As befits an over-achieving Time Lord, the Master is every bit the polyglot that the Doctor is. Her vehement entry signals that he must compensate with calm. He strides over, with a carefully composed look of amusement.
“I’ll hold while you punch?” he ventures, in Urdu.
He produces a handkerchief, fussing over the still-damp parts of her hair and face, following her in her raging circles, a storm-chaser if ever there was one.
She threw up exasperated arms and let them drop. “What t’ bloody hell is wrong with that man? How can anyone be so so flippin’ ignorant, so willfully blind as t’ what’s goin’ on right in front of them?” She gave a huff and sighed, finally beginning to wind down. “Okay, yeah, t’ Earth hasn’t met aliens yet at that point they know are aliens. But why consign your own sufferin’ an’ terrified people to death an’ worse for superstition? They need help, not abuse or fear. Help is what I do. I swear, it’s like I’ve set m’self t’ lookin’ after a planet full of seven billion toddlers, sometimes.”
The Master pauses, and plops into the jumpseat, one leg crossed over the other; all he needs to complete the image of rapt listener is a bag of popcorn. His features remain patiently, wanly attentive. He nods when he should nod, and hums when he should hum, adds the occasional “too right” or “indeed, darling.”
Eventually her diatribe ends and he clicks his tongue.
“I’ve told you a thousand times, love: most sentient life forms’ weakness is their fear. Greater ambitions, and perhaps lesser characters, exploit this ad infinitum. You can only do so much with your audience, no matter their potential, if they’re unwilling to learn.”
He opens his arms to her.
“C’mere. Sit. Even the helpers among us need rest. And if you ever want to use my lax ethics to even out the herd, I’d be happy to dispose of the fear-mongers. Nice and tidy. No one would know I’d meddled with any timeline.”
As befits an over-achieving Time Lord, the Master is every bit the polyglot that the Doctor is. Her vehement entry signals that he must compensate with calm. He strides over, with a carefully composed look of amusement.
“I’ll hold while you punch?” he ventures, in Urdu.
He produces a handkerchief, fussing over the still-damp parts of her hair and face, following her in her raging circles, a storm-chaser if ever there was one.
The moment the Master beheld the Doctor’s new generation, he entirely bypassed the obvious change of her gender presentation.
Because he was so goddamned smug that for once, just for once, in their manifold reincarnations, he is the taller of the two.
Then it was “Why are you Lesbian Disney Princess crossed with Castiel crossed with a Ghostbuster?” about her choice of apparel.
After that, he had realized what had made her breathlessly gasp, “Oh, brilliant,” cackled, and roared, “OH, you COPYCAT.”
Months later, here they are.
“I enjoy your companions immensely, yes. I enjoy watching you wrangle solutions from their world and its primitive reservoirs of materials. I enjoy that they treat you as a friend and not as a god. It’s a new development, and I must say it suits you far better than the past arrangement ever did. As for your TARDIS.”
He pops his knuckles theatrically, pours a glass of whiskey, nudges one her way, and sips.
“We were once marooned here on this planet for years, you and I both. We got through it. Relax. I’ll hyperfixate on the solution and hunt it down, if you don’t get there first. Remember your own mantra: it’ll be fine.”
//Oooooooh I see I see. I think she actually did stab him, but for the sake of inducing regeneration, not to kill him, and I refuse to believe he would actually shoot to kill her, because I maintain what even Moffat acknowledged an episode earlier: “you would never be so self-destructive.” ❤
Icarus 