Title: So Here It Come
Characters/Pairings: The Master (Simm)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 823
Notes: This is rather old, actually -- I wrote it in April and never actually got around to posting it. It could probably use further editing, especially at the end, but I really don't think I'll ever get around to that, so here we are. Also, yeah, I give up on original titles.

The drums are getting louder. Insistent. It's as if they're speaking to him again, more now than ever before.

Badadadum. Badadadum.

Whenwhenwhenwhen. Whenwhenwhenwhen.

He tries to explain, but the drums don't care. They don't understand words like delicate, intricate, layers. They understand nothing. Only violence, only war. Badadadum. Fightfightfightfight. He has to be careful now. So much still to set in place. He can't let the drums become a distraction. Distraction causes mistakes.

The Master cannot afford mistakes.

Of course, the Archangel Network allows him slightly more room than he'd have otherwise. There's such a beauty in it, knowing his beat is invading everyone's minds. It makes it worse for him, sometimes, especially out amongst his adoring public; but oh, how satisfying to know that they hear it too, that the call will keep them sedate until the time comes. Until then, he bides his time; he can get away with the little things, but it's still better to be a good boy. Behave, toe the line, and keep the risks lower.

Funny, he was never good at behaving. Not when they sent him charging into the Time War. Not when he was supposed to lay down and die like a good little Time Lord. Not back at the Academy, attending as few classes as he could get away with and corrupting his innocent classmates. Like the Doctor. Now that's laughable, the Doctor innocent. Naive, yes, even gullible, but the Doctor has not been innocent since long before their school days.

The Master can feel him out there, sometimes. The Doctor comes and goes, of course, always did, loved to show his silly human women all the things they should never be allowed to see. Fancying himself the savior of one world or another. Pity, if not for the hero complex, he would be the most likable of their race. And the Master almost laughs at the thought. Not just the most likable, but the only. The rest of them are gone now; he doesn't have the exacts, not yet, but he knows it must have been the Time War. He was the smart one, wasn't he, for getting out. He and the Doctor; the insufferable rulemakers gone and only his favorite left, like a gift from the universe. Waiting to be broken, when the time comes.

Those pesky words again. When the time comes. All the glory of his plans to be saved until the time comes, and oh how the drums hate him for that. Badadadum. Nownownownow. Badadadum. It's caused more than one near miss, some closer than others. Lucky none of the close ones have been with important people. Only with Lucy.

Lovely little Lucy, so eager to please.

She loves him, he knows it. Knew it even before he took her away, off her dull planet and into the end of the universe. He broke her then, yes, but he also fixed her. Humans are always looking for a reason, a purpose. She's so much better off now that the search is over. Hypocritical of him, maybe, to indulge in the practice he scorns, but she deserved the treat. And he is fond of her. She's such a good little wife, and smarter than she looks. Smart enough to obey orders. That puts her one up on most of her species. That's why she'll be by his side when the time comes, the favorite, the mother of his empire.

But the drums have no need for fondness, they don't care for the delight he takes in her adoration. They see her only as vulnerable. They want to see her hurt. He wants to see her hurt, though admittedly in a different way; it's not quite as fun for him when she's not screaming and bleeding. He holds himself back, however, at least to a point where it's enjoyable for her. He's gone soft in his old age.

Or perhaps it's a reward. She did find a way for him to drown out the drums, if only a little. The music helps, if it's loud enough, if he doesn't play it for too long. He lost himself in it for two days once, let the drums become undercurrent, and they were so angry when they came back. He's learned his lesson now, knows just how much will help and how much will start to hurt.

They make him restless sometimes. He paces across the room, to the same beat. Badadadum. Badadadum. Perhaps he'll go back to Utopia for a while, see if it helps him feel as though he's doing something.

Anything that matters, that isn't the stupid, mundane, human life he's forced to lead. Anything to have silence, only for moments. Anything to do something until the time comes.