Caressing the controls of the shuttle will be an easy thing, Rassilon realizes as he settles himself in a control chair and rolls his shoulders. The power couplings are still hot, judging by the blinking blue lights and the little red line near the control plate.
But as he reaches for the controls, his hand tries to tremble in its sleeve, roiling softly like a worm against the red silk.
“We have to go,” he murmurs softly, soothing himself with thoughts about his destination as he pushes buttons with his right hand, the easy, unobtrusive one, “I have to make it clear to myself which destiny awaits me. And the Artifact is there. Every bird must leave the nest. Even us; even Gallifrey.”
His left hand aches as if from a heavy weight; the shuttle takes off again under his capable guidance, detaching from common space, following the preset coordinates he sent in advance to the telepathic command-line remote interface.
He’s held the pen too long.