He's Fire And Ice And Rage

Follows this.

He was quite pleased with the Master's development. He'd learned how to behave, for the most part. Oh, he was hardly the most agreeable of companions, but he wouldn't want the Master to be agreeable. He wanted him to be the Master. He wanted him to be there, part of his world.

Over the week that followed, the quiet drumming in his mind that insisted that the Master had to live at all costs had quieted, the part of him that was the Doctor apparently sated with the Master's presence. The Valeyard was pleased with it, too. He remembered why he was so fond of his old enemy. He posed a challenge.

He was challenged with frustration and irritation and glorious success. Things were going better than planned, and now with the traitor out of the way, he'd be able to do so much more.

The week went by wonderfully. He felt the first tremor of exhaustion run through him and he believed that he might sleep well for the first time since the Master came back into his life.

Jail is never a fun place to be.

It is, in fact, considered the third most unpleasant place in the galaxy to be. The second most unpleasant place to be is the Pink Dog Bar off of Setera Beta 7, where the ruffians and terrible thieves of your nightmares are just the waitstaff, and the bartenders and owners are even worse. The sticky floors and battered walls are unreasonably unpleasant, and the atmosphere is far more frightening than even the terrible Doom Cave of Terrifying Alpha. Once you pass through the metal detector confirming that you do, in fact, have a weapon (and you're strongly advised to have a weapon in the Pink Dog Bar unless you want to be awarded with the badge that reads "Easy Bait" and left to your own), you are then told to find your own seat, and you'll have a number of the aforementioned ruffians and thieving waitstaff to ask to move if you want to seat. The Death Bird of Trevall will follow all newcomers to the Pink Dog Bar from the moment they enter to the moment they leave, or die, whichever comes first. If you ever find yourself in the Pink Dog Bar, it is advised by most authorities and traveling professionals that you find yourself somewhere else.

The first most unpleasant place to be is the Pearle Vision Optical Shop in Baltimore, Maryland, United States, Earth. But why you would find yourself there is really only if you were desperate for a pair of glasses, or if you were an adult university student desperate for work. But that is, of course, not where you are.

Where you are is jail. Why you are here is really your own business, but the people who have captured you and incarcerated you beleive very strongly in their ability and reason to have done so, and they are, therefore, dragging you along the dank and dirty hallways towards your cell with a certain amount of pleasure that can only be derived from dragging an unwilling prisoner to an unpleasant fate.

Once your cell door has been open and you've been thrown in, that's about the point where your brand new cellmate makes himself known. He is a tall, lanky man, with sticky-uppy brown hair and a tattered-looking blue suit. He is not particularly awful, as cellmates go, certainly not as bad as the Death Bird of Trevall, but he appears to be rather put-out by his current placement.

"You don't understand!" he cries, trying to get to the door before it closes (and failing). "I thought this was the Pretractor System! Is it really my fault if my timing was that far off?"

And this, as they say, is where you come in.

OOC: Open post. Any verse, any time. I've missed you guys! Have fun!

The Master gives the Doctor visiting rights once a day.

There's so much pretense to the visiting rights. What a great honor it is that the Doctor gets them, how much the Master is put out by them, and how they'll be taken away the moment anyone does anything wrong. The Joneses probably believe the rules and the nonsense the Master spews at them, but the Doctor doesn't.

They are, of course, just part of the game. Everything is part of the game.

There's the part where the Master slides around the rooms on the Valiant, showing off just how much of the board he owns. There's the part where the other pieces are knocked around, showing just how little mobility they have left. There's the part where the dominated squares are put on full, horrifying display. And then there are the visiting rights.

It's Tuesday. It's Jack's day to visit the Doctor. He's sat with him in the room every Tuesday since the Master took over, his eternally young hand on the Doctor's withered old one, massaging out the pains and soothing the liver spots. There are rarely words on Jack's visiting days, just two very old men sitting together in their defeat. The Master both loves and hates these days, the Doctor knows. He loves them because Jack's pain is almost palatable, thick and rich in the eternally sterile air of the Valiant. He hates them because they don't talk, and there's very little to mock in two men sitting silently in pain.

(  Today is going to be different. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,781

It's not a game.

You can smell him on the wind.

Underneath the smell of rubbish, underneath the smell of discarded lives that the people of London pile up into big, disgusting heaps, he's there. He's hiding, and maybe in a place like this, he could hide from others, but he can't hide from you. You know his smell. It's a sharp, pungent tang; the familiar smell of Time and Eternity, mixed with the blood he's spilled and the burning smell of energy. His life force is raw and split open, and no planet could hide his scent.

Which means, of course, that he can smell you, too.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

He's playing your song. Four beats. A long pole pounding against an empty container, over and over. Calling to you. Over and over until you find him. Because that's what he wants, isn't it? To draw you in, to pull you closer. His own personal version of the cloister bell, calling out danger.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

You shouldn't run to him, and you know this. You know how wrong it is to want to run to him, you know how wrong it is to give in to what he so obviously wants. After all, this is all a game to him. To him, you're darting across a chess board and he's trying to find some sort of a strategic advantage. It doesn't matter if you want to play, the moment you chase him, you're playing. You're playing, and he's already got the lead. You know this, but you still run to him. You don't have a choice; you have to follow, you have to find him. Your feet pound against the cold, dusty ground as you chase him down.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

And there he is. Standing across the field from you. Standing there, screaming out in frustration. The black king and the white king, across the board. All of your pawns have been used up, and it's just you against him. You can't checkmate another king without at least one pawn and you know this, but it doesn't stop you from running towards him. Never giving up, never resigning. You've lost your fair share of games to him, but you won't, not this time.

He roars. It's a pained, animalistic sound. He roars and you can feel his pain, you can taste it in the air. It's sharp and palatable on the back of your tongue. He's dying, he's burning up, he's a ball of energy held together by the strength of his own will. After all, he's never given up a game to you, either, no matter how many times you've bested him.

A stench hits the wind. It's like burning hair and rotting flesh and it's him but it isn't. He's dying. He's dying and he's burning up and you stare, open-mouthed, at what he's become. What he's doing to himself. What he's doing in order to win.

And he leaps away, blasting out more energy to give himself the advantage. You stare for another moment, watching him go.

It's not cheating, of course. He's still only moving the number of spaces across the board he can, he's still only moving in the directions he's allowed, but he's holding back the clock, just a little while longer. Giving himself extra time, because he could never win this game in 35 minutes. He wants more time to beat you.

Which, of course, means that he's doing this to himself for you.

But this is the way it has always been.

And you chase. You run over long, rusted planks and slid across slick rock paths, but you chase because you must. Because this is the way the game has always been played. He has never chased you, you will always chase him.

When you fall too far behind, because you are always the one who falls behind, he waits. Waits and laughs, because games are supposed to be fun. His bones and muscles show through the limited energy holding him together and another blast of that terrible stench hits you.

"Please," you call, because it is always you who calls first. "Let me help!"

He tilts his head to the side, disgusted by this offer. You, offering to resign? Well, that would hardly make the game worth playing, would it? After all, games are meant to be won, not given. This is how he's always seen it, and you know this. It doesn't stop you from offering, just as you've always offered.

"You're burning up your own life force!" you say.

He knows this. He knows what he's sacrificing in order to win, but you doubt he's ever cared about anything but winning.

But this is not a game. Not to you.

He laughs and he runs again, and you chase. You chase because you always chase. He moves and you react because that is what you're programmed to do. It's deep within you, it's in your DNA, it's in the shape of your chess piece.

You like to imagine that if this were a game, you'd both be kings, each trying but unable to best each other.

You're not, of course. You have no power in this game.

You've always been his pawn.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 883

For best_served_hot's first lines meme.


I watch him as he struggles to regain his feet and viciously kick him back down, my foot landing square in the middle of his chest.

( Cut for spoilers to 4.18 'The End of Time, Part Two'. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten / Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 604

FOR THE DRABBLE MEME.

• We sit in the car outside your house, whoah
I can feel the heat coming ’round
I go to put my arm around you
And you give me a look like I’m way out of bounds
Well you let out one of your bored sighs
Well lately when I look into your eyes
I’m goin’ down...

We get dressed up and we go out, baby, for the night
We come home early burning burning, burning in some fire fight
I’m sick and tired of you setting me up, yeah
Setting me up just to knock-a knock-a knock-a me down
I’m goin’ down.... •

It's a warm summer night and they are watching a planet burn.

They can't travel to all of the places one of them wants to go to without some sort of compromise. His compromise is the occasional viewing of a dying world or a collapsing star.

Something to silence the drums. Anything to quiet them, just a little while longer.

"Can't you hear them?" one asks the other.

"You know I can't," is the quick reply.

They both have ice cream as they sit, legs dangling out of the hovering TARDIS, but only one of them eats it. The other thinks it is far too sweet, and there's no real reason to sweeten a moment as terrible as this.

"How many die?" he asks, breathless at the destruction below them.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," he says. "It's important to know the numbers. The people you didn't save."

"Stop it."

"The people you didn't save for me." He smiles, victorious in his own way. "That's very nearly romantic, you know."

"You would think so."

He finishes up his ice cream and takes his uneaten companion's. If he were the sort to worry about his weight, he might be concerned about this gorging, but his metabolism is far too fast in this incarnation, and he's feeling far too guilty to care.

"We can't stay like this."

"No, I'll move the TARDIS once the flames reach this level of the sky."

"You and I, like this. I can't be your prisoner forever." It's one of his more lucid moments, and when he speaks his words are quiet and threatening. The quiet is always worse than the loud. The quiet comes with the knowledge that it will be loud soon, and no matter how much the quiet is savored, it will always, always end.

No, of course they can't stay like this. It isn't forever.

One of them stopped dealing in absolutes when he lost someone he was idiotic enough to believe he could have forever. The other never gave up on absolutes, even when he should've. But they'll cling, in their strange way, for as long as they can.

The flames lick across the surface of the world. Everyone is dead, there are no more minds crying out for help, begging for release. In a way, they've dried up this resource, sucked the bad from it that one of them needs to be calm.

"Can't you hear them?"

"You know I can't."

There's a quiet chuckle, followed by a loud sigh.

"I don't think you're trying."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 420
Based on RP with best_served_hot

FOR THE DRABBLE MEME.

• I'll sink Manhattan
Right under the sea
I'll find the sweetest spot to watch
As it goes away

You were so happy
With the things that you said
Like, "He's my lower half," you laughed
But you're going to cry

A river of tiny tears flow from your crocodile eyes
Too late to apologize, I say, as flood waters rise… •

He only just makes it to the top of the building by the time the tides reach them. Everything on this part of America has collapsed except this one building. It's funny, but once upon a time he stood at this peak, looking over a very different Manhattan, and succeeded in saving the world.

Now, all he's done is fail.

He tries to pump the heart of the woman next to him. One, two, three. Nothing. And again. One, two, three. He's too little to hold enough oxygen in his lungs to breathe life into her. He's too helpless to save her. Drowned, like the rest of the people in this city.

Harriet Jones. Former PM.

The apologies that he speaks now mean nothing. He didn't know. He didn't know this would happen, but it did and it's too late. He scrambles back, his little legs pushing him towards the building's spire quickly, but not quickly enough. He feels hot tears start to run down his face. He's failed. Failed, failed, failed.

A year ago, he wouldn't have cried like this. He's been trapped as a little boy for too long, now. And the one time, the one time he tried to escape, his captor drowned a city to bring him back. Drowned a city full of people. Good people. People like Wilfred Mott and Leo Jones and Harriet Jones, former PM.

The present PM's helicopter is lowering towards the Empire State building, the black machine mirrored against the sparkling, still water. The Doctor watches the shiny shoes of the Master, stepping around the spire until he faces him. He doesn't even acknowledge Harriet Jones, former PM. He only barely acknowledges the crying little boy in front of him.

"Oh, don't be stupid," he snaps. "I didn't do this because of you, you idiot."

He nudges the Doctor's arm with his shiny shoe, but the Doctor can't react, now. All he can do is cry like the child the Master has told him he is.

The Master crouches in front of him, his expression almost pitying, like a father having to tell his son that Father Christmas isn't real. "This is where the resistance was holding a very big meeting," he says, all patronizing and stern. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, sonny. But it's a very good job that Daddy Master has come to pick you up, isn't that right?"

"I hate you." It's one of the most immature things he's managed to say, but right now he means it with every fiber of his diminutive being. He hates the Master, he hates everything that's happened. He hates that his running shoes don't fit and he hates the miniature suit he's wearing and he hates, hates, hates what's become of the planet he loves.

The Master looks amused. It's infuriating. "It's always the fate of a father to watch his son hate him until he realizes he's right."

"You're not my father, Master." But even the way he says the Master's name seems small. The Master seems to notice that, too, because his eyebrows crinkle together in distaste. He doesn't get the same high he once did from the Doctor saying his name. Things will change again, soon, and the Doctor doesn't want to think how.

The Master nods upwards, and soon the Doctor hears the clomp-clomp of very high heels. Lucy Saxon, a brand new split on her lip (unsurprising, considering she was the one who was supposed to be watching the Doctor when he escaped), comes rushing over, immediately scooping the tiny Time Lord into her arms.

He doesn't resist, instead going limp as she holds him. Her grip is a little too tight, and he knows she must blame him for the Master's treatment of her. Blame the Doctor for every bruise and every pain she's suffered. Blame him for the things that have happened to this once beautiful world.

As he looks over her shoulder at the drowned city, he can't help but agree with her.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 676

It's doubtful he does anything without some sort of reason behind it; even hating you has its reason.

Following the arrival of this letter and this thread.

It's torture, holding a guilty secret in. But the Doctor shouldn't have worried, he thinks. To the Master, it's all a game.

The first part of the game is the anticipation. Waiting it out, writing the letter, picking out the perfect place. Castrovalva. The Doctor's fifth life started here, and the two of them very nearly formed an alliance over it. Very nearly.

( The Dwellings of Simplicity. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,008
Based on RP with savagestime, shatteredqueen, and handysparehand, among others!