Ficlet_zone Challenge 21 - Born to be bad

[m_findlow]

Title: Born to be bad
Fandom: Torchwood / Doctor Who
Characters: Jack, The Master
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 814 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for Challenge 21 - Elton John Song Titles (Born Bad) at ficlet_zone
Summary: Jack is forced to face their most dangerous enemy yet.

Jack swallowed down hard even though his throat was dry. He could distinguish the sound of the footsteps approaching him. The heavy plod of boots was always the soldiers, come to change over their shift, not that they bothered much anymore. Jack didn't need guarding to, chained up as he was deep within the bowels of the Valiant. Guards only came and went occasionally, just to make sure he was still there, and their heavy military boots all made the same low and precise sound, like every step had been rehearsed in time with a metronome.

Other footfalls came less often - the soft, nervous steps of Martha's sister, Tish, forced to bring him whatever was meant to qualify as food. Mashed swede seemed to be the order of the month. Apparently in the Master's new world order, the hoi polloi didn't eat swede, which made it a surplus good, suitable only for prisoners. Gods, but he was beginning to hate it.

Tish was less scared than she had been before, but now there was a resigned dullness in her eyes that suggested she'd given up. If he'd had the luxury of time or free speech between mouthfuls of gruel, he might have given her whatever reassuring words he could find, even if they were dwindling in supply. He knew he couldn't give up but it was getting harder each and every day to hope that the Doctor had a plan, otherwise Martha was truly on her own out there. It was a terrifying prospect.

The sound of footsteps coming towards him were not those of the soldiers, not of Tish. These were different, a polished click of dress shoes that once might have made him think fondly of Ianto, but which now churned up a cold dread in the bottom of his empty stomach.

His eyes involuntarily drifted to the hand resting on the metal bar. They drummed out a beat wherever they rested. Da da da dum. Da da da dum. Over and over again like a mantra. It was impossible to ignore that nervous tic or unbreakable habit.

The Master caught his gaze as it felt on his hand. He smirked a little. 'Yes, I know. Terrible habit, but how can you not?'

'Not what?'

The Master's eyes glittered. 'The drums, Jack. Can't you hear them? They are all around us.'

With startling clarity Jack realised where he'd heard that rhythm before. The dial tone inside their phones - the one that had brainwashed the entire country into voting Harold Saxon into power.

'Always there, always beating,' the Master continued. 'Da da da dum. Da da da dum. It's beautiful, isn't it?'

If he hadn't believed the Master was mad before, he did now. The drumming was inside his head. He'd turned his madness into a weapon.

Jack watched the fingers continue to tap out the rhythm. He was always watching those hands, wondering when they might suddenly turn on him. The Master was dangerous, ruthless and lightning quick to turn from congenial villain to murderous psychopath. What was he hiding beneath his suit jacket today? A knife, a gun, poison? He took great pleasure in torturing Jack, finding out just how far Jack could be pushed until his body gave up its grip on life. It was a game to him, and one that Jack didn't want to play.

'Why the scared look, Jack? I'm not scary, am I?'

Jack clenched his jaw. 'You're a psychopath.'

The Master beamed at him, cocking his head to the side and folding his hands behind him. 'Aw, that's so nice of you to say so. It's so hard to find pleasant, honest conversation these days. Everyone's so antsy. Why is that?'

Jack held his silence. Even the pipes overhead seemed to be drumming out that beat now. It was like it followed him wherever he went and now it was getting inside Jack's head. He couldn't let it. That subliminal sound had already messed with his mind enough. He couldn't believe his team hadn't picked it up. A subliminal beat inside the telephone network brainwashing the entire country into voting into power a man who didn't even exist. It was an intoxicating sound, and all too easy to fall under its spell.

'You're a Time Lord,' Jack said. 'You're supposed to be the good guys.'

The Master raised a hand and stroked Jack's cheek with it. It was all he could do not to flinch back in repulsion. 'Like you, Jack? You and your little Torchwood?' He grinned. 'You're a bad boy, Jack. You know that it's more fun being a bad boy, don't you? Some of us prefer being bad to being good. Others are just born bad.'

Jack sucked in a long, slow breath. 'And which are you?'

The Master's hand tapped out its rhythm on his cheek. 'You're going to find out.'