She wouldn't have minded being exiled if the High Council had let her take all of her equipment with her. She's more than happy to be away from those tiresome, meddling imbeciles who do nothing but sit and watch the universe as it tears itself to pieces on its way to fading into oblivion. They'll be singularly useless if push ever comes to shove and they have to actually do something to avoid mass temporal destruction.
She can't complain too much, though. The High Council, rather incredibly, let her take her TARDIS. It's taking an incredibly long time, but she has the means to gather everything she needs and bring it back to her planet. Her planet. Right. As though she'd have ever lighted on the dung heap voluntarily. At least the natives are friendly. Actually, friendly doesn't begin to the describe it. Downright sycophantic is more like it. All it took was the most minor show of force to make them ridiculously eager to cater to her every whim, to line up to take part in her experiments, to do whatever she thinks to command. The Master would be in heaven if he were here in her place. So would the Doctor, although he'd deny it to the last breath of his last regeneration. Both of those idiots would be beside themselves with joy at the prospect of getting even a lesser life form's undivided attention and undying fealty. The Master, though, would probably sulk over the fact that it was a native kneeling in front of him in reverent worship instead of the Doctor on his knees engaging in an all together less sanctified activity.
She needs equipment and supplies for her work, and she has the means to travel anywhere in time and space to collect them. And so here she is, on Earth, relieving a British Army base's scientific laboratory of a chemical that is highly toxic and soon to be unavailable even on this self-destructive backwater of a planet when she sees....Yes, indeed, it's the Master, sneaking in and peeking out into the hallway from the crack he's left in the door.
“Don't tell me. This is the Doctor's laboratory.” She puts the vials of chemicals in her pocket and crosses her arms over her chest.
The Master shuts the door softly and turns around. “How do you deduce that?” He moves to stand across from her at the Doctor's work table.
“I admittedly do try to have some general idea of where he is so I can make sure he's out of my way, but your behavior is a dead giveaway. You're tiptoeing around like a bungling cretin, which must mean you're still following the Doctor around trying to win him back, my excellent advice to the contrary notwithstanding. How is that working out for you? Meeting with any success?”
“Success? He's actively helping these armed, uniformed simians in their continuing efforts to capture me if not kill me.”
“Wildly successful then. Why is it that you're skulking around his laboratory in his absence? Looking for a good place to hide love notes for him to find?”
The Master's eyes flash darkly, but he smiles pleasantly. He places both hands on the workbench between them and leans slightly forward. “It's wonderful to see you again, too, Rani. Are you here looking for subjects for your unsavory experiments? Unfortunately, you're sure to be disappointed. I haven't seen any rodents around and I doubt very much that the Doctor will volunteer to engage in any activity that will bring him into contact with your cold, sterile scientific pursuits. Nor would he think of allowing you to enlist the aid, willing or unwilling, of his charming if somewhat vacant-headed, Bambi-eyed but unquestionably loyal and emotion-dripping assistant.”
She notices, in a detached way, that the fingers of his right hand are doing a little tap dance on the bench top. She calls up a slow smirk she does not feel. “Are you trying to provoke me, Master?”
“Miss Grant is a delightful child. She's all about feelings. The Doctor would never be able to do without her lingering, worshipful looks. Just as he'd never be able to part with her and miss out on the way she feels sympathy for the downtrodden, her unflagging dedication to doing the right thing and to never, ever hurt or cause pain to...”
“Enough!” For a moment, her vision goes dark, and she feels her blood drain away from her brain. She feels her body sway, and it takes all of her willpower to keep from falling to the floor. When her vision clears, she sees the Master standing in front of her on her side of the workbench, looking at her with mild interest. Her hands are clenched into tight fists. Her fingernails are cutting into her palms so hard that she thinks she's drawing blood. Her entire body is shaking. Her head is pounding. Her jaw is so tightly clenched her teeth hurt and when she tries to unclench it, she can't.
A moment passes before he asks “Are you all right?” She wonders why he bothers to ask. It's not as though he cares what she feels. No, that's not true. He does care how she feels. He wants her to feel miserable, as miserable as he apparently still feels underneath his suave, cultured exterior. She's not sure how she knows this, but she does.
“It's interesting, isn't it,” he continues in response to her silence, “how manifestations of emotion can be given vastly different interpretations by different individuals. Take rage, for instance, or jealousy. A woman, for example, could be experiencing such intense rage or jealousy that her cardiovascular, circulatory and neurological systems are compromised. One person could watch her experience and understand exactly what's happening to her and why, while another person could watch the exact same thing and not realize she's feeling anything at all.” His voice is smooth, but she hears the undercurrent of power he thinks he's just gained echoing in his words.
“The only interpretations that matter to me, about anything, are my own. I have work to do.” She moves toward the door. Her gait is unsteady and she's still shaking. She hopes he doesn't notice, but she can feel that he has.
He steps into her path. “Are you all right? These humans have a seemingly inexhaustible supply of tea. Perhaps you'd like a cup.”
“You're offering me a pilfered cup of tea? Where is all this generosity coming from?”
“I've always been a generous soul. It's just that I occasionally expect something in return. I notice you haven't refused tea.”
“I'm not drinking it here,” she says so quickly and so vehemently that she actually feels embarrassed. She can't remember ever feeling embarrassed before. Not ever. Embarrassment, she decides, feels just as unpleasant as rage and jealousy.
“I'm not inclined to stay here any longer, either. I'm sure we can find someplace more comfortable. Shall we?” He gestures toward the door.
As they leave the Doctor's laboratory, the Master first checking to make sure they are unobserved, she wonders how much tea the Master finds it necessary to drink. She'd truly like to know, but she doesn't ask.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Third Doctor's era. This chapter is PG.