Shore Leave: Geartopia [Open to All]
||Attention all crewmen, shore leave is now in progress, attention crewmen, shore leave is now in progress...||
Stacy's voiced called the entire crew, until all of them were gathered at the Obs Deck. Then, a dossier appeared on the screens, along with the image of a rotating planet.
Planet Designation: Geartopia
Status: Terrestrial, H-class.
Non- ( Read more... )
Stacy's voiced called the entire crew, until all of them were gathered at the Obs Deck. Then, a dossier appeared on the screens, along with the image of a rotating planet.
Planet Designation: Geartopia
Status: Terrestrial, H-class.
Non- ( Read more... )
His silence was telling. The Doctor grunted, his breath hitching in his chest.
"Productive. Or any of the others, but I was going to say 'productive'," he lied, cross that the Master had it right despite the different face. And sudden lack of eyebrows. Nevermind the chin. "You're not a very productive man, you know. Horrid at long-term planning!"
He had half a mind to shake a finger at the Master, for all the good it would do. This wasn't yet the man who would willingly give his life to stop Gallifrey's sanction and it was moments like this that reminded the Doctor of that fact.
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He was close enough now to kick up a little dirt at the Doctor's face, though he had to use his bad foot to do so. When it connected with the ground, a jolt of pain ran up his leg and he felt momentarily nauseous. All the Doctor's fault.
The Master stepped back and brought a hand up to wipe his forehead, frowning slightly when he saw the blood on his fingers.
"Perhaps I'll simply leave you here to think about your latest little failure," he murmured.
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And not quite the Master's style, he'd say! The Doctor craned his head to watch the Master peering at the blood on his fingers as if it was interesting, not quite sure if maybe he will have to be prepared to try to learn inchworming all over again and maybe he ought to be calculating his odds of making it back to town. On second thought, maybe he should have told someone where he was going and on third and fourth thoughts, maybe he shouldn't have emptied and organized his pockets before shore leave because now he can't find his psychic paper.
Which left trying to hobble his way back to civilization or the Master deciding that maybe letting exposure do what he couldn't was no fun at all.
Honestly, despite how cross he was with the man and his inability to behave himself, the Doctor still preferred option 2. At least it wouldn't be mind-numbingly dull.
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"Ohhh, I'll bet that hurts," he observed calmly, the drums raging inside the longer he looked at the other Time Lord. "Tell me, Doctor, how many more times is this sort of thing going to happen before your learn your lesson?"
He rested his bad foot on the tip of that bit of shrapnel, and began to press down, gritting his own teeth against the twinge of pain it caused him. The Doctor's agony would be far worse, and that made it all worth it.
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The Doctor cried out, instinctively trying to writhe away from the bolt of pain that burrowed into his leg like a living thing. His breath hitched in his chest as he tried to both twist out under the Master, knowing logically that moving around was only to make the injury worse and doing it anyway because Time Lord or not, he still had some animal reactions of his own. Humans didn't have a monopoly on them. He managed to look up at the Master and caught sight of that look on the man's face. That look. The one he'd seen before, almost feverish; hyper-focused.
It occurred to the Doctor he was enjoyed this. It wasn't even a matter of "if".
From this angle he couldn't squirm out, the Doctor's breathing ragged as he tried to regain his voice and needing a moment or two more than he intended. He could feel the blood welling up around the shrapnel chunk.
"Actually," the Doctor gasped and grit his teeth, "I was wondering how many centuries it would take for you to bored"
Obviously the Master had amazing stamina, even by Time Lord standards.
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"Bored? You must not be paying attention, Doctor, listen to me." The Master leaned harder into the shrapnel, the rhythm in his head pounding hard and fast. "Why would I ever tire of this?"
But he was. Physically, at least. He pressed his foot down a few moments longer, really digging in, before releasing the other Time Lord and screwing his face up in disdain.
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The Doctor struggles not to give the Master the satisfaction of hearing him in pain: it lasts all of two seconds before he cries out again when the Master makes it a point to dig that shrapnel deeper into the meat of his leg. His fingers claw at the dust as he tries to flinch away again. It seems to skip past forever into eternity before the Master finally tires of his little "game", time snapping back into perspective as the Doctor gasps in relief and catches his breath once the weight is off his leg.
"Human," the Doctor pants out. "Because it's human. You're acting like the worst kind of human."
It's probably a slap to the face but the Doctor hasn't ever been known to be tactful. It's true, anyway. This isn't elegant at all. It's brutal, physical. Raw, he supposes. Not quite like the Master's usual style.
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"Am I?" And he giggles, the sound short and sharp and just slightly out of breath. Giddy, even. The Master stands there, staring at the Doctor with that hideous grin-- the kind that comes not from any true amusement, but utter rage.
In the next second he's dropped to his knees, lunging toward the Doctor in some sort of frenzied attack.
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The attack surprises him. It shouldn’t, but it does, the Doctor trying to leap backward which is fine and all when you have both legs functioning. Instead he manages an awkward flop back against the wreckage of his horse, not getting very far before the Master is on him like a wild thing. He knew where to strike the Master where it hurt. What with centuries between them and all those faces; how could he not? He tries to push the Master back, briefly having time to wonder in the back of his mind if the man intends to kill him. Or maybe he doesn’t intend to, but he’ll do it anyway.
He has to say, this isn’t quite the way he pictured dying (again). Rolling around in the dirt with the Master on top of him.
He manages to flail out, trying for where he thought the Master was bleeding.
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He expects the Doctor to put up a fight, if a weak one, and fends him off fairly easily at first, rifling through his pockets in as efficient a manner as he can manage. But when the Doctor's pathetic flailing manages to connect with his apparent head wound, the Master freezes, sucking in a breath and seeing white for just a fraction of a moment.
It's probably just long enough for the Doctor to gain some sort of upper hand.
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Maybe he isn't very good at this physical thing. Like he said: it isn't the Master's style.
The Doctor flops back, bracing himself against the wreckage of his horse and debating the merits in using it as a horsey shield in case the Master decided he wanted another go. He found himself still breathing hard, his hearts thudding in his chest like double-time as he decides even tumbling down a ravine and having a horse fall on him that he'd really rather not die here. Especially not like...this. Still, it doesn't surprise him that the Master loses control when he's compared to a human. It isn't as if humans can't be creatively dreadful at the time. Obviously the other Time Lord doesn't quite see it that way.
He catches his breath, glancing over as if waiting to see if the Master will work in more practice or if he's ready to be rational now.
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Keyword is almost.
"Missing something?" the Doctor asks archly. He holds up the vial and sniffs it. The Master's scent is all over it. Lovely. Judging by the way he's scrabbling around as if he's a human with gold, it's clearly valuable to him.
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Once he's finished, he gets to his feet, still gripping one of the vials in his own hand. He's itching to use it-- and not just for his foot, but the pressure in his head verging on nearly unbearable-- but he can't. Not in front of him.
"Well, well," he murmurs, oh so quietly, brushing off his clothing with his free hand. "What am I going to do with you?"
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He glances up to see the Master fussing with his clothes, as if he hadn't lost control like a human and attacked him. "Rather limited choices," the Doctor says, making another effort to try to get to his feet on his own. He makes it to a wobble before his injured leg folds and he's grabbing at the rock wall of the ravine for any support whatsoever.
He has a niggle as to what the Master is doing with all the vials. Despite whatever he thinks about himself, he knows the man and he has plenty of his own weaknesses. It's almost gratifying in a petty way to find there's another one. Gratifying and also...well, sad. Like finding out your best friend turned best enemy was even more vulnerable than you thought despite all the centuries.
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"You can keep the other one," he tells him curtly, before turning on his heel and limping back to his own wrecked horse.
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