Lock] I wouldn't save you from the path you wander. In desperation dreams any soul can set you free…

[trust_mistruth]

There's a refreshing chill to the Chicago air here on North Clark Street, compared to the unrelenting New Delhi warmth.  The Master would like to enjoy it.

Unfortunately, he's here on business.

The cold is already biting into his skin more than his Time Lord nerves should allow - his body, his real body, not this Rift-designed degrading clone -

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[trust_mistruth]

The Master forces his lungs back into some semblance of operating order. One breath, and then another, just in time for the collar to come off in the Doctor's hand.

And that is the final indignity. It hurts,, being without it. One collar free isn't enough to pry the restraints from his mind, not when the body with a partially unfettered brain is the one currently recovering from hypoxia and constantly dying.

The breath he finally managed to take in is crushed from his lungs, and any willpower left him narrows to the single pursuit of getting the collar back. Gasping an hissing, he struggles to make a hand close on it again, take it back, Give it back-

Panic and hatred are equally present in his eyes when he happens to look back on the Doctor again; hatred for taking the collar from him, for not taking it sooner, for not saving him from the Trust, from his failing body, from himself. He hates the Doctor for a thousand different indignities, none of which he has enough power to change.

And most of all, he hates that it's come to this, throwing himself on the mercy of his oldest enemy, for the bare chance of freedom - an enemy who only thinks to uncollar him while he's suffocating.

This farce has gone far enough. From this point, the Doctor will likely do more good on his own than by dragging the Master through his bungling early attempts, and the healthy body back at the Trust's hotel turns to his keeper and informs her in clipped tones that she might want to recall their emissary before the Doctor manages to get his hands on any more Trust secrets or technology.

On the street, mid-scrabble, the Master's unlucky body feels the first tug of a conjuration and freezes, fixing the Doctor with a penetrating glare.

"Idiot," he says.

And then he vanishes, swallowed back through the air, and the collar vanishes with him.

[thatsortofaman]

The Doctor doesn't move for a second, just crouching there in stunned silence on the sidewalk, staring at the spot where the Master had been. And then he shouts, anger and frustration, pushes himself to his feet, spins and kicks the newspaper machine that happened to be there when he turned.

There are people staring at him, either for the shouting or because they noticed a person vanishing into thin air, and he doesn't much care either way. He shoots them - or possibly the world in general - a frustrated glare and turns away to stalk off into the snow.