It's all AU.

It was a bloody awful day for the Master. Sometime he could tell what was going to the drums and everything that went with it worse...and sometimes he couldn't. It had always been that way. He's woken up barely able to think and in a viscous mood, the rush of noise in his mind telling to lash out.

So, rather than go stalk something, as he would have once upon a time, he kept himself shut away and drugged into a stupor. He sat in a chair the main room of the cottage, gloved hands lax, and staring off into space.

Hating feeling like this, as much as he could muster, underneath the haze he was in.

What passed for 'morning' in this fucked-up place found Brant sitting on a roof-top, with a gun in his lap and a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. His legs were dangling over the edge of the tallest building with roof access he could find, his hand was resting lightly on top of the gun, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was pale, but he wasn't crying.

When he heard footsteps behind him, he didn't turn. He just said, "I'm not giving it back."

He meant the gun. He'd given up completely on his Jack. Actually, no. Who he'd given up on was himself, or everyone, depending on your point of view. He just didn't think he was going to see his Jack again.

After a very good sleep, Jack disentangled himself from Koschei, and padded through to the TARDIS's kitchen in search of more food. At the sight of a human woman already in there, he paused, posed, and grinned. "Any chance you might be Donna?"

Jack had taken as much time as he'd let himself with Jason, but there was one more thing he needed to do before heading out. Carefully, cautiously, he re-opened the place in the back of his mind that linked to Brant. Not enough to call out, just enough to be aware of his presence, and for Brant to know he was there. Not enough to let Brant know (hopefully) what was going on inside his head.

Then, he showered again, ate again, drank more water, put on fresh clothes that still didn't involve his coat because he was disheartened every time he felt how big it was on his wasted frame, and went out in search of the Doctor. The TARDIS was a bit of a clue, but he wasn't confident enough to use his key, stopping outside instead to rap a rhythmic knock on the closed doors.

And belatedly hoped that River wasn't around.

Doors. Always before it had been doors. This time there'd been no door. There was no door, no hope of escape. One moment the weight of earth pressing down on his body, filling nose and mouth, gritty against dry eyes, breaking ribs, crushing his lungs, the desperate pain of dehydration and starvation before he died, again, and returned, again, to the same desperation, the same hopelessness, the same certainty of returning death - and the next moment, air. Blessed air, night air, dampness dragged into his lungs, grass and soil under his hands instead of against his face and surrounding his body.

Air.

Still dehydrated, still starved. Back out of place, out of time.

Jack drew one blissful, grateful breath, and died again.

Brant was sitting on a sofa in the lobby of the hotel. There was a cup of tea in his hand, but his hand (and the tea, obviously) were both resting on an end table beside him. He wasn't just pale, he was *white* to the lips, and his eyes were closed. The contrast between his eyelashes and the pallor of his skin would have been pretty. If he'd looked less like a corpse.

Jack had a bag on his shoulder, and for once, was free of his greatcoat. Back in the t-shirt and jeans that brought back memories of easier times, he was planning on making the most of the sunshine - or planetshine or whatever it was - and there was one person he really wanted to do that with.

"Got a few minutes?"

It was an extraordinarily gorgeous day even for fake New New York. The Master and Doctor had taken over a corner of Central Park to try to gather together cricket teams, from visitors or natives, whoever knew or was willing to learn the basic rules and play. Captaining opposing teams, of course. The easy banter back and forth indicated high, good spirits.

The Master went to the room Brant had directed him to, and knocked. Waited for Jack to answer. He was calm. He could do this.

He waited until River seemed to having a good day before he tracked down Jack again. Fell into step beside him, seemingly calm and steady.

"How are you?"

The hotel, Jean-Claude was pleased to discover, had rooms below ground level. He did not trust the drapes to keep out the sunlight, which might not damage him, though he had not tested the theory yet, for he did continue to die at dawn.

That evening, the sun had barely set when he woke, alone and with both hungers rising, to find someone outside his room. Someone who tasted familiar, even before he opened the door.

There was no way to be certain that just because the man in the park looked like the Master he'd met with River that he was. No way by looking, anyway. The fact that it was also the Master who'd unlocked Brant's memories made things simpler. Jack might not have had direct contact with the man, but that distant faint connection gave him a 'flavor' of the Master's mind, distinctive enough to identify him with the faintest, politest brush of contact.

He settled on the bench, wrapping his coat around him against the chill of night, reminded himself that the Master could always say no, and waited to be acknowledged.

Jason grabbed a towel as he got out of the shower, throwing it over his head to start drying out his hair. Which didn't take as long as it used to. He kept forgetting that.

"Ah hell," he muttered, scrubbing his hair hard. It was going to stick up all over the place, but he could slick it back down later.

Jason opened the bathroom door, making a beeline for his bed. He didn't feel the draft until he realized the bed wasn't there. Stopping, he dropped the towel around his shoulders and looked around. "Did Jean-Claude redecorate the Circus while I wasn't looking?" he asked aloud. "I didn't think my shower was quite THAT long."

"We didn't really have a chance to say hello properly the other day," the Doctor said, spotting Jack and sliding into step beside him.

He was a little wired. Twitchy.

River was barefoot, going through ballet steps, in a park. She stopped and turned to look at Jack.

"Did you want to ask me something?"

Jack had meant what he said to the Master - he didn't believe in rivals. At least, not emotionally. That didn't mean his thoughts or emotions were any clearer when he left the Time Lord in the hotel lobby.

He'd intended to go to find Brant. Instead, his steps took him up the stairs. Up, and up, until he came out on the roof, hands pushed into his pants pockets, coat pushed back from his hips, head tilted back as if it made it easier to breathe, eyes closed.

It wasn't like the fall would kill him if anyone pushed him, anyway. Not permanently.

Leaving the TARDIS was a mix of emotions for Jack. Not that he'd wanted to stay, not really, because although she was definitely the TARDIS he would know, she wasn't yet, and for some reason, finding a younger version of the TARDIS was more disturbing than finding a younger version of the Doctor. And that was pretty damn disturbing on its own. But she was still the TARDIS, and still accepted him, and still achingly familiar. He ran a fond hand over her woodwork in farewell, and went to find the other side of the memory restoration drama, finally running him to ground in the lobby of the hotel where Jack had first met Brant.

"So how's your head today?"

continued from here

The TARDIS that the man led them to - and it took seeing the TARDIS for Jack to actually connect he was another version of the Doctor, which given that he'd already seen the sonic screwdriver and heard him mention the TARDIS, was a pretty big indicator of how preoccupied he was with Brant's condition - wasn't the same one Jack knew, but similar enough that he didn't pay much attention to the differences. He just carried Brant in to the console room, mentally reached out to greet the TARDIS with a mildly obscene caress, and looked back at the Doctor. "Which way?"

(Before here)

It felt like an honest to god not far from the coast afternoon rain shower, with a little thunder. No mental wrenching of the environment around to make it happen. God, had he missed those. His fedora kept most of the water off his face, and he was grinning like a fool.

He turned to the flash of blue coat out of the corner of his eye, and said before he got a good look, "Now *this* is how I like my water."

He actually had to look for the Master. Fortunately, he didn't have to look very hard. He saw The Master's Jack leaving the room, remembered what he'd heard about them staying togehter and knocked on the door.