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.
Icarus 