His eyes went wide and black at the tell-tale sound of grinding engines. He hadn't heard those in so long, but he knew the noise as if it were instinctual. The Master inhaled deep, and in the air he could faintly pick up the smell of energy.
So the Master approached, wary and careful. He knew it would do him well to keep cautious - he had no desires to meet with any further misfortune; especially at the hand of the Doctor. Not after he had declined to be rescued from his plight.
From a few metres away, he crouched low, watching the TARDIS materialise fully on the hot sand. Oh yes, it was the Doctor, and he assumed the man had returned to attempt to rescue him, to force him to accompany him. He never learned.
Imagine his surprise at the Doctor when he steps out. It isn't the Seventh; no, it isn't the man who fought with him and whom he had tried to contact before things got too far gone. This is a relic of centuries past. He can't help but grin just the slightest bit, exposing his fangs.
Slowly he rose from his croutching position, taking a pose much more befitting him. Straight, rigid, strong, proud. It's the best he can manage, and in itself, it is a defense. "Why, Doctor," he said in a tone both low and soft. "Isn't this a surprise."
He curled his fingers into claws, in process hiding the ones on his own fingers (as he had since abandoned the gloves when they developed). Of all the Doctors, of all the times. It had to be him.
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So the Master approached, wary and careful. He knew it would do him well to keep cautious - he had no desires to meet with any further misfortune; especially at the hand of the Doctor. Not after he had declined to be rescued from his plight.
From a few metres away, he crouched low, watching the TARDIS materialise fully on the hot sand. Oh yes, it was the Doctor, and he assumed the man had returned to attempt to rescue him, to force him to accompany him. He never learned.
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He barely notices.
He's staring at a ghost.
The TARDIS door falls shut behind him, and he does nothing, rigid once more with shock and horror and something almost like relief.
"Master?" The word is hoarse, thin, weak, and he immediately regrets it, but it's just one more thing he can't take back.
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Slowly he rose from his croutching position, taking a pose much more befitting him. Straight, rigid, strong, proud. It's the best he can manage, and in itself, it is a defense. "Why, Doctor," he said in a tone both low and soft. "Isn't this a surprise."
He curled his fingers into claws, in process hiding the ones on his own fingers (as he had since abandoned the gloves when they developed). Of all the Doctors, of all the times. It had to be him.
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He leans back against his TARDIS, just slightly, and manages to speak. His voice is stronger, now, but his eyes remain fixed and wide.
"To say the very least."
Time is knotting itself between them, tugging and pulling; he knows already that this Master isn't from his past.
You survived.
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