fic: to catch a time lord - feral edition

[best_served_hot]

Another day on the Astral Plane wears on rather uneventfully. I say that only because it is neither punctuated by complacency nor a flurry of activity. But perhaps that is only based on one casual observer's point of view as plots and schemes seem to be quite abundant.

However absurd.

You see, there's a new Master that has arrived not too terribly long ago and he's rather, well one hates to use the term but, broken. Rolling around in the dirt and dust of the area of Earth he is presently tied to and continually raiding the kitchen to leave nothing more than an awful mess. That isn't to mention his table manners which I refuse to touch on for the mere fact that it is quite possibly one of the most atrocious things to ever be inflicted upon the universe. You may think that is harsh, but I digress.

Aside from the recent ruckus he decided to subject the residents to, in the form of beating a barrel with a pipe in a continuous four-beat, and a fight with another; he's been generally well behaved. One could go so far as to give him a treat or a pat on the head if they were so inclined.

But unless you are his Self, I wouldn't advise it, as he might choose instead to favor your arm for patronizing him.

Again, I digress, what was I meaning to- Oh, yes.

Here we see our four subjects of interest, wait-oh, now we do. They are just over in the not so far off corner, heads poking up one after the other and eyes watching carefully from their impromptu hiding place. One set of eyes, identical to the man's beside him along with the ridiculous hair, looks hopeful. The next set is uncertain but still hopeful as their quarry comes into view. The last set is darker than the others and colored with an undefinable amount of disdain.

That last set of eyes watches as well as the would be quarry makes his approach, quarry that looks identical to him sans blond hair and dirt bathing. It is inherently still a Self and while he is going along with this idiotic plan he does hope Self has the decency to avoid obvious traps in this state.

Though considering his behavior as of late, he may need some assistance. Discreetly, he slips his screwdriver out of his suit pocket, pleased that the Doctor and his Hand don't notice a thing.

Their quarry, on the other hand, seems unsuspecting but perhaps that is only for his would be captor's benefit. He shuffles along in a half crawl, snatching up the steaks left behind at random intervals and eating them. One finished, he moves on to the next and so on and so forth.

The first, with the identical eyes and the ridiculous hair pipes up. "He's actually going for it."

The second, with still equally ridiculous hair, nods. "I really didn't think he'd fall for it, I mean it is kind of simple."

The third resists the urge to slap both of them upside the backs of their heads because there is absolutely no way that his Self hasn't already realized that this will eventually lead to nothing good. Just because he's perpetually dying and constantly hungry and his mind is an absolute wreck doesn't mean he's suddenly gone stupid. He settles, instead of hitting them and revealing their positions, for sneering at them. "You can't honestly believe this hair brained scheme is going to work."

The second with the identical eyes and the hair looks affronted and then it is replaced by a sort of determination. "You-he needs help if you haven't noticed." His half-human body double gives an agreeing nod. "We can't do that without tests."

"Who says he even wants you-either of you- helping him?" A beat. "Have either of you even tried asking him?"

The two of them go oddly quiet and the third wonders how socially stunted they can get. Then he promptly decides that he doesn't want to know.

He pipes up himself, voice a mocking tone. "Because nothing says, "I want to help you" like a trail of food leading to a trap that is the proverbial box propped up with a stick."

While all this is going on, their quarry has nearly reached their grand trap and seems blissfully unaware. He stops, breathing in deeply and gives a rather feral grin.

"It isn't a box on a stick. It's a sophisticated piece of technology triggered by a-" stops the second with the unruly hair and the indignant disposition, realizing that their trap is indeed a glorified box propped up with a stick. Collectively, the two that are mostly identical sulk and the third is ever so helpful.

"Next time I'll paint Acme on the side."

The first opens his mouth to debate the obvious ridiculousness of their scheme but is interrupted the trap activating and slamming shut.

Each of them stare. Did it work?

Slowly, they leave the confines of their hiding place and make their way over to inspect the trap. Pulling out his sonic, the Doctor waves it over the control panel that reveals a small panel that slide opens in the side so they might look in. The Doctor, the Hand and the Master all peer inside.

"Well, guess it's back to the drawing board then," says the Doctor and the Hand nods in agreement.

"I'll get the stencil and spray paint," the Master adds helpfully with a smile.

"Stop it."

He continues, still rather smug. "Well, at least he managed to swipe that last bit of food. Good for him."

Their quarry sits, watching the dialogue from his vantage point on the floor some distance away, finishing off his steak.

prompt: do cracky conversations count as those?
words: 1014
A/N: salvagestime, savagestime, and handysparehand are used with permission and no Time Lords were harmed in the writing of this fic.