Ok, I take it back: Some of this chapter was fun to write.
Chapter 12
The Master lay on the devastated rubble of the battlefield, watching the sky burn.
He couldn't feel the heat... Just the cold, sinking into his bones from deep within the earth.
Well, that and the pain.
It was a lot of pain.
He wondered if he might be dying...
It seemed like it could be a dying amount of pain.
The Master took a quick mental catalog of his injuries.
Concussion, cracked skull, two broken ribs, one punctured lung, five or six shattered bones, multiple burns... Various cuts and wounds but none of them losing blood at an alarming rate, probably thanks to the burns...
No... He'd survive that list.
Provided someone found him, that is.
It seemed unlikely that he'd get far on his own in his current state.
Too bad he'd come here alone...
Had he even told anyone where he was going?
He seemed to recall that he hadn't.
In hindsight, that seemed extraordinarily stupid.
He lay still, awash in the pain, watching the flames licking gleefully at their prey.
It wasn't the sky, he realized. It was a tower. High and, until about an hour ago, a proud and glorious piece of architecture.
Now well on its way to its final destiny as a smoldering ruin.
The Master watched as the roof, hundreds of feet above him, collapsed in on itself with a roar of triumph.
He had a vague suspicion that he may have been blown out of that tower by an explosion.
An explosion he had caused.
He smiled, a cut on his lip signalling its protest.
He'd survived.
His target certainly had not.
So... Mission accomplished.
And if the entire planet had been plunged into civil war as a result of the now-destabilized government... Well, as Rassilon had pointed out, that wasn't really his concern, was it?
Sometimes it seemed strange to him how often the President sent him out to worlds which the Daleks had never even touched.
But then that doubt would vanish like smoke and he'd remember again just how big the War truly was. How complex the factors were which could lead to Gallifrey winning or losing. How far the High Council had to foresee in order to stay ahead of their enemies.
Normally, this was something the Master would have understood. Thinking ahead was something he had always been good at. But Rassilon made his War plans seem far outside the Master's range of comprehension.
And, oddly, the Master always ended up believing this.
Rassilon was the President, the strategist, the leader.
The Master found that by comparison, he was simply a soldier.
Or, on days such as this, an assassin.
Whatever Rassilon needed him to be.
Defined by the tasks he was given.
Quite literally born to follow orders.
The Master suddenly found himself resenting this. His mind grappled with the disconnect.
Since when had he, the Master, been one to obey? Without question, without agenda, without information?
Why had he even hunted down and killed the Empress in her tower?
For Rassilon.
Because Rassilon had told him to.
But why?
What did Rassilon get out of this?
What agenda was the Master truly serving?
His hearts pounded in his broken head. It hurt to think so he stopped and deliberately sank into a half-waking state, dulling the pain and conserving energy.
His hearts slowed and his mind drifted back to recent memories.
"This is your target," Rassilon said, showing him an image of a young woman.
The Master committed the face to memory. "Who is she?" he asked.
"The Empress of the Grand Pagoda on Cinethon," Rassilon replied.
"And what significance does she have to the War?" the Master asked.
"None that need concern you," Rassilon responded curtly.
"It absolutely does concern me," the Master started to say. He always did research when taking on an assignment. Preparation was everything, often the difference between success or failure. Life or death.
There was just an instant when he realized that he tended to go into the situations Rassilon assigned to him completely unprepared...
But then the protest died on his tongue and the thoughts faded from his brain.
Because Rassilon was drumming that addictive four-beat which spoke to something deep down in the very base of the Master's cell structure.
"You have your orders," Rassilon reminded him. "Soldiers do not require explanations. Soldiers do not ask questions."
And the Master realized he already had all the information he needed.
Then he was somewhere else, his brain skipping to another memory.
He sat on the edge of the couch, feet dangling, trainers kicking at a restless pace.
A beat echoed in his head, loud and insistent.
One two three four...
He tapped along to it. He couldn't sit still.
He shouldn't be here in the TARDIS.
He should be out there... Fighting.
"We should go," he said to the Doctor, jumping down to the floor.
"What?" the Doctor responded in surprise, poking his head out from under the Console. "I thought you wanted to stay home today?"
The Master paced in a small circle, agitated. "I was wrong, we should be out there. The War isn't going to end any sooner with us sitting in here watching television."
The Doctor frowned at him. "It can wait a few hours. We both agreed on that. And the TARDIS needs maintenance," he added, gesturing towards the Console.
The Master put his hands to his head in frustration. The Doctor always argued... Always, always. It was annoying. As annoying as the noise filling his head.
"Well, I changed my mind," the Master snapped. "Is that a problem? Is that not allowed?"
The Doctor peered at him, responding to his friend's caustic tone with deliberate patience. "What's going on with you? Are you feeling alright?" He peered at the Master. "Do you need a nap?"
The Master stomped his foot angrily. "No, I don't need a nap!" He kind of did, really... But that was beside the point and he wasn't about to let the Doctor change the subject. He gestured impatiently at the exterior doors. "I need to be out there, doing what we're supposed to be doing! Killing Daleks! Winning the War."
"Well," the Doctor relented, wiping his hands on his trousers and climbing to his feet, "if that's what you want. Daleks it is, then."
The Master sighed in relief as the Doctor started up the TARDIS engines. The beat subsided. He caught the Doctor watching him.
"What?" he asked.
"You sure you're alright? You seem..."
"Go on," the Master said, eyes hooded in warning.
"Out of sorts," the Doctor finished diplomatically.
The Master thought about this. He had been in a bad mood a moment ago. He wasn't certain why.
It didn't matter.
He waved it off. "I can only take so much time cooped up in here with you, that's all," he told the Doctor.
Maybe it was the head injury, maybe it was remembering these scenes with some distance but... The Master realized with a sickening certainty that they made no sense.
That what he had said and done made no sense.
And with that realization, the beat started up again, drowning out everything, trying to force him back into line.
This time, he fought, leaning into the pain. Fighting through the drums like he was wading out to sea in a storm.
His hearts raced to keep up until, with a sharp stab, the four-beat turned into a two-beat.
And the Master fell again.
And then he was looking at Rassilon across a pile of dead bodies. Gallifreyan, judging by the robes.
He didn't know who they were.
He didn't know why he had killed them.
Not that he cared.
They wouldn't be the first Gallifreyans he had ever killed.
He'd never been particularly fond of his home world, his own people seeming as alien to him as the rest of the Universe.
So... Why was he fighting for them?
But no... This clearly wasn't for Gallifrey.
Why was he fighting for Rassilon?
"What did you do to me?" the Master asked, fiery blue eyes rising to meet green ones.
"I found a way to make use of you," Rassilon informed him with quiet satisfaction. "For the greater good. No small feat, as I'm sure you're aware. All those centuries wasted while you could have been serving the Time Lords. I was the first to find a way to harness your potential."
"You think I'm yours to command?" the Master hissed. "A weapon for you to wield?"
Rassilon's gaze traveled to the bodies, lingering there with a paradoxical pleasure. "I would say my results are proof enough."
"No," the Master growled. "Because now I know. Now I can fight you."
But there was a beat in his head even as he said this.
It hurt.
His vision started to blur as the noise quickly became unbearable.
"I think not," Rassilon's voice came calmly through the haze of pain. "Because, you see, we have done this before, you and I. Many times." He smiled. "In a few more heartbeats, you won't even remember this conversation."
The Master's eyes widened as he realized this rang true.
How many times had he figured this out?
How many times had Rassilon thwarted him?
"Who would have ever thought you would fight so hard?" Rassilon mused. He shook his head. "Why do you do this? You only cause yourself pain by refusing to surrender. It will break you." There was no kindness in his words. "They all break in the end, one way or another. You will break like the rest."
"Never," the Master glared through the agony, hate giving him strength. "I'll never stop fighting."
Rassilon leaned down close, twisted in the Master's distorted vision. "But I will always win."
"I'll find a way," the Master tried to say but he choked on the words.
He wanted to point out that one day, Rassilon would make a mistake. And on that day, whatever the Master knew, whatever he remembered, whatever they tried to do to stop him, whatever the odds... He would seize his chance.
And on that day, Rassilon would regret his complacency.
No one controlled the Master.
Not because of his power. That was merely insurance.
Because the Master fought.
It was who he was.
He didn't dance to another's tune. He lived according to his own rules, allying with others as suited his own needs, his own plans.
And most of all, he didn't stop...
He never, ever stopped.
"I am the Master," he gasped out with the last of his strength. "I'll never give up. I'll never give in."
And then there was only blackness.
The Master found himself back in the familiar bland atmosphere of Gallifrey.
Stagnant.
As if even the air here never moved.
Two hands closed around his. He didn't even need to look to know who it was.
"Doctor," he smiled.
"Hello again," the Doctor said, and his voice sounded gruff, as if he'd been shouting. Or was fighting back tears. Possibly both. "Welcome back. They weren't sure for a minute if you would pull through."
The Master sighed, trying to piece together what had happened.
"No," the Doctor said, sensing his struggle. "Don't worry. You're not going to be able to fight again for a while."
"What happened?" the Master asked.
"You did something incredibly stupid and blew yourself up," the Doctor said, irritation creeping into his tone.
The Master pouted. "I'm not stupid." His voice was dry and gravelly. The Master remembered smoke and fire and a punctured lung and wondered which of those was responsible.
"Well, you could have fooled me," the Doctor snapped. Then he sighed, his tone becoming gentler. "You really need to be more careful."
With an effort, the Master shifted his head slightly to look at his friend. Definitely tears. The Master tried to smile reassuringly but suspected his attempt hadn't been a total success.
"No one knew where you were," the Doctor said, averting his gaze as if that would hide the pain on his face. "You were half dead when they found you. One of your hearts had stopped completely."
"Come now, Doctor," he said, trying for a confident smirk. "You know I'm indestructible."
"Stop it," the Doctor frowned. "It's not funny. I thought I'd lost you."
"You wish," the Master bantered.
The Doctor's face was entirely serious, however. "I really, really don't," he said. "I don't know what I'd do if you were... Gone."
The Master frowned at his friend, a strange feeling creeping into his consciousness.
"It's hard enough with both of us... I can't do this alone," the Doctor continued. And there was a desperation in his eyes that the Master hadn't seen before.
And that was the moment when the Master realized... When he knew.
One day, the Doctor would have to do this alone.
The Master was as certain of this as he had ever been of anything.
His days were numbered and the countdown was running out inexorably.
For a moment, he felt as if he was already dead.
He grabbed the Doctor's hands in both of his own, urgently, earnestly, ignoring the pain triggered by the movement.
"Yes, you can," the Master said, ignoring the Doctor's confusion. "Listen to me, Doctor. If something happens to me... You keep going. You win for both of us."
"Nothing's going to happen to you," the Doctor insisted, something fragile in his eyes as he tried to believe his own lie.
"I mean it, Doctor," the Master said, blinking away the tears. "Don't stop fighting. Not ever. No matter how hopeless it is." The ghost of a memory faded in and out of existence, too ethereal to grasp completely. "Never give up," he exhorted the Doctor. "Never give in."
Slowly, the Doctor nodded. Unhappy. Afraid. Unbowed.
"I'll remember," he promised.
Ugh, the end of that was ROUGH. In my mind, this is when 10 was born: this moment of denial, of being unable to cope with what was coming.
For those of you who didn't catch it... From Day of the Doctor:
Clara: You told me the name you chose was a promise. What was the promise?
War Doctor: Never give up, never give in.