Smoke drifted about the dimly lit room. Low, ambient tunes filled the night-vibe air. Alien creatures of all kinds stuck to their groups, sitting at tables, skulking in corners—each to their own at the MidNight Club.

One man sat alone near the center of the room, sipping on what looked like a galaxy in liquid form. He brushed a hand through his ever-ecstatic, brown hair, the dim lights catching in his deep, earthy eyes the moment he glanced up. Someone new had just entered the club, and it was just the person he'd come to see. The lone man decided against calling out to the newcomer—instead, he stretched his left hand across the table and began rhythmically tapping it in sequences of four.

The newcomer must have heard it—he halted instantly. His eyes fell on the man at the near-empty table, and he weaved his tall body gracefully through the crowded room, slipping into the seat across from the loner. Blue eyes locked on brown, and the two men stared each other down for several silent moments as if they were each analyzing every intent of the other for the next week.

The brown-eyed man was the first to break the ice. "What," he began, his voice laden with a thick Irish accent, "no flowers? Honestly, Doctor, if you're gonna ask me out, the least you could do is be a gentleman." He gave a crazy grin, alight with jester and mischief.

The man called the Doctor ignored the Irish man's joke. "I see you've regenerated again. Just can't keep yourself alive for very long, can you, Master?" Unlike the Master, his accent was one of a Brit.

The Master laughed, unfazed by the Doctor's remark. "Perhaps I'm just living a little bit more than you. But enough with the small talk. What do you want? I imagine you didn't just ask me to meet you here for a drink."

The Doctor stared hard at the Master for a moment, his jaw set. "He's back."

The Master let out an exaggerated groan, running his hand over his face. "Ughhh, really? The pronoun game? Just tell me who 'he' is. I don't have time for this. I know a lot of 'he's'. There are plenty of people 'he' could be, so which one? Davros? Rassillon? The Great Intelligence?" He gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. "Meeee?"

"The Director," the Doctor simply stated in a low tone, not breaking eye contact.

The smile disappeared from the Master's face. His gaze hardened. "So what? You want my help, is that it? You think just because some big baddie is back, I'm gonna hop on over to your side of the chessboard?"

The Doctor gritted his teeth. "You think I want your help?" He hissed. "The Director is powerful and monstrous—far more monstrous than you!—and he's a problem to both of us. If we don't swallow our pride and deal with this, who knows what havoc he'll wreak? He needs to be stopped—now."

No words seemed to sway the Master. He stood. "So you stop him. You have companions. Don't come crawling to me."

But the Doctor could see he looked scared. And rightfully so. The Director was someone to be feared. "I... don't currently have a companion," the Doctor muttered. "And that's beside the point. This is for me and you to deal with. I don't want to have to drag someone else into this mess."

A scoff escaped the Master's mouth, his hands now in his pockets. "That just goes to show your companions are never good enough! I bet I could find a companion of my own that could run any one of your companions out of town. In fact, I will. And we'll deal with the Director ourselves. I don't need you."

The Doctor looked beyond bewildered. What was this guy's deal? Was he insane? Wait, the Doctor already knew that. But it was only to an extent. He'd come around before when matters called for it. But perhaps any reason the Master'd had died with his old self.

Anger flared in the Doctor's eyes as he, too, stood from his seat. "Well, fine then!" Many eyes were watching them now. "While you're busy playing the fool, I'll be figuring out how to stop the Director before he has control over all of reality and ends it as we know it!"

He turned and stormed out of the club, leaving the Master to be the only one people had to stare at. Hands still in his pockets, he glared after the man he had once called "friend".

-AF