It’s the Doctor who tears up. “Master? Look at me; please look at me.” When he does, they stammer out the next sentence in a run-on, headlong blurt: “I realize now that I cut you off and put you in a vase becausee I thought I was saving you and giving you another life, but I was really just prolonging your death, and I know it might not even be possible to forgive me, but I don’t want you to be my obedient robot; I just want you to be my Master, and I’m terribly sorry, and…um…I’m done now.” There is some loud, protracted nose blowing. Then they glance with a cringe over at the Magister. “Um, was that a tangent? I don’t think it was a tangent, but do you think it was a tangent?”

The Magister raises his head, lifting his chin a bit, making the acute point of his beard all the more prominent. “No, Doctor, that was an entirely pertinent realization, followed by a relevant apology.” He speaks with an even sureness, the sparks of amber igniting in his eyes. Just as he has assumed the wizard’s robes of his own making, so he now assumes a dignity that Alison hasn’t seen before. He hears the remorse in his inevitable spouse’s words and knows that they’re finally recognizing him as a person. This is one equal speaking to another, with no guarantee of forgiveness, but with the confidence that he has at last, at least, achieved parity.

Turning to her left, Alison encounters a silent throng upon whom the wizard has practiced his art. Alison is used to barely articulated forms of molded plastic, with pleasant and characterless faces to serve as the perfect canvas for her work. These figures, slightly larger than her thirty-centimeter fashion dolls, appear to be entirely hand-done, from the sculpted clay limbs to the elastic-strung joints to the fiber hair. These three-dimensional representations combine the exaggerated stylization of a caricature with an eye for detail down to miniature laces on miniature shoes. Technically they’re dolls, but that term seems about as accurate as using the word rock to describe a gem that has been mined, cut, faceted, and metamorphosed into brilliance.

Two figures in particular catch Alison’s eye. One of them’s the Magister. The Magister has caricatured his own sharp face into aerodynamic angularity, dominated by eyebrows that fill half the forehead. Engraved with an expression of clownish glee, the figure wears the black uniform of its creator. Both arms outstretched, it offers two tiny mechanical things to the other doll.

The other doll is Alison, but as she’s never seen herself. The Magister’s bold style has distilled her to a narrow face, all features finely incised, except for two: the eyes and the brows. At least twice as large as they should be, the glass eyes open wide, doors by which all the wonder of the universe may enter. The irises, a brown as dark as twilight, surround massive pupils as brilliant as the sun. Over the eyes, the straight and pointy eyebrows stretch their wings, leaping with joy. The figure’s mouth turns in an asymmetrical smile of amusement and understanding, and its hair radiates from its head in a perfect sphere of brown glory. Head slightly cocked, it holds its own hands out to receive from the other figure the little mechanical things.

The outfit gives Alison pause, as he’s never seen her wear anything remotely close. The figure wears a light blue A-line dress with a white Peter Pan collar. Puffed sleeves fit tightly from bicep to wrist, and there’s at least one lacy petticoat sending the mid-calf skirt into a wide flounce. Over that there’s a white pinafore apron with shoulder ruffles and front patch pockets. Add to that the black-and-white-striped stockings and black Mary Jane pumps, and it would be your stereotypical Alice in Wonderland kit, except for two things. First, the entire outfit is covered with splatters of mud and gouts of dried blood. Second, a pen – or is it a sword? – hangs at the figure’s back, equally well used.

“C’mon, Master – please boot up!” Scintilla squats by his chair, both hands tight on one of his armrests. “Please be all right!” she says, as if she can talk him back into functioning. “I don’t like when you’re gone; I don’t like when I can’t find you; I don’t like when I can’t see you or talk to you or think to you. You need to be here; you need to be with me; you need to be mine because…well…you are mine. Even though you’re silly and dorky and hammy and cheesy and Miss Alison says maybe slightly bananas and definitely uptight and control freaky and kind of a killjoy and really pretentious and pedantic, not to mention evil and bad-tempered and sadistic and frankly kind of creepy some of the time…well, no, I mean…a lot of the time, you’re still my Time Dork, and that’s why you need to come back – so you can be mine ag – “

The Magister raises his head. “Eeeeee!” squeals Alison. She can’t help it; she starts boinging.

All of the life flows back into him. His fuckin’ ridiculous eyebrows spring up as he widens his eyes. His glance shuttles from side to side, and – yes, there are the sparks again! The glints of gold light up in his dark brown irises. He opens his mouth that he can’t keep shut under any circumstances, smiling slightly in wonder, and there goes the smirk indentation, notching itself into his lower cheek. The fuckin’ ridiculous villain goatee sticks its point forward as he cocks his head and says, “Where…?”

“Master!” Scintilla jumps up and at him at the same time. There’s a painful-sounding thunk, and she ends up flung across his lap, on her back, hips balanced on one armrest, shoulders on the other. “You did it! You’re alive! You’re back! You’re here!” She swings upright long enough to grab him by the braces of the lift harness and haul him down toward her so that they’re practically nose to nose. “You’re mine!” she cries. “I can see you; I can feel you; I can hear you; I can think to you! You’re back, and everything’s good, and I’m so, so, so, so happy! I’m as happy as…as…as…someone that’s really, really, really happy!”

“And so, my dear,” he summarizes, clasping his hands, “when you disobey me in the future, you’ll do so with all due shrewdness, circumspection, and prudence, won’t you?” The golden sparks dance in his eyes, his mouth half smiling, as if he’s about to tell her a story.

“Wait a minute! When I disobey you? Do you think I’m going to fail you?” she cries, upstarting.

“You mistake me! I am not mocking you at all, nor am I depending on your failure.” He presents her his upright palms. “I trust you completely; now that we understand each other, I have no more misgivings. I know for certain that I can always rely on you to do what is right. Your brilliant mind acts in service to your tender hearts, and you are just like my Doctor that way.

“Therefore, my dear,” he says, coming to her and holding her chin in his hands, “I know that there will be a time when I tell you to do something, but you will disobey me. You’ll believe me to be factually wrong, morally wrong, or both, so you’ll tell me precisely that. Then you’ll plan very carefully and go off and do exactly what I told you not to. Whatever happens, I will always guide you, help you, protect you, save you, and do whatever I can to keep you safe and whole and happy. –Because you,” he says, “are my good Domina, and you have the Master’s mind and the Doctor’s hearts.”

“But, remember, Miss Alison – the Doctor killed the vampire by bombing it with evil, meaning that they collected a whole bunch of evil from somewhere and shot it at the vampire until it died.” Scintilla flings her hands to her face. “Oh! My poor Master, my poor, poor Master! How could they do that to you?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t you see? They took… Oh! Oh no… They took the evil from him, from my Master.”

“But that makes no sense. You can’t just do an evil draw like you do a blood draw. Evil’s not like blood or an organ or a body part that can be easily removed. It’s a description for a combination of temperament, actions, personality, thoughts, emotions, disposition, et cetera. The Doctor couldn’t have made a bomb out of evil unless they – I don’t know – wadded up my robot’s thoughts and memories and… Oh shit,” says Alison as the epiphany drops on her. “Oh fuck. Oh shit. That’s exactly what they did.”

Alison drops herself back into the booth seat. “The Doctor… They made a bomb out of him. They took his thoughts, his memories, his emotions, everything that makes him who he is, and fired it at the vampire. And that’s why I experienced one of his memories: because it was being shot in my direction – at the vampire, I mean – along with everything else that he was. No wonder he’s not here. No wonder he couldn’t come for me. The Doctor hid him because they realized too late what they’d done. Oh God, Scintilla! The Doctor mind-fucked my robot. My robot!” Alison cries in fury, stabbing a finger at her chest. “My robot…” Her voice drops. “He must have felt so confused, so powerless, so…violated. And couldn’t help him. I couldn’t keep him safe. Oh…I couldn’t help him.”

“You…” His eyebrows flick up and down between concentration and something like fear. “You disobeyed me, mea Domina carissima, and I don’t understand. I’d like to know why, pray tell.” He speaks in the light, faltering tone of an uncertain interrogative.

Oh no. This is it. He doesn’t care if she answers or if she listens. He doesn’t want her anymore, just a lump who will sit there and take it. Alison scrambles out of his lap and retreats to a chair across from him. “No!” she cries. “No! I don’t know what I did, and I don’t know why it was wrong, and I can’t help you understand because you’ll never fucking listen to me!”

“What?” he cries, his voice going up in shock. “What?”

“I don’t know what I did, okay?” Alison flinches at his strident tone, hiking her shoulders. “Maybe it was wrong to let you clear my dishes instead of doing it myself. Or maybe it was wrong of me to try to fix the shelf support in my quarters because I broke it instead. Whatever. It was definitely wrong of me to expect perfect obedience from you when I’m not even perfect myself. I sleep too much; I have too many headaches; I can’t concentrate on anything. My brain’s too broken, and I’m not your good Domina.”

“You are – “

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry; I’m so, so, so sorry.” Ducking her head, she spills out an unstoppable mumble. “I like you; I…I…want to hold you fast; I trust you absolutely, and I respect you…not that you can tell from anything I’ve done recently, but I really, really, really do.”

“But – I know that… Tace!”

That’s the word that they agreed on to immediately stop whatever they were doing, to snap out of it and renegotiate, but it doesn’t work. She’s not good anymore; she can’t obey. “I’m sorry for being a hypocrite; I’m sorry for disobeying you; I’m sorry for not being good enough,” she babbles, lacing her fingers at the back of her neck. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done wrong. I’m sorry for making you feel bad, for disappointing you, for making you angry, for making you sad or confused.”

“Tace!” His voice heightens in strength and volume. “Stop!”  

“Just…don’t…yell at me,” she says, barely able to hear herself over the quickness of her breaths. “You can do whatever you want; I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t – Please don’t – I’m sorry.” She bunches into the smallest possible fetal position. “Tell me to do anything, anything at all, and I’ll do it. Just please don’t… Don’t ask me to help you understand. I’ll never be as brilliant and mature as you are. I’m obviously nothing but a stupid – “

“Domina! Stop! Tace! Now!” He brings his hands together, as he does sometimes when he’s excited, but the resultant crack of sound is no sign of eagerness. Instead it’s more like a firework, designed to stun and silence.

Her robot swoops his arm up and snaps his fingers. “Ah!”

The Doctor swivels their head. “Yes, Master?”

“No, that wasn’t a cue,” says the Magister.

…

“Oh…” The Doctor’s shoulders fall. “Okay…”

After she got used to the snapping and the pointing, Alison saw that the Doctor not only appreciated the explicit prompts, but also enjoyed them. She thinks that they probably find some relief in his commands, whether verbal, gestural, or otherwise. If you negotiate it right, orders can be very specific, very simple, and very easy to fulfill. For someone like the Doctor, who lives in complexity, ambiguity, and synaesthesia, the very discreteness of the Magister’s demands gives them a finite concreteness that they can quickly comprehend. Maybe it’s a relief for them to leave, if only for a time, an endlessly roiling and changing world, instead settling into a place that’s ordered, quiet, and bounded by exact, achievable expectations.

Of course there’s the obvious kinky aspect to the Doctor’s excitement as well. They and the Magister relate to each other in an endless power play of constantly shifting roles. The Doctor likes doing what their inevitable spouse tells them to do. Alison reflects that the Doctor has apparently associated a snap not so much with a cue as much as fun times up ahead.

“You needn’t look so disappointed,” the Magister reassures the Doctor.  “I can give you an order. You recall The Symphony of the Hesperidia?”

“Of course! I’ve been looking for a recording for weeks! –Or maybe months. Or years. Whatever! For a long time!”

“Well, I have one. Go find it.”

The Doctor levitates instantly. “Can I listen to it? Where do you have it? I can get it if you tell me where it is; I won’t even bother you. I’ll listen to it with headphones, and I promise I won’t sing it for days afterward.”

“It’s somewhere in my study, I should think – the one in your ship, not mine.”

“I’ll go find it! Back in a mo!” The Doctor gallops past Alison and out the library. They leave the door open, and momentum swings it shut with a resonant slam. Alison jumps.

Her robot doesn’t. “I certainly hope not,” he remarks, picking up his book and turning the page.

“Mischievous, marvelous Magister of mine…” Alison chides. She stands in front of him, one hip cocked, arms folded. “Did I just see you playing fetch with the Doctor?”

“I now have at least four hours of peace before they come back, wagging their tail, with something completely different than The Symphony of the Hesperidia.”

“And that’s not insulting?”

“To me? No!”

“To the Doctor, you complete and utter dolt!”

“But they’re so very eager to please their Master. Who am I to deny them that opportunity?” He shrugs and smiles, as if it would be insulting not to play fetch with them.

Once recharged, the Magister continues on his appropriated mission. Though the Doctor has recovered from their asthma attack, the Magister imprisons them in the Zero Room. Let me out, Master! The Doctor bangs on the windows. You’re a horrible diplomat!

The Magister smirks. Oh, my dear, foolish, naive Doctor. Do you think so little of me? Now I’m going to prove you wrong out of sheer spite. If you don’t want me to lock you up, maybe you shouldn’t treat me like a marionette that you hang on its hook when you’re done making a bomb of it. He leaves.

The Doctor appeals to Alison to let them go. She asks if they will leave her robot to his own plans, which, she thinks, are going well. The Doctor objects. Alison says she’s sorry, but the Doctor is staying in there.