Ragtime Clair de Lune sounds like an ending credits theme from a Mario Bros Game
To be fair, “French Impressionist music performed ragtime style” isn’t a wholly inaccurate description of parts of the Mario franchise’s musical idiom.
@julielilac for this photoset I elect you president of the galaxy.
The Master observes his young, parallel self with rarest pity. Compassion is something he’s not wont to offer, not even toward himself; more than he realizes, he speaks in the voice of his loomers, of his House and his whole heartsless caste, when he castigates himself for any failing great or small. Self-loathing, from the avowed narcissist: it’s not so implausible, actually.
He squeezes the fobwatched doppleganger’s upper arms.
“I dunno what name you go by, but I do know you. You’ve surely not missed that we look exactly alike. But the things you don’t know yet, you don’t know for a reason, and I’m not eager to upset that delicate amnesia. Might do you damage. How you ended oop here could be by one of many routes, including a TARDIS and a Vortex Manipulator. Either term ring a bell?”
He lifts one hand off, and gestures emphatically for focus.
“You know what, before any of that, what DO you call yourself? And please, please, don’t say ‘Harold.’”
“No, um. It’s Sam. Sam Tyler,” he says, and this is such a weird conversation for him. He’s confused as hell and barely comforted by the man in front of him.
The drumming noise inside his head is loud and quiet all at once, as if they recognise the other man, despite the fact that this is the first time Sam’s met him.
“Sorry, but who are you? You say you know me but all I am is confused,” he informs. “And no, the words ‘TARDIS’ or ‘vortex manipulator’ don’t happen to ring any bells.”
Bang some drums, though, maybe.
“Sam Tyler.”
He speaks the name the way a professor pronounces a key term on an examination, every syllable crisp and clear, every vowel trembling with an almost comical power.
And then he snorts.
“Well OKAY. Not the answer I was expecting. But it’ll do.”
It’ll do: the entire identity of a human being will pass as satisfactory, for this lofty Time Lord. He sniffs.
“You need only know my title: Master. Why don’t I take you someplace off the damned street, at least? And before I do, indulge me with one further question.”
Black eyes shrewdly narrow.
“Do you hear anything? I don’t mean right now. I mean constantly. Something deafening, yet nobody else hears it, and if you tell them, they accuse you of madness. ‘Auditory hallucinations,’ the psychiatrist proclaims. Right? I know it’s an odd question. But if it’s true, you’ll know immediately what I mean.”
Icarus 