the last unicorn post from earlier has me thinking about the master. that yana is still in there, you know? is still someone he was, if even for a brief flash across the life of a time lord. there’s no way to unlive that life. there are ways to twist it later, sure, to make utopia into hell on earth. but the life was lived. in much the same way that the doctor can remember, can feel, the love he held onto as john smith even as that life is ripped out of his hands. the doctor choose denial and then grief and then to shutter it all away. and so john smith died, and so professor yana died, and the doctor and the master live on. the doctor has done this before, and he lives in orbit around humanity, trying to keep the best parts of them and hold them deep enough to take root (which he can pretend he gets to choose, as a time lord. as a human, it all floods in and can’t be dug back out.) but what about the master, right?
to borrow a turn of phrase: i think there are two time lords left in the universe, and they both learned how to regret.
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siri keeton: hello, my job is to take the jargon spat out by hyperintelligent posthumans and translate it into something that the average person can understand. in order to do this, i must observe, and due to this (and other various traumas in my past) i've developed a set of algorithms to study and mimic human behavior.
everyone, for some reason: you unfeeling monster. you unsentient creature. get out of my fucking sight.
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hi Margin! idk if you're still doing those 3-sentence fics, but in case you are, here's a prompt suggestion: "dawn"
bonus points if it's HW zelink? <3
Ohohohohohohohoho YES >:)
(full disclosure this was sitting in my inbox for weeks because i couldn't figure out what to write but i did it today in math class so here you go)
He was stern, and cold, and dispassionate; a statue, they called him, beautiful and unfeeling and as pristinely white as marble, resistant to the colors of love and laughter- or at least, that's what they said.
She was beautiful too, but not in his opaque, colorless way- if he was a marble statue, she was a stained-glass window, full of light and warmth and color, and her soul was the dawn that shone through and cast her illuminating hues on the grey congregation of the soldiers around her.
And when he was with her- when the dawn of her smile graced the Captain, not grey and battered like his men but pristinely alabaster- he absorbed her color; the white and colorless turned brilliant shades of gold and green and blue, and the few blessed to witness this transfiguration swore that, for a moment, she could make their Captain look almost human.
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