by Cour M.
“Great,” the hostess said, with a distinct American accent. “Are you from England, by the way?”
“Yes, I am. London.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to London,” she smiled, “you Brits are lucky. You have a great accent.”
“Thanks,” Martha replied, “I like the way you all talk as well.”
Martha looked down at herself, and she was wearing a very attractive dress that fit her well in the waist, was tight, and accentuated her curves. She never recalled wearing a dress like it, but whoever she was seeing, she must’ve really intended to impress them.
She looked away from the hostess, out the window, and then she saw the river, and a red bridge that crossed over it. The bridge looked familiar, and she knew that she had seen it somewhere before, but she couldn’t place it.
“Oh, here we are,” the hostess said, “yes, Jones. Your name was along the one who reserved the table. The Magister was very particular that your name was included.”
“Oh,” Martha replied, disappointed. She had hoped that she was meeting the Doctor, but she followed the hostess, sat down at the reserved table, had the waiter bring her a drink, and she waited. A woman sitting nearby complimented her on her dress, Martha thanked her, and then she kept waiting.
As she took a sip from her drink, she heard footsteps on the other side of the table, as a man removed a nice coat from his shoulders and handed it to the hostess.
“Martha Jones, I sincerely hope that I have not kept you waiting for long.”
Martha looked up and there, nicely dressed, was the Master.
⌛
But not the Master she had met.
No.
It was the Master that had confronted Eight when he had just regenerated.
“Master.”
“Master?” The Master smiled, “well, I suppose that you are not far off. After all, Magister is the Latin word for Master, so you are most intuitive.”
“Enjoy your meal,” the hostess told them.
“We shall, thank you,” the Master replied, smiling charmingly at her as he sat down. His suit was black, fitted him well, and he wore it with grace. “Miss Jones, you look positively ravishing.”
“Do I?” Martha replied.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Yet forgive me if I don’t return the compliment.”
“Oh, so terribly rude, and so early in the evening. I wore my best suit.”
“Very well, it’s lovely, and I shall give you that.”
“See,” he winked at her, “was that so hard?”
“Very,” Martha smirked. “And you’re not the face of the Master that I met.”
“I’m not the face that many who travel with the Doctor met,” the Master sneered, “and nor am I the one that anyone desires, I bet. After all, I didn’t choose this form or face. Nor would I have ever wanted to. We Timelords are more than our faces and bodies—bodies are just containers for us. It was a convenient vessel of a disgruntled man who was unhappy with his lot in life.”
“That man you possessed had a life. Or let me guess, you didn’t care.”
“I saved him from a life of this tedious city and his monotonous daily routine. I recall that all he did was drive trucks, or something like that.”
“One of my uncles was a truck driver.”
“I am sorry for him.”
“He doesn’t possess other men.”
“No, but perhaps he dreams of being other men.”
“Would you believe that some people do stumble on that thing called happiness?”
“In all the galaxies that I’ve travelled in, I never met a human who understood what happiness ever fully was.”
“Or maybe you don’t see it, because you’ve never been it yourself.”
“Happiness is in everyone’s nature. It is just that happiness means different things to different individuals and it comes to them in different forms.”
“Your sense of happiness is to destroy everyone.”
“And yours is to be loved by those who don’t love you.”
They were interrupted by the waiter.
“Never fear,” The Master insisted, “I shall order for us both.”
“Oh, how rude,” Martha chided lightly, neither afraid of him in the slightest nor allow him to make her angry, “you will be a gentleman and let me order my own food.”
“Will I?”
“Yes, you shall.” Martha opened her menu, scanned it quickly and ordered the trout while the Master ordered the lobster.
“The lobster?” Martha observed, “you have expensive taste.”
“I do.”
“And why am I not surprised?”
“Because there is something ever so elegant about individuals such as myself.”
“You’re a murderer and a psychopath.”
“I only murder those who think I’m a psychopath.”
“You know I don’t believe that.”
“Of course not. Because I also lie.”
“Now that is the most honest thing that you have ever said.”
“Thank you. I feel like a better man already.”
“You’re not.”
“You think you’re better than me.”
“I know that I am.”
“You travel with the Doctor.”
“Oh, for once, please get over the Doctor. Or maybe that’s it? You can’t resist thinking about him, can you?”
“You think my existence is centered around him.”
“It appears so. It’s all you ever talk about.”
“Because it’s the one thing that we have in common. But let’s try and be pleasant. Is this your first time in San Francisco?”
“Oh, so that’s where I am?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always wanted to come here.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You failed to destroy it.”
“I’ll succeed the next time.”
“Why must you try though?”
“Because I have to.”
“But why though?”
“Because I must!” The Master hissed, with such finality, that Martha gave up.
“Are you giving me the silent treatment?” The Master asked.
Martha did not reply.
“It’s fine,” the Master reassured her, “I love talking, anyway.”
Their food came, and it looked exquisite. The Master began to eat his food elegantly.
“Is this how it always is with you?” Martha asked.
“Pardon?”
“A constant act? Look at you, you’re eating your food like it’s a dance.”
“You’re upset with my elegant manners.”
“No, not your manners; but your aspirations. Your vanity. It’s not how you view yourself, but how you want others to view you. Admit it, you want to be worshipped.”
“Is the Doctor so different?”
“The world doesn’t even know his name after all that happened on the Valeyard.”
“But he always has to have one of you along with him. Why do you think that is?”
“He’s lonely.”
“You really think that’s it? When he first took you along, he loved showing off. He even admitted it. Why? That’s not the desire of a lonely person. It’s a vain one. He wants to be considered impressive. He wants to be adored. He wants to be admired.”
“Then that is your problem, isn’t it?” Martha asked thoughtfully, and compassionate.
“What?”
“You had no one around to adore you.”
⌛
When she spoke the words, Martha watched the Master closely, and she was not disappointed. His eyes shifted, he looked down at his food and began to eat another bite.
“There is nothing evil about that,” Martha determined, “and that isn’t what makes you bad, Master. It’s what makes you normal.”
The Master shifted in his seat, lowered his fork and knife, placed his chin in his hands as he propped his elbows on the table.
“Am I? Are you about to be kind to me, Martha?”
“I will, if you’ll let me.”
The Master bit his lip, looked down, and continued eating, masking his curiosity with nonchalance.
“Go on, Doctor Jones. Pretend to know me.”
“You’re a Timelord, like him. You’re a genius, like him. And there was something about Gallifrey that let you down.”
The Master’s eyes darted back to her, filled with malice, but he removed it just as quickly.
“But it was worse than that. You both are mad, that’s also true. I’ve seen him at his worse, and you at your best, and they’re both the same levels of insanity. But we’re all a little insane somehow. It’s not your fault, and no one ever told you that it was not your fault. That’s when it really began, wasn’t it? That was when the madness took over you. It was because you didn’t run away in time, like the Doctor did. You didn’t find someone to start over with. You didn’t have someone to help level your insanity. Because that’s what combats madness, you know: companionship. Just as too much loneliness can feed the madness. You were lonely. And unlike the Doctor, you never had a companion.”
“You’re not eating,” the Master replied simply.
“Right.”
Martha began to eat, and the food was quite good.
⌛
Once they came to the end of their meal, Martha wiped her lips.
“Well, I guess this is the end,” she assumed.
“Not at all,” the Master declared, “I have tickets for us, to the opera.”
“What shall we see?”
“Madame Butterfly.”
“I love that opera.”
“I suspected that you might.”
The waiter who served them came up with the bill.
“Your check, sir.”
“Oh,” the Master shrugged, “I do not need to pay it.”
“Um, yes, you do.”
“No, I do not.” The Master looked into his eyes, his expression turning hypnotic. “I am the Master, and you will obey me.”
“I…”
“I am the Master, and you will obey me. I don’t need to pay the bill. The bill has been paid.”
“I must obey,” the waiter said, his eyes wide from the hypnosis. “I must obey.”
Martha touched the waiter’s arm.
“You don’t have to,” she interrupted, opened her purse and gave him her debit card. “Here, I’ll pay.”
“Thank you, Miss,” the waiter said, shaking his head to wake up and taking the card. He returned soon, the bill was paid, and the Master offered her his arm to take.
“Come, Miss Jones. We have an opera to see.”
Martha placed her arm in his.
“I don’t want to know how you got those opera tickets, now do I?”
“No, you very much don’t.”
⌛
With all the speed that can occur in a dream, they were now sitting in an opera house, surrounded by many people, and the lights went low in the theatre as the show began. Martha began to watch as Madame Butterfly continued to play on the stage.
“Tragically familiar, isn’t it?” the Master whispered.
“What?” Martha asked, not looking at him as she continued to watch the performance, mesmerized.
“The story of a woman who falls in love with a man who wasn’t worthy. That’s a very popular situation for your kind, isn’t it?”
“Yes, perhaps it is. But we often do not let ourselves die over it.”
“So, what are you doing now?”
“I’m watching an opera with a Timelord who failed to kill me for a whole year.”
The Master smirked at her, highly amused.
The opera played on and the story grew more tragic as it did so. Wrapped up in the story and singing, Martha began to forget who she was sitting next to. The show continued on and on, and then eventually she turned back to the Master.
She blinked in shock when she noticed that the Master was sad. Not only sad, but he was affected by the story as Madame Butterfly began to sing her final song before she would die. Despite himself, and not knowing that he was being observed, a tear escaped his eye and trickled down his cheek. Martha removed a tissue from her purse and placed it in his hand. As she did so, he wrapped his hands around hers, holding onto her desperately. After a few seconds, he released it, and then wiped his eyes.
The opera eventually came to an end.
⌛
As they disembarked, a car drove up before the theatre for them, driven by a chauffeur.
“Did you hypnotize the driver?” Martha asked.
“Don’t think about it.”
Martha got into the back of the car, the Master got in behind her, and then they drove off.
“Where are we going?” She asked.
“I’m taking you home.”
“I live in London.”
“Now we’re in London.”
Martha looked out of the window and San Francisco had in fact turned into London. The Master drove her up to her parent’s home, where she was temporarily staying.
Martha emerged from the car, along with the Master.
“Don’t worry, it’s best that you don’t walk me to the door,” Martha observed.
“I knew not to.”
“Well, goodnight.”
The Master leaned on the hood of the car and looked at her retreating form.
“You suggested that all would be different,” he began, “if I once had a companion. If I had a Susan, an Ian, a Barbara, Vicki, Dr. Shaw, Jo, Sarah Jane Smith, and so on… or a you, then I would not be this way. If it follows, that by not having a companion, I have become the Master, then only by having a companion, is he the Doctor.”
“Yes, it’s an interesting theory, isn’t it?”
“But is it the right one, we’ll never know. Because it follows, that if you all are lacking in my life, I am this. Then if you all were lacking in his life, he would be me. Does that frighten you?”
“No.”
“Because one of you will always be there.”
“Pretty much.”
“And no one shall be here for me.”
“Because you never let anyone try.”
The Master rolled his lip and looked down at the car.
“You speak nonsense.”
“Then drive away. It’s as simple as that.”
“He could turn into me, Martha.”
“Then there’s hope.”
“Why?”
“Because then that means that you could always turn into him. The door swings both ways, Master.”
“Good night, Martha.”
“Good night, Master.”
Martha went into her home and closed the door as the Master got back into the car and told the driver to continue. As he rode away, it turned out that Martha’s brother, Leo, was home. He had been watching them from the window.
“Martha,” he asked, “who was that?”
“Spying on me?” Martha smiled.
“Mom’s gonna go mental if she finds out that you’ve got another bloke already. What? Is he another Doctor or something?”
“Don’t worry, Leo,” Martha reassured him, squeezing his arm as she walked past him, “he’s a man of no importance.”
⌛
Meanwhile, in the car, the chauffeur was playing some soothing score music as the Master looked out over London as they drove by. The music antagonized him for some reason, therefore he banged his fists against the seat.
“Play something else,” he demanded, “you’re driving me insane.”
“Right, sir. I must obey.”
The chauffeur changed the station and then a very interesting tune came up on it.
“Leave it on this station.”
“I must obey.”
The chauffeur continued to drive on as the Master awaited to hear the lyrics, which did not disappoint.
‘Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of we
alth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul to waste
And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate
Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game’
While the music played on, the Master watched London roll by around him.
And he felt like his old self again.
⌛
Martha woke up casually. Not covered in sweat. Not half-frightened to death. Just casually. She recalled everything about the dream in vivid detail, but she was not scared, nor did it feel like a nightmare to her. It was just a dream—with a villain in it. Just a simple dream.
And she knew why.
This was Eight’s Master, not hers, and because Eight had entered her mind, he calmed her. She knew she could face his Master, because Eight had already done it.
Smiling out of happiness, Martha prepared herself for sleep once more, unafraid. As long as she remained traveling with Eight, she didn’t have to worry. He would always help her.
Chapter 17
The Mortal Immortal
Restless, Ten rose from his bed.
Already that day, hundreds of people had died, and he had done nothing about it. He couldn’t have at the moment, because his hands were quite tied. And it upset him, leaving him unable to rest. Hoping a walk through the TARDIS would help him was also vital.
And he still had not retrieved his own consul unit! He didn’t even know where it was! And even if he were to have inquired the Mecrellan government about it, they would not tell him or even give it up if they did acknowledge its existence. Yet whoever had it, possessed the consul unit to the most powerful ship in the universe: his TARDIS.
Such lack of knowledge was eating away at him, for he despised the idea of having to use Eight as his chauffeur for the rest of eternity. That was not how it was supposed to be. If the TARDIS was never retrieved, then him and Martha would have to get a lift somewhere and then live average lives again. They could go back to London, get another flat, but this time, he would have to acknowledge that it was best to get a job himself. Yet this time, it would be different. This time, there was nothing to hope for. For before, all Martha and he had to do was wait to get the TARDIS back from the weeping angels, but now there was no aim. They would just… live.
