Eighth Rift

[chronosexual]

WHAT: Jack's Dreamscape
WHO: Jack Harkness and anyone who wants to join. The more the merrier.
WHEN: Nighttime, Thurs-Sun

The location is not immediately identifiable, and rather lonesome, though the warmth of the light from the computers and desk lamps gives off an adequate glow by which to see. It appears to be some kind of underground facility with some impressive technology and... was that a pteranodon that just came soaring overhead? It doesn't matter, it flew out of sight anyhow. One of the computers appeared to be linked to a few CCTV camera feeds and had been left running by its operator. There were no signs of life, save for the flying beast and the light coming from the office up the stairs and over the catwalk. There is much to explore in this dream. Or is it a memory? Is there a difference?

Comments

[neverstops]

Given the options, the Master was really not particularly fond of any of them. He would not mind forgetting this nightmare. Of all the ones he had had since arriving on this Island, this one was the must frustrating. He hated the immortal man, nearly as much as he was hated by him. He was a memory of the Master's failure.

"I do not think it matters much at all," He muttered darkly, the metal cuffs biting into his wrists in ways no dreams should have conveyed quite as accurately. The comment about going mad drew an amused snort from the Time Lord. Clearly Jack did not know him at all. "Not going to offer me tea and sit down to catch up over a nice long chat? After all we went through together, I am surprised at you, Jack. My feelings are hurt."

[chronosexual]

"Tea? You want to sit and have tea?" Jack asked, a bored, nonplussed expression on his face. "How awful I must seem. You've come all this way into my base and I don't even offer you any tea. How uncouth of me." While some part of Jack would have really liked to have just sat The Master down and scald him with hot liquids, Jack had to remember that he was much more civil than that. He could be a gentleman... when the need arose. He yanked on the chain again and sent him toward the lift, putting his shoe to The Master's backside to get him going.

[neverstops]

The Master caught himself in half a stumble, refusing to let Jack send him to the ground. He was not going to sit around and beg the immortal for anything. That was, perhaps, the only reason he willingly walked to the lift, letting his eyes wander around the facility. So this was Torchwood's base. Smaller than he expected.

[chronosexual]

Dream time seemed to move a lot quicker than it would have normally, because within a matter of seconds, Jack was uncuffing The Master from behind a heavy metal door, and then on the other side, triumphantly looking at him through the glass as though it were a zoo cage. And yes, there was tea. And even a few biscuits. Isn't he nice. Jack had his own mug of coffee that he just stood there sipping at, completely pleased with himself. Sure, giving The Master a taste of his own medicine would be nice, but this method would get him a lot less scorn by The Doctor. He would have never forgiven him if Jack had "accidentally" killed the only other Time Lord in the universe.

"There. All settled in. Comfy?"

[neverstops]

The Master didn't respond to his question, sitting on the floor, his back resting on the door at the back of his cell. So he was right, after all. Just another exhibit in Torchwood's archives. Master, Time Lord, Second to Last. He watched Jack, wondering how long it would take him to go mad with the sound of the drums, alone in his cell, in the darkness.

"Extremely. First class hospitality." The bite to his words seemed to lose it's edge near the end.