All Your Burgers are Belong to Him
Who: Pfft, ETA: The Master, not the Doctor. The dangers of copy-and-paste.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Type: Canon
Notes: End of Time!Master, starving and very, very broken. Let's assume he's pre-finding the Immortality Gate and doesn't yet know what the drums are.
The Embassy has a pool-many pools. Hot tubs; an Olympic-sized lap pool; a wading pool for children; a lazy river full of inner tubes and lounging multiversans; a noisy wave tank crowded with bodyboards and floating styrofoam noodles and water toys that have gotten away from their owners.
A scrawny, disheveled man in a black hoodie and trousers, bleached hair tousled and dirty, sits by a smallish lap pool. Adult swim has just finished, and the lifeguards have blown the whistle to let all of the children come splashing back into the water.
He watches, intent, arms wrapped around his knees, right by the edge-ignoring the damp of the tiles under him.
The adults have begun to look at him askance. He smells-like ozone and acetone and rotting meat-and he's watching the children far too closely.
That, and he keeps flickering, waves of blue energy pulsing through his body and rendering him transparent, only the blue ghosts of bones visible.
Someone's going to need to ask him to leave.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Type: Canon
Notes: End of Time!Master, starving and very, very broken. Let's assume he's pre-finding the Immortality Gate and doesn't yet know what the drums are.
The Embassy has a pool-many pools. Hot tubs; an Olympic-sized lap pool; a wading pool for children; a lazy river full of inner tubes and lounging multiversans; a noisy wave tank crowded with bodyboards and floating styrofoam noodles and water toys that have gotten away from their owners.
A scrawny, disheveled man in a black hoodie and trousers, bleached hair tousled and dirty, sits by a smallish lap pool. Adult swim has just finished, and the lifeguards have blown the whistle to let all of the children come splashing back into the water.
He watches, intent, arms wrapped around his knees, right by the edge-ignoring the damp of the tiles under him.
The adults have begun to look at him askance. He smells-like ozone and acetone and rotting meat-and he's watching the children far too closely.
That, and he keeps flickering, waves of blue energy pulsing through his body and rendering him transparent, only the blue ghosts of bones visible.
Someone's going to need to ask him to leave.