Interlude - New Fic: The Ten Truths (part 1 of 3)
Every day in the TARDIS feels the same. Not that there’s anything to mark the days apart, either. The Doctor’s spent enough time on Earth to have a decent sense of a twenty-four hour day, though. He reckons it took the Master at least two days to stop swearing and cursing.
The Doctor learned some new words in those hours. Unfortunately, twenty-first century Earth politicians were not the worst company the Master’s ever kept.
He’s actually come to miss those days, though. Ever since then the Master has skulked around the TARDIS in silence, pointedly ignoring any attempts the Doctor made at communication. In the end, the Doctor gave up. The harder he pushes, the harder the Master will push back. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know what else to try.
So, for now, he waits. They drift aimlessly through the Vortex. There’s nowhere the Doctor wants to go, and he’s made the controls inaccessible to the Master.
And then, just as the Doctor’s starting to lose his connection to Earth time … his phone rings.
** ** **
It’s Martha. She says it’s not urgent, but the next time he’s passing London or 2008, whichever’s nearer, can he stop by and collect something?
He’s so bored, so devoid of stimulation, that he agrees to go right now. He doesn’t tell the Master where they’re going. He talks to the Master a little, being deliberately irritating, until he storms away to the most distant part of the ship.
Then the Doctor lands in London.
** ** **
Martha looks worried, and a little guilty.
“I hope you’re not too angry with me. I found these, and, well … I didn’t really know well enough then, did I?”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a petri dish. Sealed inside are dozens of little cellophane squares covered in half-moon symbols. Happy. Forget. Anger. Sleep.
“I know I shouldn’t have taken them, but … I was a medical student! I’d never seen anything like that! I wasn’t going to do anything with them, just examine them and see how they worked.”
The Doctor gives her a dark look.
“But I know now, I absolutely shouldn’t have these things, especially out of their time. That’s why I called you. I couldn’t figure out how they worked, so I couldn’t risk getting rid of them here. I mean, it’s not like I could just flush them down the toilet, is it? I’d have half of London trying to kill each other. And I can’t keep them. So the only thing left is to return them to you.” She hands to container over, still looking guilty.
He takes the dish, eyeing the contents distastefully, and tucks it away in one of his many pockets. But when he looks up at his most recent companion, his expression is much gentler.
After all, everyone has something they can’t resist, whether it’s a chance to explore, or the chance to save the only remaining member of their species.
Or, put another way, everyone has a weakness. For some, it’s curiosity. For others, it’s nine-hundred year-old Time Lords with magnetic personalities and a penchant for universal domination.
And, until this moment, it was a fairly even bet as to whose weakness would cause the most damage. But now Martha’s handed over the Mood patches, the danger has lessened, and the odds have tipped dramatically.
Which reminds him: he really ought to be getting back. Soon.
“Did you … did you do anything to these things that I should be aware of?”
“Not that I know of. I put a couple under the electron microscope, looked at some others with infra-red and UV light. Even x-rayed a couple, I was looking for heavy metals in the compound. I tried to break the compound down, too, in the usual ways. Nothing ever made the slightest difference.”
The Doctor nods, and gets ready to stand, before he remembers.
“How are you?”
She holds his gaze and answers honestly. “Better, I think. Everyone’s coming to terms with what happened. Sometimes I think they’ve forgotten … but then I think they just want to forget.”
He raises his eyebrows. “And you were never tempted to slip them one of these?” He nods towards the container in his pocket. Forget.
Again, no lies. “Tempted? Yes. Seriously tempted, no way.” She smiles. “Hadn’t you ought to be getting back?”
“Yes, I suppose I should. He can’t escape, you know. I made sure.”
She nods, an of-course-that’s-what-I-expected nod.
“I mean, I know you’d’ve preferred it if he … you know … wasn’t a threat any more.” He’d love to promise that the Master no longer poses a threat to her … her family … her country … her planet. He can’t do that.
“You know I trust you.”
Silence. “All right, then. See you again.” He turns and walks away, and feels relieved to be going back to the TARDIS, to the Master.
** ** **
There’s no sign of the Master. He hides the box away in a storage slot under the controls.
He spends the rest of the night - once he has piloted them back into the Vortex - searching for the Master. They could waste a couple of lifetimes avoiding each other like this. Even a millennia-long life is too short for that.
He finds the Master in the attic. He goes in and closes the door behind them.
The Master pretends he is not there.
“Just made a stop back on Earth. Checking up on Martha.”
After a pause, the bait is apparently too good to resist.
A mock sympathetic tone. “And how is she? Do they remember me at all?”
“Her family? Of course. The rest of the planet? Not even a déjà vu. Say what you like about my ship, and you have, she does a good job in any form.”
The Master just glares. The Doctor drops his flippant tone and turns to face him. He has taken on a look of deadly seriousness that has terrified and intimidated any opponent he has turned it on.
“Why did you do it? Why there? I said I’d fight you anywhere you wanted.”
With a raised eyebrow, the Master asks, “What makes you think it was about you? It was a pleasant side effect, making you watch, but you knew my real goals. They were the same as ever.”
“To take over the universe,” the Doctor responds, his voice flat and hollow.
“Of course,” the Master answers lightly, with a smile.
The Doctor’s frustrated, but a little bit triumphant, too. This is the nearest thing to a civilised conversation they’ve had for a long time. He decides not to push his luck any further, and leaves.
** ** **
The Master has taken up an even more rigorous policy of avoidance, and has become almost impossible to find. The Doctor could swear he’s quietly entering rooms he’s just checked, silently following him around the endless rooms.
In the end, refusing to give him the satisfaction, he gives up and busies himself with other things. In the first day alone he discovers four rooms that he’d forgotten existed.
He tries to keep his mind away from guessing how long his plans for the Master are going to take. He’s grown used to human timekeeping - fast and short - and is unnerved by the prospect of tiny, creeping victories spread across many, many years.
But he’s getting used to it, this slower pace, this lower level of excitement. Which makes it all the more shocking, one afternoon, as he’s bent over the TARDIS control replacing some fuses, when the Master enters the room behind him and without a hint of jest his tone, says:
“Have I ever told you how nice your bum looks in that suit?”
** ** **
In the split second it takes the Doctor’s brain to fully process the compliment, a dozen possibilities flash through his mind. Two in particular stand out: either the Master is insane on a much deeper and unpredictable level than he’d previously thought, or he himself has begun his descent into madness.
As his brain works overtime, his body turns in the direction of the voice.
“In fact, it might not just be the suit. Or the bum. There’s a few other things that are looking pretty tasty in this body.”
It is, at least, partially calming to see that the Master looks as horrified as the Doctor feels at this new conversation topic.
The Doctor just stares in disbelief. The Master claps a hand over his mouth. When he speaks, it appears to be a struggle.
“Forget that. I didn’t … I didn’t … I didn’t … aargh!”
Then the Doctor grins wickedly. “Is that what you’ve been thinking?”
“Nnn … nnnnnn … nnyes!”
The look of horror in the Master’s eyes triplicates, and he runs from the room.
** ** **
Well.
The Master is one of the most accomplished actors - liars may be a better word - the universe has ever known. The Doctor grins. Why would his old adversary suddenly feel so compelled to speak the truth?
Then his blood runs cold. Making sure the Master has indeed gone and that he is not presenting him with a prime view of his rear end, he bends and looks under the console.
Oh … bollocks. The mood patches have gone. And it doesn’t take a detective to work out which patch the Master’s used. But why?
** ** **
He finds him back in the attic, frantically clawing at his right wrist with his left hand. Silently, the Doctor lifts his hand and sees the familiar crescent design and the word, Honesty.
“Hold on a tic. I can understand why you’d want a mood patch. But honesty? Isn’t that a little overrated in your book?”
Again, the Master seems to be making a great effort not to answer, but it’s doing no good. “I found them a couple of days ago. I was looking for Sleep - thought it would help pass some of these pointless hours - but this one got stuck to my arm.”
The note of panic in the voice makes it sound very unlike the Master.
“Well, why don’t you just pull it off?”
“Oh, great idea. I’ve been sitting here staring at it, and you come up with the answer straight away! I tried, you idiot. Did you think those were cat scratches on my arm?”
Now that sounds like the Master. He’s now exhaling heavily; he seems to have realised that if he doesn’t fight the Honesty, he has a little more control over his speech.
“It won’t come off,” the Doctor states, pinching a corner of the patch between his thumb and index finger and giving it a little pull. The Master winces.
“Well, I don’t understand. They came off as easy as pie on New Earth. Unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Well, it could be one of three things. Either this is happening because they’re meant to go on your neck, not your arm. Or you’re having an adverse reaction because they were never developed for Time Lord biology. Or …” He trails off.
“Or what?” The Master’s voice is pure impatience now. Honestly.
“Martha. Tried to figure out these things. She did experiments on them, tried to figure out how they worked. She reckoned none of them affected the mood compound, but I bet she never checked to see if they altered the adhesive.”
“Fabulous. I’m in a completely different place in time and space and that bitch is still screwing up my life.”
The Doctor grins. Despite the insult, Martha would be delighted to hear that.
“So how long exactly until I get this thing off?”
“No idea. But in the meantime …” The grin has turned quite wicked.
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not using this as an excuse to play therapist.”
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t.”
“Because you’re supposed to be the white hat in this little drama. You’d never take advantage of my … condition … like that.” The Master sounds both certain and hopeful. About fifty percent of each, in fact.
The Doctor nods, thoughtfully, although the grin hasn’t quite left his face.
“No, you’re right. You’re dead right. I would never capitalise on your … disadvantage … like that.”
The Master looks intensely relieved and goes back to trying, without success, to pull the patch from his wrist. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Doctor about to do something incredibly stupid, but it’s too late to stop him.
In slow-motion he watches the Doctor’s hand retrieve an Honesty patch from the container on the floor, and slap it onto his own wrist.
He looks up, triumph and burning energy showing in his deep brown eyes. “There. Now we’re equal.”
The Master looks at him horrified. The Doctor settles himself comfortably into a chair before speaking.
“You go first, if you like.”