//You know what’s funny, MY Master muse as he is NOW, after developing him from 2015 to the present? He would probably be in Mature!Missy’s role, which would be. Oddly fascinating. If you wanted to try out that role reversal.
The thing is, I feel sympathy for The Doctor Falls Master and Early!Missy because their motives aren’t solely nefarious or vengeful; they’re also genuinely afraid of what the Doctor always does to their Companions, which is cause their will to bleed into that of the Companions. The Doctor is dangerous by virtue of being able (and sometimes willing) to inspire other people to die for them, or worse: to wait for them.
Add to that my headcanon, shared by others, that the Master’s telepathic abilities are SO sensitive and intense that they have always had trouble separating self from other in the first place. So they have to shut out other people, especially other people who matter to them (read: the Doctor).
The Master circa the Saxon age would only exacerbate early!Missy’s tendencies, especially since the gift-giving of a Cyberman Army is very Simmy in its chilling mixture of disturbingly wrong and generous. End of Time Master might be like present Master. The Doctor Falls Master remains a strange blip on the radar of his characterization for me, but probably would react like Saxon-age Master.
The Master’s face is appropriately gentle at the accusation. Mortified and mollified, he licks his lips, and summons the courage to examine his future self. Out of the corner of his eye, at least. Askance is better than not at all. Right?
“Rumor has it I’m a misogynist. Rumor has it I’m incapable of growth. We all know how untrue rumors can be.”
Something’s dancing in his eyes, nevertheless.
“And anyway, taking example on you? Are you saying you’ve lost your claws, old girl? I sincerely doubt it.”
But the answer is yes. Yes, he saw the way she went. And yes, he wanted to go that way, too.
The Master blinks, reacquainting himself with his dignity, after baring himself to Missy and being returned … what feels like scorn.
He recalibrates his mind quickly. Perhaps she speaks out of embarrassment, which always raises her hackles, and his, and any Master’s.
“I think you mistake me, sis,” he begins, with uncommon courtesy- courtesy he’ll only show versions of himself. “I don’t regret what’s begun to happen to me. To you, us. I’m only telling you that you’re not running mad. That you’re not alone.”
Her haste to defend the Doctor, in particular, stings. Can she forget that long before she was born, long before he was born, the Time Lord that they are agonized with the ghost pains of a severed limb, and that limb is the Doctor?
The very definition of the Master is the struggle between self-service, and love of the Doctor.
“D’you really think my every pore doesn’t scream for him every moment? Remember, I am you. What you feel, I feel. How can you think we’re so different, Missy? It’s only a matter of how each of us expresses it. The feelings themselves remain.”
Missy was, indeed, embarrassed and somewhat ashamed for either crying in front of him and kind of snapping at him. He was just trying to be nice to her after all.
She just wasn’t used to kindness that didn’t turn into betrayal afterwards.
Missy fell silent as she listened carefully to each word he said, slowly looking down as if she was sorry. And she was.
Of course, she didn’t forget about the Doctor and what he did back then. What he did to them. But she forgave him.
She felt different from her past selves because she was the one regeneration that wanted to change and move on. The one that was ready to heal from the pain.
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m just.. nervous about some things. And too prideful to admit anything.” She chuckled at that and crossed her arms over her chest, gripping onto the fabric of her jacket a little bit.
“Oh, LIS-ten: consider it forgotten. After all we did stab and shoot each other, like perfect buffoons.”
The Master twines his pinkies with Missy’s, in a strangely innocent act of camaraderie.
“Anyway, it’s … rather comforting to know that my Apex Self has at least one or two weaknesses. Teeny tiny ones. Negligible.”
Missy quickly straightened up and got a hold of herself. She bit her bottom lip, holding back her tears with difficulty. She was turning her back to the Master. Of course he would make disobligent comments and pick on her if he saw her like that.
“I’m not crying, Junior. Get that thought out of your head will ya? Why even would I be crying anyway huh?” Her voice sounded normal but very faintly shaky. She was too proud to tell him the truth. To tell him that she was crying and especially why.
She remembered the names of the people she killed through her lives. Every single name and how she killed them. Begging for mercy. Screaming for help. Crying of fear. The ones that fought for their lives. The one that accepted their fate with dignity. She remembered them all one by one and it was tearing her apart.
The Master pads around behind Missy, hands folded behind his back, examining her posture, studying the tremor of her voice, knowing her as well as he knows himself, as well as kissing the reflection in the mirror, for they are one mind.
“Just like it’d be foolish to, say, confess that time spent in the Doctor’s company might’ve … unscrewed a few valves in my avowed hatred for all life, and my bad memories. Might’ve softened my resolve a bit. Might’ve made me just the smallest bit reluctant to maim.”
He rounds the front of her, with a steadfast stare.
“Might’ve made me start reconsidering what I’ve done, and to whom. Gotten me reacquainted with the idea of shame.”
He offers her a handkerchief, red, engraved with a simple black “M.”
“You’re not the only one. I promise. I just. Put on a show in front of him. Out of pride.”
Missy didn’t move an inch as the Master walked behind her. Every single word he said was true and felt like daggers in her hearts.
But for the last thing he said? She didn’t believe half of it. She didn’t look up at him until he handed her the handkerchief, but she didn’t take it.
“Of course you would put on a show. Of course out of pride. But I don’t believe that you could feel the same way.” She snickered softly but it sounded pitiful. “Do understand this though, Master.”
“Yes, it would be foolish to say that, dear.” She simply repliered as she stared at him, her icy blue eyes piercing through his.
“Nd do you know why? Simple. Because it would have happened anyway. The shame will creep up until you snap because you won’t be able to take it anymore.” Missy remained calm, doing a good work at not crying in front of him.
“It would be foolish to blame it on the time spent with the Doctor. Because he is actually trying to help and he is succeeding. Whether you like it or not.”
The Master blinks, reacquainting himself with his dignity, after baring himself to Missy and being returned … what feels like scorn.
He recalibrates his mind quickly. Perhaps she speaks out of embarrassment, which always raises her hackles, and his, and any Master’s.
“I think you mistake me, sis,” he begins, with uncommon courtesy- courtesy he’ll only show versions of himself. “I don’t regret what’s begun to happen to me. To you, us. I’m only telling you that you’re not running mad. That you’re not alone.”
Her haste to defend the Doctor, in particular, stings. Can she forget that long before she was born, long before he was born, the Time Lord that they are agonized with the ghost pains of a severed limb, and that limb is the Doctor?
The very definition of the Master is the struggle between self-service, and love of the Doctor.
“D’you really think my every pore doesn’t scream for him every moment? Remember, I am you. What you feel, I feel. How can you think we’re so different, Missy? It’s only a matter of how each of us expresses it. The feelings themselves remain.”
Missy quickly straightened up and got a hold of herself. She bit her bottom lip, holding back her tears with difficulty. She was turning her back to the Master. Of course he would make disobligent comments and pick on her if he saw her like that.
“I’m not crying, Junior. Get that thought out of your head will ya? Why even would I be crying anyway huh?” Her voice sounded normal but very faintly shaky. She was too proud to tell him the truth. To tell him that she was crying and especially why.
She remembered the names of the people she killed through her lives. Every single name and how she killed them. Begging for mercy. Screaming for help. Crying of fear. The ones that fought for their lives. The one that accepted their fate with dignity. She remembered them all one by one and it was tearing her apart.
The Master pads around behind Missy, hands folded behind his back, examining her posture, studying the tremor of her voice, knowing her as well as he knows himself, as well as kissing the reflection in the mirror, for they are one mind.
“Just like it’d be foolish to, say, confess that time spent in the Doctor’s company might’ve … unscrewed a few valves in my avowed hatred for all life, and my bad memories. Might’ve softened my resolve a bit. Might’ve made me just the smallest bit reluctant to maim.”
He rounds the front of her, with a steadfast stare.
“Might’ve made me start reconsidering what I’ve done, and to whom. Gotten me reacquainted with the idea of shame.”
He offers her a handkerchief, red, engraved with a simple black “M.”
“You’re not the only one. I promise. I just. Put on a show in front of him. Out of pride.”
Icarus 