The Master (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beholdthedrums) wrote2009-07-23 10:15 pm
beholdthedrums) wrote2009-07-23 10:15 pm
FIC: Of Egypt and Aliens (Part 1)
Community: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
justprompts
Prompt: It's not a matter of whether or not someone's watching over you. It's just a question of their intentions. -Randy K. Milholland
Character(s): The Master & the Doctor
Words: 1,839
This ended up getting longer than I initially intended XD; ... I haven't actually written anymore yet. Ah well. At some point will finish that meme, too, lol. And write something for the enemies verse :O 'cause I haven't done that in awhile... have sorta something started for the evil!Donna thing but. *shrug*
Need to edit verses too at some point... fff randomly growing to-do list :|
Mmmm... likely several years after S3-AU.
It's not a matter of whether or not someone's watching over you. It's just a question of their intentions. -Randy K. Milholland
Part I
Waking up in a hospital room is something the Master never, ever wants to do. It isn’t that he cares so much about preserving the human race – keeping them from discovering the littlest thing about him and changing the course of history – he simply hates the idea. He hates how the place looks, how everyone acts, how there’s an IV in his arm and he can’t even find the thread in his mind to tell him why.
He takes a quick tally of himself, and finds almost everything in disarray. Both his hearts are still in working order, that’s good. But the drumbeat is gone, completely, and after living with it in all his lives, it’s horrifying to suddenly be without it, no explanation. And if that wasn’t distraction enough – he was getting distracted, good god – there was this irritating realization that he could not sort his thoughts out. Even with the drumming often fragmenting everything, they were at least more organized than they were now.
He tries to remember what happened the last time he was awake. When that fails, he tries to remember anything, anything at all! But his mind will not stretch beyond the dusty white walls, like a signal bouncing around each and then feeding back to him and giving him nothing.
He sits up, tears the IV out of him, then holds his head and examines the room. No windows. How dull. No decorations, either. There’s his bed and some medical equipment and that’s about the whole lot of it.
The door opens, and a blip passes through his mind; a bit of knowledge that he grabs hold to before it can escape him. Martha Jones enters the room with a clipboard held to her uniform and a neutral expression on her face. Well, what can he say. They never did get along.
“Mister Saxon,” she says with a clipped voice, staying where she is.
“Oh, so we’ll go with that charade, then?”
She continues as if he hadn’t spoke, “Do you know where you are?”
“No,” he replies dryly, “Earth, I would imagine.”
“You’ve got that one right.”
They may have never gotten along, but part of him is glad that she was the one to walk in, and not some mysterious, other doctor.
“Well then, would you like to tell me why I’m here, exactly?” There are other questions he should be asking, but he can’t remember them. His memory can’t make it out the opened door – he remembers Martha Jones and he knows they hate each other and he knows why, and yet… he doesn’t.
“You were brought in from an incident. We’ve done what we could to stabilize you, Mister Saxon, but I’m afraid we’ll have to keep you for awhile longer. You might also be pulled aside for questioning, given that you were at the scene.”
“Miss Jones,” he says coolly, narrowing his eyes, “really, you can drop the act. I need to get out of here, and you know that.”
She raises a brow. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t clear you.”
He growls lowly. “Then find me someone that can!”
She edges into the room, determination hardening across her face. “Please calm down, Mister Saxon. This stress is bad for your health.”
“Call me by my name!” he yells, eyes darkening.
“Harold?” she offers, tilting her head strangely to the side. She then breaks forward quickly after he begins to try and get out of the bed with the full intention of hurting her, but she somehow manages to push him back down and he wonders just how out of it he really is. She wraps a hand suddenly around his shirt collar and his eyes widen. “If you would please tell me what happened at the scene.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Jones. My memory is rather patchy currently,” he says carefully, eyes darting around the room. Her hand tightens closer towards his neck and he frowns. “I understand we got off on the wrong foot, but I think you’re overreacting right now.”
“Tell me what you did.”
He rests a hand over her own and tries to pry it from his neck. My, quite the iron-claw grip she has lately… working out, maybe? Special, secret U.N.I.T training? He grits his teeth. “Martha,” he says, trying a different route, “I don’t know what’s going on. You’re going to have to give me a bit more here.”
“Tell me,” she hisses sharply, and something in his mind reacts, recoiling in understanding.
This wasn’t Martha Jones.
“Who are you?” he snaps.
“I’m asking the questions here.”
“Is this even Earth? What’ve you done to me? Answer my questions.” He wracks his mind to try and pull up some useful information, but he’s still met with static. This was growing more and more unpleasant. “If you’re not really Miss Jones, then that means you had to get her image from somewhere. My mind, likely. Makes me wonder what else you’ve taken out of it. Why put the effort in extracting a familiar face when you could’ve just taken the information you’re seeking?”
“Blocked,” she tells him, annoyance in her voice.
Blocked? That was interesting. “What makes you think that I can access it, then?”
“Because if you don’t, I will kill you.”
He makes a face. “Might I see the face of my killer, then?”
The body of Martha Jones shimmers, and a lanky man in a suit takes her place, stepping back with a smug smile. The Master finds himself scared, and his mind shudders before producing an answer: the Doctor. Other doors unlock and spill out data and he’s remembering bits and pieces of traveling and the TARDIS and the vortex and Gallifrey.
“No,” he murmurs, then yells, “Stop this! Show me your true face!”
“What? Master, I thought you always liked this regeneration,” the Doctor says, running a hand along his chin and grinning madly. “Sure it isn’t ginger, but we make do with what we have to, hm?” He reaches out and pulls the Master from the bed with one hand, holding him off the floor. “Now, now, Master. All I want is a bit of information. It shouldn’t be too hard.”
“If you’re the Doctor,” the Master threatens, “then find it yourself.” His hands twitch at his sides; his body is numb. His memories continue to return, but he still can’t remember what happened the last time he was awake. He finds where that particular information is held, however, and he can’t push through it. Something is guarding him from it, something familiar. He laughs. “Oh, Doctor, I should’ve known.”
“What?”
“No, no, not you. We’ve already discussed that you aren’t him. Really, you should quit hiding it. Only he can get those memories, after all. You’re out of luck. So sorry.” He’s not at all.
“Then you’re useless to us,” ‘the Doctor’ sneers, throwing him against a wall and the Master winces at the impact.
“No help of us getting along then, eh? That’s unfortunate. We could’ve made great business partners.” He attempts to push himself up, but his footing is all wrong. Distantly, he imagines he hears the drumming, and he grasps to the sound, however false it may be, in an instant. He never thought he’d be so grateful of it. Clarity seeps around him now, and he begins to see the hospital room for what it really is. “Oh, isn’t that clever,” he hums, staring lazily at the fake Doctor. “You’re very skilled with illusions. Has me curious.” He finally gets to his feet, staggering slightly.
“It matters little. If we cannot find out about anything from you, then you will not hear anything from us.”
“Your right, it doesn’t matter. Don’t you think, Doctor?” he flashes a grin beyond the lookalike, and the real Doctor slips in through a doorway and slams an elbow down on the other’s head. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” the Master snaps, tapping the side of his head.
“Yeah, sorry about that, you know. Only thing I could really do at last minute.” The Doctor rubs the back of his neck, staring down quizzically at his lookalike. “Really it’s not so important right now. Can fix it up later. Better to get back into the streets.”
“Where are we?”
“You don’t remem – oh. Right.” He blinks a moment, then glances away and rambles off to himself, “Blimey, I must’ve been sloppier than normal.” He shakes his head, then looks back to the Master. “We’re in Egypt.”
“Egypt? Why the hell did we come to Egypt?”
“Sightseeing! Tourism! Always fun, that,” the Doctor announces, sticking hands into his pockets and rocking side to side. “Pictures are nothing compared to the real thing. And it’s been so long, for me, anyway. I forget about you.”
The Master rolls his eyes. Of course. “That’s just like you. Why am I not surprised,” he grumbles, stepping over the lookalike while casting it a glance of disdain. “Fine. Streets, TARDIS, and I want my memory back.”
The Doctor follows after him, expelling an odd, drawn-out sound. “Are you sure? I mean, alright, I could fix it up and all but… what’s the point now? No sense in getting it back, really. You aren’t missing much important.” He averts his gaze too quickly when the Master shoots him a suspicious glare. “What I mean is,” the Doctor says in a rush, “it just makes things easier for us both, in the whole not-having-to-deal-with-it sort of thing.”
“Doctor.”
“Master,” he replies, attempting to sound strong, but fails.
“I don’t need you of all people protecting me from… whatever it is that happened! Apparently I did something, and I want to know what.”
“I don’t care,” the Doctor says, voice hard. He no longer wavers. “I’m not doing it.”
“They were after me because of it!” the Master yells, forgetting that he could be attracting more attention to themselves. They’ve made it to the streets of Luxor. He wonders if they can hijack a boat and sail down the Nile; it might be safer than the TARDIS at this point. Then the Master can throw the Doctor overboard and not let him back until he unlocks the hidden section in his mind.
“Well then we’ll just hop off the planet, no worries.” The Doctor turns a grin to him in some crazy attempt to lighten the mood, but the Master isn’t buying it. “Oh come on, don’t be like that. Compared to the rest of your mind, it’s just a tiny little speck. Give it a bit, and you won’t even notice it!”
The Master clamps up, deciding that the ‘silent treatment’ was in order. And the Doctor should know, the last time that happened, the Master kept it up for weeks. He was not letting this go; it was the whole damn principle of the matter. Something happened, the Master did… whatever, the Doctor went into his mind to lock it from him, and oh, he almost forgot –
The drumming was silent.
[Next]
Part of Luxor, not tooo far from the Valley of the Dead.
justpromptsPrompt: It's not a matter of whether or not someone's watching over you. It's just a question of their intentions. -Randy K. Milholland
Character(s): The Master & the Doctor
Words: 1,839
This ended up getting longer than I initially intended XD; ... I haven't actually written anymore yet. Ah well. At some point will finish that meme, too, lol. And write something for the enemies verse :O 'cause I haven't done that in awhile... have sorta something started for the evil!Donna thing but. *shrug*
Need to edit verses too at some point... fff randomly growing to-do list :|
Mmmm... likely several years after S3-AU.
Part I
Waking up in a hospital room is something the Master never, ever wants to do. It isn’t that he cares so much about preserving the human race – keeping them from discovering the littlest thing about him and changing the course of history – he simply hates the idea. He hates how the place looks, how everyone acts, how there’s an IV in his arm and he can’t even find the thread in his mind to tell him why.
He takes a quick tally of himself, and finds almost everything in disarray. Both his hearts are still in working order, that’s good. But the drumbeat is gone, completely, and after living with it in all his lives, it’s horrifying to suddenly be without it, no explanation. And if that wasn’t distraction enough – he was getting distracted, good god – there was this irritating realization that he could not sort his thoughts out. Even with the drumming often fragmenting everything, they were at least more organized than they were now.
He tries to remember what happened the last time he was awake. When that fails, he tries to remember anything, anything at all! But his mind will not stretch beyond the dusty white walls, like a signal bouncing around each and then feeding back to him and giving him nothing.
He sits up, tears the IV out of him, then holds his head and examines the room. No windows. How dull. No decorations, either. There’s his bed and some medical equipment and that’s about the whole lot of it.
The door opens, and a blip passes through his mind; a bit of knowledge that he grabs hold to before it can escape him. Martha Jones enters the room with a clipboard held to her uniform and a neutral expression on her face. Well, what can he say. They never did get along.
“Mister Saxon,” she says with a clipped voice, staying where she is.
“Oh, so we’ll go with that charade, then?”
She continues as if he hadn’t spoke, “Do you know where you are?”
“No,” he replies dryly, “Earth, I would imagine.”
“You’ve got that one right.”
They may have never gotten along, but part of him is glad that she was the one to walk in, and not some mysterious, other doctor.
“Well then, would you like to tell me why I’m here, exactly?” There are other questions he should be asking, but he can’t remember them. His memory can’t make it out the opened door – he remembers Martha Jones and he knows they hate each other and he knows why, and yet… he doesn’t.
“You were brought in from an incident. We’ve done what we could to stabilize you, Mister Saxon, but I’m afraid we’ll have to keep you for awhile longer. You might also be pulled aside for questioning, given that you were at the scene.”
“Miss Jones,” he says coolly, narrowing his eyes, “really, you can drop the act. I need to get out of here, and you know that.”
She raises a brow. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t clear you.”
He growls lowly. “Then find me someone that can!”
She edges into the room, determination hardening across her face. “Please calm down, Mister Saxon. This stress is bad for your health.”
“Call me by my name!” he yells, eyes darkening.
“Harold?” she offers, tilting her head strangely to the side. She then breaks forward quickly after he begins to try and get out of the bed with the full intention of hurting her, but she somehow manages to push him back down and he wonders just how out of it he really is. She wraps a hand suddenly around his shirt collar and his eyes widen. “If you would please tell me what happened at the scene.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Jones. My memory is rather patchy currently,” he says carefully, eyes darting around the room. Her hand tightens closer towards his neck and he frowns. “I understand we got off on the wrong foot, but I think you’re overreacting right now.”
“Tell me what you did.”
He rests a hand over her own and tries to pry it from his neck. My, quite the iron-claw grip she has lately… working out, maybe? Special, secret U.N.I.T training? He grits his teeth. “Martha,” he says, trying a different route, “I don’t know what’s going on. You’re going to have to give me a bit more here.”
“Tell me,” she hisses sharply, and something in his mind reacts, recoiling in understanding.
This wasn’t Martha Jones.
“Who are you?” he snaps.
“I’m asking the questions here.”
“Is this even Earth? What’ve you done to me? Answer my questions.” He wracks his mind to try and pull up some useful information, but he’s still met with static. This was growing more and more unpleasant. “If you’re not really Miss Jones, then that means you had to get her image from somewhere. My mind, likely. Makes me wonder what else you’ve taken out of it. Why put the effort in extracting a familiar face when you could’ve just taken the information you’re seeking?”
“Blocked,” she tells him, annoyance in her voice.
Blocked? That was interesting. “What makes you think that I can access it, then?”
“Because if you don’t, I will kill you.”
He makes a face. “Might I see the face of my killer, then?”
The body of Martha Jones shimmers, and a lanky man in a suit takes her place, stepping back with a smug smile. The Master finds himself scared, and his mind shudders before producing an answer: the Doctor. Other doors unlock and spill out data and he’s remembering bits and pieces of traveling and the TARDIS and the vortex and Gallifrey.
“No,” he murmurs, then yells, “Stop this! Show me your true face!”
“What? Master, I thought you always liked this regeneration,” the Doctor says, running a hand along his chin and grinning madly. “Sure it isn’t ginger, but we make do with what we have to, hm?” He reaches out and pulls the Master from the bed with one hand, holding him off the floor. “Now, now, Master. All I want is a bit of information. It shouldn’t be too hard.”
“If you’re the Doctor,” the Master threatens, “then find it yourself.” His hands twitch at his sides; his body is numb. His memories continue to return, but he still can’t remember what happened the last time he was awake. He finds where that particular information is held, however, and he can’t push through it. Something is guarding him from it, something familiar. He laughs. “Oh, Doctor, I should’ve known.”
“What?”
“No, no, not you. We’ve already discussed that you aren’t him. Really, you should quit hiding it. Only he can get those memories, after all. You’re out of luck. So sorry.” He’s not at all.
“Then you’re useless to us,” ‘the Doctor’ sneers, throwing him against a wall and the Master winces at the impact.
“No help of us getting along then, eh? That’s unfortunate. We could’ve made great business partners.” He attempts to push himself up, but his footing is all wrong. Distantly, he imagines he hears the drumming, and he grasps to the sound, however false it may be, in an instant. He never thought he’d be so grateful of it. Clarity seeps around him now, and he begins to see the hospital room for what it really is. “Oh, isn’t that clever,” he hums, staring lazily at the fake Doctor. “You’re very skilled with illusions. Has me curious.” He finally gets to his feet, staggering slightly.
“It matters little. If we cannot find out about anything from you, then you will not hear anything from us.”
“Your right, it doesn’t matter. Don’t you think, Doctor?” he flashes a grin beyond the lookalike, and the real Doctor slips in through a doorway and slams an elbow down on the other’s head. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” the Master snaps, tapping the side of his head.
“Yeah, sorry about that, you know. Only thing I could really do at last minute.” The Doctor rubs the back of his neck, staring down quizzically at his lookalike. “Really it’s not so important right now. Can fix it up later. Better to get back into the streets.”
“Where are we?”
“You don’t remem – oh. Right.” He blinks a moment, then glances away and rambles off to himself, “Blimey, I must’ve been sloppier than normal.” He shakes his head, then looks back to the Master. “We’re in Egypt.”
“Egypt? Why the hell did we come to Egypt?”
“Sightseeing! Tourism! Always fun, that,” the Doctor announces, sticking hands into his pockets and rocking side to side. “Pictures are nothing compared to the real thing. And it’s been so long, for me, anyway. I forget about you.”
The Master rolls his eyes. Of course. “That’s just like you. Why am I not surprised,” he grumbles, stepping over the lookalike while casting it a glance of disdain. “Fine. Streets, TARDIS, and I want my memory back.”
The Doctor follows after him, expelling an odd, drawn-out sound. “Are you sure? I mean, alright, I could fix it up and all but… what’s the point now? No sense in getting it back, really. You aren’t missing much important.” He averts his gaze too quickly when the Master shoots him a suspicious glare. “What I mean is,” the Doctor says in a rush, “it just makes things easier for us both, in the whole not-having-to-deal-with-it sort of thing.”
“Doctor.”
“Master,” he replies, attempting to sound strong, but fails.
“I don’t need you of all people protecting me from… whatever it is that happened! Apparently I did something, and I want to know what.”
“I don’t care,” the Doctor says, voice hard. He no longer wavers. “I’m not doing it.”
“They were after me because of it!” the Master yells, forgetting that he could be attracting more attention to themselves. They’ve made it to the streets of Luxor. He wonders if they can hijack a boat and sail down the Nile; it might be safer than the TARDIS at this point. Then the Master can throw the Doctor overboard and not let him back until he unlocks the hidden section in his mind.
“Well then we’ll just hop off the planet, no worries.” The Doctor turns a grin to him in some crazy attempt to lighten the mood, but the Master isn’t buying it. “Oh come on, don’t be like that. Compared to the rest of your mind, it’s just a tiny little speck. Give it a bit, and you won’t even notice it!”
The Master clamps up, deciding that the ‘silent treatment’ was in order. And the Doctor should know, the last time that happened, the Master kept it up for weeks. He was not letting this go; it was the whole damn principle of the matter. Something happened, the Master did… whatever, the Doctor went into his mind to lock it from him, and oh, he almost forgot –
The drumming was silent.
[Next]
Part of Luxor, not tooo far from the Valley of the Dead.