send “grip” to grip my muse’s jaw in your muse’s hand; Romantic, platonic or threatening it is up to you!
“ … . oh sis.”
He whispers it almost rapturously, as though bearing reverent witness to the collapse of a great star: himself.
“D’you really hate us so much now, that you’d kill me and erase yourself?”
“No, of course not. But sometimes, the thought is there, deep down. And it’s hard to push it away. I just wonder how it feels to be threatened by your own self, dear. Maybe I’ll remember this?”
Missy kept her grip on her younger self, knowing it could go wrong but of course she didn’t care about it. She would push her luck.
“Would you? Knowing you wouldn’t erase yourself, would you do it?”
“NO.”
The force and certitude of the reply is nearly palpable: nearly a wind gale that can be felt against the face. Perhaps that’s because the Master’s mind produces the sentiment–the mind that, with sheer force of will, can bend the thoughts and emotions of others.
It’s enough to dislodge Missy’s hand from his throat. He scrambles away, with a stinging lack of dignity. But then he straightens and affords her a searing glare.
“I was bluffing that day I hit you with my laser, and you SURELY know it! Because here you stand! I only wanted to prevent you from going to the Doctor in such a way that compromised your freedom! That’s not hate, Missy, I LOVE you! All that I HAVE, in my darkest hours, is ME. My will, my beliefs, my dogged determination to survive! And you are one exquisitely beautiful part of that!”
As befits an over-achieving Time Lord, the Master is every bit the polyglot that the Doctor is. Her vehement entry signals that he must compensate with calm. He strides over, with a carefully composed look of amusement.
“I’ll hold while you punch?” he ventures, in Urdu.
He produces a handkerchief, fussing over the still-damp parts of her hair and face, following her in her raging circles, a storm-chaser if ever there was one.
She threw up exasperated arms and let them drop. “What t’ bloody hell is wrong with that man? How can anyone be so so flippin’ ignorant, so willfully blind as t’ what’s goin’ on right in front of them?” She gave a huff and sighed, finally beginning to wind down. “Okay, yeah, t’ Earth hasn’t met aliens yet at that point they know are aliens. But why consign your own sufferin’ an’ terrified people to death an’ worse for superstition? They need help, not abuse or fear. Help is what I do. I swear, it’s like I’ve set m’self t’ lookin’ after a planet full of seven billion toddlers, sometimes.”
The Master pauses, and plops into the jumpseat, one leg crossed over the other; all he needs to complete the image of rapt listener is a bag of popcorn. His features remain patiently, wanly attentive. He nods when he should nod, and hums when he should hum, adds the occasional “too right” or “indeed, darling.”
Eventually her diatribe ends and he clicks his tongue.
“I’ve told you a thousand times, love: most sentient life forms’ weakness is their fear. Greater ambitions, and perhaps lesser characters, exploit this ad infinitum. You can only do so much with your audience, no matter their potential, if they’re unwilling to learn.”
He opens his arms to her.
“C’mere. Sit. Even the helpers among us need rest. And if you ever want to use my lax ethics to even out the herd, I’d be happy to dispose of the fear-mongers. Nice and tidy. No one would know I’d meddled with any timeline.”
//Y’all it’s been too long since I’ve written a thread showing the Master’s capacity for darkness. He may be situationally “reformed” but there’s always the chance for him to go batshit on someone who threatens a loved one….takers? Hmu.
// @ him in stuff y’all. I see all those likes >:}
Icarus 