" He holds the bag out harmlessly.

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"You didn't have to say it," the Master tells him –really, it's pathetic the way they always give everything away– blandly. "It's all over your sad, sad face."

At the claims to having 'invented that trick' the Master can only chuckle aloud. Anyone claiming to have invented any sort of behavior generally amused him. Simply coming from his planet voided –it's the universe, it's older and broader than your teensy mind can contain, you didn't invent anything– thoughts like that. "I wanted to know something from you? How did you come to that fine conclusion?" Hilarious. Truly.

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Not a mind reader, no, not exactly –have to be closer to the subject for that–. But honestly; everyone who was ever betrayed liked to think that they were the first or that it was worse for them. It left a mark embedded –it never stops, never does– in a person's features. This kid overflowed with it.

That didn't make his pain more important. It just made it more important to him.

And to top it all off, this one had delusions of Satan-hood. Which, even if there were the slightest chance –and their wasn't– that it could be true, didn't change the fact that- "Well, you got some angels at least. Good for you." Why would his mind be conjuring up the Dark Prince, anyway? And more importantly, why this version of him? There was a severe lackage of horns and a pointed tale. It was too Milton for his liking.

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It was a little of both, if he were honest. Bait because it's funny, humor because it was ever-so-interesting to see where that lead.

This one just wouldn't see good fortune if you smacked him in the mouth with it. Cast out with a league of minions is far different from cast out alone. Or loneliness in general. –Ask the man in the blue box, he'll tell you...–

"Time Lord," he answers simply. No drumroll there.

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"He does have a sense of humor!" the Master exclaims, grinning like a king who's watched his jester finally get that juggling thing right. "How nice for you!"

The boy also showed a bit more of a brain this time around, which was nice as it made the whole thing less boring. "Jumble the second and third," he instructs. Which isn't exactly true, the Time Lords were not personifications of time, but they got as close –safeguard it, never interfere, cherish its power; ridiculous– as the universe would allow.

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And he halts.

No, not the last. Almost the last. Which he is constantly being reminded of by that –don't you see, all we've got is each other– annoying old man with sad eyes who he keeps prisoner.

Any Time Lord versed in Earth culture would tell you that Salvadore Dali hadn't really a clue about time. Artists were funny that way. "Two. Anyway, you should know all about what that's like." Ex-angel or not, there was only one Lucifer.

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He almost loses it at the thought of the Doctor being called a Mistress. Though he could be girly enough, so perhaps it was fair. "No, the Mistress is human. The other is the only one left after the war besides myself." And it wasn't right because –he had the power of a god and didn't save them, and he should have found a way, broken the laws, damn the codes to the end of the universe– forcing them together was like stirring oil and water, like shaking a martini and expecting the gin to come out unbruised.

He blinks curiously when the kid holds the carton out; he is not one to expect that offers are returned, so the gesture seems very strange indeed. He takes a cigarette, figuring that if his subconscious wants to give him one there's no reason to refuse. "Well, it would always be different. Especially between species. Cosmic and celestial never really do match up." And power over time versus matter didn't match up either.

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"Time War," he clarifies somewhat unhelpfully. "The Last Great TIme War." He can't understand why this is coming up in his –maybe you want to talk about... no, you don't– subconscious. "I should say the 'Missus' is human, I suppose."

He catches the lighter one-handed –like the games they played as children, track the path, know your physics, you can always snatch it out of midair if you're paying attention– and lights the cigarette before tossing it back. "Many of us, a planet full." He glances curiously sideways before continuing. "You have an advantage in being the only, of course; no one to answer to for anything."

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"Everyone lost, from what I'm told," the Master says of the war, lightly as he can –he's actually very good at it, it sounds like he doesn't care so much–. "I haven't had time to go back and survey the old homestead, but my source is-" –irritatingly– "-dependable. Yes, I married a human. It's much easier to manuveur yourself into a position of power when you're married, and she is such a dear. (http://doctorwho.time-and-space.co.uk/coppermine/albums/3x12TheSoundofDrums/drums14/3x12TheSoundofDrums-01964.jpg) She was with me from the very start of my plans for Earth, urging me on the whole time. Destruction and domination make her-" –wide-eyed, excited, breathless, she's so innocent in her way– "-happy."

At the question of who he answers to, the Master nearly doubles up in hysterics. "Him? Answer to him? Oh, the laws of Time and Space will reverse and collapse on themselves before that happens. No, I suppose that there's no one to answer to anymore." He shoots Kira a disbelieving look. "And who exactly would you have to answer to?"

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"It was bound to happen one day." He has to talk about the War lightly, really. He wasn't there when it ended. Seeming not to care was a better alternative to –admitting that you were terrified and furious at what they had expected of you, that you saw what was coming and ran because you've always been good at that, good at staying alive– sounding as though being in the dark bothered you.

He grins at Kira's appraisal of Lucy. And then blinks wide when the kid asks that million pound question. When had his subconscious gotten permission make those kinds of queries? "Using, of course. What kind of mastermind do you take me for?" Although if he were perfectly honest –he wouldn't have been able to identify the emotion if it had gutted him like a rusty fish hook, so how was he supposed to know if– the physical aspect of that had plenty of rewards too.

And then stranger still is the kid's admission. "A woman?" he nearly laughs. "How does that follow?" He doesn't bother saying anything about answering to God. Thinking that was just something that scared people did to make themselves feel more protected.

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The Master gives him a look that suggests how far behind he is in his universal history reading. "No, the opposite. The Time Lords never interfered, they only watched. They were guardians. There hadn't been a war on Gallifrey since..." His eyes go –searching for red grass– glassy. "Well. The Daleks fixed that."

He supposes he can't blame him for wondering. But then, to people who weren't Time Lords, the whole "companion" thing –all it takes is one, just one to see you through the whole way, to believe and enjoy the same way you do– was hard to explain. "No, just amusing that the idea crossed your-" –my– "-mind." Don't people normally feel awkward at either end of a one-sided relationship? Oh, that's right. He's a sociopath. No danger there, then.

He still isn't sure that the understands this whole business with this woman. "So you have to answer to her because she had something that you want? Shouldn't your Amazing Powers of Darkness prevent that from being a problem?"