“Not helpful. Not helpful even a LITTLE BIT.” He moved past the other, barely touching him as he ran to the kitchen. “Come on-!! Quickly, follow me !!”
“ … right.”
The Master watches the Doctor exiting the room, flailing like a demented howler monkey, proclaiming death and despair at the hands of legumes.
Takes him back, really, to their school days. All he ever really wanted to do was complete his homework undisturbed.
Three guesses as to how many nights a schoolweek this successfully occurred.
He gathers his superhuman patience, draws his laser, and composedly follows the demented howler monkey.
The Doctor is immediately silenced as her eyes find the Master, and oh how she blushes besides. Not at being caught out having a row with an appliance, no, but rather because of the easy way he winks at her, the casual manner in which he strolls in and presumes to know more of the infernal device than she.
The sonic lowers just a bit but she keeps it well in hand, fingers twitching against the home-made exterior shell with her thumb poised to switch it on at a moment’s notice just in case the toaster decides to do combat with the love of her lives. One can’t be too careful with dodgy kitchen appliances.
She blinks once, twice, three times- a blink for every hard slap of Koschei’s hand against the toasty [pun very much intended] and rebellious metal -before eyebrows raise and the hand holding the sonic falls to her side. She lets out a huff of air, a combination of disbelief and appreciation. The toast isn’t even burned! Now more than ever she believes the toaster to have a personal vendetta against her, all because she chose to take it apart and put it back together again once-upon-a-pinstriped-time.
“Wha-… How did-… Oh tha’s joost not fair. I tried everythin’! Bangin’ on it, zappin’ it, tossin’ it down a fli’a stairs, givin’ it a good kick, even the sonic wasn’t workin’. Then ‘ere you coom, three slaps an’ it gives in?”
She narrows her eyes at the toaster, then turns her gaze toward her husband.
“You couldn’t’ve done tha’ two regenerationsago? Been cravin’ toast for centuries, me.”
She’s amused and impressed by his ability to intimidate the infernal appliance. Theta’s smile falters, however, the moment she steps over to the toaster to grab the perfectly toasted bread. Hand poised to grasp her long-awaited snack, fingers clasp only air as the toast vanishes down into the toaster once more, out of reach. Mouth open, Theta scoffs and looks back at Koschei with wide eyes, pointing her finger toward the menacing metal machine in an accusatory manner.
“There! Ri’ there, SEE?! Tha’s jus’ not normal!”
Koschei clicks his tongue; he’s a touch disappointed that Theta didn’t just swoon over his comedic problem-solving, but then, if she were a swooner, and not a meddlesome adventurous little gremlin, she wouldn’t be Theta.
“Well, I mean. It might joost be that after ALL YOU DID, it only needed one more bit of forceful persuading to obey,” he placates. “Anyway, I was saving the trick to have an ace oop my sleeve, keep spice in the relationship.”
He grins diabolically and it’s clear he’s trolling her.
The grin vanishes immediately as the toast retreats into the mechanism.
“OI!” he shouts, betraying every ounce the Mancunian dialect concealed behind his attempts to sound like a posh Londoner. “OI, I’ll av ya, you … . saucy piece of … of … economy-grade TIN!”
He produces his laser screwdriver, entirely too hastily.
-…how badly would it effect history if i killed him?…- -…is it too early?…-
-…damn i cant…- -…he is so damn lucky im not koschie…-
“I mean, if you’re serious about that, it’s not too late for me to snuff him then put a genetically-manufactured doppleganger on the throne. Just whistle.”
He was BORED.He had been piloting the TARDIS wherever she would take him. He didn’t do anything on the planets he visited, not really. He just walked around them and observed life going on while he thought up music for his guitar.
He wasn’t mourning, or at least he didn’t think he was. He was just, tired of the universe. he was tired of the hypocrisy and the lies and slander. He was tired of the violence and war. He just wanted to r e s t.
Alas, the universe called. He was currently situated in his TARDIS when she let out a warning hum before she took off without his ministrations. He stumbled on his feet and ran to the console room to find the door already open.
WHO could have done this?
Who indeed, who or what.
A red-meat-eating, volcano-roaring, blood-spilling career assassin; a beast with hearts too large and too charred; a child scared of the dark that is being forgotten and dying, lashing out perennially; a lover ousted by the other half of his own soul.
An arrogant dick, who calls himself “Master.”
Clad in head to toe black and red, the colors of death and its price, he’s leaning against a crashed space shuttle that’s still smoking.
While eating Jelly Babies. Popping them, one at a time, cavalierly, into his mouth.
“Hey bitch,” he merrily cries, and aims a black-nailed middle finger at his incredulous oldest friend. “Remember me?”
A pause, glancing back at the collateral.
“Oh, relax. It wasn’t inhabited. I was just trying to catch your attention.”
For the most pregnant interval, the Master stares at his interviewer with wicked disdain. It seems inevitable that he should send the presumptuous interloper off empty-handed.
Then he draws a regal breath.
“Black. Sleek. Horn, no wings. Tattoo would be a red sword with machine gears adorning its hilt piercing a white skull to signify my conquest over mortality using my intellect. I would always have a TARDIS. And Rassilon isn’t cool enough to be a Pony.”
He clicks his tongue, and makes finger guns, to end the interview.
Icarus 