Send an accusation and the muse can only answer with “guilty” or “not guilty.”
He likes the clinical terminology for this extremely commonplace crime. He’s fairly certain he does it as often as he bathes in luxurious scented bath salts, which is to say, daily.
Send an accusation and the muse can only answer with “guilty” or “not guilty.”
There’s not a moment’s hesitation.
“Guilty.”
The Master twines his fingers with the Doctor’s, giving her the gift of his gentleness and his quiet, two things that are breathtakingly rare commodities coming from the Whole Screaming World On Fire.
Send an accusation and the muse can only answer with “guilty” or “not guilty.”
An accusation thoroughly reciprocated. The Master sits up in their shared bed, skin bare and sleep-warmed, body softer than it might have been in loud and reckless youth, back still sore from Missy’s stab wound. But still alive, and still unquestioningly adoring, even through generations of senseless malice.
“Er well that’s … . that’s quaint, thank you. I’m sure the metal trinket could be utilized as a useful component in one of my inventions.”
Mindful of the Doctor’s pride in his forward-leaps toward ethical rehabilitation, the Master restrains himself from saying anything more cutting to this … peculiar levitating … luminescent … puckish creature.
“I’d tell you to be the bigger person and not retaliate against me, but that must be a bit difficult for you, given your height.” He pats the Master gently on the shoulder, as if he feels genuinely sorry, but the smirk on his face says otherwise.
“Doctor. Whyever are you so delighted by the Kerblam Man’s arrival? Kerblam is a vastly over-advertised gimmick. You’re adorable in the fez. The fez doesn’t count. The rest of their menswear section? Deplorable. Of course, couture has never been a concern of yours. And the gadgets? Made with inferior materials and marketed as glorious fix-alls. I remain impassive. Because, you know. Capitalism kills and all. Power to the people.”
The Master offers a languid fist bump.
“However, I do see advantages to this new pet, Twirly. Perhaps we can rewire him to serve as one of those pleasantly helpful GPS systems. ‘In a quarter mile, use the left two lanes to turn onto the Vortex.’ HehHAH, ahhhh. I kill myself.”
Icarus 