Application for The Master, Doctor Who

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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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[hear-the-drums.livejournal.com]

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?"

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"They defended themselves, of course," he says, scratching the curve of his ear. "The Daleks are a genetically engineered mutant race of beings. They don't believe in individuality and don't feel any emotion besides hate. Everything in the universe is supposed to be uniform to them. Once they had exterminated enough people and planets, they decided that a race as ancient and powerful as the Time Lords would be no problem for them."

The Master had a tendency to inspire honesty in people, despite how unsettling he was in general. Which was mostly due to the hypnosis thing. Who knew what the other reasons could be. "Powers that equal Lucifer's? Seems a bit unfair," he observes –as he is well acquainted with the idea of unfairness–.

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He doesn't respond to the question about getting away. After all, they hadn't exactly –how can you ever escape– done that, either of them. "Everyone lost," he says as before. "Including the Daleks. No one to come looking."

The Master tuts at the cliche and that vulnerable flicker in his expression. "Too young to be such a cynic." And yes, he is well aware that Lucifer should be several thousand years old by now. But the Time Lords lived long enough themselves.

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He purses his lips and frowns at the –equation– question, eyes turning inward. "I'm not precisely sure," he says slowly. "Travelling through Time and Space most of your life muddies the water when you try to figure those numbers. I'd say somewhere between... eleven-hundred? Twelve? Probably somewhere in there, I'd wager. Well, that would be my true age. This body is not even a year old, but the cells aged to somewhere in the around thirty-four or thirty-five, it looks like."

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It's one of those times when such a general question is loaded with information that is not general at all. "Time Lords regenerate when we're dying. Change every single cell-" –sounds like you're rattling off a grocery list, how many times was it explained to you in your youth to make it so tedious now?– "-so that it's the same person, just a brand new body. However, what you look like at the end of the process is completely beyond your control."

And that was the interesting part, really, how –you came out this time with this charming, child-like face, looking so darling and easy to trust– you could end up older or younger than the last body you occupied. New face, new voice, slightly altered personality quirks. "I regenerated less than a year ago."

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Hurt? Heh. "Not precisely, though-" –you screamed louder and harder than you ever have in you life– "-it isn't exactly the most comfortable process. The sensory overload will get you before any physical pain."

As for doing it again and again.... "Er, no. Thirteen times is the general allowance. Although the government can grant you more regenerations in special cases." Which is a sore point for him definitely, as he had asked and they had said no –and so he had waited out years, half alive, waiting to take on the body of some helpless sap to keep going, for Time Lords could do that too, it simply was frowned upon– and then they changed their minds, didn't they?

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He considers for a moment. The process was not exactly one that he was privy to in any classified way. "People who are still in the middle of important works and need more time, usually. Government, scientists, philosophers, that sort of thing." –no need to sound so bitter about it, you won in the end– He laughs at the question of his appearance(s) –that's a trip down memory lane–. "Not like this. Never (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Themasters.png) like this, really. I always tended toward darker colouring, even as a child. (http://doctorwho.time-and-space.co.uk/coppermine/displayimage.php?album=100&pos=1132) And there was usually facial hair, though not as much in recent regenerations." –though the penchant that one regeneration had for aviator sunglasses has now escaped you completely–

He makes no mention of Yana, the kind-faced old –human– man he had been before the change to this body. He won't. Besides, the Chameleon Arch (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Doctor_Who_items#C) is a whole different story.

At the boy's confession his eyes widen. "Really? We're only allowed to do that within the first fifteen hours or so of our regeneration process." His mind is off then, zipping around corners, trying to understand –how to maintain that kind of energy flow all the time, could there actually be a way to– how that could work.

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The Master shrugs at the obvious statement. It's not really information that he –as if you'd tell him– hands out to anyone. "I was 'shafted', as you so eloquently put it, very early. Too hands on for my people." –Just like the Other– "But I don't imagine you'd be very happy if your people decided to resurrect you without your permission, all for the sake of doing their dirty work."

The question about facial hair is almost as amusing as asking about his previous regenerations. "Hair grows, nails, the works. But honestly, the people of the United Kingdom seem to like their politicians beardless. Not to mention that it doesn't really suit this face." Too young for one thing, which had been a surprise of sorts.

"You get a surplus of energy that allows it for around fifteen hours," he then explains regarding the regeneration healing abilities. "Just the way the process works." Strange having to explain it to a novice. Sounded all sorts of dodgy. –which it is–