Logan sits in a chair that he's leaned back against the wall behind him, a cigar in his mouth.
He raises an eyebrow at the newcomer.
Logan hadn't heard him come in or even smelled him until he stood right there on the other side of the door, and that has him confused... to say the least.
The Master looked over to the man in the corner. He hadn't not him before, and takes a moment to study him before he smirks a little and shakes his head, answering simply, "No. I'm very, very old."
Voice sounds like him. Hmm. Maybe he really didn't regenerate...
If this is death, though, it's got a lot to answer for.
"Meant is this your first time here, but..." He shrugs, taking the cigar out for a second. "Y'don't look as surprised as most people would be... just walkin into an Inn outta nowhere."
"Well, I've seen much stranger places than this," he says, taking a step forward and turning in a slow circle to survey the Inn. "Actually, it's quite boring by comparison. Lacks a certain style..."
Whether she's in utter and complete denial, or she just hasn't quite registered the fact that her former husband had just walked through the door was unclear. However, the Master entering fails to draw her attention at all.
This is mostly the fault of Alexander Molokov, whose been walking around with his face for a while now, so just blame him, not Lucy.
She is, however, in plain sight, curled up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea and looking far far too comfortable for her own good.
Please ignore the fact that he just scared the ever living hell out of her, or that she's dropped her tea and the cup has shattered on the floor.
And her face, her started, scared and then suddenly calm face.
"Maybe you should seek help on your own," she tells him, trying to keep the nerves from her voice. "I've never been one for group sessions, you know that."
He doesn't flinch as the cup falls and shatters, doesn't even react.
Just a smile, warm and almost loving, and he reaches out to touch her cheek lightly with his fingertips. "But you see, I'm not the one who shot me. Some unresolved anger, hmm?"
His killing millions of humans is all fine and acceptable. Her shooting him, on the other hand... And now he's angry, his voice rising almost to a shout.
"Or did you just fall for his pretty words, that cheap phony, that charlatan, the Doctor? Did you think he'd come to save you?"
The Master considers the woman for a moment or two before smiling brightly at her. "Hello..."
The greeting holds a bit of a question in it, but it's not clear whether he'd like to know where he is, why he's here, who she is, all of the above, or something else altogether.
"I never saw the Inn bring anyone here before. I have to say, that was fairly impressive." Fiona is playing the role of an artless ingénue today. It would take a discerning person to see through the act.
The Master turns to look at her - and freezes for a moment, his face expressionless as he sees the coat. Oh, he knows that coat, his hearts giving a little unexpected and not entirely pleasant jump when he sees it.
Just lovely. Dying in his arms just clearly wasn't enough...
This girl, however, doesn't seem to know him. This could actually be fun. He puts on his best charming smile - which is, of course, very, very charming - and starts toward her. "Hello."
"Yes," he answers simply, and walks over to take a seat beside her, seeming perfectly at ease, perfectly friendly. "I think... I may have just died. I wouldn't know, I've never done it before."
Anatoly passed by the rather familiar looking man. He nodded politely, a little embarrassed that he'd not been more social lately and there was the faint worry that Molokov would chastise him for it.
The Master stared at him, brows drawing together in a frown. Ah, Russian. He knew a good number of languages, most of them not human.
"I think I'm well," he says, his Russian accented with English, of all things. (Because Gallifrey is apparently Britain, or so says the BBC.) "Relatively speaking. I did die."
The Master sighs in frustration, shaking his head. "You weren't there, for one thing?" He steps past Anatoly to look around the Inn. "I don't believe I even know you."
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He raises an eyebrow at the newcomer.
Logan hadn't heard him come in or even smelled him until he stood right there on the other side of the door, and that has him confused... to say the least.
"You new?"
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Voice sounds like him. Hmm. Maybe he really didn't regenerate...
If this is death, though, it's got a lot to answer for.
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What a smart ass.
"Meant is this your first time here, but..." He shrugs, taking the cigar out for a second. "Y'don't look as surprised as most people would be... just walkin into an Inn outta nowhere."
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This is mostly the fault of Alexander Molokov, whose been walking around with his face for a while now, so just blame him, not Lucy.
She is, however, in plain sight, curled up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea and looking far far too comfortable for her own good.
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Well, like she hadn't just shot him.
He walks over to the couch, around the back of it, and leans against it, his hands clasped in front of him, expression entirely calm.
"I believe we might have something to talk about. I mean, shooting your husband, that's got to require some marriage counseling, don't you think?"
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And her face, her started, scared and then suddenly calm face.
"Maybe you should seek help on your own," she tells him, trying to keep the nerves from her voice. "I've never been one for group sessions, you know that."
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Just a smile, warm and almost loving, and he reaches out to touch her cheek lightly with his fingertips. "But you see, I'm not the one who shot me. Some unresolved anger, hmm?"
His killing millions of humans is all fine and acceptable. Her shooting him, on the other hand... And now he's angry, his voice rising almost to a shout.
"Or did you just fall for his pretty words, that cheap phony, that charlatan, the Doctor? Did you think he'd come to save you?"
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"Well, hello," she says brightly. He looks like he might be interesting.
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The greeting holds a bit of a question in it, but it's not clear whether he'd like to know where he is, why he's here, who she is, all of the above, or something else altogether.
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"Oh, well. I live to please." Bright, charming smile.
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"Well, hey there!" Someone who looks friendly enough, right? As in walking, breathing, and without a gun pointed at her, pretty much.
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Just lovely. Dying in his arms just clearly wasn't enough...
This girl, however, doesn't seem to know him. This could actually be fun. He puts on his best charming smile - which is, of course, very, very charming - and starts toward her. "Hello."
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This could get interesting.
"'Lo. You new here?"
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"Hello," he said, in Russian, "Is all well?"
Typist: PB confusion ftw?
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The Master stared at him, brows drawing together in a frown. Ah, Russian. He knew a good number of languages, most of them not human.
"I think I'm well," he says, his Russian accented with English, of all things. (Because Gallifrey is apparently Britain, or so says the BBC.) "Relatively speaking. I did die."
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