NOTE: Torture of a sort-of child.


He is aware of a weight on his chest and hard metal under his head but nothing much else. Golden light rushes through him in a torrent of burning and pain and it feels like regeneration all over again, except this time he's too young, too small, this body isn't ready and when the light recedes it will be over, dead, gone. Oh, but it would stop the pain. Please, Rassilon, God, anyone please stop this pain…

The weight on his chest intensifies as his body tries to buck and convulse, he knows he is screaming but the air won't come now, his lungs compressed by, of all things, an Armani shoe. The Master towers above him but he only catches glimpses; the laser screwdriver pointed down at him, his old friend's face contorted in rage. Please stop, he thinks desperately. Please please please I don't want to die. But as he manages to open gold-tinged eyes a sliver all he sees is Koschei twisting the head of the screwdriver one more notch, and then all is fire and pain and the TARDIS is screaming with him as the end comes.

Stop stop stop/he's killing us/stop please stop/too much, too much we can't/please please please I don't want to die/we're trying can't-

The litany of TARDIS and owner curls around him like a psychic blanket, soothing the morning's anger. Suffering has always fascinated him, screaming keeping the drums at bay while he plays with his newest toy. And there certainly is screaming… He presses his foot down harder and feels the convulsing muscles of the Doctor's chest beneath his shoe. The boy is glowing like a hundred-watt lightbulb, vortex energy shining out every bit of exposed skin. And in his head the intertwined panic of both the Doctor and his ship drowns out the towering four-count of madness almost completely.

More, more and maybe they'll stop altogether. He points the screwdriver at his enemy again. Widen the link, let the screams come through.. Below him the Doctor manages to open his eyes—glowing gold with just a hint of their usual brown—only to witness the screwdriver turned up another notch.

The effect is beautiful. Gold light literally shoots from the boy's body, and while his physical body has lost the air for screaming his mind is working overtime to make up for it. The TARDIS has practically fused with her owner now and he can hardly tell the two of them apart.

STOP STOP STOP TOO MUCH WE CAN'T WE CAN'T DYING STOP WE'LL DIE CAN'T CAN'T HELP STOP HELP ME HELP

The psychic outcry is so loud he sees a guard fall to his knees in shock, one of the Toclafane hovering nearby stops short and drops to the ground. Oh, this is beautiful. That bastard Freak can hear this, he knows he can. The only other being on this ship with any modicum of psychic training, he has to be feeling it. Grinning madly he makes to turn up the link another notch—

STOP Stop stop stop stop dying we can't..

Below him the Doctor has stopped writhing, head falling limply to the side. Shit! Too much. He shuts off the link abruptly and the glow goes out like a lightswitch turning off. Bloody stupid kid body can't handle as much as an adult, he'd forgotten in his anger. Maybe he should re-age the Doctor and try again… But oh, he thinks, then he wouldn't have this power to cause so much damage at the touch of a button. What this child's body lacks in stamina it makes up for in being delightfully vulnerable. The thought cheers him a little, and he takes his foot from the small boy's chest.

The Doctor is heaving, trying desperately to get air as his pulmonary bypass simultaneously tries to work around the damage inflicted by too much vortex energy. Blood bubbles from his mouth and in a small but steady stream from both ears. The Master wonders idly if he's popped an eardrum, then decides he doesn't much care. He lifts his foot again and toes at a bloody spot on the Doctor's chest, eliciting a strangled yelp and a sob. Oh, broke a rib… He stands above his fallen prey for a second, then, gleefully, kicks him.

The effect is marvelous. The Doctor screams again, hoarsely this time because he's yelled his throat raw, and tries to curl up on his side around the worst of his injuries. Blood drips from his mouth and the Master worries suddenly that he's actually damaged something important. He kneels down quickly and touches his fingers to the boy's temples, seeking a damage report. Almost immediately he is thrown from the Doctor's mind in a fit of childish rage. The Master stumbles back and lands on his bum, terribly undignified, but amused. If he's well enough to do that, the Master decides, then he'll be fine.

He stands slowly and dusts off his trousers, grins down at his enemy and is rewarded with the Doctor squinting angrily up at him. Still a bit of gold shining around his irises, sign that the TARDIS link is still active enough to be sending him energy. Good, then, he'll heal quickly. The Master smiles. That was good, very therapeutic. He's still mad, a little, but in his head the drums are quiet, and he can think clearly again, and best of all, the Doctor is in pain. That's always worth some cheer.

Behind him the guard and Toclafane seemed to have picked themselves up somewhat. He doesn't turn, too busy inspecting his shoe for blood specks.

"Have Francine clean this mess up when she's done with the Freak." He instructs happily. The guard salutes him shakily, the Toclafane bobs off to locate the mother-turned-maid. Med student for a daughter, he thinks, she'll patch him up if there's any real damage. He looks down one last time at his prey, breathing shallowly and staring at the far wall as if in a daze. One last kick for good measure, and he makes his way out the door. Now where on Earth could Lucy have got to…

#-#

She thought things couldn't get any worse after Jack, but she finds herself proven wrong as she steps wearily onto the bridge. In the centre of the floor is a huddle of blue cotton and brown hair that she knows instantly to be the Doctor.

"Doctor!" Despite herself, she runs to him. The boy is trembling, staring with unfocused eyes into the middle distance and apparently completely unaware of his surroundings. Blood dribbles from his mouth into a puddle on the floor, and his shirt is stained with an ever-growing blossom of red.

Shaking, she rolls him onto his back. The rosette of spreading blood sticks his shirt to his chest, and she can see a lump of what surely must be a rib that has punctured the skin. She's heard horror stories from Martha and she knows from experience the severity of such injuries, but stuck here with nothing more than a maid's outfit and a cleaning rag she is lost as to what she's expected to do. Her mother's instinct is screaming, a child is in danger, a child is going to die unless you do something! She reaches out a hand, touches his chest.

Below her fingers the thrum of two heartbeats suddenly throws the world into sharp focus. No, her logical mind interjects, this is not a child. This is wrong, this is alien, an ancient being who stole her daughter and brought this horror upon her family. Her face hardens as she pulls away. She's been sent to clean up, and that is what she sets about doing. The tracks of blood on the floor, the wall, she mops up with practiced ease.