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It had been a long few weeks in France. A long few years, if he was perfectly honest with himself (he was not, of course). Business was difficult. People were becoming more unruly. He'd tried to convince Reinette it was time to leave, but she didn't want to move, not yet. No, too much to do here
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A man walked through the door, looking distinctly out of place in his rococo dress. The Master mused idly if he remembered any mixes from the time... until he saw the man's face, and his hearts nearly stopped.
Everything else may have been all wrong, but it was him and every part of him knew it. His hands gripped the bar hard enough to crack, waiting for some recognition, a look, some melodramatic remark - surely the Doctor knew by now - but clearly something wasn't right.
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A rush of pure excitement ran through him. It wasn't France. It wasn't the exile he'd been in these last few years. No, no, this was something entirely new. Not somewhere he'd expected, or even somewhere he'd wanted, but it wasn't the same. He found himself grinning, welcoming the odd place.
The man behind the bar was staring at him. The smile dropped from the Doctor's face and he turned, raising an eyebrow to acknowledge him. There was something about the man, something familiar. He had the strangest desire to reach out to figure him out psychically (he didn't, of course, no point even in this alien world). Instead, he chose to speak to him.
"I don't suppose you have some explanation why my pharmacy has suddenly decided to appear here?"
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"...Beg your pardon?"
He relaxed a little, or at least gave the appearance of it. His mind was racing, but he knew touching the Doctor's mind would give him away in an instant. Or perhaps not; he could've used a Chameleon Arch, after all, as disappointing a thought that was.
"-Oh! Right, no, this - this is a pub. Bit different from the ones you've been seeing, I'm sure. When were you, Seventeen-something?"
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By 'things', he was mostly concerned about one very important thing. One very important person, who had become like a companion throughout the last number of years. It would be wrong to leave her behind. He'd left far too many behind in the past.
And who was this man? How did the Doctor know him? He was absolutely certain he knew him, but he could not place his face. It was always the opposite problem in court, where he'd been introduced to such-and-such noble from such-and-such place and he had no idea he'd ever seen them before. This man, though. This man, he knew.
"Where is this? Besides a pub? And when?"
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"Mm, now that's a bit difficult to explain. If you're in a rush, then you can go back out the way you came - it seems to work most of the time."
Oh, but he knew he wouldn't. The mystery was too great to leave unexplained.
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He turned back to the strangely familiar man, unbuttoned the clasp on his jacket (the symbol in the French court for the gentleman deciding to stay where he is instead of leave---old habits and all that), and sat down at the bar. "So long as it doesn't vanish while I'm here, I'd rather listen to that difficult to explain explanation. I'm a bit quicker than some, you'd be surprised what I can keep up with."
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The Master leaned in close, and tried not to smile. "As near as I can figure, this is a kind of meeting-point in spacetime. All the angles meet here, in this place. There's more of it beyond this bar, in fact - there's pieces of a city out there. This is an area of existence that's been stitched together somehow, and people find their way here."
He caught the Doctor's eye for a moment, but quickly looked away. "Just how they do is something I've not figured out. This could be a cosmic roach trap for all I know. Anyway."
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And who was this man? The Doctor was certain he knew him. Certain, but not certain how.
"That's impossibly dangerous. Scooped me up as well as my part of the city. And I could potentially leave, but I might not come back, that's what you said earlier isn't it, Monsieur...?"
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"I've asked around, of course. The ones that know even the slightest don't really seem to care. There's no caretakers here. It could be natural. Just that it's hard to..."
He stopped himself. Hard to tell how old it is? That could denote a time-sense, far too revealing. He was fighting the urge to show himself, to grab the Doctor by his ridiculous collar and laugh in his face. It would pass, as it always did, but he needed distraction.
The lanky alien sulking further down the bar growled at a patron that came too close. Its tendrils curled, and it seemed to shoot a glance at the Master.
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He turned away from Saxon and looked around, tucking his hands into his pockets. Timelines felt different, here. He'd become accustomed to everything moving in a straight line, only occasionally twisting around a diplomat or a place that would become part of history later. But here, everything felt different, strange.
And time seemed to converge around Saxon. It wasn't like a fixed point in history, it was different. Strange.
"No caretakers, no population except for those who are complacently accepting of their position. Interesting." He tilted his head at the tendriled creature at the other end of the bar.
"Doesn't seem particularly friendly, that one."
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"Not positions, really. They're all wanderers. And sometimes the way shuts, or at least I've been told as much. The little dullards don't wonder about it. Can't imagine what this place must be for them."
He looked up at the alien as he poured himself a drink. "Mm, no, that one's not. Suppose he's miffed at having nothing to do at the moment."
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Frightening thought, being brought here for observation, never knowing when he could go back to France, or find another way out. And if the ways shut, he might go back and never know what this place was, or who Saxon was.
"But you notice," the Doctor pointed out. "What makes you different?"
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He took a swig of his drink. There was a part of him that enjoyed the idle - even friendly - conversation, too.
"Smarter than the average bear," he shrugged, laughing a little. "You noticed straight away. I could ask you the same question."
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They didn't do much with the things they noticed, but that was how they were. It was very like the court back on Gallifrey, in a way. All rules and regulations and certain times to stand and sit, but no real action. No real fight behind what they did.
And all the Doctor could do was wait. Wait and watch as fixed points moved around him, unable to move them from their places.
But this man, while clever, wasn't like the fixed points he was used to. There was something different. And he couldn't have him know who the Doctor was, not yet.
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The Master stopped mid-sentence, looking over the Doctor's shoulder. Immediately, his demeanor changed.
"Oi! Heel, dammit!"
The alien was half-crouching behind the Doctor, baring its tiny black fangs. It said something in a glottal language.
"He's harmless, give over already. Stupid thing. No, on second thought, come here."
It obediently stepped forward, bowing its head.
"Introduce yourself instead of tearing his bloody throat out. Do it like I taught you."
The alien opened and closed its mouth a few times, seemingly unable to vocalize. When it did, it was in a strained, painful-sounding tone.
"Ng-aaahallo. Please excuse my demeanor. I am designated Lambda."
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He wasn't sure he approved of M. Saxon's methods for talking to the creature. But, as he'd learned over the years, there were things that weren't his place to talk about or judge. And besides, he wasn't tearing the Doctor's throat out, and that was for the best.
"Your...bodyguard?" the Doctor asked Saxon with a sniff.
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