Things Fall Apart
It was a little after four in the afternoon, and the flames had just reached Madrid. The Master was working his way across Spain alphabetically, to make a change from the usual east-west sweep of destruction. By evening the Toclafane would be over Zaragoza, and he and Lucy would celebrate with tapas in the conference room. There was a bottle of rioja set out on the table in readiness.
For now he had the Doctor and the view, although neither was quite living up to his expectations. The Jones woman had been a mistake, he decided. Ever since he had done a clear-out of all his predecessors three months back, something unfamiliar had entered the Doctor's gaze, a deep-sunk weariness that no level of spectacle could reach. Though the Master tried not to dwell on it too often, it was frankly unnerving that someone as thin and ordinary as Harriet could have such power over a Time Lord. He would have to determine how to move things along soon, or the rest of the world tour could get distinctly tedious for all concerned.
"We should go down there, you know. No guards, no grand entrance- just us." The Master let the Freak's key sway to and fro on its string, the loose end held between thumb and forefinger. The Doctor's eyes followed its arc, reflexively. "After all, that's how you do things, isn't it? Skulking about in the shadows, leaving odd parting gifts for your pets. Tell you what, I'll even let you choose."
An intake of breath, so gentle that the Master strained to hear it over the drumbeat. The thin fingers braced against the arms of the wheelchair, as though in an attempt at standing. "Choose?"
"Who you want to keep. There must be a few of them still clinging on in their little nooks and crannies. Man or woman, I won't judge. Just the one, mind- we've too many mouths to feed as it is."
The weathered face was trickier to read than its more youthful incarnation, but the Master was sure he caught yearning there before the new and horrible distance could reassert itself. If he could only find a way to fix that look in place, just as he had fixed the paradox upon which this dying planet turned; then, surely, everything would be perfect. Lucy had been easy enough- scarcely anything of her former self remained, these days – but the old man's grief was stubborn. Still, there was plenty of time. Most of southern Europe was intact as yet. He clapped his hands, and the shutters descended on the viewing portholes with a flurry of soft clicks. "And there's your deadline. Unless you'd rather stay until Toledo goes? No? Hm."
So the evening's revelry began early that day. Lucy was led out onto the bridge in a favourite dress and the music started up- Spanish guitar and mandolin. The din in his head threatened to split him in two and he danced as if to exorcise it, feet darting back and forth in a mad fandango.
When the first tune reeled to a halt he found that Lucy was standing just as he had left her, the red folds of her skirt gathered in one fist. The Doctor let out a breath that was almost a cry, though the weight behind his eyes barely shifted. The Master thought of the scorched earth below, and of what would rise from it. Pictured the dawn light breaking over the new empire, the children of this world marching to the stars for war.
He started to laugh.
