Notes: This story carries a strong Teen rating for violence, scenes of a dub-con nature (thought there's no actual sex), and general nastiness. It also won't make a lot of sense if you haven't read He Who Fights with Monsters. It is Doctor/Master, in a way, but a very different Doctor and, consequently, a slightly different Master.
The first thing the Master is aware of – properly aware of, not the shadowy ghosts of thoughts which he had within the watch – is the beating of the Drums against his mind. Dudududu, dudududu, it never stops, they never stop, dudududu, please make it stop –
The second thing he is aware of is the distinctive crack of a small-caliber firearm somewhere very nearby.
The third thing he is aware of is the singular sensation of hot lead tearing through muscles and organs and muscles again in the space of a few milliseconds, leaving him staggering from the searing pain and the beginnings of blood loss but mostly, if he is perfectly honest with himself, from complete and utter shock.
"You shot me!" he gasps out, staring at the young, elfin Doctor who is casually handing the gun back to his latest human pet. The human looks just as startled and horrified as the Master feels, which is the only remotely reassuring thing about this situation. "You – you –"
It isn't exactly the gloating, triumphant speech he has been planning. Then again, the man in front of him isn't exactly the sanctimonious, soft-hearted person he has been expecting. The Master's vision is swiftly blurring as blood seeps between his fingers and regeneration energy begins to stir beneath his skin, but that isn't what frightens him. There is ice in the Doctor's eyes, cruelty in the hands which seize the back of his collar and drag him, staggering and choking, into the TARDIS.
He is thrown to the ground just as the fires of regeneration take him.
This time, the second thing he is aware of (after the Drums) is a small but vicious fist colliding with his brand new face. Disoriented, he can only raise his hands in a vain attempt to ward off the blows which rain down upon him.
". . . short-sighted, self-serving, yellow-bellied coward!" With one last, brutal kick, the Doctor finally falls back. The Master unrolls from the protective ball he has curled into, groaning. He spits, and flecks of scarlet splatter the grating. This soon after regeneration, it won't do any permanent damage, but he is more than a little disturbed. Terrified, really, not that he'll ever admit it aloud.
"Are you sure you're the Doctor?" he asks, pulling himself upright with the help of the console – which, he notices distantly, is even more ridiculously haphazard than before. Something is tugging uneasily at the back of his mind, something beyond the Doctor's inexplicable violence and the alarm in his human pet's face, but he can't quite grasp it through the haze of regeneration.
"You ran," says the Doctor, as if he hasn't spoken. There are tears on his face and he is making no effort to check them. Any other time the Master would have leapt upon that sign of weakness, but now it only perturbs him further. Since when does the Doctor cry? "They brought you back and you ran. Became human, hid at the very edge of civilization."
"Call that civilization?" the Master scoffs, automatically falling back to his old standby of disdain while his mind whirs, running through a thousand different variables and possibilities. There is no way he can hijack the TARDIS, not with the volatile Doctor and his armed companion standing right there. He'll have to wait, watch, try to figure out what is going on. From what he can tell, his new body has gone according to plan, but he will need to find a mirror soon. Soonsoonsoonsoon, all much too soon, mind's not ready, something is wrong – the Doctor is speaking again.
"You left me. You left me and you don't even realize; you don't, do you? You don't realize what you did to me; what you left me to –"
"What are you talking about?" the Master snaps, frustration overcoming fear.
"Listen," the Doctor orders, and the Master freezes, momentarily paralyzed by a rush of giddy hope.
"You can hear them too?" he asks eagerly. "The Drums?"
"What?" asks the Doctor, momentarily sounding more like himself, confusion breaking through the feverish sheen. "No. There are no drums. There's nothing. Nothing at all. Can't you hear it?" His eyes are too bright, and the Master steps back involuntarily as he advances on him. "The silence, Koschei, the silence."
"My name isn't –" The Master stops. He can hear it. Beneath the Drums, augmenting them, the reason they are so maddeningly loud as they have never been before. The unease at the back of his mind isn't a thing at all – it's an absence. The empty space where billions of voices should be. A chill creeps into his bones as he stares at the Doctor, young and delicate and the only voice, last one standing, howhowhowhow – "What did you do?"
Something flashes in the Doctor's eyes, something sharp and broken and mad.
"What I had to."
"All of them?" the Master questions breathlessly, still reeling from shock and regeneration, barely able to form coherent thoughts, let alone spoken sentences. He watches with a dull, disconnected horror as the Doctor steps closer again, reaching out one pale, elegant hand to touch his cheek. Involuntarily, he shivers at the contact.
"All except you."
That shakes the Master from his paralysis, and he jerks back in revulsion.
"You're insane," he snarls, backing up until he hits the railing, trying to put as much distance as he can between himself and this mad, terrifying shell of his best enemy. Something like hurt flickers across the other man's face, but it quickly hardens into anger again.
"You're one to talk," he retorts, before snapping over his shoulder to his human. "Jack!"
"Yeah, Doc?" says the human, snapping to attention.
"Get him out of here before I kill him again."
The human steps forward to obey without hesitation – well trained, this one, the Master thinks distantly – but the Master breaks from his grasp easily.
"Don't touch me, you filthy human!" he growls, with his very best murderous glare.
"Knock him out," the Doctor orders. The Master isn't fast enough to avoid the practiced blow from the butt of the human's gun, and after the pain, he isn't aware of anything for quite a while.
-DW-
When the Master awakes, the steady beating of the Drums is augmented by a pounding headache. He doesn't have enough cellular energy left to heal the mild concussion the human has inflicted upon him; not after repairing all the damage the Doctor did.
The Doctor.
The Master shudders. He doesn't want to believe that the mad, violent man who looked at him with such loathing is his best enemy, his oldest friend, the ever-hopeful, ever-merciful Doctor – but he knows, feels it in the pit of his stomach and the rhythm of the Drums, he's gone insane, of course he has, alone so long, this is your fault. And he has always known, hasn't he? He's always known that the potential was there, sometimes barely even buried, the potential for destruction beyond even what he can imagine, fueled by self-righteous fury and a mind which (he will only ever admit in the deepest, darkest depths of his own thoughts) is more brilliant than any other in the Universe. That is why he's always held back, just a bit, never broken him even when he could have (and it would have been so, so easy).
Except now he has broken, and it isn't the Master's doing. Not directly, at least. He is just left with all the jagged, sharp-edged pieces, which brings him back to his current predicament. He has wasted precious moments in his maudlin introspection, and he curses his concussion-blurred mind as he drags himself upright.
The room is completely featureless. Not a zero room; the Master can still feel Time writhing beneath the Drums, twisting and straining, just as unstable as its remaining keeper. Still, there isn't a single piece of furniture, not one object which can be used as a weapon or a tool, not even a visible door. He is well and truly trapped – not that he expected any differently. It is the Doctor's TARDIS, and the bond between the senile old rust-bucket of a ship and her sentimental fool of a pilot has always been beyond what can be considered normal.
Even his clothes have been relieved of anything useful, he discovers with a frustrated growl. Nasty, primitive things from the very edge of humanity, only a few billion years from the end of the Universe itself, now made even more uncomfortable and ill-fitting by the removal of all loose strings and buttons. The Master has nothing but his wits, a brand new body, and a mild concussion.
Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – he is given no time to stew over his situation. A previously non-existent door swings open on the far side of the room, and the Master is suddenly face-to-face with (quite literally) his worst nightmare.
"Hello, coward," says the Doctor evenly. He's leaning casually against the doorway, his small, deceptively fragile-looking frame silhouetted against the light of the corridor. His bright amber eyes shine eerily in his young, undeniably pretty face. He is beautiful like broken glass in the sunlight, like ash floating down through a dark sky, like crimson blood against white skin.
The Master has enough experience both as a captive and a captor to know that this new calm is not a good thing, but he refuses to show weakness, so he wets his dry lips and pours as much disdain into his voice as he can manage.
"Hello, killer."
Their eyes meet, and an instant later the Doctor has closed the space between them.
The Master grunts in pain as he is slammed against the wall, yanked downward so the shorter Doctor can attack his mouth from above, rough and violent, teeth clashing and biting. The Master struggles for dominance, but in his unfamiliar body with a head injury he is no match for the surprisingly lithe Doctor. The smaller man sinks sharp teeth into his ear, and he stills with a groan.
"You fight like a girl," he pants. Like a hellcat, like a madman.
"This isn't fighting," the Doctor breathes in his mangled ear. His tongue slides along his neck, gathering the blood which he has drawn, and the Master shivers.
A moment later he stumbles backwards, his vision going white as pain explodes through him. The Doctor has driven his fist into his stomach, his other hand squeezing a pressure point in his shoulder. The Master sinks to his knees, gasping for air and blinking tears from his eyes.
"That," comes the Doctor's voice from above him, "is fighting."
The Master flinches instinctively when a soft hand brushes the back of his neck, but the touch remains gentle, mockingly, perversely so. The Master is loathe to remain on the ground, but he finds himself paralyzed with fear, much to his disgust.
"Oh, Koschei," the Doctor sighs, his hand trailing lightly around his neck as he comes to crouch in front of him. He strokes his face in a tender, almost loving gesture. "Drums in your head and silence in mine," he says, staring into his eyes as if searching for something. "What has become of us?"
The familiar form of address sparks a pain in him which swiftly flares into anger, bright and strong enough to overpower the fear.
"My name," he grinds out, "is the Master."
The Doctor's eyes go cold again, his gentle caress giving way to a vicious slap, hard enough to send the Master sprawling.
"You're mine," the Doctor says, rising. "I'll call you what I like." The door swings shut behind him, melting seamlessly into the wall, and the Master is left alone.
The ever-present drumbeat is the only accompaniment to his ragged breathing.