"The Master paced around the concole of the TARDIS, his eyes aflame with anger."
"Stop it," said the Master, "and I'm not angry with you, Joyce."
"He fiddled helplessly with the site-to-site transport, plotting coordinates into it that he would never use, for tempting though it was to flush his present companion into space, he was well aware of the dangers."
"Angry isn't the word for it. Furious, perhaps. I might even settle on having murderous feelings towards you." The Master crossed his arms, tapping relentlessly on his velvet sleeve.
"Might?" squeaked Joyce incredulously. "You've had 'murderous feelings' since we first took on the novelisers symbiotic joining." Joyce regained his composure, and continued his endless monologue. "The Master tried mentally counting in Aldebaran prime numbers, then poked at the intricacies of the Skasis paradigm, doing anything he could to block out the impulse to smash one of Joyce's noses against the nearest blunt object."
"You're embroidering upon the narrative, Joyce. I'm rarely that violent." The Master turned to stare darkly at the noveliser. "Since when is this 'joining' anything approaching symbiotic? This is the most parasitic relationship I've had since I was a youngster of two centuries."
"The Master's voice was low and loaded with intent, as he distracted his companion with semantics and hopelessly tried to plan a way of killing Joyce without the inevitable burniong out of his brain that they both knew would occur in such a situation."
"That's a terrible running sentence. And you call yourself an author." He idly set the TARDIS on a delayed course for the heart of a nearby sun. Perhaps suicide was a viable option, compared to constantly having his own thoughts and actions relayed back to him in over-written prose. "I would hardly describe this joining as consensual. You attacked me in an alley, and I woke up with a headache and a pain in the proverbial."
"It might be a little hard for you to understand the temptation people such as yourself and the Doctor present me with, Time Lord," said Joyce, 'walking' in the Master's direction, out of his corner of the TARDIS console room, using the controlled toppling seven legs required.
"I can begin to imagine," muttered the Master. Joyce carried on, caught up in his own narrative.
"For a noveliser of Verbatim Six, quarry such as Timelords is the ultimate-excuse my unintentional innuendo-conquest."
"Unintentional. Yes," said the Master, straining against his base instincts. That nose-smashing idea began to gain appeal.
"Of course, after that business in the small universe, we abandoned the trio. The narrative must be preserved, and the Doctor and his companions lead a dangerous lifestyle," said Joyce, rambling like the professional he was.
"I'm sure it had very little to do with saving your pathetic skins," seethed the Master, laying thick emphasis on his description of the creatures.
"However, spending so much time linked to such a dynamic individual's mind as the Doctor left me with quite the quandry."
"Oh, alliteration with the letter 'Q', well done." The Master's sarcasm showed his intense dislike of Joyce shining through his usual calm demeanour. "Do go on."
"I had spent only a few weeks with the man, but such an impression had been made upon his busy mind by yourself, that I had to investigate a character with such potential." Joyce rubbed his three forelegs together, signaling the equivalent of having concluded a story with a hearty laugh.
"Wonderful. I shall tell the story to my grandchildren, if I'm ever allowed to see them. It really does warm my heart to know that the means of finding such a universally feared men such as myself was through my diastrous inter-personal relationships, it reall does." The Master leaned back against the console, relaxing slightly by wallowing in how irate he was.
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," ventured Joyce, repeating one of the first writer's rules he had learnt by rote as a child on Verbatim Six.
"No, it isn't. That would be masturbation jokes."
"The Master thought back to the frivolity he and the Doctor had shared in their youth, a train of thought brought on by hios noveliser's musings. He reisted a cliched stroke of his beard and a light chuckle."
"Oh, by the Stained Trousers of Rassilon, why do you do it?" The Master threw up his hands, exasperated.
"Excuse me?"
"This, my dear septiped. Despite the tendency of your species to soliloquise, I doubt you go around pestering people by telling them their every thought and movement as they perpetrate them just for the fun of it," said the Master, hoping slightly to get an insight into Joyce's consciousness, and perhaps persuade him to go back to 'Must', or whatever hell-hole it was he made his nest on.
"Well," said Joyce, grinning with the slant of his antennae, "There is the monetary compensation."
"Ah," nodded the Master, grasping the concept, "So you write up the narratives into books and sell them across the quadrant, safe in the knowledge that the lives of people as esteemed as myself will sell for, oh, five gold-plated Lats per book."
"Er, no. I'm actually quite lucky to become attached to such interesting people as yourself and the Doctor. The multiple-point-of-view flashback sex scenes have become quite the sensation back on Verbatim."
"Explain yourself," said the Master, his tone darkening. "Where exactly does this money come from, and why in Omega's name are you pimping out my memories, you scum-sucking..."
"The Master invaded Joyce's personal space, the sex toy he wielded being a most mysterious choice of weapon to threaten him with."
"You're evading the question." He paused, not quite sure how to word the next phrase. "And the Tissue Compression Eliminator is not a 'sex toy'..."
"Yes, it is a most deadly of weapons. One that you've turned to on many a lonely night, Master," said Joyce, his sheer cheek rising the Master's temper.
"Listen, vermin. I know perfectly well that your death would result in the extermination of my, frankly, brilliant mind. But if you imply one more thing about my night-time activities, I will have no choice but to eliminate us both."
The ferocity of the Master's words as he waved the TCE threateningly had loosened his carefully-styled hair slightly.
"Why?" asked Joyce, the pitch of his voice rising as he realised the Master was serious.
"Because I do not enjoy having my personal life broadcast on your pathetic planet. How exactly are you doing that? I've yet to see a radio transmitter hidden about your person."
Joyce tottered over to one of the dark TARDIS walls, and laid a foreleg against the curve of a roundel, leaning nonchalantly.
"I'm mind-linked with many people on my home planet, just in a different way to how I am with you," explained Joyce.
"I see. What about the money? I suppose you don't expect me to stump up the..." The Master saw the lazy expression in several of Joyce's limpid eyes.
"The Time Lord bristled as he realised he was to foot the bill, and it became clear that the sole occupation of the novelisers of Verbatim Six was latching themselves onto anyone they could find, and demanding money for the 'service' of being mind-linked with someone who followed them around and told them back everything they were currently thinking and doing. Joyce found himself quite lucky to have found such an interesting person, a conquerer of galaxies, even if he personally found his bedroom habits distasteful. Mind you, one of Joyce's friends, Huxley, had been linked with a red-haired lad whose every other thought revolved around what was contained in the trousers of the lithe Time Lord also currently pursued by the Master himself."
"I didn't initiate a tryst with Chancellor Flavia to the point of having gotten close enough to steal her keys and run just so that I could end up in this farcical situation," the Master pactically sighed his discontent. "What might you mean by 'distasteful'?"
"Well," said Joyce, his disgust clear in his tone, "I know that many novelisers broadcast their protagonist's sexual fantasies, memories and experiences widely, and I'm ashamed to say I've done the same. Some of the mind-linked have an unhealthy obsession with same-sex humanoid relations." The mane of hair on his back rose, and a physically sick expression crossed his face. "I, however, find them nothing more than a necessary evil in my storylines."
A seed of an idea buried itself in the Master's mind, and he buried it from Joyce's view. He rounded on Joyce, his body taking on the seductive posture he naturally adopted when trying to persuade people.
"So you remember all of the Doctor's thoughts and feelings from when you were linked, is that correct?"
"Oh, my, yes. Total recall is a common talent among my species." Joyce was rather busy blushing a pointedly modest blue to notice the Master's tyrain of thought rushing in a dangerous direction.
"Joyce, perhaps we should make this relationship truly symbiotic. I'm sure I could become accustomed to your company, so long as you could do me somewhat of a favour."
"Hm? A 'you stroke my mane, I stroke yours' situation? Whatever will stop your complaining is eminently favourable."
The Master winced at Joyce's choice of words, entirely unsure if he could listen to that style for even a few minutes more. He piled mental shielding around himself, which he disguised as passing thoughts about what pattern of curtains he favoured.
"Tell me what you know about the Doctor," said the Master, letting the idea settle.
"You'll have to be a little more specific. I have a verbatim record of his thoughts and experiences up until the time we broke joining."
"Broke joining?"
"Well, the novelisers in my party and I decided it was the appropriate time to depart from those three free of charge, largely because they had saved us from life in a universe we weren't even born in." Joyce's eyes clouded over as he searched his expansive memory for the details, like a biological data bank, a naturally evolved computer.
"Regale me with a story about him, then. Several minutes worth of his life." The Master began to form a solid plan, a most effective way of being rid of Joyce. The alien hesitated.
"What is it?"
"This is rather illegal, I have to say. And it will be very expensive for yourself when you finally get the bill. Also, drawing on past novelisation is quite tiring, and I haven't rested since joining with you, so maybe..."
"Maybe what, Joyce?"
"The mind-link goes both ways. You can experience the Doctor's story through his own eyes, the 'terribly charming fellow'," said Joyce, already dipping into the Doctor's ideolect. The Master's mouth twisted a little, as if into a smile, but not quite. Joyce appeared to him to be walking straight into his trap, practically laying his antennae on the Master's chopping block.
"Show me how," said the Master. Before he knew it, the tendrils of mental control that had been wrapped around his mind began to pulse. Where before they had only taken, Joyce was now utterly giving, baring before the Master every inch of his mind. He directed the Master towards the brightest, most intense of patches, and let him pick a random time and day, letting the area flow into the Time Lord.
"My goodness..." gasped the Master. He could still see Joyce, slumped and resting, but it was if he could only see his TARDIS out of the corner of his eye. When he looked down at his hands without meaning to, he realised he was seeing the world through the Doctor's eyes, the vivid reality of the other Time Lord's personal timeline. The Master found himself compelled to take on the noveliser's role, speaking what he felt and saw.
"The Doctor's walking away from his TARDIS console, having just completed some early morning repairs. He's muttering to himself about...you! Oh, dear me, Joyce, I'm not the only one. Yes, this is fabulous, I can feel the ache in his bones from a rough night's sleep, and there you are in the flesh. Joyce, I can see you as you were to the Doctor, warts and all, narrating away to your heart's content," the Master said, triumph in his voice. He added as an aside, "I can smell you too, here and then."
"Good for you," grumbled Joyce, trying to get some sleep.
"Everything's slightly...oh, of course, he's taller. Yes, the Doctor is leaving the console room, concealing his annoyance when you continue tagging along. Well, in that respect, he's a better man than me. He's going to join his companions for a late breakfast, they're both waiting for him at a cluttered breakfast table."
"Really," said Joyce, wondering when the Master was going to lower his volume.
"The girl looks to be rather in a state of distress, but the lad just picks at his half-eaten toast. Ah, and there you go, off to gossip with the other novelisers," said the Master teasingly. Joyce just pretended to be asleep, eyes closed and curled up on the TARDIS floor, hoping the inevitable would take effect.
"Tegan's hair is a terrible mess, and the Doctor, quite logically, deduces that the stress of spending all of her time with a noveliser by her side has caused the girl to stop taking care of her appearance. The Doctor, just in need of a decent meal, spreads some-oh, dear, he must be tired-mustard on his toast and quaffs a whole cup of tea. Do you know, it tastes entirely different in his mouth, strangely pleasurable. I do often wonder why this particular Doctor is so, so..."
"English, yes," said Joyce, giving up on sleep and contenting himself with all the rest a TARDIS floor could give him while he sat. "It is strange that such a renowned galactic traveller should come over all provincial."
"Shh, I can feel something. The Doctor's looking at Turlough, who's turned away to put some used dishes in the Fouber-Vat. I think that-" Joyce cut the Master off.
"Er, I think we should skip this bit," said Joyce, revived with the fresh returning of memory.
"Wait a moment; the Doctor is watching the lad as he bends o-"
"I really think we should move the story on, you're a terrible narrator, always digressing," said Joyce, intervening.
"No," said the Master, a terrible smile descending onto his face.
"What?!" Joyce recoiled, feeling his mind invaded.
"The mind-link goes both ways, Joyce, you said so yourself." The Master used Joyce's mental tendrils against him, grasping them with his consciousness and wielding them like a whip. He tightened his grip, drawing the memories from Joyce. The noveliser fell to his side, dry-heaving, a physical reaction to having his mental landscape held so tight that it bled into his nervous system.
"I can feel it, Joyce! Everything the Doctor tried to push from his thoughts, I can see every precise movement that little tart made to put fire in his blood," said the Master, his inner orator taking over as he raised his hands dramatically.
"No!" wailed Joyce, screaming and clapping his forelegs to his ears. The Master had left his speech centres free of constraint, for the emotional effect derivec from the creature's screams.
"Oh, Joyce, how the Doctor thrashed in his bed that night. He thought of my beard tickling at his throat, and running his fingers through those soft ginger hairs. The Doctor has no idea what he wants!"
A gurgle of pain arose from Joyce's throat, but the Master continued.
"Don't you see, Joyce? I could search your memories for every single time the Doctor has thought of me, even every man you've ever linked with who has dabbled with another. With powers such as mine, I could keep you in my grasp for weeks upon end, force-feeding you these images," the Master said, scratching Joyce with the talons of mental energy he brandished.
"Please," managed Joyce.
"Hm?" said the Master, his face taking on a playful cast. "Please what? Should I carry this on? Or perhaps I should release you, so that you can finally stop pestering me and break away from this mental joining."
"R-release me, Master..." Joyce waved a pathetic antennae, his pain now almost entirely coming from the torture inflicted upon his mind, rather than any personal hang-ups about the Master's sexuality.
"Very well," he said, and he did so.
Joyce flopped downwards, sagging as if he had been in the Master's physical grip. Within seconds of being released, he withdrew the tentacle-shaped mind-links, a complicated process that only Joyce had the knowledge to complete. It left them both mentally bruised and aching.
The Master, fatigued, approached the recovering Joyce, who stood up with fear in his eyes. For a few seconds, they stood looking at each other, unsure how to handle the ferocity of their encounter, like the lover who suddenly and unexpectedly rapes his partner, and the aftermath that is impossible to handle. Joyce broke the silence.
"Just leave me on the nearest inhabited planet," the noveliser said, drawing his antennae together submissively.
"I'm not sure if I should," drawled the Master, striding over to his TARDIS console. "You would go limping off to your brethren, and call up one of your famous armadas to follow me."
"But...I did as you commanded," said Joyce, backing away. "You promised."
"Did I? Of course, I could handle one of your planet's fleets as quick as I could click my fingers, but with the CIA already on my trail, I'm not really in the mood for another bothersome species with a vendetta against me," he said, a hand wandering along the console behind him.
"Please," begged Joyce pointlessly. The Master remained impassive, before gripping onto his TARDIS console and opening the doors to the vacuum of space. Joyce shrieked for the few seconds it took for him to be sucked away, before the doors closed on Joyce's pathetic form forever with a anticlimactic 'whoosh'.
In the quiet of the TARDIS, the Master leaned, almost sitting. The thrill of the fast kill and the afterimages of the Doctor's thoughts and feelings made his heartbeat pound in his ears. The paradoxical mix of hot and cold tingles made their trail down the Master's body, and he dragged his own gloved hand down a velvet-covered chest to take care of himself.