mostincrediblechange:

sclfmastery:

mostincrediblechange:

                               “NO!”

Her voice echoes for miles, the chatter of bystanders fading into a stunned silence. They may have not been part of it before, but all eyes were on the small blonde woman who shook with rage.

Her entire being bristles with power and commanding energy, far larger than life or even her current, unfortunately petite body.

Hazel eyes pin the offender with blazing fury.

                   “I said NO! You have no right! No right to harm
                    these people! This planet is protected by the Doctor,
                    and if you know what’s good for yourself, you’ll take
                    a moment to think about EXACTLY what that means
                    before you take another step.”

The Master’s whole body electrifies.  Nipples harden, hair pricks, goosebumps surface.  Fight or flight, the struggle between sane survivalism and the mad, abject, sublime desire to run toward the tornado, to pitch over the edge of the waterfall, to stand screaming and beating one’s chest in the hurricane.  To be saturated wholly with the violence and the fury contained within the being he unthinkingly adores. 

And he does. He runs  toward the conflict, straight out of the TARDIS he’s strictly ordered not to leave, for fear of the disruption of TARDIS energy healing his back.  He forgets himself when eclipsed in her shadow. He always has.  Always will.

He catches her ‘round the waist and spins her out of the way of the people she’s antagonizing.  
 
        “Thete, STOP, they’re armed–!” 

A musket fires, and grazes the Doctor’s bondmate in the side.  A superficial wound, nowhere near the fatal shot inflicted by Chan-Tho, or Lucy, or by a random insignificant Mondasian gunman on Bill Potts.  But Koschei goes down just the same, with a startled grunt, and cups his left side, and falters down onto the wound, trembling. 

       “Shit,” he snarls, trying in vain to stand. 

In films, moments such as these are shown in slow motion, as if the heroes have ample time to recognize what is happening in the moment and be quietly horrified in convenient pacing for the plot. But that is not how it happens in reality. 

The Master yanks her aside at the same moment a musket fires, and he collapses in the same instant. It’s over before she can even realize it happened, and her husband is struggling to stand. Red is soaking through her favorite soft cotton tee of his, the one that somehow has made it through spit up stains and grease spots and still always just smells like HIM. 

                It is here that the world slows down. 

It slows down, because for just a fraction of a second, the timelines are splayed out in front of her, a Lord of Time, each a new path she can choose. Her husband is wounded, likely having saved her life in the process, and the people responsible will likely fire again if given the chance.

Her decision is made, and just as quickly, Time catches up.

                   They would have been luckier if Time had remained still.

There is a flash, and the Doctor spins, sonic screwdriver wielded as a weapon, not a tool. The gunpowder in the muskets ignites, a small explosion in the hands of each and every one of them threatening the Doctor and her family. Though it disarms every one of them, it is not enough to kill anyone, though a few cry out in pain from burns or mangled fingers. The Doctor looks on with cold disinterest.

                   “YAZ! Graham! Get Koschei back to the TARDIS.” 

Her voice rings with authority and a cold, merciless determination as she stalks forward, her eyes blazing. Several innocent bystanders take a step back, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire of this fierce woman who reeks of fury.  

                   “It’s people like you,” she spits, squaring her shoulders and
                   addressing the leader, who clutches his hand with a pained
                   grimace, “that make this world worse.”

                   “You claim what you do is for the greater good, but it’s not.
                    It’s done out of hate and anger, and a selfish desire for
                   power and glory. You’d do anything for it, right or wrong.
                   But it ends here.”

The man stares at her… and whatever he sees staring back at him is more terrifying than whatever threat he imagined he would find in this place. The Doctor’s eyes hold billions of years of memory. 

Death,
           destruction,
                                     pain,
                                                rage… 

She’s seen things that would drive any one of these people mad, and it shows in the cold glare that she pins him with.

                “Go. No second chances.
                 I think it’s time to bring that rule back.”  

Koschei’s never been cognizant of sluggish time; it’s more the sudden SILENCE of these horrific moments that he can feel.  The relentless memory of Drums long purged, even that, violently ceases to be, in moments like this. 

He continues to stagger, striving to stand, because he knows. He knows what is about to happen is the equivalent of barometric pressure plummeting.  He knows these men will leave with their lives, because the Doctor claims to abhor murder, but there is not necessarily anything merciful about that choice.  

And while the Master is enchanted, dazed, aroused, by the fury of his best friend, every time he sees her light eclipsed by her countless millennia of grief and loneliness and rage, he knows there is a chance that shadow will never pass.  

So even as Graham stammers something about one two three up, and even as Yaz bodily shields Koschei, he reaches past their stricken forms for Her.   Even as he is lifted off his feet and carried, even as the gunmen shriek and cower and run, he stretches his mind to breaking, to tickle, to brush, Hers. 

   { Don’t leave me.  You promised: you said never.  You promised.  }

Beaches and babies and psychic ice cream; dolphins and Twirlies and mile long conveyers and dinner under the holo-stars by Our Tree; fencing matches and snuggles and good books and great tea and very long showers; come back to me, Goose. 

But then Koschei blacks out. 

When he’s conscious again, it’s hours later. Nobody’s in the room but his wife.

On dear, his wife.

His beautiful little Vengeful Pixie.

His Sunbeam of Doom.

Oh, look at her.  Brilliant. Eccentric. Fearless.  Effervescent. Breathtaking. 

         “Thete … Thete … Thete … I cann’feel my  … .face. Hoo! Hooha! Hee. I can’t feel ANYthing. I didn’t die, though, that’s encouraging.”

Conversationally, idly, he glances at the bandage over his left side, and then, at the IV in his wrist.

Ah. That explains it. 
He’s higher than a kite.