Warnings: Character Study, Introspection
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt: Blade. I had loads of lovely ideas for this challenge - none of which either a) panned out or b) went untouched by the talent authors at Who Contest. I had one that was a little more...gory (eep!), but then realized that I had already covered that in another fiction (one that needs completion if I am perfectly honest), so that idea was also unuseable. Then this hit me out of the blue and, well, I could hardly resist! It is not the best character renditions of Ever, I'm sure, but I can say (without a doubt) that I gave it a good go. As per usual, this fic is mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. And (as always), I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/wandery/blithery and unbeta'd.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!

It was a thing of beauty.

Rassilon wasn't one to think of such things as aesthetics, but there was definitely beauty there. Cold, deadly (twisted even) – but deeply beautiful. A lot like the man (and the mind) behind its creation.

"I see you have been rendered speechless Milord," Omega said primly (if a little smugly). "If you would please allow me a demonstration –"

"That will not be necessary old friend," Rassilon assured him, the remembrance anything but sentimental; a reminder (if you will), of who held the cards and wielded the real power within their…relationship. "I am supremely confident that this creation will be more than up to the task as you have laid out before it. Assuming that testing has been done to your utmost satisfaction?"

"Indeed, Lord Rassilon," Omega simpered, his insolence at refusing to use his full title as Lord President only forgiven by his sheer brilliance and unswaying loyalty. Impertinence could be tolerated a little longer, for soon his genius friend and companion would meet the business end of his own deadly artifact. "We were sure to go to a quadrant that would hardly be missed. Our new attaché suggested it. Said it would be less noticeable than if we eradicated the Sol Galaxy. Curious, his insistence –"

"He will be dealt with," Rassilon sniffed, waving away the incredulous look of his head scientist. "I do not like the way he knows too much about our facilities, what is done here. It is uncanny and he has a way of dodging explanations that I am not keen upon."

"Lord Rassilon – he could be more important than you could know," Omega cautioned, watchful (as ever) for his friend's famous temper. He did not take well to the tiniest imagined slight; suggesting he was anything other than omnipotent was more than a 'tiny' slight. "What if he is from the future as you have hypothesized?"

"Than good riddance to future rubbish, I say." The Lord President sniffed, imperious and bored with the subject before it was even touched upon. He put his focus back on the artifact before him, his interest shown only by the intense look he laid upon it.

So focused was he, he missed the smile on Omega's face. Lord President Rassilon presumed too much – and ruled too wildly: his politics ever-shifting with his sanity (or lack thereof) over the centuries. Omega planned to have a new Lord President soon…and a good mourning ceremony for the current one standing beside him.

It all depended on who pulled the trigger the fastest, in the end.

"So this little beauty," boomed his former friend and current Lord. "What shall we call it?"

"Deeply pleased you find it beauteous, Milord," Omega said with a genuine smile. "I was thinking of calling it 'Gallifrey's Blade' –"

"You give yourself too little credit, old friend," Rassilon mused. "I think I prefer 'Hand of Omega'. Has a rather nice ring, don't you think?"

"Very nice ring, Lord President," he breathed, injecting enough awed gratitude to soothe that ever-ruffled, odious ego. "You do me honor, indeed."

"As it should be," Rassilon intoned, his madness a bright and tangible thing within his eyes. "Time to rewrite the universe old friend."

And together (this one last time), that was exactly what they did.