Work Text:
Title: Recreation
Author: Valdron
Fandom: Doctor Who
Category: Surprise Ending
Spoilers: Maybe
Status: Complete
Series: No, One shot
Date: Approximately 1996-1997. Or the 27th century, whichever you are referring to.
Feedback: Yes
Archive: WWOMB, Vig's Vale
Valdron's Handy Dandy Disclaimer: Doctor Who, the series, books, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of The BBC. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or
reproduced for commercial purposes. All other characters and situations which are not specifically owned by the above mentioned are sole copyright of the author.
This story was originally published in Badlands, I-V, a mediazine edited by Anna Boudreau.
Thanks: Anna Boudreau
Notes: It's a nice little throwaway piece.
Warnings: Extensive laboratory testing by the FDA shows that 13% of white lab mice, upon being exposed to this story, begin speaking aramaic. Apart from that, it should be okay for a general audience.
Summary: The Doctor regenerates yet again, trying to piece together the circumstances leading to his latest death. This time, the Master awakens along side him.
Recreation
by D. G. Valdron
It was dark inside.
Carefully he felt around, finding the flat surface of the clasp. He cursed. They should damned well put zippers on the inside of body bags. Trying not to make a sound, he pulled the clasp down until light spilled in. He stuck his face out, looking about. There was no one around.
Good.
With a quick zip he was out of the body bag, stretching, as if from a long sleep he quickly surveyed his surroundings.
He was in a morgue, there were bodies piled all around him, some in bags, some laying naked on slabs. It was dark, with only minimal lighting. This must be the evening, he decided. He was somewhat glad they didn't have a night shift. An autopsy would have been embarrassing.
He was still wearing clothes he noted, they didn't fit very well. There were great big holes in the tunic, scorched at the edges and stained with blood. Impulsively, he threw back his head and laughed for a moment, heedless of guards.
There was something about these times. The simple euphoria of being alive with a future stretching out endlessly. The crystalline clarity of having escaped fate once again. Whatever it was, it brought on a giddy incoherence.
He found a chrome surface on a surgical unit and studied his reflection. He was a tall man with greyish brown curly hair, good teeth and a prominent nose.
His usual body then. Sometimes he was a short dark gnome, full of trickery and cunning. On balance though, he preferred this form.
A rustling noise attracted his attention. Who might that be? he wondered rhetorically. Grinning and moving quietly, he hunted among the body bags until he found one whose contents were shifting.
He stuck his face up close to the zipper, and pulled the tag down slowly.
A dark severe face looked out at him.
"Hello," he said, "still not wearing the beard, I see."
"Hello, Doctor," the face said.
"How do you feel?" the Doctor asked, grinning.
"Simply terrible." The second man climbed out of the body bag with the Doctor's assistance.
The Doctor noted that the man was wearing black. What else? he thought.
There were a great many small burn holes in his costume.
"Serves you right," the Doctor said, "you killed me, remember?"
The Master looked up at the Doctor. He hardly changed from life to life, the Doctor reflected, always a spartan dark haired man with intense eyes.
"Did I?" the Master said, "oh yes. I seem to recall that. What happened afterwards?"
"How should I know?" the Doctor laughed. He reached out and gently fingered one of the many holes in the Masters black costume. He'd added some studs to the leather. "It doesn't look like you made a lot of friends after you killed me."
The Master looked irritated for a second and then grinned. The giddiness of resurrection.
He sobered abruptly. "The Time Lords," the Master whispered abruptly, "they captured me. They wiped my memory and left me to rot on some forsaken world."
The Doctor shrugged, "Same here. The regeneration has cleared the blocks, but I think it was coming back to me anyway."
"I don't remember it very well," the Master said, "just bits and pieces."
"You aren't missing much, just more of the same."
"Ah well, truce then, until we get our bearings."
"Of course."
The Doctor noticed a fresh lab coat, over by the doorway.
Distracted, he wandered over and tried it on. It was a perfect fit. He'd have to do something about the rest of his clothes, too, he thought. The both of them would have to. After all, not only did they not fit properly, but there was the matter of all those hard to explain holes.
"We are immutable," the Master said, "even without our memory, we remain who we are. You the maudlin idealist, tilting at windmills..."
"As I recall the past life, you hadn't changed much either. Still up to the same old tricks."
"And of course, you must run up against me, like a deformed siamese twin joined at my hip by the fabric of the universe." The dry voice of the Master had lost none of it's black humour.
The Doctor shook his head sadly.
"Doesn't it ever bother you that we don't really change. Forms, yes. Superficial personality, yes. But deep down, what we are seems cast in stone. There is no opportunity to grow, to change."
"To what purpose, Doctor?" the Master asked.
The Doctor spied a pile of rags in a bin. The clothing of the naked deceased? He shrugged. This was not a time to be fastidious.
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the Master opening body bags. Well, the Master had always had an urge towards the visceral.
The Doctor rooted through the hamper, looking for something his size, and not too badly damaged. A twenty foot scarf would be too much to hope for, but perhaps a velvet jacket...
"I say," called the Doctor jovially, "the selection is limited. I think this time you may have to change your colour scheme, it might do you some good."
He glanced back. The Master was staring at the body of a middle aged man. The man had been slightly overweight, round faced, balding. The Master's expression was unreadable.
"Good bye, old friend," the Master whispered, and sealed it. "I'm sorry to have brought you to this."
Embarrassed, the Doctor turned back to rummage in the hamper. Perhaps we do change after all, he thought.
He found a jet black uniform, unmarked, and just the Masters current size.
He put it aside.
"Doctor," the Master's voice came from behind him.
"Yes."
"I'm embarrassed to say that I'm currently without my TARDIS. The time lords severed my contact with it when I was captured. What of yourself?"
"The same, but as my memories were returning, the link renewed. It's here."
"Ah. Then as one time lord to another, could I impose on you..."
"But of course, I will, necessarily require assistance in reaching it."
"Freely granted, Doctor, I will endeavour to assist you."
The Doctor found a one piece suit that seemed the right size. Doffing the lab coat for a moment he pulled it on.
"Doctor," the voice came from behind him, too close.
Warily he turned around.
"I would like to consider the possibility of an indefinite truce," the Master said. His hand was extended.
He has changed, the Doctor thought, so much remained the same, yet at some elemental level, there had been a shift. The Doctor shook his hand.
Quickly, the Master changed into the dark uniform.
They looked towards the door. The Doctor grinned.
"Ready," he asked.
"Of course."
They headed towards the door.
"One thing, Doctor?" the Master asked.
"Of course."
"My memory is still a bit jumbled. Where exactly are we?"
"Oh," said the Doctor, as they went out the door together, "Gauda Prime."
- end -
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Valdron's Handy Dandy Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Blake's 7, the series, books, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of The BBC. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes. All other characters and situations which are not specifically owned by the above mentioned are sole copyright of the author.
This story was originally published in Badlands, I-V, a mediazine edited by Anna Boudreau.