-Chapter Four-

"It's very important to possess the advantage of environment when one is set on killing the Doctor," the Master began, pushing open the intimidatingly large doors to his secret armory. The room was woefully bare of anything technological but had plenty of sharp things mounted on its high, stone walls.

The Master liked sharp things.

Behind him, the Master heard the doddering footsteps of his new/old apprentice alongside hurried pants. Some people just couldn't keep up. The Master wondered what exactly he was supposed to have seen in this old fool whose name he didn't know and hadn't asked. Some version of him must have gone soft down the line. This was the problem with temporal flux. Shaking his head, the Master abandoned his musings for the arousing sound of his own voice.

"This isn't to say," he went on, "that one literally needs to hold the high-ground. To be sure, that just makes it easy for the Doctor. Build a machine of order and control and the Doctor will waltz in, hurl a wrench into your psychic control network and hold you in his arms as your world crumbles away." The Master realized he was getting emotional. Blasted body, the Master cursed himself for regenerating under the influence. He couldn't be sentimental, he was going to murder the Doctor. Wasn't he? Yes, stop it.

"Honestly, pre-industrial is a boon if you can stand the smell and flowy tunics," the Master continued. Secretly, the Master enjoyed his flowy tunics. "He does like to tinker, that Doctor."

"Rassilon knows..." the Master muttered absently, and then, "well actually sure, take that. Rassilon. Founder of Time Lord society. Ineffable wisdom that ruled over the time/space continuum for millennia and then from beyond the grave and then he even came back to spread some more wisdom and control. Also war. War on a scale that would melt your brain. Big, scary man is what I'm getting at it, you understand." The Master took a sword off one of the walls. He liked weapons, why did he never seem to carry them? Of course, he was rather proud of the laser screwdriver that he had had cobbled together from a few salvaged power-cells and brass wires, but swords were a thing all their own. The slender blade cut through the air nimbly as the Master tested the balance. He grinned at the perfection. The Alfalfa-Matraxians couldn't pull off an industrial revolution to save their own lives – literally – but they made damn fine swords.

"And what happens when Rassilon and the Doctor finally meet? And by meet, I mean that Rassilon had constructed a four-dimensional trap, reaching back into the Doctor's – well, my – past and planting the seeds of his own triumph and escape. There stood Rassilon, leading a hoard of Time-Warriors, ready to break reality and transcend the most abstract limits of physical perception – which really start to get you down if you traipse long enough through the seventh dimension as Rassilon tended to do – standing against an ensnared Doctor."

The Master paused for dramatic effect. But as the moment lingered, he began to sulk. Stupid new personality, he should burn through it at the first chance.

"Well, to put it plain," the Master began again, finally, trying to take solace in his own monologue, "trust me, there is one thing you never put in a trap." The Master shrugged, "well, if you're smart."

Was this body a trap, somehow constructed by the Doctor? Had someone once again hijacked the Master's own psyche? Or maybe he just didn't want to confront some lingering feelings about – no, it was probably the Doctor. All the more reason to run the bastard through both his hearts. The thought made the Master swell. He hadn't killed any non-infants in a fortnight. Slowly he raised his sword and prepared to savor the sweet demise of his assistant, a growing metaphor for the Master's temporal instability. But no, he might be useful. Perhaps that was exactly what the Doctor wanted. My, he was rather paranoid now. Though that was hardly unique to this form.

For a moment, the Master studied his new face in the polished surface of his blade. Strikingly cold blue eyes, pale skin, and wavy black hair met him. The Master smiled appreciatively. He could live with this. He might even try to hold onto this for a while. At least until he killed the Doctor.

"Indeed, coming at the Doctor from a position of desperate weakness seriously undermines his modus operandi," The Master went on, ambivalent in this moment of vanity whether his reluctance to kill the old git was a temporally induced affection or a biological defect. He looked back at the withered alien, who appeared to be listening intently. Well, at least there was that.

"But," The Master began again and gestured towards the secret door – well, as secret as any door which glowed that brightly could be called – to the side of them, "that option appears to be closed to us."

It was with great relish that the Master opened the glowing door.

–

"We're not on Alfalfa-Matraxis," the ghost said, as if just realizing it. Had he had been capable of emoting, Melody thought the ghost might have been startled. What did he mean? They were in the clearing, just as they had been a moment ago. Just as they had been for a month.

Though in the back of her mind, Melody felt something. A presence. A glowing warmth that came from nowhere and touched everything. Of course, she might just have been disoriented from the sobbing. Why had she gotten so – no, it had been deserved. And it had worked. Somehow, the Doctor was back. Bearded and raggedy, but back. Maybe now she would find her – the hollowness in Melody's stomach silenced that hope before it could be articulated. She wasn't a girl anymore. She was strong. She wouldn't trust him again, no matter what kinds of lies the Doctor told.

But still, that warmth. It was as if someone was watching her lovingly while she was sleeping, though Melody could only imagine that feeling in the abstract. Involuntarily, Melody nestled closer into the Doctor's jacket.

Rubbish old loon, she thought and then looked back to their unexpected visitor.

The ghost looked around the color-enriched – what was that all about? – jungle. From the safety of the Doctor's arms, Melody studied the transparent, two-headed interloper distrustfully and then looked up at the Doctor. He seemed to be smiling again through his brown, wispy beard. Well, there was that. For the first time, Melody wondered if the Doctor smiling was actually a good thing. He seemed to do it at the worst times.

"No, not at this particular time," the Doctor said and put Melody down on the soft soil beside him. He touched a finger to his lips and his eyes brightened with excitement. "But don't let on. We need to save our best surprises for just the right moment."

So full of himself already after a month of sporadic lucidity, Melody thought to her own chagrin and then wondered where her vocabulary had come from. She had noticed that happening more and more since she had begun practicing her Venusian Aikido forms.

He frowned.

"You do remember moments, don't you?" the Doctor began to circle the specter.

"I don't remember anything," the ghost – Rigel-Axe-Matra-Axe or something Melody recalled him referring to himself – said with a hint of mournfulness, "you can't remember what never happened."

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do," the Doctor snapped, his hair almost bristling. Melody wondered why the Doctor was so afraid of ghosts. The Doctor relaxed after a moment, "but I suppose you are beholding to more mainstream rules of time and space." He corrected himself, "were."

"Never-was," the thing corrected the Doctor in turn, and then, "I can feel the temporal flux of the once-was, the never-was. Tiny eddies of possibility filled almost before they arise. It's so big here. I don't think I should be able to feel or see anything. But I can feel everything. Can you feel it?"

"I can," the Doctor said said, wearily and looked around. "Yes, I've been having a bit of a Thursday Afternoon for the last – well – month, if you understand – well, of course you can't, you can't empathize with anything – but I can feel them... screaming." Fear crept into the Doctor's voice with this last word. Fear and bewilderment. Melody closed her eyes and tried to hear what was upsetting the Doctor so much but only succeeded in giving herself a headache.

"But this is impossible," the Doctor insisted, "Alfalfa-Matraxis never industrialized, it won't have a technologically advanced enough society to muck around with the time stream for millennia. Who could be -"

"There is a name."

"Of course there is," the Doctor sighed and sat down in the soil. He held his head in silence and made no move. Melody was too put off to say anything. Had he gone away again? Had the Doctor broken another promise? For ten minutes, the Doctor was silent and Melody was alone once more, her rage and protest muted by sinking surprise.

The ghost silently waited.

"Sorry," the Doctor said, rising just as suddenly as he sat, just as Melody was about to look for her large stick, "knew I wasn't going to get a quiet moment for a good long while. Not that it usually bothers me, but when my brain turns on – well – it can be rather a tempest." The Doctor smiled, spun, walked over to the ghost, and tried to slap it on the back reassuringly. His hand traveled through the two headed vision's chest cavity. Melody laughed despite herself. He was back. Really back. Again. She'd have to do something about that rubbish beard.

"Now," the Doctor began, "who are we dealing with? The Daleks? Oh I hope not. I have enough of a headache without their cross blarrings rumbling about the back of my head. Have you ever heard the Dalek psychic frequencies? Terrible brain-ache. It's not just that it's so loud and hateful, but that it's so monotonous. Not to mention the color-scheme. The Cybermen? I could go for some Cybermen right now. Big, bulky Cyberman. I feel like a run. The Centaurans? I'd dislike that. Just met one I liked. Autons? Ditto. Gelf? That could be fun. A Rogue Ood sect? Never underestimate a Rogue Ood. I mean that. Ask Lovecraft. Or, rather, don't. He still gets night terrors. The Headless Monks? Hrm, I hate repeats. Draconians? Void-Bringers? Now there's a color-scheme. All crimson and smoke. I could do with a aesthetically pleasing ravenous hoard at the moment. His Eminence of Iron-Roses? This seems like his flavor of quantum upheaval or -"

"The Half-King," the ghost said, soft yet burdened with the weight of quiet terror.

"Ah," the Doctor said, excitedly. Then his smile faded, "Who?"