Every writer has a story that sits at the back of their proverbial closet and groans at them for their failures. Riposte is a story I have a hate/slightly like relationship with. It was written in a haze, heavily edited for an anthology and then published. It has sat in my Google Docs for more than a year, through the Skirt!Master trend on Twitter, through me finally moving out properly and even through me creating my own anthology. Today, on February 17th I am letting it out of the closet to breathe its air all over you. So, voila.
Encounter at the Village Hall
The Doctor was beginning to go stir-crazy. A year trapped on Earth now, a faulty dematerialisation circuit and the same UNIT-issue porridge for breakfast every morning. It had been some time since an invasion had really cheered him up, the present one seemed to be one of the most stressful the Doctor had ever encountered.
Things had begun to go wrong when Jo, his faithful- if a little ditzy- assistant had gone missing. Since then, every squad of UNIT personnel had been out searching and the Doctor had been bombarded with stacks and stacks of needless paperwork. Despite his very best efforts, Miss Grant was still gone and now an army of insectoid overlords were swarming the South East- in particular, a parish hall in the sightly village of Chipping Norton.
Bugs are streaming through the windows, swathes and swathes of them moving in a large snake-like mass around the floor. The Doctor himself clings desperately to a wall opposite a dramatic looking stage; there are insects attached to the ends of his cloak, ghastly talons ripping holes in the red silk. Another swarm batters at his legs, jabbing their mandibles against the seams of his trousers.
His UNIT colleagues look even worse off. Sergeant Benton has, by some horrendous misstep, disappeared under a mountain of the things. The only sign of his continued survival are the bugs that fly from the pile, whacked rather shakily away by a baton.
“Doctor!” Yells Mike Yates, hands batting at a large beetle on his head. “There’s too many of them!”
The soldier looks ready to collapse. There is a pallid exhaustion in his face from searching for Jo all day. There is very little the Doctor can do except wait for the things to stop, or for the mastermind of the scheme to reveal themselves. A certain individual who should be arriving right about now.
“Keep your strength, Captain! This can’t go on forever.” He shouts back
The Brigadier makes a grunting noise from across the hall, presumably battling a swarm of his own.
He looks to the windows, there must be millions more insects just outside because the stream hasn’t stopped. In fact, it must have got faster. The mass is nearly at knee-height, jabbing and pushing and pinching further and further. To his horror, one rogue insect pushes its sharp fangs into the frills of his dress shirt.
If he can’t do something, the four of them won’t make it out and Jo will be in danger. Not to mention, un-mendable damage to his best outfit.
“We surrender!” The Doctor cries.
The bugs freeze, their manic tics slowing immediately to a stop. Sergeant Benton’s head appears from its pile, spitting a talon onto the hall floor. The puzzlement of his friends is like a fog in the air.
He hadn’t expected that to work.
“Surrender, my dear Doctor? I had expected better.”
Oh no .
He looks towards the voice, eyes landing on the dramatic black curtain covering the stage as it slowly pulls back. Beside him, the Brigadier takes a deep, expectant breath.
“So we meet again, at long last.”
There, stood with their hands on their hips is the glowing figure of the Master. Their usual clean-cut black trousers replaced with a black pleated skirt. It’s loose, ankle-height, made of what looks to be very expensive cotton. Although it suits them- too well in fact- there’s something about the garment that nags at the back of the Doctor’s brain. Like there is information he is supposed to be remembering.
“You.” He hisses. “I should have known.”
It’s cheesy, of course he had known but the satisfied grin on his nemesis’ face is too good to resist.
“You see, Doctor, the more insects you destroy, the more that are created.” The Master gleams and taps their foot- the insect nearest the Doctor’s neck flinches a fraction closer.
He narrows his eyes.
“What have you done with Jo?”
From the corner of his eye, he sees Yates’ visibly shake. The soldier seems stunned, mouth opening and closing in an attempt at speech. In fact, now the Doctor thinks about it, neither the Brigadier nor Benton had said a word either.
None of this seems to phase the Master, who appears to be so involved in their performance that they are now pacing across the stage.
“Miss Grant is perfectly safe. All I need is your obedience and the return of my dematerialisation circuit.”
“I refuse.” The Doctor says sharply. “Who knows what else you’ll do with a functioning TARDIS.”
The Master’s stops pacing and smiles sweetly at him. The skirt sways elegantly, falling into ordered pleats once again.
“Are you sure, Doctor? I wouldn’t want a sudden accident to befall Miss Grant.”
“Jo is under my protection.” He hisses.
“Very well.”
They tap their foot. In an instant, the bugs are moving again. Benton yells as he is pulled back under, gun disappearing like the top of a submarine. He can feel the Brigadier gawping.
“Have fun, Doctor.” His nemesis laughs.
With a flourish of midnight black, the Master vanishes and the Doctor is left with both a furious swarm of killer insects and the feeling that something might have been very slightly off…
Encounter on the Thames
Around a week after the incident with the killer-bugs, the Doctor finds an unusual envelope waiting for him on his desk. Inside, there is an address and a swirling single-letter signature. M .
The Doctor dresses in green velvet; his best outfit had been taken for repairs, looking more like a p iñata than a garment. Following the instructions on his invitation, he winds up in the reception of an expensive-looking building on the bank of the Thames. A concierge leads him up a winding staircase and into a games room. His enemy stands waiting.
“Chess?”
The Master looks statesmanlike, dressed from head to toe in grey. They have replaced their jacket with a smart turtleneck and shaped pencil skirt. The Doctor notices a pair of skull patterned tights underneath and- with a hint of bemusement- the Queen of Garfia’s platinum death rings.
The two of them sit down. The Master signals to a waitress who later returns with a tray of afternoon tea. He can’t help but notice just how elaborate the room is. Each wall is coated from ceiling to floor with gold panelling. Where there isn’t gold, there are bookshelves- crammed full of ornately decorated encyclopaedias.
As they play, he can’t help but notice how well his accomplice has matched their outfit to the room. As if meeting with him had been the sort of occasion one would dress up for.
“Those rings.” Says the Doctor as he moves his rook across the board. “Stole them, did you?”
The Master chuckles, examining the detail on their fingers. “A token of appreciation from the Queen herself. I was her ward, until her untimely demise of course.”
The Doctor frowns, electing to ignore the admission of regicide.
“I thought the Queen’s wards were female.”
The Master looks at him and blinks.
“Why Doctor, I didn’t know you were so closed-minded.” They mutter. A hint of annoyance is thrown his way. He softens his gaze in response, backtracking.
“I had presumed, your appearance-”
“Your move.” Says the Master.
The Doctor purses his lips and looks down at the board. His queen has disappeared, the Master’s rook in its place. Ah.
There are only two moves left to make, both leading to certain checkmate. Move his bishop across to protect his own or go on the attack. He needs a distraction.
The Time Lord sitting opposite raises their eyebrows. He makes a show of thinking before reaching for a sandwich and chewing pensively.
“On this world they have-” The Doctor says through a mouthful of bread, “How should I phrase this-”
“Diseases?” The Master suggests, taking a gracious sip of their drink.
“Standards.”
They scoff, nearly choking on the tea. He thinks for a second that he sees a glint of anger in the Master’s eyes though it is swiftly hidden.
“That’s not what I meant.” He adds quickly. “I mean that the inhabitants of this planet are... less tolerant than our own people. They don’t think so liberally.”
There is a pained sigh. “It’s your move, Doctor. I haven’t forgotten.”
Having made no leeway, The Doctor tries a soft smile. His own king is still dangerously exposed.
“I don’t want you to be caught off-guard, is all.”
“Doctor.” They hiss.
The Doctor sighs, places his cup on the table and slowly nudges his bishop into the Master’s pawn. There. He had taken a piece.
The Master beams. Somehow, the room seems to get lighter. A ray of sun makes their rings shine so brightly that he has to squint to see his nemesis’ face.
“Checkmate.”
“I thought you might say that.”
“Aren’t you going to gloat?”
“A gracious winner never gloats.”
“Master.” The Doctor says, raising their eyebrows.
They chuckle and reach to take a sip of tea, crossing one of their skull patterned legs over the other.
“I gain a considerable amount of satisfaction from watching you fail, Doctor, as you seem fated to do quite often.” The Master flicks their pinky finger out and takes a second sip. “Your inability to win even once at chess without cheating is quite incredible. You would think coming from a species that invented the game would give you some natural advantage. A hypothesis which, like yourself, is null.”
There is a stunned silence. The Doctor feels his cheeks flush
“Happy now?”
“Most definitely.”
“Oh, Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a bomb waiting on your desk. It should be scheduled for detonation in twenty minutes time. I would hurry, it’s rather large.”
Encounter in the War Room
Their third encounter came surprisingly quickly. This was the most the Doctor had seen of the Master in months so he’d endeavoured to keep up the pace, leaving the UNIT scanning system open to attacks, ignoring strange things around UNIT HQ that had obviously not been there before.
The latest invasion involved strange lights in the sky (the Gallifreyan equivalent of morse code), some foreign-looking symbols the Brigadier had spotted around the base and a daffodil left on the doorstep of the Doctor’s TARDIS. It was clear his nemesis wanted company just as much.
“Isn’t it good, Doctor?” The Master gleams. “All this power? The entire race under my control. Ready to obey my every command.”
The Doctor goes to illustrate his disgust before remembering the tight handcuffs binding him to the chair. The number of alien power cells his enemy had gathered was truly impressive considering they were both trapped on Earth. Luckily for him, they were fairly easy to deactivate, much like the rest of the Master’s schemes when it came down to it.
“Like most of your schemes. Half-baked and mediocre at best.” He scoffs. For a second, the Master looks genuinely offended. Their grip loosens on the TCE, skirt swirling as they begin to pace. The Doctor feels a pang of guilt and scrambles together some more words. “Though this is a great deal more elaborate than your last plot, I must say.”
The other Time Lord’s face lights up.
“Really?”
“I’m flattered at your commitment to casual murder on my behalf.” He smiles thinly. “Master.”
“If this is a poorly veiled attempt at flattery, Doctor, it won’t work.”
“I’m not the liar here.”
His enemy smirks, running their thumb teasingly over the trigger of their weapon. There must be at least a dozen bombs in very close proximity, as long as he can keep them both inside the room then there will be no motive to set them off.
The Master stops pacing and considers something for a moment, hand moving to stroke their beard. “The offer always stands, half the-“
The door at the opposite end of the room bursts open. The Master turns, just in time to see a gang of UNIT soldiers stream through.
“Clear!” One of them screams.
Pestilential creatures. Thinks the Doctor. They should be used to letting him ‘work the field’ by now, not interfere all-guns-a-blazing.
“Now gentlemen-“ The man in front of him starts.
“Restrain him!” Shouts a soldier. “Get the weapon.”
The Master backpedals, skittering hastily away from the soldiers. The Doctor can clearly see the look of despair when they hit the wall, hand reaching out for a doorknob that isn’t there. In the heat of it all, he doesn’t even feel the handcuffs fall from his wrist.
The noise is unbelievable. The sheer number of men surrounding their target is too. So many over-armed UNIT grunts in one room? He’s surprised nothing’s broken yet. The expressions on their faces are so very serious, like they’re about to have the honour of capturing the devil themselves.
That is until somebody in the group snickers. The Doctor’s eyes jump to them, then a slow realisation hits him. The whole squadron’s faces are creasing with the effort of containing a laugh, eyes trained downwards at the offending item of clothing.
The Master’s face falls, cheeks turning an angry red.
“What’s so funny? I would dearly like to know.”
There is a loud wolf whistle from across the room. His nemesis flinches. Another one of the soldiers bursts into loud hoots of laughter, followed by another, then another, then another, until the whole room is filled with whoops and cries.
“I am the Master and you will-” They start. The sentence that follows is lost in the uproar.
Instead of their usual showman-like suave, the other Time Lord looks flustered. Their face currently resembling the colour of a beetroot. The sight makes the Doctor seethe with anger.
He stares fiercely at the captain, his eyebrows slanting almost vertically. The look is almost enough to silence the horde, the laughter fading into quiet titters.
The Master is handcuffed and taken away. The UNIT truck never makes it to the base. Neither do the soldiers.
The next morning the Doctor is presented with a dozen eulogies.
Encounter at the Warehouse
A few weeks later, a letter shows up on UNIT’s doorstep requesting the presence of the Doctor. The black velvety lining of the envelope was as good as a signature, one that confused the UNIT grunts to no end. After scanning it close to a hundred times, he had been allowed to follow the letter. Without an armed presence.
Naturally, it had been a trap. A lovingly prepared, outrageously dangerous one at that. He had driven to the abandoned warehouse in Bessie and been immediately set upon by a figure from the shadows. A figure like an oddly shaped hourglass.
He had come a little under equipped but, with no hesitation, the Doctor pulls the rapier from his jacket.
“Expecting me, my dear?” His challenger says, smooth voice sounding awfully close despite the large hall around them.
“When am I not, these days?”
A fond smile spreads across the Master’s face as he jabs the rapier forward. The Doctor doesn’t miss the way his skirt spins as they dance around each other, the trim purple sides of it billowing out like a skater’s.
The same nagging part of his brain that has been screaming for weeks is roaring now, thinly veiled judgements and Earth stereotypes culminating in one big pot of undeniable ‘out of place-ness’. He parries a blow and leaps forward whilst his opponent is on the back foot.
“Why do you wear it?”
The Master’s eyes narrow, their stance tensing. There’s something so primally defensive about it that for a second he worries he’s crossed a line.
“Why must you dress like a circus clown?”
The Doctor looks down at the frills on his shirt and notes how they do, in fact, resemble a cartoonish neckpiece.
A beat hangs in the air between them. A few blows are exchanged and a few pieces of dirty footwork on his part. His opponent doesn’t appear to be phased.
“It would be befitting of your appearance if you were to weren’t to wear it.” The Doctor reflects. “In this time, I mean.”
The Master doesn’t say anything for a long time. Their dance slows to an almost lazy preoccupation, hands moving only on reflex.
“Human ignorance doesn’t dictate me, Doctor.” They say softly.
He huffs in response, scrambling for words that won’t give him away. “No but they’re unkind and I don’t-“
“Don’t what, dear?”
“I don’t want them to laugh.”
The Master’s sword freezes in mid-air. The two of them draw back from each other and pant. The Doctor realises, to his horror, that he’s said something too close to sentimental.
“For that reason. I don’t want them to laugh for that reason. Of course, you have many other qualities to laugh at.”
The faintest glimmer of a smile appears on the Master’s face and begins to spread like a wildfire.
“No, no.” The Doctor scrambles. “I don’t concern myself in the slightest with you. You don’t concern me. At all.”
“It’s alright, Doctor, I understand.”
The fight slows to a stop, the echoes of their feet still ricocheting. The Doctor can’t remember why they had even been fighting in the first place. What paltry squabble had even ignited the conflict?
He drops the sword, it clatters against the warehouse ground. The Master smiles. He smiles back.
“Humans are so pettily prejudiced. They won’t laugh next time, I’ll make sure of it.”
“Tea?” The Master offers.
“Sounds delightful.”
“What about your plan?”
The Master is silent for a moment. The Doctor can see the cogs whirring in their head, the invasions needing to be cancelled, bombs disabled, spies extracted, TARDIS parts returned.
“After tea.”
He offers his arm, his friend takes it and together they walk away, skirt and frills rippling in the breeze.
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