The Doctor-shaped shadow stands so still in its grey dust armor, its grey clouds of arms writhing with black specks of swirling death.
Then the Doctor-thing takes a step.
His hand raises, if she can call it that... and with that raised hand, an unprotected place, an eyelid, flipping open above a serious green eye.
The eye finds her in the white and the dark, lolling onto her location like an easy little dart on a magnificent board.
She never sees the pale fingers of mere man creep around her, cupping her feathers, rising over her, with errant thumb poised beneath her little bird neck, quick to keep her calmed, complacent.
The fingertips curl, softening around her.
But they never reach her head to crush, or her neck to snap.
Instead, they tumble her, shut beak and all, down the Time Lord’s throat.
The war is over before it begins.
He has won.