Rassilon smirks and sticks a hand in his robes; his fingers curl around something. He brings out his hand from the folds of his clothing, only to find what he expected: Jack Harkness clutching his own neck, with a hand straining, open-palmed, to grasp empty air.
“I’m getting to that…” the time Lord murmurs, drawing the white pyramid out of his long sleeve and cocking his pitch black head of hair slightly to the left. Before he speaks again, he watches the Time Agent’s body as it slides to the floor. “It was good for you, I trust?”