It’s the creaking they hear first.
The crick crick crick of the SHARDIS’ great head fastening on their location like a laser guided missile. Her giant shoulders turn with her face, a terrible clockworks. Her perfect hips, her inanimate torso, her fixed white breasts- none of her jostles with the weight of real flesh- none of her bears an ounce of the give of reality as she maneuvers her huge false musculature toward the Doctor on the shore.
Her fingers shake with rage at her sides; she trembles it out in waves of Flesh that coil toward the edge of beach where the mummy of Rassilon’s ambition slowly ambles toward the water behind the Time Lord’s beckoning hands.
Then she raises an arm, lifting one open palm in the direction of the pyramid. Flesh oozes from her feet, up from the watery depths, overtaking the sea.
A tsunami of the white stuff forms like deadly flotsam from the foam, rising and rising and…