Rassilon cracks his neck from side to side. Rassilon sighs. He has no intention of dying here. But, in accordance with the Doctor’s blue note, his Flesh has other plans.
Then Rassilon takes a running leap, cutting a swathe through the Weeping Angels, running for the Fist with the Robe in it.
Almost there. He brings out the White Pyramid, clicks it once. It’s counting down.
Almost… there. The eyes and claws and fangs are closing in, like a water drip.
His hand, made of the white stuff of the Flesh, becomes the Stellar Manipulator, and with it, he grabs the Robe, and crawls up the giant hand to make a perch and watch the show.
Then he ties the Robe around the Pyramid, which disappears as a bundle, then hits a button on the Flesh Manipulator, takes a deep bow, and dive-rushes the crowd.
The boom ricochets for three light-years, throwing his orbiting shuttle, where his body resides, out of orbit and back toward the CVE.
And the Other had said he couldn’t throw a party.
The little troll.