Jun. 29th, 2020 03:40 pm
Setting the Board [For mistressery]
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darkened_doctorIt had taken him some time to create it. A small pocket, just out of the way of the rest of the timestream. A bit akin to a bubble, floating along a river. Everything in it was artificial, to some extent or another - an extension merely of the TARDIS' ability to create an atmosphere. The ground, made to look like a rather ornate bit of carpet on some flat grey material, was all projection, by and large. A trick of artificial gravity and hard light holographics.
The rest, however, was not. He'd dragged two old armchairs out from the TARDIS, ones he'd picked up a long time ago when he was both incredibly old and yet a young rebel at the same time. He'd been authoritative in those days, and these had...well, turned up. The benefits of living in an old scrapyard, really. The irony of course was that he'd had them since near the beginning, but in those days he'd been such a man of action he rarely sat down at all. The nervous energy is gone in this incarnation.
To the side of them is a small cart with a tea service and a tray of cucumber sandwiches, and some assorted cookies. And between the two chairs is, to his mind, the most important part. The chessboard sits on an ornate metal stand, a gift from Napoleon Bonaparte. Each of the pieces was carved by hand - flawless Italian marble for white, scintillating Guatemalan obsidian for black. He finished dusting it off with a handkerchief, then sat back in the one arm chair, pulling a comic book out of a coat pocket.
He rather liked Flash Gordon. They got so much wrong, he could lose himself in it for a spell. And he might have to wait some time. It might be a while before the intriguing little signal sent out as a lure attracted its intended fish...
The rest, however, was not. He'd dragged two old armchairs out from the TARDIS, ones he'd picked up a long time ago when he was both incredibly old and yet a young rebel at the same time. He'd been authoritative in those days, and these had...well, turned up. The benefits of living in an old scrapyard, really. The irony of course was that he'd had them since near the beginning, but in those days he'd been such a man of action he rarely sat down at all. The nervous energy is gone in this incarnation.
To the side of them is a small cart with a tea service and a tray of cucumber sandwiches, and some assorted cookies. And between the two chairs is, to his mind, the most important part. The chessboard sits on an ornate metal stand, a gift from Napoleon Bonaparte. Each of the pieces was carved by hand - flawless Italian marble for white, scintillating Guatemalan obsidian for black. He finished dusting it off with a handkerchief, then sat back in the one arm chair, pulling a comic book out of a coat pocket.
He rather liked Flash Gordon. They got so much wrong, he could lose himself in it for a spell. And he might have to wait some time. It might be a while before the intriguing little signal sent out as a lure attracted its intended fish...
no subject
There's no mistaking the use of a vortex manipulator. Missy is vomited out of the time vortex slightly above ground, dropping like a stone onto the illusory rug. She lands in an uncoordinated heap of her own limbs, purple traveling suit and white petticoat. The cheap and nasty method of time travel is nauseating for most lifeforms. Ah, but she gets a giddy little thrill from it. She knows such devices are unwholesome, rudimentary, and even dangerous. She likes them for the same reasons. It's identical thinking which keeps people smoking cigarettes and cigars.
She springs up to her feet, no worse for wear. Her undignified arrival won't dent her ego or slow her down. She looks left and right, catching herself up on this meticulously-arranged tableau. It isn't just a matter of what she sees. It's about what she can feel, and she feels their adjacency to the timestream.
And there he is. The Doctor is ensconced in this isolated pocket of nonchronology, looking comfortable enough to erase any doubt that he's responsible. She moves to stand in front of him, opting out of the seat that's meant for her.
"Battle of the brollies," she decides, gesturing first to him and then to herself. It's what she's going to call this particular confluence.
She arches a thin eyebrow. Both her hands land on her hips. He's clearly gone to some effort, which she can appreciate, but she's not so easily pleased. She needs to know why, what the point is. It looks like— well, she's not sure he wants to be told what it looks like.
"But you can't be serious. You can't just conjure me because you feel like a game. Absolutely not. No! No, no, no. Je refuse. I have a life outside of you," she says, with rather more conviction than necessary, considering she hasn't let him get a word of explanation in. Her expression darkens. "I know what you get up to. I know how you've weaponised talking."
He can literally talk a Dalek to death. She's not fool enough to believe that chess and conversation between the two of them would be innocuous. In many ways, they're cut from the same cloth. They have some similiar tricks up their sleeves, though he may not like that observation.
no subject
Now he weaves, and to a certain extent, schemes - and as the situation proves, he can go to elaborate lengths.
"Ah, but I clearly can and absolutely did," he announces with some satisfaction. "Battle of the Brrrollies indeed, hmph. Though I admit, I was aiming for another version of you. The Traken version - the velvety one. But this will do nicely."
He gives her an appreciative looking over, and then his eyes lock on hers. And there isn't a hint of flinching in them. He isn't the sort.
"But I am serious, as it happens. And who says I meant for just one? At least best two out of three." Or, for that matter, for it to be just for a game.
no subject
"I'll do? Excuse you," he rubbed her pride the wrong way with that one. She puffs up all indignant, "Obviously!"
Of course she'll do. It should go without saying. She's no less a narcissist than those who came before. She strikes a pose while he makes his visual assessment of her, never shying from it. He sought out eye contact and it's what he gets, for a while. She doesn't flinch from him either. But then, as he admits to wanting more than one game, and this starts to sound time-consuming, she sighs and paces away.
Her vortex manipulator's checked in the way an old-fashioned human might check a wristwatch. The power's depleted, whether that was her oversight or another function of his preparations. She won't be hopping back out of this mess without charging it somehow.
She shrugs, flicking both wrists out in unison. It isn't the hands-up of surrender, but rather a gesture to say she'll oblige for his sake, out of the nonexistent goodness of her hearts. Fine! she thinks loudly.
She's not attractive, no, but sensual yes. She gives the impression of being rather libertine with this womanhood thing. When she doesn't intimidate others the straightforward way, she's found that her sauciness makes most of them uncomfortable. It's scary to be threatened by her. It's scary to be flirted with by her. She doesn't see a whole lot of difference.
She puts on a show of making herself comfortable, unbuttoning her coat and doubling it over the arm of that other chair. Idly, she tugs at the sleeve of the blouse underneath. She looks to him, ostensibly seeking approval.
"Do you like this? I got it in New York. March 25, 1911. Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. I'm the one who locked the doors."
He's put under closer observation for a second or two, while she takes a seat and just after. Some of the playfulness goes out of her, but not all. She bites her lower lip. "Oh dear. Am I meant to be part of your crusade?"
no subject
And attractive is in the eye of the beholder - there are many levels and so many tastes. But she plays a character so very well. Possibly even better than her predecessors. Mainly because they tended to revert to themselves once the main disguise came off. She was adding an entirely new layer.
When she speaks again, he chuckles quietly, behind hooded eyes and interlaced fingers. One thing this version does have is perception, and layer upon layer of cunning. And he doubts her very much.
"No you didn't," he scoffed. "1911, perhaps. Call it a tourist stop. But the fire was the result of the banal - stupidity and greed. Stupid men scared of union organizers, and too cheap to provide proper safeguards. And I refuse to believe that you - with your experiences - would let 146 poor, exploited women burn to death or jump to their doom just to steal a shirt. Unfitted, from the factory, to boot - since when have you ever accepted such sloppy chance?"
He is sure she remembers all too well what fire is like, and he isn't ashamed to insinuate it. But then he leans forward, and moves a pawn.
"I dislike the word. It assumes some holy purpose. No, I'm going to ask you to do what you do best. Sneak, harm. Probably kill."
no subject
"No I didn't," she confirms, echoing his words, not that he needed her confirmation to know she'd been lying.
She seems somewhat mollified by this demonstration of his understanding. A little less put-out to be here, with the reminder that they knew each other, and know each other still. Would he believe where her clothes really come from? He might, if only because the truth has a recognisable sound sometimes, no matter how far-fetched. With Time Lords, the truth so often causes déjà vu. Even a completely new truth may evoke a sense of having known and forgotten it once before.
It's a bit disappointing that he took the white advantage—hadn't he done that already, by luring her here? She counters with the Sicilian defence, moving an obsidian pawn.
Then he makes her laugh. It's a full-bodied laugh that tickles her right down to her ribs.
"You won't like yourself for asking," she opines, voice almost sing-song, as though to hold her foreknowledge of later events over him.
"What I do best won't leave your hands squeaky-clean, but that's a no-brainer. So, how do you rationalise this one? Is it in the service of what's good and right?"
no subject
As for belief, well. He'd seen so much by this point that he likely would. There were stranger things in the universe. In any event, his mind is focused on the task at hand, moving up another pawn to begin opening his own defense. They haven't played in centuries, but his game is definitely more decisive.
"That makes a certain prrresumption," he replies, rolling his r's. "Namely, that I'm entirely happy with what I need to do now. And I don't rationalise it. I'm going to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight because there's a war coming. Not yet, a few centuries off, perhaps - but it's coming. And Gallifrey will likely lose."
He casts his eyes up at her. She may well know the outcome already, he's aware. "In any event, such a struggle would be time-locked, unalterable. But there are...peripheries. Secondary fronts I am ensuring do not errrupt when the time comes."
And who else could he ask? Because he knows one thing, most certainly. He is Time's Champion - but the Master is Death's. There is no better soldier, come the end of it.
no subject
His game is more decisive than it was. It's also more decisive than it will be in the future. She has a good frame of reference, having only recently played with a later incarnation of him.
Her expression's deliberately neutral, if he's checking. He's certain of the war. She won't try to hide it from him. It's the rest of it she feels the need to conceal: the outcome and the consequences, both immediate and longterm.
It isn't absurd to think of forming an alliance. They're going to work together during the war, too. They'll be on the same side, with the same purpose. And with that in mind, she should want these peripheries squared away as badly as he does.
But she'd scoff if she knew he thought so highly of her. Death's Champion. Maybe she'd confess to what she did when her Heavenly Paradigm plot backfired and the Dalek Emperor took the Cruciform. Even a mad dog like her wasn't well-suited to the Time War. Nobody was, except perhaps him.
The Doctor will surprise himself. There are lines the War Doctor crossed that the Master never would. It's a little frightening to imagine what this face of his, with his determination and cunning, would've done in those circumstances.
"I comprehend the gravity of what you're asking. I do," she says. He'll hear a caveat in her voice. She sucks in some air between her teeth. How to explain this?
"It's just sort of a weird time for me," she adds, knowing how feeble this sounds. "I actually haven't killed anyone for the better part of a century. If I start now, I'm not sure where I'll stop."
If he can't rationalise it, she can't either. She'll be disappointing him if she refuses and disappointing some other him if she accepts. It's a quandary that makes her want to gouge somebody's eyes out with a nearby teaspoon.
no subject
In the end, by aiming squarely at time travel, and temporal superiority, the Daleks were making clear who their ultimate enemy was: the Time Lords. He didn't like to admit it, but he'd only delayed them. So long as Davros could be kept from a locus of power, there was a chance.
So he thought.
"Rrreticence? From you? Well, that's a new one. An unexpected wrinkle. It isn't a requirement, killing. I just presumed, unfortunately, it would happen. Such are the costs of what is happening, and certainly what is to come."
no subject
What he asks would be effortless. She enjoys doing harm. She has the talent. It would be easy to be seduced onto the path of least resistance. If killing speeds things along, why the hell not? On the other hand, maybe it would be more intellectually stimulating to do it the other way.
"If it's not a requirement, I'll just play it by ear. Lady's choice."
Her answer inadvertantly reveals that she won't refuse altogether. She already has one foot in this thing. She does give him some credit. The Doctor wouldn't ask her if he hadn't thought it the whole way through and determined that she's the best person for the job, whatever comes.
"Daleks don't count. Barely qualifies as murder. They're asking for it."
She has no expectations one way or the other about who she'll be pitted against. It may not be Daleks at all, seeing as he said it was peripheral. It just felt like a worthy clarification. Her reticence, such as it is, has limits. Even on her best day, she'll never be that merciful.
There's a difference in how she plays too, albeit not as obvious. She tries to be more aware of the entire chessboard, rather than letting one of his pieces slip beneath her notice. That's been her downfall too often in the past. It's harder, though not impossible, to catch her off-guard with a strategy she'd failed to see him setting up.
no subject
But, because it's them, he doesn't immediately jump in with the other foot - no, let the game play out. Unfold properly. And her second statement elicits a small sigh.
"I wish I could believe that. I used to be so much more merciful, didn't I?" A bishop is moved, daringly suggesting a trade of pieces. "But they just keep becoming worse and worse. And every time Davros finds his way back..."
He shook his head, reaching over for the teapot and pouring out two cups. He puts a few sugar cubes into his.
"In any event, they inadvertently caused this latest round of necessity. They were working on a time gun - can you imagine the lack of imagination to call it that - on an abandoned mining planet. Quite literally a temporal projector through which they intended to lob enormous ballistic missiles. All that complex technology to throw sledgehammers into the past. I...dealt with that, but their generator was hardly up to snuff, and it left, shall we say, gaps."