tampered | Log; Complete

Log; Complete

When; Thursday, June 18, Evening
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Lucy Saxon (

cathedralgirl) and her hubby (

master_supreme)
Summary; The happy couple's reunion! <3
Log;

Although the circumstances of his arrival had been less than ideal, the Master couldn't help but adore this city just a little bit (and it was out of adoration, of course, that he wanted to see it collapse in on itself as the citizens devoured each other in a degenerate frenzy and he harnessed the power of the deities. Simple stuff, really). The ticking had bothered him at first-- yes, he could admit that. When combined with the endless drumbeats raging in his head, it was too loud, too cacophonous for him to think straight when the ticking first began. It couldn't even hit the same beat as the drums... that made it worse. Constant distraction. But, after remaining awake all night, listening to it, he came to love the ticking. The drums spoke of war, but the ticking was something else... He would decipher it soon enough. In the meantime, it was a handy alarm! He'd always know if somebody was near just by the absence of the clicking.

And that was, in fact, why he knew his darling Lucy was not at her quarters. The ticking, steadily click click clicking away, faithfully accompanied the drums. And although he hadn't had his laser screwdriver with him, picking past the lock had been simple enough. To think that a lock could stop him. Tssk, Lucy had always been so naive.

Oh, but how she'd changed. Lovely, really. He considered her state of mind to be a mark of his craftsmanship, two and a half years in the making.

With the apartment empty, the Master went right to work looking through everything that had been lying about (and for things that were hidden), but there was nothing that piqued his interest. Even the kitchen had been a dreadful disappointment. Oh well. Lucy would be home soon enough. And if not her, the little girl. He could settle for either one, really. Patiently, he sat, fingers drumming on the arm of his chair, waiting for the ticking to stop.

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But of course, Lucy was just arriving. She checked the lock before entering, of course- and although becoming wary when she found it unlocked, was not really surprised by the instance, save the fact that it had happened so quickly. Still, Rika could be home and just have forgotten to unlock the door. (But stay on your guard.)

And a bump and a crash and she's inside-

-miraculously still upright in her wheelchair (as much as she'd like the thing gone, with all its limitations and reminders and frustrations, she needs it, she has not been healed yet). So, stop, catch your breath, watch and wait, do not relax yet. Is he here? She moves further inside, to see. (But stay on your guard.)

He knew she'd been injured. After all, the Network had told him just about everything he'd wanted to know. Still, he felt a stir of emotion as he heard the awkward sounds of the wheelchair. What was that? Oh, yes. Excitement. Anticipation. He wanted to see the infamous serial killer's work for himself (shame he missed that whole affair, really). That it was displayed on his former "companion's" body was a delightful bonus, really. He'd hoped that her outside would now match her shattered mind.

"Lucy," he purred, with an edge of menace in his voice. "Don't get up on my account. Here. Let me help." In an instant he was standing, and in a few quick strides he was by the wheelchair. "It's what husbands do, isn't it?" he hissed, grabbing the handles to shove the chair forward in one careless push.

Shoved forewards like that, she hit the table (don'tfalldon'tfalldon'tfall--), thrown off balance and grabbing for the edge.

Look for a weapon if you fall or are tipped you cannot run cannot hide cannot do anything at all. Look!

There was nothing.

Turn and face him, this was inevitable but that does not mean you should be a coward. No fear no worry no doubt you will be fine even if you are not. Turn.

So she does.

"I don't think," she says with an effort (Calm, calm, give nothing away), "that 'help' equates to what you're doing- what you have done- right now, Harry."

"What, you didn't enjoy that?" he asked, widening his eyes innocently. With a little "hum," he shrugged and shut the door and locked it, just in case any nosy neighbours got it in their head to pop on by. "Always got a laugh out of you when I did it to the Doctor." No, wait, he was the one who always laughed at that, at least by the end. Lucy had lost her spark by then, became so dull... Ah well.

He cocked his head to the side slightly and regarded Lucy with an appraising look. "Hm. Love the new look, dear." He grinned his charming Harold Saxon smile and took his seat again. He eased back, looking perfectly relaxed as he stared at the woman who very nearly killed him (or successfully, if you were going by her timeline). "Found a new lover, have you?" he asked, arching an eyebrow as he took in the bruises and other injuries that adorned her body.

She's just watching- hands in lap, neutral posture, all attempting to keep from betraying herself, her fear of him obvious behind the false compose she has put upon herself.

(and she had- had she hoped for him to return, before? She had, she can vaguely recall the memory now, so much has happened since to help fade it. She cannot remember why she ever felt such a thing- ah. She had thought he could help her. That was before the curses, the traps, the City. Then had come the slow realization: she did not need anybody; she could do this on her own and the City itself would aid her.)

Ah. He would try provoking her, then, with taunts of remembered violence, given a romantic twist and sent to the future. The hands in her lap tighten to fists; the anger is rising and she is fighting hard against showing it (stop the trembling, stop it stop stop stop, you can master this- no not master, never master, just stop.)

"I haven't," she says, as coldly as she can. "I was drugged and shoved into a trap- custom-made, apparently. You'd have liked it."

Edited 2008-06-19 02:30 (UTC)

He watched her reactions carefully. Oh, the fear was there, of course. Not surprising; he was used to that. It made him feel, hm... chipper! But what he found more intriguing now was the anger. Those fists clenching-- what, did she think she could hit him? No, probably yearning for another gun.

Still. Anger was something he'd never seen from her before-- not around him, anyway. Blind submission, adoration, resigned defeat, and, of course, fear were what he was more used to. This change, it was... interesting.

He wanted to take that spark of defiance and crush it all over again. But not just yet. Let her have a taste of happiness again with that ridiculous little child and all of her new friends-- well, those who would have her, anyway.

"Now, who would go through all that trouble for you?" he asked mildly. "You must have made quite the impression here."

Calm. Calm. She makes an effort, unclenches the fists and forces her body to relax in her seat. She's casual, at ease, with not a care in the world. (Like anyone'd believe that.)

"Nobody I know," she says. "It was a random strike. Apparently it was a serial killer of some sort." She deliberately ignores the second remark (don't let him provoke you).

"I see. 'Of some sort'. There are so many varieties." He propped his chin on one hand and put on an exaggerated look of concern. "Ohh, that must have been dreadful." His expression brightened and he grinned almost pleasantly. "But! You made it out alive. Good for you! Looks like I married a scrapper!"

He clapped his hands then stood up again. The Master wasn't one to sit still unless he was caught up in a project, and this... well, this was merely a reminder, wrapped up in a social call, that she would never be able to hide from him.

In a predatory manner (really, there was no other for him), he circled Lucy, then brushed a hand on her shoulder gently. "Oh, but they must have been so worried about you," he said softly, then leaned in close, lips nearly touching her ear, and whispered, "the child and the man-- what was his name?-- Clow."

"There are different methods, different reasons, different viewpoints behind each one," she says, trying to pretend as though she is having a normal conversation (don't hurt me again), as though there is no danger at all and they are simply talking (the way it was supposed to be). "Of course they vary, even if the end result from all of them is the same."

She's picking and choosing, here: the questions and topics she can answer precisely and factually, showing evidence without having to reveal feelings (though she knows he'd be able to tell anyways, get inside her head like it was nothing and tear her apart, leave her a sobbing wreck on the carpet).

She watches as he paces; turns her head when he moves behind her, back again when he's nearer a place she can see.

And then-

(don't touch don't threaten- don't you dare you fucker this will not happen again you will not take them I survived I deserve what I have now you cannot do this)

She closes her eyes, and tries to pretend she is somewhere else (not now, not again, not like this). Somewhere warm and open, where she can walk and run, where he cannot go and she can do what she likes- no, not heaven. She doesn't believe in that anymore, remember?

"They're only acquaintances," she manages to say (and the tremor has reached her voice, she is trying so hard and it doesn't matter at all, it is making it worse, the effort it's taking her is obvious now). It's a lie, and a fairly obvious one at that- though at least she's trying.

She was trying so hard to be calm and collected. Oh, of course, she wanted to appear strong, make him think that he couldn't get to her anymore, but honestly, she had to know how useless it would be. Why bother with such transparent facades? She ought to just give up-- break down and grovel at his feet-- rather than waste both of their time with this little show of backbone. That would be the logical thing to do, at least.

Of course, women were hardly logical creatures. Human women, especially.

He smiled thinly and stood up straight, running a hand through her hair in a familiar sort of caress. "Lies, lies... always with the lies," he said in a sing-song voice, grabbing a good fistful of her blonde locks and giving a good, hard yank to force her head back. He stared into her eyes. They were positively-- what's the phrase humans were so fond of?-- oh. Yes. Doe-eyed. That was the first thing he'd ever noticed about her. How like an animal they made her look. A dull, simple little animal.

"Why must you lie to me, Lucy? First you shoot me, and now this. I'm beginning to think I can't trust you at all!"

"Don't--"

There's a hiss of pain from Lucy, a gritting of teeth and a hard glare at the man she once called husband (so long ago, it seems like, so long- time bending for her, it bent once and it's doing it again, illusory thing that it is). One hand frees itself, grabs at his collar to pull him down, her face twists close to his in a mockery of intimacy.

And now she does look animalistic- but not a doe, as gentle as those are professed to be. Whatever allegorial animal she may be described as now, it is something vicious, something angry and frustrated and very, very much broken.

And she's talking, a quick little whisper, like the hiss of a snake with venom in its teeth (but even if she bit she's not sure it'd have an effect, no, not on him).

"Oh no, Harry, you can't. You really can't. What with the beatings and the threats and everything else you've done to me, you're really so surprised at me lying to you? Or maybe you expected me the same as before, a whimpering little slave to you." A soft puff of laughter. "Yes, of course that must be it, you can't believe that after a year and a half without you I would have changed so much. But I have, Harry, and whatever the similarities in our would-be endgames, I am not someone you should trust."

Like he would. But she's angry now, really and truely angry (though she knows, she knows that this may very well trigger violence (more) or worse from him, and yet she cannot help herself, cannot stop).

Edited 2008-06-20 08:22 (UTC)

"If only you'd shown this much initiative in the bedroom," he drawled upon being yanked down to Lucy's level. Despite the tone of his voice, he had been caught off guard, just a bit. He hadn't realized that the woman would be so monumentally stupid as to lay a hand on him; she should've known that would really just make everything worse in the end. He could've been forgiving, had she shown the proper amount of cowed submissiveness and fear. He was a merciful master, after all--

Haha, okay, no he wasn't.

"Oh dear. Guess we'll have to work on that 'trust issue'," he said dryly. "Got a number for a marriage counselor?" He cocked his head slightly, then grabbed her wrist firmly and pulled the hand off of him. "No?"

Since they were so close, he leaned closer and kissed her roughly. There was nothing sweet behind the action, no tenderness at all. It was nothing more than a show of dominance, a way for him to illustrate to her that no matter how liberated she thought she was, he could do whatever he wanted. Her body was nothing more than an object that was his to possess, and she could do with a reminder.

(this is a violation-

no worse than other times, but such a crude example, memories from that forgotten year returned, and so violently-

like a dog pissing on a pole.)

She'd shoot him again, she thinks (though it'd have no use, would it? all he could do is return), the bastard the wifebeater that man who will not let her go, he would follow (take) her to the end of the universe just for the chance to break her again, see her twisted and bent to his will. She will not let him, not again not this time (please Harry don't).

(so ignore this feeling, the physical manifestation of her frights and dreams, lips and teeth and tongue all colliding, bitter and cold in her mouth)

She shoves herself back; breaks the contact and brings her one free fist up sharply in a punch, aiming to collide.

Ah, so that's where she drew the line. Although the punch didn't really hurt him (she was so frail, after all), the Master put a hand to his mouth and backed off a step. With a chuckle, he lowered his hand and grinned, then laughed some more.

"Role reversal! This City has taught you a lot." And then, just to show her how these sorts of things are done, he aimed a pretty rough, yet somehow dismissive (in a way that only he could really do) punch to her face, intending to add yet another bruise to her collection. He didn't look upset when he did it, or even happy and mocking. His expression had a rather "ho-hum" look to it, as though this were hardly worth his time.

The fist hits her, hard (she couldn't have stopped him if he tried, she's nowhere near that strong and the fact makes her burn-), throwing her head to the side and leaving a smarting mark (she knows it will darken to a bruise soon, oddly fresh among the faded ones) on her cheekbone.

She does not move, does not look at him (will not). Eyes closed, hair fallen over her face.

(the trembling has spread to her whole body; it is inhabiting her and she cannot evict it, not now, it is an entity within her. She wonders, as quick and vague such a thought is, if it would take a beat, follow the drums Harry says are within his head always. She wonders if this is fear or anger, and realizes that she does not know.)

She looks up, resists the urge to fight back (it would only cause more harm, she knows). Flattens her still-clenched hands out on her lap.

"Leave."

(And there is more conviction in her voice than she had thought she'd be capable of mustering, through the tremor still present.)

"As you wish," he said, and somehow the words sounded cruel coming from his mouth. Complacently smiling, the Master shrugged and began to make his exit, taking his time in unlocking the door. He opened it, just a crack, then slammed it shut again and turned, leaning back against the varnished wood, staring up at the ceiling like a daydreaming kid. For a moment, he actually did look harmless (the boyish face of his present form had its perks), but it was short-lived.

"Before I go, there was something I meant to tell you. The reason why I stopped by." His gaze snapped down and he stared at her, eyes taking on a hungry, predatory look. "Just a bit of advice, really." And now, he wasn't smiling. His voice was harsh and softer; anything that was part of the Harold Saxon persona had fallen by the wayside. "Distance yourself from them; cut them off. For their good and yours. When something happens to your little friends, it will be on your head." And then his voice perked up a bit, brimming with false concern. "And I just don't know how much more that poor, shattered mind of yours can take, darling."

"Well." And with that, he stood up straight, grinned, and blew a kiss at the woman he once showed the end of the universe to. "Be seeing you, Lucy."

And he left, walking and walking until the ticking returned to him. Ah, the cacophonous symphony began again. He'd almost missed it.

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