FIC: Heartline Roll [fandom: Doctor Who] (chapter 5/7)
Title: Heartline Roll (5/7)
Author: Thascalos
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Master/Duplicate Ten
Rating: Adult
Warnings/Contains: Explicit sex, violent imagery, voyeurism, humor, gratuitous juggling, a disco space buffalo
Summary: The Doctor, the Master, and the Doctor's human clone go to a space carnival. The Master wonders what he could ever have possibly done to deserve such a fate.
The Master's hearts were pounding so hard in his chest, he could barely hear the carnival over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. He ran and ran, past rides, past games, past bands, he ran until even his respiratory bypass was starting to give out. He ducked behind a row of tents and saw a rickety table covered in a filthy cloth. He scrambled underneath it, and then crouched in place, pressing his head into his clammy, trembling hands.
He wasn't sure how far he'd run. He wasn't even sure what direction he'd run from. Or where he was running to. He should avoid the TARDIS. Avoid people. He clutched at his wrists. He needed to get these restraints off. He couldn't do anything with them on. He needed to find a way off of this planet. At least out of this godforsaken carnival. There must be the equivalent of a car park. He could steal a vehicle. Maybe a starhopper. He could disappear. He knew how to lay low. He was the patient one, not the Doctor. Except there was the metacrisis. He honestly didn't know what it was capable of. Or the Doctor, anymore. He'd been right. The Doctor was completely unhinged. And so was his freak. Calm, calm, calm. Right. He needed to get away. He pulled at his restraints again. No, he could steal a vehicle without hurting anyone, he was clever enough for that. He was a bloody genius, after all. The restraints could wait -- unless they had tracking devices installed. Fuck. Fuck. Of course they did. There was no way that they wouldn't have. Think. Think. Think.
The Master took a deep breath and crawled out from under the table, which he promptly upended. He yanked at one of the foldable metal legs, wrenching it back and forth until it finally snapped off. Good. Now he needed to find a game machine.
There was one nearby. He lurked behind a tarp, watching two children who were playing on the game machine, and flexing his fingers over and over on the metal piping in his hands. After a few minutes the girls finally lost. One kid kicked the machine, and the other said, "This is so lame. Let's go back to Death Canyon." They walked away. The Master watched the machine for a full minute, waiting in case anybody else came to play on it, but it stayed quiet. He walked up to it and swung the metal pipe as hard as he could into the glass screen, which shattered. Then he slipped back behind his tarpaulin.
He heard the whir of the repair bot before he saw it, and readied his metal piping. As soon as it flew up to the machine, clicking disapprovingly, he stepped out. The bot spun around, whirring and chirruping in a distinctly alarmed manner. Maybe it recognised him. But it didn't have time to do anything else before the Master smashed his pipe into it, the blow so savage his pipe bent with the force of it. The bot dropped instantly to the ground, twitching and glitching. The Master hit it again, and again. The only thing that saved him from smashing it to complete smithereens was the fact that he needed some of its parts.
He knelt down on the ground beside the bot. It was still letting out feeble whirs, but he ignored that and used the narrow end of his pipe to pry open the bot's casing. It chirruped twice more, before falling finally silent and still. He worked feverishly, pulling at the sharp metal and plastic components, trying to release the tools that might help him cut the horrible restraints from his wrists. His hands were bleeding, making the work that much more slippery and difficult. He wiped them off on his trousers, then swore when a panel inside the bot sparked and burnt him.
"C'mon," he muttered, "c'mon, c'mon...."
He freed a miniature lasercutter from the wreckage, and tested it on a piece of the bot itself. It cut slowly, but with incredible precision. Perfect. He turned it carefully onto his wrist. The restraints were incredibly thin, he didn't want to cook his own flesh. He started the laser, grimacing every time he hand slipped just that tiny bit and the laser beam cut into his skin. After a minute, his wrist was covered in tiny burns, and the bracelet was still pristine. He threw the laser away with an oath. He was running out of time.
The Master plunged his hands back into the bot's innards. The only other thing to try was the miniature rotating saw. After another minute he had most of it free, but couldn't fully remove it, so he had to hold his wrist at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. It was difficult to see what he was doing. He started the saw, and brought it gingerly up to his restraint. He heard it hit the metal of his bracelet with a terrible whine and he flinched, making the saw cut into the flesh of his wrist. He swore again. He wiped the sweat from his brow and rearranged his hands on the saw. Blood was dripping down his wrist, to mingle with the blood slicking his fingers. He carefully pressed the saw against the bracelet, listening to the whine of metal on metal. It rose in pitch, higher and higher as he pressed harder, and harder. If his hand slipped now, the saw would go right through his bone. He pressed even harder, then pulled back and looked at the bracelet.
As good as new.
He could hear his heavy breathing whistling through his gritted teeth. He threw the bot's carcass onto the ground with disgust, then quickly picked it back up.
He couldn't cut through the restraints. But he could cut through his wrists.
Before he had a chance to mentally list the many reasons that wouldn't be a very good plan, he heard heavy boots thumping towards him. A couple of middle-aged security officers ran around the corner, already winded. The kind who were a bit more used to dealing with drunk teenagers and petty thieves than cold-blooded, murderous psychopaths. The Master snarled at them, hefting the bot's casing. It would be the work of moments to slice their throats open with the saw, take their weapons, and flee.
And then his arms locked in place, as the restraints kicked in and kept him from swinging the blade into their flesh.
He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and turned to run, flinging the casing out of harm's way. He only made it a few feet before one of the guards tackled him, bringing him down with her greater weight.
"What's all this then?" the guard panted. She held the Master down, and to the Master's mounting terror, he found couldn't do anything to stop her. As hard as he tried, he couldn't even wiggle. He chest heaved with the effort, but he couldn't move even a muscle.
"Please," he begged, "please, please let me go, let me go." His eyes were watering with desperation and fear.
The guard looked down at him.
"Think we've got a bit of a nutter here, Ravik. Help me get some cuffs on him."
The Master laughed, and even he heard the hysteria in it. Didn't they know he was already chained?
Ravik pulled his cuffs off of his belt and knelt down beside them. As soon as the first guard took her weight off of him, the Master started to scrabble away, dragging his bloodied hands across the rough gravel of the ground. She grabbed his legs, and his body froze once again. It was the most sickening, terrifying sensation he had ever felt.
"Oh please," he said, his voice muffled now by gravel and dirt. "Don't let them take me again," he begged, voice breaking. He sounded pathetic. He was pathetic. He didn't care. He couldn't face an eternity of this. He couldn't. "Let me go, please, please, please."
"Hey, it's all right, mate," Ravik said, patting his shoulder as the first guard pulled the Master's wrists together behind his back. "We're not going to hurt you. We're gonna help you."
The Master choked back another bitter laugh as he was helped gently to his feet.
"That's what they all say."
********
The Master stared blankly at the silent video playing on repeat on the security screen. Grainy footage of his face, recorded by the repair bot in its dying moments, as he savagely smashed it onto the ground, and then beat it with a pipe. The video started to break up as the pipe was shoved inside the bot, quite close to the camera, and the pipe started prying the bot apart, until the video glitched spectacularly, and then blacked out. Then it started again.
He was sat on a clean, white camp bed in one of the four conveniently located medical tents. He could hear the metacrisis behind him talking in a low voice to the head of security, who made occasional sympathetic noises.
The Doctor walked up and stood next to the bed. The Master could feel the heavy weight of the Doctor's eyes on him.
"It looks like those hurt," the Doctor said.
The Master didn't acknowledge him, just kept watching the video. He heard the Doctor move away. A tap turned on, and the sound of water filling a plastic bucket was next. A few cabinet doors opened and closed as the Doctor searched for supplies, before the tap was turned off. He set the tub and his other paraphernalia next to the Master on the camp bed. A clean white cloth was dipped into the water.
"Here, lift your head up," the Doctor told him, tilting his jaw with a gentle hand. The Master kept his eyes averted, but let the Doctor wash away the blood and dirt from his face. The Doctor took one of his hands, and cleaned away the blood and gravel, then rubbed ointment on the burns around his bracelet. The Master watched as the Doctor cradled the Master's hand in one of his own, and with the other, carefully wielded a protoplaser to heal his cuts and bruises. Then he did the same to the Master's other hand.
As he slowly worked his way to each of the Master's fingertips, the Master asked, "Is this what you did after your freak bashed my head in on the satellite control station?"
The Doctor's hand hesitated, but only for a moment.
"There we go," he said, ignoring the Master's question. He set the protoplaser down. "All done." He laced his fingers through the Master's, and gave his freshly healed flesh a soft squeeze.
The Master looked down at their joined hands.
"I was going to cut my hands off," he said. "To get away from you."
He felt the Doctor's hand tense, ever so slightly, inside his own.
"The restraints wouldn't have let you," the Doctor said, quietly.
The Master felt sick to his stomach. He pulled his hand from the Doctor's, curling his fingers into a fist that he held up to his own chest.
"You think I'm such a monster," he said. He finally looked up at the Doctor's face, into his sad, dark eyes. "What does that make you?" He looked over at the metacrisis. "And what does it make that?"
The Doctor didn't answer that question either.
The metacrisis spent a few more minutes with the head of security. Finally, it shook her hand, nodding and saying, "Thank you, thank you so, so much," again and again. It walked over to where the Master sat on his camp bed.
"Well, they're not going to press charges against Harry here," it said, indicating the Master, "as long as we leave now, and leave a credit routing number so we can pay for the damages to their property. Captain Sarjan was very understanding, about Harry's, er... condition, since it was so evident from Harry's interactions with the security guards that he's no threat to people." It paused, as if waiting for the Master to contradict it.
The Doctor cleared his throat. "Right," he said. "When can we leave?"
"As soon as we get your credit number," Captain Sarjan told him. The Doctor started rooting through his pockets for a credit stick that would work in the current century. "Um," he said, chagrined. "Just, give me about... ten minutes. I've got to get it from our, ah, vehicle." He flashed an apologetic look at the metacrisis, and slipped out of the tent.
"He'll be right back," the metacrisis told Captain Sarjan. "I'll just stay here with my brother-in-law."
The Captain nodded, giving them both an annoyingly knowing look of sympathy, and then retreated. The metacrisis sat gingerly upon the edge of the Master's camp bed, careful not to encroach too closely on his space. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as the Master continued to watch the looping security video.
"So," the metacrisis said, finally breaking the silence. "What's so fascinating about this video, then?"
"I'm imagining that repair bot is your skull," the Master answered.
"...Right," the metacrisis said. It sighed.
The Doctor made it back to the tent in about a half an hour, complete with a credit stick flush with cash. If Captain Sarjan noticed he was wearing a different shirt and tie, she didn't mention it.
"Thanks again," the metacrisis said, as they left the tent.
The Master took a breath of fresh night air, and promised himself that the first thing he was going to do when he gained his freedom was to come back to this carnival and raze it to the ground.
chapter one ~ chapter 2 ~ chapter three ~ chapter four ~ chapter five ~ chapter six ~ chapter seven
Author: Thascalos
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Ten/Master/Duplicate Ten
Rating: Adult
Warnings/Contains: Explicit sex, violent imagery, voyeurism, humor, gratuitous juggling, a disco space buffalo
Summary: The Doctor, the Master, and the Doctor's human clone go to a space carnival. The Master wonders what he could ever have possibly done to deserve such a fate.
The Master's hearts were pounding so hard in his chest, he could barely hear the carnival over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. He ran and ran, past rides, past games, past bands, he ran until even his respiratory bypass was starting to give out. He ducked behind a row of tents and saw a rickety table covered in a filthy cloth. He scrambled underneath it, and then crouched in place, pressing his head into his clammy, trembling hands.
He wasn't sure how far he'd run. He wasn't even sure what direction he'd run from. Or where he was running to. He should avoid the TARDIS. Avoid people. He clutched at his wrists. He needed to get these restraints off. He couldn't do anything with them on. He needed to find a way off of this planet. At least out of this godforsaken carnival. There must be the equivalent of a car park. He could steal a vehicle. Maybe a starhopper. He could disappear. He knew how to lay low. He was the patient one, not the Doctor. Except there was the metacrisis. He honestly didn't know what it was capable of. Or the Doctor, anymore. He'd been right. The Doctor was completely unhinged. And so was his freak. Calm, calm, calm. Right. He needed to get away. He pulled at his restraints again. No, he could steal a vehicle without hurting anyone, he was clever enough for that. He was a bloody genius, after all. The restraints could wait -- unless they had tracking devices installed. Fuck. Fuck. Of course they did. There was no way that they wouldn't have. Think. Think. Think.
The Master took a deep breath and crawled out from under the table, which he promptly upended. He yanked at one of the foldable metal legs, wrenching it back and forth until it finally snapped off. Good. Now he needed to find a game machine.
There was one nearby. He lurked behind a tarp, watching two children who were playing on the game machine, and flexing his fingers over and over on the metal piping in his hands. After a few minutes the girls finally lost. One kid kicked the machine, and the other said, "This is so lame. Let's go back to Death Canyon." They walked away. The Master watched the machine for a full minute, waiting in case anybody else came to play on it, but it stayed quiet. He walked up to it and swung the metal pipe as hard as he could into the glass screen, which shattered. Then he slipped back behind his tarpaulin.
He heard the whir of the repair bot before he saw it, and readied his metal piping. As soon as it flew up to the machine, clicking disapprovingly, he stepped out. The bot spun around, whirring and chirruping in a distinctly alarmed manner. Maybe it recognised him. But it didn't have time to do anything else before the Master smashed his pipe into it, the blow so savage his pipe bent with the force of it. The bot dropped instantly to the ground, twitching and glitching. The Master hit it again, and again. The only thing that saved him from smashing it to complete smithereens was the fact that he needed some of its parts.
He knelt down on the ground beside the bot. It was still letting out feeble whirs, but he ignored that and used the narrow end of his pipe to pry open the bot's casing. It chirruped twice more, before falling finally silent and still. He worked feverishly, pulling at the sharp metal and plastic components, trying to release the tools that might help him cut the horrible restraints from his wrists. His hands were bleeding, making the work that much more slippery and difficult. He wiped them off on his trousers, then swore when a panel inside the bot sparked and burnt him.
"C'mon," he muttered, "c'mon, c'mon...."
He freed a miniature lasercutter from the wreckage, and tested it on a piece of the bot itself. It cut slowly, but with incredible precision. Perfect. He turned it carefully onto his wrist. The restraints were incredibly thin, he didn't want to cook his own flesh. He started the laser, grimacing every time he hand slipped just that tiny bit and the laser beam cut into his skin. After a minute, his wrist was covered in tiny burns, and the bracelet was still pristine. He threw the laser away with an oath. He was running out of time.
The Master plunged his hands back into the bot's innards. The only other thing to try was the miniature rotating saw. After another minute he had most of it free, but couldn't fully remove it, so he had to hold his wrist at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. It was difficult to see what he was doing. He started the saw, and brought it gingerly up to his restraint. He heard it hit the metal of his bracelet with a terrible whine and he flinched, making the saw cut into the flesh of his wrist. He swore again. He wiped the sweat from his brow and rearranged his hands on the saw. Blood was dripping down his wrist, to mingle with the blood slicking his fingers. He carefully pressed the saw against the bracelet, listening to the whine of metal on metal. It rose in pitch, higher and higher as he pressed harder, and harder. If his hand slipped now, the saw would go right through his bone. He pressed even harder, then pulled back and looked at the bracelet.
As good as new.
He could hear his heavy breathing whistling through his gritted teeth. He threw the bot's carcass onto the ground with disgust, then quickly picked it back up.
He couldn't cut through the restraints. But he could cut through his wrists.
Before he had a chance to mentally list the many reasons that wouldn't be a very good plan, he heard heavy boots thumping towards him. A couple of middle-aged security officers ran around the corner, already winded. The kind who were a bit more used to dealing with drunk teenagers and petty thieves than cold-blooded, murderous psychopaths. The Master snarled at them, hefting the bot's casing. It would be the work of moments to slice their throats open with the saw, take their weapons, and flee.
And then his arms locked in place, as the restraints kicked in and kept him from swinging the blade into their flesh.
He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and turned to run, flinging the casing out of harm's way. He only made it a few feet before one of the guards tackled him, bringing him down with her greater weight.
"What's all this then?" the guard panted. She held the Master down, and to the Master's mounting terror, he found couldn't do anything to stop her. As hard as he tried, he couldn't even wiggle. He chest heaved with the effort, but he couldn't move even a muscle.
"Please," he begged, "please, please let me go, let me go." His eyes were watering with desperation and fear.
The guard looked down at him.
"Think we've got a bit of a nutter here, Ravik. Help me get some cuffs on him."
The Master laughed, and even he heard the hysteria in it. Didn't they know he was already chained?
Ravik pulled his cuffs off of his belt and knelt down beside them. As soon as the first guard took her weight off of him, the Master started to scrabble away, dragging his bloodied hands across the rough gravel of the ground. She grabbed his legs, and his body froze once again. It was the most sickening, terrifying sensation he had ever felt.
"Oh please," he said, his voice muffled now by gravel and dirt. "Don't let them take me again," he begged, voice breaking. He sounded pathetic. He was pathetic. He didn't care. He couldn't face an eternity of this. He couldn't. "Let me go, please, please, please."
"Hey, it's all right, mate," Ravik said, patting his shoulder as the first guard pulled the Master's wrists together behind his back. "We're not going to hurt you. We're gonna help you."
The Master choked back another bitter laugh as he was helped gently to his feet.
"That's what they all say."
********
The Master stared blankly at the silent video playing on repeat on the security screen. Grainy footage of his face, recorded by the repair bot in its dying moments, as he savagely smashed it onto the ground, and then beat it with a pipe. The video started to break up as the pipe was shoved inside the bot, quite close to the camera, and the pipe started prying the bot apart, until the video glitched spectacularly, and then blacked out. Then it started again.
He was sat on a clean, white camp bed in one of the four conveniently located medical tents. He could hear the metacrisis behind him talking in a low voice to the head of security, who made occasional sympathetic noises.
The Doctor walked up and stood next to the bed. The Master could feel the heavy weight of the Doctor's eyes on him.
"It looks like those hurt," the Doctor said.
The Master didn't acknowledge him, just kept watching the video. He heard the Doctor move away. A tap turned on, and the sound of water filling a plastic bucket was next. A few cabinet doors opened and closed as the Doctor searched for supplies, before the tap was turned off. He set the tub and his other paraphernalia next to the Master on the camp bed. A clean white cloth was dipped into the water.
"Here, lift your head up," the Doctor told him, tilting his jaw with a gentle hand. The Master kept his eyes averted, but let the Doctor wash away the blood and dirt from his face. The Doctor took one of his hands, and cleaned away the blood and gravel, then rubbed ointment on the burns around his bracelet. The Master watched as the Doctor cradled the Master's hand in one of his own, and with the other, carefully wielded a protoplaser to heal his cuts and bruises. Then he did the same to the Master's other hand.
As he slowly worked his way to each of the Master's fingertips, the Master asked, "Is this what you did after your freak bashed my head in on the satellite control station?"
The Doctor's hand hesitated, but only for a moment.
"There we go," he said, ignoring the Master's question. He set the protoplaser down. "All done." He laced his fingers through the Master's, and gave his freshly healed flesh a soft squeeze.
The Master looked down at their joined hands.
"I was going to cut my hands off," he said. "To get away from you."
He felt the Doctor's hand tense, ever so slightly, inside his own.
"The restraints wouldn't have let you," the Doctor said, quietly.
The Master felt sick to his stomach. He pulled his hand from the Doctor's, curling his fingers into a fist that he held up to his own chest.
"You think I'm such a monster," he said. He finally looked up at the Doctor's face, into his sad, dark eyes. "What does that make you?" He looked over at the metacrisis. "And what does it make that?"
The Doctor didn't answer that question either.
The metacrisis spent a few more minutes with the head of security. Finally, it shook her hand, nodding and saying, "Thank you, thank you so, so much," again and again. It walked over to where the Master sat on his camp bed.
"Well, they're not going to press charges against Harry here," it said, indicating the Master, "as long as we leave now, and leave a credit routing number so we can pay for the damages to their property. Captain Sarjan was very understanding, about Harry's, er... condition, since it was so evident from Harry's interactions with the security guards that he's no threat to people." It paused, as if waiting for the Master to contradict it.
The Doctor cleared his throat. "Right," he said. "When can we leave?"
"As soon as we get your credit number," Captain Sarjan told him. The Doctor started rooting through his pockets for a credit stick that would work in the current century. "Um," he said, chagrined. "Just, give me about... ten minutes. I've got to get it from our, ah, vehicle." He flashed an apologetic look at the metacrisis, and slipped out of the tent.
"He'll be right back," the metacrisis told Captain Sarjan. "I'll just stay here with my brother-in-law."
The Captain nodded, giving them both an annoyingly knowing look of sympathy, and then retreated. The metacrisis sat gingerly upon the edge of the Master's camp bed, careful not to encroach too closely on his space. They sat in silence for a few minutes, as the Master continued to watch the looping security video.
"So," the metacrisis said, finally breaking the silence. "What's so fascinating about this video, then?"
"I'm imagining that repair bot is your skull," the Master answered.
"...Right," the metacrisis said. It sighed.
The Doctor made it back to the tent in about a half an hour, complete with a credit stick flush with cash. If Captain Sarjan noticed he was wearing a different shirt and tie, she didn't mention it.
"Thanks again," the metacrisis said, as they left the tent.
The Master took a breath of fresh night air, and promised himself that the first thing he was going to do when he gained his freedom was to come back to this carnival and raze it to the ground.
chapter one ~ chapter 2 ~ chapter three ~ chapter four ~ chapter five ~ chapter six ~ chapter seven