into the maze [CLOSED]

[masterous.livejournal.com]

WHO: [Bad username or site: midnite_md title= @ livejournal.com]  & [Bad username or site: masterous title= @ livejournal.com]  (also [Bad username or site: was_sleeping title= @ livejournal.com] in the waiting room)
WHERE: the ImPort Clinic
WHEN: tentatively Monday, May 3
WARNINGS: some minor medical-related nudity?
SUMMARY: after this, the Master visits a mere-human physician
FORMAT: para to start, after that, anything goes

The Master stood in the Import Clinic waiting room, posture haughty, lip and brow furrowed with upmost contempt towards his surroundings. When he had said the whole stupid stinking human disgrace could fall into the pit, he had never thought visiting said disgusting depression would be in order ...

The Time Lord fiddled primly with his gloves. This was Harold Saxon's appointment, and he looked the part in his classically nondescript suit. Here said persona was a red herring for a beloved enemy who was gone but not forgotten. Like a bad penny, he always returned, and the Master would be ready when his fellow renegade did. One-hundred and seventy-eight centimetres in height, thin, brown hair, brown eyes - this was a form which hugged some useful norms, but also possessed a face the good Doctor knew by sight alone, and the Master of disguise had every intention of wielding all the above to his favour. This visage still had a place in its Master's plans, yet remained - by Time Lord standards - fundamentally transitory. Humans were fond of saying that it was what one possessed inside, beyond the superficial, which counted. For once they were uncharacteristically correct, and that was what brought him here today ...

The "Porter" which had transported the Gallifreyan to this spatial-temporal permutation of Sol Three had also granted his once-doomed body some manner of reprieve. But how stable, and for how long, remained to be seen. From the assessments he was currently capable of, this form - despite some concerning energetic anomalies, "hotspots", as it were - appeared in adequate condition. But there was a vast difference between near-rest operations and the stress of a regeneration. The Master desired comprehensive data on the state of this body, though why construct such a device yourself when they might exist for the taking? Some of those pulled into this city possessed technology and technological prowess above the earthling norm, and this "Dr. Mid-Nite" showed evidence of at least the former. Annoying, yes, but still a human physician with that Achilles heel of a Hippocratic oath to blind him. The trap was set, it only remained to be seen if there was prey worth springing it on. The Time Lord would get his data - and possibly more - one way or the other, now or later.

As the Master of all, it was his right.

Comments

[was-sleeping.livejournal.com]

Whiskey, Crystal, Stephen, Claire, whoever she is today (it's Claire), well. She doesn't have any patients at the moment, so she's sitting in the waiting room with a cup of coffee in one hand and a copy of Highlights (for Children) in the other.

Damn, the Timbertoes are seriously engrosing, aren't they?

[masterous.livejournal.com]

Nothing in the waiting room was catching the Time Lord's attention for anything more than twenty bored or eye-rolling nano-spans, be it torn posters warning him about diseases he needn't waste neural capacity on because his body would never succumb to something so crude, worn magazines from forgettable time windows, or a human reeking of coffee with her feminine nose in one of said tired hard-copy serials. However, with the television remote hypnotically swiped procured, matters brightened considerably. The Master plops himself down in a strategic chair, arm extended to flip - a bit inhumanly fast - through the available channels, legs straight, ankles crossed, lips pursed inward, brows raised expectantly ...

"Ah!" A flashy and seizure-inducing child's program found, his visage turns gleeful, elbows to chair arms, remote in hands and one set of gloved digits drumming a familiar rhythm against its finger-polished surface. As much as he despised humanity, they almost deserved amnesty for such delightful creations. The Time Lord cackled as cheerfully-animated cartoon animals battled via broad-spectrum laser fields discharged from their tails ... almost.

[was-sleeping.livejournal.com]

Claire glanced up for a moment at the rhythmic tapping, and then again at the laughing. She thinks that it's an interesting reaction to a children's show. For an adult, anyway.

Well. An adult who isn't a doll.

[masterous.livejournal.com]

To say a Time Lord brain is always a flurry of activity is to understate reality almost to the extent of missing said point entirely. With superganglial threading and macro-micro neural allocations, they are literally capable of doing hundreds upon thousands of things at once. However, conscious control over neuronic partitioning does have its drawbacks. Balance matters poorly, and you can easily lose the metallic forest for a particularly slivern tree, or the other way around. At the moment, though, it is only a single leporid who has been momentarily overlooked, having blended oh so very well into its environment.

"Sandleford, Efrafa, Watership Down, or that dreadful warren of the Shining Wire," the Master asks, though it rolls off his tongue more like a whimsical statement. The Time Lord's eyes are only for the television, fingers still tapping, but the voice possesses a clear and condescending tone which is probably all too recognizable.

[was-sleeping.livejournal.com]

More than a little familiar, and it makes her smirk. Just a little bit. "Does it have to be any of those?"

[masterous.livejournal.com]

He frowns, head cocked pensively as if the matter was actually being granted the honour of thought, before shrugging. The gesture is casual, but within it the Time Lord has locked psychic barriers and tuned senses towards the distance he shares with dear "Clover". The Master is by no means threatened by the human female, yet considering the ability she admitted to having, a few measures seemed prudent. His mind and memories are just that ... his.

[was-sleeping.livejournal.com]

She isn't touching him, of course, and therefore there will be no memory removals or attempts at such a thing. "Here to see a doctor, I imagine."

[masterous.livejournal.com]

Of course, but dearest "Bunny" hadn't been all that specific about said modus operandi ...

"I wouldn't say that," he replies, tone clearly stating you shouldn't either. "But what brings a rabbit to this nameless warren, or is it the warren to such barren downs?"

[was-sleeping.livejournal.com]

She stares at him for a moment. Oh, right. The rabbits. "I work here. Dr Saunders works here. Claire."

[masterous.livejournal.com]

The Master turns his head to look at her - eyes a touch narrow, even though the latter isn't required for his Gallifreyan vision to make out her name tag - and then smiles as he rises from his seat, a curl of the lips brimming with devious interest. He strides towards "Claire", coming to rest across from her but prudently out of arms reach, sitting on the arm of a chair situated ninety-degrees from the one she is occupying. The Time Lord's gaze shamelessly travels over her person. The eyes aren't narrowed, but the scrutiny is no less assessing.

"My, aren't you just full of surprises," The Master says, sampling the temporal air with a breath rendered superfluous by his efficient pulmonary system. A "doctor" had fallen into his lap. Some might call it coincidence, but the latter was a gross term wielded by those who had no concept of how space and time actually functioned.

[was-sleeping.livejournal.com]

"Memories. Minds. Personalities. Surprises, I don't know about." She tilted her head and watched him. "Why are you here?"

[masterous.livejournal.com]

"You wouldn't," he says - spine straight, chin up - before leaning closer. Yes, something smells ever so sweet. "A surprise can't unfurl itself," the Master adds, head tilting to match hers, brows up, talking down to the human before him in more ways than one.

Though, a touch of displeasure washes over the Time Lord's face at her inquiry. "I have a date with some data. A Doctor Midnight will be assisting me," he answers, tone still oh so patronizing. "Do you know him?"

[was-sleeping.livejournal.com]

"I know my mind." That's not entirely true, is it? She doesn't know who she was originally. She may not even know who she is now. Not really. When he leans closer, she leans slightly back. A tendency of Claire's probably.

Hey, if someone had carved your face up, you'd lean back too.

"Know him. Yes. No. Maybe." Aaaand off goes Claire, and there lies Whiskey. Even and almost completely un-emotional tone, doll-eyes and blank face. "I know people. Police officers. Doctors. Other imports. My roomates. Alpha. I do not know if I know Dr Midnite."

[midnite-md.livejournal.com]

This annoying Dr. Mid-Nite is tempted to keep this Time Lord waiting just due to the strange delight he takes in upsetting the arrogant man. But he decides against it, as he's never been a man of such pettiness, and there's the chance that he possesses some sort of superhuman powers that could spell danger for the other patients here if his petulant temper is raised.

"So," he says, as he steps into the waiting room. "Mr. Saxon is it?"

[masterous.livejournal.com]

Fingers knit behind his back, the Master sweeps into the voice he's been expecting, visage pursed with attentive contempt, narrow gaze exhibiting the honed sharpness of an intellect with centuries of experience assessing - and looking down upon - others. As the Time Lord steps, straightening from a slight lean, his head cocks - an arrogant stretch and contraction of the throat which is actually a reflexive assessment of mimicry, for one never knew when any given vocal signature might prove useful, even a subpar ...

"Doctor Midnight, I presume ..."

[midnite-md.livejournal.com]

If he could hear how he spelled the moniker, he wouldn't bother correcting it anyway. Truth be told, if he wasn't carrying a mantle created by a man he admired, that's how he'd spell it himself.

"Indeed," comes the response. "If you'd like to come with me, sir, we can hopefully get started on curing what ails you."

No hint of sarcasm. As yet. He'll give this Time Lord a chance to be a decent patient once the posturing is no longer necessary.

[masterous.livejournal.com]

He presents Dr. Mid-Nite's polite sincerity with a broad, closed-mouth, smile. That is, until the latter words hit air.

"Now you're the one with presumptions," the Master replies as he strides to step not behind, but alongside and perhaps even a tad ahead of, the physician. "Thinking all who request your services require bettering ..."

[ooc: sorry, poor word choice given my last tag >.> Oh, the trials of slow-tagging XD;;]

[midnite-md.livejournal.com]

"That is generally the nature of my profession, Mr. Saxon," comes the even-tempered response. "Perhaps you could deign to address my apparent ignorance and clearly state your goals with this appointment?"

Calm. Find your center, Pieter.

[masterous.livejournal.com]

How he hates repeating himself, but the Master had told this physician what was desired, not Harold Saxon. Such is the aggravation of maintaining aliases, even ones which are only thinly-veiled red herrings.

"A physical assessment," The Time Lord says, dulling his language as to appear closer to human, but doing nothing about the lofty tone. "Output from your most comprehensive scanner, or from more than one if we must concatenate."

[ooc: bleh, sorry, bad tense >.>]

[midnite-md.livejournal.com]

"Concatenation may certainly proffer more indemnification against erroneous conclusions," the doctor replies in equally lofty language as he leads the Lord into a large and reasonably well-equipped laboratory, including CAT scanners and other large machineries.

"Is there any more specific information you are looking for, or do you simply want a full, comprehensive analysis of your entire human form, which will take some time?"

[masterous.livejournal.com]

The Time Lord makes some manner of noncommittal noise at the physician's reply, eyes surveying the contents of this so-called laboratory, and looking down upon all of it.

"The latter, more or less," he answers, and with a shrewd stare the human comment deserved. It was amusing how often individuals from races with the most superficial of morphological similarities to a Gallifreyan mistook him for one of their own, when it wasn't insulting. "Nothing which generates a strong magnetic field, as for time ... it's mine to waste. Time isn't money, but in this case, the aphorism applies." The Master's gaze wanders to some manner of apparatus, but this pull at attention doesn't register in his voice. "You're being compensated."

[midnite-md.livejournal.com]

"So noted. Then we'll start with the full-body scan. If you'll disrobe and lay down upon that table right there, we can begin."

The table in question sits in front of a rather large apparatus, and looks to be on a conveyer to slide a prone body into said machine when activated.

[masterous.livejournal.com]

Eyes look up, rolling in the exaggerated manner many of his now-dead people had asked Rassilon to grant them patience ... as if he would ever plead with that stuffy founder of the once-great Time Lord society for anything.

I take it that ..." The Master gestures idly towards the apparatus while a silk-lined suit coat slips from his shoulders. "... contraption is unable to counter-prointerpenetrate for clothing?" He pauses, ever so briefly displaying that the mere unfastening of a cufflink succeeds in holding his interest longer than anything else in the room. "How antiquated."

Regardless, the Gallifreyan follows the physician's instructions with an air of irreverent humouring. This device is far from advanced, but it's nothing the Master desires to waste time and resources on personally reproducing. Besides, even the product of an infantile toss of x-rays can be quadigitally scanned, and thus possibly of some use, despite the meagre probability. The Time Lord settles onto the table with an extraneously heavy breath, and a touch of fidgeting as his eyes close, allowing his alien biology to relax away from any constraints he imposes on it for the sake of blending in.

"You may proceed."

[midnite-md.livejournal.com]

"A good scientist of any sort takes pains to isolate variables, Mr. Saxon," comes the even response, trying to force his irritation with this man's attitude to become bemusement. It's not always easy being well-mannered.

"I thank you for your permission," he manages, through gritting teeth, although ambient scanning has already begun on certain devices, to test any potential strange energy signatures or radition levels or auras that may be emanating from him. Once he's ready, though, the more in-depth assessment begins, as the table moves him slowly into the machine.

"Your body temperature appears to be quite low. Are you feeling ill in any way?"

[masterous.livejournal.com]

"And you martyr yourself on these antiques, like a good and saintly physician," the Master replies, tone dipping heavily into something ostentatious, and heavily seasoned with well-aged mockery. He chooses to ignore the thankful pleasantry, but responds to the inquiry which follows. The Time Lord pardons the man for misdiagnosing the hypothermia - the Master had mentioned such, not Harold Saxon. However, a hallway reprimand so quickly forgotten?

"Recalibrate for a norm of fifteen degrees Celsius," the Gallifreyan states. Humans. They possessed the most selective of memories. "And you're the doctor," he continues, the scanner's acoustics rendering his voice even loftier than intended. "You tell me ..."