Doctor Who Fic: War and Weapons - Chapter 1
Title: War and Weapons - Chapter 1
Written by: Evilawyer
Chapter Rating: G
Time Frame for Chapter: Post TEoT
Other Temporal Information: AU diversion from canon after Amy's Choice
Characters in this Chapter: The Master (Simm at this juncture); currently-unidentified female Time Lord
Summary: The Doctor told Amy that he was the Dream Lord. The Doctor lies.
Disclaimer: All characters in this piece of fanfic belong to the BBC.
Notes: I have eked out a bit more from my brain.
The first part of this, which is now officially a prologue, may be found here.
Scorching flame and blinding light. The smell of burning flesh. These are the things he most remembers. He thinks there was screaming, but he's not certain. They've told him that he laughed, but he doesn't remember that at all.
There is something else that he remembers, definitely and distinctly. He remembers Rassilon dead at his feet. The great Rassilon, raised up by the Time Lords in a moment of panic to secure their salvation. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he supposes, but there is some danger in being too quick to set store by heroes. Experience has taught him that the victor's heroes are the vanquished's war criminals. The Time Lords, sequestered as they have always been, have never learned that lesson.
Even the Time Lords, however, had had enough doubt and enough presence of mind to resurrect Rassilon with only a single, fragile life. Their mistake had been letting Rassilon know that he had not been called back with a full compliment of resurrections. Immortality-crazed Rassilon faced with the prospect of living again only once? Omega may have simply wanted to go down in history as the greatest stellar engineer of all time, but Gallifreyans had become Time Lords as a bi-product of Rassilon's quest for literal longevity. It was no wonder he became a despot who brooked no dissension and spared nothing in his personal fight to live forever.
They should have told Rassilon he would regenerate. It would have bought them time to deal with him after he'd dealt with the Daleks. Flat-out lying, however, had always been far too energetic a course of action for the Time Lords to take. Be less than forthcoming with the truth, yes, but not even fighting the Time War had shaken enough stagnation from their shoulders for them to show enough initiative to actively lie. Far less trouble to raise Rassilon up from the dark recesses, then cower in his shadow when he proved too powerful and too iron-willed to be brought to heel with solemn looks and sepulchral voices. There were one or two of them who may have been able to bring themselves to lie, but they would have been rubbish at it. Lying took skill as well as effort. No Time Lord on Gallifrey at the time of Rassilon's resurrection could have lied easily and effectively enough to mislead Rassilon. This is a fact, fixed and constant, and it would have once amused the Master so much he would have laughed out loud. Now, considering he owes his current state to that fact, it doesn't even make him crack a smile.
He missed Rassilon's resurrection, of course. He occasionally hears disdainful whispers drift to him from the Panopticon, hushed murmurings about how he ran instead of staying and fighting as he had been brought forth from the Matrix to do. Idiots. If he hadn't run, he would have been dead long ago, and they would have been stuck with Rassilon through all eternity.
The door of his cell swings open. "My Lord Master," a fawning voice says, "would it please you to attend the High Council?"
"Why?" The Master's voice is raspy with disuse. Hearing it sound outside of his own head, he realizes that he hasn't spoken a single word since he was dragged inside the time lock. The pain that still wracks through his body proclaims that to be long, long time, but his temporal sense tells him that it could just as easily be only a few seconds. The Doctor thought enclosing Gallifrey in his time lock would have the same effect as putting it into a time loop, dooming it to relive the last day of the Time War in perpetuity. The Doctor never did pay attention to his lessons enough to understand how time really works, especially when it's been trapped in one space-time. The Master has already felt, with every cell of his body, that all of Time exists here all at once. All things that were, all things that are and all things that might be, all of it twisting and turning to eat its own tail. Even for a Time Lord, it's an abomination.
Before the lackey can answer, footsteps tap their way into the cell. Because that's where he is, a cell. The Master can't see the bars, but he can tell when he's been caged. "You needn't treat him with such reverence," a harsh voice says when the footsteps come to a halt. He's still an imbecilic madman. He'll as likely kill you as look at you."
"Yes, Madame," the toady says. The Master can practically hear him bow and scrape as he backs out of the doorway.
"I didn't die," the Master notes. It is the first time he has acknowledged this truth.
"Not yet," the woman replies. "We managed to slow the rate of cellular deterioration. You're still dying, but you're dying slowly enough to allow for regeneration when you finally do." She steps farther into the room. "Come with me," she orders.
Her manner is familiar, even though her voice is not. The Master can't place her, though, and it would be unwise to broadcast his current weakness to a stranger. Or to anyone here, for that matter. "Where?"
The woman draws closer to him. "To the Council." She takes his hands and pulls him to his feet. When he stops swaying, the Master tries to pull both his hands back. The woman lets him have his left hand, but she puts his right hand on top of her left forearm and begins walking him toward the door. "Keep your eyes closed."
"Won't they want to know why?"
"Most likely, but they won't dare ask. You slayed their dragon. You're their hero." She pauses, and the Master can tell she's studying him with a critical eye. "But you won't be if they see you're operating at less than full capacity. You know as well as I do that the Time Lords have never been accepting of disabilities." Before the Master can ask why she sounds so bitter, the woman roughly pulls up one of his eyelids with her thumb and shines a penlight into his eye. The Master can tell it's a penlight from the way it clicks when she turns it on and off after she repeats the process with his other eye. "You have no irises left. There's nothing left to make your pupils contract. Now close your eyes, or they'll be able to see the retinal burns from across the room." She begins to lead the Master out of the room.
“Won't it make them just a tad suspicious, you walking me around like this?”
“We'll tell them you're still weak from your fight with Rasillon and the effects of being pulled into the Time Lock. It's true enough.”
“What am I supposed to say if they want to know why I've got my eyes closed?”
“Lie. You'll think of something convincing, I'm sure.” They walk a few steps down the echoing corridor before she speaks again. “You at least have the comfort of knowing that you've traded out one difficulty for another instead of adding to your list of deficiencies. That must be some consolation.”
“It's not,” the Master responds drily. His curiosity belated kicks in along with his sarcasm. “What was it that I traded to come out so far ahead?”
“You mean you really haven't noticed,” the woman asks exasperatedly. “Listen”.
The Master does.
“Well,” the woman asks after the Master abruptly stops walking, “what do you hear?”
Eyes still closed but now grinning, the Master answers with a single word. “Nothing.”
This entry was originally posted to Dreamwidth at http://evilawyer.dreamwidth.org/118453.html. There are
comments to this post there.
Written by: Evilawyer
Chapter Rating: G
Time Frame for Chapter: Post TEoT
Other Temporal Information: AU diversion from canon after Amy's Choice
Characters in this Chapter: The Master (Simm at this juncture); currently-unidentified female Time Lord
Summary: The Doctor told Amy that he was the Dream Lord. The Doctor lies.
Disclaimer: All characters in this piece of fanfic belong to the BBC.
Notes: I have eked out a bit more from my brain.
The first part of this, which is now officially a prologue, may be found here.
Scorching flame and blinding light. The smell of burning flesh. These are the things he most remembers. He thinks there was screaming, but he's not certain. They've told him that he laughed, but he doesn't remember that at all.
There is something else that he remembers, definitely and distinctly. He remembers Rassilon dead at his feet. The great Rassilon, raised up by the Time Lords in a moment of panic to secure their salvation. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he supposes, but there is some danger in being too quick to set store by heroes. Experience has taught him that the victor's heroes are the vanquished's war criminals. The Time Lords, sequestered as they have always been, have never learned that lesson.
Even the Time Lords, however, had had enough doubt and enough presence of mind to resurrect Rassilon with only a single, fragile life. Their mistake had been letting Rassilon know that he had not been called back with a full compliment of resurrections. Immortality-crazed Rassilon faced with the prospect of living again only once? Omega may have simply wanted to go down in history as the greatest stellar engineer of all time, but Gallifreyans had become Time Lords as a bi-product of Rassilon's quest for literal longevity. It was no wonder he became a despot who brooked no dissension and spared nothing in his personal fight to live forever.
They should have told Rassilon he would regenerate. It would have bought them time to deal with him after he'd dealt with the Daleks. Flat-out lying, however, had always been far too energetic a course of action for the Time Lords to take. Be less than forthcoming with the truth, yes, but not even fighting the Time War had shaken enough stagnation from their shoulders for them to show enough initiative to actively lie. Far less trouble to raise Rassilon up from the dark recesses, then cower in his shadow when he proved too powerful and too iron-willed to be brought to heel with solemn looks and sepulchral voices. There were one or two of them who may have been able to bring themselves to lie, but they would have been rubbish at it. Lying took skill as well as effort. No Time Lord on Gallifrey at the time of Rassilon's resurrection could have lied easily and effectively enough to mislead Rassilon. This is a fact, fixed and constant, and it would have once amused the Master so much he would have laughed out loud. Now, considering he owes his current state to that fact, it doesn't even make him crack a smile.
He missed Rassilon's resurrection, of course. He occasionally hears disdainful whispers drift to him from the Panopticon, hushed murmurings about how he ran instead of staying and fighting as he had been brought forth from the Matrix to do. Idiots. If he hadn't run, he would have been dead long ago, and they would have been stuck with Rassilon through all eternity.
The door of his cell swings open. "My Lord Master," a fawning voice says, "would it please you to attend the High Council?"
"Why?" The Master's voice is raspy with disuse. Hearing it sound outside of his own head, he realizes that he hasn't spoken a single word since he was dragged inside the time lock. The pain that still wracks through his body proclaims that to be long, long time, but his temporal sense tells him that it could just as easily be only a few seconds. The Doctor thought enclosing Gallifrey in his time lock would have the same effect as putting it into a time loop, dooming it to relive the last day of the Time War in perpetuity. The Doctor never did pay attention to his lessons enough to understand how time really works, especially when it's been trapped in one space-time. The Master has already felt, with every cell of his body, that all of Time exists here all at once. All things that were, all things that are and all things that might be, all of it twisting and turning to eat its own tail. Even for a Time Lord, it's an abomination.
Before the lackey can answer, footsteps tap their way into the cell. Because that's where he is, a cell. The Master can't see the bars, but he can tell when he's been caged. "You needn't treat him with such reverence," a harsh voice says when the footsteps come to a halt. He's still an imbecilic madman. He'll as likely kill you as look at you."
"Yes, Madame," the toady says. The Master can practically hear him bow and scrape as he backs out of the doorway.
"I didn't die," the Master notes. It is the first time he has acknowledged this truth.
"Not yet," the woman replies. "We managed to slow the rate of cellular deterioration. You're still dying, but you're dying slowly enough to allow for regeneration when you finally do." She steps farther into the room. "Come with me," she orders.
Her manner is familiar, even though her voice is not. The Master can't place her, though, and it would be unwise to broadcast his current weakness to a stranger. Or to anyone here, for that matter. "Where?"
The woman draws closer to him. "To the Council." She takes his hands and pulls him to his feet. When he stops swaying, the Master tries to pull both his hands back. The woman lets him have his left hand, but she puts his right hand on top of her left forearm and begins walking him toward the door. "Keep your eyes closed."
"Won't they want to know why?"
"Most likely, but they won't dare ask. You slayed their dragon. You're their hero." She pauses, and the Master can tell she's studying him with a critical eye. "But you won't be if they see you're operating at less than full capacity. You know as well as I do that the Time Lords have never been accepting of disabilities." Before the Master can ask why she sounds so bitter, the woman roughly pulls up one of his eyelids with her thumb and shines a penlight into his eye. The Master can tell it's a penlight from the way it clicks when she turns it on and off after she repeats the process with his other eye. "You have no irises left. There's nothing left to make your pupils contract. Now close your eyes, or they'll be able to see the retinal burns from across the room." She begins to lead the Master out of the room.
“Won't it make them just a tad suspicious, you walking me around like this?”
“We'll tell them you're still weak from your fight with Rasillon and the effects of being pulled into the Time Lock. It's true enough.”
“What am I supposed to say if they want to know why I've got my eyes closed?”
“Lie. You'll think of something convincing, I'm sure.” They walk a few steps down the echoing corridor before she speaks again. “You at least have the comfort of knowing that you've traded out one difficulty for another instead of adding to your list of deficiencies. That must be some consolation.”
“It's not,” the Master responds drily. His curiosity belated kicks in along with his sarcasm. “What was it that I traded to come out so far ahead?”
“You mean you really haven't noticed,” the woman asks exasperatedly. “Listen”.
The Master does.
“Well,” the woman asks after the Master abruptly stops walking, “what do you hear?”
Eyes still closed but now grinning, the Master answers with a single word. “Nothing.”
This entry was originally posted to Dreamwidth at http://evilawyer.dreamwidth.org/118453.html. There are
comments to this post there.