Fic: There Was a Master in a Game (8/25)
Title: There Was a Master in a Game
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week guest stars K-9.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.
Betas: runriggers and earlgreytea68
Summary: Gallifrey wasn’t entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck. The Master wants out. Isn’t he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven
Chapter Eight: Vertical B
The Master couldn’t resist. “I’m on my way out of this fly trap,” he told the Time Lords at the table.
“N-17,” droned the Time Lord with the balls.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say,” replied the Master, and was gone before the next number was called.
*
The Master was in a jungle. A deep, wet heat settled onto his skin, almost as inviting as it was repulsive. Thick green vines made loops above his head, with small ants scurrying to and fro on their own missions of destruction. Somewhere to his left, he could hear the hooting sounds of birds in flight, conversing about this and that and the other thing, and there was the distinct feeling that a creature crouched amongst the low leaves, its eyes centered on his hearts, waiting for the precise moment to strike.
The Master giggled in glee. “The fifth story,” he chortled to himself. “I’m in the fifth story. Oh, this is brilliant, this is absolutely brilliant. Chloris? That’s a ruddy good planet. Deva Loka? The Kindas are a bit dull, though. Better not be Kembel. Not the right sort of plants for Spiridon - hope not, anyway….”
The Master crossed his arms and waited, bouncing on his toes a little.
Nothing happened.
“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “Every other place, something happened almost immediately. You’re not going to make me put effort into this, are you?”
The jungle continued with its jungle sounds.
“The only place where something didn’t happen was…” The Master blanched. When he got over it, he shouted so loudly, the leaves all around shook. “K-9!”
There was a whirring sound, and from the leaves behind him, a small tin dog rolled out onto the strangely hard-packed jungle floor.
“You called for me, Master?” asked the little tin dog.
“Either my chart is wrong,” said the Master icily, quite an accomplishment in the sultry heat, “or you’re back to being the Manager again.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Well, which is it?”
“I am sorry, Master, I do not understand the query.”
“Which is correct, that my chart is wrong or that you’re the manager?”
“Both theories are correct, Master. Your chart is incorrect, and I am the Manager in this world.”
The Master groaned, and rubbed his eyes. “Why the bloody fockin’ hell are we in a jungle?”
“I do not know, Master.”
“You’re the Manager.”
“Affirmative, Master. My function is to provide you with your fantasies.”
The Master stared at the little dog through his fingers. “Fantasies? You said that before.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
The Master pulled the sheath of papers out from his back pocket and examined it. “Right. Fantasies.” He scribbled something down. “So exactly what made you think my fantasy was a jungle?”
The rewinding whirr, and then the Master’s voice again. “…out of this fly trap…”
The Master frowned. “A jungle is a fly trap?”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9. “A jungle on Spiridon.”
Somewhere above their heads, one of the vines began to move.
“We need to work on your definition of fantasies,” the Master told K-9.
“Affirmative, Master.”
“But for now, I’d advocate finding another one of my fantasies to emulate.”
The first moving vine was joined by a second. The Master eyed it warily.
“I cannot determine which fantasy to fulfill without some assistance on your part, Master,” explained the little tin dog.
“Anywhere not here,” said the Master flatly, watching a third vine join the other two. They seemed to be….weaving something.
“Do you have any specific recommendations, Master?”
The vines completed their weaving dance, and began to drop, quite suddenly, toward the Master’s head. He could just make out the series of mouths visible under each of the leaves.
“NOW, K-9, GET US OUT OF HERE NOW!”
Blink.
“I hope this is to your liking, Master,” said K-9.
The Master’s hearts were still pounding. For a moment, he wasn’t all that certain that the chandelier hanging above his head wasn’t still a set of carnivorous vines from the jungle planet of Spiridon, where the plants were more animalistic than the animals themselves. The chandelier’s design didn’t help; it looked very much like three vines interwoven together, dark iron twisted in what he was sure was meant to be a decorative pattern, but really looked more like something that might try to pop his head off had it fallen on his shoulders.
It took a moment before he looked around and noticed that the nearby chairs and tables had been worked in the same design. The only difference was that sitting on the chairs at the various tables were half a dozen families, all dressed in their Sunday Edwardian best and eating extremely large ice cream sundaes.
“An ice cream parlour?” asked the Master. “My fantasy is an ice cream parlour?”
“The air is cold and dry. The mammals are the ones eating the plants, not the other way around,” explained K-9.
“Ice cream is plant life?”
“I thought you would enjoy this more than a salad bar.”
The Master sat down at the nearest table, where a young boy was greedily working on a Knickerbocker Glory. A spoon lay next to the glass; the Master wasn’t sure if it’d been there all along, or merely appeared as he was sitting down. It didn’t matter. He used it to take a rather substantial spoonful of meringue and cream, and began licking it off. The boy didn’t seem to notice, which took some of the fun out of it, but the Master kept licking anyway.
“So,” he said in between licks. “You’re here. And you fulfill my fantasies.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“You’re not associated with Torchwood here, but you are in other locations.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Name Linda mean anything to you?”
“Affirmative, Master.”
The Master’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t just saying yes because you think I want to hear yes, are you?”
“Negative, Master.”
“Good.” The Master took another helping of ice cream. The boy frowned briefly, but did not protest. “Well, go on. Tell me about Linda.”
“Linda. The word means ‘beautiful’ in the Spanish language, designation Earth. It is a common name for Earth women, although some men in the Earth country of South Africa bear the name, where it means ‘one who is waiting’ in the language of IsiZulu…”
The Master groaned. “No, you stupid dog, I meant a girl named Linda, specifically a girl who you might know or interact with in some other lifetime. Blonde chit, perky, thinks she’s sweet but so far she’s been something of a hellion. Half the time, anyway. And she’s associated with Torchwood one way or another.”
“Affirmative, Master. I have interactions with a Lynda of that description.”
“Finally,” said the Master, and went for a third helping of Glory. This time, the boy fought back, knocking the Master’s spoon out of the way. The Master retaliated with a swift kick to the boy’s chair, knocking him off balance enough that he was able to take another spoonful of meringue and custard. “Right then, tell me about Linda.”
“Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
“I knew she wasn’t 21st century,” snorted the Master, going for a fourth helping of Glory.
“Employee of Torchwood-“
“Ha!”
“-as Lobby Receptionist. Contestant on the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House.”
“She must have filled out that question finally,” said the Master. He waited, but the little tin dog didn’t say anything further. “Well, go on. That all you got?”
“Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master groaned. “You said that already.”
“Employee of Unified Intelligence Taskforce as a Time Flux Operative-“
“Wait,” said the Master, sitting up, his ice cream forgotten. The little boy, noticing the sudden shift in attention, quickly began shoveling the ice cream in. “U.N.I.T.? After that telly competition, right?”
There was a pause while the little dog checked his data banks. The Master waited, somewhat impatiently.
“Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master growled. “You said that….”
“Winner of the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House.”
“Ha!”
“Employed by Harkness Investigative Agency, London.”
The Master dropped his spoon. The boy dug frantically at his ice cream.
“Say. That. Again,” said the Master.
There was another pause. “Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master pulled out his laser screwdriver.
“Kidnapped from the Game Station during the final Dalek Assault…”
The Master had already dropped his spoon. This time, he fell out of his chair.
“Daleks?” he croaked. “Daleks?”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9, finally breaking out of his recitations. “Kidnapped from the Game Station during the final Dalek Assault and carried in the resultant Time Leap-“
The Master rubbed his face. K-9 fell silent. “You’re telling me that Linda Moss has worked for Torchwood and U.N.I.T., been on the telly and won the grand prize, was kidnapped by Daleks and sent through a Time Leap?”
“Negative, Master,” said the little tin dog.
“Great, then,” said the Master, throwing his hands up in the air. “What am I missing?”
“Lynda Moss did these things. Lynda Moss did not do all these things.”
The Master stared at the little tin dog.
The little tin dog, being little and tin and not having eyelids, stared back.
The Master looked at his papers again.
“I don’t suppose Linda Moss went in a Time Loop to Victorian England where she met another blonde chit who’s getting married to Randolph Spencer-Churchill?”
“Lynda Moss is unacquainted with blondes in Victorian England, Master,” said K-9.
“Huh,” said the Master, and made some notations on his card. “Okay, about the Victorian England chit. If Linda doesn’t know her, then she’s got to either be with the ray guns, the Sycorax, or Torchwood. Right?”
“Your theory is incorrect, Master. The girl engaged to marry Sir Randolph Spencer-Churchill is not associated with any of those items.”
The ice cream parlor fell silent, save for the frantic scraping of a spoon against a nearly empty Glory glass.
“Well, fuck,” said the Master finally. “My card’s wrong.”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9.
The Master stood up. The boy at the table, his face now covered in chocolate sauce and cream, cowered.
“You ate the cherry, didn’t you?” said the Master coolly.
“Yessir,” whispered the boy.
“Figures,” said the Master. He glared at K-9. “Don’t suppose it’s in your managerial duties to give clues, is it?”
The little tin dog whirred for a moment before speaking. “Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master groaned.
“Former contestant on Big Brother House, 4,568th rendition. Successfully repaired TARDIS Chameleon Circuit during 100 Days Wait following the Dalek invasion of Earth.”
The Master slowly unfolded the papers and stared.
“Double fuck,” he said. “That’s five stories for Lynda.”
“Affirmative, Master,” confirmed K-9.
The Master marched over to the counter, where it only took a moment to determine the location of the cherries. He quickly scooped up the entire container, and with a last disturbingly evil glare at both boy and tin dog, was gone.
*
“That wanker,” he swore at the other Time Lords. “I’m not the center square.”
The Time Lords looked at each other.
“Anyone up for Mahjongg?” suggested Romana.
“Eh,” said the Time Lords.
“Oh, go piss yourselves,” snapped the Master, and went to sulk somewhere else.
Chapter Nine
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week guest stars K-9.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.
Betas: runriggers and earlgreytea68
Summary: Gallifrey wasn’t entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck. The Master wants out. Isn’t he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven
Chapter Eight: Vertical B
The Master couldn’t resist. “I’m on my way out of this fly trap,” he told the Time Lords at the table.
“N-17,” droned the Time Lord with the balls.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say,” replied the Master, and was gone before the next number was called.
*
The Master was in a jungle. A deep, wet heat settled onto his skin, almost as inviting as it was repulsive. Thick green vines made loops above his head, with small ants scurrying to and fro on their own missions of destruction. Somewhere to his left, he could hear the hooting sounds of birds in flight, conversing about this and that and the other thing, and there was the distinct feeling that a creature crouched amongst the low leaves, its eyes centered on his hearts, waiting for the precise moment to strike.
The Master giggled in glee. “The fifth story,” he chortled to himself. “I’m in the fifth story. Oh, this is brilliant, this is absolutely brilliant. Chloris? That’s a ruddy good planet. Deva Loka? The Kindas are a bit dull, though. Better not be Kembel. Not the right sort of plants for Spiridon - hope not, anyway….”
The Master crossed his arms and waited, bouncing on his toes a little.
Nothing happened.
“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “Every other place, something happened almost immediately. You’re not going to make me put effort into this, are you?”
The jungle continued with its jungle sounds.
“The only place where something didn’t happen was…” The Master blanched. When he got over it, he shouted so loudly, the leaves all around shook. “K-9!”
There was a whirring sound, and from the leaves behind him, a small tin dog rolled out onto the strangely hard-packed jungle floor.
“You called for me, Master?” asked the little tin dog.
“Either my chart is wrong,” said the Master icily, quite an accomplishment in the sultry heat, “or you’re back to being the Manager again.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Well, which is it?”
“I am sorry, Master, I do not understand the query.”
“Which is correct, that my chart is wrong or that you’re the manager?”
“Both theories are correct, Master. Your chart is incorrect, and I am the Manager in this world.”
The Master groaned, and rubbed his eyes. “Why the bloody fockin’ hell are we in a jungle?”
“I do not know, Master.”
“You’re the Manager.”
“Affirmative, Master. My function is to provide you with your fantasies.”
The Master stared at the little dog through his fingers. “Fantasies? You said that before.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
The Master pulled the sheath of papers out from his back pocket and examined it. “Right. Fantasies.” He scribbled something down. “So exactly what made you think my fantasy was a jungle?”
The rewinding whirr, and then the Master’s voice again. “…out of this fly trap…”
The Master frowned. “A jungle is a fly trap?”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9. “A jungle on Spiridon.”
Somewhere above their heads, one of the vines began to move.
“We need to work on your definition of fantasies,” the Master told K-9.
“Affirmative, Master.”
“But for now, I’d advocate finding another one of my fantasies to emulate.”
The first moving vine was joined by a second. The Master eyed it warily.
“I cannot determine which fantasy to fulfill without some assistance on your part, Master,” explained the little tin dog.
“Anywhere not here,” said the Master flatly, watching a third vine join the other two. They seemed to be….weaving something.
“Do you have any specific recommendations, Master?”
The vines completed their weaving dance, and began to drop, quite suddenly, toward the Master’s head. He could just make out the series of mouths visible under each of the leaves.
“NOW, K-9, GET US OUT OF HERE NOW!”
Blink.
“I hope this is to your liking, Master,” said K-9.
The Master’s hearts were still pounding. For a moment, he wasn’t all that certain that the chandelier hanging above his head wasn’t still a set of carnivorous vines from the jungle planet of Spiridon, where the plants were more animalistic than the animals themselves. The chandelier’s design didn’t help; it looked very much like three vines interwoven together, dark iron twisted in what he was sure was meant to be a decorative pattern, but really looked more like something that might try to pop his head off had it fallen on his shoulders.
It took a moment before he looked around and noticed that the nearby chairs and tables had been worked in the same design. The only difference was that sitting on the chairs at the various tables were half a dozen families, all dressed in their Sunday Edwardian best and eating extremely large ice cream sundaes.
“An ice cream parlour?” asked the Master. “My fantasy is an ice cream parlour?”
“The air is cold and dry. The mammals are the ones eating the plants, not the other way around,” explained K-9.
“Ice cream is plant life?”
“I thought you would enjoy this more than a salad bar.”
The Master sat down at the nearest table, where a young boy was greedily working on a Knickerbocker Glory. A spoon lay next to the glass; the Master wasn’t sure if it’d been there all along, or merely appeared as he was sitting down. It didn’t matter. He used it to take a rather substantial spoonful of meringue and cream, and began licking it off. The boy didn’t seem to notice, which took some of the fun out of it, but the Master kept licking anyway.
“So,” he said in between licks. “You’re here. And you fulfill my fantasies.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“You’re not associated with Torchwood here, but you are in other locations.”
“Affirmative, Master.”
“Name Linda mean anything to you?”
“Affirmative, Master.”
The Master’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t just saying yes because you think I want to hear yes, are you?”
“Negative, Master.”
“Good.” The Master took another helping of ice cream. The boy frowned briefly, but did not protest. “Well, go on. Tell me about Linda.”
“Linda. The word means ‘beautiful’ in the Spanish language, designation Earth. It is a common name for Earth women, although some men in the Earth country of South Africa bear the name, where it means ‘one who is waiting’ in the language of IsiZulu…”
The Master groaned. “No, you stupid dog, I meant a girl named Linda, specifically a girl who you might know or interact with in some other lifetime. Blonde chit, perky, thinks she’s sweet but so far she’s been something of a hellion. Half the time, anyway. And she’s associated with Torchwood one way or another.”
“Affirmative, Master. I have interactions with a Lynda of that description.”
“Finally,” said the Master, and went for a third helping of Glory. This time, the boy fought back, knocking the Master’s spoon out of the way. The Master retaliated with a swift kick to the boy’s chair, knocking him off balance enough that he was able to take another spoonful of meringue and custard. “Right then, tell me about Linda.”
“Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
“I knew she wasn’t 21st century,” snorted the Master, going for a fourth helping of Glory.
“Employee of Torchwood-“
“Ha!”
“-as Lobby Receptionist. Contestant on the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House.”
“She must have filled out that question finally,” said the Master. He waited, but the little tin dog didn’t say anything further. “Well, go on. That all you got?”
“Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master groaned. “You said that already.”
“Employee of Unified Intelligence Taskforce as a Time Flux Operative-“
“Wait,” said the Master, sitting up, his ice cream forgotten. The little boy, noticing the sudden shift in attention, quickly began shoveling the ice cream in. “U.N.I.T.? After that telly competition, right?”
There was a pause while the little dog checked his data banks. The Master waited, somewhat impatiently.
“Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master growled. “You said that….”
“Winner of the 4,568th rendition of Big Brother House.”
“Ha!”
“Employed by Harkness Investigative Agency, London.”
The Master dropped his spoon. The boy dug frantically at his ice cream.
“Say. That. Again,” said the Master.
There was another pause. “Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master pulled out his laser screwdriver.
“Kidnapped from the Game Station during the final Dalek Assault…”
The Master had already dropped his spoon. This time, he fell out of his chair.
“Daleks?” he croaked. “Daleks?”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9, finally breaking out of his recitations. “Kidnapped from the Game Station during the final Dalek Assault and carried in the resultant Time Leap-“
The Master rubbed his face. K-9 fell silent. “You’re telling me that Linda Moss has worked for Torchwood and U.N.I.T., been on the telly and won the grand prize, was kidnapped by Daleks and sent through a Time Leap?”
“Negative, Master,” said the little tin dog.
“Great, then,” said the Master, throwing his hands up in the air. “What am I missing?”
“Lynda Moss did these things. Lynda Moss did not do all these things.”
The Master stared at the little tin dog.
The little tin dog, being little and tin and not having eyelids, stared back.
The Master looked at his papers again.
“I don’t suppose Linda Moss went in a Time Loop to Victorian England where she met another blonde chit who’s getting married to Randolph Spencer-Churchill?”
“Lynda Moss is unacquainted with blondes in Victorian England, Master,” said K-9.
“Huh,” said the Master, and made some notations on his card. “Okay, about the Victorian England chit. If Linda doesn’t know her, then she’s got to either be with the ray guns, the Sycorax, or Torchwood. Right?”
“Your theory is incorrect, Master. The girl engaged to marry Sir Randolph Spencer-Churchill is not associated with any of those items.”
The ice cream parlor fell silent, save for the frantic scraping of a spoon against a nearly empty Glory glass.
“Well, fuck,” said the Master finally. “My card’s wrong.”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9.
The Master stood up. The boy at the table, his face now covered in chocolate sauce and cream, cowered.
“You ate the cherry, didn’t you?” said the Master coolly.
“Yessir,” whispered the boy.
“Figures,” said the Master. He glared at K-9. “Don’t suppose it’s in your managerial duties to give clues, is it?”
The little tin dog whirred for a moment before speaking. “Lynda Moss, 27 years of age, Earth Standard Time. Born in London in the 201st century.”
The Master groaned.
“Former contestant on Big Brother House, 4,568th rendition. Successfully repaired TARDIS Chameleon Circuit during 100 Days Wait following the Dalek invasion of Earth.”
The Master slowly unfolded the papers and stared.
“Double fuck,” he said. “That’s five stories for Lynda.”
“Affirmative, Master,” confirmed K-9.
The Master marched over to the counter, where it only took a moment to determine the location of the cherries. He quickly scooped up the entire container, and with a last disturbingly evil glare at both boy and tin dog, was gone.
*
“That wanker,” he swore at the other Time Lords. “I’m not the center square.”
The Time Lords looked at each other.
“Anyone up for Mahjongg?” suggested Romana.
“Eh,” said the Time Lords.
“Oh, go piss yourselves,” snapped the Master, and went to sulk somewhere else.
Chapter Nine