I do not own the creative rights to the Master, Lucy Saxon, or The Doctor. Those would be the property of BBC.
My eyes could barely stay focused on anything, let alone on the tear-stained face of The Doctor, my adversary and now the man holding me in death. As he pleaded - pleaded so pathetically for me to regenerate...regenerate, I can regenerate - it's only a bullet. It is, as I said, pathetic. And yet...Somehow it warms my heart slightly. I wonder how I would react if the scenario were somehow, however unlikely, switched in some way. What would I do then? Would I cradle him as he cradled me, rocking him back and forth like a child afraid of a nightmare?
Thought I cannot clearly see his face, just the flickering blur of him, the glint of light on the streaks on his cheeks, I can feel his arms, his knees bent slightly at my side. I can feel him trying to pull me up over his legs as he shakes me a little, angry - forever angry with me. I can feel the heat of his arms and his hands, palms and fingers stretched over my back and shoulders, even through my jacket, even through the arms of his.
It warms me, that I am not, as I thought I might be, entirely alone at my death.
Still, I cannot help laugh at him.
"I win."