Title: The Monster in the Dark
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
oOo oOo Chapter 8: Falling AAAARGH! oOo oOo
The Master felt that sickening rush of falling and squeezed his eyes closed. For a second, he was absurdly grateful that his lungs had seized up in the paroxysm which gripped the body when it plummeted. It saved his dignity by preventing any potential scream. He clung to the handle of the Doctor's umbrella and berated himself for doing something so monumentally stupid as trusting the Doctor over gravity. Physics was physics! It was stupid to think it would be different in a mindscape he helped create.
The Doctor was saying something, but the words were torn away in the screech of passing air. The Master didn't care, anyway. He had no need to hear whatever witty rejoinder the Doctor was trying to interject in the seconds before they shattered on impact.
Though from the strained look on the Doctor's face, he was more likely to be begging the Guardians for help than making quips. The Master looked away, not wanting to see the Doctor so lost. He stared at the side of the mountain. He could see patterns in the rock, flashes of familiarity like the memories within the Doctor's mind. Were the patterns in the rock memories, and if so, whose? The girl's? Cultural memories of the cheetah virus? The other mind's? Whichever it was, they seemed to be gaining solidity. They no longer flashed by so quickly as to be incomprehensible but . . . there. That was exactly the right speed! For a second, the Master began to understand what was really happening in the mindscape and the overwhelming sense of revelation smothered even his sense of impending doom. Of course! It was all so perfectly obvious.
But then they slowed too much, and the images were gone. It had all been an illusion brought about by a panicking mind. The stones were merely different colors of a reddish-brown sandstone molded into suggestive shapes by water flowing in the same rivulets for hundreds of years. A natural phenomenon. No more meaningful than reading viscera or casting bones.
Then the Master realized that he was considering sandstone. For long seconds he had been considering sandstone. Seconds in which he should have shattered on the rocks below. Instead of speeding past him on his way to oblivion, the sandstone was meandering past at a speed completely at odds with gravity.
His head swiveled around and he stared at the Doctor, whose eyes were still locked on some faraway point. His expression was no longer lost. He was calm, his flow of words spoken in measured cadences. Their fall slowed further, and the Master listened.
Old High Gallifreyan wasn't something he was used to hearing. After so many years away from his home, he was struck by nostalgia so strong it was almost painful. Lilting, haunting syllables tripping over one another, each syllable striking the correct pitch. Syntax categorized the sentences as imperative, and the use of the potential verb tense as opposed to the factual . . .
The Laws of Time. The Doctor was reciting the Laws of Time. Their eyes met, and the Master understood what was required of him. He didn't know why, but he could demand answers when they didn't run the risk of plummeting to their deaths. Stumbling over the words as his tongue recalled the formation of the oldest dialect in his language, the Master recited along with the Doctor.
It was strange, but all the laws—even those that seemed ridiculous or hypocritical—took on a veneration of sorts when spoken in Old High Gallifreyan. Together they recited. The Master barely even stumbled over the laws concerning regeneration, and as far as he had strayed from the Gallifreyan fold, he still believed in the first Law of Time. Every utterance of it slowed them just a little more. He gave up on the others and concentrated on the first law, reciting it over and over.
Their plummet slowed to the point at which they weren't risking even minor damage when they touched down. They fluttered like a scrap of paper, drifting through the air until their feet touched the dust.
The Master let go of the umbrella and staggered back on legs that felt as though they had been replaced by trunks fabricated from blancmange. The Doctor rested the umbrella on his shoulder and twirled it, a smile of immense superiority on his face. His legs were stone-steady.
"What was that?" the Master demanded, feeling more than a little scandalized. Had the Doctor known? Had he let them fall just to get a rise of the Master?
The Doctor gestured up at the ledge with the umbrella. "The physics of belief. In this place, you can take a belief, channel it, and shape the world to your desires."
"How did you know? You wouldn't have taken that risk if you didn't."
"I had a hunch." The Doctor scanned the desert, looking for something, although the Master couldn't guess what. "I've got a lot of hunches about this place, all leading me to one very nasty conclusion."
The Master's impatience flared. After nearly dying, the least he deserved was to be kept informed! If the Doctor had theories or a sense of logic about this place, the Master needed to know. The Doctor's plans often disregarded little things like survival. "Yes?" he snapped.
The Doctor touched his index finger to his lips and started walking. The Master glared at his back, thought about staying where he was to prove a point, but then he fell into step. It was either that or let the Doctor face danger alone, with whatever dubious precautions he might take. That was unacceptable.
They plunged into the scrub outskirts of the desert. Small, stunted trees twisted their way out of the ground, their branches forming symbols. The Master thought he saw the Prydonian insignia in the distance, but it was only a flash. Amongst the trees, short shrubs grew low to the ground.
As they continued on, the trees thinned out and scrub predominated the landscape, punctuated by dead grass. The blades looked sharp, and the Master moved to avoid them. He could see, further out, that even the scrub ceased to encroach on the desert, leaving nothing but patches of grass and dust.
Then he saw a shape slinking through the shrubs, making its way towards them. He held up a hand and jerked his chin in the direction of the shape. The two Time Lords stopped and waited.
There was a scent. Familiar, wild and predatory. The Master's body tensed. This was what they had originally come to find, so he didn't know why he was surprised. The unknown intelligence must have distracted him. He glanced at the Doctor, whose head was cocked to the side as though listening to something. He hadn't detected it yet. He didn't have the Master's . . . sensitivity.
"You won't hear it coming," the Master said. "A poor pathogen it would be if its footprints were obvious."
The Doctor closed his eyes and smiled. "Ah. The elusive cheetah virus, I take it."
It stepped out from behind a shrub some distance away and seemed to shimmer into existence out of the heat waves rising off the desert plain. Its coat was the pale tan universal to the desert, but the color was speckled in darkness. Its eyes were huge, knowing yellow orbs. Those eyes looked at the Master and recognized him.
The virus halted its progress, staring at him, unblinking. Somewhere in his mind, the Master felt a stir of response from his own subdued virus. He felt the fear of relapse. He had only defeated the virus the first time by a small margin, drawing upon physiological immunity and an iron will.
"You don't want me," the Master said. "I'm already infected. You want the girl."
"Don't—" the Doctor started, but the Master cut him off with a raised hand.
"Why aren't you with her?" he asked.
The Doctor paused, his eyes flashing back and forth between the Master and the virus. When he spoke again, his voice was soft with realization. "The other mind is interfering . . ." His gaze met the Master's, and it was obvious he finally understood all the implications of the situation. "It's not the virus manifesting symptoms in Ace, it's the other intelligence masking its activities through a known ailment. Hmm." He stepped forward, head down and eyes dark with thought. He walked to the virus, crouched down, reached out and touched its face. It growled, but it was a weak, pathetic noise. "You've been run ragged, haven't you?"
The Master edged closer. "And if the other presence is defeated?" The virus raised its head and met his eyes. The Master understood. "No recuperating." He looked down at the Doctor, who remained crouched before the cat. "The virus you sought to expel from your human is beaten already. The other presence has bolstered her immune system, but she's had the time to build her own by now. I should have guessed." He closed his eyes as comprehension rushed over him. "I knew she couldn't have lasted as long as she did."
He opened his eyes. The Doctor's flat gaze dared him to state the obvious. So he did. "Your human should be covered in fur and ripping your throat out as we speak, Doctor."
The Doctor's façade of superiority was wrenched away in that moment. He stared off at a point in the middle distance and he looked hollow. "I told her it wouldn't be an issue. Not for years. And even when . . . I thought she staved it off. She tried to save me."
"What are you talking about?"
"Her coma was self-induced," the Doctor said, as though reciting a prescripted speech. "She attacked me, but she stopped. I tried to talk to her, but she ran away before I could say anything. I found her in the med-bay, overdosed on tranquilizers." His breath hitched. "It took four and a half minutes to restart her heart."
"Ah." The so-called noble virtue of self-sacrifice. The Master shook his head, a bit contemptuous and more than a little amused. "Humans are such fragile things, aren't they?"
"I thought I'd found a way to save her." The Doctor didn't even acknowledge the Master. He covered his mouth with a hand and heaved a sigh between his fingers. "In reality, the only thing that saved her . . . oh, it would be ironic if it weren't so terrible."
The Master shifted, not wanting to see this. When the Doctor didn't seem inclined to do anything but crouch before the defeated virus and wallow in self-recrimination, the Master caught him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet. "I have no intention of dying here, and we have to save your human to leave this place, so blame yourself on your own time, Doctor. We have work to do."
The Doctor drew himself up and gave a sharp nod. The Master saw the haunted look in the Doctor's eyes flicker and wink out as he shut off his useless emotions. Then he stepped back and turned to the virus. "Have you seen her?"
A slow blink of confirmation.
"Take us there."
The virus rose and padded away. The two Time Lords glanced at one another, then followed.
The wind blew in hot off the desert, carrying scents like memories. Perhaps they were memories. There was a burst of something floral, heavy and sweet, and the Master thought of the gardens surrounding the Panopticon. Then he smelled something sharply chemical. It prickled in his nose, conjuring the image of fire in his mind.
The Doctor ran forward, following the scent. He overtook and then outpaced the virus. "This way!" he shouted.
"What?" the Master demanded.
"Nitro-nine!"
The phrase made no sense to him, but the Doctor was clearly on a trail. The Master dashed after him and heard the virus do the same. As the scrub all but disappeared and they entered the desert proper, his feet slipped and sank into the dust, and it kicked up. The scent of chemicals faded as the hard-baked smell of powdered earth overpowered everything else. The Doctor staggered to a halt, sniffing at the wind as a desperate look suffused his features. They had lost the trail.
The dust slowly settled. Something was wrong, though. The Master could see the air clear around them, but the roar of the dust remained. The Doctor's gaze focused over his shoulder. He blanched white and his eyes grew wide. He pulled out a handkerchief with hands that shook.
The Master turned slowly, not really wanting to see the inevitable. He expected a haze of rising dust, currents twisting in the wind. He expected eddies and gaps in the oncoming storm.
He didn't expect the wall of dust which hurtled toward them.
"Sandstorm," he breathed.
"No," the Doctor said. "Look at the ground."
The Master glanced at the layer of powdery dust lying on top of more hard-packed earth. He nudged it with the toe of his shoe, and even the small disturbance created a cloud.
The Doctor said, "It's a dust storm."
"Dust storm?"
"Much, much worse than a sandstorm." His voice became muffled, and the Master looked to see that he had covered the lower half of his face with the handkerchief. "Cover your mouth and nose," the Doctor said. "You can't inhale this!" The Master whipped off his cravat and clapped the silk over his nose and mouth with seconds to spare.
Then he was enveloped in the dust storm. It roiled around him, and he could see only the vaguest outlines of the Doctor and the virus. His eyes began to water, trying to purge the dust, and his vision faded further. The dust was so fine it permeated his cravat and reached his nose. He could smell it, and a few seconds later he could taste it in the back of his throat. He pictured dust sliding down his trachea, coating all surfaces on its way to his lungs. There, it would collect, filling him up until breath was impossible.
Anything was better than drowning in dirt, so the Master stopped breathing. It wasn't advisable to continue strenuous physical activity when one bypassed, but he couldn't just wait for the storm to end.
The Doctor emerged suddenly from the blizzard of dust, close enough that he was somewhat distinct. He groped for the Master's hand, and then pulled him along through the storm. The Master caught fleeting glimpses of the cat emerging from and disappearing back into the dust. He didn't know which way they were going, and he doubted the Doctor did either.
Then the Doctor stopped, turned, and looked at the Master. His exact expression was too blurred to see, but the Master knew the Doctor had a plan.
He started walking again, towing the Master in his wake. The Master's joints began to feel stiff and his skin felt tight from all the dust collecting on it. His eyes were little more than slits covered by protective lashes. His lungs were already protesting. He could last hours without oxygen if he sat still and willed his heart rate to drop, but trudging against the wind through a dust storm was too much to ask even of Gallifreyan physiology. He was going to need to take a breath, no matter how contaminated, relatively soon.
Then they emerged, the world shifting so abruptly that the Master staggered, squinting as the glaring blue sky reappeared overhead. He drew a startled breath, and even through the taste of dust, the air seemed particularly sweet. All around them the storm raged, but at this point, there was utter calm and unnatural silence.
Not far away, the virus bounded from the wall of dust. It stopped, shook itself and licked at its fur.
"Is this your doing?" the Master asked the Doctor.
The Doctor ran a hand through his hair. He'd lost his hat in the storm, and his dark hair was now a pale tan. In fact, the Doctor in his entirety was a pale tan, with the exception of his eyes, a shocking blue-gray against so much monotony. The Doctor patted at his clothing, and small puffs of dust rose off. The Master did the same, and then undid his cuffs to roll up his sleeves. His arms, even covered by two layers of fabric, were coated in a fine layer of dust, brown speckles highlighting his pores. The dust clung stubbornly, refusing to be brushed off.
The Doctor continued to pat the dust out of his clothing. "I may not have been powerful enough to stop the storm once it was created, but I knew I could tweak a few aspects at least. It was just a matter of one mind elaborating on what another thinks up. Rather the purpose of this entire exercise, after all." He looked up from his work, and his smile was both impish and proud. "So I made an eye in the storm. A temporary solution, but a start, wouldn't you say?"
The Master drew breath to argue, but it caught in the dust which he had inhaled, and he began to cough. He tried to catch his breath, but found he couldn't. In fact, the coughing became harder, reverberating in his chest as he felt the first prickles of pain.
He bent over, the spasms nearly knocking him prone. He held a hand to his mouth and stringy globs of mud came up. It was far more than he could have possibly inhaled! The Doctor pounded on his back and the Master felt something inside him tear. He retched and spat out what seemed, at first glance, to be a stone. As it lay white on the ground, the Master realized it wasn't stone, but whittled bone.
The Doctor's face twisted in revulsion. He kicked the bone and it skittered into the wall of dust where it was consumed by the storm. "Do you think that's funny?" he shouted at the sky. Then, quietly, he asked, "Are you all right?"
"I'll be fine," the Master said, ignoring his hoarse voice and the feeling of something having ripped open inside his body. He coughed a little more, his hand to his face, and when he drew it away, it was speckled in crimson.
They regarded his hand together. There was nothing to be said, but the Master felt a new sense of urgency about their mission.
The Doctor scrubbed his hand through his hair. "Two can play at a game of minds," he said, closing his eyes.
As he spoke, two creatures rose from the dust. They were the same color as the earth from which they came, their legs folded at a strange angle so that knees with shell-like crusts faced forward. Heads raised from the ground on long necks. Uncomprehending eyes regarded them.
The Doctor approached them, a hand out in greeting.
And then he stumbled to a halt, a hand to his head.
"What is it?" the Master asked.
"Yellow cube," the Doctor whispered.
"What?"
The Doctor turned to stare at him, eyes wide. "She's in trouble."
"Your human?"
"Yes. She only got two words through to me before she was . . . snuffed out somehow."
"Yellow cube?"
"Precisely." The Doctor crouched down, scooping up a handful of dust and pressing it between his hands. Before the Master could ask, he closed his eyes and was lost in concentration. The walls of the eye shuddered and the Master started. He cast a glance at the Doctor, but there would be no help there for the moment. So he focused on the walls himself, compelling them to remain where they were through sheer force of will.
Then the Doctor was back and he opened his eyes. With a flourish, he opened his hands to reveal a—"Yellow cube," he said, flashing the Master a grin. Then the cube disappeared into one of the Doctor's pockets.
The Master was unimpressed. "Are you quite done?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes." The Doctor flicked his wrist and produced a carrot. He strolled over to the nearest beast. It snaked its head over and began to eat.
The Master was less eager to approach. "What are they?" he asked.
"Camels," the Doctor said. "They're a sort of Earth pack-animal. Very common and well-adapted to desert life." He came around the side of the seated beast and swung his leg over its back. The Master approached the remaining creature and did the same. He waited, wondering what came next.
The so-called camel rose. Its back legs were first, straightening as the Master leaned violently backwards in an attempt to retain his balance. He was surprised at the height the camel achieved. Then the front legs unfolded and his seat levelled out. The Master thought they were standing, but the camel continued to rise, doubling its height in one motion. The Master looked down. There was no easy way to dismount or escape. He was, like it or not, in the hands of an imaginary animal.
An imaginary animal . . . oh, Doctor. He was clever: thoughts were the only thing easily transferred through the mindscape, so mentally-crafted animals would be able to track other thought patterns if created to do so, even without the scent trail.
The camels plodded forward, and the Master bypassed his respiratory system at the last possible second before hitting the wall of dust. It was easier to not breathe when he wasn't walking or running. Even with the minor physical adjustments required to remain on the camel, he could hold his breath for about an hour.
Unfortunately, once he was bypassing, all he could think about was his lungs. He hoped it was just his own morbid imaginings, but he thought he could feel the blood pooling in his chest from whatever injury the mysterious bone had caused. A horrific sense of helplessness washed over him, compounded by the loneliness of the storm. His entire world had narrowed to the swirling dust around him, the shriek of the wind in his ears, and the drip of blood within his lungs.
Then, so distant it seemed more imagined than real, a spire emerged from the dust for a split second before being subsumed once more. The camel plodded in that direction, and the Master waited, watching for the next glimpse of his destination, forcing all his focus onto that goal. The dust parted for a few seconds, and he saw the spire. He got the impression of a lumpy pattern to it, but couldn't tell why that was.
As they drew near, the dust storm began to wane. First, the Master could see the Doctor and his camel. Then he could see the virus slinking along nearby. Finally, emerging from the settling dust like a grasping hand, there was a castle made of the desert. Dust was packed and shaped to make turrets and walls. It was a twisted imitation of a building, and the Master felt an unease settled over him.
The camels stopped and their front legs folded as one. The Master leaned back and rode out the uneven descent. When the camel was prone with its legs tucked under it, he clambered off and stepped away, the animal forgotten after it ceased to be of use.
The Doctor looked at him, and he looked back. They were both caked in dust. More dust than cloth by now. The Master flexed his arm, frowning as he realized he was going to have difficulty moving with so much dust on him. He patted at his suit, but all efforts were ineffectual.
"Still a literalist," the Doctor said, and then waved his hand in front of him with an unnecessary flourish. As his hand passed, the dust disappeared.
The Master attempted to do the same, but the dust was stubborn, and he found that he couldn't refute the evidence of his eyes. The dust was there, and no amount of wishful thinking could dislodge it.
The Doctor stepped in close, snorting his derision. The Master felt his ire rise. He hated being shown up, and especially by this particular man! The Doctor moved to wave away the Master's dust, but his hand was caught before he could do anything.
"I am perfectly capable of taking care of this myself," the Master snapped.
The Doctor smirked, but made no move to pull back. The Master dropped the hand and focused on himself. All he had to do, according to the so-called rules of this place, was to believe he wasn't covered in dust. He just had to ignore the evidence of his eyes. And his skin. And his clothes.
He waved his hands in front of him.
Nothing happened.
Unable to do anything more than snarl an unintelligible curse, the Master watched as the Doctor's hand passed over him, leaving an unblemished suit and unhampered skin in its wake. When he was done the Doctor turned and started walking again, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The virus bounded forward to join him.
If looks were knives, the Master would have stabbed the Doctor in the back at that moment, but as it was, the Doctor dashed toward the door hollowed out of the dust wall. The Master followed, and they ducked into a cool, damp interior. The tunnel they stood in slanted down into the ground. The rest of the castle, it seemed, was merely decorative.
The Doctor became cautious at that point. The patter of his running footfalls against packed ground dropped away to nothing as he slunk through the semi-dark of the tunnel. The Master followed, silent as the grave, and the virus stopped to take up the rear.
The tunnel twisted into the earth, lit by an unseen source, and at some point the dust walls ended and they were surrounded by the same sandstone as the mountains. The tunnel seemed more naturally cut at this point. There were narrows through which they both had difficulty squeezing. The sandstone was filled with veins colored a thousand variations on brown, red, orange and yellow. The formations worn into the stone by flowing water looked, when glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, like dead faces.
Gradually, the ceiling of the tunnel got lower. They had to stoop, and then crawl. The light got brighter, and then the space widened back into a tunnel. The two Time Lords pulled themselves to their feet and continued along their way.
Not far after that, the tunnel exploded out into a huge cavern. They took in their surroundings. The ceiling far above arched, and the grooves were formed like natural support beams. In the center of the cavern there was a raised dais with a narrow chasm running down its middle.
And perched above that seam in the earth, poised on a tripod, was the Doctor's human. She wore a red gown which rippled and flowed about her, its folds caught in the breeze coming up from the chasm. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. Her eyes and expression were lifeless. At her side stood a replica of the Doctor, perfect in appearance if not in the casual cruelty marring his face.
The human raised her arm, her finger pointing directly at them, but she didn't say a word.
"Oh, Rassilon," the Doctor breathed, and on his face was a look of such stricken terror that the Master felt the sentiment echo within himself.
The Doctor took a step forward, but faltered under the girl's unblinking gaze.
"What is she?" the Master asked, his own voice strangled.
The Doctor's voice was taut with agony. "She's a Pythia. A human vessel for a god."
The false Doctor smiled, and its eyes blazed yellow. Not the brilliant amber-gold of the cheetah virus, but a sickly greenish-yellow which spoke of something entirely different. "She's never been anything else," the girl said in a voice which was neither human nor female, and traversed the distance between them effortlessly without need for shouting. Her words reverberated through every surface and filled up the cavern with sound. The Master had no doubt he would still hear her if he covered his ears.
Unlike her, he had no such ability. His own voice was rich and resonant, yes, but there was no way he should have been heard from that distance. Which begged the question: how had this pair, the Pythia and her false Doctor, heard his previous comment?
The false Doctor reached up and ran its fingers though her hair. She didn't react, though the Doctor's breath stuttered. The false Doctor's smile widened as if in reaction, and Master started. If it could hear something so soft . . .
Of course! The tunnel, the entire castle was the center of the desert, and the pinnacle of the invading mind's creation. This was his domain. "It can hear everything we're saying," he whispered. "Everything we think."
The false Doctor continued to speak through the girl, ignoring the Master's words. "You thought to save her, perhaps even to claim her as your own, but you can't undo what is done, Time Lord. She is my Wolf."
The Master was lost, but understood enough to know that whatever this being was, it was far more than he had anticipated. Even more than he had believed it to be from their brief mental encounter. There was something stretching out from it, a tear in time itself. All around the presence, time was gone. Not the natural lack of time one would find in the vortex, but an ugly absence.
And then the Doctor breathed one name, a name the Master had heard whispered in legends and fears throughout hundreds of galaxies, and he finally understood the enormity of their situation:
"Fenric."
