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there's a drumming noise inside my head
it starts when you're around
i swear that you could hear it
it makes such an almighty sound



Irritable. Moody. Verbose. Genius.

When Koschei left Gallifrey, he was full of a sort of dark optimism. Sure, the Universe was, at best, dangerous and deadly, and at best...well, honestly sort of dull. But it had promise. There were things, little things here and there--Earth's pop music, the treats of Varadahl, even the science of Mondas and Skaro and the sheer tactical genius of Sontar had some promise to it. He was all set to cherrypick the best bits, and bring them back to Gallifrey. Back to where the Time Lords could adapt, and change, and bring the universe into a shining new era.

Ah, but idealists always had trouble. He was unaccustomed to life outside of Kasterborous, and while he was perfectly capable of remembering where he was, what year in which he'd found himself, and what passed for local currency, the dreariness of day-to-day conversation bored him. And nobody wanted to sell scientific breakthroughs or secrets to somebody who was such a self-important wanker. Thievery helped. Hypnosis helped. But mostly, it was all just so pointless. The pattern was simple: Koschei would determine a new goal, plan out his target and approach, and when the coveted piece of tech was in his grasp, something bloody human would happen, and it all went to hell.

He threw himself into his continued research. He had top marks at the Academy--almost the best in his year, except for one haughty and science-obsessed bitch. But now? Recreational maths, temporal engineering, paradoxical grammar, or even more limited subjects, history and economics and, yes, even literature. It kept his mind occupied, and it staved off the perhaps inevitable moment of accepting that he'd failed. He almost died once. Twice. Third time was the charm, and Koschei regenerated for the first time, into a short (but don't bloody remind him), arrogant fellow with a fondness for tweed or pristine white suits.

And then, out of the blue, the Time Lords contacted him. Said that his hearts were in the right place, and that his research was promising--and they offered him a job.

"A job," he had said. "I spend twenty hours of each day at my desk. I fail to see how doing it here is any different from Gallifrey."

"This is rather more fieldwork," explained the 'recruiting officer.' "Do you still want to make the Universe better?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Who define 'better?'" The woman only smiled in response. Koschei's hearts almost skipped a beat. He felt life spread back into his bloodstream--the thrill of the chase, the scent of a new challenge. "I didn't mention over tea. I murdered a man last week. A human. He was dying anyway--I merely sped up the process to try out a new poison I'd synthesized. That won't be a problem, will it?"

"Oh, you'll be doing lots of that," the woman replied. "It's why we're asking." She extended her hand. "Welcome to the Celestial Intervention Agency, Koschei."

[ooc: this is an RP journal for the mundane's interpretation of the early years of the Master, from Doctor Who. The mundane has no connection to the show or to Ben Whishaw. Mun and muse are both over the age of twenty-one.]