#koscheitm

@koscheitm

The Doctor didn’t know what he was looking for here.  He had lost his companions.  To death and his reaction to it.  And because of his own thoughtlessness, he was completely and utterly alone.  This was the first time since he had regenerated and so much had happened since then.  He really didn’t want to be alone.  Not right now.  Not after he had lost everyone.

Perhaps he had come back here simply because it felt like home.  More or less.  More than any place besides Gallifrey, and there was no way he was going back there.  Not after what they had done to him.  Not after what they had done to Charley.  So he’d wound up here, back in England.  Perhaps he had been a bit desperate.  The TARDIS was just so empty, and it only served to remind him that everyone always leaves.  Besides, blending in among the humans was soothing on some level.

He’d been out walking the streets of London, just for something to do, when he came across a sign on an old but well-preserved building.  The Scoundrel’s Club, it read.  There was something odd.  Some strangeness in the air.  Perhaps some sort of telepathic entity, only it felt familiar.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, and his own telepathy was terrible as a rule, so all he was left with was a vague sense of familiarity that had nothing to do with the building.  But the name of this place, well.  If someone were here to cause trouble, this seemed like the sort of place they’d hang around.  

I SHALL DIE UPON EACH SIMULTANEOUSLY, MY ESSENCE SCATTERED TO THE FOUR WINDS OF GLORY >BV lmao. 

If you’re basically asking me what is the chief cause that I defend when it comes to characterization of the Master in my own writing…..

A) That the Master and the Doctor are equally to blame, and innocent, of their falling-out, and subsequent criminal actions.B) That the Master’s obsessive preoccupation with power and control is actually the result of being innately mentally, emotionally, and telepathically permeable as a child, which means he was easy to overwhelm and manipulate, and at some point he decided NO MORE, and consciously shut off himself from his own excessive sensitivity to ambient thoughts and emotions, making himself a callous, but highly autonomous, asshole. But he would rather die, literally, than be robbed of his agency ever again, at any cost. C) That the Master is absolutely neurodivergent, connected to B.  D) That this neurodivergency and so-called “insanity” is a separate issue from his evil, even though the former is often mistaken by others as evidence of the latter.E) That the Master, like all Time Lords, is nonbinary, and all attempts to furbish him with a misogynistic attitude are simply bad writing (on the part of, particularly, Davies and Moffat).  F) That the Master absolutely, at ANY stage (not just at Missy’s stage), can be redeemed and can grow, with the proper VOLUNTARY treatment ( which means something other than being locked up in a Vault and having to pretend to be compliant in being “fixed” until losing her sense of self).  “You could be beautiful?” Sorry, Doc, the Master already IS beautiful.  You just need to acknowledge that there are many kinds of beauty.  G) That the Simm Master in particular is not so “ill-fitted” among all the other Masters and Missys we’ve seen on screen, in writing, and in radio dramas; people are just eager to exclude him because it’s become fashionable to shit on anything originating in the Davies era.  

@sxbrinxgold | @wcrldswithin | @koscheitm | @the-11-doctor | @angelspoken | @gavehcpe

@koscheitm

But he would never forget staring out into the dark and wondering if it was the glare of the fire in his glassy eyes, or fiery eyes staring back at him from the darkness of the wood.

The low, cold stone in his gut was wildly contradictory to the warm light of the tavern he was waiting in. But from the snippets of conversation he could even translate bobbing around the room, he knew that every one of them were brigands. Thieves, pirates, mercenaries, even just a few cheap assassins or convincing drunkards for hire. He was absolutely sure that he carried none of the menace that any of the rest of them did, but so far as he could read from their disparate species auras, none of them were aware of that particular fact.

Even Wong hadn’t been keen on sending him off, largely because the planet that was being used as the meeting place for this strictly below-board diplomatic transaction was going through an enthusiastic period of witch burnings. The problem being, of course, that they were actually quite good at finding them.

But one figure in the shrouded pub made him pause. Even amid the smatterings of oddly colored and textured skin, the wide variety of clicks, whistles, and more traditional spoken word, it wasn’t hard for him to find the real danger in the room. It hung like a pall over a man positioned much like himself - folded into a corner, insouciant but superior. And looking right at him, and as a shiver raced down his spine he likened the experience of being pinned under that gaze to the eyes he’d stared back at in the darkest corner of New Jersey.

But since he figured the other man would understand what he said even if he couldn’t hear him, he didn’t see any point in looking away or pretending that he hadn’t noticed. “You look like you’re seeing through me, friend,” he muttered, feigning a smile as he cocked his head and fiddled with the stem of his goblet. “Find what you were looking for?”