He follows to the places where he can see the light in the sky.
There aren't many places like that, not here, not where the Master has kept him. But if he can grip the bars tight enough and pull his feeble body to its feet, he can just about see the skylight. See the pricks of stars across an inky blackness.
One year. It's going to have been one year in six weeks. One year of torture. The pain isn't so bad, not really. He spent seven months in a Dalek prison camp during the War and all pain is relative after that.
No, the Master's torture is psychological. It's the way he's forced to eat out of a dog dish, the way he has to watch his friends become slaves, the fact that he's given a fresh pair of trainers every week even though he can't walk.
The fact that he's got that skylight is the Master's doing, too. He knows this. To show him what he can't have, the thing he desires the most. It's torture in its own right. It's cruel, it's heartless, and it's very Masterly of him
( ... )
Somewhere outside the TARDIS, the Doctor is trying to save a dying planet. Standing just inside the doors he can never walk out of, the Master watches the flames in the distance creep closer.
For a moment, he can ignore the four-beat in his mind and be satisfied to watch.
It would be far more satisfying to be the one the Doctor was trying to stop. This life in which the Doctor had said that he was not much more than a pity case in which to dote on is not a life at all. It's wearing him down constantly. They are each all that is left of their race and yet the Doctor is detached, as if he is nothing more than an outside observer. Sanctimonious as ever, he tries to fix the broken pieces together.
Even if that were possible the picture would never look the same again.
And so, he stands at the doors as the flames grow closer, explosions punctuating the devastation in the distance. He can feel the ship preparing to leave and knows that the Doctor must be close. The Master closes his eyes a moment, savoring the smell of death on fire
( ... )
Comments 7
There aren't many places like that, not here, not where the Master has kept him. But if he can grip the bars tight enough and pull his feeble body to its feet, he can just about see the skylight. See the pricks of stars across an inky blackness.
One year. It's going to have been one year in six weeks. One year of torture. The pain isn't so bad, not really. He spent seven months in a Dalek prison camp during the War and all pain is relative after that.
No, the Master's torture is psychological. It's the way he's forced to eat out of a dog dish, the way he has to watch his friends become slaves, the fact that he's given a fresh pair of trainers every week even though he can't walk.
The fact that he's got that skylight is the Master's doing, too. He knows this. To show him what he can't have, the thing he desires the most. It's torture in its own right. It's cruel, it's heartless, and it's very Masterly of him ( ... )
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At some point maybe I should write something with that line that isn't torture for the Doctor or human!Doctor...
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And much more fun to write than rainbows.
Although I suppose there's a way to make rainbows torturous, too.
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For a moment, he can ignore the four-beat in his mind and be satisfied to watch.
It would be far more satisfying to be the one the Doctor was trying to stop. This life in which the Doctor had said that he was not much more than a pity case in which to dote on is not a life at all. It's wearing him down constantly. They are each all that is left of their race and yet the Doctor is detached, as if he is nothing more than an outside observer. Sanctimonious as ever, he tries to fix the broken pieces together.
Even if that were possible the picture would never look the same again.
And so, he stands at the doors as the flames grow closer, explosions punctuating the devastation in the distance. He can feel the ship preparing to leave and knows that the Doctor must be close. The Master closes his eyes a moment, savoring the smell of death on fire ( ... )
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