The cell isn't big enough for a proper pace, so the Doctor sits cross-legged on the bed and meditates. Well, works on the threads, mostly, but that only takes part of his attention, and the rest needs to do something or he'll fret himself silly.
He knew this was a bad idea. Sex, intimacy... it always complicates things, and he finds humans complicated enough to begin with. All those feelings and expectations and shifting interpersonal trickeries. It's hard enough to have to sit helplessly by as a friend is tortured. It's all just one more thing for the Master to use against them, which is probably why he encouraged it in the first place.
He can't seem to figure out what the Master is up to. The whole business with Lucy, and now Jack... And all the while the mysterious Toclafane are down there, slowly exterminating humanity. And why have tea one moment and the next... he doesn't know what the next is yet. Whatever it is, it's not a good thing.
The Master is plotting something. He can always tell. Of course, the Master is always plotting something, unless he's done that thing where he's hoist by his own petard, which is usually how his schemes end. Some detail, some variable he can't control. That's generally how the Doctor manages to win, time after time. Free will, the bane of the biggest control freak in the universe. The Doctor tries not to smile because it'd look suspicious, but he's privately pleased that it's free will that he'll be using to stop him this time, too. The variable of the human race.
He hopes Martha is all right down there. He wonders if he'll eventually find a connection to her, out of the billions of humans. It's a shame the Archangel network isn't sophisticated enough to enable true telepathic communication, as opposed to simple psychic energy transfer. The most he can hear is a muddled burble, and without another powerful mind on the other end, he can't hope for more.
Two days pass without any sign of Jack or the Master, and then three. A tray of food is brought into the room, and even though he tastes it carefully for any suspicious additions, it's just food. He gives up on meditation and paces, checks and rechecks for vulnerabilities, and most of all he worries.
A full week after Jack's disappearance, the Master arrives. The Doctor lunges to the front of the cell and grips the bars.
"Tell me what you've done to him," he demands. "Tell me."
The Master raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, isn't that interesting. Conquer the entire Earth, enslave your very favourite species, and where's the outrage? Take away your handsome freak, and there's demands. Was he really that good in bed?"
The Doctor glares at him.
The Master gives him a condescending look. "You think this will all go away. Break the paradox machine and zap! All better. I don't think. This is here to stay, Doctor. Humanity is dying. Maybe it's not real enough for you, locked away up here. Would you like to see? I'd love to show the place off now that I've settled in. Put up a few paintings, knocked down a few cities. Still some boxes to unpack but isn't there always?"
"Why are you doing this?" the Doctor asks, voice tight with anger.
"Because I can," the Master says. "Come on, I've even brought your coat. Wouldn't want you to catch a chill."
The door to the cell clicks open, but just in case the Doctor was planning anything the three Toclafane extend their blades. With six billion of the deadly little monsters, they make a hell of a bodyguard. The Doctor takes his coat from the Master's gloved hand and puts it on.
"Cooperation is a beautiful thing," the Master says. "Or should that be obedience?"
"Just get on with it," the Doctor says, tersely.
As they walk down the hall, another three Toclafane join the party. The Master has an entourage. The Doctor supposes he should be flattered at the implication he could escape if there were any fewer. If anything, it encourages him to look for just such an opportunity. He doesn't need to be the Master's captive to follow through with the Archangel plan, and now that he's back to his normal self he wouldn't even need to spare the power for restoration. He could rig up another perception filter, maybe find Martha, rescue Jack. Yes, it's sounding better every second.
"So where are we going?" the Doctor asks, taking care to sound grumpy instead of hopeful.
"I thought we'd start with your old stomping grounds," the Master replies. "I am still Prime Minister. Though I've called dibs on Air Force One. The Americans do know their jets."
When they reach the ground, there's a limo waiting for them. The Doctor stares out the window as they drive through the city. It's a remarkably clean occupation, with little sign of the chaos that must have ensued those first few days. But the quiet tells the story far better than fires or riots.
London is a dead city.
The Master was right about one thing. It didn't feel real until now. The Earth from above is a smoky marble that's easy to distance himself from, even as he works to save it. It won't make him shout at the Master any more than he already has, because there's no point to wasting his energy there, but it does make him all the more determined to bring this horror to an end as soon as he can. He'll redouble his efforts on the threads. With Jack helping to spread the word, they can cover the globe in half the time. Maybe they can find another way to stop the Master and the Toclafane so he can reach the TARDIS. He could even rescue Martha's family.
He's always been rather fond of hope.
"I took a week to study human leadership styles," the Master says, conversationally. "It was all pretty boring until the last hundred years. Do you know who really got it right?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me," the Doctor replies.
"The communist dictators," the Master says, almost admiringly. Not that he could ever genuinely admire someone besides himself. "Now they knew how to grind down a population. None of that usual toss about being descended from the gods or blood lines. They just slapped the propaganda around and started slaughtering."
"You're modelling yourself on Stalin?" the Doctor asks, unable to hide his disbelief.
"Mao Ze-Dong," the Master corrects. "Higher body count, more long-term success. Well, until me." He grins. "I've already commissioned the first set of statues. Banned all representations of leaders other than myself. Oh, and did I tell you about the factories? And the farms." He gestures at the empty streets. "Too many temptations in the big city. I've sent them all off on hard labour. It'll be good for them. Break their spirits early, you've got slaves for life! Well, until I kill them."
The Doctor's jaw clenches. He aches to reach across the limo and grab the Master, strangle him until he agrees to stop all this madness, but he can't. He can't indulge his anger because it simply won't help, because if he's out of action or even dead, there's no hope at all for Earth. He has to keep his priorities straight.
But the Master presses on. "And really, once you assassinate all their leaders and slaughter a few hundred million of them at random, humanity is remarkably obedient. They're all so very scared, you know. They're good at being scared. As long as they're afraid, you can get them to do pretty much anything. Is that why you like them so much? Did you pick up a human, smack her around a bit, and then make her do your bidding? It'd explain why they spent so much time screaming."
"No," the Doctor says, angrily. "You don't know anything about them."
"Me? I lived as one of those creatures, with a tiny little mind, for decades. I've spent the last eighteen months dwelling among the idiots, waiting for you. I know them better than you ever will, especially as I don't have rose-colored glass embedded in my eyes. Funny thing, Doctor. I'm not the one who can't stand to stay on Earth for more than a few days at a time. Seems to me your pattern is that you can't get away fast enough, as soon as the excitement's over. As soon as you're not the hero."
The Doctor tries to ignore how much that stings. "They don't need me to stay and run their lives for them. Unlike you, I don't have a compulsive need to control the universe. I'm quite happy to let it run itself."
"Says the biggest meddler since Rassilon," the Master laughs.
"It's not my fault that the universe is constantly in peril," the Doctor replies, finding his calm again. "So what if I help where I can?"
"Was destroying the Eye of Harmony your way of helping?" the Master asks, archly.
The Doctor frowns thinly. "Yes," he says.
The Master just smirks at him.
There's actual signs of life at the heart of the city, along with swarms of Toclafane, keeping everyone in line. They walk into 10 Downing Street and the Doctor feels an eerie shiver, thinking of the last time he was here. The Slitheen and Harriet Jones and locking themselves in the closet while missiles bore down on them. It had been a miniature recreation of the end of the Time War, in a way, complete with his own survival with miraculous odds.
He doesn't regret bringing down Harriet Jones. She shot a retreating enemy in the back, and that made her no better than the Sycorax leader. There's also the realization that if he hadn't the Master would have soon after, and that would have been a far less pleasant removal from power, if not life. But this should be a golden age, and it isn't, and that is his fault even if nothing else is.
Actually, now that he thinks about it, she's probably dead now anyway. The Master must have killed anyone who could be a threat or a challenge to his power, and that includes former Prime Ministers. But as long as her death was after the Paradox Machine engaged, it can be undone. It's only temporary, like Jack's deaths, except she won't remember any of it any more than the rest of the world will.
The thing of it is, he doesn't actually know what the paradox is. Oh, it has something to do with the Toclafane, that much is obvious. But they aren't exactly chatty, and the Master hasn't given any clues.
"Welcome to the seat of government," the Master says, grandly, when they reach his office. "Do make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?" He gestures at one of the humans he's kept as slaves, and the young man scurries off to make tea.
"What are you going to put in it this time?" the Doctor asks, dryly.
"Milk and sugar," the Master says, as if that's a stupid question. "What, did you think I drugged you?" He snorts. "As if."
The Doctor decides not to try to figure out if he's lying or not.
"The nicest way to watch other people die is over the rim of a teacup," the Master says, airily. He picks up a remote and presses a button, and a set of flatscreen televisions flick on. Each one shows smoking ruins, huddled masses, factory floors. The Doctor's hands grip the arms of his chair.
"Why are you showing me this?" he asks. "What possible purpose could there be?"
"To make you understand," the Master says, calmly. "I know you're beavering away at some little plan. If you didn't have one you would be shouting at me with much more enthusiasm. Whatever it is, it's going to fail."
"You're wrong," the Doctor says, confident.
"You're the one who said this wasn't a game," the Master replies, holding his gaze. "I'm not playing. In a year, the Earth will be a memory, used up and disposed of. With the Time Lords gone, this universe is mine, and I have every intention of conquering it down to the very last rock."
"I'm not going to let you do that," the Doctor says, unflinching.
"Maybe not yet," the Master replies. "But all in good time." He looks away as the tea arrives. "Two sugars for my companion," he says, leaning back in his chair.
When the tea's been poured and stirred, the biscuits set on small plates, the Master shoos everyone else out, even the Toclafane. For the first time, they're alone.
The tea and biscuits taste bland, but only because his appetite has been destroyed. He eats to keep his strength up, because he's only fed every few days and a week of starvation would take too much out of him. He forces himself to watch the screens because they're what he's fighting for, the people suffering and dying across the globe. He needs to remember that, hold on to it.
He wonders if the building was restored to the same specifications as before.
The Master finishes his tea and stands up, walks to the window and looks out. His back is to the Doctor as he nibbles on a biscuit, watches someone as someone starts screaming out on the street and then stops screaming.
The Doctor reaches into his pocket and grips the handle of the knife that he pulled from Jack's chest. That Jack secreted under the pile of the Doctor's clothes, with the implication that if the opportunity arose, if the Doctor could get close enough, he should use it.
"Any time now," the Master says, sounding bored.
"What?" the Doctor asks, casually.
"If you're going to use it, now's the time," the Master continues, still facing the window. "You could go for the hostage scenario. You could even kill me! I still have, oh, eleven regenerations left? You could kill me a few times over. Go for the heart. Slit my throat. I'll even let you do it from behind, so you don't have to look me in the eye as I bleed to death."
The Doctor feels sick. Numb.
The Master turns around. "Come on, where's that fighting spirit? I leave you a weapon, I take you to the one place where you have a shot at surviving and organizing a resistance. All you have to do is kill the only other Time Lord in existence and you just sit there? Stand up. Stand up."
The Doctor stands, pulls out the knife. The Master walks over to him, stands before him, arms spread.
"Kill me," the Master demands, coldly. "Finish the job. Save your precious humans. Isn't that what you did last time? Your genocide isn't done yet, Doctor. Finish it."
The knife clatters to the floor. The Doctor burns with shame, with horror and regret.
The Master bends down and picks up the knife. Spins it in the air and catches it. Presses the point to the Doctor's throat. He feels a prick as it breaks the skin.
The Master shakes his head. "I'm going to have to punish you now. You've been so very, very bad." The blade presses harder, just a fraction.
The Doctor feels a drop of blood trail down his neck. He averts his eyes, fights the urge to flinch. After a long minute, the knife drops away.
"Field trip's over," the Master says. He looks at the Doctor knowingly. "I think we've all learned something today."
The Doctor is silent on the drive back, on the flight up. He's silent as he's escorted to a room, stripped and shackled. He's silent as he waits for his punishment.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't. Not the Master. He can't kill him. It's not even that he refuses to kill on general principles, it's that he can't kill the Master. He can't lose him.
Because of that, because the Doctor is weak and guilty and needs his enemy to survive, humanity suffers. He deserves to suffer along with them.
But the Master doesn't hurry to punish him, not at all. He leaves the Doctor in that bare, cold room, chained to the floor by his ankles. No clothes, no food, not even any cameras. He feels dismissed.
A day after his failure, the Master arrives, followed by a covered cart. The man who pushes it in looks pityingly at the Doctor and refuses to meet his eyes. The Doctor can't say he blames him. The man leaves and closes the door behind him.
The Master claps his gloved hands together. "Right! Where shall we start? So much to do... Ah, of course. Stand up."
The Doctor stands. The Master takes the chain between his wrists and hooks it to another, thicker chain that hangs from the ceiling. A remote control pulls it taut, until he's hanging just high enough that he has to rest on the balls of his feet.
"Better," the Master says, and walks slowly around him. Sizes him up. "It's a shame your freak kept getting in the way of the camera during your little rut. I think he did it on purpose, don't you? Trying to shield you from my prying eyes. When he finds out what you've done, do you think he'll be disappointed? Angry? Or will he forgive his Doctor because he loves him so very very much?"
The Doctor stays silent. There's nothing to say, even as he thinks that Jack will be more ashamed at him for this than for leaving him behind on the Gamestation.
"You wanted to know what happened to him," the Master continues, stopping in front of him. "Since you obviously care more about that freak than all those normal humans, I'm going to tell you. No, I'm going to show you. I think you need a hands-on demonstration. Of course, since you barely have any lives left I can't give you the full experience, but lucky for you I know exactly how much your body can take before the regeneration process kicks in." He grins. "Isn't it wonderful having another Time Lord around?"
He turns, takes a step and then turns back. "Oh, and if it's ever too much, you can have one of those quaint little safe words. How about 'Please stop, Master'? Though that's really more of a phrase... And heck, it's not like I'm actually going to stop!" He laughs and pulls the cover off the cart.
The Doctor shudders and looks away. He'd be sick if there was anything in him to throw up.
"Don't be such a prude," the Master chides. "It's not like I'm going to use the acid, skinning knife, and the battery all at once. We're going to be doing this for days."
"What's happened to you?" the Doctor rasps, aghast. "You were never this... this..."
"Sadistic? Murderous? Insane?" The Master grins like a shark. "You happened to me, Doctor. I heard all about how the High Council blamed you for the Time War. You didn't have the guts to take the Daleks out. You didn't even have the brains to make the attempt in secret. No, you had to advertise. You fired the first shot, Doctor, and that makes it all your fault. All of it." The grin is gone now, replaced by seething fury. "It's your fault Romana sold me to the Daleks. Your fault I had to slither around in that disgusting animal, and then couldn't even find a decent body. Your fault your insane TARDIS ate me. And it's so very much your fault that I was brought back and forced to fight a fleet of murderous, fanatic Daleks and escape by turning myself into a wretched, pathetic human. Yes, Doctor, you happened to me!"
The Doctor gapes at him.
The Master composes himself. "So you understand, Doctor, I'm going to enjoy this very much. In fact, I'm going to relish it. Please scream as much as you like."
The Doctor nods dumbly. The Master reaches for the portable stereo and turns the music on loud.