DW -- The Worst Ghost
Title: The Worst Ghost
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Simm!Master, Koschei (Koschei/Theta)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 775
Warnings: very brief language, spoilers through DW S3
Summary: Timelines cross in Cardiff.
Author's Note: This developed, in an ungainly fashion, from a line written in an RP. Only the line was way better there, and now it's buried in... stuff.
THE WORST GHOST
The man who calls himself Harold Saxon is in Cardiff for the weekend. He’s giving a speech at the Senedd building this evening, which could not be more typical of the Welsh-both the unpronounceable word plastered on every sign, and the fact that they care more about their sheep than their politics but enjoy pretending otherwise. In any case, he’s ditched his retinue. He considered making note-cards, drafting something to craft his image a little more, outlining how he’ll address the bizarreness that pours forth from the Rift… some vague but intensely reassuring statements about power and defensive tactics. It’s laughably easy-and he has laughed, in private, numerous times, somewhat maniacally-to manipulate human beings. Their emotions are so straightforward, their brains so simple, their lives so stutteringly short. They can be used as tools, but it’s like trying to build a computer chip with a hammer-like performing surgery with a screwdriver.
He’ll improvise something perfect. He always does. And even if he didn’t, Archangel would take care of the rest. The Master makes his own guardians. The Master is his own savior.
The Master is about to flip the fuck out, because he’s just spotted the worst ghost he’s ever left behind.
Koschei scowls, first at the Baycar, then at Central Cardiff station, and the Master remembers it: remembers the irritation; remembers the twinges of worry, faster as the minutes pass; remembers wondering how in the hell Theta can’t track down the British railway symbol as a meeting place when it’s at the top of a pole in the middle of a parking lot, especially since human history is his latest pet project. The Master remembers resolving never to let that stupid-gorgeous idiot part with him again, and he remembers what’s about to happen.
Koschei notices him staring and glares at him for a moment before glancing away, already uncomfortable. Against his will the Master misses the days when he had shame, when he knew fear, when he felt everything so acutely-when he could focus on feelings, not on the vicious four-beat call to arms that thunders in his head. So much was possible then.
The Master is still looking at Koschei, even though he knows he’ll soon have to turn to leave, and Koschei will shudder and hate that he can’t quite forget the unsettling eyes of the Cardiff Creeper. The Master wants to smirk at the notion of stalking himself, of this backwards narcissism spanning centuries, but he can’t quite convince the muscles in his face to shift. Koschei would probably just bolt in the other direction anyway if he did, and then…
Nothing would happen.
The Master is a Time Lord. He can feel the gentle sway of the currents and lines around him, of convergences and potential. He calculates in an instant, knowing Koschei’s mind and dissecting it impartially now, that he can alter his own past without obliterating the present future.
The Master hates timeline grammar almost as much as Koschei hates worrying.
He strides up to the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy in the Oxford shirt-Theta had picked the necktie specially; it brings out his eyes; he only puts that together now. They’re a little bit marvelous, those eyes, and they’re widening as a startled, displeased Koschei steps back from the self that years and lives and bodies keep from him.
The Master catches his shoulder before he can run, and Koschei looks up at him, scared but challenging. It’s an expression he’d never perfected then.
The Master kisses Koschei’s forehead and lets him go.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“You’d better be,” Koschei mutters, carefully retreating, probably planning to head for the station and tell an employee…
The Master shivers as the timelines ripple to adjust, outward and onward and endlessly, but then it’s done. The universe is infinitesimally different. Koschei will sidle in towards the station, but when the Master harmlessly departs, he’ll change his mind about asking for help. He’ll give up waiting and hunt down Theta, and he’ll have virtually forgotten the day’s beginnings by the time Theta gets ice cream on his nose and chokes on Welsh cake crumbs when Koschei makes him laugh.
He still has all the pain ahead of him. He still has every lie, every failure, and every betrayal. Somehow the Master is jealous anyway. If he could do it again, he might. He might just.
But for this Koschei, this new Koschei he has defied paradoxes to create, a stranger is sorry. Someone cares. The apology exists.
The Master thinks-just for a moment-that the drums are quieter now.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Simm!Master, Koschei (Koschei/Theta)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 775
Warnings: very brief language, spoilers through DW S3
Summary: Timelines cross in Cardiff.
Author's Note: This developed, in an ungainly fashion, from a line written in an RP. Only the line was way better there, and now it's buried in... stuff.
THE WORST GHOST
The man who calls himself Harold Saxon is in Cardiff for the weekend. He’s giving a speech at the Senedd building this evening, which could not be more typical of the Welsh-both the unpronounceable word plastered on every sign, and the fact that they care more about their sheep than their politics but enjoy pretending otherwise. In any case, he’s ditched his retinue. He considered making note-cards, drafting something to craft his image a little more, outlining how he’ll address the bizarreness that pours forth from the Rift… some vague but intensely reassuring statements about power and defensive tactics. It’s laughably easy-and he has laughed, in private, numerous times, somewhat maniacally-to manipulate human beings. Their emotions are so straightforward, their brains so simple, their lives so stutteringly short. They can be used as tools, but it’s like trying to build a computer chip with a hammer-like performing surgery with a screwdriver.
He’ll improvise something perfect. He always does. And even if he didn’t, Archangel would take care of the rest. The Master makes his own guardians. The Master is his own savior.
The Master is about to flip the fuck out, because he’s just spotted the worst ghost he’s ever left behind.
Koschei scowls, first at the Baycar, then at Central Cardiff station, and the Master remembers it: remembers the irritation; remembers the twinges of worry, faster as the minutes pass; remembers wondering how in the hell Theta can’t track down the British railway symbol as a meeting place when it’s at the top of a pole in the middle of a parking lot, especially since human history is his latest pet project. The Master remembers resolving never to let that stupid-gorgeous idiot part with him again, and he remembers what’s about to happen.
Koschei notices him staring and glares at him for a moment before glancing away, already uncomfortable. Against his will the Master misses the days when he had shame, when he knew fear, when he felt everything so acutely-when he could focus on feelings, not on the vicious four-beat call to arms that thunders in his head. So much was possible then.
The Master is still looking at Koschei, even though he knows he’ll soon have to turn to leave, and Koschei will shudder and hate that he can’t quite forget the unsettling eyes of the Cardiff Creeper. The Master wants to smirk at the notion of stalking himself, of this backwards narcissism spanning centuries, but he can’t quite convince the muscles in his face to shift. Koschei would probably just bolt in the other direction anyway if he did, and then…
Nothing would happen.
The Master is a Time Lord. He can feel the gentle sway of the currents and lines around him, of convergences and potential. He calculates in an instant, knowing Koschei’s mind and dissecting it impartially now, that he can alter his own past without obliterating the present future.
The Master hates timeline grammar almost as much as Koschei hates worrying.
He strides up to the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy in the Oxford shirt-Theta had picked the necktie specially; it brings out his eyes; he only puts that together now. They’re a little bit marvelous, those eyes, and they’re widening as a startled, displeased Koschei steps back from the self that years and lives and bodies keep from him.
The Master catches his shoulder before he can run, and Koschei looks up at him, scared but challenging. It’s an expression he’d never perfected then.
The Master kisses Koschei’s forehead and lets him go.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“You’d better be,” Koschei mutters, carefully retreating, probably planning to head for the station and tell an employee…
The Master shivers as the timelines ripple to adjust, outward and onward and endlessly, but then it’s done. The universe is infinitesimally different. Koschei will sidle in towards the station, but when the Master harmlessly departs, he’ll change his mind about asking for help. He’ll give up waiting and hunt down Theta, and he’ll have virtually forgotten the day’s beginnings by the time Theta gets ice cream on his nose and chokes on Welsh cake crumbs when Koschei makes him laugh.
He still has all the pain ahead of him. He still has every lie, every failure, and every betrayal. Somehow the Master is jealous anyway. If he could do it again, he might. He might just.
But for this Koschei, this new Koschei he has defied paradoxes to create, a stranger is sorry. Someone cares. The apology exists.
The Master thinks-just for a moment-that the drums are quieter now.