Heard that, did ya? [Taneleer specialises in looking after things, whereas Missy tends to forget that's necessary and lets things waste. This is when she's not even trying to do harm. Another reason why she's looking to make a hardy immortal friend. She's careless.] I thought you might. Come on.
[It's a learning experience! She's gonna guess that, although possible, that's not the best way to furnish him with information when he asks for more. Unasked, she's all over him again (all over his upper arms and shoulders, at least) trying to steer him back toward the opulent dining set and into one of those very fine chairs. If he scrutinises the event closely, he might notice that he received as many angry image-flashes as times he patted her hand. It was related, although not precisely simultaneous. It decidedly did not happen earlier.
Aside from being able to play temporal hacky sack with the Eye of Agamotto, there's really not much she can do about Thanos. Will he empty and crush up the universe like a can of fizzy drink? Probably. The cool kids should just hang out at the end of everything and wait for him to finish. Easy and cowardly to hide behind a policy of non-interference when the big danger comes. That isn't what Missy's trying to do; she's just trying to have a good time. She'd let Taneleer abandon his future in favour of Thanos' past if she thought it would solve more problems than it would cause. Must try to do right by existence, for a change, since she does kinda know that what's bad for existence is bad for her.]
You sit. Later I'll do some research on the warlord and the fixed point, by myself, without setting foot in it. That's my best and final offer.
[Taneleer wouldn't want to hear this at all, but, it could be that he is himself the reason for a fixed point. Having a vision of the future, much like writing it down and reading it back in the past, can solidify events. It makes at least her people think there's nothing that can be done.]
[Although Taneleer finds sincere joy in tending to other creatures, this sort of life-devotion hardly makes him exempt from carelessness. His sort just happens to get a sneakie-peekie at potential results that could come out from their own reckless acts and, in a way, it influences his course of actions.
He leans, simultaneously in a place of comfort (it is always nice getting support to a room as lovely as this zeerustic exhibit) and discomfort (feeling all of this incredibly forward woman's anger once again, whilst having to accept her help to this sitting place). Really, as a creature dressed like a gentleman, it would be more of his prerogative to help her into a seat. But his age is coming out.] Yes, thank you. Fine. Fine.
[There is intended to be some measure of sincerity in that 'thank you'. Those hot flashes just managed to absorb attention away from that bit. The Collector rests his chin into the palm of his hand and rubs his lip-stripe rather vigorously. These sort of psychic, visual stimuli are never easy to deal with.] Whenever I get a vision, I tend to spend days just sitting in contemplation. Thinking only of what I'd seen. It's never a good time to have them, but, these days, there seems to less time to sit and simply think. Everything's moving too quickly, now. I blink and people and creatures age while I remain the same. You must know how it is. [How terribly gauche. What an old person thing to say. Just as quickly as he'd made such an observation, his features contort into a sort of sneer.]
[He turns to the Mistress, and, half-jokingly remarks,] Your kind are able to traverse across space and time, in addition to dispensing information via touch. Hardly seems fair that you are capable of doing so many things. [He rests one hand on the incredibly silvery-blue table and, using the other, pulls out the chair next to him; with a gesture, he entreats her to join him at this gaudy table.] If you do what you have promised, I should need to do something else to help you. It's only fair. Perhaps I am unfit to handle Bushy-Brows, but--if there are more creatures of the Pepper Pot's caliber, I should be more than happy to contain them.
[No doubt there are infinite possibilities, or that the possibilities are infinite for longer than people think, and that's what the Collector sees. Yet the same type of beings who cling to tradition also cling to certainty. 'Nothing we can do' is something they say to, pardon the language, fuck people off. They're very likely to fret and wring their hands over their first glimpse of the future, and Missy's never liked that.
Once he's settled, she promptly sinks into the chair he meant for her. She's hoping it will be that easy to give him a sense of control again. The order in which they sat down doesn't go unremarked.]
Age before beauty, although I'm inclined to think you're both.
[Flirtation notwithstanding, her expression offers him a passable mimicry of concern.]
If it takes you that long to blink, maybe you shouldn't.
[She reaches for the hand he's left resting on the table. Her impulse was to lay hers on top again, but she freezes mid-way, thinking about how awfully that went earlier. And that was before the psychic projectile vomit. Her fingers curl back and she lamely aborts the gesture, letting her arm flop. Elbows off the table, of course. His assessment of her kind is met with a short huff of dismissive laughter. She knows better than to mistake it for a compliment.]
There's more, even. More tricks up our sleeves. Funky threads woven into our biodata. Sadly, we're not very strong or athletic. We mostly run. Can you picture me in a fight?
[A shootout, maybe, if only because she remembers how from another life. She glances down at herself and then over to him, shaking her head. This body's got balance issues, and the little heels on her boots don't help. It speaks to a certain level of trust in the Collector, bringing vulnerabilities into it when she could have easily preened and bragged.]
Let's not worry about making things equal. It will be. And I won't ask you to take something on without telling you all about it. Care instructions, et cetera. [Next time, telling him will involve words and possibly some light reading material.] Sorry for broadcasting. [How was she supposed to know he prefers to take days, months, decades to think about this stuff? Still, oops. Another instance of knowing she ought to be ashamed of herself, whether she is or isn't.]
[All of this sound, all of this odd rhythm washes over the Collector, both being absorbed and unabsorbed. There are certain psychic connections that he's gotten very used to having, but introducing a new one? Too much stimuli. Too much excitement. He nods, accepting all that she says (all while hoping he hasn't agreed to some horrid term that should cost him incredibly dearly).
The last bit gets a couple of nods, before he stops and realizes. It's an apology. How odd, an apology. For what--for this thing that she'd done, showing him such things? Is it sincere?
He looks to her, staring, stopping with the stroking of his chin. Can a person like her truly beg forgiveness, when, certainly, it seems against her...what do you call it...raison d'être? Her mien, her very way of being? Certainly, while she'd wait to act on murdering his things with some permission granted, a person like the Mistress hardly seems interested in offending others. Possibly even harming them for fun.
Is this just a part of the pattern, then? She'd--ah! Of course, she is testing what limitations she's allowed, like the naughty little puppy she is. She nips, she pisses, but, when she senses she's gone too far, her eyes get all big and her demeanor contrite! Did she know she was doing this? That is the tricky bit concerning shapeshifters--one can never tell if their change in behavior is due to the costume they've assumed or if the costume had consumed them.
So deep in contemplation is the Collector that he fails to notice a large middle portion of the table sink and, within minutes, rise again with various arrangements of piping hot tea pots, sundry tea cups, and trays of incredibly unusual amuse-bouche. The blends of tea carry savory notes, subtle notes. To compliment these flavors, the foodstuffs follow suit. There is a tray of purple fruit, comparable to watermelon, but hollowed and filled with an orange liquid, somewhat comparable to a dark, well aged vinaigrette. There are small pies with spiced meat and cheese fillings. Turquoise dumplings in light broths, single-serving each. Slices of near raw meats with the most minimal preparations (marinated in a flavored oil, or accented with pepper). All served on pleasing little plates that refused to match one another. (An aesthetic that never fails to amuse the Collector.)
By the time that Taneleer finally realizes the places have been set, all of the machinery and plates have about settled in place.] I suppose...whatever it is that we're talking about...it can wait. We should sup. Talk of lighter things. Perhaps you could tell me about the latest goings-on with yourself and your Doctor. [AKA the dude Taneleer Tivan kind of threatened to kill.]
(in which missy badly describes the extremis flashback)
[Well, beautiful, which is practically the same thing. Out of all of it, that's the part she wants to highlight. Nothing else was of particular importance. Flattery is supposed to help in this situation, the situation of the contrite puppy. Nothing comes from nothing, as he's observed. Everything they'd think of as costume has some basis in reality. She may think she's only pretending when she does things like apologise, but routine is character-forming. She is, by accident, quite sincere from time to time. He's safe from further mental intrusions. The ease, satisfaction and fulfilment of telepathic communication is greatly lessened when she has to force it on an unwilling mind.
Missy's quicker to appreciate the fact that the table's been set, artron energy eyes all alight and excited. She selects a teacup easily enough and then lapses into giddy indecision over which tea to sample first. She'd pour a cup for Taneleer before herself, like ladies do, only there's such a variety and she's not sure which he'd like to start with either. It's such a colourful spread. She does a happy little wiggle in her seat, almost a dance. Some girls do that when they're given food. No telling whether it's natural for her, or another studied mannerism; might've started as the latter and become the former.]
I was damselling. I was in distress. He saved me. Now we're gonna spend some quality time together. I've just stepped out for a minute.
[She really poured it on thick for 'saved', mostly to tease the Doctor in absentia, since he does so much saving. The quality time they'll be spending together isn't totally dissimilar to the quality time Taneleer spends with his acquisitions—consent, of course, being the vital difference. And when a Time Lady steps out for a minute, they could be gone for years. How long she's gone has no bearing on when she'll be back.
If he'll recall, Missy claimed to be supportive of that threat on the Doctor's life. Taneleer was right not to believe her. No one's allowed to treat them as badly as they treat each other. She's been responsible for a few of her arch-frenemy's deaths and vice versa. It's like a consolation prize. They used to want to spend a big chunk of their lives together. They're too different for that, so a few deaths are what's left. On that cheery thought, she devours a turquoise dumpling whole, prompting another happy food wiggle.]
What do you and your brother do when you're in the same place?
[It's a related question. She might be looking for suggestions.]
It's all good, I don't think I've gotten to that bit with Twelve yet.
Handso--[Yes, now he's caught it. At least, his face announces the realization with a vicious sort of flush. Handsome. Handsome. Handsome? This other form that he wears--well of course it is. He made it so. People suspect a handsome face a lot less. It's a psychological thing, backed up by evidence. He stares at it, in the odd statues commissioned and paintings, and, by now, the Collector ought to know this.
So. Why the flush?
Thankfully, he hasn't been so preoccupied by this that he missed out on Missy's totally adorable din-dins dance. The din-dins dance seems to be incredibly universal, across different species. From the most violent and coarse of creatures to the most compact and milquetoast. Taneleer stops himself, before his reflexes demonstrate his appreciation as only he is able. This about wakes him from the spell of earlier embarrassment and leads him to conclude that the compliment is only the doggy wiggling its little tail, giving flattery now that it's sensed that the owner is upset.
(космо had done this sort of thing once or twice when he could still fit in Taneleer's hands.)
...just stepped out for a minute, he catches. What exactly is a minute to a time-traveler? Very literally, with her machine, she could step out into another minute. Nip in, threaten someone's menagerie, step back in before the Doctor could notice anything. Would she even mention picking up a companion of her own to the Doctor? (There is no definite way of telling and, yet, this little puzzle box of questions amuses the Collector.)
While claiming a mini-tart for himself, the Collector remarks,] My brother and I are no different than you and your Doctor. We rarely see each other in person, usually not unless one desperately needs the other for some sort of salvation and, when we are together, we typically play games. Not very kind ones, but at least one of us tends to enjoy it. Unless neither of us do.
Handsome in an unusual way, which is the best kind. You couldn't have planned it better, or it worked out better than you planned.
[Does he still think she's just puppying up to him? If her singular goal is to smooth things over, flirty flirt flirting is not the smart way to go about it. She knows that. He asked for boundaries. The flattery could already be unwelcome, doubly so if he deems it insincere. If insincere, it's grating and obsequious. She knows that too. And she's getting around it by making sure she's not insincere at all. She means every word. She observed the change in his complexion, woe is him. He'll never have a moment's peace. Missy looks pleased with herself.]
And right you are. That does sound familiar. It's strangely gratifying to hear that it's the normal way of things, for anybody else. I was beginning to think that we've been going about it all wrong. You've set my mind at ease.
[To the limited extent that her mind can ever be eased. Her hands hover above one teapot and then another, in offer. She looks at Taneleer with the expectation that he'll indicate his preference, and finally verbalises:]
Which one? How do you take it?
[The Collector's still the host here, unquestionably, but Missy really wants to do the tea. You can take the maniac out of space Glasgow, but you can't take space Glasgow out of the maniac.]
[Oh, no, Missy. Now, typically, when people go about giving compliments like these, the Collector can play them off. Rather coolly, in fact. This time, however, the Collector has been laid raw by those earlier psychic bits and he's still recovering face. Here comes more red and some internal questioning as to why he hadn't gotten rid of a function like this when he'd chosen to take on this form.
(The answer to that part is really quite simple: to do that would require him to reroute the veins in his head and altering where blood would go in the general cranial-area could risk, say, neglecting the brain's needs.)
Ah, but he'll still try to play this off,] Yes. Thank you, Mistress. Your cheekbones make give you a very handsome visage as well.
Right, then, [He fumbles, taking a hearty bite out of that tart, and speaking between chews, he gestures to different pots,] All of these blends. They're all excellent for contemplation, albeit of different matters. The Xandarian blends (in the red pots) are favored by high ranking Nova peacekeepers, to wake them up for legal decision-making. Somewhat comparable to English breakfast tea. The Monks of Shao-Lom (their tea in the green pots) train both the mind and the body to peak perfection, and something like this tea is said to provide focus and clarity for this quest. It's a very spicy blend with notes similar to fruit. The people of K'un-Lun could care less of matters on this plane and their blends (in the yellow) reflect that with a very light flavor almost similar to green tea.
[She puffs up with pride, making the same sound of happy discovery as when she'd first laid eyes on his piano. She manages to maintain her complexion, not turning red herself, though he does succeed in driving her to some vain distraction.]
Really, you think so? I haven't had as many compliments on my looks this go around.
[Not when compared to her previous self. Ah, to be that carefree blond rapscallion again. But there can be no going back, only moving forward. The lady version, by her own admission, is more temperate and patient, all the better for executing plots in the long-term. Presently, she does realise she's started talking about herself in an immodest fashion. She feigns a discreet cough into her hand, an unspoken if eccentric stand-in for saying something along the lines of, 'but never mind that now'. Where were they?
It'll have to be the tea from K'un-Lun to start, then. The lightest flavour possible whilst sampling the different foods. Save the spicy, fruity one for later on, since she suspects that might become her favourite. She picks up the nearby yellow teapot.]
That does help me immensely in making my selection. But I meant to ask which one you'd like, dear.
[He hasn't told her yet that eating and drinking aren't necessities for him. Even if she did know that already, she'd still be offering to pour him something. It's one of the only things she can reliably do for someone else without botching it and causing some degree of suffering or distress. She's innately and often reflexively hazardous, and usually proud of it too. It's her hope that he'll accept this about her, sooner or later, and won't risk letting her help him with anything he couldn't bear to lose.]
[Alright there's something to pull the Collector out of his fugue. With bits of semi-chewed tart coming out of his mouth, Taneleer Tivan gapes just a bit. (Enjoy this rare sight, Missy. Taneleer forgetting to mind his manners. When this sort of thing happened, back when Taneleer Tivan had more biorganic helpers minding his Collection, it didn't bode very well at all.)
Because although Taneleer has yet to say it, he does find this form really very attractive on her. (Even if he does miss the Master's facial hair.) And it is terribly surprising that so many haven't complimented her on it.] They must be blind, these people you regularly consort with. [Or busy avoiding getting killed by her. He starts to mumble,] Blind or they keep things to themselves...
[Ah. But drinking. Athough Taneleer doesn't need to do such a thing, he likes to. From time to time. Just to make sure the old tastebuds are still working.] I think it's appropriate to have some of the K'un Lun variety. In their honor. They have left this plane with many of their own murdered.
[That's gone straight to her head. She gives him a fond look, equal parts charmed and unhinged and predatory. She could pounce on the Collector, knock his chair right over, and smother him with kisses. It wouldn't be romantic or even comfortable, but it would be enthusiastic.
There's a difference between appreciating how something looks and actually wanting to play with it. This understanding, more than anything else, keeps Missy seated where she is and leaves Taneleer unassaulted.
And she knows it's disappointing, but for whatever reason, this body just refuses to grow usable facial hair. She misses it too; draws it on sometimes, for laughs. Her next incarnation will be sure to wear a well-groomed beard or an evil goatee. As it is, she has no idea how wilful the hair on her head is going to get, past a certain length. (Later on, when the Doctor in his infinite wisdom refuses her a trip to the hairdresser, she'll have to choose between letting it go wild and lopping it off with an eating utensil. He'll be lucky if she doesn't stab him.)
Missy pours the K'un Lun variety into her host's cup, inexplicably soothed and relaxed by the splash of the liquid, the delicate aroma, and the very sight of it filling up. Some humans really love their tea, and so do culture-appropriating aliens.] Murdered how? [This is exactly the light conversation she signed up for. Again, there's that perverse enjoyment of other people's misfortunes.]
[Good on you for the restraint, Missy. If you did that...well, Taneleer wouldn't be so upset as he would be confused. Maybe he'd be making the expression that he is now--something mostly blank with lips curled into a vague frown. AKA Taneleer Tivan's default expression.
He has a suggestion that he wants to make, concerning this facial hair situation--ah, but it's too strange (yes, even for him)! They've only just become companions and it just doesn't feel right. Maybe Taneleer Tivan will just have to grow some facial hair himself, for the two of them. Like distinguished, salt-and-pepper fuzz on his chin. Yeah. That'd be nice.
Ah, but anyway--! As Collector, Taneleer Tivan nurtures relations with information brokers throughout various parts of the galaxy, so as to keep a pulse on the Universe's health.
He's about finally noticed some crumbs escaping from the corners of his lips. This is totally what Missy's making that face about. Flustered and blushing profusely, the Collector's gotten a hold of a napkin and begins dabbing the ends of his mouth rather delicately.] I have yet to verify the information myself, but I trust the source. There was an invasion, I believe. A good number of them made it out. While others, who'd made a very good living out of its walls, perished. Terrible really. Aliens being invaded.
I'm sure it wasn't terrible for whoever did the invading.
[She isn't about to take the side of the aliens simply because she's an alien wherever she goes. She'd prefer to back a winner, or better yet, take no side save her own. That said, if they spend time on the subject, she might acknowledge the loss of life as a waste. A waste of bodies. A waste of the effort involved in taking those lives. It's easier to wrap her head around quantifiable losses than intangible emotional stuff. Anyway, she reasons that it can't have been that bad. If it were really so terrible, Taneleer wouldn't be casually chatting about it around the table. They're both very far removed from it. She'll have to imagine the gory details, if the Collector doesn't know or won't say.
There's no such thing as too strange for them, according to her. One of them doesn't care about the newness of their association. She did restrain herself with her last impulse, but she's not going to bother resisting the next one, not when Taneleer's gone such a delightful ruddy shade.]
Missed a spot! [She announces, referring to his little predicament with the crumbs. She then puckers her own lips, in an exaggerated mimicry of what she thinks he should do. Similar to mirroring where someone else has something stuck in their teeth by picking at one's own. She lifts her napkin with an almost maternal nonchalance, and leans over, attempting to swipe at the remaining crumbs on his behalf.]
but it's like the chicken and the egg--do peeps do crazy acts because they are, or vice-versa?
[TBF it was probably more aliens invading the other aliens. Somehow. Taneleer still needs to head over to Terra and verify the crap out of this claim. And, very honestly, not even the Collector knows if he feels much about this. He knows he's supposed to--the loss of life is often sad--and, yet...well, knowing what you're supposed to do and going through the pantomime, it's practically the same thing as actually doing it. What really makes it any different, anyway? What are feelings, if not an assemblage of chemical reactions that illicit psychosocial ones?
But that's maybe a digression for another time. Anywho, by this point of the conversation, Taneleer Tivan doesn't appear all too fazed by this reaction of hers. It's par for the course they'd been playing. As is this odd little instructional bit of hers. With eyes narrowed, Taneleer imitates her posturing. This sort of thing. This being helpful. He ought to encourage that, yes?] Thank you, Missy. [OOF, that tone--a little too frigid...but it's the thought that counts, right?] Perhaps your Doctor knows a little more about this invasion than I. It would be incredibly helpful if you could ask him, when you have the chance.
[Is it? Is it practically the same thing, to simply pantomime? Missy would really like to know, deceiver that she is. It seems to her that people get very upset and worked up about feeling vs. seeming to feel. She wouldn't presume about his experience, but in hers, people are generally horrified when it comes out that she's faking. The villain unmasked! They recoil. A wolf in sheep's clothing will be found out eventually, when enough sheep have gone missing and the faker, licking their chops, has grown fat.
It may just depend who they're performing the pantomime for and why.
Her task completed, and having received gratitude from him (sort of), Missy rests back and resumes her own meal. She's minding her manners, but they'll just have to wait and see if she ends up getting crumbs on herself too. A later problem.]
I might just do that. [It's an interesting technique, asking her to ask him. Mr President will give her some sort of answer. He's a smartarse, so it'll probably be a smartarse answer, but she knows him well enough to translate. Her thoughts skip merrily down the path from 'The Doctor would know about an Earth invasion' to 'Earth is his favourite' to where they are now:]
Do you have a favourite planet? Or is it just wherever you plonk your stuff down? [Would the Collector like it anywhere he could move exhibits and display cases, or is there more to it? She has to figure that a moderate climate would best suit a museum, but that can be engineered.]
[Most people who deal with the Collector, deep down, recognize most of his actions are pantomimes (even if they are only capable of doing so subconsciously). It's pretty fairly common knowledge to about anyone who's heard of the Collector that he really isn't a nice person. But a person like Taneleer has become just powerful enough, wealthy enough, influential enough that these same people make attempts to ignore such a thing.
Even if they do not always succeed.
Ah, but this question:] I try not too spend too long in a single place. It never feels right, Mistress. Even this, [he pauses, to dramatically hold out both of his hands before him. It seems that, in these seconds, he's been made a priest. And he's presenting something to his congregation of one.] Even Knowhere I will have to leave. One day. I do not have any favorites, but, generally, I will try not to land somewhere too awful. Or I will choose someplace remarkably cheap, so that I might be able to dress it up.
You should have seen Knowhere, before I had it renovated. It was truly awful.
Lately, I've been thinking that I've had my fill of these sorts of fix-it jobs; I might choose to land one of my museums somewhere nice. Perhaps California.
[He's going to give her ideas if he's not careful. She often hears innocuous statements like you should have seen and then elects to treat them as suggestions. She could end up putting pre-renovation Knowhere on her travel itinerary.
Hearing him out until the end, a bemused crease forms between her brows. She has a poorly-timed mouthful to chew and swallow before she can clarify that conclusion with him.]
California? Hang on. Sorry. I think my translation circuit's playing up. I'm hearing California, a hot Terran province.
[Since it's rather difficult for a telepathic field to be in error, she goes on,] If there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to ask. I blend right in. [Until she doesn't want to blend anymore. She might have resources left over from her last megalomaniacal cry for attention.]
Would this have anything to do with the high concentration of unique lifeforms protecting said planet?
You've heard that correctly. It's a yes and a no, by the way, [the Collector barely smiles, having finished his delectable tart and licking his fingers with satisfaction at a bouche well- amused
And, here is a scheme that probably makes little sense to most goody-goody types (ah, but, that had to be why most of them are irksome to a man like the Collector):] The people of Terra are protected but horribly ignorant. They only wish to entertain themselves, rather than learn. And that will be their downfall. As a species, their attention-spans have been dwindling and, at the rate of their technological developments, it's unlikely that it will be increasing at any point in the near future.
I've been thinking of landing a museum in one of their amusement parks, [he smacks his own lips, all too tickled by the genius of this plan and the remaining savory-sweetness clinging to his fingertips.] It will contain a thrill ride of some sort. Perhaps even assets that should garner many of their attentions, or I may simply program audioanimatronics and holograms to suit these purposes. The ride itself will be a few minutes long, but the queue area and the lines will be long (as one expects out of amusement rides). In this queue area, I will force waiting Terrans to look at relics from their history of notable alien invasions. Perhaps even educate themselves of forces on their planet that few of them are aware of. If it works well enough, I may even consider landing another museum in another amusement park. [His tone remains incredibly conversational, like the one people typically employ when they talk about the weather or sports. Not a scheme like this.]
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[It's a learning experience! She's gonna guess that, although possible, that's not the best way to furnish him with information when he asks for more. Unasked, she's all over him again (all over his upper arms and shoulders, at least) trying to steer him back toward the opulent dining set and into one of those very fine chairs. If he scrutinises the event closely, he might notice that he received as many angry image-flashes as times he patted her hand. It was related, although not precisely simultaneous. It decidedly did not happen earlier.
Aside from being able to play temporal hacky sack with the Eye of Agamotto, there's really not much she can do about Thanos. Will he empty and crush up the universe like a can of fizzy drink? Probably. The cool kids should just hang out at the end of everything and wait for him to finish. Easy and cowardly to hide behind a policy of non-interference when the big danger comes. That isn't what Missy's trying to do; she's just trying to have a good time. She'd let Taneleer abandon his future in favour of Thanos' past if she thought it would solve more problems than it would cause. Must try to do right by existence, for a change, since she does kinda know that what's bad for existence is bad for her.]
You sit. Later I'll do some research on the warlord and the fixed point, by myself, without setting foot in it. That's my best and final offer.
[Taneleer wouldn't want to hear this at all, but, it could be that he is himself the reason for a fixed point. Having a vision of the future, much like writing it down and reading it back in the past, can solidify events. It makes at least her people think there's nothing that can be done.]
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He leans, simultaneously in a place of comfort (it is always nice getting support to a room as lovely as this zeerustic exhibit) and discomfort (feeling all of this incredibly forward woman's anger once again, whilst having to accept her help to this sitting place). Really, as a creature dressed like a gentleman, it would be more of his prerogative to help her into a seat. But his age is coming out.] Yes, thank you. Fine. Fine.
[There is intended to be some measure of sincerity in that 'thank you'. Those hot flashes just managed to absorb attention away from that bit. The Collector rests his chin into the palm of his hand and rubs his lip-stripe rather vigorously. These sort of psychic, visual stimuli are never easy to deal with.] Whenever I get a vision, I tend to spend days just sitting in contemplation. Thinking only of what I'd seen. It's never a good time to have them, but, these days, there seems to less time to sit and simply think. Everything's moving too quickly, now. I blink and people and creatures age while I remain the same. You must know how it is. [How terribly gauche. What an old person thing to say. Just as quickly as he'd made such an observation, his features contort into a sort of sneer.]
[He turns to the Mistress, and, half-jokingly remarks,] Your kind are able to traverse across space and time, in addition to dispensing information via touch. Hardly seems fair that you are capable of doing so many things. [He rests one hand on the incredibly silvery-blue table and, using the other, pulls out the chair next to him; with a gesture, he entreats her to join him at this gaudy table.] If you do what you have promised, I should need to do something else to help you. It's only fair. Perhaps I am unfit to handle Bushy-Brows, but--if there are more creatures of the Pepper Pot's caliber, I should be more than happy to contain them.
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Once he's settled, she promptly sinks into the chair he meant for her. She's hoping it will be that easy to give him a sense of control again. The order in which they sat down doesn't go unremarked.]
Age before beauty, although I'm inclined to think you're both.
[Flirtation notwithstanding, her expression offers him a passable mimicry of concern.]
If it takes you that long to blink, maybe you shouldn't.
[She reaches for the hand he's left resting on the table. Her impulse was to lay hers on top again, but she freezes mid-way, thinking about how awfully that went earlier. And that was before the psychic projectile vomit. Her fingers curl back and she lamely aborts the gesture, letting her arm flop. Elbows off the table, of course. His assessment of her kind is met with a short huff of dismissive laughter. She knows better than to mistake it for a compliment.]
There's more, even. More tricks up our sleeves. Funky threads woven into our biodata. Sadly, we're not very strong or athletic. We mostly run. Can you picture me in a fight?
[A shootout, maybe, if only because she remembers how from another life. She glances down at herself and then over to him, shaking her head. This body's got balance issues, and the little heels on her boots don't help. It speaks to a certain level of trust in the Collector, bringing vulnerabilities into it when she could have easily preened and bragged.]
Let's not worry about making things equal. It will be. And I won't ask you to take something on without telling you all about it. Care instructions, et cetera. [Next time, telling him will involve words and possibly some light reading material.] Sorry for broadcasting. [How was she supposed to know he prefers to take days, months, decades to think about this stuff? Still, oops. Another instance of knowing she ought to be ashamed of herself, whether she is or isn't.]
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The last bit gets a couple of nods, before he stops and realizes. It's an apology. How odd, an apology. For what--for this thing that she'd done, showing him such things? Is it sincere?
He looks to her, staring, stopping with the stroking of his chin. Can a person like her truly beg forgiveness, when, certainly, it seems against her...what do you call it...raison d'être? Her mien, her very way of being? Certainly, while she'd wait to act on murdering his things with some permission granted, a person like the Mistress hardly seems interested in offending others. Possibly even harming them for fun.
Is this just a part of the pattern, then? She'd--ah! Of course, she is testing what limitations she's allowed, like the naughty little puppy she is. She nips, she pisses, but, when she senses she's gone too far, her eyes get all big and her demeanor contrite! Did she know she was doing this? That is the tricky bit concerning shapeshifters--one can never tell if their change in behavior is due to the costume they've assumed or if the costume had consumed them.
So deep in contemplation is the Collector that he fails to notice a large middle portion of the table sink and, within minutes, rise again with various arrangements of piping hot tea pots, sundry tea cups, and trays of incredibly unusual amuse-bouche. The blends of tea carry savory notes, subtle notes. To compliment these flavors, the foodstuffs follow suit. There is a tray of purple fruit, comparable to watermelon, but hollowed and filled with an orange liquid, somewhat comparable to a dark, well aged vinaigrette. There are small pies with spiced meat and cheese fillings. Turquoise dumplings in light broths, single-serving each. Slices of near raw meats with the most minimal preparations (marinated in a flavored oil, or accented with pepper). All served on pleasing little plates that refused to match one another. (An aesthetic that never fails to amuse the Collector.)
By the time that Taneleer finally realizes the places have been set, all of the machinery and plates have about settled in place.] I suppose...whatever it is that we're talking about...it can wait. We should sup. Talk of lighter things. Perhaps you could tell me about the latest goings-on with yourself and your Doctor. [AKA the dude Taneleer Tivan kind of threatened to kill.]
(in which missy badly describes the extremis flashback)
[Well, beautiful, which is practically the same thing. Out of all of it, that's the part she wants to highlight. Nothing else was of particular importance. Flattery is supposed to help in this situation, the situation of the contrite puppy. Nothing comes from nothing, as he's observed. Everything they'd think of as costume has some basis in reality. She may think she's only pretending when she does things like apologise, but routine is character-forming. She is, by accident, quite sincere from time to time. He's safe from further mental intrusions. The ease, satisfaction and fulfilment of telepathic communication is greatly lessened when she has to force it on an unwilling mind.
Missy's quicker to appreciate the fact that the table's been set, artron energy eyes all alight and excited. She selects a teacup easily enough and then lapses into giddy indecision over which tea to sample first. She'd pour a cup for Taneleer before herself, like ladies do, only there's such a variety and she's not sure which he'd like to start with either. It's such a colourful spread. She does a happy little wiggle in her seat, almost a dance. Some girls do that when they're given food. No telling whether it's natural for her, or another studied mannerism; might've started as the latter and become the former.]
I was damselling. I was in distress. He saved me. Now we're gonna spend some quality time together. I've just stepped out for a minute.
[She really poured it on thick for 'saved', mostly to tease the Doctor in absentia, since he does so much saving. The quality time they'll be spending together isn't totally dissimilar to the quality time Taneleer spends with his acquisitions—consent, of course, being the vital difference. And when a Time Lady steps out for a minute, they could be gone for years. How long she's gone has no bearing on when she'll be back.
If he'll recall, Missy claimed to be supportive of that threat on the Doctor's life. Taneleer was right not to believe her. No one's allowed to treat them as badly as they treat each other. She's been responsible for a few of her arch-frenemy's deaths and vice versa. It's like a consolation prize. They used to want to spend a big chunk of their lives together. They're too different for that, so a few deaths are what's left. On that cheery thought, she devours a turquoise dumpling whole, prompting another happy food wiggle.]
What do you and your brother do when you're in the same place?
[It's a related question. She might be looking for suggestions.]
It's all good, I don't think I've gotten to that bit with Twelve yet.
So. Why the flush?
Thankfully, he hasn't been so preoccupied by this that he missed out on Missy's totally adorable din-dins dance. The din-dins dance seems to be incredibly universal, across different species. From the most violent and coarse of creatures to the most compact and milquetoast. Taneleer stops himself, before his reflexes demonstrate his appreciation as only he is able. This about wakes him from the spell of earlier embarrassment and leads him to conclude that the compliment is only the doggy wiggling its little tail, giving flattery now that it's sensed that the owner is upset.
(космо had done this sort of thing once or twice when he could still fit in Taneleer's hands.)
...just stepped out for a minute, he catches. What exactly is a minute to a time-traveler? Very literally, with her machine, she could step out into another minute. Nip in, threaten someone's menagerie, step back in before the Doctor could notice anything. Would she even mention picking up a companion of her own to the Doctor? (There is no definite way of telling and, yet, this little puzzle box of questions amuses the Collector.)
While claiming a mini-tart for himself, the Collector remarks,] My brother and I are no different than you and your Doctor. We rarely see each other in person, usually not unless one desperately needs the other for some sort of salvation and, when we are together, we typically play games. Not very kind ones, but at least one of us tends to enjoy it. Unless neither of us do.
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[Does he still think she's just puppying up to him? If her singular goal is to smooth things over, flirty flirt flirting is not the smart way to go about it. She knows that. He asked for boundaries. The flattery could already be unwelcome, doubly so if he deems it insincere. If insincere, it's grating and obsequious. She knows that too. And she's getting around it by making sure she's not insincere at all. She means every word. She observed the change in his complexion, woe is him. He'll never have a moment's peace. Missy looks pleased with herself.]
And right you are. That does sound familiar. It's strangely gratifying to hear that it's the normal way of things, for anybody else. I was beginning to think that we've been going about it all wrong. You've set my mind at ease.
[To the limited extent that her mind can ever be eased. Her hands hover above one teapot and then another, in offer. She looks at Taneleer with the expectation that he'll indicate his preference, and finally verbalises:]
Which one? How do you take it?
[The Collector's still the host here, unquestionably, but Missy really wants to do the tea. You can take the maniac out of space Glasgow, but you can't take space Glasgow out of the maniac.]
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(The answer to that part is really quite simple: to do that would require him to reroute the veins in his head and altering where blood would go in the general cranial-area could risk, say, neglecting the brain's needs.)
Ah, but he'll still try to play this off,] Yes. Thank you, Mistress. Your cheekbones make give you a very handsome visage as well.
Right, then, [He fumbles, taking a hearty bite out of that tart, and speaking between chews, he gestures to different pots,] All of these blends. They're all excellent for contemplation, albeit of different matters. The Xandarian blends (in the red pots) are favored by high ranking Nova peacekeepers, to wake them up for legal decision-making. Somewhat comparable to English breakfast tea. The Monks of Shao-Lom (their tea in the green pots) train both the mind and the body to peak perfection, and something like this tea is said to provide focus and clarity for this quest. It's a very spicy blend with notes similar to fruit. The people of K'un-Lun could care less of matters on this plane and their blends (in the yellow) reflect that with a very light flavor almost similar to green tea.
time card: MANY WEEKS LATER.
Really, you think so? I haven't had as many compliments on my looks this go around.
[Not when compared to her previous self. Ah, to be that carefree blond rapscallion again. But there can be no going back, only moving forward. The lady version, by her own admission, is more temperate and patient, all the better for executing plots in the long-term. Presently, she does realise she's started talking about herself in an immodest fashion. She feigns a discreet cough into her hand, an unspoken if eccentric stand-in for saying something along the lines of, 'but never mind that now'. Where were they?
It'll have to be the tea from K'un-Lun to start, then. The lightest flavour possible whilst sampling the different foods. Save the spicy, fruity one for later on, since she suspects that might become her favourite. She picks up the nearby yellow teapot.]
That does help me immensely in making my selection. But I meant to ask which one you'd like, dear.
[He hasn't told her yet that eating and drinking aren't necessities for him. Even if she did know that already, she'd still be offering to pour him something. It's one of the only things she can reliably do for someone else without botching it and causing some degree of suffering or distress. She's innately and often reflexively hazardous, and usually proud of it too. It's her hope that he'll accept this about her, sooner or later, and won't risk letting her help him with anything he couldn't bear to lose.]
Aww, it's all good.
Because although Taneleer has yet to say it, he does find this form really very attractive on her. (Even if he does miss the Master's facial hair.) And it is terribly surprising that so many haven't complimented her on it.] They must be blind, these people you regularly consort with. [
Or busy avoiding getting killed by her.He starts to mumble,] Blind or they keep things to themselves...[Ah. But drinking. Athough Taneleer doesn't need to do such a thing, he likes to. From time to time. Just to make sure the old tastebuds are still working.] I think it's appropriate to have some of the K'un Lun variety. In their honor. They have left this plane with many of their own murdered.
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There's a difference between appreciating how something looks and actually wanting to play with it. This understanding, more than anything else, keeps Missy seated where she is and leaves Taneleer unassaulted.
And she knows it's disappointing, but for whatever reason, this body just refuses to grow usable facial hair. She misses it too; draws it on sometimes, for laughs. Her next incarnation will be sure to wear a well-groomed beard or an evil goatee. As it is, she has no idea how wilful the hair on her head is going to get, past a certain length. (Later on, when the Doctor in his infinite wisdom refuses her a trip to the hairdresser, she'll have to choose between letting it go wild and lopping it off with an eating utensil. He'll be lucky if she doesn't stab him.)
Missy pours the K'un Lun variety into her host's cup, inexplicably soothed and relaxed by the splash of the liquid, the delicate aroma, and the very sight of it filling up. Some humans really love their tea, and so do culture-appropriating aliens.] Murdered how? [This is exactly the light conversation she signed up for. Again, there's that perverse enjoyment of other people's misfortunes.]
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He has a suggestion that he wants to make, concerning this facial hair situation--ah, but it's too strange (yes, even for him)! They've only just become companions and it just doesn't feel right. Maybe Taneleer Tivan will just have to grow some facial hair himself, for the two of them. Like distinguished, salt-and-pepper fuzz on his chin. Yeah. That'd be nice.
Ah, but anyway--! As Collector, Taneleer Tivan nurtures relations with information brokers throughout various parts of the galaxy, so as to keep a pulse on the Universe's health.
He's about finally noticed some crumbs escaping from the corners of his lips. This is totally what Missy's making that face about. Flustered and blushing profusely, the Collector's gotten a hold of a napkin and begins dabbing the ends of his mouth rather delicately.] I have yet to verify the information myself, but I trust the source. There was an invasion, I believe. A good number of them made it out. While others, who'd made a very good living out of its walls, perished. Terrible really. Aliens being invaded.
crazy is as crazy does
[She isn't about to take the side of the aliens simply because she's an alien wherever she goes. She'd prefer to back a winner, or better yet, take no side save her own. That said, if they spend time on the subject, she might acknowledge the loss of life as a waste. A waste of bodies. A waste of the effort involved in taking those lives. It's easier to wrap her head around quantifiable losses than intangible emotional stuff. Anyway, she reasons that it can't have been that bad. If it were really so terrible, Taneleer wouldn't be casually chatting about it around the table. They're both very far removed from it. She'll have to imagine the gory details, if the Collector doesn't know or won't say.
There's no such thing as too strange for them, according to her. One of them doesn't care about the newness of their association. She did restrain herself with her last impulse, but she's not going to bother resisting the next one, not when Taneleer's gone such a delightful ruddy shade.]
Missed a spot! [She announces, referring to his little predicament with the crumbs. She then puckers her own lips, in an exaggerated mimicry of what she thinks he should do. Similar to mirroring where someone else has something stuck in their teeth by picking at one's own. She lifts her napkin with an almost maternal nonchalance, and leans over, attempting to swipe at the remaining crumbs on his behalf.]
but it's like the chicken and the egg--do peeps do crazy acts because they are, or vice-versa?
But that's maybe a digression for another time. Anywho, by this point of the conversation, Taneleer Tivan doesn't appear all too fazed by this reaction of hers. It's par for the course they'd been playing. As is this odd little instructional bit of hers. With eyes narrowed, Taneleer imitates her posturing. This sort of thing. This being helpful. He ought to encourage that, yes?] Thank you, Missy. [OOF, that tone--a little too frigid...but it's the thought that counts, right?] Perhaps your Doctor knows a little more about this invasion than I. It would be incredibly helpful if you could ask him, when you have the chance.
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It may just depend who they're performing the pantomime for and why.
Her task completed, and having received gratitude from him (sort of), Missy rests back and resumes her own meal. She's minding her manners, but they'll just have to wait and see if she ends up getting crumbs on herself too. A later problem.]
I might just do that. [It's an interesting technique, asking her to ask him. Mr President will give her some sort of answer. He's a smartarse, so it'll probably be a smartarse answer, but she knows him well enough to translate. Her thoughts skip merrily down the path from 'The Doctor would know about an Earth invasion' to 'Earth is his favourite' to where they are now:]
Do you have a favourite planet? Or is it just wherever you plonk your stuff down? [Would the Collector like it anywhere he could move exhibits and display cases, or is there more to it? She has to figure that a moderate climate would best suit a museum, but that can be engineered.]
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Even if they do not always succeed.
Ah, but this question:] I try not too spend too long in a single place. It never feels right, Mistress. Even this, [he pauses, to dramatically hold out both of his hands before him. It seems that, in these seconds, he's been made a priest. And he's presenting something to his congregation of one.] Even Knowhere I will have to leave. One day. I do not have any favorites, but, generally, I will try not to land somewhere too awful. Or I will choose someplace remarkably cheap, so that I might be able to dress it up.
You should have seen Knowhere, before I had it renovated. It was truly awful.
Lately, I've been thinking that I've had my fill of these sorts of fix-it jobs; I might choose to land one of my museums somewhere nice. Perhaps California.
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Hearing him out until the end, a bemused crease forms between her brows. She has a poorly-timed mouthful to chew and swallow before she can clarify that conclusion with him.]
California? Hang on. Sorry. I think my translation circuit's playing up. I'm hearing California, a hot Terran province.
[Since it's rather difficult for a telepathic field to be in error, she goes on,] If there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to ask. I blend right in. [Until she doesn't want to blend anymore. She might have resources left over from her last megalomaniacal cry for attention.]
Would this have anything to do with the high concentration of unique lifeforms protecting said planet?
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And, here is a scheme that probably makes little sense to most goody-goody types (ah, but, that had to be why most of them are irksome to a man like the Collector):] The people of Terra are protected but horribly ignorant. They only wish to entertain themselves, rather than learn. And that will be their downfall. As a species, their attention-spans have been dwindling and, at the rate of their technological developments, it's unlikely that it will be increasing at any point in the near future.
I've been thinking of landing a museum in one of their amusement parks, [he smacks his own lips, all too tickled by the genius of this plan and the remaining savory-sweetness clinging to his fingertips.] It will contain a thrill ride of some sort. Perhaps even assets that should garner many of their attentions, or I may simply program audioanimatronics and holograms to suit these purposes. The ride itself will be a few minutes long, but the queue area and the lines will be long (as one expects out of amusement rides). In this queue area, I will force waiting Terrans to look at relics from their history of notable alien invasions. Perhaps even educate themselves of forces on their planet that few of them are aware of. If it works well enough, I may even consider landing another museum in another amusement park. [His tone remains incredibly conversational, like the one people typically employ when they talk about the weather or sports. Not a scheme like this.]