The endless, monotonous, metallic refrain down the halls of that hellish platform on a ship from Mondas. The last few surviving threads of independence sentience, crying out for compassion, for aid, that never came. The remnants of a human body lost in a suit of vinyl, plastic, steel.
The dream of a few mad fanatics that he took like a political ticket and ran with, refined to a fine science, cultured like a cancer in a petri dish and infected, gorged with grandiosity and self-importance. Cybermen.
A whole hospital full of bits and pieces of the infirm, sent to be healed, fed through a meat grinder of eugenicist experimentation. Children, children, children like his child. Children like HIS child: brains and musculo-skeletal structures retained, sweet little hands and feet and toes and noses and hair in clips and ribbons discarded like waste in a butcher shop.
He didn’t do it, sure. But he allowed it. Even tacitly encouraged it. Just like with the Toclafane: scavenging on their innate proclivity to do wicked and cruel things, in order to ascend to power, and therefore, autonomy, and therefore, safety.
But that was nearly two years ago.
Why is he here now?
It’s dark. the kind of dark that yawns and swallows all form, and bids you, dangerously, sweetly, just sleep. Just sleep. Just surrender …
That’s when Koschei realizes he’s lying on his belly in cold, wet, dewy grass, staring down an empty lift shaft. It might as well be a grave dug straight to hell.
For an army of child-sized Cyberman crawls up the chute, chanting the endless refrain of pain, pain, PAIN.
He’s paralyzed, stabbed through the back by Missy’s blade, straight through the gut, straight through his belly button, and it’s pinioned him into the grass.
The Cybermen draw ever nearer.
The first one to scale the shaft seizes greedily onto his black and red coat.
“Dad-dyyyyy,” the Cyberman who is Zinnia intones, “dad-dyyyy, what. Have you. Doooone?”
The Master lurches awake, soaked in sweat and urine, and can barely stumble to the bathroom in time to vomit.
The endless, monotonous, metallic refrain down the halls of that hellish platform on a ship from Mondas. The last few surviving threads of independence sentience, crying out for compassion, for aid, that never came. The remnants of a human body lost in a suit of vinyl, plastic, steel.
The dream of a few mad fanatics that he took like a political ticket and ran with, refined to a fine science, cultured like a cancer in a petri dish and infected, gorged with grandiosity and self-importance. Cybermen.
A whole hospital full of bits and pieces of the infirm, sent to be healed, fed through a meat grinder of eugenicist experimentation. Children, children, children like his child. Children like HIS child: brains and musculo-skeletal structures retained, sweet little hands and feet and toes and noses and hair in clips and ribbons discarded like waste in a butcher shop.
He didn’t do it, sure. But he allowed it. Even tacitly encouraged it. Just like with the Toclafane: scavenging on their innate proclivity to do wicked and cruel things, in order to ascend to power, and therefore, autonomy, and therefore, safety.
But that was nearly two years ago.
Why is he here now?
It’s dark. the kind of dark that yawns and swallows all form, and bids you, dangerously, sweetly, just sleep. Just sleep. Just surrender …
That’s when Koschei realizes he’s lying on his belly in cold, wet, dewy grass, staring down an empty lift shaft. It might as well be a grave dug straight to hell.
For an army of child-sized Cyberman crawls up the chute, chanting the endless refrain of pain, pain, PAIN.
He’s paralyzed, stabbed through the back by Missy’s blade, straight through the gut, straight through his belly button, and it’s pinioned him into the grass.
The Cybermen draw ever nearer.
The first one to scale the shaft seizes greedily onto his black and red coat.
“Dad-dyyyyy,” the Cyberman who is Zinnia intones, “dad-dyyyy, what. Have you. Doooone?”
The Master lurches awake, soaked in sweat and urine, and can barely stumble to the bathroom in time to vomit.
“I told you it was strange,” Layla sighs. “So, what are you thinking? Just a mutation or some new subspecies that somehow no one noticed? I mean, this one’s dead, obviously, but still…”
Goggles propped on his forehead, the Master hunkers in an umpire crouch over the corpse of the bizarre half-arachnid, humanoid creature, with scythe claw hands. He draws a long precise incision down its belly with a surgical knife. The leer on his face contains a little too much sadistic glee. That smile reaches eyes blackened by hungry pupils, but not in a comforting way.
“This is a member of the Racnoss race. I thought I’d finished them off for the Doctor many years ago. Swept in and stole his thunder with my army.”
He licks his lips and reaches a gloved hand directly inside the creature’s gut.
“Oh, fascinating. If we harvest their spleens, the antitoxin is an incredible failsafe.”
Send “I’ve got you” to help my muse wash off blood from their body.
The Doctor doesn’t remember coming home. She doesn’t remember Koschei slowly peeling her layers off, grimacing at the stickiness of dried blood coagulating on her skin. She doesn’t remember his expression of remorse, of all consuming guilt.
All she remembers are the screams.
Even now, she’s not entirely sure what happened. Was it her mistake, or his? Which one of them missed it? A hidden trigger on a timer they’d already disarmed. One moment, the captives were there, breathing a sigh of relief and thanking their rescuers, then the next…
She remembers the smell of smoke, of singed flesh and hair. She remembers the sharp pain of debris cutting at her skin.
What she doesn’t remember is her husband helping her into the bath, or the water trickling down her back. She is hardly cognizant even now of him gently sponging her down and whispering soft reassurances.
It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. You did your best.
But your best wasn’t good enough. They’re all dead because of you. You might as well have set it off yourself.
You should have been in their place.
Hell, you should have died eons ago.
Sometime in the middle of the gentle scrubbing, he relinquishes the iron-reeking sponge to the water and climbs into the bathtub with her. He sinks down in the stained water and claims the filth as his own, because what difference does it make? She is his and he is hers.
He takes her face in his hands and brings together their foreheads. He shuts his eyes, and shuts doors inside his head, expertly occluding telepathic entry, without fear of detection that he is hiding a thing.
The red, the blue, the green, he saw her cut the wires, but a minuscule fraction of a millimeter remained fastened to the green wire. A slight glint in the sun was all that hinted at her error, and then, as he flung himself against her, knocking them both to safety, an instant later, detonation.
But the Master, who took the fall for his best friend, and was branded Death’s Champion, Murderer, Cannibal, Killer, Beast, whose life was carved out of Theta Sigma’s lie before he was ten years old, now lies to the Doctor.
“It was me.”
He takes her face in his hands. He pauses, searching her eyes, fierce in battling her foes, even if she is her own foe. He waits for her to absorb his words.
“I was so excited about making you proud that I got reckless and I missed the last wire I was meant to cut. I made the mistake. Not you. Me.”
He holds her fast, thumbs running across wet cheeks.
“But there’s no shame in it, is there? I did my best. And if it had been your mistake, it’d have been just that: you did your best, and it would have been an accident.”
His eyes are moist; come back to me, come back.
Hearts, come back.
“So we’ve got to forgive ourselves now, yeah? That’s what we’ll do.”
I’ve got you.
Without hope, witness, or reward.
There is a part of her that knows the truth. Even with Koschei’s perfectly crafted telepathic touch (almost too perfect, he was always ever so good at that), she knows that he would rather lie to her and claim the mistake as his own before letting her take the fall.
And moreover, the Doctor knows Koschei knows. Of course he does; the Doctor has never been half as good at hiding that which she wants to keep to herself. But she says nothing to argue his admission. Just this once… she’ll let the lie stand. It’s easier that way, and the both of them know it’s the only way they’ll move on.
Her husband, best friend, love of the ages holds her face and insists on her innocence, but she cannot muster more than an empty stare. She’s trying, for his sake, but the water in their bath is a filthy, muddy red-grey of blood and ash. She can’t stop staring at that color. It’s the color of death.
“Yeah… We did our best,” she echoes, her voice as hollow as her gaze. “It was a mistake. An accident. We’ve got to forgive ourselves… yes… that’s what we’ll do.”
She reaches up and touches his face, her fingertips trembling.
“We didn’t save even one of them, Koschei. They’re all dead… We were supposed to save them, but we failed. How does one go about forgiving that? I’m asking, I’m really asking, because I’ve never quite figured out how…”
“I dunno how.”
“I dunno how, my sweet girl, I dunno. I just know when it’s you, I can. When it’s you, I rage and rampage till I chafe myself raw, for hundreds of years, trying to hate you, and it’s always just! Pointless. I can’t. Because when I see you I see the flaws and the blessings. I see the whole gamut. And the good bits are always bigger and brighter.”
He looks down and he sees the bathwater too, and it hardly fazes him, and he fears that as much as he fears her despairing forever.
Honestly, what the fuck is wrong with him, what’s always been wrong with him, and can he outrun it forever, and make her proud?
“C’mere, let’s get in the shower, okay? No leftover carnage, just. C’mon.”
He takes her upper arms and guides her to her feet; he was always the one better at surviving.
“Let’s go, here, I’ll help you. I don’t have the answers, Thete. I’m not a moral philosopher, I never could be. But I’ll always help you.”
“ … I dunno, but I’m already formulating a murder scheme for the person who spiked it,” the Master counters, catching the Doctor in his arms securely.
He pulls an all-purpose anti-toxin injection from his belt and injects the Doctor in the arm.
“OI! SEAL OFF THE EXITS!” he roars at the nearest guard, who scrambles to comply. “NO one leaves until they’re questioned!”
Doors to the Citadel audience hall slam closed. The Master lies down the Doctor on the floor and crouches over her. He pulls his laser screwdriver and shakes it once, hard, expanding it to a vallidium baton with a detachable floating laser nozzle that can decimate every living creature in the room within seconds.
“I do believe this is the part where one of your earth apes would say, ‘coom at me, scrublords, I’m ripped,’” he jests through his teeth, eyes ablaze. “How you feeling, Thete?”
the room is spinning. the glass in her hand shatters somewhere on the floor to her left, her fingers too numb to keep hold of it. she’s aware of her husband speaking, threatening, and she can only nod blindly because aloud his words are suffocated, as if she’s hearing underwater. thankfully, her mental capacity isn’t so quickly affected by whatever had been in her drink and she is capable of understand well enough. so far.
“oi, that hurts!” she hisses at the injection to her arm, her words only slightly slurred. her movements are even slower though, a delayed reaction well after he’s already injected her. something with her nervous system then, she can deduce. she doesn’t even recognize she’s on the floor until she recognizes the pattern on the ceiling ( which, is still spinning ).
and suddenly – she bursts out giggling. it’s uncontrollable, triggered by his statement, and she can’t stop it. her expression is everything but amused – instead it’s alarm as she tries to clap a hand over her mouth to try and stop the giggling – in her sluggish movements, she nearly hits herself in the face instead.
“oh my goood.” she squeaks out between fits, breathing hard. “i’m fine – it’s fine.” she’s routine; she drinks tea while she presides in the audience chamber; it’s not a secret. it helps her keep calm in the face of idiocy that reigns in the council. she can’t fathom how someone slipped it in there. “honey – i’m fine. i think your thing – the stabby thing – the one in my arm-” she breaks off because her ribs hurt from laughing and it feels as if someone has suddenly dumped ice water in her veins. she inhales sharply at the sensation, fingers digging in to try and find purchase on the marbled floor.
“working. working i think.” she’s vaguely aware the guards have sealed the room. good. her gaze flickers to his weapon, then back to his face. “consider my permission to, as they say, ‘give ‘em hell’.”
He clicks his tongue.
“Mkay. Close your eyes.”
And the Master dislodges the long-range nozzle.
With a gliding motion, like cracking a whip, he sends it searing through the nearest crowd of ten or twelve. They fall, missing limbs, heads, and bisected torsos, to the ground.
“Every last one of you in this room is a double-agent and a traitor, eh?” he snarls. “Someone start talking or I will randomly select just one of you to survive for interrogation.”
The Master knows he should be ashamed that killing still invigorates him.
And he will be, if the Doctor sees, if the Doctor looks at him and catches his unholy smile.
But only then.
And does that mean he hasn’t really become a better person at all?
[ Closed Starter For @masterfulxrhythm – Welcome To The Dark Side Dearie ]
Today was going to be one of those days, he could already tell.
Not only had the TARDIS been decidedly non-communicative for the past four hours, hiding herself away in the farthest recesses of the mainframe, but he’d gotten a rather execrable knot in the pit of his stomach that he just couldn’t seem to shake. Normally during those times he would seek out a room to destroy, to tear apart until the feeling went away. Other times he would venture out of the ship and seek out a less-than-willing participant to bear the brunt of his darkest rage. There were times he even sought out means to harm himself.
This day though the ship had seen fit to hide every doorway in every corridor, leaving him to just the control room and when he’d attempted to simply exit the ship, she’d refused that to him as well. After a few rounds with the mallet to her controls the TARDIS had still refused to cooperate, so whatever it was that had gotten into her, it was clear it wasn’t going away until he chose to listen. He rarely did, and normally she did what he asked without question so this… was rather unprecedented, and he was less than amused by it.
Long, pale fingers tapped anxiously against the edge of the console unit as he stared at the space-time coordinates the ship had projected onto one of the navigational monitors, wanting nothing more than to ignore her suggestions. He didn’t do that anymore, he didn’t help people, he didn’t respond to S.O.S. signals or requests for ‘The Doctor’s’ presence. He wasn’t the Doctor anymore, after all- he was just Theta Sigma. Just a retired Time Lord sick and bloody tired of being the punchline to every Universal joke. Yes, he’d made mistakes but he’d attempted to fix them, to become a better man, a newer man, and it had done n o t h i n g. The ship hummed insistently, adding to the din inside of his mind and causing him to wince.
“Fine… FINE!”
Cursing in Gallifreyan he let out a growling huff and set the coordinates, moving around the console unit as he muttered to himself, sending the ship out of its’ spot in the clouds in Victorian London, through the Vortex, and off to wherever-in-Rassilon’s-name she wanted to go. Once the ship was fully materialized he pushed off from the console and spun in a circle, glaring up at the time rotor before stalking toward the doors, grabbing his jacket in the process.
“There. Are you happy now? Ay? Infernal time machine… I’d scrap you for parts if I weren’t so use to having my own living space! I swear if this is one of those ’Doctor’ bits you keep attempting to force on me, I’m turning you around and detaching your automatic controls.”
He yanked the doors open and stepped out, scanning the area, a scowl on his face.
He loves the finality of bodies hitting hard surfaces.
The Master loves to watch the final impotent exercise in futility, as a foe’s form wriggles and writhes like a worm on a hook and finally falls slack in blissful lifelessness. It’s nearly as grand as watching an enemy’s skin blister as he burns.
He loves these things without pretense, needy and ironically abject as an addict standing in the rain begging strangers for a lighter.
He loves them, and he indulges every whim to a new fix, the longer the epicenter of his life is skewed off course: the longer the Doctor is no more.
It’s rare that he feels that darkness existing palpably outside his own mind. But he feels the rage radiating from above his head, and it is raining on Mondas, raining on the corpses of the government agents that rose against him for his tyranny and died. Raining off the blood on his face and mouth and hands, raining a deluge so forceful that he nearly cannot see the blue box materializing on the muddy slippery hill overlooking the most populated platform of the ship.
The Master’s feet carry him upwards, until he’s waiting outside the TARDIS door for the man who steps out; without having ever seen this long thin face, he knows his oldest friend; the miasma of violent darkness radiating off of the Doctor, however, that is new, and it is intoxicating.
He is impenitently aroused.
“Oh, you … are … . beautiful,” he breathes, snatching out a hand, cupping the Doctor’s jaw harshly, appraising the old friend who has sunken into the quicksand beside him. “A Doctor without hope: you are a black hole. I feel that I am standing inches from death and I would nearly pitch myself over the ledge into oblivion just for the pleasure of the fall.”
YOUR STEREOTYPICAL MASCULINE SIDE you love hoodies // you love shorts // dogs are better than cats // it’s hilarious when people get hurt // shopping is torture // sad movies suck // you own a car racing game // you played with hot wheels as a kid // at some point in time you wanted to be a firefighter // you owned a ds, ps2, n64, or sega // used to be obsessed with power rangers // you have watched sports on tv // gory movies are cool // you (would) go to your dad for advice // you own like a trillion baseball caps // you used to collect hockey or baseball cards // baggy sweats are cool to wear // it’s kinda weird to have sleepovers with a bunch of people // green, black, red, blue, or silver are one of your favourite colours // you love to go crazy & not care what people think // sports are fun // you talk with food in your mouth // you sleep with your socks on at night // you have fished at least once
YOUR STEREOTYPICAL FEMININE SIDE you love to shop // you wear eyeliner // you wear the color pink // you (would) go to your mom to talk //you consider cheerleading a sport // you hate wearing the colour black // you like going to the mall // you like getting manicures and / or pedicures // you like wearing jewellery // you cried watching the notebook // dresses are a big part of your wardrobe // shopping is one of your favourite hobbies // you don’t like the star wars movies // you were / are in gymnastics // it takes you around one hour to shower, get dressed, & makeup (time allowing) // you smile a lot more than you should // you have more than ten pairs of shoes // you care about what you look like // you like wearing dresses when you can // you like wearing tall shoes // you used to play with dolls as a little kid // you like putting makeup on others // you like being the star of everything
APPEARANCE i’m shorter than 5′5′ // i have scars // i tan easily // i wish my hair was a different colour // i have friends who have never seen my natural hair colour // i have a tattoo // i’m self-conscious about my appearance // i’ve had / have braces // i’ve been told i am attractive by a complete stranger // i’ve more than two piercings // i’ve / had piercings in places besides my ears
EXPERIENCES i’ve gotten lost in my city // i’ve seen a shooting star // i’ve wished on a shooting star // i’ve seen a meteor shower // i’ve gone out in public in my pajamas // i’ve pushed all the buttons on an elevator // i’ve kicked a guy where it hurts // i’ve been to a casino // i’ve been skydiving // i’ve gone skinny dipping // i’ve drank a whole gallon of milk in one hour // i’ve crashed a car // i’ve been skiing // i’ve been in a musical // i’ve caught a snowflake or snow on my tongue // i’ve seen the northern lights // i’ve sat on a rooftop at night // i’ve played a prank on someone // i’ve ridden in a taxi // i’ve seen the rocky horror picture show // i’ve eaten sushi// i’ve been snowboarding
HONESTY & CRIME i’ve done something i promised someone else i wouldn’t// i’ve done something i promised myself i wouldn’t // i’ve snuck out // i’ve lied to my parents about where i am // i’ve cheated while playing a game // i’ve ran a red light // i’ve witnessed a crime // i’ve been in a fist fight // i’ve been arrested
DEATH & SUICIDE i’m afraid of dying // i hate funerals // i’ve seen someone die // someone close to me has attempted / committed suicide // i’ve written an eulogy for myself // i’ve thought about committing suicide // i’ve attempted suicide
RANDOM i can sing well // i’ve stolen a tray from a fast food restaurant // i open up to others easily // i watch the news // i don’t kill bugs // i sing in the shower // i’m a morning person // i paid for a cell phone ringtone // i’m a sports fanatic // i twirl my hair // i care about grammar // i’ve copied more than thirty CDs in a day // i bake well // my favourite colour is either white, yellow, pink, red, blue, black, purple, or orange // i would wear pajamas to school // i know how to shoot a gun // i laugh at my own jokes // i eat fast food weekly // i’ve not turned in anything & still got an a in a class // i can’t sleep if there’s a spider / cockroach in the room // i’m ticklish // i love white chocolate // i bite my nails // i’m good at remembering faces // i’m good at remembering names // i’m good at remembering dates // i honestly have no idea what i want to do with the rest of my life
Icarus 