#disabled master

More chapters of [[ Scream of the Shalka / S10 finale fixit fic, ]] Where There’s Life, There’s Hope, are up at AO3. It’s about Alison Cheney, her robot [the Master], and the Doctor bouncing over from the Shalkaverse to save Bill from the terrifying Twelfth Doctor. Things become slightly complicated as they realize that Bill is working with another version of the Master [Razor] to de-Cyber people and overthrow Dystopiaville’s totalitarian regime.

In this excerpt, Bill stands up to Razor.

“Could use  your  help,” he continues to Bill, “with RR.”

“Yeah...well...that’s your war, not mine.” Bill, her voice soft and level, meets his eyes. “And like you said, I don’t want anything to do with the -- what did you call the fighting?  The fun part?  Yeah, not for me.”

“You and me, hearts and minds...of the revolution.” He points between the two of them with small indications of his chin.

Bill shakes her head. “No, it’s all been your revolution. I’m just your assistant.”

“I thought you were...my friend.” It’s hard to interpret his tone when his voice is so chipped with pain, but that’s not a regretful sigh at all. It’s more of a test to see how she’ll respond.

“No. The Doctor --  this  Doctor -- is my friend. Alison is my -- “

“--Inevitable spouse,” Razor finishes drily.

“--Friend,” says Bill, talking over him. “The Prof is my friend. You… You just needed me for a while, and I needed you.”

“Make me sound like the Doctor...using you for an audience!”

“No, you used me for your assistant, and I needed someplace safe, so I stayed. Now…” Bill pauses, slipping her hand into Alison’s. “Now I have someplace safe and people who don’t need me  for  anything. They just want me to be...well, me.”

“Yeah,” says Alison, holding Bill’s hand tightly. “Bill of my heart…”

“Should’ve given you...dead bugs,” Razor mutters, referring to the Doctor’s gifts from their garden. “Charm didn’t work?” A wry smile folds up half of his mouth. “Didn’t work,” he answers himself. “You, Miss Potts, are good. Very...very good. Well done.”

“What does that even mean?” Bill grimaces. “‘Cause it certainly doesn’t mean  nice.”

“I...admire you.” Razor coughs, flinching. “Water, please.” Alison, much less intimidated this time, supplies him with more. “Thank you.” He directs his words to Bill again: “You see what you want; you do...whatever it takes...to get it. Ambitious. Focused. Manipulative. Calculating. I like it.”

“No! What? No! I’m not… No!” Bill, her eyes widening, actually steps back.

“Hey…” Finally speaking up, Alison squeezes Bill’s hand. “I don’t know if this helps, but my robot said pretty much the same thing to me once. He said I was an  artifex,  which means  artist,  but also  clever, tricky person. I thought it was an insult, but then I realized that he meant it more like I was practical enough to do what I had to do to survive, smart enough to make a deal with a villain that gave me an advantage. Maybe think of it that way.”

Bill’s wonderful eyebrows are practically doing loop-de-loops of dubiousness. “Like a compliment then?”