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The last thing the Master expected during the lull between battles was a hail. The forces of Gallifrey don’t like working with him directly - there’s too much potential for things to get… messy. He’s a useful pawn in their war, nothing more and nothing less, and no matter how useful he is the pardon is still an embarrassment. He doesn’t mind, of course. Far better to avoid offending their delicate sensibilities, to allow them to bask in the delusion that they hadn’t hired him precisely for his considerable talent at genocide. Far better to be allowed to do as he pleased.

The hail came not from a Battle TARDIS, not from one of their slick new Type 90s and 94s, but from an ancient model. Type 40 Mark III. There was only one ship of that particular make that was still in active use, and the Master knew exactly who had stolen it. The only question was what Gallifrey’s most infamous conscientious objector could want from her most infamous blunt weapon.

Yes, this was a curious development indeed. The Master dropped the dimensional shielding and leaned back against the console as the ancient blue box wheezed its way into the corner of his console room.

“You know,” the Master said as the Doctor stepped out of his TARDIS, “you really should consider joining up. Just think of the fancy new toys you could get.”

“I’m going to do it,” the Doctor said, and the Master could tell that his old enemy wasn’t talking about replacing his TARDIS. The Doctor - this Doctor, who had been a prettyboy with long hair when the Master had last seen him in San Francisco - was looking dirty and desperate. He’d swapped his black velvet for a battered greatcoat and cut his hair short. 

“What are you yammering about?” the Master snapped. Something was very off here. The Doctor ran his hand through his short, greasy hair, pacing back and forth at the foot of the Master’s dias. 

“I’m going to do it,” he said again. “I’m going to go to Karn.” The Master’s hands spasmed against the lip of the console, his mouth contorting into a frown against his own will.

“Why in Rassilon’s name would you want to go there?” the Master said. “There’s nothing of worth on Karn. Just those suspicious old crones, spinning their prophecies and hawking their elixirs. The Sisterhood-”

“The Sisterhood made me an offer,” the Doctor said, his voice just a little too loud. “They have a way to guide me through my next regeneration, make me something designed to fight this war.”

“You’re selling yourself short, my dear Doctor,” the Master said. “You’ve always been far more ruthless than you try to appear. Sometimes I wonder if you enjoy it, toying with those humans you like keeping around, seeing how long you can hide your true face.”

“Stop it. Just stop it.” The Doctor stopped pacing, breathing heavily, and he ran a tired hand over his brow. “I didn’t come here to play these stupid games with you.”

“Then why did you come?” the Master said. “You’ll be joining our ranks soon enough. Who knows, maybe the War Council will find you too embarrassing to be trotted out in public and we can work alongside each other. You and me, leaving a trail of burning Dalek shells across the Web of Time-”

“Koschei,” the Doctor said quietly, and the Master tensed up from his slouched position across the console. “Koschei, that’s not why I’m here.”

“I abandoned the name the Eye gave me a long time ago,” the Master said. “Why the devil are you bringing that part of it up now?”

“I abandoned my name as you did,” the Doctor said, “abandoned the life that should have been laid before me from the day I was Loomed. This name - I was given this name in a different way. It was a misunderstanding, a mistake, but it became a promise.” He paused, and his next words seemed almost painful to get out. “I suspect - I suspect that I will have to abandon this one as well.”

“What do you mean?” the Master said, genuinely shocked. “It doesn’t matter what path you abandoned when you left, you are the Doctor.”

“I am, for the moment,” the Doctor said. “I won’t be for much longer.”

“It’s just regeneration. A different sort of regeneration, certainly, but your fundamental psychic self will not be changed.”

“You’ve forgotten, Koschei, that the name of the Doctor has nothing to do with my psyche. It was a name I was given, a vow I chose to keep. And this - going to the Sisterhood, becoming another weapon of the Time War - this will turn me into a person who breaks that vow. I will no longer be a doctor, much less the Doctor.”

“If you feel so strongly about it, why don’t you just use this regeneration for the task. One body works as well as another. Why, I’ve already regenerated once in the War.”

“Because,” the Doctor said, “I think about fighting for Gallifrey in the Time War and I feel physically ill. I was there at the first Unthreading, Koschei. Hell, I even helped guide their hands. I know what the Time War requires of its soldiers, and yet- I can’t bring myself to fight it as this man. I can only hope that the Sisterhood of Karn are really as good as they say.” The Master stared at his old enemy - old friend , they had been friends, the Doctor didn’t need the Master but Koschei tonight.

“If you hate the idea of being guided in their image,” the Master said, “why do it? You could run. You’ve run from this war so far, and quite successfully too.” The Doctor shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said. “I just - it’s Daleks and timebombs and everything I’ve ever fought against. I owe it to them to do my part, and if I have to give up my vows to do so-”

“You don’t owe them anything,” the Master said acidly.

“If it was just Gallifrey I owed, I wouldn’t be here. But this is bigger than some stuffy old Time Lords who would see galaxies burn so long as they stayed in their place on top. This is about the universe, and I - I owe the universe so much more than this body can give.” The Doctor looked up at him, pleading. “Please, Koschei. Just for tonight, let it - let it be like it was. Help me do the right thing here.” The Master stepped down from the central dias, approaching the Doctor like his old friend was a frightened prey animal. He didn’t know if what the Doctor planned to do was right - right in any sense, in a moral sense or for the Time Lord personally. He didn’t know what he would see if the Doctor went through with his plan of being regenerated under the watchful eye of Karn.

“Remind me, my dear Doctor,” the Master said, “what part of your name did you once choose to carry?” The Doctor’s breath shuddered as the Master reached out and brushed his fingers over the lapel of the greatcoat.

“Theta Sigma,” the Doctor said. “Theta - the symbol of death and premature regeneration. Sigma - the symbol of the paradox, of something both unknowable and knowable at once.” 

“Well, you’ve certainly gotten the premature regeneration bit down,” the Master said, half fond. “Had you stayed on Gallifrey, you would still be on your second or third body. As it is, this next one will be, what, your ninth?” The Doctor nodded. “You’re certainly following the Eye better than I. Koschei the Deathless, what a joke.” The Doctor smirked slightly.

“We all knew choosing that use-name was pure ego.”

“And as for Sigma,” the Master said, “you’ve always been a paradox. The Time Lord who always interferes with the universe. The Renegade who works for the Council when it suits you. This will just be one more impossibility for you to conquer.”

“This isn’t like that.”

“Isn’t it? Even if you choose to give up your use-name, Doctor, you will still be defined by it. You say that the Doctor is not your psychic self, but I beg to differ. I have felt your impressions on the Web of Time, Doctor. You knit together what ought to have been rent by your meddling. You will be the Doctor, even in this war, even to the end of the universe.”

“I don’t know if I can see it that way, Koschei,” the Doctor said, but he already seemed less frantic, more at peace with his decision. He had come here looking for the Master’s teeth to tear apart his delusions and found something far more palatable. Even if it was a lie - and the Master didn’t quite know if it was a lie - it could perhaps be enough to keep him on his chosen thread.

“Stay with me tonight, Doctor,” the Master said suddenly. The Doctor’s eyes snapped open, full of surprise and slightly guilty pleasure. “Who knows if any of us will make it out of this War intact. Karn can wait a few more hours.”

“We aren’t what we were, Koschei,” the Doctor cautioned.

“None of us ever are,” the Master said, waving the protest aside. “But we can pretend, you and I. We can have one final night together, alive and as ourselves. Then history can come as it may.” The Doctor closed his eyes once again, and the Master knew that he had won. He brought the Doctor in close, one hand gripping a lapel and the other wrapped around the back of his old friend’s neck. Their minds pressed against each other, waiting for one or the other to give in and give permission.

“Alright,” the Doctor said, and his mind opened up to the Master like an atom bomb. “Just once before the end of time.”