Fic: There Was a Master in a Game (4/25)
Title: There Was a Master in a Game
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master, Sally Sparrow, Lynda Moss, assorted others to be named later
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.
Betas: runriggers and earlgreytea68
Summary: Gallifrey wasn’t entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck. The Master wants out. Isn’t he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three
Chapter Four: Vertical B
It was simple, really. There were links, and the Master just had to figure out how the timelines linked together. Once he had the web, it would be simple to untangle it; once untangled, the web would be unable to hold him any longer. Simple.
Except that it wasn’t.
The Time Lords were packing up the Parcheesi as he prepared to set out again. “Who won?” he asked, not particularly caring.
They didn’t answer; they just glared at each other. He supposed the game had not gone well.
“Nitwits,” he told them, and didn’t wait for an answer, not that there would have been one, anyway.
*
There was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-and-ten-percent: nothing.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a used-to-be-something-but-now-it-was-all-burning-in-flames nothing. The Master wrapped his fingers around the finely-constructed wrought-iron fence that lined his balcony, and stared out onto the city below as it burned. He could hear the crackling of the flames, the distant rumbles as faraway buildings collapsed in on themselves. The air was alive with soot and ash; it sparked and snapped against his skin, nearly electric. Sulfur clogged his nostrils and crept into his throat, and the skin between his fingers felt gritty.
It. Was. Magnificent.
“Oh, yes,” he whispered, watching the destruction unfold at his feet. He nearly trembled with the pleasure of it. The puny planet below him was gone - every last visage wiped from its surface, leaving only the cleansing fire behind - and after that, silence. Lovely silence. Nothing but silence.
The Master let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes.
The only problem was when he tried to inhale, and started to choke.
As glorious as destruction was - it didn’t do much for breathing, respiratory bypass or no.
“Damn,” said the Master. “I could do with a drink.”
The clamoring horns and whistles came on so suddenly, it nearly gave him a headache. The Master opened his eyes and his mouth dropped open in shock.
He was no longer on the balcony, overlooking a city in flames. Instead, he was sitting at a table covered in green cloth with a little lantern in the center, very near to a stage where a dozen girls in fishnet stockings were performing the can-can. The dance hall was crowded, with men all around him stomping and shouting their approval, as the bored dancers continued their kicks and gyrations.
On the other hand, there was a vodka tonic in front of him, with a slice of lime. The Master didn’t hesitate.
It. Was. Delicious.
“Hey!” yelled the Master. “Who do you have to kill to get some food around here?”
The waiter, dressed in a neatly pressed tuxedo, appeared at his elbow. It was almost as if he’d been standing there all along, and the Master had only just noticed him - but he could have sworn there was no one there before.
”Sir,” said the waiter.
The Master thought. “Ham sandwich?”
“Of course,” said the waiter, turned around, and produced a ham sandwich. With a pickle.
The Master munched on the pickle. “Excellent service.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How long have you been in business?”
“Quite some time, sir.”
“Don’t suppose one of the girls would care to spend some time with me?” asked the Master casually.
“Do you have a preference, sir?” asked the waiter, without blinking an eye.
“What if I asked you to join them? On the stage, I mean.”
“What would you like me to be wearing, sir?”
The Master dropped the pickle back onto his plate. “You know, I think I’d like to speak to the Manager. If it’s at all possible.”
“As you wish, sir,” said the waiter smoothly. “It’ll be out presently.”
“It?” asked the Master, but the waiter had already disappeared. “Since when is he an it? Did he have a regeneration go wrong? Poor sod.”
The Manager didn’t appear immediately, which struck the Master as odd - because of all the odd things that had occurred to him so far, at least they’d happened without any delay. That the Manager took his (its?) time in reaching him was irregular, and therefore, suspect.
The Master eyed the ham sandwich. The pickle had tasted all right. The vodka tonic hadn’t killed him yet. He took a bite of the sandwich.
Best. Sandwich. Ever.
“I don’t like this,” he announced.
Everything disappeared. Tables, girls, men, lantern, sandwich, vodka tonic, slice of lime. Even the chair the Master sat on, and he fell to the now cleared floor with a smack.
From behind him, there was a rolling sound. The Master looked over his shoulder.
“You?”
“Hello, Master,” said the little tin dog.
“Well, at least you know who I am,” snorted the Master as he picked himself off of the floor.
“Correction: I refer to all superior life forms as Master or Mistress,” said the little tin dog.
“Like I said,” shrugged the Master, and brushed off his knees. “What are you doing here?”
“You asked to see the Manager.”
The Master barked out a laugh. “You’re the Manager?”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Little Tinny Security Pup is the manager of this insane asylum?”
It simply appeared: there was no pop, he didn’t blink, but just as sure as he’d been in an empty room, now he stood in the center of a hospital ward. Each bed had an occupant who was clearly on the opposite side of normal, either moaning piteously to themselves, or tied to their beds in case they threw themselves out of a window. One patient was standing in the corner, nose to the wall, reciting Shakespearean sonnets. Another was counting out four pence, one at a time, over and over and over.
“Okay,” said the Master. “Not the insane asylum I meant.”
“My apologies, Master,” said the little tin dog, and just like that, they were in the empty room again.
The Master was done. “What are you?”
“I am K-9.”
“Great. Where am I?”
“I am unable to answer that question precisely, Master,” said the dog. “I apologize.”
The Master frowned. “What does that mean? Am I in Torchwood?”
“Negative, Master.”
“You’re Torchwood Security, aren’t you? Why would you be guarding me if this wasn’t Torchwood?”
“Correction: I am not Torchwood Security. I am the Manager.”
“The Manager of Torchwood?”
“I am not connected to Torchwood presently, Master. I am the Manager.”
But the Master had caught something. “Presently.”
“Affirmative.”
“You were Torchwood Security before? So I’m in the future?”
“I am unable to answer that question precisely, Master,” said the dog. “I apologize.”
The Master snorted. “Fine, fine. So, I’m not at Torchwood, I’m not in an insane asylum, I’m not in a dance hall, and I’m not watching a planet burn at my feet.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Well, that’s something.” The Master went to examine one of the walls. It, like the floor, was a smooth, polished light-grain wood. It felt like wood. It tasted like wood. It wasn’t wood.
“Do you wish to be?”
The Master turned to look at the tin dog. “Excuse me?”
“Do you wish to be in those places, Master?”
“I didn’t wish to be there, I just was there,” said the Master, annoyed.
“Correction: You did wish to be there,” said the little tin dog.
There was a whirring sound, as if a tape was being rewound, and then the Master heard his own voice played back in the room, coughing: “I could use a drink.” Another whirring: “I don’t like this.” Another whirring: “…this insane asylum?”
The Master’s mouth dropped further open with every word he heard himself say. “I wished it - it came true.”
“Affirmative, Master. I am programmed to enable the program to fulfill your fantasies. All you need do is verbalize your desires, and I will implement them.”
The Master gave K-9 a hard look. “Oh, really? Great. I’d like to get out of the Time Lock and into Reality now.”
“I am unable to fulfill that fantasy precisely, Master,” said the dog. “I apologize.”
The Master screamed in frustration. It echoed in the wooden chamber.
“Request does not compute,” said the little tin dog.
“What the hell is this place?” yelled the Master.
“A game,” said the dog.
Silence fell.
“A game,” clarified the Master.
“A game, Master,” said the dog. “You are in a game.”
The Master nodded, slowly. “Of course. Why not. A game. All right. Good to know.”
“You are welcome, Master,” said the little tin dog, and sounded very pleased with itself, or as pleased as a tin dog can sound.
Only the Master was no longer there to hear.
*
“A game. A game. A game. A game.”
The Time Lords at the table paid the Master no heed, but the inattention was mutual. The Master was too busy pacing and trying to reason things out.
“It’s a game - it’s a great bloody game, and he’s going to make me dance to his tune. Except how do I even know what game he’s playing, except to make me look the fool? Nothing makes sense.”
The Time Lords ignored him. The Master ignored the Time Lords, and wrenched his notes out of his pocket to add a fourth column:
Tin dog, not Torchwood
Fantasies
Instant change of surroundings
The Master stared at the paper. There were connections, but they didn’t run through all of the places he’d been. The second blond chit, the tin dog, Torchwood, some romantic hanky-panky….nothing was constant.
“Except for me,” said the Master aloud. “I’m the constant.”
“Constant pain in the rear,” muttered one of the Time Lords at the table.
“Explain why it had to be him with the drumming,” said another.
“He was closest,” replied the first.
“Oi,” yelled the Master, turning to make sure they heard him, but the rest of what he’d been about to yell died in his throat.
The Time Lords weren’t playing Parcheesi anymore. They’d set up some sort of contraption by the head of the table now, a large, clear plastic ball with dozens of smaller balls inside, all bouncing around as if on vacation. The Time Lord nearest to the contraption reached in and pulled one out.
“B-42,” he read off the ball. The Time Lords at the table studied their cards intently. Several of them had more than two or three laid out before them, and each had a stamper in their hands. A few marked the cards with the stamper; the others sat back and waited for the next number.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” said the Master.
“G-63.”
“Bingo!” called out one Time Lord, and the rest let out a series of disappointed groans.
“That pansy,” swore the Master.
Chapter Five
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master, Sally Sparrow, Lynda Moss, assorted others to be named later
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.
Betas: runriggers and earlgreytea68
Summary: Gallifrey wasn’t entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck. The Master wants out. Isn’t he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three
Chapter Four: Vertical B
It was simple, really. There were links, and the Master just had to figure out how the timelines linked together. Once he had the web, it would be simple to untangle it; once untangled, the web would be unable to hold him any longer. Simple.
Except that it wasn’t.
The Time Lords were packing up the Parcheesi as he prepared to set out again. “Who won?” he asked, not particularly caring.
They didn’t answer; they just glared at each other. He supposed the game had not gone well.
“Nitwits,” he told them, and didn’t wait for an answer, not that there would have been one, anyway.
*
There was absolutely, positively, one-hundred-and-ten-percent: nothing.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a used-to-be-something-but-now-it-was-all-burning-in-flames nothing. The Master wrapped his fingers around the finely-constructed wrought-iron fence that lined his balcony, and stared out onto the city below as it burned. He could hear the crackling of the flames, the distant rumbles as faraway buildings collapsed in on themselves. The air was alive with soot and ash; it sparked and snapped against his skin, nearly electric. Sulfur clogged his nostrils and crept into his throat, and the skin between his fingers felt gritty.
It. Was. Magnificent.
“Oh, yes,” he whispered, watching the destruction unfold at his feet. He nearly trembled with the pleasure of it. The puny planet below him was gone - every last visage wiped from its surface, leaving only the cleansing fire behind - and after that, silence. Lovely silence. Nothing but silence.
The Master let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes.
The only problem was when he tried to inhale, and started to choke.
As glorious as destruction was - it didn’t do much for breathing, respiratory bypass or no.
“Damn,” said the Master. “I could do with a drink.”
The clamoring horns and whistles came on so suddenly, it nearly gave him a headache. The Master opened his eyes and his mouth dropped open in shock.
He was no longer on the balcony, overlooking a city in flames. Instead, he was sitting at a table covered in green cloth with a little lantern in the center, very near to a stage where a dozen girls in fishnet stockings were performing the can-can. The dance hall was crowded, with men all around him stomping and shouting their approval, as the bored dancers continued their kicks and gyrations.
On the other hand, there was a vodka tonic in front of him, with a slice of lime. The Master didn’t hesitate.
It. Was. Delicious.
“Hey!” yelled the Master. “Who do you have to kill to get some food around here?”
The waiter, dressed in a neatly pressed tuxedo, appeared at his elbow. It was almost as if he’d been standing there all along, and the Master had only just noticed him - but he could have sworn there was no one there before.
”Sir,” said the waiter.
The Master thought. “Ham sandwich?”
“Of course,” said the waiter, turned around, and produced a ham sandwich. With a pickle.
The Master munched on the pickle. “Excellent service.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How long have you been in business?”
“Quite some time, sir.”
“Don’t suppose one of the girls would care to spend some time with me?” asked the Master casually.
“Do you have a preference, sir?” asked the waiter, without blinking an eye.
“What if I asked you to join them? On the stage, I mean.”
“What would you like me to be wearing, sir?”
The Master dropped the pickle back onto his plate. “You know, I think I’d like to speak to the Manager. If it’s at all possible.”
“As you wish, sir,” said the waiter smoothly. “It’ll be out presently.”
“It?” asked the Master, but the waiter had already disappeared. “Since when is he an it? Did he have a regeneration go wrong? Poor sod.”
The Manager didn’t appear immediately, which struck the Master as odd - because of all the odd things that had occurred to him so far, at least they’d happened without any delay. That the Manager took his (its?) time in reaching him was irregular, and therefore, suspect.
The Master eyed the ham sandwich. The pickle had tasted all right. The vodka tonic hadn’t killed him yet. He took a bite of the sandwich.
Best. Sandwich. Ever.
“I don’t like this,” he announced.
Everything disappeared. Tables, girls, men, lantern, sandwich, vodka tonic, slice of lime. Even the chair the Master sat on, and he fell to the now cleared floor with a smack.
From behind him, there was a rolling sound. The Master looked over his shoulder.
“You?”
“Hello, Master,” said the little tin dog.
“Well, at least you know who I am,” snorted the Master as he picked himself off of the floor.
“Correction: I refer to all superior life forms as Master or Mistress,” said the little tin dog.
“Like I said,” shrugged the Master, and brushed off his knees. “What are you doing here?”
“You asked to see the Manager.”
The Master barked out a laugh. “You’re the Manager?”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Little Tinny Security Pup is the manager of this insane asylum?”
It simply appeared: there was no pop, he didn’t blink, but just as sure as he’d been in an empty room, now he stood in the center of a hospital ward. Each bed had an occupant who was clearly on the opposite side of normal, either moaning piteously to themselves, or tied to their beds in case they threw themselves out of a window. One patient was standing in the corner, nose to the wall, reciting Shakespearean sonnets. Another was counting out four pence, one at a time, over and over and over.
“Okay,” said the Master. “Not the insane asylum I meant.”
“My apologies, Master,” said the little tin dog, and just like that, they were in the empty room again.
The Master was done. “What are you?”
“I am K-9.”
“Great. Where am I?”
“I am unable to answer that question precisely, Master,” said the dog. “I apologize.”
The Master frowned. “What does that mean? Am I in Torchwood?”
“Negative, Master.”
“You’re Torchwood Security, aren’t you? Why would you be guarding me if this wasn’t Torchwood?”
“Correction: I am not Torchwood Security. I am the Manager.”
“The Manager of Torchwood?”
“I am not connected to Torchwood presently, Master. I am the Manager.”
But the Master had caught something. “Presently.”
“Affirmative.”
“You were Torchwood Security before? So I’m in the future?”
“I am unable to answer that question precisely, Master,” said the dog. “I apologize.”
The Master snorted. “Fine, fine. So, I’m not at Torchwood, I’m not in an insane asylum, I’m not in a dance hall, and I’m not watching a planet burn at my feet.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Well, that’s something.” The Master went to examine one of the walls. It, like the floor, was a smooth, polished light-grain wood. It felt like wood. It tasted like wood. It wasn’t wood.
“Do you wish to be?”
The Master turned to look at the tin dog. “Excuse me?”
“Do you wish to be in those places, Master?”
“I didn’t wish to be there, I just was there,” said the Master, annoyed.
“Correction: You did wish to be there,” said the little tin dog.
There was a whirring sound, as if a tape was being rewound, and then the Master heard his own voice played back in the room, coughing: “I could use a drink.” Another whirring: “I don’t like this.” Another whirring: “…this insane asylum?”
The Master’s mouth dropped further open with every word he heard himself say. “I wished it - it came true.”
“Affirmative, Master. I am programmed to enable the program to fulfill your fantasies. All you need do is verbalize your desires, and I will implement them.”
The Master gave K-9 a hard look. “Oh, really? Great. I’d like to get out of the Time Lock and into Reality now.”
“I am unable to fulfill that fantasy precisely, Master,” said the dog. “I apologize.”
The Master screamed in frustration. It echoed in the wooden chamber.
“Request does not compute,” said the little tin dog.
“What the hell is this place?” yelled the Master.
“A game,” said the dog.
Silence fell.
“A game,” clarified the Master.
“A game, Master,” said the dog. “You are in a game.”
The Master nodded, slowly. “Of course. Why not. A game. All right. Good to know.”
“You are welcome, Master,” said the little tin dog, and sounded very pleased with itself, or as pleased as a tin dog can sound.
Only the Master was no longer there to hear.
*
“A game. A game. A game. A game.”
The Time Lords at the table paid the Master no heed, but the inattention was mutual. The Master was too busy pacing and trying to reason things out.
“It’s a game - it’s a great bloody game, and he’s going to make me dance to his tune. Except how do I even know what game he’s playing, except to make me look the fool? Nothing makes sense.”
The Time Lords ignored him. The Master ignored the Time Lords, and wrenched his notes out of his pocket to add a fourth column:
Tin dog, not Torchwood
Fantasies
Instant change of surroundings
The Master stared at the paper. There were connections, but they didn’t run through all of the places he’d been. The second blond chit, the tin dog, Torchwood, some romantic hanky-panky….nothing was constant.
“Except for me,” said the Master aloud. “I’m the constant.”
“Constant pain in the rear,” muttered one of the Time Lords at the table.
“Explain why it had to be him with the drumming,” said another.
“He was closest,” replied the first.
“Oi,” yelled the Master, turning to make sure they heard him, but the rest of what he’d been about to yell died in his throat.
The Time Lords weren’t playing Parcheesi anymore. They’d set up some sort of contraption by the head of the table now, a large, clear plastic ball with dozens of smaller balls inside, all bouncing around as if on vacation. The Time Lord nearest to the contraption reached in and pulled one out.
“B-42,” he read off the ball. The Time Lords at the table studied their cards intently. Several of them had more than two or three laid out before them, and each had a stamper in their hands. A few marked the cards with the stamper; the others sat back and waited for the next number.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” said the Master.
“G-63.”
“Bingo!” called out one Time Lord, and the rest let out a series of disappointed groans.
“That pansy,” swore the Master.
Chapter Five