The Master (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beholdthedrums) wrote2010-02-16 11:21 pm
beholdthedrums) wrote2010-02-16 11:21 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: I Am the Dream-Master
Rating: G
Words: 415
Warnings: Kinda cracky, and childhood being punched.
*rocks back and forth in a corner* Oh god I just punched my childhood in the face... So I was in Paixao chat and someone started off with "Imaaaaaaaaginaaaaation" that was to start... Reading Rainbow I guess, but of all things my mind stumbled into "Journey Into Imagination", a ride from Disney World that was revamped (for the worse, if you ask me) in like... the 1990s.
The Master decided to invade that moment of nostalgia. I think he's still sore about the whole Yana thing.
I Am the Dream-Master
The creature wouldn’t leave him alone. It even had the nerve to break out into song, floating around his head, spouting off ideas from rainbows to sparks and – “Could you please at least suggest new ways for me to do the Doctor injustice? Not… not the rubbish you keep on about?!”
It was a small, purple dragon, orange wings and ridges down its back.
“But those ideas aren’t sparkling…” the being squeaks.
“They can be!”
It wrinkles its snout, pulling back and crossing its arms in a huff. “He would never approve of you.”
“Who? The Doctor?”
It tilts its head. “The Doctor? A man of medicine! Satchels and bandaids and cotton! Healing and helping and –”
The Master clamps a hand around its jaws. “Do not start singing again.”
It muffles.
He lets it go.
“The Dreamfinder!” it squeaks. “He’s the one who wouldn’t approve.”
“Well, he’s not here, is he?” the Master purrs. “And besides,” he starts, creeping closer, hands folded behind his back, “you’re just a figment of imagination, right? Existing only because others exist, because others come with ideas. And… do you see anyone else around?”
Figment begins to panic. “N-No…”
The Master grins, ever the feral one. “So, what do you think that means, then?”
“That I need to imagine myself an escape route, quick!”
“You’re too late. See… I’m a fairly psychic being… and this is my turf that you’ve so foolishly floated across, hoping to find some poor lonely souls who needed to remember that little spark… But you found me, instead. And I’ve already thought long ahead of this moment, cutting off your escape routes.”
“But wait! Please! No! There’s other things to imagine! Better things!” Figment looks every which-way possible. Every dream-able direction. “Good things! Bright things! Stories with great endings! Full of light and joy and –” It stops. Even as a childlike, created being, Figment knows of weapons and destruction – it wishes it didn’t, but it knows. And now, the Master has one directed its way.
“I am the writer of this tale. The shaper. You, Figment, are just my tool for the process.” He circles the dragon, grin still plastered to his face. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard.” Oh he did love saying that. “I almost prefer the hard! Where you jump and dive and split in two, all to avoid any pain! But, well. We’ll see, won’t we…”
Words: 415
Warnings: Kinda cracky, and childhood being punched.
*rocks back and forth in a corner* Oh god I just punched my childhood in the face... So I was in Paixao chat and someone started off with "Imaaaaaaaaginaaaaation" that was to start... Reading Rainbow I guess, but of all things my mind stumbled into "Journey Into Imagination", a ride from Disney World that was revamped (for the worse, if you ask me) in like... the 1990s.
The Master decided to invade that moment of nostalgia. I think he's still sore about the whole Yana thing.
I Am the Dream-Master
The creature wouldn’t leave him alone. It even had the nerve to break out into song, floating around his head, spouting off ideas from rainbows to sparks and – “Could you please at least suggest new ways for me to do the Doctor injustice? Not… not the rubbish you keep on about?!”
It was a small, purple dragon, orange wings and ridges down its back.
“But those ideas aren’t sparkling…” the being squeaks.
“They can be!”
It wrinkles its snout, pulling back and crossing its arms in a huff. “He would never approve of you.”
“Who? The Doctor?”
It tilts its head. “The Doctor? A man of medicine! Satchels and bandaids and cotton! Healing and helping and –”
The Master clamps a hand around its jaws. “Do not start singing again.”
It muffles.
He lets it go.
“The Dreamfinder!” it squeaks. “He’s the one who wouldn’t approve.”
“Well, he’s not here, is he?” the Master purrs. “And besides,” he starts, creeping closer, hands folded behind his back, “you’re just a figment of imagination, right? Existing only because others exist, because others come with ideas. And… do you see anyone else around?”
Figment begins to panic. “N-No…”
The Master grins, ever the feral one. “So, what do you think that means, then?”
“That I need to imagine myself an escape route, quick!”
“You’re too late. See… I’m a fairly psychic being… and this is my turf that you’ve so foolishly floated across, hoping to find some poor lonely souls who needed to remember that little spark… But you found me, instead. And I’ve already thought long ahead of this moment, cutting off your escape routes.”
“But wait! Please! No! There’s other things to imagine! Better things!” Figment looks every which-way possible. Every dream-able direction. “Good things! Bright things! Stories with great endings! Full of light and joy and –” It stops. Even as a childlike, created being, Figment knows of weapons and destruction – it wishes it didn’t, but it knows. And now, the Master has one directed its way.
“I am the writer of this tale. The shaper. You, Figment, are just my tool for the process.” He circles the dragon, grin still plastered to his face. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard.” Oh he did love saying that. “I almost prefer the hard! Where you jump and dive and split in two, all to avoid any pain! But, well. We’ll see, won’t we…”