The Doctor had time to take one deep breath of Non-Androgum-rank air before the door opened and he was again yanked out.
"There we are, Serrate." Again he was hoisted up in a smelly Androgum's smelly arms (it was, he thought grimly, like being molested by a tree trunk). Hollow popped out from the back room, not about to miss out on anything interesting.
The huge Androgum chuckled deep in his barrel chest. The vibration rang against the Doctor's bones. "Here, Serrate. Tell me what you think." He held out the little Time Lord at arms' length before the younger Androgums. The Doctor was still wondering how the brute had managed to clap the manacles on him again. He was absolutely faster than he appeared!
"You have a fresh specimen-A good one," He announced to the masked Apprentice. "Tell me what you think."
"Yes, Master." Serrate bowed to his knees. With hopeful anticipation he stepped forward. "This is a Time L-" He coughed and staggered back. "-Lord," he finished with a hand to his throat. "A lively one."
Brasher chuckled merrily and locked one arm around the Doctor's legs. "Never drop your guard on a wild animal, Apprentice." He tried to lecture with a straight face. "Now what if it had been Old Bludger teaching you, and not me?"
"I would be threatened with the soup-pot, sir. Extra salt and a pinch of gaan."
"Carry on. A basic marketplace specimen. Your petty stockyard agent is unsympathetic to your craft. After much yelling he will permit you to briefly touch the beasts. No disrobing—Organoleptic analysis—nothing more, then give us your decree."
Serrate squared his shoulders bravely. He stepped closer. The Doctor glared with as much anger as his psyche could muster at short notice.
The younger Androgum prodded the Doctor's ribs beneath his shirt with cautious tenderness, checking the layer of meat and fat beneath the skin. "A bit small but that means nothing when one pursues quality in the product." He frowned. "Some bruising upon the torso, I think. The temperature of the skin is mottled and erratic through the cloth." He continued this testing from one limb to the other. "I would be worried about the bruising, sir. I would prefer to examine the whole specimen before I decreed a price."
"As well as you should. But in the rare occasion, one cannot. What will you do?"
"I would proclaim the obvious facts—apparent health-" He paused and sniffed loudly. "No sign of mood-enhancing drugs that would give a false impression of health and vitality. The beast appears to be physically middle-aged. I could find no sign of subcutaneous cellulose injections to make the beast look plumper; the hair appears to be naturally colored, so we may overlook any cosmetic additions to create a sense of youth. Its high-strung nervousness could easily be from its unnaturally confined environment, and not genetic disposition or presence of chemicals or appetite stimulators that could make it gain weight before the market." The Androgum's face cleared as something occurred to him. "I would decree just below the fair market value of the live weight on the grounds that the specimen would have to be kept in quarantine before slaughter—and also the fact that the injuries are not fully diagnosed. This may offend the keeper enough that he may...let slip facts about the beast's history and condition."
"Very well, Serrate." Brasher rumbled with great good humor. "A fine snap diagnosis in less than one minute. You are learning quickly. Nothing like good cookbooks and a bowl of marrow soup once a day to stimulate the learning glands!"
"Sir! Yes, Master Fowler!" The young man glanced at his hopefully-waiting twin and the two aimed their most expressive eyes at the huge Brasher. "Sir...could you..."
"Oh, I suppose if I must." Brasher grinned, an indulgent uncle. "Here."
The Doctor managed another kick as he was transferred to Serrate's meaty paws. It whistled by Brasher's chin harmlessly.
And here we go again, the little Time Lord thought wearily as Brasher's bigger, stronger hands did their examination of his future carcass...showing off just a bit, the Master barely touched him which was truly the smallest of all small favours.
"Well, well. Not the usual standard fare, are we?" Brasher's voice changed to that of a more unctuous, parodic imitation of pompous and self-important idiot. He worked his fingers over the thin shirt in a fluttering, effete maneuver. "Not the ordinary soft fare here, isn't he? This one gets outside, doesn't he?" He asked in a high falsetto. "Do you take them out for exercise? This one's a little fighter, isn't he?" The huge fingers gently squeezed and tested the muscles at the Doctor's shoulders, arms, and legs. "Oh, yes. Plenty of good, clean, outdoor living! Exercise and fresh air! Well, well. This isn't something one sees every day, isn't he?!"
He pulled back, pursing his thick lip in pretend thought, and his acting skills were enough that he could pretend he couldn't hear the giggling apprentices.
The Doctor, in the sincere interest of learning about an exploitable weak spot, made note of every word. It would appear the stories of Androgum rivalries, grudges and annoyances weren't just rumors.
The Doctor took the moment to take a deep, Androgum-untainted breath, and slow his heartsrate.
"Well," Brasher continued, still in character, "I suppose we ought to be grateful for what we can get in these wretched facilities, shouldn't we?" He paused, hands on his hips, and sniffed once, a long, loud suction of atmosphere into his nostrils as he slowly rotated to give the room a disapproving moue. "It could be much worse...I suppose." Another sniff—even longer than the last one. "Six nargs. I'll kill it myself."
Unable to contain themselves, the apprentices exploded into paroxysms of unbridled hysteria. Brasher let them run on it for almost a minute before he lifted a large hand. The younger Androgums subsided with great effort.
"Mind you," he declared, "I once saw a fellow, o'Chaunting Grig, offer that much for a fully grown Dominator! Liveweight! He thought it would be cheaper and save expense if the beast carried itself to the slaughterhouse!" His students were horrified at the thought. "I know." The Fowler sighed. "Just one of the advantages to being a hunter as opposed to being a grocery-shopper—or if you're looking for a juicy haunch of Martian, a greengrocer."
The Doctor had killed quite a few Martians in his history, but he didn't see that funny. The audience, however, did.
"Right. Enough play-time, children." Brasher wagged his finger. "We need to get everything ready for the supper. "Everyone needs to look their best—not that any of my apprentices need to be told!" He puffed out his chest as he spoke. "A main course of Ancel'ak followed by a dessert aspic, making use of those wonderful lizards in storage. Hollow, it will be your task to simmer the broths down. Serrate, the beasts need exercise tomorrow morning to get their digestive juices going." He tutted. "And just in case, walk the Time Lord through the decontamination. I'd prefer the baths, but that would make it look tamer than it really is."
"Yes, Master." Serrate dropped him on his feet like a hot potato. The Doctor stumbled and, thanks to the restraints, fell flat on his face.
"You'll bruise the meat!" The big Androgum roared at his hapless protégé. He stepped hastily to the side as the prisoner rolled over on his back in an effort to get up. "Carry him! We'll save time!-Hollow, get the exhibit ready for tonight."
"Yes, Master." The younger said quickly. The Doctor felt the air whistle out of his lungs as the huge creature lifted him over one shoulder. Rassilon, Androgums were strong! You heard of the stories; you even saw it on the Temporal Scanners…but it was quite another chalk to experience it for yourself…
…speaking of, he considered darkly as they continued on their merry way to wherever and whatever 'decontamination' entailed, were they being watched by the Temporal Oversight Committee yet? Sardon's brief holo-communication aside, the Grey Lord had said something about his calculations sending him a month ahead, which meant they might still be on the other side of that calculation, waiting for him to come out.
By then there wouldn't be much of him to rescue… He swallowed hard and used his fingers to slide something small and sharp up his over-large sleeve: A twist of metal from Brasher's broken telecom. He'd just barely planned his pratfall to collect it. Good thing it worked. Pity he couldn't grab that lovely little gold chip. Now to make sure this improvisational lockpick was well hidden...
Apprentice Serrate snarled, reaching up to grab at his cargo as it kept wriggling. "Hold still, you little scamp!" He laughed.
"He's full of pep and verve." The Master Fowler agreed. "We'll fetch a good price."
"Even with the age, Master?" Apprentice asked respectfully.
"Oh, especially with the age." The Master Androgum relished. He paused at a door to work at a bizarre-looking contraption of a lock (it appeared to have been slapped together with broken bits of metal). "The older ones have such flavor in the meat! The blood alone creates a sublime savour—why, some cooks specialise in keeping the beasts alive just for the blood production! As long as they stay healthy all is well—but you have to keep a close eye. When they start to age it's time to move them quick to the butcher's block. But...until then...you can ask for a higher price on the market, and still keep the meat alive to produce more. A Time Lord's fresh blood is worth it's own gram-weight in argonite!" He wiped his mouth at the thought.
"Yes, sir?" The Apprentice definitely had his hands full now. The little Time Lord was struggling for all he was worth. Brasher rumbled at the sight of them, glad it wasn't him holding on to the meat. The poor Apprentice really wanted to be properly expressive of one of the most exciting moments of his life, but the Time Lord was rather taking the moment away from him.
Ah, youth. It was the moments like these these that the Master enjoyed the most.
"A perfect day, one would think, Apprentice." He observed as he watched the struggle. "Successful retrieval of cargo, plus an extra bonus! We'll show up that fool Shockeye…and all the Grigs! Gluttons, all of them. No appreciation for the higher cause-
"-Hold still." The Master Fowler leaned over and grabbed the Time Lord by the hair (There was a lot of it), pulling his head back for a closer look. The fear in his face was unmistakeable, but the pulse leaped strong in his throat. "He's got two hearts, this one. Excellent. They tend to have leaner meat." He paused to sniff. "Prime condition. Off to decontamination, a bit of blood for the bouquet...and get him ready for tonight's supper. Hollow should have the pen ready by the time we get back."
"Yes, sir!" The Apprentice glowed with delight, and finally succeeded in a locking-hold. "Come along, now! No sense fighting. You'll just hurt yourself and we can't have that!"
The little Time Lord paused in the middle of his gyrations at that, and stopped long enough to GLARE at him. The look could have frozen mercury.
The Master Chef chuckled. "Few people appreciate a good bit of meat, I'm afraid. And that includes the owners."
The Decontamination was almost a disappointment for the Doctor—not to slur the Androgums, but he was used to more drastic things as a part of captivity: getting locked inside alien computers...getting shot through the skull...facing an organic neural parasite...feeding the holy sharks...justifying his expense account to old Ragnar...
(In his future incarnation, a much-beleaguered Brigadier would be poring over another quarterly report and contemplate the possible experience the Doctor had gleaned from his obviously colourful life; he simply had no sense of fear when it came to paperwork).
The decontamination was nothing more dramatic than getting tossed in a chamber flooded with anti-bacterial lights on low lumen. Excruciatingly painful, yes. But that was the size of it.
"Low lumen, sir?" Serrate asked timidly. On the other side of the glass the Time Lord was writhing in pain as a million little needles stabbed through his flesh all the way to his bones.
"Time Lords are naturally clean." He was informed. "They host a series of bacteria that is harmless to the rest of us but vital to their health. One may as well try to make cheese without the right strand of mold—or for that matter, any mold at all. It's an intricate partnership."
"I have so much to learn." Serrate mumbled.
Brasher patted him on the back. "You managed to eat the competitors for your post. I daresay you and Hollow have the best chance of serving up all of your rivals at the upcoming Convention."
That made him feel better.
"Oops!" Brasher quickly opened the door before the Time Lord could throw himself against the glass. "A bit claustrophobic, perhaps." He guessed, as Serrate caught him en route to the floor. "Wild beasts usually are. It's another reason to appreciate the Gravity Pens—they weren't invented when I was your age. We had to learn twenty different ways of hobbling."
"Do they normally react this way?" Serrate wondered.
"In my regretfully limited experience, yes. It's an overstimulating experience for their sensitive nervous system. Not harmful in the long run of course, but it leaves them easier to handle for a few hours." A chirrup from his belt made him look down. "Ah, hallo...Is that you, Hollow? Yes. Yes...excellent." He looked up to his apprentice. "Your brother is prepared now. Put our exhibit back and—do make certain the locks are extra strong. Use the Sontaran-grade models."
"Sontaran?" Serrate blinked. He couldn't think of the last time they'd had Sontarans—the meat was so coarse and lacking in...well, everything. It was comparable to Textured Vegetable Protein. Where in the Galaxies would those locks even be? Gathering dust somewhere... "Sir, the Time Lord is capable of breaking out?"
"What? Oh, no." Brasher threw back his head and roared with laughter. "No, no, no. You misunderstand me. The Time Lord couldn't possibly break out of the Gravity Pen. But we have to make certain our guests get no...ideas." He lifted a thick brow meaningfully.
Serrate caught on. "Ahhhh." He wiped drool from his mouth. And smiled all the way back to the Gravity Pen.
Gallifrey:
Karnak was getting tired.
It had been decades since she'd last "pushed" herself. Part of that was her work, which was never predictably demanding. And she was one of the sorts who learned from her mistakes and tried not to repeat them. Thus, her record had grown only more spotless with the passing years.
But she couldn't remember the last time she'd dealt with a case that had her psychic abilities stretched as much as her mechanical expertise...at the same time.
Taking a rare break from the telepathic circuits, she leaned back and drank from her personal glass as the rest of the meeting-members filed in with mixed expressions of "I don't want to be here" on their austere faces.
She knew better than to trust any of these people. They held too many lives in their hands. Sardon was well known for his skill in smoothing over troubled feelings and operating within the most narrow lines of behavior—but he was comfortable in her presence, and that alerted her to a deeper issue: He obviously had training in blocking telepathic minds, or he was less xenophobic than his peers, or a combination of the two.
Karnak really hoped this was the latter. Xenophobia was the most boring of flaws within Time Lords society.
What would some of them think, if they knew the battered old TSV was leaking its telepathic circuitry into her brain at the same time it was surveying their agent?
Surveying. The Council preferred the word as opposed to others—such as "peeping, spying, evesdropping...sniffing about..."
Surveying implied they were emotionally impartial to what was going on.
She drank, watching Sardon direct the traffic, so to speak, of the meeting itself. In the background Goth loomed—more dangerous because he didn't like to be predictable. Sardon liked to have rules; it saved time in working with others.
And then of course, there was the Doctor...
Karnak watched the screen as she flexed her sore arms. It would lose picture without warning so she had little choice but to hover like a carrion-bird in the thermals.
Comparing herself to something that waited for things to die was a bit uncomfortable right now; it was looking more and more like the Doctor's fate was going to be more than messy and probably embarrassing as well (which most Time Lords opted as the fate worse than death).
After a painful-looking decotamination process, they'd locked him back in the best-pen and fixed the surrounding room to look like (she presumed) a Dining Hall for Androgum Plutarchians.
This meant a place that looked disturbingly like a medical waiting room was now looking like a primitive feasting hall with lots of burning braziers (she wondered if the flames were real), grimy-looking trophies (mostly artistically preserved body parts of some beast or that), and a long table crammed with no seeming logic or order with a bewildering display of haphazard foods and drinks.
Androgums from all over the ship had filtered in for the feast—and not just any Androgum representative either. Sardon had identified them as minor chieftans or petty elders. They were all large, and covered with ecrescences to prove a long history of eating other, mostly intelligent, beings.
Halfway through the feast they had (unfortunately) learned how Hollow earned his name: They had pulled the Doctor out of his pen as a "guest" of honor, and the apprentice had used a hollow knife, a bloodletter, on a vein in his arm. The collected blood had mixed into the drink and the Androgums had gulped it down with an obscene relish, bloody liquid running down their chins and shirt-fronts. Even Goth had been unable to keep his usual mask of cool contempt.
Karnak had to hand it to the Doctor. He was facing it all with more composure than any of the council members in their neat, safe room. He simply waited and watched in a seemingly calm state of shock—the telepath didn't need psychic ability to believe he was quietly committing all of the repulsive faces to memory.
She knew he wasn't in shock. His calm face was out of sync with what she was detecting beneath his eyes.
It worried her. Telepathy was one thing, but feeling emotions as well? That was a rarer impression for her. It must be part of the bleedover from the TSV...and possibly another element in all this mess: The older behaviors of the antique machine; its relationship with the equally old machine in the Doctor's TARDIS—and of course, the TARDIS itself, which she suspected had a more than light layer of mental communication with him.
If any of that was true, she had more than one reason to keep quiet. Time Lords weren't against telepathic machinery—not to hear them talk. But they violently disliked the notion that the machinery in question might have something to say.
Give them a moment to think and they start imagining all kinds of horrors...like Omega's Hand gone wandering—they never did find the thing and good riddance! But Time Lords seemed to lump all of the Old Tools into the same category as the Hand.
There were precious few willing to see the tools as they were—useful, potentially dangerous if improperly treated, alive and possibly—just possibly—in possession of a soul or will.
"It's a long shot, that's all." A bulky Androgum female complained. "Don't you remember the trouble of getting just those specimens from Earth?" Without waiting for an answer she started laughing. "Thought the largest species was the apex species, he did! Wound up getting a ship full of these hairy beasts, thinking they were Tellurians!" Caught up in the hilarity, she mimed very large forms. "How he mistook Tellurians—which are soft, mostly hairless creatures without claws, fangs, venom, spurs, scales or crests for those—grant you, very tasty—things with lots of claws, fangs, and a thick pelt of fur..!"
"I think everyone has an embarrassing First Adventure." A burly male offered. He dropped a rack of ribs upon his plate and was gnawing thoughtfully on a stripped bone, squeezing out the juicy marrow. "If only everyone's mistakes were as succulent as his!"
Everyone touched their fingertips to their lips in a show of agreement upon a palatable manner.
The Doctor managed to control his rising nausea with an act of will that impressed even himself. Bad enough he'd recognized the majority of the main course as Ancel'ak body portions, but they weren't the only ones.
There was not a single dish before his eyes that did not represent the theft of a life. Even the "sweetening" dish was an abomination: royal jelly from the Menopteras. That people needed every precious gram of that substance in order for their hive's next generation to survive.
And now they were talking of Earth. He had so hoped they would be unaware of that tiny planet, but luck was not with him today.
It was a small comfort that the one expedition had confused humans with a less tractable species...
"What were those things, anyway?" A Matriarch frowned. "A bit on the fatty end, but grilled with fresh dahm-wedges and it was something to savour! And those paws made the best pickling! My old mother wants me to bring it to the family reunion."
"Oh, Great Gendik. Well it took us a week of digging about, but we finally narrowed it down to an ursine species called a "bear." They have almost as much variety in appearance as Tellurians do—and I have to tell you, some of those bears weren't created the same!"
"You're thinking of those red ones." Puffer lifted his glass high. "Yes. Venomous spidery-bears. We wound up cutting the venom sacs out of their palms. I wonder if that's why they never tasted as good as the others?"
"Venomous beasts can taste very good." Was the protest. "Unless you're talking just poisonous all around, like those kaled mutants."
(The Doctor felt, for one of the few times in his lives, his brain supercool at the idea of anyone eating anything from Skaro, much less the intelligent species. He also wondered if he'd missed something because he couldn't recall anything even vaguely answering to the description of "spider bears" on earth.)
Spider monkeys? No, that wouldn't be anything near the right answer! Trying to mask his helplessness, he sipped from a glass of water—they were thoughtfully making sure he stayed hydrated for the next blood-letting. The biggest web-spinner would be those cat-sized prehistoric models, but they couldn't survive in the thinner oxygen levels of Earth today...
"We still have a few of those poisonous bears left in storage." Mirrortooth assured the younger guest. "Almost more trouble than they're worth, but you never know what will be the secret ingredient at the feast."
"That's so true."
"I think those spider-bears were an extinct species because they were all mechanically augmented—and he harvested every single one of them at that zoo. They were probably an educational exhibit. Letting the young ones see for themselves..."
(The Doctor was wondering what era he was in; he'd really thought he hadn't veered that far off the Temporal Course, but the Androgums were talking about no species on Earth he'd ever heard of, encountered, or read about in school...)
"Pity we couldn't get any Tellurians. Nothing tastes like a Tellurian."
"That's what I've heard."
"Well you can't tell me that isn't the reason why that little planet's always getting invaded! Don't they still hold the record?"
The Doctor listened with half an ear. His ersatz lockpick was still safe, but difficult to reach (for now). The blood-letting had left him tired. His hearts had lowered their rates in order to make the circulation an easier time of it.
He wanted to take a nap; the odds of the conversation offering him anything interesting was less than glowing—he had a better chance of pitting Sardon and Goth together...or tricking them both into the same faulty lift on its way to the most blood-sucking insectivorous-riddled shipyard in Kasterborous.
Now wouldn't that be a sight...I wonder who would win?
Reluctantly, because he didn't approve of favoritism, he mentally afforded Goth the advantage due to size, the stronger physical body, and a brain that was so stuffed with Prydonion corruption that the excess leaked out of his ears in the form of unctuous speechifying. Five minutes of lecture and Sardon would beg for the sweet release of death.
Brasher bellowed at some witticism; he was keeping the Doctor at his side throughout the whole horrible meal and the sound made the little Time Lord cringe.
Like sitting next to a bull alligator...hmn. I wonder if he would charge if I threw out a Middle B-flat on a tuba?
"Not at all!" Brasher was saying. "Not at all. But as you can tell for yourselves, my most worthy peers,
(The Doctor knew outright lying when he heard it, and had the years of survival in the CIA as proof).
"My most worthy peers," Brasher rose effortlessly to his feet. As as huge as he was, the Doctor was impressed at the alien's ability to move at all. "The fact remains that despite the treachery of the Ancel'ak, we have recovered our blood-tithe and then some! Not only do we have their insult of a bribe with their frozen slabs of undressed meat," he paused to sniff through the sides of his nostrils, and the listeners chipped in with many boos and catcalls and Androgum expressions of outrage, "But we have the Ancel'ak and their ship!" Pause for the boos to turn into huzzahs. "The complete inventory of the live cattle will be finished by this time tomorrow, and by then we shall be completely in our home territory!"
"Feasting!" A wag shouted from the back, and everyone laughed.
"Yes! Feasting!" Brasher held up his hands. "Feasting and drinking at the Courts of Pleasure! We have a promising young Perelaccan to stand on our teams in the Games, and along with the other young jacks and bucks, we can look forward to a week of celebration! Winner takes all!"
"Because we eat the losers!" That same wag answered—to much hilarity.
"I am curious, Brasher." The older woman piped up. Her fingers were longer than average and they curled around her blood-goblet with unappealing skill. "Can even a Master salvage anything useful among those icicles in storage?"
"It is more than possible." Brasher told her. "The quality will of course be lower, but there is no doubting the...freshness of the product. Now, it would be a different story if they'd tried to thaw them out. Spoils the meat, you know." He shuddered. "Pity. There were some prime specimens! I thought it would be good practice for the Culinary Schools—nothing like giving the new generation a challenge to see what they're made of!"
Murmurs of approval met this decision, and the Doctor revised his older assessment of Brasher. This Androgum was in charge of everyone else on this ship—either that, or he was revered to that extent.
"And the Time Lord?" The squat Mirrortooth grinned, wiping his mouth.
He was far too close to the Doctor.
"Ah, the Time Lord." Brasher beamed. "A rare dish must be savoured, must it not? We have many weeks of blood-letting to enjoy before we move on to more...fleeting pleasures as a meal."
"He should be eaten quickly. His people will come looking for him."
Without a blink, Brasher calmly transferred the Doctor back to the gravity pen (and the Doctor was glad to be there). Without the need to explain he slipped the Sontaran-grade bolt upon the seal.
"It is possible his people will come for him...but it is just as likely they will not." Brasher told his audience. "This is a feral Time Lord. Healthy and living under a natural diet. Such a feast will not come to us again for a long time."
"If it ever will." A female breathed. Her small, black eyes glittered. "You mean to make a gift for the Grigs, don't you old friend?"
"They can mime and ape the laws of trade they pretend to follow, my dear Prentinine. But will they be so hypocritical when they have a chance to sink their teeth into the succulent flesh of a Time Lord?"
The murmurs rippled about the room, low and admiring and approving.
The Grigs, the Doctor thought in a sudden lurch of despair. Oh, no, the Grigs. The heads of state for what passed for law and order among these corrupted creatures.
"No!"
The Doctor jumped. Sound was partially blocked from the cell, but he'd heard that well enough! With a sudden show of rage, Brasher stamped back to the door of his cell and slammed another button. Blackness descended.
"We'll just remove the temptation, shan't we, Mirrortooth?" The little Time Lord heard his keeper ask...and then the rest of the sound faded all together. He was alone and isolated from sight and sound.
Not that he felt bad about missing out on that banquet...he'd already been party enough to it, thank you! He scowled and took the effort to rub his sore arm.
So. This ship was not staffed or crewed with "approved" Androgums. That meant they were operating completely without the permission of the Grigs.
That didn't mean the Grigs didn't know what was going on. Androgums had but one law, and that was "don't get caught."
His loosely-germinating plan was a bit stronger than it had been, but he still needed to work on it a bit.
And for that, he needed to buy time.
Time was all a Time Lord really needed.
His eyes closed. His body relaxed. By degrees he sank to the floor into a lotus position. The Kaya Mudras weren't something he normally used; it took a lot of concentration and power. Luckily for him, the Tibetan Monks had taught him the trick of tapping into sources of energy outside his personal energy field.
Now all he needed to do was...screw up a bit of courage...
He stopped breathing as his mind shot out of his body.
On Gallifrey, a humble temporal engineering technician gasped and dropped six different calibration tools all over the floor.