A/N: Visitors have left, so I'm back to writing - and I think this soup has improved for simmering an extra week. Bon appetit!
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Ancient Philosophy
Elements n. 4. Ancient Philosophy: One of four substances, earth, air, fire, or water, formerly regarded as a fundamental constituent of the universe; in western Astrology: any of the four triplicity groupings of signs associated with those substances.
^..^
Mike sat back from the computer and stretched, turning his head this way and that to crack his stiff neck. He'd been working on the gate programming for several hours, barely touching the generous snacks provided along the way, and had actually cracked the nut about an hour ago, though he had carefully kept any indication of that off his face. The only ones who had twigged were his co-conspirators. Now he glanced over to Rossiter and gave him the tiniest nod: he was ready to send out his planetary Prozac. I wonder what effect it will have on me.
Rossiter nodded back and sent the go-ahead signal to Addams in the cellar, tucked away in an innocuous little query about the power levels. Under the guise of testing the power to a different set of circuits, they brought the gate up to full power – and then Mike reached over and tapped Enter.
No visible wave went out, but everyone in the room except Rossiter shook their head slightly, as if clearing their vision. Even Mike felt a tiny tickle of – something – fizzle through his brain. He put the sensation aside to consider later, and watched his monitor as the computer tracked the psychic shock wave circling the globe in less than five seconds. Catching Rossiter's eye again, he smiled and tipped his head, it's all yours, and the disguised Vinvocci slipped out the side door towards the cellar to make good his escape with his partner and their prize. He'd earlier whispered to Mike that they would need half an hour initiate the transfer.
Mike turned and peered closely at the Naismiths sitting on their "thrones" at the end of the room, looking for the effect of his Prozac, and smiled again to see them both with a hand to their heads, puzzled and disoriented. He whirled away from them towards the side door, however, as it opened again, letting a long-forgotten psychic scent hit his senses. Escorted by two heavily armed guards, wrapped up in a straightjacket, a collar around his neck with the leash being held by by the valet, Danes, was... the Master.
If the thought of escaping his nemesis' notice flittered through Mike's mind, it was quickly dispelled by the renegade Time Lord's flaring nostrils and darting eyes, latching like a searchlight onto his.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, "Who the hell are you?" demanded the Master. "You're not the Doctor, I just left him whimpering in the Wastelands. But you are him, too..." He stalked over to Mike, dragging Danes along behind, and breathed deeply, tasting the air. "The Doctor's nothing but hot air, but you... you stink of dirt, and rocks, and decay. What did he do? Did he love this stinking humanity so much that he finally found a way to become one of them? I knew he would someday... Oh, wait, now, what's that smell?" He took another sniff, and his maniacal grin got even wider. "A metacrisis... Oh, that explains it! Ha-hah! I would have loved to have been there for that!"
"Why can't you just be a good dog and stay dead?" Mike growled back. The Doctor's here? I should have known...
"Oh, but living is so much more fun! I'm never going to die! Never never never!" Mike looked on in horror as the Master's skin flickered out for a second, his skull blazing like lightning. The Master caught himself and went back on the attack. "But you should talk, you and your metacrisis genesis. Didn't work out as a plan for eternal life, though, did it? You're going to die, half-breed. Maybe sooner than you think."
"Half-breed? Yeah, that's me," Mike latched on to the word as a way of ignoring the rest of the Master's taunting. "Gallifrey on one side, Earth on the other, and me in the middle. But you? I think you're going to die sooner than I will. You're burning yourself up from the inside, aren't you? You'll be nothing but ash and cinders by morning."
"I'm so hungry. I wonder what you'd taste like?"
"Gentlemen!" Naismith had had enough of their posturing. "As fascinating as your previous history might be, you're not here to compare tails, you're here to get the immortality gate working."
The name caught the Master's attention, and he turned towards the billionaire, dismissing Mike. "Immortality gate?"
As their host explained, Mike could see the wheels turning in the Master's head, and wondered how similar those wheels were to his own. What was he plotting? Nothing good.
As the Master's restraints were released, and he sat down at one of the computers, Mike was compelled to warn Naismith. "You can't trust him! You have no idea what he'll do with the gate!"
The Master grinned slyly up at him. "And what were you doing, eh? What was that I felt a moment ago?"
Mike gaped, then answered quickly, "Nothing. I was fixing it." But he'd hesitated just an instant too long, and Naismith pinned him with a sharp look.
"Check it," he told the Master, who turned to the computer and began tapping the keys, getting the gist of the programming and swooping through it faster than anybody had a right to, while in response to a signal from Naismith, the guards both edged around to get a clear line at Mike.
The Master found what he was looking for in less than a minute and turned to look speculatively at the culprit. "Docility..." he murmured, and a icy cat's paw of dread swept up Mike's back. What have I done?
The Master slowly stood up and faced Naismith directly. "Go sit down," he ordered. As Mike watched in horror, both Naismith and his daughter gaped slightly, then simply returned to their chairs without a word. The Master gave Mike a sly, triumphant smile, and sat back down to begin his own reprogramming.
Mike wasn't going to go down without a fight. He stepped up to the Master's side. "Whatever you're thinking, stop. I'm not going to let you do it."
"And how are you going to stop me?" The Master flicked a finger, and the two guards stepped closer to Mike. In the space of a minute, he'd managed to gain command of the entire room with nothing but the sheer force of his fiery personality (living up for once to his chosen name) – and Mike's mental Prozac. He grinned again. "But I think I'll keep you around for the entertainment value. My very own tame Doctor." He turned to the guards. "Put him into one of the isolation booths. At least he can make himself useful there. Don't let the radiation escape!" he sing-songed the last to Mike, taunting.
As Mike hesitated, staring, the guard behind him jammed his rifle barrel into his side. "Move!" He was thinking frantically, but couldn't see any way out, not at that moment. He'd have to bide his time – for now. He walked stiff-backed into the empty left-hand booth and let the technician out of the other one, then sat, ignoring the controls while he glared across the room at the victor, who was calling for a platter of steak, his skull flashing through his skin again when the guards didn't move fast enough to suit him.
This isn't over, Skeletor.