[Image ID: Two digital illustrations. The first one depicts the Doctor from Scream of the Shalka from the chest up. He is wearing a green waistcoat, white shirt, and a thin black tie. He has his arms outstretched with a baffled look on his face. Below him is a text caption reading "They're not even show tunes!". The second illustration depicts the Master from Scream of the Shalka from the chest up, wearing a grey nehru suit. He has an angry and shocked look on his face. Both illustrations have a warm golden tone. /End ID]
Show Tunes by @fatalcookies
In which the Master endeavors to sculpt his communication style to the Doctor's needs, and inadvertently makes a playlist.
"Hey y'all! I'm Fig, and I draw whatever currently suits my fancy! I'm just vibin bro"
So?” the Master asks.
He does not feel the best balanced, for all of this. Neither of them have sought apologies nor reconciliations since their last spat. The Doctor is a smidge too skeptical and surprised and the Master, skirting too close to a boorishly-spoken truth for his own taste.
At least, he reflects, it puts us both out of our depth.
“Can’t imagine what you’re getting up to,” the Doctor grumbles. He does, however, begin to properly extricate himself from beneath the console.
The first spark of attention was promising. The Master simply has to settle himself in the knowledge that, if this works, it will be worth the effort and any mortification suffered along the way.
“I can’t imagine what you mean by that.”
The Doctor places his tools down with a slight clatter and shoots a look the Master’s way. “You’re scheming,” he accuses as he approaches, stopping short before the Master, and awkwardly opens his hands.
After a moment to organize their respective hands—placing one of the Doctor’s hands upon his waist, posing his elbow appropriately, taking hands on the other side while his last finally settles upon the Doctor’s shoulder—after that, the Master meets the Doctor’s gaze and quirks a brow. “I? Scheme?” He tsks softly. “The very thought , my dear. Come—step out to the side now, won’t you? No, with the right, if you please. Right, left, rock-step, repeat. Simple as you like.”
“This is ridiculous,” the Doctor says, but the tone is not grumbling any longer, just pointed and matter-of-fact. The Master decides to take that as a good sign.
I took part in the 50th Masterversary Big Bang -- a celebration of Dr Who’s iconic villain the Master -- wherein fic authors and illustrators collaborated on stories featuring the many iterations of the Master. This was my first piece, for @not-jodie-yet‘s fic “Kiss From a Rose”, an adorable prison-break caper starring the Thirteenth Doctor and Missy (as ‘crime wives’), as well as past companions Clara, Rose and Jo.
This is for the Fiftieth Masterversary Big Bang, an amazing Doctor Who projects to celebrate the first onscreen appearance of the Master 50 years ago. Thank you @dwmasters for organising such a brilliant event, I had so much fun working on this for the past months!
The story is accompanied by beautiful art by @lukifisk who you can also find on instagram and twitter!
When Missy wakes up in a prison cell, she already knows deep down that something is terribly wrong. A woman tells her the story of a shepherd boy and Missy can’t shake the feeling off, that she should knew this familiar stranger.
A dark future is lurking in the shadows, taunting her useless feelings, and makes sure, that she never forgets that she is the Master.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/11
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & The Master (Dhawan)
Characters: Thirteenth Doctor, The Master (Dhawan)
Additional Tags: Case Fic, Grief/Mourning, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, not Revolution of the Daleks compliant, masterversary
Summary:
The Doctor and the Master wake up on a strange spaceship with four others, and are told they have to complete a series of trials to save planet Earth.
--
In one corner of her mind, the Doctor catalogued the sound of soft footsteps pacing nearby. They weren’t coming near her though, so she decided to leave them be for now. For the moment, she wanted to mope. And think. Really, what had she been doing? How did she get here?
The footsteps plodded closer to her, and something nudged her in the ribs. She groaned again and rolled over, opening her eyes at last.
“Oh, get lost,” she spat, closing them immediately again.
Written for Week 8 of @dwmasters Fiftieth Masterversary Mini Event!
Theme: a new gadget
Dialogue prompt: “Ah, how time flies. It seems like just yesterday…”
AO3
Being grabbed and dragged into alleys was hardly what normal people would consider a part of daily routine, and being held at weaponpoint even less so. And even less so on G-Qix IX, a planet unknown throughout the five systems for its lack of hidden treasures and civil unrest, and abundance of snore-inducing boredom. The pies were nice, though.
The Doctor was not normal people. Quite the opposite, in fact.
What had he been talking about?
Ah, of course. Weaponpoint.
If it hadn’t been a pattern three bodies ago, it certainly was now. Normally, his captors would be so uninspired to use guns, or knives, on the odd day. Maybe even some improvisation, or even, dare he say it, originality, if the Doctor was lucky.
Today, he was lucky.
The villain of the day was not a tall man, maybe an inch or two shorter than the Doctor himself, and the grip he had on his arm was strong enough to bruise. It might have been threatening, had the Doctor not grown used to such incidents centuries ago (He did not, no matter what Peri used to say, go ‘looking for danger.’ Quite the contrary, in fact— danger seemed to be looking for him ).
He was rather fetching, the Doctor supposed, in the rogueish, slightly unhinged sort of way found in handsome clowns or well-off court jesters, dark, windswept (or perhaps it was just messy) hair brushed carelessly over his forehead. The effect was, however, slightly dampened by the thing he was pointing at his face.
“Pardon?” the Doctor asked.
The man scoffed. The Doctor focused on not staring at his lips. “I said,” the man repeated, “Doctor.”
“Ah,” said the Doctor. “Yes, that’s me.” He tried to get a good look at the thing. It was vaguely box-shaped. as if crafted by someone who had only been given the loose description of what a box was, and wrapped in more wires than any not-box needed. “Looking, were you? Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. It’s my vacation day, you see, and, for once, I intend to keep it that way.”
The man snorted. “Please,” he said. “You’ve never wanted a real vacation in your life.”
“Really.” The Doctor crossed his arms. The man scowled and waved the thing a bit. “And just how would you know that?”
“Rassilon, you’re gullible when you’re young.”
“I beg your pardon!” the Doctor exclaimed. “I am hardly young, young man. And how do you even know of Rassilon?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and leaned forwards until the thing the other man was holding nearly brushed his nose. “Who are you, anyway?”
The man sneered. “Take a guess.”
The Doctor squinted harder. The Valeyard? Impossible. Frobisher playing a trick, perhaps? But no, this wasn’t his style. He squinted even harder. until his eyes were nearly slits. The man rolled his eyes.
No. . . unless. . ?
The Doctor dragged in a long, hard sniff. “Oh,” he said, nose wrinkling with disdain. “It’s you.”
The Master—and it was the Master—bared his teeth in a cruel, capricious grin. “In the flesh.
“Stole another body, have you?” The Doctor looked down his nose at the checkered purple waistcoat. “Well,” he sniffed, “it’s better than being a crispy critter, I suppose.”
The Master scowled and raised the thing, pressing it to the Doctor’s forehead. “The only ‘crispy critter’ that’ll be here when I’m done is you,” he growled. “Just watch, Doctor, watch as—”
The Doctor leaned back and pulled at the point with his finger. It sprung back with a cheerful twang. “Of course,” he drawled. “What’s this, then? Revamped your shrinky dink?” He leaned back a bit more, eyes crossing as he looked down at the device. “Shame. At least the old one looked somewhat threatening.”
The Master gnashed his teeth. “TCE!”
The Doctor rolled his eyes, but made no comment about the ridiculous name. They had a script to follow, after all. “Well, go on,” he said. “Lay it on me. The threats, the hostages, the impending universal doom? Throw in a ticking clock while you’re at it, why don’t you? It’s been a slow day. And I do love the—”
The Master brandished the thing again. “Do we honestly need words, Doctor?” he asked, smiling a smile as sweet as poisoned honey and twice as sticky. “Really, I thought—”
“Let me guess,” said the Doctor. “You’ve upgraded to a gravitational compressor? It’ll turn me inside-out? You press that button and the ground beneath me crumbles and I fall screaming into the heart of a dying sun?”
“I—wha—”
“Always one for temporal engineering, weren’t you?” the Doctor continued, steamrolling over the Master’s attempts to break in. “But still, always more focused on the end result than the details. I remember those rants. Ah, how time flies.” He sighed contentedly. The Master hwrngfed. “It seems like just yesterday—”
The Master made a furious, strangled noise and pressed the spring to the Doctor’s forehead. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Well, I do believe I’ll leave that up to you to tell me,” said the Doctor. “You are ahead of me, aren’t you?” he asked, running an eye down the Master’s figure. Appreciatively, one might say. Hopefully, even.
The Master seemed to have to physically bite back a cutting insult. Or perhaps it had been a speech, long and dramatic, and equally admirable and yawn-inspiring. Who knew? The Doctor certainly didn’t. “You have no idea,” he breathed. There was something different about him, something else, something indescribably, undeniably, intangibly off about him that the Doctor had never seen in any of his other Masters. “You haven’t got a clue,” he spat. There was a light in his eyes, fervent and almost feverish, and when his lip curled, it almost looked like his face was about to peel right off. “You swan around—”
“Of course,” said the Doctor. “But, my dear fellow, don’t you think it’s possible that you might have miswired your—”
The Master snarled and pressed the button. There was a loud bang and he vanished, leaving nothing in his wake but a puff of dust and a fading scream.
The Doctor craned his neck, squinting to watch the rapidly shrinking dot in the sky. Eventually, the pinprick vanished. “Well,” sighed the Doctor, straightening his lapels. “I suppose I’ll have to save him. Again.”
He huffed, the grinned. It seems like just yesterday.
[ID: A digitally drawn piece of Thirteen and the Dhawan!Master. They’re investigating a dark library, backs facing the viewer and framing the left and right sides of the piece. Shining on their dark forms, right in the center of the canvas is a bright, muted pink vision of Theta Sigma and Koschei running happily through the red fields of Gallifrey; The Capitol is far behind them, just barely masked by distant mountains. /End ID]
Persona by @lovethellamas
''So things are as follow :
Petri is amnesiac. So amnesiac that she isn't even sure that Petri is her real name. (It probably isn't, and tastes all wrong in her brain whenever she thinks it, but it'll have to do for now).
She's also stuck in a convent, with nowhere else to go, and people have generally been pretty nice but there's a corpse in one of the rooms and she's pretty sure it isn't because of an accident.
(Actually, she would bet on it, had she anything to bet.)
And the only person she feels (kind of) safe to disclose that theory (certainty, fact) to is someone who decided that O was a great name.
Petri can't remember a damn thing about her life but she's sure she didn't do anything to deserve that.''
In which the Doctor and the Master are both stuck in a convent with nothing else to do but a murder to investigate, ghosts to hunt, and a weird Headmistress to try to figure out. After all, anything's better than having to talk about their missing memories or, Rassilon forbid, their feelings.
Writer @lovethellamas
''Hi, I'm Alma and I'm in love with two (2) disaster time lords''
Artist @patrexi
“Hello, I’m Cat! I’m a longtime fan of Doctor Who, but I’ve only recently started interacting with the Doctor Who fandom. It’s been a delight partaking in the 50th Masterversary event as an artist.”
FIC SNIPPET BELOW THE CUT:
''I know I'm saying that a lot,'' O lets out in a hoarse whisper, ''but what the fuck.''
Petri doesn't answer – can only look at the two children running around each other, laughing a laugh she can't hear and shouting names that don't make it past their lips. They are glowing – or rather, they are illuminated, the pale glow stronger around them, shining in the curly hair of the blonde one, dancing in the green eyes of the other one. But Petri can barely make out those colors; they are faded, faltering at the edges, like drawings on the pages of very old books, where the ink has drained out, leaving behind only remnants of pigments barely visible after the centuries.
Petri takes in a shuddering breath, as the light of the candle goes off, leaving them in the dark with nothing but the pale hue of the apparitions to illuminate the room.
