"Use the teleport," the Doctor whispers in her ear.
Martha looks at him in disbelief. She doesn't want to leave him, he can see that. He knows she wants to save him, like she's saved him so many times before, but she can't. Not if she wants to save the world.
They only have a minute, while the Master is distracted. While he's sending down the Toclafane, whatever they are, to massacre--no, to decimate the population. He only has a minute to think of a plan when everything he has has been stripped away, even his body's strength. When the Master holds all the cards. What does he have? He has Martha, who has the teleport and her key. He has his mind. Think, think. To stop the Master he needs power, a massive amount of power. What can he access? What's in reach? The TARDIS is useless until the paradox machine is gone. The firepower of the Valiant wouldn't be enough to stop six billion deadly little globes, even if he was willing to use guns and missiles which he isn't. He thinks of the kinds of power, the forms of it, matter and energy and people, yes, people. Psychic energy. The Archangel network. Yes!
"Use the countdown," he whispers, urgently. His old-man voice sounds so strange to his ears, like a new regeneration. "Tell everyone. When the countdown ends, think of me. I can save them."
Martha's confused, but the sky is torn apart, her family is held at gunpoint, people are dying and she's Martha, she has to help. She has to do something. That's what he saw in her on the moon, that's what she's done during all their travels together. She'll go to the ends of the Earth for him, and that's good because that's what he needs her to do.
A tear streaks down her cheek as she pulls away from him. As she stands and backs away, the teleport in her hands. And then she's gone.
The Doctor sees Jack's surprise and regrets that there wasn't a way to send him away, too. But then Jack looks at him, and the Doctor realizes he wouldn't have gone anyway. Oh, Jack, he thinks. Typical of him, never leaving a man behind. Jack wants to save him, too, but staying by his side won't help him do that.
All the same, the Doctor is privately grateful. He knows he doesn't deserve the sacrifice that Jack is making.
The Master whirls around, glowing with success, and anger flashes in his eyes. "Sent her off, have you? Or did she run away?" He strides over and grabs the Doctor by the arm, yanks him to his feet and drags him to the window. "All you did was make her death faster. She's going to die down there with the rest of humanity. Look at it, Doctor. Isn't it beautiful? All that glorious destruction."
The Doctor looks, and wishes he had the strength to struggle. He's been helpless before, but never like this. He's never been unable to even save himself, except once, and he refuses to think of the Earth in the same way as Gallifrey. He refuses. Martha's going to survive, she's going to do her part. The Master is too much of a showman not to have another grand broadcast, just like today's. Even if it's the last possible moment, even then it isn't too late. The Doctor will hold out for months, years if he has to. He knows the Master won't kill him. All he has to do is survive and be ready.
The Master can take everything away from him, but the Doctor will only use the Master's tools against him. The Archangel network, the Paradox Machine. Whatever the Master builds on the paradox will be undone. That's enough. It has to be enough, because that's all he has of hope.
Lucy presses close against his other side, long nails digging into his shoulder and his arm. There's a waft of her perfume, lilacs and baby powder.
The Toclafane swarm like corpse flies. The Doctor can still smell Jack's recent death, burnt cotton and flesh. He feels sick.
This close, the Master's telepathic field hums against his own. Time Lords recognize each other the moment they meet, except that the Master has always been far better than him at mental tricks, disguises. Like making himself smell human to fool the Family of Blood. Like the Master pretending to be the Portreeve or Professor Thascales or Sir Gilles Estram. But the Master's pretence of Harry Saxon has been dropped, and there's a part of the Doctor's mind that thrives on his presence.
"Stop this," the Doctor pleads, because he has to even if it's futile. "Please, stop this."
The Master ignores him. "So it came to pass," he says, dramatically, "that the human race fell and the Earth was no more. And I looked down upon my new dominion as master of all, and I thought it... good." He turns to the Doctor with such a smile, such pleasure, and the Doctor's hearts break for Earth, for the Master, for all of them.
"I've waited so long for this," the Master says, eyes wide with madness. "We're going to have so much fun. Isn't that right, Lucy?"
"Oh yes, Harry," Lucy says, gleeful.
"A new Time Lord empire, Doctor. Can you imagine? And all because of you." The Master leans closer. "You freed me, Doctor. You brought me here. Every single death is all your fault. I want you to remember that as I conquer the universe."
"It doesn't have to be this way," the Doctor says, but even as he says it he's not sure he believes it anymore. "I told you, everything's changed."
"I know, I know," the Master says, voice rising with condescension. "And thank goodness for that. There's no one to stop me, least of all you."
He pushes the Doctor down, and the Doctor cries out in pain as he hits the ground. His body has betrayed him, so weak and fragile. His bones are brittle, his muscles atrophied. Whatever the Master did to him, it wasn't anything like normal aging, even for a Time Lord. A hundred years should be nothing to him, but instead he can barely stand and his left heart is irregular, skipping beats and out of time.
At the Master's command, a pair of burly security guards drag him up, pinning his arms painfully back.
Lucy giggles, and grips the Master's suit with whitened knuckles. She's like a porcelain doll, pale and cracked. "We've done it, Harry. Just like you promised."
"That's right, my sweet," the Master says. "The end of the world."
"It's wonderful," she says, breathily. "Oh, Harry."
The Master turns to her, rests his hand over her belly. Gives a considering hum, and then turns to the security guards. "Take him away," he orders. "Put him somewhere with a view." He wraps his arms around Lucy and draws her close. "The wife and I have some celebrating to do."
The Doctor struggles as he's dragged out of the room. "Master!" he rasps, with his old voice and weak lungs. "Stop this, please! Master!"
The last thing he sees before the lift doors close is the Master casting him a smug look over Lucy's shoulder.
A tenth of the population. Six hundred million people, dead. Only the Master could delight in something so awful.
The Doctor's wrists hurt. His chest aches. He's been left hanging from the ceiling for some time now, hung from his wrists with old-fashioned shackles. This incarnation of the Master seems inordinately fond of spectacle. Not that he wasn't in the past, but he's never been so gleeful about it. Never so, well, insane.
There's something wrong with him, there has to be. The drums he keeps going on about, for a start. Despite the story he told about the Master and the Untempered Schism, the Doctor's known him for hundreds of years and the Master never ranted about drumming in his head. And even if he'd heard them, he'd have had to hide them from their professors and anyone else he made psychic contact with, and it all seems terribly unlikely. No, whatever the drums are, they're a recent thing. Probably happened to him during the War, since he heard them as Professor Yana.
If the drums have driven him mad, or are part of his madness, then the Doctor can save him. He's certain of that. If he can get into his head, he can find the source and eliminate it, fix it or whatever needs doing. He'll do anything to bring the Master to his senses, to save him. He refuses to consider the alternatives.
There are cities on fire, down below. He can see the smoke, if not the flames. Even if he closes his eyes, he can't rid himself of the sight. And the Master is right that this is his fault. If he hadn't locked the coordinates to twenty-first century Earth, if he'd been able to reach the Master in time on Malcassario, if he'd seen the watch and taken it from Professor Yana. The Master could have lived out his life as a kind, brilliant human, a wonderful old man.
Selfishly, the Doctor is relieved that Professor Yana is gone. He'd rather have the Master, with all his cruelties, than a friendly human. If he'd kept the watch, he wouldn't have been able to trust himself with it.
He's not the last anymore, and everything else pales in significance. Everything, even the sight of Earth burning beneath him. He's been alone for so long, he's been carrying the loss of his people and now there's someone who understands, someone who's been through everything he's been through, even the War. Gallifrey isn't just a name to him, or a distant myth. They once stood on it, side by side and then face to face.
Of all the Time Lords there ever were, the Master is both the worst and best to have survived.
Tuning into the Archangel network was harder than he'd anticipated, but now that he's found the right frequency he's starting the arduous and tedious job of building psychic threads between it and the receptor ganglions in his mind. It's convenient, in a way, that they've been largely unused since the loss of Gallifrey. The only thing that's kept it from being a painful static is the TARDIS, but even without the usual filters she's hardly enough to take the place of the whole population of Time Lords and the Matrix. When they were there, he put so much effort into blocking them out, denying them, running away from them. He didn't want to be beholden to them. But the moment they were gone, the moment he woke up in a new body with the worst headache in all of history, he realized how terrible it was to be alone.
So reserving a corner of his receptors for the TARDIS, for the Master, the Doctor dedicates the rest to Archangel. It's going to take months to make enough connections. He's not sure how many he'll need. A thousand? A million? There are fifteen satellites, but there's six billion... no, five billion and four hundred million humans, and falling. How many can Martha reach? How many will still be alive in a month, in six months? How many humans will he need to have enough psychic energy to restore his body, to defeat the Master? Humans of this era aren't very psychically powerful, most of them aren't even sensitive at all. He's not entirely sure what the consequences will be for opening himself up to that much raw humanity.
The worst of it is that he doesn't know how much time he has. The Master could be ready to destroy Earth in a matter of weeks, for all he knows. How many threads could he build in a week? And he has to shield all of them, has to connect them carefully or he'll be discovered.
He doesn't have the answers for any of that. He'll just build as many as he can as fast as he can and hope it's enough. It's not an ideal plan, as things go, but for one conceived in less than forty seconds it's not terrible.
"Enjoying the view?" the Master asks.
The Doctor would glare at him, if he could see his face. Unfortunately, he's chained into position facing the window, and the Master is behind him. There's the slightest reflection of the both of them, so he settles for glaring at that.
The Master pouts. "Don't be such a wet blanket," he says. "I'd've thought you'd be enjoying your retirement. Should I get you a rocking chair?"
He gives the Doctor a push, making him swing gently. The Doctor's long since lost feeling in his arms, but it makes his shoulders hurt.
"It's not too late to stop this," he rasps.
"Oh, but it is," the Master replies. He halts the Doctor's swing with a hand on his back, and leans close. "I win, Doctor. You need to stop being a sore loser. Buck up, old timer. Take it like a man."
"No," the Doctor rasps, defiant. "This isn't like you. You're better than this."
The Master laughs. "Now who's the crazy one? I don't need help, Doctor, but you do. Isn't that what you wanted? To talk? You never told me how it felt. Was it your idea, or did they make you do it?"
The Doctor aches to tell him, but he refuses to give the Master the satisfaction. He presses his lips together.
"Hm, I suppose I should make the first gesture," the Master says. He steps away, and then suddenly the chain holding the Doctor goes slack and he crashes to the floor. The Doctor gasps and coughs, and a sharp pain in his side makes him think he's cracked a rib. He starts to push himself up, but he can't muster the strength. His left heart falters, then beats.
The Master crouches down and looks at him with mock sympathy. "That cough doesn't sound good at all." He clucks his tongue. "You're not going to be any fun like this. I can hardly torture you when you're already dying at my feet."
"Then don't--" The Doctor coughs weakly. "Don't torture me."
The Master pretends to consider this. "It's a thought, but no." He smiles, suddenly. "I know. Boys!" he calls.
The burly security guards return, lifting the Doctor up by his arms. He greys out from the change in position, his hearts too weak to pump fast enough against gravity, and when his vision clears they're carrying him down a hallway.
"Just a sec," the Master says, and walks on ahead. The Doctor hears laser fire, and then two thumps. A Toclafane whizzes down the hall.
"I thought you might like some company," the Master says, as the Doctor is carried over. "Dump him inside."
The Doctor smells something stomach-churningly familiar even before he's pushed into the room to collapse on the hard, metal floor. When he looks up, he recoils in horror, fury, nausea. He turns and is sick in the corner.
"Oh, he'll be fine soon enough," the Master chides. "Should be interesting, though. Do you think each half will grow back like an earthworm, or will he just snap back together? We could each hold an end."
"Go away," the Doctor rasps, sickened. "Leave him alone."
"Is the date off, then?"
The Doctor glares at him until the Master smugly turns and leaves. They're locked into the room, which is a prison cell, and the Doctor forces himself to look at the halves of Jack on the floor.
There's less blood than he would have expected, but that's probably because the laser cauterized the flesh. The Doctor doesn't know how Jack's immortality works except that it's completely unnatural. But there's wrong and then there's wrong, and this is... unspeakable.
The halves are at an angle to each other. The Doctor shuffles over and pushes the lower half until it's aligned with the upper half, his skin crawling all the while. Then he sits back against the wall and waits.
When it happens, it's so fast he almost misses it. A blink and Jack isn't two pieces of a corpse but a whole body, eyes wide and gasping for air. He pushes himself up, disoriented, feeling the burnt line of his shirt with the bottom half cut away, and then starts in surprise when he sees the Doctor.
"Doctor?" Jack says, frowning. He crawls over to him, then leans against the wall, holding his head like he's dizzy. "Tell me he didn't do what I think he did."
"I'm sorry," the Doctor says, inadequately. What else can he say?
But Jack just seems resigned to it. "The javelin was worse," he says, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. "Are you okay? What's he done to you?"
The Doctor shakes his head in disbelief. "How can you even--"
"It doesn't matter," Jack says, hard and gentle at the same time. "I'm used to dying. At least it was quick. You're a hell of a lot worse off than me."
The Doctor coughs and winces, resting his hand lightly over the cracked rib. "You have a point," he admits.
"He's probably listening," Jack says. "Maybe even watching."
"I know," the Doctor says. "At the moment I don't particularly care."
"Me either." Jack takes the Doctor's hand and moves it aside so he can check him over. It's a kind gesture, if a pointless one. He half suspects it's an excuse for Jack to touch him, but all things considered the Doctor thinks he'll let this one slide.
"Is there something wrong with your hearts?" Jack says, frowning. His hand rests over the left, then the right, then back again.
"My left's always been a bit wonky," the Doctor admits. "Didn't matter before. Guess it'll be the first to go."
"Is it going now?" Jack asks, concerned.
"Not sure." The Doctor closes his eyes, feels the light pressure of Jack's hand against his chest. "Not right away, at least."
"Can you live with just one?"
The Doctor looks at him. "He's not going to let me die," he says, as kindly as he can. "You'd have been better off with Martha."
Jack looks terribly angry, then deadly calm. "I wasn't going to leave you alone with him. He can kill me all he wants, I don't care. You're not going to be his only punching bag."
"I'm not," the Doctor says. "He has Earth to kick around."
"It's not the same," Jack says. "He wants up close and personal."
"And now he can use us against each other," the Doctor says, suddenly angry. "Do you think he'd have cut you in half if I wasn't here to see it?"
"Yes," Jack says, certain.
The Doctor sighs, knowing he's lost this particular argument. He knows Jack has a point. The Master's madness will have an outlet, and that could be the Doctor on his own or Jack there to share the burden. It's not that he isn't grateful, but it doesn't actually make their situation any better.
"Besides, when we break outta here, you'll need me," Jack adds. "You're not in any shape to wrestle guards to the ground."
The Doctor laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh."
"Do you want me to bind it?" Jack offers.
"Really, Jack, there's no point," the Doctor says. "Either it'll heal or he'll break it the rest of the way."
Jack sobers. "Don't talk like that. You're supposed to be the optimist, remember?"
"He's won this one," the Doctor admits. He imagines that the Master is dancing with delight, listening in on this. He wishes he could reassure Jack with his plan, but he can't. It's a secret that he needs to keep, on a ship full of prying eyes and ears. "You don't know what he's like. Imagine me, but better organized."
Jack snorts. "Organized at all, you mean."
"I resemble that remark." The Doctor shifts, pushing himself up a bit. "There's nothing the Master loves more than a good plan. Usually something long-term."
"Like being elected Prime Minister," Jack says.
"Exactly like that. Whatever he's got planned, it's going to take a while."
"You want me to be patient," Jack says. "Got it. But don't expect me to be happy about him torturing you."
"I expect he's counting on that," the Doctor says. But like his cracked rib, there's nothing he can do about it. Helplessness doesn't sit well on him. "I'm trying to get through to him," he says, thinking it safe enough to admit.
"Think there's anything to get through to?" Jack says, dryly.
"I know there is," the Doctor says. Maybe it's a fool's quest, maybe he only believes it because he needs some hope to cling to. But he truly believes it. He has to believe it. Even when all of this is over, if Martha and the countdown and everything go according to plan, he's going to have to deal with the Master's madness. There has to be a way to reach him, because the alternative doesn't bear thinking about.
Jack shifts, stretches out his legs, then pats his thigh. "Come on. You need to rest."
"Jack..."
Jack just looks at him. Damn him.
"All right," the Doctor relents. He winces when he moves, and Jack gently helps him, helps the old, injured man that his friend has become. Jack's coat protects him from the cold of the floor, and he rests on his less injured side, with his head on Jack's thigh. "Make one lewd joke and I'm sleeping somewhere else," he warns.
"I'll be the picture of modesty," Jack says, loftily.
The Doctor snorts in disbelief, but he has to admit this is nice. That he's tired and worn, and sleep will help him heal. A coma would help even more, but he won't leave Jack alone any more than Jack would leave him. What a pair they make.
Jack's hands are gentle on his thin hair, his bony frame. He's warm and strong, and his single heart beats steadily, the way it will beat forever. The Doctor lets it lull him to sleep.
The Doctor wakes screaming in agony. Blinding, overwhelming pain, every cell in his body being torn apart and pulled back together.
It's only when it's over that he can even recognize what's happened to him. That it was the pain of the Lazarus technology, of being de-aged. He's weak, more exhausted now than he was when he went to sleep, but he's healed, young, strong. He gasps on the floor like a landed fish, trying to orient himself.
The Master is standing over him, fondling his laser screwdriver. Jack is pinned against the wall by the guards, threatened by a hovering Toclafane.
"That's more like it," the Master says, satisfied. "Nothing like having a shiny toy to play with. Now I have three! What do you say, Jackie boy? Want to feel like a kid again?"
"Go to hell," Jack spits.
The Master tsks. "Quite a mouth on him. Usually your pet humans are better behaved."
The Doctor struggles to his feet, staggers back against the wall. He's dizzy, shaky, but his hearts are strong again, he feels full of life and energy. His confidence surges back. "Whatever game you're playing, forget it," he says, angrily.
"I haven't even begun," the Master replies. "I just wanted you out of the way while I took care of a few things. You're so cute when you snuggle. Tell me, Jack, does he still make those little snuffly noises when he sleeps?"
Jealousy flashes across Jack's face.
"Of course, since he was all old and wrinkly, he probably snored." The Master wrinkles his nose.
"Like you weren't listening in," Jack retorts.
"Would I do that?" the Master says. "Actually, I would. You have me there. I was hoping you would talk about something interesting, like your precious Martha or some pathetic escape plan, but instead it was all blah blah blah, take a nap on my leg. Boring!"
The Master raises his hand and snaps his fingers. The Toclafane lasers Jack through the heart and he drops like a stone. The Doctor moves towards him, but before he can reach him the guards are dragging him out of the room. "Let me go!" he demands, struggling wildly. He stills when the Toclafane hovers menacingly in front of him, blades extended.
"You don't think I'll kill you," the Master says, eyes narrowed. "You're probably right. But I'll be more than happy to make you wish you were never born."
They stare at each other, the Doctor furious, the Master cold. The Toclafane hovers to the side as the Master steps closer, reaches up. Touches the Doctor's cheek.
"This new body of yours... it's very nice. I like it. I've decided to explore the possibilities. Kick the tires."
"I don't care what you do to me," the Doctor says.
"You know I only take that sort of thing as a challenge," the Master chides. "Now I've no choice but to make you care. I wonder what it will take."
The Doctor glares defiantly at him.
The Master pats him on the cheek. "All good things," he says, and turns and walks down the hall. The guards drag the Doctor after him. "But first, time to meet the wife!"