Little Yellow Rubber Duck
Rating: PG
Prompt: #056 - Want
Claim: The Time War
Table: Here
Spoilers: None
Characters/Pairing: young Jacobi!Master, Romana (hinted Master/Doctor)
Summary: During the war the resurrected Master wants to find out how much the Time Lords are willing to pay for his cooperation.
Note: Don't let the title fool you - this is not a crackfic. And there will be a number (a rather small number, admittedly) of post-war stories to follow, which will be a bit darker. You could call this the prologue of a small series, I guess.
There have been worse days in his life.
Of course there have been better ones. They’re at war after all, and leaning a little too much toward losing for his taste. He narrowly escaped death twice the day before and though that generally is a good thing it was a bit too close this time to really enjoy it. He isn’t one to value life too much, but that changes the moment it’s his life that’s at stake.
And none of the people in this room would have been particularly sad to see him die. He’s used to that, though (as it has been a long time since someone looked at him and smiled), and has come to relish it. They hate him but they depend on him. They want to see him dead but know his death would likely be their downfall. His presence offends them, yet they have to humour him to keep him on their side. It’s a situation to be cherished: Knowing himself in a room full of enemies, completely untouchable.
He leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and bathes in their scornful looks. A nice, hot bath - their impotent anger his bathwater, his triumph the soap. All he needs now is a small, yellow rubber duck.
Not long ago they resurrected him in the desperate hope that he would provide them with the ruthless tactic skills and genius in battle they are lacking. Yesterday he won his first battle for them, reconquered a sector in space they thought lost. He’s proven his worth. Now it is time to see how much they are willing to pay for him.
“I wasn’t convinced resurrecting you would improve or situation in any way, but you have shown that there is a good use for you and the talents you have so far only abused for your schemes and crimes,” the Lady President says from her place at the other side of the room and he can imagine how the words taste to her: like gall and acid and poison. Oh yes, nice, steaming hot bathwater to relax in. If they all didn’t hate him so much this wouldn’t be half as much fun.
“Of course,” he notes, resisting the urge to put his feet on the table, “I would be of even more use to you if you stopped restricting my movements and my supplies.”
The president’s voice is hard.
“If we do not restrict you, you will use those talents against us. You have proven untrustworthy time and time again in the past.”
“So, you expect me to risk my life for you without getting anything in return? Follow your orders and go where you send me without any personal gain? I’m not your dog, Romana.” His tone is casual, almost friendly. The members of the high council gasp at the impudence of addressing the president with her name.
Romana doesn’t even blink.
“We gave you life and a chance to keep it, Master,” she reminds him coldly. “That should be enough for you.”
“What if it isn’t?” he asks evenly. “What if I refuse to fight for you without any payment?”
“Then there is nothing I can do for you. And nothing I would want to do for you.”
“You’d have me executed?”
“With pleasure,” Romana says, her voice like frozen leafs.
“Interesting.” The Master raises his eyebrows at her. “What about the Dalek outpost at Kleipnos III you want me to get rid of? Think you can handle that alone?”
“We will certainly try.”
“And you will certainly lose. I, for my part, have an idea how to do it, but, facing my imminent death you can hardly expect me to share my plans with you.”
A brief moment of considering silence.
“Are you going, then, to refuse further cooperation?” another member of the council asks, failing to make his voice sound as unconcerned as he would like it to be. The old Lords in this room are looking back at a long tradition of empty arrogance, but they are also looking forward to the end of their civilisation. None of these people, save possibly Romana, has faced death often enough to keep their emotions out of it.
The Master doesn’t react in any way, but his calm gaze remains fixed on the president and answers the question. It is a dangerous game he is playing here, but he wouldn’t play it weren’t he certain of his victory.
“Your refusal will gain you nothing,” Romana points out. The Master grants her a half-smile.
“Cooperation will gain me just as little. If I fight that battle for you there is a high possibility of me dying anyway. I wouldn’t mind a bit of motivation other than: If you survive this you have a chance of dying for us another day.”
Her gaze is dark and angry. They need him and she knows it. Inwardly the Master is laughing but his face remains blank.
“You know we can not grant you the freedom you wish for, not before the war is won,” Romana says. “So imagine we considered your request, what kind of reward, hypothetically speaking, would you be thinking about?”
She knows his too well. His answering expression is half grin and half sneer.
“A Bond of Tenure” he says. When he is rewarded with stunned silence he continues: “At the dawn of our civilization, when the Time Lords weren’t quite as civilized as they today believe themselves to be, they used a bond like that to bind slaves to their masters. Of course these days we like to pretend things like that never happened.”
“I know what a Bond of Tenure is,” Romana snaps. “I just wasn’t aware you wanted to make things so easy for us. I have been wondering what to do with you should you survive the war…”
“Don’t try to make fun of me, woman!” the Master hisses. Everyone else falls silent, staring at him.
“So you want to keep yourself a slave,” Romana says after a moment, deciding to ignore his outburst. “What for?”
“That’s none of your business. It isn’t asking for too much, is it? A small sacrifice for the survival of our species. I’m sure everyone in this room would happily volunteer…” Everyone in the room tries not to shuffle uncomfortably.
“Were you thinking of someone specific - just out of curiosity?” one of them asks and from the look on Romana’s face the Master can tell she knows the answer.
“The Doctor.”
“No.” Romana’s voice is firm, covered in a thin layer of ice.
“Then I fear you will have to fight without me.” The Master snorts. “Good luck.”
“I take it you have chosen your own death over cooperation?”
“You have chosen the death of your people over a slight inconvenience for one of them,” he counters.
“I would hardly call a life of slavery ‘a slight inconvenience’.”
The Master could say many things in return but he keeps his mouth shut and waits, letting others have this discussion for him.
“He has a point, though,” an old looking man in the robes of the prydonian chapter says. “Countless beings depend on us wining this war, and the Doctor is but one of them. Chances are he will die in battle anyway.”
“Not to mention he has more than once been found guilty of various crimes,” a woman adds.
And another:
“We could activate the bond using the Matrix - the Doctor wouldn’t even know before the war is over.”
All of them are now joining the discussion and Romana sits stony-faced and listens as the rulers of Gallifrey do their best to justify the sacrifice of another for their plans. The Master keeps his face blank, but inside he’s dancing. This is his little yellow rubber duck: Either she denies his request and fights her war without him and without any chance of winning it, or she agrees, selling a friend to him and thus her soul. It is a situation in which she can only lose.
Their eyes meet and he can see she knows what he is thinking.
“Well?” he asks.
“What use would such a bond be to you?” she wants to know, postponing the final answer for another few precious seconds. “You know you can’t control him completely through it and the Doctor is much too strong to be abused for any purpose he doesn’t agree with. Given your respective natures that would, I suppose, be pretty much anything you’d try to make him do.”
“As I said before, that is my own business.” In fact the Master has already thought of quite a lot of things he will use his favourite enemy and only friend (so long, long ago) for, and, given they both survive he will have an eternity to break him. Of course the Doctor is already in his eighth regeneration while the Master is only in his first, and the high council is unlikely to resurrect him should his life finally reach its end, but the Master will keep him safe, keep him away from any danger. Keep him in a cage and watch him die inside, every day a little more. The image sends a warm feeling to his stomach and he does his best not to let anything show on his face.
“And this is still my decision.” Romana stands, silencing the other Lords and Ladies around her. “And I will not sell a friend to a criminal who has once stated that he lives to see him suffer.” She raises her hands when the others start to protest and looks the Master in the eye. “My decision stands. Does yours?”
“Yes.” His voice is calm.
She nods to the guards standing behind him.
“Take him to his cell. And prepare everything for his execution.”
-
The Master grimaces as the door of his cell falls shut behind him. He hoped never to see this place again but given what he could possible gain from this it is a small sacrifice.
Right now Lady Romana is no doubt busy explaining to her frantic high council that the Master will never go though with it. He values his own life far too much, and now he has seen that the council would not bent to his will and faces death he will soon be begging for them to spare his life, and unconditionally do anything they ask of him. She is a clever enemy who knows how his mind works. But she can not be completely certain that he will give in. And in the end, in the very end her obligations lie with her people she can not let down for the dignity and freedom of one old friend. Of course the Master can’t be completely sure either and a small risk remains. Both of them are holding their hand over the flame and now this is merely a matter of who will first draw back.
One hour later his guards escort him to the execution chamber. As they prepare him his hearts begin to race and inevitably the uncertainty grows stronger - a lot. What if he’s miscalculated? But he pulls himself together, refusing to show fear. Keeps his head up high and waits.
Waits.
Nothing happens.
Until the doors of the chamber open. Romana steps in - her face empty as his, her eyes full of rage - and says:
“So be it.”
And the Master smiles.
November 24, 2007
Prompt: #056 - Want
Claim: The Time War
Table: Here
Spoilers: None
Characters/Pairing: young Jacobi!Master, Romana (hinted Master/Doctor)
Summary: During the war the resurrected Master wants to find out how much the Time Lords are willing to pay for his cooperation.
Note: Don't let the title fool you - this is not a crackfic. And there will be a number (a rather small number, admittedly) of post-war stories to follow, which will be a bit darker. You could call this the prologue of a small series, I guess.
There have been worse days in his life.
Of course there have been better ones. They’re at war after all, and leaning a little too much toward losing for his taste. He narrowly escaped death twice the day before and though that generally is a good thing it was a bit too close this time to really enjoy it. He isn’t one to value life too much, but that changes the moment it’s his life that’s at stake.
And none of the people in this room would have been particularly sad to see him die. He’s used to that, though (as it has been a long time since someone looked at him and smiled), and has come to relish it. They hate him but they depend on him. They want to see him dead but know his death would likely be their downfall. His presence offends them, yet they have to humour him to keep him on their side. It’s a situation to be cherished: Knowing himself in a room full of enemies, completely untouchable.
He leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and bathes in their scornful looks. A nice, hot bath - their impotent anger his bathwater, his triumph the soap. All he needs now is a small, yellow rubber duck.
Not long ago they resurrected him in the desperate hope that he would provide them with the ruthless tactic skills and genius in battle they are lacking. Yesterday he won his first battle for them, reconquered a sector in space they thought lost. He’s proven his worth. Now it is time to see how much they are willing to pay for him.
“I wasn’t convinced resurrecting you would improve or situation in any way, but you have shown that there is a good use for you and the talents you have so far only abused for your schemes and crimes,” the Lady President says from her place at the other side of the room and he can imagine how the words taste to her: like gall and acid and poison. Oh yes, nice, steaming hot bathwater to relax in. If they all didn’t hate him so much this wouldn’t be half as much fun.
“Of course,” he notes, resisting the urge to put his feet on the table, “I would be of even more use to you if you stopped restricting my movements and my supplies.”
The president’s voice is hard.
“If we do not restrict you, you will use those talents against us. You have proven untrustworthy time and time again in the past.”
“So, you expect me to risk my life for you without getting anything in return? Follow your orders and go where you send me without any personal gain? I’m not your dog, Romana.” His tone is casual, almost friendly. The members of the high council gasp at the impudence of addressing the president with her name.
Romana doesn’t even blink.
“We gave you life and a chance to keep it, Master,” she reminds him coldly. “That should be enough for you.”
“What if it isn’t?” he asks evenly. “What if I refuse to fight for you without any payment?”
“Then there is nothing I can do for you. And nothing I would want to do for you.”
“You’d have me executed?”
“With pleasure,” Romana says, her voice like frozen leafs.
“Interesting.” The Master raises his eyebrows at her. “What about the Dalek outpost at Kleipnos III you want me to get rid of? Think you can handle that alone?”
“We will certainly try.”
“And you will certainly lose. I, for my part, have an idea how to do it, but, facing my imminent death you can hardly expect me to share my plans with you.”
A brief moment of considering silence.
“Are you going, then, to refuse further cooperation?” another member of the council asks, failing to make his voice sound as unconcerned as he would like it to be. The old Lords in this room are looking back at a long tradition of empty arrogance, but they are also looking forward to the end of their civilisation. None of these people, save possibly Romana, has faced death often enough to keep their emotions out of it.
The Master doesn’t react in any way, but his calm gaze remains fixed on the president and answers the question. It is a dangerous game he is playing here, but he wouldn’t play it weren’t he certain of his victory.
“Your refusal will gain you nothing,” Romana points out. The Master grants her a half-smile.
“Cooperation will gain me just as little. If I fight that battle for you there is a high possibility of me dying anyway. I wouldn’t mind a bit of motivation other than: If you survive this you have a chance of dying for us another day.”
Her gaze is dark and angry. They need him and she knows it. Inwardly the Master is laughing but his face remains blank.
“You know we can not grant you the freedom you wish for, not before the war is won,” Romana says. “So imagine we considered your request, what kind of reward, hypothetically speaking, would you be thinking about?”
She knows his too well. His answering expression is half grin and half sneer.
“A Bond of Tenure” he says. When he is rewarded with stunned silence he continues: “At the dawn of our civilization, when the Time Lords weren’t quite as civilized as they today believe themselves to be, they used a bond like that to bind slaves to their masters. Of course these days we like to pretend things like that never happened.”
“I know what a Bond of Tenure is,” Romana snaps. “I just wasn’t aware you wanted to make things so easy for us. I have been wondering what to do with you should you survive the war…”
“Don’t try to make fun of me, woman!” the Master hisses. Everyone else falls silent, staring at him.
“So you want to keep yourself a slave,” Romana says after a moment, deciding to ignore his outburst. “What for?”
“That’s none of your business. It isn’t asking for too much, is it? A small sacrifice for the survival of our species. I’m sure everyone in this room would happily volunteer…” Everyone in the room tries not to shuffle uncomfortably.
“Were you thinking of someone specific - just out of curiosity?” one of them asks and from the look on Romana’s face the Master can tell she knows the answer.
“The Doctor.”
“No.” Romana’s voice is firm, covered in a thin layer of ice.
“Then I fear you will have to fight without me.” The Master snorts. “Good luck.”
“I take it you have chosen your own death over cooperation?”
“You have chosen the death of your people over a slight inconvenience for one of them,” he counters.
“I would hardly call a life of slavery ‘a slight inconvenience’.”
The Master could say many things in return but he keeps his mouth shut and waits, letting others have this discussion for him.
“He has a point, though,” an old looking man in the robes of the prydonian chapter says. “Countless beings depend on us wining this war, and the Doctor is but one of them. Chances are he will die in battle anyway.”
“Not to mention he has more than once been found guilty of various crimes,” a woman adds.
And another:
“We could activate the bond using the Matrix - the Doctor wouldn’t even know before the war is over.”
All of them are now joining the discussion and Romana sits stony-faced and listens as the rulers of Gallifrey do their best to justify the sacrifice of another for their plans. The Master keeps his face blank, but inside he’s dancing. This is his little yellow rubber duck: Either she denies his request and fights her war without him and without any chance of winning it, or she agrees, selling a friend to him and thus her soul. It is a situation in which she can only lose.
Their eyes meet and he can see she knows what he is thinking.
“Well?” he asks.
“What use would such a bond be to you?” she wants to know, postponing the final answer for another few precious seconds. “You know you can’t control him completely through it and the Doctor is much too strong to be abused for any purpose he doesn’t agree with. Given your respective natures that would, I suppose, be pretty much anything you’d try to make him do.”
“As I said before, that is my own business.” In fact the Master has already thought of quite a lot of things he will use his favourite enemy and only friend (so long, long ago) for, and, given they both survive he will have an eternity to break him. Of course the Doctor is already in his eighth regeneration while the Master is only in his first, and the high council is unlikely to resurrect him should his life finally reach its end, but the Master will keep him safe, keep him away from any danger. Keep him in a cage and watch him die inside, every day a little more. The image sends a warm feeling to his stomach and he does his best not to let anything show on his face.
“And this is still my decision.” Romana stands, silencing the other Lords and Ladies around her. “And I will not sell a friend to a criminal who has once stated that he lives to see him suffer.” She raises her hands when the others start to protest and looks the Master in the eye. “My decision stands. Does yours?”
“Yes.” His voice is calm.
She nods to the guards standing behind him.
“Take him to his cell. And prepare everything for his execution.”
-
The Master grimaces as the door of his cell falls shut behind him. He hoped never to see this place again but given what he could possible gain from this it is a small sacrifice.
Right now Lady Romana is no doubt busy explaining to her frantic high council that the Master will never go though with it. He values his own life far too much, and now he has seen that the council would not bent to his will and faces death he will soon be begging for them to spare his life, and unconditionally do anything they ask of him. She is a clever enemy who knows how his mind works. But she can not be completely certain that he will give in. And in the end, in the very end her obligations lie with her people she can not let down for the dignity and freedom of one old friend. Of course the Master can’t be completely sure either and a small risk remains. Both of them are holding their hand over the flame and now this is merely a matter of who will first draw back.
One hour later his guards escort him to the execution chamber. As they prepare him his hearts begin to race and inevitably the uncertainty grows stronger - a lot. What if he’s miscalculated? But he pulls himself together, refusing to show fear. Keeps his head up high and waits.
Waits.
Nothing happens.
Until the doors of the chamber open. Romana steps in - her face empty as his, her eyes full of rage - and says:
“So be it.”
And the Master smiles.
November 24, 2007