Doctor Who fic: The Web (Eight/Jacobi!Master)
Title: The Web
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2207
Warnings: Dark themes, violence, and my evident haematophilia
Notes: Time War Era Doctor/Master! That means Eight and a younger Jacobi!Master. It's hot, and you know it. Big thank yous to the beta-licious snowgrouse, who really helped polish this story. If there are still bits that seem unshniy, it's probably bits where I chose to ignore her advice... Further story notes of DOOOM after the fic for anyone who may be interested.
The Web
The Master hummed to himself as he sifted through the contents of the wooden chest. It was a cheery tune that suited his mood, but he couldn't remember where exactly it came from. Must have been of Earth origin. Only there did they create music so catchy that 900 years later it could still get stuck in one's head.
From beyond the open TARDIS doors, he could hear them making their threat --It was all they could do. The preliminary field test of his immobilizer went perfectly. The box-shaped, hand held device had only a short range. Therefore, it was useless against a large group of Daleks. He was unable to use it on his original mission to this planet. He had to take out an entire base. But then one of their saucers crashed into the dark gray sands of the planet's surface. Most of the crew had already been killed or mortally wounded from the impact and the battle they obviously had just escaped. Too bad they would not receive the assistance and repair they had expected to find at their base.
Well, too bad for them. The Master smirked as he pulled out a titanium hand-axe from the chest.
He managed to deactivate the remaining Daleks, less than twenty, one by one. He then gathered them all together in the demolished control room. Digging deeper in the chest, he found a jewel-encrusted dagger under a whip and leather straps. He tested the sharpness of the blade. He didn't even feel the cut until well after the blood swelled from his fingertip. The Master's smile broadened. This was going to be fun.
“YOU CANNOT DEFEAT THE DALEKS!”
“DEATH TO THE TIME LORDS!”
Their shouting was loud and grating, but it was all they had. They couldn't even wave their plungers in defiance. It could have been pathetic if it hadn't been so funny.
To an observer, the Master's smile could have been considered pleasant, as if he was meeting a group of dear friends. He scanned the crowd, then stopped in front of one of them. It was the only one that managed to sound authoritative, less like a mere drone. More than likely their highest-ranking...well, whatever passed as a sort of officer. Very casually, he raised his arm, the one holding the axe.
He brought the ax down and split the Dalek's domed top. The Daleks all fell silent at once. He took the weapon out with a tug, sending out a small spray of sparks. He hacked again and again at the bumped front until he could tear away the panels of its shell. Inside, a small, green, tentacled alien blinked its one eye. It's limbs quivered and flailed in fear.
“Ah...there you are.” The Master brought up the dagger, then rammed it underneath its upper eyelid. The creature let out a high-pitched squeal.
The others kept their curious silence, probably too shocked and appalled at the performance before them. Blue-green blood oozed out over the Master's hands as he worked the knife, cutting out the eye. The Dalek continued to wail. He looked at the eye he had removed and wiped it clean the best he could, then set it on the floor. He picked up the ax again and approached his next victim.
“NO! PLEASE! NO!”
The Master laughed, pale blue eyes sparkling in delight. How many others could say they'd made a Dalek beg? Perhaps one other. The Master would have to remember to ask next time he saw him. He raised his arm, and with all the strength of his new body, he let it fall.
Hours later, the Master brought a hand to his forehead to wipe away the sweat from his brow, leaving blood in its stead. One more turn of the knife and out popped the eye of the last Dalek. It had already died from shock and blood loss. Just as well, the screaming had become tiresome.
He threw the eye into the air like a ball and caught it again. He turned around and with mocking ceremony he placed it on the peak of the pyramid shaped pile of all the other Dalek eyes. He stood back and admired his small structure. “Destruction breeds creation.”
Suddenly he became overwhelmed with the sound of the drums; the drums that plagued him since he first awoke from the abyss. They had quieted during the slaughter, satiated by the carnage. He jammed his fists into his eyes, unconscious of the further blood he was leaving on his face. Through the pounding he tried to focus on the glimmer that insinuated itself into his mind. The glimmer turned to an all too familiar presence. So that's what had set the drums beating again.
“It's moment come 'round at last,” the Master quoted to himself. He stepped back into the shadows cast by the dark green glow of the saucer's emergency lighting. He wouldn't have to wait much longer for the meeting had been anticipating since he'd first heard the words “Time War.”
Slow footsteps were coming closer, clanging on the metal flooring. The Master watched silently as from the doorway stepped a compact man with shoulder-length hair. The Doctor stepped further into the room and gazed over the bits of body and metal littering the floor. The only visible reaction from him was the tightening of his grip on the de-mat gun he was holding. There was definitely something pleasing about the sight: the Doctor with a gun in his hand. One he intended to, and probably had, used. And had probably hated himself after every squeeze of the trigger.
A broken cable sparked and in the brief flash of light something caught the Doctor's eye. He walked up to a grandfather clock sitting incongruously in one corner of the room. Silently and smoothly the Master followed him. The door was left ajar, the Doctor only had to pull it open a little further to look inside and have what he was beginning to suspect, confirmed. “Come into my web,” the Doctor muttered to himself.
In one quick movement, the Master stepped behind the Doctor, wrapped one hand around his throat, the other around the wrist of the hand holding the gun. “Said the spider to the fly,” the Master breathed into the Doctor's ear, disturbing the long brown curls. He pressed against the Doctor's back, forcing the smaller man to step inside the TARDIS. He slid the hand on the Doctor's wrist lower and removed the gun from his grasp.
Satisfied that the immediate threat was taken care of, he released the Doctor's throat and moved around him to the console. He pulled a lever, shutting the doors securely behind them. He set the gun on the console. He turned to face the Doctor.
“You don't look very pleased to see me.”
The Doctor looked him up and down. His nose wrinkled. “You've got green on you.”
The Master looked down at his hands, the blood dried into a thin crust. His sleeves were soaked right through. The Master tutted. It would be impossible to get out now.
“On your face as well.”
The Master scratched at his forehead, sending flakes of dried blood falling past his eyes. “Yes, I suppose I ought to scrub up.”
Without another thought, the Master left the console room in search of the nearest sink. He knew the Doctor would follow him. “I have also noticed that you're not at all surprised to see me,” the Master said over his shoulder as they walked down the corridor.
“You've always had a knack for survival.”
The Master laughed. “Yes, I suppose I have.” He stopped suddenly and turned around, causing the Doctor to walk right into him. “But it's quite different now.” He grabbed the Doctor's hands and pressed them to his chest, where his shirt had opened during his labors. The Doctor gave a small gasp when he felt two hearts beat beneath his palms. “That's right. I'm whole again.”
And the Doctor actually smiled up at him. “That's wonderful!”
The Master lifted an eyebrow, “Is it?”
“I never wanted you dead.”
No. Never that. One of the the Doctor's more baffling weaknesses. But then, the Doctor had always been one of his. He was quite pleased that the Doctor had managed to keep this particular regeneration for so long. Even though there were deeper lines around the mouth and eyes, and gray creeping into the chestnut curls, he was still beautiful.
The Doctor was close, hands still on his chest, his face turned towards him. The Master was never one to give up temptation nor opportunity, and when both presented themselves to him so readily...
He grabbed the Doctor and shoved him against the nearest wall. The Master grabbed a handful of curls as he assaulted the Doctor's lips with his own, his beard rasping against smooth pale skin. Stunned, the Doctor made no movement at first. But soon his lips parted and matched his old friend's eagerness. The Master reached an arm the Doctor's back, under the green velvet coat and pulled him closer. The Doctor made a small noise in the back of his throat. A whimper. Oh yes, this was what made a new life worth living. This and the indescribable pleasure of destroying one's enemies with one's bare hands.
The Doctor shoved hard and broke away, causing the Master to stumble backwards.
“No! This wrong!” The Doctor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How can I stand here saying I'm glad you're alive, and letting you maul me, when just beyond the TARDIS doors is a room full of evidence that you are still a monster?”
The Master chuckled. “I, a monster? Because of what, a few dead Daleks? Tell me, Doctor, how many Daleks have you killed since the beginning of the war? Or even before, for that matter?”
“But never with such brutality! Look at you, you're covered in their blood!” Some of which had rubbed off on the Doctor's own skin and clothes, the Master noticed.
“Are you saying that your way is better? Destroying ships full of them from the comfort of your own TARDIS? I do not flinch away from the dirty truth of war. We are killers, Doctor.”
“Maybe so. The difference is, I take no pleasure in it ”
“Oh, now I suppose you would have me show remorse, mercy? It's your 'mercy' that has brought us to this in the first place. How many times have you had the means to rid the universe of these beasts forever?”
“It's not as simple as that.”
“The time for mercy is well past, my dear Doctor. That's why they brought me back. I can do what you cannot. A conscience is not going to win us this war.”
“Victory at whatever cost?”
“Whatever cost.”
“That's what you truly believe the council, the President, that Romana wants?”
“Oh, don't be blinded by your assumption that you've left the stain of goodness on every soul unfortunate enough to have travelled with you. If she truly felt your way was the best, I wouldn't be here now having this conversation with you.”
The Doctor stared at him. The Master could sense the truth of his words sinking into the Doctor's mind. Not before long, he would know it in his hearts as well. He could see sadness darkening those deep, broody eyes, then cold resignation.
“I should go.”
“Not staying for tea, then?”
The Doctor shot him a look that told him his levity was not appreciated. “I have no appetite. And I should report back to the Citadel. I expect we both should.”
“Well then, Doctor. I guess this is good-bye.” He extended a hand.
A moments hesitation, then the Doctor threw his arms around the Master's neck and kissed him. Though closed-lipped, the kiss was firm, It bringing back memories of days long, long gone: Two young scholars--boys, really--desperate for the contact and connection, but still too frightened and confused by their passion to take the next step. The last time either of them could make any claim of innocence.
The Doctor broke the kiss, keeping his arms around the Master's neck. The Master blinked open his eyes and met the Doctor's intense gaze. “What was that for?”
“For luck. In case we never see each other again.” The Master was about to call him a sentimental old fool, but the Doctor continued, voice lowered, eyes burning with sorrow. “And because I know something you don't. That cost of victory? It's not a lack of morals or conscience. It's sacrifice.”
The Master silently followed him into the console room. There the Doctor retrieved his de-mat gun and exited the TARDIS. The Master stood just inside the doorway.The Doctor stopped beside the pyramid of eyes. He considered them a moment and briefly glanced back at the Master before leaving the room all together.
It's sacrifice. The Doctor's final words echoed in his head, matching cadence with the drums. The Doctor's parting look had unsettled him . In one kiss, a glance, there seemed a portent: The Doctor would be there at the end, even if no one else was.
Further blatherings Story Notes
This final version is a malgomation of several fics that I never finished, and two rewrites from this idea of a confrontation.
The notion of a younger Jacobi!Master being there for the Time War along with Eight gave me very happy thoughts. But then after seeing the 1980 Hamlet with SirDJ and Lalla Ward, I began amusing myself with the beautiful wrongness that would be Master/Romana. Not to mention using Hamlet as the base for how our younger Master looked, especially since it allowed him to be beardy like the best Masters. Also Derek Jacobi was very fluffy looking in his yotuh. So having a young, attractive, fluffy, but utterly insane and evil Master adds a certain level of fun to it all.
Anyway, both Master/Romana stories had a good lot of moralizing wank about war, and the Master being amused at the idea of the Time Lords needing him. But at the same time angry at being seen as nothing more than a tool. In "The Sound of Drums" it's the way the Master says "Their perfect warrior" with such bitterness. Here's a sample how it was going to be explored in the first unfinished fic:
He held up a hand. "Let me guess, now you'll try and flatter me, tell me that you need me for my cunning and deviousness."
"No, we need you for your brutality, cruelity, and complete lack of morality."
"Ah, now we come to it. Citadel guards make for poor soldiers. Too many scholars. You can only be on the defensive for so long and laws of non-interference have created an atrophy in our people's ability to attack." He laughed again. "You're being killed by your own pacifism!"
The idea of getting the Master covered in Dalek blood and cutting out the Daleks' eyes came from the second attempt a Master/Romana. In this fic the Master returns from his mission covered in blood and holding a blood-stained bag, claiming he brought her a gift. He throws it to the floor and out roll the eyes. This is the same one I had intended to include my first attempt a graphic sexual scene. But I chickened out. But it would have delved in to the nice fucked-upness of Master/Romana, especially how both get off on shagging one of the Doctor's exes.
Both fics also brought up the fact that Romana was deliberately keeping the Master and the Doctor away from each other, not wanting the Doctor to know they brought the Master back. Which is something that was explicitly mentioned in earleir drafts of this Doctor/Master story.
I think parts of what snowgrouse called me on as unnecessary descriptions were throw-backs to when this story was to be from the Doctor's POV. A part of me wanted to still include details important then, but were now meaningless. What I miss most from the Doctor-POV versions was the atmosphere I created as he was searching the crashed Dalek ship. It was very horror movie: darkly lit halls, no signs of life where there ought to be, then blood on the walls and floor...scraps of Dalek, but never a complete body. Until he at last makes it to the control room and discovers the carnage of Daleks butchered by axe and dagger.
But then I found it very difficult to be in Eight's mind, and to have him convincingly seduced by the Master, despite the fact he is quite disturbed at the mess of Daleks around them. 'Course that was in draft one, before I realized it would be easier if we removed them from the mess and into the more intimate(?) interior of the Master's TARDIS. I got to the point where the Doctor felt hands on his throat and wrist when I realized I wanted to switch the POV. Instead of coming upon the massacre with the Doctor, lets watch the Master have his fun. And God, did I love writing it. The Master's head was a far easier place to be.
Don't know what the says about me. Well, I do. But I think it sounds nicer to pretend not to.
Still I had lots of hang-ups writing this because of how the Time War is still that unknown territory. How did Eight, of all Doctors manage to commit double genocide and fuck-up his succeeding regenrations whatgood? How do I write for a Master we only see in canon for all of five minutes? For the first question, I hoped that a beautiful irony came across that the Master inadvertantly influenced the Doctor's later actions. For the second question, between this fic and my Yana/Chantho story, I seem to have come to the decision that this is a very hands-on Master. He wasn't about lazers and TCEs. He likes cruder weapons, the kind that forces you to be close to your enemy as you kill them. Perhaps it has something to do with how he menaced Chantho with the broken cable.
To end on, this fic has the lightest of touches on my theory about "the drums." Maybe it's been explained better in interviews, but this is how I see it. I cannot believe we're suppose to believe in an complete ret-con for the Master. Simm!Master claims that he's heard the drums since childhood, ever since he gazed into the vortex. So...what, are we now to assume that Delgado, Pratt-Beavers, Ainley, and Roberts had these pesky drums to? Strange they never mentioned it... especially not to the Doctor so that when Yana mentioned hearing drums inside his head, the Doctor doesn't seem too bothered by it. What is easier for me to believe that the drums "calling [him] to war" since childhood were metaphorical ones. This notion of nature v. nurture. It was in the Master's nature to be violent to be a warrior, no matter how much the society tried to surpress it and force him into their standards of scholarliness. But then the Time Lords resurrected him. One of those practices you can imagine came about in Rassilon's time, but aftwerwards were considered far too weird to continue doing. I mean, resurrection? Highly peculiar...and unnatural. A side effect being that the Master now has intense auditory hallucinations, and may be just that more bat-shit crazy (see: the WTFness of Simm!Master).
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2207
Warnings: Dark themes, violence, and my evident haematophilia
Notes: Time War Era Doctor/Master! That means Eight and a younger Jacobi!Master. It's hot, and you know it. Big thank yous to the beta-licious snowgrouse, who really helped polish this story. If there are still bits that seem unshniy, it's probably bits where I chose to ignore her advice... Further story notes of DOOOM after the fic for anyone who may be interested.
The Web
The Master hummed to himself as he sifted through the contents of the wooden chest. It was a cheery tune that suited his mood, but he couldn't remember where exactly it came from. Must have been of Earth origin. Only there did they create music so catchy that 900 years later it could still get stuck in one's head.
From beyond the open TARDIS doors, he could hear them making their threat --It was all they could do. The preliminary field test of his immobilizer went perfectly. The box-shaped, hand held device had only a short range. Therefore, it was useless against a large group of Daleks. He was unable to use it on his original mission to this planet. He had to take out an entire base. But then one of their saucers crashed into the dark gray sands of the planet's surface. Most of the crew had already been killed or mortally wounded from the impact and the battle they obviously had just escaped. Too bad they would not receive the assistance and repair they had expected to find at their base.
Well, too bad for them. The Master smirked as he pulled out a titanium hand-axe from the chest.
He managed to deactivate the remaining Daleks, less than twenty, one by one. He then gathered them all together in the demolished control room. Digging deeper in the chest, he found a jewel-encrusted dagger under a whip and leather straps. He tested the sharpness of the blade. He didn't even feel the cut until well after the blood swelled from his fingertip. The Master's smile broadened. This was going to be fun.
“YOU CANNOT DEFEAT THE DALEKS!”
“DEATH TO THE TIME LORDS!”
Their shouting was loud and grating, but it was all they had. They couldn't even wave their plungers in defiance. It could have been pathetic if it hadn't been so funny.
To an observer, the Master's smile could have been considered pleasant, as if he was meeting a group of dear friends. He scanned the crowd, then stopped in front of one of them. It was the only one that managed to sound authoritative, less like a mere drone. More than likely their highest-ranking...well, whatever passed as a sort of officer. Very casually, he raised his arm, the one holding the axe.
He brought the ax down and split the Dalek's domed top. The Daleks all fell silent at once. He took the weapon out with a tug, sending out a small spray of sparks. He hacked again and again at the bumped front until he could tear away the panels of its shell. Inside, a small, green, tentacled alien blinked its one eye. It's limbs quivered and flailed in fear.
“Ah...there you are.” The Master brought up the dagger, then rammed it underneath its upper eyelid. The creature let out a high-pitched squeal.
The others kept their curious silence, probably too shocked and appalled at the performance before them. Blue-green blood oozed out over the Master's hands as he worked the knife, cutting out the eye. The Dalek continued to wail. He looked at the eye he had removed and wiped it clean the best he could, then set it on the floor. He picked up the ax again and approached his next victim.
“NO! PLEASE! NO!”
The Master laughed, pale blue eyes sparkling in delight. How many others could say they'd made a Dalek beg? Perhaps one other. The Master would have to remember to ask next time he saw him. He raised his arm, and with all the strength of his new body, he let it fall.
Hours later, the Master brought a hand to his forehead to wipe away the sweat from his brow, leaving blood in its stead. One more turn of the knife and out popped the eye of the last Dalek. It had already died from shock and blood loss. Just as well, the screaming had become tiresome.
He threw the eye into the air like a ball and caught it again. He turned around and with mocking ceremony he placed it on the peak of the pyramid shaped pile of all the other Dalek eyes. He stood back and admired his small structure. “Destruction breeds creation.”
Suddenly he became overwhelmed with the sound of the drums; the drums that plagued him since he first awoke from the abyss. They had quieted during the slaughter, satiated by the carnage. He jammed his fists into his eyes, unconscious of the further blood he was leaving on his face. Through the pounding he tried to focus on the glimmer that insinuated itself into his mind. The glimmer turned to an all too familiar presence. So that's what had set the drums beating again.
“It's moment come 'round at last,” the Master quoted to himself. He stepped back into the shadows cast by the dark green glow of the saucer's emergency lighting. He wouldn't have to wait much longer for the meeting had been anticipating since he'd first heard the words “Time War.”
Slow footsteps were coming closer, clanging on the metal flooring. The Master watched silently as from the doorway stepped a compact man with shoulder-length hair. The Doctor stepped further into the room and gazed over the bits of body and metal littering the floor. The only visible reaction from him was the tightening of his grip on the de-mat gun he was holding. There was definitely something pleasing about the sight: the Doctor with a gun in his hand. One he intended to, and probably had, used. And had probably hated himself after every squeeze of the trigger.
A broken cable sparked and in the brief flash of light something caught the Doctor's eye. He walked up to a grandfather clock sitting incongruously in one corner of the room. Silently and smoothly the Master followed him. The door was left ajar, the Doctor only had to pull it open a little further to look inside and have what he was beginning to suspect, confirmed. “Come into my web,” the Doctor muttered to himself.
In one quick movement, the Master stepped behind the Doctor, wrapped one hand around his throat, the other around the wrist of the hand holding the gun. “Said the spider to the fly,” the Master breathed into the Doctor's ear, disturbing the long brown curls. He pressed against the Doctor's back, forcing the smaller man to step inside the TARDIS. He slid the hand on the Doctor's wrist lower and removed the gun from his grasp.
Satisfied that the immediate threat was taken care of, he released the Doctor's throat and moved around him to the console. He pulled a lever, shutting the doors securely behind them. He set the gun on the console. He turned to face the Doctor.
“You don't look very pleased to see me.”
The Doctor looked him up and down. His nose wrinkled. “You've got green on you.”
The Master looked down at his hands, the blood dried into a thin crust. His sleeves were soaked right through. The Master tutted. It would be impossible to get out now.
“On your face as well.”
The Master scratched at his forehead, sending flakes of dried blood falling past his eyes. “Yes, I suppose I ought to scrub up.”
Without another thought, the Master left the console room in search of the nearest sink. He knew the Doctor would follow him. “I have also noticed that you're not at all surprised to see me,” the Master said over his shoulder as they walked down the corridor.
“You've always had a knack for survival.”
The Master laughed. “Yes, I suppose I have.” He stopped suddenly and turned around, causing the Doctor to walk right into him. “But it's quite different now.” He grabbed the Doctor's hands and pressed them to his chest, where his shirt had opened during his labors. The Doctor gave a small gasp when he felt two hearts beat beneath his palms. “That's right. I'm whole again.”
And the Doctor actually smiled up at him. “That's wonderful!”
The Master lifted an eyebrow, “Is it?”
“I never wanted you dead.”
No. Never that. One of the the Doctor's more baffling weaknesses. But then, the Doctor had always been one of his. He was quite pleased that the Doctor had managed to keep this particular regeneration for so long. Even though there were deeper lines around the mouth and eyes, and gray creeping into the chestnut curls, he was still beautiful.
The Doctor was close, hands still on his chest, his face turned towards him. The Master was never one to give up temptation nor opportunity, and when both presented themselves to him so readily...
He grabbed the Doctor and shoved him against the nearest wall. The Master grabbed a handful of curls as he assaulted the Doctor's lips with his own, his beard rasping against smooth pale skin. Stunned, the Doctor made no movement at first. But soon his lips parted and matched his old friend's eagerness. The Master reached an arm the Doctor's back, under the green velvet coat and pulled him closer. The Doctor made a small noise in the back of his throat. A whimper. Oh yes, this was what made a new life worth living. This and the indescribable pleasure of destroying one's enemies with one's bare hands.
The Doctor shoved hard and broke away, causing the Master to stumble backwards.
“No! This wrong!” The Doctor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How can I stand here saying I'm glad you're alive, and letting you maul me, when just beyond the TARDIS doors is a room full of evidence that you are still a monster?”
The Master chuckled. “I, a monster? Because of what, a few dead Daleks? Tell me, Doctor, how many Daleks have you killed since the beginning of the war? Or even before, for that matter?”
“But never with such brutality! Look at you, you're covered in their blood!” Some of which had rubbed off on the Doctor's own skin and clothes, the Master noticed.
“Are you saying that your way is better? Destroying ships full of them from the comfort of your own TARDIS? I do not flinch away from the dirty truth of war. We are killers, Doctor.”
“Maybe so. The difference is, I take no pleasure in it ”
“Oh, now I suppose you would have me show remorse, mercy? It's your 'mercy' that has brought us to this in the first place. How many times have you had the means to rid the universe of these beasts forever?”
“It's not as simple as that.”
“The time for mercy is well past, my dear Doctor. That's why they brought me back. I can do what you cannot. A conscience is not going to win us this war.”
“Victory at whatever cost?”
“Whatever cost.”
“That's what you truly believe the council, the President, that Romana wants?”
“Oh, don't be blinded by your assumption that you've left the stain of goodness on every soul unfortunate enough to have travelled with you. If she truly felt your way was the best, I wouldn't be here now having this conversation with you.”
The Doctor stared at him. The Master could sense the truth of his words sinking into the Doctor's mind. Not before long, he would know it in his hearts as well. He could see sadness darkening those deep, broody eyes, then cold resignation.
“I should go.”
“Not staying for tea, then?”
The Doctor shot him a look that told him his levity was not appreciated. “I have no appetite. And I should report back to the Citadel. I expect we both should.”
“Well then, Doctor. I guess this is good-bye.” He extended a hand.
A moments hesitation, then the Doctor threw his arms around the Master's neck and kissed him. Though closed-lipped, the kiss was firm, It bringing back memories of days long, long gone: Two young scholars--boys, really--desperate for the contact and connection, but still too frightened and confused by their passion to take the next step. The last time either of them could make any claim of innocence.
The Doctor broke the kiss, keeping his arms around the Master's neck. The Master blinked open his eyes and met the Doctor's intense gaze. “What was that for?”
“For luck. In case we never see each other again.” The Master was about to call him a sentimental old fool, but the Doctor continued, voice lowered, eyes burning with sorrow. “And because I know something you don't. That cost of victory? It's not a lack of morals or conscience. It's sacrifice.”
The Master silently followed him into the console room. There the Doctor retrieved his de-mat gun and exited the TARDIS. The Master stood just inside the doorway.The Doctor stopped beside the pyramid of eyes. He considered them a moment and briefly glanced back at the Master before leaving the room all together.
It's sacrifice. The Doctor's final words echoed in his head, matching cadence with the drums. The Doctor's parting look had unsettled him . In one kiss, a glance, there seemed a portent: The Doctor would be there at the end, even if no one else was.
Further blatherings Story Notes
This final version is a malgomation of several fics that I never finished, and two rewrites from this idea of a confrontation.
The notion of a younger Jacobi!Master being there for the Time War along with Eight gave me very happy thoughts. But then after seeing the 1980 Hamlet with SirDJ and Lalla Ward, I began amusing myself with the beautiful wrongness that would be Master/Romana. Not to mention using Hamlet as the base for how our younger Master looked, especially since it allowed him to be beardy like the best Masters. Also Derek Jacobi was very fluffy looking in his yotuh. So having a young, attractive, fluffy, but utterly insane and evil Master adds a certain level of fun to it all.
Anyway, both Master/Romana stories had a good lot of moralizing wank about war, and the Master being amused at the idea of the Time Lords needing him. But at the same time angry at being seen as nothing more than a tool. In "The Sound of Drums" it's the way the Master says "Their perfect warrior" with such bitterness. Here's a sample how it was going to be explored in the first unfinished fic:
He held up a hand. "Let me guess, now you'll try and flatter me, tell me that you need me for my cunning and deviousness."
"No, we need you for your brutality, cruelity, and complete lack of morality."
"Ah, now we come to it. Citadel guards make for poor soldiers. Too many scholars. You can only be on the defensive for so long and laws of non-interference have created an atrophy in our people's ability to attack." He laughed again. "You're being killed by your own pacifism!"
The idea of getting the Master covered in Dalek blood and cutting out the Daleks' eyes came from the second attempt a Master/Romana. In this fic the Master returns from his mission covered in blood and holding a blood-stained bag, claiming he brought her a gift. He throws it to the floor and out roll the eyes. This is the same one I had intended to include my first attempt a graphic sexual scene. But I chickened out. But it would have delved in to the nice fucked-upness of Master/Romana, especially how both get off on shagging one of the Doctor's exes.
Both fics also brought up the fact that Romana was deliberately keeping the Master and the Doctor away from each other, not wanting the Doctor to know they brought the Master back. Which is something that was explicitly mentioned in earleir drafts of this Doctor/Master story.
I think parts of what snowgrouse called me on as unnecessary descriptions were throw-backs to when this story was to be from the Doctor's POV. A part of me wanted to still include details important then, but were now meaningless. What I miss most from the Doctor-POV versions was the atmosphere I created as he was searching the crashed Dalek ship. It was very horror movie: darkly lit halls, no signs of life where there ought to be, then blood on the walls and floor...scraps of Dalek, but never a complete body. Until he at last makes it to the control room and discovers the carnage of Daleks butchered by axe and dagger.
But then I found it very difficult to be in Eight's mind, and to have him convincingly seduced by the Master, despite the fact he is quite disturbed at the mess of Daleks around them. 'Course that was in draft one, before I realized it would be easier if we removed them from the mess and into the more intimate(?) interior of the Master's TARDIS. I got to the point where the Doctor felt hands on his throat and wrist when I realized I wanted to switch the POV. Instead of coming upon the massacre with the Doctor, lets watch the Master have his fun. And God, did I love writing it. The Master's head was a far easier place to be.
Don't know what the says about me. Well, I do. But I think it sounds nicer to pretend not to.
Still I had lots of hang-ups writing this because of how the Time War is still that unknown territory. How did Eight, of all Doctors manage to commit double genocide and fuck-up his succeeding regenrations whatgood? How do I write for a Master we only see in canon for all of five minutes? For the first question, I hoped that a beautiful irony came across that the Master inadvertantly influenced the Doctor's later actions. For the second question, between this fic and my Yana/Chantho story, I seem to have come to the decision that this is a very hands-on Master. He wasn't about lazers and TCEs. He likes cruder weapons, the kind that forces you to be close to your enemy as you kill them. Perhaps it has something to do with how he menaced Chantho with the broken cable.
To end on, this fic has the lightest of touches on my theory about "the drums." Maybe it's been explained better in interviews, but this is how I see it. I cannot believe we're suppose to believe in an complete ret-con for the Master. Simm!Master claims that he's heard the drums since childhood, ever since he gazed into the vortex. So...what, are we now to assume that Delgado, Pratt-Beavers, Ainley, and Roberts had these pesky drums to? Strange they never mentioned it... especially not to the Doctor so that when Yana mentioned hearing drums inside his head, the Doctor doesn't seem too bothered by it. What is easier for me to believe that the drums "calling [him] to war" since childhood were metaphorical ones. This notion of nature v. nurture. It was in the Master's nature to be violent to be a warrior, no matter how much the society tried to surpress it and force him into their standards of scholarliness. But then the Time Lords resurrected him. One of those practices you can imagine came about in Rassilon's time, but aftwerwards were considered far too weird to continue doing. I mean, resurrection? Highly peculiar...and unnatural. A side effect being that the Master now has intense auditory hallucinations, and may be just that more bat-shit crazy (see: the WTFness of Simm!Master).