The Doctor’s too-pale face reaches down, running just beside the guard’s.
The last thing the guard sees before the tiny black specks enter his helmet is a line of the stuff running from the Doctor’s left eye.
He screams, and then the helmet visor fills with black.
The Doctor smiles a cardboard smile and steps over the man’s body. Then he holds his hands out, turning them over and back again, staring at his palms.
“You could have warned me, you naughty things,” he murmurs, mesmerized by the black swarm flowing over his fingers and under his nails, “It’s a fine thing I’m pretty, or this would be the worst case of blackheads I’ve ever had. Thought I had bad skin before!”
He turns back to the guard on the floor, briefly, before leaving the cell door swinging.
“You really ought to get that dermatitis looked at by a Doctor... Ah well, time for my exit.”
Once outside the cell completely, he shoves his body to the wall, playing Bond against the stone, with his finger poking upward like a gun.
Suddenly, sweat beads on his face.
“Didn’t like that, huh? I know, I know, stupid joke. But I always wanted to do that bit. Hold on.”