Fic: There Was a Master in a Game (14/25)
Title: There Was a Master in a Game
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week’s guest stars are Dalek Caan and Jack Harkness.
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 ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve ~ Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen: Horizontal I (and Back Again)
Dalek Caan had a plan.
It was a good plan, too, except it involved one small potential problem.
Well, not small. Actually, the potential problem was fairly substantial, not to mention quick-thinking and possessing full use of opposable thumbs.
Dalek Caan missed opposable thumbs. Okay, fine, having opposable thumbs meant susceptibility to having those thumbs injured or even amputated, not to mention any number of nail fungi, but that was minor when it was an issue of opening the pickle jar.
Dalek Caan missed pickles. Pickles were good. Sometimes, all Dalek Caan really wanted was a pickle.
Like today.
Hence, Dalek Caan had a plan.
(Dalek Caan often went off topic. But he always managed to get back again before too long. It was always best to stay as close to topic as possible, particularly when the plan depended on the Potential Problem remaining asleep in the Barcalounger.)
Dalek Caan rolled slowly toward the kitchen. This was always the tricky part. Roll too quickly, and there would be enough noise to wake the Potential Problem. Roll too slowly, and eventually, the Potential Problem would wake on his own. Dalek Caan went at a speed he hoped was a happy medium.
Dalek Caan had never actually met a happy medium. Usually they were either quacks claiming to see ghosts in order to elicit unsuspecting and gullible clients to fork over obscene amounts of cash, or they were deeply depressed and often psychotic.
Dalek Caan was not psychotic. He might have put on that impression from time to time (and usually did, when telemarketers rang), but really, his head was squarely on his…um…things approximating shoulders.
Dalek Caan missed shoulders. Except shoulders were attached to arms which were attached to wrists which were attached to hands which usually included the dreaded opposable thumb, so Davros had said, “Off with their shoulders!”
(Well, Davros hadn’t actually said that, but ever since having seen Alice in Wonderland, Dalek Caan had decided that it was a thing Davros might have said, had Davros ever seen Alice in Wonderland.)
Dalek Caan did not miss Davros.
Davros, after all, didn’t like pickles, or he might have approved of opposable thumbs, and the shoulders that eventually attached to them.
Dalek Caan liked pickles. He picked up speed a little, which was just as well, because there was a bump as he entered the kitchen, and it took the extra burst of speed to get over the bump. It also made a “bump” sort of noise, and Dalek Caan waited for the Potential Problem to potentially wake.
The Problem snored on.
Dalek Caan turned toward the refrigerator, practically shaking with glee. He hadn’t tasted a pickle in three hours, at least. Possibly an entire day. It was hard to tell, sometimes, since his internal systems had been fried when he entered the Time Lock in the first place. Dalek Caan didn’t remember anymore why he’d tried to go straight from Manhattan in 1930-whatever-it-was to the Time War in its Time Lock. He supposed it seemed like a good idea at the time, but Dalek Caan didn’t have a firm grasp on time anymore anyway, so he didn’t think it mattered very much. Frankly, trying to keep track of time was giving Dalek Caan a headache.
Dalek Caan did not like headaches. He wondered why Davros had decided thumbs were bad, with all their potential problems, but heads, with things like headaches, were perfectly adequate.
Davros, thought Dalek Caan with a frisson of excitement and daring, was an idiot.
Although really, anyone who didn’t like pickles was possibly an idiot.
Such a blasphemous thought would have sent a shiver down Dalek Caan’s back, if that hadn’t also been eradicated by the clearly idiotic, pickle-hating Davros.
Dalek Caan examined the refrigerator critically, and then moved his suction cup to seal itself onto the door. He reversed at a precise 45 degree angle, and the door slowly opened.
If Dalek Caan had possessed lips, he would have grinned. As it was, his eyestalk had a happy shine to it.
Maneuvering around the open refrigerator door was something of a challenge. This had been Dalek Caan’s failing point on previous attempts, but this time, he was able to clear the door without any problems. Dalek Caan resisted the urge to cheer. Any expression of pleasure would be sure to result in the Potential Problem waking.
It was only now, looking at the open refrigerator, that Dalek Caan realized his mistake.
The pickles were located in the door, slightly higher than his suction cup could reach.
Levitation was noisy.
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk drooped a little bit.
And then the refrigerator starting beeping.
Dalek Caan reversed, every instinct telling him to get out get out now oh shit.
“Wha?” said the Potential Problem, waking in the other room.
Dalek Caan sighed, reversed, and let his eyestalk fall completely. There was no hope of escape: the Potential Problem was awake, and he would be unable to maneuver the door closed before the Problem would enter the kitchen and discover his attempt to retrieve the pickles.
Sure enough, two minutes later (or perhaps an hour, it was hard to tell), Jack Harkness entered the kitchen.
“Pickles again?” he asked wryly.
“Yes,” said Dalek Caan mournfully.
“You could just ask.” Jack walked over and reached for the pickle jar.
“Daleks do not ask,” said Dalek Caan, his eyestalk lifting a little with as much pride as he could muster. “Daleks take.”
“Yeah, and Daleks also exterminate, but I don’t see you doing that anytime soon.” He offered Dalek Caan the pickle jar.
Dalek Caan rolled away, wishing he was rolling with a pickle.
Jack shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He was about to replace the pickle jar in the refrigerator when there was a sudden movement at the door leading to the Barcalounger, followed by the familiar whir of a sonic screwdriver.
“What the-“ yelled Jack, and he tackled the man standing in the doorway before the screwdriver could actually do any damage. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
Dalek Caan watched the pickle jar very carefully. There was a chance that in the process of tackling the new inferior humanoid, the Problem would have dropped the jar, freeing the pickles and allowing Dalek Caan to take as many as he wished. Unfortunately, the jar rolled unharmed across the kitchen floor to stop at Dalek Caan’s casing.
“Do you know what that thing is?” shrieked the new man, as he and the Problem rolled in their effort to gain control of the screwdriver. “I just bloody saved your life, you ungrateful immortal moron.”
Dalek Caan stretched his suction cup as far as it could go, but he couldn’t quite get the sharp angle necessary for reaching the pickle jar.
“Dalek Caan!” yelled the Problem. “A little help here!”
Dalek Caan sighed at the pickle jar, and decided that if he couldn’t access it for now, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to retrieve it later.
A quick zap from his once formidable gunstick, and the two men yelped as the low-level current ran through their nervous systems. Dalek Caan sighed again. He’d always liked the part where their skeletons became visible. He missed that part.
He also missed pickles. He wasn’t likely to regain the ability to zap humans into skeletons again. But perhaps if the new man was very nice, he’d open the pickle jar and retrieve one.
The new man certainly seemed grateful enough. He lay on his back, patting his body to check that all pieces were present and accounted for. Chest and legs and hips and…oh. Dalek Caan, if he had been in the possession of cheeks, would have blushed to see where the new man patted himself now. For a moment, he was very glad that Davros had seen fit to discard cheeks.
(“Off with their cheeks!”)
“I’m not dead,” gasped the man.
“Don’t hold your breath,” advised Jack, and he sat up, shaking his head. “Caan, can’t you aim any better than that?”
“No,” said Dalek Caan mournfully. He didn’t bother to add that his aim improved in direct correlation to how many pickles he was allowed to eat. He’d tried that trick before. The Problem, being Problematic, never believed him.
The man slowly got to his feet. Jack copied him, just a tad bit faster. The man didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “That thing only aims to kill,” he said, staring in amazement at Dalek Caan.
“He did once, yeah,” said Jack cautiously. “Not anymore.” He frowned. “Wait. What are you doing here?”
“You brought me,” said the man absently, walking towards Dalek Caan as if he’d rather be walking in the other direction, but couldn’t help himself. “A Dalek? He put a Dalek in here?”
“He being…”
“Dudley Do-Right. The Doctor,” said the man impatiently.
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk swiveled up from the pickle jar. “The Doctor did not place me here,” he reported in a dry monotone. “I arrived of my own free will, in an attempt to break into the Time War, and I am now caught in the Time Lock.”
“That’s about the size of it,” confirmed Jack.
“Into?” repeated the man incredulously. “Why the bloody hell would anyone want into the Time War?”
“I do not recall my reason,” said Dalek Caan. He doubted it had anything to do with pickles. There were no pickles in the Time War.
“And you’re the warden?” the man asked Jack with a snort. “Oh, that’s rich. Well, let’s see if we can’t deconstruct this little passion play here.” He pulled a roll of papers out from his back pocket. “Right, so, Jack Harkness - tell me about yourself. Does the name Amy Pond ring a bell?“
Jack blinked. “Is she pretty?”
“Oh, please,” snorted the man. “You’d find a rock gorgeous in the right light.”
“If it was a gorgeous rock, sure,” said Jack.
The man turned to the Dalek. “Does it answer questions, or does it shoot first?”
“I respond to inquiries,” said Dalek Caan mournfully, still looking at the pickle jar.
“So how about you? Amy Pond?”
“No.”
The man made a mark on his papers. “Any Sycorax nearby?”
Jack blinked. “No,” he said.
Dalek Caan looked up. “Across the street.”
The man looked startled. “Excuse me?”
The Problem glared at Dalek Caan. “Those aren’t Sycorax, they’re zombies.”
“They look like Sycorax.”
“They’re not. They’re zombies. They’re perfectly harmless as long as you tell them to go to their rooms.”
“They smell like Sycorax.”
“How can you even smell, you don’t have a nose?” yelled Jack, and Dalek Caan reversed a few inches.
The pickle jar rolled with him.
The man tsked. “Now, now, don’t shout at the poor thing.”
“Poor thing?” asked Jack incredulously. “You were cowering in terror over it three minutes ago and now you’re calling it poor thing?”
“It didn’t kill me,” said the man with a shrug. “So, zombies, but no Sycorax. That’s a new one. Do you have any ray guns anywhere?”
“My gunstalk was reconditioned,” said Dalek Caan sadly.
“Noticed, and glad for it,” said the man. “Hope I’m not thanking the Doctor for that favor.”
“You are, actually,” said Jack irritably. “Speaking of, hand it over.”
The man looked up, a paragon of innocence. “Hand what over?”
“The sonic screwdriver,” said Jack patiently, moving his fingers. “I know you have it, because I don’t.”
“It’s not exactly yours,” said the man. “I’m just going to return it to its rightful owner.”
“Not bloody likely,” said Jack.
“Like you will,” scoffed the man. “Clearly, you stole it first.”
“I did not steal-“
The man’s mouth dropped open. “Wait - what?”
“I was given that sonic screwdriver fair and square-“
“HA!” shouted the man suddenly, and began scribbling something on the paper. “Of course. It’s not ray guns at all, it’s theft. Linda stole the Vortex Manipulator, you stole the screwdriver.”
Jack blinked. “Who?”
The man waved his hand. “Linda. Don’t worry about her.”
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk flashed. “Who?”
The man looked up, suddenly interested. “Linda?”
The eyestalk blinked again. The man began chortling to himself. “Oh, now that’s very interesting.” He began scribbling. “You just blundered in of your own free will, is that it? What are you going to do if you actually make it into the Time War, anyway? Rescue Davros and maybe steal a bunch of planets in a misguided attempt to exterminate the galaxy in one fell swoop?”
“Okay, seriously, how did you get here?” asked Jack, giving Dalek Caan a nervous glance.
“Told you,” said the man, still scribbling. “You brought me.”
“I didn’t bring you,” said Jack. “I don’t even know you.”
“Sure you do,” said the man.
“He is the Time Lord known as the Master,” said Dalek Caan, and the man grinned at him.
“Right in one, good show!” he said admiringly. “You get a biscuit.”
“Oh,” said Dalek Caan sadly, thinking of pickles.
“He knows his history,” the Master told Jack Harkness.
“You can’t be here,” said Jack. “You don’t even exist. All of the Time Lords were put in a Time Lock, your past was erased.”
The Master sighed, exasperated. “You know, just because I’m stuck in a stupid Time Lock, doesn’t mean I didn’t exist. All the stuff that I did, it still happened. The Doctor didn’t magically wipe it away. People still know the name Saxon, thankyouverymuch.”
“What, the crackpot who tried to run for Prime Minister?” asked Jack.
The Master glared.
“I almost voted for him.”
“Thanks,” said the Master, not meaning it. “I appreciate it.”
Jack turned to Dalek Caan. “I’m not sure how you got in my head, but stop it.”
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk swiveled. “Me?”
“Him?” echoed the Master.
“Yes, you,” the Problem said. “You’re not meant to be telepathic, so get out of my dreams, now.”
“I do not understand,” said Dalek Caan.
“Neither do I,” said the Master.
“I was dreaming, and he was in it,” said Jack, pointing at the Master. “And now he’s here.” He pointed down. “And there’s a jar of pickles at your feet, and I’m pretty sure this is all connected.”
“Pickles?” said the Master. He looked at his papers. “I don’t think there’s space for pickles. Unless….”
“I do not understand,” repeated Dalek Caan.
“Oh, go read some existential poetry and come up with something new to say,” said the Master, studying his papers.
“But if you would like me to recreate your dreams, I could do so,” said Dalek Caan quickly. “For a price.”
“Don’t do it,” said the Master absently. “He’s going to ask for extermination or something.”
“No, he’s not,” said Jack with a sigh.
“I would do this for a pickle.”
The Master looked up. “Is that what they’re calling genocide these days?”
“Dalek Caan has a thing for pickles,” Jack explained to the Master.
The Master looked at the pickle jar resting by Dalek Caan’s casing. “Pickles. You’re telling me that the entire Dalek race was on a galaxy-wide quest for…pickles.”
“No,” said Jack. “Just him.”
“I like pickles,” said Dalek Caan sadly. “I am not allowed pickles.”
The Master turned to Jack. “Well, why the hell not?”
Jack shook his head. “Trust me. He’s a Dalek, he’s not going to stop at eating just one pickle. And you don’t want to live with a Dalek who has eaten an entire jar of pickles.”
The Master thought about this. “No. But I don’t mind if you do.”
Three things happened then:
The Master pulled out the sonic screwdriver.
Jack fell to the floor, asleep.
The jar of pickles exploded, sending pickles flying in the air.
Dalek Caan was so busy collecting as many pickles as he could with his suction cup, it was some time before he realized that the Master had disappeared. And by then, he’d eaten the entire jar.
It was while eating the last pickle that Dalek Caan began thinking. The strange new man had made an interesting suggestion regarding Davros, who hadn’t been all bad, really, despite not liking pickles. Davros would know how to get out of the Time Lock.
If Dalek Caan was able to escape the Time Lock, he might be able to find more pickles. Extermination was all well and good, but a plentiful supply of pickles was better.
*
Jack Harkness woke up on the floor of the detective agency with a headache.
“Well, that was extremely helpful,” said the Master gleefully, looking at his papers. He bent over the immortal man lying prone on the floor. “Took you long enough to wake up.”
Jack blinked at him. “I just dreamed you.”
“No, not really,” said the Master, and then frowned. “What - dreamed? You were…dreaming?”
Jack winced and touched his temple. “Were there…pickles?”
“Shut up about the stupid pickles,” snapped the Master. “You were dreaming? This is all dreaming?” He pinched himself quickly. “Okay, it’s all your dreaming.”
“And zombies?”
“Or maybe you all think you’re dreaming,” mused the Master. “Oh, he’s good. I still hate him, but you have to admire the craftsmanship. Anyway, you’ve got one more story to spill, so I think it’s time for another nap, don’t you?” He aimed his laser screwdriver at Jack’s head.
“No,” said Jack weakly.
The Master stilled. “What’s that?”
The sound of a key in a door clearly filled the office. Jack bucked under the Master’s foot. “Don’t hurt her,” he gasped.
The Master grinned. “Amy?”
Jack blinked. “Lynda.”
“Damn,” said the Master. “Next time. Say goodnight, Gracie.”
Before Jack could say another word, the Master fired his screwdriver, and disappeared while a flash of red light hit Jack squarely in the chest.
“Listen, Jack,” began Lynda, as the door opened, “I’ve been-“ The rest was nothing but a shriek, and Jack closed his eyes.
“Hi,” he wheezed.
Lynda fell to her knees beside him. “You’re hurt!”
“Give me a minute,” said Jack, and opened his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly want to do it this way.”
“What are you talking about?” said Lynda, reaching for the telephone. “Shut up. I’m calling emergency.”
“Don’t bother,” said Jack.
“Don’t be stupid, and I told you to shut up,” said Lynda, angrily sniffing. “You’re not dying.”
“Lynda - don’t you remember what I told you?”
Lynda froze. “But-“
Jack closed his eyes, and died.
When he opened them again a few minutes later, Lynda was sitting cross-legged next to him, the phone in her lap, her eyes focused squarely on him.
Jack coughed once.
“Hi,” Lynda managed to choke out.
“Told you so,” said Jack.
*
The Master didn’t say anything to the Time Lords, still playing Apples to Apples. He just grinned at them.
“You call that a poker face?” asked Romana.
“Oh, I’m liking my hand very much,” replied the Master. “Say, any of you lot seen Davros around? I just met someone who’s looking for him.”
The Time Lords looked at each other. “Davros isn’t in the Time Lock,” said one finally.
The Master snorted. “Don’t be stupid. He was in the Time War, of course he’s in the Time Lock.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Romana. “Dalek Caan came in and retrieved him a few years ago.”
The Master’s mouth dropped open before he could catch it. He quickly closed his mouth and raised an eyebrow, hoping no one had noticed. “He really did that? Huh. Didn’t think the pepper pot would take me seriously.”
Silence at the card table.
“You told him to?!?!” Romana’s voice was somewhere between an incredulous shriek and a moan of horror.
“Well, since when have Daleks been so susceptible to the Power of Time Lord Suggestion?” snapped the Master. “Anyway, last I checked, Earth was still around, so I wouldn’t get all worked up about it.” He looked down at K-9. “Don’t suppose you have a thing for pickles, do you?”
“I am unable to process any type of food product, Master.”
“Pickles?” asked Romana, still boggled.
“Thought not,” said the Master, and made a mark on his papers. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, though, what do you suppose there is to eat around here?”
The Master left the table, with K-9 rolling behind. Romana watched them go, and chewed her lip, wondering what the Master was planning.
Chapter Fifteen
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week’s guest stars are Dalek Caan and Jack Harkness.
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 ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve ~ Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen: Horizontal I (and Back Again)
Dalek Caan had a plan.
It was a good plan, too, except it involved one small potential problem.
Well, not small. Actually, the potential problem was fairly substantial, not to mention quick-thinking and possessing full use of opposable thumbs.
Dalek Caan missed opposable thumbs. Okay, fine, having opposable thumbs meant susceptibility to having those thumbs injured or even amputated, not to mention any number of nail fungi, but that was minor when it was an issue of opening the pickle jar.
Dalek Caan missed pickles. Pickles were good. Sometimes, all Dalek Caan really wanted was a pickle.
Like today.
Hence, Dalek Caan had a plan.
(Dalek Caan often went off topic. But he always managed to get back again before too long. It was always best to stay as close to topic as possible, particularly when the plan depended on the Potential Problem remaining asleep in the Barcalounger.)
Dalek Caan rolled slowly toward the kitchen. This was always the tricky part. Roll too quickly, and there would be enough noise to wake the Potential Problem. Roll too slowly, and eventually, the Potential Problem would wake on his own. Dalek Caan went at a speed he hoped was a happy medium.
Dalek Caan had never actually met a happy medium. Usually they were either quacks claiming to see ghosts in order to elicit unsuspecting and gullible clients to fork over obscene amounts of cash, or they were deeply depressed and often psychotic.
Dalek Caan was not psychotic. He might have put on that impression from time to time (and usually did, when telemarketers rang), but really, his head was squarely on his…um…things approximating shoulders.
Dalek Caan missed shoulders. Except shoulders were attached to arms which were attached to wrists which were attached to hands which usually included the dreaded opposable thumb, so Davros had said, “Off with their shoulders!”
(Well, Davros hadn’t actually said that, but ever since having seen Alice in Wonderland, Dalek Caan had decided that it was a thing Davros might have said, had Davros ever seen Alice in Wonderland.)
Dalek Caan did not miss Davros.
Davros, after all, didn’t like pickles, or he might have approved of opposable thumbs, and the shoulders that eventually attached to them.
Dalek Caan liked pickles. He picked up speed a little, which was just as well, because there was a bump as he entered the kitchen, and it took the extra burst of speed to get over the bump. It also made a “bump” sort of noise, and Dalek Caan waited for the Potential Problem to potentially wake.
The Problem snored on.
Dalek Caan turned toward the refrigerator, practically shaking with glee. He hadn’t tasted a pickle in three hours, at least. Possibly an entire day. It was hard to tell, sometimes, since his internal systems had been fried when he entered the Time Lock in the first place. Dalek Caan didn’t remember anymore why he’d tried to go straight from Manhattan in 1930-whatever-it-was to the Time War in its Time Lock. He supposed it seemed like a good idea at the time, but Dalek Caan didn’t have a firm grasp on time anymore anyway, so he didn’t think it mattered very much. Frankly, trying to keep track of time was giving Dalek Caan a headache.
Dalek Caan did not like headaches. He wondered why Davros had decided thumbs were bad, with all their potential problems, but heads, with things like headaches, were perfectly adequate.
Davros, thought Dalek Caan with a frisson of excitement and daring, was an idiot.
Although really, anyone who didn’t like pickles was possibly an idiot.
Such a blasphemous thought would have sent a shiver down Dalek Caan’s back, if that hadn’t also been eradicated by the clearly idiotic, pickle-hating Davros.
Dalek Caan examined the refrigerator critically, and then moved his suction cup to seal itself onto the door. He reversed at a precise 45 degree angle, and the door slowly opened.
If Dalek Caan had possessed lips, he would have grinned. As it was, his eyestalk had a happy shine to it.
Maneuvering around the open refrigerator door was something of a challenge. This had been Dalek Caan’s failing point on previous attempts, but this time, he was able to clear the door without any problems. Dalek Caan resisted the urge to cheer. Any expression of pleasure would be sure to result in the Potential Problem waking.
It was only now, looking at the open refrigerator, that Dalek Caan realized his mistake.
The pickles were located in the door, slightly higher than his suction cup could reach.
Levitation was noisy.
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk drooped a little bit.
And then the refrigerator starting beeping.
Dalek Caan reversed, every instinct telling him to get out get out now oh shit.
“Wha?” said the Potential Problem, waking in the other room.
Dalek Caan sighed, reversed, and let his eyestalk fall completely. There was no hope of escape: the Potential Problem was awake, and he would be unable to maneuver the door closed before the Problem would enter the kitchen and discover his attempt to retrieve the pickles.
Sure enough, two minutes later (or perhaps an hour, it was hard to tell), Jack Harkness entered the kitchen.
“Pickles again?” he asked wryly.
“Yes,” said Dalek Caan mournfully.
“You could just ask.” Jack walked over and reached for the pickle jar.
“Daleks do not ask,” said Dalek Caan, his eyestalk lifting a little with as much pride as he could muster. “Daleks take.”
“Yeah, and Daleks also exterminate, but I don’t see you doing that anytime soon.” He offered Dalek Caan the pickle jar.
Dalek Caan rolled away, wishing he was rolling with a pickle.
Jack shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He was about to replace the pickle jar in the refrigerator when there was a sudden movement at the door leading to the Barcalounger, followed by the familiar whir of a sonic screwdriver.
“What the-“ yelled Jack, and he tackled the man standing in the doorway before the screwdriver could actually do any damage. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
Dalek Caan watched the pickle jar very carefully. There was a chance that in the process of tackling the new inferior humanoid, the Problem would have dropped the jar, freeing the pickles and allowing Dalek Caan to take as many as he wished. Unfortunately, the jar rolled unharmed across the kitchen floor to stop at Dalek Caan’s casing.
“Do you know what that thing is?” shrieked the new man, as he and the Problem rolled in their effort to gain control of the screwdriver. “I just bloody saved your life, you ungrateful immortal moron.”
Dalek Caan stretched his suction cup as far as it could go, but he couldn’t quite get the sharp angle necessary for reaching the pickle jar.
“Dalek Caan!” yelled the Problem. “A little help here!”
Dalek Caan sighed at the pickle jar, and decided that if he couldn’t access it for now, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to retrieve it later.
A quick zap from his once formidable gunstick, and the two men yelped as the low-level current ran through their nervous systems. Dalek Caan sighed again. He’d always liked the part where their skeletons became visible. He missed that part.
He also missed pickles. He wasn’t likely to regain the ability to zap humans into skeletons again. But perhaps if the new man was very nice, he’d open the pickle jar and retrieve one.
The new man certainly seemed grateful enough. He lay on his back, patting his body to check that all pieces were present and accounted for. Chest and legs and hips and…oh. Dalek Caan, if he had been in the possession of cheeks, would have blushed to see where the new man patted himself now. For a moment, he was very glad that Davros had seen fit to discard cheeks.
(“Off with their cheeks!”)
“I’m not dead,” gasped the man.
“Don’t hold your breath,” advised Jack, and he sat up, shaking his head. “Caan, can’t you aim any better than that?”
“No,” said Dalek Caan mournfully. He didn’t bother to add that his aim improved in direct correlation to how many pickles he was allowed to eat. He’d tried that trick before. The Problem, being Problematic, never believed him.
The man slowly got to his feet. Jack copied him, just a tad bit faster. The man didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “That thing only aims to kill,” he said, staring in amazement at Dalek Caan.
“He did once, yeah,” said Jack cautiously. “Not anymore.” He frowned. “Wait. What are you doing here?”
“You brought me,” said the man absently, walking towards Dalek Caan as if he’d rather be walking in the other direction, but couldn’t help himself. “A Dalek? He put a Dalek in here?”
“He being…”
“Dudley Do-Right. The Doctor,” said the man impatiently.
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk swiveled up from the pickle jar. “The Doctor did not place me here,” he reported in a dry monotone. “I arrived of my own free will, in an attempt to break into the Time War, and I am now caught in the Time Lock.”
“That’s about the size of it,” confirmed Jack.
“Into?” repeated the man incredulously. “Why the bloody hell would anyone want into the Time War?”
“I do not recall my reason,” said Dalek Caan. He doubted it had anything to do with pickles. There were no pickles in the Time War.
“And you’re the warden?” the man asked Jack with a snort. “Oh, that’s rich. Well, let’s see if we can’t deconstruct this little passion play here.” He pulled a roll of papers out from his back pocket. “Right, so, Jack Harkness - tell me about yourself. Does the name Amy Pond ring a bell?“
Jack blinked. “Is she pretty?”
“Oh, please,” snorted the man. “You’d find a rock gorgeous in the right light.”
“If it was a gorgeous rock, sure,” said Jack.
The man turned to the Dalek. “Does it answer questions, or does it shoot first?”
“I respond to inquiries,” said Dalek Caan mournfully, still looking at the pickle jar.
“So how about you? Amy Pond?”
“No.”
The man made a mark on his papers. “Any Sycorax nearby?”
Jack blinked. “No,” he said.
Dalek Caan looked up. “Across the street.”
The man looked startled. “Excuse me?”
The Problem glared at Dalek Caan. “Those aren’t Sycorax, they’re zombies.”
“They look like Sycorax.”
“They’re not. They’re zombies. They’re perfectly harmless as long as you tell them to go to their rooms.”
“They smell like Sycorax.”
“How can you even smell, you don’t have a nose?” yelled Jack, and Dalek Caan reversed a few inches.
The pickle jar rolled with him.
The man tsked. “Now, now, don’t shout at the poor thing.”
“Poor thing?” asked Jack incredulously. “You were cowering in terror over it three minutes ago and now you’re calling it poor thing?”
“It didn’t kill me,” said the man with a shrug. “So, zombies, but no Sycorax. That’s a new one. Do you have any ray guns anywhere?”
“My gunstalk was reconditioned,” said Dalek Caan sadly.
“Noticed, and glad for it,” said the man. “Hope I’m not thanking the Doctor for that favor.”
“You are, actually,” said Jack irritably. “Speaking of, hand it over.”
The man looked up, a paragon of innocence. “Hand what over?”
“The sonic screwdriver,” said Jack patiently, moving his fingers. “I know you have it, because I don’t.”
“It’s not exactly yours,” said the man. “I’m just going to return it to its rightful owner.”
“Not bloody likely,” said Jack.
“Like you will,” scoffed the man. “Clearly, you stole it first.”
“I did not steal-“
The man’s mouth dropped open. “Wait - what?”
“I was given that sonic screwdriver fair and square-“
“HA!” shouted the man suddenly, and began scribbling something on the paper. “Of course. It’s not ray guns at all, it’s theft. Linda stole the Vortex Manipulator, you stole the screwdriver.”
Jack blinked. “Who?”
The man waved his hand. “Linda. Don’t worry about her.”
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk flashed. “Who?”
The man looked up, suddenly interested. “Linda?”
The eyestalk blinked again. The man began chortling to himself. “Oh, now that’s very interesting.” He began scribbling. “You just blundered in of your own free will, is that it? What are you going to do if you actually make it into the Time War, anyway? Rescue Davros and maybe steal a bunch of planets in a misguided attempt to exterminate the galaxy in one fell swoop?”
“Okay, seriously, how did you get here?” asked Jack, giving Dalek Caan a nervous glance.
“Told you,” said the man, still scribbling. “You brought me.”
“I didn’t bring you,” said Jack. “I don’t even know you.”
“Sure you do,” said the man.
“He is the Time Lord known as the Master,” said Dalek Caan, and the man grinned at him.
“Right in one, good show!” he said admiringly. “You get a biscuit.”
“Oh,” said Dalek Caan sadly, thinking of pickles.
“He knows his history,” the Master told Jack Harkness.
“You can’t be here,” said Jack. “You don’t even exist. All of the Time Lords were put in a Time Lock, your past was erased.”
The Master sighed, exasperated. “You know, just because I’m stuck in a stupid Time Lock, doesn’t mean I didn’t exist. All the stuff that I did, it still happened. The Doctor didn’t magically wipe it away. People still know the name Saxon, thankyouverymuch.”
“What, the crackpot who tried to run for Prime Minister?” asked Jack.
The Master glared.
“I almost voted for him.”
“Thanks,” said the Master, not meaning it. “I appreciate it.”
Jack turned to Dalek Caan. “I’m not sure how you got in my head, but stop it.”
Dalek Caan’s eyestalk swiveled. “Me?”
“Him?” echoed the Master.
“Yes, you,” the Problem said. “You’re not meant to be telepathic, so get out of my dreams, now.”
“I do not understand,” said Dalek Caan.
“Neither do I,” said the Master.
“I was dreaming, and he was in it,” said Jack, pointing at the Master. “And now he’s here.” He pointed down. “And there’s a jar of pickles at your feet, and I’m pretty sure this is all connected.”
“Pickles?” said the Master. He looked at his papers. “I don’t think there’s space for pickles. Unless….”
“I do not understand,” repeated Dalek Caan.
“Oh, go read some existential poetry and come up with something new to say,” said the Master, studying his papers.
“But if you would like me to recreate your dreams, I could do so,” said Dalek Caan quickly. “For a price.”
“Don’t do it,” said the Master absently. “He’s going to ask for extermination or something.”
“No, he’s not,” said Jack with a sigh.
“I would do this for a pickle.”
The Master looked up. “Is that what they’re calling genocide these days?”
“Dalek Caan has a thing for pickles,” Jack explained to the Master.
The Master looked at the pickle jar resting by Dalek Caan’s casing. “Pickles. You’re telling me that the entire Dalek race was on a galaxy-wide quest for…pickles.”
“No,” said Jack. “Just him.”
“I like pickles,” said Dalek Caan sadly. “I am not allowed pickles.”
The Master turned to Jack. “Well, why the hell not?”
Jack shook his head. “Trust me. He’s a Dalek, he’s not going to stop at eating just one pickle. And you don’t want to live with a Dalek who has eaten an entire jar of pickles.”
The Master thought about this. “No. But I don’t mind if you do.”
Three things happened then:
The Master pulled out the sonic screwdriver.
Jack fell to the floor, asleep.
The jar of pickles exploded, sending pickles flying in the air.
Dalek Caan was so busy collecting as many pickles as he could with his suction cup, it was some time before he realized that the Master had disappeared. And by then, he’d eaten the entire jar.
It was while eating the last pickle that Dalek Caan began thinking. The strange new man had made an interesting suggestion regarding Davros, who hadn’t been all bad, really, despite not liking pickles. Davros would know how to get out of the Time Lock.
If Dalek Caan was able to escape the Time Lock, he might be able to find more pickles. Extermination was all well and good, but a plentiful supply of pickles was better.
*
Jack Harkness woke up on the floor of the detective agency with a headache.
“Well, that was extremely helpful,” said the Master gleefully, looking at his papers. He bent over the immortal man lying prone on the floor. “Took you long enough to wake up.”
Jack blinked at him. “I just dreamed you.”
“No, not really,” said the Master, and then frowned. “What - dreamed? You were…dreaming?”
Jack winced and touched his temple. “Were there…pickles?”
“Shut up about the stupid pickles,” snapped the Master. “You were dreaming? This is all dreaming?” He pinched himself quickly. “Okay, it’s all your dreaming.”
“And zombies?”
“Or maybe you all think you’re dreaming,” mused the Master. “Oh, he’s good. I still hate him, but you have to admire the craftsmanship. Anyway, you’ve got one more story to spill, so I think it’s time for another nap, don’t you?” He aimed his laser screwdriver at Jack’s head.
“No,” said Jack weakly.
The Master stilled. “What’s that?”
The sound of a key in a door clearly filled the office. Jack bucked under the Master’s foot. “Don’t hurt her,” he gasped.
The Master grinned. “Amy?”
Jack blinked. “Lynda.”
“Damn,” said the Master. “Next time. Say goodnight, Gracie.”
Before Jack could say another word, the Master fired his screwdriver, and disappeared while a flash of red light hit Jack squarely in the chest.
“Listen, Jack,” began Lynda, as the door opened, “I’ve been-“ The rest was nothing but a shriek, and Jack closed his eyes.
“Hi,” he wheezed.
Lynda fell to her knees beside him. “You’re hurt!”
“Give me a minute,” said Jack, and opened his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly want to do it this way.”
“What are you talking about?” said Lynda, reaching for the telephone. “Shut up. I’m calling emergency.”
“Don’t bother,” said Jack.
“Don’t be stupid, and I told you to shut up,” said Lynda, angrily sniffing. “You’re not dying.”
“Lynda - don’t you remember what I told you?”
Lynda froze. “But-“
Jack closed his eyes, and died.
When he opened them again a few minutes later, Lynda was sitting cross-legged next to him, the phone in her lap, her eyes focused squarely on him.
Jack coughed once.
“Hi,” Lynda managed to choke out.
“Told you so,” said Jack.
*
The Master didn’t say anything to the Time Lords, still playing Apples to Apples. He just grinned at them.
“You call that a poker face?” asked Romana.
“Oh, I’m liking my hand very much,” replied the Master. “Say, any of you lot seen Davros around? I just met someone who’s looking for him.”
The Time Lords looked at each other. “Davros isn’t in the Time Lock,” said one finally.
The Master snorted. “Don’t be stupid. He was in the Time War, of course he’s in the Time Lock.”
“No, he isn’t,” said Romana. “Dalek Caan came in and retrieved him a few years ago.”
The Master’s mouth dropped open before he could catch it. He quickly closed his mouth and raised an eyebrow, hoping no one had noticed. “He really did that? Huh. Didn’t think the pepper pot would take me seriously.”
Silence at the card table.
“You told him to?!?!” Romana’s voice was somewhere between an incredulous shriek and a moan of horror.
“Well, since when have Daleks been so susceptible to the Power of Time Lord Suggestion?” snapped the Master. “Anyway, last I checked, Earth was still around, so I wouldn’t get all worked up about it.” He looked down at K-9. “Don’t suppose you have a thing for pickles, do you?”
“I am unable to process any type of food product, Master.”
“Pickles?” asked Romana, still boggled.
“Thought not,” said the Master, and made a mark on his papers. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, though, what do you suppose there is to eat around here?”
The Master left the table, with K-9 rolling behind. Romana watched them go, and chewed her lip, wondering what the Master was planning.
Chapter Fifteen