Oi, don't you laugh at me. It might happen to you someday.
[She means the whole regenerating into a woman thing. Missy would prefer to show than tell. She makes a grab for the Doctor's wrist. He might choose to shrink back or pull away, and if that's his choice, then this time she'll let him. Otherwise, she'll press his hand flat against her chest and let him feel the beating of her hearts.]
Where? Gallifrey. Where the grass was red and the leaves were silver on the trees. Where Borusa's lectures bored us to sleep. Where we asked the same questions and arrived at opposite answers. Where we played and learned and grew, and you promised me we'd see every star in the sky. You're more of a tourist, I'm more of a conquerer. Ringing any bells?
[After hearing all of this, his face was still, his eyes blinking in disbelief]
The Master...is now the Mistress? [he immediately starts laughing again. He does struggle at first, but lets her do it. Now it sinks in]
You...left a while back. I lost you forever.
I wouldn't say I'm a tourist, I'm one that travels helping those that need help. That's why I chose the Doctor. You like to kill, to conquer. I'm sure you got on well with the Romans.
The man who makes people better. You're sanctimonious. Vain, arrogant and sentimental.
[She doesn't sound angry with him. If anything, in spite of the unflattering word choices, she sound a little bit fond. It's her turn to laugh when he says she left. No apologies.]
Silly. You couldn't lose me "forever" if you tried. You know me. I don't stay dead. Immortality or bust.
[In actuality, she found the Romans boring. She doesn't bother to tell him so.]
Now, dearest, would you mind dropping me off in Bristol? Anytime after 1917, with a thousand-year margin for error. I'd drive, but my head is killing me.
Oh, I don't know about that. I'm the most clever person in the room. [He's just as smug]
Yes, you could get around our biology. I'd like to see that happen. Although, you did switch gender. I've never seen that before. But really...you won't. [He has never heard of it and there will never will be such a thing. Hmph.]
You do, hmm? That's...interesting. [he tries not to shiver visibly. Yes, he/she was his best friend. But the way they've acted in all these centuries before and after? Not good.]
You find a room and rest. I'll get you where you want to go.
Excuse you? [She plants her hands on her hips, objecting to the assertion that he's the cleverest.] You're so young and cocky. You're the prettiest one in the room, I'll give you that.
[Missy's only heard a little folklore about regenerating into another gender, and it didn't seem to apply very well to her situation.]
I'm not up to anything naughty. You'd be taking me straight back to a quantum fold chamber with my name on it. A thousand years of solitary confinement.
At least, that's what it's meant to be. You let me out sometimes to stretch my legs, or take one of your little goodness tests. You're teaching me. I rescued a cat out of a tree once. You loved it. [Oops, gotta preserve the timeline.] Forget I told you.
Pretty? Well, there's a time for everything. [he blushes] Never heard that before, I had this face.
Riiight. When are you not? Whatever gender you are, evil deeds are not far behind. How can I trust that you would be up to good behavior, rather than no good? Hmm? [eyebrow raised]
[The Doctor's mind was like a trap, but he would somehow lose that memory on his next regenration. No use tempting himself.]
Willingly resigning to confinement? Nope. [pops the p] Don't believe it.
[She smirks lopsidedly, looking like a fox in a henhouse. She can't help it. This incarnation has what the Doctor's future self would call a 'wicked stepmother' look. She doesn't wear innocence very well.]
Easy. You want to trust me. You know you shouldn't, but you can't help yourself. You can't bear to snuff out that tiny flickering flame of hope. It's okay. I can't help wanting things from you, either. That's just who we are.
I haven't tried to make you dead or miserable in the past few minutes, have I?
[It's tempting. It's really tempting to get all murdery, but she hasn't.]
Before a bespectacled Collector can compose his response, a piercing, mechanical whining carries through his chambers. He is leaning over something resembling an unpolished, cast-iron desk in his office, where his attentions were divided between a handheld communication device and the mold eating away at a near-complete skeleton of some long-dead and long-forgotten creature. (Well, long-forgotten to most.) With a push of a button on his "desk", something resembling a glass cloche jar apparates around the newly categorized Tivan Collection piece XTC-78-198-B90-so-on-and-so-forth. There are screens, nestled between bookshelves surrounding his work station. He turns his head and searches the screens.
There. Captured by camera #37-A-such-and-such, in the exhibit containing the remains of a UCT Templeship. Nothing appears terribly damaged by her landing. But she did set off an alarm and, in very little time...Whatever-Contraption-She-Was-In was being surrounded by mechanical Gatherers and one very growly, four-legged Head of Security.
Yes. That must have been the...Thing. With the Chameleon Circuit.
A push of a second button, and, then, rather calmly,] Stand down. The intruder is our guest. Stand down. Gatherers: please see the record of the Master or the Mistress, cross-reference Known Time-Lords. космо: Рядом. Рядом. [The Museum's public address system repeats his orders, albeit with slight delay and a tinny quality to the audio, but his servants hear and obey. (The Security Chief, in particular, becomes especially waggy when he hears his owner's voice.)] Hello Missy. I will be joining you soon. Please do not destroy my droids or my dog.
[A second push of a button and, without removing his eyepiece, Taneleer Tivan trudges out to fulfill his promise.
When you've lived long enough and you'd traveled far enough, there were certain names you were continually bound to hear and often use and elbows you'd inevitably rub. If you'd continued living, travelling, learning names, and rubbing elbows, you'd also inevitably watch those lists shrink. And there was nothing that could be done about that. But, some time after realizing this terribly essential truth, those few names you'd still be able to repeat aloud, with every vowel and every consonant that constructed it, became gilded. You may have forgotten how you'd come to learn the name in the first place or when your elbow had first brushed theirs, but, after this point, ignorance of such things mattered not.
So it is with a good deal of relish that the Collector arrives in this exhibit, knocking on the...door of the thing as he repeats,] Hello Missy.
[Missy's well aware of the fact that she triggered an alarm. That would be why she remains ensconced in her vessel, standing at the main console, watching on a monitor of her own while a welcome wagon converges on her position. In the scheme of things, materialisation is a soft landing. The weight of the vehicle itself is variable, situational, thanks to some wholly scientific reality-bending.
She doesn't perceive the Gatherers as a threat to her TARDIS, as long as it's closed, but they could pose a threat to her. The concept of destroying what she feels threatened by holds an obvious appeal. It makes her giddy just thinking about it, possibly more so once she's been asked not to. She restrains herself. It seems smarter to let the situation de-escalate. She wouldn't want to offend her gracious host, or test his defences the hard way. Her fingernails tap an idle four-beat rhythm against the console while she waits to be received properly.
There was a time she would have said it was less about rubbing elbows, and more about knowing whom not to cross. She's a little warmer to the elbow-rubbing now, slowly coming to understand the same essential truth the Collector has. Missy is technically less alone now than she's been for centuries, but somewhen, she was one of two Time Lords in all accessible existence. That brand of uniqueness is not a state of being she'd recommend, especially not when the other one's insufferable. She has genuine sympathy for any of the 'last' living anythings in the Tivan Collection.
In a given universe, most things are fragile. She perceives the twisted altruism in what the Collector does. On the whole, conservation strikes her as a noble goal, and it certainly seems like more work than letting everything crumble. After all, it doesn't take an entity of supreme power to wipe out a civilisation or annihilate a species. All it takes is cleverness and timing. Missy would know, having done it herself many times before.
In any case, the Master's TARDIS is a fairly nondescript box when the Collector knocks. The door opens inward and Missy hops straight out. She swaps her umbrella from hand to hand, and then offers him her right hand. She's anticipating that he might want it for some gentlemanly purpose.
Being a woman affords her endless opportunities to play and joke at her own expense. It might be obvious she was a misogynist before, from the way she overperforms femininity now. Come to think of it, she was misanthropic in general. She smirks wicked step-mother style, putting his person under quick scrutiny.]
Taneleer Tivan, you handsome devil. You don't disappoint.
[That is an outfit, relatively utilitarian or not. She's tempted to ask him to do a little twirl so she can check out the back. Meeting up like this is not without risk. They're a potent combination of irreverent genius. He could try to acquire something of hers, or her, and she could do irreparable damage to his entire operation. All part of the fun, she suspects, for both of them. He may or may not know what the umbrella's for. It's not for weather. Her kind don't leave home without a sonic or laser device. She wouldn't visit unarmed. It feels like they get along well, but that's less reason to trust him rather than more. He has the home advantage, if he wants to be enemies rather than friends. She's not letting it bother her, focusing singularly on him, rather than his Security Chief or his 'disposables'.
Incidentally, it's only once the Time Lady's outside of her vessel that it starts having an identity crisis. Her TARDIS first blends itself in with the remains of the UCT Templeship, then cycles through several other exotic appearances, likely more recognisable to the Collector than they are to the Mistress. When those forms prove somehow unsatisfactory, it resigns itself to being a 19th century Earth longcase clock. The clock matches absolutely nothing, except perhaps Missy's aesthetic sensibilities. She shoots it a flat look over her shoulder.]
Oh, yeah. Give up. Not like we're trying to impress anyone, is it?
[The chameleon circuit demonstration could have gone better. She has the decency to look sheepish about the uninspired outcome.]
[To those possessing even the most passing acquaintanceship with the Collector, it is fairly obvious that he has a fascination with fashions. (At least two bits of evidence that can be readily drawn from this tableau: his now-yipping little dog in its historically-inaccurate but adorable cosmonaut dog suit and his own custom-made number, the latter a minimalist, work-ready something he'd switched into after quickly discarding his mold-removing outfit.)
Something less obvious is that Taneleer Tivan does not limit fashion to costume. The attitude, the mannerisms, the way someone carries themselves and wears themselves, these could serve as endlessly interesting statement pieces in-and-of-themselves.
The over-the-top manner that the Master offers her hand, the way that her...clock so readily changes itself to fit its surroundings (as if, perhaps, to make a good first impression) and, then, to match its owner...both so equally pique the Collector’s interest as eagerly as the Master’s odd accessory of an umbrella. (His records on Time Lords are, admittedly, limited and, so, he almost dismisses this umbrella as a simple aesthetic piece. Almost.) He does not take a step back when the thing switches form, having been told to expect such a thing; instead, with a quirk of his brow, he removes his eye-piece and automatically takes the Time-Lady's hand. (Because he certainly didn't see a reason not to play along.)] Master.
You're both looking very well. [Her and her clock. Neither of which seemed to set his still-barking dog at ease.
Without so much as looking down at the little beast,] космо. веди себя хорошо. это наши гости.
[The creature sadly bows its head, but, so obediently as always, ceases its barking. (A clear reason why the dog is a favorite of his.)
[She upholds a standard with her appearance, neither pretty or practical, but a standard nevertheless. Her limited participation in fashion has been discussed. She has one costume, though it is a many-layered one: chemise, drawers, corset, stockings, petticoat, skirt, blouse and coat, paired with anachronistic makeup and nail polish. Missy has inconsistent notions of modesty and decorum. Ultimately the joke's on her, because this womanly stuff is less for pretend than she thinks.
She's forgotten the language he's using for his dog. Shame about that, since it's only in Slavic fairytales that she's ever been identified by name instead of a variation on her title. It was a faux pas, letting that slip. A name is a private and intimate thing for a Time Lord. Her friend the Doctor guards his name especially well.
Compensating for her failure, the TARDIS translates via psychic field. Her clock knows that the Collector is telling his Head of Security to behave, therefore Missy knows. Can't fault the dog as a judge of character. Her lips curl in another thin, uneven smile.]
I could eat. I'd rather not eat him, though. He's only being protective of you.
[A connection between unrelated thoughts which she's aware the Collector never intended for her to make. She'll happily go where he leads. The alternative to being led, she's sure, would be getting immediately and hopelessly lost in the exhibits.]
[The poor spacedog stares back, wide-eyed, and whines. But the Collector, nevertheless, bends forward and kisses Missy's hand. As is the fashion of a person like him.] As beneficial as I believe our new alliance will be, I'd rather you didn't make comments like that about my Security Chief. Dogs are incredibly cognizant of what people speak of them and космо is no exception in this regard.
[His voice is barely above a hiss. Ireless even. Such seems appropriate for the Master's Companion. (Yes. He is trying that on. Seeing how a thing like this fits.)
Taneleer had, perhaps, known the Master some incarnations ago and dealt with him as a mutually shady sort of contact, but he was still a little skeptical of the Master's request for his companionship over dispatch. And how she'd spoken of the loneliness that came with their sorts (not that he was of her species, but...well, they are of a similar ilk). And her generous offer to help with his Collecting.
No. A person like Taneleer had lived a little too long to listen to such a spiel and believe every word, without searching for truths in the speaker's eyes.
He straightens his back and stares at Missy's incredibly distinctive visage. She's here, like he'd asked (more or less). And they could say the sorts of things that felt too personal for dispatches. And they could look for signs of sincerity to what they'd said.] There is a nearby dining hall where I can call for more appropriate things that you can sup. As we talk business. [He holds his other arm out, not at all unlike a wing.] Whatever else you would request, I can have prepared.
[He proceeds to lead her out of the clock. While his hand gently guides hers forward, his thoughts fly. (Perhaps the clock picks up on this stream-of-consciousness.) They are cautious. They beckon. They ask that the clock be minded.
космо's ears perk up. His expression remains somewhat pitiable, but his posture improves. He looks to the clock.]
[For what it's worth, Missy thoroughly participated in that kiss on the hand. She coyly wilted on the spot, shrinking her posture while at the same time extending her hand a little further toward him. (It's good fun. There's an actual swoon in her repertoire, but she's never had a chance to use it.)
They touched upon the subject of morality. Missy is somewhat more tractable than her past selves, with nowhere to go but up. It's historically unsafe, telling her what not to say or do, and yet here she's able to interpret a preference rather than a challenge or a defiance. His tact helped.]
As you'd rather. [A loose shrug rolls off her shoulders.] I don't get on with most pets. Terrans especially. Might be allergic. [She does mean to imply that the humans themselves would be the pets in that case, not the domesticated animals the humans are prone to keeping.
Her clock is left behind without a backward glance. The Collector has shown more regard for космо's feelings than she has for her vehicle's. She requested during their messaging that he be nice to it, but she isn't especially nice to it herself. She can leave her TARDIS alone for ages. Missy's been unfaithful, seeing other methods of time travel on the side.
The TARDIS could well be privy to the Collector's stream of consciousness, but relaying it to Missy would be beyond its capacity for direct communication. The translation of spoken language is handled separately and automatically. Missy's still only guessing what this TARDIS thinks of her, let alone what it might have to say about anybody else. In other words, she'll have to discern her host's tactics for herself. Her paranoia can be overactive. Her own non-technological touch-based telepathy has weakened with age, like eyesight in some creatures.
She thinks she meant the offer of companionship sincerely, but she isn't settled on what companionship would mean for them. Should the Collector be permitted to properly examine her vehicle and devices, she's certain he would comprehend every function and potential application. He's very knowledgeable. She holds him high regard, particularly relative to how dim and inferior she deems most lifeforms. Strolling along, she's cheerfully swinging her umbrella on the opposite side from him.]
Talk business? Heaven forfend! I don't want to get mixed up in business. Is that what all this collecting and curating is to you? It struck me as a passion. A labour of love.
[The dog waits, very loyally by the clock, as Tivan leads the Mistress on to the hall. Living for a long time does odd sorts of things to the biochemistries and survival instincts which determine your feelings. Endorphins lose their charm. Attachments became sparser, desperate, but also shallower. Perhaps there is a ghost of affection that the Collector nurses for his dog, his contacts, and everything in his Collection. Getting these things certainly gave him a thrill and taking care of things gave him pleasure. But the thrill is never lasting and the pleasure always gives way to tedium. (Hence, why the Collection is ever-expanding.)
With a cant of his head to the side and something that could be mistaken as a smile,] You grow a little out of love. You speak its name, but, as you know, you come to forget its warmth. And, then, you only act as you would when you loved.
Collecting is simply what I am. What I do, [he waves his other hand, as if swatting an invisible insect.] Collecting is everything to me; it is my life, my business, and it will be the death of me. Much like your Doctor doctors, my brother seeks to be grandmaster at all games, and you master other individuals.
You don't ask a bug if it enjoys crawling or a Terran if it likes to breathe. [And that is when he remembers.] There is a new exhibit we may pass, on the way to the dining hall. You will enjoy it.
I have not yet transferred the accompanying audiovisual presentation to a...disk or whatever it is you would use to rewatch such a thing. But the information you provided should be incredibly useful, if all life is wiped out and it is only the Tivan Collection that survives. Should a pepperpot break through a space-time barrier and harass my Collection again, my artifacts and exhibits will be able to learn from this video and see how they can disarm it.
[They all certainly do live out their titles like functions. Missy has fashioned herself into a dictator. It just makes sense for her to be in control, yet when that little fact is equally apparent to everyone around her, it's much less fun. She'll always be power-hungry, which doesn't mean she wants it to be easy.]
Oh, honey. The more we do what we're meant to do, or have what we're meant to have, the less it seems to mean. [She puts on a conspiratory attitude, leaning toward him with a stage whisper,] You know what's good for that?
[Leaning back the way she came, she holds unbroken eye contact, reminiscent somehow of theatre hypnotism. Her hand is gently pulled free of his guiding hold. She falls one step behind him, lifting her umbrella straight out from her body to aim it at one of the glasslike containers in his collection. It doesn't matter what. She doesn't even glance at what. She's threatening the exhibit in question somehow, that much she conveys through tight body language. The threat itself is vague and ultimately unimportant.]
Conflict, rivalry, hatred and fear. I feel all of those things as deeply as ever, and I want that for you. It might be the friendliest offer I've made to you yet. I almost wish I had destroyed your welcoming committee. You deserve a little pang of something. We don't have to get started right away—I am quite peckish, and I want to see what you've done with the squidbucket—but I could make you miserable whenever you like. Add that to our growing list.
[Another possibility for them to consider. It truly is a kindness to her way of thinking, equal to helping him acquire new pieces. She expects, perhaps erroneously, that he'll lead on now, no harm done.]
[Taneleer listens very carefully to her spiel and watches with rapt attention as the Mistress drifts back to deliver her spiel. There is something almost dreamlike, he finds, to her motions and the way she says what she will. Like, how in a dream, you don't really question how one may threaten another with a possibly unusual umbrella. (Because threatening his Collection is very much threatening him.) No, in a dream you could recognize the menace intended. You could see it in the other's eyes, much like he sees it in her incredibly piercing blues.
He says nothing as she shares her piece, just observing and making notes. This is one who acts like a lady. And yet, even as she implicates what she will, she doesn't break character. There remains that put-upon gentility of hers, the sugar lacing arsenic.
How fascinating.
He has been standing akimbo, and remains this way when he interjects,] If it is of any interest to you, that particular containment-unit holds the Wundagore Everbloom. Fantastic folklore around that piece, but, perhaps, I will share it another time. While I possess the greatest assemblage of relics and creatures, my floral Collection has always been paltry. At best. When the Tivan Collection on Knowhere was--nearly eliminated in its entirety, I moped for a while. Became less attentive. Almost a millennia of careful curation, so many specimens the last of their breeds. All gone before my eyes. In a matter of seconds. And it was a lot to take in.
[He paces back a few steps back, now standing next to her. ] I know a Gardener who finds solace in greenery. And, when I was snapped out of my...period of decided inaction by the abrupt escape of Artifact G5-18-ZE18, I finally recognized the opportunity to expand. Create a Garden of the Galaxy. In addition to rebuilding and restructuring the Tivan Collection. To better protect and tend to things. And now I too, find solace in gardening. I also must add that, after all of the work I'd put into all of this, [he throws his arms out, as if to grasp everything currently on this museum planet,] I really would not appreciate this other...generosity you've offered.
[He turns to her, eyebrows raised and giving a sidelong glance.] Have you tended a garden, Missy? It really is gratifying, tending to something and watching it grow, and it would match your current aesthetic. [This is probably not the reaction the Master is expecting (and possibly hoping to incite), after acting as she did. And, yet, this is in his character. This is a gentleman's way of handling things.
[Somewhere in the Tivan Collection, never the same spot twice, the Master's TARDIS materialises with a wheezing vworp vworp. Having long since abandoned any effort at concealment in these bizarre surroundings, the TARDIS retains the form of a Grandfather clock. Missy again relies upon Taneleer's security measures to notify him of her arrival. Her visit begins in earnest, as many things do between them, with a textual dispatch:]
Hop aboard, dear. Door's open and I have something to show you.
[Accepting this invitation would make Taneleer the first to see inside the Master's TARDIS in a long time. At the Collector's advanced age, he must have experienced a sentient vessel defending itself against unwelcome intruders. Perish the thought of his brother offering any insights. The TARDIS sealed itself during the brief period the Grandmaster took possession of it. An invitation makes all the difference. Even should the TARDIS have misgivings about Missy's choice of companion, it won't prevent Taneleer from entering. It'll even provide for him once he's inside, as much or as little as that means. Lifeforms requiring sleep soon find that they have a bedroom.
The Collector is certainly not expected to remark that the TARDIS is bigger on the inside. Missy assumes he already knows a thing or two about transdimensional engineering, or if he doesn't, he'll have to learn quick, before he acquires more specimens than he can store.
The Type 45 TT Capsule (a newer, flashier, more in-your-face model than the Doctor's Type 40) has always been the less welcoming of the two. As one might expect, it tends to be darker and colder. Both vessels feature expansive libraries, though the contents of this one tend toward the macabre. There's a sense of safety and security everpresent in the police box, absent from the clock. It's uncannily like walking onto a chessboard, as though there's some game afoot or some mystery to be solved. Missy being Missy, and less of a hothead than her younger self, this mystery is, for once, more inviting than forboding. Her TARDIS doesn't lack for whimsy, with Art Nouveau furnishings and bold curves. There are hat and umbrella stands by the door and tucked in every crevice, covered by more accoutrements than she'll ever be caught wearing.
The central console remains untouched, original, a grey hexagonal oasis threatened by a rising sea of personality. Missy herself is situated on the floor beside the console. She's up to her elbows in a live, umbilical, throbbing mass behind an open panel. The Time Lady is absorbed in the act of performing maintenance. There are one or two small tools scattered around her, with pride of place reserved for her umbrella, of all things. She is not at her most presentable, with her coat hung by the door, her blouse crumpled, her skirt rucked up and some petticoat showing. She plucks a spare pin out of her hair, then squints and bites it between her teeth for storage, needing both hands back in the wiring presently. The pin is retrieved and stuck in the TARDIS-guts about four seconds later.
No wonder she doesn't let people in very often. It's too personal, too telling. She might run around behind its back and try to deny it, but her relationship with this TARDIS is intimate and fairly symbiotic. It was badly damaged during her forgotten regeneration, and it wasn't in the best condition even before. The upkeep has been constant. She's soon guilty of speaking at Taneleer rather than to him, when she suspects sight unseen that he's close enough to hear.]
Sorry I've not received you properly. Just a couple of gals braiding each other's hair, but I'm right in the middle and it's a bit delicate. [A pleasant mischaracterisation and oversimplification of what she's doing.]
(this music feels obligatory, Tan gets no miniskirt tho) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6j8ZOJPoho
[Taneleer Tivan has seen quite a few things in his absurdly long lifetime; he had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, sometimes in the blink of an eye. His Collection houses many creatures and many trinkets from worlds that, now, only exist in the dreams of most living beings. Although this ancient has had yet to step foot into a time machine, he has heard of such things and, in his ridiculously long time, witnessed quite a few laws of physics being broken.
But, as the man known as Taneleer Tivan receives this message on a smaller dispatch device, in the midst of a simple breakfast with his four-legged Head of Security, the Collector forgets to breathe, causing some concern in his poochie (but, then again, he'd never really needed to do a silly old thing like that). (It's a really strange thing, breakfast. No need for all of the pomp and circumstance around time spent with fairly bland food and time usually too groggy to attempt much else than cramming in a good mulling. It exists to prepare you for the day and, yet, one hardly ever feels prepared by it.) Now, how does one ready themselves for such an experience? He'd already bathed a little earlier, so he was clean. His teeth brushed. His bed made. In the least wavering tone he can muster, Taneleer barely stares back at his wide-eyed specimen of canis lupus familiaris when he issues the order, "cancel the rest of my appointments for today." That would give them enough time, right?
Ah, what is this daft old man doing, worrying about time when he's gotten an invitation to look inside of a machine full of it?
Taneleer preps in the way that he deems most suitable, and that is by making himself as presentable as possible. His garb is pretty sensible by his usual standards. A black and white sweater, sensible clothes underneath. There is no telling how hot or cold a time machine can be, not until after you'd stepped in it. No day-bag has been packed, because Taneleer expects this will simply involve a quick in-and-out. (Or Missy would have typed something more along the lines of, Get in, Loser, we're going shopping.)
The security systems have been reprogrammed to allow the entrance of a Grandfather clock, which sometimes disappears and reappears, so, like a very well-trained pet that's grown accustomed to a stranger, it does not sound an alarm when she arrives.
When the blond steps into her abode(?), he just stops where's standing in the doorway and simply looks inside. It's a unique picture, this. An old being like him has, in this second, has become so much more like a quiet child watching the snow fall out of his window, gazing as the dirty, dingy world he'd known is reborn afresh under a clean, clear, beautiful sheet of white. How could he possibly step in and sully this brand new world? Even the air, in this space of Missy's, feels different. It's a little richer, more hardy. Taneleer had read about atmospheres on planets changing, over the course of millions of years. Being a space contained within a time machine, and, therefore, existing outside of time, being a space outside of most known spaces, perhaps this TARDIS air carries an age and gravity from many a bygone era.
This is a secret, all of it. Like he's stepped into the closest physical approximation of it. All of it feels so...so lived in, so private. It feels almost wrong, almost too intruding, even with this invitation, to step in closer.
And yet, when he's spoken to (or, rather, at), Taneleer realizes he must make a choice to get in. Oh, but where to start? The books--the library of a person, with access across time, space, and dimensions, must have an excellent array, the likes of which could even rival that of Taneleer's. Perhaps books that are in other worlds, that never had a chance to be realized in this one, could be found here. Or the same could be said for the furniture.
Ah, but, even Taneleer knows that the only right answer, the most polite place to take, would be by Missy's side near that wonderful, breathing, living machinery. So slowly, he takes his first step. Come the first footfall, he stops and remains where he is, expecting an alarm of some sort to remind everyone that, yes, he didn't belong here. That invitation is a mistake or an overly self-indulgent request.
No such alarm goes off in that next second.
His voice, a little uncharacteristically small, inquires (or, rather, fumbles),] It's alright, I-I just, I never...do these things really have genders?
[Stupid question, really, but it's about all that he can manage right now.]
[The entrance, with its reverse image of a clock face, shuts behind Taneleer without any further prompting. He only has himself to blame for the closed door. His collecting makes the TARDIS-consciousness nervous. Anyone with sense, anyone who isn't monstrously evil themselves, would be disquieted by his life's work. Missy has done some truly calculating and tricky things over the years, such as storing one time-space machine inside another. She had a backup in case of catastrophic failure. That's a particularly callous precaution the other last of the Time Lords would never take. She makes her poor TARDIS feel quite expendable sometimes. The clock has even fretted over the possibility that Missy might park here, in this museum, and abandon the vessel for some-odd centuries. It's lucky 'she' has seemingly infinite patience with 'her' operator.]
Good question! Do I? Do any of us? Is it just anthropomorphisation? She doesn't have a gender in the frisky reproductive sense.
[Missy extracts one gloved hand from the machinery and emphasises 'frisky' and 'reproductive' by running her palm down the scant contours of her own body. Taneleer knows how much she likes to perform gender, and how willing she is to have everyone else perform theirs back to her, even if it is a farce. She does look forward to the Collector's small acts of tactile politesse and all the unnecessary help he gives her.]
She has a lot of sisters, put it that way. Ships. It's a thing.
[She somehow hadn't thought about the esteemed and irreplaceable Taneleer Tivan having appointments. She hadn't considered whether this might run long or whether he'd have preferred to pack a bag. There's a wardrobe department which he's welcome to make use of. It's typical of her, really, to be so inconsiderate. He might have told her he had something on today and she might have forgotten. He'll have to be firm and insist whenever now is a bad time, whichever now that may be. And she might still land at the wrong moment, due to imprecise piloting. Navigation is a team effort, and time machines have a strange sense of humour.
This is her abode. All the trophies of her past victories and defeats are here. It's where her belongings accumulate, and where she can always find a comfy seat and a splash of tea. She'll admit to a certain Stockholm-syndrome begrudging fondness for the Vault, her latest prison, but it isn't very homely. She was mostly unconscious while the Doctor furnished it, which meant it's to his specifications rather than hers. (A bed big enough for two? Cheeky boy! As if she has visitors.) Her poor long-suffering time machine is just left to languish whenever she's locked up. More inadvertant misery. Someone else being punished for her misdeeds. She has a unique relationship with her best friend, but she'd no sooner trust him to be the custodian of this vessel than he'd trust her with his. The TARDIS is thrumming, a constant background noise both mechanical and organic, unavoidably reminiscent of breathing or a pulse. It could be comforting, under the right circumstances. Time Lords become so attuned to it, they only notice its absence.]
You never...? [A clarifying question half-formed before one or two obvious realisations sink in. The central console chirrups at Missy, in much the same way Taneleer's Head of Security might woof at him.] Right, right, right! I am missing out, aren't I? I should be watching you.
[The inner workings are left exposed, panel off to one side. Missy reaches for her umbrella—poor ambivalent device, not quite sonic and not quite laser—and uses it for leverage to spring up off the floor. She's bouncy and eager and yet somewhat stiff through the knees, having been crouched down there for a while. The low lighting seems to be guiding Taneleer toward the console, like an airplane under emergency conditions. It would seem to be confirming his own assessment: the most appropriate place for him is by her side. She swings her umbrella in a wide expressive arc, performing an introduction.]
Time And Relative Dimension In Space. This one's mine and this one's the best. Forget the Joneses, we're keeping up with the Smiths. Obliterating the competition, actually. You're gonna want to check out the morgue and the lab, but that's not what I asked you over for.
[It isn't without risk, showing him something he's likely to be impressed by and telling him it's the best. He wouldn't be the first in the family to try and take it away from her. Happily, risk is exactly what she's looking for. She'd trample all over someone more emotive. She'd irrevocably damage someone more vulnerable. Alarms should sound. Taneleer has seen and done and schemed too much to strictly deserve that first-snow-of-Winter feeling. But, of course, Missy doesn't deserve to facilitate such an experience. In her imagination, they're fit to be unworthy ne'er-do-wells together.]
but he'd like have to shave dem legs or get some tights, and those are too much effort
[In spite of his ability to shift forms as he would, Taneleer Tivan has only ever really identified as a male with some interests and adjectives that some cultures could perceive as feminine. But, then again, that sort of thing just happens based on time and locale. High heels, for instance, in the Western bits of Terra, could be perceived as something feminine when, on that same planet and in those same areas, they were once more commonly worn by men. Truthfully, the Collector is a being with a native culture long forgotten by most (and especially by himself); he would not know, really, what his kind thought of gender identity and he wouldn't think it all too meaningful within the life he's currently leading. What others perceive of it, on the other hand, matters quite a bit. When he needs to be taken more seriously, he will put on the hat of the more dominant male. When he needs to appear nonthreatening, the robe of a gentleman. They're outfits with their uses, ones that he puts on and, frankly, has trouble taking off after a while. Even when Taneleer Tivan does not need to wear either, he'll still have those pieces on; even in spite of realizing how odd the Master can be, especially when playing up her more feminine features, he'll still play gentleman around her.
But, well, in this case, he's really not faking any of this wonderment, these slow steps he takes to join her by the console or the wide-eyed observation of it all. And his lungs are even doing that thing again. You know, the not-breathing thing. And his heart? Well, maybe he'd never really needed it to beat. What does an ancient being like him need blood to flow around for? He's a pretty cold blooded creature, anyway running mostly on pure nerve and the barest of stimuli.
This thing that he's inside--it doesn't reproduce, certainly, but it has siblings, it speaks. He practically whispers,] This thing's alive.
[And he stops, standing right by Missy's side, eyes fixed on the exposed guts of this creature--because the inner machine, those are guts, are they not? This is its beating heart, its mitochondria, its liver, its brain, all at once. This is a living creature that has, more or less, taken them in. This is a creature, with its own will and whims, and it allows people like them to seek it for shelter.
In spite of not really seeing any other time machines (at least, as far as he remembers), especially none like this, Taneleer believes these words of Missy's. This truly is the finest machine, this living, breathing, mechanical thing that appears so indistinguishable from the living.] You had told me a very long time ago about the...the circuit. The chamaeleonidae, or something with a similar name.
[He holds his hands out, not exactly caressing these inner bits of Missy's home and craft, because, well, gentleman, but close enough that black nails could about touch the complex wiring before him.] Is this it?
corseted time lady doesn't understand "too much effort"
[Missy might tactically deny being a woman, in a situation where womanhood significantly disadvantages her. In the presence of a chauvinist like herselfhimself the ex, for instance. There are people, people like she used to be, who really need to be reminded that she's the Master first, and female second. Nevertheless, she does know and feel that she's female, and although it may only be temporary, she's embracing this lifetime.
Her enemies have been trying to dispose of her with more zeal and gusto, acting on the assumption that she must be weaker. It appears that when people aren't afraid to touch her, they touch her more presumptively than ever. There's a lot of arm and wrist grabbing, as if that's enough to neutralise her. Far from being annoyed, she's fascinated by the difference in how she's treated. She supposes she's not young or pretty or tame enough to encounter many of the more conventional lady-difficulties. Anyway, not the point.
Rather unnecessarily, she presses her umbrella across Taneleer's body at chest-height, in the style of a safety bar at a carnival ride. Her free hand darts out to the side, performing one of those inadequate grabs for herself. Her fingers, clad in a driving glove, close around Taneleer's nearest wrist with a tiny creak of leather.]
Hup-up-up. Insulation, permission, or both.
[He wasn't about to grope at the inner workings of her TARDIS, but she doesn't know that. She couldn't be sure. She's warning him against it in no uncertain terms. Hard to say whether it's the immortal or the machine she's protecting.]
Everything's circuits. We're overflowing with circuits. Dematerialisation, translation, chameleon. This is where it goes. It pops up from here like toast.
[At this juncture she aims her umbrella at the console instead, twisting the handle to select the sonic setting. It whirs. Above the exposed wiring of the open panel, the console ejects a small object. Taneleer could fit this 'circuit' in the palm of his hand. That's actually not very small in the scheme of things, is it? Well, it's vintage and charming, otherwise they could've made it much smaller. It looks as though it's partly glass, as would the dematerialisation circuit if he had a look at that. It doesn't seem much like a complex processing decision-maker, but the Collector, she trusts, will be clever enough to understand each of these components if he has the chance to examine them closely. His wrist isn't released just yet.]
Ding! Now that you can touch.
Edited 2018-02-27 15:16 (UTC)
it's the thing that stops old people or people that act their age from doing other things
[As his own employer, (sort of) land owner of many, caretaker of too many, and oftentimes feared person in general, Taneleer Tivan isn't too used to hearing that word--'no'; he is the Collector, he may act like a gentleman, but, if he absolutely needs something in his Collection, he will stop at nothing to possess it. To be pushed aside, like a little child whose entry into a ride was denied as a consequence of failing to meet a required height, is too new a sensation. How strange. And, yet, how novel it is as well. Taneleer Tivan is about to vociferate something, perhaps a complaint of a one-liner, before the machine spits that thing out.
Too automatically, his other, freed hand shoots out, greedily making contact with this piece.] Shiny. [Says the grown adult man.
Ah, but, when had a machine...spat something out at him, like this before? Ever the scientist, Taneleer already begins to test this new specimen, moving this in his palm slightly to shift the weight and gain a better sense of its mass and, once satisfied sufficiently by the results, he raises the bit above his head and into the lights, so as to see what sorts of goodies pop out from this different angle. Admittedly, tech has always been more of his Older Brother's strong suit. And he can't really recognize this dematerialization part for what it is. But this doesn't mean he's any less pleased to see it.] Isn't this--no, this can't be so essential a part, or your machine wouldn't be functioning without it.
But it is very beautiful. [He turns this thing in his hand, admiring how the light refracts through it.] Could you tell me more about this piece?
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Oi, don't you laugh at me. It might happen to you someday.
[She means the whole regenerating into a woman thing. Missy would prefer to show than tell. She makes a grab for the Doctor's wrist. He might choose to shrink back or pull away, and if that's his choice, then this time she'll let him. Otherwise, she'll press his hand flat against her chest and let him feel the beating of her hearts.]
Where? Gallifrey. Where the grass was red and the leaves were silver on the trees. Where Borusa's lectures bored us to sleep. Where we asked the same questions and arrived at opposite answers. Where we played and learned and grew, and you promised me we'd see every star in the sky. You're more of a tourist, I'm more of a conquerer. Ringing any bells?
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The Master...is now the Mistress? [he immediately starts laughing again. He does struggle at first, but lets her do it. Now it sinks in]
You...left a while back. I lost you forever.
I wouldn't say I'm a tourist, I'm one that travels helping those that need help. That's why I chose the Doctor. You like to kill, to conquer. I'm sure you got on well with the Romans.
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[She doesn't sound angry with him. If anything, in spite of the unflattering word choices, she sound a little bit fond. It's her turn to laugh when he says she left. No apologies.]
Silly. You couldn't lose me "forever" if you tried. You know me. I don't stay dead. Immortality or bust.
[In actuality, she found the Romans boring. She doesn't bother to tell him so.]
Now, dearest, would you mind dropping me off in Bristol? Anytime after 1917, with a thousand-year margin for error. I'd drive, but my head is killing me.
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There's only so many regenerations in us, Missy. You can't live forever and ever.
No, I think you'll stay here, get rid of that headache and then, we'll see. My TARDIS, my rules.
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We're only supposed to have so many regenerations. I'll get around that, just watch me.
[It's a boast. An ambition. Rassilon's no better than they are, so why not live forever? She'd prefer it if the Doctor didn't burst her bubble.]
Thanks for calling me Missy. I like the way you use my name.
[Always did, no matter which name. She shrugs, finally letting his hand go and taking a step back.]
Whatever. Let's not fight about it. I'm in no rush.
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Yes, you could get around our biology. I'd like to see that happen. Although, you did switch gender. I've never seen that before. But really...you won't. [He has never heard of it and there will never will be such a thing. Hmph.]
You do, hmm? That's...interesting. [he tries not to shiver visibly. Yes, he/she was his best friend. But the way they've acted in all these centuries before and after? Not good.]
You find a room and rest. I'll get you where you want to go.
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[Missy's only heard a little folklore about regenerating into another gender, and it didn't seem to apply very well to her situation.]
I'm not up to anything naughty. You'd be taking me straight back to a quantum fold chamber with my name on it. A thousand years of solitary confinement.
At least, that's what it's meant to be. You let me out sometimes to stretch my legs, or take one of your little goodness tests. You're teaching me. I rescued a cat out of a tree once. You loved it. [Oops, gotta preserve the timeline.] Forget I told you.
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Riiight. When are you not? Whatever gender you are, evil deeds are not far behind. How can I trust that you would be up to good behavior, rather than no good? Hmm? [eyebrow raised]
[The Doctor's mind was like a trap, but he would somehow lose that memory on his next regenration. No use tempting himself.]
Willingly resigning to confinement? Nope. [pops the p] Don't believe it.
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[She smirks lopsidedly, looking like a fox in a henhouse. She can't help it. This incarnation has what the Doctor's future self would call a 'wicked stepmother' look. She doesn't wear innocence very well.]
Easy. You want to trust me. You know you shouldn't, but you can't help yourself. You can't bear to snuff out that tiny flickering flame of hope. It's okay. I can't help wanting things from you, either. That's just who we are.
I haven't tried to make you dead or miserable in the past few minutes, have I?
[It's tempting. It's really tempting to get all murdery, but she hasn't.]
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Wanting things? Mostly, using me to get what you want. [pointed look]
No, but that doesn't mean that anything in the near future...? [he smirks]
They call us Time Lords for a reason. It's something we just...know.
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Yeah, he cheated, JK lied and wrote another one. LOL
reading harry potter early is the #1 perk of time travel
Yeah, I always thought that was awesome that Ten was reading it in season 3?
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Before a bespectacled Collector can compose his response, a piercing, mechanical whining carries through his chambers. He is leaning over something resembling an unpolished, cast-iron desk in his office, where his attentions were divided between a handheld communication device and the mold eating away at a near-complete skeleton of some long-dead and long-forgotten creature. (Well, long-forgotten to most.) With a push of a button on his "desk", something resembling a glass cloche jar apparates around the newly categorized Tivan Collection piece XTC-78-198-B90-so-on-and-so-forth. There are screens, nestled between bookshelves surrounding his work station. He turns his head and searches the screens.
There. Captured by camera #37-A-such-and-such, in the exhibit containing the remains of a UCT Templeship. Nothing appears terribly damaged by her landing. But she did set off an alarm and, in very little time...Whatever-Contraption-She-Was-In was being surrounded by mechanical Gatherers and one very growly, four-legged Head of Security.
Yes. That must have been the...Thing. With the Chameleon Circuit.
A push of a second button, and, then, rather calmly,] Stand down. The intruder is our guest. Stand down. Gatherers: please see the record of the Master or the Mistress, cross-reference Known Time-Lords. космо: Рядом. Рядом. [The Museum's public address system repeats his orders, albeit with slight delay and a tinny quality to the audio, but his servants hear and obey. (The Security Chief, in particular, becomes especially waggy when he hears his owner's voice.)] Hello Missy. I will be joining you soon. Please do not destroy my droids or my dog.
[A second push of a button and, without removing his eyepiece, Taneleer Tivan trudges out to fulfill his promise.
When you've lived long enough and you'd traveled far enough, there were certain names you were continually bound to hear and often use and elbows you'd inevitably rub. If you'd continued living, travelling, learning names, and rubbing elbows, you'd also inevitably watch those lists shrink. And there was nothing that could be done about that. But, some time after realizing this terribly essential truth, those few names you'd still be able to repeat aloud, with every vowel and every consonant that constructed it, became gilded. You may have forgotten how you'd come to learn the name in the first place or when your elbow had first brushed theirs, but, after this point, ignorance of such things mattered not.
So it is with a good deal of relish that the Collector arrives in this exhibit, knocking on the...door of the thing as he repeats,] Hello Missy.
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She doesn't perceive the Gatherers as a threat to her TARDIS, as long as it's closed, but they could pose a threat to her. The concept of destroying what she feels threatened by holds an obvious appeal. It makes her giddy just thinking about it, possibly more so once she's been asked not to. She restrains herself. It seems smarter to let the situation de-escalate. She wouldn't want to offend her gracious host, or test his defences the hard way. Her fingernails tap an idle four-beat rhythm against the console while she waits to be received properly.
There was a time she would have said it was less about rubbing elbows, and more about knowing whom not to cross. She's a little warmer to the elbow-rubbing now, slowly coming to understand the same essential truth the Collector has. Missy is technically less alone now than she's been for centuries, but somewhen, she was one of two Time Lords in all accessible existence. That brand of uniqueness is not a state of being she'd recommend, especially not when the other one's insufferable. She has genuine sympathy for any of the 'last' living anythings in the Tivan Collection.
In a given universe, most things are fragile. She perceives the twisted altruism in what the Collector does. On the whole, conservation strikes her as a noble goal, and it certainly seems like more work than letting everything crumble. After all, it doesn't take an entity of supreme power to wipe out a civilisation or annihilate a species. All it takes is cleverness and timing. Missy would know, having done it herself many times before.
In any case, the Master's TARDIS is a fairly nondescript box when the Collector knocks. The door opens inward and Missy hops straight out. She swaps her umbrella from hand to hand, and then offers him her right hand. She's anticipating that he might want it for some gentlemanly purpose.
Being a woman affords her endless opportunities to play and joke at her own expense. It might be obvious she was a misogynist before, from the way she overperforms femininity now. Come to think of it, she was misanthropic in general. She smirks wicked step-mother style, putting his person under quick scrutiny.]
Taneleer Tivan, you handsome devil. You don't disappoint.
[That is an outfit, relatively utilitarian or not. She's tempted to ask him to do a little twirl so she can check out the back. Meeting up like this is not without risk. They're a potent combination of irreverent genius. He could try to acquire something of hers, or her, and she could do irreparable damage to his entire operation. All part of the fun, she suspects, for both of them. He may or may not know what the umbrella's for. It's not for weather. Her kind don't leave home without a sonic or laser device. She wouldn't visit unarmed. It feels like they get along well, but that's less reason to trust him rather than more. He has the home advantage, if he wants to be enemies rather than friends. She's not letting it bother her, focusing singularly on him, rather than his Security Chief or his 'disposables'.
Incidentally, it's only once the Time Lady's outside of her vessel that it starts having an identity crisis. Her TARDIS first blends itself in with the remains of the UCT Templeship, then cycles through several other exotic appearances, likely more recognisable to the Collector than they are to the Mistress. When those forms prove somehow unsatisfactory, it resigns itself to being a 19th century Earth longcase clock. The clock matches absolutely nothing, except perhaps Missy's aesthetic sensibilities. She shoots it a flat look over her shoulder.]
Oh, yeah. Give up. Not like we're trying to impress anyone, is it?
[The chameleon circuit demonstration could have gone better. She has the decency to look sheepish about the uninspired outcome.]
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Something less obvious is that Taneleer Tivan does not limit fashion to costume. The attitude, the mannerisms, the way someone carries themselves and wears themselves, these could serve as endlessly interesting statement pieces in-and-of-themselves.
The over-the-top manner that the Master offers her hand, the way that her...clock so readily changes itself to fit its surroundings (as if, perhaps, to make a good first impression) and, then, to match its owner...both so equally pique the Collector’s interest as eagerly as the Master’s odd accessory of an umbrella. (His records on Time Lords are, admittedly, limited and, so, he almost dismisses this umbrella as a simple aesthetic piece. Almost.) He does not take a step back when the thing switches form, having been told to expect such a thing; instead, with a quirk of his brow, he removes his eye-piece and automatically takes the Time-Lady's hand. (Because he certainly didn't see a reason not to play along.)] Master.
You're both looking very well. [Her and her clock. Neither of which seemed to set his still-barking dog at ease.
Without so much as looking down at the little beast,] космо. веди себя хорошо. это наши гости.
[The creature sadly bows its head, but, so obediently as always, ceases its barking. (A clear reason why the dog is a favorite of his.)
Unblinking,] Are you famished?
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[She upholds a standard with her appearance, neither pretty or practical, but a standard nevertheless. Her limited participation in fashion has been discussed. She has one costume, though it is a many-layered one: chemise, drawers, corset, stockings, petticoat, skirt, blouse and coat, paired with anachronistic makeup and nail polish. Missy has inconsistent notions of modesty and decorum. Ultimately the joke's on her, because this womanly stuff is less for pretend than she thinks.
She's forgotten the language he's using for his dog. Shame about that, since it's only in Slavic fairytales that she's ever been identified by name instead of a variation on her title. It was a faux pas, letting that slip. A name is a private and intimate thing for a Time Lord. Her friend the Doctor guards his name especially well.
Compensating for her failure, the TARDIS translates via psychic field. Her clock knows that the Collector is telling his Head of Security to behave, therefore Missy knows. Can't fault the dog as a judge of character. Her lips curl in another thin, uneven smile.]
I could eat. I'd rather not eat him, though. He's only being protective of you.
[A connection between unrelated thoughts which she's aware the Collector never intended for her to make. She'll happily go where he leads. The alternative to being led, she's sure, would be getting immediately and hopelessly lost in the exhibits.]
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[His voice is barely above a hiss. Ireless even. Such seems appropriate for the Master's Companion. (Yes. He is trying that on. Seeing how a thing like this fits.)
Taneleer had, perhaps, known the Master some incarnations ago and dealt with him as a mutually shady sort of contact, but he was still a little skeptical of the Master's request for his companionship over dispatch. And how she'd spoken of the loneliness that came with their sorts (not that he was of her species, but...well, they are of a similar ilk). And her generous offer to help with his Collecting.
No. A person like Taneleer had lived a little too long to listen to such a spiel and believe every word, without searching for truths in the speaker's eyes.
He straightens his back and stares at Missy's incredibly distinctive visage. She's here, like he'd asked (more or less). And they could say the sorts of things that felt too personal for dispatches. And they could look for signs of sincerity to what they'd said.] There is a nearby dining hall where I can call for more appropriate things that you can sup. As we talk business. [He holds his other arm out, not at all unlike a wing.] Whatever else you would request, I can have prepared.
[He proceeds to lead her out of the clock. While his hand gently guides hers forward, his thoughts fly. (Perhaps the clock picks up on this stream-of-consciousness.) They are cautious. They beckon. They ask that the clock be minded.
космо's ears perk up. His expression remains somewhat pitiable, but his posture improves. He looks to the clock.]
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They touched upon the subject of morality. Missy is somewhat more tractable than her past selves, with nowhere to go but up. It's historically unsafe, telling her what not to say or do, and yet here she's able to interpret a preference rather than a challenge or a defiance. His tact helped.]
As you'd rather. [A loose shrug rolls off her shoulders.] I don't get on with most pets. Terrans especially. Might be allergic. [She does mean to imply that the humans themselves would be the pets in that case, not the domesticated animals the humans are prone to keeping.
Her clock is left behind without a backward glance. The Collector has shown more regard for космо's feelings than she has for her vehicle's. She requested during their messaging that he be nice to it, but she isn't especially nice to it herself. She can leave her TARDIS alone for ages. Missy's been unfaithful, seeing other methods of time travel on the side.
The TARDIS could well be privy to the Collector's stream of consciousness, but relaying it to Missy would be beyond its capacity for direct communication. The translation of spoken language is handled separately and automatically. Missy's still only guessing what this TARDIS thinks of her, let alone what it might have to say about anybody else. In other words, she'll have to discern her host's tactics for herself. Her paranoia can be overactive. Her own non-technological touch-based telepathy has weakened with age, like eyesight in some creatures.
She thinks she meant the offer of companionship sincerely, but she isn't settled on what companionship would mean for them. Should the Collector be permitted to properly examine her vehicle and devices, she's certain he would comprehend every function and potential application. He's very knowledgeable. She holds him high regard, particularly relative to how dim and inferior she deems most lifeforms. Strolling along, she's cheerfully swinging her umbrella on the opposite side from him.]
Talk business? Heaven forfend! I don't want to get mixed up in business. Is that what all this collecting and curating is to you? It struck me as a passion. A labour of love.
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With a cant of his head to the side and something that could be mistaken as a smile,] You grow a little out of love. You speak its name, but, as you know, you come to forget its warmth. And, then, you only act as you would when you loved.
Collecting is simply what I am. What I do, [he waves his other hand, as if swatting an invisible insect.] Collecting is everything to me; it is my life, my business, and it will be the death of me. Much like your Doctor doctors, my brother seeks to be grandmaster at all games, and you master other individuals.
You don't ask a bug if it enjoys crawling or a Terran if it likes to breathe. [And that is when he remembers.] There is a new exhibit we may pass, on the way to the dining hall. You will enjoy it.
I have not yet transferred the accompanying audiovisual presentation to a...disk or whatever it is you would use to rewatch such a thing. But the information you provided should be incredibly useful, if all life is wiped out and it is only the Tivan Collection that survives. Should a pepperpot break through a space-time barrier and harass my Collection again, my artifacts and exhibits will be able to learn from this video and see how they can disarm it.
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Oh, honey. The more we do what we're meant to do, or have what we're meant to have, the less it seems to mean. [She puts on a conspiratory attitude, leaning toward him with a stage whisper,] You know what's good for that?
[Leaning back the way she came, she holds unbroken eye contact, reminiscent somehow of theatre hypnotism. Her hand is gently pulled free of his guiding hold. She falls one step behind him, lifting her umbrella straight out from her body to aim it at one of the glasslike containers in his collection. It doesn't matter what. She doesn't even glance at what. She's threatening the exhibit in question somehow, that much she conveys through tight body language. The threat itself is vague and ultimately unimportant.]
Conflict, rivalry, hatred and fear. I feel all of those things as deeply as ever, and I want that for you. It might be the friendliest offer I've made to you yet. I almost wish I had destroyed your welcoming committee. You deserve a little pang of something. We don't have to get started right away—I am quite peckish, and I want to see what you've done with the squidbucket—but I could make you miserable whenever you like. Add that to our growing list.
[Another possibility for them to consider. It truly is a kindness to her way of thinking, equal to helping him acquire new pieces. She expects, perhaps erroneously, that he'll lead on now, no harm done.]
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He says nothing as she shares her piece, just observing and making notes. This is one who acts like a lady. And yet, even as she implicates what she will, she doesn't break character. There remains that put-upon gentility of hers, the sugar lacing arsenic.
How fascinating.
He has been standing akimbo, and remains this way when he interjects,] If it is of any interest to you, that particular containment-unit holds the Wundagore Everbloom. Fantastic folklore around that piece, but, perhaps, I will share it another time. While I possess the greatest assemblage of relics and creatures, my floral Collection has always been paltry. At best. When the Tivan Collection on Knowhere was--nearly eliminated in its entirety, I moped for a while. Became less attentive. Almost a millennia of careful curation, so many specimens the last of their breeds. All gone before my eyes. In a matter of seconds. And it was a lot to take in.
[He paces back a few steps back, now standing next to her. ] I know a Gardener who finds solace in greenery. And, when I was snapped out of my...period of decided inaction by the abrupt escape of Artifact G5-18-ZE18, I finally recognized the opportunity to expand. Create a Garden of the Galaxy. In addition to rebuilding and restructuring the Tivan Collection. To better protect and tend to things. And now I too, find solace in gardening. I also must add that, after all of the work I'd put into all of this, [he throws his arms out, as if to grasp everything currently on this museum planet,] I really would not appreciate this other...generosity you've offered.
[He turns to her, eyebrows raised and giving a sidelong glance.] Have you tended a garden, Missy? It really is gratifying, tending to something and watching it grow, and it would match your current aesthetic. [This is probably not the reaction the Master is expecting (and possibly hoping to incite), after acting as she did. And, yet, this is in his character. This is a gentleman's way of handling things.
Now, it is time to see how she would take this.]
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/have some comic canon
delightful!
yay glad you enjoy
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Nahh, you're not trash. I feel trashier for having this icon and whipping it out.
i see that trash and raise you this trash
trash-off. me and you.
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a shortish tag for a change.
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hee hee yes my amurican tricks worked
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(in which missy badly describes the extremis flashback)
It's all good, I don't think I've gotten to that bit with Twelve yet.
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time card: MANY WEEKS LATER.
Aww, it's all good.
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crazy is as crazy does
but it's like the chicken and the egg--do peeps do crazy acts because they are, or vice-versa?
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knowhereman
Hop aboard, dear. Door's open and I have something to show you.
[Accepting this invitation would make Taneleer the first to see inside the Master's TARDIS in a long time. At the Collector's advanced age, he must have experienced a sentient vessel defending itself against unwelcome intruders. Perish the thought of his brother offering any insights. The TARDIS sealed itself during the brief period the Grandmaster took possession of it. An invitation makes all the difference. Even should the TARDIS have misgivings about Missy's choice of companion, it won't prevent Taneleer from entering. It'll even provide for him once he's inside, as much or as little as that means. Lifeforms requiring sleep soon find that they have a bedroom.
The Collector is certainly not expected to remark that the TARDIS is bigger on the inside. Missy assumes he already knows a thing or two about transdimensional engineering, or if he doesn't, he'll have to learn quick, before he acquires more specimens than he can store.
The Type 45 TT Capsule (a newer, flashier, more in-your-face model than the Doctor's Type 40) has always been the less welcoming of the two. As one might expect, it tends to be darker and colder. Both vessels feature expansive libraries, though the contents of this one tend toward the macabre. There's a sense of safety and security everpresent in the police box, absent from the clock. It's uncannily like walking onto a chessboard, as though there's some game afoot or some mystery to be solved. Missy being Missy, and less of a hothead than her younger self, this mystery is, for once, more inviting than forboding. Her TARDIS doesn't lack for whimsy, with Art Nouveau furnishings and bold curves. There are hat and umbrella stands by the door and tucked in every crevice, covered by more accoutrements than she'll ever be caught wearing.
The central console remains untouched, original, a grey hexagonal oasis threatened by a rising sea of personality. Missy herself is situated on the floor beside the console. She's up to her elbows in a live, umbilical, throbbing mass behind an open panel. The Time Lady is absorbed in the act of performing maintenance. There are one or two small tools scattered around her, with pride of place reserved for her umbrella, of all things. She is not at her most presentable, with her coat hung by the door, her blouse crumpled, her skirt rucked up and some petticoat showing. She plucks a spare pin out of her hair, then squints and bites it between her teeth for storage, needing both hands back in the wiring presently. The pin is retrieved and stuck in the TARDIS-guts about four seconds later.
No wonder she doesn't let people in very often. It's too personal, too telling. She might run around behind its back and try to deny it, but her relationship with this TARDIS is intimate and fairly symbiotic. It was badly damaged during her forgotten regeneration, and it wasn't in the best condition even before. The upkeep has been constant. She's soon guilty of speaking at Taneleer rather than to him, when she suspects sight unseen that he's close enough to hear.]
Sorry I've not received you properly. Just a couple of gals braiding each other's hair, but I'm right in the middle and it's a bit delicate. [A pleasant mischaracterisation and oversimplification of what she's doing.]
(this music feels obligatory, Tan gets no miniskirt tho) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6j8ZOJPoho
But, as the man known as Taneleer Tivan receives this message on a smaller dispatch device, in the midst of a simple breakfast with his four-legged Head of Security, the Collector forgets to breathe, causing some concern in his poochie (but, then again, he'd never really needed to do a silly old thing like that). (It's a really strange thing, breakfast. No need for all of the pomp and circumstance around time spent with fairly bland food and time usually too groggy to attempt much else than cramming in a good mulling. It exists to prepare you for the day and, yet, one hardly ever feels prepared by it.) Now, how does one ready themselves for such an experience? He'd already bathed a little earlier, so he was clean. His teeth brushed. His bed made. In the least wavering tone he can muster, Taneleer barely stares back at his wide-eyed specimen of canis lupus familiaris when he issues the order, "cancel the rest of my appointments for today." That would give them enough time, right?
Ah, what is this daft old man doing, worrying about time when he's gotten an invitation to look inside of a machine full of it?
Taneleer preps in the way that he deems most suitable, and that is by making himself as presentable as possible. His garb is pretty sensible by his usual standards. A black and white sweater, sensible clothes underneath. There is no telling how hot or cold a time machine can be, not until after you'd stepped in it. No day-bag has been packed, because Taneleer expects this will simply involve a quick in-and-out. (Or Missy would have typed something more along the lines of, Get in, Loser, we're going shopping.)
The security systems have been reprogrammed to allow the entrance of a Grandfather clock, which sometimes disappears and reappears, so, like a very well-trained pet that's grown accustomed to a stranger, it does not sound an alarm when she arrives.
When the blond steps into her abode(?), he just stops where's standing in the doorway and simply looks inside. It's a unique picture, this. An old being like him has, in this second, has become so much more like a quiet child watching the snow fall out of his window, gazing as the dirty, dingy world he'd known is reborn afresh under a clean, clear, beautiful sheet of white. How could he possibly step in and sully this brand new world? Even the air, in this space of Missy's, feels different. It's a little richer, more hardy. Taneleer had read about atmospheres on planets changing, over the course of millions of years. Being a space contained within a time machine, and, therefore, existing outside of time, being a space outside of most known spaces, perhaps this TARDIS air carries an age and gravity from many a bygone era.
This is a secret, all of it. Like he's stepped into the closest physical approximation of it. All of it feels so...so lived in, so private. It feels almost wrong, almost too intruding, even with this invitation, to step in closer.
And yet, when he's spoken to (or, rather, at), Taneleer realizes he must make a choice to get in. Oh, but where to start? The books--the library of a person, with access across time, space, and dimensions, must have an excellent array, the likes of which could even rival that of Taneleer's. Perhaps books that are in other worlds, that never had a chance to be realized in this one, could be found here. Or the same could be said for the furniture.
Ah, but, even Taneleer knows that the only right answer, the most polite place to take, would be by Missy's side near that wonderful, breathing, living machinery. So slowly, he takes his first step. Come the first footfall, he stops and remains where he is, expecting an alarm of some sort to remind everyone that, yes, he didn't belong here. That invitation is a mistake or an overly self-indulgent request.
No such alarm goes off in that next second.
His voice, a little uncharacteristically small, inquires (or, rather, fumbles),] It's alright, I-I just, I never...do these things really have genders?
[Stupid question, really, but it's about all that he can manage right now.]
he could pull it off, he's got the legs.
Good question! Do I? Do any of us? Is it just anthropomorphisation? She doesn't have a gender in the frisky reproductive sense.
[Missy extracts one gloved hand from the machinery and emphasises 'frisky' and 'reproductive' by running her palm down the scant contours of her own body. Taneleer knows how much she likes to perform gender, and how willing she is to have everyone else perform theirs back to her, even if it is a farce. She does look forward to the Collector's small acts of tactile politesse and all the unnecessary help he gives her.]
She has a lot of sisters, put it that way. Ships. It's a thing.
[She somehow hadn't thought about the esteemed and irreplaceable Taneleer Tivan having appointments. She hadn't considered whether this might run long or whether he'd have preferred to pack a bag. There's a wardrobe department which he's welcome to make use of. It's typical of her, really, to be so inconsiderate. He might have told her he had something on today and she might have forgotten. He'll have to be firm and insist whenever now is a bad time, whichever now that may be. And she might still land at the wrong moment, due to imprecise piloting. Navigation is a team effort, and time machines have a strange sense of humour.
This is her abode. All the trophies of her past victories and defeats are here. It's where her belongings accumulate, and where she can always find a comfy seat and a splash of tea. She'll admit to a certain Stockholm-syndrome begrudging fondness for the Vault, her latest prison, but it isn't very homely. She was mostly unconscious while the Doctor furnished it, which meant it's to his specifications rather than hers. (A bed big enough for two? Cheeky boy! As if she has visitors.) Her poor long-suffering time machine is just left to languish whenever she's locked up. More inadvertant misery. Someone else being punished for her misdeeds. She has a unique relationship with her best friend, but she'd no sooner trust him to be the custodian of this vessel than he'd trust her with his. The TARDIS is thrumming, a constant background noise both mechanical and organic, unavoidably reminiscent of breathing or a pulse. It could be comforting, under the right circumstances. Time Lords become so attuned to it, they only notice its absence.]
You never...? [A clarifying question half-formed before one or two obvious realisations sink in. The central console chirrups at Missy, in much the same way Taneleer's Head of Security might woof at him.] Right, right, right! I am missing out, aren't I? I should be watching you.
[The inner workings are left exposed, panel off to one side. Missy reaches for her umbrella—poor ambivalent device, not quite sonic and not quite laser—and uses it for leverage to spring up off the floor. She's bouncy and eager and yet somewhat stiff through the knees, having been crouched down there for a while. The low lighting seems to be guiding Taneleer toward the console, like an airplane under emergency conditions. It would seem to be confirming his own assessment: the most appropriate place for him is by her side. She swings her umbrella in a wide expressive arc, performing an introduction.]
Time And Relative Dimension In Space. This one's mine and this one's the best. Forget the Joneses, we're keeping up with the Smiths. Obliterating the competition, actually. You're gonna want to check out the morgue and the lab, but that's not what I asked you over for.
[It isn't without risk, showing him something he's likely to be impressed by and telling him it's the best. He wouldn't be the first in the family to try and take it away from her. Happily, risk is exactly what she's looking for. She'd trample all over someone more emotive. She'd irrevocably damage someone more vulnerable. Alarms should sound. Taneleer has seen and done and schemed too much to strictly deserve that first-snow-of-Winter feeling. But, of course, Missy doesn't deserve to facilitate such an experience. In her imagination, they're fit to be unworthy ne'er-do-wells together.]
but he'd like have to shave dem legs or get some tights, and those are too much effort
But, well, in this case, he's really not faking any of this wonderment, these slow steps he takes to join her by the console or the wide-eyed observation of it all. And his lungs are even doing that thing again. You know, the not-breathing thing. And his heart? Well, maybe he'd never really needed it to beat. What does an ancient being like him need blood to flow around for? He's a pretty cold blooded creature, anyway running mostly on pure nerve and the barest of stimuli.
This thing that he's inside--it doesn't reproduce, certainly, but it has siblings, it speaks. He practically whispers,] This thing's alive.
[And he stops, standing right by Missy's side, eyes fixed on the exposed guts of this creature--because the inner machine, those are guts, are they not? This is its beating heart, its mitochondria, its liver, its brain, all at once. This is a living creature that has, more or less, taken them in. This is a creature, with its own will and whims, and it allows people like them to seek it for shelter.
In spite of not really seeing any other time machines (at least, as far as he remembers), especially none like this, Taneleer believes these words of Missy's. This truly is the finest machine, this living, breathing, mechanical thing that appears so indistinguishable from the living.] You had told me a very long time ago about the...the circuit. The chamaeleonidae, or something with a similar name.
[He holds his hands out, not exactly caressing these inner bits of Missy's home and craft, because, well, gentleman, but close enough that black nails could about touch the complex wiring before him.] Is this it?
corseted time lady doesn't understand "too much effort"
herselfhimselfthe ex, for instance. There are people, people like she used to be, who really need to be reminded that she's the Master first, and female second. Nevertheless, she does know and feel that she's female, and although it may only be temporary, she's embracing this lifetime.Her enemies have been trying to dispose of her with more zeal and gusto, acting on the assumption that she must be weaker. It appears that when people aren't afraid to touch her, they touch her more presumptively than ever. There's a lot of arm and wrist grabbing, as if that's enough to neutralise her. Far from being annoyed, she's fascinated by the difference in how she's treated. She supposes she's not young or pretty or tame enough to encounter many of the more conventional lady-difficulties. Anyway, not the point.
Rather unnecessarily, she presses her umbrella across Taneleer's body at chest-height, in the style of a safety bar at a carnival ride. Her free hand darts out to the side, performing one of those inadequate grabs for herself. Her fingers, clad in a driving glove, close around Taneleer's nearest wrist with a tiny creak of leather.]
Hup-up-up. Insulation, permission, or both.
[He wasn't about to grope at the inner workings of her TARDIS, but she doesn't know that. She couldn't be sure. She's warning him against it in no uncertain terms. Hard to say whether it's the immortal or the machine she's protecting.]
Everything's circuits. We're overflowing with circuits. Dematerialisation, translation, chameleon. This is where it goes. It pops up from here like toast.
[At this juncture she aims her umbrella at the console instead, twisting the handle to select the sonic setting. It whirs. Above the exposed wiring of the open panel, the console ejects a small object. Taneleer could fit this 'circuit' in the palm of his hand. That's actually not very small in the scheme of things, is it? Well, it's vintage and charming, otherwise they could've made it much smaller. It looks as though it's partly glass, as would the dematerialisation circuit if he had a look at that. It doesn't seem much like a complex processing decision-maker, but the Collector, she trusts, will be clever enough to understand each of these components if he has the chance to examine them closely. His wrist isn't released just yet.]
Ding! Now that you can touch.
it's the thing that stops old people or people that act their age from doing other things
Too automatically, his other, freed hand shoots out, greedily making contact with this piece.] Shiny. [Says the grown adult man.
Ah, but, when had a machine...spat something out at him, like this before? Ever the scientist, Taneleer already begins to test this new specimen, moving this in his palm slightly to shift the weight and gain a better sense of its mass and, once satisfied sufficiently by the results, he raises the bit above his head and into the lights, so as to see what sorts of goodies pop out from this different angle. Admittedly, tech has always been more of his Older Brother's strong suit. And he can't really recognize this dematerialization part for what it is. But this doesn't mean he's any less pleased to see it.] Isn't this--no, this can't be so essential a part, or your machine wouldn't be functioning without it.
But it is very beautiful. [He turns this thing in his hand, admiring how the light refracts through it.] Could you tell me more about this piece?