This isn't a face the Doctor recognizes, but it is undeniably...
"Master."
The Doctor acknowledges the man with a glance as he strides forward. He's devoid of his usual jacket (and its accompanying celery) and carries a slender rapier in one hand with the bearing of someone who knows how to use it. He pauses at a respectful distance, out of range of the Master's swordplay.
"You know how to put on a show, certainly..."
His voice has a faint tone of mockery to it. They're old enemies and older friends -- and though he's not entirely certain when this Master comes from, they both know how their game is played.
Oh-ho, now this, the Master was not expecting, and the Doctor is met with a brief flash of a genuine smile, which soon smooths into a cool smirk. Of course, he recalls his last encounter with this particular Doctor (and that's something which still rankles at him, just a little), but in the main, he was and is particularly fond of this incarnation, given the hand he had in the regeneration that led up to it and those few days afterwards when the Doctor was suffering so badly from post-regenerative trauma.
Letting his sword-tip swing down in a flashing arc, he turns to face him, cocking an eyebrow at the mockery. Good form. The Master could do with a fight; he's had too little outlet of late, for any of his myriad frustrations.
'And you come prepared, as always, like a good Boy Scout. It has been some time, Doctor.'
He swishes his sword in lazy circles through the air, idly testing the speed and balance of the blade. Of course he'd been prepared and come carrying it with him, but sword fights were hardly an everyday occurrence for him and he could scarcely recall when he last held a blade. Not that he was out of practice, of course.
"...in my time-line I can hardly seem to be rid of you. Wherever I go, there you are. I might almost think you were following me."
It's said lightly enough, but the Doctor's perfectly aware that he's dancing dangerously close to a truth neither of them have been particularly keen on admitting in the past. But these verbal jabs are part of their ritual. Cutting remarks were expected, required. It would hardly be polite not to play his part to the best of his abilities.
'We did run into each other rather frequently in that set of bodies, yes.'
The Master's tone is as flippant as the Doctor's, and his eyes idly track the progress of the Doctor's sword as it swings. What a silly accusation, now, really; as if the Master would ever do anything like that.
'But I was referring to you,' continues the Master, curving his wrist so that there's the faintest rasp of steel on steel as the point of his blade slides against the Doctor's. His gaze flicks up to meet his eyes. 'I see my contemporary Doctor often enough.'
And yet not that often, so it seems. They've each been relegated their roles in this conflict, and it leaves precious little time for encounters such as these. The Master is furious, in truth, at how easily the Doctor allows the High Council to manipulate him, when he knows perfectly well that if he and the Master were given but a day in the same room together, they could have the War ended within weeks.
Though the Master's gaze speaks volumes, the Doctor does wonder what 'often enough' means, precisely. The fact that the Master is here, venting frustration on the empty air, suggests that the true answer is either not often enough or too often.
"But your contemporary Doctor doesn't seem to be here now."
With a tiny twitch of his wrist he flicks the Master's sword away from his own. It's hardly necessary, but the space separating the two of them is full of restless energy. It makes it difficult to stay still or to allow the other man's derision to go unanswered... even when he well knows it would be better sense to turn and walk away.
But he always did let his curiosity get the better of him. And... he had, he would say, reservations about how his last encounter with the Master had ended. Even so, he was surprised at the relief he felt to see an incarnation of the Master from his future.
Not that he would admit any of this to his opponent, of course.
He pins the Doctor with a cool gaze. His attempts to dissect the Master's words are painfully obvious, and really, it wouldn't do for him to tell the Doctor anything about his future, would it? 'He's found himself rather busy of late,' he says quellingly.
Oiling forward, he crosses their blades again, sliding length against length with a slow smile at the skin-prickling sound of it. 'In any event, my dear, if I wanted to see him, I wouldn't have to come here, would I?'
Leisurely, he twists his sword in a move that might have disarmed the Doctor were it performed with any amount of force. As it is, it merely urges his sword out of the way in a slow semi-circle, making room for the Master to advance. Not a provocation into a fight, merely a reminder that they are both here, and they are both holding weapons.
'And where in your timeline do you hail from, Doctor? I should hate to give anything away.'
This last question is met with a cold stare, his lips set in a harsh line. The message is perfectly clear: the Doctor, not removed from watching his friend die by more than the span of a few days, does not wish to discuss the matter. And though he's well aware that his unwillingness to talk is probably a dead giveaway, it's not a matter he considers open for debate.
"Memory lane? Are you growing nostalgic in your old age?"
He follows this up with a quick thrust towards the Master's torso. It's a brash, showy opening on an unprepared opponent -- not that the Doctor is under any illusion that the Master is unprepared. It's not at all his style, to lead the attack. But something about being confronted with the Master at just this time in his time-line... Well. He's either going to do this or something even more brash, and this seems preferable.
Well, that answers his question quite sufficiently, and the Master's own gaze shutters off, his face hardening. It's good, though, satisfies that centuries-old ache to see that the Doctor is hurting because of what he'd done. He deserves to hurt for it, never mind the fact that the Master came back in the end.
He exhales a sharp hah! of breath when the Doctor lunges, snapping his blade away easily and riposting. Whatever he himself may be, his form, this time around, is that of a gentleman, feet well turned out, technique formal and exquisitely executed.
'Not in the slightest,' he rejoins crisply. 'I merely wanted to make sure I wouldn't... give anything away. Timelines, you know.'
"Funny, I never thought of you as the sort to play it safe."
He parries easily enough and backs up a step, setting himself up in a standard guard posture. This is rather more his style -- to play it safe, react to an opponent's moves. It's familiar. Comfortable.
"And were our timelines quite so easily fractured, I should think we would have shattered them well before now."
It's a dance, one they both learnt long years ago, and easily, as the Doctor steps back, the Master advances. He's holding himself back now, playing the gentleman- it comes easily this regeneration- but he can feel the urge, beating softly at the back of his mind, to really hurt the Doctor. Or if not that, at least to shatter that composure of his, which in his own contemporary Doctor is so infuriatingly implacable. It's true, he sees him with more frequency than perhaps he has done since they were boys, but each meeting is more unsatisfying than the last.
'Possibly,' he acquiesces, swinging his sword in an arcing cut at the Doctor's shoulder, one he'll easily be able to parry. 'But you underestimate me, Doctor; I can be very cautious if needs must.'
The Doctor makes the obvious parry, following up with an equally obvious riposte -- and, really, it's too obvious, too easy. His moves are practically invited. He's being toyed with, like a cat may idly amuse itself by chasing its dinner until it is either bored... or hungry.
He doesn't much concern himself with this troubling thought, but instead takes the opportunity to watch the Master -- so alike those he has known before, and yet, still, there are subtle differences. This one has a tension to him, and that troubles the Doctor rather more than the knowledge of the exquisitely sharp lengths of steel they're both wielding.
"I have long since learned not to underestimate you."
But it has been such a long time since he's had this sort of confrontation with the Doctor, without the President or her lackeys, or talk of strategy, of sacrifice, of what needs must in this dark days. It's entertaining to be able to go back to this old mould. Comforting, almost, he might say.
He doesn't say, of course, but he might.
The sound of his low chuckle insinuates itself underneath the clash of blades as the Doctor shifts the direction of the fight. It is ever so slightly bitter. 'So you think now.' And as if in mocking illustration of his words, he lets himself fall back, sword at the ready, the point just teasing at the tip of the Doctor's blade, threatening an attack at any moment, but never quite following through. 'But I'm afraid I never managed to cure you of that habit.'
When the Master steps back the invitation to advance, to press the attack, is obvious. But the Doctor holds his ground instead, watching for sign of an opening, but remaining cautious.
'Always possible,' he concedes mildly, 'But I've yet to be disproven.'
Not entirely true, actually, as this particular Doctor is the one who showed for once, definitively, that maybe the Master had underestimated him, when he let him burn to death on Sarn. Oh yes. Perhaps it's as well to be reminded that even the Doctor defies expectations at times.
A small, cruel smile tugs around his lips, the point of one foot dragging across the floor in a drawn out passe arriere. 'Tell me,' he murmurs, pensive, 'on Sarn. Tell me exactly what you were thinking when you let me burn.'
Still, he doesn't attack, waiting in constant, minute motion, a spider in the centre of its web. And if he's perhaps not quite as entirely self-assured as he appears, if he genuinely wants a truthful answer from the Doctor, well, there's no need for anybody to know that.
This is just as familiar a way to spar and, really, the Doctor should have expected the question. He drops any pretense of swordplay and lets his sword arm fall, his eyes with it. He doesn't look back up when he speaks.
"I thought about the weight of one life against the weight of the thousands... hundreds of thousands... that would have died through your efforts had I acted to save you."
He looks up again, not looking at all glad to be having this conversation.
"I'm not sure whether I should be pleased to see you or not."
It's the answer he was expecting, insulting though it is. Like some desperate trade on the Doctor's part, the Master for the universe, as if it could equate so easily. A sacrifice from the Doctor, a... heh, a burnt offering. And poor fool, all for naught.
His feet carry him slightly forward, and the light catches the tip of his sword as he lifts it to touch at the Doctor's wrist, to drift up along his arm, delicately across the V of the neck of his jumper, tracing the outline of the body. 'But you are.'
"Master."
The Doctor acknowledges the man with a glance as he strides forward. He's devoid of his usual jacket (and its accompanying celery) and carries a slender rapier in one hand with the bearing of someone who knows how to use it. He pauses at a respectful distance, out of range of the Master's swordplay.
"You know how to put on a show, certainly..."
His voice has a faint tone of mockery to it. They're old enemies and older friends -- and though he's not entirely certain when this Master comes from, they both know how their game is played.
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Letting his sword-tip swing down in a flashing arc, he turns to face him, cocking an eyebrow at the mockery. Good form. The Master could do with a fight; he's had too little outlet of late, for any of his myriad frustrations.
'And you come prepared, as always, like a good Boy Scout. It has been some time, Doctor.'
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He swishes his sword in lazy circles through the air, idly testing the speed and balance of the blade. Of course he'd been prepared and come carrying it with him, but sword fights were hardly an everyday occurrence for him and he could scarcely recall when he last held a blade. Not that he was out of practice, of course.
"...in my time-line I can hardly seem to be rid of you. Wherever I go, there you are. I might almost think you were following me."
It's said lightly enough, but the Doctor's perfectly aware that he's dancing dangerously close to a truth neither of them have been particularly keen on admitting in the past. But these verbal jabs are part of their ritual. Cutting remarks were expected, required. It would hardly be polite not to play his part to the best of his abilities.
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The Master's tone is as flippant as the Doctor's, and his eyes idly track the progress of the Doctor's sword as it swings. What a silly accusation, now, really; as if the Master would ever do anything like that.
'But I was referring to you,' continues the Master, curving his wrist so that there's the faintest rasp of steel on steel as the point of his blade slides against the Doctor's. His gaze flicks up to meet his eyes. 'I see my contemporary Doctor often enough.'
And yet not that often, so it seems. They've each been relegated their roles in this conflict, and it leaves precious little time for encounters such as these. The Master is furious, in truth, at how easily the Doctor allows the High Council to manipulate him, when he knows perfectly well that if he and the Master were given but a day in the same room together, they could have the War ended within weeks.
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"But your contemporary Doctor doesn't seem to be here now."
With a tiny twitch of his wrist he flicks the Master's sword away from his own. It's hardly necessary, but the space separating the two of them is full of restless energy. It makes it difficult to stay still or to allow the other man's derision to go unanswered... even when he well knows it would be better sense to turn and walk away.
But he always did let his curiosity get the better of him. And... he had, he would say, reservations about how his last encounter with the Master had ended. Even so, he was surprised at the relief he felt to see an incarnation of the Master from his future.
Not that he would admit any of this to his opponent, of course.
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Oiling forward, he crosses their blades again, sliding length against length with a slow smile at the skin-prickling sound of it. 'In any event, my dear, if I wanted to see him, I wouldn't have to come here, would I?'
Leisurely, he twists his sword in a move that might have disarmed the Doctor were it performed with any amount of force. As it is, it merely urges his sword out of the way in a slow semi-circle, making room for the Master to advance. Not a provocation into a fight, merely a reminder that they are both here, and they are both holding weapons.
'And where in your timeline do you hail from, Doctor? I should hate to give anything away.'
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"Memory lane? Are you growing nostalgic in your old age?"
He follows this up with a quick thrust towards the Master's torso. It's a brash, showy opening on an unprepared opponent -- not that the Doctor is under any illusion that the Master is unprepared. It's not at all his style, to lead the attack. But something about being confronted with the Master at just this time in his time-line... Well. He's either going to do this or something even more brash, and this seems preferable.
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He exhales a sharp hah! of breath when the Doctor lunges, snapping his blade away easily and riposting. Whatever he himself may be, his form, this time around, is that of a gentleman, feet well turned out, technique formal and exquisitely executed.
'Not in the slightest,' he rejoins crisply. 'I merely wanted to make sure I wouldn't... give anything away. Timelines, you know.'
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He parries easily enough and backs up a step, setting himself up in a standard guard posture. This is rather more his style -- to play it safe, react to an opponent's moves. It's familiar. Comfortable.
"And were our timelines quite so easily fractured, I should think we would have shattered them well before now."
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'Possibly,' he acquiesces, swinging his sword in an arcing cut at the Doctor's shoulder, one he'll easily be able to parry. 'But you underestimate me, Doctor; I can be very cautious if needs must.'
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He doesn't much concern himself with this troubling thought, but instead takes the opportunity to watch the Master -- so alike those he has known before, and yet, still, there are subtle differences. This one has a tension to him, and that troubles the Doctor rather more than the knowledge of the exquisitely sharp lengths of steel they're both wielding.
"I have long since learned not to underestimate you."
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He doesn't say, of course, but he might.
The sound of his low chuckle insinuates itself underneath the clash of blades as the Doctor shifts the direction of the fight. It is ever so slightly bitter. 'So you think now.' And as if in mocking illustration of his words, he lets himself fall back, sword at the ready, the point just teasing at the tip of the Doctor's blade, threatening an attack at any moment, but never quite following through. 'But I'm afraid I never managed to cure you of that habit.'
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"Perhaps, then, you're underestimating me."
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Not entirely true, actually, as this particular Doctor is the one who showed for once, definitively, that maybe the Master had underestimated him, when he let him burn to death on Sarn. Oh yes. Perhaps it's as well to be reminded that even the Doctor defies expectations at times.
A small, cruel smile tugs around his lips, the point of one foot dragging across the floor in a drawn out passe arriere. 'Tell me,' he murmurs, pensive, 'on Sarn. Tell me exactly what you were thinking when you let me burn.'
Still, he doesn't attack, waiting in constant, minute motion, a spider in the centre of its web. And if he's perhaps not quite as entirely self-assured as he appears, if he genuinely wants a truthful answer from the Doctor, well, there's no need for anybody to know that.
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"I thought about the weight of one life against the weight of the thousands... hundreds of thousands... that would have died through your efforts had I acted to save you."
He looks up again, not looking at all glad to be having this conversation.
"I'm not sure whether I should be pleased to see you or not."
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His feet carry him slightly forward, and the light catches the tip of his sword as he lifts it to touch at the Doctor's wrist, to drift up along his arm, delicately across the V of the neck of his jumper, tracing the outline of the body. 'But you are.'
It's not a question.
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