[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.
[Missy's grip relaxes on the handle of the umbrella, lowering the business end all the way to the floor. It's a sturdy thing, not a dainty parasol. Her hand comes to rest over the top of it now, like a walking stick. The unspecified threat is neutralised. She blinks at Taneleer. It was so long between the last one and this one that blinking feels especially deliberate. She listens, no less intently than he did for her, paying him a similar courtesy; more than that, interested.]
I offered because it made me unhappy to think of you falling out of love. You see, love needs loss. It goes through cycles. It ends over and over, so it can begin anew. A gardener might gain a particular insight into this. If you aren't enjoying yourself, a catastrophe could be just the thing to perk you up. I'm certain it was dispiriting last time, but look at you now. [Making her own gesture to indicate everything around them, much smaller than his was. It's a loose flick of her wrist and fanning her fingers out,] Flourishing!
[Eccentricity is nothing new or unique to the Mistress. The only difference is that this time it's styled like genteel mania or hysterical fits, feminine failings for which she cannot strictly be blamed. It isn't her place to decide what's to be done about it. She's simply incapable of knowing what's best for herself. Yes, it is put-on. No, it doesn't stop for anything. His gentlemanly approach probably indulges her more than she should be indulged. His speaking voice is soothing, not because he attempts to placate, she believes, but because it's measured and unhurried and it serves as a pleasant reminder that he isn't rushing to his death like so many others.
As it happens, she hasn't truly invested herself in prolonging a life other than her own. Her gaze only briefly travels over to the petals of the Wundagore Everbloom. Rather than a yes or no, she simply explains why gardening might not stimulate her,] I'd sense which plants to bother with and when. We call that time sensitivity. [Basically, she'd cheat. With no possibility of failure, there can be no satisfication.
The very mention makes her slightly more aware of time flowing linear around them, and she wonders what he intends to do to protect the Tivan Collection against temporal incursions. On the whole, her hobbies don't match her aesthetic. Cosmic science, that goes without saying. She has a particular fondness for mathematics. Music is a rare overlap of her actual interests and what it looks appropriate for her to do.]
Do you play a musical instrument, by any chance? [Her cheerful attitude is quite restored by this point. If she's at all disappointed that he doesn't want to play mortal enemies with her, it doesn't show. She's gently canting her head at him.]
[Admittedly, Taneleer did not know the Master (this or any incarnation) well enough beforehand to have had a sound enough inkling about what being her companion would entail; he also didn't know much of the Doctor and, had he known a little more, beyond maybe hearing of the Doctor's exploits and travels throughout the galaxy, perhaps Taneleer would have better understood what it took to be a companion for someone of that stock. Because, in a twisted kind of way, this pushing people out of their comfort-zones, this getting them into life-or-death type of scenarios in order to find a joie de vivre, this is typical of what is done to a companion. (Albeit probably with less premeditated murder on the Doctor's part, but, well...this is maybe Missy's unintentional/intentional parody of what it is to have a companion like the Doctor has his.)
Or, perhaps, even if the Elder did understand all of this, he still would have failed to appreciate Missy still threatening his pieces. (Which, by the by, he most definitely lacked means to protect from anomalies of H.G. Wells' identified fourth-dimension.) Much like he fails to appreciate this right now.
Perhaps the Mistress would get her wish of another rival, should she continue playing her cards just so.
Because, as of this moment, Mr. Tivan is thinking to himself that his dog is too right and that the Mistress must be kept under very close surveillance while she is on the premises. There might be a containment-unit, properly custom-made and everything, for her just yet, should she make good on her promises. Ah, but, for now, as is his way, even while hoarding schemes like these, his voice will remain mollifying and his manner obliging.
With arms dropping to his sides and, then, crossing over his chest,] Please don't concern yourself with my love life. I lost interest in it a billion or so years ago; I'd rather...you didn't...expend the attention you're paying. [And, rather abruptly,] One of my pianos can be found down this hall, [he raises his head for a moment, pointing with his chin,] and to the left. It's a Grade V, genuine Artistic Case. Custom-made. And it still plays very well.
[More than an unintentional parody. It's certainly more than a coincidence. Missy would say that she chose and groomed a recent companion of the Doctor's, and that she understands the dynamic better than anyone else could. The Doctor himself is too close to it. Missy is alert to possibilities as they unfold, knowing very well how one party might shape the other in that kind of Time Lord-companion partnership.]
Your love life? That's something else entirely! Just what sort of attention do you think I'm paying?
[If he's not careful with that language, he might impugn a lady's honour. Her voice is a bit shrill, at least right that second. She shoots him a faintly scandalised and reproachful look. There's some humour in it too, but really now, she's not so primitive. If he thinks she's sticking her beak uninvited in anything personal, reproductive maybe, he's mistaken. (If she were flirting, that would only increase the chances of peril and a death toll. Most of what she knows about love is the same as what she knows about hate, just with the other word swapped in.)
Her tone levels out.] Enjoyment, motivation and purpose. Love of what you do. These aren't bad things to wish on you. [Although her ideas for bringing it about are unquestionably bad. She's risking their friendly acquaintance, though Mr. Tivan makes it quite impossible for her to know so. Frankly, she would be insulted if she weren't under very close surveillance.
He hasn't indicated that they're on thin ice, yet she does attempt reassurance anyway, because making threats and softening them is almost a reflex for her.] I won't touch a hair on— [Missy squints and whirls around, in search of something with fur or hair,] that, let's say, [not using the umbrella to point this time,] or anything else without your permission, Collector dear. It's as much your choice as mine, what we'll do together.
[With that much unasked reassurance and no apology, she begins to walk purposefully, with or without him, heading the way they were before. Worse comes to worst, she'll follow the directions he gave for his piano.] Something in common, by the way. Piano's my favourite. [She sings too, though that's best done with accompaniment.]
[By 'love life' he'd meant the state of his ability to care about things...oh, but that look of hers, even if given in jest, tells Taneleer that he'd most definitely picked the wrong word. (It had been a long enough time since the term was last used by this man, who is able to speak many thousands of dead languages and could easily identify the creature Missy briefly pointed to as an incredibly sedated Xemnu of the Xem. The term's meaning had just been very long forgotten to him.)
He crosses his arms a little tighter to his chest, looking more like a child than one of the possibly oldest beings in his universe, while attempting to comprehend this...very odd flight of fancy. He follows after the Mistress, mentally repeating all that she'd said, recalling what she gesticulated when she said what she did, and revisiting how she'd said it. Taneleer's character is one prone to bouts of obsession, legends across the galaxy claiming them as life-prolonging. Not life-changing or life-giving. Prolonging. As if to implicate some sort of a stasis, a state that he knows to be completely unnatural. And yet there is an underlying question to all of this, in particular, that he can't help but fixate on.
Even with a claim to only act with his permission, the Mistress did not seem to see inherent value in the lives of his Collection, beyond ending some in order to make him...well, learn their value with their losses. And yet the Master also seems so incredibly, sincerely concerned for him. It is strange. Almost too strange. How such dichotomous parts could exist in a single person, and how oddly they reconcile to proffer half-kind, half-cruel gestures.
As a biologist, with a lifelong interest in sciences related to species and their societies, the Collector finds himself pervaded by one of the most damned of words in any of the millions of dead and living languages he'd learned: why?
Soon enough, they've made it to the antique upright. It's black and incredibly shiny, inlaid with inky tableaus of flowers and creatures. Really a thing of beauty. With an utterly tender touch, the Collector lifts the keylid and begins to play.] My older brother also enjoys the piano. We prefer different styles. He enjoys jazz and extemporaneous improvisation, ephemeral things that are beautiful because they were, they'd existed in a state of chaos, and, then, they are no longer. I'm more partial to classics that have withstood the test of time. If I'd be able to guess, and you may correct me if I'm wrong, I'd think you'd prefer the former to the latter.
Oh. [Her soft sound of discovery means she's more than a little charmed on sight. Showing a clear interest in one of his possessions; unprecedented in this visit so far. While Taneleer lifts the fall, Missy's studying the piano from one angle and another, practically purring at it.] Aren't we sexy? [After all the living things they'd passed by, she's talking to this as though it's sentient.
She's sure the Collector wouldn't want random grubby prints all over his antiques. Still, she can't resist placing a hand against the side panel for a little while, to feel the vibrations. She can feel, too, how long the piano has been sitting in this very spot, and the weight of its history before that. It is genuine. She could follow the thread back to the beginning, when it was still in parts. Her eyes close to better listen to him play. Her answer, not-quite-correction, is a bit belated and distracted, for which he only has himself to blame.]
You're right, [Missy does love chaos,] if those are my options. My preference is really somewhere between yours and his. Surrealist and impressionist compositions. Unpredictable, controversial. Easy to learn, hard to play, harder to hear the same way twice. [She'd provide the example of Gnossienne no.3 if he'd let her, only he's much too talented to be interrupted, and she has the sneaking suspicion that they're not only discussing music. These preferences do hint about each of them.]
[Taneleer catches this interest of the Master’s and makes note of it. While, undoubtedly, this antique piece is exquisite and worth all of this appreciation, it incites that damned word to flash in his head. Very much like a caution light.
Why? Why? Why?
His fingers dance across the ivories, drawing out a tune from a long-forgotten star. A slow little sonata tempered by lighter notes. It is a very practiced tune. One that, like the others in the Collector’s repertoire, he had forced himself to memorize. He leans in with each crescendo and pulls away before he can allow himself to be too swallowed by the melody. The music grows and wanes as the instrument sings every part.
He says nothing for a while, simply absorbing her answer, until stopping very abruptly. With a step back and a gesture to the keys,] Unless your hands are sticky, I’d like to hear that. Surreality and impressionism.
[Unable to name or place the composition he's playing, Missy imagines that Taneleer might be the only one alive who still knows it. In that way, she concludes that he's a conservationist of music too. He might be the very reason his classical pieces have "withstood the test of time." He's a spectacularly accomplished pianist, having no doubt had a great deal of time to practice. She doesn't watch his movements, because she's fairly entranced and swaying on the spot herself. And that being the case, it's jarring when he lifts his hands from the keys. Her eyes snap open and refocus on him.]
Lovely. It was mean of you, to stop like that. How long is it? Hours, days, weeks? [She would have stuck it out with him for the duration, if he's opposed to improvising a conclusion.
What she wouldn't give for an umbrella stand. She props the device up against something, leaving it, and circles around to fulfil the Collector's request. Often, though not today, she wears gloves. As she moves by him, she holds her palms up flat, humorously submitting her hands for his examination.] I didn't bloody them while you weren't looking.
[Her selection is simple and repetitive, yet prone to unexpected variations. So many notes dangling like loose ends, and the piece would be diminished without them. Little twists and turns. Dreamlike, again. It's atmospheric, possibly intended for the background, and may not demand his full attention. Playing Satie in particular, she's very much at ease, as evidenced by her relaxed posture.]
[Undoubtedly, there is a streak of exhibitionism in the Collector. Not in the psychosexual way. More of a need for some sort of recognition. Like to the degree of, say, hypothetically, setting up a golden statue of himself in a queue area for one of his many educational attractions. He greets Missy's compliments with a smug smirk, unsurprised and, yet, still elated.
This about goes away with that oddly specific claim of hers.
Ah, but, the claim is verified (with a glance), approved (with a simple nod), and she sets out to play.
The Collector doesn't shut his eyes or place a hand on any bit of the instrument (since he is more than confident in its ability to be played well); instead, he stands over the Master's shoulders, looking a little like the universe's only punk-glam-rock-piano-instructor. His eyes follow in beat, studying her technique and posture.
There is undoubtedly confidence in her demeanor and comfort with the material and the keys, something that goes beyond simply knowing that if you hit one key at one point it created a tone that would sound different than others. There is intimacy, nestled between whole and half notes. It whispers. Beckons. Hypnotizes and entreats, via repetition.
The melody seems a lot like her--turns of cruelty and kindness, nary a warning of which side would show. Either the piece fit her well or, perhaps, she made the piece fit her. (Perhaps it is a bit of both.)
His mind goes places, pacing after the lead of her notes. And his mouth follows suit, speaking in its measured monotone. His arms remain still, for once, while he speaks.] These variations--they are always fascinating. Even more so when interpreted by a musician of your caliber.
It's as if the composer, as they created them, discovered a topic that they enjoy. Perhaps they elucidate a point that they did not feel was so strongly communicated by a previous composition. Or, perhaps, they are so gripped by an assemblage of notes that they cannot help but repeat themselves until others are swallowed by this obsession. This is their thesis and they speak to us, though us, in the tongue of tones and directions. We follow after their shadows and talk back to them, even after they'd passed the mortal veil. It's almost like conducting a seance. Playing pieces like this.
You trace after the innermost thoughts of a composer. With your playing, you highlight parts of their arguments. You annotate. Animate. Annotate. Translate. You do it for yourself, in admiration for the composer's intelligence expressed in this tune, and also for an audience, so that they may come to know the composer's piece, what it is that you know of the composer's piece, and how you read it.
That was a generous composition of thoughts. As for self-gratifying, I won't presume.
[Expressing his understanding could be as much for himself as it is for her, similar to the point he'd made about performing. There aren't many people she's interested in listening to. He just so happens to be one of the few. Like music, Mr. Tivan's thoughts go through movements.
An assemblage of notes repeating into an obsession. Missy considers the eight-hundred and forty repetitions of Satie's Vexations. It could take fifty hours, or be done in as little as fourteen; a rite of passage, perhaps meditative or spiritual. Very much like a seance. The Collector's words and those many displays and containment units call to mind a past scheme in which Missy 'collected' consciousnesses. They weren't collected to have or keep, but rather to serve another characteristically cruel/kind purpose.]
The dead are sometimes more useful to me than the living. This composer had emotional intelligence, I'll give 'im that. I can't credit his species with more.
[Grinning crookedly, she plunges herself into a playful, wholehearted rendition of Prokofiev's Suggestion Diabolique, a composition more overtly mad and sinister. Sometimes she's just cartoonishly evil. It's probably funnier in her head. When that's done, she moves to reclaim her umbrella. She'll only close the fall over the keys if he doesn't have a better idea, another contribution of his own.]
[Suggestion Diabolique, chasing after statements like that. Maybe the Collector is just that type of person who can trace the humor there (whether intentional or not...although it does seems like there is something intended herein). This maps on perfectly to that pattern of her behavior. Something nice. Then, follow with something a little crueler. Threaten his pieces, play the piano prettily. Morbid remark, after dispensing compliments. Although this may not be an entirely, purposefully put-upon act, and there is sincerity in what the Master does, one couldn't help but think that maybe Freud or Jung would have had some fun picking up on this.
As for the statements themselves...well, it is very in-character for her. Anyway, now, whereas the Master's friend, the Doctor, would have objected to the latter bit, that claim of the Mistress' concerning the human race, and come up with some sort of great-grand defense for that race of ape-descended bipeds, Taneleer, having admired many species, regards it with a bit of indifference. Terra certainly attracts a lot of weird things and, in spite of this constant invasion by the strange, the bipedal, ape-descended homo sapiens seem to have a knack for surviving. But, well, does one congratulate a cockroach or a gnat for avoiding the boot?
It is the first bit that reawakens a near-silenced worry. (Although he did liken piano-playing to communication with the dead and she is responding to that...and his note may have been a subconscious response to her threatening his pieces not too long ago, albeit now with his permission. Yes, that certainly is getting to be something on his mind that is staying put and it isn't exactly getting off of hers either.)
He's silent, as she plays her sinister tune, and he contemplates. Perhaps instead of avoiding the topic, this could be a lead-in to talking on it? In order for this Companion-thing to work out, this sort of thing had to be settled. The mannish-shaped alien half-turns and reaches forward, laying his hand a little left of Missy's on the stay. In a very delayed response,] What do you mean by that--that the dead are sometimes more useful than the living?
[Missy looks down at the placement of the Collector's hand, back up to him, and then places her hand on his, giving his fingers a light and eager squeeze. She's carefree, utterly untroubled by the thought of him reacting badly, or of it being an unwelcome gesture. In the company of someone similar to herself, she associates touch with communication and understanding. She's tempted by the possibility of thinking his answer at him, yet refrains. She imagines he's keeping telepathic channels open for his puppy.]
Oh, darling, I mean that I'm not like you. I don't have the temperament or the resources to collect special things and then leave them as they are. They'd get away from me sooner or later, loath as I am to admit it. [This could well loop back to before: she can't collect. She has to master. She doesn't feel secure until she subjugates.]
Death is a great equaliser. The dead are homogenised and manageable. I was just reminiscing about storing and upgrading some fine dead people. Raising an army. I gave it as a birthday present.
[Her thoughtful and generous gift was not well received. She doesn't mind though. Her reminiscing isn't tinged with any regret. Contingencies are put in place for a reason. She's discussing it in logistical rather than emotional terms. Much as it galls her to admit it, she'd struggle to contain the living specimins Taneleer has, even on a much smaller scale. She has no idea how he manages it, and won't even speculate on his budget for sedatives. She looks around them again, indicatively,]
This all, how you do it, is entirely too much work and upkeep for me. You're sensational, you know that? [Quite sincerely meant.]
[What is it that the Collector associates with touch? The same as Missy--communication and understanding. But his feelings about such subjects are very different. Taneleer freezes and, in spite of the reasonable speed of her hand grasping, watches at a slower pace. There is a theory about that, isn't there? About the relativity of time? They are in two different time-zones, this pair. She in the world of actuality, Taneleer transported into the one contained in his head. The time-traveler had successfully transported her companion.
How did he expect the Master's hand to feel, as it holds his? Cold. Sharp. Maybe it is the way that her eyes pierced that made him think her touch would be like that. Not warm like it actually is.
How different is this, really, than when he'd grasped her hand as she'd stepped out of her clock? Very. Then, it was he that did the initiating. It was him that was in control. He that knew where they were going and what would happen next.
She is saying some things. About death, gifts. (Typical of her. Really.) But he hears, instead of listening. His eyes study the hands, the wrinkles curling each knuckle, the nails nestled so comfortably at the tips, and he finds himself contemplating how old age must have robbed him of his reaction time. Because, surely, some centuries ago or so, his hand would have been pulled away very quickly. No, but he'd been caught so very unaware; he'd been ensnared, no, dominated. Yes, this is a maneuver to dominate. She is, and always had been, the Master. This is what she is wont to do. And it is why she must have found use with the dead--because they are easier to domineer. Because the dead remain still and can't will themselves any other which way, other than hers.
Of course. To her, death is the ultimate control. Her gift of it is her way of giving control, and, in doing so, giving her more control.
He pulls his hand away, looking back at her and fully expecting some sort of sickening smile on her face. His expression would return nothing of the sort.
Curtly,] I'm married. [Just as the words take their leave from his head and out of his mouth, the ridiculousness of it strikes him. This is the Master. He'd known the Master when she was male. Why did he feel so terribly compelled to share such a thing?
What did this matter? Why did he have to make it matter?]
[That predicted saccharine smile gives way to a short, startled burst of laughter. Missy's surprise, genuine or not, is meant to profess her innocence. A moment after Taneleer pulls his hand away, she withdraws her own to the safety of her own space, lifting it up, up to shoulder height. Almost making that universal gesture of surrender, one-handed. Almost, since her wrist is too relaxed. She'd like him to believe it isn't necessary to retreat from her any further.]
So am I! [Exclaimed as though they've mutually stated the obvious. Her good cheer is impervious to his curtness. She doesn't feel scolded by him. She doesn't feel that she's being rejected. To feel rejection, she would have to be motivated differently. He did not reject her. At worst, he defied her. Her physical affection isn't empty and her terms of endearment aren't meaningless, they're just unbalanced. She does it all to please herself, and hasn't given much thought to what it might mean to him.]
Or, so was I. Dotted through time, I forget when I am and when I'm not. If my first wife is alive, I like to think we're still on. She won't mind if I stay this gender.
[Gender would be the least of the obstacles to rekindling a relationship with a fellow Gallifreyan. Their society wouldn't warmly welcome her home, and she delights in being a renegade, something in common with her Doctor. She doesn't share that part, for much the same reason she doesn't expect to meet Taneleer's spouse. She hasn't actually lived as a husband in a long time, and hasn't attempted to be a wife.
She treats his objection as a friendly introduction of a new subject. But not for a second does she forget the abruptness of it, the oddity. Married, of all the things to mention. He couldn't just tell her not to play games? And it was pointed too, as though it should mean something. What does he think she's going to do about it? Murder his better half? No, that isn't it. He'd like her to behave herself. She knows. She knows, and yet, for the hell of it, she asks him to spell it out.]
[What is the relevance? Ah, Freud would have a field day attempting to figure this outburst that even Taneleer struggles to understand completely.
Perhaps...yes, this relationship appears to be too close for his comfort. Taneleer had lived long enough to find it foolish to allow gender expression to impede his attraction or lack thereof to another being, yet, in this case, it doesn't help. Only his wife would have been allowed to command Taneleer so thusly (well, ok, minus the bit about killing his creatures because they're his). And he would not betray the memory of his late wife with a Mistress.] We need to discuss boundaries, you and I, to make this partnership work. There are some things that I will allow and others that I will never be alright with. I will not be handled like some bauble on a string, to be bandied and swung whatever way you will.
[His stern expression breaks, his demeanor becomes less solid. There is something in that tone of hers, that lack of respect for his assertion that simply inspires him to let everything loose.] I have devoted my life to preserving living things and I ask that you respect this decision. I will never allow you to kill a part of my Collection, because doing that is akin to killing a part of myself. That which makes me who I am.
It would be no different than if I killed your Doctor.
[Oooh. Alright. Maybe he will regret that last bit there...but, for now, it feels too good not to have let out.]
[Now, on the other side of that lecture, Missy strongly suspects that Taneleer is bereaved. A widower, even if he doesn't confirm it in words. She's seen something like that before: the Doctor pained by the loss of his archaeologist wife. Missy doesn't make it easy on her friend by swanning around as a dangerous, vibrant woman. As established, they live out their titles, and indeed, that other meaning of Mistress is not lost on her. The Collector wouldn't be the first to think she's a flirt—not only a flirt, but a flirt who is exclusively interested in courting unavailable beings. There is a slight possibility, then, that Taneleer's reluctance will make him all the more enticing to her. If he'd played along, flirted back, showed an immediate interest, or had no reaction at all, she would have lost interest. She would have cooled rapidly. His discouragement has the opposite effect. She might not show it. She might try to consider his comfort, but really she's more curious than ever. There are little impulses she mightn't be able to resist.
Rules are made to be broken. She almost laughs again, to think of being restricted to what Taneleer allows. It sounds like something she could have fun with. As a courtesy to him, she intends to obey the letter of his instructions, but not the spirit of them. He'll have to set those boundaries very thoughtfully, and call upon his experience of dealing with rebellious and manipulative creatures.
Loyalty is foreign to her. The most foreign loyalty of all is to a lover, to their memory. She can be fickle. Her attention span can be short. The people who once loved and adored the Master complained of neglect long before they ever said anything of cruelty or madness. Her kind move on. They move on almost ruthlessly. They move on from one another, even from their own children and grandchildren. Missy does an exemplary job. She doesn't let herself warm to any acquaintance she believes will be short-lived. That's what brought her here in the first place. She's begun to long for some form of connection, something that lasts, and the Collector certainly lasts. He preserves himself and his Collection and his memories and perhaps even some shred of his feelings, and that's remarkable. She's so intrigued. She doesn't agree with his description of how she 'handled' him, and starts, her mouth opening, only for the objection to die in her throat.
Taneleer has identified her only lifelong bond: the childhood friendship, still sitting warm and heavy in both her hearts, more home than any planet. Her mirror, so alike and yet so different. They are two sides of the same coin. The destruction of one leaves the other achingly alone in the vastness of time and space. They both feel it, and they both risk it on a regular basis. Taneleer's threat does rile her, so it's a good thing she likes to be riled. She can't fault him and won't make him regret it. He's not threatening to do anything that she hasn't done herself. She doesn't respond in true anger, only firmly, and less decorous than usual. Doesn't miss a beat, giving him another penetrating unbroken stare.]
Go on. I wish you would kill him. He's a real pain in the arse. [No one wants the Doctor dead more than she does. Also possible that no one wants him alive more than she does. Missy's dichotomy peaks there.] You remind me of him, in some ways. Why do you care? Why these pieces? Why is preservation better than destruction? All you have to do is save yourself from the big, bad cosmos. Maybe not even that. Why save the rest? I don't know where it comes from, the desire to do so much for so many.
[He will never have a proper apology from her for threatening harm to his pieces, which amounts to parts of himself. She bites her lip, catching it briefly in her teeth and then giving a lopsided shrug. Still more saucy than he'd probably like,] Boundaries. Let's discuss. It's something of a rising custom for me to kiss you. Just once. It seals the deal, I think, with a companion. We're just going to skip it? Can if you like.
[Too right. She is too right. Unlike his brother, Taneleer had devoted himself to another for a good couple of billion years. Matani was her name. There isn't a day that Taneleer doesn't spend at least a minute or so thinking of her, even if he could no longer recall the way her voice sounded or how she smelled. (He'd liked to imagine it was dark. But soft. Not at all unlike a shadow. It would have gone very well with her black hair and her light eyes.) He scoffs, rolling his eyes a little at this claim of hers that she would rather he killed her Doctor. There would be no way. For as long as he'd known her, even when she was male, her concerns always went back to that man.
Wait. Is that a good thing, then, that he's been compared to--
Is it not a few minutes ago that they were so calmly playing the piano for each other? How is it that things had escalated so greatly by an uninitiated touch? Why did he feel so...terrible after she'd simply laid her hand upon his? These questions certainly aren't helping things at all, as Taneleer holds his peace until she's suggested how they seal this deal. Absolutely not. Absolutely not.
Absolutely--] Because all of this could be gone! I've seen it in my head, that Thanos will arise and he will put an end to everything! Not for pleasure, not out of ignorance--but because he believes it to be the way to bring about order! Do you know what that is to lose everything? I have--I'm the last of my kind! I'm one of the few who can still name Cygnus X-1, the sad hunk of rock I was born and raised upon! And I can scarcely remember my own people's history. I don't even think I remember how to change back into my true form. I cannot let it happen again, I can't simply stand by and watch so many others die and lose their worlds, I can't simply let it all be forgotten, and I absolutely cannot ally with you if you do not take this seriously!
[He stops, eyes dark and glaring. Had this been unearned? Had he said too much? Perhaps this is undeserved? In her own twisted way, Taneleer had a feeling she had been on her very best behavior. Perhaps, as she is able, she had been taking this seriously.
Or, perhaps, this is why beings like them tend to be so alone. They end up fixed in their own ways, trapped by their obsessions, bound to familiar shapes. Perhaps they'd changed in all the ways they are able, and, perhaps, come time for them to transform again, they cannot.
They would not.] I can't kiss you; I'd told you that I'm still married. [Taneleer had had little flings here and there with women, mostly of the demure variety. They were incredibly chaste relations that he'd ended before they'd gotten too serious, while the relationship could still be controlled. Perhaps this would have been easier if Missy were male.]
Edited (and then I thought to myself that I could add a bit more.) 2017-11-26 00:52 (UTC)
[The stately Mr. Tivan has become quite fierce. Missy is again performing hyperfemininity, crossing her body with one arm and cupping her opposite elbow, pulling it against her side, making herself more compact. All the blinking she hasn't been doing seems to catch up with her at once, in a quick burst of fluttering eyelashes. This is the exact kind of physicality she might use to guilt-trip someone for raising their voice to her. She doesn't expect it to work in this case. She's been far too vocal, too much of an instigator.
She is not shrinking from him in fear (a reaction she's sure he's seen plenty of), merely subduing her wild gestures and 'removing' herself somewhat; not because they agreed to it, but because he's treating her this way. It looks like guilt or shame. The wrong party who knows they're in the wrong. She doesn't actually feel any shame. She knows that she should though, and maybe that's close enough. She won't let herself be bossed around, not ever, not by anyone, but she will go to great lengths to get what she wants from the right people. Yes, she already was trying. No, not her best. She can try harder.
It is, perhaps, a strange time to notice that Taneleer's eyes are not completely black. She thinks there might be touches of green and brown in them too. This will need further investigation, maybe when he's fixing her with less of glare. And it was significant, when she told him he reminds her of her friend. She wouldn't expect him to recognise how it could be a good thing, an exploitable thing, but that's because she doesn't self-examine. It makes sense that he would have observed a pattern. That's the biologist and anthropologist in him.
A frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. She didn't have to force that reaction. It crept up by itself. Unless they trek out to the ends of her universe, she's still quite the rare bird. The Doctor persists in introducing her as 'the other last of the Time Lords.' He's trying to burden her with whatever responsibility or ambassadorship he's already taken on. Although the rest of their kind are not all dead, they are rather inconvenient, indisposed, what-have-you. The earlier 'if' on Missy's marital status left wide the possibility, because she truly doesn't know and won't be finding out. At the time of speaking, she wasn't sad about it. Now, forced to consider more than just her interpersonal relationships, her mood is dropping fast. She had as much say over gaining a Glaswegian accent as she had over the female incarnation: no say at all. Going full Scottish is the natural consequence of drudging up history and permitting genuine emotion in her voice.]
I've believed it. I've believed everything to be lost. I remember the history of my people. Worse, I remember what they became. The ugly, desperate things they did to save themselves. I remember what they did to me when I was just a boy, eight years old. So little! Can you imagine? [She doubts the Collector has a firm grasp of what it was like to be eight hundred thousand years old, let alone eight. She doesn't say what was done to her. Often she thinks that no one will understand, that it might not sound so bad in words. The words fail to describe the slow erosion of her sanity. It will always be a source of bitterness and blinding fury. She settles for the barest expression of her disapproval,] Tsk, tsk.
[Missy would not want Taneleer, the Doctor, or anyone else to know how vulnerable she still is. How distressed she becomes when her very own heartbeat seems to climb all the way up into her skull. She still has manic moments when she can't tell a normal biological function from a signal implanted in her head.]
What I've done for fun is nothing compared to what we did in the Time War. Think about the mess of dragging time into it. A war that always was and always would be. I didn't even see the worst of it. And you have—had—a Dalek. If it hadn't made so much noise, you would have saved and protected our great enemy.
I'm not trying to change your life's purpose, Taneleer. I can't. Might not, even if I could. I only want to understand it. [It's widely agreed that she should be the one to change, if change is possible for the likes of them. Her Doctor is cautiously optimistic about it. Boys, she could easily joke, always expect a girl to compromise. This gender stuff really is arbitrary and ridiculous. It does make a difference though, doesn't it? For now, she's taking 'no' for an answer on that kiss. The mood has quite gone, insomuch as Missy ever felt they had a mood.]
[Bearing witness to the Master's hyperfeminine positioning, the Collector can't help but assume an incredibly hypermasculine one. Straight back, hands on hips--a position that lends its user more confidence, according to scientific research. He would not bend and he would not yield.
He would not yield.
He would not...dammit. And here, he'd been doing very well before she brought up the child-soldier portion of her past. It's never an easy thing, for survivors of such conscriptions to reconcile these parts of their past and examine her government's motivations with a colder eye.
They were desperate; the great race of Time-Lords failed to see a future for themselves, not unless they bastardized what futures they could to secure it. A hardly unique narrative in the grand scheme of things. Her suffering is but a period, in a sentence, on a page, contained in a volume of a multipart epic concerning the Universe.
But he will not share this aloud. The Master is a time-traveler, and, surely, she'd come to learn this. Yet, even with this knowledge, there remains something terribly raw in her tone as she relates all of it. There stands something with her, a shadow perhaps, that she wishes to keep hidden. Ever the gentleman (perhaps more sincerely than put-upon), Taneleer would not intrude upon the lady's privacy.
She made...a bit more sense now. This switching between cruel and kind. Yes, perhaps it could very well match the hands that raised her. The adult figures that taught her to spell and load a gun. This could be her idea of being nurturing.
Oh, how terrible a thought.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. His posture doesn't budge, but his snowy brows lower and create concerned squiggles across his forehead.
How could he make her understand, now? Would it gauche for him to admit some jealousy that the Master could at least remember some portion of her people's history--even an unfavorable one? Probably.
Taneleer thinks back to his creatures, as his mind often does, particularly to the beasts that had endured some form of abuse. His dog, for instance. (Yes, dogs have problems.) Poor космо. Before Taneleer had come across the craft of the canis lupus familiaris, the poor beast had been so emaciated; he had lived his life as a simple street dog, until snatched from his family and subjected to terrible experimentation. How long it took to win his current Head of Security's loyalty. But how rewarding it proved to be. It had taken a lot of patience, a lot of understanding. The poor little creature would so often hide in a corner. How much time Taneleer'd spent, simply coaxing the dog out of the shadows to sit with his new owner and join him to enjoy Russian literature.
The Master certainly isn't a dog, but there are things that the Collector could carry over and attempt to make this work. No yelling, no punishments for who she is now and how it's made her act, protect her from what she would fear, and, perhaps when she could be ready, attempt some desensitization. But, for now, a reverse-dominance training program seems most apropos. No giving out toys or treats or rewards when she behaves well (since it seems that her idea of good behavior, well, needs a little work). Instead let these things be made readily available to her. Taneleer would simply have to figure out what she needs. And pair this satisfaction with simple confidence-building activities.
What is it that the Mistress needs? How lonely she seemed, when she'd called and offered so heartily to help expand his Collection. How overly friendly--yes, there is only her Doctor that she really speaks so highly of. More companions would be a good place to start.
The Collector slides out of his rigid stance, sliding his hands down his hips and unto his pockets.] Fine. I think there's no better way for you to come to understand why I do, [little swirling of the fingers at his sides,] what I do than to do. Beyond obtaining more assets for my Collection. I've gotten several new additions of creatures and relics that I need to tend to and catalogue. As a condition for this alliance, you can help me with that. And--my Brothers and I, we began our...familial relations--[Actually. No. He definitely didn't remember why him and his Siblings formed the Elders of the Universe. He raises both of his brows, grimacing, and, then, starts again.] Having a sizeable support system, even unbound by blood, makes several millennia of terrible things more tolerable. I should like to give you the number for one of my closer siblings. He's one of my more sociable contacts.
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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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I offered because it made me unhappy to think of you falling out of love. You see, love needs loss. It goes through cycles. It ends over and over, so it can begin anew. A gardener might gain a particular insight into this. If you aren't enjoying yourself, a catastrophe could be just the thing to perk you up. I'm certain it was dispiriting last time, but look at you now. [Making her own gesture to indicate everything around them, much smaller than his was. It's a loose flick of her wrist and fanning her fingers out,] Flourishing!
[Eccentricity is nothing new or unique to the Mistress. The only difference is that this time it's styled like genteel mania or hysterical fits, feminine failings for which she cannot strictly be blamed. It isn't her place to decide what's to be done about it. She's simply incapable of knowing what's best for herself. Yes, it is put-on. No, it doesn't stop for anything. His gentlemanly approach probably indulges her more than she should be indulged. His speaking voice is soothing, not because he attempts to placate, she believes, but because it's measured and unhurried and it serves as a pleasant reminder that he isn't rushing to his death like so many others.
As it happens, she hasn't truly invested herself in prolonging a life other than her own. Her gaze only briefly travels over to the petals of the Wundagore Everbloom. Rather than a yes or no, she simply explains why gardening might not stimulate her,] I'd sense which plants to bother with and when. We call that time sensitivity. [Basically, she'd cheat. With no possibility of failure, there can be no satisfication.
The very mention makes her slightly more aware of time flowing linear around them, and she wonders what he intends to do to protect the Tivan Collection against temporal incursions. On the whole, her hobbies don't match her aesthetic. Cosmic science, that goes without saying. She has a particular fondness for mathematics. Music is a rare overlap of her actual interests and what it looks appropriate for her to do.]
Do you play a musical instrument, by any chance? [Her cheerful attitude is quite restored by this point. If she's at all disappointed that he doesn't want to play mortal enemies with her, it doesn't show. She's gently canting her head at him.]
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Or, perhaps, even if the Elder did understand all of this, he still would have failed to appreciate Missy still threatening his pieces. (Which, by the by, he most definitely lacked means to protect from anomalies of H.G. Wells' identified fourth-dimension.) Much like he fails to appreciate this right now.
Perhaps the Mistress would get her wish of another rival, should she continue playing her cards just so.
Because, as of this moment, Mr. Tivan is thinking to himself that his dog is too right and that the Mistress must be kept under very close surveillance while she is on the premises. There might be a containment-unit, properly custom-made and everything, for her just yet, should she make good on her promises. Ah, but, for now, as is his way, even while hoarding schemes like these, his voice will remain mollifying and his manner obliging.
With arms dropping to his sides and, then, crossing over his chest,] Please don't concern yourself with my love life. I lost interest in it a billion or so years ago; I'd rather...you didn't...expend the attention you're paying. [And, rather abruptly,] One of my pianos can be found down this hall, [he raises his head for a moment, pointing with his chin,] and to the left. It's a Grade V, genuine Artistic Case. Custom-made. And it still plays very well.
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Your love life? That's something else entirely! Just what sort of attention do you think I'm paying?
[If he's not careful with that language, he might impugn a lady's honour. Her voice is a bit shrill, at least right that second. She shoots him a faintly scandalised and reproachful look. There's some humour in it too, but really now, she's not so primitive. If he thinks she's sticking her beak uninvited in anything personal, reproductive maybe, he's mistaken. (If she were flirting, that would only increase the chances of peril and a death toll. Most of what she knows about love is the same as what she knows about hate, just with the other word swapped in.)
Her tone levels out.] Enjoyment, motivation and purpose. Love of what you do. These aren't bad things to wish on you. [Although her ideas for bringing it about are unquestionably bad. She's risking their friendly acquaintance, though Mr. Tivan makes it quite impossible for her to know so. Frankly, she would be insulted if she weren't under very close surveillance.
He hasn't indicated that they're on thin ice, yet she does attempt reassurance anyway, because making threats and softening them is almost a reflex for her.] I won't touch a hair on— [Missy squints and whirls around, in search of something with fur or hair,] that, let's say, [not using the umbrella to point this time,] or anything else without your permission, Collector dear. It's as much your choice as mine, what we'll do together.
[With that much unasked reassurance and no apology, she begins to walk purposefully, with or without him, heading the way they were before. Worse comes to worst, she'll follow the directions he gave for his piano.] Something in common, by the way. Piano's my favourite. [She sings too, though that's best done with accompaniment.]
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He crosses his arms a little tighter to his chest, looking more like a child than one of the possibly oldest beings in his universe, while attempting to comprehend this...very odd flight of fancy. He follows after the Mistress, mentally repeating all that she'd said, recalling what she gesticulated when she said what she did, and revisiting how she'd said it. Taneleer's character is one prone to bouts of obsession, legends across the galaxy claiming them as life-prolonging. Not life-changing or life-giving. Prolonging. As if to implicate some sort of a stasis, a state that he knows to be completely unnatural. And yet there is an underlying question to all of this, in particular, that he can't help but fixate on.
Even with a claim to only act with his permission, the Mistress did not seem to see inherent value in the lives of his Collection, beyond ending some in order to make him...well, learn their value with their losses. And yet the Master also seems so incredibly, sincerely concerned for him. It is strange. Almost too strange. How such dichotomous parts could exist in a single person, and how oddly they reconcile to proffer half-kind, half-cruel gestures.
As a biologist, with a lifelong interest in sciences related to species and their societies, the Collector finds himself pervaded by one of the most damned of words in any of the millions of dead and living languages he'd learned: why?
Soon enough, they've made it to the antique upright. It's black and incredibly shiny, inlaid with inky tableaus of flowers and creatures. Really a thing of beauty. With an utterly tender touch, the Collector lifts the keylid and begins to play.] My older brother also enjoys the piano. We prefer different styles. He enjoys jazz and extemporaneous improvisation, ephemeral things that are beautiful because they were, they'd existed in a state of chaos, and, then, they are no longer. I'm more partial to classics that have withstood the test of time. If I'd be able to guess, and you may correct me if I'm wrong, I'd think you'd prefer the former to the latter.
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She's sure the Collector wouldn't want random grubby prints all over his antiques. Still, she can't resist placing a hand against the side panel for a little while, to feel the vibrations. She can feel, too, how long the piano has been sitting in this very spot, and the weight of its history before that. It is genuine. She could follow the thread back to the beginning, when it was still in parts. Her eyes close to better listen to him play. Her answer, not-quite-correction, is a bit belated and distracted, for which he only has himself to blame.]
You're right, [Missy does love chaos,] if those are my options. My preference is really somewhere between yours and his. Surrealist and impressionist compositions. Unpredictable, controversial. Easy to learn, hard to play, harder to hear the same way twice. [She'd provide the example of Gnossienne no.3 if he'd let her, only he's much too talented to be interrupted, and she has the sneaking suspicion that they're not only discussing music. These preferences do hint about each of them.]
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Why? Why? Why?
His fingers dance across the ivories, drawing out a tune from a long-forgotten star. A slow little sonata tempered by lighter notes. It is a very practiced tune. One that, like the others in the Collector’s repertoire, he had forced himself to memorize. He leans in with each crescendo and pulls away before he can allow himself to be too swallowed by the melody. The music grows and wanes as the instrument sings every part.
He says nothing for a while, simply absorbing her answer, until stopping very abruptly. With a step back and a gesture to the keys,] Unless your hands are sticky, I’d like to hear that. Surreality and impressionism.
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Lovely. It was mean of you, to stop like that. How long is it? Hours, days, weeks? [She would have stuck it out with him for the duration, if he's opposed to improvising a conclusion.
What she wouldn't give for an umbrella stand. She props the device up against something, leaving it, and circles around to fulfil the Collector's request. Often, though not today, she wears gloves. As she moves by him, she holds her palms up flat, humorously submitting her hands for his examination.] I didn't bloody them while you weren't looking.
[Her selection is simple and repetitive, yet prone to unexpected variations. So many notes dangling like loose ends, and the piece would be diminished without them. Little twists and turns. Dreamlike, again. It's atmospheric, possibly intended for the background, and may not demand his full attention. Playing Satie in particular, she's very much at ease, as evidenced by her relaxed posture.]
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This about goes away with that oddly specific claim of hers.
Ah, but, the claim is verified (with a glance), approved (with a simple nod), and she sets out to play.
The Collector doesn't shut his eyes or place a hand on any bit of the instrument (since he is more than confident in its ability to be played well); instead, he stands over the Master's shoulders, looking a little like the universe's only punk-glam-rock-piano-instructor. His eyes follow in beat, studying her technique and posture.
There is undoubtedly confidence in her demeanor and comfort with the material and the keys, something that goes beyond simply knowing that if you hit one key at one point it created a tone that would sound different than others. There is intimacy, nestled between whole and half notes. It whispers. Beckons. Hypnotizes and entreats, via repetition.
The melody seems a lot like her--turns of cruelty and kindness, nary a warning of which side would show. Either the piece fit her well or, perhaps, she made the piece fit her. (Perhaps it is a bit of both.)
His mind goes places, pacing after the lead of her notes. And his mouth follows suit, speaking in its measured monotone. His arms remain still, for once, while he speaks.] These variations--they are always fascinating. Even more so when interpreted by a musician of your caliber.
It's as if the composer, as they created them, discovered a topic that they enjoy. Perhaps they elucidate a point that they did not feel was so strongly communicated by a previous composition. Or, perhaps, they are so gripped by an assemblage of notes that they cannot help but repeat themselves until others are swallowed by this obsession. This is their thesis and they speak to us, though us, in the tongue of tones and directions. We follow after their shadows and talk back to them, even after they'd passed the mortal veil. It's almost like conducting a seance. Playing pieces like this.
You trace after the innermost thoughts of a composer. With your playing, you highlight parts of their arguments. You annotate. Animate. Annotate. Translate. You do it for yourself, in admiration for the composer's intelligence expressed in this tune, and also for an audience, so that they may come to know the composer's piece, what it is that you know of the composer's piece, and how you read it.
Simultaneous generosity and self-gratification.
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[Expressing his understanding could be as much for himself as it is for her, similar to the point he'd made about performing. There aren't many people she's interested in listening to. He just so happens to be one of the few. Like music, Mr. Tivan's thoughts go through movements.
An assemblage of notes repeating into an obsession. Missy considers the eight-hundred and forty repetitions of Satie's Vexations. It could take fifty hours, or be done in as little as fourteen; a rite of passage, perhaps meditative or spiritual. Very much like a seance. The Collector's words and those many displays and containment units call to mind a past scheme in which Missy 'collected' consciousnesses. They weren't collected to have or keep, but rather to serve another characteristically cruel/kind purpose.]
The dead are sometimes more useful to me than the living. This composer had emotional intelligence, I'll give 'im that. I can't credit his species with more.
[Grinning crookedly, she plunges herself into a playful, wholehearted rendition of Prokofiev's Suggestion Diabolique, a composition more overtly mad and sinister. Sometimes she's just cartoonishly evil. It's probably funnier in her head. When that's done, she moves to reclaim her umbrella. She'll only close the fall over the keys if he doesn't have a better idea, another contribution of his own.]
Shall we?
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As for the statements themselves...well, it is very in-character for her. Anyway, now, whereas the Master's friend, the Doctor, would have objected to the latter bit, that claim of the Mistress' concerning the human race, and come up with some sort of great-grand defense for that race of ape-descended bipeds, Taneleer, having admired many species, regards it with a bit of indifference. Terra certainly attracts a lot of weird things and, in spite of this constant invasion by the strange, the bipedal, ape-descended homo sapiens seem to have a knack for surviving. But, well, does one congratulate a cockroach or a gnat for avoiding the boot?
It is the first bit that reawakens a near-silenced worry. (Although he did liken piano-playing to communication with the dead and she is responding to that...and his note may have been a subconscious response to her threatening his pieces not too long ago, albeit now with his permission. Yes, that certainly is getting to be something on his mind that is staying put and it isn't exactly getting off of hers either.)
He's silent, as she plays her sinister tune, and he contemplates. Perhaps instead of avoiding the topic, this could be a lead-in to talking on it? In order for this Companion-thing to work out, this sort of thing had to be settled. The mannish-shaped alien half-turns and reaches forward, laying his hand a little left of Missy's on the stay. In a very delayed response,] What do you mean by that--that the dead are sometimes more useful than the living?
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Oh, darling, I mean that I'm not like you. I don't have the temperament or the resources to collect special things and then leave them as they are. They'd get away from me sooner or later, loath as I am to admit it. [This could well loop back to before: she can't collect. She has to master. She doesn't feel secure until she subjugates.]
Death is a great equaliser. The dead are homogenised and manageable. I was just reminiscing about storing and upgrading some fine dead people. Raising an army. I gave it as a birthday present.
[Her thoughtful and generous gift was not well received. She doesn't mind though. Her reminiscing isn't tinged with any regret. Contingencies are put in place for a reason. She's discussing it in logistical rather than emotional terms. Much as it galls her to admit it, she'd struggle to contain the living specimins Taneleer has, even on a much smaller scale. She has no idea how he manages it, and won't even speculate on his budget for sedatives. She looks around them again, indicatively,]
This all, how you do it, is entirely too much work and upkeep for me. You're sensational, you know that? [Quite sincerely meant.]
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How did he expect the Master's hand to feel, as it holds his? Cold. Sharp. Maybe it is the way that her eyes pierced that made him think her touch would be like that. Not warm like it actually is.
How different is this, really, than when he'd grasped her hand as she'd stepped out of her clock? Very. Then, it was he that did the initiating. It was him that was in control. He that knew where they were going and what would happen next.
She is saying some things. About death, gifts. (Typical of her. Really.) But he hears, instead of listening. His eyes study the hands, the wrinkles curling each knuckle, the nails nestled so comfortably at the tips, and he finds himself contemplating how old age must have robbed him of his reaction time. Because, surely, some centuries ago or so, his hand would have been pulled away very quickly. No, but he'd been caught so very unaware; he'd been ensnared, no, dominated. Yes, this is a maneuver to dominate. She is, and always had been, the Master. This is what she is wont to do. And it is why she must have found use with the dead--because they are easier to domineer. Because the dead remain still and can't will themselves any other which way, other than hers.
Of course. To her, death is the ultimate control. Her gift of it is her way of giving control, and, in doing so, giving her more control.
He pulls his hand away, looking back at her and fully expecting some sort of sickening smile on her face. His expression would return nothing of the sort.
Curtly,] I'm married. [Just as the words take their leave from his head and out of his mouth, the ridiculousness of it strikes him. This is the Master. He'd known the Master when she was male. Why did he feel so terribly compelled to share such a thing?
What did this matter? Why did he have to make it matter?]
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So am I! [Exclaimed as though they've mutually stated the obvious. Her good cheer is impervious to his curtness. She doesn't feel scolded by him. She doesn't feel that she's being rejected. To feel rejection, she would have to be motivated differently. He did not reject her. At worst, he defied her. Her physical affection isn't empty and her terms of endearment aren't meaningless, they're just unbalanced. She does it all to please herself, and hasn't given much thought to what it might mean to him.]
Or, so was I. Dotted through time, I forget when I am and when I'm not. If my first wife is alive, I like to think we're still on. She won't mind if I stay this gender.
[Gender would be the least of the obstacles to rekindling a relationship with a fellow Gallifreyan. Their society wouldn't warmly welcome her home, and she delights in being a renegade, something in common with her Doctor. She doesn't share that part, for much the same reason she doesn't expect to meet Taneleer's spouse. She hasn't actually lived as a husband in a long time, and hasn't attempted to be a wife.
She treats his objection as a friendly introduction of a new subject. But not for a second does she forget the abruptness of it, the oddity. Married, of all the things to mention. He couldn't just tell her not to play games? And it was pointed too, as though it should mean something. What does he think she's going to do about it? Murder his better half? No, that isn't it. He'd like her to behave herself. She knows. She knows, and yet, for the hell of it, she asks him to spell it out.]
—You lost me, anyway. What's the relevance?
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Perhaps...yes, this relationship appears to be too close for his comfort. Taneleer had lived long enough to find it foolish to allow gender expression to impede his attraction or lack thereof to another being, yet, in this case, it doesn't help. Only his wife would have been allowed to command Taneleer so thusly (well, ok, minus the bit about killing his creatures because they're his). And he would not betray the memory of his late wife with a Mistress.] We need to discuss boundaries, you and I, to make this partnership work. There are some things that I will allow and others that I will never be alright with. I will not be handled like some bauble on a string, to be bandied and swung whatever way you will.
[His stern expression breaks, his demeanor becomes less solid. There is something in that tone of hers, that lack of respect for his assertion that simply inspires him to let everything loose.] I have devoted my life to preserving living things and I ask that you respect this decision. I will never allow you to kill a part of my Collection, because doing that is akin to killing a part of myself. That which makes me who I am.
It would be no different than if I killed your Doctor.
[Oooh. Alright. Maybe he will regret that last bit there...but, for now, it feels too good not to have let out.]
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Rules are made to be broken. She almost laughs again, to think of being restricted to what Taneleer allows. It sounds like something she could have fun with. As a courtesy to him, she intends to obey the letter of his instructions, but not the spirit of them. He'll have to set those boundaries very thoughtfully, and call upon his experience of dealing with rebellious and manipulative creatures.
Loyalty is foreign to her. The most foreign loyalty of all is to a lover, to their memory. She can be fickle. Her attention span can be short. The people who once loved and adored the Master complained of neglect long before they ever said anything of cruelty or madness. Her kind move on. They move on almost ruthlessly. They move on from one another, even from their own children and grandchildren. Missy does an exemplary job. She doesn't let herself warm to any acquaintance she believes will be short-lived. That's what brought her here in the first place. She's begun to long for some form of connection, something that lasts, and the Collector certainly lasts. He preserves himself and his Collection and his memories and perhaps even some shred of his feelings, and that's remarkable. She's so intrigued. She doesn't agree with his description of how she 'handled' him, and starts, her mouth opening, only for the objection to die in her throat.
Taneleer has identified her only lifelong bond: the childhood friendship, still sitting warm and heavy in both her hearts, more home than any planet. Her mirror, so alike and yet so different. They are two sides of the same coin. The destruction of one leaves the other achingly alone in the vastness of time and space. They both feel it, and they both risk it on a regular basis. Taneleer's threat does rile her, so it's a good thing she likes to be riled. She can't fault him and won't make him regret it. He's not threatening to do anything that she hasn't done herself. She doesn't respond in true anger, only firmly, and less decorous than usual. Doesn't miss a beat, giving him another penetrating unbroken stare.]
Go on. I wish you would kill him. He's a real pain in the arse. [No one wants the Doctor dead more than she does. Also possible that no one wants him alive more than she does. Missy's dichotomy peaks there.] You remind me of him, in some ways. Why do you care? Why these pieces? Why is preservation better than destruction? All you have to do is save yourself from the big, bad cosmos. Maybe not even that. Why save the rest? I don't know where it comes from, the desire to do so much for so many.
[He will never have a proper apology from her for threatening harm to his pieces, which amounts to parts of himself. She bites her lip, catching it briefly in her teeth and then giving a lopsided shrug. Still more saucy than he'd probably like,] Boundaries. Let's discuss. It's something of a rising custom for me to kiss you. Just once. It seals the deal, I think, with a companion. We're just going to skip it? Can if you like.
/have some comic canon
Wait. Is that a good thing, then, that he's been compared to--
Is it not a few minutes ago that they were so calmly playing the piano for each other? How is it that things had escalated so greatly by an uninitiated touch? Why did he feel so...terrible after she'd simply laid her hand upon his? These questions certainly aren't helping things at all, as Taneleer holds his peace until she's suggested how they seal this deal. Absolutely not. Absolutely not.
Absolutely--] Because all of this could be gone! I've seen it in my head, that Thanos will arise and he will put an end to everything! Not for pleasure, not out of ignorance--but because he believes it to be the way to bring about order! Do you know what that is to lose everything? I have--I'm the last of my kind! I'm one of the few who can still name Cygnus X-1, the sad hunk of rock I was born and raised upon! And I can scarcely remember my own people's history. I don't even think I remember how to change back into my true form. I cannot let it happen again, I can't simply stand by and watch so many others die and lose their worlds, I can't simply let it all be forgotten, and I absolutely cannot ally with you if you do not take this seriously!
[He stops, eyes dark and glaring. Had this been unearned? Had he said too much? Perhaps this is undeserved? In her own twisted way, Taneleer had a feeling she had been on her very best behavior. Perhaps, as she is able, she had been taking this seriously.
Or, perhaps, this is why beings like them tend to be so alone. They end up fixed in their own ways, trapped by their obsessions, bound to familiar shapes. Perhaps they'd changed in all the ways they are able, and, perhaps, come time for them to transform again, they cannot.
They would not.] I can't kiss you; I'd told you that I'm still married. [Taneleer had had little flings here and there with women, mostly of the demure variety. They were incredibly chaste relations that he'd ended before they'd gotten too serious, while the relationship could still be controlled. Perhaps this would have been easier if Missy were male.]
delightful!
She is not shrinking from him in fear (a reaction she's sure he's seen plenty of), merely subduing her wild gestures and 'removing' herself somewhat; not because they agreed to it, but because he's treating her this way. It looks like guilt or shame. The wrong party who knows they're in the wrong. She doesn't actually feel any shame. She knows that she should though, and maybe that's close enough. She won't let herself be bossed around, not ever, not by anyone, but she will go to great lengths to get what she wants from the right people. Yes, she already was trying. No, not her best. She can try harder.
It is, perhaps, a strange time to notice that Taneleer's eyes are not completely black. She thinks there might be touches of green and brown in them too. This will need further investigation, maybe when he's fixing her with less of glare. And it was significant, when she told him he reminds her of her friend. She wouldn't expect him to recognise how it could be a good thing, an exploitable thing, but that's because she doesn't self-examine. It makes sense that he would have observed a pattern. That's the biologist and anthropologist in him.
A frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. She didn't have to force that reaction. It crept up by itself. Unless they trek out to the ends of her universe, she's still quite the rare bird. The Doctor persists in introducing her as 'the other last of the Time Lords.' He's trying to burden her with whatever responsibility or ambassadorship he's already taken on. Although the rest of their kind are not all dead, they are rather inconvenient, indisposed, what-have-you. The earlier 'if' on Missy's marital status left wide the possibility, because she truly doesn't know and won't be finding out. At the time of speaking, she wasn't sad about it. Now, forced to consider more than just her interpersonal relationships, her mood is dropping fast. She had as much say over gaining a Glaswegian accent as she had over the female incarnation: no say at all. Going full Scottish is the natural consequence of drudging up history and permitting genuine emotion in her voice.]
I've believed it. I've believed everything to be lost. I remember the history of my people. Worse, I remember what they became. The ugly, desperate things they did to save themselves. I remember what they did to me when I was just a boy, eight years old. So little! Can you imagine? [She doubts the Collector has a firm grasp of what it was like to be eight hundred thousand years old, let alone eight. She doesn't say what was done to her. Often she thinks that no one will understand, that it might not sound so bad in words. The words fail to describe the slow erosion of her sanity. It will always be a source of bitterness and blinding fury. She settles for the barest expression of her disapproval,] Tsk, tsk.
[Missy would not want Taneleer, the Doctor, or anyone else to know how vulnerable she still is. How distressed she becomes when her very own heartbeat seems to climb all the way up into her skull. She still has manic moments when she can't tell a normal biological function from a signal implanted in her head.]
What I've done for fun is nothing compared to what we did in the Time War. Think about the mess of dragging time into it. A war that always was and always would be. I didn't even see the worst of it. And you have—had—a Dalek. If it hadn't made so much noise, you would have saved and protected our great enemy.
I'm not trying to change your life's purpose, Taneleer. I can't. Might not, even if I could. I only want to understand it. [It's widely agreed that she should be the one to change, if change is possible for the likes of them. Her Doctor is cautiously optimistic about it. Boys, she could easily joke, always expect a girl to compromise. This gender stuff really is arbitrary and ridiculous. It does make a difference though, doesn't it? For now, she's taking 'no' for an answer on that kiss. The mood has quite gone, insomuch as Missy ever felt they had a mood.]
yay glad you enjoy
He would not yield.
He would not...dammit. And here, he'd been doing very well before she brought up the child-soldier portion of her past. It's never an easy thing, for survivors of such conscriptions to reconcile these parts of their past and examine her government's motivations with a colder eye.
They were desperate; the great race of Time-Lords failed to see a future for themselves, not unless they bastardized what futures they could to secure it. A hardly unique narrative in the grand scheme of things. Her suffering is but a period, in a sentence, on a page, contained in a volume of a multipart epic concerning the Universe.
But he will not share this aloud. The Master is a time-traveler, and, surely, she'd come to learn this. Yet, even with this knowledge, there remains something terribly raw in her tone as she relates all of it. There stands something with her, a shadow perhaps, that she wishes to keep hidden. Ever the gentleman (perhaps more sincerely than put-upon), Taneleer would not intrude upon the lady's privacy.
She made...a bit more sense now. This switching between cruel and kind. Yes, perhaps it could very well match the hands that raised her. The adult figures that taught her to spell and load a gun. This could be her idea of being nurturing.
Oh, how terrible a thought.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. His posture doesn't budge, but his snowy brows lower and create concerned squiggles across his forehead.
How could he make her understand, now? Would it gauche for him to admit some jealousy that the Master could at least remember some portion of her people's history--even an unfavorable one? Probably.
Taneleer thinks back to his creatures, as his mind often does, particularly to the beasts that had endured some form of abuse. His dog, for instance. (Yes, dogs have problems.) Poor космо. Before Taneleer had come across the craft of the canis lupus familiaris, the poor beast had been so emaciated; he had lived his life as a simple street dog, until snatched from his family and subjected to terrible experimentation. How long it took to win his current Head of Security's loyalty. But how rewarding it proved to be. It had taken a lot of patience, a lot of understanding. The poor little creature would so often hide in a corner. How much time Taneleer'd spent, simply coaxing the dog out of the shadows to sit with his new owner and join him to enjoy Russian literature.
The Master certainly isn't a dog, but there are things that the Collector could carry over and attempt to make this work. No yelling, no punishments for who she is now and how it's made her act, protect her from what she would fear, and, perhaps when she could be ready, attempt some desensitization. But, for now, a reverse-dominance training program seems most apropos. No giving out toys or treats or rewards when she behaves well (since it seems that her idea of good behavior, well, needs a little work). Instead let these things be made readily available to her. Taneleer would simply have to figure out what she needs. And pair this satisfaction with simple confidence-building activities.
What is it that the Mistress needs? How lonely she seemed, when she'd called and offered so heartily to help expand his Collection. How overly friendly--yes, there is only her Doctor that she really speaks so highly of. More companions would be a good place to start.
The Collector slides out of his rigid stance, sliding his hands down his hips and unto his pockets.] Fine. I think there's no better way for you to come to understand why I do, [little swirling of the fingers at his sides,] what I do than to do. Beyond obtaining more assets for my Collection. I've gotten several new additions of creatures and relics that I need to tend to and catalogue. As a condition for this alliance, you can help me with that. And--my Brothers and I, we began our...familial relations--[Actually. No. He definitely didn't remember why him and his Siblings formed the Elders of the Universe. He raises both of his brows, grimacing, and, then, starts again.] Having a sizeable support system, even unbound by blood, makes several millennia of terrible things more tolerable. I should like to give you the number for one of my closer siblings. He's one of my more sociable contacts.
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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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