It’s the Valeyard’s comeuppance, all right.
In fact, now he’s coming up the stairs.
Frightened Time Lords abound before him in the halls of the lower Citadel, all staring.
They’re waiting for him.
…to bite them, perhaps?
…how inanely touching. Although it -is- an idea…
“Well now,” the Valeyard Flesh says softly, leaning down and setting a finger to his nose like a gloating, evil Sinter Klaus, “…what have we here? Lambs for the slaughter. But not yet. You’re too stupid to see it. You lot have always been that way. Oh it will be sooo good to finally be rid of all these misfit toys. But you’ll have to wait a little longer for the final action! So sorry.”
As he mentally edits the many speeches he’s prepared to amuse himself, the bits of himself that he dribbled so carefully come rolling back to him up the stairs, tripping up the horrified onlookers with a great red mess of swishy stains across the walls and floor like little parasites from a horror movie.