Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun beamed down from the sky hitting the earth. There was only patches of shadows on the ground scattered around in a the circumference of Hyde Park. This was partly due to the sparse trail of clouds reflecting the suns rays back into the atmosphere but the main reason was the large metal base-like tower hovering above the tree line. Nobody knows what it is or where it came from but it seemed to have sprung up over night.

Most people in London have ignored this newly built structure assuming its the Prime Ministers way of keeping the environmentalist at bay with a new green energy source. However there is still some people out there worried it could be harmful. But Touchwood's busy monitoring and containing a possible threat from an alien that has landed in the hills of Peru, thanks to a tip from local alien enthusiasts and a Google Map image of a black dot on the hill.

People pass by the tower going about their day but I, Elton Pope, look at the tower and wonder

"Will the Doctor return once again if something were to happen?"

I met the Doctor, twice. Once during a young age and the second time he saved me from a hideous absorbing monster. He absorbed my girlfriend, but lucky the doctor was able to restore most of her into a stepping stone. We are just as happy as ever together. We take walks and have dinner dates weekly but I still wonder.

"Will he return?

The Master looks down upon his domain from the variable safety of his currently invisible ship (where did he get it? Well, that's a long story. For that one he'll be needing a well-steeped Earl Grey - without milk - it's not MEANT to have milk - capricious fools, honestly, is there but one being on this planet with taste?)

The Master shakes his head with a violent twist and shudders,

"It's a wonder I get anything done at all."

Still. His domain is rather grand and shining beneath this especially clear, smog-free night. He, of course, aced Xenoatmospherics, unlike a certain idiot he knows, who really should have turned up by now to Save The Day or whatever he likes to call it. The thought, in itself, leaves a bitter taste to his mouth, so he spits it out - ultimately undramatic for being unheard. He's certainly broadcasted his plan along enough news circuits and radio waves. He's already enslaved the way-laid.

Prostitutes and drug addicts are easy targets. A bit like Jack the Ripper, isn't he! The Master bookmarks this as a solid human reference the Doctor would undoubtedly both revile and applaud his knowledge of. "Lie back and think of England," he mutters to himself, allowing the phantom of a smile to lift the corners of his lips at a phrase his awaited would most certainly laud a grin. So, with no particularly imminent vision of purpose, the Master sprawls back on his invisible platform, luxuriously cat-like, to wait.

Chapter Text

Shots are fired. As the bullets hit the ground, dirt flies up like water splashing up from a puddle. White shoes stomp on the ground rapidly running in the opposite way of the gun fire.

"What did I say about guns?! I hate guns and this is why. Everyone is always trigger happy. Martha are you listening to me? Martha?" The Doctor questions breathy

"Ah. Kinda busy right now doctor!"

Martha is hidden behind a crate ready to spring the trip wire on the enemies. Only after the doctor makes it safely across of course. His white shoes pass the line and keep going. The two men, still following close behind add another wave of bullets on the ground. They sprint in sight of the "x" zone and Martha triggers the trap.

Both men stumble over the wire and hit the ground hard. Their guns are tossed in the air as the fall and land clear away from them.

The Doctor doubles back reaching a hand into his jacket and pulling out a long metal tool. He stops dead in front of the men and his metal tool flashes blue as he points it towards the guns.

"Now that you've been disarmed, talk! What do you know about the "Natural Pride" towers springing up all over London. And don't tell me they are just for green energy, nobody deadlocks a door unless they are hiding something."

The men remain silent. The Doctor walks in closer to one of the men.

"TALK! Or face the fury of a Time Lord! My patience is already near the end, like I said, I don't like guns or the people that use them"

"You're a Time Lord too?" One of the men speaks up.

The doctor bends down eyes angrily fixated on the man. He grabs the mans collar and brings his face closer to his own. "What do you mean "too"?"

The man's voice shakes a little "I mean..."

A white light flashes from the sky and strikes both the men and they go limp. The Doctor shakes the man rapidly.

"TELL ME!"

"Doctor! That's enough, he's died" Martha interjects as she pulls him away from the body. "We need to go Doctor before we are blamed from this."

The Doctor gets off his knees and shoots back up into the air. He takes one more look at the bodies in front of his feet before he turns and runs back into the Tardis.

The clock is tick-tick-tick-TICKing and the drum beat is berating the sound into step with its own incessant rhythm, and it loops and coalesces and MAGNIFIES, and still the Master finds himself alone. No jaunty distraction of banter, no whooshing sound of a man landing a machine he clearly has yet to learn the mechanics of operating, no condescending morally judgmental stare: No Doctor. Though the elegant simplicity of this Earth era's children's television can, temporarily, soften the endless beat in his head, he's grown quickly bored and immune and he could honestly use a bit of stimulation. Taking over a world has its merits, yes, but he's feeling vaguely uninspired in the moment, and well, even megalomaniacs take a day of rest and reflection now and then.

The Master wonders out loud if this new version of his favorite enemy has become ever more dim in this new body, dulled perhaps by prolonged exposure to his steady self-indulgent flow of insipid ape-derived pets. Regardless, it certainly ignites his temper. Who does the Doctor think he is, anyway, hmm? Here he has prepared a positively delicious adventure, dripping with juicy intrigue, scrumptiously well-seasoned technological brilliance, and a well-brewed psychological ethos gently marinating - but ultimately leaving unharmed - the fair pink meat-like minds of the little human brigade he's cultivated to serve him. And here, just for the Doctor, he's even spared the kind, the just, the loyal, and obviously, the (by earth standards, which isn't saying much) clever.

He's given his mission a justifiable Moral Purpose. For the time being, anyway, he's serving up an intellectual banquet, exactingly executed, and proffered on a platter of Easy-To-Forgive. And yet, the Master idles in wait, feeling vaguely and unbecomingly like a cat who's just dragged an impressively accomplished metaphorical mouse-King to his Intended's doormat, awaiting a praise that seems increasingly unlikely to come.

"If he won't come to me, I suppose I'll have to escalate my advances. You've really done this to yourself, Doctor." He's saying this to no one in particular, of course, but spots one of his slaves eyeing him dubiously in the corner of his eye.

"Well, don't just stand there, you dull creature. The lasers. I assume even a primitive can press a button. This...," and he strides smoothly to his console, pointing rather lazily at a large well-lit building on the earth below as he precisely redirects the beam of his weapon,

"...Is the National Theatre. The Doctor does keep telling me I should become a more active participant in the arts."

Chapter Text

The TARDIS emanates a whirling sound as it lands in an abandoned alley. The sound bounces off the walls and echoes throughout the narrow passage.

"Doctor, are you alright? You haven't said a word since we left Westminster. There was nothing you could have done to help those men..." Martha says looking straight into the Doctor's eyes.

His eyes shift to the right. His posture straights as he folds his arms together. He walks away still in silence. His body slightly leans back on the controls of the TARDIS. His back secure, he stretches his feet forward and then crosses them together. His eyes open wide, his eyebrows only slightly curved and his mouth pronouncing silent words. A hand unravels from its folded position and embraces the doctors face in a standard Sherlock Holmes type thinking position. Martha moves back in his line of sight but once again is ignored.

"Doctor!" She shouts.

He snaps out of his previous thoughts and springs up to look at his companion, Martha Jones. He breathes in heavily anticipating that his one sided conversation will be winded.

"The guard, he wasn't hiding information, he really didn't know! Ahh! It's brilliant a temporal mind shift given off by those "Natural Pride" towers! "

The doctor runs around his TARDIS opening chambers and doors collecting small items and connecting him together using his Sonic Screwdriver.

Martha stands in her position in disbelief. "Which means what exactly?!"

The doctor zaps another piece onto his homemade device.

"Which means the towers are mind controlling people in an almost undetectable way. They go about their daily business like normal, work till five, tea at six and maybe a nice brisket with Yorkshire pudding at seven, Corner store not to far from Baker street makes the best pudding, They use anise, got a bit of a licorice taste to it. Not to keen of the crumpets though, BUT their brisket's not to fatty. Nice and lean, you really-. "

"DOCTOR!" Martha shouts

The Doctor snaps out of his rant.

"Right, anyway something happens during their day that triggers their mind control, could be a tune, a word, a picture, whatever it is that triggers the control, its only controlling them long enough to do one simple task asked of them a day and then they go back to normal. Kinda like subliminal messages, you don't really realize its happening. Which explains how those towers were built so fast..."

"So how do we stop it?" Martha questions the Doctor

"We find the mother tower. The one controlling the other towers and stop it before the mind control is set to a higher setting" The Doctor replies

"And how do we stop it, I'm sure its deadlocked just like all the others"

The Doctor flashes a grin and holds up his device with pride

"With this!"

Martha examines it "What is it?"

The doctor lowers the device his pride slightly bruised

"It's a makeshift sonic screwdriver! Welll, it's not AS sonic, but its got enough juice to break the deadlock."

"That's brilliant! Lets go!"

And just like that they both scramble out of the TARDIS and into the streets.

The hammering insistent bass of his alarm jolts the Master from a long-needed silent sleep. As such, he shoots up immediately angry. The roving lights are near blinding, and he half-curses himself for programming in such unnecessary spectacle. Light sleeper that he is, a subtle vibration three rooms over could probably have alerted him just the same and spared him the commotion.

He grabs a black silken housecoat from a nearby stand and ties it around his waist rather imprecisely before dashing into the console room. He rolls his eyes blatantly at the congregation of human slaves who've assembled themselves in the doorway, their own eyes wide and eager to assist the Master in this apparent calamity. ..And/or impromptu dance party. The Master does have a flair for the unexpected.

"Go back to bed, there's nothing to see here."

The Master, silencing the alarm, flings a hand backwards and makes a mental note that sometimes just because one CAN create an alarm that simulates a live Scissor Sisters concert, doesn't necessarily mean one should. He never does know when to stop. He redirects his attention to the offending monitor, just in time to catch the swish of a brown jacket and the frantic click of heels echoing behind.

The feeling he experiences next is almost a sighed relief and - that just simply won't do! So he schools his expression into something stern and ugly instead and increases security on the system at hand. The Doctor, ever clever, has never quite managed the telepathic proficiency the Master has. This incarnation, he's noted, is particularly inclined to guilt, and the big beautiful psychic-equivalent of a slap of that in the face should hold him steady for a solid length of time. At least until the Master has deigned his next move.

Chapter Text

"Quickly now, the tower is over here"

The Doctor runs to a corner of a nearby building. He signals Martha to join him then cranes his neck around the corner to monitor the surrounding area near the mother tower.

"There's a lot more guards with guns guarding this one. Whatever is in there they don't want it disturbed" The Doctor says quietly

"I thought you said the mind control didn't last long" Martha says confused

"They aren't being controlled. Welll not physically anyway. Now moneys a different matter of mind control" He says as he continues to peak around the corner

"So you're telling me these people are just being paid to guard?"

"Precisely, Martha Jones! But these aren't just any guards. These men are mercenaries, shoot to kill. Each guard has the same mark on their arm, that's how I can tell."

Martha throws her hands in the air and lands them back down in a dramatic way

"Oh wonderful, what's the plan stroll right up to him and blatantly ask if we can destroy their toy?" Martha spits out sarcastically

The Doctor moves his head back in from his lookout stances and grins wildly at Martha.

There are four guards stationed in a square outside the large tower. Two of the men raise their guns as a lady in a berkah drifts closer to them pushing a stroller. She starts frantically speaking Arabic at the gun man. They raise their weapons even higher

"Don't move! Go back where you came from" One of the guards yells

The lady lets go of her stroller and raises her hands in the air. The pace of her speech only seems to be getting quicker. She turns and dives into her carriage and grabs a bundle wrapped in a blanket. The men aim their guns

"Last chance! Leave or I'll shoot you and your baby!"

With lightening fast speed the lady unwraps the bundle and reveals a device. The guards reflexes aren't as fast as hers so before they could shoot she slaps a button on the machine and a high pitched screech blasts out of it like a speaker. All four guards drop their weapons to cover their ears but its unless the sound is to powerful. They drop to their knees and pass out. The lady rips off her hood only to be reveal its Martha. A type of earmuff covers her ears. She rips them off as well as the Doctor comes running in.

"Ah, Martha you did brilliant! Whatta tell yea, the TARDIS mobile translator would do the trick. Welll that and the sound defibrillator. Nothing like a pulse of sound energy to knock a man out" The Doctor says cheerfully

Martha gives him an annoyed look "Yea well never ask me to do that again"

The doctor's smile fades into a serious one as he walks over to the door. He takes both sonic screwdrivers and beams them at the door's frame. With a quick sound of the tools the door clicks.

"Oh,yes!" He exclaims as he pulls open the heavy steel door and walks inside.

"Oh, beautiful! Beautiful!" The doctor once again exclaims in excitement as he continues forward to center of the tower.

In the center is a power grid with wires connecting every which way. The doctor slides on his glasses and begins his analysis. Martha stands guard outside

"What is it doctor?"

"Oh! oh! Molto bene! The towers really do just what they say they do! They collect the sun and convert it into green energy but somewhere along the line..."

The doctor traces a line down to the ground. he pulls out a hatch to find a box connected to the mainline.

"Ah ha! Yes brilliant! Except during the conversion into green energy there's a filter. Its job is to help keep the area near the building neutral and to prevent control. that's why the guards weren't mindless zombies. But as the energy flows into the filter through lines it creates a reaction that splits the alpha and beta waves in a human's brain long enough to send a simple hypnotic message to it..."

The Doctor's smile fades "...But such advanced hypnotic technology could only mean..."

He looks up from the silence to see Martha being held by a large man in a soldiers uniform. His hand is covering her mouth.

"You let her go...Master!"

The Doctor looks up above him senselessly talking to the air

"I know you can hear me. You have this whole place wired don't you?"

The familiar voice crackles in over the Master's broadcast system, and, while expecting this, he can't help but bristle slightly at the intrusion, that of course must happen NOW - sometimes he swears the Doctor's timing is decisively designed to annoy him - because maybe he LIKED that song and maybe it was just getting to the bridge. The Master shakes his head, reminding himself he is in the midst of taking over this planet, and can probably have a live version performed for him in a much grander arena than this, and, to top it, enforce the implementation of all of the necessary harmonic corrections he's noted to the first and second verse. He seats himself, comforted by this thought, in the lead console chair and initiates video contact.

"Honestly, Doctor, you're growing increasingly Less Fun as you age. Either that, or I'm losing my edge."

The Master pauses, leaning his chin against a palm in mock pontification before rocking his head back in laughter and waving a hand theatrically.

"Ah, I do entertain myself! Someone has to, I suppose."

Upon noting the twitch of jaw that suggests his adversary might dare to speak - while HE is Talking! - the Master quickly engages mute, pleasuring at the now-voiceless spasm of teeth and lips before him and cups a hand around his own right ear in satirical deafness.

"What's that, you say? Devastatingly handsome with the personal magnetism of a black hole? Really! Moi? Well, now that you mention it, though I really do hate to seem immodest..,"

The Master blinks a few times, leaning closer and so enjoying the indignantly frustrated expression this particularly loquacious Doctor has adopted at being denied a receptive ear. But, he must carry on to more practical issues, lest the poor idiot's head implode with its own undeliverable sanctimonious babble.

"I've conducted a little research project of my own, you know, with your ever so friendly apes, and while I've found I haven't quite your Truly Undying Patience to expend, my merry band and I have nevertheless bonded rather intimately,"

The Master gives a close-lipped grin, and leans into the lens with a conspiratorial perk of his eyebrows,

"Some call it mind-control, I suppose. Semantics, you know, always there to ruin a Good Thing. But... "

The Master pauses to jerk his head in an exaggerated scan of the console room behind him, complete with a dramatic spin in his console chair, finally terminating his little monologue with a wild smirk and breathy close-up,

"I don't seem to see any of those people Here right now, do I, my dear Doctor?"

Chapter Text

"Nobody needs to get hurt, Whatever it is that you want, Master I can -"

A hand lifts up to the Master's ear and he mockingly mimic's the gestures of a person with hearing loss. He has muted him on the intercom. A predicable move on the Master's part. He always did love to hear himself talk.

Now that the Master is busy distracting himself with his own pompous narcissistic speech the Doctor can focus on the matter at hand, saving Martha and disabling the tower. The Doctor still bent down on a knee next to the filter hatch slyly slips a hand into his breast pocket and reaches for his screwdriver. Screwdriver in hand he slides his hand down and rests it by his foot. Hidden from the Master's view.

The Doctor is careful to notice the guard still holding Martha captive outside the door. He notes that her struggle is enough for the guard to not pay any attention to him. He flicks his wrist softly at the filter and the blue light of the Sonic Screwdriver goes off. A clack of metal loudly rings out the tower. He quickly snatches the part that fell off and brings his hand back near his shoe. Still a blind spot the Master can't see. Doctor glances up at the monitor just in time to see the Master giving a dramatic spin of his chair.

"I don't seem to see any of those people here right now, do I, my dear Doctor?" Master says to the camera.

The Doctor gathers to his feet. It's useless to talk to the Master even if the sound was still on, the Master wouldn't listen to reason, not here anyway. But if he could get him alone to talk he might of a chance. He quickly whips the Screwdriver in the air and points it at the monitor. The blue light flashes and a buzzing noise booms out of it. Sparks on the monitor fly in the air. The Doctor cut the Master's communication off. He runs for the door to save Martha from her attacker but the steel door closes on him leaving him alone in the dimly lit tower. His fists slams on the door.

"Martha? Martha! Don't you hurt her or I swear!" he yells out to the empty space in the tower.

The Master spins around in his chair, forcing a foot into the pinch hold of wheel and metal and reestablishes his enemy a voice.

Ah, Doctor. I think we're alone now."

The Master scrunches his face and mocks a falsetto, gesturing as if it pains him, "There doesn't seem to be anyone around."

The Doctor hears the Master's voice ring out the dimly lit tower.

"MASTER! Don't Hurt her! Just let her go, she was never involved. Leave it between you and me" Doctor shouts to the air

"Oh, my dear doctor. You insolent fool. You Innocent fool. Have you never heard, in all your travels, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I've engineered the basics of a time-loop that rather literally asserts the phrase into your current predicament. Your Martha is essentially unaware you've left. Limboed, in a veritable schism of time and life. I'd challenge you to speak, but I doubt even your charisma could dissuade me."

The doctor momentarily at a loss for words looks to the ground as if it had the right words to say written on it, then jerks his head back up toward the darkness shadowing the top of the tower.

"I don't want to fight you. Please we owe it to our people to at least be civil. Let me out of here and we can talk face to face"

The Master's voice booms out of the loudspeaker with a sarcastic tone

"This face, Doctor? It is a bit charming, yes, and a bit rude. Very talkative - I LIKE that. I even find myself on board with the insidious amounts of chemical coating you've applied to that mat I suppose you call a hair-do. Really, Doctor?"

The Doctor is giving a pointedly dejected glare as the Master continues.

"Oh, please. Your hopeless vanity can stand a blow. But, you see, I really just find myself at a loss. What gain do I stand? What do you honestly Have to give me?"

The Doctor bows his head in defeat.

"Nothing I say will satisfy you. I know what you want, you want humility. You want me down on my knees pleading for mercy at your feet. You'd set the world on fire and watch it burn with you at the center of the blaze if it meant you could see my reaction play before your eyes. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry for whatever it was I did in the past that made you build so much hate and rage inside. But you have to listen, its just us now. Last of the Time Lords. We need to stick together."

The Master rolls his eyes dismissively,

"Yes! So I've heard! How lovely! You finally served the stiff old fools their bitter plunger-free end. Can you imagine the indignity of defeat by Dalek? Oh, the parody. The Mightiest Most Stodgy race in the universe, put to defeat by a mess of balls and whisks and plungers."

The Master takes a break here to mask a rather unpleasantly Sad (he assumes, he's relatively distanced with emotions these days) expression with a quick-as-locust burst of maniacal (? He was going for maniacal) laughter and relishes the decided lament wilting the Doctor's steady line of lip into a frown.

The Master's laughter echoes throughout the solid metal walls of the tower.

"Stop it!"

The Doctor wails out over the laughter.

"I had too... to stop the war. I was the only one who could stop it. I've been alone ever since, carrying this burden. Did I make the right decision? I created genocide on our own people. I have to live with that, BUT I will not be apart of another. You're a Time Lord which makes you my responsibility.

The doctor falls to his knees and slams a fist on the floor. Tears start to form in the corner of his eyes.

"I don't want this constant feeling of emptiness and heart ache knowing I'm the last of my kind anymore. Don't make me relive it. Just stop. Stop what your doing to this planet. It's not fair to them. "

The Doctor finds his composure while kneeling on the ground. A delusional smile creeps up on his face.

"Please, I'm appealing to the friend I once knew, just stop. We could travel the universe together, like the old days. Oh, wouldn't that be fantastic, pair of Time Lords again, Think of all the good we can do!"

The Master finds his face - this particularly expressive face! -incapable of the precise mix of exasperation/incredulity/bitter anger he wants to convey. His voice is left in longing for the same. He blinks slowly, allowing himself to recover a sneer. He thinks it's a good one, too.

"Now, Doctor? Now, insane as I am...you wish to see the universe with me?"

` He allows himself to devolve into what can only be described as a caustic giggle (now that's a weapon the cosmos isn't ready for!). He tilts his head back and laughs and isn't he the perfect parody of a villain? Isn't he in the perfect ready trajectory for the Doctor's Stare of Calmness? The Frown of Disappointment. The Spiky Soft Hair of Surprising Downy-like Softness. The Master shuts his eyes and plugs his ears against his own madness (like that'll do any good, his inner voice taunts in the Doctor's voice). Glaring at his own rebellious finger, it takes it upon itself to press a release button and admit the Doctor into his private chambers.

"Come along, then, Doctor."

The Master's own voice hits his open ear, velvety and controlling in a way he isn't sure how he's managing. It continues and deceives his intents against his will:

"I've been waiting for you."

Chapter Text

The Doctor squints, he creates a shield for his eyes with his hand as he upcasts it in the air. This establishes enough visibility for him to see the radiating light beaming straight at him like a lighthouse beacon. It's coming from an elevator shaft. Cautiously, he stands up, wary that this most certainly will lead to one of Master's tricks. The Doctor gets into the elevator, the doors slam shut and push upward toward the top of the tower.

The Doctor patiently waits as the elevator takes him to his destination. A slight murmur from the telecaster fizzles into the elevator playing a familiar 80's tune. As the Doctor listens closer to curiously place it in his mind. He swears the person actually singing the song was replaced with the Master's voice. But before he could confirm it, the elevator makes a jittery stop and the doors slide open to reveal a large open bridge of a Skyship. He steps out of the elevator into the room.

The Bridge is populated with a scattered breed of zombie-like humans doing varies things such as mopping, carrying paperwork, and crating around food carts. They don't appear to be harmed, just moving slow. However they seem to be collecting even more slowly into a herd as the Doctor walks onto the Bridge. He stops to examine one of the zombie-like humans with his sonic screwdriver. The Screwdriver shines on the man projecting a blue light. The man's eyes leer vaguely ahead but his face is as expressive as a rock. After analyzing him with his useful CAT Scan function, the Doctor finds that the man is only under a trance, a notion, a persuasion perhaps, to do Master's bidding. He also has a severe potassium deficiency.

The Doctor quickly pings over to the next closest person and scan's her. Oddly enough, he finds the same thing.

"What is going on?" He declares to himself

Once again he finds the next closest person to have the same results as the last. He grabs a man by the shoulders and gazes deep into his emotionless eyes. The Doctor has the most quizzical look painted on his face, his eyebrows narrow but the right part of the his upper lip is scrunched and lifted up,

"That can't be it..."

He shakes off his look and scans this one.

"Oh, but it is! potassium deficiency. It causes weakness, numbness, confusion, delirium! Mix that with low levels of subliminal hypnotism and WHAM!..."

The Doctor turns around to the next person and continues his lonely rant to himself.

"...You got yourself a zombie army, the Master always did think outside the box"

If Martha were here, he'd excitingly exclaim why always bringing a banana to a party rings true.

Its only after fussing with this one that he notices more and more of them are dropping their assigned duties and rounding up in the center of the Bridge, like seagulls flocking to a person who just dropped a piece of bread on the dirt. The Doctor, on high alert now, tries to move onward to pass through the center but the cattle are making it increasingly difficult to precede any farther into the ship. It's like a forced last resort defense mechanism for the brain-dead sheep.

"Master!" The doctor yells out as the hoard thickens

"Have you beckoned me here just to kill me with your army? You coward! Then so I shall fall here with my humans."

The crowd has now reached 20% passed its capacity limit for that room. The air is dense and the people are so jammed together its crushing them, but they are numb to any sort of feeling. The Doctor on the other hand feels every second and each one is even more painfully that the last. He can feel his rib cage starting to compact into his body as the people squeeze even tighter around him. He feels his body start to droop. The colored spots dancing in his eyes like a kaleidoscope slowly fade into starless night sky. The last thing he hears is the sound of Masters voice at a heightened tone before going limp.

Chapter Text

When the Doctor comes to, it's under the attentive scrutiny of the Master's gaze. Without moving his eyes, he flicks a hand, directing his band of zombies-turned-overzealous-sales-associates to fetch him water and a blanket and perhaps a pair of footwear more fashionably suited to his, well, suit. Finally, fifteen utterances that he was "just browsing that shoe shop in Piccadilly square, I swear!" and fifteen pairs of denied dress shoes more "fitting to your attire, sir" later, the Doctor captures a glance at the Master's highly amused expression. Truly, this is a man who understands torture.

The Master's piqued features turn to lazy as he shifts silkily in his swivel chair into something resembling relaxed. He allows his tongue to lavish perhaps too long against the lip of his glass hi-ball, demurely swirling its murky content. He takes a luxurious sip and fixes his eyes on his Doctor, conscious and captive, and looking exceedingly indignant. He stands, walking over and extending a hand to the Doctor who's been obstinately kneeling for at least twenty minutes now to avoid any more shoe-fittings. Those legs ought to have gone numb by now and - yep. The Doctor trips into him upon standing. The fleeting steadying hand around his waist lasts for seconds and forever and makes the Master wonder if a simple redirection of blood flow is the answer, after all? Too impermanent, he decides. And, this Doctor is now willfully clutching his shoulder and, nice as that is, really, he's aiming to impress.

They work through a field of the Master's idiots, offering a drink, an arm (literally, how awkward), an endless devotion. The Master naturally brushes them aside like low-hanging tree branches; he extricates the pair of them as he would from brambles in the woods. It's clear footing to his machine now, but the Doctor has regained himself enough, and - /of course/ - With his regained even footing, the Doctor easily extracts himself from that comfortable shoulder, pirouetting from the Master's arm in a graceful little spin. Fortunately, human-zombie-slaves are as good at being fodder for whimsical hiking metaphors as they are at tying people up. And, infinitely more importantly in this case, shutting them up.

The Master rests himself against the black leather of his chair, spinning away from eyes he isn't in any hurry to look into just now. He's taptaptapTAPing into some ancient typewriter. It's Earth, it's performance, it's inspired. If the Doctor isn't enraptured by that - well, his neck is bound and his mind is awake, so who could tell?

The Master monologues as he types,

"Dearest Doctor, It has come to my attention you see me unfit to continue my existence in this universe. I have chosen to oblige this request, on your behalf, willingly. The machine to your left - yes, just there - is an Anti-TARDIS. Or, it was. Is. Will be? Getting ahead of myself. You see, Doctor, you've destroyed our home. Isn't that sad? Please consider all further actions of mine as obvious pleas for attention in the wake of such utterly dizzying grief. That charming smile, Doctor, is but a mask for my pain. Fortunately, I carry on. There is a You right here who could expend his own planet for moral fantasies, and there is a Me who can bend this new freedom to transcend dimensions and find a You less inclined to such lofty ideals. Forgive me if the invite to our universal crowning gets lost in the post; my lovely machine can only do so much, and you know how unreliable inter-dimension mail can be. Now, should you try to find me, I'd advise: my project is likely to be unsafe, ridiculously unstable, and completely brilliant. As if I'd ever serve you anything less. My endless thanks, darling, The Master."

He punctuates his little speech with a flat-out punch of an enter-key and swirls around to catch a last look at this universe's Doctor. The look of abject hatred he's earned from those brown slits of eyes, that dejected turn of mouth - that - that, the Master thinks, is a thing of beauty. The most honest expression he's ever contorted from this particular face. But he'll be passing out soon from exhaust fumes, and the Master can't be entirely certain he'll remember, so he prints and sticky-tapes his little farewell to the Doctor's forehead. And it actually hurts a little, or a lot, or maybe not at all, as the Master engages his coordinates and presses a much different enter key and decidedly leaves that face forever. The soft vibration of an engine assures the Master his success and with little regret, his farewell is a cast to a body already too unaware its face has been graffitied.

"Bye-bye," he waves anyway.

And that's it. And maybe that really was a final gesture, for all the Master cares. The jump into the Vortex and then the leap between Vortexes isn't pleasant, so that's the last thought he grants the subject, or any subject indeed. He's burning, boiling from the inside-out, the uncomfortable beat of his hearts is spilling throughout his body and arresting every nerve, and he's screaming, he thinks, but he's no where, so there is no proof of sound. And, without finesse, he's spit out. His head is still spinning a bit and he finds himself on all fours, testing his reflexes against unyielding concrete. He clasps hands to his body and finds himself intact. This is his new world, ripe for the taking.

The Doctor's eye's flutter rapidly as they try to adjust and focus as he slow gains consciences. His mind is a widespread hazy. He looks around but his psyche is still debating on whether it is actually in reality or still in his own head. His blurred vision targets a close object in the room and consolidates on it until its sharp enough to recognize as a chair. He jolts up his he impalpably remembers the events that took place before he passed out. The ropes that imprisoned him have been cut off him already. A spasm of pain instantaneously triggers in his head. He winces and simultaneously puts a palm on his temple, as if putting pressure on it would remedy it. But instead of his head, his hand meets a soft flexible object. The sound of rumpling from the object is intensified from his current illness. He tugs at it, it lightly fells off him and floats down to his lap in fluctuation. The Doctor snatches it up and reads it. Its a post-it note farewell from the Master.

Despite the Doctor's throbbing head, he crashes the note in his hand and slams a fist down on the ships floor. He is paralyzed with overwhelming emotions. His primary emotion is unbridled rage that the Master would create such an immoral abomination. It is strictly forbidden in Time Lord society to go to and alter parallel universes. It's why his TARDIS didn't have the proper function to do so, and now the Master crossed into the dangerous territory of playing God. The Doctor's secondary emotion is fear, fear of what the Master might do while in a parallel universe without him there to stop him.

The zombie-like humans pause and scrutinize the room around them, like butterflies cautiously emerging out of their cocoons. The Idol chatter increases in volume as they become more active. But careful not to go far because their fragile wet wings have yet to dry. The Doctor is far to concerned with understanding what the Master just accomplished with what he called the "Anti-TARDIS".
A set of three abrupt knocks come from the wall of the Skyship. It is enough to startle the Doctor out of his thoughts. Another set follow quickly after and a muffled yet familiar voice yells through the wall.

“Hello?”

The acquainted voice of Martha distracts the Doctor from his wild emotions.

“Martha?! Martha its me are you okay?” The Doctor springs up with vigor and jogs over to the wall making the sound.

“Ah. I...I think so? I don't know where I am. My mind feels jumbled. Its like I remember investigating the towers with you but as I try to remember events after that, it gets hazy and I go back to remembering the towers again. Doctor what's wrong with me?”

The Doctor yanks out his sonic screwdriver and traces in along the wall.

“Nothing, you were put in a time loop. It's the Master. He's back he's planning something big. I don't know what it is but its not good, he called it the Anti-TARDIS”

A clicking sound is triggered after the Doctor traces over the side of the wall. A hidden hatch opens to a chamber and Martha steps out of it.

“Oh my God, you mean he's got a fully functional TARDIS? He could be anywhere messing around the time lines. He could go back and become the King of England!”

The Doctor jogs over to a large square black spot burned into the floor.

“No, he called it the “Anti-TARDIS” I have a feeling its got a whole 'nother use other than time travel.”

The Doctor points his sonic screwdriver to the burned floor and then retracts it back to his face to examine his results,
He takes a deep breath and holds it for a second before releasing it. His eyebrows raise with concern.

“Whatever it is, its unstable...”

Chapter Text

There's a bar at the edge of the universe. A tiny tavern, nestled neatly against the Void and subject to the ebb and flow of its tide. Its location both preserves and wears the outside balcony of time, providing it with none and all of it at once, hopelessly outdated and forever a cutting edge. Needless to say, many a lovelorn coward has been preserved in the stasis of a contemplative cigarette, as many a drunken fool has met his nonexistence by stumbling over that ethereal barrier into never having been born. The latter are courageous, the Master thinks, as another one bites the dust. He snorts into his Sontaren Sangria (who knew? Apparently they stomp the grapes into alcoholic submission and zest the fruit rinds with their fingernails. He promptly clamped a hand over the bartender's mouths after that revelation and proceeded to lecture him on the meaning of TMI; regardless, it's delicious.) At the edge of the universe, very few jokes or revelations (or drinks!) are considered in bad taste.

The Master muses, staring into his watery half reflection within the glass, what the universe would've been if he'd never existed. Relative time lines mean little to a time traveler. The universe could be destroyed tomorrow or a thousand years ago. The basic thing is, he is NOT a master - not of anything, not anymore. Nor is he a hero, nor is he even a good man. He has never been and will never be the panacea he once thought he might - a more honest, belittling title might have been chosen. The Palliative, perhaps. Oh, yes, that's it - the great and mighty Palliative, here to appropriately numb you until you die. He has been fighting a resistance for a very long time; he has, for a very long time, prolonged misery and needlessly kept the universe just enough alive to see a particularly ugly destruction. His eyes close slowly on his thoughts, ruminating, unfurling slowly, imaginatively envisioning those scenes he couldn't be present for, giving life in his mind to screams of terror he'd never been forced to hear. A Time Lord is born somewhat immune to suffering, to pain, to death; it's an encrypted fact in one's biology that these failings are but means to new life.

A Time Lord is born a fool. He realizes, all very suddenly, he's been voicing most of this commentary outloud - and while this isn't unusual here - there is a rather withered hand stroking his arm, and a rather pale blue blank stare assessing him.

"Hello," he offers, turning to the woman at last and drinking her in as he sucks up the remnants of his sangria with an inelegant slurp.

"Who might you be?" He has enough sense and lingering sobriety to know both that he's fully clothed and this woman is most probably blind, but that doesn't stop him protectively clasping hands around his frame as if her unseeing eyes know more than his modesty would prefer.

"No need to be so protective, dear," she chuckles kindly,

"you might have noticed I do not see."

"I might have," he agrees, punctuating with a hiccup and not removing his hands, not even an inch. "You are he who calls himself the Master?"

He laughs at that, a dark low bark, "You read my mind. I'm afraid it's Harry, now. Harold Saxon."

He extricates a hand from his person to shake hers - for the sake of manners rather than relaxation.

"A pseudonym? Much better done than some people; normally I'd introduce myself with something mystifying - The Prophet, perhaps, but instead, let's call me Lenore."

"Not a pseudonym at all, I presume, Lenore,"

Harry, as he supposes he is now, adopts a flirtatious tone he knows to charm. But those poor unseeing eyes flutter - and not with lure or attraction as he might have hoped. Preternatural, her voice shifts, deep and ugly and hollow:

"You will never fully know the dangers of this world until you've seen the heart of its doppelgänger. At journeys end you will meet the face of your foe, but his heart has yet to blacken and wither away. Heed my words, if you chose to stay, it too will mirror the terrors of this world, for you can not have light without darkness"

The Master-cum-Harold blinks, unflappable. "Lady, this is a bar, I'm more than a bit drunk - you really could give me at least a spark notes version?"

She but raises an eyebrow and departs for the balcony, limping ever so slightly, disappearing like any other weirdo barfly he's yet to meet on this forsaken planet.

"Well, thanks, I guess!" he yells irritably, "I've always wanted to learn Cryptic!" Exhausted, he bangs a hand on the bar, alerting the barkeep.

The alcohol burns and soothes and he doesn't care. He doesn't care, and as such, the dreamless sleep he slumps into against the dark wooden bar is the most pleasant he's had in centuries. - Awakening with a thick clod of dirt-mingled vomit in his mouth and the general sensation he's recently been run over by a heard of rhinos isn't exactly what he'd imagined his free fall into nonexistence would feel like. Wait. Did he - ? It's not like he would remember it, anyhow, and his mind can't keep concentration on any one thing. On the subject of rhinos, his head is pounding in a way that reminds him a little too intimately of his first off-world rock concert with the Doctor when, dizzyingly inexperienced, he'd plunged head-first into the center pit and learned just what it is to celebrate Inter-Galactic Armed Forces Day with off-duty Judoon. That next morning, he'd awoken just long enough for the Doctor to inform him, "it's called a hangover, darling," and realize the man had made off with his wallet, dignity, and the keys to his TARDIS - AGAIN - before slumping back to sleep. Almost muscle-memory, the Master's hands clamp against his person, and - well, he didn't HAVE a wallet, or dignity, or a TARDIS this time to lose, but he'd at least had clothes. Clearly, alcohol is a foe more evil than even his Doctor. He groans lowly and rolls onto his back, simultaneously making the world spin and bringing up a sparse piece of newspaper, stuck fast to his right cheek by sweat or vomit or saliva, into view.

"Earth?"

He has just the briefest chance to marvel, scanning the article for only seconds, before firm hands are dragging him away, locking him in a cell, and begging him to, "Please, just put some damn clothes on."

- Fourteen glasses of water later (and a pair of clothes as fashionable as a burlap sack) the Master, or Harry, or whomever , is at least sober enough to try a bit of mind-mining. If nothing else, this isn't the Void and NOT the bar, and it's definitely not the Earth he left. So, where the hell is he?

Chapter Text

On the foreground outside the red stained cherry finish of the window frame lay children playing in the courtyard. The Doctor observed quietly from a matching red stained wooden chair in Martha's apartment. His face draped with a disheartened look as one of the children lightly slaps another on the back and runs away in the opposite direction hoping to avoiding getting tagged. His only thoughts were remnants of his past when the Master was sensible and could listen to reason. But not now, the Master has grown into a madman.

"Maybe Its my fault, maybe if I were there for him he wouldn't have been forced to make friends with such dark paths. If I didn't run, if I stayed. Could I have stopped this all from happening?"

Martha emerges from the kitchen holding two white tea cups. The strings on the side of the cups indicate the bags are still steeping in them. She places one down in front of the Doctor on a top of a decorative lacy tabletop. She keeps the other cup for herself and leans on a wall adjacent to the Doctor. The Doctor unphased by the presents of the tea or Martha continues to warily keep a watchful eye through the glass. Martha takes in the moment. The Doctor's eyes seem so sad and distant as he gazes outside, the same teary eyes an old harden war veteran would display during a memorial service.

Frankly, it scared Martha a bit. She took a light sip out of her tea and cleared her throat to break the eerie silence and capture the Doctor's attention. The desperate plea to reestablish connect with the Doctor went unnoticed. His face only drew a longer frown. Martha would like to believe these punch-drunk moments happen as frequently as Haley's comet passing over the Earth but ever since the Doctor figured out the Master was behind the tower's this look as been a main stable on his tried face. This scared her even more, the Doctor knows something and he's not willing to divulge the information.

This time she managed to manifest an exaggerated cough, again nothing. Instead of engaging him for the third time she resolved to turn on the television. Any sort of media-hyped news would be more helpful than the Doctor right now she thought to herself. She turned slightly to pick up the remote, clicked a button and waited for the black screen to come alive. She took a relaxing sip of her tea and flipped through the channels.

Sports, procedural cop show, weather, sports, drama, cooking, news.

She stopped at the news.

"Reports confirm the former Prime Minster, Harold Saxon was found naked, dazed and drunk near the Hungerford Bridge in London. Eyewitnesses report him shouting into the air and laughing. He is being contained at a holding cell at Brookshire police station for questioning and to determine if he is a possible threat to anyone or himself. No farther information is available at this time."

Martha almost spat out her tea at the screen. The Doctor, however, leaped out of his chair and grasped both sides of the television. His spiked rooster like hair smashed against the glass. His only words were

"WHAT?!"

Chapter Text

The Master opens his eyes to the disconcerting, unsure feeling of a man who can't quite remember why (or how, or when, or where) he fell asleep. He blinks his cloudy eyes a few times before catching on that, no - apparently that's just what the air here looks like. It's dizzying, looking at what's ostensibly London through the refractive sheen of a smog he can only describe as oily. It seems to coat him and stings his eyes; they water and this creates a shield that permits him a limited field of clear vision. London is busy, he remembers scantly, looking down the vacant alley. The blight of hazy scattered light he supposes this city calls a "sun" above him indicates this must be just after noon, but –

"Sir!"

The voice hits and the Master inclines his attention to the open window of an upper floor flat. It's like watching a poorly dubbed movie: the boy's lips flap and wind, and out-of-sync, the words settle down through the heavy atmosphere. Before even the entirety of that short warning sentence has descended, a female arm - presumably the Mother - has torn her little boy away from the window and slammed it shut with a curt, fearful glare.

"It's not safe, sir! You must come inside! Please, sir - ma'am! You -"

Whether the end of that sentence was muffled by a protective arm, or the Master's own slip into unconsciousness, he'll never know.

The Master awakes beneath an offensively red checkered blanket which - he's pretty sure this is felt. Felt? The Doctor was in one of his weirdo Earth phases and one of the Master's first off-world encounters with the man had been an Inter-Galactic Armed Forces Day rock show. The Doctor had insisted that he wear flannel - Flannel! That's it! Not felt, then - while the man himself had adopted something like ridiculously tight black pants that had a certain not unappealing shine and obscenely over-gelled hair. The Doctor had, of course insisted that - no, really, people do this at rock concerts, and of course I'm not getting my decades or countries muddled, and yes, that color really does bring out your eyes.

Later that night, the Doctor puked violent puce all over him, and he spent the night nursing both the Doctor, and his own very unfortunate sartorial situation that, honestly, he wasn't so sad to see go.

A female voice surfaces the Master from his brief lapse into memory, and reminds him of his purpose. His weakened state allows the Master access to only the strings of this woman's consciousness, but it's enough to assure him all answers will be truthful.

"Do you know of the Doctor?"

Chapter Text

In the winding down hours of the night, a shadow flashes upon the Brookshire Police building only to disappear as quick as it appeared. The door of the police station swings open, the air-lock on the door lightly settles the door back into previous position. At the end of the narrow hall stands two guards. One fiddles and adjusts his hat as he decides on what flavor of coffee he will be sipping on for the next hour or so. The other is engrossed in a text conversation on his phone. He sends his message and looks up at the guard at the vending machine ready to engage in a conversation that he's just similarity shared with all his phones contact list.

"Can you believe it? Former Prime Minster, butt fuckin' naked and drunk out of his wit! I snapped a pic before we arrested em' think the tabloids will pay a pretty penny for this?"

He shares the image on his phone with the guard. The guard cringes and turns his head to the side.

"Oi! Ill pay you not to show me that again. But with what he's been shoutin' for of past hour id say he's off his rocker. Poor bloke must have lost it after his political career hit the Loo"

The older guard presses a button on the machine and a light colored liquid shoots out into his cup below. .

The younger guard laughs as he puts away his phone.

"Right, don't think anyone will be voting Saxon with him yellin bout some sort of end of days non-sense. I mean he was so drunk he thought the world had ended, what a sorry sap"

The older guard smacks the side of the machine.

"For fucks sake, things busted again. How do they except us to do a night shift without any bloody coffee?"

The another guard laughs as he puts away his phone.

The door of the station finally shuts making just enough noise to startle the two men out of their conversation and alert them to investigate. The two arrive at the front of the station but find nothing out of the ordinary. The younger one of the guards checks to door. It easily pops open to his touch. The wind catches it and it flies open, he grabs the handle and forcefully uses his might to pull it back shut.

"Oi! The damn wind is picking up is all." He closes the door and locks it.

"Passed visiting hours, anyhow."

The guards go about their business completely unaware that The Doctor had just snuck in only moments before.

The older guard is much more cautious than his naive counterpart.

"Better do our rounds just in case."

They agree and split up, each taking a different wing of the station. The young guard unsheathes his billy club and drags in across the bars of the cells. Some are empty others full.

"Oi! McDoogen, who told you it was alright to read? It's passed curfew, lights out."

The light in the cell quickly goes dark, satisfied, the guard moves on. Until he gets to a small cell in the corner. He stops dead in his tracks and observes its contains like a museum exhibit.

"Saxon!"

The Master is fast asleep on the cold hard cell bed. Enraged, the young power-starved guard shouts at him again.

"Saxon! Wake up."

The Master is still in a dead sleep.

The guard shaking with anger grabs his keys from his belt and pulls it to the lock, yanks it open and walks in. The young guard lifts his boot in the air and aims for a well placed rib shot. The Master's body curls up as he winces in pain his body unbalanced he rolls over the edge of the bed and collapse on the ground below. The guard winds up his leg again as the Master struggles to get up on his knees. The guard thrusts his boot forward for another cheap shot to the ribs. The knocking the air out of Master forcing him to the ground like a sack of wet clothes. He struggles between coughs and gasps for air. He finally gains enough strength to try to lift himself up again. The guard promptly takes notice and reaches for his billy club. He lands it as hard as he can at the center of the Master's shoulders. The Master falls back to the ground and groans in pain. The guard takes a knee and embeds it into the Masters back putting pressure on his already sore body. He secures handcuffs around the Master's hands and turbulently pulls him to his knees. The guard's lankly fingers grasp a handful of hair, yanking Masters head up. The Guard leans in a bit so his mouth is parallel to the Master's ear and whispers

"Guess next time you'll answer the first time I call you. Look alive, it's time we integrated you"

Adjacent to Master's corner cell is where the Doctor is lingering after just finishing sizing up the East wing's prisoners. His plan now is to make his round to the West side. The Doctor instinctively reaches a hand out behind him to signal Martha to stay back but his hand found nothing but air to hold on to. A feeling of harsh guilt began to grow as he remembered his earlier conversation with her. He lowers his head in shame as the memories came flooding back. However before he could begin to wallow in the past, a booming voice echoes down the hallway, it was one of the guards!

"Get a move on Saxon!"

The guard pushes him forward and they go deeper into the hallway.

-Earlier that day-

Martha steps foot on the soft grass outside her apartment. The news report of The Master on the television was still fresh in her mind. The Doctor follows closely behind. Martha buckles to her knees, tears start running down her face. The Doctor quickly scoops her up in his arms.

"Doctor, I can't. I can't help you. He took my family last time."

The Doctor keeps her secure in his arms to comfort her.

"Don't you dare think for a minute that you're not brave enough or strong enough Martha Jones! You're brilliant! "

The rate of Martha's tears begin to plateau. She tilts her head up towards the Doctor and pulls away from his arms.

"Doctor I'm sorry, I have to go. I need to protect them"

She deeply studies his eyes for a moment then breaks his embrace by putting her hands into his chest and pushing off lightly. She stands up and glances into his eyes once more before turning to run off, leaving the Doctor alone with his own emotions. Emotions that had stirred up while thinking about the day the Master unleashed his "Toclaphane" upon the world. The Doctor had reverse time so that anyone not on board the Valkyrie was non-the-wiser of the terrible year The Master was in charge. To them Saxon was just a quick in and out politician they don't remember why they voted for him or why he left so quickly. A blurt in their time line the only people the knew what really happened were Martha and the rest aboard the sky during the eye of the storm.

The Doctor kneeled silently on the terrain as life moved untouched around him. The guilt he had inside was boiling over as he thought about how many people he's gotten killed or put in danger over the years. She was right to run he thought, being with me only gets you a one way ticket to any early grave. He sat there and pondered this for a while in the grass. Tears clouding his vision.

-Present Time-

The Guard roughly tosses the Master into a room. The lights blink rapidly while warming up from not being used. The Doctor closes in but the door shuts behind him. He can only hear the muffled sound of the guard and banging noises mixed with faint groaning sounds. The guard picks up Master's head off the puddle of blood on the table.

"Look at this mess! You dirtied up my table with your filth,swine. Now normally I wouldn't be so rough with my prisoners but you..."

The guard slams the Master's head back on the table.

"My sister worked for you. Hired her as a secretary. You know where she is now? Unemployed. Nobody wants to hire a supporter of the infamous Saxon. In office one minute out the next with no explanation. These are bad times Mr. Saxon and you managed to make it worse!"

The Master lifts his head up to say something. The guard aware the master might speak furiously lands a punch to the Master's face. The force knocks him off his chair landing him on his back, helpless to fight back with the handcuffs still on him.

"I didn't give you permission to speak did I?"

The guard looks at his hand soaked in blood.

"Ahhiiicck, look what you made me do. Now I have your filth on me. Better go clean it off, might catch the crazy. It's the end of the world isn't that what you said?"

The guard chuckles and opens the door and leaves the Master in tremendous pain on the ground, blood draining from his mouth and nose. The door squeaks open and closes again, but with one eye already swollen shut his vision is less then 20/20 and the sound of the drums in his head and pounding faster. He adjusts his head at the right angle to see white converse on the floor. He instantly knows they don't belong to the guard. The shoes step closer and the Master gasps in shock and tries his hardest to inch away from the forthcoming Doctor.

"...st...stay...away from me..." The Master Squeals

The Master manages to scramble to his feet. He makes a break for the door, grabbing the handle with both hands as best he could with handcuffs to try to open the door. The Doctor raises his arm and points his Sonic Screwdriver to the handle locking it.

"You're not going anywhere Master not until you tell me what you did!"

The Doctor advances towards.

The Master put his back to the wall next to door he slumps down to the floor in defeat.

"Fine. Yes, It was me! I lead the rebellion against you! And I will NEVER be sorry! What your doing, it's not right."

The Master yells as blood spews from his mouth.

The Doctor's anger melts into confusion then shifts back into anger. He walks closer the Master frightened shield himself with his handcuffed arms. The Doctor stops in his place.

"I'm not playing games Master enough. What are you up to?! What was that device you had and what did it do?!

The Master tilts his head and notices a pen laying on the table.

"A device? I have no device"

Master lunges at the table and grabs the pen and laughs insanely as he backs away from the Doctor.

"So you found my hiding spot at the bar and transported me here before I could jump into the void is that it huh?! Clever Doctor, very clever but I won't be one of your torture playmates."

The Master holds up the pen to his jugular ready to puncture his neck at any moment.

"No! Stop! what are you doing? Don't. That's not the way. Listen I'm asking you real proper, put down the pen you don't want to do this."

And why not? What's the alternative? You slowly killing me then forcing a regenerate, only to kill me over again. Like you did to Lord President? No! You can't have me"

The Master moves to strike but a jiggle of the handle followed by a bang on the door from the guard startles him. The doctor takes the opportunity to pounce of the Master to wrestle away the pen. Master having majority control of the pen struggle with the Doctors weight to penetrate his neck. The Doctor finally wins the struggle and pulls the pen from the Master.

"Master, stop this. What's wrong with you? Torture? End of the world? It's the ANTI-TARDIS you built isn't it, it's doing something to you! Tell me what is it you've seen!