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This is what happens when I'm bored.
This just popped into my head earlier on, pretty much fully formed. I blame Moffat. :)
Title: The Master Returns. Again.
Length: 200 words.
Spoilers: The End of Time and the S5 Angel episodes (just to be on the safe side).
Setting: Sometime in the future.
Characters: Doctor (11th), Master (unspecified), River Song.
Rating: PG.
The Master Returns. Again.
The Master, the Doctor reflected, never really changed. Which was a problem, because - despite being glad to see him and all that - the Doctor was beginning to get distinctly bored.
Well there was also the fact that he was tied up (although not gagged, and he was grateful for that small mercy), but mostly it was the Master’s monologuing which was wearing thin (again).
The Master had so far derided the youthfulness of his face, the bow tie, the braces and the hair, as well as spending what seemed like a small eternity complaining about having saved his (the Doctor’s) life, only to have him throw it away instantly, and most definitely never repeating that mistake again.
The Doctor closed his eyes, refusing to react to the latest bait, when suddenly there was the smooth szoom of a Fifty-Second Century gun powering up, and the sound of the most delightful voice in all the galaxies.
“Hello Sweetie. Sorry I’m late!”
The Master, incredulous, craned his neck as much as he could with a gun pressed to his temple, straining to get a look at the curly-haired woman behind him.
The Doctor smiled.
“Master - I don’t believe you’ve met my wife?”
Title: The Master Returns. Again.
Length: 200 words.
Spoilers: The End of Time and the S5 Angel episodes (just to be on the safe side).
Setting: Sometime in the future.
Characters: Doctor (11th), Master (unspecified), River Song.
Rating: PG.
The Master, the Doctor reflected, never really changed. Which was a problem, because - despite being glad to see him and all that - the Doctor was beginning to get distinctly bored.
Well there was also the fact that he was tied up (although not gagged, and he was grateful for that small mercy), but mostly it was the Master’s monologuing which was wearing thin (again).
The Master had so far derided the youthfulness of his face, the bow tie, the braces and the hair, as well as spending what seemed like a small eternity complaining about having saved his (the Doctor’s) life, only to have him throw it away instantly, and most definitely never repeating that mistake again.
The Doctor closed his eyes, refusing to react to the latest bait, when suddenly there was the smooth szoom of a Fifty-Second Century gun powering up, and the sound of the most delightful voice in all the galaxies.
“Hello Sweetie. Sorry I’m late!”
The Master, incredulous, craned his neck as much as he could with a gun pressed to his temple, straining to get a look at the curly-haired woman behind him.
The Doctor smiled.
“Master - I don’t believe you’ve met my wife?”