Ficlet: War Song
Aug. 28th, 2008 06:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bagheera_sanTitle: War Song
Rating: all ages
Characters: War Chief!Master, Two
Prompt: Damn Dirty Hippies
Summary: Season 6B, summer of '69.
"Oh, very good." When the Doctor smiles, he smiles like a child. It's a smile that is far too pure and simple for the world, a smile that hides from reality. He's happy, but only because of what he deliberately forgets. "This is more like it, don't you think?"
The Master says nothing. He's here simply to make sure the Doctor doesn't run away. If he loses the Doctor, the CIA will execute him first and then ask for explanations. He wouldn't allow the Doctor this little holiday at all, but the Doctor is far more cooperative when once in a while the leash isn't quite so short. So the Master controls him with a carrot and a stick.
Ahead of them, Jamie and Zoe walk hand in hand so they won't lose each other. The human children are the stick, the threat with which the Master keeps the Doctor in line. This trip to earth is the carrot. It's a treat for which the Doctor has worked hard in the last couple of weeks. What surprises the Master is that the Doctor receives his little gifts with such gratitude. For days he has been talking about nothing but this, how good it will be, how much fun. He is less proud in this regeneration, and far less stubborn. Perhaps, a few deaths down the line, they'll be able to work together without the carrot and the stick, simply because they are meant to do so.
The crowd is huge, pressing towards the stage in anticipation and there's barely space. Only through a huge psychic effort can the Master keep the human bodies at a distance. They shift around him like a wall of primitive hair and skin and colour, dirt and sweat, smoke and alcohol, sex, joy, ecstatic exhaustion. A bearded man tries to approach him with pamphlets, and turns away with a shiver at the last second. But some humans are too far gone to notice him at all, they sit in the mud, lie in the mud, kiss and hug and writhe in the mud, unselfconscious under the light of the rising sun.
The Doctor turns around to look over his shoulder, and his smile dims when he catches the Master's expression. "Oh, no, no. You're not enjoying yourself! This won't do at all."
"I'm not here to enjoy myself."
The Doctor shakes his head emphatically. "But I won't enjoy myself if you don't!" he complains, and looks as if he's about to stamp his foot on the muddy ground.
"Your loss," the Master returns, but inwardly he is surprised. He suspected that the Doctor chose this place because he knew the Master would hate it. He wonders whether the Doctor wants him to be happy, or whether he wants him to be happy so the Master won't destroy the Doctor's perfect little illusion of a happy day.
The crowd surges forward as something happens on the stage, people rise to clap, to yell, to chant. The Doctor seizes the Master's hand and pulls him close. "I've been here two times," he yells over the noise. "But I saved the last day for a special occasion. You'll see!"
"See what?" the Master asks coldly. "Mindless savages in rags and war paint?"
"War paint - ?" The Doctor looks baffled, then he breaks into a grin. This one is gleeful as well, but not as childish. He smiles because of what he sees, not because of what he ignores. Noise comes from the stage, then someone speaks through a microphone. The Doctor bends down, apologises to people who don't listen and comes up with ruffled hair and a mud-covered finger.
He winks at the Master and with one quick motion, draws something on his cheek: a circle with lines in it, signifying nothing in their language. Anticipatory silence falls over the crowd, and the Master stares at the Doctor in outrage and more surprise.
"It's not war paint," the Doctor smiles and turns towards the stage.
"It is," the Master says, because he sees things the Doctor doesn't want to see, but his response drowns in the wall of noise that wraps around them. This time it is the crowd and the stage and it's the first time the Master has heard anything like this. He feels like a child in the dark, like the king of the world. It's loud, it's fast, it's almost in beat with the sounds inside him. People brush against him left and right, and he cannot keep them at a distance. Suddenly, the Doctor seizes his hand and the Master closes his eyes and taps the beat of the drums on the Doctor's wrist. He can't hear them inside because they're in the music; war is in the air, war is all around.
Swimming in the sound, the Master faces the sun and smiles so hard that the dried mud cracks on his cheek.
Rating: all ages
Characters: War Chief!Master, Two
Prompt: Damn Dirty Hippies
Summary: Season 6B, summer of '69.
"Oh, very good." When the Doctor smiles, he smiles like a child. It's a smile that is far too pure and simple for the world, a smile that hides from reality. He's happy, but only because of what he deliberately forgets. "This is more like it, don't you think?"
The Master says nothing. He's here simply to make sure the Doctor doesn't run away. If he loses the Doctor, the CIA will execute him first and then ask for explanations. He wouldn't allow the Doctor this little holiday at all, but the Doctor is far more cooperative when once in a while the leash isn't quite so short. So the Master controls him with a carrot and a stick.
Ahead of them, Jamie and Zoe walk hand in hand so they won't lose each other. The human children are the stick, the threat with which the Master keeps the Doctor in line. This trip to earth is the carrot. It's a treat for which the Doctor has worked hard in the last couple of weeks. What surprises the Master is that the Doctor receives his little gifts with such gratitude. For days he has been talking about nothing but this, how good it will be, how much fun. He is less proud in this regeneration, and far less stubborn. Perhaps, a few deaths down the line, they'll be able to work together without the carrot and the stick, simply because they are meant to do so.
The crowd is huge, pressing towards the stage in anticipation and there's barely space. Only through a huge psychic effort can the Master keep the human bodies at a distance. They shift around him like a wall of primitive hair and skin and colour, dirt and sweat, smoke and alcohol, sex, joy, ecstatic exhaustion. A bearded man tries to approach him with pamphlets, and turns away with a shiver at the last second. But some humans are too far gone to notice him at all, they sit in the mud, lie in the mud, kiss and hug and writhe in the mud, unselfconscious under the light of the rising sun.
The Doctor turns around to look over his shoulder, and his smile dims when he catches the Master's expression. "Oh, no, no. You're not enjoying yourself! This won't do at all."
"I'm not here to enjoy myself."
The Doctor shakes his head emphatically. "But I won't enjoy myself if you don't!" he complains, and looks as if he's about to stamp his foot on the muddy ground.
"Your loss," the Master returns, but inwardly he is surprised. He suspected that the Doctor chose this place because he knew the Master would hate it. He wonders whether the Doctor wants him to be happy, or whether he wants him to be happy so the Master won't destroy the Doctor's perfect little illusion of a happy day.
The crowd surges forward as something happens on the stage, people rise to clap, to yell, to chant. The Doctor seizes the Master's hand and pulls him close. "I've been here two times," he yells over the noise. "But I saved the last day for a special occasion. You'll see!"
"See what?" the Master asks coldly. "Mindless savages in rags and war paint?"
"War paint - ?" The Doctor looks baffled, then he breaks into a grin. This one is gleeful as well, but not as childish. He smiles because of what he sees, not because of what he ignores. Noise comes from the stage, then someone speaks through a microphone. The Doctor bends down, apologises to people who don't listen and comes up with ruffled hair and a mud-covered finger.
He winks at the Master and with one quick motion, draws something on his cheek: a circle with lines in it, signifying nothing in their language. Anticipatory silence falls over the crowd, and the Master stares at the Doctor in outrage and more surprise.
"It's not war paint," the Doctor smiles and turns towards the stage.
"It is," the Master says, because he sees things the Doctor doesn't want to see, but his response drowns in the wall of noise that wraps around them. This time it is the crowd and the stage and it's the first time the Master has heard anything like this. He feels like a child in the dark, like the king of the world. It's loud, it's fast, it's almost in beat with the sounds inside him. People brush against him left and right, and he cannot keep them at a distance. Suddenly, the Doctor seizes his hand and the Master closes his eyes and taps the beat of the drums on the Doctor's wrist. He can't hear them inside because they're in the music; war is in the air, war is all around.
Swimming in the sound, the Master faces the sun and smiles so hard that the dried mud cracks on his cheek.
