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best_enemies2010-03-20 09:31 pm
infraredphaeton.livejournal.com) wrote in best_enemies2010-03-20 09:31 pm
Entry tags:
10.5/Commander!Simm!Master: World Domination for Dummies (1/?)
Title: World Domination for Dummies (1/?)
Author: infraredphaeton
rating: PG-13
SPOILERS FOR THE END OF TIME PART 2
summary: One of the Masters escapes: he meets a rather despondent 10.5, who has turned to dreams of world domination to keep himself sane.
The Master understood the hierarchy of himselves, and he knew that he was, quite unfortunately, stuck quite low on the ladder of blond Time Lords. Still, control of Dave Swinford, SAS commander, meant he had a squad of minion selves to direct, and he had a rather sexy pair of black leather gloves to go with his new high powered rifle.
Unfortunately, just as he was beginning to get used to this middle-class status (and began to plan how to knock out the Master above him and gain his rank) the bloody Time Lords appeared. Now, at first, The Master in command of the SAS squad was fine with this- he was ecstatic to have a chance to dominate his own species again- genocide had made that option sadly unavailable in the past, but when he noticed that his minions were turning into brunets and girls (who all seemed to be taller than him, somehow), he decided it was time to figure out a way to exit, stage left, before Dave Swinford, SAS, got his body back. The Master seemed to have held on longer than the other hims: while a group of scared humans milled around the hallway, he pulled down his riot gear helmet so they wouldn’t be able to tell there was still a Master among them, and edged off towards the nearest basement corridor, which just so happened to be the one with the dead teleportation device in it.
Of course, when you’re a Time Lord with a vested interest in getting the hell out of range of whatever it was that was turning Masters back into apes, very little remains broken for long. He stripped off his leather gloves and dropped his helmet by the stairs, kneeling next to the console which he’d shot up only twenty minutes ago. He pursed his lips at the broken screen, “I am far too evil for my own manipulative good,” he muttered, and began to strip wires from their casings. A few minutes later, he felt his head beginning to judder, felt Dave Swinford, SAS rising out of his little puddle of sapien instincts to try and turn The Master’s beautiful Gallifreyan body back into something that was heated like a volcano and had bodily fluids that leaked far too much. His lips pursed further, and he wrapped the last section of cabling around his hips, picked up his gun, and smashed his hand down on the button he’d jury rigged from a nearby lift.
“Eat that, Dave!” The Master smirked, as the world began to lengthen and swirl before his eyes: blue and red and very very familiar.
The vortex: time (and dimensional) travel without a capsule. The fun just keeps on coming.
Doctor John Smith was bored out of his mind. Almost literally, as he had poked a Chelonian retrieval ray a little too hard with his make shift sonic screwdriver, and it had been set off while pointing at his forehead. But really, he couldn’t be blamed for it. Rose was wonderful, really, but Torchwood was staffed by sex-obsessed cretins and people with negative IQs. And Ianto Jones, who made wonderful tea. He was fairly certain the pterodactyl could outsmart most of them, and quite frankly, The Doctor (as he preferred to be called) was beginning to entertain plans of world domination. And more tea. He looked mournfully at his empty cup, and then up at where Ianto stood next to the kitchenette.
“Thirsty, Doctor?” Ianto asked, appearing from nowhere with a full cup.
“Oh, yes, thanks.” The Doctor smiled and nodded- he sometimes thought that Ianto was also planning to take over the world, and was therefore appropriately courteous.
Just in case.
The rest of the day was equally monotonous. The merry band of idiots ran around London trying to quantify the appearance of alien artefacts, while The Doctor patiently catalogued them and drank cup after cup of tea, occasionally talking to the pterodactyl to relieve his boredom. Unlike his home universe, there was very little live alien fighting, just the daily collection of broken Malmooth crockery and swing sets from Omicron Perseii VIII. Really, sometimes, The Doctor would give anything for a good showdown with the Autons, or a chance to chat with J.R.R. Tolkein, he thought as he swiped his card and left Canary Warf.
The Doctor hitched his backpack, filled with alien devices he knew were a little too advanced to give to the Torchwood team, a little higher on his shoulder, but the weight of the heavy weight alloy laser gun he’d classified as ‘automated pencil sharpener from Glajhhn (do not point at anything Earth made: Glajhhn pencils are much more sturdy than Earth ones- and don’t point at people either, Owen. Not even just for a laugh)” digging through his leather jacket (exactly like the one he’d worn in his previous incarnation, found in an Oxfam, much to his delight- the suits just didn’t fit right anymore) and into his shoulder. He took the Tube home, getting off at the last stop on the line and trudging through wet, grey alleys. “And tomorrow I do it all over again,” he muttered, picking through his pockets for his house keys. He had house keys. “That’s just fantastic. I cannot wait.” Just as he was about to unlock the door that would let him into the building that contained his current home, he heard a rather familiar noise. It sounded a little like someone scraping piano strings with something. The Doctor dropped his keys back into his pocket and followed the vworp vworp around the corner, where he found somebody in UNIT uniform, with his back to the Doctor, leaning against the alley wall and panting heavily.
“Ha! I win. Go back to your puddle of primordial ooze, Dave. You’re not coming back anytime soon.” The Master muttered triumphantly, pushing himself off the dirty, wet wall he’d fallen against. Dave retreated in a mutter of instincts and an urge to scratch his armpits that the Master would refuse to follow through on.
“Uh, hello?” And that was a loathsomely familiar voice. Even if it was unexplainably accented like he’d dropped in from Nottingham. The Master sneered at the wall, wiped his leather gloves on his trousers, and smoothed down his hair. Somehow, he just knew his eyeliner was going to be smudged. Somehow, it always was when he ran into the Doctor. It was like the cosmos didn’t want him to give a good first impression. Personal grooming accomplished, he took hold of his high-powered rifle- now a favourite accessory second only to his laser screwdriver- and turned around, cool sneer at the ready.
And he might have chuckled. A little. Sneeringly and with great superiority.
The blonde Master fell into a fit of huge giggles.
“Great. That’s just the confidence booster I need.” The Doctor said gloomily, “Are you here to take over the universe?”
The Master raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips slightly. “I might be. That depends.”
“On what?” asked the Doctor, craving tea, and possibly a big bowl of curried chips.
“How would you feel about that?”
The Doctor thought for a second, “I’ve ruled out Nuclear- it’s too messy, and mind control generally gets messed up.” He bit his lip, looking at the bedraggled Master, “Tell you what. Come upstairs and we’ll discuss it over tea.”
The Master looked at the Doctor from the tip of his unsurprisingly pointy hair, past the uncharacteristically angry expression (currently set at a mid to low grade, I hate the World and Everything In It level) to his rain soaked lime green converse.
“Have you got biscuits?”
“I have the M&S Special Selection.” The Doctor revealed, already rummaging for his keys again.
“Well, I suppose it can’t hurt,” decided the Master, and followed the Doctor upstairs, ignoring Dave Swinford, SAS’s unhelpful comments about the Doctor’s very tight jeans.
Next Chapter
Author: infraredphaeton
rating: PG-13
SPOILERS FOR THE END OF TIME PART 2
summary: One of the Masters escapes: he meets a rather despondent 10.5, who has turned to dreams of world domination to keep himself sane.
The Master understood the hierarchy of himselves, and he knew that he was, quite unfortunately, stuck quite low on the ladder of blond Time Lords. Still, control of Dave Swinford, SAS commander, meant he had a squad of minion selves to direct, and he had a rather sexy pair of black leather gloves to go with his new high powered rifle.
Unfortunately, just as he was beginning to get used to this middle-class status (and began to plan how to knock out the Master above him and gain his rank) the bloody Time Lords appeared. Now, at first, The Master in command of the SAS squad was fine with this- he was ecstatic to have a chance to dominate his own species again- genocide had made that option sadly unavailable in the past, but when he noticed that his minions were turning into brunets and girls (who all seemed to be taller than him, somehow), he decided it was time to figure out a way to exit, stage left, before Dave Swinford, SAS, got his body back. The Master seemed to have held on longer than the other hims: while a group of scared humans milled around the hallway, he pulled down his riot gear helmet so they wouldn’t be able to tell there was still a Master among them, and edged off towards the nearest basement corridor, which just so happened to be the one with the dead teleportation device in it.
Of course, when you’re a Time Lord with a vested interest in getting the hell out of range of whatever it was that was turning Masters back into apes, very little remains broken for long. He stripped off his leather gloves and dropped his helmet by the stairs, kneeling next to the console which he’d shot up only twenty minutes ago. He pursed his lips at the broken screen, “I am far too evil for my own manipulative good,” he muttered, and began to strip wires from their casings. A few minutes later, he felt his head beginning to judder, felt Dave Swinford, SAS rising out of his little puddle of sapien instincts to try and turn The Master’s beautiful Gallifreyan body back into something that was heated like a volcano and had bodily fluids that leaked far too much. His lips pursed further, and he wrapped the last section of cabling around his hips, picked up his gun, and smashed his hand down on the button he’d jury rigged from a nearby lift.
“Eat that, Dave!” The Master smirked, as the world began to lengthen and swirl before his eyes: blue and red and very very familiar.
The vortex: time (and dimensional) travel without a capsule. The fun just keeps on coming.
Doctor John Smith was bored out of his mind. Almost literally, as he had poked a Chelonian retrieval ray a little too hard with his make shift sonic screwdriver, and it had been set off while pointing at his forehead. But really, he couldn’t be blamed for it. Rose was wonderful, really, but Torchwood was staffed by sex-obsessed cretins and people with negative IQs. And Ianto Jones, who made wonderful tea. He was fairly certain the pterodactyl could outsmart most of them, and quite frankly, The Doctor (as he preferred to be called) was beginning to entertain plans of world domination. And more tea. He looked mournfully at his empty cup, and then up at where Ianto stood next to the kitchenette.
“Thirsty, Doctor?” Ianto asked, appearing from nowhere with a full cup.
“Oh, yes, thanks.” The Doctor smiled and nodded- he sometimes thought that Ianto was also planning to take over the world, and was therefore appropriately courteous.
Just in case.
The rest of the day was equally monotonous. The merry band of idiots ran around London trying to quantify the appearance of alien artefacts, while The Doctor patiently catalogued them and drank cup after cup of tea, occasionally talking to the pterodactyl to relieve his boredom. Unlike his home universe, there was very little live alien fighting, just the daily collection of broken Malmooth crockery and swing sets from Omicron Perseii VIII. Really, sometimes, The Doctor would give anything for a good showdown with the Autons, or a chance to chat with J.R.R. Tolkein, he thought as he swiped his card and left Canary Warf.
The Doctor hitched his backpack, filled with alien devices he knew were a little too advanced to give to the Torchwood team, a little higher on his shoulder, but the weight of the heavy weight alloy laser gun he’d classified as ‘automated pencil sharpener from Glajhhn (do not point at anything Earth made: Glajhhn pencils are much more sturdy than Earth ones- and don’t point at people either, Owen. Not even just for a laugh)” digging through his leather jacket (exactly like the one he’d worn in his previous incarnation, found in an Oxfam, much to his delight- the suits just didn’t fit right anymore) and into his shoulder. He took the Tube home, getting off at the last stop on the line and trudging through wet, grey alleys. “And tomorrow I do it all over again,” he muttered, picking through his pockets for his house keys. He had house keys. “That’s just fantastic. I cannot wait.” Just as he was about to unlock the door that would let him into the building that contained his current home, he heard a rather familiar noise. It sounded a little like someone scraping piano strings with something. The Doctor dropped his keys back into his pocket and followed the vworp vworp around the corner, where he found somebody in UNIT uniform, with his back to the Doctor, leaning against the alley wall and panting heavily.
“Ha! I win. Go back to your puddle of primordial ooze, Dave. You’re not coming back anytime soon.” The Master muttered triumphantly, pushing himself off the dirty, wet wall he’d fallen against. Dave retreated in a mutter of instincts and an urge to scratch his armpits that the Master would refuse to follow through on.
“Uh, hello?” And that was a loathsomely familiar voice. Even if it was unexplainably accented like he’d dropped in from Nottingham. The Master sneered at the wall, wiped his leather gloves on his trousers, and smoothed down his hair. Somehow, he just knew his eyeliner was going to be smudged. Somehow, it always was when he ran into the Doctor. It was like the cosmos didn’t want him to give a good first impression. Personal grooming accomplished, he took hold of his high-powered rifle- now a favourite accessory second only to his laser screwdriver- and turned around, cool sneer at the ready.
And he might have chuckled. A little. Sneeringly and with great superiority.
The blonde Master fell into a fit of huge giggles.
“Great. That’s just the confidence booster I need.” The Doctor said gloomily, “Are you here to take over the universe?”
The Master raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips slightly. “I might be. That depends.”
“On what?” asked the Doctor, craving tea, and possibly a big bowl of curried chips.
“How would you feel about that?”
The Doctor thought for a second, “I’ve ruled out Nuclear- it’s too messy, and mind control generally gets messed up.” He bit his lip, looking at the bedraggled Master, “Tell you what. Come upstairs and we’ll discuss it over tea.”
The Master looked at the Doctor from the tip of his unsurprisingly pointy hair, past the uncharacteristically angry expression (currently set at a mid to low grade, I hate the World and Everything In It level) to his rain soaked lime green converse.
“Have you got biscuits?”
“I have the M&S Special Selection.” The Doctor revealed, already rummaging for his keys again.
“Well, I suppose it can’t hurt,” decided the Master, and followed the Doctor upstairs, ignoring Dave Swinford, SAS’s unhelpful comments about the Doctor’s very tight jeans.
Next Chapter