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thoughtformed2012-05-25 09:40 pm
just_so) wrote in thoughtformed2012-05-25 09:40 pm
Entry tags:
We now return to your regularly scheduled dungeon games
Who: Moriarty and The Master
What: Watching the Dungeon Channels.
When: All through the plot
Where: AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION that also gets basic cable
Warnings: Blood, violence, psychopaths. Two terrible minds in one room doing terrible things
Moriarty had been irritated for just a few moments. Sherlock was HIS. No one got to fuck with Sherlock's life unless he said so. But after a few, short moments of scowling, Moriarty decided he could put his plans on hold to watch whatever suffering the island had in store for the other piece of his twisted games. He had dropped by to discuss the progress of their game piece and the Master's toy, just in time for the broadcasts to start. And as if on cue, there was Sherlock. Unconscious. On the floor of some unknown location. Handcuffed to an orange freak.
Jim's day was proving less boring than usual.
The Master glanced up from the scattered pieces of the newest invention for grief and misery he was working on. Laying low was really not his style. He preferred the Doctor to know directly that it was he that was doing things. He liked the credit. Enjoyed the reactions that came with the realization that he had been behind it all along. But there was some... intelligence to Moriarty's suggestion that he stay out of sight a while.Especially with two doctors running about.
He had the Tele on, as he always did, to some pointless children's show. They were far more entertaining than the dull dramas of human televison. But when the new channels appeared he was just as fascinated as Moriarty had been. Namely because he found the strange orange man oddly reminiscent of those ingenious teletubbie creatures. He shifted in his chair, hand reaching for the remote to see if this was on other channels as well.
Moriarty snatched the remote before the Master could reach it. He slid into one of the old, rumpled chairs, eyes positively riveted to the flicker of the screen. One hand curled beneath his chin, the other clutching the remote to the arm of the chair. Sherlock Holmes on reality tv. How amusing. A slow, sly smirk slid across his face and sharp eyes tracked every movement.
This might not have been his idea, but oh, he did enjoy a good game.
"Oh, Sherlock. Don't act so surprised. This was bound to happen to you sooner or later. Your faithful blogger has been setting you up for reality tele for so long, now."
The Master grit his teeth slightly when the remote was snatched away. Eventually he followed Jim's example and took a seat as well. He leaned on the arm of the chair, putting on a bored expression. Drumming his fingers on the armrest. So. This was the famous Sherlock Holmes. He didn't look like much. He did not even sound particularly clever. How clever could a human be, anyway.
"This? This is the 'great; Sherlock Holmes? He looks like a cartoon gold fish." The Master makes a face at the screen, but leans forward a bit more to watch what the sword wielding kid would do regardless.
Jim was paying no heed to his huffy viewing companion. He was studying every inch of the visual the tele shows for clues to the whereabouts of one Sherlock Holmes. On the off chance the consulting detective had found himself in over his head and Moriarty had to go and rescue him. After all. No one was allowed to end Sherlock Holmes' life until Moriarty was done with him.
Until he was shown to be at real risk, however, Moriarty would not lift a finger. Why not enjoy the free show made for his entertainment?
---
It's several hours later before The Master manages to snatch the remote from Moriarty. Rather like a strange sitcom, the pair of them had been exchanging amused remarks and observations over the failures and successes of Team Who gives a fuck what number, they did not care about that part.
It's only after Jim gets up that he manages to snag the remote. Bored of watching the same team, and Sherlock 'show off' Holmes. He flips through the channels. Pausing less than a minute on each until a familiar face shows on screen. One that has him simultaneously attempt to sneer and smirk.
Jack Harkness.
Jack Harkness with a hammer.
Jack Harkness witha hammer to his wrist.
The Master smirked, eying the screen with something very like contempt. Yes. This show was much more entertaining.
Jim inwardly bristled at the change in channel upon his return. His head gave a slow, snaking twist as he stood beside The Master's chair. The slow drip of water from the ceiling incessantly splatting to the floor routinely. His eyes trailed over the screen. Expression one of calm, bored composure. Bad Master. No. You do not touch Jim's things. No one touches Jim's things. Inanimate or animate.
He does spare a moment for the man on the screen with the terrified girl. Kaylee. Yes. That was her name. Annoyingly sugary thing. High on the list of manipulatible persons. Unlike Harkness. Who was mostly on the list of 'boring' and 'does not die'. A surprisingly expansive list on this island.
"What does it matter. It will just grow back. How dull. Predictable and boring. I guarantee you the woman will either faint, or chicken out at the last moment."
The Master frowned slightly. Jim was clever, but he was bloody annoying and obsessed with that Holmes character. It was all well and good the first two hours, but the Master was bored of watching the floppy haired oaf wander about his 'dungeon'. He put up with that. Jim could complain as much as he liked. The Master was in control of the remote now. And he was not giving it up without a fight. Maybe if Jim avoided being intolerably whiny he would change it back. He smirked at the tele, leaning back in his chair and ignoring Jim entirely.
Moriarty knew when he was being ignored. He could read the manic time lord like a book most days. It was far too easy to manipulate him. The real challenge was convincing him that the Master was the one pulling the strings. The marvel of it was that so far? He actually believed it.
He turned on his expensive leather heels and headed back to the microwave, giving the side of it a rough smack until it dinged and the popping stopped. The entire place smelled of popcorn and mildew.
Sliding into the lumpy chair once more, he tugged the bag open, popping half a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
"Get on with it already, girl."
What: Watching the Dungeon Channels.
When: All through the plot
Where: AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION that also gets basic cable
Warnings: Blood, violence, psychopaths. Two terrible minds in one room doing terrible things
Moriarty had been irritated for just a few moments. Sherlock was HIS. No one got to fuck with Sherlock's life unless he said so. But after a few, short moments of scowling, Moriarty decided he could put his plans on hold to watch whatever suffering the island had in store for the other piece of his twisted games. He had dropped by to discuss the progress of their game piece and the Master's toy, just in time for the broadcasts to start. And as if on cue, there was Sherlock. Unconscious. On the floor of some unknown location. Handcuffed to an orange freak.
Jim's day was proving less boring than usual.
The Master glanced up from the scattered pieces of the newest invention for grief and misery he was working on. Laying low was really not his style. He preferred the Doctor to know directly that it was he that was doing things. He liked the credit. Enjoyed the reactions that came with the realization that he had been behind it all along. But there was some... intelligence to Moriarty's suggestion that he stay out of sight a while.Especially with two doctors running about.
He had the Tele on, as he always did, to some pointless children's show. They were far more entertaining than the dull dramas of human televison. But when the new channels appeared he was just as fascinated as Moriarty had been. Namely because he found the strange orange man oddly reminiscent of those ingenious teletubbie creatures. He shifted in his chair, hand reaching for the remote to see if this was on other channels as well.
Moriarty snatched the remote before the Master could reach it. He slid into one of the old, rumpled chairs, eyes positively riveted to the flicker of the screen. One hand curled beneath his chin, the other clutching the remote to the arm of the chair. Sherlock Holmes on reality tv. How amusing. A slow, sly smirk slid across his face and sharp eyes tracked every movement.
This might not have been his idea, but oh, he did enjoy a good game.
"Oh, Sherlock. Don't act so surprised. This was bound to happen to you sooner or later. Your faithful blogger has been setting you up for reality tele for so long, now."
The Master grit his teeth slightly when the remote was snatched away. Eventually he followed Jim's example and took a seat as well. He leaned on the arm of the chair, putting on a bored expression. Drumming his fingers on the armrest. So. This was the famous Sherlock Holmes. He didn't look like much. He did not even sound particularly clever. How clever could a human be, anyway.
"This? This is the 'great; Sherlock Holmes? He looks like a cartoon gold fish." The Master makes a face at the screen, but leans forward a bit more to watch what the sword wielding kid would do regardless.
Jim was paying no heed to his huffy viewing companion. He was studying every inch of the visual the tele shows for clues to the whereabouts of one Sherlock Holmes. On the off chance the consulting detective had found himself in over his head and Moriarty had to go and rescue him. After all. No one was allowed to end Sherlock Holmes' life until Moriarty was done with him.
Until he was shown to be at real risk, however, Moriarty would not lift a finger. Why not enjoy the free show made for his entertainment?
---
It's several hours later before The Master manages to snatch the remote from Moriarty. Rather like a strange sitcom, the pair of them had been exchanging amused remarks and observations over the failures and successes of Team Who gives a fuck what number, they did not care about that part.
It's only after Jim gets up that he manages to snag the remote. Bored of watching the same team, and Sherlock 'show off' Holmes. He flips through the channels. Pausing less than a minute on each until a familiar face shows on screen. One that has him simultaneously attempt to sneer and smirk.
Jack Harkness.
Jack Harkness with a hammer.
Jack Harkness witha hammer to his wrist.
The Master smirked, eying the screen with something very like contempt. Yes. This show was much more entertaining.
Jim inwardly bristled at the change in channel upon his return. His head gave a slow, snaking twist as he stood beside The Master's chair. The slow drip of water from the ceiling incessantly splatting to the floor routinely. His eyes trailed over the screen. Expression one of calm, bored composure. Bad Master. No. You do not touch Jim's things. No one touches Jim's things. Inanimate or animate.
He does spare a moment for the man on the screen with the terrified girl. Kaylee. Yes. That was her name. Annoyingly sugary thing. High on the list of manipulatible persons. Unlike Harkness. Who was mostly on the list of 'boring' and 'does not die'. A surprisingly expansive list on this island.
"What does it matter. It will just grow back. How dull. Predictable and boring. I guarantee you the woman will either faint, or chicken out at the last moment."
The Master frowned slightly. Jim was clever, but he was bloody annoying and obsessed with that Holmes character. It was all well and good the first two hours, but the Master was bored of watching the floppy haired oaf wander about his 'dungeon'. He put up with that. Jim could complain as much as he liked. The Master was in control of the remote now. And he was not giving it up without a fight. Maybe if Jim avoided being intolerably whiny he would change it back. He smirked at the tele, leaning back in his chair and ignoring Jim entirely.
Moriarty knew when he was being ignored. He could read the manic time lord like a book most days. It was far too easy to manipulate him. The real challenge was convincing him that the Master was the one pulling the strings. The marvel of it was that so far? He actually believed it.
He turned on his expensive leather heels and headed back to the microwave, giving the side of it a rough smack until it dinged and the popping stopped. The entire place smelled of popcorn and mildew.
Sliding into the lumpy chair once more, he tugged the bag open, popping half a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
"Get on with it already, girl."