Application for The Master, Doctor Who
Sep. 26th, 2007 07:05 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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dizzy_landArranging 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*))
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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no subject
Date: 2007-10-08 04:44 pm (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-08 09:42 pm (UTC)Obviously it is, is his solemn answer to the Master’s denial, even though he fully agrees. Because how many other things has he seen in his life that logic, reason, and all his experience told him were impossible? –That’s why I keep traveling, he’d told someone once, before taking a leap of faith into a dark pit on a planet that couldn’t exist, looking for a creature he didn’t believe in. To be proved wrong.–
He doesn’t make a particular effort to hide any of his thoughts from the other.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 05:13 am (UTC)When the Doctor drops a handful of barriers without reason, he has to follow. It wasn't even a matter of curiousity, not going would have revolted against his natural instincts. The planet he sees shouldn't exist –just like this one– and the evil waiting there is older than even they can fully grasp, like legend –like the Infinite–. And yet it doesn't matter, none of it because if it's all true then...
I can't, I-
He withdraws from the Doctor's mind on a sharp breath, still kneeling on the ground in front of the old man, shaking.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 05:28 am (UTC)The Doctor reaches for him but when the Master draws away abruptly he’s left grabbing at nothing as the mental movement bleeds into a physical one and he falls forward, catching himself awkwardly on fragile hands and wrists. He hisses in a breath and looks up at the other Time Lord.
“I’m sorry.”
no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 07:47 am (UTC)He tilts his chin up, expecting it all along. "You're forgiven," he tells the other with a slow nod, feeling strangely magnanimous and emptied.
He won't talk about it now. Wait until all of this was done, whatever this is. Can't think yet, the works are rusted –and aching–.
The screwdriver lifts in his hand as he stands. Well, he had to do it some time. And he could change the Doctor again whenever it suited him, find a way to cage him when he got aggravating. So he presses the button and waits for those old eyes to glimmer again.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-09 01:56 pm (UTC)When he’s himself again he climbs shakily –but no longer painfully– to his feet, and stands for a moment, just watching the Master, waiting for he’s not sure what. Then, sensing the grace that he has been given, he walks past the other and goes to Setsuna, crouching down at the boy’s side and drawing a concerned hand across the cut on his temple.
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Date: 2007-10-10 01:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-10 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-10 04:15 am (UTC)“I’m fine,” he echoes gently, peering at the cut again. “Not so sure about you though. Doesn’t look that bad but you seem pretty out of it. Hang on,” he digs into his pocket and comes up with the sonic screwdriver, which he tilts in the direction of Setsuna’s head and activates.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-10 04:23 am (UTC)He couldn't really explain the blood problem, as he had no idea what caused it, and it wasn't so great to give everyone your main weakness.
When Setsuna first sees the item, he jolts away and insists, "M'fine," with more urgency. Besides, even if the wound was healed, the sleepiness would remain until Setsuna managed to snap out of it, or splashed some water on his face.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-10 04:36 am (UTC)“How hard did you hit him?!”
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Date: 2007-10-10 04:47 am (UTC)It isn't that he cares whether or not the boy is hurt; he's just as curious as to why he collapsed, though.
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Date: 2007-10-10 04:50 am (UTC)But damn he feels like everything is made of lead and doesn't want to budge.
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Date: 2007-10-10 05:02 am (UTC)The Doctor frowns as he tucks it away again, concerned for Setsuna and annoyed at his own inability to figure out what’s wrong with the boy. “Do you want to try to sit up?” he ventures.
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Date: 2007-10-11 02:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-11 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-11 03:33 am (UTC)He pats Setsuna firmly on the cheeks a few times. Humans are always doing that to each other in these sorts of situations, and it usually seems to work for them.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-11 03:36 am (UTC)The patting just makes Setsuna pull away and stand up. "Gah, I'm okay. You can stop now. Actually, now that you guys have made up and all that, I'm out of here." He wasn't really sure what had transpired, or if things would be all right, but he felt a strong need to splash water on his face and waste time alone.
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Date: 2007-10-11 04:52 am (UTC)"Well...." Another few seconds go by.
"He's an odd one."
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Date: 2007-10-11 05:15 am (UTC)"Yep," he drawls thoughtfully, and loudly pops the 'p'.
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Date: 2007-10-11 03:09 am (UTC)*doesn't bother answering, but sits up well enough
*mutters,]