Where The City Sleeps 7

Lucy stood looking out over the Plass, the sun adding a Mediterranean feel to the area where the steps and columns were burnished by its light. Red silk whispered against her skin as the breeze caressed her possessively, its warm touch ruffling the rich material as it lapped the length of her body. She stretched out her arms, letting the sunlight drench her exposed skin, and drew a lungful of air.

In, out. In, out.

She touched her chest, feeling it rise and fall and the tremor of her own heartbeat.

In, out. In, out.

Blood pulsed through her arteries while above her seagulls coasted silver in the flawless sky their shadows skimming across the oval basin which danced to the heat of the sun. Each second, each breath elated her senses, each palpable feeling made her heady with delight.

Lucy spun around and her dress twisted at her ankles in a pool of red. She relished the movement with a heartfelt laugh, its joyous sound skipped from her throat and leapt around the silent pillars; the amphitheatre holding onto its pitch and quality.

"Hello," she called across the deserted Plass, smiling at the echo of her own voice.

No one answered. There was nothing out there. Only the water tower bothered to lament an answer; its flowing cascade sounding like thousands of shed tears. She crossed her bare arms and rubbed at the prickle of goosebumps; even in the light she was alone.

"Shush, sweetheart, you're never alone." He stood behind her, folding his arms around her body, his breath making ripples on her skin and she could smell the faint aroma of coffee as he exhaled.

Lucy closed her eyes, swaying slightly into his touch, moulding her body into his. "You look delicious in red," he purred down the length of her neck, teasing a moan from Lucy's lips.

"Yes," she answered, letting the moisture from his breath stir her dormant senses.

In, out. In, out.

His fingers strayed under the thin strap of the dress sending it partially over her shoulder. "Like fire on ice," he whispered, softly kissing the imprint left by the ribbon of material.

"Master," she whispered, leaning into the flame of his touch, the darkness of her emotions betraying her to burn within him.

"Yes," he answered, spinning her round, standing god-like, blocking the rays of the sun so that its light paled behind his silhouette.

He bent close and kissed her. Lucy shuddered with both longing and repulsion.

In, out. In, out.

His mouth attacked her own with a vicious and bruising scrape of lips and teeth, pulling at the sweep of her tightly knotted hair with no kindness or care.

Lucy cupped his face in her hands, letting him devour her with his rapacious kisses that raged against her skin with a cruel obsessive passion; after all, she was nothing without him.

He pulled away and laughed, his dominant stare flawed with all the colours of his madness which bled from his unstable soul. He ran his thumb over the bow of her swollen lips, flattening them with the force of his touch. "Puppet," he whispered, pressing the supple skin against her teeth. "A little wooden puppet, see how I pull your strings."

He softly blew a strand of stray hair from her forehead. "Are you hungry?" His hand travel to her throat and his fingers caressed its width. "It's been a while since we… talked?" His breath teased her ear.

Lucy let his brutal fingers journey down her neck, tightening around it as he waited for her to answer.

"Yes," she replied compliantly, careful to avoid his stare.

He pushed against her larynx as she answered. "Good," he said, grabbing her wrist and guiding her to a small bistro table set by one of the columns.

He snapped his fingers; night swarmed across sky and Lucy thought how hollow and lonely the moon looked in the carpet of his night.

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. The labyrinth of her mind twisted in its meaningless chasm.

He smiled at her but his lips held no hint of humanity as he clapped his hands together to illuminate the sentinel of pillars. "See how it flies like Lucy in the Sky, see how it runs," the Master sung in a low and brittle voice.

"I'm crying," Lucy answered bitterly.

He gestured for her to sit by pulling out one of the wrought iron chairs. "Then let's see if we can put a smile on that lovely face, hm? Would you like some music? Of course you would."

A small troop of men appeared: three with acoustic guitars, one playing a double bass and in their centre Dean Martin materialised singing, 'Memories are Made of This.'

The Master sat down opposite her, placing a napkin on his lap with a flourish of movement. "See how I paint the world for you, my love." He looked over to Martin and waved; the singer winked back.

"Champagne, good, let's celebrate?" He reached for a bottle resting in an ice filled silver bucket.

He smiled at her as the cork popped and a froth of bubbles cascaded from the open neck onto the ground. The Master took her glass and Lucy watched the excited rush of bubbles rise to the top and foam over its rim.

Bubbles make you burp, bubbles make you burp, bubbles make you burp, her thoughts ran like a train as he tipped his full glass toward her, gesturing for her to pick up her own. She grabbed its slender stem, a froth of champagne still clinging to its smooth surface.

"To revenge," the Master toasted, eyeing her over the brim.

"To revenge," Lucy chorused but her mind betrayed her. To freedom, to freedom…

His smile was bright but his eyes held their darkness. "Now, let's not rush things, shall we, I so enjoy having your input."

"Please," she whispered, reaching across the table to snatch at his hand. "Please let me go. Harry, please."

The Master looked down at her hand. "I don't believe you've drank to my toast," he reminded, his tone bristling.

Lucy pulled her hand away. "Of course, I'm… I'm sorry."

She lifted the flute to her mouth and took a sip, her eyes never leaving his watchful gaze. Lucy waited for the liquid to fizz and pop on her tongue in an alcoholic buzz of bubbles; instead it thickened as it touched her lips, coating the inside of her mouth with the metallic taste of iron. She dropped the glass; it shattered on the flagstones as she gagged on its contents, placing a hand over her mouth.

Blood. It seeped from between her lips and fingers, leaving an ugly red trail dripping down her chin and onto her dress.

"Not thirsty, darling? Then let's see if I can tempt you with a little something to eat." The Master stood and lifted the lid from a silver serving dome which had suddenly appeared on the table.

For a moment her mind stalled and the music faded to a hushed and even sinister whisper. Sweet, sweet, memories you gave-a me. You can't beat, the memories you gave-a me.

She looked to the chased scrolls and flowers etched on the polished metal cover; she had seen it before, it belonged to her family.

One girl, one boy, some grief, some joy…

Lucy's gaze froze on the platter, stifling a scream as she rose in horror, knocking her chair backwards. Her father's head stared back at her, surrounded by a salad garnish. His mouth fell opened and maggots wriggled from the cavity as he sang along. "Don't forget a small moonbeam, fold in lightly with a dream…"

She dragged her eyes back to the man who was sharpening the carving knife. "A little off the top for you?" he asked, piecing the top of her father's head with the two pronged fork. Lucy staggered back stumbling over the upturned chair.

"Not hungry, darling?" She shook her head. "Then let's dance."

He grabbed Lucy and pulled her to him, her traitorous body still craving contact even though her mind fumbled incoherently in its dismay. She went limp against his strong hold, her head finding comfort on his shoulder. They swayed to the music, Lucy drawing on the echoing beat of his heart, finding its repeat cathartic in the shadows of her mind.

The Master smelt her hair and gentle stroked the back of her neck. "So tell me, darling, what do you make of Torchwood Three?" The question lapped against her ear. "Our flamboyant freak, what did you make of him?"

Lucy looked up, but the Master no longer held her in his arms, instead Jack Harkness twirled her round in a showy display of hips over dramatic arms. Harry was gone, taking Dean Martin's place in the troop, miming along while watching them interact.

The captain pulled her close, rocking her body between his legs, following the rhythm of the music, his wool coat scratching against her cheek. "Well?" Harry was inpatient for his answer.

Lucy met Jack's blue eyes and he smiled at her, but it was empty and false. This wasn't real. The captain was forged from the Master's bitter concept; this Harkness was all loud and flash; his gaze as lurid as the grin fixed on his face.

Puppets, her own mind whispered. Am I real at all?

Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye. Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess… Her thoughts spiralled in twists and loops.

"I'm waiting!" Harry's voice severed through her maddening thoughts.

"He's hiding something," she replied, hastily.

Saxon rolled his eyes. "That's obvious, but what?"

"I don't know."

"Are you sure?" His stare melted into her.

Lucy nodded. Harry grabbed a guitar and began to play. "And what about the good Dr Harper?" He was close now, his irregular notes jarring against those of the song.

Rough hands grabbed her, exploring her body beneath the façade of red silk, groping and cupping her arse. Owen Harper had taken the captain's place as he tried to dance with clumsy timing, stepping on her toes while his eyes and touch undressed her. Lucy swallowed as Owen bit into her neck, she tried to prise him from her, but he snarled, his face ridged and folded in an animalistic expression. The Master cuffed him on top of the head, Owen yelped. "Play nice," he admonished. He turned his attention to Lucy. "Well?" he sang as his fingers strummed discordantly.

"I…"

"Come, dear, you had so much to say in the cells earlier, what was it?" He cupped his hand behind his ear in the pretence of listening.

Owen's hands forcibly pulled at her dress. "I don't know, Harry, please…"

He considered her for a moment snapping his fingers at Harper. Owen stepped back and immediately turned to marble.

These are the dreams you will savour….

The Master draped an arm over the newly formed statue. "And what about that raw-boned youth, Jones?" He brushed some dust from Owen's shoulder and blew it toward her; Ianto began to take shape from the partials as they joined together in the burst of a moonbeam.

The Welshman held out his hand to Lucy in an invitation to dance. She stepped forward and took it in her own and he gave it a gentle squeeze. She held her breath and looked into his eyes.

Are you real? Can you see me? Can you see the thing I've become, the nothing that's neither shadow nor light?

His eyes held her image, giving her definition in their pale seas. This man was no facsimile.

Yes, I can see you. It was a breeze of a moment, a hush of autumn leaves, a ghost of a moon moth - but she heard it.

A tear slid down her cheek and Ianto stretched out his hand letting the salt water glide across his fingers before wiping it away.

Lucy exhaled.

"What? What do you see?" The Master grabbed at her hand, squeezing her fingers.

In, out. In, out.

Lucy looked to Ianto but he was gone, only Harry's blueprint remained - a soulless copy in an expensive suit.

In, out. In, out. In…

Lucy threw her head back, letting her hair fall from its pins and laughed like she had forgotten how.

"What?" Harry looked from her to Welshman, forcing Lucy to her knees. He could see nothing but a boy stuffed in a suit. "Tell me!" His face flushed with anger as his grip compressed the fine bones of her hand, crushing them.

She welcomed the pain. "What is it?" he yelled again.

The oval basin fell away and darkness swamped her, choking her in its cloth. The Master stood vibrant in the shadows of their enclosed minds, lashing out with the back of his hand. It burned her skin, the ring on his finger drawing more blood.

"You can't hide anything from me. I'm here in your thoughts," he yelled, pushing himself through the corridors of her mind.

Lucy screamed, the sound gaining momentum in her emptiness. But I can. She realised as he hit her again and again. And today I have touched; I have felt - without you. I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob. She laughed again.

The Master continued his assault, striking her until she bled crimson in her own mind, his rage acute and sharpened by unchecked insanity. "Why are you making me do this?" he reasoned. "Do you think I have time to indulge your sycophantic fantasies?"

He grabbed her by the throat. "Now tell me what you saw?"

Lucy's laughter swam in blood, spraying his noble face as she continued to grin. "Hope," she whispered as he squeezed one more meaningless life from her.