This isn't a face the Doctor recognizes, but it is undeniably...
"Master."
The Doctor acknowledges the man with a glance as he strides forward. He's devoid of his usual jacket (and its accompanying celery) and carries a slender rapier in one hand with the bearing of someone who knows how to use it. He pauses at a respectful distance, out of range of the Master's swordplay.
"You know how to put on a show, certainly..."
His voice has a faint tone of mockery to it. They're old enemies and older friends -- and though he's not entirely certain when this Master comes from, they both know how their game is played.
Oh-ho, now this, the Master was not expecting, and the Doctor is met with a brief flash of a genuine smile, which soon smooths into a cool smirk. Of course, he recalls his last encounter with this particular Doctor (and that's something which still rankles at him, just a little), but in the main, he was and is particularly fond of this incarnation, given the hand he had in the regeneration that led up to it and those few days afterwards when the Doctor was suffering so badly from post-regenerative trauma.
Letting his sword-tip swing down in a flashing arc, he turns to face him, cocking an eyebrow at the mockery. Good form. The Master could do with a fight; he's had too little outlet of late, for any of his myriad frustrations.
'And you come prepared, as always, like a good Boy Scout. It has been some time, Doctor.'
He swishes his sword in lazy circles through the air, idly testing the speed and balance of the blade. Of course he'd been prepared and come carrying it with him, but sword fights were hardly an everyday occurrence for him and he could scarcely recall when he last held a blade. Not that he was out of practice, of course.
"...in my time-line I can hardly seem to be rid of you. Wherever I go, there you are. I might almost think you were following me."
It's said lightly enough, but the Doctor's perfectly aware that he's dancing dangerously close to a truth neither of them have been particularly keen on admitting in the past. But these verbal jabs are part of their ritual. Cutting remarks were expected, required. It would hardly be polite not to play his part to the best of his abilities.
'We did run into each other rather frequently in that set of bodies, yes.'
The Master's tone is as flippant as the Doctor's, and his eyes idly track the progress of the Doctor's sword as it swings. What a silly accusation, now, really; as if the Master would ever do anything like that.
'But I was referring to you,' continues the Master, curving his wrist so that there's the faintest rasp of steel on steel as the point of his blade slides against the Doctor's. His gaze flicks up to meet his eyes. 'I see my contemporary Doctor often enough.'
And yet not that often, so it seems. They've each been relegated their roles in this conflict, and it leaves precious little time for encounters such as these. The Master is furious, in truth, at how easily the Doctor allows the High Council to manipulate him, when he knows perfectly well that if he and the Master were given but a day in the same room together, they could have the War ended within weeks.
He feels it the moment the Doctor appears, and, letting his sword fall quiescent to his side, the Master turns. Just as the Doctor had spent a moment watching him, so also does the Master, his expression shrewd.
The Doctor picks himself up from the wall he had been leaning against and walks nearer the Master. Rather unlike the other versions of this particular incarnation of himself who frequent the Nexus, he distinctly does not bounce, instead walking slowly and deliberately. It's much in the same way someone with sore feet from standing for hours might walk, though if you were to ask him, the Doctor would tell you his don't particularly hurt, not at the moment anyway.
Oh, so few words, from the Doctor of all people, and the Master pivots on one heel, swordpoint resting against the ground. Expansive and theatrical, he gestures to the space around them with his free hand, his expression mild but voice challenging. 'Do you see anybody for me to fight? Has anybody met their gruesome end at the end of my blade? Am I doing anything at all worthy of your condemnation?'
Which is to say, of course it's different. The War, that fight- the Master a conscripted soldier, spending endless days without even the satisfying aspects of such wars to sustain him, it's little wonder he feels the need to devote some little, stolen time to other things. Even something like this, which only gives him the illusion of productivity.
Comments 55
"Master."
The Doctor acknowledges the man with a glance as he strides forward. He's devoid of his usual jacket (and its accompanying celery) and carries a slender rapier in one hand with the bearing of someone who knows how to use it. He pauses at a respectful distance, out of range of the Master's swordplay.
"You know how to put on a show, certainly..."
His voice has a faint tone of mockery to it. They're old enemies and older friends -- and though he's not entirely certain when this Master comes from, they both know how their game is played.
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Letting his sword-tip swing down in a flashing arc, he turns to face him, cocking an eyebrow at the mockery. Good form. The Master could do with a fight; he's had too little outlet of late, for any of his myriad frustrations.
'And you come prepared, as always, like a good Boy Scout. It has been some time, Doctor.'
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He swishes his sword in lazy circles through the air, idly testing the speed and balance of the blade. Of course he'd been prepared and come carrying it with him, but sword fights were hardly an everyday occurrence for him and he could scarcely recall when he last held a blade. Not that he was out of practice, of course.
"...in my time-line I can hardly seem to be rid of you. Wherever I go, there you are. I might almost think you were following me."
It's said lightly enough, but the Doctor's perfectly aware that he's dancing dangerously close to a truth neither of them have been particularly keen on admitting in the past. But these verbal jabs are part of their ritual. Cutting remarks were expected, required. It would hardly be polite not to play his part to the best of his abilities.
Reply
The Master's tone is as flippant as the Doctor's, and his eyes idly track the progress of the Doctor's sword as it swings. What a silly accusation, now, really; as if the Master would ever do anything like that.
'But I was referring to you,' continues the Master, curving his wrist so that there's the faintest rasp of steel on steel as the point of his blade slides against the Doctor's. His gaze flicks up to meet his eyes. 'I see my contemporary Doctor often enough.'
And yet not that often, so it seems. They've each been relegated their roles in this conflict, and it leaves precious little time for encounters such as these. The Master is furious, in truth, at how easily the Doctor allows the High Council to manipulate him, when he knows perfectly well that if he and the Master were given but a day in the same room together, they could have the War ended within weeks.
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"Aren't you tired of fighting yet?"
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'That is different, Doctor.'
As well you know. Or should know, if you don't.
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"Is it?" he asks. "I see."
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Which is to say, of course it's different. The War, that fight- the Master a conscripted soldier, spending endless days without even the satisfying aspects of such wars to sustain him, it's little wonder he feels the need to devote some little, stolen time to other things. Even something like this, which only gives him the illusion of productivity.
Reply
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