Something tugs at the edge of his conscious mind. Something is falling, swaying, tumbling over and over and over again.
The sound of metal upon metal. Upon flesh. Cutting. Slicing. Maiming. The blackness deepens. It becomes a swirling pit of death. Floating bodies. Twisting. Turning.
A knife unsheathed. A scrape of a blade. A crack of a strike. A moan of pain. Another touch. Flesh on flesh. Gentle. This is somehow worse than pain. You don't know what will come next.
A snap. Not sure what it is. A whistle. A snap. A whistle. A snap. Sounds that he can't comprehend. He doesn't know what it is. A snap. A crack. A whip. It comes down hard. No weakness in the shot. Same strength. Every time.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Pain blurs the black. Becomes darker. Mind is going foggy. Foggier. Foggier. Foggier.
Gone.
Jack Harkness has come to know pain. He has also come to know the Master. Jack doesn't blame him. He has seen the drums. The pain that goes through the Master's head every second of the day.
The Doctor doesn't understand. The Master isn't evil, only mad. And madness should not be shunned, but helped.
Jack knew this because of one thing. The Master cries.