time in essence ; open to taptaptaptap
The passage of time has always been different for them, as Lords of it, but with the very essence of his being trapped in such a limited space, the Doctor has entirely too much of it. He's trying to make the best of the situation, as he does most things (being trapped in 1969, living a bit of his life as a human in the early twentieth century, ( Read more... )
It's not as if the Doctor has exactly avoided contact with his old enemy ... but he's felt a bit guilty about this whole thing. He'd had it all worked out, after all: he would repair the TARDIS, the two of them would leave, and he would take it from there. But he hadn't factored in Torchwood, even though the organization is known for its animosity toward him. He'd believed Jack when Jack said it was reformed; believed that the captain's ... colleague was trustworthy; and then he'd been summarily betrayed. He's quite certain even now that Jack mustn't know - if he did, surely he would do something about it. Perhaps not restoring the Master, but at least he would do it for the Doctor, wouldn't he? And then he could take care of the Master, and they could pick up where they left off. Now, they have no idea where their human selves have even gone, and that concerns him deeply, that the watches should be separated from their bodies.
A beat passes before the Doctor looks up at the dark shadow hovering over him, blinking a few times at the sudden absence of 'sunlight,' spots on the backs of his eyelids just as there would be if this were more ... real. He slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, careful not to get wet feet on his coat. "I like it," he replies serenely enough, raising his eyebrows at his fellow Time Lord. It feels as if he should say something in regards to their situation, but it seems a bit redundant to point out the obvious. Instead, the Doctor slides over and pats the space beside himself hopefully. Not that he expects the Master to actually accept the invitation.
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Far from it, in fact; the Master scoffs at the invitation to sit - oh, yes, he recognizes this place, though from the memories (and emotions) extracted from the fact's mind rather than first-hand experience himself - and flashes a disgusted sneer. "I don't think," is his answer, obvious annoyance in the haughty inflection of his tone. He can't decide, however, if he's annoyed more at his rival's choice of telepathic retreat or at the extended offer for him, of all people, to join the Doctor in it. This - compared to all the places the Doctor has been and could be - is a stupid planet with ridiculous sentimental attachment. And he - the Master, the only other Time Lord in the whole of their universe and the only match for the Doctor in cunning and genius - is far from the lowly, stunted ape with whom this vista was previously shared. It's ill-suited for him - the them, together - and he will change it.
The shadow he casts over the Doctor elongates and widens, creeping further over the beach and blackening everything in its path; sand burns to ash, the turquoise ocean bled into by a well of ink that stretches to the horizon and grays out the sky. Slowly, carefully, methodically, the Master extends his reach across the astral plane, sinks the entire memory and shared experience into a monochromatic wasteland, then drops all detail from the setting, like turning down the lights, until they occupy a large, blank, shades-of-gray infinity in the shared space of their beings. The Master lingers in the formlessness for a moment, basks in the simplicity of absence, then - almost inexplicably, when it seems he's come to peace with the nothing - begins to paint for them a new scene.
It could be anything, it could be anywhere; the frozen wasteland of the farthest flung asteroid with the whole of the universe wheeling over their heads or the event horizon of a black hole devouring whole solar systems as they orbit impossibly on the edge. It could be an Earth plagued by apocalypse and destruction, a castle refusing to obey the laws of physics, the very center of a sun where they can burn together. Anything.
And yet ... the Master begins with red grass, watching with detached interest as it spikes up from the formless area beneath his feet, the blades growing from under the Doctor's spread coat with ease. The high-peaked mountains on the horizon are next, snow-capped and breathtakingly beautiful, and behind them in an orange sky he places twin suns. Somewhere in the distance, against the achingly familiar backdrop of Gallifrey, stands the Citadel of the Time Lords.
When it's all done, down to the very last detail of perfection, the Master does sit with the Doctor, completely self-satisfied with his recreation of the home his companion destroyed. "Much better," he says simply, reclining back into the Doctor's coat with amusement and directing his attention towards the fiery sky.
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The Master is right; the choice of location is sentimental, although if he were privy to the other Time Lord's opinion of the place, the Doctor would not agree that it's ridiculous as well. His attachment to this place does, actually, stretch back to his ninth regeneration - not so very long ago, really - and the memories that accompany that part of his life are pleasant ones of companionship and warmth. He does not underestimate, even now, the impact that Rose and Jack both had in helping him in his recovery after the Time War.
And now, the Master is here, tearing it all apart. The Doctor's expression shifts into a bit of alarm and more than a tinge of annoyance as his welcoming of the other Time Lord turns into the quick destruction of his pleasant daydream. He sits motionless and doesn't do anything to fight it, at any rate, although his pain is palpable in the connection they now share, a melancholy shot through the hearts as the Master rebuilds the landscape around them. He expels an unnecessary sigh, looking about at their surroundings, then reaches out a hand to run his fingers and palm over the grass, red blades tickling his skin. Just the way he remembers.
The poignancy of this is not lost on the Doctor, as he turns his head and studies the Master. His oldest and best friend and enemy. Guilt storms his conscience; if Gallifrey were still there, would the Master be so mad? He pulls his knees up to his chest and folds his arms across them, leaning over to rest his chin against his arms. There's something strangely childlike about the position; this makes him feel strangely childlike again. "I'm sorry," he says suddenly.
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Yes, but ... isn't that what the Master does? While the alarm and annoyance at his careless destruction of the Doctor's chosen landscape only makes the process of changing it well-worth the effort, his rival's rather palpable pained reaction actually causes a smile to twitch at the corners of his mouth. Of course, having the whole of time and space and their shared imagination at his disposal, there had been a very poignant reason for the Master to choose Gallifrey; not that, perhaps as he projects, it is the only place suitable for a somewhat companionable meeting of their essence, but rather the point driven sharply into the Doctor's hearts with so very little effort on his part. He didn't, it seems, get to pick enough - or to his satisfaction - at the Doctor's destruction of their home during his year of rule over Earth.
"Don't be," the Master answers the sudden apology with something utterly unanticipated of his own. Perhaps he meant don't, perhaps there was supposed to be much more animosity and hatred in the tone of his 'voice,' but it comes out and across as a simple, almost softly spoken statement ... and he wants to blame the double-edge knife of the surroundings his chose. When was the last time they sat in even somewhat companionable company beneath this orange sky? ... The strangely childlike feeling of the place is not lost on the Master, obviously.
Neither, it seems, is the Doctor's childlike reaction to his own unique brand of guilt - survivor's guilt, perhaps, given that the Master genuinely doubts his enemy's sincerity on the subject of driving him increasingly mad by proxy - and the associated, half-forgotten twinge of something within himself. He remembers, in a detached and terribly distant way, the weight of a moral compass in his pocket and how, in a more recent and heavily disputed bubble of non-linear time, it clashed so horribly with his nature and the sound of the drums. When he sits up, the motion is fluid and decisive, his arm folding around the Doctor's shoulders anything but accidental and the way he draws his oldest friend against him in a comforting gesture just exactly what he apparently means to do.
"How many times did I try to destroy Gallifrey myself?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice now. Too many, of course, is the answer and for various reasons, none of which as noble as the sacrifice the Doctor made to end the Time War. The Master could pick at this wound like a vulture, gnaw at the Doctor like Prometheus chained to the mountain, but it seems - in retrospect, with the weight of two entirely different years resting on his mind - like an exercise in futility now. What more pain could he cause that his enemy has not already caused himself? "I suppose ... the Council thought I might do it, just out of spite or madness. Would you have liked it better that way, Theta?"
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Were things between them uncomplicated, yet (not that they'll ever reach simplicity, but with a clearer line defined to divide them as friend or foe), the Doctor might meet the comforting gesture with suspicion. And while a part of his consciousness tells him that this is his enemy, the being who singularly attempted, with a particular amount of glee, to destroy the whole of the Earth and subsequently the universe as well, there's another part entirely - and this one much louder, somehow - that is filled with more contented (even if a decidedly more finite amount of) memories.
That makes it much easier to accept the comfort, to sink back and relax and trust the Master's words. There's familiarity, here, like the half-remembered flavor of something he'd tasted only once, and he rests his head against his friend's shoulder, loosing a sigh that sounds remarkably more contented, now. He uncurls himself from his awkward position and looks past the Master, up to the brilliant sky.
"No," the Doctor replies without hesitation. "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't feel guilty for it, Koschei ... but I can't actually regret it. I can't say, in the same circumstance, I wouldn't do it again." Not unless there was some other way - but there hadn't been ... there simply hadn't been.
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" ... I would have done it for you," he replies simply, nothing in his voice indicating if his statement is born of love or hate, the complexity of it perhaps being both astounding him into ambiguity. Part of him, the part he's sure is still filled to bursting with hatred and fire and rage, would have only destroyed Gallifrey had the Doctor asked the Master - begged him, perhaps - to remove the burden of decision from his shoulders, to take the weight of guilt away, to prevent him such horrible agony ... and it would have been just another way to break his enemy utterly.
There is a very small, very insignificant little pinprick of light on the darkened horizon of his thoughts that believes, however, that it would have been for the best if he hadn't run, if he'd stayed to play the game he feels the Council must have attempted to force them into playing, if he'd lived up to expectations at the very last and done the deed he was no doubt resurrected to do. He is the Master, he is the perfect warrior for a Time War, and he should have been the one to make the final sacrifice, as remorseless as he is. The darker parts of his being, the ones that envelope even the tiniest of lights the Doctor has foisted upon him, can call that jealousy if they must, but there's understanding beneath the murky surface ...
Reluctantly, not trusting himself to avoid sticking his fingers into the gaping wound the Doctor has finally revealed to him, the Master shifts his attention to the shared astral plane and begins to change it yet again. It's a compromise, perhaps the first concession the Master has willingly made in many centuries, and he forces the harsh and brightly beautiful scenery to fade - the mountains drop away, the looming Citadel melts to nothing, and the suns sink into the far horizon leaving a dark blue sky in their wake - and change into something they can both enjoy. The grass is that terribly shade of dark green it is on Earth, but the stars above wheel as they would hanging in a Gallifreyan sky.
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The Doctor is uncertain what to say in response to that, aside from a lingering insistence that the Master not make that sacrifice ... but he doesn't say anything, doesn't need to say anything, really, does he? He watches as their surroundings change again, and this time he does help, concentrating on little things like a balmy breeze and lightly rustling tree leaves (albeit not silver ones), and maybe even a cicada off in the distance singing its distinctive song. The Doctor smiles, pleased at the compromised landscape, then reclines back on his elbows, nudging the Master in the side with a suggestion to do the same.
"I'm glad you decided not to maintain silence," he offers after a moment, gazing up at the familiar-yet-not starscape. "I was going just a little mad, here all by myself. I spent two months as a human, once ... hasn't been so long ago, really." He falls silent, thinking with a twinge of regret back to that school, the people who'd died, Joan who had been left behind. The little part of him that John Smith is still embodied in hopes that she went on to find love a third time. "I wonder where we are just now. Well. Not us, but - John Smith and Harry Saxon, I suppose."
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The elbow in his side earns the Doctor a breathless grunt of a response, followed shortly by a very put-upon sort of noise. The Master eventually concedes - it only takes a few seconds of being left sitting to his own devices for him to agree-to-disagree on the point of joining his friend and enemy - and reclines back, half on the Doctor's coat and half in the silly discolored grass, next to the other Time Lord. He folds his arms beneath his head, attention pulled reflexively skyward to feel and watch the way the stars move with the steady, imagined orbit of the purely fictional planet they've created together.
"I only decided to check because you'd been so quiet," he replies, letting a little bite of humor ebb into his tone and color his words something other than strictly posturing. "Two months? Tragic. I was sitting in that fool Yana's pocket for ... years and years," the Master notes with a touch of nostalgia. Despite the passage of relative time for him, the memories of compression and existence within an inanimate object, rather than his own body, are startlingly fresh. "I was so angry, so ... " Sick and apprehensive and excited and scared, driven further out of his mind by too much time spent in close-quarters with the drumming, he'd spent years just screaming at his human counterpart. Look at me, open me, release me! And then there was the Doctor.
"Somewhere else," he notes, casual despite where his thoughts have wandered, well aware that his friend and enemy can no doubt feel his outrage. "I don't feel him - Harry - but you're close at hand. Wherever the watches are, they're being kept together, just separate from our human selves. Very separate. Not just in a different room or a different city. It's almost as if ... they're gone." He pauses, taking an unnecessarily deep breath and chiding himself for it. "Don't suppose they killed our human selves, do you? Never paid attention to what happens to us if they ... " Die.
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Settling back the rest of the way, the Doctor takes up a position of repose similar to the Master's, although at the last minute he decides to turn onto his side and lean his head against an elbow-propped hand. He remembers Professor Yana quite clearly - the astounding brilliance of the human man, the respect and admiration he'd held for him. In retrospect, it seems as if it all should have been so clear; but he'd relied solely on his senses, never thinking that anyone else could have survived, used his same hiding method, and escaped to the end of the universe ...
"Sometimes," he notes after a beat, momentarily shaken by the palpable rage coming off the Master in waves, "John Smith would wander off somewhere and ... leave me sitting on the mantel. I put a perception filter on the watch, he never had any reason to think to open it." The Doctor sinks back, flopping onto his back, and exhales a little sigh. "I ... don't think they've killed us. I could have sworn I sensed Jack. A few days ago, maybe. I tried to, to get his attention, but ... he just - wasn't there." He pauses, frowning. "Before Jones changed you, what did he say? Did he tell you why?"
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For a long moment, the Master doesn't acknowledge that the Doctor has turned to face him, instead continuing to stare up at the sky with a feigned sort of interest. He knows all the stars, every single one, and feels very little when he stares up at the way they've been set into the sky, a blending of memory and knowledge from the last Time Lords in this universe, despite knowing that the view of the universe from Gallifrey is utterly destroyed. Remorseless. He only spares a glance for his companion moments before the Doctor restlessly shifts positions again.
"Mine also had a perception filter, but Yana was a sentimental old fool. He never parted with the watch, not in all those years." And yet he never opened it, never thought to, and the Master is furious that his human counterpart had been so ... stupid. "He won't be there," the Master comments, hardly apologetic for the fact's current condition, "and for a while, yet, I suspect. Your cute little companion - Rose, wasn't it? - was hardly brilliant, even with the power of the time vortex running through her pretty little head. He's physically a fact, yes, but mentally ... well, you can't reset the damage I did." And while the Master doesn't sound particularly self-satisfied with he work, he doesn't sound guilty in the slightest.
"Mr. Jones ... said that he could me, several times, and watch me regenerate over and over without it getting old, but he wouldn't. He wanted me to suffer, to take everything I am away, let me feel myself becoming human with the knowledge that I would never get any of it back." The penultimate Time Lord makes a terribly impressed sort of noise, appreciative of the human's ruthless tactic and callous manner of executing it. "I suppose you interfered? I told him you wouldn't stand for it."
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There's a definite guilty feeling emanating off the Doctor in regards to Jack. He's sorry, so sorry, that he couldn't protect the captain, that he'd let him go along to begin with, that his efforts were not enough. And now, Jack must think he's abandoned him - just like before. It had been different, then, and while he'd planned to leave this time, he wasn't going to do it without a proper goodbye. He's come to learn, over the years and countless lives he's treaded through, that his companions do at least deserve that. He doesn't like the mention of Rose, another failure on his part in a long line of them. He'd burned up a sun to say goodbye to her ... and hadn't even managed to do that right. Hadn't said ... well.
The Doctor's expression darkens considerably as he listens to the Master repeat those words, and he sits up abruptly, glowering. He doesn't approve, not at all - everything that could be horrible and wrong about the chameleon arch, and that human nailed it directly on the head. He can still remember John Smith's agony at having to make the decision between a normal life and becoming ... him, again. That choice - to give up everything you are, everything you've ever known.
He turns his head, intaking a sharp breath. "Jack won't be of any help to us, then," he notes, frowning. "I hope he's all right." The Doctor knows that the Master isn't particularly interested in listening to his concerns about his companion, either, and running a hand through his hair, he looks back to the other Time Lord.
"I did interfere. I ... walked in, about the time he was finished with you. Thought you were dead for a second, just lying there - nothing's scared me like that in a long time." The Doctor looks away again with the force of his admission, picking at the blades of grass. "I tried to go for the watch, of course, to open it back up and put everything right again, but - he wouldn't let me get a word in. Just grabbed me, did the same ..." And he's still wondering who told him how. He doesn't want to think that Martha betrayed him.
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... And therein lies the difference between himself and the Doctor; the Master is not, even in the slightest bit, apologetic for what he did to the fact. (Or the Joneses, Torchwood, and the entirety of Earth, for that matter.) In fact, he might not even be remotely sorry for his actions against the Doctor, but there does exist a nagging - if not terribly small - sense of guilt associated with the half-remembered idea of having a conscience that inspires him to be less ... flippant with his wrong-doing associated with his rival. Annoyingly. Though he is still thrilled - and openly so - that he has the ability to inspire such a plethora of emotions with just the casual mention of a name or a fact.
"He's a universal constant," the Master remarks simply (as if that will abate the Doctor's worry over Jack's ability to recover), watching the Doctor from where he remains reclined and apparently relaxed, despite the torrent of emotion radiating from him, always finding it necessary to take the opposite path, separate, apart. "When he does recover, I highly doubt Jones will let him around the watches. Handsome Jack seems to think that his boyfriend is a very good person and, quite obviously, he's mistaken; Jones will keep us well-hidden from anyone likely to be sympathetic to our plight."
The Doctor's admission, however, causes the Master to fall silent, suddenly unsure what to do with the information he's been given. Usually, this would be a weapon - the Doctor and his sentimentality, his emotional weakness - but under these circumstances, in light of the circumstances he apparently endured for an entire year in an ulterior timeline, the Master ... is surprised at himself and his lack of spontaneous ingenuity with regards to the expressed feelings. "Please," he says after an unreasonable pause, attempting to shrug off the tension he can practically feel radiating from his companion, "do you really think you'll ever get rid of me that easily, Doctor? I'm surprised at you, at your lack of faith in me. I'll always survive, I'll always be here ... to oppose you, to give your sanctimonious existence something worth fighting against."
Or, perhaps, that's only Koschei's way of reassuring his friend.
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The Master is right in regards to the potential of anyone finding the watches - it's highly improbable that, if they're locked away somewhere in the Torchwood installation, that they'll be found. The Doctor frowns, thinking about their rather dire feeling situation. No idea where their human selves have swanned off to, in question of whether they're even still alive (although it seems more likely than not), and without hope of a rescue, exactly. He wonders about the TARDIS, whether the humans are dissecting his beloved ship to examine its parts, to see how it works. He hadn't anticipated anything like this happening - he hopes that the emergency protocols have kicked in, but with the pieces of the paradox machine still in place, he can't be sure.
At least one thing remains steady right now, and that would be the Master's presence. The Doctor turns, more comforted than he can put into words simply by having another Time Lord. And, admittedly, it's even better that it should be the Master. His oldest friend and enemy, his greatest rival across all of time and the universe.
"Thank you," he responds, his tone quiet and sincere. Then the Doctor gradually reclines back into his former position alongside the Master, arms folding behind his head. "I suppose, at least if we're to be stuck here indefinitely for the moment, the company isn't bad."
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The Master says nothing, though he knows perfectly well that refusing to address the gratitude expressed is just as bad as accepting it out-right. He should, of course, have a snarky remark for his oldest enemy, something biting and well-deserved of a thousand year rivalry, but he finds the compression of his essence into an inanimate object very ill-suited for their rivalry. No, they're far better fighting across the whole of time and space ...
"No," he counters logically, "I think it's the worst." He shifts unexpectedly, rolling onto his side to face the Doctor, and the slight smirk curving his lips makes the statement obvious; yes, that was actually a joke and, no, he might not actually mind the company. "But I'd rather not be stuck here 'indefinitely,' Theta. I know the quickest, easiest way to convince Jones to reconsider his drastic measures ... now, are you with me or will you morally object to my subtly manipulating the bastard that put us in here and force a more diplomatic approach? Because, let's be honest, we don't have the whole of time to figure this out."
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The Master does seem to have a certain way of persuading the Doctor to see his side of things. Although the Doctor is typically immune to such, particularly when it comes to anything destructive or - yes - morally objectionable, he has to admit he's a little swayed by the suggestion. And of course he remembers manipulating Jack, in that limited timeline, out of desperation ... on the Master's behalf.
"I ... you can't just brainwash him, Koschei," the Doctor protests, still morally centered - despite everything. He remembers that year, remembers the same time he was required to manipulate Jack, the way the Master had pulled the human man's strings like those of a puppet. "Compromise with me. We'll ... reach out, try to convince him first."
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Oh, the Master remembers that - in fact, of all the things he does remember from the enclosed timeline they experienced, that, in particular, is one of his favorites - and the dawning realization that the Doctor remembers it as well (and his reason for it) causes the penultimate Time Lord's lips to twitch into a slightly more sinister smile. The Doctor, it seems, is not as untouchable by corruption as previously assumed.
"You can reach out," the Master insists, "and you can attempt to convince him first. See how far that gets you, Theta. And remember that he is the one who ripped out the very thing that makes you a Time Lord - and for what? Standing up for me, just as you're standing up for him?" He makes a derisive sort of sound in the back of his throat and turns away, attention moving back to the starscape above. "When your diplomatic approach fails, I'll be more than willing to try things my way." That, according to the Master, is compromise enough.
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