Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, I would not have sat on the doorstep for five hours today holding a garage sale.
To all you great reviewers - Brownbug, ShirouHokuto, Ilssii-Koschei, TheMasterOfTime and KlinicallyInsaneKoschei - あいがとうございます! (Bet I spelled that wrong... :S ) I love hearing all your opinions and feedback as the story progresses - especially when you all seem to be enjoying it so much. :)
It didn't feel like Christmas. The cards were strung up on the walls, tinsel spirals sparkled and twirled over the window, the air in the little house was heady with the mouthwatering aroma of the enormous roast turkey that sat in the oven in the kitchen…but Wilf just couldn't dredge up in himself even a trace of festivity. Not when he knew what was out there.
"…it's never too early for margaritas, that's what I say…" Donna's cheerful greeting as she swept into the room barely registered with Wilf, who was leaning on the windowsill, craning his neck around to peer up and down the street. He had slept little more than a wink, the anxiety gnawing at him like a starved rat; when his eyes had finally closed, he was plagued by memories of that day – nearly half a year ago now, but as vivid as though it were yesterday – when the metallic monsters had descended from the nightmarish sky. They should have been gone, should have burned, their whole species wiped from existence.
And now, somehow, they had returned – and they were on Earth, barely twenty minutes' drive from his own home the last he had seen of them. But along with them, the Doctor had returned – good old Doctor, still alone but still the same selfless man that Wilf remembered, radiating trustworthiness and a fierce intelligence that could topple civilizations on a whim.
"Gramps?" Donna's voice broke into his thoughts and he turned to have a small but heavy parcel thrust into his hands. "Well go on – you going to open it or not?" His granddaughter stood with her hands on her hips, waiting expectantly; he mentally shook himself and turned his attention to the present, digging his fingernails into the sellotape. The brightly coloured wrapping paper fell away to reveal the cover of a hardback book with a severe-looking man frowning up at him, arms folded. "Fighting the Future," the title read, "by Joshua Naismith." Puzzled, Wilf blinked at the book, holding it at arm's length until Donna folded her arms and his eyes drifted back to her.
"Well?" she demanded. "Do you like it?"
"Oh – uh…" He turned the book over and peered at the back cover absent-mindedly. "It's…"
"Donna – is that Shaun arriving?" Sylvia interrupted. Sure enough, the doorbell rang moments later and Donna hurried from the kitchen, leaving a bewildered Wilf facing Sylvia, who was shaking her head.
"What's gotten into you today, Dad?"
"Eh?" Wilf's hands moved automatically to place the book on the counter.
"You're a million miles away. Come on, it's Christmas – cheer up, for Donna at least." Wilf fidgeted guiltily under Sylvia's scrutiny. It wouldn't be the first time he had kept something from her, but to conceal something that could threaten all their lives, even at the Doctor's instructions… He swallowed nervously and opened his mouth, but Sylvia spoke first.
"Did you take the turkey out of the oven?" Wilf started, quailing under the fierce glare he received from his daughter, and scurried to the kitchen, Sylvia following after.
Donna entered shortly after, a young, curly-haired man in tow with an armful of festive packages and a jovial "aye aye!" Wilf was just opening the oven door when the phone pealed loudly and he jumped, dropping the oven mitt and scrambling to hold the door without burning himself. He heard Sylvia tutting impatiently as she headed to the hall door, and behind him, Donna's voice over the crinkle of wrapping paper.
"Oh, it'll just be Nerys. Every year, she asks for that orange sauce recipe – why she doesn't just-"
"Dad – it's for you," Sylvia called. The oven mitt slipped from Wilf's hands once again and fell into the bottom of the oven as he slammed the door and dodged a peck on the cheek from Shaun to answer the phone.
"Hello?"
"Oh, hello Wilfred," a quavering voice replied. "It's Netty. It was you that called me yesterday, wasn't it?"
"Yeah…yeah, about the-"
"Oh good. I get so forgetful these days, you know…" Her voice was barely audible; Wilf moved to close the door behind him, cutting off the sounds of the television. "…and just the other day, I was getting ready to go to croquet when I realized it was actually a Wednesday night, not Thurs-"
"Yeah, I called you about that police box," Wilf cut in.
"Oh yes – the police box, that's right." Netty hastily returned to the subject, clearing her throat. "Well, my sister phoned me yesterday afternoon. She was terribly confused – all these men turned up, she said, all in black uniforms with helmets. Not police – more like you'd see on these military movies nowadays, you know, all guns and walkie-talkies…it's all rather violent, isn't it-"
"Netty, what did they do?" Wilf could feel his heart rate quickening and his stomach lurched.
"Oh, right, sorry," Netty apologized quickly. "Anyway, they put that police box in a big black van and took it off somewhere. My sister says they looked like some sort of private army. She's terribly confused. And you know April, from the bridge club? Lives over near that old development site – or is it May…?"
"June," Wilf supplied, only half listening now.
"Yes, that's her. Well, she's at Minnie's now, and she's terribly worried – there was a strange noise last night, apparently, and her neighbour called the police, and now they're all there with their flashing lights, asking questions, and Minnie says they found a body behind those empty houses at the end of the street. June must be terribly frightened, poor thing – to think, a murder at Christmas…"
"Netty, I've got to go," said Wilf, swallowing the lump of dread that sat in his throat.
"Oh, right – Christmas, of course…"
"Thanks," he added. "You'll keep your eyes open, won't you? Merry Christmas." His trembling hand replaced the receiver slowly and he grabbed his coat from the hook behind the door, slipping his feet into his shoes as he cracked open the door to the kitchen.
"Everything all right, Dad?" Sylvia's voice was concerned, and even Donna's chatter ceased when she caught sight of the expression on Wilf's face.
"I…I've got to go out for a minute," Wilf stammered, mind racing. "It's June, from the bridge club. There's been a murder over in her neighbourhood, and you know she's all alone over there – especially at this time of the year, you know, I was going to…"
"Oh, how dreadful!" Sylvia's eyes widened. "Yes, you go. Why don't you invite her back here?"
"Take my car, Mr. Mott – the keys are on the side there," Shaun put in.
"Cheers." Wilf was unable to meet their eyes as he shoved the keys in his pocket and left the house. June was at Minnie's, Netty had said, and knowing the two of them, the Christmas sherry would be well and truly set into by now. They were probably trilling along to the carols on the radio and arguing over bridge scores from two weeks ago. He chided himself at his own guilt – after all, it wasn't too far from the truth, and he was keeping his promise to the Doctor – but his conscience still nagged at him as he drove Eastwards across London. It gave a particularly nasty twinge when he turned off before he reached June's neighbourhood and drove along the derelict gravel road that ran alongside the development site back towards where he had encountered the Doctor the day before.
The washed-out grey wasteland was so silent that it wasn't long before Wilf, walking between stacks of rusting steel beams, thought he caught the sound of voices drifting through the still air. He removed his woollen hat and turned his head, straining his ears to determine the direction of the sound, and then shoved the hat into his pocket and continued walking, past the steel beams and construction materials, between towering mounds of rubble and gravel that cut off the horizon and seemed almost to enclose him. Rounding a corner by a corroding skip filled with rotten, broken planks, Wilf released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding at the sight of a figure sat on an upturned oil drum with their back to him. The Doctor was still dressed in his distinctive tan trenchcoat which he had wrapped tightly around himself against the cold, although it looked somewhat the worse for wear since Wilf had seen him yesterday afternoon, soot-smudged and with a tear in one shoulder. And opposite the Doctor across a smoky fire that burned weakly in a battered metal rubbish bin, a second man sat on a haphazard mound of tyres, turned slightly away from the Doctor, his face concealed beneath the hood of a dusty black sweatshirt.
It was the second man who was the first to heed Wilf's approach. He raised his head in an almost animal-like movement, facing Wilf over the Doctor's shoulder and pushing back his hood to reveal bleached white hair. The Doctor spun around and his eyes widened at the sight of Wilf, who jogged over, words almost tumbling over each other from his mouth.
"I'm sorry, Doctor – I didn't know, and then Netty phoned this morning, and…oh, look at you, out here at Christmas…"
"Wilf." The Doctor's voice was low, and he threw a wary glance back at the second man who had also risen to his feet and was stepping slowly towards them. "Wilf, what are you doing here? Do Sylvia or Donna know where you are?" Wilf shook his head, eyeing the second man nervously. He appeared around the same age as the Doctor, thin but not as tall, dark shadows beneath his eyes, unshaven and with unkempt hair – he looked as though he had been sleeping rough for longer than a night. Wilf might have felt some pity for him if he hadn't at that point met the stranger's hazel eyes, which were fixed on him with an intensity that made Wilf decidedly uneasy.
"Who are you, then?" he demanded, trying to force his voice to sound more confident than he felt. There was a prickling at the edge of his subconscious – something about that man…
"Oh yes, of course – introductions," said the Doctor amicably, and Wilf turned his attention back to him, trying to quell the knot of foreboding that the stranger seemed to have tied around his mind. "Wilf, this is the Master. Master, this is Wilfred Mott, a good friend of mine." His face had taken on a cheerful grin and his tone was nothing short of casually polite, but Wilf couldn't miss how his eyes never left the Master and something in his posture spoke of a guarded alertness.
"Master? Of wh-"
"Human," the Master hissed. His glittering eyes locked onto Wilf's again, holding his gaze with an iron will. "I am so hungry…" If it hadn't been for the Doctor's shout of alarm, Wilf didn't think he would have – could have – moved; as it was, he stumbled back just as the Master lunged forwards, sharp features twisted into something almost feral. The Doctor darted forwards and grabbed the Master's arms above the elbows, pinning them behind his back with one hand and wrapping the other arm across his shoulders while the black-clad man tried in vain to lash out. A shadow passed across Wilf's eyes, and for several moments, his vision was lost in a haze of those almost forgotten nightmares, the reason he had sought out the Doctor in the first place.
"Stop, just stop!" the Doctor was pleading.
"…starving…" the Master snarled, struggling wildly against the Doctor's clumsy restraint.
"Please! Master, just look at yourself!" It could have been the sound of his name that caused him to freeze, breathing hard, fists clenched and whole body tensed; and then all the fight seemed to go out of him. The savage gleam in his eyes died and he slumped down in the grip of the Doctor who hesitantly released him. He took several steps back and sat down heavily on the tyres, pressing his fists against his temples.
The Doctor made a move towards him, but stopped uncertainly. Even after so many years as sworn enemies, seeing the Master in this almost pitiful state made the Doctor's hearts ache. So much had happened since a time he would have been able to put his arm around the other Time Lord's shoulder and comfort him, reassure him, encourage him that the pain and hunger – like everything else – would pass. He so desperately wanted to say something, do anything…but the Master was volatile, more unstable than the Doctor could ever remember him being; the last thing the Doctor wanted to do was to inadvertently provoke him.
"Oh, what's happened to you?" he sighed, shaking his head slowly.
"It was him!" Wilf's shaky exclamation behind him reminded him abruptly of the old man's presence, and he turned.
"Wilf! Are you all right?"
"It was him," Wilf repeated, blinking as though to clear his eyes and pointing at the Master. "Those dreams – we've all had them. Doctor, I dreamed of him!" His eyes were wide and frightened and he began to back away; the Master raised his head with a derisive snort of laughter. The Doctor ran his hands through his dishevelled hair, tilting his face skywards.
"It's all right," he assured him eventually. The words sounded weak even as they emerged – and judging by the dismissive roll of his eyes, the Master thought the same.
"But why? Every night."
"I don't know, Wilf. I just don't know."
"Oh, they always trust you to have the answers, don't they, Doctor?" the Master smirked. "Look at him, grandpa – he doesn't even have a sonic screwdriver to his name now." Wilf's crestfallen expression was like a slap to the Doctor's conscience – the Master was right, people put so much trust in him, and now he couldn't even offer adequate words of encouragement. He began pacing up and down, frowning thoughtfully.
"When did they start, these dreams?" he asked.
"I…I don't know," Wilf stammered. The Doctor's forehead creased in concentration and he sat back down on the oil drum, hands clasped under his chin while he muttered thoughtfully.
"It's obviously something dynamic, something that's not fixed in time – not at one point along the causal nexus, anyway…the TARDIS could be made to do something like that, but they've taken it…"
"And doesn't he know?" Wilf inclined his head towards the Master, who shrugged. To Wilf's relief, the manic light in his eyes seemed to have faded – in fact, the pondering look he now wore could almost be compared to the Doctor's…until the man's concentration appeared to be suddenly broken by something unseen and he flinched. For a brief moment, Wilf could have sworn his flesh had become transparent, a glassy blueish glow with bare bones beneath. Unnerved, he raised one hand to rub at his eyes which were already aching with fatigue – but the Doctor seemed to have also noticed, judging by the anxious glance he sent the Master.
"Doctor?" Wilf began tentatively. "Doctor – is he…human?" It was the Master who answered, before the Doctor could even open his mouth.
"Human?" he spat venomously. "I am a Time Lord." His eyes flashed dangerously, as if daring Wilf to challenge his claim. Sat there on the pile of tyres in his dusty black jeans, oversized red T-shirt and baggy hoodie, with several days' stubble growth across his pinched features and half-starved, hunched posture, the Master in fact seemed about as far from the...well, lordly, admirable Doctor as any other destitute. And yet, it dawned on Wilf that there was indeed more to him than the sense of déjà-vu that he knew was the nightmares. There was an aura of presence about him, almost imposing; his eyes drew you in and held you. Wilf realized he was staring and tore himself away, turning his gaze instead to the Doctor, who nodded in confirmation.
"Well…well, that's great!" Wilf beamed. "He's one of your people. You don't have to be alone any more, right?" He held his grin assuredly – the Master might not seem to be entirely well, but Wilf knew better than anyone what the Doctor could do for people. When the Doctor hesitated in returning the smile, though, Wilf's confidence wavered and he found his eyes once more straying to the Master. There was still something familiar about him – had he seen him somewhere before?
"Oh, doesn't he wish?" The Master's voice had taken on a malicious edge and he was watching the Doctor out of the corner of his eye even as he addressed Wilf. "You've no idea how much he'd love to lock me up in his TARDIS until he's figured out how to make me better." His tone was rising, the hint of mania creeping back in, and the Doctor moved forwards, alert. "But you'd just keep me – I'm just another one of your pets, aren't I, Doctor? Just an insane pet who needs to be cared for!" He jumped to his feet, but the almost mesmerizing quality behind his eyes was failing as his voice cracked with hoarse anger and Wilf backed away, a cold sweat breaking out across his whole body.
"Wilf, you'd better go," said the Doctor quietly, taking a step towards the Master.
"I can't leave you here," Wilf protested staunchly.
"So what would you do with me then, Doctor?"
"This is different – I can't let you get involved this time," the Doctor replied, raising his voice over the Master's.
"But sir-"
"Donna needs you, Wilf, now…"
"What would you do with me?"
"…go!"
Eyes still locked onto the Master, Wilf's unsteady shuffling backwards became a stumbling run. The Master raised his hands, and at the sight of white hot sparks fizzing across his skin, Wilf abandoned all bravado and fled. The last glimpse he caught before the scene vanished behind the iron skip was of the Doctor unflinchingly approaching the Master, who gave a harsh, defiant shout and clenched his crackling hands into fists.
...
Failure was not an option.
It never had been – the Dalek mind could not even comprehend the concept. Even in the fleeting moment before death, it was still inconceivable that their foe had achieved a victory. They were the supreme race – they would never be defeated.
So the Master's destruction of one of their number was merely an inconvenient delay. They had analyzed the events of the previous night and quickly come to the conclusion that in his unforeseen state, the unstable Time Lord was simply too dangerous to risk another confrontation with. Self-preservation was more critical than ever.
Humans, on the other hand, were dispensable. Currently, the population estimate was at 6,727,949,338 and growing by the rel. While the overall plan would benefit from the highest numbers of the prolific species possible, there had to be some sacrifices before that plan could come to fruition.
The human female who had apparently initiated the humans' own search for the Master seemed to have taken on a single-mindedness uncommon in a species so prone to distractions. She had absorbed herself in papers and documents relevant to the Master and his time on Earth – particularly a period some years previously by her timeline when he had, according to records, attempted to achieve what the humans evidently regarded as power. She spoke of nothing else but the search for the Master, had taken no sustenance or nutrition all day, appeared to hear nothing unless it pertained to him…in fact, the Daleks had decided she was perhaps the most useful resource of any of the available humans. Focused entirely on the objective, she had sourced several humans with basic medical training out of those the Daleks had kept inside the mansion. There had been protocols in place for the intended capture of the Master before the Daleks had assumed control. With some adjustments to the humans' original plan based on archived information from the Daleks, an approach had been planned that could only succeed.
Preparation was underway; by the next morning, the Daleks would be in possession of the last crucial component of their schemes.
...
Wilf's hand was still trembling slightly as he turned the key and pushed open his front door. Once inside, he swung the door slowly shut behind him until it closed with a gentle click, shrugged out of his heavy anorak and turned, bending to unlace his boots. With his nerves already strung tighter than guitar strings, the unexpected sight of Sylvia standing at the kitchen door, hands on hips, startled him almost into toppling over as he removed his shoe.
"Oh…hello," he managed, trying to force a chuckle that wouldn't quite emerge.
"So, how's June?" Sylvia's tone was icy, sending a chill of premonition penetrating into Wilf's chest as he straightened up.
"Yeah, she's fine…"
"Yes, she sounded quite well when she phoned half an hour ago. Sounds like she's having a lovely time at Minnie's, in fact – wondered if you wanted to join them for a sherry."
"Oh…right…" Wilf lowered his head again, fumbling with his other shoe. There was a tense silence for some moments before Sylvia cleared her throat sharply and Wilf glanced up at her.
"Where were you, then?" she demanded. "It's Christmas, Dad – what could possibly be more important than being with your family on Christmas Day?" When Wilf still didn't reply, her cold tone softened into something almost wistful as she added, "What do you have to lie to me about now?" The leaden weight of guilt that had settled in his stomach finally came to rest on his still-pounding heart, and before he could stop himself, he had opened his mouth.
"The Doctor's back," he blurted out. Sylvia's eyebrows shot upwards and she checked quickly over her shoulder that the kitchen door was still shut, and then her eyebrows lowered into a frown, eyes narrowed.
"How can you even think of having anything to do with that man, after what he did to our Donna?"
"He saved her-"
"He erased two years of her life. Two years. And she doesn't even realize." Sylvia's voice broke with emotion and she had to avert her eyes, swallowing hard. "What does he want, anyway? Surely he doesn't need to have anything to do with us any more."
"There's-" Wilf stopped himself – he had already let slip about the Doctor, there was no going back on that now, but telling Sylvia about the Daleks would achieve nothing except to cause panic. "He needs me – I've got to help him. There's this man with him…" Sylvia appeared sceptical and folded her arms.
"You're telling me the wonderful Doctor, who's apparently saved this whole planet, needs your help? I would've thought he could look after himself. Besides, if he's got someone else…" Her words carried a touch of bitterness; Wilf knew what she was implying – he's replaced her…
"No – it's not like that," he protested. "This bloke, he's…he's not right. In the head." He tapped his temple, and then his eyes widened as something occurred to him – he knew where he'd seen the Master's face before. "He's…"
"What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"…Harold Saxon," Wilf realized aloud. Sylvia snorted.
"Oh, now I've heard it all." Wilf opened his mouth, but Sylvia cut him off. "Listen here – whatever the Doctor's gotten himself mixed up in, you are not getting involved. Do you hear me?"
"But the TAR-"
"There you are, Gramps!" The door swung open at Sylvia's back – Donna, cheeks flushed and a margarita in one hand, placed one hand on her hip and sent Wilf a mock frown. "Come on, then – you're missing this big speech on telly. The American president – everyone's talking about it. End of this big recession, they're saying. Well, all right for him to say, isn't it, with his private jets and snazzy suits…be nice though, wouldn't it, few extra quid in the pocket?" Wilf and Sylvia exchanged glances, and then before Wilf could even make a move, Sylvia had snatched his anorak from the hook. She removed the car keys and his mobile from the pocket and followed Donna through into the kitchen.
"Christmas," she mouthed back at Wilf with a meaningful glare.