The Master (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
best_served_hot) wrote2010-07-14 06:01 pm
best_served_hot) wrote2010-07-14 06:01 pm
fic: scarcely bears thinking about
A/N: Not sure about characterization but this needed written out.
This isn't a place he is supposed to be. UNIT has numerous files on him by another name, his actual name, and this is dangerous. It is dangerous not only in that right but in the respect that he is an alien walking onto a compound in which he has no clearance. The Master posing as a human, how quaint and mildly disgusting. He should feel disgusted with himself and he isn't. In a way, it almost reminds him of the Doctor and his fascination with this particular species.
And that brings a twinge to his hearts that he will never, ever admit to.
It's snowing now and he slips gloved hands into his jacket pockets as he walks, slow, sure steps because if he doesn't focus on that he will turn and run. Being Minister of Defense he is able to go many places but this isn't one of those and he knows it. He is risking everything because there is nowhere to run on this tiny, insignificant planet if he is found out.
But he has to see this for himself.
The guards around the makeshift mortuary deny him entrance and it takes his last vestiges of patience for the evening to not simply kill them to gain entrance. Minutes are ticking past and away, fluttering on the cold wind as he wastes time with these stunted apes. He doesn't have time for this. Sleight of hand with some psychic paper procured at great cost and a bit of mild hypnotism finally get him in. Decontamination first, the sterilized air hits him and the reality finally hits him harder than he expected. After it is finished, he steps through the door and into the cold room.
He walks over, hands still deep in his pockets and tilts his head down at the slab where the Doctor lies. Part of him wishes he hadn't thought to put Archangel in place to hide himself from the Doctor. He squashes down that regret, it's of no use to him. He doesn't recognize this face he has now and he wonders, outside of the reports he's read, how much the Doctor has done since the War.
A War he ran from and knows very little of how it ended. The Doctor must have ended it, he thinks. It would be something he would do. The connection to their world and the one they should have with each other is a void, strange in it's intensity for something so untangible now. He moves closer, pulling one hand out of his pocket and reaching out to touch the Doctor's cheek.
He waits for as long as he dares, until he hears a disturbance moving through the camp towards him. He waits, hoping futiley for some signs of an impending regeneration but he knows that possibility has come and gone.
Leaving quickly, without a backward glance to the body on the slab, he puts his hands back into his pockets and exits the area. When he steps out, he nearly reels as if he hit a physical wall at the sickening wave of wrongness that slams into him. There is only one man standing there, if one would call whatever that was a man and he has a few men from UNIT scrambling after him to catch up.
"Who are you?" the thing demands, taking his arm in a firm grip. Again, the Master resists the urge to react violently but he wants to in retaliation for the Doctor's death. He died saving these insignificant little ants when he could have simply left them to their fate.
"I asked you a question," the other man's grip doesn't falter and the Master looks up at him, bringing that hypnotism to bear on him. It's easier when the mind of the person is weaker but his anger gives him an edge.
"Harold Saxon," he starts, feeling the grip slack. "Minister of Defense, do you mind?" He indicates his arm and the other man finally lets go.
The Master takes his leave before the others arrive, slipping easily into the shadows between floodlights.
Jack still isn't sure why he ended up letting him go.
prompt: none
words: 719
This isn't a place he is supposed to be. UNIT has numerous files on him by another name, his actual name, and this is dangerous. It is dangerous not only in that right but in the respect that he is an alien walking onto a compound in which he has no clearance. The Master posing as a human, how quaint and mildly disgusting. He should feel disgusted with himself and he isn't. In a way, it almost reminds him of the Doctor and his fascination with this particular species.
And that brings a twinge to his hearts that he will never, ever admit to.
It's snowing now and he slips gloved hands into his jacket pockets as he walks, slow, sure steps because if he doesn't focus on that he will turn and run. Being Minister of Defense he is able to go many places but this isn't one of those and he knows it. He is risking everything because there is nowhere to run on this tiny, insignificant planet if he is found out.
But he has to see this for himself.
The guards around the makeshift mortuary deny him entrance and it takes his last vestiges of patience for the evening to not simply kill them to gain entrance. Minutes are ticking past and away, fluttering on the cold wind as he wastes time with these stunted apes. He doesn't have time for this. Sleight of hand with some psychic paper procured at great cost and a bit of mild hypnotism finally get him in. Decontamination first, the sterilized air hits him and the reality finally hits him harder than he expected. After it is finished, he steps through the door and into the cold room.
He walks over, hands still deep in his pockets and tilts his head down at the slab where the Doctor lies. Part of him wishes he hadn't thought to put Archangel in place to hide himself from the Doctor. He squashes down that regret, it's of no use to him. He doesn't recognize this face he has now and he wonders, outside of the reports he's read, how much the Doctor has done since the War.
A War he ran from and knows very little of how it ended. The Doctor must have ended it, he thinks. It would be something he would do. The connection to their world and the one they should have with each other is a void, strange in it's intensity for something so untangible now. He moves closer, pulling one hand out of his pocket and reaching out to touch the Doctor's cheek.
He waits for as long as he dares, until he hears a disturbance moving through the camp towards him. He waits, hoping futiley for some signs of an impending regeneration but he knows that possibility has come and gone.
Leaving quickly, without a backward glance to the body on the slab, he puts his hands back into his pockets and exits the area. When he steps out, he nearly reels as if he hit a physical wall at the sickening wave of wrongness that slams into him. There is only one man standing there, if one would call whatever that was a man and he has a few men from UNIT scrambling after him to catch up.
"Who are you?" the thing demands, taking his arm in a firm grip. Again, the Master resists the urge to react violently but he wants to in retaliation for the Doctor's death. He died saving these insignificant little ants when he could have simply left them to their fate.
"I asked you a question," the other man's grip doesn't falter and the Master looks up at him, bringing that hypnotism to bear on him. It's easier when the mind of the person is weaker but his anger gives him an edge.
"Harold Saxon," he starts, feeling the grip slack. "Minister of Defense, do you mind?" He indicates his arm and the other man finally lets go.
The Master takes his leave before the others arrive, slipping easily into the shadows between floodlights.
Jack still isn't sure why he ended up letting him go.
prompt: none
words: 719