The Warrior stepped out of his Tardis. A weapon of almighty power weighing down his right arm. It looked just like a handgun from a cheap Sci-Fi film from 20th century Earth. He doubted that was coincidence. The Warrior forgot which had inspired the other. Its silvery finish did not, however, reflect the glare of the sun. It was dull, and dirty, and heavy.
The Warrior took aim at the rear of the Dalek. He had to destroy this thing to prevent it somehow utilising the Rift energy. Like all major battles in the Time War, institutional memory had long failed them in figuring out their original objectives. This battle had originally been an unrelated invasion by a Dalek fleet against a planet that was of strategic importance in some other war. If it was even worth fighting for in the context of a Time War, the Warrior wasn't aware of it. He knew, however, that what he didn't know far outweighed what he did. Ignorance was easier and more realistic than knowledge, in the Time War. There was no longer any room for wonder, intrigue and curiosity. It was tough enough to carry out orders, without trying to understand their reasoning, or their consequences.
The Dalek remained transfixed on the other Tardis – the one from earlier. The Warrior had navigated the Tardis here twice, so far, for this very manoeuvre. The battle in the upper atmosphere it seemed had been won, or else a stalemate accepted as a worthy outcome by either side had emerged. Here, it was just him and this one Dalek. He knew that the Dalek would likely be more aware than he of their situation; he was counting now on the Dalek's innate hunger for killing, to distract it from any information about the ploy that its commanders may now be sending it.
The weapon finished its drawn-out charging sequence (he would not risk fi this weapon inside the Tardis). The Warrior lifted his gun and shot the Dalek in the back, blowing its vehicle apart with a force one would not suspect from a weapon of that size.
The fumes in the air were thick. Distant factories were now ablaze. This planet wouldn't sustain life for long.
The Dalek creature clung to a pathetic existence on the cold concrete floor of the yard. The Warrior knew that, in this place, history had been re-written and distorted over and over. He doubted whether anyone living on this planet had ever known peace or comfort. The air smelled of oil.
The Dalek moaned. A spasm of the nerves, newly released from their containment and connections to the vehicle. The Warrior had heard such moans before. They usually gave the impression of regret or sadness, but the Warrior had enough experience of Daleks to know that this one would not express, indeed experience, such feelings, even now.
The weapon the Warrior had used on this Dalek was a Time War invention, designed to keep the Dalek alive but incapacitated, so that the wielder of the weapon might capture a Dalek and bring it back to headquarters, where grisly techniques were used to harvest any military intelligence. Attempts at hacking into the cloud memory system had all failed, so the Time Lords had turned to torturing prisoners of war from a race that was – when disconnected from their vehicles – lamer than a humanoid baby.
The Warrior cared not for such things. Not out of compassion, but the immediate satisfaction of a hateful urge, he crushed the Dalek beneath his left boot, screaming a harsh cry. The eyeball burst under his weight, and the visible signs of life were extinguished. The other Tardis had dematerialised by now, as he had done about 14 minutes ago, ignorant of whether the ploy had worked, not daring to look outside.
Victory, he thought, as he looked around the yard. Through gaps in the collapsing sandstone wall he could see the landscape of this planet, though he remembered from before. It had now always been this way: a sprawl of industrial chimneys, punctuated by shanty towns that the native slaves populated, ever in service to the Nestene.
But he had succeeded here, and now the Time Lords would unleash something terrifying. A device that would erase this planet – and the strategic Rift it hosted – from known existence. Such things were never perfect, some would remember. But none would ever again step foot here. Not in this time period, not… before.
Another Tardis materialised, and the commander emerged in some haste. The Master.