Part 2 - A Shift in Command
Updated Note: If you prefer the ambiguity and mystery and suspense that you found in chapter 1, I don't recommend reading past that point. From here on out this is just the story of the MasterDoctor and Martha. After many reviews saying that people wanted more, I tried to write it as I originally planned, but it just didn't work in the mysterious style, so I'm going for straightforward. Consider it...separate stories all connected in the MD'verse.
"Doctor?"
Martha blinked as she opened the door to her flat. It was completely dark –not a single light on. Odd, because she knew she had left the Doctor working on some device only a few hours ago. He would've kept the lights on, at least to avoid stabbing himself with a sharp object, or setting fire to the sofa trying to solder with the sonic screwdriver.
"Doctor?" she called softly, dropping her keys on the table by the door, and her bag on the floor beneath it. There was no answer. The flat was empty and still, save for the flickering dim light emanating from the television in the next room. Martha smiled slightly - of course; he had probably fallen asleep, she reasoned. Though as she had never seen him sleep regularly, perhaps he had gone out, or back to the TARDIS, and forgotten to switch off the telly. Reasonably logical; her flat was the least interesting place on Earth compared to what he'd seen.
The med student hung up her coat and walked quietly into the sitting room. Her hand went automatically to the light switch.
"Leave it off," a low voice muttered from the couch. Martha jumped, gasping slightly.
"Doctor! You scared the hell out of me," she accused, regaining her normal heart rate. "Did I wake you?"
"No."
Martha hesitated, waiting for the inevitable parade of babbling that usually followed his simple yes-no answers. Excuses for why the lights were off, or for startling her, or even why it all related to the price of bananas in Villengard. But the silhouetted figure was silent.
"Doctor?" Martha questioned again, a concerned look crossing over her face. When she received more silence, she frowned, and walked over to the couch.
The dim wash of the light in the small room cast a sickly pale hue to the Time Lord's skin, giving him a haunted appearance and accenting the curve of his eyes in a worrying way, as if dark circles had become permanent fixtures beneath his normally sparkling brown eyes. As Martha came closer, his eyes shifted their gaze up just barely to look at her, but there was something different about them. They seemed cooler, more calculating, confused – no, troubled. Confused didn't seem to fit the description.
"Are you all right?" Martha asked hesitantly, sitting down on the edge of the couch. The Doctor seemed to mull over a response for a moment, opened, shut his mouth. Then, a small, unsettling half-smile that didn't suit him at all appeared on his lips, and he tilted his head a degree.
"The Doctor's not in right now," he replied, and Martha's mind began muttering a warning at her consciousness. "But I'm sure if you make an appointment, he'll get back to you later."
As the man who was definitely not the Doctor she knew began to chuckle, soft and low, Martha gripped her fingers into the fabric of the sofa, and stood stiffly, backing away. A cold chill settled along her spine and made her arms tingle as the laugh rose in volume, as she watched him leaned his head back against the cushions and giggled mercilessly.
"Doctor you're scaring me," she said softly, keeping her voice steady and not giving the now-screaming voice in her head acknowledgement.
He was still laughing, clutching his arms across his ribs as if in pain as he glanced back at her. "Good!" he giggled, but his breath hitched, and it sounded more like a sob. He clenched his chest tighter. "This is HIS fault, you know, the Doctor, he made me promise. Self-righteous bloody Boy Scout to the universe couldn't… couldn't just… die without dragging me down with him..." His voice changed pitch and another sob left his throat, terrified and bewildered as he sought her eyes out with his own, a plaintive, lost-child gaze. "Martha I think I'm losing my mind."
The little screaming voice was going hoarse and dancing around waving a large sign with big neon letters. "You sound like you're going nuts too," she muttered. "Just, calm down, alright? Take a deep breath. Relax."
Remarkably he did what she told him. He took in a deep breath, the giggles petering away, and let it out shakily, falling silent.
"My head hurts," he finally whispered, staring blankly into the white noise of the muted television screen. "It feels like its splitting open; a big old overripe melon. I've got memories that aren't mine and memories that are definitely mine and yet I can't tell the difference between the two."
"You've been having worse and worse headaches ever since 1913," she said worriedly. "Do you think it might be related to the chameleon arch? Maybe it scrambled your head a bit when you used it, imprinted two sets of memories instead of just the one."
"This is deeper," he denied, his shoulders shivering violently. "I . . . am the Doctor. I have always been and will always be the Doctor. But I'm not the Doctor. I never was. I promised him I would become the Doctor, but the Doctor's dead." The Doctor's fingers curled against his jacket, bunching the fabric with a white-knuckle grip. "He died in my arms, bled to death, the bastard."
If he was talking in the third person, it was definitely a mental problem. Some sort of dissociate disorder…thing…Schizophrenia, maybe; could Time Lords suffer from schizophrenia?
"If you're not the Doctor," Martha said hesitantly, playing along, and he turned his gaze on her, that cold, calculating darkness returning to his eyes, "Then who are you?"
The Doctor didn't seem to hear her. He grabbed her by the shoulders, suddenly frightened and wild-eyed. "Jo! Listen to me, Jo! Can you hear me? You're in danger, get out of here!"
Martha tried to remember if she'd ever read anything about calming lunatics. "No, Doctor, it's Martha. Martha Jones. There's no one here but us. It'll be all right."
"No, it's not all right," this voice was coldly amused. "I'm afraid it's not all right, Miss Grant. I am the Master, you see, and –"
"Jo! This isn't you! You've got to –"
"Obey me! You will obey me!"
"Doctor, stop!" Martha wrenched herself free. "You're scaring me!"
The Doctor kept arguing with himself, his voice changing slipping from coldly to commanding to desperate to furious within the space of a heart-beat. It was fascinating, and more than a little freaky.
"I could just kill her now, barely an effort."
"-No, no. This has already happened. These are my –"
"These are not my memories. I am the Master!"
"No I'm not! I'm not! I am the Doctor!"
Martha's hand found itself flying automatically, striking the man's cheek with a bullwhip crack. He flinched away and turned a blazing cold glare on her.
"Doctor, please!" she begged. "Snap out of it!"
She squeaked in surprise when the Time Lord grabbed her wrist in a firm grip and held it, forcing her to step closer to him.
"Ah!" said a soft, cultured voice, dropping lower as it spoke, into a growl. "Now I can say I was provoked!"
Then he blinked, and the Doctor looked back at her from those eyes.
"Well," he said slowly. "I'm fairly sure that one's new."
"Doc…Doctor, let go of my hand," Martha asked, trying to maintain a steady voice and failing. The man blinked, as if he had only just realized he had trapped her, and he let go. She snatched her hand back and rubbed it tenderly, wincing. There would be bruises in the morning. She put a safe foot or two between them and watched him with all the wariness a horse would watch a rattlesnake curled up on the path.
The Time Lord had buried his head in his hands and was shaking uncontrollably. "This is worse than regeneration sickness," Martha heard from his muffled position. "The fool never could program a decent piece of hardware and it figures his bloody machine wouldn't work right."
It was about there that Martha decided she was thoroughly confused. "Regeneration sickness?"
The man-who-was-not-the-Doctor continued talking, oblivious to her presence. "I should've double-checked the chameleon arch before I used it," he berated himself, "stupid! The process was never stable enough to handle. Why I didn't take my own TARDIS for the end I'll never know -"
"What process?"
"- Then with Gallifrey; I should've never gone to Arcadia, it's been nothing but trouble. I should've just fled to the end of the bloody universe-"
"What's Arcadia?"
"- Stuck on bloody Earth with a stupid ape asking stupid questions, worse then the bloody stupid Rani -"
"Would you shut up?!" Martha finally yelled, and the not-Doctor snapped his head up, staring at her. The medical student took a deep breath and lowered her voice to her best calming-rabid-dogs tone. "Thank you."
"No problem," the man muttered absently, still staring at her.
"Now, I want you to explain to me just what is going on," she ordered. "Start from the beginning, and end with right now."
The alien sat up, and leaned back in a very unDoctorly sprawl, an eyebrow elevating. For a minute Martha didn't think he'd reply. Her own brow knit in a scowl as she noticed the corner of his mouth twitch. The man was laughing at her.
"Don't make me slap you again."
The smirk widened slightly. "If I were myself you'd be dead right now, and I'd be halfway across the universe enjoying Olsthberry rum on Deriaxa."
She glared.
The not-Doctor sighed heavily and angled his head slightly in defeat. "Fine. Martha Jones. The beginning," He paused, and breathed slowly. And then his smirk widened into a nasty grin. "You see, when a mommy Time Lord and a daddy Time Lord love each other VERY much-"
He didn't get much further, recoiling from the sting of her hand. "WHAT?! You asked!"
"YOU KNOW WHAT I BLOODY MEANT!" She shouted back.
Rubbing his cheek sourly, the imposter's smile was gone. "Fine." He sat up and leaned forward, whetting his lips. "The Doctor . . . the true Doctor, the man born as The Doctor, is dead. He has been since the fall of Arcadia."
"So who are you then?"
"The Master," he replied, and arched his head in a more regal posture, eying her like something on the bottom of his shoe. "At least, until quite recently."
"What, you just, took over his body?"
The Master chuckled at that. "No Miss Jones, such a task is beneath me now. Were I still absent of regenerations I wouldn't have hesitated, but the Time Lords were good enough to refill my petrol tank, as it were. This is my third body. Though I've spent some time thinking it was my tenth."
Martha sat down on the edge of the couch, staring at him. "Tell me what happened."
The Master sat up and pulled in a breath, squaring his shoulders. "The Doctor was a skilled mechanic, in his time. Not so much intelligent with how something actually fits together, following the instruction manual, but he could make anything from just about anything; a regular galactic MacGyver. Unfortunately he tended to cut corners. When he installed his chameleon arch, he botched the job pretty fairly. When I used it at the end of the war to escape, it tore a fair chunk of my own mind out and chucked it in the bin. It severely hampered my mental prowess, which I would've kept otherwise. As a result my second incarnation, 'the Doctor's' Ninth, had difficulty with the silence in my head." He tapped the side of his temple. "All gone; like a permanent home in a sensory deprivation tank, can you imagine?"
Martha had to admit she couldn't.
"I suppose that's what drove me – him – to Earth. I wasn't looking for a companion, but I found one. And I gave in to what the Doctor would've wanted."
"So, Rose was…"
The Master scoffed, a slight smirk reappearing on his lips and he ducked his head as if embarrassed. "A weakness is all. I am not the sort of man who takes a lover, but I do not deny myself the pleasure of a woman. The Doctor, on the other hand, tended to love everyone he met but kept himself distant. The combination became need, the need became obsession. Had it been anyone else than Miss Rose Ty-ler," he drawled out her name almost mockingly, "I would've acted the same."
He stole a glance in her direction and his smirk broadened at what he saw. "Feeling relieved at that statement, are we Martha?"
Martha felt her cheeks burn as she looked away. He chuckled melodically and sprawled back again, running a hand through his hair.
"What was Arcadia?"
The question was soft but he froze mid-sweep, his eyes fixed ahead. "What?"
"You said he died during Arcadia."
" Arcadia was hell, Miss Jones," he spat succinctly, and she tensed. The Master's eyes had darkened considerably when he finally turned them on her, and the chill returned to her spine. "Former enemies, fighting for all our lives against a common foe… and, ultimately, failing. Arcadia burned long before Gallifrey." The anger seemed to wash out of him with a heavy exhale. "Nothing was safe once the Cruciform project was taken. And I let it happen."
The Master coughed and groaned, slowly coming back to consciousness, tasting soot and the coppery taste of blood lingering in his mouth. The front of his tunic was warm and damp again, stained darker then black, his blood over the Doctor's. He could feel the source in a throbbing pain on his temple, the dried path itching on his skin. Sulfur and smoke and dust filled the air, the explosion that had rocked the compound having brought the roof down around the occupants of the bunker.
He rolled to his knees and spat viciously, forcing down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him as the room spun precariously from the motion. He had been lucky; the worst he had sustained was a head injury, easily healed with a little rest. There would be time to be convalescent when he was safe in his TARDIS.
The lights overhead flickered weakly, power conduits severed in the blast. He spat again, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, and climbed to his feet, staggering to the control panel. Mashing a few buttons with his fist did little to rouse the communications systems back to working order, but it felt good.
"Arcadia to Gallifrey, do you read? This is Cruciform, please respond. Gallifrey, do you read me?"
The line crackled with static, remaining dead. The Master swore, slamming his fist onto the console and wincing as he knelt down and began ripping wires out of the base of the computer. Sparks nipped at his fingers as he shorted the circuits.
If the Daleks wanted this project, they would get it, with his own brand of a warm welcome.
The Master looked away, clenching his hands into fists as his voice flattened out in a dead monotone. "I barely finished the sabotage in time. Daleks are very good with bombs, you know. They took me prisoner and I decided to save my own skin. I gave them the access codes. When it was complete, I activated the virus I'd implanted remotely with the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. In the chaos I escaped." He swallowed. "The Emperor survived, and with the information I'd given him, set on Gallifrey."
Silence enveloped the room. The Master hung his head again.
"I had no love for my people, but Gallifrey itself, she didn't deserve what I wrought upon her."
The words sounded more like the Doctor she knew than the newly cultured tones the Master seemed inclined to, and Martha bit her lip hesitantly. Then, throwing caution to the wind, she slid closer, and wrapped her arms around the man's shoulders.
Instantly she felt him tense underneath her. His fingers curled into tight balls against his body and a low hiss permeated his voice. "What do you think you are doing?"
"I'm hugging you," she replied concisely. "That a problem?"
After a minute, he released a mildly irritated sigh. "No. But a cup of tea would be more helpful."
The Master felt the couch shift slightly, and closed his eyes. Footsteps echoed away from the sitting room, and he was bathed in silence again. Then, after a few minutes, the footsteps returned, and a mug of hot tea was set onto the coffee table in front of him. He straightened up slightly, staring at it in bemusement. "What's this?"
"Tea. Drink it." Martha sat down next to him and folded her arms across her torso.
He elevated an eyebrow at the command, and reached for the mug, eying the contents cautiously. "Didn't think you'd actually get me tea; this is a bribe of some kind, is it? Or some primitive form of assassination? I know a quaint little planet in the Nisos galaxy where they serve tea made from the leaves of a toxic fern."
"You might not be the Doctor, but you're still the same man," Martha said. "And you seem to have the same egotistic view about life you've always had. So you call yourself Doctor, or Master, or Rascal the Cheerful Dalek for all I care. Drink the tea and get the stick out of your…ear."
He regarded her coolly for a moment, and then, conceding the match to her, angled his head minutely in acceptance and, graciously, sipped the tea.
Ooo---oOo---ooO
"Come on, old girl, it's me! Remember, your lovable Doctor! See; watch me bounce around causing chaos and mayhem in the name of goodness and love and monotony…Ouch!"
Martha watched from the TARDIS doorway, and sighed. It seems she missed the Doctor –or the Master, as the case may be –and was flatly refusing to take off. It had taken more than a week just to get this far.
"Listen, you antiquated piece of junk," the Master growled in an undertone, "if you don't behave, I am going to take this sonic screwdriver, and –"
A barely discernable change in the TARDIS' background hum told him exactly what he could do with his sonic screwdriver.
"You could always try being nice," Martha pointed out eventually.
"Nice?" the Master looked backwards over his shoulder at her with an arch expression. "My dear Miss Jones, if I tried being nice, I'd end up as nothing more than anyone else. I might even end up like you." His tone made it perfectly clear what he thought of that idea.
That was it. Martha hadn't put up with that sort of stuff from the Doctor, and she sure as heck wasn't taking it from this man.
"Oh sorry," she apologized sweetly. "My mistake; I'd forgotten how well being mean and antisocial had done for you. I mean, look at the means at your disposal!"
She waved an exaggerated hand around the TARDIS. "A space-time machine that doesn't move," she clarified, just in case that had been too subtle for him.
The Master didn't turn and look at her, but she thought she saw his shoulder muscles tense. Before he could say anything, though, the TARDIS changed.
With a flicker and a whine, the backup power lights switched off, replaced with a stronger, more golden-green glow.
"Aha! We've got power! Mickey, we've got…" he paused, shook his head. "Really need to stop doing that. But still! Power!"
Martha clapped. "Well done!" she admitted. "Where are we going first?"
The Master wheeled to face her, his eyes almost popping comically. It gave Martha a momentary pang for the Doctor she had known.
"Why on Gallifrey would I even want a stupid ape tagging along? I suppose you'd be good bait for something, but I don't do the companion thing."
"Maybe not," Martha conceded, "but the Doctor is. And if you leave me behind, he's going to whine and moan and be lonely in the back of your head until you end up picking someone else up."
"Someone like Ro-ose?" the Master asked, drawing out the last word with a wicked grin, just to see her face heat up with a confusing mix of emotions.
"Yes," she said firmly, despite her flaming cheeks. "So you might as well keep me. I'm a trained medical student, I've already got the whole time travel thing down pat –and do you really want to risk picking up someone naïve who shrieks like a banshee and twists her ankle by running in high heels?"
He opened his mouth, hesitated – Martha thought he muttered the name Jovanka under his breath – gave her a disgruntled look, and Martha knew she'd won.
"Okay, Martha Jones! Where shall we go then?" he asked, bouncing around the console in a way she knew all too well. " Barcelona! No, wait –tried that, didn't work out too well. Dogs with no noses are all very well and good but –"
"Don't," Martha cut in. "I know what you're doing, and I dunno whether you're trying to be nice or just having a bit of fun at my expense, but just don't."
The Master stopped bouncing – stopped babbling – stopped being the Doctor.
"You're not the Doctor," she said firmly, "and I don't need, or want you to try to be."
Almost imperceptibly, the Master nodded.
"Let's see where random coordinates take us then, shall we?" he asked smoothly. "I always did like games of chance."
The TARDIS, unfortunately, didn't seem to be so keen –and her lack of enthusiasm manifested itself as three days in an alien swamp.
From her room Martha could hear him swearing and cursing the machine far more fluently and frequently than the Doctor ever had. But then, at least he had stopped brooding over Rose. And the TARDIS did finally come to accept him, evil streak and all –which had to be a good thing. They were running out of milk.
