A/N: I'm sorry, I know this is seriously late,
And there are no excuses to debate.
But life's been crazy and I have been lazy,
So for your patience here's an update.
Disclaimer: (if it wasnt obvious already:) I do not own Doctor Who.
WARNING: STRONG violence, please do not read on if this may affect you.
Chapter 11:
Of all the people The Doctor had met Wilfred Mott wasn't the immortal or the leader of a covert defence taskforce or the alien from outer space. He hadn't once absorbed the heart of the TARDIS; walked a broken world alone being its only hope, nor did he have a part Timelord part human brain tucked away in his mind. Sure, he'd been in a war and on the winning side, but he never shot a man though that's not to say he wasn't proud of that.
Wilfred Mott was a simple but seemingly unimportant old man from Chiswick who'd found himself caught in the cross fire of a battle that started out long before his time. He sat timidly between two Lords of time, his fate moulded by their actions.
The Master's clones had shuffled him into a small dark room, in which he could barely make out his surrounding walls. He was again tied to a chair, rope bound his hands tightly behind his back and held his feet steadfast to the legs of the chair. He found no room for movement and could barely loosen his bindings.
The darkness seemed to loom over him, alone in the small dark room. Barely decorated, it seemed just big enough for a storage cupboard - be that human storage. The lack of light left the finer details of the room to his imagination, but as Wilf peered round it seemed there was nothing of interest he could pick out. He settled in his chair waiting his time, till he saw the shadowed figure in the corner of the room. "Who's there?" he called out cautiously.
The figure stepped out into view, standing in the dwindling light that shone through the cracks of the doorway. The woman. She was back. "Events are closing, Wilfred; the day is almost upon us. But tell me, old soldier. Did you take arms?"
"I brought this." Hesitantly, Wilf ushers her gaze to his pockets, the revolver tucked safely inside. "But what am I supposed to do?"
"This is The Doctor's final battle here. At the final end to this war, he must stand against them once more or lose himself and all this world to the End of Time."
"But he never carries guns, he doesn't do that. He…" Wilfred sighed, letting go of baited breath he didn't realised he held.
But the woman interrupted him before he could explain, "Before this day ends, your weapon must be fired. A bullet shot, a life lost."
Wilfred broke his gaze, not willing to imagine The Doctor even carrying a gun let alone kill someone, even if it was The Master. Shaking his head he turned back to her, but she had somehow left the locked room.
It wasn't long before he heard footsteps approaching his door. The Master's goons had returned to collect him. The door opened, blinding light entered the previously pitch black room leaving Wilf to turn his head in protection squinting at the foreboding shadows of his captors. But the light didn't last long, he felt a soft long cloth wrap round his eyes bringing the darkness back. He would have welcomed it, but his body tensed as he felt the guards urge him to walk blindly out and into the corridors. With his hands retied in front of him, he trailed his bound arms before him finding little aid as he was ushered down the corridor by the rough nudge of muzzled guns.
Rough hands pulled him to a stop and wrapped round his mouth silencing him indefinitely. He heard nearby whispers, a growing growling voice, menacing and manipulating. A few short groans turned blood curdling screams rose, laughter and the unmistakeable voice of two Timelords he'd come to know of faltered through the walls. He couldn't quite make out the entire conversation, but he figured The Master wanted something, needed something and he would get it while watching The Doctor struggle helplessly at his hands.
Then there was a sudden silence. An eerie elongated silence. He heard the click of a door opening and felt himself being shuffled into a much wider room, pushed down on a small wooden chair yet again.
He heard his name. Called in a quite whisper, hope bottled in a single word drifted to him cutting through his surrounding darkness. He has spent the past few weeks searching for that voice, round every crook and corner of London. Yet when he called for its owner there came no reply, just another distant silence filled the gap. He called again; quieter, fully aware that The Master would have been in the room somewhere, watching.
It was only with the next sound, despite its stillness, which cut through his wall of darkness did he realise what was going. If he had learnt of three sounds from his days in the war it would have been the silence of dead men, the cheer of those who'd won and catch off the gun that had killed them. This one was the latter.
The Master ushered a finger towards his lips, tempting The Doctor to speak. The arrival of their new guest had seen yet another exhaustive revival of The Doctor's energy and stamina, trying to keep up with The Master's winding games. He pulled himself up, bound hands dragging his numb body to sit up. He watched The Master cautiously as he raised his body attempting to stand, only getting as far as a seated position aided by the still icy wet trough he has just fought to remove himself from.
Teeth gritted, eyes watching the gun The Doctor drew his breaths in lightly weighing up his options. He held his tongue as he watched The Master circle round his last remaining friend, the only one left he hadn't killed or got killed, seen leave or been left behind, or to watch him forget his life though he could never forget his friends. Wilfred was his last connection to humanity and he craved it desperately.
Wilf's quiet murmur was, for now, enough to keep The Doctor sane.
The Master smiled at the pure silence that donned the room, asides from the constant drumming there was nothing but the shallow breaths of his captives. Having taken control of the room he slotted his gun away, the threat still imminent. He moved behind The Doctor and crouched down, his hand tangled into his hair wrenching The Doctor's head back, hissing into his ear;
"So, Doctor. What'll it take?"
"Master, please…" The Doctor struggled to speak coherently, a thousand thoughts ramming his mind as he tried to rein control over his head both mentally and physically, "Don't hurt him. You…We don't have to do…"
It wasn't the answer The Master had wanted, he threw The Doctor's head forward with a surge of energy. The Doctor couldn't hold back the pathetic cry that poured pass his lips again. He managed to stay seated, the pain fleeting and merging in with his exhaustion.
"Doctor?" Wilfred's voice rang out with fear as he heard his friend's voice torn from him.
The Master turned round, like a showman who had forgotten his audience. "Sorry, I forgot to welcome you back." He whipped off Wilfred's blindfold introducing him to The Doctor's world and soon to be permanent home, before brutally giving him a taste of it as he throttled his fist into Wilf's face.
The sudden light caught Wilfred off first. His dark haven had been invaded, but just as it cleared he started to recognise The Master's fist coming his way. He felt the heat from his cheek radiate and redden his skin. Though it hadn't drawn blood, it was enough to make Wilfred groan with vague dizziness. He could just make out The Doctor's voice of concern as his senses returned to him and tried to smile weakly in his general direction reassuringly. He raised his head to see The Doctor and what kind of hell he'd gone through alone at The Master's hand. He saw an image he didn't think he'd ever forget, his friend beaten and broken. Drenched from head to toe, The Doctor sat with a mild shiver in front him. His wrists were bound behind him, soaked hair dishevelled and his body was badly bruised. Open wounds gave way to slits of roughly wash off blood, his suit though tattered remained in one piece hanging loosely around his tired figure. He looked up to face The Doctor; red welts lined his neck marred by a leather collar Wilfred knew he hated. Exhaustion and pain wracked his body unmistakably, despite his strong façade. He could see The Doctor was hiding much of it beneath his skin for his benefit.
"Doctor?" Wilf's concern was clear; he'd never seen The Doctor in such a damaged condition. Yet he knew looking up at him now, something neither Timelord knew. Somehow they would turn this around tonight and The Doctor would have to take arms and make his stand against The Master. He could feel the gun sitting discretely in his pocket, feeling heavier than it used to. The burden of its future weighing it down.
He turned to see The Master, his face simmering with anger at The Doctor's brutal treatment but his reactions had still not regained its balance as The Master's fist lashed down on his left cheek again. His head span as he pulled his weighted body back to centre, the force having almost knocked him over. The Master's fist was coming round for another beating…
"STOP!" The Doctor had risen from his place to a crooked wavering stand, a single clone guard struggling to hold back the taller Timelord. The Master swivelled his head back to The Doctor, his tightened fist frozen in its path. "Stop." He was quiet this time, but adamant still.
"Where is it, Doctor? Tell me and I'll stop. WHERE. IS. IT?" The Master's voice grew louder as his clenched hand completed its path into Wilf's abdomen. The frail man bending over himself in his restrained position as he tried to comfort his body from the sudden onslaught.
"It's… It's here…" The Doctor shouted out above the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, unshed tears forming in his eyes. "It's…"
"Doctor, don't. Whatever it is you can't give it to him." Wilf spoke with reason, his words striking The Doctor with unavoidable truth. He was silenced by another hit.
The Master turned back to his captive, expecting him to finish his answer but found nothing. He sniggered sadistically at The Doctor's resistive silence; an arrogant smile grew as he tipped his head back and nodded to the guard. "Do it now", The Master's face void of all expression except for his aggression, he moved towards the somewhat confused Doctor, "I grow impatient of your little games Doctor. I don't need him here," He gestured towards Wilf like a pet, his heartless gaze meeting The Doctor's, "Barely have a reason to keep it here except for you, but if you're still not playing by my rules well…" The Master raised his eyebrows as asking a question that didn't have an answer.
Behind them, Wilfred began to waver. The second guard had pulled him up to stand, cutting the rope that kept him captive. He brought his hand to his head feeling dizzy and looked up. The Doctor saw it first; The Master already aware of what was happening, "Stop it, Master. Stop this now." The Doctor was visibly struggling again as he watched Wilf's head shudder erratically back and forth.
"No." The gleeful yet quiet reply silenced The Doctor, as they watched the last true human fleet out of existence.
It was The Master's body, his clone, standing like a new born in Wilf's old clothes. They didn't fit either, Wilf's trousers hung round him like baggy jeans his coat and clothes creased over themselves on his thinner slightly taller frame. It was wrong and The Doctor could feel it.
"He did nothing to you; none of them deserve that…" The Doctor spat his words beneath heavy laboured breaths.
"But he's with you. A friend of the Doctor is no friend of mine" he whispered tunefully into his ear, with or without the drums The Master was now indefinitely growing into madness. "Besides you're lucky he's still alive." He stepped back out The Doctor's reach, "I can still kill him and you know me, Doctor. You know my plan and you know you can't stop me. So where have you hidden it?" Words began to form at The Doctor's lips,
"No."
But it wasn't him. It was The Master's voice, speaking the words of the ever rebelling Wilfred Mott. His face was still not his own, but his gruff voice and hazel grey eyes were enough to see who it really was. Though neither Timelord for all their wit and power, could ever imagine this future. Wilf's clone had raised his hand pulling the revolver from his pocket and held it steadily in his hand.
"I can feel him… in my head. He's there." The Master was confused but curious.
"He fighting you, 6 billion minds. 6 billion voices crying for help and one cracked through." The Doctor searched for hope cautiously watching Wilf's hand.
The Master shook his regaining control, "The drums drown them out but he can't do anything. He might have a voice and little control but they're all programmed to protect not kill me." He watched on waiting as he broke The Doctor's hope in two, though neither expected Wilfred to raise his gun to his own head and fire.
His body limp crashed instantly to the ground, The Master did nothing but hold back the despondent Doctor. Wilf had realised he was The Master's only bargaining chip against The Doctor; he was the reason they could do nothing but not anymore. He took arms, and with that he took his life.
"Siding with The Doctor, only brings you death and despair." The Master recited his old words again, ringing more truth now. He hadn't expected this, but that didn't mean he cared, "Another life lost in your name." He seethed the words into The Doctor's ear as they looked on at the lifeless body, still lying in the form of The Master.
When The Doctor stilled his shaken form, he was dropped aside, rocking his body gently as he gazed at the dead clone that was once his friend. He knew The Master wouldn't give him the chance to see him, so he sat waiting for them to leave his eyes transfixed on the spot where his friend once stood. The Master gave the orders to clear out and remove the body as he walked away.
A bullet shot, a life lost.
A/N: I wasn't sure whether to set a warning of character death or if that would give the plot away. Please tell me if you think this should be changed.