Fic: There Was a Master in a Game (17/25)
Title: There Was a Master in a Game
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week’s guest stars are Lynda Moss, Jack Harkness, and Wee!Amelia Pond.
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 ~ Fourteen ~ Fifteen ~ Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen: Vertical I via Diagonal Right
“Stupid Linda is in the stupid center square,” the Master told K-9.
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9.
“Which means Stupid Linda is dreaming about a whole lot of things happening.”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9.
“Which means at some point, I have to invade Stupid Linda’s dreams in order to find out what she’s dreaming about.”
“It is one method of determining such things, Master.”
The Master raised his eyebrow. “There are other methods?”
“You could attempt a direct inquiry, Master.”
The Master turned his laser screwdriver over in his hands. “You know, I never saw a sonic screwdriver in your little storyline.”
The little tin dog’s antenna ears twirled.
“Never mind,” said the Master. “You know who deserves headaches? The Sycorax. They’ve got brilliant heads. I bet they get brilliant headaches.”
*
Lynda sighed, and sat down on the nearest section of wall to wait. She didn’t think she’d have to wait very long.
Center square, he’d said. She wondered what that meant - as if they were playing a game of tic-tac-toe? Of course, center square held all the power. And if she was center square….
By the time the Master reappeared, Lynda had a grin on her face.
“I’m center square, is that it?”
“Not now,” said the Master impatiently, scanning the horizon. “Are the Sycorax still up there?”
“Other direction,” said Lynda, and once the Master spotted them, he grinned like a banshee. It wasn’t exactly pretty. “So I’m not center square anymore?”
“Quit thinking about yourself for a minute,” snapped the Master. “Can I use that Vortex Manipulator? I have to give some aliens a headache.”
“No!”
The Master sighed, walked over to Lynda, took her arm, removed the manipulator, and was fastening it on his own arm when Lynda began to sputter.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re not stopping me.”
“You can’t give the Sycorax a headache! What are you thinking?”
“Might want to sit down,” said the Master. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen to you.”
Lynda backed away. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll bring it back,” said the Master, and frowned, as if he couldn’t believe what he just said.
“You’d better,” said Lynda. “That thing’s worth half my yearly paycheck.”
The Master still had the sour look on his face when he zipped off the rooftop, and presumably onto the Sycorax ship. Lynda scanned the skyline until she saw it, and bit her lip. She wondered where he’d learned how to use a Vortex Manipulator. She wondered if he had arrived safely, or if the Sycorax had already destroyed the intruder. She wondered if he really would return the Manipulator when he was done giving the Sycorax their headaches.
And then she sat down, and wondered why she was following the Master’s instructions at all.
*
“Hi,” said the Master. “Ooo, a blood control device! Nifty!”
The Sycorax looked up. “Who are you?”
“The Master,” he said. “But never mind that. You know, normally, I’d ask first, but everyone’s been questioning my evil status recently, so I think we’ll skip the preliminaries and go straight into the fun part. Sweet dreams!”
And everyone fell asleep.
*
Amelia Pond pulled her knees under her chin, settling the heels of her shoes against the curve of the park bench. The wood was worn smooth by thousands of owners of wooly skirts taking a moment to look out on the duck pond, but there was still enough of a ridge that she could be confident that her feet wouldn’t slip.
That was one thing to be sure of, anyway. That she wouldn’t slip and fall. That was good, to be sure of something, when you started doubting everything else you were certain was true.
Dr. Halifax, psychiatrist number four: “Do you believe he’s real, Amelia?” In that kind sort of tone adults used all the time, like they were trying not to patronize, but weren’t sure how to go about it without being obvious. And then he tried to explain why the Doctor was imaginary, which was when Amelia bit him.
“Honestly, Amelia,” said Aunt Sharon, as if Amelia had fully intended to bite the psychiatrist. Arguing that Amelia hadn’t intended to do it would be fruitless, since she’d done it three times already, to three other psychiatrists. The moment they reached the street, Amelia had taken off like a rocket.
Amelia sniffed, and rubbed at her nose with the back of her coat sleeve. It was already damp from previous rubbing, and didn’t work very well.
The park was empty. Everyone in Gloucester was in school or work or moving between the two, and Aunt Sharon was probably sitting in the little pub near the psychiatrist’s office, waiting for Amelia to show up again. Amelia had long since made it habit to run off after seeing a psychiatrist, and Aunt Sharon didn’t bother to look for her anymore. Half the time, she didn’t even bother trying to catch the fleeing girl, and instead shrugged her shoulders, found a comfortable place that served tea and sandwiches, and waited for her eventual return.
Amelia sniffed again. Aunt Sharon didn’t believe in the Raggedy Doctor. No one really did. Even Rory thought he was imaginary, for all that he didn’t mind Amelia talking about him, and helped Amelia put the pictures up on her wall.
It was cold in the park - soon, Amelia would have to go and find Aunt Sharon again, and listen to another lecture about how she shouldn’t bite psychiatrists, shouldn’t tell stories, shouldn’t believe in imaginary things, shouldn’t run off, and then they’d drive back to Leavenworth. “Lucky I waited, you could be taking the bus home,” Aunt Sharon would say (as she always did), and Amelia would look out at the passing grey countryside and wish that she could be on a bus, anonymous and small, and not be prey to a litany of shouldn’ts.
The ducks heard the man coming before Amelia did. She buried her head in her knees, hoping he’d just walk by. She didn’t want to explain to anyone why she wasn’t in school.
Instead, he sat on the opposite end of the bench. There was a small rustling sound, a bit like he was taking a paper bag out of his pocket, and rustling around inside. Amelia peeked out around her arms, in time to see him pop a bit of pastry into his mouth. He looked nice enough: rather generic, really. Dark hair, long coat with shiny buttons, dark trousers, light blue shirt.
Amelia went back to studying her knees. Nice enough, but still, she didn’t dare move until he left. If she moved, it would mean she was game for a conversation. He might try to talk to her, but if she was still, perhaps he would forget she was there.
More rustling from the paper bag. Aunt Sharon would have cheese sandwiches for tea. Amelia’s stomach growled.
“I’ve never been able to make up my mind about ducks,” said the man. He had an American accent. Amelia decided to not like him, even if he sounded friendly enough. She pulled her knees in tighter.
“They’re loud, they’re obnoxious, and they have a habit of eating my shoelaces,” continued the man.
Amelia peeked at him again. He wasn’t looking at her; in fact, he might not have even spoken. Instead, he popped another piece of pastry into his mouth.
“Ducks don’t eat shoelaces,” said Amelia.
“Maybe not yours,” said the man. “Mine must be delicious. To a duck.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” said Amelia, and buried her face again.
“Of course not,” said the man. “Good advice. I should follow it myself.”
More rustling. Amelia thought he might be digging around for the crumbs at the bottom of the bag.
“Ducks,” said the man, still trying to work it out. “Is there any point to a duck? You could cook them, but they’re greasy. Not that many recipes calling for duck eggs that I’ve seen. And they eat my shoelaces.”
Amelia lifted her head. “If you’re trying to make me laugh, it won’t work. And I’m not supposed to-“
“Talk to strangers, I know,” said the man. “But you’re not talking to me, you’re listening to me. Did your aunt ever tell you not to listen to strangers?”
Amelia pinched her mouth together. “No,” she admitted. “But she probably didn’t think to say.”
“Then you’ll get off on a technicality,” said the man.
Amelia, not entirely convinced, rested her chin on her knees and watched two of the ducks fight over a bit of toast.
“Ferocious creatures,” said the man. Amelia made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat. She’d been practicing it for weeks, but Aunt Sharon kept telling her to cough and get it over with, if there was something lodged in her esophagus.
The man made no such comment. In fact, he didn’t say anything for several minutes. Amelia considered the noise a triumph, and liked him a little better.
The slightly larger duck snapped at the smaller duck’s tail-feathers, and ran off with the bit of toast.
“No one ever believes me about ducks and shoelaces,” said the man.
“That’s because ducks don’t eat shoelaces,” said Amelia.
“What do they eat?” asked the man.
Amelia thought about it. “Seaweed,” she said. “And grass, and leaves, and lettuce. And toast.”
“Apart from the toast, I’d say the shoelaces sound appetizing compared to that list.”
“I’ve never seen a duck eat a shoelace,” said Amelia.
“Do you always have to see something to believe it?” asked the man.
Amelia almost said ‘yes’, but thought about the Raggedy Doctor, and set her chin back on her knees.
“Most adults do,” she said.
“Good thing I’m not most adults,” said the man. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out not another bag of pastry, but an extra shoelace, and a bow tie, the old style that would need tying. Amelia tried to not look interested. “An experiment?”
“Okay,” said Amelia.
The man tossed the shoelace and the bow tie at the remaining duck, busy grooming its ruffled feathers. The duck stopped its grooming immediately, and looked at the offered objects. It quickly nosed the bowtie aside before taking the shoelace up its beak and racing off to the pond, a bit of shoelace trailing behind it.
One of Amelia’s feet slipped from the bench. “But - won’t it get tangled up in its intestines?”
The man gave her an odd look. “How old are you?”
“Ten,” said Amelia. “And you’re dodging the question!”
“Don’t worry about the duck, the duck will be fine,” said the man, amused. “Do you believe me now about the shoelaces?”
“Yes,” said Amelia.
“Good,” said the man, and he settled back on the bench. “Knew I’d find someone who would, eventually. I just had to find the right person to listen.”
Amelia bit her lip, and thought.
“I have a friend named the Doctor,” she blurted out.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Do you now?”
“He lives in a blue box that’s falling apart and he said he’d fix the crack in my wall and he’d be back in five minutes but that was three years ago and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Doctors have a way of running late sometimes,” said the man bitterly. But not condescendingly, Amelia noted. She decided to take a chance.
“He said it was a time machine,” she said quickly, the words tripping over themselves. “He said he had to jump forward five minutes because of the engines and the swimming pool was in the library and I went to get my suitcase but I woke up in the morning and Aunt Sharon was livid, because I’d slept all night in the garden.”
The man blinked, taking it all in.
Most adults would laugh when Amelia told them the truth. Some of them would chuckle and comment on her imagination. Some of them would giggle and say how lovely it would be to have a floating library. Some of them would sigh and tell her to stop telling ridiculous stories. None of them ever believed her.
The man did not laugh. At all.
“The swimming pool wasn’t in the library,” he said, not to contradict her, Amelia knew, but in that tone that said her version of events wasn’t quite matching up with what he knew.
“I think it spilled over,” said Amelia. “His box was on its side.”
The man frowned. “That’s not good. What did it sound like when he dematerialized?”
Amelia became just a bit suspicious. “You believe me?”
“I don’t need to see a duck eat a shoelace to believe it can happen,” said the man.
“No one ever believes me,” continued Amelia. “Why do you?”
“I just do,” said the man.
Amelia turned on the bench to face the man. He hadn’t moved closer to her. He wasn’t even looking at her. She tried to memorize his face, so she could describe him to the police after he tried to kidnap her - but she didn’t think he would.
“Are you going to kidnap me?” she asked.
The man snorted.
“Because if you were trying to kidnap me, you’d try to gain my trust,” reasoned Amelia.
“I don’t need you to trust me,” said the man. “I just needed reminding.”
“Of what?”
“That he exists,” said the man.
“Why?” asked Amelia.
The man took the empty pastry bag and crumpled it up in his hand. “Maybe I’m waiting for him, too.” He turned to Amelia then, and smiled. It was a sad smile, Amelia thought. “He left me behind a long time ago. Sometimes I forget for a few minutes. And then I look for someone else he left behind, to remember.”
Amelia gripped the edge of the bench. “Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know,” said the man. He stood up and straightened his coat. “Maybe, if we’re lucky.”
Amelia rested her chin on her arm, and watched the man walk away. The duck with the shoelace followed behind him, trailing the brown lace in the dirt. He hadn’t said goodbye - but then, neither had the Doctor.
Someone else knew about the Doctor. Someone else waited for him.
A lot of someone elses, if what the man had said was true.
Amelia hopped off the bench and spied the bow tie lying in the gravel. She picked it up and put it in her pocket. It was smooth and slippery between her mittens. Feeling a great deal more confident with the bow tie in her pocket, Amelia left the park bench. There was a bit of a spring in her step now.
Someone believed her about the Doctor. Even if she didn’t know his name. Even if he didn’t know hers. Amelia wasn’t alone anymore.
She liked that.
Maybe Aunt Sharon would have left her a cheese sandwich, and the next time she made an appointment with a psychiatrist, Amelia would simply refuse to go. She knew she wasn’t mad. She was only waiting.
*
Deep in the trees surrounding the duck pond and the little bench, now devoid of people, the Master glared at the Sycorax scout standing next to him. “Okay, that was a lovely little scene there. Aren’t you supposed to be in it?”
“I’m watching,” said the Sycroax, irritable. He held his head as if it pained him.
“Watching?”
“It’s surveys!” snapped the Sycorax. “Geez, don’t you read? You always send a scout before the invading force comes in. I’m the scout. I’m judging the relative abilities of the native forces to determine the best method of taking over their planet. The invading force will be here in around eight years or so. Probably by Christmas.”
The Master rubbed his temples. “You are the most ridiculous and useless alien I have ever come across in my entire lives. And believe me, they’re fairly extensive.”
The Sycorax scout glared. “You’re lucky I’m unarmed.”
“Yeah, lucky all over,” snorted the Master. He pulled the roll of papers out of his back pocket. “So. I’m guessing Amelia and Amy are the same person. Jack Harkness, check. Sycorax, check. Which leaves me with….ducks? Shoelaces? Absentee Doctors? Bowties?”
The Master scowled, and made some notations on his paper, muttering under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like he was expressing his extreme hatred for a single person.
“You know,” he said, “stupid of me to think you’d actually be involved here. You weren’t involved in the last one, you were just on the periphery. So I’m willing to bet you’d be on the periphery in the next storyline as well. Fat lot of good you lot do me.”
The Sycorax scout cocked his head, and then scowled. “Never mind unarmed. I can rip your head off.”
“Maybe next time. Have fun with your surveys,” the Master told the Sycorax scout. “Bit of advice. Blood control? Nice bit of business, but it has its downsides.”
The Sycorax scout looked almost inspired, right before he fell asleep.
*
Lynda looked up from her nails as the Master popped back onto the rooftop.
“There you are,” she said mildly. “Have fun?”
“I hate this thing,” said the Master. “It makes my head spin.”
“Yeah, it does that,” said Lynda unsympathetically. She reached out and took the Manipulator before the Master could drop it on the gravel. “Find what you needed?”
“Almost.” He looked at the golden rod in his hand, and then at Lynda, as if he was thinking about something. “Word association?”
“Oh, why not.” Lynda fastened the Manipulator onto her wrist again.
“Rose.”
Lynda blinked. “Who?”
The Master made a humming noise, and marked something on his ever-present papers. “Bowties?”
“I can tie one,” said Lynda. “My uncle Harry taught me.”
“That it?”
“Sorry,” said Lynda.
“Ducks? Shoelaces? Waiting for Doctors who never show up?” The last was shouted at the sky.
Lynda shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Bollocks,” said the Master finally, and looked at his golden rod again, before shaking his head and shoving it back into his pocket in disgust - with the odd golden object or with something else, however, Lynda wasn’t sure.
“Those I know,” she said cheerfully. “Want a list?”
The Master glared at her. “Sweet? Seriously?”
He was gone before Lynda could answer. She crossed her ankles and settled back to continue on her nails. Time was still stagnant, after all, and she didn’t think the Master was quite done with her yet.
*
The Master glared at Romana. “The Sycorax are pointless alien forms that should be eradicated from all existence.”
“Rasillon was working on that,” said Romana, and played her next card.
The Master stamped off to sulk somewhere else. “And human females can join them!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Romana shook her head. “I feel sorrier for Lucy Saxon every day,” she said, and gathered her winnings together.
Chapter Eighteen
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week’s guest stars are Lynda Moss, Jack Harkness, and Wee!Amelia Pond.
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 ~ Fourteen ~ Fifteen ~ Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen: Vertical I via Diagonal Right
“Stupid Linda is in the stupid center square,” the Master told K-9.
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9.
“Which means Stupid Linda is dreaming about a whole lot of things happening.”
“Affirmative, Master,” said K-9.
“Which means at some point, I have to invade Stupid Linda’s dreams in order to find out what she’s dreaming about.”
“It is one method of determining such things, Master.”
The Master raised his eyebrow. “There are other methods?”
“You could attempt a direct inquiry, Master.”
The Master turned his laser screwdriver over in his hands. “You know, I never saw a sonic screwdriver in your little storyline.”
The little tin dog’s antenna ears twirled.
“Never mind,” said the Master. “You know who deserves headaches? The Sycorax. They’ve got brilliant heads. I bet they get brilliant headaches.”
*
Lynda sighed, and sat down on the nearest section of wall to wait. She didn’t think she’d have to wait very long.
Center square, he’d said. She wondered what that meant - as if they were playing a game of tic-tac-toe? Of course, center square held all the power. And if she was center square….
By the time the Master reappeared, Lynda had a grin on her face.
“I’m center square, is that it?”
“Not now,” said the Master impatiently, scanning the horizon. “Are the Sycorax still up there?”
“Other direction,” said Lynda, and once the Master spotted them, he grinned like a banshee. It wasn’t exactly pretty. “So I’m not center square anymore?”
“Quit thinking about yourself for a minute,” snapped the Master. “Can I use that Vortex Manipulator? I have to give some aliens a headache.”
“No!”
The Master sighed, walked over to Lynda, took her arm, removed the manipulator, and was fastening it on his own arm when Lynda began to sputter.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re not stopping me.”
“You can’t give the Sycorax a headache! What are you thinking?”
“Might want to sit down,” said the Master. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen to you.”
Lynda backed away. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll bring it back,” said the Master, and frowned, as if he couldn’t believe what he just said.
“You’d better,” said Lynda. “That thing’s worth half my yearly paycheck.”
The Master still had the sour look on his face when he zipped off the rooftop, and presumably onto the Sycorax ship. Lynda scanned the skyline until she saw it, and bit her lip. She wondered where he’d learned how to use a Vortex Manipulator. She wondered if he had arrived safely, or if the Sycorax had already destroyed the intruder. She wondered if he really would return the Manipulator when he was done giving the Sycorax their headaches.
And then she sat down, and wondered why she was following the Master’s instructions at all.
*
“Hi,” said the Master. “Ooo, a blood control device! Nifty!”
The Sycorax looked up. “Who are you?”
“The Master,” he said. “But never mind that. You know, normally, I’d ask first, but everyone’s been questioning my evil status recently, so I think we’ll skip the preliminaries and go straight into the fun part. Sweet dreams!”
And everyone fell asleep.
*
Amelia Pond pulled her knees under her chin, settling the heels of her shoes against the curve of the park bench. The wood was worn smooth by thousands of owners of wooly skirts taking a moment to look out on the duck pond, but there was still enough of a ridge that she could be confident that her feet wouldn’t slip.
That was one thing to be sure of, anyway. That she wouldn’t slip and fall. That was good, to be sure of something, when you started doubting everything else you were certain was true.
Dr. Halifax, psychiatrist number four: “Do you believe he’s real, Amelia?” In that kind sort of tone adults used all the time, like they were trying not to patronize, but weren’t sure how to go about it without being obvious. And then he tried to explain why the Doctor was imaginary, which was when Amelia bit him.
“Honestly, Amelia,” said Aunt Sharon, as if Amelia had fully intended to bite the psychiatrist. Arguing that Amelia hadn’t intended to do it would be fruitless, since she’d done it three times already, to three other psychiatrists. The moment they reached the street, Amelia had taken off like a rocket.
Amelia sniffed, and rubbed at her nose with the back of her coat sleeve. It was already damp from previous rubbing, and didn’t work very well.
The park was empty. Everyone in Gloucester was in school or work or moving between the two, and Aunt Sharon was probably sitting in the little pub near the psychiatrist’s office, waiting for Amelia to show up again. Amelia had long since made it habit to run off after seeing a psychiatrist, and Aunt Sharon didn’t bother to look for her anymore. Half the time, she didn’t even bother trying to catch the fleeing girl, and instead shrugged her shoulders, found a comfortable place that served tea and sandwiches, and waited for her eventual return.
Amelia sniffed again. Aunt Sharon didn’t believe in the Raggedy Doctor. No one really did. Even Rory thought he was imaginary, for all that he didn’t mind Amelia talking about him, and helped Amelia put the pictures up on her wall.
It was cold in the park - soon, Amelia would have to go and find Aunt Sharon again, and listen to another lecture about how she shouldn’t bite psychiatrists, shouldn’t tell stories, shouldn’t believe in imaginary things, shouldn’t run off, and then they’d drive back to Leavenworth. “Lucky I waited, you could be taking the bus home,” Aunt Sharon would say (as she always did), and Amelia would look out at the passing grey countryside and wish that she could be on a bus, anonymous and small, and not be prey to a litany of shouldn’ts.
The ducks heard the man coming before Amelia did. She buried her head in her knees, hoping he’d just walk by. She didn’t want to explain to anyone why she wasn’t in school.
Instead, he sat on the opposite end of the bench. There was a small rustling sound, a bit like he was taking a paper bag out of his pocket, and rustling around inside. Amelia peeked out around her arms, in time to see him pop a bit of pastry into his mouth. He looked nice enough: rather generic, really. Dark hair, long coat with shiny buttons, dark trousers, light blue shirt.
Amelia went back to studying her knees. Nice enough, but still, she didn’t dare move until he left. If she moved, it would mean she was game for a conversation. He might try to talk to her, but if she was still, perhaps he would forget she was there.
More rustling from the paper bag. Aunt Sharon would have cheese sandwiches for tea. Amelia’s stomach growled.
“I’ve never been able to make up my mind about ducks,” said the man. He had an American accent. Amelia decided to not like him, even if he sounded friendly enough. She pulled her knees in tighter.
“They’re loud, they’re obnoxious, and they have a habit of eating my shoelaces,” continued the man.
Amelia peeked at him again. He wasn’t looking at her; in fact, he might not have even spoken. Instead, he popped another piece of pastry into his mouth.
“Ducks don’t eat shoelaces,” said Amelia.
“Maybe not yours,” said the man. “Mine must be delicious. To a duck.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” said Amelia, and buried her face again.
“Of course not,” said the man. “Good advice. I should follow it myself.”
More rustling. Amelia thought he might be digging around for the crumbs at the bottom of the bag.
“Ducks,” said the man, still trying to work it out. “Is there any point to a duck? You could cook them, but they’re greasy. Not that many recipes calling for duck eggs that I’ve seen. And they eat my shoelaces.”
Amelia lifted her head. “If you’re trying to make me laugh, it won’t work. And I’m not supposed to-“
“Talk to strangers, I know,” said the man. “But you’re not talking to me, you’re listening to me. Did your aunt ever tell you not to listen to strangers?”
Amelia pinched her mouth together. “No,” she admitted. “But she probably didn’t think to say.”
“Then you’ll get off on a technicality,” said the man.
Amelia, not entirely convinced, rested her chin on her knees and watched two of the ducks fight over a bit of toast.
“Ferocious creatures,” said the man. Amelia made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat. She’d been practicing it for weeks, but Aunt Sharon kept telling her to cough and get it over with, if there was something lodged in her esophagus.
The man made no such comment. In fact, he didn’t say anything for several minutes. Amelia considered the noise a triumph, and liked him a little better.
The slightly larger duck snapped at the smaller duck’s tail-feathers, and ran off with the bit of toast.
“No one ever believes me about ducks and shoelaces,” said the man.
“That’s because ducks don’t eat shoelaces,” said Amelia.
“What do they eat?” asked the man.
Amelia thought about it. “Seaweed,” she said. “And grass, and leaves, and lettuce. And toast.”
“Apart from the toast, I’d say the shoelaces sound appetizing compared to that list.”
“I’ve never seen a duck eat a shoelace,” said Amelia.
“Do you always have to see something to believe it?” asked the man.
Amelia almost said ‘yes’, but thought about the Raggedy Doctor, and set her chin back on her knees.
“Most adults do,” she said.
“Good thing I’m not most adults,” said the man. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out not another bag of pastry, but an extra shoelace, and a bow tie, the old style that would need tying. Amelia tried to not look interested. “An experiment?”
“Okay,” said Amelia.
The man tossed the shoelace and the bow tie at the remaining duck, busy grooming its ruffled feathers. The duck stopped its grooming immediately, and looked at the offered objects. It quickly nosed the bowtie aside before taking the shoelace up its beak and racing off to the pond, a bit of shoelace trailing behind it.
One of Amelia’s feet slipped from the bench. “But - won’t it get tangled up in its intestines?”
The man gave her an odd look. “How old are you?”
“Ten,” said Amelia. “And you’re dodging the question!”
“Don’t worry about the duck, the duck will be fine,” said the man, amused. “Do you believe me now about the shoelaces?”
“Yes,” said Amelia.
“Good,” said the man, and he settled back on the bench. “Knew I’d find someone who would, eventually. I just had to find the right person to listen.”
Amelia bit her lip, and thought.
“I have a friend named the Doctor,” she blurted out.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Do you now?”
“He lives in a blue box that’s falling apart and he said he’d fix the crack in my wall and he’d be back in five minutes but that was three years ago and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Doctors have a way of running late sometimes,” said the man bitterly. But not condescendingly, Amelia noted. She decided to take a chance.
“He said it was a time machine,” she said quickly, the words tripping over themselves. “He said he had to jump forward five minutes because of the engines and the swimming pool was in the library and I went to get my suitcase but I woke up in the morning and Aunt Sharon was livid, because I’d slept all night in the garden.”
The man blinked, taking it all in.
Most adults would laugh when Amelia told them the truth. Some of them would chuckle and comment on her imagination. Some of them would giggle and say how lovely it would be to have a floating library. Some of them would sigh and tell her to stop telling ridiculous stories. None of them ever believed her.
The man did not laugh. At all.
“The swimming pool wasn’t in the library,” he said, not to contradict her, Amelia knew, but in that tone that said her version of events wasn’t quite matching up with what he knew.
“I think it spilled over,” said Amelia. “His box was on its side.”
The man frowned. “That’s not good. What did it sound like when he dematerialized?”
Amelia became just a bit suspicious. “You believe me?”
“I don’t need to see a duck eat a shoelace to believe it can happen,” said the man.
“No one ever believes me,” continued Amelia. “Why do you?”
“I just do,” said the man.
Amelia turned on the bench to face the man. He hadn’t moved closer to her. He wasn’t even looking at her. She tried to memorize his face, so she could describe him to the police after he tried to kidnap her - but she didn’t think he would.
“Are you going to kidnap me?” she asked.
The man snorted.
“Because if you were trying to kidnap me, you’d try to gain my trust,” reasoned Amelia.
“I don’t need you to trust me,” said the man. “I just needed reminding.”
“Of what?”
“That he exists,” said the man.
“Why?” asked Amelia.
The man took the empty pastry bag and crumpled it up in his hand. “Maybe I’m waiting for him, too.” He turned to Amelia then, and smiled. It was a sad smile, Amelia thought. “He left me behind a long time ago. Sometimes I forget for a few minutes. And then I look for someone else he left behind, to remember.”
Amelia gripped the edge of the bench. “Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know,” said the man. He stood up and straightened his coat. “Maybe, if we’re lucky.”
Amelia rested her chin on her arm, and watched the man walk away. The duck with the shoelace followed behind him, trailing the brown lace in the dirt. He hadn’t said goodbye - but then, neither had the Doctor.
Someone else knew about the Doctor. Someone else waited for him.
A lot of someone elses, if what the man had said was true.
Amelia hopped off the bench and spied the bow tie lying in the gravel. She picked it up and put it in her pocket. It was smooth and slippery between her mittens. Feeling a great deal more confident with the bow tie in her pocket, Amelia left the park bench. There was a bit of a spring in her step now.
Someone believed her about the Doctor. Even if she didn’t know his name. Even if he didn’t know hers. Amelia wasn’t alone anymore.
She liked that.
Maybe Aunt Sharon would have left her a cheese sandwich, and the next time she made an appointment with a psychiatrist, Amelia would simply refuse to go. She knew she wasn’t mad. She was only waiting.
*
Deep in the trees surrounding the duck pond and the little bench, now devoid of people, the Master glared at the Sycorax scout standing next to him. “Okay, that was a lovely little scene there. Aren’t you supposed to be in it?”
“I’m watching,” said the Sycroax, irritable. He held his head as if it pained him.
“Watching?”
“It’s surveys!” snapped the Sycorax. “Geez, don’t you read? You always send a scout before the invading force comes in. I’m the scout. I’m judging the relative abilities of the native forces to determine the best method of taking over their planet. The invading force will be here in around eight years or so. Probably by Christmas.”
The Master rubbed his temples. “You are the most ridiculous and useless alien I have ever come across in my entire lives. And believe me, they’re fairly extensive.”
The Sycorax scout glared. “You’re lucky I’m unarmed.”
“Yeah, lucky all over,” snorted the Master. He pulled the roll of papers out of his back pocket. “So. I’m guessing Amelia and Amy are the same person. Jack Harkness, check. Sycorax, check. Which leaves me with….ducks? Shoelaces? Absentee Doctors? Bowties?”
The Master scowled, and made some notations on his paper, muttering under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like he was expressing his extreme hatred for a single person.
“You know,” he said, “stupid of me to think you’d actually be involved here. You weren’t involved in the last one, you were just on the periphery. So I’m willing to bet you’d be on the periphery in the next storyline as well. Fat lot of good you lot do me.”
The Sycorax scout cocked his head, and then scowled. “Never mind unarmed. I can rip your head off.”
“Maybe next time. Have fun with your surveys,” the Master told the Sycorax scout. “Bit of advice. Blood control? Nice bit of business, but it has its downsides.”
The Sycorax scout looked almost inspired, right before he fell asleep.
*
Lynda looked up from her nails as the Master popped back onto the rooftop.
“There you are,” she said mildly. “Have fun?”
“I hate this thing,” said the Master. “It makes my head spin.”
“Yeah, it does that,” said Lynda unsympathetically. She reached out and took the Manipulator before the Master could drop it on the gravel. “Find what you needed?”
“Almost.” He looked at the golden rod in his hand, and then at Lynda, as if he was thinking about something. “Word association?”
“Oh, why not.” Lynda fastened the Manipulator onto her wrist again.
“Rose.”
Lynda blinked. “Who?”
The Master made a humming noise, and marked something on his ever-present papers. “Bowties?”
“I can tie one,” said Lynda. “My uncle Harry taught me.”
“That it?”
“Sorry,” said Lynda.
“Ducks? Shoelaces? Waiting for Doctors who never show up?” The last was shouted at the sky.
Lynda shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Bollocks,” said the Master finally, and looked at his golden rod again, before shaking his head and shoving it back into his pocket in disgust - with the odd golden object or with something else, however, Lynda wasn’t sure.
“Those I know,” she said cheerfully. “Want a list?”
The Master glared at her. “Sweet? Seriously?”
He was gone before Lynda could answer. She crossed her ankles and settled back to continue on her nails. Time was still stagnant, after all, and she didn’t think the Master was quite done with her yet.
*
The Master glared at Romana. “The Sycorax are pointless alien forms that should be eradicated from all existence.”
“Rasillon was working on that,” said Romana, and played her next card.
The Master stamped off to sulk somewhere else. “And human females can join them!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Romana shook her head. “I feel sorrier for Lucy Saxon every day,” she said, and gathered her winnings together.
Chapter Eighteen