pawnofrassilon | For Eileen <3<3

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For Eileen <3<3

On a cold spring evening in Wiltshire, in the year 2011, a man falls to Earth.

Some children look up and think they see a shooting star that night. Adults, knowing that whatever it is is far too large, think it might be a comet or meteor. Or else they assume it's a trick of the eyes, an afterimage of a headlamp on the road. Some, oddly enough, think of angels. News reports are non-definitive.

Much like the film, the man isn't quite a 'man' at all-- not by the twenty-first century Earth definition, anyhow. He's alien, though it's only by the doubling of his pulses and the nature of his abrupt appearance in the first place that any human could tell.

Unlike the film, he isn't particularly concerned with saving his home world. Not anymore.

The Master lies very still for a long time, heedless of the fact he's crumpled up in the middle of an open field. He's fallen quite a distance, even for a Time Lord. And many of his injuries are much, much older than that. His clothes are little more than rags, torn to shreds and singed to the point of near purposelessness. If it's even possible, he's dirtier than ever. Exhausted. Parched. Hungry. So hungry.

Eventually it's the hunger that gets him up and keeps him moving. Feeling the click and slide of bones that are likely dislocated if not broken, the Master struggles to his feet, heaving and wincing in pain, his skin becoming momentarily translucent with the effort. He's in trouble, his energy stores dangerously low and his body in real danger of being ripped apart. But it's nothing a little snack won't fix. Taking a great whiff of the night air, he cracks a grin just short of sanity... and lets his nose lead him staggering through the darkness.

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He waits patiently until she's finished, still wearing that patronizing smile, and then sits up, rubbing his wrists slowly and swinging his legs over the side of the table. And then he's up on his feet, prowling the small room and examining some of its contents with amused half-interest.

She watches him carefully, her hand hovering near the weapon at her hip.

"Do you want more food?"

He half-turns toward her, distracted by the promise of food despite his need to stay cool. Though perhaps if she leaves the room to fetch him another snack, he can get to work turning some of this equipment to his advantage...

"Can you get more?"

Rose looks up at the cameras, and taps the comm in her ear.

"You got that? Yes. All right."

She taps it again, and looks back to the Time Lord.

"They'll be back with more shortly."

There was no way she was leaving him alone.

The Master's eyes drift up to the cameras as Rose speaks, then settle back on her. It's a look of clear disdain.

"'They'. And who's that? Your crack team? Didn't realize the great and powerful Torchwood doubled as a catering service."

He fiddles idly with the dial on one of the machines. What's she going to do? Shoot him in the heart again?

"I'll bet you don't know what half of this stuff really does."

"I probably don't, no," she said, unwilling to let him shake her with that catering business. "Why don't you tell me?"

He merely shrugs. "Where's the fun in that? I'm sure a big, bad wolf like you can figure things out. Eventually." The Master turns, takes several steps closer to her. The phrasing's intentional; he can smell the traces of Vortex on the girl from here, now that his head's somewhat clear. All that energy, it makes one wonder-- could it restore him?

"You know, you could just let me out. Let me hunt. It'd be so much easier. No more catering."

Slowly, she takes a step toward him, then another, feeling inexplicably drawn to him.

"Hunt? For what, exactly?"

"Something... a little more filling." The Master's doing his best to sound reasonable-- he is correct, it would be more efficient-- but he can't stop his eyes gleaming at the mere thought of larger prey. Of catching and killing...

"Like what? Whole turkeys? Whole cows? Not... not people...?"

The Master's head tilts impatiently. "I can't afford to be picky, now can I? But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? The need for power. I hear you absorbed part of the TARDIS, once."

He takes another step closer, inhaling that near-tantalizing scent of raw energy. "Come on. Let me out. Do a fellow wolf a favor."

Again, another step closer, close enough to touch.

"How do you know about all that?"

The Master smirks. She's not backing away, though she should. What a perfect companion the Doctor chose this time.

"For one thing, I can smell it all over you." And he takes another whiff, sighing a little. Almost wistfully. "I'm a Time Lord, you think I don't know what a TARDIS smells like? The Time Vortex?"

He pauses for effect, then adds, almost as an afterthought: "Even if the Doctor hadn't told me."

"No," she protested, shaking her head. "No, you're wrong. He wouldn't..."

Although it made sense, didn't it? How else would he know her name, know all about Torchwood, know about the Bad Wolf, if not from the Doctor himself?

"He wouldn't what?" The Master takes another step. "Wouldn't brag about his 'most treasured companion'? Honestly, it's a feat trying to get him to shut up about how wonderfully resourceful you humans can be." Though they're technically compliments, the Master's taken on a disparaging tone, by habit more than anything.

"He told you about the Vortex," she said, more of a statement than a question.

She swallowed. The next words came out with a bit of a tremble to her voice.

"Is he all right?"

The question catches him off-guard and he stares at her for a bit before replying in a slightly softer voice.

"Yeah. Must be."

And then his eyes narrow and his voice tightens, suddenly irritated as much by the unwanted show of emotion as by the idea of the Doctor being 'all right' while he's been reduced to... this.

"I'm sure he's the same old irresponsible git he's always been. Flitting around from planet to planet, ruining everything as usual..."

But what is there to ruin if the Master isn't there? He swallows, turns away and examines the mis-assembled Traxian multiphase device he's absolutely certain they've assumed is a malfunctioning medical scanner. He could find the other pieces, perhaps. Assemble something to get the Doctor's attention once he's wrested control of this universe. Bring him into a brand new world, his Time Lord empire finally realized.

She watches him for a moment, taken by that softness, near vulnerability, in his voice. Then she steps closer, and carefully puts a hand on his arm.

"Please, tell me your name."

The Master spins around, fast, actually sparking with outrage, and makes a grab for her wrist.

"Don't touch me," he hisses savagely.

She's too stunned and he too fast, and he catches her wrist easily. She gasps at the shock of electricity that prickles her skin.

"Let me go," she says through clenched teeth.

He doesn't; in fact, he squeezes harder, his fingertips giving off too much heat.

"Why should I? I could kill you right now, you know. I could devour you whole. Reduce you to bones and dust and smoking ash. I could bleed all of that power right out of you. And you know the worst part? It still wouldn't be enough." He laughs then, near-hysterically, bringing his face close to hers. Little flecks of spittle escape his mouth as he speaks. His breath smells of something rotten and decaying.

"You want to know my name? You want to know who I am? I am the Master, little girl, and you. Will. Obey. Me."

The doors to the med bay slam open and soon the room is full of Torchwood agents, guns drawn and pointed at the Master. Rose is looking at her wrist, where his fingers are burning their imprint into her flesh. Then she looks up at him again, her eyes eerily calm.

"Last chance," she says quietly.

The Master can hear the doors open, the sound of hurried footfalls, the click of the guns. He can even hear the heartbeats of every agent in the room. But he continues to stare at Rose with wild eyes, breathing hard. Her heartbeat is the loudest, the closest. He could still it, at least, before they could stop him. He's quick enough. And he's dying anyway. What does it matter?

He watches her, debating... and then slowly he releases his grip on her wrist, takes a step back, raises his hands with a lazy grin spreading across his face.

Rose backs up, as the other agents advance, circling the Master. One of them breaks away to tend to Rose's wrist. She doesn't watch, though, as she contemplates the man... the Master... before her.

"The Master," she ponders. "What is it with you Time Lords and these names? The Master. The Doctor."

He raises an eyebrow at the half-question, watching the agents approach him with some amusement. "Oh? The Doctor never told his favorite companion why he calls himself 'The Doctor'?"

To the agents, he merely drawls, "Did you bring more sandwiches?"

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